23485	----	Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. THE OLD MAN'S BAG T. W. H. CROSLAND AND J. R. MONSELL The Dumpy Books for Children NO. 22. THE OLD MAN'S BAG. THE DUMPY BOOKS FOR CHILDREN. _Cloth, Royal 32 mo, 1/6 each._ I. The Flamp, the Ameliorator, and the Schoolboy's Apprentice. By E. V. LUCAS. II. Mrs. Turner's Cautionary Stories. Edited by E. V. LUCAS. III. The Bad Family. By MRS. FENWICK. Edited by E. V. LUCAS. IV. The Story of Little Black Sambo. Illustrated in Colours. By HELEN BANNERMAN. V. The Bountiful Lady. By THOMAS COBB. VI. A Cat Book. Portraits by H. OFFICER SMITH. Text by E. V. LUCAS. VII. A Flower Book. Illustrated in Colours by NELLIE BENSON. Text by EDEN COYBEE. VIII. The Pink Knight. Illustrated in Colours by J. R. MONSELL. IX. The Little Clown. By THOMAS COBB. X. A Horse Book. Illustrated in Colours. By MARY TOURTEL. XI. Little People: An Alphabet. Illustrated in Colours by HENRY MAYER. Verses by T. W. H. CROSLAND. XII. A Dog Book. Illustrated in Colours by CARTON MOORE PARK. Text by ETHEL BICKNELL. XIII. The Adventures of Samuel and Selina. Illustrated in Colours by JEAN C. ARCHER. XIV. The Little Girl Lost. By ELEANOR RAPER. XV. Dollies. Illustrated in Colours by RUTH COBB. Verses by RICHARD HUNTER. XVI. The Bad Mrs. Ginger. Illustrated in Colours by HONOR C. APPLETON. XVII. Peter Piper's Practical Principles. Illustrated in Colours. XVIII. Little White Barbara. Illustrated in Colours by ELEANOR S. MARCH. XIX. The Japanese Dumpy Book. Illustrated in Colours by YOSHIO MARKINO. XX. Towlocks and His Wooden Horse. Illustrated in Colours by HONOR C. APPLETON. Text by ALICE M. APPLETON. XXI. The Three Little Foxes. By MARY TOURTEL. Illustrated in Colours. XXII. The Old Man's Bag. By T. W. H. CROSLAND. Illustrated in Colours by J. R. MONSELL. XXIII. The Three Goblins. By M. E. TAGGART. Illustrated in Colours. _A Cloth Case to contain Twelve Volumes can be had, price 2s. net; or the First Twelve Volumes in Case, price £1 net._ LONDON: GRANT RICHARDS, 48 Leicester Square. [Illustration: The old man went for a walk and took the bag with him.] THE OLD MAN'S BAG By T. W. H. CROSLAND PICTURES BY J. R. MONSELL LONDON: GRANT RICHARDS 1903 ILLUSTRATIONS. THE OLD MAN WENT FOR A WALK _Frontispiece_ PAGE THE OLD MAN SAID "CHUCK, CHUCK!" 2 THE RED POLICEMAN RAN AFTER HIM 7 "WHATEVER ARE YOU LAUGHING AT?" 10 SHE TOOK THE BAG DOWN 15 "BUTTER IS CHEAP TO-DAY" 18 "YOU ARE A VERY FOOLISH OLD WOMAN" 23 WHO SHOULD STEP IN BUT THE RED POLICEMAN 26 "PLEASE MEASURE ME FOR A SOLDIER'S SUIT" 31 HE BEGAN TO STRUT ABOUT 42 THE OLD WOMAN WAS KNOCKING APPLES OFF A TREE 47 BURNT THE PIECES ON THE FIRE 58 THE OLD MAN'S BAG. CHAPTER I. The old man lived in a wood. He had a wife and a bag. The bag was quite a large bag. One day the old man went out for a walk. He took the bag with him. By and by he saw a hen in a field. Now when you see a hen in a field you say "Chuck, chuck!" The old man said "Chuck, chuck!" And the hen came to him. So that he caught her by the neck and put her in his bag. She made a great to-do, but he put her in. [Illustration: The old man said "Chuck, chuck!" and the hen came to him.] On his way home, just as he turned a corner, the old man saw a policeman. The policeman had a red suit. He was one of those policemen who wear red suits because they are tired of wearing blue. The red policeman looked very hard at the old man and very hard at his bag. In fact he looked so very very hard that the old man got frightened and turned round and ran away. Of course the red policeman ran after him. When they had run about five miles the old man dropped his bag in order that he might run quicker. The red policeman had made up his mind to catch him; so that he did not stop to pick up the bag but kept on running after the old man. At length when they had run about ten miles he caught him. [Illustration: The red policeman ran after him.] "Now, sir," said the red policeman, "what have you got in that bag?" "Nothing," said the old man. "Oh, you wicked old person," said the red policeman. "You know perfectly well that you have a hen in it. But you must come back with me, and we will soon find out." So the red policeman took the old man back to the place where he had dropped the bag. The bag was there, and the red policeman picked it up and opened it with great care. But the hen had got away. There was a big hole in the corner of the bag, and through this the hen had squeezed herself and run home as fast as ever she could. When the policeman found that the bag was empty he looked much puzzled. The old man for his part smiled a great deal. "I told you there was nothing in it," he said. The red policeman said, "Well, I expect I shall have to let you go this time. BUT MIND YOU DON'T DO IT AGAIN." And the old man went home quite cheerfully with his bag under his arm. CHAPTER II. When the old man got home to his house in the wood he hung the bag up tidily on a nail. Then he sat down in a chair and began to laugh. He laughed for nearly a quarter of an hour by the clock. At length his wife came in to him from the garden and said, "Whatever are you laughing at?" [Illustration: "Whatever are you laughing at?"] "Oh," replied the old man, holding his sides, "I am so amused!" Then he went on laughing. He laughed so much indeed that the tears came into his eyes and he nearly choked. His wife had to pat his back and give him a drink of water to put him right. Then he told her what had happened. How he had put a hen in his bag, how the red policeman had run after him, how he dropped the bag and let the policeman catch him, and how when the policeman took him back to the bag, the hen was gone. "Did she open the bag and fly away?" said the old woman. "No," said the old man. "She got out through that hole in the corner." "Ah," said the old woman, "I must sew up that hole." And she took the bag down from its nail and sewed up the hole. For she was a very neat woman and she did not like to see holes in bags. [Illustration: She took the bag down and sewed up the hole.] CHAPTER III. The next day was market day. On market day people who have butter or cheese to sell take it into the market to sell it. And people who have money and happen to want butter or cheese go into the market to buy it. The old man's wife had nothing to sell. Neither had she any money. But she wanted some butter very badly. So she took the old man's bag off the nail and carried it to market. She walked round the market with the bag under her arm and looked at all the stalls and enquired how much the strawberries were a pound; but she did not buy anything because she had no money. In a little while she came to a stall on which there were six rolls of fine fresh butter, and in front of them was a card on which the man who brought the butter to market had written-- BUTTER IS CHEAP TO-DAY. [Illustration: "Butter is cheap to-day!"] "I am glad butter is cheap to-day," said the old woman to herself, and when the man who had brought the butter to market was not looking she picked up a roll and dropped it into her bag. Then she ran away as fast as she could. When she got round the corner the red policeman saw her. He shouted out, "What have you got in that bag?" "Nothing," said the old woman, still running. But the policeman kept running after her. When they had run about five miles the old woman dropped the bag, so that she might run quicker. The policeman, however, had made up his mind to catch her, and when they had run about ten miles he caught her. "Now," he said, "you must come back with me to your bag, and we will see if there is anything in it." The old man's wife said that she was sure there was nothing in it. "All right," said the policeman, "but if you don't mind we will go back and see." So they went back to the bag, and the policeman opened it with great care. Inside he found the roll of butter. The old man's wife began to cry. "Oh dear, oh dear," she said, "what a pity it is that I sewed up that hole." "Why?" asked the red policeman. "Because if I had not sewn up the hole the butter might have got out, like my husband's hen." "You are a very foolish old woman," said the policeman. "Do you not know that a roll of butter cannot walk like a hen?" [Illustration: "You are a very foolish old woman."] "Is that really so?" said the old woman. "Well, well. But I have seen butter run when it was melted." "Never mind that," said the red policeman, "you will have to come with me to prison." "I am too busy to go with you just now," said the old woman, "and my husband wants the butter for his tea. But if you like to call for me in the morning and the weather is fine I will come with you with pleasure." "You are very polite," said the red policeman. "If you had been rude I should have made you go with me now. As it is I will call for you in the morning providing it doesn't rain." "Thank you so much," said the old woman. And she shook the red policeman warmly by the hand and went off to her husband. CHAPTER IV. When she got home the old man was sat in his chair by the fire. She could see by his face that he was in a bad temper. But she went up to him and kissed him and said, "Please don't be grumpy, for I have brought you something very nice for your tea." "What is it?" said the old man, "a hen?" "No," she said, "people don't have hens for tea, do they?" "Perhaps not," said the old man. "But if you had brought a hen she might have laid an egg, and I could have had that. You know very well that I am fond of new laid eggs." "New laid eggs are all very fine," said the old woman, "but butter is cheap to-day. I have brought you a beautiful fresh roll." The old man smacked his lips. While they were having tea the old woman began to laugh very much. "What are you laughing at?" said the old man. "Did you meet the red policeman?" "Yes, I did," said the old woman. "And did he catch you?" "Yes, he did," said the old woman. "And he let you go?" "Yes, he did," said the old woman. "Why?" "Because I was polite to him," said the old woman. "Well I never," said the old man. "But he is coming for me in the morning, providing the weather is fine," said the old woman. The old man sat still in his chair and thought a great deal. And by and by he said, "If you had asked the red policeman to tea like a sensible woman he might have let you off altogether." "I shall know better next time," said the old woman. CHAPTER V. When the old man and his wife woke up next morning they looked out of the window and saw that the weather was quite fine. The old man began to whistle and sing. He always did this when the weather was fine because he said fine weather always made him feel in such good spirits. In a little while the old woman began to sing too. Then the old man stopped. "What are you singing for?" he said to the old woman. "I feel in such good spirits," the old woman replied. "Oh, you do, do you?" said the old man. "You appear to forget that the red policeman is coming for you." "Oh dear, oh dear," said the old woman. "What a bad memory I have to be sure. Whatever shall I do?" And she burst into tears. "There, there," said the old man, "don't cry. We will give him sixpence when he calls, and ask him to have a piece of bread and butter with jam on it. Then perhaps he will go away." They went downstairs and had breakfast. They had just finished when there came an awfully loud knock at the door. The old woman went very pale. "It is the red policeman," she said. The old man went to open the door. But the old woman pulled him back. "You are forgetting the sixpence," she said, "and the piece of bread and butter with jam on it." "Of course, of course," said the old man, and he felt in his pocket for sixpence while the old woman cut a nice large thick slice of bread and covered it with butter and jam. "Perhaps after all," said the old man, "we had better not open the door, but hand the policeman the sixpence and the bread and butter with jam on it through the window." So he opened the window a little way and held out the sixpence and the bread and butter with jam on it to the person outside. "Thanks very much," said the person outside. And he put the sixpence in his pocket and began to eat the bread and butter with jam on it. And when he had finished eating he knocked again very loudly at the door. "Go away," said the old man. "My wife is not coming out with you to-day." "I don't want your wife to come out with me," said the person at the door; "I have called to look at the gas meter." "We haven't got a gas meter now," said the old man, "we burn nothing but electric light." "Many, many thanks," said the person at the door, and he went away. "I feel all of a flutter," said the old woman, sinking into a chair. "So do I," said the old man. "And he has got my sixpence too." CHAPTER VI. In a little while the old woman began to put the breakfast things away. Afterwards she took up the table-cover and went out into the garden with it to shake off the bread crumbs. As she stepped out of the door who should step in but the red policeman. The old woman trembled very much when she saw him go in, and she shook the table-cover several times over in order that she might think what to say to the red policeman. Just then it began to rain. The old woman ran into the house at once. [Illustration: Who should step in but the red policeman.] "Good morning, madam," said the red policeman, and he made a nice bow. "Good morning, sir," said the old woman. "What, might I ask, brings you here?" "I have called, madam," replied the red policeman, making another bow, "for the purpose of taking you with me to prison for stealing a roll of butter." "Where is the roll of butter?" said the old woman. The policeman looked very hard at the butter dish, but there was no butter on it. The old man and his wife and the gas-man had eaten it all. "I beg your pardon, I am sure," said the policeman. "The idea!" said the old woman. "Besides you said you would not call this morning unless the weather were fine, and you see for yourself that it is now raining cats and dogs." "I am truly sorry, madam," said the policeman, bowing once more. "When I come to think of it, I did say that I would not call if it rained. Pray forgive me. We all make mistakes sometimes, you know." "I don't like such mistakes," said the old woman. "Now kindly leave the house." "Oh, please don't turn me out," said the red policeman, "it is raining very hard indeed, and I might get my feet wet." "We should always be kind," said the old woman, "even to policemen, and as it is raining and I left my umbrella in an omnibus the other day, I will lend you my sunshade. But please go." The old woman put the sunshade into the policeman's hand. He looked at it very hard. "It is a blue one," he said. "It is not fashionable to wear a blue sunshade with a red suit. Thank you all the same, but I think I will go without it." He went. The old man, who had been quietly laughing to himself, danced about with joy when he saw the policeman leave. Then he ran to the window and put his head out, and called out after the policeman, "I say. When your clothes are quite wet enough be sure you come back and have them dried." But the red policeman took no notice of him. CHAPTER VII. The red policeman got so wet that by the time he reached his house all the dye had come out of his suit. He felt very angry indeed. "I must try not to make mistakes," he said, "sometimes they bring one into fearful trouble. As my suit is spoilt I think I will give up being a policeman. A policeman without a suit is no good at all." So he went to bed and had hot bricks to his feet and a mustard plaster on his chest, and sent for the tailor to measure him for a new suit of clothes. When the tailor came the policeman said to him, "I am quite tired of being a policeman, and I think I should now like to be a soldier. Please measure me for a soldier's suit. The coat you will make of green cloth and the trousers must be yellow." [Illustration: "Please measure me for a soldier's suit."] "But," said the tailor, "soldiers wear scarlet coats and blue trousers." "That is just the point," said the policeman. "I don't want to be like all the others. If I did I should go in for khaki. Just you do what I tell you, and make me a green coat and yellow trousers at once." The tailor said, "Yes, sir," and went away. In a few days he called again, bringing with him a yellow coat and green trousers. The policeman could have cried with disappointment. "Didn't I tell you quite plainly that I wanted a green coat and yellow trousers?" "I am truly sorry, sir," said the tailor, "but as you no doubt know, the best of us make mistakes sometimes." "There is something in that," said the policeman, "and if the suit fits me I will forgive you." Then he went into his dressing-room and put on the yellow coat and the green trousers. They fitted him beautifully. So that he forgave the tailor, and sent round to him to say that he would try to pay his bill when he got some money. [Illustration: He began to strut about in his new clothes.] After looking at himself a good deal in the mirror the policeman went out into the street and began to strut about in his new clothes. "This is much better than being a policeman," he said, "a policeman has little to do, but a soldier has nothing to do till he is sent for to fight. By the way I must go and buy a sword, and then I will go up to the old man's house and let him see me in my new clothes. Perhaps he will give me two halfpennies to put in the pockets." He bought his sword at the toy shop and went straight to the old man's house. When he got there the old woman was in the garden knocking apples off a tree with a clothes prop. No sooner did she see the policeman in his yellow coat and green trousers than she ran screaming into the house, and hid herself under the bed. [Illustration: The old woman was knocking apples off a tree.] But when the old man saw him he shouted, "Hurrah, hurrah, the red policeman has turned soldier. Now we needn't be afraid of him any more." And he called upstairs to his wife, "Come down at once and get me my bag." The old woman came downstairs quickly. She took down the bag from its nail and handed it to her husband. "Run," she said, "as hard as you can, and bring me a hen and anything else nice that takes your fancy. Bags were made to put things in. And the red policeman--the soldier, that is to say--will stay to dinner." The soldier sat down in the chair and lit his pipe, and the old man went out with the bag. Very soon he returned with two hens, a fat duck, several rolls of butter, a large piece of bacon, some cabbages, some ice cream, and two pots of marmalade. The old woman cooked everything but the ice cream and the marmalade, and they had a very good dinner indeed. "This is much better than being a policeman," said the soldier when they had finished. "I should just think it was," said the old man. "And so should I," said the old woman. "Now I must wish you both good evening," said the soldier, "for I hear the bugle calling." CHAPTER VIII. When a soldier hears the bugle calling he is bound to go even if he would like to have stayed for supper. That is why the soldier went. "I am glad I am not a soldier," said the old man, "because I do not have to go when the bugle calls." "No," said the old woman, "but you have to go when I tell you, which is pretty much the same thing." "Perhaps it is," said the old man. "And I think," said the old woman, "that it might be just as well for you to go out this evening with the bag and get a few nice little things for breakfast and dinner to-morrow. For when you come to think of it there is no reason why the soldier should not take it into his head to be a red policeman again, and if he did he would run after us when he saw us with the bag. So that we had better get what we want before he changes his mind." "A very good idea, my dear," said the old man, "give me the bag and I will go out at once." The old woman gave him the bag and off he went. He was away a very long time. Indeed he did not get back till nearly midnight. When he set the bag down on the table the old woman could see that he had got a good many things, because the bag bulged so. "How good of you," she said. "Now show me what you have got." Then the old man opened the bag. First he pulled out a pretty little kitten with her mother, an old grey cat. "Very nice," said the old woman, "but we can't cook them." "You cooked the hens," said the old man. Then he pulled out a pillow case full of hay. "Quite nice," said the old woman, "but we can't cook it." "You cooked the cabbages," said the old man. Then he pulled out a box full of pieces of broken glass. "Beautiful!" said the old woman, "but we can't eat it." "You ate the marmalade fast enough," said the old man. Then the old woman said, "If you go on talking so foolishly I shall be very cross. Turn that cat and her kitten out at once, burn the hay, and throw the broken glass out of the window." "And what shall I do with the bag?" said the old man. "You can do just as you please with the bag," said the old woman; "I am going to bed." And off she went. The old man opened the door and turned out the cat and her kitten. Then he burnt the hay a little bit at a time on the fire, and threw the broken glass out of the window. After doing this he sat down in his chair to think. "What shall I do with the bag?" he said to himself. "My wife said I might do what I pleased with it. Perhaps I had better burn it." So he cut it in pieces with a knife, and burnt the pieces on the fire. [Illustration: Burnt the pieces on the fire.] In the morning when the old woman came downstairs to breakfast she looked on the nail for the bag, but of course it was not there. "What have you done with the bag?" she called to the old man. "I have burnt it," said the old man. "Why did you burn it?" said the old woman. "Guess," said the old man. The old woman guessed and guessed and guessed and guessed and guessed. But she could not guess right, and the old man had to keep on saying, "Guess again, guess again, guess again." Now why did the old man burn his bag? You must get your Mamma to tell you. 
29284	----	[Illustration: [See page 4 WHEN ALFRED PRICE FELL IN LOVE WITH MISS LETTY MORRIS] An Encore BY MARGARET DELAND AUTHOR OF "THE AWAKENING OF HELENA RICHIE" "DR. LAVENDER'S PEOPLE" "OLD CHESTER TALES" ETC. ETC. ILLUSTRATED BY ALICE BARBER STEPHENS NEW YORK AND LONDON HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS MCMVII Copyright, 1904, 1907, by HARPER & BROTHERS. _All rights reserved._ Published October, 1907. Illustrations "WHEN ALFRED PRICE FELL IN LOVE WITH MISS LETTY MORRIS" _Frontispiece_ "THE CAPTAIN AND CYRUS WERE AFRAID OF GUSSIE" _Facing p_ 18 "THERE WAS A LITTLE SILENCE, AND THEN DR. LAVENDER BEGAN" " 76 An Encore According to Old Chester, to be romantic was just one shade less reprehensible than to put on airs. Captain Alfred Price, in all his seventy years, had never been guilty of putting on airs, but certainly he had something to answer for in the way of romance. However, in the days when we children used to see him pounding up the street from the post-office, reading, as he walked, a newspaper held at arm's-length in front of him, he was far enough from romance. He was seventy years old, he weighed over two hundred pounds, his big head was covered with a shock of grizzled red hair; his pleasures consisted in polishing his old sextant and playing on a small mouth-harmonicon. As to his vices, it was no secret that he kept a fat black bottle in the chimney-closet in his own room, and occasionally he swore strange oaths about his grandmother's nightcap. "He used to blaspheme," his daughter-in-law said; "but I said, 'Not in my presence, if you please!' So now he just says this foolish thing about a nightcap." Mrs. Drayton said that this reform would be one of the jewels in Mrs. Cyrus Price's crown; and added that she prayed that some day the Captain would give up tobacco and _rum_. "I am a poor, feeble creature," said Mrs. Drayton; "I cannot do much for my fellow-men in active mission-work,--but I give my prayers." However, neither Mrs. Drayton's prayers nor Mrs. Cyrus's active mission-work had done more than mitigate the blasphemy; the "rum" (which was good Monongahela whiskey) was still on hand; and as for tobacco, except when sleeping, eating, playing on his harmonicon, or dozing through one of Dr. Lavendar's sermons, the Captain smoked every moment, the ashes of his pipe or cigar falling unheeded on a vast and wrinkled expanse of waistcoat. No; he was not a romantic object. But we girls, watching him stump past the school-room window to the post-office, used to whisper to one another, "Just think! _he eloped._" There was romance for you! To be sure, the elopement had not quite come off, but except for the very end, it was all as perfect as a story. Indeed, the failure at the end made it all the better: angry parents, broken hearts--only, the worst of it was, the hearts did not stay broken! He went and married somebody else; and so did she. You would have supposed she would have died. I am sure, in her place, any one of us would have died. And yet, as Lydia Wright said, "How could a young lady die for a young gentleman with ashes all over his waistcoat?" But when Alfred Price fell in love with Miss Letty Morris, he was not indifferent to his waistcoat, nor did he weigh two hundred pounds. He was slender and ruddy-cheeked, with tossing red-brown curls. If he swore, it was not by his grandmother nor her nightcap; if he drank, it was hard cider (which can often accomplish as much as "rum"); if he smoked it was in secret, behind the stable. He wore a stock, and (on Sunday) a ruffled shirt; a high-waisted coat with two brass buttons behind, and very tight pantaloons. At that time he attended the Seminary for Youths in Upper Chester. Upper Chester was then, as in our time, the seat of learning in the township, the Female Academy being there, too. Both were boarding-schools, but the young people came home to spend Sunday; and their weekly returns, all together in the stage, were responsible for more than one Old Chester match.... "The air," says Miss, sniffing genteelly as the coach jolts past the blossoming May orchards, "is most agreeably perfumed. And how fair is the prospect from this hill-top!" "Fair indeed!" responds her companion, staring boldly. Miss bridles and bites her lip. "_I_ was not observing the landscape," the young gentleman hastens to explain. In those days (Miss Letty was born in 1804, and was eighteen when she and the ruddy Alfred sat on the back seat of the coach)--in those days the conversation of Old Chester youth was more elegant than in our time. We, who went to Miss Bailey's school, were sad degenerates in the way of manners and language; at least so our elders told us. When Lydia Wright said, "Oh my, what an awful snow-storm!" dear Miss Ellen was displeased. "Lydia," said she, "is there anything 'awe'-inspiring in this display of the elements?" "No, 'm," faltered poor Lydia. "Then," said Miss Bailey, gravely, "your statement that the storm is 'awful' is a falsehood. I do not suppose, my dear, that you intentionally told an untruth; it was an exaggeration. But an exaggeration, though not perhaps a falsehood, is unladylike, and should be avoided by persons of refinement." Just here the question arises: what would Miss Ellen (now in heaven) say if she could hear Lydia's Lydia, just home from college, remark-- But no: Miss Ellen's precepts shall protect these pages. But in the days when Letty Morris looked out of the coach window, and young Alfred murmured that the prospect was fair indeed, conversation was perfectly correct. And it was still decorous even when it got beyond the coach period and reached a point where Old Chester began to take notice. At first it was young Old Chester which giggled. Later old Old Chester made some comments; it was then that Alfred's mother mentioned the matter to Alfred's father. "He is young, and, of course, foolish," Mrs. Price explained. And Mr. Price said that though folly was incidental to Alfred's years, it must be checked. "Just check it," said Mr. Price. Then Miss Letty's mother awoke to the situation, and said, "Fy, fy, Letitia! let me hear no more of this foolishness." So it was that these two young persons were plunged in grief. Oh, glorious grief of thwarted love! When they met now, they did not talk of the landscape. Their conversation, though no doubt as genteel as before, was all of broken hearts. But again Letty's mother found out, and went in wrath to call on Alfred's family. It was decided between them that the young man should be sent away from home. "To save him," says the father. "To protect my daughter," says Mrs. Morris. But Alfred and Letty had something to say.... It was in December; there was a snow-storm--a storm which Lydia Wright would certainly have called "awful"; but it did not interfere with true love; these two children met in the graveyard to swear undying constancy. Alfred's lantern came twinkling through the flakes, as he threaded his way across the hill-side among the tombstones, and found Letty just inside the entrance, standing with her black serving-woman under a tulip-tree. The negress, chattering with cold and fright, kept plucking at the girl's pelisse to hurry her; but once Alfred was at her side, Letty was indifferent to storm and ghosts. As for Alfred, he was too cast down to think of them. "Letty, they will part us." "No, my dear Alfred, no!" "Yes. Yes, they will. Oh, if you were only mine!" Miss Letty sighed. "Will you be true to me, Letty? I am to go on a sailing-vessel to China, to be gone two years. Will you wait for me?" Letty gave a little cry; two years! Her black woman twitched her sleeve. "Miss Let, it's gittin' cole, honey." "(Don't, Flora.)--Alfred, _two years_! Oh, Alfred, that is an eternity. Why, I should be--I should be twenty!" The lantern, set on a tombstone beside them, blinked in a snowy gust. Alfred covered his face with his hands--he was shaken to his soul; the little, gay creature beside him thrilled at a sound from behind those hands. "Alfred,"--she said, faintly; then she hid her face against his arm; "my dear Alfred, I will, if you desire it--fly with you!" Alfred, with a gasp, lifted his head and stared at her. His slower mind had seen nothing but separation and despair; but the moment the word was said he was aflame. What! Would she? Could she? Adorable creature! "Miss Let, my feet done git cole--" "(Flora, be still!)--Yes, Alfred, yes. I am thine." The boy caught her in his arms. "But I am to be sent away on Monday! My angel, could you--fly, to-morrow?" And Letty, her face still hidden against his, shoulder, nodded. Then, while the shivering Flora stamped, and beat her arms, and the lantern flared and sizzled, Alfred made their plans, which were simple to the point of childishness. "My own!" he said, when it was all arranged; then he held the lantern up and looked into her face, blushing and determined, with snowflakes gleaming on the curls that pushed out from under her big hood. "You will meet me at the minister's?" he said, passionately. "You will not fail me?" "I will not fail you!" she said; and laughed joyously; but the young man's face was white. She kept her word; and with the assistance of Flora, romantic again when her feet were warm, all went as they planned. Clothes were packed, savings-banks opened, and a chaise abstracted from the Price stable. "It is my intention," said the youth, "to return to my father the value of the vehicle and nag, as soon as I can secure a position which will enable me to support my Letty in comfort and fashion." On the night of the elopement the two children met at the minister's house. (Yes, the very old Rectory to which we Old Chester children went every Saturday afternoon to Dr. Lavendar's Collect class. But of course there was no Dr. Lavendar there in those days). Well; Alfred requested this minister to pronounce them man and wife; but he coughed and poked the fire. "I am of age," Alfred insisted; "I am twenty-two." Then Mr. Smith said he must first go and put on his bands and surplice; and Alfred said, "If you please, sir." And off went Mr. Smith--_and sent a note to Alfred's father and Letty's mother_! We girls used to wonder what the lovers talked about while they waited for the return of the surpliced traitor. Ellen Dale always said they were foolish to wait. "Why didn't they go right off?" said Ellen. "If _I_ were going to elope, I shouldn't bother to get married. But, oh, think of how they felt when in walked those cruel parents!" The story was that they were torn weeping from each other's arms; that Letty was sent to bed for two days on bread and water; that Alfred was packed off to Philadelphia the very next morning, and sailed in less than a week. They did not see each other again. But the end of the story was not romantic at all. Letty, although she crept about for a while in deep disgrace, and brooded upon death--that interesting impossibility, so dear to youth--_married_, if you please! when she was twenty, somebody called North,--and went away to live. When Alfred came back, seven years later, he got married, too. He married a Miss Barkley. He used to go away on long voyages, so perhaps he wasn't really fond of her. We tried to think so, for we liked Captain Price. In our day Captain Price was a widower. He had given up the sea, and settled down to live in Old Chester; his son, Cyrus, lived with him, and his languid daughter-in-law--a young lady of dominant feebleness, who ruled the two men with that most powerful domestic rod, foolish weakness. This combination in a woman will cause a mountain (a masculine mountain) to fly from its firm base; while kindness, justice, and good sense leave it upon unshaken foundations of selfishness. Mrs. Cyrus was a Goliath of silliness; when billowing black clouds heaped themselves in the west on a hot afternoon, she turned pale with apprehension, and the Captain and Cyrus ran for four tumblers, into which they put the legs of her bed, where, cowering among the feathers, she lay cold with fear and perspiration. Every night the Captain screwed down all the windows on the lower floor; in the morning Cyrus pulled the screws out. Cyrus had a pretty taste in horseflesh, but Gussie cried so when he once bought a trotter that he had long ago resigned himself to a friendly beast of twenty-seven years, who could not go much out of a walk because he had string-halt in both hind legs. But one must not be too hard on Mrs. Cyrus. In the first place, she was not born in Old Chester. But, added to that, just think of her name! The effect of names upon character is not considered as it should be. If one is called Gussie for thirty years, it is almost impossible not to become gussie after a while. Mrs. Cyrus could not be Augusta; few women can; but it was easy to be gussie--irresponsible, silly, selfish. She had a vague, flat laugh, she ate a great deal of candy, and she was afraid of-- But one cannot catalogue Mrs. Cyrus's fears. They were as the sands of the sea for number. And these two men were governed by them. Only when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed will it be understood why a man loves a fool; but why he obeys her is obvious enough: Fear is the greatest power in the world; Gussie was afraid of thunder-storms, or what not; but the Captain and Cyrus were afraid of Gussie! A hint of tears in her pale eyes, and her husband would sigh with anxiety and Captain Price slip his pipe into his pocket and sneak out of the room. Doubtless Cyrus would often have been glad to follow him, but the old gentleman glared when his son showed a desire for his company. "Want to come and smoke with me? 'Your granny was Murray!'--you're sojering. You're first mate; you belong on the bridge in storms. I'm before the mast. Tend to your business!" * * * * * It was forty-eight years before Letty and Alfred saw each other again--or at least before persons calling themselves by those old names saw each other. Were they Letty and Alfred--this tousled, tangled, good-humored old man, ruddy and cowed, and this small, bright-eyed old lady, Mrs. North, led about by a devoted daughter? Certainly these two persons bore no resemblance to the boy and girl torn from each other's arms that cold December night. Alfred had been mild and slow; Captain Price (except when his daughter-in-law raised her finger) was a pleasant old roaring lion. Letty had been a gay, high-spirited little creature, not as retiring, perhaps, as a young female should be, and certainly self-willed; Mrs. North was completely under the thumb of her daughter Mary. Not that "under the thumb" means unhappiness; Mary North desired only her mother's welfare, and lived fiercely for that single purpose. From morning until night (and, indeed, until morning again, for she rose often from her bed to see that there was no draught from the crack of the open window), all through the twenty-four hours she was on duty. [Illustration: THE CAPTAIN AND CYRUS WERE AFRAID OF GUSSIE] When this excellent daughter appeared in Old Chester and said she was going to hire a house, and bring her mother back to end her days in the home of her girlhood, Old Chester displayed a friendly interest; when she decided upon a house on Main Street, directly opposite Captain Price's, it began to recall the romance of that thwarted elopement. "Do you suppose she knows that story about old Alfred Price and her mother?" said Old Chester; and it looked sidewise at Miss North with polite curiosity. This was not altogether because of her mother's romantic past, but because of her own manners and clothes. With painful exactness, Miss North endeavored to follow the fashion; but she looked as if articles of clothing had been thrown at her and some had stuck. As to her manners, Old Chester was divided; Mrs. David Baily said, with delicate disgust, that they were bad; but Mrs. Barkley said, that the trouble was she hadn't any manners; and as for Dr. Lavendar, he insisted that she was just shy. But, as Mrs. Drayton said, that was like Dr. Lavendar, always making excuses for wrong-doing! "Which," said Mrs. Drayton, "is a strange thing for a minister to do. For my part, I cannot understand impoliteness in a _Christian_ female. But we must not judge," Mrs. Drayton ended, with what Willy King called her "holy look." Without wishing to "judge," it may be said that, in the matter of manners, Miss Mary North, palpitatingly anxious to be polite, told the truth; and as everybody knows, truthfulness and agreeable manners are often divorced on the ground of incompatibility. Miss North said things that other people only thought. When Mrs. Willy King remarked that, though she did not pretend to be a good house-keeper, she had the backs of her pictures dusted every other day, Miss North, her chin trembling with shyness, said, with a panting smile: "That's not good house-keeping; it's foolish waste of time." And when Neddy Dilworth's wife confessed coquettishly, that one would hardly take her to be a year or two older than her husband, would one? Mary North exclaimed, in utter astonishment: "is that all? Why, you look twelve years older!" Of course such truthfulness was far from genteel,--though Old Chester was not as displeased as you might have supposed. While Miss North, timorous and sincere (and determined to be polite), was putting the house in order before sending for her mother, Old Chester invited her to tea, and asked her many questions about Letty and the late Mr. North. But nobody asked whether she knew that her opposite neighbor, Captain Price, might have been her father--at least that was the way Miss Ellen's girls expressed it. Captain Price himself did not enlighten the daughter he did not have; but he went rolling across the street, and pulling off his big shabby felt hat, stood at the foot of the steps, and roared out: "Morning! Anything I can do for you?" Miss North, indoors, hanging window-curtains, her mouth full of tacks, shook her head. Then she removed the tacks and came to the front door. "Do you smoke, sir?" Captain Price removed his pipe from his mouth and looked at it. "Why! I believe I do, sometimes," he said. "I inquired," said Miss North, smiling tremulously, her hands gripped hard together, "because, if you do, I will ask you to desist when passing our windows." Captain Price was so dumfounded that for a moment words failed him. Then he said, meekly, "Does your mother object to tobacco smoke, ma'am?" "It is injurious to all ladies' throats," Miss North explained, her voice quivering and determined. "Does your mother resemble you, madam?" said Captain Price, slowly. "Oh no! my mother is pretty. She has my eyes, but that's all." "I didn't mean in looks," said the old man; "she did not look in the least like you; not in the least! I mean in her views?" "Her views? I don't think my mother has any particular views," Miss North answered, hesitatingly; "I spare her all thought," she ended, and her thin face bloomed suddenly with love. Old Chester rocked with the Captain's report of his call; and Mrs. Cyrus told her husband that she only wished this lady would stop his father's smoking. "Just look at his ashes," said Gussie; "I put saucers round everywhere to catch 'em, but he shakes 'em off anywhere--right on the carpet! And if you say anything, he just says, 'Oh, they'll keep the moths away!' I worry so for fear he'll set the house on fire." Mrs. Cyrus was so moved by Miss North's active mission-work that the very next day she wandered across the street to call. "I hope I'm not interrupting you," she began, "but I thought I'd just--" "Yes; you are," said Miss North; "but never mind; stay, if you want to." She tried to smile, but she looked at the duster which she had put down upon Mrs. Cyrus's entrance. Gussie wavered as to whether to take offence, but decided not to--at least not until she could make the remark which was buzzing in her small mind. It seemed strange, she said, that Mrs. North should come, not only to Old Chester, but right across the street from Captain Price! "Why?" said Mary North, briefly. "_Why?_" said Mrs. Cyrus, with faint animation. "Gracious! is it possible that you don't know about your mother and my father-in-law?" "Your father-in-law?--my mother?" "Why, you know," said Mrs. Cyrus, with her light cackle, "your mother was a little romantic when she was young. No doubt she has conquered it by this time. But she tried to elope with my father-in-law." "What!" "Oh, bygones should be bygones," Mrs. Cyrus said, soothingly; "forgive and forget, you know. I have no doubt she is perfectly--well, perfectly correct, now. If there's anything I can do to assist you, ma'am, I'll send my husband over"; and then she lounged away, leaving poor Mary North silent with indignation. But that night at tea Gussie said that she thought strong-minded ladies were very unladylike; "they say she's strong-minded," she added, languidly. "Lady!" said the Captain. "She's a man-o'-war's-man in petticoats." Gussie giggled. "She's as flat as a lath," the Captain declared; "if it hadn't been for her face, I wouldn't have known whether she was coming bow or stern on." "I think," said Mrs. Cyrus, "that that woman has some motive in bringing her mother back here; and _right across the street_, too!" "What motive?" said Cyrus, mildly curious. But Augusta waited for conjugal privacy to explain herself: "Cyrus, I worry so, because I'm sure that woman thinks she can catch your father again. Oh, just listen to that harmonicon down-stairs! It sets my teeth on edge!" Then Cyrus, the silent, servile first mate, broke out: "Gussie, you're a fool!" And Augusta cried all night, and showed herself at the breakfast-table lantern-jawed and sunken-eyed; and her father-in-law judged it wise to sprinkle his cigar ashes behind the stable. * * * * * The day that Mrs. North arrived in Old Chester, Mrs. Cyrus commanded the situation; she saw the daughter get out of the stage, and hurry into the house for a chair so that the mother might descend more easily. She also saw a little, white-haired old lady take that opportunity to leap nimbly, and quite unaided, from the swinging step. "Now, mother!" expostulated Mary North, chair in hand, and breathless, "you might have broken your limb! Here, take my arm." Meekly, after her moment of freedom, the little lady put her hand on that gaunt arm, and tripped up the path and into the house, where, alas! Augusta Price lost sight of them. Yet even she, with all her disapproval of strong-minded ladies, must have admired the tenderness of the man-o'-war's-man. Miss North put her mother into a big chair, and hurried to bring a dish of curds. "I'm not hungry," protested Mrs. North. "Never mind. It will do you good." With a sigh the little old lady ate the curds, looking about her with curious eyes. "Why, we're right across the street from the old Price house!" she said. "Did you know them, mother?" demanded Miss North. "Dear me, yes," said Mrs. North, twinkling; "why, I'd forgotten all about it, but the eldest boy-- Now, what was his name? Al--something. Alfred--Albert; no, Alfred. He was a beau of mine." "Mother! I don't think it's refined to use such a word." "Well, he wanted me to elope with him," Mrs. North said, gayly; "if that isn't being a beau, I don't know what is. I haven't thought of it for years." "If you've finished your curds you must lie down," said Miss North. "Oh, I'll just look about--" "No; you are tired. You must lie down." "Who is that stout old gentleman going into the Price house?" Mrs. North said, lingering at the window. "Oh, that's your Alfred Price," her daughter answered; and added, that she hoped her mother would be pleased with the house. "We have boarded so long, I think you'll enjoy a home of your own." "Indeed I shall!" cried Mrs. North, her eyes snapping with delight. "Mary, I'll wash the breakfast dishes, as my mother used to do!" "Oh no," Mary North protested; "it would tire you. I mean to take every care from your mind." "But," Mrs. North pleaded, "you have so much to do; and--" "Never mind about me," said the daughter, earnestly; "you are my first consideration." "I know it, my dear," said Mrs. North, meekly. And when Old Chester came to make its call, one of the first things she said was that her Mary was such a good daughter. Miss North, her anxious face red with determination, bore out the assertion by constantly interrupting the conversation to bring a footstool, or shut a window, or put a shawl over her mother's knees. "My mother's limb troubles her," she explained to visitors (in point of modesty, Mary North did not leave her mother a leg to stand on); then she added, breathlessly, with her tremulous smile, that she wished they would please not talk too much. "Conversation tires her," she explained. At which the little, pretty old lady opened and closed her hands, and protested that she was not tired at all. But the callers departed. As the door closed behind them, Mrs. North was ready to cry. "Now, Mary, really!" she began. "Mother, I don't care! I don't like to say a thing like that, though I'm sure I always try to speak politely. But it's the truth, and to save you I would tell the truth no matter how painful it was to do so." "But I enjoy seeing people, and--" "It is bad for you to be tired," Mary said, her thin face quivering still with the effort she had made; "and they sha'n't tire you while I am here to protect you." And her protection never flagged. When Captain Price called, she asked him to please converse in a low tone, as noise was bad for her mother. "He had been here a good while before I came in," she defended herself to Mrs. North, afterwards; "and I'm sure I spoke politely." The fact was, the day the Captain came, Miss North was out. Her mother had seen him pounding up the street, and hurrying to the door, called out, gayly, in her little, old, piping voice, "Alfred--Alfred Price!" The Captain turned and looked at her. There was just one moment's pause; perhaps he tried to bridge the years, and to believe that it was Letty who spoke to him--Letty, whom he had last seen that wintry night, pale and weeping, in the slender green sheath of a fur-trimmed pelisse. If so, he gave it up; this plump, white-haired, bright-eyed old lady, in a wide-spreading, rustling black silk dress, was not Letty. She was Mrs. North. The Captain came across the street, waving his newspaper, and saying, "So you've cast anchor in the old port, ma'am?" "My daughter is not at home; do come in," she said, smiling and nodding. Captain Price hesitated; then he put his pipe in his pocket and followed her into the parlor. "Sit down," she cried, gayly. "Well, _Alfred_!" "Well--_Mrs. North_!" he said; and then they both laughed, and she began to ask questions: Who was dead? Who had so and so married? "There are not many of us left," she said. "The two Ferris girls and Theophilus Morrison and Johnny Gordon--he came to see me yesterday. And Matty Dilworth; she was younger than I--oh, by ten years. She married the oldest Barkley boy, didn't she? I hear he didn't turn out well. You married his sister, didn't you? Was it the oldest girl or the second sister?" "It was the second--Jane. Yes, poor Jane. I lost her in 'forty-five." "You have children?" she said, sympathetically. "I've got a boy," he said; "but he's married." "My girl has never married; she's a good daughter,"--Mrs. North broke off with a nervous laugh; "here she is, now!" Mary North, who had suddenly appeared in the doorway, gave a questioning sniff, and the Captain's hand sought his guilty pocket; but Miss North only said: "How do you do, sir? Now, mother, don't talk too much and get tired." She stopped and tried to smile, but the painful color came into her face. "And--if you please, Captain Price, will you speak in a low tone? Large, noisy persons exhaust the oxygen in the air, and--" "_Mary!_" cried poor Mrs. North; but the Captain, clutching his old felt hat, began to hoist himself up from the sofa, scattering ashes about as he did so. Mary North compressed her lips. "I tell my daughter-in-law they'll keep the moths away," the old gentleman said, sheepishly. "I use camphor," said Miss North, "Flora must bring a dust-pan." "Flora?" Alfred Price said. "Now, what's my association with that name?" "She was our old cook," Mrs. North explained; "this Flora is her daughter. But you never saw old Flora?" "Why, yes, I did," the old man said, slowly. "Yes. I remember Flora. Well, good-bye,--Mrs. North." "Good-bye, Alfred. Come again," she said, cheerfully. "Mother, here's your beef tea," said a brief voice. Alfred Price fled. He met his son just as he was entering his own house, and burst into a confidence: "Cy, my boy, come aft and splice the main-brace. Cyrus, what a female! She knocked me higher than Gilroy's kite. And her mother was as sweet a girl as you ever saw!" He drew his son into a little, low-browed, dingy room at the end of the hall. Its grimy untidiness matched the old Captain's clothes, but it was his one spot of refuge in his own house; here he could scatter his tobacco ashes almost unrebuked, and play on his harmonicon without seeing Gussie wince and draw in her breath; for Mrs. Cyrus rarely entered the "cabin." "I worry so about its disorderliness that I won't go in," she used to say, in a resigned way. And the Captain accepted her decision with resignation of his own. "Crafts of your bottom can't navigate in these waters," he agreed, earnestly; and, indeed, the room was so cluttered with his belongings that voluminous hoop-skirts could not get steerageway. "He has so much rubbish," Gussie complained; but it was precious rubbish to the old man. His chest was behind the door; a blow-fish, stuffed and varnished, hung from the ceiling; two colored prints of the "Barque _Letty M._, 800 tons," decorated the walls; his sextant, polished daily by his big, clumsy hands, hung over the mantel-piece, on which were many dusty treasures--the mahogany spoke of an old steering-wheel; a whale's tooth; two Chinese wrestlers, in ivory; a fan of spreading white coral; a conch-shell, its beautiful red lip serving to hold a loose bunch of cigars. In the chimney-breast was a little door, and the Captain, pulling his son into the room after that call upon Mrs. North, fumbled in his pocket for the key. "Here," he said; "(as the Governor of North Carolina said to the Governor of South Carolina)--Cyrus, she handed round _beef tea_!" But Cyrus was to receive still further enlightenment on the subject of his opposite neighbor: "She called him in. I heard her, with my own ears! 'Alfred,' she said, 'come in.' Cyrus, she has designs; oh, I worry so about it! He ought to be protected. He is very old, and, of course, foolish. You ought to check it at once." "Gussie, I don't like you to talk that way about my father," Cyrus began. "You'll like it less later on. He'll go and see her to-morrow." "Why shouldn't he go and see her to-morrow?" Cyrus said, and added a modest bad word; which made Gussie cry. And yet, in spite of what his wife called his "blasphemy," Cyrus began to be vaguely uncomfortable whenever he saw his father put his pipe in his pocket and go across the street. And as the winter brightened into spring, the Captain went quite often. So, for that matter, did other old friends of Mrs. North's generation, who by-and-by began to smile at one another, and say, "Well, Alfred and Letty are great friends!" For, because Captain Price lived right across the street, he went most of all. At least, that was what Miss North said to herself with obvious common-sense--until Mrs. Cyrus put her on the right track.... "What!" gasped Mary North. "But it's impossible!" "It would be very unbecoming, considering their years," said Gussie; "but I worry so, because, you know, nothing is impossible when people are foolish; and of course, at their age, they are apt to be foolish." So the seed was dropped. Certainly he did come very often. Certainly her mother seemed very glad to see him. Certainly they had very long talks. Mary North shivered with apprehension. But it was not until a week later that this miserable suspicion grew strong enough to find words. It was after tea, and the two ladies were sitting before a little fire. Mary North had wrapped a shawl about her mother, and given her a footstool, and pushed her chair nearer the fire, and then pulled it away, and opened and shut the parlor door three times to regulate the draught. Then she sat down in the corner of the sofa, exhausted but alert. "If there's anything you want, mother, you'll be sure and tell me?" "Yes, my dear." "I think I'd better put another shawl over your limbs?" "Oh no, indeed!" "Mother, are you _sure_ you don't feel a draught?" "No, Mary; and it wouldn't hurt me if I did!" "I was only trying to make you comfortable--" "I know that, my dear; you are a very good daughter. Mary, I think it would be nice if I made a cake. So many people call, and--" "I'll make it to-morrow." "Oh, I'll make it myself," Mrs. North protested, eagerly; "I'd really enjoy--" "Mother! Tire yourself out in the kitchen? No, indeed! Flora and I will see to it." Mrs. North sighed. Her daughter sighed too; then suddenly burst out: "Old Captain Price comes here pretty often." Mrs. North nodded pleasantly. "That daughter-in-law doesn't half take care of him. His clothes are dreadfully shabby. There was a button off his coat to-day. And she's a foolish creature." "Foolish? she's an unladylike person!" cried Miss North, with so much feeling that her mother looked at her in mild astonishment. "And coarse, too," said Mary North; "I think married ladies are apt to be coarse. From association with men, I suppose." "What has she done?" demanded Mrs. North, much interested. "She hinted that he--that you--" "Well?" "That he came here to--to see you." "Well, who else would he come to see? Not you!" said her mother. "She hinted that he might want to--to marry you." "Well--upon my word! I knew she was a ridiculous creature, but really--!" Mary's face softened with relief. "Of course she is foolish; but--" "Poor Alfred! What has he ever done to have such a daughter-in-law? Mary, the Lord gives us our children; but _Somebody Else_ gives us our in-laws!" "Mother!" said Mary North, horrified, "you do say such things! But really he oughtn't to come so often. People will begin to notice it; and then they'll talk. I'll--I'll take you away from Old Chester rather than have him bother you." "Mary, you are just as foolish as his daughter-in-law," said Mrs. North, impatiently. And, somehow, poor Mary North's heart sank. Nor was she the only perturbed person in town that night. Mrs. Cyrus had a headache, so it was necessary for Cyrus to hold her hand and assure her that Willy King said a headache did not mean brain-fever. "Willy King doesn't know everything. If he had headaches like mine, he wouldn't be so sure. I am always worrying about things, and I believe my brain can't stand it. And now I've got your father to worry about!" "Better try and sleep, Gussie. I'll put some Kaliston on your head." "Kaliston! Kaliston won't keep me from worrying. Oh, listen to that harmonicon!" "Gussie, I'm sure he isn't thinking of Mrs. North." "Mrs. North is thinking of him, which is a great deal more dangerous. Cyrus, you _must_ ask Dr. Lavendar to interfere." As this was at least the twentieth assault upon poor Cyrus's common-sense, the citadel trembled. "Do you wish me to go into brain-fever before your eyes, just from worry?" Gussie demanded. "You _must_ go!" "Well, maybe, perhaps, to-morrow--" "To-night--to-night," said Augusta, faintly. And Cyrus surrendered. "Look under the bed before you go," Gussie murmured. Cyrus looked. "Nobody there," he said, reassuringly; and went on tiptoe out of the darkened, cologne-scented room. But as he passed along the hall, and saw his father in his little cabin of a room, smoking placidly, and polishing his sextant with loving hands, Cyrus's heart reproached him. "How's her head, Cy?" the Captain called out. "Oh, better, I guess," Cyrus said. ("I'll be hanged if I speak to Dr. Lavendar!") "That's good," said the Captain, beginning to hoist himself up out of his chair. "Going out? Hold hard, and I'll go 'long. I want to call on Mrs. North." Cyrus stiffened. "Cold night, sir," he remonstrated. "'Your granny was Murray, and wore a black nightcap!'" said the Captain; "you are getting delicate in your old age, Cy." He got up, and plunged into his coat, and tramped out, slamming the door heartily behind him--for which, later, poor Cyrus got the credit. "Where you bound?" "Oh--down-street," said Cyrus, vaguely. "Sealed orders?" said the Captain, with never a bit of curiosity in his big, kind voice; and Cyrus felt as small as he was. But when he left the old man at Mrs. North's door, he was uneasy again. Maybe Gussie was right! Women are keener about those things than men. And his uneasiness actually carried him to Dr. Lavendar's study, where he tried to appear at ease by patting Danny. "What's the matter with you, Cyrus?" said Dr. Lavendar, looking at him over his spectacles. (Dr. Lavendar, in his wicked old heart, always wanted to call this young man Cipher; but, so far, grace had been given him to withstand temptation.) "What's wrong?" he said. And Cyrus, somehow, told his troubles. At first Dr. Lavendar chuckled; then he frowned. "Gussie put you up to this, Cy--_rus_?" he said. "Well, my wife's a woman," Cyrus began, "and they're keener on such matters than men; and she said, perhaps you would--would--" "_What?_" Dr. Lavendar rapped on the table with the bowl of his pipe, so loudly that Danny opened one eye. "Would what?" "Well," Cyrus stammered, "you know, Dr. Lavendar, as Gussie says, 'there's no fo--'" "You needn't finish it," Dr. Lavendar interrupted, dryly; "I've heard it before. Gussie didn't say anything about a young fool, did she?" Then he eyed Cyrus. "Or a middle-aged one? I've seen middle-aged fools that could beat us old fellows hollow." "Oh, but Mrs. North is far beyond middle age," said Cyrus, earnestly. Dr. Lavendar shook his head. "Well, well!" he said. "To think that Alfred Price should have such a-- And yet he is as sensible a man as I know!" "Until now," Cyrus amended. "But Gussie thought you'd better caution him. We don't want him, at his time of life, to make a mistake." "It's much more to the point that I should caution you not to make a mistake," said Dr. Lavendar; and then he rapped on the table again, sharply. "The Captain has no such idea--unless Gussie has given it to him. Cyrus, my advice to you is to go home and tell your wife not to be a goose. I'll tell her, if you want me to?" "Oh no, no!" said Cyrus, very much frightened. "I'm afraid you'd hurt her feelings." "I'm afraid I should," said Dr. Lavendar, grimly. "She's so sensitive," Cyrus tried to excuse her; "you can't think how sensitive she is, and timid. I never knew anybody so timid! Why, she makes me look under the bed every night, for fear there's somebody there!" "Well, next time, tell her 'two men and a dog'; that will take her mind off your father." It must be confessed that Dr. Lavendar was out of temper--a sad fault in one of his age, as Mrs. Drayton often said; but his irritability was so marked that Cyrus finally slunk off, uncomforted, and afraid to meet Gussie's eye, even under its bandage of a cologne-scented handkerchief. However, he had to meet it, and he tried to make the best of his own humiliation by saying that Dr. Lavendar was shocked at the idea of the Captain being interested in Mrs. North. "He said father had been, until now, as sensible a man as he knew, and he didn't believe he would think of such a dreadful thing. And neither do I, Gussie, honestly," Cyrus said. "But Mrs. North isn't sensible," Gussie protested, "and she'll--" "Dr. Lavendar said 'there was no fool like a middle-aged fool,'" Cyrus agreed. "Middle-aged! She's as old as Methuselah!" "That's what I told him," said Cyrus. * * * * * By the end of April Old Chester smiled. How could it help it? Gussie worried so that she took frequent occasion to point out possibilities; and after the first gasp of incredulity, one could hear a faint echo of the giggles of forty-eight years before. Mary North heard it, and her heart burned within her. "It's got to stop," she said to herself, passionately; "I must speak to his son." But her throat was dry at the thought. It seemed as if it would kill her to speak to a man on such a subject, even to as little of a man as Cyrus. But, poor, shy tigress! to save her mother, what would she not do? In her pain and fright she said to Mrs. North that if that old man kept on making her uncomfortable and conspicuous, they would leave Old Chester! Mrs. North twinkled with amusement when Mary, in her strained and quivering voice, began, but her jaw dropped at those last words; Mary was capable of carrying her off at a day's notice! The little old lady trembled with distressed reassurances--but Captain Price continued to call. And that was how it came about that this devoted daughter, after days of exasperation and nights of anxiety, reached a point of tense determination. She would go and see the man's son, and say ... That afternoon, as she stood before the swinging glass on her high bureau, tying her bonnet-strings, she tried to think what she would say. She hoped God would give her words--polite words; "for I _must_ be polite," she reminded herself desperately. When she started across the street her paisley shawl had slipped from one shoulder, so that the point dragged on the flagstones; she had split her right glove up the back, and her bonnet was jolted over sidewise; but the thick Chantilly veil hid the quiver of her chin. Gussie met her with effusion, and Mary, striving to be polite, smiled painfully, and said: "I don't want to see you; I want to see your husband." Gussie tossed her head; but she made haste to call Cyrus, who came shambling along the hall from the cabin. The parlor was dark, for though it was a day of sunshine and merry May wind, Gussie kept the shutters bowed--but Cyrus could see the pale intensity of his visitor's face. There was a moment's silence, broken by a distant harmonicon. "Mr. Price," said Mary North, with pale, courageous lips, "you must stop your father." Cyrus opened his weak mouth to ask an explanation, but Gussie rushed in. "You are quite right, ma'am. Cyrus worries so about it (of course we know what you refer to). And Cyrus says it ought to be checked immediately, to save the old gentleman!" "You must stop him," said Mary North, "for my mother's sake." "Well--" Cyrus began. "Have you cautioned your mother?" Gussie demanded. "Yes," Miss North said, briefly. To talk to this woman of her mother made her wince, but it had to be done. "Will you speak to your father, Mr. Price?" "Well, I--" "Of course he will!" Gussie broke in; "Cyrus, he is in the cabin now." "Well, to-morrow I--" Cyrus got up and sidled towards the door. "Anyhow, I don't believe he's thinking of such a thing." "Miss North," said Gussie, rising, "_I_ will do it." "What, _now_?" faltered Mary North. "Now," said Mrs. Cyrus, firmly. "Oh," said Miss North, "I--I think I will go home. Gentlemen, when they are crossed, speak so--so earnestly." Gussie nodded. The joy of action and of combat entered suddenly into her little soul; she never looked less vulgar than at that moment. Cyrus had disappeared. Mary North, white and trembling, hurried out. A wheezing strain from the harmonicon followed her into the May sunshine, then ended, abruptly--Mrs. Price had begun! On her own door-step Miss North stopped and listened, holding her breath for an outburst.... It came: a roar of laughter. Then silence. Mary North stood, motionless, in her own parlor; her shawl, hanging from one elbow, trailed behind her; her other glove had split; her bonnet was blown back and over one ear; her heart was pounding in her throat. She was perfectly aware that she had done an unheard-of thing. "But," she said, aloud, "I'd do it again. I'd do anything to protect her. But I hope I was polite?" Then she thought how courageous Mrs. Cyrus was. "She's as brave as a lion!" said Mary North. Yet, had Miss North been able to stand at the Captain's door, she would have witnessed cowardice.... "Gussie, I wouldn't cry. Confound that female, coming over and stirring you up! Now don't, Gussie! Why, I never thought of--Gussie, I wouldn't cry--" "I have worried almost to death. Pro-promise!" "Oh, your granny was Mur-- Gussie, my dear, now _don't_." "Dr. Lavendar said you'd always been so sensible; he said he didn't see how you could think of such a dreadful thing." "What! Lavendar? I'll thank Lavendar to mind his business!" Captain Price forgot Gussie; he spoke "earnestly." "Dog-gone these people that pry into-- Oh, now, Gussie, _don't_!" "I've worried so awfully," said Mrs. Cyrus. "Everybody is talking about you. And Dr. Lavendar is so--so angry about it; and now the daughter has charged on me as though it is my fault! Of course, she is queer, but--" "Queer? she's queer as Dick's hatband! Why do you listen to her? Gussie, such an idea never entered my head--or Mrs. North's either." "Oh yes, it has! Her daughter said that she had had to speak to her--" Captain Price, dumfounded, forgot his fear and burst out: "You're a pack of fools, the whole caboodle! I swear I--" "Oh, don't blaspheme!" said Gussie, faintly, and staggered a little, so that all the Captain's terror returned. _If she fainted!_ "Hi, there, Cyrus! Come aft, will you? Gussie's getting white around the gills--Cyrus!" Cyrus came, running, and between them they got the swooning Gussie to her room; Afterwards, when Cyrus tiptoed down-stairs, he found the Captain at the cabin door. The old man beckoned mysteriously. "Cy, my boy, come in here"--he hunted about in his pocket for the key of the cupboard--"Cyrus, I'll tell you what happened; that female across the street came in, and told poor Gussie some cock-and-bull story about her mother and me!" The Captain chuckled, and picked up his harmonicon. "It scared the life out of Gussie," he said; then, with sudden angry gravity,--"these people that poke their noses into other's people's business ought to be thrashed. Well, I'm going over to see Mrs. North." And off he stumped, leaving Cyrus staring after him, open-mouthed. * * * * * If Mary North had been at home, she would have met him with all the agonized courage of shyness and a good conscience. But she had fled out of the house, and down along the River Road, to be alone and regain her self-control. The Captain, however, was not seeking Miss North. He opened the front door, and advancing to the foot of the stairs, called up: "Ahoy, there! Mrs. North!" Mrs. North came trotting out to answer the summons. "Why, Alfred!" she exclaimed, looking over the banisters, "when did you come in? I didn't hear the bell ring. I'll come right down." "It didn't ring; I walked in," said the Captain. And Mrs. North came down-stairs, perhaps a little stiffly, but as pretty an old lady as you ever saw. Her white curls lay against faintly pink cheeks, and her lace cap had a pink bow on it. But she looked anxious and uncomfortable. ("Oh," she was saying to herself, "I do hope Mary's out!)--Well, Alfred?" she said; but her voice was frightened. The Captain stumped along in front of her into the parlor, and motioned her to a seat. "Mrs. North," he said, his face red, his eye hard, "some jack-donkeys have been poking their noses (of course they're females) into our affairs; and--" "Oh, Alfred, isn't it horrid in them?" said the old lady. "Darn 'em!" said the Captain. "It makes me mad!" cried Mrs. North; then her spirit wavered. "Mary is so foolish; she says she'll--she'll take me away from Old Chester. I laughed at first, it was so foolish. But when she said that--oh _dear_!" "Well, but, my dear madam, say you won't go. Ain't you skipper?" "No, I'm not," she said, dolefully. "Mary brought me here, and she'll take me away, if she thinks it best. Best for _me_, you know. Mary is a good daughter, Alfred. I don't want you to think she isn't. But she's foolish. Unmarried women are apt to be foolish." The Captain thought of Gussie, and sighed. "Well," he said, with the simple candor of the sea, "I guess there ain't much difference in 'em, married or unmarried." "It's the interference makes me mad," Mrs. North declared, hotly. "Damn the whole crew!" said the Captain; and the old lady laughed delightedly. "Thank you, Alfred!" "My daughter-in-law is crying her eyes out," the Captain sighed. "Tck!" said Mrs. North; "Alfred, you have no sense. Let her cry. It's good for her!" "Oh no," said the Captain, shocked. "You're a perfect slave to her," cried Mrs. North. "No more than you are to your daughter," Captain Price defended himself; and Mrs. North sighed. "We are just real foolish, Alfred, to listen to 'em. As if we didn't know what was good for us." "People have interfered with us a good deal, first and last," the Captain said, grimly. The faint color in Mrs. North's cheeks suddenly deepened. "So they have," she said. The Captain shook his head in a discouraged way; he took his pipe out of his pocket and looked at it absent-mindedly. "I suppose I can stay at home, and let 'em get over it?" "Stay at home? Why, you'd far better--" "What?" said the Captain. "Come oftener!" cried the old lady. "Let 'em get over it by getting used to it." Captain Price looked doubtful. "But how about your daughter?" Mrs. North quailed. "I forgot Mary," she admitted. "I don't bother you, coming to see you, do I?" the Captain said, anxiously. "Why, Alfred, I love to see you. If our children would just let us alone!" "First it was our parents," said Captain Price. He frowned heavily. "According to other people, first we were too young to have sense; and now we're too old." He took out his worn old pouch, plugged some shag into his pipe, and struck a match under the mantel-piece. He sighed, with deep discouragement. Mrs. North sighed too. Neither of them spoke for a moment; then the little old lady drew a quick breath and flashed a look at him; opened her lips; closed them with a snap; then regarded the toe of her slipper fixedly. The color flooded up to her soft white hair. The Captain, staring hopelessly, suddenly blinked; then his honest red face slowly broadened into beaming astonishment and satisfaction. "_Mrs. North_--" "Captain Price!" she parried, breathlessly. "So long as our affectionate children have suggested it!" "Suggested--what?" "Let's give 'em something to cry about!" "Alfred!" "Look here: we are two old fools; so they say, anyway. Let's live up to their opinion. I'll get a house for Cyrus and Gussie--and your girl can live with 'em, if she wants to!" The Captain's bitterness showed then. "She could live here," murmured Mrs. North. "What do you say?" The little old lady laughed excitedly, and shook her head; the tears stood in her eyes. "Do you want to leave Old Chester?" the Captain demanded. "You know I don't," she said, sighing. "She'd take you away to-morrow," he threatened, "if she knew I had--I had--" "She sha'n't know it." "Well, then, we've got to get spliced to-morrow." "Oh, Alfred, no! I don't believe Dr. Lavendar would--" "I'll have no dealings with Lavendar," the Captain said, with sudden stiffness; "he's like all the rest of 'em. I'll get a license in Upper Chester, and we'll go to some parson there." Mrs. North's eyes snapped. "Oh, no, no!" she protested; but in another minute they were shaking hands on it. "Cyrus and Gussie can go and live by themselves," said the Captain, joyously, "and I'll get that hold cleaned out; she's kept the ports shut ever since she married Cyrus." "And I'll make a cake! And I'll take care of your clothes; you really are dreadfully shabby"; she turned him round to the light, and brushed off some ashes. The Captain beamed. "Poor Alfred! and there's a button gone! that daughter-in-law of yours can't sew any more than a cat (and she _is_ a cat!). But I love to mend. Mary has saved me all that. She's such a good daughter--poor Mary. But she's unmarried, poor child." * * * * * However, it was not to-morrow. It was two or three days later that Dr. Lavendar and Danny, jogging along behind Goliath under the buttonwoods on the road to Upper Chester, were somewhat inconvenienced by the dust of a buggy that crawled up and down the hills just a little ahead. The hood of this buggy was up, upon which fact--it being a May morning of rollicking wind and sunshine--Dr. Lavendar speculated to his companion: "Daniel, the man in that vehicle is either blind and deaf, or else he has something on his conscience; in either case he won't mind our dust, so we'll cut in ahead at the watering-trough. G'on, Goliath!" But Goliath had views of his own about the watering-trough, and instead of passing the hooded buggy, which had stopped there, he insisted upon drawing up beside it. "Now, look here," Dr. Lavendar remonstrated, "you know you're not thirsty." But Goliath plunged his nose down into the cool depths of the great iron caldron, into which, from a hollow log, ran a musical drip of water. Dr. Lavendar and Danny, awaiting his pleasure, could hear a murmur of voices from the depths of the eccentric vehicle which put up a hood on such a day; when suddenly Dr. Lavendar's eye fell on the hind legs of the other horse. "That's Cipher's trotter," he said to himself, and leaning out, cried: "Hi! Cy?" At which the other horse was drawn in with a jerk, and Captain Price's agitated face peered out from under the hood. "Where! Where's Cyrus?" Then he caught sight of Dr. Lavendar. "'_The devil and Tom Walker!_'" said the Captain, with a groan. The buggy backed erratically. "Look out!" said Dr. Lavendar--but the wheels locked. Of course there was nothing for Dr. Lavendar to do but get out and take Goliath by the head, grumbling, as he did so, that Cyrus "shouldn't own such a spirited beast." "I am somewhat hurried," said Captain Price, stiffly. The old minister looked at him over his spectacles; then he glanced at the small, embarrassed figure shrinking into the depths of the buggy. ("Hullo, hullo, hullo!" he said, softly. "Well, Gussie's done it.) You'd better back a little, Captain," he advised. "I can manage," said the Captain. "I didn't say 'go back,'" Dr. Lavendar said, mildly. "Oh!" murmured a small voice from within the buggy. "I expect you need me, don't you, Alfred?" said Dr. Lavendar. "What?" said the Captain, frowning. "Captain," said Dr. Lavendar, simply, "if I can be of any service to you and Mrs. North, I shall be glad." Captain Price looked at him. "Now, look here, Lavendar, we're going to do it this time, if all the parsons in--well, in the church, try to stop us!" "I'm not going to try to stop you." "But Gussie said you said--" "Alfred, at your time of life, are you beginning to quote Gussie?" "But she said you said it would be--" "Captain Price, I do not express my opinion of your conduct to your daughter-in-law. You ought to have sense enough to know that." "Well, why did you talk to her about it?" "I didn't talk to her about it. But," said Dr. Lavendar, thrusting out his lower lip, "I should like to." "We were going to hunt up a parson in Upper Chester," said the Captain, sheepishly. Dr. Lavendar looked about, up and down the silent, shady road, then through the bordering elder-berries into an orchard. "If you have your license," he said, "I have my prayer-book. Let's go into the orchard. There are two men working there we can get for witnesses--Danny isn't quite enough, I suppose." [Illustration: THERE WAS A LITTLE SILENCE, AND THEN DR. LAVENDER BEGAN] The Captain turned to Mrs. North. "What do you say, ma'am?" he said. She nodded, and gathered up her skirts to get out of the buggy. The two old men led their horses to the side of the road and hitched them to the rail fence; then the Captain helped Mrs. North through the elder-bushes, and shouted out to the men ploughing at the other side of the orchard. They came--big, kindly young fellows, and stood gaping at the three old people standing under the apple-tree in the sunshine. Dr. Lavendar explained that they were to be witnesses, and the boys took off their hats. There was a little silence, and then, in the white shadows and perfume of the orchard, with its sunshine, and drift of petals falling in the gay wind, Dr. Lavendar began.... When he came to "Let no man put asunder--" Captain Price growled in his grizzled red beard, "Nor woman, either!" But only Mrs. North smiled. When it was over, Captain Price drew a deep breath of relief. "Well, this time we made a sure thing of it, Mrs. North!" "_Mrs. North?_" said Dr. Lavendar; and then he did chuckle. "Oh--" said Captain Price, and roared at the joke. "You'll have to call me Letty," said the pretty old lady, smiling and blushing. "Oh," said the Captain; then he hesitated. "Well, now, if you don't mind, I--I guess I won't call you Letty. I'll call you Letitia." "Call me anything you want to," said Mrs. Price, gayly. Then they all shook hands with one another and with the witnesses, who found something left in their palms that gave them great satisfaction, and went back to climb into their respective buggies. "We have shore leave," the Captain explained; "we won't go back to Old Chester for a few days. You may tell 'em, Lavendar." "Oh, may I?" said Dr. Lavender, blankly. "Well, good-bye, and good luck!" He watched the other buggy tug on ahead, and then he leaned down to catch Danny by the scruff of the neck. "Well, Daniel," he said, "'_if at first you don't succeed_'--" And Danny was pulled into the buggy. THE END Transcriber's Note: Both Lavender and Lavendar have been retained as they appear in the original publication. 
10087	----	OLD LADY NUMBER 31 BY LOUISE FORSSLUND AUTHOR OF "THE STORY OF SARAH," "THE SHIP OF DREAMS," ETC. 1909 TO MY MOTHER CONTENTS I. THE TEA-TABLE II. "GOOD-BY" III. THE CANDIDATE IV. ONE OF THEM V. THE HEAD OF THE CORNER VI. INDIAN SUMMER VII. OLD LETTERS AND NEW VIII. THE ANNIVERSARY IX. A WINTER BUTTERFLY X. THE TURN OF THE TIDE XI. MENTAL TREATMENT XII. "A PASSEL OF MEDDLERS" XIII. THE PRODIGAL'S DEPARTURE XIV. CUTTING THE APRON-STRINGS XV. THE "HARDENING" PROCESS XVI. "A REG'LAR HOSS" XVII. THE DESERTER XVIII. SAMUEL'S WELCOME XIX. EXCHANGING THE OLIVE-BRANCH XX. THE FATTED CALF XXI. "OUR BELOVED BROTHER" I THE TEA-TABLE Angeline's slender, wiry form and small, glossy gray head bent over the squat brown tea-pot as she shook out the last bit of leaf from the canister. The canister was no longer hers, neither the tea-pot, nor even the battered old pewter spoon with which she tapped the bottom of the tin to dislodge the last flicker of tea-leaf dust. The three had been sold at auction that day in response to the auctioneer's inquiry, "What am I bid for the lot?" Nothing in the familiar old kitchen was hers, Angeline reflected, except Abraham, her aged husband, who was taking his last gentle ride in the old rocking-chair--the old arm-chair with painted roses blooming as brilliantly across its back as they had bloomed when the chair was first purchased forty years ago. Those roses had come to be a source of perpetual wonder to the old wife, an ever present example. Neither time nor stress could wilt them in a single leaf. When Abe took the first mortgage on the house in order to invest in an indefinitely located Mexican gold-mine, the melodeon dropped one of its keys, but the roses nodded on with the same old sunny hope; when Abe had to take the second mortgage and Tenafly Gold became a forbidden topic of conversation, the minute-hand fell off the parlor clock, but the flowers on the back of the old chair blossomed on none the less serenely. The soil grew more and more barren as the years went by; but still the roses had kept fresh and young, so why, argued Angy, should not she? If old age and the pinch of poverty had failed to conquer their valiant spirit, why should she listen to the croaking tale? If they bloomed on with the same crimson flaunt of color, though the rockers beneath them had grown warped and the body of the chair creaked and groaned every time one ventured to sit in it, why should she not ignore the stiffness which the years seemed to bring to her joints, the complaints which her body threatened every now and again to utter, and fare on herself, a hardy perennial bravely facing life's winter-time? Even this dreaded day had not taken one fraction of a shade from the glory of the roses, as Angeline could see in the bud at one side of Abraham's head and the full-blown flower below his right ear; so why should she droop because the sale of her household goods had been somewhat disappointing? _Somewhat?_ When the childless old couple, still sailing under the banner of a charity-forbidding pride, became practically reduced to their last copper, just as Abe's joints were "loosenin' up" after a five years' siege of rheumatism, and decided to sell all their worldly possessions, apart from their patched and threadbare wardrobes and a few meager keepsakes, they had depended upon raising at least two hundred dollars, one half of which was to secure Abe a berth in the Old Men's Home at Indian Village, and the other half to make Angeline comfortable for life, if a little lonely, in the Old Ladies' Home in their own native hamlet of Shoreville. Both institutions had been generously endowed by the same estate, and were separated by a distance of but five miles. "Might as waal be five hunderd, with my rheumatiz an' yer weak heart," Abraham had growled when Angy first proposed the plan as the only dignified solution to their problem of living. "But," the little wife had rejoined, "it'll be a mite o' comfort a-knowin' a body's so near, even ef yer can't git tew 'em." Now, another solution must be found to the problem; for the auction was over, and instead of two hundred dollars they had succeeded in raising but one hundred dollars and two cents. "That air tew cents was fer the flour-sifter," inwardly mourned Angy, "an' it was wuth double an' tribble, fer it's been a good friend ter me fer nigh on ter eight year." "Tew cents on the second hunderd," said Abe for the tenth time. "I've counted it over an' over. One hunderd dollars an' tew pesky pennies. An' I never hear a man tell so many lies in my life as that air auctioneer. Yew'd 'a' thought he was sellin' out the Empery o' Rooshy. Hy-guy, it sounded splendid. Fust off I thought he'd raise us more 'n we expected. An' mebbe he would have tew, Angy," a bit ruefully, "ef yew'd 'a' let me advertise a leetle sooner. I don't s'pose half Shoreville knows yit that we was gwine ter have a auction sale." He watched the color rising in her cheeks with a curious mixture of pride in her pride and regret at its consequences. "It's no use a-talkin', Mother, Pride an' Poverty makes oneasy bed-fellers." He leaned back in the old chair, creaking out a dismal echo to the auctioneer's, "Going, going, gone!" while the flush deepened in Angy's cheek. Again she fastened her gaze upon the indomitable red rose which hung a pendant ear-ring on the right side of Abraham's head. "Yew wouldn't 'a' had folks a-comin' here ter bid jest out o' charity, would yew?" she demanded. "An' anyhow," in a more gentle tone,--the gently positive tone which she had acquired through forty years of living with Abraham,--"we hain't so bad off with one hunderd dollars an' tew cents, an'--beholden ter nobody! It's tew cents more 'n yew need ter git yew inter the Old Men's, an' them extry tew cents'll pervide fer me jest bewtiful." Abraham stopped rocking to stare hard at his resourceful wife, an involuntary twinkle of amusement in his blue eyes. With increased firmness, she repeated, "Jest bewtiful!" whereupon Abe, scenting self-sacrifice on his wife's part, sat up straight and snapped, "Haow so, haow so, Mother?" "It'll buy a postage-stamp, won't it?"--she was fairly aggressive now,--"an' thar's a envelop what wa'n't put up ter auction in the cupboard an' a paper-bag I kin iron out,--ketch me a-gwine ter the neighbors an' a-beggin' fer writin'-paper--an' I'll jest set daown an' write a line ter Mis' Halsey. Her house hain't a stun's throw from the Old Men's; an' I'll offer ter come an' take keer o' them air young 'uns o' her'n fer my board an' keep an'--ten cents a week. I was a-gwine ter say a quarter, but I don't want ter impose on nobody. Seein' that they hain't over well-ter-do, I would go fer nothin', but I got ter have somethin' ter keep up appearances on, so yew won't have no call ter feel ashamed of me when I come a-visitin' ter the hum." Involuntarily, as she spoke, Angy lifted her knotted old hand and smoothed back the hair from her brow; for through all the struggling years she had kept a certain, not unpleasing, girlish pride in her personal appearance. Abraham had risen with creaks of his rheumatic joints, and was now walking up and down the room, his feet lifted slowly and painfully with every step, yet still his blue eyes flashing with the fire of indignant protest. "Me a-bunkin' comfortable in the Old Men's, an' yew a-takin' keer o' them Halsey young 'uns fer ten cents a week! I wouldn't take keer o' 'em fer ten cents a short breath. Thar be young 'uns an' young 'uns," he elucidated, "but they be tartars! Yew'd be in yer grave afore the fust frost; an' who's a-gwine ter bury yer--the taown?" His tone became gentle and broken: "No, no, Angy. Yew be a good gal, an' dew jest as we calc'lated on. Yew jine the Old Ladies'; yew've got friends over thar, yew'll git erlong splendid. An' I'll git erlong tew. Yer know"--throwing his shoulders back, he assumed the light, bantering tone so familiar to his wife--"the poorhouse doors is always open. I'd jest admire ter go thar. Thar's a rocking-chair in every room, and they say the grub is A No. 1." He winked at her, smiling his broadest smile in his attempt to deceive. Both wink and smile, however, were lost upon Angy, who was busy dividing the apple-sauce in such a way that Abe would have the larger share without suspecting it, hoping the while that he would not notice the absence of butter at this last home meal. She herself had never believed in buttering bread when there was "sass" to eat with it; but Abe's extravagant tastes had always carried him to the point of desiring both butter and sauce as a relish to his loaf. "Naow, fur 's I'm concerned," pursued Abe, "I hain't got nothin' agin the poorhouse fer neither man ner woman. I'd as lief let yew go thar 'stid o' me; fer I know very well that's what yew're a-layin' out fer ter do. Yes, yes, Mother, yew can't fool me. But think what folks would say! Think what they would say! They 'd crow, 'Thar's Abe a-takin' his comfort in the Old Men's Hum, an' Angeline, she's a-eatin' her heart out in the poorhouse!'" Angeline had, indeed, determined to be the one to go to the poorhouse; but all her life long she had cared, perhaps to a faulty degree, for "what folks would say." Above all, she cared now for what they had said and what they still might say about her husband and this final ending to his down-hill road. She rested her two hands on the table and looked hard at the apple-sauce until it danced before her eyes. She could not think with any degree of clearness. Vaguely she wondered if their supper would dance out of sight before they could sit down to eat it. So many of the good things of life had vanished ere she and Abe could touch their lips to them. Then she felt his shaking hand upon her shoulder and heard him mutter with husky tenderness: "My dear, this is the fust chance since we've been married that I've had to take the wust of it. Don't say a word agin it naow, Mother, don't yer. I've brought yer ter this pass. Lemme bear the brunt o' it." Ah, the greatest good of all had not vanished, and that was the love they bore one to the other. The sunshine came flooding back into Mother's heart. She lifted her face, beautiful, rosy, eternally young. This was the man for whom she had gladly risked want and poverty, the displeasure of her own people, almost half a century ago. Now at last she could point him out to all her little world and say, "See, he gives me the red side of the apple!" She lifted her eyes, two bright sapphires swimming with the diamond dew of unshed, happy tears. "I'm a-thinkin', Father," she twittered, "that naow me an' yew be a-gwine so fur apart, we be a-gittin' closer tergether in sperit than we 've ever been afore." Abe bent down stiffly to brush her cheek with his rough beard, and then, awkward, as when a boy of sixteen he had first kissed her, shy, ashamed at this approach to a return of the old-time love-making, he seated himself at the small, bare table. This warped, hill-and-dale table of the drop-leaves, which had been brought from the attic only to-day after resting there for ten years, had served as their first dining-table when the honeymoon was young. Abe thoughtfully drummed his hand on the board, and as Angy brought the tea-pot and sat down opposite him, he recalled: "We had bread an' tea an' apple-sass the day we set up housekeeping dew yew remember, Angy?" "An' I burned the apple-sass," she supplemented, whereupon Abe chuckled, and Angy went on with a thrill of genuine gladness over the fact that he remembered the details of that long-ago honeymoon as well as she: "Yew don't mind havin' no butter to-night, dew yer, Father?" He recalled how he had said to her at that first simple home meal: "Yew don't mind bein' poor with me, dew yer, Angy?" Now, with a silent shake of his head, he stared at her, wondering how it would seem to eat at table when her face no longer looked at him across the board, to sleep at night when her faithful hand no longer lay within reach of his own. She lifted her teacup, he lifted his, the two gazing at each other over the brims, both half-distressed, half-comforted by the fact that Love still remained their toast-master after the passing of all the years. Of a sudden Angy exclaimed, "We fergot ter say grace." Shocked and contrite, they covered their eyes with their trembling old hands and murmured together, "Dear Lord, we thank Thee this day for our daily bread." Angy opened her eyes to find the red roses cheerfully facing her from the back of the rocking-chair. A robin had hopped upon the window-sill just outside the patched and rusty screen and was joyfully caroling to her his views of life. Through the window vines in which the bird was almost meshed the sunlight sifted softly into the stripped, bare, and lonely room. Angy felt strangely encouraged and comforted. The roses became symbolical to her of the "lilies of the field which toil not, neither do they spin"; the robin was one of the "two sparrows sold for a farthing, and one of them shall not fall to the ground without your Father"; while the sunlight seemed to call out to the little old lady who hoped and believed and loved much: "Fear ye not therefor. Ye are of more value than many sparrows!" II "GOOD-BY" When the last look of parting had been given to the old kitchen and the couple passed out-of-doors, hushed and trembling, they presented an incongruously brave, gala-day appearance. Both were dressed in their best. To be sure, Abraham's Sunday suit had long since become his only, every-day suit as well, but he wore his Sabbath-day hat, a beaver of ancient design, with an air that cast its reflection over all his apparel. Angeline had on a black silk gown as shiny as the freshly polished stove she was leaving in her kitchen--a gown which testified from its voluminous hem to the soft yellow net at the throat that Angeline was as neat a mender and darner as could be found in Suffolk county. A black silk bonnet snuggled close to her head, from under its brim peeping a single pink rose. Every spring for ten years Angeline had renewed the youth of this rose by treating its petals with the tender red dye of a budding oak. Under the pink rose, a soft pink flush bloomed on either of the old lady's cheeks. Her eyes flashed with unconquerable pride, and her square, firm chin she held very high; for now, indeed, she was filled with terror of what "folks would say" to this home-leaving, and it was a bright June afternoon, too clear for an umbrella with which to hide one's face from prying neighbors, too late in the day for a sunshade. Angy tucked the green-black affair which served them as both under her arm and swung Abe's figured old carpet-bag in her hand with the manner of one setting out on a pleasant journey. Abe, though resting heavily on his stout, crooked cane, dragged behind him Angy's little horsehair trunk upon a creaking, old, unusually large, toy express-wagon which he had bought at some forgotten auction long ago. The husband and wife passed into the garden between borders of boxwood, beyond which nodded the heads of Angy's carefully tended, out-door "children"--her roses, her snowballs, her sweet-smelling syringas, her wax-like bleeding-hearts, and her shrub of bridal-wreath. "Jest a minute," she murmured, as Abe would have hastened on to the gate. She bent her proud head and kissed with furtive, half-ashamed passion a fluffy white spray of the bridal-wreath. Now overtopping the husband's silk hat, the shrub had not come so high as his knee when they two had planted it nearly a half-century ago. "You're mine!" Angy's heart cried out to the shrub and to every growing thing in the garden. "You're mine. I planted you, tended you, loved you into growing. You're all the children I ever had, and I'm leaving you." But the old wife did not pluck a single flower, for she could never bear to see a blossom wither in her hand, while all she said aloud was: "I'm glad 't was Mis' Holmes that bought in the house. They say she's a great hand ter dig in the garden." Angy's voice faltered. Abe did not answer. Something had caused a swimming before his eyes which he did not wish his wife to see; so he let fall the handle of the express-wagon and, bending his slow back, plucked a sprig of "old-man." Though he could not have expressed his sentiments in words, the garden brought poignant recollections of the hopes and promises which had thrown their rose color about the young days of his marriage. His hopes had never blossomed into fulfilment. His promises to the little wife had been choked by the weeds of his own inefficiency. Worse than this, the bursting into bloom of seeds of selfish recklessness in himself was what had turned the garden of their life into an arid waste. And now, in their dry and withered old age, he and Angy were being torn up by the roots, flung as so much rubbish by the roadside. "Mother, I be dretful sorry ter take yew away from your posies," muttered Abraham as he arose with his green sprig in his hand. With shaking fingers, Angy sought a pin hidden beneath her basque. "Father, shall I pin yer 'old-man' in yer buttonhole?" she quavered. Then as he stooped for her to arrange the posy, she whispered: "I wouldn't care, 'cept fer what folks must say. Le' 's hurry before any one sees us. I told everybody that we wa'n't a-gwine ter break up till ter-morrer mornin'." Fortunately, there was a way across lots to the Old Ladies' Home, an unfrequented by-path over a field and through a bit of woodland, which would bring the couple almost unobserved to a side gate. Under ordinary circumstances, Angeline would never have taken this path; for it exposed her carefully patched and newly polished shoes to scratches, her fragile, worn silk skirt and stiff, white petticoat to brambles. Moreover, the dragging of the loaded little wagon was more difficult here for Abraham. But they both preferred the narrower, rougher way to facing the curious eyes of all Shoreville now, the pitying windows of the village street. As the couple came to the edge of the woodland, they turned with one accord and looked back for the last glimpse of the home. Blazing gold-red against the kitchen window flamed the afternoon sunlight. "Look a' that!" Angy cried eagerly, as one who beholds a promise in the skies. "Jest see, Father; we couldn't 'a' made out that winder this fur at all ef the sun hadn't struck it jest so. I declar' it seems almost as ef we could see the rocker, tew. It's tew bad, Abe, that we had ter let yer old rocker go. D'yew remember--?" She laid her hand on his arm, and lifted her gaze, growing clouded and wistful, to his face. "When we bought the chair, we thought mebbe some day I'd be rocking a leetle baby in it. 'T was then, yew ricollec', we sorter got in the habit of callin' each other 'father' an' 'mother.' I wonder ef the young 'uns had come--" "Le' 's hurry," interrupted Abe almost gruffly. "Le' 's hurry." They stumbled forward with bowed heads in silence, until of a sudden they were startled by a surprised hail of recognition, and looked up to find themselves confronted by a bent and gray old man, a village character, a harmless, slightly demented public charge known as "Ishmael" or "Captain Rover." "Whar yew goin', Cap'n Rose?" The old couple had drawn back at the sight of the gentle vagabond, and Angy clutched at her husband's arm, her heart contracting at the thought that he, too, had become a pauper. "I'm a-takin' my wife ter jine the old ladies over thar ter the Hum," Abe answered, and would have passed on, shrinking from the sight of himself as reflected in poor Ishmael. But the "innocent" placed himself in their path. "Yew ain't a-goin' ter jine 'em, tew?" he bantered. Abe forced a laugh to his lips in response. "No, no; I'm goin' over ter Yaphank ter board on the county." Again the couple would have passed on, their faces flushed, their eyes lowered, had not Ishmael flung out one hand to detain them while he plunged the other hurriedly into his pocket. "Here." He drew out a meager handful of nickels and pennies, his vacant smile grown wistful. "Here, take it, Cap'n Rose. It's all I got. I can't count it myself, but yew can. Don't yew think it's enough ter set yew up in business, so yew won't have ter go ter the poorhouse? The poorhouse is a bad place. I was there last winter. I don't like the poorhouse." He rambled on of the poorhouse. Angy, panting for breath, one hand against the smothering pain at her heart, was trying, with the other, to drag "Father" along. "Father" was shaking his head at Ishmael, at the proffered nickels and pennies--shaking his head and choking. At length he found his voice, and was able to smile at his would-be benefactor with even the ghost of a twinkle in his eye. "Much obliged, Cap'n Rover; but yew keep yer money fer terbaccy. I ain't so high-toned as yew. I'll take real comfort at the poorhouse. S' long; thank yer. S' long." Ishmael went on his way muttering to himself, unhappily jingling his rejected alms; while Angy and Abe resumed their journey. As they came to the gate of the Old Ladies' Home, Angy seized hold of her husband's arm, and looking up into his face pleaded earnestly: "Father, let's take the hunderd dollars fer a fambly tombstun an' go ter the poorhouse tergether!" He shook her off almost roughly and lifted the latch of the gate. "Folks'd say we was crazy, Mother." There was no one in sight as he dragged in the express-cart and laid down the handle. Before him was a long, clean-swept path ending apparently in a mass of shrubbery; to the left was a field of sweet corn reaching to the hedge; to the right a strong and sturdy growth of pole lima beans; and just within the entrance, beneath the sweeping plumes of a weeping-willow tree, was a shabby but inviting green bench. Abe's glance wandered from the bench to his wife's face. Angy could not lift her eyes to him; with bowed head she was latching and unlatching the gate through which he must pass. He looked at the sun and thoughtfully made reckon of the time. There were still two hours before he could take the train which-- "Lef 's go set deown a spell afore--" he faltered--"afore we say good-by." She made no answer. She told herself over and over that she must--simply must--stop that "all-of-a-tremble" feeling which was going on inside of her. She stepped from the gate to the bench blindly, with Abe's hand on her arm, though, still blindly, with exaggerated care she placed his carpet-bag on the grass beside her. He laid down his cane, took off his high hat and wiped his brow. He looked at her anxiously. Still she could not lift her blurred eyes, nor could she check her trembling. Seeing how she shook, he passed his arm around her shoulder. He murmured something--what, neither he nor she knew--but the love of his youth spoke in the murmur, and again fell the silence. Angy's eyes cleared. She struggled to speak, aghast at the thought that life itself might be done before ever they could have one hour together again; but no words came. So much--so much to say! She reached out her hand to where his rested upon his knee. Their fingers gripped, and each felt a sense of dreary cheer to know that the touch was speaking what the tongue could not utter. Time passed swiftly. The silent hour sped on. The young blades of corn gossiped gently along the field. Above, the branches of the willow swished and swayed to the rhythm of the soft, south wind. "How still, how still it is!" whispered the breeze. "Rest, rest, rest!" was the lullaby swish of the willow. The old wife nestled closer to Abraham until her head touched his shoulder. He laid his cheek against her hair and the carefully preserved old bonnet. Involuntarily she raised her hand, trained by the years of pinching economy, to lift the fragile rose into a safer position. He smiled at her action; then his arm closed about her spasmodically and he swallowed a lump in his throat. The afternoon was waning. Gradually over the turmoil of their hearts stole the garden's June-time spirit of drowsy repose. They leaned even closer to each other. The gray of the old man's hair mingled with the gray beneath Angeline's little bonnet. Slowly his eyes closed. Then even as Angy wondered who would watch over the slumbers of his worn old age in the poorhouse, she, too, fell asleep. III THE CANDIDATE The butcher's boy brought the tidings of the auction sale in at the kitchen door of the Old Ladies' Home even while Angy and Abe were lingering over their posies, and the inmates of the Home were waiting to receive the old wife with the greater sympathy and the deeper spirit of welcome from the fact that two of the twenty-nine members had known her from girlhood, away back in the boarding-school days. "Yop," said the boy, with one eye upon the stout matron, who was critically examining the meat that he had brought. "Yop, the auction's over, an' Cap'n Rose, he--Don't that cut suit you, Miss Abigail? You won't find a better, nicer, tenderer, and more juicier piece of shoulder this side of New York. Take it back, did you say? All right, ma'am, all right!" His face assumed a look of resignation: these old ladies made his life a martyrdom. He used to tell the "fellers" that he spent one half his time carrying orders back and forth from the Old Ladies' Home. But now, in spite of his meekness of manner, he did not intend to take this cut back. So with Machiavellian skill he hastened on with his gossip. "Yop, an' they only riz one hundred dollars an' two cents--one hundred dollars an' a postage-stamp. I guess it's all up with the cap'n an' the Old Men's. I don't see 'em hangin' out no 'Welcome' sign on the strength of that." "You're a horrid, heartless little boy!" burst forth Miss Abigail, and, flinging the disputed meat on the table, she sank down into the chair, completely overcome by sorrow and indignation. "You'll be old yerself some day," she sobbed, not noticing that he was stealthily edging toward the door, one eye on her, one on to-morrow's pot-roast. "I tell yew, Tommy," regaining her accustomed confiding amiability, as she lifted the corner of her apron to wipe her eyes, "Miss Ellie will feel some kind o' bad, tew. Yer know me an' her an' Angy all went ter school tergether, although Miss Ellie is so much younger 'n the rest o' us that we call her the baby. Here! Where--" But he was gone. Sighing heavily, the matron put the meat in the ice-box, and then made her slow, lumbering way into the front hall, or community-room, where the sisters were gathered in a body to await the new arrival. "Waal, say!" she supplemented, after she had finished telling her pitiably brief story, "thar's trouble ernough ter go 'round, hain't thar?" Aunt Nancy Smith, who never believed in wearing her heart on her sleeve, sniffed and thumped her cane on the floor. "Yew young folks," she affirmed, herself having seen ninety-nine winters, while Abigail had known but a paltry sixty-five, "yew allers go an' cut yer pity on the skew-gee. I don't see nothin' ter bawl an' beller erbout. I say that a'ny man what can't take kere o' himself, not ter mention his wife, should orter go ter the poorhouse." But the matriarch's voice quavered even more than usual, and as she finished she hastily bent down and felt in her deep skirt-pocket for her snuff-box. Now the Amazonian Mrs. Homan, a widow for the third time, made sturdy retort: "That's jest like yew old maids--always a-blamin' the men. Yew kin jest bet I never would have let one of my husbands go ter the poorhouse. It would have mortified me dretful. It must be a purty poor sort of a woman what can't take care of one man and keep a roof over his head. Why, my second, Oliver G., used ter say--" "Oh!" Miss Ellie wrung her hands, "can't we do somethin'?" "I could do a-plenty," mourned Miss Abigail, "ef I only had been savin'. Here I git a salary o' four dollars a month, an' not one penny laid away." "Yew fergit," spoke some one gently, "that it takes consid'able ter dress a matron proper." Aunt Nancy, who had been sneezing furiously at her own impotence, now found her speech again. "We're a nice set ter talk erbout dewin' somethin'--a passel o' poor ole critters like us!" Her cackle of embittered laughter was interrupted by the low, cultivated voice of the belle of the Home, "Butterfly Blossy." "We've _got_ to do something," said Blossy firmly. When Blossy spoke with such decision, every one of the sisters pricked up her ears. Blossy might be "a shaller-pate"; she might arrange the golden-white hair of her head as befitted the crowning glory of a young girl, with puffs and rolls and little curls, and--more than one sister suspected--with the aid of "rats"; she might gown herself elaborately in the mended finery of the long ago, the better years; she might dress her lovely big room--the only double bedchamber in the house, for which she had paid a double entrance fee--in all sorts of gewgaws, little ornaments, hand-painted plaques of her own producing, lace bedspreads, embroidered splashers and pillow-shams; she might even permit herself a suitor who came twice a year more punctually than the line-storms, to ask her withered little hand in marriage--but her heart was in the right place, and on occasion she had proved herself a master hand at "fixin' things." "Yes," said she, rising to her feet and flinging out her arms with an eloquent gesture, "we've got to do something, and there's just one thing to do, girls: take the captain right here--here"--she brought her hands to the laces on her bosom--"to our hearts!" At first there was silence, with the ladies staring blankly at Blossy and then at one another. Had they heard aright? Then there came murmurs and exclamations, with Miss Abigail's voice gasping above the others: "What would the directors say?" "What do they always say when we ask a favor?" demanded Blossy. "'How much will it cost?' It won't cost a cent." "Won't, eh?" snapped Aunt Nancy. "How on arth be yew goin' ter vittle him? I hain't had a second dish o' peas this year." "Some men eat more an' some less," remarked Sarah Jane, as ill-favored a spinster as ever the sun shone on; "generally it means so much grub ter so much weight." Miss Abigail glanced up at the ceiling, while Lazy Daisy, who had refused to tip the beam for ten years, surreptitiously hid an apple into which she had been biting. "Le' 's have 'em weighed," suggested a widow, Ruby Lee, with a pretty, well-preserved little face and figure, "an' ef tergether they don't come up to the heartiest one of us--" Miss Abigail made hasty interruption: "Gals, hain't yew never noticed that the more yew need the more yew git? Before Jenny Bell went to live with her darter I didn't know what I should dew, for the taters was gittin' pooty low. Yew know she used ter eat twenty ter a meal an' then look hungry at the platter. An' then ef old Square Ely didn't come a-drivin' up one mornin' with ten bushel in the farm wagon! He'd been savin' 'em fer us all winter fer fear we might run short in the spring. Gals, thar's one thing yew kin depend on, the foresightedness of the Lord. I hain't afraid ter risk a-stretchin' the board an' keep o' thirty ter pervide ample fer thirty-one. Naow, haow many of yew is willin' ter try it?" Every head nodded, "I am"; every eye was wet with the dew of merciful kindness; and Mrs. Homan and Sarah Jane, who had flung plates at each other only that morning, were observed to be holding hands. "But haow on arth be we a-goin' ter sleep him?" proceeded the matron uneasily. "Thar hain't a extry corner in the hull place. Puttin' tew people in No. 30 is out of the question--it's jest erbout the size of a Cinderella shoebox, anyhow, an' the garret leaks--" She paused, for Blossy was pulling at her sleeve, the real Blossy, warmhearted, generous, self-deprecating. "I think No. 30 is just the coziest little place for one! Do let me take it, Miss Abigail, and give the couple my great big barn of a room." Aunt Nancy eyed her suspiciously. "Yew ain't a-gwine ter make a fool o' yerself, an' jump over the broomstick ag'in?" For Blossy's old suitor, Samuel Darby, had made one of his semiannual visits only that morning. The belle burst into hysterical and self-conscious laughter, as she found every glance bent upon her. "Oh, no, no; not that. But I confess that I am tired to death of this perpetual dove-party. I just simply can't live another minute without a man in the house. "Now, Miss Abigail," she added imperiously, "you run across lots and fetch him home." IV ONE OF THEM Ah! but Abraham slept that night as if he had been drawn to rest under the compelling shelter of the wings of all that flock which in happier days he had dubbed contemptuously "them air old hens." Never afterward could the dazed old gentleman remember how he had been persuaded to come into the house and up the stairs with Angeline. He only knew that in the midst of that heart-breaking farewell at the gate, Miss Abigail, all out of breath with running, red in the face, but exceedingly hearty of manner, had suddenly appeared. "Shoo, shoo, shoo!" this stout angel had gasped. "Naow, Cap'n Abe, yew needn't git narvous. We 're as harmless as doves. Run right erlong. Yew won't see anybody ter-night. Don't say a word. It's all right. Sssh! Shoo!" And then, lo! he was not in the County Almshouse, but in a beautiful bright bedchamber with a wreath of immortelles over the mantel, alone with Angy. Afterward, it all seemed the blur of a dream to him, a dream which ended when he had found his head upon a cool, white pillow, and had felt glad, glad--dear God, how glad!--to know that Angy was still within reach of his outstretched hand; and so he had fallen asleep. But when he awoke in the morning, there stood Angeline in front of the glass taking her hair out of curl papers; and then he slowly began to realize the tremendous change that had come into their lives, when his wife committed the unprecedented act of taking her crimps out _before_ breakfast. He realized' that they were to eat among strangers. He had become the guest of thirty "women-folks." No doubt he should be called "Old Gal Thirty-one." He got up and dressed very, very slowly. The bewildered gratitude, the incredulous thanksgiving of last night, were as far away as yesterday's sunset. A great seriousness settled upon Abe's lean face. At last he burst forth: "One to thirty! Hy-guy, I'm in fer it!" How had it happened, he wondered. They had given him no time to think. They had swooped down upon him when his brain was dulled with anguish. Virtually, they had kidnapped him. Why had they brought him here to accept charity of a women's institution? Why need they thus intensify his sense of shame at his life's failure, and, above all, at his failure to provide for Angeline? In the poorhouse he would have been only one more derelict; but here he stood alone to be stared at and pitied and thrown a sickly-satisfying crumb. With a sigh from the very cellar of his being, he muttered: "Aye, Mother, why didn't yew let me go on ter the County House? That air's the place fer a worn-out old hull like me. Hy-guy!" he ejaculated, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, "I'd ruther lay deown an' die th'n face them air women." "Thar, thar!" soothingly spoke Angy, laying her hand on his arm. "Thar, thar, Father! Jest think haow dretful I'd feel a-goin' deown without yer." "So you would!" strangely comforted. "So you would, my dear!" For her sake he tried to brighten up. He joked clumsily as they stood on the threshold of the chamber, whispering, blinking his eyes to make up for the lack of their usually ready twinkle. "Hol' on a minute; supposin' I fergit whether I be a man er a woman?" Her love gave inspiration to her answer: "I'll lean on yer, Abe." Just then there came the loud, imperative clanging of the breakfast-bell; and she urged him to hurry, as "it wouldn't dew" for them to be late the first morning of all times. But he only answered by going back into the room to make an anxious survey of his reflection in the glass. He shook his head reprovingly at the bearded countenance, as if to say: "You need not pride yourself any longer on looking like Abraham Lincoln, for you have been turned into a miserable old woman." Picking up the hair-brush, he held it out at arm's length to Angy. "Won't yew slick up my hair a leetle bit, Mother?" he asked, somewhat shamefacedly. "I can't see extry well this mornin'." "Why, Abe! It's slicked ez slick ez it kin be naow." However, the old wife reached up as he bent his tall, angular form over her, and smoothed again his thin, wet locks. He laughed a little, self-mockingly, and she laughed back, then urged him into the hall, and, slipping ahead, led the way down-stairs. At the first landing, which brought them into full view of the lower hall, he paused, possessed with the mad desire to run away and hide, for at the foot of the stairway stood the entire flock of old ladies. Twenty-nine pairs of eyes were lifted to him and Angy, twenty-nine pairs of lips were smiling at them. To the end of his days Abraham remembered those smiles. Reassuring, unselfish, and tender, they made the old man's heart swell, his emotions go warring together. He wondered, was grateful, yet he grew more confused and afraid. He stared amazed at Angeline, who seemed the embodiment of self-possession, lifting her dainty, proud little gray head higher and higher. She turned to Abraham with a protecting, motherly little gesture of command for him to follow, and marched gallantly on down the stairs. Humbly, trembling at the knees, he came with gingerly steps after the little old wife. How unworthy he was of her now! How unworthy he had always been, yet never realized to the full until this moment. He knew what those smiles meant, he told himself, watching the uplifted faces; they were to soothe his sense of shame and humiliation, to touch with rose this dull gray color of the culmination of his failures. He passed his hand over his eyes, fiercely praying that the tears might not come to add to his disgrace. And all the while brave little Angy kept smiling, until with a truly glad leap of the heart she caught sight of a blue ribbon painted in gold shining on the breast of each one of the twenty-nine women. A pale blue ribbon painted in gold with--yes, peering her eyes she discovered that it was the word "WELCOME!" The forced smile vanished from Angeline's face. Her eyes grew wet, her cheek white. Her proud figure shrank. She turned and looked back at her husband. Not for one instant did she appropriate the compliment to herself. "This is for _you_!" her spirit called out to him, while a new pride dawned in her working face. Forty years had she spent apologizing for Abraham, and now she understood how these twenty-nine generous old hearts had raided him to the pedestal of a hero, while she stood a heroine beside him. Angy it was who trembled now, and Abe, gaining a manly courage from that, took hold of her arm to steady her--they had paused on a step near the foot of the stairs--and, looking around with his whimsical smile, he demanded of the bedecked company in general, "Ladies, be yew 'spectin' the President?" Cackle went the cracked old voices of the twenty-nine in a chorus of appreciative laughter, while the old heads bobbed at one another as if to say, "Won't he be an acquisition?" And then, from among the group there came forward Blossy--Blossy, who had sacrificed most that this should come to pass; Blossy, who had sat till midnight painting the gold-and-blue ribbons; Blossy, the pride and beauty of the Home, in a delicate, old, yellow, real lace gown. She held her two hands gracefully and mysteriously behind her back as she advanced to the foot of the stairs. Looking steadily into Abraham's eyes, she kept a-smiling until he felt as if the warmth of a belated spring had beamed upon him. "The President!" Her mellow, well-modulated voice shook, and she laughed with a mingling of generous joy and tender pity. "Are we expecting the President? You dear modest man! We are welcoming--_you_!" Abe looked to Angy as if to say, "How shall I take it?" and behold! the miracle of his wife's bosom swelling and swelling with pride in him. He turned back, for Blossy was making a speech. His hand to his head, he bent his good ear to listen. In terms poetical and touching she described the loneliness of the life at the Home as it had been with no man under the roof of the house and only a deaf-and-dumb gardener, who hated her sex, in the barn. Then in contrast she painted life as it must be for the sisters now that the thirty tender vines had found a stanch old oak for their clinging. "Me?" queried Abraham of himself and, with another silent glance, of Angy. But what was this? Blossy, leading all the others in a resounding call of "Welcome!" and then Blossy drawing her two hands from behind her back. One held a huge blue cup, the other, the saucer to match. She placed the cup in the saucer and held it out to Abraham. He trudged down the few steps to receive it, unashamed now of the tears that coursed down his cheeks. With a burst of delight he perceived that it was a mustache cup, such as the one he had always used at home until it had been set for safe-keeping on the top pantry shelf to await the auction, where it had brought the price of eleven cents with half a paper of tacks thrown in. And now as the tears cleared away he saw also, what Angy's eyes had already noted, the inscription in warm crimson letters on the shining blue side of the cup, "To Our Beloved Brother." "Sisters," he mumbled, for he could do no more than mumble as he took his gift, "ef yew'd been gittin' ready fer me six months, yew couldn't have done no better." V THE HEAD OF THE CORNER Everybody wore their company manners to the breakfast-table--the first time in the whole history of the Home when company manners had graced the initial meal of the day. Being pleasant at supper was easy enough, Aunt Nancy used to say, for every one save the unreasonably cantankerous, and being agreeable at dinner was not especially difficult; but no one short of a saint could be expected to smile of mornings until sufficient time had been given to discover whether one had stepped out on the wrong or the right side of the bed. This morning, however, no time was needed to demonstrate that everybody in the place had gotten out on the happy side of his couch. Even the deaf-and-dumb gardener had untwisted his surly temper, and as Abraham entered the dining-room, looked in at the east window with a conciliatory grin and nod which said as plainly as words: "'T is a welcome sight indeed to see one of my own kind around this establishment!" "Why don't he come in?" questioned Abe, waving back a greeting as well as he could with the treasured cup in one of his hands and the saucer in the other; whereupon Sarah Jane, that ugly duckling, explained that the fellow, being a confirmed woman-hater, cooked all his own meals in the smokehouse, and insisted upon all his orders being left on a slate outside the tool-house door. Abe sniffed disdainfully, contemplating her homely countenance, over which this morning's mood had cast a not unlovely, transforming glow. "Why, the scalawag!" He frowned so at the face in the window that it immediately disappeared. "Yew don't mean ter tell me he's sot ag'in' yew gals? He must be crazy! Sech a handsome, clever set o' women I never did see!" Sarah Jane blushed to the roots of her thin, straight hair and sat down, suddenly disarmed of every porcupine quill that she had hidden under her wings; while there was an agreeable little stir among the sisters. "Set deown, all hands! Set deown!" enjoined Miss Abigail, fluttering about with the heaviness of a fat goose. "Brother Abe,--that 's what we've all agreed to call yew, by unanimous vote,--yew set right here at the foot of the table. Aunt Nancy always had the head an' me the foot; but I only kept the foot, partly becuz thar wa'n't no man fer the place, an' partly becuz I was tew sizable ter squeeze in any-whar else. Seein' as Sister Angy is sech a leetle mite, though, I guess she kin easy make room fer me t' other side o' her." Abe could only bow his thanks as he put his gift down on the table and took the prominent place assigned to him. The others seated, there was a solemn moment of waiting with bowed heads. Aunt Nancy's trembling voice arose,--the voice which had jealously guarded the right of saying grace at table in the Old Ladies' Home for twenty years,--not, however, in the customary words of thanksgiving, but in a peremptory "Brother Abe!" Abraham looked up. Could she possibly mean that he was to establish himself as the head of the household by repeating grace? "Brother Abe!" she called upon him again. "Yew've askt a blessin' fer one woman fer many a year; supposin' neow yew ask it fer thirty!" Amid the amazement of the other sisters, Abe mumbled, and muttered, and murmured--no one knew what words; but all understood the overwhelming gratitude behind his incoherency, and all joined heartily in the Amen. Then, while Mrs. Homan, the cook of the week, went bustling out into the kitchen, Aunt Nancy felt that it devolved upon her to explain her action. It would never do, she thought, for her to gain a reputation for self-effacement and sweetness of disposition at her time of life. "Son, I want yew ter understand one thing naow at the start. Yew treat us right, an' we'll treat yew right. That's all we ask o' yew. Miss Ellie, pass the radishes." "I'll do my best," Abe hastened to assure her. "Hy-guy, that coffee smells some kind o' good, don't it? Between the smell o' the stuff an' the looks o' my cup, it'll be so temptin' that I'll wish I had the neck of a gi-raffe, an' could taste it all the way deown. Angy, I be afraid we'll git the gout a-livin' so high. Look at this here cream!" Smiling, appreciative, his lips insisting upon joking to cover the natural feeling of embarrassment incident to this first meal among the sisters, but with his voice breaking now and again with emotion, while from time to time he had to steal his handkerchief to his old eyes, Abe passed successfully through the--to him--elaborate breakfast. And Angy sat in rapt silence, but with her face shining so that her quiet was the stillness of eloquence. Once Abe startled them all by rising stealthily from the table and seizing the morning's newspaper which lay upon the buffet. "I knowed it!" caviled Lazy Daisy _sotto voce_ to no one in particular. "He couldn't wait for the news till he was through eatin'!" But Abe had folded the paper into a stout weapon, and, creeping toward the window, despatched by a quick, adroit movement a fly which had alighted upon the screen. "I hate the very sight o' them air pesky critters," he explained half apologetically. "Thar, thar's another one," and slaughtered that. "My, but yew kin git 'em, can't yew?" spoke Miss Abigail admiringly. "Them tew be the very ones I tried ter ketch all day yiste'day; I kin see as a fly-ketcher yew be a-goin' ter be wuth a farm ter me. Set deown an' try some o' this here strawberry presarve." But Abe protested that he could not eat another bite unless he should get up and run around the house to "joggle deown" what he had already swallowed. He leaned back in his chair and surveyed the family: on his right, generous-hearted Blossy, who had been smiling approval and encouragement at him all through the repast; at his left, and just beyond Angy, Miss Abigail indulging in what remained on the dishes now that she discovered the others to have finished; Aunt Nancy keenly watching him from the head of the board; and all the other sisters "betwixt an' between." He caught Mrs. Homan's eye where she stood in the doorway leading into the kitchen, and remarked pleasantly: "Ma'am, yew oughter set up a pancake shop in 'York. Yew could make a fortune at it. I hain't had sech a meal o' vittles sence I turned fifty year o' age." A flattered smile overspread Mrs. Homan's visage, and the other sisters, noting it, wondered how long it would be before she showed her claws in Abraham's presence. "Hy-guy, Angy," Abe went on, "yew can't believe nothin' yew hear, kin yer? Why, folks have told me that yew ladies--What yew hittin' my foot fer, Mother? Folks have told me," a twinkle of amusement in his eye at the absurdity, "that yew fight among yerselves like cats an' dogs, when, law! I never see sech a clever lot o' women gathered tergether in all my life. An' I believe--Mother, I hain't a-sayin' nothin'! I jest want ter let 'em know what I think on 'em. I believe that thar must be three hunderd hearts in this here place 'stid o' thirty. But dew yew know, gals, folks outside even go so fur's ter say that yew throw plates at one another!" There was a moment's silence; then a little gasp first from one and then from another of the group. Every one looked at Mrs. Homan, and from Mrs. Homan to Sarah Jane. Mrs. Homan tightened her grip on the pancake turner; Sarah Jane uneasily moved her long fingers within reach of a sturdy little red-and-white pepper-pot. Another moment passed, in which the air seemed filled with the promise of an electric storm. Then Blossy spoke hurriedly--Blossy the tactician, clasping her hands together and bringing Abe's attention to herself. "Really! You surprise me! You don't mean to say that folks talk about us like that!" "Slander is a dretful long-legged critter," amended Miss Abigail, smiling and sighing in the same breath. "Sary Jane," inquired Mrs. Homan sweetly, "what 's the matter with that pepper-pot? Does it need fillin'?" And so began the reign of peace in the Old Ladies' Home. VI INDIAN SUMMER Miss Abigail had not banked in vain on the "foresightedness of the Lord." At the end of six months, instead of there being a shortage in her accounts because of Abe's presence, she was able to show the directors such a balance-sheet as excelled all her previous commendable records. "How do you explain it?" they asked her. "We cast our bread on the waters," she answered, "an' Providence jest kept a-handin' out the loaves." Again she said, "'T was grinnin' that done it. Brother Abe he kept the gardener good-natured, an' the gardener he jest grinned at the garden sass until it was ashamed not ter flourish; an' Brother Abe kept the gals good-natured an' they wa'n't so _niasy_ about what they eat; an' he kept the visitors a-laughin' jest ter see him here, an' when yew make folks laugh they want ter turn around an' dew somethin' fer yew. I tell yew, ef yew kin only keep grit ernough ter grin, yew kin drive away a drought." In truth, there had been no drought in the garden that summer, but almost a double yield of corn and beans; no drought in the gifts sent to the Home, but showers of plenty. Some of these came in the form of fresh fish and clams left at the back door; some in luscious fruits; some in barrels of clothing. And the barrels of clothing solved another problem; for no longer did their contents consist solely of articles of feminine attire. "Biled shirts" poured out of them; socks and breeches, derby hats, coats and negligees; until Aunt Nancy with a humorous twist to her thin lips inquired if there were thirty men in this establishment and one woman. "I never thought I'd come to wearin' a quilted silk basque with tossels on it," Abe remarked one day on being urged to try on a handsome smoking-jacket. "Dew I look like one of them sissy-boys, er jest a dude?" "It's dretful becoming," insisted Angy, "bewtiful! Ain't it, gals?" Every old lady nodded her head with an air of proud proprietorship, as if to say, "Nothing could fail to become _our_ brother." And Angy nodded her head, too, in delighted approval of their appreciation of "our brother" and "my husband." Beautiful, joy-steeped, pleasure-filled days these were for the couple, who had been cramped for life's smallest necessities so many meager years. Angy felt that she had been made miraculously young by the birth of this new Abraham--almost as if at last she had been given the son for whom in her youth she had prayed with impassioned appeal. Her old-wife love became rejuvenated into a curious mixture of proud mother-love and young-wife leaning, as she saw Abe win every heart and become the center of the community. "Why, the sisters all think the sun rises an' sets in him," Angy would whisper to herself sometimes, awed by the glorious wonder of it all. The sisters fairly vied with one another to see how much each could do for the one man among them. Their own preferences and prejudices were magnanimously thrust aside. In a body they besought their guest to smoke as freely in the house as out of doors. Miss Abigail even traded some of her garden produce for tobacco, while Miss Ellie made the old gentleman a tobacco-pouch of red flannel so generous in its proportions that on a pinch it could be used as a chest-protector. Then Ruby Lee, not to be outdone by anybody, produced, from no one ever discovered where, a mother-of-pearl manicure set for the delight and mystification of the hero; and even Lazy Daisy went so far as to cut some red and yellow tissue-paper into squares under the delusion that some time, somehow, she would find the energy to roll these into spills for the lighting of Abe's pipe. And each and every sister from time to time contributed some gift or suggestion to her "brother's" comfort. It "plagued" the others, however, to see that none of them could get ahead of Blossy in their noble endeavors to make Abraham feel himself a light and welcome burden. She it was who discovered that Abe's contentment could not be absolute without griddle-cakes for breakfast three hundred and sixty-five times a year; she it was who first baked him little saucer-cakes and pies because he was partial to edges; and Blossy it was who made out a list of "Don'ts" for the sisters to follow in their treatment of this grown-up, young-old boy. "Don't scold him when he leaves the doors open. Don't tell him to wipe his feet. Don't ever mention gold-mines or shiftless husbands," etc., etc. All these triumphs of Blossy's intuition served naturally to spur the others on to do even more for Brother Abe than they had already done, until the old man began to worry for fear that he should "git sp'ilt." When he lay down for his afternoon nap and the house was dull and quiet without his waking presence, the ladies would gather in groups outside his door as if in a king's antechamber, waiting for him to awaken, saying to one another ever and again, "Sh, sh!" He professed to scoff at the attentions he received, would grunt and growl "Humbug!" yet nevertheless he thrived in this latter-day sunlight. His old bones took on flesh. His aged kindly face, all seamed with care as it had been, filled out, the wrinkles turning into twinkles. Abraham had grown young again. With the return of his youth came the spirit of youth to the Old Ladies' Home. Verily, verily, as Blossy had avowed from the first, they had been in sore need of the masculine presence. The ancient coat and hat which had hung in the hall so long had perhaps served its purpose in keeping the burglars away, but this lifeless substitute had not prevented the crabbed gnomes of loneliness and discontent from stealing in. Spinster, wife, and widow, they had every one been warped by the testy just-so-ness of the old maid. Now, instead of fretful discussions of health and food, recriminations and wrangling, there came to be laughter and good-humored chatter all the day long, each sister striving with all her strength to preserve the new-found harmony of the Home. There were musical evenings, when Miss Abigail opened the melodeon and played "Old Hundred," and Abraham was encouraged to pick out with one stiff forefinger "My Grandfather's Clock." "Hymn tunes" were sung in chorus; and then, in answer to Abe's appeal for something livelier, there came time-tried ditties and old, old love-songs. And at last, one night, after leaving the instrument silent, mute in the corner of the parlor for many years, Aunt Nancy Smith dragged out her harp, and, seating herself, reached out her knotted, trembling hands and brought forth what seemed the very echo, so faint and faltering it was, of "Douglas, Douglas, Tender and True." There was a long silence after she had finished, her head bowed on her chest, her hands dropped to her sides. Abraham spoke first, clearing his throat before he could make the words come. "_I_ wish I could git a husband fer every one of yer," said he. And no one was angry, and no one laughed; for they all knew that he was only seeking to express the message conveyed by Nancy's playing--the message of Love, Love triumphant, which cannot age, which over the years and over Death itself always hath the victory. VII OLD LETTERS AND NEW Blossy left the room without a word, and went stealing up the stairs to the little cupboard where she now slept, and where was hung on the wall, in a frame of yellow hollyhocks, painted by her own hand, a photograph of Captain Samuel Darby, the man who had remained obstinately devoted to her since her days of pinafores. The picture betrayed that Captain Darby wore a wig designed for a larger man, and that the visage beneath was gnarled and weather-beaten, marked with the signs of a stubborn and unreasonable will. Even now the aged belle could hear him saying: "Here I be, come eround ter pop ag'in. Ready ter hitch?" Samuel's inelegant English had always been a source of distress to Blossy; yet still she stared long at the picture. Six months had passed since his last visit; to-morrow would be the date of his winter advent. Should she give the old unvarying answer to his tireless formula? She glanced around the tiny room. Ashamed though she was to admit it even to herself, she missed that ample and cozy chamber which she had so freely surrendered to Abraham and his wife. She missed it, as she felt they must crave their very own fireside; and the thought that they missed the old homestead made her yearn for the home that she might have had--the home that she still might have. Again she brought her eyes back to the portrait; and now she saw, not the characteristics which had always made it seem impossible for her and Samuel to jog together down life's road, but the great truth that the face was honest and wholesome, while the eyes looked back into hers with the promise of an unswerving care and affection. The next morning found Blossy kneeling before a plump, little, leather-bound, time-worn trunk which she kept under the eaves of the kitchen chamber. The trunk was packed hard with bundles of old letters. Some her younger fingers had tied with violet ribbon; some they had bound with pink; others she had fastened together with white silk cord; and there were more and more bundles, both slim and stout, which Blossy had distinguished by some special hue of ribbon in the long ago, each tint marking a different suitor's missives. To her still sentimental eye the colors remained unfaded, and each would bring to her mind instantly the picture of the writer as he had been in the golden days. But save to Blossy's eye alone there were no longer any rainbow tints in the little, old trunk; for every ribbon and every cord had faded into that musty, yellow brown which is dyed by the passing of many years. Abraham discovered her there, too engrossed in the perusal of one of the old letters to have heeded his creaking steps upon the stairs. "Didn't see yer, till I 'most stumbled on yer," he began apologetically. "I come fer the apple-picker. Thar's a handful of russets in the orchard yit, that's calc'latin' ter spend Christmas up close ter heaven; but--Say, Blossy," he added more loudly, since she did not raise her head, "yew seen anythin' o' that air picker?" Blossy glanced up from her ragged-edged crackly _billet-doux_ with a start, and dropped the envelop to the floor. For the moment, so deep in reminiscence was she, she thought Captain Darby himself had surprised her; then, recognizing Abe and recalling that Samuel's winter visits were invariably paid in the afternoon, she broke into a shamefaced laugh. "Oh, is that you, Brother Abe? Don't tell the others what you found me doing. These," with a wave of her delicate, blue-veined hands over the trunk and its contents, "are all old love-letters of mine. Do you think I'm a silly old goose to keep them cluttering around so long?" "Wa'al,"--Abe with an equally deprecatory gesture indicated Angy's horsehair trunk in the far corner of the loft,--"yew ain't no more foolisher, I guess, over yer old trash 'n me an' Angy be a-keepin' that air minin' stock of mine. One lot is wuth 'bout as much as t'other." Recovering the envelop that she had dropped, he squinted at the superscription. "Not meanin' ter be inquisitive or personal, Sister Blossy," a teasing twinkle appearing in his eye, "but this looks dretful familitary, this here handwritin' does. When I run the beach--yew've heard me tell of the time I was on the Life-savin' Crew over ter Bleak Hill fer a spell--my cap'n he had a fist jest like that. Useter make out the spickest, spannest reports. Lemme see," the twinkle deepening, "didn't the gals say yew was a 'spectin' somebody ter-day? Law, I ain't saw Cap'n Sam'l fer ten year or more. I guess on these here poppin' trips o' his'n he hain't wastin' time on no men-folks. But, Blossy, yew better give me a chance ter talk to him this arternoon, an' mebbe I'll speak a good word fer yer." Blossy, not always keen to see a joke, and with her vanity now in the ascendant, felt the color rise into her withered cheek. "Oh, you needn't take the trouble to speak a good word for me. Any man who could ever write a letter like this doesn't need to be coaxed. Just listen: "The man you take for a mate is the luckiest dog in the whole round world. I'd rather be him than king of all the countries on earth. I'd rather be him than strike a gold-mine reaching from here to China. I'd rather be him than master of the finest vessel that ever sailed blue water. That's what I would. Why, the man who couldn't be happy with you would spill tears all over heaven." Blossy's cheek was still flushed, but no longer with pique. Her voice quavered, and broke; and finally there fell upon the faded page of the letter two sparkling tears. Abraham shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other; then, muttering something about the "pesky apple-hook," went scuffing across the floor in the direction of the chimney. Blossy, however, called him back. "I was crying, Brother Abe, because the man I did take for a mate once was not happy, and--and neither was I. I was utterly wretched; so that I've always felt I never cared to marry again. And--and Samuel's wig is always slipping down over one eye, and I simply cannot endure that trick he has of carrying his head to one side, as if he had a left-handed spell of the mumps. It nearly drives me frantic. "Brother Abe, now tell me honestly: do you think he would make a good husband?" Abe cleared his throat. Blossy was in earnest. Blossy could not be laughed at. She was his friend, and Angy's friend; and she had come to him as to a brother for advice. He too had known Samuel as man to man, which was more than any of the sisters could say. Stroking his beard thoughtfully, therefore, he seated himself upon a convenient wooden chest, while Blossy slipped her old love-letter in and out of the envelop, with that essentially feminine manner of weighing and considering. "Naow," began Abe at length, "this is somep'n that requires keerful debatin'. Fust off, haowsomever, yew must remember that wigs an' ways never made a man yit. Ez I riccollec' Sam'l, he was pooty good ez men go. I should say he wouldn't be any more of a risk tew yew than I was tew Angy; mebbe less. He's got quite a leetle laid by, I understand, an' a tidy story-an'-a-half house, an' front stoop, an', by golly, can't he cook! He's a splendid housekeeper." "Housewifery," remarked Blossy sagely, as she began to gather her missives together, "is an accomplishment to be scorned in a young husband, but not in an old one. They say there hasn't been a woman inside Samuel's house since he built it, but it's as clean as soap and sand can make it." "I bet yer," agreed Abe. "Hain't never been no fly inside it, neither, I warrant yer. Fly can't light arter Sam'l's cleanin' up nohaow; he's got ter skate." "He says he built that little house for me," said the old lady, as she closed down the lid of the trunk. There was a wistful note in Blossy's voice, which made Abraham declare with a burst of sympathy: "'T ain't no disgrace ter git married at no time of life. Sam'l's a good pervider; why don't yew snap him up ter-day? We'll miss yew a lot; but--" "Here's the apple-picker right over your head," interrupted Blossy tartly, and Abe felt himself peremptorily dismissed. Scarcely had he left the attic, however, than she too hastened down the steep, narrow stairs. She spent the remaining hours before train-time in donning her beautiful lace gown, and in making the woman within it as young and ravishing as possible. And lovely, indeed, Blossy looked this day, with a natural flush of excitement on her cheek, a new sparkle in her bright, dark eyes, and with her white hair arranged in a fashion which might have excited a young girl's envy. The hour for the train came and went, and, lo! for the first time in the history of twenty years Captain Darby did not appear. Blossy pretended to be relieved, protesting that she was delighted to find that she would now have an extra hour in which to ponder the question. But the second train came and went, and still no Captain Darby. All the afternoon long Blossy wore her lace gown, thinking although there were no more trains from the eastward that day, that Samuel would still find his way to her. He might drive, as he usually did in June, or he might even walk from his home at Twin Coves, she said. At night, however, she was obliged to admit that he could not be coming; and then, quivering with honest anxiety for her old friend, Blossy dipped into her emergency fund, which she kept in the heart of a little pink china pig on a shelf in her room,--a pink china pig with a lid made of stiff black hair standing on edge in the middle of his back,--and sent a telegram to Captain Darby, asking if he were sick. The answer came back slowly by mail, to find Blossy on the verge of a nervous collapse, under the care of all the women in the house. That letter Blossy never showed to Brother Abe, nor to any one else. Neither did she treasure it in the sentimental trunk beneath the attic eaves. The letter ran: DEAR BETSY ANN: I never felt better in my life. Ain't been sick a minute. Just made up my mind I was a old fool, and was going to quit. If you change your intentions at any time, just drop me a postal. As ever, SAM'L DARBY, ESQ. "This, Captain Darby, makes your rejection final," vowed Blossy to herself, as she tore the note into fragments and drowned them in the spirits of lavender with which the sisters had been seeking to soothe her distracted nerves. VIII THE ANNIVERSARY About this time Blossy developed a tendency to draw Brother Abraham aside at every opportunity, convenient or inconvenient, in order to put such questions as these to him: "Did you say it is fully thirty-five years since you and Captain Darby were on the beach together? Do you think he has grown much older? Had he lost his hair then? Did he care for the opposite sex? Was he very brave--or would you say more brave than stubborn and contrary? Isn't it a blessing that I never married him?" Fearful of the ridicule of the sisters, Blossy was always careful to conduct these inquiries in whispers, or at least in undertones with a great observance of secrecy, sometimes stopping Abe on the stairs, sometimes beckoning him to her side when she was busy about her household tasks on the pretense of requiring his assistance. On one occasion she even went so far as to inveigle him into holding a skein of wool about his clumsy hands, while she wound the violet worsted into a ball, and delicately inquired if he believed Samuel spoke the truth when he had protested that he had never paid court to any other woman. Alas, Blossy's frequent tete-a-tetes with the amused but sometimes impatient Abraham started an exceedingly foolish suspicion. When, asked the sisters of one another, did Abe ever help any one, save Blossy, shell dried beans or pick over prunes? When had he ever been known to hold wool for Angy's winding? Not once since wooing-time, I warrant you. What could this continual hobnobbing and going off into corners mean, except--flirtation? Ruby Lee whispered it first into Aunt Nancy's good ear. Aunt Nancy indulged in four pinches of snuff in rapid succession, sneezed an amazing number of times, and then acridly informed Ruby Lee that she was a "jealous cat" and always had been one. However, Aunt Nancy could not refrain from carrying the gossip to Miss Ellie, adding that she herself had been suspicious of Abe's behavior from the start. "Oh, no, no!" cried the shocked and shrinking spinster. "And Angy so cheerful all the time? I don't believe it." But whisper, whisper, buzz, buzz, went the gossip, until finally it reached the pink little ears at the side of Miss Abigail's generously proportioned head. The pink ears turned crimson, likewise the adjoining cheeks, and Miss Abigail panted with righteous indignation. "It all comes of this plagued old winter-time," she declared, sharply biting her thread, for she was mending a table-cloth. "Shet the winders on summer, an' yew ketch the tail of slander in the latch every time. Naow, ef I hear one word about this 'tarnal foolishness comin' to Angy's ears, or Brother Abe's, or Blossy's either, fer that matter, we'll all have to eat off'n oil-cloth Sundays, the same as weekdays, until I see a more Christian sperit in the house." She gave the Sunday damask across her lap a pat which showed she was in earnest; and the rebuked sisters glanced at one another, as if to say: "Suppose the minister should walk in some Sabbath afternoon and find oil-cloth on the table, and ask the reason why?" They one and all determined to take Aunt Nancy's advice and "sew a button on their lips." Fortunately, too, the February thaws had already set in, and the remainder of the winter passed without any severe strain on the "buttonholes." And at length the welcome spring began to peep forth, calling to the old folks, "Come out, and grow young with the young year!" With the bursting forth of the new springtide the winter's talk seemed to drop as a withered and dead oak-leaf falls from its winter-bound branches; and Abe stood once more alive to the blessings of renewed approval. Angy went out of doors with Miss Abigail, and puttered around among the flowers as if they were her own, thanking God for Abe's increasing popularity in the same breath that she gave thanks for the new buds of the spring. The anniversary of the Roses' entrance into the Home drew nearer, and Blossy suggested that the best way to celebrate the event would be by means of a "pink tea." Neither Angy nor Abe, nor in fact half the sisters, had any clear conception of what a tinted function might be; but they one and all seized upon Blossy's idea as if it were a veritable inspiration, and for the time jealousies were forgotten, misunderstandings erased. Such preparations as were made for that tea! The deaf-and-dumb gardener was sent with a detachment of small boys to fetch from the wayside and meadows armfuls of wild roses for the decorations. Miss Abigail made pink icing for the cake. Ruby Lee hung bleeding-hearts over the dining-room door. Aunt Nancy resurrected from the bottom of her trunk a white lace cap with a rakish-looking pink bow for an adornment, and fastened it to her scant gray hairs in honor of the occasion. Blossy turned her pink china pig, his lid left up-stairs, into a sugar-bowl. Pink, pink, pink, everywhere; even in Angy's proud cheeks! Pink, and pink, and pink! Abe used to grow dizzy, afterward, trying to recall the various pink articles which graced that tea. But most delightful surprise of all was his anniversary gift, which was slyly slipped to his place after the discussion of the rose-colored strawberry gelatin. It was a square, five-pound parcel wrapped in pink tissue-paper, tied with pink string, and found to contain so much Virginia tobacco, which Blossy had inveigled an old Southern admirer into sending her for "charitable purposes." After the presentation of this valuable gift, Abraham felt that the time had come for him to make a speech--practically his maiden speech. He said at the beginning, more suavely at his ease than he would have believed possible, secure of sympathy and approbation, with Angy's glowing old eyes upon her prodigy, that all the while he had been at the Home, he had never before felt the power to express his gratitude for the welcome which had been accorded him--the welcome which seemed to wear and wear, as if it were all wool and a yard wide, and could never wear out. The old ladies nodded their heads in approval of this, every face beaming; but as the speech went on the others perceived that Abe had singled out Blossy for special mention,--blind, blind Abraham!--Blossy, who had first proposed admitting him into this paradise; Blossy, who had given up her sunny south chamber to his comfort and Angy's; Blossy, who had been as a "guardeen angel" to him; Blossy, who as a fitting climax to all her sisterly attentions had given him to-day this wonderful, wonderful pink tea, and "this five hull pound o' Virginny terbaccer." He held the parcel close to his bosom, and went on, still praising Blossy,--this innocent old gentleman,--heedless of Angy's gentle tug at his coat-tail; while Blossy buried her absurdly lovely old face in the pink flush of a wild-rose spray, and the other old ladies stared from him to her, their faces growing hard and cold. When Abraham sat down, aglow with pride over his oratorical triumphs, his chest expanded, his countenance wrinkled into a thousand guileless, grateful smiles, there was absolute silence. Then Blossy, her head still bowed as if in shy confusion, began to clap her hands daintily together, whereat a few of the others joined her half-heartedly. A sense of chill crept over Abraham. Accustomed as a rule to deferential attention, did he but say good-morning, by no means aware that his throne had toppled during the winter, he was still forced to perceive that something had gone amiss. As always when aught troubled his mind, "Father" turned to Angy; but instead of his composed and resourceful little wife he found a scared-faced and trembling woman. Angy had suddenly become conscious of the shadow of the green-eyed monster. Angy's loyal heart was crying out to her mate: "Don't git the sisters daown on yer, Abe, 'cuz then, mebbe, yew'll lose yer hum!" But poor Angeline's lips were so stiff with terror over the prospect of the County House for her husband, that she could not persuade them to speech. Abraham, completely at sea, turned next to her whom he had called his guardian angel; but Blossy was rising from her seat, a baffling smile of expectancy on her face, the rose spray swinging in her delicate hand as if to the measure of some music too far back in youth for any one else to hear. Blossy had worn that expectant look all day. She might have been delightedly hugging to herself a secret which she had not shared even with the trusted Abraham. She was gowned in her yellow lace, the beauty and grace of which had defied the changing fashions as Blossy's remarkable elegance of appearance had defied the passing of the years. "Brother Abe,"--in her heedlessness of the mischief she had wrought, Blossy seemed almost to sing,--"I never shall forget your speech as long as I live. Will you excuse me now?" She swept out of the door, her skirts rustling behind her. Abe collected himself so far as to bow in the direction she had taken; then with lamblike eyes of inquiry met the exasperated glances cast upon him. Not a sister moved or spoke. They all sat as if glued to their chairs, in a silence that was fast growing appalling. Abe turned his head and looked behind his chair for an explanation; but nothing met his eye, save the familiar picture on the wall of two white kittens playing in the midst of a huge bunch of purple lilacs. Then there broke upon the stillness the quavering old voice of Aunt Nancy, from her place opposite Abe's at the head of the board. The aged dame had her two hands clasped before her on the edge of the table, vainly trying to steady their palsied shaking. Her eyes, bright, piercing, age-defying, she fixed upon the bewildered Abraham with a look of deep and sorrowful reproach. Her unsteady head bobbed backward and forward with many an accusing nod, and the cap with its rakish pink bow bobbed backward and forward too. Abe watched her, fascinated, unconsciously wondering, even in the midst of his disquietude, why the cap did not slide off her bald scalp entirely. To his amazement, she addressed not himself, but Angy. "Sister Rose, yew kin leave the room." Implacable purpose spoke in Aunt Nancy's tone. Angy started, looked up, going first red and then white; but she did not move. She opened her lips to speak. "I don't want ter hear a word from yew, nor anybody else," sternly interposed Aunt Nancy. "I'm old enough ter be yer mother. Go up-stairs!" Angy's glance sought Miss Abigail, but the matron's eyes avoided hers. The little wife sighed, rose reluctantly, dropped her hand doubtfully reassuring on Abe's shoulder, and then went obediently to the door. From the threshold she looked wistfully back; but an imperious wave from Aunt Nancy banished her altogether, and Abe found himself alone--not with the sisters whom he loved, but with twenty-eight hard-visaged strangers. IX A WINTER BUTTERFLY "Cap'n Rose," began Aunt Nancy. Brother Abe pricked up his eats at the formal address. "Cap'n Rose," she repeated, deliberately dwelling on the title. "I never believe in callin' a man tew account in front of his wife. It gives him somebody handy ter blame things on tew jest like ole Adam. Naow, look a-here! What I want is ter ask yew jest one question: Whar, whar on 'arth kin we look fer a decent behavin' ole man ef not in a Old Ladies' Hum? Would yew--" she exhorted earnestly, pointing her crooked forefinger at him. "Would yew--" Abraham caught his breath. Beads of sweat had appeared on his brow. He broke in huskily: "Wait a minute, Aunt Nancy. Jest tell me what I've been an' done." The ladies glanced at one another, contemptuous, incredulous smiles on their faces, while Aunt Nancy almost wept at his deceitfulness. "Cap'n Rose," she vowed mournfully, "I've lived in this house fer many, many years, an' all the while I been here I never hearn tell o' a breath o' scandal ag'in' the place until yew come an' commenced ter kick up yer heels." Lazy Daisy, who had long been an inmate, also nodded her unwieldy head in confirmation, while a low murmur of assent arose from the others. Abraham could only pass his hand over his brow, uneasily shuffle his maligned heels over the floor and await further developments; for he did not have the slightest conception as to "what they were driving at." "Cap'n Rose," the matriarch proceeded, as in the earnestness of her indignation she arose, trembling, in her seat and stood with her palsied and shaking hands on the board, "Cap'n Rose, yer conduct with this here Mis' Betsey Ann Blossom has been somethin' _ree_diculous! It's been disgraceful!" Aunt Nancy sat down, incongruously disreputable in appearance, her pink bow having slipped down over her right ear during the harangue. Over the culprit's countenance light had dawned, but, shame to tell! it was a light not wholly remorseful. Then silent laughter shook the old man's shoulders, and then--could it be?--there crept about his lips and eyes a smile of superbly masculine conceit. The sisters were fighting over him. Wouldn't Mother be amused when he should tell her what all this fuss was about. Now, kindly, short-sighted Miss Abigail determined that it was time for the matron's voice to be heard. "Of course, Brother Abe, we understand perfectly that yew never stopped ter take inter consideration haow susceptible some folks is made." There being plain evidence from Abe's blank expression that he did not understand the meaning of the word, Ruby Lee hastened to explain. "Susceptible is the same as flighty-headed. Blossy allers was a fool over anything that wore breeches." Abe pushed his chair back from the table and crossed his legs comfortably. For him all the chill had gone out of the air. Suppose that there was something in this? An old, old devil of vanity came back to the aged husband's heart. He recalled that he had been somewhat of a beau before he learned the joy of loving Angy. More than one Long Island lassie had thrown herself at his head. Of course Blossy would "get over" this; and Angy knew that his heart was hers as much as it had been the day he purchased his wedding-beaver; but Abe could not refrain from a chuckle of complacent amusement as he stroked his beard. His very evident hardness of heart so horrified the old ladies that they all began to attack him at once. "Seems ter me I'd have the decency ter show some shame!" grimly avowed Sarah Jane. Abe could not help it. He sputtered. Even Miss Abigail's, "Yew were a stranger an' we took yew in" did not sober him. "Ef any one o' my husbands had acted the way you've acted, Abe Rose," began Mrs. Homan. "Poor leetle Angy," broke in the gentle Miss Ellie pityingly. "She must 'a' lost six pounds." Abraham's mobile face clouded over. "Angy?" he faltered. "Yew don't mean that Angy--" Silence again fell on the group, while every glance was fastened on Abraham. "See here," he flashed his faded blue eye, "Angy's got more sense than that!" No one answered, but there was a significant shrugging of shoulders and lifting of eyebrows. Abraham was distressed and concerned enough now. Rising from his place he besought the sisters: "Yew don't think Angy's feelin's have been hurt--dew yew, gals?" Their faces softened, their figures relaxed, the tide of feeling changed in Abraham's favor. Miss Ellie spoke very softly: "Yew know that even 'the Lord thy God is a jealous God.'" Abraham grasped the back of his chair for support, his figure growing limp with astonishment. "Mother, jealous of me?" he whispered to himself, the memory of all the years and all the great happenings of all the years coming back to him. "Mother jealous of me?" He remembered how he had once been tormented by jealousy in the long, the ever-so-long ago, and of a sudden he hastened into the hall and went half-running up the stairs. He took hold of the latch of his bedroom door. It did not open. The door was locked. "Angy!" he called, a fear of he knew not what gripping at his heart. "Angy!" he repeated as she did not answer. The little old wife had locked herself in out of very shame of the rare tears which had been brought to the surface by the sisters' cruel treatment of Abraham. When she heard his call she hastened to the blue wash-basin and began hurriedly to dab her eyes. He would be alarmed if he saw the traces of her weeping. Whatever had happened to him, for his sake she must face it valiantly. He called again. Again she did not answer, knowing that her voice would be full of the telltale tears. Abe waited. He heard the tramp of feet passing out of the dining-room into the hall. He heard Blossy emerge from her room at the end of the passage and go tripping down the stairs. The time to Angy, guiltily bathing her face, was short; the time to her anxious husband unaccountably long. The sound of wheels driving up to the front door came to Abe's ears. Still Angy made him no response. "Angy!" he raised his voice in piteous pleading. What mattered if the sisters gathered in the lower hall heard him? What mattered if the chance guest who had just arrived heard him also? He had his peace to make with his wife and he would make it. "Angy!" She flung the door open hastily. The signs of the tears had not been obliterated, and her face was drawn and old. Straightway she put her hand on his arm and searched his face inquiringly. "What did the gals say ter yew?" she whispered. "Abe, yew made a mistake when yew picked out Bl--" "Poor leetle Mother!" he interrupted. "Poor leetle Mother!" a world of remorseful pity in his tone. "So yew been jealous of yer ole man?" Angeline, astonished and indignant, withdrew her hand sharply, demanding to know if he had lost his senses; but the blinded old gentleman slipped his arm around her and, bending, brushed his lips against her cheek. "Thar, thar," he murmured soothingly, "I didn't mean no harm. I can't help it ef all the gals git stuck on me!" Before Angy could make any reply, Blossy called to the couple softly but insistently from the foot of the stairs; and Angy, wrenching herself free, hastened down the steps, for once in her life glad to get away from Abe. He lost no time in following. No matter where Angy went, he would follow until all was well between her and him again. But what was this? At the landing, Angy halted and so did Abe, for in the center of the sisters stood Blossy with her Sunday bonnet perched on her silver-gold hair and her white India shawl over her shoulders, and beside Blossy stood Captain Samuel Darby with a countenance exceedingly radiant, his hand clasped fast in that of the aged beauty. "Oh, hurry, Sister Angy and Brother Abe!" called Blossy. "We were waiting for you, and I've got some news for all my friends." She waited smilingly for them to join the others; then with a gesture which included every member of the household, she proceeded: "The pink tea, I want you all to know, had a double significance, and first, of course, it was to celebrate the anniversary of Brother Abe's sojourn with us; but next it was my farewell to the Home." Here Blossy gurgled and gave the man at her right so coy a glance that Samuel's face flamed red and he hung his head lower to one side than usual, like a little boy that had been caught stealing apples. "I left the tea a trifle early--you must forgive me, Brother Abe, but I heard the train-whistle." Abe stood beside Angeline, rooted in astonishment, while Blossy continued to address him directly. "You gave Samuel so many good recommendations, dear brother, that when the time approached for his June visit, I felt that I simply could not let him miss it as he did in December. Last year, on the day you entered, he was here through no desire of mine. To-day he is here at my request. My friends," again she included the entire Home in her glance, "we'll come back a little later to say Good-by. Now, we're on the way to the minister's." The pair, Samuel tongue-tied and bewildered by the joy of his finally won success, moved toward the door. On the threshold of the Home Blossy turned and waved farewell to the companions of her widowhood, while Samuel bowed in a dazed fashion, his face still as red as it was blissful. Then quickly the two passed out upon the porch. No one moved to see them off. Abe looked everywhere yet nowhere at all. Not a word was spoken even when the carriage was heard rolling down the drive; but the sound of the wheels seemed to arouse Angy from her stupor of amazement; and presently Abraham became conscious of a touch,--a touch sympathetic, tender and true,--a touch all-understanding--the touch of Angy's hand within his own. X THE TURN OF THE TIDE From time immemorial the history of the popular hero has ever been the same. To king and patriot, to the favorite girl at school and the small boy who is leader of the "gang," to politician, to preacher, to actor and author, comes first worship then eclipse. The great Napoleon did not escape this common fate; and the public idol who was kissed only yesterday for his gallant deeds is scorned to-day for having permitted the kissing. Oh, caprice of the human heart! Oh, cry of the race for the unaccustomed! From that first anniversary of his entrance into the Home, Abraham felt his popularity decrease--in fact more than decrease. He saw the weather-vane go square about, and where he had known for three hundred and sixty-five days the gentle, balmy feel of the southwest zephyr, he found himself standing of a sudden in a cold, bleak northeast wind. The change bewildered the old man, and reacted on his disposition. As he had blossomed in the sunshine, so now he began to droop in the shade. Feeling that he was suspected and criticized, he began to grow suspicious and fault-finding himself. His old notion that he had no right to take a woman's place in the Institution came back to his brain, and he would brood over it for hours at a time, sitting out on the porch with his pipe and Angy. The old wife grieved to think that Father was growing old and beginning to show his years. She made him some tansy tea, but neither her persuasions nor those of the whole household could induce him to take it. He had never liked "doctoring" anyway, although he had submitted to it more or less during the past year in unconscious subservience to his desire to increase his popularity; but now he fancied that where once he had been served as a king by all these female attendants, he was simply being "pestered" as a punishment for his past behavior with Blossy. Ah, with its surprising ending that had been a humiliating affair; and he felt too that he would be long in forgiving Mrs. Darby for not having confided to him her actual intentions. Now he was afraid to be decently courteous to one of the sisters for fear that they might accuse him of light dalliance again; and he scarcely ever addressed the new member who came to take Blossy's little room, for he had been cut to the quick by her look of astonishment when she was told that he belonged there. In his mental ferment the old man began to nag at Angy. Sad though it is to confess of a hero honestly loved, Abraham had nagged a little all his married life when things went wrong. And Angeline, fretted and nervous, herself worried almost sick over Father's condition, was guilty once in a while out of the depths of her anxiety of nagging back again. So do we hurt those whom we love best as we would and could hurt no other. "I told yer I never could stand it here amongst all these dratted women-folks," Abe would declare. "It's all your fault that I didn't go to the poorhouse in peace." "I notice yew didn't raise no objections until yew'd lived here a year," Angy would retort; but ignoring this remark, he would go on: "It's 'Brother Abe' this an' 'Brother Abe' that! as ef I had thirty wives a-pesterin' me instid of one. I can't kill a fly but it's 'Brother Abe, lemme bury him fer yew.' Do yer all think I be a baby?" demanded the old gentleman with glaring eye. "I guess I'm able ter do somethin' fer myself once in a while. I hain't so old as some folks might think," he continued with superb inconsistence. "I be a mere child compared with that air plagued Nancy Smith." It took very little to exhaust Angy's ability for this style of repartee, and she would rejoin with tender but mistaken efforts to soothe and comfort him: "Thar, thar, Father! don't git excited neow. Seems ter me ye 're a leetle bit feverish. Ef only yew 'd take this here tansy tea." Abraham would give one exasperated glance at the tin cup and mutter into the depths of his beard: "Tansy tea an' old women! Old women an' tansy tea! Tansy tea be durned!" Abe failed perceptibly during the summer, grew feebler as the autumn winds blew in, and by November he took to his bed and the physician of the Home, a little whiffet of a pompous idiot, was called to attend him. The doctor, determined at the start to make a severe case of the old man's affliction in order that he might have the greater glory in the end, be it good or bad, looked very grave over Abraham's tongue and pulse, prescribed medicine for every half-hour, and laid especial stress upon the necessity of keeping the patient in bed. "Humbug!" growled the secretly terrified invalid, and in an excess of bravado took his black silk necktie from where it hung on the bedpost and tied it in a bow-knot around the collar of his pink-striped nightshirt, so that he would be in proper shape to receive any of the sisters. Then he lay very still, his eyes closed, as they came tiptoeing in and out. Their tongues were on gentle tiptoe too, although not so gentle but that he could hear them advising: one, a "good, stiff mustard plaster"; one, an "onion poultice"; another, a "Spanish blister"; while Aunt Nancy stopped short of nothing less than "old-fashioned bleeding." Abe lay very still and wondered if they meant to kill him. He was probably going to die anyhow, so why torment him. Only when he was dead, he hoped that they would think more kindly of him. And so surrounded yet alone, the old man fought his secret terror until mercifully he went to sleep. When he awoke there were the sisters again; and day after day they spent their combined efforts in keeping him on his back and forcing him to take his medicine, the only appreciable good resulting therefrom being the fact that with this tax upon their devotion the old ladies came once more to regard Abe as the most precious possession of the Home. "What ef he should die?" they whispered among themselves, repentant enough of their late condemnation of him and already desolate at the thought of his leaving this little haven with them for the "great haven" over there; and the whisper reaching the sickroom, Abe's fever would rise, while he could never lift his lashes except to see the specter of helpless old age on one side of the bed and death upon the other. "What's the matter with me?" he demanded of the doctor, as one who would say: "Pooh! pooh! You're a humbug! What do you mean by keeping me in bed?" Yet the old man was trembling with that inner fear. The physician, a feminine kind of a bearded creature himself, took Abe's hand in his--an engaging trick he had with the old ladies. "Now, my friend, do not distress yourself. Of course, you are a very sick man; I cannot deceive you as to that; but during my professional career, I have seen some remarkable cases of recovery and--" "But what's the matter with me?" broke in Abe, by this time fairly white with fear. The doctor had assured him that all his organs were sound, so he could only conclude that he must have one of those unusual diseases such as Miss Abigail was reading about in the paper yesterday. Maybe, although his legs were so thin to-day, he was on the verge of an attack of elephantiasis! "What's the matter with me?" he repeated, his eyes growing wilder and wilder. What the doctor really replied would be difficult to tell; but out of the confusion of his technicalities Abe caught the words, "nerves" and "hysteria." "Mother, yew hear that?" he cried. "I got narvous hysterics. I told yer somethin' would happen ter me a-comin' to this here place. All them old woman's diseases is ketchin'. Why on 'arth didn't yer let me go to the poorhouse?" He fell back on the pillow and drew the bedclothes up to his ears, while Angy followed the doctor out into the hall to receive, as Abe supposed, a more detailed description of his malady. He felt too weak, however, to question Angy when she returned, and stubbornly kept his eyes closed until he heard Mrs. Homan tiptoe into the room to announce in hushed tones that Blossy and Samuel Darby were below, and Samuel wanted to know if he might see the invalid. Then Abe threw off the covers in a hurry and sat up. "Sam'l Darby?" he asked, the strength coming back into his voice. "A man! Nary a woman ner a doctor! Yes--yes, show him up!" Angy nodded in response to Mrs. Homan's glance of inquiry; for had not the doctor told her that it would not hasten the end to humor the patient in any reasonable whim? And she also consented to withdraw when Abe informed her that he wished to be left alone with his visitor, as it was so long since he had been face to face with a man "an' no petticoat a-hangin' 'round the corner." "Naow, be keerful, Cap'n Darby," the little mother-wife cautioned at the door, "be very keerful. Don't stay tew long an' don't rile him up, fer he's dretful excited, Abe is." XI MENTAL TREATMENT Little Samuel Darby paused at the foot of the bed and stared at Abe without saying a word, while Abe fixed his dim, distressed eyes on his visitor with a dumb appeal for assistance. Samuel looked a very different man from the old bachelor who used to come a-wooing every six months at the Home. Either marriage had brought him a new growth of hair, or else Blossy had selected a new wig for him--a modest, close, iron-gray which fitted his poll to perfection. Marriage or Blossy had also overcome in Samuel that tendency to hang his head "to starb'd"; and now he lifted his bright eyes with the manner of one who would say: "See! I'm king of myself and my household! Behold what one woman has done for me!" And in turn Abe's unstrung vigor and feeble dependence cried out as loudly: "I haven't a leg left to stand on. Behold what too much woman has done for me!" "Ain't yew a-goin' ter shake hands?" inquired Abraham at last, wondering at the long silence and the incomprehensible stare, his fears accentuated by this seeming indication of a supreme and hopeless pity. "Ain't yew a-goin' ter shake hands? Er be yew afeard of ketchin' it, tew?" For a moment longer Samuel continued to stare, then of a sudden he roared, "Git up!" "Huh?" queried Abe, not believing his own ears. "Why, Cap'n Sam'l, don't yew know that I'm a doomed man? I got the 'narvous hysterics.'" "Yew got the pip!" retorted Captain Darby contemptuously, and trotting quickly around to the side of the bed, he seized Abe by the shoulders and began to drag him out upon the floor, crying again, "Git up!" The sick man could account for this remarkable behavior in no way except by concluding that his old captain had gone into senile dementia--oh, cruel, cruel afflictions that life brings to old folks when life is almost done! Well, thought Abe, he would rather be sick and die in his right mind than go crazy. He began to whimper, whereupon Samuel threw him back upon his pillows in disgust. "Cryin'! Oh, I swan, he's cryin'!" Darby gave a short laugh pregnant with scorn. "Abe Rose, dew yew know what ails yew?" he demanded fixing his eyes fiercely upon the invalid. "Dew yew know what'll happen tew yew ef yew don't git out o' this bed an' this here house? Either yer beard'll fall out an' yew'll dwindle deown ter the size o' a baby or yew'll turn into a downright old woman--Aunt Abraham!--won't that sound nice? Or yew'll die or yew'll go crazy. _Git out er bed!_" The patient shook his head and sank back, closing his eyes, more exhausted than ever. And he himself had heard Angy warn this man in a whisper not to "rile him up!" Remorselessly went on the rejuvenated Darby: "Hain't a-goin' ter git up, heh? Yew old mollycoddle! Yew baby! Old Lady 31! Kiffy calf! But I hain't a-blamin' yew; ef I had lived in this here place a year an' a half, I'd be stark, starin' mad! Leetle tootsie-wootsie! _Git up_!" Abe had opened his eyes and was once more staring at the other, his mind slowly coming to the light of the realization that Samuel might be more sane than himself. "That's what I told Angy all along," he ventured. "I told her, I says, says I, 'Humbug! Foolishness! Ye 're a-makin' a reg'lar baby of me. Why,' I says, 'what's the difference between me an' these here women-folks except that I wear a beard an' smoke a pipe?'" "Then why don't yew git up?" demanded the inexorable Samuel. "Git up an' fool 'em; or, gosh-all-hemlock! they'll be measurin' yew fer yer coffin next week. When I come inter the hall, what dew yew think these here sisters o' yourn was a-discussin'? They was a-arguin' the p'int as to whether they'd bury yew in a shroud or yer Sunday suit." Abraham put one foot out of bed. Samuel took hold of his arm and with this assistance the old man managed to get up entirely and stand, though shaking as if with the palsy, upon the floor. "Feel pooty good, don't yew?" demanded Samuel, but with less severity. "A leetle soft, a leetle soft," muttered the other. "Gimme my cane. Thar, ef one o' them women comes in the door I'll--I'll--" Abraham raised his stick and shook it at the innocent air. "Whar's my pipe? Mis' Homan, she went an' hid it last week." After some searching, Samuel found the pipe in Abe's hat-box underneath the old man's beaver, and produced from his own pocket a package of tobacco, whereupon the two sat down for a quiet smoke, Samuel chuckling to himself every now and again, Abe modestly seeking from time to time to cover his bare legs with the skirt of his pink-striped night-robe, not daring to reach for a blanket lest Samuel should call him names again. With the very first puff of his pipe, the light had come back into the invalid's eyes; with the second, the ashen hue completely left his cheek; and when he had pulled the tenth time on the pipe, Abe was ready to laugh at the sisters, the whole world, and even himself. "Hy-guy, but it's splendid to feel like a man ag'in!" The witch of Hawthorne's story never gazed more fondly at her "Feathertop" than Samuel now gazed at Abraham puffing away on his pipe; but he determined that Abraham's fate should not be as poor "Feathertop's." Abe must remain a man. "Naow look a-here, Abe," he began after a while, laying his hand on the other's knee, "dew yew know that yew come put' nigh gittin' swamped in the big breakers? Ef I hadn't come along an' throwed out the life-line, yew--" "Sam'l," interrupted the new Abraham, not without a touch of asperity, "whar yew been these six months? A-leavin' me ter die of apron-strings an' doctors! Of course I didn't 'spect nuthin' o' yew when yew was jist a bachelor, an' we'd sort o' lost sight er each other fer many a year, but arter yew got connected with the Hum by marriage sorter--" "Connected with the Hum by marriage!" broke in Samuel with a snort of indignant protest. "Me!" Words failed him. He stared at Abe with burning eyes, but Abe only insisted sullenly: "Whar yew an' Blossy been all this time?" "Dew yew mean ter tell me, Abe Rose, that yew didn't know that Aunt Nancy forbid Blossy the house 'cause she didn't go an' ask her permission ter git spliced? Oh, I fergot," he added. "Yew'd gone up-stairs ter take a nap that day we come back from the minister's." Abraham flushed. He did not care to recall Samuel's wedding-day. He hastened to ask the other what had decided him and Blossy to come to-day, and was informed that Miss Abigail had written to tell Blossy that if she ever expected to see her "Brother Abe" alive again, she must come over to Shoreville at the earliest possible moment. "Then I says ter Blossy," concluded Captain Darby, "I says, says I, 'Jest lemme see that air pore old hen-pecked Abe Rose. I'll kill him er cure him!' I says. Here, yer pipe 's out. Light up ag'in!" Abe struck the match with a trembling hand, unnerved once more by the speculation as to what might have happened had Samuel's treatment worked the other way. "I left Blossy an' Aunt Nancy a-huggin' an' a-kissin' down-stairs." Abe sighed: "Aunt Nancy allers was more bark than bite." "Humph! Barkin' cats must be tryin' ter live with. Abe," he tapped the old man's knee again, "dew yew know what yew need? A leetle vacation, a change of air. Yew want ter cut loose from this all-fired old ladies' shebang an' go sky-larkin'." Abe hung on Samuel's words, his eyes a-twinkle with anticipation. "Yes--yes, go sky-larkin'! Won't we make things hum?" "Thar's hummin' an' hummin'," objected Abe, with a sudden show of caution. "Miss Abigail thinks more o' wash-day than some folks does o' heaven. Wharabouts dew yew cak'late on a-goin'?" "Tew Bleak Hill!" Abraham's face lost its cautious look, his eyes sparkled once more. Go back to the Life-saving Station where he had worked in his lusty youth--back to the sound of the surf upon the shore, back to the pines and cedars of the Beach, out of the bondage of dry old lavender to the goodly fragrance of balsam and sea-salt! Back to active life among men! "Men, men, nawthin' but men!" Samuel exploded as if he had read the other's thought. "Nawthin' but men fer a hull week, that's my perscription fer yew! Haow dew yew feel naow, mate?" For answer Abe made a quick spring out of his chair, and in his bare feet commenced to dance a gentle, rheumatic-toe-considering breakdown, crying, "Hy-guy, Cap'n Sam'l, you've saved my life!" While Darby clapped his hands together, proud beyond measure at his success as the emancipator of his woman-ridden friend. Neither heard the door open nor saw Angy standing on the threshold, half paralyzed with fear and amazement, thinking that she was witnessing the mad delirium of a dying man, until she called out her husband's name. At the sound of her frightened voice, Abe stopped short and reached for the blanket with which to cover himself. "Naow don't git skeered, Mother, don't git skeered," he abjured her. "I'm all right in my head. Cap'n Sam'l here, he brung me some wonderful medicine. He--" "Blossy said you did!" interrupted Angy, a light of intense gratitude flashing across her face as she turned eagerly to Darby. "Lemme see the bottle." "I chucked it out o' the winder," affirmed Samuel without winking, and Abe hastened to draw Angy's attention back to himself. "See, Mother, I kin stand as good as anybody; hain't got no fever; I kin walk alone. Yew seen me dancin' jest naow, tew. An' ef I had that pesky leetle banty rooster of a doctor here, I'd kick him all the way deown-stairs. Cap'n Sam'l's wuth twenty-five o' him." "Yew kept the perscription, didn't yer, cap'n?" demanded Angy. "Naow ef he should be took ag'in an'--" Samuel turned away and coughed. "Mother, Mother," cried Abe, "shet the door an' come set deown er all the sisters'll come a-pilin' in. I've had a invite, I have!" Angy closed the door and came forward, her wary suspicious eye trailing from the visitor to her husband. "Hy-guy, ain't it splendid!" Abe burst forth. "Me an' Cap'n Sam'l here is a-goin' over ter Bleak Hill fer a week." "Bleak Hill in December!" Angy cried, aghast. "Naow, see here, Father," resolutely, "medicine er no medicine--" "He's got ter git hardened up," firmly interposed Dr. Darby; "it'll be the makin' o' him." Angy turned on Samuel with ruffled feathers. "He'll freeze ter death. Yew shan't--" Here Abe's stubborn will, so rarely set against Angy's gentle persistence, rose up in defiance: "We're a-gwine on a reg'lar A No. 1 spree with the boys, an' no women-folks is a-goin' ter stop us neither." "When?" asked Angy faintly, feeling Abe's brow, but to her surprise finding it cool and healthy. "Ter-morrer!" proclaimed Samuel; whereupon Abe looked a little dubious and lifted up his two feet, wrapped as they were in the blanket, to determine the present strength of his legs. "Don't yer think yer'd better make it day after ter-morrer?" he ventured. "Or 'long erbout May er June?" Angy hastily amended. Samuel gave an exasperated grunt. "See here, whose spree is this?" Abe demanded of the little old wife. She sighed, then resolved on strategy: "Naow, Abe, ef yew be bound an' possessed ter go ter the Beach, yew go; but I'm a-goin' a-visitin' tew, an' I couldn't git the pair o' us ready inside a week. I'm a-goin' deown ter see Blossy. She ast me jist naow, pendin', she says, Cap'n Sam'l here cures Abe up ernough ter git him off. I thought she was crazy then." Samuel knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the window-sill and arose to go. "Waal," he said grudgingly, "make it a week from ter-day then, rain shine, snow er blow, er a blizzard. Ef yer ever a-goin' ter git hardened, Abe, naow's the time! I'll drive over 'long erbout ten o'clock an' git somebody ter sail us from here; er ef the bay freezes over 'twixt naow an' then, ter take us in a scooter." A "scooter," it may be explained, is an ice-boat peculiar to the Great South Bay--a sort of modified dingy on runners. "Yes--yes, a scooter," repeated Samuel, turning suddenly on Abe with the sharp inquiry: "Air yew a-shiverin'? Hain't, eh? Waal then, a week from ter-day, so be it!" he ended. "But me an' Blossy is a-comin' ter see yew off an' on pooty frequent meanstwhile; an', Abe, ef ever I ketch yew a-layin' abed, I'll leave yew ter yer own destruction." XII "A PASSEL OF MEDDLERS" Angy's secret hope that Abe would change his mind and abandon the projected trip to the Beach remained unfulfilled, in spite of the fact that cold weather suddenly descended on the South Side, and the bay became first "scummed" over with ice, and then frozen so solid that all its usual craft disappeared, and the "scooters" took possession of the field. Abe and Samuel held stubbornly to their reckless intentions; and the sisters, sharing Angy's anxiety, grew solicitous almost to the point of active interference. They withheld nothing in the way of counsel, criticism, or admonition which could be offered. "Naow," said Mrs. Homan in her most commanding tones at the end of a final discussion in the big hall, on the evening before the date set for departure, "ef yew're bound, bent, an' determined, Brother Abe, to run in the face of Providence, yew want tew mind one thing, an' wear yer best set of flannels ter-morrer." "Sho, thar hain't no danger of me ketchin' cold," decried Abe. "I didn't say yer thickest set of flannels; I said yer best. When a man gits throwed out onto the ice ker flump, the thickness of his clo'es ain't goin' to help him much. The fust thing I allus taught my husbands was to have everything clean an' whole on, when thar was any likelihood of a sudden death." "Yew 'spect me tew go an' prink up fer a sudden death?" thundered Abraham. "I hain't never heard tell on a scooter a-killin' nobody yit; it's them plagued ice-boats up State what--" "That's all very well," persisted Mrs. Homan, not to be diverted from her subject; "but when old Dr. Billings got run over by the train at Mastic Crossin' on Fourth o' July eight year ago, his wife told me with her own lips that she never would git over it, cuz he had his hull big toe stickin' out o' the end of his stockin'. I tell yew, these days we've got tew prepare fer a violent end." The patient Angy somewhat tartly retorted, that during the last week she had spent even more time upon Father's wardrobe than she had upon her own; while Abe inwardly rejoiced to think that for seven days to come--seven whole days--he and Angy would be free from the surveillance of the sisters. Mrs. Homan, in no way nonplussed, boomed on: "Thar, I most fergot about his necktie. 'Course, they don't dress up much at the Station; but jest the same that air tie o' yourn, Brother Abe, is a disgrace. I told yew yew'd spile it a-wearin' it tew bed. Naow, I got a red an' green plaid what belonged to my second stepson, Henry O. He never would 'a' died o' pneumony, either, ef he'd a-took my advice an' made himself a newspaper nightcap last time he substituted with the 'Savers. An' yew kin have that necktie jest as well as not. Naow, don't say a word; I'm better able to part with it 'n yew be not to take it." No one ever attempted the fruitless task of stopping Mrs. Homan once fully launched; but when at last she permitted her back to rest against her chair, folding her arms with the manner of one who makes a sacrifice in a worthy cause, Abe broke into an explosive protest. If any one fretted him in his somewhat fretful convalescence, it was this grenadier member of the household, who since Blossy's marriage had endeavored to fill the vacant post of "guardeen angel." "Mis' Homan," he sputtered, rising to his feet, "I wouldn't wear a red an' green plaid tie to a eel's funeral!" Then with a somewhat ungracious "good-night" to the company in general, he trudged across the hall and up the stairs, muttering something to himself about a "passel of meddlers." Well-meaning Miss Abigail, who had been nodding half asleep, roused herself to call after him, and he paused unwillingly to heed. "Naow, don't yew lose no sleep ter-night," she admonished, "a-worryin' erbout the change in yer vittles. I told Cap'n Sam'l that hardtack an' sech like wouldn't never do fer yer weak stummick, an' he promised me faithful he'd send somebody tew the mainland every day fer milk." "Dew yew think I be a baby?" shouted Abraham, turning on his heel. "I know now what makes my teeth so sore lately," mumbling to himself; "it's from this here arrer-root an' all these puddin'y messes. They need hardenin', tew." XIII THE PRODIGAL'S DEPARTURE Abraham was up betimes in the morning to greet a day crisp and cold, quiet, yet with sufficient breeze stirring the evergreens in the yard outside to make him predict a speedy voyage. The old man was nervous and excited, and, in spite of his buoyant anticipations, somewhat oppressed, now that the day had actually come, with a sense of timidity and fear. Still, he put on a bold face while Angeline fastened his refractory collar and tied his cravat. This was neither Mrs. Roman's offering nor Abe's own old, frayed tie, but a new black one which had mysteriously been thrust through the crack under the door during the night. So, the last finishing touches having been put upon his toilet, and Angy having made ready by lamplight for her own trip, even before the old man was awake, there seemed nothing left to be done until the breakfast bell should ring. Abe sat down, and looking hard at his open carpet-bag wondered audibly if they had "everythin' in." The last time they two had packed Abe's wardrobe for a visit to Bleak Hill had been many years ago, when Samuel Darby, though somewhat Abe's junior, was keeper of the Life-saving Station, and Abe was to be gone for a whole season's duty. Then all of his possessions had been stowed in a long, bolster-like canvas bag for the short voyage. Both Angy and her husband recalled that time now--the occasion of their first, and almost of their last, real separation. "A week'll pass in no time," murmured Angy very quickly, with a catch in her voice. "Lookin' ahead, though, seven days seems awful long when yer old; but--Oh, law, yes; a week'll pass in no time," she repeated. "Only dew be keerful, Abe, an' don't take cold." She perched herself on her little horsehair trunk which she had packed to take to Blossy's, looking in her time-worn silk gown like a rusty blackbird, and, like a bird, she bent her head first to one side and then the other, surveying Abe in his "barrel clothes" with a critical but complimentary eye. "Wonder who made that necktie?" she questioned. "I'll bet yer 't was Aunt Nancy; she's got a sharp tongue, but a lot of silk pieces an' a tender spot in her heart fer yew, Abe. Ruby Lee says she never thought yew'd bring her around; yew're dretful takin' in yer ways, Father, thar's no use a-talkin'." Abraham glanced at himself in the glass, and pulled at his beard, his countenance not altogether free from a self-conscious vanity. "I hain't sech a bad-lookin' feller when I'm dressed up, be I, Mother? I dunno ez it's so much fer folks ter say I look like Abe Lincoln, after all; he was dretful humbly." "Father," Angy said coaxingly, "why don't yer put some o' that air 'sweet stuff' Miss Abigail give yer on yer hair? She'll feel real hurt ef she don't smell it on yer when yew go down-stairs." Abe made a wry face, took up the tiny bottle of "Jockey Club," and rubbed a few drops on his hands. His hands would wash, and so he could find some way of removing the odor before he reached the station and--the men. "I'll be some glad ter git away from these here fussy old hens fer a spell," he grumbled, as he slammed the vial back on the bureau; but Angy looked so reproachful and grieved that he felt ashamed of his ingratitude, and asked with more gentleness: "Yew goin' ter miss me, Mother?" Then the old wife was ashamed to find herself shaking of a sudden, and grown wretchedly afraid--afraid of the separation, afraid of the "hardening" process, afraid of she knew not what. "I'm glad 't ain't goin' ter be fer all winter this time," she said simply; then arose to open the door in order that he might not see the rush of tears to her foolish, old eyes. According to the arrangement, Captain Darby was to drive over from Twin Coves with his hired man, and Ezra, after taking the two old men to the bay, was to return to the Home for Angy and her little trunk. When Samuel drove up to the front door, he found Abe pacing the porch, his coat-collar turned up about his neck, his shabby fur cap pulled over his brow, his carpet-bag on the step, and, piled on the bench at the side of the door, an assortment of woolen articles fully six feet high, which afterward developed to be shawls, capes, hoods, comforters, wristlets, leggings, nubias, fascinators, guernseys, blankets, and coats. Abe was fuming and indignant, scornful of the contributions, and vowing that, though the sisters might regard a scooter as a freight ocean-liner, he would carry nothing with him but what he wore and his carpet-bag. "An' right yer be," pronounced Samuel, with a glance at the laden bench and a shake of his head which said as plainly as words, "Brother, from what am I not delivering thee?" The sisters came bustling out of the door, Mrs. Homan in the lead, Angy submerged in the crowd, and from that moment there was such a fuss, so much excitement, so many instructions and directions for the two adventurers, that Abraham found himself in the carriage before he had kissed Angy good-by. He had shaken hands, perhaps not altogether graciously, with every one else, even with the deaf-and-dumb gardener who came out of his hiding-place to witness the setting-out. Being dared to by all the younger sisters, he had waggishly brushed his beard against Aunt Nancy Smith's cheek, and then he had taken his place beside Samuel without a touch or word of parting to his wife. He turned in his seat to wave to the group on the porch, his eyes resting in a sudden hunger upon Angeline's frail, slender figure, as he remembered. She knew that he had forgotten in the flurry of his leave-taking, and she would have hastened down the steps to stop the carriage; but all the old ladies were there to see, and she simply stood, and gazed after the vehicle as it rolled away slowly behind the jog trot of Samuel's safe, old calico-horse. She stood and looked, holding her chin very high, and trying to check its unsteadiness. A sense of loneliness and desolation fell over the Home. Piece by piece the sisters put away all the clothing they had offered in vain to Abe. They said that the house was already dull without his presence. Miss Abigail began to plan what she should have for dinner the day of his return. No one seemed to notice Angy. She felt that her own departure would create scarcely a stir; for, without Abraham, she was only one of a group of poor, old women in a semi-charity home. Slowly she started up the stairs for her bonnet and the old broche shawl. When she reached the landing, where lay the knitted mat of the three-star pattern, the matron called up to her in tragic tones: "Angy Rose, I jest thought of it. He never kissed yew good-by!" Angy turned, her small, slender feet sinking deep into one of the woolly stars, her slim figure encircled by the light from the upper hall window. She saw a dozen faces uplifted to her, and she answered with quiet dignity: "Abe wouldn't think of kissin' me afore folks." Then quickly she turned again, and went to her room--their room--where she seated herself at the window, and pressed her hand against her heart which hurt with a new, strange, unfamiliar pain, a pain that she could not have shown "afore folks." XIV CUTTING THE APRON-STRINGS The usual hardy pleasure-seekers that gather at the foot of Shore Lane whenever the bay becomes a field of ice and a field of sport as well were there to see the old men arrive, and as they stepped out of the carriage there came forward from among the group gathered about the fire on the beach the editor of the "Shoreville Herald." Ever since his entrance into the Old Ladies' Home, Abe had never stopped chafing in secret over the fact that until he died, and no doubt received a worthy obituary, he might never again "have his name in the paper." In former days the successive editors of the local sheet had been willing, nay, eager, to chronicle his doings and Angy's, whether Abe's old enemy, rheumatism, won a new victory over him or Angy's second cousin Ruth came from Riverhead to spend the day or--wonder indeed to relate!--the old man mended his roof or painted the front fence. No matter what happened of consequence to Captain and Mrs. Rose, Mr. Editor had always been zealous to retail the news--before the auction sale of their household effects marked the death of the old couple, and of Abe especially, to the social world of Shoreville. What man would care to read his name between the lines of such a news item as this? The Old Ladies' Home is making preparations for its annual quilting bee. Donations of worsted, cotton batting, and linings will be gratefully received. Mr. Editor touched his cap to the two old men. He was a keen-faced, boyish little man with a laugh bigger than himself, but he always wore a worried air the day before his paper, a weekly, went to press, and he wore that worried look now. Touching his hand to his fur cap, he informed Samuel and Abe that news was "as scarce as hens' teeth"; then added: "What's doing?" "Oh, nawthin', nawthin'," hastily replied Samuel, who believed that he hated publicity, as he gave Abe's foot a sly kick. "We was jest a-gwine ter take a leetle scooter sail." He adjusted the skirt of his coat in an effort to hide Abe's carpet-bag, his own canvas satchel, and a huge market-basket of good things which Blossy had cooked for the life-savers. "Seen anythink of that air Eph Seaman?" Samuel added; shading his eyes with his hand and peering out upon the gleaming surface of the bay, over which the white sails of scooters were darting like a flock of huge, single-winged birds. "Eph's racing with Captain Bill Green," replied the newspaper man. "Captain Bill's got an extra set of new runners at the side of his scooter and wants to test them. Say, boys," looking from one to the other of the old fellows, "so you're going scootering, eh? Lively sport! Cold kind of sport for men of your age. Do you know, I've a good mind to run in to-morrow an article on 'Long Island and Longevity,' Taking head-line, eh? Captain Rose," turning to Abe as Samuel would do no more than glower at him, "to what do you attribute your good health at your time of life?" Abe grinned all over his face and cleared his throat importantly, but before he could answer, Samuel growled: "Ter me! His health an' his life both. I dragged him up out of a deathbed only a week ago." The editor took out his note-book and began scribbling. "What brought you so low, Captain Rose?" he inquired without glancing up. Again, before Abe could answer, Samuel trod on his toe. "Thirty mollycoddling women-folks." Abe found his voice and slammed the fist of one hand against the palm of the other. "If you go an' put that in the paper, I'll--I'll--" Words failed him. He could see the sisters fairly fighting for the possession of the "Shoreville Herald" to-morrow evening, as they always scrambled each for the first glance at the only copy taken at the Home, and he could hear one reading his name aloud--reading of the black ingratitude of their brother member. "Jest say," he added eagerly, "that the time fer old folks ter stick home under the cellar-door has passed, an' nobody is tew old ter go a-gallivantin' nowadays. An' then yew might mention"--the old man's face was shining now as he imagined Angy's pleasure--"that Mis' Rose is gone deown ter Twin Coves ter visit Mis' Sam'l Darby fer a week, an' Cap'n Darby an' Cap'n Abraham Rose," his breast swelling out, "is a-goin' ter spend a week at Bleak Hill. Thar, hain't that Cap'n Eph a-scootin' in naow? I guess them air new runners o' Bill Green's didn't work. He hain't nowhere in sight. He--" "Le' 's be a-gwine, Abe," interrupted Samuel, and leaving the editor still scribbling, he led the way down the bank with a determined trudge, his market-basket in one hand, his grip in the other, and his lips muttering that "a feller couldn't dew nuthin' in Shoreville without gittin' his name in the paper." But a moment later, when the two were walking gingerly over the ice to the spot where Eph had drawn his scooter to a standstill, Samuel fell into a self-congratulatory chuckle. "He didn't find out though that I had my reasons fer leavin' home tew. Women-folks, be it only one, hain't good all the time fer nobody. I come ter see Blossy twict a year afore we was married reg'lar; an' naow, I cak'late ter leave her twict a year fer a spell. A week onct every six months separate an' apart," proceeded the recently made benedict, "is what makes a man an' his wife learn haow ter put up with one another in between-times." "Why, me an' Angy," began Abe, "have lived tergether year in an' year out fer--" "All aboard!" interrupted Captain Eph with a shout. "It's a fair wind. I bet on making it in five minutes and fifty seconds!" Seven minutes had been the record time for the five-mile sail over the ice to Bleak Hill, but Samuel and Abe, both vowing delightedly that the skipper couldn't go too fast for them, stepped into the body of the boat and squatted down on the hard boards. They grinned at each other as the scooter started and Eph jumped aboard--grinned and waved to the people on the shore, their proud old thoughts crying: "I guess folks will see now that we're as young as we ever was!" They continued to grin as the boat spun into full flight and went whizzing over the ice, whizzing and bumping and bouncing. Both their faces grew red, their two pairs of eyes began to water, their teeth began to chatter; but Samuel shouted at the top of his voice in defiance of the gale: "Abe, we've cut the apron-strings!" "Hy-guy!" Abe shouted in return, his heart flying as fast as the sail, back to youth and manhood again, back to truant-days and the vacation-time of boyhood. "Hy-guy, Sam'l! Hain't we a-gwine ter have a reg'lar A No. 1 spree!" XV THE "HARDENING" PROCESS The Life-saving Station was very still. Nos. 3 and 5 had gone out on the eight-o'clock patrol. The seventh man was taking his twenty-four hours off at his home on the shore. The keeper was working over his report in the office. The other members of the crew were up-stairs asleep, and Abe and Samuel were bearing each other company in the mess-room. Abe lay asleep on the carpet-covered sofa which had been dragged out of the captain's room for him, so that the old man need not spend the night in the cold sleeping-loft above. He was fully dressed except for his boots; for he was determined to conform to the rules of the Service, and sleep with his clothes on ready for instant duty. "Talk erbout him a-dyin'!" growled Samuel to himself, lounging wearily in a chair beside the stove. "He's jest startin' his life. He's a reg'lar hoss. I didn't think he had it in him." Samuel's tone was resentful. He was a little jealous of the distinction which had been made between him and Abe; and drawing closer to the fire, he shivered in growing distaste for the cot assigned to him with the crew up-stairs, where the white frost lay on the window-latches. What uncomfortable chairs they had in this station! Samuel listened to the mooing of the breakers, to the wind rattling at the casements,--and wondered if Blossy had missed him. About this time, she must be sitting in her chintz-covered rocker, combing out the ringlets of her golden-white hair in the cheery firelight. Now, that would be a sight worth seeing! Abe opened his mouth and began to snore. What disgusting, hideous creatures men were, reflected Samuel. Six months' living with an unusually high-bred woman had insensibly raised his standards. Why should he spend a week of his ever-shortening life with such inferior beings, just for Abraham's sake--for Abraham's sake, and to bear out a theory of his own, which he had already concluded a mistake? Abe gave a snort, opened his eyes, and muttered sleepily: "This is what I call a A No. 1 spree. Naow, ter-morrer--" But mumbling incoherently he relapsed into slumber, puffing his lips out into a whistling sound. Samuel reached for a newspaper on the table, folded it into a missile, and started to fling it into the innocent face of the sleeper. But, fortunately for Abraham, it was Captain Darby's custom to count ten whenever seized by an exasperated impulse, and at the ninth number he regretfully dropped the paper. Then he began to count in another way. Using the forefinger of his right hand as a marker, he counted under his breath, "one" on his left thumb, then after a frowning interval, "two" on his left forefinger, "three" on the middle digit, and so on, giving time for thought to each number, until he had exhausted the fingers of his left hand and was ready to start on the right. Count, count, went Samuel, until thrice five was passed, and he began to be confused. Once more Abe awoke, and inquired if the other were trying to reckon the number of new wigwags and signals which the Service had acquired since they had worked for the government; but on being sharply told to "Shet up!" went to sleep again. What the projector of the trip was really trying to recall was how many times that day he had regretted saving Abe from the devastating clutches of the old ladies. "Him need hardenin'?" muttered Samuel blackly. "Why, he's harder now 'n nails an' hardtack!" Again he ran over on his fingers the list of high crimes and misdemeanors of which Abe had been guilty. First,--thumb, left hand,--Abe had insisted on extending their scooter sail until he, Samuel, had felt his toes freezing in his boots. Second,--forefinger, left hand,--on being welcomed by the entire force at Bleak Hill and asked how long they expected to stay, Abe had blurted out, "A hull week," explaining that Samuel's rule requiring at least seven days of exile from his wife every six months barred them from returning in less time. The keeper was a widower, all the other men bachelors. How could they be expected to understand? They burst into a guffaw of laughter, and Abe, not even conscious that he had betrayed a sacred confidence, sputtered and laughed with the rest. Samuel had half a mind to return to-morrow, "jest to spite 'em." Let's see, how many days of this plagued week were left? Six. Six whole twenty-four hours away from Blossy and his snug, warm, comfortable nest. She wasn't used to keepin' house by herself, neither. Would she remember to wind the clock on Thursday, and feed the canary, and water the abutilon and begonias reg'lar? Grimly Samuel took up offense No. 3. Abraham had further told the men that he had been brought over here for a hardening process; but he was willing to bet that if Samuel could keep up with him, he could keep up with Samuel. Then followed offense on offense. Was Samuel to be outdone on his own one-time field of action by an old ladies' darling? No! When Abe sat for a half-hour in the lookout, up in the freezing, cold cupola, and did duty "jest to be smart," Samuel sat there on top of his own feet, too. When Abe helped drag out the apparatus-cart over the heavy sands for the drill, Samuel helped, too. And how tugging at that rope brought back his lumbago! When Abe rode in the breeches-buoy, Samuel insisted on playing the sole survivor of a shipwreck, too, and went climbing stiffly and lumberingly up the practice-mast. Abraham refused to take a nap after dinner; so did Samuel. Abe went down to the out-door carpenter-shop in the grove, and planed a board just for the love of exertion. Samuel planed two boards and drove a nail. "We've got two schoolboys with us," said the keeper and the crew. "Ef I'd a-knowed that yew had more lives 'n my Maltese cat," Samuel was muttering over Abe by this time, "I'd--" Count, count went Captain Darby's fingers. He heard the keeper rattling papers in the office just across the threshold, heard him say he was about to turn in, and guessed Samuel had better do likewise; but Samuel kept on counting. Count, count went the arraigning fingers. Gradually he grew drowsy, but still he went over and over poor Abe's offenses, counting on until of a sudden he realized that he was no longer numbering the sins of his companion; he was measuring in minutes the time he must spend away from Blossy and Twin Coves, and the begonias, and the canary, and the cat. What would Blossy say if she could feel the temperature of the room in which he was supposed to sleep? What would Blossy say if she knew how his back ached? Whatever would Blossy do to Abe Rose if she could suspect how he had tuckered out her "old man?" "He's a reg'lar hoss," brooded Samuel. "Oh, my feet!" grabbing at his right boot. "I'll bet yer all I got it's them air chilblains. That's what," he added, unconsciously speaking aloud. Abe's lids slowly lifted. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. He turned his head on his hard, blue gingham-covered pillow, and stared sleepily at the other. "Yew been noddin', Sam'l? Ain't gittin' sleepy a'ready, are yer?" He glanced at the clock. "Why, it's only half past nine. Say, what's the matter with me an' yew goin' west ter meet No. 5? Leetle breath o' fresh air 'll make us sleep splendid." He started up from the couch, but dropped back, too heavy with weariness to carry off his bravado. Samuel, however, not noticing the discrepancy between speech and action, was already at the door leading up-stairs. "Yew don't drag me out o' this station ter-night, Abe Rose. Yew 're a reg'lar hoss; that 's what yew be. A reg'lar hoss! A reg'lar--a reg'lar--" He flung open the door and went trudging as fast as his smarting feet could carry him up the steep and narrow steps, wherein the passing of other feet for many years had worn little hollows on either side. Abraham limped from the couch to the door himself, and called after him: "Sam'l, don't yew want tew sleep by the fire? Yew seem a leetle softer than I be. Let me come up-stairs." There was no answer beyond the vicious slamming of Samuel's boots upon the floor above. Abe raised his voice again, and now came in answer a roar of wrath from the cot next to Samuel's. "Go to bed!" shouted No. 6, a burly, red-headed Irishman. "Go to bed, wid ye! Th' young folks do be nadin' a little schlape!" XVI "A REG'LAR HOSS" Abe flung himself back on his hard couch, drew the thick, gray blanket over him, and straightway fell into a deep, childlike slumber from which he was aroused by the rough but hearty inquiry: "Say, Cap, like to have some oyster-stew and a cup of coffee?" Abe sat up, rubbing his eyes, wondering since when they had begun to serve oyster-stew for breakfast on the Beach; then he realized that he had not overslept, and that it was not morning. The clock was striking twelve, the midnight patrol was just going out, and the returning "runners" were bidding him partake of the food they had just prepared to cheer them after their cold tramp along the surf. The old man whiffed the smell of the coffee, tempted, yet withheld by the thought of Angy's horror, and the horror of the twenty-nine sisters. "Cap'n Abe"--Clarence Havens, No. 5, with a big iron spoon in his hand and a blue gingham apron tied around his bronzed neck, put him on his mettle, however--"Cap'n Abe, I tell yew, we wouldn't have waked no other fellow of your age out of a sound sleep. Cap'n Darby, he could snooze till doomsday; but we knowed you wouldn't want to miss no fun a-going." "Cap'n Sam'l does show his years," Abe admitted. "Much obliged fer yew a-wakin' me up, boys," as he drew on his boots. "I was dreamin' I was hungry. Law, I wish I had a dollar apiece fer all the eyester-stews I've et on this here table 'twixt sunset an' sunrise." Under the stimulus of the unaccustomed repast, Abe expanded and began to tell yarns of the old days on the Beach--the good old days. His cheeks grew red, his eyes sparkled. He smoked and leaned back from the table, and ate and drank, smoked and ate again. "A week amongst yew boys," he asserted gaily, "is a-goin' tew be the makin' of me. Haow Sam'l kin waste so much time in sleep, I can't understand." "I don't think he is asleep," said No. 3. "When I was up-stairs jest now fer my slippers, I heard him kind o' sniffin' inter his piller." The laugh which followed brought the keeper out of the office in his carpet slippers, a patchwork quilt over his shoulders. His quick eyes took in the scene--the lamp sputtering above the table, the empty dishes, the two members of the crew sleepily jocular, with their blue flannel elbows spread over the board, the old man's rumpled bed, and his brilliant cheeks and bright eyes. "Boys, you shouldn't have woke up Cap'n Rose," he said reprovingly. "I'm afraid, sir," turning to Abraham, "that you find our manners pretty rough after your life among the old ladies." Abe dropped his eyes in confusion. Was he never to be rid of those apron-strings: "Well, there's worse things than good women," proceeded the captain. "I wish we had a few over here." He sighed with the quiet, dull manner of the men who have lived long on the Beach. "Since they made the rule that the men must eat and sleep in the station, it's been pretty lonely. That's why there's so many young fellows in the Service nowadays; married men with families won't take the job." "Them empty cottages out thar," admitted Abe, pointing to the window, "does look kind o' lonesome a-goin' ter rack an' ruin. Why, the winter I was over here, every man had his wife an' young 'uns on the Beach, 'cept me an' Sam'l." Again the keeper sighed, and drew his coverlid closer. "Now, it's just men, men, nothing but men. Not a petticoat in five miles; and I tell you, sometimes we get mad looking at one another, don't we, boys?" The two young men had sobered, and their faces also had taken on that look engendered by a life of dull routine among sand-hills at the edge of a lonely sea, with seldom the sound of a woman's voice in their ears or the prattle of little children. "For two months last winter nobody came near us," said Havens, "and we couldn't get off ourselves, either, half the time. The bay broke up into porridge-ice after that big storm around New Year's; yew dasn't risk a scooter on it or a cat-boat. Feels to me," he added, as he rose to his feet, "as if it was blowin' up a genuwine old nor'-easter again." The other man helped him clear the table. "I'm goin' to get married in June," he said suddenly, "and give up this here blamed Service." "A wife," pronounced Abe, carrying his own dishes into the kitchen, "is dretful handy, onct yew git used to her." The keeper went into the office with a somewhat hurried "Good-night," and soon Abe found himself alone again, the light in the kitchen beyond, no sound in the room save that of the booming of the surf, the rattling of the windows, and now and again the fall of a clinker in the stove. The old man was surprised to find that he could not fall back into that blissful slumber again. Not sleeping, he had to think. He thought and thought,--sober night thoughts,--while the oysters "laid like a log in his stummick" and the coffee seemed to stir his brain to greater activity. "Suppose," said the intoxicated brain, "another big storm should swoop down upon you and the bay should break up, and you and Samuel should be imprisoned on the beach for two or three months with a handful of men-folks!" "Moo! Moo!" roared the breakers on the shore. "Serve you right for finding fault with the sisters!" Come to think of it, if he had not been so ungracious of Miss Abigail's concern for him, he would now be in possession of a hop pillow to lull him back to sleep. Well, he had made his bed, and he would have to lie on it, although it was a hard old carpet-covered lounge. Having no hop pillow, he would count sheep-- One sheep going over the fence, two sheep, three--How tired he was! How his bones ached! It's no use talking, you can't make an old dog do the tricks of his puppy days. What an idiot he had been to climb that practice-mast! If he had fallen and broken his leg? Four sheep. Maybe he was too old for gallivanting, after all. Maybe he was too old for anything except just to be "mollycoddled" by thoughtful old ladies. Now, be honest with yourself, Abe. Did you enjoy yourself to-day--no, yesterday? Did you? Well, yes and--no! Now, if Angy had been along! Angy! That was why he could not go to sleep! He had forgotten to kiss her good-by! Wonder if she had noticed it? Wonder if she had missed him more on account of that neglect? Pshaw! What nonsense! Angy knew he wa'n't no hand at kissin', an' it was apt to give him rheumatism to bend down so far as her sweet old mouth. He turned to the wall at the side of the narrow lounge, to the emptiness where her pillow should be. "Good-night, Mother," he muttered huskily. Mother did not answer for the first time in nights beyond the counting. Mother would not be there to answer for at least six nights to come. A week, thought this old man, as the other old man had reflected a few hours before, is a long time when one has passed his threescore years and ten, and with each day sees the shadows growing longer. Abraham put out his hard time-shrunken hand and touched in thought his wife's pillow, as if to persuade himself that she was really there in her place beside him. He remembered when first he had actually touched her pillow to convince himself that she was really there, too awed and too happy to believe that his youth's dream had come true; and he remembered now how his gentle, strong hand had crept along the linen until it cupped itself around her cheek; and he had felt the cheek grow hot with blushes in the darkness. She had not been "Mother" then; she had been "Dearest!" Would she think that he was growing childish if he should call her "Dearest" now? Smiling to himself, he concluded that he would try the effect of the tender term when he reached home again. He drew his hand back, whispering once more, "Good-night, Mother." Then he fancied he could hear her say in her soft, reassuring tone, "Good-night, Father." Father turned his back on the empty wall, praying with a sudden rush of passionate love that when the last call should come for him, it would be after he had said "Good-night, Mother," to Angy and after she had said "Good-night, Father," to him, and that they might wake somewhere, somehow, together with God, saying, "Good-morning, Mother," "Good-morning, Father!" And "Fair is the day!" XVII THE DESERTER At dawn the Station was wide-awake and everybody out of bed. Samuel crept down-stairs in his stocking-feet, his boots in his hand, his eyes heavy with sleeplessness, and his wig awry. He shivered as he drew close to the fire, and asked in one breath for a prescription for chilblains and where might Abe be. Abe's lounge was empty and his blankets neatly folded upon it. The sunrise patrol from the east, who had just returned, made reply that he had met Captain Abe walking along the surf to get up an appetite for his griddle-cakes and salt pork. Samuel sat down suddenly on the lounge and opened his mouth. "Didn't he have enough exercise yist'day, for marcy's sake! Put' nigh killed me. I was that tired las' night I couldn't sleep a wink. I declar', ef 't wa'n't fer that fool newspaper a-comin' out ter-night, I'd go home ter-day. Yer a-gwine acrost, hain't yer, Havens?" Havens laughed in response. Samuel glowered at him. "I want home comforts back," he vowed sullenly. "The Beach hain't what it used ter be. Goin' on a picnic with Abe Rose is like settin' yer teeth into a cast-iron stove lid covered with a thin layer o' puddin'. I'm a-goin' home." The keeper assured him that no one would attempt to detain him if he found the Station uncomfortable, and that if he preferred to leave Abraham behind, the whole force would take pleasure in entertaining the more active old man. "That old feller bates a phonograph," affirmed the Irishman. "It's good ter hear that he'll be left anyhow for comp'ny with this storm a-comin' up." Samuel rushed to the window, for up-stairs the panes had been too frosty for him to see out. A storm coming up? The beach did look gray and desolate, dun-colored in the dull light of the early day, with the winter-killed grass and the stunted green growth of cedar and holly and pine only making splotches of darkness under a gray sky which was filled with scurrying clouds. The wind, too, had risen during the night, and the increased roar of the surf was telling of foul weather at sea. A storm threatening! And the pleasant prospect of being shut in at the beach with the cast-iron Abraham and these husky life-savers for the remainder of the winter! No doubt Abe would insist upon helping the men with the double duties imposed by thick weather, and drag Samuel out on patrol. "When dew yew start, Havens?" demanded Samuel in shaking tones. "Le' 's get off afore Abe gits back an' tries ter hold me. He seems ter be so plagued stuck on the life over here, he'll think I must be tew." But, though Havens had to wait for the return of the man who had gone off duty yesterday morning, still Abe had not put in an appearance when Samuel and the life-saver trudged down the trail through the woods to the bay. As he stepped into the scooter, Samuel's conscience at last began to prick him. "Yew sure the men will look arter the old fellow well an' not let him over-dew?" But the whizz of the flight had already begun and the scooter's nose was set toward Twin Coves, her sail skimming swiftly with the ring of the steel against the ice over the shining surface of the bay. "Law, yes," Samuel eased his conscience; "of course they will. They couldn't hurt him, anyhow. I never seen nobody take so kindly ter hardenin' as that air Abe." XVIII SAMUEL'S WELCOME The shore at Twin Coves was a somewhat lonely spot, owing to stretches of marshland and a sweep of pine wood that reached almost to the edge of the water. Samuel, however, having indicated that he wished to be landed at the foot of a path through the pines, found himself on the home shore scarcely ten minutes after he had left Bleak Hill--Havens already speeding toward his home some miles to the eastward, the bay seemingly deserted except for his sail, a high wind blowing, and the snow beginning to fall in scattered flakes. Samuel picked up his grip, trudged through the heavy sand of the narrow beach, and entered the sweet-smelling pine wood. He was stiff with cold after the rough, swift voyage; his feet alone were hot--burning hot with chilblains. Away down in his heart he was uneasy lest some harm should come to Abe and the old man be caught in the approaching storm on the Beach. But, oh, wasn't he glad to be home! His house was still half a mile away; but he was once more on good, solid, dry land. "I'll tell Blossy haow that air Abe Rose behaved," he reassured himself, when he pictured his wife's astonished and perhaps reproachful greeting, "an' then she won't wonder that I had ter quit him an' come back." He recollected that Angy would be there, and hoped fervently that she might not prove so strenuous a charge as Abraham. Moreover, he hoped that she would not so absorb Blossy's attention as to preclude a wifely ministering to his aching feet and the application of "St. Jerushy Ile" to his lame and sore back. The torture of the feet and back made walking harder, too, than he had believed possible with the prospect of relief so near. As he limped along he was forced to pause every now and again and set down the carpet-bag, sometimes to rub his back, sometimes to seat himself on a stump and nurse for a few moments one of those demon-possessed feet. Could he have made any progress at all if he had not known that at home, no matter if there was company, there would at least be no Abe Rose to keep him going, to spur him on to unwelcome action, to force him to prove himself out of sheer self-respect the equal, if not the superior, in masculine strength? Abe had led him that chase over at the Station, Samuel was convinced, "a-purpose" to punish him for having so soundly berated him when he lay a-bed. That was all the thanks you ever got for doing things for "some folks." Samuel hobbled onward, his brow knit with angry resentment. Did ever a half-mile seem so long, and had he actually been only twenty-three hours from home and Blossy? Oh, oh! his back and his feet! Oh, the weight of that bag! How much he needed sleep! How good it would be to have Blossy tuck him under the covers, and give him a hot lemonade with a stick of ginger in it! If only he had hold of Abe Rose now to tell him his opinion of him! Well, he reflected, you have to summer and winter with a person before you can know them. This one December day and night with Abe had been equal to the revelations of a dozen seasons. The next time Samuel tried to do good to anybody more than sixty-five, he'd know it. The next time he was persuaded into leaving his wife for over night, he'd know that, too. Various manuals for the young husband, which he had consulted, to the contrary notwithstanding, the place for a married man was at home. Samuel sat down on a fallen tree which marked the half-way point between his place and the bay. The last half of the journey would seem shorter, and, at the end, there would be Blossy smiling a welcome, for he never doubted but that Blossy would be glad to see him. She thought a good deal of him, nor had she been especially anxious for that week of separation. His face smoothed its troubled frowns into a look of shining anticipation--the look that Samuel's face had worn when first he ushered Blossy into his tidy, little home and murmured huskily: "Mis' Darby, yew're master o' the vessel naow; I'm jest fo'castle hand." Forgetting all his aches, his pains, his resentments, Samuel took a peppermint-lozenge out of his pocket, rolled it under his tongue, and walked on. Presently, as he saw the light of the clearing through the trees, he broke into a run,--an old man's trot,--thus proving conclusively that his worry of lumbago and chilblains had been merely a wrongly diagnosed case of homesickness. He grinned as he pictured Abe's dismay on returning to the Station to find him gone. Still, he reflected, maybe Abe would have a better time alone with the young fellows; he had grown so plagued young himself all of a sudden. Samuel surely need not worry about him. More and more good-natured grew Samuel's face, until a sociable rabbit, peeping at him from behind a bush, decided to run a race with the old gentleman, and hopped fearlessly out into the open. "Ah, yew young rascal!" cried Samuel. "Yew're the feller that eat up all my winter cabbages." At this uncanny reading of his mind, Mr. Cottontail darted off into the woods again to seek out his mate and inform her that their guilt had been discovered. Finally, Samuel came to the break in the woodland, an open field of rye, green as springtime grass, and his own exquisitely neat abode beckoning across the gray rail-fence to him. How pretty Blossy's geraniums looked in the sitting-room windows! Even at this distance, too, he could see that she had not forgotten to water his pet abutilon and begonias. How welcome in the midst of this flurry of snow--how welcome to his eye was that smoke coming out of the chimneys! All the distress of his trip away from home seemed worth while now for the joy of coming back. Before he had taken down the fence-rail and turned into the path which led to his back door, he was straining his ears for the sound of Blossy's voice gossiping with Angy. Not hearing it, he hurried the faster. The kitchen door was locked. The key was not under the mat; it was not in the safe on the porch, behind the stone pickle-pot. He tried the door again, and then peered in at the window. Not even the cat could be discerned. The kitchen was set in order, the breakfast dishes put away, and there was no sign of any baking or preparations for dinner. He knocked, knocked loudly. No answer. He went to a side door, to the front entrance, and found the whole house locked, and no key to be discovered. It was still early in the morning, earlier than Blossy would have been likely to set out upon an errand or to spend the day; and then, too, she was not one to risk her health in such chilly, damp weather, with every sign of a heavy storm. Samuel became alarmed. He called sharply, "Blossy!" No answer. "Mis' Rose!" No answer. "Ezra!" And still no sound in reply. His alarm increased. He went to the barn; that was locked and Ezra nowhere in sight. By standing on tiptoe, however, and peeping through a crack in the boards, he found that his horse and the two-seated surrey were missing. "Waal, I never," grumbled Samuel, conscious once more of all his physical discomforts. "The minute my back's turned, they go a-gallivantin'. I bet yer," he added after a moment's thought, "I bet yer it's that air Angy Rose. She's got ter git an' gad every second same as Abe, an' my poor wife has been drug along with her." There was nothing left for him to do but seek refuge in his shop and await their return. Like nearly every other bayman, he had a one-room shanty, which he called the "shop," and where he played at building boats, and weaving nets, and making oars and tongs. This structure stood to the north of the house, and fortunately had an old, discarded kitchen stove in it. There, if the wanderers had not taken that key also, he could build a fire, and stretch out before it on a bundle of sail-cloth. He gave a start of surprise, however, as he approached the place; for surely that was smoke coming out of the chimney! Ezra must have gone out with the horse, and Blossy must be entertaining Angy in some outlandish way demanded by the idiosyncrasies of the Rose temperament. Samuel flung open the door, and strode in; but only to pause on the threshold, struck dumb. Blossy was not there, Angy was not there, nor any one belonging to the household. But sitting on that very bundle of canvas, stretching his lean hands over the stove, with Samuel's cat on his lap, was the "Old Hoss"--Abraham Rose! XIX EXCHANGING THE OLIVE-BRANCH The cat jumped off Abe's lap, running to Samuel with a mew of recognition. Abe turned his head, and made a startled ejaculation. "Sam'l Darby," he said stubbornly, "ef yew've come tew drag me back to that air Beach, yew 're wastin' time. I won't go!" Samuel closed the door and hung his damp coat and cap over a suit of old oilskins. He came to the fire, taking off his mittens and blowing on his fingers, the suspicious and condemnatory tail of his eye on Abraham. "Haow'd yew git here?" he burst forth. "What yew bin an' done with my wife, an' my horse, an' my man, an' my kerridge? Haow'd yew git here? What'd yew come fer? When'd yew git here?" "What'd yew come fer?" retorted Abe with some spirit. "Haow'd yew git here?" "None o' yer durn' business." A glimmer of the old twinkle came back into Abe's eye, and he began to chuckle. "I guess we might as waal tell the truth, Sam'l. We both tried to be so all-fired young yesterday that we got played out, an' concluded unanermous that the best place fer a A No. 1 spree was ter hum." Samuel gave a weak smile, and drawing up a stool took the cat upon his knee. "Yes," he confessed grudgingly, "I found out fer one that I hain't no spring lamb." "Ner me, nuther," Abe's old lips trembled. "I had eyester-stew an' drunk coffee in the middle o' the night; then the four-o'clock patrol wakes me up ag'in. 'Here, be a sport,' they says, an' sticks a piece o' hot mince-pie under my nose. Then I was so oneasy I couldn't sleep. Daybreak I got up, an' went fer a walk ter limber up my belt, an' I sorter wandered over ter the bay side, an' not a mile out I see tew men with one o' them big fishin'-scooters a-haulin' in their net. An' I walked a ways out on the ice, a-signalin' with my bandana han'kercher; an' arter a time they seen me. 'T was Cap'n Ely from Injun Head an' his boy. Haow them young 'uns dew grow! Las' time I see that kid, he wa' n't knee-high tew a grasshopper. "Waal, I says tew 'em, I says: 'Want ter drop a passenger at Twin Coves?' 'Yes, yes,' they says. 'Jump in.' An' so, Sam'I, I gradooated from yer school o' hardenin' on top a ton o' squirmin' fish, more er less. I thought I'd come an' git Angy," he ended with a sigh, "an' yer hired man 'd drive us back ter Shoreville; but thar wa' n't nobody hum but a mewin' cat, an' the only place I could git inter was this here shop. Wonder whar the gals has gone?" No mention of the alarm that he must by this time have caused at the Station. No consciousness of having committed any breach against the laws of hospitality. But there was that in the old man's face, in his worn and wistful look, which curbed Samuel's tongue and made him understand that as a little child misses his mother so Abe had missed Angy, and as a little homesick child comes running back to the place he knows best so Abe was hastening back to the shelter he had scorned. So, with an effort, Samuel held his peace, merely resolving that as soon as he could get to a telephone he would inform their late hosts of Abe's safety. There was no direct way of telephoning; but a message could be sent to the Quogue Station, and from there forwarded to Bleak Hill. "I've had my lesson," said Abe. "The place fer old folks is with old folks." "But"--Samuel recovered his authoritative manner--"the place fer an old man ain't with old hens. Naow, Abe, ef yew think yew kin behave yerself an' not climb the flagpole or jump over the roof, I want yer to stay right here, yew an' Angy both, an' spend yer week out. Yes, yes," as Abe would have thanked him. "I take it," plunging his hand into his pocket, "yew ain't stowed away nothin' since that mince-pie; but I can't offer yer nothin' to eat till Blossy gits back an' opens up the house, 'cept these here pepp'mints. They're fine; try 'em." With one of those freakish turns of the weather that takes the conceit out of all weather-prophets, the snow had now ceased to fall, the sun was struggling out of the clouds, and the wind was swinging around to the west. Neither of the old men could longer fret about their wives being caught in a heavy snow; but, nevertheless, their anxiety concerning the whereabouts of the women did not cease, and the homesickness which Abe felt for Angy, and Samuel for Blossy, rather increased than diminished as one sat on the roll of canvas and the other crouched on his stool, and both hugged the fire, and both felt very old, and very lame, and very tired and sore. Toward noontime they heard the welcome sound of wheels, and on rushing to the door saw Ezra driving alone to the barn. He did not note their appearance in the doorway of the shop; but they could see from the look on his face that nothing had gone amiss. Samuel heard the shutting of the kitchen door, and knew that Blossy was at home, and a strange shyness submerged of a sudden his eagerness to see her. What would she say to this unexpected return? Would she laugh at him, or be disappointed? "Yew go fust," he urged Abe, "an' tell my wife that I've got the chilblains an' lumbago so bad I can't hardly git tew the house, an' I had ter come hum fer my 'St. Jerushy Ile' an' her receipt fer frosted feet." XX THE FATTED CALF Abe had no such qualms as Samuel. He wanted to see Angy that minute, and he did not care if she did know why he had returned. He fairly ran to the back door under the grape arbor, so that Samuel, observing his gait, was seized with a fear that he might be that young Abe of the Beach, during his visit, after all. Abraham rushed into the kitchen without stopping to knock. "I'm back, Mother," he cried, as if that were all the joyful explanation needed. She was struggling with the strings of her bonnet before the looking-glass which adorned Blossy's parlor-kitchen. She turned to him with a little cry, and he saw that her face had changed marvelously--grown young, grown glad, grown soft and fresh with a new excited spirit of jubilant thanksgiving. "Oh, Father! Weren't yew s'prised tew git the telephone? I knowed yew'd come a-flyin' back." Blossy appeared from the room beyond, and slipped past them, knowing intuitively where she would find her lord and master; but neither of them observed her entrance or her exit. Angy clung to Abe, and Abe held her close. What had happened to her, the undemonstrative old wife? What made her so happy, and yet tremble so? Why did she cry, wetting his cheek with her tears, when she was so palpably glad? Why had she telephoned for him, unless she, too, had missed him as he had missed her? Recalling his memories of last night, the memories of that long-ago honeymoon-time, he murmured into his gray beard, "Dearest!" She did not seem to think he was growing childish. She was not even surprised. At last she said, half between sobbing and laughing: "Oh, Abe, ain't God been good to us? Ain't it jist bewtiful to be rich? Rich!" she cried. "Rich!" Abe sat down suddenly, and covered his face with his hands. In a flash he understood, and he could not let even Angy see him in the light of the revelation. "The minin' stock!" he muttered; and then low to himself, in an awed whisper: "Tenafly Gold! The minin' stock!" After a while he recovered himself sufficiently to explain that he had not received the telephone message, and therefore knew nothing. "Did I git a offer, Mother?" "A offer of fifteen dollars a share. The letter come last night fer yew, an' I--" "Fifteen dollars a share!" He was astounded. "An' we've got five thousand shares! Fifteen dollars, an' I paid ninety cents! Angy, ef ever I ketch yew fishin' yer winter bunnit out of a charity barrel ag'in, I'll--Fifteen dollars!" "But that ain't the best of it," interrupted Angy. "I couldn't sleep a wink, an' Blossy says not ter send word tew yew, 'cuz mebbe 't was a joke, an' to wait till mornin' an' go see Sam'l's lawyer down ter Injun Head. That's whar we've jest come from, an' we telephoned ter Quogue Station from thar. An' the lawyer at fust he didn't 'pear tew think very much of it; but Blossy, she got him ter call up some broker feller in 'York, an' 'Gee whizz!' he says, turnin' 'round all excited from the 'phone. 'Tenafly Gold is sellin' fer twenty dollars on the Curb right this minute!' An' he says, says he: 'Yew git yer husband, an' bring that air stock over this arternoon; an',' says he, 'I'll realize on it fer yer ter-morrer mornin'.'" Abe stared at his wife, at her shining silk dress with its darns and careful patches, at her rough, worn hands, and at the much mended lace over her slender wrists. "That mine was closed down eighteen years ago; they must 'a' opened it up ag'in"; he spoke dully, as one stunned. Then with a sudden burst of energy, his eyes still on his wife's figure: "Mother, that dress o' yourn is a disgrace fer the wife of a financierer. Yew better git a new silk fer yerself an' Miss Abigail, tew, fust thing. Her Sunday one hain't nothin' extry." "But yer old beaver, Abe!" Angy protested. "It looks as ef it come out o'the Ark!" "Last Sunday yew said it looked splendid"; his tone was absent-minded again. He seemed almost to ramble in his speech. "We must see that Ishmael gits fixed up comfortable in the Old Men's Home; yew remember haow he offered us all his pennies that day we broke up housekeepin'. An' we must do somethin' handsome fer the Darbys, tew. Ef it hadn't been fer Sam'l, I might be dead naow, an' never know nothin' erbout this here streak o' luck. Tenafly Gold," he continued to mutter. "They must 'a' struck a new lead. An' folks said I was a fool tew invest." His face lightened. The weight of the shock passed. He threw off the awe of the glad news. He smiled the smile of a happy child. "Naow, Mother, we kin buy back our old chair, the rocker with the red roses onto it. Seems ter me them roses must 'a' knowed all the time that this was a-goin' ter happen. They was jest as pert an' sassy that last day--" Angy laughed. She laughed softly and with unutterable pride in her husband. "Why, Father, don't yer see yew kin buy back the old chair, an' the old place, too, an' then have plenty ter spare?" "So we kin, Mother, so we kin"; he nodded his head, surprised. He plunged his hands into his pockets, as if expecting to find them filled with gold. "Wonder ef Sam'l wouldn't lend me a dollar or so in small change. Ef I only had somethin' ter jingle, mebbe I could git closer to this fac'." He drew her to him, and gave her waist a jovial squeeze. "Hy-guy, Mother, we're rich! Hain't it splendid?" Their laughter rang out together--trembling, near-to-tears laughter. The old place, the old chair, the old way, and--plenty! Plenty to mend the shingles. Aye, plenty to rebuild the house, if they chose. Plenty with which to win back the smiles of Angy's garden. The dreadful dream of need, and lack, and want, of feeding at the hand of charity, was gone by. Plenty! Ah, the goodness and greatness of God! Plenty! Abe wanted to cry it out from the housetops. He wanted all the world to hear. He wished that he might gather his wealth together and drop it piece by piece among the multitude. To give where he had been given, to blossom with abundance where he had withered with penury! The little wife read his thoughts. "We'll save jest enough fer ourselves ter keep us in comfort the rest of our lives an' bury us decent." They were quiet a long while, both sitting with bowed heads as if in prayer; but presently Angy raised her face with an exclamation of dismay: "Don't it beat all, that it happened jest tew late ter git in this week's 'Shoreville Herald'!" "Tew late?" exclaimed the new-fledged capitalist. "Thar hain't nothin' tew late fer a man with money. We'll hire the editor tew git out another paper, fust thing ter-morrer!" XXI "OUR BELOVED BROTHER" The services of the "Shoreville Herald," however, were not required to spread the news. The happiest and proudest couple on Long Island saw their names with the story of their sudden accession to wealth in a great New York daily the very next morning. A tall, old gentleman with a real "barber's hair-cut," a shining, new high hat, a suit of "store clothes" which fitted as if they had been made for him, a pair of fur gloves, and brand-new ten-dollar boots; and a remarkably pretty, old lady in a violet bonnet, a long black velvet cape, with new shoes as well as new kid gloves, and a big silver-fox muff--this was the couple that found the paper spread out on the hall table at the Old Ladies' Home, with the sisters gathered around it, peering at it, weeping over it, laughing, both sorrowing and rejoicing. "This'll be good-by ter Brother Abe," Aunt Nancy had sniffed when the news came over the telephone the day before; and though Miss Abigail had assured her that she knew Abe would come to see them real often, the matriarch still failed to be consoled. "Hain't you noticed, gals," she persisted, "that thar hain't been a death in the house sence we took him in? An' I missed my reg'lar spell o' bronchitis last winter an' this one tew--so fur," she added dismally, and began to cough and lay her hands against her chest. "That was allus the way when I was a young 'un," she continued after a while; "I never had a pet dog or cat or even a tame chicken that it didn't up an' run erway sooner or later. This here loss, gals, 'll be the death o' me! Naow, mark my words!" Then followed a consultation among the younger sisters, the result of which was that they met Abe in the morning with a unanimous petition. They could neither ask nor expect him to remain; that was impossible, but-- "Hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray!" cried Abe, waving an imaginary flag as he entered. "Sam'l dropped us at the gate. Him an' Blossy went on ter see Holmes tew dicker erbout buyin' back the old place. Takes Blossy an' Sam'l tew dew business. They picked out my clothes between them yist'day arternoon deown ter Injun village, in the Emporium. Haow yew like 'em? Splendid, eh? See my yaller silk handkerchief, tew? We jest dropped in ter git our things. We thought mebbe yew'd want ter slick up the room an' git ready fer the new--" He was allowed to say no more. The sisters, who had been kissing and hugging Angy one by one, now swooped upon him. He was hugged, too, with warm, generous congratulation, his hands were both shaken until they ached, and his clothes and Angy's silently admired. But no one said a word, for not one of the sisters was able to speak. Angy, thinking that she divined a touch of jealousy, hastened to throw off her wrap and display the familiar old worn silk gown beneath. "I told Abe I jest wouldn't git a new silk until you each had one made tew. Blossy sent for the samples. Blossy--" "All I need's a shroud," interrupted Aunt Nancy grimly. Angy and Abe both stared at her. She did look gray this morning. She did seem feeble and her cough did sound hollow. The other sisters glanced also at Aunt Nancy, and Sarah Jane took her hand, while she nudged Mrs. Homan with her free elbow and Mrs. Homan nudged Ruby Lee and Ruby Lee glanced at Lazy Daisy and Lazy Daisy drawled out meaningly: "Miss Abigail!" Then Miss Abigail, twisting the edge of her apron nervously, spoke: "Much obliged to you I be in behalf o' all the sisters, Brother Abe an' ter Angy tew. We know yew'll treat us right. We know that yew," resting her eyes on Abe's face, "will prove ter be the 'angel unawares' that we been entertainin', but we don't want yew ter waste yer money on a cart-load o' silk dresses. All we ask o' yew is jest ernough tew allow us ter advertise fer another brother member ter take yer place." Who could describe the expression that flashed across Abe's face?--hurt astonishment, wounded pride, jealous incomprehension. "Ter take my place!" he glanced about the hall defiantly. Who dared to enter there and take his place?--_his place_! "This is a old ladies' home," he protested. "What right you got a-takin' in a good-fer-nuthin' old man? Mebbe he'd rob yew er kill yew! When men git ter rampagin', yew can't tell what they might dew." Sarah Jane nodded her head knowingly, as if to exclaim: "I told yer so!" But Miss Abigail hurriedly explained that it was a man and wife that they wanted. She blushed as she added that of course they would not take a man without his wife. "No, indeed! That'd be highly improper," smirked Ruby Lee. Then Abe went stamping to the stairway, saying sullenly: "All right. I'll give yew all the money yew want fer advertisin', an' yew kin say he'll be clothed an' dressed proper, tew, an' supplied with terbaccer an' readin'-matter besides; but jest wait till the directors read that advertisement! They had me here sorter pertendin' ter be unbeknownst. Come on, Angy. Let 's go up-stairs an' git our things. Let's--" Aunt Nancy half arose from her chair, resting her two shaking hands on the arms of it. "Brother Abe," she called quaveringly after the couple, "I guess yew kin afford ter fix up any objections o' the directors." Angy pressed her husband's arm as she joined him in the upper hall. "Don't yer see, Abe. They don't realize that that poor old gentleman, whoever he may be, won't be yew. They jest know that _yew_ was _yew_; an' they want ter git another jest as near like yew as they kin." Abe grunted, yet nevertheless went half-way down-stairs again to call more graciously to the sisters that he would give them a reference any time for knowing how to treat a man just right. "That feller'll be lucky, gals," he added in tremulous tones. "I hope he'll appreciate yew as I allers done." Then Abe went to join Angy in the room which the sisters had given to him that bitter day when the cry of his heart had been very like unto: "_Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani_!" After all, what was there of his and Angy's here? Their garments they did not need now. They would leave them behind for the other old couple that was to come. There was nothing else but some simple gifts. He took up a pair of red wristlets that Mrs. Homan had knit, and tucked them in his new overcoat pocket. He also took Abigail's bottle of "Jockey Club" which he had despised so a few days ago, and tucked that in his watch-pocket. When he bought himself a watch, he would buy a new clock for the dining-room down-stairs, too,--a clock with no such asthmatic strike as the present one possessed. All his personal belongings--every one of them gifts--he found room for in his pockets. Angy had even less than he. Yet they had come practically with nothing--and compared with that nothing, what they carried now seemed much. Angy hesitated over the pillow-shams. Did they belong to them or to the new couple to come? Abe gazed at the shams too. They had been given to him and Angy last Christmas by all the sisters. They were white muslin with white cambric frills, and in their centers was embroidered in turkey-red cotton, "Mother," on one pillow, "Father," on the other. Every sister in the Home had taken at least one stitch in the names. Father and Mother--not Angy and Abe! Why Father and Mother? A year ago no one could have foreseen the fortune, nor have prophesied the possession of the room by another elderly couple. Angy drew near to Abe, and Abe to Angy. They locked arms and stood looking at the pillows. He saw, and she saw, the going back to the old bedroom in the old home across the woods and over the field--the going back. And in sharp contrast they each recalled the first time that they had stepped beneath that roof nearly half a century ago,--the first home-coming,--when her mother-heart and his father-heart had been filled with the hope of children--children to bless their marriage, children to complete their home, children to love, children to feed them with love in return. "Let's adopt some leetle folks," said Angy, half in a whisper. "I'm afeard the old place'll seem lonesome without--" "Might better adopt the sisters"; he spoke almost gruffly. "I allers did think young 'uns would be the most comfort tew yew after they growed up." "A baby is dretful cunnin'," Angy persisted. "But," she added sadly, "I don't suppose a teethin' mite would find much in common with us." "Anyway," vowed Abe, suddenly beginning to unfasten the pillow-shams, "these belong ter us, an' I'm a-goin' ter take 'em." They went down-stairs silently, the shams wrapped in a newspaper carried under his arm. "Waal, naow,"--he tried to speak cheerfully as they rejoined the others, and he pushed his way toward the dining-room,--"I'll go an' git my cup an' sasser." But Miss Abigail blocked the door, again blushing, again confused. "That 'Tew-our-Beloved-Brother' cup," she said gently, her eyes not meeting the wound in his, "we 'bout concluded yew'd better leave here fer the one what answers the ad. Yew got so much naow, an' him--" She did not finish. She could not. She felt rather than saw the blazing of Abe's old eyes. Then the fire beneath his brows died out and a mist obscured his sight. "Gals," he asked humbly, "would yew ruther have a new 'beloved brother'?" For a space there was no answer. Aunt Nancy's head was bowed in her hands. Lazy Daisy was openly sobbing. Miss Ellie was twisting her fingers nervously in and out--she unwound them to clutch at Angy's arm as if to hold her. At last Miss Abigail spoke with so unaccustomed a sharpness that her voice seemed not her own: "Sech a foolish question as that nobody in their sound senses would ask." Abe sat down in his old place at the fireside and smiled a thousand smiles in one. He smiled and rubbed his hands before the blaze. The blaze itself seemed scarcely more bright and warm than the light from within which transfigured his aged face. "Gals," he chuckled in his old familiar way, "I dunno how Sam'l Darby'll take it; but if Mother's willin', I guess I won't buy back no more of the old place, 'cept'n' jest my rockin'-chair with the red roses onto it; an' all the rest o' this here plagued money I'll hand over ter the directors, an' stay right here an' take my comfort." Angy bent down and whispered in his ear: "I'd ruther dew it, tew, Father. Anythin' else would seem like goin' a-visitin'. But yew don't want ter go an' blame me," she added anxiously, "ef yew git all riled up an' sick abed ag'in." "Pshaw, Mother," he protested; "yew fergit I was _adopted_ then; naow I be _adoptin_'. Thar's a big difference." She lifted her face, relieved, and smiled into the relieved and radiant faces of Abe's "children," and her own. 
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32448	----	Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction January 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. [Illustration: _I put my arms around her shoulders but there was no way I could comfort her._] The STATUE By Mari Wolf Illustrated by BOB MARTIN _There is a time for doing and a time for going home. But where is home in an ever-changing universe?_ * * * * * "Lewis," Martha said. "I want to go home." She didn't look at me. I followed her gaze to Earth, rising in the east. It came up over the desert horizon, a clear, bright star at this distance. Right now it was the Morning Star. It wasn't long before dawn. I looked back at Martha sitting quietly beside me with her shawl drawn tightly about her knees. She had waited to see it also, of course. It had become almost a ritual with us these last few years, staying up night after night to watch the earthrise. She didn't say anything more. Even the gentle squeak of her rocking chair had fallen silent. Only her hands moved. I could see them trembling where they lay folded in her lap, trembling with emotion and tiredness and old age. I knew what she was thinking. After seventy years there can be no secrets. We sat on the glassed-in veranda of our Martian home looking up at the Morning Star. To us it wasn't a point of light. It was the continents and oceans of Earth, the mountains and meadows and laughing streams of our childhood. We saw Earth still, though we had lived on Mars for almost sixty-six years. "Lewis," Martha whispered softly. "It's very bright tonight, isn't it?" "Yes," I said. "It seems so near." She sighed and drew the shawl higher about her waist. "Only three months by rocket ship," she said. "We could be back home in three months, Lewis, if we went out on this week's run." I nodded. For years we'd watched the rocket ships streak upward through the thin Martian atmosphere, and we'd envied the men who so casually travelled from world to world. But it had been a useless envy, something of which we rarely spoke. Inside our veranda the air was cool and slightly moist. Earth air, perfumed with the scent of Earth roses. Yet we knew it was only illusion. Outside, just beyond the glass, the cold night air of Mars lay thin and alien and smelling of alkali. It seemed to me tonight that I could smell that ever-dry Martian dust, even here. I sighed, fumbling for my pipe. "Lewis," Martha said, very softly. "What is it?" I cupped my hands over the match flame. "Nothing. It's just that I wish--I wish we _could_ go home, right away. Home to Earth. I want to see it again, before we die." "We'll go back," I said. "Next year for sure. We'll have enough money then." She sighed. "Next year may be too late." I looked over at her, startled. She'd never talked like that before. I started to protest, but the words died away before I could even speak them. She was right. Next year might indeed be too late. Her work-coarsened hands were thin, too thin, and they never stopped shaking any more. Her body was a frail shadow of what it had once been. Even her voice was frail now. She was old. We were both old. There wouldn't be many more Martian summers for us, nor many years of missing Earth. "Why can't we go back this year, Lewis?" She smiled at me almost apologetically. She knew the reason as well as I did. "We can't," I said. "There's not enough money." "There's enough for our tickets." I'd explained all that to her before, too. Perhaps she'd forgotten. Lately I often had to explain things more than once. "You can't buy passage unless you have enough extra for insurance, and travelers' checks, and passport tax. The company has to protect itself. Unless you're financially responsible, they won't take you on the ships." She shook her head. "Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever have enough." * * * * * We'd saved our money for years, but it was a pitifully small savings. We weren't rich people who could go down to the spaceport and buy passage on the rocket ships, no questions asked, no bond required. We were only farmers, eking our livelihood from the unproductive Martian soil, only two of the countless little people of the solar system. In all our lifetime we'd never been able to save enough to go home to Earth. "One more year," I said. "If the crop prices stay up...." She smiled, a sad little smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Yes, Lewis," she said. "One more year." But I couldn't stop thinking of what she'd said earlier, nor stop seeing her thin, tired body. Neither of us was strong any more, but of the two I was far stronger than she. When we'd left Earth she'd been as eager and graceful as a child. We hadn't been much past childhood then, either of us.... "Sometimes I wonder why we ever came here," she said. "It's been a good life." She sighed. "I know. But now that it's nearly over, there's nothing to hold us here." "No," I said. "There's not." If we had had children it might have been different. As it was, we lived surrounded by the children and grandchildren of our friends. Our friends themselves were dead. One by one they had died, all of those who came with us on the first colonizing ship to Mars. All of those who came later, on the second and third ships. Their children were our neighbors now--and they were Martian born. It wasn't the same. She leaned over and pressed my hand. "We'd better go in, Lewis," she said. "We need our sleep." Her eyes were raised again to the green star that was Earth. Watching her, I knew that I loved her now as much as when we had been young together. More, really, for we had added years of shared memories. I wanted so much to give her what she longed for, what we both longed for. But I couldn't think of any way to do it. Not this year. Once, almost seventy years before, I had smiled at the girl who had just promised to become my wife, and I'd said: "I'll give you the world, darling. All tied up in pink ribbons." I didn't want to think about that now. We got up and went into the house and shut the veranda door behind us. * * * * * I couldn't go to sleep. For hours I lay in bed staring up at the shadowed ceiling, trying to think of some way to raise the money. But there wasn't any way that I could see. It would be at least eight months before enough of the greenhouse crops were harvested. What would happen, I wondered, if I went to the spaceport and asked for tickets? If I explained that we couldn't buy insurance, that we couldn't put up the bond guaranteeing we wouldn't become public charges back on Earth.... But all the time I wondered I knew the answer. Rules were rules. They wouldn't be broken especially not for two old farmers who had long outlived their usefulness and their time. Martha sighed in her sleep and turned over. It was light enough now for me to see her face clearly. She was smiling. But a minute ago she had been crying, for the tears were still wet on her cheeks. Perhaps she was dreaming of Earth again. Suddenly, watching her, I didn't care if they laughed at me or lectured me on my responsibilities to the government as if I were a senile fool. I was going to the spaceport. I was going to find out if, somehow, we couldn't go back. I got up and dressed and went out, walking softly so as not to awaken her. But even so she heard me and called out to me. "Lewis...." I turned at the head of the stairs and looked back into the room. "Don't get up, Martha," I said. "I'm going into town." "All right, Lewis." She relaxed, and a minute later she was asleep again. I tiptoed downstairs and out the front door to where the trike car was parked, and started for the village a mile to the west. It was desert all the way. Dry, fine red sand that swirled upward in choking clouds, if you stepped off the pavement into it. The narrow road cut straight through it, linking the outlying district farms to the town. The farms themselves were planted in the desert. Small, glassed-in houses and barns, and large greenhouses roofed with even more glass, that sheltered the Earth plants and gave them Earth air to breathe. * * * * * When I came to the second farmhouse John Emery hurried out to meet me. "Morning, Lewis," he said. "Going to town?" I shut off the motor and nodded. "I want to catch the early shuttle plane to the spaceport," I said. "I'm going to the city to buy some things...." I had to lie about it. I didn't want anyone to know we were even thinking of leaving, at least not until we had our tickets in our hands. "Oh," Emery said. "That's right. I suppose you'll be buying Martha an anniversary present." I stared at him blankly. I couldn't think what anniversary he meant. "You'll have been here thirty-five years next week," he said. "That's a long time, Lewis...." Thirty-five years. It took me a minute to realize what he meant. He was right. That was how long we had been here, in Martian years. The others, those who had been born here on Mars, always used the Martian seasons. We had too, once. But lately we forgot, and counted in Earth time. It seemed more natural. "Wait a minute, Lewis," Emery said. "I'll ride into the village with you. There's plenty of time for you to make your plane." I went up on his veranda and sat down and waited for him to get ready. I leaned back in the swing chair and rocked slowly back and forth, wondering idly how many times I'd sat here. This was old Tom Emery's house. Or had been, until he died eight years ago. He'd built this swing chair the very first year we'd been on Mars. Now it was young John's. Young? That showed how old we were getting. John was sixty-three, in Earth years. He'd been born that second winter, the month the parasites got into the greenhouses.... He came back out onto the veranda. "Well, I'm ready, Lewis," he said. We went down to my trike car and got in. "You and Martha ought to get out more," he said. "Jenny's been asking me why you don't come to call." I shrugged. I couldn't tell him we seldom went out because when we did we were always set apart and treated carefully, like children. He probably didn't even realize that it was so. "Oh," I said. "We like it at home." He smiled. "I suppose you do, after thirty-five years." I started the motor quickly, and from then on concentrated on my driving. He didn't say anything more. * * * * * It took only a few minutes to get to the village, but even so I was tired. Lately it grew harder and harder to drive, to keep the trike car on the narrow strip of pavement. I was glad when we pulled up in the square and got out. "I'll walk over to the plane with you," Emery said. "I've got plenty of time." "All right." "By the way, Lewis, Jenny and I and some of the neighbors thought we'd drop over on your anniversary." "That's fine," I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. "Come on over." "It's a big event," he said. "Deserves a celebration." The shuttle plane was just landing. I hurried over to the ticket window, with him right beside me. "I just wanted to be sure you'd be home," he said. "We wouldn't want you to miss your own party." "Party?" I said. "But John--" He wouldn't even let me finish protesting. "Now don't ask any questions, Lewis. You wouldn't want to spoil the surprise, would you?" He chuckled. "Your plane's loading now. You'd better be going. Thanks for the ride, Lewis." I went across to the plane and got in. I hoped that somehow we wouldn't have to spend that Martian anniversary being congratulated and petted and babied. I didn't think Martha could stand it. But there wasn't any polite way to say no. * * * * * It wasn't a long trip to the spaceport. In less than an hour the plane dropped down to the air strip that flanked the rocket field. But it was like flying from one civilization to another. The city was big, almost like an Earth city. There was lots of traffic, cars and copters and planes. All the bustle of the spaceways stations. But although the city looked like Earth, it smelled as dry and alkaline as all the rest of Mars. I found the ticket office easily enough and went in. The young clerk barely glanced up at me. "Yes?" he said. "I want to inquire about tickets to Earth," I said. My hands were sweating, and I could feel my heart pounding too fast against my ribs. But my voice sounded casual, just the way I wanted it to sound. "Tickets?" the clerk said. "How many?" "Two. How much would they cost? Everything included." "Forty-two eighty," he said. His voice was still bored. "I could give them to you for the flight after next. Tourist class, of course...." We didn't have that much. We were at least three hundred short. "Isn't there any way," I said hesitantly, "that I could get them for less? I mean, we wouldn't need insurance, would we?" He looked up at me for the first time, startled. "You don't mean you want them for yourself, do you?" "Why yes. For me and my wife." He shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said flatly. "But that would be impossible in any case. You're too old." He turned away from me and bent over his desk work again. The words hung in the air. Too old ... too old ... I clutched the edge of the desk and steadied myself and forced down the panic I could feel rising. "Do you mean," I said slowly, "that you wouldn't sell us tickets even if we had the money?" He glanced up again, obviously annoyed at my persistence. "That's right. No passengers over seventy carried without special visas. Medical precaution." I just stood there. This couldn't be happening. Not after all our years of working and saving and planning for the future. Not go back. Not even next year. Stay here, because we were old and frail and the ships wouldn't be bothered with us anyway. Martha.... How could I tell her? How could I say, "We can't go home, Martha. They won't let us." I couldn't say it. There had to be some other way. "Pardon me," I said to the clerk, "but who should I see about getting a visa?" He swept the stack of papers away with an impatient gesture and frowned up at me. "Over at the colonial office, I suppose," he said. "But it won't do you any good." I could read in his eyes what he thought of me. Of me and all the other farmers who lived in the outlying districts and raised crops and seldom came to the city. My clothes were old and provincial and out of style, and so was I, to him. "I'll try it anyway," I said. He started to say something, then bit it back and looked away from me again. I was keeping him from his work. I was just a rude old man interfering with the operation of the spaceways. Slowly I let go of the desk and turned to leave. It was hard to walk. My knees were trembling, and my whole body shook. It was all I could do not to cry. It angered me, the quavering in my voice and the weakness in my legs. I went out into the hall and looked for the directory that would point the way to the colonial office. It wasn't far off. I walked out onto the edge of the field and past the Earth rocket, its silver nose pointed up at the sky. I couldn't bear to look at it for longer than a minute. It was only a few hundred yards to the colonial office, but it seemed like miles. * * * * * This office was larger than the other, and much more comfortable. The man seated behind the desk seemed friendlier too. "May I help you?" he asked. "Yes," I said slowly. "The man at the ticket office told me to come here. I wanted to see about getting a permit to go back to Earth...." His smile faded. "For yourself?" "Yes," I said woodenly. "For myself and my wife." "Well, Mr...." "Farwell. Lewis Farwell." "My name's Duane. Please sit down, won't you?... How old are you, Mr. Farwell?" "Eighty-seven," I said. "In Earth years." He frowned. "The regulations say no space travel for people past seventy, except in certain special cases...." I looked down at my hands. They were shaking badly. I knew he could see them shake, and was judging me as old and weak and unable to stand the trip. He couldn't know why I was trembling. "Please," I whispered. "It wouldn't matter if it hurt us. It's just that we want to see Earth again. It's been so long...." "How long have you been here, Mr. Farwell?" It was merely politeness. There wasn't any promise in his voice. "Sixty-five years." I looked up at him. "Isn't there some way--" "Sixty-five years? But that means you must have come here on the first colonizing ship." "Yes," I said. "We did." "I can't believe it," he said slowly. "I can't believe I'm actually looking at one of the pioneers." He shook his head. "I didn't even know any of them were still on Mars." "We're the last ones," I said. "That's the main reason we want to go back. It's awfully hard staying on when your friends are dead." * * * * * Duane got up and crossed the room to the window and looked out over the rocket field. "But what good would it do to go back, Mr. Farwell?" he asked. "Earth has changed very much in the last sixty-five years." He was trying to soften the disappointment. But nothing could. If only I could make him realize that. "I know it's changed," I said. "But it's _home_. Don't you see? We're Earthmen still. I guess that never changes. And now that we're old, we're aliens here." "We're all aliens here, Mr. Farwell." "No," I said desperately. "Maybe you are. Maybe a lot of the city people are. But our neighbors were born on Mars. To them Earth is a legend. A place where their ancestors once lived. It's not real to them...." He turned and crossed the room and came back to me. His smile was pitying. "If you went back," he said, "you'd find you were a Martian, too." I couldn't reach him. He was friendly and pleasant and he was trying to make things easier, and it wasn't any use talking. I bent my head and choked back the sobs I could feel rising in my throat. "You've lived a full life," Duane said. "You were one of the pioneers. I remember reading about your ship when I was a boy, and wishing I'd been born sooner so that I could have been on it." Slowly I raised my head and looked up at him. "Please," I said. "I know that. I'm glad we came here. If we had our lives to live over, we'd come again. We'd go through all the hardships of those first few years, and enjoy them just as much. We'd be just as thrilled over proving that it's possible to farm a world like this, where it's always freezing and the air is thin and nothing will grow outside the greenhouses. You don't need to tell me what we've done, or what we've gotten out of it. We know. We've had a wonderful life here." "But you still want to go back?" "Yes," I said. "We still want to go back. We're tired of living in the past, with our friends dead and nothing to do except remember." He looked at me for a long moment. Then he said slowly, "You realize, don't you, that if you went back to Earth you'd have to stay there? You couldn't return to Mars...." "I realize that," I said. "That's what we want. We want to die at home. On Earth." * * * * * For a long, long moment his eyes never left mine. Then, slowly, he sat down at his desk and reached for a pen. "All right, Mr. Farwell," he said. "I'll give you a visa." I couldn't believe it. I stared at him, sure that I'd misunderstood. "Sixty-five years...." He shook his head. "I only hope I'm doing the right thing. I hope you won't regret this." "We won't," I whispered. Then I remembered that we were still short of money. That that was why I'd come to the spaceport originally. I was almost afraid to mention it, for fear I'd lose everything. "Is there--is there some way we could be excused from the insurance?" I said. "So we could go back this year? We're three hundred short." He smiled. It was a very reassuring smile. "You don't need to worry about the money," he said. "The colonial office can take care of that. After all, we owe your generation a great debt, Mr. Farwell. A passport tax and the fare to Earth are little enough to pay for a planet." I didn't quite understand him, but that didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was that we were going home. Back to Earth. I could see Martha's face when I told her. I could see her tears of happiness.... There were tears on my own cheeks, but I wasn't ashamed of them now. "Mr. Farwell," Duane said. "You go back home. The shuttle ship will be leaving in a few minutes." "You mean that--" I started. He nodded. "I'll get your tickets for you. On the first ship I can. Just leave it to me." "It's too much trouble," I protested. "No it's not." He smiled. "Besides, I'd like to bring them out to you. I'd like to see your farm, if I may." Then I remembered what John Emery had said this morning about our anniversary. It would be a wonderful celebration, now that there was something to celebrate. We could even save our announcement that we were going home until then. "Mr. Duane," I said. "Next week, on the tenth, we'll have been here thirty-five Martian years. Maybe you'd like to come out then. I guess our neighbors will be giving us a sort of party." He laid the pen down and looked at me very intently. "They don't know you're planning to leave yet, do they?" "No. We'll wait and tell them then." Duane nodded slowly. "I'll be there," he promised. * * * * * Martha was out on the veranda again, looking down the road toward the village. All afternoon at least one of us had been out there watching for our guests, waiting for our anniversary celebration to begin. "Do you see anyone yet?" I called. "No," she said. "Not yet...." I looked around the room hoping I'd find something left undone that I could work on, so I wouldn't have to sit and worry about the possibility of Duane's having forgotten us. But everything was ready. The extra chairs were out and the furniture all dusted, and Martha's cakes and cookies arranged on the table. I couldn't sit still. Not today. I got up out of the chair and joined her on the veranda. "I wonder what their surprise is...." she said. "Didn't John give you any hint at all?" "No," I said. "But whatever it is, it can't be half as wonderful as ours." She reached for my hand. "Lewis," she whispered. "I can hardly believe it, can you?" "No," I said. "But it's true. We're really going." I put my arm around her, and she rested her head against me. "I'm so happy, Lewis." Her cheeks were full of color once again, and her step had a spring to it that I hadn't seen for years. It was as if the years of waiting were falling away from both of us now. "I wish they'd come," she said. "I can hardly wait to see their faces when we tell them." It was getting late in the afternoon. Already the sun was dipping down toward the desert horizon. It was hard to wait. In some ways it was harder to be patient these last few hours than it had been during all those years we'd wanted to go back. "Look," Martha said suddenly. "There's a car now." Then I saw the car too, coming quickly toward us. It pulled up in front of the house and stopped and Duane stepped out. "Well, hello there, Mr. Farwell," he called. "All ready for the trip?" I nodded. Suddenly, now that he was here, I couldn't say anything at all. He must have seen how excited we were. By the time he was inside the veranda door he'd reached into his wallet and pulled out a long envelope. "Here's your schedule," he said. "Your tickets are all made out for next week's flight." Martha's hand crept into mine. "You've been so kind," she whispered. * * * * * We went into the house and smiled at each other while Duane admired the furniture and the farming district in general and our place in particular. We hardly heard what he was saying. When the doorbell rang we stared at each other. For a minute I couldn't think who it might be. I'd forgotten our guests and their surprise party, even the anniversary itself had slipped my mind. "Hello in there," John Emery called. "Come on out, you two." Martha pressed my hand once more. Then she stepped to the door and opened it. "Happy anniversary!" We stood frozen. We'd expected only a few visitors, some of our nearest neighbors. But the yard was full of people. They crowded up our walk and in the road and more of them were still piling out of cars. It looked as if everyone in the district was along. "Come on out," Emery called. "You too, Duane." The two men smiled at each other knowingly, and for just a moment I had time to wonder why. Then Martha clutched my arm. "You tell him, Lewis." "John," I said. "We have a surprise for you too--" He wouldn't let me finish. He took hold of my arm with one hand and Martha's with the other and drew us outside where everyone could see us. "You can tell us later, Lewis," he said, "First we have a surprise for you!" "But wait--" They crowded in around us, laughing and waving and calling "Happy anniversary". We couldn't resist them. They swept us along with them down the walk and into one of the cars. I looked around for Duane. He was in the back seat, smiling somewhat nervously. Perhaps he thought that this was normal farm life. "Lewis," Martha said, "where are they taking us?" "I don't know...." The cars started, ours leading the way. It was a regular procession back to the village, with everyone laughing and calling to us and telling us how happy we were going to be with our surprise. Every time we tried to ask questions, John Emery interrupted. "Just wait and see," he kept saying. "Wait and see...." * * * * * At the end of the village square they'd put up a platform. It wasn't very big, nor very well made, but it was strung with yards of bunting and a huge sign that said, "Happy Anniversary, Lewis and Martha." We were pushed toward it, carried along by the swarm of people. There wasn't any way to resist. Martha clung to my arm, pressing close against me. She was trembling again. "What does it mean, Lewis?" "I wish I knew." They pushed us right up onto the platform and John Emery followed us up and held out his hand to quiet the crowd. I put my arm around Martha and looked down at them. Hundreds of people. All in their best clothes. Our friends's children and grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren. "I won't make a speech," John Emery said when they were finally quiet. "You know why we're here today--all of you except Lewis and Martha know. It's an anniversary. A big anniversary. Thirty-five years today since our fathers--and you two--landed here on Mars...." He paused. He didn't seem to know what to say next. Finally he turned and swept his arm past the platform to where a big canvas-covered object stood on the ground. "Unveil it," he said. The crowd grew absolutely quiet. A couple of boys stepped up and pulled the canvas off. "There's your surprise," John Emery said softly. It was a statue. A life-size statue carved from the dull red stone of Mars. Two figures, a man and a woman, dressed in farm clothes, standing side by side and looking out across the square toward the open desert. They were very real, those figures. Real, and somehow familiar. "Lewis," Martha whispered. "They're--they're us!" She was right. It was a statue of us. Neither old nor young, but ageless. Two farmers, looking out forever across the endless Martian desert.... There was an inscription on the base, but I couldn't quite make it out. Martha could. She read it, slowly, while everyone in the crowd stood silent, listening. "Lewis and Martha Farwell," she read. "The last of the pioneers--" Her voice broke. "Underneath," she whispered, "it says--the first Martians. And then it lists them--us...." She read the list, all the names of our friends who had come out on that first ship. The names of men and women who had died, one by one, and left their farms to their children--to the same children who now crowded close about the platform and listened to her read, and smiled up at us. She came to the end of the list and looked out at the crowd. "Thank you," she whispered. They shouted then. They called out to us and pressed forward and held their babies up to see us. * * * * * I looked out past the people, across the flat red desert to the horizon, toward the spot in the east where the Earth would rise, much later. The dry smell of Mars had never been stronger. The first Martians.... They were so real, those carved figures. Lewis and Martha Farwell.... "Look at them, Lewis," Martha said softly. "They're cheering us. Us!" She was smiling. There were tears in her eyes, but her smile was bright and proud and shining. Slowly she turned away from me and straightened, staring out over the heads of the crowd across the desert to the east. She stood with her head thrown back and her mouth smiling, and she was as proudly erect as the statue that was her likeness. "Martha," I whispered. "How can we tell them goodbye?" Then she turned to face me, and I could see the tears glistening in her eyes. "We can't leave, Lewis. Not after this." She was right, of course. We couldn't leave. We were symbols. The last of the pioneers. The first Martians. And they had carved their symbol in our image and made us a part of Mars forever. I glanced down, along the rows of upturned, laughing faces, searching for Duane. He was easy to find. He was the only one who wasn't shouting. His eyes met mine, and I didn't have to say anything. He knew. He climbed up beside me on the platform. I tried to speak, but I couldn't. "Tell him, Lewis," Martha whispered. "Tell him we can't go." Then she was crying. Her smile was gone and her proud look was gone and her hand crept into mine and trembled there. I put my arm around her shoulders, but there was no way I could comfort her. "Now we'll never go," she sobbed. "We'll never get home...." I don't think I had ever realized, until that moment, just how much it meant to her--getting home. Much more, perhaps, than it had ever meant to me. The statues were only statues. They were carved from the stone of Mars. And Martha wanted Earth. We both wanted Earth. Home.... I looked away from her then, back to Duane. "No," I said. "We're still going. Only--" I broke off, hearing the shouting and the cheers and the children's laughter. "Only, how can we tell _them_?" Duane smiled. "Don't try to, Mr. Farwell," he said softly. "Just wait and see." He turned, nodded to where John Emery still stood at the edge of the platform. "All right, John." Emery nodded too, and then he raised his hand. As he did so, the shouting stopped and the people stood suddenly quiet, still looking up at us. "You all know that this is an anniversary," John Emery said. "And you all know something else that Lewis and Martha thought they'd kept as a surprise--that this is more than an anniversary. It's goodbye." I stared at him. He knew. All of them knew. And then I looked at Duane and saw that he was smiling more than ever. "They've lived here on Mars for thirty-five years," John Emery said. "And now they're going back to Earth." Martha's hand tightened on mine. "Look, Lewis," she cried. "Look at them. They're not angry. They're--they're happy for us!" John Emery turned to face us. "Surprised?" he said. I nodded. Martha nodded too. Behind him, the people cheered again. "I thought you would be," Emery said. Then, "I'm not very good at speeches, but I just wanted you to know how much we've enjoyed being your neighbors. Don't forget us when you get back to Earth." * * * * * It was a long, long trip from Mars to Earth. Three months on the ship, thirty-five million miles. A trip we had dreamed about for so long, without any real hope of ever making it. But now it was over. We were back on Earth. Back where we had started from. "It's good to be alone, isn't it, Lewis?" Martha leaned back in her chair and smiled up at me. I nodded. It did feel good to be here in the apartment, just the two of us, away from the crowds and the speeches and the official welcomes and the flashbulbs popping. "I wish they wouldn't make such a fuss over us," she said. "I wish they'd leave us alone." "You can't blame them," I said, although I couldn't help wishing the same thing. "We're celebrities. What was it that reporter said about us? That we're part of history...." She sighed. She turned away from me and looked out the window again, past the buildings and the lighted traffic ramps and the throngs of people bustling by outside, people who couldn't see in through the one-way glass, people whom we couldn't hear because the room was soundproofed. "Mars should be up by now," she said. "It probably is." I looked out again, although I knew that we would see nothing. No stars. No planets. Not even the moon, except as a pale half disc peering through the haze. The lights from the city were too bright. The air held the light and reflected it down again, and the sky was a deep, dark blue with the buildings about us towering into it, outlined blackly against it. And we couldn't see the stars.... "Lewis," Martha said slowly. "I never thought it would have changed this much, did you?" "No." I couldn't tell from her voice whether she liked the changes or not. Lately I couldn't tell much of anything from her voice. And nothing was the same as we had remembered it. Even the Earth farms were mechanized now. Factory production lines for food, as well as for everything else. It was necessary, of course. We had heard all the reasons, all the theories, all the latest statistics. "I guess I'll go to bed soon," Martha said. "I'm tired." "It's the higher gravity." We'd both been tired since we got back to Earth. We had forgotten, over the years, what Earth gravity was like. She hesitated. She smiled at me, but her eyes were worried. "Lewis--are you really glad we came back?" It was the first time she had asked me that. And there was only one answer I could give her. The one she expected. "Of course, Martha...." She sighed again. She got up out of the chair and turned toward the bedroom door, and then she paused there by the window looking out at the deep blue sky. "Are you really glad, Lewis?" Then I knew. Or, at least, I hoped. "Why, Martha? Aren't you?" For one long minute she stood beside me, looking up at the Mars we couldn't see. And then she turned to face me once again, and I could see the tears. "Oh, Lewis, I want to go home!" Full circle. We had both come full circle these last few hectic weeks on Earth. "So do I, Martha." "Do you, Lewis?" And then the tiredness came back to her eyes and she looked away again. "But of course we can't." Slowly I crossed over to the desk and opened the top drawer and took out the folder that Duane had given me, that last day at the spaceport, just before our ship to Earth had blasted off. Slowly I unfolded the paper that Duane had told me to keep in case we ever wanted it. "Yes, we can, Martha. We can go back." "What's that, Lewis?" And then she saw what it was. Her face came alive again, and her eyes were shining. "We're going home?" she whispered. "We're really going home?" I looked down at the Earth-Mars half of the round trip ticket that Duane had given me, and I knew that this time she was right. This time we'd really be going home. THE END * * * * * 
34255	----	[Illustration: Cover art] [Frontispiece: "We're All That's Left of the Charles Darlington Post." See page 19.] COMRADES BY ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS ILLUSTRATED BY HOWARD E. SMITH HARPER & BROTHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON M . C . M . X . I COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY HARPER & BROTHERS PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER, 1911 ILLUSTRATIONS "We're All That's Left of the Charles Darlington Post" . . . . . . Frontispiece "Folks Don't Amount to Anything. It's You, Peter" She Thought of the Slow News of the Slaughtering Battles COMRADES In the late May evening the soul of summer had gone suddenly incarnate, but the old man, indifferent and petulant, thrashed upon his bed. He was not used to being ill, and found no consolations in weather. Flowers regarded him observantly--one might have said critically--from the tables, the bureau, the window-sills: tulips, fleurs-de-lis, pansies, peonies, and late lilacs, for he had a garden-loving wife who made the most of "the dull season," after crocuses and daffodils, and before roses. But he manifested no interest in flowers; less than usual, it must be owned, in Patience, his wife. This was a marked incident. They had lived together fifty years, and she had acquired her share of the lessons of marriage, but not that ruder one given chiefly to women to learn--she had never found herself a negligible quantity in her husband's life. She had the profound maternal instinct which is so large an element in the love of every experienced and tender wife; and when Reuben thrashed profanely upon his pillows, staring out of the window above the vase of jonquils, without looking at her, clearly without thinking of her, she swallowed her surprise as if it had been a blue-pill, and tolerantly thought: "Poor boy! To be a veteran and can't go!" Her poor boy, being one-and-eighty, and having always had health and her, took his disappointment like a boy. He felt more outraged that he could not march with the other boys to decorate the graves to-morrow than he had been, or had felt that he was, by some of the important troubles of his long and, on the whole, comfortable life. He took it unreasonably; she could not deny that. But she went on saying "Poor boy!" as she usually did when he was unreasonable. When he stopped thrashing and swore no more she smiled at him brilliantly. He had not said anything worse than damn! But he was a good Baptist, and the lapse was memorable. "Peter?" he said. "Just h'ist the curtain a mite, won't you? I want to see across over to the shop. Has young Jabez locked up everything? Somebody's got to make sure." Behind the carpenter's shop the lush tobacco-fields of the Connecticut valley were springing healthily. "There ain't as good a crop as there gener'lly is," the old man fretted. "Don't you think so?" replied Patience. "Everybody say it's better. But you ought to know." In the youth and vigor of her no woman was ever more misnamed. Patient she was not, nor gentle, nor adaptable to the teeth in the saw of life. Like wincing wood, her nature had resented it, the whole biting thing. All her gentleness was acquired, and acquired hard. She had fought like a man to endure like a woman, to accept, not to writhe and rebel. She had not learned easily how to count herself out. Something in the sentimentality or even the piety of her name had always seemed to her ridiculous; they both used to have their fun at its expense; for some years he called her Impatience, degenerating into Imp if he felt like it. When Reuben took to calling her Peter, she found it rather a relief. "You'll have to go without me," he said, crossly. "I'd rather stay with you," she urged. "I'm not a veteran." "Who'd decorate Tommy, then?" demanded the old man. "You wouldn't give Tommy the go-by, would you?" "I never did--did I?" returned the wife, slowly. "I don't know's you did," replied Reuben Oak, after some difficult reflection. Patience did not talk about Tommy. But she had lived Tommy, so she felt, all her married life, ever since she took him, the year-old baby of a year-dead first wife who had made Reuben artistically miserable; not that Patience thought in this adjective; it was one foreign to her vocabulary; she was accustomed to say of that other woman: "It was better for Reuben. I'm not sorry she died." She added, "Lord forgive me," because she was a good church member, and felt that she must. Oh, she had "lived Tommy," God knew. Her own baby had died, and there were never any more. But Tommy lived and clamored at her heart. She began by trying to be a good stepmother. In the end she did not have to try. Tommy never knew the difference; and his father had long since forgotten it. She had made him so happy that he seldom remembered anything unpleasant. He was accustomed to refer to his two conjugal partners as "My wife and the other woman." But Tommy had the blood of a fighting father, and when the _Maine_ went down, and his chance came, he, too, took it. Tommy lay dead and nameless in the trenches at San Juan. But his father had put up a tall, gray slate-stone slab for him in the churchyard at home. This was close to the baby's; the baby's was little and white. So the veteran was used to "decorating Tommy" on Memorial Day. He did not trouble himself about the little, white gravestone then. He had a veteran's savage jealousy of the day that was sacred to the splendid heroisms and sacrifices of the sixties. "What do they want to go decorating all their relations for?" he argued. "Ain't there three hundred and sixty-four days in the year for _them_?" He was militant on this point, and Patience did not contend. Sometimes she took the baby's flowers over the day after. "If you can spare me just as well's not, I'll decorate Tommy to-morrow," she suggested, gently. "We'll see how you feel along by that." "Tommy's got to be decorated if I'm dead or livin'," retorted the veteran. The soldier father struggled up from his pillow, as if he would carry arms for his soldier son. Then he fell back weakly. "I wisht I had my old dog here," he complained--"my dog Tramp. I never did like a dog like that dog. But Tramp's dead, too. I don't believe them boys are coming. They've forgotten me, Peter. You haven't," he added, after some slow thought. "I don't know's you ever did, come to think." Patience, in her blue shepherd-plaid gingham dress and white apron, was standing by the window--a handsome woman, a dozen years younger than her husband; her strong face was gentler than most strong faces are--in women; peace and pain, power and subjection, were fused upon her aspect like warring elements reconciled by a mystery. Her hair was not yet entirely white, and her lips were warm and rich. She had a round figure, not overgrown. There were times when she did not look over thirty. Two or three late jonquils that had outlived their calendar in a cold spot by a wall stood on the window-sill beside her; these trembled in the slant, May afternoon light. She stroked them in their vase, as if they had been frightened or hurt. She did not immediately answer Reuben, and, when she did, it was to say, abruptly: "Here's the boys! They're coming--the whole of them!--Jabez Trent, and old Mr. Succor, and David Swing on his crutches. I'll go right out 'n' let them all in." She spoke as if they had been a phalanx. Reuben panted upon his pillows. Patience had shut the door, and it seemed to him as if it would never open. He pulled at his gray flannel dressing-gown with nervous fingers; they were carpenter's fingers--worn, but supple and intelligent. He had on his old red nightcap, and he felt the indignity, but he did not dare to take the cap off; there was too much pain underneath it. When Patience opened the door she nodded at him girlishly. She had preceded the visitors, who followed her without speaking. She looked forty years younger than they did. She marshaled them as if she had been their colonel. The woman herself had a certain military look. The veterans filed in slowly--three aged, disabled men. One was lame, and one was palsied; one was blind, and all were deaf. "Here they are, Reuben," said Patience Oak. "They've all come to see you. Here's the whole Post." Reuben's hand went to his red night-cap. He saluted gravely. The veterans came in with dignity--David Swing, and Jabez Trent, and old Mr. Succor. David was the one on crutches, but Jabez Trent, with nodding head and swaying hand, led old Mr. Succor, who could not see. Reuben watched them with a species of grim triumph. "I ain't blind," he thought, "and I hain't got the shakin' palsy. Nor I hain't come on crutches, either." He welcomed his visitors with a distinctly patronizing air. He was conscious of pitying them as much as a soldier can afford to pity anything. They seemed to him very old men. "Give 'em chairs, Peter," he commanded. "Give 'em easy chairs. Where's the cushions?" "I favor a hard cheer myself," replied the blind soldier, sitting solid and straight upon the stiff bamboo chair into which he had been set down by Jabez Trent. "I'm sorry to find you so low, Reuben Oak." "_Low!_" exploded the old soldier. "Why, nothing partikler ails _me_. I hain't got a thing the matter with me but a spell of rheumatics. I'll be spry as a kitten catchin' grasshoppers in a week. I can't march to-morrow--that's all. It's darned hard luck. How's your eyesight, Mr. Succor?" "Some consider'ble better, sir," retorted the blind man. "I calc'late to get it back. My son's goin' to take me to a city eye-doctor. I ain't only seventy-eight. I'm too young to be blind. 'Tain't as if I was onto crutches, or I was down sick abed. How old are you, Reuben?" "Only eighty-one!" snapped Reuben. "He's eighty-one last March," interpolated his wife. "He's come to a time of life when folks do take to their beds," returned David Swing. "Mebbe you could manage with crutches, Reuben, in a few weeks. I've been on 'em three years, since I was seventy-five. I've got to feel as if they was relations. Folks want me to ride to-morrow," he added, contemptuously, "but I'll march on them crutches to decorate them graves, or I won't march at all." Now Jabez Trent was the youngest of the veterans; he was indeed but sixty-eight. He refrained from mentioning this fact. He felt that it was indelicate to boast of it. His jerking hand moved over toward the bed, and he laid it on Reuben's with a fine gesture. "You'll be round--you'll be round before you know it," he shouted. "I ain't deef," interrupted Reuben, "like the rest of you." But the palsied man, hearing not at all, shouted on: "You always had grit, Reuben, more'n most of as. You stood more, you was under fire more, you never was afraid of anything-- What's rheumatics? 'Tain't Antietam." "Nor it ain't Bull Run," rejoined Reuben. He lifted his red nightcap from his head. "Let it ache!" he said. "It ain't Gettysburg." "It seems to me," suggested Jabez Trent, "that Reuben he's under fire just about now. _He_ ain't used to bein' disabled. It appears to me he's fightin' this matter the way a soldier 'd oughter-- Comrades, I move he's entitled to promotion for military conduct. He'd rather than sympathy--wouldn't you, Reuben?" "I don't feel to deserve it," muttered Reuben. "I swore to-day. Ask my wife." "No, he didn't!" blazed Patience Oak. "He never said a thing but damn. He's getting tired, though," she added, under breath. "He ain't very well." She delicately brushed the foot of Jabez Trent with the toe of her slipper. "I guess we'd better not set any longer," observed Jabez Trent. The three veterans rose like one soldier. Reuben felt that their visit had not been what he expected. But he could not deny that he was tired out; he wondered why. He beckoned to Jabez Trent, who, shaking and coughing, bent over him. "You'll see the boys don't forget to decorate Tommy, won't you?" he asked, eagerly. Jabez could not hear much of this, but he got the word Tommy, and nodded. The three old men saluted silently, and when Reuben had put on his nightcap he found that they had all gone. Only Patience was in the room, standing by the jonquils, in her blue gingham dress and white apron. "Tired?" she asked, comfortably. "I've mixed you up an egg-nog. Think you could take it?" "They didn't stay long," complained the old man. "It don't seem to amount to much, does it?" "You've punched your pillows all to pudding-stones," observed Patience Oak. "Let me fix 'em a little." "I won't be fussed over!" cried Reuben, angrily. He gave one of his pillows a pettish push, and it went half across the room. Patience picked it up without remark. Reuben Oak held out a contrite hand. "Peter, come here!" he commanded. Patience, with her maternal smile, obeyed. "You stay, Peter, anyhow. Folks don't amount to anything. It's _you_, Peter." [Illustration: "Folks Don't Amount to Anything. It's _You_, Peter."] Patience's eyes filled. But she hid them on the pillow beside him--he did not know why. She put up one hand and stroked his cheek. "Just as if I was a johnnyquil," said the old man. He laughed, and grew quiet, and slept. But Patience did not move. She was afraid of waking him. She sat crouched and crooked on the edge of the bed, uncomfortable and happy. Out on the street, between the house and the carpenter's shop, the figures of the veterans bent against the perspective of young tobacco. They walked feebly. Old Mr. Succor shook his head: "Looks like he'd never see another Decoration Day. He's some considerable sick--an' he ain't young." "He's got grit, though," urged Jabez Trent. "He's pretty old," sighed David Swing. "He's consider'ble older'n we be. He'd ought to be prepared for his summons any time at his age." "We'll be decorating _him_, I guess, come next year," insisted old Mr. Succor. Jabez Trent opened his mouth to say something, but he coughed too hard to speak. "I'd like to look at Reuben's crop as we go by," remarked the blind man. "He's lucky to have the shop 'n' the crop too." The three turned aside to the field, where old Mr. Succor appraised the immature tobacco leaves with seeing fingers. "Connecticut's a _great_ State!" he cried. "And this here's a great town," echoed David Swing. "Look at the quota we sent--nigh a full company. And we had a great colonel," he added, proudly. "I calc'late he'd been major-general if it hadn't 'a' been for that infernal shell." "Boys," said Jabez Trent, slowly, "Memorial Day's a great day. It's up to us to keep it that way-- Boys, we're all that's left of the Charles Darlington Post." "That's a fact," observed the blind soldier, soberly. "That's so," said the lame one, softly. The three did not talk any more; they walked past the tobacco-field thoughtfully. Many persons carrying flowers passed or met them. These recognized the veterans with marked respect, and with some perplexity. What! Only old blind Mr. Succor? Just David Swing on his crutches, and Jabez Trent with the shaking palsy? Only those poor, familiar persons whom one saw every day, and did not think much about on any other day? Unregarded, unimportant, aging neighbors? These who had ceased to be useful, ceased to be interesting, who were not any longer of value to the town, or to the State, to their friends (if they had any left), or to themselves? Heroes? These plain, obscure old men?--Heroes? So it befell that Patience Oak "decorated Tommy" for his father that Memorial Day. The year was 1909. The incident of which we have to tell occurred twelve months thereafter, in 1910. These, as I have gathered them, are the facts: Time, to the old, takes an unnatural pace, and Reuben Oak felt that the year had sprinted him down the race-track of life; he was inclined to resent his eighty-second March birthday as a personal insult; but April cried over him, and May laughed at him, and he had acquired a certain grim reconciliation with the laws of fate by the time that the nation was summoned to remember its dead defenders upon their latest anniversary. This resignation was the easier because he found himself unexpectedly called upon to fill an extraordinary part in the drama and the pathos of the day. He slept brokenly the night before, and waked early; it was scarcely five o'clock. But Patience, his wife, was already awake, lying quietly upon her pillow, with straight, still arms stretched down beside him. She was careful not to disturb him--she always was; she was so used to effacing herself for his sake that he had ceased to notice whether she did or not; he took her beautiful dedication to him as a matter of course; most husbands would, if they had its counterpart. In point of fact--and in saying this we express her altogether--Patience had the genius of love. Charming women, noble women, unselfish women may spend their lives in a man's company, making a tolerable success of marriage, yet lack this supreme gift of Heaven to womanhood, and never know it. Our defects we may recognize; our deficiencies we seldom do, and the love deficiency is the most hopeless of human limitations. Patience was endowed with love as a great poet is by song, or a musician by harmony, or an artist by color or form. She loved supremely, but she did not know that. She loved divinely, but her husband had never found it out. They were two plain people--a carpenter and his wife, plodding along the Connecticut valley industriously, with the ideals of their kind; to be true to their marriage vows, to be faithful to their children, to pay their debts, raise the tobacco, water the garden, drive the nails straight, and preserve the quinces. There were times when it occurred to Patience that she took more care of Reuben than Reuben did of her; but she dismissed the matter with a phrase common in her class, and covering for women most of the perplexity of married life: "You know what men are." On the morning of which we speak, Reuben Oak had a blunt perception of the fact that it was kind in his wife to take such pains not to wake him till he got ready to begin the tremendous day before him; she always was considerate if he did not sleep well. He put down his hand and took hers with a sudden grasp, where it lay gentle and still beside him. "Well, Peter," he said, kindly. "Yes, dear," said Patience, instantly. "Feeling all right for to-day?" "Fine," returned Reuben. "I don't know when I've felt so spry. I'll get right up 'n' dress." "Would you mind staying where you are till I get your coffee heated?" asked Patience, eagerly. "You know how much stronger you always are if you wait for it. I'll have it on the heater in no time." "I can't wait for coffee to-day," flashed Reuben. "I'm the best judge of what I need." "Very well," said Patience, in a disappointed tone. For she had learned the final lesson of married life--not to oppose an obstinate man, for his own good. But she slipped into her wrapper and made the coffee, nevertheless. When she came back with it, Reuben was lying on the bed in his flannels, with a comforter over him; he looked pale, and held out his hand impatiently for the coffee. His feverish eyes healed as he watched her moving about the room. He thought how young and pretty her neck was when she splashed the water on it. "Goin' to wear your black dress?" he asked. "That's right. I'm glad you are. I'll get up pretty soon." "I'll bring you _all_ your clothes," she said. "Don't you get a mite tired. I'll move up everything for you. Your uniform's all cleaned and pressed. Don't you do a thing!" She brushed her thick hair with upraised, girlish arms, and got out her black serge dress and a white tie. He lay and watched her thoughtfully. "Peter," he said, unexpectedly, "how long is it since we was married?" "Forty-nine years," answered Patience, promptly. "Fifty, come next September." "What a little creatur' you were, Peter--just a slip of a girl! And how you did take hold--Tommy and everything." "I was 'most twenty," observed Patience, with dignity. "You made a powerful good stepmother all the same," mused Reuben. "You did love Tommy, to beat all." "I was fond of Tommy," answered Patience, quietly. "He was a nice little fellow." "And then there was the baby, Peter. Pity we lost the baby! I guess you took that harder 'n I did, Peter." Patience made no reply. "She was so dreadful young, Peter. I can't seem to remember how she looked. Can you? Pity she didn't live! You'd 'a' liked a daughter round the house, wouldn't you, Peter? Say, Peter, we've gone through a good deal, haven't we--you 'n' me? The war 'n' all that--and the two children. But there's one thing, Peter--" Patience came over to him quietly, and sat down on the side of the bed. She was half dressed, and her still beautiful arms went around him. "You'll tire yourself all out thinking, Reuben. You won't be able to decorate anybody if you ain't careful." "What I was goin' to say was this," persisted Reuben. "I've always had you, Peter. And you've had me. I don't count so much, but I'm powerful fond of you, Peter. You're all I've got. Seems as if I couldn't set enough by you, somehow or nuther." The old man hid his face upon her soft neck. "There, there, dear!" said Patience. "It must be kinder hard, Peter, not to _like_ your wife. Or maybe she mightn't like him. Sho! I don't think I could stand that.... Peter?" "Don't you think you'd better be getting dressed, Reuben? The procession's going to start pretty early. Folks are moving up and down the street. Everybody's got flowers--See?" Reuben looked out of the window and over the pansy-bed with brilliant, dry eyes. His wife could see that he was keeping back the thing that he thought most about. She had avoided and evaded the subject as long as she could. She felt now that it must be met, and yet she parleyed with it. She hurried his breakfast and brought the tray to him. He ate because she asked him to, but his hands shook. It seemed as if he clung wilfully to the old topic, escaping the new as long as he could, to ramble on. "You've been a dreadfully amiable wife, Peter. I don't believe I could have got along with any other kind of woman." "I didn't used to be amiable, Reuben. I wasn't born so. I used to take things hard. Don't you remember?" But Reuben shook his head. "No, I don't. I can't seem to think of any time you wasn't that way. Sho! How'd you get to be so, then, I'd like to know?" "Oh, just by loving, I guess," said Patience Oak. "We've marched along together a good while," answered the old man, brokenly. Unexpectedly he held out his hand, and she grasped it; his was cold and weak; but hers was warm and strong. In a dull way the divination came to him--if one may speak of a dull divination--that she had always been the strength and the warmth of his life. Suddenly it seemed to him a very long life. Now it was as if he forced himself to speak, as he would have charged at Fredericksburg. He felt as if he were climbing against breastworks when he said: "I was the oldest of them all, Peter. And I was sickest, too. They all expected to come an' decorate me to-day." Patience nodded, without a word. She knew when her husband must do all the talking; she had found that out early in their married life. "I wouldn't of believed it, Peter; would you? Old Mr. Succor he had such good health. Who'd thought he'd tumble down the cellar stairs? If Mis' Succor 'd be'n like you, Peter, he wouldn't had the chance to tumble: I never would of _thought_ of David Swing's havin' pneumonia--would you, Peter? Why, in '62 he slept onto the ground in peltin', drenchin' storms an' never sneezed. He was powerful well 'n' tough, David was. And Jabez! Poor old Jabez Trent! I liked him the best of the lot, Peter. Didn't you? He was sorry for me when they come here that day an' I couldn't march along of them.... And now, Peter, I've got to go an' decorate _them_. "I'm the last livin' survivor of the Charles Darlington Post," added the veteran. "I'm going to apply to the Department Commander to let me keep it up. I guess I can manage someways. _I won't be disbanded_. Let 'em disband me if they can! I'd like to see 'em do it. Peter? _Peter_!" "I'll help you into your uniform," said Patience. "It's all brushed and nice for you." She got him to his swaying feet, and dressed him, and the two went to the window that looked upon the flowers. The garden blurred yellow and white and purple--a dash of blood-red among the late tulips. Patience had plucked and picked for Memorial Day, she had gathered and given, and yet she could not strip her garden. She looked at it lovingly. She felt as if she stood in pansy lights and iris air. "Peter," said the veteran, hoarsely, "they're all gone, my girl. Everybody's gone but you. You're the only comrade I've got left, Peter.... And, Peter, I want to tell you--I seem to understand it this morning. Peter, you're the best comrade of 'em all." "That's worth it," said Patience, in a strange tone--"that's worth the--high cost of living." She lifted her head. She had an exalted look. The thoughtful pansies seemed to turn their faces toward her. She felt that they understood her. Did it matter whether Reuben understood her or not? It occurred to her that it was not so important, after all, whether a man understood his wife, if he only loved her. Women fussed too much, she thought; they expected to cry away the everlasting differences between the husband and the wife. If you loved a man you must take him as he was--just man. You couldn't make him over. You must make up your mind to that. Better, oh, better a hundred times to endure, to suffer--if it came to suffering--to take your share (perhaps he had his--who knew?) of the loneliness of living. Better any fate than to battle with the man you love, for what he did not give or could not give. Better anything than to stand in the pansy light, married fifty years, and not have made your husband happy. "I 'most wisht you could march along of me," muttered Reuben Oak. "But you ain't a veteran." "I don't know about that," Patience shook her head, smiling, but it was a sober smile. "Tommy can't march," added Reuben. "He ain't here; nor he ain't in the graveyard either. He's a ghost--Tommy. He must be flying around the Throne. There's only one other person I'd like to have go along of me. That's my old dog--my dog Tramp. That dog thought a sight of me. The United States army couldn't have kep' him away from me. But Tramp's dead. He was a pretty old dog. I can't remember which died first, him or the baby; can you? Lord! I suppose Tramp's a ghost, too, a dog ghost, trottin' after--I don't know when I've thought of Tramp before. Where's he buried, Peter? Oh yes, come to think, he's under the big chestnut. Wonder we never decorated him, Peter." "I have," confessed Patience. "I've done it quite a number of times. Reuben? Listen! I guess we've got to hurry. Seems to me I hear--" "You hear drums," interrupted the old soldier. Suddenly he flared like lightwood on a camp-fire, and before his wife could speak again he had blazed out of the house. The day had a certain unearthly beauty--most of our Memorial Days do have. Sometimes they scorch a little, and the processions wilt and lag. But this one, as we remember, had the climate of a happier world and the temperature of a day created for marching men--old soldiers who had left their youth and strength behind them, and who were feebler than they knew. The Connecticut valley is not an emotional part of the map, but the town was alight with a suppressed feeling, intense, and hitherto unknown to the citizens. They were graver than they usually were on the national anniversary which had come to mean remembrance for the old and indifference for the young. There was no baseball in the village that day. The boys joined the procession soberly. The crowd was large but thoughtful. It had collected chiefly outside of the Post hall, where four old soldiers had valiantly sustained their dying organization for now two or three astonishing years. The band was outside, below the steps; it played the "Star-spangled Banner" and "John Brown's Body" while it waited. For some reason there was a delay in the ceremonies. It was rumored that the chaplain had not come. Then it went about that he had been summoned to a funeral, and would meet the procession at the churchyard. The chaplain was the pastor of the Congregational Church. The regimental chaplain, he who used to pray for the dying boys after battle, had joined the vanished veterans long ago. The band struck up "My Country, 'tis of Thee." The crowd began to press toward the steps of the Post hall and to sway to and fro restlessly. Then slowly there emerged from the hall, and firmly descended the steps, the Charles Darlington Post of the Grand Army of the Republic. People held their breaths, and some sobbed. They were not all women, either. Erect, with fiery eyes, with haughty head--shrunken in his old uniform, but carrying it proudly--one old man walked out. The crowd parted for him, and he looked neither to the right nor to the left, but fell into the military step and began to march. In his aged arms he carried the flags of the Post. The military band preceded him, softly playing "Mine Eyes have Seen the Glory," while the crowd formed into procession and followed him. From the whole countryside people had assembled, and the throng was considerable. They came out into the street and turned toward the churchyard--the old soldier marching alone. They had begged him to ride, though the distance was small. But he had obstinately refused. "This Post has always marched," he had replied. Except for the military music and the sound of moving feet or wheels, the street was perfectly still. No person spoke to any other. The veteran marched with proud step. His gray head was high. Once he was seen to put the flag of his company to his lips. A little behind him the procession had instinctively fallen back and left a certain space. One could not help the feeling that this was occupied. But they who filled it, if such there had been, were invisible to the eye of the body. And the eyes of the soul are not possessed by all men. Now, the distance, as we have said, was short, and the old soldier was so exalted that it had not occurred to him that he could be fatigued. It was an astonishing sensation to him when he found himself unexpectedly faint. Patience Oak, for some reasons of her own hardly clear to herself, did not join the procession. She chose to walk abreast of it, at the side, as near as possible, without offense to the ceremonies, to the solitary figure of her husband. She was pacing through the grass, at the edge of the sidewalk--falling as well as she could into the military step. In her plain, old-fashioned black dress, with the fleck of white at her throat, she had a statuesque, unmodern look. Her fine features were charged with that emotion which any expression would have weakened. Her arms were heaped with flowers--bouquets and baskets and sprays: spiraea, lilacs, flowering almond, peonies, pansies, all the glory of her garden that opening summer returned to her care and tenderness. She was tender with everything--a man, a child, an animal, a flower. Everything blossomed for her, and rested in her, and yearned toward her. The emotion of the day and of the hour seemed incarnate in her. She embodied in her strong and sweet personality all that blundering man has wrought on tormented woman by the savagery of war. She remembered what she had suffered--a young, incredulous creature, on the margin of life, avid of happiness, believing in joy, and drowning in her love for that one man, her husband. She thought of the slow news after slaughtering battles--how she waited for the laggard paper in the country town; she remembered that she dared not read the head-lines when she got them, but dropped, choking and praying God to spare her, before she glanced. Even now she could feel the wet paper against her raining cheek. Then her heart leaped back, and she thought of the day when he marched away--his arms, his lips, his groans. She remembered what the dregs of desolation were, and mortal fear of unknown fate; the rack of the imagination; and inquisition of the nerve--the pangs that no man-soldier of them all could understand. "It comes on women--war," she thought. [Illustration: She Thought of the Slow News After Slaughtering Battles] Now, as she was stepping aside to avoid crushing some young white clover-blossoms in the grass where she was walking, she looked up and wondered if she were going blind, or if her mind were giving way. The vacant space behind the solitary veteran trembled and palpitated before her vision, as if it had been peopled. By what? By whom? Patience was no occultist. She had never seen an apparition in her life. She felt that if she had not lacked a mysterious, unknown gift, she should have seen spirits, as men marching, now. But she did not see them. She was aware of a tremulous, nebulous struggle in the empty air, as of figures that did not form, or of sights from which her eyes were holden. Ah--what? She gasped for the wonder of it. Who was it, that followed the veteran, with the dumb, delighted fidelity that one race only knows of all created? For a wild instant this sane and sensible woman could have taken oath that Reuben Oak was accompanied on his march by his old dog, his dead dog, Tramp. If it had been Tommy-- Or if it had been Jabez Trent-- And where were they who had gone into the throat of death with him at Antietam, at Bull Run, at Fair Oaks, at Malvern Hill? But there limped along behind Reuben only an old, forgotten dog. This quaint delusion (if delusion we must call it) aroused her attention, which had wavered from her husband, and concentrated it upon him afresh. Suddenly she saw him stagger. A dozen persons started, but the wife sprang and reached him first. As she did this, the ghost dog vanished from before her. Only Reuben was there, marching alone, with the unpeopled space between him and the procession. "Leave go of me!" he gasped. Patience quietly grasped him by the arm, and fell into step beside him. In her heart she was terrified. She was something of a reader in her way, and she thought of magazine stories where the veterans died upon Memorial Day. "I'll march to decorate the Post--and Tommy--if I drop dead for it!" panted Reuben Oak. "Then I shall march beside you," answered Patience. "What 'll folks say?" cried the old soldier, in real anguish. "They'll say I'm where I belong. Reuben! Reuben! _I've earned the right to_." He contended no more, but yielded to her--in fact, gladly, for he felt too weak to stand alone. Inspiring him, and supporting him, and yet seeming (such was the sweet womanliness of her) to lean on him, Patience marched with him before the people; and these saw her through blurred eyes, and their hearts saluted her. With every step she felt that he strengthened. She was conscious of endowing him with her own vitality, as she sometimes did, in her own way--the love way, the wife way, powerfully and mysteriously. So the veteran and his wife came on together to the cemetery, with the flags and the flowers. Nor was there a man or a woman in the throng who would have separated these comrades. In the churchyard it was pleasant and expectant. The morning was cool, and the sun climbed gently. Not a flower had wilted; they looked as if they had been planted and were growing on the graves. When they had come to these, Patience Oak held back. She would not take from the old soldier his precious right. She did not offer to help him "decorate" anybody. His trembling mechanic's fingers clutched at the flowers as if he had been handling shot or nails. His breath came short. She watched him anxiously; she was still thinking of those stories she had read. "Hadn't you better sit down on some monument and rest?" she whispered. But he paid no attention to her, and crawled from mound to mound. She perceived that it was his will to leave the new-made graves until the others had been remembered. Then he tottered across the cemetery with the flowers that he had saved for David Swing and old Mr. Succor and Jabez Trent, and the cheeks of the Charles Darlington Post were wet. Last of all he "decorated Tommy." The air ached with the military dirge, and the voice of the chaplain faltered when he prayed. The veteran was aware that some persons in the crowd were sobbing. But his own eyes had now grown dry, and burned deep in their sunken sockets. As his sacred task drew to its end he grew remote, elate, and solemn. It was as if he were transfigured before his neighbors into something strange and holy. A village carpenter? A Connecticut tobacco-planter? Rather, say, the glory of the nation, the guardian of a great trust, proudly carried and honored to its end. Taps were sounding over the old graves and the new, when the veteran slowly sank to one knee and toppled over. Patience, when she got her arms about him, saw that he had fallen across the mound where he had decorated Tommy with her white lilacs. Beyond lay the baby, small and still. The wife sat down on the little grave and drew the old man's head upon her lap. She thought of those Memorial Day stories with a deadly sinking at her heart. But it was a strong heart, all woman and all love. "You _shall not_ die!" she said. She gathered him and poured her powerful being upon him--breath, warmth, will, prayer, who could say what it was? She felt as if she took hold of tremendous, unseen forces and moved them by unknown powers. "Live!" she whispered. "_Live!_" Some one called for a doctor, and she assented. But to her own soul she said: "What's a doctor?" The flags had fallen from his arms at last; he had clung to them till now. The chaplain reverently lifted them and laid them at his feet. Once his white lips moved, and the people hushed to hear what outburst of patriotism would issue from them--what tribute to the cause that he had fought for, what final apostrophe to his country or his flag. "Peter?" he called, feebly. "_Peter!_" But Patience had said he should not die. And Patience knew. Had not she always known what he should do, or what he could? He lay upon his bed peacefully when, with tears and smiles, in reverence and in wonder, they had brought him home--and the flags of the Post, too. By a gesture he had asked to have these hung upon the foot-board of his bed. He turned his head upon his pillow and watched his wife with wide, reflecting eyes. It was a long time before she would let him talk; in fact, the May afternoon was slanting to dusk before he tried to cross her tender will about that matter. When he did, it was to say only this: "Peter? I was goin' to decorate the baby. I meant to when I took that turn." Patience nodded. "It's all done, Reuben." "And, Peter? I've had the queerest notions about my old dog Tramp to-day. I wonder if there's a johnnyquil left to decorate him?" "I'll go and see," said Patience. But when she had come back he had forgotten Tramp and the johnnyquil. "Peter," he muttered, "_this has been a great day_." He gazed solemnly at the flags. Patience regarded him poignantly. With a stricture at the heart she thought: "He has grown old fast since yesterday." Then joyously the elderly wife cried out upon herself: "But I am young! He shall have all my youth. I've got enough for two--and strength!" She crept beside him and laid her warm cheek to his. THE END 
59289	----	THE TWILIGHT YEARS BY KIRK AND GAREN DRUSSAI _It was a new era--an era of practicality and cruelty, an era for youth.... An era of alarm, too, for people who were over sixty...._ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, June 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Sydney Mercer stopped his pacing and listened; his head tilted expectantly. When he heard the elevator stop, he went with quick, awkward steps to the apartment door and opened it just a crack. "This time," he sighed with relief, "It's Eleanor." He opened the door for her. His wife breezed down the hall and through the open door. She dumped her armful of packages beside her on the couch as she kicked off her shoes. "Whew! What a relief!" Closing the door carefully, Sydney hurried over to her. "Ellie--I've been worried. You didn't tell me you were going to be so late. And when you didn't call--" "Nonsense," she said gaily. "It's only 6:15. Why, the stores are just now starting to board up. And you know the "A Cars" don't start running till seven." She smiled at him. "Would you get my slippers, honey?" He hesitated for a moment, and then shuffled into the bedroom. Eleanor stood in front of the couch flexing her tired toes. She had a small and rather dumpy figure without her high heels. And though her fashionably dressed body was usually molded into the latest silhouette, now in her more relaxed state she frankly looked her sixty-one years. Sydney came back with her slippers, and bent to put them on. "Thanks, dear, shopping just kills my feet. But, enough of this," she sighed, "I've got only a few minutes to get dinner ready before 'Manhunt' comes on." And she started for the kitchen. He followed and caught her heavily by the shoulders, his face stern. "Listen, Ellie--I don't _ever_ want you to come home so late that you have to take an armored car." He shook her to emphasize his statement. "But why?" she asked with genuine wonder. "They're safe enough. Edith and Ruth often take 'A' cars, and nothing's ever happened to them." He let her go reluctantly. "Ellie," he said gently, "I just want to be sure that nothing happens to you, that's all. We're at such a dangerous age now, with both of us over sixty. You're all I've got. I'd be so all alone without you." She thrust out her ample chest indignantly. "Sydney, the trouble with you is that you're still living in the past. You've got to keep up with the times. Sure, things are different now, than they were, say, ten years ago. But what of it? If life is more dangerous now, it's certainly more thrilling--and more intense, too!" He eyed her steadily. "What's so thrilling about being sixty plus?" "You've just got to accept," she continued glibly, as though it had been memorized, "the fact that it's a young people's world, now. Live for the day! That should be our motto." She smiled placidly at him. "That's the way I've been living this past year. As though each day was completely separate from the one before it--and the one after. In a young people's world--what else is there to do?" Eleanor patted her husband's cheek, and then looked past him into the living room, a shocked expression on her face. "Why Syd, have you been sitting here all alone without the T.V. on? Goodness, that's enough to make anyone start thinking! You march right in there and turn it on." He turned, with a slight shrug, to comply, and Eleanor started to fix dinner. The T.V. screen was in full view of the kitchen cubicle, of course. Apartments had been designed that way for years now. So, she was able to open the few cans and containers that constituted dinner, with her eyes almost entirely on the T.V. Sydney gave it a glance or two as he set the table. But he was too preoccupied with his thoughts to enjoy the programs as much as he usually tried to. He wondered why this day to day living didn't seem to be as much fun to him as it did to others. He fingered the "Sixty-Plus" insignia sewn onto his shirt sleeve. To him, it had turned out to be merely a matter of waiting. Eleanor was fixing a salad, with hardly a glance at what she was doing, so automatically did her fingers accomplish their task. He looked at her, cheerfully doing what the times and fashion decreed, and wished he could accept things the way she did. He was very fond of her. Now that he had been retired, they should have had time to enjoy each other. But something was wrong. Most people tried to have fun while they were waiting. Their closest friends, Eddie and Jean, seemed to be enjoying their retirement period. Or were they really, he asked himself, remembering a few times in past conversations when the talk had verged momentarily in that direction, only to break off guiltily. They sat down to eat at the table in front of the screen, sitting side by side, of course, so they wouldn't miss any of the programs during dinner. Part way through the meal the phone rang. Sydney quickly got up to answer it. He knew Eleanor hated to be disturbed during a T.V. program. "Hello, Jean," he said pleasantly, recognizing her voice at once. "What's the matter? You sound so--" His lips remained open, unexpectedly. Then, he put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. "Ellie!" he called so sharply that she turned at once. "What is it?" she snapped back at him between mouthfuls. "It's Jean. She says Eddie's gone out for 'fair game'!" His voice faded to a whisper. "Good God, Ellie. I don't know what to say to her!" Eleanor dropped her fork to the plate with an air of disgust rising to the surface. "Oh, that woman! She always did let Eddie worry her." She smiled benignly. "Tell her we're sorry to hear it, of course. But he had only a year to go anyway." "But she wants to know what to do!" He looked at her pleadingly. "She's acting hysterical. If she decides to go out herself--" Eleanor got up and took the phone from his shaky hand. He sat down on the couch, only distantly hearing snatches of what Eleanor was saying to Jean, picturing Eddie walking down the deserted streets. Probably right out in the middle, where anyone could see him. "No--you stay right where you are--no point in both of you.... Yes, that's right. I've always known you had more pride than he did.... Sure, we'll be over to see you--no, not tonight!... Of course not; wait until morning--remember, I'm counting on you, Jean." Eleanor finally hung up and, going back to the table, finished spearing the bit of salad she had been working on. Sydney looked at her, unbelievingly. "Ellie, how can you go right back to eating after what's happened to Eddie?" Her eyes remained on the screen. "Why should I feel sorry for him, if he didn't have the guts to wait? I just feel sorry for Jean. The shame of it! If it had happened some other way, it would have been different. And Jean hasn't even got enough sense to realize it isn't 'fair game' for Eddie. It's just plain suicide!" Eleanor glanced at her husband sharply. "What on earth's got into you tonight, Syd! You're jumpier than I've ever seen you." He concentrated, a puzzled look on his face. "I don't know. I never thought much about it until today. And with Eddie. Everything falls into place suddenly, it all seems so wrong, so useless." He looked at her intently as she pushed her empty plate away and lit a cigarette. "Ellie, doesn't it strike you as strange--almost unbelievable--that we accept the concept of longevity as a subversive one? Doesn't it seem--well, weird--that we sixty plus-ers sit around every night--just waiting?" Eleanor turned innocuous grey eyes to him. "Oh, Sydney, you're talking like a silly pup. Let's pay attention to the show." "Some people kill themselves." He muttered, almost savoring the words. "Oh bosh, don't say such things!" Her voice was tight and angry. "Sydney, you wouldn't shame me like that, would you; not like that weak-kneed Eddie?" "Why not?" he retorted. He was beginning to feel ashamed of arguing with Eleanor but he couldn't stop. "Since my retirement, since I became a sixty plus-er, I've just been sitting around doing nothing. I feel like a stupid animal being kept in a pen." He buried his face in his hands and sobbed. She stroked his head lovingly but nevertheless condescendingly. "Sydney, there's so much you could be doing, now that you have time for it." He raised his head tiredly. "It's too late for that. But--what have I missed? Have you got an answer?" "Well," she looked slightly disconcerted. "What all the others do. They play golf, and sunbathe, and go to lectures and shows, and uh--" Her ingenuity gave out. She stole a glance at the T.V. screen. "You've got to relax, honey, stop all this thinking. You know, 'eat, drink, and be merry' sort of--" He noticed that her attention had wandered. He knew why. That cold chill in the pit of his stomach had told him that it was almost time. "Do we have to watch it, tonight?" Sydney asked her almost bitterly. "How can you really sit there and enjoy seeing all that violence and--" She leaned back comfortably, watching the screen. "What else are the boys to do? The psychiatrists say, that since the war is over, our boys need to drain off their energies somehow. Besides, sometimes it's really merciful." She folded her arms over her stomach, as though to dismiss the subject. _The screen had darkened. There were two young men, dim and strange looking, with masks over the lower part of their faces. And they were making plans--in a small, darkened room. Then, silently, they left the room, and crept through the somber streets. The camera followed them faithfully as they slipped cautiously from shadow to shadow._ Sydney found himself watching the screen now, too. It compelled him against his will. "I went through a war," he hissed, clenching his fists tightly. "The Korean War--when I was young. And when it was over I went back to work in an office. I didn't need any violence drained out of me!" "Sshhh," Eleanor insisted, and then relented. "I keep telling you, Syd, these boys went through a different kind of war than yours. They've had more taken out of them than you had." She whispered it, her eyes never leaving the screen, her breath coming in excited gasps. "People have just outlived their usefulness, now, by the time they are sixty. It's natural for the young folks to resent us, especially if we are a burden and there are too many of us. You've got to adjust, Sydney, just adjust to the times." _The two men paused at an intersection--paused for endless moments--while millions of people watched, hardly daring to breathe. Then slowly and deliberately, with overtly melodramatic malice, they turn a corner, and start to run swiftly along the street. Of the millions who watched--there were some who felt a cold clutching within them._ Sydney leaned forward on the couch, his pale eyes almost bulging with intentness. The intersection on the screen had been familiar. The street the cameras were recording--was more so. Adjust, he thought, I wish it was that easy for me. Adjust to the times, she says--they all say--thereby excusing everything hideous, and violent, and disgusting that exists in the present. Nobody objects to anything. There's nothing constructive for individuals anymore. They just accept. Adjust to being idle and useless at sixty, whether I like it or not. Adjust to A Cars, the boarding up of shops every night, not daring to go out after dark. Get used to violence and fear, sitting in front of this screen as though it were an object of worship. Endure "Manhunt" every night; not knowing--just waiting--waiting ... those of us who live to sixty-five. Eleanor cleared her throat and then whispered huskily. "They've been up the same street before." She turned to him, her eyes watery with agitation pushed almost to its limit. He couldn't help it. All his resentment was momentarily stilled by his affection for her. He smiled. "Sure, Ellie. Many times." Involuntarily, he put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed. _Without warning, the two men stopped in front of an apartment house. They glanced quickly around, and then slipped into the building, the camera close upon them._ Sydney took his wife's hand. "Why they've even been in the very same building before." His face felt cold and damp. He added resolutely, "It's a big apartment house, Ellie, a real big one." Suddenly he found himself listening--listening--hardly breathing. It seemed as though sound didn't exist anymore. There was just silence, grotesque and unnatural. Then he heard it. First there was a stealthy shuffling sound coming a long ways down the hall. Then the slight regular noise of a wheeled object, following. Sydney saw that she had not heard. Her eyes were desperately fixed on the screen. It could be, he thought chaotically, it could be the Masons across the hall. They're almost sixty-five. Then the door knob turned, and the door swung silently open. Stiffly, Sydney turned his head to the door. There was time, they saw to that. There was time to see the two masked men with guns in their hands. And behind them was the T.V. camera, registering the scene that was duplicated on his own screen. There was even time to turn to Ellie; to see the look of cheated disappointment in her eyes change to astonishment as the bullet cut cleanly into her open mouth. And then there was no more time for Sydney Mercer either, who had reached the age of sixty plus and therefore was past his usefulness. Another bullet stopped his intake of breath. _The camera moved in for a close up of the two men; their lips, beneath the masks, smiling and guileless. Then the camera hovered for a few moments over the ludicrously postured bodies on the couch for a fade out._ "Manhunt" was over for the night. The announcer's voice and figure gradually took over the expanse of the screen. "Tonight's program has been sponsored, as a Public Service," the oily voice intoned, "by the National Casket Company, with offices in all principal cities. "Remember your duty as a citizen. "All you oldsters, between the ages of "sixty and Annihilation Day"--you may be among the ones who don't have to wait until your sixty-fifth birthday--and you others who are nearing the twilight years--be sure you have your burial arrangements taken care of. Do it tonight--at the very latest, tomorrow. For the next day may be too late. "The management, the staff, and the actors want to extend their respects to the wonderful old couple who played _their_ parts in tonight's real life drama. "Goodnight all!" 
57975	----	available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/excavatinghusban00wall EXCAVATING A HUSBAND by ELLA BELL WALLIS The McLean Company Publishers Baltimore, Md. Copyright 1916 Ella Bell Wallis EXCAVATING A HUSBAND Katherine Boulby had reached her fiftieth year, and all these years had been spent in single blessedness. It is true that she had not realized the entirety of the perfect calm and peace that abides in the maiden state, for her brother Joseph and she lived together. But Miss Katherine--as she was commonly called in her native town--was of a cheerful disposition and said that she felt she was indeed blessed among women, as she had graciously been endowed with sense enough to choose a free and unfettered life, and the vexations and limitations contingent upon the proximity of one of the male sex, had been mitigated as much as possible for her as her brother was a quiet, fairly pliant man who rarely interfered with her plans for broadening and enriching her mind. This mental culture was Miss Katherine's chief aim in life, and it was not a selfish one. She never refused to give abundantly of her knowledge, and ever strove to correct and purify the literary and artistic tastes of her friends. It would be quite impossible to state upon what lines Miss Katherine pursued her mental cultivation, for, like the great geniuses, she was extremely versatile, and in almost every subject she described an avenue which, if followed to the end would lead at last to the goal whither she was bound. As Miss Katherine strayed from one path to another in the great labyrinth of learning, it is very probable that she was inextricably lost and didn't know it. But she found pleasure and sustenance therein, and never sought to find herself. Now, it is far from my purpose to represent my heroine as a blue-stocking or as other than a most charming person. Had she pursued her studies methodically and scientifically she might not have been the same delightful woman that she was, but she flitted from romantic prose to didactic poetry and from poetry to astrology, and thence to architecture, history or biology. In Miss Katherine you found a person who possessed a rare instinct concerning hobbies. She never became so abstruse as to be unintelligible to her friends who were not hobbyists. She dealt in interesting and easy generalities. In fact, Miss Katherine was one of a type the world cannot spare. Of good, sound, common sense she possessed the usual allotment, but in rare, child-like enthusiasm and love of romance she was richly endowed. It is true that at times everything but romantic fancies seemed expelled from her mind, but the complications thus arising were of no moment when all the brightness and zest she infused into life were considered. It was psychologically impossible for Miss Katherine to view the commonplace occurrences of everyday life in the same light as do most of us. She found in a very ordinary event the nucleus of something interesting and romantic. So you see there was nothing of the blue-stocking about my heroine. There is another matter upon which the reader must be clear. One might think from Miss Katherine's fervent thankfulness for her single state that she had an aversion to men. Such was the case only in theory. It seemed more fitting for a single woman of artistic temperament to avow a distaste for the society of the coarser sex, but in reality she got along rather better with men than women. As a rule, men are better listeners than women, and Miss Katherine found them more disposed to listen to her latest ideas and freshest aspirations than were women. She did not credit these listeners with ability to understand all she was saying and this incapacity in man was the reason she had never married. She had a susceptible heart, but it would respond only to him who would understand her. She was not at all averse to marriage and kept a vigilant eye upon the horizon that she might catch the first possible glimpse of the romantic figure she confidently expected would one day loom thereon. His appearance was long delayed, and, while Miss Katherine did not mourn because of this, still she wisely considered moving to where she would view a new and broader horizon. One day she came upon the following advertisement: "For Rent--Furnished house, property of Captain Peter Shannon; delightful situation, attractive and comfortable house; garden contains very choice plants and shrubs. Apply, W. J. Skinner, Ocean View." "There!" exclaimed Miss Katherine to her brother, "isn't it delightful to find just what we want with so little trouble?" "How do you know it's just what we want?" asked Joseph, who had partially consented to his sister's suggestion that they rent a house near the sea during the spring and summer. Miss Katherine did not possess any occult power by which she could visualize the property advertised, but she did have a remarkable faculty for reading between lines. It often happened that she found there that which defied every other interpretation, but this was possibly owing to her highly developed imagination. She had so often urged her brother to develop this quality, that now his utter lack of imagination made her reply crisply-- "How do I know? Because my mind has certain qualities that I see yours will never possess, and besides I think a little. Now consider this advertisement with the aid of a very little imagination and common sense. The owner is a sea captain. That is a volume in itself to me. Sailors are very fond of the picturesque, so I should expect Captain Shannon's house to be delightfully situated, quaint and comfortable. I can't imagine anyone from whom I'd rather buy property than from such a man as Captain Shannon must be," concluded Miss Katherine. "Why don't he live in it himself, then, if it's such a fine place?" inquired Joseph with an attempt at sarcasm which was quite beyond him. "Can he live in a house on the land and sail on the sea at the same time?" demanded his disgusted sister. "Well, if I had such a place as you say it is I wouldn't be risking my neck on the sea. I'd stay right there and raise vegetables," returned Joseph. Joseph was several years older than his sister and as he had just retired from business with the intention of spending the remainder of his days in peace and calm, he thought it wise not to jeopardize this residue of his life by running counter to any fixed idea of his sister. But in yielding to Miss Katherine's strong desire to spend the spring and summer near the sea, Joseph was not solely actuated by fear of her displeasure. He thought that a few months of undisturbed gardening would be the purest possible happiness, so readily consented to Miss Katherine's going to view the place for rent. She went, she saw and she was captivated. Such a view! Such a garden! Nothing could be more delightful. Ocean View was not far distant from their home, so the day after his sister's return Joseph set out to see the house for himself. He found Miss Katherine's praise very just. It was indeed a most pleasant place, and though the garden sadly needed care, that fact, in Joseph's eyes, did not detract from the desirability of the place. Beneath a very impassive exterior he concealed a tenderness and real passion for flowers and a garden. He had passed his days in his hardware shop among unlovely objects, and had never gratified this one passion, which was still strong. But now Joseph thought of the long spring and summer days spent in the garden, and went in haste to interview the agent. "Captain Shannon's place, eh?" said Mr. Skinner. "It used to be a pretty place when the Captain lived there, and I have had good tenants who have kept it up pretty well, but we didn't rent it last year so it's grown up rather wild. Would you happen to be fond of flowers, now?" Upon Joseph's replying that he was, Mr. Skinner continued: "Captain Shannon lived there only two years when he took to sea again. I don't know whether he's dead or alive, for that's seven years ago, and I've never seen or heard from him since. I send the rent to his bank in New York, but it's my opinion that he's gone where he don't need money, for if he was alive why wouldn't he come back and spend the rest of his days here? He ain't a young man by any means, about sixty, I think. But I was going to tell you why I asked if you were fond of flowers. The Captain was crazy about them and kept a record of all his choice plants. That book's in the library now. Well, when he told me he was going to sea again and asked to rent the place, he said to get a tenant that would look after the plants. It just seemed to me he wanted to stay, but the sea pulled too strong for him and he had to go. But now if you like pottering round in a garden, that's just the place for you." Joseph felt it was but did not express himself too strongly until he had concluded a very good bargain. To Miss Katherine's extreme delight Joseph was ready to move to Ocean View without delay. She had drawn from him all the information concerning Captain Shannon that he had obtained from Mr. Skinner. She had immediately jumped to the conclusion that the Captain had been lost at sea. To tell the truth, although she had as tender a heart as woman ever possessed, the owner's tragic end rather increased her delight in her surroundings. It wasn't every day one had the opportunity of handling things that had belonged to one for whom fate had destined such a tragic end. It was towards the books in the library that she felt most reverently. Not for a moment could she forget that these books had been selected, read and loved by Captain Peter Shannon, victim of the cavernous seas. But soon she came to value the books for themselves, for she found them much to her taste. There was nothing in literature that so captivated Miss Katherine as tales of daring on land or sea, and of these the Captain's library was full. "Captain Shannon must have been a very interesting man," she remarked rather sadly to Joseph. "I can tell by his books. His tastes were just like mine," she added naively. "Don't let your mind run on him too much, Katie," advised Joseph. "It would only lead to disappointment, for he's most likely drowned or dead, it don't matter which." "I'd try to exercise a little common sense, Joseph Boulby," returned his sister acidly. "Why, ain't I?" asked Joseph. "I don't see anything unreasonable about warning you not to set your heart upon a dead man. There's not much chance of a corpse coming to life these days." Joseph's delight in his garden was actually making him facetious. However strongly Miss Katherine became convinced that, had he lived, there would have been a strong affinity and perhaps something more between Captain Shannon and herself, she did not become depressed. But without doubt there entered into Miss Katherine's heart a sentiment that she had never experienced before. In a closet full of rubbish she found a portrait of a seamanly looking, heavily whiskered man. This she rightly conjectured to be a feeble attempt to reproduce on canvas Captain Shannon's noble countenance. She tastefully framed the portrait and hung it over the books she fancied he had best loved. Having made an exhaustive examination of the books on the library shelves, Miss Katherine turned her attention to the papers which the table and desk contained. She felt no compunction in doing this, although she rarely meddled with the affairs of others. But to Captain Shannon's personal papers she felt she had a peculiar right, a sort of spiritual right. What she found among these papers was of such interest and import that she rushed at once to find her brother. "Joseph! Joseph Boulby!" she gasped. "You'll never guess what I've found! The log of a schooner! Captain Shannon's schooner. He was shipwrecked and the schooner was lost but--I'll read it to you, Joseph: 'Log of Schooner Fare-thee-well'--isn't that a fine name--'Peter Shannon owner and master. "'May 17, '05. "'Sailed from Manzanilla with cargo of lumber for Panama. Wind blowing strong from N. W. "'Made 105 miles. "'May 18. "'Wind increased in volume. Still running with wind on starboard beam. Unable to make an observation. Made 190 miles by dead reckoning. "'May 19. "'Wind veered slightly to westward and continued to freshen. Glass falling rapidly. Made 204 miles. "'Above is log of schooner up to May 20, from which time it was impossible to keep further record until she was beached. Following is story of the last voyage of the Fare-thee-well. It was written after landing on Cocos Island. "'May 20. Hurricane struck us at four bells in the afternoon watch, as nearly as I can remember. Called all hands to close reef the mainsail, intending to run before wind under storm jib and mainsail reefed down, when enormous sea struck us washing away mate and two seamen, leaving only myself and boy. Schooner heeled so far to port that I feared she could not right herself, and water covered half the desk. Strain on mainsail so great that it snapped about fourteen feet above deck carrying sail and top hamper with it. Boy and I managed to cut away all stays and shrouds and cleared away the wreckage, after which we scuddled before the wind under bare poles. With help of boy I managed to rig spare topsail from stump of mainmast and with storm jib we managed to keep steerage way upon her. "'May 21. Still running before the wind. "'May 22. Do. "'May 23. Do. "'May 24. Just before midnight, as near as I can remember, schooner struck with terrible force and waves swept her from stem to stem. Boy carried overboard. Was unable to do anything to save him. "'May 25. When morning came the sea had gone down somewhat and I discovered an island about one hundred fathoms on port bow. Was afraid vessel would break up so made a raft with what spars and lumber I could get together, and taking the log book, a few tools, instruments and provisions, I endeavored to reach the land. After great difficulty I landed on what proved to be Cocos Island.'" For a moment or two after she had ceased reading, Miss Katherine remained silent as if overpowered. She soon recovered speech however. "I thought I had estimated Captain Shannon correctly when I said that he was no ordinary man, but I don't believe I did full justice to him. Did you notice the style of this narrative, Joseph? It is so direct and simple, but forceful and compelling. I don't think I would be going too far to say that there is the stamp of genius upon this manuscript. And his modesty, Joseph! Nothing about his wonderful seamanship that kept the ship afloat or about the quick wittedness and strength that saved him, or about his sojourn on the island or his daring escape from it!" "I suppose a ship came along and took him off," said Joseph. "I don't see any daring in that." "Well, if you don't, I do," retorted his sister. "The idea of a man like Captain Shannon waiting for a ship to take him away!" "Well, it would be more sensible to wait a spell before he started out," observed Joseph. Tenderly disposed as she was to the memory of Captain Shannon, Joseph's remark grated upon Miss Katherine, and she made a very cutting remark about people who had no fine sensibilities themselves and could not feel for others who had. However, she forgave and forgot very quickly, and the next evening she confided to Joseph a most important discovery. "You remember that I read last night that Captain Shannon had been on Cocos Island?" she asked. Joseph replied that he remembered all she had read to him. "Well," continued Miss Katherine, "the name of that island bothered me all night, and to-day I set to work to find out what I had heard about it. This is what I found in the encyclopedia: "'Cocos Island, volcanic island in the Pacific Ocean, S. W. of Costa Rica, with steep rugged coasts and quite level interior; comprises about nine square miles, is uninhabited and is reported to have been the place of concealment of treasure, jewelry and plate sent there by wealthy inhabitants of Spanish colonies on the neighboring mainland early in the nineteenth century, during the wars in which they achieved their independence from Spain. The belief that many of these valuables have never been recovered led to a number of unsuccessful search expeditions.' "They have never been recovered, Joseph," repeated Miss Katherine with glistening eyes. "Did you note the significance of that? The treasure was there when Captain Shannon landed on the island, and there he was alone on the island, with provisions enough to enable him to remain there a considerable time, with tools to aid him in a complete search, and with a raft to carry him to the mainland when he had found the object of his search. What do you think now, Joseph?" "He must have had a devil of a time landing on that island in a raft if the coast is rugged and steep, as it says," remarked Joseph irrelevantly. Miss Katherine wanted to shake her brother, but she brought wile instead of strength to her aid. Joseph was known among his neighbors to be "a little close." He certainly regarded with respect and almost reverence whatever represented a good sum of dollars. "That treasure must have been worth millions of dollars," began Miss Katherine. "Even if Captain Shannon discovered or brought away only a small part of it, there would have been great wealth in that part." "But he might not have known anything about it," interposed Joseph, who was becoming interested. "The idea!" exclaimed his sister, "Captain Shannon not to know all about Cocos Island!" But Joseph wasn't to be scorned off well taken ground, and maintained that the Captain had had too much sense to put dependence in such yarns as that. Miss Katherine began very patiently: "It isn't a yarn, but a well substantiated fact that every sea captain would know. But I have good reasons for believing he found it," concluded Miss Katherine mysteriously. Miss Katherine closed her lips tightly as if she knew a great deal but was resolved to make no more disclosures to a skeptic. She acted very wisely, for curiosity is not confined exclusively to females. Joseph resisted as long as he could and then said in a gruffly apologetic tone: "I didn't mean to offend you, Katie; but I was trying to see all sides of the case. Would you have any idea where he put the money and valuables, if he found them?" Miss Katherine was quite mollified. "I wouldn't want to say that I knew exactly where he put them, but I'll tell you what I've deduced from the facts of the case. One would suppose that Captain Shannon had put all his money into his schooner which was lost, but notwithstanding that he immediately settles here and spends a good deal of money upon this property. I am convinced that that money was part of the treasure he found on Cocos Island." Miss Katherine paused impressively. "Where is the rest?" asked her brother in almost child-like faith. "Fate destined the Captain to be a victim of the sea, so he had to leave, and he thought to himself that he wanted his treasure to fall into the hands of some kindred spirit, should he never return. Captain Shannon is a man whom few understand, but I am convinced that I do. He was a man of strong human sympathy--" "Yes, Katie, dear," interrupted Joseph meekly. "What you say is perfectly correct, but what were you going to say about the treasure?" "I was just about to explain it all, Joseph. He wanted his treasure to fall into the hands of some kindred spirit, should he never return, some one who would be able to deduce his idea from the clews he left behind. First he leaves instructions that only congenial people are to rent this property, then he leaves his diary. Then he says to himself, 'If the person that reads this diary is really interested in me, that person will find out the history of Cocos Island and infer my discovery of the treasure.' And then he thought it would be but a short step to the actual finding of the treasure." "Humph!" grunted Joseph. "A short step? In what direction I'd like to know?" "I am not prepared to say exactly where it is," explained Miss Katherine, "but my theory is that it is secreted about the house or garden." "If it's in that garden," began Joseph, energetically but was interrupted. "We must be very guarded and no one must suspect our purpose," cautioned Miss Katherine. "We cannot tell to what ends people might go if it was discovered that there was a great treasure concealed here. We will have to be careful about admitting strangers to the house or garden. It is very probable that some sailors, friends of Captain Shannon's, might have suspected this, for I never read a treasure story yet where someone didn't make trouble." Twice that night, after Miss Katherine had retired to rest, she almost rose from her bed at the thought that the house was in a most unfortified state. Whether she expected to see John Silver, wooden leg, urbanity and all, climbing in at the window, I can not say, but she felt so insecure that it was long after midnight when she fell asleep. She dreamed that Captain Shannon and she were sailing away to Cocos Island and he was telling her that all the jewels there were hers if she would only take him, too. Ah! the futility of the sweetest dreams! But the next day Miss Katherine had the treasure searching problem well in hand. Her mind had at once turned to the classic on this subject, and she hastened to find Poe's "Purloined Letter" and "Gold Bug." Therein she found many possible methods and studied in detail the house-searching methods of the Parisian commissaire de police. She imparted something of what she had learned to Joseph, but he didn't have any faith in 'yarns.' His fingers were itching to use the spade and pick-axe, but this Miss Katherine strictly forbade as yet. The next day she continued her studies and was in a most interesting and instructive part when the door bell rang. She knew that Mrs. White, their only maid, was so employed that she could not go to the door. Reluctantly she laid down her book and answered the ring. A well-built, fresh, clean shaven man of about sixty regarded Miss Katherine pleasantly as he inquired if Mr. Boulby were home. Upon being informed that Mr. Boulby was not home, the stranger said that with permission he would step in and explain his business. The line of thought upon which Miss Katherine had been intent for the past few days had inclined her to be suspicious, and she regarded the stranger with a distrustful eye. He, however, was quite unobservant of this attitude toward himself, and he stepped into the hall. Miss Katherine was compelled to conduct him to the library, the other rooms being in the throes of house-cleaning. As the stranger entered that room his eye fell immediately upon Captain Shannon's portrait which occupied a very conspicuous place. He seemed struck by it, and as Miss Katherine turned to offer him a chair she saw him gazing at it with great interest. "Ah, you observe Captain Shannon's portrait," said Miss Katherine in a pleased voice. "We have just come here, but I am greatly interested in the Captain. I found the portrait in a closet and framed it. I think it is a remarkable face, don't you?" The question seemed to confuse the stranger. "I--er--do you?" he stammered. "I--er--I believe I have met the Captain, oh, I mean I knew him quite well. Now, er, well really what is remarkable about the face?" "There is so much remarkable about it, to me," returned Miss Katherine. "There is unusual strength in every feature, it seems to me, and the face is a most interesting and attractive one." The stranger's hand crept to his face where it went through the motions of clutching a beard, an adornment which he lacked. He gazed stupidly from the portrait to Miss Katherine and back again to the portrait. He spoke in a very hesitating and uncertain way. "Did you say--that you--er--found the portrait in a closet--er--and went to the trouble of framing it?" "Yes, that is quite correct. But it was no trouble, only a pleasure and the contemplation of those features has amply repaid me," replied Miss Katherine. "It--er--will naturally be very gratifying to--er--the Captain--ah--when he returns--ah--to find his portrait so--er--highly valued," observed the man. "I'm sure I couldn't say about that as the poor Captain was drowned, at least he is supposed to have been lost at sea. But I believe him to have been a very modest man, and I doubt whether it would really gratify him to see his portrait there." The stranger's hand again went to his face, and as it was a large hand almost covered the features. "I hadn't heard," he began in a very throaty voice, "I--I--didn't know that the Captain--ah--wasn't--er--what you just said, you know." Miss Katherine observed the stranger sympathetically. He had evidently been a friend of the Captain and felt his loss. "Sit down, sir," she said kindly, "I see you feel this, and no wonder. Of course in cases like this one is never sure just what has happened; but it is believed that Captain Shannon must have met with some misfortune as he has not been heard from for seven years." "Oh! seven years!" repeated the man. "Ah, I see." "It is a pity that such a man as Captain Shannon should be cut off in his prime," sighed Miss Katherine. "Ah, you think that the late Captain was--er--a--ah--some good in the world?" inquired the stranger. "I am very sure he was that and a most charming man besides," replied Miss Katherine, her eyes dwelling admiringly and wistfully on the portrait. "The Captain should be hap--ah, I mean--er--it is pleasant--er--I should say, madam, that--ah--in fact I am detaining you," he lucidly concluded. "Not at all," returned Miss Katherine affably. "If you would explain your business I might serve in place of my brother, or I can tell him you called, Mr. ----" "Oh--a--Murphy," supplied the stranger hastily. "I knew this place was for rent but didn't know whether it had been taken or not so I thought I'd see about it. It would suit me splendidly. Would you--ah--could you consider a lodger, madam?" "Well, really," replied Miss Katherine very pleasantly--the man was very gentlemanly and not at all ordinary--"really, I'm afraid not, although I should very much like to accommodate you." "Oh, that's alright," Mr. Murphy assured her. "It's a nice healthy spot and I think I'll spend a few months here--to--er--recover my health." Miss Katherine looked at his fresh face and vigorous frame in some surprise, whereupon Mr. Murphy made haste to explain: "I am feeling very much better now, but not quite right. I--ah--should be able to lift five hundred pounds. Well now, I'll just say good morning and I'll see if I can get suitable lodgings somewhere near. I feel--er--that our common friendship for the late Captain Shannon should be--ah--a sort of bond, so to speak, between us, so I shall drop in to see you again." Miss Katherine gave him a very cordial invitation to come and see her brother and herself frequently. When the door had closed upon Mr. Murphy, a shade passed over her face and she betook herself again to the library. Could it be that this stranger was a spy? Had he really known the Captain and suspected the existence of the treasure? Was he going to stay in the vicinity to keep watch upon them? Miss Katherine trembled as she thought of what might have become of Joseph and herself if she had taken him as a lodger. But here poor Miss Katherine's heart suffered a pang, for she thought of the gentlemanly deportment and attractive appearance of her visitor. He had seemed quite impressed with her, too. There was no denying it. She rose from the chair with a sigh and walked about the room. "I must hide the book, anyway," she exclaimed aloud. "There's no telling what that man was after and I'd better put it in a safe place." She took the treasured volume--Capt. Shannon's diary--and, after glancing out of the window to make sure she was not watched, she stole cautiously from the room as if the house were full of spies. When she reached the floor above she stood still, wondering what hiding places the house afforded. There were not many, she knew, but now she could think of none. Downstairs was out of the question. Anyone could come in there at night and carry it off. The second floor was little better for the windows were all open and anyone could enter them by means of a ladder. The attic! Yes, that was the only place and Miss Katherine flew up the steep stairs to the attic. There was a very little light admitted through a small window, and when her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, she saw a trap door in the ceiling. Of all places in the world this was the most desirable. As luck would have it she found an old ladder among the rubbish. One end of this she placed against the trap door, then, pushing with all her might at the other end, she succeeded in raising the door and liberating clouds of dust, spiders, dead flies and cob-webs. Though half choked and blinded she proceeded to execute her scheme. Placing an end of the ladder in the opening she endeavored to make it secure from slipping. Of its strength she was fairly satisfied, but she could not feel confident of its equilibrium. She did the best she could and then began the perilous ascent. She held the book in one hand and with the other clung fearfully to the rickety ladder. She stood in need of another prehensile member for the rungs of the ladder were worn smooth as glass and every upward step was fraught with danger. The ladder creaked ominously beneath a weight that was far from trifling. However, she made a steady progress, and when she had climbed as far as she dared, she very cautiously reached upward and placed the book upon the rafters. In her relief at having placed the book in safety she forgot caution and gave the ladder the excuse it was looking for. She felt the ladder going and frantically grabbed the side of the trap door. It was well her arms were not slender ones for they had to support her entire weight. The very ceiling creaked. A severe fall was to be preferred to bringing the roof down upon her, so she suddenly let go her hold and came crashing down upon the floor that quivered to receive its burden. But it was only a moment before Miss Katherine was sufficiently recovered to assure herself that, as the book was securely hidden nothing else was of consequence. Poor Miss Katherine was bruised all over and had considerable difficulty in hiding her physical sufferings from Mrs. White, who was a native of Ocean View, and therefore it would never do to arouse her suspicions. When that lady asked Miss Katherine how she got such a bruise on her arm, she replied that her flesh bruised at a touch and she must have struck it against something. But when Mrs. White inadvertently touched Miss Katherine upon quite another part of her body and she flinched before she recollected caution, the aforementioned lady began to wonder, and when a woman begins to wonder she soon has something to tell. When Joseph returned his sister related all that had occurred during his absence. His evident uneasiness concerning Mr. Murphy's motives was quite comforting. It is so gloomy to be the only anxious one in the house. "He can't set foot on the property if we forbid him," said Joseph with a determined countenance. "But we can't do that, at least it wouldn't be wise," remonstrated his sister gently. It was soothing to her bruises to note Joseph's anxiety. "He is a perfect gentleman, a man we couldn't treat rudely. He mightn't be spying at all and then we'd look ridiculous, or we might arouse suspicions in him by over caution. Now my plan is to let him call if he cares to, but never to leave him alone and to watch all his movements very carefully. He might unconsciously give us a clew if he has any exact knowledge of the whereabouts of the treasure. Now don't you think that's the wisest course to pursue?" Joseph had no wile in his makeup, so would have preferred a pugilistic encounter at the gate, as the best way of dealing with a spy, but his sister was undeniably the leader in this affair, so he agreed to remain passive while she matured her plan. It was well that they made their decision concerning the stranger when they did for the next day, in the afternoon, as Joseph was digging among the flowers in the front garden, Mr. Murphy appeared at the gate. Joseph's interest in his work had driven all thoughts of treasure and treasure seekers out of his mind. He supposed it to be one of his neighbors and merely looked up and nodded to the caller to enter. "Good afternoon neighbor," said Joseph with what breath his unwonted exertions allowed him, "could you tell me whether it's too late to separate these roots and transplant them? I think they're too thick, but I don't want to spoil 'em for blossoming this year. I think a piny is as pretty a flower as grows." "Why, now, I'd think this was about the right time to separate the roots, but you want to do it right. Now, if you'd just give me the spade I'll show you how to handle it and not cut the roots and I'll separate them, too," replied Joseph's neighbor, throwing off his coat and seizing the spade. Joseph stood by and watched for a few moments and then trotted off to get himself a spade. The two men spaded and puffed until all the peony roots lay on the fresh earth. Then the work of separation began. The supposed neighbor acted as teacher and Joseph was an interested pupil. "Bless my soul!" exclaimed Miss Katherine, as she looked out of the window. "Mr. Murphy!" For almost the first time in her life she experienced a pang of jealousy and pique. When she had advocated tolerancy towards the suspect, it must be confessed that Miss Katherine was influenced by more than one consideration. She had been inclined to think that if the stranger came again, she would be the magnet and not the treasure. And now here he was pottering around with Joseph! She didn't stay vexed long, for soon she thought he might have been coming to see her and Joseph in his stupid way had stopped him with questions about his flowers. And then he very likely was fond of flowers and gardening. All nice men were. The Captain had been passionately fond of them. Finally Miss Katherine sallied out with her most engaging countenance. "So you have pressed Mr. Murphy into service, Joseph?" she asked brightly. "Eh?" returned Joseph. How did Kate know this neighbor's name? "I haven't even introduced myself to your brother, Miss Boulby," explained Mr. Murphy. "We have been working so hard I clear forgot." "I mentioned Mr. Murphy's calling, if you remember," said Miss Katherine to her brother, nudging him sharply. "Oh, Mr. Murphy," repeated Joseph. He recollected it all now, and being no actor, dared do nothing but stare. "You must come in to tea," said Miss Katherine to Mr. Murphy, who accepted promptly. When his sister became leader in this scene, Joseph retired to the background and subsequently to the back yard. Miss Katherine conducted her guest to the library. Supper would soon be ready. "You remind me somewhat of Captain Shannon," remarked Miss Katherine. Mr. Murphy looked rather startled. "I mean that you are fond of gardening. I have been told that it was a passion with the Captain," explained Miss Katherine. "I heard something like that, too, about the Captain," returned Mr. Murphy, who seemed more fluent than upon his first visit. "How are you feeling to-day, Mr. Murphy?" inquired Miss Katherine kindly. "Feeling,--feeling?" repeated her guest in a puzzled way. "Do you think Ocean View will completely restore your health?" explained Miss Katherine. "Oh! Ah, yes!" hastily began Mr. Murphy. "To tell you the truth I have been so hearty lately that I forget I came here for my health." "Isn't that lovely!" exclaimed Miss Katherine delightedly. "Ah--er--yes, it is," replied her guest helplessly. He was unaccustomed to feminine effusiveness. "I--ah--really I find that Captain Shannon interests me. Would you tell me something more about him?" asked Mr. Murphy. "I suppose it is some years since you knew him?" interrogated Miss Katherine, and, as her guest made a rather unintelligible reply, she continued: "I have gathered very little from others concerning Captain Shannon, but I have deduced a great deal. I don't think there is any class of people so interesting as sailors, and especially captains. They are daring, picturesque, romantic, don't you think?"--Mr. Murphy scratched his head as if he would make an inlet for these new ideas.--"Paul Jones, Long Tom and even Captain Kidd were such captivating characters."--Mr. Murphy changed off to the other hand.--"On this account I was disposed to admire Captain Shannon, and when I noticed the books he had read and loved I admired him much more. I have always told my brother that a man is charming in proportion to his love of tales of daring and chivalry and romance." Here the tide of Miss Katherine's eloquence was interrupted by an eager gesture from her listener. "If Captain Shannon set such store by those books, I believe I'll have a try at them," he said. Miss Katherine's face glowed. Here was a man! She went to the shelves and read over the names. Seeing Mr. Murphy's lips moving as if he were committing them to memory she offered to make a list for him. This was too great a kindness! How much he would value it! All this and more that followed on the same lines raised Mr. Murphy to a great height in Miss Katherine's estimation. Through strict vigilance he succeeded in maintaining this exalted position. * * * * * Though other matters might temporarily thrust aside her central subject of interest, Miss Katherine invariably returned to it. The morning after Mr. Murphy's second visit she set to work in earnest to obtain a clew to the hiding place of Captain Shannon's treasure. Where was she to begin? She was well informed on the subject of secret drawers and closets and she knew that one was apt to stumble upon them unawares. An inadvertent touch upon a panel, the slightest pressure on some bit of carving might expose the most cleverly concealed hiding place. For this reason Miss Katherine experienced more or less uneasiness when Mrs. White was not directly under her eye. She found excuses to follow her about constantly, until that honest woman, being of ordinary penetration, concluded that she was not thought strictly trustworthy. As she was a very sensible being she decided that it was not unreasonable for Miss Boulby, an entire stranger, to keep an eye on her. She had heard of such substantials as butter, meat and flour disappearing through the back door, through the agency of the domestic, so she offered to get a testimonial from the minister. Miss Katherine saw her mistake at once and lied glibly but not well. She explained that since coming to that house she had been strangely timid and didn't like to be alone, and if Mrs. White had noticed her following her about it was for that reason and no other. To give weight to her assertion, she threw in a ghost or two that she had suspected the house of harboring. Miss Katherine would not have congratulated herself upon the success of her explanation had she known that Mrs. White was saying to herself that perhaps all that was true and perhaps it wasn't, but it would be wise for her to keep an eye on Miss Boulby. Miss Katherine had not yet made a sufficiently exhaustive study of Poe's Prose tales and was thus employed in the library the next morning, when, happening to glance up from her book, her eyes fell upon the great fireplace that occupied almost the entire end of the room. Miss Katherine received an inspiration. She sat up, straight and alert. "It is a most likely place," she said aloud. She went over to the fireplace, looked at it carefully and began a careful examination of the old-fashioned iron ornamentations. In the centre of the mantle was a dog's head in gilded iron. She pinched and pushed him, trying to find a spring in his eyes, nose, ears or tail. He remained immovable, however, as did everything else pertaining to the mantle. But there was still hope. She lightly tapped the brick walls for she had been reading Poe's frightful tale of the black cat, and she had learned that an unusual space in a wall could be detected by a light rap upon it. Miss Katherine's ear was not trained to this sort of divination, but she persevered, testing first a wall she was certain was solid and then working on a suspected area. Mrs. White had not forgotten her suspicions of the previous day and was on the alert. She knew Miss Boulby was in the library and when she caught the sound of a gently repeated, mysterious rapping in that room, she tiptoed to the door and applied her eye to the keyhole. What she saw would have made anyone inquire whether Miss Boulby were in possession of her senses or if she never had had any. She was down upon her knees before the hearth, gently tapping the bricks and listening intently to the sound she produced. "My stars alive!" whispered Mrs. White to herself as she rose on trembling limbs, "what's she after or is she crazy? It's my belief she's stark crazy." Unable to satisfactorily answer her own query she crept back to the kitchen, where she sat down and faced the situation. Was she not in danger by remaining there with a lunatic? She shivered when she thought that she very likely had been within an inch of death when Miss Boulby had taken to following her around. Thank goodness, she had taken to tearing the house to bits and not her! Mrs. White resolved to have a bad attack of sciatica that very night and to leave the next morning. Meanwhile she would be constantly on guard. All unsuspecting this attitude on Mrs. White's part, Miss Katherine was preparing for bed that night and thinking about the unfortunate impression she had made upon Mrs. White. "She is a good and sensible woman," said Miss Katherine to herself. "I should be very sorry to hurt her feelings or awaken any suspicions in her, but--I declare to goodness I've never searched the cellar and that's one of the likeliest places. I can't possibly do it in the daytime for she goes there so frequently. I'd just better slip down now and have a look." So saying, Miss Katherine slipped a heavy wrapper over her night dress, drew on her stockings and slippers, and with the extreme caution that makes every board in a floor creak and every joint in one's body crack, she proceeded down the stairs. Now this stealthy tread was just what Mrs. White's ears was expecting. "She's prowling round the house," whispered that lady to herself. "It's a mercy I didn't fall asleep." Having located the enemy, Mrs. White slipped out in cautious pursuit. She heard Miss Katherine enter into the kitchen and open the cellar door and start down the stairs. She stole out the front way and went round the house to a cellar window. When she arrived at that vantage point she beheld Miss Katherine standing in the centre of the cellar, holding a lamp above her head that she might first get a good general view before beginning particular investigations. "This is a difficult task," she said aloud, "the cellar is so large that it would take me all night to sound all the walls. Now, would there be an old iron-bound sea-chest, the kind sailors hide things in, in a corner here?" Holding her lamp well above her head, she slowly turned herself about that she might see every corner. Now it happened that old Tabby had just presented the thankless household with a family of kittens. She had thought that some straw that lay in a corner of the cellar would be a soft, safe bed for her babies, and as a broken window provided ingress and egress for herself, she had taken possession of the corner. Old Tabby's guard over her family was most vigilant, but she had not been disturbed until this strange figure made its appearance in the centre of the cellar. As Miss Katherine brought her light to bear upon Tabby's corner, the watcher at the window, who knew nothing of the family in the cellar, beheld the lamp dashed to the ground and heard a terrified but half-suppressed shriek and then flying footsteps. She did not wait to see or hear more but stole upstairs as fast as she could in a panic, not knowing but that she might meet the maniac on the stairs. "I'll be crazy, too, if I stay here any longer," she said to herself. "If I'm spared till morning I'll get out of this." She put all the movable furniture in her room against the door, sent up a fervent prayer for protection and got into bed, but not with the intention of sleeping. The next morning she informed Miss Boulby that she was far from well, was all crippled with sciatica and would have to leave. Her pale face corroborated her words and reluctantly Miss Katherine let her go. * * * * * I should like now to turn the reader's attention to our friend, Mr. Murphy. That gentleman had found comfortable lodgings and seemed to be getting much attached to Ocean View. By watching rather closely one might suspect that he wished to avoid the adults of Ocean View, excepting Mr. and Miss Boulby. He called upon them pretty frequently. The boys of the neighborhood found his society very entertaining and followed in a pack at his heels. He did not always welcome this following, however, for he often put a book in his pocket and rambled along the shore until he found just the right spot where he could sit and read undisturbed. He had taken to doing this immediately after his second call at the Boulbys'. The books he carried at first bore the mark of Ocean View Public Library. But one afternoon when he had found his favored spot, he drew from his pocket a glistening new volume. "Gosh darn it!" muttered Mr. Murphy, as he regarded the book, "if I'd ever thought I'd come to this I suppose I'd 've drowned myself." He leafed over the book and looked at the illustrations. "It ain't dull reading anyway. It might be worse. They say Cooper was a clever man so I guess it won't spoil my intellect to read 'em. But it does beat all how tenants use things. To think of those brand new books looking like that!" Mr. Murphy turned to the first chapter and began "The Pilot." He became very much interested therein and read on till the greyness of the page told him that it was growing late. He closed the book, put it in his pocket, stretched out his legs and gazed across the water. "I'll be damned if it isn't the best of any of 'em, and I've read upwards of two dozen now. Well, I'd never have believed it. You'll come to almost anything in this world, that's my belief. But it does take a woman to give you the push that starts you down." He meditated silently for sometime, but began again to hold audible commune with himself. "I wonder if I've got the correct picture in my head of that knight of the waves hanging up in that library? It would be a good pattern to model myself after if the elements of all those high qualities ain't in me already. By darn, that's it! They are in me all the time, too, and I don't realize it. They just need bringin' to the surface, excavating 'em so to speak. 'Daring' was one of 'em--well, I never was called a coward. 'Picturesque'--that's a hard one to come at. Now an Indian dressed up in his war togs, or a Mexican or even a cowboy would have some claim on that quality, but I'll be darned what a plain, sober, God-fearing man can do to be it and keep the respect of his mates. I'm doubtful of making that one. If I remember right she claimed he was 'romantic.'" Mr. Murphy kicked the pebbles about and then resumed his monologue. "It wouldn't be as hard to make that one as the other one. I've got half a dozen to steer by in any one of the books I've been pouring down me. Let me see, though, she mentioned two or three: Captain Kidd was among 'em, I remember. I'd hate to have to carry on my conscience all he must have had on his, if that's necessary to qualify. But I've heard he wore stunning whiskers and that's probably what took her eye. I can't call the others to mind but I'm bound to hit on them soon if my eyes don't give out." The lengthening shadows warned Mr. Murphy that it was past supper time, so he rose, stretched himself and started homeward. * * * * * All this time we have been ignoring Joseph, who had again fallen into the even tenor of his way. The vision of gold that had for a time disturbed his tranquility had vanished almost as suddenly as it had arisen. Such flights of imagination were not for him and he was leading a life of perfect content when a malicious sprite stumbled upon him and marked him for her own. Joseph and Willie Brown, a neighbor's boy, were spading up the ground where he had decided to replant his currant bushes. Mr. Murphy had been sauntering about and had pulled a book out of his pocket and departed when Joseph's unlucky spade threw up something which, in hitting against a stone, had given forth such a clear, ringing sound that he stooped down and felt about in the fresh earth. His fingers closed upon something cold, flat and round. He rubbed it against his overalls until a piece of gold milled like a coin came to view. In a moment his mind had made the connection between his sister's theories and his discovery. He stood gazing at the piece of gold. "Holy Moses!" he softly ejaculated. Suddenly he remembered Willie. He had found but a clew to the treasure. Where was the bulk of it? Willie suspected something already. Joseph looked at the boy, then at the gold piece, and then at the place where he had found it. I have remarked before that there was no strategy in Joseph's nature. He seized Willie by the arm and marched him towards the house. "That ground's too hard for currant bushes," he said to the astonished boy. "We won't work any more to-day." However, Willie felt he had no cause for complaint, as Joseph gave him a whole day's pay and Miss Katherine filled his pockets with cookies. Brother and sister now held a consultation and decided that they must be up and doing. Miss Katherine believed that they were in imminent danger of having their treasure looted. "I know boys," she said, "they're all eyes and ears. He saw what you found before you did and he'll tell all the rest of the boys and they'll come in the night and carry the whole thing away. I think we'd better not go out to that spot again to-day for you can depend upon it, he's watching. He'll forget about it by night and then we can go out with the lantern." Now, Willie Brown was like all other boys. After being dismissed by Mr. Boulby he sat down in the corner of a fence and thought. A light broke in upon him after a few moments of silent meditation. "I'll bet yuh anything!" he almost yelled, slapping his leg, "that's it!" True to the terrible oath he had sworn, he was off like a shot to rally the Faithful Band. It happened that he met Mr. Murphy before any of the Band. "I thought you were helping Mr. Boulby," said Mr. Murphy. "So I was but--but--." Willie's pride in his secret and mystery was his downfall. From that moment he was an empty vessel in Mr. Murphy's sight. That night found the brother and sister plying their spades in the garden. Their lantern was burning dimly, but it gave sufficient light to show the boys all they wished to see. "What did I tell yuh?" whispered Willie to his comrades of the Faithful Band. "Don't that beat everything? And here it was all the time and we didn't know it." "I'll bet the old Captain was a pirate," whispered Ned Larkins. "I'll bet so, too," whispered another. There is always somebody to throw cold water on our most cherished theories, as Willie Brown was soon to learn. "If you didn't take that thing in your own hands and examine it, you don't know what it was, Willie," remarked Tom Parker. "There is a mystery here alright enough, but I wouldn't say you're right, Willie." When they were a safe distance away they besought Tom to give them the benefit of his theory, but he absolutely refused. There was no good, he said, in his getting mixed up with it, for if he wasn't mistaken there'd be trouble about this thing yet. Considerably sobered, the band dispersed. The next day, though dejected and cast down, Willie Brown again circulated the fiery cross among his faithful followers, and did not even except the skeptic. He was fated to again fall in with Mr. Murphy, who had been doing some midnight scouting himself and was therefore in both glee and perplexity. By a few skillful questions and tentative remarks, Mr. Murphy obtained all the information he could desire. The next day Joseph and his sister were feeling pretty stiff and sore after the unaccustomed exposure to the dew and cold. They decided not to work that night. "You had better drag that big packing box over the hole, Joseph," said Miss Katherine. "Somebody might fall in and break a leg." The Faithful Band appeared later than the previous night. Mr. Murphy had dropped a hint about the folly of undertaking certain kinds of expeditions at any other time than midnight. They saw the faint outlines of the box but nothing else. At first they were discomfited and then elated. Ned Larkins said that they must climb over the fence into the garden and dig in the exact spot where the box then was. Tom Parker, the dissenter, being the oldest and biggest, was appointed leader. "No, sir!" declared he emphatically. "I know better than that. I've got too much sense to meddle with that. The biggest detective in New York wouldn't dare go and leave his tracks around there. Oh, no! they're too cute for that." Tom, of course, meant to imply that he also was "too cute for that." Willie had taken one snub from Tom and he was determined that should be the last. "You're a calf," was his polite reply to Tom as he vaulted over the fence. "Who's goin' to foller me?" They all followed, even Tom Parker. They advanced cautiously. Willie's temerity was moderating and he waited for the rest to come up with him. They advanced in a semicircle. As the wavering line was within ten yards of the box that object seemed to lift itself from the ground and a deep groan arose as from the bowels of the earth. Oh what a fright was that--my Faithful Banders! In a moment the fence seemed alive with terrified and struggling boys. Mr. Murphy crawled out of his cramped quarters and went home. The boys had, of course, been properly sworn to secrecy, but somehow, the next day an uneasy feeling pervaded the village. No one seemed to possess any definite information, but there were rumors to the effect that there were peculiar folks now in the neighborhood; people weren't really safe and Mrs. White could tell a good deal if she would. That lady had exercised a good deal of prudence and had said very little about the Boulbys, but the day after the boys' adventure she was credited with volumes. It was not long before the strong minded mother of a member of the Faithful Band had obtained from him enough to warrant her sending to all the matrons of the village a pressing invitation to tea that afternoon. It was a formidable group that foregathered that afternoon. The discoveries and adventures of the Band were duly narrated and embellished. Out of the chaos of frightful tales that flourished exceedingly and waxed more and more fearful, one could have deduced the fact that the Boulbys were nothing more or less than modern Blue-Beards. Well, their families had to be protected, and if they told the men all they knew it would be all over the country in no time, and for some reason they didn't think that would be well. As far as they could see the best thing to be done was for them to investigate for themselves that very night. And so it was that for the third time the Boulbys were to undergo a night attack. Miss Katherine was not the sort of woman to be caught sleeping. She had been unable to continue the excavation, owing to a slight attack of rheumatism. She felt uneasy about so vast a treasure lying unguarded and begged Joseph to make himself some sort of shelter in the garden and keep watch during the night. "You wouldn't have to keep awake all the time," she said, "you'd hear any noise in your sleep and it would do you good to sleep out in the fresh air." But Joseph was not a fresh air enthusiast, and the very idea of sleeping in the garden gave him rheumatic twinges. However, Miss Katherine was not to be balked. She took the faithful old dog Bruno by the collar and led him to the garden where she pointed out the box and explained his duty to him. Bruno understood and consented. "A woman has always one she can depend on, if she has a dog," Miss Katherine cuttingly remarked as she re-entered the house. Just a word about Mr. Murphy before we proceed with the night attack. He had been very busy all day, walking about the village, chatting with the boys and gossiping with the women. There might have been method in his gossip, as he seemed to elicit just what he desired. Towards evening he took a walk along the shore and held communion with himself. "I don't think she'd call it chivalrous to scare them. But she'd rate it pretty high if I kept watch to come to the rescue of the besieged or the besiegers, whichever needs help." As Mr. Murphy has reached this satisfactory conclusion we will leave him and return to follow the female posse across the fields to the Boulbys' garden. When the group of trembling females had reached the garden fence they beheld the confirmation of the boy's story. There was a whispered discussion of the advisability of further investigation. The pros won and the means to this end now stared them in the face. The picket fence had presented no difficulties to the boys but it was a great obstacle to their mothers. To climb it was impossible. The only other way was to make a breach wide enough to admit a portly form. One picket was gone and they began loosening several on each side of the opening. It was difficult to do this and prevent the loosening nails from screeching. The process was a very slow one as such care had to be exercised. Meanwhile Bruno was quite cognizant of their presence and with bristling hair and bared teeth was crouching for an attack when further provocation should be given. The Boulbys had retired early, as neither was feeling very well, but towards midnight Miss Katherine awoke and began to think of poor old Bruno. She thought she would get up and peek out to see if he were all right. The trespassers were making sure but slow progress and were still hanging on the pickets with their whole weight as Miss Katherine looked out of the window. She was not at all alarmed. She understood her own sex, her faithful dog and her own resources. The heaviest of the group had now been pressed into service as weights on the loosening pickets which suddenly surrendered with a frightful wrenching sound. Simultaneously with this noise there arose from the box a savage growl and a great, black beast threw himself into the air like an imprisoned spirit released from Hades. From the window had come a sharp report and from the opposite fence a yell that must have been emitted from a savage throat. At the too sudden surrender of the pickets four heavy females were precipitated against their companions and the whole posse fell in an inextricable mass upon the ground. Miss Katherine let the burst paper bag flutter to the ground as she hung upon the window curtain, helpless with laughter. Mr. Murphy scudded away from behind the fence ejaculating, "Bully for her! She doesn't need a protector. It's no wonder she's set her heart on a romantic man." When morning came and they could speak more calmly concerning their bruises the same females were again met in conclave. Some were for placing the matter in the hands of the constable, but this did not meet with unanimous approval. "Poor old constable Wilson couldn't get up enough courage to go there," said one. "It would be a shame to ask him," said another. "Everybody knows he isn't expected to look after anything dangerous. Such a thing as this was never heard of before in this neighborhood, so they just put in old man Wilson for he could keep the boys out of the orchards and 'tend pound and that's about all there is to do in this neighborhood. Now isn't there somebody that could handle them Boulbys?" "I've got a plan," began an earnest faced matron. "I think Mr. Horton's the man to see to this. If he can't exhort the evil spirit to come out of them Boulbys, nobody can. And he ain't afraid of anything either. It's his duty, too, to look after things like this, for we all know that the Evil One has taken control of the Boulbys, body and soul. But we won't have to do any urging to get Mr. Horton to do his duty. Just last Sunday he said in his sermon that the scent of the battle and the battle cry was like perfume to his nostrils and music in his ears, when he could wage war upon the forces of evil." "That's a good plan," agreed a sister in the church. "You're right in saying he ain't afraid of anything. His sermon last Sunday was a splendid one. I thought he'd break the old pulpit to pieces, he was that earnest. He preached about Gideon and Gideon always makes a good subject. Do you remember that he said that when he felt he was armed with the sword of the Lord and of Gideon he could face ten thousand foes?" It was agreed that this fearless spirit would be undaunted by this task and a committee was appointed to place the matter before him. Mr. Horton was a man, who, had he been of another religious persuasion, would have made one of Alva's fiercest bloodhounds. He was untiring in his zeal for the cause he espoused. He knew not mercy and he gave no quarter in the battle. And so he listened with hardening face to the tale poured forth by the suffering females, the most faithful of his flock. No need to urge him forward on the path of duty. He gave his word that he would go forth without delay to wrestle with the evil spirit that possessed these unfortunate people. And thus it was that Joseph caught sight of the ministerial form stalking up the walk just as his sister was concluding a recital of the events of the night before. "The minister's coming," he warned Miss Katherine. "Don't let him hear you laughing about scaring those women--likely it's that he's coming about." "Nonsense!" exclaimed his sister. "I'd pretty soon tell him to mind his own business." Grim and undaunted Mr. Horton stood upon the verandah, awaiting admittance. Not even the pleasant, welcoming smile upon Joseph's mild and open countenance softened his austerity. "A wolf in sheep's clothing, no doubt," he said to himself. It was well that he had steeled his heart, for Miss Katherine was at her pleasantest this morning, and she was very charming in that mood. But even she could not soften that heart of adamant. When he had seated himself he calmly began a searching scrutiny of the two faces before him. Perhaps he was a student of natural history and had learned that this was one way of taming wild animals, and as he had come to cage the roaring lion that walked up and down the world seeking whom he could devour, it would be well to follow approved methods. Mr. Horton was not a man to hesitate when his duty lay plain before him, so he informed the brother and sister that he had come to inquire after the welfare of their souls and to save them if they felt themselves lost and guilty sinners condemned to a fearful punishment. Under this attack Joseph was more nettled than his sister. Miss Katherine told herself that he must be a religious fanatic and as they hadn't yet attended church in Ocean View, he believed them to be godless people. "I have every sympathy with religious enthusiasm," she gently informed Mr. Horton, "but, of course, I don't feel as strongly on the subject as you do." This remark confirmed his wolf theory and he began to fear that he had to deal with the wiliest of Satan's lieutenants. He thought he had better strengthen himself by a word of prayer so informed them that they must kneel with him. Joseph's face grew dark, but Miss Katherine imperatively motioned to him to be silent and passive. Mr. Horton implored aid in the task he had undertaken and begged that he might be the instrument to bring these poor, lost, guilty souls to repentance. Under shelter of this storm of words Miss Katherine whispered to her brother that he must control himself and must not be violent. When they rose from their knees, Mr. Horton was breathless, so Miss Katherine had him at her mercy. She politely asked him to excuse her brother as he was not feeling well, at which Joseph gratefully withdrew. "A guilty soul is a terrible thing, Miss Boulby," said Mr. Horton mopping his forehead. "Yes, I suppose it must be," she returned calmly, "but what is even worse is to have a mind that is constantly imagining evil in others. Now, Mr. Horton, the ladies of your church have quite ignored us since we came, but I should be very much pleased if Mrs. Horton and some of the prominent ladies in the church would call and we can discuss what I can do and where I can fit in in church work." Mr. Horton fairly shone with triumph. Here was a repentant sinner. "There is joy among--" he began but that was too much for Miss Katherine. * * * * * About this time Mr. Murphy was giving the pebbles on the shore the benefit of one of his frequent monologues: "I've seen them taken with it before," he informed himself, "but never so bad as she's got it. Treasure hunting is like yellow fever. You've got to let it burn itself up. I should think her treasure hunting fever would be about cured, but you never can tell with a woman. Perhaps she's onto a new place by this time. I hope she won't go tearing the place down to see if there's a secret chamber anywhere. I like her to enjoy herself, but she's apt to get into trouble with Skinner if she destroys much property. I'll have to think up some way of satisfying her or she'll land in the penitentiary. "I wonder if she's found any more qualities in the old Cap's picture? I think the picture's got all the strength when she's around, for darn me if I ain't as weak as water when she goes talking about him being the kind of man she admires! For I know that there's just so many qualities that I'll begin to dig up out of me or to plant in me. But she might come to the end of the choicest characteristics soon and give a feller time to cultivate a few." The Captain tugged at a large volume in his pocket. He succeeded in tearing it out. The place where he had been reading was marked by a slip of paper upon which was a long list of books written in a feminine hand. The name of the volume Mr. Murphy was reading was the twenty-first on the slip and was 'Treasure Island.' "If I'd ever had a villain like that Silver around me I'd 've strung him up. Such dilly-dallying around makes me sick," commented the reader. "Why, Mr. Murphy, do you talk to yourself or are you reading aloud? Your expression is wonderful if you were reading," said the pleasant voice of Miss Boulby who had quite innocently chosen for her afternoon walk Mr. Murphy's usual direction. That gentleman jumped to his feet in great trepidation. What had he been saying? "Oh--why--I believe I was reading aloud. I get so interested in those books you were telling me about--the ones the Captain read so much, you know, that I read aloud before I think." Miss Katherine seated herself and motioned to Mr. Murphy to do the same. She picked up the book which had fallen in the reader's surprise. "Treasure Island! That is a most delightful book. I am so glad you enjoy it. I do think that a man who can, as it were, live these adventures with Stevenson's characters is as delightful and interesting a person as,--as even old John Silver himself," said Miss Katherine with enthusiasm. "A-hem," Mr. Murphy cleared his throat and rubbed his chin. "Do you like John Silver?" "I think he's just fascinating, don't you?" returned Miss Katherine. "Exactly, Miss Boulby. Fascinating's the word I was hunting for just before you came up. But it's the subject of the book itself that fetches me. I was always after hidden treasure, Captain Kidd's and so on. I don't suppose you were ever taken that way?" Miss Katherine looked at her questioner out of the corner of her eye, but he was gazing abstractedly over the water. "Well, yes, I must confess that I have been rather interested in hidden treasures. But, of course, I have never done any actual hunting as I have never had any clues. But I should think it would be very interesting. Did you mean that you have actually sought a specific treasure?" "Not exactly that," explained Mr. Murphy, "at least not till I came here." Miss Katherine's eyes grew wide. "I haven't done any real diggin' here yet," he went on, "but I hope to begin soon. Now I don't mind telling you for I'd like a partner, one who thinks as I do about it, you understand. It isn't for the love of the money, you know, but the romance, that's it, the romance. Now you know all about Captain Kidd?" Miss Katherine nodded. "Well, I've figured it out pretty well, and it's my opinion that some of his hoard lies right along this shore and not very far from here." Mr. Murphy's imagination was pretty well exhausted so he stopped to recuperate. "Along this shore and not far from here!" exclaimed Miss Katherine. "Dear me! Who'd have thought it? But have you any maps or plans or charts or whatever tells you where to look?" Mr. Murphy's imagination had taken a new lease on life. "I've got them hidden carefully in my rooms," he explained. "I have been comparing them with the physiognomy of the shore here and I believe with a little help on the subject which you can supply I would be able to identify the spot to-morrow." "I should love to help you," exclaimed Miss Katherine. "It's so very kind of you." "Oh, no, no!" returned Mr. Murphy. "It's only just now since you told me that you were interested in treasure seeking that I have really enjoyed thinking about it." "You said you had always been interested in hidden treasures," Miss Katherine reminded him. Mr. Murphy's face grew red. He hastened to explain: "I mean that the books that I've been reading under your direction have been so interesting that I couldn't bear to stop reading and look for the treasure." Miss Katherine beamed. "We will search together," she said coyly. As they were walking home together, Mr. Murphy observed casually-- "A friend of mine who was a great friend of Captain Shannon's told me once that the Captain had produced a new species of rose and that he had been awarded a gold medal by the American Horticultural Society. The Captain told my friend that he used to wear it on his chain but he lost it while working in his garden here. Wasn't it a pity? I don't suppose you have ever come across it?" "Not that I know of," returned Miss Katherine composedly. When she got home she went immediately to the library and to the drawer that held the ancient golden coin that Joseph had found. She took it to the kitchen where she scraped and brushed it well. Behold! there was the name of the American Horticultural Society on one side and on the other the inscription: "Consequitur quodcunque petit!" * * * * * When Mr. Horton returned from his visit to the Boulbys, he told his wife of the gratifying results and of Miss Boulby's wish that she and other church workers would call upon her. "The brother was strangely moved," concluded Mr. Horton, "and the sister was greatly softened." Mrs. Horton and her friends did not delay calling upon Miss Boulby. That lady has been walking on air since the above-related conversation with Mr. Murphy and was in a very sweet and forgiving mood. She allowed her callers to talk just as much as they pleased and on the subject dearest to them. They discussed and re-discussed every phase of church work. Miss Katherine professed herself willing to make endless quilts for the missionary box, pin-cushions for the bazaar, socks for the Old Men's Home and cakes for the sewing circle. The minister's wife was dazed by such liberality and when Miss Katherine spoke of the number of years her brother had been deacon in their home church, and of her own activities in every conceivable church society, the ladies felt that a terrible injustice had been done this exemplary brother and sister. When Miss Katherine had seen that her words fell on receptive ground she still mellowed that soil by tempting refreshments after which she proposed a walk in the garden. As Joseph was from home she offered slips, roots and seeds without number. At last she came to a rose tree which, she judged, would do as well as any other and she launched into the story of Captain Shannon's experiments to produce a new species and final triumph. "We knew," said the unblushing Miss Katherine, "that he had been awarded a medal by the American Horticultural Society. Mr. Murphy, who is an old friend of the Captain's, told us he had lost the medal in the garden, so we began looking for it. Come with me and I'll show you where we found it." Miss Katherine did so, elaborating on the trouble they had taken to discover it. "It is solid gold," said she, "and we were afraid that the boys might suspect what we were looking for and come at night and hunt for it, so we set Bruno to watch at night, but fortunately we found it. Come in the house and I'll show it to you." As Miss Katherine watched her visitors go away she said to herself: "I confess that all I said this afternoon was not strictly true, but there are times when a prudent woman will deviate somewhat from the exact truth." * * * * * When Miss Katherine had bade Mr. Murphy good afternoon, on the day of his startling disclosure concerning Captain Kidd's treasure, the aforementioned gentleman fell to chuckling. "I'm in a devil of a fix, but I've saved the house from destruction, that's sure. I'll trust her to make peace with the neighbors and then I'll gradually ease her off the Captain Kidd proposition and then there should be plain sailing. But Jehosaphat! What about that chart? Well, I'll just have to get some paper and a pencil and go back to the shore and draw it, that's all. I can't lie worth a darn. I've got to get myself in a worse mess every time instead of lying out." So saying, Mr. Murphy procured the paper and pencil and retraced his steps to the shore where he labored long and arduously, for he was neither an artist nor a cartographer. In a couple of days Mr. Murphy informed Miss Katherine that he thought he had located the right spot and that afternoon, they would begin their search. Miss Katherine was to join him at the spot where she had found him the day they became partners in this affair. He would be laden with the necessary tools. Miss Katherine asked if she should bring a bag in case of success, but Mr. Murphy said no, they were more apt to find it if they acted as if they thought they wouldn't. At the appointed time and place the junction of the forces was successfully accomplished. Miss Katherine and Mr. Murphy sat down side by side to study the chart. The latter explained that he had worn out the original and this was a copy he had made. The chart fully came up to Miss Katherine's idea of a chart. "Now you can see if you study it," exclaimed Mr. Murphy, "that it's this bit of shore that's meant. See where it juts out here by the pine tree! Well, just look down the shore there and you'll see the very spot. From there just follow along and compare the chart with the shore. Line for line, ain't they?" "Isn't that remarkable!" exclaimed Miss Katherine. "What a wonderful observer you must be to have noticed the similarity! But wouldn't you think there would be changes in the shore line since the time this chart was made?" "Well, you see it's sheltered here," returned Mr. Murphy. "That makes a big difference." "Oh does it?" cried Miss Katherine. "Oh, yes!" replied Mr. Murphy. "And now where is the treasure?" asked Miss Katherine. "Well, the first place I'd try is right in this little hollow. We'll go right along to it." Mr. Murphy shouldered his spade, pick and axe and directed Miss Katherine to the spot, a little sandy hollow between two little sandy mounds. "Now you must keep guard while I dig," said Mr. Murphy. "It wouldn't do to let others into the secret you know." Miss Katherine was quite disappointed, for she had anticipated watching the excavation sink deeper and deeper until the spade suddenly struck the iron lid of a box, and a king's ransom glowed at their feet. But she realized the wisdom of this request and uncomplainingly complied with it. In silence and with inward protest Mr. Murphy plied his spade until he was obliged to straighten his aching back. He looked at his task mistress entreatingly, but she was on guard and had no eyes for the toiler. The poor man gazed about him in distress. Would he fall from grace if he took a little rest? Fortunately for Mr. Murphy, at this moment, Miss Katherine's eye fell upon the little lunch basket she carried. A pang of remorse shot through her heart as she turned and beheld her hero leaning wearily upon his spade. At the suggestion of lunch Mr. Murphy climbed out of prison with such alacrity that Miss Katherine's soft heart suffered another pang. But as pity is akin to another, warmer and tendered passion let us hope all was working for the highest good of Miss Katherine and Mr. Murphy. Whatever hopes of a prolonged rest that gentleman had at first entertained were soon destroyed by a word or two from his inexorable partner, and again the gentle chuck, chuck as the spade struck against the soft sand, was the only sound that broke the silence. Miss Katherine, though not watching the digger, kept time with his steady spade and strained her ear to catch a clink instead of a click. That would announce the bursting of an old leather bag or the striking upon an iron box. There it would be! Gold! Gold glittering in the light after years of darkness! "Damn it!" broke in upon Miss Katherine's golden dream. In mild surprise she turned about and beheld her erstwhile obedient partner hurl his spade from him and scramble out of the deep hole he had dug. Rebellion was written on his face, but as he approached Miss Katherine there was something much softer and infinitely agreeable to the female eye in his expression. "Confound it all!" said Captain Peter Shannon, "let's stop this foolishness and get married." * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Punctuation errors have been corrected. Archaic and variant spelling is preserved as printed. The following emendations have been made: Page 6--Katharine's amended to Katherine's--... so readily consented to Miss Katherine's going ... Page 7--be amended to he--... why wouldn't he come back ... Page 9--Katharine amended to Katherine--However strongly Miss Katherine became convinced ... Page 19--ever amended to every--"There is unusual strength in every feature, ..." Page 20--captain amended to Captain--... to--er--the Captain--ah--when he returns ... Page 21--captain amended to Captain--"Ah, you think that the late Captain was ..." Page 27--by amended to my--"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Miss Katherine, ... Page 31--snbstantials amended to substantials--She had heard of such substantials ... Page 32--Pue's amended to Poe's--... for she had been reading Poe's frightful tale of the black cat, ... Page 36--hook amended to book--... for he often put a book in his pocket ... Page 37--llustrations amended to illustrations--... and looked at the illustrations. Page 39--aainst amended to against--... which, in hitting against a stone, ... Page 42--your're amended to you're--"... but I wouldn't say you're right, Willie." Page 46--seem amended to seemed--... as he seemed to elicit just what he desired. Page 48--know's amended to knows--"Everybody knows he isn't expected ..." Page 53--thing amended to think--I think the picture's got all the strength ... Page 53--a sweak amended to as weak--... I ain't as weak as water ... Page 54--villian amended to villain--"If I'd ever had a villain like that Silver ..." Page 54--one's amended to ones--... the ones the Captain read so much, ... Page 55--omitted double closing quote added--"... Now you know all about Captain Kidd?" Page 55--horde amended to hoard--... it's my opinion that some of his hoard lies right along this shore ... Page 57--omitted word 'he' added--The Captain told my friend that he used to wear it ... Page 57--Consequitar amended to Consequitur--"Consequitur quodcunque petit!" Page 59--forunately amended to fortunately--... but fortunately we found it. Page 60--everytime amended to every time--... in a worse mess every time ...