f" 
 
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iHUJOER 
 
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 A SON OF OLD HARRY. 
 
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^ \ .1 j' S:^\:...jm 
 
A SON OF OLD HARRY 
 
 2, l^aml 
 
 BY 
 
 ALBION W. TOURGEE, 
 
 Author of ^' A FooVs Errand,'''' etc. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WABREN B. DAVIS. 
 
 NEW YOKK: 
 
 ROBERT BONNER'S SONS, 
 
 i8qi. 
 
COPTHIGHT, 1891, 
 BY ROEEKT BONNER'S SONS. 
 
 (All rights reserved.) 
 
l^on of OJ^Hc 
 
 ioh IP. C(o O^c'e . , 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 IT did not need the verdict of Science 
 to assure me that I am doomed. Yet, I 
 have just heard it announced. Calmly, qui- 
 etly, without a quaver in his voice, one of the 
 most eminent of his profession, has declared : 
 " There is little, I may say no hope of recov- 
 ery, nor any immediate prospect of death. 
 You may live weeks, perhaps months, possi- 
 bly years ; but you will never be — other than what you 
 are." 
 
 Other than what I am ! I expected this decision — 
 knew in reason it must be so — yet the words fell upon 
 my consciousness with a strange, numbing- sense of 
 horror. 
 
 " Other than what you are !" I repeated to myself, as 
 I heard the firm, elastic steps echoing along the corridor 
 of the great hotel outside my room when the physician 
 went away. What am I .? It did not need knowledge 
 such as his to determine. Half dead and half 
 alive ! 
 
 603283 
 
A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 This body which has served me so well at need, and 
 which, whatever else I may have done, I have never 
 abused, has been cut in twain. One-half has already 
 passed beyond the realm of consciousness. The inert 
 limbs chain me to the couch. The nerves which traverse 
 the yet unshrunken tissues, bring- only dim, vague mes- 
 sages of need — dull, prickling appeals for aid. I live, 
 but it is only a half-life. The brain is alert ; the soul 
 alive ; the body slipping helplessly and hopelessly into 
 the tomb. 
 
 It is a strange ending of a strange life — a life strange 
 enough without such tragedy— a life already curiously 
 dismembered by Fate. Has it been one life — or two — 
 or three ? Am I the lad who set out on life's journey 
 half a century ago unmindful of the destiny that awaited 
 him ? Did I grow to be what I was, or did some strange 
 alembic transform my nature ? It is hard to tell. Per- 
 haps in the earlier life was hid the fruitage of the later 
 years — and the one was but an evolution from the 
 others. 
 
 What shall I do with this interval between life and 
 death ? Review the past ? I cannot change it. Nay, I 
 would not if I could. Not that I have always done the 
 best or chosen always the wisest course. Perhaps I 
 sometimes did the very worst. But the one act which 
 colored all my after life, I committed purposely, with 
 full knowledge of its import, and I have no desire to 
 repent or to be forgiven. Whether it was right or 
 wrong, I do not know ; worse yet, I hardly care. Nay, 
 Iftoking backward at it from this vantage-ground of 
 truth, my dying bed, I do not hesitate to say that I am 
 glad I did the thing which made my name a syno- 
 nym of shame, so bitter that Cain himself, even with 
 the ineffaceable mark upon his brow, might well pity 
 the man condemned to wear it. 
 
Prologtie. g 
 
 It cut my life in twain even as my body is now cleft. 
 What I had been, I was never to be again. The child 
 my mother bore has already been dead more years than 
 he lived. I have had two lives — two lives with a black, 
 bottomless gulf between them. Yet the past has no 
 terrors for me. As to the future, I do not know what it 
 may have in store. If I am to live hereafter, and I hope 
 I may, I trust my destiny with Him who shaped the 
 past which He will judge. I do not fear His judgment. 
 I have no need to prepare for death. I am ready for it 
 — at least as ready as I ever shall be — as ready as I 
 ever can be. 
 
 No living mortal save myself knows who I really 
 am, or even guesses what I was. Why should he ? I 
 died a score of years ago — died and was inumed in 
 infamy. A continent thrilled with horror at the obloquy 
 of my act. My name is remembered only to be detested. 
 Even I can hardly realize that it was once mine. My 
 life seems bounded by the red horizon of my shame. 
 He who lived beyond it, and bore that other name, was 
 not I, but another. I never think of him but in the 
 third person. Men blotted this name off the tablets of 
 friendship ; women denied with angry vehemence all 
 knowledge of him who bore it. It was erased from the 
 roll of honor on which I had written it with the sword — 
 from the records of the church ; from the scroll of fame 
 — for 1 had made it famous in a way, by honorable 
 endeavor. Even the brethren of the " Mystic Tie " dis- 
 owned me. In all the world there was not one to offer 
 me the hand of sympathy or speak my name with 
 pity. 
 
 Why should I not write the story of this strangely dis- 
 jointed life. The future is denied me — why should I 
 not recall the past ? I do not know that any one will 
 care to read the tale. Indeed, I do not think I desire so 
 
lo A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 much that it should be read as that it should be fairly- 
 stated. I wish to tell the truth, and am not sure I would 
 always do so, if I thought what I write would be read by 
 many. 
 
 I have often wondered that men should care to 
 write about themselves, or that others should care to 
 read what people think, or, rather, desire others to 
 believe they think about themselves — their dreams, acts 
 purposes and achievements. A man's testimony for or 
 against himself is not apt to be reliable. I have 
 always thought there was no greater liar that St. Augus- 
 tine in his "Confessions." I read them when I was 
 young. If I had believed them, they would have 
 done me harm. In his desire to glorify his Redeemer, 
 I think he slandered his Creator. His idea of evil was 
 delusive, too. The sinful thought is not the full equiv- 
 alent of wrongful purpose ripening into harmful 
 act. 
 
 Yet St. Augustine was probably as nearly truthful as 
 any one can be who writes of himself in order that the 
 world may read. 
 
 I have read many so-called " Lives " of men who 
 desired to extol their own purity, demonstrate or defend 
 or explain the acts they feared the future might not esti- 
 mate as they desired. I have no such motive. What I did 
 cannot be extenuated. Why I did it is a matter of no 
 consequence, I expect nothing of to-morrow and have no 
 defence to make of yesterday. I could at the best only 
 admit that of which I am accused, and affirm the very 
 motive which was assigned. I do not regret it, and can 
 derive no benefit from its confession. The world would 
 demand either a show of repentance or a display of 
 boastful depravity. I can offer neither. I would be glad 
 if one who knew her might read the plain, unvarnished 
 tale of my life that she might be judged aright. That is 
 
Prologue. 
 
 II 
 
 all I desire. So far as / am concerned, it is a matter of 
 no moment. There is but one whose good opinion I 
 would greatly care to retain ; and hers, of all persons in 
 the world, I think would be least likely to survive a 
 knowledge of the truth. It is strange that I should 
 care for the judgment of one who wears a nurse's cap 
 and apron, more than for all the world beside ; but it is 
 true. So I will write and she shall read ; and whether 
 she excuse or condemn, it shall be of none the less 
 advantage to her. 
 
PART FIRST— JACK. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A TIMELY PHENOMENON. 
 
 '• \ 
 
 It was forty years ago. A man of middle age, whose 
 frame was wasted by disease, lay upon a bed opposite a 
 bright wood-fire, by which sat a woman weeping bit- 
 terly and wiping away her tears with the blue-checked 
 cambric apron which she wore. A sturdy boy of twelve 
 years stood near the foot of the bed, digging his chubby 
 fists into his eyes and sobbing dolorously. A man 
 younger than the invalid, but so closely resembling him 
 as to leave no doubt that he was a brother, stood with 
 flushed face at the head of the bed and looked angrily 
 down at the offending youngster. The countenance of 
 the sick man evinced great anxiety. The stubby beard 
 gave his emaciated face a somber look. Jet black hair 
 hung in a dark, almost forbidding mass across his sal- 
 low forehead. Blue eyes shone with a tremulous, humid 
 glow beneath the knotted, beetling brows. A full 
 under-lip showed through the dark beard moving ner- 
 vously. A red flannel shirt was visible beneath the 
 coarse white cotton one with its unlaundried bosom. 
 
 The hand that rested on the coverlet, though pale and 
 shrunken, still bore the tan of accustomed toil, and the 
 great joints and broad, stiff nails told that the sick man 
 
14 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 had been of powerful physique. Tufts of black hair 
 showed upon the shrunken phalanges, revealing a 
 ghastly story of the ravages of disease. His face was 
 kindly but severe, and his voice trembled more from 
 excitement than feebleness, as he said, sternly : 
 
 " What is this I hear, my son ?" 
 
 Seth Goodwin was a very sick man. His friends, 
 relatives, and even the attending physician, said that he 
 had not long to live. They told him so, too, with that 
 reckless disregard for consequences which characterized 
 a life in which preparation to die was considered a 
 much more important fact than death itself. Lest he 
 should perchance forget the fate impending over him, a 
 preternatural gloom pervaded the room in which he 
 lay, which was kept at a stifling temperature, with every 
 breath of air excluded, lest Nature should refuse to sub- 
 mit to the general verdict. Apprehension was written 
 on the countenance of every one who approached the 
 bedside. Many asked, in solemn tones, after his spir- 
 itual welfare. Several insisted upon praying with him. 
 The wife wept and tried to hide her tears. The 
 brother, recently arrived, had put a stop to some of 
 these things. He had insisted on cheerful faces, few 
 callers and no prayers. The wife thought him cruel ; 
 the neighbors called him wicked ; the doctor said he was 
 sensible. He himself said that Seth had made his will, 
 was ready to die, and probably would die ; but he 
 shouldn't be worried to death nor lose any chance of 
 life through fretting over what couldn't be helped. 
 
 The sick man was only a common farmer, one of 
 those sturdy men who, when the middle West was but 
 half subdued, undertook to win competence by complet- 
 ing the conquest the pioneers had begun. It was before 
 the days of railroads and telegraphs. The highways of 
 traffic lay along the great lakes, a himdred miles to the 
 
A Timely Phenomenon. 15 
 
 northward, or up and down the great river, a hundred 
 miles to the southward. "Wagons and boats were the 
 sole means of transport. The stage-coach was the only 
 carrier-pigeon. Roads had been hewn through the 
 forest on the lines blazed by the government surveyors, 
 until every State west of the Alleghanies must have 
 looked to an aerial beholder like a great checker-board 
 cut in the arboreal verdure. Here and there the dull- 
 yellow roadways were flanked by green meadows and 
 thrifty homesteads. Villages and towns, the ganglia of 
 traffic and precursors of a new civilization, were clus- 
 tered here and there. The forest, which represented the 
 stored-up wealth of unnumbered centuries, was still 
 accounted the enemy of the thrifty settler, who warred 
 against it with fire and steel. The mighty walnuts, 
 whitewoods, maples, beeches, oaks and elms which 
 hedged in the clearings with a continuous living wall 
 a hundred feet in height, even though of the finest 
 grain and clearest fiber, were counted worthless to the 
 owner. Men were still hired to destroy these monarchs 
 of the forest. Only from their ashes, leached and boiled 
 into crude forms of caustic soda — "potash," it was 
 called — could a merchantable product be obtained by 
 which the owner might get pay for the labor of " clear- 
 ing." The value of the land depended upon the cost 
 of cutting away the forest. The denser the growth and 
 the richer the wood, the heavier the cost of removal. 
 
 The land teemed with the promise of unexampled 
 productiveness. Horses and cattle, sheep and swine 
 were abundant ; but only the first were highly prized^ 
 according to more recent standards of comparison. It 
 was a tedious and costly matter to drive the cattle and 
 swine a thousand miles to market. The fleece was 
 more easily transported, and despite the disadvantages 
 of production, wool became one of the first articles of 
 
1 6 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 commerce of this region. Grain and cheese were 
 exported also, but the cost of carriage made the prices 
 very low. 
 
 With the irrepressible energy which marked the epoch 
 in which he lived, Seth Goodwin and his young wife had 
 set out a dozen years before to overcome these obstacles 
 — to build a home and acquire a competence. They 
 had succeeded well ; but before their plans had reached 
 entire fruition, one of those great financial revulsions 
 that sweep over the world had touched the products of 
 toil and they had shrunk almost to nothing. His desire 
 to increase his possessions had induced him to mortgage 
 what he had already acquired to secure money to buy 
 more. When the shrinkage in values came, he fought 
 bravely, working with redoubled energy ; and for a time 
 his hope for ultimate success . was not without reason- 
 able basis. Whatever courage, integrity and good 
 credit could do to avert disaster, that Seth Goodwin 
 could be relied upon to accomplish ; but after a time 
 disease came, and with it, very soon, despair. The sick 
 man faced his doom with composure, but the thought 
 that he would leave his wife and child unprovided for, 
 filled both his waking moments and his dreams with 
 agony. 
 
 The boy had been a source of constant anxiety, espe- 
 cially to his mother, ever since he had been able to find 
 his way into danger. He had now been summoned to 
 his father's bedside to be reproved for an offence which 
 derived the greater part of its enormity from the condi- 
 tion of his parent's health. Among the duties which 
 this illness had imposed upon the lad was the care of a 
 colt which from a suckling had been the pride of the 
 boy's heart. It had been " broken," as the process of 
 training the horse to work is barbarously called, the 
 summer before. The boy had ridden him to plow corn. 
 
\ A Timely Phenomenon. i j 
 
 and to and from the field, and since he had had him in 
 his care, had ridden him, perhaps, oftener than was nec- 
 essary, to the brook, which babbled along under the 
 hill-side half a furlong from the barn, for water. This 
 fact, not having come to the parents' knowledge, had 
 never been forbdiden. He was a resolute lad and had 
 shown a capacity to " look after things," as the mother 
 had expressed it, which was a great comfort to the 
 afflicted woman, and being reported to the father had 
 won his warm approval. 
 
 A fortnight before, the brother of the sick man had 
 come to assist the wife in taking care of him. He was a 
 somewhat gay young fellow whose pride centered in a 
 mare noted throughout all the region as a " quarter- 
 horse," of great speed. Since he had owned her she 
 had done some notable work, but was not regarded as 
 quite strong enough for the long distance races then in 
 vogue. This mare the uncle had brought with him and 
 she had occupied a stall next to the boy's colt, Pompey. 
 
 Racing was at that time a popular amusement in that 
 region. The tracks were often " straightaway," and the 
 equipments of the sport very crude, but good time was 
 often made, and the associations of the turf were far 
 more reputable than they are to-day. Almost in front 
 of Seth Goodwin's house stood a beech-tree, which was 
 the beginning of what was known through all that 
 region as " the measured mile," a level stretch along the 
 State Road, which was a favorite place for trials of 
 speed between the fancy nags of the neighborhood. In 
 these trials, the boy had always manifested a lively 
 interest, and was well aware of the reputation the brown 
 mare belonging to his uncle Horace had earned in many 
 a hard- won race as the " Queen " of that particular bit 
 of turf. Her fame did not, however, in the least eclipse, 
 in his opinion, the glory of his own pretty bay, in whose 
 
1 8 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 capacity to distance the " Queen " herself, the boy was 
 a firm believer. This belief he did not hesitate to avow, 
 and when some of his playmates made light of this 
 theory, he promptly offered to put it to the test by a 
 race between them along the accustomed track. 
 
 It was not the season of races. A heavy snow had 
 fallen, but the weather was mild, and it had been beaten 
 down into two smooth parallel tracks, bordered on either 
 side by a white flocculent cushion. There happened to 
 be among the boys one who boasted of some experience 
 as a jockey, who volunteered to ride the Queen, and 
 young Goodwin declared his readiness to back his own 
 favorite in a literal sense. It is not in boy nature to 
 " take a dare," and words quickly grew into deeds. The 
 horses were bridled. Cooper, the challenger, who was 
 some years older than the colt's champion, insisted on 
 having the only saddle in the bam. The boy made no 
 objection. He had rarely ridden with a saddle. He 
 merely strapped a sheep-skin on the back of the low, 
 rangy bay colt, which stood beside the bony, flat-limbed 
 mare on the great bam- floor during the controversy, 
 and declared himself ready for the trial. 
 
 The jockeys mounted and rode out, the colt leading 
 the way. The other bo5's followed on foot. They went 
 down the lane toward the brook, and took the cart-track 
 up the hollow out of sight of the house, to the road, 
 instead of going through the yard. Nobody gave any 
 specific reason for taking this course, but the boys all 
 knew it was to prevent their being interrupted and the 
 race spoiled by any interference of the elders. The 
 house was quite a distance from the road, and they 
 trusted on escaping observation until too late to put an 
 end to their sport. When they reached the road, they 
 trotted up to the big beech ; a mark was made in the 
 snow on each side of the track ; one of the boys was 
 
A Timely Phenomeno7i. 19 
 
 named as starter ; the horses were turned back and 
 brought carefully up, neck and neck, to the starting- 
 place. 
 
 " Go !" shouted Billy Wayland, the starter, throwing 
 his cap in the air. 
 
 " Go !" shouted the other boys at the top of their 
 voices. 
 
 Mrs, Seth Goodwin looked out of the kitchen window 
 just in time to see two horses, with boyish figures on 
 their backs, flash across her field of vision. A swift 
 intuition told her who they were, and she sank into a 
 chair with a low, shuddering moan. She was a weak, 
 nervous woman, whose reliance had been in her hus- 
 band's magnificent strength. Now that this support 
 was likely to be removed, she was already looking for- 
 ward to a widowhood in which the son, so wonderfully 
 like his father in self-reliance, should be her chief 
 dependence. If there was one thing that she feared 
 more than another, it was a horse. From the first, the 
 boy's fondness for the colt had filled her with apprehen- 
 sion. A thousand times she had in fancy seen him 
 bitten, kicked, torn, mangled by the spirited beast he 
 would persist in fondling. Now she beheld him borne 
 headlong to his doom on the back of this same winged 
 terror. 
 
 There was a shriek from the group of boys by the 
 roadside — an unmistakable cry of alarm. She saw them 
 gazing in terror along the level vista of the "measured 
 mile." There were more shouts. Some ran in one 
 direction and some in another. She heard louder, more 
 terrified cries. She was sure one voice said : " He's 
 down ! He's killed !" She did not stop to ask who was 
 slain. Her heart told her. She was not only to be a 
 widow but childless ! The snow grew red — bloody red 
 — then yellow and green to her dazed vision. The room 
 
20 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 whirled round and round as she sank to the floor in a 
 dead faint. Here her brother-in-law found her when^ 
 startled by the noise of her fall, he came from the sick- 
 room to inquire its cause. Taking her in his arms, he 
 laid her on the bed in an adjoining room. By that time 
 more than one of the frightened boys were clamoring at 
 the door. 
 
 It did not take many inquiries to learn the facts. 
 Even his heart stood still with fear at the thought of 
 two unpracticed boys starting out to ride a race with a 
 a hard-bitted flyer and a half-broken colt. He was in 
 the road in an instant, snatching off his coat as he went, 
 clenching his hands, throwing out his chest and shutting 
 his lips close as a man must who is going to take a long 
 run. Away up the road he could see two moving spots 
 — or was there only one ? He did not stop to question. 
 A quarter of a mile away there was a black heap by the 
 roadside. It was alive and audible ; there was no doubt 
 about that. Two of the boys reached it about the time 
 he struck the roadway. They raised it into a sitting 
 posture. The clamor grew louder. 
 
 " I never thought the whelp would make such a fuss 
 as that," said the runner to himself, disgustedly, as he 
 drew near. " Ah, it's not Jack ! What's the matter ?" 
 he asked, pausing and shaking the boy by the collar as 
 he spoke. " Stop your yelling, Sam Cooper, and tell me 
 what's the matter !" 
 
 " Oh, I'm killed ! I shall die ! I know I shall !" 
 howled the frightened boy. 
 
 The questioner soon found that however frightened 
 the lad might be, the deep snow had saved him from 
 serious injury. All he could learn about his nephew 
 was that he was " sure to be killed ;" a result he thought 
 not unlikely, but man-like consoled himself with the 
 contemptuous remark : 
 
A Timely Phenomenon. ii 
 
 " If he is he won't make such an infernal fuss about 
 it." 
 
 Having thus expressed himself, Uncle Horace resumed, 
 with the pertinacity peculiar to the Goodwins, the 
 apparently hopeless pursuit of the runaway. 
 
 It was an hour later when he returned. He was rid- 
 ing the Queen, whose head drooped down as she swung 
 it back and forth in a long fox-walk, while the steam 
 rose from her heaving flanks, and clouds of vapor poured 
 from her distended nostrils. He held the colt's rein, 
 while a worn switch, which he carried in his right hand, 
 seemed a sufficient explanation of the lachrymose con- 
 dition of the lad on the colt's back. Both horses were 
 evidently tired, as was natural after a two-mile heat in 
 the snow, for they had passed the limit and only been 
 stopped when nearly a mile beyond. 
 
 The colt's condition did not escape the horseman's 
 eye as he put the animals in the stable and blanketed 
 them carefully lest they should take cold. He was 
 drenched with sweat by his unaccustomed effort, but not 
 in the least blown, and his steaming flanks throbbed 
 evenly and steadily, as if he had merely had a fling in 
 the pasture, instead of trying conclusions with the best 
 horse in that region. When the uncle had attended to 
 the horses he hooked his fingers in the boy's collar and 
 led him to the house. Seeing her child safe, the mother 
 had already informed the father of the main facts in the 
 case. After a short consultation with his brother, the 
 lad was called in. His mother followed, taking her 
 station on the hearth and weeping as if her heart would 
 break — whether from joy or sorrow, it would be hard to 
 tell. 
 
 " What is this you have been doing, Hubert ?" repeated 
 -the invalid, tremulously. 
 
 The boy's name was John Hubert. His mother gen- 
 
2 2 A Son of Old Harjy. 
 
 erally spoke of him as John ; his father always addressed 
 him as Hubert ; his uncle and playmates called him 
 Jack, 
 
 " I didn't — mean — no harm," sobbed the boy as he 
 industriously rolled his fists in and out against his eyes, 
 as if seriously contemplating the removal of the offend- 
 ing members. 
 
 " You knew it was wrong ?" 
 
 " I — I — s'pose so." 
 
 " Then, why did you do it ?" 
 
 " Well, you see, sir — Sam Cooper — he — he — we was 
 all in the bam and talking about — about Pomp and — 
 and the Queen, sir — that is, the boys was talking about 
 old Queen, and — and I told 'em Pomp was a better 
 horse'n she'd ever been ; and he is, too." 
 
 " Pompey is a good colt, but he has never run a race ; 
 so you should not have said that. It is not nice to 
 brag." 
 
 " It wasn't any bragging, father ; I was sure of it," 
 said the lad, stoutly. 
 
 " But you had never seen him run." 
 
 " Oh yes, I had," answered the boy, quite cheerfully ; 
 " and rode him, too." 
 
 " When and where ?" demanded the father, sternly. 
 
 " Oh, lots of times ; last fall, after the races." ' 
 
 " My son, answer me : Have you ever ridden him on 
 the measured mile before .?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered the lad, bowing his head and 
 beginning to sob again. 
 
 " How was it that you were never seen before ?" 
 
 " It — it was at night." 
 
 " At night ! Didn't you know you were not old 
 enough to do such things.?". 
 
 " But I went after the doctor at night when you were 
 first taken sick," sobbed the boy. 
 
A .Timely Phenomenon. 23 
 
 "So you did," said the father, softening-. 
 
 " And you said that was right, though I didn't let you 
 know about it." 
 
 " That's a fact, my son — " 
 
 *' And Doctor Kelsey said if he had waited to walk, it 
 would have been too late," interrupted the mother, 
 who could not help interceding for the child. 
 
 " But you know I do not approve of horse-racing," 
 continued the father, changing his ground. " It is not 
 a creditable business for any one to engage in." 
 
 " Uncle Horace races," protested the boy. 
 
 "You see, now," said the sick man, reproachfully, 
 turning to his brother, " what your example is doing. 
 The boy might have been killed." 
 
 " Well, he wasn't ; and I don't think he's likely to be, 
 judging from what I saw of his riding." 
 
 " Oh, it's no trouble to ride Pomp," exclaimed the boy, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " But Sam Cooper was badly hurt, I hear, and he is 
 considerably older than you, Hubert." 
 
 "He would have been all right, too, if he had just 
 stuck on — but he got scared — that's what was the mat- 
 ter with him. You see, the old mare had the best of the 
 send-ofE — 'cause she was used to it, I guess. But when 
 Pomp see she was trying to get away from him, he laid 
 down to it and shut the light out between 'em almost 
 as if she was standing still. Of course, she didn't like 
 that, and just let out the best she had. She went so 
 fast, I guess it scared Sam, for he kind of slid off into 
 the snow, and began to holler ; but the old mare kept 
 right on. 'Twasn't any use, though," continued the 
 excited lad ; " Pomp was on her quarter when we got 
 to the bars of No. 7, and 'fore we'd got to the three-quar- 
 ter maple, he was a neck ahead. Queen was a-doin' her 
 best, too, and I didn't touch the switch to Pompey, but 
 
24 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 by the time we got to the mile post, he was — well — quite 
 a few lengths ahead — three or four — anyhow," said the 
 boy, doggedly, looking up at his uncle. 
 
 " My son !" said the father sternly. 
 
 " It's so, father. Do you think I'd tell a lie ?" asked 
 the boy, choking back the tears. 
 
 " Why didn't you stop there ?" asked the uncle, 
 
 " I did try to, and I could have stopped Pomp easy 
 enough, but every time I'd pull him up, old Queen 
 would try to rush by." 
 
 " Just like her," muttered Horace to himself, appre- 
 ciatively. " I'd risk the old girl to run a race all by 
 herself, and win it, too, if it was in the cards for her to 
 do so." 
 
 ** My son, you cannot expect any one to believe you 
 when you claim to have outrun the swiftest horse in the 
 country with a snip of a colt." 
 
 *' There's a good bit of a horse in that colt's hide, 
 Seth," interposed the uncle. 
 
 "I did, father ; 1 did, truly I" exclaimed the boy, with, 
 passionate intensity. " And he can do it again any day 
 — the best she ever see. I tell you, father, you don't 
 know what a colt he is. Just let me try it. Uncle 
 Horace may ride Queen, too, and if Pomp don t beat her, 
 he can whip me all the way back just as he did to-day," 
 said the boy, resentfully. 
 
 " Your uncle did exactly right.'' 
 
 " I wasn't to blame for the colt being smarter than his 
 old mare," protested the boy, sullenly. 
 
 This was too much. The uncle laughed outright ; 
 the mother chuckled under the apron she still held to 
 her eyes, and even the father smiled. 
 
 "Hubert," said the latter, after a moment. "Can you 
 think of nothing but horses ?" 
 
 " I — I don't know," answered the boy, rolling up the 
 
A Timely Pheno7nenoii. 25 
 
 skirts of his butternut " warmus " with uneasy hands. 
 "I s'poseso." 
 
 "Come here," said the father, tenderly. The boy 
 slipped forward and laid his hand in the great, gaunt 
 palm that opened to receive it. " You know your father 
 may not live very long, and then your mother will have 
 no one but you to care for her. It will be a hard thing 
 for a boy, and you must grow to be a man very soon. 
 Now, I want you to promise to take good care of your 
 mother." 
 
 " Oh, I'll do it ! I'll do it !" exclaimed the lad weep- 
 iny passionately, " Don't be troubled a bit ; I'll take 
 care of her, and you, too, if you'll just live and let me 
 have Pomp to do it with. I tell you, father, I could 
 make a thousand dollars out of him next summer, just 
 as easy as not. How much has Uncle Horace made on 
 Queen, and she ain't nowhere beside the colt ?" 
 
 There was no attempt to suppress the laughter now\ 
 The incorrigible boy had disarmed reproof. The uncle 
 laughed as loud as he dared in the sick-room, the 
 mother whirled her chair quickly round, and catching 
 the boy to her breast, sobbed and laughed on his 
 shoulder. The father laughed feebly, too, until the 
 sweat started on his forehead and he motioned toward 
 the stand on the other side of the bed, on which stood 
 a blue bowl containing a cooling draught. The boy 
 caught the gesture first, and bringing the bowl, held it 
 carefully to his father's lips. When the invalid had 
 drank and the bowl had been replaced, he called the lad 
 to him, and putting his hand on his shoulder, said : 
 
 " You are a good boy, Hubert, and I hope you will 
 think of something beside horses, when the time comes. 
 I think I can trust you, and I want you to know that I 
 do trust you never to do an }i;hing unmanly, that will give 
 sorrow to your mother or bring discredit on your name. 
 
26 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 But I want you to promise me that if I should die, you 
 will not worry your mother by running horses or get- 
 ting into needless danger. "Will you do it T* 
 
 " Oh, you know I will, father — I will do — anything — 
 if you only won't die !" 
 
 " Life and death are of God, my son," said the father 
 solemnly. " When he calls I must answer. Will you 
 make it easy for me by promising not to run a race or 
 ride an unbroken horse until you are eighteen years 
 old ?" 
 
 " But, father — " pleaded the lad, desperately. 
 
 " I want to be sure that your mother will not be left 
 alone in the world, my child." 
 
 The promise was given ; the weeping lad kissed the 
 parched lips, and the mother led him sobbing from the 
 room. The invalid sank down wearily, and the brother 
 carefully arranged the pillows and clothing of the bed. 
 
 " Johnnie says he wants to ask you just one question," 
 said the mother, re-entering the room after a few min- 
 utes, with the boy by her side. " He seemed so anxious I 
 could not refuse him." 
 
 " Well, what is it ?" asked the sick man, in a feeble 
 voice. 
 
 " If — if — you shouldn't die, you can take care of 
 mother, can't you ?" 
 
 " I trust I may be able to do so," answered the father, 
 with difficulty repressing a smile. 
 
 "Then — what I promised," sobbed the lad, " ain't no 
 promise, if — if you don't die, T s'pose ?" 
 
 There was a choking sound at the head of the bed as 
 Uncle Horace caught a corner of the pillow against 
 which the sick man leaned and stuffed it in his mouth. 
 
 " O dear !" sighed the father, petulantly. "Yes, yes 
 — if I get well you may ride all the time. Seems as if 
 you could think of nothing but horses and races." 
 
A Timely PJienoinenon. 27 
 
 " It ain't that, father," exclaimed the boy, as he ran 
 forward and buried his face in the bed-clothes ; " but I 
 should hate to think you hadn't as much confidence in 
 me as other folks have in their boys. I wouldn't mind 
 not riding — not so very much, that is — but I'd hate to 
 own that you wouldn't let me ride at all." 
 
 The father's face lightened, and his hand stole out 
 and rested on the bowed head. 
 
 " You are a good boy, Hubert, and it gives me great 
 comfort to know that you think of others instead of 
 yourself. Perhaps I was over-anxious." 
 
 " I would rather never see ahorse again than have you 
 so troubled about me !" exclaimed the boy. 
 
 " I've been talking with him, Seth," said the wife, 
 hesitantly, " about — about the colt, and I would like to 
 tell you what his idea is. I know you're tired, but I'm 
 sure 'twould do you good just to know how far ahead 
 the boy's been looking, and how much he's been thinking 
 about the very things that are troubling you. If the 
 worst comes, I'm sure you'd feel better to know about 
 it." 
 
 The good woman was not afraid of her husband in the 
 sense of having any apprehension as to his kindliness of 
 heart. Seth Goodwin was a model husband, as he was 
 a model man in all things that go to make up a good 
 neighbor and a good citizen ; but he was masterful and 
 strong, and felt himself quite competent to do the think- 
 ing for all those in whom he was interested. This 
 characteristic had been emphasized by his illness, and 
 his wife hesitated to offer a suggestion which might con- 
 flict with his imperious will and so prove deleterious to 
 the welfare of the invalid. It was only as a result of 
 the lad's persistence, who was as self-willed as his father, 
 that she had ventured to prefer so extraordinary a 
 request. 
 
28 A Soil of Old Harry. 
 
 " 1 think you ought to hear it, Seth ; I really do," the 
 mother repeated. 
 
 ** He's pretty tired," said the brother, after telegraph- 
 ing in vain from his place at the head of the bed for 
 her to refrain from troubling the invalid further. 
 
 ** I'll hear it," said the elder, irritably, resenting the 
 implication of weakness. 
 
 " Well, you see," continued the mother, smoothing 
 out her apron and looking deprecatingly at her hus- 
 band, " Johnny thinks he is — well — something remark- 
 able — the colt, I mean." 
 
 " Boys always think their own things better than 
 anybody else ever had." 
 
 "But he's hunted up the colt's pedigree, Seth," 
 insisted the wife, desperately ; " and you know you 
 said yourself that the dam, old Fanny, was the most 
 remarkable horse you ever owned," 
 
 " I didn't mean as a racer." 
 
 " But there wasn't anything in these parts that could 
 get away from her in her prime, all the same," inter- 
 posed the brother, emphatically. 
 
 " I s'pose you know," was the peevish rejoinder. 
 
 " I do that," was the unabashed reply. " I won more 
 dollars on her when we first came here, than I made 
 by day's work." 
 
 '* That is no credit to you, Horace," said the sick 
 man, reprovingly. 
 
 " I s'pose not," answered the brother, jocosely ; " but 
 it is to her foal ; and you must remember there's not 
 many people hereabouts that wouldn't take Hod Good- 
 win's opinion about a horse sooner than they would his 
 brother's. He ain't half as good, but he knows a horse, 
 don't you see." 
 
 " Well, what's all this got to do with the boy ? I 
 hope you don't want him to be a horse-jockey, Susan ?" 
 
. / Timely Phejiontenon. 29 
 
 " He says the colt is very fast, and has what he calls 
 * bottom,' " said the mother. 
 
 " Well, suppose he has ?" 
 
 " Why, don't you see, father," protested the boy, lift- 
 ing his head quickly and speaking hurriedly, as if fear- 
 ful that he might not be allowed to finish his remarks, 
 " if he's handled right he'll pay off every cent of the 
 mortgage, and you needn't trouble another bit about it, 
 but just lie still and get well." 
 
 '* That 's sense, anyhow," rejoined Horace, emphat- 
 ically. 
 
 " I would rather my debts should never be paid than 
 be discharged by betting on a horse-race or any other 
 sort of gambling," said the father, sternly. 
 
 " Knew he'd say that !" muttered Horace, shaking 
 his head. " I'd have helped him out long ago ; could 
 have done it just as easy as not, but he wouldn't have 
 my money." 
 
 *' You didn't have any," said the sick man, impa- 
 tiently. 
 
 " But I could have gotten it, and you knew I could." 
 
 " By risking what you had ?" 
 
 " Of course. You know I don't bet except to get a 
 little spending money, and now and then to buy a new 
 horse, but I'd have strained my luck for you any time, 
 and will now, if you'll let me." 
 
 " You are very kind, Horace, but — " 
 
 " But John says it isn't necessary to do any betting 
 at all — of course he knows you wouldn't allow that. He 
 says if you'll let him and Uncle Horace handle the 
 colt, he'll sell for more'n the mortgage amounts to, 
 long before Kincaid can turn us out," interrupted the 
 wife. 
 
 " Now, that's an idea worth having," said the brother- 
 in-law, heartily. " Kincaid can't get you off the place 
 
30 A Son of Old Haj'ry. 
 
 before October, anyhow ; you told me that yourself ; 
 and if Jack's right about the colt outsteppin' the Queen, 
 there's big money in him if he's handled, and I'm the 
 one to do it. Seth, if you don't take back all the scold- 
 ing you've given the boy over this matter, and thank 
 God for giving you such a son, you ain't the man I take 
 you to be — that's all. He may not be as careful about 
 his pronouns and adverbs as you'd like to have him, but 
 you just let him alone and he'll steer things. Hanged 
 if I wouldn't marry myself if I could have a boy like 
 him. You can go to sleep, now. Providence has taken 
 care of your affairs in spite of your thinking it couldn't 
 be done without your help. All you've got to do is to 
 get well and enjoy your good luck. Kiss the boy now 
 and let him clear out. You must go to sleep." 
 
 " rd like some broth first," said the invalid, with a 
 look of relief on his face that had not been there for 
 weeks. 
 
 " Good for you !" exclaimed the brother. " How long 
 since he's asked for anything to eat before, Susan? 
 Hurry it up before he changes his mind. And Jack, 
 you can ride the colt as much as you're a mind to ; 
 didn't I hear you say so, Seth ?" 
 
 " If he'll only be careful," answered the father, humor- 
 ing his brother's conceit. 
 
 " Oh, I'll be careful, father — I won't ever get on a 
 horse without thinking of you — I won't, truly." 
 
 The boy leaned over and kissed his father tenderly. 
 
 " And see here, sir," said the uncle, taking the lad by 
 the coat-collar, " I'm going to lick you every day until 
 your father gets well !" 
 
 " You may, you may, Uncle Horace ; I won't mind — 
 if I may ride the colt," was the gleeful response. 
 
 " All right ; now go and rub down those horses and 
 
Conjidejice Born of Knowledge. 31 
 
 give them a feed. I'll come and take another look at 
 the colt after awhile." 
 
 A strange sense of peace and hope settled down upon 
 the Goodwin household that night. The black giant 
 Despair fled away, and sweet sleep rested upon the long- 
 troubled home. 
 
 Seth Goodwin's illness " took a turn" that day, so the 
 neighbors said, and from that time he began to mend. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 CONFIDENCE BORN OF KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 Why Seth Goodwin began to improve in health 
 just when he did was almost as great a puzzle to his 
 physician as why he had not done so before. The 
 simple fact was that he had begun to hope. He had 
 waked out of the fever which his stalwart frame had so 
 long resisted, with the one thought still dominant in his 
 mind which had been uppermost when he lost conscious- 
 ness, that on the first day of January he must pay one 
 thousand dollars, or his bond would be forfeited and his 
 creditor might sell as soon as he could get judgment. 
 The property covered by the mortgage was really 
 worth several times the amount of his debt ; but in the 
 existing condition of affairs it was doubtful if the whole 
 farm would bring the necessary sum, though it was only 
 a moiety of the price he had agreed to pay for half of it. 
 Values had shrunk terribly, and he had already sold 
 everything that could be spared, to meet a payment 
 due six months before. His son's words had shown 
 
A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 a possible way of escape, which, slender as it seemed 
 to the brother, was sufficient to lighten his despair. 
 
 As is usual with persons affected with morbid fancies, 
 he went at once to the other extreme. As hitherto he 
 had no hope, he had now no doubt. He accepted with- 
 out hesitation the boy's notion that the colt would pull 
 him out of all his difficulties. As it was deemed impor- 
 tant to keep up his spirits, no one questioned or contra- 
 dicted what he said about the matter. The result was 
 that when he was at length able to leave his bed, he was 
 possessed with a hopefulness as unreasonable as his for- 
 mer depression. He was very weak, however, and it 
 was decided that Horace should remain to assist, or, 
 more properly, carry on the spring's work, to facilitate 
 which the Queen and the colt were to constitute a sup- 
 plemental team. After that was over, the brother was 
 to take such steps as might seem desirable in order to 
 realize upon the colt from the sale of which so much was 
 expected. How this was to be accomplished, Seth 
 Goodwin seemed to have no more idea than he had 
 doubt as to the result. Forbidden by the physcian's 
 orders from taking any part in the labors of the farm, 
 he surrendered everything into his brother's hand with 
 a calm confidence in the outcome, which, though at 
 curious variance with his previous character, was the 
 result of the same deep religious fervor which had recon- 
 ciled him to the thought of death, even when he 
 could foresee only want and difficulty for those he loved. 
 His hope was of God, as well as his submission. As he 
 had trusted Him in his darkest hours, so he praised Him 
 now in his brighter moments. 
 
 To his family, this change in the father's character 
 was very puzzling. He had always been a kind husband 
 and loving parent, but anxious, severe and irritable. 
 Every day he had discounted to-morrow's trouble, and 
 
ConJide7iee Born of Knowledge. '}^2i 
 
 sought to anticipate to-morrow's burdens. Striving 
 always for the best, he had feared always the worst. 
 Now, however, he was light-hearted, confident, careless. 
 The boy, whose love for his father had before been 
 tinged with fear, found him now the pleasantest of com- 
 panions ; and his wife, who had regarded him with 
 something of awe, both from his riper years and some- 
 what stern and serious character, began to give way to 
 her natural light-heartedness as she saw how her gayety 
 harmonized with his inclination. 
 
 To his neighbors the change was so startling that one 
 and all attributed it to preternatural causes. His deep 
 religious character and the composure he had manifested 
 in the face of death, gave some color to this hypothesis, 
 and it was soon noised abroad that Seth Goodwin had 
 experienced " sanctification," and was " delivered for- 
 ever from the power of sin." It is doubtful if this idea 
 had occurred to him until after it was suggested ; but 
 it was eagerly accepted, and belief in its verity served 
 very greatly to confirm the mental composure on which 
 it was based. If he did not quite believe that sin was 
 impossible with him, he for the first time accepted the 
 idea that his purposes and inclinations were right, and 
 that what he desired to do could not in itself be wrong. 
 
 All this, his brother, careless and worldly-minded, was 
 unable to comprehend, and it was with unfeigned aston- 
 ishment that he found him entering heartily into his own 
 plans for the colt, on whose qualities the hope of the 
 future seemed to depend. The invalid made frequent 
 allusions to the subject, and sometimes rebuked his 
 brother for seeming apathy in regard to it ; but Horace 
 skilfully avoided any extended consideration of the mat- 
 ter until the spring's work upon the farm was well 
 advanced and his brother's health so far restored that 
 he was able to sit up the greater portion of the day. 
 
34 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 His recovery was very slow, if recovery it was, and the 
 once busy, anxious man watched the springtime pass 
 away with a strange absence of apprehension for the 
 future, and without manifesting any special desire either 
 to assist or direct the work which was going on about 
 him. 
 
 " What are your plans about the colt, Seth ?" he finally 
 asked one afternoon when the planting was over and a 
 warm April shower had just come in time to start the 
 waiting seeds. It had cleared away and the first rain- 
 bow of the season was painted on the retreating storm- 
 cloud in the eastern sky by the level rays of the setting 
 sun. Seth Goodwin sat in a great splint-bottom rocker 
 watching the pictured clouds, from the window of the 
 room which he had occupied during his illness. His 
 face had lighted up as if the effulgence of the bow of 
 promise were reflected in it. Horace sat near him, in 
 his shirt-sleeves, just as he had come scurrying in from 
 the field to avoid the rain. He had watched his brother 
 narrowly during the storm and seemed depressed rather 
 than cheered by the quiet contentedness of his man- 
 ner. 
 
 " Oh, you just put him in shape, Horace, and take 
 him East and sell him. There isn't anybody else can do 
 as well with him as you. He's gained every day he's 
 been at work, and is looking splendidly now." 
 
 Seth Goodwin did not know the care that had been 
 taken not to over-work or even weary the animal on 
 whose value so much depended. Horace had allowed 
 no one else to touch the reins ; and in addition to giv- 
 ing this team the lightest work, had taken the precau- 
 tion to shift the pivot of the doubletree well over 
 toward the end to which the mare was attached, thus 
 lightening the colt's load. The colt had never been 
 allowed to get tired or discouraged, but had had plenty 
 
Confidence Boi'u of Knozvlcdge. 35 
 
 of good, toughening exercise. When it was over, he 
 was rather low in flesh , but his tendons were like steel 
 and his coat as soft and shining as if he had been under 
 the trainer's hand. 
 
 In the meantime, Horace had studied him very care- 
 fully. To the careless reader such prolonged scrutiny 
 ma}'-, no doubt, seem to have been unnecessary. There 
 is a general impression that certain men are gifted with 
 an instinctive power to determine at a glance the quali- 
 ties and capacity of a horse ; but every true lover of the 
 animal knows that one might just as well attempt to 
 select a lyric poet by inspection, as a successful race- 
 horse. So many qualities are essential to a well- 
 founded hope, so many mental as -well as physical attri- 
 butes to be considered, that the experienced horseman 
 fully understands that only he who has " summered 
 and wintered with a horse," studying his every move- 
 ment, watching the play of his muscles, the action of 
 his limbs, the beat of his pulse, the swell of his nostrils, 
 his digestion, endurance, and especially his temper, is 
 able to give a reliable opinion, not only as to what he is 
 able to do, but what he is likely to be willing to do 
 under given conditions. It was not without good rea- 
 sons, therefore, that Horace Goodwin followed the colt 
 day after day in the furrow. He knew very well that 
 there is no place where one learns so thoroughly the 
 real qualities of a horse as by constant observation of 
 him while engaged in some regular work. In that 
 manner alone can one become entirely familiar with 
 his physical qualities, learn what reliance is to be placed 
 on his power of endurance, and especially whether he be 
 endowed with that courage which, while submitting to 
 needed restraint, is of that fine quality which bids 
 defiance to fatigue, and when he has done his seeming 
 best, responds with willingness to the demand for more. 
 
36 A Soil of Old Harry. 
 
 Horace Goodwin had determined to attempt a bold 
 stroke, if his observations confirmed his nephew's judg- 
 ment of the colt's qualities. While he did not rely upon 
 the boy's opinion, he did not neglect the fact that the 
 lad, though without extensive knowledge of horses, had 
 a natural aptitude for horsemanship, and, by a careful 
 study of his favorite, had arrived at an estimate of his 
 capabilities, which was by no means to be lightly dis- 
 carded. His own reputation as a horseman demanded, 
 however, that this opinion should be confirmed by his 
 own carefully matured judgment. 
 
 This young man was by nature a gambler. He 
 delighted in great risks. He loved to do unexpected 
 and surprising things. While not averse to labor, the 
 drudgery of slow accumulation was intensely distasteful 
 to him. Fond as he was of the horse, he had an 
 ineradicable aversion for farm-life. He could endure 
 any sort of privation in order to accomplish some start- 
 ling result, but the almost inappreciable gain resulting 
 from daily application was irksome beyond expression 
 to him. He was willing to stake everything he had 
 upon a single stroke, but he would not do it without 
 full comprehension of the chances for and against suc- 
 cess. Though a gambler by nature, he was something 
 more than a mere dice-thrower. He delighted to base 
 his hope upon knowledge, and had in him much of the 
 material of which the successful speculator is made. 
 
 In the present case he had many incentives to 
 caution. He had fully determined to effect his 
 brother's release from the incubus of debt in one way 
 or another. He had become satisfied that the mare. 
 Queen, was possessed of trotting qualities of rare excel- 
 lence, and as this sport had lately sprung into special 
 favor at the East, he had intended to train her carefully 
 and enter her as an unknown in some of the races where 
 
Confidence Born of Knowledge, 37 
 
 the odds would be tremendously in her favor. He 
 counted upon borrowing enough to take advantage of 
 these conditions, and hoped that what he might win in 
 stakes and wagers, supplemented, if need be, by the 
 sale of the mare, would enable him to pay oflE his 
 brother's bond before he could be dispossessed by legal 
 process. It was not a very large sum, but a horse 
 worth a thousand dollars was then very rare. 
 
 The hope of discovering a winner was not so wild as 
 it seemed. The trotting horse had not then become a 
 scientific fact. Prodigies were still numerous upon the 
 trotting turf. Each year developed some new won- 
 der, and it was hardly an unusual thing to find the last 
 year's favorite superseded by one which twelve months 
 before had been hitched to plow or cart. Horace Good- 
 win had watched the principal events of the previous 
 season, and felt that he could safely rely upon the 
 Queen to give a good account of herself with such com- 
 petitors. She was in her prime, sound as a dollar, 
 toughened by exertion, familiar with the track, and 
 only needed, as he thought, to have the trotting-gait she 
 had always preferred developed and confirmed to show 
 not only speed but the ability to win races. 
 
 The suggestion in regard to the colt had changed his 
 plan by adding to it another possible chance for success, 
 as well as another possible opportunity to enhance his 
 renown as a horseman. Next to the relief of his 
 brother's necessity, he counted the pleasure of a 
 triumph on the turf. To have two strings to his bow 
 and be the possessor of two " surprises " at the same 
 time was a rapture he had never dreamed of before. 
 The fact that he found himself dreaming of it now 
 rendered him distrustful and uneasy rather than con- 
 fident. He began to think that his imagination had 
 run away with his judgment. 
 
38 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 His study of the colt had been unusually careful, 
 therefore, and his disinclination to pronounce an opinion 
 upon his merits had proceeded not only from considera- 
 tion for his brother's interests, but also from a keen 
 desire to avoid a decision that would reflect discredit 
 upon himself. He felt that his reputation as a horse- 
 man was at stake, and he would almost rather have 
 abandoned the hope of relieving his brother than have 
 suffered that to be tarnished. He understood how easy 
 it is to be mistaken in regard to an untried horse, and 
 determined not to err from any lack of study of the 
 subject. Twice, after a day or two of rest, he had tested 
 the colt's speed at night along the *' measured mile." 
 Once the boy had ridden him and the uncle had ridden 
 the mare ; the other time he had gone out alone, lightly 
 clad, with spurred heels and a rawhide at his wrist, and 
 ridden the colt at speed along the "measured mile." 
 It was a race against time. He had no watch to tell 
 the seconds, but he could make a good guess at com- 
 parative speed. Besides that, he wanted to feel how 
 the colt would run under a heavy weight, so as to be 
 able to judge of his prowess, and to test for himself his 
 courage, to decide whether he would endure pressure, 
 and in the climax of his effort respond to an appeal for 
 more. When he had reached the end of the course he 
 dismounted, quickly applied his ear to the colt's chest, 
 counted the heart-beats, held the nostrils a moment, 
 and then listened at the swelling flank ; stood off and 
 watched him, as, with outstretched neck and observing 
 eye, he recovered from his effort with deep, even sus- 
 pirations. Then he felt of each leg, one after the other ; 
 stood in front of the animal and looked him over sharply, 
 while the colt's bright eyes watched curiously his own 
 movements. Having finished his observations, he 
 threw the bridle over his arm and walked briskly home, 
 
Confidence Boj^n of Knowledge. 39 
 
 nodding his head, now and then snapping his fingers at 
 his thoughts. He did not trust himself to put them 
 into words by whispering them even to himself, and the 
 colt probably wondered why Mr. Horace Goodwin was 
 so considerate as to walk back to the stable, instead of 
 riding. 
 
 " Oh, I can put him in condition easy enough," said 
 Horace, replying to his brother's suggestion ; " but he 
 must — you see — well, I suppose you know his value 
 depends on what he can do — how fast he can go." 
 
 "Of course," answered the other, simply. Horace 
 looked into his brother's peaceful face in unaffected 
 surprise. 
 
 " And you understand that what he can do can only 
 be determined — in one way ?" 
 
 " By a race, you mean ?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 " You might arrange one with the Queen." 
 
 The younger brother shook his head in emphatic 
 amazement at his brother's innocence. 
 
 " No use," he said, shortly. " Everybody would say 
 it was a put-up job, and it would hurt both of them. 
 To make a reputation, the colt's got to run against 
 something that has a reputation and is run to beat ; and 
 he must either win or come so near winning that any 
 one can see he ought to have won. You see, it isn't so 
 much the question what he can do as what he will do on 
 the track against another that makes a horse worth 
 dollars instead of dimes." 
 
 " So I suppose." 
 
 "You don't object to my making a match for him, 
 then ?" 
 
 " I cannot countenance betting," answered the other, 
 firmly. 
 
40 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " But you have no objection to his running, if you are 
 not required to back him?" 
 
 " I can hardly say I have no objection, Horace," said 
 the other, gravely ; " but if the Lord is kind enough to 
 lift me out of trouble by sending me an exceptionally 
 valuable beast, I do not think I have any right to scorn 
 His bounty by refusing to allow an opportunity to show 
 his value," 
 
 " Exactly. Well, that's sensible, anyhow," replied 
 Horace, with an intonation of relief. 
 
 " I wouldn't want to keep on running him, but, just 
 to find out what's in him, I think I've a right — " 
 
 " Of course you have," interrupted Horace. He was 
 afraid the other would see the weakness of his own 
 casuistry and revoke the leave he had granted. He 
 need not have had any such apprehension. Seth Good- 
 win had decided that it was not sinful for him to take 
 this course. This decision had made him happy, and 
 he had come to test questions of right and wrong more 
 by the " inner light " than by any established ethical rule. 
 It may have been delusive, but it was a very comfort- 
 able way of looking at a troublesome question. 
 
 " What do you think of the colt, anj^how, Horace ?" 
 asked the owner, with some show of uneasiness. 
 
 " He's a good deal of a horse," answered the brother, 
 cautiously, " and it's all the better it wasn't found out 
 until he was well grown." 
 
 " I should have broken him before, but I had no use 
 -or him, and I thought it was just as well he should be 
 in the pasture, so I only used him enough to keep him 
 bridle-wise," commented the invalid, complacently. 
 
 ** I suspect somebody else used him more than you 
 did," the brother added with a meaning smile. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
Confidence Born of K7j,owledgc. 41 
 
 " I've a notion that Hubert has ridden him about the 
 pasture more than you imagine." 
 
 " But Number 2, the pasture where he has always 
 been kept, is a mile away, and only half cleared," said 
 the father in surprise. 
 
 " Well, Jack is a dozen years old. Jumping over 
 logs and stumps was good exercise for the colt and 
 splendid training for the boy," answered the brother. 
 " Don't be troubled, Seth,"he continued ; "it won't hurt 
 the lad for anything else to be a good horseman, and 
 that he certainly is — the best for his years and inches I 
 ever saw." 
 
 " And you think he's right about what the colt can 
 do?" 
 
 " Beat the Queen, you mean ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I think so — haven't any doubt of it ; though no one 
 ever knows just what the old girl will do to-day by what 
 she did yesterday." 
 
 *' His dam was a good one. Nothing ever discouraged 
 her. You remember when we moved out here, Horace, 
 we had to lay over for the other horses to rest three or 
 four times ; but old Fan was always ready to start — too 
 ready, in fact," commented the elder, musingly. 
 
 "And the colt was sired by Abdallah ?" rejoined the 
 brother. 
 
 " I don't know," was the reply. " You remember I 
 sold the mare, and the purchaser let her run down until 
 she was thin as a shadow. That was always the way 
 with the old girl — let a fool drive her and she'd run her- 
 self into the grave, no matter how well she was fed. 
 She was getting on in years and the man thought she 
 was going to die on his hands, and sold her back to me 
 for a song. I turned her out to grass ; the fall feed was 
 good ; she stood the winter well and the foal was as 
 
42 yl Son of Old Harry. 
 
 pretty a fellow as I ever saw. The next year she took 
 a hard cold and went off in a month as if she had quick 
 consumption." 
 
 " I suppose she had." 
 
 " Very likely. I don't see why horses shouldn't have 
 it as well as people, and I never saw a place where there 
 was so much of it as right about here. I've heard the 
 sire was Abdallah, but never quite believed the story." 
 
 '* There's no doubt of it." 
 
 ** I'm almost sorry," said the brother, in a dissatisfied 
 tone. " They're boasting a good deal about his stock 
 now, especially for trotting nags, but I haven't much 
 opinion of him or of trotters, either. It is a strained, 
 unnatural gait — fast trotting, I mean ; and the horse 
 that trots instead of galloping is a sort of monstrosity. 
 I'm sorry its coming into favor again. As for Abdallah, 
 I saw him once ; a mean, rat-tailed, ill-proportioned 
 scrub, with the worst temper ever put inside a horse's 
 skin." 
 
 " The colt's got his share of that ; but you must 
 remember that descent from Abdallah means Messen- 
 ger blood." 
 
 " Well, I, for one, don't think as much of Messenger 
 blood as many do. I think it owes as much to what it 
 has met with as to the qualities it brings " 
 
 The younger brother smiled. In that day, it was still 
 permissible to doubt the excellence of the matchless 
 gray whose blood has since become the most valuable 
 that ever coursed in equine veins, and there were many 
 very capable horsemen who still regarded the trotting 
 gait as a serious mistake. 
 
 " At all events," said Horace, " Messenger blood 
 means ' go ' to the very death." 
 
 " I suppose that's so. Belmont used to say it was a 
 strain of that which made it so hard to keep old Fan 
 
Confidence Born of Knowledge. 43 
 
 m fair condition ; but she got most of her good qualities 
 from the other side." 
 
 " Did you buy her of a man named Belmont ?" asked 
 the brother in surprise. 
 
 " Bought her at the administrator's sale. She was old 
 Loren Belmont's favorite nag. She was past her prime 
 then, and, as usual when she had her own way, in low 
 order, and went very cheap. She used to be called the 
 ' Belmont Mare,' and was a notable beast in her day." 
 
 " I should think so !" exclaimed the other, emphatic- 
 ally. 
 
 " I wanted her because she was the best walker I ever 
 saw — the colt is just like her in that — and I knew such 
 a horse would be worth her price in a team on a long 
 journey, if she did nothing afterward. Even a dull 
 horse will wake up if he has a quick-stepper for a mate." 
 
 " So ?" said the brother, with a long, low whistle. 
 " That accounts for some things. The Queen is one of 
 her colts, too." 
 
 " Foaled the second year after we got here. I was a 
 fool to sell her, but I needed money badly." 
 
 " Lucky there was a scapegrace in the family to buy 
 her back," rejoined the brother, jocosely. "I tell you, 
 Seth, there's more money in Messenger blood than in 
 any other stock that ever walked on four legs. You see 
 they're always willing to do their level best. They may 
 be coarse-built and high-strung and bad-tempered, but 
 they're tough and determined. One of the best things 
 that ever happened to this country was the landing of 
 that scraggy gray who couldn't even be made sea-sick, 
 but was all two men could manage the very minute he 
 came down the gang-plank. His stock are mostly trot- 
 ters, but I suppose the colt gets his gait from the other 
 side. The Belmont Mare was a Bashaw, I believe." 
 
 " Her dam was by an Arab." 
 
44 ^ ^on of Old Harry. 
 
 " From a daughter of Messenger ; that's what I've 
 heard." 
 
 " And she was sired by Justin Morgan." 
 
 " You see the colt is very well bred — almost thorough- 
 bred, except the Morgan strain." 
 
 " Well, I believe Justin Morgan was better bred than 
 he gets credit for." 
 
 " It may be." 
 
 " Must have been to give out so even and strongly- 
 marked a stock. You see, it's the average quality of a 
 family of horses that shows the breeding, not the 
 exceptions." 
 
 " I suppose so," assented the brother, absently. 
 
 " Of course it is," said the invalid, irritably, noticing 
 the other's inattention. 
 
 Horace looked anxiously at his brother, took his pipe 
 from his pocket, filled and lighted it, took a whiff or 
 two, cleared his throat and said : 
 
 " If I tell you just what I think about the colt, Seth, 
 it won't upset you, nor — anything, I s'pose ?" 
 
 The other paled a little, but answered brusquely : 
 
 "Of course not." 
 
 "Well, then, I don't think there's above a dozen 
 horses in the country can show him their heels ; and if 
 you can hold on to him until that's generally known, 
 you needn't fuss about not being able to work." 
 
 The sick man, who had shown a strange weakness 
 since his recovery, put his hand to his breast and 
 looked steadily out of the window. His mouth twitched 
 with pain, and there were tears in his eyes. 
 
 " The Lord has rebuked my want of faith," he said, 
 solemnly. 
 
 " The colt will need to be given a fair chance, of 
 course," interposed the brother, quickly. 
 
 " You will do what you think best with him, Horace, 
 
CoJiJideiice BorJi of Knowledge. 45 
 
 I don't want to know anything about it. It may not be 
 right, but I'll stand by you and take the blame. Right 
 or wrong, it means comfort for them;' he nodded 
 towards the other room where his wife and his child 
 were. " When I was at the worst and thought I was 
 going to leave them unprovided-for, I promised the 
 Lord that if He'd show me a way to do that, I wouldn't 
 ask anything for myself. It seems as if He'd took me 
 at my word, and I'm not going to back down, whatever 
 the consequences. If there's any sin in what we're 
 doing, Horace, I'll take it all on myself. If I knew it 
 meant eternal punishment, I'd do it — for their sakes." 
 
 His face grew pale and he leaned back in the rocking- 
 chair, with a glance at the open door between the rooms. 
 Horace rose and shut it softly, and returning, placed 
 his hand on his brother's forehead. It was wet with 
 heavy drops of sweat. 
 
 " Don't be troubled, Seth," he said, soothingly, " It 
 can't be wicked to raise and sell a colt — and that's all 
 you're going to do. If I choose to arrange a race and 
 win or lose a few dollars on the result, that's my affair. 
 It won't be the first time I've done it, either, and prob- 
 ably will not be the last. You just leave the matter to 
 me and don't worry. I wouldn't have your name 
 mixed up with such a thing — though I don't think 
 there's any harm in it — any sooner than you ; but you 
 know / can't be hurt, nohow." 
 
 The sick man smiled. i, 
 
 "You are very good, Horace." 
 
 " No ; I'm just paying off some old debts." 
 
 " I'm afraid I was too harsh with you sometimes, 
 Horace — when we were both younger." 
 
 " That's just where you're mistaken. If I ever do 
 take a turn for the better, it'll be because of your 
 
46 A So7i of Old Harry. 
 
 example," said the younger brother, with some show of 
 feeling. 
 
 The elder raised his right hand feebly, the younger 
 clasped it and turned away his head. After a little 
 time he withdrew his hand and went out of the room 
 wiping his eyes. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE KING OF THE CORNERS. 
 
 Ortonville was the name assumed by the little group 
 of houses on the State road a mile from the dwelling of 
 Seth Goodwin. Why it was called Ortonville, or why 
 a ville of any sort should have been located at that 
 point, nobody knew. It was not even a cross-roads, 
 since the township roads which crossed the great high- 
 way, did so, one to the northward and the other to the 
 southward of the little village. Indeed, Ortonville had 
 no legal status, boundaries or existence. It was located 
 in Greenfield township ; and sometimes arrogated to 
 itself the name of West Greenfield ; but the assumption 
 was not regarded with approval by the inhabitants of 
 other sections of the green parallelogram to which 
 the name legally pertained. A score or so of houses, a 
 store, two rival blacksmith's shops, a tavern, a grist- 
 mill, a wagon-shop, a carding-mill, two churches and a 
 select school may be said to have constituted about all 
 there was of the pretentiously named little village. 
 Small as it was, it was made more insignificant by being 
 divided into two parts by a sharp gorge down which 
 flowed a little stream, whose pent-up water lazily and 
 
" The King of the Coj'uers!' 47 
 
 reluctantly turned the mill wheels. The inn and one of 
 the stores stood on one side of the gorge ; the two 
 churches, the school-house and several of the most pre- 
 tentious residences on the other. 
 
 The magnate of the village from the first was Mar- 
 shall Kincaid, who owned the store, the hotel, the livery- 
 stable upon the south side, and was the richest man in 
 all that region. The store and the inn were under 
 one roof and had a common sign — 
 
 KINCAID'S. 
 
 For a time the village was called '* Kincaid's" also ; but 
 the people, especially upon the north bank of the 
 stream, rebelled at this assumption, and procured the 
 post-office to be named Ortonville. This institution 
 was also, after a bitter contest, located in a rival store 
 on the north side, which the owner of Kincaid's chose 
 to consider as arrogating some aristocratic quality, 
 because of the possession of the post-office, churches 
 and the select school. 
 
 Hard-headed, heavy-fisted and sharp-tongued was 
 this magnate of Ortonville. The " best people " spoke 
 slightingly of him. He retorted by calling the village, 
 north of the ravine. Skunk Hollow. Coarse and demo- 
 cratic in manner, he was strictly honest according to his 
 own standard. What he promised, that he did. He 
 was not scrupulous or merciful. He did what the law 
 allowed him to do ; what it forbade, he did not attempt. 
 In spite of all opposition, the tough-skinned owner of 
 Kincaid's remained the autocrat of the ganglion which 
 had grown up by the great artery of trade and travel. 
 
48 A Sou of Old Harry. 
 
 along which the stage and the drover found their way 
 towards the northern and southern outlets of the great 
 East. What made this man a sportsman, it would be 
 hard to say, unless it was that his strong nature craved 
 the excitement of the gambler's life, while his prudence 
 held him back from the gaming table. Certain it is 
 that he prided himself especially upon his horses, and 
 would rather have held a mortgage on Horace Good- 
 win's mare Queen than on his brother's farm. 
 
 It was early in May that Horace rode up to Kincaid's, 
 watered his mare at the great trough which stood brim- 
 ming over at the foot of the sign-post, hitched her in 
 one of the long sheds across the way and sauntered 
 toward the store, in the door of which stood the mer- 
 chant, arms akimbo, clad in coarse white tow- cloth 
 trousers, and shirt, then the usual summer wear, the 
 sleeves of the latter rolled above his elbows, and having 
 upon his head what was known as a " chip " hat, made 
 of the braided filament of the buckeye-tree. 
 
 " Hello, Hod !" he exclaimed. " Come in here ; I 
 want to see you a minute. Where on earth have you 
 been keepin' yourself all the spring ? Workin' for Seth ? 
 Didn't know he could afford to hire. What you been 
 doin' ? Sugarin' and plantin', eh ? I've heard about 
 your sugar — mighty nice lot they tell me. Got any for 
 sale? Sold it? How much ? Eight hundred pounds ! 
 Why didn't you bring it to me ?" 
 
 " Well," answered Horace, indifferently, " we found 
 that we could get a cent a pound more at the harbor 
 than you was offerin', and as I wanted to go East to see 
 'bout some matters, we thought 'twas best to take it 
 there. Might just as well, you see ; don't cost any more 
 to drive a loaded team than an empty wagon." 
 
 " Why didn't you go East, then ?" retorted the mer- 
 chant, sharply. 
 
" The King of the Corner s'' 49 
 
 " Found what I was after in Sandusky." 
 
 " Oh, you did ? Must have been important." 
 
 " That's what it was — to me." 
 
 *' Oh, 'twas your business, was it ? Everybody knows 
 that when Hod Goodwin has business on hand, it must 
 be 'tended to right off or it'll spile." 
 
 He turned sideways in the door to give several 
 loungers in the store the benefit of his rude wit. There 
 was an approving laugh, and one or two of them sidled 
 past him and stood upon the porch the better to hear the 
 wordy encounter. Horace Goodwin, in the phrase of 
 the region, was regarded as " able to hold his hand with 
 most any body that chose to tackle him." He leaned 
 quietly against one of the posts of the porch, holding a 
 beech switch in his hand, with which he carelessly 
 tapped his red morocco boot-top, as he joined in the 
 laugh against himself. Horace Goodwin was inclined 
 to be what the good people of the region termed " fop- 
 pish in his dress." On the present occasion, though he 
 wore the ordinary homespun of the country, it fitted his 
 supple figure with a careless elegance, and the blue tie, 
 which confined the flowing Byronic collar at the throat, 
 the high, calf-skin boots, carefully blacked, and having 
 red morocco tops, together with a pair of brass spurs so 
 well polished that they shone like gold, gave him a sus- 
 piciously picturesque appearance. In truth, his reputa- 
 tion as a sport and reckless ne'er-do-well, was based quite 
 as much on his good clothes and good looks as on any- 
 thing reprehensible in his conduct. He had come to the 
 village for a special purpose, and had studied his attire 
 with especial reference to that object, gfiving it just that 
 careless elegance which he knew was most irritating to 
 the coarse nature of the landlord. 
 
 " Well, Squire," he answered with a provoking drawl, 
 " I don't know 'bout that ; but even if it was sp'ilt, I 
 
50 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 don't think my business would smell as bad as yourn 
 does in good condition." 
 
 The hit was too apparent to be overlooked, and the 
 laugh was on the magnate. 
 
 "Never you mind my business," he retorted, angrily. 
 " I'll take care of that. Brought back a load from Van 
 Wyck, didn't you ?" 
 
 " B'lieve we did." 
 
 " Trust him ?" 
 
 " Wasn't asked to." 
 
 " Owed him, I s'pose .?" 
 
 *' He paid cash at the dock — always does, I hear. 
 That's how he get's his hauling done cheap." 
 
 " Oh, 'tis ! Wal, he'll need to. I'll show him what it 
 means to come and open a store right here under my 
 nose. In less'n a year, the sheriff'll be auctionin' off his 
 goods if I have to sell mine at less'n cost." 
 
 " Ortonville '11 be a cheap place to buy goods, for a 
 while, then !" 
 
 *' Kincaid's '11 be the cheap place, and that's where the 
 goods '11 be brought, too." 
 
 " They say Day & Miller is backin' Van "Wyck." 
 
 " Don't care who's a-backin' him, I'll break him down 
 or bu'st up myself. I've made up my mind to that." 
 
 " That's what Wyck says he likes to see you doing. 
 He says he keeps run of your prices, and sends all of 
 his best customers here for big bargains. He furnishes 
 them the cash to buy with, you see, and takes their 
 truck at a fair price. He says it's cheaper to have you 
 bring on his goods than haul them himself." 
 
 A roar went up at this sally, and the merchant, will- 
 ing to conceal his vexation, joined in it. 
 
 " You're too sharp for me this mornin', Hod. I give 
 up. Got any more of that fine sugar ? They say you 
 
" The Ki7ig of the Corners^ 51 
 
 Vermont folks beat the world at b'ilin' sap. What do 
 you suppose makes the difference ?" 
 
 " I don't know, unless it's because we use more water." 
 
 " More water ? What has that to do with it ? What's 
 the use of mixin' water with the sap, when you have to 
 bile out what's in it ?" asked one of the loungers. 
 
 " Oh, I didn't mean waterin' the sap," answered 
 Horace, dryly. " I meant washin' the kettles and the 
 troughs and things of that sort." 
 
 " Hello, Hank !" said Kincaid, giving the one who 
 had spoken a whack upon the back. " Who's hit, now ? 
 They say you're so 'fraid of wastin' water that you don't 
 wash your hands above once a month." 
 
 " I'd wash 'em oftener if I had 'em in as many dirty 
 things as you handle," retorted the farmer, desperately. 
 
 " Wal, never mind," said the merchant, relieved by 
 the way the laugh had turned on another. " What I 
 want to know. Hod, is whether you've got any more of 
 that sugar. I s'pose I'll have to have a little, if I pay 
 twice what it's worth. My wife's been at me 'bout get- 
 tin' some for a month. She don't like muscovado. Now 
 I do. 'Tain't quite so white, but it's sweeter an* richer." 
 
 " Flavored with bits of nigger now and then, too. 
 That's what makes it suit your taste, I s'pose," said 
 Hank, willing to repay his tormentor for the thrust he 
 had received. 
 
 " I don't know about that. I don't reckon there is 
 anything in that story, I 'low niggers cost too much to 
 be used to flavor molasses with. But whatever 'tis, I 
 like muscovado. I think a green-apple pie, sweetened 
 with muscovado, with white clover honey on top of it, 
 is just about as good eatin' as a man ever gets. But my 
 wife spleens against it, and is especially fond of Good- 
 win's sugar, 'cause she says she knows it's clean. I hope 
 you saved some for us, Hod ?" 
 
52 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " I don't know whether Seth's folks would think they 
 could spare any more or not. We made about twelve 
 hundred pounds." 
 
 "So I heard," remarked the merchant. "Mighty 
 good bush, that." 
 
 " 'Bout the best in the country, and well-equipped, 
 too. Seven hundred buckets and troughs ; two forty- 
 barrel store-troughs, and a sugar-house thirty feet by 
 seventy, as light and dry as a parlor, and a sixty-foot 
 arch for boiling. It's hard to beat." 
 
 " Jest so," said the magnate, with a shrewd twinkle in 
 his eyes. 
 
 " But you see. Marsh, the last run was after the buds 
 had started, and wasn't quite as white as what was 
 ' done off ' before ; a little sticky, too, as if it wasn't 
 quite dry." 
 
 "Always will be that way after the buds start," 
 remarked the farmer called Hank. 
 
 " Yes," continued Horace, " and I don't s'pose Seth's 
 folks would like to sell that." 
 
 " Hurt his reputation, eh ?" 
 
 " Seth's mighty particular 'bout such things, you know. 
 Besides, it takes a good deal of sweetening for the fam- 
 ily, 'specially when I'm there ; then they're expecting a 
 sight of company this year, and Seth being sick — " 
 
 " How is he now ?" 
 
 " So's to be about the house, but don't seem to have 
 no strength — no more'n a baby, hardly. Just gives out 
 if he lifts his hands, let alone doing any work." 
 
 " I hear he's mighty happy, though ?" 
 
 It was Hank who asked the question, and his face had 
 assumed a sudden seriousness. 
 
 " Perfectly." 
 
 " So the Elder told me. I tell you, gentlemen, reli- 
 gion pays at such times," said the grimy-handed farmer, 
 
" The King of the Corners!^ 53 
 
 turning toward the others with an unconscious assump- 
 tion of superiority. 
 
 " So I s'pose. When I git that way, I'll think about 
 it," said Kincaid, lightly. 
 
 " You'd better begin pretty soon, Marsh. You'll need 
 all the time you're likely to have, if half they tell about 
 you is true," retorted Hank, shrugging his shoulders 
 and winking at the others. 
 
 " How much was there of that last run ?" asked 
 Kincaid, ignoring the rough exhortation. 
 
 " About eighty or a hundred pounds." 
 
 " What you goin' to do with the rest ?" 
 
 " Seth thought we'd better keep it. They might need 
 it, you know." 
 
 " Need four hundred pounds of sugar ! More'n I use 
 in the tavern !" 
 
 " Perhaps the house'd be more popular if you used 
 more," retorted Hank. 
 
 " No doubt it takes a good deal of that to sweeten 
 Seth's religion," sneered the merchant. " Well, he can 
 afford it — he's mor'gaged. By the way, when's he goin' 
 to pay that thousand dollars I've beeii waitin' for since 
 January ?" 
 
 " I don't know — not just now, I s'pose," answered 
 Horace ; ** but you needn't be at all afraid, Marshall ; 
 he'll get it some time, and he might as well be paying 
 you interest as any one. We've got in a good crop, and 
 I'm going to help him this year. He's had bad luck, you 
 know, but we're going into a little matter that promises 
 mighty well, we think." 
 
 " Horses ?" asked Kincaid, sharply. 
 
 "Well, a little. I went on East last fall looking up 
 this trotting business, that's come up so hot all at once. 
 I've had a sulky built and am going to train the Queen 
 for some of the fall races." 
 
54 A So7i of Old Harry. 
 
 " 'Tain't no good," said the other, positively ; " they'll 
 beat ye out of yer eye-teeth. You ain't no match fer 
 them fellers down East, Hod Goodwin." 
 
 " I don't know," answered, Horace, complacently. 
 " I hain't ever got let in very bad on a horse yet, and I 
 thought while we were at it,Seth and I might as well pick 
 up a drove and take them on at the same time. So if one 
 speculation flashed in the pan the other might amount 
 to something." 
 
 ** That ain't a bad idee. It'll take money, though, to 
 buy horses cheap, an' they don' either on ye seem to 
 have any too gfreat a supply of that," sneered the mer- 
 chant. " I don't see how y're going to do business, 
 unless you've got either money or credit," 
 
 " Well, you see, Seth's wife's brother, back East, he's 
 a little forehanded, and he's got a mighty good idea of 
 Seth's judgment and my luck ; so he's going to furnish a 
 little money for a starter, 'Twas him I went to San- 
 dusky to meet," 
 
 "Jest so; wal, 'tain't half a bad idea," repeated 
 Kincaid. " Ef you'd been as stiddy as Seth, you'd been 
 a rich man long ago with your luck — judgment, I'd call it 
 — but Seth'll spile it ; see if he don't. He's too pious to 
 make a good hoss-trader." 
 
 *' I s'pose I'll have to do the buying," said Horace. 
 
 '* You'll have to do the sellin', too, if there's any money 
 made," answered Kincaid. 
 
 " S'pose I shall," was the reply, 
 
 " Then what in thunder's Seth going to do ?" 
 
 ." Look after me and keep me straight, I guess," 
 
 " So you're goin' to turn pious, too," sneered the 
 magnate of the double-headed village, 
 
 " Well, I thought I'd see if I couldn't turn my expe- 
 rience to some account, and help Seth along at the same 
 time." 
 
.A J 
 
" The King- of the Corners." 55 
 
 " Hod Goodwin," said the merchant, " you're jest as 
 big a fool as ever, Ef you'd done that ten years ago, 
 or even five, you'd made a fortune, both on ye ; but it's 
 too late now. He's got no credit, and I'm goin' to 
 harvest that crop you have been plantin' for him, 
 unless — " here he looked around and winked at the 
 loiterers — "unless he takes that brother-in-law's money 
 and pays off my mortgage. That would be a good 
 plan, now." 
 
 " Seth would starve, first," exclaimed the brother, 
 angrily. 
 
 " B'lieve he would," rejoined Kincaid ; " but it's his 
 only way out of the box he's in. I'm goin' to put the 
 note in suit right away ; the place'll be sold in July — 
 jest the tightest time in all the year for money — and 
 he'll have to get off before the crop's ripe. I'm goin' 
 to have the money or the place, and, if the com does 
 well, I'd a leetle rather have the place than the 
 money." 
 
 " There ain't no doubt of that," answered Horace ; 
 " but I'll bet something you don't get it." 
 
 " How's he goin' to help it ?" 
 
 " I can't say just now." 
 
 " You can't make nothin' on yer hoss spec afore fall 
 nohow ?" 
 
 " I s'pose not." 
 
 " Wal, then, what's to hinder ?" 
 
 " I don't know exactly ; I just feel, though, as if some- 
 thing or other'd turn up to save Seth's place ; been feel- 
 in' so all the time." 
 
 " Bet ye fifty dollars that I git the place," retorted 
 the merchant, slapping his brawny palm on the door- 
 casing. 
 
 " Guess I'll have to take you up on that. Squire." 
 
 "All right," said Kincaid, going behind the counter 
 
56 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 and opening his money-drawer, with a flourish ; " put 
 up yer available." 
 
 " It's about all I've got," answered Horace, taking out 
 his pocket-book, "and it's a good while to wait for 
 returns ; but one has to back his kin, you know. What 
 time did you say ?" 
 
 " Wal— first of October." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 Horace counted out the money, and the two went 
 across the street to put the stakes in the hands of a 
 third party. They chose a lawyer, and when the 
 deposit had been made, the terms being carefully 
 written out and signed by the parties, the merchant 
 said : 
 
 "Now, Kendall, you jest push that suit ag'in' Setli 
 Goodwin, and the money in that paper is yer fee. I'm 
 much obleeged to you. Hod, for helpin' me pay a law- 
 yer to eject yer brother." 
 
 This incident put the money-lender in good humor, 
 and on their return to the store he began to banter the 
 other to make a race between his mare Queen and a 
 noted gray horse which the merchant had bought the 
 summer before. He was known as Gray Eagle, and 
 was said to have a long record of victories on the 
 turf. It was rumored that Kincaid had bought him 
 especially to dispossess the Queen from her supremacy, 
 his previous attempts in that direction having been 
 rather costly failures. This was exactly what Horace 
 Goodwin had come to the village to effect, but he was 
 a keen judge of men and knew that the surest way 
 to effect his purpose was to display entire indiffer- 
 ence. So he answered nonchalantly enough to the 
 eager banter : 
 
 " Can't do it, Squire. I'm going to train her to trot ; 
 made up my mind to that. Besides, it wouldn't be any 
 
" The King of the Corners.^'' 57 
 
 credit to her to beat that lop-eared old nag of yours. 
 You got awfully taken in when you paid twenty-five 
 hundred dollars for such a horse. He's seen his best 
 days, and never was worth anything like that money." 
 
 " Who told you I paid that ?" asked Kincaid, sharply. 
 
 " Why, I went down to Kentucky just to find out about 
 him ; and I found out all I wanted to know, too." 
 
 " We did call it twenty-five hundred," admitted the 
 other, " but part of it was trade. Anyhow, he can run a 
 mile quicker'n any horse in Ohio. Come, now, I dare 
 you to make a race with him and your mare, and bet 
 one horse against the other." 
 
 " Oh, I won't run the mare ; that's settled. I wouldn't 
 run her against him, anyhow ; it would spoil her repu- 
 tation. But I'll tell you what I will do. I ain't the man 
 to spoil sport or take a banter. I'll pick up a horse 
 right out of the pasture that never run a race in his life, 
 and just give me a few days to show him how to pick 
 up two feet at a time, and if he don't beat your old Gray 
 Eagle the best two out of three, mile-heats, you may 
 tate the Queen ; and, if he does, you shall give me as 
 much for him as you agreed to pay for the Eagle." 
 
 The loiterers highly applauded this challenge, all the 
 more, because they had no idea that it would ever pass 
 beyond the realm of braggadocio. Fond as the people 
 were of horse-racing at that time, large bets were 
 exceedingly rare. The merchant, knowing how attached 
 Horace Goodwin was to his pet mare, thought this 
 merely a bluff, and met it with one as bold. 
 
 " Done !" said he emphatically. " A word's enough 
 — between gentlemen — " he added, scornfully. " Come 
 right over to Squire Kendall's again and have the writ- 
 in's draw'd up at once. There ain't no mortgage on the 
 mare, I s'pose ?" 
 
58 A So7i of Old Harry, 
 
 " Nothing on her heavier'n a saddle," answered Good- 
 win. 
 
 " I s'pose my note '11 be security enough for the 
 money." 
 
 " The money '11 do well enough for me, Squire, or 
 anything that'll bring money, but not any note of yours, 
 if you please." 
 
 " Do you think I'd go back on my word ?" 
 
 " ' Fast bind, fast find,' Mr. Kincaid. That's your 
 motto, I believe. If I put up a bill of sale of the mare, 
 you've got to put up the money or the money's worth." 
 
 Again the sentiment of the crowd was unmistakably 
 in Goodwin's favor. After some haggling, it was agreed 
 that the race should be run on Tuesday, the third day 
 of July, if the weather was fair and the track dry — if 
 not, on the next day — it being admitted by both that it 
 would not do to make a match over a hard clay track 
 when it was wet with a recent shower. The landlord 
 was to deposit two thousand dollars — good and lawful 
 money — to abide the issue, ten days before the race, and 
 in case of failure to do so, to forfeit the five hundfed 
 now deposited, and in that case the bill of sale of the 
 Queen was to be returned to her owner. Proof satis- 
 factory to the stakeholder, that the unknown horse had 
 been reared in that or an adjoining county, and had 
 never run for any stake, was to be made at the time set 
 for the race, which was to be three heats along the 
 ** measured mile," Goodwin having the choice as to 
 which end of the course the track should begin. 
 
 An hour afterward, when Horace Goodwin dashed 
 past the window at which his brother sat, and up the 
 lane to the low, rambling barn in the rear, the mare was 
 unusually blown and he had chewed the beech switch 
 until only a fragment of it remained. He felt that he 
 had made a desperate venture, on which not only his 
 
" The King of the Corners." 59 
 
 own favorite but his brother's good name were staked, 
 with the chances by no means certain in his favor. Yet 
 when he came to the house a few minutes after, his 
 countenance was as composed as if he had never 
 dreamed that failure was a possibility. 
 
 " There is no betting about it, Horace ?" Seth Good- 
 win asked, when he was told that the colt was to run 
 with the Gray Eagle. 
 
 *' If he beats Kincaid's horse," answered Horace, 
 evasively, "you can have twenty-five hundred for the 
 colt ; that is all." 
 
 " And if he does not ?" 
 
 " You will still have the colt." 
 
 Horace did not inform him that his own highly- 
 prized mare would be the forfeit for the colt's insuffi- 
 ciency. The answer satisfied the elder brother. He 
 was a shrewd and thoughtful man, but he knew little 
 about racing, and did not trouble himself to guess that 
 there must be another side of the wager. Horace had 
 made it one of the conditions of the match that its terms 
 should be kept secret, so that no whisper of them came 
 to the elder brother's ears. 
 
 " Very well," he responded after d moment's silence ; 
 " if there is no betting about it, I have no objection. I 
 think the colt will give a good account of himself. Who 
 is going to ride him ?" 
 
 The brother glanced at Hubert, who stood by, 
 eagerly drinking in every word of the conversation. 
 
 " Do you think it safe ?" asked the father, in an 
 anxious tone. 
 
 " The colt will do more for him than for anj^ one else, 
 and you remember what the English turfmen say : 
 * Ounces at the start mean guineas at the finish.' " 
 
 " Well, I suppose that is true," Seth Goodwin replied. 
 
 A few days afterward, Horace Goodwin and his 
 
6o A Son of Old Hai-ry. 
 
 nephew, with the Queen and the colt Pompey, suddenly 
 disappeared from the neighborhood. It was generally 
 reported that they had gone to find a horse to match 
 the Gray Eagle. As the days went by and they did 
 not return, there was a good deal of curiosity expressed 
 as to their whereabouts. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 SOLITUDE THE NURSE OF POWER. 
 
 It was a curious training-stable that Horace Goodwin 
 chose for the colt on whose performance he had staked 
 so much. The Queen represented the sum total of his 
 accumulations, and he had no intention of losing her by 
 neglect of any precaution. At a time when most 
 young men of enterprise and respectability were land- 
 owners at twenty-five, Horace Goodwin was approach- 
 ing thirty without having become master of an acre. 
 Patrimony he had none. His father, from whom he 
 inherited only a happy-go-lucky temperament, had not 
 only squandered the little inheritance he received, but 
 had shown such utter lack of capacity, that the thrifty 
 neighbors counted his death a blessing to his wife, who, 
 aided by a remnant of her dowry, bravely undertook 
 the support and education of her two sons. Seth, the 
 elder by several years, she had consecrated with many 
 prayers, to the work of the ministry, which was the 
 destiny most desired by every pious mother of that day 
 for her favorite child. Before his preparation for this 
 exalted station was fairly begun, however, the duty of 
 maintaining the family devolved on him ; and the 
 
Solitude the Nurse of Power. 6i 
 
 younger had hardly reached the years of self-support 
 when their mother passed away, leaving him to the 
 guardianship of his elder brother. 
 
 The western fever had long possessed Seth Goodwin. 
 The family once prominent and prosperous had " kind 
 of run out," the neighbors said, as so many New Eng- 
 land families do, if they stick too close to the ancestral 
 ax^res. People pityingly compared their present with 
 their past estate, and Seth Goodwin was not the man 
 to endure pity. If he inherited nothing but pride from 
 the past, he had enough of that and to spare — the real 
 blue-blooded, Plymouth-Rock-and-Faneuil-Hall pride 
 in the essential superiority of all things Eastern, which 
 was not so comical in its absurdity then as it has since 
 become. Upon their mother's death, therefore, he lost 
 no time in transferring his household gods to the West. 
 He did not expect to find an Eldorado, but he was 
 ready to battle with whatever came in his way to com- 
 petence, and was especially anxious to get away from 
 all familiar knowledge of the Goodwin history and 
 attributes. He shrank from exposing his wife and 
 their baby boy to the privations of pioneer life, and so, 
 with the usual short-sightedness of the over-cautious, 
 pitched his tent in the middle West, where there was 
 less of comfort and no more of opportunity than in the 
 region from which they came. 
 
 He provided for his brother's sustenance and educa- 
 tion, so far as the restless character of the young man 
 would permit, and when he came of age, offered him the 
 choice of a moiety of the little store which constituted 
 their inheritance, undiminished by any charge for nur- 
 ture, or an equal share in the land he had bought, if the 
 younger brother would " settle down " and work with 
 him until it was paid for. This offer was a very liberal 
 one, so other people thought, but Horace unhesitatingly 
 
62 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 chose the bit of money rather than the half -cleared 
 acres, and received it with some unsolicited advice, 
 which as usual in such cases, he proceeded promptly to 
 disregard. This conduct grieved the elder brother, 
 but in no way disturbed the pleasant relations that 
 existed between them. " The Goodwins aren't much 
 alike, but they stick to each other," was the general 
 verdict upon the brothers. 
 
 Horace's money very soon burned a hole in his pocket, 
 through which his earnings as well as his inheritance 
 dribbled away. A gun and a violin were presently the 
 sum total of his possessions. Afterward he had pur- 
 chased the mare, which was the extent of his acquisi- 
 tions. His brother's house was still his home, where 
 he never lacked a welcome for himself or a stall for his 
 favorite. He did not want ability or industry, though 
 the latter was of a fitful character and the former not 
 always directed to the most creditable ends. While few 
 excelled him in the harvest-field, he was admittedly 
 unrivaled as a violinist, an accomplishment then deemed 
 almost as discreditable as the skill for which he was 
 also noted in manipulating those painted bits of paste- 
 board whose mysterious charm was then regarded as a 
 device of the arch-enemy of mankind for the taking of 
 unwary souls. Versatile, kindly, jovial, he was stable 
 only in the pursuit of the pleasures he affected, and 
 devotion to the mare, with which no temptation could 
 induce him to part. This was a peculiarly unfortunate 
 combination of good and bad qualities for a time when 
 life was especially earnest and real to those who were 
 waging a hard conflict with nature, with none of the 
 excitement of the pioneer and few of the comforts of 
 civilization. 
 
 He had led a roving, though it could hardly be called 
 an idle life, w^hich was not without advantage in an 
 
Solitude the Nurse of Power. 6 
 
 o 
 
 added knowledge of the world and its ways. He had been 
 East in the employ of drovers, once or twice, an experi- 
 ence of no little value in those days when it took two or 
 three months to get the stock of the West to New York 
 "on the hoof." Afterward, because of his skill as a 
 purchaser and excellent judgment as to the value of 
 stock, he had been employed to buy horses and cattle 
 for a firm doing business at one of the lake ports. He 
 was generally in receipt of good wages, but none of his 
 earnings stuck to his fingers, except the Queen. He 
 had repeatedly offered to let his brother have a part of 
 his wages to assist him in paying off his indebtedness ; 
 but Seth Goodwin was the very incarnation of that 
 pride which would rather endure hardship than be 
 indebted to another's favor, more especially one whom 
 he had so often lectured for extravagance. 
 
 Horace Goodwin was, therefore, one of the best- 
 dressed, poorest, most contented, best-liked and least 
 esteemed men in that region of the country. It was 
 said that he knew most of the men and women and 
 every one of the horses in the five counties adjoining 
 that in which he lived. Because of this, the owner of 
 Gray Eagle, despite his confidence in the prowess of his 
 steed, was somewhat uneasy about the wager he had 
 made. Twenty-five hundred dollars was a big price to 
 pay for a horse, even though by some scratch of luck 
 he might be able to defeat the nag of which he had 
 boasted so confidentially. The truth was that Marshall 
 Kincaid felt that he had been overmatched in the pur- 
 chase of Gray Eagle, and would have been glad to get 
 him off his hands at a greatly reduced figure. He had 
 been a very good horse, but the winter had revealed 
 certain infirmities which caused his new owner to regard 
 him with a feeling not very far removed from nausea. 
 He had bought him without warranty, however, and the 
 
64 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 only chance he had to make himself whole was by 
 wagers on his performance. It was possible that 
 another horse of similar character might win by dint 
 of superior management. The chagrin of such a possi- 
 bility troubled the magnate of the Comers even more 
 than the prospect of loss. 
 
 The fact that the Queen was excluded by the terms 
 of the race gave him no little comfort. He knew it was 
 not an easy thing to find a raw horse which had never 
 run a race able to defeat even a second-rate veteran of 
 the turf under good management. The latter he made 
 sure of by sending to Kentucky for the colored jockey 
 who had ridden the Gray Eagle in his best races. As 
 the jockey was a slave, he was obliged to give security 
 to the master for the negro's safe return to bondage. 
 
 Despite all these precautions, however, he did not 
 feel exactly safe. Horace Goodwin was too good a 
 horseman and too fond of his mare to stake her upon a 
 mere chance of success. Could it be that he had dis- 
 covered some phenomenally good horse whose merits 
 no one else recognized ? Do what he might, Marshall 
 Kincaid could not divest himself of a fear that this 
 might be the case. He accordingly sent trusty messen- 
 gers through each of the adjoining counties to make 
 inquiries in regard to horses of the description indicated, 
 which Horace Goodwin might perhaps secure for the 
 purposes of the race, and, if possible, to discover also 
 where Horace was hidden. The result of these inqui- 
 ries was a conviction that young Goodwin would try to 
 palm off, on the day of the race, a horse which did not 
 comply with the conditions. As this would result in a 
 forfeiture of the stakes, if the deception were exposed 
 in time, he determined to be prepared for it by securing 
 the attendance of a large number of men well acquainted 
 with the people and horses of the adjacent counties. 
 
Solitude the Nurse of Power. 65 
 
 He did not give a thought to the colt which had grown 
 up on the farm so quietly as never to have attracted 
 the attention even of the owner's " horsey " brother. 
 
 In the meantime, by a roundabout way, Horace and 
 his nephew reached the training-stable which had been 
 decided upon in case a match was made, long before. It 
 was not a very luxurious affair ; but for secrecy, 
 and adaptation to the purpose intended, a better one 
 could hardly be imagined. It was Seth Goodwin's 
 sugar -house, the camp at which the sap from his 
 sugar-bUvSh was boiled into syinip. It was a log-cabin, 
 seventy feet long, with a store-trough hollowed from a 
 giant cucumber-tree stretching along one side, and a 
 great stone arch, in which were set a half-dozen large 
 iron cauldrons on the other. Ordinarily the cabin was 
 used during the summer to store the vessels in which 
 the sap was caught, but this year these had been piled 
 up outside of it, and a snug partition had been put 
 across it, giving the opportunity for two roomy but 
 secluded stalls beyond. The camp was admirably 
 located, both for its original purpose and the one to 
 which it was now dedicated. 
 
 It stood beside a running stream in a narrow valley, 
 closely shut in by a dense growth of beech and maple. 
 Hardly twenty steps away, a cold spring burst out of the 
 sheltering bank, while just below was a sandy-bottomed 
 pool, which constituted an ideal attachment of the train- 
 ing-stable. The store-trough served as a manger, and 
 the front end of the log-cabin was occupied by the 
 trainer and the jockey, who thus literally slept with the 
 horse they were preparing for the crucial test of equine 
 merit. Their preparations had been carefully made, 
 and everything that might be needed for the horses 
 and their attendants had been brought there at night 
 and with every possible precaution to secure secrecy. 
 
66 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 For a training-ground they had the springy wood 
 roads, cut for hauling sap to the camp, which were per- 
 fection itself for the ordinary jogging exercise, while a 
 few days' work with a pair of steers had made a splendid 
 turf -course around "Number Two," a twenty- acre 
 pasture which lay just outside the verdant wall that 
 marked the edge of the primeval forest, and was 
 securely hidden from the road, a mile away, by a fringe 
 of second-growths along its lower side. The sugar- 
 bush was part of an unbroken forest which stretched 
 between the parallel section-roads two miles apart, only 
 cut by narrow cross-roads at equal intervals. Sur- 
 rounded by this dense mass of giant decidua, there was 
 no danger of discover}', unless by some chance wan- 
 derer, and as it was not the season for hunting, this was 
 very unlikely. For two months, this sequestered sugar- 
 camp was to be the training-stable of the bay colt and 
 of the mare, which was at the same time to be fitted 
 for the trotting-course, on which it was hoped she might 
 win profitable distinction. 
 
 To the boy these were months of almost unalloyed 
 happiness. Not only did its secrecy give special relish 
 to a life intrinsically attractive, but it was the first time 
 he had ever been a day beyond the touch of parental 
 restraint, and the solitude of the forest is magical in its 
 power to develop self-reliance and individuality Man- 
 hood is a flower which unfolds its petals most readily 
 where only God and Nature can scrutinize their form and 
 color. There is no place where the boy ripens into a 
 man so swiftly as in the shadows of the forest or the glare 
 of the desert. Besides this, the knowledge that his father 
 was constantly improving in health because of the hope 
 resulting from his estimate of the colt's merits, and the 
 importance of the work in which they were engaged, 
 made the days of steady application to a single purpose 
 
Solitude the Nurse of Poiver. 67 
 
 pass radidly away, while the flashing fire, the uncle's 
 violin and the thousand voices which filled the verdant 
 wood, made the summer nights a genuine fairy -land to 
 his fervid fancy. 
 
 Absorbed in his surroundings, he hardly noted the 
 daily improvement of the colt, until he suddenly awoke 
 to the fact that the animal he rode was quite a different 
 beast from the one he had been accustomed to bestride. 
 That nameless transformation which comes to a well- 
 bred horse when he is " in condition," had given a new 
 fire and life to his favorite. Speeded daily on the 
 springy turf of Number Two, with the mare whom he 
 was usually allowed to out-strip without too much effort, 
 the instinct of the racer was stimulated, until the colt 
 would have given up his life rather than be outdone. 
 Then he was taught to yield to his rider's judgm^ent, 
 hanging on the mare's quarter and trailing steadily 
 after her around the course, to steal in with a nish just 
 at the finish, she being held back to make his victory 
 more apparent. At the same time the colt's master 
 received a training not less thorough at the hands of 
 the experienced horseman with whom he was associated. 
 From toe-tip to fore-top he learned the anatomy of the 
 horse, while having the benefit of practice in his manage- 
 ment and care. It was an education none the less impor- 
 tant, because rare even among those who profess a spe- 
 cial liking for the noble animal. The teacher had found 
 somewhere the cannon-bone of a horse, still attached 
 by the curiously intricate combination of bone and liga- 
 ments of the fetlock and pastern, to that amazing system 
 of self -renewing springs, the hoof. This he analyzed, 
 dissected and discoursed upon for the benefit of his 
 young pupil, in the intervals of their labor, illustrating 
 his theories by examples drawn from his own experi- 
 ence, or which he had gathered from the conversation 
 
68 A. Son of Old Harry. 
 
 of others. As a consequence, the boy developed almost 
 as rapidly as the colt, and when the period of seclusion 
 was over, had not only become a well-informed horse- 
 man, but desired nothing so much as the life of a jockey. 
 Happening to mention this ambition one night, after a 
 pleasant day's work, when his uncle was quietly smok- 
 ing, as he reclined on the pile of hay which served them 
 as a couch, that worthy took his pipe from his jnouth 
 and said, sharply : 
 
 " Now, look here, my boy, none 'o that. Remember 
 you're Seth Goodwin's son. He's set his heart and hope 
 on you. It is well enough for a man to come up 
 through a stable, but he cannot go down into one unless 
 it is for a special purpose — such as this — if he expects 
 to be anything in the world. I hope to see you 
 ride this race and possibly one more — if you win, 
 that is. Then you must give up all thoughts of such 
 things. - It is well enough to know all aboiit horses, but 
 it's a bad notion to think too much of them, especially 
 for a Goodwin with a red spur on his heel. It happens 
 to be the only way you can help your father just now ; 
 and it's a real providence that you can do this. I can't 
 help thinking about it, though I don't believe your 
 father half realizes how marvelous it is. He thinks the 
 Lord will look out for him and his, as a matter of course. 
 I'm just sure his prayers are going to be answered, but 
 it will be in a way he never thought of looking for help 
 to come. Everything is turned around, you see. 
 Always before it has been the pious, strait-laced Good- 
 wins, who have helped the reckless ones ; but it's just 
 the other way now. If we hadn't the mark of the beast 
 on us there wouldn't be much help for Seth now, so far 
 as I can see, at least. I ain't blaming your father, lad, 
 nor I don't mean to speak lightly of serious things. I'm 
 afraid he won't be able to do much for himself' — for a 
 
Solitude the Niti'se of Power. 69 
 
 good while, anyway — and it'll be a great relief to him 
 to have the place clear of debt. If we win, that'll be 
 off his mind ; if we lose, he won't be any worse for the 
 way it's done. 
 
 " But he wouldn't have had any chance at all if his 
 brother hadn't been a son of Old Harry, or his son hadn't 
 taken to horses as naturally as a duck to water. Now I 
 just believe that's the reason the Lord made us what we 
 are — so't we could help one that's been as good a servant 
 as He's likely to find in these days. I'm glad the Lord 
 has found a way to make me useful, too. I've been 
 afraid sometimes that I wouldn't ever be fit for anything 
 decent. I can make money enough, but I don't seem 
 able to keep it. It slips away while I'm trying to find out 
 how to hold on to it ; and nobody can be respecta- 
 ble unless he has more money than he has any use for. 
 Remember that, my son. It don't matter how good or 
 wise a man may be ; if he ain't rich, he's mighty little 
 thought of. 
 
 " That's always the way. There's sure to be one Good- 
 win in every generation that ain't of much account — 
 kind of sleazy, you know. It didn't make so much dif- 
 ference as long as there were two of them. One was 
 sure to keep up the name and make it respectable. But 
 you're all alone — the very last Goodwin there is — and 
 you've got to be steady like your father, and not wild 
 like me. Of course, you can't help being fond of horses, 
 and I think you ought to know all about them, so that 
 you won't be led away by any false notions. Horses 
 are like cards ; it's the man who knows the least about 
 them that gets taken in the worst by them. But you've 
 got something better to do than give your time to horses. 
 You've got to please your father — do what he wants you 
 to do — and show the world Seth Goodwin's got a boy 
 fit to bear his name." 
 
70 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " What does he want I should do, Uncle Horace ?" 
 asked the boy, not very cheerfully. 
 
 " Well, the first thing, you know, he wants you to go 
 to school." 
 
 " Oh, that's easy enough," said the lad, brightening. 
 
 " Of course, it's easy," continued the uncle, approv- 
 ingly. " I never cared much about book-learning 
 myself ; but your father would have made a great 
 scholar if he'd had a chance. That's why he's so anxious 
 to have you get a good education. Do you know he 
 wants to send you to college ?" 
 
 The boy shook his head, wonderingly. 
 
 " Yes, he does ; I don't fancy the notion, but he wants 
 you to be what he hadn't a chance to become. I don't 
 know, being a baby when pa died, but I expect ' the 
 gray mare was the better horse ' in that team. Ma was 
 a remarkable woman, and she made up her mind that 
 Seth should be a minister — not one of those stub-toed, 
 lickity-clip fellows that know about as much about 
 preaching as I do about shoe-making, but a real, 
 thorough-bred, college-educated minister. And I 
 expect, if she'd lived, she'd have brought it about in one 
 way or another. 
 
 " He'd have made a goer, too," continued the brother, 
 with enthusiasm, " if he'd been rightly handled. But 
 you see he had me on his hands, and that held him back. 
 I've always thought it was a pity. There ain't many 
 that can outfoot him in an exhortation now, when he 
 gets waked up. Bless your soul, I've seen him at camp- 
 meeting sometimes, when it would just make one's hair 
 stand up to see his eyes flashing, his face pale, his lips 
 quivering, and the words just tumbling over each other 
 trying to get out of the way of those behind. And 
 when it comes to praying, I've never seen the minis- 
 ter of them all that could hold a candle to him." 
 
Solitude the Nurse of Power. 71 
 
 A flush of pride rose to the boy's face as he listened 
 to these words of praise. He had more than once 
 seen his father transfigured by strong emotion, and 
 felt himself carried away by the rush of his rude elo- 
 quence, the effect of which had been to make him 
 regard the stern, severe parent with an admiration akin 
 to awe. 
 
 " And he don't preach what he don't practice, nor 
 spoil a story for relation's sake, either," continued the 
 uncle, " if he did whip Dan Marvin for lying about me. 
 I remember once, over in New Dorset camp-ground, I 
 and three other fellows had crept into a thicket, on the 
 outskirts of the meeting-place, for a quiet game of cards. 
 We could hear 'em a-shouting and praying, but couldn't 
 make out any of the words, and so didn't trouble our- 
 selves about them. I had been a-hauling in the others' 
 dimes and quarters pretty lively, for they were just 
 about as green as grass, while I wasn't exactly a chicken, 
 though the youngest of the crowd. They played, you 
 see, because they thought it was wicked ; I played for the 
 fun of the thing, and just took their money as a fair price 
 for what they learned — or had a chance to learn, at least." 
 
 His eyes twinkled, and the corners of his mouth drew 
 down, as he gave this ludicrous excuse. The boy 
 laughed appreciatively. 
 
 " I guess I had got about all they had, when all at 
 once we heard Seth's voice. He was praying, and I tell 
 you the very birds kept still to listen to him. Every word 
 came just as plain as if he had been only a hundred 
 feet instead of half a hundred rods away. It was one of 
 those hot summer days when the very leaves are still ; 
 and his voice swelled and echoed under the maples, as 
 if he had been alone with God. It had been growing 
 dark under the trees for some time, but there had not 
 been a growl of thunder nor a breath of wind. The 
 
A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 clouds had settled down and seemed to rest like a 
 blanket on the tops of the trees. I've heard that at 
 such times sound travels farther than at others — it is 
 kind of shut in, you know, between earth and sky. 
 
 " But I didn't think anything about it, then. We just 
 stopped to listen — had to, you see. After awhile, I 
 gathered up the cards and put them in my pocket. 
 Just about that time, your father began to tell the Lord 
 about me — not in any roundabout way, but naming me 
 right out. It seemed as if Jie knew just where I was 
 and what I was doing. He said I was on the outskirts 
 of the camp engaged in a sinful play ; not content with 
 periling my own soul, but leading others down to 
 destruction, also. The fellows looked at me ; one of 
 them laughed, though his cheeks grew pale, and Jim 
 Force, who had got up the game, but had been losing 
 pretty steady, said I made it pretty profitable being a 
 devil's decoy. But the other fellow spoke up, and 
 though his lips were white and his eyes had a scared 
 look in them, he said that wasn't fair ; Jim had got up 
 the game himself and had coaxed the rest of them into 
 it. * Which I couldn't have done,' sneered Jim, * if I 
 hadn't known that Hod had a pack of cards in his 
 pocket. It's a mighty smart game, I tell you, getting 
 Seth to pray like a hurricane just as the luck's turning 
 against him so as to scare the white-livered part of the 
 crowd and break up the game. I suppose Seth gets part 
 of the winnings for his share in the play.' 
 
 " With that I took out my wallet and gave back to 
 each just what they'd lost, taking out of Jim's share 
 what he'd won from the others. Of course, this left 
 him short ; for they had won something from him as the 
 game went on — how much 1 didn't know nor care. But 
 he insisted that I'd cheated, and one word brought on 
 another — and — well, that was the cause of my fight with 
 
Solitude the Ntirse of Powc7\ 'j'^ 
 
 Jim Force. I don't doubt but you've heard about it. 
 He was bigger than I, and stouter ; but he lacked 
 action. He wasn't in good condition, either. I'd been 
 on the Lake ever since the season opened until harvest 
 began, and swung a cradle every day after that. He'd 
 been hanging around Kincaid's for two or three years, 
 kind of tending bar — he was a relative of Marsh, you 
 know — and taking the bigger part of his pay in what he 
 could swallow, I guess. Anyhow, I got the better of him. 
 As soon as we clinched, one of the fellows ran for the 
 camp constable, and the others tried to stop us. Your 
 father was the constable, and I knew I'd got to make 
 quick work of it, or he'd be on before Jim got his lick- 
 ing. So I caught a hip-lock on him, and when I threw 
 him over on his head and shoulders, he kind of moaned, 
 trembled and turned white as if he was dead. Just 
 then I felt Seth's hand on my shoulder and knew 
 I was under arrest. I knew he'd do his duty without 
 flinching if I swung for it. 
 
 *' I thought Jim was dead, and I tell you I felt pretty 
 streaked ; but it turned out he only had his collar-bone 
 broken and had fainted away. They fined us ten dol- 
 lars apiece for fighting on the ground and ten more for 
 gambling. It was awful hard on your pa. All his 
 trouble with the church came out of that fight. He 
 wouldn't stand Dan Marvin's jaw, and when they wanted 
 him to say he was sorry for knocking him down, he said 
 he couldn't tell a lie ; he'd done nothing but stand up 
 for his kith and kin, and was only sorry he had to do it. 
 Then they took away his license as an exhorter, think- 
 ing that would bring him around. But they didn't 
 know my brother Seth. He told 'em he didn't need the 
 church to help him on the road to heaven, and just drew 
 out, entirely. You can bet I felt bad, then. I promised 
 fair and square never to turn a card again for money ; 
 
74 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 and I meant to keep my promise, too ; I did, in fact. 
 But, bless you, boy, I ain't like your father. If he prom- 
 ises a thing, it's as good as done, no matter how hard it 
 may be. I ain't built that way. I can't stand tempta- 
 tion, and it wasn't more than a month — just as soon as 
 I felt blue water under me, in fact — that I was at it 
 again. 
 
 " Your pa's been the best brother in the world to me ; 
 but it wasn't any use. I wasn't one of the * elect,' you 
 see. That spur on my heel has been my undoing ; 
 always itching and burning whenever I tried to be 
 good, until I can't rest no more than a turkey on a hot 
 slice. I haven't done anything so very bad, but I can't 
 be good and pious and steady like Seth, and there ain't 
 no use in trying. But I'm going to pay him back now 
 for all he's done for me. I'll have to do it in my own 
 way, though, because I can't do it in his. He's set his 
 heart on your being a minister. I told him I didn't 
 believe there was any sense in it, for, according to my 
 judgment, you wasn't cut out for one. Of course, I 
 don't know the points of a minister as well as I do those 
 of a horse, but I'd a notion you'd do better as a steam- 
 boat captain, or something of that sort, than you would 
 as a salvation pilot. But he wouldn't listen to me, and 
 I don't blame him. He says that no man can tell 
 whether or not you'll get a ' call ;' but if you do, he 
 wants you ready to answer prompt, like a soldier armed 
 and equipped for duty ; and he made me promise that 
 if he was taken away I'd see to it that you went to col- 
 lege and came through all right. 
 
 " I couldn't deny him anything, if I wanted to, and 
 I'm going to do it. I owe it to him, you see. So you 
 may just as well make up your mind that you are not 
 going to be a jockey, nor have anything to do with 
 horses, more than a little buying and selling at least, 
 
Solitude the Ntirse of Poiver. 75 
 
 after we get through with this matter. Of course, 
 there's no harm in buying and selling if you don't swap 
 nor lie ; and I never could see why a circuit-rider 
 shouldn't buy a colt every year, break him, put him in 
 condition and double his value before he goes to con- 
 ference the next year. But he must know all about a 
 horse to do it, and that's why I've been giving you 
 lessons. I should hate to see you taken in on a horse 
 even if you were a minister. 
 
 " I don't quite know how I'm to manage it, though. 
 It would be easy enough if I could have my own way. 
 That colt yonder is something altogether out of the 
 common. If I could just take and enter him in a few 
 good races at the East, we could make enough on him 
 to settle the whole matter. But Seth won't allow that ; 
 and I suppose it would hardly be the thing to raise 
 money to educate a minister by betting on a horse. 
 
 " I expect it will take a lot of money — I don't know 
 how much, but they tell me them big colleges are very 
 expensive. Then, too, you'll have to get ready. I 
 fancy there'll be as much as ten or twelve years' steady 
 schooling to pay for. You'll have to do the studying, 
 and I'll contrive some way to get the money, or to hang 
 on to it after it is made, rather, for that's the hardest 
 part. Your mother'll have to be taken care of, too. 
 She ain't such a manager as Ma was ; probably because 
 Seth has always taken the brunt of everything on his 
 shoulders." 
 
 "■ Is my father going to die ?" asked the boy, with a 
 wondering sob. 
 
 " I hope not ; but I'm afraid he can't last long — a 
 year or two, perhaps ; and the easier we can make 
 things for him, the longer he is likely to stay with us. 
 We'll clear off the mortgage ; I've no doubt of that, 
 though there's nothing exactly certain about a race 
 
76 A Son of Old Hai^ry. 
 
 until after it's run. That colt can beat the Gray Eagle, 
 and a good deal better horse than the Gray Eagle, too. 
 It's amazing how easy he gets over the ground ; but 
 he's got an uncertain temper, and is just the kind of 
 beast to up and bolt or do some kind of devilment at 
 the wrong time. He minds you, because you've kind 
 of grown up together, I s'pose ; and I think you can 
 get the best out of him every time you ask for it. My 
 notion is, after we've won this race, to enter him for 
 some big event, win that, and then sell him. Seth 
 couldn't object to that ; but in order to win, you might 
 have to ride him, and that, I'm afraid, your father 
 wouldn't consent to. You see, the rascal don't show his 
 temper until he's crossed, and he seems to think that 
 what you want done is just the thing he wants to do, 
 no matter what it is ; but every time I get astride of 
 him and try to make him do according to my notion, 
 there's a row. Yet there ain't many men have a lighter 
 touch on a horse than Hod Goodwin. If your father 
 wouldn't insist on making you a son of Theophilus, we 
 could make a pile on that colt this year and next ; and 
 I allow you wouldn't be none the worse for it, either. 
 I don't believe in making ministers of people who 
 have got the mark of Old Harry on their heel, any- 
 how, and you've got it ; I saw it when you were a little 
 thing, not more than so long." 
 
 Uncle Horace extended his hands as he spoke to show 
 the infantile proportions. 
 
 ** It ain't so big nor so red as mine ; and I hope 
 won't ever give you the trouble mine has given me ; 
 .but after all, a boy having it is sure to get mixed up 
 with horses sooner or later. I don't know why he 
 shouldn't, either. What's the use of a man digging and 
 delving and toiling for money when he can get it with- 
 out ? I tried to show your father that he made a mis- 
 
" Thrown Backy JJ 
 
 take coming to Ortonville. There never was any 
 chance for anything here. Why didn't he buy up on 
 the Lake Shore or somewhere, where there was some 
 likelihood of lightning striking, and not come here to 
 the very poorest spot in the State, where it is a dead 
 certainty things will never be any better than they are 
 now. I don't say he's too honest ; but a man ought 
 to take advantage of his opportunity and get in the 
 way of any good thing that is going, and not hunt a 
 hole in the backwoods and crawl into it and draw the 
 hole in after him. I've told him, over and over again, 
 that if he had some of my riskiness, and I some of his 
 steadiness, we'd both be a deal better off. But if he 
 will be a child of Theophilus, I suppose I shall have to 
 go on being a son of Old Harry — just to keep up the 
 average, you know." 
 
 " What makes you call him a child of Theophilus, if 
 you're the son of Old Harry ? Wasn't his father yours, 
 too ?" 
 
 "Why, of course — but — didn't you ever hear that 
 story about the Goodwins ?" 
 
 The boy shook his head. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THROWN BACK 
 
 " You don't know about Sir Harry and Theophilus ?" 
 repeated Uncle Horace, in surprise. 
 
 "Never heard of either of them before to-night," said 
 the lad, positively. 
 
 " Well, well, that's queer. I didn't s'pose a Goodwin 
 
78 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 ever grew to your age without hearing that story. Per- 
 haps your father didn't want you to know it, though I 
 don't see why you shouldn't, especially as you have the 
 mark ; but I don't know as I ought to tell you without 
 his consent." 
 
 " Please — please, Uncle Horace," urged the boy in an 
 anxious tone. 
 
 The young man rose from the pile of hay on which he 
 was reclining, stirred the fire, took out an open-faced 
 silver watch, looked at the hands by the firelight, 
 glanced up at the sky where it showed through a rift in 
 the green mass of foliage about them, went to look at 
 the horses lying down in their stalls, and returning, said, 
 as he sat down on the end of a log near the fire and 
 refilled his pipe : 
 
 " I never saw two horses get along together as well as 
 that mare and the colt. She seems to feel that the 
 responsibility is on her, and lets the young one know its 
 business we're here for, not pleasure ; and he takes 
 to it just as kindly as if he had been used to it all his 
 life. Have you noticed how much they lie down ? 
 That's the way with a good horse. One that don't lie 
 down in training, won't do to bet on. He either gets so 
 fine that he can't stand the pace, or so nervous that he 
 can't be controlled. One would think, now. that the 
 higher the condition a horse was in, the less he'd sleep, 
 but it's right the other way ; the better the condition 
 and the more work, if it's the right kind, the more a 
 good horse will sleep. It's about as bad for a horse to 
 fall off in his sleep as in his feed, unless it's one of the 
 nervous sort that stay awake all night and stand nodding 
 and staggering in the stall all day. It don't make any 
 difference with those, because about the best thing that 
 can be done with one of that sort is to hitch him to a 
 
" Thrown Back,'' 79 
 
 plow and let him work at a walk until he gets sense 
 enough to go to sleep when it comes night. 
 
 ** Now that colt of yours goes at it systematically, as if 
 he knew what it all meant. He's up in the morning 
 bright and early, asking for his breakfast ; takes his sup 
 of water, eats his oats, and comes out stretching one leg 
 after the other out behind him, making the ribs show, 
 as he bends his back and draws in his wind with a yawn, 
 for all the world like a hound which is just spoiling for 
 a run. He's rested, you see. His muscles are live 
 springs that fairly ache to be pulled and stretched. 
 When you notice that, and find the white of the eyes 
 clear and bright, and see the ears all in a quiver, or, if 
 he's a little hot-tempered, lying flat on the head, and 
 his mouth opening to show his teeth on the slightest 
 provocation, and especially if he puts out a fore-leg, as 
 if he couldn't stand still or was anxious to take boxing 
 lessons, just touching the ground with the toe as he 
 draws it back, first one foot and then the other, then, if 
 his coat is shining and his hide soft, you may know a 
 horse is in ' condition * or getting pretty near it. 
 
 " That's the way with that colt, now. You'll observe 
 that, after he's had an Itour's work, with a sharp little 
 dash at the end, just to spread his lungs and clear his 
 nostrils, and we bring him in and blanket him, give 
 him another little sup, and let him munch his hay 
 while we eat breakfast, he comes out to be rubbed 
 down with a step as springy as a lady's on a danc- 
 ing-floor, and is just as full of pranks as a kitten. 
 And when every part of him has been rubbed and 
 kneaded and washed and scraped, and he's stood in 
 the pool a while to cool his legs, soften his hoofs and 
 keep the fever out, drinking just as much as he's a 
 mind to, and you bring him in, dry off his legs, and 
 take him to his stall, you'll see him lie down, stretch 
 
8o A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 out, and, perhaps, roll over once or twice ; then he'll 
 curl himself up, and before you know it he's ofiE to 
 sleep and nodding like a judge. He isn't tired ; he's 
 just taking comfort. 
 
 " When it comes dinner-time, he's ready for his feed, 
 and in an hour afterward, is pawing and fretting for a 
 chance to go. When a horse gets in * condition,' he's 
 just got to go. He'll race with himself, try to outrun 
 his shadow, or match himself against time along a 
 worm-fence, if there's no other way. I've a notion he 
 makes himself believe that the fence corners are trying 
 to run by him. When you get a horse up to that point, 
 he'll not only do his best, but he'll do it just as often as 
 he has a chance to sleep up and get the spring back 
 into his muscles and tendons. But he's got to have 
 sleep. There isn't any feed or physic that'll take the 
 place of that. So I always want a horse I'm training 
 to be w^here there isn't much going on. One or two 
 other horses, just for company, you know ; but no 
 crowd and no lights. When a horse lies down after 
 supper, he wants it dark — dark and still ; and then, if 
 he's in condition and the right kind of a horse to put 
 money on, you'll find him lying as still as a mouse until 
 the birds sing and he begins to whinny for his oats 
 in the morning. They've both laid down now, but 
 they won't be ready to go to sleep for half an hour yet. 
 They are just taking comfort lying there, listening to 
 our talk." 
 
 The boy laughed at the idea. 
 
 " You don't think they care about that, eh ? That's 
 because you don't understand horse-nature. I don't 
 mean to say that they comprehend exactly what we say, 
 though they make out a good deal from the tones. For 
 instance, they know whether we are angry or good- 
 natured. If I should begin to scold you now, they'd be 
 
Thrown Back.'" 
 
 on their feet in two minutes. I saw a fight in a stable 
 once where there was a string of thoroughbreds. It 
 didn't last more than five minutes — just a lively fist- 
 and-skull affair. The horses were in box-stalls with 
 square holes in the front so they could look out on the 
 big barn-floor where the fight occurred, but couldn't be 
 hit nor hurt. I hardly ever saw a set of men take more 
 interest in a row than those horses did. They listened 
 to the quarrel, and, when the fighting began, there was 
 almost as much excitement in the stalls as on the floor. 
 The horses puffed and blovved ; some of 'em kicked, and 
 when it was over, half of those colts were in a tremble 
 of excitement, much as if they had been children who 
 weren't accustomed to family rows. 
 
 " Now you think those horses don't enjoy hearing us 
 talk, perhaps. Just let me light my pipe, and we'll walk 
 around the foot of the hill out of sight, and keep still 
 awhile and see what they'll say." 
 
 He took up a hickory splinter, the end of which was 
 a glowing coal, and pressed it on his pipe. 
 
 " Come on, now," he said, as he rose and led the way. 
 They walked on until the base of the hill shut the 
 cabin from view ; a moment later their voices died 
 away, and all was still at the training stable. An owl 
 lighted upon a limb of an old chestnut just across the 
 brook from the silent sugar-house, and hooted out his 
 challenge to the fire-lit camp. Presently the colt 
 whinnied a low, inquiring call. 
 
 " Keep still," said Uncle Horace. " He thinks we'll 
 answer him ; but he's got to call louder than that before 
 we do. There he goes again. What do you think of 
 that, now ?" 
 
 It was a loud, impatient call this time, and was 
 seconded by one somewhat less imperious from the 
 Queen. 
 
82 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " You see the old mare is getting anxious, too. There, 
 the colt has got up to see if he can't wind us. She's up, 
 too, and they're calling to us in the imperative mood, 
 now. You answer the colt, and I'll whistle to Queenie 
 next time, and then we must hurry back, for it won't 
 do to let them get too excited at this hour ; they 
 wouldn't sleep a wink all night if they did," 
 
 They hastened back, to find the horses standing up, 
 pawing and looking eagerly around, their bright eyes 
 flashing in the firelight, as if making inquiry about the 
 absence of their guardians. 
 
 " There," said Uncle Horace, laying down his pipe 
 upon the jamb of the stone arch, " I'll leave the pipe 
 there. I think horses generally like the smell of 
 tobrcco smoke if it isn't too strong ; but it certainly 
 makes them dull to have too much of it, especially in 
 their stalls. I wouldn't allow a man to smoke in a sta- 
 ble, but I've seen a horse follow a stranger all about a 
 paddock for a whiff of his cigar. A horse is very sensi- 
 tive about smells, as well as sights and sounds. Let's 
 go in now so they can see we're all right, and while 
 they're quieting down, I'll finish my pipe and tell you 
 about Sir Harry. It's time you knew something about 
 the Goodwin pedigree, anyhow. 
 
 ** Now," continued the uncle, resuming his pipe and 
 seating himself on a huge stump that served also as a 
 corner-post of the cabin, " what was it you wanted to 
 know about ? O, yes, I remember. You asked why I 
 called your father a child of Theophilus and myself a 
 son of Old Harry. Yes, we had the same father and 
 mother ; but, you see, that's a sort of superstition, or 
 rather, a tradition of the family. The Goodwins are 
 never alike. There's always some black sheep among 
 the white ones. The white sheep we call the children 
 of Theophilus, and the black ones the sons of Old 
 
" Thrown Back:' 83 
 
 Harry. They're always sons — never daughters, at least 
 I never heard of any — and there is always one in each 
 generation who has Old Harry's mark on him. The 
 children of Theophilus are just about the whitest lambs 
 that were ever born into the world. Your father is one 
 of that kind, I think a speck on his fleece, even if it 
 was so small that nobody else could see it, would mighty 
 near kill him. I'm not anyway sure that it wasn't the 
 trouble with the church over the licking of Dan Marvin 
 that brought on his sickness. The children of Theo- 
 philus are all that way. They may be hard-headed and 
 strong-limbed, but they are thin-skinned — always 
 thin-skinned and tender-bitted. They don't always 
 get along well in the world, though they are the most 
 industrious and deserving people that ever lived. Do 
 all they can, they don't ever seem to get forehanded, 
 though they're always pinching themselves and doing 
 without what they want and sometimes what they need 
 in order to get ahead. 
 
 '* The sons of Old Harry aren't that kind of folks ; 
 they aren't near so good. They grade all the way from 
 just kind of soiled and smutched to dead solid black — 
 from mere sinners to great rascals. They're never 
 forehanded, either, but they always have enough, and 
 its generally about the best that's going, too. They 
 don't own lands and houses, but they are sure to be 
 good horsemen and generally have a good time while 
 alive, without much thought of what may come after- 
 ward. They're almost always good-natured, and nearly 
 everybody likes them, though but few speak well of 
 them. The fact is, there's always a mistake somewhere 
 in making up the family record. If the children 
 of Theophilus weren't quite so good and the sons 
 of Old Harry were just a little better, it would 
 be a great advantage to the stock and no harm to the 
 
84 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 world — so far as I can see, at least." Horace looked 
 into the fire and sighed deeply. 
 
 '* But what makes you call my father a child of Theo- 
 philus ?" asked the boy, impatiently, looking up from the 
 block of wood which served him as a stool. 
 
 " O, yes, I 'most forget what I set out to tell you," 
 said the uncle, starting from his reverie. " Well, you 
 see, the Goodwins are an old family — about as old as 
 any in the country, I guess. I don't know as any of 
 'em came over in the Mayflower — you've heard of the 
 Mayflower V 
 
 " * The breaking waves dashed high 
 On a stern and rock-bound coast ; 
 The trees against a stormy sky 
 Their giant branches tossed !' " 
 
 quoted the boy, in shrill, quavering tones, that told how 
 often he had declaimed the lines. 
 
 " Exactly," said the uncle, nodding approval. " Well, 
 I don't know whether the Goodwins were amongst that 
 first company or not, but they weren't far behind. And 
 before they came to this country they were very respect- 
 able people in England — that is, I take it they were 
 respectable — for the first we knew about them — or the 
 first I ever heard of them — was of Sir Harry Goodwin, 
 or Godwin rather, for that was the way he spelled the 
 name, who was the Master of Horse for King Charles — 
 that's a sort of military officer who had command of the 
 cavalry. The story is that he was a pretty tough cus- 
 tomer, as was natural in those times, a hard-hitter and 
 about the best horseman in the whole army of gay 
 Cavaliers. 
 
 " They say at one of the battles with the Roundheads 
 — I forget which — he advised the king, when things were 
 getting bad for them, to charge with his whole army — 
 
" Throw 71 Back" 
 
 rignt, left and centre — and end the business then and 
 there. You see he knew the Cavaliers, as they called 
 King Charles's men, were better on the charge than on 
 the defense ; and he thought if he drove in the enemy's 
 flankers, they would get all tangled up in a certain lane 
 somewhere about the center of their line, so that all the 
 king's men would have to do would be to kill them off 
 until there wasn't enough left to carry on the war, and 
 then the king could just go back to London town and 
 carry on as he'd always been doing — riding rough -shod 
 over people and Parliament. They say King Charles 
 agreed to this, and Sir Harry rode back to his horse- 
 soldiers and charged with them as he promised to do, 
 but the king stood still and waited to see what would 
 come of it, instead of pitching in to help them. The 
 consequence was that Sir Harry's men got all cut up 
 and the king ran away. Charles blamed it all on Prince 
 Rupert, they say, claiming that he didn't obey orders ; 
 but everybody believes it was the fickle king's own 
 fault, who never knew his own mind and was always 
 willing to sacrifice a friend to save himself. 
 
 " The Master of the Horse was reported killed, but 
 he wasn't — only badly wounded — and, as it happened, 
 one of Cromwell's pious troopers took charge of him ; 
 he had been wounded himself, and so didn't have to 
 march with the rest of the army. When the Cavalier 
 got well, it was Hobson's choice, I s'pose, whether he'd 
 own up who he was and have his neck stretched, or join 
 the psalm-singers and fight against Charles. Of 
 course, he didn't feel very kindly toward the king, who 
 had left him in the lurch, and he'd been so near death 
 that he probably thought it might be well enough to 
 forsake his bad ways and take on a little religion for the 
 rest of the voyage ; for, although Charles himself was 
 well enough and even inclined to religion of some sort 
 
86 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 at times, he seems to have had a pretty tough crowd 
 around him, and Sir Harry, it is said, was the worst 
 roysterer of them all. Besides, he had been one of 
 Staffords's men and probably thought he stood to be 
 abandoned by the king sooner or later, as the great earl 
 had been. It seems he'd been plundered while he lay 
 on the field, and so had nothing about him to show his 
 rank, or even that he was a Cavalier, except his long 
 hair. This all came out with the fever that followed 
 his wound, and left his head as bare as a bird's eye, 
 except a little scruff as white as snow around the neck 
 from ear to ear. When his beard and mustache had 
 been cut off and he began to crawl around in plain 
 clothes, nobody recognized him as the dashing leader of 
 the king's horse, but everybody took him for one of 
 Cromwell's private soldiers. 
 
 " Well, the upshot of it was that he was converted 
 and made a confident of the sergeant who had charge 
 of him, and between the two it was fixed up that he 
 should 'make a profession' and join Cromwell's own 
 company of horse, called the Ironsides, It was the 
 custom in those days, it seems, especially among the 
 very religious crowd that followed Cromwell and the 
 Parliament, to take all sorts of outlandish names on 
 making a profession of belief and being baptized. As 
 they considered it a new birth, they thought it was 
 no harm to take new names. So men called them- 
 selves, * Smite-them-to-the-quick Jones,' Praise-God 
 Barebones;' and our Sir Harry, to keep up the fashion 
 and hide himself at the same time no doubt, dropped 
 his name and title and called himself Theophilus Good- 
 win, which wasn't so very bad, being a modest enough 
 name, which means God-lover. I s'pose he put the 
 other * o' in * Godwin' as the easiest way of disguising 
 
" Thrown Back?' 87 
 
 the name without getting far enough away from it to 
 keep him from harking back if he ever wanted to. 
 
 '* Indeed, I've heard it said that one of his reasons for 
 the change might have been — I don'6 say it was — to 
 save, a nice little estate, which would go to his son if he 
 was accounted dead, in case the king should prevail, 
 and which he could claim if the Parliament came out 
 ahead. 
 
 " I don't suppose either of these motives were entirely 
 responsible for his changing his coat and his religion at 
 the same time. Probably men acted then as they do 
 now, from a variety of motives, of which very often the 
 one that seems the weakest is really the strongest. At 
 any rate, there seems to be no doubt that Theophilus 
 Goodwin served the people and Parliament just as faith- 
 fully as Sir Harry Godwin had served the king. Crom- 
 well knew a good soldier, and didn't leave the new 
 convert very long in the ranks. Perhaps he knew the 
 old swordsman in spite of his bare face and bald head, 
 or perhaps Sergeant Comfort-ye-my-people Jacobson 
 did not keep the secret as well as he might. Crom- 
 well had a strange way of finding out things, they say. 
 At any rate, he was soon promoted to a company, then 
 to a troop, and presently given a regiment of his own ; 
 so that Colonel Theophilus Goodwin became about as 
 big a man with the Roundheads as Sir Harry Godwin 
 had been with the Cavaliers. 
 
 " But, after a while, they had a worse fight than they 
 had ever had before, at a place called Naseby. Old Sir 
 Harry had a son, a hot-tempered lad, hardly sixteen, 
 who joined the king's horse as soon as he heard his 
 father was killed, and had been made a comet, partly 
 for the sake of his father, and partly because he showed 
 himself as brave as Julius Caesar. When the Round- 
 heads under Colonel Theophilus charged the king's men 
 
88 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 in this last fight, they found young Harry Godwin in 
 the lead, just crazy with the notion of avenging his 
 father's death. He couldn't help seeing who the leader 
 of the psalm-singers was, for the old fighter was always 
 in the front, I take it, and he went for him just as 
 straight as an arrow. His father knew him, of course, 
 as soon as he set eyes on him, and tried to get away, 
 but it was no use. The boy was on him hacking and 
 hewing with his sword, before he could turn aroimd. 
 Of course, Colonel Goodwin wouldn't strike back, but 
 just tried to parry the blows, until, finally, the same 
 sergeant who had nursed him when he was woimded, 
 came up and gave the boy a death-blow before the 
 father could call out to stop him, thinking, no doubt, 
 that he was doing his officer a great favor. 
 
 " That was the last of Colonel Theophilus. That bat- 
 tle ended the war. He quit the army ; went off and 
 hid himself somewhere for a time, and finally came to 
 this country. He was a hard, stem man, always pray- 
 ing to be forgiven for the death of the boy he loved. 
 Yet, he married again, and had two sons afterward. 
 One of them, they say, was as sober as anybody could 
 wish ; but the other, who was born with a red spur on 
 his heel, took to wild ways, went to sea and came to a 
 bad end along with a gang of pirates, somewhere in the 
 West Indies. After this the old man concluded he had 
 committed the ' unpardonable sin,' in having caused his 
 oldest son's death, and that on account of this a curse 
 rested on his children and their descendants forever ; 
 one son always being predestined to go to the devil. 
 
 " In this he wasn't far wrong — at least, he hadn't 
 been up to this time. Ever since there has been one in 
 every generation of the Goodwins who has been a black 
 sheep ; not always very bad ; but shiftless and reckless, 
 instead of being steady and restaectable. Queer 
 
" Thrown Back'^ 89 
 
 enough, too, this has always been the one born with the 
 mark of the red spur on his left heel. So we call them 
 the sons of Old Harry, because they are likely to turn 
 out something like the old Master of the Horse; and the 
 others we call the children of Theophilus, because they 
 are always glum and sober — the * select infants,' pre- 
 destined to salvation. They are like the old fighter 
 was after he turned Puritan and sang psalms." 
 
 '' Am I a son of Old Harry, uncle ?" asked the boy, 
 who had listened with almost breathless interest to his 
 uncle's narrative, in an anxious tone. 
 
 " It's hard to tell," answered the uncle, seriously. 
 " You've got the mark, and nobody who's had that on 
 his heel has ever yet been able to get along without 
 showing some signs of it in his ways." 
 
 The boy turned his left foot to the firelight and care- 
 fully scrutinized the heel. A narrow line of red ran 
 along on each side almost to the hollow of the foot, 
 branching downward in front of the heel and upward 
 toward the instep. 
 
 " 'Tain't nothing compared with mine," said the 
 man, gravely, " and I've been told mine wasn't any- 
 thing to compare with what they used to have. I've 
 heard that one of the worst of 'em had a heel as red as 
 if it had been parboiled. Mine don't trouble me much 
 except during the racing season — it gets pretty hot, 
 then." 
 
 He drew off his boot and held the foot toward the 
 light as he spoke. The mark was heavier and redder 
 than on the boy's, and had an unmistakable likeness to 
 a spur. 
 
 ** Does one have to be bad who has that mark .?" asked 
 the lad. 
 
 " Pshaw, no. I don't s'pose it makes any difference. 
 It's probably the unsteadiness that makes the mark 
 
90 A Soft of Old Harry. 
 
 talked about ; though there's something in the idea 
 that if you give a dog a bad name he'll deserve it. I 
 suppose every Goodwin with that beauty spot on his 
 heel has been told this very story until he has come to 
 think himself elected to-go to the devil anyhow, and so 
 don't try to do anything better." 
 
 " Do you think so, Uncle Horace ?" 
 
 " Well, as I said, I don't believe it was my heel that 
 affected me. I guess I was naturally unsettled and 
 trifling. I've sometimes thought that if your father 
 had known just how to manage me I might have been 
 a credit to the family ; but he didn't, and he ain't to 
 blame for it. Religion and hard work are just about 
 all he thinks a man is fit for. I didn't take to either ; 
 but if he'd encouraged me to trade, I tell you what it is, 
 I believe I'd have made my Jack long ago — I do, for a 
 fact. But here I am, nigh thirty, and not been able to 
 settle down yet. It really does begin to look as if I 
 was likely to be one of Old Harry's genuine red- 
 heeled, no-account Goodwins that thinks more of a 
 horse than he does of a home, and more of his liberty 
 than he does of his soul. I s'pose that's the reason I've 
 never married. Very few of that sort of Goodwins do ; 
 and I guess it would be as well if none of 'em did. 
 Them that have married didn't make any too good hus- 
 bands." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. The owl hooted from 
 the chestnut-stub opposite, and a fox barked up the 
 valley. 
 
 " Uncle Horace," said the boy, firmly, " I'm not going 
 to be a son of Old Harry." 
 
 " Think you have struck back to Theophilus, eh ?" 
 
 " No ; I don't want to be a minister, either ; but I'm 
 not going to be a son of Old Harry." 
 
 " I hope you won't, but you've got the mark," said 
 
" Thrown Back'^ 91 
 
 the uncle, as he rose, put up his pipe and drew the ashes 
 over the fire with a wooden scraper. " Of course," he 
 continued, ** it will wear out some time — the mark, I 
 mean, and it is mighty faint with you. Besides, you've 
 got lots of the Howel blood in you — that was ma's 
 family, you know — steady, forehanded folks, not very 
 pious, but always well to-do. Seth and I have often 
 spoken about it. You look like 'em, especially like Uncle 
 Hubert, that's why he gave you the name, and the older 
 you grow the more you act like 'em, too. He was rich ; 
 everything he touched turned ifito money without any 
 effort ; didn't seem to make any difference what it was. 
 I think you're lucky, too, and I hope you'll succeed in 
 whatever you undertake ; but you mustn't ever forget 
 you're Seth Goodwin's son. It's time to turn in now, 
 and give Old Harry a rest ; the colt'll be calling you 
 before you're ready to turn out, if you don't get to snor- 
 ing soon." 
 
 Long after they had retired to their beds of straw and 
 drawn the heavy blankets over them, the boy lay awake 
 thinking of what he had heard, and praying that he 
 might be spared the mysterious fate which the mark of 
 the old Master of the Horse stamped on one of every 
 generation of his descendants. Prayer was almost as 
 natural an act to him as respiration. From his earliest 
 memory he had heard the voice of supplication morn- 
 ing and evening. The story he had just heard shed 
 light upon many a passionate invocation to which he 
 had listened. He knew now why his father so often 
 prayed with such earnest tenderness for his uncle 
 Horace and himself. He understood, or thought he did, 
 the oft-recurring petition that the " mark of the beast " 
 might be washed out by the " blood of the Lamb." He 
 prayed now with childish simplicity that his father's 
 petition might be heard, and the fatal mark lose its 
 
92 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 power with him, and had no doubt that his prayer would 
 be answered. He did not wish to be a child of The- 
 ophilus, but he promised, sobbingly, to be a very good 
 man, if he might only be spared from becoming a son 
 of Old Harry ; and with this petition on his lips he fell 
 asleep. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 KARMA OR ATAVIA, 
 
 The student of heredity in the human family is ever 
 and anon confounded with seeming miracles. The 
 weakest lives sometimes produce the strongest ; and the 
 converse is so often true that science has finally been 
 compelled to abandon one of its favorite hypotheses 
 and admit that, so far as man is concerned at least, the 
 rule of upward gradation may be forever broken by a 
 single instance of unusual brilliancy. So it has come to 
 be an accepted corollary of the hereditability of human 
 attributes that the over-taxed brain cannot give forth 
 a healthful life. But there are worse puzzles than this 
 which the scientific observer must meet. In spite of 
 the principle that like produces like, we meet every day 
 with instances of unlikeness so startling as to confound 
 the observer, and, for a time at least, destroy all faith in 
 scientific theories of life. From the most unpromising 
 stocks we see springing up the most consummate flowers 
 of human perfection. Whence come they ? Is the 
 mystery of life wholly insoluble, or is the oriental 
 dogma of pre-existence true ? On what theory shall 
 
Karma or Atavia. 93 
 
 we account for Delia, the sweet, gentle daughter of 
 Marshall Kincaid and his wife Olivia ? 
 
 " King Marsh," as he was nicknamed by a punning 
 abbreviation of both Christian name and surname, was 
 a man of striking appearance and pronounced charac- 
 teristics. He was of powerful build ; so broad as to 
 create the impression that he was of less than average 
 height, though in truth considerably above it ; some- 
 what inclined to flesh, but of remarkable activity. His 
 thick, round neck, which rose from a pair of mighty 
 shoulders, bore a head as evenly balanced as if its cen- 
 tre of gravity were never shifted, which was covered 
 with a heavy shock of reddish hair, among which the 
 white was beginning to show. His round, full face 
 was smooth -shaven, and except in the coldest of weather, 
 he was usually found with his sleeves rolled above his 
 elbows, and not unfrequently barefooted, his hairy 
 breast showing beneath the white, unlaundried shirt. 
 His small grey eyes, thin lips and upward-pointing 
 nose gave character to a face by no means repellent, 
 but which, studied in detail, gave a clew to his success. 
 
 Marshall Kincaid had set out early in life to become 
 a rich man. He had far enough to go, for his family 
 was of the poorest ; but he had strength, cunning, 
 unscrupulousness and will. He had a fair education for 
 those days. He had mastered the three R's, and that 
 was enough. Knowledge was to him a thing for use, not 
 ornament. It was no wonder he had prospered. He 
 had no thought for anything but gain, and to that gave 
 night and day, never sparing himself. After a hard 
 day's work at the store, he would, perhaps, lie down 
 upon the counter and catch a few hours' sleep ; rise, 
 harness, his horse and by daylight be twenty-five miles 
 away, still sleeping in the buggy, m which he sat bolt 
 Upright, 
 
94 ^ '^071 of Old Harry. 
 
 His wife was a fit mate for so marked a character. 
 Thin-visaged, tall, sharp -tongned, and with keen, beady- 
 eyes set close beside the narrow promontory that ran 
 down from the low, angular forehead and threateningly 
 overhung the thin line of the mouth below, around 
 either comer of which the wrinkles gathered in radiat- 
 iiig" groups. Her hair was black almost to blueness, 
 but fine and thin. Her nature was one that could not 
 tolerate profusion in anything. She was as unscrupu- 
 lous as her husband and twice as keen and hard ; so 
 people said. What he made, that she kept. What he 
 did not think of, that she suggested. What he was 
 unable to do, she never left undone. If he was absent 
 from the store, she attended to it. If he was occupied 
 with the store, she looked after the tavern. 
 
 The one thing in which they differed was his fancy 
 for a good horse. It was his sole extravagance — his 
 one fault, his wife said. Though he had sold more 
 liquor than any man for miles around, he boasted he 
 had never tasted a drop. Many a famous game had 
 been played in his house, he watching the players' 
 hands and sharing their excitement ; but he never 
 turned a card. 
 
 The fair-haired Delia — the parents called her Deely 
 — was the one ray of sunshine in their lives. The 
 mother had heard that there was some magic potency 
 in a hundred brush-strokes a day bestowed upon the 
 golden coils, and the hard hands were never too weary 
 to give them, nor the lips too cold to intersperse 
 them with fierce, hot kisses. 
 
 As for the father, he dreamed of her, in hard, self- 
 glorying phrases sang her praise, and saw his toils 
 and sacrifices rewarded in the triumphs and attainments 
 he meant she should possess through his endeavor. 
 Both parents were agreed that she should be the most 
 
Karma or Atavia. 95 
 
 accomplished, as she would be the richest, and wa^ 
 already the fairest girl in all the country round. The 
 mother exulted and planned social triumphs, as well as 
 material supremacy. For her sake they attended 
 " meeting " regularly. For her sake the father toler- 
 ated the aristocracy of the East village, though he still 
 used the name of " Skunk Holler " to designate it. For 
 her sake he subscribed liberally to the select school ; 
 for her sake Seth Goodwin had been " accommodated," 
 when in need of fiinds, and Mrs. Kincaid had " put her- 
 self out " to be on good terms with timid Mrs. Goodwin. 
 An intimacy had grown up between the boy and the 
 girl, therefore, which was strengthened by their attend- 
 ance at the same school and the boy's fancy for the 
 horses which thronged the inn-keeper's stable. Thus 
 Delia became the ambassadress sent forth by Kincaid's 
 to secure for the magnate and his wife the social rank 
 which they had been too busy with material accumula- 
 tion to acquire before. 
 
 " I'm goin' to send her to school over there just as 
 long as they can teach her anything," Marsh Kincaid 
 would say to his group of coarse-grained followers, as 
 Delia passed by the door with her books, on her way to 
 the select school ; " which, at the gait she's showin', 
 won't be long, I take it. Then she's goin' to the best 
 schools that can be scared up at the East, and if that 
 don't satisfy her, by George, if there's anything better 
 across the frog-pond that she wants she shall have that, 
 too ! I'll just let people know that King Marsh has the 
 best of everything that's going. I reckon they'll open 
 their eyes when I get through polishin' her off. She 
 hain't bad to look at now. Just see how she picks her 
 way among them bi^-footed, slab-sided, soft-headed 
 Skunk Holler young uns, who have been raised on piety 
 until they're so tender you can't look at 'em without 
 
96 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 their wiltin' like cabbage-plants in a June sun. She's 
 got sense and pluck, too, if she isn't anything but a 
 feather-weight. Why, she ain't 'leven year old yet, but 
 she rides like a jockey. Took to it naturally, you see. 
 She wasn't a month old 'fore I took her in my arms for 
 a canter, and by the time she could toddle she'd laugh 
 and crow if I offered her a chance to ride. Ever since 
 she's been big enough to clamber up my leg, she's been 
 on a horse most every day, and hasn't no more fear of 
 one than if she'd been raised in a stable. I bought her 
 a pony a year ago — she's the only gal in town that's got 
 one — and she rides all over the country, till there ain't 
 a man, woman or child, for ten miles around, that don't 
 know King Marsh's gal and black pony just as well as 
 they do the dog in their own door-yard. 
 
 " I'm goin' to get a planner for her the day she's 
 twelve years old, if I have to send to New York and hire 
 a feller by the day to teach her to play it. Ain't no 
 need of that ? Well, perhaps not. I hain't made up my 
 mind yet ; but I ain't a-goin' to have no common key- 
 thumper teachin' her. Everything's got to be A Num- 
 ber I that she has, and when she's finished off, we'll 
 see who does the braggin', 
 
 " She's first chop in school now. There ain't one of 
 her age that's up with her, except that boy of Goodwin's, 
 and he's most a year older. He's a smart chap, though 
 — smart as a whip, and knows a horse, too. Takes after 
 his uncle Hod there ; and Hod's a deal smarter than 
 Seth, if he'd only stick to something, or go in with 
 somebody that would furnish the stick for him. Them 
 two children's just as thick as if they was twins ; always 
 together when they're not in school, until Seth tuk sick 
 and the boy had to stay out. Deely's mourned about it 
 all the time, and been up to see him 'most every Satur- 
 day all winter. Don't know what I'll do if I have to sell 
 
Karma or Atavia. 97 
 
 Seth out. 'Spect it'll most break her heart ; but busi- 
 ness is business, and I guess she'll get over it." 
 
 Whence came into those hard lives the spark of love- 
 liness which lightened and sweetened the air of Kin- 
 caid's? Had some forgotten stream of noble blood 
 flowed for ages in coarse, ignoble veins, to show at last 
 in the artless sprite who charmed by her grace and won 
 by a gentle prescience beyond her years and apparently 
 at war with her origin ? It was merely one of the 
 mysteries no man may solve ; one of kindly Nature's 
 riddles, who delights to hang jewels in s wines' noses. 
 
 It was a few days before the time set for the race, 
 when, one morning, Horace Goodwin and his nephew 
 beheld a most unexpected apparition. The morning's 
 work with the horses was over ; they had eaten their 
 breakfast, and the uncle was enjoying his pipe, when 
 around the corner of the bluff came dashing a black 
 pony, bearing a slender, bright-eyed girl, whose shining 
 hair fell in a cataract of curls about her shoulders. 
 
 Horace Goodwin dropped his pipe, and, with a mut- 
 tered imprecation, sprang up, rushed into the sugar- 
 house, and shut the door which led to the stalls. At 
 first they had been very careful to keep this closed, in 
 order to preclude the possibility of observation, but 
 they had been so undisturbed that they had grown care- 
 less. Startled by his uncle's movement, the boy looked 
 around, and despite his surprise and the apprehension he 
 felt for the consequences, he could not keep his face 
 from lightening as he saw the shoit-limbed, shaggy 
 pony cantering easily toward him, and recognized the 
 light figure swaying to and fro upon his back, while the 
 bright face above beamed with exultation. 
 
 " Well, I've found you at last," she exclaimed, with 
 quiet satisfaction, as she reined in her pony beside the 
 nonplused lad, who had risen from the log on which he 
 
98 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 had been sitting, and now stood looking up at her as if 
 the power of speech had been suddenly taken from him. 
 How absolute is the rule of imperious and precocious 
 girlhood over awkward and bewildered boyhood ! Delia 
 Kincaid knew that she dazzled Jack Goodwin's eyes 
 as the sun-god does his worshipers, and enjoyed his 
 confusion to the fullest extent. 
 
 " You thought you could hide from me, did you ?" she 
 asked, mischievously shaking her whip at him. " You 
 are a bad boy and ought to be punished. Won't you 
 whip him for me, Mr. Goodwin ?" 
 
 She addressed her inquiry with artless simplicity to 
 Uncle Horace, who at that moment re-appeared from 
 within the sugar-house, his brow clothed with a frown 
 as black as midnight. 
 
 " I'd like to thrash — somebody," he growled, sav- 
 agely. 
 
 " Me, perhaps," laughed the saucy sprite, conscious of 
 the annoyance her presence had given. " Now, Uncle 
 Horace, I think you are real mean ! Just think how 
 long it has been since you saw me ?" 
 
 "I could have stood it a few days longer," he 
 answered, grimly, though the cloud on his brow was 
 evidently lightening. Jack stood twisting a button of 
 his jacket, as he looked from one to the other. Horace 
 Goodwin had been " Uncle Horace " to the girl as well 
 as to Jack almost ever since she could remember. His 
 pleasant ways had won her heart, and his feats of 
 horsemanship, together with the vague notion that his 
 wanderings had covered the greater part of the earth's 
 surface, had made her a breathless listener to the 
 stories he told, and led her to regard him with hardly 
 less of hero-worship than his nephew himself. 
 
 " Why, Uncle Horace !" exclaimed the girl, reproach- 
 fully, while the tears gathered in her eyes. 
 
Karma or Atavia. 99 
 
 "There, there, Deely," said the man, subdued at once 
 by her grief : " I didn't mean anything. You mustn't 
 take on that way. Won't you get down ?" 
 
 " No, I won't !" sobbed the girl, angrily ; " I've been 
 sitting here ever so long, and you haven't asked me 
 before — neither of you. I thought you would be lone- 
 some and glad to see me ; but you aren't — nor Jack, 
 either," she answered spitefully. " I'm going home, 
 and when you see me again — I — I — guess you'll be glad ! 
 Come Dick !" 
 
 She lifted the reins and gave a vicious pull across the 
 pony's neck, to indicate that he was to turn instantly 
 and leave at the same accelerated pace at which he had 
 arrived. But the pony had ideas of his own. While 
 she had been talking, he had been sniffing at the hand 
 with which Jack had been unconsciously caressing the 
 black muzzle. Dick found himself among friends, and 
 had no notion of leaving until he had partaken of their 
 hospitality. So, instead of heeding his mistress's 
 demand, he put his nose down, turned his sharp-pointed 
 ears back upon his neck, and shook his head until they 
 were almost hidden in the flowing mane, while his 
 black eyes shone like ebon sparks set in ivory rings. 
 At the same time he gave a threatening hitch with his 
 hind feet, as if to indicate what would be the next step 
 in his remonstrance. 
 
 "Whoa!" exclaimed Jack, instinctively reaching his 
 hand for the bridle. 
 
 Uncle Horace laughed ; he had no fear for the little 
 lady's safety. He had given her too many lessons, and 
 knew the tricks of the pony too well for that. 
 
 " You, Dick !" exclaimed the miniature horsewoman, 
 angrily. "Let him alone, Jack ! I'll teach him." 
 
 The slender rawhide which she carried came down 
 with the full force of her arm on the pony's flank as 
 
]oo A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 she spoke, and his threat of an uprising in the rear was 
 instantly fulfilled. Then the reins were tightened, and 
 the curb forced his head up and his mouth apart. The 
 lips curled away from the white teeth and the red nostrils 
 showed like coals of fire in his black muzzle. Still the 
 blows fell upon the quivering flank. Then he reared 
 and pawed the air until the black hoofs and shining 
 shoes were lifted above the head of the boy, who instinc- 
 tively stepped backward to avoid them, still keeping his 
 eyes anxiously riveted upon the girlish form in the sad- 
 dle. The blows rained faster still upon the exposed 
 flank, and when the fore-feet touched the earth again, 
 the pony wheeled and bolted along the path by which 
 he had come, glad to escape from the tingling strokes. 
 
 The boy darted after them, but his uncle called him 
 back. 
 
 " Never mind," he said. " She's all right ; the pony 
 '11 forget what he got mad about before he's gone forty 
 rods. It's the way with them Canucks ; they're hot and 
 peppery, and cute and tricky too, sometimes, but they 
 know when they've got a boss, and Deely knows she's 
 boss of that one. We've got something else to think 
 about, now," he added seriously. 
 
 "What's that?" asked the boy, noting his uncle's 
 grave tone and the look of concern on his face. 
 
 " What ?" exclaimed the other in surprise. " Why, 
 we've got to think where we'll go and what we'll do." 
 
 " Where we'll go ?" 
 
 " Yes ; where we'll go," repeated the uncle, pettishly, 
 sitting down upon the big stump, picking up his pipe 
 and filling it absently, his eyes roaming over the ground 
 as if in search of something he could not find. " You 
 don't s'pose we can stay here after Marsh Kincaid's 
 daughter's had a glimpse of us, do you ? She's no fool ; 
 ^nd before an hour i§ past he'll knqw just where we are, 
 
Karma or Atavia. loi 
 
 and then there's nine chances to one that our cake '11 be 
 all dough. I know Marsh Kincaid. If he thinks the 
 colt's likely to beat Gray Eagle — and he'll know there 
 ain't a chance for anything else the minute he sees him 
 at work — why, there won't be any colt to run when the 
 day comes." 
 
 " How can he help it ?" 
 
 " Help it ! Wouldn't a rifle-ball out of the bushes 
 help it any morning or afternoon ? 1 guess there 
 wouldn't be anything to fear from the colt after that," 
 said the man bitterly. " Lucky I've got friends who 
 won't go back on me. The trouble is to get to them 
 without leaving any trace." 
 
 There was a clatter of hoofs around the corner of 
 the bluff, and Horace Goodwin rose uneasily, stepped 
 inside the cabin and took down the rifle that hung upon 
 a couple of wooden hooks above the doorway. Half 
 unconsciously he flung the bullet-pouch and powder- 
 horn over his shoulder at the same time. The region 
 was not wild or lawless, but its sparsely settled char- 
 acter gave opportunity for acts of violence not known in 
 more thickly inhabited countries. And everywhere the 
 utmost care must be exercised to protect the race-horse 
 in preparation from his enemies. The man who bets 
 upon a race is as unscrupulous as any other gambler, 
 and steed and rider are subject to many perils. The 
 deadly poison, the enervating drug, the weakening irri- 
 tant may come to him in food or drink ; may be sifted 
 down upon him from the loft above or ejected on him 
 as he passes by at work. The smith is bribed to prick 
 him in shoeing ; the groom to knuckle him or even to 
 drop leaden pellets in his ears to make him frantic with 
 pain ; the rider to vex his temper or cause him to injure 
 himself by a misstep. On every side the racer is encom- 
 passed with danger. Eternal vigilance is the only 
 
I02 A Soji of Old Harry. 
 
 safety for the man who backs a favorite. The risk is 
 half over when a horse comes safely to the start and 
 gets the word, without untoward accident. 
 
 It is told of a horse which became famous about the 
 time of our story, that for weeks before a great event 
 the owner always locked his groom and a bull-dog in the 
 stall with him, slept himself in the stable, and passed all 
 that the horse ate or drank into the stall with his own 
 hand, after making a personal test of its qualities. It is 
 not to be wondered at, therefore, that Horace Goodwin, 
 mindful of these things, was somewhat nervous over the 
 incident that had just occurred. If he had any impres- 
 sion that their privacy was at once to be invaded by 
 others, however, it was quickly dispelled. 
 
 Around the corner of the bluff came again the black 
 pony, still at his utmost speed. The rider drew him to 
 his haunches in front of the boy, and stretching out her 
 arms to him jumped to the ground. Snatching up her 
 habit she ran impulsively to the man and said : 
 
 " Don't be cross at me. Uncle Horace." 
 
 She looked up at him so pleadingly that he forgot his 
 chagrin, stooped and kissed her, 
 
 " Nobody could be cross at such a witch as you, 
 Deely," he said. 
 
 " I am glad of that," she rejoined, turning her head 
 archly on one side. " I didn't know but you were going 
 to shoot me." 
 
 She glanced meaningly at the rifle. Uncle Horace 
 flushed a trifle, but answered carelessly enough : 
 
 " Oh, I was just going out to get some squirrels for a 
 pot-pie. I heard a gobbler up the hollow this morning, 
 too." 
 
 " Then I'll stay with Jack until you come back," said 
 the girl, turning with a pleased look at her playmate. 
 
Karma or Atavia. 103 
 
 " I may be gone a good while," answered Uncle 
 Horace, uneasily. 
 
 " Well, I haven't seen him in a long time, and have 
 got lots of things to tell him. I've been to his house 
 ever so many times, but Aunt Susan wouldn't tell me 
 anything about him, only that he had gone away. As 
 if I didn't know that as well as she. That's the way I 
 came to find you." 
 
 "How's that?" 
 
 " Why, you see, I was wondering where you both were 
 and what you were doing, and I heard pa and a good 
 many others wondering, too, only they didn't seem to 
 care anything about Jack, and I did. They all thought 
 you'd gone off somewhere to get a horse to run against 
 Gray Eagle ; just as quick as I heard them say it was 
 to be a horse that had never run a race I knew it was 
 Pomp, and that was the reason Jack had gone as well as 
 you. I couldn't imagine where you were, though, until 
 I thought of * Number Two,' and then of the sugar- 
 bush right here beside it. I knew Jack used to ride 
 the colt around the pasture and thought this would be 
 just the nicest place in the world to train him. So I 
 thought I'd come and see. Isn't it lovely here ?" she 
 said, taking a general survey of her surroundings. Jack 
 was petting the pony and gazing at her with unmistak- 
 able delight. 
 
 " Where do you keep him ? In there ?" pointing to 
 the stable. " Can't I see him ? Oh, I'm sure he'll win. 
 I've got ever so many bets on him." 
 
 " You have ?" 
 
 " Well — on the horse you are going to run. Of course 
 I know it's Pomp, just as well as I know anything. 
 Please let me see him." 
 
 " How. did you come here ?" asked Uncle Horace, dis- 
 regarding her appeal. 
 
I04 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " As if you didn't know. Uncle Horace, aren't you 
 getting a little loony ? Didn't you see I rode Dick ?" 
 
 " I mean by what road ?" 
 
 " Oh, I didn't come by any road at all," she answered, 
 gayly. " I knew you didn't want anybody to suspect 
 you were here, so I just rode up Matthews's lane until I 
 came to the woods, and then picked my way along 
 through them." 
 
 " You must have found it pretty rough," 
 
 '* Not so very," she answered ruefully, looking down 
 at her habit, which was plentifully decorated with green 
 burs. The others laughed at her brave denial of diffi- 
 culty, in the face of such evidence. " There were one 
 or two fences Dick had a hard time getting over," she 
 continued. " But I'm so glad I came. Have you had a 
 good time here in the woods. Jack ?" 
 
 " Pretty good," answered the boy, with some embar- 
 rassment. 
 
 ** Oh, it must be nice !" the little lady exclaimed, " I 
 wish I was a boy — but where is Pomp ? I wanted to see 
 him most as bad as I did you ?" 
 
 The lad's face flushed with pleasure. 
 
 "There isn't any *Pomp ' now, Deely !" he answered, 
 jauntily. 
 
 " Isn't any Pomp ? What do you mean ?" 
 
 " We've given him a new name." 
 
 " What for ?" 
 
 " Uncle Horace thought * Pomp ' wasn't fine enough 
 for a horse that was going to run a real sure-enough 
 race," 
 
 " What do you call him now ?" 
 
 " I wanted to call him Curtius, but Uncle Horace 
 didn't like it, so we named him Belmont's Abdallah." 
 
 " 'Abdallah ?' " repeated the girl, sounding the word 
 carefully, ** * Abdallah !' That's a pretty name ; but 
 
Karma or Atavia. 105 
 
 why do you call him Belmont's Abdallah ? Have you 
 sold him ? Who is Belmont ?" 
 
 " You'll have to ask Uncle Horace." 
 
 " Who is he, Uncle Horace ?" 
 
 " I'm sure I couldn't tell you," answered the young 
 man, who was leaning against the cabin-wall, still hold- 
 ing his gun. 
 
 " Then why did you call him that .?" 
 
 " Because — well, because it's a respectable name for a 
 horse to have," smiling. 
 
 " So there wouldn't anybody know him ?" she asked 
 shrewdly. 
 
 " Well, that was one reason," Uncle Horace confessed. 
 
 " I thought so," gayly. " I hope he'll win." 
 
 " You do ?" 
 
 " Of course," with a gay laugh at his surprise. " Did 
 you think I was on the other side ?" 
 
 " I s'posed you'd back the Gray Eagle." 
 
 " Well, I don't. I told pa, as soon as I thought about 
 — about — well, about the colt — I can't remember his new 
 name — that he'd be beat, and he'd better back down. 
 I've seen Pomp run in * Number Two.'" 
 
 " He didn't take your advice ?" 
 
 " No ; and I made a bet with him that he'd lose. 
 I've got four or five other bets, too. You see, every- 
 body's laying on the Gray Eagle, because he's won so 
 many races, but I don't believe in him much. Ma says 
 she hopes pa'll lose, and that'll stop him from throwing 
 away money on horses." 
 
 *' Stop him !" exclaimed Uncle Horace, throwing back 
 his head and laughing in a way to wake the echoes. 
 
 "That's what she said," continued the child, evidently 
 abashed at the effect of her revelation ; " and I guess it 
 will. It appears to take a good deal to get the old 
 Eagle ready, anyway ; they've had to burn his legs." 
 
io6 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " Fire him, you mean ?" 
 
 " Well, isn't that burning ?" 
 
 " Of course. Is he lame ?" 
 
 *' Well — he was," sagely, ** But he does get over the 
 ground when he's once limbered up," she added, 
 doubtfully. " Pa says it'll take a lively nag to get away 
 with him ; and if you should see him run once, you'd 
 think so," 
 
 " There ain't any doubt about that, I suppose you 
 told your father your suspicions about — about the colt ?" 
 
 " Indeed I didn't. Didn't I say I wanted you to win ? 
 Ma said she wishes pa would get beat so bad he 
 wouldn't dare look a horse in the face for the rest of his 
 life ; it would be the best thing that could happen to 
 ■ him, and if he must lose, she'd rather you won his money 
 than any one else, for you'll help Jack's father with it," 
 
 " That's a fact, little one," exclaimed the uncle, 
 warmly. 
 
 "Oh, I know some things, if I am little," was the arch 
 reply. 
 
 Uncle Horace turned, and put his gun back on the 
 hooks inside the cabin-door. 
 
 " I thought you were going out to shoot squirrels ?" 
 
 '* I guess I'd better wait and get dinner." 
 
 *' Oh, do ; and I'll stay and eat it with you." 
 
 *' Won't your folks be uneasy if you don't come 
 home ?" 
 
 *' I always stay to dinner when I go to Aunt Susan's ; 
 don't I, Jack ?" 
 
 ** Of course — that is — most always," answered the 
 boy, doubtful whether he ought to favor or discourage 
 her project, 
 
 Horace Goodwin was greatly puzzled by the turn 
 affairs had taken, but concluded that it was better to 
 trust this child, wise beyond her years and yet so 
 
Karma or Atavia. 107 
 
 apparently simple and transparent, than to show any 
 suspicion of her. If she was a spy, she already knew 
 all that could be of detriment to them, and it might be 
 well to have her carry away an impression of confidence 
 on their part rather than of doubt. Next^ to beating 
 the Gray Eagle out and out, the best "thing for the colt 
 would be to have that horse pay forfeit to him. So he 
 said, cheerfully : 
 
 " Give the pony a bait. Jack, and bring the colt out 
 and let the young lady look him over while I set about 
 dinner. We don't often have company, you know. You 
 come at the wrong time to see him move, Deely," he 
 added, with a meaning look at the boy. 
 
 The girl's surprise and delight at the condition and 
 beauty of the colt, with which she had been acquainted' 
 since he was a foal, was unbounded. 
 
 When she had concluded her inspection and the newly 
 christened nag had been returned to his stall, the boy 
 and girl wandered up the little valley to visit some of 
 the quiet nooks where the lad had been accustomed to 
 pass his unoccupied hours during their long seclusion. 
 
 " Oh, Jack !" she exclaimed in rapture, when they 
 reached a pretty bower made by a leafy dogwood which 
 had grown up among the branches of a fallen forest 
 monarch and umbel-like shut out the light on every 
 side. A broken limb of the great tree made a conven- 
 ient seat, wherein she was installed. The giant trunk 
 rose behind her, and the boy stood in the little open 
 space before her, leaning against the bent trunk of the 
 dogwood. It was his favorite haunt. 
 
 " Oh, Jack," she repeated, " isn't this nice ?" 
 
 " It's most like being in a house, isn't it ?" he said, 
 pleased with her approval. 
 
 " Yes, only nicer. What good times you must have 
 here. I do hope you'll win !" 
 
io8 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 Her face beamed with unconcealed pleasure. 
 
 " You want to win your bets ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't care for them, Jack !" she exclaimed 
 with gleeful abandon. " I only made them because I 
 was sure it was your colt that was going- to run." 
 
 "We thought perhaps you were on the other side." 
 
 " Uncle Horace thought so ; you didn't," she said, 
 positively. 
 
 " I s'posed of course, you'd — " stammered the lad. 
 
 " No you didn't ; don't you ever say so !" 
 
 She threatened him with upraised finger. The boy 
 laughed. It was very pleasant to have her play the 
 tyrant. 
 
 " It was natural you should want your father to win," 
 he protested. 
 
 *' Oh, pa's all right," she said, with a sublime confi- 
 dence in her father's ability to care for himself. " He 
 says he stands to make something out of the race, 
 whether he wins or loses. I guess he's been betting on 
 the other side," she added, sagely. 
 
 " I don't know," said the boy, wondering how she had 
 learned so much. Betting was almost as much a 
 mystery to him as the hereafter. The son of Seth 
 Goodwin had known a different environment from that 
 of King Marsh's daughter. 
 
 " Nor I ; I only guess. But he says if your uncle 
 Horace wins the race, he'll make enough to pay off the 
 mortgage and send you to college, too." 
 
 " I don't want to go to college," said the boy, dog- 
 gedly. 
 
 " But you must," asserted the girl. 
 
 " I don't see why." 
 
 "Because, if you don't," answered the little lady, 
 smoothing her gown over her knees as she spoke, " I 
 shall get ahead of you. You know I am going to school 
 
Karma or Atavia, 109 
 
 — oh, ever so many years — until I learn as much as I 
 can." 
 
 " S'pose you do ?" 
 
 " Why, I couldn't marry you if you didn't know as 
 much as I." 
 
 The child spoke as if their marriage was as much a 
 matter of course as any every-day event. 
 
 " Will you marry me if I go to college, Deely ?" 
 
 " Why, of course." 
 
 " Really and truly ?" 
 
 " Really and truly. You don't think I'd marry any- 
 body else, do you ?" 
 
 There was a quaver of reproachful protest in her 
 voice. 
 
 ** S'pose your folks wouldn't let you ?" 
 
 " I'd run away." 
 
 " They might make you marry somebody else while 
 I was gone !" 
 
 '•Then I'd run away from him when you came 
 back." 
 
 " And will you be my wife always ?" asked the boy, 
 incredulously. 
 
 " Of course. Ain't that what they promise, * forever 
 and ever, amen ?' I've heard people married lots of 
 times. Haven't you ever seen a wedding ?" 
 
 The boy shook his head. 
 
 " Well," said the girl, " the next time anybody gets 
 married at our house, I'll let you know — if I have time, 
 that is — they're most always in an awful hurry. You 
 ought to see a wedding," she added, sagely, "so's to 
 know how. You'll have to promise to love me always, 
 you know, and take good care of me, too." 
 
 ** Oh, I'll do that," said the boy, readily. " I always 
 did think you were the nicest girl that ever lived." 
 
 He had edged towards her while they talked, and 
 
no A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 finally sat down beside her. Then he put his arm about 
 her neck and kissed her, shyly. 
 
 " But you'll have to go to colleg-e," she insisted, 
 diplomatically drawing herself backward, as if to avoid 
 his advances. 
 
 " I'll do that, too," said the lad recklessly, kissing her 
 again. 
 
 " Oh, Jack, how good you are !" she exclaimed, 
 throwing off all reserve, now that her point was gained, 
 flinging her arms about his neck and putting up her 
 sweet child-mouth to kiss and be kissed as much as he 
 might desire. 
 
 " Won't it be nice ?" she sighed, when their caresses 
 began to pall. 
 
 " What ?" asked the duller-witted boy, from whom 
 life's supremest rapture was yet farther away than from 
 the prescient girl-nature, which already felt its prompt- 
 ings. 
 
 " Oh, just to love each other always — always," she 
 repeated ; and then, more solemnly — " forever and ever, 
 amen." 
 
 Her tone awed the boy, and they sat silent, her head 
 resting on his shoulder and her bright tresses flecking 
 his brown " warm-us." It was the old, old story on the 
 lips of babes. He was poor and sturdy ; she, rich and 
 wordly-wise for her years, but tender and clinging as 
 the woman-nature always is. 
 
 It was an odd betrothal, with the summer woods and 
 babbling brook for witnesses. There was no false 
 modesty or shame-facedness about it. The young souls 
 had felt no touch of passion. It was merely the natural 
 result of that instinctive pleasure in each other which 
 had grown out of comradeship. The boy never forgot 
 it. From that hour he counted himself bound as if by 
 the marriage vow. From that day forth he never 
 
Kartna or Atavia. 1 1 1 
 
 thought of himself alone. His plans and dreams 
 included always the golden-haired girl whose great 
 earnest eyes met his then with such unquestioning 
 faith. 
 
 " Jack," she said, suddenly, releasing herself from 
 his embrace and turning on him a look of serious con- 
 cern, " who's going to ride the colt ?" 
 
 " Why, I am ; who did you think ?" 
 
 " I didn't know but — but Uncle Horace might." 
 
 " He's too heavy." 
 
 "You might get somebody, then — a jockey, you 
 know." 
 
 " The colt'll do more for me than for any one else." 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't. Jack. Aren't you afraid ?" 
 
 The light had gone out of her eyes. 
 
 " There will be so many people there," she added, 
 hesitantly. 
 
 " I shan't see any of them," confidently ; " nothing 
 but the horse — and the track." 
 
 " But something might — might happen to you." 
 
 " What ?" in surprise. 
 
 " Well, he might bolt, or—" 
 
 " Not with me." 
 
 " But some one might — might get in the way, you 
 know." 
 
 She cast down her eyes as she spoke. 
 
 " Oh, no fear of that ; they'll keep the track clear." 
 
 " But it's a mile long." 
 
 '* Well, there'll be enough there to watch it," he con- 
 tinued, carelessly. 
 
 The girl sighed. 
 
 " Do you ever go — go to — to the house, Jack ?" she 
 asked, at length, her eyes still downcast. 
 
 " Sometimes," answered the boy, cautiously. 
 
 '* I wouldn't — any more, I mean." 
 
112 A Sou of Old Harry. 
 
 " Why not ?" 
 
 " Somebody — might — might see you." 
 
 "" No danger of that ; it's always dark when we go." 
 
 " But somebody might be watching," 
 
 " What for ?" 
 
 " Well, they might want to know — don't you see ?" 
 
 Her head was bent down and her cheeks burned. 
 
 " Is anybody watching for us, Deely ?" 
 
 The bent head fell lower. 
 
 " And that is the reason you came here ?" 
 
 Another nod. The boy saw a tear fall upon the little 
 hands which worked nervously in her lap. 
 
 " I understand," he said, gravely. He remembered 
 what his uncle had said about the danger of discovery. 
 
 " I — I didn't want to tell Uncle Horace," sobbed the 
 girl. 
 
 " He sha'n't ever know," answered the boy, manfully. 
 
 "You will be careful, won't you, Jack?" she pleaded. 
 
 " There won't nothing happen to me, Deely ; don't 
 you be afraid," he said, stoutly, though his lips were 
 white and his voice trembled a little. " I'm going to 
 win that race." 
 
 The boy had suddenly grown to be a man. The 
 nature which love could not awaken, danger and resolu- 
 tion had suddenly ripened. 
 
 "I believe you will," said the girl, looking at him 
 admiringly. The woman-nature pays tribute always to 
 courage. 
 
 The uncle whistled on his fingers to call them to din- 
 ner. They returned hand in hand. 
 
 " For all the world like a pair of old married folks," 
 he said to himself, as they came near enough to enable 
 him to see their grave faces. " She's safe ; she won't blab 
 on him. That's often the way with girls. She's older 
 an' truer'n she's likely to be half a dozen years from now." 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SCREENING THE COVEY. 
 
 The visit of Kincaid's daughter resulted in renewed 
 precaution to secure privacy and divert suspicion in 
 regard to the training-camp. From that time on, Chris 
 Barclay spent the night there, bringing his dog Watch, 
 who was better than a dozen sentinels. He passed the 
 word to Horace Goodwin's friends, also, that they should 
 bestir themselves to secure the attendance of people 
 who would see to it that there was fair play on the day 
 of the race. 
 
 It was the almost universal opinion that Horace Good- 
 win had undertaken a task quite impossible to perform. 
 Every horse known to possess racing qualities in any of 
 the adjoining counties had been canvassed by more than 
 one jury of volunteer experts, and the result had been a 
 practically unanimous concensus of opinion that no 
 horse having the requisite conditions was to be found, 
 nor, indeed, one of any sort capable of vanquishing the 
 Gray Eagle. But the most puzzling fact of all was that 
 not one of those most likely to succeed was in training. 
 Under the circumstances, it was not strange that a 
 report should obtain currency that Horace Goodwin had 
 abandoned the attempt and gone East to avoid the 
 ridicule certain to attend upon a failure to show 
 that he had reasonable ground for the boast he had 
 
114 A Sou of Old Harry. 
 
 made. This rumor had gained strength from a repeated 
 offer of Kincaid to bet that Horace Goodwin would 
 not appear, nor any horse be entered to contest the 
 race with the Gray Eagle on the day named, 
 
 Horace Goodwin's friends, who up to this time had 
 seemed very apathetic, suddenly developed an unusual 
 activity. Van Wyck posted a notice at every cross- 
 roads for miles around that he was authorized by 
 responsible parties to take bets in any sum from ten 
 cents up to a thousand dollars that Horace Goodwin 
 would appear and attempt bona fide to make good his 
 challenge. Said bets to be conditioned only " that 
 the said Goodwin and the horse he now has in train- 
 ing shall be alive on the third day of July next." 
 This authoritative challenge not only increased the 
 popular excitement regarding the race, but tended to 
 cast ridicule upon Kincaid 's pretensions. It confirmed 
 also the idea that Goodwin was training at some 
 remote point. This was further strengthened by the 
 assurance of a gentleman of undoubted character, 
 living in an adjoining county, but more than fifty miles 
 to the eastward of Ortonville, that he had " recently 
 seen Mr. Horace Goodwin and received his personal 
 assurance that he would be present on the day set for 
 the race, and confidently expected to produce a horse 
 answering all the conditions imposed and able to beat 
 not only Gray Eagle but any horse he had ever run 
 against." As this included some of the most famous 
 horses of the day, the statement greatly enhanced the 
 interest in the event. 
 
 The assurance that the race would positively come off 
 brought with it a general conviction that no event of 
 like importance had ever occurred in that region. 
 People began to speak of it as the " Great Race," by 
 which name it is still referred to by dwellers in that 
 
Screening the Covey. 1 1 5 
 
 vicinity. With this came also the notion that an occa- 
 sion of such importance required some unusual prep- 
 aration for its due and orderly observance. At the 
 " Quarterly Meeting " of the circuit including Ortonville, 
 held two weeks before the race, notice was circulated 
 that there would be a meeting the next Monday week 
 to put the track in order and make other arrangements 
 for the race. Everybody was invited to attend and 
 bring such tools as might be useful in the work. No 
 one objected to such notice being given at a religious 
 meeting, and a good many worthy people openly 
 approved the project, being convinced that " Brother " 
 Goodwin, whose misfortunes were as well known as his 
 character was respected, was likely to be greatly bene- 
 fited by his brother's success. 
 
 Perhaps the general sentiment was best expressed by 
 one of the stewards, who said : 
 
 " I don't approve of horse-racing, as a rule, though 
 perhaps it's the things that go with it more'n the thing 
 itself that I object to ; but if Hod Goodwin can't see any 
 other way to help his brother out of a tight place — and I 
 don't see that there is any other way — I don't think we 
 ought to let his good intentions fail for want of a fair 
 chance. As I'm an * official member,' very probably I 
 may not go to the race, but I don't see any harm in 
 helping the folks that live along the ' measured mile ' 
 to * mend their ways ' a little about this time. So, I 
 guess I'll go to the * bee ' and let the boys go to the race 
 — unless I find it necessary to go along to look after 
 them, then, too," 
 
 The meeting to prepare the track was of unexpected 
 proportions. Before nine o'clock more than five hun- 
 dred men had assembled, armed with picks, shovels, 
 hoes and other implements, Kincaid sent two teams 
 with a plow and a roller. Chris Barclay was there with 
 
1 1 6 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 a new smoother of his own invention with backward 
 curving knife-edged teeth, which was looked upon at 
 first with derision, but which soon justified itself by its 
 execution, A man was chosen by acclamation to super- 
 intend the work, who, with that ready assumption of 
 delegated authority which our American life has made 
 habitual, at once appointed his assistants and began 
 issuing orders. In twenty minutes every man was at 
 work, the overseer being the only one who did not 
 wield some implement, he riding up and down the line 
 and giving directions, so as to secure uniformity and 
 thoroughness of work. 
 
 It was a jolly gathering. The men worked as earn- 
 estly as though in their own cornfields — some of them 
 more industriously. The air was full of rough jests 
 and loud laughter. The horses chafed at the unusual 
 excitement. The drivers cracked their whips, shouted 
 to their teams and took part also in the general jollity. 
 The boys brought water for the men to drink from the 
 wells along the route, in buckets with tin dippers float- 
 ing in them. Nearly all were clothed in homespun ; 
 many of them were barefoot. They wore palm-leaf 
 hats, in the crowns of which many carried gaudily printed 
 handkerchiefs. They were a wholesome, manly crowd, 
 and their wit, if coarse, was seldom malicious. 
 
 There were not many people living along the 
 " measured mile — "only three or four families — but 
 they all felt honored by the great event which was to 
 occur at their very doors, and gladly invited as many of 
 the workers as they could accommodate to dinner. The 
 limit of their capacity to " accommodate" was the ability 
 of the " women folks " to cook and serve. Many of the 
 men had brought their wives, who " turned in " and 
 « helped in this service. 
 
 It was expected that Horace Goodwin would make his 
 
Screening the Covey, 117 
 
 appearance during the day, but he did not. His brother 
 Seth, sitting in his great arm-chair in the shade of a 
 couple of giant elms which had somehow escaped the 
 woodman's ax, and waved congratulatory greetings to 
 each other standing at something more than their 
 limbs' length apart, in front of his house, gazed com- 
 posedly upon the busy scene, answered pleasantly the 
 greetings and good wishes of his friends, and when 
 asked about his brother, replied, without hesitation, that 
 he had not seen him for more than a month. No one 
 doubted his word. The man selected to supervise the 
 repairs of the track consulted him in regard to arrange- 
 ments for the race. It was agreed that there should be 
 a strong force of special officers to preserve order, and 
 that no liquor should be sold within half a mile of the 
 grounds. These and other necessary regulations were 
 to be submitted to a meeting to be held after the work 
 was done, at the south end of the course. That the 
 people of the vicinage might not have a legal right to 
 make such proscriptive regulations did not seem to 
 occur to any one. 
 
 When the hour of noon arrived, Susan Goodwin, 
 standing on the horse-block beside the big front gate, 
 blew a blast which was heard the whole length of the 
 "measured mile," on a conch-shell, brought from the 
 East among her household treasures, which had been in 
 the family for at least three generations, having neatly 
 pricked on its inner surface the initials of three house- 
 wives, who had successively joined their fortunes with 
 the Goodwin stock. It was answered by the dinner- 
 horns of all the neighborhood. The work ceased 
 almost instantly. The horses instinctively stood still in 
 their tracks on hearing the accustomed call. The men 
 shouldered each the implement with which he had been 
 working, and marching to the roadside, hung it on the 
 
1 1 8 A Son of Old Harry, ' 
 
 high " stake and rider" fence. Delia Kincaid, on her 
 pony, ran a race with the overseer down the half-fin- 
 ished track. The men stood aside and cheered as 
 they passed. 
 
 Some had brought their lunches and gathered in 
 the orchard opposite Seth Goodwin's house, or sat 
 around in the shadow of the trees and fence -corners or 
 beneath their wagons, to eat them. Others came to 
 partake of the provisions set forth by the Goodwins — 
 especially the barrel of hard cider, which flanked the 
 . tables in the front yard. Many came to wash their 
 hands and faces at the big trough by the well, whose 
 stone-laden sweep had seldom made so many journeys 
 in a day. 
 
 As soon as they began to eat, the conversation turned 
 upon the weather. Men wiped their sweaty faces, 
 pushed back the damp hair from their foreheads, and 
 agreed that it was hot. The thermometer had not yet 
 become an instrument of universal discomfort, and none 
 knew that on the "measured mile " it would have regis- 
 tered " ninety in the shade " that sultry June day. The 
 general hope was expressed that it would be cooler on 
 the day of the race, though some knowing ones ven- 
 tured the statement that the best time had generally 
 been made on hot days. A good many of Kincaid's 
 followers offered to lay odds on the Gray Eagle, but 
 it was not a betting crowd. They were interested in 
 the race, willing to give lime and labor to prepare 
 for it ; but they had no notion of staking money on 
 the result. The boys bet jack-knives and other trink- 
 ets, and the women made foolish little wagers with 
 each other ; but the men generally contented themselves 
 with opinions and arguments. Their time for betting 
 had not arrived, since each wished to back his judgment 
 rather than his inclination. 
 
Screening the Covey. 1 1 9 
 
 The " State road," of which the ** measured mile " 
 was a part, was a notable highway. It had been a 
 turnpike and the law had prescribed its dimensions — " a 
 rod wide, clear of stumps and runners on each side ; 
 the middle well piked up, thirty-two feet between the 
 outer edges of the ditches on each side " — constituting 
 two rods of border and two of roadway. The turfy 
 borders were thus reserved for the accommodation of 
 herds of stock, which were thereby enabled to pass 
 along the road without interrupting the stream of 
 wagons moving each way. The " measured mile " was 
 an almost perfect level, that lay between two sharp 
 depressions which cut the line of the great highway, and 
 was marked at one end by a great beech, just in front of 
 Seth Goodwin's house, and at the other by a big chest- 
 nut, a furlong to the southward of Chris Barclay's resi- 
 dence, the lines which marked the start and the finish 
 being attached to staples on the north side of the beech 
 and the south side of the chestnut, making a course, 
 according to Squire Kendall's chain, of just one mile, 
 three links and a half. It was the best piece of road in 
 the whole region, but there were ruts and holes and 
 sticks and stones here and there along its extent when 
 the work of preparation began. Many willing hands 
 soon changed its appearance, and the brown, springy 
 surface being inspected by the overseer at four o'clock 
 in the afternoon, was pronounced as good a track as any 
 horse had ever struck a hoof on, though even then its 
 condition was far enough from the modem race-course 
 standard. 
 
 The proposed meeting was then held. The man who 
 had been chosen to supervise the work, presided, stand- 
 ing on a work-bench under the great beech. He was 
 unanimously elected marshal for the day of the race, 
 and empowered to choose his assistants. The rules he 
 
I20 A Sou of Old Harry. 
 
 suggested were adopted, and the sheriff of the county 
 announced that he would make the marshal and his 
 assistants special deputies for that day, so as to secure 
 good order and fair play. The race was ordered to 
 take place between eleven o'clock and three, so as to 
 give time for people to return home before dark, and 
 the marshal was authorized to stop all travel on the 
 road during such time as might be necessary, and to 
 make rules for the orderly egress of the crowd from the 
 track after the race was over — a very necessary provi- 
 sion where each one was expected to come in his own 
 vehicle. 
 
 After this spontaneous exhibition of the self-govern- 
 ing instinct of the American people, the crowd was 
 about to disperse when Kincaid's groom appeared, 
 mounted on Gray Eagle, He was a splendid horse, of 
 that peculiar iron-gray which so often results from a 
 comminglmg of the blood of Sir Archy and that Pilot 
 stock so abundant in the Tennessee and Virginia moun- 
 tains. A flaming eye and lordly crest, edged with flowing 
 silver, gave him a peculiarly impressive aspect, while a 
 tail, as white as that of the prophet's mare, proudly 
 upreared in moments of excitement, had often flashed 
 a baleful meteor in the eyes of defeated competitors. 
 He was given an easy spurt over the soft track to the 
 half-mile post and back, for the entertainment of the 
 crowd, and Marshall Kincaid could not restrain a glow 
 of satisfaction as he saw the depressing effect of the 
 exhibition produced upon the friends of Horace Good- 
 win, who were somewhat comforted, however, by the 
 confident, half-contemptuous words of Seth : 
 
 " He's a good horse, Mr. Kincaid. If it was a case of 
 heads and tails he'd be pretty sure to win ; but he'll 
 meet a horse next Tuesday week that hasn't much of 
 
Screening the Covey. 121 
 
 an eye for flax, but will busy himself with eating up the 
 ground instead of flourishing his tail." 
 
 He smiled with calm assurance as he spoke. 
 
 " Seth's a Goodwin, and knows a horse if he doesn't 
 race," was the general verdict. 
 
 " Hurrah for the Gray Eagle !" shouted one of Kin- 
 caid's followers. 
 
 " Hurrah for Belmont's Abdallah !" exclaimed a 
 gentlemanly-looking stranger who had ridden up a 
 little while before. He took off his hat as he spoke to 
 lead the cheers. 
 
 " Who's Belmont's Abdallah ?" asked Kincaid, 
 brusquely. 
 
 " He's the horse that will have the honor of beating 
 Gray Eagle," answered the stranger with quiet assur- 
 ance. 
 
 " Why don't you trot him out and let us see him ?" 
 
 " You will see him soon enough. Hurrah !" 
 
 He swung his hat, and the crowd cheered good- 
 naturedly. The stranger proved to be a resident of a 
 county which touched the one in which Ortonville was 
 situated, only at the extreme northwestern corner. The 
 announcement of the name of the competing horse 
 added greatly to the interest in the race, which was 
 already at fever heat in the country round, and directed 
 attention especially to the country from which the 
 stranger came. So the cosy training camp in the woods, 
 a mile away, remained unsuspected and undisturbed. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE SON OF ABDALLAH. 
 
 The day of the race was all that could be desired, and 
 the concourse of people greater even than had been 
 anticipated. Long before the hour of eleven, the 
 " measured mile " seemed merely a broad yellow ribbon 
 between two dark lines of vehicles ranged along the sides. 
 The horses were tethered in the fence-corners. The 
 men wandered back and forth, some along the roadway, 
 others trampling through the tall grass in the adja- 
 cent meadows. The marshals, with white sashes 
 across their shoulders, rode hither and thither, getting 
 the crowd in order and finding places for the wagons 
 still arriving. The trees in the orchard and along the 
 sides of the course were filled with boys. Men perched 
 on the fences or leaned against them, whittling as they 
 talked. Here and there were venders of cakes and 
 cider, ginger-beer and other harmless decoctions. 
 Numerous peddlers plied their trade up and down the 
 line or at stands where they displayed their wares. 
 There was much noise, little profanity, very few dis- 
 agreements, and absolutely no pocket-picking. 
 
 At each end there was an enclosure made by ropes 
 stretched from stake to stake for the horses and their 
 attendants. From these the public was rigidly excluded 
 by the marshals. The Gray Eagle occupied a spacious 
 
The Son of Abdallah. 123 
 
 marquee in the orchard, from which a flag gayly floated. 
 The horse that was to compete with him was securely 
 screened from prying eyes in a little tent erected in Seth 
 Goodwin's yard, almost under the branches of the giant 
 beech. It was carefully guarded by the friends of Hor- 
 ace Goodwin, none of whom seemed to know however, 
 what manner of horse it was that stamped and whinnied 
 when the brown mare was taken out, that her master 
 might accompany Kincaid and the marshal on a tour of 
 inspection up and down the track, to see that everything 
 was in proper order and make the necessary arrange- 
 ment at the other end. A great crowd had gathered at 
 the south end of the course, where it was supposed the 
 starts would be made. 
 
 Six judges had been appointed, who were divided by 
 lot, three to officiate at each end of the course. At the 
 southern terminus they were given seats on the work- 
 bench under the great beech ; at the other end of the 
 course they sat in a farm-wagon drawn up beside the 
 chestnut-tree which marked the limit. Forty mounted 
 marshals were stationed along the track, twenty on each 
 side. Their duty was to prevent obstruction or interfer- 
 ence with the race, and to observe and report any 
 impropriety on the part of the riders when beyond the 
 judges' view. They were provided with white and red 
 flags with which to telegraph the result of each heat. 
 There was to be an interval of twenty minutes between 
 the heats, and the horses were to be called to the post 
 by the beat of a drum. A gun was to be fired as soon 
 as a start was made, to notify those along the course 
 that a heat had begun, and at the end to announce the 
 finish. The marshals rode back and forth in the narrow 
 ditches, warning the crowd off from the track. Boys 
 swarmed everywhere, and Delia Kincaid's black pony, 
 
124 ^ Son of Old Harry. 
 
 white plumes and waving curls flashed in and out 
 among the spectators in the most unexpected places. 
 
 When Horace Goodwin returned from the northern 
 end of the track, he speeded the brown mare along the 
 course, the rest of the cavalcade following at a sharp 
 gallop. Everybody cheered the mare and her handsome 
 rider, who was quite the gentleman in blue coat, with 
 brass buttons and white bell-crowned hat. Everybody 
 declared they had never seen a mile trotted in such short 
 time and good form. This unexpected and gratuitous 
 entertainment put the crowd in rare good humor. 
 
 When all the details were completed, the marshal, 
 standing on the work -bench, commanded silence, 
 ordered the track to be cleared and that no one should 
 cross it until the race was ended. His deputies, sitting 
 on their horses along each side of the track, waved their 
 flags and repeated his announcement. Then the 
 makers of the race were called on to name their horses, 
 and Marshall Kincaid, standing on a chair on the west 
 side of the track, named Gray Eagle, giving the name 
 of his sire and dam and announcing himself as the 
 owner. At the same moment, the sides of the marquee 
 were thrown back, and the proud horse, with his wiry 
 little colored jockey, clad in gray with shining boots and 
 spurs, pranced out and took his place before the judges' 
 stand. Their appearance was greeted with a loud cheer. 
 Marshall Kincaid looked flushed and confident. People 
 said it was a dangerous look — he felt too sure of win- 
 ning. The rumor had gotten out that he would win by 
 fair means if he could, but meant to win anyhow. It 
 was more a deduction from his general character than 
 an inference from any specific fact which had come to 
 the public knowledge. 
 
 Nothing was yet known about the horse that was to 
 contest the race with Gray Eagle. Kincaid's horse had 
 
The So7i of Abdallah. 125 
 
 been galloped along the track every day for a week. 
 Twice in the dusk — morning and evening — two persons, 
 so disguised as to be unrecognizable, had ridden horses 
 equally well disguised along the track ; and once, on a 
 moonlight night, a glimpse of two white forms and two 
 straining steeds had met the startled eyes of neighbors, 
 wakened by the clatter of hoofs. They had come twice 
 from the north and once from the south, and, in each 
 case, had disappeared at the first cross-roads beyond. 
 That one of these was the horse which was to make the 
 race with Gray Eagle every one believed. But all 
 efforts to trace them failed, because no one thought of 
 following the stony beds of the little rivulets, by which 
 the riders had made their way into blocks of woodland, 
 in the very middle of which the training stable was hid- 
 den. There was a breathless silence, therefore, when 
 Horace Goodwin, standing jauntily on the shoulders of 
 two friends, who jocosely offered him this support, took 
 off his hat to the judges and announced : 
 
 " Belmont's Abdallah, son of Abdallah, by the Bel- 
 mont Mare ; bay colt, four years old ; never entered for 
 any race." 
 
 " Who owns him, and where was he foaled ?" inter- 
 rupted Kincaid, imperiously. 
 
 " Seth Goodwin owns him, and he was foaled about 
 forty rods from where he now stands !" answered 
 Horace, with a ring of triumph in his voice. 
 
 The announcement was so unexpected that it was 
 received at first in silence, then with shouts which were 
 repeated over and over again, as the information made 
 its way up the crowd-lined course. 
 
 '* Do you want any proofs of these facts, Mr. Kincaid.?" 
 asked the marshal. 
 
 '* Nothing but the horse," said Kincaid, incredulously. 
 
126 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " I've known him from a foal, and 'twon't be easy to 
 fool me. Trot him out !" 
 
 Horace Goodwin placed ^wo fingers of his left hand 
 between his lips and gave a shrill whistle. The front of 
 the tent was opened, and the son of Abdallah walked 
 with steady, springing strides to the starting-place, look- 
 ing wonderingly about upon the unaccustomed crowd. 
 This quiet entry had been carefully planned to contrast 
 with the expected flourish attending the production of 
 the Gray Eagle. Jack had begged to be allowed to ride 
 bare-back and bare-footed as he had trained, but his 
 mother's pride had prevented the latter, and his uncle's 
 fear of objection had vetoed the former. He was 
 attired, therefore, in a white jacket and trowsers, with 
 red stockings, tied above the knee with blue ribbons, 
 without shoes, and wore a red cap. All were home- 
 made. He carried a long, heavy whip strapped to his 
 wrist and rode a narrow sheepskin pad with stirrups 
 attached, which he hardly seemed to need. 
 
 There was another hush as every eye scanned the 
 points of the new candidate for the honors of the 
 turf, who stood quietly but fearlessly looking round on 
 the assemblage. Some thought him lacking in spirit ; 
 others said he was too long in the back to endure con- 
 tinued exertion ; one pronounced him too deep in the 
 chest ; another thought him too low in the withers ; 
 but all confessed that the trim, round body, slender 
 limbs, lithe neck, lean head, quick-moving ears, shiny 
 coat and glossy black points presented as nearly perfect 
 a picture of the ideal horse as they had ever seen. 
 
 "A big little horse," said one expert to another, 
 sententiously. 
 
 " May be a flyer and may be a stayer, or may be 
 neither," was the cautious answer. 
 
TJie Soil of Abdallah. 127 
 
 " Bound to be both," said a third, " with Hod Good- 
 win backing- him. He's the horse for my money." 
 
 " I always bet on the horse, not on the owner," 
 replied the other, in a sarcastic tone. 
 
 On the whole, the impression was favorable to the 
 colt, Marshall Kincaid saw it, and he knew it was 
 justified by the animal's appearance and Horace Good- 
 win's confidence in his ability. He wished to do some- 
 thing to counteract it ; not that public opinion makes 
 much difference with the outcome of a race, but the 
 man who bets always wants public opinion on the side 
 of his horse. There is a notion, too, that a horse knows 
 when he is winning applause and feels the force of 
 public favor. 
 
 " Do you have to ride him with an oxgad ?" asked the 
 owner of Gray Eagle, therefore, with a sneer, pointing 
 to the whip at Jack's wrist, 
 
 **Why, that's style. Marsh, don't you understand?" 
 answered Horace, jocosely, " I couldn't afford to bor- 
 row a nigger and fit him out with gimcracks as you 
 have done ; but raw-hide's cheap, you know, and being 
 sure you'd got the longest purse, I thought I'd try and 
 have the longest whip," 
 
 This good-natured raillery was received with applause 
 by the crowd, especially the company of young men 
 who had gathered around Horace Goodwin and were 
 justly proud of his easy audacity, 
 
 " You are to determine where the start is to be made, 
 and have the choice of tracks, I believe, Mr, Goodwin," 
 said the marshal. 
 
 " That's the bargain," confirmed Kincaid. 
 
 " The first heat will begin at the north end ; the 
 second at the south, and so on. I choose the west 
 track," Horace Goodwin proclaimed. 
 
 Both these announcements created some surprise, 
 
128 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 but the marshal repeated them, at the same time cau- 
 tioning the riders that if either crossed into the other's 
 track with a lead of less than four lengths it would con- 
 stitute a foul and forfeit the heat. 
 
 Two mounted marshals were sent to escort the horses 
 to the starting-point. One rode in front followed by- 
 Gray Eagle, and the other after him followed by Abdal- 
 lah. The veteran racer, catching the excitement of the 
 admiring, shouting crowd, pranced and ambled along 
 the whole course, his rider foolishly inducing him to 
 sidle and curvet for the gratification of the behold- 
 ers. Abdallah, as yet ignorant of what it meant, only 
 looked from side to side in a mild, wondering way, 
 which only tended to confuse the on-lookers as to his 
 merits. Jack rode with a loose rein, allowing his horse 
 to take the long, easy walk to which he had been accus- 
 tomed in training, his head down and swinging from 
 side to side, while his rider fixed his attention closely 
 upon the track he was to use. 
 
 ** I guess you're right," said the man, who had sneered 
 at the idea of betting on the owner. "A trainer with as 
 long a head as that move indicates, will do to bet on. 
 Of course, if anything crooked is intended — and I can't 
 help thinking something is in the wind — the trap has 
 been set on the east side of the track, and it's too late to 
 change it now. The idea of sending the horses through 
 all this clamor to the other end of the course to begin is 
 a splendid one, too. It'll take the wire edge off the old 
 horse, who will be fretted by it, and just be a season- 
 ing to the colt to whom it means nothing as yet Just 
 see how he swings along there, as if he was plowing. I 
 guess I'll try to learn something more about him." 
 
 He sauntered leisurely over to where Horace stood 
 talking with his friends. 
 
 " A fine colt," he said, nodding toward the track. 
 
The Son of Abdallah. 129 
 
 " Some think so," was the careless reply. 
 
 " Did I understand you to say he is a foal of the Bel- 
 mont Mare ?" 
 
 " Probably ; that's the case, anyhow." 
 
 " You said the Belmont Mare, I believe ?" 
 
 "That's what I meant." 
 
 " No chance for any mistake, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Got the evidence, bang-up." 
 
 " There's been a great deal of inquiry about her for 
 the last two or three years, you know ?" 
 
 ** That's what first put me on the track of her." 
 
 " Most people think she's dead." 
 
 " So she is." 
 
 " You know she has two of the fastest horses alive to 
 her credit, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and she'll have another before sundown," con- 
 fidently. 
 
 " Your mount seems rather young ?" in a doubtful 
 tone. 
 
 " He's a Goodwin," answered Horace, shrugging his 
 shoulders. 
 
 The bystanders laughed. They understood the force 
 of the allusion. 
 
 " Is he marked ?" asked one. 
 
 " He's got a red spur on his heel," was the confident 
 reply. 
 
 "Then he's all right." 
 
 Again the little group of friends laughed. 
 
 " But something might happen," said the stranger. 
 " The horse evidently has a temper." 
 
 Horace chuckled, quietly. 
 
 " See here. Mister," he said, glancing hastily around, 
 and lowering his voice. " That whip wasn't meant for 
 such as you. I'd back that boy to ride the colt with a 
 
130 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 halter and win, without whip or spur. You just watch 
 them." 
 
 " Is he for sale ?" 
 
 " The boy ?" 
 
 "No; the horse." 
 
 "Will be after the race." 
 
 " Any bids up ?" 
 
 " One." 
 ; " Is it a secret ?" 
 
 " No ; two and a half." 
 
 " Hundreds ?" 
 
 " Thou.s." 
 
 V Conditional ?" 
 
 " As a winner — of coiirse." 
 
 " If he wins, I'll double it," significantly. 
 
 " All right. What's the name ?" 
 
 The stranger took a gold pencil-case from his^pocket, 
 opened it and wrote his name on the leaf of a pass-book 
 which he tore out and handed to Goodwin. 
 
 The latter started in surprise as he glanced at it. 
 
 " So you owned — " he began. 
 
 "Never mind," interrupted the other, significantly. 
 "I've owned several things in my time." 
 
 " All right," with a laugh. " Are you betting on the 
 colt ?" 
 
 " I will lay you fifty on the Gray Eagle — at, let me 
 see, what odds — well — say two to one." 
 
 He was a large man, with somewhat prominent brown 
 eyes. As he uttered these words, he slowly closed one 
 eye as if going to sleep, and after a moment opened it 
 - with equal deliberation. It had none of the character 
 of a wink, but Horace Goodwin answered with a 
 chuckle : 
 
 " Very well ; I haven't much money, but if you see 
 anybody that wants to stake a little cash on those 
 
The Son of Abdallah. 131 
 
 terms, send him round and my friends will accommo- 
 date him." 
 
 " I will," answered the other, seriously. 
 
 Five minutes afterwards it was circulated about the 
 course that the former owner of Gray Eagle, a man 
 well known in the world of sport, was on the ground 
 and backing his former possession at odds of two to 
 one. This seemed all that was necessary to start the 
 betting fever, and those of Goodwin's friends who had 
 nerve enough to back his sagacity and luck took a good 
 many small wagers on these terms. 
 
 Cris Barclay was the starter at the north end of the 
 course. The gray was half a length ahead when the 
 horses went under the string ; but Jack nodded to him 
 and he gave the word. If the hindmost rider was satis- 
 fied it was none of his business. The starting-gun was 
 fired, and before its echoes had died away the Gray 
 Eagle had improved the advantage he had at the send- 
 off, and was two, three — a half-dozen lengths ahead ! 
 What was the matter with the colt ? At this rate he 
 would be distanced in the first heat. The kind-hearted 
 blacksmith shook his head and groaned. The people 
 along the route were silent. The Gray Eagle's jockey 
 glanced backward and spoke encouragingly to his 
 horse. If he could keep his lead until the half-mile 
 post he stood to win. But now the colt began to close 
 the gap. The jockey touched the Eagle with his boot, 
 not spurring him, but hinting at it as a possibility. 
 Still the bay crept up. As they saw it the people 
 cheered. Public sympathy was evidently with the boy 
 and the home-bred colt. As they passed the half-mile 
 maple, the black muzzle was even with the white flank. 
 The Gray Eagle's rider urged him openly, and the 
 veteran answered with a magnificent burst of speed. 
 Still the colt did not lag. His ears were laid back, the 
 
132 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 white teeth showed as he champed the bit, and his eyes 
 flashed wickedly ; but he neither gained nor lost. The 
 boy patted his neck and spoke soothingly to him, his 
 hand bearing lightly on the rein. They passed the 
 three-quarter post, and now the colt began to gain. 
 The rider of Gray Eagle is using the spur ! They are 
 twenty lengths away from the big beech, and the black 
 nose is on a Ime with the white one. Now the boy leans 
 forward, shakes the reins and speaks sharply to the 
 colt. The gray's jockey plies the whip. The old horse 
 responds nobly, but in vain. The colt is half a length 
 ahead as they pass under the string. 
 
 The gun is fired. A shout goes up. The marshals, 
 sitting on their horses along the course, wave their red 
 flags to show that the bay has won. Then the shout 
 echoes back and forth. Seth Goodwin smiles con- 
 tentedly, and his wife, standing behind his chair in the 
 front doorway, waves a greeting to the boy, who glances 
 toward her before he jumps down and runs into the 
 tent, leaving the colt to be cared for by others. 
 
 " Well done ! Blamed well done ?" mutters the phleg- 
 matic stranger, as he saunters back to get a closer view 
 of the colt. 
 
 Kincaid gave some directions to his jockey, and 
 Horace Goodwin whispered a word in Jack's ear as he 
 tossed him to his seat for the second heat. The boy 
 was pale and the set lips were white to their very edges. 
 There was some trouble about getting away, and again 
 the Gray Eagle got the lead and kept it all the way, 
 winning by a length and more. The time, as near as it 
 could be computed, was nothing like as good as in the 
 first heat. As soon as the result was announced, Good- 
 win's friends scattered themselves along the southern 
 part of the track, Kincaid's followers cheered loudly, 
 
The Soil of Abdallah. 133 
 
 but the shout lacked the volume that comes from num- 
 bers, 
 
 Seth Goodwin smiled composedly as he heard it. He 
 did not doubt — he could not doubt. He had asked this 
 one thing of God — the God he had served and loved — 
 and he had no fear that his prayer would not be 
 answered. So he only smiled when he saw the white 
 flags waved and heard the shouts, " The Gray wins !" 
 " Hurrah for the Gray Eagle !" His belief in the colt's 
 success had become a part of his religion. It was a 
 curious fact ; and the wife, who stood beside his chair, 
 trembled lest his faith should be shattered as well as 
 his hopes dashed by defeat. Fortunately, neither knew 
 of the peril which confronted the lad, since no whisper 
 of the warning received had been allowed to come to 
 their ears. Indeed, the boy had given only the vaguest 
 hint of it even to his uncle. When the gun was fired 
 for the third heat the Gray was again in the lead and 
 remained there, though evidently much distressed, for 
 the first quarter. Then the colt closed up. At the 
 half-mile they were neck to neck. Then the bay shot 
 suddenly ahead, and at the third quarter there were a 
 dozen lengths between them. A roar of triumph rolled 
 before him down the line. 
 
 " No chance for a foul there," said Horace Goodwin, 
 standing on the end of the work-bench, to the stranger 
 at his side, in a tone of exultant satisfaction. Every- 
 body was straining to see the finish and shouting in 
 anticipation. 
 
 ** Ah !" exclaimed the stranger, gazing with a look of 
 horror up the track. What he saw froze his blood with 
 terror ! Horace Goodwin's eyes followed his startled 
 gaze. A man, brandishing a club above his head, had 
 rushed out of the west line of spectators and was stand- 
 ing directly in the path of the rushing steed, threaten- 
 
134 ^ ^^^^ ^f ^^^ Harry. 
 
 ing the colt and his rider. A cry of angry warning 
 went up from the excited crowd. Even at that distance 
 Horace knew him. He was, his enemy ; his brother's 
 enemy, too. Dan Marvin meant revenge. The crowd 
 thought so. Women shrieked and closed their eyes 
 that they might not see the young lad's death. 
 
 " Get off the track ! Ride him down ! Kill him !" 
 were cries heard amid the tumult. A dozen men 
 started toward the intruder. It was too late ! The 
 bay, with outstretched neck and gnashing teeth, was 
 rushing down upon him. The man brandished his 
 club and shouted. The boy's long whip went back 
 over his head. He leaned forward, and it cut down 
 into the man's face before he came in range of the 
 brandished club. Marvin shrank back with a howl of 
 agony. The colt rose to leap over him, hardly pausing 
 in his stride. The bent knees struck the man in the 
 breast and he was thrown down. The horse's feet 
 cleared him by a yard, and the son of Abdallah came 
 home a winner by some twenty lengths, not having 
 swerved a hair's breadth from his course ! 
 
 Horace Goodwin gasped, as he wiped the cold sweat 
 from his brow and caught the boy in his arms. 
 Marshall Kincaid cursed savagely under his breath. 
 The crowd broke from its self-imposed restraint and 
 swarmed about the winner. Dan Marvin would have 
 been roughly dealt with by the angry multitude, but 
 when taken up, he was found to be insensible. The 
 concussion had been very severe, though no bones were 
 broken, but the heavy rawhide had cut a deep gash 
 across his face, the end striking an eye, and, it was 
 thought, destroying the sight. He was said to have 
 been half drunk, and his well-known spite against the 
 Goodwins was thought a sufficient motive for his act. 
 though some were suspicious of Kincaid. There was 
 
A Son of Abdallah. 135 
 
 a rumor which gained currency afterward that the 
 attack was expected and the whip loaded with shot 
 in anticipation of it. The blow was a severe one for 
 a boy to give, and left a mark time would never wholly 
 obliterate. 
 
 " Shows the effect of early training," said Horace to 
 the stranger, striving to recover his equanimity and 
 patting the colt's drooping neck as he spoke. " Jump- 
 ing over logs and stumps in a woods pasture did that." 
 
 "Well, Hod," said Kincaid, jocularly, crossing the 
 track, when the result had been announced, " I believe 
 I've got the best of it, if you did win. A horse like 
 that is cheap at twenty-five hundred." 
 
 " Would be if you got him for that," answered Horace, 
 who stood at the colt's head, shaking hands and answer- 
 ing congratulations. 
 
 " If I got him ? Why, that was the bargain. I'm 
 ready to pay the money down." 
 
 " Not at all, Mr. Kincaid ; you agreed to pay that 
 sum for the colt if he beat the Gray Eagle, but nobody 
 agreed that you should have him for that." 
 
 "Why, that's what I bet on." 
 
 " Not much ; you staked that offer against my mare. 
 You didn't win the mare, and we don't accept your 
 offer." 
 
 *' It's all he's worth, anyhow, and you ought to let me 
 have a chance to get my money back." 
 
 " Your money back ! You haven't lost any money, 
 except when you bought Gray Eagle — unless you have 
 been betting on him," he added, slyly. 
 
 " Well, give me a chance to make some, then. What'll 
 you take for the colt ?" 
 
 " We're offered twice what you agreed to pay, right 
 here on the ground, and aren't inclined to accept that. 
 
136 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 You'll have to bid up pretty smart if you want to come 
 in, Mr. Kincaid." 
 
 The crowd laughed both at Horace's good fortune and 
 Kincaid's discomfiture. 
 
 The boy stole off during the excitement attending the 
 finish, and flung himself sobbing and unstrung upon his 
 father's breast. 
 
 " Oh, father," he cried, " you won't be troubled now ; 
 you will get well, won't you ?" 
 
 " John !" exclaimed the watchful wife, in a tone of 
 cautious remonstrance. 
 
 " You are a good boy, Hubert," said the father 
 solemnly, brushing back the damp locks and kissing the 
 white brow. " I don't think I'll ever have any more 
 trouble. God bless you, my son — and remember this : 
 What one does really and truly for another's happiness 
 is not likely to be very far wrong." 
 
 It was a generous notion, though a very doubtful 
 ethical principle. But Seth Goodwin's was not a critically 
 analytical mind. He had determined to countenance the 
 race for the sake of his wife and his child, even at the risk 
 of Divine disfavor, and was amazed and enraptured to 
 find that he felt no self-reproach for having done so ; 
 but, on the contrary, experienced a quiet exaltation, 
 which assured him that he had done well in laying 
 aside for once the scruples of a lifetime. It was thus 
 he formulated the lesson of his own heroism. 
 
 The mother led the weeping boy away, while scores 
 of people crowded about to congratulate their friend 
 and neighbor on the success of his colt. Not one who 
 saw Seth Goodwin at that time ever forgot the glow 
 that rested on his face, as he assured them that he had 
 never once doubted the result, because he had asked it 
 of God in faith, believing that his prayer would be 
 answered. 
 
A Soft of Abdallah. 137 
 
 Before the morrow dawned, he had gone to meet the 
 judgment of unerring wisdom of his acts. The cold 
 clay wore the same beatific smile. People said he died 
 happy because he was at peace with God. Horace 
 Goodwin alone knew of the terrible determination he 
 had expressed to secure his family from want, even at 
 the hazard of his soul's salvation. 
 
 " I guess he's found that offering himself for others' 
 good in this world is a pretty fair passport for the next," 
 he said to himself, as he performed the last sad rites for 
 the dead brother. 
 
 Strange as it may seem, the race added not less to the 
 renown of the " child of Theophilus " for piety, than to 
 the reputation of the " son of Old Harry " for shrewd- 
 ness. No doubt both of these sentiments were en- 
 hanced by subsequent events. 
 
PART SECOND— HUBERT. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A BIT OF NEIGHBORLY GOSSIP. 
 
 " How's the Widow Goodwin's boy to-day, doctor ?" 
 
 "He seems a little better, but it's hard to tell; he's 
 had a good many set-backs." 
 
 " Do you think he'll weather it ?" 
 
 " Well, I hope so," said Doctor Kelsey, turning so as 
 to hang one leg over the side of his gig, and expectorat- 
 ing back over the wheel. " You see, he's young and 
 sound as a nut. This last affair was pretty hard on 
 him, but he seems to be getting the better of it now, 
 and if nothing more happens, I guess he'll get along ; 
 though it's been a touch-and-go case from the first. 
 He'd probably have had a mild attack of brain-fever 
 after the race, anyhow. It seems he'd been expecting 
 trouble — they had some hint of what was coming, I sup 
 pose — and then there was so much depending on the 
 race, that with it all, and the danger he'd been through, 
 the boy was all broke up when it was over. Then came 
 old Ryther's sermon ; that was enough of itself to 
 frighten the lad into fits if he'd been well." 
 
 "That was too bad." 
 
 " Bad ? It was the meanest thing I ever heard of, 
 and that's saying a good deal." 
 
A Bit of Neighborly Gossip. 139 
 
 Doctor Kelsey's black eyes flashed angrily, as he 
 brought his leather-gloved hand down on his plump 
 knee to emphasize his remark. He was the ideal coun- 
 try doctor, jolly and garrulous, who filled the gig in 
 which he rode as full as the medicines he carried filled 
 the plethoric saddle-bags that hung across the seat. He 
 was active despite his weight, and, though given to 
 gossip, never missed a call. He was autocratic within 
 his sphere, as well he might be, for physicians of his 
 skill were rare in that region, and the consciousness of 
 power made him free to express opinions upon all 
 subjects, especially those effecting the welfare of his 
 patients. 
 
 " If I had imagined the old rascal would have been 
 guilty of anything so outrageous, I would have forbid 
 any service at the house. The boy wasn't able to go to 
 the grave, you know, so he would have escaped that 
 exposure, anyhow." 
 
 ** What do you suppose possessed the Elder to go on 
 so?" 
 
 " Well, you see, he's one of the old-style circuit-rider's, 
 who are beginning to feel that they are losing their 
 grip and the world is kinder slipping out from under 
 them. He has a spite at grammar, and realizes that 
 people are getting a little tired of that sort of slang- 
 whanging he's been used to all his life. Seth, you know, 
 was careful of what he said — pretty particular, in fact — 
 but he had a wonderful voice and a sort of natural fire, 
 that always put the old man in the background when he 
 spoke after the sermon, as he very often did when Ryther 
 preached. This naturally didn't make the Elder love 
 him any too well, and when he refused to say he was 
 sorry for shoving that sledge-hammer fist of his into 
 Dan Marvin's pumpkin face, why it followed just as 
 matter of course, like night and day, that Ryther would 
 
140 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 take away his license to exhort, and then Seth had to 
 leave the church or own up he'd been in the wrong. 
 He wasn't the kind of man to do that, and when he 
 took to going to the Congregational meetings and stay- 
 ing away from the Methodist services, it hurt them 
 more'n it did him. He was so good a Christian, that 
 he was at home in any sort of meeting, and people took 
 sides with him on that account." 
 
 " 'Cause there wasn't any pretense about him — not a 
 mite," said the blacksmith, sticking the knife-blade 
 under the tire of the wheel. " You ought to have these 
 tires set, doctor !" 
 
 " Been going to have it done this long time, but it 
 hasn't come exactly handy. Well, you see, the people 
 talked, and that made the Elder sour, so't when he 
 came to preach the funeral sermon he thought he had a 
 chance, to get even with Seth by just sending him to 
 hell out and out, by the short cut and slippery road." 
 
 " It was awful ; one could 'most smell the brim- 
 stone." 
 
 " Smell it ! It was so thick you could cut it up in 
 chunks. I knew it would pretty near kill the boy to 
 hear his father talked about that way and was actually 
 glad when he jumped up and gave that yell, which I 
 hope Ryther'll hear till his dying day. I don't know 
 but he would have kept right on after they took the 
 boy out, but I gave him a hint that the crowd wouldn't 
 stand much more of that sort, and he kind of mellowed 
 down." 
 
 " It's just as well that he did ; it was only respect for 
 Seth's folks that prevented trouble as it was." 
 
 " Of course, and the old fool might have known it 
 wouldn't do to say such things of a man that every- 
 body believes is just about as sure of a good place in 
 heaven as there are to be good places there. Ryther 
 
A Bit of Neighborly Gossip. 14 1 
 
 did the church more harm that day than he's done it 
 good the whole year, and if the bishop don't take him 
 oflE the district when conference meets, there won't be 
 enough members left here at Ortonville to hold an 
 official meeting." 
 
 " It's too bad — too bad, ' said Barclay, sorrowfully. 
 
 " Well, I had a time, you may imagine, with that boy, 
 for a week after that. Couldn't leave him a minute 
 with any certainty how I'd find him when I got back. 
 I'd made up my mind to save him and I did. You may 
 guess how anxious I was by my going there three times 
 in one day and then staying all night. One don't often 
 do that with such a practice as I have." 
 
 " I s'pose not," answered the blacksmith. 
 
 " Then right on top of that came this matter about 
 Hod. I expected 'twould throw the boy clear down 
 again, but he don't seem to take it to heart as much as 
 I s'posed he would. He's only anxious to know what's 
 become of Hod, and don't seem to think he's done 
 anything to run away for." 
 
 " It's been rough on Hubert and the widow," said 
 Barclay, with a sigh, " and the rest of us, too, for that 
 matter. It's mighty disturbing to have such things 
 happen in the neighborhood." 
 
 He removed his foot from the step of the gig and 
 looked up into the doctor's face, irresolutely. 
 
 " That's so," rejoined the other, sympathetically. 
 " You haven't heard any news, I suppose ?" 
 
 The question was asked in a cautious tone, and with 
 an almost imperceptible inclination of the head and eye 
 toward the residence of the Goodwins. 
 
 The conversation took place in front of Chris Bar- 
 clay's shop early one morning a week after the 
 great race. The blacksmith had hailed the doctor as he 
 drove past, and drawing his stiff leather-apron to one 
 
142 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 side, had stood with one foot on the step attached to the 
 shaft of the gig while he talked. His arms were bare 
 to the elbow and his hands only lightly smutched, for he 
 had just started a fire in the forge preparatory to begin- 
 ning his day's work. His face was pale and his look 
 one of sorrowful anxiety. 
 
 " Wal — not to say news," answered Barclay, hesi- 
 tantly. 
 
 " Lots of surmises, no doubt ?" with an approach to a 
 sneer." 
 
 " Of course ; one couldn't help surmisin'." 
 
 " 'Tain't a bit of use ; ain't nothing to build on, you 
 see." 
 
 " Perhaps not, but it's a sort of comfort, after all." 
 
 " Mighty poor — might almost as well guess at the 
 weather." He looked at the sky as he spoke, and 
 added : " Are we going to get a shower to-day ?" 
 
 " Don't see any signs of it," replied the smith, care- 
 lessly glancing around the horizon. " How's Dan ?" 
 
 " He's ^live, that's about all ; though that's a good 
 deal in such a case. The longer a man lives after a 
 whack like that the better the chance of his getting 
 ' well. The great danger is that he'll sink right off with- 
 out any reaction. Of course, he just lives on brandy ; 
 but that's been a good part of his subsistence for quite 
 a while." 
 
 " Any chance for him ?" 
 
 " Well, yes ; I shouldn't wonder if he pulled through. 
 You see he ain't of any such grain as the boy. His 
 brain don't make any trouble on its own account any 
 more than a steer's. If he once gets over the shock, 
 he'll be up and around almost before you know it." 
 
 " You don't think his skull's broke, then ?" 
 
 ** There may be a fracture, but there don't seem to be 
 
A Bit of Neighboi'ly Gossip. 143 
 
 any depression ; and as long as there isn't he's likely to 
 get well, if we can keep up his strength." 
 
 " He isn't rational, I s'pose — hasn't said anything, I 
 mean ?" 
 
 •* O, bless your soul, no ; as soon as he becomes con- 
 scious he'll be practically out of danger." 
 
 " And you think that— that Hod did it ?" 
 
 " Not a doubt about it ; if he didn't, who did ?" 
 
 " But how did he come to be there — way long in the 
 night, too ?" 
 
 " Don't ask me to account for Hod Goodwin's where- 
 abouts. Where was he for six weeks before the race ?" 
 
 " Sure enough," said Barclay, with a start. " Why 
 didn't I think of that afore ?" 
 
 The suggestion evidently brought something to the 
 blacksmith's mind which did not occur to the physician, 
 for he smiled quietly as the doctor responded in a confi- 
 dent tone. 
 
 " If you didn't think of it, everybody else did. There 
 isn't any doubt, though, about where he was night before 
 last. Matthews swears he heard his whistle — you know 
 one who has heard it once couldn't ever mistake it after- 
 ward — along about one or two o'clock, over and over 
 again, as if he was calling that mare of his. Then he 
 heard voices down by the mouth of his lane ; then a pis- 
 tol was fired, and he heard Hod's mare beating the 
 devil's tattoo up the road toward home. In the morning 
 there was his pistol lying in the road right beside of 
 Dan, with the smoke-stain in the muzzle as fresh as if it 
 hadn't been more'n an hour since it was fired off. Dan 
 Marvin was lying there with his head broke, and half- 
 way between Matthews's and Seth Goodwin's place was 
 the very same rawhide the boy had the day of the race, 
 all covered with blood. Horace Goodwin, the mare and 
 saddle aren't to be found. What more do you want ?" 
 
144 ^ 'Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " But Hod sat up with the boy till near midnight ; and 
 there was his coat and vest and hat on the chair in his 
 room. You don't imagine he went off naked, do you ?" 
 
 "I s'pose Hod Goodwin's got more'n one suit of 
 clothes, hasn't he ?" 
 
 " Of course ; but how'd he come to be off down the 
 road a half-mile away at that time of night ?" 
 
 " Who says it was midnight when he left the house ?" 
 asked the doctor, sharply. 
 
 ** Why, Mis' Goodwin. She says he called her just 
 before twelve to set up the rest of the night with the 
 boy." 
 
 " Exactly ; and she says he stepped out doors then 
 and hasn't been back since, don't she?" 
 
 "Jest so." 
 
 " 'Tain't a very likely story, is it ?" 
 
 " You don't think Mis' Goodwin would lie, doctor ?" 
 
 " Not ordinarily, and perhaps not straight out at 
 any time ; but when you come to know women as well 
 as I do, you'll find there aren't many of them that won't 
 dodge the truth for the sake of those they love." 
 
 " But Hod Goodwin ain't nothin* to her," incredulously. 
 
 ** Nothing to her ! Why, man alive, he's her hus- 
 band's brother and the boy's uncle. He's a Goodwin, 
 too, and a woman that marries into such a family as 
 that, kind of marries the whole tribe, you know." 
 
 " Susan Goodwin's an honest woman, doctor," said the 
 blacksmith, sternly. 
 
 " Who said a word against her honesty ? Don't you 
 know, Chris Barclay, that the better a woman is the 
 more she'll suffer for those she loves ?" 
 
 " I s'pose so." 
 
 " Don't you know that woman would cut off her right 
 arm to save Hod Goodwin from State's prison or the 
 
A Bit of Neighboidy Gossip. 145 
 
 gallows, and her husband's and son's name from dis- 
 grace ?" 
 
 "I s'pose she would," admitted Barclay. 
 
 "Well, then, do you suppose she'd mind twisting 
 the truth a little to accomplish that result ?" 
 
 ** I don't believe Susan Goodwin would lie — nor Hod 
 Goodwin, either, doctor." 
 
 " Oh, Hod didn't lie ; he cut and run. You've heard it 
 said, no doubt, ' Flight is confession.' Hod confessed 
 when he ran away." ,, 
 
 " Confessed what ?" inquired the loyal neighbor. 
 
 " Why the shooting and beating of Dan Marvin ?" 
 
 " But Dan wasn't shot, was he ?" 
 
 " Well — not as we know of." 
 
 "I guess you'd have found it out if he had been, 
 wouldn't you, doctor ?" 
 
 " Yes — I guess so ; but Hod probably thought he was, 
 and concluded he might as well finish him off with the 
 butt of the whip." 
 
 " Was there more'n one blow struck ?" 
 
 " Oh, the whole side of his head is a perfect pumice, 
 and he bled from his nose and ears like a stuck pig. 
 That's what saved him. He must have been knocked 
 down and picked right up bodily and jammed head 
 first against that stump. Ain't many men could have 
 done it. That's another point against Hod." 
 
 " But how did Dan Marvin come to be there at that 
 time of night — more'n a mile away from home ?" 
 
 " There you've got me, Chris. I can't make it out." 
 
 " You don't think Hod went and took him out of bed 
 and dressed him and brought him way down there to 
 kill him, do you ?" 
 
 " Hardly," laughed the doctor. " But how do you 
 account for those things ? Come now, let me cross- 
 question you a while." 
 
146 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 "I don't account for them at all, doctor," answered 
 the blacksmith, solemnly. " I can't. I only know a few 
 things, but them I know as well as anybody," 
 
 " Let's hear them," jocularly. 
 
 " I know Hod Goodwin was at home close on to ten 
 o'clock night before last, and that he had been sitting 
 up with the boy more'n half the time for a week, besides 
 all the other trouble he's had to go through with. 
 
 " Well ?" 
 
 " A man ain't apt to go frolickin' 'round ' twixt mid- 
 night and day, under them circumstances, is he now ?" 
 
 " Well, no — not as a rule." 
 
 " I should think not. Now there's another thing I 
 know, and so do you ; Horace Goodwin's been a little 
 wild one time and another, but he's always been straight 
 and square. Nobody ever knew him to do a mean 
 thing, and there ain't a man in Roswell county whose 
 word'll go farther than his — is there, now ?" 
 
 " Not that I know of ; up to this last affair, that is." 
 
 " Whatever else may be said of the Goodwins, they're 
 proud as Lucifer ; now, ain't they ?" 
 
 " That they are, Chris ; there's no denying that." 
 
 " And Dan Marvin's been right the other way — a 
 mean, sneakin', lyin' cuss, hasn't he ?" 
 
 "You're about right there, too," assented the 
 Esculapian gossip. 
 
 " Well, now, admitting there'd been bad blood 
 betwixt these two — though I don't believe Hod was 
 ever the man to hold spite — what's likely to be the rights 
 of this matter ? We'll admit one of 'em is found in the 
 road a mile from home, his head broken, t' other one's 
 pistol beside him, the other fellow's whip a hundred 
 rods away, covered with blood, and that Matthews says 
 he heard a whistle and voices in that direction ; heard 
 a shot fired and a horse's step goin' up the road, 'tween 
 
A Bit of Neighborly Gossip, 147 
 
 midnight and daybreak. We'll say the other man's 
 missin', too — horse, saddle, bridle ; his nephew is lyin' 
 just at the p'int of death ; his brother's been dead less 
 than a fortnight. Them's about the facts, I think ?" 
 
 ''They'd had difficulties," suggested the physician, 
 cautiously. 
 
 He was a politic man, always found on the popular 
 side in all neighborhood affairs, whenever he knew 
 which was the popular one, and his opportunity for 
 ascertaining this was such that he rarely made a mis- 
 take. The public sympathy, which had been with the 
 Goodwins at the time of the race, had been greatly 
 strengthened by what had occurred afterward, until the 
 morning of the day before, when Dan Marvin had been 
 found lying by the roadside, half a mile south of Seth 
 Goodwin's house, unconscious, breathing stertorously, 
 and with his head resting in a pool of blood. Word 
 was immediately carried back to Kincaid's by one of the 
 drovers who made the discovery, and, either by acci- 
 dent or design, the rumor was at once set afloat that 
 Horace Goodwin had killed Dan Marvin. The horror 
 which such an event inspires in a peaceful country 
 neighborhood, was all that was needed to ripen this 
 absurd suspicion into actual belief, in the minds of 
 many, and even the wavering were staggered by the 
 subsequently developed fact that Horace Goodwin and 
 his mare were nowhere to be found. A warrant was at 
 once issued, and men were sent to follow him to the 
 northward and eastward, whither it was assumed that 
 he had fled. 
 
 The Marvins, a numerous and clannish family, were 
 naturally very much excited and clamorous for ven- 
 geance on the supposed aggressor. The whole region, • 
 therefore, had been in a ferment the day before ; and 
 Doctor Kelsey, though he had just come from the bed- 
 
148 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 side of the unconscious son, and the tearful eyes of the 
 widow of Seth Goodwin, had not yet observed any turn 
 in the tide of public sentiment and still reflected the 
 heat and rage of yesterday's excitement. Chris Barclay 
 had not slept since the terrible news was brought to him, 
 just as he opened his shop, the morning of the day 
 before. He was heavy-witted as men of great muscu- 
 lar capacity are apt to be, but true and loyal to his 
 friends. The popular resentment against Horace Good- 
 win had been so fierce and the circumstances so inscrut- 
 able that he could only stand dumb and helpless before 
 them. During the night he had laboriously turned the 
 matter over in his mind, walking back and forth up and 
 down the " measured mile" until the dawn. He could 
 not unravel the mystery, but he had determined to 
 stand by his friend. The doctor was the first who had 
 offered him opportunity to put his resolution into prac- 
 tice. 
 
 *' I never heard that they had actually come to blows, 
 did you ?" 
 
 " Hod gave him a bad throw at the barn-raising at 
 Phinney's last year, you remember." 
 
 " That was ring- wrestling, and Dan got it up himself. 
 I was there and saw the whole thing. Hod threw him, 
 as everybody knew he would, and he made a fuss because 
 the ground was hard ; that's all there was of that. You 
 know yourself, doctor, a man can't always pick out a 
 soft place for one he's throwing over his head. One 
 has to catch a lock when he can, and the fellow that's 
 thrown must fall where he lights. That's wrestler's 
 luck, and a man that is a man won't whine over it." 
 
 " Well, you know there's been bad blood between 
 them both before and since." 
 
 " I know Dan Marvin has always been threatenin' to 
 do them harm — Hod and Seth, both ; I've heard him 
 
A Bit of Neighborly Gossip. 149 
 
 and so have you ; and you know what he did the day of 
 the race?" 
 
 " O, he was drunk, then." 
 
 " Drunk ! Fudge ! People don't plan to murder 
 folks when they're drunk." 
 
 " You don't think he meant to kill the boy ?" 
 
 " Don't I ? Do you know what kind of a club he had 
 that day ? Jest wait a minute and I'll show you." 
 
 The smith went into his shop and soon returned with 
 a large club, the bark of which had been cut off in short 
 occasional cuts, forming a checkered spiral line which 
 wound around it from end to end. 
 
 " There 'tis ; Hank Wilder picked it up and gave it to 
 me that day. I told him not to say anything about it, 
 and brought it home and laid it on the plate of the shop. 
 Nobody else has set eyes on it from that day to this. 
 Now, what do you think of a club like that ? Just heft 
 it once." 
 
 " It's a deadly weapon," answered the doctor, with a 
 grave look upon his face. 
 
 ** I should think it was ! I'd just as soon be hit with 
 my sledge-hammer. Why, doctor, that's three feet long, 
 green blue-beech, an inch and a half through at one 
 end, an inch and a quarter at the other and most as 
 heavy as lead. I could break your gig all to smash with 
 it." 
 
 He hit the wheel a resounding blow as he spoke. 
 
 " There, there ; don't try it on that ! It's a dangerous 
 weapon, and goes to show the bad blood between 
 them." 
 
 " On his part ; not on Hod's. There ain't no doubt 
 but he had bad blood." 
 
 "The Goodwins have got a temper of their own," 
 said the doctor, with a shrug. " Even the boy left a 
 bad mark on Dan that day, in spite of his war- club." 
 
150 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " Hubert is a good boy," rejoined the blacksmith, 
 gravely, " and as brave as Julius Caesar. He knew 
 what was comin' that day, or near enough to guess. 
 Hod wanted him to carry a pistol, and I borrowed one 
 for him to practice with," 
 
 " Why didn't Hod use his own ?" 
 
 " Sure enough !" exclaimed the simple-minded black- 
 smith. " I remember now ; he said he'd lent it or sold 
 it, I don't remember which, more'n a year ago ; but 
 Hubert will know all about it when he gets well." 
 
 It was curious how everybody called the boy by the 
 name his father had used as soon as the father was 
 dead. 
 
 " Did he have it the day of the race ?" 
 
 " Hod gave it back to me two or three days before, 
 and said that Hubert thought he'd rather not have it, 
 for fear he might kill somebody," 
 
 " And you think Horace had no pistol at that time ?" 
 
 " Don't believe he's had one for a year." 
 
 " Then this one that was found in the road," sug- 
 gested the doctor, " wasn't his, perhaps ?" 
 
 " I declare, doctor, how you do see things ?" inter- 
 rupted Barclay, gleefully. " I never thought of that !" 
 
 The other nodded complacently. 
 
 " Now, what's the sense of turnin' in all of a sudden 
 without stoppin' to think, and gettin' out a warrant 
 againvSt Hod ?" 
 
 " Knocking a man senseless on the highway is a 
 pretty serious affair." 
 
 " Any worse'n killin' a man ?" 
 
 " Killing a man ? Who's killed ?" 
 
 " It's my notion. Hod Goodwin is." 
 
 " Why, Chris Barclay ! What's put that idea in your 
 head ? It — it — why, man, it's preposterous !" 
 
 " Maybe to you, but to a man who don't jump at his 
 
A Bit of Neighborly Gossip. 1 5 1 
 
 conclusions like a grasshopper, it ain't so very absurd. 
 I don't blame you so much, A doctor's always got to 
 shoot off-hand, and is likely to miss his sights some- 
 times. But I pondered all one day and tramped pretty 
 much all night, afore I could make head or tail of this 
 matter." 
 
 " And what is your conclusion, Mr. Barclay ?" asked 
 the doctor, with a deference he had not before mani- 
 fested. 
 
 "Well, doctor," rejoined the smith, throwing his 
 apron back over his shoulder, so as to enable him to 
 take a plug of tobacco from his trowsers' pocket, " I've 
 concluded this : Dan Marvin wasn't there by Matthews's 
 Lane at that time of night for no good ; and he was 
 there for some sort of harm to Hod Goodwin. If that 
 was so, he wasn't there alone — he's too big a coward for 
 that — and it's my notion he and whoever it was with him 
 meant to steal Hod's mare, or do him some bodily 
 harm. They probably did both — killed him and run off 
 the mare. You know there's a desperate gang of horse- 
 thieves down towards Kentucky line. They didn't have 
 a chance to take Dan along, or else didn't care to, and 
 probably took Hod away just to prevent the body being 
 found and a hue and cry for murder raised before they 
 got out of the State." 
 
 " Why, Mr. Barclay, you don't think so !" 
 
 " That's just what I do think," replied the smith, cut- 
 ting off a chew of tobacco and putting it in his mouth. 
 " And I don't ever expect to see Hod Goodwin alive 
 again." 
 
 '• But there was no traces of any one else where the 
 body was found !" 
 
 "Now, doctor, that's too ridiculous. As if you didn't 
 know that a drove of two hundred mules and horses 
 came up from Kincaid's just at daylight, and the men 
 
152 A So7i of Old Harry. 
 
 who were driving them were the first to find Marvin 
 What trace would there be after that herd had tramped 
 over the road ? If they'd stopped the brutes and let 
 me gone along the road, I'd soon found where the mare 
 went to." 
 
 "Sure enough," replied the doctor, swinging his fat 
 leg back into the gig and taking up the reins, ready to 
 depart. '* I hadn't looked at it in that light. But if 
 they came after horses, why didn't they take the colt.' 
 He's worth more than the mare." 
 
 " So he is ; but you seem to forget that he's about 
 the hardest horse to manage that was ever known in 
 this region — kind as a kitten to them he likes, but 
 worse'n the devil to one he takes a spite against." 
 
 ** I ought to know that ; he came at me once with his 
 mouth open, as if he'd eat me up, just because I cracked 
 my whip at him, going through the yard one day. He 
 never forgot it, either. He'll lay his ears back and 
 show his teeth at sight of me yet." 
 
 " Exactly ; that's his way ; been like a pet dog all his 
 life. I've always shod him, and he don't mind me. I've 
 never hurt nor angered him ; but I wouldn't under- 
 take to get him out of that box-stall of his, especially 
 at night, for a good deal ; would you ?" 
 
 " I ? Not for a ten-acre lot full just like him." 
 
 " Now, I'll tell you a queer thing, doctor. I went up 
 to the barn at Goodwin's, yesterday morning, just to 
 look around a little, and I found the pin gone out of 
 that sliding-door and the horse had a halter on — a thing 
 he hasn't worn in the barn since he was a yearlin'. I 
 looked in, and found blood on the inside of the door. 
 The colt seemed glad to see somebody he knew, and I 
 took off the halter, and found there was blood on that, 
 too." 
 
A Bit of Neighborly Gossip. 153 
 
 " You don't tell me !" exclaimed the doctor, excit- 
 edly. " What do you suppose it means ?" 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Well, I'm sure I don't. Really, we are getting to be 
 a very mysterious community. First Hod and the boy 
 are lost for a month ; then the nigger Kincaid had bor- 
 rowed disappears ; and now one man's gone entirely 
 and another's likely to go, and nobody knows anything 
 about who did it or what it was done for." 
 
 He tightened his reins and clucked to his horse, which 
 had been contentedly nodding while his master talked. 
 
 " Nothing been heard of the nigger, I suppose ?" said 
 Barclay, carelessly. 
 
 " Nor ever will be," was the answer. " He disappeared 
 right here on the track the day of the races, just as if 
 the earth had opened and swallowed him up. Kin- 
 caid'll have to pay a pretty sum for his loss. But he's 
 able and he shouldn't race with a man that always has 
 the very devil's luck with horses, like Hod Goodwin, if 
 he didn't want to lose ; that's what I tell him. I wouldn't 
 risk a dollar against anything that Hod backed, if it 
 was a brindle steer against Eclipse." 
 
 " Well, you couldn't lose anything if you didn't bet," 
 laughed Barclay. 
 
 " Just what I tell Kincaid. He's got a lot of men out 
 watching all the roads to catch that nigger ; but I tell 
 him it's no Use. It's my opinion the Abolitionists had a 
 hand in his disappearance anyhow. I should have sus- 
 pected Seth, if he hadn't died that very nigUt, and 
 Ryther, if he hadn't been so savage on Seth. It's about 
 the only thing they ever really agreed on. But, of 
 course, that's out of the question. It's my notion some- 
 body took him off in a wagon, and probably before 
 Kincaid's men started out they got him half-way to 
 Canada," 
 
154 ^ ^o'f^ ^/ O^^ Harry. 
 
 " Shouldn't wonder." 
 
 " Well, good morning." 
 
 The doctor whipped up his drowsy nag and drove off. 
 
 " Well," said Barclay, looking after him with a smile, 
 ** I've given him something to talk about, anyhow. He's 
 just as sure to repeat what I've said in every house he 
 goes into to-day, as he is to lie to his patients. He 
 won't say a word about me or my notions either — they'll 
 all be his ideas. That's his way — just as sly as a fox. 
 Before noon he'll have told the story so often he'll actu- 
 ally think it's his own wares he's peddlin'. Well, it 
 can't do no harm, and is just as likely to be true as any 
 other guess. I'm goin* up to the camp though, to see 
 what's there. Queer, I never thought of that before." 
 
 He drew out the fire he had started upon the forge, 
 locked the shop, and crossing the ravine to his house, 
 took down his gun and whistled to the dog. In 
 response to his wife's inquiry, he said that he had heard 
 a turkey gobbling " up in the clearing " and thought he 
 would try and get a shot at it. He did not tell her he 
 might not be back until late. When she saw him take 
 his gun she knew that he would return either when he 
 had secured the game he set out to take, or had given 
 up all hope of doing so. She always expected him, she 
 said — when he came. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 A BEATEN BULLY. 
 
 " Do you think I'll get well, doctor ?" 
 
 The voice was low, and the face that looked lip at 
 Doctor Kelsey from the coarse pillow had a timid piti- 
 fulness which was rendered almost grotesque by the 
 bluish grayness of the close-shaved scalp above. Instead 
 of answering, the doctor rose and put aside the calico 
 curtain which was drawn across the window at the head 
 of the bed, and, returning, sat down by the bedside, 
 took the patient's wrist and narrowly scanned the coarse, 
 ashen-hued face with a livid mark running diagonally 
 across it. 
 
 " When did this change take place ?" he asked of a 
 tall, blacked-haired woman who stood at the foot of the 
 bed. 
 
 The room was a small one — the ordinary family bed- 
 room in a half -furnished farm-house. In length, it 
 exceeded, by perhaps two feet, the bedstead whose 
 stained, curled-maple posts were turned to represent a 
 series of spheres with variously beaded and decorated 
 intervals between them. There was a space of three or 
 four feet in front of the bed, which had a valance of 
 cheap, coarse-figured calico. The door opened into the 
 kitchen where the table was spread for breakfast, which 
 part ot the family had eaten. The room was unfinished 
 
156 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 — a convenient addition to the main building, being 
 neither ceiled or plastered. The inside of the lapped 
 poplar siding showed a creamy white between the 
 unplaned studding. Clothing for men and women was 
 hung indiscriminately on nails driven into the joists. 
 The room was rough but not uncomfortable. The 
 woman the doctor addressed stood leaning against 
 a bed-post, her head resting upon the ball on its top, 
 while her hand grasped the narrow post below. 
 
 " He seemed to wake up kind of sensible this morn- 
 ing," she said, apologetically, in answer to his demand, 
 " and begun to talk and ask questions ; but he didn't 
 get this blue, peaked look, nor seem shivery and low- 
 spirited till just a few minutes ago. Do you think he's 
 worse, doctor ?" 
 
 The anxious eyes in the pallid face upon the pillow 
 watched the physician eagerly, and the pale lips trem- 
 bled as they waited his reply. The doctor knit his brow 
 and pursed his lips, 
 
 " He ought to get well without any difficulty, now he 
 has regained consciousness," said he, finally, " but this 
 doesn't look like it. What's he been doing ?" 
 
 '* Do you think it's his — his mind, doctor ?" asked the 
 woman, tearfully. 
 
 " His mind ?" repeated the other, with a half-percepti- 
 ble chuckle. " I shouldn't expect that to trouble him 
 much." 
 
 " I mean — if — if there was anything on it." 
 
 " Eh ? What ?" queried the doctor, facing around and 
 turning his head sidewise upon his short, fat neck, to 
 look up at her. 
 
 " His — his conscience, you know !" she replied, put- 
 ting a handkerchief to her eyes, and sobbing dis- 
 tractedly. 
 
The Beaten Bully. 157 
 
 " You haven't been talking religion to him, I hope ?" 
 the physician ejaculated, angrily. 
 
 " But, doctor," expostulated the woman. 
 
 " Don't talk to me," he interrupted. " I see what's 
 the matter. These over-pious people kill more than 
 sickness and fool-doctors both," 
 
 He caught up his saddle-bags, swung them angrily 
 over one knee, and began to unbuckle them with the 
 deftness which comes only from long practice. 
 
 " This boy of yours has been bad enough in all con- 
 science, Mrs. Marvin," he continued, reprovingly, " but 
 you ought to have had sense enough not to begin to 
 talk religion to a man just out of a comatose condition. 
 The very purpose of giving him a stimulant was to 
 prevent this reaction that is just coming on. I don't 
 know whether I'll be able to check it or not. If I don't, 
 there's no chance, and he'll just die because his mother 
 hadn't sense enough to let him live." 
 
 " But, doctor, it wasn't me," protested the woman ; 
 " I didn't say anything — only begged him to keep still. 
 It was himself ; he's got that on his mind won't let him 
 rest, you see." 
 
 " Won't let him rest ?" asked the doctor, in surprise. 
 
 ** He says he can't ever rest till he knows what's 
 become of Hod Goodwin." 
 
 " Nobody knows ; you're the last one that's seen him, 
 for he hasn't been about these parts since he came so 
 near killing you," the doctor said, looking questioningly 
 at the anxious face on the pillow. 
 
 *' But it wasn't Hod — at all ; that hurt me, I mean." 
 
 " Wasn't him — who was it, then ?" 
 
 " It wasn't anybody," said the sick man, stubbornly. 
 
 " Wasn't anybody ? Don't tell me. You don't expect 
 me to believe you did it yourself, do you ?" 
 
 ■' Better tell him, Dan," said the woman, resignedly ; 
 
158 A Son of Old Uiwry. 
 
 " you'll feel better afterward. I knew he'd been sort of 
 wild, doctor," she added, " but I didn't evej think it 
 would come to this." 
 
 She buried her face again in the handkerchief, and, 
 leaning against the high post, shook the bed with her 
 sobs. 
 
 " It — was — the — the horse," whispered the man, 
 weakly. 
 
 " The horse ?" 
 
 ** Yes, doctor," said the woman, raising her head in 
 desperation, " he's a thief — a horse-thief — my Dan is ! 
 Think of that ! I wish I had died before I ever heard 
 the words ! He didn't get it from me, doctor. There 
 wasn't never any thieves in the Russell family — nor from 
 his father, either. He isn't as good as some men, but 
 he never took nothin' that wasn't his — never !" she 
 exclaimed, wildly. 
 
 " A thief ! What do you mean ?" asked the physician. 
 
 " Tell him all about it, ma," said the young man, his 
 teeth chattering and the blue lips quivering. 
 
 " Here ! You take this and keep still. Bring me 
 some water and a spoon !" the doctor commanded, 
 sharply. 
 
 He snatched a bottle from his saddle-bags, removed 
 the cork, took out a portion of the white powder it con- 
 tained on the point of his knife-blade, jogged it with 
 his fore-finger and dropped it into the worn pewter 
 spoon the woman brought. Then he drew the blade 
 across his tongue and glanced again at the label with 
 accustomed caution — testing both by sight and taste his 
 accuracy — dipped up a little water in the spoon, stirred 
 the powder -into it with his knife-blade, and, while the 
 woman raised her son's head, placed the spoon between 
 the blue lips, 
 
The Beaten Bully. 159 
 
 " There, you go to sleep now ! Everything will be 
 all right. " I'll tend to it ; don't you worry." 
 
 " Tell him all about it, ma," repeated the young man, 
 with weak compliance. 
 
 The mother smoothed the pillow ; the physician sat 
 with his fingers on the patient's wrist, his glance riveted 
 on the weazened, timorous face. For a while no one 
 moved or spoke. Presently the eyes of the invalid 
 closed, he drew a long breath and sank into a quiet 
 slumber. The doctor waited a moment longer. Then 
 he rose softly, dropped the curtain into place over the 
 window, and, nodding to the woman, went out into the 
 other room. 
 
 " Won't you have some breakfast, doctor ?"she asked, 
 as she gently closed the door. " Everybody's eat and 
 gone. You must have started early." 
 
 " I haven't much time, but I'll take a bite, while you 
 tell me about this matter, if it's no trouble." 
 
 " Not a bit," said the woman as she took a plate of 
 biscuits from a tin oven before the fire, also one of fried 
 pork and some roasted potatoes. She did not tell him 
 thai it was her own breakfast which she had put aside 
 untasted. The doctor's early morning ride had not 
 impaired his appetite. 
 
 " Well ?" he said, inquiringly, looking up from his 
 plate. 
 
 The woman sat opposite, her long figure clad in coarse, 
 slatternly garments, her black uncombed hair half fall- 
 ing from its coil, and her great dark eyes filled with a 
 pathetic hopelessness, while the tears ran silent and 
 unheeded down her faded cheeks. 
 
 " I s'pose I've got t' tell you, doctor ; everybody'll 
 have to know it, in fact. It wasn't young Goodwin at 
 all. I don't bear him no good-will, for he led Dan into 
 bad ways — a-t least I've always believed he did — I don't 
 
i6o A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 know now ; perhaps I was mistaken. At any rate, he 
 didn't hurt Dan." 
 
 The tears fell on the dark wrinkled hands that lay in 
 her lap. 
 
 " Who did, then ?" 
 
 " It was the horse — the one that won the race, you 
 know. I might as well out with it ; he won't ever get 
 well unless I do ; I knew that as soon as he told me. 
 It's the Lord's will, and perhaps his soul'll be saved even 
 if his body does rot in jail. It was the horse, doctor," 
 she repeated. " You see, some of them horse-thieves 
 down along the line — the Lewis gang — were up here 
 the day of the race, and somehow they managed to get 
 hold of Dan, and together they fixed it up finally, when 
 the lick he got that day had kind of healed up — to go 
 and steal the colt and the mare both. There was three 
 of them, Dan says, one on a horse who stayed down at 
 the road to watch while Dan and the other fellow went 
 to the barn for the horses. They got the mare out and 
 saddled her, and then Dan went in after the colt. He 
 knew just what a temper the critter's got, but he wasn't 
 ever afraid of anything. So he took a halter and went 
 into the stall and managed to get it on the beast's head ; 
 but when he started to lead him out, the colt reared up 
 and beat and pawed him till he hadn't a bit of sense left, 
 and he didn't know nothin' more till he came to him- 
 self this morning." 
 
 " Where's Horace Goodwin, then ?" 
 *' That's what troubles him, doctor. As soon's I told 
 him what had happened, an' that Hod wasn't to be 
 found nowhere, high nor low, he said he was a murderer 
 as well as a thief. You see he's afraid them other fel- 
 lows have made way with him and run off the mare." 
 
 ** It does look that way, sure enough," said the doctor, 
 starting up. " But how'd Dan come to be found way 
 
The Beaten Bully. i6i 
 
 down below Matthews's place, if he got hurt at the 
 stable ?" 
 
 *' He don't know no more about it than a babe unborn," 
 answered the mother, solemnly. *' I've tried him every 
 which way, and there's no doubt about that. He's a 
 horse-thief, doctor, and may never get well — I most 
 hope he won't ; but this I will say for him — he never 
 lied to his mother — not that I know of, at least." 
 
 " How did it happen that he was not cut by the 
 horse's hoofs ?" 
 
 " He says the colt must have reared up and kind of 
 hit him on the top of the head. They had taken ofE his 
 shoes after the race, when he grew so valuable all at 
 once, it seems, and put on a sort of leather boots, com- 
 ing up over the hoofs to keep 'em soft. That's what 
 Dan says, at least." 
 
 " Exactly ; that explains what I couldn't account for." 
 
 The doctor walked the floor a moment in deep 
 thought, stepped into the bedroom, came back and 
 made up a half-dozen powders. 
 
 " He's doing well now," he said ; " sleeping, with a 
 light sweat breaking out. Give him one of these pow- 
 ders every hour if he wakes, but don't wake him. He 
 ate something this morning ?" 
 
 "Just a mouthful of gruel." 
 
 " You might have a bit of chicken-broth ready against 
 he asks for it. And if I were you, Mrs. Marvin, I 
 wouldn't say anything to anybody about — this matter, 
 you know. There's no use of going out to meet trouble. 
 It may pass over without amounting to much. He's 
 paid pretty dear for what he's done already. I'll try 
 and be round again in the afternoon, and may be able 
 to advise you better then. At any rate, take care of 
 Dan. It all depends, on care now — care and quiet — and 
 freedom from worry." 
 
1 62 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " If we only knew about Hod Goodwin," said the 
 troubled woman, anxiously, 
 
 " We know which way to look for him now, at any 
 rate," answered the doctor, as he took up his saddle- 
 bags and made his way to the gig beside the gate. 
 What wonder that he drove away at a somewhat 
 unusual pace ? He was the wisest man in all the town- 
 ship, even if he did not know much about the matter he 
 was burning to relate. 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 A runaway's nest. 
 
 Chris Barclay drew near the place where the son of 
 Abdallah had been trained, with all the caution an 
 Indian uses in approaching the camp of an enemy. 
 Just what he expected to find there he could not have 
 told. Indeed, he could hardly be said to have expected 
 to find anything. Perhaps the nearest approach to a 
 distinct hypothesis which he had yet formed was that 
 Horace Goodwin might have committed the act with 
 which he was charged, been wounded in the struggle, 
 and hidden away here to await recovery before making 
 his escape. If this should prove to be true, what did he 
 intend to do ? He did not know. He was a law-abiding 
 man. Though a friend and a most zealous and faithful 
 friend of Horace Goodwin, he could not stand by him as 
 a law-breaker. He doubted if he could conscientiously 
 aid him to escape ; but he was not bound to apprehend 
 him or give information that would lead to his arrest. 
 So he reasoned with himself, as he stole noiselessly 
 
A Runaways Nest. 163 
 
 along the wood paths with that instinctive avoidance of 
 all that would betray his presence, which only the 
 experienced woodsman ever acquires. 
 
 He had heard that one who aided another to escape the 
 clutches of the law was guilty of a crime ; but he 
 assured himself that if he found his friend wounded and 
 helpless, the law could not blame him for relieving his 
 need. However, it was just as well that no one should 
 know what sort of errand he was on. Perhaps his idea 
 was a mere fancy. Probably all he would find would 
 be the deserted sugar-camp and the cooking utensils left 
 there by the trainers. He had been in the secret ; had 
 shod the colt, and had spent several jolly nights there 
 just before the great race. He knew that the death of 
 the elder brother and the illness of the boy had pre- 
 vented Horace from removing the things they had used. 
 How chill and lonesome it would seem to find the cabin 
 silent and deserted ! There is nothing in the world so 
 desolate as an abandoned camp. He thought it probable 
 that the squirrels had made havoc with the clothing and 
 provisions. It is queer what eager investigators the little 
 rascals are, A camp seems to attract them as honey does 
 flies. It cannot be the expectation of plunder, for they 
 may never have seen one before. It must be the instinct 
 of curiosity — a desire to satisfy themselves about unex- 
 pected things. They will wait and watch for days and 
 take advantage of the first hour's absence to come and 
 explore, Chris Barclay laughed to himself as he 
 thought what a jolly time they would have at the 
 deserted training-camp. Besides the 'remnants of 
 cooked food, there was plenty of meat — salt pork of 
 which they are so ravenously fond — a bread-box they 
 had no doubt found a way into, apples, potatoes, eggs 
 and a keg of cider, He'wondered if the rascally shadow- 
 tails had tapped that and relished its contents, Almost 
 
164 A So7i of Old Harry. 
 
 before he knew it, he was at the edge of the little cleared 
 space in which the camp stood. 
 
 He stopped and scrutinized it through the branches 
 of an alder-bush that grew beside the stream. There 
 was nothing stirring and everything about the place was 
 as silent as the grave ; yet somehow the place did not 
 seem deserted. There was a black squirrel hopping 
 along an opening upon the hillside back of the cabin, 
 and a gray one sitting on a stump across the stream, 
 shaking his silver brush in the sunlight and chee-chee- 
 ing to one hidden in the limbs of a chestnut, on the bank 
 above. But there were none about the cabin or on the 
 pile of wood against it. Chris Barclay knew by this 
 that the camp was occupied as well as if he had the testi- 
 mony of actual sight. But by whom ? He did not 
 know ; somehow, now that it lay there before him, in 
 the hot summer sunshine, he did not care to guess. He 
 wished he had not come, and had serious thoughts of 
 retracing his steps. While he waited, the neigh of a 
 horse sounded on the still air. 
 
 " Old Queen," he said to himself, " I could almost 
 swear to her voice ; I expect the critter has winded me." 
 
 He moistened his finger with his lips and held it up 
 to find the direction of the wind, not otherwise appreci- 
 able. 
 
 "Yes," he continued, "that's it. Wind lays just as 
 square to the camp as one could point a compass. She's 
 got a mighty delicate nose, that mare has, and is as 
 sharp as a watch-dog. Now, who's with her ? 'Tain't 
 no use of askin*. Wherever she is. Hod Goodwin ain't 
 very faraway. If I thought he was well and hearty I'd 
 turn around and go home, but there ain't no sense in 
 thinking so. Hod ain't the man to sneak out of any- 
 thing he's done. But then, v/hat's he hid away here 
 for ? I don't like it, I vow I don't." 
 
A Rujiaway's jYes/, 165 
 
 He shook his head in perplexity, and let the stock of 
 his gun rest on the ground while he took out his tobacco, 
 opened his knife and very deliberately cut off a new 
 supply of his favorite luxury. When he had done this, 
 he turned his attention again to the camp. 
 
 " Well, by thunder ! What next ?" he exclaimed. 
 The .sight that met his gaze was well-calculated to 
 awaken surprise. In the door of the cabin appeared 
 the diminutive form of the jockey who had ridden the 
 Gray Eagle, still wearing the suit which had been so 
 conspicuous on the day of the race. He was a light 
 mulatto, of slender frame and bright, intelligent fea- 
 tures. Glancing quickly up and down the narrow 
 valley, he came forward a few steps, and scrutinized, 
 with evident anxiety, his surroundings. The hot July 
 sun beat down upon his head, unprotected save by the 
 mass of hair that lay kinked and matted on his crown. 
 Chris Barclay stood and watched him from his place of 
 concealment, scarcely a hundred yards away. There 
 was another whinny. The boy turned inquiringly and 
 looked down the path, glanced quickly from side to side, 
 held his breath to listen, and finally, shaking his head 
 and muttering to himself, walked slowly back to the 
 cabin. After a moment there came another whinny of 
 apparent recognition. 
 
 " The old gal knows who 'tis she's winded," said the 
 blacksmith, with a certain satisfaction. " She certainly 
 is the most knowin' horse I ever run across in my life. 
 I've known her to come to the shop of her own accord 
 more'n once, and hold up her feet to be shod.* I 
 
 * This may seem an incredible statement, but some years ago 
 the writer was the owner of a Mambrino-Morgan mare, who, 
 being left unfastened, as was customary, before his office door, 
 went not once but many times to the smith's shop around the 
 
i66 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 wonder what the nigger is going to do now ?" This 
 remark was caused by the reappearance of the boy, 
 wearing his jockey cap and jacket, and coming 
 straight down the path beside which the smith was 
 standing. 
 
 " Hello !" he called, as the boy sprang across the 
 narrow stream and stood almost within arm's length of 
 him, stepping forward as he spoke. The boy's face 
 grew pale, and he turned instinctively as if to fly. A 
 single glance at the athletic blacksmith, however, 
 appeared to change his purpose, and he looked up with 
 an air of relief, and said, with real gratification in his 
 tone : 
 
 " I 'clare, Marse Barclay, I's mighty glad ter see you. 
 I war jes' gwine dewn ter your house arter you." 
 
 " You were ?" incredulously. 
 
 " I war that, shore." 
 
 " Wanted me to take you back to Kaintuck, I s'pose ?" 
 said the blacksmith, with grim sarcasm. 
 
 " I warn't thinkin' 'bout that — at least, I'd quit 
 thinkin' 'bout it jes' now. I wanted you for _somebody 
 else." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" asked Barclay, with sudden 
 alarm. 
 
 " Jes' you come an' see." 
 
 The boy turned and recrossed the brook, the smith 
 following on a line of stepping-stones placed there for 
 the purpose. The jockey went straight to the cabin, 
 which he entered, and Barclay, coming close behind 
 him, saw lying on the pile of hay which had served as 
 their bed while training the colt, the form of Horace 
 
 corner where she was accustomed to be shod, and put up one 
 foot after another for inspection, returning afterward of her 
 own accord to her usual standing-place. 
 
A R7i7iaway s Nest. 167 
 
 Goodwin, his face flushed, and his breathing dull and 
 heavy. As he looked, the boy stooped down, and, 
 uncovering the shoulder, showed a bloody bandage 
 around it. 
 
 " Shot ?" said Barclay. 
 
 The boy nodded. The smith stared in dumb amaze- 
 ment at this unexpected confirmation of his surmise. 
 He had never been accounted a wise man, nor even 
 esteemed himself one, and that he should have guessed 
 the truth, or even a part of the truth in regard to 
 Horace Goodwin's disappearance, seemed to hopelessly 
 confound his faculties. He watched the bc^ replace the 
 covering, rise, and look inquiringly at him. 
 
 " How'd he come here ?" was the only question he 
 could ask. 
 
 " Rode the mare." 
 
 " When ?" 
 
 " Night afore last. You see, I was a hidin' out here, 
 and way 'long in de night I heard somebody jes' come 
 a-chargin* up the path, an' see a hoss — it was bright 
 moonlight, yer know — stop with head right in de doo' 
 and the feet jes' a-trampin' in the rushes there. I was 
 layin' low over the back part of de pile o' hay nex' to de 
 rof, an' I could jes' see her head an' fore-shoulders ag'in't 
 the light. I didn't know who 'twas on her, but I thought 
 they'd tracked me, an' my time hed come." 
 
 *' What were you doing here, anyhow ?" asked Bar- 
 clay, suspiciously. Though he knew the boy was a run- 
 away slave, the fact was such an unusual one to his 
 mind, that it kept slipping away. 
 
 " It was my onliest chance, you know. Marse Mosely 
 was dar on de groun', an' Miss Deely, she tole me 
 dey was gwine ter start back with me fo' Kaintuck 
 that night. I knew he'd be fractious' ca'se he'd lost, too, 
 but law sakes, it warn't no use fer dat ole hoss ter try 
 
1 68 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 ter do nothin' wid dat colt. He certain is a flyer from 
 way back. De little miss knew I wanted to get away 
 where I'd be free, an* she tole me 'bout dis yere place. 
 'Twas all of a suddin, not a minit to think, an' while 
 all de rousement an' hullabaloo was gwine on about de 
 race I slipped off, an' 'fore anybody'd missed me, I 
 s'pose, was hid in de big trof under de hay." 
 
 " What made you stay here so long ?" 
 
 " What else was I ter do ? Didn't everybody fer fifty 
 miles round know dese clo'es ?" 
 
 He glanced at his jockey suit as he spoke. 
 
 " Sure enough," assented Barclay, with a nod, 
 
 "Wal, I des corncluded I'd bes' stay right here ez 
 long as de provisions held out," the boy continued, with 
 a grin. " I thought people might fergit 'bout it after 
 a while, er I might git somebody ter help me. I'd 'bout 
 made up ter come an' see you, Marse Barclay." 
 
 " You had ?" 
 
 " 'Deed I had, sah." 
 
 " What for ?" 
 
 " Didn't know but you might help me — or know 
 somebody dat would. You was always mighty kind 
 when I come 'bout de shoein'." 
 
 ** But I — well, I'm thundering glad you didn't. My 
 wife's down on the Abolitionists the worst way." 
 
 The honest fellow took off his palm-leaf hat and 
 fanned himself to relieve the sudden heat induced by 
 the thought of what might have been the result of such 
 an appeal. 
 
 " I'd hev come ef it hadn't been fer — fer him," with a 
 glance toward the sleeper. 
 
 " What did he say when he found you here ?" 
 
 " Say ? Lor' bless yer, he war done past sayin' enny- 
 thin', he war. The mare she stood and whinnied once 
 or twicet, jes' ez ef she was a-callin' somebody, you 
 
A Runaways Nest. 169 
 
 know, an' I thought I heard a sort of groan. After a 
 long while I crawled out as keerful ez I could, that mare 
 callin' ter me all de time ter hurry up an' come along, 
 jes' ez plain ez ef she could talk almost, an' when I got 
 to de doo' an' peeked out dere was somebody jes' a-layin' 
 down on her an' hangin' onto her neck. 
 
 " Den I was wuss scart'n I'd been afore ; but I thought 
 I'd ez well do somethin' ez nuthin,' 'case de mare was 
 pawin' an whinnyin' ez ef she thought I was des a 
 stupid fool. So I went an' took hold of him an' tried to 
 lif him down ; but I couldn't. So I led de mare in 
 here, and after a while got his hands loose an' kind o' 
 eased him down on de hay. The mare she went on into 
 de stall as soon as I got him off an' began to eat ez ef 
 she knew she'd done her part. 
 
 " I made up a light — I'd found some fire in de ashes 
 an' kept it mighty keerful — an' got some water an 
 washed his face. His shirt — he hadn't no coat on — 
 was all covered wid blood. I was lookin' round fer 
 de place he was hit, when he spoke up an' axed fer 
 a drink. I giv' him some water, an' after that his 
 head was cla'r, but he was powerful weak — he'd bled 
 so much, you see. As soon ez I'd found de place where 
 he wuz hit, he made me tell him all 'bout it, whar it was 
 an' how it looked, an' then tole me whar to git some 
 cloth that I tore up an' wet in cold water an' bound on 
 it. He said that was better'n nothin', an' in de mornin' 
 he'd tell me what else ter do. When it come mornin', 
 he said he guessed I'd better go an' see you when it 
 come night again — though he hadn't quite decided. He 
 seemed powerful anxious that I shouldn't go in de day- 
 time, which suited me, too ; but afore night he was 
 out'n his head, though he tried his best ter keep up, an' 
 I did all I could for him." 
 
 " Did he tell you how it happened ?" 
 
170 A Sou of Old Harry. 
 
 " Nary word," said the boy, cautiously, 
 
 *' I 'lowed 'twas a * difficulty betwixt gentlemen,' sah, 
 dat de least said about de better, I thought he might 
 be hidin* out, too, an' it wouldn't hurt my chances none 
 ter have company, ef he once got well." 
 
 " That wasn't a bad idea, either," said Barclay, " but 
 what's to be done, now ?" 
 
 He stooped and put his hand on his friend's forehead, 
 and then felt his wrist. 
 
 " Seems mighty fevery, don't he ? Ought to have a 
 doctor — but who knows if — if it would be safe to get 
 one. Just let me try to think a while. 'Pears as if that 
 darned race was goin' to break up the whole neighbor- 
 hood," 
 
 The sturdy smith sat down upon the stump beside the 
 door and fanned himself while he undertook the task 
 more wearisome to him than the labor of the anvil — of 
 trying to think out the puzzle which had so unexpect- 
 edly presented itself for solution. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 OUT OF THE EAST, 
 
 " Doctor, I wish you'd drive down into the pasture 
 with me ; I want to show you something." 
 
 " I'd like to, Chris, but I'm in a great hurry ; so many 
 folks sick, it keeps me riding all the time. Heard any- 
 thing since morning ?" 
 
 The doctor pulled up his gig in the open space before 
 Barclay's shop. The cinders crunched beneath the 
 wheels. The door of the shop stood open, and the fire 
 
''Out of the East" 171 
 
 shone brightly upon the forge still blown into white, spark- 
 ling flame by the weight upon the bellows which the smith 
 had just quit working. A hammer lay upon the glitter- 
 ing anvil. A tub of water stood in the middle of the 
 shop with various forms of pincers hung around its sides. 
 Other tools were scattered on the forge. His shoeing- 
 box, with its appropriate kit, stood beside the anvil. 
 Metallic scales, cinders and hoof- clippings littered the 
 earthen floor. 
 
 The shop was rough-boarded and unpainted. The 
 weather and the sooty dust had given it that peculiar 
 brown which no other building ever acquires. Over the 
 door was the modest sign. 
 
 C. BARCLAY, 
 Blacksmith. 
 
 On one of the doors was burned the form of a horse- 
 shoe ; on the other, a square and compass. The outside 
 of these doors, and the whole front of the shop indeed, 
 were decorated with notices written and printed, of 
 various matters supposed to be of interest to the public. 
 Wagons and parts of wagons, in all stages of dilapida- 
 tion and repair, stood about the yard or leaned against 
 the shop. A frame for the setting of wagon-tires stood 
 at one side, its surface curiously scarred by the hot rims 
 which had rested on it. At one end of the shop was a 
 path deeply worn in the clayey soil that led to a spring 
 half-way down the bank. 
 
 Despite the incongruity of its surroundings, there was 
 a certain order in their arrangement and a sort of neat- 
 
172 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 ness about the shop which at once impressed the 
 beholder. Chris Barclay was termed " fussy " about his 
 shop, and it was said to be not less his inclination than 
 the wish of his wife, who was a noted housekeeper, that 
 had separated the shop by the width of the sharp, nar- 
 row valley from the neat white house, with its green 
 blinds, and yard filled with blossoming shrubs and sur- 
 rounded by a white picket-fence. That was his wife's 
 domain ; the shop upon the opposite hill was his. He 
 never crossed the valley between, with his apron on. 
 If his wife came to the shop, as she sometimes did, it 
 was always as a guest ; and if she sat for an hour or two 
 upon the end of the high forge away from the sparks and 
 watched her stalwart husband at his work, it was simply 
 because there was no other neighbor whom she cared to 
 visit at that time. She asked no questions about his 
 business, and never presumed to look into the smutty 
 dog-eared account-book in his desk, until he brought it 
 home at night and read to her while she posted the 
 entries in the ledger. It was said in the neighborhood 
 that it had been mutually agreed between the husband 
 and the wife that he should be the master upon one hill 
 and she the mistress on the other, and that the rugged 
 blacksmith, who was so dictatorial at the shop, was 
 meek enough in the domain of the sharp-tongued little 
 woman who looked after his earnings, and made his 
 home a model noted for miles around for its neatness. 
 
 It was four o'clock in the afternoon. Chris Barclay 
 had been working with tremendous energy all day. It 
 was yet early when he had returned from the camp, 
 and he at once begun a job of heavy forging which had 
 been waiting in the shop for some time. He had 
 slashed and pounded all day long, blowing the bellows 
 fiercely, and making the sparks fly and the anvil ring 
 beneath his blows as if he were doing to the death some 
 
''Out of the East:' 173 
 
 enemy whose overthrow was to be the price of his own 
 salvation. So deeply had he been absorbed in his work, 
 that he had only taken time to run across the hollow 
 and bolt the excellent dinner his wife had prepared, 
 without waiting for a moment's conversation afterward. 
 It was his way of thinking. He was trying to deter- 
 mine what it was best to do, and' how it had best be 
 done ; and when the doctor's gig came in sight, he had 
 thought it all out and determined on the course he 
 would pursue. The sweat was pouring down his face, 
 and the long, black hairs upon his arms clung close to 
 their damp surfaces, as he stood in the shop-door and 
 hailed the passing physician. So intent was he upon 
 his purpose, that he paid no attention to the doctor's 
 protest or his inquiry. 
 
 "Just wait till I get some of the smut oflf," he said, 
 glancing at his bare arms, " and I'll go with you." 
 
 " But really, Chris, I don't see — " 
 
 " You haven't got anything more important on hand — 
 you couldn't have," the blacksmith interrupted, gravely. 
 
 " But what is it you want ?" asked the doctor, 
 impatiently. 
 
 " Do you see that, doctor ?" 
 
 Barclay pointed to the square and compass burned 
 into the door, upon his right, as he spoke. There was a 
 sort of unconscious dignity, amounting almost to com- 
 mand, in the gesture, and a peculiar significance in the 
 tone in which he directed attention to the rude hier- 
 oglyph. 
 
 " I see it — of course," the doctor answered, with a 
 look of inquiry upon his face. 
 
 " Well, I want you should go with me, without asking 
 any questions, and I want you to go now" said the 
 smith, in the tone of one who had a right to demand 
 consideration. " I'll take all the responsibility." 
 
174 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " Oh, if )'ou put it on that ground — an order out of 
 the East — why, I'll go, of course," responded the doc- 
 tor, with a look of surprise and a half -shrug- of his fat 
 shoulders. 
 
 " Of course," repeated the smith, smiling signifi- 
 cantly. " Well, you may just drive through the gate 
 down there and go on up the lane. It's a good road 
 and I'll overtake you in a jiffy — by the time you get to 
 the bars, anyhow." 
 
 The doctor was evidently inclined to make further 
 inquiry, but the blacksmith pointed again, with an 
 emphatic gesture, to the mystic symbol, and with 
 another shrug and a submissive " All right !" the physi- 
 cian turned his gig and drove down the hill. A moment 
 after, Chris Barclay left the shop, his coat upon his arm 
 and his gun upon his shoulder, and crossed the hollow 
 to his house. 
 
 " What on earth have you and the doctor got on hand 
 to-day ?" asked his wife, good-naturedly, as he entered 
 the yard. " This morning you had a good hour's chat 
 out in the road, and now you've got him hid away down 
 there in the hollow. What are you going to do with 
 him, anyhow ? 'Pears to me there's something mighty 
 mysterious going on to-day." 
 
 " Just a bit of Masonic business," answered her hus- 
 band, lifting his eyebrows meaningly. " The doctor's 
 going to take another degree, you see, and I'm coaching 
 him up a little." 
 
 '* Where are you going to do it ? Is he coming here T' 
 asked the wife, apprehensively glancing back from the 
 doorway where she stood, to see that the room was in 
 order. 
 
 " We'll just step up into the edge of the clearing," 
 was tfie reply ; " where there won't be no eavesdroppers, 
 you know." 
 
''Out of the Eastr 175 
 
 " Might just as well come here," urged the wife ; 
 "there's the parlor that you can have all to yourselves, 
 just as well as not. I shall be getting supper, and won't 
 disturb you the least bit." 
 
 If there was one thing Melinda Barclay was prouder of 
 than anything else, it was the fact that her husband was 
 the brightest Mason in all the region round. The nearest 
 lodge was ten miles away, but he had been the Master 
 for years, and many mysterious conferences had been 
 held at the house as well as at the shop, during that 
 time. " Masonic business " was as sacred a thing in her 
 eyes as it could have been in her husband's, and the 
 wife of the Worshipful Master would have protected 
 the mysteries of the craft from profanation with as 
 much fidelity as the most devoted Tiler that ever 
 guarded with drawn sword the approach to the lodge. 
 She never objected to the waste of time or to her own 
 careful exclusion from its secrets. The fact that it 
 brought honor and recognition to her husband was 
 enough for her. The truth is, that, though she was 
 sharp-tongued, and so capable and positive that people 
 said of her that " the gray mare " was the " better horse" 
 in the domestic span, she was inordinately vain of her 
 stalwart husband's strength and popularity. While she 
 twisted him easily about her finger as to domestic mat- 
 ters, she knew, and it gave her pleasure to know, that 
 there was a point beyond which she could not go. So 
 she never questioned anything he did masonically, any 
 more than if she had taken an obligation of secrecy 
 and obedience herself. 
 
 " Might just as well have it as tramp way down to 
 the clearing and back in the hot sun," she added, per- 
 suasively, seeing him hesitate. 
 
 The truth was, he was hunting for an excuse, and her 
 words gave him the clue. 
 
176 A Sojt of Old Harry. 
 
 " It's too hot to sit in a close room, Melinda," he 
 replied, " and of course, we'd have to keep the windows 
 shut, though I know there wouldn't be no need with 
 only you about ; but one can't be too careful about such 
 things." 
 
 " I s'pose not," regretfully. 
 
 " Besides, the doctor has drove on down the lane and 
 is waiting for me at the bars, I expect, right now." 
 
 He started off with long, hasty strides in the direction 
 of the bam, smiling and winking to himself as soon as 
 his back was turned. 
 
 " What are you going to do with your gun ?" she 
 called after him, banteringly, from the doorstep. He 
 still had it on his shoulder, having forgotten to leave it 
 at the house as he had intended. 
 
 " Keep off CO wins and eavesdroppers," was the laugh- 
 ing reply. 
 
 " How long 'fore you'll be back ?" 
 
 " 'Bout an hour or an hour and a half, I should say ; 
 the doctor's in a great hurry." 
 
 "Fudge I That's always his way ; well, I'll split the 
 difference and have supper ready in an hour and a 
 quarter. Tell him if he don't stop and take supper 
 with us, I'll take the broomstick to him till he won't be 
 able to ride the goat for a month," 
 
 " All right," the husband called back, jocularly, as he 
 hastened down the path to the lane. 
 
 Once a day for a week afterward the doctor's gig 
 turned in at Barclay's lane, usually at night, so that 
 even the good wife was unaware of the fact ; and for a 
 week, also, Chris Barclay was away from home the bet- 
 ter part of every night and very frequently during the 
 day, until even his wife's reverence for " Masonic busi- 
 ness " began to grow weak. 
 
 " Well, I declare, Chris, 1 should think you were mak- 
 
" Out of the East:' I'jj 
 
 ing a wholesale job of it this time, anyhow," she said, 
 protestingly, one night, as he took his hat preparatory 
 to his usual outing. 
 
 " There's a lot of fellows going out to Calif orny, 'cross 
 the plains, you know," he answered, deprecatingly, "in 
 a week or two, and they want to be finished off before 
 they go. Might be worth a good deal to 'em out there, 
 you see." 
 
 " I s'pose it might," said the good woman resignedly. 
 
 The blacksmith's eyes twinkled, but he showed no 
 signs of regret for the deception he was practicing on 
 his trustful spouse. 
 
 As the reader will have surmised, the doctor's mys- 
 terious visits were made to the training-camp, where 
 Horace Goodwin was slowly recovering from his hurt. 
 In strict compliance with the blacksmith's injunction, he 
 had asked no questions except such as pertained to the 
 injury itself. He did this the more willingly because he 
 felt satisfied that his own knowledge of the facts, if not 
 more correct, was at least more definite than that of his 
 friend, and he anticipated great pleasure in revealing 
 the truth some time to a choice circle of cronies, to the 
 confusion of the blacksmith, whose cumbrous shrewdness 
 had, he thought, been so unnecessary. Day by day, as 
 he pursued his accustomed round along the country 
 roads. Doctor Kelsey chuckled to himself as he thought 
 how, during some call from labor to refreshment, he 
 would make the lodge-room echo with laughter at the 
 Worshipful Master's expense, by relating to the appre- 
 ciative craftsmen the story of this adventure. 
 
 During this interval, having seen nothing of Sam, 
 the doctor did not suspect his presence, and naturally 
 arrived at the conclusion that Chris had brought Good- 
 win to this place after he was wounded, simply from 
 apprehension for his friend's safety, or else that Good- 
 
A Son of Old Hai'jy 
 
 win had fled here under the idea that he was pursued, 
 and that Barclay had found him afterward. This 
 impression had been strengthened by Barclay's state- 
 ment that Horace had been delirious ever since he first 
 saw him after his injury. The ball, entering the mus- 
 cles of the back below the shoulder-blade, had passed 
 around under the arm and torn its way out through the 
 pectoral muscles. The wound was a serious one, there- 
 fore, not from primary but from secondary effects. 
 Thanks to the vigor and health of the patient, the 
 unpleasant symptoms had yielded readily to treatment, 
 and as it was probable that Horace would soon be 
 removed to other quarters, the doctor took occasion at 
 the first visit he made unaccompanied by Barclay, to 
 give his patient a statement of what he himself had 
 learned in regard to his injury. He was seated upon a 
 sap-bucket which he found bottom upward beside the 
 couch of hay. His patient seemed rather more excited 
 and feverish than he had expected to find him. This 
 was but natural, since the doctor's unexpected arrival 
 had allowed Sam only a moment to conceal himself. 
 Half to soothe his patient's agitation and half to relieve 
 his own sense of duty, the physician told him what the 
 reader already knows of Dan Marvin's connection with 
 the events of the night on which Goodwin had received 
 his hurt. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 CHRIS BUYS HIS WIFE A PRESENT. 
 
 " That's the whole story/' said the doctor in conclu- 
 sion. " I haven't lisped a single Word of it to a single 
 soul. You and I and his mother are the only ones that 
 know anything about it." 
 
 " I am afraid Kincaid had a hand in the matter," said 
 the other, half to himself. 
 
 " I don't know about that," responded the doctor, 
 cautiously. " I thought I ought to tell you about Dan ; 
 he's been punished pretty thoroughly." 
 
 " His mother's a good woman," said Horace, medita- 
 tively. 
 
 " She thinks" you led Dan into bad ways." 
 
 " He didn't need any leading." 
 
 " His father wasn't of much account." 
 
 " Not a bad man ; he taught me to play the violin. 
 Dan isn't a bit like him." 
 
 " Queer, isn't it," continued the doctor, musingly, 
 " how good lives generate bad ones, and bad lives give 
 forth good ones ? I suppose somewhere along the line 
 of his descent are to be found the qualities that go to 
 make up that bull-necked, sullen, revengeful cub. He 
 was probably lying hid somewhere in his parents' 
 natures, but nobody would imagine such a thing. You 
 
i8o A Sou of Old Harry. 
 
 can't guess the qualities of a man's offspring as you 
 do that of a horse." 
 
 " Perhaps because you don't know his pedigree as far 
 back, nor understand their quaHties as well as you do 
 the horse's." 
 
 " There may be something in that, but it is not enough 
 to account for all that we see. Morally and physically 
 man is an anomaly among animals. The children of 
 the deaf hear, of the blind are clear-sighted ; the hunch- 
 back has straight children ; Apollo has crooked off- 
 spring ; but oftenest of all, the good have bad and the 
 bad good children. I think it must be the surroundings 
 — what a child sees and hears and thinks — that give 
 prominence to inherited qualities and determine the 
 character of every life. That's my hobby, you know ; 
 inheritance plus environment makes the man." 
 
 " Very probably you're right," said Horace, thinking 
 of the red spur on his heel. 
 
 " You and Seth, now," continued the doctor ; " just 
 as unlike as two men could be. I s'pose responsibility 
 — having to take a man's part when he was young — 
 sobered him ; and you never had anything t o settle 
 you." 
 
 " Very likely." 
 
 " He married, too. That's what you ought to have 
 done. Queer, a man so fond of society should not have 
 even a sweetheart. I think I shall prescribe a wife for 
 you, as soon as you get over this." 
 
 The doctor spoke banteringly. 
 
 " No use," answered the other, smiling, and trying to 
 turn on his rude bed. " How's Susan getting along, 
 doctor ?" he asked, after a moment's silence. 
 
 " First-rate. It seems a queer thing to say, but I 
 believe the trouble that's come since her husband's 
 death has been a good thing for her — taken her mind 
 
Chris Buys His Wife a PresenL i8i 
 
 off her affliction, you know. Such things dull the edge 
 of grief — especially with women." 
 
 " And Hubert ?" 
 
 " O, he's all right. I should hardly go to see him any 
 more if it wasn't to let them know about you. They'll 
 be mighty glad to see you around once more, I can tell 
 you that." 
 
 Horace Goodwin laid with his eyes closed and made 
 no reply. He could hear the squirrels hopping about 
 in the dry leaves, and the bees droning in the verdant 
 stillness of the summer noon-tide about the camp. 
 Horace Goodwin was dimly conscious of these drowsy 
 delights, but it was the thought of his brother's wife 
 which brought the look of content the physician noted 
 on his face. 
 
 " The boy got out on the steps yesterday to pet the 
 colt," continued the doctor. 
 
 " The colt ? Who brought him out ?" 
 
 " It was that girl of Kincaid's, The hired man daren't 
 go into the stable ; but she said the colt wouldn't hurt 
 her ; and sure enough he didn't, She led him down to 
 the house, and it was curious to see the creature rub 
 and fuss about that boy. But he went back all right 
 when she started — swinging his head from side to side 
 in that queer, poky way of his, as if he never thought 
 of mischief." 
 
 " I'm glad she came to see Hubert." 
 
 " O, she's there about all the time, now he's getting 
 better. I never saw two young things so wrapt up in 
 each other. I believe it would about kill them to be 
 separated. He talked about her all the time he wah 
 delirious, and she wouldn't go to school, but just staid 
 at home to watch for me and ask how he was, till he got 
 well enough so that she could visit him." 
 
 " Deely certainly is a nice girl." 
 
1 82 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " There's another freak, How'd she come to be what 
 she is ?" 
 
 " Give it up, I s'pose, as you say, it's somewhere in 
 the blood, just as that colt's temper is ; but how it 
 comes to crop out in just that form I don't know," 
 
 " Neither do I ; but she's a jewel, no mistake. I must 
 be going now. What do you think about Dan ?" 
 
 " I s'pose if Kincaid was mixed up in the matter, it 
 would all come out if there was a trial ?" 
 
 " Probably." 
 
 " That would just about kill Deely." 
 
 " It would be pretty bad for her." 
 
 " How's Dan getting on ?" 
 
 " He's able to sit up." 
 
 " If he'll tell who was with him — " 
 
 " He won't do that," interrupted the doctor. 
 
 " Well, I'm glad he's man enough not to ; that's some 
 credit to him, anyhow." 
 
 " It might lead right up to Kincaid if he did," sug- 
 gestively. 
 
 " You're right there," responded Horace, with a 
 troubled look. 
 
 " King Marsh has been mighty subdued and anxious 
 since Chris began to talk about getting out a warrant." 
 
 " A warrant — what for ?" 
 
 " Chris pretends to think you're dead, and that he's 
 got a clue to them that killed you. He's quite a 
 changed man lately — Chris, I mean. His fire's out most 
 of the time, his shop shut up, and he sits around the 
 corners and talks and hints from morning till night 
 almost. He'll lose all his custom if he goes on this way 
 much longer. I shouldn't be surprised any day to hear 
 there was a warrant out against Dan. Hank Welby, 
 the constable, you know, spoke to me about it to-day. 
 
Chris Buys His Wife a Present. 183 
 
 He don't know much, but he's an awfully determined 
 man." 
 
 " Are they hunting after Sam yet ?" asked Horace, 
 with an effort to appear unconcerned. 
 
 "Mosely's at Kincaid's." 
 
 " Come to close the trade for the colt ?" 
 
 " I s'pose so. He wanted to talk with Susan about 
 the matter, but she said she wouldn't do anything till 
 you come back. He asked her if she thought you were 
 alive, and she said she did ; and she guessed the time 
 would come when some folks would wish you were dead, 
 more'n they did now. He said he'd wait a couple of 
 weeks ; and she agreed, if you weren't back by that 
 time, she'd take out letters and 'tend to the matter herself- 
 There's a great deal of talk about the matter, 'specially 
 since Chris put a padlock on the stable-door and made 
 the hired man sleep in the barn with a gun. It seems 
 to worry Kincaid a good deal. 
 
 " Besides that, he and Mosely had a falling out about 
 the nigger. It seems Kincaid gave a bond with security 
 to take him back to Kentucky, but when Mosely draws 
 it on him, and demands his nigger, or the money, Kin- 
 caid goes to a lawyer, and, after taking advice, tells 
 Mosely his bond ain't good for anything." 
 
 " Ain't good ?" 
 
 " That's what he said ; and when Mosely come back 
 from Kentucky, where he took advice, too, he says the 
 same thing. You see he consented to let the nigger go 
 into a free State, and that, it seems, makes him free, if 
 he chooses to take advantage of it, which it appears he 
 did, and that, they say, invalidates the bond, it being a 
 contract that a man shouldn't do what he'd a clear 
 right to do under the law of the State. So Mosely said 
 that, if he couldn't get it out of Kincaid by law, he'd 
 have to get it some other way. He didn't say how, but 
 
184 A Son of Old Harry, 
 
 just lay around and smoked in that lazy Southern 
 fashion, winking his great big eyes as contentedly as a 
 toad that has swallowed a lightning-bug, till Kincaid 
 got real nervous. So yesterday they settled." 
 
 " King paid him off, I s'pose ?" 
 
 " Not exactly. I believe the "bond was fifteen htin- 
 dred dollars, which Mosely says is just about a fair 
 price for the nigger. I'm sure I don't know. He don't 
 look as if he'd weigh more'n a hundred, and fifteen dol- 
 lars a pound seems a pretty good price for any sort of 
 meat, as Hank Welby says ; but Mosely claims the 
 boy'd bring it any day, under the hammer." 
 
 " A good jockey is worth 'most any money." 
 
 " So I s'pose ; but there was the chance of getting 
 him back, and the bond not good — at any rate they set- 
 tled — nobody knows just how. Mosely takes back the 
 Gray Eagle, for one thing, and most people believe that 
 Kincaid loses what he'd paid on him and gets back his 
 notes for the balance." 
 
 "That wouldn't be a bad trade — for Mosely." 
 
 " Well, Kincaid says he don't ever want to see a 
 crack horse again ; and some say he had to promise his 
 wife never to own another or the old woman was going 
 to desert. He'd be bad off without her, shrewd as he is." 
 
 " So Mosely has got pay for his nigger and still owns 
 him ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; he sold him after that." 
 
 " Sold him ? In a free State, too ! I'd like to know 
 who bought him." 
 
 " You'd never guess." 
 
 " Anybody round here ?" 
 
 The doctor nodded. 
 
 Horace shook his head, after a moment's thought. 
 
 " Give it up, do you ? Thought you would. Well, it 
 was nobody but Chris Barclay." 
 
Chris Buys His Wife a Present. 185 
 
 " Chris Barclay !" exclaimed Horace, attempting to 
 rise in his excitement, and sinking back with a groan. 
 
 " Exactly. Chris was sitting on the counter when 
 Mosely and Kincaid came out of the back room and 
 said they'd settled. Kincaid showed the bond around, 
 and after they'd all seen it, tore it up. Then some 
 questions was asked about who owned the nigger, and 
 Mosely said it still belonged to him. He s'posed the 
 little cuss was in Canada by this time, but he held the 
 title if he didn't ever see a hide or hair of him again. 
 Then Chris asked, in his dry way, if he didn't want to 
 sell him. 
 
 " 'Do you want to buy ?' asked Mosely, with one of 
 his ten-minute winks. 
 
 " Chris said his old woman had always claimed she'd 
 like to own a nigger, and if he could get one cheap, he 
 thought he might like to buy. Of course, everybody 
 laughed. 
 
 " * Take him running ?' asked Mosely. 
 
 " * Of course,' said Chris. * S'pose I'd have to.' 
 
 " ' Won't ask to have him delivered ?' 
 
 " ' No.' 
 
 " ' You take all risk for failure of title made in this 
 State ?' 
 
 " ' I want a good title, whether I get the nigger or 
 not,' says Chris. 
 
 " ' I can't give that,' Mosely said. * All I can give is a 
 quit-claim.' 
 
 " ' Well, what'll you take for that .?' 
 
 " They bantered a while, and the upshot of it was 
 that Chris gave him a hundred dollars, and took a deed 
 to the nigger and a contract that Mosely should make 
 out another when he got back to Kentucky." 
 
 " I'm glad of that," said Horace, with a sigh of 
 relief. 
 
1 86 A So7i of Old Harry. 
 
 " But wasn't it a queer thing for Chris to do ?" 
 
 " It would seem so," answered Horace, absently. 
 " How long before I can be taken home, doctor ?" he 
 asked, after a moment's silence. 
 
 " Oh, in the course of two or three days, I should 
 think." 
 
 ** Well, doctor — if Dan Marvin should take it into his 
 head that — that he'd better go out west — to California 
 or somewhere — before I get around I — well, I don't 
 know asthere'dbe any harm done." 
 
 ** I'm sure his mother would be glad ; she'd probably 
 go with him." 
 
 " I don't want to know anything about it," said the 
 sick man with a gesture of aversion. " I s'pose I'll have 
 to tell all about the matter as soon as it's known I'm 
 above ground, and the less I know about his getting 
 away, the better." * 
 
 " Naturally ; and for my part I'd like to know a little 
 about how you got hurt, before I'd be willing to give 
 any such hint. How did it happen, anyhow? How 
 did'you come to be down the road at that time of night ? 
 How did you get there and how did you get here ?" 
 
 " You are sure Mosely made out a bill of sale for Sam 
 to Barclay ?" 
 
 " O, perfectly sure ; saw it myself ; in fact, am one of 
 the witnesses. Squire Kendall drew it up, and Mosely 
 handed over the bill of sale he got of the man he bought 
 the boy of when he was a baby. It's all square and 
 straight. Barclay owns the nigger out and out — so far 
 as Mosely's deed can give title in this State, that is." 
 
 " Sam !" 
 
 There was a rustling under the hay in the great store- 
 trough, and the little jockey rose up before the aston- 
 ished gaze of Doctor Kelsey. 
 
 " It's all right, Sam," said Horace. " You heard what 
 
Chris Buys His Wife a Present. 187 
 
 the doctor said. You are free now, though Barclay has 
 got a bill of sale for you. Nobody can interfere with 
 you, now, and Chris is the last man that would ever 
 care to." 
 
 If any one had expected any clamorous demonstration 
 from the man thus suddenly relieved from apprehen- 
 sion of a return to bondage, he would have been disap- 
 pointed. It is a singular fact that liberty was so stu- 
 pendous and overwhelming a fact to the African slave, 
 that when it came, it seemed invariably to paralyze the 
 power of immediate expression. Words were inade- 
 quate to voice the rapture of a newly freed bondman. 
 What Sam Mosely did was neither to shout nor laugh ; 
 but after gazing a moment at the doctor with a stare 
 almost as incredulous as his own, his face grew pale, his 
 limbs trembled, and, with a half-inarticulate moan, he 
 sank down sobbing hysterically, upon his knees in the 
 trough where he had been hidden. 
 
 " Well, I declare !" exclaimed the doctor, springing to 
 his feet, " where did^w/ come from ?" 
 
 ** Now, you see, doctor," continued Horace, after he 
 had enjoyed for a moment his friend's astonishment, 
 " the reason so much caution was necessary in commun- 
 icating with you. So far as I am concerned, the mat- 
 ter is very simple. I was watching with Hubert that 
 night — had been doing so for several nights before, you 
 know — and must have fallen asleep in my chair. After 
 a time I heard the horses whinnying — I had heard them 
 for some time, I suppose, but it had not fully roused me 
 from the heavy sleep I was in. When I did finally 
 wake I started up, fully aware that something was wrong. 
 The colt in the barn was trumpeting like mad, and just 
 as I got to the door, I heard the Queen answer from 
 the hollow down near the road. I knew at once that 
 somebody had stolen her, but could not imagine why 
 
1 88 A Sou of Old Harry. 
 
 they had not taken the colt also. Then I thought it 
 was a trick of Kincaid's ; and calling Susan to stay with 
 the boy, I started out in my slippers with only a round- 
 about on, to see what could be done. As I went out of 
 the door, I caught up the heavy rawhide whip the boy 
 had carried in the race. It was the only weapon I could 
 lay hands on just then." 
 
 " Not a bad one, either," interposed the doctor. 
 
 " No ; it served well enough. I had a notion that 
 whoever had got the mare would not go very fast at 
 first, as it might attract attention to go running by the 
 three or four neighbors' houses just south of ours, and 
 thought if I could get near her and whistle, she would 
 make the one that rode her trouble enough, so that I 
 could get a chance to use the whip before he could sub- 
 due her. You know I am a pretty good runner, 
 and the slippers were light and made no noise. When 
 I got to the brow of the hill just below Matthews's, I 
 could see them about half way down the slope. The 
 moon had gone down, but it was bright starlight. To 
 my surprise there were two of them, and they were 
 walking their horses quite slowly. I jumped over into 
 the orchard and ran down the hill until I was nearly 
 opposite them. The mare called just then — I suppose 
 she winded me — and I heard one of them give her a 
 lick. She never would stand a blow, and I knew this 
 would be a good time to interfere. Climbing the fence 
 into the road, I put my fingers in my mouth and 
 whistled — not once, but a dozen times. You know how 
 far that whistle can be heard ?" 
 
 " I've heard it a mile or more, over and often." 
 
 "Well, the mare heard it, then, and there was evi- 
 dently a squabble with her. The man who rode her 
 fell off — at least I heard something fall — and clutching 
 my whip I ran towards them. When I got near, I saw 
 
Chris Buys His Wife a Present. 189 
 
 . e^ 
 
 there was a man on her and another hanging on to the 
 bridle. I hadn't more than four or five rods to run, and 
 in a minute I was among them hitting right and left, 
 first one man and then the other, and finally laying the 
 whip over the other horse. They've all got my mark 
 on them yet, wherever they are. The horse reared 
 when I struck him, which isn't any wonder, considering 
 that there's nearly half a pound of shot braided into 
 that cracker. This pulled his rider, who had hold of 
 the mare's rein, out of the saddle. lie let go and she 
 turned towards me. I cut the fellow on her over the 
 head and face once or twice — perhaps a few more times 
 — literally beating him off the saddle ; caught a grip ■ 
 in the mare's mane as she started past me up the hill, 
 and after running a few steps beside her swung into the 
 saddle with a whoop. Just then a shot was fired, and I 
 felt the ball strike me under the shoulder blade. The 
 mare was going like the wind by that time, making just 
 lickity-click for home. I began to grow faint in a min- 
 ute and fell over on her neck, just having sense enough 
 left to take hold round it. The next I knew I was lying 
 here and Sam was washing my face. I suppose the 
 mare was so frightened that she kept right on past the 
 stable up the lane to the camp where we have been so 
 long. That is all the story I've got to tell, doctor." 
 
 "I see ! I see!" said the doctor musingly. "You 
 mustn't talk any more now. I oughtn't to have let you 
 say so much, but I wanted to know. Even a doctor 
 has some curiosity." 
 
 Horace smiled. The doctor's curiosity was a thing 
 well understood by all who knew him. 
 
 " Well, it was lucky for you she came here," continued 
 the physician. " I could hardly have done better for 
 you than the boy, and — well, other things might have 
 been wors§," 
 
190 A So7i of Old Harjy. 
 
 " Yes," answered Horace ; " and you see I couldn't 
 betray him after that." 
 
 " Of course not ; and Chris "knew all about it ? The 
 rascal — he's sharper than I thought." 
 
 " He's a mighty good man, doctor," said Horace sol- 
 emnly. 
 
 " Who ? Chris ? Well, I should say ! And not half as 
 stupid as you might imagine, either," responded the 
 doctor, heartily. 
 
 The boy came out from his. hiding place, and, crouch- 
 ing down beside the couch, took Horace's hand tenderly 
 in his own. 
 
 " You'll be well taken care of," said the doctor, sig- 
 nificantly, glancing at the boy. " Couldn't I drive up 
 the lane past Seth's after dark, when I come the next 
 time ?" he asked as he rose to go. 
 
 " Just as well as not. Tell Mosely I'll be out soon." 
 
 " All right ; keep quiet. Good-bye." 
 
 He nodded cheerfully to his patient, put on his wide- 
 brimmed hat and started to walk through the woods to 
 Barclay's lane, where he had left his horse. It was half 
 a mile away — a long walk for a man of his build — and 
 he was glad hje would not have to make it any more. 
 He had been very circumspect, and congratulated him- 
 self that he had saved the peace of the neighborhood by 
 his sagacity. Years afterward, when he told of his 
 adventures, he always laid stress on this fact. 
 
 " No, you don't, doctor," was the unexpected greeting 
 that worthy received as he stepped outside the door of 
 the camp. It came from the lips of Melinda Barclay 
 whose trim figure was advancing from the brook, with 
 the massive form of the blacksmith coming leisurely 
 behind her. She looked saucily at the doctor from the 
 shadow of her stiff sun-bonnet as she spoke, and 
 threatened him with an uplifted finger, 
 
Chris Buys His Wife a Presoit. 191 
 
 " Just you stand where you are, sir, and tell me if you 
 are not ashamed to deceive a poor trusting woman as 
 you and Chris hare been doing for a week back. I 
 thought my husband was overdoing the Masonic busi- 
 ness, and mistrusting just what was in . the wind, I 
 charged him with it. I never allow him to tell fibs to me 
 about anything but Masonry, and had no idea he lied to 
 me about that before ; so he had to own up, and I came 
 right down here with him to see if it was true that you 
 two heathen men, who talk so much about charity and 
 the like, would leave a poor sick man to suffer and per- 
 haps to die, without any woman to tend on him or look 
 after him. Ain't you ashamed, now ?" 
 
 " But he has been very comfortable," said Barclay. 
 " You know he has Sam to wait on him." 
 
 " Sam ! A little nigger that's fit only to wait on a sick 
 horse. Comfortable ! Much you know about it. Wait 
 until you're sick yourself, and then see how you'd like to 
 have a nigger boy to wait on you." 
 
 " Remember he's yours now," said the doctor mis- 
 chievously. " I expect you'll keep him waiting on Chris 
 all the time." 
 
 " Waiting on Chris ? No, indeed. I've got better work 
 for him than that." 
 
 " What "are you going to have him do ?" 
 
 " Watch the Masons, sir, and let their wives know how 
 they're deceiving them. I guess that '11 keep him busy." 
 
 " I'm afraid he'll run away again, if you set him at 
 that." 
 
 " I wouldn't blame him," was the reply. " He seems 
 to be the. only man around here that's got right good 
 sense. He kxiew he didn't know enough to take care of 
 a sick man. Just let me see how things are, anyhow." 
 
 She stepped inside the door and looked at Horace, with 
 Sam, who had risen at her entrance, standing beside the 
 
192 A Son of Old Ha7'ry. 
 
 couch and fanning him with a green maple-bough. The 
 bed was an ingenious contrivance of the blacksmith's — 
 a pile of hay over which was tightly drawn and staked 
 a piece of canvas. Melinda recognized some of her own 
 bed-clothing,, also, about the form of the sick man. 
 
 " How do you do ? This ain't so bad, after all ;" 
 glancing around as she spoke. " I was afraid they were 
 just letting you lie on the ground, Mr. Goodwin, and 
 suffer like a brute. I'm glad Chris had sense enough to 
 steal some of my pillows and coverlets for you. Now I 
 know he's a liar, I don't mind his being a thief, you see. 
 I declare, I'm glad you're getting along so well. And 
 this is Sam, I s'pose ? I'm 'fraid I'll never be able to get 
 him away from you, Mr. Horace. He's taken such good 
 care of you, I think he's earned the right to stay with 
 you. How would you like that, Sam ?" 
 
 " Suit me fust-rate, missus," said the boy with a grin, 
 ducking his head and scraping his foot. 
 
 " You'll let me have him now and then, to watch Chris 
 and the doctor, won't you ?" 
 
 *• As often as you wish," laughed Horace. 
 
 " Well, that's settled then ; I'll give him to you. I 
 can't keep him, you know, because my husband's an 
 Abolitionist. I'm not ; I'd like to have a nigger to wait 
 on me, but I can't afford a fuss in the family. So I'll 
 let you have him. What do they give you to eat, Mr. 
 Goodwin?" the bustling housewife continued. "Really, 
 you look half-famished. What do you suppose Susan 
 would say if she knew one of her family was being 
 starved right here under her nose ? Where do you keep 
 your things, anyhow ?" 
 
 In her eagerness to explore the domestic arrange- 
 ments of the camp, the good woman opened the door in 
 the partition and found herself confronted with the 
 inquiring head of the Queen. The consternation which 
 
The Clonds Roll By. 193 
 
 was pictured on her face drew roars of laughter from 
 the beholders, including the wounded man, whose mirth, 
 though evidently painful, seemed irrepressible. 
 
 "Well, I do declare ! In a stable !" was her ejacula- 
 tion. 
 
 " See here, madam," said the doctor, with half- 
 assumed gravity, " don't you see you are agitating my 
 patient ? I must positively forbid such excitement." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Goodwin," answered the woman, who 
 recognized the truth of the doctor's words, " I won't 
 stay any longer now. You don't know how glad I am 
 to see you doing so well. Chris shall bring you a 
 supper, and, to-morrow, perhaps, I'll come and sit 
 awhile with you. We'll soon have you out of this." 
 
 The jolly trio — the doctor, the blacksmith and his 
 sprightly wife — went away ; their laughing banter 
 coming back, softened by the leafy wood, seemed to 
 Horace Goodwin the sweetest sound he had ever heard, 
 and almost before it had died away he sank into that 
 restful slumber which follows so swift upon the least 
 exertion, with the hopeful convalescent. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE CLOUDS ROLL BY. 
 
 It was as the doctor had predicted. The return of 
 Horace Goodwin was more like a festive occasion than 
 the reunion of an afflicted family. Not only his safety 
 but the consciousness of relief from financial difficulty, 
 gave an air of contentment which had long been 
 unknown to the members of the household. When the 
 
194 ^ ^on of Old Harry. 
 
 dead was spoken of, it was always with tender regret 
 that he had not lived to share this unlooked-for pros- 
 perity. The will of the deceased, naming his brother 
 as executor, had to be admitted to probate before the 
 colt could be legally disposed of. It provided that 
 one-third of the purchase money, after paying off the 
 mortgage on the farm, should go to Horace, not as a 
 bequest, but as compensation for his skill in enhancing 
 the animal's value. The will was executed several days 
 before the race, but the testators seemed to have had 
 no doubt as to its result. It was evident from the 
 entire instrument that he fully understood his own 
 physical condition, and did not expect to survive the 
 excitement of that event. Only his strong will kept 
 him alive until it was over, and even this proved insuffi- 
 cient to sustain the enfeebled system, when the reaction 
 came and he knew that his estate was released from the 
 peril that had impended. 
 
 When the trade was completed, the money paid, and 
 the colt brought out to be delivered to his new owner, 
 Hubert, now quite recovered, after a last caress of the 
 animal which had so long been the pride of his heart, 
 fled to his room under the roof of the unfinished house 
 and flung himself upon his bed in a passion of tears. 
 He mourned his father and his pet. Who shall blame 
 him if the two were unconsciously joined in his thought ? 
 He lay there a long time. His tears finally ceased to 
 flow and his sobs died away. 
 
 Lying on his back looking straight upward, he 
 watched the wasps building their mud-nests along the 
 rafters and dreamed the curious day-dreams of boy- 
 hood — of " gay castles in the clouds that pass, forever 
 flushing round a summer sky." Already he had buried 
 his past and set his foot across the threshold of the 
 future. What a crude and narrow future his imagina- 
 
The Clouds Roll By. 195 
 
 tion painted ! There were so few people in it ! Him- 
 self and Deely were, of course, its central figures. He 
 was too much a man to think of himself as acting any- 
 thmg but a leading part in his own life-drama, and too 
 much of a boy to be ashamed of his thought. His 
 moiner and his uncle came next ; then, not without 
 some compunctions, Deely's father and mother, con- 
 siderably retired from view, and then — the world ! 
 What a queer, misty, sun-tinted world it was ! How 
 easily he settled the somewhat vague relations of his 
 little circle to it and to himself ! Himself and Deely, 
 rather — for what was his was to be hers, of thought, 
 act and enjoyment, " forever and ever, Amen !" He 
 repeated the words softly and solemnly, and wondered 
 how long " forever" might be, and what the " Amen" 
 meant. 
 
 " Jack I" a soft voice called, timidly, from the narrow 
 stairway. 
 
 It hardly broke upon his day-dream, for it was Deely's. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, absently, still watching the 
 mud-daubers at work beside the rafter. 
 
 " May I come up ?" 
 
 " Oh, is it you, Deely ?" rousing himself and sitting up 
 on the bed. " Why, yes — of course." 
 
 There was a rush up the uncarpeted stair, and the 
 girl leaped upon the bed and flung her arms about his 
 neck. 
 
 " Oh, Jack !" 
 
 This was all she said — her tone told the rest. The 
 tears came again to the boy's eyes, but he brushed them 
 aside and said, stoutly : 
 
 " 'Tain't no use to feel bad, Deely ; it had to be — and 
 I guess I'm glad of it." 
 
 ' * Of course ; he brought a lot of money, didn't he >. 
 Pa says you'll soon be the richest folks around here, if 
 
196 A Soil of Old Harry. . 
 
 your mother lets Uncle Hod manage for her, and then 
 you can buy him back some day." 
 
 " I don't want to buy him back." 
 
 " Well, you can get another just as good," continued 
 the little comforter. 
 
 "There ain't any just as good, Deely. Mr. Mosely 
 says he's the best horse in the country, and he wouldn't 
 take five thousand dollars for his bargain to-day ; but 
 if he was twice as good, I don't want him, nor I don't 
 ever want to see him again." 
 
 " Why, Jack !" 
 
 " I don't, Deely ! I'm never going to own a horse as 
 long as I live, no matter how rich I may be." 
 
 *' Why — Jack Goodwin !" exclaimed the girl, drawing 
 back, and looking up at him with astonishment. 
 
 "I won't !" repeated the lad, stubbornly. 
 
 " Why not ?" 
 
 " 'Cause I'm going to be a minister." 
 
 " But you'll be rich ; pa says you will." 
 
 " I don't care if I am." 
 
 " Rich folks are never ministers," said the girl, in a 
 positive, satisfied tone. 
 
 " I'm going to be one, anyway." 
 
 " Are you going to preach and holler like other minis- 
 ters ?" 
 
 " I — I — s'pose so." 
 
 " It must be awful hard work." 
 
 The girl sighed, as if the thought of the exertion 
 oppressed her. 
 
 " I 'spect it is," replied the boy, absently. 
 
 " But you'll need a horse to get to your preaching- 
 places ?" 
 
 " I shall walk." 
 
 The girl burst into a laugh that echoed musically 
 through the empty room. The mother, busy with her 
 
The Clouds Roll By. 197 
 
 work below, heard it, and rejoiced that the sorrowing 
 lad could so soon forget his grief. 
 
 " I don't see anything funny in that," said the boy 
 half -resentfully. " You needn't go with me." 
 
 "I should think not," she rejoined, laughing still 
 more heartily. " The idea of a minister walking to 
 church and leaving his wife at home !" 
 
 " Perhaps I sha'n't have any wife," said the boy, 
 sulkily. 
 
 " Oh, yes, you will," answered the girl, sobered at 
 once by his anger. " You know I'm going to be your 
 wife. Remember, we promised ' forever and ever, 
 Amen !' I couldn't marry anybody else, after that ; it 
 would be wicked." 
 
 The girl spoke in tones of grave reproach. 
 
 " I s'pose it would," said the boy, apologetically. 
 
 " What makes you think you will be a minister. Jack .?" 
 she asked, after a moment of oppressive silence. 
 
 " Father said he wanted I should be if — if I got a 
 call." 
 
 " What's that ?" 
 
 " I don't know ; something preachers have. I've 
 heard them talk about it. Some say father had one 
 once — a long time ago — and didn't listen to it, and that 
 was the reason he had so much trouble." 
 
 " What did he have so much trouble about } Was it 
 because he was sick ?" 
 
 '■'■ Oh, no ; that's what made him sick ; 'cause he was in 
 debt and was afraid he'd lose the farm, I s'pose." 
 
 " Couldn't he get another, if he did ?"' 
 
 " I don't know ; never thought of that. I s'pose he'd 
 set his heart on this one." 
 
 " If I had my way, there wouldn't be any trouble in 
 the world — not the least little bit," said the child- 
 •vyoman, with q^uiet certainty. 
 
198 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " Oh, there has to be, Deely," said the boy, with 
 reproachful earnestness. His religious education had 
 made trouble so essential a part of the Divine dis- 
 pensation, that to question its necessity seemed to 
 him nothing less than sacrilege. 
 
 " Do you think we'll have any trouble. Jack — you 
 and I ?" solemnly. 
 
 " Why, of course." 
 
 ** What do you suppose it'll be about ?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "It won't be about money, will it? We'll both be 
 rich." 
 
 The child spoke with gay assurance. 
 
 " It'll be something, if there has to be a new kind of 
 trouble made just for us. Everybody has trouble, Deely 
 — everybody — more or less." 
 
 " I s'pect they do," said the little lady, smoothing out 
 her frock, as she sat upon the bed a la Turk, and folding 
 her hands demurely in her lap. The boy, his legs dan- 
 gling over the side of the bed leaned over upon his right 
 hand and watched her contentedly. 
 
 " Do you suppose you'll have a * call,' Jack ?" she 
 asked, at length, looking up at him with a sympathetic 
 gaze. 
 
 " How can I tell ? They don't ever get them till they 
 are man-grown. Father said he wanted I should be 
 ready to answer if one came." 
 
 " What will you have to do to get ready ?" 
 
 ** Oh, be very good — you know — and go to college — 
 and — and — such. ' ' 
 
 " That's all right," cheerfully. " And if you don't 
 get a ' call ?' " 
 
 " Then I'll have to do something else, I s'pose." 
 
 " Of course ; and then you can have all the horses 
 
The Clouds Roll By. 199 
 
 you want, I don't believe you'll get any * call,' " she 
 added, brightly. 
 
 " Perhaps not ; but — but — I sha'n't ever own a horse 
 if I don't." 
 
 The boy's lip quivered and his eyes filled with tears, 
 as the memory of the happy days at the training-camp 
 came to his mind, but he turned away his head and 
 looked steadfastly out of the window to hide his weak- 
 ness from his companion. 
 
 " Why not. Jack ?" 
 
 The girl laid her hand caressingly upon his shoulder 
 and leaned forward to look into his face. 
 
 " 'Cause — I can't," came brokenly from the lad's 
 determined lips. 
 
 " Won't you tell your little Deely, Jack ?" 
 
 Unable to resist this appeal, the boy drew up his left 
 foot, and removing the shoe and stocking, pointed to the 
 red mark upon the heel. Either because the foot had 
 lost its tan during his illness, or because the exciting 
 events of the past few weeks had tended to promote 
 its development, the mark, which had been barely 
 traceable before, now showed red and angry. 
 
 "Why, how funny!" said the girl, scrutinizing it 
 curiously, but afraid to touch it. 
 
 *' That was only a little red mark that you could hardly 
 see, when we were down in the camp," said the boy, 
 with quivering lips. " Now look what it's like." 
 
 He turned up the foot to show that the red line crossed 
 the sole, and then turned it back that she might see the 
 branches almost meeting on the instep. 
 
 " That's where it's tied, I s'pose," said the boy explan- 
 atorily. " Uncle Horace says they used to tie 'em 
 instead of buckling them." 
 
 " But what is it ?" asked the girl, in a hushed whisper. 
 
 " It's a sign, Deely." 
 
200 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " A sign ? Sign of what ?" 
 
 " If those two marks ever come together there," point- 
 ing to the instep and speaking very solemnly, " it's a 
 sign the devil's got me hard and fast, and there's never 
 any chance for me to get away. Until it gets clear 
 round, though, he ain't ever sure of me ; so I'll have all 
 manner of good luck till that comes, just to keep me 
 from breaking away and disappointing him, you see." 
 
 " Who told you about it, Jack ?" 
 
 *' Uncle Horace ; he's got one, too ; and it's quite a 
 considerable bigger'n mine — oh, ever so big round under 
 the foot here — but it hasn't got quite together on top ; 
 is just about half as far apart as mine. That's the rea- 
 son he's so lucky — won the race, didn't get killed, and — 
 oh, everything ! That's the reason everybody likes 
 him, too, and he can make money without trying when- 
 ever he's a mind to. The devil's just baiting him on, 
 you see. But Uncle Horace says he'll give him the 
 slip yet, and I hope he will." • 
 
 " I'm sure he will," said the girl, cheerfully. 
 
 " It's a sign that runs in the Goodwin family ; some 
 have it and some don't. Them that does, have good 
 luck, and are apt to have a bad end ; them that don't, 
 have bad luck but die happy. Father didn't have any ; 
 so he had trouble. Uncle Horace says I wouldn't ever 
 have discovered Abdallah if it hadn't been for that 
 mark. Father could see his points after we'd showed 
 'em to him, but he never would have found them out 
 himself." 
 
 " I believe I'd rather have the mark," said the girl 
 decisively. The spirit of King Marsh showed in her 
 tones. 
 
 " But the dying, Deely," said the boy, solemnly. 
 
 " Ain't there any way to have the luck and die happy, 
 too ?" 
 
The Clouds Roll By. 201 
 
 *' None — only just being a minister — a child of Theo- 
 philus." 
 
 " What's that ?" asked the girl, in wide-eyed wonder. 
 
 Then he told his little companion the story of Sir 
 Harry and Theophilus Goodwin. When he had con- 
 cluded, she looked timorously around the silent, unfin- 
 ished chamber and said in a tremulous whisper : 
 
 " O, dear !" 
 
 " Hubert ! Deely ! Come, children — supper's ready." 
 
 His mother's voice sounded very cheerful. The boy 
 started at once to put on his shoe and lace it up. 
 
 ** What makes everybody call you Hubert, now ?" 
 asked the girl, as she watched him weave the leather 
 strings in and out through the uncased holes in the 
 shoe. 
 
 " I don't know ; unless 'cause father did," 
 
 " Don't you think it's because you're going to be a 
 minister ?" 
 
 " May be." 
 
 " You'll let me call you Jack, won't you ?" 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " Always ?" 
 
 " To be sure !" straightening up and looking at her 
 wonderingly. " I wouldn't have you call me anything 
 else for the world ! 'Twouldn't seem natural." 
 
 She flung her arms about his neck, kissed him and 
 pressed her cheek against his with unconscious fervor. 
 The boy received her caress a little shamefacedly, but 
 did not return it. 
 
 " Let me tie up my shoe," he said, after a moment. 
 
 Deely released her clasp of his neck and leaned her 
 head upon his shoulder while he finished. Then they 
 slid off the bed, ran a race to the stairway, went clat- 
 tering down and burst open the door to find Uncle 
 Horace propped up in the easy-chair, occupying his 
 
202 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 brother's accustomed place at the table, while Mrs. 
 Goodwin sat opposite, smiling and cheerful. The girl 
 ran to kiss the invalid, whose tirst appearance this was 
 at the table, while the boy sat down in his wonted seat 
 with a strange, indefinable apprehension tugging at his 
 heart. Was his Uncle Horace going to take his father's 
 place in everything? Another surprise awaited him. 
 Mrs. Goodwin's face flushed as she cast a meaning look 
 at her brother-in-law and bowed her head over her plate. 
 Horace leaned forward and in stammering tones asked 
 a blessing. In those days it was customary only for those 
 who were termed " professors " to say grace before par- 
 taking of food, and the children felt that a very solemn 
 and momentous change had taken place, which they 
 could but half understand. The truth was that a new 
 day had come. One king was dead and another had 
 come to reign in his place. Would his mle be just and 
 wise and tender ? This was the unformulated question 
 the young hearts were unconsciously striving to solve as 
 they ate the first meal under the new dispensation. 
 
 CHAPTER VH. 
 
 HALCYON DAYS. 
 
 The days passed swiftly, and the sun shone brightly 
 on the Goodwin household. Some were surprised, but 
 everybody seemed gratified at the change in Uncle 
 Horace. One of his first acts after complete recovery 
 was to apply for admission to the church. 
 
 " I promised Seth when hejwas dying, and before, too 
 that I'd join the church when he was gone and take care 
 
Halcyon Days. 203 
 
 of those he left behind,and I'm ready to do my part," 
 was the only satisfaction he gave the church officials 
 when they asked his motive for making such applica- 
 tion. 
 
 He explained his choice of denomination, which had 
 awakened some surprise, in a like unique and matter- 
 of-fact way : 
 
 *' You see, Seth didn't get along very well with the 
 Methodists, and as I am not half so good as he was, and 
 haven't any of his gift, I thought I'd better try the 
 Congregationalists, and see if I could not make a better 
 go with them. I s'pose it's all the same, anyhow ; all 
 bound for the same place, and so far as I can see, it 
 don't make much difference which road one takes. 
 Susan was a Congregationalist before she married Seth, 
 and I've a notion she feels a little more at home among 
 them yet. As I'll have to stay and look after things for 
 her till the boy grows up, I thought I might as well join 
 where she'd like best to go. It'll be better for the boy, 
 too. As for me, I never cared enough about either to 
 have any preference ; I just want to do what seems the 
 best thing for them." 
 
 It was a terribly prosaic view to take of a spiritual 
 matter. He did not seem to know anything about the 
 distinctive tenets of the church he had selected, or 
 rather, did not care to consider them. The cardinal 
 principles embraced in the declaration of faith pre- 
 sented to him he accepted withoiit hesitation and with 
 evident sincerity. As to a change of heart, he candidly 
 avowed that he was not conscious of having experienced 
 any. He had promised his brother to join the church, 
 set a good example to the boy, aud see that he had a 
 religious training and a thorough education. This 
 promise he desired to fulfill, and wished the aid of the 
 
204 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 church in doing so. He expected the help of God as a 
 matter of course, because it was a good act. 
 
 This matter made a deal of talk in the neighborhood. 
 Everybody said it was just like Horace Goodwin, who 
 never did anything as anybody else did. Some com- 
 plained of his apparent irreverence and lack of spiritu- 
 ality, but they all admitted that he meant what he said, 
 and nearly every one declared that he had done exactly 
 right. Fireside theologians argued stoutly pro and con, 
 about a change of heart and the evidences of a saving 
 faith. Being asked to pray, at a meeting of the pastor 
 and deacons called to consider his case, he complied in 
 such a simple, stammering, unconventional way, that 
 even those who smiled could not help weeping, yet 
 could not tell why they wept. After some delay his 
 request was granted. He soon became active in the 
 affairs of the church, not in spiritual things, of which he 
 professed to no knowledge, but in advancing its tem- 
 poral interests, and bringing into it many of his old 
 associates. 
 
 After a few months, Mrs. Goodwin joined the same 
 church by letter from the Methodist congregation with 
 which she had united in her husband's lifetime. Little 
 more than a year afterward Hubert also united with it. 
 It was chiefly through his uncle's persuasion that he 
 did so. " You know it was your father's wish," he said, 
 and the boy complied. Deely Kincaid joined at the 
 same time. Was it love of God or love of Jack, that 
 made her refuse to allow him to be separated from her 
 by any new relation ? Many remarked that it seemed 
 like a marriage of these two who were yet children, but 
 seemed to be one in all their aspirations. There was a 
 rapt look upon the girl's face as they rose from their 
 knees with the water of baptism still sparkling upon 
 her palCp gold tresses, as she glanced at her companion 
 
Halcyon Days. 205 
 
 before turning to listen to the charg-e of the pastor. The 
 boy hardly heard the words of the minister, so absorbed 
 was he with the thoughts inspired by that look — a look 
 he never forgot, and which came back to his memory 
 in after years with a sting like that of a scorpion which 
 he could neither slay nor escape. " Yours — for time 
 and eternity, yours !" — was the language of her tear- 
 dimmed eyes. How often was he to see them, shining 
 through the darkness when he could answer but with 
 groans their unceasing appeal. O, child-bride and 
 child-groom, who would have dreamed that only the 
 grave could hide forever the shame of that glance of 
 purity and love flashing from soul to soul, as you stood 
 at God's altar ! Terrible was the sacrifice you laid upon 
 the shrine of love that day, oh, spotless soul, whom 
 earth had no power to stain, and whom the Merciful 
 Father at length found but one way to save from sin 
 and secure from shame ! 
 
 Horace Goodwin at once assumed charge of the family 
 interests, and soon established a new era of prosperity. 
 He came to the helm at a fortunate time. Balmy breezes 
 were blowing and the foundations of many fortunes were 
 laid in the next few years. The gold of California was 
 just finding its way eastward, and enlivening business 
 and production with the assurance of a stable medium. 
 The Crimean War was on the horizon, and our agricul- 
 tural products took a rebound from the depression of 
 the previous decade, which put money in the pockets of 
 all those who were wisely watchful of events. Among 
 these was Horace Goodwin. The tide of public favor 
 set strongly with him, too. People spoke of him with 
 lavish praise, now that he had quit sowing his wild oats 
 and settled down. He found no lack of means or oppor- 
 tunity to engage in any business he desired. Men 
 
2o6 A Son of Old Harfy. 
 
 believed him lucky and were anxious to join their for- 
 tunes with his. 
 
 The farm which his brother's industry and thrift had 
 made to yield but a scanty proht, soon became a source 
 of positive wealth. Horace violated all the maxims of 
 the agricultural community in which he lived ; did many 
 things they thought needed not to be done, and left un- 
 done others that were esteemed of prime importance. 
 Especially did men predict failure because he would 
 neither hold the plow nor drive. But he caught at new 
 ideas, purchased new and improved breeds of stock, 
 bought and sold with an appreciation of values that 
 seemed instinctive, and paid wages that astounded his 
 neighbors. If he did not labor himself, his eye saw all 
 that was done or left undone, and neglect was sure to be 
 followed by dismissal. 
 
 When an opportunity offered to enlarge the farm, he 
 improved it. " Seth always wanted that piece to 
 straighten his south line," he remarked. People smiled 
 when he planted a double row of maples and elms along 
 the State road from end to end of his possessions. " Seth 
 always said he meant to do it if he ever got able," was 
 his excuse. And so, for everything he did, he quoted 
 the dead brother, until his neighbors laughed and his 
 workmen jested with each other about it. But what he 
 planted grew ; what he raised found a profitable market. 
 He did not sell raw material, but turned corn into cattle 
 and forage into flesh. He imported shorthorns, then 
 just coming into favor ; raised horses, bought horses, 
 trained them sometimes ; and from everything he 
 touched realized some advantage. 
 
 Even the Queen, whom he kept from gratitude, yielded 
 him a golden return. He had many offers for her, but 
 he would accept none. He drove her sometimes, but 
 never let the harness gall nor work tire her. He had 
 
Halcyon Days. 207 
 
 promised her, he said, that she should live with him and 
 have an easy time. Her progeny soon came to be worth 
 almost unheard-of prices. The blood of the Belmont 
 Mare grew more and more valuable as the achievements 
 of her descendants became more notable. Every year 
 some one of them lowered the record by seconds or 
 fractions of a second. Already she was known as *' the 
 dam of trotters," when the Queen's first foal, a son of 
 Belmont's Abdallah, sold at three years old for a price 
 even greater than that paid for his sire. From that time 
 Horace Goodwin was known and recognized as one of 
 the most successful breeders in the country ; but he 
 would never race except to make a record. People 
 called his success luck and his abstinence superstition. 
 He did not talk about either except to Hubert — nobody 
 called him Jack now except Deely Kincaid. It was the 
 day of individuality in business, and Horace Goodwin's 
 individuality was the key-note of his success. Organiza- 
 tion had not yet eradicated manhood. 
 
 For many reasons, the boy's relations with his uncle 
 were more intimate than he had ever sustained to his 
 father. Though the head of the family, Horace treated 
 him more as a companion than a child. He told him his 
 plans, encouraged him to make suggestions ; made him 
 his agent, sometimes his lieutenant ; but kept it always 
 before his mind that he must prepare for other work. 
 
 " You know your father wanted you to go to college, 
 and I promised that you should," he would say. " I 
 don't see how I am going to get along without you, but 
 you must go. I'll find the money and look after matters 
 here, and when you get through we'll just divide — share 
 and share alike. I guess that '11 be about right. I 
 really hadn't anything to begin with, and if Seth had been 
 alive it would all have been yours. But you must go to 
 
2o8 A Soil of Old Harry. 
 
 college, and you must be getting ready for it. You 
 needn't be in a hurry, but don't forget your books." 
 
 This lenient rule was too much for the boy's moral 
 nature to endure without relaxation of his purpose. 
 Life on the farm under his uncle's regime suited him 
 exactly. He was not fond of study, and even his 
 mother's persuasions were not sufficient to keep him up 
 to his work. His attendance at school was irregular 
 and his progress not creditable. The mark upon his 
 heel seldom troubled him ; he felt at liberty to indulge 
 his fondness for horses so long as they were not his 
 own. 
 
 Deely Kincaid, still his chief companion, was glad to 
 see him lose his morbid apprehension of the future, 
 but began to grow alarmed when she found him falling 
 behind in his studies. Her ambition for him was as 
 keen as for herself, and for both it was insatiable. At 
 sixteen he was not nearly ready for college, and his 
 mother was suddenly alarmed by his persistent request 
 to be allowed to go East with a drove of horses his 
 uncle was about to send on. It was finally determined 
 that in consideration of being allowed to do so, he 
 should at once begin his work of preparation in earnest. 
 
 His mother met him on their arrival in New York 
 with the horses and took him to one of the most cele- 
 brated schools of New England. She seemed very sad 
 at parting with him ; and the boy, now fast growing to 
 manhood, thinking only of her happiness, said impul- 
 sively : 
 
 " Ma, why don't you marry Uncle Horace ?" 
 
 He was somewhat taken aback when, blushing 
 deeply, she told him that when he came home for the 
 vacation he would find his wish fulfilled, adding that it 
 was her desire, and Horace's also, that he should still 
 call the latter " Uncle." 
 
Halcyon Days. 209 
 
 When she was gone, the knowledge of this fact 
 seemed to put him very far away indeed from his past, 
 and induced him to address himself more sedulously to 
 the duties of the future than he otherwise would. He 
 did not love study any better than before, but he had 
 nothing to divert his attention from it, and made good 
 progress. From that time until his graduation he had 
 little thought of anything else. His mother's letters, 
 his uncle's and Deeley's, sufficed to keep him in touch 
 with his own world, and he did not desire any other. 
 
 Once a year, at the summer vacation, he returned 
 home for a brief period of unmixed enjoyment. The 
 evidences of prosperity multiplied so rapidly that at 
 each visit he had to take account of new ones. The 
 house had first been tinished, and then had almost dis- 
 appeared behind costlier additions. Barns and stables 
 grew in number and value, and the young collegian 
 found his old love for the horse returning as the best 
 occupants of the stalls were placed at his disposal for 
 long drives and rides with Deely Kincaid, now openly 
 recognized as his betrothed, and growing even lovelier 
 than the promise of her girlhood would have led one to 
 expect. Even the birth of a little sister did not wean 
 his mother's heart from him, nor affect his cordial 
 relations with his uncle. He enjoyed their home no 
 less than before, but he called it theirs, not his, any 
 longer. He had begun to feel the impulse of separa- 
 tion which thrust the fledgeling out of the parent nest ! 
 Marshall Kincaid and his wife softened somewhat as 
 the years went by, but their pride in their daughter 
 grew stronger- than ever. In her anxiety to justify 
 their hopes, Deely had pursued a course of study as 
 extensive as it was incongruous, which finally began to 
 tell upon her strength. It was before the days of colleges 
 for women. 
 
2 1 o - A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 There were only " female seminaries " then. This 
 fact made the task of a woman seeking a liberal educa- 
 tion far more difficult than that of the boy, since there 
 was no prescribed curriculum, and she had to master 
 both the solid work of the college course and the accom- 
 plishments then deemed far more essential to her sex 
 than knowledge. 
 
 During her last vacation people began to talk about 
 a decline, and hint at consumptive tendencies ; but her 
 father and mother laughed at such forebodings. 
 
 " She's a little puny," said the stalwart King of the 
 Corners with all his old willfulness, replying to such a 
 suggestion by one of a group of customers, as he sat 
 upon the counter one summer evening, just after Hubert 
 and Deely dashed up to the old inn, their horses smok- 
 ing and their tones full of the subtle gleefulness of 
 young love, " but she's only got one more year. She's 
 been working pretty hard for a good while, but she'll 
 have a rest then. No consumption about her, and no 
 fear of a decline. Do you hear that laugh ? Clear as a 
 bell. She's like her ma — there ain't much of her, but 
 what there is is clear grit. No discount on her. She'll 
 graduate next year, and she'll be away up at the head 
 of her class, too, besides all she's done outside. She 
 won't be like young Goodwin. I understand he 
 graduated somewhere about the middle of his class. 
 He's a smart fellow, but he ain't no such scholar as my 
 Deely. She'll be top-notch, or she won't be nowhere. 
 You mark my words. It's a pity she ain't a boy, so she 
 could go to college sure enough, and just show 'em 
 what can be done. Extras and all, she's done a deal 
 more than the college course. Why, besides Latin and 
 Greek, she's learned French an' German an' Italian, 
 and what with her music and drawin* and paintin', I tell 
 ■you she's got through with a heap more'n the boy. He 
 
Halcyon Days. 211 
 
 looks kind o' tired an' washed out, too, as if he'd had 
 about as much as he could stand up to. He don't learn 
 as quick as Deely though, an', besides that, bein' mewed 
 up in a house don't come natural to a man, nohow. 
 
 " They tell me they're goin' to send him back to the 
 seminary — Theological Seminary — you know, where 
 they polish off the college-made preachers — bound to 
 make a minister of him, you see. But they won't ever 
 do it ; he ain't that sort. That's what Deely thinks, an' 
 I guess she knows him if anybody does. I'm glad he's 
 goin' back to the city, this year, though, for Deely's 
 sake — ^be a lot of company for her — but after that he'd 
 better come back here and settle down. Now, that 
 Horace has been 'lected to the Legislater, he needs 
 some one to look after his affairs, anyhow. 
 
 " They'd made a team — he an' Deely. Needn't ever 
 do a stroke o' work, or they might do anything they'd a 
 mind to. He's got luck, an' Deely s got determination, 
 an' they'd both have a good speck of money. Half of 
 all the Goodwin property goes to him, you know, when 
 he's twenty-one — that's this fall some time. That was 
 the bargain when Horace married the widder — a good 
 bargain on his part, too. You see, he got half the 
 property and the widder besides. But he's kept it 
 growin', no mistake about that. They had it all writ 
 down in black an' white. Squire Kendall fixed it up, 
 an' no lawyer has ever been able to drive a cart an' 
 oxen through a paper he draw'd yet. So the young 
 fellow's all right, so far as money goes. 
 
 " Will they get married ? Oh, of course, after a while. 
 They've been sweet on each other for years and years. 
 Deely could do a good deal better, no doubt about that. 
 She's got style, you know — is one of them gals the 
 fellers take to as nat'rally as bees to a pot of honey. 
 She might just as well marry a hundred thousand as 
 
2 12 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 twent}/ — every bit. She knows it, too, as well as any- 
 body, an' her ma gets real put out with her for her 
 stubbornness. But she won't hear a word 'bout anybody 
 else ; won't hardly treat a feller decent as soon's she sees 
 he wants to make love to her. She's 30 wrapt up in 
 Jack — that's what she always calls him, you know — that 
 her ma an' I just quit tryin' to break it off any more'n 
 if they was man an' wife. 
 
 " Of course, we haven't no objection to young Good- 
 win — only this nonsense about his bein' a minister — an' 
 if he should \.Qk.Q. a turn to business he'd be a clipper, an' 
 no mistake. But if people keep fussin' round tryin' to 
 make a silk puss out of a sow's ear, they're apt to spoil 
 it for souse, an' then 'tain't wuth nothin'. There's a 
 sort o' risk in it — always is i n these people that are too 
 religious. Many an' many a man has gone to the devil 
 by tryin' to be too good ; insistin' on doin' somethin' the 
 Lord didn't cut him out to do. That's what I'm afraid 
 of with him, A man don't want too much conscience 
 in this world. It's always standin' in his way, and 
 henderin' him when he ought to be improvin' his oppor- 
 tunities. For my part, I never seen a very rich man 
 who had any more religion than he could afford to 
 carry around wherever his interests demanded. If he's 
 all the time inquirin' whether this or that or t' other 
 thing's right, why, first he knows, he hain't got no time 
 to make money ; an' in these days m.oney's wuth more'n 
 religion, and I've my 'pinion it's goin' to keep gittin' 
 more an' more so right straight along. 
 
 " A certain amount of religion is well enough — pays in 
 fact. I've been sorry sometimes I didn't take on a little 
 myself. There's Hod Goodwin, now ; he's got just 
 enough ; it's a great help to him sometimes, and ain't 
 ever in the way. You couldn't get him to put a horse 
 on the track an' bet he'd beat any other horse for any 
 
Halcyon Days, 213 
 
 money, I don't s'pose ; but he'll raise the horse an' hire 
 that little nigger, who is jest as full of tricks as Satan is 
 of sin, to train him, an' then he'll let him run or trot, 
 and others can bet on him if they want tt). Then, if he 
 wins, he'll sell him for a price, ten, twenty, fifty times 
 as big as he'd got if he hadn't won. For my part, I 
 don't see no difference 'twixt bettin' on a winner an' 
 raisin' a winner for others to bet on. But one's all right 
 for a church member an' t'other isn't. 
 
 " If I thought the young man wouldn't ever have any 
 more religion 'n Hod, or would have that kind, I wouldn't 
 mind it. But you know his father wasn't that way. 
 I've never quite foiind out how 'twas that Hod managed 
 to get his permission to run that colt. There was some 
 sort of deception about it somewhere, an' I'm just as 
 well satisfied as if I'd seen it done, that it was his 
 conscience that killed Seth Goodwin. They say he'd 
 made up his mind 'twas all right for him to do it, 
 because he was so bad off and his family needed the 
 money ; but what kind o' reasoning is that ? It's my 
 'pinion he made up his mind to do it anyhow, an' just 
 died fightin' with his conscience, 'cause he thought 'twas 
 wrong. Now, if the boy should take after him, I 
 wouldn't have Deely marry him for anythin'. I don't 
 know as he will, but they tell me he's jest as hot an 
 Abolitionist as Seth was, an' after a man gets that far, 
 there's no knowin' where he'll stop. He's sure to want 
 to run the world his own way an' make everything over 
 on a ' higher law ' model — jest accordin' to his own 
 whim. I wouldn't trust an Abolitionist as far as I could 
 throw a bull by the tail, no matter how good he was. In 
 fact, the better such people are the worse they're likely 
 to get. 
 
 " I don't say 'tain't right for the niggers to be free ; 
 but what'd we do with 'em if they was ? An' what's the 
 
2 14 -^ "^^^^ ^f ^^^ Harry. 
 
 sense of jest tearin' up the country an* cuttin' each 
 other's throats 'cause they aren't? An' that's what 
 we're comin' to jest as fast as these folks can push us on, 
 or I can't read'writin'. 
 
 " An' the very worst kind of Abolitionist is an Abo- 
 lition minister. I'm afraid that's the sort o' preacher 
 they're goin' to make out of young Goodwin ; an' if he 
 does turn out that way, you can jest set it down as a fact 
 that I'll see that gal o' mine in her coffin 'fore she shall 
 marry him — with my consent, that is ; an' I promise 
 you that if she marries without my consent, she won't 
 ever see the color of my money afterward, I wouldn't 
 even give her the broken bank bills piled up in the 
 drawer there to save her from starvin' ! I wouldn't, by 
 the Eternal !" 
 
 Marshall Kincaid gave his thigh a resounding whack 
 as he made this declaration, and, leaping off the counter, 
 began making preparations to close the store for the 
 night. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 DUTY RUNS WITH INCLINATION, 
 
 Hubert Goodwin did not exactly fancy the notion of 
 entering the Theological Seminary, He not only did 
 not feel any call to preach, but he was not even what is 
 termed religiously inclined, without which, preparation 
 for the ministry as a profession is hardly regarded with 
 favor in this country. Not that he was at all irreligious ; 
 but he was neither inclined to metaphysical disquisition 
 nor had he that sympathetic nature which fits one for 
 counsel and monition. Organization, administration, 
 
Duty Runs with htclination. 215 
 
 the adaption of means to specific ends — these constituted 
 the decided bent of his mind. He felt that he would be 
 out of place in the atmosphere of the seminary, not 
 because it was religious, but because it was speculative, 
 analytical, demonstrative. He did not care about the 
 grounds of faith, either on his own account or for the 
 sake of others. He believed ; that was enough for him. 
 So, too, he did not care to speculate about spiritual mat- 
 ters. He had no curiosity about the plan of salvation, 
 and no religious experiences worth mentioning. He was 
 not given to self -dissection, nor fond of noting the oper- 
 ations of his own mind. He liked to do. He would 
 have been willing to fight for his faith — would have been 
 an unflinching martyr, if there had been any demand 
 for martyrs ; but he was not worshipful by nature nor 
 inclined to spiritual diagnosis. He believed, and was 
 willing to do whatever was needful to be done, but he 
 had no liking for the duty of persuading men to believe 
 or to do. He did not even care to pray, since the act 
 seemed to him often unnecessary, and at other times 
 almost an impeachment of divine mercy. 
 
 He had talked with the president of the seminary 
 before he left the city, telling him the circumstances as 
 fully as he could and his own feelings in regard to the 
 matter. As is usual with the strong nature that is 
 induced to seek advice, he found himself more unde- 
 cided afterwards than before. All this thoughtful and 
 experienced man could do was to advise him to adopt 
 whatever course seemed to him right. This was the 
 very problem he was trying to solve — what was his 
 duty. If he had been sure it was his duty to study for 
 the ministry he would have done it without hesitation ; 
 but this he could not decide. 
 
 If there had been any other profession to which he 
 felt particuarly inclined he would not have hesitated to 
 
2i6 A So7i of Old Harry. 
 
 embrace it, but there was none. Had not a college bred 
 farmer in those days been an absurdity, he might have 
 turned to agriculture. As a fact, though he did not 
 know it, his decided bent was for that sort of financial 
 adventure which we call speculation, aptitude for which 
 was the secret of his uncle's success. He thought of 
 these things with that sort of unhappiness which comes 
 from indecision, but he spoke of them to no one. His 
 was not a nature that clamored for advice. Besides, he 
 knew the wishes of all whose opinions he cared any- 
 thing about. 
 
 " Well, what are you going to do ?" asked his uncle 
 one day when the vacation was half over. 
 
 They were sitting under the great elm whose shadow 
 seemed especially imbued with his father's presence. 
 It was here that his father had sat day after day dur- 
 ing that last summer when he was fighting with death 
 for the material triumph which had been the dream of 
 his life. It was from this point that he had watched the 
 preparations for the Great Race and with unflinching 
 confidence awaited the result. It was here that the boy 
 had heard his final words of approval when the struggle 
 had been won. 
 
 " I don't know," answered the young man, thought- 
 fully. 
 
 Time had made changes in the appearance of Hubert 
 Goodwin, but they were only the natural changes 
 which transforms the boy into the man. He had been 
 a boy of ordinary appearance, and had grown into a 
 man without striking characteristics. He was of 
 ordinary height, well built, showing endurance rather 
 than great strength, the heavy lines of his father's face 
 softened by the milder elements of his mother's visage, 
 but his full eye, blue as it was, shone dark under its 
 heavy brow, shaded with long lashes. His face indi- 
 
Duty Runs with Inclination. 217 
 
 cated decision, and his uncle, looking at him as he 
 leaned easily back in his chair, knew that, however 
 much he might yield to the wishes of those interested 
 in his welfare, the time would come when he would 
 determine for himself what he would do, and when 
 that time came, their advice would count for nothing in 
 the balance against his will. 
 
 " That being the case," said Horace Goodwin, with a 
 shrewd appreciation of the yet undeveloped manhood 
 of his hearer, " I think you had better go to the semi- 
 nary for a while at least. I believe I know something 
 how you feel. You have been through a long course of 
 preparation ; think that you ought to be able to do 
 something ; perhaps think you might do any one of 
 several things, but have no special inclination to any of 
 them. Of course, you don't want to make any mis- 
 take by a wrong decision. Your father wished you to 
 prepare yourself for the ministry. He was a wise 
 man as well as a good one. You know the men of our 
 family are always in danger of going to the bad unless 
 some special strain is put on them. I can realize now 
 that it may have been our father's death that saved 
 Seth from making shipwreck of his life, just as his 
 death, by devolving on me both responsibility and 
 opportunity, showed my bent and gave scope to activ- 
 ities which were before either useless or harmful. 
 The seminary seems to me a good place to wait till you 
 are ready do decide as to your vocation. It will be a 
 change of interests and associations, and from all I can 
 learn, give you a chance to study other things as well 
 as theology. You have not yet received a call ; perhaps 
 you never will. Then, again, it may be that your sur- 
 roundings and associations have not been such as to 
 incline you to that work. I think you owe it to your 
 father's memory to go a little beyond rather than stop 
 
2i8 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 short of what you think he would require if he were 
 present instead of me. I am sure you won't lose any- 
 thing by doing so. 
 
 " I wish you would go back and try it for a year or 
 two, anyhow. It can't hurt you, and I feel as if I'd 
 promised Seth that you should. Of course I didn't, 
 only in a general way, but I should hardly be content if 
 I didn't ask you to do that much, at least. Don't mind 
 the expense, we can aflEord it ; and then if you don't 
 wish to go on, you'll probably learn what you really 
 want to do. If you don't get a call, why I'm clear of 
 my promise and you of yours. Then — well, it'll be time 
 enough to plan when that happens." 
 
 " But Deely thinks — " the young man began to make 
 reply. 
 
 " Yes, I know ; she thinks you won't ever be a minis- 
 ter. She says you're too good. That's humbug, of 
 course, but I don't see why you're not good enough. 
 But if you don't ever preach, I s'pose the seminary 
 won't hurt you, and, as I understand it, you can study 
 about what you choose if you don't take a notion to 
 theology. They tell me there isn't any better place to 
 put a convenient addition to a college education than a 
 theological seminary. Of course, you know more about 
 that than I ; but it seems to me that there couldn't be 
 anything better for a colt that's been a little overtrained 
 than to turn him loose in a pasture and let him pick. 
 You've had to stick to the regular course in college. 
 Now why not go to the seminary and pick out your own 
 course ? If it don't lead to the ministry, it's dollars to 
 dimes that it will lead to the very place you ought to go. 
 Besides, you'll be right in the city with Deely. She 
 don't graduate until next summer, and I expect she'd be 
 lonesome enough if she didn't see you once or twice a 
 
Dtity Runs with Inclination. 219 
 
 week. I guess she's seen you as often as that for the 
 past two years, hasn't she ?" 
 
 " Well — yes," answered the young- collegian, with a 
 blush. 
 
 " Nothing to be ashamed of, my son. A man that's 
 ashamed of honest love isn't fit to have a sweetheart ; 
 and if there ever was a girl that was just as near perfec- 
 tion as womankind ever gets, her name is Delia Kin- 
 caid. Her love has been so much a matter of course, 
 that 1 don't believe you half appreciate your good for- 
 tune. I never saw anything like it. I don't believe 
 she's had a thought of the future since she was a dozen 
 years old without putting you in the foreground of her 
 dream. Suppose you should lose her ! I don't want 
 to alarm you," he added hastily, seeing the pallor in the 
 young man's face, " but she don't seem very well of late ; 
 been studying too hard, I suppose. I've always told 
 Kincaid he'd kill her, and I'm afraid he will, if you don't 
 look sharp and prevent it." 
 
 " What can I do ?" Hubert asked, gazing earnestly 
 into his uncle's face. 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you what I'd do in your place. Take a 
 horse with you when you go back, and get an order 
 from her mother to the president, or whatever they call 
 the head of the school she is attending, for her to go 
 out with you two or three times a week, or as often as 
 you choose. That would be a good thing for both of 
 you. It'll improve her health and make you contented. 
 It will do you good, too. A young man can't be with a 
 girl like her too often. 
 
 " It may be you haven't any call to preach. 'Tisn't 
 every man that has, and it's lucky it's so ; but I wouldn't 
 back out of anything I'd set in for until I knew for cer- 
 tain that wasn't my hold. There's plenty of places in 
 the world for you to do a man's work outside of a pul- 
 
220 A Son of Old Harry, 
 
 pit ; but it always seems to me a young man ought to 
 take a year or so after he's through college to loaf 
 around, look the world in the face, and determine just 
 how he'll tackle it. I think we are on the threshold of 
 great events. Being in politics lately has given me a 
 wider outlook than I used to have. No man has a right 
 to live for himself in a republic. There are great ques- 
 tions coming on to be decided pretty soon. They are 
 too big for me. Some of them I think I could deter- 
 mine after a fashion ; of others I cannot even guess at 
 the solution. I have thought you might, perhaps, do 
 something in this direction, if you shouldn't care to be 
 a preacher. It will require manhood, courage, and 
 brain ; of that I am sure. How they will be applied or 
 where they will come from, I do not know. Of one 
 thing you may be certain : the country, the American 
 Republic, means more than we have ever thought — to 
 the world, I mean. Up to this time it has been our 
 country ; after this it will be the world's. Until now, 
 we have followed the world ; have taken lessons from 
 other countries, and counted ourselves successful just in 
 proportion to our success in imitating their institutions 
 or improving on them. After a little we are going to 
 lead. You will live to see the time when our country 
 will be the foremost nation of the world, and when the 
 now almost unoccupied West will be the real seat of 
 empire. At such a time it cannot be bad policy to wait 
 a while, in the meantime studying the forces and condi- 
 tions of our life, before determining just where you will 
 make a plunge into the great conflict. 
 
 " Don't confine yourself to study. Stay at the semi- 
 nary, and don't neglect study ; but mingle with people ; 
 observe public affairs ; get out into the air and be a man 
 among men. 
 
 " Here's my idea." continued the uncle, rising from 
 
Duty Runs with Inclination. 221 
 
 his chair and walking back and forth on the lawn : 
 " Whatever you are going to do you need variety and 
 extent of observation. Why not take a horse and sulky 
 and drive back to the city ? Take your time for it ; go 
 where you please ; see whatever you have not seen that 
 lies along the way. It's not a very extended course of 
 travel ; perhaps you will want a longer one some time. 
 You may want to go abroad next year. There isn't any 
 reason why you shouldn't, that I know of. Then you 
 would wish you knew your own country more thoroughly. 
 When you get back to the city keep the horse and drive 
 him every day. You've got the knack of training a nag — 
 getting the best out of him — and I don't see why you 
 shouldn't make some money, and at the same time give 
 yourself a little more color — put yourself in better condi- 
 tion than you are now. I think that's half what's the 
 matter ; you need the open air, exercises and something 
 to interest you, outside of books." 
 
 ** You remember, I've taken that trip once," said the 
 young man, with a smile. 
 
 " Yes ; you went East with a drove and saw more of 
 life in forty days than you had ever seen before or have 
 seen since. Have you any notion how the world has 
 changed even in those few years ? There are no more 
 droves crowding the roads eastward. We met the 
 locomotive just west of Buffalo, then. Do you remem- 
 ber that evening when you first saw its fiery eye headed 
 westward along the lake shore ? There were small cities 
 of ** paddy houses " built all along the track, where the 
 work was still going on. You wondered if it would ever 
 reach Ortonville. Two years afterward you came home 
 without doing a mile of staging. All the droves go on 
 the railroads now. In a few years, a man who has ridden 
 or driven from the East to the West, or from the West 
 to the East, will be a curiosity." 
 
222 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 "It's a pretty long drive," said Hubert, rising and 
 joining his uncle in his walk. 
 
 " You've got plenty of time, I'll tell you what I'll do. 
 You've seen that big bay in the south barn ?" 
 
 Hubert nodded. 
 
 " Ever paid any particular attention to him ?" 
 
 " I noticed that he was big and homely, and I judged — 
 old." 
 
 " There's where you are mistaken. I thought so, too^ 
 at first, and was never more surprised in my life than 
 when I opened his jaws and saw as pretty a six-year old 
 mouth as you ever looked at. I expect his dam must 
 have been old when he was foaled. That sometimes 
 makes a colt look like a patriarch, you know. Well, 
 that horse's got something in him." 
 
 Hubert smiled significantly. 
 
 " You think he'll need a good deal in him, eh ? Well, 
 that's true, too ; he's a big horse and a big eater, even 
 for his size ; but that ungainly fellow is going to dis- 
 appoint heaps of people before he quits going up and 
 down * on this terrestrial ball.' 
 
 " Where'd I run across him ? Over in Pennsylvania — 
 Titusville. Went there to inquire into this rock-oil 
 business ; a friend of mine was interested in it. Looks 
 as if it was going to be a big thing, but I don't see just 
 how it's going to be handled. He was drawing barrels 
 — the horse, I mean — backing his loads on to the boats 
 without any driving to speak of. He took my eye by 
 his intelligence and strength. One morning I saw the 
 boys racing back to the stable after having ridden the 
 horses to water. This big fellow was so far ahead that 
 none of the rest were in it. Heavens ! What a stride^! 
 What an arm ! What a shoulder ! What a thigh !" 
 
 " And what a foot ?" interjected Hubert with a laugh. 
 
 "Yes, and what afoot !" assented the uncle. " That's 
 
Duty Runs ivith Inclination. 223 
 
 just what I said, 'What a foot !' Did one ever see its 
 equal ? Chris insists that he ought to have double 
 price for shoeing him. But in spite of his feet, I saw at 
 once that he was a great horse — or might have been. I 
 thought he was old then. I sauntered around to the 
 stable after breakfast, looked him over, learned his age, 
 and bought him out of hand for what was thought a 
 pretty stiff price. I wouldn't take ten times as much 
 for him now. Yet nobody thinks him fast. I have 
 jogged him a little, and taken him down to ' Number 
 Two,' to try him once or twice. The way he handles 
 those big feet would astonish you. I don't know his 
 pedigree yet ; he's evidently a Patchen or a brother of 
 Patchen — I'm inclined to think a brother. His dam 
 must have been a good one, though, for he certainly 
 received that head as a direct inheritance from Rysdyk's 
 Hambletonian — couldn't have got it anywhere else. I 
 believe with good handling that horse can lower any 
 record that's been made. Now, why not take him, use 
 him as long as you need, and along in the spring sell 
 him. You are in a good place to do it. There's a track 
 there, and lots of men that want speed and are willing 
 to pay for it. I'll make you a present of him, Hubert, 
 if you'll do it. Let's go and have a look at him. " 
 
 The two men sauntered off toward the stables. 
 
 Horace Goodwin was a shrewd man, and he had 
 touched, in his remarks, the three strongest forces in the 
 young man's nature — his reverence for his father, his 
 love for his betrothed and his fondness for a horse — and 
 had made through each a cogent appeal for the course 
 he advised. It is hardly strange that the young man 
 yielded to such urging. 
 
 'is.- 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A SURPRISE PARTY ON THE BAY ROAD. 
 
 It was early winter, Hubert Goodwin had been a 
 student of theology' for a whole term. He had deter- 
 rnined to remain during the year, though a feeling 
 strongly antipathetic to a farther continuance of the 
 course marked out for him had already sprung up in his 
 heart. The events of the year had been momentous. 
 They had fixed his attention on other matters, and made 
 the ministerial profession seem to him dull and insipid 
 in comparison with a life of activity and tangible achieve- 
 ment. Added to this, he had had something approach- 
 ing an estrangement with his betrothed. On his pro- 
 posing weekly or semi-weekly rides, she had frankly 
 pointed out the unseemliness of the proposal to one in 
 her situation. The truth was that her ambition stood 
 in the way of the weekly outings quite as much as her 
 sense of propriety. She had fixed her heart on gradu- 
 ating first in her class, and she had many rivals in the 
 Brainerd Classical Institute for Ladies, whose ambition 
 was as keen as her own, and whom she had hitherto dis- 
 tanced only by the most unremitting application. 
 Hubert did not take kindly to this check upon his care- 
 fully matured plans. He did not realize how dear her 
 ambition was to her. He looked with all the manly 
 
A Surprise Party on the Bay Road, 225 
 
 scorn of one who has secured a Latin certificate of 
 scholarship from a college duly authorized to confer 
 degrees, upon the first honor of the Brainerd Classical 
 Institute, and never once imagined that, saving her love 
 for him, this was the one thing on which the daughter 
 of Marshall Kincaid had set her fiery heart with inflex- 
 ible purpose. The loss of love w6uld kill her, but she 
 would rather not live than fail of her ambition. It was 
 a foolish notion, but in those days, when high attain- 
 ment was more difficult for women, it was a worthy 
 ambition for one who had long before determined to be 
 a co-worker with the man she loved. Hubert Goodwin 
 did not understand these things, and felt himself seriously 
 aggrieved by her refusal to adopt the plan he had marked 
 out for their year's sojourn in the city. It made him 
 moody and discontented, and though he did not neglect 
 his studies he felt little interest in the life of the sem- 
 inary. 
 
 The mark upon his heel began to annoy him, too. 
 The horse which he had driven from home had shown 
 such qualities as to awaken all his latent desire for 
 equine association and admiration for equine excellence. 
 He had placed him with a farmer, just outside the city, 
 and thither he repaired on Wednesday and Friday 
 afternoons of each week to give him exercise and train- 
 ing. He often remained over Saturday and sometimes 
 until Monday. The farmer's daughter, a bright, spirited, 
 intelligent girl, took great interest in the horse left in 
 her father's care, and still greater interest in the young 
 theologian who stole away from his seminary to speed 
 and train him. She often rode with him and fully 
 shared his confidence in the horse which he was secretly 
 preparing to take a place among the noted steeds of his 
 time. Her sympathy was very pleasant, and it was not 
 
226 A Son of 'Old Harry. 
 
 long- before Hubert found himself counting on her wel- 
 come and confiding to her his hopes and difi&culties. 
 
 He did not once think of loving any one but Delia 
 Kincaid, but, seeing little of her, he naturally appropri- 
 ated the sympathy and appreciation which were nearer 
 at hand. - He had not hidden the fact of his engage- 
 ment from his new friend. Perhaps the very knowledge 
 of it had served to draw them closer together. At any 
 rate, it was with a curious feeling of tmaccustomedness, 
 that one Saturday, in the early winter, he found himself 
 waiting on the platform beside the drive, which circled 
 in front of the Brainerd Classical Institute, at which the 
 guests were accustomed to dismount, holding the reins, 
 and awaiting the appearance of Delia Kincaid. He had 
 written fixing the hour and knew that she would be 
 expecting his arrival. He did not, therefore, hitch the 
 horse and climb the imposing steps to announce him- 
 self, but knocked his feet together and stamped back 
 and forth upon the platform to stir the blood during the 
 brief moments of waiting. The cold was not severe, 
 but an hour's ride had given him a sense of numbness 
 and chili. 
 
 At length the door opened, and Delia ran down the 
 steps, along the path with its heaped-up bank of snow 
 on either side, and stood beside him upon the platform. 
 
 " Isn't it jolly !" she exclaimed, giving him her hand, 
 and glancing from him to the sleigh, with undisguised 
 mirth. " Haven't I obeyed orders ? But what does it 
 all mean ? You ought to have seen Miss Brainerd when 
 I showed her your note. ' It is certainly a very strange 
 request,' she said, ' but Mr. Goodwin is so careful of you 
 there can be n6 impropriety in complying. They are 
 probably going to have a masquerade sleigh-ride, or 
 something of that sort.' So I made bold to ask if she 
 had something that would do for the occasion, and she 
 
A Surprise Party on the Bay Road. 227 
 
 hunted up this cloak which was out of fashion years 
 before I was born, and oif ered me a bonnet of the time 
 of * Tippecanoe and Tyler, too,' but I thought that was 
 a little too much, and so put on this hood. You know 
 it is * countrified,' for you've ridden with it before. 
 That was what you wanted, I believe, * countrified I' 
 What impertinence! To ask a young- lady to make 
 herself look * countrified !' Do I look ' countrified ' 
 enough to please you, sir ?" 
 
 She pirouetted gracefully before him, as he stood with 
 the reins in his hand, waiting to assist her into the 
 sleigh, looking up archly as she concluded the movement, 
 as if challenging his verdict. 
 
 " I guess you'll do," was the laconic answer, though, 
 the young man's eyes sparkled with admiration as they 
 took in the slight form snugly wrapped in a long, blue 
 cloak of antique pattern surmounted by a quilted silk 
 hood which matched the cloak in color, and was dotted 
 over with white tufts like snow flakes, while underneath 
 its cape rippled down upon the cloak a cataract of pale 
 golden curls. 
 
 " Don't you dare look around," she continued, banter- 
 ingly, " Every girl in Brainerd Institute is watching 
 us, and I'm sure every last one of them would fall in 
 love with you, if they should get a fair view of that 
 costume. And how terrible that would be ! Think of 
 three hundred and twenty-one girls, besides a score of 
 more or less experienced teachers, all in love with the 
 same fellow !" 
 
 Of course, Hubert stole a glance at the windows of 
 the Institute, and found that each one framed a group 
 of smiling faces. 
 
 " They're all agog to see us off," said the girl, in a 
 low, confidential tone, as she gathered her skirts about 
 her knees, and taking his hand, sprang lightly into the 
 
2 28 A Son of Old Marry. 
 
 sleigh. " I don't wonder, either," she continued, as he 
 tucked the great buffalo robe about her, and then stand- 
 ing on the rave, knocked one foot after the other against 
 it to remove the snow. " You and Henlopen and this 
 old sleigh do make a picture. Henlopen is no beauty 
 at any time, but with that harness and that cutter, he's 
 better than a circus. Just look at him ! I thought I 
 should have died of laughing when they called me to 
 see you coming up the drive." 
 
 The horse of which she spoke was a dead, blood-bay, 
 high in the withers, seemingly raw-boned, though a 
 second glance showed him to be in fine condition ; so 
 deep in the chest as to convey the impression that he 
 was light behind, though the close observer would have 
 seen that, while finely gathered at the loin, there was 
 an unusual length and harmonious slope of thigh which 
 indicated great propelling power. A long tail, fine and 
 silky, carried with a swaying droop, tended to enhance 
 the false impression as to the strength of the quarters, 
 while the thin, light mane, which fell half-way down 
 the long straight neck, held always upon the level of 
 the withers, increased the impression of its length and 
 thickness. From the end of this a great lean head 
 depended, with large mobile ears and a muzzle singularly 
 full and heavy. Big bony legs supported this unattrac- 
 tive superstructure, ending in hoofs of apparently 
 unusual size, though, when the weight of the animal 
 was taken into consideration, one found that it was the 
 fine-drawn lines of the strong flat legs rather than the 
 size of the hoof itself which gave this impression, 
 
 " Why do you insist on driving such a horse. Jack .'" 
 asked the young lady, as the great animal strode lazily 
 down the drive to the street. 
 
 " You haven't seen him move lately." 
 
 " How should I ?" 
 
A Surprise Party on the Bay Road. 229 
 
 " That's what I brought him on here for ; I wanted 
 to take you out once or twice every week." 
 
 " But you know, Jack, Miss Brainerd did not approve 
 of — of such frequent rides." 
 
 " You have your mother's permission." 
 
 " But she did not know, and Miss Brainerd has to 
 consider so many things. She was willing we should 
 go once in two weeks — a whole half -day, if we chose. I 
 think she was very reasonable." 
 
 " You know your health demands fresh air, and a 
 good deal of it." 
 
 ** O, I have been very careful, because I knew you 
 were anxious," she said, stealing a glance at her com- 
 panion. He was looking straight forward at his horse, 
 with evident traces of displeasure on his countenance. 
 " I thought we would have such nice times, but you 
 haven't come — not near as often as you might." 
 
 " I thought you were getting tired of me." 
 
 " Now, Jack — " There was a tremor in the fresh 
 young voice, and the girl looked off over the snowy 
 level to hide the tears that crept out on the silken lashes 
 despite her determination to keep them back. 
 
 The Brainerd Classical Institute for Ladies stood just 
 outside the city. The first heavy snow of the season 
 lay soft and smooth upon the ground, showing steel- 
 blue shadows along the fences and under the edges of 
 the few drifts which had formed as it fell. It had 
 been beaten down into level tracks before the weather 
 became severe, and now the dry, cold snow, creaking 
 under the runners but not crumbling with the weight 
 of the horse, formed the very perfection of a sleighing 
 track. They were driving toward the city, the great 
 bay consuming the space with long, swinging strides 
 whose beauty was then unnoticed but which were 
 destined very soon to be the admiration of many, 
 
230 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " Where did you get this rig, Jack ?" 
 
 " Out in the country." 
 
 " Did you get that hat and coat there, too ?" 
 
 " Yes ; ain't they stunning ?" 
 
 " That depends ; if we had a basket or two I think we 
 would make a very good country couple going to 
 market." 
 
 " Or returning from it. By Jove, Dee, you've struck 
 it!" exclaimed the young man, with enthusiasm. " I'll 
 stop at the very next grocery and get them." 
 
 " But what does it mean 1 Is it a masquerade ?" 
 
 " Rather," with a quizzical smile. '* Henlopen makes 
 his debut to-day." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 " Wait until I get those baskets and I'll tell you." 
 
 He drew up before a grocery store, and sprang out. 
 The grocer stared at the curious figure that entered, and 
 still more at the order he gave. An old russet-brown 
 overcoat, with a cape, and high, fur-lined collar, a wide- 
 brimmed, high-crowned white fur hat, and red woolen 
 mittens, having separate forefingers, the thumb and 
 forefinger lined with soft buckskin, were the salient 
 points of the costume. Whether the man was young or 
 old, required a second glance to determine. He ordered 
 a couple of market-baskets to be filled with eggs and 
 vegetables, which he placed in the sleigh so as to be in 
 plain sight, though apparently intended to be covered 
 by the robe. Having paid for his purchases, he took his 
 place beside his surprised companion. 
 
 " Do tell me. Jack, what all this means ?" pleaded the 
 young lady, as they drove off. 
 
 " Well, you know. Dee, I brought Henlopen on here, 
 just to ride with you — Uncle Horace gave him to me for 
 that express purpose. I expected to keep him until 
 spring, and then get him into shape and sell him. Of 
 
A Surprise Parly on the Bay Road. 231 
 
 course, that wouldn't be much trouble if we drove him 
 once or twice a week all winter. Such a horse needs 
 work and lots of it, and that's all he does need. When 
 I found you didn't care about riding after him — " 
 
 " But I did, Jack." 
 
 " Well " — with an expressive shrug — " once a fortnight 
 isn't enough to count. It was no use to keep a horse 
 for that ; so I put him out in the country with a farmer 
 I happened to know, and went out to drive him every 
 Wednesday and Friday afternoons." 
 
 " Is that where you have been Saturdays ?" 
 
 " Mostly. I made up my mind, you see, that I might 
 as well sell the horse this winter as next summer. 
 There's a lot of fancy horsemen here in the city who are 
 fond of speeding their nags out on the Bay Road when 
 the sleighing is good. There's Mr. Sedley, with that 
 span of blacks which he thinks will lay over any straight 
 trotter in this region ; and Tom Burton, with his gray 
 pacer, which has all he can do to keep even step with 
 them ; and a dozen more, real ' goers,' that are sure to 
 be out on a day like this." 
 
 He glanced up at the dull, leaden sky as he spoke, 
 and continued : 
 
 " You see it's a perfect day ; no wind or sun, not cool 
 enough to be uncomfortable, nor soft enough to make a 
 horse ball up. Oh, they're sure to be out !" 
 
 " Well, what if they are ?" 
 
 " What if they are ? Why, I'm going to introduce 
 them to Henlopen, and show 'em how to trot ; that's 
 all." 
 
 " In this rig ?" 
 
 " Nothing else. Don't you be afraid ; this isn't as bad 
 a * rig' as you might think. The harness is a little heavy, 
 but it fits him and he's used to it. The sleigh looks 
 heavy, too, but the runners are hard cast-iron and have 
 
232 A Soft of Old Harry. 
 
 a smooth, glassy surface that does not stick or cling to 
 stones or sand like the lighter wrought-iron casing of 
 the modern sleigh. So, on the whole, we're not so badly 
 fixed. Besides, Henlopen is as strong as an elephant." 
 
 " But — can he trot ?" asked the girl, incredulously. 
 ♦' Oh, of course he can ! I might have known," she 
 added, hastily. 
 
 " Trust a Goodwin to know a horse," Hubert answered, 
 almost bitterly. " I haven't got a red spur on my heel 
 for nothing. Did you think I brought him all the way 
 from home for his beauty ?" 
 
 " I didn't know — you didn't tell me — " apologetically. 
 
 " I wanted to surprise you, but — no matter. Here we 
 are at the Bay Road, and there's Sedley with his blacks. 
 Now you'll see some fun. I hope Parker is somewhere 
 about ; it will do him a world of good." 
 
 " Who is he ?" 
 
 ** The farmer who looks after Henlopen." 
 
 The Bay Road was a lively scene at that moment. 
 Gay costumes, beautiful equipages and fine horses filled 
 the broad, gently curving avenue, which was renowned 
 as the best winter trotting course in the world. It was 
 in splendid condition, and the fashion and fancy of the 
 city were out in force to enjoy it. Bells tinkled, whips 
 cracked, shouts and laughter prevailed ; everything 
 testified to the keen enjoyment of the drivers, spectators, 
 and even the sleek, finely trained beasts themselves, 
 from whose flying feet flew backward a hail of beaten 
 snow under the high -perched sleighs. 
 
 A portion of this course was especially reserved for 
 trials of speed. On one side of this there was an open 
 space where both foot-passengers and sleighs might 
 stand and see the frequently recurring contests, while 
 on the other side, the stream of gay equipages flowed 
 steadily on without interrupting the sport. As if by 
 
A Surprise Party on the Bay Road, 233 
 
 accident, Hubert drove into the space reserved for trials 
 of speed, in the very track of a pair of glossy blacks, 
 gayly caparisoned, and attached to a sleigh which, 
 although containing four persons, seemed formed of 
 spider-webs in comparison with the clumsy affair which 
 Henlopen was steadily and unconcernedly dragging 
 along. 
 
 A chorus of warnings and objurgations greeted this 
 piece of awkwardness on the part of the supposed 
 countryman, 
 
 "Get out of the way !" called out the driver of tlie 
 blacks, who were just settling down to accept the 
 challenge of a slender limbed chestnut, which had stolen 
 noiselessly up, and now threatened to slip by the cham- 
 pion trotters of the Bay Road. 
 
 " Get out of the way !" roared the crowd, anxious to 
 see the trial of speed between the renowned roadsters 
 and their bold challenger. 
 
 "Tip him over !" 
 
 " Pitch him out !" 
 
 " Drive over him !" 
 
 " Come out. Country !" 
 
 " What have you got to sell ?" 
 
 These were some of the cries that greeted the appar- 
 ently unconscious driver of Henlopen. 
 
 "What's the matter?" he asked, looking around in 
 well-assumed surprise. "Want to go by us, mister?" 
 glancing over his shoulder at the driver of the blacks. 
 
 " Get out of the way !" was the angry rejoinder. 
 
 In an instant, the heads of the blacks were even with 
 the dash-board of the old-fashioned cutter. In another 
 second, the black hoofs were throwing a shower of crisp 
 snow into the cutter, which forced Delia to hide her 
 head under the robe. 
 
 " Gee-wJiillikins !" exclaimed Hubert, snatching 
 
234 -^ '^^^ <^f ^^^ Harry. 
 
 awkwardly at his reins. The crowd laughed at the 
 countryman's comical plight. 
 
 " Tsst — tsst — tsst — tsst !" A sharp, broken sibilation 
 came from Hubert's slightly parted lips. The big bay 
 gathered his feet under him ; his driver leaned back, 
 pulling wildly upon the reins ; but the sharp recurring 
 sibilation continued. The trim blacks were already at 
 the bay's head. Then the long ears dropped back upon 
 the neck, the great coarse muzzle was outstretched, and 
 side by side with the crack roadsters, Henlopen, with 
 easy, magnificent strides, swept over the fancy course. 
 The crowd laughed and cheered. Of course, it was 
 only a spurt ; the old bay would break in a moment. 
 
 But he did not break. For a while, the mocking 
 cheers were hushed in surprise, only to break out again 
 in genuine admiration. The driver of the blacks loos- 
 ened the reins and gave his horses a cluck of encourage- 
 ment. They shrank closer to the ground, and the 
 polished ebon legs flew back and forth as if impelled by 
 electric force. But still the great coarse muzzle held its 
 place, half open now, with two rows of ivory shining 
 between the back-drawn lips, while an angry eye shone 
 over the brown, cracked blinker, which fell backward 
 when the driver pulled the reins. 
 
 And how he did pull ! He leaned back in his seat 
 and braced his feet against the front of the sleigh, knock- 
 ing out, one after another, the baskets, whose contents 
 rolled and scattered about the smooth track, adding by 
 their heterogeneous character very greatly to the 
 amusement of the spectators. Delia nestled her head 
 against her lover's shoulder, to hide her laughter, leav- 
 ing only a peep-hole underneath the hood through 
 which she could see the sport. Every one took this for 
 evidence of fright, and it added greatly to the realism 
 of the performance. 
 
A Surprise Party on the Bay Road. 235 
 
 Still it was counted only a spurt, though such a 
 remarkable one as to be a good joke on Sedley. But 
 now the bay began to draw away from the quick-step- 
 ping blacks. The big horse showed no sign of break- 
 ing. The great hoofs rose and fell with the regularity 
 of a walking-beam. The silky tail, half -raised, swayed 
 back and forth like a triumphing banner. The mighty 
 arms and steaming quarters assumed unexpected lines 
 of beauty. The heads of the blacks fell steadily back- 
 ward. Now they were opposite the dashboard ! Soon 
 the spray of the off one's gleaming nostril fell on the 
 cheek of the spirited girl, who, sitting bolt upright now, 
 was gazing with rapt admiration at the splendid action 
 of the horse before her. The countryman, with his 
 white hat pushed back upon his head, held the reins 
 steadily, while from his lips came now and then the 
 keen, encouraging sibilation : 
 
 *' Tsst— tsst— tsst— tsst !" 
 
 The driver of the blacks plied the whip. One of them 
 broke, and for an instant they passed the bay's quarter 
 and lapped his shoulder. The great muzzle went lower, 
 the black eyes flashed more wickedly, the great white 
 teeth snapped angrily together, and the blacks fell back 
 again — past the sleigh ! — a length ! — another ! 
 
 Then the waiting multitude awoke to the fact that 
 they had seen a remarkable performance — a wonderful 
 horse, who, coming out of obscurity, had distanced at 
 the very first trial the best of all known competitors. 
 They cheered the big bay and his driver as they flew 
 past, and continued cheering until they passed the 
 second mile-post and disappeared beyond the limits of 
 the drive, going on down the Bay Road toward the 
 country. The crowd stared after them in amazement. 
 The owners of fancy-steppers walked their smoking 
 steeds back and forth and talked of the remarkable 
 
236 A Soil of Old Harry, 
 
 event. It is not often that an attempted surprise of 
 this kind is a success. In these days, the horses that 
 can do great things are usually known and named, 
 though even now a phenomenon is sometimes found in 
 a butcher's cart. At that day such things were much 
 less infrequent. The reduction of the best time made 
 by a trotting-team from two minutes thirty-six seconds 
 to two minutes fourteen seconds makes an amazing dif- 
 ference in the conditions of what is termed a " flam " of 
 that sort. 
 
 " Who is he ?" asked the driver of the blacks in an 
 irritated tone, as he drew in his team at the end of the 
 accustomed course. 
 
 *' Ask me something easy," said one whose rig showed 
 him to be familiar with such matters. " I thought I 
 knew every horse and horseman in these parts, but I 
 don't either of them." 
 
 " Better telegraph and find out. Colonel," said 
 another, not unwilling to jeer the beaten horseman, 
 
 " Pretty good horse that, Sedley," said the driver of 
 the chestnut, who had fallen out of the race as soon as 
 he saw the struggle begin with the countryman. 
 
 "Good!" exclaimed Sedley, half-angrily ; "he's the 
 best horse that ever struck a hoof on the Bay Road, 
 Why, he went away from me as if I were standing still ; 
 and the blacks were going at better than a two-forty 
 clip, too. It's my opinion the time of that horse hasn't 
 been beaten on any track — not often, anyhow." 
 
 " The girl was mighty scared." 
 
 " Scared ? Not much. She was just enjoying it." 
 
 " Well, she'd good reason to ; no other woman ever 
 rode two miles in as short time." 
 
 " Who'd have thought that old countryman would 
 prove such a Tartar ?" 
 
 " Countryman ! There isn't a better driver than he 
 
A Surprise Party on the Bay Road. 237 
 
 ever pulled strings on the Bay Road," said Sedley, irrita- 
 bly. " It's some professional who has made a guy of 
 himself and the girl just to put up a job on us." 
 
 " You must admit he did it well ; sold you out clean 
 and fair." 
 
 " So he did," admitted Sedley, with a laugh. 
 
 "Want to try it again. Colonel ?" 
 
 " No ; I'm satisfied. But where'd he get that horse ?" 
 
 " Like to buy him, perhaps ?" 
 
 " That depends. But if he's not too old and is sound, 
 he's worth a lot of money." 
 
 " Suppose he was about seven now," said a pleasant- 
 faced man with a bit of gray whisker under his chin, 
 who stood beside the railing. 
 
 " Seven ? He's fifteen if he's a day," said the driver 
 of the chestnut. " I saw him when he came on the 
 track." 
 
 " So did I," responded Sedley ; " and when he went 
 off, too !" 
 
 " I thought you were out of sight, then !" 
 
 " Oh, no ! I was near enough to see that he wasn't 
 half as old as when he came on — and I tell you if that 
 horse is under ten and sound, he's worth more than any 
 two that ever trotted on the Bay Road." 
 
 '* How much did you give for the blacks, Colonel ?" 
 asked one of his friends, quizzingly. 
 
 " No matter ; I stand by what I say." 
 
 The man with the gray whiskers under his chin 
 turned away with a smile upon his face, and took his 
 seat beside a girl with bright black eyes and glowing 
 cheeks who sat in a sleigh a little way oil. 
 
 "Oh, papa!" exclaimed the girl, trembling with 
 excitement, " wasn't it splendid !" 
 
 " Don't say a word, Kitty, or I shall explode !" 
 
 Twenty minutes afterward, Farmer Parker drove 
 
238 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 into his barn, where Hubert was rubbing down the big 
 bay, the whole family, . with Delia added to their num- 
 ber, standing by. The story of the race had already 
 been told, but Farmer Parker, after throwing himself 
 upon a pile of hay and giving vent to his long -repressed 
 laughter, had to tell it over again with many interrup- 
 tions and much uproarious mirth. 
 
 " You are Miss Kincaid, I suppose ?" said the black- 
 eyed girl, approaching Delia and offering her hand. 
 " I am Kitty Parker ; Mr. Goodwin is too busy to 
 introduce us, but I know all about you, I've ridden 
 after Ilenlopen over the Bay Road many a time — after 
 dark, you know — and just envied you to-day." 
 
 Delia Kincaid felt an instinctive heart-twinge as she 
 gazed at the pretty girl beside her, and wondered if 
 there had been any other attraction for her Jack at 
 Farmer Parker's besides Henlopen, during the months 
 when he had been so assiduous in his attention to his 
 favorite. 
 
 Naturally enough the facts in regard to the affair on 
 the Bay Road leaked out, and people were greatly 
 scandalized that a pupil of the Brainerd Classical Insti- 
 tute and a student of the Theological seminary should 
 be mixed up in such an escapade. Just what there was 
 about the matter to render it discreditable, it would be 
 difficult to say ; but the faculties of both institutions 
 were greatly disturbed by it. Delia was sharply cen- 
 sured for her conduct, despite the fact that the prin- 
 cipal of the institute had assented to the masquerade, 
 and was informed that her previously immaculate 
 record, on which her hope of receiving the first honor 
 at commencement depended had received a serious stain. 
 Hubert was notified, in terms more vigorous than 
 polite, that for the sake of the good name of the insti- 
 tution, the principal was compelled to request him to 
 
A Surprise Party on the Bay Road. 239 
 
 abstain from visiting the institute or communicating 
 with any of its inmates in the future. In a letter 
 stained with her tears, Delia Kincaid begged him 
 for her sake to comply with this harsh request. She 
 was still determined to win the first honor of her class. 
 " I could not meet my father and mother if I should 
 fail of that," she wrote. " They have dreamed of it 
 every day since I entered the Institute." 
 
 Hubert was called before the faculty of the seminary 
 also, some of the members of which were seriously 
 shocked that he manifested no regret for his conduct, 
 and refused to admit that it was in any degree repre- 
 hensible. Some proposed his expulsion, others his sus- 
 pension ; but as he had violated no rule of tbe insti- 
 tution, and as his competitors on the Bay Road had 
 been Deacon Sedley, one of the most prominent mem- 
 bers of the church, and a very liberal patron of the 
 seminary, there seemed a sort of inconsistency in dis- 
 ciplining the theologian for what was not blamable in 
 the deacon. The matter was all the more difficult 
 from the fact that the young man's conduct had been 
 in other respects irreproachable. He was not at all 
 "fast." He had entered the seminary from a sense. of 
 duty merely. He did not claim to have either a " call " 
 or an inclination for the ministerial profession, but was 
 there in fulfillment of a promise made to a dying father. 
 The horse was his own, and there seemed to be no good 
 reason why he should not use his hours of relaxation to 
 enhance the value of his own property. Indeed, the 
 president bluntly asserted that it would be ago6d thing 
 if some of the other students employed their leisure in 
 as healthy and profitable ways. The lady who was 
 with him at the time was his promised wife, and the 
 harmless masquerade was fully understood and approved 
 of by the principal of the school she was attending. 
 
240 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 There seemed, indeed, to be " Nothing morally wrong 
 about Mr. Goodwin's conduct," the president shrewdly- 
 said, in summing up the matter, ** except that his horse 
 was a better one than Deacon Sedley's." The presi- 
 dent was not only a sagacious man, but liked a good 
 horse himself, and facetiously remarked that he did not 
 think there would be any serious objections to Mr. 
 Goodwin's driving on the Bay Road every Saturday, if 
 he took one of the faculty with him now and then. 
 
 When next Henlopen appeared on the Bay Road, 
 President Neuman sat beside the driver. There were 
 several brushes, and the big bay easily kept the place 
 he had won on his debut. 
 
 " What are you going to do with him .?" asked the 
 president, as they drove home one day, some weeks 
 later, after a very pleasant outing. 
 
 " Sell him." 
 
 " What do you consider him worth ?" 
 
 " That depends upon his record." 
 
 " How fast he will go, you mean ?" 
 
 " Yes ; an official record of time actually made upon a 
 public track." 
 
 " He has never been timed, I think you told me ?" 
 
 " Well, he has never made a record." 
 
 " What do you think he will do ?" 
 
 ** A good deal better than you have seen him." 
 
 " Have you had any offers for him ?" 
 
 " Colonel Sedley has made a bid for him on condition 
 that he beats two twenty-four." 
 
 " Do you think he can do it ?" 
 
 " I would not have accepted it if I had not thought 
 so." 
 
 " When will the trial come off .>" 
 
 " Some time in the spring." 
 
 " Will it be public or private ?" 
 
''The Calir 241 
 
 " Private — for Colonel Sedley's satisfaction only." 
 
 " I should like to see it." 
 
 " You can ; I have a right to have one friend on the 
 stand, and you shall be that one, if you like." 
 
 " Well, we will see about it when the time comes," 
 laughed the president. 
 
 From that hour Hubert Goodwin felt that he had a 
 friend in Dr. Neuman, and there was no lack of interest 
 on his part in the studies of the seminary. The princi- 
 pal of the Brainerd Institute modified her order of 
 exclusion after learning that the young man was so 
 staunchly supported by the president, and he visited 
 his betrothed once a fortnight during the pleasant 
 months that followed, while Destiny was silently shap- 
 ing for him the web of an adverse fate. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " THE CALL." 
 
 Hubert Goodwin heard at length the "call" for 
 which he had waited. In one instant all thought of 
 hesitation and indecision vanished. War had broken 
 out ! The sound of battle echoed through the Sabbath 
 stillness ! The Confederate forces had opened fire on 
 Fort Sumter ! At the first thrill which followed, he 
 knew that there was an end of doubt. He had found, 
 if not his vocation, at least his duty. He would be a 
 soldier. He did not stop to ask questions. He solicited 
 no one's advice ; he did not need advice. His whole 
 nature was aflame. There was no questioning whether 
 war were right or wrong. His logic was strangely 
 
242 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 elliptical. The defense of the flag — the maintenance of 
 the Union — such a cause must be right. Behind it, too, 
 was the thought of liberty. The Confederacy repre- 
 sented slavery ; that was its corner-stone, one of its cham- 
 pions had said, and slavery was wrong — must be 
 wrong — so Hubert Goodwin thought, or felt, rather. 
 
 He did not reason very profoundly about the matter. 
 He did not know how the question presented itself to 
 the Southern man ; perhaps he did not care very 
 much. When the moment for action comes, the time 
 for argument is past. He did not doubt that the South 
 was wrong, any more than they who mustered under 
 her banner doubted that she was right. He was ready 
 to fight for liberty and union — the union his fathers had 
 established and the liberty he had been taught to 
 believe the holiest gift of God. He was all the more 
 ardent because it was not his own liberty, nor the lib- 
 erty of his kindred, but of a despised and feeble race 
 who had been for centuries the buffeted foot-ball of 
 Fate. The knightly impulse is hidden in every uncor- 
 rupted nature, and the love of self-sacrifice lies side by 
 side with the love of strife and glory, in every manly 
 heart. 
 
 Besides this, Hubert Goodwin came of manful stock. 
 The spirit of Theophilus had not diluted the blood of 
 Sir Harry. How the mark upon his heel burned at the 
 thought of conflict ! The tumult of Naseby and Pres- 
 ton Pans was in his veins ! The Puritan would stand 
 once more against the cavalier ! New entries in the 
 long accounting between right and wrong would be 
 made in blood. And he would feel the shock of battle ! 
 He knew now it was of this that he had dreamed 
 through all the peaceful years of youth. Would war be 
 as his fancy had painted it ? No matter ; the worse it 
 might be, the better ! His whole nature panted with 
 
" The Call:' 243 
 
 exultation. He burned to do, to suffer, to achieve, to 
 endure — to die if need be ! It was for his country, he 
 said — his country and his God ! 
 
 Those upon the other side said the same thing. Two 
 moieties of a great people prayed to the same God that 
 Sabbath morning — the first of a new epoch — for victory 
 — the one with the bells of initial triumph clanging in 
 their ears, the other with the presage of a primal defeat 
 impending over their prescient consciousness. 
 
 There were hushed tones and solemn faces when the 
 students of the seminary met in the chapel that Sabbath 
 morning for prayer. These young men, who had dedi- 
 cated themselves to the Master's service, were looking, 
 awed and trembling, upon the opening scene of one of 
 those great passion-plays of history by which the Most 
 Holy teaches to the world the highest truths. But 
 Hubert Goodwin was content — fliished and silent, but 
 peaceful ; one might say happy, but for the seeming 
 harshness. Doubt was gone ; duty was clear ; danger 
 he did not count. The venerable president, despite the 
 agony that rung his own soul, marked the demeanor of 
 the young man, in whom he had come to take a peculiar 
 interest, with some curiosity. 
 
 " Well, Goodwin," he asked, as he returned the stu- 
 dent's greeting and walked beside him along the 
 strangely hushed and resonant corridor, " what do you 
 think of this ?" 
 
 " I guess I have got my * call,' sir," the young man 
 answered, in a tone from which he could not keep back 
 the exultation which he felt. 
 
 " Perhaps you are right," said the old man, a faint 
 flush rising to his cheeks. As he looked into the flash- 
 ing eyes, he wished that he might lay aside the burden 
 of years and feel the fervid glow and hot, fierce love of 
 peril and adventure which showed in the young face. 
 
244 ^ •^^^^ ^f ^^^ Harry. 
 
 We are all bom fighters, with the clamor of a thousand 
 battle-fields echoing in our ears when the trumpet calls 
 to strife. Nevertheless, he counseled prudence ; but the 
 young man's lip curled in scorn. 
 
 How war quickens a people's pulses ! Before another 
 day had elapsed the streets were echoing with the tread 
 of mustering legions. Hubert Goodwin did not believe 
 it was to be a holiday excursion, and felt that he must 
 bid adieu to his old life before he began a new one. He 
 must write to his mother ; wait until he had heard from 
 his uncle ; say good-bye to his sweetheart, and conclude 
 the sale of his horse. It would not require many days, 
 but his heart ached when he saw the first company 
 rushed on board the cars and hurried away to receive 
 their equipments and fly to the defense of the beleagured 
 capital. 
 
 Those were busy days. How full of life ! Years were 
 crowded betwixt sun and sun. Yet he did nothing. 
 The dust gathered on his books. He could not listen to 
 lectures. He did not study ; he did not think. He only 
 tramped the streets and felt. Once he went to the 
 Brainerd Institute. Delia was trembling, fearful, awed. 
 They talked of commonplaces ; wondered if there would 
 be war. He said nothing of himself, and she intimated 
 nothing of what she feared . He wrote to his mother a 
 brief, unsatisfactory letter, not to ask her permission, 
 but to announce his determination. He knew the letter 
 had been received, for a telegram had come from his 
 uncle : 
 
 " Hold on ; do nothing until you hear from me again." 
 
 What did it mean ? Did they think to keep him until 
 the war was over ? If it were to be so brief he did not 
 care to go ; but believing it to be long, he was all the 
 
" The Call." 245 
 
 more anxious to begin to do his part. He had heard the 
 *^ call " and was ready to answer. He wondered what 
 his father would have said could he have foreseen this 
 time. He did not question what he would say if alive. 
 
 He met Sedley one day upon the street . The colonel 
 was very busy. He had been in the army in his young 
 days — was a graduate of West Point. He was hardly 
 too old for the service, but the demands of a great busi- 
 ness prevented him from going to the front at once. But 
 he gave his time to the work of organizing — time and 
 money. 
 
 " 1 cannot go," he said to Hubert ; ** at least not yet. 
 It would take months to get my business in shape to 
 leave it. If it keeps on, I shall have to go, I suppose . 
 Doctor Neuman tells me you intend to enlist. There 
 will be no difficulty in your getting a commission, I 
 suppose ?" 
 ; Hubert said he did not expect one. 
 
 " But you ought to have one. It is such men as you, 
 young, intelligent, resolute, who ought to constitute the 
 subalterns of our army. You think you have not 
 experience ? You will get it fast enough. The field- 
 officers should have experience, of course — old army 
 men, so far as we can get them; but young men, 
 enthusiastic, clear-headed, ambitious, should have the 
 companies. That's my idea — no politicians — no drones. 
 
 " I have just applied for permission to raise a cavalry 
 regiment — myself and a few others — at our own expense, 
 you know. You see, there is no cavalry called for — 
 only infantry and artillery. It is all folly. An army 
 without cavalry is blind and deaf. It cannot help but 
 meet defeat, because its commander knows nothing 
 about where he is going or what he has to meet. I used 
 to be in the cavalry — the dragoons, you know. JeflE 
 Davis had a troop in the same regiment ; that was before 
 
246 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 my time, though. I've picked out a man to command 
 it — an old West Pointer ; best man in my class, though 
 he hasn't got on very well — so far as rank is concerned. 
 No chance for a man to show himself in our army, except 
 with the Indians, and that don't count. 
 
 " How about our trade ? Woodrow tells me the horse 
 is as sound as a nut and in prime condition. Under 
 seven, too, he says, though I'd swear he was twelve, at 
 least. Thinks he'll fill the bill, too, but I don't. There 
 aren't two horses in the country that can reliably trot 
 under two twenty-four. The little mare is said to have 
 beat twenty somewhere out West last year ; but that 
 was a scratch. There's talk about the track being short, 
 too. She's a marvel, anyhow, but she'll never do it 
 again. The war will spoil sport, of course, but if the 
 bay can come to time he's worth the money, war or no 
 war. 
 
 ** When can we have the trial ? Any time ? How'll 
 to-morrow afternoon do — say about four o'clock — if it's 
 fair ? All right ! That's settled, then. O, by the way, 
 who's your man ? Doctor Neuman ? All right again ; 
 no harm in it, as there is to be no betting in it and no 
 record. By the way, I'd like to have it understood that 
 the time is to be a secret ; if he wins, that is. If he 
 loses, of course you don't want it known. Woodrow's 
 as silent as the grave. You might caution the doctor. 
 I suppose you'll drive yourself ?" 
 
 *' I'd rather Woodrow did, sir." 
 
 " Well, that's satisfactory. He'll do the fair thing. 
 Nobody ever accused him of any crookedness. I'll take 
 Jones ; he's the regular * starter,' anyhow, and knows 
 how to keep still." 
 
 When Hubert returned to his room, after this con- 
 versation, he found a dispatch from his uncle awaiting 
 him : 
 
" The Caliy 247 
 
 " Don't join elsewhere. The governor will send you 
 a commission as lieutenant." 
 
 It was a complete surprise. A lieutenant ! It was 
 an honor, a privilege greater than he had expected. 
 He was glad he had talked with Colonel Sedley. He 
 showed the dispatch to Doctor Neuman as they drove 
 out to the course next day. 
 
 Colonel Sedley was late, owing to numerous and 
 exacting engagements. The president was full of the 
 new honor that had been conferred upon his pupil, and 
 lost no time in mentioning it. The colonel congratu- 
 lated the young man heartily. 
 
 It was a warm spring afternoon. Woodrow announced 
 the track to be in fine order. Watches were compared 
 as the big bay was jogged back and forth and finally 
 given a breather around the course. The little group 
 of men upon the judge's stand commented upon his 
 action and jested about the result. A few spectators 
 strolled in and watched the proceedings curiously. A 
 group of boys, with the gamin's instinct for the unusual, 
 clambered about the empty benches. 
 
 " When do you expect to leave. Lieutenant ?" asked 
 Sedley, to pass the time while they waited. Already 
 the war filled all the intervals of life. 
 
 Hubert flushed at this first sound of the new title on 
 another's lips, but answered as quietly as he could : 
 
 " As soon as my commission arrives." 
 
 " That's right. Better have your uniform made while 
 you wait. It's well to be ready for duty when you 
 report ; makes a good impression on your superiors, you 
 know. I brought a check so that our matter can be 
 settled up in a second, if the horse comes under the 
 wire in time. I'm satisfied as to his age and soundness. 
 Here it is, doctor. I put it in your hands. If he makes 
 
248 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 a mile in two twenty-four you will give that check to the 
 lieutenant and I will take the horse. Here they come ! 
 Heavens, what a stride !" 
 
 The big bay was coming down the home-stretch with 
 an even, steady stroke which fully justified the admira- 
 tion of the prospective purchaser. As they neared the 
 wire Woodrow nodded to the starter, and just as the 
 dark muzzle lapped the mark Jones shouted " Go !" 
 Three pairs of eyes noted the time, and were lifted now 
 and then to watch the progress made. 
 
 "The fastest half ever made without a break !" said 
 Jones, as they passed the stand again. The others 
 stood silent in admiration and expectancy. The seconds 
 crept by, and the horse entered on the last quarter. 
 
 " A great performance !" whispered Sedley, excitedly, 
 to the starter. 
 
 " Pity it will not be a record," was the regretful reply. 
 
 " Time enough for that," said the buyer, contentedly, 
 
 Down the homestretch came Henlopen, swifter than 
 before. The driver urged him, but he did not break. 
 Under the wire he flashed as if shot from a catapult. 
 
 Three fingers touched the springs, and the starter, 
 pale with excitement, whispered the time. 
 
 " Gentlemen," called out Woodrow from the track 
 below as he turned back and walked beside the steam- 
 ing horse to the stand, " that's the fastest mile I ever 
 rode !" 
 
 " And the fastest anybody ever rode !" said Jones, 
 excitedly. 
 
 " What !" 
 
 The veteran driver tossed the reins to an attendant, 
 scrambled over the railing, and ran up the steps into 
 the stand. 
 
 " What was the time ?" he asked. 
 
" The Calir 24^ 
 
 The gamins and the few spectators were gathering 
 around, eager to learn the result. 
 
 " Take care," whispered Sedley, with a glance toward 
 these seekers for knowledge. 
 
 The starter whispered to the driver. 
 
 " What ! It can't be ! Why wasn't it a record ?" 
 
 " Never mind ; you shall drive him when he beats 
 it," Sedley hastened to say. 
 
 " He'll never beat it, Colonel," said the old horseman, 
 sadly. " No horse ever will. And nobody would 
 believe it if you told it. Oh, if it had only been a 
 record !" 
 
 " Will you please let us know the time ?" called out 
 one of a group of spectators, who were discussing the 
 performance a little way off. 
 
 " It was under two twenty-four," answered Sedley 
 evasively, 
 
 " Thank you. My friend, here," pointing to one who 
 held a watch in his hand, ** has been oflEering to bet that 
 it was under two-ten, but, of course, we knew that 
 could not be." 
 
 "O Lord, if it had only been a record !" moaned 
 Woodrow. " It would be worth everything to be able 
 to tell of that, and have it official, you know. I'd 
 have it put on my tombstone — I would I vow !" 
 
 " I suppose I'm to give this to Mr. Goodwin, then ?" said 
 Doctor Neuman, holding up the check inquiringly. 
 
 " Certainly. Haven't you delivered it yet ? Give it 
 to him, quick, before he backs out," said Sedley glee- 
 fully. " I'm sorry for you. Lieutenant," he added, as 
 Hubert took the bit of paper, " but that horse is 
 worth double the money I paid for him, this very 
 minute." 
 
 " Not a doubt of it," interrupted Jones. 
 
 Doctor Neuman looked from one to the other, won- 
 
250 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 dering-ly. "Do you know, gentlemen," he said, with 
 impressive simplicity, "that check represents more 
 money than I ever earned in ten years." 
 
 Hubert Goodwin felt very rich as he folded the check 
 and put it in his pocket. There was more conversation, 
 reminiscent and speculative. Other horses were dis- 
 cussed, and the career of the new marvel — what horses 
 he would have to meet and what events he might be 
 entered for. The sun was getting low when they 
 started to go down the stairs. It had been a very excit- 
 ing affair, and each one congratulated himself upon his 
 good fortune in having witnessed the race. 
 
 The attendant who had been walking Henlopen up 
 and down the track, now called to Woodrow, The 
 driver climbed down from the stand and approached the 
 horse's head, where the attendant was standing. The 
 loiterers had moved away, and the little company fol- 
 lowed slowly, going around the end of the stand. 
 
 " Mr. Sedley, will you please step here a moment ?" 
 
 There was no mistaking the anxiety in Woodrow's 
 voice. They walked quickly down the track to where 
 he stood. With his left hand he lifted up the great 
 brown muzzle, while with the right one he drew back 
 the inflexible cap of the left nostril, showing the red, 
 glistening membrane within. 
 
 ** What is it ?" asked Sedley, looking down at the dark 
 spot on the track under the horse's head. 
 
 " Do you see that ?" said Woodrow, nodding toward 
 the horse's nose. 
 
 A little red stream was trickling down the membrane 
 and through the stiff short hairs of the upper lip. Hen- 
 lopen thrust out his tongue now and then to lick off the 
 falling drops. While they looked he shook his head and 
 coughed, scattering bright fresh blood drops upon them. 
 
" The Cair 251 
 
 ** Hemorrhage ?" inquired Sedley, 
 
 Woodrow nodded affirmatively. 
 
 " When did it come on ?" Sedley asked the attendant. 
 
 "Just a minute ago," was the reply. " I gave him a 
 sup of water. He coughed, and then I noticed this." 
 
 " Might have been bleeding for half an hour, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 ** No, sir. We have sponged his nose and mouth three 
 or four times since the heat was over, and there wasn't 
 a trace of blood till that moment." 
 
 ** Any chance for him ?" to Woodrow. 
 
 The trainer shook his head sadly : 
 
 " It is red blood, you observe." 
 
 He wiped his hands upon the horse's mane as he 
 spoke. 
 
 ** I see — an artery." 
 
 Woodrow signed to the attendant to remove the sulky 
 and harness. Hubert placed his ear at the horse's chest. 
 He heard a curious gurgling sound. 
 
 " Poor old fellow !" he said, putting his arm over the 
 drooping neck and caressing tenderly the broad fore- 
 head. The horse gave a low neigh of recognition and 
 coughed again. Instantly a red stream burst from his 
 nostrils. He raised his head and gazed from one to 
 another with an almost human look of startled inquiry. 
 All the little company, except Hubert, sprang back to 
 avoid the red torrent that spouted from the black, 
 quivering muzzle. 
 
 " Poor fellow !" said Hubert again, still clasping the 
 neck and patting the upraised head. With a sharp 
 neigh of alarm, the horse rubbed the side of his head 
 against the young man's breast, as if begging for aid. 
 His breath came chokingly. His mouth opened, and 
 the blood gushed from it also. ^His neighing became 
 one choking shriek for help. He kept turning toward 
 
252 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 his master, as if imploring him to give relief. The great 
 brown eyes were full of agonized entreaty. Hubert 
 moved backward to avoid the stream of blood, still hold- 
 ing the neck, stroking the outstretched head, and speak- 
 ing tenderly to the doomed beast. 
 
 His voice choked, and there were tears in his eyes. 
 The others wept, too — all but Sedley. He stood dry- 
 eyed, indeed, but with his firm jaws set and a look upon 
 his face that attested the emotion which he felt. Wheel- 
 ing round and round in the vain endeavor to confront 
 the one whom he had learned to love and to whom he 
 turned instinctively in mute entreaty for aid, the stream- 
 ing blood from the horse's mouth described a red circle 
 partly on the white graveled track and partly on the 
 fresh-springing grass beside it. He moved slower and 
 slower every moment, while his neighing sank at length 
 to a faint moan. He began to paw, but only with his 
 off -foot, as if even in death he remembered not to harm 
 the master he loved. A shiver went through his limbs. 
 His body swayed back and forth. 
 
 " Look out !" cried Woodrow. 
 
 Hubert did not heed this warning, but kept his clasp 
 upon the quivering neck and strove to hold up the 
 drooping head. There was a long, low moan of mortal 
 agony ; the head was turned suddenly, the great nostrils 
 distended ; the brown eyes looked into the brimming 
 ones beside them. The trembling limbs slowly gave 
 way and the vast hulk sank slowly and easily to the; 
 ground. Hubert laid the brown head tenderly upon the; 
 green turf — there was a sob — a tremor of the mighty- 
 limbs, and the great horse was dead. 
 
 Hubert rose and brushed the blood from the sleeve 
 of his coat, turning shamefacedly away to hide his tears. 
 The others regarded him with that kindly commisera- 
 
" The Calir 253 
 
 tion we bestow upon those who stand by the death-bed 
 of friends. 
 
 " He was a good one," said Woodrow, speaking of the 
 dead. It was the highest praise the old trainer could 
 give. 
 
 ** He deserves a monument," said Sedley, " and he 
 shall have one, too — right here beside the track where 
 he died." 
 
 Hubert answered with a grateful look. He could not 
 trust his voice. The great, homely bay had grown 
 much dearer to him than he thought. He recalled his 
 virtues, which had been regarded as a matter of course 
 while he lived — his steadiness, kindness and sagacity, 
 as well as his amazing fortitude and determination. 
 
 " ' We ne'er shall look upon his like again,' " said 
 Jones, with an attempt at levity. 
 
 " It is strange," said Doctor Neuman, solemnly. " He 
 seemed to know his end was approaching almost as well 
 as if he had been human." 
 
 Hubert walked back toward the stand to conceal his 
 emotion. The others stood a moment in the soft, spring 
 sunset gazing on the stifiFening limbs of the great horse 
 who had died in the very hour when he had outdone all 
 his race, but whose name would never appear among 
 the list of those who have triumphed on the track which 
 was moistened with his blood. Then they started 
 toward the sheds where their horses stood. 
 
 " Well, Lieutenant," said Sedley, cheerfully, as they 
 overtook the young man, who walked on with them, 
 " I'm sorry now we didn't let the big horse make a 
 record. It seems that you were the one that was in 
 luck, after all ; though I did think I w^as getting him 
 cheap. There are not many who win on such a narrow 
 margin as that." 
 
 He gazed keenly at the young man as he spoke. 
 
254 ^ ^011 of Old Ha7'7y. 
 
 "I hope you do not think — " began Hubert, con- 
 fusedly. 
 
 " Oh, that's all right," interrupted Sedley, *' He's my 
 horse just as much as if he had died of old age. He 
 was worth the money when I bought him, and more, 
 too. All the same, you are lucky. The doctor here, 
 don't believe in luck ; I do. It's worth everything to a 
 man in this world, too. Some have it and others don't ; 
 and some have it for a time and then lose it. Some win 
 with all the chances against them — against their own 
 expectations even ; others will lose with ninety -nine 
 clear chances in their favor, though they exercise the 
 utmost prudence and caution. There's no accounting 
 for luck ; and you've got it, no mistake about that. 
 You'd have been expelled from the seminary for your 
 escapade last winter if it hadn't been for your luck. 
 Instead of that, here's the doctor come with you to see 
 you win on a dead horse. He would have expelled 
 any one else for proposing such a thing. From what 
 he tells me I find it isn't the first time your luck has 
 served you well. There's nothing like it, and there's 
 no sense in trying to give any reason for it, I don't 
 blame you ; I just envy you, I'm probably better able 
 to lose what I paid than you the price of an ordinary 
 horse, I've had pretty fair luck myself, but I envy 
 yours. You are not only lucky, but every one believes 
 in your luck — expects you to succeed, don't you see. 
 Be grateful for it, young man, but don't abuse it. Let 
 it cover mistakes, but don't strain it by advertising for 
 impossibilities. If you ever want a partner — especially 
 in anything connected with a horse — just let me know. 
 I'd stake a good deal on your judgment, and a lot more 
 on your luck. Good-bye. I expect to see you come out 
 of the war with a star on your shoulder, It's a great 
 chance for a man with your luck," 
 
" The Calir 255 
 
 " Mr. Sedley — I — I wish you would take this back," 
 said Hubert, taking the check from his pocket. 
 
 " Young man," responded the sturdy capitaHst, with 
 some show of anger, " don't be foolish. More people 
 spoil their luck in that way than in any other. Take 
 what belongs to you without stopping to consider 
 whether the man who loses is sorry he risked or not. If 
 the horse had lived, I should have doubled my money 
 and not given a thought to the chance you lost. The 
 money is yours ; do what you choose with it, but don't 
 think of returning it to me. That is not only folly, it is 
 almost an insult. There is one thing you can do to 
 oblige me : keep the matter still for the present — the 
 time he made, I mean. I don't care to have people 
 pitying me. Come on, Jones." 
 
 The colonel strode stiffly away without further adieu. 
 
 It was a very silent ride back over the paved streets in 
 the echoing twilight, to Doctor Neuman and his pupil. 
 The day's experience had been a rare one to the good 
 divine. He had seen a side of life with which he had 
 no little sympathy, but at which he could not but 
 wonder. He was not only fond of a good horse, but he 
 liked also brave, adventurous men — men who could win 
 or lose with equanimity. He had always wanted to see 
 a race, but regard for his profession had kept him 
 away from the track ; and now he had witnessed an 
 event sure to be among the most memorable in the 
 annals of the turf, though it would be but a tradition — 
 a tradition like that of Flying Childer's yet unrivaled 
 achievement. Only half a dozen pairs of eyes, it is said, 
 watched that marvel of equine tradition. One of them, 
 he had read somewhere, belonged to a dignitary of the 
 church. For a hundred years nobody doubted the 
 great racer's achievement, or, at least, dared express a 
 
256 A Son of Old Harjy. 
 
 doubt. Since then nobody has believed it. Would 
 it be the same with the marvel he had witnessed ? 
 
 He had been taught that day to use a stop-watch. 
 He had held one of the three by which the time was 
 marked. They all agreed within a fraction of a second. 
 He had held his up for examination by the others 
 before reading the result himself. He had seen both 
 the others. Had his eyes deceived him, and his hand 
 also ? He was glad he had witnessed the trial, and glad, 
 also, that the result was to be kept secret. His con- 
 science was easy, too. There had been no betting ; not 
 a cent had been staked on the result. Yet the young 
 man beside him had been, if not exactly poor, at the 
 least not rich when they went out ; now he had a 
 fortune in his pocket. Was this quite a true statement of 
 the case ? When they went out, the young man was 
 the owner of the most valuable horse in the world ; the 
 check in his pocket was not more than half as much as 
 the best judges declared the horse to be worth. He 
 had not made a very good sale, after all, though the 
 buyer had nothing to show for his money. The good 
 doctor mentioned this view of the matter to the young 
 man beside him, who answered with a curious incred- 
 ulity of tone which set the elder man to wondering 
 what his future would be like — what he would do with 
 the money he had received or what it would do with 
 him. 
 
 "^Will you let me come into the library a moment, 
 doctor ?" Hubert asked, as they stopped before the 
 gate. 
 
 " Certainly. Will you not stay to supper with us ? 
 It must be ready now." 
 
 " Thank you ; I don't think I can — to-night, I will 
 only detain you a moment." 
 
 He fastened the horse and they walked up the path 
 
" The Calir 257 
 
 together, the elder wondering at the younger man's 
 request. Ushering him into the library, he renewed 
 his invitation ; but the other persisted in declining it. 
 Asking permission, he seated himself at the writing- 
 table, dropping his hat upon the floor beside him, and 
 taking the check from his pocket, he indorsed it to the 
 other's order. 
 
 " Please use it to help equip the regiment Sedley is 
 raising," he said, raising and handing it to the other. 
 
 The doctor put on his glasses, and read the indorse- 
 ment. 
 
 "But — ^had you not better wait and — think this 
 over .?" 
 
 The young man smiled. 
 
 The doctor knew it was useless to give advice, but 
 could not help saying : 
 
 ** This is a great deal ; you are not rich. Can you 
 afford to give so much for — for such a purpose ?" 
 
 " But, doctor, I have already offered my life for the 
 cause it will aid." 
 
 " True, true, my son," answered the old man. " May 
 God bless you and your gift." 
 
 He raised his eyes as he spoke. The young man 
 looked down and twirled his hat in an embarrassed way. 
 Then he stretched out his hand. 
 
 " Good-bye," he said. 
 
 " We shall see you again ?" 
 
 " I am afraid not ; I expect to go to-morrow." 
 
 " So soon ? Write me when you can, I have no 
 doubt I shall hear of your success without it, but shall 
 be glad to receive your own report. Good-bye." 
 
 When he was gone, the doctor spread out the check 
 and read it again before putting it in his pocket. 
 
 "Come," said his wife, from the door, " you know you 
 are expected at the meeting to-night." 
 
258 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " Meeting ? What meeting ?" 
 
 " Why, about the regiment Colonel Sedley is raising." 
 
 " Ah, yes ; I had forgotten." 
 
 The wife smiled. She had been her husband's calen- 
 dar for years, and was not surprised at his absent- 
 mindedness during the meal which followed. 
 
 " So Henlopen will never make a record," was 
 Hubert Goodwin's regretful comment, as he told the 
 story of the day's happenings to Delia Kincaid that 
 night, and informed her of the disposition he had made 
 of the check. 
 
 " And you gave all that money — to — to — " 
 
 " The country," he interrupted, laughingly. " Why 
 not ? I may have to give — a great deal more, you 
 know." 
 
 The girl shuddered and her cheeks grew pale. 
 
 " Don't you think this is enough — as much as you 
 ought to do ?" 
 
 " Why, Dee ! You wouldn't have me stay at home ?" 
 
 "Oh, Jack, if you only would! Please do! Let us 
 go away — let's go abroad, where we will know nothing 
 of this dreadful war. We might be married and go to- 
 morrow. I will give up the school — anything — if you 
 will. O, Jack ! I know I shall lose you ! There will 
 never be any happiness for me in the world if you go. 
 You know you promised me, Jack, * Forever and ever. 
 Amen !' And now you are going away to be shot — to 
 be killed ! You are breaking your promise ! You do 
 not love me — if you go !" 
 
 ** Forever and ever. Amen !" What visions the words 
 recalled. All his life he had loved this girl — this 
 woman — who now would persuade him to turn back 
 
" The Caliy 259 
 
 from his duty — to be deaf to the " call " he had 
 received. " Forever and ever, Amen !" The sun shone 
 through the sheltering leaves, and the sounds of the 
 summer woods were about him again. He heard the 
 droning of the wasps, and saw again their nests of tem- 
 pered mortar beside the rafters in the old home which 
 was then new. And now she offered him her beauty as 
 the price for his manhood ! His brain reeled. 
 
 " But, Dee — " he exclaimed, confusedly, entreatingly. 
 
 She broke in passionately, angrily, on his remon- 
 strance : 
 
 " Don't talk to me ! What do I care for the country ? 
 I want you. And you promised me ; you know you did, 
 I know I am not brave. I am tired and sick. I want 
 to go away — to Italy — Switzerland — Venice ! O, Jack, 
 why can't we go to Venice and dream away the days of 
 strife ? Everybody is not called upon to fight, and you 
 have done enough. They can get a hundred men with 
 what you have given." 
 
 " I suppose they might — " thoughtfully. 
 
 " Of course they can — and we !" 
 
 She nestled close to him with rapturous suggestion. 
 
 " But every one would call me a coward — " 
 
 " Suppose they should ?" 
 
 " I don't think I could stand that, Dee." 
 
 " But it wouldn't be you — not your wish, that is, but 
 mine. You could tell them I was sick. And I am sick, 
 Jack — oh, so sick ! You don't know how sick !" 
 
 She cast herself upon his breast weeping passionately. 
 He smoothed her silken curls with a loving hand, and 
 soothed her, hardly knowing what he did. At length 
 his face lightened. 
 
 " Dee," he exclaimed, eagerly, "I think you are sick ; 
 you have been studying too hard. Why not get 
 married, anyhow ?" 
 
26o A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " And then ?" She did not raise her head, 
 
 " You can go with me ; officers often take their wives. 
 It will probably be a good while before there is any 
 fighting — before they are ready to fight, I mean." 
 
 ** No ! No ! No !" She shook her head and shud- 
 dered. " I can't do it ! I can't do it ! I can't tell you 
 why, either. Only go away — leave the country — and I 
 will go with you to-morrow — to-night — this very 
 minute !" 
 
 She raised her head and looked at him with almost 
 frantic appall. 
 
 *■' And Jack," she continued, " if you do not, you will 
 lose me — we shall lose each other — forever and ever !" 
 
 ** You would not forget me, Dee ?" 
 
 " I shall love you always. Jack, always — but — but if 
 you do not consent — oh, I cannot tell you ! We shall 
 never be happy again." 
 
 " Poor little girl," he said, soothingly ; " you are tired 
 to-night. It will seem different to-morrow." 
 
 She shook her head, hopelessly. 
 
 " Oh, yes, it will ; you are nervous and worn-out 
 to-night. I shall tell Miss Brainerd you need a rest, 
 and take you home with me." 
 
 " Home !" with a start. " When are you going there ?" 
 
 "O, in a day or two." 
 
 " And you will not go away — with me .?" 
 
 " Abroad, do you mean ?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 " I will — think about it. There's the bell ; I must go." 
 
 The bell of the Brainerd Institute rang at nine o'clock 
 for the departure of guests, if any chanced to be within 
 its portals at that hour. They were sitting in the private 
 parlor of the principal — a privilege accorded to but few. 
 They knew that lady would enter soon. Delia started 
 
" The Callr 261 
 
 up, hastily smoothing her hair. Her lover caught her 
 in his arms and kissed her passionately 
 
 " You will go ? " she entreated, 
 
 " O — do not ask me. I cannot promise — ^just now — at 
 least." 
 
 " Then — good-bye !" 
 
 She stood on tiptoe, her pale, agonized face upturned 
 for his kisses. 
 
 " O, Jack — dear Jack ! Remember, whatever happens 
 — I shall love you * forever and ever !' " 
 
 There was a knock upon the door. 
 
 "I am very sorry to disturb you, young people," said 
 the kindly-faced principal, "but the bell has rung. 
 Why, what does this mean ?" as the young girl threw 
 herself upon her teacher's breast, weeping hysterically. 
 ** No lover's quarrel, I hope ?" 
 
 " She dreads to have me go — into the service — you 
 know,"answered Hubert, stammeringly. 
 
 " Poor girl !" said the lady, tenderly patting her pupil's 
 head. '* That is part of our woman's lot — to lose those 
 we love." 
 
 - There was a far-away look in her eyes as she spoke, 
 Hubert bowed himself out, and went back to his lodg- 
 ing with a burdened heart. He found the uniform he 
 had ordered awaiting him and tried it on. The new life 
 it represented quickly chased away the memory of love's 
 tears. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 OLD HARRY S LUCK. 
 
 The newspapers of the day succeeding Henl open's 
 death contained a curious account of that eve at. The 
 world of sport was not what it is now, nor was the reporter 
 so absolutely ubiquitous. Not only this, but one great 
 central thought then occupied the public mind, and 
 other events had a singular fictitious value according to 
 their relation to it. The most remote connection with 
 the conflict which was then impending, rather than 
 actually begun, lifted the most trivial matters in th^ 
 realm of news to a plane of prime importance as com- 
 pared with matters having no relation to it. Wrecks, 
 accidents, the death of sovereigns, the opening of new 
 gold fields, even scandal fell to a second place in public 
 estimation in comparison with things relating to the 
 progress of the war. It is not strange that the death of 
 Henlopen, an event which would now command univer- 
 sal attention, was then regarded as worthy of mention 
 chiefly because of the circumstances connected with 
 it. These, however, gave it a place on the editorial 
 page, where it appeared the next morning, under the 
 title of 
 
Old Harry's Luck. 263 
 
 "A MANLY ACT PROMPTLY REWARDED. 
 
 ** We noted in our issue of yesterday that one of the 
 students of the Theological Seminary had been com- 
 missioned a lieutenant. To-day, it is our privilege to 
 record an act of chivalrous generosity on the part of 
 Lieutenant Goodwin, which shows that the governor of 
 his native State made no mistake in conferring upon 
 him that honor. He is known to many of our citi- 
 zens as having been the owner of the trotting-horse, 
 Henlopen, which played such havoc among the crack 
 turnouts on the Bay Road last winter. At that time an 
 offer of twenty-five thousand dollars was made for the 
 horse by Colonel Sedley, on condition that he should 
 beat two twenty-four. This was accepted, and the big 
 horse has been in training with Woodrow ever since for 
 his match against time. It came off yesterday on the 
 Park Course. It was a private affair, only half a dozen 
 friends being present, and they were sworn to secrecy. 
 The price is said to be the largest, with one exception, 
 perhaps, ever offered for a horse in the United States ; 
 yet it is generally admitted that if able to make the time 
 required, the big bay was well worth it. Woodrow held 
 the reins, and expressed the opinion that the horse 
 could do all that was asked of him, and more too. 
 
 " It was nearly five o'clock when he got the word, and 
 those present witnessed a performance they will not 
 soon forget. The mile was trotted without a break. 
 The exact time cannot be given, but it is ascertained 
 that it was several seconds less than has ever been 
 done before or than most horsemen supposed possible. 
 The horse finished the heat in prime condition, and Mr. 
 Sedley handed over the check for the amount agreed on 
 with the utmost cheerfulness. 
 
 " Shortly afterward, as the party were leaving the 
 
264 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 grounds, they were called back to witness the death of 
 the noble animal which had just won such distinguished 
 honor. While being walked about to cool off, he was 
 startled by a dog which attempted to run across the 
 track, and took three or four of his enormous strides 
 before the driver could bring him down. A moment 
 afterward, it was found that he had burst a blood -vessel, 
 and in a short time he was dead. 
 
 " No doubt Colonel Sedley felt some chagrin at 
 having only a dead horse to show for his money, but 
 those who know him do not need to be told that he 
 evinced none. It was an ordinary business risk, and 
 he had lost ; that is the way he looked at it. Lieutenant 
 Goodwin, however, refused to retain the price paid for 
 the horse, and handed the check to President Neuman 
 with a request that the money be applied to the equip- 
 ment of the regiment of cavalry which Colonel Sedley 
 proposes to raise. The colonel received it on his way 
 to the meeting reported elsewhere, to consider whether 
 our citizens should not join with him in tendering the 
 government a regiment of cavalry, armed, uniformed 
 and mounted ready for the field. 
 
 '* Colonel Sedley repeated at this meeting his propo- 
 sition to give $100,000 for the purpose indicated. He 
 understood, he said, that the government had a suffi- 
 cient supply of sabers of good quality, and he believed 
 the sum named would furnish the uniforms and com- 
 plete the equipment of the men. He thought it would 
 require $200,000 more to provide the mount and general 
 equipment. As a first subscription toward this, he had 
 received, he said, the sum of $25,000 from a young man 
 who probably had not as much more in the world ; per- 
 haps not half as much ; and who, in addition to this, had 
 already offered his services, and was ready to give his 
 
Old Harry^s Luck, 265 
 
 life, if need be, for his country — Lieutenant Hubert 
 Goodwin, of the Theological Seminary. 
 
 "After the applause which greeted this announce- 
 ment had died away, he stated in response to calls for 
 Goodwin, that the lieutenant was not present and knew 
 nothing of what was taking place. He had sent a check 
 for the sum named, by Doctor Neuman, whom he had 
 authorized to apply it in this manner. He was, prob- 
 ably, at that moment making preparations to leave the 
 city, to join his regiment. 
 
 " This statement aroused the wildest enthusiasm. It 
 was immediately voted to raise the sum required, and 
 subscriptions for the full amount, with pledges for as 
 much more, if necessary, were made in a few minutes. 
 Colonel Sedley stated that a distinguished officer of the 
 regular Army had signified a willingness to accept the 
 command of the regiment, and moved that the meeting 
 request the President to detail him for that duty. 
 
 " When this had been adopted, the venerable Doctor 
 Neuman arose, and in a speech of unusual eloquence 
 told the story of young Goodwin's life, and moved that 
 the President be requested to appoint him the lieuten- 
 ant-colonel of the regiment. The proposition took like 
 wildfire, and Doctor Neuman 's speech was punctuated 
 with applause. It seems that the young man has not 
 only fighting blood in his veins, but, so to speak, cav- 
 alry blood, also. A distinguished cavalry officer of 
 Cromwell's army and a captain of dragoons who fell at 
 Trenton, were among his ancestors, and the doctor pre- 
 dicted for him a biilliant future. 
 
 " Colonel Sedley seconded the motion in the most 
 earnest and emphatic terms. As one having some 
 knowledge of the requirements of the office, he did 
 not hesitate to indorse the doctor's prediction. 
 
 "One of Goodwin's classmates pledged himself to 
 
266 A So7i of Old Harry 
 
 raise a company and go with them himself, if Goodwin 
 received the appointment. There was no dissent, and 
 the proposition was carried with a rush. Colonel Sedley 
 was directed to telegraph the President requesting 
 immediate action in the matter. It was proposed to 
 call the regiment the ' Sedley Legion,' and, despite the 
 colonel's demurrer, the suggestion was unanimously 
 adopted, and we have no doubt the corps will be an 
 honor to the city and the State, as well as to the patri- 
 otic citizen whose name it bears. Only the best men 
 will be accepted, and service in its ranks will be an 
 honor any man might covet. 
 
 " After the adjournment, it was proposed to serenade 
 the young colonel. The crowd formed in line and 
 marched to the seminary building, the band leading 
 the way. The young man had just donned his lieuten- 
 ant's uniform, and his astonishment as he listened to 
 Colonel Sedley *s statement of what had occurred showed 
 how little he had expected any such recognition of his 
 generous act He was hustled down to make his 
 acknowledgment to the crowd, which he did, or rather 
 tried to do. If his words were somewhat incoherent, 
 the applause was vociferous. He is not a man of strik- 
 ing appearance, but there was something in his 
 demeanor, as he shook hands with this clamorous com- 
 pany of new-found friends, which satisfied every one 
 that no mistake had been made in selecting him for 
 such a responsible position. The Sedley Legion are 
 sure to be proud of the second in command before the 
 war is over. It is expected that Colonel Craft will 
 report for duty in about a week. In the meantime, 
 recruiting will proceed under charge of Colonel Goodwin 
 at the Sedley Block, the large hall of which will be 
 used for drilling." 
 
Old Harry'' s Luck. 267 
 
 It is strange how things were done in that first fever 
 heat of war ! The next day was a wild one for Hubert 
 Goodwin ; so were those that followed. He was no 
 longer his own master, but the slave of his good for- 
 tune — the servant of the regiment. It was not that 
 he had so much to do ; Sedley and his committee, with 
 a hundred other willing helpers, did much of the work ; 
 but he had to seem to direct, to approve, to encourage 
 to suggest. It was a strange task for one so inexperi- 
 enced. Fortunately, he had Sedley at his elbow, more 
 fortunately still, others were as inexperienced as him- 
 self. A uniform went for a great deal ; a title was 
 a badge of authority then. Courtesy in hearing and 
 promptness in deciding were the chief qualities that 
 were necessary in his new field of duty, and these he had. 
 
 He learned afterward that if he had been a trained 
 soldier he probably would not have succeeded as well as 
 he did in his new role. He would not then have dared 
 attempt what he did not now hesitate to undertake. The 
 new uniform, no longer suitable to his rank, did service 
 with its one row of buttons just as well as if there had 
 been two. He worked night and day, and at high pres- 
 sure all the time. Everybody wondered at his success. 
 He wondered himself more than any one else. He knew 
 that the days seemed years, but he felt that the " call " 
 for which he had been waiting had come — he had found 
 what there was for him to do. 
 
 Saturday came, and with it the colonel ; a sturdy, 
 chestnut-bearded man, beginning to show gray threads 
 among his close-cropped hair. Hubert was ready to 
 report. Seven troops were complete, the others nearly 
 so ; the ranks of the Legion would be full before Mon- 
 day night. Sedley reported that he would have the 
 camp ready by Wednesday. It was to be on the race- 
 course where Henlopen was buried. 
 
268 A So7i of Old Harry. 
 
 The colonel commended what had been done. He 
 wondered, indeed, that so much had been accomplished 
 in so short a time. It is not strange. The civilian 
 always excels the soldier in the preliminary work of 
 organization ; he is not hampered by habitual fear of 
 disapproval. But the time was ripe for the military 
 mind to assume control. There were men enough ; they 
 must be transformed into soldiers. Drill, discipline, 
 subordination, confidence in things unseen, these things 
 must be taught the ardent recruits. The colonel's 
 eyes flashed with pleasant anticipation as he contem- 
 plated the task. H*e' had hardly expected ever to 
 hold so important a command. A regiment of cavalry ! 
 It had been the dream of his life ! He would make it 
 the best in the service. Sedley promised that he would 
 attend to the equipment, and Hubert rejoiced at an 
 opportunity to learn the duties of his new station under 
 one of the brightest examples the time afforded. It was 
 with a sigh of relief that he laid aside the responsibility 
 of command and assumed the station of a subordinate. 
 
 Relieved of the burdens which had been so suddenly 
 cast upon him, Hubert Goodwin returned to his old 
 room in the seminary building to take a final leave of 
 his old life. He had not visited it for a whole week. It 
 seemed as if a lifetime had elapsed since he crossed its 
 threshold. How shrunken and unfamiliar it looked — as 
 if he had gone back into some other state of existence ! 
 A heap of letters lay upon the table. He smiled as he 
 thought of the contrast with the formidable official mis- 
 sives to which he had become accustomed during those 
 eventful days. It was curious that what he had done 
 appeared as nothing to him now, yet a week before it 
 would have seemed impossible. He did not feel tired 
 exactly ; he felt old. He was a new man ; the one who 
 
Old Harry's Luck. 269 
 
 had occupied that room a week before was dead — ^buried 
 under a new life. 
 
 He had not forgotten the old life, however. Every 
 day he had sent a brief note to Delia, telling how hurried 
 he was, and promising to come and see her on Saturday. 
 And now Saturday was here, and he suddenly remem- 
 bered that he had neither seen her nor heard anything 
 from her. What did it mean ? Many ladies had called 
 at the headquarters. Even Kitty Parker had come ta 
 congratulate him on his new title, and condole with him 
 on the sad fate of Henlopen. It was strange she had 
 not written. He had not thought she would carry her 
 opposition to his enlistment to such lengths. He would 
 soon cure her of that, he said to himself with quiet confi- 
 dence. Perhaps — he caught his breath, and a flush of 
 rapture lighted up his face as the thought flashed through 
 his mind — perhaps he might even persuade her to re- 
 deem her oft-repeated pledge and become his " forever 
 and ever " before he marched away into the vortex of war. 
 
 How sweet the quaint words of the child-betrothal 
 seemed as his lips whispered them ! He was sure she 
 would see that they need not wait longer ; that she 
 ought to be his wife before he went out to battle. 
 Why not go home and be married at once ? He could 
 get a week, perhaps two. It would be a short honey- 
 moon, but at such times love must stand in abeyance. 
 Duty is the soldier's watchword, and he was a soldier. 
 He felt that the transition was complete. The red 
 spur on his heel burned hotly, but its glow gave him only 
 pleasure. He was a son of Old Harry now ; and Theo- 
 philus ? Pshaw ! What did he caie for doom or dole ? 
 
 He picked up the letters. The first was directed in 
 his uncle's hand. He laid the others down, and opened 
 it with a smile. A flush of pleasure came to his face as 
 he read the hearty congratulations, and the smile 
 
270 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 deepened as he found that his future was to be linked 
 with another horse — one of proud enough descent to be 
 worthy of his high destiny. He wondered if the glare 
 of battle would bring him closer still to that noble beast 
 with whom his fate seemed to be irrevocably linked. 
 
 "It's a pity about the big bay," wrote Horace Good- 
 win, " I always knew he was a good one, though I can't 
 quite believe he did a mile in the time you mention. 
 You did just right about the money, and deserve the 
 luck it brought — every bit of it. Come and see us 
 before you go. Your mother is dying to show you off, 
 and we are all very proud of you. I am sorry your 
 regiment is not from this State, but, of course, you 
 couldn't miss such a chance as that. I am very busy 
 helping raise and equip troops. If it was not for your 
 mother and the babies I should have to go, too. I know 
 how you feel, for the old mark bums like fire every 
 time I think of it. 
 
 "Now that you are going in the cavalry, you will 
 want a horse that will be a credit to the regiment, and 
 I have decided to let you have Damon, out of Queen, 
 by Gray Eagle — five years old, with all the good qual- 
 ities of both stocks. You can hardly imagine how he 
 has come out since you saw him. You know he has the 
 lofty crest and proud carriage of the Eagle, with the 
 soft, seal-brown coat and silver mane and tail of old 
 Diomed. He has even that curious mark that comes 
 out now and then on one of that grand old horse's pro- 
 geny, and never yet seen where his blood was absent — 
 a white spot as big as a dime, an inch above the crown 
 of the right hoof. He is the very ideal of an officer's 
 horse — proud, bold, full of fire and determination, and 
 as tough as a whip-cord. If you go to Virginia, you will 
 probably find a good many who will recognize him as a 
 
Old Harry s Luck. 271 
 
 descendant of one of the proudest sires of the Old 
 Dominion. If he has any fault of form, it is that he is 
 a little too long bodied — if that is a fault. I am inclined 
 to think it an excellence. He gets it through the Bel- 
 mont Mare — all her descendants have it. You won't 
 find anything that will outshine or outstep or outlast 
 him, though, North or South. That's my notion at 
 least. 
 
 " Susan and I had planned to make Delia a present 
 of the colt on her wedding day — he is so fine under 
 the saddle, you know — but we feel sure she would not 
 want him, under the circumstances. Poor girl ! How 
 does she bear her trouble ? It must be terrible to one 
 so high-spirited. Everybody had a sort of distrust of 
 Kincaid, but no one thought he was such a rascal. It 
 would probably never have come out if it had not been 
 for that whelp, Marvin. It seems he has been bleeding 
 Kincaid for years on account of some connection with 
 that old gang of horse-thieves. Marsh got tired of pay- 
 ing, and the scamp threatened to blow on him — did 
 begin to let out hints of what he could tell — and the first 
 thing anybody knew, Kincaid was gone. He left a 
 power of attorney with Kendall, to sell everything and 
 send him the money. His wife followed him two or three 
 days afterward. I don't think he had done anything 
 very bad — probably getting me shot was the worst — and, 
 if he had, it was outlawed ; but he has been getting proud 
 and trying to be respectable of late years, and was so 
 fond of Deely that he couldn't stand it to meet disgrace. 
 So he broke and run. I'm inclined to think it the best 
 thing he could do. I don't suppose Dee will want to 
 come back here now — though everybody would be just 
 as kind to her as ever ; but if you don't marry her and 
 keep her with you until you are ordered to the front, 
 you're not the man I take you to be. After that, if she 
 
272 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 will come and stay with us while you are gone, we will 
 g^ve her just as warm a place as there is in our hearts. 
 
 " Some pretend to think that Marsh has gone South, 
 but I don't believe it. It's my notion he'll turn up some- 
 where with the army. He's got plenty of money and 
 is just the kind of a man to make it count at such a 
 time. You might keep an eye out for him." 
 
 What did it mean ? What had Delia suffered while 
 he had been so happy ? He glanced hastily over the 
 other letters — all but one at the bottom of the pile, 
 directed in her familiar hand to " Mr." J. H. Goodwin. 
 She had not learned of his preferment then — or was she 
 angry ? She did not know how thoroughly " Jack " had 
 been expunged ; even the initial was gone now. His 
 commission was addressed to " Hubert " Goodwin, and 
 as such he had been mustered in. He had eliminated 
 even the suggestion of that name whose grotesque 
 equivalent his love had chosen for a pet name. No one 
 else would ever call him that again. He tore it open 
 hastily. It was dated the very night he had seen her 
 last : 
 
 "Jack: I couldn't tell you what you will probably 
 know before you read this. 1 wanted to go away — to 
 hide from it, but you would not. You were right. My 
 place is not with you, but with those who suffer shame. 
 I shall go to them before you are awake to-morrow. Do 
 not try to follow or find me. If the time ever comes 
 when I can be your wife without stain to your good 
 name, I will let you know. I will write — sometimes, 
 and, wherever I am, will read the Standard. If you 
 insert an advertisement ' To Dee,' I shall see it and will 
 answer it, if — if I can. I shall love you ' forever and 
 ever.' Dee." 
 
Old Harry's Ltick. 273 
 
 While he had been so busy about other things his love 
 had fled out of his life ! How barren his honors seemed 
 now that he had lost her ! All else was ashes ! But he 
 had hope. He hastened to the Brainerd Institute and 
 learned nothing more than he already knew. 
 
 He sat down and wrote an advertisement, which he 
 sent to the office of the Standard. 
 
 " To Dee : I shall wait * forever and ever !' 
 
 "Jack." 
 
 It did not seem an extravagant statement, though the 
 advertising clerk smiled incredulously when he read it. 
 
 He enclosed a bank-note* to pay fdr the advertising, 
 and asked that whatever remained might be credited to 
 "Jack." 
 
 Then he went out and walked the streets until nearly 
 night, trying to decide what he ought to do, and finally 
 doing the very thing he ought not to have done. He 
 went to see Kitty Parker. 
 
 Perhaps what afterward happened would have hap- 
 pened anyhow, but it is a dangerous thing for a man to 
 seek the presence of one attractive woman when his 
 heart is sore, even though it be full to bursting, with 
 love for another. And Kitty Parker was not only a pretty 
 girl, but bright and intelligent, too, and had unfortu- 
 nately a very tender regard for Colonel Hubert Good- 
 win — a regard that antedated by many months that 
 officer's commission. 
 
 The month which followed was called by Colonel 
 Craft a month of idleness. It was that rugged veteran's 
 belief that the best way to make soldiers out of raw 
 levies was to set them at once to doing a soldier's duty 
 — marching and fighting. From the very day he 
 assumed command, therefore, he was clamorous for the 
 
2 74 ^ "^^^^ ^f O^^ Harry. 
 
 arms and equipment, and tireless in drill. To the men, 
 and especially to the officers of the Legion, these were 
 very far fi om being idle days. It takes a deal of brain, 
 as well as patience, to transform a thousand men who 
 have never had an hour's training of hand or eye into 
 efficient soldiers, especially when they who teach must 
 themselves be taught. If the days were busy ones for 
 the soldiers, they were overcrowded ones for the offi- 
 cers. Drill, tactics, reports — all the infinity of detail 
 which distinguishes military from civil life — these had to 
 be learned at high pressure, a year's work crowded into 
 a month. Under these circumstances, Hubert had little 
 time for regret. Now and then, when the thought of 
 his lost love seemed likely to overpower him, he would 
 get leave of absence from the camp for a few hours 
 and ride out along the road which had become so 
 familiar to him when Henlopen was in Farmer Parker's 
 care. He did not talk with Kitty about Delia Kincaid. 
 He could not tell her all, and foolishly concluded to say 
 nothing. She knew, of course, that there was something 
 wrong between the lovers. Whether she was glad or 
 not, who shall say ? That she sympathized with Hubert 
 there could be no doubt, and her sympathy comforted 
 him. How should she know that every day his eyes 
 scanned the columns of the Standard ior an answer to 
 his advertisement ? How should she know that he was 
 the " Jack " who had directed the advertisement to be 
 marked ** itwtf " — once a week until forbidden ? She 
 did not even recall that his name was "Jack." She 
 had met Miss Kincaid, but she had never heard of 
 " Dee." It is not surprising, therefore, that she jour- 
 neyed to the Western city near which the Legion were 
 to receive their mount, under pretense of visiting a 
 cousin, but really that she might see the regiment 
 when it passed through on its way to the front. 
 
Old Harry's Luck. 275 
 
 That was a proud day for the young lieutenant- 
 colonel. He knew that his mother, his uncle and Kitty 
 Parker were among the spectators ; yet though he 
 responded gayly to the greetings of these friends, there 
 was a weight on his heart that the one face dearer to 
 him than all others was missing. The regiment pre- 
 sented a fine appearance despite the inexperience of the 
 men. It was but three days since they had received 
 their saddles. The better part of them had never been 
 on horseback a dozen times in their lives. The horses 
 were fresh and spirited. Sedley had attended to their 
 purchase, and in each troop they were all of the same 
 color — black, brown, bay, chestnut. Taken as a whole, 
 they were probably the best lot of horses that ever bore 
 the brand *' U. S." upon shoulder and flank. 
 
 There were some fine mounts among the officers, but 
 Damon eclipsed them all, quite fulfilling his owner's 
 expectation. His bright eye, swelling nostril, high-flung 
 silver crest and splendid action attracted attention not 
 only to himself but to his graceful, self-possessed rider 
 as well. The sturdy colonel smiled grimly as he 
 listened to the cheers which greeted his dashing sub- 
 ordinate and thought of the thirty-mile march which 
 lay before the regiment on the other side of the river' 
 ere it would go into camp. He meant to give men 
 and horses a jaunt that would test their mettle, and 
 expected to see his lieutenant-colonel droop as well as 
 the others. How proudly erect the experienced soldier 
 sat in his saddle ! Firmly braced up, he knew men 
 would have before them all day long one model, at 
 least, of soldierly form and fortitude. He thought there 
 would be only one ; but when the sun dropped to the 
 edge of the horizon, and he sat by the way-side to 
 observe the regiment file past as it went into camp, he 
 found, to his surprise, that his young subordinate sat 
 
276 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 his horse as firmly and unweariedly as himself, though 
 during all that first long march Damon had not con- 
 descended to abandon the proud amble with which he 
 set out and come down to a staid and quiet walk. He 
 gave the horse and rider a look of admiration as they 
 went by, and when next morning he found both as 
 ready for duty as himself, he counted it fortunate that 
 his immediate subordinate would do credit to his 
 tutelage and example. From that hour the old soldier 
 and the young one were sworn friends. The luck of 
 Old Harry still clung to his descendant. If Venus 
 mocked his desire, grim-visaged Mars smiled fondly 
 upon him. 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 HOW HISTORY IS MADE. 
 
 It was nearly two years after the storm of war began. 
 The troopers of the Sedley Legion had long since 
 become veteran campaigners. Their guidons had 
 known both victory and defeat. They had marched, 
 scouted, fought and fled. They had stubbornly impeded 
 the advance of a triumphant enemy, and fallen savagely 
 upon his rear in retreat. They had been the eyes and 
 ears of commanding generals ; had guarded communi- 
 cations and protected trains, and sometimes acted as 
 body-guards arid servitors of those carrion-birds of our 
 army, the cotton speculators who coined gold out of 
 brave men's blood. The gleam and glitter of their 
 bright array had long since paled. War had ceased to 
 be a holiday to them. The horses of the various troops 
 had lost their uniformity. Beardless boys who went out 
 
How History is Made. 277 
 
 as private soldiers wore soldier-straps as complacently 
 as their mustaches, now. Men who had never mounted 
 a horse until mustered in, sat their saddles now as easily 
 as a vaquero. The brilliant officer who first commanded 
 them had won a star before he had been three months 
 in the field, and Hubert Goodwin had been promoted 
 with the hearty approval of his superior. The blood 
 of the old cavalier served him well, and not only the 
 regiment he commanded, but a whole army were proud 
 of the dashing young soldier. He was not alone. All 
 around him there were men who had leaped from the 
 desk to the saddle, and were striving in noble compe- 
 tition for coruscating stars — the priceless rewards of 
 valor — with which the firmament of war was full. It 
 was the day of miracles, which were so common that 
 men hardly wondered at them. 
 
 A great battle was in progress. The Sedley Legion 
 — now a " legion " no more, but only Nth Cavalry — 
 was scattered here and there — a troop at headquarters, 
 others with the trains, two more upon a scout, and three 
 with the young colonel in command, watching Sigsby's 
 Bridge upon the extreme left, with orders to prevent a 
 crossing if attempted in force, but not to attack unless 
 absolutely necessary. 
 
 All day long the battle had roared and surged away 
 to the right, swelling down to the center, pushing back 
 the left, but still the troopers of the Nth Cavalry waited 
 unengaged behind the wooded crest that hid them from 
 the enemy beyond the bridge. The day had been cold 
 and lowering. The rain had swollen the narrow stream 
 until it overflowed its banks and spread half across the 
 bottoms on which the unpicked cotton stood, the snowy 
 bolls flecking the rows of frost-browned plants. Along 
 the stream was a narrow belt of timber, and through it 
 a single opening, with a weather-beaten bridge across 
 
278 A So?t of Old Harry. 
 
 it, and the turbid water touching the stringers on either 
 side. The green leaves and red berries of the holly- 
 dotted the hedgerows, while the mistletoe hung from 
 the branches of the few ancient giants which marked 
 the course of the stream. Above the second growth of 
 the low-ground could be seen the enemy's picket-line 
 upon the hills beyond, and now and then a couple of 
 guns, posted on the highest of them, sent a shell shriek- 
 ing through the oaks beneath which the troopers stood. 
 The side and crest of the hill behind which the troopers 
 lay were covered with dark, clinging cedars, through 
 which the road leading down to the bridge showed red 
 and steep. 
 
 Colonel Goodwin, pacing back and forth in the edge 
 of the cedar thicket, watched and waited. Toward 
 night, his scouts brought word that troops were mass- 
 ing beyond the river, preparing to cross in force. He 
 reported the fact to the commanding general, and asked 
 for help. Not a regiment or a gun could be taken from 
 its place in the beleaguered front. The reports became 
 more positive ; his appeal more urgent. Not a man 
 could be spared ; so came the reply, but the Nth Cav- 
 alry must prevent the crossing ; an attack from that 
 quarter would be fatal. If they could delay the enemy 
 an hour, a brigade coming up from the rear would 
 relieve them. This was the response of the general in 
 command. The enemy was preparing to cross. 
 Hubert Goodwin sent back three troopers to find and 
 guide the relieving force, and placed himself at the 
 head of his men. A brigade had already crossed the 
 bridge and formed in line on each side the road. They 
 were evidently intended to support the crossing of a 
 larger force which had not yet appeared, and for the 
 coming of which they waited. They outnumbered him 
 three or four to one, but for the moment they were at 
 
How History is Made. 279 
 
 his mercy. The ground was in his favor. If he could 
 beat these back, it might delay the intended movement 
 — probably would. There was no hope of doing it by 
 any other means. He rode along the ranks and spoke 
 a few words to his men. His horse tossed its silver 
 mane as proudly and pranced as daintily as if on review. 
 He knew his men, and they knew him. The hard, 
 tanned faces, the firm-set lips and down-drawn brows 
 answered his appeal even more satisfactorily than the 
 cheer that went up from their throats. They were old 
 soldiers, and, consequently, not anxious for battle ; but 
 not one of them would flinch at any odds. 
 
 Then he returned to his post. The bugle sounded ; 
 some needless orders flew from lip to lip ; sabers rat- 
 tled from their iron scabbards, and their curving backs 
 were pressed against the firm broad shoulders. Every 
 man settled himself doggedly in his saddle. There was 
 a quick trot to the brow of the hill. Then the bugle 
 sounded the charge. Every lip repeated the expected 
 command, and with the silver-maned son of Gray Eagle 
 in the lead, the Nth Cavalry swept down the sharp 
 incline, in the face of shot and shell, upon the thin 
 infantry line in the bottom. These made a brave 
 stand ; but, knowing that the ground was firm, the 
 cavalry wheeled to the right and left, and before they 
 could reload or even fix their bayonets, were upon them. 
 They were forced back into the overflowed skirt of tim- 
 ber. Most of them threw away their arms and swam 
 and scrambled for the other side ; but many recogniz- 
 ing, with a soldier's quick intuition, the advantage of 
 this position, though the water was almost to their 
 waists, halted and fired from behind the trees at their 
 pursuers. At the same time, a section of artillery 
 wheeling into position on the road beyond the bridge. 
 
28o A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 sent a perfect hailstorm of shot along the way by which 
 the cavalry had come. 
 
 It was over in an instant ; the retreat sounded, and 
 the few who were left put their horses at the sharp, shot- 
 gashed ridge and dashed back to form again under its 
 shelter. 
 
 The silver-maned charger was in his accustomed 
 place, his eyes flashing, white tail waving proudly and 
 nostrils showing red and hot in the quivering seal- 
 brown muzzle. But the wooden stirrups with the 
 splashed leather shields hung empty at his side. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A LESSON IN ORNITHOLOGY. 
 
 " Say, Bill ; did you ever hear a whipper-will in 
 Christmas week before ?" 
 
 " Can't say ez I ever did, Jim, an' I ain't dead sure I 
 hear one now." 
 
 A couple of Confederate pickets crouching in the 
 cedar thicket above Sigsby's Bridge were talking in low 
 tones, while the plaintive note of the night-bird came 
 with startling clearness from the narrow bottom 
 beyond. The day's battle had been a drawn one, and 
 the two armies bivouacked within hearing of each other. 
 In many places the pickets were hardly fifty yards 
 apart, and a fitful fire ran up and down the lines at 
 intervals all night long. Each army could see the glare 
 of the other's camp-fires reflected from the trees and 
 the lowing sky. Each could hear the sound of prepara- 
 tion, too, and the low, plaintive cadence of the moans 
 
A Lesson in Ornithology. 281 
 
 that went up from the wounded and dying who lay 
 between the lines — that saddest of all the grim incidents 
 of war. 
 
 " Don't yer hear that one down thar on the bottom ?" 
 
 '* I'm a-hearin' of it straight enough, but I ain't exactly 
 sure 'bout it's bein' a whipper. Ef hit wer' June, now, 
 instead of December, I probably wouldn't think nothin' 
 of it, but jest at this time hit do sound suspicious-like." 
 
 " Seems ter be right across the run, whar the cavalry 
 charged on us, don't it ?" 
 
 " That's just whar it is, I've been a-hearin' of it 
 quite a little time now by spells. I thought at first hit 
 mought be some sort of a sign, and have hed my eyes 
 and ears open to see ef thar wer' anythin' goin' on 
 tharabouts. Ye know the Yankee pickets is jest in the 
 edge of the wood on the brow of the hill 'cross thar, an' I 
 didn't know but they might be tryin' for the bridge 
 again. 'Tain't likely though, fer they must know thet 
 ef they couldn't get through thar by daylight it ain't 
 an)rway probable they'd be able to at night. I 'low it's 
 some poor fellow thet's got hurt a-whistling fer his 
 mate to come and help him off. Of co'se it's orders to 
 fire at anything we see a-stirrin' toward the front, but I 
 ain't gwine ter shoot at no whipper-wills, ner nobody 
 thet comes ter help 'em, either. It's too dark to make 
 out anything clear an' good down in the shadder on the 
 bottom anyhow, an' ef the clouds should break away, 
 an' I should see anythin' movin' round thar, I couldn't 
 make out whether it wer' a man er a mule — unless thar 
 wer' a good many of 'em. That ain't orders, but it's 
 sense." 
 
 " So hit ar. Bill. I 'low ther's many a poor fellow 
 over thar — ours ez well ez their'n — that's jest a-prayin' 
 fer somebody ter come an' take him off, or, perhaps, 
 even give em one drink of water 'fore he dies. Of 
 
282 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 co'se, orders is orders, an has ter be, but sojers knows 
 'bout sech things, an' the feller that goes ter shootin' 
 cause one of the t'other side crawls out ter find his 
 pardner, ain't fit ter be on picket at sech a time. 
 Hark ! Thar 'tis ag'in ! Wal, now, ef that ain't a 
 whipper then I don't know one when I hears it." 
 
 ** Hit do sound powerful like one — that's a fact." 
 
 " That were a mighty purty charge the Yanks made 
 thar, jest about sundown, Bill ?" 
 
 " The cavalry ? Never seed the like ! It were all 
 nonsense, though ; ef they'd got the bridge they couldn't 
 er held it." 
 
 " Not a minit." 
 
 " An' all our folks hed ter do was jest ter fall back 
 inter the edge of the swamp, an' they was ez safe ez ef 
 they'd been inside the rock of Gibraltar." 
 
 " Edzactly ; arter all, 'twere jest foolbizness, puttin' 
 a line over thar at all. We'd no bizness a-crossin' the 
 run till enough on us went over ter do something." 
 
 *' That's so ; but we emptied the saddles lively when 
 they started back ! I don't b'leeve more'n half on 'em 
 got over the hill. Did you see the kunnel ?" 
 
 " The one on the hoss with the white mane ?" 
 
 " Edzactly." 
 
 " Who could help seein' of him ?" 
 
 " Wasn't it splendid ! There he was, with not more'n 
 three or four hundred men at his back, chargin' a line 
 four times as strong, an' tryin' ter take a bridge in p'int 
 blank range of two twelve-pounders, that wasn't served 
 by men asleep, by no manner of means ! He must have 
 knowed thar wam't any chance for 'em ter do nothin', 
 and not much chance of many of 'em gettin' back ; but 
 ter see him come down the big road thar, ahead of the 
 line, his sword over his head, an' a-lookin' back every 
 now an' then ter see if his men was all right — with the 
 
A Lesson in Ornithology. 283 
 
 shell drappin' all about him, an' tearin' up the dirt in 
 front of 'em — I tell you it was grand !" 
 
 " Our fellers didn't stop ter have no argyment with 
 'em," said the other, laughing softly, " They jest 
 turned an' took ter to the water like so many frogs in a 
 mill-pond." 
 
 " No use of doin' anything else." 
 
 " Co'se not ; thar war the critter-fellers comin' right 
 down on 'em, an' the creek way over its banks behind 
 'em, an no chance ter get across only that narrer bridge. 
 An' we couldn't help 'em a mite till the Yanks war 
 plum down to the bridge. I s'pose they thought too 
 many of us was crossin' ter the'r side." 
 
 The dry, quaint humor of the Southern countryman 
 showed in the words and tones of the speakers. 
 
 " Of co'se ; an' ef it hadn't been fer that charge, I 
 s'pose we'd all been all over that bridge pretty soon 
 a-tearin' up the hill, an' like as not rollin' up the'r flank 
 with a yell jest ez we did the other wing in the mom- 
 in'." 
 
 " I wouldn't wonder. They say that was the gineral's 
 plan, an' that's why our folks hed been so mighty keer- 
 ful not to make any show round here all day — jest 
 keepin' a little gyard down at the bridge, ez ef the'r 
 wasn't only a handful in the neighborhood. But the'r 
 was some mis-connection ; nobody were on hand ter 
 foller them two regiments across, an' they hadn't fairly 
 got inter line each side the bridge, afore the cavalry 
 was onto 'em — an' they were a-comin' back without 
 waitin' for no pontoons," 
 
 " I s'pect the Yankee kunnel seed what was in the 
 wind, an' charged jest ter break it up." 
 
 " More'n likely ; he did it, too, Yer see, 'twouldn't do 
 ter try ter steal across ag'in, an' it were so late afore the 
 
284 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 artillery got up ter cover the crossin' thet ther* warn' 
 no use ter start afore nightfall." 
 
 '* I s'pect we'll have ter try it in the mornin'." 
 
 " I doubt it. Yer see, 'tain't no fit place ter cross 
 nohow, unless we could steal across unbeknownst. 
 Our fellers ought to have charged up the hill yonder 
 as soon as they struck the dirt, instid of spreadin' out 
 on the bottom like a fan, an* waitin' ter be rid down." 
 
 There is no keener military critic than the observant 
 veteran in the ranks. 
 
 " Of co'se ; but I s'pose they hed their orders, same as 
 we 'uns." 
 
 " Likely ; but I don't believe there was anything but 
 the leetle squad of cavalry to stop 'em then ; an' that 
 wouldn't have been anythin' ef they hadn't squatted like 
 an ole har' in her form an' waited ter be rid down ; but 
 there'll be infantry an' artillery thar afore mornin'. I 
 wonder ef the Yankee kunnel were killed ?" 
 
 " I seed his hoss go back without him." 
 
 " Yes, I seed that, too ; when the bugle sounded he 
 fell inter his place an' went up the hill with stirrups 
 flyin' loose, ez proud an' stiddy ez ef his master war on 
 his back." 
 
 " Which he ain't ever likely ter be ag'in." 
 
 " Prob'ly not. That were a powerful unhealthy 
 place down by the bridge when our folks was once out 
 of the way, an' not a sign of cover goin' back up the 
 hill. Thar's the bird ag'in ! Yer see that ain't no 
 whipper." 
 
 •' I s'pect yer right ; but the feller's playin' it fer all 
 it's wuth this time, no mistake. What's that ?" 
 
 There was the sound of a scuffle at the rear ; cries of 
 ** Whoa !" and the shouted command, " Stop him !" 
 
 " Reckon somebody's hoss is loose," said the other, 
 carelessly. 
 
A Lesson m Or^tithology. 285 
 
 " Here he comes !" 
 
 The sound of a horse's hoofs splashing down the clayey- 
 road toward their post was now plainly heard. 
 
 " Looks ez ef he were desartin' to the enemy, don't 
 it ? Shall I shoot ?" 
 
 "Tain't no use, but — here he is !" 
 
 Both discharged their gfuns, instinctively, as a horse 
 dashed by them along the road by which they were 
 posted. They began at once to reload. 
 
 " Was there anybody on him, Jim ?" 
 
 " I don't believe there was — it was so dark I couldn't 
 see — but the stirrups was a-flyin' ; I heerd them. Thar 
 he goes across the bridge !" 
 
 " Looks like it war a deserter, don't hit ?" 
 
 " Listen." 
 
 The horse had stopped on the other side of the bridge 
 and gave an inquiring neigh, 
 
 " Jest listen at the whipper, Bill — ain't he a-goin' it ?" 
 
 " An' the hoss is answerin' him, Jim." 
 
 '* 'Pon my soul, I b'leeve he is !" 
 
 The horse was evidently retracing his steps, whinny- 
 ing from time to time with startled inquiry. The 
 whip-poor-will call was rapidly repeated, with an 
 unmistakably persuasive emphasis. 
 
 " It's some feller callin' his hoss, Bill." 
 
 " But this one come from our side." 
 
 " Hit must be one o' their'n thet didn't git back. Yer 
 know ther war a number of 'em come cl'ar acrost the 
 bridge." 
 
 " So they did — the kunnel among 'em. I wonder how 
 any of 'em got back." 
 
 '* This one didn't, ye see ; an' hearin' his master a 
 callin' of him, he's answered. That's the way on't. Bill." 
 
 " Wal, don't that beat any thin'? I tell ye, Jim, a hoss 
 knows 'most ez much ez a man— ef he 's treated right." 
 
286 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " Sometimes more. Yer couldn't fool a hoss with no 
 whipper-will song, 'specially of a New Year's Eve." 
 
 " Thet's so." 
 
 The soldiers laughed under their breath. 
 
 " Who's there ?" 
 
 Footsteps were hurriedly approaching from the rear. 
 
 " All right," answered an officer, in a low tone, as he 
 joined them from the reserve. 
 
 " What was it, Capting ?" 
 
 " The colonel's horse has deserted to the enemy," 
 answered the officer, unable to repress his laughter. 
 
 " Anybody on him ?" 
 
 " Not a soul ; but he's taken the colonel's kit — saddle- 
 bags, holsters and all." 
 
 The captain chuckled again over his superior's mis- 
 fortune, 
 
 " Which hoss was it ?" asked Bill. 
 
 " The bay he got up in Kentucky." 
 
 " How did it happen ?" 
 
 " He's been a-fretting for half an hour, biting and 
 kicking like mad. The boy couldn't do anything with 
 him, and the colonel, who always thinks he can do every- 
 thing better'n anybody else, went to try his hand. He 
 no sooner got hold of the bridle than he was pitched on 
 his head in the mud, and the horse started full tilt for 
 the Yankee lines. I s'pose he was crazy, but it's a good 
 joke on the colonel all the same." 
 
 " Capting, that hoss has found his old master over 
 thar. Jest listen at him now." 
 
 Short neighs of recognition came up to their ears out 
 of the darkness in the valley, and the whip-poor-will 
 call was repeated softly and quickly. 
 
 ** I believe you're right," said the captain, after lis- 
 tening a moment. " There he goes," he added, as he 
 heard the sound of the horse's footsteps walking away 
 
A Lesson in Oriiithology. 287 
 
 from them along the road. Almost instantly there was 
 a commotion among the pickets on the crest of the hill 
 beyond the river. Shots were fired and a general alarm 
 seemed to be given. 
 
 " The durn fools '11 shoot ther own man !" said Jim, 
 in a tone of disgust. 
 
 " An' the hoss too," added Bill, regretfully. 
 
 " If he'd jest charge on 'em, I reckon he'd stampede 
 the post," said the officer. " And that's what he's doin' 
 too !" he added, excitedly. " There he goes, by thun- 
 der !" 
 
 The rush of gall oping hoofs was heard dashing up the 
 opposite hillside ; there were a half-dozen shots, shouts, 
 a drumbeat, and all the vague clamor of a night-alarm 
 in an army lying upon its arms in constant apprehen- 
 sion of an attack. 
 
 " Well," said the officer, with quiet humor, " the colo- 
 nel has lost a mighty good horse and the Yankees have 
 lost some sleep. We needn't be afraid they'll disturb 
 us any more to-night, but I hope it won't be our turn to 
 be in the lead if our folks try to cross that bridge in the 
 morning. The Yankees'll have twenty guns ready to 
 play on it by that time. Good-bye." 
 
 The officer turned back toward the reserve, and left 
 the picket quiet and watchful, waiting impatiently for 
 the relief. 
 
 " Jim," said Bill, after a while, " I wouldn't wonder if 
 the story got out in the newspapers an' worked its way 
 along into books, an' so finally come to be believed, 
 that a whipper-will was heard a-singin' atween the 
 lines of these two armies this very night, cold an' dark 
 an' the last day of December ez it is. Yer see them 
 Yankee newspaper chaps don't know a whipper-will 
 from a water-rat, and don't know but they're just as 
 likely ter sing New Year's Eve ez May-day night. Bet 
 
288 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 ye what ye dare, Jim, the No'th'n papers'll hev a big 
 splurge over that thar whipper's singin' ter the dead an' 
 dyin' down where the Yankee cavalry got cut up." 
 
 " Shouldn't wonder," answered Jim, sagely. 
 
 And, sure enough, they did. It is thus that history 
 is made. The mid- winter whip-poor-will of Stone 
 River still lives, a splendid example of the force of 
 human credulity. Science is not less powerful against 
 the supernatural than truth against sentiment. Bill 
 Sykes and Jim Blaisdell guessed out the truth ; but 
 they were not newspaper correspondents, and the 
 world never got their version of the marvel that hap- 
 pened between the picket lines at Sigsby's Bridge that 
 night. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 OUT OF THE DARKNESS. 
 
 "You've had a close call. Colonel." 
 
 The man who spoke wore the uniform of an army 
 surgeon. The one he addressed sat in a rude reclining 
 chair, on the porch of a hospital, which stood upon a 
 bluff overlooking a noble river, which was covered with 
 gunboats and transports. There was a hint of spring 
 in the air and sunshine. Forts and earth-works showed 
 red against the brown hill-sides. A half-mile away 
 was a city. Lines of white tents were visible here and 
 there. Flags dotted the landscape with color. The 
 invalid, who was wrapped in an army blanket, with a 
 soft red rug thrown over it, looked up inquiringly from 
 his pillow. 
 
Otit of the Darkness. 289 
 
 "You see, it was a good while before you had any- 
 proper care, and that bullet, which only made a new 
 parting in your hair, played the mischief with the brain 
 under it. It seemed to touch the very centre of volition. 
 Involuntary action was not much impaired ; that's what 
 saved you. Liquids placed in your mouth were swal- 
 lowed, and, fortunately, assimilated. The straps on 
 your shoulders showed your rank, but it was a good 
 while before we were able to learn who you were. 
 There didn't seem to be any scarcity of colonels, and 
 we couldn't learn of any who were unaccounted for." 
 
 The doctor laughed quietly at his own humor. 
 
 " How long has it been since the battle ?" asked the 
 invalid, weakly. 
 
 " Do you see that hint of color in the orchards across 
 the river ?" 
 
 The young man looked languidly in the direction 
 indicated, and signified assent by a movement of the 
 eyelids rather than a nod of the head. 
 
 " What do you think it is ?" 
 
 " Peach-blossoms ?" 
 
 " Exactly. They are a little late this year, they tell 
 me. This is the last day of February, and the battle, or 
 your part* of it, at least, was the last day of December." 
 
 " That — is ?" glancing toward the city. 
 
 " Nashville." 
 
 " We won — I suppose ?" 
 
 " Naturally, or you would hardly be here in my care." 
 
 " And my regiment ?" 
 
 "It is at the front." 
 
 " When can I join it ?" 
 ^ '* Can you bear the truth ?" 
 
 The officer's lips quivered, but he nodded affirmatively. 
 
 " I believe you can," said the surgeon, with a satisfied 
 smile, " and it is better for you to know the truth at 
 
290 A So7i of Old Harry. 
 
 once than be finding it out by degrees. Well, then, I 
 suppose you will hardly go back to the regiment at all." 
 
 A spasm of pain passed over the young man's face. 
 
 " Is it as bad as that, doctor ?" 
 
 "Well — yes and no. A man who has had your luck 
 should not speak of anything as bad. Let me give you 
 a stimulant and light a cigar, and I will see if I can get 
 you back into the world, so that you will know where 
 you stand." 
 
 The doctor poured some spirits into a glass upon a 
 stand near by, and gave the other a sip. Lighting a 
 cigar, he seated himself upon a camp-stool facing the 
 couch, and after a few whiffs, said : 
 
 " I have been expecting these questions for a week 
 and been fearful that something might happen to shock 
 you before you were prepared for it. You must under- 
 stand that I think you are all right — that you only need 
 care and rest and attention to be as good as you ever 
 were ; but my associates of the medical staff do not 
 agree with me. They say it is possible, but not probable. 
 You must understand, therefore, that your recovery 
 depends very largely upon yourself, and just now the 
 most important thing is that you should not suffer any 
 sudden shock. I will tell you all I know, and the rest 
 you must gather up little by little, never allowing your- 
 self to get excited about anything. Can 5'ou do it ?" 
 
 ""l will try." 
 
 '' That is it — just put on the brakes and I don't believe 
 you will be in any sort of danger. Now, what is the 
 last thing you remember ?" 
 
 " I think it is — Was there a charge ?" 
 
 " Down a hill — toward a bridge," suggested ^ne sur- 
 geon. 
 
 " Yes ; I remember they had crossed the bridge. It 
 was a wicked thing ; but it had to be done." 
 
Out of the Darkness. 291 
 
 The speaker closed his eyes and shuddered. 
 
 " No doubt about that ; and it was well done — 
 splendidly done. Everybody is proud of it. They say 
 the charge saved us from an attack on the left flank that 
 would probably have bee'n fatal, hard-pressed as we were 
 on the right." 
 
 " We didn't get the bridge ?" 
 
 " No, but you threw the troops which had already 
 crossed into inextricable confusion, and there was no 
 time to supply their places with others before dark." 
 
 The officer nodded. 
 
 " There were a few reached the bridge and some say 
 you went clean across it." 
 
 " I believe I did," with a flush. 
 
 " The next in command, thinking you were lost and 
 satisfied that all had been done that could be accom- 
 plished, ordered the retreat to be sounded. Your horse 
 returned to his place, but you were not with him." 
 
 "I seem to remember falling off." 
 
 " Do you remember anything more ?" 
 
 The other shook his head. 
 
 " Some time during the night you came charging into 
 our lines, half -unconscious, clinging to a strange horse — 
 a Confederate officer's horse, in fact. Do you know how 
 you got it ?" 
 
 He shook his head again. 
 
 " I had a curiosity to kiaow, for it seemed to me most 
 probable that the shot you received was fired by our 
 pickets. You might have been stunned by your fall ?'• 
 
 " I seem to have a remembrance of being down — 
 afraid I would be trampled on, you know — and then 
 getting up — on a horse — but it is like a dream. I seem 
 to have been dreaming ever since." 
 
 " Well, you have been. Your regiment was sent to 
 the rear — what was left of it, at least-—" 
 
292 A Soil of Old Harry. 
 
 " There were only three companies," interrupted the 
 other. 
 
 " I know — the rest were detached. Well, there 
 weren't many left — men nor horses — and they were sent 
 back after the charge. A neW brigade which had just 
 come to the field was ordered into position there. They, 
 of course, did not know you — a good many thought you 
 were a Confederate, indeed, but you were sent to a field 
 hospital, and after awhile brought to the city — not 
 exactly unconscious, but curiously out of joint " — the 
 surgeon tapped his head to explain his meaning. 
 *' Nobody expected you to get well, and an army hospi- 
 tal is a poor place for such cases as yours. I happened 
 to be down at the church where you were, and was 
 attracted to you by a singular circumstance. You did 
 not seem to know anything that went on about you. 
 You could see — for you flinched from a blow if your 
 eyes were open — and could hear, for the calls which were 
 sounded at a battery on the hill above the hospital 
 seemed to start some train of thought in your mind. But 
 the thing that struck my attention was that you kept 
 repeating over and over again exactly the same expres- 
 sion that a patient of mine whose case interested me 
 greatly had used in something the same way." 
 
 " What was that ?" 
 
 " Oh, it wasn't anything of importance," answered the 
 doctor, evasively. " I'll tell you about it some time. 
 You've had about enough for the present. What I want 
 to tell you now is that I had you brought here, and 
 after a while learned who you were. You mustn't let it 
 disturb you, but your friends supposed you to be dead. 
 Somebody had taken everything from your pockets 
 before you reached the hospital — perhaps while you 
 were on the field — and so you were reported dead or 
 missing." 
 
Out of the Darkness, 293 
 
 " And some one has been put in my place ?" asked 
 the young man, chokingly. 
 
 " Don't let that trouble you. The day before you 
 were shot, you were nominated a brigadier-general ; and 
 when the story of your gallant conduct was received, 
 though you were then missing and might be dead, the 
 Senate conrirmed the appointment and the President 
 signed the commission. There, there ! Don't let your 
 good luck break you down now. There's many a man 
 would be willing to change places with you, even if you 
 were as dead as everybody thinks you, for such honor 
 as that." 
 
 The tears were running over the sunken cheeks down 
 into the brown beard. The doctor handed him the glass 
 and required him to take more of the stimulant. 
 
 " Now, I am going to have you taken back to your 
 room," he said, " give you an opiate, and you must go 
 to sleep. In the morning you must tell me what word 
 I am to send to your people. I have let no one know, 
 as yet, that you are alive." 
 
 The next day Hubert Goodwin was decidedly better. 
 The languor and apathy which had previously affected 
 him had perceptibly diminished, and he was already 
 beginning to make plans for the future. The first thing 
 to be done was to re-introduce himself to the world who 
 believed him dead. He thought it would have been 
 pleasant to have remained incognito awhile longer— to 
 have watched the world until the weariness he felt 
 passed entirely away. But then he would lose his share 
 in the great events that were happening — that share 
 already so brilliant. He determined to annotmce his 
 return to life, or consciousness, at least, by a letter to 
 the President, thanking him for the promotion he had 
 receivQdv 
 
294 -^ "^^^^ ^f ^^^ Harry. 
 
 The surgeon wrote the few lines necessary, at his 
 dictation, which he signed with difficulty. 
 
 ''And you must telegraph to my mother !" 
 
 " Of course," answered the surgeon, dryly, "We will 
 have her here in no time. You think you could stand 
 it to see her — and anybody else, I suppose ?" 
 
 "I guess so," answered the young man, thoughtfully. 
 
 " You know you are not — very strong yet — and have 
 to be watched all the time when you are asleep, lest you 
 should do yourself harm." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" asked the patient, a little 
 irritably. 
 
 " Well, you see, one of the queer things about your 
 case is that you had all the time a sort of semi-conscious- 
 ness of the depression of the skull and its pressure on 
 the brain. This consciousness showed itself in sleep, 
 and you were all the time trying to dig it out of the 
 way. So you kept the wound torn open all the time, 
 and we have had to keep it bandaged and plastered and 
 your hands tied, too, until — well, until we concluded to 
 have you watched while you slept." 
 
 The tinith was that the young officer had undergone 
 that most delicate of surgical operations, trepanning, 
 with the difference that in his case a portion of the skull 
 had been taken from the head of a less fortunate 
 sufferer, and carefully fitted to the opening. As death 
 had just occurred, and the subject from which the 
 portion was taken was of about the same age, it soon 
 began to grow into its place, but the irritation of the 
 swiftly knitting edges gave such annoyance to the 
 patient that he was in constant danger of displacing it. 
 The surgeon did not think it wise to let him know this 
 fact, and yet felt that he must offer some explanation 
 of the constant watch-care exercised over him, both 
 while sleeping and awake. 
 
' Out of the Darkness. 295 
 
 " I heard that your uncle — your stepfather, I believe," 
 continued the surgeon, " came and got your horse. He 
 had a bullet through the fore-arm, I think, but was 
 doing well. They say the regiment was almost as 
 proud of him as of their colors." 
 
 Tears showed under the young officer's lashes as he 
 closed his eyes and whistled softly to himself to hide 
 his agitation. 
 
 " Do you know what they call you in the hospital ?" 
 asked the surgeon, with a smile. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "They call you the Whip-poor-will — because every 
 now and then you take to whistling, as you did just 
 now, only sometimes you whistle a great deal louder 
 and keep it up by the hour at a time." 
 
 " It is the way my uncle always teaches his horses." 
 
 " By the way, I remember seeing in the papers that a 
 whip-poor-will was heard singing between the lines the 
 night of the battle, despite the fact that it was mid- 
 winter and freezing cold. I suspect it was you instead 
 of the bird." 
 
 " Likely as not." 
 
 " You've been at it ever since, anyhow. You haven't 
 asked me who identified you." 
 
 " Some of the men ?" 
 
 " No, indeed !" 
 
 " Perhaps I told you myself ?" with a smile. 
 
 " Oh, but you didn't know yourself. If you had told 
 us we shouldn't have believed a word you said. Give 
 it up ?" 
 
 The other bowed assent indifferently. 
 
 " See if you can't guess. Who would be most apt to 
 hunt you up ?" 
 
 " Sam ?" 
 
 " Who is Sam ?" ' ■ 
 
296 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " My boy — my servant." 
 
 " Pshaw ! no. Think, now — a woman." 
 
 " What — who ? A woman ?" 
 
 Was it — could it be ? Alas ! he knew it was not. 
 Memory had come back, and with it the recollection of a 
 letter received from his mother three months before : 
 
 " Horace says I must write and tell you," it had said, 
 *' that he has traced the Kincaids finally. They are 
 prospering under another name. Dee w'as sick for a 
 long- time after she left school — in an asylum for 
 several months. She was discharged as cured, and mar- 
 ried a short time after. Horace went to see her, so 
 that there should be no doubt about the matter. He 
 says he never saw her looking better. She pretended 
 not to know him, and, he says, carried it out splendidly. 
 When he asked her if she had forgotten you — Jack — she 
 said : * Jack ? Jack ?' * Yes ; Jack Goodwin,' he said — 
 angrily enough, I do not doubt. ' Jack Goodwin ?' 
 she repeated, smiling in his face as bold as brass. 
 " Seems as if I had heard the name, but I cannot recall 
 the person.' When he told her he had come on purpose 
 to see her because you wished to know how she was 
 and asked her if she had any word to send to you, she 
 professed great surprise, but said, in her sweetest way : 
 'Tell him I am sorry I do not remember him, but I am 
 glad he does not forget me.' 
 
 " And this is all there is of it, my son. I know it will 
 almost break your heart, but she was not worthy of you. 
 I received a paper containing her marriage notice. 
 I do not send it to you, judging that you will prefer to 
 know nothing more about her. We feel as if we had 
 lost a daughter. I believe Horace thought almost as 
 much of her as you did. We cannot understand it, but, 
 as he says, * seeing is believing,' Of course, we have 
 
Out of the Darkness. 297 
 
 got to forget her, too, and I suppose the easiest way will 
 be to say nothing more about her." 
 
 " And she promised to be mine * forever and ever, 
 the young man said, as he bowed his head upon his 
 hands after reading the letter. All the rest of it had 
 faded from his memory. These words seemed etched 
 forever on his consciousness. 
 
 ** You haven't guessed yet," said the surgeon, desiring 
 to interrupt what he judged to be an unpleasant 
 reverie. 
 
 " Not my mother ?" 
 
 The other shook his head. 
 
 " There is no one else." 
 
 " Did you not know a lady — a young lady — black hair 
 — dark eyes-^red cheeks ?" naming each attribute separ- 
 ately and suggestively. 
 
 The young m^ shook his head with blank negation. ; 
 There was no woman in the world for him but Dee ; 
 and Dee was no longer his ; married, months ago — 
 another's ! His face grew pale ; he was sick at heart. 
 He did not wish to hear of any other. 
 
 " Never knew a young lady named — named — Kitty ?" 
 the doctor suggested. 
 
 The young man smiled languidly. 
 
 " Ah ! I thought so. It really frightened me when 
 you guessed everybody else and said nothing of her. 
 Such a splendid girl, too ! But when one's head has 
 been out of gear for a while, it takes some time to get 
 his bearings again. Well, sir — she came, this Miss 
 Kitty — what's her other name ?" 
 
 "Parker." 
 
 " That's it ; you are getting along finely — well, she 
 came about six weeks ago, maybe more — and just 
 began a systematic search for you. You see, the trouble 
 
298 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 was that nobody could be found to correspond with 
 your ' descriptive list.' There was very little fighting 
 just at that point, except the charge you made, and no 
 one having your rank or of your description was found 
 there. There were two theories : one, that you had 
 been captured, and the other that you had wandered off 
 and died on some other part of the line. Miss Kitty 
 determined to find out the truth. She is a very decided 
 girl, or she would never have done what she did. She 
 thought you were dead, of course, and went and hunted 
 up all the "■ burying details " and showed them your 
 picture, hoping to learn where you had been buried. 
 She had copies of it made, too, and sent to the Confed- 
 erate surgeons, but could get no trace of you. 
 
 " Finally, she happened to run across the surgeon 
 who examined you when first brought in, and so traced 
 you to my hands. Of course, I knew the portrait as 
 soon as I set eyes on it, and she hafi been here ever 
 since and has taken the best kind of care of you. 
 There's no nurse so good for a man as a woman who 
 loves him." 
 
 " She must have taken a great deal for granted," said 
 the other petulantly. 
 
 " Now, see here, young man," interposed the surgeon, 
 jocularly, " don't you go to breaking the poor girl's 
 heart by talking in that way. You owe her a good deal 
 more than you think — more than you will ever owe any- 
 body else." 
 
 There was an impatient movement from the couch. 
 
 " There aren't many girls that would have been as 
 faithful and persistent," continued the surgeon ; ** and 
 now she is frightened nearly to death lest you should be 
 displeased with her. If you don't treat her right, I shall 
 wish I had left you to your fate instead of bringing you 
 here and making your case special." 
 
Out of the Darkness. 299 
 
 " Why didn't you ?" asked the patient wearily, half- 
 turning his head away and gazing at the rough board 
 partition. 
 
 "As I told you, I should have done so if it had 
 not been for a peculiarity of your case which inter- 
 ested me. I was down at McKendree — that's the 
 name of the church where the hospital was — one day, 
 and heard you whistle. * Hellow, doctor,' I said to 
 my friend ; * have you got an aviary here ?' 
 
 " * O, that's our whip-poor-will,' he replied. " By the 
 way, you are interested in such things, suppose you 
 come and have a look at the fellow ? Nobody here 
 thinks he has a ghost of a chance, but he persists in 
 living ; and, well, there can be no harm in looking at 
 him.' 
 
 " You see he knew that alienism was my specialty, I 
 had been assistant-superintendent of an insane asylum 
 for years before I entered the service, and would have 
 been superintendent if I had not been a better medical 
 man than politician. 
 
 " Well, we went into the body of the church and 
 found you in one of the pews they had transformed into 
 cots, whistling away for dear life, greatly to the annoy- 
 ance of the other patients, who were, however, very 
 lenient and kindly to your infirmity. The nurse said 
 you had been worse than usual that day, meaning that 
 you had whistled more. While I was looking at you, 
 you stopped. The expression of your face suddenly 
 changed, and it seemed to me that y ou had received a 
 new mental impression, either from sound or touch. 
 You did not open your eyes ; but when I pressed back 
 the lids the orbs rolled about in their sockets uneasily, 
 showing an uncomfortable sensitiveness to light. 
 Finally, the expression of your countenance softened 
 •and you said, solemnly : 
 
300 
 
 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 *' ' Forever and ever, Amen.' " 
 
 The officer started. 
 
 " You are surprised ? Well, I don't wonder. Of 
 course, if I had known that you had been a divinity 
 student, it would not have seemed quite so strange ; but 
 the fact is that this very sentence was the keynote, or,, 
 rather, the insoluble puzzle of one of the most interest- 
 ing cases I have ever known. So, when you repeated it 
 over and over again, I naturally took an intersst in 
 you, and the result is — well, I have added quite a little to 
 my reputation, or shall, when you make me the medical 
 officer on your staff, as I shall expect you to do as soon 
 as you get the stars on your shoulders." 
 
 "And I'll do it, doctor," said the young man, heartily. 
 "You may count on that." 
 
 " All right," answered the surgeon, jestingly. " Here's 
 my card ; so there will be no excuse or delay about the 
 matter." 
 
 He handed the young officer a card as he spoke, on 
 which was printed : 
 
 " I'll not forget it, and only hope you will not refuse 
 to come on my demand. But — what was the other case 
 you refer to ?" 
 
 " The other case ? O, yes — the ' forever-and-ever- 
 amen,' case. Well, it was a curious one. Let me see," 
 he continued, taking out his watch. " I've only got a 
 few minutes, but I can give you the main points of it 
 
OtU of the Darkjiess. 301 
 
 It was while I was at the Institution, you know, just 
 about the beginning of the war, a young lady was 
 brought there who had only two thoughts left in her 
 mind. She would speak — sometimes, not very often — 
 but the only word she uttered was * Jack.' " 
 
 There was a groan from the cot. 
 
 "It was hard. I suppose you can sympathize with 
 her. I don't think the word meant anything to her, 
 though. She just repeated it mechanically. She had 
 been at school for years and had overworked herself, 
 so that the brain all gave out — was completely dis- 
 organized, so far as thought was concerned. She was 
 very quiet and gentle ; never made any trouble ; did 
 whatever she was set to doing, but did it entirely 
 mechanically. She would feed herself if she saw others 
 eating, but left her food untouched if she did not. She 
 would sew if givena needle and saw a few stitches taken, 
 but she sewed right on, whether there was a thread in 
 the needle or not. 
 
 " She had been a remarkably fine scholar, I was told, 
 but she had forgotten every word in the language except 
 ' Jack,' and every letter. She did not understand any 
 thing that was told her ; would answer no questions 
 and did not know her own name or anything else. As 
 she improved in health, we tried every means we could 
 devise to awaken the slumbering intellect, but all to no 
 purpose. We brought her a dog, a cat, a piano, books, 
 but nothing could awaken the least sign of recognition 
 or interest, and I should have given up the case as 
 utterly incurable, but for the fact that we began to find 
 scribbled on the books and papers in her room the very 
 sentence you kept repeating, ' Forever and ever, Amen.' 
 
 " At first I did not think she did it. I had requested 
 her mother to bring me some specimens of her writing. 
 It was a fine, sloping, Italian hand, while these sen- 
 
302 A So7i of Old Harry. 
 
 tences were written in a strong, heavy, almost mascu- 
 line, back-hand. We had left pencils about the room, 
 for she was so quiet and lady-like, that she had a nice 
 room to herself, just to tempt her memory, so to speak. 
 She never touched one while awake, but when asleep, 
 as we found by watching, she would get up and write 
 these sentences, and very often hide them somewhere 
 about the room or bed. Queer, wasn't it ?" 
 
 "Very," answered the young man, hoarsely. The 
 surgeon did not notice the pallor of the face now wholly 
 turned toward the wall. • 
 
 '* That is the curious thing about the insane. No two 
 of them are alike. Each one is an independent puzzle 
 that has to be solved on its own combination, if at all. 
 Well, I tried for weeks to get a clue — find the key to 
 that girl's intelligence — but I couldn't do it. Finally I 
 concluded that her mind was just a blank. All the 
 impressions that had been made on it had been rubbed 
 oif . It was still receptive — weakly so it is true, and not 
 at all retentive — but after awhile she learned to repeat 
 words ; forgetting them, however, in a moment. Then 
 she began to notice what happened about her ; a change 
 of nurses annoyed her — and one thing after another was 
 done to awaken, not her former life and thought — that 
 was dead — irretrievably dead — but to establish a new 
 intelligence. Curiously enough, the first word she 
 repeated with any show of comprehension was 'horse.' 
 She was very fond of being driven and even riding 
 horseback, for which she seemed to have a natural apti- 
 tude. Almost the first thing she did showing connected 
 thought was to don her riding-habit, when she saw a 
 horse with a side-saddle on it, standing at the gate. 
 After a while she spent half her time almost in the sad- 
 dle, and for that matter, does so to this day, I am told. 
 It made no difference who rode with her so long as he 
 
Out of the Darkness, 303 
 
 was well-dressed and had a good horse. If he had not, 
 she would attach herself to the first gentleman rider she 
 met possessing these qualities. It seemed to mate her 
 angry to meet another lady riding with a gentleman, 
 and she sometimes behaved badly on such occasions. 
 
 " As soon as we found this key to her intelligence, 
 however, she improved very rapidly. She learned to 
 speak and to write in a few weeks, speaking and writing 
 exactly like her preceptors. After six months she was 
 discharged, cured ; that is, she was reasonably intelli- 
 gent and fairly sane, but she had not recovered, and 
 never will recover, any hint of her former life. She 
 learned to say * father' and ' mother,' for instance, but 
 has never showed any affection for either. Instead of 
 that, I and my wife are the real parents of her new life 
 — her new intelligence. She has had one or two partial 
 relapses — probably always will have them, now and 
 then — but a week or a fortnight at the institution fully 
 restores her. 
 
 " She was married along in the fall — last fall, that is. 
 I went home to the wedding. She was very glad to see 
 me, took me all over the new house her father had built 
 for her, and appeared to be fond of her husband ; but it 
 seemed to me to be rather as a toy than anything else. 
 I am afraid she has no clear comprehension of the rela- 
 tions between them. I advised against the marriage, 
 but my wife favored it. She was afraid something 
 might happen to her, you know, and I suppose it was 
 best. 1 should be afraid of trouble if that old life should 
 ever come back — but it never will. Her husband is a 
 very good man, considerably older than she, and as 
 gentle with her as if she were a child. Well, I must 
 
 go-" 
 
 " What — did you say her name was ?" 
 
 " Cyvelia King — but she named herself ' Weely,' after 
 
304 A ^^^^ ^f Old Harry. 
 
 she began to talk, just as a child often does, and is 
 always called so by her friends. By the way, her father, 
 Marshall King — is with the army here. He is a very 
 pushing man, and has done an enormous business buying 
 cotton. Perhaps you have met him, being in the cav- 
 alry — they say he keeps about half the cavalry of this 
 army scouting after cotton. You know there is one regi- 
 ment they call ' King's body-guard.' " 
 
 "Yes; I've heard of it. What kind of a looking girl 
 — ^lady, I mean — was this — your patient ?" 
 
 " Can't help thinking about her, eh ? Well, I'm glad 
 to give you something to think about, besides yourself, 
 and this was a queer case. Lucky I've got her picture, 
 for I couldn't ever make any headway describing a 
 woman. My wife says, that if she should ever get lost 
 I would have to get somebody to write out a description, 
 if I wanted to advertise her. There she is — don't look 
 as if she had lost any of her wits, does she ?" 
 
 He opened a small ambrotype case, which he took 
 from his pocket, as he spoke, brushed the dust off it and 
 handed it to his patient. The young man raised him- 
 self on his elbow to look at it, but instantly fell back, and 
 the case would have fallen to the floor had not the sur- 
 geon caught it. 
 
 " Hellow ! You musn't risk such sudden changes of 
 position," he exclaimed. " Here, take this." He 
 pressed a glass to the chattering teeth and white lips of 
 the young man. " That was too much exertion after 
 my long talk. I must go now, and you must keep very 
 quiet. Shall I send Miss Parker to you ?" 
 
 " I suppose you may as well," came faintly from the 
 pallid lips. 
 
 " You — ^you will be quiet and — and kind to her ?" 
 
 " Certainly — of course," 
 
 " That's right." 
 
hi the Toils of Destiny. 305 
 
 The surgeon bustled away, and after a few moments 
 Kitty Parker entered. Tears sprang to her eyes as she 
 saw a look of recognition in his eyes, and clasping the 
 hand he feebly raised from the coverlet in both her own, 
 she knelt beside the couch and covered it with tender 
 kisses. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 IN THE TOILS OF DESTINY. 
 
 What a mocker is Fate ! Hubert Goodwin would 
 willingly have doomed himself to celibacy, with only 
 the memory of love to cheer his loneliness. He was not 
 romantic or sentimental. It was with him as much a 
 matter of course that he should love Delia Kincaid as 
 that he should live ; and having once loved her, he 
 could never cease to love her. Until this moment, it 
 had never once crossed his mind that he could ever seem 
 to love another ; but he was human, and in a sense fond of 
 the charming girl who knelt beside his couch. He had 
 written to her, now and then, bright, breezy letters full 
 of the camp and the march — the glamour and the charm 
 of the soldier's life. He had not thoiight of love, nor 
 dreamed that he had inspired it. Kitty Parker was 
 bright, piquant, ardent ; not st) intellectual as his old 
 playmate, but intelligent and accomplished — fitted to 
 adorn any position. That was his estimate of her 
 character. In appearance she was not less attractive, 
 if estimated by ordinary standards. He had never 
 thought of instituting a comparison between them. 
 
3o6 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 The one he loved ; the other he liked. That was all 
 there was of the matter. 
 
 What is it that makes one nature or one type harmo- 
 nize so unmistakably with another ? With Delia 
 Kincaid, Hubert Goodwin always felt himself at ease. 
 She seemed a part of himself. But this other, not less 
 beautiful, whose attractions he confessed, whom he 
 respected and admired and whose love had unwittingly 
 revealed itself — this woman to whom he owed so much 
 — it was very different with her. The touch of her lips 
 upon his hand was unfamiliar. Her kisses were hot 
 and tremulous ; her tears annoyed him. He confessed 
 that the bowed head was shapely, but could he ever 
 fondle those dark shining locks ? How the pale golden 
 tresses blinded his eyes ! This flushed cheek, the shell- 
 like ear, the slender neck, round and firm, with its 
 graceful arch — they were all beautiful — but they were 
 not his. He would have felt no pang in yielding them 
 to another ; nay, he would have deemed another fortu- 
 nate in their possession. He even counted it a misfor- 
 tune that Fate had mocked him, in the very hour of his 
 bereavement, with a love so pure in a shrine so fair. 
 
 He knew it was Fate, however. His love was not 
 only his no more, but his very image had been blotted 
 from her memory. She had repeated his name — only 
 mechanically, however ; it brought no picture to her 
 consciousness. She was lost — dead. He was glad it 
 was so, if he must lose her. It would have killed him 
 to think that she was false, " Forever and ever " had 
 been no light vow to him. Why had she been given to 
 another ? Even if the soul had fled, he would hav€ 
 cherished the precious casket it once informed, with a 
 love as tender as when he sealed it with boy-kisses on 
 her child-lips. He flushed hot with anger at the thought 
 that another hand had profaned its sanctuary with 
 
\ In the Toils of Destiny. 307 
 
 caresses. But why should he dwell upon it ? Her love 
 was dead — its very ashes scattered on the winds of 
 oblivion. And life, harsh and real, was before him. 
 Fate was inexorable. Honor and gratitude alike 
 demanded that he should not spurn the precious spike- 
 nard this fair girl had lavished on his insensate form. 
 He could not shame the love which had thus unwittingly 
 revealed itself. He knew that his fate was sealed even 
 while he rebelled against it, 
 
 " You will forgive me — won't you ?" she asked at 
 length, lifting her eyes to his face. 
 
 " For what ? For saving my life ?" 
 
 " Oh, I didn't save it ; Doctor Talcott did that ; for 
 not sending for your mother sooner ?" 
 
 " Why should you ?" 
 
 "Oh, I ought ; I know I ought. What will she think 
 of me ? But I — I did not want to go away. It seemed 
 as if I had a right to stay — when I found you after 
 everybody else had given you up," 
 
 " So you had," solemnly. 
 
 The girl hushed her sobbing, and her breath came in 
 short, quick gasps. What did his words mean — no, 
 not the words, the tone ? 
 
 She turned her cheek away, that he should not see 
 the hot blood leap up in joyful answer to his summons, 
 
 *' Kitty !" 
 
 " Well ?" softly, doubtfully. She held her breath for 
 his response. 
 
 " You will not go away ?" 
 
 Not go away ? Did he mean — much or little ? Did 
 he want a wife — or a nurse ? She could not tell. What 
 did it matter ? She had shown this man her love. She 
 had broken the alabaster box upon his feet and wiped 
 them with her hair. He was her lord by open confes- 
 sion. Why should she question whether he asked much 
 
3o8 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 or little ? If he desired her life, it was his ; if only her 
 services, why should she refuse a part, having freely 
 given the whole ? So the hot, flushed face was lifted, 
 the tearful eyes sought his, and she answered, with bit- 
 ter but entire self-abnegation : 
 
 " Not if you wish me to remain," 
 
 " I do." 
 
 It was like an order given to one of his soldiers, and 
 like a soldier — none was ever braver — she bowed her 
 head in acquiescence ; bowed it upon the hand she held, 
 her face turned away from his gaze. Who shall tell her 
 disappointment ? She had hoped — ah, for what had she 
 not hoped ? Love — passion ? Why not ? She had 
 deserved all that man might give. Gratitude was the 
 least she could expect. And he was cold — so cold ! 
 The hand she held lay inert as death in her fervid 
 clasp. He had asked her to remain — to sacrifice her- 
 self — her maiden pride for him — almost as if perform- 
 ing an unpleasant task. When she looked into his face 
 there was no more trace of emotion there than in the 
 sculptured features of the Sphinx. But he was not 
 himself; he was sick, weak. No matter. She had 
 given all when she hoped for no return ; why should 
 she shrink now that her expectations were but half ful- 
 filled .' She would stay ; she would at least be near him 
 until his mother came. That would be one, two — per- 
 haps three days. After that — 
 
 It was needless to formulate the alternative. Even 
 while she knelt beside him Fate was busy forging the 
 links that were to bind them together. A press corres- 
 pondent, one of that host of imaginative news-gatherers 
 who follow in an army's track, easily wormed out of the 
 elate and kindly surgeon the story of his favorite pa- 
 tient's recovery, to which he added a pretty tale of 
 
In the Toils of Destiny. 309 
 
 woman's love — a story which outAives all other phases 
 of human experience in universal and perennial charm. 
 The correspondent did not, of course, reveal the 
 lady's name, but in announcing the discovery and con- 
 valescence of a gallant officer who had been mourned 
 as dead, he painted as sweet a romance as was ever hung 
 on the ferruginous front of war. The news of Hubert 
 Goodwin's recovery, and of the devotion of the young 
 lady whose love would not let her believe hini dead, 
 went out to the world together. There was no longer 
 any other course for him to pursue. If Delia Kincaid 
 were to come to-morrow, an unwed maiden, to ask ful- 
 fillment of his vow, he must in honor offer name and 
 hand to the woman whose heart would not rest upon 
 uncertainties in respect to his fate. His love he could 
 not give her — he had none to bestow. He did not hes- 
 itate — but told her the truth, and asked her to be his 
 wife. As before, she answered his request with the 
 lifeless formula of self-surrender :. 
 
 "If you wish it — to be so," 
 
 There was no elation, no tender exultation in her 
 tone. She had longed for love, and her hunger was 
 unappeased. Under other circumstances, she would 
 not have accepted an empty hand — a hand without a 
 heart — but she, too, was bound by Fate. Her secret had 
 been wrung from her and published to the world. To 
 refuse was not only to proclaim herself discarded, but 
 to stain the name of one whose honor was dearer to her 
 than life. So, on the heels of the story of their love, came 
 the announcement of their marriage. 
 
 Three months* leave of absence was granted the 
 young soldier. When it had expired, he was ready for 
 duty in his new station. Just before his departure, his 
 Tincle said to him one morning, as they sat under the 
 
3IO A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 great elm in front* of the new mansion, which had 
 replaced the old house : 
 
 '* Do you know, I believe I have solved the mystery 
 of your getting off the field that night ? It flashed into 
 my head as soon as I heard the doctor tell about your 
 whistling my old call. What is my theory ? You read 
 this, I suppose, when it came out ?" 
 
 He handed his listener a newspaper clipping, worn 
 and soiled, as he spoke : 
 
 " The lovers of good horse-flesh will regret to learn 
 that the noted horse, Belmont's Abdallah, was stolen 
 from the premises of his owner, Mr, James Mosely, on 
 Wednesday night, by a squad of men claiming to be 
 Confederate soldiers. As Mr. Mosely's Union procli- 
 vities are well known, this claim would naturally be 
 made by any company of bushwhackers who might see 
 fit to plunder his stables. He has often been warned 
 that it was folly to keep such valuable stock on disputed 
 territory, but until the present advance of Bragg's forces, 
 his.property has been undisturbed." 
 
 **Yes, I saw it," answered the young olflcer ; " and 
 during Bragg's retreat, while we were scouting in his 
 rear, I kept my ears open for any rumor as to Abdallah 's 
 whereabouts. In fact, I rode twenty miles one night 
 on a false report that he was * hidden out ' at a place in 
 the * knob country,' east of Lebanon, but found no trace 
 of him." 
 
 " Well, I have, or rather Lieutenant Barclay has," 
 answered the uncle. " By the way, I am glad you pro- 
 moted Chris. I tried to keep him from going as an 
 enlisted man at all. He might have had a commission 
 at the start as well as not ; but he was over-modest, 
 and besides, had his heart set on going with you. He 
 
In the Toils of Destiny. 311 
 
 wanted to be a farrier, too. He is proud of his ability 
 to shoe a horse, you know, and really thought he could 
 do the country more good by using that knowledge 
 than in any other way." 
 
 " With good reason, too. I hesitated about promoting 
 him on that account, but it has proved to be sound 
 policy. Half the efficiency of the regiment is due to the 
 fact that he has been permanently detailed to look after 
 the horses' hoofs. We rarely have one go lame on the 
 march now. There was some murmuring when I gave 
 him a first lieutenancy and detailed him as inspector of 
 horses, but every one soon recognized its wisdom. If I 
 get a cavalry brigade, as I hope I may, I shall take him 
 with me." 
 
 " Well, as I was saying, Chris got word from some 
 prisoners that a horse of Abdallah's description, belong- 
 ing to the colonel of the Second Kentucky Confederate 
 Infantry, which was one of the regiments guarding the 
 bridge where you made your charge, broke away and 
 came over to our side that night. They spoke of it as 
 a good joke on the colonel, who had bought the horse of 
 some bushwhackers up in Kentucky. They said he evi- 
 dently disliked the Rebel service, and made a break for 
 the Union lines. Now you see how it all happened ; 
 you were delirious and took to whistling our old call ; 
 he heard it and answered ; you clambered up on him 
 and he brought you inside the lines." 
 
 *' Seems very probable." 
 
 " Oh, there's no doubt about it, Tne horse that 
 brought you in was a bay — that's about all that could 
 be learned about him from the regiment whose lines 
 you entered, except that he was taken possession of by 
 an officer who was shot the next day." 
 
 " And that was the last of him ?" 
 
 " Hardly ; just after the battle there was a big cock- 
 
312 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 and-bull story in the papers about Mr. Marshall King — 
 that's the new name of our old friend of the Corners, 
 you know — who was acting as a volunteer aide on some- 
 body's staff, being taken prisoner during the second 
 day's fight, and getting away and coming back into our 
 lines on a Confederate officer's horse, which he had cap- 
 tured. Of course, King Marsh or Marsh King, which- 
 ever he calls himself, is a good deal of a man, there's no 
 mistake about that, and under such circumstances 
 would probably take considerable risk. The Confeder- 
 ates are not partial to men of his stamp — cotton-thieves, 
 as they call them — but such a feat is easier imagined 
 than performed, I fancy, and we know he has a very 
 able-bodied imagination. Of course, if it was a fact, I 
 take it he'd have got a commission before this time — 
 though, perhaps, he don't want it — more money in cot- 
 ton, I s'pose. But I ran across something this morning 
 which shed some new light on the matter." 
 
 He handed the other a newspaper, and pointed to a 
 brief paragraph as he spoke : 
 
 " The splendid stallion which was captured by Mr. 
 Marshall King at Stone River has been sold to Mr. 
 Stokes, of St. Louis, who will put him on a horse ranch 
 he is just starting in Colorado. The price paid is said 
 to have been a fancy one, it being the general belief 
 that the horse is one oi the most noted of trotting sires. 
 The West is to be congratulated upon his accession, and 
 it is quite possible that it may fall to the lot of his 
 progeny to justify the prediction so often made by horse- 
 men, that the greatest trotters of the world will be bred 
 in a high altitude and a dry climate." 
 
 " It's my notion that's our old Abdallah." 
 "I rather think it is." 
 
Caught by the Undertow. 313 
 
 " Kincaid got him after all, it seems, if he did have 
 to steal him twice. I was mighty sorry for you, of 
 course," continued the uncle, with an*affectionate look 
 at his companion, " but I'm glad now you didn't marry 
 into that family. Dee was well enough, but — why, 
 what's the matter ?" 
 
 The young man had grown suddenly pale, reeled in 
 his chair, and muttered brokenly : 
 
 " Forever and ever !" 
 
 " I declare, it's his old hurt ! Susan ! Kitty ! Come 
 here, quick !" 
 
 They found Horace Goodwin supporting his n ephew's 
 head, while the young soldier's eyes glared wildly down 
 the road, and his white lips repeated over and over : 
 "Forever and ever, amen !" But no one thought of 
 connecting these words with the vision of a girlish 
 figure on a black pony, which had flashed across his 
 memory and made the man a boy again. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 CAUGHT BY THE UNDERTOW. 
 
 The close of the war left Hubert Goodwin, like 
 many others, in a most unpleasant position. Before 
 reaching his prime he had won high honors in a profes- 
 sion he must now renounce. What should he do ? 
 The American had not then learned to loiter. The 
 impulse to achieve was then the controlling force in 
 every life, and the young soldier felt the full strength 
 of that restless desire for achievement which has built 
 up an empire within a possible lifetime. Strangely 
 
314 -^ <Son of Old Harry. 
 
 enough, he found the avenues of business almost closed 
 against him. He was not only a distinguished soldier, 
 but a young one. People thought the qualities which 
 had given him success in the field would militate against 
 him in civil life. He had no aptitude for politics, no 
 desire for a professional career. He had capital, energy, 
 confidence, luck, so it was said, so the past had proved , 
 but no one wished to venture with him. Even Sedley 
 seemed to have forgotten his old offer. Perhaps there 
 was something of envy in it. It was not pleasant to 
 know that the " Sedley Legion " had been almost for- 
 gotten, and that the young soldier, whose feet he had 
 set so high upon the ladder of preferment at the outset, 
 had gone on climbing up without his assistance until 
 his fame overshadowed his patron's. He had hardly 
 grown a fair mustache when a colonel's eagles graced 
 his shoulders, and the corps, which Sedley had created, 
 began to be known as " Goodwin's regiment." Nobody 
 thought of it as anything else, now. It was known only 
 by that and its number. Only by a careful scrutiny of 
 the records could one learn who had organized and 
 equipped it. 
 
 Hubert Goodwin had seen little of the wife whom Fate 
 had given him since their marriage, but he had given 
 her the key of his purse and she had used her privilege 
 thriftily in his absence. A charming home awaited him 
 on his return. His family had taken the brave young 
 wife into especial favor. His mother, resenting, as any 
 mother would, what she considered the perfidy of his 
 first love, had given even more than a daughter's place 
 to the wife whom she realized instinctively had less 
 than her due share of a husband's affection. She felt 
 that in his years of service her son had thought more of 
 the love he had lost than of the wife he had won ; but 
 she did not know how, in the strange seclusion which 
 
Caught by the Undertow. 315 
 
 the camp brings, he had turned again toward that 
 dream of the past. Closely associated with Doctor 
 Talcott, he had learned through the letters of the sur- 
 geon's wife everything that had happened to her ; how 
 she had grown petulant, morose, and finally so violently 
 antipathetic to both her husband and her parents that 
 she had come to the physician's house and refused to 
 return or hold any communication with her relatives. 
 She was quieter there, but took no interest in public 
 affairs and showed no memory of her former life. She 
 wandered in the grove near the house, rode her horse, 
 and seemed to have no thought of the present and no 
 care for the future. She would allow herself to be 
 called by no name except " Weely," which she often 
 repeated over and over to herself for some minutes at a 
 time, with a vague, puzzled expression that was new to 
 her. The only attention she paid to the announcement 
 that her husband had been elected to Congress was to 
 remark that she was glad of it, if it would keep him 
 away from her. 
 
 Dr. Talcott would say, after each of these letters : 
 
 " Strange as it may seem, I am afraid she will recover. 
 That would make trouble. You see, her marriage was 
 not really an act of her volition. The woman who 
 assented to the marital obligation was quite another 
 person — a different consciousness from that which once 
 dominated her nature. It seems as if the brain was 
 slowly drifting back to its normal condition. If it 
 ever reaches it, all that has intervened will be as blank 
 to her as her former life is now." 
 
 The kind surgeon did not know that this was rank 
 poison to the soul which had pledged itself, '* Forever 
 and ever," to that clouded consciousness. 
 
 Each day since his return had driven home to the 
 heart of Hubert Goodwin, more clearly than ever before, 
 
3i6 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 the terrible fact that he did not love his own wife, bnt 
 did love another's with a fervency which time could not 
 abate nor absence dull. Long before, he had arrived at 
 the conclusion that his marriage was wrong, a sin, al- 
 most a crime — not against her he had married, but 
 against the other, whom he might not marry — that love 
 who was dead and yet alive. He had even begun to 
 consider whether there was not some way by which he 
 might remedy the wrong. If he could only take the 
 poor, stricken life he loved away from her cruel sur- 
 roundings, he was sure he could make her happy. He 
 did not wish to do wrong, and he would not sully her 
 white, half consciousness even with the shadow of shame. 
 If he could only be with her, soothe, protect, cheer her 
 as if she were his sister ! Ah, he would willingly sub- 
 ordinate himself — eliminate, eradicate himself — to give 
 happiness, repose, content to the shattered life he loved ! 
 It was a dangerous mood for such a compound of con- 
 science and recklessness as the son of Theophilus and 
 Old Harry. 
 
 For a brief time the bright, sunny home dissipated 
 such fancies. Kittie Goodwin did not understand her 
 husband. Why should she ? He did not understand 
 himself. She feared he would be lonely after the tur- 
 moil of the camp, not knowing that among the multi- 
 tude of other men- the individual man is lonelier than 
 anywhere else. He has then no one to come near his 
 heart ; no one to share his life and thought. A man 
 dwells always in a zone which only a woman can enter. 
 Mother, sister, sweetheart, wife, daughter, friend — some 
 relation there must be which brings the complement of 
 manhood to his side, or man lives essentially alone. 
 Only rarely do two men become so attached that each 
 desires the constant companionship of the other. They 
 are naturally repellant poles. Cast away upon a desert 
 
Caught by the Undertow, 317 
 
 island or frozen in upon a polar sea, they become sus- 
 picious, resentful, hostile. If one is strong and the other 
 weak ; if one demands and the other affords protection 
 and support, the mutual aversion may be subordinated 
 to this need ; but if both are strong, safety can be found 
 only in separation — mutual isolation 
 
 It is not so with woman. Isolation is death to her. 
 Left alone, she loses her womanhood ; becomes coarse 
 and masculine in appearance and character. Thrown 
 near another life, she gravitates toward it by irresistible 
 attraction. If any insurmountable barrier prevents inti- 
 mate association with man, she turns to her own sex for 
 companionship. She is never recluse from preference. 
 She does not think out the puzzles of life alone, but feels 
 them out with another, or with another submits to them. 
 So this young wife, to cure her husband's loneliness, as 
 she thought, surrounded him with cheerful society. For 
 this she had planned during his absence ; on this she 
 relied to keep him near her and win him nearer. The 
 new home was full of light and revelry. The famous 
 young soldier and his beautiful bride made a center 
 around which society in those days of triumph and re- 
 joicing clustered as naturally as filings about a magnet. 
 She was trying to please, to divert him — to keep him 
 from thinking of himself or that shadow which she knew 
 hung over his consciousness, the result of his wound. It 
 was a sweet, womanly effort. She endeavored to make 
 his wealth, his fame, her beauty and attractiveness min- 
 ister to his happiness, and hoped thereby to win his love. 
 
 Ah, if she had only known — what woman can never 
 know — the heart of man, she would have taken a differ- 
 ent course. She would have realized that the gratifica- 
 tion of all a man's desires is the surest road to discon. 
 tent ; that it is only struggle and the need for struggle 
 that keep him on an even keel. He must be doing for 
 
3i8 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 himself or another, or he rusts, retrogrades, becomes de- 
 moralized. If she had applied the torch to the beautiful 
 home ; if, instead of self-helpfulness, she had shown de- 
 pendency and demanded care, the result might have 
 been different — nay, it would have been. 
 
 This is not said in blame. Save himself and his fate, 
 Hubert Goodwin had no one to blame for his acts or 
 their consequences ; it may, perhaps, be said in mitiga- 
 tion of the condemnation heaped upon him that he 
 blamed no one. If he had known his wife's thought, it 
 might have been better or it might have been worse. 
 As it was, he said to himself, when he saw the sparkle 
 in her eye, the flush upon her cheek and the thrill of 
 happiness echoing through her tones : 
 
 " This is her life. How happy she is ! I am the 
 only blot on the white page. I am deceiving her. 
 These things give me no pleasure ; but she thinks I 
 enjoy them. I am wronging her by the pretense of 
 happiness. She thinks me content ; she believes that I 
 love her as she deserves to be loved. I do not ; I can- 
 not !" 
 
 Ah, if there had come to him then the need of great 
 exertion ! But Fate will not be cheated. While he 
 waited, heart-sick and wistful, seeking opportunity, his 
 strength panting for demand upon its potency, the day 
 of subtle and irresistible temptation was approaching. 
 
 At the close of the war, Horace Goodwin, with justi- 
 fiable pride in his success, had said to his nephew : 
 
 " There is no need for you to take any thought for 
 the morrow. Here is the result of our joint ven- 
 ture." 
 
 Then he made a report of his acquisition, and apprais- 
 ing everything at a just value, divided it in twain, and 
 deducting only what he had paid on the other's account, 
 he handed to the silent partner in his enterprise — on© 
 
Caught by the Under toz,^ . 319 
 
 moiety of the proceeds. It was a tin box full of 
 government securities. The young man turned them 
 over curiously. He had known little of the financial 
 struggle by which the armies were supplied and the 
 nation saved ; so that these crackling sheets of paper, 
 with their green lettering, intricately ruled ornament- 
 ation and plentitude of blood-red seals, as if a soldier's 
 life were the guarantee of each promise which the 
 nation made to pay for her deliverance, were to him a 
 strange mystery. 
 
 "All you have to do," continued the proud uncle, as 
 he showed the result of his sagacious foresight, " is to 
 turn the key on those bonds — ^make a special deposit 
 where they will be safe ; use the interest as you may 
 desire, and their appreciation alone will give you 
 a greater profit than most business ventures can be 
 made to yield. I hope you are satisfied with my 
 stewardship ?" 
 
 *' Satisfied !" was the hearty response, ** I should be 
 most unreasonable if I were not. But you are unjust ,• 
 you have taken nothing for your expense — your care 
 and watchfulness." 
 
 " There you are wrong. Do you not see that what 
 we have expended is not in the aggregate ; it has been 
 consumed. I have charged you with your expenses up 
 to the time you entered the service, and thought, as 
 they then ceased, I ought to charge myself with our 
 own, but your mother said she was sure you would not 
 allow it." 
 
 " Nor would I." 
 
 " Well, I am satisfied if you are ; there is enough for all 
 of us ; though I expect to make something more for 
 the little ones now and then, as opportunity offers. 
 Making money has become a habit, you see. You do 
 not think I have been so bad a step-father, Hubert ?" 
 
320 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 The young man silently reached forth his hand. 
 
 " I am glad you are not sorry for having followed 
 my advice. I was not at all sure I was right, but I 
 tried to do what I thought Seth would approve. I only 
 thought of you and your mother ; and she only thought 
 of you. I don't think you at all realize how closely she 
 has followed your steps, and how proud she is of you. 
 You were her first child, and all she had to pet and 
 care for, until you were almost man-grown. Seth didn't 
 give her any chance to show her love for him. We are 
 a hard set in that way, we Goodwins ; we like to give, 
 but will not take. When you went off to school, I 
 thought she would cry her eyes out ; but you never 
 seemed to think she could be unhappy. I don't believe 
 your letters had a word of sympathy in them." 
 
 " But she had you, lincle." 
 
 " Me ! A nice pet I was, to be sure ! Of course, I 
 loved her — always had, for that matter, I believe — but 
 she would as soon have thought of loving a polar bear. 
 She wanted somebody to whose existence her love was 
 a necessity. She thought it was to you, until you went 
 away from her so contentedly. Of course, the children 
 have helped to console her, but they haven't taken your 
 place — never will. You are her child, her pride. I 
 really believe it would kill her if anything should hap- 
 pen to you ; if you should go to the bad, you know, as 
 we're both likely to, having the mark." 
 
 Horace Goodwin spoke with a prescient apprehension 
 which startled his listener. 
 
 " What are you going to do ?" he asked after a 
 moment. 
 
 " I don't — know," came the hesitant answer. 
 
 " You must not be idle ; it is death to a Goodwin. 
 Why don't you go West and look around .?" 
 
 " I thi^k I will," meditatively. 
 
Caught by the Ufidertow. 321 
 
 Ah, watchful guardian, it was a cruel thing for Fate 
 to make you the instrument of woe ! 
 
 The blow came very soon. The wife had no premoni- 
 tion. 
 
 One morning, she found on her dressing-table a note : 
 
 " Kitty : I am going away, I do not know where 
 nor when I shall return, if ever. There is no excuse 
 for the course I have taken, and I cannot hope for your 
 forgiveness nor to retain your respect. Not to soften 
 your resentment but to testify my regard, I give you the 
 major part of my estate. 
 
 " Trusting that you will forget me, and be happier 
 than you could hope to be if I remained, I bid you good- 
 bye, " Hubert Goodwin." 
 
 It was the last time but one that he ever subscribed 
 his name. These two signatures transformed an honor- 
 able patronymic into a blazon of eternal shame. 
 
 Upon her husband's desk, Kitty Goodwin found the 
 key of his strong-box and a deed to its contents. He 
 had taken with him one-third of the capital. The house 
 was hers. The deserted wife was rich, young and fair. 
 She did not know how soon she was also to be a widow. 
 She did not know that two days before there came a let- 
 ter from Doctor Talcott, saying : " The poor lady whom 
 you wot of is no better. She wanders about, calling 
 with plaintive eagerness for 'Jack! Jack! Jack!' — a 
 word which is the one remembered fact of a past she 
 will never find again." 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A FORSWORN KNIGHT. 
 
 The life I have depicted lies so far away from that 
 which followed, that its events seem to have occurred 
 to another. For this reason, I have told them in the 
 third person. Even now, when my mind has dwelt for 
 weeks upon the retrospect, I can hardly realize that it 
 was I who bore the name of Hubert Goodwin, an-d my 
 wife that was abandoned in the pleasant home while I 
 sped westward with only one thought in my heart — to 
 answer that yearning cry for my lost love. It had been 
 ringing in my ears ever since I read my friend's letter : 
 " Jack ! Jack !" I heard it every moment, night and day 
 — for I could not sleep — the throbbing engine called 
 me and the singing rails echoed the cry, " Jack ! Jack !" 
 
 I had no plan, no purpose, only to get to her side. I 
 had acted deliberately from a dull, stolid conviction 
 that the course I was taking would separate me finally 
 from my wife. I did not greatly care, if it did. For 
 myself I had no feeling except a certain sense of humili- 
 ation. I knew I was doing her injustice and bringing 
 discredit on myself. These things I felt keenly. The 
 old Goodwin pride was not dead, thoiigh the terrible 
 throbbing pain in my head — the pain which had always 
 marked the spot where the operation had been per- 
 formed — almost drove it from my mind. It was a 
 
A Forsivom Knight. 323 
 
 strange delusion, but all the time I had the thought 
 that if I could only find Dee — if I could once touch her 
 hand and look into her eyes, she would know me ; her 
 old life would come back and this terrible depressing 
 pain would disappear. And then — but I did not go 
 any farther. I did not care to imagine what might hap- 
 pen then. So I fled, sullen and desperate, but never 
 once relenting in my purpose, from honor to shame — 
 from life to death. 
 
 I did not need to ask the way to Doctor Talcott's 
 when I left the train at Wis wall Station. I knew he 
 lived five miles out on the road to Good Cheer, which 
 was as far on the other side. His place was called 
 Heart's Ease, and embraced a beautiful lake with a 
 romantic wooded outlet, called the Glen. This property 
 he intended to convert into a summer resort and sani- 
 tarium. Lying between two great lines of railroad, in 
 a region where the eternal sunshine of the prairie makes 
 the relief of shade and the music of falling water espe- 
 . cially grateful to overworn nerves, the good doctor 
 believed that in this bit of shaded waterfall and quiet 
 stretch of willow-bordered lake, he had not only health 
 and comfort, but that inevitable fortune of which every 
 American dreams. Over and over again I had listened 
 to his plans^ for its development. I am glad to say his 
 dreams have all been fulfilled. 
 
 I merely asked the livery -keeper, from whom I hired 
 a rig, the road to Good Cheer. As God is my judge, I 
 had no thought of what would happen on that eventful 
 day. I intended merely to get a glimpse of her — and 
 then go away. I will not deny that I hoped she would 
 recognize me, or that I confidently expected her to do 
 so ; but I had no thought of anything more. I wished 
 to let her know that she had my sympathy — that I still 
 loved her. I did not conceal from myself that I had 
 
324 A Soil of Old Harry. 
 
 no right to do even this. I was another woman's hus- 
 band, she another man's wife. The double barrier 
 between us I fully recognized. If I were willing to 
 plunge myself into shame, I had no right to drag her 
 down with me, and did not mean to do so. 
 
 It was a bright day in October. The dark, hard 
 road lay straight and level between brown, dry fields, 
 bordered with struggling osage orange hedges. Coun- 
 try homes, bursting cribs, eastward-sloping wind- 
 breaks, black cornfields with ripe ears hanging down 
 and gatherers at work in them, or sleek flocks browsing 
 among the broken stalks for neglected ears, hardly 
 relieved its flat monotony. The horse was one of those 
 even-going, hard-hoofed roadsters, with which a prairie 
 country always abounds. His pace did not seem rapid, 
 and I was surprised to find in half an hour the dun, 
 stunted grove of the Glen rising just before me, and 
 catch a glint of the little lake through the half -bare 
 branches. On the other side of the Glen, and a half- 
 mile above, I could see the unpainted roof of the new 
 building I had been told the doctor was erecting at 
 Heart's Ease. 
 
 The sun was very warm, but not warm enough to 
 account for the perspiration that poured down my face. 
 My heel burned as if in a clamp of red-hot iron. I felt 
 that I was going to my doom, yet I was powerless to turn 
 back. In truth, I did not wish to if it were possible that 
 I might give her any pleasure. I was willing to endure 
 anything for her sake, but this did not make the agony 
 I suffered any less. I drew up at the top of the bank 
 where the road slopes down into the narrow gorge, and 
 thought of all these things. The bright blue sky was 
 without a cloud. 
 
 I could hear the hammers of the men at work on the 
 new building across the ravine. The strong-limbed 
 
A Forsworn Knight, 325 
 
 chestnut pulled upon the rein and pawed the ground 
 impatiently. Should I go on or return ? 
 
 I did not know what would happen. I had formed 
 no plans, except that I would see her. But suppose she 
 recognized me ; suppose she appealed to my love — 
 implored my protection ? I knew that if she did I would 
 trample honor under my feet and become, from that 
 moment, an outcast among men. Should I go forward 
 or back — back to the wife I had abandoned or forward 
 to the love who had been torn from my arms ? I 
 thought it all over — my father's hope, my mother's 
 trust, my uncle's loving pride, my wife's happiness — it 
 was strange I did not think of her love. I realize now 
 that I had never gotten over a sort of resentment at the 
 fate which bound us together. I knew she loved me, 
 but had never comprehended the depth of her devotion. 
 It had never occurred to me that, even as I loved 
 another, so did she love me ; that knowledge was yet to 
 come. The hot blood mounted to my face, and I put 
 my hands over my eyes to shut out the sunlight, as I 
 thought how, only a week before, my old friend, Doctor 
 Neuman, had asked me if I felt no inclination to return 
 to the profession I had abandoned — had told me of the 
 good I might do, of the need of reapers in the great 
 white harvest-fields, of my father's aspiration, of the 
 prayers which had gone up for me in the days of battle, 
 and the joy of many hearts that, from the midst of 
 temptation, I had come forth unscathed. 
 
 How these thoughts stung and blistered and shriv- 
 eled my heart ! But all about me in the golden sun- 
 shine, echoing from the blue vault above, from the rus- 
 set-lined gorge below, in the strokes of the workmen, in 
 the roar of the waterfall, came the imploring, abjuring 
 cry, " Forever and ever. Amen !" A white face swam 
 before my close-shut eyes, white and wan and appeal- 
 
326 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 ing, with golden tresses, wax-like, wraith-like, drooping 
 with the unutterable agony of helplessness and despair, 
 A fresh breeze came over the flat, pitiless prairie, rustled 
 the yellow corn-husks on the one side and the brown 
 oak-leaves upon the other, and each one whispered and 
 wailed : " Forever ! Forever !" 
 
 How the patched place upon my skull throbbed and 
 beat ! The whole world seemed pressing down upon 
 my brain. My head was full of phosphorescent light. 
 And the Goodwins were proud — so proud of their good 
 name ! My life had been honorable, and I had had the 
 devil's luck. Now I must pay the devil's price, 
 
 I caught the whip from the socket and gave the horse 
 a savage cut. He dashed madly down the sharp incline. 
 The swift motion pleased me, I laughed at the bank 
 and the trees as they flew backward. Would the buggy 
 upset and dash me down — down to death on the rocks 
 below ? I hoped so. I struck the horse again ; the 
 buggy balanced on two wheels as we turned toward the 
 narrow bridge that spanned the white torrent-bed which 
 the shallow water spread itself lazily half-way across. 
 The frail structure swayed beneath the spuming feet, 
 and the rattling echoes raced up and down the Glen as 
 we flew over it. The road turned sharply to the right 
 and climbed up the other side of the gorge at a grade 
 even heavier than that which we had descended. There 
 was a wall upon the left, somewhat higher than the wheels 
 of the carriage — a parapet built to restrain the slaty 
 earth above. The rush had calmed my excitement. 
 Something seemed to have given way in my brain. 
 The wild, throbbing, desperate pain which marked the 
 location of the trephine was gone — gone forever, as I 
 learned — and I felt strangely light, exultant, free ; reck- 
 less, perhaps, I might better say. The past was not 
 forgotten, but seemed dim and remote. The steep 
 
A Forszvorn Knight. 327 
 
 grade was telling on the horse ; his pace fell first to a 
 trot, and then to a labored, wheezing walk. His flanks 
 were covered with foam. The sun beat down fierce and 
 hot in the windless ravine. 
 
 "Jack! Jack!" 
 
 A gray figure sprang from the ground a dozen steps 
 away, and in an instant stood balanced on the wall by 
 the roadside. I checked the horse in amazement. 
 There was a rush of garments, and a woman lighted 
 like a bird in the buggy by my side. The horse started, 
 but was too much fagged to run, and, after a few steps, 
 resumed his hurried, frightened walk. 
 
 " I'm all right," she whispered, seating herself com- 
 posedly. " Let him go." 
 
 I hastily soothed the horse with my voice. 
 
 " Jack ?" she said, inquiringly, turning her head toward 
 me. "Jack ! Jack I" she repeated wildly, flinging her 
 arms about my neck. 
 
 Ah ! How they choked me ! Or was it the heart- 
 beats ? I knew I had met my doom. Nay ! I was 
 already in perdition ! Yet I had no wish to turn back. 
 
 We were approaching the top of the gorge. I remem- 
 bered having heard that the road to Good Cheer ran 
 along the " section-line " a considerable distance from 
 the house. I put up the carriage-top, drew the dust- 
 cloth over her lap and took the right-hand road. 
 
 The die was cast ! I no longer felt sorrow, shame or 
 dread. She was with me ! 
 
 " Jack ! Jack !" she continued to repeat, as she 
 sobbed hysterically on my shoulder, 
 
 " Dee," I said tenderly, when we had passed the house 
 and had only the open prairie before us again — " poor 
 little Dee !" 
 
 I heard the workmen's hammers ring behind us as I 
 
328 A Soil of Old Harry. 
 
 spoke. I took the reins in my right hand and clasped 
 my left arm about her. 
 
 " Don't scold Weely," she said, shrinking away and 
 looking half -timorously, half-reproachfully up into my 
 face. My excited tone had frightened her. 
 
 What was it made the cold sweat start out from every 
 pore ? This was not she whom I sought. The features 
 were the same, the eyes the same, but another, a differ- 
 ent intelligence was in them. The voice had changed, 
 too ; there were the same tones, but of a different qual- 
 ity. It seemed as if another being looked through the 
 shallow, wavering eyes ; some soulless automaton moved 
 the lips that used to smile upon me when they spoke. 
 The hair, too — it had partly fallen down, and had that 
 visibly snaky look so characteristic of the insane. 
 
 *' Deely ! Dee ! Dee ! Don't you know me ? Don't 
 you remember Jack ?" I cried, in agony, striving to 
 awaken the consciousness I would not believe could be 
 dead to my entreaty. 
 
 A troubled expression came upon her face. She 
 seemed to be listening to something very far away — a 
 voice she could dimly hear or was unable to recognize. 
 
 ** Jack ?" she cried, with pathetic inquiry, looking not 
 into my face but past it. " Jack ! Jack !" she repeated ; 
 but there was no hint of recognition in her tones. 
 
 I bowed my head in shame and horror. What had I 
 done ? For what had I bartered manhood — honor — the 
 esteem of all? A crazy woman's senseless cry had 
 dragged me down to perdition. Strange enough, it did 
 not once occur to me that what had been done might 
 easily be undone, that I might drive back to Heart's 
 Ease, and by telling only the truth, hide forever all sus- 
 picion of the truth. 1 had set out to give my life for her 
 happiness. I did not think it material whether her de- 
 sire was rational or insane. So when she asked in that 
 
A Forsiuorii Knight. 329 
 
 horrible, mechanical tone, but with a bright, interested 
 look : " Are we going to Good Cheer ?" I nodded af- 
 firmatively. 
 
 " How good ! It is five miles," she said, contentedly. 
 " Shall we take the cars ?" 
 
 I looked at my watch. A train would pass there in an 
 hour going east. 
 
 " Would you like to ?" I asked. 
 
 She started at the sound of my voice, and looked at 
 me with curious inquiry. 
 
 "Jack!" she moaned, plaintively. "Jack! Jack! 
 Jack!" 
 
 The last words sank to a whisper. 
 
 " Where would you like to go ?" 
 
 "Anywhere," she answered brightly again — "any- 
 where. How good !" 
 
 Then her eyes became dreamy, and she repeated, 
 softly : " Jack ! Jack ! Jack !" 
 
 " To Dubuque ?" I asked. 
 
 It was there her husband lived. 
 
 "No !" she exclaimed, excitedly. Her brows knotted, 
 and she turned and spat angrily toward the roadside. 
 " No ! No !" she repeated. 
 
 There was a moment's silence, and then came again 
 the plaintive cry : 
 
 "Jack! Jack! Jack!" 
 
 How my heart ached ! Had she been calling me day 
 and night for all these years ? What were honor, rank, 
 esteem in comparison with her poor heart's content ? 
 Hereafter she should never call for me in vain. But 
 what should I do with her ? She would attract the at- 
 tention of every one we met. Thinking perhaps my 
 voice had stirred her memory and made her unusually 
 excited, I tried to disguise it, and said, in a very differ- 
 ent tone : 
 
330 A Son of Old Hari'y. 
 
 " If you go on the train you must be very quiet." 
 
 She looked inquiringly at me an instant, as if a little 
 disturbed by my presence, and then answered, lightly : 
 
 " Oh, I will ; you know I always am. I do like to 
 travel. Shall we go in a sleeper? I never was in a 
 sleeper — but once. How good !" 
 
 The childish sentences pained me not less than the 
 eager look which accompanied them, but most of all the 
 senseless phrase of acknowledgment. Presently I 
 noticed that her lips were moving, and heard her saying, 
 below her breath : 
 
 " Jack ! Jack ! Jack !" 
 
 How many times had she called me in the silent years 
 since we parted ? I vowed then again to remain with 
 her " Forever and ever !" I did not say until she was 
 dead, for I knew I could never go back to the life I 
 had abandoned. 
 
 It was ten minutes of train-time when we reached the 
 station. At my suggestion she had put up her hair 
 with all her old grace and deftness. I could not touch 
 it. It was like the locks of the dead to me. I assisted 
 her from the buggy, gave the driver of a waiting omni- 
 bus the price he asked to return the horse to Wiswall 
 Station, and taking my overcoat, umbrella and gripsack 
 entered the station with Dee at my side. I gave her 
 the light overcoat to carry — a woman looks strangely 
 uncomfortable with nothing in her hands when travel- 
 ing. I bought tickets to Chicago. The seats in the 
 sleeping-car were all occupied except the state-room ; 
 so I took that. She was full of childish wonder at 
 everything she saw, asking the same questions often 
 over and over again. 
 
 It was nearly dark when we reached a station where 
 the train stopped for supper. It was a junction with 
 another great trunk line leading south westward. As.we 
 
A Forsworn Knight. 331 
 
 steamed into the depot I saw a train upon the track 
 beyond the station headed the other way. My plan was 
 taken in an instant. I did not know where it was going ; 
 I did not care. When our train slowed up, I took my 
 companion by the hand and started to get off. She 
 followed me gladly. There was a great crowd rushing 
 back and forth. The gong was sounding ; parties were 
 shouting ; the station-lamps glared ; the steam hissed, 
 and all was confusion. The porter said, as he helped 
 us from the train, that it would wait twenty minutes for 
 supper. He advised that we should leave our luggage 
 in the car. I pretended not to hear him. There was a 
 good reason why I should not. Dee's eyes were roving 
 about the unaccustomed scene, not wildly, but with that 
 uncomprehending eagerness which more surely tells of 
 a brain diseased. Tucking her hand under my arm, I 
 hurried through the crowded station and secured seats 
 on the other train . Then I went back, procured tickets 
 to the western terminus of the road, ordered a porter to 
 bring us refreshments, and while she ate, indited a note 
 to Doctor Talcott informing him of what had occurred. 
 I thought it only just that I should relieve him both 
 from anxiety and imputation. It was well I did so. 
 That letter was the last vestige of my old life. Since I 
 dropped it in the letter-box of the Junction no hint or 
 trace of Hubert Goodwin has been found by any one 
 who knew him while alive. The tree of my lirst life had 
 grown thriftily and straight, its branches decked with 
 honorable deeds and rare good fortune. It had flowered 
 and fruited with golden promise. Alas ! they were 
 apples of Sodom — ashes and doom. 
 
 All night long she leaned her golden head against my 
 breast and slept, while the train rumbled on into the 
 darkness. A storm raged without ; one more terrible 
 still raged in my bosom. She was ignorant of both. 
 
;^^2 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 The train was crowded. The great Eastera hive was 
 swarming out on the yet unoccupied Western plains. 
 As the night crept on, the strange silence which never 
 prevails where the habitations of man are frequent 
 settled down upon us. We were passing over the almost 
 unsettled prairies, which were so soon to become the 
 seat of empire. The engine throbbed, the wheels 
 rolled on through the silence while I thought out my 
 destiny. The past was dead — how dead I did not know. 
 The future had no ray of light. Even love was dead. 
 I thought I could not love the woman who slept in my 
 arms so peacefully. The fiercest passion could not look 
 into her eyes and live. Pity was the strongest senti- 
 ment she could evoke, and I did pity her tenderly and 
 truly. As I caught sight of her sleeping face, now and 
 then, by the light of the flickering car-lamp, I knew that 
 destiny had linked me with her doom irrevocably. 
 Fate had made her my sister ; shame and folly, per- 
 haps sin, had made me her protector. Whatever I 
 had been before, I recognized the fact that thereafter I 
 could be only the wind-break of this shadowy existence. 
 I might shield her from the storms of life ; beyond that 
 I had no future. 
 
 Had it been possible, I think I might even then have 
 been tempted to retrace my steps. Strange as it may 
 seem, for the first time I thought that night regretfully 
 of my wife in her deserted home, and of the life I had 
 voluntarily broken in twain. The pain in my head, 
 which had hardly left me since conscioi^sness returned 
 after my wound, was gone. I had felt none of it since 
 that mad ride through the gorge at Heart's Ease. Yet 
 the suffering of that night it is impossible to describe. 
 While she slept I bent above her, my hat drawn down 
 over my eyes, my face burning and chill by turns, but 
 wet with drops of unutterable agony. It was as if 1 
 
A Forsworn Knight. 333 
 
 had just waked out of a fevered dream, to know that by 
 my own frenzied act in that half-conscious state I had 
 cut myself off forever from all hope of happiness. 
 
 I had strange dreams in those fevered hours. At one 
 time I thought I would return next day, deliver her 
 to her husband and go back again to my old life; 
 perhaps I might wire Doctor Talcott and the escape o- 
 his patient thus be kept secret. Could I do it ? Would her 
 husband receive her back from my hands ? She was as 
 spotless as when I first kissed her child-lips so long ago. 
 I could not kiss her lips now. In all the long hours of 
 that terrible night I felt no inclination to once touch the 
 parted leaflets which smiled and quivered as she slept 
 and dreamed upon my breast. I had no wish to possess 
 what I had so long yearned to enjoy. I knew it could 
 not be. The world would not permit either the 
 wronged husband or the deserted wife to forgive. My 
 story would be laughed at. Why should it not be ? It 
 now seemed incredible even to me. So, I beat around 
 the cruel circle of my Fate, coming always to the same 
 conclusion ; no backward step was possible ; we must 
 go forward, she and I, and hand in hand. 
 
 Before the morning dawned, I had decided what 
 should be done, I would bury the dead past and we 
 two would live alone, a new life in a new world. She 
 should be my sister. I would live for her, care for her, 
 acquire for her. She should have comfort, tenderness, 
 love — such love as one gives to things unconscious or 
 superhuman. I would live by her side, and when the 
 end came to her, would bury the rest of my shattered 
 life in oblivion. But I determined that I would never 
 wear the old name. No future act should add to the 
 infamy I had already heaped upon it — the dear old name 
 of which I had been so proud ! I bent and kissed the 
 fair brow of the sleeper as I reached this conclusion, 
 
334 ^ '^^^^ ^f ^^^ Harry. 
 
 little dreaming how Fate had joined hands with my pur- 
 pose and wrought for me in those bitter hours of dark- 
 ness. 
 
 The sun was shining over the gray shimmering aut- 
 umn prairies as we steamed into an infant metropolis 
 of the plains. 
 
 "Paper? Morning NewsT^ cried an enterprising lad 
 who boarded the train before it reached the station. 
 "All about the big cyclone !" 
 
 I bought a copy and ran my eyes hastily over the 
 news columns, trembling lest my shame had already be- 
 come public. Sure enough, there it was in glaring 
 capitals : 
 
 " General Goodwin, the Brilliant Cavalry Leader 
 
 WHO LEFT HIS HOME IN THE EaST SO MYSTERIOUSLY A 
 FEW DAYS AGO, StEALS THE WiFE OF THE HoN. RaN- 
 
 som howe from a private asylum for the 
 Insane !" 
 
 " The Guilty Couple take Passage for Chicago on a 
 Train which is Wrecked by a Cyclone, and are 
 Both Killed !" 
 
 "Terrible Cyclone in Iowa, Sweeping Through into 
 Northern Illinois !" 
 
 My brain was in a whirl as I read. The train on 
 which we had taken passage for Chicago had run into 
 the cyclone which devastated three States that sultry 
 autumn night ; the sleeper attached to it had been 
 blown from the track and caught fire and burned, with 
 all on board. It was known that we had taken this 
 train, and not known that we had left it. We were in- 
 deed dead — dead to all the world except ourselves. 
 
A Forsworn Knight. 335 
 
 Nay, to all except myself ; the fair creature who, wak- 
 ing from undisturbed repose, was watching with childish 
 eagerness all that went on about her, did not count. 
 She had died before. And now we were alone — the 
 dead with his dead. 
 
 It flashed upon me in an instant. I had only to accept 
 the boon that Fate held out — enter the grave that had 
 been prepared for me — and the tide of shame would 
 sweep harmlessly above me. There would be need of 
 such shelter, as I well knew. The very journal in my 
 trembling hands reeked with denunciation of my infamy. 
 How I pitied the poor wife who alone would be left to 
 meet its force ! And the Goodwins — the Goodwins who 
 were so pVoud ! My brain reeled ! 
 
 But I knew I must act quickly. Already it seemed as 
 if a score of suspicious glances were fixed upon me. I 
 fancied that I heard my name bandied from one to an- 
 other — the name I loved — of which I was so proud ! I 
 must never answer to it again, never show any interest 
 should it be mentioned in my presence ! I must have 
 another. Where should I get it ? What should I call 
 myself ? A thousand names flashed through my brain. 
 Which should I choose ? 
 
 But first we must leave the train. It would not do to 
 risk detection by traveling longer with those who had 
 been our fellow-passengers from the Junction. 
 
 " Come ! " I said hurriedly to my companion, gathering 
 up our things. 
 
 "Are we going to stop here?" she asked in pleased 
 surprise. " How good.! Jack ! Jack !" she began in her 
 low, wailing cry. 
 
 I turned and looked at her sharply, reprovingly. 
 
 " How good ! How good !" she murmured apologeti- 
 cally . 
 
336 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 As we rode from the station she kept repeating these 
 words alternately in half- audible whispers. 
 
 "Jack! Jack! How good ! How good !" 
 
 I was busy with my thoughts, and paid no heed to her 
 words. 
 
 When we reached the hotel and I stood pen in hand 
 before the register, they flashed upon my consciousness 
 and I wrote : 
 
 "John Howgood and sister." 
 
 I could not help smiling at the contrast between the 
 name I had assumed and the one the world had given 
 me that morning. When I glanced in the mirror in the 
 hotel parlor where I left her, I saw that my, hair was 
 streaked with gray. In a week, it was almost white. 
 I let my beard grow. It was white also. I gave out 
 that I had brought my sister to the city for treatment, 
 and was fortunate in finding a quiet lodging and secur- 
 ing a bright, strong-armed French girl> whom the ebb of 
 fortune had just then cast adrift in the city, to attend 
 upon her. She was faithful, tender-hearted, and spoke 
 so little English that there was small danger that she 
 would tell what she might learn, or guess at what she 
 did not know. There was not much to fear. We were 
 new beings in a new world ; nameless but for the 
 pseudonym the irony of her unconscious repetition 
 bestowed. Yet into this new world love entered, and 
 with it hope. I determined to attempt her restoration, 
 and began very soon to people a possible future with 
 bright visions of a love no past should disturb. 
 
 It seemed an easy task. There was only a little way 
 between her sprightly consciousness and that strange 
 sequence of ideas which we call sanity, and I wondered 
 that those who had had her in charge had not long ago 
 found a way over the impalpable barrier which sep- 
 arated them. But I soon found that her poor brain was 
 
A Forsivorn Knight. 'x,'^^ 
 
 like the sands of the seashore. However fair and 
 plain a thought might be written on it to-day, it was a 
 blank upon the morrow. A few every-day facts seemed 
 weakly impressed upon it. 
 
 She was quiet, modest, docile, and ever anxious to 
 please. She was very fond of having one read aloud to 
 her, but cared little what the book might be, only pre- 
 ferring poetry or prose of a metric or sonorous 
 character. Like a little child, she was vain of her ability 
 to read ; an act which consisted of a ready and correct 
 pronunciation of the words upon a printed page with- 
 out the least comprehension of their significance, or 
 rather without any coherent sense of the succession of 
 ideas presented by them. This verbal recollection I had 
 often heard Doctor Talcott refer to as one of the strange 
 phases of her ailment. He connected it somehow with 
 her previous linguistic ability, which had been very 
 noticeable, and thought this had created a sort of 
 instinctive mechanical aptitude for verbal forms, just as 
 persons of weak minds sometimes possess remarkable 
 arithmetical powers without any comprehension of the 
 problems they solve or the significance even of the 
 numbers they use. While she pronounced most words 
 correctly, her enunciation showed that she had no com- 
 prehension of their import — she pronounced rather than 
 read, and never opened a book except to display this 
 faculty. 
 
 I did not murmur at the task I had assumed, counting 
 no penance too great for the wrong I had done. Besides 
 that, she was all alone in the world. There was no one 
 else to whom her darkened soul could appeal, for I alone 
 knew that she lived. Her mother had died a year after 
 her daughter's marriage, and her father married again 
 and entered upon a new life in which she was hardly 
 included. He was one of the great army of speculators 
 
338 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 who seized upon the opportunities of that wonderful 
 West which sprang into existence with the return of 
 peace after the turmoil of civil war. I do not doubt that 
 her supposed death was a matter of relief rather than of 
 sorrow to him ; not that he failed in affection for her, 
 but he was one of those men whose schemes absorb all 
 their thought. 
 
 In seeking to effect her restoration, my conversations 
 with Doctor Talcott in the old days proved to be of the 
 greatest service. Absolute seclusion from all exciting 
 association, good health, fresh air, absence of restraint, 
 and the constant presence of a sympathetic nature, 
 offered, he was accustomed to say, the only ameliorat- 
 ing influences in such cases as hers. If one could man- 
 age to start the long unused intellectual machinery 
 without shock, the probability was that it would con- 
 tinue to work on without future aberration. Relapse, 
 I had often heard him declare, was almost sure to prove 
 fatal or result in absolute hopeless amenia ; and there 
 was nothing so likely to produce such a relapse as a too 
 sudden or too complete knowledge of what her condi- 
 tion had been, and what had occurred in the interval of 
 unconsciousness. 
 
 Never before had I been especially grateful for the 
 abundance which had fallen to my lot. Now I dedi- 
 cated it to her, and determined to spare no effort to 
 effect her restoration. I could not yet abandon the idea 
 that she would some time recognize my presence and 
 respond to my prayer ; for I forgot all else in the 
 impenetrable oblivion which had fallen upon us, and 
 looked forward only to life and love with her. For a 
 time I fancied I perceived signs of amendment. She 
 had readily associated my name with my presence, and 
 called me Jack in the same careless tone with which she 
 spoke to others who were frequently with her, and 
 
A Forsworn Knight. 
 
 339 
 
 though she seemed to half forget the name during my 
 absences, she recalled it, as she did not any other, with- 
 out assistance. I spent as much time with her as I 
 could, but soon became aware that something more than 
 temporary arrangements must be made for her care and 
 exclusion from sights and sounds which diverted her 
 attention and rendered my best efforts abortive. 
 
PART THIRD— JOHN HOWGOOD. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 BY FORCE OF LAW. 
 
 " Away back in the sixties," as the phrase is in the 
 " Centennial " State, John H. Howgood bought property 
 in Denver. 
 
 The Queen City of the Plains was hardly more than 
 a possibility then. It was a hopeful possibility, how- 
 ever. The reaction had set in aftef the subsidence of 
 the Pike's Peak "boom." The close of the war and the 
 fact that three great railroads were already looking 
 toward it as the rallying-point of prospective prosperity 
 made its great expectations seem wonderfully near to 
 the elastic-spirited adventurers who had staked out a 
 desert-Venice — a metropolis unique in character and in 
 insularity — under the shadow of the white mountain- 
 peaks, where the Platte debouches from its granite 
 gorge and bravely begins its doubtful journey over the 
 shimmering plains. The cloudless air of the high pla- 
 teau plays curious freaks, not only with the eyes but 
 with the imagination also, discounting time as well as 
 distance, and bringing the future as well as the moun- 
 tain very close to the hopeful observer. So while the 
 embryo metropolis was at that time hardly more than 
 staked out, it was staked out a great way and in imagin- 
 
By Force of Law. 34 t 
 
 ation built up to the very limit of the map which daz- 
 zled the eyes of, the incredulous " tenderfoot." Still, a 
 little money went a good way then, even in the pur- 
 chase of corner-lots, and John Howgood — " Old How- 
 good," as he soon came to be called — seemed to have a 
 fancy for corner-lots, and a confidence in the future of 
 the undeveloped Queen City which staggered the enthu- 
 siasm of even the " oldest settlers." It soon became 
 apparent that he had "struck the thin edge" of a new 
 "boom." The mere accession of adventurous spirits 
 whom the end of the war had set free to find new homes 
 and build new empires, would, no doubt, of itself have 
 proved sufficient to have entitled the Territory to a 
 place in the galaxy of States a decade later ; but the 
 general belief in her yet almost undeveloped mineral 
 resources was doing very much to revive the depression 
 which followed upon the exhaustion of the original 
 " Pike's Peak " gulches. 
 
 Even in this infant city, however, there were few who 
 could boast any personal knowledge of the new inves- 
 tor. He had boarded for a time at a hotel and had a 
 box at the post-office. That was about as near a loca- 
 tion as he made. All negotiations with him were by 
 letter, or, after a time, with his agent, who lived in a 
 modest one-story house on what it was expected would 
 some time be a corner, to be bounded by streets yet 
 undiscoverable, except with the aid of a map and a sur- 
 veyor's compass. Whenever an agreement was reached 
 with him in regard to any particular property, the mat- 
 ter was referred to his attorney to examine the title, 
 and a draft given payable to his order, to conclude the 
 purchase. 
 
 Other things as well as his invisibility aided to estab- 
 lish for Mr. Howgood a reputation for eccentricity. He 
 never gave more than he first offered for property, and 
 
342 A Sou of Old Harry. 
 
 never made a second proffer for the same premises. 
 Nobody knew where he was from, what were his ante- 
 cedents, or how much he was worth. To tell the exact 
 truth, nobody cared much except as to the latter. The 
 people of the new territory were very lenient about 
 some things. No man was asked for a certificate of 
 character. Individuals, like money, passed at their face 
 value. If they chose to " bank " upon the past, it added 
 little to their credit. A man's name was of no more 
 consequence than the house he lived in, and this no 
 more important than the coat he wore. If he chose to' 
 make acquaintances, well and good ; if he chose to " live 
 in his hole," nobody intruded on his privacy. There 
 were too many failures and too many shaky reputations 
 in the budding metropolis to make society especially 
 heedful of the character of its new accessions. Every 
 " tenderfoot" counted one, and was welcome. If he 
 grew too troublesome, he was given a hint to move on. 
 If he obeyed, well and good ; if he did not — well, there 
 was always "the bridge." And there was, also, always 
 an overwhelming majority on the side of the public in- 
 terest, if not of public morals. It would not do for a 
 town to be too bad, any more than it would do to have 
 it too — too nice. 
 
 Assimilation was easy with such a population, and 
 Howgood, despite his whimsicalities, was soon recog- 
 nized as an enterprising citizen, against whom, as noth- 
 ing was known, nothing was said. Estimated by the 
 market value of the lots standing in his name, he was 
 soon accounted rich. The fact that no mortgage was 
 recorded against him greatly enhanced his reputation. 
 Time passes quickly in such communities, and the " ten- 
 derfoot " becomes an " old resident " almost before he 
 knows it. " Old Howgood " was a ** well-known citizen " 
 
By Force of Law. 343 
 
 in a few months, and after the lapse of a year or so, was 
 esteemed one of the " substantial men " of the city. 
 
 About this time an incident occurred which for a day 
 or two drew on him the attention of the town. The 
 " very oldest " residents still speak of it as *' the fight 
 over an initial." There was another John H. Howgood, 
 it appears, who was known to live in a very unpreten- 
 tious house away out on the bluffs, where the streets 
 were then quite undiscoverable. He was a quiet, in- 
 offensive young man who did nothing ; owned only the 
 place he lived on, and supported a feeble-minded sister 
 and her attendant — nobody knew how. He paid for 
 what he got, and was devoted to the sister, who was 
 never seen abroad except on horseback in his company. 
 " Old Howgood " quarreled with this man on account of 
 his name. 
 
 Of course, letters directed to John H, Howgood or to 
 J, H. Howgood were as likely to fall into the possession 
 of the one as the other ; and, equally, of course, each 
 one was likely to open the letters he received, and so 
 become possessed of the other's secrets. The modest 
 dweller on what has since become famous as Capitol 
 Hill made no objection to this, but " Old Howgood " 
 raised a row. He wrote to the postmaster, to the de- 
 partment, to his namesake and to the newspapers about 
 it. But the young John H. Howgood was as stubborn 
 as the old one. The whole city laughed, and the con- 
 fusion continued. At length the capitalist had his name 
 changed, by special act of the Territorial Legislature, to 
 plain John Howgood, giving due notice of the same. 
 The transaction created some amusement, but was 
 looked upon as one of " Old Howgood's " whims. An 
 attested copy of the act was filed in all the public offices, 
 and made a matter of record in every county of the 
 Territory. 
 
344 ^ -^^'^ ^f ^^^ Harry. 
 
 Soon after this, the owner of the humble dwelling on 
 the hill sold the premises to his disgruntled namesake 
 and disappeared. People said he got a fancy price to 
 move away and leave the original Howgood the sole use 
 of the name. Be that as it may, John Howgood had 
 thus become a legal existence of the most indisputable 
 character, a clause in the act having annulled and ex- 
 tinguished all other names and aliases^ by which it might 
 at any previous time be known. Nobody dreamed that 
 the whole controversy was simulated — a studied ruse, 
 by which what seemed like two identities had been 
 merged into one, and a name which was a mere cloak 
 had been given substantial verity. 
 
 As " prospecting " went on in the Territory, " Old 
 Howgood " acquired an interest in various mining prop- 
 erties, most of which were so successful that it came to 
 be laughingly spoken of as a fortunate thing to have 
 him as a partner in such ventures. He always paid 
 cash for such interests, and never let go until he sold at 
 an advance. So matters stood when his lawyer received 
 directions to purchase for him, from the government, a 
 large tract of land in one of the most inaccessible and 
 barren portions of the Territory. 
 
 " Well, Old Howgood has done it now," the attorney 
 said to his partner, as he read these instructions. 
 
 " How so ?" asked the other, looking up from the 
 brief over which he was poring. 
 
 " Why, I haven't heard a word from him for months. 
 His agent said he was out of town, and he had no idea 
 where he was or when he would return, but here he 
 sends an order for me to buy for him both sides the 
 river for five miles up and down one of the worst can- 
 yojis in the Rockies, lying a hundred miles from nowhere 
 and inaccessible to anyone not blessed with wings. I 
 declare, it is a pity to waste money in that way ! With 
 
By Force of Law. > 345 
 
 such chances as there are here, too — lots of splendid 
 property changing hands every day." 
 
 " What does he expect to do with the gorge ?" 
 
 " That's the funniest part of it — says he's going to 
 start a horse-ranch." 
 
 " The devil ! Well, he can afford to amuse himself ; 
 but it does seem a queer thing to dump Denver comer- 
 lots into a canyon a thousand feet deep. Hadn't you 
 better get out an inquisition de lunatico inquirendo and have 
 a guardian appointed ?" 
 
 " How would I go at it ?" queried the partner, jocu- 
 larly. " I've never set eyes on the old scoundrel, and 
 wouldn't know whom to have the papers served on. 
 Queer, isn't it ? How do I manage to do his business ? 
 Well, I'll tell you. He picked up old man Van Wyck, 
 who had failed somewhere back East, and came out 
 here hoping to get a new start. He was a good business 
 man, but utterly broken in health and spirits as well as 
 in estate. He was working as bookkeeper in the hotel 
 where Howgood stopped when he 'first landed,' it 
 seems ; just dragging along on nothing and anxious for 
 the end. Howgood offered him a house rent-free and a 
 salary twice as big as he was getting to look after his 
 affairs. It was exactly the thing the old man was best 
 fitted for. The job was an easy one, and he was grate- 
 ful as well as faithful. I suppose that was aboiit the 
 best investment Howgood ever made, and he has made 
 some cracking good ones. After «. while he made Van 
 Wyck's wife a present of the house they lived in, and 
 ever since the old man has been getting along, with 
 Howgood's help, of course, mighty well. He has settled 
 with his creditors and is considered fairly well off now. 
 He says he knows no more about his employer than 
 any one else. Howgood stays with them, I believe, when 
 in the city, which is only now and then, but has never 
 
346 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 said a word to him about any business except what he 
 leaves in his charge. If the old man knows anything 
 more, you couldn't draw it out of him with wild horses ; 
 and I don't blame him. But your plan wouldn't work 
 anyhow. ' Old Howgood ' could give us both odds in 
 the line of hard sense and have enough left to ' bank ' 
 on for the rest of his life. No ; the only thing to do is 
 to go and buy the land according to orders and charge 
 him for the service." 
 
 " With commissions, of course," added the partner, 
 with a laugh. 
 
 " Not any commissions with him ; I tried that once." 
 
 "Didn't it work?" 
 
 *' Not much. Van Wyck brought me a sealed note 
 from his principal, which stated that he had observed a 
 charge for commissions in my last account — he requires 
 a separate account for each transaction — that while will- 
 ing to pay reasonable fees, he declined to pay commis- 
 sions ; and if 1 did not wish to attend to his business on 
 those terms, he would find another attorney. Of course, 
 I couldn't let him slip, and it would be folly to try to 
 work any fancy charges on him." 
 
 " I guess it wouldn't pay, that's a fact. Is that the 
 reason you are so close about his business ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; Van Wyck stipulated, when he employed 
 me, that I should always attend to his business myself. 
 He said Mr. Howgood did not wish to employ a firm, 
 and if I was not at liberty to engage myself individually, 
 preferred not to retain me. I thought it was a mere 
 notion and so agreed to it. As you know, he has 
 made it profitable for us." 
 
 ** That he has. Oh, it is evident that no court would 
 listen to a charge of incapacity against such a man ; he 
 is a little too sane, if anything." 
 
Tete de Lotip. 347 
 
 The partners laughed good-naturedly, and each went 
 on with the work he had in hand. 
 
 Thus John Howgood secured a legal status. " Old 
 Howgood" was only an insignificant incident in the 
 curiously indifferent life of the Queen City of the Plains. 
 The sun kissed the snowy mountains ; the sparkling 
 river dashed quickly past ; the water trickled along the 
 open ditches ; the sand beat against the panes, and the 
 muffled hum of her busy life went up from her unecho- 
 ing streets. Nobody asked who John Howgood had 
 been. Everybody knew who " Old Howgood " was. 
 He was accounted an honorable man ; a worthy citi- 
 zen ; a man hard to entrap ; apt to succeed in what he 
 undertook ; having the devil's luck in speculation, and 
 attending strictly to his own business. A new civiliza- 
 tion spreads the mantle of charity over the mistakes of 
 an old one with amazing facility and unfeigned kind- 
 liness, and " strict attention to one's own affairs " 
 becomes a not unimportant element of good repute in 
 such a community. 
 
 CHAPTER II, 
 
 TETE DE LOUP. 
 
 Tete de Loup was one of those surprises abounding in 
 the great table-land out of which the Rocky Mountains 
 rise. It was a basin with sheer, precipitous sides, half- 
 way down the narrow clefts in which the scraggly pines 
 crept here and there in pointed phalanxes, as if seeking 
 to reach the black waving crests that stretched upward 
 from the bottom in a vain attempt to hide the gray, 
 scarred rocks, Seen froni above^ Tete de Loup wag . 
 
348 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 only a curious widening of the canyon's walls, with a 
 stunted forest growing around the edges and a mad 
 river dashing through it. Seen from the bottom, it was 
 a valley five miles long, and half as wide, with a narrow 
 gorge at either end ; a belt of pines about the sides, 
 and rich pasture on either bank. Except for one nar- 
 row and difficult trail it was inaccessible, save by the 
 river, and only a few daring explorers had ever chosen 
 that dangerous route. When the region was surveyed 
 it was declared inaccessible ; its length and breadth 
 were determined by tri angulation, and it was duly 
 made a part of two townships of Range Eight of the 
 NM Meridian West, on the map of the national domain. 
 In those days, it was almost a hundred miles from the 
 edge of civilization as the crow flies, and much more by 
 any practical route, though a broad road, which con- 
 nected two great ** parks," as the rifts between the 
 mountain-ranges are termed, ran through a picturesque 
 pass, only a score of miles away. 
 
 The surrounding region was too barren even for the 
 Indian to care to dispute its possession seriously. 
 Down the one possible path into the sequestered valley, 
 years before — just after the wild rush to Pike's Peak — 
 a man had found his way, bringing a mare and foal, 
 and here he had remained. Afterward, he had added 
 to his stock a couple of calves, carrying them down the 
 narrow path, one at a time, slung across his shoulders. 
 How he became possessed of them he never thought it 
 necessary to explain. He built a rude house and shelter 
 for his stock against the face of the rock, deftly conceal- 
 ing them with shrubs and vines, which he planted for 
 the purpose. Back under the cliff stretched a roomy 
 cavern, along which a mighty torrent had some time 
 flowed, now dwindled to a tiny rill. Here the stock 
 was hidden whenever concealment was necessary. 
 
Tete de Loup. 349 
 
 He called the valley — his valley — Tete de Loup, from 
 some fancied resemblance of outline to a wolf's head. 
 His stock had increased to a small herd, though he took 
 care that it should not grow large enough to awaken 
 the cupidity of any beholder. He had little need for 
 caution. In all the time he had been there, it had been 
 visited but thrice. A little band of Indians, a couple of 
 prospectors and a party of explorers, were the only in- 
 truders on his solitude. None of these tarried long, nor 
 found anything to induce them to return. 
 
 It was a curious life the owner led, going and coming 
 at pleasure, his stock his only companions. He did not 
 seem to have any special care for the animals he raised. 
 He had never sold any, and had little use for them in that 
 remote narrow valley. The cattle indeed furnished him 
 with milk and meat, but not one of the horses had ever 
 been up the difficult trail. Indeed, it was not absolutely 
 certain they could get up it. 
 
 One day the owner of Tete de Loup found a stranger 
 lying by the road-side in the pass, fevered and delirious. 
 His horse was grazing quietly a few steps away. After 
 some hesitation he secured the animal, and without any 
 attempt to learn the identity of the stranger, placed him 
 in the saddle, and mounting behind, brought him to his 
 ranch. It was a case of that form of typhoid, known in 
 the region as "mountain-fever." It was a remarkable 
 thing for one like the Hermit of Tete de Loup to do. 
 Probably the stranger's white hair won upon his sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 Three weeks afterward, the man had so far recovered 
 as to comprehend his surroundings and question his 
 rescuer. He found . the latter to be a recluse of that 
 curious French type, which seeks the wilderness, not 
 merely for the love of adventure or greed of possession, 
 but as a refuge from misfortune, disgrace or disappoint- 
 
350 A Sou of Old Harry. 
 
 ment. In lieu of society, he had made the animals he 
 reared his companions. They knew him, and flocked 
 around him at his call. By accident he had become 
 possessed of a stallion wounded in one of the engage- 
 ments with the Indians, and left to die of his hurt. 
 Brought here with difficulty, the high-bred animal had 
 left his stamp upon the herd, giving it a quality which 
 the owner fully appreciated, and of which he was very 
 proud. It was one of those rare instances in which the 
 blood of the thoroughbred mingles harmoniously with 
 that of the desert-born, the offspring showing the form 
 and action of the sire, without losing the toughness and 
 endurance of the wiry dam, the product of centuries of 
 wildness and hardship with the blood of the Castilian 
 barb as its starting-point. Already a half-dozen young- 
 sters attested the excellence of the new type. 
 
 One day, the owner called his little herd about the 
 door of his cabin, where the stranger, yet pale and weak, 
 wrapped in robes and blankets, sat drinking in long 
 draughts of the bracing air — absorbing, as the convales- 
 cent seems to do, the sunshine — and, while the horses 
 bit and kicked in jealous rivalry for his favor, told his 
 guest their story. 
 
 The stranger smiled as his eye fell upon the stallion, 
 a long, round-barreled bay, who, despite some stiffness, 
 the result of wounds and age, was yet a horse of splen- 
 did style, with an eye full of fire — a masterful patriarch 
 who showed no sign of yielding his place even to the 
 best of his offspring. He listened to the owner's esti- 
 mate of the value of the youngsters with a twinkle in his 
 eye, and when, finally, the horses had wandered off, 
 obedient to their master's words and gesture of dis- 
 missal, began to whistle — a soft, quick -recurring repeti- 
 tion of a familiar night-bird's call. The owner of the ranch 
 turned and looked at him with a smile. The notes evi- 
 
Tete de Loup, 351 
 
 dently awakened pleasant memories. The old horse, a 
 hundred yards away, halted, threw up his head, and 
 uttered a shrill, piercing neigh. Still the quick, even 
 call came from the cabin-door, echoing sharply from 
 side to side across the canyon. Suddenly the horse 
 wheeled and dashed back to the hut, uttering joyful 
 neighs of recognition. 
 
 The stranger extended his hand familiai*ly, and the 
 horse, after one sniff of inquiry, stretched out his dark 
 muzzle, now plentifully streaked with gray, to receive 
 the proffered caress. 
 
 " Knows you !" said the owner, his black eyes spark- 
 ling under the beetling brows with astonishment and 
 delight. " Great horse!" 
 
 His companion smiled. Withdrawing his hand from 
 the drooping head, he snapped his fingers and a hard 
 black hoof was laid in his extended palm. 
 
 " Good ! Good !" cried the owner, clapping his hands. 
 " Great horse ! Great horse !" 
 
 " What will you take for him ?" 
 
 " Your horse — your horse !" answered the recluse. 
 "Not mine." 
 
 " What do you think he is worth ?" 
 
 " Old horse — not worth much. How old ?" 
 
 " He has seen twenty, but he is worth a hundred for 
 every year." 
 
 " Two thousan' dollar !" exclaimed the owner, in 
 amazement, 
 
 " All of that. He is known all over the country as 
 one of the greatest horses that ever lived. That is 
 Belmont's Abdallah." 
 
 " I never heard of him," said the other, dubiously. 
 
 Then the stranger told the horse's history, and 
 descanted upon the probable value of his progeny. The 
 eyes of the recluse flashed ; he threw back his head and 
 
352 A Son of Old Harry, 
 
 ran his thick, stumpy fingers through his hair as he 
 listened. 
 
 " You — you will take him — away ?" nodding his head 
 at the horse, which was licking the stranger's hand. 
 
 "O no ; he is yours." 
 
 " I s'ould be reech, vare reech — now I know he is so 
 — so great." 
 
 " But yotl are rich," with a gesture which included the 
 valley. 
 
 " No, no," answered the other, shaking his head. " I 
 no keep him. Give him up — go away — away !" 
 
 The stranger eyed him keenly for an instant, and then 
 sent the horse away with an impatient word. 
 
 " What is your name ?" he asked, abruptly. 
 
 ^^ Mon nam?" repeated the recluse, with a start. 
 "Jacques — Jacques — Combien," he added with a twinkle 
 of the deep-set eyes. 
 
 The stranger laughed good-humoredly. 
 
 " And you — " he asked, ** what name have you ?" 
 
 " Jack, too — Jack Howgood." 
 
 "How-good? — Com-bien ? Good!" said the other, 
 significantly. ** Vare good !" 
 
 Then they both laughed. They understood each 
 other without exchanging confidences. That is the way 
 with men. They had liked each other from the first. 
 Now they were friends. Never since he had come to 
 Tete de Loup had the recluse felt loneliness until the 
 stranger manifested a desire to depart. His one fear 
 had been that others would come and dispossess him, or 
 seek to take from him a part of the little rock-ribbed 
 valley — not that he was greedy, but he wished to be 
 alone — and he loved Tete de Loup. The explorers, the 
 prospectors, even the Indians, he had regarded with 
 keen jealousy — the latter less than the others, because 
 the inaccessibility of the valley had unfitted it for their 
 
Tcte de Loup. 353 
 
 purposes. The prospectors he had watched unceasingly 
 while they dug and washed, studying the seams in the 
 rocks, and the pebbles in the river-bed. If they had 
 discovered anything worth their while — if they had 
 driven a single stake, or showed any inclination to return, 
 he would have killed them. Since the government sur- 
 vey had been made he had been in mortal terror lest 
 some one should " enter " the land, and so bar him from 
 th^ enjoyment of his valley. And now, strange enough, 
 he wished this white-haired, white-bearded man, who 
 was yet young — much younger than himself, he judged, 
 to stay with him. Civilization was crowding upon him. 
 He was afraid of its forms. He knew nothing of his 
 rights and had a vague terror that he would be driven 
 out. Perhaps this man might help him. 
 
 " But you will come again ?" he asked. 
 
 The other shook his head. 
 
 The owner scowled. He was not angry, only trying 
 to think. He was a man of powerful physique, not tall, 
 but compact and strong. His face was swarthy ; his 
 beard and hair dark and stiff. It did not curl, neither 
 was it straight, but lay in a close, wavy mat on brow 
 and cheek. There were white threads in it here and 
 there. His forehead bulged over the eyes, as is so fre- 
 quently the case with men of his descent, and the heavy 
 brows so shaded the great, black eyes as to give them 
 almost a sinister appearance.. He spoke English fairly 
 well, but with a trace of the Canadian patois in his tones, 
 something in his phrasing also. He had said nothing 
 about the reasons which induced him to hide away in 
 Tete de Loup. The other had not asked, neither had 
 he spoken of himself or his circumstances. 
 
 " See here," the owner of the ranch broke out, after a 
 long silence ; " you got money ?" 
 
354 ^ ^'^"' ^f ^^'■^ Harry. 
 
 " A little," smiling. " I was aboi;t to ask what I 
 should pay you ?" 
 
 " Pay me ? Nothing — not a cent ! That would be 
 insult !" seeing the other put his hand in his pocket, 
 " This is what I mean : you see this ?" 
 
 He waved his short arm and strong, grimy fingers 
 toward the plain, 
 
 " The gov'ment want it ; the surveyor come to take 
 it. I see 'em up yonder measure — squint. I kijow 
 Jacques Combien have to get out some time. He hold 
 one hundred sixty acres — that's all. That what ze Den- 
 ver lawyer say. How many here ?" 
 
 "A thousand or more." 
 
 " More — more ! Two thousand — more yet ! Now, 
 how many come in ? Five — ten — hundred people ! Sh ! 
 Sacre ! Who live here, then ? Where my horses — my 
 cattle — my — ?" He shrugged his shoulders and thrust 
 his open palm away from him with a gesture of infinite 
 aversion. "What 'come of Jacques, then ?" 
 
 " Well ?" 
 
 " How much it cost to buy it all ?" 
 
 ** Probably five or six thousand dollars." 
 
 " Desso — desso ! Where Jacques Combien get five 
 thousand dollars ?" 
 
 " It is quite a sum." 
 
 " Desso ! Well, dis what I say. You buy — buy it all 
 — then I give you half. No ! Two-thirds — three-quar- 
 ters the stock ! You come here ; we raise horses ; sell 
 — grow rich, have good time — all 'lone. No ? Don't 
 say no !" 
 
 And this man wanted to be rich ! It did not seem 
 strange when he told the reason. He had sworn never 
 to go back to his native village until he was richer than 
 any man in it. He had been unfortunate '; had lost his 
 little property — and had hidden here in despair. He 
 
Tete de Loitp. 355 
 
 did not doubt that the girl to whom he had made this 
 boast had married another. Nevertheless, he wished 
 to return — to show that his boast had not been vain. 
 Perhaps he thought there might be another ; he did not 
 say so. 
 
 So John Howgood and Jacques Combien became part- 
 ners in Tete de Loup — the one to have the east side of 
 the river, the other the west, and the stock to be owned 
 in ..common. John Howgood ordered his lawyer to 
 secure the title, and Jacques Combien, whose squatter's 
 right he had bought for a sum which made that worthy 
 feel himself rich already, started to redeem his boast. 
 But he never reached his native village. No doubt his 
 heart had grown tender in the long sojourn in the wil- 
 derness, or the sound of his native tongue was too great 
 a temptation to be resisted. At any rate, travelling 
 with his new friend, he made the acquaintance of Louise, 
 the sprightly French maid who waited upon the unfor- 
 tunate sister of John Howgood, and when he returned 
 to Tete de Loup, she came with him as his wife. 
 
 In the meantime, the little valley had been trans- 
 formed. A road of easy grade had been blasted out of 
 the sheer wall. A bridge spanned the river. A com- 
 fortable house stood on the site of the old cabin ; a 
 more pretentious one on the other side of the river. 
 Stalls and paddocks were prepared, and quarters pro- 
 vided for grooms and laborers. Some new stock had 
 made its appearance, too. Brood-mares, brought over 
 the plains from the blue-grass pastures of Kentucky, 
 whose fine lines and high spirits attested the correct- 
 ness of the pedigrees, which avouched their descent 
 from great names of the turf. The Tete de Loup 
 Stock Ranch was established. Its appointments were 
 not luxurious, but they were serviceable. Its advan- 
 tages were abundance of the best pasturage, water, 
 
356 A Soil of Old Ha7^ry. 
 
 shelter, and a rare, dry atmosphere. No wonder a type, 
 celebrated not only for its performances, but for temper 
 and endurance, has sprung from that sunny mountain 
 cove. 
 
 " Ah, money can do anything !" said Jacques Combien, 
 as he surveyed the result. 
 
 It had not required very much money, but from that 
 hour the simple-hearted fellow strove for riches, not 
 meanly, but honestly and manfully — and fortune smiled 
 upon his efforts. The ranch has been profitable — more 
 profitable than many of the ventures which lured men 
 into the mountains by thousands, a few years later^ 
 with the glivtering promise of boundless argentiferous 
 reward. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE BALM OF SOLITUDE. 
 
 It was to Tete de Loup that I brought her^ and began 
 in more serious fashion the task to which I had devoted 
 myself, of joining, if I might, the edges of her dual 
 consciousness, or, more properly, the restoration of that 
 consciousness of which the key had been lost. It was 
 no light or agreeable undertaking. My very love made 
 it all the more distressing. She was in the fullness of a 
 beauty always rare, and in this case the more trans- 
 cendant, because the weakened brain had relieved her 
 from] everything like care, and prevented any of that 
 exhaustion of nervous energy which, quicker than any- 
 thing else, brings age. Her hair was of that tint which 
 lies midway between the silver's whiteness and the 
 
The Balm of Solitude. 357 
 
 gleam of beaten gold ; her face, calm and peaceful, had 
 the innocent glow of girlhood with the fullness of 
 ripened womanhood. Her form, developed without 
 restraint, had the suppleness and grace we are accus- 
 tomed to attribute to tropical climes. 
 
 The task seemed hopeless. None of the eminent 
 specialists I consulted gave me any encouragement. 
 Yet I did hope. A thousand times 1 despaired, yet 
 never ceased to hope again on the morrow. I had 
 learned that life in town was not good for her. New 
 faces troubled her. Varied surroundings seemed to 
 make her fancy more flighty and her thought less 
 coherent. Somehow it seemed to me as if the same- 
 ness of Tete de Loup would be restful and healing to 
 her. There was only the sky, the level, silent valley, 
 the gray, circling walls with the dark, woody fringe 
 above, the flashing river and the white mountain peaks 
 in the distance. There would be horses, it is true, but 
 they would be the same ones all the time ; and of 
 human beings there would be only myself, Jacques and 
 his wife, to whom she was much attached in her fickle 
 way, and the grooms and laborers, of whom she would 
 only now and then get a glimpse. This was to be our 
 world, and from its unvarying sameness, its silence, seclu- 
 sion and restfulness, I hoped for much — or, rather, I 
 tried to hope. 
 
 I did not conceal from myself that, whatever the 
 result might be, my life — my new life, and all that it 
 might give of comfort, attention and entertainment 
 belonged to her. No matter whether she appreciated 
 my efforts, comprehended my devotion, or even recog- 
 nized my presence or not ; I was bound to her by a tie 
 stronger than even love could forge — the obligation to 
 care for this frail consciousness which I had torn from 
 its rnoorings and assumed the sole responsibility of 
 
358 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 its direction. Already nearly two years had elapsed 
 since Fate had thrown her into my arms and sealed the 
 deed of wrongful appropriation by hurling us both into 
 oblivion. Not only was she lost to the world, but the 
 world was lost to her. Already she had forgotten 
 her husband's existence. Allusion to him no longer 
 provoked any show of resentment, but onh/ a glance 
 of uncomprehending surprise. Doctor Talcott's name 
 had long since ceased to awaken any sign of recognition. 
 A change of attendants made her uneasy for a day or 
 two ; in a few days, or weeks at farthest, their names 
 were forgotten. If they returned she showed no signs 
 of recognition. New surroundings seemed to excite her 
 wonder, but she expressed no regret for those she had 
 left. If she saw them again she had no remembrance 
 of them. There seemed, therefore, little room for hope 
 — whether I did hope I hardly know. At any rate, I 
 determined to devote myself unreservedly to her. I 
 thought it my plain duty. It seems strange that one 
 like me should talk of duty, and surely it was not so 
 great a thing to consecrate a useless life to enlivening 
 one to whom each day's trifles were all there was of 
 joy or sorrow, that it need have so grave a designa- 
 tion ; but I was unable to find any other name for the 
 impulse. 
 
 This is why I bought Tete de Loup and brought her 
 there. If I could not restore the lost consciousness, I 
 judged that I could there better bestow upon her that 
 care which did so much to make her simple life peace- 
 ful and contented. There was no doubt that she enjoyed 
 my companionship more than that of any other person. 
 She remembered me after long absences, or perhaps it 
 would be more correct to say, became acquainted with 
 me after such absences more readily than with any one 
 else. She called me Jack — sometimes Jack Howgood, 
 
The Balm of Solitude. 359 
 
 seeming to take a childish pleasure in linking my 
 name with the phrase of acknowledgment from which 
 it was really derived. 
 
 " Jack !" she would say — " Jack, how good — Jack How- 
 good !" 
 
 Then she would laugh gleefully at the dimly compre- 
 hended ambiguity, and repeat it over and over again 
 with the peculiar tendency to iteration which charac- 
 terizes persons of weak intellect. Still it was apparent 
 from her tone and manner that she did not consciously 
 associate me with that other " Jack " of whom her 
 errant fancy was always full. There was something 
 very touching in her reiteration of this name in varying 
 tones under different conditions. When she was bright- 
 est and happiest she repeated it hardly above her 
 breath, in the intervals of conversation or sitting alone 
 in calm content. 
 
 "Jack, Jack, Jack!" she would whisper rapidly to 
 herself; then aloud: "What a pleasant day!" Then 
 in a whisper again : "Jack, Jack, Jack !" 
 
 But when she was ill, or anything had gone wrong 
 with her, or one of those dark days was on her which 
 come periodically to the insane, the word became a wail 
 whose sadness pierced the dullest heart. I have often 
 seen a groom fling up his hands and flee beyond hearing 
 of her voice when on such occasions the plaintive 
 "Jack ! Jack !" echoed through the sequestered valley. 
 I noticed after a time that these gloomy intervals 
 became less frequent, while the cheerful, chattering 
 whisper was almost constant with her, as if "Jack" 
 was becoming the echo of a hidden but pleasant con- 
 sciousness instead of a sad and despairing one. There 
 was recompense if not encouragement in this. It was 
 more than my broken life was worth if my presence 
 could make cheerful rather than sad the void in which 
 
360 A Son of Old Haj-ry. 
 
 she seemed to live — for there was all the time a seeming 
 consciousness, a something vainly struggling for 
 expression, of which the weak and fleeting intelligence 
 she displayed was only a glimmer, like the corona 
 which in a total eclipse tells of the sun's presence, 
 though the luminary itself is hid. 
 
 The idea that there was a latent consciousness 
 beneath this external, superficial one, capable of receiv- 
 ing intense and lasting impressions was confirmed, in 
 my opinion at least, by the fact that she seemed to 
 have as just an apprehension of natural laws as anyone. 
 She was careful in approaching the edge of a precipice ; 
 she clearly understood the fact that it would be peril- 
 ous to fall into the river, and, though fond of watching 
 it carry away what was thrown in, was extremely 
 cautious in approaching its banks. So, too, while she 
 loved to watch the firelight, she never manifested any 
 inclination to trifle with combustion. The same was 
 true in reference both as to propriety and taste in 
 dress. Though she seemed to have no idea about 
 increasing or repainng her wardrobe, yet she was very 
 positive in her preferences, both as to color and texture, 
 and was not only able to clothe herself but did so 
 becomingly and tastefully, according to seasons and 
 conditions. 
 
 Of course, some of these things may be said to have 
 been instinctive, and others were no doubt due to the 
 excellent training to which she had been subjected 
 immediately after recovering from her first aberration 
 of mind. But an incident occurred during our removal 
 to Tete de Loup which strongly confirmed my view of 
 her condition, though it gave no hint of any practicable 
 method of reaching or awakening this dormant con- 
 sciousness. The horses attached to our carriage took 
 fright while we were descending a narrow gorge, and 
 
The Babn of Solittidc. 361 
 
 ran with great violence to the bottom. A dozen times 
 we were in the greatest peril of being thrown over the 
 precipice, but by good fortune we escaped without seri- 
 ous injury. She was utterly unstrung with terror when 
 I lifted her out, and from that moment had an almost 
 unconquerable aversion, not for a horse, but for a car- 
 riage. Indeed, she never afterward entered one with- 
 out a shudder. It seems a cruel thing to say, but this 
 discovery gave me great pleasure. She made the rest 
 of the journey on horseback, and her enjoyment of the 
 mountain scenery and the quiet loveliness of our evening 
 camps had the effect of transforming our trip into a 
 loitering stroll along the winding mountain trails. 
 
 At Tete de Loup we were together all day long. We 
 rode, talked, sang. I remembered her old favorites, and 
 read over and over again to her the same books. She 
 was especially fond of the Bible, and never tired of 
 listening to portions of it. The thought of eternity 
 — endless duration — seemed to be the one abstract idea 
 which continued to hold a place in her consciousness. 
 She had no conception of death. The fact that a bird, 
 which I shot, would not fly when she tossed it up, 
 troubled her so much that I took care that she should 
 not again witness anything of the kind. Immensity 
 however — boundlessness, whether in space or time, 
 though said to be an incomprehensible idea, evidently 
 impressed her consciousness very deeply. The sky, the 
 mountains, the mystical boundlessness of the starlit 
 night, all soothed and hushed, but at the same time ex- 
 alted her. The idea of interminable duration seemed to 
 have the same effect. It was evident that it touched a 
 deeper, more responsive chord of her hidden nature 
 than any other. " Forever and forever, amen," she 
 would whisper with solemn ecstasy, whenever a word 
 importing endless duration occurred in our reading. I 
 
vD 
 
 62 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 tried a thousand times to enlarge this crevice, through 
 which a beam of light from her past seemed to find its 
 way, but in vain. 
 
 I suppose there must have been other indications of 
 improvement during the years that followed, but I had 
 long since lost hope, and so failed to note them. I had 
 almost forgotten to repine, and came to regard the de- 
 votion of my time and energies to securing the comfort 
 of this pitiful half -life, not merely as a deserved penance, 
 but a not altogether disagreeable duty. 
 
 It was a peaceful, quiet life we led upon our ranch. 
 The horses and their care were the only things we had 
 to break the uneventful days' monotony. It would be 
 difficult to say which derived most pleasure from our 
 occupation, Jacques Combien, myself, or the lovely 
 woman who was always a looker-on and often a partici- 
 pant. It did not once occur to me that the eagerness 
 with which she waited for the time to come when she 
 might mount each colt in turn was of itself evidence of 
 an improved mental condition. 
 
 We trained the Tete de Loup horses naturally. They 
 were never broken ; we found nothing to break. They 
 inherited docility, good temper, the desire to do what 
 was required of them, to outdo each other and to win 
 favor by excelling. That these qualities characterize 
 the well-bred horse, and are both |heriiable and culti- 
 vatable, there can be no doubt. 
 
 The history of the horse is full of suggestions to the 
 owner who desires to promote his excellence and secure 
 further development. There is doubtless much in soil, 
 climate, food, and what is called training. 
 
 The soil, climate and rich food of the British Islands 
 unquestionably contribute largely to the early develop- 
 ment of the English thoroughbred, as also for his early 
 decay. So the desert air and scanty vegetation are 
 
The Balm of Solitude. 363 
 
 largely responsible for the lack of size and the remark- 
 able endurance of the Arabian. But the influences which 
 make the Arab horse, after all our boasted scientific 
 methods, unapproachable in the most desirable qualities 
 a horse can possess, are not dependent upon climate, 
 food, or what we term care. He is but poorly fed, badly 
 groomed — and never broken. From the day he is foaled 
 until he dies, at an age the English thoroughbred rarely 
 attains, he is the associate of man. His master pets him ; 
 the children play with him ; the women fondle him. 
 He is to the Arab tent what a pet dog is to his master's 
 apartments — a privileged character who, if not invited 
 m, watches the portal in perfect confidence that whoever 
 may come out will be a friend and familiar. 
 
 The English thoroughbred is a wild brute, tamed and 
 broken — compelled to serve through fear. This, indeed, 
 is the general relation of the Anglo-Saxon toward infer- 
 iors, whether brute or human. Power is the scepter of 
 his dominion. He never persuades, but breaks or kills. 
 It matters not whether it be a man, a people, a race or 
 a brute — the method is always the same. The French, 
 by treatment approaching the Arab's in gentleness, have 
 developed the intelligent and reliable Norman, which in 
 the hands of our American breeders is fast retrograding 
 again into savagery. So everywhere it will be seen that 
 what may be termed the moral qualities of the horse 
 depend almost entirely upon the moral qualities of those 
 who rear and train him. 
 
 The broncho of the plains is undoubtedly of gentle 
 blood, being descended from the Spanish barb, which 
 approached nearer to his master in familiar association 
 than did the horse of any other European nation of that 
 time. His transportation to this country in their little 
 crowded caravels for use in conquest is evidence of this. 
 Only a people accustomed to intimate association with 
 
364 A Son of Old Harry, 
 
 the horse could have transported him successfully in 
 this manner. Yet the broncho has lost all trace of con- 
 fidence in man, not merely by generations of wildness 
 and unrestraint, but by the barbarity of successive gen- 
 erations of Indian masters. 
 
 The brutality of the English groom and the formality 
 of the English gentleman are reflected in the vicious- 
 ness and stiffness of the English horse. Neither groom 
 nor master usually cares anything for the temper, com- 
 fort or intelligence of the horse, but is only desirous 
 that he should be amenable to orders and perform the 
 tasks he is assigned. Fortunately for the American 
 horse, we are, so far as this noblest of our dumb animals 
 is concerned, growing away from our English inheri- 
 tance. The horse is more his master's friend and less 
 the mere instrument of his pleasure in America than in 
 England. Consequently, American horses of the better 
 class are less frequently vicious, more docile and longer- 
 lived than the denizens of English stables. 
 
 These things are especially true of the southern part 
 of the country, and particularly of the blue-grass region 
 of Kentucky, where the kindness shown the foal is quite 
 as important an element of their future achievements 
 as the quality of the food they eat. For the moral 
 quality is almost as important in a horse as in a man. 
 In the breeding of trotters especially it is necessary that 
 this fact should be kept in mind, since with them not 
 only speed but the faculty of self-restraint are essential 
 to the highest success — nerve as well as muscle. Of the 
 great names on the trotting turf to-day, almost every 
 one of the greatest has been the daily companion of a 
 man or of a family, who not only prized but loved the 
 proud and happy recipient of their attentions. 
 
 We are learning — not as fast as we might, but surely 
 — that the most valuable qualities of the horse — those 
 
The Balm of Solitude. 365 
 
 which will always command the best and readiest mar- 
 ket — can only be developed by constant care, gentle- 
 ness and appreciative familiarity. It is safe to say that 
 such treatment has been an appreciable element of the 
 value at least of nine-tenths of the horses which have 
 brought ten thousand dollars or upward, and of ninety- 
 nine-hundredths of those who have doubled that sum 
 for their owners. 
 
 There is little doubt that the finest type of horse in 
 America, like the finest type in the old world, will come 
 from the plains. Sand, sunshine and a certain degree 
 of aridness give the best hoofs, the best muscles, greater 
 endurance and greater longevity. But the perfect 
 American horse will be developed, not by the whole- 
 sale breeder with the costly training-stables, but by the 
 American boy who feeds and fondles his weanling, and 
 prizes him not merely for his money value but for his 
 moral qualities — when we become not a nation of fast 
 drivers and race-goers but of horse lovers. The horse 
 needs not to be broken ; he is no longer ferax natures j 
 he needs to be civilized and taught to believe in the civ- 
 ilization of his owner. 
 
 These were the principles applied at Tete de Loup. 
 Every colt felt the touch of some kindly hand every 
 day from the time he was foaled until he left our pos- 
 session, and learned to submit himself to human direc- 
 tion and control, not because of fear, but because he 
 knew it was kindly. A horse so trained may, indeed, 
 forget his training and break away from restraint, if he 
 loses confidence in the decision or capacity of his driver. 
 So, too, he may be made wild with fear or pain, or the 
 mere love of rivalry may make him oblivious to 
 attempted restraint, as in the case of those who were 
 the unconscious cause of my present condition ; but he 
 will be many times less liable to any of these defects 
 
366 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 than a horse which has been " broken " and taught to 
 yield through fear. " Rareyism " was a scientific 
 method of teaching vicious animals that man is their 
 superior in power. As long as we rely on fear as the 
 controlling impulse of the horse-nature, this method is, 
 perhaps, better than any other ; but even observant 
 horse-men, who believe in the doctrine of force as 
 devoutly as any, have noted that the resultant condi- 
 tion of absolute submissiveness is not favorable to the 
 best achievement. The truth is that hopelessness, the 
 consciousness that he is purely and solely the creature 
 of another's will, is just as bad for a horse as for a man. 
 If well trained he is willing to obey, but to obtain the 
 best results his work must always be an act of conscious, 
 willing obedience, not of passive submissiveness. 
 
 The horse should yield himself to his driver's will 
 because he has confidence in him, not because he knows 
 he cannot successfully resist him. The mares which 
 the Prophet selected for his stud because they turned 
 back from ♦"he water's edge despite their long depriva- 
 tion, at the sound of the trumpet, did not do it because 
 they feared to disobey, but because their love of the 
 wild route of battle was stronger even than their rag- 
 ing thirst. That there are horses — just as there are 
 men — who are not susceptible to influences of this char- 
 acter, I do not deny. There are no doubt some that 
 are inherently vicious, though I do not happen to have 
 known one which, if properly treated while young, 
 might not have been rendered easily subservient by a 
 master who had himself been properly trained, unless 
 the animal inherited distrust from a long line of wild 
 ancestors, or came of a stock imbruted by the savagery 
 of their possessors. There are, no doubt, horses lack- 
 ing in intelligence — horses which, as has been well said 
 of a certain stock, " have to learn everything afresh 
 
The Balm of Solitude. 367 
 
 every time they go upon the road." Such, like the 
 asinine hybrid, may be valuable merely as controlla- 
 ble masses of tractionary muscles, but they are not 
 worth reproducing. The best horse is always an ani- 
 mal of rare intelligence, and equine intelligence is stim- 
 ulated always by human associations, and whether it 
 shall be trustful or distrustful depends very largely 
 upon the character of the human associate. A man 
 whom other men cannot trust rarely trains a horse on 
 which any one can rely.^ 
 
 I need not say how congenial this occupation was to 
 me. A man may become a good rider or driver with- 
 out any love for the horse, but only one bom with that 
 love in his veins can ever properly train one or care for 
 one. After a while, we brought a couple of colored 
 grooms from Kentucky. Their wives came with them 
 and served as our domestics. They were not faultless. 
 They were sometimes harsh and often neglectful, but 
 they had a decided fondness for the animals they cared 
 for, and their vices were easily modified, if never wholly 
 eliminated, I was fortunate, too, in having as an asso- 
 ciate, Jacques, with his ancestral Breton tendencies, and 
 his wife, who had memories of her own of the Cote du 
 Cher, and the inherited love of the peasant-farmer for a 
 petted weanling. They had charge of the foals, and 
 saw that they were gently taught to submit to being 
 handled and restrained, to lead, to follow, to start and 
 stop at the word, to bear light burdens, face unusual 
 sights and sounds, and made to acquire that most dif- 
 ficult and unusual of equine accomplishments — a fast 
 and steady walk. When the colts were two years old 
 they crossed the river and came under my especial 
 supervision. 
 
 It is not my purpose here to give an account of our 
 method. Indeed, there was no inflexible method. The 
 
368 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 efficient trainer, like the wise schoolmaster, must be a 
 man of brain and sagacity enough to adapt his tuition to 
 the intelligence and character of his pupil. Suffice it 
 to say that no actual force was employed nor any show 
 of force more tangible than insurmountable inclosures. 
 I do not mean that the whip was discarded, but it was 
 used more as a symbol of authority and a means for 
 communicating orders to the eye like the officer's sword 
 than as an instrument of punishment. In rare cases, it 
 is very true, it was used for that purpose, but only on 
 my own judgment and in extreme necessity. I am not 
 sure that its primiti\ e use, with a colt having sufficient 
 intelligence to be worth training, is not always a mis- 
 take. 
 
 During the period of actual training each colt 
 received a lesson every day of sufficient length to 
 make an impression upon his memory and not long 
 enough to produce weariness or discouragement. After 
 that time, exercise, practice, trials followed, both to 
 harden the muscles and to crystallize the lessons into 
 habits of action and obedience. As we had no intention 
 of breeding for the turf and no desire to secure the 
 patronage of the gambling fraternity, which delights 
 only in extraordinary and destructive performances by 
 half-developed colts, there was no inducement to rush 
 our stock into market before their powers were fully 
 matured and their qualities firmly established. Our 
 purpose was to breed horses, not mere gambling mater- 
 ials. By adopting this policy, Tete de Loup Ranch was 
 enabled to send out every year a string of thoroughly 
 trained animals, every one of which was brave, intelli- 
 gent, trustful, obedient and reliable, of matured powers, 
 and of a quality to fully gratify the owner's pride, 
 though they might not minister to the gambler's greed. 
 Their quality was at once appreciated — the more readily 
 
The Babn of Solitude. 369 
 
 as we refused to part with them on any terms, tintil 
 they had had a few months of careful handling on the 
 lower levels of the East to accustom them to a moister 
 climate and a denser atmosphere. 
 
 The prices received have been as satisfactory as their 
 performances. The only case in which they have 
 proved refractory — if that could be called refractoriness 
 — ^beingf the one in which the stupidity of an awkward 
 driver resulted in the destruction of the splendid pair, 
 whose impetuosity was the cause of my present injury. 
 I did not need to seek pecuniary profit from this ven- 
 ture. The enhancement of values and the development 
 of new properties in the beautiful metropolis of the 
 plains made me quite able to gratify my inclination, 
 even at a much greater expense ; but no success I have 
 ever achieved has been more satisfactory than the 
 material results of Tete de Loup Ranch. 
 
 As I have said, our life was very simple, and to me, 
 in a sense, most congenial. I am almost surprised to 
 think how I enjoyed her presence during this period 
 when hope was dead, and I looked forward to a future 
 in all respects like the present which I lived, 
 
 I occupied the new house on the east side of the river ; 
 the others lived in the enlarged old one upon the west 
 side. Every night I escorted her across the narrow 
 bridge and bade her good-night at Jacques's door, 
 and every morning she waked me with her impatient 
 demand for my appearance. All day long she hardly 
 left my side. I loved her, and her stunted intelligence, 
 little by little, ceased to jar upon my consciousness. I 
 came to accept her as she was, thinking less of what 
 she had been and not at all of what I had hoped she 
 might become. I had at first been somewhat encour- 
 aged by the fact that she seemed to remember 
 Abdallah, but neither the name nor the horse appeared 
 
370 A So7i of Old Harry. 
 
 to awaken any other memories of her early life. Except 
 that she remained fonder of the battered old veteran 
 than of any other horse at the ranch, I could hardly 
 regard this preference as the result of any indistinct 
 recollection. But the fact that to the very last she 
 would rather ride him than any other horse at the 
 ranch seems quite unaccountable, in so good a horse- 
 woman, on any other hypothesis. Considering his age 
 and the fact that she rode in turn almost every one of 
 our colts in those daily trips which were a regular part 
 of our system of training, this continued fondness for 
 the infirm old veteran seems so strange a thing that it 
 is little wonder it gave me hope that memory might yet 
 recover its sway. 
 
 Especially will it seem impossible to account for this 
 preference on any other ground, when we recall the 
 fact that the silver-maned son of Gray Eagle, peerless 
 in all those qualities which make up the perfect saddle- 
 horse, was always at her disposal, and indeed her cus- 
 tomary mount. Some months before our coming to 
 Tete de Loup, I had learned from a paragraph floating 
 through the press, that my wife, being about to dispose 
 of her establishment, the horse would be for sale upon 
 a certain day. The time was very limited, but I 
 hastened Van Wyck East to buy the horse for me. The 
 price he paid was not so large as I expected ; whether 
 the favor of his master's notoriety detracted from his 
 value, or his qualities were not fully appreciated, I 
 never knew. 
 
 I was very glad to have him in my possession once 
 more, and glad also to learn incidentally that my wife 
 was not taking my abandonment seriously to heart, but 
 contemplating, as Van Wyck told me, a trip abroad. 
 Of course, I asked few questions about her; but 1 was 
 sorely tempted, as I had been many times before, to 
 
The Balm of Solitude. 371 
 
 write to her, not to excuse, but in part, perhaps, to 
 extenuate my fault, and more especially to prevent her 
 from being led into difficulty by a re-marriage. Believ- 
 ing me dead, she would, of course, naturally suppose her- 
 self free to marry again without the formality of a 
 divorce. 
 
 I saw, however, that such a course was impossible, 
 without involving other and still more serious and 
 embarrassing consequences. It was more than probable 
 that she would consider such action as adding insult to 
 injury. Besides, I was responsible for the good name 
 as well as the creature comforts of the woman whose 
 destiny I had taken into my hands, and I could not sub- 
 ject her to any of the reproaches which would be sure 
 to be evoked by such a revelation. Fortunately, the 
 good sense of my wife afterward relieved me from such 
 apprehension. She applied for a divorce, and a news- 
 paper containing a notice of the application found its 
 way into my hands. I was puzzled to account for its 
 being sent to me, at the time, but concluded that the 
 fact of Van Wyck's having acted for me in the purchase 
 of Damon accounted for its having been mailed to me 
 in his care. As the application was made in a Western 
 State, and the husband's name was stated to be J. H. 
 Goodwin, it attacted no attention ; and even when the 
 decree was finally granted, as I suppose it must have 
 been soon afterward, there was no mention made in the 
 press even of the fact that the husband from whom she 
 sought iseparation had ever been a man of any note. I 
 suppose the divorce was only a precautionary measure, 
 owing to the fact that my death was not absolutely 
 provable. It was a very wise thing for her to do, and I 
 felt really proud of the sagacity with which she had 
 acted in the matter, being sure that her chief motive in 
 
'}^']2 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 so doing was to avoid casting any unnecessary odium 
 on my name. 
 
 It was terrible — this utter, irremediable eradication 
 of the past ; having but one to love and none to love 
 me ; being a stranger in the land I had fought to save ; 
 my fame dust and ashes — its very mention bitterness ! 
 I suppose even my comrades in their reunions avoid 
 mention of my name as far as possible. I have never 
 attended one. I dare not. I am afraid my emotion 
 might betray me or some accident make my woe 
 unbearable. 
 
 Even the poor tribute of a headstone is denied me. 
 No one will ever point out my grave. The car was 
 burned ; the bodies destroyed. It seemed terrible 
 then. Now I am glad it so happened. In time, per- 
 haps, while the good of my life is yet remembered, the 
 evil may be forgotten. I am surprised when I look 
 back upon it now, that when I came to realize my posi- 
 tion I did not seek refuge in the death I had so mirac- 
 ulously escaped. But for my obligations to her^ I 
 should have done so, I am sure. So we lived on, 
 together, yet separated by an insurmountable wall. 
 Mounted upon Damon, she accompanied me everywhere 
 about the surrounding country in the lessons which I 
 gave the younglings under the saddle — a portion of 
 their training which I reserved especially for myself, 
 and in which she took the utmost delight. 
 
 Thus five years had elapsed since Hubert Goodwin's 
 death. The anniversary of our last meeting before the 
 darkness fell between us had come again. The bright 
 spring sunshine flooded the little valley with that 
 peculiar white light which characterizes the clear atmos- 
 phere and cloudless skies of our mid-continental Italy. 
 At this season of the year she had always been more 
 restless than at others. She was lying curled up on a 
 
The Balm of Solitude. 373 
 
 lounge in the kittenish way peculiar to her, in the sit- 
 ting-room of my house. I was reading to her for the 
 thousandth time, perhaps, a poem we had read together 
 just before the evil days came — a pleasant story of that 
 New England life now quite forgotten by the newer 
 life which has succeeded it — Holland's " Bitter Sweet," 
 which has already grown almost as unfamiliar to 
 American readers as the Norse legends ; far more so, 
 indeed, than Ibsen's cynicism, or Tolstoi's degrading 
 speculation. Perhaps it was because I had first read 
 this book with her that it still held a tender place in my 
 heart, and I read it over and over to ears to which it 
 was always new, with less of weariness than I felt in 
 re-reading other more notable works. Perhaps I found 
 in it a hint of something in harmony with my own sin. 
 Be that as it may, it always set me dreaming of the 
 past. On this particular day, the page vanished from 
 my sight ; I forgot the lithe figure upon the sofa, the 
 great gray eyes that watched me and the shining hair 
 which gave back the silvery light with a softened glow 
 like that of the mountain twilight. My thoughts were 
 busy with the past. 
 
 " Jack !" 
 
 What was there in the tone that made my heart stand 
 still ? Was it memory that played me false ? It was not 
 the voice to which I had lately been accustomed, but 
 that which I had heard when I first read the volume in 
 my hand. I dare not look around or move, lest I should 
 destroy the sweet illusion ; for I did not doubt that it 
 was illusion. 
 
 " Jack !" 
 
 There was no mistaking it now. It was not the sim- 
 ple, trustful, half-comprehending " Weely " who was call- 
 ing me, but the old, old love so long dead and buried 
 in shame and misfortune. The sw^eat burst out upon 
 
374 ^ ^^^^ ^/ ^^^ Harry. 
 
 my brow ; my whole frame shook with the tremor of 
 unexpected rapture. T did not move or speak — I could 
 not. 
 
 "Jack!" 
 
 There was a touch of impatience in the tone quite 
 characteristic of her old self. Never shall I hear again 
 anything half so sweet. The music of the Seraphim will 
 be dull to my ears in comparison with that voice. 
 
 " Well ?" I answered, as composedly as I might, not 
 turning my eyes, lest T should betray my agitation. 
 
 " Jack, what makes your hair so white ? It didn't use 
 to be." 
 
 It was my lost one's voice ! The dead soul was speak- 
 ing ! The puzzled, half-querulous tone showed that the 
 blind eyes saw again, and that the clouded brain was 
 struggling to the light. 
 
 I could control myself no longer. Rising hastily but 
 not abruptly, I went to her ; lifted her in my arms ; 
 kissed her face, and, while the tears rained down my own, 
 and the agony of those long years burst out in sobs, I 
 cried : 
 
 •' Dee ! Dee ! Dee !" 
 
 That was all I could say. 
 
 *' Dee ? Dee ?" she repeated, inquiringly. " Why, 
 Jack ! Jack I" 
 
 There was none of the accustomed plaintive inquiry 
 in her tones, but positive, up-gushing gladness. She 
 threw her arms about my neck, and I felt her slight form 
 thrill with the rapture of recognition. Our tears and 
 kisses mingled while the bright sun sparkled on the dash- 
 ing stream, and afar off the white peaks rested, clear and 
 soft, against the infinite blue depth. 
 
 " Like spirits that lie in the azure sky, 
 When they love but live no more," 
 
-■"iSsie;,.^ 
 
 ^r^^-.j.. 
 
The Balm of Soli t tide. 375 
 
 I murmured, as I saw Dee's gaze turned toward the dis. 
 taut peaks, inquiringly. 
 
 " Oh, Jack !" she cried, as she clung to me with a 
 thrill of apprehension. " What is it ? Are we dead ? 
 What has happened ? Where are we. Jack ? Tell me — 
 tell me truly !" 
 
 I recovered myself with a sudden wrench. Could she 
 stand the shock ? Was I not likely to lose the one only 
 treasure earth could hold for me? Could the poor* 
 weak brain throw off the gloom of years and live ? Had 
 I found my love only to lose her again ! 
 
 " Dee," I said, firmly, as I laid her down and smoothed 
 the soft hands upon her brow caressingly ; " Dee, it is 
 all right ; I am Jack — your Jack ; and I will take care of 
 you — always." 
 
 " Forever and ever ?" she asked, with a smile. 
 
 " Forever and ever, amen !" I answered, solemnly. 
 " But you must not ask any more questions now. You 
 have been very ill. You must lie still, very still, and 
 go to sleep. Will you do as I wish ?" 
 
 ** If — if I can," with a sigh of apprehension. " But you 
 will not leave me. Jack — again ?" 
 
 " I will sit by you and hold your hand. You need not 
 fear. Wait a moment while I get you something." 
 
 I stepped across the room, opened a cabinet, took from 
 it a sedative, poured a strong dose of it into a glass of 
 water, returned and held it to her lips. 
 
 " Drink this, dear," I said ; " and when you waken and 
 are stronger I will tell you everything. Now go to 
 sleep." 
 
 I sat down by her, took her hand and stroked her hair. 
 It was terrible to send the newly-wakened soul back 
 into oblivion. Would it return again and be itself ? I 
 did not know, but I did know it could "ot survive the 
 shock of this new birth without rest. 
 
376 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 Thus I sat and watched her while she slept. When 
 the twilight fell and the maid came to call me to the 
 evening meal I held up a finger warningly, and told her 
 to send Louise. When the latter came, with hurrying 
 steps and pallid cheeks, I said, chokingly : 
 
 ** She must not be disturbed ; she — she is — herself I" 
 
 '* Ah, le bon Dieu /" exclaimed the tender-hearted 
 woman who had served her so long and so faithfully. 
 She sank into a chair, buried her face in the white apron 
 she wore and sobbed silently. 
 
 "She must not be disturbed," I repeated. "Put 
 some food in the adjoining room. If she wakens I will 
 feed her. She must not see anybody she does not 
 know." 
 
 " Does not know !" exclaimed the faithful creature. 
 " Not know her Louise ?" 
 
 " But you forget," I answered. " She will not be the 
 — the same." 
 
 "Ah, true," she said, rising with plaintive dignity; 
 " I did forget. She will not be the same. She will be 
 one I do not know ; and she will not know her Louise. 
 Why should she ? She will be dead, and this — this will 
 be another. Dieu, it is strange ! It is terrible ! It 
 gives me fear ! It is like a miracle — like the resurrec- 
 tion ! I — I think I shall be sorry to lose her." 
 
 She rose and went softly away, her dark eyes shining 
 in the dim light, with a wondering awe which brought 
 a thrill of fear. 
 
 Who would she be when she awoke ? I almost wished 
 she might not waken at all, but that the sweet soul 
 might exhale — might flee into the infinite void before 
 the sunlight came to make visible the world's realities. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LIGHT UPON THE MOUNTAINS, 
 
 Hour after hour I watched beside her, holding her 
 hand, noting every breath, counting the pulse — hardly 
 daring to breathe, myself, Louise came and arranged 
 her clothing that she might sleep comfortably, without 
 waking her. We heaped soft coverlets upon her, for 
 the nights are chill in the mountains. I had bought 
 them, thinking the gay colors would please her childish 
 fancy, and had not been disappointed. After a time I 
 drew the curtains, so as to shut out the moonlight. 
 Then I could hear her breathing softly. I sat silent, hour 
 after hour, wondering what the morrow would bring, 
 and the days which were to follow. It was a long time 
 since I had thought of the future — since I had dared to 
 think of it. Who would she be when she awoke? 
 Would she be Dee or " Weely ?" How I hated the 
 name which was the badge of her infirmity ! If Dee, 
 what should I do ? If *' Weely," of course the old life 
 must go on. 
 
 Tired of the dull agony of doubt, I went out and 
 walked up and down beside the dashing stream in the 
 bright moonlight, with the wondrous stillness of the 
 mountain night about me. I seemed to be in the very 
 center of eternity. The snowy peaks in the distance were, 
 to my questioning heart, the crystal pillars of the throne 
 of God, I knelt on the river-bank and prayed with my 
 
378 A Soil of Old Harry. 
 
 face toward them. It was a long time since I had dared 
 to pray. Even then, I asked nothing- for myself . I did 
 not expect to be forgiven the wrong I had done — did 
 not think I could be forgiven, I had regretted the 
 wrong, but had not repented of it. I was not sure that 
 under like conditions I would not repeat it, terrible as 
 its consequences had been. I only prayed for her — that 
 her white soul might not be stained by my sin. In the 
 infinite stillness of that primeval sanctuary, I asked the 
 Eternal to take from me my one joy — the hope of meet- 
 ing recognition in her waking eyes — if thereby only she 
 might be saved from stain. It was a fearful request to 
 make of Omnipotence. 
 
 Suddenly the earth seemed whirling aimlessly in radi- 
 ant, gusty, freezing space. The river-bank, the work of 
 unnumbered ages of erosion, crumbled beneath my trem- 
 bling knees. Instinctively, I scrambled up the falling 
 mass, with difficulty escaping engulfment in the dashing 
 torrent. The moon was swaying in the firmament. 
 The earth was throbbing with an angry roar. The 
 mountain peaks were rocking in their places. The cold 
 sweat stood upon my brow when I secured once more a 
 firm foothold. What was the significance of this con- 
 vulsion, following swift upon my prayer ? Did the 
 Almighty mean to indicate a way in which it might 
 receive fulfilment ? Had " the canon 'gainst self- 
 slaughter " been intermitted in my case ? It seemed 
 so to me, and I accepted the omen without murmuring. 
 I suppose all men are more or less superstitious, and 
 both my long seclusion and my recent exultation had 
 endowed me with that peculiar egotism which counts a 
 single soul the center of the universe and regards nature's 
 manifestations as designed for individual warning and 
 behoof. At least, this was the construction I put upon 
 what then occurred. It was too slight a shock to be 
 
Light Upo7i the Mountains. ^^(^ 
 
 termed an earthquake — just one of those angry roars 
 by which Nature seems to assert her sentiency. 
 
 Not willing to act under excitement, however, I walked 
 down to the paddock and whistled to Abdallah. The 
 old horse came at my call. I petted his grizzled muzzle, 
 took the foot he lifted up in customary greeting, shook 
 it as if he had been a man and bade him farewell. Then 
 I went to where Damon was kept. He was the one visi- 
 ble token of a past blazoned with honor ; I remembered 
 how proudly I had ridden him through the city's streets, 
 when we celebrated the jubilee of peace — the grand 
 review. How long ago it seemed ! Only she had ridden 
 him since. The gallant troop-horse seemed older than 
 the bay, who was his senior by some years. Was it 
 because the service had told on him, or had the Gray 
 Eagle strain detracted from the vigor of the Belmont 
 mare ? The children of Diomed are not long-lived like 
 the offspring of Messenger. I thought of these things 
 as he came obedient to my call. His silver crest was 
 held as high and proudly as ever, but there were white 
 hairs scattered thickly in the seal-brown coat. 
 
 It was a sad parting. He was the ghost of my buried 
 life. I had never ridden him since he had returned to 
 my possession. Only honor and pride and good repute 
 had ever sat upon his withers. I would permit none but 
 her to mount him. My only quarrel with Jacques had 
 been when I found him once with his foot in the stirrup 
 ready to spring upon Damon's back. I should have 
 killed him if he had done so. He shrank away from me 
 white and terrified at my unreasoning wrath. He had 
 no purpose to offend. In explanation of my act, I took 
 him into the house and showed him a photograph of 
 myself at the head of my command. It was the only 
 relic of the past I had retained. The honest-hearted 
 
380 A So)i of Old Harry. 
 
 fellow looked at it a moment, the tears coming into his 
 eyes. 
 
 " I understand," he said. 
 
 Then I tore the picture in twain and threw the pieces 
 into the fire. Terror came over his face again as he 
 looked up at me and softly withdrew, leaving me alone 
 with the ashes of my past. 
 
 I bade good-bye to my old war-horse, and turned back 
 toward the house. There was no one else to whom I 
 needed to say farewell. The child of Old Harry was 
 beyond the pale of human friendship. The devil's luck 
 had worn itself out at last. Not one in all the world knew 
 of his existence. Only one weak soul had had a dream 
 that he still lived. There were no preparations to be 
 made. My will had long since been prepared. My 
 estate would insure her comfort ; after that my sisters, 
 should they require it, and the family of Hubert Good- 
 win's wife Kitty, according to their propinquity to her. 
 Poor Kitty ! What would she say to me when we met 
 across the river? " Across the river !" I even smiled 
 at the double significance of the phrase. What would 
 she say when we met ? I laughed aloud at the thotight. 
 We should 7iot meet ! I recognized that as an immut- 
 able truth. And echo even came back from my old, old 
 life : " Where I go ye cannot come !" 
 
 My old life ! When I was waiting for a " call !" And 
 / had thought to proclaim the Word of Life to dying 
 souls ! I shuddered at the remembrance. Yet I had 
 not been a hypocrite, and had never meant to do any 
 wrong ; I had only been unable to see what was right. 
 It was well that the struggle was so nearly over. I felt 
 really glad to think that being dead I should at least be 
 harmless. I had never seriously contemplated suicide 
 before, and found the thought really pleasing. The 
 idea that one might end responsibility for even unin- 
 
Light Upon the Mountains, 381 
 
 tended harm to others was very consoling. There are 
 a few who do evil purposely, but a thousand times as 
 many who cause suffering by inadvertance, ignorance 
 and folly. I wonder if the Christ hated the wicked as 
 much as he pitied the weak ? 
 
 I would not go into the house, lest proximity to her 
 might unman me, but looked long and tenderly at it in 
 the white silent moonlight, and breathed a prayer for her 
 who slept within its quiet walls. Then I walked toward 
 the river-bank, feeling happy and peaceful. The mys- 
 tery of my life would be forever hidden in the rushing 
 stream. No one would find my body or know my fate. 
 Perhaps the shelving bank would give a clue ; no mat- 
 ter ; the miles of foaming water below would hide it 
 forever. 
 
 Then occurred a most wonderful thing. I had 
 approached within ten steps of the river. I was not at 
 all excited . What I was about to do seemed altogether 
 right and proper. I was even grateful to the kind 
 Omniscience which had sent so unmistakable an omen 
 in answer to my prayer. I was walking firmly and 
 briskly toward the bridge, deeming it better to leap 
 from the middle of the span, where the full force of the 
 current would surely carry me down. I was not think- 
 ing of anything but the business in hand. At this 
 moment I heard a voice say : 
 
 " Hubert ?" 
 
 I was not surprised or alarmed and could not have 
 been mistaken. The word was uttered clearly and dis- 
 tinctly ; the tone was familiar. There was neither 
 entreaty nor command in it. It was merely an accus- 
 tomed call — nothing more. T turned my head inquir- 
 ingly, and saw a woman standing on the porch, which 
 was flooded with moonlight from end to end. It was 
 not ten minutes since I had been within five yards of 
 
382 A Son of Old Harjy. 
 
 that very spot. She was clad in white, not ghost-like, 
 but apparently a morning-gown of some soft material, 
 and there were roses on her bosom, I did not need to 
 ask her name. I knew it was my wife — Kitty ! 
 
 " Hubert !" she repeated. 
 
 I did not doubt that she was dead. Whether her pres- 
 ence meant pity or punishment, I did not know. So far 
 as I was concerned, I did not care. My only thought 
 was of her — a vague, wild fear that harm had befallen 
 her. 
 
 I walked hastily back to the porch. She held out her 
 hand. I went up the steps and took it, ray eyes falling 
 beneath her calm, steady gaze. We passed into the house 
 and along the hall into the room wh ere the other lay. When 
 I went out it had been dark. Now there was a light in 
 the room adjoining which I had fitted up as a bedroom 
 years before, in the wild hope that she would some time 
 occupy it. It was a dainty affair — for the wilderness, 
 that is. No one had ever slept there. Indeed, the door 
 had hardly been opened a dozen times since it was fur- 
 nished. I had shown it to her once — in an hour of 
 weakness. The door was open now and a lamp burning 
 within. The light shone upon the placid face of the 
 sleeper. She led me close beside the sofa, and after a 
 moment said : 
 
 " Hubert, you must never desert her." 
 
 She tone was reproachful, but very tender. I bowed 
 humbly without looking up. . 
 
 " Take her away," she continued, " as soon as she is 
 able to travel, and never let her know what has hap- 
 pened in the past." 
 
 There was nothing unnatural about this apparition. 
 Her face was white, indeed, and her voice a little trem- 
 ulous, The touch of her hand was as it used to be — ■ 
 
Light Upon the Momitains. 383 
 
 except that it, too, trembled in my listless clasp. I was 
 overwhelmed with confusion and could not answer. 
 
 " Remember," she said, " I have forgiven yourunfaith- 
 fulness to me because of your faitlffulness to her." 
 
 Somehow, I had expected ever since I had heard her 
 summons to find a corpse upon the sofa, I stooped and 
 touched the hand that lay outside the coverlet ; it was 
 soft and warm. I felt her pulse ; it was beating calmly. 
 I was stupefied with amazement. 
 
 " She will live," said the other, assuringly. I was 
 overwhelmed with gratitude at her unexpected mag- 
 nanimity. I think I must have fainted then, for the 
 next thing I recall she was holding a glass to my lips 
 containing the same decoction I had given her. I swal- 
 lowed it in obedience to her dictation. I noted its bit- 
 terness, and wondered dumbly if she had given me an 
 overdose — if that was to be her revenge, the penalty for 
 my unfaithfulness. I did not seem to mind very greatly 
 if it were. Then she led me into the bedroom, and 
 drew the coverlet over me when I had fallen stupidly 
 upon the unused couch. 
 
 She was standing by the bedside when I fell asleep, 
 I thought she kissed me and that I heard her sobbing 
 as she stole away. 
 
 I suppose it must have been a dream ; but it was so 
 real that for months I did not go to sleep without living 
 it all over again. If it had not been for a landslide on 
 the river-bank opposite the house, the marks of my 
 scramble up it and the evidence of my exertion to save 
 myself, which were all evident enough when the morn- 
 ing came, I should have thought the whole thing a delu- 
 sion. But there was no such thing as doubting the fall 
 of the bank the waters had undermined, my scarred 
 hands or torn clothes. How I managed to escape I can- 
 not conceive. The exertion must have wearied me very 
 
384 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 greatly, though I did not notice it, probably because 
 of the exalted mood I was in at that particular time. 
 Feeling the necessity of rest, I must have gone into the 
 house, lighted the laAp, and taken the opiate, from the 
 effect of which, no doubt, the dream resulted. 
 
 It is possible, however, that I fell asleep lying beside 
 the stream, after the exertion to escape engulfment by 
 the crumbling bank, and dreamed all that seemed to 
 have happened afterwards. There was one thing I 
 could never account for, however. When I awoke, just 
 as the dawn was coming on, and tumbling out of the 
 luxurious bed whose spotless linen was flecked with the 
 sand and gravel which had fallen from my clothes, and 
 went into the other room, I found her sleeping peace- 
 fully with a bunch of white roses on her bosom — the 
 same I had dreamed that Kitty wore the night before. 
 She evidently had not moved. I suppose I must have 
 picked them from our little conservatory where they 
 were blooming, while in a somnambulistic state, and 
 placed them there. I felt very weak, as was but natural 
 after a night of such excitement. Nevertheless, I knelt 
 down beside the couch where she lay slumbering so 
 peacefully, and uttered a prayer of thankfulness for the 
 vision I had seen. My heart was lightened by the 
 assurance that Kitty, though dead, had forgiven me. 
 
 When she awoke, I saw at once the old light in her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Why, Jack !" she cried — and the remembered tones 
 echoed like heavenly music out of the desert of the past 
 — what are you doing here ?" 
 
 " Hush ! Hush !" I exclaimed, bending over and 
 kissing the lips I had not touched in all these years. 
 " You must not ask me any more questions — you must 
 not think — only trust me. Will you not, darling ?" 
 
 *' Why, of course I will, Jack, * forever and ever,' " 
 
Light Upon the Mountains. 385 
 
 she answered, with a bright smile ; " only T wish you 
 would tell me what has changed you so. I should not 
 know you — if — if it were not you.'' 
 
 She passed her hand tenderly over my hair and beard 
 as she spoke, but there was none of the old pitiful 
 uncertainty in her tone and manner. 
 
 " Wait I" I said. " Let me bring you something to eat, 
 and then I will allow you to ask — ^let me see — three 
 questions — ^not any more to-day." 
 
 I shook my finger at her with assumed imperiousness 
 and went into the other room. A lamp was burning 
 under the coffee-urn. It was evident that Louise had 
 been early astir to provide fresh nourishment against 
 her awakening. I took her a cup of the steaming bever- 
 age, some slices of bread and butter and a glass of milk. 
 What rapture it was to see her eat ! 
 
 " Why, Jack," she said, noticing my delight, " one 
 would think you never saw me eat before." 
 
 I answered her exclamation only with a loving smile. 
 
 " Now," she said, when she had finished her light 
 repast, " for my three questions. I think you are very 
 mean to restrict me to three when you know I want to ask 
 so many. Of course, I want to know where I am and 
 how I came here ; how long I have been ill and what has 
 been the matter, and — why, Jack, I could ask questions 
 all day !" 
 
 " Yes, I know ; and that is why you must ask but 
 three. There are days enough coming, dear, and you 
 will have nothing else to do." 
 
 *' Well, then — where am I ?" 
 
 " In my house." 
 
 " Your house ?" she said, surveying it critically. "I 
 don't think I ever saw such a one before." 
 
 It had not occurred to me how strange the house, 
 made chiefly of hewn logs, must seem to her. 
 
386 A So7i of Old Harry. 
 
 " How long have you lived here ?" she asked, turn- 
 ing to me after a moment. 
 
 " Oh — a good while," carelessly. 
 
 " How long have I been — sick. Jack ?" 
 
 There was a troubled look upon her face. I dreaded 
 the effect of answering the inquiry, yet judged it best 
 not to avoid it. 
 
 ** What is the last thing you remember ?" 
 
 " Oh, you know, Jack. There was war, and you said 
 you were going — and — " 
 
 "That was in 1861." 
 
 "Of course — I know that." 
 
 " And now it is — " 
 
 I paused to let her think a moment and then held up 
 before her a calendar which I took from my pocket. 
 
 A grave look of wonder and incredulity came into 
 the gray eyes as they scanned the figures. I answered 
 the appeal with a confirmatory nod. 
 
 " I see," she said at length, with a sigh. " I see." 
 
 It was the only allusion ever made by either of us as 
 to what her condition had been. 
 
 " And you have taken care of me ? How good !" 
 
 I trembled at this lapse into the language of her other 
 life. 
 
 " How good !" she repeated — " How^ood. ? Isn't your 
 name Ifozcgood, now ?" 
 
 I bowed affirmatively 
 
 " Just so ; I remember — Jack Howgood. It used to 
 be Jack — Jack — What was it ?" 
 
 " I have forgotten," 
 
 " You mean you wish me to forget. " 
 
 " It might be as well." 
 
 "Well, I will not try to remember ; for. Jack," — her 
 voice became grave and tender — " I am never going to 
 
Light Upon the Mountains. ^i^^j 
 
 do what you do not wish me to again. You don't know 
 what I suffered for — for thatT 
 
 "There, there," I said, soothingly, " don't think of it ! 
 That is all over now." 
 
 " Yes, it's all over — all over," she added, meditatively. 
 " Jack, I must be an old woman !" 
 
 I rose and handed her a mirror, smiling at the 
 response it would make to her inquiry. 
 
 " I don't look so very old, do I ?" she asked, with a 
 touch of her old coquettishness. 
 
 " I don't think you are any older than you were — 
 then," I said, stopping to kiss her. 
 
 ** Ah, that is because you love me," archly, " You do 
 love me, don't you, Jack ?" 
 
 She stretched out her hands imploringly, letting the 
 mirror fall upon the couch beside her. I took her in 
 my arms and answered her question with an embrace 
 more assuring than any words. Presently she disen- 
 gaged herself, pushed me gently away, and, looking 
 searchingly in my face, said : 
 
 " Am I — are we — married. Jack ?" 
 
 A soft flush mounted to her cheeks as she made the 
 inquiry. 
 
 " Not yet, dear," I answered, gently. 
 
 "Ah, I — I thought we had been." 
 
 She was silent for a moment. 
 
 " But we shall be ? You are not married. Jack ?" 
 
 " You shall be my wife, dear, just as soon as you are 
 well enough." 
 
 "And until then?" 
 
 " You will remain as you have been, my sister. But 
 you must not ask any more questions now." 
 
 " I understand," she answered, gravely, after a 
 moment's silence. " And you will take care of me. 
 
A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 Then — " she added with a merry laugh, ** I think I will 
 go to sleep again." 
 
 It was curious how easily she became fatigued. She 
 would wake up bright and cheery, and after a few min- 
 utes drop off again to sleep. Her physical health 
 was of the best, but her brain seemed incapable of 
 anything more than the most trivial exertion. Little 
 things did not worry her, but serious matters seemed 
 beyond her capacity She was a child although a woman. 
 
 The attendant who had been with her for more 
 than a year was ill the next morning. She was a 
 very intelligent and faithful woman, who had been 
 sent to us by Van Wyck, when Louise's domestic duties 
 made it necessary for her to relax her attention. I had 
 never observed her very closely, though, of course, as 
 her attendant, she had the run of my house as well as 
 the other. Indeed, there were no bolts or bars at Tete 
 de Loup, there being no need for any. There was but 
 one thing to be concealed, and that was hidden in my 
 heart. As I said, I had never given any thought to the 
 presence of this attendant. She was kindly, attentive and 
 a lady. That was enough. I do not think I am as gen- 
 erally observant of women as many, and since I had her 
 in my charge I naturally thought only of her. The 
 woman had fallen easily into our life, though she never 
 manifested the same affection for her as she had dis- 
 played to the red-cheeked, wholesome and demonstra- 
 tive Louise. This woman had often predicted her recov- 
 ery, and expressed a desire that she might never see her 
 afterward, as she would be so unlike the loving, tender- 
 hearted child she had known. 
 
 Louise took her old place as maid, and, at my sugges- 
 tion, spoke only French to her new mistress. The arti- 
 fice not only diverted her attention from her environ- 
 ment, but prevented troublesome inquiries. She began 
 
Light Upon the Mountains. 389 
 
 at once to recall her vocabulary of French words, and, 
 as I had hoped might be the case, did not recognize her 
 attendant as one she had ever seen before. This cost 
 Louise some tears, though she protested her joy at the 
 fact, since it meant recovery. 
 
 In a day or two she began visibly to droop, I had 
 not allowed her to go out of the house, and at my 
 request she had refrained from, looking out of the 
 window. I remembered Doctor Talcott's assurance 
 that the most dangerous of all things in such cases was 
 a too sudden joinder of the old and new consciousness, 
 and feared the effect of recognition of her old surround- 
 ings. " Different environments, variety of scene, but 
 few faces," he had declared to be the conditions most 
 favorable to recovery. " Many a feeble brain," he once 
 said, " lapses again into insanity from being constantly 
 confronted with the surroundings of his diseased con- 
 dition." 
 
 So I decided to take her away. It was a long jour- 
 ney to civilization then ; but there were settlements 
 here and there, and the mountains and prairies were in 
 the glow of early summer. I dreaded her antipathy to 
 travelling in a carriage, but thought if we could once 
 get her beyond familiar scenes the conditions would be 
 favorable, and she could make the rest of the journey 
 on horseback. The silence, the distance and the soft 
 surprises of the plains, it seemed to me, would be 
 exactly what she required. We started at night. She 
 was sleeping soundly from the efEects of an opiate when 
 I placed her in the carriage. Jacques and Louise were 
 with me, and one of the grooms had gone forward to our 
 first camping-place, with a string of led-horses. Never 
 have I been so grateful for the horses of Tete de Loup 
 as on that journey. Before she woke we had made the 
 first stage, and when morning came her delight in 
 
390 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 everything was almost pitiful to witness. When I lifted 
 her into the saddle after our morning meal, she was 
 more like herself than she had been at any time before. 
 How rapturous was that first day's ride with the newly- 
 wakened soul who did not know that her eyes had ever 
 witnessed before the beauties which now delighted 
 them. We did not hasten our journey. It would have 
 been folly to do so. Each day found her brighter, 
 stronger, more fully restored. When we finally bade 
 our faithful attendants farewell, it was to hasten to a 
 quiet nook by the seashore, and after loitering there a 
 few months, to make that journey abroad for which she 
 had pleaded in vain so many years before. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 It is wonderful how readily w e made our transition 
 back into the world's life on returning from abroad. 
 Already we had become known in more than one 
 European capital as the Howgoods. As my bank 
 account was ample we were sometimes referred to as 
 the rich Howgoods, and, as we were indifferent to pat- 
 ronage and favor, the fair woman and white-bearded 
 man, who loitered where they listed in the ways of 
 foreign travel, found themselves regarded first as some- 
 what eccentric and finally as quite the thing among 
 their countrymen. It was curious thus to come into 
 the swirl of life again. It was with no set purpose that 
 we thus made our advent in the society of our native 
 land bj^ way of Sandy Hook. Had it been deeply 
 
Sunshine and Shadow. 391 
 
 planned, however, no better scheme could have been 
 devised. So many had met us abroad that we found 
 ourselves already well known at home. A civilization 
 always ready to assimilate anything that stands on a 
 gold basis opened its doors to us without hesitation. No 
 one questioned who we were because so many knew 
 already what we were. 
 
 There was, no doubt, the flavor of Western origin 
 about us. " Old Howgood " was still a reminiscence in 
 Denver, but so few had known him that he was little 
 more than that. It is doubtful if any one really 
 thought the connection between us anything closer 
 than comes by inheritance. Whether I was a brother 
 or son of the eccentric financier nobody seemed quite 
 able to determine, but I think few accepted my denial 
 of relationship with him, and, so far as I am aware, 
 none suspected my identity. 
 
 How easily we fitted into the life of the great metro- 
 polis ! A luxurious home, a stable income and a luck 
 which rarely failed to add something to the sum total 
 of my holdings, whatever the turn of the market — they 
 were enough had there been even less of personal 
 merit than the Howgoods might justly claim. But she 
 won all hearts by simple, unaffected kindliness. It 
 was amazing how humble she was and how solicitous 
 of others' happiness. We did not go into society much, 
 but society came to us — to her rather — for I do not 
 think it cared so much for me. But she was a magnet 
 that drew all natures. She was not gay and yet the 
 butterflies loved her ; nor sad, yet the bereaved sought 
 her. The rich admired her without envy, and the 
 poor blessed her for her benefactions. We did not 
 embark upon the stream of pleasure nor give enter- 
 tainments. There was always a feeling, though we 
 never spoke of it, that she coiild not endure such excite- 
 
392 A Soil of Old Harry. 
 
 ment ; but the world streamed in and out at our door, 
 asking only leave to come. 
 
 Yet we were curiously alone. She called me Jack. 
 That was the only thing that linked us with the past. 
 In the years that followed there was little worth 
 recording, save the fact of our love ; unless, indeed, 
 my success in that wild game of chance, which we 
 call business, may be thought worthy of mention. I 
 played it only for the pleasure I derived from it, and 
 enjoyed to the full the delights of loss and gain. The old 
 luck has been with me, and the mark of Old Harry 
 would not let me rest. 
 
 So far as I am aware, no one ever suspected my 
 identity with the disgraced and forgotten man whose 
 name I once bore. As for her, I told her the story so 
 far as was necessary. Of course, the shadow rested 
 always over us — or rather over me — the strange haunt- 
 ing fear of discovery. With this fear she seemed to 
 sympathize. It drew us closer together, and, despite 
 our station in life, kept us apart from other lives. We 
 had troops of acquaintances, but made no friends. 
 The past was dead : we had trodden it under our feet ; 
 but we could not ask others to tread upon its ashes 
 also. Until the young nurse came, I doubt if she ever 
 met a woman whom she felt inclined to trust. At the 
 very last the old trouble came very near to her again. 
 She seemed for a while to have a double consciousness, 
 but through them both shot one ray of light — her 
 unvarying love and trust in "Jack." I doubt if she 
 really understood that I had ever been anything else 
 or even had been other than what I was. I have often 
 thought she never fully recalled the names under 
 which we once knew each other or the events of our 
 early life. We never spoke of the past except once or 
 twice, and then only vaguely and briefly, I thought 
 
Sunshine and Shadow. 393 
 
 sometimes that she had a strange antipathy to the 
 name we bore ; but thought it only a fancy until the very 
 last. There was no reason why she should so regard it. 
 It is a good name — my name, her name. Mine by 
 creation, mine by right, mine by law — and by me legally 
 and lovingly bestowed upon her. It is the symbol of a 
 loyalty as perfect as the stanchest type of steadfastness. 
 Never once while she lived did I feel any desire to go 
 back and be what I was before. 
 
 It is a good name — so good that it will make a draft 
 of seven figures worth its face in gold in any market of 
 the world. It is an honorable name, too ; a name of 
 which I am proud because I made it both good and 
 honorable. It came to me unspotted with evil, unlight- 
 ened with good — out of darkness, void, oblivion. It 
 brought no heritage of honor or dishonor, success or 
 failure. It brought no moral or intellectual bias, no 
 attainder of blood, no obligation of kinship. It is mine 
 by creation, mine by adoption, mine by the law's con- 
 firmation, mine by the ineradicable brand of sin and 
 shame. In all the world there is not one who can claim 
 affiliation through it. I alone have worn it — I and she 
 — and with me it will disappear. As it was born of love 
 for her, I made it honorable and kept it clean for her 
 sake. Our name I How proud I was of it when I 
 inscribed it upon the register of the hotel of which I 
 was to remain so long a guest ! 
 
 " John Howgood and wife, ) ^ y . „ 
 Miss Katherine Parks. \ ^^^ ^°^^- 
 
 That was the record of our advent. How obsequious 
 the landlord became when he had read it. Why should he 
 not be } He who can command any service he desires 
 honors him whose service he accepts. I engaged rooms 
 for a day. She was not well ; that is why she traveled 
 
394 -^ '^^^ ^f ^^^ Hariy. 
 
 with an attendant ; why we stopped here ; why we 
 traveled at all, indeed. All places were alike irksome 
 and hateful to me while the cloud rested over her. Yet 
 the name does not adorn her tombstone. It was her 
 desire, and that is more potent than man's law or even 
 God's command to me. I think I would willingly break 
 all laws to fulfill the slightest wish of hers. 
 
 It was no light affliction to me that I might not carve 
 upon her tomb the name I had made for her and shared 
 with her so long. I loved it and could not bear to think 
 that it would drop back into unnoted oblivion when I 
 should die. It is known almost the world over. It has 
 been at the fore in good deeds and bears the stain of no 
 evil purpose upon it. Yet if she must sleep without it, 
 so will I. I wonder if I could persuade the nurse to 
 wear it. She was very fond of her, and during the days 
 which have since elapsed has been very kind to me. 
 Somehow, I feel as if it would please her to have one 
 whom she loved bear our name. I would have proposed 
 it and made the nurse my heir long ago if she would 
 have consented ; but she is proud — very proud and very 
 unjust, I think also. Pray God she may not be mercen- 
 ary ! Yet why should I blame her if she be ? Who am 
 I that I should cavil at another's imperfections ? Why 
 should I care anything about her indeed? Yet I do 
 care and am in constant fear lest she should go away 
 and leave me. I do not understand the feeling. 
 Perhaps it is because she commended her to my care 
 so earnestly. 
 
 To my care ! It would have been more to the pur- 
 pose had she commended me to her care. I am alone 
 now, helpless and unloved, unless, perchance, the nurse 
 has some little compassion for me. Money can buy 
 service ; but it cannot buy tenderness — love. And I am 
 hungry for love — not such as she gave me, but for the 
 
Sunshine and Shadow. 395 
 
 love that crowns the close of life — a child's love. The 
 lust of possession is dead — I desire now only to be pos- 
 sessed, claimed, prized — to be for a little while the 
 centre of some life's thought, and afterward cherished 
 as a pleasant memory. Ah, if the nurse were my child 
 — if she would only be my daughter ! Yet until that 
 day — that saddest of all days — I had hardly noted her 
 existence. Perhaps it is because she came to me out of 
 the cloud that she seems now so resplendent to my 
 thought. 
 
 How ever}i;hing has changed ! Only two short 
 months ago my life was at the zenith. The love which 
 had shone steadily through so many years was to the 
 last unclouded. Then came the night ! How swift it 
 fell ! How impenetrable its darkness ! I, that was so 
 much, am less than nothing ! The world does not count 
 me even a potentiality — only the shadow of what was 
 once a power. Yet T am not unhappy. I am even glad 
 that she did not have to bear the burden of isolation 
 which now presses down on me. I am sure it would 
 have been more than she could have endured. She 
 might even have fallen back into the abyss from which 
 my love had rescued her. I am glad, too, that she 
 knew no lingering, wasting woe. It was as she had 
 always wished — as she was in life so she smiled in 
 death. 
 
 When they thought all was over — when they told me 
 she was dead, I was like one rent with mortal agony. 
 She must have heard me and come back from the dread 
 unknown in answer to my cry. The life-light came 
 once more into her eyes ; the bloom of youth glowed 
 one moment more upon her cheeks. Her hair shone 
 like spun gold in the sunshine. "Jack," she said. 
 Then while the glory faded from her face, we heard her 
 lips repeating the lines with which she had answered 
 
396 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 my prayer for love in that other life which lay beyond 
 the verge of one long night : 
 
 " If I should fade 
 Into those mystic realms where light is made, 
 And you should long once more my face to see ; 
 I would come forth upon the hills of night, 
 And gather stars like faggots, till thy sight 
 Led by the beacon-blaze fell full on me." 
 
 It was enough. I never looked upon her face again . 
 Why should I regard the mold while the rose was yet 
 fresh in my memory .' 
 
 Two days afterward, we bore her to the grave. Poor 
 dear. It was the first carriage-ride she had taken in 
 many years without moaning and trembling with fear. 
 I was full of terror lest even the cold heart should throb 
 with agony as the nicely balanced hearse swung to and 
 fro under the weight of the heavy casket. It was an 
 imposing procession that followed it, though we were 
 strangers in the city. The rich never lack for sympa- 
 thy. It is only those who need assistance to whom we 
 forget to offer it. A leading citizen had begged to be 
 allowed to place his private carriage at my disposal. I 
 feared there was a sinister purpose behind the offer — 
 the rich must always be suspicious — but I accepted, and 
 asked the young nurse who had closed her eyes to share 
 it with me. I was afraid the minister who was to offi- 
 ciate would be forced upon my privacy and might seek 
 to offer consolation. She seemed surprised at my 
 request. I had hardly noticed before how young and 
 attractive she was, nor how like one of us she had 
 grown in the long months during which we had watchen 
 together the fading life. For she had not sickened and 
 died ; she had only faded and exhaled. 
 
Sunshine and Shadow. 397 
 
 " There will be no other mourners," I explained. 
 
 " No relatives ? 
 
 I shook my head. '* There are none." 
 
 " None ?" 
 
 ** None who — no, none — not one," I answered, irri- 
 tably. 
 
 She asked no more questions. I was "afraid she 
 would refuse. I knew that she had come to love the 
 gentle girl who had attended her so faithfully in those 
 last days. Besides, I shrank from being the sole 
 mourner at her grave. It seemed as if it would appear 
 like a reproach to her purity if no woman bent above 
 her resting-place wearing the habiliments of grief. I 
 had not realized before how terribly she had been 
 cursed by my act — by a past which, though dead, was 
 yet potent to doom. Of friends we had no lack, but of 
 those to whom nature gives the right to mourn there 
 were none who would know of her death — or, knowing, 
 would have cared. The nurse still hesitated, or seemed 
 to hesitate. 
 
 " I thought you loved her," I said, with unreasoning 
 bitterness. 
 
 " Oh, I did — as if I were her daughter !" she 
 exclaimed, in passionate protest. 
 
 Her daughter ! How the words startled me ! If she 
 only had been ! 
 
 " Will you not be ?" I asked, impulsively. 
 
 She looked up at me incredulous — reproachful, I 
 thought. 
 
 " Not my daughter," I said, humbly—" hers.'' 
 
 She smiled sadly. 
 
 " For a few days, if — if you desire it to be so." 
 
 Her voice trembled ; it was low and sweet. I think 
 it comforted me. I was seized with an overwhelming 
 desire to keep her near me. 
 
398 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 " Why not forever ?" I asked, earnestly. 
 
 ** I am very sorry — for you," she replied, seeming not 
 to heed my question. 
 
 ^^ She loved you," I said, apologetically. I was not 
 even angry that she should doubt me. 
 
 Tears came into the beautiful eyes. She bowed her 
 head, but made no reply. 
 
 I construed the gesture to mean assent, and told those 
 in charge of the preparations that I had adopted her. 
 She gazed up at me in surprise when she heard the 
 words. I would have provided mourning for her, but 
 she would not permit. The black gown she wore was 
 not new. I wondered for whom it had been worn 
 before. I was glad she was to be my companion. She 
 would at least ask no questions. Ah, me ! it was a sad 
 thing for her. Yet many envied her, no doubt, as she 
 took my arm and walked beside me to the carriage; 
 It is a nice thing to be heir-presumptive of a man whose 
 wealth is a matter of common knowledge to the whole 
 country. I could not but note the envious glances cast 
 upon her by the assembled company as we followed our 
 dead through the long corridor. They made my 
 thoughts bitterer and the world lonelier. She seemed 
 to understand it all. How kind she was in that last ride ! 
 I do not think I can ever forget her tenderness. Was 
 it disinterested ? Would she have shrunk from me had 
 she known the truth ? 
 
 It was a splendid span which drew our carriage. My 
 eye noted that unconsciously when it came back from 
 following the casket as it was placed carefully in the 
 hearse. I wondered if the insensate clay perchance felt 
 any jar, and reproached myself for not having per- 
 sonally examined the vehicle which was to bear her to 
 the grave. It would be cruel to jostle even her dead 
 dust. There was no embalming. I would allow no 
 
Simshine and Shadow. 399 
 
 stranger's hand to touch her. The faithful nurse and I 
 had placed her in the casket. It was a soft, white 
 couch, and the iron case was a safe receptacle. The 
 undertaker had screwed down the lid, and I myself had 
 locked it at head and foot. It was a notion of mine. 
 Even in the grave I would not yield possession of her. 
 She was mine — still mine ! 
 
 Our coachman had a mourning band upon his hat. 
 As we came down the steps I noticed that the close- 
 clipped browns were restless. I could see the muscles 
 twitching under their silky hides, and one stretched out 
 a lithe fore-leg and daintily but impatiently scraped the 
 pavement with his toe-calk, as if to hint that the spring- 
 ing tendons could not long be denied opportunity for 
 action. Despite my grief I sympathized with him, and 
 involuntarily glanced again at him and his mate. I 
 knew them in an instant, though I had never seen them 
 before. They were too distinguished in ancestry and 
 achievement not to be recognizable by one having any 
 knowledge of the quick-steppers whose records illumin- 
 ated the trotting register. I comprehended at once 
 why they had been sent me and was grateful. There 
 was no footman, but the owner himself held open the 
 door, hat in hand. He was a stranger, but I gave him 
 a glance which he must have understood. He knew I 
 was a lover of horses, and had sent his matchless span 
 out of respect for my bereavement. It was a little 
 thing, but it touched me. One gets tired of being 
 regarded only for the money he represents. 
 
 It seemed a sympathetic company which had gathered 
 to do honor to the woman none of them had known.* 
 but I shrank from their gaze. The nurse reached out 
 and drew the curtains between me and them. We must 
 have waited a long time while the train of carriages 
 received their occupants, for there were many carriages 
 
400 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 though but two mourners. At last I heard the wheels 
 of the hearse grate upon the pavement. I would have 
 given my heart to ease the jar even of the cold clay. I 
 must have writhed in agony. The nurse put her hand 
 upon my arm. The touch soothed me. I did not see 
 her, yet I icnew she was not looking at me, but out of 
 the window with a handkerchief pressed to her lips, 
 weeping. Why should she weep ? 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A GOOD BIT OF WORK. 
 
 It was over in a flash, but it was something to stir 
 one's blood while it lasted. When a span of well-bred 
 trotters really break away, they are the worst of all ani- 
 mals to control. There is not only the fierce desire of 
 the thoroughbred to go — the wild delight of racing with 
 each other and the wind — and the indomitable courage 
 which makes the trotter, after all, the very finest type of 
 the horse ; but there is also the consciousness of wrong- 
 doing to add wings to their speed. When the trotter 
 breaks his stroke, he knows he is doing a forbidden thing 
 and expects to be punished. The fear of this adds to the 
 frenzy which impels him to the unaccustomed gait. 
 
 I do not know what startled them. I remembered 
 afterwards that they had been restive all the way to the 
 cemetery, though I thought nothing of it then. The 
 driver was a new one, and lacked confidence, I judge. I 
 did not observe the change of gait at first, being accus- 
 tomed to rapid driving, and my heart being in the grave 
 we had just seen heaped up. The light had gone out of 
 
A Good Bit of Work. 401 
 
 my life and the darkness had settled down close about 
 me. Black hopelessness had suddenly succeeded a joy 
 so keen that few realized its effulgence. Others, no 
 doubt, love ; but I had known nothing but love and what 
 I had gained for love's sweet sake. The change was 
 from noonday to midnight. I seemed to grope rather 
 than walk from that red mound to the carriage. I saw 
 no one, though I knew many were watching me pity- 
 ingly — curiously. I could only wonder what she would be 
 in the life beyond — if there is any light or life beyond 
 the grave — and what would be her thought of me when 
 she looked back and saw what lay behind the vail which 
 had clouded her knowledge here. Would she ever look 
 beyond it ? Would she ever know the truth ? I hoped 
 not. Selfish as it seems, I think I would rather she 
 should be forever dead — that she should be no more — 
 than know the truth. It is a terrible thought, but I am 
 weak — fearfully weak — and I loved her so ! 
 
 No, no ! Let me take it back — blot it out ! Let it be 
 unsaid ! It is not true. I would rather endure all wo- 
 fulness forever than that she should miss a moment's joy. 
 That is all I can do — all I have ever done. This fact is 
 the key of my life — its one redeeming feature — my sole 
 excuse if any palliation is possible. If I sinned, it was 
 for love, and I will suffer for it, if need be — willingly, 
 gladly, eternally. But harm her not, oh. Fate ! Touch 
 not her white soul ! Let her not miss one thrill of rap- 
 ture nor feel one throb of woe ! If penalty there must 
 be, let it fall on me. Even into nothingness — eternal 
 nothingness — I would gladly sink to save her a single 
 pang! 
 
 These thoughts and wilder, bitterer, sweeter ones 
 were in my mind strangely intermingled, as we took our 
 way back to the hotel, when suddenly the nurse clasped 
 my arm. I looked at her like one just wakened from a 
 
402 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 dream. Her face showed very white against the mourn- 
 ing bonnet. We were simply flying ; that is the only 
 word to express the sensation. The light carriage in 
 v/hich we were shut up was as nothing to the high-bred 
 beasts striving to outdo each other. I knew at once that 
 the only thing to be done was to choose the least fre- 
 quented streets ; steer clear of obstructions and let them 
 go until they had had their fling and were ready to set- 
 tle down to steady work. I pulled open the window and 
 shouted this to the driver. Poor fellow ! One will 
 never know whether he heard or not. 
 
 I put my left arm about the nurse, knowing that it 
 would be better for her in case we were overturned — 
 especially if I fell underneath, as I would try to do. I 
 was sorry then that she had come with me, and said 
 something of the kind. I do not know what answer she 
 made, but she was very composed for one in such peril, 
 I do not think I ever rode so fast in my life — not since 
 the great race, at least. 
 
 Fortunately, few of the Southern city's streets were 
 paved. A glance showed me where we were, and the 
 character of the road "before us. A few blocks away a 
 public square lay across our path. On the side we 
 approached, it had been cut down sheer aboufsix or eight 
 feet, to the grade of the streets along the other fronts. 
 At one corner it rose higher, at the other the wall was 
 somewhat lower. The inclosure was thickly shaded 
 with ancient oaks, now clothed in the soft, tender leaf- 
 age of spring-time, through which the sun shone with a 
 mellow, opaline light. Through the openings in the 
 foliage one caught sight of a massive heap of weather- 
 beaten granite. The square was walled with brick, 
 old and crumbling. Upon one corner of it stood an 
 unused office, dating back almost to colonial times ; its 
 walls cracked and bulging overhung the parapet below. 
 
A Good Bit of Work. 403 
 
 I thought of these things — not connectedly, as I have 
 written them, but in a flash, as one thinks of obstacles 
 he must pass in a charge over half- familiar ground. 
 To pass the square we must make two sharp turns in 
 half a hundred yards. There was little chance of 
 doing this in safety. Unless the driver had courage 
 enough to put his horses at the wall, we were pretty 
 sure to be overturned on one corner or the other, and 
 then — well, the streets were paved with cobble-stones 
 about the square, and it was easy to guess what would 
 be the chances of the occupants of an overturned car- 
 riage dragged at the heels of two such horses. The 
 motion was easy enough until we struck the pavement, 
 a block or two from the square. The horses were fairly 
 matched, and their training showed in the evenness of 
 their stride. I could not see them, but I knew their 
 necks were outstretched, each black muzzle straining 
 to get a hair's breadth ahead of the other. Their feet 
 touched the earth at regular intervals, with the elastic 
 force of a steel spring. I held the girl tightly, so that I 
 might be ready to do whatever should seem needful for 
 her safety when the crash came. 
 
 Just before we reached the comer I saw a young man 
 drop an armful of books and a green bag, and after 
 a hurried glance up and down the street, turn and 
 run toward the square. I read his thought in an 
 instant. The corner was barely twenty steps away, 
 but we passed him before he reached it. I glanced at 
 him as we went by and knew that the end of our race 
 was near, and that this brown-bearded, firm- jawed 
 young man would be in at the death. I thought very 
 likely it would be a real death, too. I only wondered 
 who would die, and hoped it might not be the slender 
 creature in my arms, nor the brave young fellow who 
 was about to risk hisjife to save us. . 
 
404 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 I saw he knew what he was about, but it was a peril- 
 ous thing for any one to undertake. He knew the 
 horses must slacken their speed in making the turn ; 
 the momentum would take them well over toward the 
 wall along the side of the square. If they turned to the 
 right, he would have the advantage of position, for they 
 would have to describe the arc of a circle, while he 
 would traverse the chord. Then, if he could get a good 
 hold on the reins, he might force them against the wall 
 and stop them before they reached the other corner. 
 
 It was a good plan and would have been entirely suc- 
 cessful if we had not had to reckon with the masons of 
 a century ago. The young man did his part splendidly ; 
 that is, he did the right thing — the very best thing that 
 could possibly have been done — at exactly the right 
 time. One had no need to be told that he was a horse- 
 man. Every motion showed it. I could not but admire 
 him as he ran, his lips shut, hands well up, chest out, 
 not doing his best, but with every muscle strung like 
 whip-cord and his eyes fastened on the mane of the 
 frantic creature on the off-side as if he were picking out 
 the very handful he was going to clutch. That is just 
 what he was doing, too. It's a good trick and fairly 
 safe, if one has muscle and youth, elastic bones and cool- 
 ness on his side. But there is always danger in it, A 
 false step, a second's miscalculation — any one of a thous- 
 and possibilities — and one who fools with a runaway 
 pays the penalty of his folly, no matter how strong or 
 nimble he may be. As for me, I could only brace 
 myself for the shock. 
 
 When we reached the comer, the horses started to 
 go to the left but finally went to the right, swerving 
 over toward the wall about the square. The wheels 
 upon one side left the pavement ; those upon the 
 other creaked and trembled. I threw our imited 
 
A Good Bit of Work. 405 
 
 weight upon the outside. As I did so, I saw the young- 
 man dart by the carriage-window like a flash. I knew 
 he had seized the off-horse by the bridle with his right 
 hand, twisted his left in the mane, and was hanging a 
 dead weight upon his neck, crowding the span nearer 
 and nearer to the wall. Then came a jar, a crash, a 
 curious, unaccountable rumble. We were overturned, 
 of course. I came underneath as I had planned, clasp- 
 ing the girl tightly above me. Just as we fell, I saw 
 my mistake. We had struck the wall near the cor- 
 ner, knocking out the foundation of the old brick 
 office, I tried to turn her over and shield her from 
 this new peril, but could not move. The frame of 
 the carriage somewhat broke the force of the blow, 
 but it was not much beneath the weight of the wall, 
 more than a foot thick, which toppled over and [crushed 
 down upon us. 
 
 It was a good while before I knew anything more. 
 They tell me the driver and one of the horses are dead. 
 It is too bad : the man was brave if not skillful. The 
 horse cannot be replaced. Such a span would be hard 
 to duplicate. I may have something the owner would 
 count an equivalent, however. The nurse, poor thing, has 
 a broken leg ; and I — well, I hardly needed the doctor's 
 verdict to understand my situation. The young man 
 was unhurt. He is a gallant fellow. He has looked 
 after my comfort since as faithfully as if I had been his 
 father. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A RETROSPECT, 
 
 Since that day I have been an invalid — or rather as 
 one half-dead. The dull limbs defy my will. I live, 
 but life is visibly ch ained to death. The future holds 
 no hope save that which lives beyond the stars, where 
 love will not be sin, and shame will be unknown. I 
 have written the story of a strangely disjointed life, and 
 the shadows of the past have come trooping to my bed- 
 side, mocking my loneliness with the long-forgotten 
 yearnings they inspire. I long once more to be what I 
 was, and dread to die and be remembered only as what 
 I am. It is a strange impulse. I wonder if it is akin 
 to that which makes the criminal fear to die until he 
 has confessed his crime. It is not fear, but only the 
 desire to uncover and reveal the past — to let the world 
 know that Hubert Goodwin did not die in that wild 
 tempest on the Western plains. I wonder if she felt 
 something of this when she refused to sleep beneath the 
 shelter of my name ? Or did she think that I had 
 shamed and dishonored her purity by bestowing upon 
 her a name that neither of us had any right to bear ? 
 
 The thought has troubled me greatly. Was her life 
 one long sacrifice to love ? I can hardly realize that 
 such may have been the fact ; but why should she ask 
 that this name — our name — should not be placed on her 
 
A Retrospect. 407 
 
 tomb ? Did she recall the past ? Did she, perchance 
 remember that she had been another's wife ? Did she 
 know or guess that I had been the husband of another ? 
 Ah, if she did, how sweet and holy was the sacrifice she 
 made to love ! Not one word of regret ! No shadow 
 of repining ! If she remembered the past, she must 
 have realized something of what I had sacrificed for 
 love, and determined not to make my burden heavier by 
 revealing any knowledge or suspicion of its existence. 
 If she remembered the past, she must have known of 
 that fame I trampled in the mire for her sake. Was 
 this the secret of her life ? Was this the interpretation 
 of her deep humility and the tender pride she always 
 manifested in me ? Did she think my act which came 
 so near to baseness, was indeed a god-like sacrifice ? 
 
 I can well see how she may have been thus self- 
 deceived. I never thought to explain everything to her, 
 assuming that she would either but half understand it 
 or that she would be happier if the interval of her afflic- 
 tion remained a blank. I wondered sometimes that 
 she did not ask more — about her mother, about my 
 mother, about my life and hers in those sad, silent 
 years. But I thought she had forgotten. What if she 
 remembered — remembered and was silent ? Perhaps 
 it was a mistake. Knowing that no wrong could attach 
 to her conduct, it never once occurred to me that she 
 might imagine that I had reached out my hand to her 
 in that time of half -unconsciousness and leaped with her 
 into a gulf of shame that lay hidden under the name of 
 which I was so proud — John Howgood. How she must 
 have hated it as the mark of infamy — the badge of 
 shame which love had imposed upon her helplessness. 
 
 I wonder if it was because of this that at the very 
 last, when she saw my grief at her request that our 
 name should not be carved upon her tombstone, she 
 
4o8 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 expressed a desire that our accumulations — for all I had 
 was hers, since I counted gold but dust in comparison 
 with her happiness — might be applied to some good use 
 which would reflect honor on my name, " Your name, 
 Jack ;" that was what she said. If my soul had not 
 been blinded with the agony of impending woe, I should 
 have known her thought and made her understand the 
 truth — that our name was my name lawfully and 
 irrevocably ; that on earth as in the dim future I would 
 stand only by her side — John Howgood, in time and 
 eternity ! She should have understood that the old 
 name died with the old life. But she shall know it yet. 
 I cannot blazon it above her ashes, but beside them 
 shall be placed my own, and on the rugged granite 
 block above them shall be carved the words, John 
 Howgood. Beside it on the self-same granite — part and 
 parcel of it, indeed — shall be a slender shaft, with only 
 those words which in her school-girl days she loved to 
 repeat : 
 
 " Ilia fuit animce 
 Dtmiduuffi mece" 
 
 So the world shall know that in life and death she 
 was half my soul. 
 
 The young lawyer has procured several designs for 
 me, of which I have chosen one which struck my fancy. 
 I showed it to the nurse the other day, and was surprised 
 at the feeling she exhibited. It was something more 
 than anger — almost fury. If it had not been for the 
 burst of tears that quickly followed I should have had 
 the worst thoughts of a woman whose conduct seems 
 altogether inscrutable. 
 
 I think this very suggestion has turned my thought 
 backward with a longing I have never known before. 
 
A Retrospect. 409 
 
 I cannot help feeling' a strange love for the name I dis- 
 graced. I am a Goodwin still, despite the gulf that lies 
 betv/een me and the old Goodwin pride. I love the 
 sturdy, boisterous, man-defying stock which served 
 God and the devil with equal fervor. From the fierce 
 Old Harry down to my shrewd, single-hearted uncle, 
 there is not one who ever bore the name of whom I am 
 not proud ! How they must detest my memory, who, 
 of all the race, brought it inexcusable infamy ! I can- 
 not forget them. Blood is not only thicker than water, 
 it is stronger than the law itself. I wonder if I should 
 leave my estate to this proud stock if any of them 
 would condescend to take it ? I do not know what my 
 uncle's children, my brothers and sisters of the half- 
 blood — may be like. I only know that my mother died 
 believing in me. It was natural. I was her first-born, 
 her idol. Somehow, it seems just, now that there is no 
 other love to be considered, that, after some specific 
 bequests, I should leave the bulk of my possessions to 
 those of my own blood. Perhaps that is what she 
 meant. 
 
 Why should I not boldly utter the thought that is in 
 my heart ? Why not leave my estate to " the heirs of 
 General Hubert Goodwin ?" Then there can be no mis- 
 take. Whoever chose to claim under that testament 
 would have to acknowledge their unfortunate kins- 
 man. Suppose they refuse to take it ? Well^ then it 
 shall go to some foundation to do good in his name. 
 The name I in life covered with infamy I will make 
 honorable again in death. If my kindred will not take 
 my bounty, it shall be devoted to some purpose which 
 shall take away the stain I cast upon the old name. 
 What shall it be ? I have no wrongs to right, unless it 
 be to one who is beyond the reach of propitiation — 
 whose wrong, indeed, was beyond amendment — the wife 
 
4IO A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 who was so proud of my fame that she would not have 
 it smirched by my shame, and sought to hide her wrong 
 that she might in part screen me from blame. For her 
 sake, it shall be a foundation that will be of benefit to 
 man. I had thought of choosing the horse as my ben- 
 eficiary — he has been so linked with my destiny — but 
 somehow I shrink from associating my father's name 
 even with that noble beast, which has been the bless- 
 ing as well as the bane of our family. It is my wish 
 to re-establish the name in the esteem of men. I am 
 not a philanthropist ; I do not much care for the poor 
 and weak, but, after all, I love humanity. Why should 
 I not leave my estate to benefit those whose commenda- 
 tion I would secure ? Suppose I should endow an 
 institution for the " Promotion of Human Progress," or, 
 better still, " The Study of Methods of Human Better- 
 ment?" 
 
 " Why not ? I am sure the world can be made better, 
 and that only collective human endeavor can improve 
 present conditions. I do not know how it can be done. 
 I have never studied such things, but I do not doubt 
 that the world would be improved if the mere amassing 
 of superabundant wealth was not regarded as the high- 
 est test of ability and the only worthy aim of ambition. 
 I think the world would be sweeter, too, if half the 
 money and more than half the aspiration of the country 
 were not absorbed in that wild game which we call 
 speculation — gambling on the rise and fall of values 
 which are not enhanced or depreciated by such action, 
 and in which the speculator has no interest beyond the 
 particular rise or fall on which he has staked his money. 
 
 It seems proper that a fortune won on the " Exchange " 
 should be devoted to the improvement of business 
 methods and social conditions which that and kindred 
 
A Retrospect, 4 1 1 
 
 institutions growing on the rank stock of our bloated 
 civilization have done so much to debase. 
 
 I never thought of it before, but perhaps this is the 
 " call " for which I waited in my young days, and for 
 which I have blushed so often in my later ones. Per- 
 haps my " one talent " may do more good in this way 
 than I could have performed in any other. I can see 
 that only by such isolation from my fellows as I have 
 known could I have been led to make such application 
 of my wealth. I am sure it would please her, looking 
 backward from the realms of joy, and that other, whom 
 she has no doubt met ere this — she, too, will be glad that 
 the name she cherished with such jealous care is not to 
 be left entirely to dishonor. The thought pleases me 
 and brings a strange content. I seem to see the frag- 
 ments of a broken life joined into one not altogether 
 discreditable existence — the past and future harmonized, 
 and Fate made not a blind worker of mischance, but a 
 beneficence which blesses when it seemed only to curse. 
 
 It may seem a foolish notion, but John Howgood can 
 afford to be foolish. A name that can make a piece of 
 paper worth as much as his is proof even against the 
 charge of eccentricity. When I think of its potency I am 
 proud of this quaint synonym of humiliation and despair, 
 and glad that it has power to wash away a part of the 
 stain from that other name which I love, and leave it 
 revered rather than accursed of man. To-morrow I 
 will give the young lawyer the last instructions. 
 
 Through the dull, inert limbs that lie outstretched 
 upon the couch I feel the red mark of Old Harry burn- 
 ing with that fierceness which always presages success. 
 My life has not been as others forecast it, nor as I willed 
 it, but as Fate decreed. I do not feel that I have been 
 worse than most men and believe that I have been bet- 
 ter than many. Of conscious eyil I have, perhaps, done 
 
412 A Soil of Old Harry. 
 
 less and of unconscious wrong more than others. The 
 hopes attaching to my early youth have been sadly 
 blighted . I have been of little service to humanity ; in 
 fact, I do not know that the world is any better, though 
 perhaps, not much worse, for my having lived in it. I 
 wonder if this is not the final outcome of most lives? 
 Perhaps there may be those who would gladly cut off, 
 as I have been compelled to do, the early life of val- 
 orous achievements from the latter one of sordid use- 
 lessness. 
 
 One of the predictions touching the fate of the sons 
 of Old Harry at least, has been literally fulfilled in 
 my life. Ever since my baby-hands caressed a suck- 
 ling's velvet muzzle, my life has been like a post-road 
 with a change of nags at every stage. Some have been 
 good ; some have been bad ; some have borne me exult- 
 ingly on to joy, while others have dragged me down to 
 shame. And now a span of the noblest have brought 
 the end. Why not ? Fortune has come to me on 
 horseback more than once ; why not Fate as well ? 
 The son of Old Harry will not forget man's noblest 
 servitor. He shall be the residuary of my grace. If 
 man will not accept my bounty, the horse shall be its 
 beneficiary. 
 
 To those who have never tasted renown, I do not 
 doubt that oblivion comes at last as a sweet solace for 
 the woes of life. But to me the fact that I cannot claim 
 the fame that Hubert Goodwin won is now so bitter a 
 thought that no after-success brings consolation. If it 
 were not that to do so would cast discredit upon her 
 memory, I would even now throw off the mask of years 
 and proclaim my identity. While she lived I did not 
 mind it ; she was all — enough and more than enough. 
 But now — the world is so empty — I am so alone — that 
 the past stirs in my breast a vague but intense yearning 
 
A Retrospect. 413 
 
 which compels me to con over its joys and suffer again, 
 more acutely than ever before, its shame. 
 
 Of the friends I have made here, very many are not 
 exactly old comrades, but have an almost equally strong- 
 bond of intertwined renown, in that they were our ene- 
 mies. The soldier's fame is dependent almost as much 
 upon the valor of those he meets in battle as upon his 
 own prowess ; and these men were doughty foemen. 
 They come and visit me, and to cheer the tedium of 
 the lingering hours, tell me stories of the war. Some 
 of them are true, some are fanciful. No matter ; the 
 veteran has a right to multiply his perils and magnify 
 his prowess. As for myself — I keep silence ; I dare not 
 speak. 
 
 Perhaps out of my shame some good may come to 
 others. Somehow, good is always strangely linked with 
 evil. Out of disease springs a more secure health ; out 
 of danger comes safety ; out of wrong right is born. 
 He that seeth the end from the beginning finds His 
 highest glory in that He " maketh the wrath of man to 
 praise Him." And I, who have so long defied the judg- 
 ment of mankind, feel at length a strange yearning for 
 approval. It seems as if I were hardly just to that love 
 which pledged itself to me " forever and ever, amen," 
 if I fail to do something to redeem it from obloquy ; 
 and, surely, next to doing good oneself, is that spirit 
 which gives the means of compassing the welfare of 
 others. The past cannot be amended ; perhaps the 
 future may be spared some ill. I do not claim to be a 
 child of Theophilus, but I hope that one son of Old 
 Harry may leave the world no worse for his having 
 lived in it. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 "an hour of sun. 
 
 A strange thing has happened. As I have said, the 
 nurse, who was in the carriage with me, has been 
 unremitting in her efforts to relieve the tedium of my 
 situation. Between her and the young lawyer my rooms 
 have been made quite gay. As soon as I was able to 
 be moved, I arranged for the purchase of an old man- 
 sion, standing in a splendid grove just on the outskirts 
 of the city. The doctor has somewhat modified his pre- 
 dictions and extended a little my life-limit. I should 
 be almost sorry but for the life they have contrived 
 to bring into its wide halls, lofty rooms and airy 
 porches. It is a charming retreat in which to await the 
 end. Wisterias and honeysuckles clamber about the 
 porches and festoon the clustering oaks. Quaint juni- 
 pers spread out upon the ground and show dark and 
 columnar between the brown bolls. Evergreens shut 
 out the street and screen the scanty herbage of the 
 lawn, in the red soil of which innumerable bits of mica 
 sparkle when the hot sun shines down through the leaves 
 of the great oaks. Roses and flowering shrubs abound. 
 
 The place caught the young lady's eye the first time 
 she rode out after the accident. She was anxious I 
 should go with her, but I have no fancy for being exhib- 
 ited as a mark for pitying glances and pitiful remarks, 
 
"An Hour of Stm.''^ 415 
 
 A man who has been a man would rather meet death 
 than pity. She gave me a glowing description of it on 
 her return. She was still using a crutch, and I remem- 
 ber, as she stood by my chair while speaking, that one 
 hand was full of flowers and the crutch was festooned 
 with honeysuckle. The owner had been a wealthy man 
 in the old times, she said. Gri'evously wounded in battle 
 for the Confederacy, he had dragged out a useless, pain- 
 ful life, dying but a short time before. When she told 
 me his name, it was a familiar one. He was a cavalry 
 officer with whom Hubert Goodwin had crossed swords 
 more than once. The place was to be sold, being more 
 expensive than the family could afford to maintain. 
 Indeed, they had kept it hitherto solely for the father's 
 sake that he might not feel the pain of exile from the 
 home he loved. There were tears of sympathy in the 
 nurse's eyes as she referred to this, but she smiled 
 brightly when I told her that the roses with which she 
 strove to hide the pitying drops were not fairer than 
 those which shone upon her cheeks. 
 
 They paled quickly, however, when I added that I 
 would buy the place for her if she would stay and be its 
 mistress and give me a room in it until the end. I had 
 grown terribly afraid that she would leave me. Every 
 day after I recovered consciousness she sent me a note, 
 and as soon as she was able to leave her room had 
 insisted on the servants bringing her in her chair to call 
 upon me, and daily since then her sunny face had light- 
 ened the monotony of my hopeless seclusion. She had 
 talked to me, read to me, and, without seeming to do so, 
 had assumed control of my surroundings, even before 
 she was able to walk herself. 
 
 As I said, her face grew pale when I proposed to buy 
 for her this place whose charms had captivated her fancy, 
 and she turned away and sat down as if faint. I reached 
 
4t6 a So 71 of Old Harry. 
 
 toward the bell-cord that hung beside my reclining- 
 chair, but her eyes caught the motion and she nodded 
 disapproval. She did not look at me, however, but sat 
 with her face turned toward the window, the long dark 
 lashes falling regularly upon her cheeks and the heavy 
 brows drooping over them, while her lips quivered as if 
 under the influence of some profound emotion. I 
 watched her silently. There was something very famil- 
 iar about her look, yet I could not determine what it 
 was. "When I came to think of it, I knew this was what 
 had attracted me toward her from the very first. 
 
 " It is the very -plsice— for you," she said, finally ; more 
 to herself, it seemed, than to me. 
 
 "And for you, too," I answered. " A single visit has 
 made you almost well. I expect to see you lay aside 
 your crutch after one more trip." 
 
 She smiled at my banter, but still looked away from m^ 
 
 " Yes ; I shall soon be well." 
 
 She spoke as if it were a contingency not altogether 
 pleasant. 
 
 ** And then you will leave me, I suppose," I said, pet- 
 tishly. 
 
 " I will stay with you — as long — as long as you 
 desire." 
 
 " You accept my offer, then ?" I asked, exultantly. 
 
 " I cannot." 
 
 " It is not enough ?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Well, name your terms. You have become indis- 
 pensable ; and, after all, it is only anticipating my pur- 
 pose. I intended to leave you a — well, a considerable 
 legacy." 
 
 " I was so informed." 
 
 " Indeed ?" 
 
"An Hour of Sun. 417 
 
 " At least, Mr. Barclay intimated as much when he 
 asked me to give him my full name," 
 
 " Ah, yes ; I forgot. Did he tell you how much ?" 
 
 " I did not ask him." 
 
 " You had no curiosity on the subject, I suppose ?" 
 sarcastically. 
 
 " Not the least," decidedly. 
 
 " You gave your name, all the same ?" with a shrug. 
 
 " I did not." 
 
 The deep blue eyes met mine with an angry flash. 
 
 " No ? Why not ?" 
 
 " Because I did not choose to do so." How proudly 
 the head was raised upon the firm white neck. 
 
 " I beg pardon," I said, full of admiration for her inde- 
 pendence, but regretting bitterly that she had not been 
 willing to trust my kind intent. I had sent her a check 
 for a considerable amount, a few days after the accident, 
 and she had returned it indorsed " Katherine Parks." 
 My second attempt to compensate her for her kindness 
 had been equally unsuccessful. " You said you would 
 stay with me," I remonstrated ; " if you will not accept 
 my terms, name your own. Don't be afraid of setting 
 too high a price upon your services." 
 
 " I am not," she answered, quietly. " I will stay with 
 you as long as you desire — on two conditions." 
 
 " What are they ?" 
 
 " First, that you will not think of giving me any 
 reward, present or prospective ; and, second, that you 
 will not ask my real name." 
 
 " But that would be unjust. You cannot afford — to 
 — to serve for nothing." 
 
 " And you have not money enough to hire my 
 services," she said, rising and tucking her crutch under 
 her arm. How charming she was as she turned her 
 flushed face upon me, with a proud toss of the shapely 
 
4i8 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 head ! Yet I could not believe that she meant precisely, 
 what she said. 
 
 " You will put the terms in writing, I suppose ?" I 
 asked, incredulously. 
 
 She turned to the table and wrote out the conditions 
 and handed them to me to read. 
 
 " I would not ask a daughter to serve me on those 
 conditions," I said, angrily. 
 
 " You would not have her accept any other, would 
 you ?" 
 
 " Will you not be my daughter ?" I asked, impetuously, 
 snatching the hand which held the paper, and looking 
 up at her with an earnestness which only the fear of a 
 lonely life could pardon. 
 
 Then the strange thing happened. She stood a 
 moment, her bosom heaving with suppressed sobs, then 
 bent and kissed me — not once, but many times — turned 
 and hurried away. I heard her crutch thumping along 
 the uncarpeted hall. When I wiped my face, I found 
 tears where her kisses had been. 
 
 1 do not know when I have been so badly puzzled. I 
 could have forgiven a mercenary motive, and was pre- 
 pared to gratify any reasonable or unreasonable wish, 
 for she is very agreeable and seems to understand, not 
 my whims — for I do not think I am whimsical — but my 
 moods. I do not like professional attendants, and 
 would have been glad to persuade this cultivated girl, 
 who has such an attractive individuality, to remain with 
 me and be the chief beneficiary of my wealth. But 
 why should she manifest affection or agitation ? 
 
 The incident gave me a bad night, and when Miss 
 Parks came to visit me the next morning, I thought 
 there were traces of tears in her eyes. The hand she 
 placed in the one I held out as a proffer of reconciliation 
 was moist and tremulous. I did not say anything for 
 
''Alt Hour of Sun.'' 419 
 
 some little time. In truth, I did not know what to say. 
 The girl's presence embarrassed me greatly, despite 
 the pleasure it gave. While she stood beside me she 
 began to fondle my hair which, though white as snow, 
 is still abundant. At first she touched it very lightly, 
 as if putting portions of it in place. Her hand was 
 unsteady, and it was evident that she was greatly 
 excited. I could feel the crutch on which she leaned 
 tremble. I was sitting in m}'- reclining-chair, but she 
 stood so close to me on the left side, that I could not 
 look up at her without considerable exertion. She did 
 not speak. Presently she stooped and kissed my fore- 
 head. I pushed her back by the hand I held, and 
 gazed up into her face. God forgive me, I had for an 
 instant the most infamous suspicions ! Eut when I 
 looked into her eyes they fled away like shadows before 
 the sunshine, and I was ashamed that I had ever felt 
 them. There was indeed a blush upon her cheeks, but 
 it was childlike in its innocence, and the smile with 
 which she looked down upon me was that of purity 
 itself. 
 
 " Why did you do that ?" I asked. 
 
 "Because I wished to," she replied. " Does it annoy 
 you ?" 
 
 Of course, it did not annoy me — for myself, that is, 
 but it troubled me greatly for her sake. Suppose 
 another should witness her caresses, what would be 
 said of her ? The very thought sent a shiver of agony 
 through my veins. But I could not tell her that. 
 
 " I wish you were my daughter." 
 
 " I am afraid you would find me very troublesome," 
 archly. 
 
 She sat down upon the arm of my chair, familiarly 
 holding the crutch upright with her left hand, leaving 
 
420 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 the right still in mine. It betrayed no agitation now, 
 and her look was one of calm content. 
 
 " Why not allow me to regard you as such ?" I asked, 
 tenderly. 
 
 "I have never objected." 
 
 " Then why not accept my name and let me announce 
 you as my daughter ?" 
 
 '* Because I prefer my own name." 
 
 " Yet you say the one you bear is not yours ?" 
 
 ** Not the whole of it ; when I — came to live with 
 you, I thought it might be better to drop part of it. I 
 did not like to seem to be other than I was, however, 
 and so told her the whole truth a few days afterwards." 
 
 It is singular that we always allude to the loved dead 
 as " her "or " she," and not by any name. I do not 
 know why it is — I merely note the fact. Upon looking 
 back I find that I have always done so, since I became 
 aware of that other consciousness that once possessed 
 her. I seldom called her Dee, even during her life. 
 Somehow, I do not think she ever became quite the old 
 Dee to me. I called her " dear ;" never, unless neces- 
 sary, addressing her as my wife. There was no reason 
 for this, except that, having become accustomed to think 
 of another as bearing that relation to me, it seemed 
 unnatural to apply the title to her. I wonder, now, if 
 she ever noticed it. 
 
 " What did she say ?" I asked, after a moment. 
 
 " She wished me to remain with you." 
 
 *' And she urged me to regard you as a daughter," I 
 answered in surprise. 
 
 " She was very kind," simply. 
 
 " Yet she did not tell me your name." 
 
 There was no reply. 
 
 " Did she know your — your people ?" 
 
 ** My people ?" 
 
*' An Hour of Sun" 421 
 
 " Yes — your father and mother ? — your mother is dead, 
 I believe ?" 
 
 Somehow I had gotten the impression that the mourn- 
 ing she wore was for her mother. She bowed her head 
 and I saw, by the trembling lips and the tears that ran 
 over the quivering lids, that the wound was still 
 unhealed. 
 
 " There, there !" I said, soothingly. " Don't grieve. 
 Why not let me arrange everything for you ?" 
 
 " I thought everything was arranged," she answered, 
 simply. 
 
 " How ?" 
 
 " That I was to remain as your daughter as long as 
 you desired." 
 
 " Suppose you should choose to go away ?" 
 
 *' There is no danger," 
 
 " You might wish to marry ?" 
 
 ' Then I will ask your permission." 
 
 " And if I do not choose to grant it ?" 
 
 " Then I will not marry !" with an archness that 
 showed she was at least sincere. 
 
 " You are very dutiful." 
 
 *' I shall try to be." 
 
 " I suppose you would do this if I were a poor man, 
 instead of a rich one ?" I said after a moment, lightly 
 patting the hand which still lay in mine. 
 
 " I think so — why not ?" 
 
 " Yet you are not sorry that I am rich ?" 
 
 " I am very glad of it — because you can afford all the 
 comforts you require." 
 
 " And you do not object to sharing them with me ?" 
 
 " I shall be happy to do so — if it will give you pleas- 
 ure." 
 
 A servant brought me a card just then, and she went 
 to her apartment. It was young Barclay, the lawyer 
 
42 2 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 who had been at work, under my direction, getting my 
 affairs in shape for final disposition. At least, that is 
 what he thinks he has been doing. Really he has only 
 been getting acquainted with my business, 
 
 I gave him instructions as to the purchase of the house, 
 directing him to make no question about price, but to 
 pay what the owners saw fit to ask, within reason, of 
 course, and give Miss Parks carte blanche in repairing and 
 furnishing it. He seemed a little surprised at this, biit 
 when I told him that I designed the place for her after 
 I should be through with it, he offered no objection. 
 
 The young lady showed unusual energy in the work 
 intrusted to her, and displayed an unexpected readiness 
 and capacity in the application of considerable sums of 
 money, always, so far as I could learn from Mr. Barclay 
 — for it was agreed that I should not visit the premises 
 until all was completed — with the very best results. 
 After a few weeks the work was so far advanced that 
 the house was pronounced habitable, and preparations 
 were made for my removal. The nurse had long since 
 dispensed with her crutch; I think 1 never saw a woman 
 who made so light of such a serious injury. She had 
 been busy and, I judged, very happy — she and the 
 young lawyer. I had a couple of horses brought from 
 Tete de Loup for their use, along with a span to replace 
 those which were lost at the time of the mishap. 
 The mare I gave to her has the white crest and silken 
 tail of Gray Eagle, and the white spot above the hoof 
 which is the mark of old Diomed's favorites among his 
 progency. A good many have spoken of the resem- 
 blance between it and a horse ridden by a young " Yan- 
 kee " cavalry officer during the war. The young lady 
 was delighted with the present I had chosen for her ; 
 kissed me, and called me " dear papa " without any 
 affectation — quite as a daughter might have done. It 
 
" A71 Hotir of Sun'^ 423 
 
 was in the presence of Mr, Barclay, too, who looked 
 surprised, and I thought a little envious also. Of 
 course, they met often in preparing the new place. 
 They rode together a good deal, too, for she is a fine 
 horsewoman, as I have seen from my window when they 
 ride away and she tosses me back a kiss from her 
 gloved fingers. 
 
 I suspected a bit of romance between them then, but 
 had no wish to interfere. Why should there not be ? 
 Love is all there is of life worth knowing, and they are 
 a fine couple — both splendid types. I wondered, some- 
 times, it they would not take my old name when they 
 came to wed if I should put John Howgood's fortune 
 with it ? They would not be Goodwins indeed, but it 
 would be pleasant to re-establish the old name, if not the 
 old line. The Goodwins were well enough in their 
 queer Yankee way, but there would be no fear of the 
 old marked heel in the new stock, and that at least 
 would b~ an advantage. I used to dream of these 
 things before I had determined what I would do with 
 m}' fortune. It was very pleasant to note the pretty 
 confidence which grew up between the young people. 
 They were often with me, and I thought she petted me 
 the more when he was present, because she dared not 
 pet him. Perhaps I was mistaken. 
 
 The morning after I had solved the problem of my 
 life — which, after all, does not seem much of a problem 
 now — I awoke feeling better than I had at any time 
 since the accident. The terrible burden which had 
 rested on the base of the brain so long seemed rolled 
 away, and the prickling thrill, which had accompanied 
 the loss of sensation and of power, once more pulsed 
 through my limbs — especially the left — and I felt 
 the steady, continuous glow of Old Harry's mark 
 with infinite content. The doctor came before Johnson 
 
424 A Soil of Old Harry. 
 
 had completed his morning duties. He found him rub- 
 bing the limb, and incidentally remarked upon the sin- 
 gular character of the mark upon my heel. I told him 
 it was a family inheritance and related the tradition 
 concerning it. 
 
 "Yes!" he said, absently. "I think I have seen it 
 before — on another, I mean." 
 
 He looked at me keenly as he spoke. I did not ask 
 him where ; the old fear was upon me. So 1 said, 
 cynically enough : 
 
 " You should hunt up the case, and be ready to 
 testify. There are not a great many Howgoods in the 
 world, and such a fact might be very valuable after my 
 death." 
 
 '* From present appearances there is not much pros- 
 pect of a chance for one to profit by my discovery," he 
 rejoined, significantly. 
 
 I looked at him inquiringly. 
 
 ** It seems as if you were getting better," he explained, 
 with a smile. 
 
 Then he gave me a very careful examination. 
 
 " It is always a little humiliating," he said, after his 
 scrutiny was completed, " for a physician to have to 
 revise his verdict. No man likes to see his prophesies 
 fail — especially no scientist. I am afraid, however, that 
 I shall have to extend your time-limit a little. It looks 
 as though you might recover comfort, if not strength. 
 Of course, the odds are still with the former diagnosis ; 
 for any, even the slightest thing, may verify it in an 
 hour ; but it does look as if you might have some 
 months at least of enjoyable life, if you are very careful 
 and your mind is kept quite free from anxiety." 
 
 " Well," I said, smiling, *' I have nothing more to worry 
 about. My will will be ready to sign at three o'clock, 
 and I am to be moved out to the new place to-night." 
 
"An Hour of Sicil' 425 
 
 " And I am going to take the entire charge of him," 
 said the pretty nurse, catching the last words as she 
 entered. 
 
 '* Ah, then !" exclaimed the doctor, extending his 
 hand and shaking his head in mock confusion. " Then, 
 there is nothing left for me. I can only send in my 
 bill." 
 
 He went off amid the laughter that followed. After 
 a while Mr. Barclay came, and I told him what dispos- 
 ition I had determined to make of my estate. The 
 young lady, who was sitting on the arm of my chair, 
 seemed much affected at this statement, and went and 
 stood by the window until it was completed. I could 
 hear her weeping softly. When I had concluded, she 
 came and kissed me with tremulous lips. 
 
 ** It was a curious thing," said the lawyer, meditatively, 
 after he had finished his notes and read them over to 
 me. 
 
 " What ?" I asked, sharply. 
 
 '* About this General Goodwin to whose heirs you 
 wish to leave your estate — " 
 
 " You have heard of him, then ?" I interrupted, sneer- 
 ingly. 
 
 ** Heard of him ! Everybody has heard of him ; but 
 I am almost a relative." 
 
 " A relative ?" exclaimed the young lady, her cheek 
 growing pale. 
 
 Again I became suspicious of her. Was she a mere 
 mercenary adventuress, after all ? I watched her closely 
 as the lawyer made reply : 
 
 *' Well, no ; not a relative, of course ; though I feel 
 almost akin to him. I was named after him, you see. 
 My father knew him when a boy, and was afterward 
 under his command — on his staff, indeed — and never got 
 over his love for him." 
 
426 A Son of Old Hai'ry. 
 
 " And your father was — " 
 
 " Captain Christopher Barclay," answered the young 
 man, proudly, "He always insisted that the young 
 General was not so much to blame for the act that cast 
 discredit upon his name as people claimed. He said he 
 was never exactly himself after a wound received at 
 Stone River ; and when I was bom, soon after the war, 
 he gave me his name — Hubert Goodwin Barclay. I 
 think the censure he received for this, among his old 
 neighbors, was the chief reason why he removed to this 
 part of the country ; though, I suppose, my mother's 
 death, which occurred at my birth, made the old home 
 distasteful to him. He died a few years ago ; but I 
 naturally inherited his reverence for a man who, it is 
 now generally admitted, must have been acting under 
 some mental distemper. I am glad you are going to 
 do this to redeem his fame." 
 
 ** Under mental distemper !" I repeated, looking from 
 one to the other in amazement. " Can it be ? Are we 
 all crazy ?" I asked, in confusion. 
 
 " There ! There !" said the nurse, coming quickly to 
 my side, ** This will not do. You are having too much 
 excitement. You must go away at once," she said, turn- 
 ing to the lawyer, pleadingly. 
 
 " You will have it ready at three," I said. 
 
 " Very well," he answered. " And the witnesses ?" 
 
 " Bring three or four of the most prominent of my 
 friends." 
 
 The will was signed, but the nurse insisted that it 
 would be too much for me to be taken to the new abode 
 that day ; so the flitting was put oflf until the morrow. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A QUIET GLOAMING. 
 
 It was arranged that I should be removed from the 
 hotel In the evening-, so as to avoid the curiosity of loi- 
 terers, to which I am, perhaps, unnecessarily sensitive. 
 The house and grounds were lighted upon our arrival, ■ 
 and when I had rested for a moment in my reclining- 
 chair upon the wide porch, and looked around, I fully 
 indorsed all that I had heard of the beauty of the place 
 which had been chosen as my last retreat, and was fully 
 prepared for what the daylight might reveal. 
 
 There was a strange home-likeness about the prem- 
 ises for which I could not account. Much of the furni- 
 ture seemed familiar, though I could not recall where I 
 had seen it. As I was wheeled from room to room, this 
 sense of familiarity grew upon me until it almost 
 seemed as if I had lived in the house' before. Especi- 
 ally was this true of the room set apart for my especial 
 use. I supposed it to be the result of frequent conver- 
 sations with the fair purveyor of my comfort, for whose 
 thoughtfulness my admiration increased with every 
 step in this tour of inspection. 
 
 In a sense, I was, however, disappointed. The one 
 thing that had not ceased to puzzle me about her was 
 the motive inspiring her devotion. I had long since 
 abandoned the idea of any sinister purpose. In her 
 absence it was impossible to account for her conduct on 
 
428 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 any other hypothesis ; but in her presence it was equally 
 impossible to entertain it for a moment. There was 
 something in her manner — something of freedom, 
 unrestraint and confidence — totally unlike anything I 
 had ever known, which was yet especially soothing and 
 agreeable. I felt sure that this was, in some way, the 
 key to her motive, or perhaps that her motive, when 
 discovered, would prove a sufficient key to her conduct. 
 This secret I had expected somehow to siirprise in my 
 examination of the house, and I was disappointed that 
 I did not. Not that I wished to pry into anything she 
 desired to keep from me, but, for the mere pleasure of 
 discovery, I would have liked to surprise this secret. 
 
 When we had visited all the other rooms upon the 
 ground floor and I had scrutinized and commended 
 everything while she hovered, flushed and gratified, 
 about my chair, calling attention to this and that which 
 she was afraid would escape my notice, we came finally 
 to the two rooms upon the left of the wide hall which 
 had been prepared for our especial use. I will not 
 attempt to describe them. How had she learned my 
 tastes so well ? They were spacious rooms. Mine 
 opened by two broad windows on the porch ; hers 
 looked upon a bower of roses in the rear. The one was 
 a man's room — the walls lined with books and prints, 
 strong, manly pictures of sport and battle with touching 
 contrast of nature and affection — a cavalry charge and 
 a wife bidding her husband adieu before mounting 
 the scaffold. Over it all, too, was something of that 
 carelessness and incongruity which is the very essence 
 of the masculine idea of comfort. On the mantel was 
 a silver-mounted hoof of Abdallah ; on the desk, already 
 open to my hand, the soiled, grim, writing-case on 
 which these pages have been traced. She had had it 
 brought from the hotel that it might be here to 
 
A Quiet Gloaming. 429 
 
 strengthen the sense of accustomedness I already 
 felt. 
 
 "And this," she said, passing through a curtained 
 arch, " is my room. There is a door here that shuts 
 with a touch and almost noiselessly, being hung on 
 rubber rollers, but I thought these double curtains 
 would usually be better. I shall be always near, you 
 see, and will hear if you speak even in a whisper. I 
 have taken you at your word, and made my room just 
 as pretty as I thought you would wish a daughter's to be." 
 
 She watched me narrowly as my eye went from one 
 to another of its pretty details. It was a girl's room — 
 light in shade, pure in tone, somewhat lacking in adorn- 
 ment — its flushed and expectant mistress its chief orna- 
 ment. I did not think I could ever again feel grateful 
 for a woman's ministrations, but I think some tears 
 escaped my lids in spite of myself, in recognition of this 
 fair girl's tenderness. 
 
 When we turned back into my room, I asked about 
 some pictures which were so heavily draped, that it was 
 impossible to detect their character. 
 
 " No," she said, in her pretty, imperious way. " You 
 are not to see anything more to-night. I am afraid you 
 have had too much excitement already. Now you must 
 go to bed, and then I will play to you until you fall 
 asleep. I had a piano put in my room on purpose for 
 that ; you can hear it without being annoyed by the 
 performer's presence." 
 
 I obeyed without protest. She kissed me, and left 
 me to the ministrations of the deft-handed colored man 
 who had long been my attendant. After he had with- 
 drawn, low, soft strains came from beyond the closed 
 curtains. They were very soothing. Though not a 
 musician, I think every one is, to a greater or less extent 
 susceptible to the influence of harmony. My life had 
 
430 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 been singularly barren of such experience. She had 
 been what was termed an accomplished musician in 
 the old days. I do not think she had any great love for 
 music, but her indomitable perseverance had made her, 
 as I judge, a mechanically expert player. At least, her 
 music never moved me. When she awoke after her 
 long night she had not only forgotten her skill, but had 
 an actual aversion to musical" sounds ; they seemed to 
 have a disturbing, unsettling effect upon her. The 
 other — Kitty — had numbered among her attractions an 
 unusual musical gift. As I dropped off into uncon- 
 sciousness I dreamed of her, and thought I was listening 
 to the airs she was accustomed to play. 
 
 The change from the noise and heat of the hotel, 
 which had constantly increased with the advancing 
 season, was very grateful. I was dimly conscious, once 
 or twice, during the night, of another's presence in the 
 room, but made no sign. It was very pleasant to listen 
 to the cicadas in the oaks without, catch the fragrance 
 of the roses, and feel that one so thoughtful and tender 
 was watching over my slumber. After all, it is not so 
 bad to be dead in the midst of life, if the life is only 
 mindful of you. 
 
 In the morning I saw iYiQ portiere that hung across the 
 door leading to her room move a little, and knew that 
 she was listening to learn whether I were awake. It 
 was still almost dark in the shaded room, but I knew 
 from the bird-chorus without that the dawn had come. 
 So I called out cheerily : 
 
 " Come in, daughter." 
 
 " In a moment, papa," came the ready response in a 
 voice as sweet and contented as the bird-song to which 
 I had been listening. 
 
 In a few minutes she glided into the room, wearing a 
 morning-gown of some soft stuff which trailed noise- 
 
\ A Quiet Gloaming. 431 
 
 A 1 
 
 lessly behind her. She buttoned it at the throat, where 
 a bit of white showed, as she passed through the room 
 to open the blinds and let in the soft morning light. 
 The dew was yet dripping from the glistening oak- 
 leaves. She drew aside the curtain that I might look 
 out. The view of the lawn from my window was 
 enchanting. Flowers and verdure, and over all the 
 still morning light. Even the bees had not begun their 
 day's labor. I turned my eyes from this to the beam- 
 ing face which waited for my verdict. It was a morn- 
 ing face, bright with the light of the coming day. The 
 abundant brown hair was looped hastily back, stray 
 tresses here and there telling of the night's disorder. 
 The soft, warm-tinted gown fell about the lithe figure, 
 revealing its graceful outlines. I extended my hands. 
 She came and put her own in them, her face beaming 
 rapturously. 
 
 " My daughter ! — my more than daughter !" I 
 exclaimed. " Why are you so kind to me ?" 
 
 " You will not be angry with me ?" 
 
 " How could I ?" 
 
 " You will not send me away ?" 
 
 " I am only too fearful you will go." 
 
 " You will find it hard to get rid of me," she rejoined, 
 with that arch look which always enchanted me. What 
 was the resemblance that haunted me ? 
 
 ** Who are you ?" 1 asked at length in puzzled desper- 
 ation. 
 
 She laughed softly. 
 
 " Can you not guess ?" 
 
 I put her off at arm's length and scanned her features 
 again in the cool white light. She put back her hair 
 above her ear and stood immobile as a statute, only 
 glancing down at me under her dark brows. Again 
 
432 A Son of Old Ha7'ry. 
 
 that puzzling resemblance ; but I shook my head 
 despairingly. She seemed disappointed. 
 
 Slightly lifting her skirt, she laid a dainty foot on a 
 low hassock by the bedside and pointing to it, exciaimed : 
 
 " Do you know that ?" 
 
 I could hardly believe my eyes. Clearly traced upon 
 the soft white heel was the red, fateful mark of Old 
 Harry's offspring. 
 
 " My God !" I exclaimed. " It cannot be i" 
 
 " Oh, it is genuine !" she answered, with a glow of 
 modest pride upon her smiling face. ' See for your- 
 self." 
 
 She placed the foot upon the counterpane beside me, 
 and I took it in my hand. There could he no doubt 
 about it ; the blood-red spur showed bright and hot 
 upon the heel and was securely joined above the instep. 
 
 " But you — no woman ever had that mark !" I 
 exclaimed. 
 
 *' I suppose there were no more boys to wear it," she 
 answered, laughingly, as she returned her foot to the 
 slipper. 
 
 " But — but — who are you — anyhow ?" 
 
 She turned impatiently and pulled a cord drawing 
 aside the curtain which hung before two pictures at the 
 foot of my bed. They were portraits of Hubert Good- 
 win and Kitty, his wife. I recognized them at once ; 
 they had been painted by a distinguished artist 
 immediately after my return from the service. 
 
 " Thiey were my parents," she said, quietly. 
 
 " But you — you — " I stammered. 
 " You did not know you had a daughter T 
 I shook my head. 
 
 " Are you sorry ?" archly. 
 
 " I do not know. Your name is — ?" 
 
 " Katherine Parker Goodwin," proudly. 
 
A Quiet Gloaming. 433 
 
 " After your motHer," dreamily. 
 
 " Don't you think I look like her ?" glancing at the 
 portrait. 
 
 There was no denying the resemblance. Yet she 
 was a Goodwin, too. 
 
 ** And she — is — ?" The words choked me. I could 
 not ask the question. 
 
 Her eyes fell. I was answered. When she lifted 
 them there were tears upon the lashes. Yet I could not 
 understand what had happened. The mind will be dull 
 when the body is half dead. 
 
 " How did you know that — that I was alive ?" 
 
 " My mother found you. She never believed you 
 dead. She traced you by the horse," 
 
 " The horse ? What— Damon ?" 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " Ah ! I see. She knew then—" 
 
 " She knew — everything," solemnly. 
 
 " But you ? — How did you come to — to — ?" 
 
 " To be here ? It was my mother's wish — her dying 
 wish, /would never have come — never have spoken, 
 but for that, I hated you ! I hated her, too ! But I 
 promised my mother, when she told me ihe whole story, 
 just before she died, that if you ever needed me — needed 
 care, you know — or if there ever came a chance for me to 
 reveal myself without humiliation — I would do as she 
 wished. When I saw your advertisement for a companion 
 for — for her — a few months afterward, I thought that was 
 my chance — and — and you know the rest." 
 
 " You say you told her ?" 
 
 " Everything." 
 
 " And she—?" 
 
 " She begged me to remain with you — unless you 
 should send me away." 
 
 " And you promised her ?" 
 
434 ^ "^^^^ ^f ^^^^ Harry. 
 
 " I promised to — to do what should seem right." 
 
 I could not understand it all. My brain seemed so 
 very dull. 
 
 " Why did not your mother let — let me — let me know 
 I had a child ?" I asked at length, in desperation. 
 
 " She supposed you did know it," was the quiet 
 answer. 
 
 " She must have thought me a — a precious scoun- 
 drel ?" 
 
 " She would never hear a word against you — even 
 from your mother. She thought it was the old wound, 
 you know. Besides, she said there was no way for you 
 to undo the wrong after it was once committed." 
 
 " Was she very — very unhappy ?" 
 
 " She was not happy — not as she might have been, 
 that is ; but I think she grieved more than anything 
 else for the odium you had brought upon yourself." 
 
 ** If she had only come to me — and — and," I began, 
 petulantly. 
 
 " Do you think the Goodwins are the only people 
 who have any pride ?" she interrupted, with an impa- 
 tient frown. 
 
 " Pride ? That is true. She must have hated me 
 bitterly." 
 
 " Or loved you very foolishly !" was the tart response. 
 
 She was patting the floor impatiently with her foot, 
 and I knew the red mark upon her heel was burning 
 hot with anger. All at once she burst into tears. 
 
 " If you knew," she exclaimed, " how my mother 
 watched for you and prayed for you — yes, and taught 
 me to pray for you — how she forgave you, and even 
 forgave the woman who enjoyed the love which 
 belonged to her — you would not think so poorly of her." 
 
 What a perfect Goodwin she was in her stormy 
 wrath ! 
 
A Qiuet Gloa77iing. 435 
 
 " But I — I never thought poorly of her," I said, hold- 
 ing out my hand — " only of myself, dear, that I was so 
 weak — so weak and blind !" 
 
 " I don't think she blamed — at least, she excused you, 
 sir," she said, coming shyly to my side, and putting her 
 hand in mine. 
 
 What a strange feeling it was to think that the soft, 
 warm hand was that of my child — no, not my child — her 
 mother's child ! I had never been a father to her. I 
 had not watched her infancy — directed her childhood — 
 known her life. She had come to me full-grown — fair, 
 enchanting — but not my child — only a daughter, having 
 her own life and stooping to me in complaisance — not 
 in duty. We were strangers except for a few months' 
 acquaintance. The thought made me very humble — 
 with the saddest of all humility — that which a parent 
 feels toward the offspring he has wronged. 
 
 " I hope you — she, that is — did not suffer any — were 
 not at any time — in want ?" 
 
 The question broke the ice of constraint between us. 
 
 " Did you think you were the only one who knew how 
 to make money ?" she laughed. " I think poor mamma 
 would have given almost as much to have had you know 
 how well she succeeded with what you left her as to 
 have you acknowledge that you had done her wrong. 
 That was one reason she wanted me to make myself 
 known to you. Oh, no ! We were not poor ! Did you 
 think the Mrs. John Goodwin of whom you bought your 
 house on the avenue was a pauper ?" 
 
 It is impossible to describe the regal pride of her 
 manner and the exultant tones of her voice as she 
 uttered these words, or the amazement with which I 
 heard them. The wife whom I had so thoughtlessly 
 abandoned would not lay aside my name, and instead 
 
436 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 of regarding me with resentfulness, had made excuse 
 for my conduct and jealously guarded my honor. 
 
 " Did you think," she continued, *' because you were 
 blind that nobody could see? Or that old Sir Harry 
 would desert one who- had his mark, just because she 
 was a girl ? Mamma told me all about it, and I have 
 seen her laugh a hundred times when she has met you 
 face to face and you did not recognize her. Oh, it was 
 too funny ! Because you had your head in a bush, you 
 fancied nobody knew you !" 
 
 " Why — how should they ?" I asked, in alarm. 
 
 " How should they ? Do you think any one can see 
 your signature in that peculiar, undershaded back- 
 hand, and fail to note its resemblance to the hand- 
 writing of General Hubert Goodwin? I have heard 
 more than one speak of it even here." 
 
 " I see — but you do not think that — that they suspect 
 — anything !" 
 
 " I don't know, I am sure. What if they do ?" 
 
 " But would you — would it not embarrass you ?" 
 
 " I think if I am willing to overlook the past no one 
 else will regard it as inexcusable. I am going to let it 
 be known that I am Hubert Goodwin's daughter — and 
 — that you are my father !" 
 
 I trembled at what the revelation might involve for 
 me, but could not help being proud of her. How like 
 her mother she was in simple directness and unshrink- 
 ing courage ! 
 
 All at once a thought struck me. 
 
 " Kitty," I said, hoarsely, giving her instinctively the 
 diminutive by which I had always designated her 
 mother, " did your mother — was she ever at Tete de 
 Loup ?" 
 
 *• I think so ; at least, she seemed to know all that 
 happened there." 
 
A Quiet Gloaming. 437 
 
 Then the tide of humiliation swept clean over me. I 
 saw it all then, and knew how utterly weak and selfish 
 I had been in comparison with her. 
 
 " Go ! Go !" I cried, in an agony of shame. " Leave 
 me — a little while — a little while !" 
 
 The sun had long since risen when I called her back. 
 She clasped my outstretched hands and lavished upon 
 me the sweet endearments only a daughter can bestow. 
 The struggle was over, and I was content to submit to 
 her direction. Why should T not ? What right had I 
 to object ? If the world chose to guess the truth, let 
 them do it, but we could oflEer no apology. I recog- 
 nized the correctness of her view, and for the first time 
 in all those long years was quite relieved of fear. 
 
 " And you are my daughter ?" I said, banteringly, as I 
 stroked the beautiful hand, pushing her off at arm's 
 length and looking at her with that anxious criticism 
 which only one in my position could ever feel. " What 
 shall I do with such a fair responsibility ?" 
 
 " I guess you could — you might dispose of me — if you 
 are anxious to do so," she replied, mischievously. 
 
 " Dispose of you — how ?" 
 
 " Well, I thought it just possible, you know — that — 
 that Mr. Barclay — " 
 
 " Barclay ! The rascal ! But it is too late ; I see 
 that !" 
 
 A deep blush had leaped up into her face before she 
 could hide it on my shoulder. It was too late, but I do 
 not mind. And if there is a boy and he has the mark 
 of Old Harry, as I hope he will, he is to take the name 
 of Goodwin, and will, no doubt, be as proud and head- 
 strong as his forbears. I trust he will be as honest 
 and as tender in purpose, too, even if he should be as 
 foolish, also. 
 
 But the money will go to the Institute, just the same 
 
438 A Son of Old Harry. 
 
 — the bulk of it, at least ; for the children of Old Sir 
 Harry must always shift for themselves. They are too 
 strong to be pampered with idleness and too weak to 
 be exposed to temptation. I will not curse them with 
 my gains nor unman them with my regrets. 
 
 The days are very sweet ; but I know they will not 
 be many. Joy is as fell a consumer of life as sorrow. 
 The thrill that indicated hope of reprieve has departed. 
 The limbs are again leaden. The double-life and the 
 half-life are both drawing to a close. Neither seems so 
 very strange now that I see another life coming on to 
 take its place, and hide in the dawn of hope the shadows 
 of retrospection. So the rising sun screens the ghastly 
 pallor of the waning moon. Death loses its terrors in 
 the rosy glow of coming life. 
 
 The End. 
 
BERYL'S HUSBAND. 
 
 BY 
 
 Mrs. Harriet Lewis. 
 
 Author of **Lady Kildare," "Sundered Hearts^'' " Hef 
 Double Li/ey'* eic. 
 
 WITS NUMESOUa tUI^PAQX ZZLVSTSATIOITB ST A A. TSAVBS. 
 
 Paiper Cover, 50 cents. Bound in Cloth, $1.00. 
 
 A very charming story. It opens on the shores of Lake Leman, 
 in the romantic city of Geneva, under the shadow of Mont Blanc. 
 A young English girl, who has been educated at a boarding- 
 school at Vevay, is suddenly left without natural guardians and 
 means of support. Her beauty and interesting character attract 
 a young English traveller, who induces her to run away with him 
 and marry him. This is the beginning of a romantic novel of 
 extraordinary vicissitudes and adventures. To give an analysis 
 of the plot and situations would mar the interest of the reader. 
 It is sufficient to say that it is equal to the best of Mrs. Lewis's 
 novels, not excepting "Her Double Life" and "Lady Kildare." 
 
 For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
 on receipt of price, by the publishers, 
 
 ROBERT BONNER'S SONS, 
 Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 
 
THE CARLETONS. 
 
 BY 
 
 Robert Grant, 
 
 Author of ** Mrs. Harold Stagg" " Confessions of a Frivolous 
 Girl" etc. 
 
 ILLVBTBATED BY WILBOS DE MEZA. 
 
 12ino. 309 Paflres. Ulustrated. Handsomely Bound in Oloth, 
 Price, $1.00. Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 
 
 In " The Carletons " Mr. Grant has given his admirers a fresh 
 and delightful novel. It is a New England story and the char- 
 acters are truthfully drawn. Boston is the scene of the principal 
 transactions, although the story opens in a neighboring suburban 
 town. The charm of the story is in the humorous delineation of 
 New England family life. The children are interesting, and 
 when they grow up into men and women, as they do in the 
 progress of the story, they are more interesting and charming, 
 and the reader takes a deep and abiding interest in their history 
 to the close. Mr. Grant's amusing and refreshing humor lights 
 up every page of the book. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
 on receipt of price, by the publishers, 
 
 ROBERT BONNER'S SONS, 
 Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 
 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF 
 
 HoNORE De Balzac 
 
 WITM ILLUSTBATI0X8 BT JAMES FAGAIT, 
 
 ISiuo. Bound in Oloth, $1.00. Paper Cover, 60 Oents. 
 
 "Eugenie Grandet" is one of the greatest of novels. It is the 
 history of a good woman. Every student of French is familiar 
 with it, and an opportunity is now afforded to read it in a good 
 English translation. The lesson of the book is the hideousness 
 of the passion of the miser. Eugenie's father is possessed by it 
 in a degree of intensity probably unknown in America, and to 
 our public it will come as a revelation. What terrible suffering 
 he inflicts upon his family by his ferocious economy and unscru- 
 pulousness only Balzac's matchless narrative could show. The 
 beautiful nature of Eugenie shines like a meteor against the black 
 background, and her self-sacrifice, her sufferings and her superb 
 strength of character are wrought out, and the story brought to a 
 climax, with the finest intellectual and literary power and dis- 
 crimination. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
 on receipt of price, by the publishers, 
 
 ROBERT BONNER'S SONS, 
 Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 
 
 _..>^ 
 
An Insignificant Woman. 
 
 % j9torj) of :2lrti0t l\k. 
 
 BY 
 
 W. Heimburg. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 
 
 By MARY STUART SMITH. 
 
 WITM ILZVBTBATION8 BY WARBSN B. DAVIS. 
 
 12mo. Beautifally Ulastrated. Handsomely Botmd in Cloth, 
 Price, $1.00. Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 
 
 This is a matchless story. It is a vindication of woman. It 
 ends finely, so as to bring out beautifully the glorious character 
 of the heroine, the insignificant woman. The combination of 
 the artistic and practical in this story makes it peculiarly suited 
 to the taste of our times. It is impossible to imagine more 
 beautiful and effective lessons of magnanimity and forbearance, 
 strength and gentleness, than are inculcated in this novel. 
 Every woman who lives for her children, her husband and her 
 home will find her heart mirrored in the pages of this fascinating 
 story. It is told in a manner that must please all readers, and is 
 exquisitely rendered in the translation. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
 on receipt of price, by the publishers, 
 
 ROBERT BONNER'S SONS, 
 Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 
 
The Breach of Custom. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 
 
 BY 
 
 Mrs. D. M. Lowrey 
 
 WITB CBOICE ILLU8TBATIONS ST O. W. SIMONS. 
 
 Paper Cover, 50 Cents. Bound Volume, $1.00. 
 
 This is a translarion of an interesting and beautiful German 
 Jiovel, introducing an artist and his family, and dealing with the 
 most pathetic circumstances and situations. The heroine is an 
 ideal character. Her self-sacrifice is noble and exalted, and the 
 influence which radiates from her is pure and ennobling. Every 
 one who reads this book will feel that it is one which will be a 
 life influence. Few German stories have more movement or are 
 more interesting. There are great variety and charm in the 
 characters and situations. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of 
 price by 
 
 ROBERT BONNER'S SONS, Publishers, 
 
 182 William Street, New York. 
 
THE NORTHERN LIGHT. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF 
 
 E. WERNER, 
 
 BY 
 
 Mrs. D. M. Lowrey. 
 
 12ino. 873 Pag«s. Handsomely Bound in Cloth, Price, $1.00. 
 Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 
 
 Since the death of the author of "Old Ma'mselle's Secret," 
 Werner is the most popular of living German writers. Her 
 novels are written with great literary ability, and possess the 
 charm of varied character, incident and scenery. *' The Northern 
 Light " is one of her most characteristic stories. The heroine is 
 a woman of great beauty and strength of individuality. No less 
 interesting is the young poet who, from beginning to end, con- 
 stantly piques the curiosity of the reader. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent, postpaid, on receipt of 
 price, by 
 
 ROBERT BONNER'S SONS, PubUshers, ' 
 Cor. William and Sprucs Streets, N«w York. 
 
A New Novel by the Author of «« Under Oath.'* 
 
 JOHN WINTHROP'S DEFEAT. 
 
 BY JEAN KATE LUDLUM. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY VICTOR PERARD. 
 
 12iuo. Beautifully Illustrated. Handsomely Bound in Cloth, 
 Price, $1.00. Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 
 
 Miss Ludlum's new novel is her best. It is a delightful story 
 of life at the famous seaside summer resort on Fire Island, and 
 presents a pleasing picture of the gayety and frivolity that reign 
 during the heated term in American watering places. There is 
 an interesting romance growing out of the vicissitudes of Wall 
 Street speculation and the complications of fashionable society. 
 The heart of a true woman beneath the silks and laces proves 
 stronger than any change that outward fortune brings in the 
 circumstances of her life, and she triumphs over every depression. 
 There is an abundance of incident, and the scene of the story 
 ranges from New York to California, and from Paris to Florence. 
 The illustrations add much to the beauty of the book. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
 on receipt of price, by the publishers, 
 
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 Coji. William and Spruce Streets, N«w York. 
 
WIFE AND WOMAN; 
 
 OR, 
 
 A TANGLED SKEIN. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF 
 
 L. Haidheim. 
 
 By MARY J. SAFFORD. 
 
 tVITJI ILLVSTICATJONS ST r. A. CAETSR. 
 
 12]no. Beautifully Uliistrated. Handsomely Bound in Cloth, 
 Price, $1.00. Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 
 
 "A thoroughly good society novel." This is the verdict of a 
 bright woman after reading this story. It belongs to the Marlitt 
 school of society novels, and the author is a favored contributor 
 to the best periodicals of Germany. It has a good plot, an 
 abundance of incident, very well drawn characters and a good 
 ending. There is no more delightful story for a summer holiday. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
 on receipt of price, by the publishers, 
 
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 Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York 
 
pm 
 
RARE BOOK 
 COLLECTION 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 
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 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
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