KNlTTea-) 
 IN-THe-S^N 
 
 OCTAVe-THANieT 
 
1 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 m 
 
 THE WILMER COLLECTION 
 OF CIVIL WAR NOVELS 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 RICHARD H. WILMER, JR. 
 
o 
 
o 
 
KNITTERS IN THE SUN 
 
 BY 
 
 OCTAVE THANET 
 
 O, fellow, come, the song we had last night. — 
 
 Mark it, Cesario ; it is old and plain ; 
 
 The spinsters and the knitters in the sun. 
 
 And the free maids tl»at weave their thread with bones, 
 
 Do use to chant it. 
 
 Twelfth Night, Act II., Scene 4. 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 1887 
 
Copyright, 1887, 
 Br HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & 00- 
 
 AU rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge : 
 Electrotyped and Printed by U. 0. Houghton & Co. 
 
 o 
 
TO MY MOTHER. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Arciiive 
 
 in 2009 with funding from 
 
 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/knittersinsunOOthan 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 • 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Ogre of Ha Ha Bay 1 
 
 The Bishop's Vagabond 50 
 
 Mrs. Finlat's Elizabethan Chair .... 97 
 
 Father Quinnailon' s Convert .... 133 
 
 A Communist's Wife 173 
 
 Schopenhauer on Lake Pepin .... 201 
 " Ma' Bowlin' " (from Harper's TFee%) . . .237 
 
 Half a Curse . . • 269 
 
 Whitsun Harp, Regulator 301 
 
KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 
 
 The Saguenay steamboat reaches Ha Ha 
 Bay in the early morning. It was just three 
 o'clock on a July morning, when Susan and I 
 took our first look at the bay. I had been 
 trying to marry Susan for ten years, and we 
 went up the Saguenay on our wedding journey. 
 I have but to shut my eyes to see Ha Ha Bay 
 now. Early as the hour was, the pale light 
 of that high latitude brought out the scene 
 with something the same quality of tone as an 
 etching : the desolate cliffs guarding the en- 
 trance to the Saguenay ; the hills lower, and 
 green with oats and barley about the placid 
 pool where the mysterious river widens into 
 the bay; the two quaint villages facing each 
 other across the water, with their half foreign 
 picturesqueness of stone walls and steep red 
 roofs ; a pier like a long, black arm thrust forth 
 from St. Alphonse; a huge sawmill over at 
 
2 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 Grand Bale; and four full-rigged ships at 
 anchor below the mill. The tide was out in 
 the flats, and the smell of salt water was in 
 the air. 
 
 Behind St. Alphonse some freak of nature 
 has heaped a mass of granite rocks, then, re- 
 penting, tried to hide them with a frugal ver- 
 dure of grass and stunted pines. The hotel is 
 built on the rocks. Broad piazzas made it 
 imposing, and whitewash, conspicuous. Not 
 only has St. Alphonse the hotel of the bay, it 
 is also the steamboat landing. Perhaps the 
 boat's coming but four times a week, and being 
 the sole means of intercourse, outside of horse- 
 flesh, between the village and the world, ac- 
 counts for the presence of all the inhabitants 
 on the pier. Certainly, the traffic of the region 
 in wood and blueberries could scarcely bring 
 such numbers out of their beds at three o'clock 
 in the morning. The wood and the blueberry 
 boxes — looking exactly like wee coffins — were 
 piled on either side. One man, with a wheel- 
 barrow, was hauling the wood into the boat's 
 hold, superintended by three officers, all talk- 
 ing at once. Half a dozen, having nothing 
 better than their arms, were carrying the 
 blueberries on board. At the same time, 
 sacks of flour and barrels and boxes of mer- 
 chandise kept emerging from below, the own- 
 
 o 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 3 
 
 ers of which helped the confusion by running 
 about after their goods, while the unwieldy- 
 vehicles of the region, the voitures a la planche, 
 were recklessly plunging, backing, and turning 
 through the crowd amid a mighty clamor of 
 French patois. One of the horses fixed my 
 attention. He was a splendid creature, a big 
 gray, with the great curved neck and powerful 
 flanks of a charger on a Greek frieze. The 
 muscles stood out like whipcord, as he reared 
 and pawed in the air. His driver, a slender 
 young habitant, took his antics very coolly, 
 merely saying at intervals, in a conversational 
 tone, " Sois sage, Bac," as though to an unruly 
 baby. 
 
 " I should like to drive after that horse," 
 said my wife. Her voice is softer than a flute, 
 and she is slender and graceful, with an appeal- 
 ing look in her hazel eyes, and the sweetest 
 smile in the world ; but I have never met a 
 woman so fond of risking her neck. Before I 
 knew what was happening she had called, 
 " Venez ici, cocher ! " and the gray brute was 
 kicking at my elbow. Naturally, nothing re- 
 mained but to climb into the voiture a la 
 planche. These '' carriages on a plank " are 
 simply "buckboard wagons" with two seats, 
 the further one of which is protected by a hood 
 and a leather apron. Susan was charmed. 
 
4 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 " He has spirit, your horse," said she in French. 
 " Oway, Madame," said the driver, politely 
 turning in his seat. " Oway," I had already 
 discovered, is Canadian French for " Oui." 
 The driver was young. He was clad in a 
 decent coarse suit of gray, and wore the soft 
 felt hat and curious boots of undyed leather, 
 tied with a thong, which every habitant wears. 
 His features were of the delicate habitant 
 type; but his fair skin, blue eyes, and reddish 
 yellow hair hinted a mixed race. He was not 
 tall, and was slightly round-shouldered. The 
 only thing noticeable in his appearance was an 
 air of deep dejection, not lightened by so much 
 as a smile of courtesy. He spoke no English, 
 — almost no one speaks English in the St. 
 John country, — but though dejected he was 
 not reticent, and we had his whole history be- 
 fore we were well into the village. His name 
 was Isadore Clovis. He lived in the village 
 with his uncle, Xavier Tremblay. That was 
 his uncle's house — pointing to a cottage of 
 logs covered with birch bark, which stood close 
 to a substantial stone house. He, himself, was 
 not married, he never should be. His father 
 and' mother had been long dead. He was the 
 youngest of a large family ; the habitants had 
 large families, " Oway, M'sieu'." " And that 
 of my mother was of the largest," said he; " the 
 
 o 
 
TEE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 5 
 
 good God sent her twenty-six. But twelve, 
 fifteen, that is common." 
 
 "And did they all live ? " I asked, while Su- 
 san remarked in English that she had never 
 heard of anything so horrible. 
 
 " Mais, non, M'sieu'," said Isadore, " all are 
 dead but six ; they live in Chicontimi, nme 
 miles from here. I live here, I with my uncle. 
 Regard my uncle, Madame, M'sieu' ! " 
 
 His finger indicated the roof of the stone 
 house. Peering over the ridgepole was a bushy 
 white head, set with no visible neck upon a pair 
 of very broad shoulders. Hair standing out in 
 spikes all over, a stubbly gray beard, and pro- 
 digious eyebrows imparted an aspect of gro- 
 tesque ferocity to features forbidding enough 
 of themselves, weatherbeaten, rugged, scored by 
 innumerable lines and dents. The attire of 
 this extraordinary bust was a plaided red flan- 
 nel shirt, torn at the throat, and thus display- 
 ing a hairy chest. Altogether, he might have 
 given an orang-outang the odds for ugliness. 
 
 " He owns both houses," said Isadore, '' he is 
 rich ; he has many farms and a fromagerie and 
 
 "He is fortunate," said Susan, who likes to 
 be pleasant with people, and to praise their be- 
 longings; "it is a good house, a comfortable 
 house. Does he live there ? " 
 
 Isadore threw a lustreless eye over the house. 
 
6 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 saying slowly, "No one lives there, Madame, 
 no one has ever lived there ; it is because of 
 his vow." 
 
 "His vow?" 
 
 " Oway, Madame. He made a vow before 
 M. Pingat, M. le notaire, M. Rideau, M. Ver- 
 net, those, that he would never go into his 
 new house until be should marry a maiden of 
 twenty. It was twenty-five years ago, but he 
 has never gone into the house since." 
 
 " How old is he ? " 
 
 " He is eighty years old, Madame ; he is a 
 very strong man. Every day he climbs the 
 roof, so." 
 
 "Dear me," cried Susan, "this is most inter- 
 esting! he has never married, then?" 
 
 "No, Madame; once be was affianced to a 
 maiden of twenty, she had but one eye ; but 
 she fell in the river and was drowned." 
 
 "But in his youth?" 
 
 " Once he was afl&anced, Madame," said Isa- 
 dore ; "he was then fifty-five, and not long come 
 from Quebec. Madame does not know the 
 widow Guion ; she is still handsome; but then, 
 when she was twent}^, there was no one in the 
 parish to compare with her. My uncle would 
 marry her, and the affair was arranged, and my 
 uncle had built the house ; it was nearly fin- 
 ished, when, behold, she will not marry my un- 
 cle, she will marry Pierre Guion. Then all the 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 7 
 
 world made jests about my uncle, who, as one 
 can see, is not handsome. And it was at M. 
 Francois Pouliot's house that they were laugh- 
 ing, and saying that my uncle would frighten 
 any woman away, he was so ugly, and my uncle 
 overheard it, passing by, and came in, and 
 swore an oath before them all, that he would 
 never go into his new house until he should 
 marry a maiden of twenty. ' I can get the best 
 of them to marry me, for as ugly as I am,' said 
 he. But it was twenty-five years first." 
 
 " Has he succeeded, then ? " Isadore, lean- 
 ing forward, gathered up the reins. 
 
 *' Oway, Madame," he said, in a low tone, 
 *' he has succeeded. Next month he will marry 
 a maiden of twenty, and move into his new 
 house." By force of habit Isadore called the 
 twenty-five year old house "the new house; " 
 doubtless it had been "the old house " and "the 
 new house " to him from childhood. " He left 
 the house just as it was," said Isadore, " the 
 wood and shavings are all scattered about the 
 floors, where the carpenters left them. He had 
 the carpenters board up the windows, that was 
 all. Bac, en avant ! " 
 
 We had turned and were ascending a hill. 
 Half-way up Isadore stopped to point again. 
 " See, Madame, the cottage of the widow 
 GuioD." It was a mere morsel of a house, the 
 
8 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 unpainted boards of wbicli were made a better 
 protection against the weather by a covering 
 of birch bark. In the little yard the peas were 
 in flower, and a few hollyhocks reared their 
 heads above the beet leaves and lettuce. A 
 barefooted man was raking coals out of the 
 open-air oven which stood to one side of a pile 
 of brush. " C'est le beau-frere de Madame," 
 said Isadore, " c'est un fou, mais bon naturel, 
 pas me chant. From here, Madame can see the 
 hotel plainly." 
 
 We looked, not at the hotel, but at the road. 
 Could that infatuated Canadian mean to drive 
 up a sheer rock, slippery with mud, wider but 
 hardly better than a goat path ? 
 
 "Attendez," said I, "do you mean to take 
 us up that way, that? " 
 
 "Oway, M'sieu','' replied Isadore, tranquilly, 
 " without doubt. Bac is accustomed to it. Be- 
 hold ! Bac, en avant ! " With the word, he 
 leaped lightly over the shafts, and Bac and he 
 went up the hill on a run. It is the pace of 
 the country ; up hill and down, they make their 
 horses gallop at the top of tbeir speed. I don't 
 know why; I suppose they like it. At any 
 rate, Susan did ; she was enchanted. 
 
 "Wasn't it lovely, Maurice?" she cried, as 
 Isadore pulled Bac up before the hotel piazzas ; 
 " do give the man something handsome." 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 9 
 
 I gave him fifty cents, which he said was 
 more than he deserved ; and we both watched 
 him rattle down the hill at a rate which threat- 
 ened to break every bone in his body. Then, 
 having seen him emerge unshattered, we entered 
 the hotel. There are no such inns in the 
 States. Nothing could be more primitive than 
 the house and its furnishing. The walls were 
 unplastered, the woodwork unpainted; the 
 women of the village had spun, woven, and 
 dyed the strips of gay carpet on the pine floors. 
 We had tallow candles in our bedrooms, a 
 candle to a room. If we wanted a maid we 
 went out into the hall and called her. A bath 
 was a perilous luxury, the one bath tub of the 
 house being too large for the doors, so that 
 it must be emptied before it could be tilted on 
 one side and trundled out of the room, which 
 operation usually ended in flooding both the 
 bather's chamber and the room below, not 
 counting a few stray rivulets likely to meander 
 into the hall. Yet, I have been less comfort- 
 able in houses with grand names. Everything 
 was scrupulously clean ; Madame gave us a 
 capital dinner and Monsieur kept most excellent 
 wines ; nor is it everywhere that one can eat 
 salmon of his own catching. Moreover, it is 
 pleasant to live among a people so simple, 
 kindlv, and cheerful as the French Canadians. 
 
10 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 All the ri^ror of a barsh climate and a hard life 
 cannot quench their amiable vivacity or that 
 engaging politeness which flings a sort of 
 Southern grace over their bare Northern homes. 
 We grew fond of the viUagers. To them the 
 hotel was the centre of festivity ; were there 
 not a bowling alley, and a billiard room, and in 
 the parlor a 'piano ? Nightly the village mag- 
 nates would assemble in the alley and bowl 
 with tremendous energy and both hands. We 
 came to know them all, the doctor, the notary, 
 the rich fur merchant, the various shopkeepers 
 and farmers. 
 
 Of them all none interested us more than the 
 widow Guion and her daughter. The widow 
 was a tall woman, whose figure had been 
 moulded on such fine lines that a life of coarse 
 toil had not been able to spoil them. Trouble 
 had bleached her thick hair and wrinkled her 
 face, and the weather had browned her skin, 
 but she was as straight as an arrow and still 
 had splendid eyes and a profile worth drawing. 
 We often saw her in her garden working like a 
 man. Indoors, she would wash her hands, tie a 
 clean apron about her waist, and sing over her 
 spinning. The singing was for the fool. She 
 was very kind to him and devoted to her 
 dauo'hter. She was also neat, honest, and 
 industrious; but she was not popular in the 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 11 
 
 village; they said that she had an imperious 
 temper and was unsocial. Melanie, the daugh- 
 ter, was one of the maids at the hotel, a 
 tall, handsome, black-haired, fair-skinned girl, 
 who revived the traditions of her mother's 
 beauty. One day something occurred to make 
 us notice Melanie. We were sitting on the 
 rocks overhanging the village. It was that 
 most peaceful hour of the day, the hour before 
 sunset. The west was in a glow that turned 
 the tin spire of the little church into silver ; the 
 mountains cast purple shadows over the bay ; 
 and the water was a steel mirror with rippling 
 splashes of shade. We could hear the lowing 
 of the cows returning homeward, and the faint 
 tinkle of bells, and the voices of mothers call- 
 ing their children. " How peaceful it is," said 
 Susan softly, "and they seem so pastoral and 
 childlike, like people in poems. One can hardly 
 imagine any one's being very unhappy here." 
 
 Perhaps she was thinking of our own past; 
 certainly we had been miserable enough, before 
 we drifted into this calm harbor. Just then a 
 man and woman, coming along the path be- 
 neath, halted, out of sight, but not out of hear- 
 ing. The man was speaking : " No, I cannot 
 bear it. See, thou art all I have, thou ; I have 
 loved thee all my life. Ah, mon dieu, how 
 couldst thou promise ! " Now I grant that we 
 
12 KNITTERS IN TEE SUN 
 
 ought to have risen at once, and gone away; 
 but I am not relating what we ought to have 
 done, but what we did do, which was to sit still 
 and listen with all our ears. The woman an- 
 swered. The other's voice was rough and thick 
 from passion : but hers was very gentle and quiet. 
 
 " I will tell thee, Isadore," she said (Susan 
 pinched my arm) ; " I came here to tell. 
 Thou knowest maman has a great opinion of 
 M. Tremblay, who has been her only friend, 
 though he has so little reason." 
 
 " It was but that he might marry ^/lee," cried 
 Isadore, " curse his craft}^ head ! " 
 
 "May be," answered the woman wearily, 
 "though I think not; but he has been ever 
 kind to us, since before I was born. And 
 maman was glad, very glad, when he would 
 marry me." 
 
 " And was it tJiat " — 
 
 " Hush ! no, my friend. It was hard to re- 
 fuse her who has lived so wearying a life and 
 had so great disappointments, but I thought of 
 thee. Then — then — she told me. Isadore, 
 maman — maman is going blind!" The voice 
 which was so steady broke, but in a second it 
 went on quietly as before. " It is that, my 
 friend, that made me promise. M. le docteur 
 says if she will go to Montreal to the great 
 doctor there, he will make her eyes well again. 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 13 
 
 But it will cost a great, great sum of money, 
 two hundred dollars. And M. Tremblay has 
 promised to give it her, and more, besides, 
 when I marry him. And if she does not go, 
 she must become quite blind. Already she 
 cannot spin the yarn even, and when she feels 
 the lumps afterwards, she weeps." There was 
 a somid like a groan. "Do not weep, my 
 friend," she continued, " it cannot be for long. 
 He is so very old." 
 
 This practical view of the matter hardly 
 seemed to console the lover, who burst out: 
 *' Thou dost not understand it, thou ! Ah, no," 
 — he swore a grpat oath, with a sob in his 
 throat, — "I will not endure it. Listen, I have 
 five dollars. I will sell Bac. We will go to 
 Quebec and be married. Ah, think, m'amie, 
 thou and I." 
 
 There was a break filled by a very pretty 
 sound, then the soft voice again. "Ah, no, 
 Isadore, thou must not kiss me. It cannot be. 
 I have sworn before the image of the blessed 
 Virgin to marry him. And, beside — oh, Isa- 
 dore, how could I leave her behind, to grow 
 blind — without me ! " Isadore did not answer. 
 The vesper bell rang from the church tower. 
 " My friend," said the girl, " I must go. I can 
 never see thee alone again. Wilt thou not for- 
 give me, first?" 
 
14 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 "I might kill him," said the man. 
 
 "And be hanged for it?" answered his 
 practical sweetheart, "how would that help? " 
 
 " He would be dead," said the desperate 
 Isadore, " he could not marry thee. Mon dieu, 
 it would help much ! " 
 
 " But thy soul, it would burn forever ! " 
 
 "It would not burn," said Isadore, practical 
 in his turn, " I would repent and confess to the 
 priest and he would absolve me." 
 
 " But he could not bring thee back to life. 
 Oh, Isadore, promise me thou wilt put away 
 such thoughts ! Thou art cruel, thou ! " 
 
 " Ah, dost thou feel what is tearing my 
 h6art?" cried poor Isadore. 
 
 "Look at me," said the woman, " dost thou 
 remember my face a month ago ? I cannot 
 speak when I suffer, like thee ; I can only bear 
 it." The man was kissing her again, and cry- 
 ing quite openly. " Isadore," said she, " I must 
 go. Bid me farewell. No, do not hold me. 
 See, thou hast often complained that I never 
 will kiss thee. This once." 
 
 I think they were both crying now. We 
 were ashamed to listen longer and got up, but 
 in a few moments a woman's shape flitted 
 round the curve and passed us. She was tall 
 and had black hair ; we both recognized M^- 
 lanie. " Oh, poor things ! " cried my dear wife, 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 15 
 
 " and we are so happy ; can't we help them, 
 Maurice ? " I said that we might try. Any- 
 how, it would n't cost more than a picture. 
 " So Melanie is the old ogre's victim, is she ? " 
 said I ; " what possesses her mother ? " 
 
 In truth, Tremblay, in the village eyes, was 
 worse than an ogre. All the world knew him 
 to be a miser to his nail points, a cruel, surly 
 old reprobate. He was a heretic and a scoffer 
 at the saints. He had amassed (doubtless by 
 baleful means) what was great wealth in that 
 simple community. Most of the villagers were 
 in his debt ; nor was this the worst, he had 
 possessed himself of all the secrets of the parish. 
 How? The doctor talked about gossip; but 
 there was a sinister theory more in favor. 
 Under the confessional floor, in the church, 
 was a space between the timbers large enough 
 for a dog to lie, and Xavier, strong and supple, 
 in spite of his eighty years, could curl his short 
 body into a dog's compass ; the abominable 
 wickedness would only give a zest to the act, 
 for the old infidel. 
 
 " But what secrets can you have ? " I said to 
 the doctor, " they can't be very bad." 
 
 " There is a black spot in the human heart, 
 everywhere, Monsieur," answered the doctor. 
 Wherever the black spot, Xavier was sure to 
 put his wicked old finger on it and gibe at the 
 
16 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 victim's wincing. Then he would creep away, 
 chuckling, to the ground, or, may be, to his pet 
 devil, for St. Alphonse firmly believed in such 
 a familiar. 
 
 My own acquaintance with the ogre was 
 limited to one interview. I found him unload- 
 ing blueberries, on the wharf, his cart and a 
 sorry skeleton of a horse beside him. A nearer 
 view did not give one a better opinion of his 
 looks. He was of low stature, with enormously 
 long arms, and disproportionately broad shoul- 
 ders. I asked him a question; in French, of 
 course. 
 
 "Me spik Englis," croaked the old sinner. 
 
 He insisted on speaking a kind of mongrel 
 English in answer to my French, and we did 
 not make much advance. By and by another 
 man appeared and I tried to talk to him. In- 
 stantly Xavier's lean fingers were tapping my 
 shoulder. 
 
 " He no spik Englis tall," said the exasper- 
 ating monster. 
 
 " Tant mieux," said I, "at least I shall un- 
 derstand him ! " 
 
 "Mais peut-Stre, M'sieu'," be retorted grin- 
 ning, " he no vill undertands you ! " 
 
 I surrendered, bought a box of berries (at an 
 awful price), and left him leering like a gar- 
 goyle. Recalling that leer, I pitied Melanie. 
 
 o 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 17 
 
 What a husband for a girl of twenty ! Susan 
 and I talked the affair over, discussing half a 
 dozen plans of rescue. The most obvious 
 was to go to the widow. We went. Susan 
 broached the subject, after a diplomatic pur- 
 chase of hollyhocks. She spoke of Melanie, of 
 her beauty, her pleasant ways, of our interest 
 in her. We had heard that she was to be mar- 
 ried ; might we offer our sincere wishes for her 
 happiness ? 
 
 "Oway, Madame," the widow replied, with 
 a certain ominous contraction of the muscles of 
 the mouth, " she will be happy ; M. Tremblay 
 has a good heart." 
 
 "But," said Susan, "pardon, Madame — it 
 is our great interest in Melanie — is not M. 
 Tremblay very old ? " 
 
 We were in the garden, all four of us, for 
 the idiot brother-in-law was there also, piling 
 brush ; Madame had been hoeing ; she struck 
 her hoe smartly on the ground and rested her 
 elbows on the handle, her chin on her hands, 
 and so eyed us grimly. 
 
 " Without doubt, Madame," said she ; "quay 
 done ? He will die the sooner. In ten, in five 
 years she will be a widow, rich, free." 
 
 " Consider those same five years, Madame," 
 I cried, " the trouble, the misery, perhaps." 
 
 Her lip cui'led. " M'sieu' has heard the talk 
 
18 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 of the village. They are imbeciles, they. M. 
 Tremblay is a miser. Bah, look around you, 
 M'sieu'. This house, that wood, for a nothing, 
 a few vegetables — from a miser! Look at 
 him," pointing to the idiot, "those clothes are 
 from M. Tremblay, from the miser! In" the 
 house is a fiddle, one of the most beautiful. 
 It is for him. M. Tremblay gave it him. For 
 why ? can he play ? Mon dieu, no ; but it 
 pleases him to make a noise, and M. Tremblay 
 bought it. When Mdlanie was a little child he 
 always bought her things, snowshoes, a tobog- 
 gan, a doll from Quebec. No child in St. Al- 
 phonse has a doll like that. A miser! bah, 
 lies of the devil ! " 
 
 " But he is a wicked man, cruel, harsh," I 
 persisted. 
 
 " Never to us, M'sieu', never, never!" 
 
 " He is a heretic." 
 
 " Et M'sieu' ? " said the widow. 
 
 " I am not to marry a Catholic. But he is 
 worse, he scoffs at the saints and does not be- 
 lieve in the good God himself." 
 
 " The good God knows better," said Madame 
 Guion placidl3^ 
 
 I tried another tack. " But Melanie may 
 love some one else." 
 
 " M'sieu' means Isadore Clovis," said the 
 widow, drawing her tall figure to its full height. 
 
 o 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 19 
 
 and thougli I am a big fellow, her eyes were 
 nearly level with mine. " Eh bien, I, too, have 
 loved a young man, M'sieu'. It was twenty- 
 five years ago, and M. Tremblay would marry 
 me, but I was a fool, I : my heart was set on 
 a young man of this parish, tall, strong, hand- 
 some. I quarreled with all my relations, I 
 married him, M'sieu'. Within a month of our 
 wedding day he broke my arm, twisting it to 
 hurt me. He was the devil. Twice, but for 
 his brother, he would have killed me. Jules is 
 strong, though he has no wits ; he pulled him 
 off. See, M'sieu'," flinging the hoe aside to 
 push the hair off her temples, "this he did 
 with his stick; and this," baring her arm, 
 " with his knife. But I was a fool, I forgave 
 him and worked for him. He would do noth- 
 ing but play cards and drive horses and drink, 
 drink, drink. His grandfather was an English- 
 man and drank himself to death. The English 
 are like that. And I — I forgave him and 
 made myself old and wrinkled and black work- 
 ing for money for him. Then he would laugh 
 at my ugly face and praise the village girls' 
 looks. He had a soul of mud ! But I forgave 
 that, too. Then my children were born, and 
 he beat them. Then I forgave no more, my 
 heart was like coals of fire. Attendez, M'sieu', 
 I have the mother's heart, I love my children. 
 
20 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 yet I was glad, I, when they died and were 
 safe from him ! Figure, then, what kind of 
 father he was ! Only Melanie lived. The oth- 
 ers would cry, cry ; but Melanie did not cry, 
 and she would never speak to him, her father. 
 There was reason: God knows what women 
 have to suffer, and He takes vengeance. He, 
 that coward, was afraid of Melanie, a little 
 baby, because she would not speak to him. He 
 tried, many times, to make her, but no, she 
 would never speak, and she was three years old 
 when he died. A horse kicked him and killed 
 him, a horse that he was beating ! " 
 
 The fool had dropped his sticks and was 
 staring at her piteously, alarmed at her ges- 
 tures and her angry voice. He ran up to her 
 and stroked her hand, uttering a mournful, in- 
 articulate sound. 
 
 "Ce n'est rien, Jules," said the widow smil- 
 ing on him, " sois tranquil." Jules smiled, too, 
 and nodded his head, then slunk back to his 
 task. " Do you understand, M'sieu', now," 
 said the widow, " why I will not have Melanie 
 marry a young man ? " 
 
 ''But Isadore is so good," said Susan, coming 
 to my aid, "he would not be cruel to Melanie." 
 
 Madame Guion laughed harshly. " He ? " 
 she shouted, " he ? ma foy ! I think no. My 
 Melanie could lift him with the one arm. Al- 
 
TUE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 21 
 
 ways, she has taken care of him. Look you: 
 when they are children, she puts on his snow- 
 shoes ; and when he cries for the cold, she puts 
 on him her mittens ; and she will fight the boys 
 that tease him because he is Tremblay's nephew. 
 Always, she takes care of him." 
 
 " But, Madame," said Susan in her gentle 
 voice, " if they have loved each other from 
 childhood, how hard for them to be separated 
 
 now." 
 
 " It would be harder," said the widow in 
 quite another tone, " to marry him and repent 
 all the years after. Love, it is pleasant, but 
 marriage, that is another pair of sleeves. Tiens, 
 Madame, regard the women of this village. 
 Without doubt Madame has observed them. 
 They work, work, work ; they scrub, they cook, 
 they weave, they spin, they knit, they make 
 the clothes ; one has not time to say one's 
 prayers ; and every year a new mouth to fill, — 
 mon dieu, one mouth ? two at a blow, perhaps ! 
 That makes one ugly and old. If Melanie mar- 
 ries Isadore Clovis she will be like these oth- 
 ers, so poor, so tired, so ugly ; and there will be 
 the children and her poor old blind mother can- 
 not help her. Ah, mon dieu, I will not have 
 such a fate come to my beautiful one ! " 
 
 Then I spoke, struggling after a short cut 
 through the situation. I offered to pay for her 
 
22 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 journey to Montreal and to do something for 
 Isadore. 
 
 The widow's face stiffened ; plainly she sus- 
 pected the Greeks' gifts. "And why should 
 M'sieu' incommode himself for my eyes ?" said 
 she. 
 
 I thought I had better let Susan do the rest 
 of the talking. Her tact is equal to any de- 
 mand. " It is for Melanie, too, you under- 
 stand," said she, " I am fond of Melanie. And 
 see, Madame, we are two lovers, my husband 
 and I " (with an adorable blush), " and we are 
 very happy ; we should like to make two other 
 lovers happy. Is not that what the good God 
 intends we should do with happiness, share 
 it?" 
 
 The widow Guion smiled a faint and wintry 
 smile, saying : " Truly, M'sieu' has cause to be 
 happy. But look you," she continued rapidly, 
 " M'sieu' does not understand. • It is not for 
 myself. To see Mdlanie rich, content, I would 
 be blind, deaf, dumb ! " At this climax of 
 calamities she spread her hands out to the sky, 
 and the fool began to moan. " Melanie will be 
 happier with M. Tremblay, — not now, in the 
 end. And Isadore, too, he will be happier ; his 
 uncle will then give him a farm, — he has told 
 me ; he will marr^^, he will content himself, he 
 is a slight creature. It is not for him to marry 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 
 
 M^lanie. For see, Madame, she has always had 
 better than the other children. Often, I have 
 worked all night that she might wear a pretty 
 robe to the church. She has been to the con- 
 vent at Chicontimi ; she has accomplishments : 
 she can embroider, she can make flowers with 
 wool, she can play on the piano. One can see 
 she is superior to the other girls of the village. 
 M. Trembla}^ will do everything for her ; he 
 will take her to Quebec. Ah, Madame, it is 
 because I love my little one that I would give 
 her to M. Tremblav." 
 
 Evidently we could hope nothing from Me- 
 lanie's mother. Simultaneously Susan and I 
 gave it up, and Susan covered our retreat with 
 an order for beets, to be delivered at the hotel. 
 
 But I thought that I understood the situation 
 better. I believed Madame Guion told us the 
 truth : she was only seeking her daughter's 
 happiness. She had an intense but narrow 
 nature, and her life of toil, hard and busy 
 tbough it was, being also lonely and quiet, 
 rather helped than hindered brooding over her 
 sorrows. Her mind was of the true peasant 
 type, the ideas came slowly and were tenacious 
 of grip. Love had been ruin to her. It meant 
 heartbreak, bodily anguish, the torture of im- 
 potent anger, and the bitterest humiliation. 
 Therefore, her fixed determination was to save 
 
24 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 Melanie from its delusions. And because her 
 own bloom had withered under sordid hardships, 
 she yearned with passionate longing to ward 
 them off her child. These two desires had 
 come to fill her whole mind. Old Xavier 
 offered to gratify both. Besides, he was the 
 giver of whatever small comforts had brightened 
 her poverty ; she was grateful, and it is quite 
 possible that she wanted to make amends for 
 the past. As for those aspects of the marriage 
 which revolted us, privations and drudgery 
 blunt sentiment in women even more effectually 
 than in men. Madame Guion felt no horror 
 in such a union simply because she could not 
 see any. These conclusions solved the problem 
 of the widow's motives, but they did not help, 
 in the least, to change them, or to make her 
 more friendly towards Isadore. We tried the 
 young people, next. I talked with Isadore, and 
 Susan with Melanie. It was all plain sailing 
 with the man. He poured out his woes to me, 
 on the way to Lake Ravel, with true Gallic 
 effusion. His uncle had been kind to him, after 
 a gruff and silent fashion, when a lad, but now, 
 grown to manhood, he found himself frankly 
 despised. 
 
 " He has said of me, ' C'est un vrai bleche,' " 
 cried Isadore, grinding his teeth. " Bac, arretes 
 done ! " The horse, plunging at the sight of 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 25 
 
 a fallen tree, was calmed instantly ; I could not 
 help admiring the lad's mastery of the animal. 
 
 " He would not say that, if he had seen you 
 drive Bac when he was frightened," I said. 
 
 " It is nothing," said Isadore ; " I am good to 
 Bac and he knows it, that is all. He taught 
 me to be kind to animals. He buys old horses 
 that are beaten. M'sieu' has seen the last, 
 Charlay, a sight to make fear. He will not be 
 so long, he will be fat, lazy, like the others. 
 He says : ' Dame, I can get work out of them, 
 e'estbon marche ! ' But it is not for that he 
 loves all animals. He loves the fool, also ; but 
 all good people he hates, and he curses the 
 saints, he is so wicked," said Isadore, piously 
 crossing himself. 
 
 Certainly his uncle knew of his attachment. 
 *' He is glad that I suffer," said Isadore. 
 " M'sieu', I speak to you with the heart open ; 
 sometimes I think that I will kill myself, but 
 Melanie then will weep, and I must burn, my- 
 self, forever, also. No, I will go away, she 
 shall never see me again. I will go to Chi- 
 contimi ! " 
 
 Chicontimi being barely nine miles away 
 rather blunted the point of this tragic threat ; 
 but the poor fellow's grief and rage were real 
 enough. There was no question about his 
 willingness to be helped. He burst into tears 
 
26 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 and insisted upon embracing me over the front 
 seat. He would do anything, he would go any- 
 where, he was my slave for life. Then he cried 
 again. 
 
 Melanie, as the French say, was more diffi- 
 cult. At first she could hardly believe in 
 Susan's offers. Finally convinced, the poor 
 girl grew quite white with emotion ; all she did, 
 however, was to lift a fold of Susan's gown, 
 press it tightly between her two hands to her 
 heart, and then let it drop ; — an odd gesture, 
 which, nevertheless, Susan found infinitely ex- 
 pressive. 
 
 But she could not be swerved from her pur- 
 pose. She had sworn before the Virgin ; to 
 retreat now would break her mother's heart ; 
 moreover, the marriage would be the best thing 
 for Isadore, since M. Tremblay, who never 
 broke his word, had promised to give his nephew 
 a farm on his wedding day. That Isadore 
 might reject the gift did not occur to Melanie ; 
 the habitants have no morbid scruples of deli- 
 cacy — well, I do not know that it would have 
 occurred to Isadore, either. 
 
 Susan would have tried to show her the sure 
 unhappiness in such a marriage, but her first 
 words were stopped by the girl's quivering 
 mouth and the miserable appeal of her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, do not tell it me, Madame," she cried, 
 
 o 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 27 
 
 " I tell myself until I cannot sleep any more at 
 night. I work, work, all day, to be tired ; but 
 at night it is only that my bones ache, the 
 thoughts will not stop. I cannot eat or sleep, 
 and always there is the same hard pain here:' 
 She touched, not her heart, but her throat. 
 " Some day, it will choke me, I think," said she. 
 Yet she spoke of Tremblay without bitterness, 
 saying: " He was very good to me when I was 
 young. For why should he be good at all ? 
 All the world has been unkind to him. When 
 he was a little child, his own mother did not 
 love him because he was ugly. He had a great 
 misfortune in his youth, also ; what, I do not 
 know, but he will often say to maman, 'Beware 
 of doing services to people, Madame. When I 
 was young I was a fool. I did kindnesses, I 
 would be loved. Men are like wolves, they bite 
 the hand that feeds them. Be feared, Madame, 
 that is best.' He makes himself feared. What 
 he says, he does. He has vowed to marry a 
 maiden of twenty, and he will keep his vow ! 
 Look you, the mother gave him the key of the 
 fields,! he will marry the daughter ; he makes 
 two blows with a stone." 
 
 Meanwhile the matter was the absorbing 
 topic at the Bay, our unlucky efforts to assist 
 
 '^ Donner le clef des champs, a satirical expression for a dis- 
 missal. 
 
28 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 the lovers being as much common property as 
 Isadore's despair or Melanie's filial submission. 
 This was just a trifle embarrassing, since we 
 could hardly buy a candle that a multitude of 
 volunteer counselors did not troop about us ; 
 or row on the Bay without the boatman's in- 
 quiring anxiously what we meant to do next. 
 Not a mother's son had a suggestion to offer ; 
 but they all showed a cheerful confidence in our 
 ingenuity, and were amazingly sympathetic. 
 
 While this went on, I was seeing Xavier 
 daily. Sometimes he would be walking, at- 
 tended by a starving retinue of curs, sometimes 
 driving Charlay ; always he would grin at me 
 in his gargoyle fashion ; but our acquaintance 
 got no further until the day I ran against him 
 on the pier, talking English to Susan. Susan 
 was talking English also. 
 
 "Why not?" was her comment, "he likes 
 it. He is going to show us over his cr^merie, 
 this afternoon. You know I have an interest 
 in a cremerie, myself — and by good luck I 've 
 been through it." 
 
 We spent three mortal hours in old Xavier's 
 creamery, Susan admiring things right and left. 
 Somewhere about Tremblay's porcupine nature 
 must have been a soft spot of vanity, and my 
 clever wife found it, for actually he looked al- 
 most human while he talked to her, and the 
 
 o 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 29 
 
 grin that seemed carved on his face was soft- 
 ened into an uncouth smile. 
 
 "Susan," said I, "you are an unprincipled 
 woman, flattering that clown ! " 
 
 " Maurice," she answered gravely, " he inter- 
 ests me greatly." 
 
 The following day, being Sunday, we went 
 to church. We liked the little church of St. 
 Alphonse, with its walls covered with mortar 
 decorated by laths in wavy lines, to give a 
 foothold to future plaster ; its pillars hewn out 
 of pine logs ; its echoing floors; its altogether 
 dreadful stations and images, and its poor little 
 tawdry altars. Whenever mass was celebrated 
 a dingy and crumpled flock of surplices crowded 
 the chancel. It was worth a long journey to 
 see the easy attitudes of the choristers, as they 
 lounged in their stalls or shambled through the 
 ritual. They all had colds, and expectorated 
 with artless freedom. Choristers and organist 
 generally started together on the chants; but 
 soon the voices would lose the key and wander 
 helplessly off, amid a howling mob of discords, 
 while the organist was sternly plodding her 
 way through her notes, leaving them to their 
 fate. Withal there was no irreverence ; on the 
 contrary, a devout attention. I used to watch 
 the people telling their beads or kneeling at 
 their prayers, and question whether their life 
 
30 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 seemed to tliem the innocent and stupid affair 
 that it seemed to me. Thus gazing, this Sun- 
 day, I was aware that the aisle was ilhiminated 
 by a blaze of red satin, followed by a rusty 
 black gown, — Melanie and her mother. Me- 
 lanie's gay frock was trimmed with cheap 
 white lace. Susan called it a "nightmare" 
 later, and it certainly did suggest the splendors 
 of the chorus in a comic opera ; but, all the 
 same, it was amazingly becoming, and the girl's 
 pallor and troubled eyes only enhanced her 
 beauty. No wonder the young men stared at 
 her and the women whispered. 
 
 The cure preached a good sermon enough ; 
 but I could have wished a less appropriate sub- 
 ject than the sin of broken vows. Melanie sat 
 like a statue, hardly seeming to hear, her beads 
 dangling from her limp fingers. The only vis- 
 ible portion of the widow's shape was her back, 
 but I fancied a grim complacency in the way 
 she sat bolt upright and held her chin in the 
 air. After mass we had the excitement of a 
 shower. There was the customary huddling 
 under the church porch, while the fortunate 
 owners of " buckboards " drove up, in turn, and 
 stored their womankind on the sheltered back 
 seats. I had a glimpse of Bac's tossing mane 
 among the horses, and saw Isadore standing up 
 in the '' buckboard," looking for Melanie. I 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 31 
 
 heard him offer his vehicle to Madame Guion. 
 Simultaneously, old Xavier climbed up the 
 church steps, in his ordinary garb of homespun, 
 with plenty of mud on his boots. His long 
 arm extended itself under two or three interven- 
 ing shoulders, and jerked the Avidow's shawl. 
 What he said was inaudible, but in response, 
 she gathered up her skirts above her white 
 stockings, took her daughter by the hand, and 
 strode out to the voiture ^ la planche. Poor 
 Isadore was already at Bac's head smiling. He 
 assisted the women in and buttoned the apron 
 over their knees. Just as he was about to fol- 
 low them his uncle's long arm unceremoniously 
 thrust him aside and the old man climbed into 
 his seat. The young fellow stood like one stu- 
 pefied. His fair skin turned a deep red. 
 
 -' En avant ! " bawled Xavier. The voice 
 roused Isadore. Bac flung his heels into the 
 air and was off, Isadore after him, screaming 
 " Take care ! Bac will go for none but me ! 
 Stop, or he will kill you." The old man's an- 
 swer was the whistle of a whip. I don't think 
 that Xavier meant to touch the horse, it was a 
 mere bit of a bravado, but by chance the lash 
 did fillip Bac's flank. Up he went, like a shot, 
 pawing the air ; then round in a furious half cir- 
 cle. Xavier pulled, but he might as well have 
 tried to hold a whirlwind. I had started at the 
 same instant, and was abreast of Isadore. 
 
32 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 " C'est raon affaire," he cried, jumping at 
 the bits. I caught the animal on the other side. 
 For a moment I expected that he would tram- 
 ple the life out of both of us ; he had the 
 strength of ten horses. But Isadore talked 
 away as composedly as if in the stable yard : 
 " Arretes, done, Bac ; sois sage ! s-s-sh ! Why 
 dost thou make such a time, little fool ? " And 
 actually, that raving devil of a brute stopped, 
 trembling, and rubbed his nose against the 
 habitant's breast. 
 
 " M'sieu', mon oncle," said Isadore calmly, 
 *' have the goodness to debark.^ Bac is not 
 safe for any one but me to drive." 
 
 The old man looked at his nepliew and 
 grinned. Quite composedly he got down, and 
 stood with his hands on his hips while Isadore 
 sprang lightly into the voiture a la planche. 
 Neither of the women spoke : the widow looked 
 scared, Melanie's eyes were shining. Isadore 
 gravely touched his hat to me and drove away, 
 old Xavier wrinkling his cheeks over his eyes 
 in a deeper grin. " Bah," he muttered, " he 
 can drive the little one," and stumped off with- 
 out a word of acknowledgment to me. 
 
 Susan, when I told her the story, held that it 
 
 1 The habitants on the Sagueuay and St. Lawrence always 
 use deharquer for descendre, probably because they have so 
 much to do with boats. 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 33 
 
 was very encouraging. She thought that she 
 understood the mot cVenigme about Tremblay. 
 
 " You see, Maurice," said she, " he is awfully 
 vain, that is all. Did n't you ever notice that 
 deformed people always are vain, poor things ? 
 Tremblay, now, has a consuming desire to be 
 noticed. I think that at first he tried to win 
 people's affection, and I imagine he met with 
 some cruel disappointments. He had a dismal 
 childhood, and you know, yourself, about the 
 widow Guion. I believe he cared more for her 
 than he will admit. See how kind he has been 
 to her. He may pretend all sorts of mean 
 motives for his actions, but there the kind ac- 
 tions are. You see, Maurice, now he tries to 
 make people fear him, it is the same vanity, 
 only twisted a little. He takes as much pains 
 to appear wicked and cruel as other people do 
 to appear good. Why, he started that story 
 about the confessional, himself. Depend upon 
 it, it is nothing but his vanity makes him so 
 obstinately bent on marrying a girl of twenty." 
 She had a pretty theory about his having been 
 disappointed in Isadore. " He took the child 
 to bring up," said she, " hoping, I feel sure, 
 though he may not have owned the hope to 
 himself, that the boy would be on his side, 
 would share his hatred of mankind, and grow 
 up in his own pattern. If Isadore had been a 
 
34 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 bold, fierce sort of a character, I believe the old 
 man would have grown to love him ; but from 
 the first the boy was taken up by the village 
 people, and he has all their ways of thinking. 
 Then, besides, he is such a mild, gentle, ineffi- 
 cient seeming fellow that Tremblay can't en- 
 dure it. But I fancy he has misjudged Isadore, 
 and he is beginning to see it. He would be 
 glad." 
 
 I did n't pretend to decide whether my wife 
 was right, nor do I now; but this is what 
 happened. One day I came out on the piazza 
 to find the two, Xavier and Susan, talking ear- 
 nestly. He gave me a nod, saying, " Madame 
 does not approve of me, M'sieu' ; she thinks I 
 marry quite too young a wife." 
 
 "I am of Madame's opinion," said I. 
 
 Old Xavier looked at Susan's pretty, flushed 
 cheeks not unkindly. " I care not for the 
 people here," he said, " they are imbeciles, 
 they ; but her I find different. I wish to make 
 myself understood. Look you, I want no wife ; 
 but they have made a mock of me in this 
 parish. None shall make a mock of Xavier 
 Tremblay. I say, ' Oway, I am old, I am ugly, 
 all the same, bon gre, mal gre, I can marry a 
 girl of twenty. I swear I will not go into my 
 new house before.' Eh bien, the time goes on. 
 I see a maiden of twenty, not beautiful, stupid. 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 35 
 
 but good, amiable. She has but one eye. Her 
 people are unkind to her, often I see her weep. 
 I have compassion ; I am ugly, myself, Madame, 
 and in my youth I knew what it was to weep. 
 I think she will have a pleasanter life with old 
 Tremblay. I speak kindly to her. We ar- 
 range it; she is not difficult. But she fell 
 into the river and was drowned. Then goes a 
 long time. Melanie Guion has grown up. She 
 pleases me, I think ; the mother gave me the 
 key of the fields. Good, I will marry the 
 daughter. I will show these beasts that Xa- 
 vier Tremblay can do what he pleases. But 
 Madame can tell Melanie that I will not be 
 troublesome to her, and when I am dead she 
 may marry Isadore ; he can drive." 
 
 " You have shown that you can do as you 
 please, Monsieur," said Susan: "to marry Me- 
 lanie will not show it any more ; all the world 
 knows that she has promised." 
 
 " But my vow, Madame, and my new house, 
 I tire of living in my old house, c'est bien 
 ennuyant." 
 
 There was our sticking, his preposterous old 
 new house. He could not endure its standing 
 reminder of his unfulfilled vow ; the very sight 
 of the walls which he might not enter chafed 
 his vanity ; to live in it had grown to be a 
 corroding ambition, and the day whereon he 
 
36 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 should step across those mi completed, yet half 
 ruined thresholds appeared to his imagination 
 as the climax of his life. We asked too much, 
 asking him to give up such visions. 
 
 All this while, Isadore was haunting the 
 hotel, waiting with forlorn patience for a word 
 or look from me. I repeated his uncle's words 
 to him, whereupon he frowned darkly, and in- 
 formed me that he longed to kill the old man ; 
 a confidence which disturbed me little, since I 
 had my own opinion of Isadore's resolution. 
 
 By this time I was decidedly uncomfortable, 
 myself. The way Isadore morally flopped over 
 on me, as it were, had a subtle tinge of irrita- 
 tion in its helplessness. Why could not the 
 fellow lift a hand for himself? and the villagers 
 w^ere worse. They maintained a maddening 
 confidence in my astuteness. When the no- 
 tary assured me that " the old fox " (meaning 
 Tremblay) had met his match (meaning me), 
 and Madame Pingat, the postmistress, gave me 
 expressions of faith with my letters, and the 
 blacksmith, winking very pleasantly, told me 
 that he could guess what I was after, talking 
 with old Xavier, I felt like swearing; and 
 when Madame Vernet, who kept a " general 
 shop," sold me a tea-kettle for a coffee-pot (one 
 boiled quite as well as the other, she said, and 
 the habitants used them indiscriminately) and 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 37 
 
 asked me if I did n't think it time to do some- 
 thing decisive, I went out and kicked an un- 
 offending dog. Pretty soon, I felt that we 
 should have to fly the country. Like Susan, I 
 now rested my slender hope on getting out of 
 the mess with credit upon old Xavier, and I 
 was glad when an opportunity presented for 
 another appeal. Isadore was to drive me to 
 Lake Kavel for a day of trout fishing ; but the 
 evening previous he appeared with his arm in 
 a sling. He had sprained his right wrist and 
 offered his uncle's services in his stead, saying 
 that the latter had a better horse than Chaiiay. 
 So old Xavier took me to the lake. There I 
 praised Isadore in French and English. 
 
 "You love 'im," said the old ogre, blinking 
 at me with his keen eyes, " mais moi, me tink 
 'im vaurien ; can mek wiz ze 'orse, notings of 
 morre, non. Bah, for wy he laisse me tek 'is 
 amie avays ? " From which I gathered that he 
 did not regard Isadore as a young man of 
 spirit. In fact, I did n't think much of my 
 habitant's spirit myself, but I had a suspicion 
 that he wanted to be contradicted, that long 
 silent instincts of blood were roused and speak- 
 ing; perhaps, too, some faint emotions of com- 
 passion for the girl who had been fond of him 
 as a child. 
 
 " Chut," he muttered, relapsing into his own 
 
38 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 tongue, " I will not be troublesome to Melanie. 
 It is a good little girl. I should have been her 
 father, I; I have thought that always." 
 
 "Make her your niece, then," said I, "that's 
 next best." 
 
 " And never go into my new house ? Mais 
 non, ca ne va pas ! " 
 
 There we stuck fast again. Briefly, I made 
 another failure, and by the time evening came 
 and we were in sight of the village I was de- 
 cidedly out of temper. The first thing I no- 
 ticed put my chagrin to flight. Little crowds 
 of people going homewards gazed at us curi- 
 ously, until, suddenly, Xavier shook his whip 
 handle at a broken, lazy cloud of smoke and 
 urged his horse into a gallop. Reason enough ! 
 the smoke was rising from the ruins of his 
 " new house." A sorry sight they made ; 
 heaps of blackened and crumbling stone which 
 had been walls, charred skeletons of joists, and 
 distorted shapes of tin or iron showed the fierce 
 power of the fire. Jets of flame were still 
 playing with the remnants of window frames, 
 and puffs of black smoke rose only to sink 
 again and drift forlornly above the wreck. 
 Men with buckets and blankets, women hold- 
 ing babies in their arms, and a crowd of chil- 
 dren stood around talking shrilly. A kind of 
 hush fell on the chatter as we drove up. 
 
 o 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 39 
 
 Everybody stared at old Xavier. His iron 
 composure gave no clew to his feelings. "My 
 stable," said old Xavier, " what of the horses?" 
 A medley of voices explained that Isadore had 
 saved the horses. If we were to believe the 
 women, he had been a prodigy of valor. Xa- 
 vier listened with his smirk that was uglier 
 than a frown. " Where then is he, this brave 
 fellow?" said he. Half a dozen boys started 
 after Isadore. 
 
 I did not wait for his arrival. Seeing Susan 
 standing a little to one side, I joined her. She 
 told me about the fire. It seems that a party 
 of tourists, coming and going by the morning's 
 boat, had been shown through the village by 
 Isadore and little Antoine Vernet. The gen- 
 tlemen, who had somehow heard of old Xavier, 
 expressed a curiosity to go into his house. 
 They pulled the boards off a window and 
 climbed in and roamed over the house. They 
 were smoking, and there was a quantity of dry 
 wood and shavings about. Little Antoine said 
 that Isadore asked them to put out their cigars 
 lest a spark should set these afire ; but they 
 did not appear to understand him. After they 
 were gone, almost three hours, the fire broke 
 out. The whole house seemed to flash into a 
 blaze at once. When Isadore, brought back 
 from the pier, arrived, it was all that he could 
 
40 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 do to save the horses in the stable and the old 
 house. 
 
 As Susan spoke, I saw Isadore and his uncle 
 approaching, and, at the same moment, from 
 the opposite direction, the widow Guion and 
 Melanie. Isadore's expression was completely 
 concealed by streaks of smut, his dress was 
 torn, and his hair disordered. Old Xavier was 
 grinning. To them marched Madame Guion, 
 dragging Melanie after her. She did not so 
 much as glance at us. Then I saw that she 
 was livid with passion. " M'sieu," said she, in 
 a voice hardly above a whisper, but holding the 
 energy of a thunderbolt, " will you know who 
 set fire to your new house ? " 
 
 " Without doubt, Madame," replied Trem- 
 blay ; and he stopped grinning. 
 
 The woman thrust out a long forefinger as 
 she might have thrust a knife, crying, " Behold 
 him ! " 
 
 It was at Isadore that she stabbed with her 
 hand, the finger tapping his breast. .He re- 
 coiled, but answered boldly enough, " Madame, 
 I do not understand." 
 
 "Comment?" said Xavier between his teeth. 
 
 " Oway, it is thou, Isadore Clovis," said Ma- 
 dame Guion, always in the same suppressed, 
 vibrating tones, " that burned thy uncle's new 
 house ; I saw it, I, with these eyes. I tell it to 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 41 
 
 him and to these Americans, who think that I 
 should have given my daughter to thee ! " 
 
 M^lanie threw a piteous glance around. 
 " Wait, maman," she begged, ^' he will ex- 
 plain ! " 
 
 " Peste," growled old Xavier, " what have 
 we here? Speak, Madame, you. Tell what 
 you have seen." 
 
 The widow released her daughter's hand to 
 have both her own free for dramatic action ; 
 she spoke rapidly, even fiercely. 
 
 " Behold, then, M'sieu' ; I go, this morning, 
 to buy a pair of boots for Jules, and I pass your 
 new house. A window has the board hanging 
 by the one nail. It is natural, is it not ? I, a 
 mother, wish to view the house where my 
 daughter shall live. So I look in. Behold Is- 
 adore, your nephew, in the room. He splits 
 boxes to pieces, chop ! chop ! with both arms, 
 view you, he that pretends an arm in a sling. 
 Then he goes out. I cannot see him, but I 
 hear chop ! chop ! again. Then he comes back ; 
 he has, what think you ? a kerosene can in his 
 hands. He goes through the room. He does 
 not come back. Then I go away. I think, 
 ' What makes he there ? ' I cannot compre- 
 hend. A long time passes. It arrives that I 
 hear them crying the alarm. Your house 
 burns, M'sieu' ! I run quickly. I am there 
 
42 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 among the first. They break down the door 
 but the fire jumps out, ponf ! m their faces. 
 I run to my window ; there, in the room, is the 
 pile of wood blazing — so high!" lifting her 
 arms. " So was it in every room. He had 
 made piles and poured on the kerosene. I have 
 a nose, I ; I could smell it ! Now, will he deny 
 it, le scelerat ? " 
 
 I suppose we all looked at Isadore. M^lanie 
 clasped her hands and took a step towards him. 
 Old Xavier gave his nephew a front view of a 
 tolerably black scowl. " Eh bien, my nephew," 
 said he, " what sayst thou?^'' 
 
 Isadore's sooty face could not show a change 
 of color, but in his stiffening muscles, the 
 straightened arms, and clinched fists one could 
 see that he was pulling himself together. From 
 childhood he had been taught to fear the old 
 man before him, and those whom we fear in our 
 childhood, we seldom can defy with unbiased 
 calmness in later years; there is apt to be a 
 speck of assertion about our very revolt. A 
 sort of desperate hardihood was visible in Isa- 
 dore's bearing, now, as he frowned back at his 
 uncle. " Oway, mon oncle," said he, in a stri- 
 dent tone, " oway, I burned your accursed 
 house. Send me to prison. Meme chose." 
 
 M^lanie uttered a low moan and covered her 
 face. 
 
 o 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 43 
 
 " Come, mon enfant," said the widow gently, 
 "thou seest now." She would have put her 
 arm about the girl, but Melanie pushed it aside, 
 ran straight to Isadore, and caught him around 
 his neck with both her arms. She was taller 
 than he, so she drew his head to her breast in- 
 stead of resting hers upon him. 
 
 Old Xavier looked on, motionless. " Bon," 
 he said, " why did you do it ? " 
 
 Isadore lifted his head. " Why ?" repeated 
 he ; '* have I the heart of a mouse to see you 
 take Melanie away from me and do nothing ? 
 It was to live in the house that you would 
 marry her. If the house were burned, it might 
 be that you would build another and live in 
 it without a wife. Et puis — I burned the 
 house." 
 
 " And thy arm ? Was it hurt ? " 
 
 " No," answered the young fellow sullenly, 
 yet boldly, " I said it to get you away from 
 home." 
 
 " And the gentlemen from the boat ? " 
 
 " Some one must bear the blame. They 
 were smoking. I spoke before Antoine that he 
 might remember. They would not know them- 
 selves if they set it afire. There were the shav- 
 ings and the wood. When they were gone I 
 came back and made the piles and set them 
 afire, so that the house should be all afire inside 
 before it would show outside." 
 
44 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 Old Xavier smote his thigh with his hand 
 and burst into a peal of harsh laughter; I 
 thought that he had lost his wits ; but no, the 
 strange old creature simply was tickled by his 
 nephew's deviltry. " And I called him un 
 vrai bleche," he muttered. " Madame, you 
 were right, it is a lad of spirit after all. He 
 has been sharp enough to make a fool of Xavier 
 Tremblay, and of you, too, M'sieu'." 
 
 There was no denying it, he had, and as I 
 looked at him, I marveled how I could be so 
 blind; these nervous, irrational, feminine tem- 
 peraments, driven to bay, always fight like rats 
 — desperately. With nothing to lose, Isadora 
 looked his uncle in the eye and smiled. A 
 grim and slow smile lighted up the other's 
 rough features like a reflection ; for the first 
 time one could trace a resemblance between the 
 two men. 
 
 " Come, Madame," said Xavier, turning to 
 my wife, " what say you ? " 
 
 " This, Monsieur," replied Susan, who alone 
 of us took the old man's mood for what it was 
 worth : " he proves himself your own nephew, 
 since he can cheat you. You don't want the 
 girl, you don't want the house ; you have 
 shown that you could do what you please. 
 Give Melanie to Isadore, and we will see that 
 he pays you for the house." 
 
 o 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY, 45 
 
 I saw that Susan meant to get the price of 
 that picture. 
 
 "Non," cried Madame Guion, "I will not 
 have it so ! " On his part old Xavier actually- 
 made a sort of bow to my wife, saying : " Ma- 
 dame, I thank you, but I am rich enough to 
 give my nephew the house. As for the other 
 — Madame shall see." 
 
 " I say, though, the insurance companies " — 
 This humble and uncompleted sentence was 
 started by the writer, but got no further be- 
 cause of a slim hand over his mouth and a 
 sweet but peremptory voice in his ear : " Hush, 
 Maurice, don't you spoil things ! " 
 
 So I was mute and looked at Madame Guion. 
 Her face was a study for a tragedy. I got it 
 only in profile, for Tremblay had taken her 
 aside and was whispering to her. She grew 
 more and more agitated, while he seemed in a 
 rude way to be trying to soothe her. The two 
 lovers clung to each other, perhaps feeling their 
 mutual love the only solid thing in the'^torm. 
 By this time the loiterers about the ruins had 
 observed us and gradually drawn nearer, until 
 a circle of amiable and interested eyes watched 
 our motions. " My neighbors," said old Xavier, 
 " approach, I have something to say to you." 
 Upon this there was a narrowing of the circle, 
 accompanied by the emerging of a number of 
 
46 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 small children, whose feet twinkled in the air 
 as they fled, to return, I felt certain, with ab- 
 sent relatives. " Neighbors," said the village 
 ogre, in his strong, harsh voice, " attendez ; 
 you know that I vowed never to go into my 
 new house until I should marry a maiden of 
 twenty. I chose Melanie Guion. She prom- 
 ised to marry me. Is it not so, Melanie ? " 
 
 " Oway, M'sieu','' said Melanie, in a trem- 
 bling voice. 
 
 " And are you ready, now, to keep your 
 promise ? " 
 
 " Oway, M'sieu','' the girl said again, though 
 her voice was fainter and she turned exceed- 
 ingly pale. 
 
 Old Xavier rolled his eyes over the crowd in 
 sardonic triumph. *' Eh bien, my neighbors," 
 said he, " you hear. I have shown you that I 
 can marry the best, like a young man. Now I 
 will show you something else. An old man 
 who marries a young wife is a fool, n'est ce pas, 
 Emile Badeau ? " 
 
 The unhappy Emile shook his fists in help- 
 less rage, while his neighbors shrugged their 
 shoulders, Badeau's connubial trials being a 
 matter of public interest, like everybody else's 
 so called private affairs, in St. Alphonse. 
 
 " Eh bien," continued the ogre, '' I am not 
 that fool. Why should I marry now ? To go 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 47 
 
 into my new house ? View it ! If I build me 
 another, I need no wife to let me enter it. 
 And I want peace in my old age. Alors, 
 Ma'm'selle, merci. But since I take away 
 your husband, I give you one in my place. 
 Isadore, my nephew, make Melanie my niece 
 instead of my wife. But take care, you will 
 find her harder to drive than Bac ! " 
 
 Isadore was like a man struck by lightning. 
 His eyes glared, his knees shook, he gasped for 
 breath. But Melanie did the best thing possi- 
 ble ; she ran to the old man and kissed him. 
 
 "Non, non," she sobbed, "pas mon oncle, 
 mon pere ! " 
 
 Doubtless no one had kissed him since 
 Melanie herself was a child. He looked at 
 her with a curious expression, almost gentle. 
 " Oway, mon enfant," he said ; and there was 
 even a rough dignity in his bearing as he en- 
 circled her waist with his arm and turned to 
 the crowd. " And now, my neighbors, do you 
 hold me free from my vow ? " 
 
 The villagers returned a shrill French cheer, 
 some of them wept, and the more enterprising 
 embraced me and overwhelmed Susan with a 
 din of compliments. Only the widow Guion 
 maintained a stern and bewildered silence. A 
 bitterly disappointed woman, she was turning 
 to go her way, when Melanie ran to her. 
 
48 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 " Wilt thou not forgive me, maman ? " cried 
 she, weeping and kissing the wrinkled brown 
 cheeks, " I shall be so happy ! " 
 
 " Chut ! It is not thou that I blame," said 
 the widow, " but he is a slight creature. Bah, 
 what use ? It was the will of God. But at 
 least, thou wilt be rich, he has said it ! " 
 
 Then she directed a long glance of fierce 
 interrogation at me. " You may trust us, 
 Madame," I said. 
 
 " Cela se comprend," answered she inclining 
 her head towards Susan, " A'vair, Madame." 
 
 I am ashamed to confess that I received the 
 applause of the parish quite as though I de- 
 served it. On our departure, a week later, 
 they displayed the flag at the hotel and fired 
 off an ancient cannon, and all the inhabitants 
 who were not congregated about the cannon 
 assembled on the pier, including Isadore (who 
 wept profusely), Melanie, and old Xavier him- 
 self. Every man, woman, and child cheered 
 with enthusiasm. Barring our fears that the 
 cannon might explode, it was a proud moment, 
 especially when we overheard the following 
 conversation between two of our countrymen. 
 
 " What are they making all this row 
 about ? " 
 
 " Don't you know ? See that lady and gen- 
 tleman? — they're Lord and Lady Lansdowne, 
 just been making a visit." 
 
THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 49 
 
 At present, Susan and I are home in New- 
 York. I took the pains to inquire about the 
 insurance and was relieved to find that there 
 was none on the house, old Xavier having once 
 been cheated by an insurance agent, and being 
 the mortal foe of insurance companies, in conse- 
 quence. Susan said she did n't think that it 
 mattered, anyhow. The best of women have 
 queer notions of public morality. Susan sent 
 Melanie a great box of wedding finery. In 
 response, we have received a long letter. Ma- 
 dame Guion's eyes were cured a month ago. 
 She is still opposed to the marriage, but Isa- 
 dora hopes everything from time. Old Xavier 
 is well and building him a new house. 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 
 
 The Bishop was walking down the wide 
 Aiken street. He was the only Bishop in 
 Aiken, and they made much of him, accord- 
 ingly, though his diocese was in the West, 
 which of course was a drawback. 
 
 He was a tall man, with a handsome, kind 
 face under his shovel hat ; portly, as a bishop 
 should be, and having a twinkle of humor in 
 his eye. He dressed well and soberly, in the 
 decorous habiliments of his office. " So Eng- 
 lish," the young ladies of the Highland Park 
 Hotel used to whisper to each other, admiring 
 him. Perhaps this is the time to mention that 
 the Bishop was a widower. 
 
 To-day he walked at a gentle pace, repeat- 
 edly lifting his hat in answer to a multitude of 
 salutations ; for it was a bright April day, and 
 the street was thronged. There was the half- 
 humorous incongruity between the people and 
 the place always visible in a place where two 
 thirds of the population are a mere pleasant- 
 weather growth, dependent on the climate. 
 Groups of Northerners stood in the red and 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 61 
 
 blue and green door-ways of the gay little shops, 
 or sauntered past them ; easily distinguished 
 by their clothing and their air of unaccustomed 
 and dissatisfied languor. One could pick out 
 at a glance the new-comers just up from Flor- 
 ida ; they were so decorated with alligator- 
 tooth jewelry, and gazed so contemptuously at 
 the oranges and bananas in the windows. The 
 native Southerners were equally conspicuous, 
 in the case of the men, from their careless dress 
 and placid demeanor. A plentiful sprinkling 
 of black and yellow skins added to the pictur- 
 esque character of the scene. Over it all hung 
 a certain holiday air, the reason for which one 
 presently detected to be an almost universal 
 wearing of flowers, — bunches of roses, clusters 
 of violets or trailing arbutus, or twigs of yellow 
 jasmine ; while barefooted boys, with dusky 
 faces and gleaming teeth, proffered nosegays 
 at every corner. The Aiken nosegay has this 
 peculiarity, — the flowers are wedged together 
 with unexampled tightness. Truly enough 
 may the little venders boast, " Dey 's orful lots 
 o' roses in dem, mister ; you '11 fin' w'en you 
 onties 'em." No one of the pedestrians ap- 
 peared to be in a hurry ; and under all the hol- 
 iday air of flowers there was a pathetic dispro- 
 portion of pale and weary faces. 
 
 But if they did not hurry on the sidewalk, 
 
62 KNITTERS IN THE SUN 
 
 there was plenty of motion in the street ; 
 horses in Aiken being always urged to their 
 full speed, — which, to be sure, is not alarming. 
 Now, carriages were whirling by and riders gal- 
 loping in both directions. The riders were of 
 every age, sex, and condition : pretty girls in 
 jaunty riding habits, young men with polo mal- 
 lets, old men and children, and grinning ne- 
 groes lashing their sorry hacks with twigs. Of 
 the carriages, it would be hard to tell which 
 was the more noticeable, the smartness of the 
 vehicles, or the jaded depression of the thin 
 beasts that pulled them. Where Park and 
 Ashland Avenues meet at right angles the 
 crowd was most dense. There, on one side, 
 one sees the neat little post-office and the pho- 
 tographer's gallery, and off in the distance the 
 white pine towers of the hotel, rising out of its 
 green hills ; on the other, the long street slowly 
 climbs the hill, through shops and square white 
 houses with green blinds, set back in luxuriant 
 gardens. At this corner two persons were 
 standing, a young man and a young woman, 
 both watching the Bishop. The young woman 
 was tall, handsome, and — always an attraction 
 in Aiken — evidently not an invalid. The 
 erect grace of her slim figure, the soft and vary- 
 ing color on her cheek, the light in her beauti- 
 ful brown eyes, — all were the unmistakable 
 
 o 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 53 
 
 signs of health. The young man was a good- 
 looking little fellow, perfectly dressed, and hav- 
 ing an expression of indolent amusement on his 
 delicate features. He had light yellow hair, 
 cut closely enough to show the fine outline of 
 his head, a slight mustache waxed at the ends, 
 and a very fair complexion. 
 
 The young woman was speaking. " Do you 
 see to whom my father is talking, Mr. Tal- 
 boys? " said she. 
 
 " Plainly, he has picked up his vagabond." 
 "Demming? Yes, it ^s Demming." 
 "Now I wonder, do you know," said the 
 young man, " what induces the Bishop to waste 
 his time on such hopeless moral trash as that." 
 He spoke in a pleasant, slow voice with an 
 English accent. 
 
 " It is n't hopeless to him, I suppose," she 
 answered. Her voice also was slow, and it was 
 singularly sweet. 
 
 *'I think- it must be his sense of humor," he 
 continued. " The Bishop loves a joke, and 
 Demming is a droll fellow. He is a sort of 
 grim joke himself, you know, a high-toned gen- 
 tleman who lives by begging. He brings his 
 bag to the hotels every day. Of course you 
 have heard him talk, Miss Louise. His strong 
 card is his wife. ' Th' ole 'ooman 's nigh blin',' " 
 — here Talboys gave a very good imitation of 
 
64 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 the South Carolina local drawl — "'an' she's 
 been so tenderly raised she cyan't live 'thout 
 cyoffee three times a day ! ' " 
 
 " I have heard that identical speech," said 
 Louise, smiling as Talboys knew she would 
 smile over the imitation. " He gets a good deal 
 from the Northerners, I fancy." 
 
 " Enough to enable him to be a pillar of the 
 saloons," said Talboys. " He is a lavish soul, 
 and treats the crowd when he prospers in his 
 profession. Once his money gave out before 
 the crowd's thirst. ' Never min', gen'lemen,' 
 says our friend, ' res' easy. I see the Bishop 
 agwine up the street ; I '11 git a dollar from 
 him. Yes, wait ; I won't be gwine long.' " 
 
 "And he got the money? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. I believe he got it to buy quinine 
 for ' th' ole 'ooman,' who was down with the 
 break-bone fever. He is like Yorick, ' a fellow 
 of infinite jest' — in the way of lying. He 
 talks well, too. You ought to hear him dis- 
 course on politics. As he gets most of his rev- 
 enue from the North, he is kind enough to 
 express the friendliest sentiments. ' I wuz op- 
 posed to the wah's bein' ' is his standard speech, 
 ' an' now I 'm opposed to its continnerin'.' For 
 all that, he was a mild kind of Ku-Klux." 
 
 "He did it for money, he says," returned 
 Louise. " The funniest thing about him is 
 
 o 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 55 
 
 his absolute frankness after he is found out 
 in any trick. He doesn't seem to have any 
 sense of shame, and will fairly chuckle in my 
 father's face as he is owning up to some piece of 
 roguery." 
 
 " You know he was in the Confederate army. 
 Fought well, too, I 'm told. What does he do 
 when the Northerners are gone ? Aiken must 
 be a pretty bare begging ground." 
 
 " Oh, he has a wretched little cabin out in 
 the woods," said Louise, " and a sweet-potato 
 patch. He raises sweet-potatoes and persim- 
 
 mons " 
 
 " And pigs," Talboys interrupted. " I saw 
 some particularly lean swine grubbing about 
 in the sand for snakes. They feed on snakes, 
 in the pine barrens, you know, which serves 
 two purposes : kills the snakes and fills the 
 pigs. Entertainment for man and beast, don't 
 you see ? By the way, talking of being enter- 
 tained, I know of a fine old Southern manor- 
 house over the bridge." 
 
 Louise shook her head incredulously. " I 
 have lost faith in Southern manor-houses. Ever 
 since I came South I have sought them vainly. 
 All the way from Atlanta I risked my life, 
 putting my head out of the car windows, to see 
 the plantations. At every scrubby-looking 
 little station we passed, the conductor would 
 
56 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 say, ' Mighty nice people live heah ; great deal 
 of wealth heah before the wah ! ' Then I 
 would recklessly put my head out. I expected 
 to see the real Southern mansions of the novel- 
 ists, with enormous piazzas and Corinthian 
 pillars and beautiful avenues ; and the white- 
 washed cabins of the negroes in the middle 
 distance ; and the planter, in a white linen suit 
 and a wide straw hat, sitting on the piazza 
 drinking mint juleps. Well, I don't really 
 think I expected the planter, but I did hope 
 for the house. Nothing of the kind. All I 
 saw was a moderate-sized square house, with 
 piazzas and a flat roof, all sadly in need of 
 paint. Now, I 'm like Betsey Prig ; ' I don't 
 believe there 's no sich person.' It 's a myth, 
 like the good old Southern cooking." 
 
 " Oh, they do exist," said Talboys, his eyes 
 brightening over this long speech, delivered in 
 the softest voice in the world. " There are 
 houses in Charleston and Beaufort and on the 
 Lower Mississippi that suggest the novels ; but, 
 on the whole, I think the novelists have played 
 us false. We expect to find the ruins of luxury 
 and splendor and all that sort of thing in the 
 South ; but in point of fact there was very 
 little luxury about Southern life. They had 
 plenty of service, such as it was, and plenty of 
 horses, and that was about all; their other 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 57 
 
 household arrangements were painfully primi- 
 tive. All the same, sha'n't we go over the 
 bridge ? " 
 
 Louise assented, and they turned and went 
 their way in the opposite direction. 
 
 Meanwhile, the Bishop and his vagabond 
 were talking earnestly. The vagabond seemed 
 to belong to the class known as "crackers." 
 Poverty, sickness, and laziness were written in 
 every flatter of his rags, in every uncouth curve 
 or angle of his long, gaunt figure and sallow 
 face. A mass of unkempt iron-gray hair fell 
 about his sharp features, further hidden by a 
 grizzly beard. His black frock coat had once 
 adorned the distinguished and ample person of 
 a Northern senator ; it wrinkled dismally about 
 Demming's bones, while its soiled gentility was 
 a queer contrast to his nether garments of rag- 
 ged butternut, his coarse boots, and an utterly 
 disreputable hat, through a hole of which a tuft 
 of hair had made its way, and waved plume- 
 wise in the wind. Around the hat was wound 
 a strip of rusty crape. The Bishop quickly no- 
 ticed this woeful addition to the man's garb. 
 He asked the reason. 
 
 " She 's done gone, Bishop," answered Dem- 
 ming, winking his eyes hard before rubbing 
 them with a grimy knuckle ; " th' ole 'ooman 's 
 done leff' me 'lone in the worl'. It 's an orful 
 
58 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 'fliction ! " He made so pitiful a figure, stand- 
 ing there in the sandy road, the wind fluttering 
 his poor token of mourning, that the Bishop's 
 kind heart was stirred. 
 
 " I am trul}^ sorr}^, Demming," said he. 
 " Is n't this very sudden ? " 
 
 "Laws, yes, Bishop, powerful suddint an' 
 onprecedented. 'Pears 's if I cud n't git myself 
 to b'lieve it, nohow. Yes'day ev'nin' she wuz 
 peart 's evah, out pickin' pine buds ; an' this 
 mahnin' she woked me up, an' says she, ' I 
 reckon you 'd better fix the cyoffee yo'self , 
 Demming, I feel so cu'se,' says she. An' so I 
 did ; an' when I come to gin it ter her, oh, 
 oh Lordy, Lordy ! — 'scuse me. Bishop, — she 
 wuz cole an' dead ! Doctor cud n't do nuthin', 
 w'en I fotch 'im. Rheutmatchism o' th' heart, 
 be says.. It wuz turrible suddint, onyhow. 
 'Minded me o' them thar games with the thim- 
 ble, ye know. Bishop, — now ye see it, an' 
 now ye don' ; yes, 's quick 's thet ! " 
 
 The Bishop opened his eyes at the compari- 
 son ; but Demming had turned away, with a 
 quivering lip, to bury his face in his hands, 
 and the Bishop was reproached for his criticism 
 of the other's naif phraseology. Now, to be 
 frank, he had approached Demming prepared 
 to show severity, rather than s^nnpathy, be- 
 cause of the cracker's last flagrant wrong-do- 
 
 o 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 59 
 
 ing; but his indignation, righteous though it 
 "was, took flight before grief. Forgetting judg- 
 ment in mercy, he proffered all the consolations 
 he could summon, spiritual and material, and 
 ended by asking Demming if he had made any 
 preparations for the funeral. 
 
 " Thet thar 's w'at I 'm yere for," replied the 
 man mournfully. " You know jes how I 'm 
 fixed. Cyoffins cost a heap; an' then thar 's 
 the shroud, an' I ain't got no reg'lar fun'al 
 cloze, an' 'pears 's ef 't 'ud be a conserlation t' 
 have a kerridge or two. She wuz a bawn lady, 
 Bishop ; we 're kin ter some o' the real aris- 
 tookracy o' Carolina, — we air, fur a fac' ; an 
 I 'd kin' o' like ter hev her ride ter own fun'al, 
 onyhow." 
 
 " Then you will need money ? " 
 
 "Not frum you. Bishop, not a red cent; but 
 if you uns over thar," jerking his thumb in the 
 direction of the white pine towers, — *' if you 
 all 'd kin' o' gin me a small sum, an' ef you 'd 
 jes start a paper, as 't were, an' al-so ef you 
 yo'self 'ud hev the gret kin'ness ter come out 
 an' conduc' the fun'al obskesies, it 'ud gratify 
 the co'pse powerful. Mistress Demming '11 be 
 entered ^ then like a bawn lady. Yes, sir, thet 
 thar, an' no mo', 's w'at I 'm emboldened ter ax 
 frum you." 
 
 1 It is supposed that Mr. Demming intended to say " in- 
 terred." 
 
60 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 The Bishop reflected. " Demming," said he 
 gravely, " I will try to help you. You have no 
 objection, I suppose, to our buying the cofl&n 
 and other things needed. We will pay the 
 bills." 
 
 Demming's dejected bearing grew a shade 
 more sombre : he waved his hand, a gesture 
 very common with him, and usually denoting 
 affable approval ; now it meant gloomy assent. 
 " No objection 't all. Bishop," he said. " I 
 knows my weakness, though I don' feel now 
 like I 'd evah want ter go on no carousements 
 no mo'. I 'm 'bliged ter you uns jes the same. 
 An' you won't forget 'bout the cloze ? I 've 
 been a right good f rien' to th' Norf in Aiken, 
 an' I hope the Norf '11 stan' by me in the hour 
 o' trubbel. Now, Bishop, I '11 be gwine 'long. 
 You '11 fin' me at the cyoffin sto'. Mose Barn- 
 well — he 's a mighty decent cullud man — lives 
 nigh me ; he 's gwine fur ter len' me his cyart 
 ter tek the cyoffin home. Mahnin', Bishop, an' 
 min', I don' want money outen you. No, sir, I 
 do not ! " 
 
 Then, waving his hand at his hat, the cracker 
 slouched away. The Bishop had a busy morn- 
 ing. He went from friend to friend, until the 
 needed sum was collected. Nor did money sat- 
 isfy him : he gathered together a suit of clothes 
 from the tallest Northerners of benevolent iui- 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 61 
 
 pulses. Talboys was too short to be a donor of 
 clothes, but he gave more money than all the 
 others united, — a munificence that rebuked 
 the Bishop, for he had sought the young Bos- 
 ton man last of all and reluctantly ; somehow, 
 he could not feel acquainted with him, notwith- 
 standing many meetings in many places. More- 
 over, he held him in slight esteem, as an idle 
 fellow who did little good with a great fortune. 
 In his gratitude he became expansive : told Tal- 
 boys about his acquaintance with the cracker, 
 described his experiences and perplexities, and 
 at last invited the young man to go to the fu- 
 neral, the next day. Talboys was delighted to 
 accept the invitation ; yet it could not be said 
 that he was often delighted. But he admired 
 the Bishop, and, even more warmly, he admired 
 the Bishop's daughter ; hence he caught at any 
 opportunity to show his friendliness. Martin 
 Talboys was never enthusiastic, and at times 
 his views of life might be called cynical ; but it 
 would be a mistake to infer, therefore, that, as 
 is common enough, he, having a mean opinion 
 of other people, struck a balance with a very 
 high one of himself. In truth, Martin was too 
 modest for his own peace of mind. For years 
 he had contrived to meet Louise, by accident, 
 almost everywhere she went. She traveled a 
 good deal, and her image was relieved against 
 
62 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 a variety of backgrounds. It seemed to him 
 fairer in each new picture. His love for the 
 Bishop's daughter grew more and more absorb- 
 ing ; but at the same time he became less and 
 less sanguine that she would ever care for him. 
 Although he was not enthusiastic, he was quite 
 capable of feeling deeply ; and he had begun to 
 suspect that he was capable of suffering. Yet 
 he could not force himself to decide his fate by 
 speaking. It was not that Louise disliked him : 
 on the contrary, she avowed a sincere liking ; 
 she always hailed his coming with pleasure, 
 telling him frankly that no one amused her as 
 did he. There, alas, was the hopeless part of 
 it ; he used to say bitterly to himself that he 
 was n't a man, a lover, to her ; he was a mimic, 
 a genteel clown, an errand boy, never out of 
 temper with his work ; in short, she did not 
 take him seriously at all. He knew the man- 
 ner of man she did take seriously, — a man of 
 action, who had done something in the world. 
 Once she told Talboys that he was a " capital 
 observer." She made the remark as a compli- 
 ment, but it stung him to the quick ; he real- 
 ized that she thought of him only as an ob- 
 server. "When a trifling but obstinate throat 
 complaint brought the Bishop to Aiken, Tal- 
 boys felt a great longing to win his approval. 
 Surely, Louise, who judged all men by her fa- 
 
 o 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 63 
 
 ther's standard, must be influenced by her fa- 
 ther's favor. Unhappily, the Bishop had never, 
 as the phrase goes, " taken " to Talboys, nor 
 did he seem more inclined to take to him now, 
 and Martin was too modest to persist in unwel- 
 come attentions. But he greeted the present 
 opportunity all the more warmly. 
 
 In the morning, the three — the Bishop, 
 Louise, and Talboys — drove to the cracker's 
 cabin. The day was perfect, one of those Ai- 
 ken days, so fair that even invalids find no com- 
 plaint in their wearisome list to bring against 
 them and can but sigh over each, " Ah, if all 
 days might only be like this ! " Hardly a cloud, 
 marred the tender blue of the sky. The air 
 was divinely soft. They drove through the 
 woods, and the ground was carpeted with dry 
 pine spikes, whereon their horses' hoofs made a 
 dull and pleasant sound. A multitude of vio- 
 lets grew in the little spaces among the trees. 
 Yellow jasmine flecked the roadside shade with 
 gold, its fragrance blending with the keen odors 
 of the pine. If they looked up, they saw the 
 pine tops etched upon the sky, and a solemn, 
 ceaseless murmur beat its organ-like waves 
 through all their talk. The Bishop had put 
 on his clerical robes : he sat on the back seat 
 of the carriage, a superb figure, with his noble 
 head and imposing mien. As they rolled along, 
 
64 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 the Bishop talked. He spoke of death. He 
 spoke not as a priest, but as a man, dwelling on 
 the mystery of death, bringing up those specu- 
 lations with which from the beginning men 
 have striven to light the eternal darkness. 
 
 " I suppose it is the mystery," said the 
 Bishop, *' which causes the unreality of death, 
 its perpetual surprise. Now, behind my cer- 
 tainty of this poor woman's death I have a lurk- 
 ing expectation of seeing her standing in the 
 doorway, her old clay pipe in her mouth. I 
 can't help it." 
 
 " Though she was a ' bawn lady,' she smoked, 
 did she ? " said Talboys. Then he felt the re- 
 mark to be hopelessly below the level of the 
 conversation, and made haste to add, " I sup- 
 pose it was a consolation to her ; she had a 
 pretty hard life, I fancy." 
 
 " Awfully," said Louise. " She was nearly 
 blind, poor woman, yet I think she did what- 
 ever work was done. I have often seen her 
 hoeing. I believe that Demming was always 
 good to her, though. He is a most amiable 
 creature." 
 
 "Singular how a woman will bear any 
 amount of laziness, actual worthlessness, in- 
 deed, in a man who is good to her," the Bishop 
 remarked. 
 
 " Beautiful trait in her character," said Tal- 
 boys. " Where should we be without it? " 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 65 
 
 " Have the Demmings never had any chil- 
 dren ? " asked Louise, who did not like the 
 turn the talk was taking. 
 
 " Yes, one," the Bishop answered, " a little 
 girl. She died three years ago. Demming 
 was devotedly attached to her. He can't talk 
 of her now without the tears coming into his 
 eyes. He really," said the Bishop meditatively, 
 "seemed more affected when he told me about 
 her death than he was yesterday. She died 
 of some kind of low fever, and was ill a long 
 time. He used to walk up and down the little 
 path through the woods, holding her in his 
 arms. She would wake up in the night and 
 cry, and he would wrap her in an old army 
 blanket, and pace in front of the house for 
 hours. Often the teamsters driving into town 
 at break of day, with their loads of wood, 
 would come on him thus, walking and talking 
 to the child, with the little thin face on his 
 shoulder, and the ragged blanket trailing on 
 the ground. Ah, Demming is not altogether 
 abandoned, he has an affectionate heart ! " 
 
 Neither of his listeners made any response : 
 Talboys, because of his slender faith in Dem- 
 ming ; Louise, because she was thinking that 
 if the Aiken laundresses were intrusted with 
 her father's lawn many more times there would 
 be nothing left to darn. They went on silently, 
 
m KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 therefore, until the Bishop said, in a low voice, 
 '' Here we are ! " 
 
 The negro driver, with the agility of a coun- 
 try coachman, had already sprung to the ground, 
 and was holding the carriage door open. 
 
 Before them lay a small cleared tract of 
 land, where a pleasant greenness of young po- 
 tato vines hid the sand. In the centre was a 
 tumble-down cabin, with a mud chimney on the 
 outside. The one window had no sash, and its 
 rude shutter hung precariously by a single 
 leathern hinge. The door was open, revealing 
 that the interior was papered with newspapers. 
 Three or four yelping curs seemed to be all the 
 furniture. 
 
 There was nothing extraordinary in the pic- 
 ture ; one could see fifty such cabins, in a ra- 
 dius of half a mile. Nor was there anything 
 of mark in the appearance of Demming himself, 
 dressed exactly as he was the day before, and 
 rubbing his eyes in the doorway. But behind 
 him ! The coachman's under jaw dropped be- 
 neath the weight of a loud *' 'Fo' de Lawd ! " 
 The Bishop's benignant countenance was sud- 
 denly crimsoned. Talboys and Louise looked 
 at each other, and bit their lips. It was only 
 a woman, — a tall, thin, bent woman in a 
 shabby print gown, with a faded sunbonnet 
 pushed back from her gray head and a common 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 67 
 
 clay pipe between her lips. Probably in her 
 youth she had been a pretty woman, and the 
 worn features and dim eyes still retained some- 
 thing engaging in their expression of timid 
 good-will. 
 
 " Won' you all step in?" she said, advanc- 
 ing. 
 
 "Yes, yes," added Demming, inclining his 
 body and waving both hands with magnificent 
 courtesy ; " alight, gentlemen, alight ! I 'm 
 sorry I ain't no staggah juice to offah ye, but 
 yo' right welcome to sweet-'taters an' pussim- 
 mon beah, w'ich 's all " — 
 
 " Demming," said the Bishop sternly, "what 
 does this mean ? I came to bury Mrs. Dem- 
 ming, and — and here she is ! " 
 
 " Burry me I " exclaimed the woman. " Why, 
 I ain't dead ! " 
 
 Demming rubbed his hands, his face wearing 
 an indescribable expression of mingled embar- 
 rassment, contrition, and bland insinuation. 
 "Well, yes. Bishop, yere she is, an' no mis- 
 take ! Nuthin' more 'n a swond, you unner- 
 stan'. I 'lowed ter notify you uns this mahnin', 
 but fac' is I wuz so decomposed, fin'in' her 
 traipsin' 'bout in the gyardin an' you all 'xpect- 
 in' a fun'al, thet I jes hed ter brace up ; an' fac' 
 is I braced up too much, an' ovahslep. I 'm 
 powerful sorry, an' I don' blame you uns ef you 
 do feel mad ! " 
 
68 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 The Bishop flung off his robes in haste and 
 walked to the carriage, where he bundled them 
 in with scant regard for their crispness. 
 
 " Never heard of such a thing ! " said Louise, 
 that being her invariable formula for occasions 
 demanding expression before she was prepared 
 to commit herself. By this time a glimmering 
 notion of the state of things had reached the 
 coachman's brain, and he was in an ecstasy. 
 Talboys thought it fitting to speak. He turned 
 to Mrs. Demming, who was looking from one 
 to another of the group, in a scared way. 
 
 " Were you in a swoon ? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh, laAvs ! " cried the poor woman. " Oh, 
 Demming, what hev you done gone an' done 
 now ? Gentlemen, he did n't mean no harm, 
 I 'm suah ! " 
 
 " You were not^ then ? " said Talboys. 
 
 " Leave her 'lone, Gunnel," Demming said 
 quietly. "Don' yo' see she cyan't stan' no 
 sech racket? 'Sence yo' so mighty peart 'bout 
 it, no, she wahn't, an' thet thar 's the truf. I 
 jes done it fur ter raise money. It was this a 
 way. Thet thar mahnin', w'ile I wuz a-consid- 
 erin' an' a-contemplatin' right smart how I 
 wuz evah to git a few dollars, I seen Mose 
 Barnwell gwine 'long, — yo' know Mose Barn- 
 well," turning in an affable, conversational way 
 to the grinning negro, — " an' he *d a string o' 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 69 
 
 crape 'roun' his hat 'cause he 'd jes done loss' 
 his wife, an' he wuz purportin' ter git a cyoffin. 
 So I 'lowed I 'd git a cyoffin fur him cheap. 
 An' I reckon," said Demming, smiling gra- 
 ciously on his delighted black auditor, — "I 
 reckon I done it." 
 
 " Demming," cried the Bishop, with some 
 heat, " this exceeds patience " — 
 
 "I know. Bishop," answered the vagabond 
 meekly, — "I know it. I wuz tempted an' I 
 fell, as you talked 'bout in yo' sermon. It 's 
 orful how I kin do sech things ! " 
 
 " And those chickens, too ! " ejaculated the 
 Bishop, with rising wrath, as new causes rushed 
 to his remembrance. " You stole chickens, — 
 Judge Eldridge's chickens ; you who pretend 
 to be such a stanch friend of the North " — 
 
 " Chickens ! " screamed the woman. " Oh, 
 Lordy ! Oh, he nevah done thet afo'e ! He '11 
 be took to jail ! Oh, Demming, how cud ye ? 
 Stealin' chickens, jes like a low-down, no- 
 'cyount niggah ! " Sobs choked her voice, and 
 tears of fright and shame were streaming down 
 her hollow cheeks. 
 
 Demming looked disconcerted. " Now, look 
 a-yere ! " said he, sinking his voice reproach- 
 fully ; " w'at wuz the use o' bringin' thet thar 
 up befo' th' ole 'ooman ? She don' know nuth- 
 in' on it, you miners tan', an' why mus' you rila 
 
70 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 'er up fur ? I 'd not a thought it o' you, 
 Bishop, thet I wud n't. Now, Alwynda," 
 turning to the weeping woman, who was wip- 
 ing her eyes with the cape of her sunbonnet, 
 "jes you dry up an' stop yo' bellerin', an' I 
 'splain it all in a holy minnit. Thar, thar," 
 patting her on the shoulder, *' 't ain't nuthin' 
 ter cry 'bout ; 't ain't no fault o' yourn, ony- 
 how. 'Fac' is, gen'lemen, 't wuz all 'long o' 
 my 'preciation o' the Bishop. I 'm a 'Piscopal, 
 like yo'self, Bishop, an' I tole Samson Mobley 
 thet you overlaid all the preachers yere fur 
 goodness an' shortness bofe. An' he 'lowed, 
 ' Mebbe he may fur goodness ; I ain't no jedge,' 
 says he ; ' but fo' shortness, we 've a feller down 
 at the Baptis' kin beat 'im outen sight. They 
 've jes 'gin up sleepin' down thar,' says he, 
 ' 'cause 't ain't worth w'ile.' So we tried it on, 
 you unnerstand, 'cause thet riled me, an' I jes 
 bet on it, I did ; an' we tried it on, — you in 
 the mahnin' and him in the ev'nin'. An' laws, 
 ef did n't so happen as how you 'd a powerful 
 flow o' speech ! 'T wuz 'mazin' edifyin', but 't 
 los' me the bet, you unnerstan' ; an' onct los' I 
 bed ter pay ; an' not havin' ary chick o' my 
 own I had ter confiscate some frum th' gineral 
 public, an' I tuk 'em 'thout distinction o' party 
 frum the handiest coop in the Baptis' dernomi- 
 nation. I kin' o' hankered arter Baptis' chick- 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 71 
 
 UDS, somehow, so 's ter git even, like. Now, 
 Bishop, I jes leaves ter you uns, cud I go back 
 on a debt o' honah, like thet? " 
 
 " Honor ! " repeated the Bishop scornfully. 
 
 Talboys interposed again : " We appear to 
 be sold. Bishop ; don't you think we had better 
 get out of this before the hearse comes ? " 
 
 Demming waved his hand at Talboys, saying 
 in his smoothest tones, '' Ef you meet it. Gun- 
 nel, p'raps you 'd kin'ly tell 'em ter go on ter 
 Mose Barnwell's. He 's ready an' waitin'." 
 
 "Demming" — began the Bishop, but he 
 did not finish the sentence : instead, he lifted 
 his hat to Mrs. Demming, with his habitual 
 stately courtesy, and moved in a slow and dig- 
 nified manner to the carriage. Louise followed, 
 only stopping to say to the still weeping woman, 
 " He is in no danger from us ; but this trick 
 was a poor return for my father's kindness." 
 
 Demming had been rubbing his right eye- 
 brow obliquely with his hand, thus making a 
 shield behind which he winked at the coach- 
 man in a friendly and humorous manner ; at 
 Louise's words, his hand fell and his face 
 changed quickly. " Don' say thet, miss," he 
 said, a ring of real emotion in his voice. "I 
 know I 'm purty po' pickin's, but I ain't on- 
 grateful. Yo' pa will remember I wyould n't 
 tek no money frum him!^^ 
 
72 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 " I would have given fifty dollars," cried the 
 Bishop, " rather than have had this — this 
 scandalous fraud ! Drive on ! " 
 
 They drove away. The last they saw of 
 Demming he was blandly waving his hand. 
 
 The drive back from the house so unexpect- 
 edly disclosed as not a house of mourning was 
 somewhat silent. The Bishop was the first to 
 speak. " I shall insist upon returning every 
 cent of that money," he said. 
 
 " I assure you none of us will take it," Tal- 
 boys answered ; " and really, you know, the 
 sell was quite worth the money." 
 
 " And you did see her, after all," said Louise 
 dryly, " standing in the doorway, with her old 
 clay pipe in her mouth." 
 
 The Bishop smiled, but he sighed, too. 
 " Well, well, I ought not to have lost my tem- 
 per. But I am disappointed in Demming. I 
 thought I had won his affection, and I hoped 
 through his affection to reach his conscience. 
 I suppose I deceived myself." 
 
 " I fear he has n't any conscience to reach," 
 Louise observed. 
 
 " I agree with Miss Louise," said Talboys. 
 " You see, Demming is a cracker." 
 
 " Ah ! the cracker has his virtues," observed 
 the Bishop ; "not the cardinal New England 
 virtues of thrift and cleanliness and energy; 
 
 o 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 73 
 
 but he has his own. He is as hospitable as an 
 Arab, brave, faithful, and honest, and full of 
 generosity and kindness." 
 
 " All the same, he is n't half civilized," said 
 Talboys, " and as ignorant morally as any be- 
 ing you can pick up. He does n't steal or lie 
 much, I grant you, but he smashes all the other 
 commandments to flinders. He kills when he 
 thinks he has been insulted, and he has n't the 
 feeblest scruples about changing his old wife 
 for a new one whenever he feels like it, with- 
 out any nonsense of divorce. The women are 
 just as bad as the men. But Demming is not 
 only a cracker ; he is a cracker spoiled by the 
 tourists. We have despoiled him of his sim- 
 plicity. He has n't learned any good of us, — 
 that goes without saying, — but he has learned 
 no end of Yankee tricks. Do you suppose that 
 if left to himself he would ever have been up 
 to this morning's performance? Oh, we've 
 polished his wicked wits for him ! Even his 
 dialect is no longer pure South Carolinian ; it 
 is corrupted by Northern slang. We have 
 ruined his religious principles, too. The crack- 
 ers have n't much of any morality, but they are 
 very religious, — all Southerners are. But 
 Demming is an unconscious Agnostic. ' I tell 
 ye,' he says to the saloon theologians, ' thar 
 ain't no tellin'. 'Ligion 's a heap like jumpin' 
 
74 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. ' 
 
 a'ter a waggin in th' dark : yo' mo' 'n likely 
 ter Ian' on nuthin' ! ' And you have seen for 
 yourselves that he has lost the cracker honesty." 
 
 " At least," said Louise, " he has the cracker 
 hospitality left ; he made us welcome to all he 
 had." 
 
 " And did you notice," said the Bishop, who 
 had quite smoothed his ruffled brow by this 
 time, — " did you notice the consideration, ten- 
 derness almost, that he showed to his wife? 
 Demming has his redeeming qualities, believe 
 me, Mr. Talboys." 
 
 " I see that you don't mean to give him up," 
 said Talboys, smiling; but he did not pursue 
 the subject. 
 
 For several days Demming kept away from 
 Aiken. When he did appear he rather avoided 
 the Bishop. He bore the jokes and satirical 
 congratulations of his companions with his us- 
 ual equanimity ; but he utterly declined to 
 gratify public curiosity either at the saloon or 
 the grocery. One morning he met the Bishop. 
 They walked a long way together, and it was 
 observed that they seemed to be on most cor- 
 dial terms. This happened on Tuesday. Fri- 
 day morning Demming came to the Bishop in 
 high spirits. He showed a letter from a cousin 
 in Charleston, a very old man, with no near 
 kindred and a comfortable property. This 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 75 
 
 cousin, repenting of an old injustice to Dem- 
 ming's mother, had bethought him of Dem- 
 ming, his nearest relative ; and sent for him, 
 inclosing money to pay all expenses. *' He is 
 right feeble," said Demming, with a cheerful 
 accent not according with his mournful words, 
 *' an' wants ter see me onct fo' he departs. 
 Reckon he means ter do well by me." 
 
 The Bishop's hopeful soul saw a chance for 
 the cracker's reclamation. So he spoke sol- 
 emnly to him, warning him against periling 
 his future by relapsing into his old courses in 
 Charleston. Nothing could exceed Demming's 
 bland humility. He filled every available 
 pause in the exhortation with " Thet 's so," 
 and " Shoo 's yo' bawn ! " and answered, " I 'm 
 gwine ter be 's keerful 's a ole coon thet 's jes 
 got shet o' the dogs. You nevah said truer 
 words than them thar, an' don' you forget it! 
 I 'm gwine ter buy mo' Ian', an' raise hogs, an' 
 keep th' ole 'ooman like a lady. Don' ye be 
 'feard o' me gwine on no' mo' tears. No, sir, 
 none o' thet in mine. 'T wuz ony 'cause I wuz 
 so low in my min' I evah done it, onyhow. 
 Now, I 'm gwine ter be *s sober 's a owl ! " 
 
 Notwithstanding these and similar protes- 
 tations, hardly an hour was gone before Dem- 
 ming was the glory of the saloon, haranguing 
 the crowd on his favorite topic, the Bishop's 
 
76 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 virtues. " High-toned gen'leman, bes' man in 
 the worl', an' nobody's fool, neither. I 'm 
 proud to call him my frien', an' Aiken's put in 
 its bes' licks w'en it cured him. Gen'lemen, he 
 'vised me ter fight shy o' you all. I reckon as 
 how I mought be better off ef I 'd alius a fol- 
 lered his ammonitions. Walk up, gen'lemen, 
 an' drink his health ! My 'xpens'." 
 
 The sequel to such toasts may readily be im- 
 agined. By six o'clock, penniless and tipsy, 
 Demming was apologizing to the Bishop on the 
 hotel piazza. He had the grace to seem 
 ashamed of himself. " Wust o' 't is flingin' 
 away all thet money; but I felt kinder like 
 makin' everybody feel good, an' I set 'em up. 
 An' 't 'appened, somehow, they wuz a right 
 smart o' people in, jes thet thar minit, — they 
 gen'rally is a right smart o' people in when a 
 feller sets 'em up ! an' they wuz powerful dry, 
 — they gen'rally is dry, then ; an' the long an' 
 short o' 't is, they cleaned me out. An' now, 
 Bishop, I jes feel nashuated with myself. Suah 
 's yo' bawn. Bishop, I 'm gwine ter reform. 
 ' Stop short, an' nevah go on again,' like thet 
 thar clock in the song. I am, fur a fac', sir. 
 I 'm repentin' to a s'prisin' extent." 
 
 " I certainly should be surprised if you ivere 
 repentant," the Bishop said, dryly ; then, after 
 a pause, " Well, Demming, I will help you this 
 
 o 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 77 
 
 once again. I will buy you a ticket to Charles- 
 ton." 
 
 Some one had come up to the couple unper- 
 ceived ; this person spoke quickly : " Please let 
 me do that, Bishop. Demming has afforded 
 me enough entertainment for that." 
 
 " You don' think no gret shakes o' me, do 
 you, Gunnel?" said Demming, looking at Tal- 
 boys half humorously, yet with a shade of some- 
 thing else in his expression. " You poke fun 
 at me all the time. Well, pleases you, an' don' 
 hurt me, I reckon. Mahnin', Bishop ; mahnin', 
 Gunnel. I'll be at th' deppo." He waved 
 his hand and shambled away. Both men looked 
 after him. 
 
 " I will see that he gets off," said Talboys. 
 "I leave Aiken, myself, in the morning." 
 
 " Leave Aiken ? " the Bishop repeated. "But 
 you will return ? " 
 
 " I don't expect to." 
 
 " Why, I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Talboys, 
 — truly sorry." The Bishop took the young 
 man's hand and pressed it. " I am just begin- 
 ning to know you ; I may say, to like you, if 
 you will permit the expression. Won't you 
 walk in with me now, and say good-by to my 
 daughter ? " 
 
 " Thanks, very much, but I have already 
 made my adieux to Miss Louise." 
 
78 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 "Ah, yes, certainly," said the Bishop, ab- 
 sently. 
 
 He was an absorbed clergyman ; but he had 
 sharp enough eyes, did he choose to use them ; 
 and Talboys' reddening cheeks told him a great 
 deal. It cannot be said that he was sorry be- 
 cause his daughter had not looked kindly on 
 this worldly and cynical young man's affection ; 
 but he was certainly sorry for the young man 
 himself, and his parting grasp of the hand was 
 warmer than it would have been but for that 
 fleeting blush. 
 
 " Poor fellow, poor fellow ! " soliloquized the 
 Bishop, when, after a few cordial words, they 
 had parted. " He looks as though it had hurt 
 him. I suppose that is the way we all take it. 
 Well, time cures us : but it would scarcely do 
 to tell him that, or how much harder it is to 
 win a woman, find how precious she is, and then 
 to lose her. Ah, well, time helps even that. 
 ' For the strong years conquer us.' " 
 
 But he sighed as he went back to his daugh- 
 ter, and he did not see the beautiful Miss Rey- 
 nolds when she bowed to him, although she was 
 smiling her sweetest and brightest smile. 
 
 Louise sat in her room. Its windows opened 
 upon the piazza, and she had witnessed the in- 
 terview. She did not waver in her conviction 
 that she had done right. She could not wisely 
 
 o 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 79 
 
 marry a man whom she did not respect, let his 
 charm of manner and temper be what it might. 
 She needed a man who was manly, who could 
 rule other men ; besides, how could she make 
 up her mind to walk through life with a husband 
 hardly above her shoulder ? Still, she conceded 
 to herself that, had Talboys compelled one 
 thrill of admiration from her by any mental or 
 moral height, she would not have caviled at his 
 short stature. But there was something ridicu- 
 lous in the idea of Talboys thrilling anybody. 
 For one thing, he took everything too lightly. 
 Suddenly, with the sharpness of a new sensa- 
 tion, she remembered that he had not seemed 
 to take the morning's episode lightly. Poor 
 Martin ! — for the first time, even in her rev- 
 eries, she called him by his Christian name, — 
 there was an uncomfortable deal of feeling in 
 his few words. Yet he was considerate ; he 
 made it as easy as possible for her. 
 
 Martin was always considerate ; he never 
 jarred on her ; possibly, the master mind might 
 jar, being so masterful. He was always kind, 
 too ; continually scattering pleasures about in 
 his quiet fashion. Such a quiet fashion it was 
 that few people noticed how persistent was the 
 kindness. Now a hundred instances rushed to 
 her mind. All at once, recalling something, 
 she blushed hotly. That morning, just as Tal- 
 
80 KNITTERS, IN THE SUN 
 
 boys and she were turning from the place where 
 he had asked and she had answered, she caught 
 a glimpse of Demming's head, through the 
 leaves. He had turned, also, and he made a 
 feint of passing them, as though he were but 
 that instant walking by. The action had a 
 touch of delicacy in it ; a Northerner of Dem- 
 ming's class would not have shown it. Louise 
 felt grateful to the vagabond ; at the same time, 
 it was hardly pleasant to know that he was as 
 wise as she in Talboys' heart affairs. As for 
 Talboys himself, he had not so much as seen 
 Demming ; he had been too much occupied with 
 his own bitter thoughts. Again Louise mur- 
 mured, " Poor Martin ! " What was the need, 
 though, that her own heart should be like lead ? 
 Almost impatiently, she rose and sought her 
 father. 
 
 The Bishop, after deliberation, had decided 
 to accompany Demming to Charleston. He 
 excused his interest in the man so elaborately 
 and plausibly that his daughter was reminded 
 of Talboys. 
 
 Saturday morning all three — the Bishop, the 
 vagabond, and Talboys — started for Charles- 
 ton. Talboys, however, did not know that the 
 Bishop was going. He bought Demming's 
 ticket, saw him safely to a seat, and went into 
 the smoking-car. The Bishop was late, but the 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 81 
 
 conductor, with true Southern good-nature, 
 backed the train and took him aboard. He 
 seated himself in front of Demming, and began 
 to wipe his heated brow. 
 
 " Why do they want to have a fire in the 
 stove this weather ? " said he. 
 
 " Well," said the cracker slyly, " you see we 
 hain't all been runnin', an' we 're kinder chilly ! " 
 " Humph ! " said the Bishop. After this 
 there was silence. The train rolled along; 
 through the pine woods, past small stations 
 where rose-trees brightened trim white cottages, 
 then into the swamp lands, where the moisture 
 painted the bark of tall trees, and lay in shiny 
 green patches among them. The Southern 
 moss dripping from the giant branches shrouded 
 them in a weird drapery, soft as mist. There 
 was something dreary and painful to a Northern 
 eye, in the scene ; the tall and shrouded trees, 
 the stagnant pools of water gleaming among 
 them, the vivid green patches of moss, the bar- 
 ren stretches of sand. The very beauty in it 
 all seemed the unnatural glory of decay, repel- 
 ling the beholder. Here and there were cabins. 
 One could not look at them without wondering 
 whether the inhabitants had the ague, or its 
 South Carolina synonym, the " break - bone 
 fever." At one, a bent old woman was wash- 
 ing. She lifted her head, and Demming waved 
 
82 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 his hat at her. Then he glanced at the Bishop, 
 now busy with a paper, and chuckled over some 
 recollection. He looked out again. There was 
 a man running along the side of the road waving 
 a red flag. He called out a few words, which 
 the wind of the train tore to pieces. At the 
 same instant, the whistle of the engine began a 
 shrill outcry. " Sunthin' 's bust, I reckon," 
 said Demming. And then, before he could see, 
 or know, or understand, a tremendous crash 
 drowned his senses, and in one awful moment 
 blended shivering glass and surging roof and 
 white faces like a horrible kaleidoscope. 
 
 The first thing he noticed, when he came to 
 himself, was a thin ribbon of smoke. He 
 watched it lazily, while it melted into the blue 
 sky, and another ribbon took its place. But 
 presently the pain in his leg aroused him. He 
 perceived that the car was lying on one side, 
 making the other side into a roof, and one open 
 window was opposite his eyes. At the other 
 end the car was hardly more than a mass of 
 broken seats and crushed sides, but it was al- 
 most intact where he lay. He saw that the 
 stove had charred the wood- work near it ; hence 
 the smoke, which escaped through a crack and 
 floated above him. The few people in the car 
 were climbing out of the windows as best they 
 might. A pair of grimy arms reached down to 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 83 
 
 Demming, and he heard the brakeman's voice 
 (he knew Jim Herndon, the brakeman, well) 
 shouting profanely for the " next." 
 
 " Whar 's the Bishop ? " said Demming. 
 
 " Reckon he 's out," answered Jim. " Mought 
 
 as well come yo'self ! H ! you 've broke 
 
 yo' leg ! " 
 
 " Pull away, jes the same. I don' wanter 
 stay yere an' roast ! " 
 
 The brakeman pulled him through the win- 
 dow. Demming shut his teeth hard ; only the 
 fear of death could have made him bear the aor- 
 ony every motion gave him. 
 
 The brakeman drew him to one side before 
 he left him. Demming could see the wreck 
 plainly. A freight train had been thrown from 
 the track, and the passenger train had run into 
 it while going at full speed. " The brakes 
 wouldn't work," Demming heard Jim say. 
 Now the sight was a sorry one : a heap of rub- 
 bish which had been a freight car ; the passen- 
 ger engine sprawling on one side, in the swamp, 
 like a huge black beetle ; and, near it, the two 
 foremost cars of its train overturned and shat- 
 tered. The people of both trains were gathered 
 about the wreck, helplessly talking, as is the 
 manner of people in an accident. They were, 
 most of them, on the other side of the track. 
 No one had been killed ; but some were 
 
84 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 wounded, and were stretched in a ghastly row 
 on car cushions. The few women and children 
 in the train were collected about the wounded. 
 
 " Is the last man out ? " shouted the conduc- 
 tor. 
 
 Jim answered, "Yes, all out — no, d it ! 
 
 I see a coat tail down here." 
 
 " Look at the fire ! " screamed a woman. 
 « Oh, God help him ! The car 's afire ! " 
 
 " He 's gone up, whoever he is," muttered 
 Jim. " They ain't an axe nor nothin' on 
 board, an' he's wedged in fast. But come on, 
 boys ! I '11 drop in onct mo' ! " 
 
 " You go with him," another man said. 
 " Here, you fellows, I can run fastest ; I '11 go 
 to the cabin for an axe. Some of you follow 
 me for some water ! " 
 
 Demming saw the speaker for an instant, — 
 an erect little figure in a foppish gray suit, with 
 a " cat's eye " gleaming from his blue cravat. 
 One instant he stood on the piece of timber 
 upon which he had jumped ; the next he had 
 flung off his coat, and was speeding down the 
 road like a hare. 
 
 " D ef 't ain't the Gunnel," said Dem- 
 ming. 
 
 " Come on ! " shouted Talboys, never slack- 
 ening his speed. " Hurry ! " 
 
 The men went. Demming, weak with pain, 
 
 o 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 85 
 
 was content to look across the gap between the 
 trams and watch those left behind. The smoke 
 was growmg denser now, and tongues of flame 
 shot out between the joints of wood. They 
 said the man was at the other end. Happily, 
 the wind blew the fire from him. Jim and two 
 other men climbed in, again. Demming could 
 hear them swearing and shouting. He looked 
 anxiously about, seeking a familiar figure which 
 he could not find. He thought it the voice of 
 his own fears, that cry from within the car. 
 " Good God, it 's the Bishop ! " But immedi- 
 ately Jim thrust his head out of the window, 
 and called, " The Bishop 's in hyar ! Under 
 the cyar seats ! He ain't hurt, but we cyant 
 move the infernal things ter get him out ! " 
 
 " Oh, Lordy ! " groaned the vagabond ; " an' 
 I 'm so broke up I cyant liff' a han' ter help 
 him ! " ■ 
 
 In desperation, the men outside tried to bat- 
 ter down the car walls with a broken tree 
 limb. Inside, they strained feverishly at the 
 heavy timbers. Vain efforts all, at which the 
 crackling flames, crawling always nearer, 
 seemed to mock. 
 
 Demming could hear the talk, the pitying 
 comments, the praise of the Bishop : " Such a 
 good man ! " " His poor daughter, the only 
 child, and her mother dead ! " " They were 
 
86 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 SO fond of each other, poor thing, poor thing ! " 
 And a soft voice added, '* Let us pray ! " 
 
 " PrayinV' muttered Demming, "jes like 
 wimmen ! Laws, they don't know no better. 
 How '11 I git ter him ? " 
 
 He began to crawl to the car, dragging his 
 shattered leg behind him, reckless of the throbs 
 of pain it sent through his nerves. " Ef I kin 
 ony stan' it till I git ter him ! " he moaned. 
 " Burnin' alive 's harder nor this." He felt 
 the hot smoke on his face ; he heard the snap- 
 ping and roaring of the fire ; he saw the men 
 about the car pull out Jim and his companions, 
 and perceived that their faces were blackened. 
 
 " It '11 cotch me, suah 's death ! " said Dem- 
 ming between his teeth. '' Well, 't ain't much 
 mattah ! " Mustering all his strength he pulled 
 himself up to the car window below that from 
 which Jim had just emerged. The crowd, oc- 
 cupied with the helpless rescuers, had not ob- 
 served him before. They shouted at him as 
 one man : " Get down, it 's too late I " " You 're 
 crazy, you ! " yelled Jim, with an oath. 
 
 "Never you min'," Demming answered coolly. 
 " I know what I 'm 'bout, I reckon." 
 
 He had taken his revolver from his breast, 
 and was searching through his pockets. He 
 soon pulled out what he sought, merely a piece 
 of stout twine ; and the crowd saw him, sitting 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 87 
 
 astride the trucks, while he tied the string 
 about the handle of the weapon. Then he 
 leaned over the prison walls, and looked down 
 upon the Bishop. Under the mass of wood and 
 iron the Bishop lay, unhurt but securely im- 
 prisoned ; yet he had never advanced to the 
 chancel rails with a calmer face than that he 
 lifted to his friend. 
 
 " Demming," he cried, " you here ! Go 
 back, I implore you ! You can't save me." 
 
 " I know thet. Bishop," groaned the cracker. 
 " I ain't aimin' ter. But I cyan't let you roast 
 
 in this yere d barbecue ! Look a yere ! " 
 
 He lowered the revolver through the window. 
 " Thar 's a pistil, an' w'en th' fire cotches onter 
 you an' yo' gwine suah 's shootin', then put it 
 ter yo' head an' pull the trigger, an' yo '11 be 
 outen it all ! " 
 
 The Bishop's firm pale face grew paler as 
 he answered, " Don't tempt me, Demming ! 
 Whatever God sends I must bear. I can't do 
 it ! " Demming paused. He looked steadily 
 at the Bishop for a second ; then he raised the 
 revolver, with a little quiver of his mouth. 
 " And go away, for God's sake, my poor friend! 
 Bear my love to my dear, dear daughter ; tell 
 her that she has always been a blessing and a 
 joy to me. And remember what I have said to 
 you, yourself. It will be worth dying for if 
 
88 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 you will do that ; it will, indeed. It is only a 
 short pain, and then heaven ! Now go, Dem- 
 ming. God bless and keep you. Go ! " 
 
 But Demming did not move. ''Don' you 
 want ter say a prayer, Bishop ? " he said in a 
 coaxing tone, — " jes a little mite o' one fur 
 you an' me ? Ye don' need ter min' 'bout sayin' 
 't loud. I '11 unnerstan' th' intention, an' feel 
 jes so edified. I will, fur a fac." 
 
 " Go, first, Demming. I am afraid for you! " 
 
 " I 'm a-gwine. Bishop," said Demming, in 
 the same soft, coaxing tone. " Don' min' me. 
 I 'm all right." He crouched down lower, so 
 that the Bishop could not see him, and the 
 group below saw him rest the muzzle of the 
 pistol on the window-sill and take aim. 
 
 A gasp ran through the crowd, — that catch- 
 ing of the breath in which overtaxed feeling 
 relieves itself. " He 's doin' the las' kindness 
 he can to him," said the brakeman to the con- 
 ductor, " and by the Lord, he 's giv' his own 
 life to do it ! " 
 
 The flames had pierced the roof, and streamed 
 up to the sky. Through the sickening, dull 
 roar they heard the Bishop's voice again : — 
 
 " Demming, are you gone ? " 
 
 The cracker struck a loose piece of wood, and 
 sent it clattering down. " Yes, Bishop, that 
 wuz me. I 'm safe on th' groun'. Good-by, 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND, 89 
 
 Bishop. I do feel 'bleeged ter you ; an', Bishop, 
 them chickens wuz the fust time. They wuz, 
 on my honah. Now, Bishop, shet yo' eyes an' 
 pray, fur it 's a-comin ! " 
 
 The Bishop prayed. They could not hear 
 what he said, below. No one heard save the 
 uncouth being who clung to the window, revol- 
 ver in hand, steadily eying the creeping red 
 death. But they knew that, out of sight, a 
 man who had smiled on them, full of life and 
 hope but an hour ago, was facing such torture 
 as had tried the martyr's courage, and facing it 
 with as high a faith. 
 
 With one accord men and women bent their 
 heads. Jim, the brakeman, alone remained 
 standing, his form erect, his eyes fixed on the 
 two iron lines that made an angle away in the 
 horizon. " Come on ! " he yelled, leaping wildly 
 into the air. " Fo' the Lord's sake, hurry ! 
 D — him, but he 's the bulliest runner ! " 
 
 Then they all saw a man flying down the 
 track, axe in hand. He ran up to the car side. 
 He began to climb. A dozen hands caught 
 him. " You 're a dead man if you get in there ! " 
 was the cry. " Don't you see it 's all afire ? " 
 
 " Try it from the outside, Colonel ! " said the 
 conductor. 
 
 " Don't you see I have n't time ? " cried Tal- 
 boys. " He '11 be dead before we can get to 
 
90 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 him. Stand back, my men, and, Jim, be ready 
 to pull us both out! " 
 
 The steady tones and Talboys' business-like 
 air had an instantaneous effect. The crowd 
 were willing enough to be led ; they fell back, 
 and Talboys dropped through the window. To 
 those outside the whole car seemed in a blaze, 
 and over them the smoke hung like a pall ; but 
 through the crackling and roaring and the crash 
 of falling timber came the clear ring of axe 
 blows, and Talboys' voice shouting, " I say, my 
 man, don't lose heart ! We 're bound to get 
 you out ! " 
 
 " Lordy, he don't know who 't is," said Dem- 
 ming. "Nobody could see through that thar 
 smoke ! " v 
 
 All at once the uninjured side of the car 
 gave way beneath the flames, falling in with an 
 immense crash. The flame leaped into the air. 
 
 " They 're gone ! " cried the conductor. 
 
 "No, they're not!" yelled Demming. "He's 
 got him, safe an' soun' ! " And as he spoke, 
 scorched and covered with dust, bleeding from 
 a cut on his cheek but holding the Bishop in 
 his arms, Talboys appeared at the window. 
 Jim snatched the Bishop, the conductor helped 
 out Talboys, and half a dozen hands laid hold 
 of Demming. He heard the wild cheer that 
 greeted them ; he heard another cheer for the 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 91 
 
 men with the water, just in sight; but he heard 
 no more, for as they pulled him down a dozen 
 fiery pincers seemed tearing at his leg, and he 
 fainted dead away. 
 
 The Bishop's daughter sat in her room, mak- 
 ing a very pretty picture, with her white hands 
 clasped on her knee and her soft eyes uplifted. 
 She looked sad enough to please a pre-Raphael- 
 ite of sentiment. Yet her father, whom this 
 morning she would have declared she loved 
 better than any one in the world, had just been 
 saved from a frightful death. She knew the 
 story of his deliverance. At last she felt that 
 most unexpected thrill of admiration for Tal- 
 boys ; but Talboys had vanished. He was 
 gone, it was all ended, and she owned to herself 
 that she was wretched. Her father was with 
 Demming and the doctors. The poor vagabond 
 must hobble through life on one leg, hencefor- 
 ward. " If he lived," the doctor had said, mak- 
 ing even his existence as a cripple problematic. 
 Poor Demming, who had flung away his life to 
 save her father from suffering, — a needless, 
 useless sacrifice, as it proved, but touching 
 Louise the more because of its very failure ! 
 
 At this stage in her thoughts, she heard Sam, 
 the waiter, knocking softly, outside. Her first 
 question was about Demming. " The opera- 
 
92 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 tion 's ovah, miss, an' Mr. Demming he 's 
 sinkinV' answered Sam, giving the sick man a 
 title he had never accorded him before, " an' he 
 axes if you 'd be so kin' 's to step in an' speak 
 to him ; he 's powerful anxious to see you." 
 
 Silently Louise arose and followed the mu- 
 latto. They had carried Demming to the ho- 
 tel: it was the nearest place, and the Bishop 
 wished it. His wife had been sent for, and was 
 with him. Her timid, tear-stained face was the 
 first object that met Louise's eye. She sat in a 
 rocking-chair close to the bed, and, by sheer 
 force of habit, was unconsciously rocking to and 
 fro, while she brushed the tears from her eyes. 
 Demming's white face and tangle of iron-gray 
 hair lay on the pillow near her. 
 
 He smiled feebly, seeing Louise. She did 
 not know anything better to do than to take 
 his hand, the tears brightening her soft eyes. 
 " Laws," said Demming, " don' do thet. I ain't 
 wuth it. Look a yere, I got sun'thin' ter say 
 ter you. An' you must n't min', 'cause I mean 
 well. You know 'bout — yes'day mahnin'. 
 Mabbe you done what you done not knowin' 
 yo' own min', — laws, thet 's jes girls, — an' I 
 wants you ter know jes what kin' o' feller he is. 
 You know he saved yo' pa, but you don' know, 
 mabbe, thet he did n't know 't was the Bishop 
 till he'd jump down in thet thar flamin' pit o' 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 93 
 
 hell, as 't were, an' fished him out. He done it 
 jes 'cause he'd thet pluck in him, an' — don' 
 you go fer ter chippin' in, Gunnel. I 'm a dyin' 
 man, an' don' you forget it ! Thar he is, miss, 
 hidin' like behin' the bed." 
 
 Louise during this speech had grown red to 
 the roots of her hair. She looked up into Tal- 
 boys' face. He had stepped forward. His 
 usual composure had quite left him, so that he 
 made a pitiful picture of embarrassment, not 
 helped by crumpled linen and a borrowed coat 
 a world too large for him. " It 's just a whim 
 of his," he whispered hurriedly ; " he wanted 
 me to stay. I did n't know — I did n't under- 
 stand ! For God's sake, don't suppose I meant 
 to take such an advantage of the situation ! I 
 am going directly. I shall leave Aiken to- 
 night." 
 
 It was only the strain on her nerves, but 
 Louise felt the oddest desire to laugh. The 
 elegant Martin cut such a very droll figure as a 
 hero. Then her eye fell on Demming's eager 
 face, and a sudden revulsion of feeling, a sud- 
 den keen realization of the tragedy that Martin 
 had averted brought the tears back to her eyes. 
 Her beautiful head dropped. " Why do you 
 go — now ? " said she. 
 
 " Hev you uns made it up, yet ? " murmured 
 Demming's faint voice. 
 
94 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 "Yes," Talboys answered, "I think we have, 
 and — I thank you, De naming." The vaga- 
 bond waved his hand with a feeble assump- 
 tion of his familiar gesture. " Yo' a square 
 man. Gunnel. I alius set a heap by you, though 
 I did n't let on. An' she 's a right peart young 
 lady. I'm glad yo' gwine ter be so happy. 
 Laws, I kind o' wish I wuz to see it, even on a 
 wooden leg " — The woman at his side began 
 to sob. " Thar, thar, Alwynda, don' take on 
 so ; cyan't be helped. You mus' 'scuse her, 
 gen'lemen ; she so petted on me she jes cyan't 
 hole in ! " 
 
 " Demming," said the Bishop, " my poor 
 friend, the time is short ; is there anything you 
 want me to do ? " Demming's dull eyes spar- 
 kled with a glimmer of the old humor. 
 
 " Well, Bishop, ef you don' min', I 'd like 
 you ter conduc' the fun'al services. Reckon 
 they '11 be a genuwine co'pse this yere time, fo' 
 suah. An', Bishop, you '11 kind o' look ayfter 
 Alwynda ; see she gets her coffee an' terbacco 
 all right. An' I wants ter 'sure you all again 
 thet them thar chickens wuz the fust an' ony 
 thing I evah laid ban's on t' want mine. Thet 's 
 the solemn truf ; ain't it, Alwynda ? " 
 
 The poor woman could only rock herself in 
 the chair, and sob, " Yes, 't is. An' he 's been 
 a good husband to me. I 've alius bed the bes* 
 
THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 95 
 
 uv everything! Oh, Lordy, 'pears 's like I 
 cyan't bear it, nohow ! " 
 
 Louise put her hand gently on the thin 
 shoulder, saying, " I will see that she never 
 wants anything we can give, Demming; and 
 we will try to comfort her." 
 
 The cracker looked wistfully from her fresh, 
 young face to the worn face below. " She wuz 's 
 peart an' purty 's you, miss, w'en I fust struck 
 up with 'er," said he slowly. " Our little gal 
 wuz her very image. Alwynda," in a singu- 
 larly soft, almost diffident tone, " don' take on 
 so ; mabbe I 'm gwine fer ter see 'er again. 
 'T won't do no harm ter think so, onyhow," he 
 added, with a glance at Talboys, as though sure 
 there of comprehension. 
 
 Then the Bishop spoke, solemnly, though 
 with sympathy, urging the dying man, whose 
 worldly affairs were settled, to repent of his sins 
 and prepare for eternity. *' Shall I pray for 
 you, Demming ? " he said in conclusion. 
 
 " Jes as you please. Bishop," answered Dem- 
 ming, and he tried to wave his hand. " I ain't 
 noways partickler. I reckon God a'mighty 
 knows I 'd be th' same ole Demming ef I could 
 get up, an' I don' mean ter make no purtenses. 
 But mabbe it'll cheer up th' ole 'ooman a bit. 
 So you begin, an' I '11 bring in an Amen when- 
 ever it 's wanted ! " 
 
96 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 So speaking, Demming closed his eyes wear- 
 ily, and the Bishop knelt by the bedside. Tal- 
 boys and Louise left them, thus. After a while, 
 the wife stretched forth her toil-worn hand and 
 took her husband's. She thought she was 
 aware of a weak pressure. But when the 
 prayer ended there came no Amen. Demming 
 was gone where prayer may only faintly follow ; 
 nor could the Bishop ever decide how far his 
 vagabond had joined in his petitions. Such 
 doubts, however, did not prevent his cherishing 
 an assured hope that the man who died for him 
 was safe, forever. The Bishop's theology, like 
 that of most of us, yielded, sometimes, to the 
 demands of the occasion. 
 
MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 
 
 " What do they want ? " said Mr. Finlay. 
 A sunbeam, reflected from the burnished silver 
 of the urn, flicked athwart his face, to empha- 
 size his smile. Mr. Finlay smiled often, for he 
 was not only a good-tempered man, but a man 
 keenly susceptible to humorous impressions. 
 He was a type of domestic happiness this morn- 
 ing, seated in that family temple, the dining- 
 room, his two handsome boys on his knees and 
 the breakfast-table before him. It was a table 
 glittering with silver and cut-glass, and it wore 
 that air of elegant antiquity which pertained 
 to all Mrs. Finlay's house-furnishing, being 
 further adorned with the shell-like blue china 
 brought from over the seas by Mrs. Finlay's 
 great-uncle, old Captain Crowninshield. The 
 room was ample and lofty, fitted up in oak, 
 which had gleams of red and gold in the sunken 
 carvings, to match the red and gold stamped 
 leather on the walls. There were no plaques, 
 no pictures, unless that were a picture revealed 
 by the wide glass doors, — a glimpse of tropical 
 foliage and falling water and the white Diana 
 
98 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 lifting her lovely arms above the green. Only 
 a glimpse it was ; but it supplied an effect of 
 repose and mystery that the sunshiny room 
 must have lacked else, and added a light touch 
 to the half foreign picturesqueness everywhere, 
 the rows of Venetian glass on the sideboard, 
 the Persian rug on the floor, the fire-place, with 
 its quaint Flemish tiles, the dim and heavy 
 folds of old Italian tapestry draping the win- 
 dows. Framed by these folds were two more 
 pictures : on one side, an undulating sweep of 
 hills in the fresh beauty of June, brightly 
 painted wooden houses showing through the 
 trees ; on the other, a long street, ending in a 
 huddle of factory chimneys and the Mississippi 
 quivering and glittering below. Mrs. Finlay 
 was gazing absently at the river. Her smooth, 
 low brow was darkened by a rare cloud. 
 
 " Want? " she repeated. " Oh, everything; 
 a museum in a country town is such an elastic 
 affair. Mrs. Cody says they don't want to con- 
 fine it to pictures. They were all here, the 
 entire committee, Mrs. Cody, Mrs. Hubbard, 
 and Miss Durham." 
 
 "Violet?" said Mr. Finlay, looking inter- 
 ested. " I wish I had seen her ; it is an age 
 since I have seen Violet." 
 
 "She was looking extremely pretty," said 
 Mrs. Finlay, who had been told long ago that 
 
 o 
 
MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 99 
 
 her husband had once wanted to marry Violet 
 Durham. " She picked out most of my Meissen 
 plates ; she knew the King's Period at a glance. 
 And they want my old Flemish lace and most 
 of the pictures, and the old sword and the 
 screens, and — oh, yes, they want the chair ! " 
 
 *' Well, you will let them have the things, 
 won't you?" 
 
 " Everything but the chair. There is a limit, 
 Tom." 
 
 " Why not the chair ? They won't hurt it ; 
 and here 's a chance for you to educate the 
 WrenJiam taste." 
 
 Mrs. Finlay shrugged her pretty shoulders, 
 and said that she had no such ambition. 
 
 " Milly," said Tom Finlay, looking at his 
 wife over his son's curly head, " don't you think 
 you are just the least bit hard on Wrenham ? " 
 
 " On the contrary," she answered coldly, "it 
 is they who are hard on me. They quite dis- 
 approve of me, Tom. I have wine at dinner, 
 with my two boys growing up ; I have a butler 
 and a coachman ; hence I am a snob and ape 
 the English. Don't you remember, Tom, how 
 the boys used to shout after poor John Rogers, 
 whenever he drove out, ' Hi, where 's the cir- 
 cus ? ' I shall be contented if the museum cul- 
 tivates the Wrenham taste up to the point of 
 tolerating my liveries." 
 
100 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 " I don't think it 's the liveries that makes 
 the trouble, Milly," said Mr. Finlay, gravely ; 
 *' it 's a notion they have here that you look 
 down on them as uncouth and provincial. Per- 
 haps we are, but we don't like to be despised 
 for it, all the same. I 'm not complaining, you 
 know. I realize that it is a bore for you to 
 have to live in Wrenham ; but it would really 
 be so much less of a bore if you could like the 
 people, and there is a great deal in them to like 
 when you get at them." 
 
 " Probably I have never got at them," said 
 Mrs. Finlay. 
 
 Then she was silent. The Finlays were 
 rich enough to have made a figure in New York 
 or Boston, and it was the skeleton in Emily 
 FinMy's closet that she must live in Wrenham, 
 a stupid, censorious, provincial town, where one 
 could n't even get ice-cream in bricks. 
 
 Too well bred to exhibit the skeleton, possi- 
 bly she did not lock it up securely, since the 
 Wrenham people knew quite well that she 
 never stayed a day longer there than she could 
 help. On their side, they repaid this passive 
 and unexpressed dislike with indignant criti- 
 cism. They mimicked her accent, ridiculed her 
 hospitality, mocked at her housekeeping. 
 
 It was a pity, too, for Mrs. Finlay w^as a 
 charming woman. She had vivacity as well as 
 
MRS. FINLATS ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 101 
 
 repose, and such exquisite taste in dress that 
 she passed for a beauty ; although, to be frank, 
 she was simply a graceful creature with a Greek 
 forehead, most beautiful brown eyes, and a del- 
 icate mouth a trifle too large for her face. 
 
 But grace and charm, both, were wasted on 
 Wrenham. Indeed, that the criticism was not 
 more bluntly expressed she owed to her hus- 
 band. Tom Finlay — so every one called him 
 — was the most popular man in all the country 
 round about ; he was liked by the towns-people 
 and the farmers, by the workmen in his coal 
 mines and the clerks in his railroad office ; by 
 women and children ; for that matter, by the 
 very dogs on the street and the horses in his 
 stable. Nor was such universal affection 
 strange. Tom Finlay was a man at once up- 
 right and genial, and he had a singularly gentle 
 and modest manner. He was the descendant 
 of an ancient Scotch family, whose two centuries 
 in America had obliterated their national char- 
 acteristics. The two centuries had been spent 
 in Philadelphia ; but Tom's father had gone 
 to Illinois for his health, and there, in Wren- 
 ham, Tom was born. Inheriting a fortune, he 
 had been rather elaborately educated ; but Har- 
 vard and Heidelberg could not quite brush 
 away the flavor of the prairies ; to the end he 
 was a Westerner ; he had a dash of the West- 
 
102 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 ern unconventionality and all the Western en- 
 ergy ; and there was in him a peculiarly West- 
 ern blending of sympathy and shrewdness. 
 Nothing human was foreign to him, yet he 
 rarely threw away either his money or his emo- 
 tions. His attachment to the soil certainly was 
 not Western ; it must have come to him from 
 his Scotch ancestors. The original family of 
 Finlays had it also. They abode in Philadel- 
 phia, still, cherishing the family traditions and 
 the old portraits by Peale and Copley. They 
 mourned over Tom, " who was not like the Fin- 
 lays." His choice of a wife, they felt, was a 
 direct interposition of Providence. " A Massa- 
 chusetts Endicott ! '' they said under their 
 breath, and they welcomed Emily with open 
 arms. She justified their confidence, taking 
 the liveliest interest in Tom's ancestors and 
 reverently admiring the family relics. As for 
 Tom, he laughed openly at the illustrious house 
 of Finlay. The glories of a race, tracing the 
 roots of its ancestral tree down to the stone cof- 
 fins of the early Scottish kings, were only a 
 joke to this irreverent descendant. " It was 
 his horrid Western humor," his wife supposed. 
 She dreaded Tom's humor, which found its food 
 everywhere, quiet as it was. Though he was 
 the most generous and tolerant of husbands, 
 she sometimes had the strangest, chilliest sensa- 
 
MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 103 
 
 tion of serving as the butt of bis silent and 
 secret wit. He never ridiculed ber ; be was 
 only amused by ber, wbicb was worse. Her 
 fears did ber busband injustice, but tbey were 
 so undemonstrative that be never bad a cbance 
 to dispel them. All the same they did their 
 work well. Tbey cut off the natural simple 
 confidences between husband and wife. They 
 made Emily shy of any vivid expression of feel- 
 ing. Tbey repressed the very evidences of ber 
 affection for Tom, while they made it out of 
 the question for ber to confess those vague and 
 passing doubts which trouble the serenest love 
 when the lover is a woman. Besides, she was 
 a New England woman, trained to exaggerate 
 ber conscience and underrate ber emotions. 
 Therefore, she tried on honest, unworldly Tom 
 tactics which bad been better suited to a worn- 
 out man of pleasure. She gave him a beautiful 
 and harmonious home; she won admiration 
 everywhere — except in Wrenham ; she never 
 let him see ber out of temper ; in short, she 
 made him delightfully comfortable. When 
 they were away from Wrenham, — and they 
 were away from Wrenham a great deal, — Tom 
 was told on all sides bow fortunate be was in 
 bis wife. He agreed heartily ; yet, in truth, 
 he was not more satisfied with bis married hap- 
 piness than was she. He would have liked 
 
104 KNITTERS IN TEE SUN. 
 
 Emily to be more expansive; he longed for 
 those trivial confidences which she withheld as 
 bores ; and, on many accounts, it would have 
 gratified him to have had his wife fond of his 
 native town. But, being so tolerant, he rea- 
 soned that he could not expect everything from 
 one woman. " Milly is the most charming and 
 sweetest-tempered woman in the world, and the 
 best mother," thought Tom, stroking a rather 
 melancholy smile with his big hand ; " and 
 I 'm much too ugly and tame for a beautiful 
 woman to fall desperately in love with me. 
 Very likely I 'm a trifle provincial in the bar- 
 gain. Wrenham and I suit each other. It 
 is n't odd we don't just suit her." Therefore, 
 he said nothing of his feelings. To-day, for the 
 first time in years, he had spoken. Now, he 
 was blaming himself for his speech. What was 
 the use ? He had merely bothered Milly. 
 Mrs. Finlay, on her part, was disgusted with 
 herself because she had shown a tinge of irri- 
 tability. 
 
 "You see, Tom," she said after a pause, 
 " that chair is my pet weakness." 
 
 " Well, I would n't send it then," answered 
 Tom, easily. 
 
 Mrs. Finlay considered. 
 
 Now, the chair was the delight of her eyes 
 — the darling of her pride ; a genuine Eliza- 
 
 o 
 
MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 105 
 
 betlian chair of age-blackened oak, given her 
 by the chief of the Fin lay clan, who still main- 
 tained a faded magnificence in the Highlands. 
 Originally it was an English chair, coming 
 north as part of the bridal portion of the Eng- 
 lish wife of one of the Finlays ;* and tradition 
 declared that the hapless Queen of Scots, while 
 visiting her loyal follower, the then Sir Fergus, 
 had made the chair her throne. The Finlay 
 arms were carved on the back, and the date, — 
 a sight to awe caviling skeptics. Very dear to 
 Mrs. Finlay was the chair ; dearer than her 
 pictures or her rare old engravings or her fra- 
 gile treasures from Venice, or even the wonder- 
 ful vase which was possibly " Henri Deux " ; 
 dearer by far than her own family heir-looms 
 of sword and clock and china. There was 
 another sword, a Scottish claymore, as well as 
 a battered buckler, further gifts of Sir Fergus ; 
 but a haze hung over their history, and Mrs. 
 Finlay, alluding to them, simply gave them 
 the general title of honor, " In the family." 
 Of course, there could be no comparison of 
 such as these with the chair. This was why 
 Mrs. Finlay considered. The children thought 
 it time to join in the conversation. Fergus, 
 the elder, who was nine, wanted to know what 
 kind of a show an art museum was ; " did it 
 have an elephant ? " 
 
106 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 " They only have pictures and things," said 
 his mother ; " you may go, if we are here." 
 
 "I'd rather go to Barnum's," said Fergus, 
 thoughtfully. "Say, mamma, let's stay and 
 go to Barnum's ; you take me. Lots of boys' 
 mammas take them to the circus ! " 
 
 " Francis will take you, brother, and you 
 may ask that boy you like so much — Jimmy 
 Hubbard, is n't it ? " 
 
 " I 'm 'fraid he would n't want to go with me, 
 he's so big," Fergus replied, despondently. 
 Jimmy Hubbard was his boy hero, but he was 
 fifteen, and Fergus worshiped him from afar. 
 "Maybe, though," he continued, brightening, 
 " he might if I had on long pants ; I would n't 
 look so little then ; and, mamma, honesty there 
 ain't another boy in Wrenham, big as me, 
 wears short pants ! " 
 
 "Do say trousers, Fergus. Anyhow, we 
 shan't be in Wrenham much more than a 
 week. You shall see Jumbo, East " — 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! " said Fergus, reproachfully ; 
 and, " Oh, mamma ! " echoed little four-year- 
 old Tom. 
 
 " My very children desert me and like the 
 place," thought Mrs. Finlay. 
 
 " Better stay till this fandango is over, don't 
 you think, Milly ? " said Tom ; " it looks more 
 neighborly." 
 
 o 
 
MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 107 
 
 " Very well, dear," said Emily, with a smile 
 which, under the circumstances, was heroic. 
 She turned the talk lightly to something else ; 
 but when Tom and the children were gone, 
 and she was alone in the pretty dining-room, 
 she sighed. 
 
 Tom Finlay came home to luncheon that 
 day, and ran in upon the " soliciting committee " 
 of the Wrenham Art Museum. They were 
 standing in the hall, around the chair, all three, 
 Mrs. Hubbard, Mrs. Cody, and Violet Durham. 
 Mrs. Hubbard was the president of the library, 
 for the benefit of which the museum was to be. 
 She was a tall woman, with winning manners, 
 and a handsome, care-worn face. Her husband 
 was a district judge. His salary was small, 
 and they had six children ; but Mrs. Hubbard 
 was always pressed to serve on church commit- 
 tees and to aid charitable undertakings, because 
 she had so much tact and was " such a worker." 
 Mrs. Cody, the second member, had a more 
 brilliant worldly lot, being the wife of a rich 
 grocer. She was large, florid, and sprightly, 
 and her gleaming black satin gown rattled 
 and sparkled with jet pendants. Violet Dur- 
 ham, the remaining member, leaned over the 
 high chair-back, her pretty face upraised. The 
 wind had roughened her smooth, black braids ; 
 one loosened lock curled against her white 
 
108 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 neck ; under the shadow of her hat, her great, 
 dark eyes were shining. She wore a simple 
 cambric gown, which had brown figures on a 
 yellowish background, and there were bows of 
 brown ribbon about it, with long ends to flut- 
 ter when she moved ; and a careless bunch of 
 Jacqueminot roses was stuck in her belt. In 
 the light poise of her figure, in the expression 
 of her face, even in the arrangement of her 
 daintily fresh dress, there was an air of cheer- 
 ful animation ; she made one think of prairie 
 flowers when the breeze shakes the dew from 
 them. Tom Finlay gave her a glance of ad- 
 miration and a half wistful smile. He had 
 known Violet all his life. Her only brother, 
 who died at college, had been his most intimate 
 friend ; Mrs. Durham used to call Tom " her 
 other boy " ; he was always at their house. 
 Naturally, he fell in love with Violet. It was 
 a boyish passion, never avowed and soon cured ; 
 and he married Emily Finlay with no disturb- 
 ing memories. He did more ; he gave substan- 
 tial aid to the young lawyer whom Violet had 
 preferred to him. She was on the eve of marry- 
 in s: this man when both her father and he were 
 killed in a railway accident. Colonel Durham 
 left a large property in such a state of confusion 
 that it was feared there would be nothing left 
 for Violet and her mother. Then Tom Finlay 
 
 o 
 
MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 109 
 
 came forward; his advice and energy, and the 
 loan he insisted upon making them, rescued a 
 modest independence from the tangle. Mrs. 
 Durham and Violet went abroad, and were 
 gone five years. Tom wanted his wife to take 
 these good friends of his to her heart ; there- 
 fore, praising himself for Machiavelian wile, he 
 was very reticent about thera, and said not a 
 word of his little romance. So the story came 
 to Mrs. Finlay in bits, to be pieced together by 
 her fancy. She did not take the Durhams to 
 her heart. She was perfectly courteous ; she 
 asked them to the house whenever Tom sug- 
 gested ; but the pleasant, informal intercourse 
 that he had planned never came. He did 
 not complain ; indeed, what cause for com- 
 plaint had he ? Mrs. Finlay did all he asked ; 
 but there was a sore spot in his regret. To- 
 day, as he greeted Violet, he was thinking how 
 seldom he saw the Durhams in his home, and 
 how welcome he had always been made to 
 theirs. A hundred trivial, touching recollec- 
 tions of his childhood helped to bring that 
 wistful curve to his lips. Instantly it was 
 gone, and he was greeting the ladies with most 
 commonplace politeness ; but his wife had seen 
 it before it went. 
 
 The moment the salutations were over, Mrs. 
 Cody, who had been speaking, continued : — 
 
110 KNITTERS IN TEE SUN. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, I know your feeling, Mrs. 
 Finlay. When they asked me for my Jackson 
 chair, — it was given to Mr. Cody by the Gen- 
 eral himself, you know, and he said it was a 
 hundred years old, — well, when they asked 
 for that, it didn't seem as though I could let it 
 go. But we're so interested in the library, 
 and of course it 's different with you ; you can't 
 be expected, as I told the ladies, to feel an 
 interest. It ain't as though you belonged to 
 the town." 
 
 " I hope you don't think of us as not belong- 
 ing to Wrenham," said Tom ; " I 'm a regular 
 Wrenham boy." 
 
 Mrs. Cody waved her plump hand. " Oh, 
 you, of course, Mr. Finlay; but gentlemen 
 are different ; you have your business here. 
 But we see so little of Mrs. Finlay, we feel she 
 is quite a stranger." 
 
 Mrs. Cody had a marvelous faculty for say- 
 ing stinging things. Charitable people held 
 that she was simjDly heedless ; the less chari- 
 table said her shafts were too well aimed for 
 shots in the air. Mrs. Hubbard hurried into 
 the conversation. 
 
 "Mrs. Finlay always shows she is not a 
 stranger by her kindness," she said; "she has 
 let us have such a quantity of beautiful things." 
 
 " That 's right," said Tom, cordially ; " can't 
 you think of something else ? " 
 
MRS. FINLATS ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. Ill 
 
 " Only the chair," Mrs. Cody replied, sol- 
 emnly. 
 
 Mrs. Finlay looked from the speaker to her 
 husband. 
 
 " If you really think the chair will help the 
 museum, you are quite welcome to it," she 
 said. 
 
 The visitors broke into a confusion of thanks. 
 
 " It is very kind of you, Mrs. Finlay," cried 
 Violet Durham. " I will look after the chair, 
 myself." 
 
 " We will all look after it," said Mrs. Cody. 
 " And now, Mrs. Finlay, you encourage us to 
 ask one favor more : won't you come on to our 
 general committee ? " 
 
 Again Emily glanced at her husband ; there 
 was a familiar twinkle in his eye. 
 
 " I fear I shan't be any help to you," she an- 
 swered, gravely, ''but — yes, certainly, if you 
 wish it." 
 
 It must be confessed that, though the com- 
 mittee professed unbounded gratitude and sat- 
 isfaction over this last boon, they looked rather 
 blank ; Mrs. Finlay guessed that they had ex- 
 pected a refusal. She urged them to stay to 
 lancheon, a courtesy which had its natural ef- 
 fect, the hastening of their departure. 
 
 After they were gone, Tom Finlay said; 
 " You were very good-natured, Milly." 
 
112 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 "It was not good - nature, Tom," she an- 
 swered ; " it was — well, I am not sure I know 
 what it was myself." 
 
 She walked up-stairs, leaving him whistling 
 softly. 
 
 • ••••••••• 
 
 The Wrenham Art Museum opened its doors 
 two weeks later. For days the workers had 
 toiled over a chaos of old books, pictures, and 
 bric-a-brac. The result exceeded their hopes. 
 But even in riches there is embarrassment. 
 The usual procession of petty trials had filed 
 through the days. A sad amount of ill-feeling 
 was caused by a few slips of memory, some la- 
 dies not being asked to help at all, and others 
 being asked too late. Careless remarks about 
 the objects of art had wounded sensitive souls. 
 Disputes had arisen in the committees. There 
 was the quarrel about the building, happily set- 
 tled at last by Mr. Cody's generous offer of his 
 late grocery shop, free of rent. To be sure, 
 the vigilant nose could still sniff odors of salt 
 fish, kerosene oil, and molasses, despite the la- 
 bors of the scrub-women ; and it never had 
 been considered a well-lighted shop. But a 
 gift horse should not be looked in the mouth ; 
 it was a large, convenient, inexpensive museum 
 hall, and the committee accepted it gratefully, 
 as was their duty. 
 
 o 
 
MRS. FINLATS ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 113 
 
 The selection of a janitor was not so easily- 
 made. Mrs. Cody proposed a retainer of her 
 own, an old fellow named Judson, who picked 
 • up a precarious livelihood, mowing lawns, run- 
 ning of errands, and working out poll-taxes, 
 while his wife made up the deficiencies in the 
 family income by taking in washing. Judson 
 had lately joined a temperance society, but a 
 particularly unsavory past marred his reputa- 
 tion. 
 
 This was Miss Durham's objection to him. 
 
 "He may get drunk and burn us all up," 
 said she ; " besides, he is a weak old man, and 
 couldn't fight a burglar ! " 
 
 " He belongs to the Sons of Temperance," 
 Mrs. Cody returned stiffly ; " he don't drink a 
 drop, and he will have a pistol." 
 
 A mild little woman here said that she 
 guessed he did need the place ; his wife had 
 been sick most of the winter. 
 
 " For my part," said Mrs. Cody warmly, " / 
 think that when anybody repents and is strug- 
 gling to do better, they ought to be encouraged 
 and not trampled on ! " 
 
 " That 's so," another member of the com- 
 mittee agreed. " Besides, we want to have 
 Mrs. Judson to clean, and it will be much more 
 convenient. She can come in the mornings, 
 too, and sweep and dust. She oughtn't to 
 
114 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 charge much, if we have him. We can make 
 all the cleaning part of his business; then 
 she '11 come and do it." 
 
 In vain Violet pleaded the danger of Jud- . 
 son's relapsing into his old habits ; mercy and 
 thrift combined carried the day ; Mrs. Finlay 
 was the single member voting with her. 
 
 Mrs. Finlay came to most of the meetings. 
 She said little and noticed much. Mrs. Hub- 
 bard, " for her sins," Violet said, was the chief 
 ruler of the artistic council. Mrs. Finlay used 
 to marvel at her unfailing patience. She 
 thought her own politeness, well trained as it 
 was, would have trembled beneath the awful 
 responsibilities of china, the charges of express 
 companies, the delays of printers, the assaults 
 of irate owners of pictures which were not hung 
 to their taste, and of distracted hanging com- 
 mittees and amateur artists with pictures of 
 their own to show, who had the " artistic tem- 
 perament " to such a degree that they could 
 scarcely be trusted in the same room together. 
 But Mrs. Hubbard never winced, she only 
 looked rather more tired at times. Her son 
 and Violet were her great helpers, Jimmy 
 Hubbard was young Fergus Finlay 's hero, a 
 tall lad of fifteen, whose wrists were always 
 growing out of his jacket sleeves. He was de- 
 voted to Violet, and Violet was devoted to 
 
MRS. FIN LAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 115 
 
 Jimmy's handsome, overworked mother. They 
 did a little of nearly everything that was to be 
 done, from scrubbing show-cases to writing ad- 
 vertisements. 
 
 " Only," said Violet, " I trust a confiding 
 public does n't believe the wild tales owners of 
 antiquities tell about their things. If this ex- 
 hibition lasts much longer, I shall lose my soul 
 — I 've got into such a way of lying ! " Jim- 
 my's specialty was painting placards. He made 
 beautiful letters, but his spelling was not be- 
 yond reproach. He enjoyed the museum im- 
 mensely. "Such fun!" said Jimmy; "those 
 people in the picture-room are just going it ! 
 Mrs. Cody had somebody's picture took down 
 and hers hung in the same place ; said her pic- 
 ture needed that light and t' other one did n't. 
 And now the other woman, she 's come back, 
 and — oh, ain't they having a circus, though ! 
 And up in the room where they have the Jap- 
 anese things, they 've lost all the labels ; they 
 tumbled off and got mixed up, and they 're put- 
 ting 'em back by guess. Folks '11 open their 
 eyes when they see the catalogue. And doAvn- 
 stairs in the china-room, somebody 's hooked 
 their show-case, so the china 's standing round 
 on the floor ; and they say they can't do noth- 
 ing till they get another show-case, so they 've 
 gone off to dinner, and there ain't nobody in 
 the room 'cept a dog ! " 
 
116 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 " A dog ! " cried Mrs. Hubbard, while Mrs. 
 Finlay turned pale. " I must go this in- 
 stant " — 
 
 " Oh, I coaxed him out," said Jimmy ; " I 
 thought it didn't look just healthy for the 
 china. Guess he had n't broke much ; some of 
 it was broke to start with, was n't it ? " 
 
 Poor Mrs. Hubbard hurried away. Violet 
 laughed. 
 
 " I think I must hunt them up a show-case," 
 said she. " Take our old books out, Jimmy, 
 and let us give them that." 
 
 '' But you spent all the morning arranging 
 them," said Mrs. Finlay; "and you brought 
 the show-case yourself. It is quite too bad ! " 
 
 " Oh, it does n't matter," answered Violet, 
 gayly ; " it 's all for the public good." She 
 was always cheerful. " I suppose I have no 
 proper pride," she said once; "nobody wants 
 me to be chairman of anything ; my valuable 
 suggestions have been uniformly rejected ; and 
 still, Jimmy, we are happy ! " 
 
 " I wish that Mrs. Cody was n't chairman of 
 our committee, though," said Jimmy; "she 
 never does a thing — just sails round and 
 bosses ! " 
 
 "But she ha's been very liberal. Think of 
 the things she has sent us ; think of the Jack- 
 son chair ! " 
 
MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 117 
 
 "It ain't half as pretty as Mrs. Finlay's," 
 said Jimmy, unwitting that Mrs. Finlay stood 
 behind him ; " and she makes ten times as 
 much fuss. No Cody in mine, thank you." 
 
 Mrs. Finlay smiled as she walked away, feel- 
 ing more friendly than she would have believed 
 possible toward Violet and Jimmy. She had 
 been as good as her word and sent the chair. 
 Francis, the butler, attended to its safe deliv- 
 ery. He remained while Violet removed the 
 wrappings. 
 
 " Mrs. Finlay said as how you would look 
 after it yourself, Miss," he remarked, in a tone 
 of deep solemnity, adding, as if from the impe- 
 rious promptings of his own conscience, " She 
 sets the world by that chair, and I wouldn't 
 have it hurt for nothing whatsoever ! " 
 
 " It shan't be my fault if it gets hurt, Fran- 
 cis," Violet answered. 
 
 On the appointed day the museum was 
 opened. The Cody chair stood beside Mrs. 
 Finlay's on a kind of dais of honor, and to 
 many minds was the nobler chair of the two. 
 Like the Finlay chair, it was of imposing pro- 
 portions. Its substance was mahogany, and — 
 again like the Finlay chair — it had arms. In- 
 deed, at first view there was a general resem- 
 blance of form, if not of color, between the two 
 chairs, although that of Mrs. Finlay was orna- 
 
118 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 men ted with florid carving as behooved an Eliz- 
 abethan chair, while the lines of the other were 
 chastely plain. 
 
 From the first the exhibition was a triumph. 
 It went victoriously on to its close. One day, 
 somewhere near the middle of its career, Violet 
 Durham walked through it with her mother. 
 The rooms were almost empty, for the time 
 was early in the morning. The two women 
 paused before a screen of Mrs. Finlay's, a mar- 
 vel of embroidery on dull gold plush. 
 
 " Hasn't she ravishing taste?" said Violet; 
 "all her things are so lovely. Why did fate 
 direct Mrs. Cody to hang that horror of a crazy- 
 quilt dh-ectly over it ? Mrs. Finlay will faint 
 when she sees it ; it will be the last straw. I 
 wish you could see her in the committees, so 
 disgusted with our vulgarities, but so invincibly 
 polite. She never says a word, but anything 
 more deadly superior than her silence I never 
 did encounter. I never am with her, anyhow, 
 that I don't feel myself so hopelessly provincial 
 that I almost don't want to live." 
 
 " You are unjust, Violet," said Mrs. Durham, 
 a placid gentlewoman, with soft gray hair and 
 a grave sweet smile ; " Mrs. Finlay is n't a bit 
 of a snob " — 
 
 " Oh, I don't mean she is. What I do think 
 is that she is rather narrow-minded. She can't 
 
 o 
 
MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 119 
 
 conceive of people being nice who are n't nice 
 in just her way, who haven't just such man- 
 ners, for instance, and just such ways of think- 
 ing, and have n't been to Europe just so many 
 times. Tom deserves a woman cut on a larger 
 pattern. It makes it hard for him." 
 
 " He seems perfectly satisfied," said Mrs. 
 Durham, smiling. And then they passed on. 
 
 Now, Mrs. Finlay was behind the screen. 
 It was purely an accident. She happened to 
 be standing there looking at some articles on 
 the wall. She did not think of their discussing 
 any personal matter, and after they had begun 
 to speak and she understood, she was too sur- 
 prised and embarrassed to go forward. 
 
 The conversation was a revelation. Her first 
 emotion was a shock. She felt as though she 
 had been shown to be brutally rude. True, she 
 did believe her ways of living and thinking 
 vastly better than those of a country town ; 
 but her sense of superiority was so deeply rooted 
 that it was hardly visible to her own conscious- 
 ness ; to manifest it to its objects seemed to 
 her unutterably indelicate. Her cheeks were 
 burning as she stepped forth from her involun- 
 tary hiding-place. 
 
 Was she narrow-minded, she who prided her- 
 self upon her cosmopolitan toleration? Had 
 her distaste for life in Wrenham made it hard 
 
120 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 for Tom ? Did he think her narrow-minded ? 
 Such thoughts made her miserable for days. 
 " The worst of it, too," she said to herself, " is 
 that it is no use my trying to pacify them. 
 Whatever I do, they are bound to misunder- 
 stand me ! " Nevertheless, she went again and 
 still another time to the museum. The chil- 
 dren went, and Tom and Francis, and John 
 Rogers (who was very much bored), and Elise, 
 Mrs. Finlay's maid, and the cook, and the other 
 maids, and the gardener with all his family. 
 " I will say she spends her money on us," said 
 Mrs. Cody. 
 
 To the very end the weather was propitious ; 
 but the day after, the clouds distilled a gentle, 
 unremitting drizzle. Most of the owners of ar- 
 ticles sent for them notwithstanding. Francis 
 and John Rogers appeared at five o'clock, hav- 
 ing waited until then in the vain hope of sun- 
 shine. They took the pictures and the china, 
 but there was not room for the chair. There- 
 fore they wrapped it in the tarpaulin they had 
 brought and left it in Violet's charge — Francis 
 saying, with his air of decent gloom, " Mrs. 
 Finlay told me to bring the pictures first and 
 take the chair on another load. I '11 be back 
 to-night if I can. Are i/ou going to stay here, 
 may I ask, Miss ? " 
 
 " I shall stay until dark, Francis ; but Judson 
 
 will be here all night. 
 
 j> 
 
MRS. FINLAYS ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 121 
 
 Francis turned a gloomy eye upon old Judson, 
 who was shambling about, getting Mrs. Cody's 
 property together. 
 
 " Thank you, Miss ; but I 'd rather come 
 back if I can," said he. 
 
 " Now, I wonder," said Violet to Jimmy 
 Hubbard, later, " I wonder what he meant by 
 that:' 
 
 Old Judson had gone up-stairs, the other peo- 
 ple had gone home, and they were alone in the 
 room. 
 
 " Ask me an easier one," said Jimmy. 
 
 " He is sober enough to-night, is n't he ? " 
 Violet asked, looking up into Jimmy's face with 
 that anxious reliance on the masculine judgment 
 in such matters which confirms a boy's opinion 
 of his sex. 
 
 " Oh, straight as a string," said Jimmy, re- 
 assuringly ; '' but he was on a toot Thursday, 
 if you want to know. Say, Judson, come down 
 and light up." 
 
 Judson lighted a single burner, and listened 
 silently to Violet's warnings and injunctions, 
 scowling to himself. Then Jimmy and she 
 went home. The last thing they noticed in the 
 room was a group of the two chairs, standing 
 on their dais, island-wise, amid a sea of crum- 
 pled wrapping-paper. Mrs. Cody's chair was 
 undraped, but Mrs. Finlay's, in its white tar- 
 paulin, looked like a clumsy ghost. 
 
122 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 By this time the rain had ceased and the 
 stars were shining. They walked to Mrs. Dur- 
 ham's house very cheerfully. Jimmy was pre- 
 vailed upon to enter and be refreshed with tea. 
 Perhaps an hour had passed before they were 
 startled by the clangor of bells. 
 
 "- Fire ! " cried Violet. 
 
 " Hope it ain't ws .' " said Jimmy, with more 
 good-will than grammar. 
 
 The Wrenham fire-bells rang in a startling 
 but not systematic fashion, as fast as they could 
 go ; and the fire companies — volunteers, mostly 
 of tender years — assembled in their respective 
 engine-houses, and ran about the streets inquir- 
 ing for the fire until it made enough headway 
 to be seen. The bells themselves afforded no 
 clew. Jimmy ran out into the street for infor- 
 mation, at the same time yelling " Fire ! " at 
 the top of his voice. " Fire ! fire ! Say, Mis- 
 ter, where 's the fire ? " 
 
 " Cass street," yelled back a running boy ; 
 " Cody's old grocery store." 
 
 " Mercy ! " cried Mrs. Durham from the door- 
 way, " the museum ! Violet " — 
 
 But Violet was gone. With the first word 
 she had sped swiftly after Jimmy, nor did she 
 stop until they saw the smoke pouring out of 
 the museum windows. 
 
 *' Mrs. Finlay's chair ! " she gasped; " Jim- 
 my, we must save it ! '* 
 
 o 
 
MRS. FIN LAYS ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 123 
 
 " All right," said Jimmy ; " just you wait ! " 
 He dashed through the crowd that shouted af- 
 ter him : '' Come back ! " " The door 's locked." 
 " It 's all afire ! " Unheeding, he unlocked the 
 door — he had his mother's key with him 
 — and ran into the smoke. Horrible smoke it 
 was — dense, blinding, stifling. His eyes were 
 stung ; his ears stunned ; the murky air seemed 
 to roar all about him. But he saw the white 
 tarpaulin through his smoky tears, and stag- 
 gered up to it. Somebody caught the other 
 side : they dragged the chair out together — not 
 a second too soon, for the wainscoting of the 
 room was blazing. Safe on the sidewalk, he 
 saw that his unknown helper was Violet, who 
 said : — 
 
 " We 're a couple of fools, but we 've saved 
 the chair. Now, let us get it out of the way ! " 
 
 They carried it across the street just in time 
 to avoid the charge of a fire company. They 
 came with a rush and a cheer, and with their 
 coming the whole street brightened into a kind 
 of lurid gayety. The flames leaped up in the 
 museum windows. Up-stairs, where the fire had 
 started, they were all aglow. In the street, the 
 boys were shouting, the water splashing, the 
 firemen swearing, and apparently everybody 
 ordering somebody else to do something. Violet 
 scanned the crowd, trying to discover old Jud- 
 
124 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 son ; but she saw no sign of that aged reprobate, 
 and began to fear he was burning up in the 
 building. Suddenly, two men laid hands on 
 the chair. One of them spoke — roughly, but 
 not unkindly : — 
 
 " You '11 have to get outer this, ma'am : they 
 want to lay the hose here. Here, hurry up ! 
 This way ! " 
 
 Resolutely clinging to the chair, Violet and 
 Jimmy were pushed down the street. 
 
 " We '11 have to carry the chair home our- 
 selves, Jimmy," said Violet ; "there's no use 
 trying to look for a wagon — good gracious ! " 
 
 " What 's the matter ? " cried Jimmy. 
 " Confound the fools ! " 
 
 It was only that some sportive souls among 
 the firemen had turned the hose on their com- 
 rades over the street ; Violet and Jimmy, be- 
 ing in a direct line with the comrades, were 
 drenched to the skin. 
 
 " Nothing but water," said Violet ; " but I 
 never did fancy shower-baths. Jimmy, the man 
 was right ; we 'd better get away from here." 
 
 Jimmy looked at the chair. " It 's awful 
 heavy ; let 's leave it in a saloon ; they 're 
 open." 
 
 "Never," said Violet; "it's not going out 
 of my sight again. Here, boy," addressing a 
 stout lad in the crowd, " I '11 give you a dollar 
 if you '11 help us carry this chair home." 
 
MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 125 
 
 " All right ! " said the boy. 
 
 He grinned at Jimmy, whom he knew, and 
 took the chair by the arm. They forced their 
 way to the corner. The boy's stout lungs and 
 ready profanity cleared a passage, assisted as 
 they were by his skillful use of the chair cor- 
 ners as a battering-ram. Violet was a devout 
 churchwoman, but she did not tell him not to 
 swear; she had a desperate feeling that any- 
 thing was allowable, in the present crisis, to 
 rescue the chair. Torn, dishevelled, dripping 
 with muddy water, the three — say rather the 
 four, for does not the chair count as one ? — 
 emerged from the din into the quiet and starlit 
 streets where there was no fire. Violet's own 
 plight was deplorable. Little streams of water 
 drained from her soaked skirts ; her hat was 
 crushed into a shapeless bunch, through an un- 
 intentional collision with a hook-and-ladder com- 
 pany. She had a great bruise on her cheek 
 (side lunge of the chair), and a never explained 
 scratch across her nose. But she was in high 
 spirits — her wooden ward was safe ! Almost 
 jubilantly she paid the boy at Mrs. Durham's 
 gate ; she answered her mother's anxious in- 
 quiries with a kiss and a laugh. 
 
 " I 've been a fireman, mamma ; I 've helped 
 save portable property. Jimmy, take off the 
 tarpaulin, please." 
 
126 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 Jimmy pulled it off with a flourish ; then he 
 gave a shout : " Oh, thunder ! " 
 
 Violet uttered a deep groan. She leaned 
 against the side of the house like one about to 
 faint. Poor Mrs. Durham caught her in her 
 arms. 
 
 " Oh, it 's nothing, mamma," said Violet, in 
 a hollow voice ; " only, we 've made a mistake, 
 and saved the wrong chair ! " 
 
 I draw a veil over the remainder of the night. 
 
 The explanation is simple enough. Old Jud- 
 son had beguiled the tedium of the night- 
 watches with whiskey. After he had pretty 
 well drowned his feeble wits, he took a notion 
 to inspect the chairs, and put the tarpaulin on 
 Mrs. Cody's chair. Then he departed to get 
 more whiskey, leaving bis lighted pipe up-stairs, 
 among the wrapping-papers. And Mrs. Fin- 
 lay's idol was ashes ! 
 
 Mrs. Finlay had a headache the night of the 
 fire, and slept undisturbed through the fire-bells. 
 Languid but unsuspecting, she came down to a 
 late breakfast. Tom and the boys were gone, 
 but Francis was in waiting, looking absolutely 
 tragic in his solemnity. Mrs. Finlay took up 
 the Wrenham paper. Francis, with a plate of 
 oatmeal in one hand and the cream-jug in the 
 
MRS. FIN LAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 127 
 
 other, stood watching her. " Ah ! " cried Mrs. 
 Finlay. She held the paper higher; Francis 
 could not see her face. He made a gesture of 
 despair with the cream- jug. 
 
 " Were you at the fire last night, Francis ? " 
 came from behind the paper. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, I was, ma'am," said Francis, 
 his pent-up feelings relieving themselves in a 
 heavy and irrepressible sigh. " It ain't no use, 
 ma'am ; it 's all gone ! When I got there, 
 everything was blazing. And they say, ma'am, 
 the janitor set it afire hisself . He was a-reeling 
 round there drunk 's a lord — begging your 
 pardon, ma'am ; and he locked the door, so they 
 could n't get in ! " 
 
 Mrs. Finlay put the paper down. She might 
 have been a shade paler, but Francis could see 
 no change in her expression. Yet, behind this 
 calm mask a sharp struggle was going on. This 
 stupid and barbarous town, after railing at her 
 and slandering her for years, had capped its 
 exasperations by destroying her most precious 
 possession ! Her nerves tingled with irritation. 
 But the blood of generations of Puritans did 
 not flow in Emily Finlay's veins for nothing. 
 She had as robust a conscience as the best of 
 them, although it was illumined by most un- 
 puritanic lights. After all, she reasoned, the 
 Wrenham people had burned up their own 
 
128 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 treasures as well as hers ; certainly, they had 
 intended no harm. 
 
 " Miss Durham," announced Francis, inter- 
 rupting the inward colloquy between anger and 
 justice. 
 
 " Show her in here," said Mrs. Finlay. She 
 remembered that Violet had opposed old Jud- 
 son's appointment, and greeted her with actual 
 warmth. 
 
 " You see, I know all," she said, touching 
 the newspaper. " I am so very sorry for you." 
 
 Violet looked pale and dejected ; she did not 
 lift her eyes ; her voice trembled as she an- 
 swered : — 
 
 " But your chair is gone ; I was down there 
 this morning, and could n't find even a piece of 
 it. And we persuaded you to send it ! " 
 
 " But you could n't know what was to hap- 
 pen," said Mrs. Finlay, gently ; " it was n't 
 your fault " — 
 
 " Master James Hubbard," said Francis, ap- 
 pearing again in the door-way. Jimmy had 
 unceremoniously followed the butler, and was 
 at his heels. He began a carefully conned 
 speech in breathless haste. He was sorry to 
 come so early in the morning ; but he saw 
 Miss Durham and wanted to come, also " be- 
 cause," cried Master Jimmy, growing red in the 
 face and forgetting his speech, " I knew she 
 
MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 129 
 
 would n't say anything about what she did, and 
 it was all old Judson's fault, 'cause he changed 
 the tarpaulin, and we couldn't see through the 
 smoke, and we hauled it out, and she got wet 
 through, and the hose-cart smashed her hat, and 
 Fritz Miiller and she and me, we carried it to 
 her house, and then, after all, it was Mrs. Cody's 
 chair ! " 
 
 Mrs. Finlay listened with evident emotion. 
 
 "Do you mean you ran into the burning 
 building for my chair ? " she cried. " Risked 
 your lives ? " 
 
 *' That 's about the size of it," said Jimmy. 
 Then more in detail he recounted the night's 
 adventures. When he finished, Mrs. Finlay 
 turned to Violet. 
 
 " How brave you were ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " I promised to take care of the chair," said 
 Violet, with a little rueful smile, " and you see 
 I failed, after all." 
 
 " What could you have done more ? " 
 
 " Well, we might have picked out the right 
 chair, you know," said Jimmy, impartially ; 
 " but it was so smoky." 
 
 " You took the one with the tarpaulin ; you 
 could n't know. Believe me, I am most grate- 
 ful for — why. Miss Durham ! " 
 
 For Violet, overcome by the long strain on 
 her nerves, and the reaction after a night spent 
 
130 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 in picturing her reception, eacli picture por- 
 traying more humiliating explanations than the 
 last, had sunk into a chair and turned very 
 white. Jimmy, in distress, threw the contents 
 of the cream-jug in her face ; happily the jug 
 was almost empty, and Mrs. Finlay instantly 
 repaired damages with a finger-bowl. 
 
 "Don't — bother," implored Violet faintly; 
 " I 'm not going to — do anything. But I was 
 so sorry, and you are so kind, and it is all so 
 
 — different ! " 
 
 " We thought you 'd be awful mad," Jimmy 
 explained, with calm suavity. 
 
 "We were unjust to you," said Violet; " I 
 
 — I think I have always been unjust to you." 
 
 " We have been unjust to each other," an- 
 swered Mrs. Finlay. " Can't we try all our 
 acquaintance over again, don't you think ? " 
 
 She looked up into Violet's face with a 
 charming smile, but her eyes were wet ; and 
 when Violet took the hand that was extended 
 to her, she could not speak because of the lump 
 in her throat. 
 
 Then Jimmy, who had been absorbed in 
 meditation, remarked : — 
 
 " Well, I guess there won't be any trouble 
 'bout getting the insurance ; that 's one good 
 thin or 
 
 
 Violet must either laugh or cry ; it was just 
 
MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 131 
 
 as well that she should laugh. Mrs. Finlay 
 laughed with her. " And then," said Jimmy, 
 describing the interview to his mother afterward, 
 " then Mr. Finlay came in, and they wanted us 
 to sit down and have breakfast ; but of course 
 I would n't. And, mother, I 'm going there 
 to luncheon to-morrow. And I don't believe 
 Mrs. Finlav cared much about the chair, 'cause 
 she didn't say another word about it." 
 
 When they were all gone, Tom Finlay put 
 his arm around his wife's waist. He was smil- 
 ing ; but, for once, she found nothing to quar- 
 rel with in his smile. He only said : — 
 
 " Milly, I was in the conservatory, and heard 
 it all. I am tremendously proud of you." 
 
 " Because I was n't cross ? " said Emily, 
 " But I had no right to be cross." 
 
 " Milly, you are a very just woman." 
 
 " Don't say that, Tom," cried his wife, with 
 a quick movement ; " I have been horrid about 
 Wrenham and about — about Miss Durham. 
 Tom, I wish you had told me that you asked 
 her to marry you." 
 
 Tom opened his eyes. 
 
 " But I never did, Milly. I thought of doing 
 it once ; but I found out she liked somebody 
 else better, so I held my tongue. Then I saw 
 you, and was glad enough I had. Milly, you 
 weren't " — 
 
 " Yes, I was, Tom," murmured Emily, hid- 
 
132 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 ing her head on his shoulder ; " I was just so 
 stupid." 
 
 Tom held her close ; she felt the quickened 
 beating of his heart, and she said : — 
 
 " I shall never be — stupid about Miss Dur- 
 ham again. She is so nice, and she was so 
 brave about the chair." 
 
 "The poor chair!" said Tom. " Milly, I 
 am sorry." 
 
 Mrs. Finlay pulled her husband's head down 
 to her own level and kissed his hair. 
 
 " If you are sorry, Tom," she whispered, 
 " then I do not mind." 
 
 Nevertheless she is not ungrateful to the 
 chair's memory. It is perhaps a fanciful no- 
 tion, but she feels as though the chair died for 
 her happiness. A water-color sketch of it 
 hangs in her chamber, and she has, when she 
 looks at it, an emotion of almost personal grat- 
 itude. She returned the insurance money 
 (which duly came to her) to the managers of 
 the museum, accompanying the money with 
 a sympathetic note. The note made a favor- 
 able impression. Wrenham has come to the 
 conclusion that Mrs. Finlay has her good 
 points. It only remains to add that Tom Fin- 
 lay has no cause to complain of his wife's cool- 
 ness to the Durhams ; and that James Hub- 
 bard is the proud possessor of a new and most 
 gorgeous gold watch. 
 
 o 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 
 
 A STUDY. 
 
 It was a very modest sign : dingy gilt letters 
 on a rusty black ground, the entire sign being 
 not larger in area than two feet by one ; and it 
 hung, moreover, in a helpless, one-sided, mutely- 
 appealing fashion by a single corner nail. Why 
 then did the handsome young man who was 
 passing give it a vicious twist with his cane, and 
 send the announcement of the " Office of the 
 Woman's Suffrage Association " into the mud 
 of the street ? Being a western street, the mud 
 was deep. "You be hanged!" muttered the 
 young man — which, indeed, was just what the 
 sign needed ; but he did not hang it. He walked 
 on with a little irritable laugh and turned down 
 a side street, when, seeing no one near enough 
 to observe him, he soon allowed the dejection 
 of his feelings to shape his expression. The 
 cause of his melancholy mood was that frequent 
 disturber of a lover's peace, a quarrel with his 
 mistress. The quarrel was no transient dis- 
 agreement ; it was a final rupture. Six times 
 since the morning mail had Harold Durham 
 
134 KNITTERS IN THE SUN 
 
 read a certain note which he then received ; now 
 he was repeating its contents from memory ; 
 certainly they showed no indecision in the 
 writer. 
 
 I have read your letter carefully. I cannot 
 say anything but what I have said before so 
 often you must be tired. I do not blame you, 
 Harold, that you are not willing to have your 
 wife feel so differently from you ; but you must 
 not blame me, either, if I cannot give up my 
 friends and my convictions for you. A woman 
 has a sense of honor as well as a man, and I 
 cannot do it, Harold. But I do not mean to 
 reproach you. I never had the shadow of a 
 claim on you, you know. You are quite free. 
 I have sent you back your letters and your ring. 
 And please believe that I shall always remain 
 Your faithful friend, 
 
 Lillian S. Maine. 
 
 " Then there 's a postscript," continued the 
 young man, " about hoping she has n't been 
 abrupt and hoping I will be happy. Happy ! 
 Oh, yes." — Here Harold broke off his reflec- 
 tions to scowl ferociousl}^ at a small boot-black 
 and shout, " JVo " ; but before the boy could 
 turn he stopped him. " Yes, I do, too ; only be 
 quick about it ! " He did not really want his 
 
 o 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 135 
 
 boots blacked (in truth they had been blacked 
 ten minutes before this episode, for he was on 
 his way to a friend's house), but he wanted to 
 make amends for his harshness to a child, and 
 some scruples concerning almsgiving forbade 
 the easier device of a quarter. The act was 
 trivial, yet a clew to Harold's character. He 
 had a fervid temperament which his will kept 
 in rigid retirement, but sometimes it escaped 
 and hurried him into action, in which cases his 
 atonement was prone to be as impetuous as his 
 offense. He looked after the boy when he 
 dashed away, having finished the merest pre- 
 tense of blacking. " Poor little rat," he thought ; 
 " after all, it is harder lines for him than for 
 me. If a man can only do something perma- 
 nent for that crowd, he ought not to make a row 
 if he does n't get all the other things he asks of 
 life." 
 
 Pursuing this elevating strain of meditation, 
 Harold resolved to waste no more moans over 
 his ruined hopes, but, dismissing importunate 
 visions of a noble, candid face and classic head, 
 with its thick brown braids, to fix his mind upon 
 the object of his visit to Xerxes ; namely, tene- 
 ment houses. "Drains," said Harold sternly, 
 " drains ; they must be settled ! " And as a 
 judicious initiative to the settlement of drains 
 he leaned against a fence, and taking Miss 
 
136 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 Maine's letter out of his pocket he proceeded to 
 give it a seventh reading. 
 
 It is as good a time as any to draw his picture. 
 His dress, his tall, athletic figure, his fresh com- 
 plexion, and his reddish-blonde beard parted in 
 the centre lent his presence an English air, and 
 he spoke with an English accent ; he was, how- 
 ever, an American, the son of a Chicago pork 
 packer and a Vermont school-teacher. His 
 father was a jovial, shrewd, strong-willed, faith- 
 ful man who had inherited a small fortune and 
 had made it a great one. His mother was a 
 gentle and graceful woman who had almost for- 
 gotten that she was not born rich. She had 
 very soft, winning manners, dressed perfectly, 
 and had the most harmoniously picturesque 
 house in Chicago. Mrs. Durham had visited 
 England three times ; the first time she brought 
 back her butler, the second time her coachman, 
 the third time her invaluable housekeeper, 
 " Becket." " Now I feel that I can live^'' she 
 said confidentially. Harold was the only child. 
 It was Mrs. Durham's idea to send him to Eng- 
 land ; she wanted him to go to Eton first, then 
 to Oxford ; but I believe they compromised 
 upon Phillips Academy and Oxford. 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Durham had retired from 
 business under the influence of a siege of head- 
 ache and his wife's entreaties, and when Harold 
 
 o 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 137 
 
 returned home lie found him in a deplorable 
 state of anxious laziness. Harold most unex- 
 pectedly came to his relief by plunging into 
 philanthropy and tenement houses. Mr. Dur- 
 ham saw that the tenement houses paid, while 
 Harold, who had studied architecture and sani- 
 tary science and political economy for no other 
 purpose, as he told his father, planned the 
 buildings. 
 
 He quite agreed with his father that the 
 houses must be made to pay a fair interest on 
 the money. 
 
 " We shall do no good with it as a charity," 
 he used to say, " but if we can make decent 
 dwellings for the working classes a paying in- 
 vestment, we shall have plenty of people follow- 
 ing our example. And that is what we want. 
 We want to make these vile fire»traps and fever- 
 holes unrentable ! " 
 
 It will be seen that Harold had the hope as 
 well as the courage of his opinions. One might 
 fancy that he would have been tolerably busy, 
 what with overseeing building, collecting rents, 
 helping his tenants to help themselves, and 
 writing explanations of the model tenement 
 scheme to the newspapers ; but he was a young 
 man of immense energy, he felt that his country 
 as well as the poor needed him, and he took an 
 active interest in politics. He made quite a 
 
138 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 little oration to his father when the subject was 
 first mentioned between them. 
 
 " What do we most need in America ? " he 
 cried. " That gentlemen should enter politics ! 
 We leave them to the lower classes, and see the 
 scoundrelly cads who represent us in Congress ! 
 I don't wonder they sneer at us in Europe. 
 The class who are our natural leaders, who have 
 the leisure to study the theory of civilization 
 and find out what government can and what it 
 can't do, they stay at home for fear of a little 
 mud throwing ! I tell you it 's a cowardly 
 shame ! " shouted Harold, growing hot and 
 bringing his fist down on the table with a bang. 
 
 " Well, don't break things, dear, if it is ! " 
 said his mother, in some alarm. There was a 
 real Palissy vase on that table and it was tot- 
 tering frightfully. 
 
 Mr. Durham chuckled, but said nothing. 
 His son's English social tone, his vehemence, 
 and his astounding political innocence tickled 
 the elder man's sense of humor. "He 's a good 
 fellow," thought Mr. Durham, " and he '11 get 
 over his nonsense in a little while. Give him 
 his head a while, and let him fool about the 
 primaries and vote independent tickets till he's 
 tired. He '11 come out all right, and there ain't 
 a bit of danger of his being elected to any- 
 thing ! " 
 
 o 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 139 
 
 Mrs. Durham took Harold much more se- 
 riously ; his enthusiasm, to be sure, was rather 
 alarming in a drawing-room, but that was a 
 trifling blemish ; she admired the English tone ; 
 Harold's sentiments, his manners, the very ris- 
 ing inflections of his voice at the close of his 
 sentences thrilled her heart with an exquisite 
 vanity ; she loved her husband, but her son was 
 her realized ideal. At last, she felt that she 
 could crush Mrs. Maine. A grandmother who 
 had been a Van Rensselaer and a sister who 
 had crossed the Atlantic eighteen times could 
 never stand up against a son educated at Ox- 
 ford, with his English training visible in every 
 bow and audible in every question that he asked. 
 
 It was a natural consequence of such a reverie 
 that Mrs. Durham should take Harold over to 
 the Maines, that same evening. Harold found 
 a tall young woman, handsome as Diana, in- 
 stead of the merry little girl who had skated 
 and climbed trees with him ten years ago. He 
 instantly discovered that he had loved her all 
 his life, and told her so two months later. Lily 
 Maine had been cruel enough to doubt the du- 
 ration of his feeling, and had refused to be posi- 
 tively his promised wife until he had known 
 her lonsjer: but she had admitted what she 
 styled a "partiality" for him and had consented 
 to wear his ring, although she would not let 
 
140 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 him bu}' her one. In short, they finally arrived 
 at an " understanding " which was to be an 
 " engagement " at the end of the year. Harold 
 had never been so happy in his life ; he thought 
 Lily more charming every day. 
 
 He was not alone in this opinion ; few people 
 knew Miss Maine without feeling the subtle at- 
 traction of her mingled sincerity and sympathy. 
 There are many sincere people in the world, 
 and many sympathetic people ; but the sincere 
 people are apt to be disagreeable, and the sym- 
 pathetic people are apt to lie, more or less. 
 Lily, while she was absolutely truthful, knew 
 how to be silent, and her interest in others' 
 goodness or sorrow was too quick to need to be 
 whipped up by her politeness. As most of us 
 are either good or unhappy, and some of us are 
 both, Lily's interest had a wide career before 
 it — so wide, indeed, that Mrs. Maine shuddered 
 over her daughter's disregard of the convention- 
 alities. She used to discuss Lily's " eccentri- 
 city" with her second daughter, — her husband 
 was dead, — always ending the recital of her 
 grievances with the declaration that she could 
 have borne anything better than "that dreadful 
 women's rights crowd ! " 
 
 Now I trust the reader perceives why Harold 
 flung the sign of the Woman's Suffrage Associa- 
 tion into the mire ; "the cause " had torn Lily 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 141 
 
 from him. He was, on the whole, hi spite of 
 his impetuous nature, a very sweet-tempered fel- 
 low ; but he had a touch of his father's dogged- 
 ness, and he cherished his few prejudices. The 
 son of his mother could hardly help having an 
 intense dislike to anything harsh or coarse in a 
 woman ; by an easy transition his dislike was 
 transferred to a movement which seemed to him 
 an effort to make all women harsh and coarse. 
 I fear a visit which he made the previous year 
 (I am writing of 1879) to Washington, and the 
 glimpse he there had of the workings of the 
 cause, reinforced his prejudices. There was 
 the usual delegation of ladies in the city, to 
 present the claims of women to the ballot be- 
 fore Congress. Harold attended one of their 
 meetings. Several ladies were speaking when 
 he entered, and because of this circumstance 
 he could hear very little. Soon one enterprising 
 speaker mounted a chair, a bolder spirit climbed 
 upon the table, and the climax was reached 
 when a strangely attired being — Harold sup- 
 posed she was a woman — put a chair upon the 
 table, clambered into the chair, and screamed 
 her views above the uproar. Harold shrugged 
 his shoulders and went away. 
 
 He did not know of Lily's opinions until 
 some two months after he had asked her to be 
 his wife. He never suspected that a girl with 
 
142 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 so much hair could be a defender of the rights 
 of woman, and his first intimation of such a hor- 
 rible anomaly was the sight of her name in the 
 "Times" as secretary of the Chicago branch. 
 There is no necessity of detailing the particu- 
 lars of their quarrel — for quarrel it became at 
 last. Harold felt that Lily would have given 
 up a whim for his sake had she loved him 
 deeply ; Lily felt that she could never again 
 respect herself if she were to give up her prin- 
 ciples to secure her happiness ; between the 
 feelings of both they soon came to bitter words. 
 
 " Lily, if I had heard j^ou were a Roman 
 Catholic I could n't have been more shocked," 
 cried Harold, pacing the room. " It is n't so 
 much the object as the people, such a horribly 
 ill-bred crowd ! All the crack-brained women 
 I know are shrieking for the suffrage." 
 
 " They are queer, some of them," admitted 
 Lily, half laughing and half sighing, " but you 
 know, Harold, that in all reforms odd people 
 come at first. You should have heard father 
 tell of the extraordinary creatures who used to 
 flock to the early anti-slavery gatherings. We 
 used to entertain the brethren — such looking 
 people as they were sometimes ! And they 
 never could eat things like other people ! " 
 
 " I presume we shall have to entertain quite 
 as interesting specimens," retorted Harold with 
 
 o 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 143 
 
 a sneer; but all the time his heart had softened 
 over the " we," and he was sorely tempted to 
 surrender on the spot. 
 
 Howeyer, being always on guard against his 
 impulses, he resisted temptation and took a 
 very dignified leave. It was the day of his de- 
 parture for Xerxes. Some tenement houses in 
 that thriving town had lately become Mr. Dur- 
 ham's property, and Harold was going there to 
 superintend their transformation into the model 
 tenements of his dreams. He told Lily that 
 he would call on his way to the depot to say 
 good-by. Neither Lily nor he had any reason 
 to suspect that Dr, Jerusha Dale would call 
 also ; nevertheless he found her overshoes re- 
 posing on the tiles of the vestibule. Even we 
 who know and respect Dr. Dale feel that she 
 has not a prepossessing appearance. She is a 
 tall lady, very thin but prodigiously muscular ; 
 (there is a legend current among her friends 
 that she once knocked a rude medical student 
 down, and it is certain that she did collar a 
 drunken man who was beating his wife ;) her 
 dress never shows any concession to the fashion 
 of the day, her voice is loud and her movements 
 ungraceful ; she wears her black hair short ; 
 and there is, to be frank, a kind of griraness 
 about her whole aspect. Yet she is a woman 
 of undoubted talent, who half starved herself 
 
144 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 to learn her profession, and now is continually 
 spending her knowledge upon miserable men 
 and women who cannot pay her fees ; she is 
 said to be marvelously gentle in a sick room, 
 and her loud voice itself was acquired in duti- 
 fully shouting at her deaf mother, whom she 
 keeps in great comfort. Harold unfortunately 
 knew nothing of her amiable traits. He shud- 
 dered when he saw her long form gradually 
 emerge from a Queen Anne chair. *' What an 
 awful woman ! " he thought, as he bowed. She, 
 kind soul, who really loved Lily, thought he 
 had a good face ; and suspecting him to be 
 Lily's lover almost immediately took her leave, 
 although she had not been in the house ten 
 minutes, and had come six miles through the 
 mud and rain solely to make this one call. 
 Harold had not the grace to recognize her con- 
 sideration. He was furious when he heard her 
 kiss Lily in the hall ; and Lily on her return 
 found him standing, hat in hand, by the door. 
 
 No, he said, with an air of distant politeness, 
 he would not take off his overcoat ; he had only 
 come to say good-by. He was glad he was 
 leaving her in such good hands ; he hoped she 
 would have a pleasant time during his absence ; 
 doubtless he should hear of her through the 
 newspapers ; some speech — 
 
 "Oh, dear, no," said Lily, trying to laugh. 
 
 o 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 145 
 
 "I am not gifted in that way. I never could 
 write an essay when I was in school, and I 
 should break down if I tried to read it, any- 
 how. It is in the drudgery of committees that 
 I shine." 
 
 " I shall wish you much success in commit- 
 tees, then," said Harold. " Good-by." He lifted 
 her hand coldly to his lips, and he did not see 
 that there were tears in her eyes. 
 
 The next day he wrote her a long letter from 
 Xerxes. He begged her to give up such prin- 
 ciples and friends ; he made the most moving 
 plea in his power, and wrote six pages about 
 his love for her. Lily cried over the letter all 
 night, and answered by an appeal to his justice. 
 He wrote her (by the next mail) that she did 
 not seem to consider that it was a matter of 
 principle with him, and that he certainly never 
 could bring himself to tolerate Dr. Jerusha 
 Dale as one of his wife's friends. His answer 
 was the letter \vhich he held in his hand. 
 
 He had finished reading it now, and was list- 
 lessly looking about him. This was his first 
 walk in that part of Xerxes. He did not ad- 
 mire the town. The slightly built houses, the 
 soft coal dinginess everywhere, and the abound- 
 ing mud jarred on an eye accustomed to the 
 picturesque tidiness of English country towns. 
 Harold never took a walk that he did not stum- 
 
146 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 ble over some broken board in the wooden side- 
 walks, or have a loose board fly up in his face 
 as he trod upon it, or sink up to his ankles in 
 the black slime of a crossing. The number of 
 unprotected cows, geese, and pigs which he met 
 also amazed him ; and he found stagnant pools 
 of water in ravines close to beautifully kept 
 lawns and handsome houses. 
 
 " Most extraordinary town ! " said Harold. 
 Montgomery Street below the railroad (w^hich 
 runs through the busiest part of the town, at 
 the base of the hills — another astonishing cir- 
 cumstance to Harold) is not a pretty street ; 
 and St. Patrick's Church, against whose fence 
 he was leaning, is as severely ugly as the stern- 
 est Puritan could desire, although the cross 
 which surmounts its unadorned stone walls and 
 wooden roof is the symbol of the most ancient 
 Christian faith. On one side of the church is 
 the parochial school, a row of brick buildings 
 with battered wooden doors and worn wooden 
 steps. Nearer the street there is the priest's 
 house, a small two-story brick edifice, and in 
 front of the house is a garden. The day on 
 which Harold first saw it was in April, and it 
 was ablaze with tulips. 
 
 " Pretty fine display, ain't it ? " said a mau, 
 coming up to Harold. He wore a working- 
 man's dress with a carpenter's rule sticking out 
 
 o 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 147 
 
 of liis coat pocket, and he rested two patched 
 elbows on the fence rail as he spoke. 
 
 " Yes, it is, my man," said Harold ; *' whose 
 garden is it ? " 
 
 " Mister Quinnailon's, the priest here ; that 's 
 him now ! " 
 
 Harold looked rather curiously at the priest, 
 a stout old man in a threadbare black cassock, 
 whose strongly marked, dark face showed his 
 foreign birth ; it would have been a plain face 
 but for the bright eyes and benevolent smile. 
 " How sly he looks ! " thought Harold, whose 
 English education had intensified the average 
 good Protestant's distrust of the Church of 
 Rome. » 
 
 " Good morning," said Father Quinnailon ; 
 " how is your vife zis morning ? " 
 
 " She 's 'bout the same," said the man. 
 
 The priest was picking tulips ; he handed 
 them over the fence to the man. 
 
 " Shall you give zem to her, please," he said, 
 " and tell her zat she has my prayers." 
 
 "Much obliged. Mister Quinnailon," said 
 the man, taking the flowers. It seemed to 
 Harold that he would have said more had he 
 found any words to his mind, but he merely 
 gave a short nod and walked down the street. 
 
 The priest, turning to Harold, asked him if 
 he cared to see the garden. " I have seen you 
 standing here for a long time," he said. 
 
148 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 Harold blushed and said that he was inter- 
 ested in tulips. 
 
 " And you, zen, know someting of ze tulip 
 culture, perhaps?" said Father Quinnailon, 
 with sparkling eyes. " I do not often have such 
 a pleasure to meet one zat cares for zat. Vill 
 you valk in, my dear sir ? " 
 
 Harold, half amused at his own complaisance, 
 followed the priest about the garden and talked 
 for ten minutes of tulips and Dutch culture. 
 Then he spoke of the man who had just left 
 them, and asked the priest if he was a good 
 workman. 
 
 Father Quinnailon shook his head. " Zat I 
 do not know. You see, my dear sir, I . have 
 know him but a small time. It vas zis vay. I 
 go to veesit one of my people in a poor house 
 on Tyler Street " — 
 
 "One of my father's houses, probably," in- 
 terrupted Durham. " I am come to repair 
 them." 
 
 " Zat is good news," said Father Quinnai- 
 lon, bowing. " Eh veil, it vas zere I see ]\Irs. 
 Higgins. Mrs. Barnes had ze room across her, 
 and ven I vas to leave I see a leetle girl brush- 
 ing vith a broom — so leetle a maiden vith so 
 great a broom ! — and I say, ' My child, vat 
 make you vith ze broom ? ' Vile I talk, I hear 
 her mother call, and I come in to find her sick, 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 149 
 
 in great distress, her husband gone to look for 
 vork, no one to help her but ze leetle maid. 
 So I sveep ze room for her, and we get ac- 
 quainted a leetle, and I have come two other 
 times and send her a flower or a leetle soup or 
 such ting ; but zat is all I know. She did tell 
 me — yes — zat her husband have money saved 
 up ven he come here, but he breaked his leg ; 
 zat vas a great expense, and she also has been 
 long sick. But I tink dem to be good, honest 
 people too proud to beg." 
 
 " Then you can't recommend the man ? " 
 
 " No, not as to vork, for zat I do not know. 
 But I hope you vill see Mr. Lawrence. He is 
 a builder and has employed him. Stay, it is 
 but a step ; if you vill but vait here I vill ask 
 Mr. Lawrence myself." 
 
 " No," said Harold, " I will go ; pray don't 
 take so much trouble. They are poor, then, 
 these Higginses ? " 
 
 " Very poor, I fear, sir, but zey do not tell 
 me ; I am not of zeir profession ; zey are Prot- 
 estants as yourself, sir," said the priest, with 
 a little wistful glance up at Harold's face. 
 (" He wants to convert me," thought Harold.) 
 ** Zey speak but leetle to me of zeir affairs, and 
 I vish not to intrude." 
 
 " Certainly not," said Harold. " I thank 
 you for your courtesy — ah — Father ; and I 
 will wish you good afternoon." 
 
150 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 The old priest insisted on picking a most 
 gorgeous tulip for him, saying, ''It is so great 
 a pleasure to give to one who knows of flowers." 
 
 " Decidedly, he means to convert me," 
 thought Harold, walking up the hill. His sin- 
 gle acquaintance in Xerxes had invited him to 
 a " tea-party," a festivity of ambiguous nature, 
 but he was told enjoyable, and to it he was now 
 hastening. Xerxes is on the Mississippi ; and 
 as Harold stood on the Gilberts' vine-covered 
 porch, he could see the river shining through 
 the tender green leaves. He thought that he 
 would write Lily of the pretty home which the 
 Gilberts had, and how beautiful was the river ; 
 and then, with a sharp pang, he remembered 
 that none of his friends or thoughts mattered 
 to Lily any more. In most incongruous spirits 
 he was ushered by his host through two hand- 
 somely and airily furnished rooms, filled with 
 ladies in black silk and point lace. Apparently 
 the gentlemen were all in the hall. Harold 
 was introduced to Mrs. Gilbert, a pretty little 
 woman with very bright brown eyes and very 
 white hands, and so sweet a voice that Harold 
 thought the western accent delicious. She in- 
 troduced him to some fifty other women, young 
 and old, who all asked him how he liked Xerxes. 
 He said, with diffidence, that it seemed to him 
 " rather muddy." 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 151 
 
 They, without exception, opened their eyes 
 very wide and said, — 
 
 " Do you think it muddy noio ? " 
 
 " Is it possible for a place to be muddier ? " 
 cried Harold desperately, at last. 
 
 Mrs. Gilbert made a little grimace. " You 
 are evidently fresh from some effete monarchy 
 where they pave the very alleys. Mr. Durham, 
 this is n't mud, this is fair walking ; when we 
 are muddy the cross streets are impassable; 
 people don't even dare to die because they know 
 they can't have a funeral ! " 
 
 " But the farmers," said Harold ; " how do 
 they come to town ? " 
 
 " Oh, they don't come." 
 
 " But is n't it very awkward, you know? " 
 
 " Very," said Mrs. Gilbert placidly. " Will 
 you sit here, Mr. Durham ? " 
 
 Harold perceived that a number of small 
 tables had appeared in the rooms, and that peo- 
 ple were seating themselves around them. He 
 found himself provided mysteriously with a nap- 
 kin and a tiny bouquet, and seated near a very 
 pretty girl who was equally amiable, but whom, 
 I am sorry to say, he was never able afterward 
 to describe. Indeed, all through the " tea," — 
 which was an elaborate supper, by the way, — 
 he talked mechanically. Once only he was 
 roused to any interest in the conversation. A 
 lady near him was speaking ; — 
 
152 KNITTERS IN THE SUN 
 
 " I said to her right off, I could n't help it, 
 ' Mrs. Hunter,' I said, ' you ain't going to send 
 Mary to the Sisters ? ' ' Well, yes,' she said, 
 she ' guessed so ; her father did n't feel he could 
 afford to send Mary East this year, and Mary 
 had shown such a decided taste for painting 
 they thought just for this year they would let 
 her try the Sisters.' " 
 
 " A year ! " repeated one of the listeners in 
 a hollow voice, " a year ! Six months is enough 
 for them ! She '11 come back a Romanist, Mrs. 
 Dow." 
 
 " Of course she will. I would n't send a 
 child of mine to a Romanist school if they had 
 to grow up ignorant." 
 
 '* What I object to in the Papists," said a 
 gentleman opposite, " is their proselyting spirit. 
 They are quite welcome to their superstitions 
 for themselves, but when they come to this 
 country for refuge and we receive them, the 
 least they can do is to keep from forcing their 
 religion on us. The Romanists are getting to 
 be a political power in this country, and unless 
 we stop their influence now, while we have the 
 power, we shall soon find that the church of 
 Rome hasn't lost its old persecuting spirit." 
 
 " Oh, well," said a stout lady near Harold, 
 with a comfortable, tolerant smile dimpling her 
 handsome face, " there are good people every- 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 153 
 
 wbere ; I have seen as good Catholics as Prot- 
 estants ; the best cook I ever had was a Cath- 
 olic. It 's the priests I can't bear ; the poor, 
 deluded people I pity." 
 
 It was generally agreed that the priests were 
 deceitful above all things, and one lady who 
 had lately heard Edith O'Gorman darkly hinted 
 that they were also desperately wicked. Mrs. 
 Gilbert had been listening to the conversation 
 in silence ; at this last remark she spoke. 
 
 " You really didn't expect me to hear that 
 and say nothing, did you ? " she said laughing. 
 "I don't know what the priests are in other 
 countries ; I 've never lived there ; but here in 
 America I know they are in the main, to say 
 the least, hard-working, devoted, honest men of 
 irreproachable lives. I should think any one 
 in Xerxes could see that. Look at Father 
 O'Rourke, who does good every day he lives, 
 who has got those wild Irish boys of his church 
 into a literary society, and is making decent 
 men of them ; and Father Qainnailon, who is a 
 saint if ever " — 
 
 The stout lady interrupted her to say that 
 she always excepted Father Quinnailon. " And 
 the Sisters of Mercy," she added. 
 
 " Who is Father Quinnailon ? " asked Harold. 
 Every one looked at Mrs. Gilbert. 
 
 " Father Quinnailon," said Mrs. Gilbert, " is 
 
154 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 an old settler who came here when Xerxes was 
 a village and everybody was dying of cholera. 
 My father and mother had just come here then, 
 and my mother had the cholera. They could 
 n't get a house anywhere, and were thankful 
 enough to get into a warehouse where there 
 was a crowd of German emigrants in the same 
 case, and half of them down with the cholera. 
 Our furniture had not come (things came on 
 boats then, and I believe our boat was fast on a 
 sand bar) ; my poor mother had not a bed to 
 lie on, only some husks and a piece of carpet, 
 until Father Quinnailon brought his own mat- 
 tress to her. Poor man, he slept on the hard 
 floor because of it. And he used to bring her 
 and the poor Germans who were there, too, 
 soup and all kinds of things which he would 
 make at home." 
 
 '' They were Catholics ? " said Harold. 
 
 " Catholics ? They were all heretics, every 
 soul of them. Father Quinnailon never inquired 
 about a sufferer's religion before he helped him. 
 And as for proselyting — look at us, who have 
 known the dear old man all our lives and are 
 as firm Presbyterians as you can find I " 
 
 " Yes, Father Quinnailon is a good man," 
 said the stout lady. "I remember, thirty years 
 ago, when I first came here and our house took 
 fire, how he was up on the roof, the first man, 
 
 o 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 155 
 
 witli his bucket ; he always used to go to every 
 fire with that bucket before we had the fire 
 companies." 
 
 "And he was a loyal man during the war," 
 said the gentleman who had spoken first; "give 
 every one his due, I say. Father Quinnailon 
 did a great deal to encourage enlistments, and 
 I must say I liked those queer little speeches 
 he used to make about ' supporting ze generous 
 country zat have receive us,' when we had flag 
 raisings." 
 
 "Well," said another gentleman, " he 's likely 
 to receive the reward of all his virtues ; I hear 
 they 're going to make him bishop of the new 
 diocese in this state." 
 
 " Yes, and the poor man is so distressed 
 about it, Mr. Graham," said Mrs. Gilbert. "He 
 told me of it with tears in his eyes ; he said 
 that he had written and begged them not to 
 think of it ; ' for,' he said, ' I am not a learned 
 man, I cannot be a bishop, I am but fit to min- 
 ister to the poor people.' " 
 
 " I have heard of that kind of thing in apos- 
 tolic times," said Mr. Graham, " but I have 
 never seen any clergyman who would decline 
 promotion, myself. It is n't the salary, you 
 understand, it 's the larger opportunities of 
 usefulness. You will find Father Quinnailon 
 will take the same view of it." 
 
166 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 " I don't think so," said Mrs. Gilbert. 
 
 " Well, I don't think so either," said the 
 stout lady. '' Father Quinnailon is a kind of 
 apostolic man, if he does pray to idols and wor- 
 ship the Virgin Mary." 
 
 " But he does n't," said Mrs. Gilbert. " I 
 never saw a Catholic who did." 
 
 There were several exclamations. 
 
 " Perhaps not the better classes " — began 
 Mr. Towne. 
 
 Mrs. Dow interrupted him. " Don't you 
 think Romanists pray to the Virgin, Mrs. Gil- 
 bert ? I know I 've read in ' Life and Light ' 
 the letters from our missionaries among the 
 Romanists, in Spain and Mexico and Austria, 
 and they talk about the superstitious obser- 
 vances there." 
 
 " I never knew any Mexicans or Spaniards," 
 said Mrs. Gilbert. " I have known Austrians, 
 but they never thought of* such a thing. All 
 the Catholics I know have told me that they 
 only pray the Virgin to intercede for them with 
 God. They would feel it as blasphemous to 
 pray to her directly as you or I would." 
 
 " But I have read in ' Life and Light,' " said 
 the unshaken Mrs. Dow, " that some Mexicans 
 who were converted and became Christians "— r 
 
 " What were they before ? " asked Harold. 
 Romanists," answered Mrs. Dow severely. 
 
 (( 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 157 
 
 " ITie^/ said that they used to kneel down be- 
 fore the Virgin's shrine and prai/ ! " 
 
 " Well, it does n't make much difference 
 whether they call it interceding or not," said 
 Mr. Towne; "they pray to her; that's the 
 main point." 
 
 Mrs. Gilbert gave Harold a helpless glance, 
 and changed the subject. Shortly after Harold 
 made his excuses and went away. 
 
 During the two months following he was 
 much in Xerxes. He often met Father Quin- 
 nailon, for most of his tenants were the old 
 priest's parishioners. From a few words of 
 greeting they soon came to long conversations ; 
 not upon religion, but upon the people in whom 
 they were both interested and upon the many 
 difficulties in the way of helping the poor. 
 Sometimes Harold would talk to Higgins, whom 
 he had employed, about the priest. Higgins 
 always called him " Mister Quinnailon," which 
 title it appeared was Mr. Higgins' oblique pro- 
 test against the errors of Rome, he being one 
 of the best of Protestants though an indifferent 
 Christian. 
 
 " Fact is," he said confidentially to Harold, 
 " since Bessie 's been sick, I 've kinder got out 
 of the way of going to church ; now she 's bet- 
 ter, I guess I'll begin again. But for all that, 
 I ain't forgot the stories my mother used to tell 
 
158 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 me 'bout John Rogers and all them. We had 
 a whole book about them, full of pictures of 
 people being burned and hung and prodded 
 with spears and sich things ; we used to be let 
 to read in it Sunday afternoons. No, sir, no 
 Catholic in mine ! But Mister Quinnailon 's 
 an honest man, if he is a priest, and he 's done 
 a sight of kind things to us. I 've seen him 
 off with his coat and wash the dishes himself. 
 And, between you and me, I guess Bessie tells 
 him the most of her troubles. ' Don't you be 
 letting him make you a Catholic, Bessie,' says 
 I. ' He 's making me a better Protestant, 
 Obed,' says she ; ' it ain't in me to ever be a 
 Catholic, and he knows it, but his talks and 
 his prayers make me feel better,' says she. 
 He 's a pretty good man, and that 's what I '11 
 stick to." 
 
 Harold also talked of Father Quinnailon to 
 Mrs. Gilbert, although he considered her testi- 
 mony biased beyond expression. Mrs. Gilbert 
 drew her own conclusions from these conver- 
 sations, and from the despondency which Har- 
 old's most strenuous efforts failed to conceal. 
 
 " He is having some trouble with his girl," 
 said Mrs. Gilbert. " I do believe, from all his 
 questions about Father Quinnailon and Roman 
 Catholics, that she is one, and that 's the trou- 
 ble. Probably she 's a new convert. If she is. 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 159 
 
 she is odious. I never knew a new convert 
 who was n't ! I confess I 'm of Charles Lamb's 
 opinion, that one should n't set one's self up 
 to be wiser than his ancestors, but should stick 
 to the religion he 's born in, whatever it is." 
 
 Mr. Gilbert made no reply ; in fact, he was 
 taking his Sunday afternoon nap, and had not 
 heard a word of his wife's discourse. 
 
 She was confirmed in her suppositions by 
 Harold's next conversation. He happened to 
 be standing at the window as a long procession 
 of young girls, in whose gowns dark red pre- 
 dominated, brightened the dingy street, four 
 familiar black-robed figures leading the proces- 
 sion, four more guarding the rear. Harold, 
 idly watching them, saw a merry young face 
 turned towards him with a frank smile, suc- 
 ceeded by a blush. 
 
 " Why, there 's Mamie Hunter ! " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Gilbert. " How shocked Mrs. Dow would 
 be to see her ! You remember her dread of the 
 Sisters' influence ? " 
 
 "Don't you think they do try to proselyte?" 
 Harold said. 
 
 " Very likely. They are human, and they 
 believe their faith is the only sure foundation 
 for goodness and happiness. I know Protestant 
 girls' schools do their best to give their religious 
 character to their scholars. The one I went 
 
160 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 to — and there is a better nowhere ! — made a 
 tremendous assault on a girl's sensibilities." 
 
 " Nevertheless you must admit that the whole 
 tone of Protestants is more tolerant than that 
 of Catholics." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so. I have been told so 
 from my youth up ; but individually, I confess 
 the Catholics I have known have shown a 
 broader charity towards Protestants than the 
 Protestants have shown to the Catholics. One 
 of my dearest friends is a devoted Catholic ; 
 she knows a great deal more than I, with my 
 two babies, can ever hope to achieve ; and she 
 is the best, the sweetest, the most truthful, and 
 the truest girl I ever knew. I have known her 
 ten years ; I love her, and she loves me ; but 
 in all that time I never heard a word from her 
 in praise of her church or in disparagement of 
 mine. And though my other Catholic acquaint- 
 ances are n't such absolute angels as she, I can 
 say the same thing of them. There are plenty 
 of bigoted Catholics, of course, but I think they 
 are mostly among the uneducated people ; and 
 I don't think they make the most tolerant Prot- 
 estants." 
 
 Harold shrugged his shoulders. " They talk 
 like angels of light, now, but wait until they are 
 stronger politically " — 
 
 " I don't know much about politics," inter- 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 161 
 
 rupted Mrs. Gilbert, " but I do know tliat if 
 the Protestant creed is driven out of America, 
 it will be because it is not fit to stay, and de- 
 serves to go ! But I confess I see no signs of 
 such things, and I d(3 see that there is — what 
 do you call it? — a reflex influence. If the 
 Catholic Church is affecting America, so is 
 America affecting the Catholic Church. And I 
 actually, do you know, am such a lukewarm 
 Protestant that I can conceive of them both 
 doing each other good." 
 
 Harold smiled and said that she was too 
 clever for him. He did not pursue the subject ; 
 he was in no humor for argument ; indeed, in 
 those days he was abjectly miserable. 
 
 " The Rainbow comes and goes, 
 
 And lovely is the Rose ; 
 
 The Moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 
 
 Waters on a starry night 
 
 Are beautiful and fair ; 
 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
 
 But yet I know, where'er I go. 
 That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.'* 
 
 Harold still has the old memorandum book 
 in which he copied this stanza one day when he 
 was particularly despondent ; and it is the best 
 record of his feelings. Every passing interest 
 seemed to fling a chain of associations to grap- 
 ple Lily's image to his thoughts. When he 
 
162 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 picked the first auemone, in a ravine, he wanted 
 to tell her how much earlier the flowers came 
 to him than to her ; when Mrs. Barnes's little 
 Annie sickened with a baleful something, sup- 
 posed to be small-pox but proving no worse 
 than measles, he longed to pour out his relief to 
 her ; when he settled the drain plans to his 
 satisfaction, he longed as much to impart his 
 pleasure ; when he went to church, even, he 
 could not sit in his pew without seeing again 
 the light streaming through the rich hues of 
 the stained window on the oval of her cheek 
 and her beautiful hair, without feeling again 
 the stir of a tender dream in his heart. A hun- 
 dred pretty conceits assailed his fancy, and he 
 had never in the whole time of their friendship 
 compared her to so many fair and adorable ob- 
 jects as he did during those two unhappy 
 months. He went back and forth from Xerxes 
 to Chicago, but he saw nothing of the Maines, 
 and he found his existence duller every day. 
 
 Mrs. Gilbert became quite settled in her 
 theory of the something on his mind. 
 
 " My dear Jim," she remarked to Mr. Gil- 
 bert, — who " did n't see anything out of the 
 way in Durham," — "my dear Jim," she said, 
 with that air of compassionate moderation 
 which in a woman denotes that she has given 
 up trying to sound the depths of masculine ob- 
 
 o 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 163 
 
 tuseness and feels no longer irritation but pity, 
 " did you ever know a man who was n't deaf 
 and did n't have something on his mind hear so 
 little of what was said as Mr. Durham does ? 
 He is always saying, <- 1 beg pardon ! ' in his 
 horrid English way." She declared that he 
 was growing thin ; and a second time confided 
 her explanatory romance to her husband. He 
 burst into a great, rude, unbelieving laugh, 
 and shouted out that he would tell Harold ; a 
 threat which, Mrs. Gilbert afterward said, fairly 
 sent cold chills through her. 
 
 But Harold was not told, and unconsciously 
 went his dismal way, working much harder 
 than was good for him and sleeping much less. 
 Oddly enough, it may seem, he found his great- 
 est comfort in Father Quinnailon's friendship. 
 The old man's simple and loving heart from 
 the first had warmed to him, and Harold, 
 though thinking himself mighty cynical at 
 present, had a nature easily touched by genu- 
 ine kindness. He took a languid pleasure in 
 helping the priest's little charities, or sending 
 him rare plants for his garden, or sometimes 
 driving him along the beautiful river shore, to 
 see a sick child or an aged woman who lived 
 too far from the church to come often to the 
 services. They spoke French together on these 
 drives. The priest was only the son of a peas- 
 
164 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 ant, and spoke quite frankly of his humble 
 origin. His father and mother had long been 
 dead; he had no nearer relatives living than 
 aunts and cousins, whom he had never seen ; 
 but he never wearied talking of his native vil- 
 lage and the old curS who had been his first 
 teacher. 
 
 " He is dead, too," he said ; " so many are 
 dead ! It is lonely to be an old man, my son." 
 
 Harold found it decidedly difficult, about this 
 time, to keep his distrust of the Roman Catho- 
 lic clergy as active as behooved a stanch Prot- 
 estant. However, he thought of bloody JVIary 
 and the Spanish Inquisition and the Machia- 
 velian wiles of the Jesuits, and he held his lik- 
 ing for Father Quinnailon well in check until 
 one day nearly two months after his arrival in 
 Xerxes. It was a May day, in the mornings 
 there had been a rain during the night, and the 
 sidewalks, the piles of brick, and the loose 
 boards scattered over the grass were steam- 
 ing in the sun. Some women were washing 
 clothes ; they had stretched a rope from one 
 tree to another, directly above the hod-carri- 
 er's path, so that the red and yellow flannels 
 flapped against the hods. A few bare-legged 
 little children were wading through the wet 
 jimson weeds which bordered the sidewalk, and 
 their laughter mingled with the shrill clangor 
 
 o 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 165 
 
 of the blue jays in the tree tops. Harold 
 looked and listened and only half heard Hig- 
 gins who was talking to him. 
 
 *' There 's the new bishop," said Higgins, 
 suddenly. 
 
 Harold saw Father Quinnailon approaching ; 
 he walked more slowly than was usual with 
 him, and his head was bent. 
 
 " Is he to be bishop ? " asked the young man. 
 
 " Yes, they done it at last, after hanging fire 
 three months, made the new diocese and he 's 
 appointed ; only needs the Pope's approval 
 now." 
 
 Harold stroked his moustache to hide a sneer. 
 "Larger opportunities for usefulness, I fancy," 
 he muttered to himself. Then half ashamed 
 of his thought, he cordially greeted the old 
 priest, whom he had not seen for a week as he 
 had been in Chicago. Father Quinnailon was 
 looking sadly ill. 
 
 " You have heard ? " he said anxiously, in 
 French. 
 
 "I have heard only good news," Harold re- 
 plied ; " that you are to be bishop." 
 
 " It is that, it is that," cried the priest, sigh- 
 ing heavily; "for see, my son, I have fasted, 
 I have prayed, but it is still the same to me. 
 I would give up my people, with whom I have 
 been so long, whom I love so dearly, if I could 
 
166 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 be a bishop; but I am a simple old man, not 
 fit for such a high office, I should make mis- 
 takes ; I should make the people to laugh at our 
 holy religion. I have written. It is pain to 
 me to write, who write so poorly; but I have 
 written many — three — four — letters, I have 
 besought them. But they will not heed me. 
 There remains one thing only. I have sgld 
 the little that I have, and my people out of 
 their poverty will give me some little more, 
 and I will go to the Holy Father. It is not 
 much which I need ; I can live on little things 
 — soup, good black bread that I have eaten as 
 a lad ; and I do not care to ride in the grand 
 coaches like nobles ; I shall have enough. 
 There I shall go ; I will fall at the feet of the 
 Holy Father, and beseech him not to make a 
 bishop out of a poor, simple old man who can- 
 not bear so great a burden ; but to let me come 
 back and die among my dear people ! " 
 
 The priest had clasped his hands, and the 
 tears were rolling down his cheeks ; the women 
 who had drawn near were rubbing their eyes, 
 although they could not understand a word. 
 Harold, uttering an inarticulate exclamation, 
 strode off through the grass. Before the priest 
 could speak he strode back again, and began to 
 shake the old man's hand. 
 
 "Father Quinnailon," he cried, "I respect 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 167 
 
 you from the bottom of my heart ; you are a 
 good man ! Yes, if I am a heretic you mustn't 
 refuse it ! " He thrust a bill into the priest's 
 hand ; and in spite of bloody Mary and the 
 Inquisition and the Jesuits, — not to mention 
 two German farmers and the six women hang- 
 ing out clothes, ^ — he took off his hat and bowed 
 his head to the priest's blessing. 
 
 " May God bless you, my son ; I will not 
 refuse the gift of a generous heart. And may 
 God bring us to meet again in this world, if it 
 be His will ; but if not, may He bring you and 
 me to worship Him in Heaven with all his 
 Saints, by the way He sees best." 
 
 Then Harold actually ran away, followed by 
 the women's voluble blessings. 
 
 He was one of the multitude who gathered 
 at the depot the next morning to see Father 
 Quinnailon start on his long journey. Mrs. 
 Gilbert described the scene to James. 
 
 " Never was there such time of weeping and 
 wailing ! Father Quinnailon cried and the 
 people cried and the babies just howled ! In 
 the midst of all this grief I managed to lose 
 my handkerchief, and you 've no idea, Jim, 
 how awkward it is to have nothing but your 
 gloves to cry on ! I thought of borrowing Mr. 
 Durham's, — he was there, — but he looked so 
 grand and glum and so dreadfully well dressed 
 
168 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 that I felt it was quite too much to ask, so I 
 sniffed and winked and choked and got on as 
 well as I could without it. I saw him going 
 into St. Patrick's, when I came home ; what- 
 ever do you suppose he was doing ? " 
 
 Harold himself could hardly have answered 
 her question. He saw the church doors stand- 
 ing open, and obeying an impulse whose depth 
 he did not gauge, he entered. He had never 
 been in the church before. Evidently it was 
 a church of the poor ; the worn pine pews, the 
 colored lithographs representing the Saviour's 
 passion, which were the only ornaments of 
 unpainted walls, the wooden crucifix above 
 the high altar, the white wooden steps to the 
 altar crowded with votive offerings of the 
 cheapest artificial flowers, the lace paper fring- 
 ing the altar steps ; all told of stinted purses. 
 Yet in their careful neatness there was a touch 
 of pathos to Harold ; it was as though the 
 sacred symbolism of altar and cross had made 
 the mean material precious. While he was 
 musing thus, two women came down the aisle 
 and knelt in a pew near him. One of them 
 was a very old woman with a grotesquely 
 wrinkled and withered face, shaded by a huge 
 white cap like the caps in Sir Joshua Reynolds' 
 portraits, only the crown had somehow shrunken 
 to a scanty bag. The other woman was still 
 
 o 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 169 
 
 young ; she carried a heavy basket, and there 
 was a bruise on her cheek. Both were very 
 poorly dressed, and both prayed devoutly. 
 Harold watched them for a few moments, and 
 then walked softly out of the church. He was 
 about to put a piece of silver in the box at the 
 door when he perceived another man there, 
 hand extended ; and the man turning, to his 
 infinite amazement he saw the features of 
 that sturdy enemy of the Scarlet Woman, Mr. 
 Obed Higgins. They wore a singular expres- 
 sion of shamefaced emotion. Higgins made a 
 sign with his forefinger implying a desire for 
 further communication, and tiptoed out to the 
 sidewalk. 
 
 " I did n't suspect you of generosity in that 
 quarter, Higgins," said Harold. 
 
 Higgins rubbed his forehead. " Well now, 
 Mr. Durham, wa'n't you there, yourself ? You 
 can't say he wa'n't a good man ; and I had n't 
 no other way of showing I appreciated what he 
 done for Bessie ; and anyhow, 't ain't for the 
 church, if I rightly understand it, — it 's for 
 the poor." 
 
 "I don't blame you, Higgins," said Harold, 
 and walked away. 
 
 We do not often understand what it is that, 
 in the slow changing of our judgments and 
 ideals, completes the transmutation and turns 
 
170 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 chaos into form ; but often we can remember 
 the moment wlien the new powers demanded 
 their first hearing. Harold always remembered 
 the May morning on which he owned to him- 
 self that he had been gravely unjust. 
 
 " In short, I have been a bigot," said he ; 
 " because I thought the Catholic faith was a 
 remnant of the Dark Ages, and because I believe 
 it politically dangerous, I, who belong to the 
 party of toleration, could n't tolerate their com- 
 ing here and trying to disseminate their belief 
 just as I try to disseminate mine. I have 
 judged people solely on the evidence against 
 them, without listening to what they might 
 have to say for tliemselves ; I have had mean 
 suspicions of a kind old man ; I have n't done 
 justice, much less shown mercy; it's a disgust- 
 ing fact, I 'm a bigot." 
 
 He was walking up the hill. The air was 
 very soft, and the sky was unfathomably clear, 
 and the river, in the sunlight, took on blue and 
 silver tints which he had never noticed before. 
 He saw a violet growing amid the long grass 
 close to a fence and picked it ; he had told 
 Lily often that she was a violet rather than a 
 lily. A great wave of remorseful tenderness 
 swept over Harold's heart, and washed it clean 
 from any taint of bitterness or selfish pride. 
 " Oh, my love," he whispered to the little 
 
 o 
 
FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 171 
 
 flower, " have I been unjust and cruel to 7/ouf 
 By Jove, I 'm not only a bigot but a snob ; I 
 needed Father Quinnailon to take the worldli- 
 ness out of me. What right had I to ask Lily 
 to give up her principles ? It was just the 
 same conceited stuff as my wanting those poor 
 creatures in the church to give up the religion 
 which helps them to bear their hard lives ! " 
 
 The sequel to meditation of this sort is easy 
 to imagine. Harold wrote nine letters, which 
 he tore up into such small pieces as to give 
 much trouble to the chambermaid when she 
 read them ; and then he took the evening train 
 for Chicago. 
 
 At nine o'clock upon the following morning 
 he met Lily at the door of her mother's house ; 
 to be exact, her hand was on the door-knob. 
 The young people looked at each other ; and 
 Harold, after a night spent in the composition 
 of penitent speeches, found nothing better to 
 say than, — 
 
 "Lily, can you forgive a fool?" 
 
 " If I had been a fool, too, and — and I — 
 loved him, I might," said Lily. 
 
 What is there left to add ? I have no doubt 
 that Harold will learn to admire all Dr. Jeru- 
 sha Dale's virtues, but I doubt much if his 
 mother ever will like her. Father Quinnailon 
 succeeded in his mission, and his memories of 
 
172 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 Rome and the Pope's kindness will make the 
 rest of his days bright. Perhaps I should add 
 that the Gilberts were present at Harold's wed- 
 ding ; Mrs. Gilbert was very pretty and very 
 jubilant, saying to her husband, "You may re- 
 member, Jim " — 
 
 " I remember you said Durham was sweet on 
 a Roman Catholic," said the rude James, " and 
 you hoped Father Quinnailon would convert 
 him to toleration." 
 
 " Well, he did convert him to tolerating 
 something a great deal worse than the Catho- 
 lics, who do dress like other people, however 
 bad their hearts may be ! James, do you know, 
 I think conversion 's like archery ; of course 
 you mean to hit the gold, but you are glad if 
 you get your arrow anywhere in the target ! " 
 
 o 
 
A COMMUNIST'S WIFE. 
 
 A SKETCH FROM LIFE. 
 
 The Countess von Arno was Mr. Seleigman's 
 
 confidential clerk. Not that M smiled 
 
 over any such paradox ; the countess called her- 
 self simply Mrs. von Arno. 
 
 M is a picturesque town on the Missis- 
 sippi, devoted in general to the manufacture of 
 agricultural implements. The largest plow- 
 factory is Seleigman's : he does business all 
 over the world. A clerk who wrote French, 
 German, and Italian fluently was a godsend. 
 This clerk, moreover, had an eminently concise 
 and effective style, and displayed a business 
 capacity which the old German admired im- 
 mensely. As much because of her usefulness 
 as the modest sum she was able to invest in 
 the business, he offered her a small share in it 
 
 four years after she first came to M . She 
 
 had come to M because Mrs. Greymer 
 
 lived there. Therese Greymer had known the 
 countess from her school-days. When her hus- 
 band died she came back to her father's house, 
 
174 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 but spent her summers in Germany. Then old 
 Mr. Dare died suddenly, leaving Therese with 
 her little brother to care for, and only a few 
 thousand dollars in the world. About this 
 time the countess separated from her husband. 
 " So I am poor," said she, " but it will go hard 
 if I can't take care of you, Therese." Thus 
 she became Mr. Seleigman's clerk. M for- 
 gave her the clerkship, forgave her even her 
 undoubted success in making money, on account 
 of Mrs. Greymer. It had watched Therese 
 grow from a slim girl, with black braids hang- 
 ing down her white neck as she sat in the 
 " minister's pew " of the old brick church, into 
 a beautiful pale woman in a widow's bonnet. 
 Therese went now every Sunday to the same 
 church where her father used to preach. The 
 countess accompanied her most decorously. 
 She was a pagan at heart, but it pleased Ther- 
 ese. In church she spent her time looking at 
 her friend's profile and calculating the week's 
 sales. 
 
 The countess had a day-dream : the dreams 
 which most women have, had long ago been 
 rudely broken for her, and the hopes which she 
 cherished now had little romance about them. 
 She knew her own powers and how necessary 
 she was to Seleigman ; some day she saw the 
 firm becoming Seleigman & Von Arno, the 
 
 o 
 
A COMMUNISTS WIFE, 175 
 
 business widening, and the plows, with the 
 yellow eagle on them, in every great city of 
 Europe. " Then," said the countess to herself, 
 standing one March morning, four years after 
 she had first come to M , by the little din- 
 ing-room window — "then we can perhaps per- 
 suade the workmen to buy stock in the concern, 
 and have a few gleams of sense about profits 
 and wages." 
 
 She lifted one arm above her head and rested 
 her cheek against it. Otto von Arno during 
 his brief period of fondness had been used to 
 call his wife " his Scandinavian goddess." She 
 was of the goddess type, tall, fair-faced, and 
 stately, with thick, pale gold hair, and brown 
 lashes lifted in level lines from steady, deep- 
 gray eyes. " Pretty " seemed too small a word 
 for such a woman, yet " beautiful " conveys a 
 hint of tenderness; and Mrs. von Arno's face — 
 it might be because of those steady eyes — was 
 rather a hard face, notwithstanding the soft 
 pink and white of her skin, and even the dim- 
 ples that dented her cheek when she smiled. 
 
 Now she was not smiling. The air was 
 heavy with the damp chill of early spring ; and 
 as the countess absently surveyed a gravel- walk 
 bordered by limp brown grasses and a line of 
 trees dripping last night's frost through the 
 fog, she saw a woman's figure emerge from the 
 
176 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 shadows and come slowly up the walk. She 
 was poorly dressed, and walked to the kitchen- 
 door, where the countess could see her carefully 
 wipe her feet before rapping. 
 
 " That must be Bailey's wife," she thought : 
 " I saw her waiting for him yesterday when he 
 came round to the shops for work. — William, 
 my friend, you are a nuisance." 
 
 With this comment she went to the kitchen. 
 Lettice, the maid-of-all-work, was frying cakes 
 in solitude. " Mrs. Greymer had taken Mrs. 
 Bailey into the library," she told the countess 
 with significant inflections. 
 
 The latter went to the library. It was a 
 tiny, red-frescoed room fitted up in black wal- 
 nut. There were plants in the bay-window: 
 Mrs. Greymer stood among them, her soft gray 
 wrapper falling in straight and ample folds 
 about her slender figure. Her face was turned 
 toward the countess ; a loosened lock of black 
 hair brushed the blue vein on her cheek ; she 
 held some lilies-of-the-valley in her hand, and 
 the gold of her wedding-ring shone against the 
 dark green leaves. 
 
 " She looks like one of Fra Angelico's saints," 
 thought the countess : " the crimson lights are 
 good too." 
 
 She stood unnoticed in the doorway, leisurely 
 admiring the picture. Mrs. Bailey sat in the 
 
 o 
 
A COMMUNISTS WIFE. 177 
 
 writing-chair on her right. Once, probably, 
 she had been a pretty woman, and she still had 
 abundant wavy brown hair and large dark-blue 
 eyes with curling lashes ; but she was too thin 
 and faded and narrow-chested for any prettiness 
 now. Her calico gown was unstarched, though 
 scrupulously clean: she wore a thin blue-and- 
 white summer shawl, and her old straw bonnet 
 was trimmed with a narrow blue ribbon pieced 
 in two places. Her voice was slightly monoto- 
 nous, but low-keyed : as she spoke her hands 
 clasped and unclasped each other. The veins 
 stood out and the knuckles were enlarged, but 
 they were rather white than otherwise. 
 
 She went on with her story ; " The children 
 are so good, Mrs. Greymer ; but six of them, 
 and me not over strong — it makes it hard. 
 We hain't had anything but corn meal in the 
 house all this week, and the second-hand woman 
 says our things ain't worth the carting. The 
 children have got so shabby they hate to go to 
 school, and the boys laugh at Willie 'cause his 
 hat's his pa's old one and ain't got no brim, 
 though I bound it with the best of the old braid, 
 for I thought maybe they 'd think it was a cap. 
 And the worst was this morning, when there 
 was nothin' but just mush: we hadn't even 
 'lasses, and the children cried. Oh, I did n't 
 go to tell you all this : you know I ain't a beg- 
 
178 KNITTERS IN TEE SUN. 
 
 gar. I 've tried to live decent. Oh dear ! oh 
 dear ! " She tried to wipe away the tears 
 which were running down her thin cheeks with 
 the tips of her fingers, but they came too fast. 
 Mechanically, she put her hand in her pocket, 
 only to take it out empty. 
 
 Mrs. Greymer slipped her own dainty hand- 
 kerchief, whicli the countess had embroidered, 
 into the other's hand. " You ought to ha^e 
 come to me before, Martha," she said reproach- 
 fully — " such an old friend as I am ! " 
 
 " 'T ain't easy to have them as has known 
 you when you were like folks see you without 
 even a handkerchief to cry on," said Mrs. 
 Bailey. " If I 'd known where to turn for a 
 loaf of bread, I 'd not ha' come now ; but I 
 can't see my children starve. And I ain't come 
 to beg now. All we want is honest work. 
 William has been everywhere since they sent 
 him away from Dorsey's just because the men 
 talked about striking, though they didn't strike. 
 He 's been to all the machine-shops, but they 
 won't take him : they say he has too long a 
 tongue for them, though he's as sober and 
 steady a man as lives, and there ain't a better 
 
 workman in M , or D either. William 
 
 is willing to do anything : he tried to get work 
 on the streets, but the street commissioner said 
 he 'd more men he 'd employed for years asking 
 
A COMMUNIST'S WIFE. 179 
 
 work than he knew what to do with. And I 
 thought — I thought, Mrs. Greymer, if you 
 would only speak to Mrs. von Arno " — 
 
 " Good-morning, Mrs. Bailey," said the coun- 
 tess, advancing. She had a musical voice, clear 
 and full, with a vibrating quality like the notes 
 of a violin — a very pleasant voice to hear, yet 
 it hardly seemed reassuring to the visitor. Un- 
 consciously, she sat up straighter in her chair, 
 her nervous fingers plaiting the fringe of her 
 shawl. 
 
 " I heard you mention my name," the coun- 
 tess continued. "Is there anything you wish of 
 me?" 
 
 Therese came to Mrs. Bailey's assistance : 
 " Her husband is out of work. Can't you do 
 something with Mr. Seleigman, Helen? Bailey 
 is a good workman." 
 
 " He is indeed, ma'am," added Bailev's wife 
 eagerly, " and as sober and faithful to his work : 
 he never slights one bit." 
 
 "I don't doubt it," said the countess gravely; 
 " but, Mrs. Bailey, if we were to take your 
 husband on, and the union were to order a 
 strike, even though he were perfectly satisfied 
 with his own wages, wouldn't he strike him- 
 self, and do all he could to make the others 
 strike ? " Mrs. Bailey was silent. 
 
 " A strike might cost us thousands of dollars. 
 
180 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 Naturally, we don't want to risk one ; so we 
 have no union-men. If Bailey will leave the 
 union he may go to hammering plowshares for 
 us to-morrow, and earn, with his skill, twenty 
 dollars a week." 
 
 Mrs. Bailey's face worked. " 'T ain't no use, 
 ma'am," she said desperately ; " he won't go 
 back on his principles. He says it 's the cause 
 of Labor, and he '11 stick to it till he dies. You 
 can't blame a man for doing what he thinks is 
 right." 
 
 *' Perhaps not. But you see that it is impos- 
 sible for us to employ your husband. Isn't 
 there something I can do for you yourself, 
 though ? Mrs. Greymer tells me you sew very 
 neatly." 
 
 " Yes, I sew," said Mrs. Bailey in a dull 
 tone, " but I 'd be obliged to you, ma'am, if 
 you 'd give me the work soon : I 've a machine 
 now, and I'll likely not have it next week. 
 There 's ten dollars due on it, and the agent 
 says he '11 have to take it back. I 've paid fifty 
 dollars on it, but this month and last times was 
 so hard I couldn't pay." 
 
 The countess put a ten-dollar bill in her 
 hand. "Let me lend you this, then," she said, 
 unheeding the half shrinking of Mrs. Bailey's 
 face and attitude ; and then she avoided all 
 thanks by answering Lettice's summons at the 
 door. 
 
A COMMUNIST'S WIFE. 181 
 
 " Poor little woman ! " she said to Mrs. Grey- 
 mer at breakfast ; " she did n't half like to 
 take it. She looked nearly starved, too, though 
 she ate so little breakfast. How did you man- 
 age to persuade her to take that huge bundle?" 
 
 "She is a very brave little woman, Helen. 
 I should like to tell you about her," said Mrs. 
 Greymer. 
 
 " Until a quarter of eight my time is yours, 
 and my sympathy, as usual, is boundless." 
 
 Mrs. Greymer smiled slightly. " I have 
 known her for a great many years," she said, 
 disregarding the countess's last speech ; " she 
 went to school with me, in fact. She was such 
 a pretty girl then ! Somehow, she took a fancy 
 to me, and used to help me with my Practical 
 Arithmetic " — 
 
 " So called because it is written in the most 
 unpractical and incomprehensible style : yes, 
 I know it," interrupted the countess. 
 
 " Martha was much brighter than I at it, 
 anyhow, and used to do my examples. She 
 used to bring me the loveliest violets ; she 
 would walk all the way over to the island for 
 them. I remember I cried when her people 
 moved to Chicago and she left school. I did n't 
 see her for almost ten years: then I met her 
 accidentally on Randolph Street in Chicago. 
 She knew me, and insisted on my going out 
 
182 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 with her to see her home. It was in the sub- 
 urbs, and was a very pretty, tidy little place, 
 with a garden in front, where Martha raised 
 vegetables, and a little plot for flowers. She 
 was so proud of it all and of her two pretty 
 babies, and showed me her chickens and her 
 furniture and a picture of her husband. They 
 had bought the house, and were to pay for it in 
 six years, but William was getting high wages, 
 and she had no fears. Poor Martha ! " 
 
 " Their Arcadia did n't last ? " 
 
 " No. William got interested in trades- 
 unions, — there was a strike, and he was very 
 prominent. He was out of work a long time, 
 and Martha supported the family by taking in 
 sewing and selling the vegetables. Then her 
 third child was born, and she was sick for a 
 long time afterward, — she had been working 
 too hard, poor thing ! His old employers took 
 William on with the rest of the men when the 
 strike ended, but very soon found a pretext for 
 discharging him ; and, in short, they used up 
 all their little savings, and the house went. 
 William thought he had been ill-used, and be- 
 came more violent in his opinions." 
 
 " A Communist, is n't he ? " 
 
 ^' I believe so. Martha with her three chil- 
 dren couldn't go out to work, but she is a model 
 housekeeper, and she opened a little laundry 
 
 o 
 
5? 
 
 A COMMUNIST'S WIFE. 183 
 
 with the money she got from the sale of some 
 of their furniture. William got work, but lost 
 it again, but Martha managed in a humble way 
 to support the family until William had an 
 offer, to come here ; so they sold out the laun- 
 dry to get money to moye.' 
 
 " Very idiotic of them.' 
 
 " After they came here they at first lived 
 on Front Street, which is near the river, and 
 Martha caught the chills and fever. William 
 soon lost his place, and they moved across 
 
 the river to D . He became known as a 
 
 speaker, and things have been going from bad 
 to worse ; the children have come fast, and 
 Martha has never really recovered from her 
 fever ; and they have had simply an awfully 
 hard time. I haven't seen Martha for three 
 months, and have tried in vain to find out 
 where she lived. Poor Martha ! she has never 
 complained, but it has been a hard life for 
 her." 
 
 " Yes, a hard life," repeated the countess, 
 rising and putting on her jacket ; " but it seems 
 to me she has chiefly her own husband to 
 thank for it. And six children ! I have my 
 opinion of Mr. William Bailey." 
 
 " You are hardly just to Bailey, Helen. He 
 has sacrificed his own interests to his principles. 
 He is as honest — as honest as the Christian 
 martyrs, though he is an infidel." 
 
184 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 " The Christian martyrs always struck me as 
 a singularly unpractical set of people," said the 
 countess. 
 
 " Maybe ; nevertheless, they founded a reli- 
 gion and changed the world. And, Helen, you 
 and the people like you laugh at Commun- 
 ism and the complaints of the laboring classes, 
 but it's like Samson and the Philistines; and 
 this Samson, blind though he is, will one day, 
 unless we do something besides laugh, pull the 
 pillars down on his head — and on ours." 
 
 " He will ^r?/," said the countess. " If we are 
 wise, we shall be ready and shoot him dead." 
 She kissed Mrs. Greymer smilingly, and went 
 away. Her friend, watching her through the 
 window, saw her stop to pat a great dog on the 
 head and give a little boy a nickel piece. 
 
 One Sunday afternoon, two weeks later, the 
 
 two friends crossed the bridge to D to 
 
 visit the Baileys. When they reached the end 
 of the bridge they paused a moment to rest. 
 The day was one of those warm, bright spring 
 days which deceitfully presage an immediate 
 summer. On the river-sbore crawfishes were 
 lazily creeping over the gravel. The air rang 
 with the blue jay's chatter, a robin showed his 
 tawny breast among the withered grasses, and 
 a " flicker " on a dead stump bobbed his little 
 red-barred head and fluttered his yellow wings. 
 
A COMMUNIST'S WIFE. 185 
 
 Beneatli the bridge the swift current sparkled 
 in the sun. Over the river, on each side, rose 
 the hills. The gray stone of the government 
 works was visible to the right through the leaf- 
 less trees; nearer, square, yellow and ugh^ stood 
 the old arsenal. A soldier, musket on shoulder, 
 marched along the river-edge ; the cape of his 
 coat fluttered in the breeze, and his slanting 
 bayonet shone like silver. Before them lay 
 
 D , the smoke from its mills and houses 
 
 curling into the pale blue air. 
 
 The countess drew a long breath ; she had a 
 keen feeling for beauty. " Yes, it is a lovely 
 place," she said. *' The hills are not high 
 enough, but the river makes amends for every- 
 thing. But what are those hideous shanties, 
 Therese ? " 
 
 " Are they not hideous ? " said Mrs. Greymer. 
 " They are all pine, and it gets such an ugly 
 dirt-black when it isn't painted. The glass is 
 broken out of the windows, and the shingles 
 have peeled off the roofs. When it rains the 
 water drips through. In spring, when the 
 river rises, it comes up to their very doors ; one 
 spring it came in. It is not a nice place to 
 live in." 
 
 " Not exactly ; still, I suppose people do live 
 there." 
 
 " Yes, the Baileys live there. You see, the 
 rent is low." 
 
186 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 The countess lifted her eyebrows and fol- 
 lowed Mrs. Greymer without answering. Some 
 sulky-looking men were smoking pipes on the 
 doorsteps, and a few women, whose only Sun- 
 day adorning seemed to have been plastering 
 their hair down over their cheeks with a great 
 deal of water, gossiped at the corner. Half a 
 dozen children were playing on the river-bank. 
 
 " They fall in every little while," Therese 
 explained, " they are so small, and most of the 
 mothers here go out washing. This is the 
 Bailevs'." 
 
 William Bailey answered the knock. He 
 was a tall man, who carried his large frame 
 with a kind of muscular ease. He had a square, 
 gray-whiskered face with firm jaws and mild 
 light-blue eyes. The hair being worn away 
 from his forehead made it seem higher than it 
 really was. He wore his working clothes and 
 a pair of very old boots cut down into slippers. 
 The only stocking he had was in his hand, and 
 he appeared to have been darning it. Close 
 behind him came his wife, holding the baby. 
 The bright look of recognition on her face at 
 the sight of Mrs. Greymer faded when she per- 
 ceived the countess. Rather stiffly she invited 
 them to enter. 
 
 The room was small and most meanly fur- 
 nished, but it was clean. The walls were dingy 
 
A COMMUNISTS WIFE. 187 
 
 beyond the power of soap and water to change, 
 but the floor had been scrubbed, and what glass 
 there was in the windows had been washed. 
 There were occasional holes in the ceiling and 
 walls where the plaster had given way ; out of 
 one of these peered the pointed nose and gleam- 
 ing eyes of a great rat. Judging from sundry 
 noises she heard, the countess concluded there 
 were many of these animals under the house, 
 though what they found to live on was a puzzle ; 
 but they ate a little of the children now and 
 then, and perhaps the hope of more sustained 
 them. A pale little boy was lying on a mat- 
 tress in the corner, covered with a faded blue- 
 and- white shawl. 
 
 Therese had mysteriously managed to dis- 
 pose of the basket she had brought before she 
 went up to him and kissed him, saying, " I am 
 sorry to see Willie is still sick." 
 
 " Yes," said Bailey, smiling bitterly. *' The 
 doctor says he needs dry air and exercise ; it 's 
 damp here." 
 
 '' Tommy More has promised to lend iis his 
 cart, and Susie will take him on the island," 
 Mrs. Bailey said hastily ; " it 's real country 
 there." 
 
 " But you have to have a pass," answered 
 Bailey in a low tone. 
 
 " Any one can get a pass," said the countess ; 
 
188 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 " but if you prefer I will ask the colonel to-day, 
 and he will send you one to-morrow." 
 
 For the first time Bailey fairly looked the 
 countess in the face ; his brows contracted, he 
 opened his lips to speak. 
 
 " Oh, papa," cried the boy in a weak voice 
 trembling with eagerness, " the island is splen- 
 did ! Tommy's father works there, and they 's 
 cannon and a foundry and a live eagle ! " 
 
 '^ Yes, Willie dear," said his father, as he laid 
 his brown hand gently on the boy's curls. He 
 inclined his head toward the countess. " I '11 
 thank you," he said gravely. 
 
 The countess picked up a pamphlet from the 
 table, more to break the uncomfortable pause 
 which followed than for any other reason. 
 "Do you like this?" she said, hardly reading 
 the title. 
 
 " I believe it," said Bailey ; " I am a Com- 
 munist myself." He drew himself up to his 
 full height as he spoke. There was a certain 
 suppressed defiance in his attitude and expres- 
 sion. 
 
 " Are you ? " said the countess. *' Why ? " 
 
 " Why ? " cried Bailey. " Look at me ! I 'm 
 a strong man, and willing to do any kind of 
 work. I 've worked hard for sixteen year ; I 've 
 been sober and steady and saving. Look what 
 all that work and saving has brought me ! This 
 
A COMMUNISTS WIFE. 189 
 
 is a nice place for a decent man and his family 
 to live in, ain't it? Them walls ain't clean ? 
 No, because scrubbing can't make 'em. The 
 grime 's in the plaster ; yes, and worse than 
 grime — vermin and disease sech as 't ain't right 
 for me to mention even to ladies like you, but 
 it 's right enough for sech as us to live in. Yes, 
 
 by G ! to die in ! " He was a man who 
 
 spoke habitually in a low voice, and it had not 
 grown louder, but the veins on his forehead 
 swelled and his eyes began to glow. 
 
 " It is hard, truly," said the countess. " Whose 
 fault is it ? " 
 
 " Whose fault ? " Bailey repeated her words 
 vehemently, yet with something of bewilder- 
 ment. " Society's fault, which grinds a poor 
 man to powder, so as to make a rich man richer. 
 But the people won't stand this sort of thing 
 forever." 
 
 " You would have a general division of prop- 
 erty, then ? " 
 
 " Indirectly, yes. Power must be taken from 
 bloated corporations and given to the people; 
 the railroads must be taken by government; 
 accumulation of capital over a limited amount 
 must be forbidden ; men must work for Human- 
 ity, and not for their selfish interests." 
 
 " Do you know any men who are working 
 so?" 
 
190 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 "I know a few." 
 
 " Mostly workingmen ? " 
 
 " All workingmen," 
 
 " Don't you think a general division of prop- 
 erty would be for their selfish interests? " 
 
 " I don't call it selfish to ask for just a decent 
 living." 
 
 " I fancy the chiefs of your party would de- 
 mand a great deal more than a bare decent liv- 
 ing. Mr. Bailey, the rights of property rest on 
 just this fact in human nature: A man will 
 work better for himself than he will for some- 
 body else. And you can't get him to work un- 
 less he is guaranteed the fruits of his labor. 
 Capital is brain, and Labor is muscle, but the 
 brain has as much to do with the creation of 
 wealth as muscle : more, for it can invent ma- 
 chines and do without muscle, while muscle 
 cannot do without brain. You can't alter 
 human nature, Mr. Bailey. If you had a Com- 
 mune, every man would be for himself there as 
 he is here : the weak would have less protection 
 than even now, for all those restraints of moral- 
 ity, which are bound up inseparabl}^ with rights 
 of property, would have been thrown aside. 
 Marx and Lasalle and Bradlaugh, clever as 
 they are, can't prevent the survival of the fit- 
 test. You knock your head against a stone 
 wall, Mr. Bailey, when you fight society. You 
 
A COMMUNISTS WIFE. 191 
 
 have been knocking it all your life, and now 
 you are angry because your head is hurt. If 
 you had never tried to strip other men of their 
 earnings because you fancied you ought to have 
 more, as skillful a blacksmith as you would have 
 saved money and been a capitalist himself. 
 Supposing you give it up ? Our firm will give 
 you a chance to make plowshares and earn 
 twenty dollars a week if you will only promise 
 not to strike us in return the first chance you 
 get." 
 
 The workingman had listened with a curling 
 lip. " Do you mean that for an offer ? " he said, 
 in a smothered voice. 
 
 "I mean it for an offer, certainly." 
 
 *' Oh, William ! " cried his wife, turning ap- 
 pealing eyes up to his face. 
 
 He grew suddenly white, and brought his 
 clinched hand heavily down on the table. The 
 dishes rattled with the jar, and the baby, scared 
 at the noise, began to scream. " Then," said 
 Bailey, " you may just understand that a man 
 ain't always a sneak if he is poor ; and you can 
 be glad you ain't a man that 's tempting me to 
 turn traitor." 
 
 "I am sure my friend didn't mean to hurt 
 your feelings," Mrs. Greymer explained quickly, 
 giving the countess that expressive side-glance 
 which much more plainly than words says, 
 
192 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 " Now you have done it ! " Mrs. Bailey was 
 walking up and down soothing the baby : the 
 little boy looked on open-eyed. 
 
 " I am sorry if I have said anything which 
 has seemed like an insult," said the countess ; 
 " I certainly did n't intend one. Perhaps after 
 you have thought it all over you will feel differ- 
 ently. You know where to find me. Good- 
 evening." 
 
 She held out her hand, which Bailey did not 
 seem to see, smiled on the little boy and went 
 out, leaving Mrs. Greymer behind. 
 
 A little girl with pretty brown curls and 
 deep-blue eyes was making sand-caves on the 
 shore. The countess spoke to her in passing, 
 and left her staring at her two hands, which 
 were full of silver coin. At the bridge the 
 countess paused to wait for her friend. She 
 saw her come out, attended by Mrs. Bailey : 
 she saw Mrs. Bailey watch her, saw the little 
 girl give her mother the money, and then she 
 saw the woman, still carrying her baby in her 
 arms, walk slowly down the river bank to 
 where a boat lay keel uppermost like a great 
 black arrowhead on the sand. Here she sat 
 down, and, clasping the child closer, hid her 
 face in its white hair. 
 
 " And, upon my soul, I believe she is crying," 
 said the spectator, who stopped at the com- 
 
A COMMUNIST'S WIFE. 193 
 
 mandant's house and obtained the pass before 
 she went home. 
 
 On Monday, Mrs. Greymer proposed asking 
 little Willie Bailey to spend a week with them. 
 The countess assented, merely saying, " You 
 must take the little skeleton to drive every day, 
 and send the livery -bills to me." 
 
 " Then I shall drive over this afternoon if 
 Freddy's sore throat is better," said Mrs. Grey- 
 mer. 
 
 But she did not go : Freddy's sore throat 
 was worse instead of better, and his sister had 
 enough to do for some days fighting off diph- 
 theria. So it happened that it was a week be- 
 fore she was able to go to D . She found 
 
 the Baileys' door swinging on its hinges, and 
 a high-stepping hen of inquisitive disposition 
 investigating the front room : the Baileys had 
 gone. 
 
 " They went to Chicago four days ago," an 
 amiable neighbor explained ; " they did n't say 
 what fur. The little boy he cried 'cause he 
 wanted to go on the island fust. Guess he ain't 
 like to live long ; he 's a weak, pinin' little 
 chap." 
 
 Only once did Therese hear from Mrs. Bailey. 
 The letter came a few days after her useless 
 
 drive to D . It was dated Chicago, and 
 
 expressed simply but fervently her gratitude 
 
194 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 for all Mrs. Greymer's kindness. Inclosed 
 were three one-dollar bills, part payment, the 
 writer said, " of my debt to Mrs. von Arno, and 
 I hope she won't think I meant to run away 
 from it because I can't just now send more." 
 There was no allusion to her present condition 
 or her prospects for the future. Mrs. Greymer 
 read the letter aloud, then held out the bills to 
 the countess. 
 
 She pushed them aside as if they stung her. 
 " What does the woman think I am made of ? " 
 she exclaimed. " Why, it 's hideous, Therese ! 
 Write and tell her I never meant her to pay 
 
 me." 
 
 " I am afraid the letter won't reach her," 
 said Mrs. Greymer. 
 
 Nor did it. In due course of time Therese 
 received her own letter back from the Dead- 
 Letter Office. The words of interest and sym- 
 pathy, the plans and encouragement, sounded 
 very oddly to her then, for, as far as they were 
 concerned, Martha Bailey's history was ended. 
 It was in July the countess had met them again. 
 She was in Chicago. Otto was dead. He had 
 given back to his wife by his will the property 
 which had come to him through her, — whether 
 because of a late sense of justice or a dislike to 
 his heir, a distant cousin who wrote theological 
 works and ate with his knife, the countess 
 
A COMMUNIST'S WIFE. 195 
 
 never ventured to decide. The condition of 
 part of this property, which was in Chicago, 
 had obliged her to go there. She arrived on 
 the evening of the fifteenth of July — a day 
 Chicago people remember because the great 
 railroad strike of 1877 reached the city that 
 day. 
 
 The countess found the air full of wild ru- 
 mors. Stories of shops closed by armed men, 
 of vast gatherings of Communists on the North 
 Side, of robbery, bloodshed, and — to a Chicago 
 ear most blood-curdling whisper of all — of a 
 contemplated second burning of the city, flew 
 like prairie-fire through the. streets. 
 
 The countess's lawyer, whom she had visited 
 very early on Thursday morning, msisted on 
 accompanying her from his office to her friend's 
 house on the North Side. On Halstead Street 
 their carriage suddenly stopped. Putting her 
 head out of the window, the countess perceived 
 that the coachman had drawn up close to the 
 curbstone to avoid the onset of a yelling mob 
 of boys and men armed with every description 
 of weapon, from laths and brickbats to old mus- 
 kets. The boys appeared to regard the whole 
 affair as merely a gigantic "spree," and shouted 
 " Bread or Blood ! " with the heartiest enthu- 
 siasm ; but the men marched closer, in silence, 
 and with set faces. The gleaming black eyes, 
 
196 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 sharp features, and tangled black hair of half 
 of them showed their Polish or Bohemian blood. 
 The others were Norwegians and Germans, with 
 a sprinkling of Irish and Americans. Their 
 leader was a tall man whom the countess knew. 
 He had turned to give an order when she saw 
 him. At that same instant a shabby woman 
 ran swiftly from a side street, and tried to throw 
 her arms about the man's neck. He pushed 
 her aside, and the crowd swept them both out 
 of sight. 
 
 " I think I have seen a woman I know," said 
 the countess composedly ; " and do you know, 
 Mr. Wilder, that our horses have gone ? Our 
 Communist friends prefer riding to walking, it 
 seems." They were obliged to get out of the 
 carriage. The countess looked up and down 
 the street, but saw no trace of the woman. 
 Apparently, she had followed the mob. 
 
 By this time some small boys, inspired by 
 the occasion, had begun to show their sympathy 
 with oppressed labor by pelting the two well- 
 dressed strangers with potatoes and radishes, 
 which they confiscated from a bloated capitalist 
 of a grocer on the corner. The shower was so 
 thick that Mr. Wilder was relieved when they 
 reached the Halstead street police - station, 
 where they sought refuge. Here they passed 
 a sufficiently exciting hour. They could hear 
 
A COMMUNISTS WIFE. 197 
 
 plainly the sharp crack of revolvers and the 
 yells and shouts of the angry mob blending in 
 one indistinguishable roar. Once a barefooted 
 boy ran by, screaming that the police were 
 driven back and the Communists were coming. 
 Then a troop of cavalry rode up the street on a 
 sharp trot, their bridles jingling and horses' 
 hoofs clattering. The roar grew louder, ebbed, 
 swelled again, then broke into a multitude of 
 sounds — screams, shouts, and the tumultuous 
 rush of many feet. 
 
 A polite sergeant opened the door of the lit- 
 tle room where the countess was sittino^ to in- 
 form her the riot was over. They were just 
 bringing in some prisoners : he was very sorry, 
 but one of them would have to come in there. 
 He was a prominent rioter whom they had cap- 
 tured trying to bring off the body of his wife, 
 who had been killed by a chance shot. It 
 would be only for a short time : the gentleman 
 had gone for a carriage. He hoped the lady 
 would n't mind. 
 
 The lady, who had changed color slightly, 
 said she should not mind. The sergeant held 
 the door back, and some men brought in some- 
 thing over which had been flung an old blue- 
 and-white shawl. They carried it on a shutter, 
 and the folds of a calico dress, torn and tram- 
 pled, hung down over the side. 
 
198 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 Then came two policemen, pushing after the 
 official manner a man covered with dust and 
 blood. 
 
 " Bailey ! " exclaimed the countess. Their 
 eyes met. 
 
 Bailey bent his head toward the table where 
 the men had laid their burden. " Lift that," 
 he said hoarsely. 
 
 The countess lifted the shawl with a steady 
 hand. There was an old white straw bonnet 
 flattened down over the forehead ; a wisp of 
 blue ribbon string was blown across the face 
 and over the red smear between the eyebrow 
 and the hair ; the eyes stared wide and glassy. 
 But it was the same soft brown hair. The 
 countess knew Martha Bailey. 
 
 "There was women and children on the side- 
 walk, but they fired right into us," said Bailey. 
 He spoke in a monotonous, dragging voice, as 
 though every word were an effort. " They 
 killed her. I asked you to give me work in 
 your shop, and you would n't do it. Here 's 
 the end of it. Now you can go home and say 
 your prayers." 
 
 " I don't say prayers," answered the countess, 
 "and you know I offered you work. But don't 
 let us reproach each other here. Where are 
 your children?" 
 
 " Ain't you satisfied with what you have done 
 
A COMMUNIST'S WIFE. 199 
 
 already?" said Bailey. "Leave me alone; 
 you 'd better." 
 
 " Gently now ! " said one of the policemen. 
 
 " Whatever you may think of me," said the 
 countess quietly, "you know Mrs. Greymer was 
 always your wife's friend. We only wanted to 
 help her." 
 
 Bailey shook off the grasp of the policeman 
 as though it had been a feather : with one great 
 stride he reached the countess and caught her 
 roughly by the wrist. " Look at her^ will you ? " 
 he cried ; " you and the likes of you, with your 
 smooth cant, have killed her ! You crush us 
 and starve us till we turn, and then you shoot 
 us down like dogs. Leave my children alone." 
 
 " None of that, my man ! " said the sergeant. 
 
 The two policemen would have pulled Bailey 
 away, but the countess stopped them. She had 
 turned pale even to her lips, but she did not 
 wince. 
 
 " Curse you ! " groaned the Communist, fling- 
 ing his arms above his head ; " curse a society 
 which lets such things be ! curse a religion " — 
 
 The policemen dragged him back. " You 'd 
 better go, I think, ma'am," said the sergeant ; 
 " the man 's half crazy with the sun and fight- 
 ing and grief." 
 
 " You are right," said the countess. She 
 stopped at the station door to put a bill in the 
 
200 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 policeman's hands : " You will find out about 
 the children and let me know, please." 
 
 Mr. Wilder, who had been standing in the 
 doorway, an amazed witness of the whole scene, 
 led her out to the carriage. " He 's a bad fel- 
 low, that rioter," he said, as they drove along. 
 
 The countess pulled her cuff over a black 
 mark on her wrist. " No, he is not half a bad 
 fellow," she answered, " but for all that he has 
 murdered his wife." 
 
 Nor has she ever changed her opinion on that 
 point ; neither, so far as is known, has William 
 Bailey changed his. 
 
 o 
 
SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 
 
 A STUDY. 
 
 The Alfred McGinnis was passing through 
 Lake Pepin, It was six o'clock in the afternoon 
 of a June day, 1878. On the lower deck groups 
 of " roustabouts " were scattered among the 
 flour barrels, at the foot of a row of monster 
 threshing machines which glistened with red 
 paint ; the upper deck was crowded ; and ten 
 women all wearing black — not in mourning 
 for dead kindred but because they were trav- 
 eling — admired the Mississippi from the pilot- 
 house. 
 
 The boat had rounded point No Point (whose 
 facetious character had been duly explained by 
 the pilot) ; and nothing was now to be seen 
 save the wide stretch of steel-gray waters, soft- 
 ening into blue with the distance ; and on either 
 side, the high, steep hills. The ragged line of 
 hill-tops was pierced by the underlying rock 
 into a fantastic semblance of ruined forts and 
 castles, or dented by vast hollows which might 
 easily have served for amphitheatres ; as though 
 
202 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 some vanished race had here lived and fought 
 and kept barbaric festivals. Nature subtly 
 aided the fancy with a profusion of shrubbery 
 flung over the crumbling walls and here and 
 there a slender umber streak climbing up the 
 hillside, marvelously like a foot-path. 
 
 All this landscape wore the sumptuous tints 
 of early summer. Sombre masses of pine and 
 dull red brown rocks intensified the effect of 
 the yellow green of the maples and the white 
 green of the willows and the bars of green sun- 
 light burning along the grass between the 
 shadows. The sun had not yet dropped below 
 the horizon, there were no flaming hues, but 
 the sky was filled with soft grays and silver 
 mists floating in a sea of tender blue, and away 
 to the southwest a dark blue circle looked out 
 from a halo of dazzling white light. 
 
 A lady and gentleman who had just come on 
 to the hurricane deck paused a moment to gaze 
 at this scene. They were both young and the 
 lady was beautiful. Her beauty was of that 
 English type which New England has preserved, 
 or possibly revived ; there were the fair, broad 
 brow, the pale gold hair, the mildly Roman 
 profile, the exquisite coloring, and the charming 
 figure of English loveliness. Usually such 
 beauty in the American is etherealized, one 
 might almost say attenuated ; she is a thought 
 
 o 
 
SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 203 
 
 too slender, — often she is a thought too pale. 
 Mrs. Berkely, the lady in question, was slender 
 but she was not too pale ; the women on the 
 boat had said with a sigh, " What complexions 
 those Boston girls do have ! " They inferred 
 that she came from Boston because of her erect 
 carriage, her soft, distinct intonations, the some- 
 what cold reserve of her manner, and the severe 
 elegance of her toilet, — " prim," I think, was 
 the word used. Nevertheless Mrs. Berkely was 
 not a Boston girl, she was a native of Pittsfield, 
 Massachusetts, a delightful town where they 
 have ancestors, go to Europe at decent intervals, 
 and play whist according to Cavendish. 
 
 Until she was twenty-three Ethel Berkely 
 had performed, most conscientiously all the 
 duties pertaining to that station in life to which 
 a Pittsfield girl is called, including the jour- 
 neys to Europe and a trip up the Nile, which 
 may be considered as a work of supererogation. 
 She was, also, extremely clever and she played 
 a strong game of whist, never hesitating to sac- 
 rifice her own hand to her partner's. When 
 she was twenty-three she married Captain John 
 Clarence Berkely of the United States army. 
 Since their marriage, now some three years, 
 they had been stationed West, and it had struck 
 them both as a picturesque scheme to explore 
 the upper Mississippi. Captain Berkely was 
 
204 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 standing b}^ his wife's side. He was rather a 
 tall young man, thin and dark, with fine brown 
 eyes and an unobtrusive brown mustache. 
 Only his square shoulders and the gentle indif- 
 ference of his expression betrayed the army. 
 He wore a gray plaid traveling suit and had 
 that appearance of having very recently attired 
 himself w^hich is produced by immaculately 
 stiff and white linen. As he was using his hat 
 for a fan, one could see that what little hair 
 the barber had left him was parted in the centre, 
 a fact which had already excited the unfavora- 
 ble comments of the captain, the two pilots, and 
 three fourths of the passengers of the Alfred 
 McGinnis. 
 
 The couple had been exhaustively discussed. 
 They were regarded (on the grounds of their 
 youth and expensive clothing) as newly married 
 people, and their avoidance of the boat society 
 was charitably ascribed to the pardonable ab- 
 sorption of lovers. Fortunately for EtlieFs 
 peace of mind such an explanation of numerous 
 kindly but curious glances and inquiries had 
 never occurred to her. She was, indeed, more 
 interested in the people whom she met than 
 one would have imagined from her manner — 
 one, that is, who did not know Pittsfield. At 
 the present moment she was questioning her 
 husband about the cabin. What were they 
 doing, John, and who were there ? 
 
 o 
 
SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 205 
 
 John was not interested; he looked bored. 
 *' Oh, the usual thing. There are only two 
 new arrivals, two youthful beings from Texas 
 on their wedding journey. They came on at 
 Winona. She is singing, ''Tis but a Little 
 Faded Flower,' and he sits near with his hands 
 in his pockets, looking blissful. Then there 's 
 an old German fast asleep and some women 
 talking about their 'hired girls,' and forward 
 there 's a Methodist minister reading his Bible." 
 
 " How do you know he is a Methodist min- 
 ister ? " 
 
 " The looks and the coat of him, my dear. 
 I can always pick out the clergy. Episcopalians 
 wear white cravats and have their waistcoats 
 cut high, and if they are high church they have 
 loner skirts to their coats : the more ' advanced ' 
 their views the longer their coats are. Presby- 
 terians wear white cravats but their waistcoats 
 haven't the clerical cut. Congregationalists 
 lean to black cravats. Unitarians are quite un- 
 re^enerate in their dress, and the Methodist 
 parson from the country you can always tell 
 by his black alpaca coat and the frayed edges 
 to his shirt collar. Our friend is a Methodist, 
 perad venture a revivalist ; now I think of it, he 
 had that kind of disapproving-of-everything-in- 
 general aspect which marks the Man in Ear- 
 nest ! " 
 
206 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 " He may be a good, humble-minded man, 
 John." 
 
 " And read his Bible in the face of all men ? 
 Ethel, there is a natural religious modesty which 
 he outrages. I feel convinced he is a narrow- 
 minded prig." 
 
 Ethel looked at her husband. He fancied 
 that there was a slightly wistful expression in 
 her beautiful violet eyes, but without answering 
 she turned them again to the river and the 
 hills ; although she was so clever she was not 
 ready of speech. He wondered what she was 
 thinking, yet did not ask her, for they held 
 widely divergent opinions upon some vital ques- 
 tions, and he rarely cared to define their differ- 
 ences by discussion. Ethel was the first to 
 speak, changing the subject in the abrupt fash- 
 ion of people who know each other well. "See, 
 John, there is a little house all by itself ! 
 Should n't you think the man who lives there 
 must be lonely ?" 
 
 " Perhaps he is fond of solitude. I should 
 like a little box like that myself — with you ! " 
 
 " Resign and have one." 
 
 " I wonder why I don't resign," said Berkely 
 moodily. " I suppose because I am not fit for 
 anything else, and I have a weak-minded aver- 
 sion to lounging about on my wife's money. 
 But it isn't because I admire the way they 
 manage things that I stay." 
 
SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 207 
 
 " This is the worst of possible worlds, is n't 
 it ? " said Ethel smiling. 
 
 " Very nearly." 
 
 " Are you then so unhappy, John ? " 
 
 "On the contrary, if it were not for those 
 impertinent pilot-house windows which prevent 
 my putting my arm about your waist I should 
 be uncommonly serene." 
 
 Ethel shook her pretty head. " John, you 
 are a dreadful justification of Mr. Mallock ! 
 You seem always shrugging your shoulders and 
 saying, 'But as for me, the life that now is is 
 not worth the living ! ' " 
 
 " Well, Ismene's cynicism proved very shal- 
 low ; perhaps mine is too." Ethel shook her 
 head again ; there fell a little silence which 
 the voices from the pilot-house penetrated. 
 
 " I had a lady friend, and her husband, he 
 was drowned. He put his life preserver around 
 her and she seen him raise and sink, raise and 
 sink, till he went down, and could n't do a 
 thing ! They saved her and she 's living now, 
 but nobody ever seen her laugh or be lively 
 again ; and it 's ten years now ! " 
 
 " That was dreadful ! But do you think it 
 jest right to be so unresigned ? " 
 
 " No, I don't, Mrs. Wattles ; it used to make 
 me feel bad to be with her. I don't think peo- 
 ple ought to grieve so ; they make everybody 
 
208 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 'round kinder relieved like wten they 're out 
 of sight. There 's a hymn I 'm very fond of, — 
 maybe you know it : ' Go bury thy sorrow, the 
 world hath its share.' " 
 
 " That 's sound doctrine," interposed the 
 pilot's hearty voice, " if it is poetry." (" Not 
 much poetry, if it is the hymn I know," mut- 
 tered Berkely.) 
 
 A woman's voice joined the conversation, a 
 high -keyed, ear-disturbing voice with long- 
 drawn falling inflections and the flat Western 
 accent, which together made her sentences a 
 succession of wails. 
 
 " That hymn was a great favoryte of cousin 
 Lou's, she that went to Kansas, Mrs. Wattles. 
 Goodness knows she 'd enough to bury out 
 there ; no wood, no water and the wind strong 
 enough to blow the soul out of your body, living 
 in a sod house, too, and snakes crawling round 
 in the walls and dropping down on you in bed 
 at night, unexpected like, rain soaking through, 
 — when there was rain, — a mortgage on the 
 farm and the 'hoppers eating up their crops 
 bare two years running, and she with her eight 
 children and three of them dying in one sum- 
 mer ! I think she did! And then soon 's they 'd 
 got things fixed up a little, trees planted and a 
 well dug and a two-story frame with blinds 
 built — then poor Lou has to die. And he 
 
SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 209 
 
 posted off to Blue Rapids, six months after, 
 and married a girl of sixteen ! Oh, the men 1 " 
 
 " Well, you 'd have somebody enjoy that 
 new house, wouldn't you ? " said the pilot. 
 
 "No, I wouldn't — for the gracious sakes, 
 Mr. Ripley, what makes this boat shake so ? " 
 
 The captain had walked briskly into the 
 pilot-house and whispered a few words to the 
 pilot. "There isn't the least danger, ladies," 
 he said impatiently, " we 're jest going ashore, 
 that 's all." 
 
 " Is there any danger, John ? " said Ethel, 
 drawing nearer her husband. 
 
 " Not a bit of it, dear," said John, privately 
 thinking quite the reverse and measuring the 
 length of a possible swim with his eye. " There 's 
 the parson, though, coming up the stairway; 
 I '11 tackle him if you like and find out all about 
 it." 
 
 He walked up to a tall, gaunt man with a 
 prominent nose and a stiff black beard. The 
 new-comer wore the black alpaca coat which 
 Berkely had mentioned, and his nether garments 
 of black broadcloth had an unintentional baggi- 
 ness at the knees. He said " Hey ? " in a loud 
 voice to Berkely 's first question, but the subse- 
 quent conversation was unintelligible. At all 
 events it was reassuring, since Berkely saun- 
 tered back smiling and told his wife there was 
 
210 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 something tlie matter with the machinery and 
 they were going ashore for an hour or so to re- 
 pair things. That was all. 
 
 By this time the boat was grinding against 
 the side of an almost perpendicular bluff. To 
 the right, the grassy wall was cleft by a deep 
 and long ravine in which stood a small house 
 of unpainted pine wood, the same house which 
 Ethel had noticed a short time before. Behind 
 the house on the flat lands was a wheat field, 
 a rectangle of vivid green over which ran rip- 
 ples of sunlight as the wheat swayed in the 
 wind. The house door swung on its hinges, 
 and the doorway framed the figure of a man 
 holding a wide straw hat a little above his head. 
 Rather to Ethel's surprise their fellow traveler 
 in the black alpaca coat instantly waved his 
 own hat, as if in response to a signal, and ran 
 hastily down the stairway. A few moments 
 later he appeared on shore, carrying a large 
 newspaper bundle and a shabby black leather 
 
 bag. 
 
 *' Apparently has intentions of sojourning 
 here," said Berkely ; '' do you care to go, too, 
 Ethel ? " 
 
 " I don't mind, if it 's not muddy." 
 
 " Dry as Dr. Todd. Let me take your um- 
 brella." ■ 
 
 They found a natural foot-path and, being in 
 
 o 
 
SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 211 
 
 the humor, climbed to a grass overgrown ledge 
 of rocks, half way up the bluff. There they 
 paused to rest, saying little, but if one might 
 judge from their attitude not dissatisfied with 
 each other's quiet society. Finally, Berkely 
 proposed a descent on " the hermit." 
 
 " How do you know he is a hermit ? " said 
 Ethel : " he may be an honest farmer with half 
 a dozen children." 
 
 *' No," answered a voice, so near that Berkely 
 abruptly took his arm from his wife's waist, 
 " no, he is as lonely as you could wish ! " 
 
 " May I ask " — began Berkely haughtily, 
 looking at the stranger who had emerged from 
 the sheltering rocks and now stood before them. 
 
 *' I came up on the other side," interrupted 
 the man without the customary smile of expla- 
 nation. "Would you like to see my place, 
 ma'am ? " 
 
 He lifted his hat as he spoke, revealing a 
 high projecting forehead and a sallow, sunken- 
 cheeked face. Under the shadow of his over- 
 bearing forehead, his large blue eyes looked 
 out, veiled with an absent-minded mist. His 
 sunburned hair and beard were so vilely cut that 
 Berkely decided on the spot that he had been 
 his own barber with a pair of scissors. He was 
 short but muscular enough. His costume was 
 a singular combination of a threadbare black 
 
212 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 frock coat, gray flannel shirt, and blue overalls. 
 Thus clad, and absolutely unconscious, it ap- 
 peared, of the grotesqueness of his dress, he 
 stood unsmilingly waiting Ethel's answer. Yet 
 he seemed pleased in a sullen and repressed 
 fashion when his invitation was accepted, and 
 at once led the way to the house. 
 
 Ethel noticed that a vine had been trained 
 against the side of the house, and there were 
 pansies blooming in a little flower-bed near the 
 door. The room which they entered was both 
 unpainted and unplastered ; a table, chairs, and 
 stove completed the meagre list of its furniture ; 
 and its sole ornament was a black easel very 
 neatly decorated with forget-me-nots, which 
 held the crayon picture of a lady and child. 
 Both the visitors glanced at the picture. The 
 lady had a delicate, pretty face, but did not 
 look happy although she was smiling ; the child 
 was a fine little fellow with a large forehead 
 and eyes like the master of the house. The 
 latter laid his hand on the frame, saying, " Do 
 you think it a pretty picture ? " 
 
 " Very," answered Berkely ; " is the lady 
 your wife ? " 
 
 " She was my wife," said the man, " she is 
 dead." 
 
 " Oh, I beg pardon," Berkely exclaimed. 
 
 '•' You need n't, you 've done no harm," said 
 
SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 213 
 
 the hermit. " Won't you sit down, please ? 
 And I have n't asked you to take anything ; 
 I 've some coffee on the stove and fresh bread 
 and butter, and I '11 answer for the eggs since 
 I keep chickens myself." He set plates on the 
 table, bestirring himself with an air of eager 
 hospitality which his visitors' politeness could 
 not resist. 
 
 " Besides," Berkely whispered, during a tem- 
 porary absence of the hermit for eggs, " noth- 
 ing can be worse than the boat ! " 
 
 They had no reason to repent their confidence, 
 for they found the simple fare excellent. Their 
 host sat with them, crumbling a piece of bread 
 but drinking nothing; perhaps he had only the 
 two cups, Ethel said afterwards. He did not 
 seem reluctant to speak of himself or of his 
 lonely life. He lived by his little farm, — not 
 his own, only rented. In summer he loaded a 
 skiff with his wheat, and rowed to the mill six 
 miles farther down the river ; in winter he drew 
 what few provisions he needed on a sled, skating 
 himself. Yes, it was lonely, but he had his dog 
 and his chickens for company. " I 've seen 
 enough of men," he said grimly. 
 
 "I fear you have had a hard life," said 
 Berkely, " do you mind telling us something of 
 it?" 
 
 " No," said the hermit, " I don't mind. I '11 
 
214 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 never, most likely, see you again, and sometimes 
 it 's a relief to talk. When I saw you to-day 
 sitting there together, so happy" (the dismay 
 on Ethel's face was reflected in Berkely's), " I 
 felt a sudden longing to talk again with a good 
 woman. For four years I have n't talked — 
 except about wheat and such things — to any 
 man but Wesley Mitchel. I was seized with a 
 sudden desire to have some fair-minded person 
 judge my whole case ; I 'm tired of running it 
 over in my own mind. I know all Wesley has 
 to say — but you are different I Does this 
 strike you as very extraordinary, ma'am ? " 
 
 " No, I don't think it does," said Ethel, flush- 
 ing slightly beneath her husband's curious eyes. 
 " I think I understand — a little — what you 
 mean." 
 
 '' Thank you," said the hermit, " I will tell 
 3'ou the whole story. My name is Herman 
 Witte. ^l\ parents were Germans who came 
 to America when I was ten, and my mother 
 died the year after. She was a good woman 
 and her folks were well off in Germany, but 
 she offended them by marrying father, who was 
 only a foreman in a foundry. He was n't even 
 that long, for he fell first into socialism and 
 then into drink, and the upshot was he came 
 over here — to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He 
 got work in the iron mills there easy enough, 
 
SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 215 
 
 and he was a first-class workman, too, when he 
 was half sober. He married another German 
 woman after mother died ; she was n't very 
 good, but she was good enough for him. There 
 were seven boys of us, and we all worked in the 
 iron works. I worked there till I was twenty, 
 then I was converted by a Methodist preacher ; 
 and, sir, if ever a man longed and prayed and 
 agonized to lead a better life I did. The 
 preacher was interested in me, especially when 
 my father knocked me down and swore he 'd 
 have nothing more to do with, such a canting 
 hypocrite. I 've no doubt that to this day I 'm 
 an illustration in his sermons. He got me into 
 a school where they give a weekly stipend to 
 students who engage to enter the ministry ; 
 then I went to the seminary, and when the war 
 broke out I went as chaplain. I served through 
 the war, saw some fighting, and had a mild 
 touch of yellow fever, but came out all right 
 and got my first parish. It was in Iowa ; I 
 thought I 'd like the West, so went there. It 
 was in my first parish I met my wife, — her 
 father was one of the prominent men of my 
 church. I can't say much about my feeling for 
 her, but if — if you've ever known anybody, 
 sir, who seemed to represent everything pure 
 and good and beautiful to you, making you feel 
 like some great clumsy animal crawling out of 
 
216 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 a slough, not fit to be in such a presence, even 
 — you are not likely to have felt that way, but 
 if you have ever seen anybody who seemed to 
 be doing naturally and inevitably what you 
 pant and struggle and fail to do, whose thoughts 
 the angels must love to look at because there 's 
 no soil in them, who makes you despise yourself 
 and hope for yourself at the same time — if you 
 have known any one like that., sir " — 
 
 " Yes," said Berkely, " I have known some 
 one like that." He was sitting near Ethel and 
 he laid his hand gently on hers. 
 
 The hermit looking up suddenly, smiled for 
 the first time. "I see, I see," he said. "Well, 
 sir, I loved my wife as you love yours. I loved 
 her for two years, not daring to tell her so, for 
 I could n't forget how I was raised ; why, sir, 
 the uncouth habits and speech of childhood and 
 youth are sticking to me still. I was glad my 
 family had quarreled with me, glad they 'd left 
 Pittsburgh, glad I 'd lost all trace of them, but 
 still there they were and I had belonged to 
 them ! I don't know how I dared to speak to 
 
 • 
 
 her finally. I think it was her father's death, 
 leaving her all alone in the world, for her 
 mother had been dead many years and her re- 
 lations all lived East. Then, Dr. Wilson had 
 been too generous a man to die rich, and the 
 life insurance failed because of some informality. 
 
SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 217 
 
 You know the tricks of those fellows, sir. Well, 
 I had to tell Emily the news, and somehow I 
 was emboldened to speak. Then — think what 
 it was to me, ma'am — I found she loved me, 
 and had loved me for months, me ! " He was 
 sitting with his head resting on his hands, talk- 
 ing most of the time to a crack in the table ; 
 now, by a slight movement of the shoulders, he 
 shielded his face from view. It was a move- 
 ment exceedingly suggestive. 
 
 In a moment he resumed his story, still with 
 his elbows on the table and his head on his 
 hands ; his absurdly cut hair had fallen over 
 his face, his position drew the waist of his coat 
 half way up his back ; on the whole, he was not 
 a tragical figure ; yet Berkely, who was suffi- 
 ciently susceptible to the ridiculous, felt no in- 
 clination to sraile. " We were married," said 
 Witte; "at first we were happy. We had a 
 small salary, never punctually paid, and Emily's 
 health was poor, but we loved each other and 
 our two children and we kept up good hearts. 
 I am telling you the truth as nearly as I can 
 see it, therefore I will say that I believe I was 
 what is called a successful preacher, but as a 
 pastor I failed. I was always fatally embar- 
 rassed with the most of my congregation. They 
 called me stiff and pedantic and awkward. It 's 
 likely enough that I was. A man is apt to be 
 
218 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 stiif and pedantic who is constantly supervising 
 his own speech and actions. Somehow, too, I 
 never got near my people, I sympathized with 
 them from the bottom of my heart but I was n't 
 fortunate in expressing my sympathy, and natu- 
 rally enough they did n't give me credit for what 
 they did n't see. I tried, by hard study, to bal- 
 ance my deficiencies in pastoral work with fine 
 sermons ; kept abreast of the popular thought, 
 as the phrase is, preached on scientific skepti- 
 cism, and refuted Robert Ingersoll. My con- 
 gregation called me a rising man, the papers 
 published abstracts of my sermons, making me 
 say all kinds of things I never dreamed of, and 
 the young men used to bring the young women 
 to hear me in the evening. But in spite of the 
 crowded pews and the papers and the flatter- 
 ing things the women said to Emily, I began 
 to feel that I was preaching to others who was 
 myself a castaway. 
 
 " It was the doctrine of evolution staggered 
 me first. The more I tried to investigate the 
 physical basis of life the deeper I found mj^self 
 in the mire, and the more impossible it seemed 
 to accept the inspiration of the Scriptures, and 
 the proved conclusions (to say nothing of the 
 frohahle conclusions) of modern science. At 
 the same time I was plunged in other difficulties. 
 From the first I had visited the poor regularly 
 
 o 
 
SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 219 
 
 (I was one of them, you know), I had worked 
 up an industrial school and established a read- 
 ing-room, and my church donated to it all the 
 worn-out books in the Sunday-school library, 
 and a number of quite new " Lives of the Meth- 
 odist Bishops," which we somehow couldn't get 
 the children to read. I got on better with the 
 poor than with the respectable people. Yet 
 they were stumbling blocks. They gave me 
 an awful sense of the burden of life. There 
 was n't anything sentimental or poetic about 
 their suffering or their temptations, and the 
 worst of their poverty in many cases seemed to 
 be its apparent necessity. How are men and 
 women ignorant, squalid, unthrifty, and reckless 
 to be anything hut poor ? And yet when from 
 the minute they open their eyes they see noth- 
 ing about them but ignorance and dirt, how can 
 they be anything else ? I tell you, sir, my 
 visits among the poor gave me new light on the 
 survival of the fittest. And the poverty out 
 West ain't a circumstance to that of the great 
 cities East. Yes, sir, the more I saw of the 
 world and the more in my office I explored the 
 windings of the human heart the more I saw 
 how we are only a very little ourselves ! Our 
 ancestors hold us, sir ; our environment and 
 our education build bars around us that we can't 
 break through. There 's awful little margin 
 
220 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 for a man's individual will when you consider 
 all these things ! I looked about me and it 
 seemed to me that everywhere the evil was 
 strangling the good. At first I believed more 
 implicitly than ever in the devil, then step by 
 step, inch by inch, with an agony you can't 
 conceive, I began to disbelieve in God. It was 
 at this stage of my moral development, when 
 my little boy was six and my little girl three, 
 that the conference sent me to a town on the 
 Mississippi, and there I met Mitchel. You 
 have seen him ; he came on your boat. Very 
 likely you did not notice him though, or if you 
 did, did not think much about him, for he does 
 not prepossess strangers, but he is the best man 
 I ever knew, the truest and the noblest ! He 
 had the Sixth Street Methodist church, for 
 there are two Methodist churches in the place ; 
 it 's a large place, though half the population 
 are Germans who don't go to church at all. 
 You would have thought, being in the same 
 city, he would have felt a little bit like a rival 
 of mine, but instead he seemed to rejoice in my 
 success. ' You have great gifts, brother,' said 
 he, ' great gifts ; may the Lord prosper them to 
 the saving of souls ! ' I liked him from the 
 first, — he had a simple, confiding faith about 
 him that attracted me. He was a widower 
 with five children ; poor, of course, but living 
 
SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 221 
 
 SO plainly that he always had something to give 
 and was able to exercise hospitality. ' We 
 never make any change,' said he, ' and there 's 
 always plenty though it 's plain, so I 'm always 
 glad to see my friends.' Why, sir, he brought 
 the bishop up to his Saturday dinner, just baked 
 beans and brown bread and a watermelon. 
 ' The bishop is a New England man, too, Maria,' 
 he says to his sister, ' and I 've told him you 
 are the best hand at baked beans I know.' And 
 he sat down with his eyes twinkling over those 
 baked beans as if they had been a grand dinner. 
 He enjoys everything, Mitchel does ; and every 
 one else's pleasure seems like his own. And 
 so it is with their sorrow. I had n't been with 
 him six months before I told him something 
 of the doubts that were eating my heart out. 
 ' You haven't read Joseph Cook,' says he, 'he's 
 the man for such men as you ! He 's too deep 
 for me, but then God has been merciful to me 
 and kept my faith clear, so it don't matter. 
 You read him, brother, he is a wonderful logi- 
 cian.' So I read the lectures. Have you ever 
 read them, sir ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Berkely has," answered Berkely ; 
 "one volume on transcendentalism and that 
 sort of thing was all /was able to bear." 
 
 " Then you know there is a kind of ponderous 
 fascination about the man; he marshals such 
 
222 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 an enormous array of authorities that at first 
 you don't dare to examine anything, and his 
 syllogisms look so imposing you don't think of 
 asking just what the terms mean. I was car- 
 ried away by him — why, my poor Emily and 
 I used to pray every night that God would 
 bless that man for the spiritual help he Lad 
 been to me. But it is the curse of such tem- 
 peraments as mine that they can't stop ques- 
 tioning while there 's anything left. I began 
 to ask what Cook meant in his various steps of 
 the argument instead of simply accepting his 
 conclusions." 
 
 " You must have had a jolly time finding 
 out," said Berkely. 
 
 The hermit looked at him gravely. " I can't 
 say that I rightly did find out, sir. But I be- 
 came convinced there were some discrepancies 
 in his statements. I thought I would go di- 
 rectly to the German philosophers he talked of. 
 It was n't so easy to get their works, but I 'd 
 always kept up my German, and an old Ger- 
 man lent me a stray volume of Kant, Hegel's 
 Phenomenology and something of Schopen- 
 hauer, his essay on the Will. Then Mitchel 
 got me some odd numbers of a St. Louis maga- 
 zine that deals with German philosophy mostly, 
 and then I found more Hegel and some Fichte 
 and Schelling. And I confess, sir, I got con- 
 
SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 223 
 
 siderably tangled up among them all and went 
 to Schopenhauer with my mind in a muddle. 
 You have read him, sir ? " 
 
 " Bits about the Will, merely," said Berkely ; 
 " my wife amused herself, one summer, teach- 
 ing me German philosophy. She has read him." 
 
 " The Will is the central doctrine. You can 
 understand, then, how he struck me. He dared 
 to express all my half-confessed, unworked-out 
 thoughts. Here was a world that was one uni- 
 versal battle - field, every species preying on 
 some other ; war, carnage, agony everywhere, 
 everywhere an appalling waste ; Nature stingy 
 only of the means of sustaining life, prodigal 
 alike of the powers of increase and destruction ; 
 always utterly indifferent to suffering ! Then 
 in man himself, the grand result, what do we 
 see ? The beast survivinor and clutchino^ his 
 will, dragging him into sin he loathes ; a crea- 
 ture with just enough appreciation of spiritual 
 beauty to feel remorse for sins he has n't the 
 strength to resist ! And this being the uni- 
 verse, I was to imagine the God of the universe 
 more merciful than his own laws ! My reason 
 recoiled, sir. But Schopenhauer makes all this 
 paradox plain." 
 
 '* How? " said Berkely. 
 
 " I am afraid I can't make myself as clear as 
 I 'd like, but this, in brief, is what I understand 
 
224 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 Schopenhauer's theory to be. And I ought to 
 say, in the first place, that he goes to work in- 
 ductively ; he flings aside the dialectic of the 
 idealists and finds his facts first, then fits his 
 theory to them. He goes with Kant so far as 
 this, that he believes all this visible world to 
 be, as far as we can know, simply ' a phenome- 
 non of our own consciousness.' But something 
 must produce this ' phenomenon,' therefore the 
 world is ' not a mere shadow world,' but a real- 
 ity, just as we are a reality and the force behind 
 the world is the force behind us. That univer- 
 sal primary force is the will. The essential 
 principle of man is not a soul (that is, a unit 
 in which will and consciousness are indissolubly 
 combined), but what Schopenhauer calls the 
 ' radical of the soul,' the will ; for, the con- 
 sciousness is, as science teaches us, only the re- 
 sult of a nervous system, while the will exists 
 independently, it is found where there is no 
 nervous system, consequently no consciousness; 
 therefore the will is the primary force in man. 
 It is likewise the primary force in nature ; it 
 has made all the visible forms of life, or rather 
 they are its representation, just as our bodily 
 actions are the representation of our will. The 
 will is the thing in itself which has made all 
 things. But the will wdthout consciousness is 
 a blind force, it is simply the will to he, an in- 
 
SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 225 
 
 finite hunger for existence. This it is which 
 has turned the polyp into beast and the beast 
 into man. Now you can see, sir, that this will 
 being the will to exist at all costs, each creature 
 struggles for his own preservation careless of 
 every other, or only careful as far as they have 
 found out that hurting others will eventually 
 hurt themselves. 'Nature, regardless of the 
 individual, studies only to preserve the race.' 
 Hence the endless conflict we see. There is no 
 such thing as freedom of the will, as it is gen- 
 erally understood, because each man's tempera- 
 ment, that is his destiny, is determined for him 
 before he is born. The universal will deter- 
 mines that for each individual, yet he as part 
 of the universal will may be said to make his 
 own fate. There is no such thing, either, as 
 personal immortality. The individual depends 
 for his consciousness on his nervous system, 
 and when that decays he vanishes ; his will is 
 absorbed into the will of the whole. This blind 
 will of the whole is the only God, and he, as 
 Von Hartmann truly says, is to be pitied rather 
 than reverenced. And as there is no God, so 
 there are no absolute, innate ideas of right and 
 wrong. Morality is simply a safeguard of ex- 
 istence, a deduction of experience, men having 
 learned that some pleasures cost more than they 
 are worth, and that hurting others in the end 
 
226 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 hurts themselves. Happiness is an illusion 
 like the rest, for what is it but the cessation of 
 the pain of desire ? and the will itself is an in- 
 satiable desire, and the instant we cease to de- 
 sire we cease to exist. Love is as much of an 
 illusion as happiness ; there is no future aud no 
 hope save in ceasing to will, which is annihila- 
 tion. ' This is the worst possible world, and we 
 are the worst possible beings ! ' " 
 
 " Cheerful, all that," said Berkely, " but go 
 on!" 
 
 " Of course that is n't the whole of it. There 
 are some beautiful things said about art and ab- 
 stract conceptions and a man of genius lifting 
 himself transiently out of the struggle and for- 
 getting himself in the beautiful ; but the sum- 
 ming up of it all is that life is an inevitable 
 failure, art itself is an illusion, and ' history re- 
 lates,' says Schopenhauer, 'only the long, heavy, 
 confused dream of humanity.' Now, sir, I can't 
 give you any idea of the fascinating way in which 
 Schopenhauer states this theory, I can only say 
 that he seems to me to explain by it all the 
 varied phenomena of existence. Can you see 
 how such a philosophy captured me against my 
 will ? I did n't want to believe it ; but a thing 
 is true or not true, and the truth of Schopen- 
 hauer's doctrines did n't depend on my finding 
 them unpleasant or the reverse. Against every 
 
SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 227 
 
 wish and every worldly prospect I had to believe 
 Lim, sir ! " 
 
 " But your wife," said Ethel. 
 
 " My wife was an angel, if such things could 
 be," answered the hermit with a softer inflec- 
 tion in his tone. " She prayed for me continu- 
 ally, but when she saw how it was with me she 
 said, ' Herman, you must give up the ministry ; 
 the blind cannot lead the blind ! ' So then I 
 went to Wesley and told him the whole story. 
 He was dreadfully shocked, but he stuck to 
 me like a brother — enough better than any 
 brother /ever had ! ' Yes, you must leave the 
 ministry,' said he, ' but don't give up the fight, 
 brother; God won't suffer you to remain al- 
 ways in darkness.' Well, I left the ministry, 
 resigned, and preached a farewell sermon giv- 
 ing my reasons. It made a great stir in the 
 place for a while ; I know now it broke Emily's 
 heart. A crowd of people called on me. I was 
 talked most to death in the two weeks follow- 
 ing. Some of them congratulated me on my 
 'manl3^, straightforward course,' as they called 
 it ; and the Unitarian minister shook hands 
 with me on the street and told me 'truth had 
 set me free.' ' What is truth ? ' says I ; ' have 
 you found it ? I only know that everything 
 I 've given my life to is a lie. I 'm a miserable 
 man ! How shall I support my family ? ' He 
 
228 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 said there were other openings for an honest 
 man. Well, I did n't find them. You see I 
 belonged to nobody. If I 'd turned Unitarian 
 or Catholic they would have looked after me a 
 little, but there I was, a credit to no denomina- 
 tion's logic, clean outside of everything ! Well, 
 I '11 not make a long story of it. At first every- 
 body said Emily was n't to blame, and the 
 ladies showed their Christian charity by asking 
 her to lunch parties, which were convenient 
 because then they need n't ask me. 
 
 " But Emily was shy and would n't go, 
 though I 've often urged her just so she might 
 get a hearty meal; for it had come to that 
 with us, ma'am. My congregation had run be- 
 hind with my salary, and they said the scandal 
 of my leaving so broke up the church that they 
 couldn't pay me. Butchers and grocers de- 
 clined to lose more money by us. Wesley got 
 me a little work on a paper, and I went about 
 the small towns where I could, lecturing for 
 ten dollars and my traveling expenses. But 
 with it all we were often hungry, and should 
 have been oftener if Wesley hadn't been al- 
 ways sending things and getting us over there 
 under one pretext or another for a better din- 
 ner than he 'd give himself. But I said I 
 wouldn't make a long story of it. My little 
 Herman wore out his shoes, I 'd no money for 
 
SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 229 
 
 more ; it was wet weather, and he took cold. 
 It turned into diphtheria ; he died one week, 
 and his mother the next of the same disease. 
 Mitchel's sister came over and took care of her ; 
 we were so miserably poor then I caught her 
 bringing flour over in a bucket. When Emily- 
 was taken first, a little town near wanted me 
 for a lecture ; she told me to go. I had n't a 
 dollar in the world, sir, had to borrow my fare 
 of Wesley, so — I went. When I came back 
 she was dead." 
 
 He dropped his head on his folded arms. 
 Neither of the listeners found anything to say. 
 
 Witte rose and walked to the easel. He flung 
 one arm about the picture frame, and some- 
 times while he was speaking his fingers would 
 gently stroke the glass. *' Mitchel had this 
 done from a photograph," he said. "Mitchel 
 got me this place, too ; he 'd been trying for 
 it some time. Getting it a little earlier would 
 have made a difference. My wife's relations 
 took my little girl ; they offered to adopt 
 her if I 'd give her up entirely. My unfortu- 
 nate rehgious views made the condition neces- 
 sary, they said. It was the best thing for the 
 child, so I gave her up. Once I went to see 
 her. I saved up money enough to get to New 
 York state where they lived. I bought some 
 little things I thought would please her and 
 
230 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 went straight to her aunt's house ; I said to 
 myself all the way that they surely would n't 
 have the cruelty to hinder me from kissing her 
 and talking to her a little while." 
 
 " Well, had they ? " said Berkely. 
 
 " Oh, I guess not ; they 'd no need, for they 
 were n't there ; they 'd gone to Europe to stay 
 four years. I came back here. Some time I 
 think I '11 end it all with a pistol bullet, but 
 where 's the use ? The will is indestructible, 
 in another form I should still live and suffer. 
 They are gone," he said with his hand on the 
 picture frame ; " I can never find them, and for 
 what else should I go ? There is but one way 
 to peace, to cease to desire, and then I shall 
 cease to exist." 
 
 He resumed his seat by the table, and lean- 
 ing his head on his hand turned toward Ethel 
 his hopeless, misty blue eyes. A sudden im- 
 pulse made her stretch out her hand, saying, 
 " I am so sorry for you ! " He took the hand 
 awkwardly, and at the same moment, unper- 
 ceived by any of them, the man whom he had 
 called Mitchel came across the grass plot before 
 the house and stood in the doorway. 
 
 " Thank you," said Witte, '' but tell me, can 
 I do better? You, sir, too, can I do better? 
 What better is there to do ? " 
 
 "I think you can do better," said Berkely. 
 
SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 231 
 
 " Don't you see one thing ? Granting this is 
 a bad world, still, toe have improved ! Nature 
 has somehow made a man, and he is better than 
 an ape. And don't you see if there is any 
 progress there is hope, and a world with hope 
 in it can't be the worst possible world, for a 
 world without hope would be worse still ! And 
 if there is such a thing as progress, doesn't 
 every man help himself in helping the rest ? 
 I 'm taking your own premises, only talking 
 Von Hartmann instead of his master. One 
 thing is sure, Mr. Witte, the only pleasures 
 which don't leave a sting behind them are 
 those which come from obeying what is conven- 
 tionally called our higher nature ; and no man 
 has ever listened to that unexplainable some- 
 thing in him which decides for righteousness 
 and been sorry, no matter what the decision 
 has cost him ! I take it there 's something sig- 
 nificant in that fact. Mr. Witte, you and I 
 are only two out of a multitude, and every 
 other one's happiness is as dear to him as ours 
 to us ; now, it is another significant fact that 
 the men who have, as you may say, flung their 
 own happiness into the pool with the other fel- 
 lows have been happier than those who have 
 — well, played a lone hand, caring for no one 
 else." (" I 'm getting my morals awfully mixed 
 with betting and euchre," thought Berkely ; "I 
 
232 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 shall have to cut it short.") " Say you were 
 to try the first of these plans, and since your 
 own happiness is ruined give the best that 's in 
 you to the poor beggars almost as badly off as 
 yourself; don't you think your will would then 
 stand a better chance than it does here, alone 
 with yourself and your bitter memories, to get 
 into harmony with the universal Will ? That 's 
 the view I take of it as a pagan." 
 
 " And what do you say ? " said the hermit, 
 turning abruptly to Ethel. Her husband looked 
 at her also. She blushed a little, and being 
 exceedingly shy her voice was not quite steady 
 when she began to speak. 
 
 " I don't look at it as a pagan," she said, 
 " for I am a Christian " (the man in the door- 
 way took off his hat); "and I am a Christian 
 for the same reason that you are a pessimist — 
 because Christianity alone seems to me to offer 
 a reasonable explanation of the contradictions 
 and miseries of life. With another world this 
 world seems reasonable, without one it is just 
 a grim and cruel joke ; and Schopenhauer sees 
 that himself, for he tries to escape his own con- 
 clusions with the theories of art and his Bud- 
 dhist ideas of absorption into the universal. 
 Schopenhauer contradicts and dogmatizes worse 
 than the Bible his followers despise, yet he 
 cannot deny that there may be a will which is 
 
 o 
 
SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 233 
 
 in and for itself and conscious of itself — that 
 is God; be only can see no sign of any such 
 will in the universe. Between his dogmatism 
 and that of the Bible it seems to me easy 
 choosing, especially when you look at their 
 practical results. I am quite willing to accept 
 any proved conclusion of modern science, the 
 origin of the species if you will, but what dif- 
 ference does it make hotv God has worked ? 
 You only remove the difficulty a step farther 
 back; you don't solve it. Who created tbis 
 matter which contains 'the promise and po- 
 tency of life ' ? All that has been said of the 
 only true happiness I firmly believe, only — 
 has n't it been as well said in the Sermon on 
 the Mount as by the modern Altruists ? " 
 
 "Yes, ma'am, it has," said Mitchel, advan- 
 cing. 
 
 "This is my friend I told you of," said Witte. 
 
 Berkely bowed in silence, but Ethel held 
 out her hand. Probably Mitchel had not the 
 slightest idea of any especial grace in the ac- 
 tion; it is customary in the West to shake 
 hands on an introduction. He shook hands 
 with great cordiality, saying something Ethel 
 could not hear, for just then the boat whistle 
 blew. 
 
 " We must go," said Berkely hastily ; " but 
 think the whole thing over, and if you want 
 
234 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 help to get away from here, this is my card. 
 I should be glad — you understand. Good-by." 
 He turned to Mitchel and said a few words in 
 a low tone, while Ethel said to Witte, " You 
 will think it over again, won't you ? " He did 
 not answer, unless it was an answer to silently 
 pick a pansy from the little bed of flowers near 
 the door and give it to her. The boat whistle 
 blew again and the bell began to ring. 
 
 " No, I 'm not going," called Mitchel. 
 " Good-by." 
 
 Berkely and his wife ran down the shore to 
 the boat. " What did you say to Mr. Mitchel, 
 John ? " said Ethel as they gained the deck. 
 
 " Told him he was the best sermon for the 
 Methodist Church I knew, and he said he only 
 ' done what any Christian man would do for 
 another ; ' then I gave him something for any 
 charitable object he might have on hand, told 
 him he was as good a Christian as Marcus 
 Aurelius, and went off. But, Ethel, that fellow 
 has taught me a lesson ; I am afraid it is I who 
 am the bigoted prig, not he." Ethel gave him 
 a look which made the woman whose cousin 
 died in Kansas whisper to Mrs. Wattles: "Just 
 married, poor things ; they won't look that 
 way at each other long ! " 
 
 " And I think," said Berkely, with a little 
 screw of his lips as though he brought the words 
 
SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 235 
 
 out hardly, — "I think the other poor beggar 
 taught me one too. My cynicism is tolerably 
 cheap, Ethel ; I 'ra not proud of it. See, we 
 are going." 
 
 The hermit and Mitchel were standing on 
 the shore, and both waved their hats as the boat 
 moved off. Looking back, they saw the west- 
 ern sky aflame and the western water opal in 
 the light, while under the darkening hills the 
 lonely hut stood grim and silent, making no 
 sign of life. 
 
 They sat on deck that night until the red 
 faded from the sky, the hills grew into shape- 
 less black masses, and they left Lake Pepin be- 
 hind them. Nor have they ever returned. 
 
 The hermit did not write to Berkely, but 
 Ethel thinks that she once had news of him. 
 It was in the September of that same year when 
 every newspaper was a death list because of 
 the pestilence which wasted the South. Among 
 the names of the dead at some obscure town in 
 Mississippi — so blotted in the type that she 
 could not read it rightly — was the name, 
 " Herman Witte, volunteer nurse," and beneath 
 the brief comment, "Mr. Witte is the nurse 
 who was taken sick the day after his arrival." 
 
 She handed the paper to Berkely. He lifted 
 his eyebrows, and being alone with his wife 
 gave a low whistle. 
 
236 KNITTERS IN THE SUN, 
 
 " I believe it 's that Schopenhauer fellow, 
 Ethel," he said. " By Jove, if the unlucky- 
 beggar did n't manage to make a failure of his 
 death as well as his life ! " 
 
 o 
 
"MA' BOWLIN'." 
 
 When the spring overflow comes, the plan- 
 tation of Clover Bend becomes a rustic Venice. 
 Boats glide over the cypress knees in the 
 swamps, where the cypresses and sycamores 
 look oddly short, and the thorn trees dip their 
 red spikes in the water. Usually the store 
 stands on a high bank, but then looking over 
 the edge you can see the green waves curdling 
 about the willow roots barely a step below. 
 
 Bud Quinn's house faces the plantation, the 
 store, the mill, and the score of houses ; but its 
 western windows are toward the river and the 
 sunset and the undulating line of cane which 
 limits the hill country from whence the Quinns 
 came. It is a house of the common Arkansas 
 type — two ill-built chimneys on the outside, 
 a beetling roof, and an open " gallery " in the 
 middle. 
 
 One morning, during a certain overflow sea- 
 son a good many years ago, Mrs. Quinn sat in 
 the gallery with her neighbor, Mrs. Brand, and 
 the Quinns' only child, Ma' Bowlin'. The 
 women of the " bottom-lands " are inclined to 
 
238 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 be thin and sallow, while Mrs. Quinn's comely 
 plumpness of person was accompanied by a 
 particularly fair skin with roses and freckles. 
 There were dimples in her cheeks deep enough 
 to show when she was not smiling, and in spite 
 of hard and sad years her blue eyes sparkled 
 with a placid, kindly, half-humorous brightness. 
 She had been sewing on a child's frock of flow- 
 ered cotton, which she shook out, finally, say- 
 ing : " Thar, now. Ma' Bowlin' ; thar 's yo' 
 new gownd. Mus' be keerful ; not mud it ; not 
 muss it — mus' be keerful." 
 
 The child listened with a strained attention, 
 though the words were so simple. She was a 
 fair, pretty child, with curling flaxen hair and 
 dark blue eyes, in shape and color the copy of 
 her mother's, but quite lacking their expression, 
 having in its place a look at once wistful and 
 dazed. 
 
 Mrs. Quinn repeated the words until the ear- 
 nest little face brightened, and the curly head 
 was nodded vehemently. " Ma' Bowlin' knaw. 
 Ma' Bowlin' keerful. Putt on ! " cried the child. 
 
 " Stan' still, then." 
 
 Ma' Bowlin' assumed a rigid military atti- 
 tude, like a soldier at drill, while her mother 
 slipped the frock over her shoulders. 
 
 "Do look at the little trick!" said Mrs. 
 Brand. 
 
''MA' BOWLIN':' 239 
 
 " I I'arned 'er thet ar," said Mrs. Quinn. 
 " She '11 Stan' twell I tell 'er ter quit, ef she 
 Stan's all day. She are the best chile ter mind. 
 W'y, I tole 'er onst ter be shore keep up the 
 fire w'ile I wuz ter the mill, an' ef ye please 
 she piled on cotton seed twell she nigh sot 
 the heouse afire — she did so ; the mantil war 
 a-scorchin'." 
 
 "Wa'al, a good, mindin' chile's a comfort, 
 even ef they don't jes make the wiggle," said 
 Mrs. Brand. 
 
 Mrs. Brand was a widow from Georgia, a 
 tall, spare, black-haired, bright-eyed woman, in 
 a very clean and stiff print gown ; much re- 
 spected by her neighbors because she openly 
 despised the State of Arkansas, and her husband 
 had owned slaves before the war. To be sure, 
 the slaves were only a decrepit old pair thrown 
 in as " boot " to a horse trade ; but Mrs. Brand 
 always spoke of them in a large plural as " We 
 all's niggers," and felt about their vanished 
 ownership much as a ruined noble might feel 
 about his patent of nobilit}^. 
 
 " Law me ! " she continued, with a sigh, feel- 
 ing for her snuff-stick, " ain't the ways er Prov- 
 idence onscrutable ? But I reckon ye set jes 
 much store on 'er, ef not a little mucher." 
 
 Mrs. Quinn's arms, which were about the 
 child, tightened into an almost savage clasp. 
 
240 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 She crushed the fair curls against her cheek ; 
 but directly she laughed. " I reckon," said 
 she. " Thar now, honey, ye look right peart. 
 Ye kin — yes, ye kin run long ter the store an' 
 strike up with yo' paw an' show him yo' new 
 dress. Be shore ye don' mud it, an' ye show it 
 ter him. Yere 's yo' bunnit." 
 
 Both women looked after the pretty little 
 shape as it skipped along the narrow ridge of 
 land leading to the plantation store. The 
 widow compressed her lips over some unuttered 
 thought. 
 
 Mrs. Quinn answered it : " Bud '11 fotch 'er 
 'ome on his boss. He don' much 'er like some ; 
 but he means kin'. He never guvs 'er a ha'sh 
 word — never." 
 
 " Some folks say he never gives her any word 
 't all," said the widow, dryly. " But law ! some 
 folks wud bust if they cud n't talk ; it swells in 
 'em so, like pop-corn. Say, how ole is Ma' 
 Bowlin' ; risin' er eight ? " 
 
 " Eight this day. Ye had orter remember 
 the day." 
 
 " So I had," rejoined Mrs. Brand, with some 
 emotion. " Law me ! yo' man nigh busted my 
 do' down ; an' I was so phased I said right out : 
 ' Bud Quinn, ain't ye ben lynched yet ? ' ' Yes, 
 I have,' says he, 'n' Sukey begged me off. An' 
 now she's took bad, an' for the Lord's sake 
 
<'MA' BOWLIN\" 241 
 
 come an' hope 'er ! ' Wa'al, I had n't much 
 acquaintanceship with you all, but I knowed 
 what the matter was, an' I cud n't refuse. So, 
 if ye please, off we went — on that same wil' 
 colt you taken. An' the way that there critter 
 went r'arin' an' chargin' through the water — 
 ye 'member how high the overflow was that 
 year — my word ! I says, ' Mr. Quinn,' says I, 
 ' if I kin have my ruthers, I 'd ruther walk.' 
 ' Sukey done rode 'im,' says he ; 'he won' make 
 no blunders.' ' Then I ain't s'prised she 's 
 took,' says I. Say, Sukey, war n't ye skeered ? 
 Night 'n' all." 
 
 "I don' 'member like I war," said Sukey, 
 rising and beginning to lay the table in the 
 kitchen ; " onyhow he war all the hoss left, so 
 I had ter tek 'im." 
 
 The widow gave a moment to remembrance 
 and her snuff-stick before saying, " Sorter quar 
 they all never fund nuthin er Zed Ruffner 'cept 
 that ole hat er his'n all bloodied an' tromped 
 on." 
 
 " Bud 'lowed 't warn't Zed's hat 't all," said 
 Sukey, quickly ; " jes er old un the hoegs fit 
 over an' tromped up. Ye knaw how them wil' 
 hoegs fight. Zed Ruffner tole Bud he war 
 gwine ter light a shuck, kase he cud n't put up 
 no longer with his maw's cavin'. He 'lowed 
 ter go on the trade boat." 
 
242 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 " Yes, I 'member," said the widow, '' an' I 
 don' know w'y Bud's story war n't likely as 
 t' other, an' Zed done make tracks with the hun- 
 erd an' twenty dollars. I expect he 'lowed 
 't was his own money, bein' like 't was from 
 sellin' the hoss his own mother left 'im; an' my 
 son Frank says Zed taken it turrible hard for 
 to have his money used that a-way. But ayfter 
 they all fund the hat, an' knowed how Bud 
 done, ridin' off in the bottom with Zed, an' 
 comin' back by his lone, they was jes like a 
 pack er dogs ayfter a wil' hog — no reasonin' 
 in 'em, nuthin' cept bark." 
 
 " Oh, wa'al," said Mrs. Quinn, mildly, " I 
 don't guess 't wuz so quar, ayfter all. We-uns 
 had n't ben in Clover Bend mo'n two months ; 
 an' bein' frum the hill country, too, folkses war 
 sorter sot agin us, natchelly nuff. An' the wust 
 trick er all war we-uns hevin hed hard words 
 with the Ruffners. 'T war all 'long thet ar same 
 colt witch Mis' Ruffner she offered ter Bud, an' 
 Bud he taken up with it ; but somebody offered 
 more, an' she sole the colt ter them, an' w'en 
 Bud guv 'er his opinion, she war r'arin' an' 
 chargin' — wa'al I don' want fur ter say nuthin 
 agin onybody cole in their grave " — 
 
 " She wuz a venermous ole liar, cole or hot," 
 interrupted the widow, calmly ; " an' hot nuff 
 she had orter be, ef all tales air true. Ye knaw 
 
 o 
 
''MA' BOWLIN'." 243 
 
 she jes sicked them men on Bud. An' I reckon 
 ye wudn'tgot'im off ef she'd 'a ben reoun'. 
 No, ma'am. How did ye, onyhow ? I 've 
 wanted ter knaw fur a right smart, but I did 
 n't like fur ter quiz ye." 
 
 " I '11 tell ye, then," said Mrs. Quinn. " I wuz 
 comin' home, w'en I met up with Tennessee 
 Gale, an' she tole me how they 'd toted Bud off 
 ter the big bayou whar they fund the hat, ye 
 knaw, fur ter lynch him. So 't war powerful 
 dark, but I follered ayfter fas' I cud, an' I come 
 up on 'em w'en they 'd got the rope reoun' Bud's 
 neck. 'T wuz Ruffner tole 'em ter lemme talk. 
 I knawed 'im spite er his black kaliker mask. 
 So then I tole 'em how Bud come home that ar 
 night 'thout a scratch er a t'ar on 'im. I axed 
 they all ter s'arch 'im right thar, an' they done 
 it, an' 't war jes like I tole 'em. Then I put it 
 ter they all, cud a gre't big feller like Zed Ruff- 
 ner be killed up 'thout mekin' a fight fur 't ? 
 'Sides, the place war all tore up ; thar war a 
 turrible fight thar, shore, hoegs or humans. 
 An' how wud they all feel ef ayfter they bunged 
 Bud they 'd fin' Zed Ruffner safe an' soun' ? I 
 don't 'member on the words, but I begged hard, 
 an' bymeby Ruffner he stomps his foot an' he 
 says, sezee : ' Dad burn me ! I cay n't stan' no 
 mo', guilty or not guilty. Mis' Quinn, go 'long 
 'home ; ye ain't fit ter be out yere. Boys, le's 
 
244 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 let 'er tek 'er man 'ome with 'er. We kin fin' 
 'im easy naff ef we want 'im.' An' that war 
 how it happened. Bud he 'lowed Zed wud 
 turn up, or leastways he write his paw. But 
 it 's eight years now, an' nary word nur sign. 
 We-uns hez stopped on yere, an' Bud he gits 
 good pay 's stockman, and Mr. Francis he won' 
 yere a word agin 'im ; but thet ar ole story don' 
 never let us 'lone. Folkses don' knaw fur shore 
 he done hit, but they don' knaw fur shore he 
 did n't done hit, an' they all don' want fur ter 
 hev no truck with us. The wust er 't are, Bud 
 he cayn't git reconciled no way, an' he studies 
 an' studies twell he are plum changed ; he ain't 
 the same man like — Law me ! ef thar ain't 
 Bud over yander, an' 'thout Ma' Bowlin' ! " 
 
 '' So 't is," said the widow, rising, " an' time 
 fur me ter be gwine, too." 
 
 " Ye come fur a fire ? " said Mrs. Quinn, in 
 hospitable sarcasm ; " w'y won't ye stop fur 
 dinner ? Res' yo bunnit on the bed and dror 
 up — do ! " 
 
 But the widow was not to be detained. It 
 almost seemed as though she were hurrying 
 away from her host, who had alighted, and was 
 now in his own doorway. He brushed past 
 her with a surly "Howdy?" and flung himself 
 into a seat before the table, where Mrs. Quinn 
 presently served him, smiling as cheerfully as 
 
 o 
 
"MA' BOWLIIV." 245 
 
 though she expected a smile in return, which is 
 hardly likely, did she pay any attention to ex- 
 perience. 
 
 " Ye did n't meet up with Ma' Bowlin' no- 
 whar?" said she. "She war purportin' ter 
 show ye her new gownd. She looked so purty 
 in it, an' railly, Bud, Ma' Bowlin' hev 
 I'arned " — 
 
 " I wisht ye'd quit yo' everlastin' gabbin' ' 
 'beout Ma' Bowlin'," the man broke in, sav- 
 agely. " Naw, I did n't meet up with 'er, nur 
 I did n't wanter. I 've had nuff er Ma' Bowlin' 
 a'ready this mornin'. Thet thar blamed fool 
 Tom Lardy darst ter tell me she war a jedg- 
 ment on me fur killin' Zed Ruffner, an' thar 
 war half a dozen t' other men reoun ter back 'im 
 up. Jes down yander en the stone 't war. I 
 don' guess I wanter hear ony mo' er Ma' Bow- 
 lin'." 
 
 He scowled at his food the picture of morose, 
 dejection ; yet only eight years ago Bud Quinn 
 had been the model young man of the hill coun- 
 try, whom fathers were accustomed to hold up 
 to their sons, and whose mop of red-brown curls, 
 sparkling eyes, and splendid muscles were not 
 more admired by the hill girls than his jovial 
 good-humor. 
 
 Sukey Quinn was used to " Bud's ways," but 
 even to her Bud seemed more wretched, and by 
 
246 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 consequence more sullen, than usual. She sat 
 pondering, her pleasant countenance a little 
 saddened, until at last she said, rather timidly : 
 " Bud, I ben studyin'. I don' see no reason fur 
 ter b'lieve that ar Zed '11 turn up. Le 's quit 
 Clover Bend an' go back ter the hills, an' mek 
 a fresh start whar folkses don' knaw." 
 
 " An' them all be mekin' their brags on me ? 
 Ye talk like a fool ! " 
 
 Sukey did n't wince ; the phrase was only 
 one of those " ways " to which she was accus- 
 tomed. Discussions between the pair were apt 
 to end in that final retort by Bud, " Ye talk 
 like a fool ! " Not that Bud really thought 
 that she did talk foolishly ; on the contrary, he 
 had a great pride in her sense : it was simply 
 that he was at the end of his arguments, but 
 not of his combativeness. Sukey would listen 
 with unfeigned good temper, understanding 
 perfectly that he gave vent to his sorrows and 
 angers for the sake of being consoled and con- 
 tradicted at once, and bearing no more malice 
 for her snubbings than she would have borne 
 her baby had it kicked her in a fit of colic ; for 
 Sukey was a maternal soul, who treated her 
 husband all the more gently because his unde- 
 served ignominy had soured his temper. "Law 
 me ! men folkses they cayn't hoi' in," she said 
 to her sole confidant, the widow from Georgia ; 
 
 o 
 
"MA' BOWLIN"." 247 
 
 "an' I are the onlies' critter Bud kin sass, kase 
 they all 's so sot agin 'im 't wun't tek mo'n a 
 word ter fetch a shoot." 
 
 But this admirable impersonal way of view- 
 ing things failed when it came to Ma' Bowlin' ; 
 and Sukey, so tolerant, so equable everywhere 
 else, could not endure a slighting word there. 
 
 Bud knew this as well as anybody, and a 
 kind of instinct had kept him silent about his 
 aversion to his child. At least he was never 
 openly unkind to her. But to-day he was ach- 
 ing with impotent anger and humiliation and 
 an intolerable sense of wrong. " An' 't war all 
 longer Z^er," he thought, meaning poor Ma' 
 Bowlin'. ^' I 'clare I hate 'er ! " 
 
 He jumped out of his chair and began walk- 
 ing the floor, talking furiously. " Hit 's no 
 good ; they all air down on me. I cayn't mek 
 a riffle. An', good Lord ! whut did I done? I 
 never hurted a human critter in my life, nur 
 wanted ter. Yit look how they run me down 
 like a wil' hoeg ! Looks like ter me thar war a 
 gre't black devil, too big fur me, a-harntin' me, 
 an' mekin' everything go bad fur me. An' I 
 knaw tvho, too. I tell ye, Sukey, 't are that 
 thar ole gypsy critter I would n't let camp in 
 we all's yard : she done it. Don' ye 'member 
 how she cussed me turrible hard ? An' I seen . 
 a black cat nex' day, an' that ar m.ght 't hap- 
 pened. Oh. dad burn her!" 
 
2-4:8 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 He swung his arm out in a gesture of uncon- 
 trollable irritation. The wall was nearer than 
 he realized, and his fist struck the logs smartly. 
 Bud laughed. 
 
 " Bud, I are sorry fur ye," said his wife, very 
 gently. 
 
 There was a pity and tenderness in her voice 
 that soothed Bud in spite of himself, but he 
 was in a mood to resent comfort. He raved 
 on : " Oh ! I 'm done now ; I won' stan' no mo' 
 er they all's fool tricks. I tek my gun ter the 
 store ter-morrer. Let 'em sass me then I " 
 
 Sukey was too wise to argue further, since 
 Bud was quite capable of carrying out his 
 threat. She wondered whether he bad finished 
 his dinner, but was afraid to inquire, so she 
 began to remove the superfluous dishes — very 
 softly. 
 
 Bud remained glowering at the fire until he 
 was disturbed by her passing to put a plate on 
 the hearth. '' Whut ye doin' with them taters ? " 
 growled he. 
 
 " Wa'al, ye knaw. Ma' Bowlin' — she ain't 
 back yet." 
 
 " An' good luck fur we all if she never comes 
 back." 
 
 The cruel answer made the poor woman turn 
 pale and tremble; she was so hurt that the tears 
 would not come. Not lifting his sullen eyes, 
 
"MA' BOW UN'." 249 
 
 Bud went on : " Ye much thet ar critter a heap ; 
 be ye so shore she are your^n? Hain't ye never 
 read en the Bible 'beout them thar folkses was 
 persessed er the devil? You knaw that boy — 
 Sukey, I swar w'en I see the critter grin-grin- 
 nin' ayfter me, I swar looks like ter me thet ar 
 same devil wants me 's got inter her ! Thar, 
 hit 's spoke now ; I cud n't never bide thet ar 
 chile — and now ye knaw w'y." 
 
 He would not look at his wife, though he could 
 hear her sob as he strode out of the house. 
 
 It miojht have been two hours before he came 
 back to find the rooms empty, and to see Sukey 
 running swiftly across the soaked cotton fields, 
 her sun -bonnet on her back, her hair blown 
 about a scared white face, and her skirts muddy 
 up to her waist. 
 
 ''Bud," she screamed, "git the bosses! 
 Quick ! Ma' Bowlin's en the swamp ! " 
 
 " My ! ray ! my ! Sukey ! " exclaimed Bud, 
 peevishly, " whut ye mean traipsin' 'beout the 
 kentry so ondecent ? Look at yo' skeert ! " 
 
 Sukey had reached the porch by this time. 
 She could hardly catch her breath, but she 
 panted out : " Git the bosses ! She went ter 
 the store an' axed fur ye like I tole 'er, an' 
 they all tole 'er ye war gone ter Tobe Morrow's, 
 an' they 'low she sot out fur ter go ter Tobe's, 
 an' some way missed the turn. I ben ter Tobe's, 
 
250 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 an' she ain't ben thar. Bud, I tole 'er ter meet 
 up with ye, an' she 's off en the swamp s'archin' 
 an' seekin' ye, an' she '11 go twell she drops I 
 O my Lord ! " She was so agitated that Bud 
 stared at her aghast, for a quieter, more easy- 
 going woman than Sukey Quinn never lived in 
 Arkansas. Sukey wringing her hands, Sukey 
 taking on, was a spectacle too bizarre for Bud 
 to realize. Why, never but once — and then 
 suddenly that once returned so vividly that Bud 
 seemed to watch the torch flames slant in the 
 wind, and felt that wicked jerk of the rope 
 against his throat. 
 
 "Don' ye tek on, Sukey," said he, gently; 
 "we '11 find 'er." 
 
 The father and mother rode together until 
 they came to the crossing of the two roads, 
 where Mrs. Quinn, who had n't spoken again, 
 drew rein to say : " Mabbe she mought er gone 
 by the river road. The Brown boys they wuz 
 down yander with their bateau ; she mought er 
 gone with them. Ye better go down ter the 
 big bayou." 
 
 " Whar — whar Zed — thar ? " gasped Bud, 
 flinching at a hideous fancy which flitted over 
 the surface of his mind, as a vulture might 
 brush a black wing past an eye. Was the devil 
 haunting him going to finish the job by tolling 
 his child out to mire and freeze and die just 
 
*'MA' BOW LIN'." 251 
 
 where they all believed he had killed Zed Ruff- 
 ner ? Then who would n't allow he was guilty ? 
 
 " I '11 go," said he. 
 
 Off he galloped, splashing through the mud- 
 dy water. The road to the " big bayou" was 
 mostly under water. North and south, east 
 and west, the eye met the same horizontal lines, 
 now dark, now gleaming, dappled with flicker- 
 ing prints of leafage, etched with shadows of 
 trunks and limbs, and here and there lost in a 
 soft fur-like growth of young cane. Uncanny 
 shapes of roots and logs and cypress knees 
 showed duskily under the lustrous green water, 
 blending with the masses of shade which huge 
 live-oaks and cypresses flung on the surface, 
 until it was hard telling which was the reality 
 of form and which the semblance. An opal- 
 escent mist rose from the open spaces toward 
 the west, through which blazed a sea of gold. 
 The forest was in blossom. Sumptuous petals 
 of wild- plum flowers or dog-wood drifted among 
 the trees. Aloft was a twitter of birds and 
 bird happiness, drowned for a second by the 
 splash of hurrying hoofs, but instantly reassert- 
 ing itself and rippling keenly and blithely 
 through the wood. 
 
 Peril hid underfoot, and beauty was plain 
 aboTe ; but the horseman rushing by was not 
 conscious of either. There was an extraor- 
 
252 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 dinary and terrible commotion in Bud Quinn's 
 mind ; using his own phrase, he was " powerful 
 riled up " ; and whether what he felt was grief, 
 or dread, or a ghastly relief, he could n't tell for 
 his life. Too simple for analysis, his emotions 
 took the image of pictures — his wife in the 
 swamp, the old crone cursing him, his neighbors 
 frowning, and the children running to get out 
 of his way. Then he was fooling with those 
 sweet-potatoes that he sent around one winter 
 because nobody else had any left. His throat 
 tightened and his cheeks burned, just as they 
 did when every bag and basket came back. 
 What a heap of those fool things he did, any- 
 how, and how bad he felt about them ! Visions 
 of Ma' Bowlin' came incessantly. She was a 
 baby ; a girl, when he wanted a boy ; she was a 
 toddling little thing who would n't learn to talk, 
 but used queer sounds of her own for a lan- 
 guage ; he had a notion that it was this which 
 first gave him his repugnance to the child. She 
 was a girl whose feeble mind was a judgment ; 
 then he slowly grew to hate her. He did n't 
 know whether he hated her now or not; he 
 only knew that if Sukey wanted her so bad, she 
 must have her. Presently another feeling stole 
 into the medley of his thoughts. As the air 
 grew chill with nightfall he began to consider 
 the child. "Say, ye devil," called Bud, who 
 
"MA' BOW LIN':' 253 
 
 was as brave as he was superstitious, and made 
 no ado of defying the devil by name — " say, 
 it 's a mean trick er your'n toUin' thet ar little 
 critter off inter the swamp ! " He took sides 
 with Ma' Bowlin'. *' Dad burn ye, devil, I '11 
 find 'er an' fotch 'er home spiter ye ! " cried he. 
 Then he would shout, " Ma' Bowlin' — hit 's 
 paw ! I 'm a-comin', baby; don' ye be skeered." 
 But only the echo of his own voice returned to 
 him. He reached the big bayou. It was a 
 moment before he could collect himself enough 
 to look about, and his heart jumped when he 
 saw a floating log. The relief which he felt 
 surprised him. " A body 'd 'low I set store by 
 the little trick," he said, huskily ; ''but I'm 
 glad ye did n't do it yefe, anyhow, devil 1 " 
 
 His horse was worn out ; the stars were shin- 
 ing ; there was nothing for it but to go home. 
 
 As soon as he reached the brow of the little 
 hill which dips into the swamp beyond the mill, 
 he could see lights dancing through the fields 
 and hear shouts. 
 
 A horseman galloped toward him holding up 
 a torch. Mr. Francis it was, the resident owner 
 of the plantation. 
 
 " Come to the store. Bud," he called ; "we 're 
 all out." 
 
 Indeed, Mrs. Quinn had aroused the planta- 
 tion, and the men had been scouring the country 
 
254 . KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 all the afternoon. One band had just come in, 
 and were sitting on horseback before the plat- 
 form of the store. Their leader sat sideways 
 on his saddle in an attitude of languid indiffer- 
 ence, yet he had ridden harder than any one. 
 He was a slightly built man, whose thin face 
 looked the thinner for a peaked black beard 
 and long straight silky black hair falling over 
 his flannel collar. His features were regular, 
 and his dark eyes had a very pleasant, mild ex- 
 pression. 
 
 " Reckon ye 'ain't fund no trail ? " he said, 
 listlessly, not looking at Bud, to whom the 
 other men also paid no attention. 
 
 "Naw, Mr. Ruffner," answered Bud. 
 
 " Mos' like she strayed off en the swamp. 
 We all bes' look up them hoeuses off in the 
 cane-brake. Thar 's coffee b'ilin' en the store, 
 an' Mis' Quinn are thar." 
 
 Bud dismounted and entered the store. A 
 portion of the long room had been railed off 
 for an " office." The store is the centre of 
 everything on a plantation. The office was 
 full of women, and a cloud of vapor came from 
 a boiler of coffee on the stove. The widow 
 from Georgia was ladling coffee, and Mrs. 
 Quinn holding the cups. 
 
 Just then a little commotion outside caused 
 all the other women to run out, giving Bud an 
 
 o 
 
''MA' B0WLIN\" 255 
 
 opportunity to approach his wife. Her face 
 was so strange and rigid that he was fright- 
 ened, and her eyes traveled over his mud- 
 splashed figure in hopeless, stern inquiry. 
 
 " Ye need n't tell me," said she, " ye did n't 
 fin' nuthin'. I reckon yo' glad. Ye hated 'er ; 
 ye wanted 'er outen yo' road, an' ye got yo' 
 wan tin'. But don' come nigh me ; fur ef my 
 baby 's los', I '11 never live longer ye no mo', 
 Bud Quinn — never ! " 
 
 " Oh, hush ! " said the widow from Georgia, 
 good-humoredly ; '' thet ain't no tallc fur 'tween 
 man an' wife ! Ain't the chile his'n well 's 
 yuur'n? G'way, Bud; she don' knaw rightly 
 whut she 's sayin'." 
 
 With that she pushed Bud — dumb as a bird 
 caught up in a whirlwind — out into the main 
 room of the store, 
 
 " Wy are Sukey gone back on me ? " were 
 the first words he could stammer. 
 
 "I reckon she's wored out," answered the 
 widow, grimly. " Look-a-here, Bud Quinn ; I 
 sorter taken yo' side jes now, but 't ain't kase I 
 got ony gre't opinion of ye, for I 'ain't " — 
 
 " Yo' like they all ; ye 'low " — 
 
 "I don' 'low ye hurted Zed Ruffner, if ye 
 mean that. No, sir ; I got a low down 'pinion 
 of ye jes kase ye treat yo' wife so mean — an' 
 thet thar po' little trick she 's so petted on, po' 
 
256 KNITTERS IN TEE SUN. 
 
 little innercent, smilin', mindin' critter, always 
 cravin' fur to please ye ! She ain't to blame 
 fur not havin' good sense ; I reckon she 'd take 
 sense if she cud! But ye had a grudge agin 
 'er kase she was throwed up at ye fur a jedg- 
 ment. An' I kin tell ye, Bud Quinn, ye made 
 folks dead sho' she was a jedgment jes by the 
 way ye treated 'er ! Ye 've grieved Sukey all 
 that chile's life treatin' 'er so. Not a kin' word 
 nur look fur her ; an' ye ben so busy studyin* 
 on yo' troubles an' hatin' t' other folks fur mis- 
 jedgin' ye, that ye never taken no thought er 
 her'n ! Laws ! Bud Quinn, d' ye expect she 
 liked bein' looked down on? Or liked fur to 
 have Ma' Bowlin half cracked? Or liked fur 
 to have you glumin' roun' nur never muchin' 
 yo' own chile ? I reckon Sukey's human, an 
 ye 've got ter the eend er 'er long-sufferin' " — 
 
 "Wa'al, Mis' Brand," Bud interrupted dog- 
 gedly, " whutsumever I done, jawin' me won't 
 fin' Ma' Bowlin'. I got ter git my tother boss 
 an' go. Ye tell Sukey I '11 find Ma' Bowlin' 
 — someways I " 
 
 "Ye Je^fer," retorted the unabashed widow, 
 " an' the less truck ye try ter have with Sukey 
 befo' then, the mo' she '11 like ye." 
 
 Bud walked away without another word. 
 Mr. Francis gave him a torch, and he rode off 
 on his fresh horse. Nobody else spoke to him 
 or offered him any help. 
 
"MA' BOWLIN\" 257 
 
 This time he chose the high-road. For some 
 distance it was above water ; but, finally, he 
 came to a depression in the ground which the 
 overflow had turned into a shallow river, filled 
 with leaves and sticks and floating logs, and all 
 the debris of the swamp. By stepping from 
 log to log it was just possible for a footman to 
 cross to the firm land beyond. 
 
 " Ma' Bowlin' war powerful spry," thought 
 Bud ; " hopped like a 'coon." He had a feel- 
 ing of admiration for the child's agility. 
 " Mought be a show er findin' a trail ef 't war 
 daylight," he muttered ; " cayn't do much 
 with a torch." But he held it high, and sud- 
 denly he uttered a loud exclamation. On the 
 moss of one of the logs was a tiny footprint. 
 In spite of the darkness he had found the trail. 
 To pursue it was not so difficult : here a freshly 
 broken twig where the little fingers had caught, 
 there a patch of moss as though a foot had 
 slipped, oak limbs swayed out of place, or logs 
 wet by a fresh immersion beneath a passing 
 weight, told the story of the journey plainly 
 enough for a woodman like Bud. 
 
 But all at once the trail ceased. Let him 
 ride in what direction he might, he could not 
 find a sign. The print of fingers on the low 
 branch of a pawpaw-tree showed that so far 
 the little traveler must have come ; but there 
 
258 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 was the end. While Bud hesitated, a great 
 log drifted slowly and majestically through the 
 circle of light cast by his torch out into the for- 
 est darkness. 
 
 " Mought er skipped on a log like thet," 
 Bud mused, " an' the log sailed off ; but, God 
 A'mighty, witch way ? " 
 
 He rode aimlessly about the swamp, shout- 
 ing until he was hoarse : " Ma' Bowlin' ! Ma' 
 Bowlin' ! Paw 's comin' ! Don't be skeered, 
 honey ! Who-op ! Whoo-op ! " 
 
 He could hardly remember the time when 
 he had used such a caressing word to the child ; 
 but now, somehow the image of the little 
 " wanting," trustful thing hunting for him in 
 the swamp affected him strangely. He remem- 
 bered that there had been times when his heart 
 had turned to the child and he had hardened 
 it again. One scene in particular kept recur- 
 ring to him. He had gone to a Fourth of July 
 celebration, and the people were sitting in 
 groups about the grass, eating their luncheon. 
 Lum Shinault was leaning against a tree near 
 Bud, and his little daughter, hardly two years 
 old, toddled up to him, stretching out her arms 
 and crying, *'Up ! up ! " Lum snatched her up 
 and marched along with her, laughing and sing- 
 ing. At this Ma' Bowlin', who was not quite 
 six years old, but just beginning to talk, pulled 
 
 o 
 
''MA' BOWLiJsr." 259 
 
 at Bud's trousers. *' Up ! up ! " she stammered, 
 in exactly the other child's tone. It made some 
 of the children titter, and Bud was furious. 
 He pushed the little thing away. He remem- 
 bered how the smiling little face had fallen, 
 and how she had run to hide it against her 
 mother's arm. Sukey had lifted her up, heavy 
 as she was. " Maw '11 tote ye a piece, honey." 
 Bud could hear the words, with the slight 
 tremor in them, so distinctly that he started. 
 " Lord, how cud I ben so mean ? " he groaned. 
 '* Thet blamed critter war right. Poor Sukey ! 
 An she war alius seekin', quiet like, ter mek 
 the little trick set store by me ! " 
 
 The night wore on, chillier and darker every 
 hour. And somehow, as Bud Quinn's hopes 
 sank lower and lower, and his torch began to 
 flare, and his horse to stumble with fatigue, 
 his mind went back to his simple and tender 
 thoughts in the time before Ma' Bowlin' was 
 born, and the lost child was his own little baby 
 again. 
 
 "Lord, but I hate ter leave ye, honey," he 
 cried, " but Nig cajmt skeercely walk. I '11 
 come back quick 's I kin." 
 
 The morning was dawning before he reached 
 the store. There is always something dispirit- 
 ing about the first gray dawn, and the forlorn- 
 ness of a cotton plantation when the mill has 
 
260 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 black unsightly wooden walls, showing gaps, 
 and the whitewash is peeling off the sides of 
 the store, and a fog hangs over the drowned 
 lands, was in this case increased by half a dozen 
 muddy horses dropping their necks below the 
 horns of their saddles by the store fence. All 
 night the search had gone on with no result. 
 Ruffner was just in, bringing no news except 
 that every cabin within ten miles had been 
 visited in vain. He told Bud that Sukey was 
 out searching. Three or four men had come 
 out on the platform. They put their hands in 
 their pockets, and looked at Bud curiously as 
 he almost tumbled off his horse. He staggered 
 and fell, in fact, when he tried to walk. They 
 did not take their hands out of their pockets, 
 and he got up painfully and leaned against a 
 post. Lnm Shinault, coming to the door, saw 
 him, and went back, to reappear directly with 
 a steaming cup of coffee and a piece of corn 
 bread. 
 
 " Ye hev ter eat 'em," he said. " I don' 
 guess yo' much better off 'n yo' boss. Say, got 
 any other un 'cept the un Mis' Quinn on ? " 
 
 "Naw," said Bud. "I'll hev ter try a ba- 
 teau." 
 
 " Ye kin hev my gray if ye like," said Lum. 
 
 Tears started to the broken man's eyes. 
 
 " I tell ye thet ar feller feels 5ac?," Lum told 
 
 o 
 
''MA' BOWLIN'r 261 
 
 his wife, later. "Needn't tell me he don't. 
 He went off like a shot the minnit he got his 
 hoss ; an' he done ben out sence yistiddy 
 ev'nin'." 
 
 All day the search continued. Late in the 
 afternoon, however, the worn-out searchers be- 
 gan to come into the store. Last of all, Bud 
 Quinn rode up on Shinault's horse. Mrs. 
 Quinn was talking to Ruffner on the platform. 
 Ruffner said, " Howdy ? naw, we ain't fund 
 'er yit.'^ And another man led his own horse 
 away to make room for Bud ; but Bud heard 
 and saw nothing. He only looked miserably 
 at his wife, and she turned away. 
 
 Lum Shinault brought a horse to Bud, say- 
 ing, kindly : " Yere 's yo' Nig ; he are rested 
 by this, an' I 've fed 'im good. I knowed ye 
 cud n't res' twell ye knowed sartin. But ye 
 mus' eat fust ; an' Mis' Brand 's fotchin' ye 
 suthin'." 
 
 "I are 'bleeged ter ye, Lum," said Bud al- 
 most sobbing. He took what the widow had 
 brought, while she looked on grimly. Then 
 he said : "Mis' Brand, I are goin'. Will ye 
 kin'ly tell Sukey how she caynt want fur ter 
 fin' Ma' Bowlin' mo'n me, nur be mo' wishtful 
 ter be good ter 'er ayfterwuds ? " 
 
 "All right," said the widow; "now ye talk. 
 Bud Quinn. Pity ye did n't talk that a-way 
 befo' ; but better late nur never." 
 
262 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 Bud was off before she finished. She could 
 see hiin slip about in the saddle ; in truth, he 
 felt dizzy and weak, and, what is worse, hope- 
 less. 
 
 Hardly a rod beyond the mill he was joined by 
 Ruffner, who remarked, carelessly, " Mought 's 
 well travel "long tergether, goin' same way." 
 
 '> Ef ye wanter," said Bud. " I 'm goin' in 
 the bottom." 
 
 They rode along, Ruffner furtively watching 
 Bud, until finally the elder man spoke with the 
 directness of primitive natures and strong ex- 
 citement : — 
 
 " Whut 's come ter ye. Bud Quinn ? Ye 
 seem all broke up 'beout this yere losin' yo' 
 little trick ; yit ye did n't useter set no gre't 
 store by 'er — least, looked like " — 
 
 " I knaw," answered Bud, lifting his heavy 
 eyes, too numb, himself, with weariness and 
 misery to be surprised, — "I knaw ; an' 't ar 
 curi's ter me too. I did nt set no store by 
 'er w'en I had 'er. I taken a gredge agin 'er 
 kase she had n't got no good sense, an' you 
 all throwed it up ter me fur a jedgment. An' 
 knawin' how I had n't done a thing ter hurt 
 Zed, it looked like cl'ar agin right an' natur' 
 fur the Lord ter pester me that a-way ; so some- 
 ways I taken the notion 't war the devil, an' 
 thet he got inter Ma' Bowlin', an' I mos' 
 
''MA' BOWLIN\" 263 
 
 cud n't b'ar the sight er that pore little crit- 
 ter. But the day she got lost kase er tryin' ter 
 meet up with me, I 'lowed mabbe he tolled 'er 
 off, an' I sorter felt bad fur 'er ; an' — an' w'en 
 I seen them little tracks er her'n, some ways 
 all them mean feelin's I got they jes broked 
 off short insider me like a string mought snap. 
 They done so. An' I wanted thet chile bader 'n 
 I ever wanted anything." 
 
 " Law me ! " said Ruffner, quite puzzled. 
 "But say. Bud, ef ye want 'er so bad's all thet, 
 ye war n't wanter mad the Lord by lyin', kase 
 He are yo' on'y show now. Bud Quinn, did 
 ye hurt my boy?" He had pushed his face 
 close to Bud's, and his mild eyes were glowing 
 like live coals. 
 
 "Naw, Mr. Ruffner," answered Bud, quietly, 
 " I never tetched a ha'r er 'is head ! '* 
 
 Ruffner kept up his eager and almost fierce 
 scrutiny for a moment ; then he drew a long 
 gasping sigh, crying, " Blame my skin ef I don' 
 b'lieve ye ! I 've 'lowed, fur a right smart, we 
 all used ye mighty rough." 
 
 " 'T ain't no differ," said Bud, dully. Noth- 
 ing mattered now, the poor fellow thought ; 
 Ma' Bowlin' was dead, and Sukey hated him. 
 
 Ruffner whistled slowly and dolefully; that 
 was his way of expressing sympathy ; but the 
 whistle died on his lips, for Bud smote his 
 shoulder, then pointed toward the trees. 
 
264 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 " Look a-thar ! " whispered Bud, witli a 
 ghastly face and dilating eyeballs : " Oh, Lord 
 A'mighty ! thar 's her — an' him ! " 
 
 Ruffner saw a boat leisurely propelled by a 
 long pole approaching from the river side ; a 
 black-haired young man in the bow with the 
 pole, a fair-haired little girl in the stern. The 
 little girl jumped up, and at the same instant 
 a shower of water from light-flying heels blind- 
 ed the young man. 
 
 " Paw ! paw ! " screamed the little girl ; 
 " maw tole Ma' Bowlin' — meet up — paw ! " 
 
 Bud had her in his arms now; he was pat- 
 ting her shoulder, and stroking her hair with a 
 trembling hand. Her face looked like an an- 
 gel's to him in its cloud of shining hair; her 
 eyes sparkled, her cheeks were red, but there 
 was something else which in the intense emo- 
 tion of the moment Bud dimly perceived — the 
 familiar dazed look was gone. How the blur 
 came over that innocent soul, why it went, are 
 alike mysteries. The struggle for life wherein, 
 amid anguish and darkness, the poor baby in- 
 tellect somehow went astray, and the struggle 
 for life wherein it groped its way back to light, 
 both are the secrets of the swamp, their wit- 
 ness ; but however obscurely, none the less 
 surely, the dormant soul had awakened and 
 claimed its rights, and Ma' Bowlin' had ceased 
 to be the baby, forever. 
 
"MA' BOW LIN \" 265 
 
 Meanwhile, if possible, the other actors in 
 the scene were equally agitated. The old man 
 choked, and the young man exclaimed, huskily, 
 " Paw ! ye ain't dead, then ? " 
 
 " Waal, I don't guess I be," said Ruffner, 
 struggling after his old dry tone, though his 
 voice shook ; " did ye 'low I war ? " 
 
 " I read it in a Walnut Ridge paper only a 
 month ayfter I went: 'The late Mr. William 
 Ruffner er Clover Bend ' — an' a right smart 
 abeout ye"' — 
 
 " Thet thar war yo' Uncle Raker, boy. He 
 war on a visit like, an' died ; an' that ar blamed 
 galoot in Walnut Ridge got 'im sorter mixed 
 up with me, ye un'erstan' ; but yo' maw, she 
 are gone, boy, shore, died up an' burried." 
 
 " I kin b'ar hit," said Zed Ruffner ; " but I 
 ivas right riled up 'beout you^ paw. ' Lef all 
 his property to his widder,' says the paper ; 
 thet ar riled me too. Says I, ye wun't see me 
 very soon to Clover Bend — I was allers sorter 
 ashy, ye know. Fur a fact, ye would n't 'a 
 seen me now ef 't had n't a-ben fur this yere 
 little trick. I war on a trade boat near New- 
 port, an' some fellers I know taken me off fur 
 a night ter thar camp. They was stavers. 
 Hit 's 'way off in the swamp, twelve mile frum 
 here ; an' I was up befo' sun up, aimin' ter 
 start back fur the river, w'en I heard the fun- 
 
266 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 niest sound, suthin' like a kid, ' Maw ! maw ! ' 
 Natcbelly I listened, an' byme-by I follered 
 ayfter it, an' whut shud I come on but a gre'fc 
 big log, an' this here little critter settin' on 't, 
 hol'in on by her two hands to a sorter limb 
 growin' on the log, an' shore's ye live, with 
 her gownd slung reoun' her neck in a bundle. 
 Lord knows how fur thet ar log had come, or 
 whut sorter travelin' it made, but thar war n't 
 a speck or a spot on thet ar gownd. 'S all I 
 cud do ter git 'er ter lemme pack it up in a 
 bundle, kase she wud n't put 't on nohow ; 
 said the bateau was wet. So we warmed 'er 
 an' fed 'er, an' I taken her 'er long seekin' fur 
 her kin ; an' — wa'al, that 's w'y I 'm yere I " 
 
 Just as the big clock in the store struck the 
 last stroke of six, Sukey Quinn, who had been 
 cowering on the platform steps, lifted her head 
 and put her hand to her ear. Then everybody 
 heard it, the long peal of a horn. The widow 
 from Georgia ran quickly up to Sukey and 
 threw her arm about her shoulders. For a 
 second the people held their breath. It had 
 been arranged that whoever found the lost 
 child should give the signal by blowing his 
 horn, once if the searchers came too late, three 
 times if the child should be alive. Would the 
 horn blow again? 
 
 o 
 
"MA' BOW UN':' 267 
 
 " It are Bud's born ! " sobbed Sukey. " He 'd 
 never blow fur oust ! Hark ! Thar 't goes 
 agin! Three times! An' me wud n't hev no 
 truck with 'im ; but he set store by Ma' Bow- 
 lin' all the time." 
 
 Horn after horn caught up the signal joy- 
 fully, and when the legitimate blowing was 
 over, two enterprising boys exhausted them- 
 selves on a venerable horn which was so 
 cracked that no one would take it. In an in- 
 credibly short time every soul within hearing 
 distance, not to mention a herd of cattle and 
 a large number of swine, had run to the store, 
 and when at last the two horses' heads ap- 
 peared above the hill, and the crowd could see 
 a little pink sun-bonnet against Bud Quinn's 
 brown jean, an immense clamor rolled out, the 
 men tearing their throats with shouting, the 
 women sobbing aloud, the children yelling their 
 shrillest, cattle bellowing, and pigs squealing. 
 
 But there came a hush as Bud dismounted, 
 and, carrying Ma' Bowlin', walked up to his 
 wife, and silently put the child in her arms. 
 
 " Oh, Bud ! " sobbed she, and before she 
 looked at Ma' Bowlin' she clung to him and 
 kissed him. 
 
 " It are all right, all right, Sukey," he kept 
 repeating, while the tears ran down his tanned 
 cheeks ; " don' take on, honey." 
 
268 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 " Laws ! '* sniffed the widow from Georgia, 
 flapping some drops off her own face with the 
 corner of her apron, " ef the critter ain't in her 
 petticuts ! " 
 
 Then came Ma' Bowhn's proud moment. 
 She had her bundle tight clasped in her little 
 arms, and now she undid it, displaying the 
 brilliant frock. " Maw tole Ma' Bowlin'," 
 she cried, '' nawnaw mud hit, nawnaw muss 
 hit ; Ma' Bowlin' new gownd ! " 
 
 " An' ef 't had n't a-ben fur the new gownd, 
 sis," said the widow, " I reckon ye 'd 'a never 
 ben los' ! " 
 
 " Nur fetched back Zed," Ruffner interjec- 
 ted, amid a general bewilderment. 
 
 " The Lord bless the gownd, then," said Bud 
 Quinn ; " an' the baby too ! " 
 
 " Amen ! " said William Ruffner. 
 
HALF A CURSE. 
 
 On a certain April day, in the year 1862, 
 the stage-coach was waiting at the plaza-corner 
 of the oldest Floridian town. At that time 
 the plaza was merely an unkempt common, 
 where cows and pigs might ramble at will, tak- 
 ing their siestas in the ruined old market-house, 
 or sunning themselves at the base of the stubbed 
 pyramid erected by the last Spanish rulers. 
 Where now the smart little shops elbow the 
 grim old cathedral, then high coquina walls, 
 over which waved orange and palmetto-trees, 
 joined the ancient house-fronts, and hanging 
 balconies cast a grateful shade on the sand be- 
 low. Then as now the wharf and the sea-wall 
 bounded the eastern side, and the water glit- 
 tered behind a little flock of sails. If one 
 stepped on the sea-wall he could see the hated 
 Yankee flag flying over the old fort, and a blue- 
 coated officer was watching the crowd about 
 the coach. High above the hats and bonnets 
 towered a gay turban, and a black cheek pressed 
 tenderly against the white cheek of a child, 
 while tears ran unrestrained down both faces 
 
270 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 alike. The child sobbed aloud ; but the woman, 
 not uttering a sound, only strained the small 
 body closer, and looked through her tears at 
 the young gentlewoman beside her. She was 
 a beautiful creature — Johnny Tindall, the 
 young Federal captain, thought — so slender, 
 graceful, and high-bred looking, with such a 
 touching sweetness of expression, and yet such 
 a tropical fire in those brilliant, almond-shaped, 
 dark eyes. He caught her last words : " Yes, 
 it is hard, hard ; but what should I do without 
 you to take care of the place ? I know I shall 
 find you here, whatever happens." 
 
 " Yes, Miss Nannie," was the answer ; '' I 
 keep de place good 's I kin, an' yo sholy fin' me 
 yere waitin'." 
 
 " All aboard ! " shouted the driver. 
 
 The parting came, and was over ; Johnny 
 had the impression that all three cried at once. 
 
 " What is the matter? " said he. 
 
 He spoke to his next neighbor ; but another 
 roan — a stout florid man in civilian's dress, 
 though wearing a military cap — replied ; " Oh, 
 jess some rebs leavin' ruther'n swaller the 
 oath." 
 
 " Such a trifle would n't send you awa}'-, 
 would it, Baldwin ? " said Johnny, glancing 
 with undisguised contempt at the speaker, a 
 sutler in his own regiment. 
 
 o 
 
HALF A CURSE. 271 
 
 " Of course I 'd take the oath, captain ; I 
 ain't a Southerner." 
 
 ** I thought you came from South Carohna." 
 
 I was only there for a while," said Baldwin, 
 sullenly; but directly, with a more cheerful 
 air, he added: "Did ye notice them people? 
 That there lady 's Mrs.'Legree. Her pa was a 
 Charleston big-bug, and she married Renny 
 Legiee. He 's off in the rebel army. They 've 
 a mighty fine place here. Say, did you ever 
 see a mortal critter tali's that there colored 
 woman ? " 
 
 " I want to see her," said Johnny, walking 
 off ; but Venus was gone. 
 
 Afterward he learned something of her his- 
 tory. Venus Clinch was born a slave on the 
 Clinch plantation in South Carolina. She 
 claimed to have Indian blood in her veins, which 
 is quite possible, since her father was one of 
 the "negro allies" of the Seminoles, captured 
 durino" the Florida wars. Venus was a famous 
 cook; and on Miss Nannie Clinch's marriage, 
 she was one of the wedding-gifts. With her 
 went Ambrose, her husband, a handsome, amia- 
 ble, indolent, utterly worthless mulatto. It 
 was supposed that Venus might want her hus- 
 band's company. She, however, was a most 
 philosophical spouse. "Now, ole marse," said 
 she, kindly, " don' ye poturb yoseff 'bout Am- 
 
272 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 bros'. I ain't no-ways 'tickler 'bout dat ar nig- 
 ger. Ef you all kin git 'im trowed in wid de 
 bosses, I says, fotch 'im 'long ; but he ain't 
 wuth no buy in' no ticket fo', dat 's sho ! " 
 
 Nevertheless Ambrose came, and often 
 enough Venus regretted her qualified assent. 
 
 " Mazin' how come I taken up wid dat tri- 
 flin', ornery, yaller nigger," she would say. 
 '' Nebber done a stroke fo' me, nebber guv me 
 nuffin' — 'cept de measles, an' dem I wan't 
 seekin'. Dese yere yaller niggers dey 's no na- 
 tion ; got de good er none, an' bad er all. Am- 
 bros' am bad down to he heel." 
 
 Venus never had but one child, and it died 
 in infancy. After that her sore heart's entire 
 and lavish devotion was given to Nannie Clinch. 
 She was a faithful servant to all the Clinches, 
 but she worshiped " Miss Nannie." 
 
 All these particulars gradually came to John- 
 ny, who very soon made Venus's acquaintance. 
 
 The beginning was his noticing her as she 
 walked daily on the beach before the barracks ; 
 indeed, no one could help noticing a figure built 
 on such an enormous scale. Besides, there was 
 a certain massive dignity, and even symmetry, 
 about her form, and her features, Indian rather 
 than negro, were brightened by a smile of true 
 African good -humor. Her costume recalled 
 the best days of the vanished regime. Her gay 
 
 o 
 
HALF A CURSE. 273 
 
 turban and her white apron were always fresh 
 from the iron ; and on her head was poised a 
 great basket filled with enticing tropical sweet- 
 meats, the secrets of which Aunt Venus had 
 guarded for years. 
 
 When neither vending her wares nor making 
 them, she toiled in the Legare garden. Mean- 
 while, Ambrose led a life of elegant leisure as 
 skipper of a sail-boat so leaky and unruly that 
 only a suicide could care to hire it. A little 
 labor would have made a tidy sloop out of this 
 relic of the Legares, but Ambrose always said : 
 "Dar's udder t'ings en life dan toilin' fo' 
 money ! " 
 
 Johnny was Venus's best customer. Nothing 
 pleased the faithful creature more than to talk 
 of her mistress. 
 
 " I 'members," said she, " de ve'y fustis time 
 I sot heyes on Miss Nannie, to know 'er. Ye 
 muss know, sah, dat I wuz bawn on de planta- 
 tion an' raised dar twel I 'se risin' er sixteen, 
 w'en my mammy she done die up. She wuz a 
 witch'ooman, my mammy wuz ; an' one er 
 witchin's, 'e done got twurn' roun', some'ow, 
 an' hit kill' 'er dead. De obberseer, he 'lowed 
 't wuz kase 't wuz fallin' wedder, an' she 
 cotch cold en de wet. But I knows 't wuz de 
 witchin' ! So, den, dey sen' me ter Chawlston, 
 an' de cook she I'arn me ter cook, an' spat me 
 
274 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 good wh'n she 's mad ; an' onct she guy me a 
 nios' outrigeous lick wid a stick er fat wood, an' 
 runned a splenter enter my awm. So, den, I 
 wuz pickin' at it outside, an' a grievin' fo' 
 my mammy — dat nebber taken nufiin' wuss'n 
 a sbengle to me — an' a bellerin' ve'y sorf like, 
 dat Aunt Phoebe don' heah my lammertations, 
 an' give me mo' ter lammertate fo', w'en in 
 runs my Miss Nannie. De angil looks er dat 
 cbile in 'er sweet li'le w'ite frock, an' de li'le 
 black slippers, an' de big blue sash. An', ef ye 
 please, she taken pity on me an' guy me a big 
 chunk er cake, an' calls her paa ter cut out de 
 splenter. She did so. He wuz a ye'y kin' 
 man, ole marse ; an' so wuz ole miss, too, dat's 
 cole an' dead now, po' t'ing ! " 
 
 It was curious what a sense of intimacy 
 Johnny came to feel in this unseen rebel fam- 
 ily. He knew all about "ole marse" and "ole 
 miss," who had been an invalid (" ole marse 
 kep' 'er a invaleed fo' twenty yeahs "), and 
 Marse Tim, and Marse Bertie. 
 
 Johnny's cheeks were rosy, and he had a 
 chubby little figure ; but there was a streak of 
 romance in his kind heart — why, indeed, should 
 only the thin be romantic? — and it pleased 
 him to be indirectly serving these absent ene- 
 mies through Venus. She always received him 
 in the garden. " I wud like mazin' ter ax ye 
 
HALF A CURSE. 275 
 
 in, marse cap'n, but I knows Miss Nannie's 
 'pinyuns, an' I cayn't ; but de kitchen, dat 
 'long ter me, an' you is right welcome dar, 
 alius. I ain't none er yo' cooks dat 's skeered 
 fp' hab folks see dar cookin'." 
 
 Johnny's eyes twinkled. North, his chubby 
 form was hailed with delight by all the mothers 
 of his acquaintance — for Johnny had great 
 possessions. South, it appeared, he might be 
 glad to visit the kitchen. He did visit the 
 kitchen, and was content to view the mansion 
 from the garden. Yenus regarded the house 
 with awe, and even to Johnny's eyes it looked 
 imposing — a Southern house of the last gener- 
 ation, built in fond imitation of a South Caro- 
 lina home, with its lofty Doric portico, and the 
 galleries on the sides, which the Cherokee rose 
 changed into bowers. But it was the garden 
 which was Johnny's paradise. Here, orange- 
 trees, magnolias, and myrtles kept an unchang- 
 ing verdure through the season, palmettoes lined 
 the wide avenue, and strangely cut leaves of 
 the tropics — fig, pomegranate, date-palm — 
 mingled with more familiar foliage ; while 
 everywhere the tree-limbs dripped with Spanish 
 moss. A sumptuous color and glow dazzled 
 the Northern eye ; trumpet flowers swinging 
 their flames against the walls, oleanders taller 
 than pear-trees, the gold of jasmine and the 
 
276 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 dead-white of orange-blossoms relieved against 
 the weird haze of the dripping trees. Johnny 
 used to be reminded of the Garden of Eden. 
 He would tell himself that the poignant odors 
 which filled the air had intoxicated him. 
 
 Certainly he thought more than was good for 
 him of the beautiful mistress of the place. 
 
 So, during a few weeks he walked in the 
 garden, and Venus toiled hopefully, and Am- 
 brose was quite as hopeful though he did not 
 toil at all. Then, one fine morning. Captain 
 Tindall's regiment marched away. 
 
 He went in the autumn ; and in the following 
 summer he was sent back to the town oq some 
 military business. As soon as he could he went 
 to see Venus. There was a dismal change in 
 the place. The gate was gone, and the fence 
 looked as though a regiment had charged down 
 on it. Within, it was worse. The flower-beds 
 were trampled out of shape, the scuppernong- 
 vines draggled on the ground, as if torn down 
 by impatient hands ; and limbs had been 
 wrenched off the orange-trees, or left hanging 
 at forlorn right angles by strips of bark. The 
 house, with its shattered windows, and the 
 weeds growing over its broad steps, seemed 
 mutely lamenting over the desolation. Yet a 
 wisp of smoke crept out of the huge coquina 
 chimney of the kitchen — token that Venus 
 
HALF A CURSE. 217 
 
 must still be living there. But in vain Johnny 
 hunted and shouted, and, at last, in despair he 
 took his way back to the city gates. He passed 
 along the narrow streets, vaguely depressed by 
 what he had seen, until he was stopped by a 
 crowd before the building which still bears the 
 title of " The Governor's Palace." 
 
 In the day of Spain the palace doubtless cut 
 a becoming and princely figure, with its tower 
 and balconies and portico, and the famous gar- 
 den, wherein was planted every kind of tree on 
 earth (according to the old chronicler) ; to-day, 
 shorn of all these, it is a commonplace post- 
 office, but when Johnny saw it a shabby vestige 
 of pomp remained in the crumbling ornamenta- 
 tion of the facade and the Spanish corridor of 
 arches opposite that row of pride-of-India trees, 
 not one of which remains. The building was 
 used as a court-house by the United States 
 Government during the war ; and it was so used 
 at this time. A crowd of men overflowed the 
 corridor into the street. 
 
 The people were Minorcans for the most part, 
 dark, thin, and dejected looking ; but there was 
 a sprinkling of black faces and blue coats, and 
 a little bandying of jokes. Johnny asked a 
 man what was going on. He was a Minorcan ; 
 he answered, sullenly : " Dey refuge 'low us 
 pay tax, so den dey sell our Ian', now." 
 
278 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 ''Listen," called a soldier, nearer the door, 
 " there 's a circus in there. An old colored 
 woman 's bidding against Baldy. She goes him 
 ten cents better every time, and he's hoppin' 
 mad ! Too bad ! He 's got it." 
 
 A burst of lausjhter rolled out of the court- 
 room. 
 
 " What's the joke? " called another soldier. 
 
 " Auntie wants Uncle Sam to lend her a few 
 hundred to beat Baldy, and to take it out in 
 jam ! " 
 
 Johnny wedged himself through the men to 
 where Venus stood, her gay turban towering 
 above all the heads and her black profile cut 
 against the yellow stucco pillar like a bas-relief 
 of anguish. 
 
 She turned a piteous gaze down to Johnny's 
 kind eyes. 
 
 " You 'se done come too late, marse cap'n," 
 she said; "dey taken Miss Xannie's place 'way. 
 I 'se offer dem all de money fum de po'serves, 
 but dey won' hab it." 
 
 Johnny got her out of the court-room into 
 the plaza opposite, where he made her sit down. 
 
 "Now tell me what this all means," said he. 
 
 " Dey done take hit, sah. Fust dey steal all 
 de gyardin truck an' de chickins, an' dey 'tice 
 'way po' ol' Strawberry, de onlies' cow we all 
 hab leff " — 
 
HALF A CURSE. 279 
 
 " Why did n't you complain? " 
 
 "I done de bes' I knowed, sah. I cotcli one 
 t'ief an' I take my slipper to 'im de same like 
 his own mudder ; an' den I tote 'im to de cun- 
 nel by de collar. Dey done punish 'im. But 
 I cud n't cotch no mo' ; dey wuz too spry. Den 
 dey putt de wah-tax on, an' I done went prompt 
 fo' ter pay, wid de change e'zact ; but de boss, 
 he say Miss Nannie am a rebil, an' de loil peo- 
 ples dey 's de onlies' people kin pay taxes ; an' 
 he refuge " — 
 
 " But he had n't any right to refuse ! " 
 
 " Dunno. Dat am w'at he done. Dey done 
 Mr. Dee Medeecis de same way; dey twurn 'im 
 hout on de pa'metto scrub kase he hab two sons 
 wid de 'federates, an' den dey sole 'im up. 
 Dat t'ief, BaFwin, he git de 'ous. 'Spec' he 
 git de town, d'rectly. Well." 
 
 Her head sank hopelessly on her breast ; but 
 in a moment she looked up ; she even made 
 an effort at the conversation which her notions 
 of politeness demanded. " You 's lookin' right 
 peart, sah. I hopes you is gittin' on smart. 
 I 'se made some dem fig po'serbs an' guavas fo' 
 ye, sah, an' ef ye cay n't tote 'em wid ye, whar 
 will I sen' dem kase I won' hab no mo' — 
 place." 
 
 A kind of dry sob shook her frame, though 
 it brought no tears. Her woeful patience af- 
 
280 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 fected Johnny so that the good fellow could n't 
 sleep that night. He did what he could — pro- 
 tested against the sale as illegal, and even of- 
 fered Baldwin twice his purchase-money for the 
 title-deeds. 
 
 " Ye cayn't buy it of me," said Baldwin, 
 grinning in a very irritating fashion. Thanks 
 to Johnny, he was no longer in the army, and 
 he let his old captain understand that he re- 
 membered. 
 
 " I 'm hanged but I '11 get the house in spite 
 of you, you scoundrelly cad," vowed Johnny at 
 last. At which Baldwin only grinned again. 
 
 For the present, however, nothing could be 
 done. Johnny helped Venus move Mrs. Le- 
 gare's property into the house of a Minorcan, 
 the same De' Medici whose wrongs had been 
 recited by Venus. Venus herself worked like 
 a horse, and never spoke a superfluous word. 
 She showed a curious patience over all the de- 
 lays and annoyances of such a flitting ; even 
 Ambrose did not get a hard word. He lent his 
 amiable countenance to the occasion, advising, 
 directing, criticising, everything but working ; 
 and the next morning he presented himself to 
 John-ny very smartly dressed, with a traveling 
 bag in his hand, like one ready for a journey. 
 
 " I 'se called, sah," said Ambrose, in his soft- 
 est voice, *' ter 'trust ye, sah, wid my ados ter 
 
HALF A CURSE. 281 
 
 Venus. I 'se gwine 'way, sah, wid Cap'n Grace. 
 Venus, she sut'nly ar comical, an' I wisht, sah, 
 you hab de kin'ness ter look ayfter 'er dis yere 
 mawnin' ; she up yonder ter de place, an' I 'se 
 unner de impression, sah, she aimin' fo' ter chop 
 Mr. Bal'win's head open wid de ax ! Yes'ah. 
 No, sah " — as Johnny made an impulsive 
 movement — " dar ain't no call fo' aggitatin' 
 yo' seff ; wait twell I comes ter de squeal 'er 
 de story. I done seen Venus sharpin' dat ax, 
 an' I seen 'er guvin' de stockin' — dat same 
 stockin' she kep 'er money in, ye unnerstan', 
 sah, an' nebber so much 's let 'er lawfil husban' 
 peek enter hit — she guv dat stockin' ter Miz 
 Dee Medeecis fo' ter keep fo' Miz Legree. She 
 done so ; I seen 'er. I wuz present, pussonly, 
 myseff, unner de bed. So, sah, habin' de bes' 
 wishes fo' Venus, dough she hab no right no- 
 tions 'bout de duties er de weaker vessel, I 'se 
 done gone ter Mr. Bal'win, an' he won' go dar 
 't all, but send de sogers." 
 
 " But she may resist the soldiers " — 
 " No, sah ; pardin', sah ; I 'se guv 'em de 
 key er de back do', an' w'ile Venus she darin' 
 dem in front, torrers kin come in behin'. I 
 hates ter argy wid Venus ; she am so prege- 
 deeced like, she ain't reasonable. So ye be so 
 kin', please, sah, gib my bes' respec' ter Venus, 
 an' tell 'er I forgibs ev'yt'ing, an' I 'se done 
 
282 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 gone fo' good ; an' ef we all don' meet up en 
 dis worl', I hopes ter meet up with 'er en de 
 bright worl' above, whar dey ain't no merry in' 
 nur givin' up merryin' an' de wicked cease deir 
 trubblin' an' de weary am at res'." 
 
 Here Ambrose took out a white handker- 
 chief, and, so to speak, dusted his eyes with it ; 
 then made a deep bow and departed. 
 
 " Venus is well rid of him," thought John- 
 ny ; " now, how much of that was a lie ? " 
 
 But for once Ambrose had spoken the truth, 
 as Johnny discovered when he got to the Legree 
 gate, for he could see blue-coats on the piazzas, 
 and he met Venus with an axe on her shoulder. 
 She answered his questions with inscrutable 
 composure : " I 'se gwine speak Mr. Bal'win," 
 said she. 
 
 " Do you need an axe for that ? Venus, I 
 believe you mean to kill Baldwin. You think 
 then Mrs. Legare will get the place back, but 
 she won't; it will go to Baldwin's relations. 
 You never will get it back that way. And 
 they will hang you, my poor friend, and what 
 will Miss Nannie do without you ? " 
 
 He had touched the right chord. The axe 
 trembled on the huge shoulder, then all at once 
 it was hurled to the ground, and Venus was 
 crouching beside it, rocking herself to and fro 
 in bitter anguish, but never uttering a sound. 
 
HALF A CURSE. 283 
 
 Johnny did not know how to interrupt this sav- 
 age, silent grief. At last she arose, arranged 
 her dress decently, and said very quietly : 
 " Marse cap'n, Miss Nannie done los' ev'yt'ing 
 — her paa, dera two boys, an Marse Renny he 
 killed up, too, las' monf ; an' — an' my li'le w'ite 
 baby, de Lawd done take 'er fo' ter be happy 
 'way fum we all. Marse cap'n, I cayn't lebe 
 Miss Nannie by 'er lone ! No, I 'se hab ter 
 stay. Oh, how come my witch mammy nebber 
 I'arn me no witchin' ? All I knows dess haff 
 er cuss. Wat de wuth am Aa^ercusa ? Deb- 
 bil lebe ye most 'tickleres' p'int." 
 
 " Never mind, Venus," said Johnny ; " we '11 
 get it without the devil." 
 
 He quite meant what he said, and, on leav- 
 ing Florida, he used all his own and his family's 
 influence, which was not small, in Mrs. Legare's 
 behalf ; but it was a time when both sides were 
 stripping themselves of the superfluous moral- 
 ities for the last fierce tussle, and he could do 
 nothing. Then he wrote to Venus, proposing 
 that she try to buy the place of Baldwin. An 
 answer came promptly enough, from Mrs. De' 
 Medici ; Venus had tried, but Baldwin wouldn't 
 sell the place for less than five thousand dollars. 
 
 Johnny was not too good to swear a little 
 over that letter. "Wait a little," said he, 
 " we '11 get the place cheaper than that." 
 
284 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 His interest was so tlioronglily roused tLat lie 
 went down to see Venus as soon as the end of 
 the war left him at liberty. He found her 
 established in the Minorcan's house, and selling 
 preserves at such a rate that she had to hire an 
 assistant. She had fitted up a room with the 
 old furniture of Mrs. Legare's chamber, and 
 kept it always ready, down to the nosegay on 
 the table. " Kase I knows not de day nur de 
 hour, and I'se keep ready fo' my Miss Nannie." 
 
 Baldwin was as obdurate as ever. This was 
 the state of things when Miss Nannie came 
 back. Johnny was still in town, but so changed 
 was she that he did not know her. He had 
 gone out that day with Venus to "the place." 
 Walking through the ruined gardens, and 
 viewing the deserted and dismantled house, it 
 seemed to him a type of the whole South. Per- 
 haps, because he knew all the little domestic 
 details of the life of the past owners, and 
 because he had, in a way, entered into their 
 joys and their sorrows, a profound sense of the 
 contrast and the desolation made Johnny mel- 
 ancholy. He recalled the radiant creature 
 whom he had seen, with a kind of pang. And it 
 was at this moment that he saw a thin, elderly 
 woman, in rusty black draperies, come slowly 
 and wearily down the avenue. She was quite 
 near him before he perceived that really she 
 
HALF A CURSE. 285 
 
 was a young woman, whose hair had turned 
 gray. Venus was just behind Johnny. She 
 screamed, and ran towards the lady. 
 
 At the same time a man came around the 
 house. The man was Baldwin. Johnny saw 
 that the lady spoke to him. " Do you live here, 
 sir ? " said she. 
 
 " No, ma'am," answered Baldwin, civilly ; 
 " but I own the place." 
 
 " You — own — the — place ? " gasped she. 
 " How did you get it ? " 
 
 '' Bought it of Uncle Sam. It was sold for 
 taxes." 
 
 Then Venus caught her mistress about the 
 waist, and, supporting her with one arm, shook 
 her free fist in Baldwin's face. 
 
 *'0h, ye debbil!" she yelled. " Dis am 
 Miz' Legree ! " 
 
 " Hey ? " said Baldwin. » Well, I don't guess 
 ye '11 expect me to say I 'm pleased to meet ye, 
 ma'am." 
 
 " I thought I was coming home, Venus," 
 said the poor lady. 
 
 Johnny could n't bear any more. 
 
 " Confound it all, Baldwin," said he, " let 's 
 see if we can't settle this. You say you will 
 sell for five thousand ; I '11 give you your price." 
 
 "No ye don't, colonel," said Baldwin. *'I 
 ain't sellin', and what 's more, I ain't going to 
 
286 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 sell. The land will rise, and I kin afford to 
 wait. An' if I was sellin', d — d if I 'd sell to 
 
 "You cur," said Johnny, " if you say another 
 word I '11 thrash you." He looked as though 
 he might not wait for the other word. 
 
 " An' I holp him," said Venus. 
 
 "No, Venus," Mrs. Legare cried. "No, sir; 
 you are kind, but it would be useless; I know 
 the man now. He was an overseer on my 
 uncle's plantation, and was sent away for cheat- 
 ing. He went into the Yankee army afterward 
 as a sutler, but he had to leave because he 
 would get provisions for the people here from 
 the commissary and then sell the provisions." 
 
 Baldwin ground his teeth, but it was not 
 easy to denj^ this with Tindall looking on, so he 
 forced a sickly kind of laugh, saying: " You 're 
 a lady, ma'am, an' you kin talk an' I have to 
 listen, if it is on my own grounds, but it 's gittin' 
 late an' I have to be goin'." 
 
 Mrs. Legare turned her back on him, not 
 deigning to answer. Venus accompanied her 
 mistress ; but she rather marred the dignity of 
 their departure by shaking her fists at Baldwin 
 all the way to the gate, and screaming unintel- 
 ligible imprecations, backing out, meanwhile, as 
 if from a royal presence. 
 
 She informed Johnny, later, that she had 
 
HALF A CURSE. 287 
 
 launched at Baldwin a curse of terrific power. 
 "Dat same haff er cuss my mammy I'arn me," 
 said she, '^ mek dat Bal'win squeal fo' sho, fotch 
 de wuss sorter trubbel on him. Mabbe he git 
 out dough, kase dey 's jess de fust haff. Mos' 
 like gre't trubbel, deff, mabbe, come ter me, 
 too, kase er meddlin' wid de debbil's tings. 
 Dat ar's w'yfo' I done nebber cuss 'im befo'. 
 I like fo' ter lib an 'see Miss Nannie. Dess 
 see 'er, dat 's a satisfaction ter me." 
 
 This was after Venus had taken Mrs. Legare 
 to her home, and when she was bidding good-by 
 to Johnny, who must leave the town that night, 
 having received a telegram from the North 
 about business requiring his presence. 
 
 Venus wept as she blessed him and implored 
 him to return soon. 
 
 • ••••••• 
 
 The decrepit old Spanish town was trans- 
 formed into a fashionable " winter-resort " 
 before Johnny saw it again. He stared discon- 
 tentedly at the smart new shops and the huge 
 wooden hotels which had taken the place of the 
 modest hostelries of his knowledge. " Confound 
 it, how they have spoiled the place ! " thought 
 Colonel Tindall. 
 
 Strolling along, he found himself at last in 
 one of those lane-like streets which are inter- 
 rupted by the plaza for a space and then go 
 
288 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 crookedly on until they melt into the marshes 
 beyond the town. He stopped before a house, 
 such a house as used to be common as possible, 
 but which was already growing rare. The pink 
 plaster hiding the coquina front was richly 
 mottled by lichens, chipped away, also, in 
 places, showing the stone. It rose in a straight 
 line from the sand (sidewalk the street had 
 none), and was continued in a garden wall. 
 The steep roof made an upward and forward 
 slant over a hanging balcony, and some queer 
 little dormer windows blinked out above. The 
 door to the house was the garden gate. Over 
 the brass knocker hung a sign — " Furnished 
 Rooms." 
 
 " Now, this is a decent house," said Johnny. 
 " By Jove ! " 
 
 The exclamation was caused by the appear- 
 ance of a gigantic negress on the balcony. She 
 looked down, saw, clapped her hands together, 
 and disappeared. In an incredibly short time 
 she was below, kneeling before Johnny the bet- 
 ter to embrace him, and blessing the Lord. 
 
 " De chari'ts er Isril an' de hossmen darof," 
 shouted Venus, swaying Johnny backward and 
 forward ; " de rose er Sharon an' de lily er de 
 valle}^ praise de Lawd, O my soul, dis am you 
 fo' sho', honey ! De lamb, wid him same yaller 
 ha'r, an' lubly red cheeks de ve'y same — dess 
 
HALF A CURSE. 289 
 
 fatter ! Hallelooger ! laws, laws — kin ye hole 
 yo'seff stiddy, marse cuniiel, dess a minit twell 
 I res' my ban' on yo' sboul'er 'n h'ist myseff 
 hup — I ain't de figger fo' knellin', dat 's sho'." 
 
 Of course Venus would have him go into the 
 house to Mrs. Legare, who received him with, a 
 cordiality amazing to the modest fellow. 
 
 '^ Laws, my baby," said Venus, " ye ain't 
 s'pose Miss Nannie Legree an' me done forgit 
 ye ? We all 'members ye reg'lar en our ev'nin' 
 supperclations, we does. An' dat ar check er 
 ye done sen' me, I 'se got it safe en de stockin'. 
 Miss Nannie, she guv de stockin' ter de bank 
 fo' ter keep in deir big iron box " — 
 
 " But the check was for your law-suit — to 
 get back your property," said Johnny. He sat 
 blushing in the most extraordinary way, and 
 thinking Mrs. Legare handsomer every minute. 
 Gray hair ? — well, what could suit those divine 
 dark eyes better ? Thin ? — yes, to be sure ; 
 but the stouter Johnny grew in his own person, 
 the slimmer became his ideal woman's shape. 
 
 Meanwhile, Venus answered in the fullness 
 of her heart: "De 'serbs, dey pays fo' de la win'. 
 An' we rents rooms ; sleeps 'em, don' eat 'em ; 
 an' we alls roomers don' make a mite er trub- 
 bel. An, de lawin' ar gwine on prosperin' 
 an' ter prosper ; be'n frow two co'ts a'reddy. 
 We alls lawyer, he says ef we kin dess git 
 
290 KNITTERS IN THE SUN 
 
 de 'session we'se git de propputty. Dey 's 
 a right smart er folkses lawed bout deir prop- 
 putty, an' some dey 's comperromised, but dat 
 BalVin lie won' gib in — I lay de debbil holp 
 him" — 
 
 " How about the curse, Venus ? " Johnny 
 could not resist asking. 
 
 He got a portentous roll of head and eyes to- 
 gether, and " Nebber you min' de cuss," said 
 Venus ; " hit come. Ain't he done los' de on- 
 lies' chile he hab ? An' I know dis, he don' 
 durst lib in dat ar house hisseff ; lets it ter a 
 po' cracker man fo' mos' nuffin', he so skeered." 
 Johnny soon found from Mrs. Legare that 
 Venus was not misinformed as to the value of 
 the possession of the property in a legal sense. 
 
 "Venus," said Johnny, "I think I see my 
 way ; I '11 manage the cracker." 
 
 " Yes, marse cunnel," said Venus, in nowise 
 surprised, " an' dis time, I lay de debbil holp 
 ws." 
 
 Johnny and Venus had resumed their confi- 
 dential relations at once. He had explained 
 that his long absence was caused by his being 
 in Europe. " Wid yo' wife, honey ? " said Ve- 
 nus, rather anxiously. 
 
 "I am not so fortunate as to be married, 
 Venus." 
 
 " I 'lows 't war de ladv dat am forternate," 
 
 o 
 
HALF A CURSE. 291 
 
 said Venus, simply. " Den you ain't merriad, 
 an' Miss Nannie Legree am a widder? Singler ! 
 Singler ! But ain't she dat sweet, marse cun- 
 nel?" 
 
 " She certainly is, Venus," said Johnny, with 
 rather a doleful smile, for he had begun to think 
 that he was likely to exchange a few delicious 
 days for a long heartache. " However, I '11 get 
 her place back," thought he, " then I can go." 
 
 The cracker was induced to move out by 
 night, — how, Johnny best knew, — and that 
 same night Venus and Johnny moved Mrs. 
 Legare's furniture back into the house. They 
 had unloaded the last cartload, and were stand- 
 ing in the hall, and Venus had chuckled to her- 
 self, " Got de debbil on we alls side dis time," 
 when they both heard the same noise — the 
 rapid thud of hoofs, as if a furious rider were 
 galloping down the avenue. 
 
 Somehow, Baldwin had discovered the plot. 
 " Let him come," said Venus, grimly, flinging 
 the door open wide, " me an' de debbil kin 
 match him ! " Baldwin jumped off his horse 
 and rushed at her. She had a candle in her 
 hand, and by its flare her vast bulk loomed up 
 like a black mountain. With one arm she 
 caught the raging man by the shoulder and 
 held him writhing and sputtering with fury, 
 but helpless as a kitten in her grasp, while with 
 
292 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 the other she slowly and impressively wagged 
 the candle at him in the manner of a finger, 
 saying: "I 'clar' I'se 'sprised at ye, boss, mos' 
 knockin' me down dat a way ; clean ondecent ! " 
 
 " You git outer my house ! " roared Baldwin. 
 
 " Dis yere am Miss Nannie Legree's house," 
 said Venus ; " it ain't yo' house nebber no mo'. 
 We alls got de 'session, and I 'se tell ye plain, 
 boss, ef ye'se gwine on dis a way, 'sturbin' de 
 quality an' tryin' ter faze 'em, I 'se trow ye 
 down, right yere, an' sot on ye twell ye ca'm 
 an' peacerful an' readdy go home. Fo' de 
 Lawd, I will so. Ye heah me ! " 
 
 Baldwin blustered something about wanting 
 to talk to a man. 
 
 " Try TTze," said Johnny. 
 
 "I'll fix you to-morrer," snarled Baldwin. 
 " If there 's a law in the land I '11 have it, 
 and " — 
 
 But the rest of his threats were lost, for he 
 turned on his heel, mounted his horse, and rode 
 off, swearing. 
 
 "Bress de good debbil, fo' so much!" said 
 Venus. 
 
 All the next day they expected him — an 
 anxious day it was ; but he did not come, nor 
 did he come the day after, and so a week went 
 by without any sign from him, until it was ru- 
 mored about the town that he had fallen ill. 
 
HALF A CURSE. 293 
 
 Then they said that his wife and a servant had 
 taken the disease. Finally the oldest doctor in 
 town reined in his horse to say a few low spoken 
 words to Mrs. Legare on the street. The horse 
 was jaded and the doctor pale ; he had been 
 riding in different directions, but all his patients 
 had the same disease, and all had been with 
 Baldwin. 
 
 " He went to Savannah and brought it back 
 with him," said the doctor. " When he knew 
 he had it, he let people come to see him. Yes, 
 ma'am. He has always been a curse to this 
 town, but this is the worst of all, for it 's yellow 
 fever sure as death." 
 
 Mrs. Legare went home and warned her 
 boarders. There were only three of them, the 
 time being early in November. Two of them 
 left the town that day. The third was Johnny 
 Tindall. He flatly refused to stir unless he 
 might take Mrs. Legare and Venus with him. 
 
 " But / have had the fever ; there is no dan- 
 ger for me," pleaded Mrs. Legare, '' and the 
 negroes don't take it. Besides, I am a South- 
 erner, these are my people, my place is here. 
 But you, sir, why should you risk your life ? " 
 
 Johnny looked at her, a longing that shook 
 his heart rising in him, to tell her that it was 
 because it would be sweeter to die with her, 
 beside her, for her, as it were, than to live apart 
 
294 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 from her. But he only said : " Well, it would 
 be rather a scrubby thing to run off and leave 
 you, don't you think ? " 
 
 He was the stronger — he stayed. 
 
 The fever grew worse and worse. People 
 shut themselves in their houses, so that it be- 
 came hard to get nurses for the sick. It was 
 such a new calamity that the townspeople were 
 stunned. " There never was a case of yellow 
 fever in the town before," they would repeat pit- 
 eously, as though there were some hope in their 
 past immunity. Then they cursed the man who 
 had brought this horrible mischief upon them. 
 No soul would go near him, and the house where 
 he and his wife lay sick was shunned like one 
 haunted. 
 
 " Let them live or die as the devil pleased," 
 the people said. So the weeds choked the gar- 
 den, and the wind rattled the blinds, and the 
 rain poured in through an open window, while 
 the few passers-by only crossed themselves and 
 hurried on. 
 
 " Hit am de cuss," said Venus, with solem- 
 nity, not without a touch of gloom}^ pride, " de 
 cuss dat I cussed ? " 
 
 One day, a lady, passing on the other side of 
 the street, observed a little girl mount the steps, 
 and called to her, " Don't go in there, dearie ; 
 they have the fever ? " 
 
 o 
 
HALF A CURSE. 295 
 
 "Oh, yes, ma'am, I must !" answered the 
 child, lookuig back brightly. "I take care of 
 them ; I 'm their little girl ! They 're awful 
 sick." Before the lady could cross the street 
 she had entered the house. 
 
 " Oh, the poor little thing," thought Mrs. 
 Legare. " Who can she be ? They have no 
 children. And oh, how like she is to Tessie! " 
 
 She told Venus about the incident. '' 'Clar' 
 dat ar muss er be'n dat li'le gyurl dey done 
 'dopt," said Venus, " an' dey does say dat debbil 
 am right petted on her. Dar now, Miss Nan- 
 nie, you lay down an' res' or I'se tell Marse 
 Tindall." 
 
 Already Johnny had come to play an impor- 
 tant part in Mrs. Legare's thoughts. In those 
 days of selfish fear and frantic misery brave 
 souls were drawn together. She admired 
 Johnny's clear head and his military cheerful- 
 ness, so independent of outside gloom. She 
 would not let him assist her directly in nursing; 
 but he was invaluable outside, the right hand 
 of the mayor, the commandant of the post, and 
 the doctors. Yet she was conscious, all the 
 time, of a vigilant watch over her health and 
 comfort, and of a hundred unobtrusive atten- 
 tions. " Nobody but Venus could take such 
 good care of me as you do," she said once, 
 gratefully. 
 
296 KNITTERS IN TEE SUN. 
 
 Venus, of course, was a tower of strength. 
 
 " Laws," said she, *' I wisht I cud mek my- 
 seff inter ten folks, den I mought go 'roun' ! 
 Say, dough. Miss Nannie, dar am one pow'full 
 comfort er dis yere hour er 'fliction — dat ar 
 ole Bal'win ain't gwine to bodder we all no 
 mo', kase his gwine die, sho'. Miz' Dee Med- 
 eecis, she say she go by 'is 'ouse dis mawnin', 
 an' she heah dat ar' li'le gyurl, po' ting ! moan- 
 in', an' moanin' rale pittible, an' dey wuz clean 
 deserted, an' dat debbil he come to der winder, 
 an' he wuz lookin' like deff, an' he h'ist down 
 a tin pail, tied on a sheet tored in two, an' he 
 done holler on Miz' Dee Medeecis, how he'd gin 
 'er ten doUa' fo' ter fotch 'im a pail er watter 
 fo' ter guv dat ar baby. ' I know ye hates me,' 
 sezee, ' but de chile nebber hurted ye.' So 
 Miz' Dee Medeecis she got 'im de watter, an' 
 she 'lows by dis time dey 's all drinked deyseff 
 ter deff, mos' like — laws, honey, whar ye 
 gwine ? " 
 
 Mrs. Legare did not look at the negress as 
 she replied that she was going to the Bald- 
 wins. 
 
 " Oh, my heavenly Marster," screamed Ve- 
 nus, "de chile am gone clean 'stracted crazy. 
 Dar, honey, you sot right down an' leff dat ar 
 old debbil die comf'uble ; he 's got all dat ar 
 watter ! " 
 
HALF A CURSE. 297 
 
 " Venus," said Mrs. Legare, " I must go. I 
 have been thinking of it for two days. I said 
 if the child got sick — Oh, Venus, the poor 
 little child, the baby that looks like Tessie ! " 
 
 " Well den," said Venus, sullenly, " if dat 
 chile hab be sabe kase she favor Miss Tessie, 
 den I 'se de one ter do it, an' I does it. I goes 
 an' nusses de w'ole batch er dem. I knowed 
 dat debbil git eben wid me, foolin' wid he 
 cusses ! " 
 
 She was as good as her word, and in spite of 
 Mrs. Legare's expostulations went to Baldwin's 
 within the hour. 
 
 She faithfully nursed them until the fever 
 turned and the new nurse secured by Johnny 
 arrived. Then she went home. It is doubt- 
 ful if, in their weakness and delirium, they 
 quite realized why she was there. 
 
 The night of her return was rainy, and when 
 Johnny looked in on Mrs. Legare, the next 
 morning, he found Venus wrapped in shawls 
 over the fire and Mrs. Legare busy with med- 
 icines. 
 
 *' She ought not to have come out in the rain 
 last night," said Mrs. Legare; "she was tired 
 and heated, and she has caught cold." 
 
 " Laws, Miss Nannie," said Venus, feebly, 
 *' I cud n't holp comin', I wuz dat 'omesick. 
 I'se cl'ar sides myseff wid j'y, gittin' back ter 
 
298 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 my own fambly ag'in. An' dis yere cole am 
 dess de spite er de debbil, nuffin else on earth." 
 
 Just a week from that day, John Tindall, 
 sitting with his bowed head on his hands, 
 vaguely conscious of the fragrance of roses all 
 about him, heard the knocker on the front 
 door clank and clank. 
 
 The man outside was Baldwin. Mrs. Legare 
 opened the door. She was looking worn and 
 pale, her eyelids were swollen with weeping, 
 and her eyes had the glaze of recent tears, but 
 they blazed into their old brilliancy at the 
 sight of him and his words. *' You see I 've 
 come, ma'am, like I said. Now, I want to 
 know how soon you '11 be ready to move out ! " 
 
 He was prepared for everything except the 
 one thing that happened. She drew aside her 
 skirts ; she said, " Come in ! " 
 
 " Well ! " said Baldwin ; but he came in, 
 stumbling a little because of his weakness and 
 the dark hall, and she, leading, opened the par- 
 lor door. 
 
 Tindall had jumped up, and Baldwin saw 
 him standing behind some large dark object. 
 Looking more closely, he perceived the object 
 to be a coffin, and within the coffin, above the 
 flowers and the soft wool draperies, was the 
 peaceful mask which had been Venus's face. 
 
HALF A CURSE. 299 
 
 Mrs. Legare laid her hand on the folded 
 hands which would never work for her again. 
 
 " There," she said, very quietly, *' there is 
 my last friend. She lies there because she 
 went to help you. She came home from your 
 house and died. Now, if you will, turn me 
 — and her out of our home ! " 
 
 Baldwin's hat was still on his head, he took 
 it off ; his face was changed, and he leaned 
 against the wall. 
 
 "Damn.it all," said he, hoarsely, "I ain't 
 goin' to turn ye out. She came and nursed us, 
 true enough. I know now. Look a here, she's 
 always be'n tryin' to buy it — I give her the 
 house." 
 
 He stumbled back through the hall. They 
 heard the door swing — not loudly. 
 
 Johnny came and stood by Mrs. Legare. 
 
 " Dear," he said, " don't say your last friend, 
 because that can't be while I am alive. I want 
 to tell you what Venus said to me just before 
 she died. You know, dear soul, she believed 
 she was dying on account of that foolish curse. 
 ' The devil will kill me,' she said ; ' but I don't 
 care, I got the house for Miss Nannie. I give 
 it to her and you. Keep it for her, won't you, 
 Marse Tindall, for you love her too ? ' Truly, 
 she has given you the house now, and if — the 
 
300 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 other — Oh, my darling, I love you with all 
 my heart ; don't send me away ! " 
 
 She was crying bitterly ; but when he took 
 her hand she did not repulse him. 
 
 " It is Venus gives it to me," he said. 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 
 
 PAET I. 
 
 Polly Ann Shinault was mending the 
 Clover Bend ferry-boat. The ferry-boat was 
 nothing more than an old scow, leaky and un- 
 ruly. Lum, Polly Ann's husband, meant to 
 mend it that morning ; but Lum was scouring 
 the bottom after a stray mule. So Polly Ann 
 had pounded the head of the hatchet on the 
 handle — they have a natural tendency to part 
 and go their separate ways in a Southern yard 
 — and was patching the leaks herself. They 
 said at the Bend that Polly Ann was "pow'ful 
 handy." She was a handsome young woman. 
 Some blending of French and Spanish blood 
 from the earliest Arkansas travelers had given 
 her the mass of purple-black hair under her 
 man's hat, the clear olive of her skin, her velvet 
 black eyes, and delicate profile. Her eyelashes 
 were long and thick and curled at the ends. 
 Long eyelashes and small features are not un- 
 common in Arkansas faces. Did Polly Ann 
 smile, she showed a rarer beauty, even little 
 
302 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 teeth, white as milk. But Polly Ann seldom 
 smiled, being a silent, serious creature whose 
 own husband felt a trifle in awe of her. Her 
 primitive repairs completed, she straightened 
 her bent shoulders, clasped her hands behind 
 her neck, and looked about her. When she 
 stood she was tall and erect as a young cypress. 
 Her eyes spanned the Black River flowing 
 at her feet, and took in, without noting, the 
 whitewashed walls of the mill, the store, and 
 the score or two of houses that go with an Ar- 
 kansas cotton plantation. The time was early 
 in November. The cotton was ready for pick- 
 ing, and flakes of white spattered the brown 
 fields. The yards were frowsy with stalks of 
 jimson weed and withered grass. The great 
 cypress forest shut in the cleared space like a 
 wall. The scene was monotonous, yet about it 
 was something sombre and vast, a loneliness 
 that the presence of the few low-browed houses 
 seemed to mark rather than lessen. A little 
 spiral of smoke drifting above a chimney here 
 and there, some pigs dotting the sandy road, a 
 few riderless horses patiently drooping their 
 noses against the fence rail before the store, 
 were the only signs of habitation. Behind 
 Polly Ann lay the canebrake and the forest. 
 The water mirrored the Shinault cabin with 
 its one wee window and "stick and dirt " chim- 
 ney. 
 
 o 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 303 
 
 During the war (not so far back by many- 
 years, that November day, as now) escaped 
 prisoners used to hide in the canebrake. After 
 the war runaway convicts from the stockade at 
 Powhatan found shelter there sometimes, and 
 then the cane would be crushed by the leaps of 
 panting hounds; and many a night had Polly 
 Ann shuddered, listening to the dogs baying, 
 and picturing the wretch crouched among the 
 sodden grasses. 
 
 Plenty of grim traditions hung, heavy as its 
 own miasma, over the cypress swamp. Not a 
 rod away was the bare spot, dented by cypress 
 trees, where Old Man Bryce's cabin stood un- 
 til the guerillas murdered him and his wife and 
 burned their bones under their home. A whole 
 company of guerillas had dangled from the syc- 
 amore limbs for that murder. The shapeless 
 green in front of the store had been the scene 
 of bloody quarrels. Down by the river bank, 
 on the little knoll which the spring covered 
 with wild flowers, Bud Boas had killed his part- 
 ner. Boas was tried and acquitted ; but his 
 own conscience was not so lenient as men. As 
 the slain man fell he had flung out his hand, 
 touching Boas's cheek. Ever since, the unhappy 
 slayer had been haunted by a touch. He would 
 wake from sleep, screaming that he felt the 
 hand. At his work, at home, at camp-meetings 
 
304 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 even, where tie would go in the vain hope of 
 eluding his persecutor, the tortured man might 
 spring up, wildly rubbing his face, and rush 
 away, or fall in convulsions horrible to see. 
 From no other cause than this ghostly touch, he 
 had seasons of drinking hard, but it was said 
 that liquor could not blunt his senses. 
 
 Boas's cabin was near the Shinaults' ; and 
 this afternoon while Polly Ann stood looking, 
 she saw his limp figure in butternut jeans slip 
 through the store doorway and creep along the 
 bank. Years ago Boas had been an exception- 
 ally tall and strong man, bringing a backwoods- 
 man's stature, muscle, and ruddy tan from the 
 Tennessee mountains ; now his stooping shoul- 
 ders and lank chest matched the sickly pallor 
 of his face, with its hollow cheeks and restless, 
 faded eyes. 
 
 Approaching the shore, he hailed Polly Ann 
 with a " Whoo — op ! " She got into the scow 
 and pushed off. She paddled as easily as an 
 Indian. Meanwhile Boas had been joined by 
 another man, who drew the boat up on the 
 beach, saying, " How 's all, Polly Ann ? " 
 
 Polly Ann had not seen him until he spoke ; 
 and she flushed a little, as though from surprise. 
 
 " You come back, Whitsun Harp?" said she. 
 
 " Got back yistiddy," the man replied. He 
 had a slow full voice, with a kind of severe 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 305 
 
 melody in its cadence not in the least like the 
 high-pitched Arkansas drawl. Whitsun Harp 
 was a head shorter than Boas. He wore a blue 
 flannel shirt, and brown jean trousers tucked 
 into high boots, all quite whole and clean. His 
 compact, powerful frame was not of the Arkan- 
 sas type any more than his dark, square, reso- 
 lute face ; yet, in the phrase of the region, he 
 had been " born and raised on the Black River 
 bottom." 
 
 At first glance, one could see a resemblance 
 between him and the young woman, — not a 
 likeness of feature, but of manner and expres- 
 sion ; both had the same direct, serious gaze, 
 the same slow speech, and the same proud bear- 
 ing. When Polly Ann reddened, Harp grew 
 paler. The men stepped into the boat, and 
 Polly Ann greeted Boas: "Howdy, Mr. Boas?" 
 
 " My health 's mighty triflin'," answered 
 Boas ; " someway, I 'm puny all the time ; 
 sorter mis'ry in my ches' ; some days I feel 
 pow'ful weak, caynt skeercely walk. Ora she 
 'lows she '11 send fer Dr. Vinson, but I don't 
 guess it's no use." 
 
 " Doctors does good sometimes," said Polly 
 Ann. 
 
 " Say, Polly Ann," said Harp, " I heerd tell 
 you all 'd los' a mewl." 
 
 " Lum 's went ayfter it," said Polly Ann ; 
 
306 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 " we missed it Monday, an' we waited an' 
 waited fer it to come back, an' it did n't, so 
 Lum he 's went ayfter it. Lum 'lows it 's stole, 
 he 'lows some cotton-picker toled it off." 
 
 '' Looks like," assented Boas ; " them cotton- 
 pickers is mighty ornery folks." 
 
 Harp asked a few questions, short and to the 
 point; and when the boat landed he drew Polly 
 Ann aside, while Boas stooped to mend a dilapi- 
 dated shoe with a rag. 
 
 " Polly Ann," said Harp, " I come to see ye. 
 I '11 tend to yo' mewl. Ye know I ar' turned 
 regerlater." 
 
 " I 've heerd tell on 't." 
 
 " Wa'al, hit 's so. I aim to mek these yere 
 pyarts mo' decenter. Polly Ann, this yere 's a 
 turrible mean kentry, drinkin' an' sw'arin' an' 
 fightin' an' devilment er all kin's o' goin' on ! 
 An' the chil'en bein' raised to drink an' fight 
 an' die jes like we uns ; Polly Ann, hit ain't 
 right! An' thar ain't no need fer it to be, 
 neether. I be'n in other settlements. They 
 ain't like we all ; they 've got brick chimbleys, 
 an' battened heouses, an' a school-heouse whar 
 they kin hev preachin', stiddier hevin' it in a 
 loft like we all. We mought, too, but we 're so 
 triflin' we caynt mek a riffle." 
 
 " Looks like," agreed Polly Ann politely. 
 
 " Yit how to holp it ? I 'd lay an' study the 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 307 
 
 hull night through, Polly Ann, studin' 'beout 
 hit. The mo' I studied the wuss it looked. 
 Wa'al — it war ayf ter ye taken up with Lum 
 an' war merried, hit come preachin' Sunday, 
 an' I went ter preachin'. 'T war the best out 
 at preachin' I ever heerd. All 'beout calls. 
 God called some on us one way an' some a 
 tother, but we wuz all called ter his sarvice. 
 An' I says ter myself, ' Lord, how ar' I called ? 
 I ar' the bes' blacksmith in the bottom, but I 
 cayn't talk wuth a shuck.' An', Polly Ann, a 
 voice said back, cl'ar 's a boat- whistle : ' Whit- 
 sun Harp, ye caynt talk folks decent, but ye 
 kin lick 'em decent. They need a regerlater 
 yere mo'n a preacher.' I jes growed cole all 
 over, fur I war walkin' all by my lone self en 
 the bottom, not a critter 'reoun' 'cept hoegs. 
 'Lord,' says I ter the sky, 'they'll kill me 
 shore, if I turn regerlater an' lick 'em. An' 
 w'at '11 maw do then ? ' So I went home tur- 
 rible troubled in my mind. Polly Ann, w'en I 
 got home maw was in one 'er spells, an' afore 
 sundown she war dead. Thet war the Lord 
 A'mighty's answer to my hesitatin'. Ayfter 
 thet I went ter wuk. Fust I sarved notice 
 on them men thet got drunk reg'lar Saturday 
 nights at the store. Then I licked them thet 
 persisted in wrong-doin'. I licked ole Skirey 
 fer oppressin' the pore ; an' I evened it up by 
 
808 KNITTERS IN THE SUN 
 
 lickin' two niggers tliet wild n't do a fair day's 
 wuk fer their wages. I licked Sol Looney fer 
 fightin' with his wife, an' I licked a man right 
 smart fer stealin' — thet ar 's 'beout all." 
 
 "Law me," said Polly Ann, admiring him, 
 "but, Whitsun, don' they fight ye? Folks 
 don' like ter be licked." 
 
 " They 've got to fight or be licked — one. 
 Mos' times I ar' too spry fer 'em an' take their 
 knives an pistils 'way. They did shoot a shoot 
 at me wunst, but hit missed." 
 
 Polly Ann's dark eyes were shining through 
 a mist of eagerness, and her lip quivered as she 
 said : " But they mought hit ye ! " 
 
 "Yes," said Harp quietly, while something 
 gentle and unusual relaxed his features, a look 
 at once patient and sad ; " wa'al, ef they did n't 
 kill me, I wud go on jes' the same, an' ef hit 
 did — I ain't no wife nur babies ter grieve 
 ay f ter me, an' I reckon the Lord kin tek keer 
 Clover Bend some other way." 
 
 Polly Ann drew a deep breath. " Looks 
 like 't wuz a call ! " said she. 
 
 "'Tis a call, shore," said Harp solemnly ; 
 " I waynted ter tell ye so 's ye wud know the 
 truth 'beout it, folks lyin' so ginerally. It 's no 
 differ ter me 'beout the res', but I waynted you 
 ter know bekase — we uns played tergether 
 w'en we wuz little tricks, an' I alius tole ye 
 everythin', ye rememberJ' 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 309 
 
 She remembered. Perhaps she remembered 
 more, for her cheeks grew red, and her brown 
 fingers were clasped together so tightly that 
 they made dents in the knuckles. 
 
 " An'," continued Harp very gently, " ef I 
 shud hev ter do suthin' thet ye moughtn't like, 
 hit 's 'kase I hev ter an' not my seekin' — bein' 
 called. Ye '11 consider thet thar, Polly Ann ? " 
 
 " I don't guess ye '11 ever do nuthin' ye don' 
 hole ter be right, Whitsun Harp." 
 
 " Thankee, Polly Ann," said Harp. He al- 
 most timidly touched her hand, holding it for 
 a second in a loose clasp. Then he strode away 
 without a glance at Boas. The latter rose di- 
 rectly and joined Polly Ann. 
 
 " Did Whitsun Harp say onythin' 'beout Lum 
 ter ye ? " said Boas. 
 
 " Naw," said Polly Ann ; " w'at fer shud 
 he?" 
 
 Boas seemed to have a difEculty in speaking ; 
 he had to clear his throat twice before he could 
 say : " Wa'al, fact is, Polly Ann, he 's heerd tell 
 — wa'al, lies 'beout Lum like he be'n too much 
 ter the store an' dances an' sich like tricks, 
 an' Whitsun he 'lows Lum 's triflin' an' — he 's 
 warned him." 
 
 " Warned — Lum ? " cried Polly Ann. 
 
 " Said like he 'd lick 'im, ef he don' quit," re- 
 plied Boas with primitive directness. He laid 
 
310 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 the tips of his fingers on her sleeve, and his face 
 grew earnest. " Fer the good Lord's sake, Polly- 
 Ann, don' ye let Lum mad Whitsun ! Nary 
 man en this bottom kin stan' agin him. Ye 
 know Steve Elder, how big he is ? He stole 
 a pa'r boots at the store. Whitsun he seen 
 it, but he never let on ; but w'en this yere 
 Steve comes fer his acceount he fin's at the 
 bottom, ' One pa'r boots, so much. Putt down 
 by Whitsun Harp.' W'en he read thet ar he 
 never opened 'is mouth. Jes paid. Heknowed 
 he cud n't stand up agin Whitsun." All the 
 while Boas talked he was scanning Polly Ann's 
 face to see the effect of his words. " Thar war 
 a circus feller too. He brung a mighty ornery, 
 mean show to the Bend, and Whitsun warned 
 him not ter show thet ar show agin ; but he 
 pitched 'is tent an' wuz marchin' 'reoun' in 
 front, a puttin' on doeg, w'en up comes Whit- 
 sun, an' he says, ' Did n't I warn ye not ter show 
 yo' durned ondecent show yere?' sezee. An' 
 he slapped up thet ar feller an' flung him 'cross 
 a log an' pulled his belt 'reoun' an' yanked out 
 'is pistil an' flung hit cl'ar 'n' 'cross the road 
 an' licked thet ar circus feller tell he hollered. 
 An' ye 'member ole Skirey thet he guv the bud 
 to, spiter him an' 'is two sons. He knocked 
 the big un down, an' the little one lit a shuck 
 mighty spry. An' who killed the mad doeg 
 
 o 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR 311 
 
 with a hammer ? An' who held the wild hoeg 
 by the tail tell Mark Lady cud stick 'im ? — 
 them two men off their hosses en the cane, an' 
 their guns empty ! Naw, naw, Polly Ann, don' 
 let Lum mad Whitsun ! An' 't ain't lickin's 
 thet 's mos' ter fear." His woeful eyes turned 
 from Polly Ann's face in a fleeting, shrinking, 
 indescribable glance toward the river bank — 
 " they mought git — ter — fightin' ! " 
 
 "I ain't feered fer Lum ef they do," said 
 Lum's wife haughtily. 
 
 But no sooner had the well-meaning threat- 
 ener gone than she ran into the cabin, shut the 
 door, and flung her proud head on the table in 
 a passion of tears. 
 
 Lum Shinault came home by moonlight. His 
 wife had saved his supper, and he stretched his 
 legs out beneath the white oil-cloth with a sigh 
 of content. 
 
 " My, my, my ! " said Lum in his soft, pleas- 
 ant voice, " talk 'beout cookin' ! Polly Ann, 
 ye allers git thar with both feet. Fried pork 
 an' sop an' taters an' pie an' light bread ! Ony- 
 thin' mo' ter foller ? " 
 
 A faint smile lifted the corners of Polly Ann's 
 mouth. She knew her gifts, and appreciation 
 is sweet. " I reckon," Lum continued, " hit 
 meks a differ eatin' en a purty room. This 
 yere 's a right purty room, Polly Ann." 
 
312 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 He looked about the room, and she looked at 
 him. The room was poor and bare enough, 
 with its log walls and uneven floor ; but the 
 big cotton -stuffed pillows on the bed shone out 
 of the dusk ; there was a clock on the rude 
 mantelpiece, a red cushion on the black and 
 gilt rocking-chair, and a log thicker than a 
 man's body was blazing in the fire-place. The 
 flames, rather than the sickly gleam of the 
 grease lamp, lighted the room and Lum Shi- 
 nault's face. He was of low stature and slight, 
 and in the firelight he made one think of a 
 terra-cotta figure, he was so all of a color, hair, 
 skin, and clothes all the same, whitish-brown. 
 But he had sparkling brown eyes and a sensi- 
 tive mouth that could shut firmly. "Did ye 
 fin' the mewl ? " said his wife. 
 
 " Not a hide nur a ha'r er the blamed crit- 
 ter," answered Lum cheerfully, " but I seen a 
 big gang er turkeys. Reckon I shot one, but 
 I cud n't fin' hit." 
 
 " Whitsun Harp wuz yere ; he 'lows he '11 fin' 
 the mewl fer us." 
 
 Lum whistled. His meal being finished, he 
 got up and stood close to his wife. She had 
 knotted a scarlet handkerchief about her 
 throat, which suited her olive skin and black 
 hair. Lum slid his arm around her waist. " Ye 
 ar' turrible good-lookin', Polly Ann," said he 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 313 
 
 smiling half wistfully ; " I sot a heap er store 
 by ye." 
 
 She neither accepted nor repulsed the caress ; 
 merely stood, her hands clasped before her, ab- 
 sently gazing at the fire. His arm fell ; but in 
 a second he put out his hand again, to finger 
 softly a stray lock of hair. 
 
 " An' Bud Boas, he was yere too," said Polly 
 Ann ; '* he 'lows ye 'd bes' be keerful kase Whit- 
 sun 's mad at ye. He 'lows yo' too triflin'." 
 
 " An' / 'low Whitsun Harp 's too meddlin' ! " 
 cried Lum, opening his brown eyes angrily. 
 "Wat bus'ness ar' hit er his'n? I don' rent er 
 bim. 'T ain't his plantation. To my notion, 
 Wbitsun bed orter be run off this yere place ! " 
 
 " He 's did a heap er good yere," said Polly 
 Ann — was it the firelight, Lum wondered, that 
 made her cheeks so red ? — " Look at the fiorht- 
 in' an' drinkin' he's stopped ! Thar ain't be'n 
 a man killed yere sence he turned regerlater." 
 
 " Thar '11 be one killed mighty quick, though, 
 ef he don' quit projickin' 'roun' an' lickin' folks 
 permiscus'." 
 
 Polly Ann laid her hand on her husband's 
 arm, looking down at him, for she was taller 
 than he. " Lum," she said solemnly, " he is 
 called., Whitsun is. They caynt hurt him till 
 his work 's did. Don' ye say anythin' agin 'im, 
 Lum." 
 
314 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 Luin's frown turned into a broad grin. " Ob, 
 laws ! called ter lick folks ? Ef tbet ain't tbe 
 durndest trick ! " 
 
 " But be is," sbe insisted ; " be 's bed signs 
 an' tokens. Don' go agin 'im, Lum." 
 
 " Wa'al, boney," said Lum easily, " I ain't 
 purportin' ter go agin 'im. He 's too big a b'ar 
 fer me ter tackle." 
 
 Polly Ann turned away abruptly. Lum 
 looked after ber, all tbe ligbt-bearted careless- 
 ness gone out of bis face. " 'Pears like I jes 
 cud n't please ber nobow," be tbougbt wbile be 
 busied bimself clearing tbe table. Lum bad tbe 
 babit of helping bis wife about tbe bouse ; be 
 bad acquired it belping bis motber, Lum's fa- 
 tber being " triflin'." 
 
 At tbe same time Polly Ann was tbinking : 
 "He won' figbt bisself or run enter no danger, 
 but be '11 sick tbe rest on, an' bim stan' by." 
 Sbe bardly noticed bow deftly Lum wiped tbe 
 disbes and brusbed out tbe room. " Be ye too 
 tired ter listen ter a leetle music, boney ? " be 
 said wben be bad put tbe broom bebind tbe 
 door. 
 
 " Naw," said Polly Ann, trying to smile, " I 
 don't guess I 'm ever too tired fer music." 
 
 Faint as tbe smile was, Lum welcomed it and 
 took down bis violin witb a brigbter face. 
 
 He played a long wbile; at first, simple mel- 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 315 
 
 odies of the plantation and the camp-meeting ; 
 then, as his thoughts drifted into other memo- 
 ries, they took their own shape in music rude 
 as his life, but weird and sad like the cypress 
 brake. Lum was born a musician. He had 
 a wonderful ear but the scantiest knowledge, 
 most of which came from a strolling violinist 
 who had the swamp fever in Lum's cabin and 
 left a book of songs for payment. Lum learned 
 the songs by heart. They were as common- 
 place as possible, but the ideas, worn shabby 
 through the handling of generations, were new 
 and splendid to Lum. Why not ? They could 
 not have been any fresher to him if they had 
 just been discovered. They lifted and adorned 
 his notion of love. They aided the ever-in- 
 creasing power which his wife exercised over 
 his imagination. He thought of her in their 
 language, which had a dignity and charming 
 tenderness quite lacking in the speech of his 
 birthplace where a man " took up with a girl 
 and married her," making no more ado about it ; 
 the song words were so pretty and kind-sound- 
 ing, it was like kissing a girl to say them. Lum 
 was too shy to say them himself. Once he 
 ventured to call Polly Ann " darling," instantly 
 blushing up to his eyes. She did not seem to 
 mind, neither did she seem pleased. It was the 
 way in which she always met her husband's 
 
316 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 affection. This passive endurance of his love 
 had come to have a kind of terror for Lum. He 
 could not understand his wife. To go back to 
 the beginning, — as Lum did to-night on his 
 violin strings, — he had married Polly Ann out 
 of compassion. He was in the field when Old 
 Man Gooden fell dead in a fit of apoplexy. He 
 helped Polly Ann carry her father into the 
 house, and he witnessed her passionate, dumb 
 agony. Lum had a soft heart, unfettered ex- 
 cept by a few rustic attentions to a certain 
 pretty widow on the plantation, Mistress Savan- 
 nah Lady. When he beheld Polly Ann's des- 
 olate condition his heart melted. 
 
 " Nary kin nigher 'n the Sunk Lan's," mused 
 Lum, " hit 's turrible hard. An' she sot sich 
 store by her paw, an' he muched ^ her so. They 
 sorter kep' ter theyselves, too, I don't guess they 
 wuz the socherbel kin'. Nary un waitin' on 'er 
 neether, 'less hit ar' Whitsun Harp. Ef he 
 don' merry her, I reckon I hed orter. 'T ain't 
 no mo'n neighborly." 
 
 Whitsun making no sign, he carried out his 
 
 intention. 
 
 Polly Ann assented gravely, almost silently, 
 to whatever he proposed. Nothing was easier 
 than to rent a cabin and a pair of mules from 
 
 1 To much; Arkansas for to pet, to caress, to make much 
 of. 
 
 o 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 317 
 
 the Northern men who had bought the planta- 
 tion, and settle down to raise a crop. 
 
 PoUy Ann, after the first outburst, put her 
 grief stoically away and only worked the harder. 
 Polly Ann's father came from the " Sunk 
 Lands," that mysterious region created by the 
 great Lisbon earthquake, — an island in the 
 swamps, half the year cut off from the world, 
 forgotten except by a few traders. Until she 
 was fifteen she had lived the solitary life of the 
 people and grown up in their Indian-like reti- 
 cence. When she was fifteen, her mother died 
 and her father took her to Clover Bend. She 
 was now twenty-three years old, and she had 
 been married hardly five months. Lum was a 
 man of the lowlands, who inherited French in- 
 stincts of sociability and liked idling about and 
 gossiping. He took his new relations lightly 
 at first, but soon his wife's stronger nature fas- 
 cinated him. She awakened all the ardor and 
 tenderness in him, this beautiful, silent, haughty, 
 patient woman. " She ar' fairer nur the flow- 
 ers," quoted Lum from the songs; "an' she's 
 got a right smart er sense too," he added in the 
 vernacular. He declared his wife's superiority 
 with much frankness. " Law me," said he to 
 Boas, — it was a few days later, and they sat on 
 the store counter, indulging in the unpretend- 
 ing luxury of brown sugar and crackers, — *'law 
 
318 KNITTERS IN 'THE SUN. 
 
 me, Polly Ann 's wutli a hull crap er me ! Ye 'd 
 orter see the plunder she 've bought, pickin' 
 cotton " — 
 
 " Wa'al, then," interrupted Boas, dropping 
 his customary mild, plaintive drawl to a lower 
 key, " w'y fur be ye so possessed ter cavoort 
 'reoun' with Savannah Lady ? " 
 " Me ! " exclaimed Lum. 
 " Yes, jes ?/ott," repeated Boas with an anx- 
 ious gaze into Lum's scarlet face. " They 'lows 
 like ye taken up with 'er. Boy, j-e had n't 
 orter be agwine on thet way ! Nur j^e had n't 
 orter come yere, fiddlin' an' carryin' on, an' yo' 
 wife ter home, by her lone self, studyin' an' 
 grievm — 
 
 " Polly Ann don' grieve," said Lum rather 
 sullenly ; " leastways she don' grieve ayfter me^ 
 nohow. In co'se I mean," he went on quickly, 
 " she ar' grievin' fer her paw." 
 
 " In co'se," said Boas. There was a pause. 
 " An' ez regardin' Mistress Lady," Lum 
 said finally, giving the full prefix with dignit}^ 
 — on ordinary occasions one would only say 
 " Mis' " in Arkansas, — " we uns wuz raised to- 
 gether an' natchelly have frien'ly feelin's. But 
 ef ye ar' 'lowin' thet I even her or ary nother 
 lady ter Polly Ann ye ar' a long sight outer yo' 
 reckonin', thet 's all. I knaw I taken her ter 
 the singin' school the fiddler bed ; but Polly 
 
WHITS UN HARP, REGULATOR. 319 
 
 Ann never 'd go thar ter singin', kase — wa'al, 
 Polly Ann jes natchelly cayn't sing, cay n't 
 cotch a tune. An' ez fer me goin' ter the store 
 an' drinkin', I disremember how often I done 
 come yere ; but I know I never got drunk ony- 
 "whar, not the least bit on earth. But I ain't 
 purportin' to be goin' yere ter fiddle nights, 
 Bud Boas, never no mo'. Folks ain't got no 
 call ter say I don' ruther stay by Polly Ann 
 than onywhar nelse." 
 
 " Thet 's so," said Boas. " I knawed they 
 wuz lyin'." Lum did not tell Boas that he 
 only went to the store because he thought that 
 Polly Ann did not care to see him home, and 
 his heart was sore. He could not say that, 
 since it would seem like complaining of Polly 
 Ann. But Boas's caution set him thinking; 
 gossip must be loud to rouse that haunted soul 
 from its dream of pain. 
 
 "Thet thar's w'at Whit Harp done heerd, 
 dad bum him," growled Lum, " an' blame my 
 skin ef I don' b'lieve thet ar Savannah ar' 
 jes foolin' with me fur ter tol on Steve Mor- 
 row." Which it happened was precisely the 
 case. Savannah wanted to marry the stock- 
 man, Morrow, and she used Lum to help her, 
 not at all sorry to make Polly Ann jealous, 
 if she could, as well as Morrow. " Ain't thet 
 thar jest like the critter?" said Lum with per- 
 
320 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 feet good humor; "it's a rig on me an' Steve, 
 though." Yet he felt a queer resentment 
 against Harp — a resentment not diminished 
 by the sight of his lost mule munching cotton 
 stalks in his own field. " Whitsun fetched 'im," 
 Polly Ann exclaimed. It seemed to Lum that 
 she spoke as though proud of Harp's success. 
 Lum, the best-tempered man on the plantation, 
 ground his teeth. "I sw'ar I hate thet thar 
 Whitsun Harp!" he was thinking. 
 
 The next time that he saw Harp was mail day. 
 Twice a week a rider brought the mail to Clover 
 Bend. The post-office was in the store, just as 
 the court-room was, whenever the majesty of 
 the law was invoked or a jail needed. The 
 store had a wide platform the right height to 
 serve instead of a horse block. Savannah Lady 
 rode up to the platform as Whitsun came 
 through the door. She was a pretty, kittenish, 
 fair little woman, and her hair, which was of a 
 lovely reddish-brown color, had a trick of es- 
 caping in little ringlets and blowing round her 
 white neck. After all, there was no great harm 
 in her ; but to Harp she was the embodiment of 
 all that was dangerous and alluring in woman. 
 
 Lum was on the platform so near that com- 
 mon gallantry required him to help her alight. 
 Somehow she stumbled, so he held her for a 
 second by the elbows. Harp, black as night, 
 
WHITS UN HARP, REGULATOR. 321 
 
 watched her recover herself, laugh, blush, and 
 flutter into the store. He strode up to Lura. 
 "Lum Shinault," said he in a low tone and 
 very deliberately, " ef ye don' quit yo' ornery 
 triflin' ways I '11 lick ye ! " 
 
 " Then I '11 kill ye, shore 's death, Whitsun 
 Harp ! " Lum gasped, choked with passion. 
 
 Whitsun only gave him a steady gaze and 
 turned on his heel. 
 
 Lum felt himself despised. 
 
 A week went by. Polly Ann was conscious 
 of a change in Lum. Though kind as ever, his 
 shy caresses were no longer offered. He worked 
 harder and seldom went to the store, " an' he 
 jis' studies the plum w'ile," said Polly Ann. 
 
 One day Mrs. Boas came over to ask Lum to 
 get some quinine and whiskey at the store for 
 Boas. " He had one er 'is spells," — so the poor 
 wife always named Boas's fits of terror, — ''an' 
 he run out en the woods an' got soppin' wet 
 an' cotched cole an' 'pears like hit gits a leetle 
 mucher all the w'ile." 
 
 After Lum was gone Polly Ann bethought 
 herself of some corn which should be ground, 
 and that it was grinding day at the mill. Like 
 the store, the mill was a versatile and accom- 
 modating establishment, ginning cotton, sawing 
 wood, or grinding corn with equal readiness. 
 So saddling the big gray horse, which was at 
 
322 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 once her dowry and her inheritance, she led 
 him to the ferry and paddled boat, horse, and 
 woman across the stream. The Clover Bend 
 ferry was deserted, but it was accustomed to 
 desertion, being conducted on Southern prin- 
 ciples: if you came when the ferryman was 
 away you must wait until he got back, that 
 was all. 
 
 Polly Ann saw Lum's wagon-box boat on the 
 sand, and riding up the bank she perceived 
 Lum himself walking through the cypress brake. 
 
 " Cypress Swamp," or the " Black River 
 bottom," is like a dry river channel winding 
 through the higher land. When the spring over- 
 flow comes the lustrous green water rushes 
 among the tree trunks, and the high land be- 
 comes a multitude of islands and peninsulas; 
 but most of the year the channel is dry, and in 
 autumn the cypress boughs spread a soft russet 
 carpet on the ground ; the hackberry, maples, 
 live-oaks, and holly-trees which mingle with the 
 cypress splash the foliage with splendid hues, 
 the sunlight filters through the branches and 
 prints shifting shadows of the vines masking 
 the thorn-trees, or turns the red berries into 
 dots of flame. Then the cypress brake is beau- 
 tiful. But Lum Shinault was not thinking of 
 its beauty. He was walking slowly, his head 
 sunk between his shoulders. 
 
 o 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 323 
 
 " Studyin' !" said Polly Ann. 
 
 Lum looked up. The silhouette of a horse's 
 head had fallen across his path. A sun-bonnet 
 was bent over the mane. The bonnet hid the 
 woman's face, but that ringlet of dazzling hair, 
 floating under the cape, could only belong to 
 one person. Horse and rider stopped. So did 
 the footman. His shadow spread out gigantic 
 on the ground. Then both shadows were blend- 
 ed together as if in an embrace. Did Polly Ann 
 grow angry? Not in the least ; she could see 
 too well. 
 
 " Wats got Savannah Lady ? " said she ; 
 " looks like Lum was guvin' 'er w'iskey an' hold- 
 m uv er. 
 
 This, indeed, was what he was doing. For 
 once there was no guile about Savannah's acts ; 
 Lum had served her turn. Young Morrow had 
 spoken, and she was on her way to buy her 
 wedding finery when she was seized with a chill ; 
 but she still rode on, clinging to her horse's 
 neck, until she met Lum. He gave her some 
 whiskey. 
 
 Now by an evil chance, at this moment, 
 Whitsun Harp must needs enter the scene on a 
 gallop. He saw the shadows, he saw the bright 
 head on Lum's shoulder, the little hands clutch- 
 ing Lum's arm. 
 
 A shower of cypress boughs whirled in the 
 
324 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 air ; a pawpaw branch snapped, wrenched away 
 by a furious hand ; and Lum lifted his eyes to 
 see Whitsun's face. 
 
 " I tell ye, yo' mistaken ! " shouted Lum. 
 
 •' It 's too late for talking now," said Whit- 
 sun, deep and low. 
 
 He jumped off his horse and caught Lum by 
 the throat. The smaller man was like a baby 
 in his grip. Lum, writhing and struggling, in 
 an impotent fury of rage and shame, hardly felt 
 the blows. Suddenly the hand at his throat 
 released him so suddenly that he was hurled 
 to the ground ; he heard his wife's voice, shrill 
 with anger : " Whitsun Harp, w'at ye doin' ter 
 my man?" 
 
 He sat up, his brain swimming, specks of fire 
 and blood floating in the air ; but there was 
 Whitsun standing empty-handed, and Polly 
 Ann's face over the gray's head. 
 
 *' I did n't aim ye shud ever knaw on 't, Polly 
 Ann," said Whitsun, " I cud n't holp it, hit hed 
 ter be did." 
 
 " I '11 never fergive ye en this worF, Whitsun 
 Harp ! " said Polly Ann. 
 
 Lum put his hands on the tree near him and 
 got to his feet. He leaned on the tree and 
 steadied his choked and shaking voice enough 
 to say, '* Look a yere, Whitsun Harp, I '11 kill 
 ye fer this." 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 325 
 
 Harp did not glance toward him ; he took 
 one step forward as though he would speak to 
 Polly Ann, but at her gesture of repulsion he 
 turned silently and mounted his horse. On 
 horseback, he reined in his horse, and looking 
 at Polly Ann, said again, '•' I cud n't holp it," 
 before he galloped away. 
 
 Savannah was shivering and crying. 
 
 " Hit you ary lick, Savannah ? '* said Lum. 
 
 " Naw, naw," sobbed she. " Oh, Lum, oh. 
 Mis' Shinault, 't wa'n't my fault ! I war jes 
 sick. Whitsun 's heerd lies on me 'n' Lum. 
 I 'm goin' ter be merried ter Steve Morrow 
 nex' week. Fer the Lord's sake, don' tell 'im ; 
 he wud n't never speak ter me agin ! I done 
 my best ! I pulled Whitsun's arm." 
 
 For all his misery, Lum burst into a bitter 
 laugh. " Muster hendered Whitsun a heap, 
 you hoklin' on," said he. '* You go 'long home, 
 Savannah, an' don' be skeered er we uns tell- 
 in' ; jes tek keer ye don' let on nuthin' yo'self — 
 never min' w'at happens ! " 
 
 Something in his face checked her answer ; 
 she was scared, and glad to ride away. 
 
 The husband and wife were left alone to- 
 gether. 
 
 Lum looked at Polly Ann, who was very pale, 
 " Ye come jes in time, Polly Ann," said he. 
 
 "I wud n't o' b'lieved ye'd a taken it, Lum 
 
326 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 Shinault," said she bitterlj^ *' with yo' knife on 
 too. Pull yo' belt 'reoun ' ! " 
 
 Mechanically, Lum put his hand to his belt, 
 which had been twisted so that the knife was 
 in the back. "I done forgot 'beout the knife," 
 muttered Lum, reddening ; " thet ar 's a favor- 
 yte trick er Harp's." Then, in a second, he 
 added : " I ain't goin' ter tek hit, Polly Ann." 
 
 She said nothing. 
 
 " Ye don' b'lieve me," cried Lum. 
 
 " 'T ain't no use talkin'," said she wearily. 
 
 " I '11 hev it out with 'im. Ye 'low I 'm a 
 ornery, triflin', pusillanimous " — 
 
 " Whar 's the use callin' yo'self names ? " in- 
 terrupted Polly Ann. '' I don' wanter yere no 
 more 'beout it. • Reckon Boas '11 waynt 'is w'is- 
 key, onyhow. Thar 't is un'er the gum-tree." 
 Lum looked at his wife with imploring eyes 
 and quivering mouth ; at that moment he was 
 longing to fling his arms about her and sob out 
 his shame on her breast. Poor Lum's grand- 
 father was a Frenchman. 
 
 Polly Ann did not look at him, but went on 
 arranging her bag of corn; all Lum could see 
 was the profile of her sun-bonnet — there is 
 nothing sympathetic about a sun-bonnet. " Bes' 
 git on ter the mill ef I waynt a pone er bread 
 ter-day," said Polly Ann. " Be bacli ter din- 
 ner, Lum." 
 
WniTSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 327 
 
 She rode on a little way and stopped. " I 'm 
 goin' ter hev a plum good dinner fer ye, Lum," 
 she called back. 
 
 " Thankee, Polly Ann," said Lum. He 
 watched her until the trees hid horse and rider. 
 "Polly Ann 'lows thar ain't no troubles men 
 persons cayn't cure with eatin' an' drinkin'," 
 said he ; " drinkin'," — he eyed the whiskey 
 bottle lying at the foot of the gam-tree, — 
 " naw, thar ain't ony comfort fer me en thet 
 ar. I 'm en a hole, an' thar 's jes one way outen 
 hit. No good talkin' ter Polly Ann, she 's sot. 
 'T wud on'y pester her. Oh, my Lord, ain't it 
 hard ! " 
 
 "I wisht I cud hev kissed her jes wunst," he 
 said, after a while, " on'y fer ter say good-by. 
 How soft her cheek wuz ! An' thar war a little 
 blue vein jes un'er the ear. Wa'al, hit won' 
 mek no differ ter her, but I wisht " — 
 
 He walked on slowly until he came to the 
 boat on the sand. He could see his own cabin. 
 He remembered the day that he brought Polly 
 Ann to it — his wedding-day. He crawled into 
 the boat, lay down in the stern, and cried Hke 
 a child. 
 
 PART n. 
 
 Polly Ann's good dinner waited in vain. ' 
 Lum did not come. Yet she was sure that, 
 
828 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 while at the well drawing water, she had seen 
 his figure through the window. She blew the 
 horn. She called at the top of her voice. Fi- 
 nally she went to the shed to see if the horse 
 was gone. Gone he was, and there was a piece 
 of brown wrapping-paper, such as they used at 
 the store, tacked on to a log and directed to 
 "Mistris Shinalt." She took it down, turned it 
 over, and saw a single sentence, written in 
 pencil, in cramped, careful letters : " Darling 
 Polly an i taken your Hoss fer a Errant i wunt 
 be bak your Lovin Husban. C. Shinalt." 
 
 " Law me ! " said Polly Ann, " he mought 
 hev come in, onyhow. An' the dinner 's plum 
 sp'iled." 
 
 She was wretched over the morning's work, 
 but she did not feel alarmed, having no belief in 
 Lura's courage ; and when she discovered that 
 the gun was gone, she merely thought that he 
 meant to shoot squirrels. 
 
 But Lum was seeking other game. His er- 
 rand was to kill Whitsun Harp. The smoulder- 
 ing jealousy and resentment of weeks had burst 
 into a flame that was shriveling his heart. He 
 had been beaten before his wife, his wife who 
 valued strength and bravery beyond everything. 
 And Whitsun, whom she praised because he 
 was so strong and brave, had beaten him. 
 How many times had she praised Whitsun to 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 329 
 
 his face. Like enough she had wanted the 
 regulator all along, and had only taken up with 
 Lura because Whitsun did n't speak — girls 
 did such things Lum knew from the songs. 
 Here was the secret of her being so quiet and 
 sad, and of that queer way she had with her 
 that made him feel farther away, in the same 
 room, than he did thinking of her, miles off, in 
 the bottom. 
 
 " I never cud much her like I cud t' other 
 gells," thought Lum; "I alius hed ter study 
 on 't afore I cud putt my arm 'reoun' her waist. 
 Reckon I sorter s'picioned, inside, thet it pes- 
 tered her. Pore Polly Ann ! " 
 
 It was like Lum to feel no anger, only com- 
 passion, for his wife. 
 
 *' Hit's bad fer her too — turrible bad," he 
 pondered ; " ef it 's me gits killed up she caynt 
 hev no mo' truck wi' him, an' ef it 's him she '11 
 natcbally hate the sight er me ! Wa'al, she 
 won' be pestered with it ; I '11 go off on the 
 cotton-boat afore sundown. All through this 
 wide worl' I '11 wander, my lone," said Lum, 
 his thoughts unaffectedly shaping themselves 
 in the words of his songs. They did not cause 
 him to waver in his purpose ; he knew Polly 
 Ann's notions of manly honor too well. Old 
 Man Gooden shot a man once. 
 
 "Paw hed ter shoot him," Polly Ann ex- 
 plained ; " he spatted paw en the face." 
 
330 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 *' An' ef a feller spatted me, wud I hev ter 
 shoot him?" Lum had asked, amused by her 
 earnestness, for this was before he passed the 
 careless stage of his marriage. 
 
 " Wud n't ye waynt fer ter shoot 'im ? " said 
 Polly Ann, fixing her beautiful grave eyes on 
 his smiling face. 
 
 " Wa'al, I shudn't crave it," said Lum. 
 
 " But ye wud, Lum, ye wud shoot him ! " 
 
 "Mabbe — ef I cud n't run away," answered 
 Lum, and he had laughed at her face over that 
 speech. 
 
 He did not laugh now, riding with his bruised 
 throat and aching shoulders, and the gun slung 
 across his saddle-peak. 
 
 " Him or me," groaned Lum ; " hit 's him or 
 me — one ! Thar ain't no tother way ! " 
 
 He was riding through the bottom lands 
 above the mill. The entire bottom was like 
 an innocent jungle with its waving green un- 
 dergrowth of cane. Pigs were rooting under 
 the trees, and the heads of cattle rose above the 
 cane, turning peaceful eyes of satisfied appetite 
 upon Lum's reckless speed. 
 
 There was no reason for haste, really, outside 
 the relief which motion gives to a perturbed 
 soul, for Lum knew that Whitsun was buying 
 a horse of a farmer up on the bayou, and would 
 have to return by the same road. But he did 
 
W BITS UN HARP, REGULATOR. 331 
 
 not slacken his pace until he came on a man 
 riding more leisurely. The man hailed him, 
 and he saw Boas. 
 
 " W'y, I wuz at yo' heouse," said Lum, " an' 
 Mis' Boas 'lowed ye wuz en bed." 
 
 " So I war," said Boas in a weak, high voice, 
 *' but — I got up — I got up ! " 
 
 " Toby shore, toby shore," said Lum sooth- 
 ingly. 
 
 He saw the man could barely keep in his sad- 
 dle for trembling, and that his features were 
 ghastly ; but Lum had the humblest Southern- 
 er's innate politeness ; it was not deemed good 
 manners in Clover Bend to take notice of any 
 thing singular in Boas's appearance or conduct ; 
 there was one unhappy explanation always 
 ready. 
 
 Lum, through his daze of anguish, felt a prick 
 of pity for this miserable being who had done 
 many a kindness to Lum's mother in his un- 
 haunted days. He stretched out his arm and 
 supported Boas by the elbow. 
 
 " Oh, I 'm peart enough," said Boas ; " I 
 waynter tell ye suthin', Lum." 
 
 The younger man resigned himself with in- 
 ward impatience to a slower gait. 
 
 "This yere 's a sightly kentry, Lum, ain't 
 it? " said Boas, gazing about him, " but I ain't 
 'repinin' ter leave it." 
 
332 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 '* Be ye gwine ter Texas ? " 
 
 " Farder 'n Texas, boy. Dr. Vinson was over 
 an' he tole me — naw, Lum, ye don' need ter 
 say yo' sorry, I know ye ar. Ye be'n like a 
 son ter me sence ever ye wuz a little trick an' 
 played with my boys. Ye wuz the least little 
 trick er all. Ye 'member 'em, Lum, sich peart, 
 likely boys they wuz, an' they all died up an' 
 nary un ter home, peaceable like; Mat an' Tobe 
 drownded, an' Mark throwed from his hoss. 
 All on 'em ayf ter — ye know w'at — all three 
 en one year, ev'ry chile we 'd got, Ora an' me. 
 Hit war hard ter endure, Lum, turrible hard." 
 
 "It war so," said Lum. 
 
 " Wa'al, they 're all on 'em gone. An' I '11 
 be gone, too, afore long. I ain't repinin'. Lum, 
 ye never heerd me talk on 't ; I cud n't b'ar ter 
 speak ; but, somehow, 'pears like 't wud ease 
 my min' a bit ter tell ye suthin' er my feelin's, 
 Lum ; ef I hed n't er be'n so mortal skeered er 
 meetin' up with Grundy, I 'd a killed myse'f a 
 long spell back, I wud so. I 'm wore out. Boy, 
 ef so be yo' tempted ter fight, 'mind yo'se'f er 
 me ! I killed Grundy Wild, killed 'im fair too ; 
 but. Lord ferguv me, I done went enter thet ar 
 fight aimirC ter kill. I 'low thet war how he 
 got 'is holt on me. Fer he 's never lef me 
 sence. Fust I wud n't guv in. * Be thet ar all 
 the harntin' ye kin mek out ? ' sez I. But hit 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 333 
 
 kep' a comin' an' a comin', never no differ, tell 
 hit crazied me, Lum ! 
 
 " Niir thet war n't the wust on it. The wust 
 war bein' skeered the hull w'ile, 'spectin' an' 
 dreadin' never no tell. 
 
 " Did ye never hev a door a squeakin', Lum ? 
 A squeakin' door ar' a mighty little trick ; 
 't ain't nuthin', ye may say ; but ye '11 be a set- 
 tin' an' thet thar door '11 squeak an' stop, an' 
 then it '11 squeak agin, an' then not, an' then 
 squeak an' squeak an' squeak tell ye git up, 
 sw'arin' mad, an' shet the door. Lum., I cud nt 
 shet the door! I taken ter drinkin', but I 
 cud n't git so drunk thet I 'd not feel thet thar 
 cole han' er his'n a flap flabbin' on my face. 
 Hit 's wore me out. At las' I jes give up ; an', 
 my Lord ! 'peared like his soul fa'rly enjyed 
 trompin' on me, r'arin' an' chargin' like 't wuz 
 a wil' hog ! Oh, my Lord ! my Lord ! " The 
 man shook in his saddle with the horror of his 
 recollections. But he controlled himself enough 
 to go on, though the sentences came in pants. 
 " Then I 'merabered — thet thar tex' — an eye 
 fer an eye an' a tooth fer a tooth. Hit come 
 ter me — cud I on'y swap a life with the Lord 
 fer Grundy's — then it mought be he wud tek 
 Grundy offen me an' — let me die en peace. I 
 don' ax no mo'." He stopped, gasping and 
 coughing while Lum held him. Lum was 
 
334 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 deeply touched ; he was not a whit moved from 
 his intention ; but he was touched, and he felt 
 a sombre sense of comradeship, thinking, 
 *' Mabbe I '11 know how ye feel, termorrer." 
 Boas continued : — 
 
 " An', Lum, w'ile I war study in' an' pray in', 
 'Lord, let thy pore sinful sarvint wipe the 
 blood-guiltiniss offen his soul an' not hev ter 
 die skeered I ' Lum, I heerd them Case boys 
 from the hills talkin' outside. They wuz come 
 ter borry my bateau. They wuz ayfter Whit- 
 sun Harp, bekase he 'd prommused the big un, 
 Ike, a lickin' fer beatin' Ole Man Bryce outen 
 'is cotton. They wuz 'lowin' ter pick a fight 
 wi' him an' kill him. I peeked outer a crack 
 an' seen 'em. Two hed guns, an' all three hed 
 knives. So I tole Ora ter tell 'em we 'lowed 
 ter use our own boat. But they got a bateau 
 farder down, an' I seen 'em en the river, so I 
 hed Ora row me over an' I borried Looney's 
 hoss, it bein' so easy — an' I 'm agwine ter 
 warn 'im. The river twists so, an' thar's a 
 right smart er groun' 'tween Young Canes whar 
 he ar' an' the water, I kin' git thar fust, easy — 
 Say, little tricks, w'at ye bellerin' fer ? " The 
 road had passed a little clearing, made in Ar- 
 kansas fashion by burning down the trees. The 
 cabin in the centre had no window, and the 
 door was open, showing three particularly dirty 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 335 
 
 children who were all crying together. The 
 oldest stuck a shaggy white head out to say, 
 " Hit 's fer maw ? " 
 
 " Whar 's yor maw done gone ? " 
 
 " She 's done gone 'ith Mr. Harp fer ter see 
 Aunt Milly Thorn, kase Uncle Tobe Thorn 
 done lick er hide off en er," said the child, evi- 
 dently repeating an older tongue's story. " I 
 sended three men ayfter er, but she ain't come 
 back, an' we uns is hungry. Oh dear, maw ! 
 maw ! " 
 
 " Hush, hush, honey," said Boas, trembling, 
 " whar did the men come from ? " 
 
 " They come from a boat, an' they axed fer 
 Mr. Harp, an' they said they wud fotch maw 
 back in the boat. Will ye fotch maw ? " 
 
 " Ter Tobe Thorn's," screamed Boas, clutch- 
 ing Lum's arm ; " d 'ye onnerstan', Lum ? 
 Thet 's 'cross the big bayou, the heouse on the 
 bank ; they kin cut 'cross en the bateau an' the 
 road goes 'way off t' other side. I cayn't do 
 hit, Lum, the Lord don' mean ter parden me ! 
 An' pore Whitsun " — shaking Lum's arm in 
 his uncontrollable ao^itation — " Lum, mabbe 
 its 'tended fer you ter save 'im ! . Yo' boss 
 never makes a blunder. Ye knaw the bottom, 
 an' ye kin ride through the brake fast — fast ! " 
 
 Lum turned a dull, deep red ; he felt him- 
 self suffocating with passion ; he saw his re- 
 
336 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 venge lost and with it everything else. Yet 
 he could not wrench his last hope from this 
 hunted, desperate, d34ng creature. And Boas 
 had been kind to his mother. 
 
 " Lum, ye will do hit," pleaded Boas ; " I 
 knaw ye don' bear no good will ter Harp, but, 
 God A'mighty, he 's a human critter, ye won' 
 see 'im murdered, w'en ye kin save 'is life ! 
 Ye cayn't be so hard-hearted ! Oh, Lum, do 
 it ter save me^ ter holp me outen the hell I 
 be'n en fer five year ! " 
 
 " Yes," said Lum, " I '11 go fer you., Boas." 
 
 His face was as white as Boas's, but Boas 
 could not see ; he pushed his helper by the 
 shoulder to hurry him, panting, " Go 'long, 
 then, fast, fer God's sake ! God bless ye, boy, 
 ye '11 save two men stiddyer one. How he rides, 
 an' I useter ride thet way " — The children 
 cried, and he went to them ; Lum was out of 
 sight in the high cane. 
 
 The young fellow rode furiously. Beneath 
 that pleasant green sea lay pronged roots and 
 logs and ugly holes. Thorn-trees stretched out 
 their spiked limbs, wild grape-vines flung their 
 beautiful treacherous lassos on the breeze, and 
 pawpaw saplings, stout enough to trip a horse, 
 were ambushed in the cane. Through them 
 all crashed the brave gray, leaping, dodging, 
 beating down the cane with his broad chest, 
 
 o 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 337 
 
 and never slackening his speed. It looked like 
 a frantic race through the wilderness, but, 
 with the woodman's instinct, the rider leaving 
 the perils below to the beast's sure eyes was 
 really guiding him on an invisible course. 
 
 At last Lum drew rein before another clear- 
 ing. He could see Thorn's cabin and women 
 in the "gallery," and riding along the shore, 
 nearer and more distinct, the figure of a man 
 on horseback, plainly Whitsun Harp. 
 
 Lum galloped up to him. 
 
 The regulator carried pistols in the holsters 
 of his old cavalry saddle ; the barrel of one 
 flashed out as Lum approached. 
 
 " Ye ain't no call ter be skeered er me ! '* 
 shouted Lum. " Not this time. Look out fer 
 the Case boys — thar, on the bateau ! They 're 
 a comin' ! " — 
 
 " Shucks ! " said Whitsun. He gave Lum a 
 long and keen glance which apparently satis- 
 fied him, for he addressed himself at once to 
 the more imperative danger. In fact, the Case 
 boys were landing. Ike, the tallest, he to 
 whom the " lickin' " had been promised, stood 
 up in the boat, as the keel grated on the sand, 
 and hailed Lum ; — 
 
 " Say, Lum Shinault, moosey outer yere, we 
 hain't no gredge agin you ! " 
 
 " Wat mought ye hev come fer, then ? " said 
 Lum sarcastically. 
 
338 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 " Ter guv that thar regerlater a show 
 
 ter lick Ike, ef lie dai'st," called the second 
 brother. 
 
 " I darst," Whitsun replied with his usual 
 composure; "jes come on over! " The broth- 
 ers consulted ; then Lum was hailed again : — 
 
 " Lum Shinault, git outen the road ! " 
 
 "The road's free," said Lum. '^ Yo' mighty 
 brash orderin' folks outen the road ! " 
 
 " Dad burn ye, be ye on his side ? " 
 
 " Looks like," replied Lum indifferently ; 
 " onyhow, ef ye waynt a fight ye kin hev 
 hit ! " 
 
 " They all won* fight," said Whitsun. 
 
 Nor did they. The third Case boy (while 
 the others were bending to their oars) yelled : 
 " A man so mean 's you, Whit Harp, hed orter 
 be shot 'twixt the cross er the gallowses, an' 
 we '11 do hit yit ! " And the big Ike informed 
 Lum that he was " let off " on account of the 
 women in the cabin; but not one of them lifted 
 his gun. Safe out in the river, they threw 
 back a shower of threats and oaths, but noth- 
 ing more solid. 
 
 " They 're pusillanimous cusses," remarked 
 Harp. Then he drew nearer Lum, looking 
 actually embarrassed. " I cajm't mek you out 
 rightly, nohow, Columbus Shinault," said he. 
 
 " Naw," said Lum scornfully, " nor I cayn't 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 339 
 
 mek myself out. Look a yere, Whit Harp, I 
 come enter this yere bottom ter kill yoa." 
 
 Whitsun nodded gravely, making a little af- 
 firmative noise in his throat, exactly as he might 
 have done to a remark about the weather. 
 
 " An' I wud hev killed ye or be'n killed up 
 myself — one, ef I bed n't met up with Bud 
 Boas. 'T ain't no differ hoiv he stopped me ; 
 he done hit, he sent me on his errant ter ye — 
 ter warn ye ; an' w'at 's mo', so longer 's he 
 Kves, ye ain't nuthin' ter fear from me. But 
 w'en he done gone — look out ! " He would 
 have wheeled his horse, but Harp caught the 
 rein, saying, " Stop ! w'at sorter trick 's all 
 this ? W'at fer did ye stop fer Bud Boas ? 
 Did he — did he skeer ye with his ghost ? " 
 
 Lum laughed harshly, in sheer bitterness of 
 soul : " A dozen ghosts wud n't a stopped me. 
 I don' hole by ghosts nohow." 
 
 " Then w'y did ye go ? " 
 
 None of us are above wishing to be justified, 
 and there is a peculiar zest in overturning our 
 enemies' false notions of us. Lum never would 
 have proffered an explanation, but there may 
 have been a grim comfort in letting Whitsun 
 see his real self. He replied quietly, " I come 
 ter holp Boas." 
 
 " How 'd thet holp 'im ? " 
 
 " 'Kase he war purportin' ter warn ye his- 
 
340 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 self. He 'lowed ef he cud jes save some un's 
 life — a sorter swap like fer the one he taken, 
 thet ar glios' w'at harnts 'ira monght quit." 
 
 " Did the ghost say so ? " 
 
 " I don' hole by ghosts, I tell ye. Naw, it 's 
 jes a idy. So 's the ghost a idy, ter mi/ min'. 
 But hit's plura fixed in 'is head jes strong's 
 scripter. An' I reckon 't wuU be like he 'lows 
 't will be — so. He 'lowed ef he cud save ye 
 from bein' killed up er hev me, then the ghost 
 'ud let up an' he cud die in peace." 
 
 " Toby shore. An' hit war thet away ? An' 
 thet thar 's w'y ye won' fight me — kase the 
 life won' be saved then an' the sperrit mought 
 cum back ? " 
 
 Lum shrugged his shoulders : " I guess." 
 
 Whitsun's stolid face worked as he cried : 
 " Blame my skin ef I kin mek ye out onyhow ! 
 Ye ain't no sich feller like I wuz 'ceountin' ye 
 ter be ! " The blood rushed to Lum's fore- 
 head with a sudden sense of the uselessness of 
 this late recognition, a sudden fury of pain. 
 *' Ye hev foun' hit out too late, Whitsun Harp," 
 he cried ; " ye shamed me afore Polly Ann, an' 
 ye shamed her too, lickin' her husband jes be- 
 kase ye wuz the bigges' an' stronges', an' ye 
 WHIZ too dumb ter see thet thar triflin' critter. 
 Savannah, war jes sick with a chill, an' I wus 
 guvin' on her w'iskey." 
 
WHITS UN HARP, REGULATOR. 341 
 
 "An' was them lies 'beaut you an 'er?" 
 
 " Ax Aer," said Lum, overcome by irrita- 
 tion ; " I don' want no mo' truck 'ith ye, Whit 
 Harp, w'ile Boas is 'live. Let go ! " 
 
 " Jes er minute mo', Lum. I ain't agoin' 
 ter fight with ye ayfter this ev'nin'. An' ef I 
 done ye wrong I '11 ondo hit yit." 
 
 The hand on Lum's bridle dropped, and the 
 gray leaped forward ; Lum's farewell words 
 hurled behind : " Ye cayn't ondo hit ; all ye 
 kin do ar' ter fight me, an' ye shell ! " 
 
 " Ef I mistaken him," muttered Whitsun, 
 who hardly seemed to hear, so absorbed was 
 he in his own train of thought, " ef — how cud 
 hit a be'n — me bein' called ? " 
 
 Boas was waiting at the cabin. He thanked 
 and blessed Lum, but the poor fellow's heart 
 was too sore to be thus eased. He must go 
 back to Polly Ann, who despised him. It 
 never occurred to him to try to lift himself a 
 little in his wife's opinion by telling the story 
 of the afternoon ; he felt too sure that Polly- 
 Ann would not believe in any real intention 
 of his to fight Harp, and would think that he 
 welcomed any excuse. If only the Case boys 
 had fought, if somebody's blood, no matter 
 whose, had been spilled ! " Gells is alius a 
 cravin' fer folks ter be killin' each other," 
 mused Lum. ^^ Polly Ann wud feel a heap 
 
842 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 pearter ef I Led a fust-rate title ter a ghost er 
 my own. But now I never '11 Lev no show, 
 not the leas' bit on earth ! " 
 
 Polly Ann received him with great kindness, 
 saying nothing of the spoiled dinner or the 
 delayed supper and twice-made coffee. After 
 supper she herself brought him the violin. 
 But he put it aside, saying : " Tek hit 'way, 
 I don' feel like fiddlin' ! " He had scarcely 
 touched his supper. " Ye feelin' puny, Lum ? " 
 said Polly Ann timidly. He only shook his 
 head and went out, forgetting his hat. Her 
 kindness jarred on his sick soul ; this morning 
 he had yearned for it because this morning he 
 had a conviction that she would not despise 
 him long or grudge him, afterward, a last 
 caress. But now — "I 'm so low down en 
 her min' she cayn't holp pityin' me," thought 
 Lum. Degraded in his own eyes and in hers, 
 and uncertain how long before Savannah's 
 giddy tongue might be released from the fear 
 that tied it and make his humiliation the 
 latest joke for the store, Lum's whole nature 
 seemed to collapse. He shunned the Clover 
 Bend people ; he even shunned his wife, spend- 
 ing days in the woods shooting, or picking cot- 
 ton, and taking a lunch into the field. At 
 night, supper over, he would go out and be 
 gone until late. Many a night did Polly Ann 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 343 
 
 pretend to be sleeping when Lum stepped 
 softly across the floor. He never had been 
 drinking; and he did not cross the river, for 
 Polly Ann, always watching at the window, 
 could see that the boats were not moved. One 
 night she followed him. All that he did was 
 to wander restlessly among the hills. She saw 
 him make wild gestures ; once she heard a 
 groan. Then she crept back to bed and cried, 
 poor woman, whether for him or for herself, 
 who knows ? 
 
 She began to be frightened. She saw Harp 
 at a distance, and once he crossed the river and 
 paid a long call on Boas ; so that she did not 
 connect any possible remorse with her hus- 
 band's gloom. How could she imagine that he 
 was ceaselessly and poignantly regretting his 
 not being a murderer ? 
 
 The only place where Lum was anything 
 like his old self was in Boas's cabin. Boas was 
 dying, but very peacefully. The visions which 
 had tortured his life away were gone. He had 
 no more dread of them. Thanks to Lum, he 
 told his wife. He told her nothing else, but 
 that was enough to arouse her gratitude. She 
 would not pain him with questions, but she 
 thought no harm of questioning Polly Ann. 
 " D'ye 'low Lum done seen Grundy an' druv 
 him 'way ? " she asked in tones of awe. " Law 
 
344 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 me, Mis' Shinaiilt, but he mus' hev grit ! " 
 Grit ? — poor Lum ! But Polly Ann, who was 
 superstitious, did have a vague and appalling 
 theory that in some way Boas might have trans- 
 ferred Grundy to Lum. Yet, were she right, it 
 was not natural for Lum to take such evident 
 comfort in Boas's society, going there every day, 
 and taking his violin, although he never lifted 
 the bow at home. 
 
 Boas had little to say ; what he had was about 
 the time when his lost boys were children. He 
 would lie for hours, quite patient, quite content, 
 watching his wife at her simple tasks or hear- 
 ing Lum play. He often smiled. It was a pa- 
 thetic sight to see how this man, who had not 
 known peace for so long, seemed actually to 
 revel in mere immunity from dread. " 'Pears 
 like I cud n't git enough er jes restin'," he would 
 say. He suffered very little physically. " It 
 is n't so much that his lungs are gone," the doc- 
 tor had said ; " all his organs seem used up. 
 It 's more a death from exhaustion than any- 
 thing else." 
 
 November passed. Early in December Boas 
 died. Lum saw him onlv a few hours before 
 the event. He had never alluded to the past 
 horror, but to-day he said : " Lum, I be'n bav- 
 in' a cur'is dream. 'Beared like I war haulin' 
 logs alonger Grundy Wild, like we useter. An' 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 345 
 
 we uns war hevin' sich a pleasan' time. Hit 
 war purty weather, an' we uns did n't 'pear ter 
 hev no bad feelin's 'twixt us, an' Grundy he 
 war a laffin' an' pokin' fun, an' me, I war laf- 
 fin', too, kase ye know them tricks er his'n an' 
 quar contraptions, an' nary un 'membered nuth- 
 in' er thet ar bad time. I war a laffin' w'en I 
 waked up. Lum, we uns war right good frien's 
 wunst, an' hits quar but I ar' a feelin' them ole 
 frien'ly feelin's now agin. Hit 's like the res' 
 war jes a bad dream. I ain't skeered no mo' 
 er meetin' up with Grundy, Lum." 
 
 Not long afterward he fell asleep, and he may 
 have wakened with Grundy, for he did not 
 waken in this world. There was a great gath- 
 ering at the funeral. To this day the widow 
 talks about it with doleful pride ; " 'T war the 
 vurry bigges' an' the gran'es' buryin' the Bend 
 ever seen. A hun'erd an' sixty-two, big an' 
 little, looked at the co'pse. I ceounted." 
 
 Whitsun Harp came to the funeral. It so 
 happened that when Lum first saw him they 
 were both standing at the grave. The open 
 grave was between them. Polly Ann saw 
 Lum's moody countenance brightened by a fierce 
 light. Harp did not seem to see Lum or any 
 one ; his composed and melancholy gaze went 
 past their heads over the forlorn little field 
 with its rail fence and high gray grass waving 
 
346 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 above the unmarked mounds. The services 
 ended, the people slowly walked down the path 
 which their own footsteps had made through 
 the grass. Polly Ann kept close to Lum. He 
 edged himself up to Whitsun. They spoke 
 together in a low tone, but Polly Ann had the 
 ears of an Indian ; she caught two fragments 
 of Lum's sentences : '' Nuthin' now ter ben- 
 der," and '' Down en th' bottom, by the little 
 bayou." 
 
 There were people with the Shinaults as far 
 as the ferry, and afterward there were the 
 widow and two cousins to escort home. One of 
 the cousins, intent on having a comfortable gos- 
 sip about the dead man with some one not too 
 near him for free discussion, returned with Lum. 
 So she gave Polly Ann no chance to see her 
 husband alone, and was still rocking and talk- 
 ing in the black and gilt rocking-chair when he 
 came in and took down his gun. " I 'm goin' 
 fer a shoot, Polly Ann," said he. He had 
 crossed the threshold, but he came back and 
 kissed his wife on both cheeks, before the cousin. 
 The cousin giggled ; but Polly Ann remem- 
 bered that he had not kissed her before in three 
 Veeks. I fear that her visitor found her an un- 
 gracious hostess. The instant she was free, she 
 ran to the shore. Lum's boat was gone, but 
 Boas's little boat had been left near the ferry ; 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 347 
 
 in this she rowed over to Clover Bend. At 
 first she hesitated on the other shore, but pres- 
 ently she ran at the top of her speed. She had 
 heard a single shot. " Thar wud er be'n two^'' 
 her white lips kept muttering ; " thar wuz on'y 
 one ! " 
 
 She ran past the mill, past the pasture, down 
 into the swamp. It was the same cypress 
 brake through which Lum had ridden with 
 Boas, three weeks before ; but it was another 
 scene to-day. One of the wood fires, so com- 
 mon in autumn, had shorn the ground of the 
 green cane and all the undergrowth that hides 
 the weirdugliness of the cypress roots. Now, 
 bared of every tender disguise of vine or moss, 
 the hideous things, in their grotesque and dis- 
 torted semblance of human form, seemed demon 
 dwarfs crouching over their fires ; while the cy- 
 press knees bore an uncanny resemblance to 
 the toes of incompletely buried giants. Out of 
 this huddle of monstrous shapes rose the cy- 
 press-trees, un marred by knot or branch until 
 high, high above a rider's head, some slim and 
 erect like stately young maidens, others of enor- 
 mous girth, brother giants to those that the 
 earth refuse to cover. Some were as smooth- 
 and glossy white as dead bones. The fire had 
 eaten out their life. Charred logs were tumbled 
 over the ground, and the cypress boughs were 
 
348 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 ashes whence rose a cloud of smoke under hurry- 
 ing feet. 
 
 Polly Ann ran on farther and farther into 
 the ruined forest. She could see the shining of 
 water. A log had fallen across the road. No, 
 O God ! it was no log, it was a man, it was 
 Whitsun Harp lying on his face, shot dead from 
 behind. 
 
 Another woman might have screamed. Polly 
 Ann only knelt down beside the man who had 
 loved her all his youth, and very gently turned 
 his face to the sun. 
 
 He who so seldom smiled now wore a pleas- 
 ant, dreamy smile on his lips. The murderer 
 had taken such sure aim that death did not 
 even interrupt the murdered man's thought. 
 
 Then, at last, Polly Ann understood her hus- 
 band. This was what he was studying. 
 
 Without a moan or cry her body swayed for- 
 ward like a broken tree and fell beside Harp's. 
 But she did not lose consciousness ; she knew 
 the voice that called her name, and she stag- 
 gered to her feet. Lum was standing in the 
 road, his face ashen white and his gun shaking 
 in his hands. She ran to him with a great sob 
 and threw herself against his breast. 
 
 " Run ! run ! " she gasped,' " they '11 cotch 
 ye ! Tek the boat ; the river 's bes' ! " 
 
 " Fer w'y must I run ? " said Lum. Though 
 
 o 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 349 
 
 he was so agitated, so excited, lie seemed rather 
 like a man overcome by some unexpected sight 
 of horror than one who fears for himself, 
 
 '' You " — began Polly Ann ; she clutched the 
 barrel of his gun. It was cold to the touch. 
 
 " Ye hav' n't fired hit off ! " screamed she. 
 
 "Naw," said Lum, " I see ye weepin' over 
 Whitsun Harp ; ye 'low /killed him ? " 
 
 " Ye looked so — skeered ! " 
 
 " I war skeered — pow'ful skeered. Kase, 
 Polly Ann, I lef home 'ith my min' sot on kill- 
 in' thet thar dead man, but I did n't do hit. 
 Hark' ter me, afore him lyin' thet away ye don' 
 b'lieve I cud lie. Lemme tell ye the hull truth." 
 Then he told, with the conciseness of strong 
 emotion, how Boas had saved him in the first 
 place, and how, as long as Boas lived, he could 
 not renew his attempt. " But, ter-day," said 
 he, " I war free agin. I cud show ye I war a 
 man 's much ez Harp. I spoken ter him at the 
 buryin'." — He shuddered. — "I 'p'inted this 
 yere place. He tole me ter come ter the store 
 fust, an' then ef I wanted he 'd come yere. I 
 done wen' ter the store. And he war thar. Afore 
 'em all, he stepped up an' begged my pardin'. 
 * Mr. Shinault knows w'at fer,' he says, an' 
 then he thanked me fer ' savin' ' on his life — 
 he putt hit like thet — an' tole the hull story. * 
 ' An' now,' sezee, ' I don't guess ye keer fer my 
 
350 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 comp'ny down en the bottom.' Then he holes 
 out his han', an' I taken it, an' he said, ' Ye 
 won' keep no gredge agin me no mo', will ye, 
 you nor yo' wife ? ' an' I said ' Naw,' an' he 
 went away, an' I never seen him agin tell I seen 
 you settin' by him, an' him dead. Polly Ann, 
 ye do b'lieve me." 
 
 Polly Ann was sobbing, but she nodded. 
 " Abe Davis, he war with me, but he went on 
 the high road, an' I come down yere fer a shoot 
 so I 'd hev some squirrels to tote home. We 
 heerd the shoot, but folks is alius shootin' in 
 the bottom. We mought er cotched of 'em ef 
 we 'd come straight down : I don't guess they '11 
 ever cotch 'em now. Thar 's too many ter 
 suspicion. " 
 
 Lum judged rightly. Among the dozen men 
 who had cause to hate Whitsun, Justice (a 
 somewhat unwieldy personage in the bottom) 
 never could find enough evidence against any 
 one to take action. Whitsun's murderer was 
 never punished, to Clover Bend's knowing ; he 
 was never even pursued. 
 
 Lum knelt down as Polly Ann had done by 
 the dead man's side ; he looked up at his wife 
 with love and pity beyond his expression. " Yes, 
 he's ddne gone shore, dearie," he said slowly; 
 " I wisht he warn't. He war a better man nor 
 
 me." 
 
WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 351 
 
 Polly Ann only sobbed. 
 
 " Wild ye — wud ye like ter — ter say good- 
 by ter him afore I holler on Tobe ? I'll step 
 over yander ter look fer 'im." 
 
 Then Polly Ann looked up. She read his 
 thoughts. 
 
 " Lum," said she, " come yere ! " He came. 
 
 " Ye 'low thet I set store by Whitsun, too 
 gre't store, mor'n I done by you f " 
 
 *' He war yo' kin', honey, I don' meanter-ter 
 trow it up agin ye — ye 'lowed I war triflin'." 
 
 " Lum, Lum, don' say the word," cried she, 
 " donH ! I don' know how ter tell ye ; but 
 't waz you alius, alius, even w'en ye hed n't nary 
 thought fer me an' wuz waitin' on Savannah 
 Lady. I fit agin hit, I done my bes' ter brung 
 my min' ter Whitsun, fer he — he axed me an' 
 he war so good, so brave, the bes' an' faith- 
 fulles' — but I cud n't do it, kase my min' war so 
 sot on you. An' then we uns wuz married, an' 
 ye did n't set no gre't store by me fer a right 
 smart. An' I wuz so lonesome, an' paw war 
 gone, an' I grieved. An' then w'en ye sorter — 
 sorter began ter hev a — a differ en yo' feelin's 
 I war frettin' an' takin' on bekase ye war n't 
 like Whitsun, an' kase ye wud let 'im dare ye 
 an' prommus ye lickin's an' not tek it up. Oh, 
 Lum, I war a fool, but 't war alius you. Whitsun 
 knows it war alius you." 
 
352 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. 
 
 » >j 
 
 " Yes, honey, yes, my darlin', I onnerstan', 
 said Lum softly, gathering her into his arms 
 with a full heart. In that supreme moment 
 they both forgot all the world but themselves. 
 
 But Whitsun, lying in the sunlight at their 
 feet, was smiling still. 
 
o 
 
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