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 on the date to which renewed. 
 Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 
 
 JAN 6 1983 1 A 
 
 rec d circ. MAR 8 1983 
 
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 FED 2 4 1966 
 
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 DUD OCTI4 73- 
 
 2rA-30m-3, 62 
 (C7097slO)476B 
 
 University of California 
 Berkeley 
 
JANE FIELD 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY E. WILKINS 
 
 
 AUTHOR OF "A HUMBLE ROMANCE, AND OTHER STORIES " 
 
 "A NEW ENGLAND NUN, AND OTHER STORIES " 
 
 " YOUNG LUCRETIA, AND OTHER STORIES " 
 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK 
 HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 
 1893 
 
Copyright, 1892, by HARPER BROTHERS. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
1 243 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 MARY E. WILKINS Frontispiece 
 
 " i WISH YOU WOULDN T BE IN SUCH 
 
 A HURRY " Faces page IO 
 
 SHE TOOK THE CHILD S LITTLE HAND " 2O 
 
 "MRS. FIELD STOOD BY THE FRONT 
 
 GATE, LOOKING DOWN THE ROAD " 42 
 
 "THEY STOOD LOOKING AT THE YOUNG 
 
 GIRL" 50 
 
 "SHE WATCHED HER MOTHER OUT OF 
 
 SIGHT" 54 
 
 "SHE WALKED ON, WITH HER STERN, 
 
 IMPASSIVE OLD FACE SET STRAIGHT 
 
 AHEAD" 84 
 
 FLORA AND THE CHILDREN RECEIVED 
 
 THEM BEAMINGLY " " IIO 
 
 " NOW CHEER UP, SAID HE" ... " 150 
 "THE MINISTER, MR. TUXBURY, AND 
 
 MRS. ROBBINS S HUSBAND ALL AR 
 RIVED TOGETHER" " 186 
 
 MRS. HENRY MAXWELL " l88 
 
 344864 
 
VI ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 " I DUN KNOW HOW SHE D MANAGE " Faces page 208 
 
 "MRS. GREEN LOOKED TOWARDS THE 
 
 COMING TRAIN" " 216 
 
 "LOIS SAID NOTHING; SHE BENT HER 
 
 HOT FACE CLOSER OVER HER 
 
 WORK" " 220 
 
 " I AIN T ESTHER MAXWELL. HER 
 
 VOICE AROSE IN A STERN SHRIEK" " 2&O 
 
JANE FIELD 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 AMANDA PRATT S cottage-house was 
 raised upon two banks above the road-level. 
 Here and there the banks showed irregular 
 patches of yellow-green, where a little 
 milky-stemmed plant grew. It had come 
 up every spring since Amanda could re 
 member. 
 
 There was a great pink-lined shell on each 
 side of the front door-step, and the path 
 down over the banks to the road was 
 bordered with smaller shells. The house 
 was white, and the front door was dark 
 green, with an old-fashioned knocker in the 
 centre. 
 
 There were four front windows, and the 
 roof sloped down to them; two were in 
 Amanda s parlor, and two were in Mrs. 
 i i 
 
h" 
 
 Vw 
 
 2*- - X*" - * ; r -JA> T E FIELD 
 
 Field s. She rented half of her house to 
 Mrs. Jane Field. 
 
 There was a head at each of Amanda s 
 front windows. One was hers, the other 
 was Mrs. Babcock s. Amanda s old blond 
 face, with its folds of yellow-gray hair over 
 the ears and sections of the softly-wrinkled, 
 pinky cheeks, was bent over some needle- 
 ork. So was Mrs. Babcock s, darkly dim 
 with age, as if the hearth-fires of her life 
 had always smoked, with a loose flabbiness 
 about the jaw-bones, which seemed to make 
 more evident the firm structure underneath. 
 
 Amanda was sewing a braided rug; her 
 little veiny hands jerked the stout thread 
 through with a nervous energy that was out 
 of accord with her calm expression and the 
 droop of her long slender body. 
 
 "It s pretty hard sewin braided mats, 
 ain t it?" said Mrs. Babcock. 
 
 "I don t care how hard tis if I can get 
 em sewed strong," replied Amanda, and 
 her voice was unexpectedly quick and de 
 cided. " I never had any feelin that any 
 thing was hard, if I could only do it." 
 
 "Well, you ain t had so much hard work 
 to do as some folks. Settin in a rockin - 
 
JANE FIELD 3 
 
 chair sewin braided mats ain t like doin 
 the housework for a whole family. If 
 you d had the cookin to do for four men- 
 folks, the way I have, you d felt it was 
 pretty hard work, even if you did make out 
 to fill em up." Mrs. Babcock smiled, and 
 showed that she did not forget she was com 
 pany, but her tone was quite fierce. 
 
 " Mebbe I should," returned Amanda, 
 stiffly. 
 
 There was a silence. 
 
 " Let me see, how many mats does that 
 make?" Mrs. Babcock asked, finally, in an 
 amiable voice. 
 
 "Like this one?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " This makes the ninth." 
 
 Mrs. Babcock scrutinized the floor. It 
 was almost covered with braided rugs, and 
 they were all alike. 
 
 " I declare I don t see where you ll put 
 another in here," said she. 
 
 " I guess I can lay em a little thicker 
 over there by the what-not." 
 
 "Well, mebbe you can; but I declare I 
 shouldn t scarcely think you needed another. 
 I shouldn t think your carpet would wear 
 
4 JANE FIELD 
 
 out till the day of judgment. What made 
 you have them mats all jest alike?" 
 
 "I like em better so," replied Amanda, 
 with dignity. 
 
 "Well, of course, if you do there ain t 
 nothin to say; it s your carpet an your 
 mats," returned Mrs. Babcock, with grim 
 apology. 
 
 There were two curious features about 
 Amanda Pratt s parlor: one was a gentle 
 monotony of details; the other, a certain 
 savor of the sea. It was like holding a 
 shell to one s ear to enter Amanda s parlor. 
 There was a faint suggestion of far-away 
 sandy beaches, the breaking of waves, and 
 the rush of salt winds. In the centre of the 
 mantel-shelf stood a stuffed sea-gull; on 
 either side shells were banked. The fire 
 place was flanked by great branches of coral, 
 and on the top of the air-tight stove there 
 stood always in summer-time, when there 
 was no fire, a superb nautilus shell, like a 
 little pearl vessel. The corner what-not, too, 
 had its shelves heaped with shells and coral 
 and choice bits of rainbow lava from vol 
 canic islands. Between the windows, in 
 stead of the conventional mahogany card- 
 
JANE FIELD 5 
 
 table, stood one of Indian lacquer, and on 
 it was a little inlaid cabinet that was 
 brought from over seas. The whole room 
 in this little inland cottage, far beyond the 
 salt fragrance of the sea, seemed like one of 
 those mmne fossils sometimes found miles 
 from the coast. It indicated the presence 
 of the sea in the lives of Amanda s race. 
 Her grandfather had been a seafaring man, 
 and so had her father, until late in life, 
 when he had married an inland woman, and 
 settled down among waves of timothy and 
 clover on her paternal acres. 
 
 Amanda was like her mother, she had 
 nothing of the sea tastes in her nature. She 
 was full of loyal conservatism toward the 
 marine ornaments of her parlor, but she 
 secretly preferred her own braided rugs, and 
 the popular village fancy-work, in which 
 she was quite skilful. On each of her 
 chairs was a tidy, and the tidies were all 
 alike; in the corners of the room were lam 
 brequins, all worked after the same pattern 
 in red worsted and beads. On one wall 
 hung a group of pictures framed in card 
 board, four little colored prints of crosses 
 twined with flowers, and they were all 
 
6 JANE FIELD 
 
 alike. "Why didn t you get them crosses 
 different?" many a neighbor had said to 
 her these crosses, with some variation of 
 the entwining foliage, had been very popu 
 lar in the rural neighborhood and Amanda 
 had replied with quick dignity that she 
 liked them better the way she had them. 
 i fAmanda maintained the monotony of her 
 I life as fiercely as her fathers had pursued 
 the sea. She was like a little animal born 
 with a rebound to its own track, from 
 whence no amount of pushing could keep 
 it long. 
 
 Mrs. Babcock glanced sharply around 
 the room as she sewed ; she was anxious 
 to divert Amanda s mind from the mats. 
 "Don t the moths ever git into that stuffed 
 bird over there?" she asked suddenly, in 
 dicating the gull on the shelf with a side- 
 wise jerk of her head. 
 
 "No; I ain t never had a mite of trouble 
 with em," replied Amanda. "I always 
 keep a little piece of camphor tucked under 
 his wing feathers." 
 
 "Well, you re lucky Mis Jackson she 
 had a stuffed canary-bird all eat up with 
 em. She had to put him in the stove; 
 
JANE FIELD 7 
 
 couldn t do nothin with him. She felt real 
 bad about it. She d thought a good deal of 
 the bird when he was alive, an he was 
 stuffed real handsome, an settin on a little 
 green sprig. She use to keep him on her 
 parlor shelf; he was jest the right size. 
 It s a pity your bird is quite so big, 
 ain t it? " 
 
 " I s pose he s jest the way he was made," 
 returned Amanda shortly. 
 
 " Of course he is. I ain t findin no fault 
 with him; all is, I thought he was kind of 
 big for the shelf; but then birds do perch 
 on dreadful little places." Mrs. Babcock, 
 full of persistency in exposing herself to re 
 buffs, was very sensitive and easily cowed 
 by one. " Let me see he s quite old. Your 
 grandfather bought him, didn t he?" said 
 she, in a mollifying tone. 
 
 Amanda nodded. " He s a good deal 
 older than I am," said she. 
 
 " It s queer how some things that ain t of 
 no account really in the world last, while 
 others that s worth so much more don t," 
 Mrs. Babcock remarked, meditatively. 
 "Now, there s that bird there, lookin jest 
 as nice and handsome, and there s the one 
 
8 JANE FIELD 
 
 that bought him and brought him home, in 
 his grave out of sight." 
 
 "There s a good many queer things in 
 this world," rejoined Amanda, with a sigh. 
 
 "I guess there is," said Mrs. Babcock. 
 " Now you can jest look round this room, 
 an see all the things that belonged to your 
 folks that s dead an gone, and it seems 
 almost as if they was immortal instead of 
 them. An it s goin to be jest the same 
 way with us; the clothes that s hangin up 
 in our closets are goin to outlast us. Well, 
 there s one thing about it this world ain t 
 our abidin -place." 
 
 Mrs. Babcock shook her head resolutely, 
 and began to fold up her work. She rolled 
 the unbleached cloth into a hard smooth 
 bundle, with the scissors, thimble, and 
 thread inside, and the needle quilted in. 
 
 " You ain t goin ? " said Amanda. 
 
 "Yes, I guess I must. I ve got to be 
 home by half-past five to get supper, an 
 I thought I d jest look in at Mis Field s 
 a minute. Do you s pose she s to home ? " 
 
 " I shouldn t wonder if she was. I ain t 
 seen her go out anywhere." 
 
 "Well, I dun no when I ve been in there, 
 
JANE FIELD 9 
 
 an I dun no but she d think it was kinder 
 queer if I went right into the house and 
 didn t go near her." 
 
 Amanda arose, letting the mat slide to 
 the floor, and went into the bedroom to get 
 Mrs. Babcock s bonnet and light shawl. 
 
 "I wish you wouldn t be in such a hurry," 
 said she, using the village formula of hos 
 pitality to a departing guest. 
 
 "It don t seem to me I ve been in much 
 of a hurry. I ve stayed here the whole after 
 noon." 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Babcock, pinning on her 
 shawl, thrust her face close to Amanda s. 
 "I want to know if it s true Lois Field is so 
 miserable?" she whispered. 
 
 "Well, I dun no . She don t look jest 
 right, but she an her mother won t own up 
 but what she swell." 
 
 " Coin the way Mis Maxwell did, ain t 
 she?" 
 
 "I dun no . I m worried about her my 
 self dreadful worried. Lois is a nice girl 
 as ever was." 
 
 " She ain t give up her school ?" 
 
 Amanda shook her head. 
 
 " I shouldn t think her mother d have her. " 
 
10 JANE FIELD 
 
 "I s pose she feels as if she d got to." 
 Mrs. Babcock dropped her voice still lower. 
 "They re real poor, ain t they?" 
 
 "I guess they ain t got much." 
 
 "I s posed they hadn t. Well, I hope 
 Lois ain t goin down. I heard she looked 
 dreadful. Mis Jackson she was in yester 
 day, talkin about it. Well, you come over 
 an see me, Mandy. Bring your sewin 
 over some afternoon." 
 
 "Well, mebbe I will. I don t go out a 
 great deal, you know." 
 
 The two women grimaced to each other 
 in a friendly fashion, then Amanda shut her 
 door, and Mrs. Babcock pattered softly and 
 heavily across the little entry, and opened 
 Mrs. Field s door. She pressed the old 
 brass latch with a slight show of ceremo 
 nious hesitancy, but she never thought of 
 knocking. There was no one in the room, 
 which had a clean and sparse air. The 
 chairs all stood back against the walls, and 
 left in the centre a wide extent of faded 
 carpet, full of shadowy gray scrolls. 
 
 Mrs. Babcock stood for a moment staring 
 in and listening. 
 
 There was a faint sound of a voice seem- 
 
i WISH YOU WOULDN T BE IN SUCH A HURRY 
 
JANE FIELD II 
 
 ingly from a room beyond. She called, 
 softly, "Mis Field!" There was no re 
 sponse. She advanced then resolutely over 
 the stretch of carpet toward the bedroom 
 door. She opened it, then gave a little em 
 barrassed grunt, and began backing away. 
 
 Mrs. Field was in there, kneeling beside 
 the bed, praying. She started and looked 
 up at Mrs. Babcock with a kind of solemn 
 abashedness, her long face flushed. Then 
 she got up. "Good-afternoon," said she. 
 
 " Good-afternoon," returned Mrs. Babcock. 
 She tried to smile and recover her equa 
 nimity. "I ve been into Mandy Pratt s," 
 she went on, "an I thought I d jest look 
 in here a minute before I went home, but I 
 wouldn t have come in so if I d known you 
 was busy." 
 
 "Come out in the other room an sit 
 down," said Mrs. Field. 
 
 Mrs. Babcock s agitated bulk followed 
 her over the gray carpet, and settled into the 
 rocking-chair at one of the front windows. 
 Mrs. Field seated herself at the other. 
 
 "It s been a pleasant day, ain t it?" 
 said she. 
 
 " Real pleasant. I told Mr. Babcock this 
 
12 JANE FIELD 
 
 noon that I was goin to git out somewheres 
 this afternoon come what would. I ve been 
 cooped up all the spring house-cleanin , an 
 now I m goin to git out. I dun no when 
 I ve been anywhere. I ain t been into 
 Mandy s sence Christmas that I know of 
 I ain t been in to set down, anyway; an 
 I ve been meanin to run in an see you all 
 winter, Mis Field." All the trace of confu 
 sion now left in Mrs. Babcock s manner was 
 a weak volubility. 
 
 "It s about all anybody can do to do 
 their housework, if they do it thorough," 
 returned Mrs. Field. "I s pose you ve 
 been takin* up carpets?" 
 
 "Took up every carpet in the house. I 
 do every year. Some folks don t, but I 
 can t stand it. I m afraid of moths, too. 
 I s pose you ve got yourcleanin all done?" 
 
 "Yes, I ve got it about done." 
 
 "Well, I shouldn t think you could do so 
 much, Mis Field, with your hands." 
 
 Mrs. Field s hands lay in her lap, yellow 
 and heavily corrugated, the finger-joints in 
 great knots, which looked as if they had 
 been tied in the bone. Mrs. Babcock eyed 
 them pitilessly. 
 
JANE FIELD 13 
 
 " How are they now ? " she inquired. 
 " Seems to me they look worse than they 
 used to." 
 
 Mrs. Field regarded her hands with a 
 staid, melancholy air. "Well, I dun noV 
 
 " Seems to me they look worse. How s 
 Lois, Mis Field?" 
 
 " She s pretty well, I guess. I dun no 
 why she ain t." 
 
 " Somebody was sayin the other day that 
 she looked dreadfully." 
 
 Mrs. Field had heretofore held herself 
 with a certain slow dignity. Now her man 
 ner suddenly changed, and she spoke fast. 
 "I dun no what folks mean talkin so," 
 said she. " Lois ain t been lookin very 
 well, as I know of, lately; but it s the 
 spring of the year, an she s always apt to 
 feel it." 
 
 " Mebbe that is it," replied the other, 
 with a doubtful inflection. "Let s see, you 
 called it consumption that ailed your sister, 
 didn t you, Mis Field?" 
 
 "I s pose it was." 
 
 Mrs. Babcock stared with cool reflection 
 at the other woman s long, pale face, with 
 its high cheek-bones and deep-set eyes and 
 
14 JANE FIELD 
 
 wide, drooping mouth. She was deliberating 
 whether or not to ask for some information 
 that she wanted. "Speakin of your sister," 
 said she finally, with a casual air, " her 
 husband s father is livin , ain t he?" 
 
 " He was the last I knew." 
 
 "I s pose he s worth considerable prop 
 erty?" 
 
 "Yes, I s pose he is." 
 
 "Well, I want to know. Somebody was 
 speakin about it the other day, an they 
 said they thought he did, an I told em I 
 didn t believe it. He never helped your 
 sister s husband any, did he?" 
 
 Mrs. Field did not reply for a moment. 
 Mrs. Babcock was leaning forward and smil 
 ing ingratiatingly, with keen eyes upon her 
 face. 
 
 "I dun no as he did. But I guess Ed 
 ward never expected he would much," said 
 she. 
 
 " Well, I told em I didn t believe he did. 
 I declare ! it seemed pretty tough, didn t it ? " 
 
 " I dun no . I thought of it some along 
 there when Edward was sick." 
 
 " I declare, I should have thought you d 
 wrote to him about it." 
 
JANE FIELD 15 
 
 Mrs. Field said nothing. 
 
 "Didn t you ever?" Mrs. Babcock asked. 
 
 "Well, yes; I wrote once when he was 
 first taken sick." 
 
 "An he didn t take any notice of it?" 
 
 Mrs. Field shook her head. 
 
 " He s a regular old skinflint, ain t he?" 
 said Mrs. Babcock. 
 
 "I guess he s a pretty set kind of a man." 
 
 " Set! I should call it more n set. Now, 
 Mis Field, I d really like to know some 
 thing. I ain t curious, but I ve heard so 
 many stories about it that I d really like to 
 know the truth of it once. Somebody was 
 speakin about it the other day, an it don t 
 seem right for stories to be goin the rounds 
 when there ain t no truth in em. Mis 
 Field, what was it set Edward Maxwell s 
 father agin him?" Mrs. Babcock s voice 
 sank to a whisper, she leaned farther for 
 ward, and gazed at Mrs. Field with crafty 
 sweetness. 
 
 Mrs. Field looked out of the window. 
 
 "Well, I s pose it was some trouble about 
 money matters." 
 
 " Money matters ? " 
 
 "Yes, I s pose so." 
 
l6 JANE FIELD 
 
 "Mis Field, what did he do ? " 
 
 Mrs. Field did not reply. She looked out 
 of the window at the green banks in front. 
 Her face was inscrutable. 
 
 Mrs. Babcock drew herself up. " Course 
 I don t want you to tell me nothin you 
 don t want to," said she, with injured dig 
 nity. " I ain t pryin into things that folks 
 don t w r ant me to know about; it wa n t 
 never my way. All is, I thought I d like 
 to know the truth of it, whether there was 
 anything in them stories or not." 
 
 " Oh, I d jest as soon tell you," rejoined 
 Mrs. Field quietly. "I was jest a- think in . 
 As near as I can tell you, Mis Babcock, 
 Edward s father he let him have some money, 
 and Edward he speculated with it on some 
 thing contrary to his advice, an lost it, an 
 that made the trouble." 
 
 "Was that all?" asked Mrs. Babcock, 
 with a disappointed air. 
 
 "Yes, I s pose it was." 
 
 "I want to know!" Mrs. Babcock 
 leaned back with a sigh. "Well, there s 
 another thing, " she said presently. 
 "Somebody was sayin the other day that 
 you thought Esther caught the consumption 
 
JANE FIELD I 7 
 
 from her husband. I wanted to know if 
 you did." 
 
 Mrs. Field s face twitched. " Well, " she 
 replied, "I dun no . I ve heard consump 
 tion was catchin , an she was right over 
 him the whole time." 
 
 "Well, I don t know. I ain t never been 
 able to take much stock in catchin con 
 sumption. There was Mis Gay night an 
 day with Susan for ten years, an she s jest 
 as well as anybody. I should be afraid 
 twas a good deal likelier to be in your 
 family. Does Lois cough ? " 
 
 * None to speak of." 
 
 "Well, there s more kinds of consumption 
 than one." 
 
 Mrs. Babcock made quite a long call. 
 She shook Mrs. Field s hand warmly at 
 parting. "I want to know, does Lois like 
 honey? " said she. 
 
 "Yes, she s real fond of it." 
 
 "Well, I m goin to send her over a dish 
 of it. Ours was uncommon nice this year. 
 It s real good for a cough." 
 
 On her way home Mrs. Babcock met Lois 
 Field coming from school attended by a 
 little flock of children. Mrs. Babcock 
 
1 8 JANE FIELD 
 
 stopped, and looked sharply at her small, 
 delicately pretty face, with its pointed chin 
 and deep-set blue eyes. 
 
 "How are you feelin to-night, Lois? " 
 she inquired, in a tone of forcible commis 
 eration. 
 
 "I m pretty well, thank you, "said Lois. 
 
 "Seems to me you re lookin pretty slim. 
 You d ought to take a little vacation." 
 Mrs. Babcock surveyed her with a kind of 
 pugnacious pity. 
 
 Lois stood quite erect in the midst of the 
 children. "I don t think I need any vaca 
 tion," said she, smiling constrainedly. She 
 pushed gently past Mrs. Babcock, with the 
 children at her heels. 
 
 "You d better take a little one," Mrs. 
 Babcock called after her. 
 
 Lois kept on as if she did not hear. Her 
 face was flushed, and her head seemed full 
 of beating pulses. 
 
 One of the children, a thin little girl in a 
 blue dress, turned around and grimaced at 
 Mrs. Babcock; another pulled Lois dress. 
 " Teacher, Jenny Whitcomb is makin faces 
 at Mis Babcock," she drawled. 
 
 "Jenny!" said Lois sharply; and the 
 
JANE FIELD 19 
 
 little girl turned her face with a scared ner 
 vous giggle. " You mustn t ever do such a 
 thing as that again," said Lois. She 
 reached down and took the child s little 
 restive hand and led her along. 
 
 Lois had not much farther to go. The 
 children all clamored, " Good-by, teacher!" 
 when she turned in at her own gate. 
 
 She went in through the sitting-room to 
 the kitchen, and settled down into a chair 
 with her hat on. 
 
 "Well, so you ve got home," said her 
 mother; she was moving about preparing 
 supper. She smiled anxiously at Lois as 
 she spoke. 
 
 Lois smiled faintly, but her forehead was 
 frowning. " Has that Mrs. Babcock been 
 here?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes. Did you meet her ? " 
 
 "Yes, I did; and I d like to know what 
 she meant telling me I d ought to take a 
 vacation, and I looked bad. I wish people 
 would let me alone tellin me how I look." 
 
 "She meant well, I guess," said her 
 mother, soothingly. " She said she was 
 goin to send you over a dish of her honey." 
 
 " I don t want any of her honey. I don t 
 
20 JANE FIELD 
 
 see what folks want to send things in to 
 me, as if I were sick, for." 
 
 "Oh, I guess she thought I d like some 
 too," returned her mother, with a kind of 
 stiff, playfulness. "You needn t think 
 you re goin to have all that honey." 
 
 " I don t want any of it," said Lois. The 
 window beside which she sat was open; un 
 der it, in the back yard, was a little thicket 
 of mint, and some long sprays of sweetbrier 
 bowing over it. Lois reached out and 
 broke off a piece of the sweetbrier and 
 smelled it. 
 
 "Supper s ready," said her mother, pres 
 ently; and she took off her hat and went 
 listlessly over to the table. 
 
 The table, covered with a white cloth, 
 was set back against the wall, with only one 
 leaf spread. There were bread and butter 
 and custards and a small glass dish of rhu 
 barb sauce for supper. 
 
 Lois looked at the dish. " I didn t know 
 the rhubarb was grown," said she. 
 
 "I managed to get enough for supper," 
 replied her mother, in a casual voice. 
 
 Nobody would have dreamed how day 
 after day she had journeyed stiffly down to 
 
Jffl 
 
 m 
 
 "SHE TOOK THE CHILD S LITTLE HAND" 
 
JANE FIELD 21 
 
 the old garden spot behind the house to 
 watch the progress of the rhubarb, and how 
 triumphantly she had brought up those 
 green and rosy stalks. Lois had always 
 been very fond of rhubarb. 
 
 She ate it now with a keen relish. Her 
 mother contrived that she should have 
 nearly all of it; she made a show of helping 
 herself twice, but she took very little. But 
 it was to her as if she also tasted every 
 spoonful which her daughter ate, and as if 
 it had the flavor of a fruit of Paradise and 
 satisfied her very soul. 
 
 After supper Lois began packing up the 
 cups and saucers. 
 
 " Now you go in the other room an set 
 down, an let me take care of the dishes," 
 said Mrs. Field, timidly. 
 
 Lois faced about instantly. " Now, 
 mother, I d just like to know what you 
 mean ? " said she. " I guess I ain t quite so 
 far gone but what I can wash up a few 
 dishes. You act as if you wanted to make 
 me out sick in spite of myself." 
 
 "I thought mebbe you was kind of tired," 
 said her mother, apologetically. 
 
 "I ain t tired. I m just as well able to 
 
22 JANE FIELD 
 
 wash up the supper dishes as I ever was." 
 Lois carried the cups and saucers to the 
 sink with a resolute air, and Mrs. Field said 
 no more. She went into her bedroom to 
 change her dress; she was going to evening 
 meeting. 
 
 Lois washed and put away the dishes; 
 then she went into the sitting-room, and sat 
 down by the open window. She leaned her 
 cheek against the chairback and looked out; 
 a sweet almond fragrance of cherry and 
 apple blossoms came into her face; over 
 across the fields a bird was calling. Lois 
 did not think it tangibly, but it was to her 
 as if the blossom scent and the bird call 
 came out of her own future. She was ill, 
 poor, and overworked, but she was not un 
 happy, for her future was yet, in a way, un 
 touched; she had not learned to judge of it 
 by hard precedent, nor had any mistake of 
 hers made a miserable certainty of it. It 
 still looked to her as fair ahead as an un 
 trodden field of heaven. 
 
 She was quite happy as she sat there; but 
 when her mother, in her black woollen dress, 
 entered, she felt instantly nervous and 
 fretted. Mrs. Field said nothing, but the 
 
JANE FIELD 23 
 
 volume and impetus of her anxiety when she 
 saw her daughter s head in the window 
 seemed to actually misplace the air. 
 
 Presently she went to the window, and 
 leaned over to shut it. 
 
 "Don t shut the window, mother," said 
 Lois. 
 
 "I m dreadful afraid you ll catch cold, 
 child." 
 
 " No, I sha n t, either. I wish you 
 wouldn t fuss so, mother." 
 
 Mrs. Field stood back; the meeting bell 
 began to ring. 
 
 " Coin to meetin , mother ? " Lois asked, 
 in a pleasanter voice. 
 
 " I thought mebbe I would." 
 
 " I guess I won t go. I want to sew some 
 on my dress this eveninV 
 
 " Sha n t you mind stayin alone, if I go ? " 
 
 ; Mind stayin alone? of course I sha n t. 
 You get" the strangest ideas lately, mother." 
 
 Mrs. Field put on her black bonnet and 
 shawl, and started. The bell tolled, and she 
 passed down the village street with a stiff 
 steadiness of gait. She felt eager to go to 
 meeting to-night. This old New England 
 woman, all of whose traditions, were purely 
 
24 JANE FIELD 
 
 orthodox, was all unknowingly a fetich- 
 worshipper in a time of trouble. Ever since 
 her daughter had been ill, she had had a 
 terrified impulse in her meeting-going. It 
 seemed to her that if she stayed away, Lois 
 might be worse. Unconsciously her church 
 attendance became a species of spell, or pro 
 pitiation to a terrifying deity, and the wild 
 instinct of the African awoke in the New 
 England woman. 
 
 When she reached the church the bell 
 had stopped ringing, and the vestry win 
 dows were parallelograms of yellow light; 
 the meeting was in the vestry. 
 
 Mrs. Field entered, and took a seat well 
 toward the front. The room was half filled 
 with people, and the mass of them were 
 elderly and middle-aged women. There 
 were rows of their homely, faded, and 
 strong-lined faces set in sober bonnets, a 
 sprinkling of solemn old men, a few bright- 
 ribboned girls, and in the background a 
 settee or two of smart young fellows. Right 
 in front of Mrs. Field sat a pretty girl with 
 roses in her hat. She was about Lois age, 
 and had been to school with her. 
 
 Mrs. Field, erect and gaunt, with a look 
 
JANE FIELD 25 
 
 of goodness so settled and pre-eminent in 
 her face that it had almost the effect of a 
 smile, sat and listened to the minister. He 
 was a young man with boyish shoulders, and 
 a round face, which he screwed nervously 
 as he talked. He was vehement, and strung 
 towiriness with new enthusiasm; he seemed 
 to toss the doctrines like footballs back and 
 forth before the eyes of the people. 
 
 Mrs. Field listened intently, but all the 
 time it was as if she were shut up in a cor^l 
 ner with her own God and her own religion. J 
 There are as many side chapels as there are 
 individual sorrows in every church. 
 
 After the minister finished his discourse, 
 the old men muttered prayers, with long 
 pauses between. Now and then a young 
 woman played a gospel tune on a melodeon, 
 and a woman in the same seat with Mrs. 
 Field led the singing. She was past middle 
 age, but her voice was still sweet, although 
 once in a while it quavered. She had sung 
 in the church choir ever since she was a 
 child, and was the prima donna of the 
 village. The young girl with roses in her 
 hat who sat in front of Mrs. Field also sang 
 with fervor, although her voice was little 
 
26 JANE FIELD 
 
 more than a sweetly husky breath. She 
 kept her eyes, at once bold and timid, fixed 
 upon the young minister as she sang. 
 . When meeting was done, and Mrs. Field 
 arose, the girl spoke to her. She had a 
 pretty blush on her round cheeks, and she 
 smiled at Mrs. Field in the same way that 
 she would soon smile at the young minister. 
 
 "How s Lois to-night, Mrs. Field?" 
 said she. 
 
 "She s pretty well, thank you, Ida." 
 
 " I heard she was sick." 
 
 "Oh, no, she ain t sick. The spring 
 weather has made her feel kind of tired out, 
 that s all. It most always does." 
 
 "Well, I m glad she isn t sick," said the 
 girl, her radiant absent eyes turned upon 
 the minister, who was talking with some 
 one at the desk. " She wasn t out to meet 
 ing, and I didn t know but she might be." 
 
 "She thought she wouldn t " began 
 
 Mrs. Field, but the girl was gone. The min 
 ister had started down the other aisle, and 
 she met him at the door. 
 
 Several other people inquired for Lois as 
 Mrs. Field made her way out; some had 
 heard she was ill in bed. She had an 
 
JANE FIELD 27 
 
 errand to do at the store on her way home; 
 when she reached it she went in, and stood 
 waiting at the counter. 
 
 There were a number of men lounging 
 about the large, rank, becluttered room, and 
 there were several customers. The village 
 post-office was in one corner of the store. 
 There were only two clerks besides the pro 
 prietor, who was postmaster as well. Mrs. 
 Field had to wait quite a while; but at last 
 she had made her purchases, and was just 
 stepping out the door, when a voice arrested 
 her. "Mis Field," it said. 
 
 She turned, and saw the postmaster com 
 ing toward her with a letter in his hand. 
 The lounging men twisted about and stared 
 lazily. The postmaster was a short, elderly 
 man with shelving gray whiskers, and a 
 wide, smiling mouth, which he was drawing 
 down solemnly. 
 
 "Mis Field, here s a letter I want you 
 to look at; it come this mornin ," he said, 
 in a low voice. 
 
 Mrs. Field took the letter. It was di 
 rected, in a fair round hand, to Mrs. Esther 
 Maxwell; that had been her dead sister s 
 name. She stood looking at it, her face 
 
28 JANE FIELD 
 
 drooping severely. " It was sent to my sis 
 ter," said she. 
 
 "I s posed so. Well, I thought I d hand 
 it to you." 
 
 Mrs. Field nodded gravely, and put the 
 letter in her pocket. She was again passing 
 out, when somebody nudged her heavily. 
 It was Mrs. Green, a woman who lived in 
 the next house beyond hers. 
 
 "Jest wait a minute," she said, "an I ll 
 go along with you." 
 
 So Mrs. Field stood back and waited, 
 while her neighbor pushed forward to the 
 counter. After a little she drew the letter 
 from her pocket and studied the superscrip 
 tion. The post-mark was Elliot. She sup 
 posed the letter to be from her dead sister s 
 father-in-law, who lived there. 
 
 "I may jest as well open it an see what 
 it is W 7 hile I m waitin ," she thought. 
 
 She tore open the envelope slowly and 
 clumsily with her stiff fingers, and held up 
 the letter so the light struck it. She could 
 not read strange writing easily, and this 
 was a nearly illegible scrawl. However, 
 after the first few words, she seemed to ab 
 sorb it by some higher faculty than reading. 
 
JANE FIELD 2Q 
 
 In a short time she had the gist of the letter. 
 It was from a lawyer who signed himself 
 Daniel Tuxbury. He stated formally that 
 Thomas Maxwell was dead; that he had 
 left a will greatly to Esther Maxwell s ad 
 vantage, and that it would be advisable for 
 her to come to Elliot at an early date if 
 possible. Inclosed was a copy of the will. 
 It was dated several years ago. All Thomas 
 Maxwell s property was bequeathed with 
 out reserve to his son s widow, Esther Max 
 well, should she survive him. In case of 
 her decease before his own, the whole was 
 to revert to his brother s daughter, Flora 
 Maxwell. 
 
 Jane Field read the letter through twice, 
 then she folded it, replaced it in the envel 
 ope, and stood erect by the store door. She 
 could see Mrs. Green s broad shawled back 
 among the customers at the calico counter. 
 Once in a while she looked around with a 
 beseeching and apologetic smile. 
 
 Mrs. Field thought, " I won t say a word 
 to her about it." However, she was con 
 scious of no evil motive; it was simply be 
 cause she was naturally secretive. She 
 looked pale and rigid. 
 
30 JANE FIELD 
 
 Mrs. Green remarked it when she finally 
 approached with her parcel of calico. 
 
 "Why, what s the matter, Mis Field?" 
 she exclaimed. "You ain t sick, be you?" 
 
 "No. Why?" 
 
 " Seems to me you look dreadful pale. It 
 was too bad to keep you standin there so 
 long, but I couldn t get waited on before. 
 I think Mr. Robbinshad ought to have more 
 help. It s too much for him with only two 
 clerks, an the post-office to tend, too. I 
 see you got a letter." Mrs. Field nodded. 
 The two women went down the steps into 
 the street. 
 
 "How s Lois to-night?" Mrs. Green 
 asked as they went along. 
 
 " I guess she s about as usual. She 
 didn t say but what she was." 
 
 "She ain t left off her school, has she?" 
 
 "No," replied Mrs. Field, stiffly, "she 
 ain t." 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Green stopped and laid a 
 heavy hand on Mrs. Field s arm. "Look 
 here, Mis Field, I dun no as you ll thank 
 me for it, but I m goin to speak real 
 plain to you. the way I d thank anybody 
 to if twas my Jenny. I m dreadful afraid 
 
JANE FIELD 31 
 
 you don t realize how bad Lois is, Mis 
 Field." 
 
 " Mebbe I don t." Mrs. Field s voice 
 sounded hard. 
 
 The other woman looked perplexedly at 
 her for a moment, then she went on : 
 
 " Well, if you do, mebbe I hadn t ought to 
 said anything; but I was dreadful afraid 
 you didn t, an then when you come to, per 
 haps when twas too late, you d never 
 forgive yourself. She hadn t ought to teach 
 school another day, Mis Field." 
 
 "I dun no how it s goin to be helped," 
 Mrs. Field said again, in her hard voice. 
 
 "Mis Field, I know it ain t any of my 
 business, an I don t know but you ll think 
 I m interfering but I can t help it nohow 
 when I think of my Abby, an how she 
 went down. Ain t you got anybody that 
 could help you a little while till she gets 
 better an able to work?" 
 
 "I dun no of anybody." 
 
 " Wouldn t your sister s husband s father ? 
 Ain t he got considerable property?" 
 
 Mrs. Field turned suddenly, her voice 
 sharpened. "I ve asked him all I m ever 
 goin to there! I let Esther s husband 
 
32 JANE FIELD 
 
 have fifteen hundred dollars that my poor 
 husband saved out of his hard earnin s, an 
 he lost it in his business; an after he died 
 I wrote to his father, an I told him about 
 it. I thought mebbe he d be willin to be 
 fair, an pay his son s debts, if he didn t 
 have much feelin . There was Esther an 
 Lois an me, an not a cent to live on, an 
 Esther she was beginnin to be feeble. But 
 he jest sent me back my letter, an he d 
 wrote on the back of it that he wa n t re 
 sponsible for any of his son s debts. I said 
 then I d- never go to him agin, and I 
 didn t; an Esther didn t when she was 
 sick an dyin ; an I never let him know 
 when she died, an I don t s pose he knows 
 she is dead to this day." 
 
 " Oh, Mis Field, you didn t have to lose 
 all that money! " 
 
 " Yes, I did, every dollar of it." 
 
 "I declare it s wicked." 
 
 "There s a good many things that s 
 wicked, an sometimes I think some things 
 ain t wicked that we ve always thought was. 
 I don t know but the Lord meant everybody 
 to have what belonged to them in spite of 
 everything." 
 
JANE FIELD 33 
 
 Mrs. Green stared. " I guess I don t 
 know jest what you mean, Mis Field." 
 
 "I meant everybody ought to have what s 
 their just due, an I believe the Lord will 
 uphold them in it. I ve about come to the 
 conclusion that folks ought to lay hold of 
 justice themselves if there ain t no other 
 way, an that s what we ve got hands for." 
 Suddenly Mrs. Field s manner changed. 
 "I know Lois hadn t ought to be teachin 
 school as well as you do," said she. "I 
 ain t said much about it, it ain t my way, 
 but I ve known it all the time." 
 
 " She d ought to take a vacation, Mis 
 Field, an get away from here for a spell. 
 Folks say Green River ain t very healthy. 
 They say these low meadow-lands are bad. 
 I worried enough about it after my Abby 
 died, thinkin what might have been done. 
 It does seem to me that if something was 
 done right away, Lois might get up; but 
 there ain t no usewaitin . I ve seen young 
 girls go down; it seems sometimes as if 
 there wa n t nothin more to them than 
 flowers, an they fade away in a day. I ve 
 been all through it. Mis Field, you don t 
 mind my speakin so, do you? Oh, Mis 
 3 
 
34 JANE FIELD 
 
 Field, don t feel so bad! I m real sorry I 
 said anythin ." 
 
 Mrs. Field was shaking with great sobs. 
 "I ain t blamin you, " she said, brokenly. 
 
 Mrs. Green got out her own handkerchief. 
 " Mis Field, I wouldn t have spoken a 
 word, but I felt as if something ought to 
 be done, if there could be; an I thought 
 so much about my poor Abby. Lois 
 always makes me think of her; she s jest 
 about her build; an I didn t know as you 
 realized." 
 
 "I realized enough," returned Mrs. Field, 
 catching her breath as she walked on. 
 
 " Now I hope you don t feel any worse be 
 cause I spoke as I did," Mrs. Green said, 
 when they reached the gate of the Pratt 
 house. 
 
 "You ain t told me anything I didn t 
 know," replied Mrs. Field. 
 
 Mrs. Green felt for one of her distorted 
 hands; she held it a second, then she 
 dropped it. Mrs. Field let it hang stiffly 
 the while. It was a fervent demonstration 
 to them, the evidence of unwonted excite 
 ment arid the deepest feeling. When Mrs. 
 Field entered her sitting-room, the first ob- 
 
JANE FIELD 35 
 
 ject that met her eyes was Lois face. She 
 was tilted back in the rocking-chair, her 
 slender throat was exposed, her lips were 
 slightly parted, and there was a glassy gleam 
 between her half-open eyelids. Her mother 
 stood looking at her. 
 
 Suddenly Lois opened her eyes wide and 
 sat up. " What are you standing there 
 looking at me so for, mother?" she said, 
 in her weak, peevish voice. 
 
 "I ain t lookin at you, child. I ve jest 
 come home from meetin . I guess you ve 
 been asleep." 
 
 " I haven t been asleep a minute. I heard 
 you open the outside door." 
 
 Mrs. Field s hand verged toward the letter 
 in her pocket. Then she began untying 
 her bonnet. 
 
 Lois arose, and lighted another lamp. 
 "Well, I guess I ll go to bed," said she. 
 
 "Wait a minute," her mother returned. 
 
 Lois paused inquiringly. 
 
 "Never mind," her mother said, hastily. 
 "You needn t stop. I can tell you jest as 
 well to-morrow." 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 " Nothin of any account. Run along." 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE next morning Lois had gone to her 
 school and her mother had not yet shown 
 the letter to her. She went about as usual, 
 doing her housework slowly and vigorously. 
 Mrs. Field s cleanliness was proverbial in 
 this cleanly New England neighborhood. 
 It almost amounted to asceticism; her 
 rooms, when her work was finished, had the 
 bareness and purity of a nun s cell. There 
 was never any bloom of dust on Mrs. Field s 
 furniture; there was only the hard, dull 
 glitter of the wood. Her few chairs and 
 tables looked as if waxed; the paint was 
 polished in places from her doors and win 
 dow-casings; her window-glass gave out 
 green lights like jewels; and all this she 
 did with infinite pains and slowness, as 
 there was hardly a natural movement left in 
 her rheumatic hands. But there was in her 
 nature an element of stern activity that 
 must have its outcome in some direction, 
 36 
 
JANE FIELD 37 
 
 and it took the one that it could find. 
 Jane had used to take in sewing before her 
 hands were diseased. In her youth she had 
 learned the trade of a tailoress; when 
 ready-made clothing, even for children, 
 came into use, she made dresses. Her 
 dresses had been long-waisted and stiffly 
 boned, with high, straight biases, seem 
 ingly fitted to her own nature instead of 
 her customers forms; but they had been 
 strongly and faithfully sewed, and her 
 stitches held fast as the rivets on a coat of 
 mail. Now she could not sew. She could 
 knit, and that was all, besides her house 
 work, that she could do. 
 
 This morning, while dusting a little tri 
 angular what-not that stood in a corner of 
 her sitting-room, she came across a small 
 box that held some old photographs. The 
 box was made of a kind of stucco-work 
 shells held in place by a bed of putty. 
 Amanda Pratt had made it and given it to 
 her. Mrs. Field took up this box and 
 dusted it carefully; then she opened it, and 
 took out the photographs one by one. 
 
 After a while she stopped; she did not 
 take out any more, but she looked intently 
 
38 JANE FIELD 
 
 at one; then she replaced all but that one, 
 got painfully up from the low foot-stool 
 where she had been sitting, and went out of 
 her room across the entry to Amanda s, with 
 the photograph in her hand. 
 
 Amanda sat at her usual window, sewing 
 on her rug. The sunlight came in, and her 
 shadow, set in a bright square, wavered on 
 the floor; the clock out in the kitchen 
 ticked. Amanda looked up when Mrs. 
 Field entered. "Oh, it s you?" said she. 
 "I wondered who was comin . Set down, 
 won t you? " 
 
 Mrs. Field went over to Amanda and held 
 out the photograph. " I want to see if you 
 can tell me who this is." 
 
 Amanda took the photograph and held it 
 toward the light. She compressed her lips 
 and wrinkled her forehead. "Why, it s you, 
 of course ain t it?" 
 
 Mrs. Field made no reply; she stood 
 looking at her. 
 
 "Why, ain t it you?" Amanda asked, 
 looking from the picture to her in a bewil 
 dered way. 
 
 "No; it s Esther." 
 
 "Esther?" 
 
JANE FIELD 39 
 
 "Yes, it s Esther." 
 
 "Well, I declare! When was it took?" 
 
 " About ten years ago, when she was in 
 Elliot." 
 
 "Well, all I ve got to say is, if anybody 
 had asked me, I d have said it was took for 
 you yesterday. Why, Mis Field, what s 
 the matter? " 
 
 "There ain t anything the matter." 
 
 "Why, you look dreadfully." 
 
 Mrs. Field s face was pale, and there was 
 a curious look about her whole figure. It 
 seemed as if shrinking from something, 
 twisting itself rigidly, as a fossil tree might 
 shrink in a wind that could move it. 
 
 "I feel well nough," said she. " I guess 
 it s the light." 
 
 "Well, mebbe tis," replied Amanda, still 
 looking anxiously at her. " Of course you 
 know if you feel well, but you do look 
 dreadful white to me. Don t you want 
 some water, or a swaller of cold tea?" 
 
 "No, I don t want a single thing; I m 
 well enough." Mrs. Field s tone was al 
 most surly. She held out her hand for the 
 photograph. "I must be goin ," she con 
 tinued; "I ain t got my dustin done. I jest 
 
40 JANE FIELD 
 
 come across this, an I thought I d show it 
 to you, an see what you said." 
 
 "Well, I shouldn t have dreamed but 
 what it was yours; but then you an your 
 sister did look jest alike. I never could 
 tell you apart when you first came here." 
 
 " Folks always said we looked alike. We 
 always used to be took for each other when 
 we was girls, an I think we looked full as 
 much alike after our hair begun to turn. 
 Mine was a little lighter than hers, an that 
 made some difference betwixt us before. It 
 didn t show when we was both gray." 
 
 " I shouldn t have thought twould. Well, 
 I must say, I shouldn t dream but what 
 that picture was meant for you." 
 
 Mrs. Field took her way out of the room. 
 
 "How s Lois this mornin ? " Amanda 
 called after her. 
 
 "About the same, I guess." 
 
 "I saw her goin out of the yard this 
 mornin , an I thought she walked dreadful 
 weak." 
 
 " I guess she don t walk any too strong." 
 
 When Mrs. Field was in her own room 
 she stowed away the photograph in the shell 
 box; then she got a little broom and 
 
JANE FIELD 41 
 
 brushed the shell-work carefully; she 
 thought it looked dusty in spite of her rub 
 bing. 
 
 When the dusting was done it was time 
 for her to get her dinner ready. Indeed, 
 there was not much leisure for Mrs. Field 
 all day. She seldom sat down for long at a 
 time. From morning until night she kept 
 up her stiff resolute march about her house. 
 
 At half-past twelve she had the dinner on 
 the table, but Lois did not come. Her 
 mother went into the sitting-room, sat down 
 beside a window, and watched. The town 
 clock struck one. Mrs. Field went out 
 doors and stood by the front gate, looking 
 down the road. She saw a girl coming in 
 the distance with a flutter of light skirts, and 
 she exclaimed with gladness, " There she is !" 
 The girl drew nearer, and she saw it was Ida 
 Starr in a dress that looked like Lois . 
 
 The girl stopped when she saw Mrs. Field 
 at the gate. " Good-morning," said she. 
 
 " Good-mornin , Ida." 
 
 "It s a beautiful day." 
 
 Mrs. Field did not reply; she gazed past 
 her down the road, her face all one pale 
 frown. 
 
42 JANE FIELD 
 
 The girl looked curiously at her. "I 
 hope Lois is pretty well this morning?" she 
 said, in her amiable voice. 
 
 Mrs. Field responded with a harsh out 
 burst that fairly made her start back. 
 
 "No," she cried out, "she ain t well; 
 she s sick. She wa n t fit to go to school. 
 She couldn t hardly crawl out of the yard. 
 She ain t got home, an I m terrible worried. 
 I dun no but she s fell down." 
 
 " Maybe she just thought she wouldn t 
 come home." 
 
 "No; that ain t it. She never did such 
 a thing as that without saying something 
 about it; she d know I d worry." 
 
 Mrs. Field craned her neck farther over 
 the gate, and peered down the road. Be 
 side the gate stood two tall bushes, all 
 white with flowers that grew in long white 
 racemes, and they framed her distressed 
 face. 
 
 "Look here, Mrs. Field," said the girl, 
 "I ll tell you what I ll do. The school- 
 house isn t much beyond my house ; I ll just 
 run over there and see if there s anything 
 the matter; then I ll come back right off, 
 and let you know." 
 
5 o 
 
 
 | 
 
JANE FIELD 43 
 
 "Oh, will you?" 
 
 " Of course I will. Now don t you worry, 
 Mrs. Field; I don t believe it s anything." 
 
 The girl nodded back at her with her 
 pretty smile; then she sped away with a 
 light tilting motion. Mrs. Field stood a 
 few minutes longer, then she went up the 
 steps into the house. She opened Amanda 
 Pratt s door instead of her own, and went 
 through the sitting-room to the kitchen, 
 from whence she could hear the clink of 
 dishes. 
 
 "Lois ain t got home yet," said she, 
 standing in the doorway. 
 
 Amanda set down the dish she was wip 
 ing. " Mis Field, what do you mean ? " 
 
 "What I say." 
 
 " Ain t she got home yet ? " 
 
 "No, she ain t." 
 
 "Why, it s half-past one o clock! She 
 ain t comin ; it s time for school to begin. 
 Look here, Mis Field, I guess she felt 
 kind of tired, an thought she wouldn t 
 come." 
 
 Mrs. Field shook her head with a sort of 
 remorselessness toward all comfort. " She s 
 fell down." 
 
44 JANE FIELD 
 
 "Oh, Mis Field! you don t s pose so?" 
 
 "The Starr girl s gone to find out." 
 
 Mrs. Field turned to go. 
 
 "Hadn t you better stay here till she 
 comes?" asked Amanda, anxiously. 
 
 "No; I must go home." Suddenly Mrs. 
 Field looked fiercely around. "I ll tell 
 you what tis, Mandy Pratt, an you mark 
 my words! I ain t goin to stan this kind 
 of work much longer! I ain t goin to see 
 all the child I ve got in the world murdered ; 
 for that s what it is it s murder! " 
 
 Mrs. Field went through the sitting-room 
 with a stiff rush, and Amanda followed her. 
 
 "Oh, Mis Field, don t take on so 
 don t! " she kept saying. 
 
 Mrs. Field went through the house into 
 her own kitchen. The little white-laid table 
 stood against the wall ; the tea-kettle 
 steamed and rocked on the stove; the room 
 was full of savory odors. Mrs. Field set the 
 tea-kettle back where it would not boil so 
 hard. These little household duties had 
 become to her almost as involuntary as the 
 tick of her own pulses. No matter what 
 hours of agony they told off, the pulses 
 ticked; and in every stress of life she would 
 
JANE FIELD 45 
 
 set the tea-kettle back if it were necessary. 
 Amanda stood in the door, trembling. All 
 at once there was a swift roll of wheels in 
 the yard past the window. "Somebody s 
 come!" gasped Amanda. Mrs. Field 
 rushed to the back door, and Amanda after 
 her. There was a buggy drawn up close to 
 the step, and a man was trying to lift Lois 
 out. 
 
 Mrs. Field burst out in a great wail. 
 "Oh, Lois! Lois! She s dead she s dead!" 
 
 "No, she ain t dead, " replied the man, in 
 a drawling, jocular tone. " She s worth a 
 dozen dead ones ain t you, Lois? I found 
 her layin down side of the road kind of 
 tuckered out, that s all, and I thought I d 
 give her a lift. Don t you be scared, Mis 
 Field. Now, Lois, you jest rest all your 
 heft on me." 
 
 Lois pale face and little reaching hands 
 appeared around the wing of the buggy. 
 Amanda ran around to the horse s head. 
 He did not offer to start; but she stood 
 there, and said, "Whoa, whoa," over and 
 over, in a pleading, nervous voice. She was 
 afraid to touch the bridle; she had a great 
 terror of horses. 
 
46 JANE FIELD 
 
 The man, who was Ida Starr s father, 
 lifted Lois out, and carried her into the 
 house. She struggled a little. 
 
 "I can walk," said she, in a weakly in 
 dignant voice. 
 
 Mr. Starr carried her into the sitting- 
 room and laid her down on the sofa. She 
 raised herself immediately, and sat up with 
 a defiant air. 
 
 "Oh, dear child, do lay down," sobbed 
 her mother. 
 
 She put her hand on Lois shoulder and 
 tried to force her gently backward, but the 
 girl resisted. 
 
 "Don t, mother," said she. "I don t 
 want to lie down." 
 
 Amanda had run into her own room for the 
 camphor bottle. Now she leaned over Lois 
 and put it to her nose. " Jest smell of this a 
 little," she said. Lois pushed it away feebly. 
 
 "I guess Lois will have to take a little 
 vacation," said Mr. Starr. " I guess I shall 
 have to see about it, and let her have a lit 
 tle rest." 
 
 He was one of the school committee. 
 
 "I don t need any vacation," said Lois, 
 in a peremptory tone. 
 
JANE FIELD 47 
 
 "I guess we shall have to see about it," 
 repeated Mr. Starr. There was an odd un 
 dertone of decision in his drawling voice. 
 He was a large man, with a pleasant face 
 full of double curves. " Good-day," said 
 he, after a minute. " I guess I must be 
 goin ." 
 
 " Good-day," said Lois. "I m much 
 obliged to you for bringing me home." 
 
 "You re welcome." 
 
 Amanda nodded politely when he with 
 drew, but Mrs. Field never looked at him. 
 She stood with her eyes fixed upon Lois. 
 
 "What are you looking at me so for, 
 mother?" said Lois, impatiently, turning 
 her own face away. 
 
 Mrs. Field sank down on her knees before 
 the sofa. "Oh, my child!" she wailed. 
 "My child! my child!" 
 
 She threw her arms around the girl s slen 
 der waist, and clung to her convulsively. 
 Lois cast a terrified glance up at Amanda. 
 
 "Does she think I ain t going to get 
 well ? " she asked, as if her mother were 
 not present. 
 
 "Of course she don t," replied Amanda, 
 with decision. She stooped and took hold 
 
48 JANE FIELD 
 
 of Mrs. Field s shoulders. "Now look 
 here, Mis Field," said she, " you ain t act- 
 in like yourself. You re goin to make 
 Lois sick, if she ain t now, if you go on 
 this way. You get up an make her a cup 
 of tea, an get her somethin to eat. Ten 
 chances to one, that s all that ailed her. 
 I don t believe she s eat enough to-day to 
 keep a cat alive." 
 
 "I know all about it," moaned Mrs. 
 Field. " It s jest what I expected. Oh, 
 my child! my child! I have prayed an 
 done all I could, an now it s come to this. 
 I ve got to give up. Oh, my child! my 
 child!" 
 
 It was to this mother as though her 
 daughter was not there, although she held 
 her in her arms. She was in that abandon 
 of grief which is the purest selfishness. 
 
 Amanda fairly pulled her to her feet. 
 "Mis Field, I m ashamed of you!" said 
 she, severely. " I should think you were 
 beside yourself. Here s Lois better " 
 
 " No, she ain t better. I know." 
 
 Mrs. Field straightened herself, and went 
 out into the kitchen. 
 
 Lois looked again at Amanda, in a pite- 
 
JANE FIELD 49 
 
 ous, terrified fashion. "Oh," said she, 
 "you don t think I m so very sick, do you?" 
 
 "Very sick? No; of course you ain t. 
 Your mother got dreadful nervous because 
 you didn t come home. That s what made 
 her act so. You look a good deal better 
 than you did when you first came in." 
 
 "I feel better," said Lois. " I never saw 
 mother act so in my life." 
 
 "She got all wrought up, waitin . If I 
 was you, I d lay down a few minutes, jest 
 on her account. I think it would make 
 her feel easier." 
 
 "Well, I will, if you think I d better; 
 but there ain t a mite of need of it." 
 
 Lois laid her head down on the sofa arm. 
 
 "That s right," said Amanda. "You 
 can jest lay there a little while. I m goin 
 out to tell your mother to make you a cup 
 of tea. That ll set you right up." 
 
 Amanda found Mrs. Field already mak 
 ing the tea. She measured it out carefully, 
 and never looked around. Amanda stepped 
 close to her. 
 
 "Mis Field," she whispered, "I hope 
 you wa n t hurt by what I said. I meant it 
 for the best." 
 4 
 
50 JANE FIELD 
 
 "I sha n t give way so again," said Mrs. 
 Field. Her face had a curious determined 
 expression. 
 
 "I hope you don t feel hurt?" 
 
 " No, I don t. I sha n t give way so 
 again." She poured the boiling water into 
 the teapot, and set it on the stove. 
 
 Amanda looked at a covered dish on the 
 stove hearth. " What was you goin to have 
 for dinner?" said she. 
 
 " Lamb broth. I m goin to heat up some 
 for her. She didn t eat hardly a mouthful 
 of breakfast." 
 
 "That s jest the thing for her. I ll get 
 out the kettle and put it on to heat. I 
 dun no of anything that gits cold any 
 quicker than lamb broth, unless it s love." 
 
 Amanda put on a cheerful air as she 
 helped Mrs. Field. Presently the two wo 
 men carried in the little repast to Lois. 
 
 "She s asleep," whispered Amanda, who 
 went first with the tea. 
 
 They stood looking at the young girl, 
 stretched out her slender length, her white 
 delicate profile showing against the black 
 arm of the sofa. 
 
 Her mother caught her breath. " She s 
 
JANE FIELD 51 
 
 got to be waked up; she s got to have some 
 nourishment, anyhow," said she. "Come, 
 Lois, wake up, and have your dinner." 
 
 Lois opened her eyes. All the animation 
 and defiance were gone from her face. She 
 was so exhausted that she made no resist 
 ance to anything. She let them raise her, 
 prop her up with a pillow, and nearly feed 
 her with the dinner. Then she lay back, 
 and her eyes closed. 
 
 Amanda went home, and Mrs. Field went 
 back to the kitchen to put away the dinner 
 dishes. She had eaten nothing herself, and 
 now she poured some of the broth into a 
 cup, and drank it down with great gulps 
 without tasting it. It was simply filling of 
 a necessity the lamp of life with oil. 
 
 After her housework was done, she sat 
 down in the kitchen with her knitting. 
 There was no sound from the other room. 
 
 The latter part of the afternoon Amanda 
 came past the window and entered the back 
 door. She carried a glass of foaming beer. 
 Amanda was famous through the neighbor 
 hood for this beer, which she concocted 
 from roots and herbs after an ancient recipe. 
 It was pleasantly flavored with aromatic 
 
52 JANE FIELD 
 
 roots, and instinct with agreeable bitterness, 
 being an innocently tonic old-maiden brew. 
 
 "I thought mebbe she d like a glass of 
 my beer," whispered Amanda. "I came 
 round the house so s not to disturb her. 
 How is she? " 
 
 "I guess she s asleep. I ain t heard a 
 sound." 
 
 Amanda set the glass on the table. 
 " Don t you think you d ought to have 
 a doctor, Mis Field?" said she. 
 
 It seemed impossible that Lois could have 
 heard, but her voice came shrilly from the 
 other room: "No, I ain t going to have a 
 doctor; there s no need of it. Isha n tlike 
 it if you get one, mother." 
 
 "No, you sha n t have one, dear child," 
 her mother called back. " She was always 
 jest so about havin a doctor," she whis 
 pered to Amanda. 
 
 "I ll take in the beer if she s awake," 
 said Amanda. 
 
 Lois looked up when she entered. " I 
 don t want a doctor," said she, pitifully, 
 rolling her blue eyes. 
 
 "Of course you sha n t have a doctor if 
 you don t want one," returned Amanda, 
 
JANE FIELD 53 
 
 soothingly. " I thought mebbe you d like a 
 glass of my beer." 
 
 Lois drank the beer eagerly, then she 
 sank back and closed her eyes. "I m go 
 ing to get up in a minute, and sew on my 
 dress," she murmured. 
 
 But she did not stir until her mother 
 helped her to bed early in the evening. 
 
 The next day she seemed a little better. 
 Luckily it was Saturday, so there was no 
 worry about her school for her. She would 
 not lie down, but sat in the rocking-chair 
 with her needle-work in her lap. When 
 any one came in, she took it up and sewed. 
 Several of the neighbors had heard she was 
 ill, and came to inquire. She told them, 
 with a defiant air, that she was very well, 
 and they looked shocked and nonplussed. 
 Some of them beckoned her mother out into 
 the entry when they took leave, and Lois 
 heard them whispering together. 
 
 The next day, Sunday, Lois seemed about 
 the same. She said once that she was go 
 ing to church, but she did not speak of it 
 again. Mrs. Field went. She suggested 
 staying at home, but Lois was indignant. 
 
 " Stay at home with me, no sicker than I 
 
54 JANE FIELD 
 
 am! I should think you were crazy, 
 mother," said she. 
 
 So Mrs. Field got out her Sunday clothes 
 and went to meeting. As soon as she had 
 gone, Lois coughed ; she had been choking 
 the cough back. She stood at the window, 
 well back that people might not see her, 
 and watched her mother pass down the 
 street with her stiff glide. Mrs. Field s 
 back and shoulders were rigidly steady when 
 she walked; she might have carried a jar of 
 water on her head without spilling it, like 
 an Indian woman. Lois, small and slight 
 although she was, walked like her mother. 
 She held herself with the same resolute 
 stateliness, when she could hold herself at 
 all. The two women might, as far as their 
 carriage went, have marched in a battalion 
 with propriety. 
 
 Lois felt a certain relief when her mother 
 had gone. Even when Mrs. Field made 
 no expression of anxiety, there was a covert 
 distress about her which seemed to enervate 
 the atmosphere, and hinder the girl in the 
 fight she was making against her own weak 
 ness. Lois had a feeling that if nobody 
 would look at her nor speak about her ill- 
 
SHE WATCHED HER MOTHER OUT OF SIGHT 
 
JANE FIELD 55 
 
 ness, she could get well quickly of her 
 self. 
 
 As for Mrs. Field, she was no longer 
 eager to attend meeting; she went rather 
 than annoy Lois. She was present at both 
 the morning and afternoon services. They 
 still had two services in Green River. 
 
 Jane Field, sitting in her place in church 
 through the long sermons, had a mental 
 experience that was wholly new to her. 
 She looked at the white walls of the au 
 dience-room, the pulpit, the carpet, the 
 pews. She noted the familiar faces of the 
 people in their Sunday gear, the green light 
 stealing through the long blinds, and all 
 these accustomed sights gave her a sense 
 of awful strangeness and separation. And 
 this impression did not leave her when she 
 was out on the street mingling with the 
 homeward people; every greeting of an old 
 neighbor strengthened it. She regarded the 
 peaceful village houses with their yards 
 full of new green grass and flowering bushes, 
 and they seemed to have a receding dim 
 ness as she neared some awful shore. Even 
 the click of her own gate as she opened it, 
 the sound of her own feet on the path, the 
 
56 JANE FIELD 
 
 feel of the door-latch to her hand all the 
 little common belongings of her daily life 
 were turned into so many stationary land 
 marks to prove her own retrogression and 
 fill her with horror. 
 
 To-day, when people inquired for Lois, 
 her mother no longer gave her customary 
 replies. She said openly that her daughter 
 was real miserable, and she was worried 
 about her 
 
 "I guess she s beginning to realize it," 
 the women whispered to each other with a 
 kind of pitying triumph. For there is a 
 cerain aggravation in our friends not own 
 ing to even those facts which we deplore for 
 them. It is provoking to have an object of 
 pity balk. Mrs. Field s assumption that 
 her daughter was not ill had half incensed 
 her sympathizing neighbors; even Amanda 
 had marvelled indignantly at it. But now 
 the sudden change in her friend caused her 
 to marvel still more. She felt a vague fear 
 every time she thought of her. After Lois 
 had gone to bed that Sunday night, her 
 mother came into Amanda s room, and the 
 two w^omen sat together in the dusk. It 
 was so warm that Amanda had set all the 
 
JANE FIELD 57 
 
 windows open, and the room was full of the 
 hollow gurgling of the frogs there was 
 some low meadow-land behind the house. 
 
 " I want to know what you think of 
 Lois?" said Mrs. Field, suddenly; her 
 voice was high and harsh. 
 
 " Why, I don t know, hardly, Mis Field." 
 
 "Well, I know. She s runnin down. 
 She won t ever be any better, unless I can 
 do something. She s dyin for the want of 
 a little money, so she can stop work an go 
 away to some healthier place an rest. She 
 is; the Lord knows she is." Mrs. Field s 
 voice was solemn, almost oratorical. 
 
 Amanda sat still; her long face- looked 
 pallid and quite unmoved in the low light; 
 she was thinking what she could say. 
 
 But Mrs. Field went on; she was herself 
 so excited to speech and action, the outward 
 tendency of her own nature was so strong, 
 that she failed to notice the course of an 
 other s. "She is," she repeated, argumen- 
 tatively, as if Amanda had spoken, or she 
 was acute enough to hear the voice behind 
 silence; "there ain t any use talkin ." 
 
 There was a pause, a soft wind came into 
 the room, the noise of the frogs grew 
 
58 JANE FIELD 
 
 louder, a whippoorwill called; it seemed as 
 if the wide night were flowing in at the 
 windows. 
 
 "What I want to know is," said Mrs. 
 Field, " if you will take Lois in here to 
 meals, an look after her a week or two. 
 Be you willin to? " 
 
 "You ain t goin away, Mis Field?" 
 There was a slow and contained surprise in 
 Amanda s tone. 
 
 "Yes, I be; to-morrow mornin , if I live, 
 on the early train. I be, if you re willin 
 to take Lois. I don t see how I can leave 
 her any other way as she is now. You 
 sha n t-be any loser by it, if you ll take 
 her." 
 
 "Where be you goin , Mis Field?" 
 
 " I don t want you to say anything about 
 it. I don t want it all over town." 
 
 "I sha n t say anything." 
 
 "Well, I m goin down to Elliot." 
 
 "You be?" 
 
 "Yes, I be. Old Mr. Maxwell s dead. 
 I had a letter a night or two ago." 
 
 Amanda gasped, " He s dead ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " What was the matter, do you know ? " 
 
JANE FIELD 59 
 
 " They called it paralysis. It was sud 
 den." 
 
 Amanda hesitated. " I s pose do you 
 know anything about his property ? " said 
 she. 
 
 "Yes; he left it all to my sister." 
 
 "Why, Mis Field!" 
 
 "Yes; he left every cent of it to her." 
 
 "Oh, ain t it dreadful she s dead?" 
 
 "It s all been dreadful right along," said 
 Mrs. Field. 
 
 "Of course," said Amanda, "I know 
 she s better off than she d be with all the 
 money in the world; it ain t that; but it 
 would do so much good to the livin . Why, 
 look here, Mis Field, I dun no anything 
 about law, but won t you have it if your 
 sister s dead ? " 
 
 "I m goin down there." 
 
 " It seems as if you d ought to have some- 
 thin anyway, after all you ve done, lettin 
 his son have your money an everything." 
 
 Amanda spoke with stern warmth. She 
 had known about this grievance of her 
 neighbor s for a long time. 
 
 "I m goin down there," repeated Mrs. 
 Field. 
 
60 JANE FIELD 
 
 "I would," said Amanda. 
 
 "I hate to leave Lois," said Mrs. Field; 
 "but I don t see any other way." 
 
 "I ll take her," said Amanda, "if you re 
 willin to trust her with me." 
 
 " I ve got to," replied Mrs. Field. 
 
 "Well, I ll do the best I can," replied 
 Amanda. 
 
 She was considerably shaken. She felt 
 her knees tremble. It was as if she were 
 working a new tidy or rug pattern. Any 
 variation of her peaceful monotony of exist 
 ence jarred her whole nature like heavy 
 wheels, and this was a startling one. 
 
 She wondered how Mrs. Field could bring 
 herself to leave Lois. It seemed to her that 
 she must have hopes of all the old man s 
 property. 
 
 After Mrs. Field had gone home, and she, 
 primly comfortable in her starched and 
 ruffled dimitfes, lay on her high feather 
 bed between her smooth sheets, she settled 
 it in her own mind that her neighbor would 
 certainly have the property. She wondered 
 if she and Lois would go to Elliot to live, 
 and who would live in her tenement. The 
 change was hard for her to contemplate, 
 
JANE FIELD 6l 
 
 and she wept a little. Many a happiness 
 comes to its object with outriders of sor 
 rows to others. 
 
 Poor Amanda bemoaned herself over the 
 changes that might come to her little home, 
 and planned nervously her manner of living 
 with Lois during the next week. Amanda 
 had lived entirely alone for over twenty 
 years; this admitting another to her own 
 territory seemed as grave a matter to her as 
 the admission of foreigners did to Japan. 
 Indeed, all her kind were in a certain way 
 foreigners to Amanda ; and she was shy of 
 them, she had so withdrawn herself by her 
 solitary life, for solitariness is the farthest 
 country of them all. 
 
 Amanda did not sleep much, and it was 
 very early in the morning she was stand 
 ing before the kitchen looking-glass, twist 
 ing the rosettes of her front hair when 
 Mrs. Field came in to say good-by. Mrs. 
 Field was gaunt and erect in her straight 
 black clothes. She had her black veil tied 
 over her bonnet to protect it from dust, and 
 the black frame around her strong-featured 
 face gave her a rigid, relentless look, like a 
 female Jesuit. Lois came faltering behind 
 
62 JANE FIELD 
 
 her mother. She had a bewildered air, and 
 she looked from her mother to Amanda with 
 appealing significance, but she did not 
 speak. 
 
 "Well, I ve come to say good-by," said 
 Mrs. Field. 
 
 Amanda had one side of her front hair 
 between her lips while she twisted the other; 
 she took it out. " Good-by, Mis Field," 
 she said. "I ll do the best I can for Lois. 
 How soon do you s pose you ll be back? " 
 
 "It s accordin to how I get along. I ve 
 been tellin Lois she ain t goin to school 
 to-day. She s afraid Mr. Starr will put Ida 
 in if she don t; but there ain t no need of 
 her worryin ; mebbe a way will be opened. 
 I want you to lookout she don t go. There 
 ain t no need of it." 
 
 "I ll do the best I can," said Amanda, 
 with a doubtful glance at Lois. 
 
 Lois said nothing, but her pale little 
 mouth contracted obstinately. She and 
 Amanda followed her mother to the door. 
 The departing woman said good-by, and 
 went down the steps over the terraces. She 
 never looked back. She went on out the 
 
JANE FIELD 63 
 
 gate, and turned into the long road. She 
 had a mile walk to the railroad station. 
 
 Amanda and Lois went back into the sit 
 ting-room. 
 
 "When did she tell you she was going?" 
 Lois asked suddenly. 
 
 "Last night." 
 
 "She didn t tell me till this morning." 
 
 Lois held her head high, but her eyes 
 were surprised and pitiful, and the corners 
 of her mouth drooped. She faced about to 
 the window with a haughty motion, and 
 watched her mother out of sight, a gaunt, 
 dark old figure disappearing under low green 
 elm branches. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 IT was many years since Mrs. Field had 
 taken any but the most trivial journeys. 
 Elliot was a hundred and twenty miles 
 away. She must go to Boston ; then cross 
 the city to the other depot, where she would 
 take the Elliot train. This elderly un 
 sophisticated woman might very reasonably 
 have been terrified at the idea of taking this 
 journey alone, but she was not. She never 
 thought of it. 
 
 The latter half of the road to the Green 
 River station lay through an unsettled dis 
 trict. There were acres of low birch woods 
 and lusty meadow-lands. This morning 
 they were covered with a gold-green dazzle 
 of leaves. To one looking across them, they 
 almost seemed played over by little green 
 flames; now and then a young birch tree 
 stood away from the others, and shone by 
 itself like a very torch of spring. Mrs. 
 Field walked steadily through it. She had 
 64 
 
JANE FIELD 65 
 
 never paused to take much thought of the 
 beauty of nature; to-day a tree all alive 
 and twinkling with leaves might, for all 
 her notice, have been naked and stiff with 
 frost. 
 
 She did not seem to walk fast, but her 
 long steps carried her over the ground well. 
 It was long before train-time when she came 
 in sight of the little station with its project 
 ing piazza, roofs. She entered the ladies 
 room and bought her ticket, then she sat 
 down and waited. There were two other 
 women there middle-aged countrywomen 
 in awkward wool gowns and flat straw bon 
 nets, with a certain repressed excitement in 
 their homely faces. They were setting 
 their large, faithful, cloth-gaitered feet a 
 little outside their daily ruts, and going to 
 visit some relatives in a neighboring town; 
 they were almost overcome by the unusual- 
 ness of it. 
 
 Jane Field was a woman after their kind, 
 and the look on their faces had its grand 
 multiple in the look on hers. She had not 
 only stepped out of her rut, but she was go 
 ing cut of sight of it forever. * 
 
 She sat there stiff and silent, her two feet 
 5 
 
66 JANE FIELD 
 
 braced against the floor, ready to lift her at 
 the signal of the train, her black leather 
 bag grasped firmly in her right hand. 
 
 The two women eyed her furtively. One 
 nudged the other. "Know who that is?" 
 she whispered. But neither of them knew. 
 They were from the adjoining town, which 
 this railroad served as well as Green River. 
 
 Sometimes Mrs. Field looked at them, but 
 with no speculation ; the next moment she 
 looked in the same way upon the belongings 
 of the little country depot the battered 
 yellow settees, the time-tables, the long 
 stove in its tract of littered sawdust, the 
 man s face in the window of the ticket- 
 office. 
 
 "Dreadful cross-lookin , ain t she?" one 
 of the women whispered in the other s ear. 
 
 Jane heard the whisper, and looked at 
 them. The women gave each other violent 
 pokes / they reddened and tittered nervously, 
 then they tried to look out of the window 
 with an innocent and absent air. But they 
 need not have been troubled. Jane, al 
 though she heard the whisper perfectly, did 
 not connect it with herself at all. She 
 never thought much about her own appear- 
 
JANE FIELD 67 
 
 ance; this morning she had as little vanity 
 as though she were dead. 
 
 When the whistle of the train sounded, 
 the women all pushed anxiously out on the 
 platform. 
 
 " Is this the train that goes to Boston?" 
 Mrs. Field asked one of the other two. 
 
 " I s pose so," she replied, with a recipro- 
 cative flutter. "I m goin to ask so s to 
 be sure. I m goin to Dale." 
 
 "I always ask, "her friend remarked, with 
 decision. 
 
 When the train stopped, Mrs. Field in 
 quired of a brakeman. She was hardly sat 
 isfied with his affirmative answer. "Are 
 you the conductor?" said she, sternly peer 
 ing. 
 
 The young fellow gave a hurried wave of 
 his hand toward the conductor, " There he 
 is, ma am." 
 
 Mrs. Field asked him also, then she 
 hoisted herself into the car. When she had 
 taken her seat, she put the same question 
 to a woman in front of her. 
 
 It was a five-hours ride to Boston. Mrs. 
 Field sat all the while in her place with her 
 bag in her lap, and never stirred. There 
 
68 JANE FIELD 
 
 was a look of rigid preparation about her, 
 as if all her muscles were strained for an 
 instant leap. 
 
 Two young girls in an opposite seat 
 noticed her and tittered. They had consid 
 erable merriment over her, twisting their 
 pretty silly faces, and rolling their blue 
 eyes in her direction, and then averting 
 them with soft repressed chuckles. 
 
 Occasionally Mrs. Field looked over at 
 them, thought of her Lois, and noted their 
 merriment gravely. She never dreamed 
 that they were laughing at her. If she had, 
 she would not have considered it twice. 
 
 It wa t s four o clock when Mrs. Field ar 
 rived in Boston. She had been in the city 
 but once before, when she was a young 
 girl. Still she set out with no hesitation 
 to walk across the city to the depot where she 
 must take the cars for Elliot. She could 
 not afford a carriage, and she would not 
 trust herself in a street car. She knew her 
 own head and her old muscles; she could 
 allow for their limitations, and preferred to 
 rely upon them. 
 
 Every few steps she stopped and asked 
 a question as to her route, listening sharply 
 
JANE FIELD 69 
 
 to the reply. Then she went straight 
 enough, speeding between the informers 
 like guide-posts. This old provincial 
 threaded the city streets as unappreciatively 
 as she had that morning the country one. 
 Once in a while the magnificence of some 
 shop window, a dark flash of jet, or a flutter 
 of lace on a woman s dress caught her eye, 
 but she did not see it. She had nothing in 
 common with anything of that kind; she 
 had to do with the primal facts of life. 
 Coming as she was out of the country 
 quiet, she was quite unmoved by the thun 
 dering rush of the city streets. She might 
 have been deaf and blind for all the impres 
 sion it had upon her. Her own nature had 
 grown so intense that it apparently had 
 emanations, and surrounded her with an 
 atmosphere of her own impenetrable to the 
 world. 
 
 It was nearly five o clock when she 
 reached her station, and the train was 
 ready. It was half-past five when she ar 
 rived in Elliot. She got off the train and 
 stalked, as if with a definite object, around 
 the depot platform. She did not for one 
 second hesitate or falter. She went up to 
 
70 JANE FIELD 
 
 a man who was loading some trunks on a 
 wagon, and asked him to direct her to Law 
 yer Tuxbury s office. Her voice was so 
 abrupt and harsh that the man started. 
 
 "Cross the track, an go up the street till 
 you come to it, on the right-hand side," he 
 answered. Then he stared curiously after 
 her as she went on. 
 
 Lawyer Tuxbury s small neat sign was 
 fastened upon the door of the L of a large 
 white house. There was a green yard, and 
 some newly started flower-beds. In one 
 there was a clump of yellow daffodils. 
 Two yellow-haired little girls were playing 
 out in the yard. They both stood still, 
 staring with large, wary blue eyes at Mrs. 
 Field as she came up the path. She never 
 glanced toward them. 
 
 She stood like a black-draped statue be 
 fore the office door, and knocked. Nobody 
 answered. 
 
 She knocked again louder. Then a voice 
 responded " Come in." Mrs. Field turned 
 the knob carefully, and opened the door. 
 It led directly into the room. There was a 
 dull oil-cloth carpet, some beetling cases 
 of heavy books, a few old arm-chairs, and 
 
JANE FIELD 7 I 
 
 one battered leather easy-chair. A great 
 desk stood against the farther wall, and a 
 man was seated at it, with his back toward 
 the door, He had white hair, to which the 
 sunlight coming through the west window 
 gave a red-gold tinge. 
 
 Mrs. Field stood still, just inside the 
 door. Apart from anything else, the room 
 itself had a certain awe-inspiring quality 
 for her. She had never before been in a 
 lawyer s office. She was fully possessed 
 with the rural and feminine ignorance and 
 holy fear of all legal appurtenances. From 
 all her traditions, this office door should 
 have displayed a grinning man or woman 
 trap, which she must warily shun. 
 
 She eyed the dusty oil-cloth the files of 
 black books the chairs the man at the 
 desk, with his gilded white head. Rewrote 
 on steadily, and never stirred for a minute. 
 Then he again sang out, sharply, " Come in. " 
 
 He was deaf, and had, along with his 
 insensibility to sounds, that occasional ab 
 normal perception of them which the deaf 
 seem sometimes to possess. He often heard 
 sounds when none were recognizable to 
 other people. 
 
72 JANE FIELD 
 
 Now, evidently having perceived no re 
 sult from his first response, he had heard 
 this second knock, which did not exist ex 
 cept in his own supposition and the waiting 
 woman s intent. She had, indeed, just at 
 this point said to herself that she would slip 
 out and knock again if he did not look 
 around. She had not the courage to speak. 
 It was almost as if the deaf lawyer, piecing 
 out his defective ears with a subtler per 
 ception, had actually become aware of her 
 intention, which had thundered upon him 
 like the knock itself. 
 
 Mrs. Field made an inarticulate response, 
 and took a grating step forward. The old 
 man turned suddenly and saw her. She 
 stood back again; there was a shrinking 
 stiffness about her attitude, but she looked 
 him full in the face. 
 
 " Why, good-day ! " he exclaimed. " Good- 
 day, madam. I didn t hear you come in." 
 
 Mrs. Field murmured a good-day in re 
 turn. 
 
 "Take a seat, madam." The lawyer had 
 risen, and was advancing toward her. He 
 was a small, sharp-eyed man, whose youth 
 ful agility had crystallized into a nervous 
 
JANE FIELD 73 
 
 pomposity. Suddenly he stopped short; he 
 had passed a broad slant of dusty sunlight 
 which had lain between him and his visitor, 
 and he could see her face plainly. His 
 own elongated for a second, his under jaw 
 lopped, and his brows contracted. Then he 
 stepped forward. "Why, Mrs. Maxwell!" 
 said he; "how do you do?" 
 
 "I m pretty well, thank you," replied 
 Mrs. Field. She tried to bow, but her back 
 would not bend. 
 
 "I am delighted to see you," said the 
 lawyer. " I recognize you perfectly now. 
 I should have before, if the sun had not 
 been in my eyes. I never forget a face." 
 
 He took her by the hand, and shook it 
 up and down effusively. Then he pushed 
 forward the leather easy-chair with gracious 
 insinuation. Mrs. Field sat down, bolt- 
 upright, on the extreme verge of it. 
 
 The lawyer drew a chair to her side, 
 seated himself, leaned forward until his 
 face fronted hers, and talked. His manner 
 was florid, almost bombastic. He had a 
 fashion of working his face a good deal when 
 he talked. He conversed quite rapidly and 
 fluently, but was wont to interlard his con- 
 
74 JANE FIELD 
 
 versation with what seemed majestically 
 reflective pauses, during which he leaned 
 back in his chair and tapped the arm 
 slowly. In fact his flow of ideas failed 
 him for a moment, his mind being so con 
 stituted that they came in rapid and tem 
 porary bursts, geyser fashion. He inquired 
 when Mrs. Field arrived, was kindly cir 
 cumstantial as to her health, touched 
 decorously but not too mournfully upon the 
 late Thomas Maxwell s illness and decease. 
 He alluded to the letter which he had writ 
 ten her, mentioning as a singular coinci 
 dence that at the moment of her entrance 
 he was engaged in writing another to her, 
 to inquire if the former had been received. 
 
 He spoke in terms of congratulation of 
 the property to which she had fallen heir, 
 and intimated that further discussion con 
 cerning it, as a matter of business, had bet 
 ter be postponed until morning. Daniel 
 Tuxbury was very methodical in his care 
 for himself, and was loath to attend to any 
 business after six o clock. 
 
 Mrs. Field sat like a bolt of iron while 
 the lawyer talked to her. Unless a direct 
 question demanded it, she never spoke her- 
 
JANE FIELD 75 
 
 self. But he did not seem to notice it; he 
 had enough garnered-in complacency to de 
 light himself, as a bee with its own honey. 
 He rarely realized it when another person 
 did not talk. 
 
 After one of his pauses, he sprang up 
 with alacrity. "Mrs. Maxwell, will you 
 be so kind as to excuse me for a moment ? " 
 said he, and went out of the office with a 
 fussy hitch, as if he wore invisible petti 
 coats. Mrs. Field heard his voice in the 
 yard. 
 
 When he returned there was an old lady 
 following in his wake. Mrs. Field saw her 
 before he did. She came with a whispering 
 of silk, but his deaf ears did not perceive 
 that. He did not notice her at all until he 
 had entered the office, then he saw Mrs. 
 Field looking past him at the door, and 
 turned himself. 
 
 He went toward her with a little flourish 
 of words, but the old lady ignored him en 
 tirely. She held up her chin with a kind 
 of ancient pertness, and eyed Mrs. Field. 
 She was a small, straight-backed woman, 
 full of nervous vibrations. She stood ap 
 parently still, but her black silk whispered 
 
76 JANE FIELD 
 
 all the time, and loose ends of black ribbon 
 trembled. The black silk had an air of old 
 gentility about it, but it was very shiny; 
 there were many bows, but the ribbons were 
 limp, having been pressed and dyed. Her 
 face, yellow and deeply wrinkled, but 
 sharply vivacious, was overtopped by a 
 bunch of purple flowers in a nest of rusty 
 black lace and velvet. 
 
 So far Mrs. Field had maintained a cer 
 tain strained composure, but now her long, 
 stern face began flushing beneath this old 
 lady s gaze. 
 
 "I conclude you know this lady," said 
 the lawyer, with a blandly facetious air to 
 the new-comer. 
 
 At that she stepped forward promptly, 
 with a jerk as if to throw off her irresolu 
 tion, and a certain consternation. "Yes, I 
 s pose I do," said she, in a voice like a 
 shrill high chirp. "It s Mis Maxwell, 
 ain t it Edward s wife? How do you do, 
 Esther? I hadn t seen you for so long, I 
 wasn t quite sure, but I see who you are 
 now. How do you do?" 
 
 "I m pretty well, thank you," said Mrs. 
 Field, with a struggle, putting her twist- 
 
JANE FIELD 77 
 
 ed hand into the other woman s, extended 
 quiveringly in a rusty black glove. 
 
 "When did you come to town, Esther?" 
 
 "Jest now." 
 
 "Let me see, where from? I can t seem 
 to remember the name of the place where 
 you ve been livin . I know it, too." 
 
 "Green River." 
 
 "Oh, yes, Green River. Well, I m glad 
 to see you, Esther. You ain t changed 
 much, come to look at you; not so much as 
 I have, I s pose. I don t expect you d 
 know me, would you?" 
 
 "I don t know as I would." Mrs. Field 
 recoiled from a lie even in the midst of 
 falsehood. 
 
 The old lady s face contracted a little, 
 but she could spring above her emotions. 
 "Well, I don t s pose you would, either," 
 responded she, with fine alacrity. "I ve 
 grown old and wrinkled and yellow, though 
 I ain t gray," with a swift glance at Mrs. 
 Field s smooth curves of white hair. "You 
 turned gray pretty young, didn t you, 
 Esther?" 
 
 "Yes, I did." 
 
 The old lady s front hair hung in dark- 
 
78 JANE FIELD 
 
 brown spirals, a little bunch of them against 
 either cheek, outside her bonnet. She set 
 them dancing with a little dip of her head 
 when she spoke again. " I thought you 
 did," said she. "Well, you re comin over 
 to my house, ain t you, Esther? You ll 
 find a good many changes there. My 
 daughter Flora and I are all that s left 
 now, you know, I s pose. " 
 
 Mrs. Field moved her head uncertainly. 
 This old woman, with her straight demands 
 for truth or falsehood, was torture to her. 
 
 "I suppose you ll come right over with 
 me pretty soon," the old lady went on. " I 
 don t want to hurry you in your business 
 with Mr. Tuxbury, but I suppose my nephew 
 will be home, and " 
 
 "I m jest as much obliged to you, but I 
 guess I d better not. I ve made some other 
 plans," said Mrs. Field. 
 
 " Oh, we are going to keep Mrs. Maxwell 
 with us to-night," interposed the lawyer. 
 He had stood by smilingly while the two 
 women talked. 
 
 "I m jest as much obliged, but I guess 
 I d better not," repeated Mrs. Field, look 
 ing at both of them. 
 
JANE FIELD 79 
 
 The old lady straightened herself in her 
 flimsy silk draperies. "Well, of course, if 
 you ve got other plans made, I ain t goin 
 to urge you, Esther," said she; "but any 
 time you feel disposed to come, you ll be 
 welcome. Good-evenin , Esther. Good- 
 evenin , Mr. Tuxbury." She turned with 
 a rustling bob, and was out the door. 
 
 The lawyer pressed forward hurriedly. 
 "Why, Mrs. Maxwell, weren t you coming 
 in? Isn t there something I can do for 
 you ? " said he. 
 
 "No, thank you," replied the old lady, 
 shortly. "I ve got to go home; it s my 
 tea-time. I was goin by, and I thought 
 I d jest look in a minute; that was all. It 
 wa n t anything. Good-evenin ." She 
 was half down the walk before she finished 
 speaking. She never looked around. 
 
 The lawyer turned to Mrs. Field. " Mrs. 
 Henry Maxwell was not any too much 
 pleased to see you sitting here," he whis 
 pered, with a confidential smile. " She 
 wouldn t say anything; she s as proud as 
 Lucifer; but she was considerably taken 
 aback." 
 
 Mrs. Field nodded. She felt numb. She 
 
8o JANE FIELD 
 
 had not understood who this other woman 
 was. She knew now the mother of the 
 young woman who was the rightful heir to 
 Thomas Maxwell s property. 
 
 " The old lady has been pretty anxious," 
 Mr. Tuxbury went on. "She s been in 
 here a good many times made excuses to 
 come in and see if I had any news. She 
 has been twice as much concerned as her 
 daughter about it. Well, she has had a 
 pretty hard time. That branch of the 
 family lost a good deal of property." 
 
 Mrs. Field rose abruptly. "I guess I d 
 better be goin ," said she. "It must be 
 your tea-time. I ll come in again to-mor 
 row." 
 
 The lawyer put up his hand deprecatingly. 
 " Mrs. Maxwell, you will, of course, stay and 
 take tea with us, and remain with us to 
 night." 
 
 "I m jest as much obliged to you for in- 
 vitin me, but I guess I d better be goin ." 
 
 " My sister is expecting you. You re 
 member my sister, Mrs. Lowe. I ve just 
 sent word to her. You had better come 
 right over to the house with me now, and 
 to-morrow morning we can attend to busi- 
 
SHE WALKED ON, WITH HER STERN, IMPASSIVE OLD 
 FACE SET STRAIGHT AHEAD" 
 
JANE FIELD 8 1 
 
 ness. You must be fatigued with your 
 journey." 
 
 " I m real sorry if your sister s put herself 
 out, but I guess I d better not stay." 
 
 The lawyer turned his ear interrogatively. 
 "I beg your pardon, but I didn t quite 
 understand. You think you can t stay?" 
 
 "I m much obliged to your sister an 
 you for invitin* me, but I guess I d bet 
 ter not." 
 
 "Why but Mrs. Maxwell! Just be 
 seated again for a moment, and let me speak 
 to my sister; perhaps she " 
 
 "I m jest as much obliged to her, but I 
 feel as if I d better be goin ." Mrs. Field 
 stood before him, mildly unyielding. She 
 seemed to waver toward his will, but all the 
 time she abided toughly in her own self 
 like a willow bough. "But, Mrs. Max 
 well, what can you do?" said the lawyer, 
 his manner full of perplexity, and impa 
 tience thinly veiled by courtesy. "The 
 hotel here is not very desirable, and " 
 
 " Can t I go right up to the house ? " 
 
 "The Maxwell house?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; if there ain t anything to hin 
 der. " 
 
 6 
 
82 JANE FIELD 
 
 Mr. Tuxbury stared at her. "Why, I 
 don t know that there is really anything to 
 hinder, " he said, slowly. "Although it is 
 rather No, I don t know as there is any 
 actual objection to your going. I suppose 
 the house belongs to you. But it is shut up. 
 I think you would find it much pleasanter 
 here, Mrs. Maxwell." His eyebrows were 
 raised, his mouth pursed up. 
 
 "I guess I d better go, if I can jest as 
 well as not; if I can get into the house." 
 Mrs. Field spoke with deprecating persist 
 ency. 
 
 Mr. Tuxbury turned abruptly toward his 
 desk, and began fumbling in a drawer. She 
 stood hesitatingly watchful. " If you would 
 jest tell me where I d find the key," she 
 ventured to remark. She had a vague idea 
 that she would be told to look under a par 
 lor blind for the key, that being the inno 
 cent country hiding-place when the house 
 was left alone. 
 
 " I have the key, and I will go to the house 
 with you myself directly." 
 
 " I hate to make you so much trouble. I 
 guess I could find it myself, if " 
 
 "I will be ready immediately, Mrs Max- 
 
JANE FIELD 83 
 
 well," said the lawyer, in a smoothly con 
 clusive voice which abashed her. 
 
 She stood silently by the door until he 
 was ready. He took her black bag peremp 
 torily, and they went side by side down the 
 street. He held his head well back, his 
 lips were still tightly pursed, and he swung 
 his cane with asperity. His important and 
 irascible nature was oddly disturbed by this 
 awkwardly obstinate old woman stalking 
 at his side in her black clothes. Feminine 
 opposition, even in slight matters, was wont 
 to aggravate him, but in no such degree as 
 this. He found it hard to recover his usual 
 courtesy of manner, and indeed scarcely 
 spoke a word during the walk. He could 
 not himself understand his discomposure. 
 But Mrs. Field did not seem to notice. She 
 walked on, with her stern, impassive old 
 face set strarght ahead. Once they met a 
 young girl who made her think of Lois, her 
 floating draperies brushed against her black 
 gown, for a second there was a pale, inno 
 cent little face looking up into her own. 
 
 It was not a very long walk to the Max 
 well house. 
 
 "Here we are/ said the lawyer, coldly, 
 
84 JANE FIELD 
 
 and unlatched a gate, and held it open with 
 stiff courtesy for his companion to pass. 
 
 They proceeded in silence up the long 
 curve of walk which led to the front door. 
 The walk was brown and slippery with pine 
 needles. Tall old pine trees stood in 
 groups about the yard. There were also 
 elm and horse-chestnut trees. The horse- 
 chestnuts were in blossom, holding up their 
 white bouquets, which showed dimly. It 
 was now quite dusky. 
 
 Back of the trees the house loomed up. 
 It was white and bulky, with fluted cornices 
 and corner posts, and a pillared porch to 
 the front door. Mrs. Field passed between 
 the two outstanding pillars, which reared 
 themselves whitely over her, like ghostly 
 sentries, and stood waiting while Mr. Tux- 
 bury fitted the key to the lock. 
 
 It took quit a little time, he could not 
 see very well, he had forgotten his specta 
 cles in his impatient departure. But at last 
 he jerked open the door, and a strange con 
 glomerate odor, the very breath of the life 
 of the old Maxwell house, steamed out in 
 their faces. 
 
 All bridal and funeral feasts, all daily 
 
JANE FIELD 85 
 
 food, all garments which had hung in the 
 closets and rustled through the rooms, every 
 piece of furniture, every carpet and hanging 
 had a part in it. 
 
 The rank and bitter emanations of life, as 
 well as spices and sweet herbs and delicate 
 perfumes, went to make up the breath 
 which smote one in the face upon the open 
 ing of the door. Still it was not a disagree 
 able, but rather a suggestive and poetical 
 odor, which should affect one like a remi 
 niscent dream. However, the village peo 
 ple sniffed at it, and said "How musty 
 that old house is! " 
 
 That was what Danie. Tuxbury said now. 
 "The house is musty," he remarked, with 
 stately nose in the air. 
 
 Mrs. Field made no response. She 
 stepped inside at once. " I m much obliged 
 to you," said she. 
 
 The lawyer looked at her, then past her 
 into the dark depths of the house. "You 
 can t see," said he. "You must let me go 
 in with you and get a light." He spoke in 
 a tone of short politeness. He was in his 
 heart utterly out of patience with this 
 strange, stiff old woman. 
 
86 JANE FIELD 
 
 " I guess I can find one. I hate to make 
 you so much trouble." 
 
 Mr. Tuxbury stepped forward with de 
 cision, and began fumbling in his pocket 
 for a match. " Of course you cannot find 
 one in the dark, Mrs. Maxwell," said he, 
 with open exasperation. 
 
 She said nothing more, but stood meekly 
 in the hall until a light flared out from a 
 room on the left. The lawyer had found 
 a lamp, he was himself somewhat familiar 
 with the surroundings, but on the way to it 
 he stumbled over a chair with* an excla 
 mation. It sounded like an oath to Mrs. 
 Field, but she thought she must be mis 
 taken. She had never in her life heard 
 many oaths, and when she did had never 
 been able to believe her ears. 
 
 "I hope you didn t hurt you," said she, 
 deprecatingly, stepping forward. 
 
 "I am not hurt, thank you." But the 
 twinge in the lawyer s ankle was confirming 
 his resolution to say nothing more to her 
 on the subject of his regret and unwilling 
 ness that she should choose to refuse his 
 hospitality, and spend such a lonely and 
 uncomfortable night. "I won t say another 
 
JANE FIELD 87 
 
 word to her about it," he declared to him 
 self. So he simply made arrangements 
 with her for a meeting at his office the next 
 morning to attend to the business for which 
 there had been no time to-night, and took 
 his leave. 
 
 "I never saw such a woman," was his 
 conclusion of the story, which he related to 
 his sister upon his return home. His sister 
 was a widow, and just then her married 
 daughter and two children were visiting her. 
 
 "I wish you d let me know she wa n t 
 comin ," said she. "I cut the fruit cake 
 an opened a jar of peach, an I ve put clean 
 sheets on the front chamber bed. It s made 
 considerable work for nothin ." She eyed, 
 as she spoke, the two children, who were 
 happily eating the peach preserve. She and 
 her brother were both quite well-to-do, but 
 she had a parsimonious turn. 
 
 "I d like to know what she ll have for 
 supper," she remarked further. 
 
 "I didn t ask her," said the lawyer, dryly, 
 taking a sip of his sauce. He was rather 
 glad of the peach himself. 
 
 " I shouldn t think she d sleep a wink, all 
 alone in that great old house. I know I 
 
88 JANE FIELD 
 
 shouldn t," observed the children s mother. 
 She was a fair, fleshy, quite pretty young 
 woman. 
 
 "That woman would sleep on a tomb 
 stone if she set out to," said the lawyer. 
 His speech, when alone with his own house 
 hold, was more forcible and not so well reg 
 ulated. Indeed, he did not come of a pol 
 ished family; he was the only educated one 
 among them. His sister, Mrs. Lowe, re 
 garded him with all the deference and 
 respect which her own decided and self- 
 sufficient character could admit of, and 
 often sounded his praises in her unrestrained 
 New England dialect. 
 
 "She seemed like a real set kind of a 
 woman, then?" said she now. 
 
 "Set is no name for it," replied her 
 brother. 
 
 "Well, if that s so, I guess old Mr. Max 
 well wa n t so far wrong when he didn t 
 have her down here before," she remarked, 
 with a judicial air. Her spectacles glit 
 tered, and her harsh, florid face bent se 
 verely over the sugar-bowl and the cups and 
 saucers. 
 
 The lamp-light was mellow in the neat, 
 
JANE FIELD 89 
 
 homely dining-room, and there was a soft 
 aroma of boiling tea all about. The pink 
 and white children ate their peach sauce in 
 happy silence, with their pretty eyes upon 
 the prospective cake. 
 
 " I suppose there must be some bed made 
 up in all that big house," remarked their 
 mother; "but it must be awful lonesome." 
 
 Of the awful lonesomeness of it truly, this 
 smiling, comfortable young soul had no 
 conception. At that moment, while they 
 were drinking their tea and talking her 
 over, Jane Field sat bolt-upright in one of 
 the old flag-bottomed chairs in the Maxwell 
 sitting-room. She had dropped into it when 
 the lawyer closed the door after him, and 
 she never stirred afterward. She sat there 
 all night. 
 
 The oil was low in the lamp which the 
 lawyer had lighted, and left standing on 
 the table between the windows. She could 
 see distinctly for a while the stately 
 pieces of old furniture standing in their 
 places against the walls. Just opposite 
 where she sat was one of lustreless old 
 mahogany, extending the width of the wall 
 between two doors, rearing itself upon slen- 
 
90 JANE FIELD 
 
 der legs, set with multitudinous drawers, 
 and surmounted by a clock. A piece of 
 furniture for which she knew no name, an 
 evidence of long-established wealth and old- 
 fashioned luxury, of which she and her plain 
 folk, with their secretaries and desks and 
 bureaus, had known nothing. The clock 
 had stopped at three o clock. Mrs. Field 
 thought to herself that it might have been 
 the hour on which old Mr. Maxwell died, 
 reflecting that souls were more apt to pass 
 away in the wane of the night. She would 
 have liked to wind the clock, and set the 
 hands moving past that ghostly hour, but 
 she did not dare to stir. She gazed at the 
 large, dull figures sprawling over the old 
 carpet, at the glimmering satiny scrolls on 
 the wall-paper. On the mantel-shelf stood 
 a branching gilt candlestick, filled with col 
 ored candles, and strung around with prisms, 
 which glittered feebly in the low lamp-light. 
 There was a bulging, sheet-iron wood stove 
 the Maxwells had always eschewed coal; 
 beside it lay a little pile of sticks, brought 
 in after the chill of death had come over 
 the house. There were a few old engrav 
 ings a head of Washington, the Landing 
 
JANE FIELD 91 
 
 of the Pilgrims, the Webster death-bed 
 scene, and one full-length portrait of the 
 old statesman, standing majestically, scroll 
 in hand, in a black frame. 
 
 As the oil burned low, the indistinct fig 
 ures upon the carpet and wall-paper grew 
 more indistinct, the brilliant colors of the 
 prisms turned white, and the fine black and 
 white lights in the death-bed picture ran 
 together. 
 
 Finally the lamp went out. Mrs. Field 
 had spied matches over on the shelf, but she 
 did not dare to rise to cross the room to get 
 them and find another lamp. She did not 
 dare to stir. 
 
 After her light went out, there was still 
 a pale glimmer upon the opposite wall, and 
 the white face of the silent clock showed 
 out above the cumbersome shadow of the 
 great mahogany piece. The glimmer came 
 from a neighbor s lamp shining through a 
 gap in the trees. Soon that also went out, 
 and the old woman sat there in total dark 
 ness. 
 
 She folded her hands primly, and held up 
 her bonneted head in the darkness, like 
 some decorous and formal caller who might 
 
9 2 
 
 JANE FIELD 
 
 
 expect at any moment to hear the soft, 
 heavy step of the host upon the creaking 
 stair and his voice in the room. She sat 
 there so all night. 
 
 Gradually this steady-headed, unimag 
 inative old woman became possessed by a 
 legion of morbid fancies, which played like 
 wild fire over the terrible main fact of the 
 case the fact that underlay everything 
 that she had sinned, that she had gone over 
 from good to evil, and given up her soul 
 for a handful of gold. Many a time in the 
 night, voices which her straining fancy 
 threw out, after the manner of ventrilo 
 quism, from her own brain, seemed actually 
 to vibrate through the house, footsteps pat 
 tered, and garments rustled. Often the 
 phantom noises would swell to a very pan 
 demonium surging upon her ears; but she 
 sat there rigid and resolute in the midst 
 of it, her pale old face sharpening out into 
 the darkness. She sat there, and never 
 stirred until morning broke. 
 
 When it was fairly light, she got up, took 
 off her bonnet and shawl, and found her way 
 into the kitchen. She washed her face and 
 hands at the sink, and went deliberately to 
 
JANE FIELD 93 
 
 work getting herself some breakfast. She 
 had a little of her yesterday s lunch left; 
 she kindled a fire, and made a cup of tea. 
 She found some in a caddy in the pantry. 
 She set out her meal on the table and drew 
 a chair before it. She had wound up the 
 kitchen clock, and she listened to its tick 
 while she ate. She took time, and finished 
 her slight repast to the last crumb. Then 
 she washed the dishes, and swept and tidied 
 the kitchen. 
 
 When that was done it was still too early 
 for her to go to the lawyer s office. She 
 sat down at an open kitchen window and 
 folded her hands. Outside was a broad, 
 green yard, inclosed on two sides by the 
 Maxwell house and barn. A drive-way 
 led to the barn, and on the farther side a 
 row of apple-trees stood. There was a fresh 
 wind blowing, and the apple blossoms were 
 floating about. The drive was quite white 
 with them in places, and they were half im 
 paled upon the sharp green blades of grass. 
 
 Over through the trees Mrs. Field could 
 see the white top of a market wagon in a 
 neighboring yard, and the pink dress of a 
 woman who stood beside it trading. She 
 
94 JANE FIELD 
 
 watched them with a dull wonder. What 
 had she now to do with market wagons and 
 daily meals and housewifely matters? That 
 fair-haired woman in the pink dress seemed 
 to her like a woman of another planet. 
 
 This narrow-lived old countrywoman 
 could not consciously moralize. She was 
 no philosopher, but she felt, without putting 
 it into thoughts, as if she had descended far 
 below the surface of all things, and found 
 out that good and evil were the root and 
 the life of them, and the outside leaves and 
 froth and flowers were fathoms away, and 
 no longer to be considered. 
 
 At ten o clock she put on her bonnet and 
 shawl, and set out for the lawyer s office. 
 She locked the front door, put the key under 
 a blind, and proceeded down the front walk 
 into the street. 
 
 The spring was earlier here than in Green 
 River. She started at a dancing net-work 
 of leaf shadows on the sidewalk. They 
 were the first she had seen that season. 
 There was a dewy arch of trees overhead, 
 and they were quite fully leaved out. Mr. 
 Tuxbury was in his office when she got 
 there. He rose promptly and greeted her, 
 
JANE FIELD 95 
 
 and pushed forward the leather easy-chair 
 with his old courtly flourish. 
 
 " I suppose that old stick of a woman will 
 be in pretty soon," he had remarked to his 
 sister at breakfast-time. 
 
 "Well, you ll keep on the right side of 
 her, if you know which side your bread is 
 buttered," she retorted. "You don t want 
 her goin to Sam Totten s. " 
 
 Totten was the other lawyer of Elliot. 
 
 "I think I am quite aware of all the exi 
 gencies of the case," Daniel Tuxbury had 
 replied, lapsing into stateliness, as he al 
 ways did when his sister waxed too forci 
 ble in her advice. 
 
 But when Mrs. Field entered his office, 
 every trace of his last night s impatience 
 had vanished. He inquired genially if she 
 had passed a comfortable night, and on be 
 ing assured that she had, pressed her to 
 drink a cup of coffee which he had request 
 ed his sister to keep warm. This declined, 
 with her countrified courtesy, so shy that it 
 seemed grim, he proceeded, with no chill 
 upon his graciousness, to business. 
 
 Through the next two hours Mrs. Field 
 sat at the lawyer s desk, and listened to a 
 
96 JANE FIELD 
 
 minute and wearisome description of her 
 new possessions. She listened with very 
 little understanding. She did not feel any 
 interest in it. She never opened her mouth 
 except now and then for a stiff assent to 
 a question from the lawyer. 
 
 A little after twelve o clock he leaned 
 back in his chair with a conclusive sigh, and 
 fixed his eyes reflectively upon the ceiling. 
 "Well, Mrs. Maxwell," said he, " I think 
 that you understand pretty well now the ex 
 tent and the limitations of your property." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said she. 
 
 "It is all straight enough. Maxwell was 
 a good business man; he kept his affairs in 
 excellent order. Yes, he was a very good 
 business man." 
 
 Suddenly the lawyer straightened himself, 
 and fixed his eyes with genial interest upon 
 his visitor; business over, he had a mind 
 for a little personal interview to show his 
 good-will. u Let me see, Mrs. Maxwell, 
 you had a sister, did you not?" said he. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Is she living?" 
 
 "No, sir." Mrs. Field said it with a 
 gasping readiness to speak one truth. 
 
JANE FIELD 97 
 
 " Let me see, what was her name ? " asked 
 the lawyer, "No; wait a moment; I ll tell 
 you. I ve heard it." He held up a hand 
 as if warding- off an answer from her, his 
 face became furrowed with reflective wrin 
 kles. "Field!" cried he, suddenly, with a 
 jerk, and beamed at her. " I thought I 
 could remember it," said he. "Yes, your 
 sister s name was Field. When did she 
 die, Mrs. Maxwell?" 
 
 " Two years ago." 
 
 There was a strange little smothered ex 
 clamation from some one near the office 
 door. Mrs. Field turned suddenly, and saw 
 her daughter Lois standing there. 
 7 
 

 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THERE Lois stood. Her small worn shoes 
 hesitated on the threshold. She was gotten 
 up in her poor little best her dress of cheap 
 brown wool stuff, with its skimpy velvet 
 panel, her hat trimmed with a fold of silk 
 and a little feather. She had curled her hair 
 over her forehead, and tied on a bit of a lace 
 veil. Distinct among all this forlorn and 
 innocent furbishing was her face, with its 
 pitiful, youthful prettiness, turning toward 
 her mother and the lawyer with a very clutch 
 of vision. 
 
 Mrs. Field got up. "Oh, it s you, Lois," 
 she said, calmly. "You thought you d 
 come too, didn t you?" 
 
 Lois gasped out something. 
 
 Her mother turned to the lawyer. "I ll 
 make you acquainted with Miss Lois Field," 
 said she. "Lois, I ll make you acquainted 
 with Mr. Tuxbury." 
 
 The lawyer was looking surprised, but 
 93 
 
JANE FIELD 99 
 
 he rose briskly to the level of- the situation, 
 and greeted the young girl with ready 
 grace. "Your sister s daughter, I con 
 clude, 1 he said, smilingly, to Mrs. Field. 
 
 Mrs. Field set her mouth hard. She 
 looked defiantly at him and said not one 
 word. There was a fierce resolve in her 
 heart that, come what would, she would 
 not tell this last lie, and deny her daughter 
 before her very face. 
 
 But the lawyer did not know she was 
 silent. Not having heard any response, with 
 the vanity of a deaf man, he assumed that 
 she had given one, and so concealed his un 
 certainty. 
 
 "Yes, so I thought," said he, and went 
 on flourishingly in his track of gracious re 
 ception. 
 
 Lois kept her eyes fixed on his like some 
 little timid animal which suspects an enemy, 
 and watches his eyes for the first impetus of 
 a spring. Once or twice she said, " Yes, 
 sir," faintly. 
 
 "Your niece does not look very strong," 
 Mr. Tuxbury said to Mrs. Field. 
 
 "She ain t been feelin very well this 
 spring. I ve been considerable worried 
 
100 JANE FIELD 
 
 about her," she answered, with harsh de 
 cision. 
 
 " Ah, I am very sorry to hear that. Well, 
 she will soon recuperate if she stays here. 
 Elliot is considered a very healthy place. 
 We shall soon have her so hearty and rosy 
 that her old friends won t be able to recog 
 nize her." He bowed with a smiling flour 
 ish to Lois. 
 
 Her lips trembled with a half-smile in 
 response, but she looked more frightened 
 than ever. 
 
 "Now, Mrs. Maxwell," said the lawyer, 
 " you and your niece must positively remain 
 and dine with us to-day, can t you?" 
 
 "I m afraid it will put your sister out." 
 
 "Oh, no, indeed." The lawyer, however, 
 had a slightly nonplussed expression. " She 
 will be delighted. I will run over to the 
 house, then, and tell her that you will stay, 
 shall I not?" 
 
 "I hate to make her extra work," said 
 Mrs. Field. That was her rural form of ac 
 ceptance. 
 
 "You will not, I assure you. Don t dis 
 tress yourself about that, Mrs. Maxwell." 
 
 Nevertheless, he was quite ill at ease as 
 
JANF, HELP; J / V ; /^ ^ jJ iof 
 
 he traversed the yard. In his life with his 
 sister there were exigencies during which 
 he was obliged to descend from his platform 
 of superiority. He foresaw the approach of 
 one now. 
 
 Dinner was already served when he en 
 tered the dining-room, and his sister was 
 setting the chairs around the table. They 
 kept no servant. 
 
 " They are going to stay to dinner, I ex 
 pect," he remarked, in an appealingly con 
 fidential tone. 
 
 His sister faced him with a jerk. She 
 was very red from bending over the kitchen 
 fire. "Who s goin to stay? What do you 
 mean, Daniel ?" 
 
 "Why, Mrs. Maxwell and her niece." 
 
 " Her niece? I didn t know she had any 
 niece. How did she get here?" 
 
 "She came this noon; followed along 
 after her aunt, I suppose. I don t think she 
 knew she was coming. She acted kind of 
 surprised, I thought." 
 
 "You don t mean they re comin in here 
 to dinner?" 
 
 "I couldn t very well help asking them, 
 you know." His tone was soft and con- 
 
102 JANS- FIELD 
 
 ciliatory, and he kept a nervous eye upon 
 his sister s face. 
 
 " Couldn t help askin em! I ruther guess 
 I could a helped askin em! " 
 
 "Jane, I hadn t any idea they d stay." 
 
 "Well, you ve gone an done it, that s all 
 I ve got to say. Here they didn t come last 
 night, when I got all ready for em, an now 
 they re comin , an everything we ve got is 
 a picked-up dinner; there ain t enough of 
 anything to go round. Flora! " 
 
 Her daughter Flora came in from the 
 kitchen, with the children, in blue gingham 
 aprons, at her heels. 
 
 "What is it, mother?" said she. 
 
 "Nothin , only your uncle Daniel has 
 asked that Maxwell woman an her niece to 
 dinner, an they re goin to stay." 
 
 " My goodness! there isn t a thing for din 
 ner!" said Flora, with a half-giggle. She 
 was so young and healthy and happy that 
 she could still see the joke in an annoy 
 ance. 
 
 Her uncle looked at her beseechingly. 
 "Can t you manage somehow?" said he. 
 "I ll go down to the store and buy some 
 thing." 
 
JANE FIELD 103 
 
 " Down to the store! " repeated his sister, 
 contemptuously. "It s one o clock now." 
 
 He looked at the kitchen clock, visible 
 through the open door, and saw that it in 
 dicated half-past twelve, but he said nothing. 
 
 Flora was frowning reflectively, while 
 her cheeks dimpled. "I tell you what I ll 
 do, mother," said she. "I ll go over to 
 Mrs. Bennett s and borrow a pie. I think 
 we can get along if we have a pie." 
 
 "I ain t goin round the neighborhood 
 borrowin ; that ain t the way I m accus 
 tomed to doin ." 
 
 "Land, mother! I d just as soon ask 
 Mrs. Bennett as not. She borrowed that 
 bread in here the other night." 
 
 "There ain t enough steak to go round; 
 there s jest that little piece we had left 
 from yesterday, an there ain t enough stew," 
 said her mother, with persistent wrath. 
 
 "Well, if folks come in unexpectedly, 
 they ll have to take what we ve got and 
 make the best of it." Flora tied a hat on 
 over her light hair as she spoke. "I don t 
 see any other way for them," she added, 
 laughingly, going out of the door. 
 
 "It s all very well for folks to be easy," 
 
IO4 JANE FIELD 
 
 said her mother, with a sniff, " but when she s 
 had as much as I ve had, I guess she won t 
 take it any easier than I do. I s pose now 
 I ve got to take all these things off, an put 
 on a clean table-cloth." 
 
 "That one doesn t look very bad," ven 
 tured her brother, timidly. 
 
 "No, I shouldn t think it did! Look at 
 that great coffee stain you got on it this 
 mornin ! Havin a couple of perfect stran 
 gers come in to dinner makes more work 
 than a man knows anything about. Chil 
 dren, you take off the knives, an pile em 
 up on the other table. Be real careful." 
 
 " I wonder if the parlor s so I can ask 
 them in there?" Mr. Tuxbury remarked, 
 edging toward the door. 
 
 "I s pose so. I ain t been in there this 
 mornin ; I s pose it s all right unless the 
 children have been in an cluttered it up." 
 
 "No, we ain t, gramma, we ain t," pro 
 claimed the children in a shrill shout. 
 They danced around the table, removing 
 the knives and forks; their innocent, pinky 
 faces were full of cherubic glee. This oc 
 casion was, metaphorically speaking, a 
 whole flock of jubilant infantile larks for 
 
JANE FIELD 105 
 
 them. They loved company with all their 
 souls, and they also felt always a pleasant 
 titillation of their youthful spirits when 
 they saw their grandmother in perturbation. 
 Unless, indeed, they themselves were the 
 cause of it, when it acquired a personal 
 force which rendered it not so entertaining. 
 
 Soon, however, a remark of their grand 
 mother s caused their buoyant spirits to 
 realize that there was a force of gravitation 
 for all here below. 
 
 " I don t know but you children will have 
 to wait," said she. 
 
 There was an instantaneous wail of dis 
 may, the pinky faces elongated, the blue eyes 
 scowled sulkily. " Oh, gramma, we don t 
 want to wait! Can t we sit down with the 
 others? Say, gramma, can t we? Can t 
 we sit down with the others?" 
 
 " Of course you can sit down with the 
 others. Don t make such a racket, chil 
 dren." That was their mother coming in, 
 good-natured and triumphant, with the pie. 
 
 " I don t know whether they can or not," 
 said their grandmother. " I ain t put in an 
 extra leaf; this table-cloth wa n t long 
 enough, an I wa n t goin to have the big 
 
106 JANE FIELD 
 
 table-cloth to do up for all the Maxwells 
 in creation." 
 
 " Oh, there s room enough," Flora said, 
 easily. " I can squeeze them in beside me. 
 Put the napkins round, children, and stop 
 teasing. Didn t I get a beautiful pie?" 
 
 "What kind is it?" 
 
 "Squash." 
 
 "An our squashes are all gone, an I ve 
 got to buy one to pay her back. I should 
 have thought you d known better, Flora." 
 
 " It was all the kind she had. I couldn t 
 help it. Squashes don t cost much, mother. " 
 
 "They cost something, an I ve got all 
 them dried apples to use up for pies." 
 
 " Have they come in ? " asked Flora, with 
 happy unconcern about the cost of squashes 
 and the utilization of dried apples. 
 
 "Yes, I s pose so. I thought I heard 
 Daniel taking em in the front door. I 
 s pose they re in the parlor." 
 
 "You ought to go in a minute, hadn t 
 you ? " 
 
 "I s pose so," replied Mrs. Lowe, with a 
 sigh of fierce resignation. 
 
 "I ll finish setting the things on the 
 table, and you go in. Take off your apron. " 
 
JANE FIELD 107 
 
 "This dress don t look fit." 
 
 "Yes, it does, too; it s clean. Run 
 along." 
 
 Mrs. Lowe smoothed her sparse hair se 
 verely at the kitchen looking-glass; then 
 she advanced upon the parlor with the air 
 of a pacific grenadier. The children were 
 following slyly in her wake, but their 
 mother caught sight of them and pulled 
 them back. 
 
 Mr. Tuxbury had been sitting in the par 
 lor with his guests, trying his best to enter 
 tain them. He had gotten out the photo 
 graph album for Lois, and a book of views 
 in the Holy Land for her mother. If he 
 had felt in considerable haste to escape 
 from his sister s indignation and return to 
 his visitors, they had been equally anxious 
 for him to come. 
 
 When Mrs. Field and her daughter were 
 left alone in the office, their first sensation 
 was that of actual terror of each other. 
 
 Mrs. Field concealed hers well enough. 
 She sat up without a tremor in her unbend 
 ing back, and looked out of the office door, 
 which the lawyer had left open. Just op 
 posite the door, out on the sidewalk, two 
 
IO8 JANE FIELD 
 
 men stood talking. She kept her eyes fas 
 tened upon them. 
 
 "What time did you start?" said she 
 presently, in a harsh voice, which seemed 
 to rudely shock the stillness. She did not 
 turn her eyes. 
 
 "I came on the first train," answered 
 Lois, pantingly. Once in a while she stole 
 furtive, wildly questioning glances at her 
 mother, but her mother never met them. 
 She continued to look at the talking men 
 on the sidewalk. 
 
 "Mother," began Lois finally, in a des 
 perate voice. But just then Mr. Tuxbury 
 had reappeared, and conducted them to his 
 parlor. 
 
 The parlor had lace curtains and a Brus 
 sels carpet, and looked ornate to Mrs. Field 
 and Lois. The chairs were covered with 
 green plush. The two women sat timidly 
 on the yielding cushions, and gazed during 
 the pauses at the large flower pattern on the 
 carpet. All this fine furniture was, in fact, 
 Mrs. Lowe s; when she had given up her 
 own home, and come to live with her 
 brother, she had brought it with her. 
 
 Both of the guests arose awkwardly, Mrs. 
 
JANE FIELD IOQ 
 
 Field first and Lois after her, when Mrs. 
 Lowe entered, and the lawyer introduced 
 them. 
 
 "I m happy to make your acquaintance," 
 said Mrs. Field. 
 
 "I believe I ve seen you two or three 
 times when you was here years ago," said 
 Mrs. Lowe, standing before her straight and 
 tall in her faded calico gown, which fitted 
 her uncompromisingly like a cuirass. Mrs. 
 Lowe s gowns, no matter how thin and faded, 
 always fitted her in that way. Stretched 
 over her long flat-chested figure, they seemed 
 to acquire the consistency of armor. " You 
 ain t changed any as I can see," she went 
 on, as she got scarcely any response to her 
 first remark. " I should have known you 
 anywhere. It s a pleasant day, ain t it?" 
 
 "Real pleasant," replied Mrs. Field. 
 Mrs. Lowe sat down in one of the plush 
 chairs. To seat herself for a few minutes 
 before announcing dinner was, she supposed, 
 a matter of etiquette. She held up her long 
 rasped chin with a curt air, and, in spite of 
 herself, her voice also was curt. She was 
 too thorough a New England woman to play 
 with any success softening lights over the 
 
110 JANE FIELD 
 
 steel of her character. She disdained to, 
 and she was also unable to. She was not 
 pleased to receive these unexpected guests, 
 and she showed it. 
 
 As soon as she thought it decently practi 
 cable, she gave a significant look at her 
 brother and arose. " I guess we ll walk out 
 to dinner now," said she, with solemn em 
 barrassment. Mrs. Lowe had nothing of 
 her brother s ease of manner; indeed, she 
 entertained a covert scorn for it. " Daniel 
 can be dreadful smooth an fine when he sets 
 out," she sometimes remarked to her daugh 
 ter. The lawyer s suave manner seemed to 
 her downrightness to border upon affecta 
 tion. She, however, had a certain respect 
 for it as the probable outcome of his supe 
 rior education. 
 
 She marched ahead stiffly now, and left 
 her brother to his flourishing seconding of 
 her announcement. Flora and the children 
 received them beamingly when they entered 
 the dining-room. Flora was quite sure that 
 she remembered Mrs. Maxwell, she was glad 
 to see her, and she was glad to see Lois, and 
 they would please sit right "here," and 
 "here." She had taken off the children s 
 
I 
 
 "FLORA AND THE CHILDREN RECEIVED THEM 
 BEAMINGLY " 
 
JANE FIELD III 
 
 pinafores and washed their faces, and they 
 stood aloof in little starched and embroi 
 dered frocks, with their cheeks pinker than 
 ever. 
 
 Flora seated one on each side of her, as 
 she had said. " Now, you must be good and 
 not tease," she whispered admonishingly, 
 and their blue eyes stared back at her with 
 innocent gravity, and they folded their 
 small hands demurely. 
 
 Nevertheless, it was through them that 
 the whole dignity of the meal was lost. If 
 they had not been present, it \vould have 
 passed off with a strong undercurrent of 
 uneasiness and discomfort, yet with com 
 posure. Mr. Tuxbury would have helped 
 the guests to beefsteak, and the rest of the 
 family would have preferred the warmed-up 
 veal stew. Or had the guests looked ap 
 provingly at the stew, the scanty portion of 
 beefsteak would have satisfied the furthest 
 desires of the family. But the perfect un 
 derstanding among the adults did not ex 
 tend to the two little girls. They leaned 
 forward, with their red lips parted, and 
 watched their uncle anxiously as he carved 
 the beefsteak. There was evidently not 
 
112 JANE FIELD 
 
 much of it, and their anxiety grew. When 
 it was separated into three portions, two of 
 which were dispensed to the guests, and 
 the other, having been declined by their 
 grandmother and mother, was appropria 
 ted by their uncle, anxiety lapsed into cer 
 tainty. 
 
 " I want some beefsteak!" wailed each, 
 in wofully injured tones. 
 
 Mr. Tuxbury set his mouth hard, and 
 pushed his plate with a jerk toward his 
 niece. Her face was very red, but she took 
 it she was aware there was no other course 
 open divided the meat impartially, and 
 gave each child a piece with a surreptitious 
 thump. 
 
 Mr. Tuxbury, with a moodily knitted 
 forehead and a smiling mouth, asked the 
 guests miserably if they would have some 
 veal stew. It was perfectly evident that if 
 they accepted, there would be nothing what 
 ever left for the family to eat. They de 
 clined in terrified haste; indeed, both Lois 
 and her mother had been impelled to pass 
 their portions of beefsteak over to the chil 
 dren, but they had not dared. 
 
 The children wished for veal stew also, 
 
JANE FIELD 113 
 
 and when they had eaten their meagre 
 spoonfuls, clamored persistently for more. 
 
 "There isn t any more," whispered their 
 mother, with two little vigorous side-shakes. 
 "If you don t keep still, I shall take you 
 away from the table. Ain t you ashamed ? " 
 
 Then the little girls pouted and sniffed, 
 but warily, lest the threat be carried into 
 effect. 
 
 The rest of the family tried to ignore the 
 embarrassing situation and converse easily 
 with the guests, but it was a difficult under 
 taking. 
 
 Lois bent miserably over her plate, and 
 every question appeared to shock her pain 
 fully. She seemed an obstinately bashful 
 young girl, to whom it was useless to talk. 
 Mrs. Field replied at length to all interro 
 gations with a certain quiet hardness, which 
 had come into her manner since her daugh 
 ter s arrival, but she never started upon a 
 subject of her own accord. * 
 
 It was a relief to every one when the 
 meagre dinner lapsed into the borrowed 
 pie. Mrs. Lowe cut it carefully into the 
 regulation six pieces, while the children as 
 carefully counted the people and watched 
 
114 JANE FIELD 
 
 the distribution. The result was not satis 
 factory. The older little girl, whose sense 
 of injury was well developed, set up a 
 shrill demand. 
 
 " I want a piece of Mis Bennett s pie," 
 said she. " Mother, I want a piece of Mis 
 Bennett s pie! " 
 
 The younger, viewing the one piece of 
 pie remaining in the plate and her clamor- 
 oussister, raised her own jealous little pipe. 
 "I want a piece of Mis Bennett s pie," she 
 proclaimed, pulling her mother s sleeve. 
 " Mother, can t I have a piece of Mis Ben 
 nett s pie ? " 
 
 Flora s face was very red, and her mouth 
 was twitching. She hastily pushed her own 
 pie to the elder child, and gave the last 
 piece on the plate to the younger. Their 
 grandmother frowned on them like a rock, 
 but they ate their pie unconcernedly. 
 
 "I think Mis Bennett s pie is a good 
 deal better than grandma s," said the 
 younger little girl, smacking her lips con 
 templatively; and Flora gave a half- 
 chuckle, while her mother s severity of mien 
 so deepened that she seemed to cast an act 
 ual shadow. 
 
JANE FIELD 11$ 
 
 "Now, Flora, I tell you what tis," said 
 she, when the meal was at last over and the 
 guests were gone they took their leave very 
 soon afterward " if you don t punish them 
 children, I shall." 
 
 There was a wail of terror from the little 
 girls. " Oh, mother, you do it, you do it! " 
 cried they. 
 
 Flora giggled audibly. 
 
 "You ll just spoil them children," said 
 her mother, severely; "you ought to be 
 ashamed of yourself, Flora." 
 
 Flora tried to draw her face into gravity. 
 "Go right upstairs, children," said she. 
 "It s so funny, I can t help it," she whis 
 pered, with another furtive giggle. 
 
 " I don t see anything very funny in chil 
 dren s actin the way they have all dinner 
 time." 
 
 The children thumped merrily over the 
 stairs. It was clear that they stood in no 
 great fear of their mother s chastisement. 
 They knew by experience that her hand was 
 very soft, and the force of its fall tempered 
 by mirth and tender considerateness; their 
 grandmother s fleshless and muscular old 
 palm was another matter. 
 
Il6 JANE FIELD 
 
 Soon after Flora followed them there was 
 a series of arduous cries, apparently main 
 tained more from a childish sense of the 
 fitness of things than from any actual stress 
 of pain. They soon ceased. 
 
 " She ain t half whipped em, " Mrs. Lowe, 
 who was listening downstairs, said to herself. 
 
 The lawyer was in his office; he had in 
 trenched himself there as soon as possible, 
 covering his retreat with the departure of 
 his guests. 
 
 Mrs. Field and Lois, removed from it all 
 the distance of tragedy from comedy, were 
 walking up the street to the Maxwell house. 
 Mrs. Field stalked ahead with her resolute 
 stiffness; Lois followed after her, keeping 
 always several paces behind. No matter 
 how often Mrs. Field, sternly conscious 
 of it, slackened her own pace, Lois never 
 gained upon her. 
 
 When they reached the gate at the en 
 trance of the Maxwell grounds, and Mrs. 
 Field stopped, Lois spoke up. 
 
 "What place is this?" said she, in a de 
 fiantly timorous voice. 
 
 " The Maxwell house," replied her mother, 
 shortly, turning up the walk. 
 
JANE FIELD Ii; 
 
 "Are you going in here?" 
 
 " Of course I am." 
 
 "Well, I ain t going in one step." 
 
 Mrs. Field turned and faced her. " Lois, " 
 said she, " if you want to go away an desert 
 the mother that s showin herself willin to 
 die for you, you can." 
 
 Lois said not another word. She turned 
 in at the gate, with her eyes fixed upon her 
 mother s face. 
 
 " I ll tell you about it when we get up to 
 the house," said her mother, with appealing 
 conciliation. 
 
 Lois slunk mutely behind her again. Her 
 eyes were full of the impulse of flight when 
 she watched her mother unlock the house 
 door, but she followed her in. 
 
 Her mother led the way into the sitting- 
 room. "Sit down," said she. 
 
 And Lois sat down in the nearest chair. 
 She never took her eyes off her mother. 
 
 Mrs. Field took off her bonnet and shawl. 
 She folded the shawl carefully in the 
 creases, and laid it on the table. She pulled 
 up a curtain. Then she turned, and con 
 fronted steadily her daughter s eyes. The 
 whole house to her was full of the clamor of 
 
Il8 JANE FIELD 
 
 their questioning. "Now, Lois," said Mrs. 
 Field, " I m goin to tell you about this. I 
 s pose you think it s funny." 
 
 " I don t know what to think of it," said 
 Lois, in a dry voice. 
 
 " I don t s pose you do. Well, I m goin 
 to tell you. You know, I s pose, that Mr. 
 Tuxbury took me for your aunt Esther. 
 You heard him call me Mis Maxwell ? " 
 
 Lois nodded; her dilated eyes never 
 wavered from her mother s face. 
 
 " I s pose you heard what he was sayin 
 to me when you come in. Lois, I didn t 
 tell him I was your aunt Esther. The min 
 ute I come in, he took me for her, an Mis 
 Henry Maxwell come into his office, an 
 she did, and so did Mr. Tuxbury s sister. 
 I wa n t goin to tell them I wa n t her." 
 
 The impulse of flight in Lois watchful 
 eyes became so strong that it seemed almost 
 to communicate to her muscles. With her 
 face still turned toward her mother, she 
 appeared to be fleeing from her. 
 
 Mrs. Field stood her ground stanchly. 
 " No, I wa n t," she went on. "An I ll 
 tell you why. I m goin to have that fifteen 
 hundred dollars of your poor father s earn- 
 
JANE FIELD Up 
 
 in s that I lent your uncle out of this / 
 property, an this is all the way to do it, an ; 
 I m goin to do it." 
 
 "I thought," gasped Lois "I thought 
 maybe it belonged to us anyway if Aunt 
 Esther was dead." 
 
 "It didn t. The money was all left to 
 old Mr. Maxwell s niece in case Esther died 
 first." 
 
 "Couldn t you have asked the lawyer 
 about the fifteen hundred dollars ? Wouldn t 
 he have given you some? O mother! " 
 
 " I was goin to if he hadn t took me for 
 her, but it wouldn t have done any good. 
 They wouldn t have been obliged to pay it, 
 an folks ain t fond of payin over money 
 when they ain t obliged to. I d been a fool 
 to have asked him after he took me for 
 her." 
 
 "Then you d got this all planned?" 
 
 Her mother took her up sharply. 
 
 "No, I hadn t got it all planned," said 
 she. "I don t deny it come into my head. 
 I knew how much folks said I looked like 
 Esther, but I didn t go so far as to plan it; 
 there needn t anybody say I did." 
 
 "You ain t going to take the money?" 
 
120 JANE FIELD 
 
 "I m goin to take that fifteen hundred 
 dollars out of it." 
 
 "Mother, you ain t going to stay here, 
 and make folks think you re Aunt Esther?" 
 
 "Yes, I am." 
 
 Then all Lois horror and terror manifest 
 ed themselves in one cry " O mother! " 
 
 Mrs. Field never flinched. "If you want 
 to act so an feel so about it, you can, "said 
 she. " Your mother is some older than you, 
 an she knows what is right jest about as 
 well as you can tell her. I ve thought it 
 all over. That fifteen hundred dollars was 
 money your poor father worked hard to earn. 
 I lent it to your uncle Edward, an he lost 
 it. I never see a dollar of it afterward. 
 He never paid me a cent of interest money. 
 It ain t anything more n fair that I should 
 be paid for it out of his father s property. 
 If poor Esther had lived, the money d gone 
 to her, an she d paid me fast enough. Now 
 the way s opened for me to get it, I ain t 
 goin to let it go. Talk about it s bein 
 right, if it ain t right to stoop down an 
 pick up anybody s just dues, I don t know 
 what right is, for my part." 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
JANE FIELD 121 
 
 "What say?" 
 
 "You ain t going to live here in this 
 house, and not go back to Green River?" 
 
 " I don t see any need of goin back to 
 Green River. This is a nough sight pret 
 tier place than Green River. Now you re 
 down here, I don t see any sense in layin 
 out money to go back at all. Mandy ll 
 send our things down." 
 
 "You don t mean to stay right along 
 here in this house, and not go back to 
 Green River at all?" 
 
 "I don t see why it ain t jest as well. 
 You d better take off your things an lay 
 down a little while on that sofa there, an 
 get rested." 
 
 Lois seldom cried, but she burst out now 
 in a piteous wail. "O mother," sobbed 
 
 she, u what does it mean? I can t What 
 
 does it mean? Oh, I m so frightened! 
 Mother, you frighten me so! What does it 
 mean ? " 
 
 Her mother went up to her, and stood 
 close at her side. "Lois, "said she, with 
 trembling solemnity, "can t you trust 
 mother? " 
 
 "O mother, I don t know! I don t 
 
122 JANE FIELD 
 
 know! You frighten me dreadfully. " Lois 
 shrank away from her mother as she wept. 
 
 Mrs. Field stood over her, but she did 
 not offer to touch her. Indeed, this New 
 England mother and daughter rarely or 
 never caressed each other. " Lois, dear 
 child, mother don t want you to feel so. 
 Oh, you dear child, you dear child, you don t 
 know what mother s goin through. But it 
 ain t anything to you. Lois, you remember 
 that; it ain t anything you ve done. It s 
 all my doin s. I m jest goin to get that 
 money back. An it s right I should. 
 Don t you worry nothin about it. Now 
 take your hat off, an let mother tuck you 
 up on the sofa." 
 
 Lois, sobbing still, began pulling off her 
 hat mechanically. Her mother got a pil 
 low, and she lay down on the sofa, turning 
 her face to the wall with another outburst 
 of tears. Her mother spread her black 
 shawl carefully over her. 
 
 "Now you lay here still, an get rested," 
 said she. "I m goin out in the kitchen, 
 an see if I can t start up a fire an get 
 something for supper." 
 
 Mrs. Field went out of the room. Soon 
 
JANE FIELD 123 
 
 her tall black figure sped stealthily past the 
 windows out of the yard. She found a 
 grocery store, and purchased some small 
 necessaries. There were groceries already 
 in the pantry at the Maxwell house. She 
 had spied them, but would not touch a sin 
 gle article. She bought some tea, and when 
 she returned, replaced the drawing she had 
 taken that morning from the Maxwell caddy, 
 
 The old woman s will, always vigorous, 
 never giving place to another except through 
 its own choice, now whipped by this great 
 stress into a fierce impetus, carried her 
 daughter s, strong as it was for a young 
 girl, before it. Lois lay quietly on the 
 sofa. When her mother called her, she went 
 out in the kitchen and ate her supper. 
 
 They retired early. Lois lay on the sofa 
 until her mother came in and stood over 
 her with a lighted lamp. 
 
 "I guess you d better get up and go to 
 bed now, Lois," said she. "I m goin my 
 self, if it is early. I m pretty tired." 
 
 And Lois stirred herself wearily and got 
 up. 
 
 There were two adjoining bedrooms open 
 ing out of the sitting-room. Mrs. Field 
 
124 JANE FIELD 
 
 had prepared the beds that afternoon. " I 
 thought we d better sleep in here," said 
 she, leading the way to them. 
 
 Lois had the inner room. After the lamp 
 was blown out and everything was dark, her 
 mother heard a soft stir and the pat of a 
 naked foot in there ; then she heard the door 
 swing to with a cautious creak and the bolt 
 slide. She knew, with a great pang, that 
 Lois had locked her door against her mother. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 ELLIOT was only a little way from the 
 coast, and sometimes seemed to be per 
 vaded by the very spirit of the sea. The 
 air would be full of salt vigor, the horizon 
 sky take on the level, out-reaching blue of 
 a water distance, and the clouds stand one 
 way like white sails. 
 
 The next morning Lois sat on the front 
 door-step of the Maxwell house, between 
 the pillars of the porch. She bent over, 
 leaning her elbows on her knees, making 
 a cup of her hands, in which she rested her 
 little face. She could smell the sea, and 
 also the pines in the yard. There were 
 many old pine trees, and their soft musical 
 roar sounded high overhead. The spring 
 air in Green River had been full of sweet 
 moisture and earthiness from these steaming 
 meadow-lands. Always in Green River, 
 above the almond scent of the flowering 
 trees and the live breath of the new grass, 
 125 
 
126 JANE FIELD 
 
 came that earthy, moist odor, like a re 
 minder of the grave. Here in Elliot one 
 smelled the spring above the earth. 
 
 The gate clicked, and a woman came up 
 the curving path with a kind of clumsy dig 
 nity. She was tall and narrow-shouldered, 
 but heavy-hipped; her black skirt flounced 
 as she walked. She stopped in front of 
 Lois, and looked at her hesitatingly. Lois 
 arose. 
 
 " Good-mornin ," said the woman. Her 
 voice was gentle ; she cleared her throat a 
 little after she spoke. 
 
 " Good-morning, " returned Lois, faintly. 
 
 "Is Mis Maxwell to home?" 
 
 Lois stared at her. 
 
 "Is Mis Maxwell to home? I heard 
 she d come here to live," repeated the wo 
 man, in a deprecating way. She smoothed 
 down the folds of her over-skirt. Lois 
 started ; the color spread over her face and 
 neck. "No, she isn t at home," she said 
 sharply. 
 
 " Do you know when she will be ?J 
 
 "No, I don t." 
 
 The woman s face also was flushed. She 
 turned about with a little flirt, when sud- 
 
JANE FIELD 127 
 
 denly a door slammed somewhere in the 
 house. The woman faced about, with a 
 look of indignant surprise. 
 
 Lois said nothing. She opened the front 
 door and went into the house, straight 
 through to the kitchen, where her mother 
 was preparing breakfast. " There s a wo 
 man out there," she said. 
 
 "Who is it?" 
 
 " I don t know. She wants to see Mrs. 
 Maxwell." 
 
 Lois looked full at her mother; her eyes 
 were like an angel s before evil. Mrs. 
 Field looked back at her. Then she turned 
 toward the door. 
 
 Lois caught hold of her mother s dress. 
 Mrs. Field twitched it away fiercely, and 
 passed on into the sitting-room. The wo 
 man stood there waiting. She had followed 
 Lois in. 
 
 " How do you do, Mis Maxwell ? " she 
 said. 
 
 "I m pretty well, thank you," replied 
 Mrs. Field, looking at her with stiff in 
 quiry. 
 
 The woman had a pale, pretty face, and 
 stood with a sturdy set-back on her heels. 
 
128 JANE FIELD 
 
 "I guess you don t know me, Mis Max 
 well," said she, smiling deprecatingly. 
 
 Mrs. Field tried to smile, but her lips 
 were too stiff. "I guess I don t," she 
 faltered. 
 
 The smile faded from the woman s face. 
 She cast an anxious glance at her own face 
 in the glass over the mantel-shelf; she had 
 placed herself so she could see it. " I ain t 
 got quite so much color as I used to have," 
 she said, "but I ain t thought I d changed 
 much other ways. Some days I have more 
 color. I know I ain t this mornin . I 
 ain t had very good health. Maybe that s 
 the reason you don t know me." 
 
 Mrs. Field muttered a feeble assent. 
 
 "I d known you anywhere, but you didn t 
 have any color to lose to make a difference. 
 You ve always looked jest the way you do 
 now since I ve known you. I lived in this 
 house a whole year with you once. I come 
 here to live after Mr. Maxwell s wife died. 
 My name is Jay." 
 
 Mrs. Field stood staring. The woman, 
 who had been looking in the glass while 
 she talked, gave her front hair a little 
 shake, and turned toward her inquiringly. 
 
JANE FIELD I 29 
 
 "Won t you sit down in this rockin - 
 chair, Mis Jay?" said Mrs. Field. 
 
 " No, thank you, I guess I won t set down, 
 I m in a little of a hurry. I jest wanted to 
 see you a minute." 
 
 Mrs. Field waited. 
 
 "You know Mr. Maxwell s dyin so sud 
 den made a good deal of a change for me," 
 Mrs. Jay continued. She took out her 
 handkerchief and wiped her eyes softly; 
 then she glanced in the glass. "I d had 
 my home here a good many years, an it 
 seemed hard to lose it all in a minute so. 
 There he came home that Sunday noon an 
 eat a hearty dinner, an before sunset he 
 had that shock, and never spoke afterward. 
 I ve thought maybe there were things he 
 would have said if he could have spoke." 
 
 Mrs. Jay sighed heavily; her eyes red 
 dened ; she straightened her bonnet absently ; 
 her silvered fair hair was frizzed under it. 
 
 Mrs. Field stood opposite, her eyes down 
 cast, her face rigid. 
 
 " I wanted to speak to you, Mis Max 
 well," the other woman went on. "I ain t 
 obliged to go out anywheres to live; I ve 
 got property; but it s kind of lonesome at 
 9 
 
130 JANE FIELD 
 
 my sister s, where I m livin . It s a little 
 out of the village, an there ain t much 
 passin . I like to be where I can see 
 passin , an get out to meetin easy if it s 
 bad weather. I ve been thinkin I didn t 
 know but maybe you d like to have me I 
 heard you had some trouble with your 
 hands, an your niece wa n t well that I 
 might be willin to come an stay three or 
 four weeks. I shouldn t want to promise to 
 stay very long." 
 
 " I ain t never been in the habit of keep- 
 in help," returned Mrs. Field. "I ve al 
 ways done my own work." 
 
 The other woman s face flushed deeply; 
 she moved toward the door. " I don t 
 know as anything was said about keepin 
 help, " said she. "I ain t never considered 
 myself help. There ain t any need of my 
 goin out to live. I ve got enough to live 
 on, an I ve got good clothes. I ve got a 
 black silk stiff enough to stand alone; cost 
 three dollars a yard. I paid seven dollars 
 to have it made up, and the lace on it cost 
 a dollar a yard. I ain t obliged to be at 
 anybody s beck and call." 
 
 "I hope I ain t said anything to hurt 
 
JANE FIELD 131 
 
 your feelin s," said Mrs. Field, following 
 her into the entry. " I ve always done my 
 own work, an " 
 
 "We won t speak of it again," said Mrs. 
 Jay. "I ll bid you good-mornin , Mis 
 Maxwell." Her voice shook, she held up 
 her black skirt, and never looked around as 
 she went down the steps. 
 
 Mrs. Field returned to the kitchen. Lois 
 sat beside the window, her head leaning 
 against the sash, looking out. Her mother 
 took some biscuits out of the stove oven 
 and set them on the table with the coffee. 
 "Breakfast is ready," said she. 
 
 She sat down at the table. Lois never 
 stirred. 
 
 "You needn t worry," said Mrs. Field, 
 in a sarcastic voice; "everything on this 
 table is bought with your own money. I 
 went out last night and got some flour. 
 There s a whole barrelful in the buttery, 
 but I didn t touch it." 
 
 Lois drew her chair up to the table, and 
 ate a biscuit and drank a cup of coffee with 
 out saying a word. Her eyes were set 
 straight ahead; all her pale features seemed 
 to point out sharply; her whole face had 
 
132 JANE FIELD / 
 
 the look of a wedge that could pierce fate. 
 After breakfast she went out of the room, 
 and returned shortly with her hat on. 
 
 " Mother," said she. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " You d better know what I m going to do. " 
 
 "What are you goin to do?" 
 
 "I m goin down to that lawyer s office, 
 and tell him." Lois turned toward the 
 door. 
 
 " I s pose you know all you re goin to 
 do," said her mother, in a hard voice. 
 
 "I m going to tell the truth," returned 
 Lois, fiercely. 
 
 "You re goin to put your mother in 
 State s prison." 
 
 Lois stopped. "Mother, you can t make 
 me believe that." 
 
 "It s true, whether you believe it or not. 
 I don t know anything about law, but I m 
 sure enough of that." 
 
 Lois stood looking at her mother. "Then 
 I ll put you there," said she, in a cruel 
 voice. "That s where you ought to go, 
 mother." 
 
 She went out of the room, and shut the 
 door hard behind her; then she kept on 
 
FIELD 133 
 
 through the house to the front porch, and 
 sat down. She sat there all the morning, 
 huddled up against a pillar. Her mother 
 worked about the house; Lois could hear 
 her now and then, and every time she shud 
 dered. She had a feeling that the woman 
 in the house was not her mother. Had she 
 been familiar with the vampire superstition, 
 she might have thought of that, and had 
 a fancy that some fiend animated the sober, 
 rigid body of the old New England woman 
 with evil and abnormal life. 
 
 At noon Lois went in and ate some din 
 ner mechanically ; then she returned. Pres 
 ently, as she sat there, a bell began tolling, 
 and a funeral procession passed along the 
 road below. Lois watched it listlessly 
 the black-draped hearse, the slow-marching 
 bearers, the close-covered wagons, and the 
 nodding horses. She could see it plainly 
 through the thin spring branches. It was 
 quite a long procession; she watched it 
 until it passed. The cemetery was only a 
 little way below the house, on the same 
 side of the street. By twisting her head a 
 little, she could have seen the black throng 
 at the gate. 
 
134 JANE FIELD 
 
 After a while the hearse and the carriages 
 went past on their homeward road at a lively 
 pace, the gate clicked, and Mrs. Jane Max 
 well and a young man came up the walk. 
 
 Lois stood up shrinkingly as they ap 
 proached, the door behind her opened, and 
 she heard her mother s voice. 
 
 " Good-afternoon," said Mrs. Field, with 
 rigid ceremony, her mouth widened in a 
 smile. 
 
 Good-afternoon, Esther," returned Mrs. 
 Maxwell. "I ve been to the funeral, an I 
 thought I d jest run in a minute on my way 
 home. I wanted to ask you an your niece 
 to come over an take tea to-morrow. 
 Flora, she d come, but she didn t get out to 
 the funeral. This is my nephew, Francis 
 Arms, my sister s son. I s pose you re 
 member him when he was a little boy." 
 
 Mrs. Field bowed primly to the young 
 man. The old lady was eying Lois. " I 
 s pose this is your niece, Esther? I heard 
 she d come," she said, with sharp gracious- 
 ness. 
 
 "This is Miss Lois Field; I ll make you 
 acquainted, Mis Maxwell," replied Mrs. 
 Field. 
 
JANE FIELD 135 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell reached out her hand, and 
 Lois took it trembling; her little girlish 
 figure drooped before them all. 
 
 "She don t look much like you, Esther. 
 I s pose she takes after her mother," said 
 Mrs. Maxwell. 
 
 "I think she rather favors her father s 
 folks," said Mrs. Field. 
 
 "I heard she wa n t very well, but seems 
 to me she looks pretty smart." 
 
 "She ain t been well at all," returned 
 Mrs. Field, in a quick, resentful manner. 
 
 "Well, I guess she ll pick up here; El 
 liot s a real healthy place. She must come 
 over and see us real often. This is my 
 nephew, Francis Arms, Lois. I shall have 
 to get him to beau you around and show you 
 the sights." 
 
 Lois glanced timidly up at the young 
 man, and returned his bow slightly. 
 
 "Won t you walk in?" said Mrs. Field. 
 
 Lois went into the house with the party; 
 the old lady still held her hand in herblack- 
 mitted one. 
 
 " I want you and my nephew to get ac 
 quainted," she whispered; "he s a real nice 
 young man. I m goin to have you an 
 
136 JANE FIELD 
 
 your aunt come over an take tea to 
 morrow. * 
 
 They all seated themselves in the south 
 front room. Lois sat beside Mrs. Maxwell 
 on the high black sofa; her feet swung 
 clear from the floor. The young man, who 
 was opposite, beside the chimney, glanced 
 now and then kindly across at her. 
 
 "Francis didn t have to go to the bank 
 this afternoon," said Mrs. Maxwell. "I 
 don t know as I told you, Esther, but he s 
 cashier in the bank; he s got a real good 
 place. Francis ain t never had anything 
 but a common-school education, but he s 
 always been real smart an steady. Lawyer 
 Totten s son, that s been through college, 
 wanted the place, but they gave it to Fran 
 cis. Mr. Perry, whose mother was buried 
 this afternoon, is president of the bank, an 
 that s why it s shut up. Francis felt as if 
 he d ought to go to the funeral, an I told 
 him he d better come in here with me. I 
 suppose you remember Francis when he was 
 a little boy, Esther?" 
 
 "No, I guess I don t." 
 
 "Why, I should think you d be likely 
 to. He lived with me when you was here. 
 
JANE FIELD 137 
 
 He came right after his father died, an that 
 was before you came here. He was quite a 
 big boy. I should think you d remember 
 him. You sure you don t, Esther?" 
 Yes, I guess I don t." 
 " Seems to me it s dreadful queer; I guess 
 your memory ain t as good as mine. I 
 s pose you re beginnin to feel kind of wont 
 ed here, Esther? It s a pretty big house, 
 but then it ain t as if you hadn t been here 
 before. I s pose it seems kind of familiar 
 to you, if you ain t seen it for so long; I 
 s pose it all comes back to you, don t it?" 
 
 There was a pause. "No, I m afraid it 
 don t," said Mrs. Field her pale severe face 
 fronting the other woman. Although fairly 
 started forth in the slough of deceit, she 
 still held up her Puritan skirts arduously. 
 
 "It s kind of queer it don t, ain t it?" 
 returned Mrs. Maxwell. "The house ain t 
 been altered any, an the furniture s jest 
 the same. Thomas, he wouldn t have a 
 thing altered; the carpet in his bedroom is 
 wore threadbare, but he wouldn t get a new 
 one nohow. Mis Jay, she wanted him to 
 get a new cookin -stove, but he wouldn t 
 hear to it; much as ever he d let her have 
 
138 JANE FIELD 
 
 a new broom. And it wa n t because he 
 was stingy; it was jest because he was kind 
 of set, an had got into the way of thinkin 
 nothin had ought to be changed. It wa n t 
 never my way; I never believed in hangin 
 on to old shackly things because you ve 
 always had em. There ain t no use tryin 
 to set down tables an chairs as solid as the 
 everlastin hills. There was Mis Perry, 
 she that was buried this afternoon, Mr. 
 Perry s mother, when she came here to live 
 after her husband died, she sold off every 
 stick of her old furniture, an got the hand 
 somest marble-top set that money could buy 
 for her room. She got some pictures in 
 gilt frames too, and a tapestry carpet, and 
 vases and images for her mantel-shelf. She 
 said folks could talk about associations all 
 they wanted to, she hadn t no associations 
 with a lot of old worm-eaten furniture; 
 she d rather have some that was clean an 
 new. H m, anybody to hear folks talk 
 sometimes would think they were blood- 
 relations to old secretaries and bureaus." 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell screwed her face contemp 
 tuously, as if the talking folk were before 
 her, and there was a pause. The young 
 
JANE FIELD 139 
 
 man looked across at Lois, then turned to 
 her mother, as if about to speak, but his 
 aunt interposed. 
 
 " Esther," said she, " I jest wanted to ask 
 you if there wa n t two of them old swell- 
 front bureaus in the north chamber up 
 stairs." 
 
 "I guess there is," replied Mrs. Field. 
 She sat leaning forward toward her callers, 
 with her face fairly strained into hospitable 
 attention. 
 
 "Well, I wanted to know. I ain t come 
 beggin , an I d nough sight rather have a 
 good clean new one, but I m kind of short 
 of bureau drawers, an I d kind of like to 
 have it because twas Thomas . I wonder 
 if you wouldn t jest as soon I d have one of 
 them bureaus? " 
 
 Mrs. Field s face gleamed suddenly. 
 "You can have it jest as well as not," said 
 she. 
 
 "Well, there s another thing. I kind of 
 hate to speak about it. Flora said I 
 shouldn t; but I said I would, whether or 
 no. I know you d rather I would.. There s 
 a set of blue china dishes that Nancy, that s 
 Thomas wife, you know, always said Flora 
 
140 JANE FIELD 
 
 should have when she got done with them. 
 Thomas, he never said anything about it 
 after Nancy died. I didn t know but he 
 might make mention of it in the will. But 
 we all know how that was. I ain t findin 
 no fault, an I ain t begrudgin anything." 
 
 "You can have the dishes jest as well as 
 not," returned Mrs. Field, eagerly. 
 
 "Well, I didn t know as you d value 
 them much. I s posed you d rather get 
 some new ones. You can get real handsome 
 ones now for ten dollars. Silsbee s got an 
 elegant set in his window. Of course folks 
 that can afford them would rather have 
 them. But I s pose Flora would think con 
 siderable of that old set because it belonged 
 to her aunt Nancy. There s one or two 
 other things I was thinkin of, but it don t 
 matter about those to-day. It s a beautiful 
 day, ain t it? " 
 
 "What be they?" asked Mrs. Field. 
 " If there s anything you want, you re wel 
 come to it." 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell glanced at her nephew. 
 He was -looking out of the window, with 
 his forehead knitted and his lips compressed. 
 Lois had just thought how cross he looked. 
 
JANE FIELD 141 
 
 "You ain t been out to see anything of the 
 town, have you, Lois?" asked Mrs. Max 
 well, sweetly. 
 
 Lois started. "No, ma am," she said, 
 faintly. 
 
 "You ain t been into the graveyard, I 
 s pose?" 
 
 " No, ma am." 
 
 "You d ought to go in there an see the 
 Mason monument. Francis, don t you want 
 to go over there with her an show her the 
 Mason monument?" 
 
 Francis rose promptly. 
 
 "I guess I d rather not," Lois said, hur 
 riedly. 
 
 "Oh, you run right along!" cried Mrs. 
 Maxwell. "You ll want to see the flowers 
 on Mis Perry s grave, too. I never saw 
 such handsome flowers as they had, an they 
 carried them all to the grave. Get your 
 hat, and run right along, it ll do you good." 
 
 "You d better," said the young man, 
 smiling pleasantly down at Lois. 
 
 She got up and left the room, and pres 
 ently returned with her hat on. 
 
 "Don t sit down on the damp ground," 
 Mrs. Field said as the two went out. And 
 
142 JANE FIELD 
 
 her voice sounded more like herself than it 
 had done since she left Green River, 
 
 Lois walked gravely down the street be 
 side Francis Arms. She had never had any 
 masculine attention. This was the first 
 time she had ever walked alone with a young 
 man. She was full of that shy conscious 
 ness which comes to a young girl who has 
 had more dreams than lovers, but her steady, 
 sober face quite concealed it. 
 
 Francis kept glancing down at her, trying 
 to think of something to say. She never 
 looked at him, and kept her shabby little 
 shoes pointed straight ahead on the extreme 
 inside of the walk, as intently as if she were 
 walking on a line. Nobody would have 
 dreamed how her heart, in spite of the terri 
 ble exigency in which she was placed, was 
 panting insensibly with the sweet rhythm of 
 youth. In the midst of all this trouble and 
 bewilderment, she had not been able to help 
 a strange feeling when she first looked into 
 this young man s face. It was as if she 
 were suddenly thrust off her old familiar 
 places, like a young bird from its nest into 
 space, and had to use a strange new motion 
 of her soul to keep herself from falling. 
 
JANE FIELD 143 
 
 But Francis guessed nothing of this. 
 "It s a pleasant day," he remarked as they 
 walked along. 
 
 "Yes, sir," she replied. 
 
 The graveyard gates had been left open 
 after the funeral. They entered, and passed 
 up the driveway along the wheel ruts of 
 the funeral procession. Pink garlands of 
 flowering-almond arched over the old graves, 
 and bushes of bridal-wreath sent out white 
 spikes. Weeping-willows swept over them 
 in lines of gold-green light, and evergreen 
 trees stood among them as they had stood 
 all winter. In many of these were sunken 
 vases and bottles of spring flowers, lilacs 
 and violets. 
 
 Lois and Francis Arms went on to the 
 Mason monument. 
 
 " This is the one Aunt Jane was speaking 
 about," he said, in a deferential tone. 
 
 Lois looked up at the four white marble 
 women grouped around the central shaft, 
 their Greek faces outlined against the New 
 England sky. 
 
 " It was made by a famous sculptor," said 
 Francis; "and it cost a great deal of 
 money." 
 
144 JANE FIELD 
 
 Lois nodded. 
 
 "They box it up in the winter, so it won t 
 be injured by the weather," said Francis. 
 
 Lois nodded again. Presently they turned 
 away, and went on to a new grave, covered 
 with wreaths and floral devices. The fra 
 grance of tuberoses and carnations came in 
 their faces. 
 
 " This is the grave Aunt Jane wanted you 
 to see," said Francis. 
 
 "Yes, sir," returned Lois. 
 
 They stood staring silently at the long 
 mound covered with flowers. Francis 
 turned. 
 
 " Suppose we go over this way," said he. 
 
 Lois followed him as he strode along the 
 little grassy paths between the burial lots. 
 On the farther side of the cemetery the 
 ground sloped abruptly to a field of new 
 grass. Francis stooped and felt of the short 
 grass on the bank. 
 
 " It s dry," said he. " I don t think your 
 aunt would mind. Suppose we sit down 
 here and rest a few minutes?" 
 
 Lois looked at him hesitatingly. 
 
 "Oh, sit down just a few minutes," he 
 said, with a pleasant laugh. 
 
JANE FIELD 145 
 
 They both seated themselves on the bank, 
 and looked down into the field. 
 
 "It s pleasant here, isn t it?" said Fran 
 cis. 
 
 "Real pleasant." 
 
 The young man looked kindly, although 
 a little constrainedly, down into his com 
 panion s face. 
 
 " I hear you haven t been very well," said 
 he. " I hope you feel better since you came 
 to Elliot?" 
 
 "Yes, thank you; I guess I do," replied 
 Lois. 
 
 Francis still looked at her. Her little 
 face bent, faintly rosy, under her hat. 
 There was a grave pitifulness, like an old 
 woman s, about her mouth, but her shoul 
 ders looked very young and slender. 
 
 "Suppose you take off your hat," said 
 he, " and let the air come on your forehead. 
 I ve got mine off; it s more comfortable. 
 You won t catch cold. It s warm as sum 
 mer." 
 
 Lois took off her hat. 
 
 "That s better," said Francis, approv 
 ingly. "You re going to live right along 
 here in Elliot with your aunt, aren t you?" 
 
146 JANE FIELD 
 
 Lois looked up at him suddenly. She was 
 very pale, and her eyes were full of terror. 
 
 "Why, what is the matter? What have 
 I said?" he cried out, in bewilderment. 
 
 Lois bent over and hid her face; her back 
 heaved with sobs. 
 
 Francis stared at her. " Why, what is 
 the matter?" he cried again. "Have I 
 done anything?" He hesitated. Then he 
 put his hand on her little moist curly head. 
 Lois hair was not thick, but it curled 
 softly. "Why, you poor little girl," said 
 he; "don t cry so;" and his voice was full 
 of embarrassed tenderness. 
 
 Lois sobbed harder. 
 
 "Now, see here," said Francis. "I 
 haven t known you more than an hour, and 
 I don t know what the matter is, and I don t 
 know but you ll think I m officious, but I ll 
 do anything in the world to help you, if 
 you ll only tell me." 
 
 Lois shook off his hand and sat up. " It 
 isn t anything," said she, catching her 
 breath, and setting her tear-stained face 
 defiantly ahead. 
 
 " Don t you feel well ? " 
 
 Lois nodded vaguely, keeping her quiv- 
 
JANE FIELD 147 
 
 ering mouth firmly set. They were both 
 silent for a moment, then Lois spoke with 
 out looking at him. 
 
 " Do you know if there s any school here 
 that I could get?" said she. 
 
 " A school ? " 
 
 " Yes. I want to get a chance to teach. 
 I ve been teaching, but I ve lost my school." 
 
 " And you want to get one here ? " 
 
 " Yes. Do you know of any ? " 
 
 "Why, see here," said Francis. "It s 
 none of my business, but I thought you 
 hadn t been very well. Why don t you take 
 a little vacation?" 
 
 "I can t," returned Lois, in a desperate 
 tone. " I ve got to do something." 
 
 "Why, won t your aunt " He stopped 
 short. The conviction that the stern old 
 woman who had inherited the Maxwell 
 property was too hard and close to support 
 her little delicate orphan niece seized upon 
 him. Lois next words strengthened it. 
 
 "I lost my school," she went on, still 
 keeping her face turned toward the mead 
 ow and speaking fast. "Ida Starr got it 
 away from me. Her father is school-com 
 mittee-man, and he said he didn t think I 
 
148 JANE FIELD 
 
 was able to teach, just because he brought 
 me home in his buggy one day when I was 
 a little faint. I had a note from him that 
 
 morning mother that morning she came 
 
 down here. I was just going to school, and 
 I was a good deal better, when Mr. Starr s 
 boy brought it. He said he thought it was 
 better for me to take a little vacation. I 
 knew what that meant. I knew Ida had 
 wanted the school right along. I told 
 Amanda I was coming down here. She 
 tried to stop me, but I had money enough. 
 Mr. Starr sent me what was owing to 
 me, and I came. I thought I might just 
 
 as well. I thought mother Amanda was 
 
 dreadfully scared, but I told her I was go 
 ing to come. I can t go back to Green 
 River; I haven t got money enough." 
 Lois s voice broke; she hid her face again. 
 
 " Oh, don t feel so," cried Francis. " You 
 don t want to go back to Green River." 
 
 "Yes, I do. I want to get back. It s 
 awful here, awful. I never knew anything 
 so awful." 
 
 Francis stared at her pityingly. "Why, 
 you poor little girl, are you as homesick as 
 that?" he said. 
 
JANE FIELD 149 
 
 Lois only sobbed in answer. 
 
 " Look here!" said Francis he leaned 
 over her, and his voice sank to a whisper 
 " it s none of my business, but I think you d 
 better tell me; it won t go any further 
 isn t your aunt good to you? Doesn t she 
 treat you well ? " 
 
 Lois shook her head vaguely. " I can t 
 go back anyway," she moaned. " Ida s got 
 my school. I haven t got anything to do 
 there. Don t you think I can get a school 
 here?" 
 
 "I am afraid you can t," said Francis. 
 "You see, the schools have all begun now. 
 But you mustn t feel so bad. Don t." He 
 touched her shoulder gently. "Poor little 
 girl ! " said he. " Perhaps I ought not to 
 speak so to you, but you make me so sorry 
 for you I can t help it. Now you must 
 cheer up; you ll get along all right. You 
 won t be homesick a bit after a little while; 
 you ll like it here. There are some nice 
 girls about your age. My cousin Flora will 
 come and see you. She s older than you, 
 but she s a real nice girl. She s feeling 
 rather upset over something now, too. Now 
 come, let s get up and go and see some more 
 
150 JANE FIELD 
 
 of the monuments. You don t want a school. 
 Your aunt can lookout for you. I should 
 laugh if she couldn t. She s a rich woman, 
 and you re all she s got in the world. Now 
 come, let s cheer up, and go look at some 
 more gravestones." 
 
 "I guess I d rather go home," said Lois, 
 faintly. 
 
 "Too tired? Well, let s sit here a little 
 while longer, then. You mustn t go home 
 with your eyes red, your aunt will think I ve 
 been scolding you." 
 
 Francis looked down at her with smiling 
 gentleness. He was a handsome young man 
 with a pale straight profile, his face was very 
 steady and grave when he was not animated, 
 and his smile occasioned a certain pleasant 
 surprise. He was tall, and there was a 
 boyish clumsiness about his shoulders in his 
 gray coat. He reached out with a sudden 
 impulse, and took Lois little thin hand in 
 his own with a warm clasp. 
 
 "Now cheer up," said he. "See how 
 pleasant it looks down in the field." 
 
 They sat looking out over the field; the 
 horizon sky stretched out infinitely in 
 straight blue lines; one could imagine he 
 
" NOW CHEER UP, SAID HE" 
 
JANE FIELD 151 
 
 saw it melt into the sea which lay beyond; 
 the field itself, with its smooth level of 
 young grass, was like a waveless green sea. 
 A white road lay on the left, and a man 
 was walking on it with a weary, halting 
 gait; he carried a tin dinner-pail, which 
 dipped and caught the western sunlight at 
 every step. A cow lowed, and a pair of 
 white horns tossed over some bars at the 
 right of the field ; a boy crossed it with long, 
 loping strides and preliminary swishes of a 
 birch stick. Then a whistle blew with a 
 hoarse musical note, and a bell struck six 
 times. 
 
 Lois freed her hand and got up. "I 
 guess I must go," said she. Her cheeks 
 were blushing softly as she put on her hat. 
 
 "Well, I should like to sit here an hour 
 longer, but maybe your aunt will think it s 
 growing damp for you to be out-of-doors," 
 said Francis, standing up. 
 
 As they went between the graves, he 
 caught her hand again, and led her softly 
 along. When they reached the gate, he 
 dropped it with a kindly pressure. 
 
 " Now remember, you are going to cheer 
 up," he said, "and you re going to have 
 
152 JANE FIELD 
 
 real nice times here in Elliot." When they 
 reached the Maxwell house, his aunt was 
 coming down the walk. 
 
 " Oh, there you are! " she called out. " I 
 was jest goin home. Well, what did you 
 think of the Mason monument, Lois?" 
 
 " It s real handsome." 
 
 "Ain t it handsome? An wa n t the 
 flowers on Mis Perry s grave elegant? 
 Good-night. I m goin to have you an 
 your aunt come over an take tea to-mor 
 row, an then you can get acquainted with 
 Flora." 
 
 " Good-night, " said Francis, smiling, and 
 the aunt and nephew went on down the road. 
 She carried something bulky under her 
 shawl, and she walked with a curious side- 
 wise motion, keeping the side next her 
 nephew well forward. 
 
 " Don t you want me to carry your bun 
 dle, Aunt Jane?" Lois heard him say as 
 they walked off. 
 
 "No," the old woman replied, hastily 
 and peremptorily. "It ain t anything." 
 
 When Lois went into the house, her 
 mother gave her a curious look of stern de 
 fiance and anxiety. She saw that her eyes 
 
JANE FIELD 153 
 
 were red, as if she had been crying, but she 
 said nothing, and went about getting tea. 
 
 After tea the minister and his wife called. 
 Green River was a conservative little New 
 England village; it had always been the 
 custom there when the minister called to 
 invite him to offer a prayer. Mrs. Field 
 felt it incumbent upon her now; if she had 
 any reluctance, she did not yield to it. 
 Just before the callers left she said, with 
 the conventional solemn drop of the voice, 
 "Mr. Wheeler, won t you offer a prayer be 
 fore you go ? " 
 
 The minister was an elderly man with a 
 dull benignity of manner; he had not said 
 much; his wife, who was portly and full of 
 gracious volubility, had done most of the 
 talking. Now she immediately sank down 
 upon her knees with a wide flare of her skirts, 
 and her husband then twisted himself out of 
 his chair, clearing his throat impressively. 
 Mrs. Field stood up, and got down on her 
 stiff knees with an effort. Lois slid down 
 from the sofa and went out of the room. 
 She stole through her mother s into her own 
 bedroom, and locked herself in as usual, 
 then she lay down on her bed. She could 
 
154 JANE FIELD 
 
 hear the low rumble of the minister s voice 
 for some time; then it ceased. She heard 
 the chairs pushed back; then the minister s 
 wife s voice in the gracious crescendo of 
 parting; then the closing of the front door. 
 Shortly afterward she heard a door open, 
 and another voice, which she recognized as 
 Mrs. Maxwell s. The voice^talked on and 
 on; once in a while she heard her mother s 
 in brief reply. It grew dark ; presently she 
 heard heavy shuffling steps on the stairs; 
 something knocked violently against the 
 wall ; the side door, which was near her 
 room, was opened. Lois got up and peered 
 out of the window; her mother and Mrs. 
 Maxwell went slowly and painfully down 
 the driveway, carrying a bureau between 
 them. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 MRS. MAXWELL had invited Mrs. Field 
 and Lois to take tea with her the next after 
 noon, and had hinted there might be other 
 company. "There s a good many I should 
 like to ask," she had said, "but I ain t sit 
 uated so I can jest now, an it s a dreadful 
 puzzle to know who to leave out without 
 offendin them. I m goin to have the min 
 ister an his wife anyhow, an Lawyer Tux- 
 bury an his sister. I should ask Flora, but 
 if she comes the children have got to, an 
 I can t have them anyhow; they re the 
 worst-actin young ones at the table I ever 
 saw in my life. There s two or three men 
 I m goin to ask. Now you an Lois come 
 real early, Esther." 
 
 Mrs. Field s ideas of early, when invited 
 to spend the afternoon and take tea, were 
 primitive. Directly after the dinner dishes 
 were put away, about one o clock, she spoke 
 to Lois in the harsh, defiant tone she now 
 i55 
 
156 JANE FIELD 
 
 used toward her. "You d better go an 
 get ready," said she. " She wanted us to 
 come early." 
 
 A stubborn look came into Lois s face. 
 "I ain t going," said she, in an undertone. 
 
 " What did you say ? " 
 
 " I ain t going." 
 
 " Then you can stay to home, if you want 
 to get your mother into trouble an make 
 folks think we re guilty of somethin ." 
 
 Mrs. Field went into her bedroom to get 
 ready. Presently Lois went softly through 
 on her way to her own. Jane Field stood 
 before her little mirror, brushed her gray 
 hair in smooth curves around her ears, and 
 pinned her black woollen dress with a gold- 
 rimmed brooch containing her dead sister s 
 and her husband s hair. 
 
 Lois, before her own glass, twisted up 
 her pretty hair carefully; she pulled a few 
 curly locks loose on her temples, thinking 
 half indignantly and shamefacedly how she 
 should see that young man again. Lois was 
 bewildered and terrified, borne down by re 
 flected guilt, almost as if it were her own. 
 She had a wild dread of this going out to 
 tea, meeting more strangers, and seeing her 
 
JANE FIELD 157 
 
 mother act out a further lie; but she could 
 not help being a young girl, and arranging 
 those little locks on her forehead for Fran 
 cis Arms to see. 
 
 When she and her mother stepped out of 
 the door, a strong wind came in their faces. 
 
 "Wait a minute," said Mrs. Field. She 
 went back into the house and got Lois s 
 sack. "Put this on," said she. 
 
 And Lois put it on. 
 
 The wind was from the east, and had the 
 salt smell of the sea. All the white-flower 
 ing bushes in the yards and the fruit trees 
 bowed toward the west. There was a storm 
 of white petals. Lois, as she and her mother 
 walked against the wind, kept putting her 
 hand to her hair, to keep it in place. 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell s house was a large cottage 
 with a steep Gothic roof jutting over a pi 
 azza on each side. The house was an old 
 one, and originally very simple in its de 
 sign; but there had been evidently at some 
 time a flood-tide of prosperity in the for 
 tunes of its owner, which had left marks in 
 various improvements. There was a large 
 ornate bay-window in front, which con 
 trasted oddly with the severe white peak of 
 
158 JANE FIELD 
 
 wall above it; the piazzas had railings in 
 elaborate scroll-work; and the windows 
 were set with four large panes of glass, in 
 stead of the original twelve small ones. 
 The front yard was inclosed by a fine iron 
 fence. But the highest mark was shown 
 by a little white marble statue in the midst 
 of it. There was no other in the village 
 outside of the cemetery. Mrs. Jane Max 
 well s house was always described to inquir 
 ing strangers as the one with the statue in 
 front of it. 
 
 Lois, as they went up the walk, looked 
 wonderingly at this marble girl standing 
 straight and white in the midst of a votive 
 circle of box. The walk, too, was bordered 
 with box, and there was a strange pungent 
 odor from it. 
 
 Mrs. Field rang the door-bell, and she 
 and Lois stood waiting. Nobody came. 
 
 Mrs. Field rang again and again. "I m 
 goin round to the other door," she an 
 nounced finally, " Mebbe they don t use 
 this one." 
 
 Lois followed her mother around to the 
 other side of the house to the door opening 
 on the south piazza.. Mrs. Field rang again, 
 
JANE FIELD 159 
 
 and they waited: then she gave a harder 
 pull. A voice sounded unexpectedly close 
 to them from behind the blinds of a window: 
 
 "You jest walk right in," said the voice, 
 which was at once flurried and ceremonious. 
 " Open the door an go right in, an turn 
 to the right, an set down in the parlor. 
 I ll be in in jest a minute. I ain t quite 
 dressed." 
 
 Lois and her mother went in as they were 
 directed, and sat down in two of the parlor 
 chairs. The room looked very grand to 
 Mrs. Field. She stared at the red velvet 
 furniture, the tapestry carpet, and the long 
 lace curtains, and thought, with a hardening 
 heart, how, at all events, she was not de 
 frauding this other woman of a fine parlor. 
 It was to her mind much more splendid than 
 the sitting-room in the other house, with its 
 dim old-fashioned state, and even than the 
 great north parlor, whose furniture and 
 paper had been imported from England at 
 great cost nearly a hundred years ago. 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell did not appear for a half- 
 hour. Now and then they heard a scurry of 
 feet, the rattle of dishes, and the closing of 
 a door. They sat primly waiting. They 
 
l6o JANE FIELD 
 
 had not removed their wraps. Lois looked 
 very pale against the red back of her chair. 
 
 " Don t you feel well ? " asked her mother. 
 
 "Yes, I feel well enough," replied Lois. 
 
 "You look sick enough," said her mother 
 harshly. 
 
 Lois looked out of the window at the mar 
 ble girl in the yard, and her mouth quivered. 
 
 Presently Mrs. Maxwell came, in her soft 
 flurry of silk and old ribbons. She had on 
 a black lace head-dress trimmed with purple 
 flowers, and she wore her black kid gloves. 
 
 "I m real sorry I had to keep you wait- 
 in so long, Esther," said she; "but we 
 were kinder late about dinner. Do take off 
 your things. Flora she ll be down in a few 
 minutes; she s jest gone upstairs to change 
 her dress an comb her hair. It s a beauti 
 ful day, ain t it? " 
 
 The three settled themselves in the par 
 lor. Lois sat beside the window, her hands 
 folded meekly in her lap; her mother and 
 Mrs. Maxwell knitted. 
 
 "Don t you do any fancy-work, Lois?" 
 asked Mrs. Maxwell. 
 
 " No, she don t do much," replied her 
 mother for her. 
 
JANE FIELD l6l 
 
 "Don t she? I d like to know! Now 
 Flora, she does considerable. She s makin 
 a real handsome tidy now. She ll show you 
 how, Lois, if you d like to make one. It s 
 real easy an it don t cost a great deal but 
 then cost ain t much object to you." Mrs. 
 Maxwell laughed an unpleasant snigger. 
 Then she resumed: "Some tidies would 
 look real handsome on some of them great 
 bare chairs over to your house; there ain t 
 one there so far as I know. Thomas he 
 wouldn t never have a new thing in the 
 house; he was terrible set and notional 
 about it and he was terrible tight with his 
 money. I don t care if I do say it ; everybody 
 knows it; an I don t see why it s any worse 
 to say things that s true about the dead than 
 the livin . With some folks it s all Oh, 
 don t say nothin ; he s dead. Cover it all 
 up; he s buried an bury it too, an set all 
 the roses an pinks a-growin over it. I 
 tell you sometimes nettles will sprout, an 
 when they do, it don t make it any better 
 to call em pinks. Thomas Maxwell was ter 
 rible tight. I ain t forgot how he talked be 
 cause we bought this parlor furniture and put 
 big lights in the windows, an had that iron 
 ii 
 
162 JANE FIELD 
 
 fence. Then my poor husband had gone 
 into business with your husband, an they 
 seemed to be making money. Why shouldn t 
 he have bought a few things we d always 
 done without, I d like to know? You re 
 member what a time the old man made 
 when we bought these things, Esther, I sup 
 pose?" 
 
 "I can t say as I do," returned Mrs. 
 Field. 
 
 "Why, seems to me it s funny you don t. 
 You sure?" 
 
 Mrs. Field nodded. 
 
 "Well, it s queer you don t. He made 
 an awful time over it; but the worst of it 
 was over that image out in the yard. I 
 b lieve he always thought my poor husband 
 and yours failed up because we bought that 
 image. There was one thing about it, your 
 husband wa n t never extravagant, though, 
 was he? Thomas Maxwell couldn t say his 
 son wasted his money, whatever else he said. 
 Your husband was always prudent, wa n t 
 he, Esther?" 
 
 "Yes, I always thought Edward Maxwell 
 was prudent," returned Mrs. Field. 
 
 Lois, staring soberly and miserably out 
 
JANE FIELD 163 
 
 of the window, saw just then a stout girlish 
 figure, leant to one side with the weight of 
 a valise, pass hurriedly out of the yard. 
 She wondered if it was Flora Maxwell, and 
 watched the pink flowers in her hat and the 
 blue folds of her dress out of sight down the 
 street. 
 
 " I guess your husband took after his 
 father a little; I guess he was a little sav 
 in ," said Mrs. Maxwell. "I know Edward 
 looked kind of scared when he came over 
 one night an saw that image just after 
 we d got it set up, an he asked how much 
 it cost. It did cost considerable. We didn t 
 ever tell anybody just how much; but I 
 didn t care; I d always wanted one; an 
 I made up my mind I d rather have that if I 
 had to go without some other things. An 
 my husband wanted it too ; he was one of the 
 Maxwells, you know, an I think they all 
 had a taste for such things if they wa n t too 
 tight to get em. As for me, I had to do 
 without all my young days, an I have to 
 now except for the few things we got to 
 gether along then when my poor husband 
 seemed to be prospering; but I ve always 
 been crazy over images, an I ve always 
 
164 JANE FIELD 
 
 thought one in a front yard was about the 
 most ornamental thing anybody could have. 
 I ve told Flora a good many times that I 
 believed if I d had advantages when I was 
 young, I should have made images. Don t 
 you think that one s handsome, Esther? " 
 
 "Real handsome," said Mrs. Field. 
 
 " Some folks have found fault with it be 
 cause it didn t have more clothes on, but it 
 ain t as if it was in a cemetery. Of course 
 it would have to be dressed different if it 
 was. An it ain t anything but marble, 
 when you come right down to it. I think 
 there s such a thing as bein too particular, 
 for my part, don t you? " 
 
 "Yes, I do," replied Mrs. Field, looking 
 out at the marble figure. 
 
 "Well, I do. Mis Jay said, after my 
 husband died, that she should think I d like 
 to put up that image for a kind of monu 
 ment for him. I didn t feel as if I could 
 put up anything more than stones; but I 
 did think a little of it, and I knew if I did, 
 I should have to have some wings made on 
 it, and a cape or a shawl over the neck and 
 arms; but out here it s different. I look 
 out at it a good many times, an I m thank- 
 
JANE FIELD 165 
 
 ful it ain t got any more on, clothes do get 
 so out of fashion. You know how they look 
 in photographs sometimes. I s pose that s 
 the reason that the men who make these 
 images don t put any more on. There! I 
 must show you my photograph album, 
 Esther." 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell took a heavy album with 
 gilt clasps from the centre-table, and drew 
 a chair close to Mrs. Field. 
 
 " Now you get a chair, an come on the 
 other side, Lois," said she, "an I can show 
 em to both of you." 
 
 Lois obeyed, and Mrs. Maxwell turned 
 over the album leaves and explained the 
 pictures. 
 
 "This is a lady I used to know," said 
 she. "She lived in North Elliot. She s 
 dead now. That s her husband; he s mar 
 ried again. His second wife s kind of silly. 
 Ain t much like the first one. She was a 
 real stepper. That s Flora Lowe s baby 
 the first one -an that s Flora. I think it 
 flatters her. That s my Flora. It ain t 
 very good. She looks terrible sober. 
 There s my poor husband. I s pose you 
 remember him, Esther ? Of course you know 
 
1 66 JANE FIELD 
 
 how he used to look. Do you think it s a 
 good likeness? " 
 
 "I don t know. I guess it s pretty good, 
 ain t it?" stammered Mrs. Field. 
 
 "Well, some think it is, and some don t. 
 I ain t never liked it very well myself, but 
 it was all I had. It was taken some years 
 before he died. I guess jest about the time 
 you was down here. There! I s pose you 
 know whose this is?" 
 
 It was her own photograph that Mrs. 
 Field leant over and saw, and Lois on the 
 other side saw it also. 
 
 "Yes, I guess I do," she said. 
 
 " Was it a pretty good one of your sister ? " 
 
 There was a strange gulping sound in 
 Mrs. Field s throat. She did not answer. 
 Mrs. Maxwell thought she did not hear, and 
 repeated her question. 
 
 " No, I don t think twas, very," said Mrs. 
 Field hoarsely. 
 
 "Well, of course I don t know. I never 
 see her. You remember you gave this to 
 me when you was here. I always thought 
 you must look alike, judging from your 
 pictures. I never see pictures so much 
 alike in my life. I don t know how many 
 
JANE FIELD 167 
 
 folks have thought they were taken for 
 the same person, an I ve always thought 
 so too. If anything your sister s picture 
 looks more like you than your own does; 
 but I ve always told which was which by 
 that breast-pin in your sister s. Why, 
 you ve got on that breast-pin now, ain t 
 you, Esther?" 
 
 "Yes, I have," said Mrs. Field. 
 
 " I s pose your sister left it to you. 
 Well, Lois wouldn t want to wear it as I 
 know of. It s rather old for her. Why, 
 Lois, what s the matter?" 
 
 Lois had gotten up abruptly. " I guess 
 I ll go over to the window," said she, in a 
 quick trembling voice. 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell looked at her sharply. 
 "Why, you re dreadful pale. You ain t 
 faint, are you ? " 
 
 " No, ma am." 
 
 Mrs. Field turned over another page of 
 the album. Her pale face had a hard, in 
 different look. Mrs. Maxwell nudged her, 
 and nodded toward Lois in the window. 
 
 "She looks dreadful," she whispered. 
 
 "I don t see as she looks any worse than 
 she s been doin right along," said Mrs. 
 
1 68 JANE FIELD 
 
 Field, without lowering her voice. "What 
 baby is this?" 
 
 "It s Mis Robinson s; it s dead. Hadn t 
 I better get her something to take? I ve 
 got some currant wine. Maybe a little of 
 that would do her good." 
 
 "No, thank you; I don t care for any," 
 Lois interposed quickly. 
 
 " Hadn t you better have a little? You 
 look real pale." 
 
 " No, thank you." 
 
 " Now you needn t mind takin it, Lois, if 
 I/you do belong to any temperance society. 
 It wouldn t go to the head of a baby kit 
 ten." 
 
 "I m just as much obliged, but I don t 
 care for any," said Lois. 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell turned over a page of the 
 album. "That s Mis Robinson s sister. 
 She s dead too. She married a man over 
 at Milton, an didn t live a year," she said 
 ostentatiously. " Hadn t I better get her a 
 little? " she whispered. 
 
 " Mebbe it would do her good, if you ve 
 got it to spare, " Mrs. Field whispered back. 
 
 "Here s the minister s little boy that 
 died," said Mrs. Maxwell. "He wasn t 
 
JANE FIELD 169 
 
 sick but a day. He ate milk an cherries. 
 I wonder where Flora is? She didn t have 
 a thing to do but comb her hair and change 
 her dress. I guess I ll go call her." 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell s face was frowning with 
 innocent purpose, but there was a sly note 
 in her voice. She hurried out of the room 
 and they heard her call, "Flora! Flora!" 
 in the entry. Then they heard her foot 
 steps on the cellar stairs. 
 
 Lois turned to her mother. "Mother," 
 said she, " I can t stand it I can t stand it 
 anyway in the world." 
 
 Her mother turned over another page of 
 the photograph album. She looked at a 
 faded picture of a middle-aged woman, 
 whose severe and melancholy face seemed 
 to have betrayed all the sadness aka toil of 
 her whole life to the camera. She noted 
 deliberately the old-fashioned sweep of the 
 skirt quite across the little card, and the 
 obsolete sleeves, then she spoke as if she 
 were talking to the picture: "I m a-follow"^" 
 in out my own law an my own right, "said \ 
 she. "I ain t ashamed of it. If you want 
 to be you can." 
 
 "It s awful. Oh, mother, don t!" 
 
1 70 JANE FIELD 
 
 "A good many things are awful," said 
 her mother. "Injustice is awful; if you 
 want to set yourself up against your mother, 
 you can. I ve laid out this road that s just 
 an right, an I m goin on it; you can do 
 jest as you re a-mind to. If you want to 
 tell her when she comes back, you can. I 
 ain t ashamed of it, for I know I m doin 
 what is just an right." 
 
 Mrs. Field noted how the photographed 
 woman s dress was trimmed with fringe, 
 after the fashion of one she had worn twenty 
 years ago. 
 
 Lois looked across the room at her moth 
 er s pale, stern face bending over the album. 
 The garlands on Mrs. Maxwell s parlor car 
 pet might have been the flora of a whole age, 
 she and her mother seemed so far apart, 
 with that recession of soul which can cover 
 more than earthly spaces. To the young 
 girl with her scared, indignant eyes the 
 older woman seemed actually living and 
 breathing under new conditions in some 
 strange element. 
 
 " Flora, Flora, where be you ? " Mrs. Max 
 well called out in the entry. 
 
 They heard her climbing the chamber 
 
JANE FIELD IJI 
 
 stairs; but she soon came into the parlor 
 with a little glass of currant wine. 
 
 "Here, you d better drink this right 
 down," she said to Lois; "it won t hurt 
 you. I don t see where Flora is, for my 
 part. She ain t upstairs. Drink it right 
 down." 
 
 Lois drank the little glass of wine with 
 out any demur. Her mother glanced sharply 
 at the album as she took it. 
 
 "I can t imagine where Flora is," said 
 Mrs. Maxwell. 
 
 " I saw somebody go out of the yard a 
 while ago," said Lois. 
 
 "You did? Was she kind of stout with 
 light hair?" 
 
 "Yes, m." 
 
 " It was Flora then. I don t see where 
 she s gone. Mebbe she went down to the 
 store to get some more thread for her tidy. 
 Now I guess you ll feel better." 
 
 "Who s this a picture of?" asked Mrs. 
 Field. 
 
 " Hold it up. Oh, that s Mis John Rob- 
 bins! She s dead. Yes, I guess Flora must 
 have gone after that thread. She ll show 
 you how to make that tidy, Lois, if you 
 
172 JANE FIELD 
 
 want to learn; it s real handsome. I guess 
 she ll be here before long." 
 
 But when Mrs. Maxwell had shown her 
 guests all the photographs in the album 
 and a book of views in Palestine, and it was 
 nearly four o clock, Flora still had not 
 come. 
 
 " Do you see anybody comin ? " Mrs. 
 Maxwell kept asking Lois at the window. 
 
 Before Mrs, Maxwell spoke, a nervous 
 vibration seemed to seize upon her whole 
 body. She cleared her throat sharply. It 
 was like a premonitory click of machinery 
 before motion, and Lois waited, numb with 
 fear, for what she might say. Suppose she 
 should suddenly suspect, and should cry out, 
 " Is this woman here Esther Maxwell ? " 
 
 But all Mrs. Maxwell s thoughts were on 
 her absent daughter. "I don t see where 
 she is," said she. " Here she s got to make 
 cream-tartar biscuits for tea, an it s most 
 time for the folks to come." 
 
 "I m afraid we came too early," said 
 Mrs. Field. 
 
 "Oh, no, you didn t," returned Mrs. Max 
 well politely. " It ain t half as pleasant 
 goin as late as they do here when they re 
 
JANE FIELD 173 
 
 asked out to tea. You don t see anything 
 of em; they begin to eat jest as soon as 
 they come, an it seems as if that was all 
 they come for. The old-fashioned way of 
 goin right after dinner, an takin* your 
 sewin s, a good deal better, accordin to my 
 way of thinkin , but they ain t done so for 
 years here. Elliot is a pretty fashionable 
 place. I s pose it must be very different 
 up in Green River, where you come from?" 
 
 "Yes, I guess tis," said Mrs. Field. 
 
 The front gate clicked, and Mrs. Max 
 well peered cautiously around a lace cur 
 tain. Two ladies in their best black dresses 
 came up the walk, stepping with a pleasant 
 ceremony. 
 
 "There s Mis Isaac Robbins an Ann 
 Liza White," Mrs. Maxwell whispered agi 
 tatedly. "I shall have to go right out in 
 the kitchen an make them biscuits the min 
 ute they get here. I don t see what Flora 
 Maxwell is thinkin of." 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell greeted her friends at the 
 door with a dignified bustle, showed them 
 into her bedroom to lay aside their bonnets; 
 then she introduced them to Mrs. Field and 
 Lois in the parlor. 
 
174 JANE FIELD 
 
 " There ! " said she ; " now I ve got to let 
 you entertain each other a few minutes. 
 I ve got something to see to. Flora she s 
 stepped out, an I guess she s forgot how 
 late tis." 
 
 After Mrs. Maxwell had left the room, 
 the guests sat around with a kind of sojemn 
 primness as if they were in meeting; they 
 seemed almost hostile. The elder of the 
 new-comers took out her knitting, and fell 
 to work. She was a tall, pale, severely 
 wrinkled woman, and a ruffled trimming on 
 her dress gave her high shoulders a curiously 
 girlish air. Finally the woman who had 
 come with her asked pantingly how Mrs. 
 Field liked Elliot, and if she thought it 
 changed much. The color flashed over her 
 little face, with its softly scalloping profile, 
 as she spoke. Her hair was crimped in 
 even waves. She wore nice white ruching 
 in her neck and sleeves, and flat satin folds 
 crossed each other exactly over her flat 
 chest. Her nervous self-consciousness did 
 not ruffle her fine order, and she did not 
 smile as she spoke. 
 
 "I like it pretty well," replied Mrs. 
 Field. "I dunno as I can tell whether 
 
JANE FIELD 175 
 
 it s changed much or not." She knitted 
 fast. 
 
 "The meetin -house has been made over 
 since you was here," volunteered the elder 
 woman. She did not look up from her knit 
 ting. 
 
 Presently Lois, at the window, saw Mr. 
 Tuxbury s sister, Mrs. Lowe, coming, and 
 the minister s wife, hurrying with a volumi 
 nous swing of her skirts, in her wake. The 
 minister s wife had been calling, but Mrs. 
 Lowe, who was a little deaf, had not heard 
 her, and it was not until she shut the iron 
 gate almost in her face that she saw her. 
 Then the two came up the walk together. 
 Lois watched them. The coming of all 
 these people was to her like the closing in 
 of a crowd of witnesses, and for her guilt 
 instead of her mother s. The minister s 
 wife looked up and nodded graciously to her, 
 setting the bunch of red and white cherries 
 on her bonnet trembling. Lois inclined her 
 pale young face soberly in response. 
 
 " That girl looks sick," said the minister s 
 wife to Mrs. Lowe. 
 
 There was no more silence and primness 
 after the minister s wife entered. Her 
 
176 JANE FIELD 
 
 florid face beamed on them all with mas 
 terly smiles. She put the glasses fastened 
 to her high satin bosom with a gold chain 
 to her eyes, and began sewing on a white 
 apron. "I meant to have come before," 
 said she, " and brought my sewing and had 
 a real sociable time, but one thing after 
 another has delayed me; and I don t know 
 when Mr. Wheeler will get here; I left him 
 with a caller. But we have been delayed 
 very pleasantly in one respect;" she looked 
 smilingly and significantly at Mrs. Maxwell. 
 
 All the other ladies stared. Mrs. Max 
 well, standing in their midst, with a large 
 cambric apron over her dress, and a powder 
 of flour on one cheek, looked wonderingly 
 back at the minister s wife. 
 
 " I suppose you all know what I mean ? " 
 said Mrs. Wheeler, still smiling. " I sup 
 pose Mrs. Maxwell has not kept the glad 
 tidings to herself." In spite of her smiling 
 face, there was a slight doubt and hesitancy 
 in her manner. 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell s old face suddenly paled, 
 and at the same time grew alert. Her black 
 eyes, on Mrs. Wheeler s face, were sharply 
 bright. 
 
JANE FIELD 177 
 
 " Mebbe I have, an mebbe I ain t," said 
 she, and she smiled too. 
 
 "Well," said the minister s wife, "I told 
 Flora that her mother must be a brave wo 
 man to invite company to tea the afternoon 
 her daughter was married, and I thought we 
 all ought to appreciate it." 
 
 The other women gasped. Mrs. Max 
 well s face was yellow-white in its frame 
 work of curls; there was a curious noise in 
 her throat, like a premonitory click of a 
 clock before striking. 
 
 "Well," said she, "Flora d had this day 
 set for the weddin for six months. When 
 her uncle died, we talked a little about 
 puttin of it off, but she thought twas a 
 bad sign. So it seemed best for her to get 
 married without any fuss at all about it. 
 An I thought if I had a little company to 
 tea, it would do as well as a weddin ." 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell s old black eyes travelled 
 slowly and unflinchingly around the com 
 pany, resting on each in turn as if she had 
 with each a bout of single combat. The 
 other women s eyes were full of scared ques 
 tionings as they met hers. 
 
 " They got off in the three-o clock train," 
 
 12 
 
178 JANE FIELD 
 
 remarked the minister s wife, trying to speak 
 easily. 
 
 " That was the one they d talked of," said 
 Mrs. Maxwell calmly. "Now I guess I 
 shall have to leave you ladies to entertain 
 each other a few minutes." 
 
 When Mrs. Maxwell had left the room, 
 the ladies stared at each other. 
 
 "Do you s pose she didn t know about 
 it?" whispered Mrs. Lowe. 
 
 " I don t know," whispered the minister s 
 wife. " I was very much afraid she didn t 
 at first. I began to feel very nervous. I 
 knew Mr. Wheeler would have been much 
 distressed if he had suspected anything 
 clandestine." 
 
 " Did she have a new dress?" asked Mrs. 
 Robbins. 
 
 "No," replied the minister s wife; "and 
 that was one thing that made me suspicious. 
 She wore her old blue one, but George Free 
 man wore a nice new suit." 
 
 "I heard," said Mrs. Lowe, "that Flora 
 had all her under-clothes made before old 
 Mr. Maxwell died, an she hadn t got any 
 of her dresses. I had it pretty straight. 
 She told my Flora." 
 
JANE FIELD 179 
 
 " I had heard that the wedding was post 
 poned on account of Mr. Maxwell s death, 
 and so I was a little surprised when Mr. 
 Wheeler came to me and said they were in 
 the parlor to be married," said the minis 
 ter s wife; "but I put on my dress as quick 
 as I could, and went in to witness it." 
 
 "How did Flora appear?" asked Mrs. 
 Lowe. 
 
 "Well, I thought she looked rather sober, 
 but I don t know as she looked any more so 
 than girls usually do when they re married. 
 I have seen them come to the parsonage 
 looking more as if they were going to their 
 own funerals than their weddings, they 
 were so scared and quiet and sober. Now 
 
 Flora " The minister s wife stopped 
 
 short, she heard Mrs. Maxwell coming and 
 she turned the conversation with a jolt of 
 conscience into another channel. " Yes, it 
 is very dry," said she effusively; "we need 
 rain very much indeed." 
 
 The little woman with the crimped hair 
 colored very painfully. 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell made frequent errands into 
 the room, and her daughter s wedding had 
 to be discussed guardedly. Always after 
 
l8o JANE FIELD 
 
 she went out, the women looked at each 
 other in an agony of inquiry. 
 
 "Do you s pose she knew?" they whis 
 pered. 
 
 Mrs. Field said nothing; she sat grimly 
 quiet, knitting. Lois looked silently out 
 of the window. Both of them knew that 
 Mrs. Maxwell had not known of her daugh 
 ter s wedding. Presently a man s voice 
 could be heard out in the kitchen. 
 
 " It s Francis," said Mrs. Lowe. " I won 
 der if he knew?" 
 
 Lois started, and blushed softly, but no 
 body noticed her. 
 
 There was a deep silence in the parlor ; the 
 women were listening to the hum of voices 
 in the kitchen. 
 
 "Don t you think it s dreadful close 
 here?" said Mrs. Lowe. 
 
 "Yes, I think it is," assented the minis* 
 ter s wife. 
 
 " I think it Would be a good plan to open 
 the door a little ways," said Mrs. Lowe, and 
 she opened it cautiously. 
 
 Still they could distinguish nothing from 
 the hum of voices out in the kitchen. 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell was in reality speaking low 
 
JANE FIELD I "8 1 
 
 lest they should hear, although she was 
 clutching her nephew s arm hard, and the 
 veins in her thin temples and her throat were 
 swelling purple. When he had entered she 
 had sprung at him. " Did you hear about 
 it? I want to know if you knew about it," 
 said she, grasping his arm with her wiry 
 fingers, as if she were trying to wreak her 
 anger on him. 
 
 "Knew about what?" said Francis won- 
 deringly. " What is the matter, Aunt Jane ? " 
 
 " Did you know Flora went to the minis 
 ter s and got married this afternoon ? " 
 
 "No," said Francis slowly, " I didn t; 
 but I knew she would, well enough." 
 
 "Did Flora tell you?" 
 
 " No, she didn t tell me, but I knew she 
 wouldn t do anything else." 
 
 "Knew she wouldn t do anything else? 
 I d like to know what you re talkin about, 
 Francis Arms." 
 
 " I knew as long as she was Flora Max 
 well, and her wedding was set for to-day 
 three months ago, it wasn t very likely that 
 old Mr. Maxwell s dying and not leaving her 
 his money, and your not liking it, was going 
 to stop her." 
 
182 JANE FIELD 
 
 "Hadn t it ought to have stopped her? 
 Hadn t the wishes of a mother that s slaved 
 for her all her life, and didn t want her to 
 get married without a silk gown to her back 
 to a man that ain t any prospects of being 
 able to buy her any, ought to have stopped 
 her, I d like to know?" 
 
 "I guess Flora didn t think much about 
 silk gowns, Aunt Jane," said Francis, and 
 his face reddened a little. " I guess she 
 didn t think much about anything but 
 George." 
 
 "George! What s George Freeman? 
 What s all the Freemans? I ain t never 
 liked them. They wa n t never up to our 
 folks. His mother ain t never had a black 
 silk dress to her name never had a thing 
 .j better than black cashmere, an they ain t 
 never had a thing but oil-cloth in their 
 front entry, an the Perry s ain t never no 
 ticed them either. I ain t never wanted 
 Flora to go into that family. I never felt 
 as if she was lookin high enough, an I 
 knew George couldn t get no kind of a 
 livin jest being clerk in Mason s store. 
 But I felt different about it before Thomas 
 died, for I thought she d have money enough 
 
JANE FIELD 183 
 
 of her own, an she was gettin a little on 
 in years, and George was good-lookin 
 enough. After Thomas died an left all his 
 money to Edward s wife, I hadn t an idea 
 Flora would be such a fool as to think of 
 marryin George Freeman. She d been bet 
 ter off if she d never been married. I 
 thought she d given up all notions of it." 
 
 "Well, don t you worry, Aunt Jane," said 
 Francis in a hearty voice. " Make the best 
 of it. I guess they ll get along all right. 
 If George can t buy Flora a silk dress I 
 will. I d have bought her one anyway if 
 I d known." 
 
 "You can stand up for her all you want 
 to, Francis Arms," cried his aunt. "It s 
 nothin more than I ought to expect. What 
 do you s pose I m goin to do? Here I am 
 with all these folks to tea an Flora gone. 
 She might have waited till to-morrow. 
 Here they are all pryin an susped:in . 
 But they shan t know if I die for it. They 
 shan t know that good-for-nothin girl went 
 off an got married unbeknown to me. 
 They ve had enough to crow over because 
 we didn t get Thomas Maxwell s money; 
 they shan t have this nohow. You ll have 
 
184 JANE FIELD 
 
 to lend me some money, an I m goin to 
 Boston to-morrow an I m goin to buy a silk 
 dress for Flora an get it made, so she can 
 go out bride when she comes home; an 
 they ve got to come here an board. I 
 might jest as well have the board-money as 
 them Freemans, an folks shan t think we 
 ain t on good terms. Can you let me have 
 some money to-morrow mornin ?" 
 
 "Of course I can, Aunt Jane," said Fran 
 cis soothingly. "I ll make Flora a wed 
 ding-present of it." 
 
 "I don t want it for a weddin -present. 
 I ll pay you back some time. If you re 
 goin to give her a weddin -present, I d 
 rather you d give her somethin silver that 
 she can show. I ain t goin to have you 
 give her clothes for a weddin -present, as if 
 we was poor as the Freemans. You didn t 
 have any pride. There ain t anybody in 
 this family ever had any pride but me, an 
 I have to keep it up, an nobody liftin a 
 finger to help me. Oh, dear!" the old 
 woman quivered from head to foot. Her 
 face worked as if she was in silent hys 
 terics. 
 
 " Don t, Aunt Jane," whispered her neph- 
 
JANE FIELD 185 
 
 ew " don t feel so bad. Maybe it s all for 
 the best. Why, what is the matter with 
 your wrist?" 
 
 " I burned it takin the biscuit out of the 
 oven," she groaned. 
 
 "Why, it s an awful burn. Don t you 
 want something on it ? " 
 
 "No; I don t mind no burns. " 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Maxwell moved away from 
 her nephew. She began arranging the plates 
 on the table. "You go into the parlor," 
 said she sharply, "an don t you let em 
 know you didn t know about it. You act 
 kind of easy an natural when they speak 
 about it. You go right in; tea won t be 
 ready quite yet. I ve got something a little 
 extra to see about." 
 
 Francis went into the parlor and greeted 
 the guests, shaking hands with them rather 
 boyishly and awkwardly. The minister s 
 wife made room for him on the sofa beside 
 her. 
 
 " I suppose you d like to hear about your 
 cousin s wedding that I went to this after 
 noon," said she, with a blandness that had 
 a covert meaning to the other women, who 
 listened eagerly. 
 
l86 JANE FIELD 
 
 "Yes, I would," replied Francis, with 
 steady gravity. 
 
 " I suppose it wasn t such a surprise to 
 you as it was to us? " said she directly, and 
 the other women panted. 
 
 "No, I suppose it wasn t," said Francis. 
 
 Mrs. Lowe and Mrs. Robbins glanced at 
 each other. 
 
 "He knew," Mrs. Lowe motioned with her 
 lips, nodding. 
 
 " She didn t," Mrs. Robbins motioned 
 back, shaking her head. 
 
 Francis sat beside the minister s wife. 
 She talked on about the wedding, and he 
 listened soberly and assentingly. 
 
 "Well, it will be your turn next, Fran 
 cis," said she, with a sly graciousness, and 
 the young man reddened, and laughed con 
 strainedly. 
 
 Francis seldom glanced at Lois, but it 
 was as if her little figure in the window was 
 all he saw in the room. She seemed so near 
 his consciousness that she shut out all else 
 besides. Lois did not look at him, but 
 once in a while she put up her hand and 
 arranged the hair on her forehead, and after 
 she had done so felt as if she saw herself 
 
THE MINISTER, MR. TUXBURY, AND MRS. ROBBINS s 
 HUSBAND ALL ARRIVED TOGETHER " 
 
JANE FIELD 187 
 
 with his eyes. The air was growing cool ; 
 presently Lois coughed. 
 
 " You d better come away from that win 
 dow," said Mrs. Field, speaking out sud 
 denly. 
 
 There was no solicitude in her tone; it 
 was more like harsh command. Everybody 
 looked at Lois; Francis with an anxious 
 interest. He partly arose as if to make room 
 for her on the sofa, but she simply moved 
 her chair farther back. Presently Francis 
 went over and shut the window. 
 
 The minister, Mr. Tuxbury, and Mrs. Rob- 
 bins s husband all arrived together shortly 
 afterward. Mrs. Maxwell announced that 
 tea was ready. 
 
 "Will you please walk out to tea?" said 
 she, standing at the door, in a ceremonious 
 hush. And the company arose hesitatingly, 
 looking at one another for precedence, and 
 straggled out. 
 
 "You sit here," said Mrs. Maxwell to 
 Lois, and she pointed to a chair beside 
 Francis. 
 
 Lois sat down and fixed her eyes upon her 
 green and white plate while the minister 
 asked the blessing. 
 
l88 JANE FIELD 
 
 " It s a pleasant day, isn t it ? " said Fran 
 cis s voice in her ear, when Mrs. Maxwell 
 began pouring the tea. 
 
 "Real pleasant," said Lois. 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell had on her black gloves 
 pouring the tea. The women eyed them 
 surreptitiously. She wore them always in 
 company, but this was an innovation. They 
 did not know how she had put them on to 
 conceal the burn in her wrist which she had 
 gotten in her blind fury as she flew about 
 the kitchen preparing supper, handling all 
 the household utensils/ as if they were 
 weapons to attack Providence. 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell poured the tea and por 
 tioned out the sugar with her black-gloved 
 hands, and Mrs. Field stiffly buttered her 
 biscuits. Nobody dreamed of the wolves 
 at the vitals of these two old women. 
 
 However, the eyes of the guests from the 
 first had wandered to a cake in the centre 
 of the table. It was an oblong black cake; 
 it was set on a plate surrounded thickly with 
 sprigs of myrtle, and upon the top lay a 
 little bouquet of white flowers and green 
 leaves. Mrs. Lowe and Mrs. Robbins, who 
 sat side by side, looked at each other. Mrs. 
 
MRS. HENRY MAXWELL 
 
JANE FIELD 189 
 
 Lowe s eyes said, " Is that a wedding-cake ? " 
 and Mrs.Robbins s said: "I dunno; it ain t 
 frosted. It looks jest like a loaf she s had 
 on hand." 
 
 But nothing could exceed the repose and 
 dignity with which Mrs. Maxwell, at the 
 last stage of the meal, requested her nephew 
 to pass the cake to her. Nobody could 
 have dreamed as she cut it, every turn of 
 her burned wrist giving her pain, of the 
 frantic haste with which she had taken that 
 old fruit cake out of the jar down-cellar, 
 and pulled those sprigs of myrtle from the 
 bank under the north windows. 
 
 " Will you have some weddin -cake ? " said 
 she. 
 
 The ladies each took a slice gingerly and 
 respectfully. Mrs. Lowe and Mrs. Robbins 
 nodded to each other imperceptibly. The 
 cake was not iced with those fine devices 
 which usually make a wedding-loaf, it was 
 rather dry, and not particularly rich; but 
 Mrs. Maxwell s perfect manner as she cut 
 and served it, her acting on her own little 
 histrionic stage, h^^jwayed^them^jto Jier 
 will. Mrs. Lowe and Mrs. Robbins both 
 thought she knew. But the minister s wife 
 
IQO JANE FIELD 
 
 still doubted; and later, when the other 
 women were removed from the spell of her 
 acting, their old suspicions returned. It 
 was always a mooted question in Elliot 
 whether or not Mrs. Jane Maxwell had 
 known of her daughter s marriage. Not all 
 her subsequent behavior, her meeting the 
 young couple with open arms at the station 
 on their return, and Flora s appearance at 
 church the next Sunday in the silk dress 
 which her mother had concocted during her 
 absence, could quite allay the suspicion, al 
 though jt prevented it from gaining ground. 
 All that evening Mrs. Maxwell s courage 
 never flagged. She entertained her guests 
 as well as a woman of Sparta could have 
 done. She even had the coolness to pros 
 ecute other projects which she had in mind. 
 She kept Mrs. Field and Lois behind the 
 rest, and walked home with the mother, 
 that Francis might have the girl to himself. 
 And she went into the house with Mrs. 
 Field, and slipped a parcel into her pocket, 
 while the two young people had a parting 
 word at the gate. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 IT was a hot afternoon in August. Aman 
 da Pratt had set all her windows wide open, 
 but no breeze came in, only the fervid breath 
 of the fields and the white road outside. 
 
 She sat at a front window and darned a 
 white stocking; her long, thin arms and her 
 neck showed faintly through her old loose 
 muslin sacque. The muslin was white, 
 with a close-set lavender sprig, and she 
 wore a cameo brooch at her throat. The 
 blinds were closed, and she had to bend 
 low over her mending in order to see in the 
 green gloom. 
 
 Mrs. Babcock came toiling up the bank 
 to the house, but Amanda did not notice 
 her until she reached the front door. Then 
 she fetched a great laboring sigh. 
 
 " Oh, hum ! " said she, audibly, in a wrath 
 ful voice; "if I d had any idea of it, I 
 wouldn t have come a step." 
 
 Then Amanda looked out with a start. 
 191 
 
192 JANE FIELD 
 
 "Is that you, Mis Babcock ? " she called 
 hospitably through the blind. 
 
 "Yes, it s me what s left of me. Oh, 
 hum! Oh, hum! " 
 
 Amanda ran and opened the door, and 
 Mrs. Babcock entered, panting. She had 
 a green umbrella, which she furled with 
 difficulty at the door, and a palm-leaf fan. 
 Her face, in the depths of her scooping 
 green barege bonnet, was dank with per 
 spiration, and scowling with indignant mis 
 ery. She sank into a chair, and fanned 
 herself with a desperate air. 
 
 Amanda set her umbrella in the corner, 
 then she stood looking sympathetically at 
 her. " It s a pretty hot day, ain t it ? " said 
 she. 
 
 "I should think twas hot. Oh, hum!" 
 
 " Don t you want me to get you a tumbler 
 of water ?" 
 
 "I dunno. I don t drink much cold 
 water; it don t agree with me very well. 
 Oh, dear! You ain t got any of your beer 
 made, I s pose?" 
 
 "Oh, no, I ain t. I m dreadful sorry. 
 Don t you want a swaller of cold tea? " 
 
 "Well, I dunno but I ll have jest a 
 
JANE FIELD 193 
 
 swaller, if you ve got some. Oh, dear me, 
 hum! " 
 
 Amanda went out hurriedly, and returned 
 with a britannia teapot and a tumbler. She 
 poured out some tea, and Mrs. Babcock 
 drank with desperate gulps. 
 
 "I think cold tea is better for anybody 
 than cold water in hot weather," said 
 Amanda. " Won t you have another swaller, 
 Mis Babcock ? " 
 
 Mrs. Babcock shook her head, and Aman 
 da carried the teapot and tumbler back to 
 the kitchen, then she seated herself again, 
 and resumed her mending. Mrs. Babcock 
 fanned and panted, and eyed Amanda. 
 
 " You look cool enough in that old mus 
 lin sacque," said she, in a tone of vicious 
 injury. 
 
 "Yes, it is real cool. I ve kept this 
 sacque on purpose for a real hot day." 
 
 "Well, it s dreadful long in the shoulder 
 seams, cordin to the way they make em 
 now, but I s pose it s cool. Oh, hum! I 
 ruther guess I shouldn t have come out of 
 the house, if I d any idea how hot twas in 
 the sun. Seems to me it s hot as an oven 
 here. I should think you d air off your 
 13 
 
194 JANE FIELD 
 
 \1/ 
 
 house early in the mornin , an then shut 
 your windows tight, an keep the heat 
 out." 
 
 "I know some folks do that way," said 
 Amanda. 
 
 "Well, I always do, an I guess most 
 everybody does that s good housekeepers. 
 It makes a sight of difference." 
 
 Amanda said nothing, but she sat 
 straighter. 
 
 "I s pose you don t have to make any 
 fire from mornin till night; seems as if you 
 might keep cool." 
 
 " No, I don t have to." 
 
 "Well, I do. There I had to go to work 
 to-day an cook squash an beans an green 
 corn. The men folks ain t satisfied if they 
 don t have em in the time of em. I wish 
 sometimes there wasn t no such thing as 
 garden sauce. I tell em sometimes I guess 
 if they had to get the things ready an cook 
 em themselves, they d go without. Seems 
 sometimes as if the whole creation was like 
 a kitchen without any pump in it, specially 
 contrived to make women folks extra work. 
 Looks to me as if pease without pods could 
 have been contrived pretty easy, and it 
 
JANE FIELD 1 95 
 
 does seem as if there wasn t any need of 
 havin strings on the beans." 
 
 "Mis Green has got a kind of beans 
 without any strings," said Amanda. "She 
 brought me over some the other day, an 
 they were about the best I ever eat." 
 
 "Well, I know there is a kind without 
 strings," returned Mrs. Babcock ; "but I 
 ain t got none in my garden, an I never 
 shall have, It ain t my lot to have things 
 come easj". Seems as if it got hotter an 
 hotter. Why don t you open your front 
 door? " 
 
 " Jest as sure as I do, the house will be 
 swarmin with flies." 
 
 "You d ought to have a screen-door. I 
 made Adoniram make me one five years ago, 
 an it s a real nice one; but I know, of 
 course, you ain t got nobody to make one 
 for you. Once in a while it seems as if 
 men folks come in kinder handy, an* they dj/ 
 ought to, when women work an slave the 
 way I do to fill em up. Mebbe some time 
 when Adoniram ain t drove, I could get him 
 to make a door for you. Mebbe some time 
 next winter." 
 
 "I s pose it would be nice," replied 
 

 196 JANE FIELD 
 
 Amanda. "You re real kind to offer, Mis 
 Babcock. " 
 
 "Well, I s pose women that have men 
 folks to do for em ought d.o be kind of 
 obligin sometimes to them that ain t. I ll 
 see if I can get Adoniram to make you a 
 screen-door next winter. Seems to me it 
 does get hotter an hotter. For the land 
 sakes, Amanda Pratt! what are you cuttin 
 that great hole in that stockin heel for ? 
 Are you crazy ? " 
 
 Amanda colored. " The other stockin s 
 got a hole in it," said she, "an I m makin 
 em match." 
 
 "Cuttin a great big hole in a stockin 
 heel on purpose to darn ? Mandy Pratt, 
 you ain t? " 
 
 "I am," replied Amanda, with dignity. 
 
 "Well, if you ain t a double and twisted 
 old maid!" gasped Mrs. Babcock. 
 
 Amanda s long face and her neck were a 
 delicate red. 
 
 Mrs. Babcock laughed a loud, sarcastic 
 cackle. " I never did!" she giggled. 
 
 Amanda opened her mouth as if to speak, 
 then she shut it tightly, remembering the 
 offer of the screen-door. She had had so 
 
JANE FIELD 197 
 
 few gifts in her whole life that she had a 
 meek impulse of gratitude even if one were 
 thrust into her hand hard enough to hurt 
 her. 
 
 "Well," Mrs. Babcock continued, still 
 sniggering unpleasantly, " I don t want to 
 hurt your feelin s, Mandy; you needn t color 
 up so; but I can t help laughin ." 
 
 "Laugh, then, if you want to," said 
 Amanda, with a quick flash. She forgot the 
 screen-door. 
 
 Mrs. Babcock drew her face down quickly. 
 "Land, Mandy," said she, "don t get mad. 
 I didn t mean anything. Anybody knows 
 that old maids is jest as good as them that 
 gets married. I ain t told you what I come 
 over here for. I declare I got so terrible 
 heated up, I couldn t think of nothin . 
 Look here, Mandy." 
 
 Amanda mended on the stocking foot 
 drawn tightly over her left hand, and did 
 not raise her eyes. 
 
 "Mandy, you ain t mad, be you? You 
 know I didn t mean nothin ." 
 
 " I ain t mad," replied Amanda, in a con 
 strained tone. 
 
 "Well, there ain t nothin to be mad 
 
198 JANE FIELD 
 
 about. Look here, Mandy, how long is it 
 since Mis Field and Lois went?" 
 
 "About three months." 
 
 "Look here! I dunno what you ll say, 
 but I think Mis Green thought real fa 
 vorable of it. Do you know how cheap 
 you can go down to Boston an back now?" 
 
 Amanda looked up. " No. Why ? " said 
 she. 
 
 Mrs. Babcock stopped fanning and leaned 
 forward. " Amanda Pratt, you can go 
 down to Boston an back, an be gone a 
 week, for three dollars an sixty cents." 
 
 Amanda stared back at her in a startled 
 way. 
 
 "Let s you an me an Mis Green go 
 down an see Mis Field an Lois," said 
 Mrs. Babcock, in a tragic voice. 
 
 Amanda turned pale. " They don t live 
 in Boston," she said, with a bewildered air. 
 
 " We can go down to Boston on the early 
 train," replied Mrs. Babcock, importantly. 
 " Then we can have all the afternoon to 
 go round Boston an see the sights, an 
 then, toward night, we can go out to Mis 
 Field s. Land, here s Mis Green now! 
 She said she d come over as soon as Abby 
 
JANE FIELD 199 
 
 got home from school. I m jest tellin her 
 about it, Mis Green." 
 
 Mrs. Green stood in the doorway, smil 
 ing half-shamefacedly. " I s pose you think 
 it s a dreadful silly plan, Mandy," said she 
 deprecatingly. 
 
 Amanda got up and pushed the rocking- 
 chair in which she had been sitting toward 
 the new-comer. 
 
 "Set down, do," said she. "I dunno, 
 Mis Green. I ain t had time to think it 
 over, it s come so sudden." Amanda s face 
 was collected, but her voice was full of agi 
 tation. 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Green, " I ain t known 
 which end my head is on since Mis Bab- 
 cock come in an spoke of it. First I 
 thought I couldn t go nohow, an I dunno 
 as I can now. Still, it does seem dread 
 ful cheap to go down to Boston an back, 
 an I ain t been down more n four times 
 in the last twenty years. I ain t been out 
 gaddin much, an that s a fact." 
 
 " The longer you set down in one corner, 
 the longer you can," remarked Mrs. Bab- 
 cock. " I believe in goin while you ve got 
 a chance, for my part." 
 
200 JANE FIELD 
 
 "I ain t ever been to Boston," said 
 Amanda, and her face had the wishful, far 
 away look that her grandfather s might 
 have had when he thought of the sea. 
 
 " It does seem as if you d ought to go 
 once," said Mrs. Green. 
 
 "I say, let s start up an go!" cried Mrs. 
 Babcock, in an intense voice. 
 
 The three women looked at each other. 
 
 " Abby could keep house for father a few 
 days," said Mrs. Green, as if to some carp 
 ing judge; "an it ain t goin* to cost much, 
 an I know father d say go." 
 
 "Well, I guess I can cook up enough vict 
 uals to last Adoniram and the boys whilst 
 I m gone," said Mrs. Babcock defiantly; 
 " I guess they can get along. Adoniram 
 can make rye puddin , an they can fill up on 
 rye puddin an molasses. I m a-goin ." 
 
 "I dunno," said Amanda, trembling. 
 "I m dreadful afraid I hadn t ought to." 
 
 "Well, I should think you could go, if 
 Mis Green an I could, "said Mrs. Babcock. 
 "Here you ain t got nobody but jest your 
 self, an ain t got to leave a thing cooked 
 up nor nothin ." 
 
 "I would like to see Mis Field an Lois 
 
JANE FIELD 2OI 
 
 again, but it seems like a great undertakin ," 
 sighed Amanda. "Then it s goin to cost 
 something." 
 
 " It ain t goin to cost but jest three dol 
 lars an sixty cents," said Mrs. Babcock. 
 " I guess you can afford that, Mandy. There 
 your tenement didn t stay vacant two weeks 
 after the Fields went; the Simmonses came 
 right in. I guess if I had rent-money, an 
 nobody but myself, I could afford to travel 
 once in a while." 
 
 "Now you d better make up your mind 
 to go, Mandy," Mrs. Green said. "I think 
 Mis Field would be more pleased to see you 
 than anybody in Green River. That s one 
 thing I think about goin . I know she ll be 
 tickled almost to death to see us comin in. 
 Mis Field s a real good woman. There 
 wa n t anybody in town I set more by than 
 I did by her." 
 
 " When did you hear from her last, Man 
 dy?" interposed Mrs. Babcock. 
 
 "About a month ago." 
 
 "I s pose Lois is a good deal better?" 
 
 " Yes, I guess she is. Her mother said 
 she seemed pretty well for her. I s pose it 
 agrees with her better down there." 
 
202 JANE FIELD 
 
 " I s pose there was a good deal more fuss 
 made about her when she was here than 
 there was any need of," said Mrs. Babcock, 
 her whole face wrinkled upward contemptu 
 ously; "a great deal more fuss. There 
 wa n t nothin ailed the girl if folks had let 
 her alone, talkin an scarin her mother to 
 death. She was jest kind of run down with 
 the spring weather. Young girls wilt down 
 dreadful easy, an spring up again. I ve 
 seen em. Twa n t nothin ." 
 
 " Well, I dunno; she looked dreadfully," 
 Mrs. Green said, with mild opposition. 
 
 * Well, you can see how much it amounted 
 to," returned Mrs. Babcock, with a trium 
 phant sniff. " Folks ought to have been 
 ashamed of themselves, scarin Mis Field 
 the way they did about her. Seemed as if 
 they was determined to have Lois go into 
 consumption whether or no, an was goin 
 to push her in, if they couldn t manage it in 
 no other way. I s pose you ve sent all Mis 
 Field s things down there, Mandy?" 
 
 "The furniture is all up garret," said 
 Amanda. "All I ve sent down was their 
 clothes. Mi s Field had me pack em up 
 in their two trunks, an send em down to 
 
JANE FIELD 203 
 
 Lois. I didn t see why she didn t have me 
 mark em to her." 
 
 "I should think it was kind of queer," 
 said Mrs. Green. " Now s pose we go, what 
 had we better carry for clothes? We don t 
 need no trunk." 
 
 " Of course we don t," said Mrs. Babcock 
 promptly. " We can each carry a bag. We 
 ain t going to need much." 
 
 "I guess, if I went," said Amanda, "that 
 I should carry this sacque to slip on, if it s 
 as hot weather as tis now. I should have 
 to do it up, but that ain t much work." 
 
 Mrs. Babcock eyed it. "Well, I dunno," 
 said she; "it s pretty long in the shoul 
 der seams. I dunno how much they dress 
 down there where Mis Field lives. Mebbe 
 twould do." 
 
 "There s one thing I ve been thinkin 
 about," Mrs. Green said, with an anxious 
 air. " If we go down on that early train, 
 an stay all day in Boston, we shall have to 
 buy us something to eat; we should get 
 dreadful faint before we got out to Mis 
 Field s, and things are dreadful high in 
 those places." 
 
 "Oh, land!" cried Mrs. Babcock in a su- 
 
204 JANE FIELD 
 
 perior tone. "All we ve got to do is to 
 carry some luncheon with us. I ll make 
 some pies, and you can bake some cookies, 
 an then we ll set down in Boston Common 
 an eat it. That s the way lots of folks do. 
 That ain t nothin to worry about. Well, 
 now, I think it s about time for us to decide 
 whether or no we re goin . I ve got to go 
 home an git supper." 
 
 "I ll do jest as the rest say," said Mrs. 
 Green. "I s pose I can go. I s pose 
 father ll say I d better. An Abby she was 
 all for it, when I spoke about it to her. She 
 thinks she can have the Fay girl over to 
 stay with her, an she wants me to buy her 
 a dress in Boston, instead of gettin it 
 here." 
 
 "Well, "said Amanda, with a sigh she 
 was quite pale "I ll think of it." 
 
 "We ve got to make up our minds," said 
 Mrs. Babcock sharply. "There ain t time 
 for much thinkin . The excursion starts a 
 day after to-morrow." 
 
 "I ll have my mind made up to-morrow 
 mornin ," said Amanda. " I ve got to think 
 of it over-night, anyhow. I can t start right 
 up an say I ll go, without a minute to think 
 
JANE FIELD 205 
 
 about it." Her voice trembled nervously, 
 but decision underlay it. 
 
 " I don t see why it ain t time enough if 
 we decide to-morrow morning. I d ruther 
 like to think of it a little while longer," 
 said Mrs. Green. 
 
 Mrs. Babcock got up. "Well," said she, 
 "I ll send Adoniram round to-morrow 
 mornin , an you tell him what you ve de 
 cided. I guess I shall go whether or no. 
 I ve got three men folks to leave, an it s 
 a good deal more of an undertakin for me 
 than some, but I ain t easy scart. I b lieve 
 in goin once in a while." 
 
 "Well, I ll let you know in the mornin . 
 I jest want to think of it over-night," re 
 peated Amanda, with dignified apology. 
 
 She went to the door with her guests. 
 Mrs. Babcock spread her green umbrella, 
 and descended the steps with a stiff side-wise 
 motion. 
 
 "It is hotter than ever, I do believe," she 
 groaned. 
 
 " Well, now, I was jest thinkin it was a 
 little grain cooler," returned Mrs. Green, 
 following in her wake. Her back was 
 meekly bent; her face, shaded by a black 
 
2O6 JANE FIELD 
 
 sun-hat, was thrust forward with patient 
 persistency. " There, I feel a little breeze 
 now," she added. 
 
 " I guess all the breeze there is, is in your 
 own motion," retorted Mrs. Babcock. Her 
 green umbrella bobbed energetically. She 
 fanned at every step. 
 
 " Mebbe it s your fan," said the other 
 woman. 
 
 Amanda went into the house and shut 
 the door. She stood in the middle of the 
 parlor and looked around. There was a 
 certain amaze in her eyes, as if everything 
 wore a new aspect. " They can talk all 
 they ve a mind to," she muttered, "it s a 
 great undertakin . S pose anything hap 
 pened? If anything happened to them 
 whilst they were gone, there s folks enough 
 to home to see to things. S pose anything 
 happened to me, there ain t anybody. If I 
 go, I ve got to leave this house jest so. 
 I ve got to be sure the bureau drawers are 
 all packed up, an things swept an dusted, 
 so folks won t make remarks. There s other 
 things, too. Everything s got to be thought 
 of. There s the cat. I s pose I could get 
 Abby Green to come over an feed her, but 
 
JANE FIELD 207 
 
 I dassen t trust her. Young girls ain t to 
 be depended on. Ten chances to one she d 
 get to carryin on with that Fay girl an for- 
 git all about that cat. She won t lap her 
 milk out of anything but a clean saucer, 
 neither, and I don t believe Abby would 
 look out for that. She always seemed to 
 me kind of heedless. I dunno about the 
 whole of it." 
 
 Amanda shook her head; her eyes were 
 dilated; there was an anxious and eager 
 expression in her face. She went into the 
 kitchen, kindled the fire, and made herself 
 a cup of tea, which she drank absently. She 
 could not eat anything. 
 
 The cat came mewing at the door, and 
 she let her in and fed her. " I dunno 
 how she d manage," she said, as she 
 watched her lap the milk from the clean 
 saucer beside the cooking-stove. 
 
 After she had put away the cat s saucer 
 and her own tea-cup, she stood hesitating. 
 
 " Well, I don t care, " said she, in a decisive 
 tone; "I m goin to do it. It s got to be 
 done, anyhow, whether I go or not. It s 
 been on my mind for some time." 
 
 Amanda got out her best black dress from 
 
2O8 JANE FIELD 
 
 the closet, and sat down to alter the shoulder 
 seams. "I don t care nothin about this 
 muslin sacque," said she, "but I ain t goin 
 to have Mis Babcock measurin my shoulder 
 seams every single minute if I do go, an 
 they may be real dressy down where Mis 
 Field is." 
 
 Amanda sewed until ten o clock; then she 
 went to bed, but she slept little. She was 
 up early the next morning. Adoniram 
 Babcock came over about eight o clock; the 
 windows and blinds were all flung wide open, 
 the braided rugs lay out in the yard. He 
 put his gentle grizzled face in at one of the 
 windows. There was a dusty odor. Amanda 
 was sweeping vigorously, with a white hand 
 kerchief tied over her head. Her delicate 
 face was all of a deep pink color. 
 
 " Ann Lizy sent over to see if you d made 
 up your mind," said Adoniram. 
 
 Amanda started. " Good-mornin , Mr. 
 Babcock. Yes, you can tell her I have. 
 I m a-goin ." . 
 
 There was a reckless defiance of faith in 
 Amanda s voice. She had a wild air as she 
 stood there with the broom in a faint swirl 
 of dust. 
 
I DUN KNOW HOW SHE D MANAGE 
 
JANE FIELD 2OQ 
 
 "Well, Ann Lizy ll be glad you ve made 
 up your mind to. She s gone to bakin , 
 said the old man in the window. 
 
 "I ve got to bake some, too," said 
 Amanda. She began sweeping again. 
 
 " I ve jest been over to Mis Green s, an she 
 says she s goin if you do, " said Mr. Babcock. 
 
 "Well, you tell her I m goin , said 
 Amanda, with a long breath. 
 
 "I guess you ll have a good time," said 
 the old man, turning away. "I tell Ann 
 Lizy she can stay a month if she wants to. 
 Me an the boys can git along. " He laughed 
 a pleasant chuckle as he went off. 
 
 Amanda glanced after him. " I shouldn t 
 care if I had a man to leave to look after 
 the house," said she. 
 
 Amanda toiled all day; she swept and 
 dusted every room in her little domicile. 
 She put all her bureau drawers and closets 
 in exquisite order. She did not neglect 
 even the cellar and the garret. Mrs. Bab- 
 cock, looking in at night, found her rolling 
 out sugar gingerbread. 
 
 "For the land sakes, Mandy! " said she, 
 "what are you cookin by lamp-light for 
 this awful hot night?" 
 14 
 
2IO JANE FIELD 
 
 "I m makin a little short gingerbread 
 for luncheon." 
 
 " I don t see what you left it till this time 
 of day for. What you got them irons on the 
 stove for? " 
 
 " I ve got to iron my muslin sacque. I ve 
 got it all washed and starched." 
 
 "Ironin this time of day! I d like to 
 know what you ve been doin ever, since you 
 got up? " 
 
 " I ve been getting everything in order, in 
 case anything happened," replied Amanda. 
 She tried to speak with cool composure, but 
 her voice trembled. Her dignity failed her 
 in this unwonted excitement. 
 
 "What s goin to happen, for the land 
 sake?" cried Mrs. Babcock. 
 
 " I dunno. None of us know. Things 
 do happen sometimes." 
 
 Mrs. Babcock stared at her, half in con 
 tempt, half in alarm. " I hope you ain t 
 had no forewarnin that you ain t goin to 
 live nor anything," said she. " If you have, 
 I should think you d better stay to home." 
 
 " I ain t had no more forewarnin than any 
 body," said Amanda. "All is, there ain t 
 nobody in the other part of the house. The 
 
JANE FIELD 211 
 
 Simmonses all went yesterday to make a 
 visit at her mother s, and in case anything 
 should happen, I m goin to leave things 
 lookin so I m willin anybody should see 
 em." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Babcock, "I guess you 
 couldn t leave things so you d be willin 
 anybody d see em if you had three men 
 folks afoul of em for three days. I ve 
 got to be goin if I git up for that four- 
 o clock train in the mornin . I ve made fif 
 teen pies an five loaves of bread, besides 
 bakin beans, to say nothin of a great pan 
 ful of doughnuts an some cake. I ain t 
 been up garret nor down cellar cleanin , an 
 if anything happens to me, I s pose folks ll 
 see some dust and cobwebs, but I ve done 
 considerable. Adoniram s goin to take us 
 all down in the covered wagon; he ll be 
 round about half-past four." 
 
 Amanda lighted Mrs. Babcock out the 
 front door; then she returned to her tasks. 
 She did not go to bed that night. She had 
 put her bedroom in perfect order, and would 
 not disturb it. She lay down on her hard 
 parlor sofa awhile, but she slept very little. 
 At two o clock she kindled a fire, made some 
 

 212 JANE FIELD 
 
 tea, and cooked an egg for her breakfast. 
 Then she arrayed herself in her best dress. 
 She was all ready, her bag and basket of 
 luncheon packed and her bonnet on, at three 
 o clock. She sat down and folded her hands 
 to wait, but presently started up. "I m 
 going to do it," said she. "I don t care, 
 I am. I can t feel easy unless I do." 
 
 She got some writing-paper and pen and 
 ink from the chimney cupboard and sat 
 down at the table. She wrote rapidly, her 
 lips pursed, her head to one side. Then 
 she folded the paper, wrote on the outside, 
 and arranged it conspicuously on the top of 
 a leather-covered Bible on the centre of the 
 table. " There! " said she. " It ain t regu 
 lar, I s pose, an I ain t had any lawyer, but 
 I guess they d carry out my wishes if any 
 thing happened to me. I ain t got nobody 
 but Cousin Rhoda Hill, an Cousin Maria 
 Bennet; an Rhoda don t need a cent, an 
 Maria d ought to have it all. This house 
 will make her real comfortable, an my 
 clothes will fit her. I s pose I d have this 
 dress on, but my black alpaca s pretty good. 
 I s pose Mis Babcock would laugh, but 
 I feel a good deal easier about goin ." 
 
JANE FIELD 213 
 
 Amanda waited again; she blew out her 
 lamp, for the early dawnlight strengthened. 
 She listened intently for wheels, and looked 
 anxiously at the clock. " It would be dread 
 ful if we got left, after all," she said. 
 
 Suddenly the covered wagon came in 
 sight; the white horse trotted at a good 
 pace. Adoniram held the reins and his 
 wife sat beside him. Mrs. Green peered out 
 from the back seat. "Mandy! Mandy! " 
 Mrs. Babcock called, before they reached the 
 gate. But Amanda was already on the front 
 door-step, fitting the key in the lock. 
 
 " I m all ready," she answered, "jest as 
 soon as I can get the door locked." 
 
 "We ain t got any too much time," cried 
 Mrs. Babcock. 
 
 Amanda went down the path with her 
 basket and black valise and parasol. Adon 
 iram got out and helped her into the wagon. 
 She had to climb over the front seat. As 
 they drove off she leaned out and gazed 
 back at the house. Her tortoise-shell cat 
 was coming around the corner. " I do hope 
 the cat will get along all right," she said 
 agitatedly. "I ve fed her thismornin , an 
 I ve left her enough milk till I get back 
 
214 JANE FIELD 
 
 a saucerful for each day an Abby said 
 she d give her all the scraps off the table, 
 you know, Mis Green." 
 
 Mrs. Babcock turned around. " Now, 
 Amanda Pratt," said she, "I d like to know 
 how in creation you ve left a saucerful of 
 milk for that cat for every day till you get 
 back." 
 
 "I set ten saucers full of milk down cel 
 lar," replied Amanda, still staring back anx 
 iously at the cat " one for each day. I 
 got extra milk last night on purpose. She 
 likes it jest as well if it s sour, if the sau 
 cer s clean." 
 
 Amanda looked up with serious wonder at 
 Mrs. Babcock, who was laughing shrilly. 
 Mrs. Green, too, was smiling, and Adoniram 
 chuckled. 
 
 "For the land sakes, Amanda Pratt!" 
 gasped Mrs. Babcock, "you don t s pose 
 that cat is goin to stint herself to a saucer 
 a day? Why, she ll eat half of it all up 
 before night." 
 
 Amanda stood up in the carriage. " I ve, 
 got to go back, that s all," said she. "I 
 ain t goin to have that cat starve." 
 
 "Land sakes, set down!" cried Mrs. 
 
JANE FIELD 215 
 
 Babcock. " She won t starve. She can 
 hunt." 
 
 "Abby ll feed her, I know," said Mrs. 
 Green, pulling gently at her companion s 
 arm. " Don t you worry, Mandy. " 
 
 "Well, I guess I shouldn t worry about 
 a cat with claws to catch mice in warm 
 weather," said Mrs. Babcock, with a sarcas 
 tic titter. "It s goin to be a dreadful hot 
 day. Set down, Mandy. There ain t no use 
 talkin about goin back. There ain t any 
 time. Mis Green an me ain t goin to stay 
 to home on account of a cat." 
 
 Amanda subsided weakly. She felt 
 strange., and not like herself. Mrs. Babcock 
 seemed to recognize it by some subtle intui 
 tion. She would never have daied use such 
 a tone toward her without subsequent con 
 cessions. Amanda had always had a certain 
 dignity and persistency which had served 
 to intimidate too presuming people; now 
 she had lost it all, 
 
 "I ll write to Abby, jest as soon as I get 
 down there, to give the cat her milk," whis 
 pered Mrs. Green soothingly ; and Amanda 
 was comforted. 
 
 The covered wagon rolled along the coun- 
 
2l6 JANE FIELD 
 
 try road toward the railroad station. Ad- 
 oniram drove, and the three women sat up 
 straight, and looked out with a strange in 
 terest, as if they had never seen the land 
 scape before. The meadows were all filmy 
 with cobwebs; there were patches of corn 
 in the midst of them, and the long blades 
 drooped limply. The flies swarmed thickly 
 over the horse s back. The air was scald 
 ing; there was a slight current of cool 
 freshness from the dewy ground, but it 
 would soon be gone. 
 
 " It ain t goin to rain," said Mrs. Bab- 
 cock, "there s cobwebs on the grass, but 
 it s goin to be terrible hot." 
 
 They reached the station fifteen minutes 
 before the train. After Adoniram had 
 driven away, they sat in a row on a bench 
 on the platform, with their baggage around 
 them. They did not talk much ; even Mrs. 
 Babcock looked serious and contemplative 
 in this momentary lull. Their thoughts 
 reached past and beyond them to the homes 
 they had left, and the new scenes ahead. 
 
 When the whistle of the train sounded 
 they all stood up, and grasped their valises 
 tightly. Mrs. Green looked toward the 
 
o 
 
 i 
 
JANE FIELD 2 17 
 
 coming train; her worn face under her black 
 bonnet, between its smooth curves of gray 
 hair, had all the sensitive earnestness which 
 comes from generations of high breeding. 
 She was, on her father s side, of a race of old 
 New England ministers. 
 
 "Well, I dunno but I ve been pretty 
 faithful, an minded my household the way 
 women are enjoined to in the Scriptures; 
 mebbe it s right for me to take this little 
 vacation," she said, and her serious eyes 
 were full of tears, 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 WHEN Jane Field, in her assumed charac 
 ter, had lived three months in Elliot, she 
 was still unsuspected. She was not liked, 
 and that made her secret safer. She was 
 full of dogged resolution and audacity. 
 She never refused to see a caller nor accept 
 an invitation, but people never called upon 
 her nor invited her when they could avoid 
 it, and thus she was not so often exposed 
 to contradictions and inconsistencies which 
 might have betrayed her. Elliot people not 
 only disliked her, they were full of out 
 spoken indignation against her. The defi 
 ant, watchful austerity which made her re 
 pel when she intended to encourage their 
 advances had turned them against her, but 
 more than that her supposed ill-treatment 
 of her orphan niece. 
 
 When Lois, the third week of her stay in 
 Elliot, had gone to a dressmaker and asked 
 for some sewing to do, the news was well 
 over the village by night. "That woman, 
 
JAXE FIELD 219 
 
 who has all John Maxwell s money, is too 
 stingy and mean to support her niece, and 
 she too delicate to work," people said. 
 The dressmaker to whom Lois appealed did 
 not for a minute hesitate to give her work, 
 although she had already many women 
 sewing for her, and she had just given some 
 to Mrs. Maxwell s daughter Flora. 
 
 "There!" said she, when Lois had gone 
 out. u I ain t worth five hundred dollars in 
 the world, I don t know how she ll sew, and 
 I didn t need any extra help it s takin it 
 right out of my pocket, likely as not but I 
 couldn t turn off a cat that looked up at me 
 the way that child did. She looks pinched. 
 1 don t believe that old woman gives her 
 enough to eat. Of all the mean work 
 worth all that money, and sending her niece 
 out to get sewing to do! I don t believe 
 but what she s most starved her." 
 
 It was true that Lois for the last week had 
 not had enough to eat, but neither had her 
 mother. The two had been eking out the 
 remnants of Lois s school-money as best 
 they might. There were many provisions 
 in the pantry and cellar of the Maxwell 
 house, but they would touch none of them. 
 
220 JANE FIELD 
 
 Some money which Mr. Tuxbury had paid 
 to Mrs. Field the first instalment from 
 the revenue of her estate she had put care 
 fully away in a sugar-bowl on the top shelf 
 of the china closet, and had not spent a penny 
 of it. After Lois began to sew, her slender 
 earnings provided them with the most frugal 
 fare. Mrs. Field eked it out in every way 
 that she could. She had a little vegetable 
 garden and kept a few hens. As the season 
 advanced, she scoured the berry pastures, 
 and spent many hours stooping painfully 
 over the low bushes. Three months from 
 the time at which she came to Elliot, on the 
 day on which her neighbors started from 
 Green River to visit her, she was out in the 
 pasture trying to fill her pail with blueber 
 ries. All the sunlight seemed to centre on 
 her black figure like a burning-glass; the 
 thick growth of sweet-fern around the blue 
 berry bushes sent a hot and stifling aroma 
 into her face; the wild flowers hung limply, 
 like delicate painted rags, and the rocks 
 were like furnaces. Mrs. Field went out 
 soon after dinner, and at half-past five she 
 was still picking; the berries were not very 
 plentiful. 
 
:.- 
 
 I 
 
JANE FIELD 221 
 
 Lois, at home, wondered why she did not 
 return, and the more because there was a 
 thunder-storm coming up. There was a 
 heavy cloud in the northwest, and a steady 
 low rumble of thunder. Lois sat out in 
 the front yard sewing; her face was pink 
 and moist with the heat; the sleeves of her 
 old white muslin dress clung to her arms. 
 Presently the gate clicked, and Mrs. Jane 
 Maxwell s daughter Flora came toward her 
 over the grass. 
 
 "Hullo!" said she. 
 
 " Hullo! " returned Lois. 
 
 " It s a terrible day isn t it ? " 
 
 "Terrible!" 
 
 Lois got up, but Flora would not take her 
 chair. She sat down clumsily on the pine 
 needles, and fanned herself with the cover 
 of a book she carried. 
 
 "I ve just been down to the library, an 
 got this book," she remarked. 
 
 " Is it good ? " 
 
 " They say it s real good. Addie Green s 
 been reading it." 
 
 Flora wore a bright blue cambric dress 
 and a brown straw hat. Her figure was 
 stout and high-shouldered, her dull-complex- 
 
222 JANE FIELD 
 
 ioned face full of placid force. She was not 
 very young, and she looked much older than 
 she was; and people had wondered how 
 George Freeman, who was handsome and 
 much courted by the girls, as well as younger 
 than she, had come to marry her. They 
 also wondered how her mother, who had 
 been so bitterly opposed to the match, had 
 given in, and was now living so amicably 
 with the young couple: they had been on 
 the alert for a furious village feud. But 
 when Flora and her husband had returned 
 from their stolen wedding tour, Mrs. Max 
 well had met them at the depot and bidden 
 them home with her with vociferous ardor, 
 and the next Sunday Flora had gone to 
 church in the new silk. There had been a 
 conflict of two wills, and one had covered 
 its defeat with a parade of victory. Mrs. 
 Maxwell had talked a great deal about her 
 daughter s marriage and how well she had 
 done. 
 
 "There s a thunder-shower coming up," 
 Flora said after a little. "Where s your 
 aunt? " 
 
 " Gone berrying." 
 
 "She ll get caught in the shower if she 
 
JANE FIELD 223 
 
 don t look out. What makes you work so 
 steady this hot day, Lois?" 
 
 " I ve got to get this done." 
 
 "There isn t any need of your working 
 so hard." 
 
 Lois said nothing. 
 
 " If your aunt ain t willing to do for you 
 it s time you had somebody else to," per 
 sisted Flora. " I wish I had had the money 
 on your account. I wouldn t have let you 
 work so. You look better than you did 
 when you came here, but you look tired. I 
 heard somebody else say so the other day." 
 
 Flora said the last with a meaning smile. 
 
 Lois blushed. 
 
 "Yes, I did," Flora repeated. "I don t 
 suppose you can guess who twas?" 
 
 Lois said nothing; she bent her hot face 
 closer over her work. 
 
 "See here, Lois," said Flora. She hesi 
 tated with her eyes fixed warily on Lois; 
 then she went on : " What makes you treat 
 Francis so queer lately?" 
 
 "I didn t know I had," replied Lois, 
 evasively. 
 
 "You don t treat him a bit the way you 
 did at first." 
 
224 JANE FIELD 
 
 "I don t know what you mean, Flora." 
 
 "Well, if you don t, it s no matter," re 
 turned Flora. " Francis hasn t said anything 
 about it to me; you needn t think he has. 
 All is, you ll never find a better fellow than 
 he is, Lois Field, I don t care where you go." 
 
 Flora spoke with slow warmth. Lois s 
 face quivered. "If you don t take care 
 you ll never get married at all," said Flora, 
 half laughing. 
 
 Lois sat up straight. "I shall never get 
 married to anybody," said she. "That s 
 one thing I won t do. I ll die first." 
 
 Flora stared at her. " Why, why not ? " 
 said she. 
 
 "I won t." 
 
 "I never knew what happiness was until 
 I got married," said Flora. Then she flushed 
 up suddenly all over her steady face. 
 
 Lois, too, started and blushed, as if the 
 other girl s speech had struck some answer 
 ing chord in her. The two were silent a 
 moment. Lois sewed; Flora stared off 
 through the trees at the darkening sky. 
 The low rumble of thunder was incessant. 
 
 " George is one of the best husbands that 
 ever a girl had," said Flora, in a tender, 
 
JANE FIELD 225 
 
 shamed voice; "but Francis would make 
 just as good a one." 
 
 Lois made no reply. She almost turned 
 her back toward Flora as she sewed. 
 
 "I guess you ll change your mind some 
 time about getting married," Flora said. 
 
 "No, I never will," returned Lois. 
 
 "Well, I suppose if you don t, you ll have 
 money enough to take care of yourself with 
 some time, as far as that goes," said Flora. 
 Her voice had a sarcastic ring. 
 
 " I shall never have one cent of that Max 
 well money," said Lois, with sudden fire. 
 "I ll tell you that much, once for all!" 
 Her eyes fairly gleamed in her delicate, 
 burning face. 
 
 "Why, you scare me! What is the mat 
 ter?" cried Flora. 
 
 Lois took a stitch. " Nothing, said she. 
 
 "You d ought to have the money, of 
 course," said Flora, in a bewildered way. 
 "Who else would have it?" 
 
 " I don t know, " said Lois. " You are the 
 one that ought to have it." 
 
 Flora laughed. " Land, I don t want it! " 
 said she. " George earns plenty for us to 
 live on. She s your own aunt, and of course 
 15 
 
226 JANE FIELD 
 
 she ll have to leave it to you, if she does 
 act so miserly with it now. There, I know 
 she s your aunt, Lois, and I don t suppose 
 I ought to speak so, but I can t help it. 
 After all, it don t make much difference, 
 or it needn t, whether you have it or not. 
 I ve begun to think money is the very least 
 part of anything in this world, and I want 
 you to be looking out for something else, 
 too, Lois." 
 
 " I can t look out for money, or something 
 else, either. You don t know," said Lois, 
 in a pitiful voice. 
 
 There came a flash, and then a great crash 
 of thunder. The tempest was about to break. 
 
 Flora started up abruptly. " I must run," 
 she shouted through a sudden gust of wind. 
 "Good-by." 
 
 Flora sped out of the yard. Her blue 
 dress, lashing around her feet, changed color 
 in the ghastly light of the storm. Some fly 
 ing leaves struck her in the face. At the 
 gate a cloud of dust from the road nearly 
 blinded her. She realized in a bewildered 
 fashion that there were three women on the 
 other side struggling frantically with the 
 latch. 
 
JANE FIELD 227 
 
 "Does Mis Jane Field live here?" in 
 quired one of them, breathlessly. 
 
 "No," replied Flora; "that isn t her 
 name." 
 
 "She don t?" 
 
 "No," gasped Flora, her head lowered 
 before the wind. 
 
 "Well, I want to know, ain t this the old 
 Maxwell place? " 
 
 "Yes," said Flora. 
 
 Some great drops of rain began to fall; 
 there was another flash. The woman strug 
 gled mightily, and prevailed over the gate- 
 latch. She pushed it open. " Well, I don t 
 care," said she, "I m comin in, whether or 
 no. I dunno but my bonnet-strings will 
 spot, an I ain t goin to have my best 
 clothes soaked. It s mighty funny nobody 
 knows where Mis Field lives; but this is 
 the old Maxwell house, where she wrote 
 Mandy she lived, an I m goin in." 
 
 Flora stood aside, and the three women 
 entered with a rush. Lois, standing near 
 the door front, saw them coming through 
 the greenish-yellow gloom, their three black 
 figures scudding before the wind like black- 
 sailed ships. 
 
 "Land sakes! " shrieked out Mrs. Bab- 
 
228 JANE FIELD 
 
 cock, " there s Lois now ! Lois, how are you ? 
 I d like to know what that girl we met at 
 the gate meant telling us they didn t live 
 here. Why, Lois Field, how do you do? 
 Where s your mother? I guess we d better 
 step right in, an not stop to talk. It s an 
 awful tempest. I m dreadful afraid my bon 
 net trimmin will spot." 
 
 They all scurried up the steps and into 
 the house. Then the women turned and 
 kissed Lois, and raised a little clamor of 
 delight over her. She stood panting. She 
 did not ask them into the sitting-room. 
 
 CHer head whirled. It seemed to her that 
 ;he en& of everything had come. 
 
 But Mrs. Babcock turned toward the sit 
 ting-room door. She had pulled off her 
 bonnet, and was wiping it anxiously with 
 her handkerchief. "This is the way, ain t 
 it?" she said. 
 
 Lois followed them in helplessly. The 
 room was dark as night, for the shutters were 
 closed. Mrs. Babcock flung one open per 
 emptorily. 
 
 "We ll break our necks here, if we don t 
 have some light," she said. The hail began 
 to rattle on the window-panes. 
 
JANE FIELD 22p 
 
 " It s hailin ! " the women chorussed. 
 
 "Are your windows all shut?" Mrs. Bab- 
 cock demanded of Lois. 
 
 And the girl said, in a dazed way, that the 
 bedroom windows were open, and then went 
 mechanically to shut them. 
 
 "Shut the blinds, too!" screamed Mrs. 
 Babcock. "The hail s comin in this side 
 terrible heavy. I m afraid it ll break the 
 glass." Mrs. Babcock herself, her face 
 screwed tightly against an onslaught of wind 
 and hail, shut the blinds, and the room was 
 again plunged in darkness. " We ll have 
 to stan it," said she. "Mis Field don t 
 want her windows all broke in. That s 
 dreadful sharp." 
 
 Thunder shook the house like an explo 
 sion. The women looked at each other with 
 awed faces. 
 
 "Where is your mother? Why don t she 
 come in here?" Mrs. Babcock asked excit 
 edly of Lois returning from the bedroom. 
 
 "She s gone berrying," replied Lois, 
 feebly. She sank into a chair. 
 
 "Gone berryin !" screamed Mrs. Bab 
 cock, and the other women echoed her. 
 
 "Yes m." 
 
230 JANE FIELD 
 
 "When did she go?" 
 
 "Right after dinner." 
 
 " Right after dinner, an she ain t got 
 home yet! Out in this awful tempest! 
 Well, she ll be killed. You ll never see her 
 again, that s all. A berry pasture is the most 
 dangerous place in creation in a thunder- 
 shower. Out berryin in all this hail an 
 thunder an lightnin ! " 
 
 Mrs. Green pressed close up to Lois. 
 "Ain t you any idea where she s gone?" 
 said she. " If you have, I ll jest slip off my 
 dress skirt, an you give me an old shawl, 
 an I ll go with you an see if we can t find 
 her." 
 
 "I ll go, too," cried Amanda. "Don t 
 you know which way they went, Lois?" 
 
 Just then the south side-door slammed 
 sharply. 
 
 "She s come," said Lois, in a strained 
 voice. 
 
 "Well, I m thankful!" cried Mrs. 
 Green. "Hadn t you better run out an 
 help her off with her wet things, Lois?" 
 
 But the sitting-room door opened, and 
 Mrs. Field stood there, a tall black shadow 
 hardly shaped out from the gloom. The 
 
JANE FIELD 231 
 
 women all arose and hurried toward her. 
 There was a shrill flurry of greeting. Mrs. 
 Field s voice arose high and terrified above 
 it. 
 
 "Who is it?" she cried out. "Who s 
 here ? " 
 
 " Why, your old neighbors, Mrs. Field. 
 Don t you know us Mandy an Mis Green 
 an Mis Babcock ? We come down on an 
 excursion ticket to Boston only three dol 
 lars an sixty cents an we thought we d 
 surprise you." 
 
 "Ain t you dreadful wet, Mis Field?" 
 interposed Mrs. Green s solicitous voice. 
 
 " You d better go and change your dress," 
 said Amanda. 
 
 "When did you come?" said Mrs. Field. 
 
 "Jest now. For the land sakes, Mis 
 Field, your dress is soppin wet! Do go an 
 change it, or you ll catch your death of 
 cold." 
 
 Mrs. Field did not stir. The hail pelted 
 on the windows. " Now, you go right along 
 an change it," cried Mrs. Babcock. 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Field vaguely, " meb- 
 be I d better." She fumbled her way un 
 steadily toward her bedroom door. 
 
232 JANE FIELD. 
 
 " You go help her; it s dark as a pocket," 
 said Mrs. Babcock imperatively to Lois; and 
 the girl followed her mother. 
 
 "They act dreadful queer, seems to me," 
 whispered Mrs. Babcock, when the bedroom 
 door was closed. 
 
 "I guess it s jest because they re so sur 
 prised to see us," Mrs. Green whispered 
 back. 
 
 "Well, if I ain t wanted, I can go back to 
 where I come from, if I do have to throw 
 the money away," Mrs. Babcock said, almost 
 aloud. " I think they act queer, both on 
 em. I should think they might seem a lit 
 tle mite more pleased to see three old neigh 
 bors so." 
 
 " Mebbe it s the thunder-shower that s 
 kind of dazed em," said Amanda. She 
 herself was much afraid of a thunder-shower. 
 She had her feet well drawn up, and her 
 hand over her eyes. 
 
 "It s a mercy Mis Field wa n t killed 
 out in it," said Mrs. Green. 
 
 " I don t see what in creation she stayed 
 out so in it for," rejoined Mrs. Babcock. 
 "She must have seen the cloud comin up. 
 This is a pretty big house, ain t it? An I 
 
JANE FIELD 233 
 
 should think it was furnished nice, near s 
 I can see, but it s terrible old-fashioned." 
 
 Amanda huddled up in her chair, looked 
 warily at the strange shadows in this un 
 familiar room, and wished she were at home. 
 
 The storm increased rather than dimin 
 ished. When Mrs. Field and Lois re 
 turned, all the women, at Mrs. Babcock s 
 order, drew their chairs close together in 
 the middle of the room. 
 
 "I ve always heard that was the safest 
 place, " said she. " That was the way old Dr. 
 Barnes always used to do. He had thirteen 
 children; nine of em was girls. When 
 ever he saw a thunder-shower comin up, he 
 used to make Mis Barnes an the children 
 go into the parlor, an then they d all set 
 in the middle of the floor, an he d offer 
 prayer. He used to say he d do his part an 
 get in the safest place he knew of, an then 
 ask the Lord to help him. Mandy Pratt! " 
 
 "What say, Mis Babcock ? " returned 
 Amanda, trembling. 
 
 " Have you got your hoop-skirt on ? " 
 
 Amanda sprang up. " Yes, I have. I 
 forgot it! " 
 
 "For the land sakes! I should think 
 
234 JANE FIELD 
 
 you d thought of that, scared as you pretend 
 to be in a thunder-shower. Do go in the 
 bedroom an drop it off this minute! Lois, 
 you go with her." 
 
 While Amanda and Lois were gone there 
 was a slight lull in the storm. 
 
 " I guess it s kind of lettin up," said Mrs. 
 Babcock. " This is a nice house you ve got 
 here, ain t it, Mis Field?" 
 
 "Yes, tis," replied Jane Field. 
 
 " I s pose there was a good deal of nice 
 furniture in it,wa n t there?" 
 
 "Considerable." 
 
 "Was there nice beddin ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I s pose there was plenty of table-cloths 
 an such things ? Have you bought any new 
 furniture, Mis Field?" 
 
 "No, I ain t," said Mrs. Field. She 
 moved her chair a little to make room for 
 Lois and Amanda when they returned. Lois 
 sat next her mother. 
 
 "I didn t know but you had. I thought 
 mebbe the furniture was kind of old-fash 
 ioned. Have you oh, ain t it awful?" 
 
 The storm had gathered itself like an an 
 imal for a fiercer onset. The room was 
 
JANE FIELD ^235 
 
 lit up with a wild play of blue fire. The 
 thunder crashed closely in its wake. 
 
 "Oh, we hadn t ought to talk of anything 
 but the mercy of the Lord an our sins!" 
 wailed Mrs. Babcock. " Don t let s talk of 
 anything else. That struck somewheres 
 near. There s no knowin where it ll come 
 next. I never see such a shower. We don t 
 have any like it in Green River. Oh, I 
 hope we re all prepared! " 
 
 "That s the principal thing," said Mrs. 
 Green, in a solemn trembling voice. 
 
 Amanda said nothing. She thought of 
 her will; a vision of the nicely ordered 
 rooms she had left seemed to show out before 
 her in the flare of the lightning; in spite of 
 her terror it was a comfort to her. 
 
 "We d ought to be thankful in a time like 
 this that we ain t any of us got any great 
 wickedness on our consciences," said Mrs. 
 Babcock. " It must be terrible for them that 
 have, thinkin they may die any minute 
 when the next flash comes. I don t envy 
 em." 
 
 "It must be terrible," assented Mrs. 
 Green, like an amen. 
 
 " It s bad enough with the sins we ve got 
 
236 JANE FIELD 
 
 on all our minds, the best of us," continued 
 Mrs. Babcock. " Think how them that s 
 broken God s commandments an committed 
 murders an robberies must feel. I shouldn t 
 think they could stan it, unless they burst 
 right out an confessed to everybody should 
 you, Mis Field? " 
 
 " I guess so," said Mrs. Field, in a hard 
 voice. 
 
 Mrs. Babcock said no more; somehow 
 she and the others felt repelled. They 
 all sat in silence except for awed ejacula 
 tions when now and then came a louder 
 crash of thunder. All at once, after a 
 sharp flash, there was a wild clamor in the 
 street; a bell clanged out. 
 
 "It s struck! it s struck! " shrieked Mrs. 
 Babcock. 
 
 "Oh, it ain t this house, is it?" Amanda 
 wailed. 
 
 They all rushed to the windows and flung 
 open the blinds; a red glare filled the room; 
 a large barn nearly opposite was^.^on_fire. 
 They clutched each other, and watched the 
 red gush of flame. The barn burned as if 
 lighted at every corner. 
 
 "Are there any cows or horses in it?" 
 
JANE FIELD 237 
 
 panted Mrs. Babcock. " Oh, ain t it dread 
 ful ? Are there any, Mis Field?" 
 
 "I dunno, " said Mrs. Field. 
 
 She stood like a grim statue, the red light 
 of the fire in her face. Lois was sobbing. 
 Mrs. Green had put an arm around her. 
 
 "Don t, Lois, don t," she kept saying, in 
 a solemn, agitated voice. "The Lord will!/ 
 overrule it all; it is He speakin in it." 
 
 The women watched while the street filled 
 with people, and the barn burned down. 
 It did not take long. The storm began to 
 lull rapidly. The thunder came at long 
 intervals, and the hail turned into a gentle 
 rain. Finally Mrs. Field went out into the 
 kitchen to prepare supper, and Lois followed 
 her. 
 
 "I never see anything like the way she 
 acts," said Mrs. Babcock cautiously. 
 
 " She always was kind of quiet," rejoined 
 Mrs. Green. 
 
 "Quiet! She acts as if she d had thunder 
 an lightnin an hail an barns burnt down 
 every day since she s been here. I never | 
 see anybody act so queer." 
 
 "I most wish I d stayed to home," said 
 Amanda. 
 
238 JANE FIELD 
 
 "Well, I wouldn t be backin out the 
 minute I d got here, if I was you," returned 
 Mrs. Babcock sharply. " It s comin 
 cooler, that s one thing, an you won t need 
 that white sacque. I should think you d 
 feel kinder glad of it, for them shoulder 
 seams did look pretty long to what they 
 wear em. An I dare say folks here are 
 pretty dressy. I declare I shall be kinder 
 glad when supper s ready. I feel real faint 
 to my stomach, as if I d like somethin 
 hearty. I should have gone into one of 
 them places in Boston if things hadn t been 
 so awful dear." 
 
 But when Mrs. Field finally called them 
 out to partake of the meal which she had 
 prepared, there was little to satisfy an eager 
 appetite. Nothing but the berries for which 
 she had toiled so hard, a few thin slices of 
 bread, no butter, and no tea, so little sugar 
 in the bowl that the guests sprinkled it 
 sparingly on their berries. 
 
 "I ll tell you what tis," Mrs. Babcock 
 whispered when they were upstairs in their 
 chambers that night, " Mis Field has grown 
 tight since she got all that money. Some 
 times it does work that way. I believe we 
 
JANE FIELD 239 
 
 should starve to death if we stayed here long. 
 If it wa n t for gittin my money s worth, I 
 should be for goin home to-morrow. No 
 butter an no tea after we ve come that long 
 journey. I never heard of such a thing. " n 
 
 "I don t care anything about the butter 
 and the tea," rejoined Amanda, "but I 
 most feel as if I d better go home to-mor 
 row." 
 
 " If," said Mrs. Babcock, " you want to go 
 home instead of gittin the good of that 
 excursion ticket, that you can stay a week 
 on, you can, Amanda Pratt. I m goin to 
 stay now, if it kills me." 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE three women from Green River had 
 been six days in Elliot, they were going to 
 leave the next morning, and Mrs. Field s 
 secret had not been discovered. Nothing 
 but her ill favor in the village had saved 
 her. Nobody except Mrs. Jane Maxwell 
 had come to call. Mrs. Babcock talked and 
 wondered about it a great deal to Mrs. 
 Green and Amanda. 
 
 " It s mighty queer, seems to me, that 
 there ain t a soul but that one old woman 
 set foot inside this house since we ve been 
 here," said she. " It don t look to me as if 
 folks here thought much of Mis Field. I 
 know one thing: there couldn t three strange 
 ladies come visitin to Green River without 
 I should feel as if I d ought to go an call 
 an find out who they was, an pay em a 
 little attention, if I thought anything at all 
 of the folks they was visitin . There s con- 
 
JANE FIELD 241 
 
 siderable more dress here, but I guess, on 
 the whole, it ain t any better a place to live 
 in than Green River." 
 
 The three women had not had a very 
 lively or pleasant visit in Elliot. Jane 
 Field, full of grim defiance of her own guilt 
 and misery and of them, was not a success 
 ful entertainer of guests. She fed them as 
 best she could with her scanty resources, 
 and after her house-work was done, took 
 her knitting-work and sat with them in her 
 gloomy sitting-room, while they also kept 
 busy at the little pieces of handiwork they 
 had brought with them. 
 
 They talked desperately of Green River 
 and the people there; they told Mrs. Field 
 of this one and that one whom she had 
 known, and in whom she had been inter 
 ested; but she seemed to have forgotten 
 everybody and everything connected with 
 her old life. 
 
 " Ida Starr is goin to marry the minister 
 in October," Mrs. Babcock had said the day 
 but one after their arrival. "You know 
 there was some talk about it before you 
 went away, Mis Field. You remember 
 hearin about it, don t you?" 
 16 
 
242 JANE FIELD 
 
 "I guess I don t remember it," said Mrs. 
 Field. 
 
 "Don t remember it? Why, Mis Field, 
 I should think you d remember that! It 
 was town s talk how she followed him up. 
 Well, she s got him, an she s been teachin 
 you know she had Lois s school to get 
 money for her weddin outfit. They say she s 
 got a brown silk dress to be married in, an a 
 new black silk one too. Should you think 
 the Starrs could afford any such outlay ? " 
 
 "I dunno as I should," replied Mrs. 
 Field. 
 
 When she went out of the room presently, 
 Mrs. Babcock turned to the others. " She 
 didn t act as if she cared no more about it 
 than nothin at all," she said indignantly. 
 " She don t act to me as if she had any more 
 interest in Green River than Jerusalem, nor 
 the folks that live there. I keep thinkin I 
 won t tell her another thing about it. I 
 never see anybody so changed as she is." 
 
 " Mebbe she ain t well," said Mrs. Green. 
 "I think she looks awfully. She s as thin 
 as a rail, an* she ain t a mite of color. 
 Lois looks better." 
 
 " Mis Field never did have any flesh on 
 
JANE FIELD 243 
 
 her bones," Mrs. Babcock rejoined; " an as 
 for Lois, nothin ever did ail her but spring 
 weather an fussin . I guess Mis Field s 
 well enough, but havin all this property 
 left her has made a different woman of her. 
 I ve seen people s noses teeter up in the air 
 when their purses got heavy before now." 
 
 "It ain t that," said Amanda. 
 
 " What is it, then ? " asked Mrs. Babcock 
 sharply. 
 
 "I dunno. I know one thing: home s 
 the best place for everybody if they ve got 
 one." 
 
 "I don t think tis always. I b lieve 
 when you re off on an excursion ticket in 
 makin the best of things, for my part. To 
 morrow s Sunday, an I expect to enjoy the 
 meetin an seein the folks. I shall be 
 kinder glad, for my part, not to see exactly 
 the same old bonnets an made-over silks 
 that I see every Sunday to home. I like a 
 change sometimes. It puts new ideas into 
 your head, an I feel as if I had spunk 
 enough to stan it." 
 
 On Sunday Mrs. Field led her procession 
 of guests into church; and they, in their 
 best black gowns and bonnets, sat listening 
 
244 JANE FIELD 
 
 to the sermon, and looking about with 
 decorous and furtive curiosity. 
 
 Mrs. Babcock had a handsome fan with 
 spangles on it, and she fanned herself airily, 
 lifting her head up with the innocent im 
 portance of a stranger. 
 
 She had quite a fine bonnet, and a new 
 mantle with some beaded fringe on it; when 
 she stirred, it tinkled. She looked around 
 and did not see another woman with one as 
 handsome. It was the gala moment of her 
 visit to Elliot. Afterward she was wont to 
 say that when she was in Elliot she did not 
 go out much, nobody came to the house 
 nor anything, but she went to meeting and 
 she enjoyed that. 
 
 It was the evening following that Mrs. 
 Jane Maxwell came. Mrs. Field, sitting 
 with her guests, felt a strange contraction 
 of her heart when she heard the door open. 
 
 "Who s that comin ?" asked Mrs. Bab- 
 cock. 
 
 "I guess it s old Mr. Maxwell s brother 
 Henry s wife," replied Mrs. Field. 
 
 She arose. Lois went quickly and softly 
 out of the other door. She felt sure that 
 exposure was near, and her first impulse was 
 
JANE FIELD 245 
 
 to be out of sound and hearing of it. She 
 sat there in the dark on the front door-step 
 awhile, then she went into the house. Sit 
 ting there in doubt, half hearing what might 
 be dreadful to hear, was worse than cer 
 tainty. She had at once a benumbing terror 
 and a fierce desire that her mother should 
 be betrayed, and withal a sudden impulse 
 of loyalty toward her, a feeling that she 
 would stand by her when everybody else 
 turned against her. 
 
 She crept in and sat down. Mrs. Max 
 well was talking to Mrs. Babcock about the 
 state of the church in Elliot. It was won 
 derful that this call was made without ex 
 posure, but it was. Twice Mrs. Maxwell 
 called Jane Field "Esther," but nobody 
 noticed it except Amanda, and she said 
 nothing. She only caught her breath each 
 time with a little gasp. 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell addressed herself almost 
 wholly to Mrs. Babcock concerning her 
 daughter, her daughter s husband, and the 
 people of Elliot. Mrs. Babcock constantly 
 bore down upon her, and swerved her aside 
 with her own topics. Indeed, all the con 
 versation lay between these two. There 
 
246 JANE FIELD 
 
 was a curious similarity between them. 
 They belonged apparently to some one sub 
 division of human nature, being as birds of 
 the same feather, and seemed to instinctively 
 recognize this fact. 
 
 They were at once attracted, and regarded 
 each other with a kind of tentative cordi 
 ality, which might later become antagonism, 
 for they were on a level for either friendship 
 or enmity. 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell made a long call, as she was 
 accustomed to do. She was a frequent visi 
 tor, generally coming in the evening, and 
 going home laden with spoil, creeping from 
 cover to cover like a cat. She was afraid 
 to have her daughter and nephew know of 
 all the booty she obtained. She had many 
 things snugly tucked away in bureau drawers 
 and the depths of closets which she had car 
 ried home under her shawl by night. Jane 
 Field was only too glad to give her all for 
 which she asked or hinted. 
 
 To-night, as Mrs. Maxwell took leave of 
 the three strange women standing in a prim 
 row, she gave a meaning nod to Mrs. Field, 
 who followed her to the door. 
 
 "I was thinkin about that old glass 
 
JANE FIELD 247 
 
 preserve-dish," she whispered. "I don t 
 s pose it s worth much, but if you don t use 
 it ever, I s pose I might as well have it. 
 Flora has considerable company now, an 
 ours ain t a very good size." 
 
 When Mrs. Maxwell had gone out of the 
 yard with the heavy cut-glass dish pressed 
 firmly against her side under her black silk 
 shawl, Jane Field felt like one who had had 
 a reprieve from instant execution, although 
 she had already suffered the slow torture. 
 She went back to her guests as steady-faced 
 as ever. She was quite sure none of them 
 had noticed Mrs. Maxwell s calling her 
 Esther, but her eyes were like a wary ani 
 mal s as she entered the room, although not 
 a line in her long pale face was unsteady. 
 
 The time went on and nobody said, 
 "Why did she call you Esther instead of 
 Jane?" 
 
 They seemed as usual. Mrs. Babcock 
 questioned her sharply about Mrs. Maxwell 
 how much property she had and if her 
 daughter had married well. Amanda never 
 looked in her face, and said nothing, but 
 she was often quiet and engrossed in a new 
 tidy she was knitting. 
 
248 JANE FIELD 
 
 "They don t suspect," Mrs. Field said to 
 herself. 
 
 They were going home the next day but 
 one; she went to bed nearly as secure as 
 she had been for the last three months. 
 Mrs. Maxwell was to be busy the next day 
 she had spoken of making pear sauce 
 she would not be in again. The danger of 
 exposure from the coming of these three 
 women to Elliot was probably past. But 
 Jane Field lay awake all night. Suddenly 
 at dawn she formed a plan; her mind was 
 settled. There was seemingly no struggle. 
 It was to her as if she turned a corner, once 
 turned there was no other way, and no ques 
 tion about it. When it was time, she got up, 
 dressed herself, and went about the house, 
 as usual. There was no difference in her 
 look or manner, but all the morning Lois 
 kept glancing at her in a startled, half-in 
 voluntary way; then she would look away 
 again, seeing nothing to warrant it, but ere 
 long her eyes turned again toward her 
 mother s face. It was as if she had a subtle 
 consciousness of something there which was 
 beyond vision, and to which her vision gave 
 the lie. When she looked away she saw it 
 
JANE FIELD 249 
 
 again, but it vanished when her eyes were 
 turned, like a black robe through a door. 
 
 After dinner, when the dishes were cleared 
 away, the three visitors sat as usual in com 
 pany state with their needle-work. Aman 
 da s bag upstairs was all neatly packed. 
 She would need to unpack it again that 
 night, but it was a comfort to her. She had 
 scarcely spoken all day; her thin mouth 
 had a set look. 
 
 "Mandy s gettin so homesick she can t 
 speak," said Mrs. Babcock. "She can t 
 hardly wait till to-morrow to start, can you, 
 Mandy ?" 
 
 "No, I can t," replied Amanda. 
 
 Mrs. Field was in her bedroom changing 
 her dress when Lois put on her hat and went 
 down the street with some finished work 
 for the dressmaker for whom she sewed. 
 
 "Where you goin , Lois?" asked Mrs. 
 Babcock, when she came through the room 
 with her hat on. 
 
 "I m going out a little ways," answered 
 Lois evasively. She had tried to keep the 
 fact of her sewing for a living from the 
 Green River women. She knew how people 
 in Elliot talked about it, and estranged as 
 
250 JANE FIELD 
 
 she was from her mother, she wanted no 
 more reflections cast upon her. 
 
 But Mrs. Babcock peeped out of a window 
 as Lois went down the path. " She s got a 
 bundle," she whispered. "I tell you what 
 tis, I suspect that girl is sewin for some 
 body to earn money. I should think her 
 mother would be ashamed of herself." 
 
 Lois had a half mile to walk, and she 
 stayed awhile at the dressmaker s to sew. 
 When she started homeward it was nearly 
 three o clock. 
 
 It was a beautiful afternoon, the house 
 yards were full of the late summer flowers, 
 the fields were white and gold with arnica 
 and wild-carrot instead of buttercups and 
 daisies, the blackberries were ripe along the 
 road-side, and there were sturdy thickets of 
 weeds picked out with golden buttons of 
 tansy over the stone walls. Lois stepped 
 along lightly. She did not look like the 
 same girl of three months ago. It was 
 strange that in spite of all her terrible dis 
 tress of mind and hard struggles since she 
 came to Elliot it should have been so, but 
 it was. Every life has its own conditions, 
 although some are poisons. Whether it had 
 
JANE FIELD 251 
 
 been as Mrs. Babcock thought, that the girl 
 had been afflicted with no real malady, only 
 the languor of the spring, intensified and 
 fostered in some subtle fashion by her 
 mother s anxiety, or whether it had been 
 the purer air of Elliot that had brought 
 about the change, to whatever it might have 
 been due, she was certainly better. 
 
 Lois had on an old pink muslin dress that 
 she had worn many a summer, indeed the 
 tucks had been let down to accord with her 
 growth, and showed in bars of brighter pink 
 around the skirt. But the color of the dress 
 became her well, her young shoulders filled 
 out the thin fabric with sweet curves that 
 overcame the old fashion of its make; 
 her slender arms showed through the sleeves; 
 and her small fair face was set in a muslin 
 frill like a pink corolla. She had to pass 
 the cemetery on her way home. As she 
 came in sight of its white shafts, and head 
 stones gleaming out from its dark foliage, 
 she met Francis Arms. She started when 
 she saw him, and said, " Good-afternoon " 
 nervously; then was passing on, but he 
 stopped her. 
 
 "Where are you going?" he asked. 
 
252 JANE FIELD 
 
 " I was going home." 
 
 " See here I don t know as you want to 
 but do you remember how we went to 
 walk in the cemetery that first day after you 
 came ? " 
 
 Lois nodded. He could see only the tip 
 of her chin under her broad hat. 
 
 "Suppose if you haven t anything else 
 to do if you are not busy that we go in 
 there now a little ways?" said Francis. 
 
 " I guess I d better not," replied Lois, in a 
 trembling voice. 
 
 "It s real cool in there." 
 
 "I m afraid I d better not." 
 
 "Well," said Francis, "of course I won t 
 tease you if you don t want to." 
 
 He tried to make his tone quite uncon 
 cerned and to smile. He was passing on, 
 but Lois spoke. 
 
 "I might go in there just a minute," she 
 said. 
 
 Francis turned quickly, his face lighted 
 up. They walked along together to the cem 
 etery gate; he opened it and they entered 
 and passed slowly down the drive-way. 
 
 The yard was largely overhung by ever 
 green trees, which held in their boughs cool 
 
JANE FIELD 253 
 
 masses of blue gloom. It was cool there, 
 as Francis had said, although it was quite 
 a warm day. The flowers on the sunny 
 graves hung low, unless they had been 
 freshly tended, when they stood erect in 
 dark circles. Some of the old uncared-for 
 graves were covered with rank growths of 
 grass and weeds, which seemed fairly in 
 stinct with merry life this summer afternoon. 
 Crickets and cicadas thrilled through them ; 
 now and then a bird flew up. It_wasjik^_a 
 resuj^gckipn stir, 
 
 "Let s go where we went that first day," 
 said Francis; "it s always pleasant there 
 on the bank." 
 
 Lois followed him without a word. They 
 sat down on the grass at the edge of the ter 
 race, and a cool breeze came in their faces 
 from over the great hollow of the meadows 
 below. The grass on them had been cut 
 short, and now had dried and turned a rosy 
 color in the sun. The two kept their eyes 
 turned away from each other, and looked 
 down into the meadow as into the rosy hol 
 low of a cup ; but they seemed to see each 
 other s faces there. 
 
 "It s cool here, isn t it?" said Francis. 
 
254 JANE FIELD 
 
 "Real cool." 
 
 " It always is on the hottest day. There 
 is always a breeze here, if there isn t any 
 where else." 
 
 Francis s words were casual, but his voice 
 was unsteady with a tender tone that seemed 
 to overweight it. 
 
 Lois seemed to hear only this tone, and 
 not the words. It was one of the primitive 
 tones that came before any language was 
 made, and related to the first necessities of 
 man. Suddenly she had ears for that only. 
 She did not say anything. Her hands were 
 folded in her lap quietly, but her fingers 
 tingled. 
 
 "Lois," Francis began; then he stopped. 
 
 Lois did not look up. 
 
 "See here, Lois," he went on, "I don t 
 know as there is much use in my saying 
 anything. You ve hardly noticed me late 
 ly. There was one spell when I thought 
 maybe But Well, I m going to ask 
 you, and have it over with one way or the 
 other. Lois, do you think well, do you 
 feel as if you could ever marry me some 
 time?" 
 
 Lois dropped her head down on her hands. 
 
JANE FIELD 255 
 
 " Now don t you go to feeling bad if you 
 can t," said Francis. "It won t be your 
 fault. But if you d just tell me, Lois." 
 
 Lois did not speak. 
 
 "If you d just tell me one way or the 
 other, Lois." 
 
 "I can t. I can t anyway !" cried Lois 
 then, with a great sob. 
 
 "Well, if you can t, don t cry, little girl. 
 There s nothing to cry about. I can stand 
 it. All the trouble is, it does seem to me 
 that I could take care of you better than any 
 other fellow on earth, but maybe that s my 
 conceit, and you ll find somebody else that 
 will do better than I. Now don t cry." 
 Francis pulled her hat off gently, and 
 patted her head. His face was quite white, 
 but he tried to smile. " Don t cry, dear," 
 he said again. " It was nothing you could 
 help. I didn t much suppose you liked me. 
 There s nothing much in me to like. I m 
 an ordinary kind of a fellow." 
 
 Francis got up and walked off a little 
 way. 
 
 Lois sobbed harder. Finally she stole a 
 glance at him between her fingers. She 
 could see his profile quite pale and stern as 
 
256 JANE FIELD 
 
 he stood on the edge of the terrace. She 
 made a little inarticulate call, and he turned 
 quickly. 
 
 "What is it, Lois?" he asked, coming 
 toward her. 
 
 "I didn t say I didn t like you," she 
 whispered faintly. 
 
 "Lois!" 
 
 "I didn t say so." 
 
 " Lois, do you? Answer me quick." 
 
 She hid her face again. 
 
 " Lois, you must answer me now." 
 
 "I like you well enough, but I can t 
 marry you." 
 
 " Lois, is there any fellow in Green 
 River that wants you? Is that the reason ? " 
 
 She shook her head. " I can t ever marry 
 anybody," she said, and her voice was sud 
 denly quite firm. She wiped her eyes. 
 
 Francis sat down beside her. " O Lois, 
 you do love me, after all ? " 
 
 "I can t marry you," said she. 
 
 "Why not, dear?" 
 
 " I can t. You mustn t ask me why." 
 
 Francis looked down at her half laughing. 
 " Some dreadful obstacle in the way?" 
 
 She nodded solemnly. 
 
JANE FIELD 257 
 
 Francis put his arm around her. " Oh, my 
 dear," he said, "don t you know obstacles 
 go for nothing if you do like me, after all? 
 Wait a little and you ll find out. O Lois, 
 are you sure you do like me? You are so 
 pretty." 
 
 "I can t," repeated Lois, trembling. 
 
 " Suppose this obstacle were removed, 
 dear, you would then?" 
 
 " It never can be." 
 
 "But if it were, you would? Yes, of 
 course you would. Then I shall remove it, 
 you depend upon it, I shall, dear. Lois, I 
 liked you the minute I saw you, and, it s 
 terribly conceited, but I do believe you liked 
 me a little. Dear, if it ever can be, I ll 
 take care of you all my life." 
 
 The two sat there together, and the long 
 summer afternoon passed humming and 
 singing with bees and birds, and breathing 
 sweetly through the pine branches. They 
 themselves were as a fixed heart of love in 
 the midst of it, and all around them in their 
 graves lay the dead who had known and 
 gone beyond it all, but nobody could tell 
 if they had forgotten. 
 17 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 WHEN Lois left home that afternoon her 
 mother had been in her bedroom changing 
 her dress. When she came out she had on 
 her best black dress, her black shawl and 
 gloves, and her best bonnet. The three 
 women stared at her. She stood before them 
 a second without speaking. The strange 
 look, for which Lois had watched her face, 
 had appeared. 
 
 "Why, what is the matter, Mis Field?" 
 cried Mrs. Babcock. "Where be ycfu go 
 ing?" 
 
 "I m goin out a little ways," replied 
 Mrs. Field. Then she raised her voice 
 suddenly. "I ve got something to say to 
 all of you before I go," said she. "I ve 
 been deceivin you, and everybody here in 
 Elliot. When I came down here, they all 
 took me for my sister, Esther Maxwell, and 
 I let them think so. They ve all called me 
 Esther Maxwell here. That s how I got 
 258 
 
JANE FIELD 259 
 
 the money. Old Mr. Maxwell left it to Flora 
 Maxwell if my sister didn t outlive him. I 
 shouldn t have had a cent. I stole it. I 
 thought my daughter would die if we didn t 
 have it an get away from Green River; but 
 that wa n t any excuse. Edward Maxwell 
 had that fifteen hundred dollars of my hus 
 band s, an I never had a cent of it; but 
 that wa n t any excuse. I thought I d jest 
 stay here an carry it out till I got the 
 money back; but that wa n t any excuse. 
 I ain t spent a cent of the money; it s all 
 put away just as it was paid in, in a sugar- 
 bowl in the china closet; but that ain t any 
 excuse. I took it on myself to do justice 
 instead of the Lord, an that ain t for any 
 human bein to do. I ain t Esther Maxwell. 
 I m brought up short. I ain t Esther Max 
 well! " Her voice rose to a stern shriek. 
 
 The three women stared at her, then at 
 each other. Their faces were white. 
 Amanda was catching her breath in faint 
 gasps. Jane Field rushed out of the room. 
 The door closed heavily after her. 
 
 Three wild, pale faces huddled together 
 in a window watched her out of the yard. 
 Mrs. Babcock called weakly after her to 
 
260 JANE FIELD 
 
 come back, but she kept on. She went out 
 of the yard and down the street. At the 
 first house she stopped, went up to the door 
 and rang the bell. When a woman answered 
 her ring, she looked at her and said, " I 
 N/ain t Esther Maxwell!" Then she turned 
 and went down the walk between the rows 
 of marigolds and asters, and the woman 
 stood staring after her for a minute, then 
 ran in, and the windows filled with wonder 
 ing faces. 
 
 Jane Field stopped at the next house 
 with the same message. After she left a 
 woman pelted across the yard in a panic to 
 compare notes with her neighbors. She 
 kept on down the street, and she stopped at 
 every door and said, "I ain t Esther Max 
 well." 
 
 Now and then somebody tried to delay her 
 to question her and obtain an explanation, 
 but she broke away. There was about her 
 a terrible mental impetus which intimidated. 
 People stood instinctively out of her way, 
 as before some rushing force which might 
 overwhelm them. 
 
 Daniel Tuxbury followed her out to the 
 street; then he fell back. Mrs. Jane Max- 
 
I AIN T ESTHER MAXWELL. HER VOICE AROSE 
 IN A STERN SHRIEK" 
 
JANE FIELD 261 
 
 well caught hold of her dress, but she let 
 go, and leaned trembling over her iron gate 
 looking after the relentless black figure 
 speeding to the next door. 
 
 She went on and on, all the summer after 
 noon, and canvassed the little village with 
 her remorse and confession of crime. Fi 
 nally the four words which she said at the 
 doors seemed almost involuntary. They 
 became her one natural note, the expression 
 of her whole life. It was as if she had 
 never said any others. At last, going along 
 the street, she repeated them to everybody 
 she met. Some she had told before, but 
 she did not know it. She said them to a 
 little girl in a white frock, with her hair 
 freshly curled, carrying a doll, and she ran 
 away crying with fright. She said them 
 to three barefooted boys loping along in 
 the dust, with berry-pails, and they laughed 
 and turned around and mocked her, calling 
 the words after her. When she went up the 
 path to the Maxwell house, she said them 
 where the shadow of a pine-tree fell darkly 
 in front of her like the shadow of a man. 
 She said them when she stood before the 
 door of the house whose hospitality she had 
 
262 JANE FIELD 
 
 usurped. There was a little crowd at her 
 heels, but she did not notice them until she 
 was entering the door. Then she said the 
 words over to them: "I ain t Esther Max 
 well." 
 
 She entered the sitting-room, the people 
 following. There were her three old friends 
 and neighbors, the minister and his wife, 
 Daniel Tuxbury, his sister and her daughter, 
 Mrs. Jane Maxwell and her daughter, and 
 her own Lois. She faced them all and said 
 it again: "I ain t Esther Maxwell." 
 
 The lawyer jerked himself forward; his 
 face was twitching. "This woman s mind 
 is affected," he declared with loud impor 
 tance. "She is Esther Maxwell. I will 
 swear to it in any court. I recognize her, 
 and I never forget a face." 
 
 " I ain t Esther Maxwell," said Jane Field, 
 in her voice that was as remorseless and 
 conclusive as fate. 
 
 Lois pressed forward and clung to her. 
 
 "Mother!" she moaned; "mother!" 
 
 Then for once her mother varied her set 
 speech. "Lois wa n t to blame," she said; 
 " I want you to know it, all of you. Lois 
 wa n t to blame. She didn t know until 
 
JANE FIELD 263 
 
 after I d done it. She wanted to tell, but I 
 told her they d put me in prison. Lois 
 wa n t to blame. I ain t Esther Maxwell." 
 
 "O mother, don t, don t!" Lois sobbed. 
 
 She hung about her mother s neck, and 
 pressed her lips to that pale wrinkled face, 
 whose wrinkles seemed now to be laid in 
 stone. Not a muscle of Jane Field s face 
 changed. She kept repeating at intervals, 
 in precisely the same tone, her terrible 
 under-chord to all the excitement about her: 
 "I ain t Esther Maxwell." 
 
 Some of the women were crying. Amanda 
 Pratt sat sewing fast, with her mouth set. 
 She clung to her familiar needle as if it 
 were a rope to save her from destruction. 
 Francis Arms had come in, and stood close 
 to Lois and her mother. 
 
 Suddenly Jane Maxwell spoke. She was 
 pale, and her head-dress was askew. 
 
 " I call this pretty work," said she. 
 
 Then Mrs. Babcock faced her. " I should 
 call it pretty work for somebody else besides 
 poor Mis Field," she cried. "I d like- to 
 know what business your folks had takin 
 her money an keepin it. She wa n t goin 
 to take any more than belonged to her, an 
 
264 JANE FIELD 
 
 she had a perfect right to, accordin to my 
 way of thinkin ." 
 
 Mrs. Maxwell gasped. Flora laid her 
 hand on her arm when she tried to speak 
 again. 
 
 " I m goin to tell her how I ve been with 
 out a decent dress, an how I ve been luggin 
 my own things out of this house, an now 
 I ve got to lug em all back again," she 
 whispered defiantly. 
 
 "Mother, you keep still," said Flora. 
 
 Mrs. Green went across the room and put 
 her arm around Lois, standing by her mother. 
 "Let s you an me get her in her bedroom, 
 an have her lay down on the bed, an try 
 an quiet her," she whispered. "She s all 
 unstrung. Mebbe she ll be better." 
 
 Mrs. Field at once turned toward her. 
 
 "I ain t Esther Maxwell," said she. 
 
 "O Mis Field! oh, poor woman! it ain t 
 for us to judge you," returned Mrs. Green, 
 in her tender, inexpressibly solemn voice. 
 "Come, Lois." 
 
 "Yes, that ll be a good plan," chimed in 
 Mrs. Babcock. " She d better go in her 
 bedroom where it s quiet, or she ll wind 
 
JANE FIELD 265 
 
 up with a fever. There s too many folks 
 here." 
 
 " I wonder if some of my currant wine 
 wouldn t be good for her?" said Mrs. Jane 
 Maxwell, with an air of irrepressible virtue. 
 
 "She don t want none of your currant 
 wine," rejoined Mrs. Babcock fiercely. 
 "She s suffered enough by your family." 
 
 " I guess you needn t be so mighty smart, " 
 returned Mrs. Maxwell, jerking her arm 
 away from Flora. "I dunno of anything 
 she s suffered. I should think Flora an 
 me had been the ones to suffer, an now we 
 shan t never go to law, nor make any fuss 
 about it. I ain t goin to stay here an be 
 talked to so any longer if I know, especially 
 by folks that ain t got any business meddlin 
 with it, anyway. I suppose this is my 
 daughter s house, an I ve got a perfect right 
 in it, but I m a-goin ." 
 
 Mrs. Jane Maxwell went out, her ribbons 
 and silken draperies fluttering as if her own 
 indignation were a wind, but Flora stayed. 
 
 The women led Jane Field into her little 
 bedroom, took off her bonnet and shawl 
 and dress as if she were dead, and made her 
 
266 JANE FIELD 
 
 lie down. They bathed her head with cam 
 phor, they plied her with soothing argu 
 ments, but she kept on her one strain. She 
 was singularly docile in all but that. Mrs. 
 Green dropped on her knees beside the bed 
 and prayed. When she said amen, Jane 
 Field called odt her confession as if in the 
 ear of God. They sent for the doctor and 
 he gave her a soothing draught, and she 
 slept. The women watched with her, as 
 ever and anon she stirred and murmured 
 in her sleep, "I ain t Esther Maxwell." 
 And she said it when she first awoke in the 
 morning. 
 
 "She s sayin it now," whispered Mrs. 
 Babcock to Mrs. Green, y and I believe 
 she ll say it her whole life." 
 
 And Jane Field did. The stern will of 
 the New England woman had warped her 
 whole nature into one groove. Gradually 
 she seemed more like herself, and her mind 
 was in other respects apparently clear, but 
 never did she meet a stranger unless she 
 said for greeting, " I ain t Esther Max 
 well." 
 
 And she said it to her own daughter on 
 
JANE FIELD 267 
 
 her wedding-day, when she came in her 
 white dress from the minister s with Francis. 
 The new joy in Lois s face affected her like 
 the face of a stranger, and she turned on 
 her and said, " I ain t Esther Maxwell." 
 
 THE END. 
 
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