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THE 
 
 CHRISTMAS WRECK 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANK R. STOCKTON 
 
 1 J 
 
 5 i . ) 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 1910 
 
Copyright, 1886. by 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS. 
 
 r 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 STC>C- 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Christmas Wreck 1 
 
 A Story of Assisted Fate. (In two parts) e . 23 
 
 Ax Unhistoric Page 66 
 
 A Tale of Negative Gravity 79 
 
 The Cloverfields Carriage Ill 
 
 The Remarkable Wreck of the " Thomas Hyke," 133 
 
 My Bull-Calf 162 
 
 The Discourager of Hesitancy 186 
 
 A Borrowed Month. (East and West) . . .196 
 
 u 
 
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK. 
 
 '' VTTELL, sir,*' said old Silas, as he gave a prelimi- 
 V V nary puff to the pipe he had just lighted, aud 
 so satisfied himself that the draught was all right, " the 
 wind's a corain', an' so's Christmas. But it's no use 
 bein' in a hurry fur either of 'em, fur sometimes they 
 come afore you want 'em, anyway." 
 
 Silas was sitting in the stern of a small sailing-boat 
 which he owned, and in which he sometimes took the 
 Saudport visitors out for a sail ; and at other times 
 applied to its more legitimate, but less profitable use, 
 that of fishing. That afternoon he had taken young 
 Mr. Nugent for a brief excursion on that portion of 
 the Atlantic Ocean which sends its breakers up on the 
 beach of Sandport. But he had found it difficult, 
 nay, impossible just now, to bring him back, for the 
 wind had gradually died away until there was not a 
 breath of it left. Mr. Nugent, to whom nautical ex- 
 periences were as new as the very nautical suit of 
 blue flannel which he wore, rather liked the calm ; it 
 was such a relief to the monotony of rolling waves. 
 He took out a cigar and lighted it, and then he re- 
 marked : 
 
 1 
 
^: ;•': .'':',/ '''T'i^E\ chrjstmas wreck. 
 
 "I can easil}^ imagine how a wind might come be- 
 fore you sailors might want it, but I don't see how 
 Christmas could come too soon." 
 
 "It come wunst on me when things couldn't a 
 looked more onready fur it," said Silas. 
 
 "How was that?" asked Mr. Nugent, settling 
 himself a little more comfortably on the hard thwart. 
 " If it's a story, let's have it. This is a good time to 
 spin a yarn." 
 
 " Very well," said old Silas. " I'll spin her." 
 
 The bare-legged bo}', whose duty it was to stay 
 forward and mind the jib, came aft as soon as he 
 smelt a story, and took a nautical position which was 
 duly studied by Mr. Nugent, on a bag of ballast in 
 the bottom of the boat. 
 
 "It's nigh on to fifteen year ago," said Silas, 
 "that I was on the barque, 'Mary Auguster,' bound 
 for Sydney, New South Wales, with a cargo of canned 
 goods. We was somewhere about longitood a hun- 
 dred an' seventy, latitood nothin', an' it was the 
 twenty-second o' December, when we was ketched 
 by a reg'lar typhoon which blew straight along, end 
 on, fur a day an' a half. It blew away the storm 
 sails ; it blew away every 3'ard, spar, shroud, an' 
 every strand o' riggin', an' snapped the masts off, 
 close to the deck ; it blew away all the boats ; it blew 
 away the cook's caboose, an' every thing else on deck ; 
 it blew off the hatches, an' sent 'em spinnin' in the air, 
 about a mile to leeward ; an' afore it got through, it 
 washed away the cap'n an' all the crew 'cept me an' 
 two others. These was Tom Simmons, the second 
 
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK. 3 
 
 mate, an' Andy Boyle, a chap from the Andirondack 
 Mountins, who'd never been to sea afore. As he 
 was a landsman he ought, by rights, to a been swep' 
 off by the wind an' water, consid'rin' that the cap'n 
 an' sixteen good seamen had gone a 'ready. But he 
 had hands eleven inches long, an' that give him a grip 
 which no typhoon could git the better of. Andy had 
 let out that his father was a miller up there in York 
 State, an' a story had got round among the crew that 
 his gran 'father an' great gran 'father was millers too ; 
 an' the way the fam'ly got such big hands come from 
 their habit of scoopin' up a extry quart or two of 
 meal or flour for themselves when they was levelin' 
 off their customers' measures. He was a good-natered 
 feller, though, an' never got riled when I'd tell him to 
 clap his flour-scoops outer a halyard. 
 
 " We was all soaked, an' washed, an' beat, an* bat- 
 tered. We held on some way or other till the wind 
 blowed itself out, an' then we got on our legs an* be- 
 gan to look about us to see how things stood. The 
 sea had washed into the open hatches till the vessel 
 was more'n half full of water, an' that had sunk her 
 so deep that she must 'a looked like a canal boat load- 
 ed with gravel. We hadn't had a thing to eat or drink 
 durin' that whole blow, an' we was pretty ravenous. 
 We found a keg of water which was all right, and a 
 box of biscuit, which was what you might call soft 
 tack, for they was soaked through and through with 
 sea-water. We eat a lot of them so, fur we couldn't 
 wait, an' the rest we spread on the deck to dry, fur the 
 sun was now shinin' hot enough to bake bread. We 
 
4 THE CHRISTMAS WRECK. 
 
 couldn't go below much, fur there was a pretty good 
 swell on the sea, and things was floatin' about so's to 
 make it dangerous. But we fished out a piece of can- 
 vas, which we rigged up agin the stump of the main- 
 mast so that we could have somethin' that we could sit 
 down an' grumble under. What struck us all the 
 hardest was that the barque was loaded with a whole 
 cargo of jolly things to eat, which was just as good as 
 ever they was, fur the water couldn't git through the 
 tin cans in which they was all put up ; an' here we was 
 with nothin' to live on but them salted biscuit. There 
 was no way of gittin' at any of the ship's stores, or any 
 of the fancy prog, fur everythin' was stowed away 
 tight under six or seven feet of water, an' pretty nigh 
 all the room that was left between decks was filled up 
 with extry spars, lumber, boxes, an' other floatin' stuff. 
 All was shiftin', an' bumpin', an' bangin' every time 
 the vessel rolled. 
 
 *' As I said afore, Tom was second mate, an' I was 
 bosen. Says I to Tom, ' the thing we've got to do is 
 to put up some kind of a spar with a rag on it for a 
 distress flag, so that we'll lose no time bein' took off.' 
 '^There's no use a slavin' at anythin' like that,' says 
 Tom, ' fur we've been blowed off the track of traders, 
 an' the more we work the hungrier we'll git, an' the 
 sooner will them biscuit be gone.' 
 
 "Now when I heerd Tom say this I sot still, and 
 began to consider. Being second mate, Tom was, by 
 rights, in command of this craft; but it was easy 
 enough to see that if he commanded there'd never be 
 nothin' for Andy an' me to do. All the grit he had in 
 
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK. 5 
 
 him he'd used up iu holdiu' on durin' that typhoon. 
 What he wanted to do now was to make himself com- 
 fortable till the time come for him to go to Davy 
 Jones's Locker; an' thinkin', most likely, that Davy 
 couldn't make it any hotter fur him than it was on that 
 deck, still in latitood nothin' at all, fur we'd been 
 blowed along the line pretty nigh due West. So I 
 calls to Andy, who was busy turnin' over the biscuits 
 on the deck. ' Andy,' says I, when he had got under 
 the canvas, ' we's goin' to have a 'lection fur skipper. 
 Tom here is about played out. He's one candydate, 
 an' I'm another. Now, who do you vote fur? An , 
 mind yer eye, youngster, that you don't make no 
 mistake.' 'I vote fur you,' says Andy. ' Camed 
 unanermous ! ' says I. ' An' I want you to take notice 
 that I'm cap'n of what's left of the *' Mary Auguster," 
 an' you two has got to keep your minds on that, an' 
 obey orders.' If Davy Jones was to do all that Tom 
 be Simmons said when he heard this, the old chap would 
 kept busier than he ever was yit. But I let him growl 
 his growl out, knowin' he'd come round all right, fur 
 there wasn't no help fur it, consid'rin' Andy an' me 
 was two to his one. Pi'etty soon we all went to work, 
 an' got up a spar from below which we rigged to the 
 stump of the foremast, with Andy's shirt atop of it. 
 ■"^''Them sea-soaked, sun-dried biscuit was pretty 
 mean prog, as you might think, but we eat so many 
 of 'em that afternoon an' 'cordingly drank so much 
 water that I was obliged to put us all on short rations 
 the next day. 'This is the day before Christmas,' 
 says Andy Boyle, ' an' to-night will be Chiistmas Eve, 
 
6 THE CHRISTMAS WRECK, 
 
 an' it's pretty tough fur us to be sittin' here with not 
 even so much hard tack as we want, an' all the time 
 thinkin' that the hold of this ship is packed full of the 
 gaj'est kind of good things to eat.' *■ Shut up about 
 Christmas ! ' says Tom Simmons. ' Them two young- 
 sters of mine, up in Bangor, is havin' their toes and 
 noses pretty nigh froze, I 'spect, but they'll hang up 
 their stockin's all the same to-night, never thinkin' 
 that their dad's beln' cooked alive on a empty stom- 
 ach.' 'Of course they wouldn't hang 'em up,' says 
 I, ' if they knowed what a fix you was in, but they 
 don't know it, an' what's the use of grumblin' at 'em 
 for bein' a little jolly.* 'Well,' says And}^ 'they 
 couldn't be more jollier than I'd be if I could git at 
 some of them fancy fixin's down in the hold. I worked 
 well on to a week at 'Frisco puttin* in them boxes, an' 
 the names of the things was on the outside of most of 
 'em, an' I tell you what it is, mates, it made my mouth 
 water, even then, to read 'em, an' I wasn't hungry 
 nuther, havin' plenty to eat three times a day. There 
 was roast beef, an' roast mutton, an' duck, an' chick- 
 en, an' soup, an peas, an* beans, an' tennaters, an' 
 
 plum-puddin', an' mince-pie ' 'Shut up with 
 
 your mince-pie ! * sung out Tom Simmons. ' Isn't it 
 enough to have to gnaw on these salt chips, without 
 heariu* about mince-pie?* 'An' more'n that,' says 
 Andy, ' there was canned peaches, an' pears, an' 
 plums, an' cherries.* 
 
 " Now these things did sound so cool an' good to 
 me on that broilin' deck, that I couldn't stand it, an' 
 I leans over to Andy, an' I says : '' Now look a here, 
 
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK. 7 
 
 if 3'ou don't shut up talkin' about them things what's 
 stowed below, an' what we can't git at, nohow, over- 
 board you go ! ' 'That would make you short-handed.' 
 says Andy, with a grin. ' Which is more'n you could 
 say,' says I, ' if you'd chuck Tom an' me over ' — al- 
 ludin' to his eleven-inch grip. Andy didn't say no 
 more then, but after a while he comes to me as I was 
 lookin' round to see if anything was in sight, an' says 
 he, 'I s'pose you ain't got nuthiu' to say agin my 
 divin' into the hold just aft of the foremast, where 
 there seems to be a bit of pretty clear water, an' see 
 if I can't git up something? ' ' You kin do it, if you 
 like,' says I, ' but it's at your own risk. You can't 
 take out no insurance at this office.' ' All right then,' 
 says Andy, 'an' if I git stove in by floatin' boxes, you 
 an' Tom'll have to eat the rest of them salt crackers.' 
 ' Now, boy,' says I — an* he wasn't much more, bein' 
 only nineteen year old — 'you'd better keep out o' that 
 hold. You'll just git yourself smashed. An' as to 
 movin' any of them there heavy boxes, which must be 
 swelled up as tight as if they was part of the ship, you 
 might as well try to pull out one of the " Mary Augus- 
 ter's " ribs.' 'I'll try it,' says Andy, 'fur to-morrer is 
 Christmas, an' if I kin help it I ain't goin' to be floatin' 
 atop of a Christmas dinner without eatin' any on it.' I 
 let him go, fur he was a good swimmer and diver, an' 
 I did hope he might root out somethin' or other, fur 
 Christmas is about the worst day in the year fur meu 
 to be starvin' on, and that's what we was a comin' to. 
 "Well, fur about two hours Andy swum, an' dove, 
 an' come up blubberin', an' dodged all sorts of floatin' 
 
8 THE CHRISTMAS WRECK. 
 
 an' pitchin' stuff, fur the swell was still on ; but he 
 couldn't even be so much as sartain that he'd found the 
 canned vittles. . To dive down through hatchways, 
 an' among broken bulkheads, to hunt fur any partiklar 
 kind o' boxes under seven feet of sea-water, ain't no 
 easy job ; an' though Andy says he got hold of the 
 end of a box that felt to him like the big 'uns he'd 
 noticed as havin' the meat pies in, he couldn't move 
 it no more'n if it had been the stump of the foremast. 
 If we could have pumped the water out of the hold we 
 could have got at any part of the cargo we wanted, 
 but as it was, we couldn't even reach the ship's stores, 
 which, of course, must have been mostly spiled any- 
 way ; whereas the canned vittles was just as good as 
 new. The pumps was all smashed, or stopped up, for 
 we tried 'em, but if they hadn't a been we three 
 couldn't never have pumped out that ship on three 
 biscuit a day, and only about two days' rations at that. 
 " So Andy he come up, so fagged out that it was as 
 much as he could do to get his clothes on, though they 
 wasn't much, an' then he stretched himself out under 
 the canvas an' went to sleep, an' it wasn't long afore 
 he was talkin' about roast turkey an' cranberry sass, 
 an' punkin pie, an' sech stuff, most of which we knowed 
 was under our feet that present minute. Tom Simmons 
 he just b'iled over, an' sung out : ' Roll him out in the 
 sun and let him cook ! I can't stand no more of this ! ' 
 But I wasn't goin' to have Andy treated no sech way 
 as that, fur if it hadn't been fur Tom Simmons' wife 
 an' young uns, Andy'd been worth two of him to any- 
 body who was consid'rin' savin' life. But I give the 
 
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK. 9 
 
 boy a good punch in the ribs to stop his dreamin', fur 
 I was as hungry as Tom was, and couldn't stand no 
 nonsense about Christmas dinners. 
 
 " It was a little arter noon when Andy woke up, 
 an' he went outside to stretch himself. In about a 
 minute he give a yell that made Tom and me jump. 
 ' A sail ! ' he hollered, ' a sail ! ' An' you may bet 
 your life, young man, that 'twasn't more'n half a 
 second before us two had scuffled out from under that 
 canvas, an' was standin' by Andy. ' There she is ! * 
 he shouted, ' not a mile to win'ard.' I give one look, 
 an' then I sings out : ' Tain't a sail ! It's a flag of 
 distress ! Can't you see, you laud-lubber, that that's 
 the stars and stripes upside down? ' ' Why, so it is,' 
 said Andy, with a couple of reefs in the joyfulness of 
 his voice. An' Tom, he began to growl as if some- 
 body had cheated him out of half a year's wages. 
 
 ' ' The flag that we saw was on the hull of a steamer 
 that had been driftin' down on us while we was sittin' 
 under our canvas. It was plain to see she'd been 
 caught in the typhoon too, fur there wasn't a mast or 
 a smoke stack on her ; but her hull was high enough 
 out of the water to catch what wind there was, while 
 we was so low-sunk that we didn't make no way at all. 
 There was people aboard, and they saw us, an' waved 
 their hats an' arms, an' Andy an' me waved ours, but 
 all we could do was to wait till they drifted nearer, fur 
 we hadn't no boats to go to 'em if we'd a wanted to. 
 
 " ' I'd like to know what good that old hulk is to 
 us,* said Tom Simmons. ' She can't take us off.' It 
 did look to me somethin' like the blind leadin' the 
 
10 THE CHRISTMAS WRECK. 
 
 blind ; but Andy he sings out : ' We'd be better oft 
 aboard of her, fur she aint' water-logged, an', more'n 
 that, I don't s'pose her stores are all soaked up in 
 salt water.' There was some sense in that, and when 
 the steamer had got to within half a mile of us, we was 
 glad to see a boat put out from her with three men in 
 it. It was a queer boat, very low an' flat, an' not like 
 any ship's boat I ever see. But the two fellers at the 
 oars pulled stiddy, an' pretty soon the boat was 'long- 
 side of us, an' the three men on our deck. One of 
 'em was the first mate of the other wreck, an' when he 
 found out what was the matter with us, he spun his 
 yarn, which was a longer one than ours. His vessel 
 was the 'Water Crescent,' nine hundred tons, from 
 'Frisco to Melbourne, and they had sailed about six 
 weeks afore we did. They was about two weeks out 
 when some of their machinery broke down, an' when 
 they got it patched up it broke agin, worse than afore, 
 so that they couldn't do nothin' with it. They kep' 
 along under sail for about a month, makin' mighty 
 poor headway till the typhoon struck 'em, an' that 
 cleaned their decks off about as slick as it did ours, 
 but their hatches wasn't blowed off, an' they didn't 
 ship no water wuth mentionin', an' the crew havin' 
 kep' below, none on 'em was lost. But now they was 
 clean out of provisions and water, havin' been short 
 when the break-down happened, fur they had sold all 
 the stores they could spare to a French brig in distress 
 that they overhauled when about a week out. When 
 they sighted us they felt pretty sure they'd git some 
 provisions out of us. But when I told the mate what 
 
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK. 11 
 
 a fix we was in his jaw dropped till his face was as 
 long' as one of Andy's hands. Howsomdever he said 
 he'd send the boat back fnr as many men as it could 
 bring over, and see if they couldn't get up some of 
 our stores. Even if they was soaked with salt water, 
 they'd be better than nothin'. Part of the cargo of 
 the 'Water Crescent' was tools an' things fur some 
 railway contractors out in Australier, an' the mate 
 told the men to bring over some of them irons that 
 might be used to fish out the stores. All their ship's 
 boats had been bio wed away, an' the one they had 
 was a kind of shore boat for fresh water, that had been 
 shipped as part of the cargo, an' stowed below. It 
 couldn't stand no kind of a sea, but there wasn't nothin' 
 but a swell on ; an' when it come back it had the cap'n 
 in it, an' five men, besides a lot of chains an' tools. 
 
 "Them fellers an' us worked pretty nigh the rest 
 of the day, an' we got out a couple of bar'ls of water, 
 which was all right, havin' been tight bunged ; an' a 
 lot of sea biscuit, all soaked an' sloppy, but we only 
 got a half bar'l of meat, though three or four of the 
 men stripped an' dove fur more'n an hour. We cut 
 up some of the meat, an' eat it raw, an' the cap'n sent 
 some over to the other wreck, which had drifted past 
 us to leeward, an' would have gone clean away from 
 us if the cap'n hadn't had a line got out an' made us 
 fast to it while we was a workin' at the stores. 
 
 " That night the cap'n took us three, as well as the 
 provisions we'd got out, on board his hull, where the 
 'commodations was consid'able better than they was on 
 the half-sunk ' Mary Auguster.' An' afore we turned 
 
12 THE CHRISTMAS WRECK. 
 
 in he took me aft, an' had a talk with me as com- 
 mandin* off'cer of my vessel. * That wreck o' yourn,' 
 says he, ' has got a vallyble cargo in it, which isn't 
 spiled by bein' under water. Now, if you could get 
 that cargo into port it would put a lot of money in 
 your pocket, fur the owners couldn't git out of payin' 
 you fur takin' charge of it, an' havin' it brung in. Now 
 I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll lie by you, an' I've got 
 carpenters aboard that'll put your pumps in order, an' 
 I'll set my men to work to pump out your vessel. An' 
 then, when she's afloat all right, I'll go to work agin 
 at my vessel, which I didn't s'pose there was any use 
 o' doin' ; but whilst I was huntin' round amongst our 
 cargo to-duy I found that some of the machinery we 
 carried might be worked up so's to take the place of 
 what is broke in our engin'. We've got a forge aboard 
 an' I believe we can make these pieces of machinery 
 fit, an' git goin' agin. Then I'll tow 3'ou into Sydney, 
 an' we'll divide the salvage money. I won't git nothin' 
 for savin' my vessel, coz that's my bizness ; but you 
 wasn't cap'n o' yourn, an' took charge of her a pur- 
 pose to save her, which is another thing. ' 
 
 "I wasn't at all sure that I didn't take charge of 
 the ' Mary Auguster ' to save myself an' not the vessel, 
 but I didn't mention that, an' asked the cap'n how he 
 expected to live all this time. ' Oh, we kin git at your 
 stores easy enough,' says he, ' when the water's pumped 
 out,' 'They'll be mostly spiled,' says I. 'That don't 
 matter,' says he, ' men'll eat anythin', when they can't 
 git nothin' else.' An' with that he left me to think it 
 over. 
 
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK. 13 
 
 '' I must say, young man, an' you kin b'lieve me if 
 you know any thin' about sech things, that the idee of 
 a pile of money was mighty temptin' to a feller like 
 me, who had a girl at home ready to marry him, and 
 who would like nothin' better'n to have a little house 
 of his own, an' a little vessel of his own, an' give up 
 the other side of the world altogether. But while I 
 was goin' over all this in my mind, an' wonderin' if 
 the cap'n ever could git us into port, along comes Andy 
 Boyle, and sits down beside me. ' It drives me pretty 
 nigh crazy,' says he, ' to think that to-morrer's Christ- 
 mas, an' we've got to feed on that sloppy stuff we 
 fished out of our stores, an' not much of it nuther, 
 while there's all that roast turkey, an' plum-puddin', 
 an' mince-pie, a floatin' out there just before our eyes, 
 an' we can't have none of it.' ' You hadn't oughter 
 think so much about eatin', Andy,' says I, 'but if I 
 was talkin' about them things I wouldn't leave out 
 canned peaches. B}' George ! Of a hot Christmas 
 like this is goin' to be, I'd be the jolliest Jack on the 
 ocean if I could git at that canned fruit.' 'Well, 
 there's a way,' says Andy, ' that we might git some 
 of 'em. A part of the cargo of this ship is stuff for 
 blastin' rocks ; catridges, 'lectric bat'ries, an' that 
 sort of thing ; an' there's a man aboard who's goin' 
 out to take charge of 'em. I've been talkin' to this 
 bat'ry man, an' I've made up my mind it'll be easy 
 enough to lower a little catridge down among our cargo, 
 an' blow out a part of it.' ' What ud be the good of 
 it,' says I, ' blowed into chips?' 'It might smash 
 some,' he said, ' but others would be only loosened, 
 
14 THE CHRISTMAS WRECK. 
 
 an* they'd float up to the top, where we could get *em, 
 'specially them as was packed with pies, which must 
 be pretty light.' 'Git out, Andy,' says I, 'with all 
 that stuff ! ' An' he got out. 
 
 " But the idees he'd put into my head didn't git out, 
 an' as I laid on my back on the deck, lookin' up at the 
 stars, they sometimes seemed to put themselves into 
 the shape of little houses, with a little woman cookin' 
 at the kitchin fire, an' a little schooner layin' at anchor 
 just off shore ; an' then agin they'd hump themselves 
 up till they looked like a lot of new tin cans with their 
 tops off, an' all kinds of good things to eat inside, 
 'specially canned peaches — the big white kind — soft 
 an' cool, each one split in half, with a holler in the 
 middle filled with juice. By George, sir, the very 
 thought of a tin can like that made me beat my heels 
 agin the deck. I'd been mighty hungry, an' had eat 
 a lot of salt pork, wet an' raw, an' now the very idee 
 of it, even cooked, turned my stomach. I looked up 
 to the stars agin, an' the little house an* the little 
 schooner was clean gone, an' the whole sky was filled 
 with nothin' but bright new tin cans. 
 
 "In the mornin', Andy, he come to me agin. 
 'Have you made up your mind,' says he, 'about git- 
 tin' some of them good things for Christmas dinner?' 
 ' Confound you ! ' says I, ' you talk as if all we had 
 to do was to go an' git 'em.' 'An' that's what I 
 b'lieve we kin do,' says he, ' with the help of that 
 bat'ry man.' 'Yes,' says I, 'an' blow a lot of the 
 cargo into flinders, an' damage the " Mary Auguster" 
 so's she couldn't never be took into port.' An' then 
 
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK 15 
 
 I told him what the cap'n had said to me, an' what 1 
 was goin' to do with the money. 'A httle catridge,' 
 says Andy, ' would do all we want, an' wouldn't hurt 
 the vessel nuther. Besides that, I don't b'lieve what 
 this cap'n says about tinkerin' up his engin'. Tain't 
 likely he'll ever git her runnin' agin, nor pump out the 
 " Mary Auguster " nuther. If I was you I'd a durned 
 sight ruther have a Christmas dinner in hand than 
 a house an' wife in the bush.' 'I ain't thinkin' o' 
 marryin' a girl in Australier,' says I. An' Andy he 
 grinned, an' said I wouldn't marry nobody if I had to 
 live on spiled vittles till I got her. 
 
 " A little after that I went to the cap'n, an' I told 
 him about Andy's idee, but he was down on it. ' It's 
 your vessel, an' not mine,' says he, ' an' if you want 
 to try to git a dinner out of her I'll not stand in your 
 way. But it's my 'pinion you'll just damage the ship, 
 an' do nothin'.' Howsomdever I talked to the bat'ry 
 man about it, an' he thought it could be done, an' not 
 hurt the ship nuther. The men was all in favor of it, 
 for none of 'em had forgot it was Christmas day. But 
 Tom Simmons, he was agin it strong, for he was 
 thinkin' he'd git some of the money if we got the ' Mary 
 Auguster' into port. He was a selfish-minded man, 
 was Tom, but it was his nater, an' I s'pose he couldn't 
 help it. 
 
 "Well, it wasn't long afore I began to feel pretty 
 empty, an- mean, an' if I'd a wanted any of the prog 
 we got out the day afore, I couldn't have found much, 
 for the men had eat it up nearly all in the night. An' 
 so, I just made up my mind without any more fooliu', 
 
16 THE CHRISTMAS WRECK. 
 
 an' me, and Andy Boyle, an' the bat'r}^ man, with 
 some catridges an' a coil of wire, got into the little 
 shore boat, and pulled over to the 'Mary Auguster.' 
 There we lowered a small catridge down the main hatch- 
 way, an' let it rest down among the cargo. Then we 
 rowed back to the steamer, uncoilin' the wire as we 
 went. The bat'ry man dumb up on deck, an' fixed 
 his wire to a 'lectric machine, which he'd got all ready 
 afore we started. Andy and me didn't git out of the 
 boat ; we had too much sense for that, with all them 
 hungry fellers waitin' to jump in her ; but we just 
 pushed a little off, an' sot waitin', with our mouths a 
 waterin', for him to touch her off. He seemed to be a 
 long time about it, but at last he did it, an' that in- 
 stant there was a bang on board the ' Mary Auguster * 
 that made my heart jump. Andy an' me pulled fur 
 her like mad, the others a hoUerin' arter us, an' we 
 was on deck in no time. The deck was all covered 
 with the water that had been thro wed up ; but I tell 
 you, sir, that we poked an' fished about, an' Andy 
 stripped an' went down, an' swum all round, an' we 
 couldn't find one floatin' box of canned goods. There 
 was a lot of splinters, but where they come from we 
 didn't know. By this time my dander was up, an' 
 I just pitched around savage. That little catridge 
 wasn't no good, an' I didn't intend to stand any more 
 foolin'. We just rowed back to the other wreck, an' 
 I called to the bat'ry man to come down, an' bring 
 some bigger catridges with him, fur if we was goin' to 
 do anythin' we might as well do it right. So he got 
 down with a package of bigger ones, an' jumped into 
 
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK. 17 
 
 the boat. The cap'n he called out to us to be keerful, 
 an' Tom Simmons leaned over the rail, an' swored, 
 but I didn't pay no' tention to nuther of 'em, an' we 
 pulled away. 
 
 ''When I got aboard the ' Mary Auguster ' I says 
 to the bat'ry man : ' We don't want no nonsense this 
 time, an' I want you to put in enough catridges to 
 heave up somethin' that'll do fur a Christmas dinner. 
 I don't know how the cargo is stored, but you kin 
 put one big catridge 'midship, another for'ard, an' 
 another aft, an' one or nuther of 'em oughter fetch 
 up somethin'.' Well, we got the three catridges into 
 place. They was a good deal bigger than the one we 
 first used, an' we j'ined 'em all to one wire, an' then 
 we rowed back, carryin' the long wire with us. When 
 we reached the steamer, me an' Andy was a goin' to 
 stay in the boat as we did afore, but the cap'n sung 
 out that he wouldn't allow the bat'ry to be touched off 
 till we come aboard. ' Ther's got to be fair play,' says 
 he. 'It's your vittles, but it's my side that's doin' 
 the work. After we've blasted her this time you 
 two can go in the boat, an' see what there is to get 
 hold of, but two of my men must go along.' So me 
 an' Andy had to go on deck, an' two big fellers was 
 detailed to go with us in the little boat when the 
 time come ; an' then the bat'ry man, he teched her 
 
 Dff. 
 
 " Well, sir, the pop that followed that tech was 
 somethin' to remember. It shuck the water, it shuck 
 the air, an' it shuck the hull we was on. A reg'lar 
 cloud of smoke, an' flyin' bits of things rose up out 
 
18 THE CHRISTMAS WRECK. 
 
 of the ' Mary Auguster.' An' when that smoke cleared 
 away, an' the water was all bilin' with the splash of 
 various sized hunks that come rainin' down from the 
 sky, wiiat was left of the ' Mary Auguster ' was 
 sprinkled over the sea like a wooden carpet for water 
 birds to walk on. . 
 
 " Some of the men sung out one thing, an* some 
 another, an' I could hear Tom Simmons swear, but 
 Andy an' me said never a word, but scuttled down 
 into the boat, foUered close by the two men who was 
 to go with us. Then we rowed like devils for the lot 
 of stuff that was bobbin' about on the water, out 
 where the ' Mary Auguster ' had been. In we went, 
 among the floatin' spars and ship's timbers, I keepin' 
 the things off with an oar, the two men rowin', an' 
 Andy in the bow. 
 
 " Suddenly Andy give a yell, an' then he reached 
 himself for'ard with sech a bounce that I thought he'd 
 go overboard. But up he come in a minnit, his two 
 Teven-lnch hands gripped round a box. He sot down 
 in the bottom of the boat with the box on his lap, an' 
 his eyes screwed on some letters that was stamped on 
 one end. ' Pidjin pies ! ' he sings out. ' Tain't tur- 
 keys, nor 'tain't cranberries. But, by the Lord Harry, 
 it's Christmas pies all the same ! ' After that Andy 
 didn't do no more work, but sot hold in' that box as 
 if it had been his fust baby. But we kep' pushin' on 
 to see what else there was. It's my 'pinion that the 
 biggest part of that bark's cargo was blowed into 
 mince meat, an' the most of the rest of it was so 
 heavy that it sunk. But it wasn't all busted up, an' 
 
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK. 19 
 
 it didn't all sink. There was a big piece of wreck 
 with a lot of boxes stove into the timbers, and some 
 of these had in 'em beef ready biled an' packed into 
 cans, an' there was other kinds of meat, an' dif'rent 
 sorts of vegetables, an' one box of turtle soup. I 
 looked at ever}^ one of 'em as we took 'em in, an' 
 when we got the little boat pretty well loaded I wanted 
 to still keep on searchin', but the men, they said that 
 shore boat ud sink if we took in any more cargo, an' 
 so we put back, I feelin' glummer'n I oughter felt, fur 
 I had begun to be afeared that canned fruit, such as 
 peaches, was heavy, an' li'ble to sink. 
 
 " As soon as we had got our boxes aboard, four 
 fresh men put out in the boat, an' after awhile they 
 come back with another load ; an' I was mighty keer- 
 ful to read the names on all the boxes. Some was 
 meat pies, an' some was salmon, an' some was potted 
 herrins, an' some was lobsters. But nary a thing 
 could I see that ever had growed on a tree. 
 
 "Well, sir, there was three loads brought in, alto- 
 gether, an' the Christmas dinner we had on the for'ard 
 deck of that steamer's hull was about the joUiest one 
 that was ever seen of a hot day aboard of a wreck in 
 the Pacific Ocean. The cap'n kept good order, an* 
 when all was ready the tops was jerked off the boxes, 
 and each man grabbed a can an' opened it with his 
 knife. When he had cleaned it out, he tuk another 
 without doin' much questionin' as to the bill of fare. 
 Whether anybod}^ got pidjin pie 'cept Andy, I can't 
 say, but the way we piled in Delmoniker prog would 
 a made people open their eyes as was eatin' their 
 
20 THE CHRISTMAS WRECK. 
 
 Christmas dinners on shore that day. Some of the 
 things would a been better, cooked a little more, or 
 het up, but we was too fearful hungry to wait for that, 
 an' they was tip-top as they was. 
 
 " The cap'n went out afterwards, an' towed in a 
 couple of bar'ls of flour that was only part soaked 
 through, an' he got some other plain prog that would 
 do fur f utur use ; but none of us give our minds to 
 stuff like this arter the glorious Christmas dinner that 
 we'd quarried out of the ' Mary Auguster.' Every man 
 that wasn't on duty went below, and turned in for a 
 snooze. All 'eept me, an' I didn't feel just altogether 
 satisfied. To be sure I'd had an A 1 dinner, an' though 
 a little mixed, I'd never eat a jollier one on any Christ- 
 mas that I kin look back at. But, fur all that, there 
 was a hanker inside o' me. I hadn't got all I'd laid 
 out to git, when we teched off the ' Mary Auguster.' 
 The day was blazin' hot, an' a lot of the things I'd eat 
 was pretty peppery. ' Now,' thinks I, ' if there had a 
 been just one can o' peaches sech as I see shinin' in 
 the stars last night,' an' just then, as I was walkin' 
 aft, all by myself, I seed lodged on the stump of the 
 mizzenmast, a box with one corner druv down among 
 the splinters. It was half split open, an' I could see 
 the tin cans shinin' through the crack. I give one 
 jump at it, an' wrenched the side off. On the top of 
 the first can I seed was a picture of a big white peach 
 with green leaves. That box had been blowed up so 
 high that if it had come down anywhere 'cept among 
 them splinters it would a smashed itself to flinders, or 
 killfd somebody. So fur as I know, it was the only 
 
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK. 21 
 
 thing that fell nigh us, an' by George, sir, I got it ! 
 When I had finished a can of 'em I hunted up Andy, 
 an' then we went aft, an' eat some more. ' Well,' 
 says Andy, as we was a eatin', 'how d'ye feel now 
 about blowin' up your wife, an' your house, an' that 
 little schooner you was goin' to own ? ' 
 
 "'Andy,' says I, * this is the joyfulest Christmas 
 I've had yit, an' if I was to live till twenty hundred I 
 don't b'lieve I'd have no joyfuler, with things comin' 
 in so pat, so don't you throw no shadders.' 
 
 " ' Shadders,' says Andy, 'that ain't me. I leave 
 that sort of thing fur Tom Simmons.' 
 
 " ' Shadders is cool,' says I, ' an' I kin go to sleep 
 under all he throws.' 
 
 " Well sir," continued old Silas, putting his hand on 
 the tiller and turning his face seaward, '• if Tom Sim- 
 mons had kept command of that wreck, we all would 
 a laid there an' waited an' waited till some of us was 
 starved, an' the others got nothin' fur it, fur the cap'n 
 never mended his engin', an' it was more'n a week 
 afore we was took off, an' then it was by a sailin' 
 vessel, which left the hull of the ' Water Crescent ' be- 
 hind her, just as she would a had to leave the ' Mary 
 Auguster ' if that jolly old Christmas wreck had a been 
 there. 
 
 "An' now sir," said Silas, " d'3'e see that stretch 
 o' little ripples over yander, lookin' as if it was a lot 
 o' herrin' turnin* over to dry their sides? Do you 
 know what that is? That's the supper wind. That 
 means coffee, an' hot cakes, an' a bit of br'iled fish, 
 
22 THE CHRISTMAS WRECK. 
 
 an' pertaters, an' p'raps — if the old woman feels in 
 a partiklar good humor — some canned peaches, big 
 white uns, cut in half, with a holler place in the middle 
 filled with cool, sweet juice." 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE, 
 
 TN a general way I am not a superstitious man, but 
 -^ I have a few ideas, or notions, in regard to fatality 
 and kindred subjects of which I have never been able 
 entirely to dispossess my mind ; nor can I say that I 
 have ever tried very much to do so, for I hold that a 
 certain amount of irrationalism in the nature of a man 
 is a thing to be desired. By its aid he clambers over 
 the wall which limits the action of his intellect, and if 
 he be but sure that he can get back again no harm 
 may come of it, while he is the better for many 
 pleasant excursions. 
 
 My principal superstitious notion, and indeed the 
 only one of importance, is the belief that whatever I 
 earnestly desire and plan for will happen. This idea 
 does not relate to things for which people fight hard, 
 or work long, but to those events for which we sit 
 down and wait. It is truly a pleasant belief, and one 
 worthy to be fostered if there can be found any ground 
 for it. I do not exercise my little superstition very 
 often, but when I do I find things happen as I wish; 
 
 23 
 
24 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 and in cases where this has not yet occurred there is 
 plenty of time to wait. 
 
 I am not a very old person, being now in my twenty- 
 eighth 3^ear, but my two sisters, who live with me, as 
 well as most of my acquaintances, look upon me, I 
 think, as an older man. This is not due to my experi- 
 ence in the world, for I have not gone out a great deal 
 among my fellow-men, but rather to my habits of read- 
 ing and reflection, which have so matured my intel- 
 lectual nature that the rest of me, so to speak, has 
 insensibly stepped a little faster to keep pace with it. 
 Grace Anna, indeed, is two years older than I, yet I 
 know she looks up to me as a senior quite as much as 
 does Bertha, who is but twenty-four. 
 
 These sisters had often laughingly assured me that 
 the one thing I needed was a wife, and, although I 
 never spoke much on the subject, in the course of time 
 I began to think a good deal about it, and the matter 
 so interested my mind that at last I did a very singular 
 thing. I keep a diary, in which I briefly note daily 
 events, especially those which may, in a degree, be 
 considered as epochs. My book has a page for every 
 day, with the date printed at the top thereof ; not a 
 very desirable form, perhaps, for those who would 
 write much on one day and very little the next, but it 
 suits me well enough, for I seldom enter into details. 
 Not many months ago, as I sat alone, one evening, in 
 my library, turning over the leaves of this diary, I 
 looked ahead at the pages intended for the days of the 
 year that were yet to come, and the thought entered 
 my mind that it was a slavish thing to be able to note 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 25 
 
 only what bad happened, and not to dare to write one 
 word upon the blank pages of the next month, or the 
 next, or even of to-morrow. As I turned backward 
 and forward these pages devoted to a record of the 
 future the desire came to me to write something upon 
 one of them. It was a foolish fancy, perhaps, but it 
 pleased me. I would like a diary, not only of what 
 had been, but of what was to be. I longed to chal- 
 lenge fate, and I did it. I selected a page, not too far 
 ahead and in a good time of the year, — it w^as Sep- 
 tember 14th, — and on it I wrote, — 
 
 " This day came into my life she who is to be my wife." 
 
 When I had made this strange entry I regarded it with 
 satisfaction. I had fully come to the conclusion that 
 it was due to my position as the owner of a goodly 
 estate that I should marr}'. I had felt that at some 
 time I must do something in this matter. And now a 
 thing was done, aud a time was fixed. It is true that 
 I knew no woman who was at all likely, upon the day 
 I had selected, or upon any other day, to exercise a 
 matrimonial influence upon my life. But that made 
 no difference to me. I had taken my fate into m}' own 
 hands, and I would now see what would happen. 
 
 It was then earl}' in Jul}', and in a little more than 
 two months, the day which I had made a very momen- 
 tous one to me would arrive. I can not say that I had 
 a positive belief that what I had written would occur 
 on the 14th of September, but I had a very strange 
 notion that, as there was no reason why it should not 
 be so, it would be so. At any rate, who could say it 
 
26 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 would not be so? This sort of thing was not a be- 
 lief, but to all intents and purposes it was just as 
 good. 
 
 It was somewhat amusing even to myself, and it 
 would probably have been very amusing to any one 
 else acquainted with the circumstances, to observe the 
 influence that this foundationless and utterly irrational 
 expectation had upon me. To the great delight of my 
 sisters, I began to attend to matters in which formerly 
 I had taken little interest. I set two men at work 
 upon the grounds about the house, giving my personal 
 supervision to the removal of the patches of grass in 
 the driveway, which led under the oaks to the door. 
 Here and there I had a panel of fence put it better 
 order, and a dead apple-tree, which for some time had 
 stood on the brow of a hill in view of the house, was 
 cut down and taken away. 
 
 "If any of our friends think of visiting us," said 
 Bertha, '' they ought to come now, while every thing is 
 looking so trim and nice." 
 
 '' Would you like that?" asked Grace Anna, look- 
 ing at me. 
 
 "Yes," I replied. "That is, they might begin to 
 come now." 
 
 At this both my sisters laughed. 
 
 "Begin to come!" cried Bertha. "How hos- 
 pitable you are growing ! " 
 
 The summer went on, and I kept good faith with 
 my little superstition. If either of us should desert 
 the other, it should not be I who would do it. It 
 pleased me to look forward to the event which I had 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 27 
 
 called up out of the future, and to wait for it — if 
 perchance it should come. 
 
 One morning my sister Bertha entered my librar}', 
 with a letter in her hand and a very pleasant expres- 
 sion on her face. "What do you think? " she said. 
 "We are going to have a visit! — just as the paint 
 ^s dry on the back porch, so that we can have tea there 
 in the afternoon." 
 
 "A visit! " I exclaimed, regarding her with much 
 interest. 
 
 "Yes," continued Bertha. "Kitty Watridge is 
 coming to stay with us. I have written and written 
 to her, and now she is coming.'* 
 
 "Who is she?" I asked. 
 
 Bertha laughed. " You haven't forgotten the 
 Watridges, have you?" 
 
 No, I had not forgotten them ; at least, the only 
 one of them I ever knew. Old Mr. Watridge had 
 been a friend of my late father, a cheerful and rather 
 ruddy man, although much given to books. He had 
 been my friend, too, in the days when he used to come 
 to us ; and I remember well that it was he who started 
 me on a journey along the third shelf from the top, on 
 the east wall of the library, through " The World Dis- 
 played," in many volumes, by Smart, Goldsmith, and 
 Johnson ; and thence to some "New Observations on 
 Italy," in French, by two Swedish gentlemen, in 1758 ; 
 and so on through many other works of the kind, 
 where I found the countries shown forth on their 
 quaint pages so different from those of the same name 
 described in modern books of travel that it was to me 
 
28 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 a virtual enlargement of the worlci. It had been a 
 long time since I had seen the old gentleman, and I 
 felt sorry for it. 
 
 " Is Mr. Watridge coming? " I asked. 
 
 "Of course not," said Bertha. "That would be 
 your affair. And besides, he never leaves home 
 now. It is only Kitty, his youngest daughter, my 
 friend." 
 
 I had an indistinct recollection that Mr. Watridge 
 had some children, and that they were daughters, but 
 that was all I remembered about them. "She is 
 grown? " I asked. 
 
 "I should think so," answered Bertha, with a 
 laugh. " She is at least twenty." 
 
 If my sister could have known the intense interest 
 which suddenly sprung up within me she would have 
 been astounded. A grown-up, marriageable young 
 lady was coming to my house, in September! M}' 
 next question was asked hurriedly: "When will she 
 be here ? ' ' 
 
 " She is coming next Wednesday, the 16th," 
 answered Bertha, referring to her letter. 
 
 " The 16th ! " I said to myself. " That is two days 
 atUr '»y date.'* 
 
 " What kind of a lady is she? " I asked Bertha. 
 
 " She is lovely, — just as lovel}- as she can be." 
 
 I now began to feel a little disappointed. If she 
 were lovely, as my sister said, and twenty, with good 
 Watridge blood, why did she not come a little sooner? 
 It was truly an odd thing to do, but I could not 
 forbear expressing what I thought. " I wish," I said. 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 29 
 
 somewhat abstracted!}", "that she were coming on 
 Monday instead of Wednesday." 
 
 Bertha laughed heartily. "I was really afraid," 
 she said, "that you might think there were enough 
 girls already in the house. But here you are wanting 
 Kitty to come before she is ready. Grace Anna!" 
 she cried to my elder sister, who was passing the 
 open door, " he isn't put out a bit, and he is in such 
 a hurry to see Kitty that he thinks she should come on 
 Monday." 
 
 It was impossible to chide m}' sisters for laughing 
 at me, and I could not help smiling myself. "It is 
 not that I am in a hurry to see her," I observed, " for 
 I do not know the young lady at all ; but I consider 
 Monday a more suitable day than Wednesdaj' for her 
 arrival." 
 
 "It is odd," replied Bertha, "that you should 
 prefer one day to another." 
 
 "Is there any reason why it does not suit 3'ou to 
 have her come on Wednesday-?" asked Grace Anna. 
 " Her visit might be deferred a day or two." 
 
 Of course I could give no reason, and I did not 
 wish the visit deferred. 
 
 "It's just because he's so dreadfully systematic! " 
 cried Bertha. " He thinks every thing ought to begin 
 at the beginning of the week, and that even a visit 
 should make a fair start on Monday, and not break in 
 unmethodically." 
 
 My elder sister was alwa3's very considerate of my 
 welfare and my wishes, and had it been practicable I 
 believe that she would have endeavored Lu this instance 
 
30 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 to make our hospitality conform to what appeared to 
 be my love of system and order. But she explained 
 to me that, apart from the awkwardness of asking the 
 young lady to change the day which she had herself 
 fixed, without being able to give any good reason 
 therefor, it would be extremely inconvenient for them 
 to have their visitor before Wednesda}", as an earlier 
 arrival would materially interfere with certain house- 
 hold arrangements. 
 
 I said no more, but I was disappointed ; and this 
 feeling grew upon me, for the reason that during the 
 rest of the day and the evening my sisters talked a 
 great deal about their young friend, and I found that, 
 unless they were indeed most prejudiced judges, — 
 which in the case of Grace Anna, at least, I could 
 never believe, — this young person who was coming to 
 us must be possessed of most admirable personal 
 qualities. She was pretty ; she had excellent moral 
 sentiments, a well-cultured intellect, and a lovable 
 disposition. These, with the good blood, — which, 
 in my opinion, was a most important requisite, — 
 made up a woman in every way fitted to enter m}- life 
 in a matrimonial capacity. If, without any personal 
 bias, I had been selecting a wife for a friend, I could 
 not have expected to do better than this. That such 
 a young person should come within the range of my 
 cognizance on the wrong day would be, to say the 
 least, a most annoying occurrence. Why did I not 
 select the 16th, or she the 14th? A fate that was two 
 days slow might as well be no fate at all. My meeting 
 with the girl would have no meaning. I must admit 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 31 
 
 that the more I thought about this girl the more I 
 wished it should have a meaning. 
 
 During the night, or perhaps very early in the morn- 
 ing, a most felicitous idea came into my mind. I would 
 assist my fate. My idea was this : On Monday I 
 would drive to Mr. Watridge's house. It was a pleas- 
 ant day's journey. I would spend Tuesday with him, 
 and, returning on Wednesday, I could bring Miss Kitty 
 with me. Thus all the necessary conditions would be 
 fulfilled. She would come into my life on the 14th, 
 and I would have opportunities of knowing her which 
 probably would not occur to me at home. Everything 
 would happen as it should ; only, instead of the lady 
 coming to me, I should go to her. 
 
 As I expected, my project, when I announced it at 
 the breakfast table, was the occasion of much mirth, 
 especially on the part of Bertha. " I never saw any 
 thing like it!'* she cried. "You want to see Kitty 
 even more than I do. I should never have thought of 
 such a thing as going for her two days in advance." 
 
 "As it would have been impossible for you to do 
 so," said I, " I can easily conceive that you would not 
 have allowed the idea to enter your mind." 
 
 Grace Anna, however, looked upon my plan with 
 much favor, and entered into its details with interest, 
 dwelling particularly on the pleasure Mr. Watridge 
 would derive from my visit. 
 
 I looked forward with great pleasure to the little 
 journey I was about to make. The distance from 
 Eastover, my residence, to Mr. Watridge's house was 
 some twent3'-five miles, — a very suitable day's drive 
 
32 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 in fine weather. The road led through a pleasant 
 country, with several opportunities for pretty views ; 
 and about half-way was a neat tavern, standing behind 
 an immense cherrj'-tree, where a stop could be made 
 for rest and for a midday meal. I had a comfortable, 
 easy-cushioned buggy, well provided with protective 
 appurtenances in case of rain or too much sunshine ; 
 and my sisters and myself were of the opinion that, 
 under ordinary- circumstances, no one would hesitate 
 between this vehicle and the crowded stage-coach, 
 which was the only means of communication between 
 our part of the country and that in which the Watridge 
 estate lay. 
 
 I made an early start on Monday morning, with my 
 good horse, Dom Pedro ; named by my sister Bertha, 
 but whether for the Emperor of Brazil, or for a social 
 game of cards which we generally played when we had 
 two or three visitors, and therefore there were too many 
 of us for whist, I do not know. I arrived at my desti- 
 nation towards the close of the afternoon, and old Mr. 
 Watridge was delighted to see me. We spent a pleas- 
 ant hour in his library, waiting for the return of his 
 two daughters, who were out for a walk. It must be 
 admitted that it was with considerable emotional per- 
 turbation that I beheld the entrance into that room of 
 Miss Kitty Watridge. She came in alone ; her sister, 
 who was much older, being detained by some house- 
 hold duties, connected, probably, with my unexpected 
 arrival. This, with the action of Mr. Watridge in 
 presently excusing himself for a time, gave me an 
 opportunity, more immediate than I had expected, for 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 33 
 
 an uninterrupted study of this young lady, who had 
 become to me so important a person. 
 
 I will not describe Kitty, her appearance, nor her 
 conversation, but will merely remark that before we 
 were joined by her father and sister I would have been 
 quite willing, so far as I was concerned, to show her 
 the entry in my diary. 
 
 It may be that a man heavily clad with the armor of 
 reserve and restraint sinks more quickly and deeper 
 than one not so encumbered, when he finds himself 
 suddenly in a current of that sentiment which now 
 possessed me. Be that as it may, my determination 
 was arrived at before I slept that night : Kitty Wat- 
 ridge had entered into m}' life on the 14th of Septem- 
 ber, and I was willing to accept her as my wife. 
 
 As the son of an old comrade on the part of the 
 father, and as the brother of two dear friends on 
 the part of the daughters, I was treated with hearty 
 cordiality by his family, and the next day was a most 
 pleasing and even delightful one to me, until the even- 
 ing came. Then a cloud, and a verj' heavy one, arose 
 upon my emotional horizon. I had stated how I pur- 
 posed to make the little journey of Miss Kitty to our 
 house more comfortable and expeditious than it would 
 otherwise be, and Mr. Watridge had expressed himself 
 very much pleased with the plan ; while Kitty had 
 declared that it would be charming, especially when 
 compared with travel by stage-coach, of which the 
 principal features, in her idea of it, appeared to be 
 mothers, little children, and lunch baskets. But, after 
 dinner, Miss Maria, the elder daughter, remarked very 
 
34 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 quietly, but very positively, that she did not think it 
 would do — that is the phrase she used — for me to 
 drive her sister to Eastover. She gave no reasons, 
 and I asked none, but it was quite evident that hei 
 decision was one not to be altered. 
 
 " It would be far better," she said, '' not to change 
 our original plan, and for Kitty, as well as her trunk, 
 to go by the stage. Mrs. Karcroft is going the whole 
 of the way, and Kitty will be well taken care of." 
 
 Miss Maria was the head of the house ; she had 
 acted for many years as the maternal director of her 
 sister ; and I saw very soon that what the other two 
 members of the family might think upon the subject 
 would matter very little. The father, indeed, made at 
 first some very vigorous dissent, urging that it would 
 be a shame to make me take that long drive home 
 alone, when I had expected company ; and although 
 Kitty said nothing, I am sure she looked quite disap- 
 pointed. But neither words nor looks availed any 
 thing. Miss Maria was placid, but very firm, and 
 under her deft management of the conversation the 
 subject was soon dismissed as settled. 
 
 " I am very sorry," observed the old gentleman to 
 me, when the ladies had bidden us good-night, " that 
 Kitty can not take advantage of your invitation, which 
 was a very kind one, and to which I see not the slight- 
 est objection. My daughter Maria has very peculiar 
 ideas sometimes, but as she acts as a sort of mother 
 here we don't like to interfere with her." 
 
 '^I would not have you do so for the world," an- 
 swered I. 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 35 
 
 tr 
 
 •You are very good, very good!'* exclaimed Mr. 
 Watridge ; " aud I must say I think it's a confounded 
 shame that you and Kitty can not take that pleasant 
 drive together. Suppose you go with her in the stage, 
 and let me send a man to Eastover with your horse and 
 vehicle." 
 
 **I thank 3'ou very kindly, sir," I replied, "but it 
 will be better for me to return the way I came ; and 
 your daughter will have a companion, I understand." 
 
 " Nobody but old Mrs. Karcroft, and she counts for 
 nothing as company. You had better think of it." 
 
 I would not consent, however, to make any change 
 in my arrangements ; and, shortly after, I retired. 
 
 I went to bed that night a very angry man. When 
 I prepared a plan or scheme with which no reasonable 
 fault could be found, I was not accustomed to have 
 it thwarted, or indeed even objected to. I was dis- 
 pleased with Mr. Watridge because he allowed himself 
 to be so easily influenced, and I was even dissatisfied 
 with Kitty's want of spirit, though of course she could 
 not have been expected to exhibit an eagerness to ac- 
 company me. But with that horrible old maid, Miss 
 Maria, I was truly indignant. There frequently arises 
 in the mind an image which forcibly connects itself 
 with the good or bad qualities of a person under our 
 contemplation, and thus Miss Maria appeared to me in 
 the character of a moral pepper-box. Virtue is like 
 sugar or cream, — good in itself, and of advantage 
 to that with which it is suitably mingled ; but Miss 
 Maria's propriety was the hottest and most violent sort 
 of pepper, extremely disagreeable in itself, and never 
 
36 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 needed except in the case of weak moral digestion. 
 Her objections were an insult to me. I went to sleep 
 thinking of a little pepper cruet which I would like to 
 nave made of silver for my table, to take the place of 
 the owl or other conventional pattern, which should be 
 exactly like Miss Maria, — hard and unimpressionable 
 without, hollow within, and the top of its head perfo- 
 rated with little holes. At breakfast I endeavored to 
 be coldly polite, but it must have been easy for the 
 family to perceive that I was very much offended. I 
 requested that my horse and buggy should be made 
 ready as soon as possible. While I was waiting for it 
 on the porch, where Mr. Watridge had just left me, 
 Miss Kitty came out to me. This was the first time I 
 had been alone with her since the preceding afternoon, 
 when we had had a most charming walk through the 
 orchard and over the hills to a high point, where we 
 had stayed until we saw the sun go down. 
 
 " It seems a real pity," she observed very prettily, 
 and in a tone which touched me, " that you should be 
 driving off now by yourself, while in about an hour I 
 shall start from the same place." 
 
 "Miss Kitty," said I, "would you like to go with 
 me?" 
 
 She hesitated for a moment, looked down, and then 
 looked up, and said, " So far as I am concerned, 
 I think — I mean I know — that I should like very 
 much to go with you. But 3'ou see" — and then she 
 hesitated again. 
 
 " Say no more, I pray you ! " I exclaimed. I would 
 not place her in the unpleasant position of defending, 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 37 
 
 or even explaining, the unwarrantable interference of 
 a relative. "If you really wish to accompany me," 
 I continued, warmly shaking her hand, for my buggy 
 was now approaching, "I am entirely satisfied, and 
 nothing more need be said. It is, in a measure, the 
 same as if you were going with me. Good-by." 
 
 A moment before I was depressed and morose. Now 
 I was exuberantly joyful. The change was sudden, 
 but there was reason for it. Kitty wished to go with 
 me, and had come to tell me so ! 
 
 Mr. Watridge and his elder daughter now appeared 
 in the doorway, and as I took leave of the latter I am 
 sure she noticed a change in my manner. I said no 
 more to her than was absolutely necessary, but the 
 sudden cheerfulness which had taken possession of me 
 could not be repressed even in her presence. 
 
 The old gentleman accompanied me to the carriage- 
 block. '^ I don't want to bore you about it," he said, 
 " but I really am sorry you are going away alone." 
 
 I felt quite sure, from several things Mr. Watridge 
 had said and done during my visit, that he would be 
 well pleased to see his j'ounger daughter and myself 
 thrown very much into the company of each other, and 
 to have us remain so, indeed, for the rest of our 
 lives. And there was no reason why he should not 
 desire it. In every way the conditions of such a union 
 would be most favorable. 
 
 "Thank you very much," I returned; "but the 
 pleasure of having your daughter at my house will 
 make me forget this little disappointment." 
 
 He looked at me with glistening eyes. Had I boldly 
 
38 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 asked him, '' Will you be my father-in-law? " no more 
 favorable answer could have come from his lips than 
 I now saw upon his countenance. 
 
 " Good fortune be with you ! " were his last words 
 as I drove away. 
 
 I do not suppose anything of the kind could be more 
 delightful than my drive that morning. Miss Kitty 
 had said that she would like to be my companion, and 
 I determined to have her so in imagination, if not in 
 fact. The pleasures of fancy are sometimes more sat- 
 isfactory than those of reality, for we have them en- 
 tirely under our control. I chose now to imagine that 
 Miss Kitty was seated by my side, and I sat well to 
 the right, that I might give her plenty of room. In 
 imagination I conversed with her, and she answered 
 me as I would have her. Our remarks were carefully 
 graduated to the duration of our acquaintance and the 
 seemly progress of our intimacy. I wished to discover 
 the intellectual status of the fair young creature who 
 had come into my life on the 14th of September. I 
 spoke to her of books, and found that her reading had 
 been varied and judicious. She had read Farrar's " Life 
 of Christ," but did not altogether like it ; and while she 
 had much enjoyed Fronde's " Caesar," she could have 
 wished to believe the author as just as he endeavored 
 to make his hero appear. With modern romance she 
 had dealt but lightly, rather preferring works of his- 
 tory and travel, even when pervaded with the flavor of 
 the eighteenth century. But we did not always speak 
 of abstract subjects ; we were both susceptible to the 
 influences of nature, and my companion enjoyed as 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 39 
 
 much as I did the bright sunshine tempered by a cool- 
 ing breeze, the clear sky with fair white clouds floating 
 along the horizon, and the occasional views of the blue 
 and distant mountains, their tops suffused with warm 
 autumnal mists. After a time I asked her if I might 
 call her Kitty, and glancing downward, and then up, 
 with the same look she had given me on the porch, she 
 said I might. This was very pleasant, and was not, 
 in my opinion, an undue familiarity, which feature I 
 was ver}' careful to eliminate from our companionship. 
 One act, however, of what might be termed super- 
 friendly kindness, I intended to propose, and the con- 
 templation of its probable acceptance afforded me much 
 pleasure. After our quiet luncheon in the shaded 
 little dining-room of the Cherry -Tree Inn, and when 
 she had rested as long as she chose, we would begin 
 our afternoon journey, and the road, before very long, 
 would lead us through a great pine wood. Here, roll- 
 ing over the hard, smooth way, and breathing the gen- 
 tle odor of the pines, she would naturally feel a little 
 somnolent, and I intended to say to her that if she 
 liked she might rest her head upon my shoulder, and 
 doze. If I should hear the sound of approaching 
 wheels I would gently arouse her ; but as an interrup- 
 tion of this kind was not likely to occur, I thought with 
 much satisfaction of the pleasure I should have in the 
 afternoon, when this fancy would be appropriate. To 
 look upon the little head gently resting on that shoulder, 
 which, when our acquaintance had more fully developed, 
 I would offer her as a permanent possession, would be 
 to me a preconnubial satisfaction of a very high order. 
 
40 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 When about a mile from the Cherry-Tree Inn, and 
 with my mind filled with these agreeable fancies, an 
 accident happened to me. One of the irons which 
 connected the shafts to the front axle broke, and the 
 conditions of my progress became abruptly changed. 
 The wheel at that end of the axle to which a shaft was 
 yet attached went suddenly forward, and the other flew 
 back and grated against the side of the buggy, while 
 both wheels, instead of rolling in the general course of 
 the vehicle, were dragged in a side wise direction. The 
 disconnected shaft fell upon the legs of Dom Pedro, 
 who, startled by the unusual sensation, forsook his 
 steady trot, and broke into a run. Thus, with the 
 front wheels scraping the road, the horse attached but 
 by a single shaft, I was hurried along at an alarming 
 pace. Pull as I might, I could not check the progress 
 of Dom Pedro ; and if this state of affairs had con- 
 tinued for more than the few moments which it really- 
 lasted, the front wheels would have been shattered, and 
 I do not know what sad results might have ensued. 
 But the other shaft broke loose, the reins were rudely 
 torn from my hands, and the horse, now free from 
 attachment to the vehicle, went clattering along the 
 road, the shafts bobbing at his heels ; while the buggy, 
 following the guidance of the twisted front axle, ran 
 into a shallow ditch at the side of the road, and abruptly 
 stopped. 
 
 Unhurt, I sprang out, and my first thought was one 
 of joy that the Kitty who had been by my side was an 
 imaginary one. Had the real Kitty been there, what 
 might not have happened to her ! A dozen possible 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 41 
 
 accidents crowded themselves on my mind, and I have 
 no doubt my countenance expressed my feelings. 
 
 There was nothing to be done but to take my valise 
 and the whip from the buggy, and walk on to the inn, 
 where I found the landlord in the act of saddling a 
 horse, to come and see what had happened to me. 
 Dom Pedro had arrived with a portion of the shafts 
 attached to him, the rest having been kicked away. 
 The accident occasioned considerable stir at the inn ; 
 but as I never cared to discuss my personal affairs 
 any further than is necessary, it was soon arranged 
 that after I had lunched I would borrow a saddle from 
 the landlord, and ride Dom Pedro home, while the 
 broken buggy would be brought to the inn, where I 
 would send for it the next day. This plan did not 
 please me, for I was not fond of equestrianism, and 
 Dom Pedro was rather a hard trotter ; but there was 
 nothing better to do. Had I not taken this road, 
 which was much more agreeable although rather longer 
 than the high road, I might have been picked up by the 
 stage which was conveying Miss Kitty to my house. 
 
 While I was yet at my meal there arrived at the 
 inn a young man, who shortly afterward entered the 
 room, and informed me that, having heard of my 
 accident, he came to offer me a seat in the buggy in 
 which he was traveling. He was going my way, and 
 would be glad of a companion. This invitation, given 
 as it was b}' a well-appearing young man of pleasing 
 manners, was, after a little consideration, accepted by 
 me. 1 would much prefer to ride a dozen miles in a 
 buggy with a stranger than on horseback alone. 
 
42 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 The drive of the afternoon was very different from 
 what I had expected it to be, but it was not devoid 
 of some pleasant features. My companion was socia- 
 ble, and not too communicative ; although he annoyed 
 me very much by giving me the entirely uncalled-for 
 information that if I had had short straps from the 
 tnds of the shafts to the axle, which no well-ordered 
 buggy should be without, the accident would not have 
 Dccurred. I passed this by, and our conversation 
 became more general, and to me more acceptable. 
 The young man was going to Harnden, a village 
 not far from my house, where he appeared to have 
 some business, and he assured me that he would not 
 object in the least to go a little out of his way and 
 set me down at my door. 
 
 "We reached Eastover quite late in the afternoon, and 
 [ perceived, from the group on the porch, that Miss 
 Kitty had arrived. All three of the ladies came down 
 to meet me, evidently very much surprised to see 
 me in a strange vehicle. When I alighted, and was 
 hastily explaining to my sisters the cause of this 
 change of conveyance, I was surprised to see Miss 
 Kitty shaking hands with the young man, who was 
 standing by his horse's head. My elder sister, Grace 
 Anna, who had also noticed this meeting, now ap- 
 proached the pair, and was introduced to the gentle- 
 man. In a few moments she returned to me, who had 
 been regarding the interview with silent amazement. 
 
 "It is Harve}' Glade," she said, — *' Kitty's cousin. 
 Ve should invite him to stay here to-night." 
 
 I can not conceive of anything which more quickl5 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 43 
 
 than these words would have snuffed out the light 
 which had illumined the vision of my house with 
 Kitty in it ; but it was impossible for me to forget 
 that I was a gentleman and the master of Eastover, 
 and, instantly causing my perception of these facts to 
 take precedence of my gathering emotions, 1 stepped 
 up to Miss Kitty, and, asking to be introduced to her 
 cousin, I begged him to make my house his home 
 during his stay in the neighborhood. 
 
 This invitation was accepted, as I supposed it would 
 be when I made it; yet I must own that I did not 
 expect Mr. Glade to remain at my house for a week. 
 Of course his presence prevented the execution of any 
 of my plans regarding the promotion of my intimacy 
 with Kitty ; but although the interruption caused me 
 much, vexation, I maintained the equanimity due to my 
 position, and hoped each day that the young man would 
 take his leave. Towards the end of his visit I became 
 aware, through the medium of my sisters, to whom I 
 had left in a great degree the entertainment of oui 
 guests, that 3'oung Glade was actually engaged to 
 be married to Kitty. She had told them so herself. 
 This statement, which chilled to the verge of frigidity 
 my every sensibility, was amplified as follows : The 
 young people had been attached to each other for 
 some time, but the visits of Glade having been dis- 
 ccuraged by Miss Kitty's family, they had not seen 
 e£ch other lately, and there had been no positive dec- 
 laration of amatory sentiment on the part of either. 
 But this protracted sojourn in my house had given the 
 young man all the opportunity he could desire, and 
 
44 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 the matter was settled so definitely that there was 
 no reason to suppose that the better judgment of her 
 elders would cause the young woman to change her 
 mind. 
 
 Here was a fine ending to my endeavors to assist 
 my fate. Instead of so doing, I had assisted the 
 fate of Mr. Harvey Glade, in whose welfare I had 
 no interest whatever. He had not known that Miss 
 Kitty was coming to my house ; he had not even been 
 aware, until he met her at Eastover, that I was ac- 
 quainted with her family. Had it not been for my 
 endeavors to promote my own fortune in the direction 
 of the lady, he would have had no opportunity to make 
 her his own ; and they probably would not have seen 
 each other again, unless he had happened to call upon 
 her as the mistress of Eastover. Instead of aiding 
 Miss Kitty to enter my life on the 14th of September, 
 I had ushered her into his life on the 16 th of that 
 month. 
 
 For a week after the departure of our guests — the 
 young man went first — I found myself in a state of 
 mental depression from which the kindly efforts of my 
 sisters could not arouse me. Not only was I deeply 
 chagrined at what had occurred, but it wounded my 
 self-respect to think that my fate, which had been 
 satisfactorily pursuing the course I had marked out 
 for it, should have been thus suddenly and disastrously 
 turned aside. I felt that I must confess myself con- 
 quered. It was an unusual and a difficult thing for 
 me to do this, but there was no help for it. I took 
 out my diary, and turned to the page whereon I had 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 45 
 
 challenged fate. That entry must be erased. I must 
 humble myself, and acknowledge it untrue. 
 
 At the moment that I dipped the pen in the inkstand 
 there was a knock at the door, and Qrace Anna en- 
 tered. 
 
 *'I have just had a letter," she said, "from dear 
 Jane Wiltby, who married your old schoolfellow, Dr. 
 Tom. I thought you would like to hear the news it 
 contains. They have a little girl, and she is to be 
 named for me." 
 
 " How old is it? " I asked, with indifferent interest. 
 
 " She was born on the 14th of September," said 
 Grace Anna. 
 
 I sat erect, and looked at my sister — looked at her 
 without seeing her. Thoughts, like clouds upon the 
 horizon brightened by the rays of dawn, piled them- 
 selves up in my mind- Dr. Tom, the companion of 
 my youth, ever my cherished friend ! Jane, woman 
 above women ! Grace Anna ! 
 
 I laid down the pen, and, leaving the momentous 
 and prognostic entry just as I had written it, I closed 
 m}' diary, and placed it in my desk. 
 
 He who can not adapt himself to the vagaries of a 
 desired fate, who can not place himself upon the road 
 by which he expects it to come, and who can not wait 
 for it with cheerful confidence is not worthy to be 
 an assistant arbiter of his destiny. 
 
46 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 II. 
 
 The fact that on the day indicated in my diary a 
 young creature not only came into m}" life, but into 
 her own, greatly satisfied and encouraged me. I 
 would begin at the beginning. Within the sphere of 
 my immediate cognizance would grow and develop the 
 infant, the child, the girl, the woman, and, finally, the 
 wife. What influence might I not have upon this 
 development ? The parents were my friends ; the child 
 was my selected bride. The possibilities of advanta- 
 geous guidance, unseen perhaps, but potent to a degree 
 unattainable by a mere parent or guardian, were, to 
 my thinking, boundless. 
 
 I was now more content than I had been in the case 
 of the young lad}- whom I had supposed had been 
 given me by Fate, but who, it now appeared very fortu- 
 nately, had been snatched away before my irrevocable 
 mistake had been made. I was very grateful for this : 
 I was grateful to Fate ; I was grateful to Mr. Glade, 
 the successful lover ; I was even grateful to Kitty for 
 not having allowed herself to be influenced by any- 
 thing she may have seen in me during our short ac- 
 quaintance. Of the past of Kitty I knew little, as was 
 well demonstrated by the appearance of Harvey Glade. 
 My present fiancee had no past. With her and with 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 47 
 
 me it was all future, which would gently crystallize, 
 minute by minute and day by day, into a present whick 
 would be mutually our own. 
 
 Of course I said nothing of all this to any one. The 
 knowledge of our destiny was locked up in the desk 
 which held my diary and in my own heart. When 
 the proper time came, she, first, should know. I am 
 an honorable man, and as such felt fully qualified to 
 be the custodian of what was, in fact, her secret as 
 well as mine. 
 
 I took an early opportunity to become acquainted 
 with the one who was to be the future partner of my 
 life. It was towards the end of October, I think, that 
 I paid a visit to Dr. Tom Wiltby and his wife Jane, 
 my predestined parents-in-law. Had they known the 
 lX)sitiou they occupied towards me, they would have 
 been a ver}' much surprised couple. The interest I 
 exhibited in their first-born did, as I thought, surprise 
 them a little, but it only increased the warmth of the 
 welcome they gave me, and drew me closer to their 
 hearts. The emotions which possessed me when, in 
 the preceding summer, I had stood awaiting the mo- 
 ment when Kitty Watridge should enter the room and 
 first present herself to my siglit were nothing to those 
 which quickened the action of my heart as a nurse 
 brought into the Wiltby parlor a carefully disposed 
 bundle of drapery, in the midst of which reposed my 
 future wife. 
 
 I approached, and looked at her. Her face was dis- 
 played to view, but her form was undistinguishable. 
 For an instant our eyes met ; but, so far as I could 
 
48 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 judge, no spark of reciprocal sympath}^ seemed to shine 
 from hers. In fact, they rolled about in an irrelevant 
 manner which betokened a preoccupation so intense 
 that even the advent of a husband could have no effect 
 upon it. But whatever the child had on its mind — or 
 stomach — gave a volcanic mobility to its countenance, 
 which caused me much to wonder. The eyes then 
 closed, and appeared to be writhing and swelling be- 
 neath their lids ; the mouth was alternatel}^ convoluted 
 and unrolled towards nose, cheeks, and chin ; while 
 the rest of the face, which had been of an Indian red- 
 dish hue, now darkened, and from the puffy jaws to 
 the top of the bald head seemed moved by a spasm, 
 but whether of premonition or despair I could not 
 tell. 
 
 I withdrew my gaze. It might be well that I should 
 wait for a time before allowing my eyes to feed upon 
 this countenance. 
 
 I went away a little disappointed. The chaoticness 
 of initiatory existence had never before been so forci- 
 bly impressed on my mind. 
 
 During the following winter and spring I built up an 
 ideal, or rather a series of ideals. They were little 
 children, they were girls, they were women. At about 
 nineteen years of age the individual existence of each 
 ended, and became merged into the oneness of my 
 matrimonial life. Sometimes my ideal was a blonde, 
 sometimes a brunette. From the cursory glance I had 
 had of the one to whom all these fancies referred, I 
 could not judge whether she would be dark or fair. 
 She had no hair, and all that I could remember of her 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 49 
 
 eyes was that they had no soul light. Her father was 
 dark, her mother fair: she might be either. 
 
 Of all the legendary heroines of love, none ever so 
 impressed me as that Francesca whose strong love not 
 only braved every prejudice and barrier of earth, but, 
 according to eye-witnesses of the fact, floated with her 
 indefinitely through hell. In verse and picture, and 
 upon the stage, I knew Francesca well, — better, per- 
 haps, than any other woman. But to such an one I 
 would not be merely a Paolo, but the elder brother also. 
 I would have no proxy, no secret love, no unfaithful- 
 ness. There should be all the impetuosity, all the 
 spirit of self-immolation, without any necessity for it. 
 She who was to be mine had become in my thoughts 
 a Francesca, and she grew before my mind to ripened 
 loveliness. Her eyes sparkled with rapture when, as 
 through the gates of old Ravenna, the fair Ghibelline 
 first saw the brave rider that she thought to wed, so 
 this one would see through the gates of womanly con- 
 sciousness, not a mere envoy, but both Malatesta 
 brothers in one, — lover and husband, — me. With 
 such an imaginary one 1 read legends of old loves ; 
 with such an one I sat in shaded bowers, her young 
 face upturned to mine, and the red light from the 
 wings touching with color the passionate picture. But 
 no jester watched with sneering gibes, no husband 
 fought afar on battle-field ; Paolo and Lanciotto in 
 one looked into the uplifted eyes. 
 
 It was in the early summer that my two sisters and 
 myself were invited to the Wiltby mansion for a visit, 
 which our kindly hosts hoped would be somewhat pro- 
 
50 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 tracted. Among other things that were to be done the 
 baby was to be baptized, and Grace Anna, for whom 
 she was named, was to act as godmother. I was very 
 glad to make this visit. Quite a long time had now 
 elapsed since my first interview with Francesca, as I 
 always intended to call her, notwithstanding the name 
 that might be bestowed upon her by the church ; and 
 she must have now begun to foreshadow, in a measure, 
 that whicli she was to be. 
 
 When I saw her I found that there was not quite so 
 much foreshadowing as I had expected ; but, in spite 
 of that, she was a little creature whom, without doing 
 violence to any aesthetic instinct, I could take to my 
 heart. She was a pudgy infant, with blue eyes, a 
 blankety head, and a mouth that was generally ready 
 to break into a smile if you tickled the corners of it. 
 Instead of the long and flowing draperies in which J 
 first beheld her, she now wore short dresses, and that 
 she possessed remarkably fat legs and blue woolen 
 socks was a fact which Francesca never failed to en- 
 deavor to impress upon my observation. I excited a 
 great deal of surprise, with some admiration on the 
 part of the mother and occasional jocular remarks 
 from Bertha, my 3'ounger sister, by showing, at the 
 very beginning of our visit, a strong preference for 
 the society of the baby. I asked to be allowed to take 
 her into my arms, and walk with her into the garden ; 
 and although this privilege was at first denied me, 
 unless some lady should accompany me, I being con- 
 sidered quite inexperienced in the care of an infant, I 
 at last gained my point, and frequently had the picas- 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 51 
 
 ure of a tete-cl-tete stroll with Francesca. With my 
 future bride in my arms, slowly walking in the shaded 
 avenues of the garden, I gave my imagination full 
 play. I enlarged her eyes, and gave them a steadi- 
 n2ss of upturn which they did not now possess ; the 
 white fuzz upon her head grew into rich masses of 
 gold-brown hair ; the nose was lengthened and refined ; 
 her lips were less protruded, and made more continu- 
 ously dry ; while a good deal of fatty deposit was 
 removed from the cheeks and the second chin. As I 
 walked thus tenderly gazing down upon her, and often 
 removing her little fist from her mouth, I pictured in 
 her lineaments the budding womanhood for which I 
 waited. I would talk softly to her, and although she 
 seldom answered but in a gurgling monotone I saw in 
 our intercourse the dawning of a unity to be. 
 
 After we had been a few days at the Wiltby house 
 Miss Kitty Watridge came there, also on a visit. Her 
 engagement to Mr. Glade had not produced much 
 effect upon her personal appearance, although I thought 
 her somethiug quieter, and with a little sedateness 
 which I had not observed in her before. Her advent 
 at this time was not to my liking. As an object of 
 my regard, she had, in becoming engaged to another, 
 ceased to exist ; she had passed out of my sphere of 
 consideration, and the fact that she had once acted a 
 prominent part within it made it appear to me that 
 propriety demanded that she should not only go out of 
 it, but stay out of it. Her influence upon my inter- 
 course with Francesca was, from the first, objectiona- 
 ble. My sisters had alwaj's been accustomed to regard 
 
52 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 my wishes with a gratifying respect, and Mrs Wiltby 
 seemed anxious to imitate them in this laudable action. 
 But Miss Watridge had apparently no such ideas, and 
 she showed this most objectionably by imagining that 
 she had as much right to the baby as I had. Of course 
 she could not understand how matters stood, — nobody 
 but myself could understand that ; but she had not the 
 native delicacy of perception of my sisters and Jane 
 Wiltby. She could not know in how many ways she 
 interfered with my desires and purposes. My morning 
 walks were, in a manner, broken up ; for sometimes 
 the new-comer actually insisted upon carrying the baby 
 herself, in which case I retired, and sought some other 
 promenade. But after a few daj's I found that the 
 indulgence of any resentment of this sort not only 
 made me the object of remark, but promised to en- 
 tirely break up my plans in regard to Francesca. I 
 wished to create in my mind while here such an image 
 of her, matured and perfected according to my own 
 ideas, that I could live and commune with her during 
 the absences, more or less protracted, which must in- 
 tervene before the day when I should take her wholly 
 to myself. As I could not expect to stay here very 
 much longer, I must not lose what opportunities I had, 
 and so concluded to resume my walks with Francesca, 
 even if Miss Watridge should sometimes intrude her- 
 self upon us. 
 
 I must admit, however, that this she did not do, 
 considering the matter with strict regard to fact. She 
 generally possessed herself of the baby, and if I 
 wished its company I was obliged to intrude myself 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 53 
 
 apon her. The plan I now adopted was, I think, 
 somewhat ingenious. As is my wont, I endeavored 
 to shape to my advantage this obstacle which I now 
 found in my way. My intercourse with Francesca 
 had not been altogether satisfactory. For one thing, 
 there had been too much unity about it. A certain 
 degree of this was, indeed, desirable, but I was obliged 
 to be, at once, not only husband and lover, but lady 
 also ; for Francesca gave me no help in this regard, 
 except, perchance, an occasional look of entreaty, 
 which might as well mean that she would like a bottle 
 of milk as that she yearned for fond communion of 
 the soul. When I addressed her as my developed 
 ideal I imagined her answers, and so continued the 
 gentle conversation ; but, although she alwaj's spoke 
 as I would wish, there were absent from our converse 
 certain desirable elements which might have been 
 looked for from the presence of a second intellect. 
 Another source of dissatisfaction was that in many of 
 our interviews Francesca acted in a manner which was 
 not only disturbing, but indecorous. Frequently, when 
 I was speaking with her on such subjects as foreign 
 travel, when we two would wander amid the misty 
 purples of Caprian sunsets, or stand together in vast 
 palaces of hoarded art, she would struggle so convul- 
 sively, and throw upward with such violence her small 
 blue socks, that, for the time, I wished she was swad- 
 dled and bound in the manner of the Delia Robbia 
 babies on the front of the Foundling Asylum in Flor- 
 ence. 
 
 A plan of relieving myself from the obvious disad- 
 
54 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 vantages of my present method of intercourse with an 
 intellect, a soul, and a person, which to be suitable for 
 my companionship must necessarily be projected into 
 the future, now suggested itself to me. If Miss Wat- 
 ridge persisted in forcing herself upon Francesca, she 
 might at least make herself useful by taking the place 
 of that young person so far as regarded a part in the 
 conversation. Her entity occupied a position in re- 
 spect to growth and development which was about the 
 same as that to which I was in the habit of projecting 
 Francesca. Her answers to my remarks would be 
 analogous, if not similar, to those which might be ex- 
 pected from the baby when she arrived at maturity. 
 Thus, in a manner, I could talk to Francesca, and 
 receive her answers from the lips of Miss Kitty. This 
 would be as truly love-making by proxy as when the 
 too believing Lanciotto sent from Rimini his younger 
 brother to bear to him Ravenna's pearl. But here 
 was no guile, no dishonesty ; the messenger, the 
 vehicle, the interpreter, in this case, knew nothing of 
 the feelmgs now in action, or to be set in action, of 
 the principals in the affair. She did not know, in- 
 deed, that there were two principals. As far as she 
 herself was concerned, she had, and could have, no 
 interest in the matter. She was engaged to be married 
 to Mr. Glade, which, in my eyes, was the same thing 
 as being already married to him ; and any thoughts or 
 mental emotions that she might have relating to affec- 
 tionate interest in one of the opposite sex would of 
 course be centered in Mr. Glade. With Francesca 
 and myself she would have nothing to do but uncon- 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 55 
 
 sciously to assist in the transmission of sentiment. 
 Had Paolo been engaged to many a suitable young 
 person before he started for Ravenna, it is probable that 
 the limited partnership which Dante noticed in the 
 Inferno would never have been formed. 
 
 It was by slow degrees, and with a good deal of 
 caution, that I began my new course of action. Tak- 
 ing the child in my arms, I invited Miss Watridge to 
 accompany us in our walk. Thus, together, we slowly 
 strolled along the garden avenue, shaded by the fresh 
 greenness of June foliage, and flecked here and there 
 by patches of sunlight, which moved upon the gravel 
 in unison with the gentle breeze. Our conversation, 
 at first relating to simple and e very-day matters, was 
 soon directed by me into a channel in which I could 
 perceive whether or not I should succeed in this project 
 of representative rejoinder. It was not long before I 
 was pleased to discover that the mind of the young 
 lady was of as good natural quality and as well culti- 
 vated as I had formerly supposed it to be ; having then 
 little upon which to base my judgment, except the 
 general impression which her personality had made 
 upon me. That impression having been entirely ef- 
 faced, I was enabled with clearer vision and sounder 
 judgment to determine the value of her mental exhibit. 
 I found that she had read with some discrimination, 
 and with a tendency to independent thought she united 
 a becoming respect for the opinions of those who, by 
 reason of superior years, experience, and sex, might 
 be supposed to move on a psychological plane some- 
 what higher than her own. These were dispositions 
 
56 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE, 
 
 the development of which I hoped to assist in the 
 young Francesca, and it may be imagined that I was 
 much gratified to find my model so closely resembling 
 that personality which 1 wished, in a manner, to create. 
 
 Thus, up and down, daily, would we stroll and talk. 
 With the real Francesca on my arm, sometimes sleep- 
 ing, and sometimes indulging in disturbing muscular 
 exercises, which I gently endeavored to restrain, I 
 addressed myself to my ideal Francesca, an aerial 
 maiden, garbed in simple robes of white touched by a 
 soft suggestion of Italian glow, and ever with tender 
 eyes upturned to mine ; while from her proxy, walking 
 by my side, came to me the thoughts and sentiments 
 of her fresh young heart. 
 
 It was quite natural that I should be more interested 
 in a conversation of this kind than in one in which I 
 was obliged to supply the remarks on either side. To 
 be sure, in the latter case, there was a unison of 
 thought between myself and the ideal Francesca that 
 was very satisfactory, but which lacked the piquancy 
 given by unexpectedness of reply and the interest con- 
 sequent upon gentle argument. 
 
 It so happened that the morning occupations of 
 Mrs. Wiltby and my sisters were those in which Miss 
 Watridge did not care to join, and thus she was com- 
 monly left free to make one of the company of four 
 which took its morning walks upon the garden avenue. 
 I imagine that she supposed it was generally thought 
 that she was taking care of the baby and affording 
 it advantages of out-door air, in the performance of 
 which pleasing duty my presence was so unnecessary 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 57 
 
 that the probability of it was not even considered. 
 Thus it was that upon every fair day — and all those 
 days were fair — our morning strolls were prolonged 
 for an hour or more, generally terminated only by the 
 culminating resolve of Francesca to attract to herself 
 so much attention that a return to the house was ne- 
 cessary. It may be supposed that it would have been 
 better to have eliminated the element of the actual 
 being from the female side of our little company. But 
 that side, several as it was in its component person- 
 ages, represented to me the one Francesca ; and had 
 I not held and felt the presence of the actual living 
 creature, who was to be and to say all that my mind 
 saw and my ear heard, I could not have spoken as I 
 wished to speak to the ideality who was to be my wife 
 when it became a reality. The conjunction seemed to 
 me a perfect one, and under the circumstances I could 
 wish for nothing better. 
 
 As our acquaintance ripened and mellowed in the 
 pleasant summer days, I was enabled to see more 
 clearly into the soul and heart of the Francesca that 
 was to be, looking at them through the transparent 
 mind of Miss Kitty Watridge. According to the pur- 
 suance of my plan, I gradually, and as far as possible 
 imperceptibly, changed the nature of our converse. 
 From talking of the material world, and those objects 
 in it which had pleased our vision or excited reflection, 
 we passed to the consideration, very cursory at first, 
 of those sentiments which appear to emanate from our- 
 selves without the aid of extraneous agency. Then, 
 by slow degrees, the extraneous agency was allowed 
 
58 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 to enter upon the scene, coming in so quietly that at 
 first it was scarcely noticeable. The dependence of 
 man upon man was discussed, not only for material 
 good, but for intellectual support and comfort. Then, 
 following a course not exactly in accordance with that 
 of nature, but which suited my purposes, we spoke of 
 social ties, — of the friendships which spring up here 
 and there from these ; of the natural affections of the 
 family ; and, finally, the subject arising in consistent 
 sequence, of that congruent intermental action of the 
 intellect of two persons, generally male and female, 
 who frequentl}', without family ties of any kind and 
 but little previous acquaintanceship, find, each in the 
 other, an adaptiveness of entity which is mutually 
 satisfactory. 
 
 The vicarious replies of Francesca were, in almost 
 every instance, all that I could have wished. Some- 
 times there were symptoms of hesitancy or reluctance 
 in the enunciation of what was, obviously, the suit- 
 able reply to some of my remarks in regard to the 
 deeper sentiments ; but, on the whole, had the ideal 
 lady of my love spoken to me, her words could 
 not have better aroused my every sentiment of warm 
 regard. 
 
 Sometimes I wondered, as thus we walked and 
 talked, what Mr. Glade would think about it if he 
 could see us so much together, and listen to our con- 
 verse. But this thought I put aside as unworthy of 
 me. It was an insult to myself as an honorable man ; 
 it was an uncalled-for aspersion on Miss Watridge, 
 and a stain upon my idealistic intercourse with Fran- 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 59 
 
 oesca. If Mr. Glade was coarse and vulgar enough 
 to interject his personality into this perfectly working 
 system of intellectual action, from which the individ- 
 uality of Miss Watridge was entirely eliminated, her 
 part in it being merely to represent another, I could 
 not help it. It was this consciousnesa of rectitude, 
 this probity of purpose, which raised our little drama 
 so far above the level of the old story of the wedded 
 Guelph and Ghibelline. 
 
 With my mind satisfied on this subject, I did not 
 hesitate, when the proper time seemed to have arrived, 
 to allow myself to imagine Francesca at the age of 
 nineteen. I could not much longer remain in this 
 place, as we had now overstayed the original limit of 
 our visit ; and there was danger, too, that Miss Wat- 
 ridge might be called away. I wished, while the 
 opportunity continued, to develop the imaginary life of 
 Francesca into perfect womanhood, so that I could 
 carry away with me an image of my future wife, which 
 I could set upon the throne of my affection, there to 
 be revered, cherished, and guarded, until the time 
 came when the real Francesca should claim the seat. 
 Of course, under these circumstances, a certain fervor 
 of thought and expression was not only necessary, but 
 excusable, and I did not scruple to allow it to myself. 
 Always with the real Francesca in my arms, in order 
 that even my own superconscientiousness might not 
 take me to task, I delivered my sentiments without 
 drawing the veil of precautionary expression over their 
 amatory significance. It was at this stage of our 
 intercourse that I asked Miss Watridge to allow me to 
 
60 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 call her Francesca ; for it was only by so doing that I 
 could fully identify her voice with that of the visionary 
 creature who was now exciting the stirring impulses of 
 my heart. When she asked me why I wished to call 
 her by this name, I could only tell her that it was for 
 ideal purposes ; and without making further inquiries, 
 she consented that I should use it — for the present. 
 As it was only for the present that I thought of so 
 doing, this much of acquiescence was sufficient, and I 
 called her by the name I loved. 
 
 The softly-spoken, well-considered replies, the gentle 
 ejaculations, and the demure but earnest attention 
 which my speech elicited well befitted the fairest vision 
 of pure young womanhood that my soul could call 
 before me. But, notwithstanding this, there was some 
 thing wanting. I longed for the upturned eyes, ever 
 fixed upon my own, of the Francesca of the stage. I 
 longed for the fair white hands clasped and trembling 
 as I spoke. I longed for that intensity of soul-merge 
 in which the loved one breathes and live? only that she 
 may hear the words I speak, and watch the thoughts 
 that fashion in my face. Without all this I could 
 never take away with me the image of th« true Fran- 
 cesca. Without this there would be wanting, in the 
 fair conception, that artistic roundness, that complete- 
 ness of outline and purpose, which would satisfy the 
 exigencies of my nature. I could not consent to carry 
 with me for years an ideal existence, incomplete, 
 imperfected, — a statue devoid of those last touches of 
 the master which make it seem to live. 
 
 Therefore I sought, with much earnestness and 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 61 
 
 fixity of intention, to call up the last element needed 
 to complete that lovely creation which was to be my 
 companion through the j^ears of waiting for the real 
 Francesca. It was a great comfort and support to me 
 to reflect that I could do this with such safety, with 
 such unusual adv^antages. I addressed myself to no 
 being in existence. Even the little creature on my 
 arm, who had fallen into a habit of dozing when not 
 noticed, and to whom belonged, in fact, my every gift 
 and legacy of love, was not of age to come into her 
 fortune, nor could her infantile mind be injured by its 
 contemplation. And as for Miss Watridge, she, as I 
 continually repeated to myself, was acting simply as 
 the representative of another, and her real self was not 
 concerned in the little drama, in which she did not even 
 take a part ; merely assuming, as in a rehearsal, a 
 character which another actor, not able then to be 
 present, would play in the actual performance. 
 
 It was the loveliest morning of all the summer that 
 I made my supreme effort. At the very bottom of the 
 garden was a little arbor of honeysuckles. No crimson 
 stage-light shone in upon it, but the sunbeams pushed 
 their way here and there through the screen of leaves, 
 and brightened the interior with points of light. It 
 was a secluded spot, to which I had never yet led my 
 companions, for the period had not before arrived for 
 such sequesterment. But now we sat down here upon 
 a little bench : I at one end, the young Francesca on 
 my knee, and Miss Watridge at my left. In the place 
 where this lady sat also sat the ideal Francesca, oc- 
 cupying the same space, and endowed, for the time, 
 
62 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 with the same form and features. It was to this being 
 that I now addressed my fervid words ; low-burning, 
 it is true, but alive with all the heat and glow that 
 precedes blaze. I told a tale ; not reading from pages 
 of mediaeval script the legend of the love of Launcelot 
 and Queen Guinevere, as does Paolo in the play, but 
 relating a story which was a true one, for it was my 
 own. I spoke as I expected to speak some day to the 
 little creature on my knee. Taking with my disengaged 
 hand that of the lady by my side, I said that which 
 raised a lovely countenance to mine, that showed me 
 the beauty of her upturned eyes ; and as I looked and 
 spoke I felt that the very pulses of her soul were 
 throbbing in accord with mine. Here was enacting in 
 very truth the scene I had viewed upon the stage, and 
 which so often since had risen before my fanc}'. 
 Possessed by the spirit of this scene, carried onward 
 by that same tide of passional emotion the gradual rise 
 of which it had portrayed, I gave myself up to its in- 
 fluences, and acted it out unto its very culmination. I 
 stooped, and, in the words of the Arthurian legend, 
 " I kissed her full upon the mouth." 
 
 Swift as the sudden fall of summer rain, I felt the 
 wild abandonment of clinging arms about m}' neck, of 
 tears upon my face that were not mine, of words of 
 love that I spoke not ; and it came to me like a flash 
 that she who clung to me, and around whom my arm 
 was passed, was Kitty Watridge, and not a visionary 
 Ghibelline. 
 
 In the midst of my varying emotions I clasped closer 
 to me the real Francesca, who thereupon gave vent to 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 63 
 
 her feoliDgs b}' parting wide her toothless gums, and 
 filling the summer air with a long yell. At this rude 
 interruption, the arms fell from my neck, and the face 
 was quickly withdrawn from mine. 
 
 Now came hurrying steps upon the gravel walk, and 
 my sister Bertha ran in upon us. " What on earth are 
 you doing to that baby?" she cried. She snatched 
 the child from me, and then stood astonished, gazing 
 first at me and then at Kitty, who had started to her 
 feet, with sparkling tears still in her eyes and a sun- 
 set glow upon her face. Without a word, the wicked 
 Bertha laughed a little laugh, and, folding the child 
 within her arms, she ran away. 
 
 I sat speechless for a moment, and then I turned to 
 Kitty ; but she, too, had gone, having fled in another 
 direction. I was left alone : gone was the real Fran- 
 cesca ; gone was the fair ideal ; gone was Kitty. I 
 stood bewildered, and, in a manner, dazed. I felt as 
 if I had fallen from the fourteenth century into the 
 nineteenth, and that the shock had hurt me. I felt, 
 too, a sense of culpability, as if I had been somewhere 
 where I had no right to be ; as if I had been a tres- 
 passer, a poacher, an intruder upon the times or on the 
 rights of others. The fact that I was a strictly hon- 
 orable man, scorning perfidy in its ever}" form, made 
 my feelings the more poignant. A little reflection 
 helped me to understand it all. I had carried out my 
 plan so carefully, with such regard to its gradual devel- 
 opment, that by degrees Miss Watridge had grown into 
 the ideal Francesca, and had to all intents and pur- 
 poses gone back with me into the Middle Ages, in 
 
H4 A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 
 
 order to better portray my perfected ideal. The baby 
 sitting on ray right knee, while a future stage of her 
 life was being personated by the lady at my side, 
 might belong to any age ; there was nothing incon- 
 gruous in her presence on the scene. It was the 
 entrance of my sister Bertha that broke the spell, that 
 shattered the whole fabric I had so elaborately built. 
 She was of the present, of to-day, of the exact second, 
 in which she helped anything to happen. An imper- 
 sonation of the Now, her coming banished every idea 
 of the Past or Future. 
 
 Like an actor in a play, on whom his e very-day 
 clothes and the broad light of day have suddenly fallen, 
 I walked slowly to the house. Meeting my older 
 sister, Grace Anna, near the door, I took her aside, 
 and said to her, " When is Mr. Glade expected 
 here?" 
 
 " What for? " she asked, with eyes dilated. 
 
 " To marry Kitty Watridge," said I. 
 
 "What do you mean?" exclaimed my sister. 
 " That match was broken off last wmter." 
 
 It may well be supposed that, remembering what 
 Bertha had seen, and doubtless imagined ; that remem- 
 bering what Kitty had done and said ; and recalling, 
 too, how I felt when she did it and said it, I resolved, 
 instead of waiting eighteen long years for another, to 
 accept as the Francesca of my dreams, and as the 
 veritable wife of my actual existence, this dear girl, 
 who was able to represent at this very present the 
 every attribute and quality of my ideal woman. 
 
 A 
 
A STORY OF ASSISTED FATE. 65 
 
 in the autumn we were married. Thus my Fate, 
 disclaiming my efforts to assist it, no matter in what 
 direction, rose dominant, and, attending to my affairs 
 in its own way, gave me Kitty at last. 
 
 But I shall always feel sorry for the baby. 
 
AN UNHISTORIC PAGE. 
 
 AN elderly negro man, Uncle Enoch by name, short 
 of stature and with hair and beard beginning to 
 grizzle, but with arms and body yet stout and strong, 
 stood back of his little log house, not far from a Vir- 
 ginia public road, endeavoring to pull his ax out of a 
 knotty black-gum log. Often and often, when his 
 stock of firewood had diminished to this one log, had 
 Uncle Enoch tried to split it, and now he was trying 
 again. While thus engaged, there came to him his 
 son Dick. This was a youth rather taller and lighter 
 in color than his father, of an active and good-natured 
 disposition, and hitherto supposed to be devoid of dis- 
 turbing ambitions. 
 
 " Look a-heah, daddy," said he, " won't yuh lemme 
 go to Washin'ton nex' week? " 
 
 Uncle Enoch stopped tugging at his ax, and turned 
 round to look at Dick. " What fur?" said he. 
 
 " I'se gwine to be a page in Congress." 
 
 "What's dat?" asked his father, his bright eyes 
 opening very wide. '' What yuh want to do dat 
 fur?" 
 
 " A page is one of dem chaps as runs round and 
 
^.V UN HISTORIC PAGE. 67 
 
 ■waits on de Congressmen, when dey're doing dere work 
 in Washin'ton. Dere's lots of 'em, and some of 'em 
 is cuUe'd. Dey hab to be mighty peart and cut around, 
 and fetch de Congressmen eberytiug dey wants. And 
 dey don't have to work for no fifty cents a day, nudder. 
 Dey gits sebenteen hunderd dollars a year." 
 
 "What's dat?" exclaimed Uncle Enoch. " Yuh 
 means de whole kit and boodle uv 'em gits dat." 
 
 " Xo, I don't," said Dick. " Ebery one gits it for 
 hisse'f." 
 
 " Yuh shu'h ob dat?" 
 
 '' Yes, sah," replied Dick. " I heerd it all from a 
 man down at de cross-roads, when I took ole Billy 
 to be shod dis ebenin'. He wus tellin' a lot o' folks 
 all about it at de stoah. An' won't yuh lemme go 
 nex' week? " 
 
 The old man put his hand on his ax-handle and 
 stood reflectively. 
 
 Uncle Enoch had been born a slave, and had been 
 an honest and industrious servant, whose only failing 
 was that he was inclined to think himself better at all 
 times, and to dress himself better on Sundays, than 
 his companions ; and now that he was as free as any- 
 body, he was still honest and industrious, and still went 
 to church with the highest white hat, the biggest shirt 
 collar, and the longest coat of anybody in the congre- 
 gation. As he grew older, his opinion of himself did 
 not decrease, and he was very fond of exhorting his 
 fellow-members in church, and of giving them advice 
 in private whenever he saw cause for it, and this very 
 often in the shape of some old fable, which generally 
 
68 AN UNHISTORIC PAGE. 
 
 became strangely twisted as it passed through the old 
 man's mental organism. 
 
 " Look a-heah, Dick," said he, " Tse gwine ter tell 
 yuh a story. It's one uv ole Mahsr George's stories, 
 and I've heerd him tell it often to the chillun. Dere 
 was a mouse what lived in de city, I dunno 'zactly 
 whar, but jus' as like as not it was Washin'ton, an' 
 he went to see a friend uv hisn who had a plantation. 
 De plantation mouse he were glad to see de udder one, 
 an' put him in de cump'ny chahmber, an' gib him de 
 bes' he had ; but de fine gemman he didn't 'pear to be 
 satisfy wid nuffin but light bread an' cohn pone for 
 breakfus', an' chicken an' ham for dinner, and he 
 says, says he, — 
 
 '''Yuh don' git can vis-back ducks down heah, ] 
 reckin ? ' 
 
 " ' No, sah ! ' ses de plantation mouse. 
 
 *' ' Nur tar'pins, stewed in Madary wine?* 
 
 " ' No, sah ! ' 
 
 " ' Nur eysters, fresh from de bay ebery mawnlu* ; 
 nur ice-cream, all de colors ob de rainbow ; an' little 
 candy-balls, what go off pop when you pull 'em ; an' 
 a whole bottle ob champain to each pusson ? ' 
 
 " ' No, sah! ' ses de plantation mouse, a-fannin* ob 
 hisse'f wid he han'kercher. 
 
 " ' Well, now, jus' yuh look a-heah,* ses de udder 
 one, gwine out on de poach to smoke his cigar, 'yuh 
 come to de city an' see me, and when you tase what 
 dem dar tings is like, yuh won't be content fur to stay 
 no more on dis yere no-count farm, so fur from de 
 railroad.' 
 
AN UN HISTORIC PAGE. 69 
 
 "So, soon as he sell he 'baccer, de plantation mouse 
 he go to see his city fren'. He glad to see him, an' 
 sot him right down to a pow'ful good dinner, wid al) 
 de canvis'back ducks an' de tar'pins an' de eysters an' 
 de champain, an' de udder tings dat he done tell 'bout. 
 
 " ' If I'd a-knowed you wus a-comin',' ses de city 
 mouse, ' I'd had a reg'lar cump'ny dinner ; but yuh'U 
 have to go 'long and jus' take pot-luck wid us dis 
 time.' 
 
 " ' Den you didn't git my letter? ' ses de plantation 
 mouse. 
 
 " ' No, sah. Reckin yuhr man done forgot to put 
 it in de pos'-offlce.' 
 
 " So dey sot an' eat till dey mos' like to bus', an' 
 de plantation mouse he wonner what he would a-had 
 if he fren' had done got he letter. 
 
 ''Jus' as dey was litin' dere cigars, and puttin' dey 
 heels up on two cheers, de dinin'-room door open, an' 
 in walk de sheriff ob de county. 
 
 " ' Look a-heah, kurnel,' ses he, ' have yuh got de 
 money ready fur all de ducks an' de eysters an' de 
 wine you've had fur yuhse'f ; an' de slab meat an' de 
 cohn from de West fur yuhr ban's? Yuh know I said 
 I wouldn't give yuh no longer nur ter-day.' De city 
 mouse he turn pale, an' he tuk de plantation mouse 
 into one corner, an' ses he, — 
 
 " ' Look a-heah, kin yuh len' me two or free tousand 
 dollars till to-morrer mawnin' , when de bank opens ? * 
 
 Den de udder mouse he pull a drefful poor mouf , an' 
 he ses, — 
 
 '' 'I'se pow'ful sorry, but it rained so much in de 
 
70 AN UNHISTORIC PAGE. 
 
 low groun's las' year dat my cohn wus all spiled ; an* 
 dere wasn't no rain on de high groun's, an' de cohn 
 dere wus all wilted ; an' de fros' done cotch my baccer 
 craps, an' I didn't have money enuf fur to buy quinine 
 fur de ban's.' 
 
 *' Den de town mouse he ses to de sheriff, ses he, — 
 
 " 'You call aroun' Monday mawnin', an' I'll pay yuh 
 dat money. I wus a'spectin' my fren' ter-day, and 
 done forgot to k'lect it.' 
 
 " ' Dat won't do,' ses de sheriff. ' I'se heerd dat 
 story often 'nuf.' An' he rung he auction bell, an' 
 he lebied on eberyting in de house ; an' as dey didn't 
 fotch enuf, he sold dat city mouse an' dat plantation 
 mouse fur slaves." 
 
 Dick uttered an exclamation of horror at this direful 
 conclusion of the story. 
 
 ''Now look a-heah, boy," continued Uncle Enoch, 
 " ef yuh tinks yuh is gwine down to Washin'ton to git 
 tar' pins an' eysters an' champain out ob dem Congress- 
 men, yuh won't be tuk an' sold, 'cause dey can't do 
 dat now, but yuh'll find yuhse'f gobbled up some way 
 wuss dan dat plantation mouse wus." 
 
 Dick grumbled that he wasn't a mouse, and he 
 wasn't "gwine arter tar'pins, nur eysters, nudder." 
 
 " Jus' yuh go 'long an' pick up some chips an' trash 
 fur to make de fire," said his father, " an' don't talk 
 to me no mo'h ob dat foolishness." 
 
 Dick walked slowly off to do as he was bid, and for 
 a long time Uncle Enoch remained standing by the 
 twisted black-gum log without striking it a blow. 
 
 Uncle Enoch was a skillful and practised ox-driver, 
 
^.V UN HISTORIC PAGE. 71 
 
 working in that capacit}^ for the farmer on whose land 
 he lived. All the next day he walked meditatively by 
 the side of the slowly-moving Bob and Blinker, hauling 
 wood from the mountain. He did not shout as much 
 as usual to his oxen, but he guided them with all his 
 customary precision around stumps, rocks, and the 
 varied impediments of the rough woodland road. 
 
 " Yuh Dick," said he to his son in the evening, " is 
 yuh done gib up all dat foolishness 'bout goin' to 
 Washin'ton? " 
 
 '' 'Taint no foolishness," muttered Dick. 
 
 " Why, boy," said his father, " 'pears to me yuh is 
 too ole for dat sort o' ting." 
 
 " It don't make no kind o' diff'rence how ole a 
 page is," said Dick. " Dat man said so hisse'f. He 
 ses dey got 'em all ages." 
 
 " Dat so, shuh? " asked his father. 
 
 " Sartin shuh,'-' said Dick. 
 
 " And dey gits sebenteen hunderd dollars a j'ear? " 
 
 "Yes," said Dick. "An' besides dat, dey can 
 make lots ob money blackin' boots an' holdin' bosses 
 an' runnin' arrants fur de Congressmen, when court's 
 out." 
 
 Uncle Enoch looked steadfastly at his son for some 
 moments without speaking. Then he said, "Look a- 
 heah, boy ; I'se made up my mind 'bout dis yere busi- 
 ness. Ef all dat 'ar money's to be got by pagein', 
 I agrees to de notion." 
 
 " Hi-yi ! " shouted Dick, beginning to dance. 
 
 "Yuh needn't cut up no sich capers," said his 
 father. '-^Tuh aint gwine. I'se gwine mese'f." 
 
72 AN UN HISTORIC PAGE. 
 
 If Dick could have turned pale, he would have done 
 so. He stood speechless. 
 
 "Yes, sah," continued Uncle Enoch. " Ef it don't 
 make no difference how ole de pages is, I kin step 
 roun' as lively as any uv 'em, an' kin wait on de Con- 
 gressmen better' n any boy. I knows what de gemmen 
 wants, an' I knows how to do it. I'se waited on 'em 
 'fore yuh was bawn, boy, an' yuh neber libed 'mong 
 white folks, nohow. Jus' yuh take dat ox-whip ter- 
 morrer mawniu', an' tell Mahsr Greg'ry dat I'se done 
 gone to Washin'ton, and dat yuh've come to drive de 
 oxen. Yuh's ole enuf fur dat now, an' it's time yuh 
 was beginnin'." 
 
 Downcast as Dick was when he heard that he was 
 not going to be a page in the halls of Congress, his 
 spirits immediately rose when he was told that he was 
 to take Uncle Enoch's place as ox-driver. To crack 
 the long whip, and guide the slow progress of Bob and 
 Blinker, was to him a high delight and honor which im- 
 pressed him the more forcibly because it was so totally 
 unexpected. The Government position had held forth 
 glittering advantages, which had greatly attracted him, 
 but which his mind did not entirely comprehend. But 
 to drive the oxen was a real thing, a joy and a dignity 
 which he knew all about. Dick was entirely satisfied 
 As to the page's salar}' which his memory or his ears 
 had so greatly exaggerated, he did not even think of 
 it. 
 
 Uncle Enoch determined not to announce his inten- 
 tion to his neighbors, nor to take counsel of any one. 
 He went into the house, and after electrifying his fam- 
 
AN UN HISTORIC PAGE. 73 
 
 ily with the statement of his intended step into what 
 was to them wealth and high position, he set them all 
 to work to get him ready for an early start the next 
 morning. Washing, ironing, patching and packing 
 went on during a great part of the night ; his wife, 
 *'Aunt Maria," his three daughters, and even Dick, 
 doing their utmost to fit him out for his great under- 
 taking. 
 
 *' What I'se gwine to do wid dat sebenteen hunderd 
 dollars," said Uncle Enoch, as he sat on a low chair 
 sewing up a gap in one of his Sunday' boots, ''is to 
 buy dis track o' land on de hill back heah, an' make 
 a wine-yard uv it. No use foolin' no more wid little 
 tater patches, an' cabb3'ges, an' tree or foh dozen hills 
 o' cohn ; I'll sell de grapes, an' buy all dat sort o' 
 ting. At de wine-cellar in town dey'll take all de 
 grapes yoh kin raise, an' ef I have to buy a boss 
 an' wagun to haul 'em inter town, yuh won't see dis 
 yere fam'ly walkin' to church no mo'h wid de mud 
 up to dere knees and de hot sun brilin' on ter dere 
 heads." 
 
 A little after daylight the next morning Uncle 
 Enoch, wearing his tall white hat with the broad band 
 of crape around it which it had on when it was given 
 to him ; with his highest and stiffest shirt-collar ; a 
 long black coat reaching nearly to his heels ; a pair of 
 blue jean trousers rolled up at the ankles ; his enor- 
 mous Sunday boots well blacked ; in one hand a very 
 small cowhide trunk tied up with a rope and carried 
 in the manner of a violin-case ; a vast umbrella with a 
 horn handle in the other hand, and the greater part of 
 
74 AN UN HISTORIC PAGE. 
 
 his recently paid month's wages in his pocket, started 
 off to walk three miles to the railroad-station on his 
 way to become a Congressional page. 
 
 Dick assumed the ox-whip, and as there was no one 
 else to take the vacated place, he cracked it in pride 
 and glory over the heads of Bob and Blinker, and, al- 
 though they ran into more stumps, and got into more 
 deep ruts, than was good for themselves or the cart, 
 the winter wood of Mr. Gregory continued to be 
 hauled. 
 
 One week, and two weeks, passed on without news 
 from Uncle Enoch, and then Aunt Maria began to get 
 impatient. "Look a-heah, Dick," she said, "when 
 you comes home ter-night, an' has had yuhr supper, 
 an' has done split up dem ole rails, what's too short 
 fur de fence anyway, fur 'taint no use fur yuh to try 
 no mo'h on dat black-gum log what yuh daddy done 
 went away and luf, an' ef he don't come back soon he 
 won't find no fence at all, I reckin, when he do come, 
 yuh jus' sot down an' write him a letter, an' tell him 
 'taint no use fur him to be sabin up all dat sebenteen 
 hunderd dollars to buy wine-yards while his chillun's 
 gwine about wid scace no close to dere backs. 
 
 "Dere's yuhr sis'r Charlotte what has to go to 
 church wid dem light-blue slippers Miss Sally gib her, 
 an' no stockuns, an' no wunner de people laf at her. 
 An' dere's yuhr daddy makin' all dat money down dere 
 in Washin'ton wid de Congressmen. 
 
 "An' she a gal, too, what's done won de prize tree 
 times in de cake-walk. I spec' he's done forgot what 
 I tole him 'bout de weddin'-ring fur me. I done tole 
 
AN UN HISTORIC PAGE. 75 
 
 him to buy it wid de fus* money he got an* to send it 
 in a letter. I'se neber had none yit, though we wus 
 both married long back befoh de war. 
 
 " An' it's no use waitin', nudder, fur little Jim's 
 funeral till he comes back. He kin sen' de money fur 
 de cake and wine jus' as well as not, an' Brudder 
 Anderson is ready, he tole me las' Sund'y, wid de fax 
 an' de tex. Little Jim's been dead now nigh on ter 
 two yeah, an' it's time his funeral was preached. 
 
 '* I ain't got no 'jections to de wine-yard, spesh'ly 
 ef we hab ter hab a wagun to haul de grapes, but I 
 don't want yuhr daddy to come back heah an' find 
 hissef 'shamed uv his fam'ly arter livin' down dar 
 *mong all dem quality folks. I'll send Charlotte dis 
 mawnin' to borrer a sheet uv paper, an' a pen an' ink 
 from Miss Sally, an' see ef she won't let her pick up 
 some apples in de orchard while she's dar, an' p'raps 
 she'll give her a bucket uv buttermilk ef she's done 
 churned yistiddy. An' yuh put all dat in de letter, an' 
 sen' it off jus' as soon as yuh kin." 
 
 Dick willingly undertook this business, having made 
 up his mind while his mother was talking to him to 
 put in a few words on his own account; and before he 
 began the important epistle each of his sisters had 
 something to say to him in private in regard to sugges- 
 tions which they wished him to make to the head of 
 the family. 
 
 The letter moved more slowly than Bob and Blinker 
 over the roughest road. After three nights' work it 
 was only half-done, for Dick found a pen much more 
 difficult to handle than a whip, and besides being a 
 
76 AN UN HISTORIC PAGE. 
 
 very stumbling speller, invariably went to sleep over 
 his paper after a quarter of an hour's work. Late in 
 the afternoon of the fourth day after the commence- 
 ment of this literary enterprise, Dick was standing by 
 the black-gum log, with the axe in his hand, wonder- 
 ing if it would be better to take another rail from the 
 forlorn fence around the little yard — for what difference 
 could it make when there were so many open places 
 already? — or to split up a solitary post, which having 
 nothing attached to it was clearly useless, when he 
 saw upon the high-road a figure approaching him. 
 
 It wore a tall white hat with a broad band of rusty 
 crape around it ; it had on a high stiff shirt-collar, and 
 a long black coat ; in one hand it carried an umbrella 
 with a rough horn handle, and in the other a little hair 
 trunk tied up with a rope ; it had a bright and flashing 
 eye, and a determined step. 
 
 It did not go on to the house, but, turning from the 
 public road, came through a gap in the fence, and 
 walked straight up to the astonished Dick. 
 
 " Look a-heah, yuh Dick," said Uncle Enoch, put- 
 ting down his little trunk ; " who done tole yuh all dat 
 foolishness about gwine to Washin'ton to wait on de 
 Congressmen, an' gittin' sebenteen hunderd dollars a 
 yeah?" 
 
 " It wus a man at de cross-roads," said Dick, " wid 
 a red beard. He done brung some bosses ober from 
 de Cou't House. I dunno his name." 
 
 " Is he bigger nur yuh is? " asked his father. 
 
 " Oh yes," said Dick, " more'n twice as big." 
 
 "Well, den, yuh luf him alone," said Uncle Enoch, 
 
AiX UNHISTORIC PAGE. 77 
 
 with great decision and energy, " 3'uh luf him alone. 
 I hopes, boy," the old man continued, wiping his face 
 with his great blue and yellow handkerchief, " dat 
 yuh's gwine ter larn a lesson from dis j^ere bis'ness. 
 It makes me tink ob two no-' count beasts dat wus 
 once loafin' in a little clearin' dat had bin buhued fur 
 a seed-patch. Dey wus stannin' in de sun to warm 
 deyse'fs, bein' too pow'ful lazy to cut some wood and 
 make a fire. One was a gy-raffe, an' de udder was 
 a kangerroo. De gy-raffe he look at de kangerroo, 
 an' he begun to larf. 
 
 " 'It's mighty cur'us,' ses he, 'to see a pore crit- 
 ter like yuh, wid some legs short and some legs long. 
 Ef I was yuh I'd go to de wood-pile, an' I'd chop 
 dem hine legs off de same lent as de foh ones, so 
 yuh'd go about like common folks, an' not be larfed 
 at.' 
 
 " Dese remarks dey make de har riz on de kanger- 
 roo's back, he so mad angry. 
 
 "'Yuh suh'tinely is a gay boy,' ses he to de gy- 
 raffe, ' to stan' up dere an' preach like dat, wid yer 
 hine legs short as plow-hannels an' yuhr foh legs 
 too long fur butter-bean poles, so dat 3'uhr back slopes 
 down like de roof of a ice-house. Ef I wus yuh I'd 
 go to de wood-pile, an' I'd chop off dat ar long neck 
 close to de head, I'd be so 'shamed.' 
 
 " Now, boy," continued Uncle Enoch, *' dere's lots 
 ob stories about one eberlastin' fool, but dat's de 
 only story I knows 'bout two uv 'em. An' now jes' 
 yuh go inter de house, an' tell de folks I'se gwine 
 ter put a new cracker on de ox- whip, an' ef any ob 
 
78 AN UN HISTORIC PAGE. 
 
 dem ses Washin'ton to me, I'll make 'em dance Jeru- 
 salem ! " 
 
 Dick walked into the house to deliver this message, 
 and as he went, he said to himself, " I reckin de plan- 
 tation mouse done gin up he wine-yard." 
 
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY, 
 
 MY wife and I were staying at a small town in 
 northern Italy ; and on a certain pleasant after- 
 noon in spring we had taken a walk of six or seven 
 miles to see the sun set behind some low mountains to 
 the west of the town. Most of our walk had been 
 along a hard, smooth highway, and then we turned 
 into a series of narrower roads, sometimes bordered 
 by walls, and sometimes by light fences of reed, or 
 cane. Nearing the mountain, to a low spur of which 
 we intended to ascend, we easily scaled a wall about 
 four feet high, and found ourselves upon pasture land, 
 which led, sometimes by gradual ascents, and some- 
 times by bits of rough climbing, to the spot we wished 
 to reach. We were afraid we were a little late, and 
 therefore hurried on, running up the grassy hills, and 
 bounding briskly over the rough and rocky places. I 
 carried a knapsack strapped firmly to my shoulders, 
 and under my wife's arm was a large, soft basket of 
 a kind much used by tourists. Her arm was passed 
 through the handles, and around the bottom of the 
 basket, which she pressed closely to her side. This 
 was the way she always carried it. The basket con- 
 
 79 
 
80 A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 
 
 tained two bottles of wine, one sweet for my wife, and 
 another a little acid for myself. Sweet wines give me 
 a headache. 
 
 When we reached the grassy bluff, well known there- 
 abouts to lovers of sunset views, I stepped immediately 
 to the edge to gaze upon the scene, but my wife sat 
 down to take a sip of wine, for she was very thirsty ; 
 and then, leaving her basket, she came to my side. 
 The scene was indeed one of great beauty. Beneath 
 us stretched a wide valley of many shades of green, 
 with a little river running through it, and red- tiled 
 houses here and there. Beyond rose a range of moun- 
 tains, pink, pale-green, and purple where their tips 
 caught the reflection of the setting sun, and of a rich 
 gray-green in shadows. Beyond -all was the blue 
 Italian sky, illumined by an especially fine sunset. 
 
 My wife and I are Americans, and at the time of 
 this story were middle-aged people and very fond of 
 seeing in each other's company whatever there was 
 of interest or beauty around us. We had a son about 
 twenty-two years old, of whom we were also very fond, 
 but he was not with us, being at that time a student in 
 Germany. Although we had good health, we were not 
 very robust people, and, under ordinary circumstances, 
 not much given to long country tramps. I was of 
 medium size, without much muscular development, 
 while my wife was quite stout, and growing stouter. 
 
 The reader may, perhaps, be somewhat surprised 
 that a middle-aged couple, not very strong, or very 
 good walkers, the lady loaded with a basket containing 
 two bottles of wine and a metal drinking-cup, and the 
 
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. '^1 
 
 gentleman carrying a heav}' knapsack, filled with all 
 sorts of odds and ends, strapped to his shoulders, 
 should set off on a seven-mile walk, jump over a wall, 
 run up a hill-side, and yet feel in very good trim to 
 enjoy a sunset view. This peculiar state of things I 
 will proceed to explain. 
 
 I had been a professional man, but some years be- 
 fore had retired upon a very comfortable income. I 
 had always been very fond of scientific pursuits, and 
 now made these the occupation and pleasure of much 
 of my leisure time. Our home was in a small town ; 
 and in a corner of my grounds I built a laboratory, 
 where I carried on my work and my experiments. I 
 had long been anxious to discover the means, not onlj' 
 of producing, but of retaining and controlling, a nat- 
 ural force, really the same as centrifugal force, but 
 which I called negative gravity. This name I adopted 
 because it indicated better than any other the action of 
 the force in question, as T produced it. Positive grav- 
 ity attracts everything toward the center of the earth. 
 Negative gravity, therefore, would be that power which 
 repels ever3'thing from the center of the earth, just as 
 the negative pole of a magnet repels the needle, while 
 the positive pole attracts it. My object was, in fact, 
 to store centrifugal force and to render it constant, 
 controllable, and available for use. The advantages 
 of such a discovery could scarcely be described. 
 In a word, it would lighten the burdens of the 
 world. 
 
 I will not touch upon the labors and disappointments 
 of several years. It is enough to say that at last I 
 
82 A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 
 
 discovered a method of producing, storing, and con- 
 trolling negative gravity. 
 
 The mechanism of my invention was rather compli- 
 cated, but the method of operating it was very simple. 
 A strong metallic case, about eight inches long, and 
 half as wide, contained the machinery for producing 
 the force ; and this was put into action by means of 
 the pressure of a screw worked from the outside. As 
 soon as this pressure was produced, negative gravity 
 began to be evolved and stored, and the greater the 
 pressure the greater the force. As the screw was 
 moved outward, and the pressure diminished, the force 
 decreased, and when the screw was withdrawn to its 
 fullest extent, the action of negative gravity entirely 
 ceased. Thus this force could be produced or dissi- 
 pated at will to such degrees as might be desired, and 
 its action, so long as the requisite pressure was main- 
 tained, was constant. 
 
 When this little apparatus worked to my satisfaction 
 I called my wife into my laboratory and explained to 
 her my invention and its value. She had known that I 
 had been at work with an important object, but I had 
 never told her what it was. I had said that if I suc- 
 ceeded I would tell her all, but if I failed she need 
 not be troubled with the matter at all. Being a very 
 sensible woman, this satisfied her perfectly. Now I 
 explained everything to her, the construction of the 
 machine, and the wonderful uses to which this inven- 
 tion could be applied. I told her that it could dimin- 
 ish, or entirely dissipate, the weight of objects of any 
 kind. A heavily loaded wagon, with two of these 
 
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 83 
 
 iustruments fastened to its sides, and each screwed to 
 a proper force, would be so lifted and supported that 
 it would press upon the ground as lightly as an empty 
 cart, and a small horse could draw it with ease. A 
 bale of cotton, with one of these machines attached, 
 could be handled and carried by a boy. A car, with a 
 number of these machines, could be made to rise in 
 the air like a balloon. Everything, in fact, that was 
 heavy could be made light ; and as a great part of 
 labor, all over the world, is caused by the attraction 
 of gravitation, so this repellent force, wherever applied, 
 would make weight less and work easier. I told her 
 of many, many ways in which the invention might be 
 used, and would have told her of many more if she 
 had not suddenly burst into tears. 
 
 ''The world has gained something wonderful," she 
 exclaimed, between her sobs, "but I have lost a 
 husband ! ' ' 
 
 " What do you mean by that? " I asked, in surprise. 
 
 " I haven't minded it so far," she said, " because it 
 gave you something to do, and it pleased you, and it 
 never interfered with our home pleasures and our home 
 life. But now that is all over. You will never be 
 your own master again. It will succeed, I am sure, 
 and you may make a great deal of money, but we 
 don't need money. What we need is the happiness 
 which we have always had until now. Now there will 
 be companies, and patents, and lawsuits, and experi- 
 ments, and people calling you a humbug, and other 
 people saying they discovered it long ago, and all sorts 
 of persons coming to see you, and you'll be obliged to 
 
84 A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 
 
 go to all sorts of places, and you will be an altered 
 man, and we shall never be happy again. Millions of 
 money will not repay us for the happiness we have 
 lost." 
 
 These words of my wife struck me with much force. 
 Before I had called her my mind had begun to be filled 
 and perplexed with ideas of what I ought to do now 
 that the great invention was perfected. Until now the 
 matter had not troubled me at all. Sometimes I had 
 gone backward and sometimes forward, but, on the 
 whole, I had always felt encouraged. I had taken 
 great pleasure in the work, but I had never allowed 
 myself to be too much absorbed by it. But now every- 
 thing was ^different. I began to feel that it was due 
 to myself and to my fellow-beings, that I should prop- 
 erly put this invention before the world. And how 
 should I set about it ? What steps should I take ? I 
 must make no mistakes. When the matter should 
 become known hundreds of scientific people might set 
 themselves to work ; how could I tell but that they 
 might discover other methods of producing the same 
 effect. I must guard myself against a great many 
 things. I must get patents in all parts of the world. 
 Already, as I have said, my mind began to be troubled 
 and perplexed with these things. A turmoil of this 
 sort did not suit my age or disposition. I could not 
 but agree with my wife that the joys of a quiet and 
 contented life were now about to be broken into. 
 
 " My dear," said I, " I believe, with you, that the 
 thing will do us more harm than good. If it were not 
 for depriving the world of the invention I would throw 
 
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 85 
 
 the whole thing to the winds. And yet," I added, 
 regretfully, " I had expected a great deal of personal 
 gratification from the use of this invention." 
 
 "Now, listen, "-said my wife, eagerly, "don't you 
 think it would be best to do this : use the thing as 
 much as yo\x please for your own amusement and sat- 
 isfaction, but let the world wait. It has waited a long 
 time, and let it wait a little longer. When we are dead 
 lef rterbert have the invention. He will then be old 
 enough to judge for himself whether it will be better 
 to take advantage of it for his own profit, or simply to 
 give it to the public for nothing. It would be cheat- 
 ing him if we were to do the latter, but it would also 
 be doing him a great wrong if we were, at his age, to 
 load him with such a heavy responsibility. Besides, 
 if he took it up, you could not help going into it, too." 
 
 I took my wife's advice. I wrote a careful and 
 complete account of the invention, and, sealing it up, 
 I gave it to my lawyers to be handed to my son after 
 my death. If he died first, I would make other 
 arrangements. Then I determined to get all the good 
 and fun out of the thing that was possible without 
 telling any one anything about it. Even Herbert, who 
 was away from home, was not to be told of the inven- 
 tion. 
 
 The first thing I did was to buy a strong leathern 
 knapsack, and inside of this I fastened my little 
 machine, with a screw so arranged that it could be 
 worked from the outside. Strapping this firmly to my 
 shoulders, my wife gently turned the screw at the back 
 until the upward tendency of the knapsack began to 
 
86 A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 
 
 lift and sustain me. When I felt myself so gently 
 supported and upheld that I seemed to weigh about 
 thirty or forty pounds, I would set out for a walk. 
 The knapsack did not raise me from the ground, but it 
 gave me a very buoyant step. It was no labor at all 
 to walk ; it was a delight, an ecstasy. With the 
 strength of a man and the weight of a child, I gayly 
 strode along. The first day I walked half a dozen 
 miles at a very brisk pace, and came back without 
 feeling in the least degree tired. These walks now 
 became one of the greatest joys of my life.\^ When 
 nobody was looking, I would bound over a fence, 
 sometimes just touching it with one hand, and some- 
 times not touching it at all. I delighted in rough 
 places. I sprang over streams. I jumped and I ran. 
 I felt like Mercury himself. 
 
 I now set about making another machine, so that 
 my wife could accompany me in my walks ; but when 
 it was finished she positively refused to use it. "I 
 can't wear a knapsack," she said, " and there is no 
 other good way of fastening it to me. Besides, everyr 
 body about here knows I am no walker, and it would 
 only set them talking." 
 
 I occasionally made use of this second machine, but 
 T will only give one instance of its application. Some 
 repairs were needed to the foundation-walls of my 
 barn, and a two-horse wagon, loaded with building- 
 stone, had been brought into my yard and left there. 
 In the evening, when the men had gone away, I took 
 my two machines and fastened them with strong 
 chains, one on each side of the loaded wagon. Then, 
 
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 87 
 
 gradually turning the screws, the wagon was so lifted 
 that its weight became very greatly diminished. "VVe 
 had an old donkey which used to belong to Herbert, 
 and which was now occasionally used with a small 
 cart to bring packages from the station. I went into 
 the barn and put the harness on the little fellow, and, 
 bringing him out to the wagon, I attached him to it. 
 In this position he looked very funny, with a long 
 pole sticking out in front of him and the great wagon 
 behind him. When all was ready, I touched him up ; 
 and, to my great delight, he moved off with the two- 
 horse load of stone as easily as if he were drawing his 
 own cart. I led him out into the public road, along 
 which he proceeded without difficulty. He was an 
 opinionated little beast, and sometimes stopped, not 
 liking the peculiar manner in which he was harnessed ; 
 but a touch of the switch made him move on, and I 
 soon turned him and brought the wagon back into the 
 yard. This determined the success of my invention in 
 one of its most important uses, and with a satisfied 
 heart I put the donkey into the stable and went into 
 the house. 
 
 Our trip to Europe was nade a few months after 
 this, and was mainly on our son Herbert's account. 
 He, poor fellow, was in great trouble, and so, there- 
 fore, were we. He had become engaged, with our full 
 consent, to a young lady in our town, the daughter of 
 a gentleman whom we esteemed very highly. Herbert 
 was young to be engaged to be married, but as we felt 
 that he would never find a girl to make him so good a 
 wife, we were entirely satisfied, especially as it was 
 
88 A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 
 
 agreed on all hands that the marriage was not to take 
 place for some time. It seemed to us that in marrying 
 Janet Gilbert, Herbert would secure for himself, in the 
 very beginning of his career, the most important ele- 
 ment of a happy life. But suddenly, without any 
 reason that seemed to us justifiable, Mr. Gilbert, thcr 
 only surviving parent of Janet, broke off the match; 
 and he and his daughter soon after left the town for a 
 trip to the West. 
 
 This blow nearly broke poor Herbert's heart. He 
 gave up his professional studies and came home to us, 
 and for a time we thought he would be seriously ill. 
 Then we took him to Europe, and after a Continental 
 tour of a month or two we left him, at his own request, 
 in Gottingen, where he thought it would do him good 
 to go to work again. Then we went down to the little 
 town in Italy where my stor^^ first finds us. My wife 
 had suffered much in mind and body on her son's 
 account, and for this reason I was anxious that she 
 should take outdoor exercise, and enjoy as much as 
 possible the bracing air of the country. I had brought 
 with me both my little machines. One was still in my 
 knapsack, and the other I had fastened to the inside of 
 an enormous family trunk. As one is obliged to pay 
 for nearly every pound of his baggage on the Conti- 
 nent, this saved me a great deal of money. Every- 
 thing heavy was packed into this great trunk, — books, 
 papers, the bronze, iron, and marble relics we had 
 picked up, and all the articles that usually weigh down 
 a tourist's baggage. I screwed up the negative gravity 
 apparatus until the trunk could be handled with great 
 
^ TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 89 
 
 case by an ordinary porter. I could have made it 
 weigh nothing at all, but this, of course, I did not wish 
 to do. The lightness of my baggage, however, had 
 occasioned some comment, and I had overheard re- 
 marks which were not altogether complimentary about 
 people traveling around with empty trunks ; but this 
 only amused me. 
 
 Desirous that my wife should have the advantage of 
 negative gravity while taking our walks, I had re- 
 moved the machine from the trunk and fastened it 
 inside of the basket, which she could carry under her 
 arm. This assisted her wonderfully^^ When one arm 
 was tired she put the basket under the other, and thus, 
 with one hand on my arm, she could easily keep up 
 with the free and buoyant steps my knapsack enabled 
 me to take. She did not object to long tramps here, 
 because nobody knew that she was not a walker, and 
 she always carried some wine or other refreshment in 
 the basket, not only because it was pleasant to have it 
 with us, but because it seemed ridiculous to go about 
 carrying an empty basket. 
 
 There were English-speaking people stopping at the 
 hotel where we were, but they seemed more fond of 
 driving than walking, and none of them offered to 
 accompany us on our rambles, for which we were very 
 glad. There was one man there, however, who was a 
 great walker. He was an Englishman, a member of 
 an Alpine Club, and generally went about dressed in a 
 knickerbocker suit, with gray woolen stockings cover- 
 ing an enormous pair of calves. One evening this 
 gentleman was talking to me and some others about 
 
90 A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 
 
 the ascent of the Matterhorn, and I took occasion to 
 deliver in pretty strong language my opinion upon such 
 exploits. I declared them to be useless, foolhardy, and, 
 if the climber had any one who loved him, wicked. 
 
 " Even if the weather should permit a view," I 
 said, "what is that compared to the terrible risk to 
 life? Under certain circumstances," I added (thinking 
 of a kind of waistcoat I had some idea of making, 
 which, set about with little negative gravity machines, 
 all connected with a conveniently handled screw, would 
 enable the wearer at times to dispense with his weight 
 altogether) , ' ' such ascents might be divested of danger, 
 and be quite admissible ; but ordinarily they should be 
 frowned upon by the intelligent public." 
 
 The Alpine Club man looked at me, especially 
 regarding my somewhat slight figure and thinnish 
 legs. 
 
 "It's all very well for you to talk that way," he 
 said, " because it is easy to see that you are not up to 
 that sort of thing." 
 
 " In conversations of this kind," I replied, " I never 
 make personal allusions ; but since you have chosen to 
 do so, I feel inclined to invite you to walk with me to- 
 morrow to the top of the mountain to the north of this 
 town." 
 
 "I'll do it," he said, "at any time you choose to 
 name." And as I left the room soon afterward I 
 heard him laugh. 
 
 \ The next afternoon, about two o'clock, the Alpine 
 club man and myself set out for the mountain. 
 
 " What have you got in your knapsack? " he said. 
 
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 91 
 
 *' A hammer to use if I come across geological speci- 
 mens, a field-glass, a flask of wine, and some other 
 things." 
 
 " I wouldn't carry any weight, if I were you," he- 
 said. 
 
 "Oh, I don't mind it," I answered, and off we 
 started. 
 
 The mountain to which we werq bound was about two 
 miles from the town. Its nearest side was steep, and 
 in places almost precipitous, but it sloped away more 
 gradually toward the north, and up that side a road led 
 by devious windings to a village near the summit. It 
 was not a very high mountain, but it would do for an 
 afternoon's climb. 
 
 " I suppose you want to go up by the road," said 
 my companion. 
 
 " Oh, no," I answered, " we won't go so far around 
 as that. There is a path up this side, along which I 
 have seen men driving their goats. I prefer to take 
 that." 
 
 "All right, if you say so," he answered, with a 
 smile ; h^ but you'll find it pretty tough." "^x 
 
 After a time he remarked : 
 
 'Ht wouldn't walk so fast, if I were you." 
 
 "Oh, I like to step along briskly," I said. And 
 briskly on we went. 
 
 M}^ wife had screwed up the machine in the knap- 
 sack more than usual, and walking seemed scarcely 
 any effort at all. I carried a long alpenstock, and 
 when we reached the mountain and began the ascent, 
 I found that with the help of this and my knapsack I 
 
92 A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 
 
 could go uphill at a wonderful rate. My companion 
 had taken the lead, so as to show me how to climb. 
 Making a detour over some rocks, I quickly passed 
 him and went ahead. After that it was impossible for 
 him to keep up with me. I ran up steep places, I cut 
 off the windings of the path by lightly clambering 
 over rocks, and even when I followed the beaten track 
 my step was as rapid as if I had been walking on 
 level ground. 
 
 " Look here ! " shouted the Alpine Club man from 
 below, "you'll kill yourself if j^ou go at that rate! 
 That's no way to climb mountains." 
 
 " It's my way ! " I cried. And on I skipped. 
 
 Twenty minutes after I arrived at the summit, my 
 companion joined me, puffing, and wiping his red face 
 with his handkerchief. 
 
 "Confound it!" he cried, "I never came up a 
 mountain so fast in my life." 
 
 " You need not have hurried," I said, coolly. 
 
 " I was afraid something would happen to you," 
 he growled, " and I wanted to stop you. I never saw 
 a person climb in such an utterly absurd way." 
 
 " I don't see why you should call it absurd," I said, 
 smiling with an air of superiority. "I arrived here 
 in a perfectly comfortable condition, neither heated 
 nor wearied." 
 
 He made no answer, but walked off to a little dis- 
 tance, fanning himself with his hat and growling words 
 which I did not catch. After a time I proposed to 
 descend. 
 
 " You must be careful as you go down," he said. 
 
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 93 
 
 *' It is much more dangerous to go down steep places 
 than to climb up." 
 
 " I am always prudent," I answered, and started in 
 advance. I found the descent of the mountain much 
 more pleasant than the ascent. It was positively ex- 
 hilarating. I jumped from rocks and bluffs eight and 
 ten feet in height, and touched the ground as gently as 
 if I had stepped down but two feet. I ran down steep 
 paths, and, with the aid of my alpenstock, stopped 
 myself in an instant. I was careful to avoid danger- 
 ous places, but the runs and jumps I made were such 
 as no man had ever made before upon that mountain- 
 side. Once only I heard my companion's voice. 
 
 " You'll break your neck ! " he yelled. 
 
 " Never fear ! " I called back, and soon left him far 
 above. 
 
 "When I reached the bottom I would have waited for 
 him, but my activity had warmed me up, and as a cool 
 evening breeze was beginning to blow I thought it bet- 
 ter not to stop and take cold. Half an hour after m}' 
 arrival at the hotel I came down to the court, cool, 
 fresh, and dressed for dinner, and just in time to meet 
 the Alpine man as he entered, hot, dust}', and growl- 
 ing. 
 
 " Excuse me for not waiting for you," I said ; but 
 without stopping to hear my reason, he muttered some- 
 thing about waiting in a place where no one would care 
 to stay and passed into the house. 
 
 There was no doubt that what I had done gratified 
 my pique and tickled m}' vanity. 
 
 '' I think now," I said, when I related the matter to 
 
94 A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 
 
 my wife, " that he will scarcely say that I am not up 
 to that sort of thing." 
 
 " I am not sure," she answered, " that it was exact- 
 ly fair. He did not know how 3'ou were assisted." 
 
 "It was fair enough," I said. ''He is enabled to 
 climb well by the inherited vigor of his constitution 
 and by his training. He did not tell me what methods 
 of exercise he used to get those great muscles upon his 
 legs. I am enabled to climb by the exercise of my 
 intellect. My method is my business and his method 
 is his business. It is all perfectly fair." 
 
 Still she persisted : 
 
 " He thought that you climbed with your legs, and 
 not with your head." 
 
 And now, after this long digression, necessary to 
 explain how a middle-aged couple of slight pedestrian 
 ability, and loaded with a heavy knapsack and basket, 
 should have started out on a rough walk and climb, 
 fourteen miles in all, we will return to ourselves, stand- 
 ing on the little bluff and gazing out upon the sunset 
 view. When the sky began to fade a little we turned 
 from it and prepared to go back to the town. 
 
 '' Where is the basket? " I said. 
 
 ''I left it right here," answered my wife. ''I un- 
 screwed the machine and it lay perfectly flat." 
 
 " Did you afterward take out the bottles? " I asked, 
 seeing them lying on the grass. 
 
 " Yes, I believe I did. I had to take out yours in 
 order to get at mine." 
 
 ''Then," said I, after looking all about the grassy 
 patch on which we stood, "I am afraid you did not 
 
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 95 
 
 entirely unscrew the instrument, and that when the 
 weight of the bottles was removed the basket gently 
 rose into the air.** 
 
 " It may be so," she said, lugubriously. *' The bas- 
 ket was behind me as I drank my wine.'* 
 
 '' I believe that is just what has happened," I said. 
 " Look up there ! I vow that is our basket ! " 
 
 I pulled out my field-glass and directed it at a little 
 speck high above our heads. It was the basket float- 
 ing high in the air. I gave the glass to my wife to 
 look, but she did not want to use it. 
 
 "What shall I do?" she cried. "I can't walk 
 home without that basket. It's perfectly dreadful!" 
 And she looked as if she was going to cry. 
 
 "Do not distress yourself," I said, although I was 
 a good deal disturbed myself. "We shall get home 
 very well. You shall put your hand on my shoulder, 
 while I put my arm around you. Then you can 
 screw up my machine a good deal higher, and it will 
 support us both. In this way I am sure that we shall 
 get on very well." 
 
 We carried out this plan, and managed to walk on 
 with moderate comfort. To be sure, with the knap- 
 sack pulling me upward, and the weight of my wife 
 pulling me down, the straps hurt me somewhat, which 
 they had not done before. We did not spring lightly 
 over the wall into the road, but, still clinging to each 
 other, we clambered awkwardly over it. The road for 
 the most part declined gently toward the town, and 
 with moderate ease we made our way along it. But 
 we walked much more slowly than we had done before, 
 
BQ A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 
 
 and it was quite dark when we reached our hotel. If 
 it had not been for the light inside the court it would 
 have been difficult for us to find it. A traveling-car- 
 riage was standing before the entrance, and against 
 the light. It was necessary to pass around it, and my 
 wife went first. I attempted to follow her, but, strange 
 to say, there was nothing under my feet. I stepped 
 vigorously, but only wagged my legs in the air. To 
 my horror I found that I was rising in the air ! I soon 
 saw, by the light below me, that I was some fifteen 
 feet from the ground. The carriage drove away, and 
 in the darkness T was not noticed. Of course I knew 
 what had happened. The instrument in my knapsack 
 had been screwed up to such an intensity, in order 
 to support both myself and my wife, that when her 
 weight was removed the force of the negative gravity 
 was sufficient to raise me from the ground. But I was 
 glad to find that when I had risen to the height I have 
 mentioned I did not go up any higher, but hung in the 
 air, about on a level with the second tier of windows 
 of the hotel. 
 
 I now began to try to reach the screw in my knap- 
 sack in order to reduce the force of the negative grav- 
 ity ; but, do what I would, I could not get my hand to 
 it. The machine in the knapsack had been placed so 
 as to support me in a well-balanced and comfortable 
 way ; and in doing this it had been impossible to set 
 the screw so that I could reach it. But in a tempo- 
 rary arrangement of the kind this had not been con- 
 sidered necessary, as my wife always turned the screw 
 for me until sufficient lifting-power had been attained. 
 
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 97 
 
 I had intended, as I have said before, to construct a 
 negative gravity waistcoat, in which the screw should 
 be in front, and entirely under the wearer's control ; 
 but this was a thing of the future. 
 
 When I found that I could not turn the screw I be- 
 gan to be much alarmed. Here I was, dangling in the 
 air, without any means of reaching the ground. I 
 could not expect my wife to return to look for me, as 
 she would naturally suppose I had stopped to speak to 
 some one. I thought of loosening myself from the 
 knapsack, but this would not do, for I should fall 
 heavily, and either kill m3'self or break some of my 
 bones. I did not dare to call for assistance, for if any 
 of the simple-minded inhabitants of the town had dis- 
 covered me floating in the air they would have taken 
 me for a demon, and would probably have shot at me. 
 A moderate breeze was blowing, and it wafted me 
 gently down the street. If it had blown me against 
 a tree I would have seized it, and have endeavored, 
 so to speak, to climb down it ; but there were no trees. 
 There was a dim street lamp here and there, but 
 reflectors above them threw their light upon the pave- 
 ment, and none up to me. On many accounts I 
 was glad that the night was so dark, for, much as I 
 desired to get down, I wanted no one to see me in my 
 strange position, which, to any one but myself and 
 wife, would be utterty unaccountable. If I could rise 
 as high as the roofs I might get on one of them, and, 
 tearing off an armful of tiles, so load m3'self that I 
 would be heavy enough to descend. But I did not rise 
 to the eaves of any of the houses. If there had been 
 
98 A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 
 
 a telegraph-pole, or anything of the kind that I could 
 have clung to, I would have taken off the knapsack, 
 and would have endeavored to scramble down as well 
 as I could. But there was nothing I could cling to. 
 Even the water-spouts, if I could have reached the 
 face of the houses, were imbedded in the walls. At 
 an open window, near which I was slowly blown, I saw 
 two little boys going to bed by the light of a dim can- 
 dle. I was dreadfully afraid that they would see me 
 and raise an alarm. I actually came so near to the 
 window that I threw out one foot and pushed against 
 the wall with such force that I went nearly across the 
 street. I thought I caught sight of a frightened look 
 on the face of one of the bo^'s ; but of this I am not 
 sure, and I heard no cries. I still floated, dangling, 
 down the street. What was to be done? Should I 
 call out? In that case, if I were not shot or stoned, 
 my strange predicament, and the secret of my inven- 
 tion, would be exposed to the world. If I did not do 
 this, I must either let myself drop and be killed or 
 mangled, or hang there and die. When, during the 
 course of the night, the air became more rarefied, I 
 might rise higher and higher, perhaps to an altitude of 
 one or two hundred feet. It would then be impossible 
 for the people to reach me and get me down, even if 
 they were convinced that I was not a demon. I should 
 then expire, and when the birds of the air had eaten 
 all of me that they could devour, I should forever hang 
 above the unlucky town, a dangling skeleton, with a 
 knapsack on its back. 
 
 Such thoughts were not re-assuring, and I determined 
 
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 99 
 
 \\vdt if I could find no means of getting down without 
 assistance, I would call out and run all risks ; but so 
 long as I could endure the tension of the straps I 
 would hold out and hope for a tree or a pole. Perhaps 
 it might rain, and my wet clothes would then become 
 so heavy that I would descend as low as the top of a 
 lamp-post. 
 
 As this thought was passing through my mind I saw 
 a spark of light upon the street approaching me. I 
 rightly imagined that it came from a tobacco-pipe, and 
 presently I heard a voice. It was that of the Alpine 
 Club man. Of all people in the world I did not want 
 him to discover me, and I hung as motionless as pos- 
 sible. The man was speaking to another person who 
 was walking with him. 
 
 " He is crazy beyond a doubt," said the Alpine 
 man. ''Nobody but a maniac could have gone up and 
 down that mountain as he did ! He hasn't any mus- 
 cles, and one need only look at him to know that he 
 couldn't do any climbing in a natural way. It is only 
 the excitement of insanity that gives him strength." 
 
 The two now stopped almost under me, and the 
 speaker continued : 
 
 " Such things are very common with maniacs. At 
 times they acquire an unnatural strength which is per- 
 fectly wonderful. I have seen a little fellow struggle 
 and fight so that four strong men could not hold him." 
 
 Then the other person spoke : 
 
 "I am afraid what you say is too true," he re- 
 marked. " Indeed, I have known it for some time." 
 
 At these words my breath almost stopped. It was 
 
100 A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 
 
 the voice of Mr. Gilbert, my townsman, and the father 
 of Janet. It must have been he who had arrived in 
 the traveling-carriage. He was acquainted with 4he 
 Alpine Club man^ and they were talking of me. Proper 
 or improper, I listened with all my ears. 
 
 "It is a very sad case," Mr. Gilbert continued. 
 " My daughter was engaged to marry his son, but I 
 broke off the match. I could not have her marry the 
 son of a lunatic, and there could be no doubt of his 
 conditiop- He has been seen — a man of his age, and 
 the head of a family — to load himself up with a heavy 
 knapsack, which there was no earthly necessity for him 
 to cai'ry, and go skipping along the road for miles, 
 vaulting over fences and jumping over rocks and 
 ditches like a j'oung calf or a colt. I myself saw a 
 most heart-rending instance of how a kindly man's 
 nature can be changed by the derangement of his in- 
 tellect. I was at some distance from his house, but 
 I plainly saw him harness a little donkey which he 
 owns to a large two-horse wagon loaded with stone, 
 and beat and lash the poor little beast until it drew the 
 heavy load some distance along the public road. I 
 would have remonstrated with him on this horrible cru- 
 elty, but he had the wagon back in his yard before I 
 could reach him." 
 
 "Oh, there can be no doubt of his insanity," said 
 the Alpine Club man, " and he oughtn't to be allowed 
 to travel about in this way. Some day he will pitch 
 his wife over a precipice just for the fun of seeing her 
 shoot through the air." 
 
 "I am sorry he is here," said Mr;~Gilfeert, " for it 
 
A TALE OF NEGATIVF. GHAVJTY. JOl,^ 
 
 would be very painful to meet him. My daughter and 
 I will retire very soon, and go away as early to-morrow 
 morning as possible, so as to avoid seeing him." 
 
 And then they walked back to the hotel. 
 
 For a few moments I hung, utterly forgetful of my 
 condition, and absorbed in the consideration of these 
 revelations. One idea now filled my mind. Every- 
 thing must be explained to Mr. Gilbert, even if it 
 should be necessary to have him called to me, and |or 
 me to speak to him from the upper air. -- — Jk ^^^' 
 
 Just then I saw something white approaching me 
 along the road. My eyes had become accustomed to 
 the darkness, and I perceived that it was an upturned 
 face. I recognized the hurried gait, the form ; it was 
 my wife. As she came near me I called her name, 
 and in the same breath entreated her not to scream. 
 It must have been an effort for her to restrain herself, 
 but she did it. 
 
 '• You must help me to get down," I said, '^ without 
 anybody seeing us." 
 
 '• What shall I do? " she whispered. 
 
 " Try to catch hold of this string." 
 
 Taking a piece of twine from my pocket, I low- 
 ered one end to her. But it was too short ; she could 
 not reach it. I then tied my handkerchief to it, but 
 still it was not lono- enouo-h. 
 
 "I can get more string, or handkerchiefs," she 
 whispered, hurriedly. 
 
 " No," I said ; " you could not get them up to me. 
 Rut, leaning against the hotel wall, on this side, in the 
 corner, just inside of the garden gate, are some fishing- 
 
' 102 "! ' ' ' ; Al TAL.^J- OF- NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 
 
 poles. I have seen them there eveiy day. You can 
 easily find them in the dark. Go, please, and bring 
 me one of those." 
 
 The hotel was not far away, and in a few minutes 
 m}' wife returned with a fishing-pole. She stood on 
 tip-toe, and reached it high in air ; but all she could 
 do was to strike my feet and legs with it. My most 
 frantic exertions did not enable me to get my hands 
 low enough to touch it. 
 
 " Wait a minute," she said ; and the rod was with- 
 drawn. 
 
 I knew what she was doing. There was a hook and 
 line attached to the pole, and with womanly dexterity 
 she was fastening the hook to the extreme end of the 
 rod. Soon she reached up, and gently struck at my 
 legs. After a few attempts the hook caught in my 
 trousers, a little below my right knee. Then there 
 was a slight pull, a long scratch down my leg, and the 
 hook was stopped by the top of my boot. Then came 
 a steady downward pull, and I felt myself descending. 
 Gently and firmly the rod was drawn down ; carefully 
 the lower end was kept free from the ground ; and in 
 a few moments my ankle was seized with a vigorous 
 grasp. Then some one seemed to climb up me, my 
 feet touched the ground, an arm was thrown around 
 my neck, the hand of another arm was busy at the 
 back of my knapsack, and I soon stood firmly in 
 the road, entirely divested of negative gravity. 
 
 '^Oh, that I should have forgotten," sobbed my 
 wife, " and that I should have dropped your arms, 
 and let you go up into the air ! At first I thought that 
 
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 103 
 
 you had stopped below, and it was only a little while 
 ago that the truth flashed upon me. Then I rushed 
 out and began looking up for you. I knew that you 
 had wax matches in your pocket, and hoped that 
 you would keep on striking them, so that you would 
 be seen." 
 
 " But I did not wish to be seen," I said, as we hur- 
 ried to the hotel; "and I can never be sufficiently 
 thankful that it was you who found me and brought 
 me down. Do you know that it is Mr. Gilbert and 
 his daughter who have just arrived ? I must see him 
 instantly. I will explain it all to you when I come 
 upstairs." 
 
 I took off my knapsack and gave it to my wife, who 
 carried it to our room, while I went to look for Mr. 
 G41bert. Fortunately I found him just as he was about 
 to go up to his chamber. He took my offered hand, 
 but looked at me sadly and gravely. 
 
 "Mr. Gilbert," I said, "I must speak to you in 
 private. Let us step into this room. There is no one 
 here." 
 
 "My friend," said Mr. Gilbert, "it will be much 
 better to avoid discussing this subject. It is very 
 painful to both of us, and no good can come from 
 talking of it." 
 
 " You can not now comprehend what it is I want to 
 say to you," I replied. " Come in here, and in a few 
 minutes you will be very glad that you listened to 
 me." 
 
 My manner was so earnest and impressive that 
 Mr. Gilbert was constrained to follow me, and we 
 

 104 A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 
 
 went into a small room called the siiioking-room, bttt^ • ' 
 h^JKliiGh people seldom smoked, -and closed the door. 
 I hnmediately began my statement. I told my old 
 friend that I had discovered, by means that I need not 
 explain at present, that he had considered me crazy, 
 and that now the most important object of my life was 
 to set myself right in his eyes. I thereupon gave him 
 the whole history of my invention, and explained the 
 reason of the actions that had appeared to him those 
 of a lunatic. I said nothing about the little incident 
 of that evening. That was a mere accident, and I did 
 not care now to speak of it. 
 
 Mr. Gilbert listened to me very attentively. 
 
 "Your wife is here?" he asked, when I had fin- 
 ished. 
 
 " Yes," I said ; " and she will corroborate my story 
 in every item, and no one could ever suspect her of 
 being crazy. I will go and bring her to you." 
 
 In a few minutes my wife was in the room, had 
 shaken hands with Mr. Gilbert, and had been told of 
 my suspected madness. She turned pale, but smiled. 
 
 "He did act like a crazy man," she said, " but I 
 never supposed that anybody would think him one." 
 And tears came into her eyes. 
 
 "And now, my dear," said I, "perhaps you will 
 tell Mr. Gilbert how I did all this." 
 
 And then she told him the story that I had told. 
 
 Mr. Gilbert looked from the one to the other of us 
 with a troubled air. 
 
 " Of course I do not doubt either of you, or rather 
 I do not doubt that you believe what 3^ou say. All 
 
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 105 
 
 would be right if I could bring myself to credit that 
 such a force as that you speak of can possibly exist." 
 
 "That is a matter," said I, "which I can easily 
 prove to you by actual demonstration. If you can 
 wait a short time, until my wife and I have had some- 
 thing to eat, — for I am nearly famished, and I am 
 sure she must be, — I will set your mind at rest upon 
 that point." 
 
 "I will wait here," said Mr. Gilbert, "and smoke 
 a cigar. Don't hurry yourselves. I shall be glad 
 to have some time to think about what you have told 
 me." 
 
 When we had finished the dinner, which had been 
 set aside for us, I went upstairs and got my knapsack, 
 and we both joined Mr. Gilbert in the smoking-room. 
 I showed him the little machine, and explained, very 
 briefly, the principle of its construction. I did not 
 give any practical demonstration of its action, because 
 there were people walking about the corridor who might 
 at an}' moment come into the room ; but, looking out 
 of the window, I saw that the night was much clearer. 
 The wind had dissipated the. clouds, and the stars were 
 shining brightly . . —^ ----^_.,=^;_ __ 
 
 "If you will come up the street with me," said I 
 to Mr. Gilbert, ' ' I will show you how this thing 
 works." 
 
 " That is just what I want to see," he answered. 
 
 "I will go with you," said my wife, throwing a 
 shawl over her head, j And we started up the street. V 
 
 When we were outside the little town I found tlie 
 starlight was quite sufficient for m^' purpose. The 
 
106 A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 
 
 white roadway, the low walls, and objects about us, 
 could easily be distinguished. 
 
 " Now," said I to Mr. Gilbert, " I want to put this 
 knapsack on you, and let you see how it feels, and how 
 it will help you to walk." To this he assented with 
 some eagerness, and I strapped it firmly on him. " I 
 will now turn this screw," said I, " until you shall 
 become lighter and lighter." 
 
 " Be very careful not to turn it too much," said my 
 wife earnestly. 
 
 "Oh, you may depend on me for that," said I, 
 turning the screw very gradually. 
 
 Mr. Gilbert was a stout man, and I was obliged to 
 give the screw a good many turns. 
 
 "There seems to be considerable hoist in it," he 
 said directly. And then I put my arms around him, 
 and found that I could raise him from the ground. 
 " Are you lifting me? " he exclaimed in surprise. 
 ^^ " Yes ; I did it with ease," I answered. 
 
 " Upon — my — word ! " ejaculated Mr. Gilbert. ^ 
 
 I then gave the screw a half turn more, and told 
 him to walk and run. He started off, at first slowly, 
 then he made loiig strides, then he began to run, and 
 then to skip and jump. It had been many years since 
 Mr. Gilbert had skipped and jumped. No one was 
 in sight, and he was free to gambol as much as he 
 pleased. " Could you give it another turn? " said he, 
 bounding up to me. "I want to try that wall." I 
 put on a little more negative gravity, and he vaulted 
 over a five-foot wall with great ease. In an instant 
 he had leaped back into the road, and in two bounds 
 
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 107 
 
 was at my side. " I came down as light as a cat," 
 he said. "There was never anything like it." And 
 away he went np the road, taking steps at least eight 
 feet long, leaving my wife and me laughing heartily 
 at the preternatural agility of our stout friend. In a 
 few minutes he was with us again. "Take it off," 
 he said. " If I wear it any longer I shall want one 
 myself, and then I shall be taken for a crazy man, and 
 perhaps clapped into an asylum." 
 
 "Now," said I, as I turned back the screw before 
 unstrapping the knapsack, " do you understand how 
 I took long walks, and leaped and jumped ; how I ran 
 uphill and downhill, and how the little donkey drew 
 the loaded wagon ? ' ' 
 
 "I understand it all," cried he. "I take back all 
 I ever said or thought about you, my friend." 
 
 "And Herbert may marr}^ Janet? " -cried my wife. 
 
 '''May marry her!" cried Mr. Gilbert. "Indeed 
 he shall marry her, if I have anything to say about it ! 
 My poor girl has been drooping ever since I told her 
 it could not be." 
 
 ■ My wife rushed at him, but whether she embraced 
 him or only shook his hands I can not say ; for I had 
 the knapsack in one hand, and was rubbing my eyes 
 ivith the other. 
 
 " But, my dear fellow," said Mr. Gilbert directly, 
 " if you still consider it to your interest to keep your 
 invention a secret, I wish you had never made it. No 
 one having a machine like that can help using it, and 
 it is often quite as bad to be considered a maniac as 
 to be one." 
 
108 A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 
 
 "My friend," I cried, with some excitement, *'I 
 have made up my mind on this subject. The little 
 machine in this knapsack, which is the only one I now 
 possess, has been a great pleasure to me. But I now 
 know it has also been of the greatest injury indirectly 
 to me and mine, not to mention some direct inconven- 
 ience and danger, which I will speak of another time. 
 The secret lies with us three, and we will keep it. But 
 the invention itself is too full of temptation and dan- 
 ger for any of us.'* 
 
 As I said this I held the knapsack with one hand 
 while I quickly turned the screw with the other. In 
 a few moments it was high above m}^ head, while I 
 with difficulty held it down by the straps. " Look ! " 
 I cried. And then I released my hold, and the knap- 
 sack shot into the air and disappeared into the upper 
 gloom. 
 
 I was about to make a remark, but had no chance, 
 for my wife threw herself upon my bosom, sobbing 
 with joy. 
 
 "Oh, I am so glad — so glad!" she said. "And 
 you will never make another?" 
 
 " Never another ! " I answered. 
 
 " And now let us hurry in and see Janet," said my 
 wife. 
 
 "You don't know how heavy and clumsy I feel," 
 said Mr. Gilbert, striving to keep up with us as we 
 walked back. " If I had worn that thing much longer, 
 I should never have been willing to take it off ! " 
 
 Janet had retired, but my wife went up to her 
 room. \ 
 
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 109 
 
 "I think she has felt it as much as our boy," she 
 said, when she rejoined me. " But I tell you, my dear, 
 I left a very happy girl in that little bed-chamber over 
 the garden." 
 
 And there were three very happy elderly people 
 talking together until quite late that evening. ''I 
 shall write to Herbert to-night," I said, when we sepa- 
 rated, " and tell him to meet us all in Geneva. It will 
 do the young man no harm if we interrupt his studies 
 just now." 
 
 "You must let me add a postscript to the letter," 
 said Mr. Gilbert, "and I am sure it will require no 
 knapsack with a screw in the back to bring him quickly 
 to us." 
 
 And it did not. 
 
 There is a wonderful pleasure in tripping over the 
 earth like a winged Mercury, and in feeling one's self 
 relieved of much of that attraction of gravitation which 
 drags us down to earth, and gradually makes the move- 
 ment of our bodies but weariness and labor. But this 
 pleasure is not to be compared, I think, to that given 
 by the buoyancy and lightness of two young and loving 
 hearts, reunited after a separation which they had 
 supposed would last for ever. 
 
 What became of the basket and the knapsack, or 
 whether they ever met in upper air, I do not know. 
 If they but float away and stay away from ken of 
 mortal man, I shall be satisfied. 
 
 And whether or not the world will ever know more 
 of the power of negative gravity depends entirely upon 
 the disposition of r»y son Herbert, when — after a good 
 
110 A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY. 
 
 many years, I hope — he shall open the packet my 
 lawyers have in keeping. 
 
 [Note. — It would be quite useless for any one to 
 interview my wife on this subject, for she has entirelj^ 
 forgotten how my machine was made. And as for 
 Mr. Gilbert, he never knew.] 
 
THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE, 
 
 "VT'OT far from the roadside, in one of the southern 
 -^^ counties of Virginia, there stood a neat log cabin, 
 inhabited by a worthy negro couple, known as Uncle 
 Elijah and Aunt Maria. These two had belonged to 
 a widow lad}^, who owned the estate of Cloverfields, 
 about three miles away ; but when, a few years before 
 the opening of our stor}', the close of the civil war had 
 set them free, they, in common with nearly all the ne- 
 groes in the county, thought it incumbent upon them, 
 as an assertion of their independence, to leave their 
 former owners, and either work for themselves or go 
 into service elsewhere. Thus there was a general shift- 
 ing from plantation to plantation. Uncle Elijah and 
 his wife, both now past middle age, left the place 
 where they had been born and raised, and hired this 
 cabin on a neighboring plantation, where by day's labor 
 and odd jobs on the part of the husband, and washing 
 and ironing and chicken-raising on the part of the wife, 
 they managed to live in moderate comfort. 
 
 Elijah had been the family coachman, and he had 
 found it a hard thing to resign the dignity of this posi- 
 tion ; but had he retained ^t he would virtuall}^ have 
 
 111 
 
112 THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE. 
 
 admitted to all his brethren and sisters that freedom 
 had done nothing for him. In order to show that he 
 was now director of his own fortunes, it was necessary 
 that he should drop the reins by which he had so skill- 
 fully directed and controlled the two black carriage- 
 horses which had been his especial care since their early 
 colthood. 
 
 But his love for his old mistress and his sense of his 
 former dignity never left him, and now, when from afar 
 he saw approaching the familiar carriage, he would 
 drop his work, or get up from his meal, and watch it 
 until it had entirely disappeared from sight. Some- 
 times, if it were near enough, he would advance, hat 
 in hand, to speak to his old mistress ; but this he did 
 not often do, — people might think he wanted to go 
 back. 
 
 One autumn evening, just about dusk, as Uncle 
 Elijah came out of his cabin, he perceived, near the 
 top of a long hill on the road, the Cloverfields carriage 
 and horses. Other eyes in the growing gloom might 
 have not known what vehicle it was, but the eyes of 
 Uncle Elijah could make no mistake. As he stood and 
 gazed they sparkled with emotion. 
 
 " Whar Miss Jane gwine dis time o' night? An' 
 wot's de matter wid dat kerridge ! " he ejaculated. 
 " I'll be dangdiddled ef de eberlastin' fool dat's dribin' 
 hain't gwine an' chain' up de hin' wheel as ef it was a 
 hay-wagin. An' who's de no' count idyit wot can't 
 dribe down Red Hill widout chainin' de wheel? Lor' ! 
 how he do bump de stones ! An' how dat mus' rile 
 Miss Jane ! But I reckin she mus' done got use' tor 
 
THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE. 113 
 
 bein' riled, a pickin' up all sorts o' niggahs to dribe her 
 kerridge." 
 
 When the vehicle reached the bottom of the hill, not 
 far from the cabin, it stopped, and the driver got down 
 to unchain the wheel. Possessed by a sudden thought. 
 Uncle Elijah rushed into his house, from which his wife 
 was happily absent, clapped on his hat, and seized his 
 coat. Keeping well away from the road, he ran to- 
 wards the carriage, climbed the fence, and approached 
 the vehicle in the rear, where he would not be seen by 
 any of its occupants. When he reached the man, who 
 had just unfastened the chain, the soul of Uncle Elijah 
 was filled with righteous indignation at finding it was 
 Montague Braxton, a negro shoemaker of the neighbor- 
 hood. Without a word he seized the cobbler coachman 
 by the collar, including a good part of one ear in his 
 grasp, and led him away from the carriage, Montague, 
 who knew who had clutched him, submitting without a 
 tv'ord. When they had hurriedly gone a dozen steps 
 Elijah hissed in the other's ear : 
 
 *' Is you comin' back ter-night? " 
 
 " Yaas,'* whispered the shoemaker, very much as- 
 tonished at the manner of his interviewer. 
 
 '•Well, den, jus' you go 'long up ter my house, 
 split de wood fur Aun' M'riar, fotch a bucket ob water 
 from de spring, and stay hyar till I come back. I'se 
 gwine ter dribe dis kerridge m^'se'f . Ain't got no time 
 to say no moh. Now, git ! " 
 
 Montague, who knew " Uncle 'Lijah " as a pillar of 
 strength in the church, as well as a pillar of not ver}^ 
 easily restrained strength in his own proper person, 
 
114 THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE. 
 
 made no answer, but noiselessly slipped away. Elijah 
 passed quickly around the carriage, keeping at a little 
 distance from it to avoid being recognized by those 
 within, although he scarcely need have feared this 
 in the dusky light, and mounted to the elevated 
 seat in front ; when, taking up the reins and whip, he 
 started the horses, and the equipage moved on. Now 
 sat Uncle Elijah like a king upon his throne, and his 
 soul was moved within him with a joy that he had not 
 known for years. Here were Gamma and Delta, the 
 two horses that he had driven so long, a little older, a 
 little browner in their manes and tails, but still the 
 same good horses, with plenty of strength and spirit 
 left ; here was the same old harness — he could recog- 
 nize it even in the dark — badly kept, and badly put on, 
 but still the same ; here were the reins that once no 
 hand but his had ever dared to touch ; and here the 
 whip, very old now and shabby, with a miserable new 
 lash on it, but still the same whip he used to wield ; 
 and here was the high seat on which he alone had sat 
 from the time he became a man in years until that day 
 when his freedom made him another man. 
 
 Now the thoughts of the regenerated coachman ran 
 riot in his brain. Indignation towards the shoemaker 
 who had dared to drive the family carriage of his old 
 mistress on a night which promised to be as dark as 
 this, first took entire possession of him. 
 
 " Dat no 'count cobbler!" he said to himself. 
 '' Wot he know 'bout dribin' ? An' o' nights, too ! An' 
 wid de crick up. An' wid de water all obcr de road 
 'longside for harf a mile. An' de road pas' Colonel 
 
THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE. 115 
 
 Tom Giles's all washed so dat he couldn't help slidin' 
 inter de gully to sabe his soul, ef he hadn't fus' druv 
 inter de crick, an' tumbled de kemdge an' bosses, an' 
 his own eberlastin' fool se'f, top o' Miss Jane, an' 
 mos' likely little Miss Jane an' Miss Almira Gay. But 
 dey's all right now I'se dribin'. You ken bet your life 
 on dat." 
 
 If any one had heard this remark, he would have 
 been quite safe in accepting the wager, for, by day or 
 by night, washed by rains, covered by freshets, or in 
 their normal condition. Uncle Elijah knew the roads in 
 this neighborhood better than any man alive, even 
 since he had become a freeman he had studied the diffi- 
 culties and obstructions of the highways as he walked 
 to and from his work. " Ef I was a dribin' hyar," he 
 would say to himself, "I'd put dis fron' wheel roun' 
 dat little stone, den one small twis' ud bring de hin' 
 wheel on dis side ob it, an' I'd clean miss de big rock 
 in de udder rut." 
 
 Remembering and avoiding the stones, deep ruts, 
 and encroaching gullies, Elijah, like a pilot who steers 
 past the rocks and sandbars which lie under the water, 
 as the road now lay in the darkness of the night, went 
 steadily on, without bump or jolt of any account. Pass- 
 ing the flooded part of the road without deviating a 
 foot to the right or left of the proper course, passing 
 the tobacco field of Colonel Giles, where the rains had 
 washed the road into a shelving hillside, without bump- 
 ing an exposed rock or sliding towards a gully, he 
 reached the higher and more level portion of the road, 
 which was now so comparatively good and compara- 
 
116 THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE. 
 
 tively clear, to the sharp eyes of horses and driver, 
 that Elijah went on at a fair pace, now and then wav- 
 ing his whip and straightening himself up as a man 
 who breathes his native air once more. Suddenly a 
 dreadful thought flashed across his mind, and he barely 
 checked himself from pulling the horses back on their 
 haunches. 
 
 " Whar*s I gwine? '' said he, almost aloud. " Dat 
 double, eberlastin* fool shoemaker neber tole me ! 
 Whar kin Miss Jane, an' mos' like little Miss Jane 
 an' Miss Almu-a Gay, be gwine at dis time? An' 
 comin' back ter-night, too ! Dey mus' be 'tendin' ter 
 spen' de ebenin' somewhar, — but whar?" 
 
 Elijah now revolved in his mind every place to which 
 he thought the family might be going. So far he had 
 made no mistake because there had been no turn in the 
 road ; and although he had passed the place of Colonel 
 Tom Giles, they could not be going to see him, for he 
 was an old bachelor, living alone, and besides had gone 
 to Richmond. A short distance ahead the road 
 branched, and in one direction led to the house of Dr. 
 Marshall Gordon, distant about a mile, and in the other 
 to the hospitable mansion of General William Tucker. 
 
 ''Dey can't be gwine fur de doctor fur anybody 
 sick," thought Elijah, " fur if it had been dat dey'd 
 sent a boy on a boss, an' not hitched up de kerridge 
 wid a shoemaker ter dribe ; an' I'd be dreffel 'shamed 
 ter take 'em more'n four miles to de Gin'ral's ef dey 
 wasn't gwine dar." 
 
 The nearer he approached the fork of the road the 
 more completely Uncle Elijah became convinced that 
 
THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE. 117 
 
 fie could not decide this important question for himself. 
 It was absolutely necessary that he should get down 
 and ask his old mistress where she was going. This 
 was a terribly hard thing for him to do. He would be 
 obliged to tell the whole story, and to admit that his 
 affection for her, as strong as ever, had prompted him 
 to take the driver's seat. And this was to relinquish a 
 portion of his new freedom and manhood. But it had 
 to be done, for the fork of the road was reached. 
 Drawing up his horses, Elijah descended from his seat, 
 and with the reins in one hand, for he was not a man, 
 like the cobbler, to leave his horses standing free in the 
 road, he reverently opened the carriage door. 
 
 " Miss Jane," said he, "I spec' you s' prised to see 
 me dribin', but I couldn't stan' still an' let dat no 
 'count shoemaker, wot don* know nuflin 'bout bosses, 
 nor de roads nuther, an' night comiu' on pitch dark, 
 dribe you. He hadn't eben sense 'nuf to tell me whar 
 you's gwine, so I begs you'll scuse me fur gittin' down 
 ter ax you." 
 
 They were now in the heavily shaded portion of the 
 road, and the interior of the carriage was quite dark. 
 From the farthest corner of the back seat came a thin, 
 low voice which said to him: "Keep on now to the 
 kyars." 
 
 This reply surprised Elijah in several ways. In the 
 first place, he had confidently expected that his old 
 mistress would say something expressive of her satis- 
 faction in finding herself under his charge on such a 
 dark night as this ; and, again, he was surprised to 
 hear that voice come out of the carriaoe. It did not 
 
118 THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE. 
 
 belong to Miss Jane, nor, as far as he could judge, to 
 any of her family. After a moment's hesitation he 
 closed the door, and then, irresolutely, mounted to his 
 seat and drove slowly on. He had not proceeded a 
 hundred yards before there dawned upon his mind 
 a dim recognition of the voice which had come from 
 the carriage. Drawing up his horses again, he quickly 
 got down and opened the carriage door. 
 
 *' Who in dar, anyhow? " he said, in a tone by no 
 means as respectful as that he had used before. 
 
 At this question the opposite door of the carriage 
 suddenly opened, and the occupant popped out of it. 
 As this individual, upon reaching the ground, turned, 
 and stood facing Uncle Elijah, the latter could see, out- 
 lined upon a patch of sky behind him, the plainly dis- 
 cernible form of the cobbler, Montague, from whose 
 lips now burst forth a roar of laughter that completely 
 established his identity. The outraged soul of Uncle 
 Elijah boiled and bubbled within him. He put out his 
 left arm as if he would reach through the carriage and 
 clutch the scoundrel by the throat. But this was im- 
 possible, and he would not drop the reins to run around 
 the carriage. 
 
 "You eberlastin' fool cobbler!" he cried, "what 
 fur you go play dis trick on me ? " 
 
 "I no play no trick on you. Uncle 'Lijah," returned 
 Montague, still laughing immoderately. " You played 
 de trick on youse'f. I'se done nuffin but jus' keep 
 out your way. I got up behin' so's ter see whar you 
 was gwine, an' den I unhooked de back cuttins, an' 
 slipped inside 'cause 'twas moh comf'ble." 
 
THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE. 119 
 
 " I'll break your neck fur dat ! " cried Uncle Elijah. 
 *' A low-down, yaller shoemaker like you gittin' inter 
 Miss Jane's kerridge ! " 
 
 ''Got ter ketch me fus', Uncle 'Lijah, 'fore you 
 break my neck," replied the shoemaker, still in a merry 
 mood. 
 
 ''Shet up your fool talk! " cried Elijah, "an' tell 
 me whar 3'ou was sent ter." 
 
 " I was sent fur Miss Polly Brown, de seamstress 
 wot libes on Colonel Tom Giles's place, but dat was a 
 long time back. She done gone ter bed afore dis. 
 Miss Jane tole me ter go arly in the ebenin', but some- 
 body done took one ob de hoss-collus fur de plow 
 team, an' I couldn't find it nowhar, so it got right 
 smart late afore I started. An' now you done tuck up 
 so much time, Uncle 'Lijah, comin' way out h3'ar on 
 3'our little business, dat 'tain't no use gwine fur Miss 
 Polly Brown till de mawniu'. Whar is you gwine, 
 anyhow, Uncle 'Lijah?" 
 
 To this Uncle EHjah made no answer, but his tone 
 moderated a little as he asked : " Wot fur you tell me 
 to keep on ter de kyars? " 
 
 " Cos I didn't know no udder place ter go, ef it was 
 lef ' ter me. 'Taint fur ter de kyars now, an' dar's alius 
 sumfin dar furde fam'ly, an' I'd ruther go back an' tell 
 Miss Jane dat I done mistook whar she tole me ter go 
 dan ter say I ain't been nowhar." 
 
 Uncle Elijah's mind was not a quick one, but it did 
 not take a very long time for it to dawn upon him that 
 in this predicament it might be better to go somewhere 
 than nowhere. His anger had cooled down somewhat. 
 
120 THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE. 
 
 for he felt that in his controversy with Montague he 
 had had the worst of it. After rubbing the side of 
 his head for a few moments he said shortly to the cob- 
 bler, ''Shet dat doh', an' come 'long ter de kyars. 
 Ef dar's anyt'ing dar fur de fam'ly, you kin git it, an' 
 I'll dribe back. Aint gwine ter trus' you wid dese 
 bosses in de night." 
 
 " Look hyar. Uncle 'Lijah," said Montague, coming 
 round to the back of the carriage, but keeping well out 
 of reach, " dar ain't gwine ter be no fitin' if I done git 
 up 'longside o' you, is dar? " 
 
 " Come 'long hyar," said Uncle Elijah, mounting to 
 his seat ; " I ain't gwine ter fight while I got dese 
 kerridge an' bosses under my chawge. But I don' say 
 nuffln 'bout ter-morrer mawnin', min' dat." 
 
 " Don' keer nufRn' 'bout mawnin', long as 'tain't 
 come," said Montague, getting up on the other side. 
 
 The railroad station was a little beyond Dr. Marshall 
 Gordon's, and the road to it was one over which Elijah 
 had gone so often that he felt warranted to drive at a 
 good round pace, especially since he knew that his old 
 mistress would not be bumped if he happened to strike 
 a stone. His recollection of his previous careful driv- 
 ing made him grumble all the more at the shoemaker 
 for having brought him on such a tom-fool errand. 
 
 "Now look hyar. Uncle 'Lijah," said Montague, 
 " did you eber hear de par'ble ob de fox an' de mule? " 
 
 " Don' 'member no sich par'ble," said Elijah. " Is 
 it in de Scripter?" 
 
 " I reckin so," said the shoemaker. " I neber read 
 it dar myse'f but I spec's it's from de Scripter. Dar 
 
THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE. 121 
 
 was a fox a-gwine ter de well fur a drink ob water, an' 
 when he got dar he pull up de rope, an' sho' 'nuf dar 
 wasn't no bucket to it. Dar had been a baptizin' at a 
 church not fur off, an' as de baptizin' pond was all 
 dried up, some ob de bredren come ter de well ter git 
 some water, an' when dey saw dat de bucket was a 
 good big one, dey fought dey mought as well take it 
 'long to baptize de sister right in it, cos she was a little 
 chile on'y free weeks old." 
 
 ''Dey don' dip 'em dat young," interrupted Elijah. 
 
 " Dis was a long time ago," said Montague, "an' a 
 Mefodis' baby at dat. An' when de fox foun' out de 
 bucket was gone, he jus' rar'd an' chawged, for he was 
 pow'ful firsty, habin' bin eatin' fur his breakfus' some 
 ob dat dar mean middhn' dat dey sen's up from Rich- 
 mon', wot is moh salt dan meat. But sw'arin' wouldn't 
 fotch de water up ter him, an' so he 'eluded ter climb 
 down de rope, an' git a drink dat way. When he got 
 down dar he drunk, an' he drunk, an' he drunk, an' 
 when he felt mos' like fit to bus' he thought he'd had 
 enuf, an' he'd go up ag'in. But when dat ole fox try 
 ter climb up de rope, he fin' it right smart dif'rent wuk 
 from comin' down, an' he couldn't git up nohow. 
 When he foun' dis out he was pow'ful disgruntled, fur 
 he had to stan' in de water, an' it was mighty cole, an' 
 he 'spected he'd git de rheumatiz, an' have to have 
 his legs wrop up in red flannel an' turpentine. While 
 he was 'volvin' in his min' wot he'd do to dat sto'- 
 keeper wot sole him dat salt middlin', 'long come a' 
 army mule an' look down de well. He was p'iutedly 
 ole, dat mule, an' branded wid U.S. twice on bof sides, 
 
122 THE CLOVKRFIELDS CARRIAGE. 
 
 what had been guv to a preacher at Pow'tan Co' at 
 House by de guv'ment, in de place ob a good mule dat 
 de Yankees took." 
 
 " Th'aiu't no mention of Pow'tan Co'at House in 
 de Scripter," interrupted Elijah. 
 
 " Don' know 'bout dat," said Montague ; " I reckin 
 it's a Scripter name. Anyhow, de army mule he poke 
 he head down de well, an' holler : ' Hello ! Whar de 
 bucket? an' who down dar? ' ' Mawnin', Cap'n Mule,' 
 said de fox. He was one ob dem red foxes dat ben 
 hunt so offen by Gin'ral Tucker's pack of hounds dat 
 it make him pow'ful peart. ' De bucket no 'count, 
 Cap'n. De bottom's bruck out, an' it's been throwed 
 away. Eberybody comes down de well arfter de water, 
 an' I jus' tell you, Cap'n, it's mighty good dis mawn- 
 in'. Somebody mus' 'a' drop' a tickler an' a couple 
 ob pounds ob sugar down hyar, fur it tastes jus' like 
 apple toddy.' An' de fox he 'gan to lap wid he tongue 
 as ef he could neber git enuf . When de army mule he 
 heard 'bout de apple toddy, he say no moh, but jus' 
 slid down de rope. ' Hello ! ' he holler when he git to 
 de bottom. ' How you put your head down to drink? 
 Th'aiu't no room fur me ter put my head down.' ' Dat's 
 so,' said de fox, who was scrouging ag'in' de wall to 
 git out ob de way; ' yon do fill up dis well 'mazin', 
 an', sho' 'nuf, dar ain't no room fur you ter put your 
 head down. But neber you min'. Jus' stan' still, an' 
 I'll fix all dat.' De army mule, his hind legs was in 
 de bottom ob de well, his forelegs was ag'in' de sides, 
 an' he great long neck was stickin' eber so high up. 
 Him gittin' right smart skeered 'bout dis time. De fox 
 
THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE. 123 
 
 he jus' jump on de mule back, den on he neck, den on 
 he head, an' den he gib one skip right out ob de well. 
 'Hello, dar ! ' hollered de mule. * Whar you gwine? 
 Come back hyar, an* haul me out dis well ! What fur 
 you go 'way an' leab me hyar? ' De fox he come back, 
 an' he look down de well, an' he say : '- Wot's de mat- 
 ter, mule? ' An' de heart ob de mule went down into 
 his hoofs when he notus he done lef off de Cap'n. ' I 
 got nuffin' ter do wid dat well, nur wid 3-0U nudder. 
 Ef you wan' ter go down arfter apple toddy, dat's your 
 look-out. Good-mawnin'.' An' off went Mr. Fox to 
 de stoh' po'ch to tell the folks 'bout dat fool mule. 
 
 *' Now that par'ble 'minds me ob you. Uncle 'Lijah. 
 You didn't hab to git up on dis seat, an' hoi' dese 
 reins, an' dribe dese bosses, ef 3'ou hadn't wanted ter. 
 'Tain't no use jawin' me fur dat." 
 
 " Ef I wasn't 'feared dese bosses ud run away." 
 roared Uncle Elijah, " I'd jus' take you down de road 
 and give you sech a-hidiu' as you haven't had sence 
 you got inter breeches." 
 
 With Uncle Elijah's hands so fully occupied as 
 they were, Montague felt safe ; and, edging as near 
 as possible to his end of the seat, he exclaimed : 
 
 "But dat ain't all de par'ble, Uncle 'Lijah. De 
 fox he come back dat ebenin', an' when he looked 
 down de well, dar de mule yit, sw'arin' an' cussin' like 
 all out-doh's. When he see de fox, de mule he 'clar 
 ter gracious dat when he git out he kick dat fox inter 
 little bits so small dat they could sow him ober de fiel's 
 from a wheat-seeder. ' Look h3'ar,' said de fox, ' you 
 miu' me ob de par'ble ob de man what los' his spring 
 
124 THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE. 
 
 lamb. Somebody stole that lamb wot he 'spected to 
 get foh' dollars fur at de Co'at House, an' de man he 
 rar'd an' chawged, an' he swore dat ef he kotch dat 
 t'ief he'd lick him wuss dan any sheep-t'ief was eber 
 licked in dat county, or any ob de j'ining counties. 
 He hunted high, an' he hunted low, to find de t'ief, 
 an' jus' as he got inside de woods he come across a 
 great big b'ar who had his spring lamb a hung up 
 a-barbecuin', an' he was a-nailin' de skin up ag'in' a 
 tree fur ter dry. De man was orful skeered ; but de 
 b'ar he sees him, an' he sings out : ' Hello ! man, now 
 you kotch de t'ief wot stole yoxxr spring lamb, why 
 you no punch he head? Why you no break he back 
 wid dat club ? Tell me dat, you big man ! ' An' de 
 b'ar he put down he hammer an' he nails so's ter talk 
 de better. De man he too skeered to speak a word, 
 an' he kep' squeezin' back, an' squeezin' back, widout 
 sayin' nuffln'. De b'ar he come nigher an' nigher, an' 
 he sing out : ' Wot fur you keep your mouf shut like 
 a can o' temahters ? Why you no do some ob dem big 
 t'ings you blow 'bout jus' now? ' De man he squeeze 
 back, an' he squeeze back, till he git ter de edge ob 
 de woods, and den he sing out : ' I mube dis meetin' 
 'journ ! An' he more'n 'journed. 
 
 *'Now, Uncle 'Lijah, I don' wan' ter make no 
 'flections 'gin' you in dis par'ble, but de fox he did 
 say ter de mule dat 'fore he blow 'bout de big t'ings 
 he gwine ter do, he better 'mune wid his own soul, 
 an' see ef he able. Right smart fox dat, min' you, 
 Uncle 'Lijah." 
 
 To this Uncle Elijah made no answer, but his eyes 
 
thf: cloverfields carriage. 125 
 
 sparkled, and his big hands were gripped very tightly 
 on the whip and the reins that he held ; and in a 
 minute more he had drawn up at the little railroad 
 station. Montague got down, and went to inquire if 
 there were any packages of goods waiting for the 
 Cloverfields family, while Elijah remained in his seat. 
 This was a very familiar spot to the old negro. In 
 former times he had been in the habit of driving here 
 two or three times a week, and as he sat on his old 
 seat on the carriage, with the same old reins in his 
 hand, and the two black horses of the olden time 
 again before him, and the familiar scenes all about 
 him, Elijah actually forgot for the time being that he 
 had ever resigned his ancient post. 
 
 '' Look hyar," said Montague, presently returning 
 with a package in his hands. " Hyar's some dry- 
 goods from Richmon,' an' ef we hadn't druv down 
 hyar, I'd been sent arfter 'em ter-morrer in de cart 
 or on mule-back. De train's comin' in ten minutes ; 
 might as well wait, an' see ef dar's any thin' moh." 
 
 Elijah grumbled a little at waiting, but Montague, 
 whose soul delighted in being stirred, even by so small 
 a matter as the arrival of a railroad train, insisted 
 that it would be unwise to go away, when a few 
 minutes' delay might save a lot of future trouble. 
 And so they waited. 
 
 Soon there was heard a distant whistle, then an 
 approaching rumble, and the train rolled up to the 
 station and stopped. As she had always done. Gamma 
 tossed her head and looked to one side, while Delta 
 pricked up his ears ; but, as he had always done, 
 
126 THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE. 
 
 Uncle Elijah kept a firm hand upon the reins, and 
 spoke to his horses in a low, quiet tone, which had 
 the effect of making them understand that they might 
 safely remain where they were, for under no circum- 
 stances would the train come their way. 
 
 Out of the open window of a car a young man put 
 his head, and looked up and down the narrow plat- 
 form, and then his eye was caught by the Cloverfields 
 carriage, standing full in the light of the station lamp. 
 Drawing in his head, he continued to look steadily at 
 the carriage, and then he arose and came out on the 
 car platform. One of the good comfortable stops, 
 not unfrequent on the roads in this part of the coun- 
 try, was taking place, and the conductor had gone into 
 the station to send a telegram. The young man came 
 down to the bottom step, and again looked up and 
 down. Here he was espied by Montague, who rushed 
 up and accosted him. 
 
 "How d'ye, Mahs Chawles? Don' you 'member 
 me? I'se Montague Braxton. Use' ter men' your 
 boots." 
 
 " Isn't that Uncle Elijah? " asked the young man. 
 " And who is the carriage waiting for? " 
 
 " Come fur you, sah," said the mendacious cobbler. 
 "All ready waitin', sah. Gimme your checks, Mahs 
 Chawles, an' I'll git de baggage." 
 
 " Come for me ! " repeated the 3'oung man. " How 
 did they know ? ' ' 
 
 " Cawn't tell nufRn' 'bout dat, sah, but Miss Jane 
 she sen' me an' 'Lijah arfter you wid de kerridge. 
 Better hurry up with de checks, sah." 
 
THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE. 127 
 
 The young man stood upon the bottom step looking 
 steadily at the carriage, and paying no attention to 
 Montague's last remark. Then he moved his eyes 
 and saw the conductor coming out of the station. He 
 turned, sprang up the steps and into the car, returning 
 almost instantly with a valise and a light overcoat, 
 which were immediately taken by the obsequious 
 Montague. 
 
 "Dat all, sah?" said he. 
 
 The young man nodded. *' All aboard ! " cried the 
 conductor. And in a moment the train had moved away. 
 
 Montague put the coat and valise on the front seat 
 of the carriage, and stood holding open the door. 
 " Hyar Mahs Chawles," said he to Elijah. 
 
 The old man turned so suddenly as to startle the 
 horses. "Mahs Chawles!" he exclaimed, his eyes 
 opening like a pair of head-liglits. 
 
 "How d'ye. Uncle Elijah?" said the young man, 
 extending his hand, which the old negro took as if he 
 had been in a dream. 
 
 Montague looked a little anxiously at the two. 
 "Better hurr}- up, sah," he said in a low voice. 
 " It's gittiu' late, an' Miss Jane's awful skeery 'bout 
 dribin' at night." 
 
 At this the young man entered the carriage, Mon- 
 tague shut the door and ran around to his seat, and 
 Uncle Elijah, his mind dazed and confused by this 
 series of backward slides into times gone by, turned 
 his horses and drove away. For ten minutes he spoke 
 not a word, and then he said to Montague : " Did you 
 know Mahs Chawles was comin' ? " 
 
128 THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE. 
 
 '* Ob course I did," said the cobbler. "You don' 
 s'pose, Uncle 'Lijah, dat I'd fotch you all de way 
 down hyar jus' fur a little bun'le ob cotton cloth? 
 Didn't say nufRn' 'bout Mahs Chawles, cos I feared he 
 mightn't come, an' j^ou'd be dis'p'inted, an' dem 
 par'bles was jus' ter pahs de time, Uncle 'Lijah — jus' 
 ter pahs de time." 
 
 The old man made no answer, but drove steadily 
 on, and the moon now having arisen, he was able to 
 make very good time. Little more was said until they 
 had nearly reached Uncle Elijah's cabin ; then Mon- 
 tague asked the old man if he intended driving all 
 the way to Cloverfields. 
 
 "Ob course I do," was the gruff reply. "You 
 don' s'pose I'd trus' you wid Mahs Chawles dis time 
 o' night?" 
 
 "Well, den," said the other, "I reckin I'll git 
 down and cut acrost de fiel's ter my cabin ef you'll 
 be 'bligin' enuf, Uncle 'Lijah, jes' ter put up de 
 bosses when you gits dar, an* I'll come fus' t'iug in 
 de mawnin' an' 'tend to eber3't'ing, jus' as I alius 
 does." 
 
 " Go 'long," said Elijah, slackening his horses' 
 pace. " I'se got no use fur 3'ou, nohow." 
 
 The mistress of Cloverfields, wdth little Miss Jane 
 and Miss Almira Gay, was sitting in the parlor of the 
 old mansion very much disturbed. In the middle of 
 the afternoon Montague Braxton had been told to 
 take the carriage and go for Miss Polly Brown, the 
 seamstress, who had promised to give a week of her 
 valuable time to Cloverfields ; but, although it was 
 
THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE, 129 
 
 now between nine and ten o'clock, he had not re- 
 turned. The force of men-servants at Cloverfields was 
 very small, and no one of them lived at the house ex- 
 cepting a very old man, too decrepit to send out to look 
 up the lost cobbler and a carriage ; and " Miss Jane," 
 who was still a vigorous woman, though her hair was 
 white, with her daughter, little Miss Jane, and her 
 niece, Miss Almira Gay, had almost determined that 
 they would walk over to a cabin about half a mile 
 distant, and get a colored man living there to saddle 
 a mule and ride to Miss Polly Brown's to see what 
 had happened, when their deliberations were cut short 
 by the sound of carriage-wheels on the drive. The 
 three ladies sprang to their feet and hurried out to 
 the porch, throwing the front door wide open that 
 the light from the hall lamp might illumine the 
 steps. 
 
 "Why, Miss Polly!" exclaimed little Miss Jane, 
 
 what on earth " And then she abruptly stopped, 
 
 ejaculating in a low tone : " Uncle Elijah ! " 
 
 At these words her mother moved quickly forward 
 to the edge of the porch, but before she had time 
 to say anything the carriage-door opened, and there 
 stepped out, not the middle-aged seamstress who was 
 expected, but a young man, on whose pale and up- 
 turned face the light of the hall lamp shone full. There 
 was a cry from the women, a sudden bound up the 
 steps, and in an instant the son of the house was in 
 his mother's arms, with his sister clasping as much of 
 his neck as she could reach. 
 
 A quarter of an hour after this, as Master Charles 
 
loO THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE. 
 
 sat in the parlor, his mother on one side with an arm 
 around him, his sister on the other side with her arm 
 around him, while his right hand clasped that of Miss 
 Almira Gay, he thus explained himself : " I hadn't the 
 least idea of getting off the train, for you know I had 
 vowed never to come here till there was an end of that 
 old trouble ; but I thought if I went down to Danville 
 in the late train we probably wouldn't stop at our sta- 
 tion at all, and that I wouldn't notice when we passed 
 it. But we did stop, and I couldn't help looking out, 
 and when I saw the Cloverfields carriage standing 
 there just as natural as life, and old Uncle Elijah in 
 the driver's seat " 
 
 ''Uncle Elijah!" exclaimed his mother, pushing 
 back her chair. "Did he go down to the station to 
 bring me my son ? ' ' 
 
 " It was Elijah ! " cried little Miss Jane. " I saw 
 him on the seat." 
 
 The old lady arose and left the room. She stepped 
 upon the porch and looked out, but the carriage had 
 gone. Then she went to the back door, hastily lighted 
 a lantern which stood on the table, and with this in 
 her hand made her way under the tall oaks and along 
 the driveway to the barn, which was at some distance 
 from the house. Through the open door of the stables 
 she saw dimly the form of a man engaged in rubbing 
 down a horse. Raising the lantern in her hand, she 
 stepped to the door and threw the light within. 
 
 " Uncle Elijah," she said, " is that you? " 
 
 The man turned around. He forgot he had a vote ; 
 he forgot he could serve on a jury. He simply took 
 
THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE. 131 
 
 off his hat, and coming forward, said: " Yaas, Miss 
 Jane, dis is me." 
 
 The next morning, not very early, the cobbler 
 approached the Cloverfields stables to attend to the 
 horses, and to do the various oddments and bitments 
 of work for which he had been temporarily hired. To 
 his surprise, just as he turned a corner of the barn he 
 met Uncle Elijah, who was engaged in attaching a 
 new lash to the carriage- whip. Montague, astounded, 
 stood for a moment speechless, gazing at Elijah, who, 
 in some way, seemed to be different from what he was 
 the day before. He looked taller and wider ; his coun- 
 tenance was bright, his general aspect cheerful, and 
 an element of Sunday seemed to have been infused 
 into his clothes. 
 
 " Didn't spec' to see you hyar, Uncle 'Lijah," stam- 
 mered the cobbler when he found his voice. 
 
 " Reckin not," said the old man, " but I'se glad ter 
 see 3'ou, cos I wants ter tell j^ou a par'ble. Dar was 
 once a mud-turkle, de low-dowmest, or'nerest, no'count- 
 est mud-turkle in de whole worl'. His back was so 
 cracked dat it wouldn't keep de rain off he skin, and 
 he bottom shell bin ha'f sole' free or fob' times — he 
 so lazy he ruther scuffle it ober de rocks dan walk — 
 an' de chickens had eat off he tail afore de war, cos 
 he too triflin' ter pull it in. Well, dis mis'ble mud- 
 turkle come 'long one day, an' he sees a Chris'mus 
 tukkey a-settin' on de limb ob a big apple-tree. De 
 tukkey, he feel fus'-rate, an' he look fus'-rate, an' he 
 jyin hese'f up dar 'mong de leabes an' de apples. An' 
 de mud-turkle he look up, an' he say : ' Dat mighty 
 
132 THE CLOVERFIELDS CARRIAGE. 
 
 nice up dar ! Reckin I'd like ter set up dar myse'f. 
 Jus' you come down, Mahs Chris'mus tukkey, an' 
 lemme set up dar 'mongst de apples an' de leabes.' 
 Den de Chris'mus tukkey, he bristle hese'f up, an' he 
 stick out he feathers, an' he spread out he tail, an' his 
 comb an' his gills git redder dan fire, an' he sing out : 
 ' Go 'long wid you, j^ou mud-turkle ; don' lemme heah 
 you say no moh 'bout settin' up hyar.' You dunno 
 how to dribe a boss ; you got no moh sense dan ter 
 chain de bin' wheel ob a kerridge, gwine down Red 
 Hill ; you lose de hoss-coUus ; you breaks de whip- 
 lashes, and gits de harness all upside down wrong ; an' 
 you comes ter feed de bosses arfter dey's bin watered 
 an' turned out moh'n two hours. P'raps you dunno 
 who I is. I'se de driber ob de Cloverfields kerridge, 
 an' as long as I has de use ob my j'ints, an' can see 
 wid my eyes, nobody dribes dat kerridge but me. An' 
 now, look hyar, you shoemaker mud-turkle, when me, 
 an' Miss Jane, an' little Miss Jane, an' Miss Almira 
 Gay, an' p'r'aps Mahs Chawles, gits ter de Happy 
 Lan', don' you reckin dat you's gwine ter come dar 
 too cos your foolin' helped fotch Mahs Chawles home. 
 De angel Gabr'el, he p'int his horn right at you an' 
 he sing out : ' Ain't got no use fur no yaller cobbler 
 angels hyar, wid dey fool par'bles, an' dey lies 'bout 
 bein' sent fur Mahs Chawles, an' dey lettin' Aun' 
 M'riar split her own wood an' fotch her own water 
 from de spring.' An' now you's got my par'ble, Mon- 
 tague Braxton, an' de nex' time you comes you gits 
 your lickin'." 
 
THE REMARKABLE WRECK OF THE 
 "THOMAS HYKE." 
 
 IT was half-past one by the clock in the office of the 
 Registrar of Woes. The room was empty, for it 
 was Wednesday, and the Registrar always went home 
 early on Wednesday afternoons. He had made that 
 arrangement when he accepted the office. He was 
 willing to serve his fellow-citizens in any suitable posi- 
 tion to which he might be called, but he had private 
 interests which could not be neglected. He belonged 
 to his country, but there was a house in the country 
 which belonged to him ; and there were a great many 
 things appertaining to that house which needed atten- 
 tion, especially in pleasant summer weather. It is true 
 he was often absent on afternoons which did not fall on 
 the Wednesday, but the fact of his having appointed 
 a particular time for the furtherance of his outside 
 interests so emphasized their importance that his asso- 
 ciates in the office had no difficulty in understanding 
 that affairs of such moment could not always be 
 attended to in a single afternoon of the week. 
 
 But although the large room devoted to the especial 
 use of the Registrar was unoccupied, there were other 
 
 133 
 
134 THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKE:' 
 
 rooms connected with it which were not in that condi- 
 tion. With the suite of offices to the left we have 
 nothing to do, but will confine our attention to a mod- 
 erate-sized room to the right of the Registrar's office, 
 and connected by a door, now closed, with that large 
 and handsomely furnished chamber. This was the 
 office of the Clerk of Shipwrecks, and it was at present 
 occupied by five persons. One of these was the clerk 
 himself, a man of goodly appearance, somewhere be- 
 tween twenty-five and forty-five years of age, and of 
 a demeanor such as might be supposed to belong to 
 one who had occupied a high position in state affairs, 
 but who, by the cabals of his enemies, had been forced 
 to resign the great operations of statesmanship which 
 he had been directing, and who now stood, with a 
 quite resigned air, pointing out to the populace the 
 futile and disastrous efforts of the incompetent one 
 who was endeavoring to fill his place. The Clerk of 
 Shipwrecks had never fallen from such a position, 
 having never occupied one, but he had acquired the 
 demeanor referred to without going through the pre- 
 liminary exercises. 
 
 Another occupant was a very young man, the per- 
 sonal clerk of the Registrar of Woes, who always 
 closed all the doors of the office of that functionary on 
 Wednesday afternoons, and at other times when out- 
 side interests demanded his principal's absence, after 
 which he betook himself to the room of his friend the 
 Shipwreck Clerk. 
 
 Then there was a middle-aged man named Mathers, 
 also a friend of the clerk, and who was one of the 
 
THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKE:' 135 
 
 eight who had made application for a sub-position in 
 this department, which was now filled by a man who 
 was expected to resign when a friend of his, a gentle- 
 man of influence in an interior county, should succeed 
 in procuring the nomination as congressional represen- 
 tative of his district of an influential politician, whose 
 election was considered assured in case certain ex- 
 pected action on the part of the administration should 
 bring his party into power. The person now occupy- 
 ing the sub-position hoped then to get something better, 
 and Mathers, consequently, was very willing, while 
 waiting for the place, to visit the offices of the depart- 
 ment and acquaint himself with its duties. 
 
 A fourth person was J. George Watts, a juryman 
 by profession, who had brought with him his brother- 
 in-law, a stranger in the city. 
 
 The Shipwreck Clerk had taken off" his good coat, 
 which he had worn to luncheon, and had replaced it 
 by a lighter garment of linen, much bespattered with 
 ink; and he now produced a cigar-box, containing six 
 cigars. 
 
 " Gents," said he, " here is the fag end of a box of 
 cigars. It's not like having the pick of the box, but 
 they are all I have left." 
 
 Mr. Mathers, J. George Watts, and the brother-in- 
 law each took a cigar with that careless yet deferential 
 manner which alwa3's distinguishes the treatee from 
 the treator ; and then the box was protruded in an off- 
 hand way toward Harry Covare, the personal clerk of 
 the Registrar; but this young man declined, saying 
 that he preferred cigarettes, a package of which he 
 
136 THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKE:' 
 
 drew from his pocket. He had very often seen that 
 cigar-box with a Havana brand, which he himself had 
 brought from the other room after the Registrar had 
 emptied it, passed around with six cigars, no more nor 
 less, and he was wise enough to know that the Ship- 
 wreck Clerk did not expect to supply him with smok- 
 ing material. If that gentleman had offered to the 
 friends who generally dropped in on him on Wednes- 
 day afternoon the paper bag of cigars sold at five 
 cents each when bought singly, but half a dozen for 
 a quarter of a dollar, they would have been quite as 
 thankfully received ; but it better pleased his depreca- 
 tive soul to put them in an empty cigar-box, and thus 
 throw around them the halo of the presumption that 
 ninety-four of their imported companions had been 
 smoked. 
 
 The Shipwreck Clerk, having lighted a cigar for 
 himself, sat down in his revolving chair, turned his 
 back to his desk, and threw himself into an easy cross- 
 legged attitude, which showed that he was perfectly at 
 home in that office. Harry Covare mounted a high 
 stool, while the visitors seated themselves in three 
 wooden arm-chairs. But few words had been said, 
 and each man had scarcely tossed his first tobacco 
 ashes on the floor when some one wearing heavy boots 
 was heard opening an outside door and entering the 
 Registrar's room. Harry Covare jumped down from 
 his stool, laid his half -smoked cigarette thereon, and 
 bounced into the next room, closing the door after 
 him. In about a minute he returned, and the Ship- 
 wreck Clerk looked at him inquirmgly. 
 
THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKEr 137 
 
 "An old cock in a pea-jacket," said Mr. Covare, 
 taking up his cigarette, and mounting his stool. "I 
 told him the Registrar would be here in the morning. 
 He said he had something to report about a shipwreck ; 
 and I told him the Registrar would be here in the 
 morning. Had to tell him that three times, and then 
 he went." 
 
 " School don't keep Wednesday afternoons," said 
 Mr. J. George Watts, with a knowing smile. 
 
 " No, sir," said the Shipwreck Clerk, emphatically, 
 changing the crossing of his legs. "A man can't 
 keep grinding on day in and out without breaking 
 down. Outsiders may say what they please about it, 
 but it can't be done. We've got to let up sometimes. 
 People who do the work need the rest just as much as 
 those who do the looking on." 
 
 " And more too, I should say," observed Mr. 
 Mathers. 
 
 "Our little let-up on Wednesday afternoons," mod- 
 estly observed Harry Covare, " is like death ; it is 
 sure to come, while the let-ups we get other days are 
 more like the diseases which prevail in certain areas ; 
 you can't be sure whether you're going to get them or 
 not." 
 
 The Shipwreck Clerk smiled benignantly at this re- 
 mark, and the rest laughed. Mr. Mathers had heard 
 it before, but he would not impair the pleasantness 
 of his relations with a future colleague by hinting that 
 he remembered it. 
 
 " He gets such ideas from his beastly statistics," 
 said the Shipwreck Clerk. 
 
138 THE WRECK OF THE " THOMAS HYKE^ 
 
 "Which come pretty heavy on him sometimes, 1 
 expect," observed Mr. Mathers. 
 
 "They needn't," said the Shipwreck Clerk, "if 
 things were managed here as they ought to be. If 
 John J. Laylor," meaning thereby the Registrar, "was 
 the right kind of a man, you'd see things very differ- 
 ent here from what they are now. There'd be a 
 larger force." 
 
 "That's so," said Mr. Mathers. 
 
 " And not only that, but there'd be better buildings, 
 and more accommodations. Were any of you ever up 
 to Anster? Well, take a run up there some day, and 
 see what sort of buildings the department has there. 
 William Q. Green is a very different man from John 
 J. Laylor. You don't see him sitting in his chair and 
 picking his teeth the whole winter, while the represen- 
 tative from his district never says a word about his 
 department from one end of a session of Congress to 
 the other. Now if I had charge of things here, I'd 
 make such changes that you wouldn't know the place. 
 I'd throw two rooms off here, and a corridor and en- 
 trance door at that end of the building. I'd close up 
 this door," pointing toward the Registrar's room, " and 
 if John J. Laylor wanted to come in here he might go 
 round to the end door like other people." 
 
 The thought struck Harry Covare that in that case 
 there would be no John J. Laylor, but he would not 
 interrupt. 
 
 "And what is more," continued the Shipwreck 
 Clerk, " I'd close up this whole department at twelve 
 o'clock on Saturdays. The way things are managed 
 
THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKE^ 139 
 
 now, a man has no time to attend to his own private 
 business. Suppose I think of buying a piece of land, 
 and want to go out and look at it, or suppose any 
 one of you gentlemen were here and thought of buying 
 a piece of land and wanted to go out and look at it, 
 what are you going to do about it? You don't want 
 to go on Sunda}', and when are you going to go? " 
 
 Not one of the other gentlemen had ever thought of 
 buying a piece of land, nor had they any reason to 
 suppose that they ever would purchase an inch of soil 
 unless they bought it in a flower-pot ; but they all 
 agreed that the way things were managed now there 
 was no time for a man to attend to his own business. 
 
 " But you can't expect John J. La3'lor to do any- 
 thing," said the Shipwreck Clerk. 
 
 However, there was one thing which that gentleman 
 always expected John J. Laylor to do. When the 
 clerk was surrounded by a number of persons in hours 
 of business, and when he had succeeded in impressing 
 them with the importance of his functions, and the 
 necessity of paying deferential attention to himself if 
 they wished their business attended to, John J. Laylor 
 would be sure to walk into the office and address the 
 Shipwreck Clerk in such a manner as to let the people 
 present know that he was a clerk and nothing else, and 
 that he, the Registrar, was the head of that depart- 
 ment. These humiliations the Shipwreck Clerk never 
 forgot. 
 
 There was a little pause here, and then Mr. Mathers 
 remarked : 
 
 " I should think you'd be awfully bored with the long 
 
110 THE WRECK OF THE "THOMAS HYKE:' 
 
 stories of shipwrecks that the people come and tell 
 you." 
 
 He hoped to change the conversation, because, 
 although he wished to remain on good terms with the 
 subordinate officers, it was not desirable that he should 
 be led to say much against John J. Laylor. 
 
 "No, sir," said the Shipwreck Clerk, "I am not 
 bored. I did not come here to be bored, and as long 
 as I have charge of this office I don't intend to be. 
 The long-winded old salts who come here to report 
 their wrecks never spin out their prosy yarns to me. 
 The first thing I do is to let them know just what I 
 want of them ; and not an inch beyond that does a 
 man of them go, at least while I am managing the 
 business. There are times when John J. La3'lor comes 
 in, and puts in his oar, and wants to hear the whole 
 story, which is pure stuff and nonsense, for John J. 
 Laylor doesn't know anything more about a shipwreck 
 than he does about " 
 
 " The endemics in the Lake George area," suggested 
 Harry Covare. 
 
 " Yes ; or any other part of his business," said the 
 Shipwreck Clerk ; " and when he takes it into his head 
 to interfere, all business stops till some second mate 
 of a coal-schooner has told his whole story, from his 
 sighting land on the morning of one day to his getting 
 ashore on it on the afternoon of the next. — Now I 
 don't put up with any such nonsense. There's no 
 man living that can tell me anj^thing about shipwrecks. 
 I've never been to sea myself, but that's not neces- 
 sary; and if I had gone, it's not likely I'd been 
 
THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKEr 141 
 
 wrecked. But I've read about every kind of ship- 
 wreck that ever happened. When I first came here I 
 took care to post myself upon these matters, because 
 I knew it would save trouble. I have read ' Robin- 
 son Crusoe,' 'The Wreck of the Grosvenor,' 'The 
 Sinking of the Royal George,' and wrecks by water- 
 spouts, tidal waves, and every other thing which would 
 knock a ship into a cocked hat, and I've classi- 
 fied every sort of wreck under its proper head ; and 
 when I've found out to what class a wreck belongs, 
 I know all about it. Now, when a man comes here 
 to report a wreck, the first thing he has to do is just to 
 shut down on his story, and to stand up square and 
 answer a few questions that I put to him. In two 
 minutes I know just what kind of shipwreck he's 
 had ; and then, when he gives me the name of his 
 vessel, and one or two other points, he may go. I 
 know all about that wreck, and I make a much better 
 report of the business than he could have done if he'd 
 stood here talking three days and three nights. The 
 amount of money that's been saved to our tax-payers 
 by the way I've systematized the business of this office 
 is not to be calculated in figures." 
 
 The brother-in-law of J. George Watts knocked the 
 ashes from the remnant of his cigar, looked contem- 
 platively at the coal for a moment, and then re- 
 marked : 
 
 " I think you said there's no kind of shipwreck 
 you don't know about? " 
 
 " That's what I said," replied the Shipwreck Clerk. 
 
 ''I think," said the other, "I could tell you of a 
 
142 THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKE:' 
 
 shipwreck, in which I was concerned, that wouldn't go 
 into any of your classes." 
 
 The Shipwreck Clerk threw away the end of his 
 cigar, put both his hands into his trousers pockets, 
 stretched out his legs, and looked steadfastly at the 
 man who had made this unwarrantable remark. Then 
 a pitying smile stole over his countenance, and he said : 
 "Well, sir, I'd like to hear your account of it; and 
 before you get a quarter through I can stop you just 
 where you are, and go ahead and tell the rest of the 
 story myself." 
 
 " That's so," said Harry Covare. " You'll see him 
 do it just as sure pop as a spread rail bounces the 
 engine." 
 
 " Well, then," said the brother-in-law of J. George 
 Watts, " I'll tell it." And he began : 
 
 " It was just two years ago, the first of this month, 
 that I sailed for South America in the '' Thomas 
 Hyke." 
 
 At this point the Shipwreck Clerk turned and opened 
 a large book at the letter T. 
 
 " That wreck wasn't reported here," said the other, 
 '* and you won't find it in your book." 
 
 "At Anster, perhaps? " said the Shipwreck Clerk, 
 closing the volume, and turning round again. 
 
 " Can't say about that," replied the other. " I've 
 never been to Anster, and haven't looked over their 
 books." 
 
 " Well, you needn't want to," said the clerk. 
 " They've got good accommodations at Anster, and 
 
THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKE:' 143 
 
 the Registrar has some ideas of the duties of his post, 
 but they have no such system of wreck reports as we 
 have here." 
 
 "Very hke," said the brother-in-law. And he went 
 on with his story. ' ' The ' Thomas Hyke ' was a small 
 iron steamer of six hundred tons, and she sailed from 
 Ulford for Valparaiso with a cargo principally of pig 
 iron." 
 
 " Pig iron for Valparaiso? " remarked the Shipwreck 
 Clerk. And then he knitted his brows thoughtfully, 
 and said, " Go on." 
 
 " She was a new vessel," continued the narrator, 
 " and built with water-tight compartments ; rather un- 
 common for a vessel of her class, but so she was. I 
 am not a sailor, aud don't know an3'thing about ships. 
 I went as passenger, and there was another one named 
 William Anderson, and his son Sam, a boy about fif- 
 teen years old. We were all going to Valparaiso on 
 business. I don't remember just how many days we 
 were out, nor do I know just where we were, but it 
 was somewhere off the coast of South America, when, 
 one dark night, with a fog besides, for aught I know, 
 for I was asleep, we ran into a steamer coming north. 
 How we managed to do this, with room enough on 
 both sides for all the ships in the world to pass, I 
 don't know ; but so it was. When I got on deck the 
 other vessel had gone on, and we never saw anything 
 more of her. Whether she sunk or got home is some- 
 thing I can't tell. But we pretty soon found that the 
 ' Thomas Hyke ' had some of the plates in her bow 
 badly smashed, and she took in water like a thirsty 
 
144 THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKE:' 
 
 dog. The captain had the forward water-tight bulk- 
 head shut tight, and the pumps set to work, but it was 
 no use. That forward compartment just filled up with 
 water, and the 'Thomas Hyke' settled down with her 
 bow clean under. Her deck was slanting forward like 
 the side of a hill, and the propeller was lifted up so 
 that it wouldn't have worked even if the engine had 
 been kept going. The captain had the masts cut away, 
 thinking this might bring her up some, but it didn't 
 help much. There was a pretty heavy sea on, and 
 the waves came rolling up the slant of the deck like the 
 surf on the sea-shore. The captain gave orders to 
 have all the hatches battened down so that water 
 couldn't get in, and the only way by which anybody 
 could go below was by the cabin door, which was far 
 aft. This work of stopping up all openings in the 
 deck was a dangerous business, for the decks sloped 
 right down into the water, and if anybody had slipped, 
 away he'd have gone into the ocean, with nothing to 
 stop him ; but the men made a line fast to themselves, 
 and worked away with a good will, and soon got the 
 deck and the house over the engine as tight as a bottle. 
 The smoke-stack, which was well forward, had been 
 broken down by a spar when the masts had been cut, 
 and as the waves washed into the hole that it left, the 
 captain had this plugged up with old sails, well fast- 
 ened down. It was a dreadful thing to see the ship 
 a-lying with her bows clean under water, and her stern 
 sticking up. If it hadn't been for her water-tight 
 compartments that were left uninjured, she would have 
 gone down to the bottom as slick as a whistle. On 
 
THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKE:' 145 
 
 the afternoon of the day after the collision the wind 
 fell, and the sea soon became pretty smooth. The 
 captain was quite sure that there would be no trouble 
 about keeping afloat until some ship came along and 
 took us off. Our flag was flying, upside down, from a 
 pole in the stern ; and if anybody saw a ship making 
 such a gu}^ of herself as the ' Thomas Hyke ' was then 
 doing, they'd be sure to come to see what was the 
 matter with her, even if she had no flag of distress 
 flying. We tried to make ourselves as comfortable as 
 we could, but this wasn't easy with everything on such 
 a dreadful slant. But that night we heard a rumbling 
 and grinding noise down in the hold, and the slant 
 seemed to get worse. Pretty soon the captain roused 
 all hands, and told us that the cargo of pig iron was 
 shifting and sliding down to the bow, and that it 
 wouldn't be long before it would break through all the 
 bulkheads, and then we'd fill and go to the bottom like 
 a shot. He said we must all take to the boats, and get 
 away as quick as we could. It was an easy matter 
 launching the boats. They didn't lower them outside 
 from the davits, but they just let 'em down on deck 
 and slid 'em along forward into the water, and then 
 held 'em there with a rope till everything was ready to 
 start. They launched three boats, put plenty of pro- 
 visions and water in 'em, and then everybody began to 
 get aboard. But William Anderson, and me, and his 
 son Sam, couldn't make up our minds to get into those 
 boats and row out on the dark, wide ocean. They 
 were the biggest boats we had, but still they were little 
 things enough. The ship seemed to us to be a good 
 
146 THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKE:' 
 
 deal safer, and more likely to be seen when day broke, 
 than those three boats, which might be blown off if the 
 wind rose, nobody knew where. It seemed to us that 
 the cargo had done all the shifting it intended to, for 
 the noise below had stopped ; and, altogether, we 
 agreed that we'd rather stick to the ship than go off in 
 those boats. The captain, he tried to make us go, but 
 we wouldn't do it ; and he told us if we chose to stay 
 behind and be drowned it was our affair, and he 
 couldn't help it ; and then he said there was a small 
 boat aft, and we'd better launch her, and have her 
 ready in case things should get worse, and we should 
 make up our minds to leave the vessel. He and the 
 rest then rowed off so as not to be caught in the vor- 
 tex if the steamer went down, and we three stayed 
 aboard. We launched the small boat in the way we'd 
 seen the others launched, being careful to have ropes 
 tied to us while we were doing it ; and we put things 
 aboard that we thought we should want. Then we 
 went into the cabin, and waited for morning. It was 
 a queer kind of a cabin, with a floor inclined like the 
 roof of a house, but we sat down in the corners, and 
 were glad to be there. The swinging lamp was burn- 
 ing, and it was a good deal more cheerful in there than 
 it was outside. But, about daybreak, the grinding and 
 rumbling down below began again, and the bow of the 
 ' Thomas Hyke ' kept going down more and more ; and 
 it wasn't long before the forward bulkhead of the 
 cabin, which was what you might call its front wall 
 when everything was all right, was under our feet, as 
 level as a floor, and the lamp was lying close against 
 
THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKE^ 147 
 
 the ceiling that it was hanging from. You may be 
 sure that we thought it was time to get out of that. 
 There were benches with arms to them fastened to 
 the floor, and by these we climbed up to the foot of the 
 cabin stairs, which, being turned bottom upward, we 
 went down in order to get out. When we reached the 
 cabin door we saw part of the deck below us, standing 
 up like the side of a house that is built in the water, 
 as they say the houses in Venice are. We had made 
 our boat fast to the cabin door by a long line, and now 
 we saw her floating quietly on the water, which was 
 very smooth, and about twenty feet below us. We 
 drew her up as close under us as we could, and then 
 we let the boy Sam down by a rope, and after some 
 kicking and swinging he got into her ; and then he 
 took the oars, and kept her right under us while we 
 scrambled down by the ropes which we had used in 
 getting her ready. As soon as we were in the boat we 
 cut her rope and pulled away as hard as we could ; and 
 when we got to what we thought was a safe distance 
 we stopped to look at the ' Thomas Hyke.' You never 
 saw such a ship in all your born days. Two-thirds of 
 the hull was sunk in the water, and she was standing 
 straight up and down with the stern in the air, her 
 rudder up as high as the topsail ought to be, and the 
 screw propeller looking like the wheel on the top of 
 one of these windmills that they have in the country 
 for pumping up water. Her cargo had shifted so far 
 forward that it had turned her right upon end, but she 
 couldn't sink, owing to the air in the compartments 
 that the water hadn't got into ; and on the top of the 
 
148 THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKE:' 
 
 whole tiling was the distress flag flyiug from the pole 
 which stuck out over the stern. It was broad day- 
 light, but not a thing did we see of the other boats. 
 We'd supposed that the}^ wouldn't row very far, but 
 would lay off at a safe distance until daylight ; but 
 they must have been scared and rowed farther than 
 they intended. Well, sir, we staid in that boat all day, 
 and watched the ' Thomas Hyke ; ' but she just kept 
 as she was, and didn't seem to sink an inch. There 
 was no use of rowing away, for we had no place to 
 row to ; and besides, we thought that passing ships 
 would be much more likely to see that stern sticking 
 high in the air than our little boat. We had enough 
 to eat, and at night two of us slept while the other 
 watched, dividing off the time, and taking turns to 
 this. In the morning there was the ' Thomas Hyke ' 
 standing stern up just as before. There was a long 
 swell on the ocean now, and she'd rise and lean over a 
 little on each wave, but she'd come up again just as 
 straight as before. That night passed as the last one 
 had, and in the morning we found we'd drifted a good 
 deal farther from the ' Thomas Hyke,' but she was 
 floating just as she had been, like a big buoy that's 
 moored over a sand-bar. We couldn't see a sign of 
 the boats, and we about gave them up. We had our 
 breakfast, which was a pretty poor meal, being nothing 
 but hard-tack and what was left of a piece of boiled 
 beef. After we'd sat for a while doing nothing, but 
 feeling mighty uncomfortable, William Anderson said : 
 ' Look here, do you know that I think we would be 
 three fools to keep on shivering all night and living on 
 
THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKEr 149 
 
 hard-tack in the day-time, when there's pleut}' on that 
 vessel for us to eat, and to keep us warm. If she's 
 floated that way for two days and two nights, there's 
 no knowing how much longer she'll float, and we might 
 as well go on board and get the things we want as not.' 
 ' All right,' said I, for I was tired doing nothing, and 
 Sam was as willing as anybody. So we rowed up to 
 the steamer, and stopped close to the deck, which, as 
 I said before, was standing straight up out of the 
 water like the wall of a house. The cabin door, which 
 was the only opening into her, was about twenty feet 
 above us, and the ropes which we had tied to the rails 
 of the stairs inside were still hanging down. Sam was 
 an active youngster, and he managed to climb up one 
 of these ropes ; but when he got to the door he drew 
 it up and tied knots in it about a foot apart, and then 
 he let it down to us, for neither William Anderson nor 
 me could go up a rope hand over hand without knots 
 or something to hold on to. As it was, we had a lot 
 of bother getting up, but we did it at last, and then 
 we walked up the stairs, treading on the front part of 
 each step instead of the top of it, as we would have 
 done if the stairs had been in their proper position. 
 When we got to the floor of the cabin, which was now 
 perpendicular like a wall, we had to clamber down by 
 means of the furniture, which was screwed fast, until 
 we reached the bulkhead, which was now the floor of 
 the cabin. Close to this bulkhead was a small room 
 which was the steward's pantry, and here we found 
 lots of things to eat, but all jumbled up in a way that 
 made us laugh. The boxes of biscuits and the tin 
 
lf)0 THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKE:' 
 
 cans, and a lot of bottles in wicker covers, were piled 
 up on one end of the room, and everything in the 
 lockers and drawers was jumbled together. William 
 Anderson and me set to work to get out what we 
 thought we'd want, and we told Sam to climb up into 
 some of the state-rooms, of which there were four on 
 each side of the cabin, and get some blankets to keep 
 us warm, as well as a few sheets, which we thought 
 we could rig up for an awning to the boat ; for the 
 days were just as hot as the nights were cool. When 
 we'd collected what we wanted, William Anderson and 
 me climbed into our own rooms, thinking we'd each 
 pack a valise with what we most wanted to save of our 
 clothes and things ; and while we were doing this, Sam 
 called out to us that it was raining. He was sitting 
 at the cabin door looking out. I first thought to tell 
 him to shut the door so's to keep the rain from coming 
 in ; but when I thought how things really were, I 
 laughed at the idea. There was a sort of little house 
 built over the entrance to the cabin, and in one end of 
 it was the door ; and in the way the ship now was the 
 open doorway was underneath the little house, and of 
 course no rain could come in. Pretty soon we heard 
 the rain pouring down, beating on the stern of the 
 vessel like hail. We got to the stairs and looked out. 
 The rain was falling in perfect sheets, in a way you 
 never see except round about the tropics. 'It's a 
 good thing we're inside,' said William Anderson, 'for 
 if we'd been out in this rain we'd been drowned jn the 
 boat.' I agreed with him, and we made up our minds 
 to stay where we were until the rain was over. Well, 
 
THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKE^ 151 
 
 it rained about four hours ; and when it stopped, and 
 we looked out, we saw our little boat nearly full of 
 water, and sunk so deep that if one of us had stepped 
 on her she'd have gone down, sure. ' Here's a pretty 
 kittle of fish,' said William Anderson ; ' there's noth- 
 ing for us to do now but to stay where we are.' I 
 believe in his heart he was glad of that, for if ever a 
 man was tired of a little boat, William Anderson was 
 tired of that one we'd been in for two days and two 
 nights. At any rate there was no use talking about 
 it, and we set to work to make ourselves comfortable. 
 We got some mattresses and pillows out of the state- 
 rooms, and when it began to get dark we lighted the 
 lamp, which we had filled with sweet-oil from a flask 
 in the pantry, not finding any other kind, and we hung 
 it from the railing of the stairs. We had a good night's 
 rest, and the only thing that disturbed me was William 
 Anderson lifting up his head every time he turned over, 
 and saying how much better this was than that blasted 
 little boat. The next morning we had a good break- 
 fast, even making some tea with a spirit lamp we 
 found, using brandy instead of alcohol. William 
 Anderson and I wanted to get into the captain's room, 
 which was near the stern, and pretty high up, so as to 
 see if there was anything there that we ought to get 
 ready to save when a vessel should come along and 
 pick us up ; but we were not good at climbing, like 
 Sam, and we didn't see how we could get up there. 
 Sam said he was sure he had once seen a ladder in the 
 compartment just forward of the bulkhead, and as 
 William was very anxious to get up to the captain's 
 
152 THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYRE:' 
 
 room, we let the boy go and look for it. There was a 
 sliding door in the bulkhead under our feet, and we 
 opened this far enough to let Sam get through ; and 
 he scrambled down like a monkey into the next com- 
 partment, which was light enough, although the lower 
 half of it, which was next to the engine-room, was 
 under the water-line. Sam actually found a ladder 
 with hooks at one end of it, and while he was handing 
 it up to us, which was very hard to do, for he had to 
 climb up on all sorts of things, he let it topple over, 
 and the end with the iron hooks fell against the round 
 glass of one of the port-holes. The glass was very 
 thick and strong, but the ladder came down very heavy 
 and shivered it. As bad luck would have it, this win- 
 dow was below the water-line, and the water came 
 rushing in in a big spout. We chucked blankets down 
 to Sam for him to stop up the hole, but 'twas of no 
 use ; for it was hard for him to get at the window, and 
 when he did the water came in with such force that he 
 couldn't get a blanket into the hole. We were afraid 
 he'd be drowned down there, and told him to come out 
 as quick as he could. He put up the ladder again, 
 and hooked it on to the door in the bulkhead, and we 
 held it while he climbed up. Looking down through 
 the doorway, we saw, by the way the water was pour- 
 ing in at the opening, that it wouldn't be long before 
 that compartment was filled up ; so we shoved the door 
 to and made it all tight, and then said William Ander- 
 son : ' The ship'll sink deeper and deeper as that fills 
 up, and the water may get up to the cabin door, and 
 we must go and make that as tight as we can. * Sam 
 
THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKE^ 153 
 
 had pulled the ladder up after him, and this we found 
 of great use in getting to the foot of the cabin stairs. 
 We shut the cabin door, and locked and bolted it ; and 
 as it fitted pretty tight, we didn't think it would let in 
 much water if the ship sunk that far. But over the 
 top of the cabin stairs were a couple of folding doors, 
 which shut down horizontally when the ship was in its 
 proper position, and which were only used in very bad, 
 cold weather. These we pulled to and fastened tight, 
 thus having a double protection against the water. 
 Well, we didn't get this done any too soon, for the 
 water did come up to the cabin door, and a little tric- 
 kled in from the outside door, and through the cracks 
 in the inner one. But we went to work and stopped 
 these up with strips from the sheets, which we crammed 
 well in with our pocket knives. Then we sat down on 
 the steps, and waited to see what would happen next. 
 The doors of all the state-rooms were open, and we 
 could see through the thick plate-glass windows in 
 them, which were all shut tight, that the ship was sink- 
 ing more and more as the water came in. Sam climbed 
 up into one of the after state-rooms, and said the out- 
 side water was nearly up to the stern ; and prett}' soon 
 we looked up to the two port-holes in the stern, and 
 saw that they were covered with water ; and as more 
 and more water could be seen there, and as the light 
 came through less easily, we knew that we were sink- 
 ing under the surface of the ocean. ' It's a mighty 
 good thing,' said William Anderson, ' that no water can 
 get in here.' William had a hopeful kind of mind, 
 and always looked on the bright side of things ; but I 
 
154 THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKE."* 
 
 must say that I was dreadfully scared when I looked 
 through those stern windows and saw water instead of 
 sky. It began to get duskier and duskier as we sank 
 lower and lower, but still we could see pretty well, for 
 it's astonishing how much light comes down through 
 water. After a little while we noticed that the light 
 remained about the same ; and then William Anderson 
 he sings out : ' Hooray, we've stopped sinking ! ' 
 ' What difference does that make ? ' says I. ' We must 
 be thirty or forty feet under water, and more yet for 
 aught I know.' ' Yes, that may be,' said he ; ' but it 
 is clear that all the water has got into that compart- 
 ment that can get in, and we have sunk just as far 
 down as we are going.' ' But that don't help matters,' 
 said I ; ' thirty or forty feet under water is just as bad 
 as a thousand as to drowning a man.' ' Drowning! ' 
 said William ; ' how are you going to be drowned ? 
 No water can get in here.' ' Nor no air, either,' said 
 I ; ' and people are drowned for want of air, as I take 
 it.' ' It would be a queer sort of thing,' said William, 
 ' to be drowned in the ocean and yet stay as dry as a 
 chip. But it's no use being worried about air. We've 
 got air enough here to last us for ever so long. This 
 stern compartment is the biggest in the ship, and it's 
 got lots of air in it. Just think of that hold ! It must 
 be nearly full of air. The stern compartment of the 
 hold has got nothing in it but sewing-machines. I saw 
 'em loading her. The pig-iron was mostly amidships, 
 or at least forward of this compartment. Now, there's 
 no kind of a cargo that'll accommodate as much air as 
 sewing-machines. They're packed in wooden frames. 
 
THE WRECK OF THE "THOMAS HYKE:' 155 
 
 fill up half the room they take. 
 There's ah- all through and around 'em. It's a very 
 comforting thing to think the hold isn't filled up solid 
 with bales of cotton or wheat in bulk.' It might be 
 comforting, but I couldn't get much good out of it. 
 And now Sam, who'd been scrambling all over the 
 cabin to see how things were going on, sung out that 
 the water was leaking in a little again at the cabin 
 door, and around some of the iron frames of the win- 
 dows. ' It's a lucky thing,' said William Anderson, 
 ' that we didn't sink any deeper, or the pressure of the 
 water would have burst in those heavy glasses. And 
 what we've got to do now is to stop up all the cracks. 
 The more we work, the livelier we'll feel.' We tore 
 off more strips of sheets and went all round, stopping 
 up cracks wherever we found them. ' It's fortunate,' 
 said William Anderson, ' that Sam found that ladder, 
 for we would have had hard work getting to the win- 
 dows of the stern state-rooms without it ; but by rest- 
 ing it on the bottom step of the stairs, which now hap- 
 pens to be the top one, we can get to any part of the 
 cabin.' I couldn't help thinking that if Sam hadn't 
 found the ladder it would have been a good deal better 
 for us ; but I didn't want to damp William's spirits, 
 and I said nothing. 
 
 " And now I beg your pardon, sir," said the nar- 
 rator, addressing the Shipwreck Clerk, "but I forgot 
 that you said you'd finish this story yourself. Perhaps 
 you'd like to take it up just here? " 
 
 The Shipwreck Clerk seemed surprised, and had, 
 apparently, forgotten his previous offer. "Oh, no," 
 
156 THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKE:' 
 
 said he, " tell your own stoiy. This is not a matter of 
 business." 
 
 "Very well, then," said the brother-in-law of J. 
 George Watts, " I'll go on. We made everything as 
 tight as we could, and then we got our supper, having 
 forgotten all about dinner, and being very hungry. 
 We didn't make any tea, and we didn't light the lamp, 
 for we knew that would use up air ; but we made a 
 better meal than three people sunk out of sight in the 
 ocean had a right to expect. ' What troubles me 
 most,' said William Anderson, as he turned in, 'is 
 the fact that if we are forty feet under water, our flag- 
 pole must be covered up. Now, if the flag was stick- 
 ing out, upside down, a ship sailing by would see it 
 and would know there was something wrong.* * If 
 that's all that troubles you,' said I, 'I guess 3'ou'll 
 sleep easy. And if a ship was to see the flag, I won- 
 der how they'd know we were down here, and how 
 they'd get us out if they did ! ' 'Oh, they'd manage 
 it,* said William Anderson ; ' Trust those sea-captains 
 for that.' And then he went to sleep. The next morn- 
 ing the air began to get mighty disagreeable in the part 
 of the cabin where we were, and then William Ander- 
 son he says : ' What we've got to do is to climb up into 
 the stern state-rooms, where the air is purer. We can 
 come down here to get our meals, and then go up 
 again to breathe comfortable.' 'And what are we 
 going to do when the air up there gets foul ? ' says I to 
 William, who seemed to be making arrangements for 
 spending the summer in our present quarters. 'Oh, 
 that'll be all right,' said he. ' It don't do to be ex- 
 
THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKEr 157 
 
 li'avagant with air any more than with anything else. 
 When we've used up all there is in this cabin, we can 
 bore holes through the floor into the hold and let in air 
 from there. If we're economical, there'll be enough 
 to last for dear knows how long.' We passed the 
 night each in a state-room, sleeping on the end wall 
 instead of the berth, and it wasn't till the afternoon of 
 the next day that the air of the cabin got so bad we 
 thought we'd have some fresh ; so we went down on 
 the bulkhead, and with an auger that we found in the 
 pantry we bored three holes, about a yard apart, in 
 the cabin floor, which was now one of the walls of the 
 room, just as the bulkhead was the floor, and the stern 
 end, where the two round windows were, was the ceil- 
 ing or roof. We each took a hole, and I tell you it 
 was pleasant to breathe the air which came in from 
 the hold. ' Isn't this jolly? ' said William Anderson. 
 ' And we ought to be mighty glad that that hold wasn't 
 loaded with codfish or soap. But there's nothing that 
 smells better than new sewing-machines that haven't 
 ever been used, and this air is pleasant enough for 
 anybody.' By William's advice we made three plugs, 
 by which we stopped up the holes when we thought 
 we'd had air enough for the present. 'And now,' 
 says he, ' we needn't climb up into those awkward 
 state-rooms any more. We can just stay down here 
 and be comfortable, and let in air when we want it.' 
 * And how long do you suppose that air in the hold is 
 going to last?' said I. 'Oh, ever so long,' said he, 
 using it so economically as we do ; and when it stops 
 coming out lively through these little holes, as I sup- 
 
158 THE WRECK OF THE " THOMAS HYKE^ 
 
 pose it will after a while, we can saw a big hole in this 
 flooring and go into the hold, and do our breathing, if 
 we want to.' That evening we did saw a hole about a 
 foot square, so as to have plenty of air while we were 
 asleep, but we didn't go into the hold, it being pretty 
 well filled up with machines ; though the next day Sam 
 and I sometimes stuck our heads in for a good sniff of 
 air, though William Anderson was opposed to this, 
 being of the opinion that we ought to put ourselves on 
 short rations of breathing so as to make the supplj' of 
 air hold out as long as possible. ' But what's the 
 good,' said I to William, 'of trying to make the air 
 hold out if we've got to be suffocated in this place 
 after all? ' ' What's the good? ' says he. ' Haven't 
 you enough biscuits, and canned meats, and plent}' of 
 other things to eat, and a baiTel of water in that room 
 opposite the pantry, not to speak of wine and brandy 
 if you want to cheer yourself up a bit, and haven't we 
 good mattresses to sleep on, and why shouldn't we try 
 to live and be comfortable as long as we can ? ' ' What 
 I want,' said I, 'is to get out of this box. The idea 
 of being shut up in here down under the water is more 
 than I can stand. I'd rather take my chances going 
 up to the surface and swimming about till I found a 
 piece of the wreck, or something to float on.' 'You 
 needn't think of anything of that sort,' said William, 
 ' for if we were to open a door or a window to get out, 
 the water'd rush in and drive us back and fill up this 
 place in no time ; and then the whole concern would go 
 to the bottom. And what would you do if you did get 
 to the top of the water? It's not likely you'd find any- 
 
THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKE:' 150 
 
 thing there to get on, and if you did you wouldn't live 
 very long floating about with nothing to eat. No, sir,' 
 says he, ' what we've got to do is to be content with 
 the comforts we have around us, and something will 
 turn up to get us out of this; you see if it don't.' 
 There was no use talking against William Anderson, 
 and I didn't say any more about getting out. As for 
 Sam, he spent his time at the windows of the state- 
 rooms a-looking out. We could see a good way into 
 the water, further than you would think, and we some- 
 times saw fishes, especially porpoises, swimming about, 
 most likely trying to find out what a ship was doing 
 hanging bows down under the water. What troubled 
 Sam was that a sword-fish might come along and jab 
 his sword through one of the windows. In that case 
 it would be all up, or rather down, with us. Every 
 now and then he'd sing out, ' Here comes one ! ' And 
 then, just as I'd give a jump, he'd say, ' No, it isn't ; 
 it's a porpoise.' I thought from the first, and I think 
 now, that it would have been a great deal better for us 
 if that boy hadn't been along. That night there was a 
 good deal of motion to the ship, and she swung about 
 and rose up and down more than she had done since 
 we'd been left in her. ' There must be a big sea run- 
 ning on top,' said William Anderson, ' and if we were 
 up there we'd be tossed about dreadful. Now the 
 motion down here is just as easy as a cradle, and, 
 what's more, we can't be sunk very deep ; for if we 
 were, there wouldn't be any motion at all.' About 
 noon the next day we felt a sudden tremble and shake 
 run through the whole sliip, and far down under us we 
 
160 THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKEr 
 
 heard a rumbling and grinding that nearly scared me 
 out of my wits. I first thought we'd struck bottom, 
 but William he said that couldn't be, for it was just as 
 light in the cabin as it had been, and if we'd gone 
 down it would have grown much darker, of course. 
 The rumbling stopped after a little while, and then it 
 seemed to grow lighter instead of darker ; and Sam, 
 who was looking up at the stern windows over our 
 heads, he sung out, ' Sky ! * And, sure enough, we 
 could see the blue sky, as clear as daylight, through 
 those windows ! And then the ship, she turned herself 
 on the slant, pretty much as she had been when her 
 forward compartment first took in water, and we found 
 ourselves standing on the cabin floor instead of the 
 bulkhead. I was near one of the open state-rooms, 
 and as I looked in there was the sunlight coming 
 through the wet glass in the window, and more cheer- 
 ful than anything I ever saw before in this world. Wil- 
 liam Anderson he just made one jump, and, unscrewing 
 one of the state-room windows, he jerked it open. We 
 had thought the air inside was good enough to last 
 some time longer ; but when that window was open and 
 the fresh air came rushing in, it was a different sort 
 of thing, I can tell you. William put his head out and 
 looked up and down and all around. ' She's nearly 
 all out of water ! ' he shouted, ' and we can open the 
 cabin door.' Then we all three rushed at those stairs, 
 which were nearly right side up now, and we had the 
 cabin doors open in no time. When we looked out 
 we saw that the ship was truly floating pretty much as 
 she had been when the captain and crew left her, 
 
THE WRECK OF THE ''THOMAS HYKE." 161 
 
 though we all agreed that her deck didn't slant as 
 much forward as it did then. ' Do you know what's 
 happened?' sung out William Anderson, after he'd 
 stood still for a minute to look around and think. 
 ' That bobbing up and down that the vessel got last 
 night shook up and settled down the pig-iron inside of 
 her, and the iron plates in the bow, that were smashed 
 and loosened by the collision, have given way under 
 the weight, and the whole cargo of pig-iron has burst 
 through and gone to the bottom. Then, of course, up 
 we came. Didn't I tell you something would happen 
 to make us all right?' 
 
 *' Well, I won't make this story any longer than I 
 can help. The next day after that we were taken off 
 by a sugar-ship bound north, and we were carried safe 
 back to Ulford, where we found our captain and the 
 crew, who had been picked up by a ship after they'd 
 been three or four days in their boats. This ship had 
 sailed our way to find us, which, of course, she couldn't 
 do, as at that time we were under water and out of 
 sight. 
 
 " And now, sir," said the brother-in-law of J. George 
 Watts to the Shipwreck Clerk, "to which of your 
 classes does this wreck of mine belong? " 
 
 " Gents," said the Shipwreck Clerk, rising from his 
 seat, ''it's four o'clock, and at that hour this office 
 closes." 
 
MY BULL-CALF. 
 
 I AM an animal painter, and although I am not well 
 known to fame, I have painted a good many pic- 
 tures, most of which may now be seen on the walls of 
 my studio. In justice to myself I must say that the 
 critics of the art exhibitions and those persons compe- 
 tent to judge who have visited my studio have spoken 
 in praise of my pictures, and have given me a good 
 place among the younger artists of the country ; some- 
 times, indeed, they have said things about the suggested 
 sentiment of some of my work which I am too modest 
 here to repeat. But in spite of this commendation, 
 which I labor hard to deserve, there has been no great 
 demand for my paintings. 
 
 A facetious brother artist once attempted to explain 
 the slowness of my sales. '' You see," said he, "that 
 painting changes the nature of its subjects. In real 
 life animals frequently go oflf veiy rapidly, but when 
 they are painted they don't." 
 
 The same gentleman also made a good deal of fun 
 of one of my first paintings — a dead lion. This ani- 
 mal had died in a menagerie in the city, and having 
 heard of his decease, I bought his remains for five 
 
 162 
 
MY BULL-CALF. 163 
 
 dollars, and after dark I conve3'ed them to my studio 
 in a wheelbarrow. I was quite 3^oung and enthusiastic 
 then, and as the animal had apparently died of a con- 
 sumption, he was not very heavy. I worked day and 
 night at a life-size (so to speak) portrait of the beast, 
 and it was agreed by all who saw it that I succeeded 
 very well. But no one seemed inclined in the slightest 
 degree to buy the picture. " What you are waiting 
 for," said my facetious friend, " is the visit of a live 
 ass. When he comes along he will buy that thing, 
 and make your fortune." 
 
 My latest work was a life-size picture of a bull-calf. 
 Some time before, I determined to devote myself to 
 cattle painting, and had bought a cow for a model. 
 This I did because I found it difficult to have control 
 over the cows of other people. I live a short distance 
 out of town, and while the farmers thereabout were 
 very willing that I should go into the field and sketch 
 their cows, they would not allow me to pen one of 
 them up in a confined space where I could study her 
 form and features without following her, easel and 
 material in hand, over a wide and sometimes marshy 
 pasture. My cow proved a very valuable possession. 
 I rented a small grassy field for her, and put up a 
 cheap and comfortable shed in one corner of it. I sold 
 her milk to the good lady with whom I lived, and my 
 model cow paid all her expenses, attendance included. 
 She was a gentle creature, and becoming accustomed 
 to my presence, would generally remain in one position 
 for a long time, and when I stirred her up would 
 readily assume some other attitude of repose. I did 
 
164 MY BULL-CALF. 
 
 not always copy her exactly. Sometimes I gave her 
 one color and sometimes another, and sometimes sev- 
 eral blended ; at one time I gave her horns, and at 
 another none ; and in this way I frequently made a 
 lierd of her, scattering her over a verdant mead. I did 
 not always even paint her as a cow. With a different 
 head and branching horns, a longer neck, a thinner 
 body, a shorter tail, and longer legs, she made an ex- 
 cellent stag, the life-like poses which I was enabled to 
 get giving the real value to the picture. Once I painted 
 her as a'^spjiinx, her body couched in the conventional 
 way, with claws at the ends of the legs instead of 
 hoofs, and a little altered in contour, making an admi- 
 rable study ; and there was an expression in her eye, 
 as she meditatively crunched a cabbage leaf, which 
 made me give it to the woman's head that I placed 
 upon her. 
 
 ''What a far-off, prophetic look it hasl'* said one 
 who stood before the picture when it was finished. 
 " It seems to gaze across the sands of Egypt, and to 
 see things thousands of years ahead. If you could fix 
 up a little bit of sunset in the distance, with some red 
 and yellow clouds in the shape of the flag of England, 
 the symbolized sentiment would be quite perfect." 
 
 The bull-calf which afterward served as my model 
 was the son of my cow. When he was old enough to 
 go about by himself and eat hay and grass, I sold his 
 mother at a good profit, and retained him as a model, 
 and the life-size picture of him, on which I worked for 
 a long time, was my masterpiece. When it was nearly 
 finished I brought it to my studio, and there day after 
 
MY BULL-CALF. 165 
 
 day I touched and retouched it, often thinking it fin- 
 ished, but always finding, when I went home and 
 looked at my calf, that there was something of life 
 and truth in the real animal which I had not given to 
 the picture, and which I afterward strove to suggest, 
 if not to copy. 
 
 I had a friend who occupied a studio in the same 
 building, and who took a great interest in the portrait 
 of my bull-calf. The specialty of this artist was quiet 
 landscape and flowers, and we had frequently gone 
 into the country and sketched together, the one draw- 
 ing the cattle, and the other the field in which they 
 roved. One day we stood before my almost completed 
 work. 
 
 ''What a spirited and life-like air he has!" re- 
 marked my companion. " He looks as if he was just 
 about to hunch up his back, give a couple of awkward 
 skips, and then butt at us. I really feel like shutting., 
 the door, when I come in, for fear he should jump 
 down and run away. You are going to brighten up 
 the foreground a little, are you not? " 
 
 '' Yes," I answered ; " and what it needs is a mod- 
 est cluster of daisies in this corner. Won't you paint 
 them in for me ? You can do it so much better than 
 lean! " 
 
 "No," she answered; "I positively will not. No 
 one but yourself should touch it. It is your very best 
 work, and it should be all your picture." 
 
 In the course of my life I had not had, or at least 
 I believed that I had not had, many of those pieces 
 of good fortune which people call "opportunities." 
 
166 MY BULL-CALF. 
 
 Now here was one, and I determined to seize it. 
 >f " Why can it not be ^ou^ picture? " I asked. 
 
 She looked up at me with a quick glance, which 
 seemed to say, "What! are you about to speak at 
 last?'' 
 
 In ten minutes all had been said, and we were en- 
 gaged to be married. 
 
 Our studios were opposite each other, separated by 
 a wide hall, and it had been our custom, when one 
 went to luncheon, for the other to sit with open door, 
 so that visitors to the absent one might be seen and 
 attended to. Emma generally lunched at a quiet res- 
 taurant near by, much frequented by ladies, and where 
 an occasional male visitor might be seen, and to this 
 place I also went as soon as she came back. I knew 
 her favorite little table in the corner, and I always 
 tried' to occupy the place she had just vacated. But 
 to-day we determined to lock our studio doors, and 
 lunch together. There was really very little reason to 
 expect a visitor. The waiter who attended to our 
 wants was a quiet colored man, with white hair and 
 whiskers, and an expression of kindly observation on 
 his sable countenance. He arranged our table with 
 much care, and listened to our orders with a deference 
 I had not noticed before ; but perhaps he always 
 waited thus on ladies. While we were eating he re- 
 tired to a little distance, and stood regarding us with 
 an interested but not too intent attention. We had 
 so often eaten at the same table, but never before at 
 the same time. 
 
 When we returned we went first to my studio, and 
 
MY BULL-CALF. 167 
 
 when we opened the door the bull-calf seemed to smile. 
 We both noticed it. 
 
 "There is something in the way he looks at us,'* 
 said Emma, " that reminds me of our old waiter." 
 
 '^ Strange," I replied. " I noticed that myself." 
 
 Again I urged her to make the daisies for me, but 
 she still refused. 
 
 "No," she said. "It is your picture, and you 
 must not be unable to say that j^ou did it all yourself. 
 And, besides, if I were to put in any daisies, 3'our 
 calf is so natural that he would snip them off. I will 
 not have my daisies snipped off, even by that hand- 
 some creature." 
 
 She looked up, as she said this, with a smile as 
 bright and fresh as any daisy, and I — But never 
 mind. 
 
 The next day we went again together to the restau- 
 rant, and the kindly observation deepened on the face 
 of the waiter. When he had arranged with unusual 
 nicety the little table service, he placed before Emma 
 a wine-glass containing a button-hole bouquet. When 
 we were leaving he detained me a moment, and said, 
 in a low voice, 
 
 "After this, sir, if 3'ou would first order your beef 
 for one with two plates, and then order the lady's 
 chicken and salad for one with two plates, you would 
 each have some beef and some chicken. It wouldn't 
 cost any more, sir, and 'twould make more of a 
 menw." 
 
 " ' After this ! ' " I mentally repeated, as I grate- 
 fully put my hand in my pocket. If that old waiter 
 
168 MY BULL-CALF. 
 
 had been an artist, what a gift^jsppwers of observa- 
 tion would have been to him ! 
 
 We agreed that we would be married in the early 
 autumn, for truly there was little reason for delay. 
 " It has been so many, many months," I said, " since 
 I declared to myself that I would never marry any one 
 but you that I really consider that I have been engaged 
 to 3'ou for a very long time." 
 
 ' ' I may as well admit that something of the same 
 kind has passed through my mind. It is no harm 
 to tell you so now, and it will make more of a 
 menu.'* 
 
 If my calf really cared to snip daisies, he must have 
 envied me then. 
 
 There was no impediment to our early marriage ex- 
 cept the fact that neither of us had any money. 
 
 "What you must do," said Emma, "is to finish 
 your picture and sell it. You must stop looking at the 
 calf you have at home. Of course he is growing every 
 day, and new beauties are coming out on him all the 
 time. You can not expect to have his picture keep 
 pace with his development. After a while you will 
 have to give him horns, and make him larger." 
 
 " The model is bigger now than the picture," I said ; 
 " and I must take 3'our advice, and stop looking at 
 him. If I don't, his portrait will never be done." 
 
 I would not put any flowers in the foreground, for, 
 if I did so, I was sure they would look as if they had 
 been picked out of a lady's bonnet. After what I had 
 seen Emma do, I knew I could not paint daisies and 
 buttercups. I put in some pale mullein leaves, and 
 
MY BULL-CALF. 169 
 
 a point of rock which caught the light, and when this 
 was done I determined to call the picture finished. 
 
 *' What are you going to ask for it? " asked Emma. 
 
 '' I had tliought of a thousand dollars. Don't j^ou 
 consider that is a reasonable price? " 
 
 ''I think it is a very low price," she answered, 
 " considering the size of the picture and the admira- 
 ble way in which it is painted. I imagine it is seldom 
 that a picture like that is offered at a thousand dollars ; 
 but, as you want to sell it very much, I suppose it will 
 be well not to ask any more." 
 
 " I do want very much to sell it," I said, giving her 
 hand a squeeze which she understood. 
 
 I had also made up my mind in regard to the mode 
 of disposing of the picture. Some weeks before, an 
 artist friend in Boston had written to me that a well- 
 known picture-dealer would open in that city early in 
 September an art establishment particularly for the sale 
 of pictures on commission, and that he would inaugu- 
 rate his enterprise with an exhibition of paintings, 
 which he wished to make as extensive and attractive 
 as possible. 
 
 "If you have anything good, finished in time," 
 wrote my friend, " I think you will do well to send it 
 to Schemroth. He knows your work, and, if I mistake 
 not, bought one of your pictures when he was in busi- 
 ness in New York. I doubt if he has many animal 
 subjects, and he wants variety. He says he is going 
 to make his exhibition one of the art features of the 
 season." 
 
 Emma agreed with me that I could not do better 
 
170 MY BULL-CALF. 
 
 than send my picture to Schemroth. He was an enter- 
 prising man, and would Be certain to do everything he 
 could to attract attention to his exhibition, and she felt 
 sure that if the art public of Boston had a good oppor- 
 tunity of seeing my picture it would certainly be sold. 
 
 The painting was carefully packed, and sent to 
 Boston, in care of my friend there, who shortly after- 
 ward wrote me that Schemroth liked it, and had given 
 it a good place in his gallery, which would open in a 
 day or two. My studio looked very bare and empty 
 after the departure of my spirited bull-calf, so long 
 my daily companion ; but my mind was so occupied 
 with the consideration of the important event which 
 was to follow his sale that I did not miss him as much 
 as I would otherwise have done. Emma and I talked 
 a good deal about the best way of beginning our mar- 
 ried life, and I was much in favor of a trip to Europe ; 
 but in regard to this she did not agree with me. 
 
 " A thousand dollars," she said, " would not go far 
 for such a purpose. The steamer tickets would cost 
 us about a hundred dollars apiece, and that would be 
 four hundred dollars to go and come back. Then you 
 certainly ought to keep a hundred dollars for your own 
 use before you start, and that would only leave five 
 hundred dollars with which to go to Paris and Rome 
 and Dresden. If we did less than that, it would be 
 hardly worth while to go at all. And five hundred 
 dollars would not begin to be enough for two people." 
 
 I was obliged to admit that she was correct, and the 
 European trip was given up. 
 
 " My idea is," said Emma, " that we ought to take 
 
MY BULL-CALF. 171 
 
 the money and furnish a house with it. That will be 
 a good practical beginning, and after a while, when we 
 have painted a few more pictures, we can go to Europe. 
 You could keep a hundred dollars for your own use ; 
 we could put aside two hundred for rainy days or what- 
 ever kind of weather it may be when money is needed 
 and there is none coming in, and then with seven hun- 
 dred dollars we could buy enough furniture and other 
 things to begin housekeeping in a small way. By this 
 plan, you see, sir, your beautiful calf would give us 
 an excellent start in life." 
 
 This proposition needed no discussion. Before she 
 had half finished speaking I was convinced that noth- 
 ing could be more sensible and delightful. "We must 
 look for a house immediately," I said. *' It won't do 
 to put off that part of the business. We should know 
 where we are going to live, so that when we are ready 
 to buy the furniture there need be no delay." 
 
 Good fortunes as well as misfortunes sometimes 
 object to coming singly ; and just at this time I heard 
 of something which was certainl}' a piece of rare good 
 luck to a young couple contemplating matrimony. A 
 gentleman named Osburn, who lived near my country 
 home, with whom I had become well acquainted, and 
 to whom I had confided the important news of my 
 engagement, met me on the train a day or two after 
 Emma and I had agreed upon +he furniture project, 
 and told me that if I intended to go to housekeeping 
 he thought he could offer me a desirable opportunity. 
 " My wife and I," he said, " wish very much to travel 
 for a year or two, and the time has now arrived when 
 
172 il/F BULL-CALF. 
 
 we can do it, if we can dispose of our household effects, 
 and get some one to take our house, on which we have 
 a lease. Now if you are going to marry, and care foi 
 a place like ours, it might be worth your while to con- 
 sider the question of taking it and buying our furni- 
 ture. We will sell everything just as it is, excepting, 
 of course, the books and such small articles as have 
 a personal value, and you can walk right in and begin 
 housekeeping at once. Everything was new two years 
 ago, and you know my wife is a very careful house- 
 keeper. The house is small and very simply furnished, 
 and I have no doubt you would want to add all sorts 
 of things, but at first 3^ou wouldn't really need any- 
 thing that you wouldn't find there. We wish to dispose 
 of the whole establishment — linen, china, silver (it's 
 only plated, but it's very good), kitchen utensils, gar- 
 den tools, a lot of fine poultry, a dog, a cat — every- 
 thing, in fact, excepting the few articles I spoke of. 
 What do you say ? ' ' 
 
 ''Say!" I exclaimed; "there is nothing to say, 
 except that I should be perfectly delighted to take the 
 place off your hands if I could afford it ; but I am 
 afraid your price would be above my means. I sup- 
 pose you would want to sell all or nothing? " 
 
 " Oh yes," said Mr. Osburn ; " it would not pay us 
 to sell out piecemeal, and we do not wish to let the 
 house to any one who will not buy the furniture. If 
 you think the proposition worth considering, my wife 
 and I will make an estimate of what we consider the 
 effects worth, and let you know." 
 
 I told him I should be very glad indeed to know, 
 
31 Y BULL-CALF. 173 
 
 and he said I should hear from him in a day or 
 two. 
 
 When I told Emma of this, and described to her the 
 Osburns' house, with its neat and comfortable furni- 
 ture, its aesthetic wall-paper, its convenient and airy 
 rooms, its well-kept garden and little lawn, its hand- 
 some barn and poultry-house, the wide pasture field 
 belonging to it, the little patch of woodland at the 
 upper end, the neatness and order of everything about 
 the place ; and all this at a very moderate rental, with 
 a lease that had several years to run, she agreed with 
 me that while it would be perfectly delightful to take 
 this ready-made home off the Osburns' hands, there 
 was no reason for us to hope that we should be able 
 to do it. We should have to be content with some- 
 thing far less complete and perfect than this. 
 
 Two days after, I received a note from Osburn. 
 ''We have carefully considered the present value of 
 our possessions," he said, '' with an especial view of 
 making it an object to you to buy them as a whole. 
 Everything is in good order, but as we have had two 
 years' use of the articles, we have considered that fact 
 in making an estimate of what we think we ought to 
 receive for them. After going over the matter several 
 times we have determined to offer you the furniture 
 and other things of which I spoke to you for seven 
 hundred and fifty dollars." 
 
 ""S^Tiy," cried Emma, as she read this letter over 
 my shoulder (for I had taken it into her studio before 
 I opened it), " that is only fifty dollars more than we 
 had appropriated ! " 
 
174 MY BULL-CALF. 
 
 '' But we won't stop for that," I exclaimed. 
 
 " Stop ! " she said, as with sparkling eyes and glow- 
 ing cheeks she took both my hands in her own — regard- 
 less of the fact that she already held a brush heavily 
 charged with Vandyck brown — " I should think not." 
 
 To work any more then was impossible for either of 
 us. That afternoon we shut up both our studios, and 
 went out to look at the paradise which had been offered 
 us. Mr. Osburn had not yet come home, but his wife 
 took great pleasure in making Emma's acquaintance 
 and in showing us over the house and grounds. We 
 found everything better of its kind, better adapted to 
 the place in which it was, better suited to our every 
 purpose, and altogether ever so much more desirable, 
 than we had thought. I never saw Emma so enthusi- 
 astic. Even the picture of my bull-calf had not moved 
 her thus. If the price had not been fixed beforehand, 
 our delighted satisfaction would have been very impoli- 
 tic. When Mr. Osburn returned I told him without 
 hesitation that I would accept his offer. I think that 
 he and his wife were almost as much pleased as we 
 were. They had set their hearts on an extended tour 
 in the South and far West. The lady's health de- 
 manded this, and her husband had found that he could 
 now so arrange his business as to unite travel with 
 profit ; but it would have been impossible, as he after- 
 ward told me, for him to adopt this new mode of life 
 without first disposing of his furniture and household 
 goods. Ready money, I fancy, was not abundant with 
 him. 
 
 When we took leave of the Osburns four people in 
 
MY BULL-CALF. 175 
 
 very high spirits stx)od shaking hands in the porch of 
 the pretty house in which we had decided to make our 
 home. There was an extraordinarily good point in 
 this extraordinary piece of good fortune which had 
 befallen us. If the Osburns had wished to settle the 
 business with us at once it would, of course, have been 
 impossible for us to do our part, but it would be at 
 least six weeks before they intended to give up their 
 house, and in that time we felt quite sure that my 
 picture would be sold. But although we could take 
 no actual steps toward making our arrangements for 
 housekeeping, there was nothing to prevent our think- 
 ing and talking about them, and planning what was 
 to be done ; and this occupied a great deal of our 
 time, much to the detriment, I am sure, of our daily 
 work. We were always finding new good points in the 
 matter. 
 
 " The only things about the Osburn house that I 
 don't like," said Emma, " are the pictures and the 
 bric-a-brac. Now these are the things that they want 
 to keep, and if we are well off in any way, it is in 
 pictures, and we can just take some of the paintings 
 we have on hand, and a lot of our large engravings, 
 and have them framed, and with that old armor and 
 brass and china which you have collected, and which 
 an animal painter doesn't want in his studio anywa}^ 
 we can make our house look just lovely. I have col- 
 lected too, and I have a good many nice things in my 
 room which you have never seen." 
 
 " The house is a good one now," I exclaimed, " but 
 it will look like another place when you and I get into 
 
176 MY BULL-CALF. 
 
 it. And there is another thing that I have been 
 thinking about. Of course I'll take my calf over there 
 the first thing, and he will get a great deal better 
 eating in that meadow than he has now. But he won't 
 be the only animal we shall have. I intend to have a 
 little model farm ; that is to say, a farm on which we 
 will keep models. Of course we shall have a cow, and 
 she will not only give us milk and butter, but I can 
 paint her. There is a fine little barn and stable on the 
 place, but Osburn says he never thought he ought to 
 keep a horse, because the house is only five minutes 
 from the station, and it would be a piece of sheer ex- 
 travagance for him to have a horse merely to drive about 
 after he came home at night. But it wouldn't be 
 extravagant in me ; it would be actual economy. I 
 ought to paint horses, and to do so properly and eco- 
 nomically I should own one. And so with all sorts of 
 animals. If I buy a fine dog or a beautiful cat, it will 
 actually be money in my pocket." 
 
 "That is true," said Emma; "but you mustn't 
 bring any wild animals there until they are so dead 
 that you can wheel them home in a wheelbarrow. It 
 will be perfectly delightful to have a horse, and, as I 
 intend to paint birds as well as flowers, I can begin on 
 the hens and little chickens and the ducks ; and the 
 sparrows and robins, if I can make them tame enough 
 for me to sketch them." 
 
 "Yes," I exclaimed, "and you can paint the wild 
 flowers in your own field ; and we'll raise splendid 
 Jacqueminot roses, and the hybrid tea, and other fine 
 kinds ; and we'll fix up a room for them in the winter. 
 
MY BULL-CALF. Ill 
 
 SO that you can always have flowers for models at 
 whatever stage you want them.** 
 
 In the weeks that followed we paid several visits to 
 the Osburns by their invitation, during which the 
 husband explained to me the management of the celery 
 beds, and many of his out-door improvements, while 
 the wife had some long conversations with Emma 
 about her household arrangements. 
 
 As the time approached when the Osburns wished to 
 give up their house, Emma and I became very anxious 
 to hear from Boston. I had written to my friend there 
 explaining the situation, and he had promised to attend 
 to the matter, and see that Schemroth communicated 
 with me as soon as the picture was sold ; so there was 
 nothing to do but wait. I frequently met Mr. Osburn 
 on the train, and I began to feel, as the time passed on, 
 that I ought to be able to say something to him about 
 concluding our bargain. 
 
 Of course he must have his preparations to make, 
 and he would not wish to delay them too long. Al- 
 though there was no real reason for it, as we assured 
 ourselves over and over, both P^mma and I began to be 
 very uneasy, and we sometimes even regretted that we 
 had accepted Mr. Osburn' s offer. If we had not 
 complicated the affair in this way we could have calmly 
 waited until the picture was sold, and have then done 
 what seemed to us best. There was no probability 
 that we would have met with so good an opportunity 
 of going to housekeeping, but we should have been 
 independent and easy in our minds. But now we were 
 neither. The plans and prospects of others depended 
 
178 MY BULL-CALF. 
 
 upon us, and our uneasiness and anxiety increased 
 every day. I disliked to meet Mr. Osburn, and every 
 morning hoped that he would not be on the train. 
 Never did I await the arrival of the mails with more 
 anxiety and impatience. 
 
 One day, as Emma and I were returning from 
 luncheon, the janitor of the building met us at the 
 door. "A box came for you, sir, by express," he 
 said. " I paid two dollars and twenty cents on it. It 
 is up in 3'our room.'* 
 
 I said nothing, but put my hand in my pocket. I 
 began to count the money in my pocket-book, but my 
 hand shook, and I dropped a quarter of a dollar on the 
 floor, which rolled off to some distance. As the 
 janitor went to pick it up, Emma approached me, and 
 I noticed that she was very pale. 
 
 " If you haven't enough," she said, "I have some 
 change with me." 
 
 I needed seventy cents to make up the sum, and 
 Emma gave it to me. And then, without a word, we 
 went upstairs. We did not hurry, but it was the first 
 time, I think, that I ever became out of breath in 
 going up those stairs. The moment we looked at the 
 box we knew. The picture had been sent back. 
 
 I gazed at it blankly, reading over and over the 
 painted address. 
 
 " Perhaps you had better open it," said Emma, in a 
 very low voice. " It may not be — " 
 
 As quickly as I could I took off the center board. 
 The bull-calf, with a melancholy greeting in his eyes, 
 looked out upon us. Then Emma sat down upon the 
 
MY BULL-CALF. 179 
 
 nearest chair and burst into tears, and I drew near to 
 comfort her. 
 
 Half an hour later I had taken the picture from the 
 box, which I carefully searched. "Do you know," I 
 cried, a sudden anger taking the place of the deadened 
 sensation of my heart, ''that this is an outrageous 
 insult? He should have written to me before he sent 
 it back ; but to return it, without a word or line of any 
 kind, is simply brutal." 
 
 I said a great deal more than this. I was very angry. 
 I would write to Schemroth, and let him know what I 
 thought of this. Emma now endeavored to soothe my 
 passion, and urged me not to do anything in a moment 
 of excitement which might injure me in a business 
 point of view. I did not promise forbearance, but 
 suddenly exclaimed: "And then there is Osburn ! 
 He must be told. It will be a hard, hard thing to do ! 
 They will both be terribly disappointed. It will break 
 up all their plans." 
 
 " I have thought about the Osburns," said Emma, 
 coming close to me, and putting her hands upon my 
 arm, " and I will tell you what we will do. I will go 
 and see Mrs. Osburn. That will be much better than 
 for you to see her husband. She will not be angry, 
 and I can explain everything to her so that she will 
 understand." 
 
 " No, my dear, ' ' said I ; " that will not do. I shall not 
 suffer you to bear what must be the very heaviest brunt 
 of this trouble. In a case like this it is the duty of the 
 man to put himself forward. I must go immediately 
 and see Osburn at his office before he starts for home." 
 
180 MY BULL-CALF. 
 
 " I wish you would not," she said, earnestly. " Of 
 course the man ought to take the lead in most things, 
 but there may be times when it will be easier and better 
 for the wife to go first." 
 
 The moment she said these words she blushed, and 
 I snatched her into my arms. The wife ! If those 
 rich lovers of art had only known what they might have 
 made of this dear girl by buying my picture, it would 
 never have come back to me. 
 
 But time was flying, and if I was to see Osburn at 
 his office, I must hurry. The thing was hard enough 
 to do, as it was, and I did not feel that I could have 
 the heart to tell the story in the presence of his wife. 
 
 "If he is very much troubled," said Emma, ''and 
 says anything to you which you do not like, you will 
 not let him make you angry, will you? " 
 
 ''Oh no," said I; " I am not so unreasonable as 
 that. I have so much pity for him that he may say to 
 me what he pleases. I will bear it all." 
 
 " I am very sorry for you," said Emma, looking up 
 at me, " and I do wish you would let me see Mrs. 
 Osburn." 
 
 But I was firm in my resolution not to shift this very 
 unpleasant duty upon Emma, and in a few minutes I 
 had started down-town. When I reached Mr. Osburn 's 
 place of business I found that he had gone home, 
 although it was several hours earlier than his usual 
 time of leaving. "He had something he wanted to 
 attend to at his house," said one of the clerks. 
 
 This was a great disappointment to me, for now I 
 would be obliged to go to see him that evening, and 
 
MY BULL-CALF. 181 
 
 most probabh' to tell him the bad news in the presence 
 of his wife. I did not fully appreciate until now how 
 much easier it would have been to talk to him at his 
 desk in the city. As I walked toward the Osburns* 
 house just after dark that evening I could scarcely 
 believe that I was going to the place which I had 
 lately visited with such delight. Emma and I had 
 fallen into the way of already considering the house 
 and grounds as our own, and as I opened the gate I 
 remembered how we had stood there while I told her 
 about some improvements I intended to make in said 
 gate, so that the weight and chain would never fail 
 to latch it. And now it made no difference to me 
 whether the gate latched or not. And the flower 
 borders, too, on each side of the path ! How Emma 
 had talked to me, when we had walked far enough 
 away, so as to be sure not to hurt Mrs. Osburn's 
 feelings, of what she intended to do in those borders ! 
 It all seemed to me like visiting the grave of a home. 
 But I walked steadily up to the house. The parlor 
 shutters were wide open, and the room was brightly 
 lighted, so that I could see plainly what was passing 
 within. There was an air of disorder about the pretty 
 room. Mr. Osburn, in his shirt sleeves, was on a step- 
 ladder taking down a picture from the wall, while his 
 wife stood below ready to receive it. All the other 
 pictures — the portraits of their parents and the chromos 
 which Emma and I thought so little of, but which the}- 
 valued so highly — had been already taken down. 
 These, with various little articles of ornament and nse, 
 valuable to them on account of association with some 
 
182 MY BULL-CALF. 
 
 dear friend or some dear time, were the things which 
 they intended to reserve ; and it was plain that it was 
 to take down and pack up these that Mr. Osbiirn had 
 come home early that day. It was now only four days 
 from the date he had fixed for surrendering the house 
 to me, and he was working hard to have everything 
 ready for us. He knew very well that Emma and I had 
 arranged that we would be quietly married as soon as 
 the house should be ours, and that in this charming 
 home, all ready to our hands, we would immediately be- 
 gin our married life. How earnestly and honestly they 
 were doing their part ! 
 
 I do not think I am a coward, but as I stood and 
 gazed at these two I felt that it would be simply im- 
 possible for me to walk into that room and tell them 
 that they might hang up their pictures again and un- 
 pack their bric-a-brac, and that they were not going to 
 take the pleasant journeys they had planned, until they 
 had found some other person, more able to keep to his 
 word than I was, who should take their house and buy 
 their goods. 
 
 No, I could not do it. I would go home and write 
 to Osburn. I did not feel that this was as manly a 
 course as to speak to him face to face, but I could not 
 speak to him now. As I was about to turn away, Os- 
 burn got down from the ladder, and they both looked 
 around the room. Their faces wore an expression of 
 pleasant satisfaction at the conclusion of their task, but 
 mingled, I truly believe, with a feeling of regret that 
 they should leave to us such bare walls. How Emma 
 and I had talked of what we intended to do with those 
 
MY BULL-CALF. 183 
 
 walls ! How I had drawn little sketches of them, and 
 how we had planned and arranged for every space ! 
 
 I hurried home, wrote a note, and tore it up. I wrote 
 another, but that too did not properly express the situa- 
 tion. It was late, and I could do no more. I would 
 write in the morning, take the letter into town and show 
 it to Emma, and then send it to Osburn at the office. 
 
 The next day P^rama was in my studio reading the 
 disgraceful confession I had written, when the janitor 
 came in, and handed me a letter. 
 
 " It is from Osburn," I exclaimed, glancing at the 
 address, as the man closed the door behind him. " I 
 know his handwriting. Now this is too bad. If 
 Schemroth had only treated me with decent politeness 
 I could have seen Osburn, or have written to him, be- 
 fore he felt himself obliged to remind me that the time 
 had come for me to attend to my part of the contract." 
 
 "But you must not allow yourself to be so disturbed," 
 said Emma. '' You don't know what he has written." 
 
 '' That is the only thing he could write about," said 
 I, bitterly, as I opened the letter. "It is very humil- 
 iating." 
 
 We read the note together. It was very brief, and 
 ran thus : 
 
 ** Dear Sir, — I have a customer who is willing to buy your 
 picture, but he is dissatisfied with the foreground. If you will 
 put in some daisies or other field flowers to brighten it up and 
 throw the animal a Httle back, he will take it. I can ask him 
 enough to cover your price and my commission. As I am sure 
 you will make the alterations, I will forward the picture to 
 you immediately. 
 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 L. SCHEMROTH." 
 
184 MY BULL-CALF. 
 
 The letter had been written four days previously. 
 
 We looked at each other, unable to speak. Our great 
 cloud had turned completely over, and its lining dazzled 
 us. We found words very soon, but I will not repeat 
 them here. We could have fallen down and worshipped 
 our pamted calf. 
 
 " And now, my darling," I cried, '^ will you put the 
 daisies in our picture ? ' ' 
 
 "Indeed will I," she said. And away she ran for 
 her paints and brushes. 
 
 The rest of that afternoon she steadily painted, 
 while I sat beside her, watching every touch of her 
 brush. 
 
 " This daisy," she said, as she finished the first one, 
 is to make 3'ou happy, and the next one will be for my- 
 self ; then I will pamt two more for Mr. and Mrs. Os- 
 burn, and you must not fail to go and tell them to-night 
 that you will settle up our business in a very short time ; 
 and I will paint a small daisy for Mr. Schemroth, and 
 if he hadn't forgotten to mail his letter when it was 
 written I would have made his daisy bigger." 
 
 The picture soon went back to Boston, and the ori- 
 
 'ginal of it now spends most of his time looking over 
 
 . the fence of his pasture into the pretty yard of the 
 
 * house where the Osburns used to live, and hoping that 
 
 some one will come and give him some cabbage leaves. 
 
 If he could see all that there is to be seen he would see 
 
 that the parlor of that house is hung with the spoils 
 
 from the studios of two artists, that there is a room in 
 
 the second story, with a northern light, in which flowers 
 
 grow on canvas as beautifully as they grow in the fields 
 
MY BULL-CALF. 185 
 
 and garden, and where a large picture is steadily pro- 
 gi'essing in which he figures as " The Coming Mon- 
 arch." He would also see, far away on the Pacific 
 shore, another couple whom he has helped to make 
 happy ; and if he could cast his eyes Bostonward he 
 would see, every now and then, Mr. Schemroth writing 
 to me to know when I could send him other animal 
 pictures, and assuring me that he can find ready and 
 profitable sale for all that I can paint. And, best of 
 all, he could see, every day, Emma painting daisies 
 into my life. 
 
THE DISCOURAGER OF HESITANCY. 
 
 A CONTINUATION OF "THE LADY, OR THE TIGER?' 
 
 IT was nearly a j^ear after the occurrence of that event 
 in the arena of the semi-barbaric King known as 
 the incident of the lady or the tiger, that there came to 
 the palace of this monarch a deputation of five stran- 
 gers from a far country. These men, of venerable and 
 dignified aspict uiid demeanor, were received by a high 
 officer of the court, and to him the}^ made known their 
 errand. 
 
 " Most noble officer," said the speaker of the depu- 
 tation, "it so happened that one of our countrymen 
 was present here, in your capital city, on that moment- 
 ous occasion when a young man who had dared to 
 aspire to the hand of your King's daughter had been 
 placed in the arena, in the midst of the assembled 
 multitude, and ordered to open one of two doors, not 
 knowing whether a ferocious tiger would spring out 
 upon him, or a beauteous lady would advance, ready 
 to become his bride. Our fellow-citizen who^ao then 
 present was a man of super-sensitive feelings, and at 
 the moment when the youth was about to open the door 
 186 
 
THE DISCOURAGER OF HESITANCY. 187 
 
 he was so fearful lest he should behold a horrible 
 spectacle, that his nerves failed him, and he fled pre- 
 cipitately from the arena, and mounting his camel rode 
 homeward as fast as he could go. 
 
 "We were all very much interested in the story 
 which our countryman told us, and we were extremely 
 sorry that he did not wait to see the end of the affair. 
 We hoped, however, that in a few weeks some traveler 
 from your city would come among us and bring us fur- 
 ther news ; but up to the day when we left our country, 
 no such traveler had arrived. At last it was deter- 
 mined that the only thing to be done was to send a 
 deputation to this country, and to ask the question : 
 ' Which came out of the open door, the lady, or the 
 tiger?' " 
 
 When the high ofBcer had heard the mission of this 
 most respectable deputation, he led the five strangers 
 into an inner room, where thej' were seated upon soft 
 cushions, and where he ordered coffee, pipes, sherbet, 
 and other semi-barbaric refreshments to be served to 
 them. Then, taking his seat before them, he thus 
 addressed the visitors : 
 
 "Most noble strangers, before answering the ques- 
 tion you have come so far to ask, I will relate to you 
 an incident which occurred not very long after that to 
 which you have referred. It is well known in all re- 
 gions hereabouts that our great King is very fond of 
 the presence of beautiful women about his court. All 
 the ladies-in-waiting upon the Queen and Royal Family 
 are most lovely maidens, brought here from every part 
 of the kingdom. The fame of this concourse of beaut}', 
 
188 THE DISCOURAGER OF HESITANCY, 
 
 unequaled in any other royal court, has spread far and 
 wide ; and had it not been for the equally wide-spread 
 fame of the systems of impetuous justice adopted by 
 our King, many foreigners would doubtless have visited 
 our court. 
 
 *'But not very long ago there arrived here from a 
 distant land a prince of distinguished appearance and 
 undoubted rank. To such an one, of course, a royal 
 audience was granted, and our King met him very gra- 
 ciously, and begged him to make known the object of 
 his visit. Thereupon the Prince informed his Royal 
 Highness that, having heard of the superior beauty of 
 the ladies of his court, he had come to ask permission 
 to make one of them his wife. 
 
 ''When our King heard this bold announcement, his 
 face reddened, he turned uneasily on his throne, and 
 we were all in dread lest some quick words of furious 
 condemnation should leap from out his quivering lips. 
 But by a mighty effort he controlled himself ; and after 
 a moment's silence he turned to the Prince, and said : 
 ' Your request is granted. To-morrow at noon 3'ou 
 shall wed one of the fairest damsels of our court.' 
 Then turning to his officers, lio said : ' Give orders that 
 everything be prepared for a wedding in this palace at 
 high noon to-morrow. Convey this royal Prince to 
 suitable apartments. Scutl - !iim tailors, boot- makers, 
 hatters, jewelers, armorers ; men of every craft, whose 
 services he may need. Whatever he asks, provide. 
 And let all be ready for the ceremony to-morrow.' 
 
 " ' But, your Majesty,' cxclnimed the Prince, ' before 
 we make these preparations, I would like * 
 
Tfli: DISCOURAGER OF HESITANCY. 189 
 
 '"Say no more!' roared tlu- King. 'My royal 
 orders have been given, and nothing more is needed to 
 be said. You aslad a l)oon ; I granted it ; and I will 
 hear no more on the subject. Farewell, my Prince, 
 until to-morrow noon.' 
 
 " At this the King arose, and left the audience 
 chamber, while the Prince was hurried away to the 
 apartments selected for him. And here came to him 
 tailors, hatters, jewelers, and every one who was 
 needed to fit him out in grand attire for the wpdding. 
 But the mind of the Prince was much troubled and 
 perplexed. 
 
 " ' I do not understand,' he said to liis attendants, 
 ' this precipitancy of action. When am I to see the 
 ladies, that I may choose among them? I wish oppor- 
 tunit}', not only to gaze upon their forms and faces, 
 but to become acquainted with their relative intellectual 
 development. ' 
 
 ' ' ' We can tell you nothing, ' w • iL - ■ n \. cj. ' What 
 our King thinks right, that will he do. And more 
 than this we know not.' 
 
 " ' His Majest3''s notions seem to be very peculiar,' 
 said \\w r-'hce, ' and, so far as I can see, they do not 
 at all agree with mine.' 
 
 " At that moment an attendant whom the Prince had 
 not noticed before came and stood beside him. This 
 was a broad-shouldered man of cheery aspect, who 
 carried, its hilt in his right hand, and its broad back 
 resting on his broad arm, an enormous scimcter, the 
 upturned edge of which was keen and bright as any 
 razor. Holding this formidable weapon as tenderl3' as 
 
190 THE DISCOURAGER OF HESITANCY. 
 
 though it had been a sleeping infant, this man drew 
 closer to the Prince and bowed. 
 
 " ' Who are you? ' exclaimed his Highness, starting 
 back at the sight of the frightful weapon. 
 
 "'I,' said the other, with a courteous smile, 'am 
 the Discourager of Hesitancy. When our King makes 
 known his wishes to any one, a subject or visitor, 
 whose disposition in some little points may be supposed 
 not to wholly coincide with that of his Majesty, I am 
 appointed to attend him closely, that, should he think 
 of pausing in the path of obedience to the royal will, 
 he ma}^ look at me, and proceed.' 
 
 " The Prince looked at him, and proceeded to be 
 measured for a coat. 
 
 '* Tiie tailors and shoemakers and hatters worked all 
 night ; and the next morning, when everything was 
 ready, and the hour of noon was drawing nigh, the 
 Prince again anxiously inquired of his attendants when 
 he might expect to be introduced to the ladies. 
 
 '' ' The King will attend to that,' they said. ' We 
 know nothing of the matter.' 
 
 " 'Your Highness,' said the Discourager of Hesi- 
 tancy, approaching with a courtly bow, ' will observe 
 the excellent quality of this edge.' And drawing a hair 
 from his head, he dropped it upon the upturned edge 
 of his scimeter, upon which it was cut in two at the 
 moment of touching. 
 
 " The rnn<><' glanced and turned upon his heel. 
 
 " rs. A ciimp orticers to conduct him to the grand hall 
 of the palace, in wliich the ceremony was to be per- 
 formed. Here' tJie Prince found the Kinii; seated on 
 
THE DISCOURAGER OF HESITANCY. 191 
 
 the throne, with his nobles, his courtiers, and his 
 officers standing about liim in magnificent array. The 
 Prince was led to a position in front of the King, to 
 whom l\e made ol)eisanee, and then said : 
 
 " ' Your Majesty, before I proceed further ' 
 
 " At this moment an attendant, who had approached 
 with a long scarf of delicate silk, wound it about the 
 lower part of the Prince's face so quickly and adroitly 
 that he was obliged to cease speaking. Then, with 
 wonderful dexterity, the rest of the scarf was wound 
 around the Prince's head, so that he was completely 
 blindfolded. Thereupon the attendant quickly made 
 openings in the scarf over the mouth and ears, so that 
 the Prince might breathe and hear ; an'^ fastening the 
 ends of the scarf securely, he retired. 
 
 '^ The first impulse of the Prince was to snatch the 
 silken folds from his head and face ; but as he raised 
 his hands to do so, he heard beside him the voice of 
 the Discourager of Hesitancy, who gently whispered : 
 ' I am here, your Highness.' And, with a shudder, the 
 arms of the Prince fell down by his side. 
 
 '^ Now before him he heard the voice of a priest, 
 who had begun the marriage service in use in that semi- 
 barbaric country. At his side he could hear a delicate 
 rustle, which seemed to proceed from fabrics of soft 
 silk. Gently putting forth his hand, he felt folds of such 
 silk close beside him. Then came the voice of the 
 priest requesting him to take the hand of the lady by 
 his side ; and reaching forth his right hand, the Prince 
 received within it another hand so small, so soft, so 
 delicately fashioned, and so delightful to the touch, 
 
192 THE DISOOURAGER OE HESITANCY, 
 
 that a thrill went through his being. Then, as was 
 the custom of the country, the priest first asked the 
 lady would she have this man to be her husband. To 
 which the answer gently came in the sweetest voice he 
 ever heard : ' I will.' 
 
 "Then ran raptures rampant through the Prince's 
 blood. The touch, the tone, enchanted him. All the 
 ladies of that court were beautiful ; the Discourager 
 was behind hira ; and through his parted scarf he 
 boldly answered : * Yes, I will.' 
 
 '' Whereupon the priest pronounced them man and 
 wife. 
 
 '' Now the Prince heard a little bustle about him ; 
 the long scarf was rapidly unrolled from his head ; and 
 he turned, with a start, to gaze upon his bride. To his 
 utter amazement, there was no one there. He stood 
 alone. Unable on the instant to ask a question or say 
 a word, he gazed blankly al>out him. 
 
 " Then the King arose from his throne, and came 
 down, and took him by the hand. 
 
 '' ' Where is my wife? ' gasped the Prince. 
 
 "'She is here,' said the King, leading him to a 
 curtained doorway at the side of the hall. 
 
 " The curtains were drawn aside, and the Prince, 
 entering, found himself in a long apartment, near the 
 opposite wall of which stood a line of forty ladies, all 
 dressed in rich attire, and each one apparently more 
 beautiful than the rest. 
 
 " Waving his hand towards the line, the King said to 
 the Prince : ' There is your bride ! Approach, and lead 
 her forth ! But remember this : that if you attempt to 
 
TEE DISCOURAGER OF HESITANCY. 193 
 
 take away one of the unmarried damsels of our court, 
 your execution shall be instantaneous. Now, dola}' no 
 longer. Stop up and take 3'our bride.' 
 
 " The Prince, as in a dream, walked slowly along the 
 line of ladies, and then walked slowly back again. 
 Nothing could he see about any one of them to indicate 
 that she was more of a bride than the others. Their 
 dresses were all similar ; they all blushed ; they all 
 looked up, and then looked down. They all had 
 charming little hands. Not one spoke a word. Not 
 one lifted a finger to make a sign. It was evident that 
 the orders given them had been ver}' strict. 
 
 '* * Why this delay?' roared the King. ' If I had 
 been married this day to one so fair as the lady who 
 wedded j^ou, I should not wait one second to claim 
 her.* 
 
 " The bewildered Prince walked again up and down 
 the line. And this time there was a sliorht change in 
 the countenances of two of the ladies. One of the 
 fairest gently smiled as he passed her. Another, just 
 as beautiful, slightly frowned. 
 
 " ' Now,' said the Prince to himself, ' I am sure ih^' 
 it is one of those two ladies whom I have married. 
 But which? One smiled. And would not any woman 
 smile when she saw, in such a case, her husband comii>^ 
 towards her? But, then, were she not his bride, woulu 
 she not smile with satisfaction to think he had not 
 selected her, and that she had not led him to an un- 
 timely doom? Then again, on the other hand, would 
 not any woman frown when she saw her husband come 
 towards her and fail to claim her? Would sjio uot knit 
 
194 THE DISCOURAGER OF HESITANCY. 
 
 Iier lovely brows? And would she not inwardly say, 
 "It is I! Dou't you know it? Don't you feel it? 
 Come!" But if this woman had not been married, 
 would she not frown when she saw the man looking 
 at her? Would she not say to herself, '' Don't stop at 
 me ! It is the next but one. It is two ladies above. 
 Go on ! " And then again, the one who married me 
 did not see my face. Would she not smile if she 
 thought me comely ? While if I wedded the one who 
 frowned, could she restrain her disapprobation if she 
 did not like me ? Smiles invite the approach of true 
 love. A frown is a reproach to a tardy advance. A 
 smile ' 
 
 " ' Now, hear me ! * loudly cried the King. ' In ten 
 seconds, if you do not take the lady we have given you, 
 she, who has just been made j'our bride, shall be your 
 widow.' 
 
 " And, as the last word was uttered, the Discourager 
 of Hesitancy stepped close behind the Prince, and 
 whispered : ' I am here ! ' 
 
 "Now the prince could not hesitate an instant; 
 and he stepped forward and took one of the two ladies 
 by the hand. 
 
 ' ' Loud rang the bells ; loud cheered the people ; and 
 the King came forward to congratulate the Prince. 
 He had taken his lawful bride. 
 
 " Now, then," said the high officer to the deputation 
 of five strangers from a far country, "When you can 
 decide among yourselves which lady the Prince chose, 
 the one who smiled or the one who frowned, then will 
 
THE DISCOURAGER OF HESITANCY. 195 
 
 I tell you which came out of the opened door, the lady 
 or the tiger! " 
 
 At the latest accounts the five strangers had not yet 
 decided. 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 EAST. 
 
 ALL persons who, like myself, are artists, and all 
 others who delight in the beauties of lake and 
 valley, the grandeur of snowy mountain peaks, and 
 the invigoration of pure mountain air, can imagine the 
 joy with which I found myself in Switzerland on a 
 sketching tour. It had not been easy for me to make 
 this, my first visit to Europe. Circumstances, which 
 the very slightly opened purses of my patrons had not 
 enabled me to control, had deferred it for several years. 
 And even now my stay was strictly limited, and I must 
 return by a steamer which sailed for America early in 
 the autumn. But I had already traveled a good deal 
 on the Continent ; had seen Italy ; and now had six 
 summer weeks to give to Switzerland. Six months 
 would have suited me much better, but youth and en- 
 thusiasm can do a great deal of sketching and nature- 
 reveling in six weeks. 
 
 I began what I called my Alpine holidays in a little 
 town not far from the upper end of Lake Geneva, and 
 at the close of my second day of rambling and 
 
 196 
 
A BORROWED MONTH, 197 
 
 sketching I was attacked by a very disagreeable and 
 annoying pain in my left leg. It did not result, so far 
 as I could ascertain, from a sprain, a bruise, or a break, 
 but seemed to be occasioned by a sort of tantalizing 
 rheumatism ; for while it entirely disappeared when I 
 remained at rest, its twinges began as soon as I had 
 taken half-a-dozen steps in walking. The next day I 
 consulted a doctor, and he gave me a lotion. This, 
 however, was of no service, and for three or four days 
 he made use of other remedies, none of which were of 
 the slightest benefit to me. 
 
 But, although I was confined to the house during this 
 period, I did not lose mj^ time. From the windows of 
 my room in the hotel I had a series of the most enchant- 
 ing views, which I sketched from early morning until 
 twilight, with an earnest and almost ecstatic zeal. On 
 the other side of the lake rose, ten thousand feet in the 
 air, the great Dent du Midi, with its seven peaks clear 
 and sharp against the sky, surrounded by its sister 
 mountains, most of them dark of base and white of tip. 
 To the east stretched the beautiful valley of the Rhone, 
 up which the view extended to the pale-blue pyramid 
 of Mont Velan. Curving northward around the end of 
 the lake was a range of lower mountains, rocky or ver- 
 dant ; while at their base, glistening in the sun, lay 
 the blue lake reflecting the white clouds in the sky, and 
 dotted here and there with little vessels, their lateen- 
 sails spread out like the wings of a descending bird. 
 
 I sketched and painted the lake and mountains, by 
 the light of morning, in their noontide splendors, and 
 when all lay in shadow except where the highest snowy 
 
198 A BORROWED MONTH, 
 
 peaks were tipped with the ros}- afterglow. My ail- 
 ment gave me no trouble at all so long as I sat still and 
 painted, and in the wonderful opportunity afforded by 
 nature to my art I forgot all about it. 
 
 But in the course of a week I began to get very im- 
 patient. There was a vast deal more of Switzerland 
 to be seen and sketched ; my time was growing short, 
 and the pain occasioned by walking had not abated in 
 the least. I felt that I must have other views than 
 those which were visible from my window, and I had 
 myself driven to various points accessible to vehicles, 
 from which I made some very satisfactory sketches. 
 But this was not roaming in Alpine valleys and climb- 
 ing mountain peaks. It was only a small part of what 
 brought me to Switzerland, and my soul rebelled. 
 Could any worse fate befall a poor young artist, who 
 had struggled so hard to get over here, than to be thus 
 chained and trammeled in the midst of the grandest 
 opportunities his art life had yet known ? 
 
 My physician gave me but little comfort. He as- 
 sured me that if I used his remedies and had patience, 
 there would be no doubt of my recovery ; but that it 
 would take time. When I eagerly asked how much 
 time would be required, he replied that it would prob- 
 ably be some weeks before I was entirely well, for 
 these disorders generally wore off quite gradually. 
 
 '* Some weeks!" I ejaculated when he had gone. 
 '' And I have barely a month left for Switzerland ! " 
 
 This state of affairs not only depressed me, but it 
 disheartened me. I might have gone by rail to other 
 parts of Switzerland, and made other sketches from 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 199 
 
 hotels and carriages, but this I did not care to do. If 
 I must still caiTy about with me my figurative ball and 
 chain, I did not wish to go where new temptations 
 would beckon and call and scream to me from every 
 side. Better to remain where I was ; where I could 
 more easily become used to my galling restraints. 
 This was morbid reasoning, but I had become morbid 
 in body and mind. 
 
 One evening I went in the hotel omnibus to the 
 Kursaal of the little town where I was staying. In this 
 building, to which visitors from the hotels and pensions 
 of the vicinity went in considerable numbers every 
 afternoon and evening, for the reason that they had 
 nothing else to do, the usual concert was going on in 
 the theater. In a small room adjoining, a companj- of 
 gentlemen and ladies, the latter chiefly English or Rus- 
 sian, were making bets on small metal horses and 
 jockeys which spun round on circular tracks, and ran 
 races which were fairer to the betters than the majority 
 of those in which flesh-and-blood animals, human and 
 equine, take part. Opening from this apartment was 
 a large refreshment-room, in which I took my scat. 
 Here I could smoke a cigar and listen to the music, 
 and perhaps forget for a time the doleful world in which 
 I lived. I had not been long seated before I was 
 joined by a man whom I had met before, and in whom 
 I had taken some interest. He was a little man with 
 a big head, on which he occasionally wore a high- 
 crowned black straw hat ; but whenever the sun did 
 not make it absolutely necessary he carried this in his 
 hand. His clothes were black and of very thin ma- 
 
200 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 terial, and he always had the appearance of being too 
 warm. In my occasional interviews with him I had 
 discovered that he was a reformer, and that his yearn- 
 ings in the direction of human improvement were very 
 general and inclusive. 
 
 This individual sat down at my little table and 
 ordered a glass of beer. 
 
 '^You do not look happy/* he said. "Have you 
 spoiled a picture? " 
 
 "No," I replied, "but a picture has been spoiled 
 for me." And, as he did not understand this reply, I 
 explained to him how the artistic paradise which I had 
 mentally painted for myself had been scraped from the 
 canvas by the knife of my malicious ailment. 
 
 "I have been noticing," he said, — he spoke very 
 fair English, but it was not his native tongue, — " that 
 you have not walked. It is a grand pity." And he 
 stroked his beard and looked at me steadfastly. " An 
 artist who is young is free," he said, after some mo- 
 ments' reflection. "He is not obliged to carry the 
 load of a method which has grown upon him like the 
 goitre of one of these people whom you meet here. 
 He can despise methods and be himself. You have 
 everything in art before you, and it is not right that 
 you should be held to the ground like a serpent in 3'our 
 own country, with a forked stick. You have some 
 friends, perhaps?" 
 
 I replied, a little surprised, that I had a great many 
 friends in America. 
 
 " It is of no import where they are," he said. And 
 then he again regarded me in silence. " Have yor a 
 good faith ? ' ' he presently asked. 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 201 
 
 **In what?" said I. 
 
 "In anything. Yourself, principally.'* 
 
 I replied that just now I had very little faith of that 
 sort. 
 
 His face clouded ; he frowned, and, pushing away his 
 empty glass, he rose from the table. "You are a 
 skeptic," he said, " and an infidel of the worst sort." 
 
 In my apathetic state this remark did not annoy me. 
 " No man would be a skeptic," I said carelessly, "if 
 other people did not persist in disagreeing with him." 
 
 But my companion paid no attention to me. and 
 walked away before I had finished speaking. In a few 
 minutes he came back, and, leaning over the table, he 
 said in low but excited tones : " It is to yourself that 
 you are an infidel. That is very wrong. It is degrad- 
 ing." 
 
 " I do not understand you at all," I said. " "Won't 
 you sit down and tell me what you mean? " 
 
 He seated himself, and wiped liis forehead with his 
 handkerchief. Then he fixed his eyes upon me, and 
 said : " It is not to everybody I would speak as I now 
 speak to you. You must believe something. Do you 
 not believe in the outstretching power of the mmd ; of 
 the soul?" 
 
 My ideas in this regard were somewhat chaotic. I 
 did not know what was his exact meaning, but I 
 thought it best to say that it was likely that some souls 
 could outstretch. 
 
 "And do 3'ou not believe," he continued, "that 
 when your friend sleeps, and your thoughts are fixed 
 upon him, and your whole soul goes out to him in its 
 
202 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 most utter force and strength, that your mind becomes 
 his mind? " 
 
 I shook my head. ''That is going rather far,*' I 
 said. 
 
 "It is not far," he exclaimed emphatically. "It 
 is but a little way. We shall go much farther than 
 that when we know more. And is it that you doubt 
 that the mind is in the brain ? And where is pain ? Is 
 it in the foot? In the arm? It is not so. It is in 
 the brain. If you cut off your wounded foot, you have 
 the pain all the same ; the brain remains. I will say 
 this to you. If it were I who had soul-friends, it would 
 not be that every day I should shut the door on m}' art. 
 Once it happened that I suffered — not like you, much 
 worse. But I did not suffer every day. No, no, my 
 friend, not every day. But that was I ; I have faith. 
 But I need speak no more to you. You are infidel. 
 You do not believe in yourself." 
 
 And with this he suddenly pushed back his chair, 
 picked up his black straw hat from the floor, and walked 
 out of the room, wiping his forehead as he went. I am 
 not given to sudden reciprocations of sentiment, but 
 what this man had said made a strong impression 
 upon me. Not that I had any confidence in the value 
 of his psychological ideas, but his words suggested a 
 train of thought which kept me awake a long time after 
 I had gone to bed that night ; and gradually I began to 
 consider the wonderful advantage and help it would be 
 to me if it were possible that a friend could bear my 
 infirmity even for a day. It would inconvenience him 
 but little. If he remained at rest he would feel no pain, 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 203 
 
 and he might be very glad to be obliged to take a quiet 
 holiday with his books or family. And what a joy 
 would that holiday be to me among the Alps, and re- 
 lieved of my fetters ! The notion grew. One day one 
 friend might take up my burden, and the next another. 
 How little this would be for them ; hew much for me ! 
 If I should select thirty friends, they could, by each 
 taking a day of pleasant rest, make me free to enjoy to 
 the utmost the month which yet remained for Switzer- 
 land. M}^ mind continued to dwell on this pleasing 
 fancy, and I went to sleep while counting on my fingers 
 the number of friends I had who would each be per- 
 fectly willing to bear for a day the infirmity which was 
 so disastrous to me, but which would be of such trifling 
 importance to them. 
 
 I woke very early in the morning, and my thoughts 
 immediately recurred to the subject of my ailment and 
 my friends. What a pity it was that such an advan- 
 tageous arrangement should be merely whim and fancy ! 
 But if my companion of the night before were here, he 
 would tell me that there was no impossibility, only a 
 want of faith — faith in the power of mind over mind, 
 of mind over body, and, primarily, of faith in my own 
 mind and will. I smiled as I thought of what might 
 happen if his ideas were based on truth. There was 
 my friend Will Troy. How gladly would he spend a 
 day at home in his easy-chair, smoking his pipe and for- 
 getting, over a novel, that there were such things as led- 
 gers, day-books, and columns of figures, while I strode 
 gayly over the mountain sides. If Troy had any option 
 in the matter, he would not hesitate for a moment ; 
 
204 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 and, knowing this, I would not hesitate for a moment in 
 making the little arrangement, if it could be made. 
 If belief in myself could do it, it would be done ; and I 
 began to wonder if it were possible, in any case, for a 
 man to believe in himself to such an extent. 
 
 Suddenly I determined to tr}-. '' It is early morning 
 here," I said to myself, "and in America it must be 
 about the middle of the night, and Will Troy is probably 
 sound asleep. Let me then determine, with all the 
 energy of my mental powers, that m}' mind shall be his 
 mind, and that he shall understand thoroughly that he 
 has some sort of trouble in his left leg which will not 
 inconvenience him at all if he allows it to rest, but 
 which will hurt him very much if he attempts to walk 
 about. Then I will make up my mind, quite decidedl}^ 
 that for a day it shall be Will who will be subject to 
 this pain, and not I." 
 
 For half an hour I lay flat on my back, my lips firmly 
 pressed together, my hands clinched, and my eyes fixed 
 upon the immutable peaks of the Dent du Midi, which 
 were clearly visible through the window at the foot of 
 my bed. My position seemed to be the natural one 
 for a man bending all the energies of his mind on a 
 determinate purpose. The great mountain stood up 
 before me as an example of the steadfast and immova- 
 ble. " Now," said I to myself, over and over again, 
 " Will Troy, it is you who are subject to this trouble. 
 You will know exactly what it is, because yon will feel 
 it through m}' mind. I am free from it ; I will that, 
 and it shall be so. My mind has power over youY mind, 
 because yours is asleep and passive, while mine is 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 205 
 
 awake and vei-y, very active. When I get out of bed I 
 shall be as entirely free from pain and difficulty in 
 walking as you would have been if I had not passed 
 my condition over to j'ou for one short day." And I 
 repeated again and again: "For one day; only for 
 one day." 
 
 The most difficult part of the process was the mental 
 operation of believing all this. If I did not believe it, 
 of course, it would come to nothing. Fixing m}' mind 
 steadfastly upon this subject, I believed with all m}^ 
 might. When I had believed for ten or fifteen minutes, 
 I felt sure that my faith in the power of my mind was 
 well grounded and fixed. A man who has truly be- 
 lieved for a quarter of an hour may be considered to 
 have embraced a faith. 
 
 And now came the supreme moment, and when I 
 arose should I be perfectly well and strong? The in- 
 stant this question came into my mind I dismissed it. 
 I would have no doubt whatever on the subject. I 
 would know that I should be what I willed I should be. 
 With my mind and my teeth firmly set, I got out of bed, 
 I walked boldly to the window, I moved about the 
 room, I dressed myself. I made no experiments ; I 
 would scorn to do so. Experiments imply doubt. I 
 believed. I went down several flights of stairs to my 
 breakfast. I walked the whole length of the long scdle- 
 (X-manger, and sat down at the table without having 
 felt a twinge of pain or the least discomfort. 
 
 "Monsieur is better this morning," said the head- 
 waiter, with a kindly smile. 
 
 " Better," said I ; " I am well." 
 
206 ■ A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 When I returned that evening after a day of intoxi- 
 cating delight, during which I had climbed man}^ a 
 mountain path, had stood on bUiffs and peaks, had 
 gazed over lake and valley, and had breathed to the 
 full the invigorating upper air, I stood upon the edge 
 of the lake, just before reaching the hotel, and stretched 
 forth my hands to the west. 
 
 "I thank you. Will Troy," I said, ''from the 
 bottom of my heart I thank you for this day ; and if I 
 ever see my way to repay you, I will do it, my boy. 
 You may be sure of that." 
 
 I now resolved to quit this place instantl3^ I had 
 been here too long ; and before me was spread out in 
 shadowy fascination the whole of Switzerland. I took 
 a night-train for Berne, where I arrived early the next 
 day. But before I descended from the railway car- 
 riage, where I had managed to slumber for part of the 
 night, I had determiuately willed an interchange of 
 physical condition with another friend in i^.merica. 
 During the previous day I had fully made up my mind 
 that I should be false to myself and to my fortunes if I 
 gave up this grand opportunity for study and artistic 
 development, and 1 would call upon my friends to 
 give me these precious holidays, of which, but a little 
 while ago, I believed myself forever deprived. I be- 
 longed to a club of artists, most of whom were young 
 and vigorous fellows, any one of whom would be glad 
 to do me a service ; and although I desired on special 
 occasions to interchange with particular friends, I 
 determined that during the rest of my holiday I would, 
 for the most part, exchange physical conditions with 
 these young men, giving a day to each. 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 207 
 
 The next week was a perfect success. As Martyn, 
 Jeffries, Williams, Corbell, Field, Booker, and Gra- 
 ham, I walked, climbed, sketched, and, when nobody 
 was near, shouted with delight. I took Williams for 
 Sunday, because I knew he never sketched on that day, 
 although he was not averse to the longest kind of rural 
 ramble. I shall not detail m}' route. The Bernese Ober- 
 laud, the region of Lake Lucerne, the Engadine, and 
 other earthly heavens opened their doors to my joyous 
 anticipations, provided always that this system of 
 physical exchange continued to work. 
 
 The Monday after Williams's Sunday I appropriated 
 to a long tramp which should begin with a view of the 
 sunrise from a mountain height, and which necessitated 
 my starting in the morning before daylight. For such 
 an excursion I needed all the strength and endurance 
 of which I could possess myself, and I did not hesitate 
 as to the exchange I should make for that long day's 
 work. Chester Parkman was the man for me. Park-' 
 man was a fairly good artist, but the sphere in which 
 he shone was that of the athlete. He was not very tall, 
 but he was broad and well made, with a cliest and 
 muscles which to some of his friends appeared to be in 
 an impertinent condition of perfect development. He 
 was a handsome fellow, too, with his well-browned 
 face, his fine white teeth, and his black hair and beard, 
 which seemed to curl because the strength which they 
 imbibed from him made it necessary to do something, 
 and curling is all that hair can do. On some occasions 
 it pleased me to think that when by the power of my 
 will my physical incapacity was transferred for a time 
 
208 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 to a friend, I, in tnrn, found myself in his peculiar 
 bodily condition, whatever it might be. And whether 
 I was mistaken or not, and whether this phase of my 
 borrowed condition was real or imaginary, it is certain 
 that when I started out before dawn that Monday 
 morning 1 strode away with vigorous Parkmanic legs, 
 and inhaled the cool air into what seemed to be a deep 
 Parkmanic chest. I took a guide that day, and when 
 we returned, some time after nightfall, I could see that 
 he was tired, and he admitted the fact ; but as for me, 
 I ate a good supper, and then walked a mile and a half 
 to sketch a moonlight effect on a lake. I will here 
 remark that, out of justice to Parkman, I rubbed my- 
 self down and polished myself off to the best of my 
 knowledge and ability before I went to bed. 
 
 When, as usual, 1 awoke early the next morning, I 
 lay for some time thinking. It had been mj' intention 
 to spend that day in a boat on the lake, and I had 
 decided to direct my will-power upon Tom Latham, a 
 young collegian of my acquaintance. Tom was an en- 
 thusiastic oarsman, and could pull with such strength 
 that if he were driving a horse he could almost haul 
 the animal back into the vehicle, but if a stout boy 
 were to be pushed off a horse-block Tom could not do 
 it. Tom's uuequall}' developed muscles were just 
 what I wanted that day ; but before I threw out my 
 mind in his direction I let it dwell in pleasant recollec- 
 tion upon the glorious day I had had with Chester 
 Parkman' s corporeal attributes. Thinking of Chester, 
 I began to think of some one else — one on whom my 
 thoughts had rested with more pleasure and more pain 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 209 
 
 than on any other person in the world. That this was 
 a woman I need not say. She was young, she was an 
 artist, and a very good friend of mine. For a long 
 time I had yearned with all my heart to be able to say 
 that she was more than this. But so far I could not 
 say it. Since I had been in Europe I had told m3^self 
 over and over that in coming away without telling 
 Kate Balthis that I loved her I made the greatest 
 mistake of my life. I had intended to do this, but 
 opportunity had not offered. I should have made 
 opportunity. 
 
 The reason that the thought of Chester Parkman 
 made me think of Kate was the fact that they occupied 
 studios in the same building, and that he was a great 
 admirer not only of her work, but of herself. If it had 
 not been for the existence of Parkman, I should not 
 have blamed m3'self quite so much for not proposing to 
 Kate before I left America. But I consoled m3^self by 
 reflecting that the man was so intent upon the develop- 
 ment of his lungs that his heart, to put it anatomically, 
 was obliged to take a minor place in his consideration. 
 
 Thinking thus, a queer notion came mto my head. 
 Suppose that Kate were to bear m}' troubles for a day ! 
 What friend had I who would be more willmg to serve 
 me than she? And what friend from whom I would 
 be more delighted to receive a favor? But the next 
 instant the contemptibleness of this idea flashed across 
 my mind, and I gritted my teeth as I thought what a 
 despicable thing it would be to deprive that dear girl 
 of her strength and activity, even for a day. It wae 
 true, as I honestly told myself, that it was the joy anof 
 
210 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 charm of being beholden to her, and not the benefit to 
 m3'self , that made me think of this thing. But it was 
 despicable, all the same, and I utterly scouted it. 
 And so, forgetting as far as possible that there was 
 such a person in the world as Kate, I threw out my 
 mind, as I originally intended, towards Tom Latham, 
 the oarsman. 
 
 I spent that day on the lake. If I had been able to 
 imagine that I could walk as far as Chester Parkman, 
 I failed to bring myself to believe that I could row like 
 young Latham. I got on well enough, but rowed no 
 better than I had often done at home, and I was soon 
 sorry that I had not brought a man with me to take the 
 oars, of which I had tired. 
 
 Among those I called upon in the next few days was 
 Professor Dynard, a man who was not exactly a friend, 
 but with whom I was very well acquainted. He was a 
 scientific man, a writer of books, and an enthusiastic 
 lover of nature. He was middle-aged and stooped a 
 little, but his legs were long, and he was an unwearied 
 walker. Towards the end of the very pleasant day 
 which I owed to my acquaintance with him, I could not 
 help smiling to find that I had thought so much of the 
 professor during my rambles that I had unconsciously 
 adopted the stoop of his shoulder and his ungainly but 
 regular stride. 
 
 The half-starved man to whom food is given eats too 
 much ; the child, released from long hours of school, 
 runs wild, and is apt to make himself objectionable ; 
 and I, rising from my condition of what I had consid- 
 ered hopeless inactivity to the fullest vigor of body and 
 
A BORROWED MONTH 211 
 
 limb, began to perceive that I had walked too much 
 and worked too little. The pleasure of being able to 
 ramble and scramble wherever I pleased had made me 
 forget that I was in Switzerland not only for enjo}'- 
 meut, but for improvement. Of course I had to walk 
 and climb to find points of view, but the pleasure of 
 getting to such places was so great that it overshad- 
 owed my interest in sitting down and going to work 
 after I had reached them. The man who sketches as 
 he walks and climbs is an extraordinary artist, and I 
 was not such a one. 
 
 It was while I was in the picturesque regions of the 
 Engadine that these reflections forced themselves upon 
 me, and I determined to live less for mere enjoyment 
 and more for earnest work. But not for a minute did 
 I think of giving up my precious system of corporeal 
 exchange. I had had enough of sitting in my room 
 and sketching from the window. If I had consented 
 to allow myself to relapse into my former condition, I 
 feared that I should not be able to regain that firm be- 
 lief in the power of my mental propulsion which had 
 so far enabled my friends to serve me so well, with such 
 brief inconvenience to themselves. No. I would con- 
 tinue to transfer my physical incapacity, but I would 
 use more conscientiously and earnestly the opportuni- 
 ties which I thus obtained. 
 
 Soon after I came to this determination, I established 
 myself at a little hotel on a mountain -side, where I de- 
 cided to stay for a week or more and do some good 
 hard work ; I was surrounded by grand and beautiful 
 scenery, and it was far better for my progress in art to 
 
212 A BCRROWED MONTH. 
 
 stay here and do something substantial than to wander 
 about in search of fresh delights. As an appropriate 
 beginning to this industrious period, I made an exchange 
 with ni}^ friend Bufford, one of the hardest- working 
 painters I knew. His industry as well as his genius 
 had brought him, when he had barely reached middle 
 life, to a high position in art, and it pleased me to think 
 that I might find myself influenced by some of his men- 
 tal characteristics as well as those of a physical nature. 
 At any rate, I tried hard to think so, and I am not 
 sure that I did not paint better on the Bufford day than 
 on an}^ other. If it had not been that I had positively 
 determined that I would not impose my ailment upon 
 any one of m}' friends for more thau one day, I would 
 have taken Bufford for a week. 
 
 There were a good many people staying at the hotel, 
 and among them was a very pretty English girl, with 
 whom I soon became acquainted ; for she was an en- 
 thusiastic amateur artist, and was engaged in painting 
 the same view at which I had chosen to work. Every 
 morning she used to go some distance up the mountain- 
 side, accompanied by her brother Dick, a tall, gawky 
 boy of about eighteen, who was considered to be a 
 suitable and sufficient escort, but who was in reality a 
 very poor one, for no sooner was his sister comfortably 
 seated at her work than he left her and rambled away 
 for hours. If it had not been for me I think she would 
 sometimes have been entirely too lonely and unpro- 
 tected. Dick's appetite would generally bring him 
 back in time to carry down her camp-chair and color- 
 box when we returned to dinner; and as she never 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 213 
 
 complained of his defections, I suppose her mother 
 knew nothing about them. This lady was a very pleas- 
 ant person, a little too heavy in body and a little too 
 large in cap for my taste, but hearty and genial, and 
 very anxious to know something about America, where 
 her oldest son was established on a Texas ranch. She 
 and her daughter and myself used to talk a good deal 
 together in the evenings, and this intimac}' made me 
 feel quite justified in talking a good deal to the daughter 
 in the mornings as we were working together on the 
 mountain-side. The first thing that made me take an 
 interest in this girl was the fact that she considered me 
 her superior, and looked up to me. I could paint a 
 great deal better than she could, and could info inn her 
 on a lot of points, and I was always glad to render her 
 such service. She was a very pretty girl, — the pretti- 
 est English girl I ever saw, — with large, gray-blue 
 eyes, which had a trustfulness about them which I liked 
 very much. She evidently had a very good opinion of 
 me as an artist, and paid as much earnest and thought- 
 ful attention to what I said about her work a^ if she 
 had really been the scholar and I the master. I tried 
 not to bore her by too much technical conversation, and 
 endeavored to make myself as agreeable a companion 
 as I could. I found that fellowship of some kind was 
 very necessary to a man so far away from home, and 
 so cut off from social influences. 
 
 Day after day we spent our mornings together, 
 sketching and talking ; and as for Dick, he was the 
 most interesting brother I ever knew. He had a great 
 desire to discover something hitherto unknown in the 
 
214 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 heights above our place of sketching. Finding that 
 he could depend on me as a protector for his sister, he 
 gave us very little of his company. Even when we 
 were not together I could not help thinking a great deal 
 about this charming girl. Our talks about her country 
 had made me remember with pride the English blood 
 that was in me, and revived the desire I had often felt 
 to live for a time, at least, in rural England, that land 
 of loveliness to the Anglo-Saxon mind. And London 
 too ! I had artist friends, Americans, who lived in Lon- 
 don, and such were their opportunities, such the art 
 atmosphere and society, that they expected to live 
 there always. If a fellow really wished to succeed as 
 an artist, some years' residence in England, with an 
 occasional trip to the Continent, would be a great thing 
 for him. And, in such a case — well, it was a mere 
 idle thought. If I had been an engaged man, I would 
 not have allowed mj'self even such idle thoughts. But 
 1 was not engaged ; and alas ! I thought with a sigh, I 
 might never be. I thought of Parkman and of Kate, 
 and how they must constantly see each other ; and I 
 remembered my stupid silence when leaving America. 
 How could I tell what had happened since my depart- 
 ure? I did not like to think of all this, and tried to 
 feel resigned. The world was very wide. There was 
 that P^nglish brother, over on the Texas ranch ; he 
 might marry an American girl ; and here was his sister 
 — well, this was all the merest nonsense, and I would 
 not admit to myself that I attached the slightest im- 
 portance to these vague and fragmentary notions which 
 floated thiough my mind. But the girl had most lovely, 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 215 
 
 trustful eyes, and I felt that a sympathy had grown up 
 between us which must not be rudely jarred. 
 
 We had finished our work at the old sketching-place, 
 and we proposed on the morrow to go to a higher part 
 of the mountain, and make some sketches of a more 
 extended nature than we had yet tried. This excursion 
 would require a good part of the day, but we would 
 take along a luncheon for three, and no doubt nothing 
 would please Dick better than such a trip. The mother 
 agreed, if Dick could be made to promise that he would 
 take his sister by the hand when he came to any steep 
 places. But, alas ! when that youngster was called 
 upon to receive his injunctions, he declared he could 
 not accompany us. He had promised, he said, to go 
 on a tramp with some of the other men, which would 
 take him all day. And that, of course, put an end to 
 our expedition. I shall not soon forget the air, charm- 
 ing to me, of evident sorrow and disappointment with 
 which Beatrice told me this early in the evening. The 
 next day was the only one for which such a trip could 
 be planned, for, on the day following, two older sisters 
 were expected, and then everything would be different. 
 I, too, was very much grieved and disappointed, for I 
 had expected a day of rare pleasure ; but my regret 
 was tempered by an intense satisfaction at perceiving 
 how sorry she was. The few words she said on the 
 subject touched me very much. She was such a true, 
 honest-hearted girl that she could not conceal what she 
 felt ; and when we shook hands in bidding each other 
 good-night, it was with more warmth than either of us 
 had yet shown at the recurrence of this little ceremony. 
 
216 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 When I went to my room I said to myself : "If she 
 had not been prevented from going, I should never 
 have known how glad she would be to go." The 
 thought pleased me greatly, but I had no time to dwell 
 upon it, for in came Dick, who, with his hands in his 
 pockets and his legs very wide apart, declared to me 
 that he had found his sister was so cut up by not being 
 able to make those sketches on the mountain the next 
 day, that he had determined to go with us. 
 
 "It will be a beastly shame to disappoint her," he 
 said ; " so you can get your traps together, and we will 
 have an early breakfast and start off." 
 
 " Now," said I, when he had shut the door behind 
 him, " I know how much she wanted to go, and she is 
 going ! Could anything be better than this? " 
 
 In making the physical transfers which were neces- 
 sary at this period for my enjoyment of an outdoor ex- 
 cursion, I did not always bring my mental force to 
 work upon an exchange of condition. Very often I 
 was willing to send out my ailment to another, and to 
 content myself with being for the day what I would be 
 in my ordinary health. But in particular instances, 
 such as those of Parkman and Bufford, I willed — and 
 persuaded myself that I had succeeded — that certain 
 desirable attributes of my benefactor for the day, 
 which would be useless to him during his period of en- 
 forced restfulness, should be attracted to myself. 
 Before I went to sleep I determined that on the follow- 
 ing day I would exchange with my brother Philip, and 
 would make it as absolute an exchange as my will 
 could bring about. Phil was not an athlete, like Park- 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 217 
 
 man, but he was a strong and vigorous fellow, with an 
 immense deal of go in him. He was thoroughly good- 
 natured, and I knew that he would be perfectly will- 
 ing, if he could know all about it, to take a day's rest, 
 and give me a day with Beatrice. And what a charm- 
 ing day that was to be ! We did not know exactly where 
 we were going, and we should have to explore. There 
 would be steep places to climb, and it would not be 
 Dick who would help his sister. We should have to 
 rest, and we would rest together. There would be a 
 delightful lunch under the shade of some rock. There 
 would be long talks, and a charming cooperation in the 
 selection of points of view and in work. Indeed, there 
 was no knowing what might not come out of a day like 
 that. 
 
 In the morning I made the transfer, and soon after- 
 wards I arose. Before I was ready to go down-stairs 
 I was surprised by an attack of headache, a thing very 
 unusual with me. The pain increased so much that I 
 was obliged to go back to bed. I soon found that 
 I must give up the intended excursion, and I remained 
 in bed all day. In the course of the afternoon, while 
 I lay bemoaning my present misery as well as the loss 
 of the great pleasure I had expected, a thought sud- 
 denly came into my mind, which, in spite of my mis- 
 eries, made me burst out laughing. I remembered that 
 my brother Phil, although enjoying, as a rule, the 
 most vigorous good health, was subject to occasional 
 attacks of sick headache, which usually laid him up for 
 a day or two. Evidently I had struck him on one of 
 his headache days. How relieved the old fellow must 
 
218 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 be to find his positive woe changed to a negative evil ! 
 It was very funny ! 
 
 In the evening came Dick with a message from his 
 mother and his sister Beatrice, who wanted to know 
 how I felt by this time, and if I would have a cup of 
 tea, or anything. "It's a beastly shame," said he, 
 " that you got yourself knocked up in this way." 
 
 "Yes," said I, "but my misfortune is your good 
 fortune, for, of course, you had your tramp with your 
 friends." 
 
 " Oh, I should have had that any way," replied the 
 good youth, " for I only intended to walk a mile or 
 two up the mountain, just to satisfy the old lad}", and 
 then, without saying whether I was coming back or not, 
 I intended to slip off and join the other fellows. 
 Wouldn't that have been a jolly plan? Beatrice would 
 have had her day, and I should have had mine. But 
 you must go and upset her part of it." 
 
 When Dick had gone I reflected. What a day this 
 would have been ! Alone so long with Beatrice among 
 those grand old mountains ! As I continued to think 
 of this I began to tremble, and the more I thought the 
 more I trembled ; and the reason I trembled was the 
 conviction that if I had spent that day with her, I cer- 
 tainly should have proposed to her. 
 
 " Phil," I said, "I thank you. I thank you more for 
 }our headache than for anything else any other fellow 
 could give me." 
 
 A sick headache, aided by conscience, can work a 
 great change in a man. My soul condemned me for 
 having come so near being a very false lover, and my 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 219 
 
 mind congratulated me upon having the miss made for 
 me, for I never should have been strong enough to 
 make it for myself. 
 
 The next day the sisters arrived, and I saw but little 
 of Beatrice, for which, although quite sorry, I was also 
 very glad ; and after a day on the mountain which I 
 owed to Horace Bartlett, the last man in our club on 
 whom I felt I could draw, I returned to the hotel, and 
 wrote a long letter to Kate. I had informed m}- friends 
 in America of the ailment which had so frustrated all 
 my plans of work and enjoyment, but I had never 
 written anything in regard to my novel scheme of 
 relief. This was something which could be better ex- 
 plained by word of mouth when I returned. And, be- 
 sides, I did not wish to say anything about it until the 
 month of proposed physical transfers had expired. I 
 wrote to Kate, however, that I was now able to walk 
 and climb as much as I pleased, and in my repentant 
 exuberance 1 hinted at a great many points which, al- 
 though I knew she could not understand them, would 
 excite her curiosity and interest in the remarkable story 
 I would tell her when I returned. I tried to intimate, in 
 the most guarded way, much that I intended to say to her 
 when I saw her concerning my series of deliverances ; 
 and my satisfaction at having escaped a great tempta- 
 tion gave a kindly earnestness to my manner of express- 
 mg myself, which otherwise it might not have had. 
 
 There were now six days of my Swiss holiday left ; 
 and during these I threw myself upon the involuntary 
 kindness of Mr. Henry Brinton, editor of a periodical 
 entitled " Our Mother Earth," and upon that of his five 
 
220 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 assistants in the publishing and editorial departments. 
 Brinton was a good fellow, devoted to scientific agri- 
 culture and the growing of small fruits ; a man of a 
 most practical mind. I knew him and his associates 
 very well, and had no hesitation in calling upon them. 
 
 At the end of the month, as I had previously resolved, 
 I brought my course of physical transfers to a close ; 
 and it was with no little anxiety that I arose one morning 
 from my bed with my mind determined to bear in my 
 own proper person all the ills of which I was possessed. 
 
 I walked across the room. It may appear strange, 
 but I must admit that it was with a feeling of satisfac- 
 tion that I felt a twinge. It was but a little twinge, but 
 yet I felt it, and this was something that had not 
 happened to me for a month. 
 
 "It was not fancy then," I said to myself, *' that 
 gave me this precious relief, this month of rare delight 
 and profit ; it was the operation of the outstretching 
 power of the mind. I owe you much happiness, you 
 little man with the big head whom I met in the Kursaal, 
 and if you were here I would make you admit that I 
 can truly believe in myself." 
 
 The next day I was better, with only an occasional 
 touch of the old disorder ; and in a few days I was free 
 from it altogether, and could walk as well as ever I 
 could in my life. 
 
 I returned to America strong and agile, and with a 
 portfolio full of suggestive sketches. One of these 
 was the back hair and part of the side face of a girl 
 who was engaged in sketching in a mountainous region. 
 But this I tore up on the voyage. 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 221 
 
 WEST. 
 
 I WILL now relate the events which took place in 
 America, among the people in whom I was most inter- 
 ested, while I, a few thousand miles to the east, was 
 enjoying my month of excursion and art work in the 
 mountains of Switzerland. 
 
 On my return to my old associates I had intended to 
 state to all of them, in turn, that I owed my delightful 
 holiday to the fact that I had been able to transfer to 
 them the physical disability which had prevented me 
 from making use of the opportunities offered me by the 
 Alps and the vales of Helvetia. But by conversation 
 with one and another I gradually became acquainted 
 with certain interesting facts which determined me to 
 be very cautious in making disclosures regarding the 
 outreachiug power of my will. 
 
 No one of my friends was so much affected by m} 
 departure for Europe as that dear girl Kate Balthis, 
 although I had no idea at the time that this was so. 
 It was not that she was opposed to my going ; on the 
 contrary, it was she who had most encouraged me to 
 persevere in ray intention to visit Europe, and to con- 
 quer or disregard the man}^ obstacles to the plan which 
 rose up before me. She had taken a great interest in 
 my artistic career, and much more personal interest 
 
222 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 in me than I had dared to suppose. She had imagined, 
 and I feel that she had a perfect right to do so, that 
 I felt an equal interest in her ; and when I went away 
 without a word more than any friend might say to an- 
 other, the girl was hurt. It was not a deep wound ; it 
 was more in the nature of a rebuff. She felt a slight 
 sense of humiliation, and wondered if she had infused 
 more warmth into her intercourse with me than was 
 warranted by the actual quality of our friendship. But 
 she cherished no resentment, and merely put away an 
 almost finished interior, in which I had painted a fair 
 but very distant landscape seen through a partly 
 opened window, and set herself to work on a fresh 
 canvas. 
 
 Chester Parkman, the artist- athlete whom I have 
 mentioned, was always fond of Kate's society ; but 
 after my departure he came a great deal more fre- 
 quently to her studio than before ; and he took it into 
 his head that he would like to have his portrait painted 
 by her. I had never supposed that Parkman 's mind 
 was capable of such serviceable subtlety as this, and I 
 take the opportunity here to give him credit for it. 
 Kate's forte was clearly portraiture, although she did 
 not confine herself at that time to this class of work ; 
 and she was well pleased to have such an admirable 
 subject as Chester Parkman, who, if he had not been 
 an artist himself, might have made a very comfortable 
 (ivelihood by acting as a model for other artists. This 
 portrait-painting business, of which I should have 
 totally disapproved had I known of it, brought them 
 together for an hour every day ; and, although Kate 
 
A BORROWED MONTE. 223 
 
 had two or three pupils, they worked in an adjoining 
 room, separated by drapery from her own studio ; and 
 this gave Parkman every opportunity of making him- 
 self as agreeable as he could be. His method of ac- 
 complishing this, I have reason to believe, was by 
 looking as well as he could rather than by conversa- 
 tional efforts. But he made Kate agreeable to him in 
 a way of which at the time she knew nothing. He so 
 arranged his position that a Venetian mirror in a corner 
 gave him an admirable view of Kate's face as she sat 
 at her easel. Thus, as she studied his features, his eyes 
 dwelt more and more fondly upon hers, though she 
 noticed it not. This sort of thing went on till Parkman 
 found himself in a very bad way. The image of Kate 
 rose up before him when he was not in her studio, and 
 it had such an influence upon him that, if I may so put 
 it, he gradually sunk his lungs, and let his heart rise 
 to the surface. He imagined, though with what rea- 
 son I am not prepared to say, that he could perceive in 
 Kate's countenance indications of much admiration of 
 her subject, and he flattered himself this was not con- 
 fined to her consideration of him as a model. In fact, 
 he found that he was ver}' much in love with the girl. 
 If he had been a wise man, he would have postponed 
 proposing to her until his portrait was finished, for if 
 she refused him he would lose both picture and painter. 
 But he was not a wise man, and one day he made up 
 his mind that as soon as she had finished the corner of 
 his mouth, at which she was then at work, he would 
 abandon his pose, and tell her how things stood with 
 him. But a visitor came in, and prevented this plan 
 
224 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 from being carried out. This interruption, however, 
 was merely a postponement. Parkman determined 
 that on the next day he would settle the matter with 
 Kate the moment he arrived at the studio, or as soon, 
 at least, as he was alone with her. 
 
 If he had known the state of Kate's mind at this 
 time, he would have been very much encouraged. I 
 do not mean to say that any tenderness of sentiment 
 towards him was growing up within her, but she had 
 begun to admire very much this fine, handsome fellow. 
 She took more pleasure in working at his portrait than 
 m any other she had yet done. A man, she had come 
 to think, to be true to art and to his manhood, should 
 look like this one. 
 
 Thus it was that although Kate Balthis had not yet 
 thought of her model with feelings that had become 
 fond, it could not be denied that her affections, having 
 lately been obliged to admit that they had no right to 
 consider themselves occupied, were not in a condition 
 to repel a new comer. And Parkman was a man who, 
 when he had made up his mind to offer his valued self, 
 would do it with a vigor and earnestness that could not 
 easily be withstood. 
 
 It was a long time before Chester Parkman went to 
 sleep that night, so engaged was he in thinking upon 
 what he was going to do on the morrow. But, shortly 
 after he arose the next morning, he was attacked by a 
 very queer feeling in his left leg, which made it decid- 
 edly unpleasant for him when he attempted to walk. 
 Indisposition of any kind was exceedingly unusual 
 with the young athlete, but he knew that under the 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 225 
 
 circumstances the first thing necessary for his accurately 
 developed muscles was absolute rest, and this he gave 
 them. He sent a note to Kate, telling her what had 
 happened to him, and expressing his great regret at 
 not being able to keep his appointment for the day. 
 He would see her, however, at the very earliest ix)ssible 
 moment that this most unanticipated disorder would 
 allow him. He sent for a trainer, and had himself 
 rubbed and lotioned, and then betook himself to a pipe, 
 a novel, and a big easy-chair, having first quieted his 
 much perturbed soul b}^ assuring it that if he did not 
 get over this thing in a few days, he would write to 
 Kate, and tell her in the letter all he had intended 
 to say. 
 
 The next day, much to his surprise, he arose perfectly 
 well. He walked, he strode, he sprang into the air ; 
 there was absolutely nothing the matter with him. He 
 rejoiced beyond his power of expression, and deter- 
 mined to visit Kate's studio even earlier than the usual 
 hour ; but before he was ready to start he received a 
 note from her, which stated that she had been obliged 
 to stay at home that day on account of a sudden attack 
 of something like rheumatism, and therefore, even if 
 he thought himself well enough, he need not make the 
 exertion necessary to go all the way up to her studio. 
 This note was very prettily expressed, and on the first 
 reading of it Parkman could see nothing in it but a kind 
 desire on the part of the writer that he should know 
 there would be no occasion for him to do himself a pos- 
 sible injury by mounting to her lofty studio before he 
 was entirely recovered. Of course she could not know, 
 
226 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 he thought, that he would be able to come that day, 
 but it was very good of her to consider the possible 
 contingency. 
 
 But, after sitting down and reflecting on the matter 
 for ten or fifteen minutes, Parkman took a different 
 view of the note. He now perceived that the girl was 
 making fun of him. What imaginable reason was there 
 for believing that she, a perfectly healthy person, 
 should be suddenly afflicted by a rheumatism which ap- 
 parently was as much like that of which he had told 
 her the day before as one pain could be like another. 
 Yes, she was making game of the muscles and sinews 
 on which he prided himself. She did not believe the 
 excuse he had given, and trumped up this ridiculous 
 ailment to pay him back in his own coin. Chester 
 Parkman was not easily angered, but he allowed this 
 note to touch him on a tender point. It seemed to 
 intimate that he would asperse his own physical organ- 
 ization in order to get an excuse for not keeping an 
 appointment. To accuse him of such disloyalty was 
 unpardonable. He was very indignant, and said to 
 himself that he would give Miss Balthis some time to 
 come to her senses ; and that if she were that kind of 
 a girl, it would be very well for him to reflect. He wrote 
 a coldly expressed note to Kate, in which he said that, 
 as far as he was concerned, he would not inconvenience 
 her by giving her even the slightest reason for coming 
 to her studio during the continuance of her most inex- 
 plicable malady. 
 
 Mr. Chester Parkman's mind might have been much 
 more legitimately disturbed had he known that during 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 227 
 
 the night before Kate had been lying awake, and had 
 been thinking of me. She had heard that day from a 
 friend, to whom I had written, of the great misfortune 
 which had happened to me in Switzerland ; and she 
 had been thinking, dear girl, that if it were possible 
 how gladly would she bear my trouble for a time, and 
 give me a chance to enjoy that lovely land which I had 
 tried so hard to reach. And if he had been told that 
 at that very time, as I lay awake in the early morning, 
 the idea had come into my head, although most instantly 
 dismissed, that I should like to be beholden to Kate for 
 a day of Alpine pleasure, he would reasonably have 
 wondered what that had to do with it. 
 
 After I had become acquainted with these facts, I 
 asked young Tom Latham, the oarsman, to whom I sup- 
 posed I had transferred my physical condition on the day 
 after I walked with Parkmanic legs to see the sun rise, 
 if he had been at all troubled with rheumatism during 
 the past few months. He replied with some asperity 
 that he had been as right as a trivet straight along ; 
 and why in the world did I imagine he was subject to 
 rheumatism ! 
 
 Of course Kate was annoyed when she received 
 Parkman's note. She saw that he had taken offence 
 at something, although she had no idea what it was. 
 But she did not allow this to trouble her long, and 
 said to herself that if Mr. Parkman was angry with 
 her she was very sorry, but she would be content to 
 postpone work on the portrait until he should recover 
 his good humor. 
 
 When she had retired that nisrht she had determined 
 
228 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 that, if she should not be well enough to go to her 
 studio in a few days, she would send for some of her 
 working materials and try to paint in her room. But 
 the next morning she arose perfectly well. 
 
 If, however, she had known what was going to 
 happen, she would have preferred spending another 
 da}^ in her pleasant chamber with her books and sew- 
 ing. For, about eleven o'clock in the morning, there 
 walked into her studio Professor Dynard, a gentleman 
 who for some time had taken a great deal of interest in 
 her and her work. 
 
 She had usually been very well pleased to talk to 
 him, for he was a man of wide information and good 
 judgment. But this morning there seemed to be some- 
 thing about him which was not altogether pleasant. 
 In the first place, he stood before the unfinished por- 
 trait of Chester Parkman, regarding it with evident 
 displeasure. For some minutes he said nothing, but 
 hemmed and grunted. Presently he turned and re- 
 marked, " I don't like it." 
 
 ''What is the matter with it?" asked Kate from 
 the easel at which she was at work. " Have I not 
 caught the likeness? " 
 
 "Oh, that is good enough as far as it goes,'* said 
 the Professor. " Very good indeed ! too good ! You 
 are going to make an admirable picture. But I wish 
 you had another subject." 
 
 " Why, I thought myself extraordinarily fortunate in 
 getting so good a one!" exclaimed Kate. "Is he 
 not an admirable model? " 
 
 " Of course he is," said the professor, " but I don't 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 229 
 
 like to see you painting a young fellow like Parkman. 
 Now, don't be angry," he continued, taking a seat 
 near her and looking around to see if the curtain of 
 the pupils' room was properly drawn. " I take a 
 great interest in your welfare, Miss Balthis, and my 
 primary object in coming here this morning is to tell 
 you so ; and, therefore, you must not be surprised that 
 I was somewhat annoyed when I found that you were 
 painting young Parkman's portrait. I don't like you 
 to be painting the portraits of young men, Miss Balthis, 
 and I will tell 3'ou why." And then he drew his chair 
 a little nearer to her, and offered himself in marriage. 
 It must be rather awkward for a young lady artist 
 to be proposed to at eleven o'clock in the morning, 
 when she is sitting at her easel, one hand holding her 
 palette and maul-stick, and the other her brush, and 
 with three girl pupils on the other side of some mod- 
 erately heavy drapery, probably listening with all their 
 six eai-s. But in Kate's case the peculiarity of the 
 situation was emphasized by the fact that this was the 
 first time that any one had ever proposed to her. She 
 had expected me to do something of the kind ; and two 
 days before, although she did not know it, she had 
 just missed a declaration from Parkman ; but now it 
 was really happening, and a man was asking her to 
 marry him. And this man was Professor Dynard I 
 Had Kate been in the habit of regarding him with the 
 thousand eyes of a fly, never, with a single one of 
 tliose eyes, would she have looked upon him as a 
 lover. But she turned towards him, and sat up very 
 straight, and listened to all he had to say. 
 
230 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 The Professor told a very fair story. He had long 
 admired Miss Balthis, and had ended by loving her. 
 He knew very well that he was no longer a young man, 
 but he thought that if she would carefully consider the 
 matter, she would agree with him that he was likely to 
 make her a much better husband than the usual young 
 man could be expected to make. In the first place, 
 the object of his life, as far as fortune was concerned, 
 had been accomplished, and he was ready to devote 
 the rest of his days to her, her fortune, and her hap- 
 piness. He would not ask her to give up her art, but, 
 on the contrary, would afford her every facility for 
 work and study under the most favorable circum- 
 stances. He would take her to Europe, to the isles of 
 the sea, — wherever she might like to go. She could 
 live in the artistic heart of the world, or in any land 
 where she might be happy. He was a man both able 
 and free to devote himself to her. He had money 
 enough, and he was not bound by circumstances to 
 special work or particular place. Through him the 
 world would be open to her, and his greatest happiness 
 should be to see her enjoy her opportunities. " More 
 than that," he continued, " I want 3'ou to remember 
 that, although I am no longer in my first youth, I am 
 very strong, and enjoy excellent health. This is some- 
 thing you should consider very carefully in making an 
 alliance for life ; for it would be most unfortunate for 
 you if you should marry a man who, early in life, 
 should become incapacitated from pursuing his career, 
 and you should find yourself obliged to provide, not 
 only for yourself, but for him." 
 
A BORROWED MONTH 231 
 
 This, Kate knew very well, was intended as a refer- 
 ence to me. Professor Dynard had reason to believe 
 I was much attached to Kate, and he had heard exag- 
 gerated accounts of my being laid up with rheumatism 
 in Switzerland. It was very good in him to warn her 
 against a man who might become a chronic invalid on 
 her hands ; but Kate said nothing to him, and let him 
 go on. 
 
 " And even these devotees of muscularity," said the 
 Professor, " these amateur athletes, are liable to be 
 stricken down at any moment by some unforeseen dis- 
 ease. I do not wish to elevate the body above the 
 mind. Miss Balthis, but these things should be care- 
 fully considered. You should marry a man who is not 
 only in vigorous health, but is likely to continue so. 
 And now, my dear Miss Balthis, I do not wish you to 
 utter one word in answer to what I have been saying 
 to you. I want you to consider, carefully and ear- 
 nestly, the proposition I have made. Do not speak 
 now, I beg of you, for I know I could not expect at this 
 moment a favorable answer. I want you to give your 
 calm judgment an opportunity to come to my aid. 
 On the day after to-morrow I will come to receive your 
 answer. Good-bye." 
 
 During that afternoon and the next day Kate thought 
 of little but of the offer of marriage which had been 
 made to her. Sometimes she regretted that she had 
 not been bold enough to interrupt him with a refusal, 
 and so end the matter. And then, again, she fell to 
 thinking upon the subject of love, thinking and think- 
 ing. Naturally her first thoughts fell upon me. But 
 
232 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 I had not spoken, nor had I written. This could not 
 be accidental. It had a meaning which she ought not 
 to allow herself to overlook. She found, too, while 
 thus turning over the contents of her mind, that she 
 had thought a little, a very little she assured herself, 
 about Chester Parkman. She admitted that there was 
 something insensibly attractive about him, and he had 
 been extremely attentive and kind to her. But even if 
 her thoughts had been inclined to dwell upon him, it 
 would have been ridiculous to allow them to do so now, 
 for in some way she had offended him, and might never 
 see him again. He must be of a very irritable disposi- 
 tion. 
 
 And then there came up before her visions of Europe 
 and of the isles of the sea ; of a life amid the art won- 
 ders of the world, — a life with every wish gratified, 
 ever}' desire made possible. Professor Dynard had 
 worked much better than she had supposed at the time 
 he was working. He had not offered her the kind of 
 love she had expected, should love ever be offered, but 
 he had placed before her, immediately and without 
 reserve, everything to which she had expected to attain 
 by the labors of a life. All this was ver}^ dangerous 
 thinking for Kate ; the fortifications of her heart were 
 being approached at a very vulnerable point. When 
 she started independently in life, she did not set out 
 with the determination to fall in love, or to have love 
 made to her, or to be married, or anything of the kind. 
 Her purpose was to live an art life ; and to do that as 
 she wished to do it, she would have to work very hard 
 and wait very long. But now, all she had to do was 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 233 
 
 to give a little nod, and the hope of the future would 
 be the fact of the present. Even her own self would 
 be exalted. "What a different woman should I be," 
 she thought, "in Italy or in Egypt." This was a 
 terribly perilous time for Kate. The temptation came 
 directly into the line of her hopes and aspirations. It 
 tinged her mind with a delicately spreading rosiuess. 
 
 The next morning when she went to her studio she 
 found there a note from Professor Dynard, statiug that 
 he could not keep his appointment with her that day 
 on account of a sudden attack of something like rheu- 
 matism, which made it impossible to leave his room. 
 This indisposition was not a matter of much impor- 
 tance, he wrote, and would probably disappear in a few 
 days, when he would hasten to call upon her. He 
 begged that in the mean time she would continue the 
 consideration of the subject on which he had spoken to 
 her ; and hoped very earnestly that she would arrive at 
 a conclusion which should be favorable to him, and 
 which, in that case, he most sincerely believed would 
 also be favorable to herself. 
 
 When she read this, Kate leaned back in her chair 
 and laughed. " After all he said the other day about 
 the danger of my getting a husband who would have 
 to be taken care of, this is certainly very funny ! " She 
 forgot the rosy hues which had been insensibly tinting 
 her dreams of the future on the day before, and only 
 thought of a middle-aged gentleman, with a little bald 
 place on the top of his head, who was subject to rheu- 
 matism, and probably very cross when he was obliged 
 to stay in the house. "It is a shame," she said tc 
 
234 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 herself, '•' to allow the poor old gentleman to worry his 
 mind about me any longer. It will be no more than a 
 deception to let him lie at home and imagine that as 
 soon as he is well he can come up here and get a fa- 
 vorable answer from me. I'll write him a note immedi- 
 ately and settle the matter." And this she did, and 
 thereby escaped the greatest danger to herself to which 
 she had ever been exposed. 
 
 Nearly all Kate's art friends had been very much in- 
 terested in her portrait of Chester Parkman, which, in 
 its nearly completed state, was the best piece of work 
 she had done. Among these friends was Buflford, 
 whose pupil Kate had been, and to whom she had long 
 looked up, not only as to a master, but as to a dear and 
 kind friend. Mrs. Bufford, too, was extremely fond 
 of Kate, and was ever ready to give her counsel and 
 advice, but not in regard to art, which subject she re- 
 signed entirely to her husband. It was under Mrs. 
 Bufford's guidance that Kate, when she first came to 
 the city from her home in the interior of the State, 
 selected her boarding-house, her studio, and her church. 
 More than half of her Sundays were spent with these 
 good friends, and the}' had always considered it their 
 duty to watch over her as if her parents had appointed 
 them her guardians. Bufford was greatly disappointed 
 when he found that the work on Parkman 's portrait 
 had been abruptly broken off. He had wished Kate to 
 finish it in time for an approaching exhibition, where 
 he knew it would attract great attention , both from the 
 fact that the subject was so well known in art circles and 
 in society, and because it was going to be, he believed. 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 235 
 
 a most admirable piece of work. Kate had explained 
 to him, as far as she knew, how matters stood. Mr. 
 Parkman had suddenly become offended with her, why 
 she knew not. He was perfectly well and able to 
 come, she said, for some of her friends had seen him 
 going about as usual ; but he did not come to her, and 
 she certainly did not intend to ask him to do so. Buf- 
 ford shook his head a good deal at this, and when he 
 went home and told his wife about it, he expressed 
 his opinion that Kate was not to blame in the 
 matter. 
 
 ''That young Parkman,*' he said, "is extremely 
 touchy, and he has an entirely too good opinion of him- 
 self ; and by indulging in some of his crank}' notions 
 he is seriously interfering with Kate's career, for she 
 has nothing on hand except his portrait which I would 
 care to have her exhibit." 
 
 "Now don't you be too sure," said Mrs. Bufford, 
 *' about Kate not being to blame. Young girls, with- 
 out the slightest intention, sometimes do and say things 
 which are very irritating, and Kate is just as high- 
 spirited as Parkman is touchy. I have no doubt that 
 the whole quarrel is about some ridiculous trifle, and 
 could be smoothed over with a few words, if we could 
 only get the few words said. I was delighted when I 
 heard she was painting Chester's portrait, for I hoped 
 the work would result in something much more desir- 
 able even than a good picture." 
 
 "I know you always wanted her to marry him," 
 said Bufford. 
 
 " Yes, and I still want her to do so. And a little 
 
236 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 piece of nonsense like this should not be allowed to 
 break off the best match I have ever known." 
 
 '* Since our own," suggested her husband. 
 
 *' That is understood," she replied. '' And now, do 
 you know what I think is our duty in the premises? 
 We should make it our business to heal this quarrel, 
 and bring these young people together again. I am 
 extremely anxious that no time should be lost in doing 
 this, for it will not be long before young Clinton will 
 be coming home. He was to stay away only three 
 months altogether." 
 
 "And you are afraid he will interfere with your 
 plans? " said Bufford. 
 
 *' Indeed I am," answered his wife. ''For a long 
 time Kate and he have been very intimate, — entirely 
 too much so, — and I was very glad when he went away, 
 and gave poor Chester a chance. Of course there is 
 nothing settled between them so far, because if there 
 had been Clinton would never have allowed that por- 
 trait to be thought of." 
 
 " Jealous wretch ! " remarked Bufford. 
 
 " You need not joke about it," said his wife. " It 
 would be a most deplorable thing for Kate to man*y 
 Clinton. He has, so far, made no name for himself in 
 art, and no one can say that he ever will. He is poor, 
 and has nothing on earth but what he makes, and it is 
 not probable that he will ever make anything. And, 
 worse than all that, he has become a chronic invalid. 
 I have heard about his condition in Switzerland." 
 
 ''And having originally very little," said her hus- 
 band, " and having lost the only valuable thing he 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 237 
 
 possessed, you would take away from him eveu what 
 he expected to have.'* 
 
 " He has no right to expect it," said Mrs. Bufford. 
 '* and it would be a wicked and cruel thing for him tc 
 endeavor to take Kate away from a man like Chestei 
 Parkman. Chester is rich, he is handsome, he is in 
 perfect health, and to a girl with an artistic mind like 
 Kate he should be a constant joy to look upon.'* 
 
 '' But," said Bufford, " why don't you leave Kate tc 
 find out these superiorities for herself ? ' ' 
 
 *' It would never do at all. Don't you see how she 
 has let the right man go on account of some trifliug 
 misunderstanding? And Clinton will come home, and 
 find that he has the field all to himself. Now I'll tell 
 you what I want you to do. You must go to Kate to- 
 morrow, find out what this trouble is about, and rep- 
 resent to her that she ought not to allow a little 
 misunderstanding to interfere with her career in 
 art." 
 
 *' Why don't you go yourself? " said Bufford. 
 
 " That is out of the question. I could not put the 
 matter on an art basis, and anythmg else would rouse 
 Kate's suspicions. And, besides, I want you after- 
 wards to go to Parkman, and talk to him ; and, of 
 course, I could not do that." 
 
 *' Very well," said Bufford, " I am going to see them 
 both to-morrow, and will endeavor to make things 
 straight between them ; but I don't wish to be consid- 
 ered as having anything to do with the matrimonial 
 part of the affair. What I want is to have Kate finish 
 that picture in time for the exhibition." 
 
238 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 " You attend to that,*' said his wife, *' and the mat- 
 rimonial part will take care of itself. ' ' 
 
 But Bufford did not see either Kate or Parkman the 
 next day, being prevented from leaving his room by a 
 sudden attack of something like rheumatism. He was 
 a man of strong good sense and persuasive speech, and 
 I think he would have had no difficulty in bringing 
 Parkman and Kate together again ; and if this had 
 happened, I am very certain that Parkman would have 
 lost no time in declaring his passion. What would 
 have resulted from this, of course, I cannot say ; but 
 it must be remembered that Kate at that time supposed 
 that she had made a great mistake in regard to my sen- 
 timents towards her. In fact, if Bufford had seen the 
 two 3'oung people that day, I am afraid, I am very 
 much afraid that everything would have gone wrong. 
 
 The next day Bufford did see Kate, and easily ob- 
 tained her permission to call on Parkman, and endeavor 
 to find out what it was that had given him umbrage ; 
 but as the young athlete had started that very morning 
 for a trip to the West, Bufford was obliged to admit to 
 himself, very reluctantly, that it was probably useless 
 to consider any further the question of Kate's finishing 
 his portrait in time for the exhibition. 
 
 When I returned to America, and at the very earli- 
 est possible moment presented myself before Kate, I 
 had not been ten seconds in her company before I per- 
 ceived that I was an accepted lover. How I perceived 
 this I will not say, for every one who has been ac- 
 cepted can imagine it for himself ; but I will say that, 
 although raised to the wildest pitch of joy by the 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 239 
 
 discovery, I was very much surprised at it. I had 
 never told the girl I loved her. I had never asked her 
 to love me. But here it was, all settled, and Kate was 
 my own dear love. Of course, feeling as I did towards 
 her, it was easy for me to avoid any backwardness of 
 demeanor, which might indicate to her that I was sur- 
 prised, and I know that not for a moment did she sus- 
 pect it. Before the end of our interview, however, I 
 found out how I had been accepted without knowing it. 
 It had been on account of the letter I had written Kate 
 from Switzerland. In this very carefully constructed 
 epistle I had hinted at a great many things which I had 
 been careful not to explain, not wishing to put upon 
 paper the story of my series of wonderful deliverances, 
 which I intended with my own mouth to tell to Kate. 
 It was a subtly quiet letter, with a substratum of hilari- 
 ousness, of enthusiasm, surging beneath it, which some- 
 times showed through the thin places in the surface. Of 
 course, writing to Kate, my mind was full of her, as 
 well as of my deliverances, and in my hypersubtlety I 
 so expressed my feelings in regard to the latter of these 
 subjects that it might easily have been supposed to 
 pertain to the first. In fact, when I afterwards read 
 this letter I did not wonder at all that the dear girl 
 thought it was a declaration of love. That she made 
 the mistake I shall never cease to rejoice ; for, after 
 leaving Switzerland, I should not have been able, in- 
 voluntarily and unconsciously, to ward off until my re- 
 turn the attacks of possible lovers. 
 
 From day to day I met nearly all the persons who, 
 without having the slightest idea that they were doing 
 
240 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 anything of the kind, had been of such wonderful ser- 
 vice to me while I was abroad ; and I never failed to 
 make particular inquiries in regard to their health the 
 past summer. Most of them replied that they had 
 been very well as a general thing, although now and 
 then they might have been under the weather for a da}' 
 or two. Few of my friends were people who were 
 given to remembering ailments past and gone, and if I 
 had needed any specific information from them in re- 
 gard to any particular day on which they had been con- 
 fined to the house by this or that slight disorder, I 
 should not have obtained it. 
 
 But when I called upon Henry Brinton, the editor of 
 " Our Mother Earth,*' I received some very definite 
 and interesting information. 
 
 ' ' Everything has gone on pretty much as usual since 
 you left," he said, '^ except that about a month ago 
 we had a visitation of a curious sort of epidemic rheu- 
 matism, which actually ran through the oflSce. It 
 attacked me first, but as I understand such things and 
 know very well that outward applications are of no 
 possible use, I took the proper medicine, and in one 
 day, sir, I was entirely cured. The next day, however, 
 Barclay, our book-keeper, was down with it, or, rather, 
 he was obliged to stay at home on account of it. I 
 immediately sent him my bottle of medicine, and the 
 next day he came down to the oflSce perfectly well. 
 After him Brown, Simmons, Cummings, and White, 
 one after another, were all attacked in the same way, 
 but each was cured by my medicine in a day. The 
 
A BORROWED MONTH. 241 
 
 malady, however, seemed gradually to lose its force, 
 and Cummings and White were only slightly inconven- 
 ienced, and were able to come to the office." 
 
 All this was very plain to me. Brinton's medicine 
 was indeed the proper remedy for my ailment, and had 
 gradually cured it, so that when I resumed it after my 
 month's exemption, there was very little left of it, and 
 this soon died out of itself. If I could only have 
 known this, I would have sent it over to Brinton in the 
 first instance. 
 
 In the course of time I related to Kate the strange 
 series of incidents which had finally brought us together. 
 I am son-y to say she did not place entire belief in the 
 outreaching ix>wers of my mind. She thought that the 
 relief from my disability was due very much to imagi- 
 nation. 
 
 " How," I said, '' do you account for those remark- 
 able involuntary holidays of Parkman, yourself, and 
 the others, which were so opportune for me? " 
 
 "Things did happen very well for you," she said, 
 '' although I suppose a great many other people have 
 had a series of lucky events come into their lives. But 
 even if this were all true, I do not think it turned out 
 exactly as it should have done in a moral point of view. 
 Of course I am delighted, you poor boy, that you 
 should have had that charming month in Switzerland, 
 after all the trouble yon had gone through ; but wasn't 
 it a little selfish to pass off your disability upon your 
 friends without asking them anything about it? " 
 
 *' Well," said I, "it may be that if this affair were 
 
242 A BORROWED MONTH. 
 
 viewed from a purely moral stand-point, there was a 
 certain degree of selfishness about it, and it ought to 
 have turned out all wrong for me. But we live in a 
 real world, my dear, and it turned out all right." 
 
Novels and Short Stories by 
 
 FRANK R. STOCKTON 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers, New York 
 
 *' / have been reading- htm now a good many years, with an increasing pleas- 
 ure which his constant public seems to share, and 1 am more and more certain I 
 that our literature does not knorv a more original or originative spirit. Every- ' 
 thing that he has done reveals his authority. I doubt // any author of our tinta » 
 Stamps his personality so distinctly on his work " — William Dean HowBia,s I 
 
 A NEiy LO^E STORY 
 
 THE GIRL AT COBHURST 
 
 l2mo. $1.50. 
 
 Like "Captain Horn" and "The Late Mrs. Null," this novel has nc/ 
 appeared serially, and the ingenious surprises of its unfolding plot are the 
 fresher for this reason. Its scene is a little country village, to which come 
 the hero of the tale and his sister ; and the French cook (widow ot an 
 "artist") and the crotchety, match-making old maid, whose simultaneous 
 endeavors to lead the hero's affections in opposite path, produce some 
 truly Stocktonian intricacies, are creations which could have come from 
 no other pen than the author's. As Mr. Howeils has well said, "Of hb 
 kind he is the first and only." 
 
 A STORY TELLER'S PACK 
 
 **/n this book there ts not one disappointment,** 
 Illustrated. i2mo. $1.50. 
 
 "Turn where we will in these admirably written tales, we find cause loi 
 praise." — London Literary World. 
 
 " Here :s that quizzical vein of serious humor, that droll inventiveness 01 
 incident, and that adroit suggestion of character which are prominent charac- 
 teristics of Mr. Stockton's books." — Philadelphia Press. 
 
 " His gift is one of the most characteristic which has yet appeared in our 
 literature. The fact that it is humorous and light must not make us oblivious 
 of its original quality. This volume is handsomely made, with numerous 
 iUu.«;trations from well-known hands, and a very taking cover." — The Outlook, 
 
NOVELS AND SHORT STORIES BY FRANK R. STOCKTON 
 
 " Of Mr. Stockton's stories what is there to say but thai they are aH 
 universal blessing and delight ? " 
 
 Two Companion Novels of Adventure 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN HORN 
 
 " /y a better story 0/ adventure has been written 0/ late, I want to know tht 
 name of it." 
 
 i2mo. $1.50. 
 
 "There is no more thoroughly entertaining writer before the public to-day than Mr. 
 Stockton. He writes to amuse, and he succeeds admirably." — Boston Globe. 
 
 "Mr. Stockton has touched the high-water mark of romantic fiction and has shown his 
 power to grasp the magic of Defoe and Sic\Gason." — London Speaker. 
 
 MRS. CLIFFS YACHT 
 
 ** Mr. Stockton is at his best in this story 0/ land and sea." — Thh Indepbndent. 
 
 Illustrated. i2mo. $1.50. 
 
 " Those who remember ' The Adventures of Captain Horn,' and all who read the book 
 will remember it, have reason to thank Mr. Frank Stockton that he has not left them in 
 suspense regarding the disposition of so much of the great treasure as fell to the share 
 of Mrs. Cliff and of the Peruvian Government. ' Mrs. Cliff's Yacht' is the title of this 
 sequel, and the wit and insight into human nature which the first part of the book shows 
 makes a happy complement to the stirring adventure which occupies the last part, when 
 the fate of the Peruvian treasure is mmted." — Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 A New and Cheaper Edition of Two Famous Books. 
 
 In uniform style, illustrated by A. B. Frost. Each i2mo, $1.50. 
 POMONA'S TRAVELS 
 
 /4 Series of Letters to the Mistress ofT{udder Grange from her 
 Former Handmaiden 
 
 " An attractive reprint is ' Pomona's Travels,' by Mr. Frank R. Stockton, whose name 
 alone carries a laugh with it. There is humor, also, in the delightful pictures by A. B. 
 Frost, which have almost as much character as the story. The cover in buff and green, 
 relieved with a touch of black, is very attractive; and as the work itself is one of the 
 happiest things that even Mr. Stockton's fancy has conceived, everything makes for its 
 success." — The Dial. 
 
 RUDDER GRANGE 
 
 " Of all Stockton's Inimitable books this has always been regarded as the best." — 
 Boston Transcript. 
 
 " A most attractive new edition in a charming binding. . . . Pomona is just as funny 
 on re-reading as on first acquaintance, and the book will not only make new friends in its 
 new dress, but reclaim old ones as well." - The Interior. 
 
 " If there is any one who has never read Stockton's ' Rudder Grange,* he should be 
 advised of the new edition of that inimitable story which has just been put out, and those 
 who have worn out their old copies through much handling will also be lucky to take 
 advantage of the opportunity " Chicago Record. 
 
NOVELS AND SHORT STORIES BY FRANK R. STOCKTON 
 
 CONCERNING MR. STOCKTON'S STORIES. 
 
 " Mr. Stockton, more, perhaps, than any recent writer, has helped to define 
 the peculiar virtues of the short story. He has shown how possible it is to use 
 surprise as an eft'ective element, and to make the turn of a story rather than the 
 crisis of a plot account for everything. It may be said in general that Mr. 
 Stockton does not rely often upon a sudden reversal at the end of a story to cap- 
 ture the reader, but gives him a whimsey or caprice to enjoy ; while he works 
 out the details in a succession of amusing turns." — The 'Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 New Uniform Edition of the following Volumes : 
 
 THE WATCHMAKER'S WIFE 
 
 And Other Stories. i2mo, $1.25. 
 
 " His stories are characterized by the oddity and drollery which distinguish 
 Mr. Stockton's from that of the ordinary humorists." 
 
 — Charleston News and Courier. 
 
 THE LATE MRS. NULL 
 
 i2mo, $1.25. 
 
 "We can assure prospective readers that their only regret after finishing the 
 book will be that never again can they hope for the pleasure of reading it for the 
 first time."— TTif' Critic. 
 
 RUDDER GRANGE 
 
 12mo, paper, 60 cents ; cloth, $1.25. 
 
 ^ " Humor like this is perennial."— lf^ajAm^/o» Post. 
 
 THE RUDDER GRANGERS ABROAD 
 
 And Other Stories. i2mo, paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.25. 
 
 " It will be eagerly sought by all old friends of Pomona and Jonas and the other 
 characters who have so delighted the numberless readers of ' Rudder Grange.' " 
 
 — The Outlook. 
 
 THE LADY, OR THE TIGER? 
 
 And Other Stories. i2mo, paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.25. 
 
 " His unique stories always hit the mark. But 'The Lady, or the Tiger?' was 
 a shaft condensed from the entire Stocktonese."— Grw/wry Magazine. 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS WRECK 
 
 And Other Stories. i2mo, paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.25. 
 
 " With the charm of a most delicate humor, his stories become irresistibly at- 
 tractive." — Philadelphia Times. 
 
NOVELS AND SHORT STORIES BY FRANK R. STOCKTON 
 
 THE BEEMAN OF ORN 
 
 And Other Fanciful Tales. i2mo, $1.25. 
 
 " It would be idle to describe the fanciful humor of these stories. To read them 
 is simple recreation." — London Athenceum. 
 
 AMOS KILBRIGHT 
 
 His Adscititious Experiences. With Other Stories. i2mo, paper, 
 50 cents ; cloth, $1.25. 
 
 " A collection of inimitable tales. The writer's whimsical humor and inventive 
 genius find fitting scope in the title story." — Boston Commonwealth, 
 
 ARDIS CLAVERDEN 
 
 i2mo, $1.25. 
 "A very pretty story, tender, and full of gentle huraov."— Philadelphia Press, 
 
 *jt* The set^ nine volumes^ ismo^ $ij._$o. 
 
 Mr. STOCKTON'S Books For The Young 
 
 " His books for boys and girls are classics." — Newark Advertiser, 
 
 THE CLOCKS OF RONDAINE, and Other Stories. With 
 24 illustrations by Blashfield, Rogers, Beard, and others. 
 Square 8vo, $1.50. 
 
 PERSONALLY CONDUCTED. Illustrated by Pennell, Par- 
 sons, and others. Square 8vo, $2.00. 
 
 THE STORY OF VITEAU. Illustrated by R. B. Birch. i2mo. 
 
 $1.50. 
 
 A JOLLY FELLOWSHIP. With 20 illustrations. i2mo, $1.50. 
 
 THE FLOATING PRINCE AND OTHER FAIRY TALES. 
 
 Illustrated. Square 8vo, $1.50. 
 
 THE TING-A-LING TALES. Illustrated. i2mo, $1.00. 
 
 ROUNDABOUT RAMBLES IN LANDS OF FACT AND 
 FICTION. Illustrated. Square Svo, $1.50. 
 
 TALES OUT OF SCHOOL. With nearly 200 illustrations 
 Square Svo, $1.50. 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 153-157 Fifth Avenue, New York. 
 
Renewed boo^aresubjectto^ 
 
 "n 
 
 \5i