""V /"~*V V I ,"-: I - !***>* 
 
 D OVRT
 
 POVERTY GRASS 
 
 BY 
 
 LILLIE CHACE WYMAN 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 1886
 
 Copyright, 1886, 
 Bv LILLIE CHACE WYMAN. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge : 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.
 
 To 
 
 MY BROTHERS, 
 
 THE LIVING AND THE DEAD, 
 
 WHO HAVE KNOWN WHERE POVERTY GRASS GREW, 
 I DEDICATE 
 
 2228403
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 IN writing the contents of this book, I have 
 tried very sincerely to describe correctly the 
 life which I knew best, and which appealed 
 most strongly to my imagination. The stories 
 have arisen one after another in my mind, as 
 birds might arise from some unseen nook in the 
 fields, and pass over a cloudless sky. I have 
 written them as they came, as I might have 
 drawn pictures of the birds as they flew, not al- 
 ways noticing whether each new comer followed 
 the course which the others had taken in their 
 flight. Now, however, that the writing is 
 done, and the stories are brought together, I 
 perceive that some impulse of my mind has 
 directed them so that they have a sequence and 
 form a series. They drift in one current. 
 
 They are studies of people of different races 
 who have been more or less subject to hard
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 conditions as they have successively occupied, 
 if they have not possessed, that portion of New 
 England with which I am most familiar. I 
 have endeavored to depict the characters and 
 feelings of persons who struggle against odds, 
 and reach whatever growth they attain through 
 difficulty. Hence, I have called my book by 
 the name of that grass which gains nourish- 
 ment from the sands wherein other plants 
 perish. 
 
 I have told of evil and of pain, but I have 
 deemed that I should be very untrue if I did 
 not tell also of grace and goodness and of the 
 beauty which " rims " all " things with mys- 
 tical hues." I have tried to be both realistic 
 and ideal, because I believe that the ideal is 
 the most real element in life. 
 
 If I have had a motive or a purpose beyond 
 those implied in what I have already said, it 
 has been that I might help ever so slightly to 
 make the fortunate ones of this world know the 
 less happy ones well enough to sympathize 
 with them. If, therefore, the question shall 
 arise in the mind of any reader, whether by 
 individual effort or through changes in the so-
 
 PREFACE. Vll 
 
 cial organization the burdens that weigh upon 
 the toilers of our country may be lightened, I 
 shall rejoice and be exceeding glad. 
 
 Finally, it is with true earnestness that I 
 commend to whomsoever I may the children of 
 my heart, whose unsubstantial breath lies on 
 these pages as the races which they represent 
 Yankee, English, Irish, and French have 
 dwelt on the dear soil of our beloved New 
 England.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 HESTER'S DOWER 1 
 
 SAINT OR SINNER 32 
 
 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE 84 
 
 THE CHILD OP THE STATE 114 
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME" 159 
 
 AND JOE 204 
 
 BRIDGET'S STORY ........ 257 
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE . .... 278
 
 HESTER'S DOWER. 
 
 " HERE comes Jeremiah Razee. I '11 just run 
 an' ask him to take the yarn to the village, if 
 you '11 get it ready, Hester." 
 
 So saying, Mrs. Burrill rushed out bare- 
 headed to the road. She stopped the farmer as 
 he came along in his market wagon, and ex- 
 plained to him that Mr. Burrill and all the men 
 were busy, and if the yarn was not taken to the 
 weavers soon, Patience and Wait would have no 
 dresses for winter. As she chatted on, Hester 
 Arnold came out of the house, bringing two 
 large bundles, which she handed with an un- 
 gracious air to Mr. Razee. 
 
 " I '11 leave 'em with Mowry," said he. 
 
 " An' tell him," said Mrs. Burrill, " to weave 
 one piece all blue, an' have the warp red an' 
 the fillin' blue in the other." 
 
 " I guess I '11 remember," replied Mr. Razee, 
 stowing away the bundles, and adding, as he 
 leaned over the wagon seat, with his face turned
 
 2 HESTER'S DOWER. 
 
 from her, "How do ye do, Hester? Stayin' 
 with Mis' Burrill ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Hester, shortly. 
 
 " Shubael 's kinder poorly," pursued the far- 
 mer, with apparent irrelevancy. " It 's dretful 
 onconvenient, his bein' sick jest now ; but, some- 
 how, Shubael never was handy at choosin' the 
 right time for doin' anything." Hester flushed 
 angrily; the farmer smiled grimly, and went 
 on : " 'T ain't near so bad as havin' Jabez sick 
 would ha' ben ; but then Jabez would n't ha' 
 ben sick afore the fall work was done." 
 
 " You and he are pretty smart," said Mrs. 
 Burrill. 
 
 " Bear our years putty well ? Yes, I 'm 
 more of a hand at work now than Shubael when 
 he 's well, for all he 's twenty years younger 'n 
 me. I expec' it was the pettin' mother gin 
 Shubael, he bein' her baby, that kep' him from 
 toughenin'. A good seasonin' to work an' worry 
 don't hurt no boy, an' often makes the man. 
 Wai, I guess I must be goin' ! " 
 
 " I sent word," said Mrs. Burrill, " to Shu- 
 bael, this mornin', to come here an' make us all 
 some shoes, as soon as he could. Otis got in 
 the leather last week." 
 
 " Oh, I guess he 's well enough to do that 
 now," said Mr. Razee, thoughtfully. " I '11 see 
 that he conies round to-morrow."
 
 HESTER'S DOWER. 8 
 
 The farmer gathered up his reins, nodded, 
 and drove off. Mrs. Burrill turned to Hester. 
 
 " Come in, now," she said, " an' we '11 go to 
 work in airnest, to make the hog puddin's, so 
 we can dip candles to-morrow, an' get through 
 before Saturday's bakin'." 
 
 Hester Arnold was the tailoress from the vil- 
 lage. She was a straight, tall, dark, handsome 
 woman of thirty-five. Just now, an angry light 
 glittered in her eyes. She knew what Farmer 
 Razee meant by saying that Shubael had never 
 chosen the right time to do anything. She re- 
 membered very well the day, fifteen years be- 
 fore, when Shubael had asked her to marry 
 him, and she, furious from some quarrel with 
 Jeremiah, who also courted her, had refused the 
 man she had loved ever since she had fought 
 childish battles for him. Shubael had no en- 
 ergy, and when Hester, the only person, except 
 his mother, who had ever believed in him, fell 
 away from him angrily he was utterly downcast, 
 and sank at once into the character he had ever 
 since maintained of harmless ne'er-do-well. 
 Hester long hoped he would come back to her, 
 but he never had the courage. Jabez never 
 married. Jeremiah, after Hester had refused 
 him, straightway took a wife, who toiled for him 
 several years, and then died childless, a desert 
 life that left no trace ! Shubael assisted 4n the
 
 4 HESTER'S DOWER. 
 
 farm work, and made shoes at odd times. He 
 also solaced his dreary days by writing dog- 
 gerel verses, which, when written, he hid care- 
 fully from the scornful eyes of his brothers. 
 
 When Mrs. Burrill and Hester Arnold reen- 
 tered the kitchen, they found a brass kettle that 
 would hold half a dozen gallons swinging over 
 the fire. It was nearly full of milk, and a tall, 
 gaunt woman stood busily stirring it. She 
 looked up, and said, " It 's all ready for the 
 things to go in. Sech a beautiful kettle! I 
 never seed nothin' so lovely. I can't keep my 
 eyes off it. Wai, things does go in a curious, 
 contrary way in this world. If I had married 
 the man o' my ch'ice, / might ha' had a brass 
 kettle ; but now I 'm nothin' but poor, forlorn, 
 forsaken Mose Almy's wife, nothin' to cook, 
 an' nothin' to cook it in." 
 
 With this dismal lament, the woman who 
 had come in to "help" turned back to her 
 stirring. 
 
 " I should think 't was more 'n brass kettles 
 might be got by marryin' the man o' your 
 choice," said Hester. When she had said this 
 she flushed a little, and went rapidly to work, 
 bringing molasses, chopped suet, raisins, allspice, 
 and Indian meal, which were to be boiled in 
 the milk. 
 
 " The children must go for oak leaves," said
 
 HESTER'S DOWER. 5 
 
 Mrs. Burrill, as the afternoon wore away ; and 
 Hester looked out of the window and noticed 
 that a great many leaves had fallen the night 
 before. 
 
 Rhode Island farmers used very little white 
 flour at this time, and the great loaves of brown 
 bread which they ate, made of rye and Indian 
 meal, were baked in a brick oven on oak leaves. 
 The leaves were laid on a wooden shovel, the 
 dough was built up on . them, and then the 
 shovel was pushed into the oven, and dexter- 
 ously withdrawn, leaving the bread on the 
 leaves, which marked the bottom of the loaves 
 when baked. 
 
 " I '11 go with the children," said Hester. 
 
 " Are you het up ? " asked Mrs. Burrill, who 
 could imagine no other reason for wanting to 
 take a walk in the cool autumnal afternoon. 
 
 Hester said " Yes," and went out with the 
 little girls. " Mose Alrny's wife " put on her 
 faded hood and walked with them down the 
 road till they stopped under a wide-spreading 
 oak-tree. Then she plodded on, hoping to get 
 home in time to have her husband's supper 
 ready, when he should come in from the tin- 
 shop, where he tinkered the worn-out milk pails 
 of the neighborhood. She carried some milk 
 and eggs, the payment of her day's labor, and 
 inwardly exulted at having something to cook.
 
 6 HESTERS DOWER. 
 
 Hester and the children had slender sticks, 
 each sharpened at one end and having a crotch 
 at the other. They turned over the fallen 
 leaves, chose the largest and most perfect, and 
 strung them on their sticks. When full, the 
 sticks would be hung up in the Burrill garret, 
 to be used as wanted, till the autumn came 
 again. Hester loved the work, for she and 
 Shubael Razee had, in their childhood, gath- 
 ered leaves together, and gloated over the 
 beauty of their treasures. 
 
 With a heart full of memories, she busied 
 herself, and the children ran back and forth, 
 shouting cheerfully, when they heard the rum- 
 bling of a wagon, and Hester looked up and 
 saw Jeremiah Razee driving along the road. 
 On the seat beside him sat Shubael. To her 
 surprise, Jeremiah drew up his horse violently 
 at sight of her, and descended to the ground, 
 throwing the reins to Shubael, who took them 
 without lifting his eyes. 
 
 As Jeremiah walked towards Hester, she 
 started away, feeling defiant and alarmed, but 
 he stopped her. " Hester," said he, in a low 
 tone, " you may tell Mis' Burrill I took her 
 yarn an' gin her message all straight. We 're 
 on our way now to the village. I want to git 
 my tire reset, an' Shubael has broke his best 
 awl, an' must git another ef he 's goin' to make 
 shoes."
 
 HESTER'S DOWER. 7 
 
 Hester perceived a slight embarrassment in 
 the farmer's manner, and grew cool. She an- 
 swered in loud, clear tones, which the shame- 
 faced man in the wagon could not fail to 
 hear : 
 
 " I really have n't the least desire to know 
 why you 're goin' to the village, Mr. Razee. I 
 never was particularly interested in your move- 
 ments, you know ; and I can't say that I am 
 very much concerned about Shubael's awl nei- 
 ther, as he don't even take pains to speak to 
 me." 
 
 Shubael raised his head at this, and some- 
 thing like a manly gleam came into his dull 
 eyes. 
 
 " I don't speak to you now, Hester," he said, 
 " but I will when Jeremiah has had his say." 
 
 " Hold your tongue ! " shouted Jeremiah, and 
 poor Shubael cowered a little. Hester was cer- 
 tainly made of strange stuff that her heart did 
 not grow cold to the timid man, but there are 
 some women to whom love is like death. Once 
 struck by it, nothing cures them. 
 
 " I don't see the need of anybody's saying 
 anything," said she, inconsequently. 
 
 " But I do ! " growled Jeremiah, coming 
 closer to her. "I want a few things settled 
 afore Shubael goes to Mis' Burrill's to make 
 them shoes. Be you ready to listen to me, at
 
 8 HESTER'S DOWER. 
 
 last ? You know as well as I do that I hain't 
 been shif less nor behindhand in my affairs, an' 
 you could n't do better. An' so the long an' 
 short of it is, will you marry me? I hain't 
 nothin* to say agin my wife, she was a good 
 woman an' a good worker ; but you know that 
 I never see the woman that I thought fit to hold 
 a candle to you." 
 
 Hester wickedly let him go on with his dec- 
 laration till he brought it to a full stop him- 
 self. She had a fierce delight in the moment. 
 His agitation and the unseemly manner of his 
 proposal showed her that he feared to have Shu- 
 bael go to Mrs. Burrill's while she was there. 
 Perhaps they had had words about her ! Jere- 
 miah's fear shot hope into Hester's heart. 
 
 She spoke again in a loud, clear tone : " No, 
 Mr. Razee ; you had my answer long ago." 
 
 Jeremiah started towards her, as if he would 
 stop her scornful mouth, but she laughed bit- 
 terly in his face. He grew very white, and 
 stood still looking at her. Shubael, at this mo- 
 ment, sprang from the wagon, and walked rap- 
 idly to the woman, and held out his hand. 
 
 " I 'm only a broken-down man," he choked, 
 "but will you have me ?" She silently laid 
 her hand in his. 
 
 The elder brother jumped into his wagon, 
 struck the horse heavy blows, and drove away.
 
 HESTER'S DO WES. 9 
 
 As the wagon rattled over the brow of the ad- 
 jacent hill, Hester and Shubael turned to see the 
 two little girls staring, wide-eyed, frightened 
 and amazed. 
 
 " Never mind that old fellow," said Hester, 
 with a trembling laugh. " And let 's pick up 
 the oak leaves for Patience nd Wait, just as 
 we used to, when we were no bigger 'n they, 
 Shubael." 
 
 So these two were engaged, to the astonish- 
 ment of the country folk, and Jeremiah's wrath 
 waxed ever greater as the days went by. The 
 Burrill children reported all they had compre- 
 hended of the strange scene they had witnessed, 
 so that it came to be generally understood that 
 Hester had refused Jeremiah in the very pres- 
 ence of his brother. Some jeering speeches 
 about it were made to the old farmer, who 
 swore that he would yet take his revenge on the 
 woman. These threats were reported by Mose 
 Almy's wife, but Hester only laughed in down- 
 right contempt, a laugh of which, in turn, old 
 Razee was told, and his evil passion blazed yet 
 higher. 
 
 Five weeks after their engagement the lovers 
 were married. They hired a house with Mose 
 Almy, and set up their humble home. The 
 winter wore happily away. The luckless Moses 
 and the helpless Shubael took kindly to each
 
 10 HESTERS DOWER. 
 
 other. Hester did her own work, and tried to 
 infuse some order into the proceedings of the 
 Aliny half of the house. She still took in sew- 
 ing, but also laid up stores of homely household 
 wealth for herself, linen and braided mats, 
 and yarn ready to be woven. She was not a 
 demonstrative woman, but the shoemaker whom 
 she served in such a wifely way was a living 
 poem to her. His gentle manner, his patheti- 
 cally feeble fancies, embodied for her all that 
 was beautiful and lovable under heaven, while 
 she seemed to him wholly adorable in her 
 strength and potency. 
 
 When spring came, Hester withdrew her 
 money from the village bank and gave it to 
 Shubael, bidding him buy a lot of land and 
 straightway begin to build a house. He stared 
 blankly at her, as she put the savings of years 
 into his hands. She laughed heartily, and said, 
 " That 's the one thing that keeps me from bein' 
 sorry I did n't marry you when you asked me 
 first. If I had I should never have had any- 
 thing to give you." 
 
 At this tender speech, the Yankee shyness of 
 the husband melted, and he kissed his wife. 
 He had long before spent his paternal inherit- 
 ance, and before his marriage had lived with 
 his brothers, a mere day-laborer on their land. 
 Now, some homesick instinct prompted him, and
 
 HESTER'S DOWER. 11 
 
 he bought of them a corner of the old farm on 
 which to erect his humble dwelling. It was a 
 very little house, but in the fall Hester and her 
 husband moved into it with unmixed pride and 
 satisfaction. There they spent six contented 
 months, and then the shoemaker fell ill. It was 
 spring fever, the wife said, as she nursed him ; 
 but spring passed, June came, and ho grew no 
 better, till at last a bitter truth forced itself 
 into her consciousness with that unrelenting 
 persistency with which bitter truths will in- 
 trude. 
 
 When the July heat was fiercest, Shubael 
 sank rapidly. " I guess," he said one day, gasp- 
 ing in the hot air that burned his throat, "I 
 guess heaven '11 be cooler than this 'ere world, 
 and may be it '11 suit me better, somehow, 
 may be it will. I was allus a round peg in a 
 square hole here, He.ster, except for you ; " and 
 a faint, spiritualized smile conveyed his ten- 
 der gratitude for the love that had "suited" 
 his latter days so well. In a moment he spoke 
 again, while the dark, handsome woman hung 
 over him with yearning eyes. " I guess, Hes- 
 ter," he said, " I sha'n't find nothin' in heaven 
 that I '11 like better 'n I 've liked you. Jere- 
 miah kep' us apart a long time. I never telled 
 you just how. But I got tired o' bein' alone. 
 I 'd get tired o' bein' alone in heaven. So I 
 hope you won't keep me waitin' long."
 
 12 HESTER'S DOWER. 
 
 " I 'd go with you, if I could," she whis- 
 pered. 
 
 " Yes," he said, smiling feebly again. "You 'd 
 make it seem more home-like among all the 
 angels, an' the jewels, an' the music." 
 
 When the cool of the evening came merci- 
 fully down, Hester sat alone by her husband's 
 body. 
 
 Jabez and Jeremiah had never spoken to 
 Hester or Shubael after the marriage, but the 
 brothers attended the funeral. They waited in 
 the yard, till the minister was about to begin, 
 when they came solemnly into the house, each 
 holding his hat with the knotted fingers of his 
 large, brown hand. They sat down side by 
 side, and crossed their legs at the same instant. 
 Hester was very near them, and she felt a thrill 
 of repugnant pain shoot through her. The min- 
 ister opened the Bible, and the two men settled 
 the hard lines of their leathery faces into still 
 harder fixedness. They did not seem to breathe, 
 and their eyes stared steadily over Shubael's 
 coffin as if it were not there. The widow's 
 heart swelled. Could she not be free from the 
 agony of hatred even in this one hour of be- 
 reavement ? The presence of Jeremiah Razee 
 at that moment outraged her. It blighted her
 
 HESTERS DOWER. 13 
 
 natural and wholesome grief, turning it into 
 unseemly wrath and pain. He stood between 
 her and her dead love, she passionately thought, 
 as for many years he had stood between her 
 and her living lover. She wanted to rise up 
 and command him to go forth and leave to her 
 what was her own. 
 
 The eyes of the assembled neighbors con- 
 strained her to be still. The New England 
 sense of decency was strong within her. She 
 was determined to make no scene by Shubael's 
 body, and so was enabled to control every nerve 
 and muscle, while the service proceeded. 
 
 At the grave, the brothers were again near 
 her. Thus far, they had exchanged no word 
 with her, but when the interment was finished, 
 each took her hand and then solemnly dropped 
 it. Still she endured in silence. 
 
 The Burrills took her back to her deserted 
 home, and left Patience with her. When night 
 fell, Hester went into her room and shut the 
 door. She loathed herself, for having been 
 so moved by hatred, when her soul should have 
 been filled with soft and sacred emotion. She 
 felt that she had been robbed of something. 
 Her grief had been defiled. Thoughts of Jere- 
 miah Razee rushed over her, stamping out sweet 
 and tender memories, like the feet of swine 
 trampling on lovely young live things. She
 
 14 HESTER'S DOWER. 
 
 hated herself, because she could not stop think- 
 ing of him, but more she hated him for caus- 
 ing such evil passion to enter her heart, at such 
 a time. 
 
 " He spoilt Shubael's life, an' he spoils my 
 sorrow," she muttered, and then suddenly all 
 the stern composure of her blood gave way. 
 The dark hours slowly passed, but only God 
 and it may be Shubael's ghost, also be- 
 held her in the abandonment of her rage and 
 grief. 
 
 She came out in the morning, very quiet, but 
 with pale face, and hollow eyes. 
 
 Four days after the funeral Jeremiah Razee 
 knocked loudly at the widow's door. Hester 
 opened it herself, and turned her hard eyes on 
 the farmer's face. 
 
 " Why do you come now ? " asked she. 
 
 The farmer smiled with slow malice, and 
 shifted his weight from one foot to the other, 
 as he stood on the little stone step, which Shu- 
 bael and Hester had laid in place together. 
 
 " I come on business," said he, at last. 
 
 *' I hain't no business with you, nor never 
 mean to have ! " retorted the widow. 
 
 " No ? " said he, inquiringly. " Wai, I 've 
 business with you. Shall I step in ? "
 
 HESTER'S DOWER. 15 
 
 " No. Whatever you have to say, you may 
 say here." 
 
 " Eh ? Wai, I guess not. I guess I 'd rather 
 walk in." 
 
 " You sha' n't do no such thing." 
 
 " Wai, I kin wait a little about that. Shu- 
 bael did n't leave no will, did he ? " 
 
 " It 's none o' your business ! " cried Hester. 
 
 " Yes, it is some o' my business. Because, if 
 he did n't, the biggest part of this house an' lot 
 happens to belong to me 'n' Jabez. I hain't 
 said nothin' about it afore. Waited till now, 
 thinkin', if there was a will, you 'd be glad 
 enough to perduce it. I s'pose you know you 
 've only got your widder's dower, if there ain't 
 no will." 
 
 " My widow's dower ! " cried she. " Why, I 
 gave Shubael every cent he had to buy this 
 land, an' most of the money for the house ; an' 
 the rest of it we earned together, he makin' 
 shoes an' I sewin', after we was married. He 
 had n't but three dollars when he married me." 
 
 " No, I calk'lated not. He never was fore- 
 handed, an' never saved nothin'. I allus told 
 him he was a fool not to lay up for a rainy day, 
 but luck stood him in stead of thrift. He was 
 lucky in marryin' you, luckier 'n some other 
 folks was, then. But now he 's dead, an' it 'a 
 my turn."
 
 16 HESTER'S DOWER. 
 
 Dazed and furious, Hester cried in a low 
 voice, " You wretch ! Do you mean to talk of 
 such things, and Shubael only four days in his 
 grave ? " 
 
 Then she turned away, and sobbed as she had 
 never sobbed since her husband died. 
 
 " Wait till you 're axed, ma'am, afore you 
 think a man wants to marry you," said Jere- 
 miah, slowly. "What I mean is that Jabez 
 an' me owns two thirds of this house an' lot 
 now, as Shubael's heirs, an' you have the use of 
 one third for life, and that 's all. You can 
 stay here if you want to, by payin' rent for the 
 other two thirds. We won't turn you out, but 
 if you choose to go I 've got a tenant in my 
 eye, an' you '11 have your share of the rent he 
 pays. As for the furniture, you own half, an' 
 I '11 send up the officer, this arternoon, to make 
 an inventory, an' divide it square. I won't 
 walk in now, as you don't seem hospitable in 
 your feelin's ; but p'raps you '11 remember, arter 
 I 'm gone, how many times you 've thought 
 you 'd got the best of me." 
 
 When he had finished, the farmer turned 
 away, walked through the little yard out into 
 the road, got into his wagon, which waited 
 there, and with a grim smile drove on to the 
 village. 
 
 When he was out of sight, Hester went into
 
 HESTER'S DOWER. 17 
 
 the house, and, though she knew that her hus- 
 band had never made a will, searched in every 
 possible and impossible place where one might be 
 hid. After this fruitless task was done, she put 
 on her bonnet and walked to the village. The 
 day was sultry, the air was hot, but her heart 
 was hotter still. She stopped and told her 
 story to Mose Almy's wife, whom she asked to 
 go back to the house she had left, lest the man 
 should come to make an inventory, and find 
 it unguarded. Mrs. Almy, full of sympathy, 
 willingly left her house in frightful disorder, 
 and her seven small children gloriously happy 
 in the dirt, and departed for Hester's cottage. 
 
 The widow went to Mr. Burgess, the village 
 lawyer, and related her grievance. 
 
 " You can't help yourself," said he. " The 
 law is on their side." 
 
 She twisted a fold of her gown in her hand 
 a moment. " Will you come back with me," 
 she said at last, " an' see that there ain't no 
 cheatin' done this afternoon ? " 
 
 They found Mose Almy's wife standing 
 in the dooryard, gesticulating furiously, and 
 screaming at the top of her voice. Jeremiah 
 Razee and the officer were confronting her dog- 
 gedly. 
 
 " You sha'n't come in here, neither on ye," 
 shrieked Mrs. Almy, " not till Hester gets
 
 18 HESTER'S DOWER. 
 
 here ! You 're nothin' but a couple of mean, 
 sneakin' thieves, both on ye ! " 
 
 Jeremiah turned to Mr. Burgess, as he en- 
 tered the yard with Hester ; but before he could 
 speak she walked by them all, flung open the 
 house door, and called to them to come in. She 
 followed them round, as they went from room 
 to room. She opened every chest and drawer. 
 She verified every memorandum that the officer 
 made, and finally dismissed him with bitter po- 
 liteness. 
 
 " He 's only hired," she said ; then turning to 
 Jeremiah, with blazing eyes, " but between you 
 'n' me the account ain't settled yet." 
 
 " No," said the farmer, " it ain't. John 
 Bates is the man I spoke of to you this mornin', 
 as wantin' to hire the place. He 's concluded 
 that two thirds of the house will do for him. 
 His family ain't large, an' he '11 move in next 
 week, an' you kin live in the other part without 
 pay in' no rent. There 's six rooms in the house. 
 You kin have any two you like." 
 
 Mr. Almy gasped with amazement, and Mr. 
 Burgess said, " I think you 're rather stretching 
 your authority." 
 
 " We '11 see," answered Jeremiah, putting his 
 hands in his pockets. " You ain't the only law- 
 yer in the county. Any way, she owes me 'n' 
 Jabez rent for every day she stays here 'n' keeps 
 the house empty."
 
 HESTERS DOWER. 19 
 
 " Where is Jabez ? " asked Mr. Burgess. 
 
 Jeremiah looked a little embarrassed, and 
 Hester said quietly, " I guess he was ashamed 
 to come. It takes such as him I " and she pointed 
 at Jeremiah, who fell back slightly cowed. 
 
 " The widow has a right to stay for a time 
 without paying rent," said Mr. Burgess. 
 
 Jeremiah looked up, surprised, and the law- 
 yer explained to him that he could not carry 
 out his plans for some months yet. Mrs. Almy 
 uttered a cry of triumph, but Hester stood in 
 unmoved silence, till the farmer, somewhat dis- 
 comfited, took his leave. When he had gone, 
 Hester looked at Mr. Burgess and asked simply, 
 " Will you tell me how it is ? I want to under- 
 stand all about it, and how it comes that I don't 
 own the land I bought, nor the house I built." 
 
 The lawyer went over the legal details in a 
 painstaking manner, and dwelt at length on the 
 one mercy the law granted her, that she might 
 stay in the house unquestioned for some time 
 yet. 
 
 "But after that I owe him rent for every 
 day ? " she asked. He assented, and she said, 
 "Thank you. That '11 do. I understand now. 
 I '11 pay you, Mr. Burgess, when I 've earned 
 some money." 
 
 " It is no matter," he said. " I wish I could 
 do more for you."
 
 20 HESTER'S DOWER. 
 
 Then he too went away, and Mrs. Almy 
 sought to console Hester, offering to stay all 
 night, and let her spouse and offspring shift for 
 themselves as best they might. 
 
 " I 'd rather stay alone, please," was Hester's 
 reply ; and gently thanking her for all her kind- 
 ness, she let the woman go. In the same quiet 
 way she met and dismissed Mr. and Mrs. Bur- 
 rill, when they came later on an errand of sym- 
 pathy. When they too had gone, she sat down 
 a little while in the kitchen. From that room 
 she went into the tiny sitting-room, and thence 
 to her own bedroom. In each she stayed a few 
 minutes, sitting quite motionless, and all the time 
 she seemed to see Shubael moving about before 
 her, as he had been wont to do. After a time 
 she dragged out from her room an old chest that 
 had been her husband's. She had difficulty in 
 getting it through the doors, and she remem- 
 bered how she and Shubael had tugged at it to- 
 gether to bring it in. She persevered, and 
 pulled it out of the house, through the yard, 
 and across the road. Then she went back, gath- 
 ered together Shubael's clothing, a few books, 
 some papers on which he had written his ill- 
 spelt verses, and a few pieces of china. This 
 incongruous collection, with some of her own 
 clothes, she carried and put in the chest. She 
 shut down the lid of the box and nailed it fast.
 
 HESTER'S DOWER. 21 
 
 Next, she rolled and corded the mats, and 
 dragged them and some of the lighter furniture 
 out. She took the tall clock to pieces, and 
 carefully conveyed that also across the road. 
 After this she stood still, and sobbed once or 
 twice. It was nearly morning now, and Hes- 
 ter's motions were a little hurried, as she went 
 back into the house, and tied up a bundle of 
 her linen and blankets. She went into the 
 kitchen, and looked round on the things which 
 were left. 
 
 " I guess," she said aloud, resting her hands 
 on her hips, "I guess I 've left a full half in 
 value here." 
 
 Then she brought from the woodshed a quan- 
 tity of small wood, of which she made two great 
 heaps, one on the kitchen floor, and the other 
 in the sitting-room. She emptied round them 
 a barrel of corn-cobs, and strewed about a quan- 
 tity of shavings. She next took a burning stick 
 from the fireplace, where she had been careful 
 to keep alive a fire, carried it to the sitting-room 
 door, and flung it in upon the pile of light wood. 
 With another brand, she deliberately lighted 
 the kindlings on the kitchen floor. Then, draw- 
 ing her skirts close around her, she went out of 
 the door, and closed it behind her. She crossed 
 the road, and sat down on Shubael's chest. A 
 red glow shone through the kitchen window,
 
 22 HESTER'S DOWER. 
 
 and a fainter light came from the other room. 
 She stared steadily till all the house was lighted. 
 It was many minutes before a flame leaped from 
 the roof, but till she saw it she did not turn her 
 eyes away. Then she covered her face, and 
 waited, while the sun rose before her in the 
 east, and sent his beams across the flames. 
 
 Ten minutes after sunrise Jeremiah and Ja- 
 bez Razee came running up the road. Hester, 
 in her black dress, sat quietly, with her house- 
 hold goods around her. 
 
 " How did it ketch ? " screamed Jeremiah, 
 while still afar off. 
 
 Hester was silent till the brothers were quite 
 near, and then answered, " I set it on fire. Shall 
 we settle up accounts now, Mr. Razee ? " 
 
 " You set it on fire ! " he cried. " But who 
 saved these things ? " 
 
 " I brought out my half before I lighted it," 
 said Hester. 
 
 Jeremiah swore. Jabez, who was a church 
 member, uttered a more pious ejaculation. 
 
 " I will settle with you ! " said Jeremiah, 
 shaking his fist in the woman's face. She an- 
 swered with a disdainful look, and the two men 
 sat down sullenly near Hester, and gazed at the 
 flames, till in a few minutes a troop of neigh- 
 bors arrived on the scene ; Mose Almy's wife in 
 front, and the Burrills not far behind.
 
 HESTERS DOWER. 23 
 
 Jeremiah then rose, and started for the vil- 
 lage. In an hour he came back with the con- 
 stable. Hester was still in the road, surrounded 
 by her friends. To the consternation of the 
 crowd, she was formally arrested for arson. 
 She had not foreseen this consequence of her 
 act, but instantly perceiving the situation, she 
 rose calmly to follow the officer. 
 
 " Take care of them things," she said quietly 
 to Mrs. Almy. " You can give 'em store-room 
 while I 'm gone, can't you ? And don't you 
 never let Jeremiah Razee lay his finger on 'em." 
 
 Some women began to cry, and Mr. Burrill 
 stepped up to Jeremiah, and said fiercely, 
 " You 're the meanest critter I ever see ! " 
 
 " That 's my lookout," answered Jeremiah. 
 " It 's the law." 
 
 "May be it is the law," said Mr. Burrill, 
 " that a woman's own property don't belong to 
 her ; but as men are all sinners, I s'pose it 's 
 nigh abaout as easy for 'em to sin makin' laws 
 as any other way." 
 
 Hester was taken to the county jail in the 
 city, twelve miles off, in due time was brought 
 to trial, and was sentenced to imprisonment for 
 two years. Some of her old neighbors wanted 
 to get her pardoned ; but they were simple coun- 
 try people, and hardly knew how to approach 
 the state magnates, so nothing effectual was
 
 24 HESTER'S DOWER. 
 
 done, and she was allowed to serve out her 
 dreary sentence. 
 
 Jeremiah Razee, thus left to taste the sweets 
 of vengeance, found them less sweet than he 
 had anticipated. His neighbors looked coldly 
 on him. His unsocial heart could have borne 
 that, but there was one thing that grew difficult 
 for him to bear. Work as hard as he could, 
 early and late, busy his mind as he would, cal- 
 culating profits, he could not shut out from his 
 eyes the sight of Hester as he had last seen her, 
 in her widow's dress, a prisoner at the bar, un- 
 der conviction. Her stern, pallid face rose with 
 the dawn and looked at him ; and the sun, sink- 
 ing while the old man still toiled on his farm, 
 left behind a trail of accusing light which 
 showed that changed countenance to him. How 
 changed ! He remembered the dark-eyed child 
 whose sunny ways had charmed even his mo- 
 rose nature. He drove back and forth over the 
 country roads, as business called him here and 
 there, and memories started up at the top of 
 every hill, in every valley, under the shade of 
 the old trees : memories of a handsome, happy 
 girl, who had walked in the sunshine till he had 
 spoiled her life ; memories, too, of a timid, 
 shrinking lad with beseeching eyes, whose man- 
 hood had withered away under his contempt. 
 Once the old farmer had occasion to go to the
 
 HESTER'S DOWER. 25 
 
 city, and was forced to pass the jail. He shud- 
 dered as he hurried by. In that jail, a dis- 
 graced outcast, labored Hester, whom he had 
 known as a little child ; a convict now, because 
 she had resented the law which gave to her en- 
 emy the fruits of her life's toil and patience. 
 Jeremiah drove hard all the way home. The 
 next day he astonished Jabez by telling him 
 that he was going over the line to visit the 
 Massachusetts branch of the family. 
 
 He went, and in two weeks returned, to his 
 brother's still greater astonishment, with one of 
 their second cousins as his wife. She was a tall, 
 bony, hard-featured woman of forty, who spoke 
 her mind freely on any point, and, having thus 
 relieved it, went her way untroubled. When 
 she heard Hester's story, which she had not 
 known till after she was married, she told her 
 husband emphatically that he ought to be 
 ashamed of himself, and then never gave the 
 matter another serious thought. Jeremiah, 
 however, found that marriage had not driven 
 that haunting face from his mind, and he was 
 still conscious of a force stirring within him 
 that made him less satisfied than of yore in con- 
 templating his cattle and his crops. After a 
 time his wife gave birth to a child, and died in 
 the struggle. Jeremiah was smitten with ter- 
 ror and grief. He had not a particle of senti-
 
 26 HESTERS DOWER. 
 
 ment for his wife ; he had married her hoping 
 to distract his mind from thoughts of Hester, 
 but he felt as though her death were a judg- 
 ment upon him. 
 
 He went to the bed, looked at his baby, and 
 then sat down, and two tears squeezed their way 
 out of his eyes. 
 
 " I never thought Jeremiah 'd feel anybody's 
 death like he feels Sairy's," said Jabez to Mose 
 Almy. Jabez was much surprised, but he was 
 more surprised, as the days passed, to perceive 
 that the old man took to muttering to himself, 
 as he walked feebly about the house, and that 
 he did not return to his farm work. He held 
 the baby for hours, and Jabez looked on con- 
 founded. Once the mystified brother heard 
 Jeremiah murmur to the child, " Ef you was a 
 little girl, ef you 'd ben a girl now " 
 
 Jabez walked away, and told Mr. Burrill, who 
 chanced to be at the farm, that Jeremiah was 
 " all breakin' up." 
 
 But as the months rolled away, Jeremiah 
 grew stronger, and crawled out to do a little of 
 his accustomed work. His only real interest 
 however was in the baby. Except that once, 
 when he lamented that it was not a girl, he 
 never seemed to see anything that was not per- 
 fect about the child. He cared for it himself, 
 neglecting any other labor for this one. He 
 called it always " Baby."
 
 HESTER'S DOWER. 27 
 
 " Why don't you gin it a name ? " asked 
 Jabez. 
 
 " I ain't got no name for it," replied Jere- 
 miah. 
 
 When the time of her sentence was over, 
 Hester came from her prison. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Burrill went for her on the day of her release, 
 and brought her home. They reached the jail 
 early in the morning, so as to get her back be- 
 fore noon. They carried her garments in which 
 to array herself, but were shocked to see how 
 stony and white she looked in the black gown 
 they had brought. At her request they took 
 her to Mose Almy's. 
 
 Mrs. Almy bustled about hospitably, laugh- 
 ing and crying by turns. She told all the 
 country gossip, and proudly showed her newest 
 baby. 
 
 " Ellen," she said, " after Mose's sister that 
 died, jest two weeks younger 'n Jeremiah 
 Razee's boy. They do say, Hester, that the old 
 man thinks a sight of that baby. Queer, ain't 
 it? Takes care on him nights, jest like an 
 old woman. It seems as ef he was comin' to 
 his nateral feelin's at last." 
 
 " Comin' out on 'em, I should say," said 
 Hester, with more weariness than vehemence 
 in her tones. " All his nateral feelin's was 
 hateful ones."
 
 28 HESTER'S DOWER. 
 
 Towards night the widow wandered forth 
 restlessly. She had not taken a walk for two 
 years. It was autumn again, four years since 
 she and Shubael had gathered the red oak 
 leaves with hands that clasped among their 
 spoils. The glory that she saw hurt her. The 
 land was brimming full of sunshine, and its 
 beauty mocked her. The garnered joy of the 
 harvest basked on the hill slopes, what had 
 been the harvest of her life ? She had reaped 
 a crop she had not sown, and the hazy smile of 
 the Indian summer was not for her. 
 
 On she went, till she came to a pasture of 
 the Razee farm, close beside the little inclosure 
 where her home had been. She leaned against 
 the wall, and with yearning eyes looked over. 
 The blood rushed to her heart and stopped its 
 beating. She saw a man running from an infu- 
 riated bull. She saw other men rising upon her 
 sight from all quarters, rushing to the rescue. 
 She saw the man fall ; she saw the animal reach 
 him ; she heard sharp reports. The bull rolled 
 over in wounded agony. The pursuers caught 
 up the fallen man. They bore him through 
 the field. Hester climbed the wall and follow- 
 ing soon reached them. They halted at last 
 under an old apple-tree close to the wall that 
 separated the pasture from the lot where the 
 ashes of her home still strewed the ground.
 
 HESTER'S DOWER. 29 
 
 She had no time to think. She was clearly 
 conscious of nothing, but the impulse to help, 
 till she found herself sitting under the apple 
 laden boughs, the sunset light all about her, 
 and Jeremiah Razee's head lying in her lap. 
 They dared not move him further. He moaned 
 as he lay there. He was fearfully mangled. If 
 she stirred, he groaned with pain. The men 
 bound his mangled limbs. The horror of it 
 all overcame Hester. She held herself very 
 still. Some one went for a doctor. There was 
 reason to fear some internal injury besides the 
 external wounds. A sort of animal sympathy 
 for pain swelled the hysterical passion in the 
 woman's heart. She put out her hand and 
 smoothed the old man's pallid forehead. At 
 her touch, he opened his eyes, and as he saw 
 her a look of terror came into them, as though 
 he had seen a ghost. He tried to move. 
 
 " Lay still, lay still," she said ; " you musn't 
 stir. We 're doin' all we can for you." 
 
 " Is it really you ? " he asked, in a frightened 
 whisper. 
 
 "Yes," she said. "Don't let nothin' worrit 
 you ; jest keep quiet." 
 
 " Be you out ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " I 'm glad," he said, with a long sigh, and 
 closed his eyes. Sometimes he writhed with
 
 30 HESTER'S DOWER. 
 
 pain, but the greater part of the time he lay 
 motionless, almost as if he were asleep. His 
 attendants worked over him, trying to ascertain 
 the extent of his injuries and relieve them 
 somewhat before the doctor came. 
 
 At last he looked up again at Hester's face. 
 It was flushed, and her emotions gave it a softer 
 aspect than he had seen it wear for long years. 
 He spoke in a weak but determined voice, evi- 
 dently meaning to have his say, in defiance of 
 pain and ebbing strength ; but he paused often, 
 and shut back the groans with set lips. 
 
 "It ain't no use; I'm done for. Hester, 
 it 's jest the same as it allus was with me. I 
 ain't no hand to ax anybody's pardon, but I 
 never see the woman as I thought fit to stan' 
 beside you. When you was a little red-cheeked 
 gal, cheeks like apples, an' when you was 
 a woman grown an' could n't abide me, jest the 
 same; an' I hated you because I liked you, 
 cur'us as it seems. I 'm pretty tough. I can 
 stand a good deal. But I guess it was wuss for 
 me nor you, at last. It was thet what broke me 
 down. Nothin' but thet. No, don't stop me, 
 I 'm most done. Hester, there 's that baby 
 of mine. Somehow, a baby takes hold on ye 
 tight with his little fists. I 'd rather you 'd 
 bring him up nor anybody else. Will ye ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I will," she cried.
 
 HESTER'S DOWER. 31 
 
 He smiled slowly. " You kin call him Shu- 
 bael," he said ; " then he won't never put yo in 
 mind o' me." 
 
 She sobbed. "I'll love him as if he was 
 Sh abaci's son." 
 
 A little later, Jeremiah Razee, there, in sight 
 of those memorial ashes, died peacefully, his 
 head on Hester's knees, his white hair floating 
 over her mourning dress.
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 IT worried Hannah Dean not to find her sis- 
 ter at the door when the factory " let out " one 
 pleasant June evening. Hetty and she worked 
 through the day in different rooms, but they al- 
 ways walked home together at night. Hannah 
 was the more troubled because for the past week 
 or two Hetty had acted strangely. At home 
 she followed Hannah from room to room, and 
 would not be left alone. At the mill, on the 
 contrary, she avoided her sister, and spent all 
 her spare time idling with Frank Cotter, a 
 young machinist whom Hannah did not fancy. 
 This evening, when Hetty was missing, Han- 
 nah feared that she had gone somewhere with 
 Frank, and took her homeward path, thinking 
 in a troubled mood of the pretty, wayward girl, 
 and of their father's death, which had occurred 
 two months before. But Tom Furness joined 
 her, and his cheeriness drove away her care. 
 He persuaded her to go rowing with him on the
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 83 
 
 river, after supper ; but the mother, Mrs. Dean, 
 when she heard the plan, objected strenuously, 
 because it was the prayer-meeting night, and 
 Hannah ought to go to church. Hannah's 
 pleading that she had been to prayer-meetings 
 all her life and had never been in a boat on the 
 river would have availed little had not Tom 
 come to the rescue and persisted in taking her ; 
 while the widow, who had not seemed to notice 
 Hetty's absence, marched sullenly off to church, 
 taking her third child, Patty, a weak-minded 
 girl, of whom she was very fond. Tom and 
 Hannah spent a happy hour, rowing through 
 the twilight. He coaxed her to sing, and all 
 the squalid anxieties of her life seemed to drop 
 away into the deep, sweet shadows that fell 
 over the water. 
 
 At last he drew his boat up on the shore, and 
 they silently landed ; and, though they knew it 
 not, their enchanted dream of youth and love 
 was over. She never sang again. 
 
 They walked together down the river-side 
 till they reached the church. There were lights 
 in the vestry and the meeting was still in ses- 
 sion. 
 
 " Let us go in," said Hannah ; and Tom con- 
 sented. 
 
 They separated at the door, and Tom sat 
 down among the men, while she crossed over to
 
 34 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 the women's side of the house. She looked 
 around for Hetty without finding her, but soon 
 distinguished her mother at the end of one of 
 the seats. A lamp hung suspended from the 
 ceiling over the old woman's head, and the yel- 
 low, flickering light fell full on her hard old 
 face, so dark and rigid, intense and pinched. 
 Her hands were gloveless, and lay clasped right 
 upon her knee. Her eyes were closed, and her 
 lips moved in response to the prayer of Deacon 
 Dudley, a white-haired old man who knelt near 
 her. Patty's pretty, imbecile face was close to 
 her mother's shoulder. 
 
 When the meeting was done Tom met Han- 
 nah at the gate. " Come with me ; I 've some- 
 thing to tell you," he said. 
 
 " What is it? " she asked, in vague alarm. 
 
 " Hetty had trouble with the overseer to-day, 
 and he 's turned her out of the mill. She 's 
 been slack at her work, and I guess she 's been 
 away from it more than you knew." 
 
 "With Frank Cotter ?" 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 " But where is she now ? " 
 
 "At Sue Flint's." 
 
 Annoyed at hearing this, since Frank Cotter 
 boarded at Mrs. Flint's, Hannah went straight 
 there with Tom. 
 
 She knocked at the kitchen door, and with-
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 35 
 
 out waiting for a response opened it and walked 
 in with neighborly freedom. 
 
 Mrs. Flint, a raw-boned, weary - looking 
 woman, sat on one side of the stove, and her 
 husband, Jabez Flint, sat on the other. His 
 mouth was drawn up and open on one side. 
 His nose seemed to have forgotten which way 
 it had originally meant to go, and at last, in 
 sheer despair, it had given up trying to be a 
 nose and had come to an end. His eyes stared 
 vacantly in opposite directions. His forehead 
 slanted back to the unkempt hair, which strag- 
 gled forward to meet it in a vain attempt to give 
 some harmony to the face. He smoked a short, 
 black pipe, and he did not move when Tom and 
 Hannah entered. Mrs. Flint, however, rose, 
 greeted them, and pushed forward chairs. Tom 
 sat down, but Hannah only steadied herself by 
 the back of hers, and asked, "Is Hetty here? " 
 
 "Yes; she and Sue have just gone up-stairs 
 to bed." 
 
 Hannah breathed more freely to learn that 
 Hetty had not gone out with Frank Cotter. 
 
 " I should like to see Hetty," she said. " I 'vo 
 just heard about her trouble." 
 
 " Her trouble, eh ! " exclaimed Mrs. Flint, 
 sharply. 
 
 " Oh, did n't she tell you ? Some trouble 
 with the overseer that worried her," said Han-
 
 36 BAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 nab, annoyed to find that she had revealed what 
 Hetty had kept secret. 
 
 " Like enough she told Sue," said Mrs. Flint, 
 " but I did n't take no notice when she come 
 in ; I was busy tendin' to him," indicating Ja- 
 bez with her thumb. 
 
 " Have you been sick to-day ? " asked Tom 
 of the old man. 
 
 Mrs. Flint answered for her husband : " A 
 dretf ul spell ; he ain't quite come out of it yet. 
 I don't know, sometimes, what we shall do." 
 
 No more was said for a minute, and then 
 Hannah proposed going up for Hetty, and Mrs. 
 Flint consented. Shortly afterwards the two 
 girls came down-stairs together, and Hannah 
 said quietly, " I 've coaxed Hetty to go home 
 with me, and we '11 tell mother in the morning. 
 Hetty 's afraid mother will be vexed, but I 
 guess not." 
 
 This speech was much braver than Hannah's 
 heart. Tom looked at Hetty, and Was startled 
 to see how white the pretty face was. 
 
 They all walked home silently, and Hannah 
 insisted that Tom should leave them at the gate. 
 
 "You are not fair, Hannah," said Tom. 
 " You are always shutting me out when you are 
 in trouble. Never mind, I '11 come in some 
 day." He suddenly stopped, kissed her, and 
 turned away.
 
 BAINT OR SINNER. 37 
 
 " Hetty," began Hannah, bending to her sis- 
 ter a face whose blush the darkness hid, " now 
 tell me all about it. Was it about " 
 
 " No, it was n't about Frank," broke in Hetty. 
 "And yet it was too, I suppose. Any way, I 
 was n't at my work regular, and there was a 
 fuss to-day, and the boss just turned me off." 
 She stopped, and even the night which con- 
 cealed Hannah's blush could not hide her look 
 of terror. " Ob, I don't dare go in." 
 
 " Hetty, Hetty, my poor girl, what have you 
 done?" 
 
 " I have n't done anything." 
 
 " Then what are you afraid of ? " 
 
 " Oh, I 'm afraid, I 'm afraid ! " clinging des- 
 perately to her sister. 
 
 " Come round the house," said Hannah, " and 
 we '11 go up the back stairs, and nobody need 
 see us." 
 
 " She '11 come up in the night ! " cried Hetty, 
 catching her breath hysterically. 
 
 " Who '11 come up ? " asked Hannah, trem- 
 bling. 
 
 " Mother, mother," whispered Hetty ; " she '11 
 poison me too." 
 
 And then, suddenly, both girls sank upon 
 the ground, and stared at each other with 
 white faces. Neither moved, while Hetty, in 
 low, wild whispers, went on : " The night that
 
 88 SAINT OR SINNS. 
 
 father died, I saw her go to the closet and get 
 a bottle out of that little cupboard she always 
 keeps locked, and I saw her pour something into 
 a cup of tea, and I did n't think anything. Of 
 course, I did n't. But she come and woke him 
 up. I was just at the door, where I was stand- 
 ing still, so as not to wake him, and she did n't 
 see me. She gave him the tea, and somehow I 
 felt frightened then. You know how he grew 
 worse that evening, and the doctors did n't 
 know what was the matter. Oh, and after giv- 
 ing him the tea, she went to the window and 
 opened it. The stars were very bright, and she 
 threw something out, I did n't see what. 
 But a week ago I was round there, and I found 
 the bottle, and it had some white powder in it, 
 and it was marked ' Arsenic.' " 
 
 " You don't know it was that she threw out." 
 
 " No, but I 'm pretty sure, and I 'm afraid of 
 her." 
 
 "Show me the bottle." 
 
 Hetty rose slowly, and Hannah followed, stag- 
 gering after her round the house. 
 
 Hetty poked about in the grass, where she 
 had dropped the bottle on the spot in which she 
 had found it. Hannah crouched against the 
 house. Her hand trailed in some high clover 
 growing there, and the dew on it felt like blood. 
 
 " There ! " said Hetty at last, holding up a
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 39 
 
 small phial. Hannah took it, put it in her 
 pocket, and rising led the way into the house. 
 
 Mrs. Dean and Patty had gone to bed and 
 left a lamp burning on the kitchen table. Han- 
 nah fastened up the doors and windows, and as 
 she did so Mrs. Dean called out from her room, 
 the one under whose window they had just 
 found the bottle, " This is a pretty time of 
 night to come in ! Is Hetty there ? " 
 
 Hetty shrank and shivered, but Hannah an- 
 swered, " Yes," took up the lamp, and mounted 
 the stairs, while Hetty followed. When they 
 had reached the room, Hannah closed the door 
 behind them, took out the bottle, and read the 
 fatal label. 
 
 Mrs. Dean was at this time about sixty years 
 old. She could neither read nor write. She 
 had been born in one of the worst neighborhoods 
 of the State, a squalid collection of some half 
 dozen huts in the country, where the men and 
 women herded together like cattle. She had 
 drifted out of these surroundings, and, rather 
 late in life, had married the son of a farmer of 
 much better antecedents than her own. Her 
 husband was a hard-working, inefficient man, 
 and all the worldly prosperity of the family was 
 due to her thrift. Mr. Dean had possessed a 
 certain feeble-minded sensitiveness of organiza- 
 tion. Repelled by his wife's stern character,
 
 40 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 unable to share in the peculiar religious fervor 
 which she always manifested, he had sought 
 refuge in the affection of Hannah and Hetty ; 
 Patty always seemed to inspire him with re- 
 pugnance and awe. There was nothing un- 
 pleasant about the girl. She would sit for 
 hours crooning songs in a low, sweet voice, ap- 
 parently seeing and hearing nothing. But she 
 did see and hear, and would sometimes show 
 that she had been keenly observing everything 
 during the whole time she had been quiet ; and 
 it was probably this odd mingling of imbecility 
 and shrewdness which produced in her father a 
 species of nervous terror. 
 
 Mrs. Dean, on the contrary, manifested for 
 Patty the only real tenderness she displayed in 
 her family. For her only would she relax the 
 stingy economy with which she presided over the 
 household. 
 
 Mrs. Dean had fretted much, at first, over 
 the expenses which her husband's illness in- 
 volved. His health had been failing a long 
 time, and for two years before his death he 
 had not worked at all. Hannah, lying awake 
 all this dreadful night, with the bottle labeled 
 " Arsenic " hidden away among her clothes, re- 
 membered how the fretfulness had subsided as 
 the months rolled on, and how a certain angry 
 but silent acquiescence had marked her moth-
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 41 
 
 er's reception of every fresh call for medicine or 
 medical attendance. 
 
 Hannah's thoughts suddenly reverted, at this 
 moment, to a time when she was a child. An 
 old man and his wife had lived some years in 
 Mrs. Dean's family, with the understanding that 
 they were to be cared for during life, and at 
 their death Mrs. Dean was to receive the small 
 sura of money they would leave behind. 
 
 Hannah remembered that once when the old 
 woman, Betsey Jordan, had shown, with child- 
 ish glee, some cloth which she had bought for 
 a new cloak, Mrs. Dean had turned away, 
 grumbling, " If you are n't more saving of your 
 money than that, precious little will them get 
 that feeds you." 
 
 It was just a week after this that, in the early 
 morning, Mr. and Mrs. Jordan were found both 
 dead in their bed. Hannah remembered her 
 father's bending over the still, old faces, and 
 saying, gently and sadly, 
 
 " They went together, any way ; but it 's 
 sudden, and makes the home feel lonesome." 
 
 The look on her mother's face as he spoke 
 came even now before Hannah's eyes, and 
 she understood it at last. These people were 
 cousins of Torn Furness's mother. And Hannah, 
 working slowly through this horrible mesh of 
 circumstance, came to a new point to be con-
 
 42 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 sidered, a new agony to be borne. Tom Fur- 
 ness ! She clutched the bedclothes and set her 
 teeth. Tom Furness ! She raised herself and 
 stared at Hetty, whose hysterical sobbings had 
 long since subsided into sleep. For one mo- 
 ment, Hannah felt as if she could kill the girl 
 for putting this fearful thing between Tom and 
 herself. Only for a moment; the next, she 
 felt a horror of herself, which set her thoughts 
 striving to find the path of her duty. Some- 
 how, at last, through the black maze, it came 
 clear to her that she was her mother's child, 
 and must not breathe suspicion against her. 
 Perhaps the suspicion was false, but that possi- 
 bility only barred her the more from telling it. 
 Tom and she must go apart forever. Patty 
 must never know. Hetty's life must be freed 
 from this dark shadow ; in atonement, perhaps, 
 for her own late anger with her. 
 
 For the rest, one duty lay clear before Han- 
 nah: "Never to let it happen again." She 
 said these words over and over, as if they might 
 be a spell against fate. She would watch her 
 mother till she died, so that the horrible im- 
 pulse of crime, the avarice which prompted the 
 impulse, should never be free to work again. 
 She must ever keep in mind that human life 
 might depend on her silent vigilance, and that 
 the price of her silence might be blood. And
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 43 
 
 would she not also be guilty of that blood ? 
 Tom must go. Into that valley of the shadow 
 of death which her life entered she could drag 
 no lover. 
 
 It rained Sunday morning. Hannah did not 
 dress for church. The other girls made ready 
 to go with their mother. Hetty looked pale 
 and frightened, and avoided Hannah's eye. 
 She too was meditating a desperate resolve. 
 Hannah sat sullen and still, and made no move- 
 ment to accompany the little party. Her mother 
 rebuked her sharply, bnt she answered that 
 her head ached, and they left her sitting in 
 the kitchen. In a few minutes Tom burst in 
 at the door, shaking the rain off his coat and 
 tossing his wet hat in before him. " I watched 
 the folks go in to meeting," he said, " and saw 
 you were not there. What 's the matter ? Is 
 it Hetty ? " 
 
 She stood silent, and so obviously agitated 
 that he took both her hands in alarm. " No, 
 no ! " she cried, " you must n't think any harm 
 of Hetty. She's a good girl. Indeed she is. 
 Think what you like of me of the rest of 
 us." She trembled, feeling how helpless she 
 was, shut in the house alone with the man she 
 loved. If they were only out, out some- 
 where in the pitiless storm, and she could run 
 from him forever, through the rain and wind,
 
 44 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 and hide herself in the uttermost parts of the 
 earth ! But she could not flee. She must stand 
 still and drive him forth under the angry sky. 
 " Oh, Tom, Tom, go ! For God's sake go, and 
 don't ask me anything ! " 
 
 " Hannah 1 " 
 
 " Yes, you are angry. I knew you would be 
 angry, but it is all for your own sake." 
 
 " Good heavens ! What is all for my sake ? " 
 
 " That you must go. Tom, dear Tom, it is 
 forever. You must marry some one else. You 
 must never marry me. Oh, don't kill me by 
 staying here any longer ! " 
 
 " Tell me," he cried, as she sank sobbing on 
 the floor before him, " what do you mean ? Do 
 you want me to leave you, so you may marry 
 another man ? " 
 
 " Me marry another man ! " She sprang up 
 as she spoke. " Who dared say I would marry 
 another man ? No, it is you who must marry." 
 
 *' Wait till I Ve asked leave to do so," he 
 said, sullenly. " I might take you at your 
 word." 
 
 She shivered, but answered bravely, " God 
 grant you may. Look! I will swear to you 
 never to marry anybody else in the world, 
 but I can't marry you." 
 
 " What 's your oath worth ? You 're break- 
 ing your promise to marry me."
 
 SAINT OR SIJME&. 45 
 
 " Oh, Tom, Tom," she moaned, " can't we 
 part in peace ? I have loved you all my life ; 
 I cannot quarrel with you, but we must part. 
 Speak kindly to me first. You '11 have plenty 
 to think of and to be glad about after you 've 
 left me, but I '11 have nothing pleasant to hope 
 for, or to remember, but just the thought of 
 you. Give me one kind word to live on all my 
 life long. I must liv.e, Tom. I 've something 
 to do. Sometime, dear, if you and I live long 
 enough, I '11 tell you all about it. I don't know 
 when I may be free to speak. I may die first, 
 but if I live, I '11 find you wherever you are 
 and tell you. I hope you '11 marry, Tom. It 
 won't matter, then, when I tell my secret. I'll 
 not come hankering for your love. You need 
 not fear that, when you sit by your wife, in 
 your own house. I '11 only come to say why I 
 sent you off when we both were young, and 
 you and your wife will be glad and thank me 
 for it." 
 
 He put his arms around her, and said, " Tell 
 me your secret now." 
 
 She started from him. " No ; if you came to 
 me every day in the year, I 'd never tell you. 
 It is n't my secret." 
 
 " Well, marry me, and I '11 never ask you 
 what it is." 
 
 " Oh, Tom, such a thing could never be be-
 
 46 SAINT OR SINNER 
 
 tween husband and wife. Kiss me once, Tom. 
 God bless you. Go now." 
 
 It was her hand that opened the door. He 
 staggered out into the rain. 
 
 The day passed, as Sundays usually did at 
 Mrs. Dean's, with dreary formality. In the 
 evening, Hannah went to church with the 
 others. When coming out, she saw Hetty 
 stop and speak with Frank Cotter, but it did 
 not trouble her. It seemed as if nothing would 
 trouble her now. 
 
 But it might have troubled her, if she had 
 heard what Hetty said that night, " Oh Frank, 
 dear Frank, if you like me, I should think 
 you 'd pity me. You don't want me to go on 
 this way, do you? It don't make you happy, 
 does it, that I can't eat, nor I can't sleep? 
 There 's nobody but you as can help me, 
 an' if you won't, what 's goin' to become of me ? 
 Oh, why ain't I got real friends like other folks 
 has!" 
 
 Here she broke down sobbing, and Frank 
 kissed her. Though this comforted her a good 
 deal, she still shivered as she clung to him. 
 
 " Come along," he said then, " I was n't 
 thinkin' of gettin' married yet awhile. Oh 
 Lord, no ! But I like you, an' I ain't goin' 
 back on you if you 're havin' a hard time of 
 it."
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 47 
 
 He helped her over the low roadside wall, by 
 which they stood. She tore her gown among 
 the blackberry vines which grew about the 
 stones, but she did not notice anything, but the 
 gentleness of his grasping arms. The stars 
 shone sweetly down, as she lifted her face to 
 his, when they stood together in the seclusion 
 of the field. She did not think about it, but 
 she felt that his eyes were shining more sweetly 
 than those stars. Hope had come to her heart. 
 She began to believe that relief was close at 
 hand. 
 
 " Now tell me all about it," he said. 
 
 Monday morning dawned in beauty and 
 brightness. The mill bells rang out through 
 the clear air. Hannah asked Hetty if she 
 should tell their mother of her dismissal from 
 work. The girl answered shortly, " No, I 'm 
 going down to the mill. May be I can get a 
 place." 
 
 They went together to the factory, and sep- 
 arated at the door. 
 
 A little before noon Patty came wildly into 
 the room where Hannah worked, and with agi- 
 tation that almost made her face intelligent told 
 her that Hetty had run away with Frank Cot-
 
 48 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 ter that forenoon, and that they were already 
 married. 
 
 " It is just as well," answered Hannah quiet- 
 ly, turning back to her work. 
 
 " Oh," sobbed Patty, " mother is taking on 
 dreadful. Do come home." 
 
 Hannah rapidly arranged with the overseer, 
 and left the mill with her sister. On the way 
 Patty told her all she knew about the matter. 
 
 Frank and Hetty were now at Mrs. Flint's. 
 They had come there an hour before, and had 
 sent word to Mrs. Dean that they had been to 
 the next town and had been married about 
 nine o'clock that morning. 
 
 The girls found Mrs. Dean seated in the 
 kitchen crying, and as Patty went up to her she 
 sobbed aloud : " Oh, Patty, I '11 have to go out 
 scrubbing, in my old age, to get you a morsel 
 to eat, now Hetty has gone." 
 
 " Are you going over to see Hetty ? " Han- 
 nah asked. 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Dean. Hannah went up- 
 stairs, packed up some of Hetty's things, and 
 brought the bundle down. The old woman took 
 it from her daughter, opened it, and curiously 
 examined its contents. " Where 's her gold 
 beads ? " demanded the mother. 
 
 " I think likely she wore them," said Hannah. 
 
 Mrs. Dean muttered between her teeth. She
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 49 
 
 turned over the things, picked out some stock- 
 ings, a new dress, two collars, and some of the 
 better underclothing ; then rolling up the poor 
 remains of Hetty's slender wardrobe, she said, 
 " You may take them 'ere to her, but she shan't 
 have these ; they cost too much." 
 
 " Oh, mother," said Hannah, her heart full 
 of shame and trouble, "Hetty bought them 
 with money she earned herself. And for her 
 to go as a wife to Frank Cotter without any 
 decent clothes ! It would disgrace us all." 
 
 " She 's disgraced us already," said Mrs. 
 Dean, with a low chuckle. " Let Frank Cot- 
 ter dress his own wife, I can't afford to. I 
 don't want to die in the poor-house. It 's likely 
 she '11 come to it yet. ^Tou may tell her she 
 need n't look to me to keep her out. Patty 
 shall have the things." 
 
 Hannah tied up the pitiful bundle, took it, 
 and went out into the yard. She felt dizzy, 
 and sat down for a few minutes on a stone, 
 just inside the gate. Hearing quick steps, 
 she raised her head, and saw Patty coming 
 with Hetty's dress and the other clothes. A 
 happy smile lighted the imbecile girl's face, 
 and she sang softly as she came along. 
 
 " Mother 's queer," she said, with a low 
 laugh ; " Hannah must n't mind. Patty don't 
 want the things. Take 'em to Hetty. Poor 
 4
 
 50 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 Hetty I Take 'em to Hetty," she said again, 
 as Hannah hesitated ; " mother won't know." 
 She laughed gleefully. " Hetty shall have 
 them all. Poor Hannah won't be sorry any 
 more." 
 
 Poor Hannah indeed ! She knew it would 
 not do to take the things. Mrs. Dean would 
 be sure to miss them, and what if she were to 
 be angry with Patty I what if her affection for 
 her imbecile child should lessen ! 
 
 Hannah picked out one or two trifling arti- 
 cles from the bundle, assured Patty that Hetty 
 would not want the others, thanked her warm- 
 ly, and went rapidly away to Mrs. Flint's, 
 
 She found Frank and Hetty sitting in soli- 
 tary and rather uncomfortable state in Mrs. 
 Flint's parlor. He came to meet her as she 
 entered the room. Hetty hung back shame- 
 faced. 
 
 " Do you think this is a bad business ? " asked 
 Frank, with a smile. 
 
 " I hope it is not." 
 
 Hetty ran forward at this, and kissed her 
 sister warmly, murmuring praises of Frank. 
 Hannah gave her the bundle, and told her 
 what Patty had done, but softened the account 
 of their mother's part in the transaction. 
 Hetty listened sweetly, and said she was glad 
 Patty was to have the dress ; but she did not
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 51 
 
 speak of her mother, and soon broke away and 
 ran up-stairs with her clothes. Hannah looked 
 at Frfnk. 
 
 " You '11 be kind to her, and," with hesita- 
 tion, " you '11 go away from New Bridge ? " 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " we are going to Or- 
 rinsville to-night. I shall look for work there, 
 where I have friends." 
 
 " That is best." 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Frank speaking deliber- 
 ately ; " I 'm sorry for you and Patty, but 
 Hetty can't stand what some could. She asked 
 me to take her away." 
 
 "Asked you!" 
 
 " Oh, she was right enough. I 'd given her 
 reason to think I 'd marry her, and when I 'd 
 got her into a scrape about her work I was 
 bound to stand by her. I like her, besides. 
 She 's a good girl, and I could n't leave her to 
 be scared to death at home." Frank knew ! 
 Hannah's heart beat heavily as he continued : 
 " I always liked you, Hannah, even though you 
 did n't like me. Hetty thinks you 'd better 
 marry soon, and take Patty and come and live 
 near us in Orrinsville." His tone was truly 
 brotherly. For an instant, a vision of heaven 
 danced before Hannah's eyes. 
 
 " No," she said in a moment, " I must stay. 
 I must see to it all, watch things, you know.
 
 52 SAINT OR 81NNER. 
 
 I 've broken with Tom. He does n't know. 
 He never shall know. I don't believe it ever 
 happened, but anyway I must see that it never 
 happens again. I don't believe it." 
 
 " Hannah, you 're the right sort of woman," 
 cried Frank ; but he felt sure that Hannah did 
 believe it. 
 
 Mrs. Flint and Sue and Hetty all came in 
 just then, and Mrs. Flint proposed that she and 
 Hannah should go and bring Patty there, and 
 should, if possible, persuade Mrs. Dean to come. 
 Neither Hetty nor Frank felt any desire to have 
 Mrs. Dean's blessing rest upon their marriage 
 day, and Hannah would gladly have kept these 
 last few moments free from the shadow of her 
 mother's presence; but they all felt that it 
 would be unwise to oppose her coming. 
 
 Mrs. Dean was easily induced to let Patty 
 go, and the girl darted gleefully off after her 
 bonnet. When she was gone, Mrs. Dean asked, 
 with an apparent effort to be unconcerned and 
 neighborly, " How is Mr. Flint ? " 
 
 " Dretful poorly," answered the unfortunate 
 wife, and, eager to propitiate the widow, she 
 spoke with less reserve than usual of her hus- 
 band's illness, and told how he had two " spells " 
 the last two days, and how he had fallen, in one 
 of them, against the table which was set for din- 
 ner, and upset it, breaking the crockery and 
 spilling soup all over her new rag carpet.
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 53 
 
 *' I would n't have a man round doing like 
 that," said Mrs. Dean, with a scowl. 
 
 "Why, what would you do? " 
 
 " Oh, there 's ways. I 'd still him down, 
 somehow." 
 
 Hannah grew pale in her corner, and Mrs. 
 Flint opened her eyes in wonder. Just then 
 Patty came in, flushed and eager, and Mrs. 
 Flint was recalled to her mission, and began to 
 urge Mrs. Dean to go with them. 
 
 "No, I won't," said she, shutting her thin 
 lips tight. There was an ominous gleam in her 
 eyes, and Patty cried out, " Come away ! mother 
 won't care, when we come back." 
 
 II. 
 
 Tom waylaid Hannah twice on her way home 
 from the mill, but she repelled his advances. 
 Sometimes, afterward, she caught glimpses of 
 him about the village. Always she wished he 
 would come and speak to her. Always she 
 shivered with fear lest he should come. After 
 a few days, however, he left the village. His 
 mother said he had gone to work in some town 
 in Connecticut, where a good place was offered 
 him, and, as she said it, she glanced reproach- 
 fully at Hannah. The blood settled heavily 
 around the girl's heart, but she made no sign
 
 54 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 and spoke no word. The dread she had felt, 
 while her lover remained in the village, lest he 
 should sometime persuade her to yield to his 
 entreaty grew into a remembered bliss when 
 the days and months trailed by, and she sick- 
 ened at heart to know that he would try no 
 more to persuade her. He did not come back 
 to New Bridge, and after a not very long period 
 Hannah heard that he was married. She was 
 left to count the interminable days like sands 
 upon the seashore. The years passed, till the 
 memory of her love ceased to torture her, but 
 she grew very still at heart, and felt as if she 
 must walk softly evermore, because she trod 
 upon a grave. 
 
 Patty was her chief comfort. She grew very 
 fond of her after Hetty went away. She often 
 reflected with horror that it might be that she 
 had all this while wronged her mother with her 
 suspicion. Then she would try to draw nearer 
 to the widow's close-locked heart, and to atone, 
 by some dumb service, for the fearful thing she 
 had thought. A revulsion of feeling was sure 
 to follow, and she grew more convinced, year by 
 year, that her mother was guilty. Still, noth- 
 ing occurred to waken her dread that, in some 
 new access of temptation, Mrs. Dean might re- 
 peat the crime, and a wearing monotony of pain, 
 anxiety, and fear that was not quite terror dom- 
 inated over Hannah's life.
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 55 
 
 After a while a great revival swept through 
 the village and roused Hannah's dormant spirit. 
 She frequented prayer-meetings, and would fain 
 have joined in the ecstasy of the converted. 
 One evening, a wave of passionate emotion 
 rushed over her soul and stirred it with feelings 
 she had never known before. 
 
 Her submission to fate, though uncomplain- 
 ing, had hitherto been dogged. Now, for an 
 instant, she felt in accord even with the Power 
 that had crushed her life, and given to her, an 
 innocent woman, the burden of guilt to bear. 
 Christ, too, had lived and died for sinners. It 
 was permitted unto her to enter into that great 
 sacrifice, to partake of that immeasurable and 
 holy suffering. Hannah's heart was moved by 
 the eternal truth underlying the dogmas of the- 
 ology, that, for some mysterious reason, the 
 innocent must suffer with the guilty. She 
 thrilled with consciousness of intimate union 
 with Him whose death on Calvary has been a 
 type of that mightier vicarious atonement in 
 which the sins of the fathers are visited upon 
 the children, even to the third and fourth gen- 
 eration. 
 
 " It 's like Christ," she said to herself, " some- 
 how, it 's like Christ to suffer because some one 
 else has done wrong." 
 
 And Hannah might have fallen on her knees
 
 56 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 and burst out into the wild, incoherent prayer 
 in which her comrades indulged at these meet- 
 ings, but that just then she turned her head and 
 saw her mother on her knees in the vestry aisle. 
 The. old woman's eyes were closed, her bonnet 
 fallen back. Her hands were clasped, her lips 
 moved, and her body swayed slightly to and fro. 
 
 "She's a Christian," thought Hannah, and 
 settled back in her seat. 
 
 All the next day, as Hannah walked back 
 and forth between her looms, the machinery 
 grumbled a steady undertone to her thoughts. 
 This daughter, who believed her mother a mur- 
 deress, had yet never attempted to decide 
 whether the strange perversity and distortion 
 of that mother's nature did or did not admit a 
 genuine element of sincere, religious feeling. 
 But if it did, what was religion, and of what 
 good was it ? 
 
 Hannah remembered her father, who had 
 "died in his sins," as Mrs. Dean had been 
 known pleasantly to describe her husband's con- 
 dition of soul at the time of his death. Mr. 
 Dean had never been converted. A death-bed 
 conversion might have saved his soul. His 
 wife's deed had prevented that possibility. 
 What remained to him ? Was it his fault that 
 time had not been granted him? 
 
 Mrs. Dean might live to feel a genuine peni-
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 57 
 
 tence. Indeed, it was not clear to Hannah's 
 mind, clouded as it was by a crude theology, 
 that her mother would not be saved under any 
 circumstances, since she called on Christ's great 
 name. Nor did this daughter wish to imagine 
 an eternal retribution awaiting even her guilty 
 mother. 
 
 When Hannah went home that night, she 
 found Deacon Dudley sitting by the kitchen 
 fire. He smiled at her in a sickly way. Her 
 mother set her thin old mouth firmly for a mo- 
 ment, and then said, " Hannah, I 'm married to 
 Mr. Dudley." 
 
 The girl stood still and stared. 
 
 " May be," broke in the old man, " you don't 
 fancy the idea of a step-father, but I guess we '11 
 get on fust-rate. The old woman and me got 
 married to-day. It don't take much fuss to get 
 anybody married in this State, and we did n't 
 want no fuss. I 've been mighty lonesome since 
 my fust wife died, an' Mary, she 's got her hus- 
 band an' children to look arter, though I don't 
 mean to say nothin' against Mary. She 's a 
 good woman, but I 've always thought a sight 
 of your ma. I do think, Hannah, she is the 
 smartest woman in New Bridge ; an' such a nice 
 place as she 's got, an' a smart girl like you in 
 the mill, an' Patty " But here some wiser 
 instinct dawned upon him ; he forbore to state
 
 58 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 how much of a disadvantage he considered Patty 
 in this matrimonial arrangement, and he con- 
 tinued, with a smile meant to express senti- 
 ment, " An' so you see, though Mary Pierce is 
 a nice, good woman, an' plenty willing to have 
 her old father stay with her, my feelin's seemed 
 to draw me here." 
 
 " You 'd better shet up now about your feel- 
 in's," remarked his bride, amiably, " an' draw 
 a pail of water for your tea." 
 
 The old man got up hurriedly, and taking the 
 empty pail tottered out of the kitchen. 
 
 " I thought," said the mother, " as it would 
 be handy to have a man about the house. I 
 guess he '11 rather more than earn his board." 
 
 Hannah did not answer, but took off her bon- 
 net and shawl, and sat down by the table. 
 
 In a moment Mr. Dudley was heard crying 
 for help, and Hannah went hastily out to the 
 well, where she found the old man struggling 
 in vain with the bucket. It was evident that 
 he was too feeble to draw the water. Hannah 
 took his place and performed the task, while he 
 stood by simpering out apologies. 
 
 At supper, Mr. Dudley pushed his plate over 
 to his wife, and asked her to cut up the meat. 
 Hannah glanced up at him, and saw that his 
 hands were trembling violently. She looked 
 over at her mother, and perceived a heavy frown
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 59 
 
 on the old woman's brow as she complied with 
 her husband's request. 
 
 Hannah hurried off to the mill the next 
 morning. She carried her dinner, and did not 
 return till night. She looked haggard enough 
 as she came into the kitchen, where Deacon 
 Dudley sat smoking a pipe. 
 
 Her mind had been busy all day with harass- 
 ing thoughts. She remembered that Mr. Dud- 
 ley was reputed to own three or four hundred 
 dollars. She could not doubt her mother's 
 motive in marrying him. She had noticed the 
 evening before that he was far more feeble than 
 her mother could have supposed. He would, 
 very likely, soon become a burden to his new 
 wife. What would happen then, and what 
 could she, Hannah, do ? She was away from 
 home twelve hours a day ; what things might 
 happen in twelve hours? The mill wheels 
 ground out this question in her ears. The looms 
 and all the flying machinery screeched it at her, 
 as they kept up their diabolic dance before 
 her eyes. Ought she to expose her mother ? 
 Was there really anything to expose ? 
 
 She looked so sallow as she came into the 
 kitchen that Mr. Dudley, lifting his head and 
 removing his pipe, said, " Hannah, why don't 
 you take some of them little white powders, 
 them arsenic powders, the other girls take to
 
 60 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 clear their skins out ? You 're mighty dark 
 complected." 
 
 Hannah grew ghastly white, and went through 
 the room and up-stairs without speaking. 
 
 At supper, Mr. Dudley shoved his plate over 
 to Hannah, and asked her to cut up his meat. 
 Mrs. Dudley contracted her brows, and after a 
 little while remarked to her spouse that his ap- 
 petite seemed good. He smiled as he answered 
 that he generally relished his food. 
 
 Two weeks passed, and one day Mrs. Dudley 
 announced her intention of visiting relatives in 
 Troy, a town some twenty miles distant. Mr. 
 Dudley and Patty were to go with her. Han- 
 nah, she said, might, while they were gone, take 
 her meals at Mrs. Flint's. Hannah was amazed 
 and troubled by this arrangement. Her mother 
 had never made a visit before since she could 
 remember. 
 
 " I think I '11 go, too," said Hannah. 
 
 "No, you won't," replied Mrs. Dudley, 
 shortly. "I can't have you foolin' away all 
 your time. Me an' the old man '11 go, and 
 Patty, because her board to home would cost 
 suthin; but you can stay an' 'arn your own 
 livin'." 
 
 Hannah, nevertheless, resolved to go, and 
 made her preparations accordingly. When the 
 morning of the intended departure came, Mrs.
 
 8AINT OR SINNER. 61 
 
 Dudley discovered her daughter's plans, and 
 seemed so angry that a great terror fell upon 
 the unhappy girl, and she dared not go, lest 
 she should only precipitate some dreaded catas- 
 trophe. Perhaps she feared that she should 
 draw down doom on her own head. At any rate, 
 courage failed, and she watched the others de- 
 part to take the cars, making no further at- 
 tempt to accompany them. Mr. Dudley turned 
 after he had entered the road, and looking back 
 to Hannah, who stood leaning on the gate, 
 smiled and called out pleasantly that he wished 
 she were going with them. 
 
 Hannah went back into the house and put 
 on her shawl. She had come to a stern deter- 
 mination as those three figures had vanished 
 from her sight. She would go instantly to Mrs. 
 Pierce, Mr. Dudley's married daughter, confide 
 to her the whole horrible story, and put the 
 matter in her hands. She could go after her 
 father, if she wished, and bring him home, and 
 henceforth take care of him herself. Perhaps 
 she could reason away Hannah's fears. Per- 
 haps she would tell her that it was all a delu- 
 sion. Of course, it must be delusion. What 
 proof was it that Mr. Dean had died of poison 
 that his daughters had found a bottle of arsenic 
 under his chamber window ? Bottles were com- 
 mon, and arsenic was used to kill rats, and
 
 62 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 was n't it used also for the complexion ? Did 
 n't Mr. Dudley say so ? Hannah knew one or 
 two persons who took it in small doses, as a 
 stimulant. Mr. Dudley had a strangely white 
 complexion. Hannah wondered if he used it. 
 If he died, and people thought it was poison 
 that killed him, of course it was because he 
 took those powders. Hannah was sure he did. 
 Oh, it had all been a delusion, a hideous dream, 
 and she had dreamed it all her life. No, once 
 she had not dreamed any such thing : that was 
 when she rowed on the river with Tom Fur- 
 ness, and sang to him. She had not seen Tom 
 for seven years. He was married. He had 
 forgotten her. And but for this foolish, wicked 
 dream of horror she might have been his wife 
 all this time. Her mother would not do such 
 a thing. Her mother was a good woman. Her 
 mother belonged to the church. It was she, 
 Hannah's self, who was very bad indeed to have 
 thought of such a thing. She would go and 
 tell Mrs. Pierce, and Mrs. Pierce would tell 
 her that it could not be true. She was so bad, 
 she must be a lost soul. She was sure she 
 would go to hell when she died. She doubted 
 whether hell would be any worse than this. 
 She was n't certain but she was in hell even 
 now. She would go to Mrs. Pierce, and find 
 out where she was. But perhaps Mrs. Pierce
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 63 
 
 would believe it all. Perhaps her mother would 
 be arrested and hanged, and she would have 
 done it. She would be the murderess then. 
 No, she would not go to Mrs. Pierce at all ; she 
 would go to the river, where she had been with 
 Tom, and drown herself before any more misery 
 came to her. But would that save Mr. Dudley ? 
 Save him save him from what ? She did n't 
 know. Where was Mr. Dudley ? Who was he ? 
 Why did it torture her so to think of Mr. Dud- 
 ley ? Oh, she remembered now. He was her 
 mother's husband, and had gone away with her 
 mother ; and she must find Mrs. Pierce and 
 tell her something. She had forgotten what 
 she was to tell her, but she should recollect 
 when she saw her, and it would save something. 
 Where was Mrs. Pierce? 
 
 All the while Hannah went rushing round the 
 nearly empty village streets, with her brain on 
 fire. She could not find Mrs. Pierce's house. 
 Everything looked strange to her. On she 
 wandered, through the long morning. At last, 
 a little before noon, guided by some blind in- 
 stinct, she staggered into Mrs. Flint's yard and 
 dropped by the door-step. 
 
 They found her there, and took her in. She 
 moaned and muttered day after day, but they 
 who heard her could distinguish nothing she 
 said.
 
 64 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 They wrote to Mrs. Dudley, and she came 
 home with her husband and Patty. The old 
 man was not well, and Hannah could not be 
 moved ; so Mrs. Dudley's time was divided be- 
 tween the two houses, which were a quarter of 
 a mile apart. She grumbled a good deal at 
 this, but matters grew no better, since the sec- 
 ond night after their return Mr. Dudley be- 
 came very ill. His wife then ceased her com- 
 plaints. She seemed very devoted to him. She 
 paid Mrs. Flint to take the whole care of Han- 
 nah, that she might give all her time and 
 strength to her husband. He did not improve, 
 however, and when, two days later, Hannah 
 became conscious, Sue Flint told her that her 
 step-father was dead. To Sue's astonishment, 
 Hannah gave a shriek and went off again into 
 delirium. 
 
 Mr. Dudley had lain in his grave perhaps 
 two weeks, when strange rumors began to cir- 
 culate through the village. Mrs. Pierce had 
 somehow had suspicions of foul play awakened 
 in her mind. 
 
 One day she called at Mrs. Flint's. Hannah 
 had crawled down into the kitchen that morn- 
 ing, and sat there, silent and wretched. Mrs. 
 Pierce, as she came in, eyed the girl sharply, 
 and Hannah, heart - sick and feeling sorely 
 stricken before Deacon Dudley's daughter,
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 65 
 
 dropped her eyes to the floor, and, after a mo- 
 ment's pause, rose, and walking slowly left the 
 room. Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Pierce both felt 
 her departure a relief, and their talk soon 
 turned on the recent death. 
 
 " Will the old woman have his money ? " 
 asked the hostess. 
 
 " Not if I can help it," answered Mrs. Pierce, 
 with a darkening brow ; " I don't feel very well 
 satisfied about my father." 
 
 " Was n't she kind to him ? " 
 
 Mrs. Pierce was silent. Mrs. Flint continued, 
 " She 's a close-fisted woman. I presume she 
 reckoned on his money when she married 
 him." 
 
 " Yes, and when he died," said Mrs. Pierce, 
 with startling emphasis. " I lie awake nights 
 and think how he died." 
 
 " Why, but he was an old man ; it 's the 
 course of natur' for the old to die." 
 
 " Some things are in the course of nature, 
 and some are not," returned the visitor. " He 
 was always worse after he'd taken medicine. 
 She did n't want me there, I could see. But 
 I saw enough to know that. There was sedi- 
 ment in his medicine. I saw it once " here 
 she checked herself. " I never felt my father 
 a burden. He 'd better have stayed with me." 
 
 " Perhaps," suggested Mrs. Flint, in vague 
 
 6
 
 66 SAINT OR 8INNEB. 
 
 horror, of what she knew not, "the doctor 
 did n't understand the case." 
 
 "I don't think he did," answered Mrs. 
 Pierce. 
 
 " She is n't over - patient," went on Mrs. 
 Flint, who shrank from perceiving any hidden 
 meaning in her visitor's remarks, " with people 
 who can't work their way. She 's always hint- 
 ing about my husband's being such a trial to 
 me ; and so he is, but I suppose the Lord sent 
 him, and I must make the best of him." 
 
 Whereat, by careful manipulation, Mrs. Pierce 
 drew out from Mrs. Flint the story of that 
 strange remark of the widow Dean's about 
 " stilling him down." 
 
 " I 've often wondered what she meant. I 
 suppose she thought opium or laudanum might 
 be good for him," added the much-tried wife. 
 
 Mr. Dudley's daughter felt a cold chill run 
 through her bones. 
 
 Meanwhile, that other daughter, the sus- 
 pected widow's child, in the room above, was 
 wearily packing her few things to go back 
 to that home of horror and of sin. She felt 
 by instinct that Mrs. Pierce's suspicion was 
 aroused, and that the secret sin would surely 
 be ferreted out. She was conscious of a dreary 
 willingness that it should be so. She left the 
 Flints that day, not weeping when she went,
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 67 
 
 but with a tearless misery in her eyes which 
 they half understood, and which held Sue Flint 
 firmly to her defense in the days that fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 The village was soon alive with rumor. Han- 
 nah heard it at last, with set, dogged face. She 
 found herself under a ban. The mill girls fell 
 back when she entered the factory door, and 
 waited below, while she climbed the winding 
 stairs alone in the morning ; and they crowded 
 together in the entries at night, and left her to 
 go down the dizzy flights, accompanied only by 
 her own whirling fancies. 
 
 Whether Mrs. Dudley was herself aware of 
 all that was being said, no mortal ever knew. 
 She kept within doors, and went her accus- 
 tomed rounds, only avoiding Hannah a little. 
 Sue Flint, though friendly to Hannah, shared 
 the universal suspicion of the widow, and now 
 told that on the night, many years before, 
 when Hetty had taken refuge at their house, 
 after being turned out of the mill, the girl had 
 sobbed out in her distress that she was afraid 
 to go home, lest her mother should poison her. 
 
 Mr. Dudley's body was taken from the grave 
 and examined. A deadly drug was found in 
 the stomach. The afternoon that this dis- 
 covery was announced, two police officers came 
 from the neighboring town and arrested the 
 widow.
 
 68 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 The tidings of this event were borne to Han- 
 nah in the mill. She drew her shawl over her 
 head and hurried home, where she found a 
 crowd of men, women and children standing in 
 the yard and in the road outside. 
 
 " Here comes Hannah ! " cried a small boy, 
 who was instantly silenced by some one. 
 
 " Are they going to take Hannah too ? " an- 
 other boy asked, as that unhappy creature 
 reached the gate. 
 
 " Do you know," said some one else, " that 
 to-morrow they mean to take up old Mr. Dean's 
 body, and see what he died of ? " 
 
 Hannah turned and faced the crowd. None 
 who stood there ever forgot the dingy, labor- 
 marked figure, the white, set face gleaming out 
 from the folds of the dark shawl still flecked 
 with cotton from the mill, or the cold, hard 
 voice which spoke. 
 
 " I think," she said, " you 'd better dig up 
 all the graves in New Bridge, and see what 
 your fathers died of." 
 
 It was a luckless speech, and it turned away 
 from Hannah what little sympathy had already 
 existed for her in the village. After that, peo- 
 ple wondered whether she were not an accom- 
 plice in her mother's crime. Poor Hannah had, 
 in her half-distracted brain, often wondered the 
 same thing.
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 69 
 
 After speaking to the crowd, Hannah walked 
 quickly into the house and found her mother 
 perfectly composed, but lowering and dark of 
 aspect. She was gathering together a few 
 things to take with her. Patty lay sobbing on 
 the floor. A constable stood at each door. 
 Hannah assisted her mother, and when all was 
 ready offered to go with her. Mrs. Dudley re- 
 fused to allow her. 
 
 When the widow appeared in the yard, a 
 neighbor, Deacon Burrill, stepped forward and 
 spoke to her. " I 'm very sorry," he said, " but 
 I guess it '11 all come out right, and we '11 be 
 glad to see you back again." 
 
 "For forty years," answered the widow, 
 " I 've been a member of the church here, and 
 I 'm as innocent as a babe unborn." 
 
 One half-grown girl gave a hysterical sob ; 
 otherwise, all was entirely quiet as Mrs. Dud- 
 ley walked through the crowded yard. Patty 
 had stayed in the house. Hannah followed her 
 mother's tottering steps to the covered carriage, 
 which waited in the road. Deacon Burrill 
 helped the widow to enter. The constables got 
 in after her. 
 
 The carriage drove away, and the deacon 
 walked with Hannah back to the kitchen door. 
 She would not let him enter with her, and when 
 she had gone in herself he heard her lock the 
 door behind her.
 
 70 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 The men and women looked angrily at him 
 as he came back among them, and some of the 
 boys hissed. That night a mob of lads hung 
 Deacon Burrill in effigy before his own gate. 
 
 The next day, Mr. Dean's body was disin- 
 terred, and fearful things were said, describing 
 what was found. It was horrible to Hannah to 
 know that curious hands had torn open that 
 grave and rifled it of its hideous secret. She 
 went at night to the grave-yard, and groveled 
 for hours over the mound, which had been has- 
 tily piled again, and smoothed with her bare 
 hands the carelessly heaped earth. 
 
 The trial came at last. Hannah and Patty 
 sat, through it all, by their mother's side. Hetty 
 did not come into the court room. Hannah 
 firmly forbade her, and she was only too willing 
 to escape the public ignominy of being seen 
 there. 
 
 "Keep your wife away," said Hannah to 
 Frank Cotter. " Keep away yourself. You 
 can do no good there. People would only stare 
 at Hetty, because she has been talked about in 
 it, you know, that she was afraid of her mother 
 when she married you. And when she read in 
 the paper that mother was arrested, she cried 
 aloud, ' They 've found her out at last ! ' and 
 fainted. That 's told all over New Bridge. Is 
 it true ? "
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 71 
 
 " Yes," he said. 
 
 " She 'd better have kept her thoughts and 
 her faintings to herself," answered Hannah, 
 shortly ; then, softening a little, she added, 
 " She was never good at keeping secrets, and 
 this, to be sure, has been a thing to burn its 
 way out of a closer mouth than hers. And may 
 be it would have been better " a shadow 
 came over her face, already dark with care. 
 She paused, and said no more. 
 
 The trial dragged its slow length out for three 
 days, and was finished. The jury retired. Out- 
 cast and abhorred sat the prisoner and her chil- 
 dren before the bar. This was the end of Han- 
 nah's long endeavor to prevent a repetition of 
 her mother's crime, to sit through a slow half 
 hour, waiting for the verdict. She had kept 
 the secret, and blood had been the penalty of 
 her silence. Was she not also guilty of that 
 blood? Should she not arise, confess her sin 
 before men, and go with her mother to meet a 
 common doom ? The inertia of her New Eng- 
 land blood held her still. Passionate emotion 
 pressed on her like a weight. It did not move 
 her like an impulse to action. She thought of 
 Tom. He would understand now, and be glad 
 she had sent him away. 
 
 The jury came back and rendered their ver- 
 dict, " Guilty." Capital punishment had been
 
 72 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 abolished in the State, and Mrs. Dudley was 
 sentenced to imprisonment for life. 
 
 The evidence had been only circumstantial, 
 but very strong against the widow. The at- 
 tempt failed on the part of the defense to prove 
 that Mr. Dudley killed himself by an accidental 
 overdose of arsenic, which it was asserted he 
 took habitually as a stimulant. The habit was 
 not even conclusively shown to have existed. 
 Hannah and Patty had both been put on the 
 stand as witnesses, but, fortunately for them, 
 neither had seen or known positively anything 
 about the matter. 
 
 Hannah returned to her work in the mill. 
 Patty did much of the housework, and what 
 was beyond her limited powers Hannah per- 
 formed at night, after her toil in the factory 
 was over. Visitors had always been rare at this 
 house. Now, no neighbor ever called. Sue 
 Flint was still friendly when she happened to 
 meet Hannah, but she never came to see the 
 sisters. Hannah left off going to church, and 
 this fact was unfavorably commented on. Patty 
 ceased her crooning about the house, and when 
 her work was done would sit motionless upon 
 the door-sill through the long summer days. 
 She always brightened when Hannah came 
 home, but it was with only a faint illumination 
 of her darkened spirit.
 
 SAINT OR SINNES. 73 
 
 Every month the two sisters went to the 
 state-prison and saw their mother. They car- 
 ried her food in such quantities that, in all the 
 years that she remained there, she was very lit- 
 tle dependent on the prison fare. The warden 
 allowed the old woman some privileges on ac- 
 count of her age. She was never obliged to 
 wear the prison dress, and her daughters always 
 clothed her. They even did her washing, and 
 kept her supplied with white, freshly "done 
 up " caps. At the intercession of some persons 
 of influence, whom Hannah interested in the 
 case, Mrs. Dudley was permitted to have a rock- 
 ing-chair in her cell. The girls wanted to take 
 her a feather-bed, but this was considered too 
 great a luxury, and she was not allowed to have 
 it. She never worked with the rest of the fe- 
 male prisoners, but was given yarn to knit, in 
 her own cell, into stockings for the other con- 
 victs. One of her jailers said she showed her 
 passion for acquisition by stealing and secreting 
 in her bed great bunches of this yarn. She al- 
 ways maintained that she was innocent. Some- 
 times, even now, Hannah half believed that she 
 was so. 
 
 The church at New Bridge dropped Mrs. 
 Dudley's name from the roll of its membership. 
 The charge of her soul's salvation thenceforth 
 devolved on the state-prison chaplain and chance
 
 74 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 visitors or preachers at the jail. But Hannah 
 never delegated to any other individual the care 
 of her mother's person. The old woman always 
 received her daughters, when they visited her, 
 with a certain dry dignity, such as she seemed 
 to consider befitting her injured innocence. She 
 might be in a prison cell, but she never forgot 
 that she was a persecuted martyr, and, in a 
 squalid sort of fashion, she was a stately one. 
 
 One evening, in the September after Mrs. 
 Dudley's trial, Patty left the house after supper, 
 for a stroll across the meadows and down to the 
 river, one of whose many curves brought it back 
 of their house. Hannah sat quite idle, in the 
 fast-falling twilight. The kitchen door stood 
 open before her. The long, faint light streamed 
 in and fell about her. She wore her dark fac- 
 tory gown. Her hair, generally twisted tight 
 from her face, was this night pushed loosely 
 back. Her hands lay clasped in her lap. Not 
 beautiful she looked, yet surely not unlovely, 
 for the stern mouth was softened, and the hard 
 eyes were almost dreamy. 
 
 Suddenly she became aware that the room 
 was darkened, and, looking up, she saw that a 
 man stood in the door-way and shut out the 
 light. 
 
 A moment she stared bewildered, and then 
 she saw that he held in his arms a little child.
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 75 
 
 A moment more, and she knew that Tom Fur- 
 ness stood before her. She did not move, only 
 sat and gazed. 
 
 The man's lips trembled, and some strange 
 emotion flickered over his face as he saw this 
 silent woman who sat in his Hannah's place. 
 Then he slowly walked across the room, and 
 laid the sleeping child in her lap. She looked 
 at it, and she looked at him wildly, and then she 
 gathered the little one close to her heart. 
 
 Tom leaned over her and put his hand on her 
 shoulder, and felt her tremble under his touch. 
 
 " Hannah," he said at length, " I have guessed 
 it all now, and know why you sent me away ; 
 but you should have told me, and I would have 
 stood by you. I was mad and proud, and in my 
 madness and pride I married a woman who 
 drank herself to death. My boy is a sickly lit- 
 tle fellow, and I 've brought him in my arms 
 all the way, to ask you to take him and take 
 care of him." 
 
 A sound of sobbing filled the dreary old 
 kitchen. All the sorrow and remorse and doubt 
 and fear of seven years was told ; but after the 
 storm came quiet and the promise of peaceful 
 days. 
 
 New Bridge gossip busied itself greatly over 
 the marriage of Tom Furness to Hannah Dean. 
 People wondered that he dared marry into a
 
 76 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 family which had proved so fatal to husbands, 
 but of course, some fragments of the true story 
 were bruited about, and helped to restore a 
 kindly feeling towards Hannah among her neigh- 
 bors. They saw also how motherly she was 
 with Tom's child, and how well cared for the 
 boy was, and perceiving these things, New 
 Bridge grew friendly again, and began to be- 
 lieve in Hannah. 
 
 She left the mill and entered upon a quiet 
 household life. She missed, at first, the cease- 
 less whir of the machinery. It was so still at 
 home, she said, she could not think ; but she 
 soon came to feel this stillness, broken only by 
 Patty's croon, which sounded again, and by the 
 sweet laugh of Torn's child, to be a blessed 
 thing. 
 
 Tom and his wife were naturally very ordi- 
 nary people, and had they married in their first 
 youth would undoubtedly have settled into a 
 most humdrum life. But they had both lived 
 through sad and dark experiences, which made 
 every commonplace incident and detail of their 
 married days an inexpressible relief and pleas- 
 ure, and thus they had come to know the deeper 
 meaning of trifles. 
 
 He never shirked his part in her sad ministry 
 to her mother, but she would never let him go 
 with her and Patty to the prison. They con-
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 77 
 
 tinued their visits there, but they always went 
 alone. Neither Tom nor Tom's boy would 
 Hannah permit to be seen with them on these 
 occasions, when all who saw them would re- 
 member their disgrace. 
 
 Winter and summer wore away, and still 
 Mrs. Dudley sat in her white- walled cell, the 
 eternal knitting in her hand, the small, bright 
 eyes ever fixed upon the door ; ten years were 
 told, and never a confession of guilt was drawn 
 from her. 
 
 There was one lady who visited the prison 
 who took a great interest in Mrs. Dudley, and 
 believed her to be innocent ; and feeling, also, 
 that a prison cell was a dreary abode for a 
 woman nearly eighty years old, she made many 
 efforts, and at last obtained a pardon for her. 
 Those persons who had testified against Mrs. 
 Dudley at the trial at first opposed her return 
 to New Bridge. They said they feared her 
 revenge, and all the old suspicion that had been 
 lulled so long woke again, and people looked 
 coldly as ever on Tom Furness and his wife. 
 It was a bitter time for those two. They sent 
 Robert away on a visit, that he, at least, might 
 be shielded from all this evil speaking. 
 
 " Oh, Tom," cried Hannah once, " I ought 
 never to have married you, to bring this on 
 you."
 
 78 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 He smiled sadly, yet tenderly. " It is hard, 
 Hannah, but we '11 weather it, and if they get 
 the old woman pardoned we '11 take her and go 
 West, where nobody will ever know. It 's 
 clear in my mind that it will do no harm for 
 her, old as she is, to come out of jail. And 
 we '11 never think of the past. We '11 think 
 instead that her mind has been sick all her 
 life, and that 's how she came to be as she is. 
 Indeed, I don't think she was born with a well 
 soul." 
 
 So Mrs. Dudley, in her trembling old age, 
 came back to the home she had polluted, and 
 which grew sad again when she entered it. 
 Patty shrank a little from this dark, helpless 
 old woman. She had entirely forgotten that 
 her mother had ever been there before, having 
 now for several years had no ideas connected 
 with her except the prison associations, and 
 she was bewildered to see her in the house. 
 Robert stayed all this while at Frank and 
 Hetty Cotter's busy and happy among their 
 numerous brood. 
 
 " If mother does not live very long," said 
 Hannah, " Robert shall never come home while 
 she is here. He shall never see her." 
 
 It seemed at first as if the old woman would 
 die very soon, but under the thoughtful care 
 they gave her she rallied a little, and was some-
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 79 
 
 times seen at the front windows, looking out 
 at the street, or on the other side of the house, 
 staring over the wide, lovely meadows that 
 stretched down to the peaceful water. Did she 
 know that the passers-by still shuddered when 
 they saw her dark old face through the window- 
 pane ? Did she care for the familiar fields and 
 the changing yet unchanged sky circling above 
 them ? Hannah cared for them all. And how 
 the birds did sing and the violets and saxifrage, 
 the anemones and "columbine" did bloom that 
 spring. Hannah felt as if all these beautiful 
 objects were trying to comfort her, and give 
 peace to her soul, so that her strength might 
 endure to the end. She had some rabbits, 
 and her inarticulate nature found great solace 
 in fondling the round, soft, white creatures. 
 Tom often sat on a bench under an old apple 
 tree and watched her caress her little pets. 
 
 " Hannah," said he, once, " when you was 
 a girl, and did n't know no trouble, you was 
 old and prim in your ways, but now as you 've 
 a clear right to be old and prim, you act more 
 'n more like a child." 
 
 She looked up at him with startled eyes. 
 
 " I ain't objecting to it," he added in re- 
 sponse to something in her gaze. 
 
 Then the thought that struggled uncertainly 
 within her found, for a single time, words in 
 which to utter itself.
 
 80 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 " I never got religion," she said, " but it 
 seems to me as if God sent me messages by 
 these pretty things out-doors, telling me as He 
 had forgive me, and telling me too not to 
 worry so much." 
 
 Mrs. Dudley had been at home a fortnight, 
 when a longing woke within her to go again to 
 the village church where she had once been a 
 constant attendant. She was shocked because 
 Tom and Hannah did not go to church, and 
 querulously reproved them. 
 
 " We will go with you," answered Hannah, 
 with a patient smile. 
 
 " If you went to church regular," said Mrs. 
 Dudley, "may be the Lord would give you 
 freedom from the bondage of sin, like as He 's 
 given it to me." 
 
 As she spoke, Tom remembered the super- 
 stitious belief of some religious fanatics, that 
 they were so intimately associated by grace 
 with God's grace that they could do no wrong, 
 and he wondered whether Mrs. Dudley were 
 not under the influence of this idea. Perhaps 
 she had believed that whatever annoyed her 
 annoyed God also, and it was lawful for her to 
 put it away. Was this the explanation of her 
 constant assertion of innocence ? 
 
 Tom was too proud just then to borrow a 
 horse and carriage of any of the neighbors, to
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 81 
 
 carry to church the feeble old convict. So 
 when Sunday came, he took a small wagon, 
 which he had obtained somewhere, set an arm- 
 chair in it, and placed therein the old woman. 
 Hannah and Patty walked along the sidewalk; 
 Tom went between the shafts and drew the 
 wagon himself. 
 
 Through the Sunday quiet of the village 
 street they passed, under the arching elms and 
 the straight, fair maples, and they paused at 
 length before the old white church. Silently 
 Tom lifted Mrs. Dudley out, and Hannah sup- 
 ported her up the steps. Their faces were set 
 and pale, but hers was flushed, and it trembled 
 a little with the helpless quiver of old age. 
 They led her in to the seat to which she had 
 formerly been accustomed, and they sat down 
 by her. 
 
 She stared about her a moment, then fixed 
 her eyes on the minister, and the old peculiar 
 Sunday look which Hannah had known from 
 childhood stole over her face. 
 
 She rigidly maintained this appearance of 
 devotion to the end of the service. God only 
 knows what were the thoughts of any one of 
 that strange family group. He knows also 
 whether the sort of pious feeling which Mrs. 
 Dudley manifested from her earliest to her 
 latest days was purely assumed, or whether it 
 
 6
 
 82 SAINT OR SINNER. 
 
 arose from some real germ of good in her ill- 
 born and sin-distorted soul. 
 
 Through the long morning service, with the 
 sweet sounds of nature stealing in through the 
 open windows, Mrs. Dudley kept her place. 
 She sat among her life-long neighbors, and they 
 gazed on her fearfully. The mark of Cain was 
 on her brow, but her children faithfully sur- 
 rounded her, and it may be God had not quite 
 forsaken her. 
 
 The next day one of the church members 
 met Tom Furness, and told him, with a not 
 unnatural disgust, that great dissatisfaction was 
 felt at Mrs. Dudley's appearance in the house 
 of God. It disturbed the congregation, and it 
 must not happen again. 
 
 A savage light gleamed for an instant in 
 Tom's eyes, then he spoke quietly : " Very well, 
 I don't think much of your religion, but I 
 thought the particular boast of your church was 
 that it preached a gospel fit for sinners and 
 powerful to save them." 
 
 So the quaint procession never reappeared in 
 the streets of New Bridge, and the sinner came 
 no more to the house of penitence and prayer. 
 
 A little longer Mrs. Dudley lingered on the 
 threshold of the grave. A few more sunny days 
 and long, still evenings remained for her ; for 
 Hannah and her husband yet a little more pa- 
 tience and silent pain, and then the end came.
 
 SAINT OR SINNER. 83 
 
 No confession passed Mrs. Dudley's lips. She 
 sank into a sort of stupor, and died quietly at 
 last. They were all there : Frank and Hetty 
 Cotter, Tom, Hannah, and Patty. When the 
 wretched life was fairly gone, Tom drew a long, 
 free breath, and lifted his head like a man who 
 throws down a great burden. Each person save 
 Hannah, whose head was bowed in her hands, 
 turned and looked strangely at the others. 
 Death had set the living free, and a great won- 
 der, a great sorrow, and a great exultation were 
 all written for a moment in those blanched 
 faces. No one spoke till Tom crossed over and 
 laid his hand on Hannah's shoulder. " Dear," 
 said he, "it is over now. We will send for 
 Robert, and take Patty, and move somewhere, 
 far from here."
 
 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 
 
 EDEN'S step-father, Johnny Ronian, did not 
 favor her " keeping company " with Luke Gar- 
 diner, so he made up a story out of a quarrel 
 he had had with the young man, and one morn- 
 ing, when she was on her way to the mill, he 
 told her that young Gardiner said he would n't 
 have anything to do with her, even if her family 
 asked him. 
 
 Poor little Eden believed the lie and was very 
 angry and very much hurt. She was glad to be 
 released from her task, when something about 
 the machinery needed repairing in the course 
 of the forenoon, and to escape into a long gal- 
 lery formed by a bridge in the air, connecting 
 two of the mill buildings. She put her aching 
 head out of a little window. Out-door sounds, 
 musical and spring-like, came to her ears. She 
 could see on the other side of the merrily flow- 
 ing river the little house where Luke Gardiner 
 lived. It had been his home when he was a
 
 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 85 
 
 child, and he and she had played together round 
 the door-step of unhewn stone, and had fished 
 and waded in the shallow waters near by, where 
 the pickerel-weed grew. Luke had kissed her 
 when he and his mother had said good-bye and 
 moved away from Blackbird Hollow. She re- 
 membered the kiss now, with a smile and a 
 pang. During Luke's absence he had learned 
 to be a machinist, and on his return, at the last 
 Christmas time, he had established his mother 
 again in the old cottage home. The intimacy 
 with Eden had been renewed, and had soon 
 taken upon itself a character of fitful tender- 
 ness, much interfered with by the step-father's 
 violent opposition and the girl's own light- 
 headed tendency to flirt with other men. 
 
 Ronian had several reasons for disliking the 
 young man, chief among which was the fact 
 that although English by blood, Luke, who 
 was of American birth, consorted with the 
 Americans. It was soon after the Know-Noth- 
 ing times, and Ronian hated the Yankees as 
 cordially as he supposed they hated his race. 
 Besides, neither he nor the girl's mother wanted 
 her to marry any one, since, if she did, they 
 could no longer control her wages. 
 
 As Eden lingered at the window, some one 
 came behind and lightly kissed her cheek. The 
 offender, an overseer named Joe Glancy, had
 
 86 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 
 
 some ado to appease her, but he finally suc- 
 ceeded in making her laugh. 
 
 " That 's right," he said then. " And now 
 we 're friendly, look here, I saw these t' other 
 day, an' thinking how awful pretty you 'd look 
 in 'em, I bought 'em." 
 
 He showed her a pair of tinsel ear-rings, 
 among the first manufactured of the sort of jew- 
 elry destined to captivate the fancy of her class. 
 
 " Oh-h," she sighed, " they 're just like Kate 
 McCannah's ! No, they 're prettier ! But I 
 can't take 'em. Thank you just the same." 
 
 " Think how becomin' they 'd be," he urged. 
 " The boys would all be runnin' after you." 
 
 " The boys run after me now," she said, 
 with a laugh. 
 
 " You 're afraid of what Luke Gardiner 'd 
 say. It 's along of him. Ain't you ashamed ! " 
 
 This touched the sore spot in her little heart. 
 " It ain't along of him," she cried. " An' I '11 
 take 'em to prove it, Mr. Glancy." 
 
 There was a greedy gloat in his eyes as she 
 fastened on the ornaments, tossed her head and 
 marched away without another word. 
 
 Eden found her mother crying when she went 
 home that night. They lived up-stairs in what 
 was called the Stone house, a building which 
 stood at one end of the bridge across the river. 
 Luke's cottage was on the opposite bank.
 
 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 87 
 
 Mrs. Ronian sat in dirt and despair. Three 
 small children meanwhile played happily in 
 some washtubs on the floor, and a twelve-year- 
 old girl sewed by the window. 
 
 " Oh," sobbed the woman, " I 'm a-feared of 
 my life. He come in just now, a bit early from 
 his work, an' he struck Flit, an' I run in at ween, 
 an' he grabbed me by t'e t'roat. He wur sober, 
 too. I 'd not ha' minded it if he 'd been drunk. 
 Of course a man can't take careful note o' what 
 he does when he 's been drinking. But he 
 knowed what he done, an' he swore he 'd send 
 Flit to the poor-'us." 
 
 Here the child, who had been crying, came 
 and laid a long thin hand on Eden's arm, and 
 looked up with large, glazy eyes. 
 
 "Please give me a cent," she said; "just 
 one." 
 
 " Me ! " laughed the elder girl. " My money 
 goes for rent and coal." 
 
 " If I asked Uncle John," said the child, to 
 give my mother the rent, would he ? " 
 
 " No, Flit, I guess not," said Eden. 
 
 " Uncle John " was the name by which the 
 Quaker mill-owner, Mr. Comstock, was called 
 by his work-people. 
 
 Eden went to the closet to get herself some- 
 thing to eat. The mother sighed, and bustled 
 the children out of the washtubs. Flit gave a
 
 88 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 
 
 bubbling, uncanny laugh, as she turned to the 
 open window. The soft, western breeze blew 
 her short, reddish hair over her forehead. She 
 took a small blue shawl from a chair, and with 
 a swift, gliding step, eluding her sister's grasp, 
 as Eden came from the closet, darted past the 
 others, and fled from the room. 
 
 " There," groaned Mrs. Ronian, " she 's gone, 
 an' night comin' on, an' oh, there 's plenty of 
 harm as can happen to a girl like her, an' 
 she 's that crazy after money, she 'd go any- 
 where with any one as offered her ten cents." 
 
 Eden hastened after the child. Some one 
 told her Flit had crossed the river, and she 
 followed, thinking that she saw a sprite-like 
 form pass Luke's house. She went thither and 
 pushed open the door. Luke, sitting within, 
 started to see that figure standing on his thresh- 
 old, the sunset color all about it. His mother, 
 a small, fine-faced old Englishwoman, looked 
 up from the table, on which she leaned her el- 
 bows. 
 
 " Why, Eden, is it you ? I 'm truly glad to 
 see you." 
 
 " You 're kind to say that," answered Eden, 
 with drooping eyes. " An' how are you ? " 
 
 " Oh, just coomfortable now ; naething to 
 groomble at," said Mrs. Gardiner, cheerily. 
 
 "Your health is better than it was?"
 
 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. . 89 
 
 " Ah, that changes like all else ; naething to 
 groomble at. Coom in." 
 
 " No," said Eden, still speaking rather softly. 
 " I cannot stop now. I 'm lookin' for Flit, an' 
 I saw her here as I come over the bridge." 
 
 " I saw summun a spyin' in at the window, a 
 momunt gone," said Mrs. Gardiner, "but the 
 face just vanished like the lady I seen in my 
 dream last night." 
 
 Eden turned away, and Luke followed. 
 
 " I 'd liefer go alone," she said. 
 
 " But I 'd liefer go with you." 
 
 She was angry with him for what she thought 
 he had said about her ; but she could not help 
 being glad to walk beside him. So they went 
 on together through the deepening twilight. 
 Now and then they thought they saw Flit glid- 
 ing round some corner, or darting into some 
 shadow. They stopped at one or two houses to 
 inquire. They glanced into the grocery, and 
 fearfully peered into rumshops. 
 
 " Let 's go to the church," said Eden ; " she 's 
 so religious she may be there." 
 
 In Mr. Comstock's sitting-room several per- 
 sons sat around a table which supported two oil 
 lamps. A drugget crumb-cloth of an ugly pat- 
 tern covered part of the ingrain carpet on the 
 floor. A cupboard of shelves, shut into the wall 
 by a glass door, served as a bookcase. Here
 
 90 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 
 
 stood a long row of leather-bound volumes, let- 
 tered, " Piety Promoted." Beside them was 
 the Book of Discipline of the Society of Friends. 
 On the shelf below might be found Mrs. Cha- 
 pone's " Letters," indorsed on the fly-leaf with 
 a recommendation in stilted phrases, written by 
 Mrs. Comstock's father. There were other old 
 books, and two new ones, "Uncle Tom's 
 Cabin," and "The Wide, Wide World." 
 
 There were no pictures on the buff walls of 
 this room, but in the unlighted parlors beyond 
 hung an engraving of Correggio's Holy Night, 
 and some portraits, in oval gilt frames, of Wm. 
 Lloyd Garrison, Wendell Phillips, and Theo- 
 dore Parker. 
 
 Plenty of children inhabited this house, but 
 they were all in bed since sunset, according to 
 the family custom, at once healthful for the 
 youngsters and pleasant to the elders. 
 
 Mr. Comstock was reading the " Liberator." 
 He held the paper so that his wife could see 
 plainly the words " A Covenant with Death, 
 An Agreement " the rest was out of sight. 
 Mrs. Comstock was sewing. She wore a gown 
 of semi-religious fashion, which had been 
 stripped of the sweet quaintness of the Quaker 
 style, and had not gained any worldly grace 
 instead thereof. She had a serious face and ab- 
 stracted eyes. Near her sat Miss Firth, the
 
 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 91 
 
 governess who had imported into the family a 
 few ideas from Concord. Hers was an intelli- 
 gent countenance with pudgy features. She 
 was reading intently in Thoreau's " Walden." 
 Everybody was absorbed, not even noticing the 
 swift sliding of small bare feet upon the carpet, 
 till a hand touched Mr. Comstock's shoulder, 
 and a voice said : 
 
 " Uncle John, won't you give my mother the 
 rent of her house, and won't you give me ten 
 cents ? " 
 
 They all started to see a young girl standing 
 among them, a girl with pale, parted lips, a dead 
 white face, and strange, pathetic eyes. 
 
 " Please give me ten cents," she continued to 
 beg. " My mother gives all her money to the 
 Mission Fathers, so 's they will cure me, an' I '11 
 not be sick any more. An' please tell me what 
 makes the Yankee people hate the Irish ? " 
 
 " Who is she ? " cried Mrs. Comstock. The 
 girl from the kitchen came in to identify her. 
 " It 's crazy Flit," she said. " She must ha' 
 come in the woodshed, an' right past me. No- 
 body never sees her till she 's most in their 
 mouths. She's so still. Miss Ingham found 
 her up-stairs in her spare room t' other day, a 
 lay in' on her company bed." 
 
 Flit crouched down behind Mr. Comstock's 
 chair, wailing, " Ah, don't send me away. I 
 only want one cent, just one cent."
 
 92 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 
 
 He handed her a coin. She sprang like a 
 panther to take it, and cried, " Please give me 
 another! I want one so bad." 
 
 At that moment the door-bell rang clearly, 
 and Eden was soon ushered into the room. " Is 
 my little sister here ? " asked she. 
 
 Flit sprang to her, laughed joyfully, and 
 grasped her hand. 
 
 " Some children," explained Eden, " told me 
 they thought they see her come in here." 
 
 Mrs. Comstock took the sisters to the door, 
 where Luke stood waiting, and expressed a 
 kindly hope that Flit might not be punished 
 for her escapade. She went back with a 
 thoughtful brow. Miss Firth was saying, " I 
 suppose perfect liberty of action is undoubt- 
 edly best for the development of children with 
 peculiar idiosyncrasies." 
 
 Mrs. Comstock slowly folded up her work for 
 the night, considering this proposition, while 
 uncle John's benignant face grew serious, as he 
 said that the introduction of foreigners among 
 the operatives had quite changed the condi- 
 tions of life in New England, and seemed likely 
 to involve serious consequences. 
 
 Luke left the girls at their outside door. As 
 they mounted the stairs, they were terrified by 
 the noises that came from above, but they went 
 on, and up, to their mother's kitchen. Ronian
 
 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. . 93 
 
 stood in the middle of the floor, in a drunken 
 fury. He seized Flit, and struck her heavy 
 blows, accusing her of having stolen money 
 from him. She rushed behind Eden, and that 
 attracted his attention to her. Her sun-bonnet 
 had fallen back, and he saw her ear-rings. He 
 caught hold of them savagely. 
 
 " Where did you get them ? " he demanded. 
 " You stole the money yourself, and bought 
 'em." 
 
 The mother rushed forward, but he pushed 
 the girl towards the door, with his hands and 
 feet, raging and swearing. She stumbled and 
 staggered a moment before him, then sprang 
 erect like a flame, took Flit's hand, and fled 
 with her down into the dark street. 
 
 Mrs. Ronian tried to follow, but her husband 
 held her back. " Go to bed," he said ; " let the 
 brats have a taste of the night air to cool 'em 
 off." 
 
 Hand in hand the sisters ran, till they nearly 
 knocked against a girl who had just bounced 
 down an out-door stair-case leading from the 
 second story of one of the factory tenement 
 houses. 
 
 " Hollo," said this girl roughly ; " what 's 
 up?" 
 
 " O Katy," gasped Eden, and then told their 
 story. Kate McCannah laughed. " Bah," said
 
 94 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 
 
 she, " let him alone. He 's full of rum. Come 
 home with me." 
 
 Glad of any shelter, the outcasts climbed the 
 stairs with the girl. In the kitchen above, 
 they found Kate's sisters, Rosa and lame Lucy, 
 and their father. Kindly greetings were ex- 
 changed, and Lucy hobbled about and got 
 everybody tea in bowls and cracked cups. 
 Afterwards the girls went up to the attic. It 
 was a large unfinished garret, in the middle 
 of which stood a low bedstead. A couple of 
 calico quilts were thrown in a heap in one 
 corner of the room. Some dresses dangled from 
 nails stuck in the rafters. A broken chair and 
 two boxes completed the furnishing of the room. 
 
 Kate sat down on the bed and kicked her 
 heels together. 
 
 "Three in a bed is a tight fit," she said. 
 " How about five ? I '11 lie across the foot." 
 
 Flit curled herself up among the quilts on 
 the floor. " I 'm all right here," she said ; " you 
 others can take the bed." 
 
 She lay motionless, while the girls told their 
 beads. " Say your prayers, Flit," urged Eden, 
 but the child did not move. " By and by," 
 she said, and Eden went sleepily to her small 
 portion of the uneven couch. When all was 
 quiet, Flit stole to the window. The moon was 
 rising. She drew from her breast a rosary and
 
 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 95 
 
 sank on her knees in the white light which 
 shone on her drooped eyelids. She prayed aloud 
 that the saints would make her well, would 
 just make her well ! As she knelt her terrible 
 disease overcame her, and she fell forward un- 
 conscious. The noise roused Eden, who got up 
 to see to her. 
 
 The next noon, as Eden and the McCannah 
 girls entered the mill-yard, Luke came up to 
 them. He recognized at once the ear-rings that 
 Eden wore. He had seen Glancy buy them. He 
 caught hold of her arm. A crowd of the mill 
 people surged about them, and hid the sudden 
 gesture. She freed herself and fled from him 
 into the building. He followed and found her 
 alone on the factory stairs. 
 
 " Why do you wear Joe Glancy's ear-rings ? " 
 he cried. 
 
 " What is it to you, what I wear ? I have n't 
 forgot what you said about not keepin' com- 
 pany with me." 
 
 " It is n't that," persisted Luke, " but peo- 
 ple are talking about you ; your father an' 
 everybody. They say you 've gone to Mc- 
 Cannah's along o' Glancy. It 's enough to ruin 
 a girl." 
 
 She threw her hands out blindly, and as Joe 
 Glancy came up the stairs, greeted him as 
 though he were a friend who could protect
 
 96 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 
 
 her from Gardiner's look and word. The over- 
 seer lightly linked his arm in hers, and rushed 
 her up the remaining steps, while the baffled 
 young machinist turned down, with a face grown 
 grey and stern. 
 
 So things grew worse between these two, 
 Luke and Eden, for when he went home that 
 night, he heard more gossip. " Flit was bad," 
 said his mother, " an' Eden had took 'er part, 
 an' both . had been turned out of doors in the 
 night. An' Ronian was goin' to send an officer 
 after the girls that day, but the rheumatics 
 got 'im, an' 'e was in bed, an' the mother would 
 not stir to get the officer. An' Eden 'ad said 
 everywhere, as she would n't go home." 
 
 The evening was cloudy, and darkness settled 
 early over the village and over the swampy 
 shallows of the mill-pond, where the opal colors 
 of the sunset were wont to lie reflected for long 
 hours between lily-pads and pickerel- weed. 
 
 Flit meanwhile made her escape from Lucy's 
 careless guardianship, and roamed at will about 
 the darkening streets. She found Luke on the 
 bridge, gloomily staring into the black, slippery 
 flood. She slid up to him and touched his arm. 
 He turned, saying bluntly, for the child's noise- 
 less ways made him nervous, 
 
 " What do you want now? " 
 
 She locked her hands around his arm, and
 
 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 97 
 
 looked up in his face. " Dear Luke," she said, 
 " I love you. But, O Luke, I wish you 'd give 
 me some money." 
 " Why don't you go home ? " asked he. 
 
 " He 'd beat me," said she. " Oh, he 'd beat 
 me. I don't think my mother would, but he 
 would. Next week Eden says she '11 take me 
 to Woonsocket, an' I V her '11 live there to- 
 gether." 
 
 " That won't do," muttered the young man. 
 He took the child's hand. "Come, go back 
 with me an' stay with Eden to-night." 
 
 When they were near McCannah's house, 
 Flit pulled Luke out of the road. 
 
 " Come with me," she pleaded ; " do, dear 
 Luke." He went with her into the shadow of 
 a little bluff behind the house. The pines of 
 the original forest crowned the summit, and be- 
 low, some laurel bushes shaded the spot where 
 the child paused. 
 
 "I want to say my prayers here," she said, 
 " they 're so noisy in there." 
 
 Kneeling, she glanced up to the clouded sky. 
 It was so dark he could not well see the little 
 pale face with the strange, perfectly shaped 
 eyes ; but it seemed to him he saw it, as she 
 went on. 
 
 " An' do you know what I will pray ? It 's 
 what I 'm wishin' all the time, that I was in 
 
 7
 
 98 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 
 
 heaven, Luke, where I 'd never be sick any 
 more." 
 
 When her prayers were done he led her to 
 the house ; then he went back and hid among 
 the laurel bushes. He had seen a shadow cross 
 one of the upper windows, and had recognized 
 Glancy's figure. 
 
 Some time before this, Eden came back from 
 an errand. 
 
 " Where 's Flit?" was her first question. 
 
 " Gone to bed," said Lucy, who was placidly 
 sewing and had not noticed the girl's absence. 
 McCannah tilted his chair, smoked his pipe, and 
 opened and shut his eyes at intervals. Eden 
 tossed down her bonnet, and turned round glow- 
 ing to meet Kate and Rosa, who came in with 
 Joe Glancy, and they all rushed wildly into the 
 other room. Joe caught Kate around the waist. 
 She pushed him off, and he stumbled and pre- 
 tended to fall. Two other girls burst in and 
 joined in making a hubbub. The old man got up 
 from his chair and walked in from the kitchen. 
 
 "If you break the lamp you shan't have 
 another ! " he growled. 
 
 "All right," said Joe; "I love to set in the 
 dark." 
 
 McCannah started to take away the lamp at 
 once, as an economical precaution ; but Lucy 
 laid a hand on his arm,
 
 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 99 
 
 " Don't, father ; they do act so rough in the 
 dark, an' you know the super' has warned us 
 from bein' so noisy nights." 
 
 He yielded, and she placed the light carefully 
 on the mantel shelf beside a highly colored plas- 
 ter image of the Virgin. Then she brought 
 some gingerbread, and Joe produced some liq- 
 uor in a bottle. Eden sat a little apart, and 
 would not drink, in spite of much boisterous 
 urging. 
 
 " Well," said Joe, " I guess you '11 dance." 
 
 He took out a fiddle, and as he played the 
 girls revolved before him till he felt as if he 
 owned them all. Lucy alone stood still, look- 
 ing on wistfully. After a while Kate began to 
 tease Eden to do for them a clog dance, the per- 
 formance of which was an unfeminine accom- 
 plishment in which the little maiden excelled. 
 She laughed and refused, till at last, when Joe 
 drew his bow across the strings, she began to 
 move her feet. Her eyes burned and her cheeks 
 grew red. The excitement which had been in 
 her veins all day seemed to find relief in mo- 
 tion. Old McCannah stood in the doorway and 
 clapped his hands. As the minutes went on, 
 and still she danced, she grew very pale. At a 
 sign from Joe, Kate poured some liquor into a 
 tumbler and handed it to her. Eden took the 
 glass and held it above her head, without ceas- 
 ing her movements.
 
 100 LUKE GARDINER 8 LOVE. 
 
 " Drink ! " cried Joe, " or we '11 think you 've 
 gone over to the Yankee temp'rance folks, like 
 Luke Gardiner." 
 
 She seemed to hear the name as if it were 
 shouted across rushing waters ; then she drained 
 the glass, tossed it to Joe, and threw herself into 
 a chair, and leaned back a moment while the 
 red blood rose again to her cheeks, and a dizzy 
 smile came to her lips. 
 
 Luke waited outside, till the house door 
 opened and several figures rushed down the 
 stairs. 
 
 Kate and Lucy took Eden between them and 
 walked her swiftly forward. Luke followed 
 and perceived her condition. Unused to liquor, 
 that one glass had been sufficient to upset her ; 
 but Joe had forced her to drink another, and 
 now she did not know where she went, or what 
 she did or said. Joe led the way, and when 
 they came to the door of a little grog-shop, he 
 stopped and urged them to come in. Kate was 
 quite ready, but Lucy hung back. 
 
 " You go home, Joe," she said, " an' she '11 be 
 all right soon. It 'uld be a shame to get her in 
 there." 
 
 " Oh, you," he growled ; " you talk." Then 
 he stooped and whispered in her ear. She drew 
 her breath shudderingly, twisted her fingers, and 
 said :
 
 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 101 
 
 "All right; let's go in." 
 
 Joe caught hold of Eden and pulled her for- 
 ward ; but Luke rushed upon him from behind 
 the girls, knocked him down and stood over him 
 like a rough St. George. 
 
 Lucy gave a little cry, the others screamed, 
 then giggled. Some men came out of the sa- 
 loon. 
 
 " For God's sake," said Gardiner, " take that 
 girl home to her mother." 
 
 For a moment no one spoke ; then Lucy said, 
 " No, if she went home now they 'd beat her to 
 death ; but I promise you, Luke, she shall stay 
 safe with me all night." 
 
 Glancy was slowly recovering from the stu- 
 por engendered by his fall, and struggled under 
 Luke's feet and fists. The girls slipped away. 
 Then Gardiner defied the whole crowd of men, 
 let Joe go, and backed off till he had made sure 
 that he would not be pursued, when he turned 
 and ran after Eden and her companions. At 
 the foot of the stair-case leading to the McCan- 
 nah tenement, he took Lucy by the shoulders 
 and looked threateningly down through the 
 darkness into her eyes. 
 
 "Luke," said she, "don't be too hard on 
 Eden. Don't fret her and make her mad. It 's 
 comfortin' that a girl needs sometimes to make 
 her good."
 
 102 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 
 
 All night long Gardiner sat on the steps 
 and guarded the approach to the rooms above. 
 When the dawn reddened over the factory roofs, 
 he rose and staggered to the river bank, threw 
 himself on the ground and stared in to the stream. 
 
 "If I was God," he said aloud, "I'd be 
 ashamed to let a girl like that get spoiled. 
 If He 's a good God, I should think He 'd do 
 something. I would if I was Him." 
 
 He threw some pebbles in the water. They 
 broke the shining surface into glancing, circling 
 ripples. He seemed to see Eden's face floating 
 dead on the swift current. He raised his eyes 
 to the pallid heavens, and said, " If you won't 
 save her, God, I will." 
 
 It showed that Eden was somewhat demoral- 
 ized, that she made no effort to rise that morn- 
 ing and go to her work. Rosa and Kate Mc- 
 Cannah departed, leaving her asleep, and Lucy 
 locked Flit into the kitchen while she went out 
 on an errand. The child, not liking to be 
 imprisoned, dropped through the window on to 
 the stair-case, and walked off with head erect. 
 Her mother saw her pass the Stone house, and 
 leaned out of the casement to call. 
 
 " Flit, Flit, come home ! We 've found the 
 money, an' yer father won't beat you." 
 
 Flit raised her long eyelashes. "I'll come 
 by and by. I'm goin' to church now;" and
 
 LUKE GARDINER S LOVE. 103 
 
 without delay she sped across the bridge. The 
 mother would fain have followed, but Ronian 
 called to her from his bed, and kept her waiting 
 on him. 
 
 When, at last, Eden awoke and remembered 
 clearly what had happened on the previous 
 evening, she buried her golden head in the tum- 
 bled bedclothes, and wished she was dead. Her 
 own father had been a man superior to her 
 mother, and Eden's childhood had been spent 
 in better surroundings than those of later years. 
 She had never before sunk to the level of her 
 present companions. Shame overwhelmed her. 
 She had promised Joe that she would go with 
 him this next night to a dance in a neighboring 
 town. A sudden fear seized her as she thought 
 of it. Young as she was, she was not so igno- 
 rant as not to know the danger in which she 
 stood. She moaned and muttered to herself. 
 " Oh, oh ; what difference can anything make 
 after what Luke saw last night! I can't be 
 good an' happy no more. I won't be good an' 
 miserable. I '11 go with Joe an' dance. Oh, 
 Luke, if only Luke had n't got mad with me. 
 If he only had n't seen me." Then she threw 
 up her arms and laughed. " I guess the devil 
 is after me. I guess he 's got me already." 
 
 She sprang to the floor, combed her yellow 
 hair, looked in the dingy little glass, and ex-
 
 104 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 
 
 ulted over her own beauty. She arranged her 
 dress and ran down stairs, singing at the top of 
 her voice : 
 
 " Nelly was a lady, 
 
 Last night she died. 
 Toll, toll the bell, for lovely Nell, 
 My dark Virginia bride." 
 
 As she entered the kitchen, Lucy looked up 
 from the stove to say, " Flit 's got away again." 
 
 " Oh," cried Eden, " I 'm afraid Ronian 'ill 
 get hold of her. I must go after her. Dear, 
 how hot the sun is ! " 
 
 She went out, and when she reached the 
 foot of the staircase, Luke Gardiner flung him- 
 self down from the pine-covered bluff and stood 
 before. 
 
 " I 've been waitin' for you," he said ; " I got 
 off work to-day, on purpose to see you. Come 
 over by the trench an' let me talk with you." 
 
 She hesitated, then said, " Well, you go first, 
 I '11 follow." 
 
 A few minutes later, Luke sat waiting on a 
 big stone close to the water's edge. Wide open 
 meadows stretched behind him, and at a little 
 distance some fine oaks shaded the river into 
 which the trench emptied. The young man's 
 temper was changed since morning. He no 
 longer felt defiant, but prayerful, praying God 
 to help him save the girl he loved, for he did
 
 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. ,. 105 
 
 love her still, and when at last he saw the lit- 
 tle figure coming towards him, through the 
 warm sunlight, the sad, pale face looked so 
 lovely to him, that his heart yearned to meet 
 her. 
 
 " There 's the same alder bush," he said 
 looking up, " that was here when we was little 
 children. Do you mind how we had a play 
 that the fairies danced in its branches at night ? 
 And look at that bird's nest. Do you want 
 it?" 
 
 He spoke softly, as if no trouble weighed on 
 the mind of either. Some horrible weight 
 seemed to roll off Eden's brain, and she felt old 
 memories rise in her heart, and restore there a 
 sense of childish innocence. 
 
 " Not unless it 's empty," she said, leaning 
 over the water to look into the little swinging 
 cradle. He knelt beside her and reached for 
 the nest, and when he put it in her fingers, he 
 looked straight in her eyes. She sank on the 
 grass, and for a moment nothing outside them- 
 selves seemed nearer to them than the sky. 
 Then he spoke. 
 
 " Can't I help you somehow ? When you 
 was a little girl an' fell down, I picked you up. 
 It hurt me more 'n it hurt you. I feel just the 
 same now. You 're in trouble, you 're in 
 the way of more trouble. You must know it
 
 106 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 
 
 is n't a good thing for you to be at McCannah's 
 house." 
 
 " Yes, Luke, I know," she said sobbing, "but 
 Ronian drove us out in the night, an' we had 
 to go somewheres, an' Kate was good to us." 
 
 " Yes," said he eagerly, " she is kind, but 
 can't you go somewheres else now? I don't 
 speak for myself, dear, tho' I love you so much, 
 but I know about Joe Glancy and Lucy, an' 
 why he 's so thick with all them girls. It ain't 
 a fit place for you. Say, my mother will take 
 you to a cousin of hers in Fall River, you V 
 Flit, if you can't go home." 
 
 She flung herself from him with a low cry, 
 and hid her face in the grass. He leaned over 
 her fallen head, till she raised at last her wet 
 eyes, and whispered, " O Luke, how good you 
 are ! O Luke, is that what goodness is like ? 
 I thought everybody was bad an' it did not 
 matter much about me." 
 
 " Will you go ? " he asked. 
 
 " I '11 do anything you say," she murmured, 
 all broken in tears. 
 
 " You will go to my mother's ? " asked Luke, 
 trembling lest she were not persuaded after all ; 
 and Eden bowed the assent she could not 
 speak, rose hurriedly, smoothed her disordered 
 dress, and started toward the village. She did 
 not want to reveal her emotion more fully, and
 
 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 107 
 
 when he followed and reached her side, she did 
 not speak. They walked in silence through the 
 fields, and down the road to the river. They 
 passed the Stone house and stepped on to the 
 bridge. The stream was walled in on both 
 sides, the wall extending from the bridge to the 
 dam. On the pile of stone-work which Luke 
 and Eden were facing stood a child's figure. 
 
 " It 's Flit," cried Eden. 
 
 As she spoke, the child knelt, and they 
 plainly saw her raise her hands as if praying. 
 They ran forward, urged by a feeling of sudden 
 terror, and as they ran, Eden screamed, for 
 after kneeling a moment, Flit fell forward into 
 the water. 
 
 Immediate access to the wall was cut off 
 from the street, and to reach the place after 
 crossing the river, it was necessary for Luke 
 and Eden to make a short detour through the 
 factory yard. Before they arrived at the spot, 
 a crowd of people had rushed from the mill, 
 and were gathered on the narrow strips of earth 
 and masonry which divided the trench from 
 the river. Luke sprang on the wall, where 
 Flit had stood, flung off his shoes and coat, tied 
 a rope, which Joe Glancy brought him, around 
 his* waist, and jumped into the flood. The 
 water stood barely an inch above the mill-dam, 
 and while such a plunge required nerve, it in-
 
 108 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 
 
 volved no danger. Yet Luke found himself 
 overcome by an unaccustomed horror, as he 
 groped through the deep blackness, his eyes 
 wide open, his arms stretched before him, his 
 fingers clutching at objects on the stony bot- 
 tom, with frantic haste feeling for little Flit's 
 body. He rose with empty hands to the sur- 
 face. As he lifted his pale face above the cur- 
 rent, he heard Eden cry aloud. He swam to- 
 wards the bridge, and was drawn up on to the 
 ground. For a brief space of time, he lay still, 
 panting hard, and then, knitting his brows, he 
 stood up, again knotted the rope about him, 
 walked back to the place from which he had 
 before jumped, and went in again. 
 
 When he next appeared above the slow, 
 slippery current, he brought the dead child with 
 him. 
 
 Rough men took it from him and laid it on 
 the ground. Eden crouched sobbing beside it. 
 
 " Oh, how pretty she is," moaned she. 
 
 Flit did indeed look very beautiful, and ab- 
 solutely serene in her pallid stillness. 
 
 " Uncle John " came into the yard, and his 
 lips trembled, as he gazed in the quiet little 
 face. He put his hand on Luke's shoulder, 
 and his sweet old face worked as he said, 
 " Thee is a good fellow." 
 
 Somebody brought a shutter, and Luke's
 
 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 109 
 
 mother threw a sheet over Flit when she was 
 placed upon the boards. The crowd formed it- 
 self into an irregular procession. Luke, all 
 dripping wet, walked beside Eden, and " uncle 
 John " followed the bearers. A bird twittered 
 in an elm tree as they passed out of the factory 
 yard. 
 
 Everybody halted, uncertain what to do, 
 when they arrived before the Stone house, on 
 whose walls the noon-day sun shone hot and 
 bright. As they waited, a woman came wearily 
 along the road. 
 
 "It 's the mother, as has been lookin' for 
 Flit," said lame Lucy, who had been drawn to 
 the factory yard by the news of the accident, 
 and had returned with the others across the 
 stream. She ran forward, and caught Mrs. Ro- 
 man's hands. " Oh, oh," she cried, " be still, be 
 still ! Oh, do not take on, but Flit is dead an' 
 gone. Indeed, she 's safe, the poor child." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " shrieked the woman. 
 She wrenched herself from the girl's grasp, 
 threw up her arms, and would have fallen, had 
 not Luke caught her, and from him Eden re- 
 ceived her mother's head on her knees. 
 
 The afternoon wore away amid painful bustle, 
 and about sunset, Eden, who had been busy in 
 the house all day, stole down to the doorway, 
 and stood there breathing the cool air and
 
 110 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 
 
 pushing the tumbling hair off her forehead. 
 Lucy came limping round the house corner 
 with Joe Glancy. When she saw them Eden 
 took from her pocket the gilt ear-rings and 
 held them out to the man. 
 
 " Oh, keep 'em," growled he. 
 
 " What for ? " she said, with a wan smile. 
 " To wear at Flit's funeral? " 
 
 " Nonsense," he began, but Lucy interrupted, 
 " Are n't you ashamed to bother her now ? " 
 
 He took hold of the lame girl's arm so 
 roughly that he almost shook her. 
 
 " Keep quiet, I tell you." 
 
 Eden pushed the ornaments into his hand. 
 He dropped them on the ground and trod on 
 them. 
 
 " You 'd better not throw me over," said he. 
 " Gardiner '11 never marry you now" 
 
 Eden whirled about and went into the house. 
 He turned to Lucy angrily. 
 
 " You 've cheated me," he said ; " you 've got 
 Luke to make up with her." 
 
 Lucy had, in truth, seen Luke early that 
 morning, and had told him that Eden was in- 
 nocent of any intention to carouse the previous 
 night, and had begged him to be gentle with 
 her. She trembled now and grew white. 
 
 " You need n't think it '11 do you any good," 
 he growled, " I 'm sick to death of you."
 
 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. HI 
 
 She drew a quick sobbing breath and moved 
 her hands feebly and beseechingly towards him. 
 " I never trouble you," she said, " I never say 
 nothin' when you go with Kate nor Ann Sim- 
 mons, nor none of 'em. But Eden ain't like 
 them girls. It seemed too bad as harm should 
 come to her." 
 
 " Just you shut up," he said, and swearing 
 low, left her. 
 
 She seated herself wearily on the door-step, 
 and watched him go with eyes that changed 
 from anger to pain. She did not regret what 
 she had done, but her heart was heavy. She 
 felt a sort of wonder how it would seem to be 
 as innocent as Eden was. Evil had been in her 
 life so long ! When did it first come ? She was 
 not wholly sure she had ever been quite igno- 
 rant and pure. She wondered again what it 
 would be like. Lucy had often been heart-sick 
 before, but never so sick of her own heart as 
 now. 
 
 Bare, desolate poverty settled on the family 
 after Flit's funeral. Ronian was still unable 
 to work. The store-keeper would not give 
 credit beyond the amount of Eden's wages, 
 and there were many things needed. There 
 was no question now of her going away from 
 the village. She did not even think of leaving 
 her mother and the children. They were so 
 poor that sometimes she was hungry. They
 
 112 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 
 
 sold some of their furniture to pay the under- 
 taker, and Eden slept on the floor with her 
 little brother and sister. She rose in the morn- 
 ing tired as when she went to bed at night. 
 
 Luke watched her from afar with a swelling 
 heart. His mother could hardly reconcile her- 
 self to the idea that he would finally marry her, 
 but tried to make herself contented with the 
 thought of such a future. She, however, pre- 
 vailed upon him to wait till it became evident 
 that Eden could keep to her good resolutions. 
 The girl herself cherished no hope that he 
 would ever come to her as a lover, but she 
 made a sort of religion out of the memory of 
 his great goodness to her, in the hour of her 
 temptation, a religion which strengthened her 
 daily, as she avoided all her former comrades 
 in frivolity. 
 
 Once she met Lucy on the street and said to 
 her, " Don't think hard of me for not comin' to 
 see you no more ; " and the lame girl answered, 
 " You 'd better not come to our house, but I 
 stand up for you everywhere." 
 
 "Thank you," said the other, "an' I'll 
 stand by you, if ever you want me." 
 
 One Sunday evening in October, Eden knelt 
 by the little white cross that marked Flit's 
 grave. When she raised her eyes, Joe Glancy 
 stood beside her. He put his hand on her 
 shoulder, to hold her down.
 
 LUKE GARDINER'S LOVE. 113 
 
 " Let me go," she cried. 
 
 When she divined rather than heard his 
 answer, she struggled away, flying blindly, 
 stumbling among the graves. He followed her 
 quickly, but when she neared the gate, she saw 
 Luke Gardiner, and ran to him, calling his 
 name. He took her panting in his arms. The 
 overseer's lip curled. " Ah," said he, " where 's 
 the virtue in running from one man to an- 
 other?" Luke sprang at him, but Eden held him 
 back, and Joe walked away, sneering again, 
 
 " Oh, I won't interfere. I give my notice." 
 
 Luke led the trembling girl to one of the low 
 graves and seated her there. 
 
 " I did follow you," he said. " I wanted to 
 ask you to marry me." 
 
 " Oh, I 'in not good enough." 
 
 " I think you are." 
 
 "I never did no very bad thing," she said, 
 " but I was silly, an' I 've been talked about. 
 You can't feel the same as if I was real re- 
 spected by folks." 
 
 " What I feel is," said he, " that you 're the 
 nicest girl I know." 
 
 Then she nestled in his arms, quite over- 
 come, and murmured, " O Luke, you don't 
 know how hard I '11 try to be good." 
 
 " Well, then I guess you '11 make out to do," 
 he said, laughing, as he kissed her.
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 JOSIB WELCH was six years old, and her 
 brother Tommy was eight, at the time their 
 mother became a widow. Mrs. Welch worked 
 in a cotton factory. She rose at half-past five 
 in the morning, lit a hasty fire in the kitchen, 
 made some tea which she drank, and put some 
 bread and butter on the table. In cold weather, 
 she arranged the fire so that it would keep as 
 long as possible, and left in the kitchen a small 
 supply of fuel, before hurrying away to her 
 work. 
 
 An hour or two later, Tommy, who was a 
 methodical little soul, routed his sister and him- 
 self out of bed, when, without washing, they 
 fell upon the bread and butter and devoured it. 
 They then dressed themselves quite leisurely, 
 although their toilet was a meagre one and in- 
 cluded very little in the way of ablutions. Af- 
 terwards, Tommy took some more bread and 
 butter and carried it into the mill to his mother,
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 115 
 
 for her breakfast. At the same time lie took 
 her a tin pail, filled the night before. She 
 warmed the contents of this on the steam-pipes 
 in the mill, and at twelve o'clock the children 
 came to the factory and shared with her this 
 made-over dinner, since the brief " nooning " 
 did not give Mrs. Welch time to go home and 
 warm her dinner there. A neighbor, at the 
 widow's request, used to go into the house in 
 the afternoon and replenish the fire, that the 
 place might be warm when the children came 
 home from school. 
 
 Tommy and Josie went pretty regularly to 
 school in cold weather, because it was warmer 
 there than at home, where the fire often lan- 
 guished under their inexperienced care, and 
 sometimes died out entirely before the neighbor 
 came. It was a chance whether she found it 
 choked with ashes and injudicious feeding, or 
 whether the fuel provided in the morning had 
 proved insufficient to sustain it through so many 
 hours. Mrs. Welch's bills became too large for 
 her earnings, if she allowed the children to have 
 free access to the shed where the coal was kept, 
 so its door was locked and the neighbor had the 
 key. Frequently the little lad and his sister 
 gathered sticks in a pine grove hard by, or 
 picked up shiny lumps of coal that were scat- 
 tered near the railroad station, and they burned
 
 116 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 the material thus procured with gay hearts and 
 bursts of happy laughter. Doubtless, if they 
 had not had the usual childish habit of accept- 
 ing all events unthinkingly, they would have 
 been very sure that it was the good God, or may 
 be, even the mother of God herself, who made 
 men always spill fuel when loading and unload- 
 ing coal cars. 
 
 There were many kind people in the village, 
 who welcomed the shivering little creatures to 
 their own firesides, in those families whose pros- 
 perity permitted that the mother or some elder 
 daughter should stay at home from the mill. 
 
 At night, Mrs. Welch came home, gave the 
 children their supper, swept, cleaned, washed 
 dishes and clothes, cooked far into the night, 
 and then lay down for a few hours of heavy 
 sleep. 
 
 Tommy and Josie were as good children as 
 could be expected under the circumstances ; but 
 Josie had, even then, a restless and excitable 
 organization. In a happier home her peculiari- 
 ties would perhaps have been carefully studied, 
 and all this fine, nervous force might have been 
 trained and utilized. But Josie belonged to a 
 stratum of society far below those in which ex- 
 ists the practice of such study and consideration. 
 She often ran away from home and school, and 
 got herself into endless scrapes.
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. , 117 
 
 A year or more of this sort of life had passed 
 when Mrs. Welch suddenly died. Her hus- 
 band's brother took the children. Tommy pros- 
 pered in his new home. He was well-grown 
 and strong, and having nearly attained the age 
 at which the law would permit him to be put at 
 work in the mill, his uncle took him to the over- 
 seer, said he was old enough, and obtained em- 
 ployment for him. The child's wages were a 
 welcome addition to the family income ; indeed, 
 a necessary addition, in view of the two extra 
 mouths that were now to be fed, and the uncle 
 considered the lie he had told to be dazzling in 
 its whiteness. 
 
 Josie, meanwhile, did not prosper in the keep- 
 ing of her aunt. She did not love to tend the 
 babies. There were a pair of twins, and two 
 other round, red-headed, pale-faced little ones 
 under three years old, who fell largely to poor 
 Josie's care. She was not cross to them, but 
 she did not enjoy the labors imposed on her. 
 
 She hated to wash dishes, with a hatred as 
 intense as, and perhaps not really more culpable 
 than, that which is felt for this task by some 
 more fortunate daughters of our common race. 
 She did not enjoy the restrictions suddenly 
 placed about her. They irked her greatly after 
 the free street life she had led while her mother 
 lived.
 
 118 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 Josie had the instincts that in higher ranks of 
 society are called Bohemian, and for which our 
 many-sided civilization now begins to find re- 
 spectable chance for action. In the lower strata 
 of this civilization, however, the pressure of cir- 
 cumstances is so great that it bears down heav- 
 ily on all such instincts, and frequently crushes 
 and distorts them till they become impulses to- 
 wards crime and outrage. The conscientious 
 student of the forces in nature and character 
 which shape or deform social life must often 
 halt between two opinions, uncertain whether 
 the sovereign remedy for many of the ills from 
 which humanity suffers would be more liberty 
 or more restraint. 
 
 It is the old problem which besets also the 
 individual life. Are obstacles set in our way 
 to warn us back from any special path, or that 
 we may grow stronger by overcoming them as 
 we go forward? Some there are who may de- 
 cide whether they will go back or go on. Men 
 and women who labor eleven hours a day in the 
 stifling air of a great factory have limitations to 
 their freedom of will. Those men must eat and 
 sleep away most of their leisure hours. Those 
 women must often toil on in the home after the 
 mill work is done. They cannot spend time and 
 money to go out in search of healthful recrea- 
 tion. The devil surrounds them with sensual
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 119 
 
 enjoyments only. Their jaded nerves respond 
 most readily to such, and in factory villages but 
 little effort is made, by what calls itself Chris- 
 tianity, to compete with Satan in his struggles 
 for souls, or to prove his choice of pleasures an 
 unwise one to the multitude. 
 
 So, in her new surroundings, Josie fared ill, 
 and looked forward, in her childish brain, to 
 faring worse. 
 
 Perhaps, under the best influences, her nature 
 might have been morally weak. At any rate, 
 unmoulded by such influences, she experienced 
 no dutiful desires to grow older, take her place 
 in the factory, and do her part towards the sup- 
 port of herself and of her uncle's numerous prog- 
 eny. She ran away very frequently, and would 
 stay away for hours and cause endless trouble. 
 Finally, one morning she disappeared and was 
 not found till the next day. The child had not 
 yet got into any real harm, but she was cer- 
 tainly on the right road to ruin. 
 
 Her aunt, scandalized, provoked, and worn 
 out, complained of her, had her arrested, poor 
 little mite, taken before a magistrate, and sen- 
 tenced to the Reform School. It was thus that, 
 when she was ten years old, this unfortunate 
 waif became the child of the State. 
 
 The institution in which Josie found herself 
 usually contained about a hundred boys, and
 
 120 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 from thirty to fifty girls, from seven or eight 
 years old to twenty. The girls were sent there 
 for all offenses, short of flagrant crime, which 
 girls can commit. There was very little effort 
 made at this time to classify or separate the older 
 and more depraved inmates from those childish 
 sinners who had drifted thither from sheer ill 
 luck rather than through any fault of their own. 
 At a later period, it became the custom, in that 
 State, to send to an institution designed more 
 especially for such characters all girls over six- 
 teen arrested for certain vices. When Josie 
 Welch entered the Reform School, such offend- 
 ers, if under twenty, were often confined there, 
 to spread the contagion of their own polluted 
 lives among the younger children. Yet among 
 these little ones, even, were sometimes to be 
 found strange and abnormal tendencies to evil, 
 developed, generally, by an utterly uncared-for 
 childhood. 
 
 Josie was but an innocent, excitable, restless 
 child, with no moral training, when she was 
 dropped into this hot-bed of vice. What were 
 the means which the State provided to cure 
 these soul-sick little children ? An account of 
 the daily routine of the school will suffice to 
 tell the story of several years of Josie's life. 
 
 The girls rose at five. Their sleeping accom- 
 modations were pretty good, since never more
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 121 
 
 than two occupied a room together, and in some 
 cases separate apartments were provided. Noth- 
 ing can be said in praise of the arrangements 
 for bathing. 
 
 At half-past five the girls went to school, 
 sleepy and hungry. In the summer it was not 
 so bad, with the dawning light shining through 
 the eastern windows and waking them up ; but 
 in winter doors and windows were shut, because 
 the room was never very warm at that hour, 
 the atmosphere was both chilly and close, and 
 the children were stupid with sleepiness. At 
 seven, the girls went to breakfast. At eight, 
 they began to work. The older ones did the 
 housework. One or two servants were employed 
 in the immediate family of the superintendent, 
 but all the rest of the work in that immense es- 
 tablishment, except, of course, the actual care 
 of the part of the house which was occupied by 
 the boys, was done by the girls. The little 
 children, and such of the larger ones as were 
 not needed in the other household departments, 
 sewed and knit. 
 
 Although families are naturally, and often 
 rightly, unwilling to take into service girls who 
 have spent their minority in a Reform School, 
 the state had these girls taught to do well noth- 
 ing but domestic labor ; the sewing and knit- 
 ting which they learned being too coarse to
 
 122 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 avail them afterwards in the effort to support 
 themselves. The boys in the Reform School 
 which we are describing are taught a trade. 
 The girls are only qualified to do housework ; 
 but at the expiration of their terms it is diffi- 
 cult for them to obtain places in families, and 
 they are generally so demoralized that they 
 cannot safely be admitted to households where 
 there are children. 
 
 To return to the daily routine. The girls 
 had a short recess in the forenoon, just long 
 enough for them to move about a little, or, if 
 they wished, to run out-of-doors. At noon 
 they had dinner, and then began work again, 
 which lasted till the supper hour at four. They 
 had nothing to eat afterwards. At five they 
 went into school again, and remained there till 
 seven ; and then they were sent to bed. Thus 
 all their schooling came between supper and 
 breakfast, so as not to interfere with the day's 
 work. 
 
 Josie did not learn much at school. She 
 hated it, and she hated the long whitewashed 
 corridors, and the little cooped-up yard where 
 all the drying of clothes for the whole establish- 
 ment was done, so that the girls could seldom 
 move freely about in it. 
 
 The boys had a large play-ground. Josie 
 could see it through a knot-hole she discovered
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 123 
 
 in the fence. This knot-hole was her own 
 peculiar property, her one great possession and 
 secret. She told none of the other girls about 
 it. She seldom looked through it lest they 
 should see her. It was half hidden by one of 
 the posts to the fence. The poor child had a 
 great pride in this little secret of hers, and 
 never dreamed what a fatal thing this knot- 
 hole, with its outlook on forbidden grounds, 
 was yet to be to her. 
 
 Josie hated the slow pace at which she al- 
 ways felt obliged to walk about the house and 
 yard. The girls never ran there. The boys, 
 on the other side of the fence, ran and tumbled 
 each other about and shouted ; but the girls, 
 on their side, were always silent and slow of 
 motion and sad of face, except when they 
 quarreled among themselves. Even Josie, young 
 as she was, felt that a doom was on them all, 
 and could perceive the settled hopelessness 
 which brooded over the faces of all the girls, 
 whether they were otherwise bright or stupid. 
 
 One day a lady came to visit the school, and 
 brought her dainty little daughter with her. As 
 they stood in the hall, Josie came in from 
 recess. 
 
 The two children stared, open-eyed, at each 
 other. The fair, curled darling of her mother 
 looked at the close-cropped head, the dark, wild
 
 124 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 eyes, the sulky mouth, of the child of the State. 
 Then, with a little pout of aversion and fear, 
 the golden-haired one turned away, and an 
 angry look came into Josie's face. 
 
 The mother, bending over her darling, coaxed 
 and murmured to her a moment, till the little 
 one turned back, ran towards Josie, and with a 
 sweet smile, pushed into her hand a tiny china 
 doll, new that day and not yet dressed. 
 
 Josie took it awkwardly, but looked her 
 wonder and delight, till the matron who stood 
 near bade her thank the lady and the little 
 girl ; at which Josie, overcome with bashful- 
 ness, fled away to the sewing-room, tightly 
 clutching her doll. The matron would have 
 followed and forced her to return, had not the 
 lady mother interposed a smiling plea for the 
 childish terror she well understood. Neverthe- 
 less, Josie was held for several days in high 
 disgrace, and was frequently reminded of her 
 bad manners " to that kind lady and sweet lit- 
 tle girl." She was rather sorry when she re- 
 flected on her behavior, but she consoled her- 
 self by petting and playing with her doll, and 
 teaching to it the polite methods of action in 
 which she herself had failed. 
 
 She was very much afraid that the doll 
 would take cold, as it had no clothes, and she 
 tore off a strip from her only flannel petticoat
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 125 
 
 in which to wrap it. She was very happy 
 when, soon after this, the day came for sorting 
 over the rags of the household. 
 
 All the rags which accumulated in the estab- 
 lishment through the year were stuffed into 
 great bags kept in the attic. These bags were 
 brought down annually into the room which 
 served as school and sewing-room. They were 
 emptied on the floor, and the girls picked them 
 over and sorted out the woolen and cotton 
 pieces. The poor creatures enjoyed this work 
 hugely, with the break it made in the daily 
 routine. Smiles lit up their heavy faces, and 
 a visitor on that day might have been beguiled 
 into a belief that the inmates of this Reform 
 School were tolerably happy. 
 
 Josie's vagabond instincts reveled in this 
 companionship of rags. She made precious 
 discoveries in these motley heaps, such discov- 
 eries as can be made only by the eyes of child- 
 hood. 
 
 Here she found a bit of bright, new calico. 
 How it contrasted with her own dingy, oft- 
 washed, and faded gown! What tales it seemed 
 to tell the child, whispering of possible luxury 
 and of new dresses ! forever unattainable by 
 her. Now she came across a tiny bit of red 
 silk, and now a faded blue necktie was dis- 
 cerned among the rough de'bris of half a dozen 
 gray cloth jackets, such as the boys wore.
 
 126 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 Josie's soul burned within her. Her little 
 heart throbbed with longing. She thought of 
 her gownless doll, and she grew bold. She 
 went up to the matron in charge, and asked 
 her if she might have some of these little pieces 
 for herself. Fortunately, the matron did not 
 know that the child had torn her petticoat, and 
 was so touched by the seeming honesty of this 
 petition that she gave permission, but told the 
 little girl to bring for her inspection all that she 
 wanted. Poor Josie brought so many that the 
 matron, fearful of giving her too great happi- 
 ness, was forced to tell her to select six pieces 
 and put the others in the common stock. 
 
 Such a time as the little girl had to choose ! 
 But at last she heaved a great sigh of mingled 
 satisfaction and regret that the pleasant but 
 puzzling task of choice was over. As she did 
 so she heard some one speak to her, and look- 
 ing up she saw with affright the superintendent 
 of the school standing by her. He was an im- 
 mense man, with an oily smile which played 
 over a cruel mouth. Josie's fears were assuaged 
 a little when she perceived that the voice which 
 had addressed her came not from him, but from 
 the lips of a lady by his side, a lady with a 
 tender face and sweet, deep eyes. 
 
 She bent over the startled child, and asked 
 her gently what she meant to do with those
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 127 
 
 bits of cloth. Josie stammered something about 
 dressing her doll. The lady smiled pleasantly, 
 but the matron drawing near said that Josie 
 would have to pay more attention to her sewing 
 in the school before she would be able to sew 
 very well for herself. Josie shrank away, sat 
 down by a heap of rags, and turned it over 
 with her little hands. 
 
 The lady looked at the soft, wild eyes of the 
 child till a moist tenderness came into her own, 
 and turning suddenly away she walked out into 
 the corridor, and stood gazing out of the win- 
 dow over the yard, where the girls could not 
 play because it was filled with clothes hung out 
 to dry. 
 
 The superintendent followed her, and com- 
 ing up said blandly, " You have now seen the 
 whole of the institution, Mrs. Keyes." 
 
 " Yes," she answered, absently ; then, after 
 a moment's pause, she spoke quickly : " And I 
 have seen many others like it. I have spent 
 ten years studying the classes from which our 
 reform schools, our houses of correction, and 
 our jails are filled, and this is my conviction : 
 that you take the children who are the worst 
 born and bred in the world, and put them 
 under circumstances which would render des- 
 perate, and consequently depraved, the best 
 natures you could find. Your system is a fail- 
 ure, and you know it is."
 
 128 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 The eyes of the superintendent contracted 
 savagely for an instant. Then he said, as 
 mildly as ever, " On the contrary, madam, a 
 large proportion of the boys who leave this 
 school go to earning their living honestly, and 
 lead respectable lives." 
 
 "And the girls?" 
 
 " Oh, the girls ! Well the girls are a great 
 deal worse. Women always are worse than 
 men, you know, when they are bad. There 's 
 a peculiar devil in women, somehow, begging 
 your pardon." 
 
 " You mean that you do not reform the 
 girls," said the lady, curtly. 
 
 " No ; there is no possibility of reforming 
 the girls. It is merely a house of correction 
 for them, and serves a very good purpose in 
 keeping them out of mischief for a few years, 
 at least." 
 
 " And you only reform more boys than 
 girls," said Mrs. Keyes, with some indignant 
 passion in her voice, " because you don't under- 
 take to cure the boys of certain faults. It is 
 no matter when they go out into the world, 
 whether they have or have not these vices. 
 They are called reformed, if they will work. 
 That is all. No, there is another reason why 
 you reform more boys. You treat them better, 
 with more respect, and thus you inculcate self-
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 129 
 
 respect in them. You teach them a useful 
 trade. You give them a decent yard to play 
 in. You give them good seats at chapel. But 
 what do you give to the girls to reform them ? 
 Vacant minds, a dismal present, and despair 
 for the future. There 's a peculiar devil in 
 women, is there? You remember what the 
 Bible says. You may sweep that chamber 
 empty of devils as many times as you please, 
 and they will come back, if you put nothing 
 else in their place. Take that child, in there, 
 who had the rags for her doll. Anybody can 
 see what a nervous, impressible, restless crea- 
 ture she is. If she is chained down to this life 
 of hopeless monotony, without change and 
 without chance, of course her feverish feelings 
 will find an outlet in some wrong way." 
 
 The superintendent's face had grown black 
 with anger as the lady went vehemently on, un- 
 heeding his wrath, and he spoke quickly and 
 irritably : " They find it now. She 's one of 
 the worst and most unmanageable children we 
 have in the school." 
 
 " I don't doubt it. What was she sent here 
 for?" 
 
 " For running away from home." 
 
 " Poor little thing I Mr. Brewster, why 
 should n't you take these girls out, one or two 
 at a time, once in a while, to walk, as a reward 
 9
 
 130 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 of good behavior ? You 'd see if they would n't 
 try to earn the privilege." 
 
 Whether the superintendent's anger would, 
 at this juncture, have overcome his politeness, 
 it is impossible to say, for just then he was 
 called off by one of the officers to attend to some 
 new guests, and Mrs. Keyes, meanwhile, having 
 finished her visit, went her way sorrowfully and 
 indignantly. 
 
 When the superintendent had finished with 
 the later visitors he returned to the sewing- 
 room and ordered Josie to put her cherished 
 rags among the others. The child, in a furious 
 passion, refused to do so. The matron inter- 
 posed, rather fearfully. Mr. Brewster seized 
 what pieces he could discover on the struggling 
 girl's person, threw them into the general heap, 
 and then dragged Josie away to one of the dor. 
 mitories, where she was locked up for the rest 
 of the day. She had, however, saved the blue 
 necktie and a couple of bits of calico ; and after 
 she had regained her freedom she clothed her 
 doll with these. 
 
 A few days later the torn state of her petti- 
 coat was discovered, and the missing fragment 
 of flannel was traced to her doll's wardrobe. 
 Josie managed to secrete and save the doll in 
 the storm that followed, but she herself suffered 
 fresh disgrace and punishment. Her character
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 131 
 
 seemed somewhat altered after this, and there 
 were signs of desperation in her moods. 
 
 After Josie had been in the Reform School a 
 year or two, she was taken out by a farmer's 
 wife to help take care of the babies of the fam- 
 ily. She could be returned at any time when 
 Mrs. Faber saw fit. This was a happy, health- 
 ful season in Josie's life. She went to school 
 part of the time, she tended the baby, she 
 washed the dishes, and she rambled over the 
 farm so much that she did not care to run away. 
 But after a year and a half of this pleasant life, 
 Mrs. Faber's oldest daughter came home from 
 school to stay, and the mother had no more need 
 of the services of the little alien. 
 
 The next place to which she was sent was in 
 the city, and she did not do well there. At 
 Mrs. Faber's she had been treated as a child of 
 the house might have been. Here she was only 
 a servant, and one to be specially watched and 
 suspected, because she came from the Reform 
 School. She soon merited all this suspicion, 
 and in six months she was returned to the school 
 with a character which caused the superintend- 
 ent and teachers to watch her in their turn. 
 
 When she was fifteen she was once more 
 launched out in life. Again she had a place on 
 a farm. It was one of those sterile, hilly farms 
 which abound in New England, where rocky
 
 132 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 pastures afford a scanty sustenance to the few 
 cattle or sheep that wander among their gray, 
 stony hillocks, and where huckleberry bushes 
 grow in rampant profusion. There were old or- 
 chards scattered about, where gnarled and aged 
 apple-trees sprouted innumerable new shoots, 
 which no careful hand ever pruned away. They 
 were dark, twisted, uncanny trees, that in the 
 spring-time of " apple years " burst forth into 
 strange beauty, when rose-tinted blossoms cov- 
 ered every living twig and branch, and threw 
 into dark shadow the dead, massive limbs that 
 coiled about among the flowers, themselves un- 
 garnished by green leaf, pink bud, or full white 
 bloom. 
 
 But it was not in the beauty of the spring- 
 time that Josie came into the country. It was 
 in the autumn, when golden-rod waved in every 
 nook and cranny of the stony fields, and lined 
 the wild, wandering roads with glory. Far 
 around stretched blue hills drenched deep with 
 color in the autumnal haze, and the roads that 
 traversed the valley and climbed the distant 
 slopes seemed to lead straight up to heaven. 
 
 Josie was driven to the farm-house in the 
 market-wagon in which Mr. Jacobs had come to 
 the school for her. Arrived at their destina- 
 tion, she got out and meekly followed her new 
 master into the kitchen.
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 133 
 
 Mrs. Jacobs stood by the stove, frying dough- 
 nuts, and just as she turned round to look Josie 
 over, the door from the woodshed beyond the 
 kitchen opened, and a tall young fellow came 
 in. His eyes fell on Josie, and she returned 
 his glance boldly for a moment ; then her lids 
 drooped shyly, and she stood staring at the 
 floor, while Mrs. Jacobs, the farmer, and the 
 young man all brutally inspected her. Alas 1 
 Josie had not been educated in a school of re- 
 finement, and Charley Manton's rude gaze 
 charmed while it abashed her. 
 
 What need to tell the story of the weeks that 
 followed? Flossy Jacobs, a colorless blonde, 
 was in love with Charley Manton, and had fan- 
 cied her passion returned as probably it was 
 till this girl from the Reform School crossed 
 their path. 
 
 Charley was a minister's son, an orphan, now 
 working for his boafd on Mr. Jacob's farm. 
 He was only eighteen, but he had lived a long 
 life already ; familiar with vice, he still paused 
 on the threshold of crime. Some sudden fancy, 
 perhaps for Flossy Jacobs's blue eyes, had 
 prompted him to spend these weeks of the har- 
 vest season in honest labor ; but he had begun 
 to tire of it, and he had wild visions of an ad- 
 venturous career in California or Mexico, upon 
 which he meant soon to enter. He was cruelly
 
 134 TEE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 selfish, but he possessed all the charm which 
 sometimes belongs to strong, heartless natures. 
 
 I never saw Josie Welch but once, and it was 
 about this time. She was hardly full grown, 
 but she had a lithe, graceful form, masses of 
 dark, waving hair, good features and complex- 
 ion, cheeks and chin rounded, and lips a little 
 full. Out from this immature, girlish face 
 looked the saddest, softest, wildest dark eyes I 
 ever saw. They haunted me for years. They 
 have followed me ever since, seeming to beseech 
 me to give language to their dumbness and tell 
 their story. They seemed to understand so lit- 
 tle, to want so much ; but when I came to know 
 the whole of Josie's life, they took upon them- 
 selves a new character, and to my imagination 
 there was something awful and accusing in their 
 remembered gaze. I could not put the memory 
 of them away from me, and I learned, at last, 
 that they were not meant to be forgotten. 
 
 Flossy Jacobs hated Josie, and in a few weeks 
 the unfortunate girl was sent back to the Re- 
 form School. The morning the wretched out- 
 cast was to go, Flossy kept persistently by her 
 side, to prevent the possibility of any sentimen- 
 tal leave-taking with Charley Manton. This 
 young man, however, marched boldly up, where 
 the two girls stood, at last, in the doorway, wait- 
 ing for the farmer to come and unhitch the
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 135 
 
 horse and drive Josie away over the wild roads, 
 where the golden-rod had faded and fallen be- 
 fore the first frosts of winter. 
 
 Josie shivered with the cold and with the 
 passion of pain and hatred in her tortured heart. 
 Charley turned to Flossy and said, roughly, 
 " Go in and get your blanket shawl, and lend it 
 to Josie for the ride. She can send it back in 
 the wagon. You 've made a pretty mess, you 
 have, but you need n't kill her with the cold. 
 Go in, I say." 
 
 There was a blaze that boded evil in his eyes, 
 and Flossy dared not, for her life, disobey him. 
 He took Josie's hand and laughed a little bit- 
 terly. " You poor little wretch ! " he said ; " no 
 more good times for you. Run away, if you 
 get a chance, and I '11 take you to Mexico with 
 me." Then he stooped and kissed her, and, as 
 he lifted his head, he saw Flossy's angry eyes 
 behind Josie, as she came along the entry with 
 the shawl. He stepped forward to take the 
 wrap, which she threw at him in a fury. He 
 laughed as he caught it, and took her firmly by 
 the wrist. 
 
 " Mind what you say and do," he said in a 
 fierce whisper. " I 've stood all I will stand. 
 There 's two can play at telling. And your pa 
 and your ma might not like all they 'd hear." 
 
 Flossy turned away cowed, and Charley
 
 136 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 wrapped Josie up, half tenderly, and helped her 
 ostentatiously into the wagon when the farmer 
 came. 
 
 It is, perhaps, unnecessary to add that when 
 Mr. Jacobs returned that night from the city, 
 he informed Charley that his services were no 
 longer needed on the farm. 
 
 Josie went back to be watched and suspected, 
 and to hate the whitewashed walls and the long 
 corridors and the monotonous daily routine, the 
 silent meals, the morning and the evening 
 schools, the sense of suffocation everywhere, as 
 she had never hated them before. 
 
 She was desperate, and yet she was nearer 
 salvation than ever before in her life. Her love 
 purified her, as love must purify. She had not 
 been very bad hitherto, but she had grown up 
 among girls many of whom were of bad lives 
 and vicious propensities. She had listened to 
 their talk, she had laughed at their jokes, and 
 had been contaminated by them. Now she 
 shrank from their coarseness. She had read 
 some pure stories of love and marriage while at 
 Mr. Jacobs's. All the passion and all the pur- 
 ity of which she had read now filled her heart. 
 She formed to herself an ideal that she would 
 gladly be like for Charley Manton's sake. She 
 believed he would marry her if he could, if she 
 were free to go out to him in that wide, beauti-
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 137 
 
 ful world of which, since her childhood, she had 
 had such few glimpses. She would have given 
 her life for him. She wanted at least to give 
 him a pure heart. He was a minister's son, she 
 knew ; she had wild, foolish notions that he be- 
 longed to some half princely race ; so high above 
 her, alas, seemed any respectability of blood 
 and breeding. She felt that she must strain 
 every nerve to be worthy of him. 
 
 It would, perhaps, have been a wiser effort of 
 the conscience if she had tried to attain this 
 worthiness by a strict compliance with the rules 
 of the institution of which she was a member, 
 and by a faithful service therein. But, possibly 
 because her moral nature was weak, it never oc- 
 curred to Josie that the Reform School really 
 had any claim on her obedience or her loyal de- 
 votion. Certainly she never yielded any which 
 she could avoid. She simply detested it all, 
 the routine, the superintendent, the teachers, 
 the girls and their coarseness. 
 
 Many a night, when things had gone more 
 wrong than usual through the day, when her 
 unsubdued temper had shown itself in sulky 
 looks, in muttered words, and impatient flashes 
 of those dark eyes, when the matrons had been 
 cross, when the washing for Josie worked 
 now in the laundry had made her back ache 
 intolerably, and when " marks " had crowded
 
 138 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 against her record, the unhappy child cried 
 away long hours before she slept, smothering 
 her sobs in the bedclothes, so that her room- 
 mate should never guess her trouble. 
 
 The chapel of the school was a long, pleasant 
 room, with a low platform at one end, having a 
 desk on it. The boys, during Services, sat in 
 settees on the floor, facing this platform. Be- 
 hind them, at the extreme end of the hall, was 
 an elevated gallery shut off by a wooden fence 
 rising some three or four feet. Into this pen 
 the girls were marshaled on Sundays. The 
 boys came into the hall first, from their part of 
 the house, and took their seats on the floor, 
 directly before the speaker. After they were 
 seated, the door from the other side of the 
 house, which led into the gallery, was opened, 
 and the girls filed in. They were forbidden to 
 look at the boys as they entered. When they 
 sat down, those in the front rows could see the 
 speaker over the fence if they took pains to 
 look, but he could see little of them except the 
 tops of their heads. The speakers who came 
 there were sometimes ministers, sometimes 
 gentlemen from the city, who were interested 
 in the school or in the classes of juvenile offend- 
 ers from whose ranks it was recruited. They 
 generally addressed their remarks to the boys. 
 It was difficult for them to realize that those
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 139 
 
 half-unseen female creatures set aside behind 
 that wooden fence were to be affected by their 
 words. They encouraged the boys to do well, 
 and promised them an honorable future if they 
 did. These gentlemen were usually too well 
 informed to hold out to these lads the possibil- 
 ity of possessing the presidential office ; still, 
 the careers of Abraham Lincoln and Henry 
 Wilson were sometimes too tempting to be 
 wholly ignored. There was riot much said to 
 the girls. It was difficult for the most sanguine 
 believer in the reformation wronght in the 
 school, or the most hopeful observer of social 
 phenomena, to picture any very bright future 
 as attainable by these pariahs. Sometimes the 
 speaker would remember that half-hidden au- 
 dience behind the fence, and amid his exhorta- 
 tions to the boys would helplessly add, " and 
 girls," and feel that his duty was done. The 
 girls, in a vague way, understood and felt all 
 these things. They rather liked the singing, 
 but otherwise cared very little for the chapel 
 services. One reason they liked the singing 
 was that then they stood up and could look 
 round among the boys, though, of course, 
 they were forbidden to, and could even some- 
 times make stealthy signals to them. Whether 
 these unfortunate young people could ever have 
 been taught to behave quite properly in each
 
 140 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 other's presence may be a question ; but cer- 
 tain it is that ill the institution described here 
 the only effort made was to keep the sexes 
 apart, and no attempt whatever was put forth 
 to teach them how to behave when they did 
 come in contact. 
 
 It was one Sunday morning, that, standing 
 up to sing, Josie Welch saw Charley Manton 
 in the chapel below her. His face was turned 
 from her, of course. She saw only the back 
 of his head and his broad shoulders, but she 
 knew him, and felt a great dizzy throb. She 
 grew faint and white, but happily there was no 
 one near who cared enough for her to notice 
 her agitation. She watched him as a drowning 
 man might watch a nearing sail, looked at him 
 as the rich man in hell might have looked into 
 heaven when its gates opened before him, and 
 heaven, safety, hope and happiness, all grew pos- 
 sible to her. She sang no more that day, but 
 only looked. Even when they sat down again, 
 and she could see him no more, she kept her 
 eyes turned towards the part of the hall where 
 he sat. She fancied the face she had not seen, 
 and dreamed a thousand dreams in the short 
 half-hour before the service was over. After- 
 wards she began to wonder how Charley Man- 
 ton, a minister's son, her imagined prince, came 
 to be in the Reform School.
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 141 
 
 The facts were very simple. He had come 
 to the city and made his living for some time 
 by his wits, till he was finally arrested for some 
 petty larceny. The judge before whom he was 
 brought remembered his father, and sent him 
 to the Reform School, although he was older 
 than most boys are when first condemned there. 
 The judge hoped thereby to save his old 
 friend's son from the disgrace of imprisonment 
 in jail, and perhaps to break up in its begin- 
 ning the career of crime on which the youth 
 seemed about to enter. 
 
 Charley doubtless remembered that Josie was 
 an inmate of this house, when he came there, 
 but he made no effort to renew his acquaint- 
 ance with her. 
 
 Josie, on her part, had recourse to the knot- 
 hole she had found when a child. She spent 
 all the minutes she could snatch from the vigi- 
 lance of the teachers, and the coarse observation 
 of the girls, staring through that hole into the 
 boys' yard, hoping to see Charley pass. Several 
 days elapsed before she saw him. When she 
 did it was at a most favorable moment. He 
 was absolutely alone on his side of the fence, 
 and she on hers, and he was passing very near 
 her. She put her lips to the hole and softly 
 called, " Charley ! " He heard her, sent his 
 quick eyes roving round the yard, and in an
 
 142 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 instant spied the tiny opening. He went up 
 to it. 
 
 " "Who are you? " he said. 
 
 " Oh, don't you know me ? I 'm Josie." 
 
 " Yes, I thought so. Well, I don't see as I 
 can shake hands with you or kiss you through 
 this fence ; but never mind ; I 'm glad to hear 
 you, if I can't see you. I 've been expecting 
 you to make some demonstration." 
 
 Josie trembled at the sound of his voice. 
 They whispered a moment more, and made 
 some arrangement for talking there occasion- 
 ally, and for slipping letters through when they 
 dared not speak to each other. Then each 
 turned back to the house, which, of course, they 
 entered at different sides. Josie went to her 
 work in the laundry, as happy a girl as ever 
 lived. 
 
 Two weeks after this, the superintendent 
 passed Charley Manton as at noon time he 
 stood slouching in the door of the workshop. 
 Mr. Brewster, though a very large man, had a 
 soft, noiseless step, and for once Charley's vigi- 
 lant senses were off their guard. The young 
 man held a bit of paper in his hand, and was 
 reading it, while a smile half-pleased, half-scorn- 
 ful, curved his handsome lips. The superin- 
 tendent stepped suddenly up behind him and 
 snatched the paper from him.
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 143 
 
 Charley turned with the spring of a tiger 
 and with a loud oath ; but when he saw who 
 it was he stopped and stood still. The rage in 
 the boy's eyes was matched by the triumphant 
 and mocking glare in the master's orbs. Char- 
 ley did not speak while the superintendent 
 glanced rapidly over the paper. It was a let- 
 ter signed " Josie." 
 
 " Oh, yes," exclaimed Mr. Brewster. " Josie 
 
 * / * 
 
 Welch ! I knew that girl was up to something 
 by her looks, and I Ve been on the watch for 
 her. I heard you were at Mr. Jacobs' farm 
 with her last fall, and I suspected her excite- 
 ment was about you. Making love to her, are 
 you? What do you want to do it for? It's 
 pretty business for you." 
 
 " Oh, she does well enough to pass* away the 
 time here," answered Charley, with the look of 
 a devil in his young face. " If I were out of 
 here, I would n't take her to wipe my shoes." 
 
 The superintendent smiled appreciatingly, 
 pocketed the letter, and left Charley, who, as 
 soon as he found himself alone, gave a long, 
 sharp whistle, and said in a low tone, " So, you 
 think that 's up, do you, sir ? We '11 see." 
 
 This is a literal copy of Josie's letter, spell- 
 ing, capital letters, and all, and it may serve 
 to show the extent of the education likely to 
 be acquired in the Reform School :
 
 144 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 DEER CHARLEY, I got the pictures safe, 
 thank you dont come heer never enny more, i 
 shall cry all nite if i dont get letters or see you 
 thru the hole but it is n't safe, i know the super 
 is looking out for us. I can feel myself get red 
 whenever i see him. I dont care what he does 
 to me if he finds out but he would flog you 
 dredfully and i dont want to get you in enny 
 truble. i love you all the same deer Charley, 
 so no more at present from JosiE. 
 
 With this epistle in his pocket, the super- 
 intendent marched directly to the laundry, and 
 waited a few minutes till the girls came in with 
 the matron to begin their afternoon work. 
 Josie started guiltily when she saw Mr. Brew- 
 ster, but proceeded quietly to the ironing-table, 
 where she took out one of his shirts and began 
 to press it. He loitered about the room a mo- 
 ment, spoke to one or two of the other girls, 
 and exchanged a few words with the matron, 
 and then said suddenly, in a loud, clear voice, 
 "Josie Welch, come here with me." 
 
 She set down her iron, threw one frightened 
 glance at the matron, turned violently red, 
 then white as a corpse, placed one hand on the 
 ironing-board, steadied herself a second, and 
 then followed him without a word. 
 
 He led her through one or two entries to a
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 145 
 
 large empty room, sometimes used to store 
 wood. Like the laundry they had just left it 
 was in the basement, and it had whitewashed 
 walls and a stone floor. When they had entered 
 the room he locked both the doors leading from 
 it, and then looked at the girl with cruel stead- 
 iness and said, " I want you to give me the let- 
 ter you have had from Charley Manton." 
 
 " I have not had any letter." 
 
 " Oh," he sneered, " perhaps you don't know 
 who Charley Manton is ! " 
 
 " I knew somebody named that, when I was 
 out on trial." 
 
 " You did n't know he was in the school ? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Well, he is. Birds of a feather flock to- 
 gether, you know. And I want the letter he 's 
 sent you." 
 
 " He has n't sent me none." 
 
 " And you have n't seen him or spoken to 
 him since he 's been here ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Are you sure ? " 
 
 " Before God, I have n't! " cried Josie. Her 
 face was dogged and hopeless, but determined. 
 
 The superintendent drew from under his coat 
 a rattan, and struck her three or four times. 
 She winced horribly, and grew whiter still with 
 pain and fear, but she did not cry out. Then 
 
 10
 
 146 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 he crunched his teeth, and brought his lower 
 jaw forward, while a murderous look came into 
 his eyes, and catching her hand he said, "I 
 know you 've got a letter from Charley Man- 
 ton. I 've got your letter to him in my pocket. 
 If you don't give me the one you have, I '11 get 
 a larger rattan and flog you till you do." 
 
 She put her hand in her bosom and drew out 
 a little package. He seized it from her, and 
 turned it over contemptuously. There were 
 three or four little colored prints wrapped in a 
 a bit of white paper, but no writing anywhere. 
 If Josie had any letters from Charley she had 
 hidden them. The superintendent tore the 
 pictures, which were innocent enough, into 
 pieces, and stuffed the bits into his pocket. 
 Josie would gladly have murdered him that 
 moment, and she looked as if she would. 
 
 " You need n't make a fool of yourself over 
 that fellow," said he, meeting her furious dark 
 eyes with his own. " He does n't care any- 
 thing about you ; he told me so. He said if 
 he were out of this place, he would n't take 
 you to wipe his shoes." 
 
 " I don't believe," answered the girl, " that 
 he said any such thing." 
 
 Mr. Brewster stared at her for a moment, and 
 he picked up the rattan which had dropped on 
 the floor ; but then he gave a short laugh, and
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 147 
 
 said, " Go back to your work now, and mind 
 what you do after this." 
 
 A few days later, the judge who had sen- 
 tenced Charley Manton to the Reform School 
 obtained the consent of the authorities that he 
 should go out on trial, with far less restriction 
 placed about him than was usual in the cases of 
 inmates of the Reform School sent out before 
 the expiration of their term of sentence. But 
 the influence of Charley's friends and the fact 
 that he was of such good family operated pow- 
 erfully in his favor. He was put at work in a 
 machine-shop, a few miles from the city, and he 
 boarded in a respectable family. 
 
 Josie, disgraced and suspected, remained in 
 the school, undergoing many physical hardships 
 and a mental torture which strained her nerves 
 to their utmost, till at last an outbreak came. 
 
 It was a chilly morning in March, when Josie 
 took down to the laundry a plant which Charley 
 Manton had given her the autumn before, at 
 the farm. The pot which contained it was too 
 small for it, and she delayed her work a few 
 minutes to transplant it into a little box she had 
 found in the yard. The laundry matron came 
 in just then, and, happening to feel cross, as she 
 passed Josie she caught the plant from the girl's 
 hand, and flung it into the stove. Josie gave a 
 cry like that of some wild beast in pain, and
 
 148 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 darting forward seized it from the flames, put it 
 back in the box and smoothed the earth around 
 its roots, her hands trembling with excitement. 
 The matron pushed her aside, took box and 
 plant, opened the window, and tossed them out 
 into the frosty air. " Go to work, Josie Welch ! " 
 she said. 
 
 Josie stood still one second, then, panting and 
 struggling as with some unseen evil spirit, she 
 sobbed and swore and cursed. Her breath came 
 hard ; she grew dark in the face and sprang at 
 the matron, who darted aside and called out, 
 "Susy Jones, go for Mr. Brewster." Then 
 Josie burst into a peal of laughter more horri- 
 ble^ than her ravings ; and after the laughter 
 died away, scream followed scream ; but she 
 made no further attack on the woman. 
 
 " Susy," cried the matron again, as she saw 
 the other girls, Susy among them, standing mo- 
 tionless around. 
 
 Josie's own cries brought the superintendent 
 there. He came up to her and attempted to 
 take her arm. She dashed herself on him, like 
 a wild cat. He seized a basin that stood near 
 a tub of cold water, and filling it again and 
 again threw the chilly flood over her. She 
 broke loose from his grasp. He pursued and 
 caught her, dragged her back to the tub, and 
 poured the water over her while she gasped and
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 149 
 
 struggled. Choked and breathless, her sight 
 growing dim, a horrible agony in all her frame, 
 she groped in blind fury, while the icy water 
 still dashed relentlessly on her person, until she 
 caught hold of the basin and threw her whole 
 weight upon it, to drag it from her tormentor. 
 He pulled it back and hit her under the chin 
 with such force that she nearly bit her tongue 
 off. Her mouth filled with blood, which poured 
 out and stained his hands. He saw his advan- 
 tage over the dizzy, half-stunned girl, and fol- 
 lowed it up. Josie fell reeling to the floor. He 
 said, afterwards, that she fell down herself. 
 The frightened girls who witnessed the scene 
 always said he struck her again with the basin 
 and knocked her down. 
 
 They took her to a cell and locked her up for 
 three days. For a week she could not talk, be- 
 cause of the blood which poured into her mouth, 
 and she was able to eat only enough to keep her 
 alive. 
 
 One day before she was released two of the 
 matrons came in and told her to sit down, for 
 they were going to cut her hair off. She looked 
 imploringly at them, and saw that entreaty and 
 protest would be alike vain. She submitted, 
 and they sheared her beautiful dark hair short, 
 and then made a clumsy attempt to shingle it. 
 No reason was assigned for this act, but Josie
 
 150 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 supposed it was intended for punishment. She 
 wept bitterly at first for the loss of her lovely 
 hair, but her shorn head soon suggested to her 
 a daring idea. 
 
 She went back to work in the laundry, and 
 began to secrete occasional articles of male cloth- 
 ing. She ripped open the mattress of her bed 
 and hid them in that. One day she was in the 
 sewing-room, when a quantity of clothing was 
 brought in to be mended. When left alone with 
 it, she stole from the pile a pair of trousers. She 
 coveted a jacket, but dared not take that also, 
 lest the theft should be discovered. 
 
 It happened that she had then a room by 
 herself. She rose at twelve o'clock that night, 
 dressed herself rapidly, and stood in the star- 
 light at last, in shirt and trousers, looking like 
 a delicate, pretty boy. She took the sheets 
 from her bed and tossed them through the tran- 
 som over the locked door of her chamber. She 
 stuffed her shoes into her shirt, climbed out her- 
 self, glided like a shadow past the doors of the 
 other dormitories, and reached the window at 
 the end of the corridor. She pushed up the 
 sash and looked out. Fifteen feet below was 
 the roof of the front porch. 
 
 She looked down till she felt dizzy, then took 
 the sheets, tied them securely together, fastened 
 one end to the blind, and, without stopping to
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 151 
 
 think, swung herself out. The blind creaked 
 frightfully. She dropped close by the window 
 of the superintendent's room, and, gathering 
 herself up, heard sounds within as of some one 
 stirring in sleep, waking, perhaps, at the 
 noise she had made ! 
 
 She stood up, and stared with her beautiful 
 wild eyes into his room. A low light burned 
 there, and she saw him tossing on his bed. 
 What kept him from fully waking, God only 
 knows. Perhaps it would have been better, 
 even for hapless Josie, if he had awakened. 
 
 She threw her arm up as she turned away, 
 and in a low murmur muttered a dreadful 
 curse upon the sleeper's head. She went to the 
 edge of the piazza and again looked down. The 
 pillars that supported the roof of the porch were 
 too large for her to clasp. The sheets dangled 
 helplessly in front of that window behind her. 
 She saw, at last, the pipe a large, strong one 
 which drained the eaves. It ran down by 
 the column. She swung herself over, and cling- 
 ing desperately to the pipe, and bracing against 
 the pillar, after some dizzy, desperate struggles 
 found herself on the ground in the front yard. 
 She easily made her escape from this small in- 
 closure; climbing a low fence, and dropping 
 into the street, she ran out into the free, horri- 
 ble darkness of the night.
 
 152 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 The gray, chilly dawn was close at hand 
 when, shivering and faint, Josie crouched by the 
 roadside, in the suburbs of a large manufactur- 
 ing town, in the neighborhood of the city she 
 had left. After a night of terror and excite- 
 ment, the early morning often brings to jaded 
 nerves and brain a peculiar sense of suffering 
 and discouragement. Josie felt that the broad- 
 ening light was creeping on solely to discover 
 her to all the hounding police, who would be, 
 she knew, on her track that day ; she was bit- 
 terly cold, and, covering her face with her 
 hands, she crept yet closer to the fence, and 
 sobbed and cried. Her hour of heroism was 
 over, and the hour of despair had struck. Just 
 then she heard a quick step sounding near her, 
 and starting up, she saw Charley Manton, and 
 flung herself toward him with a cry of unutter- 
 able gladness. 
 
 " Hulloa ! " he exclaimed. " What 's all 
 this ? " 
 
 " Oh, Charley ! " sobbing wildly and clinging 
 to him. 
 
 " Well, this is a pretty piece of work. You 've 
 run away, I suppose. Plucky, on my word, and 
 you 've turned into a boy." He pushed her off 
 half roughly, so he could look at her. " Well, 
 you don't act much like a boy. You need n't 
 flatter yourself. You'd better get into petti-
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 153 
 
 coats again. Your disguise is not a success. 
 You poor little fool ! " 
 
 "I want to go somewhere and get work, 
 where they can't find me," sobbed she, with a 
 desperate effort to assert a maidenly pride, and 
 act as if she did not mean to throw herself wholly 
 on his protection. Poor child, where had she 
 learned maidenliness, among the bold young 
 boys and girls at the Reform School ! 
 
 "How can you get work till you've got a 
 dress ? It 's no use for you to try to get a place 
 as a boy. You could n't deceive anybody twen- 
 ty-four hours." 
 
 "I '11 go to my uncle," she said. 
 
 " Do you know where he is ? And do you 
 think your aunt will be glad to see you back 
 again ? Have they taken much pains about you 
 these six years ? " 
 
 " I 've got a brother." 
 
 "Yes, I know it. He did work here. He 
 enlisted in the navy a month ago, and his ship 
 has sailed." 
 
 " You know that ? Then," she cried, " you 
 know where my uncle is ? " 
 
 " Your uncle, Josie, is dead. Your aunt has 
 married again." 
 
 " Why did n't you tell me this before ? " 
 
 " Oh," he laughed, " I wanted to see what 
 your ideas of action were."
 
 154 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 " Oh, Charley, what can I do ? " 
 
 u Why, I guess we can manage you. Come 
 with me ; I '11 take care of you." 
 
 She drew back a little, and said, "I don't 
 want to go with you unless " 
 
 Unless what ? " 
 
 " You know what," she stammered. " I ain't 
 a bad girl. You know I ain't, Charley. You 
 would n't have liked me if I had been." 
 
 " Well, is it going to make you a bad girl to 
 go with me ? Come, don't be too stuck-up." 
 
 " I 'd rather get work." 
 
 " Try it, and see if you can. You 're a Re- 
 form School girl. That 's enough against you." 
 
 " They won't ask where I 'm from, at a fac- 
 tory." 
 
 " And you understand factory work ? " 
 
 " No, but I can learn." 
 
 " Do you mean to ask for a girl's work or a 
 boy's?" 
 
 Josie was silent. Why had she not brought 
 her dress with her from the Reform School? 
 It might have saved her now. 
 
 "You know," went on Charley, "that if 
 you 're found out you '11 be taken back to the 
 school, and you know what '11 happen to you 
 then ; and you '11 be found out, as sure as you 
 try for work." 
 
 " Oh," said Josie shuddering, " the superin- 
 tendent has used me awful."
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 155 
 
 " I don't doubt it, the old brute ! Come with 
 me, and I '11 fix it. Why should n't you come 
 with me ? Ain't I your best friend ? " 
 
 His eyes were magnetic as he fixed them on 
 her, and this faint touch of tenderness in his 
 speech set her to sobbing afresh. In a moment, 
 she raised her head, fixed on him her lovely 
 eyes, from which looked forth a soul's last 
 appeal, and with a sweet, steady sadness she 
 said, " Will you marry me, Charley ? " 
 
 He laughed : " Oh, may be so. Come on, 
 come on, there 's a good girl. Hurry up, midget. 
 There '11 be a million people in the street in a 
 few minutes! The whole town is waking up. 
 There '11 be a devil of a row if you 're caught 
 here." 
 
 She heaved a long, shivering sigh, and fol- 
 lowed him. 
 
 Seven years afterwards, Mrs. Faber visited 
 the House of Correction. It was Sunday, and 
 the inmates were assembled in the chapel, 
 vagrants, drunkards, prostitutes, men and 
 women out of whom debauchery seemed to 
 have stamped the last spark of divinity, almost 
 of humanity. The good countiy woman shud- 
 dered as she glanced around. She had come to 
 see the institution from mere curiosity, but that 
 feeling shrank back abashed before the hor-
 
 156 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 riJ>le reality of what she saw. As she looked 
 around she perceived, at last, among the 
 women, a girl in whose face was something 
 strangely familiar. Those dusky eyes seemed 
 to start up from some cloudy past and stare at 
 her through clearing mists. Mrs. Faber beck- 
 oned to one of the officials, who came to her 
 during some pause in the services. 
 
 " What is that girl's name ? " she asked, 
 " the dark one who sits third on the second seat 
 from the front. The one with a scarlet ribbon 
 at her throat." 
 
 " Oh, Josie Burns she calls herself. I don't 
 suppose it is her real name." 
 
 " Do you know anything about her ? " 
 
 " Not much. She grew up in the Reform 
 
 School at , she says. She 's rather refined 
 
 and gentle in her ways, except when she 's 
 angry. She has a quick temper, and I guess 
 she 's quite a desperate character. She says 
 she has one or two children, and sometimes she 
 says she 's had to live as she has to support 
 them, but I presume that 's all lies. You can't 
 tell much by what any of these women say." 
 
 ** What will become of her children, if she 
 has any?" 
 
 " It 's rather sad to think of, but the girls 
 will grow up like her, probably, and the boys 
 will become thieves and tramps, most likely. 
 Such women are the mothers of criminals."
 
 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 157 
 
 " Is she here for long? " 
 
 " Six months, and she 's been here three. 
 It 's quite a story. She threw herself under 
 the railroad train as it was coming out of the 
 station, and was pulled off the track just in 
 time to save her, and then, as there did n't 
 seem to be anything else to do with her, she 
 was sent here." 
 
 " And where can her children be ? " 
 
 " I don't believe she has any ; but she says 
 she had got them places, and thought she 'd 
 take herself out of the way. Do you know 
 her ? " 
 
 " She reminds me of a little girl I took once 
 from that Reform School, but it 's not the same 
 name." 
 
 " I dare say it is she. They change their 
 names a dozen times, and sometimes they really 
 get married besides." 
 
 " I should like to speak to her after the ser- 
 vices are over." 
 
 " Oh, certainly." 
 
 As the women were about to leave the 
 chapel, Mrs. Faber went up to the one who had 
 roused her interest, and said to her simply, 
 "Are n't you Josie Welch ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered the girl, " and you are Mrs. 
 Faber, that I used to live with. I had a very 
 good time at your house, and you were very 
 kind to me."
 
 158 THE CHILD OF THE STATE. 
 
 "Oh, Josie," said Mrs. Faber, half crying, 
 " I am so sorry to see you here. Such a nice 
 little girl as you were." 
 
 No tears stood in Josie's hopeless eyes, even 
 when she saw the kindly drops in the other's 
 eyes. 
 
 " Thank you," she said. " It would have 
 been better for me if I could have stayed with 
 you always." 
 
 " I wish you had," sobbed Mrs. Faber. Josie 
 smiled slowly ; it was so many ages too late for 
 such a wish ! 
 
 " Oh, Josie! " cried Mrs. Faber, after a mo- 
 ment more, " they tell me you threw yourself 
 under the train. How could you ? " 
 
 "I was drunk," answered the girl in a hard, 
 cold voice, " and I thought, besides, if I died 
 that way, may be Charley Manton would hear 
 of it some day."
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 
 
 " I walk once more a haunted shore, 
 A stranger, yet at home, 
 A land of dreams I roam." 
 
 PRUDENCE WARNER stood twisting her brown 
 hair into an irreproachable knot at the back of 
 her head. She looked at herself in the glass, 
 with gray, honest eyes beaming softly under 
 straight pretty brows. Her mouth was sweet 
 but homely, and her nose was delicate. She 
 was thirty-five and a spinster, a very con- 
 tented one ; but it may have been that her 
 contentment under the limited conditions of her 
 life arose from a somewhat limited nature. She 
 was habitually diligent in the Sunday-school, 
 and devoted to the temperance society. She 
 liked to sew on her gowns, and sometimes 
 found pleasure in very harmless gossip. This 
 last idiosyncrasy was fiercely denounced by her 
 mother, Mrs. Arvilla Warner. 
 
 " The idee," said that matron once, " of 
 pesterin' yourself to find out what stuff Mrs. 
 Coggeshall 's a-goin' to cover her furniture with,
 
 160 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 
 
 when there 's Emerson blessed man ! a- 
 layin' on that table, in a figgerative sense, jest 
 waitin' to let you get acquainted with him" 
 
 " But, mother," Prudence faintly answered, 
 gazing deprecatingly at the volume indicated, 
 " I can't understand Emerson very well, and 
 what I do understand don't seem quite ortho- 
 dox to me." 
 
 " And what call have you to be orthodox ? " 
 retorted Mrs. Warner, who, being a staunch 
 Unitarian, felt aggrieved because her husband 
 had remained a Baptist during all the years of 
 their married life, and because Prudence in 
 early girlhood had been baptized into her 
 father's faith. 
 
 "It was all that Lorenzo Haynes's doin'," 
 thought the indignant mother, " foolin' round 
 her with his soft speeches." 
 
 She was about right. Young Haynes, a big- 
 eyed divinity student, had been the hero of 
 Prudence's one love dream ; a dream that had 
 vanished many years before Prue, at thirty-five, 
 stood brushing her soft hair in the virginal 
 solitude of her pretty room. . 
 
 One of the peculiarities of Miss Warner's sit- 
 uation in life was that the members of her fam- 
 ily did not really bear to her the relation they 
 nominally did. Mr. Warner was not her father, 
 but uncle, and her uncle only by marriage.
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 161 
 
 His first wife had been the sister of Prudence's 
 mother, and had taken the baby when that 
 mother died. She, also, soon followed the 
 world-accustomed pilgrimage, and passed out of 
 the sight of eager eyes. Then Mr. Warner 
 married Arvilla Gould, who had tenderly cared 
 for the adopted child. All her life, Prue had 
 been well beloved, but tamely, except for the 
 brief period during which her clerical lover had 
 been both true and ardent. On the whole, Prue 
 had nearly succeeded in teaching herself that 
 the moderate certainty of her home affections 
 was worth more than that flickering flame had 
 been, and there was no real trouble now in the 
 eyes that were reflected at her in the mirror. 
 
 Her own father, Stanton Dudley, had married 
 a second time, been widowed, and wedded again, 
 and after this threefold experience had himself 
 died, leaving a widow, Prue's unknown step- 
 mother. Somewhere among these marital 
 changes another daughter was born to him, a 
 fair, slight girl, with cheeks that bore the fatal 
 New England flush. When very young, she 
 married a man somewhat older than herself. 
 Under his loving eyes, her wild-rose bloom grew 
 into a deeper hectic, then faded and paled in 
 death. Darius Kingman left the country imme- 
 diately, and settled in business in China. Once 
 in a while he acknowledged his connection with 
 11
 
 162 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 
 
 Prudence by sending her gifts, which she dis- 
 played to her village friends with some pride. 
 
 " From my brother," she would say, gently 
 lingering on the words. 
 
 " Oh, he 's only a half brother-in-law, at best ! " 
 cried Maggie Stafford, on one such occasion ; 
 " and yet he 's the only real relative you have in 
 the world." 
 
 " I 'm sure," broke in Mrs. Warner, sharply, 
 " Prue's folks think just as much of her as any- 
 body's else's folks do of them." 
 
 Maggie was a young married woman, strug- 
 gling for an assured position among the good- 
 natured village aristocracy, who were easily in- 
 duced to open their doors part way for her. 
 They criticised her a good deal, but tolerated 
 and even rather liked her, both women and men 
 feeling the charm of her unusual beauty. 
 
 On this afternoon of which we have spoken, 
 when Prudence had at last finished arraying 
 herself, she went down-stairs, and met Mr. 
 Warner bustling into the sitting-room. 
 
 " Where 's mother ? " asked he. 
 
 " There she comes, up the street," answered 
 Janet, the pretty handmaid, flinging open the 
 porch door. Prue stepped to the threshold, and 
 saw her mother approaching. She was an el- 
 derly woman, tall and spare, with thin, high 
 features, which were shaded by a silk sun-bon-
 
 "A STRANGER, TET AT SOME." 163 
 
 net and a green veil tied over her forehead. 
 Spectacles, also green, garnished her nose. She 
 wore a black silk gown, and with her gloveless 
 hands pushed forward a doll baby-carriage, in 
 which were laid several packages. 
 
 " There ! " cried Mrs. Warner, as she came up 
 the steps, a moment later. " Janet never told 
 me till just now we was out of lump sugar, and 
 I up an' bundled off after it ; and I thought I 
 might as well lay in some rice and tapioca at the 
 same time. I knew, with all my years, I could 
 get it quicker 'n Janet, not being so much inter- 
 ested in the young man in the store. That 's 
 where my years are a real help to me." 
 
 Prue, stooping, shook some dust from Mrs. 
 Warner's skirt. 
 
 " Marm 's all ready in the parlor," said she. 
 " Come and see how nice she looks. But, oh, 
 mother, don't forget that Janet will take the 
 teacups from you to pass ! " 
 
 "I won't let her forget," pertly quoth the 
 maid. 
 
 "Come, come," commented Mr. Warner; 
 "you talk as if mother was a child." 
 
 Several ladies were now seen coming to the 
 front door, and the family went into the par- 
 lor to receive them. They clustered around 
 " Marra," Mrs. Warner's aged mother, who sat 
 with calmly folded hands.
 
 164 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 
 
 "Ninety-five to-day," said her son-in-law, 
 "and she don't look a bit over eighty." 
 
 " Oh," quavered the old lady, " but I don't 
 feel nigh so spry as when I was on'y ninety. I 
 did n't think I 'd live to see this day." 
 
 " That 's so," said her daughter. " Mother 's 
 just been bent on dyin' all this spring. Did n't 
 want me to make up this dress for her, for fear 
 she would n't wear it. But I was bound she 
 should have it, anyhow." 
 
 " It '11 do beautiful to be laid out in," said 
 Marm, smoothing its shining folds. " Dear, 
 dear me, Arvilly, what a time it is sence I was 
 to a funeral ! " 
 
 The ladies drew out their fancy work. Mag- 
 gie Stafford sat down by the last gift Darius 
 Kingman had sent, a lovely cabinet, that Prue 
 had transformed into a writing desk. She was 
 not in the habit of writing much, but it had 
 pleased her fancy to make the pretty, curious 
 structure serve as a sort of shrine for the unused 
 literary implements belonging to the family. 
 
 " This is very nice, I 'm sure," said Maggie, 
 passing her fingers over the inlaid surface. " It 
 must be very convenient. I suppose, Mrs. 
 Warner, you 're such an intellectual person, you 
 write and compose a great deal." 
 
 " Not I," said the matron, with a toss of her 
 head. " I thank the Lord I can use my meas-
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME:' 165 
 
 uring tape on myself as true as on anybody else, 
 and I know too much to waste my time a-writ- 
 ing things I would n't take the minutes to read 
 if somebody else had written them." 
 
 " How Maggie always does rub mother the 
 wrong way ! " mused Prue, with a quiet smile ; 
 and then, on some pretext, she stepped to the 
 door and looked out across the road. The level 
 sunbeams shone into her eyes, under the flower- 
 laden boughs of apple-trees. A tiny bird, all 
 brown and yellow, swayed on some frail support 
 among the grasses. The grass itself shimmered 
 in the warm, low light, and pink apple-buds 
 seemed to pale visibly into white blossoms, their 
 blushes dying as they grew used to the kisses of 
 the sun. 
 
 How lovely it all was ! Prudence turned her 
 eyes, and saw a man walking up the road be- 
 side the orchard wall. She gave an amazed lit- 
 tle cry, started eagerly forward, checked herself, 
 stood a moment irresolute, then advanced slowly 
 to the gate, and when the stranger came up she 
 put out her hand, and he took it, before either 
 spoke. 
 
 "You must be Prudence," he said at last. 
 " Do you know me ? " 
 
 " Yes, Darius." 
 
 They went into the house together. 
 
 " Good land ! " cried Mrs. Warner. " You 
 don't mean it ! Darius Kingman, as I live I "
 
 166 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 
 
 "Come here, come here," said Marm, in a 
 high tone. " I 'm 'most blind, an' I want to see 
 if it 's really him." 
 
 Everybody talked, and laughed, and ex- 
 claimed, while Kingman stood looking down at 
 the aged woman, everybody but Prue, who 
 kept very silent, watching Darius with shy, glad 
 eyes. 
 
 Kingman spoke very deferentially to the old 
 lady. He might well have smiled to see her. 
 Around her withered throat she wore a black 
 ribbon, on her head a cap made of cheap black 
 and white laces, mixed with lavender ribbon, 
 and round her head was tied, with long ends, a 
 bright green string, which held on her specta- 
 cles. Down each of her temples were laid six 
 little locks of gray hair, shaped like button- 
 hooks. After Darius and Prue became inti- 
 mate, she confided to him the information that 
 those gray locks were cut more than twenty 
 years before from Mann's dead husband's brow. 
 After the lapse of some time, the widow had had 
 them made up into their present ornamental 
 shape, and now wore them bound on to her fore- 
 head under her cap. 
 
 The husbands of Mrs. Warner's guests ar- 
 rived a few minutes after Kingman, and then 
 all the questions and welcoming uproar began 
 again, till everybody learned that one of the
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 167 
 
 gentlemen, Mr. Coggeshall, who was related 
 to Darius, had had some communication with 
 him, and knew of his intended return. It did 
 not transpire that evening, but in the course of 
 a few days the whole village learned that the 
 traveler had come to help Mr. Coggeshall in the 
 management of a new factory. 
 
 Amid the hubbub around Mann's chair, Ja- 
 net's clear voice was heard saying that supper 
 was ready. During the progress of that meal, 
 Mrs. Warner became so absorbed in telling 
 Maggie Stafford, what every one else at the ta- 
 ble knew, about the china that came into her 
 own family when one of her uncles married " a 
 real, foreign-born French woman," that she for- 
 got to give the cups of tea to Janet, and started 
 them herself on uncertain journeys from hand to 
 hand around the table. The maid pursed up her 
 lips and unpursed them, balanced her waiter un- 
 certainly for a moment, then tapped her mistress 
 on the shoulder, whispering fiercely, " Give it 
 to me, ma'am," and seized a cup from the ab- 
 sent-minded matron, which she bore trium- 
 phantly to Mr. Kingman ; while Mrs. Cogges- 
 hall made some remark about the Russian tea 
 she had drank in Europe, and Maggie Stafford 
 silently wished that she also were a > connois- 
 seur in teas. 
 
 A few evenings later, as Prudence was weed-
 
 168 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME. 1 ' 
 
 ing her flower bed, Darius came into the garden, 
 and strolled up to her. She flushed slightly, 
 holding out her soiled hands with an apologetic 
 gesture of exhibition. 
 
 " Never mind," said he. " I saw a pump in 
 the field as I came through. I am sure you 
 can find water enough to make them clean." 
 
 " Oh, yes," she answered, feeling a little con- 
 fused, " in the meadow. That 's where they 
 water the cows." 
 
 He laughed, threw himself on the grass, and 
 stared up at the apple blossoms. 
 
 " How unlike China ! " he said at last. 
 
 " It must all seem strange to you," she 
 ventured, rather timidly. 
 
 " Strange," he echoed, " yet so familiar. It 
 is coming back to first principles with a ven- 
 geance, to take up life in a New England vil- 
 lage, after going round the globe in search of a 
 destiny." 
 
 She did not half understand him, but she 
 smiled, and he felt encouraged to go on. 
 
 " I feel the spell of old associations already. 
 I am sure I have made my circuit. I have 
 traveled far, but all my paths lead me back to 
 the starting-place." 
 
 He plucked the blades of grass under his idle 
 fingers, and played with them for some mo- 
 ments, then broke the silence suddenly :
 
 " A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 169 
 
 " Prudence, will you go with me to the 
 Quaker meeting on Sunday ? First day, I 
 suppose I should say." 
 
 She glanced up, surprised. " Yes," he con- 
 tinued dreamily, " the old faith knocks within 
 my heart, where it has always lain hidden, and 
 demands to come out and rule my life again." 
 
 She was really a little frightened, as well as 
 much puzzled, at the turn Darius' remarks had 
 taken ; but as she knelt there by her flowers, 
 with raised face and perplexed eyes, something 
 in her sympathetic though uncomprehending 
 womanhood stimulated him to reveal his thought 
 more fully to her. 
 
 " Do you not know," he said, " that I was 
 born and bred a Friend, but was disowned when 
 I married your sister? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," she answered. 
 
 " I was in love," he went on, " and what I 
 did I would do again under the same circum- 
 stances; but those can never be. And so it 
 has come to pass that I feel the longing of a 
 homesick child to be once more received into 
 membership." 
 
 "You do not look like a Quaker," said she. 
 
 " Perhaps not ; nor do I talk like one," he 
 added, with a smile. " Old-fashioned Quakers 
 never discuss religious matters. Maybe I shall 
 feel no need of speech when I sit among them 
 again."
 
 170 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 
 
 "It seems odd," murmured the bewildered 
 Prue. 
 
 " I suppose it does," he admitted. " But 
 truly, Prue, you can never know how deep the 
 dye of Quakerism is to those whose souls are 
 steeped in it, as an hereditary religion. It is 
 only a veneer of the world I wear upon me. 
 My garments are un-Quakerish in cut, but my 
 thoughts are shaped after the old pattern." 
 
 " And will you wear a drab coat ? " 
 
 He sprang to his feet with a hearty laugh. 
 "I don't know whether the inward impulse 
 will extend so far outward." 
 
 He started towards the house, and she fol- 
 lowed. The path was more familiar to her, 
 than to him, and yet she felt as if it was he 
 that was guiding her, under the cherry-trees 
 and apple-blossoms, to the door of her home. 
 
 It chanced that two or three weeks elapsed 
 before Prudence was able to accompany her 
 brother-in-law to the Quaker meeting. Mean- 
 while, Darius was very busy, thinking and 
 doing. His business arrangements proceeded 
 rapidly towards completion. He plunged head- 
 long into details, of which some bewildered and 
 some surprised him. In his character, practical 
 energy was united with dreamy speculative- 
 ness. He possessed good abilities as a business 
 man, combined with the mental furnishing that
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME:' 171 
 
 would have done for a religious enthusiast. 
 Remarkable in neither department of his mind, 
 his thinking was still of an honest, truthful 
 sort, and he had always managed to keep sight 
 of a horizon line beyond the sordid cares or 
 tempting passions of every-day existence. Dur- 
 ing the years spent in China, his longing for 
 an ideal existence had become intensified into 
 what was almost a passion for a religious life. 
 A homesick feeling mingled with the senti- 
 ment, and, uniting itself to the ineradicable im- 
 pulse that a Quaker breeding gives to the soul, 
 Burned his thoughts towards the renewal of his 
 fellowship with the church of his forefathers. 
 Across the drift of this current came the in- 
 cident of his entrance into a manufacturing 
 business, involving, as it seemed to him, some 
 complexity in his relations with many of his 
 fellow-beings. 
 
 Darius Kingman, sickening with disgust at 
 Asiatic life, whose conditions tried his faith, in 
 the unity of the human race, had idealized his 
 own country, and he therefore found many 
 things to perplex him when he came suddenly 
 into contact with American industrial forces, 
 and with laborers on American soil. At first 
 he was delighted ; then shocked by some occur- 
 rences which left him uncertain whether these 
 painful phenomena were normal or excep- 
 tional.
 
 172 "4 STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 
 
 It was a perfect June morning on which Da- 
 rius drove with Prudence through the sleepy 
 heat to the old Quaker meeting-house. The 
 roads were lined with blackberry and barberry 
 bushes. Locust-trees grew on either side by 
 the stone walls, and were in full bloom, making 
 the air heavy with their sweetness. Wild- 
 grape vines clasped trees, stones, and shrubbery 
 in an abandoned embrace. 
 
 Prudence sat erect by Kingman's side, and 
 looked about her with an unwonted brightness 
 in her eyes. He drove on in dreamy silence. 
 The languid air, the wild fragrance, stole into 
 his soul, exciting there a sort of sensuous fervor 
 of religious emotion. When they reached their 
 destination, he lifted Prue out before the worn 
 old meeting-house, and idly suffered his eyes to 
 rest upon her figure as she mounted the steps. 
 Her bonnet was simple, and she was clad in a 
 muslin gown, the prevailing tint of which was 
 gray, so that she did not look unfit to sit among 
 Quaker women. He fastened his horse in the 
 shed, whose yawning alcoves had sheltered the 
 teams of more than one sober generation of 
 meeting-goers, and then made his way into the 
 little assembly. The memories of his boy- 
 hood came over him, as he took his seat apart 
 from Prue, on the " men's side " of the room. 
 He fixed his eyes on the elders sitting on the
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME:' 173 
 
 " facing seats." Softly came the sound of sum- 
 mer noises through the windows. The mo- 
 ments went by like solemn heart-beats. The 
 faces of the congregation were settled into stolid 
 calm, but Darius felt as if he were waiting for 
 something to happen. A woman rose, at last, 
 and laid her bonnet on the bench beside her. 
 She began to speak in a low voice, which soon 
 soared into the well-known Quaker chant. Her 
 sentences were disconnected, ungrammatical, 
 and uncertain of significance ; but Darius could 
 not judge this utterance as he would have 
 judged it if delivered in another tone and 
 place. Religious feeling and truth were linked 
 too closely with such sounds, through all the 
 experience of early life. 
 
 A small, sharp - featured man arose next. 
 Plain as his face was, it had a look of tender- 
 ness, and his homely eyes were very earnest. 
 His words, uttered simply, and with but little 
 intonation, were direct. He spoke of God aa 
 if he were sure of him. " Men are slow," he 
 said, " really to believe there is a God in this 
 world. They believe in many other powers, 
 but not in his. They are slow to think he is 
 working right here. Yet he made men so that 
 they need him. Man is higher than all the 
 other creatures God has made, but he needs 
 God more than these lower ones do. If we are
 
 174 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 
 
 not in unity with God, we cannot live right 
 lives, so it behooves us all to watch carefully 
 what passes within us, to see that we be in 
 unity with him. For thus much he has left it 
 to us to do, that we should not be mere pup- 
 pets ; we must try to put ourselves into com- 
 munion with him, if we want his help. If there 
 be any who say they cannot see God, or under- 
 stand him, amid the sore provings of trouble 
 and sorrow and pain that are laid upon them, 
 verily, it is because they have themselves 
 closed their eyes and darkened their minds to 
 perceive him not." 
 
 Thus spoke the old man, with an accent of 
 every-day in his voice, and it seemed to Darius 
 that this was what he had waited for, the 
 speech of a man who really believed in God. 
 
 Some days after this Sunday, Darius, walk- 
 ing home in the late afternoon, saw Prue com- 
 ing out of one of the factory tenements, where 
 he knew some consumptive invalids lived. She 
 carried a little covered basket on her arm, and 
 wore her gray muslin. 
 
 " You have been to see poor Andrews," he 
 said, joining her. " He tells me you have been 
 there before." 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " You look like a sister of charity." 
 
 " Do I ? But I do not make a business of 
 doing good."
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 175 
 
 " Perhaps you are good enough without 
 making a business of it. Some of us have to 
 treat it as a very serious occupation indeed, in 
 order to succeed much in it," he said, slowly, as 
 they walked, treading the flickering shadows 
 of the willow boughs that drooped above their 
 heads. 
 
 " How came you to take up visiting the poor? " 
 he inquired. 
 
 "I didn't take it up," she said, somewhat 
 confusedly. "I never knew anything about 
 such people, till Mr. Coggeshall built these 
 houses by the river ; and then we had a wash- 
 erwoman from one of the families, and I went 
 there once when the cellar was flooded ; and so 
 I kept on going, they were so near." 
 
 " These people were your neighbors, in short," 
 said he, looking at her gently, "and so you 
 treated them with neighborly kindness. Well, 
 my dear, I am not sure that searching through 
 all the universe will find me a better gospel 
 than that of neighborliness, if we only see 
 clearly how large our neighborhood is." 
 
 He fell to wondering what would be the effi- 
 cacy of the Golden Rule as an economic princi- 
 ple ; but she, still walking by his side, scarcely 
 heard the happy chirping of the birds above 
 them, her heart was throbbing so because he 
 had called her his dear.
 
 176 "4 STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 
 
 Maggie Stafford met them thus, and glanced 
 curiously at their faces. 
 
 " At her age ! " thought the young married 
 beauty. 
 
 A few minutes later, she was sitting on Mrs. 
 Coggeshall's portico, saying, " Upon my word, 
 I do think the English way is better. Then a 
 girl in Prudence's position would know at once 
 there could be no love-making between her and 
 her brother-in-law, and so wouldn't get her 
 mind set in that direction." 
 
 Mrs. Coggeshall looked blandly at her visitor. 
 " Oh, indeed," she said, " have you leanings 
 towards the English Church ? Well, I always 
 did like the service very much, and I have read 
 a good deal about the Anglican division from 
 Rome with great interest. If you are thinking 
 about these things, I should be delighted to lend 
 you several theological works which I possess. 
 Mr. Coggeshall always laughs at what he calls 
 my ' pious library.' I confess, however, I never 
 could quite make up my mind to turn Episco- 
 palian. It was the fault of the English people. 
 They are responsible themselves for my remain- 
 ing outside their communion. I always doted 
 on everything English till the war came, and 
 then they were so nasty, as they say, I never 
 could abide them afterwards. Do you remem- 
 ber much about the war ? "
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 177 
 
 " Yes, though I was quite young then," said 
 Maggie ; and bent on returning to the charge, 
 she added, " I think it very odd Mr. Kingman 
 did not come back from China to go into the 
 army." 
 
 " Brought up a Quaker, my dear," rejoined 
 Mrs. Coggeshall, thoroughly aware of Maggie's 
 purpose, and equally resolved to frustrate it. 
 " You know Quakers don't fight ; and though 
 many of the young men in the Society did go 
 into the army, they were those who were in the 
 very heat of the martial spirit of the North, and 
 caught the war fever without stopping to think 
 of the principles of their religion. But Darius 
 was way off in China, and only echoes reached 
 his ear ; positively, only echoes of the strife. 
 It was n't exactly ' distance lending enchant- 
 ment to the view,' but something analogous to 
 it. The excitement did not overcome the effect 
 of a lifelong training. He sympathized, and all 
 that, but could not take the bloody sword in 
 hand. Oh, I respect his devotion to principle 
 just as much as I honor the courage of our sol- 
 diers ! I knew several of those Quaker officers 
 from Philadelphia. Splendid fellows ! Come 
 into the house, Maggie, and let me show you a 
 photograph of one of them. Such a gentleman 
 and soldier as he was ! And to think he is 
 
 dead ! Yet I 've got to that age that some- 
 12
 
 178 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 
 
 times it seems to me as if half the world were 
 dead, and it was n't natural for me to have any 
 friends alive." 
 
 So she talked the young woman's gossip 
 down, but she understood it very well, and be- 
 gan herself to fear that Prue might be laying up 
 trouble for her poor little heart. 
 
 Maggie, meanwhile, rushed into the game, 
 and often invited Darius to visit her. She had 
 no special desire to assume the rdle of mar- 
 ried flirt. Her ambition was to have a popular 
 house, and to move about in it with impartial 
 smiles. Darius took Prudence with him a few 
 times. She sat in the corner, very composed 
 and very quiet. He did not quite like the com- 
 pany he met there, and it relieved an occasional 
 feeling of annoyance for him to see Prue on her 
 low seat by the window. 
 
 " Am I not glad that is over ! " he said one 
 night, as they started for home. " I would not 
 go there so much if Mrs. Stafford did n't man- 
 age it so that I seem obliged to. I don't think 
 it is consistent with my Quaker principles to 
 frequent such gay assemblies." 
 
 "I can't quite make out," said Prue, "how 
 much in earnest you are about your Quaker- 
 ism." 
 
 " I am very much in earnest," answered he. 
 " Do you not think a simple style of living, on
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 179 
 
 the part of the rich, might have a tendency to 
 bring about a keener sense of the brotherhood 
 of men ? " 
 
 There was no reply to this remark, because 
 just then a turn in the road brought them out 
 of the dense shadow of trees, and there, dis- 
 played before them, was the sky all in a pallid 
 flame with dancing Northern Lights. 
 
 After this evening, Darius generally suc- 
 ceeded in escaping or refusing Maggie's invita- 
 tions. That pretty lady pouted, pretended to 
 be grieved, and finally gave a little revengeful 
 thrust : 
 
 " I suppose a poor married woman like me 
 must give up your friendship, now you are so 
 much interested in another quarter. Oh, I 
 know: I ought to retire to my kitchen, and 
 leave the parlor for the ' young folks,' or only 
 come there to sit by the wall and watch them 
 enjoy themselves. But I don't like to do that 
 very well," she added, demurely folding her 
 hands and dropping her lovely eyes, " when the 
 only reason I am not one of the ' young folks ' 
 myself is that I am married, not that I am old. 
 I am really not near so old as some people I 
 know. And truly, I don't see why I can't like 
 fun and my friends just as well as if I did n't 
 like somebody ever so much better, and belong 
 to him, in a general way. And why can't 
 you, Mr. Kingman ? Is she jealous ? "
 
 180 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean," said he 
 stoutly. 
 
 " Oh, but she does," retorted Maggie, look- 
 ing prettier than ever, for audacity was becom- 
 ing to her. " Or is it only a case of somebody 
 liking you best ? Then surely you might come 
 to my little parties. Oh, there 's my good man ! 
 Tom, dear, don't you see me? Here I am, 
 quarreling with Mr. Kingman. Come over and 
 walk home with me, for, truly, he won't." 
 
 That evening there was a temperance meet- 
 ing in the village, and all the aristocracy of the 
 place attended, by way of setting a good exam- 
 ple to the lower classes. Mrs. Coggeshall, look- 
 ing across the aisle, saw Prue's eyes resting for 
 an instant on Darius. 
 
 " Ah," thought the matron, " Providence ev- 
 idently intends this to be a case for me. Pru- 
 dence has no flesh-and -blood mother, and the 
 best make-believe one don't thrill through every 
 nerve on behalf of a child, as a real one does. 
 I have n't an idea Mrs. Warner sees a thing of 
 what 's going on under her respectably specta- 
 cled nose. To be sure, Prue is old enough to 
 take care of herself ; only women, unless they 
 are married, will be women to the end of the 
 chapter, poor creatures! Gracious, how time 
 goes ! It must be full fifteen years since Prue 
 followed that Lorenzo somebody down to the
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 181 
 
 river. She thought she -was doing it to please 
 the Lord, but I guess the Lord knew very well 
 it was done to please Lorenzo. And now she 's 
 on the road to another trouble ! " 
 
 That night Darius Kingman sat, for an hour, 
 alone on his boarding-house piazza. The moon 
 shone solemnly down out of a clear, dark sky. 
 There seemed to be no barrier between the 
 man's soul and heaven, only immeasurable 
 distance. All the passions of his life passed in 
 review before him, like a great host marshaled 
 under that awful sky. Events were of little 
 moment to him compared with emotions. He 
 was convinced that it had not mattered much 
 what special circumstance had fired the train of 
 feeling laid ready in his heart, or had turned 
 his thoughts along a pathway already open be- 
 fore him. If it had not been one incident, it 
 would have been another. Only one thing in 
 all his life appeared now to have been of itself 
 of controlling import, his early love and loss. 
 Apart from this single monumental experience, 
 all his story was the story of a man's longing 
 after God, and all that longing had brought 
 him back to the faith of his youth. Amid the 
 fluctuations of modern thought, with its mate- 
 rialistic trend, this alone offered a solid assur- 
 ance to his mind, -r- the dear old Quaker doc- 
 trine, that in the soul of every man that cometh
 
 182 "-4 STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 
 
 into the world is a light that lighteth all his 
 footsteps. A thousand lesser impulses, also, 
 drew him back to his old religion. For the sake 
 of his love he had once defied the Quaker disci- 
 pline, which forbade marriage with an outsider ; 
 but did he wish to do that again ? Prudence, 
 sweet as she was to him, aroused no such pas- 
 sionate love as had been given to her sister. He 
 knew very well that old customs had so far re- 
 laxed among the Friends in that section of the 
 country that he could be admitted to fellowship 
 with them, though it were known that he pur- 
 posed marrying one of the women of the world 
 a week later. He had no principle himself 
 against such marriages, and yet, whether from 
 the effect of early training or hereditary preju- 
 dice, he shrank from entertaining at the same 
 time the project of joining the Society and of 
 making such a marriage as the Society had de- 
 liberately condemned as "disorderly." 
 
 It also touched what small sense of humor 
 this serious-minded man possessed to find him- 
 self, in this religious crisis of his life, tempted 
 to commit again the very offense which had 
 made him a religious outlaw, so many years 
 before. But when he had reached this stage 
 of his meditations, he told himself that he was 
 not at all tempted to marry Prue. Why, then, 
 was he thinking about it ? Why did her face
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME. 1 ' 183 
 
 rise before him in the moonlight, beside the 
 radiant image of that dead girl, whose remem- 
 bered beauty made the living Prudence seem 
 the ghost to him ? 
 
 The truth was, Maggie Stafford's hints had 
 rankled in Darius' mind, and, moreover, Mrs. 
 Coggeshall had claimed his escort home that 
 evening, and plainly told him that if he did not 
 mean to marry Prue he would do well not to 
 dangle around her any more. Mrs. Coggeshall 
 could be very direct of speech when she chose, 
 and she had left no doubt as to her meaning in 
 his mind. 
 
 " I do not believe it," he soliloquized. " Prue 
 is not the girl to fall in love with any man ; nor 
 am I exactly a charming creature. I will not 
 go there to make talk, but there is surely no 
 need for me to think of marrying her on her 
 own account ! What an idea ! As for myself, 
 I like her. I really do not know why I like 
 her so much. Sometimes, I wonder if she has 
 any intellect, or only that sweet, sympathetic 
 smile, which always leads me on to talk. She 
 never says a noticeable thing, yet I always 
 want to tell her all I think. But I surely do 
 not love her, or I could not analyze her thus." 
 
 It did not occur to the man that he was not 
 analyzing her very successfully just then, 
 that he was simply confessing there was some
 
 184 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME.' 9 
 
 quality in her which deified his analysis ; so he 
 went on bravely to his resolve, to shield her 
 from gossip, and visit her only when compelled 
 to do so. He rose at last to leave the silent 
 porch. Pausing at the house door, he looked 
 up at the moon, which now rode majestic in 
 the mid-heavens. Back over his soul came a 
 religious feeling, like the swelling of a great 
 tide. 
 
 " O God, my God," he murmured, " in all 
 this aching, groaning world, in all this living, 
 loving world, there is no room for any passion 
 but the desire of thee ! " 
 
 So evening after evening passed, and Darius 
 did not come to Prue's sitting-room. At first 
 she wondered openly at his absence, playfully 
 making little vexed speeches about it to her 
 father and mother. Then she ceased to re- 
 fer to her brother-in-law, and drooped a little, 
 and was rather silent, but there was nobody to 
 notice that. 
 
 One afternoon she sat at the window, and saw 
 Darius go by, on the other side of the road, with 
 Maggie Stafford and her younger sister, Tessy, 
 a girl more golden-haired, more beautifully 
 blonde even, than Maggie. Tessy was laugh- 
 ing as they passed. The laugh sounded like 
 the note of a bobolink, Prue thought; and,
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME.' 1 185 
 
 thinking this, she saw Darius smile kindly in 
 answer. How well she knew that kind smile I 
 
 She rose at once, and went to her room. She 
 saw herself in her mirror, as the door closed 
 behind her, and seated herself mechanically in 
 a low chair. How old and pale she looked ! 
 
 " Old ! " she said to herself mockingly. " I 
 feel as if I were dead ! " 
 
 For a full half hour she sat there, scarcely 
 moving ; then she went calmly down the stairs, 
 took up her sewing, and listened, without under- 
 standing, while her mother read aloud to her 
 something from Darwin. 
 
 That same evening, Darius stood once more 
 on Maggie's piazza, while the music of young 
 voices floated gayly through the open windows ; 
 and she herself, a white, graceful figure, came 
 to him, laying a hand lightly on his arm. 
 
 " It is lovely to have you back," said she ; 
 "and I knew you would like Tessy." 
 
 " She is charming," said the man. "But I 
 am not in my element among these bright young 
 girls. I fancy I lived too long in China to be 
 at home in this sort of society. I spoke pigeon 
 English too many years to find my tongue apt 
 at compliments now. You are very kind to 
 want to introduce me to your girl friends, but 
 it is too late for me to make myself their com- 
 rade."
 
 186 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 
 
 After this, he did manage very nearly to se- 
 clude himself; and, being much occupied by his 
 business during the fall months, Prue was not 
 the only one of his friends who missed the sight 
 of him. 
 
 Of course he was obliged to call occasionally 
 at Mr. Warner's, but it was at least three weeks 
 after that evening at Maggie's when Prue met 
 him first. She came into the house from a 
 botanizing walk, carrying in her hand a spray of 
 early red leaves. On her way home she had 
 been thinking of him. She was always think- 
 ing of him at this time. She never left the 
 house without the thought that she might see 
 him. She never came back without the hope 
 that he had entered her home in her absence. 
 She never approached a window without won- 
 dering if she might not catch a glimpse of him 
 through the revealing glass, that seemed a loop- 
 hole in her prison walls. She never saw a fig- 
 ure coming towards her from the distance with- 
 out the prayer that it might be his. It was not 
 a sharp pain she felt, but a deathly suspense of 
 the mind, a slow-creeping faintness of the heart, 
 like the on-coming of disease or of old age. 
 
 In this mood, with his name trembling on her 
 unconscious lips, she came into the room on that 
 September afternoon, and saw him standing be- 
 side her grandmother, her grandmother only
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 187 
 
 by adoption, like all her other relatives, poor 
 Prue! 
 
 He was saying gentle parting words to the old 
 lady, who peered up at him, nodding her head, 
 till the little false curls bobbed in a manner 
 quite unbecoming their melancholy origin. 
 
 " Yes, yes, Darius Kingman," said the shrill 
 voice ; " we old folks expect you young ones to 
 forget us. I ain't been a mite surprised you 
 did n't come, but it did seem ruther more lone- 
 somer. I set here an' think an' think, an' your 
 Mary's pretty face rises right up afore me like a 
 picter ! She come here a-visitin' oncet or twicet, 
 when she was a tiny tot ; an' I declare for 't, 
 though Prue was a better gal, I did like your 
 Mary best. I set a sight by Prue, but my heart 
 kinder hankered after Mary. She was like my 
 little gal that died ; an' when you come it 
 brings the thought of them both to me, 
 pretty little gals, your Mary, as has been dead 
 only thirteen year, an' my Arabella, as died 
 sixty year ago. Wai, wal, I allus see 'em to- 
 gether now, an' pretty soon I'm goin' where 
 they be. I think I can find 'em somewheres, 
 I think I can." 
 
 As the old lady's voice died away in an un- 
 earthly whisper, Darius turned, and saw Prue, 
 very pale, standing before him, holding the 
 spray of red leaves against her gray gown. He
 
 188 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 
 
 felt a sort of nervous shock, but he only bowed, 
 touched her fingers, stooped again over Harm's 
 withered hand, murmured a few incoherent 
 words, and left the house. 
 
 A few days later, the grandmother died, and 
 Darius came again frequently to the Warners'. 
 He was kind and helpful, but he kept out of 
 Prue's way, and when the necessity for visiting 
 passed he came no more. 
 
 The Warners did not put on mourning. " It 's 
 a sinful waste of time an' money," said Mrs. 
 Arvilla. " It makes the world dismaler than it 
 need be, an' there 's nothin' Christian in doin' 
 that. The sorrow that has to be coddled to 
 keep it alive had better die. If anybody thinks 
 I ain't sorry my mother 's dead, let 'em come 
 an' ask me ! That 's all." 
 
 So Prue still wore her soft grays and browns; 
 but when she selected her modest winter ward- 
 robe, that year, she chose even plainer shapes 
 and duller tints than ever before ; feeling not 
 only that thus she did some slight honor to the 
 aged woman's memory, but further impelled 
 by a sense that in this way it behooved one to 
 dress whose girlhood had passed. She did not 
 want to be old, but she had felt that she was 
 old ever since the afternoon when she had 
 heard that clear laugh of Tessy Martin's ring 
 out for girlish joy at being in Darius King-
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME. 11 189 
 
 man's company. A man's fate, thought Prue, 
 was different from a woman's. He was her 
 own senior by several years, but he was not 
 old in the sense that she was. He was still 
 a welcome associate for young and beautiful 
 maidens, while she ! alas, what handsome 
 boy of eighteen would laugh like that because 
 Prudence Warner smiled on him ? She had not 
 only missed Darius Kingman's love, a some- 
 thing which she had never possessed, but she 
 had lost that which had once been hers, all 
 the blessed opportunity of youth. She bade 
 herself accept her lot quietly, not trick herself 
 out in unbefitting clothes, but be willing to look 
 what she was, a middle-aged single woman, 
 who had been passed by. 
 
 The first time she wore her new garments 
 to church, Maggie came up to her after the 
 service, laughing. " Really, Prudence, you look 
 just like a Quaker. Have you caught Darius 
 Kingman's craze ? " 
 
 Prue flushed, and turned angrily away. 
 
 " Oh, I did n't mean anything," called out 
 Maggie ; but the other would not answer, and 
 walked rapidly homeward. 
 
 Prue was tempted, after this, to crown her 
 bonnet with gay flowers, but she would not 
 show Maggie that she felt the sting of what 
 had been said.
 
 190 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 
 
 Towards spring, the hands in Mr. Cogges- 
 hall's mill struck. They paraded and held 
 meetings. There was much gathering of peo- 
 ple on the streets. All sorts of stories were 
 told about everybody concerned in the business. 
 Mr. Coggeshall, irritated by many false re- 
 ports, shut himself in his house in sullen si- 
 lence. Deputations of spinners and weavers 
 besieged his door in vain. He would see none 
 of them. Mrs. Coggeshall rattled on good-hu- 
 moredly about the whole affair, and rallied her 
 husband unceasingly at what she termed the 
 constantly increasing evidences of his popular- 
 ity with the people he employed. She treated 
 it all as a joke, but he took the strike as a per- 
 sonal offense. 
 
 It was a new experience to Kingman, and 
 impressed him deeply. He talked with people 
 holding all sorts of opinions, and people who 
 were affected in many different ways, by the 
 questions at issue. By turns he grew indig- 
 nant in behalf of all parties. Sometimes he was 
 heart-sick and dismayed by the difficulties in 
 this and many kindred situations which he in- 
 vestigated ; but whatever financial theories he 
 adopted or rejected, more and more his sym- 
 pathies went out to those men, women, and 
 children to whom "labor troubles " meant 
 something worse than the pecuniary embarrass- 
 ment which threatened their employers.
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 191 
 
 Prudence saw him now frequently, as busi- 
 ness consultations were often held with Mr. 
 Warner at their house. 
 
 She did not understand political economy, 
 and perhaps would not have been much im- 
 pressed by the talk between her father and 
 Mr. Coggeshall about " competition " if she had 
 understood it ; but she noted Darius' serious 
 aspect, felt that he was not quite in sympathy 
 with the others, and yearned towards him. 
 
 " He seems to mind people's troubles as if 
 they were his own," she thought. " I suppose 
 we all ought to," she added, with the simple 
 comment of a conscience unversed in the laissez- 
 faire doctrines of trade. 
 
 One Sunday in March, Mr. and Mrs. Cogges- 
 hall came to Mr. Warner's, soon after the din- 
 ner which it was the village Sabbath custom to 
 have in the middle of the afternoon. The talk 
 turned on Kingman's character. 
 
 " Now," said Mrs. Coggeshall, " you may say 
 what you will, but I say there's something 
 very fine about that man. With all his Quaker 
 stiffness, if I wanted to draw a picture of an 
 ideal gentleman, I 'd just make his portrait." 
 
 "A good fellow, a good fellow," commented 
 her husband sagely, "but very erratic, very 
 erratic ; " and he puckered his lips, as if he did 
 not like the taste of that word.
 
 192 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 
 
 " Yes," said she undauntedly, " awfully so ; 
 that 's one thing I like about him." 
 
 " I don't see," spoke up Mrs. Warner, " as 
 the thing you call so erratic in Darius is any- 
 thing but the New Testament fanaticism put 
 in action ; an' for my part, I don't think it 's 
 respectful to the Lord, the way Mr. Coggeshall 
 and Mr. Warner are always talkin', as if the 
 Almighty did n't know about business, when 
 He settled his system of morality." 
 
 " My dear, my dear," softly interposed Mr. 
 Warner, " you be a woman, and don't under- 
 stand business." 
 
 " The Lord an' me together ! " ejaculated 
 Mrs. Arvilla. 
 
 At that moment came a low tap at the back 
 door, and Prudence softly glided out of the 
 room. She soon came back, and spoke with 
 some nervousness : 
 
 " Father, Darius wants to know if he may 
 borrow the horse and buggy to drive to Lex- 
 ville. His horse is lame. He 's got a sudden 
 call to go, and as he may be detained he 's 
 asked me to go with him, so I can bring the 
 horse back." 
 
 " Oh, to be sure, to be sure," bustled Mr. 
 Warner, rising. " I '11 go and see to the har- 
 nessing." 
 
 "No, you need n't," said she hastily. "I
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 193 
 
 guess Darius understands a horse as well as 
 you do, the times he 's harnessed Spin ! Sit 
 still, do ! You know you 've got a lame back, 
 and, besides, Mr. Coggeshall wants to talk busi- 
 ness with you." 
 
 " That 's so," said the manufacturer, as Prue, 
 despite herself, turned an appealing look to 
 him. " Sit down, Jacob. I guess Darius is 
 equal to the occasion." 
 
 But Mrs. Coggeshall noticed Prue's excited 
 manner and disapproved very much of the pro- 
 posed drive. She wanted to go straight out to 
 the barn, and talk to Kingman again about his 
 sister-in-law's affections. She ached to tell Mrs. 
 Warner how stupidly blind she was. But as 
 she could do neither of these things, she tried 
 to content herself by attacking Prudence's un- 
 suspicious mother on a point of theology. 
 
 When Prue, all bonneted and cloaked, went 
 out to the barn, she found Darius standing 
 beside the mare, his face very white and his 
 lips compressed. 
 
 " I '11 harness her," said she, " and I 've made 
 it all right in the house." 
 
 " Poor little Prue," said he. " What a dip- 
 lomate you must be, and I should never have 
 suspected it of you ! " 
 
 She put the mare in the traces, backed the 
 buggy out of the barn, and helped Darius in. 
 
 13
 
 194 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 
 
 He submitted with a protest, but when both 
 were seated he gathered up the reins with his 
 left hand. 
 
 " You 'd better let me drive," said she. 
 
 " Not till we have passed the house," he an- 
 swered. 
 
 They leaned forward and bowed as they went 
 by the sitting-room windows, and then Darius 
 laughed a little, for Mrs. Coggeshall darted at 
 him a wrathful look, the purport of which he 
 suspected. 
 
 When they were on the road Prue firmly 
 took possession of the reins, saying, " Now tell 
 me all about it." 
 
 "I have told you all there is, just a row 
 with Tom Murphy and Peter McNamara, as I 
 came across the fields, looking for trailing ar- 
 butus. It was nothing. They would n't have 
 touched me, but they were drunk, and took it 
 into their muddled heads to class me among 
 their oppressors. There 's no real ill - blood 
 among the strikers. They 've behaved very 
 well, I think," he added, with an attempt at a 
 smile, " considering they Ve had to do without 
 the refining influences of higher education." 
 
 " Oh, but are you hurt very much ? " 
 
 "Not seriously; only, as I said, my arm 
 must be broken. I think Peter did it with 
 that big club. It did look so big, coming down
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME," 195 
 
 on me, and I put up my arm. But I got off in 
 decently honorable shape, I flatter myself, 
 Quaker as I am. I want to get to Lexville 
 without any one hearing of it. I wouldn't 
 have Mr. Coggeshall know it to-night for the 
 world, because it can do no harm to tell you 
 he has agreed to give notice to-morrow that 
 he will accede to some of the demands of the 
 strikers. It is right he should do so ; but if he 
 were to hear of this affair first, he would cer- 
 tainly misinterpret it, and jump to the conclu- 
 sion that it was an act of deliberate hostility, 
 and I am afraid he would refuse to do what he 
 has promised to do." 
 
 Kingman spoke slowly, and leaned heavily 
 against the side of the buggy, looking faint. 
 Prudence drove steadily, keeping her eyes fixed 
 on the mare. The sky was darkly overcast, ex- 
 cept around the horizon, where bits of blue 
 showed between fleecy drifts, and in the west 
 a glory of many colors, soft yet bright, spread 
 itself above the distant hills. Here and there 
 the sun behind the clouds poured its rays down, 
 straight and luminous, across this belt of opal- 
 ine tints, melting gold into a dream of rose- 
 color, and lower still dissolving all elements 
 in an enchanting haze, which lay upon those 
 wonderful hills of mysterious blue. 
 
 Prue drove directly to Dr. Salisbury's house,
 
 196 "A STRANGER, JET AT HOME." 
 
 when they reached Lexville. The doctor re- 
 ceived them in his office. He knew Prue 
 slightly, and held out to her a thin brown 
 hand, working his features, while he made a 
 speech of formal welcome. She briefly ex- 
 plained her presence, and he cried out de- 
 lightedly, 
 
 " And you want to make a conspirator of me, 
 and let me secrete Kingman for twenty-four 
 hours, till the affair has blown over ! I see, I 
 see. He shall stay here. I '11 keep him in my 
 own house, and doctor him privately. I like 
 it ! It carries me back to my youth, and re- 
 minds me of the fugitive slaves my father hid 
 in his cellar." 
 
 While he talked and ogled, the doctor placed 
 his patient on the sofa, and prepared to exam- 
 ine his injuries. Then said Prudence, who had 
 remained standing in the middle of the floor, 
 
 " Now I will leave you, Darius." 
 
 Kingman feebly smiled, and held up to her 
 his left hand. As she took it she saw her sis- 
 ter's wedding ring on his finger. 
 
 " You have been very good," he said. " Some 
 day, I '11 try to thank you." 
 
 She made him no answer, but bade the doc- 
 tor good-by, and left them together. 
 
 " She 's a woman, now," said the surgeon, as 
 he threw a puckered glance after her. Darius
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 197 
 
 raised himself slightly, stared at the doctor, but 
 uttered no word. 
 
 The secret was kept till Mr. Coggeshall was 
 too deeply pledged to conciliation to permit of 
 his drawing back. When the story did leak 
 out it enhanced Kingman's popularity very 
 considerably. Murphy disappeared from town, 
 but McNamara made a pilgrimage to Lexville, 
 procured an interview with Darius, and be- 
 haved after such a fashion of sincere regret that 
 the wounded man became the young fellow's 
 staunch friend. 
 
 Kingman was, however, quite ill for several 
 days. Dr. Salisbury consequently formed a 
 habit of going to Mr. Warner's to report the 
 daily fluctuations in the condition of his " se- 
 questered hero," as he called the patient. 
 
 " He 'd be tol'ably good-looking," said Mrs. 
 Warner one day, as she watched the physician 
 carefully tying his horse at the gate, " if he 'd 
 only let his face alone, an' not try to keep his 
 features promenading round his countenance. 
 He ain't so very old, neither. They say his 
 hair turned white when his wife died. I don't 
 believe he 's a day over fifty. I say, Prue," 
 with a prolonged but feminine whistle, " that 's 
 why he 's so fond of comin' here." 
 
 "What's why?" asked Prue, incoherently; 
 but her mother only snorted forth a laugh, and
 
 198 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME" 
 
 retreated to the kitchen, unkindly leaving Prue 
 alone to receive the doctor. The matron sat 
 down by the stove, and tittered over the boil- 
 ing cabbage and corned beef. 
 
 " To think," murmured she, " of anybody's 
 wantin' our Prue ! " 
 
 Prudence met the doctor with flaming cheeks, 
 which made her almost handsome, so that his 
 ardor was fired ; and although he did not ac- 
 tually make love to her, something in his man- 
 ner left her convinced, when he finally bowed 
 himself away, that under all the play of his 
 hands, and the twisting and screwing of eyes 
 and mouth, lurked a definite intention towards 
 herself. 
 
 When alone, she laughed, like her mother, 
 and echoed her thought, saying, " The idea of 
 his wanting me ! Why, it 's ten years since 
 any one wanted me. He's a nice man, too, 
 and the last one was such a fool ! " 
 
 But after she had stood still a minute, laugh- 
 ing in a helpless, hysterical fashion, she sud- 
 denly fled to her room, as she had done the 
 afternoon she had seen Darius walking with 
 Maggie and Tessy. This time she threw her- 
 self on the floor, and cried, and cried. 
 
 Nevertheless, the knowledge that she had or 
 could have a suitor proved in many ways a 
 balm to Prue's heart ; and finally, rising from
 
 " A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 199 
 
 the floor, she took from a box a spring hat, and 
 deliberately garnished it with a modest spray 
 of flowers, which she had laid aside when her 
 self-crucifying mood had been strong upon her. 
 She had no idea of trying to be a girl again, 
 or of marrying any one; but she did not feel 
 half so much like an irredeemable old maid as 
 she had felt for many months. 
 
 Dr. Salisbury reported to his patient the visits 
 he made to the Warners, and Darius responded 
 that he was glad to hear they were well. 
 
 He grew very restless in his confinement, and 
 made attempts to vary the monotony of his life 
 in ways that retarded his recovery. The doc- 
 tor fretted at him. 
 
 " I told Mrs. Warner, this morning, that you 
 were worse than a whole circus to manage." 
 
 " How do you know ? Did you ever try to 
 manage a circus ? " 
 
 " Kingman, why don't you say thee to me ? " 
 
 " I don't want to." 
 
 The doctor laughed at Darius' irritation. " I 
 guess I '11 have you all right soon," he said ; 
 "but you must be patient, and not do such 
 abominably rash things. Have prudence, King- 
 man, have prudence." 
 
 Darius rose to his feet, and looked at the phy- 
 sician a moment, before he said quietly, " I have 
 been a fool, doctor, and I will have prudence."
 
 200 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME. 1 ' 
 
 But when he was alone, he took from his 
 drawer a little velvet case, and opening, looked 
 in it, long and wistfully. His heart was full of 
 very pure emotion, and yet it almost seemed to 
 him as if he were withdrawing himself from 
 the sphere of some dear and holy influence. He 
 had arrived at one of those crises when the soul 
 is simultaneously possessed by feelings and im- 
 pulses which, tested by any temporal standard, 
 are absolutely inconsistent, the one with the 
 other. At such times a man is both constant 
 and inconstant, desiring that from which he 
 shrinks. He longs for one woman, and notwith- 
 standing that longing he would, if he could, 
 fling his immortal being down before the mem- 
 ory of another. The contradictory passions 
 which swayed Kingman mocked his reason, with 
 their suggestion of the pitiful futility of all 
 search into the mysteries of human existence. 
 Yet even at that moment, his spirit, like that of 
 many men who have had experience kindred to 
 his, indignantly protested that it would forever 
 interrogate the secrets of its agitation and its 
 destiny. 
 
 "God forgive me," he murmured at last, 
 " and Mary forgive me too, for I do not know 
 whether I am less or more worthy, since I have 
 come to care for this other." 
 
 With a sigh he closed the little case, and it
 
 "A STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 201 
 
 seemed to him that he shut therein his youth 
 and a life-long question. 
 
 The buds upon the trees were swollen just 
 enough to blur the outline of the branches 
 against the sky, and the air felt warm to King- 
 man's cheek, as he made his way to the side 
 door of Mr. Warner's house, the first time he 
 went there after his accident. The grass was 
 pushing up its elf -like blades, sheathed in 
 green, and the voices of children came calling 
 through the distance with a shrill sweetness. 
 The world looked happy, and Darius felt so as 
 Prudence came through the yard to meet him, 
 with welcoming eyes. She had been feeding 
 some pet pigeons, and a dove was perched upon 
 her shoulder, a young bird, pure white and 
 exquisitely slender. It looked not like a crea- 
 ture, but like the soul of some being. 
 
 Darius bent over the woman's hand, and the 
 dove took flight, its wings whirring close above 
 his head. When he raised his eyes he saw Dr. 
 Salisbury standing in a familiar attitude in the 
 doorway. It seemed to Darius that a shadow 
 had fallen across the sky. 
 
 They all went round to the front porch, where 
 they seated themselves, and chatted lightly 
 about the wonderful warmth of the afternoon.
 
 202 "4 STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 
 
 The doctor was fluent. Kingman grew silent. 
 Prudence sat quietly between the two men. 
 
 "I'm like Gertrude," she thought: "having 
 got one sweetheart, they swarm" 
 
 But she did not really think that Darius had 
 come a-wooing. She only felt very glad to see 
 him, and very content, also, that her womanly 
 attractions should be vindicated in his presence 
 by the doctor's attentive manner. 
 
 " I want a glass of water ! " cried Kingman, 
 at last, springing to his feet in helpless impa- 
 tience. 
 
 Prudence rose. " No," said he, " I am going 
 to the well." 
 
 " You can't draw the bucket." 
 
 *.' I '11 help you," said the doctor. 
 
 " I can do it myself," retorted he. They fol- 
 lowed him, nevertheless, and the doctor applied 
 himself to the well-rope, while Darius stood by, 
 fuming. Prue went into the house for a glass. 
 As she came out again, the white dove flew 
 down and hovered about her. The doctor was 
 hauling up the bucket. Darius went forward 
 and met Prue. He looked her straight in the 
 eyes, and said in a low tone, 
 
 " Choose between that man and me." 
 
 " Where 's your tumbler ? " cried the doctor, 
 as he landed the dripping bucket. Prue filled 
 the glass, and handed it to Darius. The doctor
 
 "4 STRANGER, YET AT HOME." 203 
 
 stood only a yard away, whisking some drops of 
 water off his clothes, but his back was turned. 
 
 " Which is it ? " asked Kingman, over the 
 glass. 
 
 " Why, you, Darius, of course," said she.
 
 AND JOE. 
 
 THEODOKA JUSTICE sat, with a wearily com- 
 fortable air, before an open fire in the sitting- 
 room of her friend, Margaret Denton, M. D. 
 
 " The worst of it is, I have lost my ambi- 
 tions," said Theodora. " I used to have such 
 fine dreams." She laughed a little. " I meant 
 to do a few things for the amusement of other 
 people, and a great many for my own pleasure. 
 This morning I came across a plan I drew last 
 year for a Gothic library. I also found a pro- 
 gramme I made at the same time for a series 
 of literary and musical entertainments, and a 
 list of guests to be invited from New York and 
 Boston. With this paper was another; and 
 what do you suppose that was ? A set of 
 colored designs I had drawn for pre-Raphaelite 
 costumes wherewith to adorn my own person. 
 They were quite pretty, too, though you '11 
 find that hard to believe ; but I don't care for
 
 AND JOE. 205 
 
 them now, nor for the library, nor the par- 
 ties." 
 
 The smile was dreary with which she looked 
 up for an answer, but before her friend could 
 speak there was a knock at the door, and a ser- 
 va'nt came in to say " Ann Reilly was very 
 bad," and wanted the doctor. 
 
 " Let me go with you," said Theodora. 
 
 " Certainly," answered Margaret ; *' but it is 
 not a pleasant sight you will see." 
 
 Miss Justice was the daughter of the manu- 
 facturer who owned the larger portion of the 
 factories and houses of the town, but she knew 
 nothing about the people whom she visited with 
 Margaret that night. It was the first time she 
 had ever been in any of their homes, and all 
 the stirrings of her conscience towards them 
 had hitherto been quieted by a half-formed 
 resolution that some time she would build a 
 Gothic library or found an art gallery for them. 
 Now, with new, vague thoughts, she followed 
 Margaret, who took the occasion to visit several 
 patients. They toiled up dark, narrow stairs. 
 They went down into basements. They found 
 a dying girl's chamber lighted with tapers, and 
 the garment in which she was to be buried ly- 
 ing beside her on the bed. And then they 
 went into a pleasant sitting-room, belonging to 
 a French Canadian family. A carpet was on
 
 206 AND JOE. 
 
 the floor, a bright-colored cloth over the table ; 
 the chimney shelf was covered with gaudy toys 
 and ornaments. Some flower-pots were on the 
 window sill, and a melodeon stood against the 
 wall. Three or four handsome girls sat in 
 painted wooden chairs and talked eagerly with 
 the doctor. 
 
 After leaving this place, Miss Justice and 
 her companion turned towards home, but had 
 gone only a few steps when they came upon a 
 crowd of jeering boys surrounding a lad who 
 sat forlorn and silent upon the sidewalk. A red 
 light from the window of a little oyster shop 
 streamed about them all. 
 
 " He had an awful fit this mornin'," said one 
 boy. 
 
 "I say, Joe, did you have any dinner to- 
 day?" shouted another, as he turned a somer- 
 sault that brought him directly in the way of 
 the two ladies as they approached the group. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " asked Theodora, 
 sternly. 
 
 A chorus of voices answered, " He 's starvin', 
 he is ! " 
 
 " Starving ! What do you mean ? Who is 
 he?" 
 
 The boys giggled, and were silent a moment, 
 till a red-headed Irish urchin said, with a grin, 
 " Joe Huckleberry, we call him. His mother's
 
 AND JOE. 207 
 
 turned him out. I gin him a piece of bread 
 this mornin', an' he sleeps round, in the Com- 
 pany barn an' woodsheds." 
 
 " Joe Huckleberry ! " repeated Theodora. 
 
 " Yes, that 's what we call him. Can't say 
 his name right. He 's French." 
 
 Margaret placed her hand on Joe's shoulder. 
 The boy had remained all this while gazing on 
 the ground, apparently waiting in an unin- 
 terested mood for some one to do something 
 with him. He looked up now with a silly 
 smile. 
 
 " He has fits," said the Irish boy. 
 
 " Awful I " cried another. " I seen him bite 
 the ground, jest like a dog, in one on 'em." 
 
 " They comes on anywheres in the street, 
 or in the mill, jest where he happens to be," 
 added the red-haired youth, confidentially. 
 
 " Joe, has your mother turned you out-of- 
 doors ? " asked Margaret. 
 
 " No," said the boy ; " it 's my brother-in- 
 kw." 
 
 " Do you live with your brother-in-law ? " 
 
 " I did, but he 's turned me out." 
 
 " What did he do it for ? " asked Theodora. 
 
 " Dunno," said Joe. " He never liked me, 
 nohow. Could n't bear me afore he married 
 my sister. Half killed me, one day, lickin' me 
 in the street, jest for nothin'. Come across 
 me, an' thought he would, I s'pose."
 
 208 AND JOE. 
 
 " When did he turn you out ? " 
 - " Night 'fore last." 
 
 " And where have you slept ? " 
 
 " Got in ag'in that night, after they was all 
 asleep, an' went up in the garret an' slep'." 
 
 " And last night ? " 
 
 " Got into the Company barn." 
 
 " What have you had to eat ? " 
 
 " Nothin' much." 
 
 " Where is your mother ? " 
 
 " She lives with my brother-in-law." 
 
 " Did she want you turned out ? " 
 
 " No. She gin me some bread yesterday an' 
 this mornin'." 
 
 " Is she kind to you ? " 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " Is your sister kind ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then what is the matter? " 
 
 " Dunno." 
 
 " Do you work in the mill ? " 
 " I did. I worked up to Slade's ; but my 
 father come away from there, an' lef me, an' 
 then I was turned off, an' I come down here." 
 
 " Oh, you have a father ? Where is he 
 now?" 
 
 " He 's at my brother-in-law's." 
 
 " Did he want you sent out into the street ? " 
 
 " He said I might as well be."
 
 AND JOE. 209 
 
 " Why don't you try to get work in the mill 
 here?" 
 
 " I don't think they 'd give me none." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " I 've worked here afore." 
 
 Theodora smiled at this ingenuous confes- 
 sion, but said gently, " Come with me, and I '11 
 see that you are taken care of to-night." 
 
 Joe rose, and stood slouching at the lady's 
 side, while she said to the Irish urchin, " Will 
 you go and tell Joe's mother and his sister's 
 husband that I want them to come up and see 
 me this evening, if possible ? " 
 
 " Dunno who you be," said the boy, promptly. 
 
 Theodora felt slightly ashamed to find her- 
 self a stranger to these boys, but was relieved 
 when two voices whispered loudly, " It 's Miss 
 Justice," and the youngster, thus informed, 
 darted off on his errand. 
 
 " Now, Joe," said the lady, " come with 
 me." 
 
 They started, the lad slinking along beside 
 his stately companion, while Margaret walked 
 thoughtfully one or two steps in advance. The 
 crowd of boys stared, giggled, whooped, fol- 
 lowed, and at last one voice cried out, 
 
 " He, he! Joe 's got a gal ! " 
 
 " Why don't you give her your arm, Joe ? " 
 shouted another. 
 
 14
 
 210 AND JOE. 
 
 Theodora's blood was on fire, but she never 
 turned her head. They were not many rods 
 from her home. Did those few feet of roadway 
 divide civilization from barbarism ? Was it 
 God's fault, or was it partly hers, that men and 
 manners changed thus, as one went " down 
 street " from her dwelling ? 
 
 " Keep close to me, Joe," she said, but her 
 voice shook with indignant shame. Margaret 
 waited for them to come up with her. The 
 boys, still hooting and chuckling, gradually dis- 
 persed, and the trio went on unmolested. 
 
 The two women took Joe into the kitchen, 
 and gave him supper. When Theodora exam- 
 ined her protege in the light, her heart sank. 
 He was about fourteen years old, slender and 
 loosely made. His hands were long, dirty and 
 repulsive. He had reddish, watery eyes and a 
 small, pinched nose. His mouth hung open, and 
 showed traces of tobacco juice about it. The 
 whole face was pale, unhealthy, and idiotic. 
 
 " He looks like a parasite on humanity," 
 whispered Theodora to Margaret ; " the crea- 
 ture of a horrible, mocking chance." 
 
 " God knows why he lives," said Margaret, 
 simply. 
 
 Theodora answered, smiling, " Evidently, 
 science has n't spoiled your religion yet." 
 
 In process of time Joe's brother-in-law, An-
 
 AND JOE. 211 
 
 drew Moore, arrived, and was ushered into the 
 dining-room, where the ladies proceeded to 
 cross-examine him. He was a good - looking 
 young fellow about twenty-five years old. He 
 admitted at once that he had set the lad adrift. 
 
 "I was in hopes, ma'am," said he, "as he 
 would get took up, an' sent to the Reform 
 School. I 've got the whole family on my 
 hands, the old man 'n' the old woman, an' 
 the little uns. My woman hain't worked much 
 since her baby was born, though the baby 's 
 three or four months old. We are considerable 
 in debt. Joe 's just the ruin of his fam'ly. 
 They can't stay nowhere on account of this boy. 
 They git turned out of every place they go to. 
 You know rich folks, when they has some one 
 as ain't quite right, can hire somebody to keep 
 'em out of mischief ; but it comes hard on poor 
 folks, as can't spare neither time nor money to 
 take care of 'em." 
 
 " But don't you think it was cruel to turn him 
 out, when he had nowhere to go ? " asked The- 
 odora, a little astounded by the young man's 
 cool way of looking at the matter. 
 
 " Well, you see, miss, it was a question be- 
 tween turnin' him out or the rest of 'em. I 
 can't feed 'em all, even with old Huckleberry's 
 help. He '11 drink most all he earns, any way ; 
 an' Annie 's that sickly she ought not to work
 
 212 AND JOE. 
 
 at all. Then Joe 's dangerous when he 's mad. 
 He throwed a stone as big as my two fists right 
 through the kitchen winder, an' then I told him 
 to clear out. It might ha' killed the baby, let 
 alone my havin' to pay for the winder." 
 " He says you beat him," said Theodora. 
 
 ' / 
 
 " Well, I 've tried to lick the badness out of 
 him," frankly admitted the young man. " You 
 can, out of some boys, you know." 
 
 Finally young Moore was induced to promise 
 to take Joe in for a few days, till Miss Justice 
 could make some other provision for the unfor- 
 tunate lad. As Moore went out of the door, 
 Joe's mother appeared. She had been at a 
 neighbor's, and had only just received Miss Jus- 
 tice's message. She seemed to be a decent wo- 
 man, of English origin, though she said she was 
 born and had lived in Canada and the States 
 all her life. Her first husband, the father of 
 Andrew's wife, was an Englishman; Joe and 
 her three younger boys were the children of her 
 second marriage with a French Canadian. No, 
 her husband didn't work much, and he did 
 drink ; but he was always good-natured, and she 
 had n't no fault to find with him. Joe was the 
 trial of her life. If he had work, he would n't 
 stick to it. He bothered the neighbors, and the 
 family were forced to move from one place to 
 another continually. They had moved four
 
 AND JOE. 213 
 
 times in a little over two years. They were at 
 " Slade's," the first of the winter, and had been 
 pretty comfortable there, though it was a hard 
 life for her, making the little they could earn 
 feed them all. She could n't ever so much as 
 think of getting clothes from their wages. The 
 three younger children did not go to school, be- 
 cause they had no shoes ; and it was surprising 
 to see how much they ate, for all they stayed in 
 the house so much, butter especially. Nights 
 she had plenty to do, getting breakfast ready 
 and drying her husband's and Joe's shoes for 
 the next morning. There was so much snow 
 that winter, it kept their shoes wet nearly all 
 the time. She had to wash and dry their 
 clothes in the night, too. And Joe was such a 
 torment, and he acted bad about his work ; and 
 so they packed up, and she come down here ; 
 and then his father come too, and left the boy 
 there, hoping he would get " took up " and put 
 somewhere. She should n't like to complain of 
 him herself, but if he had got into some trouble 
 and been put into the Reform School, may be 
 it wouldn't have been so bad for him. She 
 had n't done nothing but cry the last three days ; 
 but she could n't blame Andrew for not wanting 
 him round, after he throwed that stone in the 
 window which came so near hitting the baby. 
 Margaret and Theodora scarcely knew
 
 214 AND JOE. 
 
 whether to blame or sympathize, and both sus- 
 pected that her husband's drinking had more to 
 do with the family destitution than the wife 
 would admit. They dismissed her with some 
 presents of food, and let her take Joe with her, 
 poor Joe, who stumbled a little going out into 
 the darkness. 
 
 Theodora came back from the door with a 
 puzzled look. 
 
 " Joe is the problem," she said. " His family 
 can't solve it. Can I ? " 
 
 " You can try," said Margaret. " Dear, ought 
 you not to know these people, and seek to be 
 their friend?" 
 
 Theodora threw out her arms with a mourn- 
 ful gesture. 
 
 " A friend," she said, " that is what they 
 need ; but for me ! Was I made for Joe ? " 
 
 Margaret's pulses beat in sympathy with this 
 rebellious outcry of a disappointed heart, but 
 her soul saw farther than did Theodora's 
 dimmed eyes, and she answered, 
 
 " Not more than Joe was made for you. You 
 need some one to work for. It may be God 
 made him to keep you from aimless idleness."
 
 AND JOE. 215 
 
 n. 
 
 Andrew Moore walked away from Miss Jus- 
 tice's in a bad humor. It was the first time he 
 had ever been in a grand house, the first time 
 he had ever sat in a handsomely appointed room 
 and talked with an elegant woman. Theodora's 
 calmness irritated him. He resented her supe- 
 riority. She would have looked very lovely to 
 an eye educated to appreciate the beautiful head 
 covered with light brown hair, the delicate fea- 
 tures, the supple motions and the waving lines 
 of her figure ; but this young fellow perceived 
 none of these perfections. He only felt that she 
 belonged to another world from his, and was an- 
 gry because he seemed to himself to be in some 
 indefinite way an inferior in her presence. He 
 was vexed becaused she had constrained him, 
 and made him promise to take Joe back. 
 
 " I dare say," he muttered, " that girl thinks 
 she can boss everybody in this village if she 's a 
 mind to." 
 
 Then he thought of the little weak-minded 
 woman who waited for him, with her sickly 
 child, in his squalid home, and grew angrier 
 still, and, calling his sins and follies " his luck," 
 he cursed the evil fortune that had joined him 
 to this ill-starred family. 
 
 " I 've more 'n half a mind to cut the whole
 
 216 AND JOE. 
 
 concern," he muttered. " I meant fair enough, 
 as fair as I could, when I married her, but I 
 did n't quite count in Joe ! She would n't do 
 nothin' if I left her. They 're too poor to go to 
 law. I don't care a dime for her, and yet 
 I 'd kinder hate to leave her. She 's such a lit- 
 tle fool." 
 
 Andrew Moore was a native American citi- 
 zen, having been born two weeks after his father 
 and mother landed in this country. They were 
 Irish Protestants of a low class. Andrew grew 
 up in a manufacturing town, and graduated 
 early from school into the mill. In due time he 
 became a mule-spinner. There were absolutely 
 no refining influences brought to bear upon his 
 young life. American republicanism has re- 
 lieved the child of foreign parentage from the 
 somewhat despotic discipline of the Old World, 
 but it has not always, even in New England, 
 provided much to take its place. 
 
 It is a notorious fact that the children of Irish 
 parents are a turbulent, disturbing growth in 
 that social condition which we in besotted con- 
 tentment persist in naming our civilization, not- 
 withstanding the fact that it is very inadequate 
 to produce the best results in all its compo- 
 nent parts. In manufacturing towns, employers 
 might do much to elevate their work-people, 
 if they would acknowledge that a moral tie
 
 AND JOE. 217 
 
 exists between the classes bound by the busi- 
 ness relation. Manufacturers, also, would do 
 wisely to remember that semi-barbarism is very 
 dangerous when dowered with the power and 
 freedom of democracy. If the sense of duty is 
 not strong enough to induce the providing of 
 time and means for more education of our igno- 
 rant people, it may be well that danger stands 
 ready to be the safeguard of the republic it 
 seems to threaten. Fear may supplement the 
 tardy conscience of the rich and rouse them to 
 the necessary action to secure the enlightenment 
 of the poor. 
 
 Andrew spent the days of his youth in the 
 mill, his evenings in the street and in saloons, 
 his nights in the filthy air of crowded tene- 
 ments, while the Sundays were passed in play- 
 ing games of base-ball, or attending cock-fights. 
 The Protestant churches where he lived did not 
 greatly concern themselves about the young 
 Irishman's spiritual welfare. He would have 
 stood more chance of receiving some religious 
 training had he been a Catholic, under the un- 
 sleeping watch of Rome. 
 
 Andrew had come to Newbridge a little more 
 than a year before this February evening. Joe's 
 family were then living there. Joe's half-sis- 
 ter, poor little Annie, toiling day after day, with 
 scarcely a single girlish hope or pleasure, had
 
 218 AND JOE. 
 
 almost immediately fallen in love with Andrew. 
 It was a genuine love, though probably a feeble 
 one, as the pitiful creature had hardly vitality 
 enough for a strong emotion. He had been 
 amused with the tribute of silly affection laid at 
 his feet, and, although the girl was neither 
 pretty nor winning, he had been moved, occa- 
 sionally, when passing her in the mill entries, to 
 give her a rude kiss, or a jocular clutch of the 
 arm. Joe noted these evidences of intimacy, 
 and told of them as a joke. Andrew, hearing 
 of this tale-bearing, fell upon Joe in the street, 
 and beat him violently. The matter came at 
 last to the ears of the French step-father, who 
 was honestly fond of Annie, and who swore he 
 would have no "fooling" round the girl. "S'e 
 be silly," he said, " but s'e no be bad. He s'all 
 marry or he s'all quit." 
 
 There was a dance in one of the tenements 
 the night after old Huckleberry made this dec- 
 laration. Dances in the houses were forbid- 
 den, but the " Company's " rule was often 
 evaded. The festivity began at ten, and lasted 
 till dawn. It was a rough bacchanalian affair, 
 and before morning Annie's step-father ex- 
 torted from Andrew, who was then half drunk, 
 a promise that he would marry Annie the next 
 day. The promise was fulfilled, though the 
 bridegroom was perfectly sober when the cere-
 
 AND JOE. 219 
 
 mony took place. A little genuine pity for 
 Annie urged Andrew to this step, but the act 
 also pleased him because he felt that he thus 
 defied, and asserted his complete independence 
 of his past life. The wedding was celebrated 
 according to Catholic rites. Soon afterwards 
 the Huckleberrys moved away from the village. 
 
 Andrew, after his marriage, went to work in 
 a neighboring town. Annie stayed at her 
 place in Mr. Justice's mill. Soon came a strike 
 in the factory where Andrew was employed. 
 He joined in it, and for some months Annie sup- 
 ported them both. Fortunately the strike con- 
 cluded, and Andrew began to work in time to 
 allow Annie to leave the mill a few weeks 
 before her baby was born. Then they set up 
 housekeeping, and Andrew changed work again 
 and went into Mr. Justice's mill. They sent 
 for Annie's mother to come and keep house and 
 care for the baby, when Annie returned to the 
 factory. The French father was expected to 
 support his own children, and they hoped to 
 get rid of Joe ; but Huckleberry had thus far 
 done very little towards maintaining his part 
 of the family, Joe had come back, Annie had 
 been unable to work much, and Andrew, owing 
 to her illness and his own long idleness during 
 the strike, was heavily in debt. 
 
 On all these things the young man moodily
 
 220 AND JOE. 
 
 pondered, as he walked slowly down the street, 
 after his interview with Miss Justice. He 
 thought also of something else, something 
 which seemed to rise like a real substance be- 
 fore his eyes, till, as he came into the light of 
 a lamp-post that guarded the bridge over the 
 river, he scarcely started as he saw his thought 
 embodied before him. He stopped, staring at 
 a woman, who stared boldly back as soon as 
 she saw him. She was young and handsome, 
 with curly reddish-brown hair, gray eyes, and 
 rosy gleams in her transparent skin. She held 
 in her hands a milliner's box. Her dress was 
 decent, though a little tawdry. Andrew grew 
 white as he looked at her. 
 
 " How come you here, Nell ? " 
 
 " How come you here, I say," retorted she. 
 
 " Well, I was n't lookin' for you," said the 
 man. 
 
 " Nor I for you," answered the woman. " I 
 was n't pining for a sight of you, I can tell you 
 that, when I come to Newbridge." 
 
 " It was just a happen, then ? " asked he, a 
 little uneasily. 
 
 " Just a happen," said she. " An' now, look 
 here ! you just let me alone, an' I '11 let you 
 alone. I 'm not proud enough of you to want 
 folks to know you 're my husband." 
 
 Andrew started, and looked into the dark-
 
 AND JOE. 221 
 
 ness surrounding the lighted spot where they 
 stood, as though he would search out some pos- 
 sible listener. " No, for God's sake, Nell, don't 
 tell ! " he cried, in a low tone. 
 
 " Eh ? " said she. " Why not ? It 's no such 
 uncommon thing for a drunken brute to beat 
 his wife as I need be ashamed to tell of it. 
 The only uncommon thing in our doin's, as 
 near as I can make out, was that I would n't 
 stand it, as most Irishwomen do. I was reared 
 too much like a Yankee, I guess." 
 
 As she spoke, her face and figure were de- 
 fined in strong light and shade, with the dark 
 river as a background. Andrew, who had never 
 loved that pale-faced Annie, who waited for 
 him with her child a few rods away, felt this 
 woman's beauty pierce his heart like a knife. 
 
 " You know, Nell," he said, " I did n't mean 
 no harm. You should n't mind what a man 
 does when he 's drunk, an' don't know what 
 he 's doin'." 
 
 " Drunk or sober," said Nell, "it hurts when 
 a man beats you. It hurts deeper than the 
 skin, too." 
 
 " You struck back," said Andrew, " or I 
 would n't have hit so hard. It madded me." 
 
 " It madded me ! " said she savagely. " An' 
 just you remember till you die, Andrew Moore, 
 that I 've struck you in the face. Now le' me 
 go."
 
 222 AND JOE. 
 
 He caught 'her arm. " Where be you a-goin', 
 Nell, at this timo o' night ? '' 
 
 She laughed at his suspicion. "You fool," 
 she said, " I 'm goin' up to Miss Justice's, to 
 take a bonnet to one of her girls." 
 
 " I don't believe you. It 's too late." 
 
 " No, it ain't," she said, snappishly. " She 
 only ordered it this evenin', 'cause she 's goin' 
 early to-morrow mornin' to Blackstone, to see 
 her mother, who 's sick." 
 
 " Did you ever see Miss Justice ? " 
 
 " No ; what of her ? " 
 
 " Nothing ; only I hate her. Where do you 
 live ? " he added, after a minute. 
 
 " Oh, don't you wish you knew ? " 
 
 " Well, I '11 tell you where you work," said 
 he. " You 're the new girl in Mis' Carey's 
 shop." 
 
 "Who told you there was a new girl 
 there ? " 
 
 Andrew made no answer, for it was Annie 
 who had told him. Nell waited a little while, 
 and looked at him keenly. 
 
 " Who told you ? Some girl, likely. Well, 
 take care what you do." 
 
 " Take care yourself," he said, angrily. " If 
 you don't behave yourself, I will take your 
 wages." 
 
 This frightened Nell, as she thought she had
 
 AND JOE. 223 
 
 heard that a husband could possess himself of 
 his wife's earnings ; but Andrew knew, even 
 while he spoke, that his threat was made in aim- 
 less rage, since he had far more to fear than 
 she if he announced himself as her husband. 
 Each faced the other with distrust, and then 
 Nell said defiantly, 
 
 " I dare you to lay a finger on my money, 
 and don't you never speak to me again, night 
 nor day. I 've had enough of you." 
 
 She started up the road along the river bank. 
 Andrew watched her, and a low groan escaped 
 his lips as she vanished in the shadows of the 
 pines that overhung the stream. He said aloud 
 to himself, 
 
 " I ain't a Catholic ; I don't believe in them 
 popish ceremonies." He paused, and then 
 added, " But, good God, how shall I make 
 sure she don't hear about Annie ? " 
 
 He went home at length. The family lived 
 in a basement tenement ; that is, the house was 
 built on a slope, and the rooms they occupied 
 were level with the ground in front, but in the 
 back came up against the bank. The Huckle- 
 berry family had also an attic where Joe slept. 
 Andrew and Annie had a small room to the 
 right of the kitchen. Huckleberry and his 
 wife had one at the left, and beds were made 
 up at night upon the kitchen floor for the
 
 224 AND JOE. 
 
 younger children. All the windows were fas- 
 tened down, as Huckleberry hated a breath of 
 fresh air. Much bad odor was thus kept in, 
 and much was kept out ; for these rooms faced 
 a lane which was used as a back yard for a row 
 of houses similar to this, and heavy and vile 
 was the air that clung to the unsavory ground. 
 The tenants of the houses were careless, and 
 did not avoid practices which increased the 
 filth of their surroundings. The Company, of 
 which Mr. Justice was a chief member, took 
 some pain& to disinfect and cleanse the lane, 
 but the pains were not sufficient to effect the 
 purpose. Ignorance was at the root of this, as 
 of most other evils : the people were too igno- 
 rant to be clean ; the owners were to a great 
 extent ignorant of the uncleanliness of the 
 people. 
 
 As Andrew entered the outside door, which 
 opened directly into the kitchen, and looked 
 into the dismal interior he thought, " What a 
 bright kitchen Nell kept ! She is my wife. A 
 man has a right it 's his duty to live with his 
 wife." 
 
 The mother sat with Joe crouched on the 
 floor beside her. The light of the kerosene 
 lamp fell full on the boy's sleepy, stupid face. 
 He shrank into the shadow as Andrew came in. 
 Annie rose from another corner of the room,
 
 AND JOE. 225 
 
 laid her baby in its cradle, and came forward to 
 meet her scowling husband, saying, 
 
 " Andrew, I 've made griddle cakes for you. 
 Don't you want some ? You did n't eat much 
 supper." 
 
 His eyes softened as they fell on the puny 
 creature, and he said gently, " Yes, I '11 eat 
 'em ; but you 'd better go to bed. You 're not 
 strong enough to set up late an' go to work early, 
 too." 
 
 Pale little Annie smiled faintly under the in- 
 fluence of the kindly fl%e in which he spoke. 
 She had a forehead so high and peaked that it 
 was almost deformed. Her skin was unhealthy, 
 but her features were small and well shaped, 
 and her smile was sweet, pathetic, and helpless. 
 She did not know how pitiful she looked, not 
 having mind enough to contrast herself with 
 other girls. She was used to hardship, to dull 
 pain, and she seldom felt and never expressed 
 vivid emotions. She was pleased by Andrew's 
 kindness, glad when he asked her how the baby 
 was, but not very pleased or very glad. Her 
 side ached, and she had no faculty for a pleas- 
 ure that would overcome the sense of that pain. 
 
 There was no joyousness in that household, 
 where care, anxiety, and ignorance dominated 
 every mood. Andrew's heart, capable of fiercer 
 passions, was heavy in this dull atmosphere. 
 
 15
 
 226 AND JOE. 
 
 He ate the cakes that Annie's tired hands had 
 made for him, and watched the girl furtively as 
 she took up the baby and fed it from a bottle. 
 He was thinking, " How shall I keep Nell from 
 hearing about her? " 
 
 Theodora, ignorant of the new factor which 
 Nell's appearance had brought into what she 
 termed the " Joe problem," spent the next day 
 looking for a place suitable for the boy. She 
 told her father about the people, and he com- 
 mented a little sadly, 
 
 "It is a fact, my dear, that among factory 
 operatives families seldom attain to assured com- 
 fort, unless they are exceptionally fortunate in 
 matters which they cannot themselves control, 
 such as birth, death, and health, or unless they 
 are so exceptionally gifted with prudence and 
 virtue that they have a genius for poverty. The 
 ordinary mill-hand who marries another ordi- 
 nary mill - band, who has numerous children, 
 with frequent doctor's bills to pay, excuse me, 
 Margaret ! and who often loses work from 
 one cause or another, struggles against odds 
 which are beyond the powers of common men 
 and women to overcome. This family is prob- 
 ably made of miserable stuff morally, but one 
 such member as that boy would prove in most 
 operative families the decisive ounce to turn the 
 scale of fortune against them."
 
 AND JOE. 227 
 
 " Then we get more than our share, and they 
 get less than theirs, out of the mill," said The- 
 odora warmly. . 
 
 " It would seem so," said her father; " but it 
 is all according to the laws of trade." 
 
 " Oh," cried she, " if eternal justice is any- 
 where, it must be everywhere ! I do not know," 
 she continued, " that one has the right to use 
 against a poor man the full brute power of 
 wealth any more than he has to use against a 
 weak man the full brute force of physical 
 strength." 
 
 " Nor," said Margaret, " do I believe it a wise 
 policy." 
 
 *' I agree with you in my heart," replied Mr. 
 Justice ; " yet look at history. Everywhere 
 the weak man goes to the wall. Everywhere 
 the strong man steps forward, with his foot 
 upon his feeble brother's corpse. The great 
 races flourish and civilization grows or seems, 
 at least, to grow because through unnum- 
 bered throes of agony, silent, helpless, unutter- 
 ably pathetic, the weak races fall, and dying 
 where they fall, their blood enriches the soil 
 from which our glories spring." 
 
 " No, no ! " cried Theodora, like one in pain ; 
 " it cannot be that it is better for the world that 
 men should be cruel and selfish than it would be 
 for them to be kind and helpful."
 
 228 AND JOE. 
 
 " But think," responded her father ; " there 
 seems to be no other way for nations to ad- 
 vance." 
 
 " Where is God, then ? " asked his daughter. 
 
 " Perhaps," Margaret's quiet voice suggested, 
 " it is evolution ; and I am not sure but it will 
 prove as easy to find God in evolution as in Cal- 
 vinism." 
 
 " Our nation," said Mr. Justice, " is built on 
 the Indian's grave ; and yet, so far as we can 
 judge, we are a people, notwithstanding all our 
 crimes, better worth having in the world than 
 the Indian, if only one of the two races can sur- 
 vive." 
 
 " Yes," said Margaret; "but we should have 
 been still better worth having in the world if 
 we had been noble enough to live with the In- 
 dian, and civilize instead of butchering him." 
 
 " I think we are the savages," sighed Theo- 
 dora. 
 
 " Then," replied her father, " if savages must 
 fight, I don't know that it impugns God's moral 
 intention that he allows the nobler people to 
 conquer ; since, after a time, ashamed of its own 
 barbarity, the victorious race may so far civilize 
 itself that it can evolve the virtue of considera- 
 tion for the weak, too fine a flower of civiliza- 
 tion to be its first blossom." 
 
 " In other words," added Margaret, " of the
 
 AND JOE. 229 
 
 two barbarians, the white and the red, victory 
 is granted to the white, because, in spite of his 
 crimes, he is likely to learn to care for the In- 
 dian sooner than the Indian, if victorious, would 
 learn to care for him." 
 
 " But the factory," urged Theodora. " We 
 must not comfortably forget our own sins, while 
 discussing the nation's." 
 
 " It is much the same thing," said Mr. Jus- 
 tice. 
 
 " All moral questions are own cousins," ob- 
 served Margaret. 
 
 "There may be better systems than ours," 
 continued Mr. Justice ; " but no manufacturer 
 yet dares use other methods. We are afraid to 
 risk the terrible strain of commercial crises with 
 a new policy. And we are ambitious ; the 
 greed of success has seized our souls. It is not 
 merely wealth that we want ; we desire to be 
 greatly successful in the pursuit we have chosen. 
 That passion is the moral bane of the business 
 man." 
 
 Margaret spoke slowly : " Drink causes most 
 of the pauperism of the operatives." 
 
 " Yes," assented Mr. Justice frankly ; " but 
 it is their poverty that makes them drink." 
 
 This was a new idea to Theodora, and, pon- 
 dering on it, she said no more. She wondered 
 also at her father. Had he been thinking all
 
 230 AND JOE. 
 
 his life of these problems which now vexed her 
 young mind for the first time ? The truth was 
 that Mr. Justice had a sensitive rather than a 
 strong moral nature. He lacked the believing 
 heart necessary to combat evil persistently. He 
 saw objections to any proposed social remedy 
 as plainly as he perceived arguments in favor 
 thereof. Perhaps his mind had not the finer 
 quality which could compare accurately, and see 
 which side of a question was the more deserv- 
 ing, when both sides merited great considera- 
 tion. Pained and disheartened by the misery 
 he encountered in the world, and not sure of any 
 cure, he had sought to save himself from suffer- 
 ing by avoiding direct contact with the troubles 
 of the poor. He prosecuted his business, and 
 endeavored to convince himself that, as he could 
 not relieve his operatives from all privation, he 
 was not responsible for any of their misfortunes. 
 He sought to escape self-condemnation by re- 
 flecting that it would not be well for any people 
 to be wholly relieved from misfortune, or from 
 the direful consequences of their own errors. 
 He did not allow himself sufficiently to consider 
 the difference between a course of action tend- 
 ing to reduce a class to dependency, and one 
 which should stimulate self-help, while giving 
 encouragement, assistance, and while removing 
 unnecessary burdens. Mr. Justice's ideals were
 
 AND JOE. 231 
 
 high, but they mocked his indolence and selfish 
 ambition from afar. He had not even tried to 
 reach up to them, but through all the years, 
 undesired convictions settled in his heart and 
 weighed heavily there. 
 
 All night after meeting Nell, and all the 
 next morning at his work, Andrew Moore was 
 haunted by the memory of a fair, scornful face, 
 and by the fear of punishment for his crime. 
 He realized that the lightest allusion to him in 
 Nell's presence might lead to the mention of 
 his marriage to Annie, and at that thought he 
 trembled. At noon he took his way toward 
 Mrs. Carey's shop, and by watching and fol- 
 lowing, ascertained that Nell's walk to her 
 boarding-place led her through the woods. He 
 scrambled through the underbrush, and inter- 
 cepted her. She greeted him rather rudely as 
 he approached. He talked with her a few min- 
 utes, and became convinced that thus far she 
 had told no one of their relation, and had heard 
 nothing of Annie. This comforted him for the 
 moment, but when he returned to the mill, that 
 afternoon, his terror came back. He felt that 
 he must decide to do something at once. That 
 evening he met Nell again. 
 
 " I 've told you over 'n' over," she said, 
 " that I did n't want to have nothin' to do with 
 you."
 
 232 AND JOE. 
 
 " But I can't let you alone," said Andrew ; 
 " and I won't, neither." 
 
 She looked at him curiously. " I declare," 
 said she, " I believe you are soft on me still. 
 Thank you, but I have n't no inclination that 
 way." 
 
 She went by him, upon this, holding her 
 graceful head very erect. She felt pleased and 
 proud. She had had admiration from many 
 men, but to have her own husband violently 
 in love with her was an experience so unlike 
 what seemed to befall most women that it 
 elated her greatly, and dimmed the memory of 
 the drunken rage in which he had beaten her, 
 two years before. 
 
 That evening, Annie sat patiently beside the 
 kitchen fire, rocking her baby in her lap. 
 
 " I wonder why Andrew don't come home," 
 said Mrs. Huckleberry. 
 
 Joe spoke up, with his mouth full of baked 
 potato : 
 
 " The last I seen of him, he was up in the 
 woods, gabbin' with that new gal that works in 
 Mis' Carey's." 
 
 Annie said not a word, and when Andrew 
 finally came she only followed his motions with 
 disquieted eyes. She never once thought of 
 asking him anything about the girl. 
 
 The next forenoon, Andrew went boldly to
 
 AND JOE. 233 
 
 Mrs. Carey's store. The mistress came for- 
 ward to meet him. Nell sat in the rear of the 
 room, herself half hidden by a curtain, but she 
 saw him very plainly. All night his desire 
 to see her face again had been greater even 
 than his fear of the law which he had broken. 
 Her image had come between him and Annie 
 when he had tried to look at the mother of his 
 child. Joe had refused to go up to his attic to 
 sleep, and then had had a fit in the kitchen, 
 waking everybody at midnight. The baby had 
 cried, and Annie had toiled over it for hours. 
 Andrew had helped her a little, but most of 
 the time he had lain still, watching her, listen- 
 ing to the screams of the child, to Joe's hideous 
 noises, to the chatter and cries of the other 
 children, thinking all the time of Nell. He 
 pitied Annie still, but he had begun to pity 
 himself more ; and he had also begun to re- 
 mind what he called his conscience, that it was 
 his duty, at whatever cost to this slim girl, to 
 return to his first marriage vows. 
 
 As Andrew talked with Mrs. Carey, Nell 
 said to herself, " That is my husband, and 
 there he stands like any stranger ! " 
 
 In a moment Mrs. Carey called out, " Nell, 
 bring me a chair ! " 
 
 " There 's one there," said Nell, in a reluctant 
 voice.
 
 234 AND JOE. 
 
 " It 's rickety," answered the shop-woman. 
 " I don't dare trust my weight to it, and I want 
 to reach the upper shelf. Come yourself." 
 
 Nell came out from behind the dark curtain 
 that shut off the back part of the shop. She 
 stood still, waiting for her mistress to pass out 
 from behind t"he counter. A light from above 
 struck her auburn hair, and turned some float- 
 ing curly rings to gold. When the older woman 
 had bustled by her, Nell came slowly down the 
 store, looking at the dark, passionate man be- 
 fore her as if the space where he stood were 
 empty. She sprang on the tottering chair, 
 reached up lightly, and took from the shelf a 
 box. Andrew's senses were smitten with pain 
 as he marked her strong, graceful motions. She 
 stepped down, put the box on the counter, 
 opened it, and carelessly displayed its contents. 
 He dared not meet her eyes, and bent his 
 face downward. His head was handsome, and 
 Nell suddenly noticed that his shoulders were 
 shapely. Accidentally, his hand touched hers. 
 He started violently. She looked at him with 
 cool surprise, and their eyes met in one long 
 gaze. Then he turned his glance away again. 
 Instantly, Nell's mood changed. The uncon- 
 scious loyalty of her nature asserted itself. She 
 felt the bond so hard to break, though it is not 
 always made of love or even of passion, which
 
 AND JOE. 235 
 
 holds a woman to a man whose wife she has 
 once been. Her lips began to tremble. 
 
 " He might say one kind word," she thought. 
 
 After a moment, as he did not speak, she 
 turned to fly from him. He reached across 
 the counter and held her. She besought him 
 with her eyes. 
 
 " Let me go," she breathed. 
 
 " No. My God," he cried, in a low voice, 
 " I love you, Nell, better 'n my life ! Meet me 
 to-night at five at the station, 'n' we '11 go back 
 to Fall River together, 'n' not tell nobody here, 
 but we '11 begin again, all new, there. Bring 
 what money you have. Don't be afraid to 
 trust me. I '11 be your best friend. We won't 
 tell nobody here, because it would just make 
 talk, if folk knew we 'd been married all this 
 time. Will you come ? Nell, you must come.'* 
 
 " I '11 see," said Nell slowly, and Andrew 
 detected a yielding tone in her voice. 
 
 " Well, don't say nothin,' " he answered ; 
 " only come, for the love of old times, an' bet- 
 ter times than you ever knew." 
 
 Here Mrs. Carey reappeared, and Andrew 
 hurried out of the store. His head was dizzy, 
 and he stumbled over Joe, who was sitting on 
 the steps. Moore gave the boy a savage kick, 
 and Joe raised his bleared eyes, and angrily 
 watched his brother-in-law walk away.
 
 236 AND JOE. 
 
 " I '11 fix him," muttered the lad. 
 
 Nell, meanwhile, stood alone in the shop, for 
 Mrs. Carey had followed Andrew out. The 
 girl felt very uncertain what to do. She had 
 never loved Andrew very much, even when 
 first married to him, but now her heart yearned 
 towards him somewhat. Stronger still was the 
 impulse of loyalty. Her nature was more true 
 than she wanted it to be. She had wayward, 
 rebellious desires, and tried to follow them, 
 but she could not long disregard any obliga- 
 tion. She did not understand the turmoil in 
 her mind. She only knew that Andrew, as his 
 steps died away in the distance, seemed draw- 
 ing her after him. 
 
 Joe pushed open the door, and shambled in. 
 He stopped before Nell, and stared coarsely at 
 her. 
 
 " Well," she cried at last, " would you know 
 me again in a crowd ? " 
 
 " Who be you ? " said Joe. 
 
 "Who be I? Whobeyow?" 
 
 " I 'm Joe," said he. " I 'm Annie's brother, 
 'n' you 'd better look out wot you do, or I '11 
 have you took up. I 'd like to git him took 
 up," he added, with a chuckle. 
 
 " Who 's Annie ? " asked Nell. 
 
 Joe grinned sarcastically. " As ef you did n't 
 know ! " he said disdainfully.
 
 AND JOE. 237 
 
 " Well, I don't know, an' I don't care, nei- 
 ther," said she, turning from him. 
 
 But Joe followed her. "Don't you know? '* 
 he asked earnestly. 
 
 "No, I don't." 
 
 He studied her face. " Mebbe," he said at 
 last, " he 's playin' a game on you ! I seen him 
 an' you gabbin' together lots o' times. Mebbe 
 he is ! Will you help me pay him up ? " 
 
 " Tell me what you mean," resumed Nell, in 
 a steady voice. " Who is Annie ? " 
 
 " She 's my sister," said the boy slowly. 
 " She 's his wife." 
 
 " Whose wife ? " 
 
 " His'n, Andrew Moore's." 
 
 "You lie!" 
 
 " No, I don't," said Joe ; but as he spoke he 
 backed towards the door. 
 
 " Stop ! " cried she. " Before God, I did n't 
 know nothin' of this." Her breast heaved, and 
 the words came hard from her lips. " Tell me, 
 where does this Annie live ? " 
 
 But Joe was frightened out of his plan of 
 making her his accomplice in some scheme of 
 vengeance upon Andrew, and he answered 
 promptly, " I shan't tell ye." 
 
 " Oh, I won't hurt her. I '11 be a friend 
 to her. Has she been married long ? " 
 
 " None o' yer business."
 
 238 AND JOE. 
 
 " Oh, yes, it is," panted Nell. " Do tell me. 
 Andrew Moore has played me a worse trick as 
 ever he played her." 
 
 She entreated, she stormed, but Joe fled be- 
 fore her passion, and told her no more. Left 
 alone, she steadied her head with her hands, and 
 sat down on the floor. This, then, was the rea- 
 son for Andrew's urgent desire to keep their 
 former relations private. " He has a wife here," 
 she said to herself, " an' he wants to clear out 
 with me, 'n' not let her know. Then," she 
 added slowly, "he likes me best ! " 
 
 HI. 
 
 Annie came home from her work early that 
 noon. She was ill, and told her mother that 
 she had fainted in the mill. She sat down, 
 looking very white, and took up her baby. 
 
 "I seen Andrew into Mis' Carey's, talkin' 
 with that gal ag'in, this mornin','' said Joe, leer- 
 ing up at her from his seat on the floor. " Ef I 
 was big enough, I 'd lick him, pay him for 
 some o' the lickin's he 's gin me. She said she 
 did n't know nothin' about his havin' a wife 
 here. Took on like blazes about it." 
 
 The mother plied Joe with angry questions, 
 but the boy rose and slouched out without far- 
 ther speech. Annie simply said, after a long
 
 AND JOE. 239 
 
 pause, " I guess Miss Justice ain't goin' to do 
 nothin' about takin' Joe away, after all." 
 
 In a few minutes Andrew came in. As he 
 entered the kitchen, Annie's pale face shone 
 like a white gleam in the dark, dingy room, and 
 his heart contracted with pain and something 
 like tenderness. He sat down by the table, and 
 thought how unlucky it was that he was so 
 " soft-hearted." He could not look forward to 
 possessing Nell without seeing the shadow of 
 Annie's suffering fall across his joy. 
 
 Mrs. Huckleberry set out Andrew's dinner 
 sullenly, and he ate it silently. After a few 
 minutes, Annie came and waited on him. Once, 
 as she passed him, she laid her fingers very 
 lightly on his shoulder. He bent his head low 
 over his plate. 
 
 " Set down," said the mother gruffly. " You 
 're not fit to be waitin' on him. Sick yersel'." 
 
 Andrew looked up as Annie staggered with a 
 kettle in her hands which she had lifted from 
 the stove. He sprang forward, caught her in 
 his arms, carried her into their room, and laid 
 her on the bed. He leaned over her, and there 
 were tears in his eyes. She raised her hand 
 feebly to touch him. He turned away. " Don't 
 go back to work again to-day," he said, and 
 went out of the house, meaning never to enter 
 it again. He groaned aloud as he closed the
 
 240 AND JOE. 
 
 door. Just then he saw into his own heart, and 
 knew how cruel and selfish it was. But in a 
 few minutes he lifted his head, squared his 
 shoulders, and tried to smile, saying to him- 
 self, 
 
 " Now, there 's lots of fellers would n't think 
 nothin' of leavin' a girl like that. I ain't half 
 so bad as them. An' if Nell 'n' mo get on 
 pretty well, I guess I can send Annie some 
 money before long, an' may be I can <jome an' 
 see her once in a while." 
 
 That afternoon Annie sat alone in the kitchen, 
 with the baby on her lap. Her mother had 
 gone to do a neighbor's washing. The girl felt 
 very ill, and her heart was even heavier than 
 usual. She sang softly to the baby, and the 
 song sounded like a long, low moan. She heard 
 steps on the frozen ground outside, and looked 
 up to see a face at the window. It vanished, 
 and an instant later the door opened ; a woman 
 came in with a firm step, and walked across the 
 room to Annie. 
 
 The girl recognized her with a sinking heart ; 
 it was she whom Joe had seen with Andrew. 
 Silently the two looked at each other. A faint 
 angry color rose in Annie's cheek, but Nell's 
 face did not change, till she glanced down at the 
 baby, when her eyes grew dark with a meaning 
 Annie could never have fathomed.
 
 AND JOE. 241 
 
 " That is my husband's child," Nell thought, 
 "and it is not mine." Aloud, she said, "That 
 is your baby ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Annie; still Nell stood and 
 looked at it. " What do you want?" faltered 
 the mother, finally. 
 
 Nell started, as from a dream, and then 
 laughed slightly, but unquietly. " I wanted to 
 see it and you," she said. " Don't you never 
 worry for fear o' my doin' you any harm. I 
 never knew Andrew was married to you, till 
 that boy Huckleberry Joe, they call him 
 told me so to-day. You see, I used to know 
 Andrew, years ago, when we was young an' 
 I was silly. That 's all. But I thought may 
 be folks might be tellin' you stories as would 
 trouble you. Don't listen to notbin' of the sort. 
 I 'm goin' away to-night. If Andrew ever treats 
 you bad, you send for me. Mis' Carey '11 know 
 where I am. She 's my cousin. Good-by." 
 Annie, bewildered, stared at her visitor. Nell 
 paused, and then said, " When I 'm clean gone, 
 Andrew will never think o' me again. I know 
 him. So that '11 be all right. I 'd like to take 
 the baby a minute." 
 
 She stooped, lifted the child in strong, tender 
 arms, carried it to the window, gazed wistfully 
 at its tiny face, touched her lips lightly to the 
 puny cheek, then brought it back to the young 
 
 16
 
 242 AND JOE. 
 
 mother, smiled a rare, sweet smile, and passed 
 out into the frosty air. 
 
 " Oh," moaned Annie, " how pretty she is ! " 
 
 rv. 
 
 Andrew Moore left the station, where he had 
 waited in vain for Nell, and took the path 
 through the woods to Mrs. Carey's house. The 
 sun was sinking in the west, and showed like a 
 red fire behind the pines. As he turned a curve 
 in the path, he saw a woman walking in the 
 rich light, a little distance before him. He 
 ran till he reached her. 
 
 " Why did n't you come ? " he cried. 
 
 " I had other business. I went to see your 
 other wife." 
 
 " Oh ! " he groaned. 
 
 Nell faced him defiantly. " Yes," she said. 
 " An' I told her as you an' I was old acquaint- 
 ances, an' nothin' more; an' now I tell you 
 that I 'm goin' away from here, but not 
 with you. So my advice to you is to make it 
 up with Annie, and be good to her." 
 
 "Annie is no wife of mine," he said dog- 
 gedly, " and you are. If you were a decent 
 woman, you 'd go with me." 
 
 Nell's eyes blazed. "Jest stop that," she 
 said, in a trembling voice. " I won't be in-
 
 AND JOE. 248 
 
 suited. I married you fair an' square ; so did 
 she. What you 've done has set me free, but 
 has bound you to her. I '11 get a bill, an' you 
 can marry her over again, if you 've got scru- 
 ples about the first time." 
 
 The man begged and entreated. He threw 
 himself upon the ground at her feet. He 
 wound his arms about her knees and pulled her 
 down towards him. 
 
 " I could n't ! " she cried, struggling. Then 
 she looked into his upturned face. " Since I 
 saw that girl's baby," she said, " I could n't 
 like you if I tried ; and I would n't live with 
 you if I did like you." 
 
 His eyes fell, his head drooped, but still he 
 clung to her, and as she tried to escape she 
 dragged him along the frosty ground, while the 
 red sun sank out of sight between the forest 
 stems, and a darkness fell upon the two. He 
 lifted up his face once more to hers, but her 
 heart only grew still and cold at the sight. 
 Afterward, after many days, alone in her cham- 
 ber, she often cried and shuddered, and her 
 heart ached, remembering that dark, desperate 
 face, with the unearthly glow upon it from the 
 wintry twilight heaven above. 
 
 " It 's hell," he cried, " you 're leavin' me to ! 
 Don't you see what that family is ? They '11 
 keep me poor an' wretched all my life. It's
 
 244 AND JOE. 
 
 hell with them. It 's hell without you. And 
 I love you, Nell, oh, my God, how I love 
 
 you!" 
 
 " Make heaven out of your hell," she said. 
 "I must." 
 
 He could not comprehend her, but his arms 
 fell to the ground. He no longer dared touch 
 her. She stood free, but now that she was free 
 she felt unable to leave him thus. 
 
 "Why did you marry her ? " she asked as he 
 crouched at her feet. 
 
 For a moment there was no answer ; then he 
 said, " I was mad with you, an' " he hesi- 
 tated again " when old Huckleberry teased 
 me to marry her I pitied her. I was soft- 
 hearted. I could n't leave a girl, like other 
 fellers do. It was all her fault." 
 
 " Now," said Nell, " you 've said the meanest 
 thing a man can say, an' what a man always 
 does say when he 's ruined a girl. Just you 
 mind : if you treat her badly, I '11 have you ar- 
 rested for bigamy." 
 
 Her indignation restored her strength, and 
 she left him, not once looking back to see him, 
 lying there on the earth. 
 
 Annie's husband went back to her that even- 
 ing, but he found no peace , for his alarmed 
 soul. He reflected that he was entirely in 
 Nell's power, and that at any moment, should
 
 AND JOE. 245 
 
 she be seized with revengeful impulse, she 
 could cause his arrest. He knew that she had 
 left the village on the evening of that fateful 
 day, but he knew not whither she had gone. 
 Sometimes he thought he would seek her out, 
 and try once more to win her ; but he was 
 afraid to face again those wrathful, accusing 
 eyes. His present life grew more irksome to 
 him. He ceased to feel any tenderness for 
 Annie, and the child irritated him. His con- 
 science was drowned in a flood of fear and self- 
 pity. After a day or two of this sort of tor- 
 ment, he made up his mind to leave the place, 
 and " tramp " his way to some distant part of 
 the country, out of the reach of Nell's possible 
 vengeance. So there came a night when Annie 
 waited in vain for the father of her child. The 
 next forenoon the neighbors told the young 
 mother that during the evening while she had 
 been watching for him, he was seen to leave 
 the village by the train. 
 
 That afternoon, Theodora Justice stood at 
 the door of the basement where Joe's family 
 lived. She had found a farmer who, for a con- 
 sideration, which in her new-born zeal she in- 
 tended secretly to furnish, had promised to take 
 Joe and try to teach him farm work. 
 
 Miss Justice looked at the row of dark, damp 
 tenements, and her gray eyes grew thoughtful.
 
 246 ^ND JOE. 
 
 She entered the dingy, ill-odorous kitchen, and 
 her heart felt heavy. The women within were 
 slightly clad. Her own garments were warm 
 and rich. Was she clothed from the rents 
 paid for these wretched rooms ? 
 
 She told her errand, and received in return 
 an account of all the occurrences of the past 
 few days. 
 
 " Annie won't believe," said the mother, 
 " that that girl has gone off with Andrew, but 
 I know she has." 
 
 "Had you had trouble with your husband 
 before ? " asked Miss Justice. 
 
 " No, miss, we never had no trouble." 
 
 " He was a good husband, then ? " 
 
 The mother made answer, " Oh, he wan'f* 
 none of the best, nor none of the worst." 
 
 Miss Justice could not understand why these 
 women showed so little emotion as they talked 
 of these things. Their voices were simply 
 dreary and hopeless, though Annie's eyes were 
 red from weeping. 
 
 " I '11 have to do something with my baby," 
 said the deserted girl. " I can't take care of 
 it, an' work in the mill ; an' if I could put it 
 somewheres, mother could go out washin' a 
 good deal." 
 
 " If Joe goes," said the elder woman, " we 
 could get on pretty well, if it wan't for the 
 baby."
 
 AND JOE. 247 
 
 " But how can you bear to send your baby 
 away ? " cried Theodora. 
 
 " Well," said Annie, "it would be hard, for 
 I think it is getting real cunning. If I 'd 
 known how things was to be, I 'd ha' tried to 
 send it off when it was first born. Then I 
 should n't ha' cared." 
 
 She bent over the child a little wistfully. 
 When she raised her eyes, she met Theodora's 
 puzzled, compassionate glance. So these two 
 gazed at each other, both women, both crea- 
 tures who had suffered, both daughters of the 
 factory ; but how differently had the factory 
 dealt with them ! 
 
 Theodora put out her hand, and lightly 
 
 <r touched Annie's shoulder. " My poor child," 
 
 she said, " stay at home for a few days and 
 
 rest, and take care of the baby, and we will 
 
 see what can be done for you." 
 
 " I have to stay at home," answered Annie, 
 simply. "I 'm so sick, I can't work now, but 
 I '11 be better in a day or two." 
 
 " Indeed," said the mother, " Annie ain't fit 
 to work. She 's been to the mill many a 
 mornin' when she was too sick to hold up her 
 head ; but poor folks can't stop to mind such 
 things." 
 
 " What is the matter ? " asked Theodora.
 
 248 AND JOE. 
 
 "I have a pain in my side," said Annie. 
 " It 's standin' so much does it." 
 
 " Do you stand all the time you work ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Have you no time to sit ? " 
 
 " Not much ; an' we hain't no chairs, an' the 
 overseer won't let us sit on the floor." 
 
 " You could sit down, now and then, if you 
 had chairs ? " 
 
 " Yes. There used to be chairs, but they is 
 all broke." 
 
 Theodora drew a deep breath. She was sure 
 that it was only through negligence that new 
 chairs had not been provided, but this cer- 
 tainty, while it held the factory managers par- 
 tially excused, did not quite soothe an aching 
 feeling in her heart, since this young mother, 
 whose rest was broken all night, must suffer all 
 day from such oversight. 
 
 " Well," thought the lady, " I don't know 
 but it is worth while to live just to remedy such 
 neglect." 
 
 She left the girl sorrowfully, and went 
 straight to Mrs. Carey, to learn what she could 
 about Andrew and Nell. Mrs. Carey, although 
 her cousin, had known nothing about Nell till 
 she came to the village, a few weeks previously. 
 She did not then even know that the girl had 
 been married, and nothing had roused her sus-
 
 AND JOE. 249 
 
 picion, since Nell's maiden name had also been 
 Moore. After her final interview with Andrew 
 the young wife had confided her story to Mrs. 
 Carey, and charged her to watch what hap- 
 pened to Annie, but on no account to reveal 
 to any one the fact of her own marriage. Con- 
 sequently, when Miss Justice questioned the 
 milliner, all she received in reply was Mrs. 
 Carey's assertion that Nell was not with An- 
 drew, and that she did not know where he was. 
 Theodora was not wholly inclined to believe 
 her statements, especially as the woman refused 
 to tell where Nell had gone. Such clumsy 
 manoeuvres and palpable mysteries would prob- 
 ably soon have resulted of themselves in a 
 complete enlightenment of the whole affair, had 
 not a higher power taken the matter into its 
 own hands, and arranged all things according 
 to some deeper sense of fitness. 
 
 That very evening Margaret came to Miss 
 Justice. " I have been," she said, " to see 
 Annie Moore. She is very ill, and needs a com- 
 petent nurse." 
 
 " Hire one, and I will pay her," said Theo- 
 dora, who had no notion of showing herself 
 unready to meet any claim of simple charity, 
 however bewildered and halting she might be 
 in regard to the various social theories which 
 were dimly revealing themselves to her mind.
 
 250 -AND JOE. 
 
 Indeed it was a relief to learn of such a clear 
 and evident duty which she might perform. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " asked Mr. Justice, 
 looking up from the Tribune. 
 
 Margaret briefly stated the case. " In her 
 exhausted condition," said she, " it is a serious 
 matter. She has worked when she should have 
 been in bed. I doubt if she lives through the 
 night." 
 
 Theodora drew a long sobbing breath. Mr. 
 Justice ordered out the coachman, sent for med- 
 icines, nurse, everything that could be needed, 
 and himself walked with Margaret and Theo- 
 dora down to the house where the sick girl 
 lived. He paused at the door, while the women 
 went in. 
 
 " These tenements are abominable," he 
 thought. " It 's a dozen years since I have been 
 in this part of the village and seen them. The- 
 odora shall have her way, and shut them up." 
 
 In a moment his daughter came out to him. 
 She put her hands on his shoulders, and looked 
 in his handsome eyes, so like her own. 
 
 " Father," said she, " I shall stay here to- 
 night." 
 
 " Very well," he answered, kissing her. 
 
 Theodora was useful that night, for the nurse 
 for whom they sent could not come, and she, 
 under Margaret's directions, with the mother's
 
 AND JOE. 251 
 
 assistance, took charge of Annie. Mr. Justice 
 returned at midnight, to see if he could be of 
 any service. His servants came and went all 
 night on errands. Margaret had another pa- 
 tient in a critical condition, and \vas forced to 
 be away part of the time, but no braver battle 
 with death was fought that night over the couch 
 of any lady in the land than the struggle to 
 save this poor Annie, who had been so little 
 heeded till she lay dying. 
 
 It was a strange scene, that dimly lighted, 
 squalid room, with the white face upon the pil- 
 low, and the pale, lovely lady sitting by the 
 bed. Old Huckleberry roamed restlessly in and 
 out, and looked at his step-daughter's quiet face. 
 The mother, when otherwise unoccupied, sat at 
 the foot of the bed and tended Annie's baby. 
 The small children were asleep on the kitchen 
 floor, but Joe crouched in a corner of Annie's 
 room, and watched his sister with a look of only 
 half-human suffering in his eyes. Little as An- 
 nie had cared for him, she had always been gen- 
 tle to him, and he felt something like affection 
 and sorrow now, and was stupefied by a sensa- 
 tion of so high an order. 
 
 Although much of the time Annie required 
 attention, there were long quiet intervals, when 
 Theodora had nothing to do but think of these 
 factory people, who seemed to have some claim
 
 252 AND JOE. 
 
 upon her, which hitherto she had not recog- 
 nized. Her heart began to go out to them, just 
 because many of them were sick and sorry, and 
 needed her. She felt that it would not be hard 
 to labor for them, because she would love them. 
 Once, when Annie moaned, Theodora bent over 
 her, with lips that trembled a little. 
 
 " Poor baby," murmured the dying girl. 
 
 " Don't be troubled," said Theodora. " I will 
 see that it is well taken care of." 
 
 They waked Annie's little brothers, who 
 came into the room, half asleep, and climbed on 
 the bed to kiss their sister. They laid her ba- 
 by's silent mouth to hers. Huckleberry wiped 
 his eyes with the back of his hand, and went for 
 the priest. The room was hushed. The mother 
 knelt beside her daughter. A woman came 
 from the upper part of the house, and, kneeling, 
 with a candle in her hand, read prayers in a 
 mumbling voice. Annie stirred uneasily, and 
 asked, " Where 's Joe ? " 
 
 Theodora repeated the faint whisper aloud, 
 and the boy started from a light slumber, and 
 came to the bed. 
 
 " Good-by," said Annie. " You never meant 
 no harm in anything, I know." 
 
 Joe slunk back, and sobbed in his corner on 
 the floor. Annie never spoke again. Through 
 it all she had not mentioned Andrew; but when
 
 AND JOE. 253 
 
 she lay dead in the morning light, her little 
 face, scarce whiter than in life, was still sad. 
 
 Theodora took the baby home to keep until 
 she could find a suitable person to care for it. 
 It was a puny creature, and when Margaret 
 came to see it she said it was so feeble, and had 
 been so drugged by its ignorant grandmother, 
 that she doubted whether it could live. Theo- 
 dora remembered then that the old woman had 
 taken the baby into her own room a little while 
 before Annie died, because of its crying, and 
 that after she brought it back it had slept con- 
 stantly. Full of unnecessary remorse lest she, 
 by her inattention, had been partly to blame, 
 Miss Justice spent most of the day, after her 
 night-watch, tending the child. The little life, 
 however, flickered and went out, and late that 
 afternoon the tiny body was laid beside the 
 mother's. Living, she had not been a beautiful 
 child, but in death she was lovely as a little an- 
 gel carven in marble, white, but blue-veined 
 under the closed eyes. Theodora placed the 
 fair head on Annie's arm, and as she looked at 
 these two, lying peacefully together, her heart 
 swelled within her, and she turned away quickly 
 to hide her tears. 
 
 As she left the house, a woman stopped her. 
 
 " You 're Miss Justice ? " asked the stranger. 
 
 Yes."
 
 254 AND JOE. 
 
 " Well," said the other, " I 'm Nell Moore." 
 
 " Oh ! Where is Andrew ? " 
 
 " I dunno," said Nell. 
 
 "You don't?" 
 
 " No. Oh, you need n't think he went off 
 with me. No, ma'am! I'm done with him. 
 I married him fair enough." 
 
 " Married him ! " cried Theodora. 
 
 " Yes," said Nell. " It can't do her no harm 
 to tell now. I meant to see you an' tell you, 
 when I heard to-day how kind you 'd been to 
 her, for I wanted to show you I was an honest 
 woman, fit to take care of a child. So I brought 
 my certificate," and Nell calmly produced the 
 proof of her marriage, which Theodora scanned 
 with astonished eyes. " We quarreled," went 
 on Nell, " an' separated, an' he come here ; an' 
 he made believe marry that girl, but she 
 thought it was all right; an' I didn't know 
 nothin' about her, an' when I found out it 
 turned me against him more 'n all he 'd done to 
 me ; an' I pitied her, an' I could n't see as I 
 could do anybody no good except by clearin' 
 out, an' so I went. I 've been stayin' to Bor- 
 dentown, with Mis' Carey's sister; an' I heard 
 he had left her, an' that she was dead, poor 
 thing, an' so I come right over this afternoon, 
 an' thought I 'd speak to you about it." 
 
 " You and Andrew did not go away together ! "
 
 AND JOE. 255 
 
 "Not much," said Nell frankly. "An' I'm 
 goin' to get a bill from him. I won't be both- 
 ered with him no longer. What I wanted to 
 see you about was that baby. There 's no- 
 body wants it, I s'pose, an' I know Andrew 
 well enough to know he won't worry himself 
 about it. So if you can manage that I can have 
 it, an' no fuss nor talk made, I 'd take the best 
 of care of it. I can earn enough to support it, 
 an' I 'd be much obliged to you." 
 
 Theodora stood amazed. " You would take 
 that baby ? " she said. 
 
 " Yes," said Nell. " I 'm fond of children, 
 an' I saw this one once, and took a fancy to it." 
 She paused, grew red, and then added hurriedly, 
 " It might ha' been mine, you know." 
 
 Theodora choked, as she said in a low tone, 
 " The poor little baby is gone too, and will be 
 buried with the mother to-morrow." 
 
 Nell started. " Then Andrew is clear of all 
 that," she said, " and of me too. He can begin 
 business all over again." She laughed a little 
 bitterly, as though some faint self-consciousness 
 had come to her, which made her feel, in spite 
 of all her outward show of decision, that it 
 would not be easy for her to break through the 
 meshes of the moral net in which her life was 
 held. She might protest she would do so, but 
 there was that in her nature which made it im-
 
 256 AND JOE, 
 
 possible for her, like him, to " begin all over 
 again." In a moment more, she said, "Well, 
 I 'm sorry about the baby. It was a blessing 
 for Annie to die. As for me, I 've got to make 
 the best I can of living on." 
 
 She turned to go, but Theodora touched her. 
 
 " Nell," said she, " come and see me some- 
 times. Let me be your friend. Don't go like 
 that. I 've known trouble, too." 
 
 At the simple words, Nell's eyes filled with 
 sudden tears. 
 
 " Thank you," she said. " I '11 come to you 
 once in a while, then. Good-by." 
 
 Theodora saw that it would be no kindness 
 to detain her, and stood still watching the lithe, 
 handsome figure, as it moved away, till the 
 gathering gloom of the winter evening wrapped 
 it round and shrouded it from view. Then she 
 turned her steps homeward, saying to that very 
 tired self of hers, " She is beyond my help, and 
 only Joe is left to me."
 
 BRIDGET'S STORY. 
 
 WELL, miss, you see the trouble is, Ellen 
 gets a bit religious now an' then, an' spends 
 more time prayin' than may be the Lord re- 
 quires of a woman as 'as a big family to see to. 
 She 's a nice 'oman tho', an' 'as a good 'ead to 
 'er, steadier nor 'er 'usband's. 'E 's stylish-like, 
 an' 'e 'd be pleased if she 'd go with finer sort o' 
 company nor she do. She just laughs at 'im, 
 an' says, " Oh, bah, John, you '11 never catch 
 me a-runnin' after my betters. Them as was 
 good enough for us when we was yoong is good 
 enough now we is old." 
 
 " 'E 'd like me," says she, " to be dressed in 
 satin from Monday to Saturday, let alone Sun- 
 day ; an' 'ow would the washin' an' the bakin* 
 fare then ? " 
 
 I think mysel' Ellen had the rights of it. 
 She 's just a common, nice body, an' what 'ould 
 be the use o' 'er trickin' 'ersel' out like a gran' 
 leddy ? It 's only people in this country as try 
 
 17
 
 258 BRIDGETS STORY. 
 
 to make themsel's look yoong, an' finer nor 
 their condition. I think it 's ridic'lous for owld 
 women to fix themsel's out like yoong wenches. 
 I like to see the quality dress up, but it 's not 
 allays the gran'est as go the gayest. I remem- 
 ber, in England, the first time the Queen coom 
 to Chatsworth after she was married. The 
 Duke 'ad an eye on the Queen when she was 
 yoong, an' she coom there ; an' for five or six 
 weeks before, all the gentry was givin' the owld 
 women round about new petticoats an' new 
 shoes, so 's they should look nice for the Queen 
 to see. I 'ad a sister in service at Chatsworth, , 
 an' so we went over there from where we lived 
 in Lancashire. I 'm Irish born, you know, but 
 we 'd lived in Lancashire since I wur a little 
 
 4 
 
 child, an' folks say as I spake nayther like the 
 Irish nor the English. I 'm just 'alf an' 'alf, a 
 kind of a mixed creatur' at best. I know the 
 Lancashire di-log, but I don't spake it often ; 
 my father never liked to hear it in the 'ouse, 
 for he wur an educated man. Well, we took a 
 spring cart an' drove to Chatsworth, the night 
 before the Queen coom, an' we lodged in a pub- 
 lic 'ouse, the whole on us in one room, all but 
 my father, as 'ad a friend in the town, an owld 
 man, who took 'irn 'ome to 'is 'ouse. 
 
 The next day we went to the park, an' they 
 ranged us along to see the sight, with the
 
 BRIDGETS STORY. 259 
 
 smaller children in front. An' when the Queen 
 coom, why, she 'ad on just a black silk gown, 
 with never a flounce nor a tuck on it, not so 
 much as a tuck. She wore mud boots, too, 
 laeed up at the side, an' 'er 'air brought down 
 on 'er forehead, an' then brushed back plain, an' 
 twisted behind 'er 'ead ; not a fashionable knob, 
 nayther, nothing but a little twist. She coom 
 along, an' behind was the nurse with the Queen's 
 child, carryin' it out so in 'er arms ; an' the 
 Queen spoke to the woman, an' she coom close 
 to where we was stan'in', so 's I put out my 'and 
 an' touched the child's dress, as was long, an' 
 soft, an' white. She 'eld it down so 's we could 
 all see it, an' then another maid took it an' car- 
 ried it off to show to the people in another part 
 o' the park. 
 
 Then two men took the gran' cushions out 
 o' the Queen's carriage, an' lifted all the little 
 lads an' wenches into the carriage. Eh, but 
 they throwed themsel's back an' sat down, afore 
 they were lifted out the other side. They went 
 streamin' in an' out, an' I was among 'em. I 
 have sat in the Queen's carriage ! 
 
 Aw well, it 's a long road from the Queen 
 at Chatsworth to Ellen McKiernan an' 'er man 
 up 'ere, but now my lines are cast amongst such 
 as the McKiernans. 
 
 Mr. McKiernan is a bit yoonger nor she, an'
 
 260 BRIDGET'S STORY. 
 
 'e's like a man yoonger nor 'e is, an' that, I 
 think, 'elps to make a little trouble between 
 'em, off an' on. Then Tom, the eldest boy, is 
 'is father's idol ; but when the lad took to bad 
 ways, drinkin', idlin' nights, an' gamblin', Ellen 
 did not like it, an' fussed about it, while the fa- 
 ther, as ought to ha' known better, said, 
 
 " Whisht, let the lad alone. Yoong men 
 must 'ave their fling. I was just like 'im at 'is 
 age." 
 
 " The more shame to you ! " cried Ellen, " for 
 tellin' on it afore the childer, an' spakiu' light 
 o' the laws of God V man." 
 
 So she turned to Tom, an' says she, " Tom, I 
 worked in the mill day-times, an' I worked in 
 the 'ouse nights, when I was the mother of seven 
 small childer ; an' you, as 'as nothin' but a man's 
 part to do in this world, 'ill never know 'ow 'ard 
 a woman's lot can be. I never shirked my 
 work, for I wanted to give you schooling an' 
 'ave you larn a good trade. I kept you at 
 school till you was fourteen, when all your 
 mates went in the mill at twelve year old, an' 
 yoonger ; an' now you 're twenty, you 've larned 
 the machinist's trade, you can do for yersel', an' 
 I won't put up with your coomin' 'ome late 
 nights, makin' a row, bringin' drink and bad 
 company in the 'ouse, an' tachin bad ways to 
 your brothers an' sisters. If you cannot cooin
 
 BRIDGETS STORY. 261 
 
 peaceable, an' in due season, you must go some- 
 wheres else to board." 
 
 She spoke up pretty fierce, but she 'ad n't 
 no more thought the lad 'ould go away nor she 
 'ad that the man in the moon 'ould coom down 
 to live wid her. But the father said as if the 
 boy went 'e 'd go too ; an' then she wur mad, 
 an' says she, 
 
 " Ye 'd better be off wid ye, John McKiernan, 
 than stoppin' at 'ome, uphowldin' the boy in 
 bad ways. A man o' your age ! Ye 'd better 
 be on your knees a-sayin' your prayers." 
 
 Then the father an' son marched off, 'oldin' 
 up their 'eads like soldiers ; an' they both 
 stopped out late that night, an' coom 'ome a- 
 roarin' an' singin'. John McKiernan is quite a 
 pote ; 'e makes little rhymes, an' puts the words 
 in their places so 's the verses coom out right ; 
 an' when 'e coom into the kitchen, a-racketin' 
 an' a-knockin' over the chairs in the dark, 'e 
 was singin' away verses about Ellen 'ersei', as 
 'e 'd made up. She 'eared 'im, but she spake 
 never a word, only bolted 'er bedroom door fast ; 
 while 'e begins to sing, When I was a Bachelor, 
 an owld Irish song, as I 'ave 'eared my father 
 sing when I was a bit of a girl. There 's not 
 manny folk as know it now. I can say it in 
 Irish an' English both. 'E shouted out in the 
 dead o' night, the most aggeravatin' of all the 
 verses :
 
 262 BRIDGETS STORY. 
 
 " I fancied the mopsey, 
 Her fortune 'as deceived me, 
 It makes me cry an' often sigh, 
 The shirt I cannot wear it. 
 
 " When I rise in the morning, 
 I go to my labor, 
 I never do coom 'ome, 
 Till duskes cooms on fairly. 
 
 "I find me cabin dirty, 
 An' me bed, it 's in bad order, 
 Me wife is cabin hearing, 
 An' me baby always bawlin'." 
 
 That was n't a pleasin' song for Ellen to 'ear, 
 an' it wur n't true, nayther ; for she 's not a 
 mopsey, but a clean, decent body, as keeps a 
 nice 'ouse, an' does n't run round to the neigh- 
 bors no more 'n is reasonable - for a live woman, 
 as does n't expect to wrap 'ersel' up in a sheet, 
 an' keep as distant from folks as a ghost. 
 
 When 'c 'ad finished the verses, an* was just 
 beginnin' again When I was a Bachelor, Mc- 
 Kiernan tries the bedroom door, an' finds it 
 locked on 'im. So then *e swears, an' Ellen 
 spakes for the first time, an' calls through the 
 keyhole, 
 
 " I Ve got the childer in 'ere, an' I 've spent 
 the night a-prayin' for you. You an' Tom may 
 go up to the attic ; an' my counsel is for you to 
 get on yer knees yersel'." 
 
 Then there was more row, an' at the last Mr.
 
 BRIDGETS STORY. 263 
 
 McKiernan an' 'is son both posted off ; an' the 
 Lord knows where they passed the night. 
 
 In the mornin' the father coom an' fetched 'is 
 clothes an' the lad's, an' they both got board 
 together nigh to the mill, where Mr. McKier- 
 nan is a spinner. 
 
 Ellen took it pretty lofty at first. 
 
 "It's well they 're away," said she. "The 
 owld man was daft about the lad, an' I '11 not 
 deny 'e 's a 'andsome, well-lookin' boy ; but if 
 there 'd 'a' been a robbery or a murder in the 
 street, an' Tom 'ad been arrested on us, we 
 could not have accounted for 'im, for 'alf the 
 time we did not know where 'e was. As for 
 the man, we 've lived together two an' twenty 
 year, an' now, if 'e 's minded to go away, I '11 
 niver go after 'im, nor ask 'im to coom back, 
 no, not so much as walk by Mrs. Flinn's 'ouse, 
 where 'e boards. I counseled 'im in good ways, 
 an' the ways of the church, an' I '11 not make any 
 lamentation because 'e 's gone. It 's every day 
 such things 'appen, a man leaves 'is woman. 
 Lettin' alone is the best treatment for 'em." 
 
 For all 'er talk, I often seed 'er eyes was red, 
 an' she went to church steadier 'n ever, an' she 
 'ad the childer an' 'ersel' a prayin' a good bit o' 
 the time. 
 
 There was another in trouble, too, an' that 
 was little Rosie Roberts, a pretty girl, with yel-
 
 264 BRIDGETS STORY. 
 
 low 'air as looks like a dandelion. She 'd set 
 'er 'eart on Tom McKiernan, but 'er folks was 
 always agin it. They was pretty 'igh-toned 
 people. The mother kep' a store, an' the fa- 
 ther was on the train. They looked 'igh for 
 Rosie, an' the mother watched 'er like a cat. 
 They was Protestants too, an' the difference of 
 religion made troubles both sides. For my part, 
 I think as we all worships the same God, 
 still, I confess as what he 'as ordained he 'as 
 ordained, an' it '11 stan' forever ; an' them as 
 doesn't go to mass misses a blessing, sure, as 
 they might 'ave ; for the mass is a holy thing as 
 'ull do any body good, an' not Catholics alone. 
 
 I 'm not goin' to say as it 's well for Protes- 
 tants an' Catholics to wed, but I always liked 
 Rosie, an' when I see 'ow 'er 'eart was set on 
 Tom, I was such a great fool as I thought the 
 religion 'ould not make so much 'arm, for she 
 wur not one to argue, an' I wished Tom 'ould 
 behave himsel' an' marry 'er, an' be a good man 
 to 'er, for I does like to see young folks 'appy. 
 
 But oh, when Tom was out o' 'is mother's 
 eye, it seemed as if 'e would go to the devil 
 straight, for Mr. McKiernan could no more man- 
 age the lad nor a three-year old child could fly 
 a six-foot kite. The boy went from bad to 
 worse, an' Mr. Roberts forbade 'im the 'ouse en- 
 tirely, an' Rosie's eyes was redder 'n Ellen's.
 
 BRIDGET'S STORY. 265 
 
 I coomed by Mr. Roberts' one night, an' I 
 seed Rosie hangin' over the gate, talkin' with 
 Tom, outside. There was a bright moon, an' I 
 seed the sad look was gone from 'er bonny face, 
 which was all dimples an' smiles. But as I was 
 a-staring at 'er, out coom Mr. Roberts, like a 
 turkey gobbler rushin' at a red rag, an' dragged 
 Rosie in, swearin' as she should not go to shame 
 right out of 'er father's door. Tom started af- 
 ter, but Rosie cried out for 'im to go away ; an' 
 Missis Roberts an' a lot more women coom out, 
 a-talkin' an' yellin', an' they got the girl in, an' 
 shut the door, an' left Tom outside fightin' wid 
 Rosie's brother. 
 
 I coom away then, for I spied the policeman 
 a-coomin' up the street ; an' that 's a sight as 
 'as a won'erf ul power to put a stop to an old 
 woman's curiosity. 
 
 I went into Missis Roberts's store the next 
 day, an' Rosie was there, with 'er little sister in 
 'er lap, a baby as is fretful, an' always wants 
 summun to be settin' under 'er. Rosie looked 
 very pale, but 'er mother, she was scowlin' and 
 black in the face. The super of the Sunday- 
 school was there, a-sayin', 
 
 ** Missis Roberts, I 'm very sorry as Rosie 
 should ha' set gossip goin' about 'er." 
 
 Then Missis Roberts rose up to 'er feet an' 
 flung out 'er 'and at the girl, an' says, " There,
 
 266 BRIDGETS STORY. 
 
 Rosie ! do ye 'ear that ? Perhaps you '11 mind 
 what your mother says after this, an' not wait 
 till the stones in the streets is a hollain' out my 
 very words, an' cryin' shame on ye." 
 
 " Oh," said the super, tryin' then to quiet the 
 mother down, " I 've no manner o' doubt Rosie 
 '11 be a good girl after this." 
 
 'E spoke to the baby, an' 'e said as 'e 'd like 
 to buy some tape, an' so 'e got away ; but Rosie 
 said never a word to 'im, only grew whiter 'n' 
 whiter, an' let 'er 'ands fall down at 'er side, 
 so 's the baby 'ad to 'old 'er own little back up. 
 
 While the super was buyin' the tape, I said 
 to Rosie, 
 
 "'Ad you been walkin' with Tom, last 
 night?" 
 
 " Yes," said she ; " we 'd walked from the 
 grocer's. I only met 'im by chance." 
 
 "But you like 'im," said I, "an' 'e's a wild 
 lad." 
 
 " We never 'ad no love talk," said she ; an' 
 then, in a minute more, she spake again : " I '11 
 never stay 'ere to be talked about." 
 
 Then the mother coom back to us, an' I went 
 out o' the store. 
 
 Sure enough, the girl runned away, an' then 
 there was more talk than ever about 'er. 
 
 Ellen coom out in the middle of the day to 
 tell me, though she was doin' a bleach, an' 'ad
 
 BRIDGETS STORY. 267 
 
 not so much as a shawl about 'er. She 'd just 
 run out in 'er figger. She cried, an' said as 'ow 
 Tom was good enough for any girl in the place : 
 an' one minute she vowed 'e was too good for a 
 girl as 'ould do such a shameful thing as run 
 away from 'ome, an' next she 'd say that Rosie 
 was a sweet innocent thing, an' she 'oped she 'd 
 see 'er Tom's wife yet, an' it was only people's 
 goin' back an' forth an' tellin' things as 'ad ever 
 made any trouble. She was just distraught, 
 an' she said whatever coom into 'er silly 'ead ; 
 so at last it cooin out that when Tom 'ad 'eared 
 as Rosie was gone 'e 'ad quit work, an' was on 
 a spree then. 
 
 "An' I've not seen 'im," cried 'is mother; 
 " I only 'ear about 'im on the street, my own 
 eldest born ! " 
 
 I met Tom a day or two after on the street, 
 an' I went up to 'im, an' laid a 'and on 'is arm. 
 I looked 'im steady in the eye, an' 'e reddened 
 a bit, an' 'is mouth trembled like a baby's. 
 
 " Tom," said I, " what 's the use of a fine lad 
 like you goin' to the bad, when 'e might just as 
 easy go to the good, an' make 'is friends all 
 'appy?" 
 
 " It 's not many friends I 'as," said the young 
 fellow. "You know, Bridget, I'd never V 
 done 'arm to Rosie ; but she runs away, when 
 she 'ears 'er name mentioned with mine, as if I 
 was the plague."
 
 268 BRIDGET'S STORY. 
 
 " Oh,"" says I, " you think you 'd never 'a' 
 done 'er 'arm ; but it 's little lads know what 
 they '11 coom to do as keeps bad company, an' 
 takes no counsel but their own wild wishes. 
 She runned to save 'ersel', a wise little body ! 
 Go after 'er, Tom, bring 'er 'ome to be your 
 mother's daughter, an' make up your mind once 
 for all to be a decent, steady man." 
 
 I don't know what got into me to speak them 
 words, but when 'e 'eared me, first 'e grew 
 white, an' then 'e grew red. 
 
 " You 're a wise woman," said he, an' 'e 
 walked away, an' the next day they telled me 
 'e 'ad gone from the town. 
 
 The Robertses soon 'eared from Rosie, 'ow 
 she 'ad got a good place with a rich family in 
 Fall River ; so they thought it best to leave 'er 
 there. But where Tom was we did not know. 
 
 Well, Ellen took it 'ard, an' she seemed to 
 feel the father's bein' away more, now Tom was 
 clean gone ; an' yet the man did not coom back. 
 She 'd stan' at 'er door at night, an' strain 'er 
 eyes lookin' towards the mill, where McKiernan 
 worked, but she never see 'im coomin' towards 
 'er. Eh, but women is queer creatur's, cryin' 
 an' scoldin' an' sputterin', yet lovin' all the 
 while. 
 
 She fell sick, bein' so worried, an' one night 
 I stayed wid 'er. I was dozin' in the kitchen,
 
 BRIDGET'S STORY. 269 
 
 when I 'eared a great crash ; I runned into the 
 other room, an' there Ellen lay on the floor, wid 
 'er eyes wide starin' open, an' 'er limbs stretched 
 out on the boards, an' in one 'and she 'ad a lock 
 o' 'er own 'air, as she 'd pulled out. 
 
 " Oh," cried I, " 'ow long 'ave you been 
 there?" 
 
 " Whisht, whisht ! " says she. " Do ye 'ear 
 the music ? " 
 
 *' Music ! " says I. " Are ye mad ? " 
 
 " Oh," says she, " it 's gran' music ; an' do 
 ye see the fine yoong ladies as is makin it? 
 There they is, all stan'in' round against the wall. 
 Look at 'em, dressed in white, an' with bells on 
 their fingers ! " 
 
 She was so wild, I was scared, an' I humored 
 'er a bit, an' said as I 'eared 'em an' seed 'em, 
 an' coaxed 'er the while back to bed. 
 
 She laid 'er 'ead down on the pillow, an' 
 fetched a great sigh. " Ah," says she, " they 
 're just vanishin', vanishm', an' the music 'a 
 a-fadin' away." 
 
 Then she wrung 'er 'ands an' fell a-cryin', 
 an' I 'ad plenty o' work that night to do, car- 
 ing for 'er. But she. mended fearful 'at after, 
 an' in a day or two she was quite well. 
 
 Then she went to the priest, an' telled 'im all 
 'er trouble : 'ow Mr. McKiernan 'ad been a good 
 'usband an' very agreeable to 'er for twenty-two
 
 270 BRIDGETS STORY. 
 
 years, an' 'ow 'ard she thought it as 'e should 
 leave 'er now ; an' she towld 'im all about Tom, 
 too. 
 
 Father Kent treated 'er very kind, an' 
 Sciys GJ ' 
 
 "I cannot 'elp ye about Tom. Yoong men 
 will 'ave their fling ; an' any way, 'e 's beyond 
 my reach. Ye can do nought but pray for 'im, 
 as was always a mother's work, from the time 
 of the Blessed Virgin. As for your 'usband, 
 I '11 see to 'im." 
 
 Ellen coomed 'ome wid a lighter 'eart, an' 
 waited, wid 'er little ones around 'er, for the 
 man as she 'oped soon to see darken 'er door. 
 
 Father Kent went twice to the mill to see Mr. 
 McKiernan, an' the second time the man got 
 mad, an' spake up saucy, an' said queer things 
 to the priest. 
 
 " I don't doubt, Father Kent," says 'e, " as 
 you 're a scholard an' a gentleman, an' I knows 
 you 're a priest, but you need n't be meddlin' 
 with me." 
 
 Then Father Kent stamped 'is foot, an' says 'e, 
 
 " You 've 'eared what I 'ad to say, McKier- 
 nan. Go ye 'ome to your wife, an' don't force 
 me to coom again about this business." 
 
 An' that night Mr. McKiernan went 'ome. 
 Ellen telled me all about it. She wur stan'in' 
 at the table cuttin' out a dress for a neighbor ;
 
 BRIDGET'S STORY. 271 
 
 for she 's very 'andy at such things, an' willin' 
 to do little jobs o' that sort for anybody. It 
 was about nine in the evenin', an' as she stood 
 with 'er back to the door in stalked Mr. McKier- 
 nan, lookin' as sour as a boy as 'as been licked. 
 Ellen's 'eart give a jump, but she never said 
 nothin', nor turned round, only caught a side 
 glance of 'im as 'e went past 'er. 
 
 'E sat down in a chair, an' 'e kicked off first 
 one shoe, an' then another ; an' all the while 'er 
 scissors wur goin' faster than ever. When 'e 'd 
 sat still about five minutes, up 'e got, an' 
 stamped away to 'is room. Then Ellen turned, 
 an' threw up 'er arms wid a great swoop, an' 
 says she, 'alf aloud, 
 
 " Lord save us, see the ghost ! " An' the lit- 
 tle childer began to titter at that. 
 
 " Shut up," says she, " laughin' at your dad." 
 But little Peter, he giggled on, an' the father 
 growled from the other room ; so Ellen caught 
 up the boy, an' rocked 'im, an' hugged 'im, an' 
 got 'im quiet. She was that glad 'er 'usband 
 'ad coom 'ome, I think, she did not care 'ow mad 
 an' glum 'e acted. 
 
 When Mr. McKiernan came out for 'is break- 
 fast, the next morning, Ellen flew to the table, 
 an' began movin' some dishes. 
 
 " I '11 clear off Peter's things," said she. 
 
 " Oh," said Mr. McKiernan, " ye like to 'ear
 
 272 BRIDGETS STORT. 
 
 yersel' talk;" an' 'e shoveled in 'is meat, an' 
 said no more, till she asked 'im, timid-like, 
 should she send 'is dinner to the mill. 
 
 "Aren't ye the 'ousekeeper?" says 'e, sharp 
 again. " Ye like to 'ear yersel' talk ; " an' off 
 'e went to 'is work. 
 
 That afternoon I was goin' by, an' Ellen 
 called me to coom in. 
 
 " I must go 'ome an' feed my cat," said I. 
 
 She squealed. " Hoot wi' yer cat," says she. 
 " I hunted 'er off o' my chickens the other day. 
 Coom in ; it 's sum mat better worth 'earin' nor 
 a cat's meaowin', as I 'ave to tell ye." 
 
 So I stopped in, an' she made me laugh till 
 my sides ached a-mimickin' all Mr. McKiernan's 
 gran' ways an' sour looks. But she quit 'er 
 laughin' an' cried a bit, savin', 
 
 " I 'm the wretchedest mother in the town," 
 says she ; " an' Father Kent said 'e could not 
 'elp me about Tom." 
 
 So wantin' to cheer 'er, I says, 
 
 "Mr. McKiernan only shows 'is good sense 
 in coomin' 'ome, Ellen. There 's not a woman 
 I knows as keeps a cheerfuller kitchen." 
 
 "It 'ould not ha' been cheerful long," says 
 she, " if 'e 'ad not coom, for I 'm near out o' 
 money." 
 
 " Well, 'e is coom," says I. " An' now you 
 must keep 'im. What did you send 'im for 'is 
 dinner ? "
 
 BRIDGETS STORY. 273 
 
 " Beefsteak," says she, catchin' up little Pe- 
 ter, as 'ad been pullin' at 'er knee, an' suckin' 
 at a lump o' sugar. 
 
 " That 's right," says I. "Now you must ha' 
 summat good for 'is supper." 
 
 " Yes," says she. " What do ye think on ? " 
 
 " Scollops," says I. 
 
 " What 's them ? " says she, takin' 'old of Pe- 
 ter's 'ands, an' swingin' 'im down to the floor, 
 an' then bringin' 'im up again on 'er knees, an' 
 'e a-laughin' till 'e almost choked. 
 
 "A kind o' fish," says I. "I'll be bound 
 Mr. McKiernan 'ull like 'em. Send Katie down 
 to the market for 'em. They '11 be about thirty 
 cents the quart." 
 
 So she said she would ; an' I seed she felt 
 quite 'appy, so I picked up my shawl an' the 
 pail of milk I was takin' 'ome, an' trudged on 
 to my cellar an' my cat. 
 
 The next day was Sunday, an' as I was on 
 my way 'ome from church, when I got opposite 
 Mr. McKiernan's 'ouse, Ellen, as was stan'in' in 
 the door, not 'avin' took off 'er bonnet, called 
 to me. 
 
 " Just stop to dinner, Bridget ! " says she. 
 
 " Nay, nay," says I. " A family likes to 'ave 
 its Sunday dinner to theirsel's." 
 
 Her face clouded, but Mr. McKiernan, as was 
 smokin' in the yard, says, 
 
 18
 
 274 BRIDGETS STORY. 
 
 " Coom in, Bridget ; there 's always a seat 
 for you at my table." 
 
 So seein' 'im so cordial, I went in ; an' Ellen, 
 I thought, was glad not to be much alone wid 
 'im. I sat there till about three, when 'e 
 marches up to 'is wife an' speaks very pleasant, 
 an' says, " Just make me a cup o' tea, Ellen ; " 
 an' up she jumps, with smiles all over 'er face, to 
 do it. Then I thought they was gettin' friendly, 
 an' I coomed away. 
 
 But she bade me in the very next night, for 
 she said she 'ad to ask 'im for money, an' she 
 felt she 'd be bolder to do it if I was by. So 
 Monday evening I was there before duskes. 
 They was always a family as provided well, the 
 way I like to see folks do, 'alf a barrel o' flour, 
 an' 'alf a keg o' butter, an' a whole ham at a 
 time ; but while Mr. McKiernan was off, Ellen 
 had been put to it to keep things up, an' 'ad run 
 low in every way. 
 
 After we 'ad 'ad a good supper, she picked up 
 Jimmy, one o' the little boys ; an' while Peter 
 hung on 'er knees, she poked 'er fingers careless- 
 like into the 'oles in Jimmy's shoes, till 'e 
 squealed out as she tickled 'im, an' says he, 
 
 " Mammy, I want some new shoes." 
 
 " Eh," says I, " let 's see the shoes ye 've got 
 on." 
 
 Then the little fellow twisted round in 'is 
 mother's lap, an' stuck out 'is two feet to me.
 
 BRIDGET'S STORY. 275 
 
 " They 're awful bad," says the boy. An' 
 Mr. McKiernan spoke up from the table, where 
 'e sat readin' an owld paper : 
 
 " Why don't you get 'im some shoes, Ellen ? " 
 
 'E spoke gently, an' Ellen laughed, an' says 
 she, 
 
 " I never knew shoes to coom walkin' into a 
 'ouse without feet in 'em, or feet goin' after 
 'em." 
 
 " An' money, too," says I. 
 
 " Don't ye 'ave no paper now ? " says Mr. 
 McKiernan, takin' no notice of what we 'd been 
 a-sayin'. 
 
 " No," says Ellen. " There wan't nobody to 
 read it, an' I stopped it." 
 
 " Well," says 'e, risin' up, " I '11 go an' give 
 an order for one to be left every night, after 
 this." 
 
 " That '11 be good," says Ellen, bent on 
 pleasin' 'im, "for I did miss 'earin' you talk 
 about the news." 
 
 Then she played some more with Jimmy's 
 shoes ; an' says 'e again, like a little parrot, 
 
 " Mammy, I want some shoes." 
 
 " Ah," says the mother, " I 'd give you some, 
 quick, if I 'ad the money ; but fifty cents won't 
 buy ye shoes, now you 've growed so big. An' 
 fifty cents is all my fortune," says she, her voice 
 just flutterin' a bit, an' she gettin' pretty red.
 
 276 BRIDGETS STORY. 
 
 Then as the man did not speak, she began 
 again, a-singin' with a little tremble, an' pattin' 
 Jimmy's knee, 
 
 " My face is my fortune." 
 
 " Jimmy, my lad, what do you think o' that 
 for an old woman like me ? Only my face." 
 
 Mr. McKiernan 'ad got on 'is coat by this 
 time, an' says 'e, in a lofty way, 
 
 " Give rne your fifty cents, Ellen, an' I '11 give 
 you a ten-dollar bill for it." 
 
 Ye may be sure, she was n't no great time 
 makin' that change; an' 'e went out o' the 
 'ouse, an' she clapped on 'er bonnet an' shawl, 
 an' started off 'ersel' for the shoes. 
 
 They coomed back together, talkin' an' car- 
 ryin' parcels like a couple of yoong sweet'earts, 
 an' I just laughed at 'em. As we all stood 
 round, with the childer 'angin' on our legs, the 
 door burst open, an' in coom Tom an' Rosie. 
 
 " Holloa ! " cried Tom ; an' Ellen fetched a 
 screech, an' rushed at the lad as if she 'd smother 
 'im ; but Rosie stood apart, with a shy look in 
 'er eyes an' a blush on 'er cheek, till Tom left 
 'is mother, an' took the girl's 'and, an' said, like 
 a man, 
 
 " I went after 'er, an' one day, as she was 
 washin' dishes, I coom softly into the kitchen ; 
 an' when she looked up she saw me, an' she
 
 BRIDGETS STORY. 277 
 
 cried out, an' let the cup fall as she was oldin', 
 an' it broke, an out coom the missus to know 
 what was the matter ; an' I telled 'em both to- 
 gether as I 'd made up my mind to be a steady 
 fellow, an' I 'd coom to marry Rosie ; an' Rosie> 
 she made believe as she did n't care about me, 
 till the missus laughed, an' bade 'er speak the 
 truth ; an' then " 
 
 " Now, Tom, you need n't say no more," said 
 Rosie; an' Mr. McKiernan marched up to 'er, 
 an' says, very courteous-like, 
 
 " I '11 make ye kindly welcome to be my son's 
 wife." 
 
 " Eh, but she 's that already ! " cried Tom. 
 " We was married a week ago." 
 
 Everybody screamed but Ellen, who just 
 throwed 'er arms round the girl's neck an' 
 hugged 'er 'ard.
 
 VALENTINE'S* CHANCE. 
 
 THE May day was so soft and warm that Dr. 
 John Valentine flung himself on the ground, at 
 the edge of the pond. Alder and oak bushes 
 shaded his head. Swamp lands rose just above 
 the surface of the water, and with their wet 
 greenness hid from his eyes the current of the 
 river, whose gentle ripples defined its course 
 through the smoother waters. Valentine's boat 
 was moored near him, its keel well aground in 
 the shallows. Behind him a steep bank rose to 
 the level of the fields, which sloped away to the 
 village. The river changed its direction when 
 it left the pond, and cut the village in halves ; 
 then turned again, and sought the southern tide 
 waters. 
 
 Valentine stared a moment at a robin which 
 stood with an erect head near his feet, and then 
 took out a block of paper and began to write. 
 He was a wealthy youth, and neglected his
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 279 
 
 office hours to scribble. Failure had not seared 
 his faith, and he believed that what he so ar- 
 dently longed to say some one must really need 
 to hear. An unuttered thought seemed to him 
 like a seed that does not germinate, something 
 wasted. He came of a country family of good 
 standing in an inland Massachusetts district. 
 His people were the "best people" of the 
 neighborhood, and the lad had grown up among 
 kinsfolk who read good books and exercised a 
 generous social spirit, although they lived sim- 
 ply, and kept a healthy interest in the soil, in 
 seed-time and harvest, in cattle and in trees. 
 Thus between the influences of nature and cul- 
 ture, he grew refined, sensitive, emotional, and 
 well-bred. He had had enough town life to 
 perfect, but not enough to wear away, the out- 
 lines of his character. Noble manners and real 
 thoughts had held such authority in the life 
 with which he was familiar, that the rules by 
 which conventional people govern themselves 
 seemed chiefly amusing to him. An inherit- 
 ance of anti-slavery blood contributed to render 
 easy his disregard of trammels. He had never 
 learned to be afraid of his own individuality, 
 but his sweet nature had hindered him from 
 thinking it necessary to assert that individuality 
 by being disagreeable. A self -analyzing ten- 
 dency was the one thing in him which endan-
 
 280 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 gered his growth in sunny and vigorous man- 
 hood. Here lay the germ of possibly morbid 
 action or ruinous introversion. 
 
 The robin sped away, and Valentine wrote on 
 through the May afternoon, till steps sounded 
 from the narrow path which led along the bank 
 half-way up the slope, and a girl's voice, odd 
 and sweet, broke upon the quiet. Valentine 
 perceived that she was speaking the Cana- 
 dian patois. Suddenly, there was the noise of 
 some one slipping, tearing at the bushes, and 
 then a man came crashing down and fell head- 
 long, muttering an oath, at Valentine's feet. 
 The girl gave a quick cry and darted after 
 him. 
 
 " Jack and Jill," said the doctor, rising in 
 amazement. But the girl had not fallen, al- 
 though she was already on her knees beside the 
 man. Valentine lifted the fellow up and set 
 him against the bank, and looked at him with 
 disgusted interest. 
 
 " He drunk," said the girl in a matter-of- 
 fact tone. 
 
 The man did not seem to be hurt, but very 
 much dazed. 
 
 " What you bring me to such a place for, 
 Rose Beauvais?" he asked, stupidly accusing 
 her in French. " Of course I fall." 
 
 " Well, you sit still now," she answered
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 281 
 
 calmly. " Don't you go home till night. Then 
 no one will see how horrid you look. Promise 
 me." 
 
 He turned his great, beautiful eyes on her. 
 The smile that crossed his lips, though silly 
 with intoxication, still had something of the 
 flashing radiance mingled with sweetness so 
 characteristic of the smiles of his race. 
 
 " I don't know," he said. 
 
 She looked in the man's face, and replied in 
 an unmoved tone, " I know." 
 
 Valentine watched her curiously. She seemed 
 to be about fifteen years old. She wore a coarse 
 dark jersey and a short calico skirt. Her shoes 
 were rough and tied with strings. She put a 
 thin, long hand on the Canadian's shoulder. 
 There were flecks of cotton on her jersey and 
 the factory stain was on her fingers, but there 
 was a peculiar youthful grace in her figure and 
 motions. 
 
 " You will stay," she said, and the Canadian 
 nodded. She stood up then, and for an instant 
 her eyes met Valentine's frankly. To his sur- 
 prise, he felt a momentary awkwardness and 
 was overcome by a sense that he had been de 
 trap in this scene. 
 
 " Can I do anything for you ? " he asked 
 hastily. 
 
 She answered, " No," in English, and to the
 
 282 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 other continued in French, " You stay here, 
 Frank, and I '11 bring you some supper." 
 
 The man was too drowsy to reply. She re- 
 garded him with serious but undisturbed gaze. 
 It struck the doctor that drunkenness might be 
 a familiar factor in her life. She turned away 
 at last, and without any parting salutation went 
 along the river bank towards the village. Val- 
 entine spoke to the Canadian, but receiving no 
 response picked up his writing materials from 
 the dirt, climbed the bank, and crossed some 
 fields to the road, and to a farm-house on the 
 opposite side. This farm-house stood a little 
 distance from the village, and the farm belong- 
 ing to it extended on both sides of the road, 
 forming a portion of the country dividing the 
 Blackbird Hollow village from the town above 
 it. Valentine boarded at this house. It was 
 not a good place for his practice, but he was in- 
 different to that, his stay in the village being 
 in the nature of an experiment preparatory 
 to his serious settling down to professional life. 
 
 The evening continued mild, and a little be- 
 fore sunset Valentine seated himself in a ham- 
 mock under a spreading apple-tree, whose buds 
 were beginning to show themselves pink in the 
 balmy air. 
 
 He was reading Miss Burney's Letters by the 
 fading light, when a little wagon came up the
 
 VALENTINES CHANCE. 283 
 
 path, drawn by a white goat. A rosy girl, 
 wearing an unnecessarily warm red hood, sat 
 on the corner of the wagon and drove. Two 
 big buckets were the freight. Two dark-eyed 
 boys walked at the goat's head, and ever and 
 anon tugged at the animal to make her go 
 faster. A girl, whom Valentine recognized as 
 the Rose Beauvais whom he had seen in the 
 afternoon, walked behind the absurd equipage. 
 A little boy in petticoats ran out from the 
 house, his short yellow curls dancing all over 
 his head and shining in the light. 
 
 " Oh, the swell boys have come ! " he cried, 
 and joined the children as they went on to the 
 barn. Valentine had seen them before. They 
 gathered up swill in the village, and brought it 
 to Farmer Pettingell's pigs. Rose did not go 
 to the barn, but after loitering in an aimless 
 way near the kitchen door for a few minutes, 
 sat down on the step. 
 
 Mrs. Petti ngell came out of the house, bring- 
 ing a pitcher and tumbler. 
 
 " Have some buttermilk?" she called to Val- 
 entine. 
 
 " Yes, thank you." 
 
 As he took the glass, he inhaled the odor of 
 new-made butter which clung about her hands. 
 When he had drunk, she beckoned to Rose, and 
 poured out some milk for her in the tumbler 
 which Valentine had just emptied.
 
 284 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 " I guess I '11 get some doughnuts for them 
 children," said she, and went into the house. 
 
 Valentine glanced at Rose, and decided that 
 she was not very pretty. She had very lumi- 
 nous, soft eyes, but she was pale. Even the lips 
 lacked color, though they were beautifully cut, 
 and her features were a little thin. Her black 
 hair was braided and scarcely reached her shoul- 
 ders. A perfectly straight bang covered" her 
 forehead. She held a package in one hand. 
 
 "Is that the supper for that man?" asked 
 Valentine, at last. It did not seem necessary 
 to use any ceremony with her. She flushed, 
 and drew her fingers across her lips. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Do you think he has stayed where you left 
 him?" 
 
 " Oh, yes. He be afraid to go away." 
 
 " Afraid of what ? " 
 
 She smiled as if she did not mean to tell, and 
 Valentine asked, 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 " He Joe's brudther." 
 
 "And who is Joe?" 
 
 " Oh, Joe, a machinist in the Jeffreys mill. 
 He come first. So when the brudther come, 
 work in machine shop too, ev'rybody not know 
 his name. The boss, ev'rybody, call him Joe's 
 brudther. Only we, we call him Frank."
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 285 
 
 " You knew him before ? " 
 
 " Yes, in Canada. Always." 
 
 What an odd, sweet note was in her voice ! 
 A light came into her eyes. 
 
 " She is pretty, after all," thought the young 
 man, and he said aloud, " He 's a bad fellow. 
 Not good company for you." 
 
 She laughed, and turned her body slightly, 
 without moving her feet. Here, the children 
 came rushing back with the goat and empty 
 buckets, calling to her as they passed, dark, 
 rosy creatures, whose vivid coloring made the 
 American child toddling after them look insipid. 
 
 " You go home ! " she cried. " I come by and 
 by." She turned back to Valentine, and spoke 
 quietly : " No, Joe's brudther not bad fellow." 
 It was evidently a little difficult for her to find 
 and utter the words she wanted. Her pretty 
 lips seemed to stumble over the sounds. " He 
 never got drunk before. Something trouble 
 him. He feel bad. He no work to-day. Some 
 fellows get him off, tease him. He tell me. 
 It lucky I fine him. I make him stay in the 
 woods. He do so no more. It be all right." 
 
 Again that flashing smile, so bright, so unin- 
 telligent. Valentine did not feel pleased. At 
 this moment, little Bobby Pettingell, tired of 
 following the goat-wagon with ineffectual feet, 
 came up the path crying. Rose led him to the
 
 286 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 kitchen door. His mother met them, and he 
 extended his tiny arms far beyond his sleeves, 
 and turned up a tear-stained face, saying, 
 " Please do sumfin' to comfort me." 
 
 Rose came slowly back to the apple-tree. 
 
 " Do you work in Mr. Jeffreys' mill ? " asked 
 Valentine. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " You were not at work to-day." 
 
 " No, they fix the looms ; so I stay out to-day. 
 Monday, I go in." 
 
 " Do you like to work ? " 
 
 " I no mind in winter. Like to be in mill as 
 much as anywhere then. Only getting up in 
 morning, so cold and dark. I think that 
 bad. My fadther have to come up an' wake 
 me." 
 
 " And in summer ? " 
 
 " Oh," she cried, with soft energy, " I like to 
 be out-doors in summer, an' feel the air. I guess 
 I lazy. Celia," she went on, " s'e sit in the sit- 
 ting-room, an' we have an organ, an' s'e play on 
 it. An' Georgine sew the clothes, when s'e not 
 in the mill, an the 'little girls sweep up an' mind 
 the baby, but I never stay in the house. I stand 
 by the gate, an' see the people, an' go in the 
 woods, an' look at the sky." 
 
 She smiled, as if she thought herself both 
 whimsical and amusing.
 
 VALENTINES CHANCE. 287 
 
 " What kind of work do you do ? " 
 
 " I weave. I run six looms. White goods. 
 I could n't do the colored goods. So much 
 harder. That would make me sick." 
 
 These words called his attention to the dark 
 shade under her eyes. 
 
 " I must go now," she said at last, paused, 
 then added, "You not tell about Joe's brud- 
 ther?" 
 
 " No. Good-by, Kose." 
 
 He nodded, felt ashamed of his scant courtesy, 
 touched his hat, grew suddenly more ashamed, 
 and went hurriedly into, the house, saying to 
 himself, " She has real beauty even now. She 
 may grow to be very beautiful, but I suppose 
 she will marry that drunken fellow and get 
 coarse." 
 
 Poor Frank was sober enough when Rose 
 reached him ; that is, he was sober enough to 
 cry and say that he was sure Celia would never 
 speak to him now, seeing that she was mad at 
 him before, just because Georgine said she saw 
 him talking with that Rosalba Fluff, and it 
 was not he that was with her; it was Joe. 
 " Celia don't like men that drink," he re- 
 marked, as if it was a peculiar taste on her part. 
 
 " You 'd better not drink, then," said Rose 
 coolly.
 
 288 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 "But this time," he answered dejectedly, "it 
 would shame me to hide it." He sighed, then 
 rose like a man. " I was a fool," he muttered. 
 " I will go tell her I was a fool." 
 
 " I don't dare not tell her," he added in a 
 puzzled tone. " Celia is not like other girls. I 
 could n't lie to her." 
 
 " Well, I think you 'd better tell her," said 
 his companion. 
 
 They went to the village together. The 
 Beauvais family lived in a square old house, 
 with a big elm and two old pines standing in 
 the yard. Celia sat alone on the doorstep. She 
 was a brown-haired woman, with soft gray eyes, 
 a square chin and cheek, and a large, sweet 
 mouth. She had not so much beauty as her 
 young lover had, but she was pleasant to look 
 upon. Rose stopped at the gate. Frank went 
 up to Celia. 
 
 " I have been lonesome," he faltered, and then 
 told all his misery and his error. Rose looked 
 over her shoulder at intervals to see how matters 
 progressed, and when at last Frank sat down 
 by her sister she whirled about and came de- 
 murely towards them. Celia's eyes were moist. 
 Frank's cheeks were very red. He smiled like 
 a child at Rose. 
 
 " I feel good," he said.
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 289 
 
 II. 
 
 On Memorial Day the French Canadians of 
 Blackbird Hollow held a picnic in the pine 
 grove that skirted the southern bank of the river 
 and extended along the side of the pond. Curi- 
 osity led Valentine to the scene. The amuse- 
 ments were of the ordinary kind. There was a 
 pig to be given to the person who guessed near- 
 est to its exact weight. Some boys were shoot- 
 ing at a target. Dark-skinned young fellows 
 exchanged laughing impertinences with dark- 
 eyed girls. Men and women chatted. Children 
 ran about. A crowd gathered round a platform 
 where there were music and dancing. Every- 
 body had a foreign color and air. Only the sol- 
 emn pines and the brilliant blue sky looked 
 American. 
 
 Valentine wandered about till he discovered 
 Rose Beauvais, who stood a little apart from 
 those who were watching the dancers. One or 
 two boys went up to her, and he saw her shake 
 her head to them. After some irresolute mo- 
 ments he walked across the little hollow shaded 
 by hemlocks that divided him from her. 
 
 " Why don't you dance ? " he asked. 
 
 " I not know how." 
 
 " You could learn." 
 
 *' I not want to learn. They say, ' Come, we 
 show you.' I not want to be shown."
 
 290 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 He looked at her curiously, till a low, clear 
 voice broke on his ear. 
 
 "Jack!" 
 
 He turned to receive Miss Jeffreys' out- 
 stretched hand. She smiled at him from her 
 father's side ; a tall, fair woman, whose blonde 
 hair grew low on her forehead, so that she could 
 push it back, and still have a soft, fluffy effect 
 of gold under her broad hat. Valentine knew 
 her well. Usually, when they met, they talked 
 about music, for which each had a fancy, that 
 each supposed to be a passion. Now she ex- 
 claimed at the beauty of the French Canadians. 
 While she spoke Rose glided away. 
 
 "See those two girls," said Miss Jeffreys. 
 "Don't they make you think of plump pi- 
 geons ? " 
 
 Joe's brother was approaching, with a girl 
 dressed in blue upon his arm. Behind him came 
 another man, with a fair girl in a gray gown. 
 The men were not quite at their ease, but the 
 women held their heads calmly erect. Both 
 wore big hats and showy gilt bracelets, and car- 
 ried their gloved hands folded in front of their 
 round, firm waists. 
 
 " The blonde is the prettier," said Miss Jef- 
 freys. " She looks like a very amiable heifer. 
 But what a face the other has ! So serious and 
 fine."
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 291 
 
 Mr. Jeffreys spoke : " They are the daughters 
 of Beauvais, one of our carpenters. That girl 
 who was here when we came up is another. 
 One is a bride, I believe. Did you notice her 
 slippers? French Canadian brides always go 
 around in slippers. There is Beauvais, now." 
 
 He pointed to a heavily built man holding 
 two little girls by the hand. 
 
 " Oh, I know the little girls ! " cried Miss 
 Jeffreys, going up to them. Pretty soon she 
 returned, leading the children. " Now sing," 
 said the lady. 
 
 They looked shyly at each other, giggled, and 
 then two sweet, childish voices rang out, sing- 
 ing a little song, beginning, 
 
 " Travaille bien, chere petite, 
 Enfille ta premiere aiguille." 
 
 The people near by stopped their talking to 
 listen. Beauvais's wife, a plump, matronly 
 woman, carrying a small child, joined her hus- 
 band. Valentine stared at Rose, who came to 
 her mother's side. He had begun to take in 
 the fact that it was the girl in blue who was 
 Frank's bride. 
 
 " I like the French people," said Mr. Jeffreys, 
 when the children had stopped singing, and the 
 group had melted away. "But all that the 
 girls think of is to get hats with big feathers. 
 You should see how dirty they keep their 
 houses."
 
 292 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 " Dirt is picturesque," said his daughter. 
 
 " A stale sentiment ! " retorted her father. 
 "We can't keep the tenements from being inde- 
 cently full. They take boarders, and pretend 
 they 're all one family. But they are quick and 
 intelligent, and save money, which they take 
 back to Canada. They don't come here to stay. 
 Have you ever noticed how few old people there 
 are among them ? They leave them in Can- 
 ada, and go back to them. That Beauvais fam- 
 ily, now, I understand they are going home 
 this summer." 
 
 That evening Valentine wandered restlessly 
 to the pond, and rowed across to the village. 
 The sky, where the sunset flash lingered, was 
 clearly reflected in the water. His boat glided 
 between two expanses of color. No being but 
 his own seemed to breathe with conscious life. 
 The birds which sought their nests flew like au- 
 tomata from shore to shore. The young oaks 
 on one side, the pines on the other, stood like 
 crayon sketches against the sky. Nothing was 
 real to him but his own existence. 
 
 He landed and made his way through the 
 streets, lined with factory tenements. Here 
 was life enough, laughter and speech, whis- 
 pers and cries ; but as he moved among it all 
 his own individuality grew only more awfully 
 distinct. He could not fuse his soul with what 
 he saw.
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 293 
 
 He came at last to the house where Beauvais 
 lived. The yard was filled with happy loun- 
 gers. Celia sat on the doorstep by her husband. 
 Rose was in her accustomed place by the gate. 
 
 " Good-evening," he said ; but she only smiled, 
 and he passed on. 
 
 Three evenings later he rowed again to the 
 village shore, and as he approached the land, 
 saw Rose's little figure sitting on a stone, near 
 the tree where he was wont to tie his boat. 
 The sunset light showed the beautiful curves of 
 her mouth and the soft glow in her eyes. He 
 rested on his oars a moment. He wanted to 
 make her come out on the water with him. He 
 vaguely felt that if he could row her away from 
 that accursed, tenement-lined shore, out among 
 the grasses that grew in the shallows of the 
 pond, he could then and there discover what 
 manner of girl God had made her to be. He 
 knew he must not take her. He knew it would 
 be something very like a sin to ask this Cana- 
 dian child to row with him. She might go with 
 rude and common boys, and her sweet inno- 
 cence be unblamed, but not with such as he. 
 
 When he got out of the boat he dallied a mo- 
 ment, stooping over her. 
 
 " Why did you not tell me that it was your 
 sister whom Joe's brother was going to marry ? " 
 he demanded.
 
 294 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 She raised her great eyes. " You not know 
 that ? " she asked, and stood up, putting her 
 hands behind her. Hers was the charm which 
 belongs to all girls, of high or low degree, in 
 whose personality plays an elusive element. 
 Her manner evermore suggested that she might 
 be different from what she seemed ; perhaps 
 subtler, perhaps simpler, but with the odds in 
 favor of the more attractive hypothesis of mys- 
 tery. Withal, her smile was childlike, quick to 
 come, and very sweet, and the man who saw it 
 that night was young. 
 
 " Why did you come here ? " he asked at last. 
 He was always asking her questions. 
 
 She hesitated, then said, " I like to see the 
 water." 
 
 He smiled. " And did you think I might 
 row up and bring you some candy? Here I 
 am, and here is the candy. You 'd better give 
 some of it to the bride." 
 
 They turned together towards the village. 
 " This is my way," he said, pointing to a path 
 leading in a direction opposite to hers. She 
 seemed to take this as dismissal, and ran away 
 without a parting word. He opened his lips to 
 call her back, but seeing that he was very near 
 the rear of a big tenement house he closed them 
 without uttering a sound.
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 295 
 
 m. 
 
 Frank and Celia kept up their wedding fes- 
 tivities for several days, and then resumed their 
 ordinary labors in the Jeffreys mill and ma- 
 chine-shop. The bridegroom took up his abode 
 with the Beauvais family, and they were all 
 jolly together. They liked to play on various 
 cheap musical instruments, and to dance, and 
 they did not mind it at all if the feet of the 
 dancers left dust on the floors. Nobody cared 
 much about sleeping, either; or if anybody 
 wanted to sleep, he was able to do it, no matter 
 how much mirth and noise disturbed the nights. 
 Rose alone held herself a little apart. She had 
 never been quite able to mingle her feelings 
 freely with those of others. 
 
 " I don't like so many people about," she said 
 to herself. " One says one thing, and another 
 says another thing, and it makes a fuss. I don't 
 like it." 
 
 Georgine lived as though laughter were a sy- 
 nonymous term for life. Celia had a deeper 
 nature, but its serene poise was even more re- 
 moved from Rose's sensitiveness than from the 
 blonde sister's content. She loved her husband. 
 She liked her home. She was pleased with her 
 two new gowns, and especially delighted in some 
 sheets and pillow-cases, which she had stitched 
 very neatly, and finished on her wedding day.
 
 296 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 One morning, a week after his marriage, 
 Frank was ordered to go to one of the upper 
 rooms in the mill, to do some repairing. On 
 his way to the staircase, he saw that some casks 
 had just been placed on the baggage lift. A 
 man had once been employed to run this eleva- 
 tor, but a looseness of discipline combined with 
 an effort at economy prevailed in tbe manage- 
 ment, and he had been assigned other tasks 
 which prevented his constant attendance to his 
 first duty. As a consequence, anybody went 
 up or down who had freight in charge. 
 
 "I '11 take that stuff up," said Frank to the 
 young fellow who was preparing to mount. 
 
 " All right," returned the other, and passed 
 on. 
 
 A moment later, there came some frightful 
 creaking sounds, then a crash, and then a cry of 
 horror as everybody in the room rushed for- 
 ward. The lift had fallen, and Frank's body 
 lay in the wreck. They dragged him out. 
 
 " My God, who will tell his wife ? " groaned 
 the superintendent, Mr. Lucas, as he bent over 
 the young man's mangled figure. 
 
 No one knew who did tell her. She was in a 
 distant building, but somehow she heard, and 
 when Mr. Lucas went for her he met her run- 
 ning between the whizzing machines. He 
 caught hold of her.
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 297 
 
 " Be as quiet as you can," he commanded. 
 "Frank is living still." 
 
 She saw the blood that was splashed over his 
 hands, and she threw them from her with a cry, 
 and fled past him out into the breathless sun- 
 shine. Bearers had carried the man home. 
 Frank was lying on the bed. Valentine and an 
 older surgeon were at work. The rooms were 
 full of pale men and sobbing women. Mr. 
 Lucas presently came in, and drew Celia, all 
 shivering and shaken, from the bedside. 
 
 " Do you understand me ? " he said, holding 
 her by the shoulders. She shook her head. 
 Rose stepped forward. 
 
 " I can understand. I can tell her what you 
 say, Mr. Lucas." 
 
 " Then tell her," said he, " that she can help 
 Frank more than any one, if she will be quiet. 
 She must not cry. She must " But here Mr. 
 Lucas began himself to cry, and stopped. Rose 
 repeated his words in rapid French. The man 
 had never seen such a look as that with which 
 Celia listened. 
 
 " If she is excited," he choked out, " Frank 
 will be excited. He will have fever. He will 
 die. Do you make her understand ? " 
 
 Rose translated again. Celia shuddered, 
 straightened herself, and went back to Frank's 
 side.
 
 298 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 " She '11 do," said Mr. Lucas, and walked 
 into the pantry to wash his hands. 
 
 Frank's skull was broken, and he had sus- 
 tained other injuries. The mother brought old 
 sheets, and Rose tore them in strips under 
 Valentine's direction. The doctors worked 
 with grave faces. Mr. Lucas stood in the door- 
 way, and kept out the crowd who would have 
 pressed in. 
 
 The physicians finished their labor and went 
 away. Mr. Lucas took charge of all necessary 
 matters. Beauvais and Joe and two other men 
 were detailed to act as nurses. Celia sat all the 
 time by her husband. Her hair was bound in 
 crimping-pins and covered with mill dust. She 
 leaned forward, and held Frank's hands. He 
 moved more restlessly and moaned more pain- 
 fully, if she relaxed her grasp. When she per- 
 ceived this, there came into her face a dumb, 
 steadfast patience. At night the family were 
 provided with bedrooms in another part of the 
 house, but Rose stole back in the darkness, and 
 crouched on the floor by her sister. She was 
 there at midnight, when Valentine came in. He 
 did not speak to her, but he carried away a 
 vivid remembrance of her wide, childish, pained 
 eyes. 
 
 Celia was in the same place in the morning, 
 when the doctors came again, but she had
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 299 
 
 brushed her hair smooth. That one night had 
 elevated the character of her face into some- 
 thing very pure and sweet. It flashed across 
 Valentine that the typical Madonna was a peas- 
 ant woman. Then he looked at Rose, and fan- 
 cied that he saw the hint of a similar womanli- 
 ness on her brow. 
 
 " You must go and rest," he said to Celia. 
 She obeyed him, going with a slow motion to 
 another room. It was her own bedroom, but 
 they had moved the bed, with Frank on it, out 
 into the sitting-room, so that the little chamber 
 was nearly empty. She lay down on a hard 
 lounge, which stood against the wall. As soon 
 as Valentine had gone she came back to her 
 chair, and took Frank's hands again in hers. 
 Rose whispered to her, but she shook her head, 
 and turned her eyes on her husband. 
 
 Miss Jeffreys came in, bringing some beef 
 tea, and as Frank could not take it she coaxed 
 Celia to drink. Her coaxing was done by ges- 
 tures, as she could not speak the Canadian dia- 
 lect; and indeed, she could not speak at all, 
 when she looked at Celia, for crying. 
 
 " I never saw any one like her," she said to 
 Valentine, when she met him a few hours later. 
 " She realizes the ideal peasant woman of whom 
 I have read, with her strong, sweet nature. I 
 would rave if I were in her place. I should
 
 800 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 think she would curse us. It was such a horri- 
 bly needless accident." 
 
 Another time, when Miss Jeffreys rose to 
 leave the house, which she visited every few 
 hours, Celia followed her, dog-like and dumb, 
 into the entry. She put her hand into the lady's, 
 and Miss Jeffreys, in an agony of sympathy, 
 passed her arm around the girl's waist. Then 
 Celia dropped her brown head on the other's 
 shoulder, and cried. Miss Jeffreys hated her- 
 self, because she did feel as if it were strange 
 that she should be there holding this Canadian 
 workwoman in her arms, and yet, all the while, 
 she thanked God that she had been able to 
 make that silent heart turn to hers. But it was 
 only a moment before Celia raised her head, 
 like one who dares not wholly yield to an emo- 
 tion, mastered a pitiful smile, and went back to 
 Frank. 
 
 The third day brought a delusive gleam of 
 hope. When Valentine came in the morning, 
 Celia sat at the breakfast table, and smiled with 
 quick gratitude. Rose was eating, too. The 
 young doctor went hurriedly into the patient's 
 room. He did not like to see Rose putting a 
 piece of pork into her mouth with a big knife. 
 Celia followed him, and hung over her hus- 
 band's poor, disfigured face, once so handsome. 
 
 "He knows her. He glad to see her," said 
 Rose, coming to the doorway.
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 301 
 
 Valentine glanced from the wife to the sis- 
 ter. All that there could be of womanly ten- 
 derness and girlish softness seemed expressed 
 in their two faces. Were table manners more 
 important than the best of human virtues ? He 
 went about his bandaging with an impatient 
 gesture. 
 
 At noon Frank's condition was not so good, 
 and towards night it grew worse. Celia seemed 
 unconscious of the change. 
 
 " He wants me all the time," she said quite 
 happily to her mother, when Valentine was 
 there. He had not the courage to undeceive 
 her, and after giving his directions went out 
 with an aching heart. He found Rose sitting 
 on the doorstep, smiling in the level sunshine. 
 He stopped. 
 
 " You like being out of the mill, don't you ? " 
 
 " Oh," she said, " if Frank was not hurt ! " 
 
 Something stirred within him like a yearning 
 pain. He was under no delusion as to the daily 
 habits and thoughts of this girl. He knew the 
 narrow scope of her ideas, worse still, he 
 knew the methods of her toilet ; and yet his 
 heart moved towards her, as she sat there with 
 her sad, sweet eyes. It was a lovely June day, 
 and one in which a young girl should delight. 
 
 " I am going to row home," he said, " and I 
 want to send a package back for Frank. Come 
 with me."
 
 302 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 So Valentine's desire fulfilled itself, and at 
 last he had this girl of alien race and caste alone 
 with him, gliding across the pond while cool, 
 soft airs blew about. She sat in the stern, her 
 hands lying in her lap. She wore a pretty 
 gown, which Miss Jeffreys had given her that 
 morning. It was a simple affair that had be- 
 longed to a school-girl sister of the lady's, but 
 it was pink with a white guimpe, and it made 
 Rose look as if she were the same kind of dam- 
 sel that Jack Valentine had been used, in col- 
 lege days, to row over still waters and between 
 green pastures. Her happy eyes shone darkly. 
 Primitive instincts surged within him. He was 
 sorry, when they reached the landing-place, 
 that this dangerous half hour was over, and yet 
 at the same instant felt thankful that he had 
 been preserved from making a fool of himself. 
 
 As they climbed the steep path up the little 
 hillside, he did not know whether to offer her 
 assistance. He was not sure she would under- 
 stand such attention, and while he doubted she 
 ran lightly up, and he had no choice but to fol- 
 low in awkward silence. 
 
 When they reached the house, Valentine 
 brought from his office a little box, and gave it 
 to Rose with a message for Celia. She was 
 going home by the road, and he stood under the 
 apple-tree, and watched her walk down the path 
 and disappear behind some syringa bushes.
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 303 
 
 "Civilization," he muttered, "is a constrain- 
 ing power. I can imagine a state of existence 
 in which I should run after her." 
 
 An hour later he saddled his horse, and rode 
 out to some hills overlooking the level country. 
 His soul gazed before him into darkness, and he 
 felt no certainty that folly or guilt did not lie 
 hidden in its depths. It seemed preposterous 
 that things should have come to such a pass 
 with him. Great sweeps of youthful emotion 
 rushed over him, and brought half glimpses of 
 truths or fancies, such as he had not hitherto 
 known. He became conscious that his soul was 
 struggling in a crisis more awful than that re- 
 lating alone to a personal passion for a young 
 girl. 
 
 At last he checked his horse, and stared at 
 the silent heavens. Then he said to himself 
 that the feeling which assumed the guise of a 
 tempting fiend was nevertheless an angel, show- 
 ing him how near akin human beings are to 
 each other in spite of all difference of rank or 
 culture. He must not love this girl, but he 
 would learn from the impulse which drew him 
 to her humbly to recognize the elemental tie 
 which binds the race together ; the tie whose 
 vital strength had made it possible for her soft 
 beauty to sink into his soul, notwithstanding 
 the infinite space between her lot and his.
 
 304 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 When he went that evening to see Frank, he 
 found the older surgeon in the bedroom. It 
 was evident to everybody now that the poor 
 fellow must die soon. At midnight Valentine 
 was again at the house. Celia stood fanning 
 her husband with one hand, and with the other 
 trying to soothe and control his restless fingers. 
 She looked wan and old. Georgine was help- 
 lessly crying, regarding Frank from the foot of 
 the bed. Rose and one of the little girls knelt 
 on the floor. The mother sat near a table 
 where a lamp was burning, and read prayers 
 aloud. The nurses passed in and out, and in 
 the kitchen a number of people were gathered. 
 
 Valentine took his place near the doorway, 
 and after a while a dark, handsome woman came 
 to his side. She nodded towards Celia, and let 
 a tear run down her cheek. 
 
 " Ain't s'e strong," said she, " to stand there 
 so many hours? I could n't bear that, if it was 
 my husband." 
 
 Georgine came over to them and sobbed, mis- 
 using pronouns, after the manner of French Ca- 
 nadians little learned in English, "S'e will 
 die soon. S'e wife will die, too." 
 
 A mist swam across Valentine's brain. He 
 looked from Celia to Rose, and moved over to 
 the open window and gazed out. The stars 
 shone, and in the street some one was passing
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 305 
 
 with a lantern. The words that the mother 
 was reading made their way into his conscious- 
 ness. He turned back to the room, and sat 
 down. He wanted to kneel with those who 
 prayed. The mystery of death oppressed him. 
 At that moment it did not seem like a solution 
 of the mystery of life. 
 
 At last the mother's voice ceased. She closed 
 her book, laid it on the table, and crossed to 
 Celia's side. The breathing of the dying man 
 was audible in the hush. Rose got up from her 
 knees, and came near Valentine. He touched 
 the white sleeve of her pink gown. 
 
 " You must make Celia go out of the room. 
 This will kill her," he whispered. 
 
 The girl shook her head. All the glitter was 
 gone from her eyes. 
 
 " No, s'e will stay. My fadther cannot make 
 her go. S'e feel so much." 
 
 As the dawn gleamed above the factory roofs 
 Celia suddenly uttered a low moan, threw up 
 her hands, and fell back. Her mother caught 
 her, and with Valentine's aid carried her into 
 the little chamber. When Celia opened her 
 eyes again, Frank was dead.
 
 306 VALENTINE'S CHANCE 
 
 IV. 
 
 Valentine went out into the early morning. 
 He turned the corner of the house to go behind 
 it, through the grove, and found Rose crouched 
 under the pines in the yard. She raised a white 
 face to his. His nerves quivered. He heard 
 his own voice, as if it were another's, low and 
 passionate. In a moment more he found him- 
 self hurrying through the woods. She remained 
 behind, with her head dropped in her hands. 
 He had kissed her on the lips. 
 
 He did not tell himself afterwards that a 
 blameless sympathy had prompted that kiss. 
 He denounced himself rather as that most un- 
 worthy creature, a man who makes love to a 
 girl he will not marry. His self-disgust inten- 
 sified his passion, and he took this experience 
 seriously, because his moral nature mingled in 
 its elements. 
 
 On the day of the funeral, before the family 
 left the house, Celia sat patiently on the bed, 
 which had been moved back into her little cham- 
 ber. She was shrouded in crape. A roll of 
 crape furnished by Mr. Jeffreys lay on the 
 kitchen table, and Orselia, the handsome young 
 woman who had stood in the doorway with Val- 
 entine the night that Frank died, cut long 
 streamers and decorated the hats of the bearers. 
 Carriages waited outside.
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 307 
 
 Joe, who was now called " Frank's brother " 
 by the people, wrung Beauvais's hand, and said 
 in rapid French, " Ah, everything is fine, but it 
 does not console me." 
 
 Rose felt a little important, and held her 
 head with some dignity. Georgine's comeliness 
 was obscured by weeping, but she was satisfied 
 with the splendor of the occasion. This splen- 
 dor was rather superficial. The kitchen needed 
 to be swept, and the bed on which Celia sat had 
 not been made that day. It was, however, easy 
 to forget the slovenly setting of the poor little 
 show when one looked at her silent face. Other 
 people moved, and spoke in low but excited 
 tones ; she was perfectly still. 
 
 At the last moment, Georgine found her little 
 sister Laura sitting in the wet sink in the pan- 
 try, helping herself, with sticky fingers, to cold 
 potatoes and bacon fat. Georgine bounced the 
 child down on to the floor, swept off the slimy 
 matter adherent to the back of her frock with a 
 gesture that suggested discipline, and dragged 
 her back to the kitchen. 
 
 The bearers lifted the coffin to carry it out, 
 and the women began to wail ; all but Celia, 
 who shut her lips tightly. The crowd poured 
 slowly and decorously into the open air. Beau- 
 vais led Celia to a carriage, then went back and 
 locked the empty tenement behind him.
 
 308 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 Valentine was at the church. Miss Jeffreys 
 was there also, but he would not go near her, 
 and took a seat on the side aisle. She glanced 
 at him, with contracted brows, while he looked 
 steadfastly towards the altar. The service 
 proceeded, and occasionally a sob broke forth 
 among the congregation. At last the priest 
 came down the aisle, stood at the head of the 
 coffin, and sprinkled the dead man's face with 
 holy water. A boy who was with the priest, 
 and who swung the censer, had the face of a 
 young angel, grave and sweet. The rite seemed 
 very solemn to Valentine. To his imagination 
 it symbolized the oneness of this life and that 
 beyond the grave. It asserted that the spirit 
 of man is subject to the same conditions here 
 and hereafter. Valentine realized then that his 
 own soul was essentially in eternity that hour 
 no less than was the soul that had fled from the 
 body in the coffin. As the beautiful boy waved 
 the censer, and the incense faintly darkened the 
 air, there was no longer any noise of crying in 
 the church. 
 
 Miss Jeffreys passed Valentine in the porch, 
 when the ceremonies were over. " Did it not 
 make you feel a great deal ? " she asked. " Are 
 you not coming ? " But he stood still, and let 
 her go on. 
 
 He saw Rose, at last, who for some reason
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 309 
 
 had not yet entered a carriage. He went near 
 her, and she looked at him strangely. She was 
 paler than ever, and her long black gown gave 
 her a womanly air and added a moonlight ef- 
 fectiveness to her sadness and her beauty. 
 
 June was still lovely in the land, when Val- 
 entine, very early one morning, leaned out of 
 his window, and heard the low sound of a hu- 
 man voice joining in that matin song with 
 which every bird of earth and air was strain- 
 ing its throat. He went out-of-doors, and fol- 
 lowed the voice till he came to a little clump 
 of shrubbery not far from the house. There 
 he found Rose sitting on the grass, behind a tall 
 York rose-bush. She was singing softly, 
 
 " Travialle bien, chere petite," 
 
 and pulling a flower to pieces. She did not 
 move as he approached. 
 
 " You are out early," he said. She threw on 
 the ground the white rose with which she had 
 been playing. " Not a factory bell has rung 
 yet," he persisted. "Does your father wake 
 you at this hour ? " 
 
 She stood up then, and spoke : " I cannot 
 sleep as I used. First I wake, then I dream. 
 I see Frank. So I come out of the house, to the 
 fields." 
 
 He looked at her with a troubled gaze, from
 
 310 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 which she turned quickly. He put his hand on 
 her shoulder. She covered her face and trem- 
 bled. He remembered that he had kissed her, 
 and took away his hand. The fear shot through 
 his inconsistent soul that this girl might yet 
 prove a greater burden to his conscience than 
 to his heart. He stooped and picked up the 
 rose she had thrown at his feet; then turned to 
 the bush, and gathered some sprays heavily 
 laden with white blossoms and pink -tinged 
 buds. When he looked again at Rose, she had 
 raised her head and regarded him with wet 
 eyes. 
 
 "I go to the mill now," she said, and at 
 that moment the factory bells clashed through 
 the misty, golden air. " I go to the mill," she 
 repeated. 
 
 They faced each other, these two young crea- 
 tures, who had nothing in common but their 
 youth and a strange, inward yearning toward 
 each other. 
 
 When the bells had ceased the noise that 
 seemed to emphasize the difference between 
 them, he put the roses in her hands, and said, 
 " Take them home. Give them to Celia." 
 
 An angry flash gleamed in her eyes. He 
 frowned back unconsciously. In a moment the 
 savage look died out of her face. Her hands, 
 laden with the roses, drooped with a pathetic 
 gesture of obedience.
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 811 
 
 " Yes," she said. S'e will like them." 
 Something tugged at his heart. He moved 
 towards her, but her childish docility bore her 
 from him. She turned, and drifted submis- 
 sively away. He watched her in a sort of stu- 
 pid amazement. When she was quite gone he 
 flung himself at the foot of the York rose, and 
 as the fatal mill bells rang again buried his face 
 in the grass, and sobbed with self-disgust and 
 pain. It seemed to him unmanly to love a girl 
 and let her go like that ; but whether the un- 
 manliness lay in the love or in the letting go he 
 could not tell. 
 
 v. 
 
 Valentine thankfully seized upon a pretext 
 for going away on a visit, and was absent sev- 
 eral weeks. When he returned to Blackbird 
 Hollow, he learned that Mr. Jeffreys had paid 
 over to Celia a considerable sum of money, and 
 that the whole Beauvais family had departed 
 to Canada. Hearing this, he reflected again 
 upon the impotent part he had played in rela- 
 tion to Rose, and the reflection did not increase 
 his satisfaction with life or with himself. Her 
 removal from him had the effect upon his mind 
 of releasing her image from vulgar associations, 
 and relegating it to a visionary realm of senti- 
 ment. He thought of her as if she were a dis-
 
 312 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 embodied spirit, and ceased mentally to pic- 
 ture her earthly surroundings. She had gone 
 from them to unknown regions. He did not 
 struggle against this idealizing process. He 
 flattered himself that through it his passion 
 would fade into a tender memory, and was sur- 
 prised to find fierce gusts of emotion occasion- 
 ally sweep over him. He strove to believe that 
 it was best that circumstances had ai'bitrarily 
 closed the affair, since, had it been left to him 
 further to determine events, she must have been 
 the chief victim of any mistake he made. It 
 was perhaps a little significant, however, that he 
 took pains to ascertain the name of the Cana- 
 dian town to which Beauvais had gone. He 
 did not act on this information when obtained, 
 but threw up his practice, and went with friends 
 to the Adirondacks. 
 
 One night in early September, at about 
 eleven o'clock, Valentine was driven rapidly 
 up to the station at Mountain Junction. He 
 jumped from the buckboard, lifted down his 
 portmanteau, watched the driver turn his 
 horses, then went into the waiting-room, and 
 found no one there but the red-bearded night 
 agent. Valentine was on his way to meet Miss 
 Jeffreys and her father, and go with them deep 
 into Maine. He stepped up to make some in- 
 quiries of the agent, and was told that his train
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 313 
 
 was an hour late. He received the information 
 with a whistle, deposited his valise on a settee, 
 and walked to the door of the ladies' waiting- 
 room. 
 
 A girl sat near the farthest window. She 
 was dressed in black, and her hair was knotted 
 in the back of her neck. He could see the line 
 of her averted cheek, and had a glimpse of her 
 ear and throat. His heart leaped. 
 
 "What a fool I am!" he muttered, and ad- 
 vanced a step. She turned at the sound, and 
 he saw that it was Rose Beauvais who looked at 
 him, her pale, clear face, her dark eyes, gleam- 
 ing as they had so often gleamed upon his fancy. 
 It seemed another midnight dream. 
 
 " Rose ! " he said. 
 
 She did not speak, but kept her eyes fixed on 
 him till the slow tears filled them. 
 
 He took her in his arms. " What is it ? " he 
 murmured, trying to hold her, but she slipped 
 from him, and sat down and cried again. 
 
 "I silly," she said at last, struggling for 
 self-control, and looking like Celia, as she strug- 
 gled. 
 
 " How came you here ? " he demanded, hang- 
 ing over her, aching to caress her. 
 
 When she could speak, she told him. She 
 had been visiting an aunt in the States, had not 
 accompanied her family to Canada, was on her
 
 314 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 way alone to rejoin them. The train in which 
 she came arrived at Mountain Junction at three 
 o'clock in the previous afternoon. She got out 
 to change cars, felt ill, fainted in the waiting- 
 room, and lost her train. There would not 
 come another which she could take till seven in 
 the morning. She knew of nothing to do but 
 stay there. Some rough men frightened her 
 in the earlier part of the evening, but the sta- 
 tion-master spoke to them. Now, she had been 
 alone for a number of hours. She spoke with 
 tremulous little gasps. 
 
 " I so lonesome," she said, " when you come 
 in, it startle me, and I cry." 
 
 He would have drawn her to him, but she 
 crept back into the corner of the seat. Then it 
 came over him with great force that the man 
 who will not love must respect. He rose hast- 
 ily, and went out on the platform. The agent 
 followed, anxious for conversation. After a 
 while Valentine looked again into the room. 
 Rose sat quite still, leaning forward a little, as 
 if listening to something, her hands, one of them 
 gloved, lying in her lap. A single swinging 
 lamp shed its yellow light on her. The young 
 man stamped as he turned away, and strode up 
 and down. The agent went back into his den 
 and settled himself for a nap. 
 
 The interminable minutes trailed by, till the
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 815 
 
 red-bearded man roused himself and the belated 
 express train came along. Valentine quietly 
 watched it arrive and depart. A tall, sham- 
 bling man was the sole passenger who alighted. 
 He was solemnly received by a man who had 
 come in a wagon, and they drove away together. 
 
 " That 's our minister," the agent said. " Ben 
 to bury his wife. I 'm durned sorry for him. 
 Was n't this your train ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Valentine, " but I have de- 
 cided to change my course." 
 
 The man peered at him with natural suspi- 
 cion. 
 
 " Can you send a telegram for me ? " asked 
 he, irritated by this scrutiny. The agent nod- 
 ded. Valentine went in and wrote. The dis- 
 patch was addressed to Miss Jeffreys, and con- 
 tained these words : " Delayed. Will write." 
 
 He seemed to see Miss Jeffreys' fair face as 
 he listened to the clicking that carried his mes- 
 sage. Then he went into the other room. It 
 was empty, but in a moment Rose came in from 
 out-doors, holding her hands tightly locked to- 
 gether. She started violently at sight of him. 
 " I thought you gone," she said. " I saw the 
 train go by." 
 
 He smiled down at her. " I could not leave 
 you to stay here alone. You might get fright- 
 ened again. I shall take another train to-mor- 
 row."
 
 316 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 She clenched her hands harder than before, 
 and her color carne and went. He made her sit 
 down. 
 
 "What are you going to do in Canada?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " I go to my aunt in the convent," she said. 
 " I go to school there." 
 
 He leaned forward surprised. " But you will 
 not be a nun ? " he protested. 
 
 " Not now, not at first. But after a while, 
 why not ? My aunt say she happy. I not like 
 things, going about, dancing. Oh, no. I want 
 to be happy. I will try her way. Why not ? " 
 
 Why not, indeed ? Valentine could not say. 
 
 At last, he urged her to try to sleep. With 
 gentle courtesy he arranged his overcoat and 
 made her a pillow. She obeyed him with weary 
 submissiveness. When she laid down her head, 
 he bent over and smiled in her trusting eyes. 
 They drooped and closed under his. 
 
 He left her, rejoiced to see that the scrawny 
 custodian was again asleep in the other room, 
 went out, and paced back and forth under the 
 sky. Sometimes he returned to the door, to see 
 if Rose was safe, but he dared not go near her. 
 Pain and passion filled his soul. A nun ! That 
 child, with those unfathomable eyes ! Up and 
 down, up and down, he walked. When he had 
 let his train go on without him, his only con-
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 317 
 
 scious intention had been to stay near and guard 
 her through the night, but now all intention 
 was whirled away in the trouble of his mind. 
 All the elements of his life rushed in turmoil 
 about his imagination. He ached in every 
 pulse, and set his teeth, wrestling like an ath- 
 lete with himself. 
 
 Sometimes the agent waked, prompt to do 
 some duty. Thrice a train whizzed by. Val- 
 entine kept on his walk. He dared not stop. 
 Some horror seemed waiting to clutch him if he 
 stopped. He remembered that in old times a 
 young man kept vigil for a night before he re- 
 ceived his spurs. It occurred to him as a sort 
 of mocking fantasy that this autumn night was 
 his vigil. He stared at the stars, and called 
 on God for help in his extremity. The hours 
 dragged slow as torturing wheels might revolve. 
 How long she slept, how peacefully ! 
 
 The whole of wisdom and virtue is seldom 
 gained in one struggle, however sore it be. Per- 
 haps it did not augur very ill for Valentine's 
 future, if out of this vigil he brought only his 
 honor. 
 
 In the early dawn Rose woke, and sat up, 
 confusedly looking about her. There was bus- 
 tle in the station now, and many people were 
 moving here and there. She started gladly to- 
 wards Valentine, when she saw him enter the
 
 318 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 door. He was very pale, but he smiled at sight 
 of her, and led her out to get some breakfast at 
 a very scantily furnished booth in another room. 
 
 When, a little later, the train which she was 
 to take arrived, he entered it with her. He 
 had not explained his purpose to her, nor had 
 he defined it to himself. He acted almost with- 
 out volition or conscious intelligence, like a per- 
 son who had been drugged. All that he did 
 seemed unreal to him, yet underneath the stu- 
 por of his mind he must have had some idea of 
 the end towards which all his actions tended. 
 Certain it is that after he had carried Rose to 
 her home he took her away again, without the 
 delay of a single hour more than was necessary 
 for the ceremonies that made her his wife. This 
 desperate deed accomplished, the dreamy torpor 
 rolled slowly from his brain, and he felt that 
 real life was closing in around him once more. 
 
 He had borne the contact with the Beauvais 
 family as best he might. It did not affect him 
 much in his peculiar mental condition, but 
 something in Celia impressed him, as it had al- 
 ways impressed him, in a way that promised 
 possible satisfaction in any relation to her, 
 should there ever come some simple but vital 
 need of help in his life and Rose's. Of his own 
 friends, he saw only his mother and sister, be- 
 fore sailing with his wife for Europe. Every-
 
 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 819 
 
 body else except Miss Jeffreys ignored his ex- 
 traordinary marriage. She wrote him a kind, 
 regretful letter. As nearly as he could, he told 
 his mother the whole story. 
 
 "Ob, Jack," she groaned, "that you should 
 have risked all your life on such a chance ! " 
 
 " I suppose it is a chance," he answered, " but 
 it is one that has overwhelmed me." 
 
 On the day her son was to sail, the mother 
 saw Rose for a single hour. She went to the 
 meeting with intolerable repugnance. The girl 
 was daintily clad in a manner that heightened 
 the delicacy of her appearance. There was 
 something so pathetic in her strange beauty, in 
 the puzzled look in her dark eyes, in the dumb 
 devotion with which they met the tenderness in 
 Valentine's gaze, that the mother's heart was 
 softened and eased of some of its pain. She re- 
 flected that she had known many marriages in 
 which the obstacles to happiness, if less obvi- 
 ous, had not been less real, than in this case, 
 and some of them had not turned out badly ; 
 but then, alas, this marriage was her own son's, 
 and that made it a more serious matter. 
 
 When they bade each other farewell, Valen- 
 tine put his hand on his bride's shoulder. 
 
 "I shall not bring her back," he said, " till I 
 know my fate ; but I am not afraid." 
 
 Rose looked up, wondering what he meant ;
 
 320 VALENTINE'S CHANCE. 
 
 then suddenly took his hand off her shoulder 
 and held it in her own. She turned to the 
 other woman in her old calm, frank way, and 
 said, taking great pains to pronounce cor- 
 rectly, 
 
 " He is very good to me. We are happy." 
 "Oh, God keep you so!" cried the mother 
 through quick tears.
 
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