gXOOODOQOQOQOOOOQOQOQOSCg 
 
 FOURTEEN 
 TO ONE 
 
 ELIZABETH • STUART • PHELPS
 
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 3 / H-':^.
 
 hoofed bp eu^afaetb Stuart Pbelps. 
 
 (MRS. WARD.) 
 
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 AN OLD MAID'S PARADISE and BURGLARS IN PARA- 
 
 DiSE. i6mo, $1.25. 
 THE MASTER OF THE MAGICIANS. Collaborated with 
 
 Herbekt D. Ward. i6mo, }i.2s- 
 COME FORTH! Collaborated with Herbert D.Ward. 
 
 i6mo, $1.25. 
 
 The above 13 volumes, uniform, $17.50. 
 
 FOURTEEN TO ONE. Short Stories. i6mo. 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY, 
 Boston and New York.
 
 FOURTEEN TO ONE 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS 
 
 <^ 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 1891
 
 Copyright, 1891, 
 By ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Biverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A, 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 FAOE 
 
 Fourteen to Oke 1 
 
 The Bell of St. Basil's 35 
 
 Shut In 66 
 
 Jack the Fisherman 100 
 
 The Madonna of the Tubs 150 
 
 A Brave Deed 202 
 
 The Sacrifice of Antigone 231 
 
 Sweet Home 247 
 
 Too Late « . 278 
 
 The Reverend Malachi JVIatthew .... 323 
 
 His Relict 346 
 
 Mary Elizabeth 370 
 
 Annie Laurie 381 
 
 The Law and the Gospel 421
 
 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 
 
 There are certain situations inherently too pre- 
 posterous for fiction; the very telling of them in- 
 volves the presumption of fact. No writer with any 
 regard for his literary reputation would invent such 
 a tale as that which I am about to relate. The 
 reader will agree with me, I think, that the conclu- 
 sive events of the story are but another evidence 
 that truth is the most amazing thing in the world. 
 For reasons which will be sufficiently obvious, I shall 
 not make use of authentic names of either the per- 
 sons or the localities involved in the recital of one of 
 the most thrilling incidents in modern American his- 
 tory, but fold them in the film of fiction necessary to 
 their presentation. I use the word history accord- 
 ing to the best of my knowledge and belief. For 
 that portion of the tale which is offered as such, my 
 main witness is dead. I can only say that the testi- 
 mony satisfied myself. My readers are at liberty to 
 accept or refuse it as they choose. With this prefa- 
 tory word, which may give force to the narrative, I 
 need only proceed to record the circumstances. 
 
 The Eeverend Mr. Matthews was hitching up his 
 horse to go to the post-office. The horse was old ; 
 the man was old. The horse was gray ; so was the
 
 2 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 
 
 man. The wagon was well worn of its paint, which 
 was once a worldly blue, and the wheels sprawled 
 at the axles like a decrepit old person going bow- 
 legged from age. The Reverend Mr. Matthews did 
 not use the saddle, according to the custom of the 
 region ; he was lame and found it difficult to mount. 
 
 It was a chilly day, and what was once a buffalo 
 robe lay across the wagon seat ; a few tufts of hair 
 remained upon the bare skin, but it was neatly lined 
 with a woman's shawl — an old plaid, originally com- 
 bining more colors than a rag mat, but now faded to 
 a vague general dinginess which would recommend 
 it to the " low tone " of modern art. The harness 
 was as old as the buffalo robe, as old as the shawl, 
 as old as the horse, one might venture to say as old 
 as the man. It had been patched, and mended, and 
 lapped, and strapped, and tied, past the ingenuity of 
 any but the very poor, and the really intelligent ; it 
 was expected to drop to pieces at the mildest provo- 
 cation, and the driver was supposed to clamber down 
 over the bow-legged wheels and tie it up again, which 
 he always did, and always patiently. He was a very 
 patient old man ; but there was a spark in his dim 
 blue eye. 
 
 The reins, which he took firmly enough in his bare 
 hands, were of rope, by the way. He could not go 
 to the post-office on Mondays because his wife had 
 to use the clothes-line. He felt it a special dispen- 
 sation of Providence that women did not wash on 
 Saturdays, when his number of " Zion's Herald " was 
 due. 
 
 She came out of the house when he had harnessed, 
 and stood Avith her hands wrapped in her little black-
 
 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 3 
 
 and-white checked slioulder shawl, watching him 
 with eyes where thirty years, of married love dwelt 
 gently. Something sharper than love crossed her 
 thin face in long lines ; she had an expression of 
 habitual anxiety refined to feminine acuteness ; for 
 it was the year 1870, and it was — let us call it, since 
 we must call it something, the State of Kennessee. 
 
 Mrs. Matthews stood in that portion of the house 
 which Kennessee does not call a loggia, neither is it 
 a porch, a piazza, or a hall. It results from the dual 
 division of the house, which rises on each side, unit- 
 ing in one boarded roof and a loft. Two chimneys 
 of stone or of clay, according to the social status of 
 the owner, flank the house on each side. The Eev. 
 Mr. Matthews's chimneys were of clay, for he was 
 a minister of the Methodist faith. His house was 
 built of logs ; through the space which cut the build- 
 ing the chickens walked critically, like boarders dis- 
 cussing their dinner. The domestic dwelling of a 
 comfortable pig could be seen in the background. 
 There were sheds, and something resembling a barn 
 for the horse. All were scrupulously neat. Behind, 
 the mountains towered and had a dark expression. 
 A clear sky burned above, but one had to look for it, 
 it was so far, and there seemed so small an allowance 
 of it — so much of the State of Kennessee ; so little 
 of heaven. 
 
 " Are you going to the post-office ? " asked ]\Irs. 
 Matthews, softly. She knew perfectly well, but she 
 always asked ; he always answered. If it gave her 
 pleasure to inquire, he reasoned, Avhy not ? 
 
 " Yes, Deborah," said the old man, briskly. " Want 
 to go ? "
 
 4 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 
 
 " I don't know. Is Hezekiah tuckered out ? " 
 
 " Hezekiah is as spry as a cliipmunk," returned 
 the minister, confidently. Kow Hezekiah was the 
 horse, and thirty-one years old. He received this 
 astonishing tribute with a slow revolution of his best 
 eye (for he was blind in the other, but no one ever 
 mentioned the fact in Hezekiah's presence) which 
 might have passed for that superior effort of intelli- 
 gence known on]j to the human race, and vulgarly 
 called a wink. 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Matthews, doubtfully, " I don't 
 know 's I '11 go." 
 
 She pronounced these words with marked, almost 
 painful, hesitation, in an accent foreign to her en- 
 vironment. Her movements and dress were after 
 the manner of Kennessee ; but her speech was the 
 speech of New Hampshire. They had been North- 
 erners thirty years ago. Weak lungs brought him 
 and these mountain parishes kept him. His useful- 
 ness had been so obvious, that his bishop had never 
 shifted him far, reappointing him from term to term 
 within a twenty -mile circuit among those barren 
 fields. The situation was exceptional, the bishop 
 said ; at all events, he had chosen so to treat it. 
 Thirty years — and such years ! — seemed a long 
 time to stay true to the traditions of youth and a 
 flag. The parishioners and people whom, for cour- 
 tesy, one called one's neighbors in those desolate, 
 divided mountain homes, expressed themselves vari- 
 ously upon the parson's loyalty to the national cause. 
 The Border State indecision had murmured about 
 him critically, for the immediate region had flashed 
 during the civil war, and remained sulky still.
 
 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 5 
 
 The Confederacy had never lacked friends in that 
 township. Of late the murmur had become a mut- 
 ter. The parson had given offense. He had preached 
 a sermon treating of certain disorders which had be- 
 come historic, for which the village and valley had 
 acquired unenviable notoriety, and which they were 
 slower than some other sections in abandoning, 
 now that the civil situation supposed them to have 
 done so. 
 
 "If I thought I could prevent anything," pro- 
 ceeded Mrs. Matthews anxiously, " I 'd — I 'd — I 
 don't know but I 'd go. Are you goin' to hold the 
 meetin', after all ? " 
 
 " Certainly," replied the minister, lifting his head. 
 " I shall dispense the Word as usual." 
 
 " Well," said his wife sadly, — " well, I s'pose you 
 will. I might have known. But I hoped you 'd put 
 it off. I was afraid to ask you. I can't help wor- 
 ryin'. I don't know but I'll go, too. I can get my 
 bunnet on in a minute." 
 
 Her husband hesitated perceptibly. He did not 
 tell her that he was afraid to take her ; that he was 
 almost equally afraid to leave her. He said : — 
 
 " The lock of the back door is n't mended yet ; I 
 » don't know but things need watching. That speckled 
 bantam 's dreadfully afraid of weasels when she 's 
 setting ; I don't know 's I blame her." 
 
 "Well," returned the old lady with a sigh, "I 
 don't know but you 're right. If it 's the Lord's will 
 I should stay at home and shoo weasels, I s'pose he 
 can look after you without my help, if he has a mind 
 to. Will you take the sweet potatoes along ? There 's 
 a bushel and a half; and two dozen eggs."
 
 6 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 
 
 The two old people loaded the wagon together, 
 rather silently. Nothing further was said about the 
 prayer-meeting. Neither alluded to danger. They 
 spoke of the price of potatoes and chickens. The 
 times were too stern to be spendthrift in emotion. 
 One might be lavish of anything else ; but one had 
 to economize in feeling, and be a miser in its expres- 
 sion. When the parson was ready to start he kissed 
 his wife, and said : — 
 
 " Good-by, Deborah." 
 
 And she said, " Good-by, Levi." 
 
 Then she said : " Let me tuck you up a little. The 
 buffalo ain't in." 
 
 She tucked the old robe about the old legs with 
 painstaking, motherly thoroughness, as if he had 
 been a boy going to bed. She said how glad she was 
 she had that nice shawl to line it. 
 
 " Thank you, Deborah. Keep the doors locked, 
 won't you ? And I would n't run out much till I 
 get back." 
 
 " No, I don't know 's I will. Have you got your 
 lantern ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And your pistol ? " 
 
 "No." I 
 
 " Ain't you going to take it ? " 
 
 " No, Deborah ; I 've decided not to. Besides, it 's 
 a rusty old affair. It would n't do much." 
 
 " You '11 get home by nine, won't you ? " she 
 pleaded, lifting her withered cheek over the high, 
 muddy wheel. For a moment those lines of anxiety 
 seemed to grow corrosive, as if they would eat her 
 face out.
 
 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 7 
 
 " Or quarter-past," said the parson, cheerfully. 
 '' But don't worry if I 'm not here till half-past." 
 
 Hezekiah took occasion to start at this point ; he 
 was an experienced horse ; he knew when a conver- 
 sation had lasted long enough at the parting of hus- 
 band and wife, in 1870, and in Kennessee, No horse 
 with two eyes could see as much as Hezekiah. This 
 was understood in the family. 
 
 A rickety, rocky path, about four feet wide, called 
 by courtesy " The Eoad," wound away from the par- 
 sonage. The cornfield grew to it on each side. The 
 tall stalks, some of them ten feet high, stood dead 
 and stark, shivering in the rising wind. The old 
 man drove into them. They closed about his gray 
 head. Only the rear of the muddy blue wagon was 
 visible between the husks. 
 
 " Levi ! Levi ! I want to ask a question." 
 
 She could hear the bow-legged wheels come to a 
 lame halt ; but she could not see him. He called 
 through the corn in his patient voice : — 
 
 " Well, well ! What is it ? Ask away, Deborah." 
 
 " What time shall I begin to worry, Levi ? " 
 
 To this essentially feminine inquiry silence an- 
 swered significantly : — 
 
 " My dear," said the invisible husband after a long 
 pause, " perhaps by ten — or half past. Or suppose 
 we say eleven." 
 
 She ran out into the corn to see him. It seemed 
 to her, siiddenly, as if she should strangle to death if 
 she did not see him once more. But she did not call, 
 and he did not know that she was there. She ran 
 on, gathering up her chocolate-colored calico dress, 
 and wrapping her checked shawl about her head ner-
 
 8 FOUliTEEN TO ONE. 
 
 vously. At the turn of the path there was a prickly- 
 locust tree. It had been burnt to make way for 
 crops after the fashion of the country, which is too 
 indolent to hew ; it had not been well burned, and 
 one long, strong limb stretched out like an arm ; it 
 was black, and seemed to point at the old man as he 
 disappeared around the twist in the path where the 
 returning-valley curved in, and the passenger found 
 a way to the highway. The parson was singing. 
 His voice came back on the wind : — 
 
 " How firm a foun-d^-tion, ye sa-aints of the Lo-ord ! " 
 
 She wiped the tears from her eyes and came back 
 through the corn, slowly; all her withered figure 
 drooped. 
 
 " I don't know but I 'd ought to have perked up 
 and gone with him," she said aloud, plaintively. 
 
 She stood in the house-place, among the chickens, 
 for a few minutes, looking out. She was used, like 
 other women in that desolate country, to being left 
 much alone. Those terrible four years from '61 to 
 '65 had taught her, she used to think, all the lessons 
 that danger and solitude can teach ; but she was 
 learning new, now. Peace had brought anything, 
 everything, but security. She was a good deal of a 
 woman, as the phrase goes, with a set strong Yan- 
 kee mouth. Life had never dealt so easily with her 
 that she expected anything of it ; it had given her 
 no chance to become what women call " timid." 
 Yet as she stood looking through the stark corn on 
 that cold gray day she shook Avith a kind of horror. 
 
 AVomen know what it is — this ague of the heart 
 which follows the absent beloved. The safest lives
 
 FOUETEEN TO ONE. 9 
 
 experience it, in chills of real foresight, or fevers of 
 the imagination. Deborah Matthews lived in the lap 
 of daily dangers that had not alienated her good 
 sense, nor suffocated that sweet, persistent trust in 
 the nature of things, call it feminine or religious, 
 which is the most amazing fact in human life ; but 
 sometimes it seemed to her as if her soul were turn- 
 ing stiff, as flesh does from fear. 
 
 " If this goes on long enough, I shall die of it," 
 she said. " He will come home some day, and I shall 
 be dead of listenin', and shiverin', and prayin' to 
 Mercy for him. Prayer is Scripture, I suppose, and 
 I have n't anythin' against it ; but folks can die of 
 too much prayin', as well as a gallopin' consumption 
 or the shakes." 
 
 Only the chickens heard her, however, and they 
 responded Avith critical clucks, like church members 
 who thought her heretical. Since chickens consti- 
 tuted her duties, she would gratify Heaven and 
 divert her mind by going out to see the setting ban- 
 tam ; who took her for a weasel and protested vio- 
 lently. 
 
 Mrs. Matthews came^back to the house indefinably 
 comforted, in a spiritual wa}', by this secular inter- 
 ruption, and prepared to lock up carefully, as her 
 husband had bidden her. It was necessary to look 
 after all the creatures first : the critical chickens, 
 the comfortable pig, the gaunt cow, and the Eooster, 
 for whom, as- he was but one, and had all the lordli- 
 ness of his race, and invariably ran away from her, 
 and never came till he got ready, Mrs. Matthews had 
 a marked respect, and thought of him as spelled 
 with a capital. It took a great while that evening
 
 10 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 
 
 to get the Kooster into the pen, and while her fem- 
 inine coax and his masculine crow ricoehetted about 
 the cornfield, the old lady cast a sharp, watchful e3'e 
 all over the premises and their vicinity. Silence 
 and solitude responded to her. No intrusion or in- 
 truder gave sign. The mountain seemed to overlook 
 the house pompously, as a thing too small to pro- 
 tect. The valley had a stealthy look, as if it were 
 creeping up to her. The day was darkening fast. 
 The gloom of its decline came on with the abrupt- 
 ness of a mountain region, and the world seemed 
 suddenly to shrink away from the lonely spot and 
 forget it. 
 
 Mrs. Matthews, when she had locked up the ani- 
 mals with difficulty, deference, or fear, according to 
 their respective temperaments, fastened the doors 
 and windows of the house carefully, and looked at 
 the clock. It was half-past six. She took off her 
 muddy rubbers, brushed them neatly, folded away 
 her shawl, and started the fire economically. She 
 must have a cup of tea ; but supper should wait for 
 Levi, who needed something solid after Friday even- 
 ing meeting. She busied herself with these details 
 assiduously. Her life was what we might call large 
 with trifles ; she made the most of them ; there was 
 nothing better that she knew of to keep great anxi- 
 eties out of the head and sickening terrors out of 
 the heart. 
 
 There was one thing, to be sure : Mrs. Matthews 
 called it faith in providence. The parson's wife 
 had her share of it, but it took on practical, often 
 secular, forms. Sometimes she prayed aloud, as she 
 sat there alone, quaking in every nerve. Sometimes
 
 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 11 
 
 slie pitched her shrill old voice, as she did to-day, 
 several notes above the key, and sang : — 
 
 " How firm a foun-da-tion, ye sa-aints of the Lo-ord! 
 Is laid for your fa-aith in his ex-cellent word! " 
 
 But she locked the house up before she sang. She 
 made her tea, too, and drank it. 
 
 " I ahvays feel t® get a better spiritual attitude," 
 she used to say, " when I 've had my cup of tea." 
 
 The house was so neat that its rudeness became a 
 kind of daintiness to the eye ; and the trim old lady, 
 in her chocolate calico with its strip of a ruffle at 
 throat and wrists, sat before the fireplace, meditative 
 and sweet, like a priestess before an altar. She used 
 to hate that fireplace with hot New Hampshire 
 hatred — the kettle, the crane, and all the barbarous 
 ways of managing; but she had contrived to get 
 used to it now. It was the dream of her life to save 
 money enough to freight a good J^orthern cook-stove 
 over from Chattanooga. But she expected to die 
 without it. The room winked brightly with shiny 
 tin-ware hung above the fireplace, and chintz cur- 
 tains at the windows. There were hollyhocks on the 
 curtains which seemed like Xew Hampshire, if you 
 made believe very much. There was a centre-table 
 with a very old red and black tablecloth of the fash- 
 ion of fifty years ago. The minister's writing mate- 
 rials adorned this table — his tall inkstand, with its 
 oxidized silver top : his first parish in New Hamp- 
 shire gave him that inkstand, at a donation party, in 
 a sleet storm one January night, with a barrel of 
 flour and a bushel of potatoes. Beside the inkstand 
 lay his quill pen, sharpened with the precision of a
 
 12 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 
 
 man who does not do much writing ; the cheap, blue- 
 ruled letter paper, a quire of it ; and the sacred ser- 
 mon paper Avhich Mrs. Matthews would not have 
 touched for her life ; she would as soon have touched 
 the sermons. These were carefully packed away in 
 the corner in a barrel covered with turkey-red and 
 surmounted with a board top. The family Bible lay 
 on the board. 
 
 Above rose the minister's " library." This was a 
 serious affair, greatly respected in the parish and 
 adored by the minister's wife. It took at least three 
 poplar shelves, stained by Mr. IMatthews's own hand 
 and a borrowed paint-brush, to hold that library. 
 Upon the lower shelf the family clock ticked 
 solemnly, flanked by Cruden's Concordance and 
 Worcester's Dictionary. For neighbors to these 
 there were two odd volumes of an ancient encyclo- 
 pedia, the letters unfortunately slipjjing from A 
 to Z without immediate alphabetical connection. 
 Upon such subjects, for instance, as alchemy or 
 zoulogy, the minister was known to have shown a 
 crushing scholarship, which was not strictly main- 
 tained upon all topics. Barnes's Notes on Matthew 
 occupied a decorous position in the library. The 
 life of John Wesley, worn to tatters and covered 
 with a neat brown-paper grocery-bag, overflowed into 
 two octavo volumes, which, after all, had the com- 
 fortable, knowing look of a biography which treats 
 of a successful life-experience, opulent in fact and 
 feeling, alert and happy. Beside the shriveled ca- 
 reer of this humble disciple, what a story ! 
 
 The History of New Hampshire stood beside John 
 Wesley. A map of the State of Kennessee sur-
 
 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 13 
 
 mounted the library. For the rest, the shelves were 
 fatly filled with iiled copies of " Ziou's Herald " and 
 a Chattanooga weekly. 
 
 There was an old lounge in the room, home-made, 
 covered with a calico comforter and a dyed brown 
 shawl. The minister's slippers lay beside it ; they 
 were of felt, and she had made them. This lounge 
 was Mr. Matthews's own particular resting-place 
 when the roads were rough or the meeting late. If 
 he were very late, and she grew anxious, his wife 
 went up and stroked the lounge sometimes. 
 
 Their bedroom opened across the house-place from 
 the living-room. It held a white bed, with posts, 
 and old white curtains much darned. Mrs. Mat- 
 thews's Bible lay on a table beside the bed. The 
 room v/as destitute of furniture or ornaments, bvit it 
 had a rag carpet and a fireplace. When Mr. Mat- 
 thews had a sore throat and it was very cold they 
 had a fire to go to bed by. That was delightful. 
 
 When Mrs. Matthews had taken her cup of tea 
 and sung " How firm a foundation " till she was 
 afraid she should be tired of it, which struck her as 
 an impiety to be avoided, she walked about the 
 house looking at everything, crossing from room to 
 room, and looking cautiously after her. It was very 
 still. 
 
 It was almost deadly still. How long the even- 
 ing ! Seven — eight — half-past eight o'clock. She 
 tried to sew a little, mending his old coat. She 
 tried to read the religious news in " Zion's Herald ; " 
 this failing, she even ventured on the funny column, 
 for it was not Sunday. But nothing amused her. 
 Life did not strike her as funny, that night. She
 
 14 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 
 
 folded the coat, she folded the paper, she got up and 
 walked, and walked again. 
 
 Pretty little home ! She looked it over tenderly. 
 How she loved it. How he loved it. What years 
 had they groAvn to it, day by busy day, night by 
 quiet night. What work, what sorrow, what joy 
 and anxiety, what economy, what comfort, what long, 
 healthy, happy sleep had they shared in it ! As she 
 passed before the fire, casting tall shadows on the 
 chintz curtains, she began to sing again, shrilly : — 
 
 " Home — home, dear, dear home ! " 
 
 Nine o'clock. Yes, nine ; for the rickety old clock 
 on the library shelf said so, distinctly. It was time 
 to stop pacing the room ; it was time to stop being 
 anxious and thinking of everything to keep one's 
 courage up ; it was time to put the johnny-cake on 
 and start the coffee ; he would be hungry, as men- 
 folks ought to be ; God made 'em so. It was time 
 to peep between the hollyhock curtains and put her 
 hands against her eyes, and peer out across the corn- 
 field. It was time to grow nervous, and restless, and 
 flushed, and happy. It was not time, thank God, to 
 worry. 
 
 The color came to her withered cheek. She was 
 handsomer as an old lady than she had been as a 
 young one, and the happier she grew the better she 
 looked, like all women, young or old. She bustled 
 about, with neat, housewifely fussiness. She knew 
 that her husband thanked Heaven for her jSTew Eng- 
 land home-craft — none of your ''easy" Southern 
 housekeeping for Levi Matthews. What would have 
 become of the man ? As she worked, she sang un- 
 consciously, " Dear, clean home ! "
 
 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 15 
 
 The johnny-cake was baking briskly. The can- 
 dles were lighted. The coffee Avas stirred, and set- 
 tled with the shell of an egg ; it was ready to boil. 
 It was quarter-past nine. Mrs. Matthews's head grew 
 a little muddled from excitement. She began again 
 at the top of her voice : 
 
 " How fimi a f oun-da-tion, ye sa-aints of the Lo-ord ! 
 Is laid for your f a-aith in an ex-cellent home ! ' ' 
 
 The clock wedged betAveen the concordance and 
 the dictionary struck half-past nine Avith an ecclesi- 
 astical tone ; dogmatically, as if to insist on the 
 point as a tenet on Avhich she had been skeptical. 
 
 Mrs. MatthcAvs stopped singing. She went to the 
 windoAV. The coffee was boiling over. The corn- 
 cake was done brown. She pulled aside the cur- 
 tain uneasily. The pine-wood fire flared, and blinded 
 her with a great outburst of light. She could see 
 nothing Avithout, and stood for a moment dazzled. 
 Then she began to look intently, and so accustomed 
 her eyes to the masses of shadow and the lines of 
 form outside. The road wound away abruptly, lost 
 in the darkness like a river dashed into the sea. The 
 cornstalks closed over it, stark and sear ; she opened 
 the AvindoAv a little and heard them rustle, as if they 
 Avere discussing something in Avhispers. AboA'e the 
 corn shot the gaunt arm of the prickly locust, 
 burned and bare. The outlines of the mountain 
 Avere invisible. The valley Avas sunk in the night. 
 Nothing else Avas to be seen. 
 
 As she leaned, listening for the sedate hoofs of 
 old Hezekiah, or the lame rumble of the blue wagon 
 wheels, the Eooster uttered from his pen a piercing 
 crow, and the bantam hen responded with an anx- 
 ious cluck.
 
 16 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 
 
 She could have killed either of these garrulous 
 members of her family for the interruption. The 
 chickens always crowed when she was listening for 
 Mr. ]\Iatthews. When the irritating sounds had 
 died away on the damp air with long, wavering 
 echoes, a silence that was indescribably appalling 
 settled about the place. Nothing broke it. Even 
 the cornstalks stopped. After a significant pause 
 they began again ; they seemed to raise their voices 
 in agitation. 
 
 " What in the world are they talkin' about ? " she 
 said impatiently. She shut the wdndow, and came 
 back into the middle of the room. The corn-cake 
 was burning. The coffee must be set oif. The sup- 
 per would be spoiled. She looked at the Methodist 
 clock. Mr. Cruden and the Eev. John Wesley 
 seemed to exchange glances over its head, and hers. 
 It lacked seven minutes of ten. 
 
 " But it is n't time to worry yet ! " 
 
 The woman and the clock faced each other. She 
 sat down before it. What was the use in freezing 
 at the window, to hear the Rooster, and the talking 
 corn ? She and the clock would have it out. She 
 crossed her work-worn hands upon her chocolate 
 calico lap and looked the thing in the eye. 
 
 What a superior, supercilious clock ! What a the- 
 ological, controversial clock ! Was there even a 
 clock so conscious of its spiritual advantages ? So 
 sure it knew the vrill of the Almighty ? So confi- 
 dent of being right about everything ? So deter- 
 mined to be up and at it, to say it all, to insist upon 
 it, to rub it in ? 
 
 Five minutes before ten — three — two. Ten
 
 FOURTEEN TO ONE. ^ 17 
 
 o'clock. Ten o'clock, said in a loud, clerical tone, as 
 if it were repeating ten of the Thirty-nine Articles 
 to a Bishop. 
 
 " But, oh, not quite time to worry yet ! " Ten 
 minutes past. A quarter past. Twenty minutes. 
 The woman and the clock eyed each other like duel- 
 ists. Twenty -five minutes past ten. Half -past — 
 Deborah Matthews gasped for breath. She turned 
 her back on the clock and dashed up the window 
 full-length. 
 
 The night seemed blacker than ever. A cloud had 
 rolled solemnly over the mountain, and hung darkly 
 above the house. The stalks of corn looked like 
 corpses. But they talked like living beings still. 
 They put their heads together and nodded. As she 
 leaned out, trembling and panting, a flash of unsea^ 
 sonable lightning darted and shot ; it revealed the 
 arm of the locust tree pointing down the road. A 
 low mutter of distant thunder followed; it rolled 
 away, and lapsed into a stillness that shook her soul. 
 
 She came back to her chair in the middle of the 
 room, by the centre-table. The final struggle with 
 hope had set in. It seemed as if the clock knew this 
 as well as she. The ticking filled her ears, her 
 brain, her veins, her being. It seemed to fill the 
 world. 
 
 Half-past ten. It was as if some spirit appealed 
 to the minister's clock : Oh, tell her so softly ! Say 
 so, gently as religious love, though you be stern to 
 your duty as religious law. Twenty-five minutes of 
 eleven — a quarter of — 
 
 The woman has ceased to look the clock in the 
 eye. It has conquered her, poor thing ; and, now
 
 18 FOUETEEN TO ONE. 
 
 that it has, seems sorry for her, and ticks tenderly, 
 as if it would turn back an hour if it could. Her 
 head has dropped into her hands ; her hands to her 
 knees ; her body to the floor. Buried in the cushions 
 of the old rocking-chair, her face is invisible. Her 
 hands have lifted themselves to her ears, which they 
 press violently. She herself lies crouched like a 
 murdered thing upon the floor. 
 
 Eleven o'clock. She must not, can not, will not 
 bear it. Eleven o'clock. She miist, she can, she 
 shall. Past all feminine fright and nervousness, 
 past all fancy, and waste of weak vision, and prodi- 
 gal anxiety, past all doubt, or hope, or dispute, it is 
 time to worry now. 
 
 Deborah Matthews, when it had come to this, 
 sprang to her feet, gave one piteous, beaten look at 
 the clock, then stayed to look at nothing more. She 
 flung open the door, not delaying to lock it be- 
 hind her, and dashed out. She Avas as wild as a girl, 
 and almost as agile. She ran over the rocks, and 
 slipped in the mud, and sunk in the holes, and pushed 
 into the cornfield, and thrust out her hands before 
 her to brush the stalks away, and stood for a moment 
 to get her breath underneath the locust tree. How 
 persistently, how solemnly, that black arm pointed 
 down the path. She felt like kneeling to it, as if it 
 were an offended deity. All the Pagan in her 
 stirred. Suddenly the Christian rose and wrestled 
 with it. 
 
 " Lord have mercy ! " she moaned. " He 's my 
 husband. We 've been married thirty years." 
 
 " Hain't I prayed enough ? " she sobbed, sinking 
 on her knees, in the mud, among the corn. " Hain't
 
 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 19 
 
 I said all there's any sense in sayin' to thee? 
 What 's the use in pesterin' God ? But, oh, to 
 mercy, if thou couldst take the trouble to understand 
 what it is to be married — thirty years — and to set 
 here in the cornfield lookin' for a murdered husband. 
 He can't," said Deborah Matthews, abruptly starting 
 to her feet. " God ain't a woman. It ain't in na- 
 ture. He ca?2.'^ understand." 
 
 She pushed on, past the burned trees and out to- 
 wards the highway. It was very dark. It was 
 deadly lonely. It was as still as horror. Oh, 
 there — 
 
 What tidings ? For good or for ill, they had 
 come at last. Deep in the distance the wheels of a 
 bow-legged wagon rumbled dully, and the hoofs of a 
 tired horse stumbled on the half-frozen ground. 
 Far down the road she could see, moving steadily, 
 a little sparkle, like a star. She dared not go to 
 meet it. 
 
 Friend or foe might bear the news. Let it come. 
 It must find her where she was. She covered her 
 face with her shawl, and stood like a court-martialed 
 soldier before the final shot. 
 
 " Deb-orah ? " 
 
 Far down the road the faint cry sounded. Nearer, 
 and advancing, the dear voice cried. He was used 
 to call to her so when he was late, that she might be 
 sure, and be spared all possible misery. He was in- 
 finitely tender with her. The Christianity of this 
 old minister began with the marriage tie. 
 
 " Deb-orah ? Deborah, my dear ? Don't be fright- 
 ened, Deborah. I 'm coming. I 've got home." 
 
 Kissing and clinging, laughing and sobbing, she
 
 20 FOUBTEEN TO ONE. 
 
 got him into the barn. Whether she clambered over 
 the wheels to him, or he sprang out to her, whether 
 she rode, or walked, or flew, she could not have told ; 
 nor, perhaps, could he. He was as pale as the dead 
 corn, and seemed dazed, stunned, unnatural to her 
 eye. Hezekiah probably knew better than either of 
 these two excited old people how they together got 
 his harness off, with shaking hands, and rolled the 
 wagon into the shed, and locked the outbuildings, 
 not forgetting the supper of the virtuous horse who 
 rests from his labors after fifteen miles on a Kennes- 
 see road, and at the age of thirty-one. 
 
 " Lock the doors," said the minister abruptly, 
 when they had gone into the house-place. "Lock 
 up everything. Take pains about it. Give me some- 
 thing to eat or drink, and don't ask a question till I 
 get rested." 
 
 His wife turned him about, full in the firelight, 
 gave one glance at his face, and obeyed him to the 
 letter. Perhaps, for the first time in her life, she 
 did not ask a question. His mouth had a drawn, 
 ghastly look, and his sunken eyes did not seem to 
 see her. She noticed that he limped more than 
 usual as he crossed the room to lay his old felt hat 
 on the barrel-top beneath the library. 
 
 " You are used up," she said ; " you are tuckered 
 out ! Here, drink your coffee, Levi. Here, I won't 
 talk to you. I won't say a word. Drink, Mr. Mat- 
 thews ; do, dear." 
 
 He drank in great gulps exhaustedly. When she 
 came up with the corn-cake, having turned her back 
 to dish it, she heard a little clicking sound, and saw 
 that his right hand closed over something which he 
 would have hidden from her.
 
 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 21 
 
 It was the old pistol ; he was loading it, rust and 
 all. The two looked at each other across the dis- 
 abled weapon. 
 
 *' It 's all we have," he said. " A man must de- 
 fend his own. Don't be frightened, Deborah. I '11 
 take care of you." 
 
 " You might as well out with it," said the old lady, 
 distinctly. " I 'm ready to hear. I 'm not a coward. 
 New Hampshire girls ain't. I should think you 'd 
 know I 'd been through enough, in this God-forsaken 
 country — for that." 
 
 "Well," slowly. '-Well, I suppose you 're about 
 right, Deborah. The fact is, I 've had a narrow es- 
 cape of it. I was warned at the meeting. We had 
 a gratifying meeting. The Spirit descended on us. 
 Several arose to confess themselves anxious " — 
 
 " What were you warned about ? " interrupted his 
 wife. " Xever mind the anxious seat. I 've sat on 
 it long enough for one night. What 's the matter ? 
 Who warned you ? " 
 
 " I was warned against the Ku Klux Klan, that 's 
 all," returned the parson simply, picking up the 
 crumbs of corn-cake from his knees, and eating them 
 to " save " the bread. " For a disbanded organiza- 
 tion they 're pretty lively, yet, round these parts. 
 They lay in wait for me on the road home. I had to 
 come round over the mountain, the other way. It 
 was pretty rough. I did n't know but they 'd detail a 
 squad there. It was pretty late. The harness broke 
 twice, and I had to mend it. It took a good while. 
 And I knew that you " — 
 
 " Xever mind me ! " cried Mrs. Matthews, with 
 that snap of the voice which gives the accent of
 
 22 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 
 
 crossness to mortal anxiety. " Tell me who warned 
 you. Tell me everythin', this minute ! " 
 
 " That 's about all, Deborah. A colored brother 
 warned me. He has been desirous of being present 
 at all the means of grace, of late. But for the — 
 the state of public sentiment, he would have done so. 
 He is that convert brought to me privately, a few 
 weeks ago, by our new brother, Brother Memmiu- 
 ger." 
 
 " I don't know 's I half like that Brother Mem- 
 minger," returned the wife. "He got converted 
 pretty fast. And he 's a stranger in these parts. 
 His speech ain't our speech, either. But it 's a 
 Southern name. Did he warn you ? " 
 
 *' He was not present to-night at the dispensing of 
 the Word," replied the minister. "No, I was taken 
 one side, after the benediction, without the buildine, 
 by the colored brother, and warned, on peril of my 
 life, — and on peril of his, — not to go home to-night, 
 and to tell no man of the warning." 
 " But you did — you came home ! " 
 " Certainly, my dear ; you were here." 
 She clung to him, and he kissed her. uSTeither 
 spoke for many minutes. It seemed as if he could 
 not trust himself. She was the first to put in whis- 
 pered words the thought which rocked the hearts of 
 both. 
 
 "AYhen they don't find you — what will they 
 do?" 
 
 " My dear wife — my dear wife, God knows." 
 " What shall you do ? What can we do ? " 
 " I think," said the minister in his gentle voice, 
 " that we may as well conduct family prayers."
 
 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 23 
 
 " Very well," said his wife, " if you 've had your 
 supper. I '11 put away the dishes first." 
 
 She did so, methodically and quietl}', as if nothing 
 out of the common course of events had happened, 
 or were liable to. Her matter-of-fact, housewifely 
 motions calmed him, as she thought they would. 
 It made things seem natural, homelike, safe, as if 
 danger were a delirious dread, and home and love 
 and peace the foundations of life, after war, in Ken- 
 nessee. 
 
 When she had washed her hands and taken off her 
 apron, she came back to the lounge and brought the 
 family Bible with her, and the hymn-book. They 
 sang together one verse of their favorite hymn, 
 " How firm a foundation," with the quavering, un- 
 trained voices that had " led the choirs " of moun- 
 tain meetings for almost thirty years of patient, self- 
 denying missionary life. Then the parson read, in a 
 firm voice, a psalm, — the ninety -first ; and then he 
 took the hand of his wife in his, and they both knelt 
 down by the lounge, and he prayed aloud his usual, 
 simple, trustful, evening prayer. 
 
 " Lord, our heavenly Father, thy mercies are 
 new every morning, and fresh every evening. We 
 thank thee that though danger walketh in darkness, 
 it shall not come nigh us. We bless thee that thou 
 art so mindful of thine unworthy servant and hand- 
 maiden. We thank thee that for nearly thirty years 
 we have dwelt in conjugal love and peace beneath 
 our comfortable roof. We thank thee that no dis- 
 aster hath rendered us homeless, and that the hand 
 of violence hath not been raised against us. We 
 pray thee that thou wilt withhold it from us this
 
 24 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 
 
 night, that we may sleep in peace, and awake in 
 safety " — 
 
 ''Levi!'' 
 
 A curdling whisper in his ear interrupted the old 
 man's prayer. " Levi ! There are footsteps in the 
 corn ! " 
 
 " And awake in safety," proceeded the minister 
 firmly, " to bless thy tender care " — 
 
 He did not rise from his knees, but prayed on in a 
 strong voice. So well trained to the religious habit 
 was the woman that she did not cry out, nor inter- 
 rupt him again, nor did she even arise from her 
 knees before the old lounge. 
 
 Suddenly voices clashed, cries upsprang, and a din 
 surrounded the house. 
 
 " Come out ! Come out ! Out with the Yankee 
 parson ! Out with the nigger-j)raying preacher ! 
 Show yourself ! " 
 
 The old man's hand tightened upon the hand of 
 his old wife ; but neither rose from their knees. 
 The confusion without redoubled. Calls grew to 
 yells. Heavy steps dashed foraging about the house. 
 Cries of alarm from the outbuildings showed that 
 the animals, which were the main support of the 
 simple home, were attacked, perhaps destroyed. 
 Then came the demand : — 
 
 " Come out ! Come out to us ! Show yourself, 
 you sneaking, Yankee parson ! Out to us ! " 
 
 A terrific knock thundered on the door. Steadily 
 the calm voice within prayed on : — 
 
 " We trust thee, Lord, and we bless thee for thy 
 mercy to us ward " — 
 
 " Open the door, or we will pull your shanty down 
 to hell ! "
 
 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 25 
 
 " Preserve us, Lord, for thy loving-kindness en- 
 dureth forever " — 
 
 " Open the door, you, or we 'ir set the torches 
 
 to it, and burn you out ! " 
 
 " Protect us, God " — 
 
 The light lock yielded, and the old door broke 
 down. With a roar the mob rushed in. They were 
 not over sixteen, but they seemed sixty, storming 
 into the little room. They were all masked, and all 
 armed to the teeth. 
 
 Before the sight which met his eyes the leader of 
 the posse fell back. He was a tall, powerful fellow, 
 evidently by nature a commander, and the men fell 
 back behind him. 
 
 " For Christ's sake. Amen," said the parson. He 
 rose from his knees, and his wife rose with him. The 
 two old people confronted the desperadoes silently. 
 When the leader came closer to them he saw that 
 the Eev. Mr. Matthews's hands were both occupied. 
 With the left he grasped the hand of his wife ; in 
 the right he held his rusty pistol. The hymn-book 
 had fallen to the floor; but the family Bible had 
 been reverently laid with care upon the lounge, its 
 leaves yet open at the ninety-first psalm. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the parson, speaking for the 
 first time, " I would not seem inhospitable, but the 
 manner of your entering has perturbed my wife and 
 interrupted our evening prayer, which it is our cus- 
 tom never to cut short for any insufficient cause. 
 Now I am ready to receive you. Explain to me your 
 errand." 
 
 " It 's a short one," said a voice from the 
 
 gang; "a rope and a tree will explain it easy 
 enough."
 
 26 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 
 
 " And nothing less ! " cried a hoarse man. " We 
 have n't come on any boys' play this time. We 've 
 had chase enough to find you for one night." 
 
 " That 's so. It 's no fool's errand, you bet. We 
 ain't a tar-and-feathering party. We mean business." 
 
 " Gentlemen ! gentlemen ! " pleaded the parson. 
 He took the hand of his wife as he spoke, and lifted 
 it to his shrunken breast, and held it there, deli- 
 cately. 
 
 It was the piteous instinct of manly protection 
 powerless to protect. 
 
 "In the name of civil justice, my neighbors, 
 wherein have I offended you ? " 
 
 " That 's our business. It 's a serious one, too," 
 cried the hoarse man. " Your pious prayer- 
 meetings have been a nurserj'- of sentiments we don't 
 
 approve, that 's all. You 've admitted a darky 
 
 among respectable white citizens. Come now, have 
 n't you ? Own up ! " 
 
 " Certainly," rej^lied the parson promptly. " There 
 was one colored brother present at the means of 
 grace on one or two occasions. I regretted that my 
 congregation did not altogether welcome him. He 
 Avas converted by the mercy of God, beneath my 
 ministrations. Would ye that I denied him the poor 
 benefit of my prayers ? Nay, then, as God hears me, 
 I did not, nor I would not." 
 
 The old man's dim eyes flashed. He raised his 
 rusty pistol, examined it, and laid it down. Before 
 sixteen well-armed men he began to comprehend the 
 uselessness of his old weapon. He looked upon the 
 array of grotesque and ghastly masks steadily ; they 
 rose like a row of demons before his biblically
 
 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 27 
 
 trained imagination. Mr. Matthews believed in de- 
 mons, in a simple, unquestioning way. 
 
 " And you 've preached against that which was no 
 business of yours. Come now, own to it ! You 've 
 meddled with the politics and justice of the State. 
 You have preached against the movements of the 
 Klan — what 's left of it. That is n't much. It 's 
 done for. We 're only a few gentlemen, looking after 
 things on our own hook." 
 
 " I own to it," said the parson quietly. " I have 
 delivered a discourse upon the topic of your organi- 
 zation. I felt called of Heaven to do it. Is that all 
 ye have against me ? I pray you, for my wife's sake, 
 who is disquieted by your presence, as you see, to 
 leave us to ourselves and go your way — from under 
 my roof." 
 
 " Have him out !. Eight smart, now ! " yelled the 
 hoarse man. " Have him out without more words ! 
 A rope ! A rope ! Where 's a rope ? " 
 
 In a moment there was melee in the house. Cries 
 arose to the effect that the rope was left in the corn. 
 But a fellow who had been browsing about outside 
 ran in with a rope in his hand and handed it to the 
 hoarse man. The rope was Mrs. Matthews's clothes- 
 line — Hezekiah's reins. The hoarse man gave it to 
 the leader with an oath. The leader seemed to hesi- 
 tate, and conferred in a whisper with the hoarse man 
 and with others ; but he was apparently overborne in 
 his hesitation ; he took the rope, and advanced with 
 a certain respect to the parson, death in his hand, 
 but who knew what pity in his heart ? The mask 
 hid it if any were there. The noise from the gang 
 now increased brutally. Cries, oaths, curses, calls
 
 28 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 
 
 to death resounded through the pure and peaceful 
 room. The hoarse man lassoed the rope, and threw 
 it around the parson's neck. At this moment a ter- 
 rible sound rang above the confusion. 
 
 It was the cry of the wife. 
 
 She had possessed herself magnificently up to this 
 time ; the Puritan restraint set upon her white, old 
 face ; she had not said a word. No murderer of 
 them all had seen a tear upon her withered cheek. 
 But now nature had her way. She flung herself to 
 her knees before the ruffians ; then upon her hus- 
 band's neck ; back upon her knees — and so, in a pas- 
 sion wavering between agony and entreaty, pleaded 
 with them. She cried to them for the love of Heaven, 
 for the love of God, for the sake of " Jesus Christ his 
 Son, their Saviour," so she put it, with the lack of 
 tact and instinct for scriptural phraseology belong- 
 ing to her devout, secluded life. 
 
 The phrase raised a laugh. 
 
 She cried to them for the love of their own wives, 
 for the sake of their mothers, by the thought of their 
 homes, for the sake of wedded love, and by his hon- 
 orable life who had ministered respected among them 
 for nearly thirty years — by the misery of widow- 
 hood, and by the sacredness of age. In her piteous 
 pleading she continued to give to the murderers, at 
 the very verge of the deed, the noblest name known 
 to the usages of safe and honorable society. 
 
 " Gentlemen ! gentlemen ! For the sake of his 
 gray hair ! For the sake of an old wife " — 
 
 But there they pushed her oif. They struck her 
 hands from their knees ; they tore her arms from 
 his neck, and so were dragging him out, when the 
 parson said in a clear voice : —
 
 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 29 
 
 " Men ! — ye are at least men, — give way to the de- 
 mand of my soul before you hurl it to your Maker. 
 I pray you to leave me alone, for the space of a mo- 
 ment, with this lady, my wife, that we may part one 
 from the other, and no man witness our parting." 
 
 At a signal from the big leader the gang obe^^ed 
 this request. The men hustled out of the broken 
 door. The leader stood within it. 
 
 " Watch 'em ! Watch 'em like a lynx ! " cried the 
 hoarse man. But the leader turned his back. 
 
 "Deborah! Kiss me, my dear. You've been a 
 good wife to me, I think you 'd better go to your 
 brother — in Xew Hampshire — I don't know. I 
 have n't had much time to plan it out for you. Tell 
 him I would have written to him if I had had time. 
 Tell him to take good care of you. Oh — God bless 
 you, my dear. Why don't you speak to me ? Why 
 don't you kiss me ? Your arms don't stay about my 
 neck — What ! Can't hold them there — at this last 
 minute ? Pray for me, Deborah. Deborah ! why 
 don't you answer me ? my wife, my wife, viy 
 wife ! " 
 
 But she was past answering; past the sacred 
 agony of that last embrace. She had dropped from 
 his breast, and lay straight and still as the dead at 
 his feet. 
 
 " God is good," said the old man solemnly. " Let 
 her be as she is. I pray you do not disturb her. 
 Leave her to the swoon which He has mercifully 
 provided for her relief at this moment — and do 
 with me as ye will, before she awakens." 
 
 A certain perceptible awe fell upon the gang as 
 the old man stepped around the unconscious form of 
 his wife and presented himself in the doorway.
 
 30 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 
 
 " He seems to be a grateful old cove," said one 
 man in a low voice. " I don't know 's I ever heard 
 a feller in his circumstances give God a good name 
 before." 
 
 *' No sniveling ! " cried the hoarse man. " Have 
 it over ! " 
 
 They took him out, and arranged to have it over 
 as quickly as might be. It must be admitted that 
 the posse were nervous. They did not enjoy that 
 night's work as much as they had expected to. 
 They were in a hurry now to be done with it and 
 away. 
 
 The old man offered no useless resistance. He 
 walked with dignity, and without protest. He 
 limped more than usual. His head v/as bare. His 
 gray hair blew in the rising wind. The rope was 
 around his neck. 
 
 Some one had wheeled out the blue wagon and 
 rolled it under the locust tree. As this was done the 
 old horse whinnied for his master from the stall. 
 The parson was pushed upon the cart. Short work 
 was made of it. As the leader of the gang stooped 
 to help the hoarse man fling the rope over the 
 burned bare limb of the tree, and to adjust the noose 
 about the old man's neck, — which he made insis- 
 tence on doing himself, — a mask dropped. It was 
 the face of the chief himself which was thus laid 
 bare, and alas, and behold, it was even no other face 
 than the face of — 
 
 " Brother Memminger ! " cried the old minister, 
 speaking for the first time since he had been dragged 
 from the house. The leader restored his mask to his 
 downcast face, with evident embarrassment.
 
 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 31 
 
 " You ! " said the parson. " I thought/' he added 
 gently, " that you had found a Christian hope. You 
 communed with me at the Sacrament two weeks 
 ago. I administered it to you. I am — sorry, Bro- 
 ther Memminger." 
 
 The fellow muttered something, Heaven knew 
 what, and fell back a step or two. Some one else 
 prepared the rope to swing the old man off. He 
 who was known as Brother Memminger dropped to 
 the rear of the gang, surveyed it carefully, then ad- 
 vanced to his place at the front, nearest to the vic- 
 tim. Every man awaited his orders. He was their 
 chief. They had organized and they obeyed, even 
 in their decline, a military government. There was 
 a moment's pause. 
 
 " I would like," said the doomed man gently, " a 
 moment to commend my soul to God." 
 
 This was granted him, and he stood with his gray 
 head bowed. His hands were tied behind him. His 
 face was not muffled ; it had a high expression. His 
 lips moved. Those who were nearest thought they 
 heard him murmur the first words of the Lord's 
 Prayer. "Hallowed be Thy name," he said, and 
 paused. 
 
 He said no more, nor seemed to wish it. So they 
 ranged themselves, every man of them, to swing him 
 off, each standing with both hands upon the rope, 
 which had been spliced by another to a considerable 
 length. He who was called Memminger stood, as he 
 was expected, to give the final order. There were 
 fourteen of them — and Memminger the chief. Be- 
 side him stood an idle fellow, masked like the rest, 
 but apparently a servant, a tool of Memmingers,
 
 32 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 
 
 who had especial service for him, perhaps. If the 
 old man struggled too much — or an accident hap- 
 pened — it was well to have an unoccupied hand. 
 Memminger, in fact, had been well known in the 
 gang for a good while, and was implicitly trusted 
 and obeyed. 
 
 In putting their hands to the rope every man of 
 them had of necessity to lay down his arms, both 
 hands being clenched upon the rope, for a strong 
 pull. They meant to break the old man's neck, and 
 be done with it. Really, nobody cared to torture 
 him. 
 
 " We 're ready," said the hoarse man. " Give the 
 signal, Cap'n. Hurry up." 
 
 The light of their lanterns and torches revealed 
 the old man clearly — the long arm of the locust 
 above his head — the stormy sky above. Death was 
 no paler than the parson, but he did not struggle. 
 
 His lips moved still in silent prayer. His eyes 
 were closed. The men bent to the rope. The chief 
 raised his hand. The last signal hung upon his next 
 motion. 
 
 Then there was a cry. Then his mask dropped, 
 and from the face of the man beside him another 
 fell, and it was the face of a negro, obedient and 
 mute. Then the powerful figure of the leader 
 straightened. His familiar eye flashed with a per- 
 fectly unfamiliar expression. Two muscular arms 
 shot out from his body ; each hand held a revolver 
 sj^rung at full-cock and aimed. 
 
 *' Boi/s ! " he cried in an awful voice, '' / am an 
 officer of the United States ! and the first man of you 
 who lets (JO that rojpe, drops ! "
 
 FOURTEEN TO ONE. 33 
 
 In an instant, armed as he was, he covered them, 
 every man of them unarmed and standing as they 
 were. His negro servant sprang to his aid. 
 
 " The lirst man of you who stirs a muscle on that 
 rope dies !" thundered the quasi Brother Memmin- 
 ger. " I am a deputy marshal, authorized by the 
 National Government to investigate and hasten the 
 disbanding of the Ku Klux Klan, and, in the name 
 of the Stars and Stripes, and law and order, I arrest 
 you, every man ! " 
 
 And, in the name of simple wonder and astound- 
 ing history, it was done. The negro servant, whose 
 person bulged with hidden handcuffs, bound the men, 
 one at a time, fourteen of them, while his master's 
 experienced weapons covered the gang. They be- 
 haved with the composure of intelligent and dum- 
 founded men. One of them ventured an observation. 
 
 It was the hoarse man. He said : " 
 
 you — to ," struggled mightily with his 
 
 handcuffs, and then held his tongue. 
 
 The whole posse, by means of this simple strata- 
 gem, and by the help of that cowardice elemental 
 in all brutes, was marched to the nearest sheriff; 
 then delivered intact to the power of the law which 
 the great mass of Kennessee citizens were ready to 
 respect and glad to see defended. The country rang 
 with the deed. Then whispers arose to hush it, for 
 shame's sake. But it crept to Northern ears, and I 
 record it as it was related to me. 
 
 " How is it. Parson ? " said Deacon Memminger 
 with a bright, shrewd smile, as he cut the old man 
 down, and helped him, trembling as he was, to dis- 
 mount the shaky cart. " How is it, sir ? Are you
 
 34 FOUETEEN TO ONE. 
 
 sorry I came to churcli at your place — now ? I 
 thought — under the circumstances — and I was 
 bound to save you. I and my darky boy have been 
 ferreting out this thing for a hundred days. I joined 
 'em the first week I came down here. I came on 
 from Washington to do it. We mean to make a 
 thorough job of it — and I guess we 've done for 'em, 
 this time. You '11 excuse me, sir, but I 've got to 
 get 'em to the sheriff, and — I 'd go back and see my 
 wife, if I were you." 
 
 She came to herself and to her misery soon enough, 
 lying there upon the floor beside the lounge. The 
 first thing which she saw distinctly was the Bible, 
 opened at the psalm which has calmed more souls in 
 shocks of danger, and in the convulsions of lawless 
 times, than any other written words known to the 
 literatures of the race. 
 
 But the first thing which she heard was his pre- 
 cious voice, pitched low, and modulated tenderly, so 
 as not to frighten her. 
 
 " Deb-orah ! Deb-orah ! Don't be scared, my dear. 
 They have not hurt me — and I 'm coming back to 
 you."
 
 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 
 
 It was a cold morning — for A^irginia; and, as 
 everybody knows, Virginia has a plenty of them. 
 The frost bent the fennel so heavily that it lay over 
 like fine silver-work upon the ground, where a flurry 
 of snow skipped before the gusts. The wind itself 
 was restless and ill-natured, like a wind that had got 
 into the wrong climate by mistake, and was hurrying 
 to go somewhere else. Ice lay in opaque sheets upon 
 the pools and swamps, and the air stung. There 
 was no sun. As early as seven o'clock the grayness 
 of the sky took on a determined look, as that of a 
 sky which meant business. One felt something of 
 the same unreasonable resentment before it that one 
 feels before a hard creditor, who would, on the 
 whole, prefer to make one uncomfortable rather than 
 give grace, but who is nevertheless entirely justifi- 
 able, and one knows it. If it was cold out-of-doors, 
 it was colder within. When Virginia shivers, she is 
 always taken by surprise. She looks out through 
 her half-built houses as if she were a soft brown- 
 eyed girl in a gauze dress, protesting that she is cold, 
 and wondering why. 
 
 The weather came in at the doors ; the weather 
 came in at the windows ; the weather rushed in 
 under the house ; cracks in the walls welcomed it ; 
 crevices in the posts betrayed one to it ; the wide
 
 38 THE BELL OF SAINT BASWS. 
 
 chimneys, where the fires lay unlighted, gulped it 
 in ; the floors were flooded with it. 
 
 President Peyton's eminently respectable if eco- 
 nomical house seemed to keep swallowing little 
 draughts, like a person with a sore throat, whom it 
 hurts, but who can't stop. 
 
 When President Peyton got out of his old-fash- 
 ioned four-posted bed, that morning, pushing aside 
 the curtains of chintz and mosquito-netting with a 
 scholarly, aged hand, he hung his clothes over one 
 arm, and went to find what the thermometer was be- 
 fore he put them on. The thermometer hung over 
 the veranda roof, as it had for thirty years, — as it 
 would for how many more ? — upon a rusty tack in 
 the same spot, beneath the window-sill, in the south- 
 erly exposure. 
 
 '^ You 're letting in the cold, Mr. Peyton," pleaded 
 a vague feminine voice from behind the bed-curtains. 
 " I 'm frozen to death. I 'm cold enough, Mr. Pey- 
 ton, to — to — I 'm cold enough to — swear." 
 
 " Maria ! " ejaculated the old man severely. 
 
 " Why, Mr. Peyton ! " cried his wife. It was such 
 an event when her husband called her Maria that 
 the poor old lady was frightened. She had known 
 it to happen but a few times in many years : once 
 when he was very angry with her because she had 
 burned a manuscript lecture of his by mistake ; and 
 another time when they were in great trouble, but 
 then he had said it so kindly that she had never for- 
 gotten it. 
 
 That had happened about this time of year, toward 
 the last of January. She could not have told pre- 
 cisely when. She had the indifference or lapse of
 
 THE BELL OF SAINT BASWS. 37 
 
 memory about dates that is apt to be characteristic of 
 age. If life has been full, especially if life has been 
 sad, what matters a day more or less ? Sentiments, 
 sensations, affections, grow more important ; time, 
 as we approach eternity, less. It dwindles away 
 from us as the two-thousand-year-old heroine of a 
 popular romance shrank to the size of a little ignoble 
 animal when her hour came. 
 
 Their trouble had been sore at Mrs. Peyton's heart 
 for many weeks ; it had eaten there like a fresh hurt 
 made by the turning of an old barb. Her wound 
 had never cicatrized. The nature of it made this 
 impossible. She had sat alone a good deal at twi- 
 light, lately, crying in her rocking-chair by the 
 light -wood fire, in the shadowy old parlor, before 
 the President came in from the study, at precisely 
 five minutes before six, and said, — 
 
 " Mrs. Peyton, we will now dine." 
 
 But she did not tell Mr. Peyton. Mr. Peyton had 
 strange ways. He loved her, of course ; it was the 
 proper thing for husbands to love their wives ; but 
 though they had been married forty years, she stood 
 in awe of him yet. When he went to Richmond, or 
 even as far as Baltimore, on a journey, he always 
 wrote to her. He began the letters, " My dear Mrs. 
 Peyton," and signed himself, " Yours very truly." 
 
 Maria Peyton had read her love-story in a dead 
 language, poor thing. A simple, feminine, cuddling 
 woman, who would have let a man beat her, and been 
 happy, if only he would have stroked her like a kit- 
 ten now and then, she might as well have married 
 the Classical Dictionary or Crabb's Synonyms as the 
 President of Saint Basil's, in Chester, Virginia.
 
 38 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 
 
 So she did not tell her husband when she cried, or 
 why. It was one of the President's '' ways " not to 
 talk about their trouble. She wished he would. It 
 might even, she thought, have been more bearable. 
 If now and then she could have said, " Anthony, do 
 you remember?" or, "My dear, it was so many 
 years ago, about this time ; " or, " I did n't mean to 
 cry, but I was thinking of " — But she could do 
 nothing of the kind. For twenty years the old man 
 had not spoken to his wife of what befell them. He 
 never tried to explain to her that this had become 
 almost pathologically impossible. With any allu- 
 sion to certain events a physical pain so deadly 
 griped his heart that he avoided it, practically, as 
 one would avoid a bayonet, though he was quite a 
 healthy man. But he supposed women could not 
 understand such things. Expression was their law. 
 The reserve of manhood, the reticence of vigorous 
 anguish, they knew not. It was the nature of their 
 sex, he reasoned. It did not occur to him that his 
 wife had achieved a silence sadder, because more un- 
 natural, than his own. So, under the solemn arch 
 of that massive grief, which should have sheltered a 
 consolatory and compensatory oneness, these two 
 stricken people walked apart. 
 
 They had a boarder at the Pej'tons', and Avhen the 
 President and his wife came down to breakfast, that 
 January morning, the boarder said it was very cold. 
 She said she did n't believe it was colder than this 
 in New York. She was in the habit of saying this. 
 She added that she had coughed all night, and that 
 Abraham had not brought her half enough wood. 
 This, too, was a familiar remark. Mrs. Peyton
 
 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 39 
 
 apologized, and said she would attend to it, but the 
 President bowed politely, with a vague smile. He 
 had ceased to give his attention to the conversational 
 gifts of the Northern boarder, whom he regarded as, 
 on the whole, the most depressing result of the late 
 civil war. Who had ever heard of a Peyton keep- 
 ing boarders ? Even when you reduced the devasta- 
 tion to the singular number, he could not regard a 
 boarder as other than a social and sociological phe- 
 nomenon, when coughing at his own distinguished 
 table and complaining of the mattresses in his own 
 hospitable guest-room from December until May. 
 The boarder's name, this year, happened to be Miss 
 Sparker. But that was immaterial. Any name 
 fitted the qualities which reproduced themselves 
 from season to season, with that monotonous indif- 
 ference to personification which the President 
 thought not without interest as bearing upon the 
 doctrine of the transmigration of the faculty or the 
 partial soul. It was the only interesting thing he 
 had ever found about the Northern boarder. 
 
 Breakfast was the least comfortable of the com- 
 fortless meals at the Peytons', because the President 
 had to hurry away to prayers. Mrs. Peyton helped 
 him to his hominy with an anxious hand. Nothing 
 annoyed the President like being late at college. 
 She said it made him nervous. If she had been a 
 rousing, spunky Northern wife, she would have said 
 it made him unbearable. He never scolded brutally, 
 for he was quite a gentleman ; he congealed, — that 
 was all. A Boston sleet-storm might as well have 
 spent the day in that house. Anthony Peyton's 
 sternness when displeasure befell him was some-
 
 40 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 
 
 thing hardly less tlian terrible. His students used 
 to know that. Scattered all over the South to-day 
 are middle-aged men who tell each other college 
 stories of the President, with a shrug in which a 
 reminiscent shudder lingers sensibly still. 
 
 His wife had borne the full force of his nature in 
 this respect meekly ; it being hers to do so. Be- 
 sides herself, there had been one other who had 
 borne it, — according to nature, too. 
 
 " You will wear your overcoat, Mr. Peyton, won't 
 you ? " pleaded Mrs. Peyton timidly, as the Presi- 
 dent pushed back his chait, and, bowing coldly to 
 the two ladies, prepared to breast the bitter morning. 
 
 " It is very cold," sighed the Northern boarder, 
 with an air of originality. "It can't be worse in 
 New York. My chicken is burned, Mrs. Peyton. 
 I '11 have another cup of coffee, if yoji please. Now, 
 our coffee in New York " — 
 
 " And an umbrella, too ? " entreated Mrs. Peyton. 
 She followed the President out into the hall, leaving 
 the boarder and Abraham to have it out. She stood, 
 shivering, before her husband, a little, shrunken, 
 white, cowed old lady, in a pale purple dress and 
 white knit shawl. She had been a beauty once, and 
 called " spirited." She felt an unwonted sadness 
 and tenderness this morning. Old as she was, she 
 wanted to be asked what ailed her, or even to be 
 kissed. 
 
 " You will take cold, Mrs. Peyton," her husband 
 said politely. '' Return and entertain your guest." 
 
 The college of Saint Basil's, so far as it was mate- 
 rialized in the college buildings, stood a round half 
 mile from the President's house. A chapel and a
 
 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 41 
 
 couple of dormitories comprised the architectural 
 effect ; these were old and ruinous. Saint Basil's 
 was none of your high-schools, starting up like 
 Christmas presents every year, and dubbing them- 
 selves colleges, as the boot-black or the barber lays 
 claim to the title of Professor. So thought the Pres- 
 ident, as he drew his learned coat-collar about his 
 aged neck, and beat with the energy of a much 
 younger man against the rising wind. He was apt 
 to cultivate this thought on the way to prayers, on a 
 chilly morning. He took some comfort in it, which 
 was fortunate, for there was nothing else about Saint 
 Basil's that a man could take comfort in now. The 
 sense of dignity is the easiest substitute for practical 
 success, and the President of St. Basil's made the 
 most of it. 
 
 As the college came in sight, he slackened his ner- 
 vous pace a little. He had always done so in the 
 historic days of the institution, when it had four 
 hundred boys. He had liked to enter the chapel 
 with the grand manner, while the students stood 
 bareheaded, in rank, to let him precede them. He 
 liked to do so now. It kept up the sense of reality 
 which the unoccupied scholar fed within himself 
 voraciously in these pantomimic days lest it starve, 
 and an old man's courage with it. 
 
 Saint Basil's was not a cheerful specimen of archi- 
 tecture at best. It was particularly grim in that ad- 
 vancing storm. The old brick dormitories seemed to 
 draw up their shoulders to keep warm. Here and 
 there a shutter flapped on the closed and cobwebbed 
 windows. The steps and doorways were deserted ; 
 the campus behind lay silent in the lightly scatter-
 
 42 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 
 
 ing snow. From the rusty college pump the handle 
 was gone. The brick chapel, standing between the 
 sombre dormitories like a clergyman between two 
 unlighted pulpit lamps, regarded the President as if 
 it were an intelligent thing who understood him. 
 Possibly it did, — no human creature as well. The 
 chapel, too, was still. No smoke struggled from its 
 chimneys, which leaned a little for lack of iron props. 
 Upon the windows of the lecture-rooms upstairs the 
 blinds were drawn ; many a slat was missing. Pray 
 was the janitor late ? No fires built ? What negli- 
 gent underling had omitted to ring the bell for morn- 
 ing prayers ? The tongue of old Saint Basil's mute ? 
 Why did not her iron lips open to call her boys to 
 chapel ? The boys ? Where were the boys ? Upon 
 the broken rail-fence, singing college songs ? Be- 
 hind the dormitories, jammed into a Sophomore 
 rush ? Waiting the old man's coming, to burst into 
 the college yell, "Saint Basil loved a pri-o-i'ess ? '^ 
 Standing bareheaded, rank on rank, to greet their 
 President, like the Southern gentlemen that they 
 were ? See their young heads bowed with that 
 graceful ease which gave Saint Basil her celebrated 
 " manner," their indolent white hands passing the 
 quick gesture of deference from the bare brow. Do 
 you see the students ? Count the boys of Saint 
 Basil's. Call the roll. Where are the boys ? 
 
 Seek them in their ruined cotton-fields, in their 
 shattered homes, in hard, unaccustomed manly toil 
 at industries strange to their ancestry, and to their 
 training, and to their State. Seek them in sunken, 
 nameless graves on the banks of the Potomac, at 
 Antietam, at Gettysburg. Find them beneath letters
 
 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 43 
 
 of marble and crosses of flowers on Decoration Day, 
 at Richmond. Saint Basil's boys have gone beyond 
 the nrging voice of the chapel bell. Saint Basil 
 cannot call her roll to-day. The ancient college, 
 patronized by an English king, honored by the Eng- 
 lish Church, once graced by a faculty representing 
 the scholarship of Virginia, long the Alma Mater of 
 her " family," if not always the educator of her emi- 
 nent men, Saint Basil's, the pride of the proud, the 
 fetich of the ignorant, now become the anecdote of 
 collegiate history, had met the fate common to other 
 interesting facts in the South. She existed " before 
 the war." Saint Basil was, in short, a college with- 
 out a boy.   She had kept her ancient name, her dis- 
 tinguished President, her college buildings, her ex- 
 tended real estate, her chartered rights, and to some 
 extent her invested endowments. What she had not 
 kept was her students. Virginians spoke of the col- 
 lege as they do of the corn-fields, the mansions, the 
 very chickens ; nay, the moon in the heavens : " Oh, 
 you ought to have seen it before the war ! " 
 
 The President of Saint Basil's passed through the 
 ranks of unseen students, with a stately step. It 
 might have been touching to a delicate observer to 
 see that the old man lifted his hat as he did this. It 
 seemed like the response of a gentlemanly ghost to 
 the deference of spirits. Nevertheless, he shivered 
 like a live man as he put the huge key in the lock of 
 the chapel door. How unmannerly the cold was that 
 day ! If he had expected such weather, he would 
 have asked the trustees to provide a janitor and a 
 fire for the daily flummery through which the a^ed 
 President was expected to pass, that the college
 
 44 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 
 
 might retain her charter and he his office. Once a 
 (lay, for the space of time covered by the college 
 terms, the President of Saint Basil's officially visited 
 her deserted halls. There, he summoned the invis- 
 ible institution to order, and conducted, for the in- 
 struction of its unseen youth, the service for morn- 
 ing prayers. 
 
 This fact, perhaps the only instance of its kind in 
 modern collegiate history, is not, as one would sup- 
 pose, widely known. Chester is a remote village, not 
 yet promoted to the scale of a Southern health re- 
 sort, and the cogs of life's wheels turn slowly there. 
 The iSTorthern tourist is still too few, and usually too 
 feeble or too feminine, to cultivate an interest in so 
 classical a local legend, and reporters are a race un- 
 known. The Chester native is so familiar with the 
 sight of the old man toiling over at half-past seven 
 every morning to the silent college, with a key in his 
 trembling hands, that one has long since ceased to 
 pay attention to the circumstances ; or says indiffer- 
 ently, — 
 
 '' There 's the President going over to prayers." 
 
 Sometimes, an intellect more original than the 
 average, perhaps the telegrapher or a railroad man, 
 ventures the added and daring comment, — 
 
 " They ought to have given him a janitor. They 've 
 nothing else to do with their money." 
 
 Now, in fact, the President had refused the janitor. 
 Possibly he had some sort of pride in the matter ; 
 preferring to do something which struck him as ob- 
 vious toward the desert of that salary which he drew 
 quarterly from the board of trustees representing the 
 existence and honor of the institution. Eeally, the
 
 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 45 
 
 honor of the institution was the main point in his 
 scholastic and unmercenary mind. So it had come 
 about that the President rang the bell of Saint 
 Basil's every morning, with his own aged hands. 
 
 Had it ever been so cold at college before ? The 
 old man stamped oE the light snow in the dusty ves- 
 tibule, with a sigh. He had been an ambitious man 
 in his day, looking forward to an old age of honored 
 and honorable activity. He had not thought to be- 
 come a fussy, idle old man, dressing by tlie ther- 
 mometer. He had expected to be bu.sily eminent 
 for his scholarship, and in correspondence with the 
 scholars of other institutions and sister States, — 
 eiitertaining them at Commencements. He had 
 thought to be widely known, too, and feared by stu- 
 dents for his remarkable discipline. He had never 
 expected the boys to love him. But they had always 
 obeyed. 
 
 He looked drearily about the deserted building as 
 he lifted his hands to the bell-rope. Who Avas there 
 to obey him now ? Other thoughts appealed to his 
 mind, which wandered from the students, as it often 
 did, — too often did. But these, as he never shared 
 them, he bore best when he was alone. 
 
 Ring ! Rang ! Clang ! The college bell clashed 
 upon the frosty air, with which it harmonized by the 
 hardest. It was a rusty old bell, and its call was a 
 little cross that morning. It spoke imperiously, se- 
 verely, like a bell that had always had its own way, 
 and could not understand why nobody answered it. 
 
 Ring ! Ring ! Such a thing ! Who ever heard of 
 such a thing ? Noise ! Noise ! Boys ! Bo)js ! Call ! 
 Call them all! Tell — tell! Saint Basil's bell!
 
 46 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 
 
 Saint Basil — yes ! Loved — a — prioress ! Make 
 a noise — boys ! Where are the boys ? Who dares ? 
 Not come to prayers ? Come to Prayers ! 
 
 The last authoritative cry clashed over the iron 
 lips, and ceased. When they opened again, they 
 opened gently, like a stern soul grown sad. Appeal- 
 ingly the bell began to toll : — 
 
 Koll — toll. Tell the whole. Call them all. Call 
 the roll! Toll — toll. Fought and bled. Count 
 the dead. Boj^s — boys ! Stop life's noise. Come 
 back, boys ! Eest — rest. Peace is best. Here is 
 rest. Home is best. Stay — stay ! Come to-day ! 
 Come and pray ! Stay and pray ! Oh — stay ! Oh — 
 pray ! 
 
 The voice of Saint Basil's reached so far and said 
 so much that morning that it was especially noticed 
 in the neighborhood. A negro, driving in to market 
 with sweet potatoes and ducks, spoke of it to a 
 stranger who was strolling through the village. He 
 said de ole bell was kind o' peart dat mornin' ; 
 'peared like she 'd toted some ob her boys back. The 
 stranger said Yes ; that he had been listening to it, 
 and asked what it was rung for and who rang it. 
 For he had understood, he said, that the college was 
 closed years ago. 
 
 The President rang conscientiously for eight min- 
 utes, according to college law. When the time was 
 honorably up, the trembling rope fell from the trem- 
 bling hand, and swung off into the air. The last cry 
 pealed and echoed from Saint Basil's throat, and 
 died away : — 
 
 Pray — pray ! Oh, stay, stay ! Oh, pray ! Come 
 pray!
 
 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 47 
 
 The President entered the deserted chapel with 
 uncovered head. The chill struck him heavily that 
 morning, as he walked up the long aisle between the 
 wooden pews, whittled jagged with boys' initials ; 
 he knew some of them by heart, from such long ac- 
 quaintance. Tliere w^as one deep, naughty cut in the 
 oaken railing before the very chancel, — A. P., the 
 letters ran ; he glanced at them as he ascended the 
 steps, with bowed head, and took his strange, soli- 
 tary position behind the reading-desk. He looked 
 the learned man he was as he stood there in the dim 
 and empty chapel ; and this became him, for Saint 
 Basil was the scholar among the saints, as her Pres- 
 ident used to remind the boys. Yet, that January 
 morning, he seemed a very desolate, cold old man, 
 and one would have thought less of his LL. D. than 
 of his aching fingers, or perhaps his aching heart. 
 The empty benches stretched before him, row on 
 row, a silent, mocking audience. Their invisible 
 occupants came thronging in. The boys of Saint 
 Basil's are still enough now. No need to give 
 them long marks for inattention. President Peyton. 
 Will you rusticate them, sir, for sticking pins in 
 each other at recitation ? Suspend them for hum- 
 ming " Saint Basil loved a pri-o-ress " while you 
 pray ? Write letters of complaint to the silent home 
 of the most rebellious ghost among them ? Expel 
 that reckless lad — that one yonder in the front pew 
 
 — he who had the yellow curls and the saucy eyes ; 
 the beautiful fellow ? The wildest of the lot always, 
 
 — up to every trick Saint Basil's ancient halls had 
 ever known ; bubbling to the brim with frolic ; mad- 
 dened by severity, melted by tenderness, spoiled by
 
 48 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 
 
 cither, spoiled by both ; shining with the glory of 
 eternal youth ; handsome, defiant, daring, splendid — 
 Expel that spirit ? Mr. President, expel that spirit 
 if yon can ! 
 
 " Almighty and most merciful Father,^^ began the 
 President of Saint Basil's. His voice resounded 
 through the empty chapel ; it was strong and firm 
 and fine. He read the prayer uncommonly well ; 
 he always had. He slighted nothing of its solemn 
 import now. If any one of Saint Basil's boys had 
 happened in to the chapel, whether in the spirit or 
 the flesh, he would have been proud of the old 
 President, as he always was. 
 
 " We have erred^ and strayed from thy ways like 
 lost sheep,^^ prayed the solitary man. " We have fol- 
 lowed too much the devices and desires of our own 
 hearts. We have offended against thy holy law's. . . . 
 But thou, Lord, have mercy upon us, miserable 
 offenders. Spare thou those, God, who confess 
 their faults. Restore thou those who are penitent ; 
 According to thy promises declared unto m,ankind in 
 Christ Jesus our Lord." 
 
 The chapel door stirred in the strengthening 
 wind ; or perhaps a broken blind gave wa}^, or the 
 step of one of the ghostly boys hit a hymn-book 
 fallen from the seat just then ? But the President 
 of Saint Basil's was used to spirit-boys ; he so often 
 fancied strange sounds in the chapel that he had 
 trained himself to notice none of them. With his 
 white head bowed and reverently lowered eyes, the 
 old man solemnly read on : — 
 
 " And grant, most merciful Father, for his sake ; 
 That we Tnay hereafter live a godly, righteous, and, 
 sober life, To the glory of thy holy Name. Amen."
 
 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 49 
 
 " AjTien ! " responded a living voice from the 
 empty pews. 
 
 The figure of the President, bowed over the 
 prayer-book, stirred visibly, but did not start. He 
 had lived too many times in imagination through 
 some such scene as this to suffer himself to express 
 surprise. If any of Saint Basil's boys returned, — 
 and why should not Saint Basil's boys return ? — 
 they should find the institution prepared to receive 
 them with the dignity which became her. Should 
 her ancient halls bow and smirk, like a mushroom 
 college without a student ? If her boys had been 
 scattered for a week's recess, or had but gone to 
 William and Mary's for a ball-match, the President 
 might have received the startling incident which 
 now befell him with as grand a carelessness. Yet 
 in truth it shook him to the soul. 
 
 When he raised his gray head, it could have been 
 seen that he trembled, and that his countenance had 
 become very pale. Had any person been observing 
 him — But no one was. His cool, intellectual gray 
 eye — a little feverish spark burning within it — 
 traversed the length of the chapel before it rested 
 upon the figure of a man in one of the back pews, 
 near the door. The man Avas kneeling upon one of 
 the old prayer-cushions ; his head was bowed ; his 
 face was hidden in his hands ; he did not speak nor 
 stir. 
 
 President Pe}i;on closed his prayer-book, and 
 slowly descended the chancel steps. His mind was 
 in a tumult strange to its scholastic peace. He was 
 jjrepared to get out his old examination papers non- 
 chalantly, as if it were a matter of course. Saint
 
 50 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 
 
 Basil's should not appear as if she did not matricu- 
 late new students any day. He saw himself already 
 going home to tell Mrs. Peyton and the Northern 
 boarder that he should lecture to the Freshman class 
 at half-past three. He lifted his white head. His 
 stately figure straightened. The stoop of age rose 
 out of his fine shoulders, and his eye turned strong 
 and young. He walked with great official dignity 
 down the broad aisle, and stopped before the kneel- 
 ing stranger. 
 
 His thin lips had opened to address the young 
 man, but they closed silently and cautiously. 
 
 It was not a boy who knelt in Saint Basil's at 
 morning prayers that day. It was a middle-aged 
 man. He seemed to be rather a poor man, or at least 
 he was shabbily dressed. Of his face, persistently 
 hidden in his hands, nothing could be seen. This 
 gave the more prominence to the shax)e of his head, 
 which was good, though a little weak in the frontal 
 lobes, and to liis abundant curling hair, well marked 
 with gray. 
 
 Now, when the President had drawn his stately 
 steps to a halt before the kneeling man, he perceived 
 that the worshiper was sobbing. 
 
 At this unexpected sight the old man retreated 
 immediately. With great delicacy he forbore even 
 to remain in the chapel, but, passing quickly out, 
 stood in the vestibule, uncertain and distressed. He 
 waited there for some moments, but the visitor did 
 not show himself. The President, perplexed, pushed 
 open the faded baize doors softly and looked in. The 
 kneeling figure in the deserted chapel remained im- 
 movable. Only its hands had stirred, and these
 
 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 51 
 
 were thrown over the railing of the pew in front, 
 and knotted together as if they had been wrung. 
 
 " Sir," said the President, himself much agitated, 
 " I am an officer of Saint Basil's. Can I serve you 
 in any way ? " 
 
 At the sound of his voice the distress of the 
 stranger made itself more manifest. An audible 
 sob — the terrible sob of a man no longer young — 
 shook the air. 
 
 " My dear sir ! " cried the President, quite for- 
 getting himself. But the weeping man lifted one of 
 his clasped hands, and waved the speaker away with 
 a gesture so piteous and so imperious that it was im- 
 possible to disregard it. President Peyton bowed 
 and left the chapel, hat in hand. 
 
 He went out into the storm, and wandered about 
 for a little while, greatly moved and uncertain what 
 to do. The stranger did not come out, and it grew 
 very cold. The old man felt chilled to the heart. 
 He decided that he would go home and think the 
 matter over, and get warm, and then return. 
 
 His wife met him when he came in, lifting her lit- 
 tle, pinched, sad old face cautiously to see how his 
 moral thermometer stood. It annoyed him that she 
 looked afraid of him, and he did not tell her, as he 
 had meant to do, what had happened at the college. 
 He sat down by the study fire alone, and tried to 
 dry his feet ; but he was restless, and could not stay. 
 In a few minutes he started out again, saying no- 
 thing to anybody. Miss Sparker called from the top 
 of the stairs to ask what the thermometer was, and 
 to say that it was ten degrees lower in New York, 
 and Mrs. Peyton cackled anxiously about the halls ;
 
 62 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 
 
 but he shut the front door with a succinctness which 
 in a less distinguished man would have been called a 
 slam. 
 
 When he got back to the college, he was wet 
 through and dismally cold. The chapel was empty. 
 The man was gone. The President locked the chapel 
 door, with a sigh, and went home and changed his 
 stockings and put his feet in mustard-water. 
 
 He told his wife, in the course of the day, what 
 had happened, for he could not, as the phrase goes, 
 " get over " it. The incident rose like a mountain 
 in the eventless life of age, and solitude, and idle- 
 ness. Never since the war had Saint Basil's come so 
 near to a student. The President was bitterly dis- 
 appointed. He was piqued that his wife shared so 
 little of his official regret. Yet, in her way, she was 
 more agitated by the circumstance than he. 
 
 " Mercy ! Who cares a wild orange for the col- 
 lege ! " cried Mrs. Peyton, with unwonted spirit. 
 " What I 'm thinking of is the poor man. What 
 possessed you, Mr. Peyton, not to bring him home to 
 dinner ? Poor fellow, in that old barn of a dirty 
 chapel, all by himself, — crying, — and just look at 
 .it snow ! I 'm surprised at you, Mr. Peyton ! " 
 
 President Peyton regarded his wife with the help- 
 lessness of a larger intellect confounded by the in- 
 adequacy of a lower. He remembered that kneeling 
 figure, that cruel sob, that piteous, imperious wave 
 of the hand, — a gesture which no inan could have 
 disobeyed. He felt that women could not under- 
 stand certain phases of the superior delicacy of his 
 own sex. But this consciousness practically did no- 
 thing toward putting him right with Mrs. Peyton ;
 
 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 53 
 
 who seemed to have the moral advantage over him 
 all day. And the worst of it was that she told the 
 boarder. 
 
 President Peyton retired to his study and locked 
 the door, and there he spent the afternoon. 
 
 His uncomfortable thoughts took long and painful 
 paths ; these crossed a waste country, deviously, 
 reaching nowhither. His memories returned upon 
 the thinker like lost travelers. To what end, — oh, 
 to what bitter end ? 
 
 The old man rose, and paced his study restlessly. 
 The high bookcases regarded him — mute friends, 
 who knew the value of sympathetic silence. Over 
 in a corner, between the English Poets and the Ger- 
 man Metaphysics, the dictionaries stood, piled one 
 above the other, — Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, Span- 
 ish, French, — upon an old dictionary-holder, home- 
 made. The President's accustomed eye had not 
 rested with speculation upon the dictionary-holder 
 for many a day. Now, walking gloomily to and fro, 
 he stopped before it, standing with his hands behind 
 him, and moodily regarded the rude thing. With a 
 certain ferocity he began to shove the lexicons about ; 
 tossed them over each other, and off upon the thread- 
 bare carpet. The dictionary-holder, revealed to the 
 full light, seemed to shrink, as flesh would before a 
 blow. It was a child's wooden high-chair. 
 
 Mrs. Peyton knocked at the study door while the 
 President stood among his fallen dictionaries, and, 
 moved by some unexpected impulse, he let her in. 
 She had been crying. She apologized for troubling 
 her husband. 
 
 <^ I -^ I 'm so sorry, Mr. Peyton, to interrupt you, 
 but I 've been thinking " —
 
 54 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 
 
 At this moment her eyes fell upon the scattered 
 lexicons, and then upon the little old high-chair. 
 Her face worked pitifully, but she did not cry any 
 more ; she seldom did cry before her husband. 
 
 She went up to the high-chair, and began to rub it 
 tenderly Avith her handkerchief. 
 
 " It needed dusting," was all she said. 
 
 The two old people looked at each other. An em- 
 barrassed silence fell between them. Each heart 
 beat violently to one thought, upon which the lips of 
 both were sealed. 
 
 He had been a dear little fellow, — their only son, 
 their only child. Everybody called him so. He was 
 such a handsome boy ! His beauty ruined him, per- 
 haps. It is easier to punish an ugly child. His 
 mother never could withstand him ; he rode over her 
 inert feminine being as he drove his pony over the 
 Southern sand. This was her natuie, and mother- 
 hood does not change, but only develops nature. 
 The boy's father was severe enough to make up for 
 it ; he reasoned that he must make up for it, thus 
 seeking justification for his nature, which turned to 
 harshness, given a certain amount of provocation, as 
 water does to ice, given thirty-two degrees Fahren- 
 heit. The child had lived the life of a thermometer, 
 alternately plunged in the snow and held down the 
 register. It would not be exaggerating the case to 
 say that his boyhood was one panorama of civil war. 
 His home was a battle-field, neither more nor less. 
 Scene upon scene rolled by before the averted eyes 
 of these desolate old parents, — what hot words, what 
 threats, what tears, what fears, what rebellion, mis- 
 take, and anguish ! See defiance turning to sullen-
 
 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 55 
 
 ness, and mischief grown disgrace ! Poor boy, — oh, 
 poor boy ! . . . 
 
 If the President could have forgotten one bitter 
 word, one icy rejoinder, any of those terrible con- 
 flicts when authority and dependence clashed, when 
 the personal sense of power wrought parental love 
 into a vulgar weapon; one of the hours when he 
 had struck home or struck down; one of the mo- 
 ments when the child had writhed, or threatened, 
 or fulfilled a threat ! But he had never forgotten. 
 If she could forget one of the pitiful scenes when 
 she hung like a shield between the sword of his 
 father's anger and the bosom of the boy's blame ; the 
 nights when she helped him upstairs, too sore a 
 sight for any eye but his mother's to fall on and for- 
 give ; the times when she dismissed a servant, or 
 wore a shabby dress, or suffered for suitable food, 
 that she might save money to pay his debts ; the 
 hours when he laid his beautiful head upon her knee 
 and cried like a very little fellow, and said he would 
 never, never do so any more, and asked her to for- 
 give him, and she stroked his curls, and wound 
 them round her finger, and kissed them, and said, 
 "You'll be a good boy Jiow, Tony, won't you ? " 
 
 Forgive him ? She would have poured her soul 
 and body into a crucible, and boiled them down to 
 one red draught for the boy to drink, if so she might 
 have given him a pleasure that she should have de- 
 nied him, or purity that she had not educated in him. 
 Forget ? She sometimes wished she could, or won- 
 dered if there are worlds where mothers can. 
 
 When the terrible time came, when the boy com- 
 mitted the unpardonable sin, whatever it was, — she
 
 56 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 
 
 had almost forgotten what, there seemed so many, 
 and that one looked to her so easy to forgive, — 
 when his father expelled him, just as if he had been 
 anybody else's son, — more quickly, she thought ; 
 with a hotter purpose, with less mercy, with a colder 
 rage, — she had clung to her husband, and twined 
 her arms about his neck, wishing he loved to have 
 them there, and unclasped them, for she felt he 
 did not, and dragged herself down from his heart 
 to his knees, nay, to his feet, where she lay sobbing 
 and prostrate, a piteous maternal figure, and pleaded 
 for the boy. 
 
 " Mrs. Peyton," the President had said, " we will 
 not discuss the subject any further." 
 
 And so it had happened. She came home from 
 market, one day, with Juno before her carrying the 
 basket (there was venison in the basket, that day, 
 and celery, and Juno was cross and disrespectful), 
 and she was very tired, and went into the study to 
 lie down on the sofa, for the President was at lec- 
 ture ; and there, pinned upon the green sofa-cushion, 
 — she had covered it since with black cut from one 
 of the boy's old coats, — there she had found his 
 little note : — 
 
 Dear Mother [it ran], Father has expelled me, 
 and I hate him. Tell him I've gone to the devil, and 
 say your prayers for me when you can conveniently. 
 /'m sorry to make you feel hadly, but I won't stand 
 it. Your loving son, 
 
 Anthony Peyton. 
 
 " I 'm sorry to disturb you," repeated Mrs. Peyton,
 
 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 57 
 
 that January afternoon, when she had dusted the 
 high-chair. " Shall I put back the lexicons ? " 
 
 " Allow me," said her husband courteously ; " they 
 are heavy for a lady." 
 
 When the little chair was covered out of sight, 
 both of the old people drew long breaths ; they felt 
 better. They had lived alone together, now, for 
 twenty years. It sometimes did seem a pity that 
 they could not give each other more comfort. 
 
 "I wanted to say," began the wife timidly, "I 
 came in to tell you — that I — that I can't forget 
 him, for the life of me ! " 
 
 " Forget whom, Mrs. Peyton ? " demanded the 
 President, with a hot flush upon his withered cheek. 
 
 " Why, that man in the college ! " 
 
 " Oh ! Yes. Ah. Indeed. Yes. To tell you the 
 truth, my dear, I — I can't myself. It was a very 
 painful circumstance." 
 
 He took a chair beside his wife, as he said this ; 
 an action unusual with him. She drew her own a 
 little nearer to him, involuntarily, perhaps. They 
 looked at each other drearily. Her blue lips trem- 
 bled. Suddenly her composure forsook her, and her 
 uncontrolled voice broke into a heart-moving wail : — 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Peyton, Mr. Peyton ! Don't you scold 
 me, for I can't help it, I can't, to save my soul ! If 
 you 'd only (/ot the poor fellow — or just found out 
 what he was crying for — or asked him to come over 
 and get warm — or, or — or something ! For the 
 Lord knows, Mr. Peyton, it 's what we 'd go on our 
 knees to beg anybody else to do for — to do by " -— 
 
 " Maria ! " cried President Peyton in a terrible 
 voice. " For God's sake, hush ! "
 
 58 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 
 
 " I won't hush," protested the old lady, with in- 
 credible courage. " I won't be still, Anthony ! You 
 are my husband, and you were his father, and you 
 shall listen to me ! My trouble is your trouble and 
 your sorrow is my sorrow, and jour ways oi;ght to be 
 my ways, or my ways ought to be yours, and they 're 
 not, and it is n't right ! I 'm worn out with it — liv- 
 ing so — never a word — not to speak his name, any 
 more than if we 'd never had a child — and he per- 
 haps — Oh, I know he 's dead! I know, I know 
 he 's dead ! I have n't gone crazy — I 've got it all 
 clear in my head. I 've gone over it and over it 
 nights. I would n't have you think I think he 's 
 living, Mr. Pe^^ton. But if he had nH died — wan- 
 dering about ; in cold weather ; crawling into damp 
 churches ; crying before people — but Tony never 
 cried before anybody but me. . . . Oh, Mr. Peyton, 
 Mr. Peyton ! It is n't for you and me ever to let 
 a stranger go by without our gates. Supposing he 
 were cold, or even hungry, Anthony — and homesick, 
 and sorry, and felt sick — and somebody took him in. 
 Oh, blessings on those people, wherever in this awful 
 world they are, who took our darling in ! " 
 
 '" Maria ! Maria ! " rejaeated the President help- 
 lessly. He could not get beyond this unaccustomed 
 word ; he dwelt upon it in a kind of delirium. He 
 was extremely agitated, and looked about him piti- 
 fully, like a man whose mind was leaving him. " I 
 will go and find him," he said appealingly, " Shall 
 I go and find the man, Maria ? Will that please 
 you ? " 
 
 " You '11 take cold," sobbed the old lady, whose 
 mind had flopped to the practical and inexorable sur-
 
 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 59 
 
 face of things the more heavily for its unusual imagi- 
 native flight. " You knoAV you did n't put on your 
 thick ones this morning." 
 
 But the President had already left her. Before 
 she could gather herself to withstand him he was 
 well out into the storm and far down the solitary 
 street ; beating about Heaven knew whither, to find 
 the Lord knew what. 
 
 Now the Northern boarder was an idle woman, 
 and diverted by the trifles which lease the tenements 
 of empty minds. She sat at her window a great 
 deal of the time, many hours of the vacant day. 
 Whatever went on in the streets of Chester — no- 
 thing ever had gone on in Chester, to be sure — Miss 
 Sparker was foredoomed to see. Her large, calm, 
 vague face, with its two little pats of gray curls on 
 either side, gazed from the windows of the Presiden- 
 tial guest-room with patient and mysterious persist- 
 ence. 
 
 Miss Sparker sat at her window that afternoon. 
 She had sat there since half-past two o'clock. An 
 unfinished afghan lay across her knee. An uncut 
 magazine lay upon the afghan. It was now well on 
 toward five, very cold without and growing dark. 
 The snow had blown on, but the wind held. The 
 streets of Chester were dim and dreary. Miss 
 Sparker did not light her lamp, that she might the 
 better watch the few disconsolate figures that strug- 
 gled up and down the road. It was time to put 
 fresh light-wood on the discouraged fire, but Miss 
 Sparker had become so much occupied that she for- 
 got the fire, and sat on rigidly, with her face pressed 
 to the window-pane.
 
 60 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 
 
 " There ! " cried Miss Sparker suddenly. " He 's 
 coining again ! " She spoke so loud that Mrs. Pey- 
 ton, drying her eyes in the study, heard the North- 
 ern boarder's voice, and Avent into the hall to see 
 what she wanted. 
 
 " Mrs. Peyton ! " called Miss Sparker, in evident 
 excitement. " Are you there ? Come up here — 
 quick ! " 
 
 " Just look at that man ! " she added eagerly, 
 when the old lady panted up to ask if Abraham or 
 Juno had neglected anything. " No — that man — 
 there ! That man who 's been hanging about this 
 house half the afternoon." 
 
 " I don't see any man at all," protested Mrs. Pey- 
 ton, beginning to tremble. " I must get my specta- 
 cles." 
 
 " Why, yes, you do ! " insisted the boarder, with 
 explosive Northern energy. " " Who needs specta- 
 cles to see a man ? Over there — behind the live- 
 oak — by the northeast corner of the fence ! There ! 
 ... I told you so ! That man has been haunting 
 this place like a burglar for two hours. It has been 
 very interesting. First he came up, and I thought 
 he was going to ring the gate-bell. Then he 
 changed his mind, and walked away. Then he came 
 back on the other side of the street, and kind of 
 sidled over and hung his head. Then he cleared 
 out again. By and by he came up, and held up his 
 head, and sort of made for the house, as if he 'd do 
 it if he died for it. And then the President came 
 out. So the fellow gave him a look and put for it, 
 and hid behind the live-oak, and scooted down 
 Chester Street, and I thought that was the end of
 
 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 61 
 
 him. But I thought I 'd look a little longer, it was 
 so interesting ; and now there, Mrs. Peyton, as true 
 as you live he 's going away ! He 's given it up, and 
 he 's going away for good. He must be very wet. 
 He seems cold, too. . . . Mrs. Peyton ! Mrs. Fei/- 
 ton ! " 
 
 But Mrs. Peyton had gone. With one little aged 
 quaver of a cry, she had leaped down the stairs like 
 a very young woman, dashed wide open the door, 
 swung the hall light full in front of it, and, pausing 
 only to pull her white knit shawl over her gray 
 head, run straight out into the street. 
 
 There she stood uncertain, shaking like a person 
 in a mortal chill. Out in the growing dark she 
 could see nothing. The figure had vanished. She 
 made her way along the fence and round behind the 
 live-oak, where she spread out her searching hands. 
 No one was there. 
 
 "Mrs. Peyton, Mrs. Peyton, are you crazy?'' 
 called the Northern boarder. Her window went up 
 with a bang. " Come in this minute, or you '11 get 
 your death! The fellow isn't worth it — at your 
 age ! " 
 
 " Miss Sparker ! " cried Mrs. Peyton, with unex- 
 ampled authoritativeness, and she cried at the top 
 of her feeble voice. " I am the mistress of my own 
 house, and you are my guest. I command you — I 
 command you, for God's sake, to keep still. ... If 
 there is anybody here. Miss Sparker, anybody, any- 
 body who wants the shelter of my roof or the com- 
 fort of my home, he is welcome to it with all my 
 heart and soul, and I've come out to say so. Is 
 there anybody here ? " she added, in a soft and 
 brooding tone.
 
 62 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 
 
 No answer reached her ; and then, without an- 
 other moment's hesitation, she stretched out both 
 her arms as far as she could into the dusk, and 
 quietly said : — 
 
 " Tony ? Are you there ? " 
 
 " Tony ! Tony, dear ! " 
 
 " Is it you, Tony ? Don't be afraid, Tony. Your 
 father sha'n't find fault with you ... if you '11 only 
 come home. It 's warm at home. It 's very plea- 
 sant." 
 
 " If it is you, Tony," she said, more gently still, 
 " I should n't think you 'd keep your mother wait- 
 ing in the wet, like this. You were always careful 
 of your mother — and good to her, Tony. I 'm 
 afraid it is n't he. I thought perhaps it was. 
 Tony ? Mother's boy ! Mother's sonny boy ! 
 Tomj ! " 
 
 Now, as she held herself thus, a piteous pleading 
 figure in the dark, stretching out her empty arms, 
 they closed suddenly, shaken and awed ; for a mis- 
 erable man, ragged, weather-stained, and wet, had 
 walked straight into them and put his face upon her 
 neck. 
 
 She led him into the house without one word. 
 She took his hand, and he let her, as if he had been 
 a very little boy. She led him into the bright hall, 
 where the lamp was set, and closed the door, and 
 took off his shabby overcoat and rusty hat and hung 
 them on the hat-tree, as if they had hung there every 
 night for all these twenty years. 
 
 " I '11 have Juno dry these wet things, dear," she 
 said quietly. She took him into the study, quite
 
 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 63 
 
 naturally, and got him down before the fire ; threw 
 on more light-wood, knelt upon the hearth, and 
 lifted his ragged, soaking feet upon the fender. 
 
 " We '11 get off the shoes and stockings right 
 away, Tony," she said. " There, dear ! There ! 
 iSTice to be home again, is n't it ? " 
 
 They were sitting just so, when the old man came 
 back, drenched and disconsolate. He pushed open 
 the study door, with his hat in his hand. 
 
 " Maria," he began, " I could n't find the man. 
 I 'm sorry to disappoint you. I 've been all over the 
 village after him. But " — 
 
 Then and there his eyes fell upon the shabby, mid- 
 dle-aged figure shrinking in his study-chair. . . . 
 
 His wife held those soiled bare feet against her 
 purple dress, and washed them as she knelt, and 
 dried them. She kissed them, too, and laid her 
 aged face upon them, and patted them with her thin 
 hands. 
 
 " Your father is here, Tony," she said. " He is 
 very glad to see you. He is standing right behind 
 your chair. He wants to tell you hoAV glad he is. 
 Let him kiss you, Tony, It will comfort him." 
 
 The two men obeyed her like two disembodied 
 spirits who did not know what else to do but to obey 
 the supreme moral power of the situation. 
 
 No one spoke till afterward, and then the mother 
 said, quite easily, that she would go and see to 
 Tony's supper. 
 
 She ordered them after this like children, and 
 neither man gainsaid her. 
 
 "Anthony," she said authoritatively, as soon as 
 she could get the President into the hall alone, " do
 
 64 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 
 
 as I bid yovi, for once in all our lives. Don't you 
 ever — don't you ever ask him a single question ! 
 It does n't make any difference what he 's done. It 
 is n't any matter where he 's been. If he wants to 
 tell, let him. If he does n't, we '11 never bother him, 
 — we '11 never ask him — never ! " 
 
 And they never did. They took him home and 
 cherished him, and said no word, and let him keep 
 his silence, as he chose. It was his own. 
 
 He slept that night in his own room and in his 
 old bed. In the night he was heard pacing up and 
 down, and his mother went to him, and remained 
 with him for a time and quieted him. 
 
 He came to breakfast with them, next morning, 
 by his own desire ; a timid, shaken man, abashed 
 and strange. That was the Northern boarder's 
 hour. Then, indeed, she was the comfort of the 
 family; for she talked about the weather in Xew 
 York till the subject glowed with vivacity, and took 
 upon itself a supreme value never known in conver- 
 sational history before. This made Miss Sparker 
 very happy. 
 
 When breakfast was over and the President went 
 to prayers, he was surprised, and perhaps embar- 
 rassed, to see that a silent figure followed him. It 
 looked shabby, and bowed, and sad. 
 
 " I thought I might help you ring the bell, 
 father," was all he said. It was the first time he 
 had directly addressed his father. The old man an- 
 swered, " Thank you, my son," and they went to col- 
 lege side by side. The storm was over, and the day 
 had melted, fair and warm. The light Avould have 
 blinded them if the snow had not sunk away.
 
 THE BELL OF SAINT BASIL'S. 65 
 
 The younger man pulled at the bell-rope sturdily, 
 and Saint Basil's voice rang far and Avide : — 
 
 Stay — pray ! Home — to-day. To God — we 
 pray. Home — to stay ! 
 
 Then tliej^ went into the chapel together, and An- 
 thony Peyton took his old seat, and knelt upon the 
 dusty prayer-cushion, and bowed his head upon his 
 hands, while the President of Saint Basil's read : — 
 
 " And grant, most merciful Father, for his sake ; 
 That we may hereafter live a godly, righteous, and 
 sober life, To the glory of thy holy Name. Amen."
 
 SHUT IK 
 
 It was the dreariest hour of the day in the Hope 
 Hospital. It was the time when even in the South 
 End of the city, where the afternoons are generous 
 and the streets wide, the sun steps slowly off the 
 floor of the ward and leans over the window-sills 
 and draws his shining skirts around him, and gets 
 away. It was the time before gas and after day- 
 light ; it was the time when the afternoon fever sets 
 in ; it was the time when the doctor does not come 
 upon his next visit ; it was the time when it ought 
 to be supper-time and is n't ; when one ought to feel 
 better and does n't ; when one wants to be at home 
 and can't ; when the hand-organ on Harmony Street 
 plays " The Old Folks at Home," or " Toll the 
 Bell," or " Bury me Deep," or other enlivenmg airs 
 suited to enhance the cheerfulness of patients. It 
 was the time when the Irishwoman in the next bed 
 maintains that she cannot live till morning, or will 
 die in the attempt to prove it ; when the hegress in 
 the surgical ward, who has the serious oj)eration and 
 the funny temperament, sings : — 
 
 " Sambo was my dai-sy ! " 
 
 as loud as she dares and louder than she is allowed ; 
 when the West End lady patroness in the private 
 room, who always comes to her own hospital when 
 she is ill, sends her maid on twenty errands in as
 
 SHUT IN. 67 
 
 many minutes ; when the pious patient calls for her 
 Bible and reads aloud from Lamentations ; when the 
 patient with the cough is noisy, when the patient 
 with the groan is groany, when the patient who 
 weeps is teary, when the nurse looks out of the win- 
 dow, and wishes she were free to take a walk like 
 other folks : the hour when it seems impossible to 
 get well and objectionable to die and worse to live ; 
 when the burden of all life is at its heaviest and the 
 lot of the sick is at its hardest — it was half-past 
 four o'clock. Besides, it was late in October and it 
 was Boston. 
 
 It had been threatening rain all day ; and between 
 half-past four and five the fall began. This was the 
 time when the hospital ambulance slowly turned the 
 corner of Washington Street, and rolled consider- 
 ately up the hospital avenue with the new patient. 
 Not that it was an event to receive a new patient at 
 the Hope Hospital, which was a new enterprise, mod- 
 ern to the last detail, both of faith and practice, and 
 representing the most progressive form of medical 
 science ; paying some special attention to the com- 
 fort and the diversion of patients according to 
 methods of its own. Hope Hospital was a popular 
 place ; had not beds enough to receive the half of its 
 applicants, and declined them by the hundreds every 
 year. The institution is well known as one of the 
 magnificent charities of one of the most generous 
 towns in the world ; its patrons, though chiefly 
 heavy tax-payers to the medical treatment of the 
 State and the city, are compelled to support their 
 personal medical faith out of their own pockets ; 
 hence the limitations and the enthusiasms of Hope
 
 68 SHUT IN. 
 
 Hospital. It has all the ardors of self-sacrifice, 
 pugnacity, and reform. 
 
 It is crowded, as I said. But a patient from 
 Michigan does not come every day. It was under- 
 stood that the celebrity of her "case" — which 
 means the extremity and obduracy of her sufferings 
 — had admitted the patient from Michigan. The 
 celebrated Dr. Von Moltke, of our own staff, had or- 
 dered preparations for the girl, who had appealed to 
 his skill by a letter which she never would have 
 dared to write had she known the man she wrote to ; 
 for this reason, perhaps, it touched him. The great 
 man, brusque, savage when he felt like it, worn to 
 the shreds of his nerve and his temper, doing the 
 work of ten better-natxired men, used to turning off 
 patients as the editor of a popular magazine turns 
 away spring verse, peremptorily required every at- 
 tention paid to this obscure young woman. 
 
 " She suffers the torments of Hell," he said; "and 
 she writes the letter of an angel in Heaven." 
 
 "The patient from Michigan, Dr. Hall," an- 
 nounced the janitor. " Miss Brand, sir." 
 
 The house physician bustled and blushed a little 
 as he went out to receive Miss Brand. He was a 
 delicate, boyish fellow, pale and fair, possessed of 
 the excessive shyness not uncommon with young 
 men, beginners in his profession. He bustled be- 
 cause he felt his unimportance ; he blushed because 
 he tried to feel at ease ; he had not been at his post 
 six months, and was not hardened yet to the sight of 
 suffering women. 
 
 The patient from Michigan, when the door of the 
 ambulance was opened, turned her face with a look
 
 SHUT IN. 69 
 
 of keen expectance. She saw a patch of rainy sky 
 from which the drops drizzled petulantly ; the brick 
 facade of the hospital towered behind ; the brown 
 grass-plots and dying red and yellow chrysanthe- 
 mums in the well kept flower-beds spattered against 
 each other. A marble woman, supposed to repre- 
 sent the art of healing as adapted to the limitations 
 of a fountain, poured Cochituate and rain from a vase 
 upon the forehead of a marble child with the gen- 
 eral appearance of having his face washed and ob- 
 jecting to it. The foreground of this scenery was 
 occupied by a dripping umbrella ; beneath it, a drip- 
 ping young man. He stood in the storm with his 
 hat off, looking gently into the ambulance. 
 
 " You don't look as I expected," observed the pa- 
 tient immediately. ''I supposed you were black 
 and big." 
 
 " Madam ? " expostulated the young man, blushing 
 madly. 
 
 " Are n't you Dr. Von Moltke ? " inquired Miss 
 Brand comfortably. 
 
 " Great heavens, no ! " cried the house physician. 
 " Why, I don't look any more like him than a — a 
 turkey does like — like a man-of-war." 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon ! You see I 'm so igno- 
 rant. I never was at a hospital. It did n't occur to 
 me there was more than one doctor. How funny ! " 
 
 Miss Brand laughed merrily; the house physi- 
 cian laughed too ; he did not remember ever having 
 seen a new patient laugh before ; they usually took 
 it out in sadder ways, poor things, when the ex- 
 citement of arrival succeeded the miseries of the 
 journey.
 
 70 SHUT IN. 
 
 " May I get out ? " asked the patient from Michi- 
 gan, with twinkling eyes. As Dr. Wentworth Hall 
 looked into the ambulance from the Boston storm 
 Miss Brand seemed to him to be all eyes. She had 
 a dark, sweet face ; it was a small face of the type 
 which gives an impression of essential refinement ; 
 she had brown hair, which was brushed back from a 
 high forehead beneath an invalid cap, over which she 
 wore a crocheted woolen hood or rigolette of white ; 
 her stuff dress was brown and old and covered by an 
 older brown cloak and shawl of brown and white 
 check ; her brown gloves were much mended and 
 white at the fingers' ends. Evidently the patient 
 from Michigan was not a rich person. Her cheeks 
 were sunken, and the chiseling of intense suffering 
 had been deeply carved about her mouth and fore- 
 head, between and above the eyes. Her eyes were 
 uncommonly large and brilliant ; of a color not easy 
 to classify, at least between an umbrella and an am- 
 bulance ; they looked at the young physician straight 
 and strong ; it was as if the soul of health shone out 
 of the body of disease. 
 
 " I can't (/et out, you know," she added, laughing 
 lightly. " I don't walk, I 'm ashamed to say." 
 
 " Your pardon. Miss Brand ! " pleaded the young 
 doctor with a fresh, fierce blush. " You shall have 
 every attention at once." 
 
 He relapsed into official distance immediately; 
 atoning for the touch of human nature that the new 
 patient had aroused in him by a preternatural grav- 
 ity and impersonality of demeanor, which had the 
 effect of making him look younger than ever ; at 
 which the patient's lips twitched disrespectfull}'- as
 
 SHUT IN. 71 
 
 they carried her up the walk and into the Hospital 
 through the now driving and inhospitable rain. 
 
 Left to herself at last, oh, left alone at last ! 
 Who but the patient knows the mercilessness or the 
 mercy of solitude ? Hertha Brand took hers Avhen 
 she got it, as she took most things, in ways peculiar 
 to herself. 
 
 All the preliminaries were over ; she had done all 
 the proper things ; answered the inquiries as to the 
 fatigue of her journey ; been introduced to her 
 nurse; received the visit of the assistant house 
 physician, a young lady who regarded her with some 
 perplexity beneath a set of bright blonde bangs and 
 over a particularly stylish ruif ; had attempted to eat 
 her supper, and failed; had been ordered broth at 
 eight, and promised to try ; had inquired for Dr. 
 Von Moltke, and been told that he would call to- 
 morrow at half-past four ; had said good-night to 
 the house physician, avIio felt her pulse with an 
 abashed and ladylike foreiinger, and (being still 
 young in his profession) expressed some impulsive 
 sympathy with the evident exhaustion of the pa- 
 tient, who had the originality not to call his atten- 
 tion to it. 
 
 The assistant house physician awaited the house 
 physician as he gently replaced the screen and left 
 the bedside of the patient from Michigan. 
 
 Dr. Mary May and Dr. Hall walked together the 
 length of the ward consulting in low tones. Her yel- 
 low bangs wore their professional aspect ; her little 
 mouth closed primly. She was ridiculously pretty ! 
 She was one of the sinuous blondes whom men sell
 
 72 SHUT IN. 
 
 their minds and souls for. The young woman in 
 spectacles, who stood six ahead of Dr. May in the 
 medical college at graduation, was indiscreet enough 
 to affirm that Mary May would never have received 
 the appointment if she had not been a stylish girl ; 
 but it is possible that the valedictorian's vision was 
 astigmatic, from over-study by candle-ends in the 
 cold hall bedroom of the cheap boarding-house, 
 where the gas was turned off at half-past nine. 
 
 " What do you think of the case, Doctor ? " ' asked 
 Mary May respectfully. It was her nature to say 
 to the house physician, " What do you think ? " 
 after the great Von Moltke or others of the staff 
 had visited a case. Wentworth Hall was a sensible 
 little fellow ; but he resiDonded to this deference as 
 an honest, good-natured dog does to a pat on the 
 head ; without knowing it. 
 
 " Spinal, I think," said Dr. Hall, with a little im- 
 portance, which may be pardoned to him ; he ap- 
 proved of Miss May, whose feminine nature had not 
 been vitiated by her profession ; she retained that 
 graceful respect for the natural leaders of the voca- 
 tion which — 
 
 '' I did n't know but you would think it hysteri- 
 cal ? " suggested Mary May. 
 
 Dr. Hall gave the blonde bangs a manly, direct 
 look ; not the personal, but the professional glance, 
 that Mary May knew well, and liked less well. 
 
 " A woman with those eyes never has hysteria," 
 he said, with unwonted decision. 
 
 " I should value your opinion, of course," mildly 
 replied Mary May. 
 
 She leaned a trifle toward him in that instinctive
 
 SHUT IN. 73 
 
 way little women have of turning toward not very- 
 tall men. She chatted about some pleasant things, 
 laughing as she talked ; she had beautiful teeth. 
 Dr. Hall regarded her indulgently as they passed 
 through the soundless doors that led from the ward 
 into the outer world. 
 
 . . . Alone at last ! Oh, alone at last ! Miss 
 Brand turned her face upon her pillow with the re- 
 lief of the long sigh that no one can overhear. She 
 was suffering — but let us not say what. So idly 
 we are in the habit of saying, " Only God knows," 
 what it stands to reason nobody else can know, that 
 the phrase should be relegated to the truisms. The 
 chronic invalid is the most solitary being in the 
 world. Between himself and life there rises a wall 
 of stained glass. Because we of the outside can see 
 through it here or there, we forget that we never 
 break through it. We skim its surface like flies on 
 the face of the globe that covers a piece of exquisite 
 machinery; we are no nearer most of the time to 
 the palpitating movements that throb within. 
 
 Hertha Brand lay upon her cot patiently. The 
 screen closed in about her ; the wall seemed to 
 reach out across her as if the two clasped hands to 
 hold her there. Beyond, the screen of the next 
 patient rose and regarded her. There were two 
 storks and a bulrush on her screen ; there were two 
 bulrushes and a stork upon her neighbor's screen. 
 The wall was white. The neighbor with the one 
 stork coughed; the invisible neighbor at her head 
 behind the two storks groaned ; the padded doors of 
 the long ward shut with their little mufded thuds as
 
 74 SHUT IN. 
 
 nurses passed in or out. Once she heard a doctor's 
 voice — Dr. Hall's — soothing a sobbing girl at the 
 other end of the room. Another doctor's chimed in 
 presently, on a high, inquisitive key ; that belonged 
 to the professional bangs. Both ceased soon, and 
 such silence as the presence of so much suffering 
 renders possible fell upon Hope Hospital. 
 
 "This is my world/' said Hertha Brand. "God 
 created it." 
 
 She turned her head toward the wall, because she 
 could turn nothing else ; she was too exhausted to 
 move. 
 
 " It is something not to have to look at those two 
 storks all night," she thought. " Really, I 'm quite 
 fortunate. The wall is such a pleasant change. 
 And no paper ? That is the height of pathological 
 civilization." 
 
 She thought of the paper in her little room in 
 Michigan, that barren little room in which she had 
 lain till every atom of it was hospitalized from her 
 pathetic presence. That paper was chocolate and 
 French green and black ; it had a pattern of lizards 
 and locusts and figure fours and ciphers. The liz- 
 ards were black and the locusts chocolate, and she 
 had counted four thousand of them four thousand 
 times four thousand times. Besides, there was a 
 man hanging from a trellis (or to that effect) in a 
 delicate shade of amber touched with red about the 
 neck. In her delirious times she had prayed her 
 step-mother for the love of mercy only to cut down 
 that man. 
 
 " I wonder if Father misses me ? " thought the 
 patient from Michigan. "Poor Father! I didn't
 
 SHUT IN. 75 
 
 make him very much trouble ; but he has the chil- 
 dren, and they are all well." 
 
 " Hertha Brand, Schoolhouse, Michigan. Aged 
 twenty-nine. Has not walked for seven yearsP 
 
 The great Dr. Von Moltke paused here, and 
 gave one unnecessary look (which in a man whose 
 glances have a par value of, say, five dollars a min- 
 ute or a dollar a wink, goes for something) at the 
 patient whose symptoms he did the honor to record 
 in his celebrated note-book. He was not an imagi- 
 native man, it is safe to say ; but a vision passed be- 
 fore the surgeon at that moment of what it might 
 mean to be bed-ridden for seven years — in School- 
 house, Michigan. He added to his superfluous look 
 one superfluous question : — 
 
 " Is Schoolhouse a — large place ? " 
 
 "We have a population of twenty-one hundred. 
 Twenty-one hundred and one, if you counted me," 
 answered the patient from Michigan. 
 
 "I^j'opose to count you. You shall go back as 
 live as any of them. Kow, Miss Brand, can you 
 answer questions sensibly ? I have no time to 
 waste. Understand that ! " 
 
 " When you speak to me properly, sir, I will try," 
 replied Miss Brand, with a snap of her strong eyes. 
 
 "H'm-m-m." The great man laid down his 
 note-book and looked over it at the patient with a 
 sort of infantile astonishment. He had never been 
 answered in that manner by a little person. He 
 was used to having full swing (and taking it) with 
 his clientele. Everybody was afraid of him ; he 
 made use of the general deference as he did of any 
 other universal pathological law.
 
 76 SHUT IN. 
 
 " H'm-iu ! " said Dr. Von Moltke. " You HI get 
 well ! " 
 
 " I have no objections, sir." 
 
 " Then, if you please, madam, you will answer my 
 questions as well as you know how ? " 
 
 " Certainly ; with pleasure." 
 
 " You have not walked for seven years ? " 
 
 " Seven years." 
 
 " Accident or illness ? " 
 
 "A railroad accident. I was jarred. After that 
 we lay in the snow, and I froze before I was picked 
 up." 
 
 " Pain ever since ? " 
 
 "Ever since." 
 
 " Unrelieved ? " 
 
 " Unrelieved." 
 
 " Here ? and there ? and there ? " 
 
 " Yes, of course ;   and there." 
 
 " Insomnia ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " Serious ? " 
 
 ''It depends upon your standard. They said in 
 the Inquisition that no torture brought people round 
 to the Holy Catholic faith so quickly as enforced 
 sleeplessness. I understand that. I think I would 
 become a cannibal for a week's sleep." 
 
 '" H'm-m-m. Yes. We '11 stop all that, you under- 
 stand. How did you get here ? " 
 
 " My friends put me in charge of the conductor. 
 The brakemeu were very kind to me. I was passed 
 on from road to road. There were some passengers 
 — ladies — they saw to my meals. I got along. 
 Everybody was kind to me. It was very interesting
 
 SHUT IN. 77 
 
 I had my ticket ; like a corpse. Did you know 
 a corpse has to have a ticket like a live man ? If 
 he travels alone they fasten it on the box. I got 
 along beautifully. I'm used to getting along, you 
 know. The jar was the worst — and it took a good 
 while to get here. That 's all." 
 
 " Are you poor ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; of course I 'm poor. Sickness is so 
 different, I should think, when one can get things. 
 The ladies of our church helped Father collect for 
 the ticket to Boston. I never had to take charity 
 before. I said I would n't, you know. But I did. 
 You said you could cure me." 
 
 " Who takes care of you — in Schoolhouse, Michi- 
 gan ? " 
 
 " My step-mother does all she can. She is very 
 gopd. She has five children under six years old." 
 
 "Noisy ? Did you mind it much ? " 
 
 " It was the only thing I ever cried about, — rainy 
 days when they were all at home ; and Sundays ; 
 and when I was worse, you know. Our boys wear 
 copper-toed shoes. But they are all well. Father is 
 well, too. So is she. You could n't expect well 
 people to understand things, could you, Doctor ? It 
 is n't human to be sick. It is like being a hunch- 
 back — it is deformed ; nobody understands. Why, 
 of course not. I would n't have you blame my peo- 
 ple, Doctor. They are very kind to me. They 
 meant to be. I had to go without things. There 
 was n't anybody to look after me. Why, / was sick ! 
 — I have read about wheeled-chairs. I never saw 
 one till I came here. I have wanted one for seven 
 years. But I got along nicely. Oh, I got along ! "
 
 78 SHUT IN. 
 
 " Can you read ? " 
 
 " Sometimes. I had to be in a dark room ; but 
 that only lasted three years. Sometimes I can read 
 half an hour a dav, now. It is such a comfort." 
 
 "Can you sew ? Play games ? Receive visits ? 
 How have you occupied your time ? " 
 
 "I can't use my arms, you know. One year I 
 crocheted a tidy; but I had to give it up. And 
 then my room was so cold. We could n't afford a 
 fire ; the heat came in from the sitting-room. The 
 door had to be kept open. In cold weather I had to 
 keep my arms under the bed-clothes to keep warm. 
 But I play dominoes with the boys sometimes. But 
 boys jar the bed so, you know. I can't talk very 
 long at one time — and people stay a good while, of 
 course. People came to see me. But they all came 
 Sundays and always at four o'clock, after church. 
 That hurt me, you see. I had to stop." 
 
 ''How in — Michigan, have you occupied these 
 seven years. Miss Brand ? " 
 
 The invalid's large eyes narrowed and melted ; a 
 look came into them which the surgeon could not 
 diagnose ; it was not described upon the pages of 
 any of his volumes of therapeutics. He did not re- 
 call having noticed it as recorded even in the origi- 
 nal French or German. 
 
 "You would n't understand, I think," she said 
 softly. 
 
 " Then enlighten me ! " commanded the physician 
 peremptorily. 
 
 " Why, I have — prayed a good deal ; if you in- 
 sist on knowing." 
 
 " Prayed ? Poor occupation ! Worst thing in 
 the world for you ! "
 
 SHUT IN. 79 
 
 " I had n't anything else to do," said Hertha Brand 
 simply. " There was no harm in it, was there ? It 
 helped me ; that was all." 
 
 The surgeon gave the patient from Michigan one 
 more unnecessary look. It was a piercing look, 
 long and grave. He did not smile. He perceived 
 that he had a new " case " upon his distinguished 
 note-book ; which he shut with a snap, and said he 
 would call to-morrow morning. 
 
 Now when he had gone some yards away, Dr. Von 
 Moltke halted in his resounding stride and returned 
 to the bedside of the patient from Michigan. This 
 was a phenomenon. The surgeon was a man who 
 never returned to a patient when the visit was done. 
 From end to end of the ward, the eyes of the sick 
 stirred as the bodies of well people move toward an 
 accident or incident in the street. The Irishwoman 
 beyond the storks coughed coquettishly to attract 
 the great man's attention to her fatal condition. 
 The religious case laid down her Bible and groaned 
 appealingly. But the surgical case said nothing 
 funny — having been carried to the Morgue an hour 
 before. As for Dr. Mary May, she raised her pretty 
 eyebrows inquiringly to Dr. Hall. 
 
 " You are to get well, you understand ! " exploded 
 Von Moltke fiercely. " There 's to be no nonsense 
 about it. We will send you home a well woman." 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said Hertha Brand gently. 
 " I have heard doctors say that before." 
 
 " Have you ever heard me say it before ? " de- 
 manded Von Moltke. Over his large face, like an 
 electric reflection, passed a white light of rage ; he 
 was called magnificent when he was angry. Miss
 
 80 SHUT IN. 
 
 Brand laughed. It was an inconceivable irreverence, 
 but she did — she laughed. 
 
 " She shows fight," thought the medical tyrant ; 
 " she '11 do. There 's no scare in her." But he said 
 nothing to the fragile rebel ; he never complimented 
 the sick ; he regarded her intently, bowed mightily, 
 and left the ward like a muzzled cyclone. 
 
 " She '11 fall in love with him," thought the house 
 physician. " They generally do." 
 
 " Do you call Dr. Yon Moltke a handsome man ? " 
 asked Mary May confidingly. " I don't, myself." 
 
 Xow Christmas week came to Hope Hospital after 
 all. One hardly expected it. It seemed one of the 
 things that must pass by the inmates of that afilicted 
 place — like health, or joy itself. Out in the world, 
 beyond the dead chrysanthemums, beyond the mar- 
 ble woman in the fountain, who washed the marble 
 boy's face with icicles; in the well, live, stirring, 
 striving world Christmas might feel at home ; like a 
 heart among its kindred ; but here — 
 
 Yet here there really was a delightful stir. Her- 
 tha Brand explained to the West End patroness, 
 who, it seemed, represented the society with the 
 short name, how delightful it was. The pious pa- 
 tient had finished Lamentations, and was reading 
 aloud the beautiful tale of the Star in the East. To- 
 day she had forgotten to read her Bible aloud at all ; 
 but had wept joyfully to herself over the Apocalypse, 
 because her little granddaughter had sent her some 
 crocheted mittens of a brilliant solferino color edged 
 with blue. The Irishwoman had given up dying for 
 a day or two ; the priest himself had made her a
 
 SHUT IN. 81 
 
 Christmas call, and her son, a young gentleman con- 
 sisting chiefly of freckles and an odor of South End 
 livery stables, had brought her a paper of peanuts 
 and a pound of red rock-candy. 
 
 " She has n't a tooth in her head," merrily ex- 
 plained Miss Brand; "but she is perfectly happy. 
 Everybody thinks of everybody, and everybody thinks 
 of the sick. A hospital is the jolliest place I ever 
 spent Christmas in in all my life. Christmas cards 
 flood us like pellets ; and as for lace bags with mixed 
 candy in them " — 
 
 " I represent the ' Shut-in Society,' " interrupted 
 the lady patroness suavely. " I always make it a 
 point to visit the hospitals at Christmas. Shall I 
 find something suitable for your case in our list of 
 publications ? " 
 
 "I know your Society," said Miss Brand unex- 
 pectedly. " It 's an excellent thing. If I ever get 
 well, I am going to try to improve on it. You have 
 the grandest chances of any association in this coun- 
 try, and I don't wholly like the way you use them. 
 Excuse me, madam, — I may have had no fair ex- 
 perience, — but it seems to me you give one too many 
 things of one kind. Now, in three years I have had 
 sent to me " — she counted on her thin fingers — 
 " so many tracts, so many leaflets, and three Testa- 
 ments, and nothing else. It just so happened, per- 
 haps, but they were all religious things. It seems un- 
 grateful to mention it, when people mean so kindly. 
 But truly, madam, I think something not quite so 
 serious now and then would be a good thing, don't 
 you ? " 
 
 " You are not a religious woman, perhaps ? " in- 
 quired the visitor, politely.
 
 82 SHUT IN. 
 
 " I hope so, madam ; I try to be. That is why I 
 object to 3'our methods. When I am President of 
 your Society I sha'n't slight the Bible, but I shall 
 add Dickens, and Mark Twain, and Frank Stockton, 
 and ' Happy Thoughts,' and ' Alice in Wonderland,' 
 and Edward Lear's ' Nonsense,' and oh, madam, in 
 Heaven's name, something to make us smile ! To 
 make us smile ! We sha'n't pray any the less for it. 
 No fear of our neglecting the other world. Why, 
 it 's all we 've (jot. If you '11 only try to make this 
 one more tolerable, you '11 do us the best turn in the 
 power of all the societies on earth to do the sick ! 
 Oh, amuse us — amuse us if you can ! " 
 
 " I never was an invalid," replied the visitor, very 
 prettily. "Perhaps you are right. I only have 
 fevers now and then. You ought to have the wisdom 
 of your experience. It seems a hard one." 
 
 " It is the hardest one in the hospital," said the 
 house physician to the representative of the " Shut- 
 ins ; " " and if she were to revolutionize charity to 
 the sick as she has done this ward, the world would 
 be made over, madam, shortly. She has hardly been 
 here two months. She is the joy of this place al- 
 ready, madam. She is the strength of it, she is the 
 comfort of it, she is the pluck and spirit and fun 
 and hope of it. There is n't a patient in the ward 
 who does n't love her. There is n't a doctor here 
 who does n't respect her. She thinks less of herself 
 and more of other people than any sick person I ever 
 knew. She has a remarkable nature. If she gives 
 you any advice about the treatment of invalids, you '11 
 be wise if you listen to it, in my opinion. When Dr. 
 Von Moltke is n't here, I offer my opinion some-
 
 SHUT IN. 83 
 
 times," added the house physician, with a frank, 
 fine smile he had which was charming. 
 
 " That poor girl," continued Dr. Hall, with a shade 
 upon his sensitive face, '' is to undergo — within five 
 days — on holiday week — at the desire of the Con- 
 sulting Staff — one of the deadliest operations known 
 to surgical historj'. She did n't tell you, did she ? 
 I thought not. Most of us make more fuss over fill- 
 ing a tooth. She is superb. She is supreme. Good- 
 morning, madam. Yes ? I wish you would bring 
 her some flowers on New Year's Day — if she lives 
 so long. They 're better than daily texts for a case 
 like hers. I don't know how it happens ; those peo- 
 ple of hers must be very neglectful. Nobody sent 
 her anything on Christmas — not even a card ; forgot 
 her, I suppose ; she never complained of it, but she 
 looked sober when the Christmas mails came in. 
 Most of the patients were remembered — little sou- 
 venirs — something. All she said was : ' Oh, they are 
 all busy at home. They are all well. They don't 
 understand what it is to be sick, and fifteen hundred 
 miles from home. It 's natural they should forget. 
 Doctor. It 's all right. I don't mean to mind it, 
 Doctor. They love me just as much, you know.' " 
 
 " Poor girl ! " murmured the visitor from the Shut- 
 in Society ; her eyes filled. " We will try to make it 
 up to her," she said. 
 
 Dr. Hall returned to the bedside of Miss Brand ; 
 his face was glowing ; their eyes met with a sudden 
 sweet intelligence. The drama had moved on in two 
 months. 
 
 Now the action had taken a tense and rapid char- 
 acter. Hertha Brand had distinguished herself;
 
 84 SHUT IN. 
 
 she had not fallen in love with the great Dr. Von 
 Moltke. 
 
 The young physician perceived this with a species 
 of personal gratitude ; he differed from Von Moltke 
 radically about the case ; in which, therefore, he took 
 the more interest. Between himself and Hope Hos- 
 pital's favorite patient a fine feeling, like a silken 
 tie, had occurred. He called it sympathy. She 
 called it friendship. She had a divine ease and un- 
 consciousness with him. She had the invalid's sacred 
 protection from misapprehension. She was shut in 
 to her lot like a sweet nun into her cell. She was 
 like the spirits in Heaven who neither marry nor 
 are given in marriage. She regarded him trustfully. 
 She leaned upon him with the piteous weakness of 
 strength disabled. His fine quality pervaded her 
 delicate being like an atmosphere. 
 
 " What day has he set for the operation ? " asked 
 Dr. Hall, abruptly. 
 
 " To-morrow at three," composedly said Hertha 
 Brand. 
 
 " To-morrow ? I did not think — but Von Moltke 
 pushes things when his mind is set. I suppose he 
 has explained to you the nature of the — risk ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. He seems to be an honorable man. He 
 told me about it. He said it was my only chance. 
 He ordered it. I am his patient. So I said I would 
 do it. That 's all." 
 
 " You understand," pursued the house physician, 
 frowning, " that the removal of such a growth from 
 the liver — assuming that his diagnosis is correct 
 and that any such thing exists in your case — you 
 understand. Miss Brand, that only one such instance
 
 SHUT IN. 85 
 
 is known in medical history ? You understand that 
 only one surgeon has ever performed this — difficult 
 
 — operation successfully ? You understand that 
 Von Moltke has never done it ? " 
 
 " He thinks he can do what any other man can, I 
 suppose," quietly replied Miss Brand; "and that 
 other patient lived. He had four tumors removed 
 
 — without ether — and he lived." 
 
 '' He was a man," shortly answered the house 
 physician, "and an Arctic explorer; and Helling- 
 pfeift'er of Kew York did it." 
 
 A flush passed over the invalid's pale and tender 
 face; she did not turn her eyes toward the house 
 physician, but her profile on the white pillow had a 
 vivid consciousness, expressive, like language, 
 
 " I have trusted Dr. Von Moltke ! " she said, 
 quickly. " That is what I am here for. I have 
 trusted him ! " 
 
 "You may not know," replied Wentworth Hall, 
 in his turn not regarding her, " that there exists at 
 the present time an intensifying conflict between 
 surgery and other forms of medical treatment. There 
 is a cultus — a tendency — on the one hand to the 
 extreme measure. Everything goes to the knife. 
 It is the first appeal. It ought to be the last ; like 
 the sword in human affairs. Gentler (and safer) 
 measures exist ; they should be tried first. The true 
 treatment — the exact remedy — the ideal hygiene 
 
 — these form our basis of hope and effort. Von 
 Moltke is a surgeon. But," added Wentworth Hall 
 beneath his breath, " he is the first consulting power 
 of this hospital. I am only the house physician." 
 
 Hertha Brand turned her sweet face impulsively
 
 8G SHUT IN. 
 
 toward liim. Their eyes found each other now in a 
 long look. 
 
 " What would happen," she asked, after a silence, 
 " if it were known that you have — warned — that 
 you have been so noble — that you have said to me 
 what you have ? " 
 
 ** Oh, it would cost me my position, of course," he 
 answered, quietly. " I have done an unprofessional 
 act," he added in a lower tone. '* I have " — he 
 broke off in agitation, and turned his chair slightly 
 away from her. 
 
 " Do you mean," insisted the patient, " that you 
 object to the operation ? That you consider it un- 
 necessary ? Even very dangerous ? Possibly mur- 
 derous ? " 
 
 The house physician made no reply. Over his 
 young, averted face the signs of a high struggle were 
 moving, like the shadows from the wings of two 
 spirits. 
 
 " Perhaps you don't even think that I have the 
 trouble he wants to cut me up for ? " 
 
 But Wentworth Hall kept silence still. Uninten- 
 tionally, all but unconsciously, he had slipped into 
 an extraordinary situation ; the refinement of its 
 complication gave it a kind of interest to which, be- 
 cause the refinement is so evident, we are not apt to 
 attach the name of moral emergency ; it may not 
 the less deserve it. On the one hand, professional 
 etiquette, ethics, honor itself, stood guard over the 
 young man's next movement in this delicate game. 
 All the promise of his life warned him. His fate 
 held up a firm forefinger. His future hung upon a 
 motion of his lips, nay, upon a glance of the eye.
 
 SHUT IN. 87 
 
 On one side, the code of all his world, the glamonr 
 of assured success, the control of the customary view 
 of things persuaded him. On the other, lay nothing 
 but a helpless creature ; the duty, the doubtful and 
 difficult duty, of a well man toward a sick woman — 
 that was all. He could not look at her. His fair 
 face flushed. He felt his soul and body wrenched 
 within him. 
 
 " Do you disagree with the diagnosis ? " persisted 
 Miss Brand, in a low, clear tone. " Do you think I 
 need not undergo — all that ? That I shall die ? 
 If I were your patient, would you not do it ? If I 
 were your patient, what would you do with me ? " 
 
 The flush upon the house physician's cheek gave 
 place to a pallor that was almost pitiful ; it aroused 
 the pity of the doomed woman. She smiled upon 
 him like a seraph ; gently lifting her pain-pinched 
 face. 
 
 *' Poor fellow ! " she said — " poor fellow. I will 
 not ask you. Do not answer me. IsTever mind ! It 
 does n't matter very much. Don't trouble about it." 
 
 " Miss Brand," said Wentworth Hall, in a ring- 
 ing voice, " I shall answer you. Look at me ! " 
 
 She obeyed him ; in her large eyes the outcry of 
 life and death, of ignorance, helplessness, hopeless- 
 ness, of all that appeals to the healer, and bewilders 
 the sick ; in his, the utter truth. It needed no word, 
 and had none. His lips needed to do no treason to 
 his hospital. But his eyes were true to her. She 
 pressed his hand silently. He bowed and left her. 
 
 Dr. Mary May nestled toward him, as he turned 
 away ; his emotion was visible. She crooned over 
 him, and told him how tired he looked. She was glo-
 
 88 SHUT IN. 
 
 rious that morning ; her well, young blood bounded 
 in waves of brilliant color across her rounded cheek j 
 she blossomed in this diseased place, the one flower 
 of health and charm and delight. It was a rest to 
 look at her. He did look at her ; he always did. 
 Hertlia Brand could not see the look. She observed 
 the motion patiently ; she knew that he loved Mary 
 May ; she thought it natural ; Dr. May was quite a 
 well woman — and how pretty ! Any man might 
 love her. Friendship — compassion — these were not 
 like that ; it was her duty to be glad ; she was glad ; 
 she thought of it as impersonally as a ghost might. 
 
 " God bless him ! " she whispered, talking to her- 
 self as the solitary sick do ; and gently turned her 
 face away. The hand-organ on Harmony Street was 
 playing. She lay and listened to it for quite a while. 
 It was playing : — 
 
 "Let me alone, 
 For my grief is my own ! " 
 
 " Not undergo the operation ? " 
 
 The great surgeon wheeled about like a pillar of 
 fire ; while he towered above the panting patient, he 
 seemed to Avrithe, as a tall, living flame does. 
 
 " But every preparation is made ! The Consulting 
 Staff will be present. It is a very interesting case ! 
 I have telegraphed Hellingpfeiffer of New York to 
 be present. . . . What do you mean ? " he thun- 
 dered. 
 
 "I — I am very — sorry, sir." 
 
 For the first time Hertha Brand quailed before 
 the celebrated tyrant. She had been so brave all her 
 life ! Perhaps her pluck had been her one little
 
 SHUT IN. 89 
 
 adorable vanity ; she had always been called such a 
 courageous invalid ! She had come up to the edge 
 of the knife without wincing. Now she crawled 
 away, like a deserter. She felt that the reputation 
 of her life was gone ; the glory of her fate had de- 
 parted from her ; she would pass for a coward all 
 her days. And she had not a reason to give ; not 
 one. She was dvimb. For unpardonable weakness, 
 for criminal ingratitude to the hospital that had 
 cherished her, for vacillation disgraceful to a child 
 who had an appointment at the dentist's, she must 
 be known and remembered, as the well and the 
 powerful remember the follies of the sick and the 
 weak. And yet by all that was honorable in woman 
 or in patient she must be dumb. 
 
 " I have — a reason," she panted, " I cannot ex- 
 plain. I do not expect to be understood. I know I 
 must seem — unpardonable. Forgive me, Doctor ! 
 You have been good to me. I have trusted you. 
 You have helped me ; you have given me my only 
 hope of life. I thank you. Doctor. I know how 
 kindly you mean by me, but oh, forgive me ! I can-" 
 not undergo the operation to-morrow. I ask a fort- 
 night's reprieve — a week's " — 
 
 " Not a week ! " blazed the angry surgeon. *' Busy 
 men like this Consulting Staff can't dance attendance 
 on the whims of sick girls — of charity patients," he 
 began to say — he did so far forget himself ; he was 
 the angriest man in his profession in Boston that 
 holiday week ; then he stopped, for he felt ashamed ; 
 he looked at her refined, patient, piteous profile, and 
 he felt ashamed. He pushed his chair back fiercely. 
 
 " I have nothing more to say to you. Miss Brand !
 
 90 SHUT IN. 
 
 I abandon the case ! Hope Hospital abandons the 
 case ! You are at liberty to return to Sehoolliouse, 
 Michigan — and the village doctor — whenever you 
 choose ! Good-morning, madam ! " — 
 
 " Stay a minute," urged Hertha Brand, who had 
 now regained her composure. ^'I don't blame you, 
 Dr. Von Moltke, for being displeased with me. I 
 have no reasons — that I am at liberty to give — 
 suitable to account for my conduct in your eyes. 
 But they told me women fell in love with you, sir ! 
 I was expected to do it myself, I believe. How is 
 it. Doctor ? Tell me ! How can a woman love a 
 man who blackguards a patient ? A — charity pa- 
 tient, too — as you said." 
 
 But the great surgeon and his great wrath had 
 thundered from the ward. The exhausted patient 
 turned upon her cot, and fainted roundly, which, 
 under the circumstances, was a luxury she had no 
 reason to expect, not being a fainting woman. 
 
 She felt better for this period of unconsciousness, 
 so rare in her life of suffering that she looked upon 
 it gratefully, and in the evening, when she was left 
 to herself, she thought it all over and bravely laid 
 her pitiful plans. She must go back. Hope Hos- 
 pital could shelter her despair no longer. She 
 would go back to Schoolhouse, Michigan ; she would 
 crawl into her own old bed in the little bedroom 
 where she had lain for seven years. The door 
 would be open to let in what they called the heat 
 from the sitting-room fire ; she would put her arms 
 under the clothes to keep warm ; the boys with 
 their copper-toed shoes would come stamping in ; 
 her mother would bring her breakfast and ask her
 
 SHUT IN. 91 
 
 how she felt this morning ; her father would say it 
 was a pity to have had all this expense and come 
 home as bad as ever ; the family would gossip over 
 her ; the neighbors would call upon her Sunday after- 
 noons at four o'clock ; she would lie and look at the 
 green and chocolate paper ; she would count the 
 man hanging from the trellis four thousand times 
 four thousand times. 
 
 She had written home, poor thing, though hear- 
 ing nothing, — a Christmas letter, a farewell letter 
 touchingly full of love and gratitude, when one con- 
 sidered how little she had to be grateful for ; a let- 
 ter telling them about the crisis, and how it would 
 be all over when they got this, either for well or ill ; 
 she had left one or two of her little books and the 
 trifles of her barren life to " those who loved her," 
 her father and one of the boys who kissed her Avhen 
 he played dominoes, and a neighbor or so, who 
 raised the money for the ticket on to Boston. 
 
 She had said her cheerful little good-by words, in 
 case it went wrong with her ; but had told them she 
 was sure it would go right, and that she should come 
 home to them a well creature — a live woman ; the 
 cured patient of Hope Hospital ; " their loving, happy, 
 hopeful Hertha." Thus she had signed and sealed 
 and sent her Christmas letter home. And she had 
 added a postscript and asked her old minister to 
 pray for her ; that was the way one did in School- 
 house, Michigan. She liked the old minister, and 
 she was tired of her own prayers ; they seemed to 
 have all betrayed her lately. She had the not un- 
 common experience of unselfish invalids, that for 
 years she had scarcely prayed for herself, only for
 
 92 SHUT IN. 
 
 other people ; people she knew who suffered or 
 needed ; her sacred inner life had been full of thein, 
 and theirs. Since she came to Hope Hospital she 
 had prayed sometimes for herself, for cure, for life 
 itself. It had seemed natural here. And what had 
 come to her ? Misled ! misled ! All on the wron"- 
 path ; all a mistake ; going back to ]\Iichigan ! Un- 
 cured — incurable. " Now," thought Hertha Brand, 
 with her healthy good sense, " either I have prayed 
 too much for myself, or not enough. One or the 
 other. I wonder which. . . . Lord," she cried, " tell 
 me ! " She did not often cry. But she began to 
 sob now, behind the screen with the two storks and 
 the bulrush. She folded her wasted hands like a 
 child, and so, in this manner, prayed she : — 
 
 " God ! What shall I do ? Lord God, what shall 
 I do? I am a sick woman — weak — incurable — I 
 have been in bed for seven years. I suffer all the 
 time. Thou Almighty ! put thy strength upon me. 
 Even thine, upon even 77ie. Give me thy nerve, thy 
 good sense, thy power of deciding what to do. I am 
 in a hard place — oh, I am in a tough place. I have 
 lost my pluck, I am worn out. I dread the journey 
 back to Michigan — it was so hard. I 'm afraid 
 they won't be very glad to see me, I am so expensive 
 to them. It does n't seem to me as if I could go 
 back into that room — that cold room — and that 
 wall-paper — and lie there for seven years to come ! 
 Great God ! it may be seventeen ; it might be twenty- 
 seven — oh, or more than that ! I 'm only twenty- 
 nine years old. I may live to be an old woman. . . . 
 It seems as if I could not, conld not bear it. Dear 
 Lord, I will bear it if I must ; I will try, — oh, I will
 
 SHUT IN. 93 
 
 try hard. But if there is any way I can be told, 
 if I can be shown what to do to get better, or if only 
 just what I ought to do, whether I can get better 
 or not — or if I ought to have gone through that 
 operation — just a sign ! I pray thee have mercy 
 upon me, for I won't ask anything unreasonable, 
 not any miracle nor silly favor done to me — but 
 just a sign ! Almighty God, thou Healer of the 
 souls and the bodies of all mankind ! Thou great 
 Physician of all sick people "... 
 
 " Fire ! Oh, fire, fire ! " 
 
 This cry so terrible in all human homes, so hide- 
 ous in the hospital for the helpless sick, crashed 
 into Hertha Brand's prayer, and rang and resounded 
 through the ward. Wails of horror and pleas for 
 mercy faltered through the wretched place. In an 
 instant a panic had set in. Worse than fire threat- 
 ened. Hertha pushed aside her screen and looked 
 quietly out ; she was so used to being helpless, and 
 had so often thought how she would act in case of 
 fire, that it came quite natural to her to be self-pos- 
 sessed. She saw it all in an instant. And this was 
 what she saw. 
 
 Dr. Mary May was going to a party that night. 
 It was her "evening off." She had come into the 
 ward on some errand, real or apparent, at the bed- 
 side of the Irishwoman who never lived till morn- 
 ing; and she had come, being hurried, and about 
 to get into her wraps for her carriage, in her thin 
 evening dress. 
 
 She had brought, contrary to custom, a lighted 
 candle in her hand, which she had set down upon 
 the table by the Irishwoman's cot. A nurse had
 
 94 SHUT IN. 
 
 opened a door suddenly, — the wind blew a gale that 
 night, — the ventilators were open, a violent draught 
 had swept Mary May's blue lace draperies into the 
 flame of the candle. (By the way, it was a blue 
 candle, to match her dress — but Dr. Hall was out.) 
 The amount of it was that Mary May was in a blaze. 
 The cry of Fire ! came from her own professional 
 lips ; and the panic among the sick followed, as 
 it must. No doctor was in the room. The only 
 nurses stood like paralytics. So poor Mary May 
 burned on. Then swifter than fire flashed through 
 the bedridden invalid's being, these words : — 
 
 " She will burn to death before my eyes. They 
 have all lost their wits. Nobody will touch her. 
 A7id he loves her.'' 
 
 In an instant, God knew how, she had done the 
 deed. In a moment, she who had not put her foot 
 upon the ground for seven years had sprung, had 
 dashed, had reeled upon the burning girl, and drag- 
 ging the blankets off her cot, rolled them about and 
 about the blue lace figure, smothered down the blaze, 
 and pushed the pretty victim to the ground, where 
 strong arms of nurses gathered her, and so the thing 
 was done. Saved and sobbing, Mary May was 
 carried off to have her burns dressed — they were 
 not important, biit they smarted. Dr. Hall carried 
 her. She forgot to thank Miss Brand. 
 
 In the uproar of the startled ward Hertha Brand 
 stood in her white night-dress, radiant, illuminated, 
 like the body in the sketch of William Blake that 
 rises, rapturous, to meet his soul at the Resurrection 
 Day. Patients cried out to her, but she heard no- 
 thing. Many blessed her, but she did not respond to
 
 SHUT IN. 95 
 
 their blessing. Nurses gathered about her and chat- 
 tered, praising lier ; but she did not answer. 
 
 " Howly Mother, will they lave her sthandin' on 
 her blissid bare feet, begorra ! " cried the Irish- 
 woman. "Bedad, they wouldn't do so much by a 
 rale corrups in Ireland ! " 
 
 " Come," said her own nurse, gently ; " let us carry 
 you back to bed." 
 
 " Carry me ! " cried the incurable invalid. She 
 put one bare foot before the other, walked out as she 
 was, straight into the middle of the ward, turned, 
 and steadily, like a soldier, marched back to bed. 
 When she got there, she sank upon her knees, and 
 the nurse, for she dared not, did not touch her. She 
 only put a coverlet softly across the shoulders of 
 her patient's night-dress, and, being fond of Miss 
 Brand, knelt down and prayed beside her. 
 
 But the religious patient, who, before the fire, had 
 been reading the Imprecatory Psalms, sat up in bed 
 like a Christian woman, and began to sing : — 
 
 " Praise God, from whom all blessings flow ! " 
 
 It is a touching fact that the sick people in the 
 ward where Hertha Brand was so beloved did join 
 the religious patient, and sang the Doxology roundly, 
 from end to end, 
 
 " I thought it was hysterics," said Mary May, 
 sweetly, when she heard about it all. 
 
 She had the indiscretion to say this to Dr. Hall. 
 He regarded her in the strong silence of a man to 
 whose feeling for herself a woman has given the final, 
 fatal touch. There was nothing to be said. He pre- 
 scribed kindly for Dr. May ; and, with bowed head,
 
 96 SHUT IN. 
 
 and hands clasped, he came to the bedside of the 
 patient from Michigan. 
 
 He found her sitting upon her cot, dressed in her 
 brown dress and little invalid cap, trying to mend 
 her old brown gloves. She looked very pale, and 
 sweet, and happy. 
 
 " I am getting ready," she said, " to go back to 
 Michigan." 
 
 But Wentworth Hall shook his head. 
 
 " You will stay," he said — "with me." 
 
 " With 1/021 ? " 
 
 " I shall take you to my mother's house. You 
 shall be nursed and cared for. I shall make you a 
 well woman. You have trusted me — a young, un- 
 known practitioner — against Von Moltke's terrible 
 reputation. I shall justify your trust, please God ; 
 as you, thank God, have justified my diagnosis. 
 Some time — some other time," he said in great 
 agitation, " if you care for me — enough — or learn 
 to — we will see. . . . You have grown unbearably 
 dear to me, Hertha Brand. I don't know what I am 
 to do about it. You brave, sweet girl ! You plucky 
 — glorious — tender — you " — 
 
 " Oh, hush ! " cried Hertha Brand. 
 
 One thing remained to do ; and he did it. Dr. 
 Wentworth Hall went like a man to the great and 
 terrible surgeon. He told him all ; he kept back no 
 part of the professional price. It was easier, per- 
 haps, because he could afford to, now ; a man could 
 afford anything who had beaten Von Moltke on diag- 
 nosis. But let us believe (as she did who trusted 
 him) that he would have done it at all events.
 
 SHUT IN. 97 
 
 " I have broken the code of professional etiquette, 
 Dr. Von Moltke," said the young man, with proud 
 humility, " for the sake of a suffering patient. That, 
 unfortunately, is unpardonable in our vocation. I 
 realize what my duty is. I will leave Hope Hospital 
 as soon as you can supply my place. Miss Brand 
 will accompany me — to my mother's home. I shall 
 take her case immediately under my supervision, and 
 treat it on my own theory. If I can cure her and 
 win her — or, if I can win her, Avhether I cure her or 
 not — I shall make her my wife. It rests with her- 
 self. I have no more to say. It is not a case we 
 need to discuss, I think. My respect for your- 
 self"— 
 
 " Never mind yom^ respect for me / " roared the 
 great man. " I 'm going to see that girl ! " 
 
 He came to her — tame as a cosset. His fine face 
 was melted ; like hard metal in a white heat. He 
 found her sitting in an easy-chair before an open fire 
 at the end of the ward. She rose and advanced to 
 greet him. He held out his large, white hands, and 
 took her fragile one in both of his. He began imme- 
 diately, without the superfluous, as his way was. 
 
 "I have heard of such cases. We had a pa- 
 tient here once for three years. We all pronounced 
 her incurable with spinal disease. She became en- 
 gaged to the janitor, and got well in three weeks. 
 Don't blush. I don't locate this case on that line. 
 There are others on record. You come under the 
 class of cure by shocks. The shock was the battery 
 to you. You might have fooled with electricity for 
 years and nothing come of it. You needed the bat- 
 tery to body and mind. You got it, somehow. There
 
 98 SHUT IN. 
 
 was a motive there. I don't propose to dissect that. 
 But it may be the Law of Sacrifice for aught I know. 
 It is a powerful pathological agent. 
 
 " Miss Brand, I was wrong. I made a mistake in 
 diagnosis. I lost my temper with you. ... I beg 
 your j^ar-don." 
 
 He uttered the last words with the great gentle- 
 ness of great strength ; and, when he went, he left 
 her in tears. 
 
 They passed out of the hospital together, — the 
 dismissed patient and the house physician resigned. 
 She walked to the carriage leaning upon his arm. 
 The nurses and the convalescent patients gathered 
 affectionately to see her go. Maiy May was not vis- 
 ible, being still obliged to nurse a scar beneath her 
 bright blonde bangs. 
 
 It was a gentle day, warm and fair. The hand- 
 organ on Harmony Street was playing : — 
 
 " I 'd shelter thee ! I 'd shelter thee ! " 
 
 As Hertha passed by the chrysanthemum bushes, 
 where the snow had melted from the fine brown 
 stalks, and past the marble woman who washed the 
 marble boy's face with nothing less than the divine 
 sunshine to-day ; as they passed on together out of 
 Hope Hospital into the free life, she was so silent 
 that he turned and asked her how it was with her, 
 thinking, perhaps, she might be lost in tender 
 thoughts. 
 
 " When I am well," she whispered, " oh, when I 
 am a well woman, I shall give my life itself to the 
 sick. I will make their world all over. I will make
 
 SHUT IN. 99 
 
 it what nobody else has ever made it. I will do — 
 God teach me," she added humbly, *' what I shall do." 
 No well person knows. I am so glad I have suffered. 
 I thank God I understand." 
 
 " But," pleaded the young man, ruefully, " what 
 part of your life is to be left for me ? " 
 
 " The first choice," she said, " and the best. Will 
 that do ? " 
 
 He lifted her into the carriage, trembling more 
 than she. It was a close carriage, and he drew the 
 curtains. As they left Hope Hospital for the living 
 world Avhere joy replaces hope, and energy super- 
 sedes patience, and sacrifice and love and delight are 
 one — their lips met. Love radiantly undertook to 
 finish the " case " that trust and courage had begvin. 
 
 " Together," he cried, " we will cure the world ! " 
 
 But the hand-organ on Harmony Street put in 
 madly at that moment : — 
 
 " Oh, 't is Love, 't is Love, 't is Love, that makes the world go 
 round ! ' ' 
 
 And it was pretty in the agent of the •' Shut Ins " 
 to remember to send her flowers on Xew Year's Day 
 — at his mother's house.
 
 JACK THE riSHERMAK 
 
 Jack was a Fairharbor boy. This might be to 
 say any of several things ; but it is at least sure to 
 say one, — he was a fisherman, and the son of a fish- 
 erman. 
 
 When people of another sort than Jack's have 
 told their earthly story through, the biography, the 
 memorial, the obituary remains. Our poet, preacher, 
 healer, politician, and the rest pass on to this polite 
 sequel which society has ordained for human exist- 
 ence. When Jack dies, he stops. We find the fish- 
 erman squeezed into some corner of the accident col- 
 umn : " Washed overboard," or " Lost in the fog," 
 and that is the whole of it. He ends just there. 
 There is no more Jack. No fellow-members in the 
 Society for Something-or-Nothing pass resolutions to 
 his credit and the consolation of his family. No 
 funeral discourse is preached over him and privately 
 printed at the request of the parishioners. The 
 columns of the religious weekly to which he did not 
 subscribe contain no obituary sketches signed by the 
 initials of friends not thought to be too afflicted to 
 speak a good word for a dead man. From the press 
 of the neighboring city no thin memorial volume 
 sacred to his virtues and stone-blind to his defects
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 101 
 
 shall ever issue. Jack needs a biographer. Such 
 the writer of this sketch would fain aspire to be. 
 
 Jack was born at sea. His father was bringing 
 his mother home from a visit at a half-sister's in 
 Nova Scotia, for Jack's mother was one of those 
 homesick, clannish people who pine without their 
 relations as much as some of us pine Avith ours ; 
 and even a half-sister was worth more to her in her 
 fanciful and feeble condition than a whole one is 
 sure to be to bolder souls. 
 
 She had made her visit at her half-sister's, and 
 they had talked over receipts, and compared yeast, 
 and cut out baby-things, and turned dresses, and 
 dyed flannel, and gone to prayer-meetings together ; 
 and Jack's mother was coming home, partly because 
 Jack's father came for her, and partly because he 
 happened to come sober, which was a great point, 
 and partly because the schooner had to sail, which 
 was another, — she was coming home, at all events, 
 when a gale struck them. It was an ugly blow. 
 The little two-masted vessel swamped, in short, at 
 midnight of a moonlit night, off the coast, just the 
 other side of seeing Cape Ann light. The crew 
 were picked up by a three-master, and taken home. 
 Aboard the three-master, in fright and chill and 
 storm, the little boy was born. They always said 
 that he was born in Fairharbor. In fact, he was 
 born rounding Eastern Point. " The toughest place 
 to be borned in, this side o' Torment," Jack's father 
 said. But Jack's mother said nothing at all. 
 
 Jack's father kept sober till he got the mother 
 and the child safely into the little crumbling, gray 
 cottage in half of whose meagre dimensions the fam-
 
 102 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 ily kept up the illusion which they called home. 
 Then, for truth compels me, I must state that Jack's 
 father went straightway out upon what, in even less 
 obscure circles than his, it is customaiy to call *' a 
 tear." There seems to be something in the savage, 
 incisive fitness of this word which has over-ridden 
 all mere distinctions of class or culture, and must 
 ultimately make it a classic in the language. " I 've 
 stood it long as I ken stand, and I 'm goin' on a tear, 
 — I 'm a-goin' on a netarnal tear," said Jack's father 
 to his oldest dory-mate, a fellow he had a feeling for, 
 much as you would for an oar you had handled a 
 good many years ; or perhaps a sail that you were 
 used to, and had patched and watched, and knew the 
 cracks in it, and the color of it, and when it was 
 likely to give way, and Avhereabouts it would hold. 
 
 In fact, that proved to be, in deed and truth, an 
 eternal tear for Jack's father. Drunk as a fisher- 
 man could be, — and that is saying a good deal, — 
 he reshipped that night, knowing not whither nor 
 why, nor indeed knowing that the deed was done ; 
 and when he came to himself he was twelve hours 
 out, on his wa}" to the Banks of Newfoundland ; and 
 the young mother, with her baby on her arm, 
 looked out of the frosty window over the foot of her 
 old bedstead, and watched for him to come, and did 
 not like to tell the neighbors that she was short of 
 fuel. 
 
 She was used to waiting — women are ; Fairhar- 
 bor women always are. But she had never waited 
 so long before. And when, at the end of her wait- 
 ing, the old dory-mate came in one night and told 
 her that it happened falling from the mast because
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 103 
 
 he was not sober enough to be up there, Jack's 
 mother said she had always expected it. But she 
 had not expected it, all the same. We never expect 
 trouble, we only fear it. And she had put the baby 
 on the edge of the bed and got upon her knees upon 
 the floor, and laid her face on the baby, and tried to 
 say her prayers, — for she was a pious little woman, 
 not knowing any better, — but found she could not 
 pray, she cried so. And the old dory-mate told her 
 not to try, but to cry as hard as she could. And she 
 told him he was very kind ; and so she did. For 
 she was fond of her husband although he got drunk, 
 — because he got drunk, one is tempted to say. Her 
 heart had gone the way of the hearts of drunkards' 
 wives : she loved in proportion to her misery, and 
 gave on equation with what she lost. All the woman 
 in her mothered her husband when she could no 
 longer wifely worship him. When he died she felt 
 as if she had lost her eldest child. So, as I say, she 
 kneeled with her face on the baby, and cried as if 
 she had been the blessedest of wives. Afterward 
 she thought of this with self-reproach. She said 
 one day to the old dory -mate : — 
 
 " When my trouble came, I did not pray to God. 
 I 'd ought to have. But I only cried at Him." 
 
 Jack had come into the world in a storm, and he 
 began it stormily. He was a big, roaring baby, and 
 he became a restless boy. His mother's gentle and 
 unmodified femininity was helpless before the prob- 
 lem of this wholly masculine little being. She said 
 Jack needed a man to manage him. He smoked at 
 six ; he lived in the stables and on the wharves at 
 eight ; he came when he got ready, and went when
 
 104 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 he pleased; he obeyed when he felt like it, and 
 when he was punished, he kicked. Once, in an im- 
 aginative moment, he bit her. 
 
 She sent him to pack mackerel, for they were put 
 to it to keep soul and body together, and he brought 
 home such habits of speech as even the Fairharbor 
 woman had never heard. From her little boy, her 
 baby, — not yet old enough to be out of short trou- 
 sers, and scarcely out of little sacks, had he been 
 yours, my Lady, at the pretty age when one still 
 fastens lace collars round their necks, and has them 
 under shelter by dark, and hears their prayers, and 
 challenges the breath of heaven lest it blow too 
 rudely on some delicate forming fibre of soul or 
 body, — from her little boy, at eight years old, the 
 mother first learned the abysses of vulgarity in a 
 seaport town. 
 
 It must be admitted that her education in this 
 respect had been defective. She had always been 
 one of the women in whose presence her neighbors 
 did not speak too carelessly. 
 
 But Jack's mother had the kind of eyes which do 
 not see mire, — the meek, religious, deep-blue eye 
 which even growing sons respect while they strike 
 the tears from it. At his worst Jack regarded her 
 as a species of sacred fact, much like heaven or a 
 hymn. Sometimes on Sunday nights he stayed at 
 home with her ; he liked to hear her sing. She sang 
 " Rock of Ages " in her best black alpaca, with her 
 work-worn hands crossed upon the gingham apron 
 which she put on to save the dress. 
 
 But ah, she said. Jack needed a man to manage 
 him. And one day when she said this, in spite of
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 105 
 
 her gentle unconsciousness, or because of it, the old 
 dory-mate to whom she said it said he thought so 
 too, and that if she had no objections he would like 
 to be that man. 
 
 And the Fairharbor' widow, who had never thought 
 of such a thing, said she did n't know as she had ; 
 for nobody knew, she said, how near to starving 
 they had come ; and it was something to have a 
 sober man. So, on this reasonable basis. Jack ac- 
 quired a step-father, and his step-father sent him 
 straightway to the Grand Banks. 
 
 He meant it well enough, and perhaps it made no 
 difference in the end. But Jack \vas a little fellow 
 to go fishing, — only ten. His first voyage was hard : 
 it was a March voyage ; he got badly frostbitten, and 
 the skipper was rough. He was knocked about a 
 good deal, and had the measles by himself in his 
 berth ; and the men said they did n't know they had 
 brought a baby to the Banks, for they were very 
 busy ; and Jack lay and cried a little, and thought 
 about his mother, and wished he had n't kicked her, 
 but forgot it Avhen he got well. So he swaggered 
 about among the men, as a boy does when he is the 
 only one in a crew, and aped their talk, and shared 
 their grog, and did their hard work, and learned their 
 songs, and came home with the early stages of moral 
 ossification as well set in upon his little heart as 
 a ten-year-old heart allows. 
 
 The next voyage did not mend the matter ; nor 
 the next. And though the old dory-mate was an 
 honest fellow, he had been more successful as a dory- 
 mate than he was as a step-father. He and Jack did 
 not " get on." Sometimes Jack's mother wondered
 
 106 JACK THE FISIIEBMAX. 
 
 if lie had needed a man to manage him ; but she 
 never said so. She was a good wife, and she had 
 fuel enough, now ; she only kissed Jack and said she 
 meant it for the best, and then she went away and 
 sang " Rock of Ages " to the tune of Martyn, very 
 slowly and quite on the wrong key. It seemed to 
 make her feel better, poor thing. Jack sometimes 
 wondered why. 
 
 When he was twelve years old he came home from 
 a winter voyage one night, and got his pay for his 
 share, — boy's pay, yet, for a boy's share ; but big- 
 ger than it used to be, — and did not go home first, 
 but went rollicking off with a crowd of Portuguese. 
 It was a Sunday night, and his mother was expecting 
 him, for she knew the boat was in. His step-father 
 expected him too, — and his money ; and Jack knew 
 that. His mother had been sick, but Jack did not 
 know that ; she had been very sick, and had asked 
 for him a great deal. There had been a baby, — born 
 dead while its father was off-shore after cod, — and 
 it had been very cold weather ; and something had 
 gone wrong. 
 
 At midnight of that night some one knocked at 
 the door of the crumbling cottage. The step-father 
 opened it ; he looked pale and agitated. Some boys 
 were there in a confused group; they bore what 
 seemed to be a lifeless body on a drag, or bob-sled ; 
 it was Jack, dead drunk. 
 
 It was the first time, — he was only twelve, — 
 and one of the Fairharbor boys took the pipe from 
 his mouth to explain. 
 
 " He was trapped by an /-talian, and they 've stole 
 every cent off him, 'n' kicked him out, 'n' lef him.
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 107 
 
 stranded like a monk-fish, so me and the other fel- 
 lers we borryed a sled and brung him home, for we 
 thought his mother 'd rather. He ain"t dead, but 
 he 's just as drunk as if he was sixty ! " 
 
 The Fairharbor boy mentioned this circumstance 
 with a kind of abnormal pride, as if such superior 
 maturity were a point for a comrade to make note of. 
 But Jack's step-father went out softly, and shut the 
 door, and said : — 
 
 " Look here, boys, — help me in with him, will 
 you ? Not that way. His mother 's in there. She 
 died an hour ago." 
 
 II. 
 
 And so the curse of his heredity came upon him. 
 She never knew, thank Heaven. Her knowledge 
 would have been a kind of terrible fore-omniscience, 
 if she had. She would have had no hope for him 
 from that hour. Her experience would have left her 
 no illusions. The drunkard's wife would have edu- 
 cated the drunkard's mother too '' liberally " for that. 
 She would have taken in the whole scope and detail 
 of the future in one midnight moment's breadth, as 
 a problem in the higher mathematics may rest upon 
 the width of a geometrical point. But she did not 
 know. We say — I mean, it is our fashion of say- 
 ing — that she did not know. God was merciful. 
 She had asked for Jack, it seemed, over and over, 
 but did not complain of him for not coming ; she 
 never complained of Jack. She said the poor boy 
 must have stayed somewhere to have a pleasant 
 time ; and she said they were to give her love to him,
 
 108 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 if he came in while she was asleep. And then she 
 asked her husband to sing " Rock of Ages *' for her, 
 because she did not feel very strong. He could n't 
 sing, — more than a halibut, poor fellow ; but he did 
 not like to disappoint her, for he thought she looked 
 what he called " miser'ble ; " so he sat down by the 
 bed, and raised his hoarse, weather-beaten voice to 
 the tune of Martyn, as best he could, and mixed up 
 two verses inextricably with a line from " Billy 's on 
 the bright blue sea/' which he added because he saw 
 he must have something to fill out, and it was all he 
 could think of, — but she thanked him very gently, 
 and said he sang quite well ; and said once more that 
 he was to give her love to Jack ; and went to sleep 
 afterward ; and by and by, they could not wake her 
 to see her boy of twelve brought to her drunk. 
 
 The curse of his heredity was upon him. We may 
 blame, we may loathe, we may wonder, we may de- 
 spair ; but we must not forget. There were enough 
 to blame without remembering. Jack, like all drunk- 
 ards, soon learned this. In fact, he did not remember 
 it ver}^ well himself, — not having been acquainted 
 with his father ; and never sentimentalized over him- 
 self nor whined for his bad luck, but owned up to 
 his sins, with the bluntness of an honest, bad fellow. 
 He was rather an honest fellow, in spite of it all. 
 He never lied when he was sober. 
 
 If the curse of his ancestry had come iipon him, 
 its compensatory temperament came too. Jack had 
 the merry heart of the easy drinker. 
 
 Born with his father's alcoholized brain-cells, poor 
 babv, endowed with the narcotined conscience which 
 this species of parentage bequeathes, he fell heir to
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 109 
 
 the kind of attractiveness that goes with the leg- 
 acy. 
 
 He was a happy-go-lucky fellow. Life sat airily 
 on him. He had his mother's handsome eyes dashed 
 with his father's fun (for she could n't take a joke, to 
 save her) ; he told a good story ; he did a kind deed ; 
 he was generous with his money, when he had any, 
 and never in the least disturbed when he had n't. 
 He was popular to the dangerous extent that makes 
 one's vices seem a kind of social introduction, and 
 not in Jack's circle alone, be it said. Every crew 
 wanted him. Drunk or sober, as a shipmate he was 
 at par. It was usually easy for him to borrow. The 
 fellows made up his fines for him ; there was always 
 somebody to go bail for him when he got before the 
 police-court. Arrested perhaps a half dozen times a 
 year, in his maddest years, he never was sent to the 
 House in his life. There were always people enough 
 who thought it a pity to let such a good fellow go to 
 prison. He had — I was going to say as a matter 
 of course he had — curly hair. One should not omit 
 to notice that he was splendidly tattooed. He was 
 proud, as seamen are, of his brawny arms, dashed 
 from wrist to shoulder with the decorative ingenuity 
 of his class. Jack had aesthetic views of his own, 
 indeed, about his personal allowance of indigo. He 
 had objected to the customary medley of anchors, 
 stars, and crescents, and exhibited a certain reserve 
 of taste, which was rather interesting. On his left 
 arm he bore a very crooked lighthouse rising from a 
 heavy sea ; he was, in fact, quite flooded along the 
 bicipital muscle with waves and billows, but nothing 
 else interfered with the massive proportions of the
 
 110 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 effect. This was considered a masterly design, and 
 Jack was often called u^ion to push up his sleeve and 
 explain how he came by the inspiration. 
 
 Upon the other arm he wore a crucifix, ten inches 
 long ; this was touched with blood-red ink ; the dead 
 Christ hung upon it, lean and pitiful. Jack said he 
 took the crucifix against his drowning. It was an 
 uncommonly large and ornate crucifix. 
 
 Jack was a steady drinker at nineteen. At twenty- 
 five he was what either an inexperienced or a deeply 
 experienced temperance missionary would have called 
 incurable. The intermediate grades would have con- 
 fidently expected to save him. 
 
 Of course he reformed. He would not have been 
 interesting if he had not. The unmitigated sot has 
 few attractions even for seafaring society. It is the 
 foil and flash, the by-play and side-light of character, 
 that "lead us on." Jack was always reforming. 
 After that night when he was brought home on the 
 bob-sled, the little boy was as steady and as miser- 
 able as he knew how to be for a long time ; he drew 
 the unfortunate inference that the one involved the 
 other. By the time his mother's grave was green 
 with the scanty Fairharbor church-yard grass, — for 
 even the sea-wind seems to have a grudge against 
 the very dead for choosing dry graves in Fairharbor, 
 and scants them in their natural covering, — by that 
 time rank weeds had overgrown the sorrow of the 
 homeless boy. He and his step-father '• got on " less 
 than ever now, as was to be expected ; and when one 
 day Jack announced with characteristic candor that 
 he was going to get drunk if he went to Torment 
 for it, the two parted company ; and the crumbling
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. Ill 
 
 cottage knew Jack no more. By and by, when his 
 step-father was drowned at Georges', Jack borrowed 
 the money for some black gloves and a hat-band. 
 He had the reputation of being a polite fellow ; the 
 fishermen spelled it t-o-n-y. Truth to tell, the old 
 dory-mate had wondered sometimes on Sunday after- 
 noons if he had been the man to manage Jack ; and 
 felt that the main object of his marriage had been 
 defeated. 
 
 Jack, as I say, was always reforming. Every tem- 
 perance society in the city had a hand at him. They 
 were of the old-fashioned, easy type which took their 
 responsibilities comfortably. They held him out on 
 a pair of moral tongs, and tried to toast his misde- 
 meanors out of him, before a quick fire of pledges 
 and badges ; and when he tumbled out of the tongs, 
 and asked the president and treasurer why they 
 did n't bow to him in the street when he was drunk, 
 or why, if he was good enough for them in the lodge- 
 room, he was n't good enough to shake hands with 
 before folks on the post-office steps, or propounded 
 any of those ingenious posers with which his kind 
 are in the habit of disturbing the benevolent spirit, 
 they snapped the tongs too, and turned him over to 
 the churches. 
 
 These touched him gingerly. They invited him 
 into the free pews, — a dismal little row in the gal- 
 lery, — sent him a tract or two, and asked him a few 
 well-meant and very confusing religious questions, 
 to which Jack's replies were far from satisfactory. 
 One ardent person, a recent convert, coaxed him into 
 a weekly prayer-meeting. It was a very good, honest, 
 uninteresting prayer-meeting, and there were people
 
 112 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 sitting there beside him with clean lives and clear 
 faces whose motives Jack was not worthy to under- 
 stand, and he knew enough to know it. But it hap- 
 pened to be a foreign mission prayer-meeting, de- 
 voted to the Burmese field ; which was, therefore, 
 be it said, not so much an argument against foreign 
 missions, as a deficient means of grace to the fisher- 
 man. Jack was terribly bored. He ran his hands 
 through his curls, and felt for his tobacco, and 
 whispered to the young convert to know if there 
 were n't any waits in the play so a man could get 
 out without hurting anybody's feelings. But just 
 then the young convert struck up a hjann, and Jack 
 stayed. 
 
 He liked the singing. His restless, handsome face 
 took on a change such as a windy day takes on to- 
 ward dusk, when the breeze dies down. When he 
 found that they were singing " Eock of Ages," he tried 
 to sing it too, — for he was a famous tenor on deck. 
 But when hQ had sung a line or two, — flash ! down 
 in one of the empty pews in front, he saw a thin old 
 lady with blue eyes, sitting in a black alpaca dress, 
 with her hands clasped on her gingham apron. 
 
 " That 's my mother. Have I got the jim-jams ? " 
 asked this unaccustomed worshiper of himself. But 
 then he remembered that he was sober. He could 
 sing no longer after this, but bowed his head and 
 looked into his old felt hat, and wondered if he were 
 going to cry, or get religion. In point of fact, he did 
 neither of these things, because a very old church- 
 member arose just then, and said he saw a poor cast- 
 away in our midst to-night, and he besought the 
 prayers of the meeting for his soul. Jack stopped
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 113 
 
 crying. He looked hard at the old church member. 
 He knew him ; had always known him. The fisher- 
 man waited till that prayer was through, — it was 
 rather a long prayer, — and then he too sprang to 
 his feet. He looked all around the decorous place ; 
 his face was white with the swift passion of the 
 drinking man. 
 
 " I never spoke in meetin' in my life," said Jack 
 in an unsteady voice. " I ain't religious. I drink. 
 But I 'm sober to-night, and I 've got something to 
 say to you. I heard what that man said. I know 
 him. He 's old Jim Crownoby. I 've always knowed 
 Jim Crownoby. He owns a sight of property in this 
 town. He 's a rich man. He owns that block on 
 Black Street. You know he does. You can't deny 
 it. Nor he can't neither. All I want to say is, I 've 
 got drunk in one of them places of his time and 
 again; and if there ain't anybody but hi7?i to pray 
 for my soul, I 'd rather go to the devil." 
 
 Jack stopped short, jammed on his hat, and left 
 the meeting. In the shocked rustle that followed, 
 some one had the tact to start " Rescue the perish- 
 ing," as the fisherman strode down the broad aisle. 
 He did not go again. The poor young convert fol- 
 lowed him up for a week or two, and gave him an 
 expensive Testament, bought out of an almost in- 
 visible personal income, in vain. 
 
 " I 've no objections to you," said Jack candidly ; 
 " I 'm much obliged to ye for yer politeness, sir. But 
 them churches that sub-leases to a rumseller, I don't 
 think they onderstand a drinkin' man. Hey ? Well, 
 ain't he their biggest rooster, now ? Don't he do the 
 heft of the payin', and the tallest of their crowin',
 
 114 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 consequent ? Thought so. Better leave me go, sir. 
 I ain't a pious man ; I 'm a fisherman." 
 
 " Fishes," said Jack, '' is no fools." 
 
 He gave voice to this remark one day in Boston, 
 when he was twenty -five years old. He was trying 
 to entertain a Boston girl ; she was not familiar with 
 Fairharbor or with the scenery of his calling ; he 
 wanted to interest her ; he liked the girl. He had 
 liked a good many girls, it need not be said ; but 
 this one had laid upon the fisherman — she knew not 
 how, he knew not why, and what man or woman of 
 us could have told him ? — the power that comes not 
 of reason, or of time, or of trying, or of wisdom, or 
 of fitness, but of the mystery to which, when we 
 are not speaking of Jack, we give the name of love. 
 It seems a sacrilege, admit, to write it here, and of 
 these two. But tl\ere, again, it would be easy to be 
 wrong. The study of the relativity of human feel- 
 ing is a delicate science ; it calls for a fine moral 
 equipment. If this were the high-water mark of 
 nature for Jack — and who shall say ? — the tide 
 shall have its sacred due, even down among those 
 weeds and in that mud. He liked that girl, among 
 them all, and her he thought of gently. He had 
 known her a long time ; as much as three months. 
 AYhen the vessel came into Boston to sell halibut, he 
 had a fcAv days there, drifting about as seamen do, 
 homeless and reckless ; dashing out the wages just 
 paid off, in ways that sometimes he remembered and 
 sometimes he forgot, and that usually left him with- 
 out a dollar toward his next fine when he should be 
 Avelcomed by the police court of his native city on 
 retuminsj home.
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 115 
 
 Jack thought, I say, gravely of this girl. He 
 never once took her name in vain among the fellows ; 
 and she had not been a very good girl, either. But 
 Jack reflected that he Avas not very good himself, 
 if you came to that. His downright, honest nature 
 stood him in stead in this moral distinction ; there 
 was always a broad streak of generosity in him at 
 his worst ; it goes with the temperament, we say, 
 and perhaps we say it too often to give him half the 
 credit of it. 
 
 She was a pretty girl, and she was very young. 
 She had told Jack her story, as they strolled about 
 the bright Boston streets on comfortable winter 
 evenings ; when he took her to the variety show, or 
 to the oyster-shop, and they talked together. Jack 
 pitied her. Perhaps she deserved it ; it was a sad 
 little story — and she Avas so very young ! She had 
 a gentle way with Jack; for some reason, God 
 knows why, she had trusted him from the first, and 
 he had never once been known to disturb her trust. 
 That was the pleasant part of it. 
 
 On this evening that we speak of. Jack was sober. 
 He was often sober when he had an evening to spend 
 with the Boston girl ; not always — no ; truth must 
 be told. She looked as pretty as Avas in her, that 
 night ; she had black eyes and a kind of yellow hair 
 that Jack had never seen crinkled low on the fore- 
 head above black eyes before ; he thought her as 
 fine to look at as any actress he ever saAv ; for the 
 stage was Jack's standard of the magnificent, as it is 
 to so many of his sort. The girl's name was Teen. 
 Probably she had been called Christine once, in her 
 country home ; she even told Jack that she had been 
 baptized.
 
 116 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 " I was n't, myself," said Jack ; " I roared so, they 
 darsen't do it. My mother got me to church, for 
 she was a pious woman, and I pummeled the parson 
 in the face with both fists, and she said she come 
 RAvay, for she was ashamed of me. She always said 
 that christenin' was n't never legal. It disappointed 
 her, too. I was an awful baby." 
 
 " I should think likely," said Teen with candor. 
 "Do you set much by your mother ? " 
 
 "She's dead," said Jack in a subdued voice. 
 Teen looked at him ; she had never heard him speak 
 like that. 
 
 " I 'most wished mine was," said the girl ; " she 'd 
 'a' ben better off — along of me." 
 " That 's so," said Jack. 
 
 The two took a turn in silence up and down the 
 brightly lighted street; their thoughts looked out 
 strangely from their marred young faces ; they -felt 
 as if they were in a foreign country. Jack had 
 meant to ask her to take a drink, but he gave it up ; 
 he could n't, somehow. 
 
 " Was you always a fisherman ? " asked Teen, 
 feeling, with a woman's tact, that somebody must 
 change the current of the subject. 
 
 " I was a fisherman three generations back," Jack 
 answered her; "borned a fisherman, you bet! I 
 could n't 'a' ben nothin' else if I 'd drownded for it. 
 It 's a smart business. You hev to keep your wits 
 about you. Fishes is no fools." 
 
 " Ain't they ? " asked the girl listlessly. She was 
 conscious of failing in conversational brilliancy; 
 but the truth was, she could n't get over what they 
 had been saying : it was always unfortunate when
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 117 
 
 she remembered her mother. Jack began to talk to 
 her about his business again, but Teen did not re- 
 ply ; and when he looked down at her to see what 
 ailed her, there were real tears rolling over her 
 pretty cheeks. 
 
 " Why, Teen ! " said Jack. 
 
 " Leave go of me, Jack ! " said Teen, " and let me 
 get off ; I ain't good company to-night. I 've got 
 the dumps. I can't entertain ye, Jack. And, Jack 
 — don't let 's talk about mothers next time, will we ? 
 It spoils the evenin'. Leave go of me, and I '11 go 
 home by my own self. I 'd rather." 
 
 " I won't leave go of you ! " cried Jack, with a 
 sudden blazing purpose lighting up all the corners 
 of his soul. It was a white light, not unholy ; it 
 seemed to shine through and through him with a 
 soft glow like a candle on an altar. " I '11 never 
 leave go of you. Teen, if you '11 say so. I 'd rather 
 marry you." 
 
 " Marry me ? " said Teen. 
 
 " Yes, marry you. I 'd a sight rather. There, 
 now ! It 's out with it. What do you say to that, 
 Teen ? " 
 
 With one slow finger-tip Teen wiped away the 
 tears that fell for her mother. A ring on her finger 
 glistened in the light as she did this. She saw the 
 sparkle, tore off the ring and dashed it away ; it fell 
 into the mud, and was trodden out of sight instantly. 
 Jack sprang gallantly to pick it up. 
 
 " Don't you touch it ! " cried the girl. She put her 
 bared hand back upon his arm. The ring had left a 
 little mark upon her finger ; she glanced at this, and 
 looked up into Jack's handsome face ; he looked 
 very kind.
 
 118 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 " Jack, dear," said Teen softly, " I ain't fit to 
 marry ye." 
 
 " You 're fitter 'n I be," answered Jack manfully. 
 
 Teen sighed ; she did not speak at once ; other 
 tears came now, but these were tears for herself 
 and for Jack. Jack felt this, after his fashion; 
 they gave him singular confusion of mind. 
 
 " I would n't cry about it, Teen. You need n't 
 have me if you don't want to." 
 
 " But I do want to, Jack." 
 
 " Honest ? " 
 
 " Honest it is, Jack." 
 
 " Will ye make a good wife. Teen ? " asked Jack, 
 after some unprecedented thought. 
 
 " I '11 try, Jack." 
 
 " You '11 never go back on me, nohow ? " 
 
 " I ain't that sort ! " cried the girl, drawing her- 
 self up a little. A new dignity sat upon her with a 
 certain grace which was beautiful to see. 
 
 " Will you swear it. Teen ? " 
 
 " If you 'd rather, Jack." 
 
 " What '11 you swear by, now ? " asked Jack. 
 " You must swear by all you hold holy." 
 
 " What do I hold holy ? " mused Teen. 
 
 " Will you swear," continued Jack seriously, "will 
 you swear to me by the Rock of Ages ? " 
 
 " What 's that ? " asked the girl. 
 
 " It 's a hymn-tune. I want you to swear me by 
 the Eock of Ages that you '11 be that you say you 
 will to me. Will you do it, Teen ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Teen, " I '11 do it. Where shall 
 we come across one ? " 
 
 '' I guess I can find it," Jack replied. " I can find 
 'most anything I set out to."
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 119 
 
 So tliey started out at random, in their reckless 
 fashion, in the great city, to find the Rock of Ages 
 for the asking. 
 
 Jack led his companion hither and yon, peering 
 into churches and vestries and missions, and wher- 
 ever he saw signs of sacred things. Singing they 
 heard abundantly in the gay town ; songs merry, 
 mad, and sad, but not the song for a girl to swear 
 by that she would be true wife to a man who 
 trusted her. 
 
 Wandering thus, on the strange errand whose 
 pathos was so far above their own dream or know- 
 ledge, they chanced at last upon the place and the 
 little group of people known in that part of Boston 
 as Mother Mary's meeting. 
 
 The girl said she had been there once, but that 
 Mother Mary was too good for her ; she was one of 
 the real kind. Everybody knew Mother Mary and 
 her husband ; he was a parson. They were poor 
 folks themselves. Teen said, and understood poor 
 folks, and did for them all the j^ear round, not clear- 
 ing out, like rich ones, when it came hot weather, 
 but stood by 'em, Teen said. They kept the little 
 room open, and if you wanted a prayer you went in 
 and got it, just as you 'd call for a drink or a sup- 
 per ; it was always on hand for you, and a kind word 
 sure to come with it, and you always knew where to 
 go for 'em ; and Mother Mary treated you like folks. 
 She liked her. Teen said. If she 'd been a different 
 girl, she 'd have gone there of a cold night all winter. 
 But Teen said she felt ashamed. 
 
 " I guess she '11 have what I 'm after," said Jack. 
 " She sounds like she would. Let 's go in and see."
 
 120 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 So they went into the quiet place among the pray- 
 ing people, and stood staring, for they felt embar- 
 rassed. Mother Mary looked very white and peace- 
 ful ; she was a tall, fair woman ; she wore a black 
 dress with white about the bosom ; it Avas a plain, 
 old dress, much mended. Mother Mary did not 
 look rich, as Teen had said. The room was filled 
 with poor creatures gathered about her like her chil- 
 dren, while she talked with them and taught them 
 as she could. She crossed the room immediately 
 to where the young man stood, with the girl beside 
 him. 
 
 " We 've come," said Jack, " to find the Eock of 
 Ages." He drew Teen's hand through his arm, and 
 held it for a moment ; then, moved by some fine in- 
 stinct mysterious to himself, he lifted and laid it in 
 Mother Mary's own. 
 
 " Explain it to her, ma'am," he said ; " tell her, 
 won't you ? I 'm going to marry her, if she '11 have 
 me. I want her to swear by somethin' holy she '11 be 
 a true wife to me. She had n't an^-thing particularly 
 holy herself, and the holiest thing I know of is the 
 Eock of Ages. I 've heard my mother sing it. She 's 
 dead. We 've been huntin' Boston over to-night 
 after the Eock of Ages." 
 
 Mother Mary was used to the pathos of her sober 
 work, but the tears sprang now to her large and gen- 
 tle eyes. She did not speak to Jack, — could not 
 possibly, just then ; but, delaying only for the mo- 
 ment till she could command herself, she flung her 
 rich, maternal voice out iipon the words of the old 
 hymn. Her husband joined her, and all the people 
 present swelled the chorus.
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 121 
 
 " Rock of Ages, cleft for me ! 
 Let me hide myself in thee ; 
 
 Be of sin the perfect cure, 
 
 Cleanse me from its guilt and power." 
 
 They sang it all througli, — tlie three verses that 
 everybody knows, — and Jack and Teen stood listen- 
 ing. Jack tried to sing himself ; but Teen hid her 
 face, and cried upon his arm. 
 
 " Thoti must save." sang the praying people ; 
 " Thou must save, and thou alone ! " 
 
 The strain died solemnly ; the room was quiet ; 
 the minister yonder began to pray, and all the peo- 
 ple bowed their heads. But Mother Mary stood 
 quite still, with the girl's hand trembling in her own. 
 
 " Swear it. Teen ! " Jack bent down his curly head 
 and whispered; he would not shame his promised 
 wife before these people. " Swear by that you '11 
 be true wife to me ! " 
 
 " I swear it. Jack," sobbed Teen, " If that 's the 
 Kock of Ages, I swear by it, though I was to die for 
 it, I '11 be an honest wife to you." 
 
 " Come back when you 've got your license," said 
 Mother Mary, smiling through her tears, " and my 
 husband will marry you if you want him to." 
 
 " We '11 come to-morro\^," Jack answered gravely. 
 
 "Jack," said Teen in her pretty way, — for she 
 had a very pretty way, — " if I 'm an honest wife to 
 you, will you be kind to me ? " She did not ask 
 him to swear it by the Kock of Ages. She took his 
 word for it, poor thing ! Women do.
 
 122 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 III. 
 
 jVIother Mary's husband married them next day 
 at the JMission meeting; and Mother j\lary sat down 
 at the melodeon in the corner of the pleasant place, 
 and played and sang Toplady's great hymn for them, 
 as Jack had asked her. It was his wedding march. 
 He was very sober and gentle, — almost like a bet- 
 ter man. Teen thought him the handsomest man 
 she had ever seen. 
 
 " Oh, I say. Teen," he nodded to her, as they 
 walked away, " one thing I forgot to tell you, — I 'm 
 reformed." 
 
 " Are you, Jack ? " 
 
 " If I ever drink a drop again, so help me " — 
 But he stopped. 
 
 " So help you. Rock of Ages ? " asked the new- 
 made wife. But Jack winced ; he was honest 
 enough to hesitate at this. 
 
 " I don't know 's I 'd darst — that,''^ he added rue- 
 fully. " But I 'm reformed. I have lost all hanker 
 for liquor. I shall never drink again. You '11 see, 
 Teen." 
 
 Teen did see, as w^as to be expected. She saw a 
 great deal, poor thing ! Jack did not drink — for a 
 long time ; it was nearly five months, for they kept 
 close count. He took her to Fairharbor, and rented 
 the old half of the crumbling cottage where his 
 mother used to sit and watch for him on lon§^ late 
 evenings. The young wife did the watching now. 
 They planted some cinnamon rose-bushes by the 
 doorsteps of the cottage, and fostered them affection-
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 123 
 
 ately. Jack was as happy and sober as possible, to 
 begin witli. He picked the cinnamon roses and 
 brought them in for his wife to wear. He was 
 proud to have a home of his own ; he had not ex- 
 pected to; in fact, he had never had one since that 
 night when his mother said they were to give her 
 love to him, if he came home while she was asleep. 
 He had beaten about, sleeping for the most part in 
 his berth, and sailing again directly ; he had never 
 had any place, he said, to hang his winter clothes 
 in ; closets and bureaus seemed treasure-houses to 
 him, and the kitchen fire a luxury greater than a 
 less good-looking man would have deserved. When 
 he came home, drenched and chilly, from a winter 
 voyage, and Teen took the covers off, and the fiery 
 heart of the coals leaped out to greet him, and she 
 stood in the rich color, with her yellow hair, young 
 and fair and sweet as any man's wife could look, 
 and said she had missed him, and called him her 
 dear husband. Jack even went so far as to feel that 
 Teen was the luxury. He treated her accordingly ; 
 that was at first. He came straight home to her ; 
 he kept her in flour and fuel ; she had the little 
 things and the gentle words that women need. 
 Teen was very fond of him. This was the first of 
 it, — I was going to say this was the worst of it. 
 All there was of Teen seemed to have gone into her 
 love for Jack. A part of Jack had gone into his 
 love for Teen. Teen was very happy, to begin with. 
 The respectable neighbors came to see her, and said, 
 "We're happy to make your acquaintance." Xo- 
 body knew that it had not always been so that 
 Teen's acquaintance would have been a source of
 
 124 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 social happiness. And she wrote to her mother that 
 she was married ; and her mother came on- to make 
 her a little visit ; and Teen cried her soul out for 
 joy. She was very modest and home-keeping and 
 loving ; no wife in the land was truer than this girl 
 he had chosen was to the fisherman who chose her. 
 Jack knew that. He believed in her. She made 
 him happy ; and therefore she kept him right. 
 
 All this was at first. It did not last. Why 
 should we expect that, when we see how little there 
 is in the relation of man and woman which lasts ? 
 If happy birth and gentle rearing, and the forces of 
 what we call education, and the silken webs of spun 
 refinements, are so strained in the tie which requires 
 two who cannot get away from each other to make 
 each other happy, how should we ask, of the law of 
 chances, the miracle for Teen and Jack ? 
 
 There was no miracle. No transubstantiation of 
 the common bread to holy flesh Avas wrought upon 
 that poor altar. Their lot went the way of other 
 lots, with the facts of their history dead against 
 them. Trouble came, and poverty, and children, 
 and care, and distaste. Jack took to his old ways, 
 and his wife to the tears that they bring. The chil- 
 dren died ; they were poor sickly babies, Avho wailed 
 a little while in her arms, and slipped out because 
 there was n't enough to them to stay. And the 
 gray house was damp. Some said it was diphtheria ; 
 but their mother said it was the will of God. She 
 added : Might his will be done ! On the whole she 
 was not sorry. Their father struck her when he 
 was in liquor. She thought if the babies lived they 
 might get hurt. A month before the last one was
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 125 
 
 born she showed to Jack's biographer a bruise across 
 her shoulder, long and livid. She buttoned her 
 dress over it with hasty repentance. 
 
 " Maybe I 'd ought n't to have told," she said. 
 "But he said he 'd be kind to me." 
 
 Jack was very sorry about this when he was 
 sober. He kissed his wife, and bought a pair of 
 pink kid shoes for the baby, which it never grew 
 large enough to wear. 
 
 I am not writing a temperance story, only the 
 biography of a fisherman, and a few words will say 
 better than many how it was. Al(;oholized brain- 
 cells being one of the few bequests left to society 
 which the heirs do not dispute. Jack went back to 
 his habits with the ferocity that follows abstinence. 
 Hard luck came. Teen was never much of a house- 
 keeper ; she had left her mother too early ; had 
 never been taught. Things were soggy, and not al- 
 ways clean ; and she was so busy in being struck 
 and scolded, and in bearing and burying babies, that 
 it grew comfortless beside the kitchen fire. The 
 last of the illusions which had taken the name of 
 home within the walls of the crumbling half-cottage 
 withered out of it, just as the cinnamon roses did 
 the summer Jack watered them with whiskey by a 
 little emotional mistake. 
 
 A worse thing had happened, too. Some shipmate 
 had "told" in the course of time; and Teen's pre- 
 matrimonial story got set adrift upon the current — 
 one of the crudest currents of its kind — of Fair- 
 harbor gossip. The respectable neighbors made her 
 feel it, as only respectable neighbors do such things. 
 Jack, raging, overheard her name upon the wharves.
 
 126 JACK THE FISHEBMAN. 
 
 Teen had been " that she said she would " to him. 
 He knew it. Xo matron in the town had kept her 
 life or heart more true. In all her sickness and 
 trouble and slackness, and in going cold or hungry, 
 and in her vivid beauty that none of all these things 
 could quench, Teen had carried a sweet dignity of 
 her own as the racer in the old Promethean festival 
 carried the torch while he ran against the wind. 
 Jack knew, — oh yes, he knew. But he grew sul- 
 len, suspicious. AVhen he was drunk he was ahvays 
 jealous ; it began to take that form. When he was 
 sober he still admired his wife ; sometimes he went 
 so far as to remember that he loved her. When this 
 happened, Teen dried her eyes, and brushed her 
 yellow hair, and washed up the kitchen floor, and 
 made the coffee, and said to the grocer when she 
 paid for the sugar, " My husband has reformed." 
 
 One night Jack came home unexpectedly ; a 
 strange mood sat upon him, which his wife did not 
 find herself able to classify by any of the instant and 
 exquisite perceptions which grow, like new faculties, 
 in wives. He had been drinking heavily when he 
 left her, and she had not looked for him for days ; if 
 he sailed as he was, it would be a matter of weeks. 
 Teen went straight to him ; she thought he might be 
 hurt ; she held out her arms as she would to one of 
 her children ; but he met her with a gesture of in- 
 difference, and she shrank back. 
 
 " She 's here," said Jack. •' Mother Mary 's in this 
 d town. I see her." 
 
 " I wish she 'd talk to yon," said Teen, saying pre- 
 cisely the wrong thing b}- the fatal instinct which so 
 often possesses drunkards' Avives.
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 127 
 
 " You do, do you ? " quoth Jack. " Well, I don't. 
 I have n't give her the chance." He crushed on his 
 hat and stole out of the house again. 
 
 But his mood was on him yet ; the difference being 
 that his wife was out of it. He sulked and skulked 
 about the streets alone for a while ; he did not go 
 back to the boys just then, but Avandered with the 
 apparent aimlessness in which the most tenacious 
 aims are hidden. Mother Mary and her husband 
 were holding sailors' meetings in the roughest quar- 
 ter of the town. There was need enough of Mother 
 Mary in Fairharbor. A crowd had gathered to hear 
 the novelty. Fairharbor seamen were none too used 
 to being objects of consideration ; it was a matter of 
 mark that a parson and a lady should hire a room 
 from a rich fish-firm, pay for it out of their own 
 scanty pockets, and invite one in from deck or wharf, 
 in one's oil-clothes or jumper, to hear what a mess- 
 mate of Jack's called a "high-toned prayer." He 
 meant perhaps to convey the idea that the petition 
 treated the audience politely. 
 
 Jack followed the crowd in the dark, shrinking in 
 its wake, for he was now sober enough not to feel like 
 himself. He waited till the last of the fellows he 
 knew had gone into the place, and then crept up on 
 tiptoe, and put his face against the window of the 
 salt-cod warehouse where the little congregation was 
 gathered, and looked in. The room was full and 
 bright. It wore that same look of peace and shelter 
 which he remembered. Mother Mary stood, as she 
 had stood before, tall and pale in her black dress, 
 with the white covering on her bosom. Her husband 
 had been speaking to the fishermen, and she, as Jack
 
 128 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 put his gnarled hand to his excited eyes and his eyes 
 to the window-glass, turned her face full about, to 
 start the singing. She seemed to Jack to look at 
 hirn. Her look was sad. He felt ashamed, and cow- 
 ered down below the window-sill. But he wanted to 
 hear her sing, — he had never heard anybody sing 
 like Mother Mary, — and so he stayed there for a 
 little while, curled against the fish-house. It began 
 to rain, and he was pretty wet ; but Jack was in his 
 jumper, and a ragged old jumper at that ; he knew 
 he was not so handsome as he used to be ; he felt 
 that he cut a poor figure even for a drunken fisher- 
 man; all the self-respect that life had left him 
 shrank from letting Mother Mary see him. Jack 
 would not go in. A confused notion came to him, 
 as he crouched against the warehouse, in the show- 
 ers, that it was just as well it should rain on him ; it 
 might wash him. He pushed up his sleeves and let 
 the rain fall on his arms. He found an old Cape Ann 
 turkey box there was lying about, turned it edgewise 
 so that one ragged knee might rest upon it, and thus 
 bring his eye to a level with the window-sill, while 
 yet he could not be seen from within. So he 
 crouched listening. The glimmer from the prayer- 
 room came across the fisherman's bared right arm, 
 and struck the crucifix. Jack had the unconscious 
 attitude of one sinking, who had thrown up his arms 
 to be saved. The Christ on the crucifix looked 
 starved and sickly. Jack did not notice the cruci- 
 fix. 
 
 At this moment Mother Mary's yearning voice rang 
 out above the hoarse chorus of the fishermen, whose 
 weather-ragged and reverent faces lifted themselves
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 129 
 
 mistily before her, as if they had been the counte- 
 nance of one helpless man : — 
 
 ' ' Rock of Ages, cleft for me ! " 
 
 " Oh, my God ! " cried Jack. 
 
 IV. 
 
 It was the next day that some one told Mother 
 Mary, at the poor boarding-house where she stayed, 
 that a woman wanted a few words with her. The 
 visitor was Teen, She was worn and wan and sob- 
 bing with excitement. Her baby was soon to be 
 born. She did not look as if she had enough to eat. 
 She had come, she said, just to see Mother Mary, just 
 to tell her, for Jack never would tell himself, but she 
 was sure her husband had reformed ; he would never 
 drink again ; he meant to be a sober man ; and 
 Mother Mary ought to know she did it, for she did, 
 God bless her ! 
 
 " I 've walked all this way to bless you for myself," 
 said Teen. " I ain't very fit for walkin', nor I can't 
 afford a ferry -ticket, for he did n't leave me nothin' 
 on this trip, but I 've come to bless you. My hus- 
 band come to your meetin'. Mother Mary, by himself, 
 Jack did. He never goes to no meetin's, — nobody 
 could n't drove him ; but he come to yours because 
 he says you treat a man like folks, and he would n't 
 go inside, for he 'd ben drinkin' and he felt ashamed. 
 So he set outside, up on a box behind the winder and 
 he peeked in. And he said it rained on him while 
 he set peekin', for he wanted to get a look at you. 
 And he come home and told me, for we 'd had some
 
 130 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 words beforehand, and I was glad to see liim. I was 
 settin' there and cryin' when he come. ' I Avould n't, 
 Teen,' says he, ' for I 've seen Mother Mary, and 
 I 'm reformed,' says he. So he told me how he set 
 up on the box and peeked. He says you looked 
 straight at him. He says you stood up very tall and 
 kind of white. He says you read something out of 
 a book, and then you sang to him. He says the song 
 you sang was Rock of Ages, and it made him feel so 
 bad I had to cry to see him. He come in, and he 
 got down on the lounge against our window, and he 
 put liis hand acrost his eyes and groaned like he was 
 hurted in an accident. And he says, ' Teen, I wish 't 
 I was a better man.' And I says, ' Jack, I wish 't 
 you was.' And he says, ' I lost the hanker when I 
 heard her sing the Rock of Ages, and if I lost the 
 hanker I could swear off.' So I did n't answer him, 
 for if I says, ' Do swear off,' he 'd just swear on, — 
 they won't, you know, for wives. But I made him 
 a cup of coffee, for I did n't know what else to do, 
 and I brought it to him on the lounge, and he 
 thanked me. ' Teen,' he says, < I '11 never drink a 
 drop again, so help me Mother Mary ! ' And then 
 he kissed me, — for they don't, you know, after 
 you 've been married. And he 's gone out haddockin', 
 but we parted very kind. And so I come to tell you, 
 for it may n't be many days that I could walk it, 
 and I 've ben that to him as I said I should, and I 
 thought you 'd better know." 
 
 "You've had no breakfast," answered Mother 
 Mary, " and you 've walked too far. Here, stop at 
 the Holly Tree as you go home ; get a bowl of soup ; 
 and take the ferry back. There, there ! don't cry
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 131 
 
 quite so hard. I '11 try to stay a little longer. I 
 won't leave town till Jack comes in. It takes the 
 Rock of Ages to cure the hanker, Teen. But I 've 
 seen older men than he is stop as if they had been 
 stopped by a lasso thrown from heaven. If there 's 
 any save in him," added Mother Mary below her 
 breath, " he shall have his chance, this time." 
 
 He went aboard sober, and sober he stayed. He 
 kept a good deal by himself and thought of many 
 things. His face paled out and refined, as their 
 faces do, from abstinence ; the ghost of his good 
 looks hovered about him ; he mended up his 
 clothes ; he did a kind turn to a messmate now and 
 then; he told some excellent clean stories, and 
 raised the spirits of the crew ; he lent a dollar to 
 a fellow with the rheumatism who had an indebted- 
 ness to liquidate for St. Galen's Oil. When he had 
 done this, he remembered that he had left his wife 
 
 without money, and said aloud : " That 's a d 
 
 mean trick to play on a woman." 
 
 He had bad luck, however, that trip ; his share 
 was small ; he made seven dollars and twenty-seven 
 cents in three weeks. This was conceded by the 
 crew of the fishing - schooner (her name was the 
 Destiny) to be because Jack had '-sworn off." It 
 is a superstition among them. One unfamiliar with 
 the lives of these men will hammer cold iron if he 
 thinks to persuade them that rum and luck do not 
 go together ; or that to " reform " does not imply a 
 reduction of personal income. You might as Avell 
 try to put the fisherman's fist into a Honiton lace 
 jumper, as the fisherman's mind into proportion 
 upon this point.
 
 132 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 Therefore Jack took his poor trip carelessly; it 
 was to be expected; he would explain it to Mother 
 Mary when he got in. He drank nothing at all ; and 
 they weighed for home. 
 
 When Jack stepped off the Destiny, at Zephaniah 
 Salt & Co.'s wharf at Fairharbor, after that voyage, 
 clean, pale, good-natured, and sober, thinking that 
 he would get shaved before he hurried home to Teen, 
 and wishing he could pay the grocer's bill upon the 
 way, and thinking that, in default of this, he 
 would start an account at the market, and carry 
 her a chop or a sausage, in fact, thinking about her 
 with an absorption which resembled consideration, 
 if not affection, — suddenly he caught her name 
 upon the wharves. 
 
 It may have been said of accident, or of the devil, 
 — God knew ; they may have been too drunk to 
 notice Jack at first, or they may have seen and 
 scented from afar the bad blood they stirred, like 
 the hounds they were. It will never be told. The 
 scandal of such places is incredibly barbarous, but 
 it is less than the barbarity of drinking men to 
 a man who strikes out from among themselves, and 
 fights for his respectability. 
 
 The words were few, — they are not for us, — but 
 they were enough to do the deed. Jack was quite 
 sober. He understood. They assailed the honor of 
 his home, the truth of his Avife ; they hurled her 
 past at her and at himself ; they derided the trust 
 which he had in her in his absence ; they sneered at 
 the " reformed man " whose domestic prospects 
 were — as they were ; they exulted over him with 
 the exultation in the sight of the havoc wrought, 
 which is the most inexplicable impulse of evil.
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 133 
 
 Everybody knew how hot-blooded Jack was ; and 
 when the fury rushed red over his face painted gray 
 by abstinence, there was a smart scattering upon 
 the wharves. 
 
 His hand clapped to his pockets ; but his was an 
 old, cheap, rusty pistol (he had swapped a Bible 
 and his trawls for it once, upon a spree, and got 
 cheated) ; it held but one cartridge, and his wrist 
 shook. The shot went sputtering into the water, 
 and no harm came of it. Jack jammed the pistol 
 back into his pocket ; he glared about him madly, 
 but had his glare for his pains ; the men were 
 afraid of him ; he was alone upon the wharf. 
 
 It can hardly be said that he hesitated. Would 
 that it could. Eaving to himself, — head down, 
 hands clenched, feet stumbling like a blind man's, — 
 the fisherman sank into the first open door he stag- 
 gered by, as a seiner, pierced by an invisible sword- 
 fish, sinks into the sea. He had fifteen such places 
 to pass before he reached his house. His chances 
 were — as such chances go — at best. 
 
 He drank for half an hour — an hour — a half 
 more — came out, and went straight home. 
 
 It was now night of a February day. It had not 
 been a very cold day ; a light, clean snow had fallen, 
 which was thawing gently. Jack, looking dimly on 
 through his craze, saw the light of his half of the 
 gray cottage shining ahead ; he perceived that the 
 frost was melted from the windows. The warm 
 color came quietly down to greet him across the 
 fresh snow ; it had to him in his delirium the look 
 of a woman's eyes when they are true, and lean out 
 of her love to greet a man. He did not put this to 
 himself in these words, but only said : —
 
 134 JACK THE FISHER MAX. 
 
 " Them lamps look like she used to, — curse 
 her ! " and so went hurtling on. 
 
 He dashed up against the house, as a bowsprit 
 dashes on the rocks, took one mad look through the 
 unfrosted window, below the half-draAvn curtain, 
 and flung himself against the door, and in. 
 
 His wife sat there in the great rocking-chair, lean- 
 ing back ; she had a pillow behind her, and her feet 
 on the salt-fish box which he had covered once 
 to make a cricket for her, when they were first mar- 
 ried. She looked pale and pretty — very pretty. 
 She was talking to a visitor who sat upon the 
 lounge beside her. It was a man. Now, Jack 
 knew this man well ; it was an old messmate ; he 
 had sworn off, a year ago, and they had gone differ- 
 ent ways ; he used to be a rough fellow ; but people 
 said now you would n't know him. 
 
 " I ain't so drunk but I see who you be, Jim," 
 began the husband darkly ; " I '11 settle with you 
 another day. I 've got that to say to my wife I 'd 
 say better if we missed your company. Leave us 
 by ourselves ! " 
 
 " Look here. Jack," Jim flashed good-humoredly, 
 " you 're drunk, you know. She '11 tell you what I 
 come for. You ask her. Seein' she was n't right 
 smart, — and there 's them as saj^s she lacked for 
 victuals, — my Avife sent me over with a bowl of 
 cranberry sass, so help me Heaven ! " 
 
 " I '11 kill you some other evenin'. Leave us be ! " 
 cried Jack. 
 
 " We was settin' and talkin' about the Reform 
 Club when you come in," objected Jim, with the 
 patience of an old friend. " We was woriderin'
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 135 
 
 if we could n't get you to sign, Jack. Ask her if we 
 was n't. Come, now ! I would n't make a fool of 
 myself if I was you. Jack. See there. You 've set 
 her to cryin' already. And she ain't right smart." 
 
 '• Clear out of my house ! " ^ thundered Jack. 
 " Leave us be by ourselves ! " 
 
 " I don't know 's I 'd oughter," hesitated Jim. 
 
 " Leave us be ! or I won't leave you be a d 
 
 minute longer ! Ain't it my house ? Get out of 
 it!" 
 
 " It is, that 's a fact," admitted the visitor, look- 
 ing perplexed ; " but I declare to Jupiter I don't 
 know 's I 'd oughter leave it, the way things 
 look. Have your senses, Jack, my boy ! Have 
 your senses ! She ain't right smart." 
 
 But with this Jack sprang upon him, and the 
 wife cried out between them, for the love of mercy, 
 that murder would be done. 
 
 " Leave us be ! " she pleaded, sobbing. " Xothin' 
 else won't pacify him. Go, Jim, go, and shut the 
 door, and thank her, for the cranberry sarse was 
 very kind of her, and for my husband's sake don't 
 tell nobody he was n't kind to me. There. That 's 
 right. There." 
 
 She sank back into the rocking-chair, for she was 
 feeble still, and looked gently up into her husband's 
 face. All the tones of her agitated voice had 
 changed. 
 
 She spoke very low and calmly, as if she gathered 
 her breath for the first stage of a struggle whose 
 nature she solemnly understood. She had grown 
 exceedingly pale. 
 
 1 Such peculiarities of Jack's pronnnciation as were at±iibu- 
 able to his condition will not be reproduced here.
 
 136 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 " Jack, dear ? " softly. 
 
 " I '11 give ye time," he answered with an omi- 
 nous quiet. " Tell yer story first. Out with it ! " 
 
 " I have n't got nothin' to tell, Jack. He brought 
 the cranberry sarse, for his wife took care of me, 
 and she was very kind. And he set a little, and we 
 was talkin' about the club, just as he says we was. 
 It 's Mother Mary's club, Jack. She 's made Jim 
 secretary, and she wanted you to join, for I told her 
 you 'd reformed. Oh, Jack, I told her you 'd re- 
 formed ! — Jack, Jack ! Oh, Jack ! What are you 
 goin' to do to me ! What makes you look like 
 that ? — Jack, Jack, Jack ! " 
 
 " Stand up here ! " he raved. He was past rea- 
 son, and she saw it ; he tore off his coat and pushed 
 up his sleeves from his tattooed arms. 
 
 " You 've played me false, I say ! I trusted ye, 
 and you 've tricked me. I '11 teach ye to be the 
 talk upon the wharves another time when I get 
 in from Georges' ! " 
 
 She stood as he bade her, tottered and sank back ; 
 crawled up again, holding by the wooden arm of the 
 rocking-chair, and stretched one hand out to him, 
 feebly. She did not dare to touch him ; if she had 
 clung to him, he would have throttled her. When 
 she saw him rolling up his sleeves, her heart stood 
 still. But Teen thought : " I will not show him 
 I 'm afraid of him. It 's the only chance I 've got." 
 
 The poor girl looked up once into his face, and 
 thought she smiled. 
 
 " Jack ? Dear Jack ! " 
 
 " I '11 teach ye ! I '11 teach ye ! " 
 
 " Oh, wait a moment. Jack. For the love of
 
 JACK THE FISIIEUMAX. 137 
 
 Heaven, — stop a mmute! I've been that I said 
 I 'd be to you, since we was married. 1 've been an 
 honest wife to you, my boy, and there ""s none on 
 earth nor heaven as can look me in the eye and 
 darsi: to say I have n't. I swore to you upon the 
 Eock of Ages, Mother Mary witnessin', — why, 
 Jack ! " her voice sank to infinite sweetness, " have 
 you forgotten ? You ain't yourself, poor boy. 
 You '11 be so sorry. I ain't very strong, yet, — 
 you 'd feel bad if you should hit me — again. I 'd 
 hate to have you feel so bad. Jack, dear, don't. Go 
 look in the other room, before you strike again. Ye 
 ain't seen it yet. Jack^ for the love of mercy ! — 
 Jack ! Jack ! " 
 
 <' Say you 've played me false, and I '11 stop. 
 Own up, and I '11 quit. Own up to me, I say ! " 
 
 '' I can't own up to you, for I swore you by the 
 Eock of Ages ; I swore you I would be an honest 
 wife. You may pummel me to death, but I '11 not 
 lie aAvay them words I swore to you . . . by that, 
 . . . Jack, for the love of Heaven, don't you. Jack ! 
 For the way you used to feel to me, dear, dear 
 Jack ! For the sake of the babies we had, . . . and 
 you walked beside of me, to bury 'em ! Oh, for 
 God's sake . . . Jack ! . . . Oh, you said you 'd be 
 kind to me . . . Oh, you '11 be so sorry ! For the 
 love of pity ! For the love of God ! iSTot the xnstol ! 
 Oh, for the Eock of " — 
 
 But there he struck her down. The butt end of 
 the weapon was heavy enough to do the deed. He 
 struck, and then flung it away. 
 
 Upon his bared arm, as it came crashing, the cru- 
 cifix was spattered red.
 
 138 JACK THE FISHERMAN 
 
 He stood up stupidly and looked about the room. 
 The covers were ott' the kitchen stove, and the heart 
 of the coals blazed out. Her yellow hair had 
 loosened as she fell, and shone upon the floor. 
 
 He remembered that she spoke about the other 
 room, and said of something yonder, that he had n't 
 seen it yet. Confusedly he wondered what it was. 
 He stumbled in and stared about the bedroom. It 
 was not very light there, and it was some moments 
 before he perceived the cradle, standing straight 
 across his way. The child waked as he hit the 
 cradle, and began to cry, stretching out its hands. 
 
 He had forgotten all about the baby. There had 
 been so many. 
 
 " You 'd better get up. Teen," he said as he went 
 out ; " it 's cryin' after you." 
 
 He shiit the door and staggered down the steps. 
 He hesitated once, and thought he would go back 
 and say to her : — 
 
 '' What 's the use of layin' there ? " 
 
 But he thought better, or worse, of it, and went his 
 way. He went out and reshipped at once, lingering 
 only long enough to drink madly on the way, at a 
 place he knew, where he was sure to be let alone. 
 The men were afraid of Jack, when he was so far 
 gone under as this. Nobody spoke to him. He 
 went down to Salt Brothers' wharf, opposite Salt & 
 Co.'s, and found the Daredevil, just about to weigh. 
 She was short by one hand, and took him as he 
 was.
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 139 
 
 He was surprised to find liimself aboard when the 
 next sun went down ; he had turned in his bunk and 
 was overheard to call for Teen, ordering her to do 
 some service for him, testily enough. 
 
 " Oh,'" he muttered, " she ain't here, is she ? Be 
 blasted if I ain't on the Daredevil." 
 
 He was good for nothing, for a matter of days, and 
 silent or sullen for the trip. It had been a heavy 
 spree. He fell to, when he came to himself, and 
 fished desperately; his luck turned, and he made 
 money ; he made seventy-five dollars. They were 
 gone three weeks. They had a bitter voyage, for it 
 was March. 
 
 They struck a gale at Georges', and another com- 
 ing home. It snowed a great deal, and the rigging 
 froze. The crew were uncommonly cold. They kept 
 the steward cooking briskly, and four or five hot 
 meals a day were not enough to keep one's courage 
 up. They were particular about their cooking, as 
 fishermen are, and the steward of the Daredevil was 
 famous in his calling. But it was conceded to be 
 unusually cold, even for March, at Georges'. One 
 must keep the blood racing, somehow, for life's 
 sake. 
 
 Whiskey flowed fast between meals. Jack was 
 observed not to limit himself. " It was for luck," 
 he said. Take it through, it was a hard trip. The 
 sober men — there were some — looked grim and 
 pinched ; the drinkers, ugly. 
 
 " It 's a hound's life," said a dory-mate of Jack's 
 one day. His name was Eowe — Eowe Salt ; he was 
 a half-brother of Jim's. But Jim was at home. And 
 Teen, of course, was at home. Jack had not spoken
 
 140 JACK THE FISHEBMAN. 
 
 of her ; he had thought of her, — he had thought of 
 nothing else. God knows what those thoughts had 
 been. When Eowe spoke to him in this fashion, 
 Jack looked hard at him. 
 
 " I 've ben thinkin' ef it disobligated a feller," he 
 said. 
 
 "Hey?" asked Eowe. 
 
 " If you was treated like folks ; but you ain't. 
 You're froze. You're soaked. You're wrecked. 
 Your nets is stole. You 're drove off in the fog. 
 You 're drownded, and you lose your trawls. If you 
 swear off, you miss your luck. It's dirty aboard. 
 Folks don't like the looks of you. There 's alwers a 
 hanker in the pit o' your stomick. When you get 
 upon a tear you don't know what you — do to — 
 folks." 
 
 Jack stopped himself abruptly, and leaned upon 
 his oar ; they were trawling, and the weather grew 
 thick. 
 
 " Eowe," he said, staring off into the fog, " did ye 
 ever think we was like fishes, us fishin' folks ? " 
 
 " I don't know 's I hev," said the dory-mate, star- 
 ing too. 
 
 " Well, we be, I think. We live in it and we 're 
 drownded in it, and we can't get out on 't — we can't 
 get out. We look like 'em, too. I 've thought about 
 that. Some of us look like haddock. You 've got 
 the halibut look, yourself. Skipper, he's got the 
 jib of a monk-fish, — you ken see it for yourself. 
 There 's a man I messed with, once, reminded me 
 of a sculpin. I guess I 'd pass for a lobster, myself, 
 — for color, anyhow. We take it out someways, 
 each on us. Don't ye know the look the women
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 141 
 
 folks have when they get old and have gone hun- 
 gry ? You can tell by the build of a boy which way 
 he '11 turn out, — halibut way, or hake, or niebbe 
 mackerel if he 's sleek and little. It 's a kind of a 
 birth-mark, I should n't wonder. There 's no gettin' 
 out on 't, no more 'n it out of you. Sometimes I 
 used to think — 
 
 " Good Lord ! " cried Jack. He laid down his oar 
 again, and the dory wheeled to starboard sharply. 
 
 " Eowe Salt, you look there ! You tell me if you 
 see a woman yonder, on the water ! " 
 
 "You've got the jim-jams, Jack. Women folks 
 don't walk at Georges'. I can't see nothin' nowhere, 
 but it 's thick as " — 
 
 "It's thick as hell," interrupted Jack, "and 
 there 's a woman walkin' on the water, — Lord ! 
 don't you see her ? Lord ! her hair is yeller hair, 
 and it 's streamin' over her, — don't you see her ? 
 She 's walkin' on this devilish fog to-wards the 
 dorj^, — Teen ? Teen ! There ! Lord save me, 
 Eowe, if I didn't see my wife come walkin' to- 
 wards us, us settin' in this dory ! Hi-i-igh ! I '11 
 swear off when I get home. I '11 tell her so. I hate 
 to see such things." 
 
 " You see, Eowe," Jack added presently, — for he 
 had not spoken after that, but had fallen grimly to 
 work ; . it was ten below, and the wind was taking 
 the backward spring for a bitter blow ; both men, 
 tugging at their trawls through the high and icy 
 sea, were suffering too much to talk, — " ye see we 
 had some words before I come aboard, and she 
 Avar n't right smart. The baby can't be very old. I 
 don' know how old it is. I was oncommon drunk ;
 
 142 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 I don't remember Avhat I did to her. I 'm afraid I 
 hit her, — for 1 had some words with her. I wish 't 
 I was at home. She won't tell nobody. She never 
 does. But I 'm set to be at home and tell her I 've 
 sworn off. I 've got money for her this trip, too ; 
 I 'm afraid she 's in a hurry for it." 
 
 After this outburst of confidence. Jack seemed to 
 cling to his dory -mate ; he followed him about deck, 
 and looked wistfully at him. Jack had begun to 
 take on the haggard look of the abstainer once again. 
 The crew thought he did not seem like himself. He 
 had stopped drinking, abruptly, after that day in 
 the fog, and suffered heavily from the weather and 
 from exposure. 
 
 " I say, Kowe," he asked one day, " if anything 
 was to happen, would you jest step in and tell my 
 wife I did n't believe that yarn about her ? She '11 
 know." 
 
 Now it befell, that when they were rounding 
 Eastern Point, and not till then, they bespoke the 
 Destiny, which was outward bound, and signaled 
 them. She drew to speaking distance, and her skip- 
 per had a word with the master of the Daredevil, 
 but he spoke none too loud, and made his errand 
 quickly, and veered to his own course, and the two 
 boats parted company, and the Daredevil came bus- 
 tling in. They were almost home. 
 
 It was remembered afterward that Jack was badly 
 frostbitten upon that voyage ; he looked badly ; he 
 had strange ways; the men did not know exactly 
 how to take him. He was overheard to say : — 
 
 " I ain't a-goin' to go to Georges' again." 
 
 Eowe Salt overheard this, after the skipper of
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 143 
 
 the Destiny had signaled and tacked. Jack was sit- 
 ting aft alone, when he said it, looking seaward. He 
 had paid little or no attention to the incident of the 
 Destiny, but sat staring, plunged in some mood of his 
 own which seemed as solitary, as removed from his 
 kind and from their comprehension, as the moods of 
 mental disorder are from the sane. 
 
 So then, with such dexterity as the ignorant man 
 could muster, Salt got his friend down below, on 
 some pretext, and stood looking at him helplessly. 
 
 "You don't look well, Eowe," Jack suggested 
 pleasantly. 
 
 " Jack," said his dory-mate, turning white enough, 
 " I '11 make no bones of it, nor mince nothin', for 
 somebody 's got to tell ye, and they said it must be 
 me. There 's a warrant after ye. The sheriff 's on 
 the tug betwixt us and the wharf. She 's layin' off 
 the island, him aboard of her." 
 
 " I never was in prison," faltered Jack. " The 
 boys have always bailed me." 
 
 " 'T ain't a bailin' matter, Jack, this time." 
 
 " What did you say ? " 
 
 " I said it was n't a bailin' business. Somebody 's 
 got to tell you." 
 
 Jack gazed confidingly up into his friend's face. 
 
 " What was it that I done, old boy ? Can't ye tell 
 me ? " 
 
 " Let the sheriff tell you. Ask the sheriff. I 'd 
 rather it was the sheriff told you. Jack." 
 
 " Tell me what it is I done, Eowe Salt ; I 'd tell 
 ?/o?<." 
 
 He looked puzzled. 
 
 "The sheriff knows more about it nor I do,"
 
 144 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 begged the fisherman ; " don't make an old mess- 
 mate tell you." 
 
 ''All right," said Jack, turning away. He had 
 now grown very quiet. He pleaded no more, only to 
 mutter once : — 
 
 " I 'd rather heard it from a messmate." 
 
 Kowe Salt took a step or two, turned, stopped, 
 stirred, and turned again. 
 
 " You killed somebody, then, if you will know." 
 
 " Killed somebody ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I was drunk and killed somebody ? " 
 
 " Lord help you, yes." 
 
 " I hope," — hoarsely — " look here, Salt, — I hope 
 Teen wonH know. 
 
 " I say, Rowe," after a long pause, " who was it 
 that I killed ? " 
 
 " Ask the sheriff." 
 
 " Who was it that I killed ? " 
 
 " The skipper '11 tell you, mebby. I won't. No, I 
 vow I won't. Let me go. I 've done my share of 
 this. Let me up on deck ! I want the air ! " 
 
 " I won't let you up on deck — so help me ! — till 
 you tell ! " 
 
 " Let me off, Jack, let me off ! " 
 
 " Tell me tvho it ivas, I soy ! " 
 
 " Lord in heaven, the poor devil don't kno^v, — he 
 really don't." 
 
 " I thought you would ha' told me, Rowe," said 
 Jack with a smile, — his old winning smile, that had 
 captivated his messmates all his life. 
 
 "■ I IV ill tell you ! " cried Rowe Salt with an oath 
 of agony. " You killed your wife ! You murdered 
 her. She 's dead. Teen ain't to home. She 's dead."
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 145 
 
 VI. 
 
 They made way for him at this side and at that, 
 for he sprang up the gangway, and dashed among 
 them. When he saw them all together, and how 
 they looked at him, he stopped. A change seemed 
 to strike his purpose, be it what it might. 
 
 " Boys," said Jack, looking all about, " ye won't 
 have to go no bail for me. I '11 bide my account, 
 this time." 
 
 He parted from them, for they let him do the 
 thing he would, and got himself alone into the bows, 
 and there he sank down, crouching, and no one spoke 
 to him. 
 
 The Daredevil rounded Eastern Point, and down 
 the shining harbor, all sails set, came gayly in. They 
 were almost home. 
 
 Straightway there started out upon the winter sea 
 a strong, sweet tenor, like a cry. It was Jack's 
 voice, — everybody knew it. He stood by himself in 
 the bows, back to them, singing like an angel or a 
 madman, — some said this, some said the other, — 
 
 ' ' Rock of Ages, cleft for me ! 
 Let me hide myself in thee ; • . . 
 
 Thou nitist save, and thou alone . . . 
 
 When I soar to worlds unknown. 
 See thee on thy judgment throne," — 
 
 sang Jack. 
 
 With the ceasing of his voice, they divined how it 
 was, by one instinct, and every man sprang to him. 
 But he had leaped and gained on them.
 
 146 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 The waters of Fairharbor seemed themselves to 
 leap to greet him as he went down. These that had 
 borne him and ruined him buried him as if they 
 loved him. He had pushed up his sleeves for the 
 spring, hard to the shoulder, like a man who would 
 wrestle at odds. 
 
 As he sank, one bared arm, thrust above the crest 
 of the long wave, lifted itself toward the sky. It 
 was his right arm, on which the crucifix was stamped. 
 
 VII. 
 
 White and gold as the lips and heart of a lily, the 
 day blossomed at Fairharbor one June Sunday, when 
 these things were as a tale that is told. It was a 
 warm day, sweet and still. There was no wind, no 
 fog. Tlie harbor wore her innocent face. She has 
 one ; who can help believing in it, to see it ? The 
 waves stretched themselves vipon the beach as if 
 they had been hands laid out in benediction ; and 
 the colors of the sky were like the expression of a 
 strong and solemn countenance. 
 
 So thought Mother Mary, standing by her hus- 
 band's side that day, and looking off from the little 
 creature in her arms to the faces of the fishermen 
 gathered there about her for the service. It was an 
 open-air service, held upon the beach, where the peo- 
 ple she had served and loved could freely come to 
 her — and would. They had sought the scene in 
 large numbers. The summer people, too, strolled 
 down, distant and different, and hung upon the edges 
 of the group. They had a civil welcome, but no
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 147 
 
 more. This was a fisliernian's affair ; nobody needed 
 them ; Mother Mary did not belong to them. 
 
 "The meetin 's ours," said Eowe Salt. "It's us 
 she 's after. The boarders ain't of no account to 
 her." 
 
 His brother Jim was there with Eowe, and Jim's 
 wife, and some of the respectable women neighbors. 
 The skipper of the Daredevil was there, and so were 
 many of Jack's old messmates. When it was under- 
 stood that Mother Mary had adopted Jack's baby, 
 the news had run like rising tide, from wharf to 
 wharf, from deck to deck, — everybody knew it, by 
 this time. Almost everybody was there, to see the 
 baptism. The Fairharbor fishermen were alert to 
 the honor of their guild. They turned out in force 
 to explain matters, sensitive to show their best. 
 They would have it understood that one may have 
 one's faults, but one does not, therefore, murder 
 one's Avife. 
 
 The scene in the annals and the legends of Fair- 
 harbor was memorable, and will be long. It was as 
 strange to the seamen as a leaf thrown over from the 
 pages of the Book of Life, inscribed in an unknown 
 tongue of which they only knew that it was the 
 tongue of love. Whether it spoke as of men or of 
 angels, they would have been perplexed to say. 
 
 Into her childless life, its povert}^, its struggles, its 
 sacrifices, and its blessed hope, Mother Mary's great 
 heart took the baby as she took a man's own better 
 nature for him ; that Avhich lay so puny and so 
 orphaned in those wild lives of theirs, an infant in 
 her hands. 
 
 Jack's baby — Jack's baby and Teen's, as if it had
 
 148 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 been an^-body else's baby, was to be baptized " like 
 folks." Jack's baby, poor little devil, was to have 
 his chance. 
 
 The men talked it over gravely ; it affected them 
 with a respect one Avould not anticipate, who did not 
 know them. They had their Sunday clothes on. 
 They were all clean. They had a quiet look. One 
 fellow who had taken a little too much ventured 
 down upon the beach ; but he was hustled away 
 from the christening, and ducked in the cove, and 
 hung upon the rocks to dry. One must be sober who 
 helped to baptize that baby. 
 
 This Avas quite understood. 
 
 They sang the hymn. Jack's hymn and Teen's : of 
 course they sang the Rock of Ages; and Mother 
 Mary's husband read " the chapter " to them, as he 
 was used, and spoke to them ; and it was so still 
 among them that they could hear each wave of the 
 placid sea beat evenly as if they listened to the beat- 
 ing of a near and mighty peaceful heart. Mother 
 Mary spoke with them herself a little. She told 
 them how she took the child, in despair of the past, 
 in hope of the future ; in pain and in pity, and in 
 love; yearning over him, and his, and those who 
 were of their inheritance, and fate, their chances, 
 and their sorrows, and their sins. She told them of 
 the child's pure heart within us all, which needs only 
 to be mothered to be saved ; which needs only that 
 we foster it, to form it ; which needs that we treat it 
 as we do other weak and helpless things, whether in 
 ourselves or in another. What was noble in them 
 all, she said, was to them like this little thing to 
 her. It was a trust. She gave it to them, so she
 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. 149 
 
 said, as she took the baby, here before their witness- 
 ing, to spare him from their miseries, if she miglit. 
 
 They were touched by this, or they seemed to be ; 
 for they listened from their souls. 
 
 " We 'd oughter take off our hats," somebody whis- 
 pered. So they stood uncovered before the minister, 
 and Mother Mary, and Jack's poor baby. The sacred 
 drops flashed in the white air. Dreamily the fisher- 
 men heard the sacred words : — 
 
 " In the name of the Father : And of the Son : 
 And of the Holy Ghost. Amen." 
 
 But no one heard the other words, said by Mother 
 Mary close and low, when she received the child into 
 her arms again, and bowed her face above it : — 
 
 "317/ son, I take thee for the sake and for the love 
 of thy father, and of thy mother. Be thou their holy 
 ghost." 
 
 But the fishermen, used not to understand her, but 
 only to her understanding them, perceiving that she 
 was at prayer, they knew not why, asking of Heaven 
 they knew not what, — the fishermen said : — 
 
 " Amen, Amen."
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 "Now there !" said Ellen Jane Salt; ''I 'ra tired 
 seein' a passel of folks squealin' at a snail shell." 
 
 It happened that much the same view of the case 
 was occupying Miss Helen Ritter at the same mo- 
 ment ; the chief difference being that the summer 
 boarder's view was not dependent upon expression, 
 wliile that of the " native " (as usual) was. 
 
 It was what is called a burning fog that day. Miss 
 Hitter was sitting on the cliff under a Japanese um- 
 brella. Twenty people were sitting under Japanese 
 umbrellas. Hers, she thanked Heaven, was of ivory- 
 color, plain and pale. No Turkey red flaunted 
 fiercely, nor purple mandarin sprawled hysterically, 
 against indigo skies above her individual head. 
 There is a comfort in distinction, even if it go no 
 farther than a paper sunshade. Miss Eitter enjoyed 
 the added idiosyncrasy of sitting under hers alone. 
 She was often alone. 
 
 In July the seaside is agreeable ; in September, 
 irresistible ; in October, intoxicating. In August, 
 one does not understand it ; one comes vip suddenly 
 against its "other side," as against peculiarities in 
 the character of a friend known for years, and unex- 
 pectedly putting the affection to a vital test. 
 
 In August the sun goes out, and the thick weather 
 comes in. The landlady is tired, and the waitress
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 151 
 
 slams tlie plate ; the fog-bell tolls, and the beach is 
 sloppy ; the fog-whistles screech, and one may not go 
 a-sailing ; the puddings and sauces have grown fa- 
 miliar, and one has read too many novels to stand 
 another, and yet not enough to force one back, for 
 life's sake, on a " course of solid reading." In 
 August one's next neighbor is sure it was a mistake 
 not to spend the season at the mountains. In August 
 the babies on the same corridor are sick. In August 
 one has discovered where the milk is kept, and 
 frightful secrets of the drainage are gossiped in 
 ghastly whispers by the guests who complain of the 
 dinners when the young married lady who rowed by 
 moonlight with another fellow has left the place, and 
 a temporary deficiency of scandal. In August one's 
 own particular beach is swarming and useless, one's 
 especial reef is populated and hideous, nay, one's 
 very crevice in the rock is discovered and mortgaged 
 to the current flirtations, and all nature, which had 
 seemed to be one's homestead, becomes one's exile. 
 In August there are hops, and one wants to go away. 
 In August there are flies, and the new boarder. 
 
 It is the new boarder who is overaudible about 
 the snail shells. Down there in the gorge, where 
 the purple trap glitters at half -tide in great volcanic 
 veins that seem to pulsate yet through the cliff with 
 the fire imprisoned there — who knows when ? — 
 and where the beaded brown kelp deepens to bronze, 
 and then runs to tarnished gold in the wet, rich 
 pulpy recession of the ebb, the new boarder abound- 
 eth. So the snails, — brown, green, orange, lemon, 
 gray, and white, — the tiny shells, mere flecks of 
 color, moved sluggishly by their cell of hidden con-
 
 152 THE MADONNA Of THE TUBS. 
 
 sciousness and will, like certain larger lives that be- 
 neath a mask of stagnation palpitate, — the snails, 
 as I say, interest the new boarder. He saun- 
 ters down in groups, in clans, in hordes, defiling 
 through the trap gorge — disproportionately femi- 
 nine, sparsely but instructively masculine, and eter- 
 nally infantile. He views the attractions of the 
 spot first enthusiastically, then calmly, now indiffer- 
 ently, and drifts away at the third stage of feeling, 
 possibly an object of curiosity or envy, in his turn, 
 to the snail, who has to stay. The first day he 
 screams (I must be pardoned if I use the generic 
 masculine pronoun in this connection) at the snails ; 
 the second day he observes them without scream- 
 ing ; the third he does n't observe them at all. His 
 number is infinite, and his place is never vacant. 
 His lady t3rpes wear wild roses in their belts, inva- 
 riably succeeded by daisies, and rigorously followed 
 by golden-rod. It is an endless procession of the 
 Alike, or, we may say, of the great North American 
 Average. 
 
 Decidedly on the fortunate side of the average is 
 the element that is creeping into Fairharbor — one 
 should say stepping in, for that end of averages 
 never creeps, to be sure, — the element not vocifer- 
 ous over snails, and scantily given to floral decora- 
 tion ; an element represented, for instance, by Miss 
 Ritter, who, seeking Fairharbor for many a summer 
 because, among other reasons, it gave her that closest 
 kind of seclusion, isolation in a crowd with which 
 one has riot historic social relations, has sadl}"" dis- 
 covered of late that her dear, rough, plain rocks and 
 waves and boarding-houses are becoming semi-fash-
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 153 
 
 ionable, with a threat even of classically abandoning 
 the compound. Already Fairharbor has her hotel 
 and her daily steamer, her band and her " distin- 
 guished visitors," her mythical company, organized 
 to sweep up the huge solitudes at five dollars a foot, 
 roadway forty feet wide thrown in, and wells if you 
 can find any water in them. Already she has her 
 landaus and her toilets, her French maids and her 
 ladies who protect the complexion. Already the 
 faithful old stagers, haughtily unconscious, are 
 stared at for their thick boots and beach dresses 
 and gorgeous coats of tan, and their way of sitting 
 in the sand like crabs after their vigorous baths, in 
 which they do not jump up and down, but swim 
 sturdily, battling with the sharp North shore wat- 
 ers, and not expected to scream. 
 
 Miss Eitter, a conspicuous figure on the cliff's 
 edge above the lava gorge, might be called an un- 
 conscious link between Fairharbor past and Fairhar- 
 bor to be, possessing perhaps the better points in 
 both types of " summer people," luxuriously dissat- 
 isfied with them, with herself, with the world, even 
 just now with Fairharbor. In her white flannel 
 dress and white hat, with the pale flame-colored tie 
 at her throat, and the reflection from the pale sun- 
 shade upon her, she had a select, almost severe look, 
 Avhich was not lessened by any depreciation of effect 
 in motion when she rose and walked. She had a 
 stately walk, and reminded one of a calla, as she 
 turned her head slowly and stood full to view, tall 
 and serious. 
 
 There was no sunset that night ; it was a dog-daj^,
 
 154 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 damp and dead ; the fog had thickened, and was 
 crawling in like fate ; the bell tolled from the light- 
 house two miles away, and the east wind bore the 
 sound steadily in. 
 
 Already the boarder children, who insisted on 
 going in the skiff, could not be seen an eighth of a 
 mile out at the island's edge beyond the lava gorge ; 
 and the fisherman, whose children knew better, 
 pushed them with a kiss from his knees as he drew 
 in his dory for the rescue, to comfort a distracted 
 parent (in a red parasol) and another one (rumored 
 to be a clergyman, but just now in a bathing suit), 
 whose inharmonious opinions but harmonious anx- 
 iety were the excitement of the hour upon the beach. 
 The bathing suit had, unhappily for him, allowed 
 the children to go. The red parasol had always 
 said they would be drowned. 
 
 '' Don't ye fret," said the fisherman, with a slow 
 grin. " They stole my old punt, an' she leaks so 't '11 
 keep 'em busy bailin', and they can't get fur. I '11 
 fetch 'em this time, but next time keep 'em to hum. 
 Why, there ain't a do(/ in Fairharbor 'd set out rowin' 
 thick as this, 'thout he hed to go for a doctor or see 
 to his trawls ; he 'd k7ioiv better. But you land-lub- 
 bers never do know nothin' ; you don't know enough 
 to know when to be sheered. — H' are ye, Miss Rit- 
 ter ? " as she passed him, suddenly gliding down the 
 cliff, and up the wet, uncordial beach. 
 
 " That 's like you, Henry. Your tongue is bound 
 to take the edge off your good deeds somehow, like 
 plated silver, whereas you know, half the time, it 's 
 the solid thing underneath. Now you '11 scour the 
 ocean after those children, and do just as well as if 
 vou had n't scolded about it."
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 155 
 
 " Better — a sight better ! " chuckled Henry. He 
 ran splashing through the water in his huge red 
 leather boots, pushing the dory off with a mighty 
 shove. He moved the oars with a fisherman's superb 
 leisure ; his massive figure looked as if it were etched 
 for a moment on the mist, whose color and the color 
 of his old oil -clothes blurred together till there 
 seemed to be only the outline of a man. As boat 
 and boatman grew dimmer to the view, the ghostly 
 rower turned and shot back one parting word at the 
 red parasol : — 
 
 " Look-a-here ! Jest you stop yowlin', won't ye ? 
 You '11 skeer them young 'uns overboard. Ef you 
 want me to fetch 'em, lemme do it in peace." 
 
 With this, the fog, with whose terrible and mys- 
 terious swiftness no man may intermeddle, shut 
 down. 
 
 " Like the curtain of death," Miss Eitter thought, 
 looking over her shoulder, when man and boat and 
 voice had vanished utterly. She was not given to 
 too much consideration of the lot of her fellow-men, 
 perhaps ; her sympathies were well regulated, but 
 not acute. Although from Boston, she was not a 
 philanthropist by avocation ; she took people as they 
 came, or went — good-naturedly enough, but not un- 
 comfortably ; she had a touch of the irresponsibility 
 belonging to professional artists ; she herself did 
 not even paint tea-cups. 
 
 In Fairharbor, for instance, it would have been 
 easy to make one's self miserable. She meant to 
 treat her neighbors as a lady should ; but why culti- 
 vate neuralgia of the emotions over the fate of the
 
 156 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 fleets ? It was therefore hardly characteristic, and 
 struck her for the moment, in an artistic sense, cu- 
 riously, as part of the " effect " of the whole wet, 
 dull afternoon, that she should feel almost moved by 
 the every-day incident of Henry and the dory and 
 the fog. He seemed to her suddenly like a symbol 
 of the piteous Fairharbor life ; as one puts an eagle, 
 an arrow, a shield, or whatever, upon the seal of a 
 commonwealth or upon a coin, so Fairharbor might 
 take Henry ; so she gave up her vigorous young life 
 that " went down to the sea in ships ; " and so, ghosts 
 before their time, her doomed men trod her shores. 
 
 " I believe I must stop and see Ellen Salt about 
 some laces," said Miss Eitter, uncertainly, to the 
 lady boarder, — with daisies and a mandarin parasol, 
 now pulpy with the fog, and offering acute tempta- 
 tion to stick one's fingers between the ribs, — the 
 lady who joined her on the beach. It did not matter 
 about the laces, but it mattered to have to talk to 
 that stack of daisies just then. The lady's leather 
 belt was tight, and the flowers seemed to gasp as if 
 they had got into corsets. 
 
 This was the lady who always complained of the 
 breakfasts, and knew how often every gentleman in 
 the hotel came to see his wife. She was an idle, 
 pretty, silly thing ; abnormally, one might say in- 
 humanly, luxurious. She wore thirty thousand dol- 
 lars' worth of diamonds, because it was understood 
 she was afraid to leave them in the hotel rooms. 
 She gave three dollars to the subscription for the 
 Fairharbor widows of two hundred men drowned 
 last year : she had acquired a theory that one must 
 not make paupers.
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 157 
 
 As Helen Bitter struck off alone through the fog, 
 down the lane, behind the wild-rose thicket, under the 
 willow-trees, and against the big bowlders, to Mrs. 
 Salt's little, old, unpainted cottage, — picturesquely 
 gray, and proportionally damp, — she was thinking 
 neither of the daisy and diamond boarder, nor of two 
 hundred drowned fishermen, nor even of Ellen Jane 
 and the weekly wash. 
 
 , So far as her thoughts had organization rather 
 than pulp, and might have been nautically termed 
 more conscious than jelly-fish, she was thinking — 
 still in that same amusing, outside, artistic sense — 
 of herself ; looking on, as she looked on at the sum- 
 mer people and the fishermen, with an unimpas- 
 sioned, critical eye. 
 
 Too well we all know those mad or inspired mo- 
 ments (generally ours on dull afternoons) when we 
 seem to catch up the whole of life at a handful, and 
 fling it from ns utterly in a kind of scorn that may 
 be wholly noble or trivial, according to the impulse 
 of the motion or the direction of the aim. 
 
 She, — Helen Ritter, of Beacon Street, Boston, 
 twenty-eight years old, an orphan, a Brahman (rich, 
 if one stopped to think of that), and a beauty, mem- 
 ber of Trinity Church and the Brain Club, subscriber 
 to the Provident Association, and stockholder in the 
 Athenaeum, fond of her maid, her relatives, her bric-a- 
 brac, and her way, — walking to her washer-woman's 
 through the fog, and suffering one of these supreme 
 moments, could have flung her whole personality 
 into iSTirvana or the ocean by one sweep of her white- 
 clad arm that day, and felt well rid of it. To be 
 sure, nothing had happened.
 
 158 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 That, perhaps, was the trouble ? 
 
 " I am a type," said the young woman aloud. " I 
 am nothing but a type; I have no 'use nor name 
 nor fame ' under the skies, beyond standing for the 
 representative, like people that make the groups in 
 tourists' photographs. I may thank Heaven if I 
 don't do it inartistically, I suppose ; and meanwhile 
 pay my laundress. I wonder why I keep on coming 
 to Fairharbor ? " 
 
 Why, indeed ? Helen Eitter to Helen Kitter, in 
 the scorn of her heart and the depth of it, would 
 give no answer to that question, but hit it with her 
 fine, cool look as she would any other social in- 
 truder, and passed it by upon the other side. She 
 was young for life to have come to what she called 
 its end. 
 
 "Yet the light of a whole life dies, 
 When love is done," 
 
 sang the musical boarder in the hotel parlor beyond 
 the rose thicket. The east wind bore the sound over 
 the bowlders, through the willow boughs, driving 
 with the fog, as if both had been ghosts from the 
 hidden sea. 
 
 Why cling to the old spot where the light of life 
 had once been kindled and quenched ? Why dog, 
 like a spirit unreleased, the haunts of that blessed 
 and accursed vitality ? Ko, no. She could not curse 
 it : no. Whom or what had she to curse ? Fate, 
 perhaps, or accident, or a man's terrible dullness of 
 intellect before the nature of the woman he loves, or 
 her own doom, or her own '' way " — that unlucky 
 way which as often wrought her mischief from being
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 169 
 
 misunderstood as from being to blame, but which, 
 was none the less likely to be to blame for that. 
 
 " The mind has a thousand eyes," 
 
 sang the summer boarder with laboriously acceler- 
 ated emphasis, for the gentlemen had come in from 
 the beach, and were listening, 
 
 " The mind has a thousand eyes, 
 And the heart but one, 
 Yet the light of a whole life dies. 
 When love is done." 
 
 " Well, there ! " said Ellen Jane Salt, " do come in 
 out of this thick weather. Fog 's good for your flan- 
 nel dress ; bleach it out ; but my ! ain't you sloppy ? 
 You got drabbled on the beach. Just you step up 
 agen my tubs and let me wash out that hem o' your'n 
 jest as you be, I '11 stand you up to the stove after, 
 and dry you up a mite, too, and iron you off, and 
 you '11 be slick as ever. Pity ! I did you up only 
 last Saturday, you know — There ! I 'm drove to 
 death, but I can't stand seein' good Avashin' spoiled 
 like that, — and you, too, punctual as you are with 
 the price, — so many dozen, and so late in the season 
 besides. No ; the laces was n't extry, thank you. 
 I 'd be ashamed if I could n't do a bit of valingcens 
 for you. But there ! I was up till two o'clock this 
 mornin' ironin' Mrs. Hannibal P. Harrowstone's 
 fluted nigh'gownds (thread lace, every scrap). She 
 had six. I 'm drove out of my wits, and Eafe had to 
 have one of his spells at three, poor little fellow ! 
 just as I 'd got a snooze in my close atop of the bed- 
 spread, for it was so hot with the heavy ironin' fire, 
 and us so near the cook-stove. There ! "
 
 160 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 Ellen Jane Salt was a little woman, thin and keen 
 of outline ; the kind of woman sure to marry a large 
 man, and rule him roundly. She had very bright 
 blue eyes, sunken with want of sleep ; and the chisel- 
 ing of care about her temples and her mouth told 
 that her first youth had passed in hand-to-hand 
 struggles with life, from which middle age gave no 
 prospect of releasing her. The line between her lips 
 indicated that nature had given her a sweet temper, 
 which experience might push hard now and then 
 under stress of circumstances. She had what it 
 would be sufficient to call a busy voice, pitched like 
 the American feminine voice of her class, but with- 
 out a shrewish note ; on the whole, making allow- 
 ance for the national key, what might be called a 
 motherly or wifely voice. She had the curious, 
 watching look common to the women of Fairharbor, 
 acquired from that observation of the sea with which 
 the summer boarder is unfamiliar. A little anxious 
 running down to the beach now, or the wharf then, 
 when the fog sets in ; a little more restless climbing 
 of the cliif when the wind rises ; this peering for the 
 dory before dawn, or searching for the sail at dusk, 
 or scanning the headland by moonlight, or asking the 
 dead of night to give the absent head-light to strain- 
 ing eyes, or beating about over the downs in the 
 November gales with the glass Avhich trembles in the 
 aching arm before the blank horizon, — these things, 
 we see, give optical results which no social oculist 
 has distinctly classified. For the rest, Ellen Jane 
 Salt wore a navy blue calico dress, well fitted (by 
 herself) to a pleasant figure, and tucked up over the 
 hips under a gray crash washing apron, on which
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 161 
 
 she wiped her steamed and dripping hands to give 
 Miss Ritter greeting. There was a strip of tourist's 
 ruffling in the neck of the navy blue calico, and the 
 house, like the mistress, was as neat as a honey- 
 comb. One might almost say, without straining a 
 point, that there was a certain poetry in her avoca- 
 tion ; for Ellen Jane Salt's old cottage seemed to the 
 chance visitor a kind of temple of cleanliness. The 
 small kitchen was sunny and sweet ; and despite the 
 disproportion of the ironing-table and stove to the 
 environment, the only litter seemed to be the signs 
 of the presence of children, which abounded. Then 
 it must be distinctly understood that Mrs. Salt had a 
 " parlor." What Xew-Englander has not ? Whether 
 his debts be paid or his soul saved we need not stop 
 to inquire ; he will attend to that presently ; mean- 
 while, a parlor or die ! 
 
 In Mrs. Salt's parlor Avas a carpet of a high-art pat- 
 tern under reduced conditions, — olive green, to be 
 sure, playing at geometry with Indian red, and sepia 
 brown and black ; it was an excellent carpet, and 
 jDrotected by a strip of oil-cloth nailed across, like a 
 little plank walk, for the children to travel over to 
 the bedroom beyond. There was a new paper on the 
 walls of the parlor, very clean and very gilt (olive 
 green, of course), and the price per roll such a trifle 
 that a codfish could afford it, as Mrs. Salt had often 
 said ; the paperer being Ellen Jane herself, at mid- 
 night, after a day's washing, when " he " was asleep. 
 
 In the parlor were a black haircloth sofa, a cen- 
 tre-table with a red cloth, a Bible, a copy of " The 
 Youth's Companion," an old " Harper," and a pa- 
 tent-medicine almanac ; a chromo called " Innocence
 
 162 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 Asleep " (presented with a pound of green tea, and 
 since framed in gilt), and a framed photograph, of 
 Raffe ; but when we come to Eafe — 
 
 Meanwhile, in the parlor there was also " an in- 
 strument." Mrs. Salt had privately meant it to be 
 a piano ; but Mr. Salt had a bad year haddoeking, 
 and that overgrown ambition was silently set aside. 
 At any rate, it was an instrument. It did not mat- 
 ter whether one called it a melodeon or a cabinet 
 organ, or whatever you please ; the musical future of 
 the Salt family was thus assured. In a narrower 
 personal sense the instrument was intended for 
 Emma Eliza, who took music lessons in prosperous 
 seasons, and played — to Raf fe. Emma Eliza was the 
 oldest daughter, and Eafe was the youngest son. 
 Mrs. Salt had six children — two babies. Rafe was 
 a cripple. 
 
 " Was n't that IVIrs. Hannibal P. Harrowstone 
 comin' up the beach alongside of you ? " began Mrs. 
 Salt promptly. She ironed as she talked, making 
 small ceremony of Miss Ritter, who was an old cus- 
 tomer, and regarded quite as- one of the family. 
 Mrs. Salt's irons thumped when she was tired or ex- 
 cited, though she would have you understand she 
 knew how to iron scientifically and silently, and no 
 fuss about it. To-night she thumped a good deal. 
 
 " She 's a good customer, Mrs. Hannibal P. Har- 
 rowstone. But there ! When I count the yards 
 and yards on her petticoats — dollar a yard, every 
 mite of it — and her nigh'gownds solid [thump] 
 valingcens, you might say, and them di'mon's 
 [thump], and beef-tea for Rafe goes so fast at 
 twenty -five cents a pound durin' his spells ; and
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 163 
 
 there ! [thump]. Why, Miss Ritter, I did up one 
 dress for that Avoman last week would ha' paid our 
 reut for a whole year, by the Sassinfras Bitters Al- 
 manac ; and Biram so sharp on his rent, too, luck or 
 none ; an' if a man makes eighty dollars to his trip, 
 or eight cents, it 's all the same to Biram come rent- 
 day. But there ! that 's fishin', I ain't complainin', 
 and thanks to mercy I can stand at the wash-tub 
 day an' night for 'em long 's there 's anj^thing to 
 wash. Six weeks ain't much, now, is it ? Pretty 
 short season ; and no more for a woman to do in 
 Fairharbor rest of the year than there is for a clam. 
 We 're like 'em, I guess — just stick in the sand and 
 stay there. But there ! I ain't complainin' either ; 
 and six children do want a sight of things from 
 Janooary to Janooary, as you 'd know, if you 'd ever 
 had one ; and Eafe " — 
 
 " Rafe looks pale, I thought," interposed Miss 
 Ritter, glancing into the " parlor," where a little, 
 bent figure sat in a high, padded chair by the win- 
 dow. 
 
 The child had a delicate face, refined by suffering, 
 and a singularly sweet mouth ; he had long blond 
 hair, which fell over his face as he stooped. There 
 were no other children visible, except the baby, 
 asleep in the crib or cradle at the little cripple's 
 feet. Now and then the boy jogged the cradle with 
 his foot, as he bent over his work or play. 
 
 " It 's your scrap-book," said Mrs. Salt, in a low 
 voice — " that one you gave him with the chromos 
 and magazines when you come in June. You never 
 see such a sight of comfort as that child gets out o' 
 them things — bless your soul for it ! It 's the
 
 164 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 prettiness that pleases him. The boarders give him 
 money sometimes, but he don't pay the same atten- 
 tion to it — it ain't that, you know. There 's a kind 
 of jn-ettiness about Raffe — like the ladies and gen- 
 tlemen I do for. He ain't like a fisherman, Eaffe 
 ain't, and so sweet of his temper in all his spells. 
 Now last night never a word. His father and me 
 hate to see Rate suffer." 
 
 " I saw Henry on the beach just now," observed 
 Miss Ritter, backing up by the stove, as she Avas 
 bidden, to dry her white flannel dress hem after 
 Mrs. Salt's professional treatment thereof. The 
 young lady had quite dignity enough even for this 
 awkward and exceedingly warm position, and 
 seemed to fill the little house with a kind of splen- 
 dor — distant, uncomprehending, accidental — like 
 that gift of the scrap-book. She thought too little 
 about them to know when she did the right thing 
 by poor people, until they told her. She did not 
 mistake her taste for her principles, though they 
 sometimes might. "I saw Henry," said Miss Rit- 
 ter, in her affable tone, that the washer-woman did 
 not always distinguish from personal friendship. 
 " He was going off in the dory after those Benzine 
 children that always get lost foggy days. I thought 
 he was pretty patient, though he had to have his 
 say about it. All the children were with him, I be- 
 lieve, — Tom and Sue and the bigger baby and the 
 rest." 
 
 " There ain't any rest except Emma Eliza," cor- 
 rected the mother. " Six is enough, gracious knows 
 — and she 's gone home with Mrs. Hannibal P. Har- 
 rowstone's wash, what there is readv of it. Yes,
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 165 
 
 there 's that about Henry Salt, I will say ; he '11 do 
 anytliing, but he 's got to have his say. Him and 
 me we have words sometimes. I 'm always sorry 
 for it afterward. I never mean to. Pie says he 
 don't mean to nither. But there ! men-folks is men- 
 folks, not to say anything of women. ISTigh as I can 
 make out, the Lord 7)iade men-folks to be contrary ; 
 but sakes ! if you love 'em, what 's the odds ? 
 You 've only got a bigger chance to do for 'em, and 
 mother 'em up. They 're a kind of boys, men are, 
 and have to be mothered up somehow by their 
 women. They need pettin' and fussin' and strokin' 
 the right way, and hear jest how they feel when 
 they 're a mite sick, and fuss over 'em as if you 
 s'posed they was dangerous, and not to say nothin' 
 when you 're ten times worse yourself — that's men. 
 I don't say I don't have my tempers out myself — 
 like an influenzy, got to come — sometiynes. But 
 there ! I 've got a good husband, dear. Kor there 
 ain't a stiddier, nor soberer, nor better, goes to the 
 Banks from Fairharbor year in, year out. I 'm very 
 fond of Henry. We've had a happy life, me and 
 Henry." 
 
 " A happy life ? " 
 
 Miss Eitter looked about the fisherman's cottage ; 
 at the small rooms crowded with the signs of sur- 
 plus life and harassing economies ; at the sober, 
 sleeping baby, who seemed to have been born in a 
 hard season, and bore the inheritance of poverty and 
 anxiety in the lines of his unconscious face ; at the 
 crippled boy stooping in the window against the dull 
 square of light made by the conflict of the fog and 
 dusk beyond ; at the nervous motions of the tired
 
 1G6 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 woman at the ironing-table, Ellen Jane Salt did 
 not pass for a heroine, but she had aches enough and 
 ailments enough to have put Miss Eitter or Mrs. 
 Hannibal P. Harrowstone under treatment from a 
 fashionable physician for the rest of her life. Any 
 lady who felt as she did would have gone to bed. 
 The fisherman's wife washed and ironed ; thus Eafe 
 had beef-tea — and the instrument. SomehoAv even 
 the instrument did not make the fisherman's cottage 
 seem an abode of luxury. " I can always sell it," 
 Mrs. Salt said, when approached by good sociolo- 
 gists on the subject of this extravagance. "It's 
 good property ; it keeps the children to home even- 
 ings ; and Rafe — why, I got it for Eafe." 
 
 The washer-woman stood straight at her ironinsr- 
 table, and lifted her head as she followed Helen 
 Ritter's look about the cottage, on whose sparse com- 
 forts the advancing dusk was setting heavily. 
 
 "Yes," she said, very gently, " Henry and me have 
 had a happy life — him a fisherman, me a washer- 
 woman — six children — and Rafe — and poor. 
 Well, there ! there 's been times poor don't saij it — 
 and hard. It 's been pretty hard. But you see, my 
 dear, me and Henry like each other. I suppose that 
 makes a difference." 
 
 " It must make a difference," repeated Miss Ritter 
 drearily. She went abruptly into the darkening par- 
 lor, kissed the crippled child upon the forehead, said 
 some little pleasant thing to him, and came restlessly 
 back. Rafe climbed down from his high chair labo- 
 riously, took up his crutch, and followed her. His 
 mother Avas lighting the kerosene lamp, and the poor 
 place leaped suddenly into color. Rafe pulled at the
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 167 
 
 na\'y blue calico dress. The washer-woman snatched 
 off her wet crash apron, and drew the little fellow — 
 alas ! never perhaps to be too big a fellow for his 
 niother\s lap — into her arms. The ironing-table and 
 the clothes-basket and a wash-tub of rinsing clothes 
 closed into the perspective of this plain picture ; 
 and Eafe's crutch, where it had fallen in the fore- 
 ground, reminded Miss Eitter somehow of the staff 
 in the little St. John scenes that we all know. 
 
 " The Madonna — of the Tubs," she murmured. 
 
 '' What, ma'am ? " asked Rafe. 
 
 " There ! there ! " said the Madonna ; " go and 
 watch for father, Rafe." She handed him his crutch 
 with her kiss — a half-savage kiss, like that of some 
 wild, thwarted maternal thing — and the child 
 limped eagerly away. 
 
 " He must have found them Benzine children by 
 this time," Mrs. Salt ran on, taking to her irons again 
 nervously. "But, fact is, I'm nevei' eas}^ in my 
 mind when Henry 's in thick weather, not even off- 
 shore. It 's hard being a woman in Fairharbor. Our 
 minister said, says he, when he first come to town 
 he noticed all the women-folks called it ' the dread- 
 ful sea.' I guess, come to think of it, we do — jest 
 as 5^ou 'd say ' Monday mornin', ' or ' cold weather,' 
 and never take notice of your words. You see, I 'm 
 kind o' down to-night, tell the truth, Miss Eitter. — 
 Yes, Eafe, watch for papa, dear. He'll be disap- 
 pointed if he does n't see Eafe first. — I would n't 
 tell the child just yet. You see, his father 's got to 
 go to the Banks. Eafe hates to have his father go to 
 the Banks. He worries. We thought we 'd get along, 
 — for me and Eafe do worry so, — but Henry's
 
 168 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 had an awful poor season off-shore. He thinks 
 he 's got to go. He ain't made but twenty-two 
 dollars and sixty-three cents this summer. It 's 
 safer off-shore, take it all, though it 's bad enough, 
 Miss Eitter, fix it as you will. It was off-shore his 
 boat keeled over, eight years ago the 23d of Septem- 
 ber, not more 'n two miles olf the light — him and 
 Job Ely and Peter Salt and William X. Salt went 
 down in a squall, and I 'd been nervous all day ; so 
 Avhen it struck I got the glass, and took Emma 
 Eliza — for she was little then, but my oldest born, 
 and all I had to speak to that would understand — 
 and me and Emma Eliza we walked over the downs, 
 and over the downs, blowed about agen the wind, 
 with the glass, and stood watchin' ; and, my gracious 
 God, Miss Eitter, I saw that there boat go down be- 
 fore my livin' eyes ! " 
 
 It was an old story, told to how many neighbors 
 and " summer people " how many times ! but at this 
 point the fisherman's wife gasped and blanched. 
 She had never been able to finish it ; each time she 
 thought she should. She took up her flat-irons has- 
 tily, for scalding tears were dropping on Mrs. Hanni- 
 bal P. Harrowstone's fluted skirt. 
 
 " He h'isted on to the keel, her bottom upmost," 
 she said, in a lower voice, " and they all h'isted on 
 and held, and a lumber schooner from Maine come 
 along full canvas, but it took an eternal punishment, 
 looldn' through the glass, to get her swung to and 
 dory off. But they was saved — him and Job Ely 
 and Peter Salt and William X. Salt —   and him ; but 
 they looked like flies before my eyes, for the sea
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 169 
 
 broke over 'em, and they kep' a-slippin', and so me 
 and Emma Eliza put down the glass and come home 
 and set down ; and Emma Eliza made me a cup of 
 tea — for I was that gone, and her so little to do for 
 me. And there we set, for we could n't do nothin' 
 till he come home at five minutes past nine o'clock, 
 bustin' open the door — so ! — drippin' wet, and pale 
 as his own corpse, and I says, ' Henry ! Henry ! ' 
 and he says, ' Nelly Jane ! ' and we says no more, for 
 someways we could n't do it. But Emma Eliza cried 
 
 — for she used to bellow, that child did, when she 
 was little — enough to wake last year's mackerel 
 catch, and then she made her father's tea, for I was 
 that gone ; and you see. Miss Ritter, it was next 
 month Raf e was born, and he was born, my dear — 
 as he is." 
 
 " Marm, I don't see my fa — ther," interrupted 
 Eafe, in his gentle, drawling voice, from the open 
 front door. 
 
 " And so, as I says," proceeded Mrs. Salt, more 
 briskly, "fishin' is fishin', off-shore or no. But I 
 have n't no confidence in the Grand Banks. I wish 
 my husband had n't got to go this fall. I ain't any 
 time to be nervous, but there 's always time to see 
 things. You knoAV, you see him so, before your 
 eyes, all sorts of ways, when he 's that far from you 
 
 — fogs, or a gale, or a squall — drownin' mostly, and 
 callin' after you, if you're his wife and have always 
 done for him. Even a headache he 'd run to you 
 about. And to stand here ironin', a thousand miles 
 away, and him maybe " — 
 
 " Marm," called Eafe, " I see my fa — ther ! I 
 see my fa — ther ! "
 
 170 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 " Well, there ! " cried Ellen Jane Salt, putting 
 down her irons tremendously. She blushed like a 
 girl, and bustled about, " picking up " here and 
 there, and hurrying to fry the cod for supper. 
 She almost forgot her young lady customer, who 
 w^as glad just then to slip away. 
 
 On the way down the lane she met the fisherman 
 and his children hurrying home ; but in the dusk 
 they passed with a pleasant, neighborly nod. Miss 
 Ritter was sad, and Henry Salt was hungry ; so she 
 with her kindly " Well, Henry ! " and he with his 
 civil *' H' are yer, ]VI[iss Eitter ? " went their Avays. 
 It so happened from one trifling cause and another 
 — she was called to Boston earlier than usual, and 
 what not — that this was the last time she spoke to 
 the good fellow that season, as she afterward re- 
 membered. 
 
 She turned in the dark lane, and watched the 
 group scrambling home in their happy-go-lucky 
 fashion — Henry rode the bigger baby (he was 
 known in the Salt family as "the other baby") 
 pigback all the way ; Sue and Tommy trudged and 
 toddled, snatching at his oil-clothes, which were wet 
 and slipped from their little round red hands. 
 
 Henry Salt sang, as he carried " the other baby," 
 a snatch of a sailor's song IVIiss Eitter had never 
 heard before : — 
 
 " Give the wind time 
 
 To blow the man down." 
 
 Past the rose thicket, by the great bowlder, dim, 
 in the dark and the now drenching fog, man and 
 children, pushing merrily home, made one confused 
 group, like a centaur or a torso to the watcher's eye.
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 171 
 
 The cottage door was wide open. What a splen- 
 dor of light leaped out ! Was it only that kerosene 
 lamp upon the ironing-table ? How it beat back 
 the crawling fog, which made as if it would enter 
 first, and was denied. 
 
 " Give the wind time," 
 
 rang the fisherman's happy bass. 
 
 From outside, through the door, one could see 
 clearly and far. All the little house seemed to lean 
 out to draw them in ; the sweet, tidy, homely things 
 grew gilded and glorious, and had a look as if they 
 stirred ; even the instrument could be seen deep in 
 the parlor, with the reduced high-art paper. In the 
 doorway, once again, the Madonna of the Tubs had 
 found that fine, unconscious attitude — half stoop- 
 ing to take Eafe, who had stood too long upon his 
 little crutch. He put up his hand and stroked her 
 cheek. 
 
 " Oh, marm, I 've r/ot my fa — ther ! " 
 
 '' Give the wind time 
 
 To blow the man down," 
 
 sang Henry Salt. Laughing, he snatched and 
 kissed the child — the mother too, perhaps. Down 
 there in the dark wet lane Miss Eitter could not see, 
 or her eyes failed her somehow. 
 
 For a moment the group stood in the open door in 
 a kind of glory. Then Emma Eliza came in, and, 
 putting down her empty clothes-basket, and going 
 straight to the instrument, began — it seemed that 
 Eafe asked — to play. A waltz, perhaps ? A min- 
 strel melody ? Some polka learned of the music- 
 teacher ? A merry ditty flung at fate and dashed
 
 172 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 at life and death, between whose equal mysteries 
 these poor souls wrenched their brave and scanty 
 happiness ? My musical friend — no. Emma Eliza 
 sang a hymn. She sang that venerable Sunday- 
 school jingle known as '' Pull for the Shore." 
 
 Rafe joined in it sweetly, leaning on his crutch. 
 His mother sang it shrilly while she fried the cod. 
 Henry Salt sang it merrily while he hung his oil- 
 clothes on the nail behind the door. Sue and 
 Tommy and the other baby sang it anyhow ; and 
 the baby in the crib waked up and stretched his 
 arms out to the instrument. 
 
 " Pull for the shore, sailor, pull for the shore ! 
 Heed not the rolling' waves, but bend to the oar! 
 Pull for the shore, sailor, pull for the shore ! " 
 
 Then the door shut suddenly ; the Madonna was 
 blotted from sight; blackness replaced the sweet 
 and homely halo ; only the voices of the fisher-peo- 
 ple, expressing what they knew of happiness in the 
 sombre, sacred words that held the terror and the 
 danger of the sea, echoed faintly down the dark and 
 now deserted lane. 
 
 " If this were a story in need of a heroine," said 
 Helen Eitter as she turned, " it is a vacant position 
 which I should not be asked to fill. And yet I 'd 
 be my washei'-woman to be " — 
 
 "Give the wind time 
 
 To blow for the shore." 
 
 rang out the gruff bass voice that w4nd and weather 
 had roughened in shouting " Ship ahoy ! " For 
 Henry had musically forgotten himself^, as will be 
 seen, and Emma Eliza, at the instrument, came to a 
 severe halt to set him straight.
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 173 
 
 Perhaps if it had not been for William X. Salt it 
 would never have happened. 
 
 Tennyson, I think, or it might well be, has sketched 
 a seaport town in one line which runs : — 
 
 " And almost all the village had one name." 
 
 The fishing town of Fairharbor was generously fur- 
 nished with the appropriate name of Salt. There 
 were great Salts and small Salts, rich and poor Salts, 
 drunk and sober Salts, Salts making money in the 
 counting-rooms and Salts earning it upon the wharves. 
 Salts in the fish firms and Salts before the mast — 
 Abraham L. Salt, for instance, who owned the 
 schooner (herself Abby E. Salt by name), and Wil- 
 liam X. Salt and Peter Salt and Henry Salt, who 
 sailed in her to the Grand Banks, after the golden- 
 rod and the summer people were gone, when there 
 were no Japanese umbrellas, and nobody screamed 
 at the snails, when there was no washing by the 
 dozen to be had, and only now and then a letter from 
 Miss Ritter — in November, just before Thanksgiv- 
 ing, when the weather had turned cold and the wind 
 blew from the north. 
 
 Nothing is easier than to find a reason for the un- 
 pleasant in ourselves in causes outside of ourselves, 
 and yet, in spite of this calm, proverbial philosophy, 
 it is probably true that if it had not been for William 
 X. Salt it would never have happened. At least 
 Ellen Jane said so, and will say so to her dying day. 
 For from whatever cause — divine, diabolic, or hu- 
 man — whether because William X. Salt treated 
 Henry, or because Henry allowed William X. to
 
 174 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 treat him, or because Heaven permitted or hell de- 
 creed — the truth remains that Henry and Ellen Jane 
 Salt, like many another wedded pair loving less than 
 they, like many another loving even more than they, 
 quarreled; but the worst of it was that they quar- 
 reled the night that Henry set sail in the Abby E. 
 Salt, with William X. and Peter and Job Ely and 
 the other fellows — ten in all, for the Grand Banks 
 of Newfoundland. 
 
 William X. Salt had given him the whiskey, for, 
 as I say, it was turning cold, and the Avind blew bit- 
 terly from the north, and the men had worked till 
 they were fretted and chilled, getting their traps and 
 trawls aboard. Now Henry was a sober man, for the 
 most part, and meant to keep so ; or his wife meant 
 to keep him so, which is much the same thing ; and 
 I should libel him were I to say that he came home 
 to supper drunk. He was not drunk. Strictly 
 speaking, he was not sober. In point of fact, he 
 was what may be charitably called sensitive to liq- 
 uor, owing to some passing familiarity of the nervous 
 system Avith its effects in early youth ; and it took 
 little enough to make it clear that he had better have 
 taken none at all. As a rule, Henry recognized this 
 physiological fact. That November night he Avas 
 cold and tired and "'down," and William X.^ who 
 was sober sometimes, but so seldom that, by the law 
 of chances, this could hardly have been one of the 
 times, was moved to treat at the wrong moment or 
 in the wrong way ; and if Henry had taken a little 
 less, or even a little more, and come home to his 
 wife drunk, it might not haA^e happened, we must 
 admit, for he was jolly and silly Avhen he Avas drunk j
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 175 
 
 but he got only so far as the cross stage, and cross he 
 was — it need not be denied — to Ellen Jane. 
 
 What was it all about ? What is it ever all about, 
 when two who love each other dearer than any great 
 thing on earth fall sharp asunder. because of some 
 little one — too little to find ? The pity of love is 
 that it is given to small creatures : let us not forget 
 that itself is great. 
 
 Perhaps it was the door that slammed ; perhaps it 
 was the coffee that did not settle ; it may be that 
 the baby cried, or the chowder burned their tongues, 
 or somebody upset the milk pitcher, or the lamp 
 smoked, or the ironing fire was burning coal too fast, 
 or the barberry sauce (brought oiit to honor the occa- 
 sion) had not enough molasses in it, or the griddle- 
 cakes did not come fast enough, or there was a draught 
 somewhere — who could say ? Neither of these mar- 
 ried lovers, perhaps, after it was all over. Less than 
 any one of these almost invisible causes has broken 
 hearts and homes before, and will, world Avithout 
 end, till lovers learn the infinite preciousness of 
 love, and human speech is guarded like human chas- 
 tity. 
 
 In short, then and there, on the night, on the 
 hour of their separation, Henry and Ellen Jane Salt 
 " came to words." 
 
 She had been crying all day, poor woman, because 
 he had to go. She dreaded a November voyage in- 
 telligently and insanely. Eafe had cried too, but he 
 hid in the parlor to do it. The children were all 
 sober except the baby and the other baby. The 
 house was illuminated — there were two kerosene
 
 176 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 lamps and the lantern. All Henry's mending was 
 tearfully and exquisitely done. There had been fresh 
 doughnuts fried, and a squash pie (extravagantly) 
 made to please him. Emma Eliza, at the instrument, 
 played the " Sweet By-and-by." Her mother was 
 dressed in her best calico, — a new one never at the 
 wash-tub, one of those chocolate patterns with 
 strong-minded flowers that women fancy. Heaven 
 and the designers know why. Her hair was brushed 
 and her collar fresh, and she had looked as pretty as 
 a pink, poor thing, dashing away the tears when he 
 came in ; ready for all the little feminine arts that 
 make men cheerful at the cost of women's nerve and 
 courage. 
 
 Then it happened, — whatever it was, — and the 
 glow went out of her face as the gloom gathered on 
 his, and that sweet look about her mouth settled 
 away, and the smouldering fire burned up slowly 
 from a great depth in her sunken, tired blue eyes ; 
 and with a breaking heart she blamed him ; and 
 with a barbarous tongue he admired her ; and their 
 words ran as high as their nerves were strained ; 
 and because they loved each other dearly every 
 harsh v/ord they said scorched them like coals of 
 white fire, on which one pours more to cover up 
 the blaze ; and because they were man and wife, and 
 more to each other than all the world besides, they 
 said, each to each, bitterly dashing out blind words, 
 what neither would have said to friend or neie:hbor 
 for very shame's sake ; and so it came about that on 
 this night they were in high temper, than which 
 none had been really sharper, perhaps, in all their 
 wedded lives.
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 177 
 
 "There is something always wrong about this 
 house, curse it ! " cried the man whom William X. 
 Salt had treated. 
 
 " There 's nothing wrong in this house but him 
 that 's setting sail from it," cried the woman whom 
 the man had scolded. 
 
 They were flashing words, — up and out and over, 
 
 — and, had it fared differently with them, at an- 
 other time a sob and a kiss would have met above 
 the ashes of the sorry scene, and there would have 
 been, an end, and peace to it. 
 
 But the Abby E. Salt weighed anchor at eight 
 o'clock. It was quarter past seven when Henry 
 pushed back from the half-eaten supper, and took up 
 his old hat to go. He had over a mile to walk, and 
 a ferry to catch, and what not to do 5 he was already 
 late. There was no time to let the sweet waters of 
 repentance come to the flood. He bade the children 
 good-by sullenly, kissed Rafe, and, after an instant's 
 hesitation, pushed open the door. He said he must 
 hunt up Job Ely, and so saying, and saying no more 
 than this, he went out of the house. He did not 
 look at his wife. 
 
 Her pretty, weary face had flushed a dangerous 
 scarlet during the scene which had passed. Now it 
 turned a dreadful white. She stood quite still. She 
 seemed to have no more moral power to move after 
 the man than an unsought girl or a woman repulsed. 
 Her whole feminine nature was quivering pitifully. 
 When a man is rough with a woman he forgets that 
 he hurts two creatures, — the human and the woman, 
 
 — and that he hurts the second more than it can 
 hurt himself by just so much as the essence of the
 
 178 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 feminine nature is a fact superimposed upon the 
 human. But as the mystery of this knowledge is 
 one that princes and philosophers have not yet com- 
 manded, who should expect it of the fisherman 
 Henry Salt ? 
 
 The children during this unhappy scene had stood 
 silent. To their father's quickness of temper they 
 were used ; he scolded one minute and kissed the 
 next ; but the usual had become the unexpected, and 
 a kind of moral embarrassment filled the cottage. 
 The baby and the other baby began to cry ; Emma 
 Eliza, whether from some rudimentary idea of call- 
 ing her father's attention, or from some daughterly 
 delicacy which led her to get herself out of the way, 
 sat down at the instrument and vigorously played 
 " Pull for the Shore " on the wrong key ; Eafe got 
 up on his crutch and hobbled to the door ; the wife 
 alone stood quite still. 
 
 The wind was rising fiercely from the north, as 
 has been said, and bursting in at the open door, 
 caught it and clutched it to and fro, closing but not 
 latching, and noisily playing with it, as if with a 
 shaken mood that could not fix itself. Eor the in- 
 stant, the master of the house seemed to be shut out, 
 and seemed possibly to one outside to have been 
 slavimed out by hands within. 
 
 " Let me by, Eafe ; let me by, this minute ! " The 
 wife made one bound, and down the wooden steps, 
 where she stood bewildered. No one was to be seen. 
 It was deadly dark, and the wind raved with a vol- 
 ume of sound which seemed to the Eairharbor woman, 
 born and nourished of the blast, to be something in- 
 telligent and infernal pitted against her. She flung
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 179 
 
 her shrill voice out into it : " Henry ! Henry ! come 
 back and say good-by to me. I 'm sorry. Henry ! 
 Henry ! Henry ! I 'm sorry ! I 'm sorry ! " 
 
 But only the awful throat of the gale made an- 
 swer. She ran a little way, straining her ears, her 
 eyes, her voice, beating her breast in a kind of 
 frenzy, calling passionately, plaintively, then pas- 
 sionately again ; and so, despairing, for she made 
 no headway against the roar of the iSTovember nor'- 
 wester, staggered, turned, and stopped. 
 
 At this moment, scrambling through the dark, a 
 little figure hit her, hurrying by upon a little crutch. 
 
 " I 'm goin' to catch my fa — ther," said Rafe. 
 
 He pushed on beyond her, his bright hair blown 
 straight like a helmet or visor of gold from his fore- 
 head, calling as he went, slipping, daring, tumbling 
 on the sharp rocks, and up again. Down there in 
 the dark, midway of the road she saw a little fellow 
 stop to gather strength and throw the Avhole force of 
 his sweet young voice like a challenge to the gale : — 
 
 " Fa — ther ! marm 's sorry ! (Don't you cry, marm. 
 I think he '11 answer.) Fa — ther ! Fa — ther I marm 
 says she 's sorry ! Marm is sorry, fa — ther ! (Just 
 keep still, marm. I 'm sure he '11 answer.) Fa — - 
 
 THER ! MARM IS SORRY ! " 
 
 The crippled child hurled the whole of his little 
 soul and body into that last cry, and then she saw 
 him turn and limp, more slowly, back. He came up 
 to her gently where she stood sobbing in the dark 
 and Avind ; and as if he had been the parent, one 
 might say, and she the child, he patted her upon the 
 hand. 
 
 " I told you I 'd catch him, marm — dear marm," 
 added Eafe.
 
 180 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 She shook her head incredulously, convulsive with 
 her tears, turning drearily to go back. She hardly 
 noticed Kafe in that minute. The wife was older 
 than the mother in her ; if stronger, who should say 
 her nay ? 
 
 " But I caught my fa — ther," persisted Eafe. " He 
 says, says he " — 
 
 " Rafe, he could n't, dear." 
 
 " Marm, he hollered, ' So be I.' " 
 
 " Did your father say that, honest, Rafe ? " 
 
 She lifted her head piteously, pleadingly, before 
 the child. 
 
 " I tJiink he did," said Raft, conscientiously. " I 
 ssijs, ' Fa — ther, marm 's sorry ' ; and he says, ' So 
 be I.' " 
 
 " If he says, ' So be I,' God bless you, Rafe ! 
 mother's sonny boy." 
 
 But with that she began to sob afresh, half with 
 hope and half with miser}'. The child, whose sym- 
 pathies were made old and fine by suffering, Avatched 
 her soberly. 
 
 " I think he did," said Rafe stoutly. " / think 
 my fa — ther hollered, ' So be I.' " 
 
 He lifted the truthful face of an angel in a halo 
 to the poor IVIadonna in the glimmer of the open 
 door. His yellow hair shone like an aureole about 
 his ardent little face. He would have given his 
 scrap-book just then to say, " I know he did." But 
 Rafe never lied. The other children supj^osed it 
 was because he was a cripple. 
 
 It was in just elsven daj^s that they brought her 
 the news. Abraham L. Salt asked Biram to tell her,
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 181 
 
 and Biram sent a woman neighbor. The north- 
 wester had blown grandly, as any one might know, 
 straight for the Banks, and blown the Abby E. Salt 
 thither in a smart voyage of four days and a half. 
 After the steady blow the weather thickened, and 
 that which has happened to Fairharbor fishermen, 
 and will happen again, God help them ! till the way 
 of the Avind and wave is tamed to human anguish, 
 happened then and there to Henry Salt. The Zeph- 
 aniah Salt, a fine schooner, about returning from the 
 fishing-grounds, carried the word to the telegraph at 
 Boston, and the telegraph to Abraham L. Salt, as 
 was said ; he to Biram, Biram to the woman neigh- 
 bor, the woman, praying God's pity, to her. 
 
 She did not say it as she meant to. Who of ns 
 does hard things as we thought we should? She 
 walked straight into the cottage, and stood still in 
 the middle of the floor, and began to cry. The first 
 she knew she had caught the little crippled child 
 and put him into his mother's arms, and said, — 
 
 " Eafe, tell your poor marm that your father 's 
 drownded — for I can't." 
 
 " At the Grand Banks, on the morning of jSTovem- 
 ber — , Henry Salt and Job Ely, of Fairharbor, dory- 
 mates, set out from the schooner Abby E. Salt to 
 look after their trawls, and were lost in the fog. 
 Every effort was made in vain to find the unfortu- 
 nate men. No hope is any longer felt of their 
 safety. The bodies have not been recovered. Salt 
 leaves a wife and six children. Ely was unmarried. 
 The Abby E. Salt belongs to the well-known firm of 
 Abraham L. Salt & Co., of Fairharbor."
 
 182 THE MADOXNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 Miss Ritter, idly nibbling at her "Daily Adver- 
 tiser " before her open cannel fire one bleak Decem- 
 ber morning, chanced upon the paragraph, Avhich 
 she re-read and pondered long. Ellen Jane had sent 
 no word out of her misery, poor thing ! A letter 
 achieved is an affliction to the unlearned, and she 
 had enough to bear without adding that. 
 
 " I 'd rather do a day's washing any time than 
 write a letter," she used to say. Besides, after all, 
 what would the " boarder lady " care ? When it 
 came to the point of bereavement, remorse, widow- 
 hood, hunger, cold, and despair, the summer patron 
 seemed as far from the Fairharbor winter as her 
 paper parasol or her " valingcens." Henry Salt had 
 gone the way of his calling, like other men ; he had 
 become one of the one or two hundred Fairharbor 
 fishermen over whose fate a comfortable dry-shod 
 world heaves a sigh once a year, when the winter 
 gales blow so hard as to shake the posts of the firm, 
 warm house a little, or even to puff the lace above 
 the sleeping baby's crib in the curtained, fire-lit 
 room. His wife, like other women, was a " Fair- 
 harbor widow,-"' and, like other women, must bend her 
 to her fate. 
 
 She bowed to it in those first weeks in a stupe- 
 faction that resembled moral catalepsy. A reserve 
 such as restrains the hand that writes this page — 
 a page like a bridge over a chasm down which one 
 cannot look, yet over which one must cross per- 
 force — solemnly enwrapped the fisherman's widow 
 in that space between the night when the woman 
 neighbor put the crippled child into his mother's 
 arms, and the advance of the holidays, which coma
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 183 
 
 — God help us ! — straight into the ruined as once 
 into the blessed homes. 
 
 And so to Fairharbor as to Beacon Street, to 
 Ellen Salt as to Helen Kitter, or you or me, the sa- 
 cred time which enhances all happiness and all an- 
 guish came gently or cruelly, but surely, on ; and it 
 was the day before Christmas, and going to snow. 
 
 In the sad cottage behind the leafless rose thicket 
 and under the ice-clad bowlders they were all at 
 home early that afternoon : the mother from her 
 dreary attempt and failure to find another neighbor 
 to " wash " on Monday morning ; Emma Eliza from 
 the net factory, where she wove seines and ham- 
 mocks (when the factory was running) at irregular 
 wages, ranging from four dollars a week to none ; 
 Tommy and Sue from the district school, where one 
 must have " an education," even if no father and no 
 dinner. Eafe took care of the baby and the other 
 baby, and was, so to speak, professionally at home. 
 Besides, Eafe himself (indeed, I might say Kafe in 
 particular) was about to become the support of the 
 family. As luck would have it — or as God willed 
 it — a group of marine artists had discovered Fair- 
 harbor that year, and Avere wintering, by the mercies 
 of Providence and the landlady, in the closed hotel, 
 hard at work ; among them one, a portrait and genre 
 painter, guest of the little company for a week or 
 so, had seen Eafe at a window one day, and, presto ! 
 the child's face — a cherub strayed from Paradise 
 into misfortune, the fellows said — shall go to "the 
 exhibition. 
 
 Eafe was earning what occurred to him as an
 
 184 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 enormous salary, as a model by the hour ; he failed 
 to see why Sue had no rubbers or Tommy no coat, 
 or why the kitchen fire burned so cold, or there was 
 no meat for dinner, in view of his monetary receipts. 
 He had often told his mother that he would support 
 her, and begged her not to cry. It did not strike 
 him that he had never seen her cry since his father 
 died. 
 
 As Christmas Eve drew on, they were all well in 
 the house. Emma Eliza drew the curtains fast, for 
 the hard and bitter air must melt into snow from 
 very force of resistance to its fate, now any moment, 
 and the house was cold. Rafe asked her to leave 
 one of the kitchen curtains up a little ; he had a 
 fancy for looking out on dark nights ; he used to 
 stand so, sometimes crooning and singing to himself, 
 his bright hair pressed against the window-pane, 
 and his thin hands up against his temples. Before 
 his father died, Rafe sang " Pull for the Shore " a 
 great deal, standing by that window looking out ; 
 sometimes Emma Eliza would catch it up upon the 
 instrument and join. But he did not sing it any 
 more. 
 
 The outside door did not latch, — the one that 
 slammed poor Henry out on that last night ; it 
 never latched very well ; there was no man to fix 
 it now ; a carpenter could not be afforded ; the 
 women and children had tinkered away at the fasten- 
 ing, in their blundering fashion, with blinding tears. 
 Such are the cruel small ways in which the poor are 
 reminded of their bereavements at every crevice of 
 their lives. Rafe had pushed up the wash-bench 
 finally against the door to keep it in its place.
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 185 
 
 Mrs. Salt looked about the little group, trying du- 
 teously to smile. She had on a (dyed) black dress ; 
 she looked sixty years old ; the change in her was 
 ghastly ; an indescribable expression had got hold 
 of her face ; she seemed like a dead person up and 
 dressed. There was something no less than dread- 
 ful in the mechanical gentleness and reserve which 
 had settled down upon this emotional, voluble crea- 
 ture. iSTo accident betrayed her into any accelera- 
 tion of the voice ; the crossest baby never raised a 
 ruffle in her accent ; she had such a monotonous 
 sweetness and bruised patience as seemed like a 
 paralysis of common human nature. Her children 
 could not remember to have had even a rebuke from 
 her since that night when the woman neighbor came 
 iu. They had deserved it twenty times. 
 
 " Children," she said dully and gently, " I have n't 
 any presents for you this Christmas. It 's the first 
 one, I guess. I can't help it, you know, my dears. 
 We are very poor to-night. But I '11 build you a big, 
 hot fire — it 's all I can do. We '11 keep Christmas 
 Eve by keeping warm, if we can. The stove don't 
 work, somehow ; the lining needs fixing ; it needs a 
 man." She hesitated, looking pitifully about the 
 room, at each little sober face. 
 
 " Won't that do ? Won't that be better than no 
 Christmas at all ? I thought mebbe it would. It 's 
 all mother 's got for you. She could n't do any bet- 
 ter. She wanted to. He always set so much by 
 Christmas. He " — 
 
 The broken door blew in and slammed against the 
 wash-bench loudly. Raf e went to shut it ; but it 
 resisted the little fellow's strength — fell inward
 
 18G THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 heavily, and with it a huge object thrust itself, or 
 was thrust, along the floor noisily enough. 
 
 " It 's the expressman ! " cried Kafe. " It 's Tan 
 and Salt's express cart, for us, marm ! " 
 
 Now the Salt family had never had an express 
 package in all their lives. So intense was the ex- 
 citement for the moment that it was almost impossi- 
 ble to remember that one's father was drowned. 
 They gathered like bees about the box, which the 
 driver lifted in for them compassionately ; even stop- 
 ping to help Emma Eliza start the cover. 
 
 " Seein' ye 're only women-folks — of a Christmas 
 Eve. And never in my life did I see a woman could 
 open a woodeii box. Guess ye 'd have to set on it all 
 night if I did n't — and no man else to do for ye " — 
 
 But Tan and Salt's express checked himself, and 
 departed hastily from the loosened cover and unfin- 
 ished sentence, letting in a whirl of the now falling 
 snow as he closed the rattling door. He wished, with 
 all his soul, he had time to fix that latch. 
 
 Now in that box — what mystery ! what marvel ! 
 Emma Eliza thought it was like a " Seaside " novel. 
 Eafe had read fairy tales, and he considered it prob- 
 able that it was the work of what he called " a genii," 
 that flannels and shoes, and a second-hand overcoat, 
 and mittens, and a black blanket shawl, should land 
 on the floor, with flour and coffee and crackers, and 
 a package of tea and sugar, and rubbers for Sue, and' 
 a turkey for Christmas dinner, and under all — stock- 
 ings ! There were six pairs of stockings — brown, 
 red, blue, green, gray, and white, each one filled to 
 the knee with Santa Claus knew what — trifles to 
 the giver, ecstasy to the child — all the way down
 
 THi: MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 187 
 
 from Emma Eliza to the baby and the other baby. 
 Ah, well, such things do happen, thank the blessed 
 Christmas spirit, in the homes of the brave and self- 
 helping poor ; they do not perhaps often happen so 
 gracefully, we might say so artistically. 
 
 " So pretty," cried Rafe — " so pretty in her." 
 For when the romance of the expressman was fol- 
 lowed by the immensity of a smart Fairharbor hack 
 rolling under the leafless willows to the very door, and 
 Eafe, pulling back the wash-bench again, let in, with 
 a shower of bright snow. Miss Helen Ritter, standing 
 tall and splendid in her furs of silver-seal, it seemed 
 quite what was to be expected ; and not one of the 
 poor souls knew, which was the best of it, that the 
 young lady had never done such a thing before in all 
 her life. She had done it noAv in her own " way " — 
 that whimsical, obstinate, lavish way that sometimes 
 was so wrong and sometimes so right, but this time 
 so sweet and true. Was it her heart that told her 
 how ? For her head was painfully uneducated in 
 sociology. She had not a particle of training as a 
 visitor to the poor. She had not a theory as to their 
 elevation. She had never been interested in books 
 concerning their management. She was simply 
 acquainted with her washer-woman, and had ap- 
 proached her as she Avould any other acquaintance, 
 according to the circumstances of the case. It was a 
 brave, self-helpful family ; she knew them ; not a 
 drop of pauper blood rolled in the veins of their 
 sturdy bodies. Ghastly poverty had got them ; worse 
 was before them ; but if any desolate Avoman and her 
 babes, thrust into their fate, could breast it and not 
 go under, these were they.
 
 188 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 As a human being to human beings, Helen Eitter 
 had come ; she knew no more, nor thought beyond. 
 She had felt moved to treat them as she would wish 
 to be treated in their places, and she did as she was 
 moved; that was all. If she made no blunder, it 
 was certainly owing to the rightness of her instinct, 
 not to the wisdom of her views. 
 
 But who stopped to think of views or instincts in 
 the astounded cottage that Christmas Eve ? Kot 
 Miss Eitter, stooping, flushed and brilliant, drawn 
 down by children's fingers to her knees upon the 
 kitchen floor among the Christmas litter. Not Eafe, 
 who put up his pale face and kissed her, saying not 
 a word. Not Emma Eliza, who meant to ask her to 
 play a Christmas carol on the instrument, thinking 
 that would be polite. (The instrument, by the way, 
 was drearily seeking a purchaser, poor thing.) Not 
 Sue, nor Tommy, nor the baby, nor the other baby, 
 pulling off the veil which had shielded the feathers 
 of their visitor's dainty bonnet from the snow. Not 
 ]\Irs. Salt, who came up to take her fur-lined cloak 
 with a soft, " You '11 be too warm, my dear," and so 
 showing all the stately, luxurious outlines of the 
 finest figure she had ever " done up," in that sweet 
 and humble attitude, kneeling on the kitchen floor. 
 Not Mrs. Salt, stealing away by herself, silent, still, 
 and changed, and strange — she had scarcely spoken. 
 What ailed her ? What would she ? Where was 
 she ? Helen Eitter, unintroduced to mortal sorrow, 
 hesitated before the bereavement of her washer- 
 woman, but summoned heart at last, and followed, 
 slipping from the children's arms. 
 
 Ellen Jane Salt was in her chilly parlor, crouched
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 189 
 
 alone ; she liad got into a corner bent over some- 
 thing, and when Miss Eitter came up she was half 
 shocked to see that it was the black blanket shawl. 
 
 " I did n't know what ever I was to do for 
 mournin' for him ! " The woman looked up, break- 
 ing out thus sharply. •' You 've no idea how they 
 talk about us Fairharbor widows, we so poor, they 
 say, and takin' charity to spend it on our black — 
 and reason, maybe ; but ask 'em if it 's human natur 
 to break your heart and mourn your dead in colors. 
 Ask 'em if bein' poor puts out human natur. Miss 
 Eitter, I had n't nothin' to mcflirn for Henry in but 
 this one old dress I dyed before my money went to 
 Biram for the rent, and my cloak was a tan-color sea- 
 son before last, and trimmed with bugle trimmin', 
 and my shawl was a striped shaAvl, with red betwixt, 
 you know. And us without our coal in, me going 
 mournin' for my husband half black, half colors, like 
 a widow that was half glad and half sorry — enough 
 of 'em be — my dear, it hu7't me. And to think you 
 should think of that, and send me of a Christmas 
 Eve — Oh, my dear, I have n't cried before, but it 's 
 the understanding me that breaks me up. Oh, don't 
 notice me, don't mind me. I have n't cried since he 
 was drowned ; I have n't darst. Oh, don't you touch 
 me — oh yes, you may. How soft your arms are ! 
 Oh, nobody has held me since he — Oh, my God ! 
 my God ! my God ! I 've got to cry." 
 
 " Come here," said Helen Kitter, sobbing too ; 
 "come here and let me hold you, and tell me all 
 about it." 
 
 " How can I tell you ? " moaned the woman. " Oh, 
 it is such a dreadful thing to tell ! Oh, my dear, it
 
 190 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 is n't his dyinrj ; it is n't that Henry is dead. If 
 that was all, I 'd be a blessed woman — me a widow, 
 and theui fatherless, and so poor — I 'd be a blessed 
 woman ; and God be thanked to mercy this living 
 night if it only was that my husband had died ! Oh, 
 how should you know ? You never was married ; 
 you never had a husband ; you never quarreled with 
 the man you loved." 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! hush ! " Involuntarily the lady 
 thrust her hand upon the other woman's mouth ; 
 then drew it off and patted her silently, stroking her 
 hair and shoulders wffch exquisite loving motions, as 
 women do to women of their own sort when sorrow 
 is upon them. 
 
 '' We quarreled," cried Ellen Jane Salt, throwing 
 out her arms, and letting them drop heavily at her 
 side — "we quarreled, Miss Ritter, that very last 
 night, that very last minute, him and me — us that 
 loved each other, man and wife, for seventeen years, 
 and him going to his death from out that door. ' Oh,' 
 he says, '■ there 's always something wrong about this 
 house ! ' and he cursed it ; but he did n't mean it, 
 poor fellow ; he never meant it ; for they must have 
 treated him to the wharves to make him say a thing 
 like that — you knoui they must ; and I says, ' There 's 
 nothing wrong in this house but him that 's setting 
 sail from it.' My God ! my God ! my God ! I says 
 those words to him at the very last ; and he " — 
 
 " Marm, I told him you was sorry." Eafe pulled 
 her by the dyed black sleeve. The little fellow's 
 face worked pathetically. He did not know before 
 that he could not bear it to see his mother cry. " I 
 think — I believe — I 'm pretty sure," said Rafe, 
 " that my fa — ther told me, ' So he /.' "
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 191 
 
 Helen Eitter drew the child into her free arm, and 
 so held him, sick at heart, for in that supreme mo- 
 ment the widoAved wife seemed to have gone deaf 
 and blind ; she did not notice even Rafe. 
 
 " What 's death," cried Ellen Jane, lifting her v/an 
 face to heaven, and sinking with a sickening, writh- 
 ing motion to her knees, — " what 's death, if that 
 was all, to man and wife that love each other ? I 've 
 been cold since Henry died, and I 've gone hungry 
 
 — don't let on to the children, for they don't know 
 
 — and I 'd be cold and hungry ; and if I was to starve, 
 what 's that ? And if I mourned and cried for him, 
 ns partin' kind, why, what is that ? It 's the words 
 between us ! — oh, it 's the words between us ! I 
 dream 'em in my dreams, I hear 'em in the wind, I 
 hear 'em at the instrument when the children sing — 
 it 's the words between us ! Him that courted me 
 and wedded me, the baby's father — and we loved 
 each other, and we come to words that last, last min- 
 ute, him going to his death ! My God ! my God ! 
 my God I . . . 
 
 " Miss Eitter, dear, what am I sayin' ? Send the 
 children off. Crying, Eafe ? Don't, dear. There ! 
 mother's sonny boy ; come here. Don't, Eafe, don't. 
 Yes, I '11 come and see the Christmas stockings. Let 
 me be a minute. Go, Miss Eitter, with 'em, if you'll 
 be so good. Kiss me, Eafe. Mother '11 come pres- 
 ently, my son. Let me be a minute, won't you, by 
 myself." 
 
 They went and left her, as they were bidden, every 
 one. Somebody shut the door of the chilly parlor, 
 not quite to, and so shielded her in for a little, yet 
 did not shut her off alone ; they could not bear to.
 
 192 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 Helen Kitter gathered the children about her, 
 among the presents and playthings, but it was hard. 
 Christmas had gone out of the fatherless house. It 
 was not easy for sorrow to play at Christmas Eve. 
 Rafe tried to entertain the lady. He told her he was 
 going to support the family. He told her how he 
 sat as mode] to the gentleman who painted up at the 
 hotel, and Miss Ritter asked about the pictures, and 
 a little about the painter, but not so much, and so 
 they chatted quietly. 
 
 " Ready, mother ? " called Rafe, at the half-shut 
 door. 
 
 " Presently, my son." * 
 
 " Coming, mother ? " begged Emma Eliza. 
 
 " Tumin', mummer ? " called the other baby. 
 
 " In a minute, yes, my dears." 
 
 " Mother, Miss Ritter says she 's found somebody 
 to buy the instrument. Mother, Miss Ritter says. 
 she wants an instrument. She says she '11 give a 
 hundred and twenty-five dollars for it. She says 
 she wants an instrument very much. Coming, 
 mother ? " 
 
 " Yes, my child." 
 
 Just as she came out among them, quiet again, 
 and gentle with her strange, dull gentleness, and 
 stood so, a little apart from them, looking on, Raf^ 
 got up and went to his window, where the curtain 
 hung half drawn (lialf-mast, they called it), and 
 looked out. It was snowing fiercely. The lights 
 of the near hotel showed through the white drift. 
 Emma Eliza would walk over with J\liss Ritter when 
 she had to go. Miss Ritter said she liked a little 
 snow. How heavy was the calling of the sea ! It
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 193 
 
 was like the chords of a majestic, mighty organ built 
 into the walls of the world. 
 
 The children chattered about the artists, and 
 pointed out their rooms yonder, specks of light in 
 the dark hotel. Miss Ritter paid little attention 
 to the artists. She was watching Mrs. Salt — and 
 Rafe. 
 
 What ailed Rafe ? 
 
 The child had been standing with his face pressed 
 against the window where the curtain hung at half- 
 mast ; his yellow hair falling forward looked like a 
 little crown. As he stood he began to croon and 
 hum below his breath. 
 
 " He has n't sung that one before since father " — 
 whispered Emma Eliza, but stopped, sobbing. Rafe 
 was humming " Pull for the Shore." 
 
 But what ailed Rafe ? He drew away from the 
 window ; the boy had turned quite pale ; and yet it 
 could not be said that his transparent, delicate face 
 showed fear. He went up slowly to his mother, and 
 pulled her black dress. 
 
 " Marm, I see my fa — ther." 
 
 He pointed to the window, against which the 
 storm pelted fast and furious. 
 
 " I 've frightened you, Rafe," said the mother 
 quietly. She had her great good sense. No one 
 should ever allow her children to be afraid of their 
 father as if he were a vulgar ghost. She patted 
 Rafe, kissed liim, and said, " Rafe must n't say such 
 things." 
 
 "Marm," persisted the boy, "I saw my fa — 
 ther." 
 
 " It 's the snow, Rafe, you see ; it 's so white —
 
 194 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 like him. llafe must not talk like silly people. 
 Dead folks can't be seen by little boys. There ! 
 There 's that old latch again, Rafe. How it acts ! 
 Go and fix it, dear." 
 
 Like a child Eafe obeyed, but like a spirit he pon- 
 dered, for Eafe had his dual life like the rest of us. 
 Was it vulgar to see ghosts ? Clearly it was neces- 
 sary to push the wash-bench against the door ; and 
 though he looked like a spirit, he pushed like a boy. 
 With his knee upon the bench, with his hand upon 
 the latch — But this was the moment Avhen the 
 child's shrill cry sounded and resounded through the 
 house : — 
 
 " Oh, marm, I 've ffot my fa — ther ! " 
 
 And, corpse or ghost or man, Henry Salt pushed 
 in the door, hurled over the wash-bench, brushed 
 aside Miss Kitter, strode over the children, and 
 hearing, seeing, knowing nothing else, if alive or 
 dead, whether in earth or heaven, he took his wife, 
 in her black dress, into his arms. 
 
 For the most part, as we all know, such things 
 are dreamed of. In Fairharbor they happen. The 
 material of novelists and poets and playwrights, 
 elsewhere woven of air or webbed of fancy to ap- 
 pease the imperious human desire for "a good 
 ending " to a smart fiction, becomes in Fairharbor, 
 now and then, by God's ingenious will, the startling 
 fact. 
 
 The sea had given up her dead. One month 
 reckoned of the solemn number, Henry Salt, like 
 fishermen before him and fishermen, please God, to 
 come after him, tossed by the vagaries of the sea
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 195 
 
 and her toilers, had breasted his way to life and 
 love. 
 
 He was a man of sparse words, except when in 
 liquor or in temper, and he took but few, slowly 
 spoken, and with the feint of carelessness or stolid- 
 ity used by men of his kind to mask the rare and so 
 confusing emotions of a lifetime, to tell his short, 
 true tale : — 
 
 " We was lost in the fog and drove by the 
 Aveather, and we was picked up six days to sea by a 
 trader bound to Liverpool. That 's all. Her name 
 was the Eose of the West — derned silly name for a 
 merchantman. She took me an' kep' me — for my 
 dory -mate was frozen, and Mm she heaved over- 
 board — till she hailed the Van Deusencock, of New 
 York city, homeward bound. And that 's about all. 
 The Van Deusencock she took me, and she got in at 
 midnight, so I took the train to Boston, for I 'd lost 
 the boat — she 'd 'a ben cheaper. Have you got a 
 piece of squash pie in the house ? I 'm hungry. 
 I 'm glad to get home." 
 
 The fisherman paused with a final air, and if left 
 to himself it is doubtful if he would have added 
 another w^ord to his story from that day to this. 
 Men of the sea are not so fond as traditionally be- 
 lieved of detailing their thrilling escapes. They 
 suffer too much, and it is comfortable to forget. 
 
 " Well — yes," reluctantly, " I said my dory-mate 
 was froze. I did n't say who he was. I 've no ob- 
 jections, as I know of ; only I hate to think of him. 
 Job Ely was my dory-mate. Yes. We was to- 
 gether to see our trawls, and we drifted off in the 
 fog — you could 'a cut it with a dull bread-knife ! —
 
 196 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 and we could n't find our way back to the Abby E. 
 Salt ; and that 's all. I hate to think on 't, because 
 he died first. 
 
 " There was a bite of ship-bread and water we 
 had aboard the dory agin accident — I like to have 
 something — so they kep' me. But it was almighty 
 cold. Don't you remember the spell o' weather 
 come along about Thanksgiving ? Well, Job Ely 
 froze. He froze to death. So I had to do the 
 rowin'. But I kep' him, for I reckoned his 
 mother 'd like to hev the body. I thought I 'd 
 make shore along some o' them desarted beaches. 
 So I kep' him, but I covered his face, and I 
 could n't make shore, and it was God A'mighty cold. 
 I rowed for six days — nigh to seven. I like to 
 died — Nelly Jane, don't take on so ! Don't, my 
 girl ! Set in my lap awhile — never mind the 
 children. Why, how you do shake and tremble"! 
 Why, look a-here ! I did n't do it. I 'm a livin' 
 man. I 've got you in these here arms. Bless the 
 girl ! Emma Eliza, what ails your marm ? Has 
 she took on this way all this while — for me ? How 
 peaked she looks and pale and sailer — kind o' 
 starved ! There, Nelly Jane ! Give me a mite o' 
 suthin' for her, can't you ? She dooz look starved. 
 Don't u'ant nothin' hit a kiss ? Here 's twenty of 
 'em ! Who ever heard of a woman bein' starved for 
 kisses ? Why, what a girl you be ! Why, this is 
 like courtin' — old married folk like us. Why, 
 sho ! I don't know but it's wutli a man's dyin' and 
 comin' to life to court his OAvn widder — this way. 
 
 '' Well, yes, I did get pretty cold. Fact is, I froze 
 my hands — froze 'em stiff. Fort'nate they friz to
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 197 
 
 the oars, so I kep' a-rowin'. Time agin I give out, 
 and like to lay down alongside poor Job and give it 
 up ; but then they was friz to the oars, so I had to 
 keep a rowin'. Cur'ous thing, now. One night, 
 that last night before I sighted the Eose of the 
 West, I was nigh about gone. You can't think how 
 sick I was o' the sight o' Job — he looked so. But 
 I could n't bear to heave him over. Well, that night 
 — I tell you the Sunday mornin' truth — I heerd 
 Kafe singin' and Emma Eliza playin' to him on the 
 instrument, and I heerd Eafe sing : — 
 
 " ' Pull for the shore, fa — ther.' 
 
 I heerd him plain as judgment, with the girl j'inin' 
 in the chorus. But I heerd Kafe quite plain and 
 loud, — 
 
 '• ' Pull for the shore, fa — ther, pull for the shore ! ' 
 
 Cur'ous, wa'n't it ? JTow 'd that hymn-tune know 
 her chart, navigatin' all them waters after me ? 
 Say ? I heerd her. She need n't tell me. I heerd 
 my little son singin' to his father — me 's good as a 
 dead man — and by the livin' God I up an' pulled ! 
 
 " What did you say, Eafe ? I don't know. My 
 hands was froze. ' Can't say what I can do for a 
 livin' with 'em till I 've tried. Have to stay ashore, 
 maybe. I hain't got so far as that. I don't mind 
 my hands., so 's I 've got my folks. 
 
 " What did I holler back the night I went away ? 
 I don' know 's I know. You mean the night me 
 and your marm had words ? I had n't oughter had 
 'em. I thought on 't a sight. I hoped she 'd forget 
 'em. I kinder thought she would, ^ So he V ? I 
 don't remember sayin' ' So he /.' I misremember,
 
 198 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 Rafe. Guess it must 'a' ben — yes, yes — sure 
 enough. 8I10 ! Yes, yes. I was a-callin' to poor 
 Job — him ahead of me, for I was late — I says, 
 ' Job Ely ! Job Ely ! ' says I." 
 
 " I never says I knew you says so, fa — ther. I 
 says, I think, I believe, he said, ' So be I.' I wanted 
 to say I knew you says so, fa — ther." 
 
 " I 'd oughter. Rate. But I'm afraid I did n't." 
 
 " Fa — ther, did you hear me say " — But Rafe 
 stopped. He could not ask his father, "Did you 
 liear me say, ' Marm says she 's sorry ' ? " The fine 
 instinct of the fisherman's child was equal to that 
 emergency. Rafe did not ask the question, and 
 never will. 
 
 <' Fa — ther," once again. Rafe came up and 
 leaned against the big wooden rocking-chair wherein 
 the two sat " courting," — the massive, puzzled, 
 tender man, the little woman, laughing and crying 
 in her widow's dress. "Fa — ther, wliat did you 
 think about, when you thought you 'd be froze and 
 drownded — all that time ? " 
 
 " My son," said Henry Salt, after a long silence, 
 which nobody, not even the baby, or the other 
 baby, seemed to care or dare to break — " my son, 
 I thought about your jwor mother. I see that latch 
 wants a screw," added the fisherman, in his leisurely, 
 matter-of-fact voice. " I guess I '11 fix it after 
 you 've warmed the pie up, Ellen Jane." 
 
 But Emma Eliza, whether from such excess of 
 earthly blessedness as to lead her to fear that one's 
 heavenly prospects might be slighted, or whether 
 from some vague sense of saying her prayers, or 
 whether solely out of respect for the instrument,
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 199 
 
 will never be known, danced madly to that melo- 
 dious member of the family, and wailed out the 
 general ecstasy in the lugubrious strains of " The 
 Sweet By-and-by." 
 
 " But I never thought of its being yow." 
 
 Helen Bitter, confronted in the entry of the big 
 empty summer hotel by that timely artist whose 
 need of models had made Eaffe the proud support of 
 a fatherless family, dashed out these words too im- 
 petuously to be recalled. 
 
 " Yoti ! and here again ! " She was dazzling with 
 snow and color. She would have drawn herself to 
 her full height splendidly, but his was higher. In 
 that gloomy place, by the light of the lonely and 
 smoky kerosene lamp swinging from the cold ceil- 
 ing, it seemed indeed as if he outvied her in splen- 
 dor. As she looked up, it was as if his mere phys- 
 ical presence would break her heart and grind it to 
 powder — it was so long since she had seen him. 
 
 Their eyes clashed, retreated, advanced, united, 
 and held gloriously. They defied each other, they 
 adored each other, taunted and blessed, challenged 
 and yielded, blamed and forgave, wounded and wor- 
 shiped, as only a few men and women may in all 
 the world, and love the better for it. The story 
 of years was told without a word ; the secret of 
 anguish was said in silence ; the torrent of joy 
 poured past dumb lips, and there by the winter sea, 
 on a Christmas Eve, in the dismal hotel entry, by 
 the light of the smoky kerosene, two souls, without 
 speech or language, met, perhaps for the first time 
 in all their lives.
 
 200 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 
 
 " I saw you through the window over there," he 
 stammered rapturously. " Oh, I saw you hokling 
 the woman in your arms, and the child came up and 
 kissed you. Why, I heard you sob. I was mean 
 enough to listen. And I said, ' Why, she 's a tender 
 tvoman. She never could have meant — She would 
 forgive.' We misunderstood each other somehow, 
 Helen. For Love's sake give me the right to find 
 out how." 
 
 " Oh," said Helen Kitter, lifting her arms with a 
 gentle and beautiful motion that might well have set 
 a calmer man beside himself, ''she told me I had 
 never quarreled with the — man I — loved." 
 
 When they moved to shut the hotel door — for 
 the snow was drifting in — and so stood for a mo- 
 ment between the storm without and the shelter 
 within, Rafe and Emma Eliza at the instrument were 
 singing shrilly, — 
 
 " Give the wind time 
 
 To blow the man home ! " 
 
 It seemed that Henry Salt had picked up another 
 verse to this long-suffering song upon the voyage, 
 for, past the bowlders, over the thickets, under the 
 willows, through the snow, borne, not drowned, by 
 the paean of the organ of the sea, thus roundly on 
 the gale his bass trolled forth : — 
 
 " Give your life time 
 
 To blow the heart home I " 
 
 " I want to sing it too," said Helen Ritter. He 
 to whom her lightest wish was dearest law drew
 
 THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. 201 
 
 her furs about her, and led her out into the storm ; 
 where, standing hand in hand, unseen, unheard, they 
 joined their voices to the fisher-people's, and sang 
 the wise, sweet words.
 
 A BRAVE DEED. 
 
 I AM a trouble man. That 's what they call it in 
 my business. 
 
 But first let me tell you. I ought to go back and 
 begin at the beginning. I ain't used to telling things 
 — only yarns to the boys. But I never set down by 
 the job, before, and made head 'n' tail of what hap- 
 pens to folks — me nor other folks. You '11 excuse 
 me, ma'am, if I don't get my hand in. I 'm a greeny 
 at it. If you had n't asked me to tell you, I would 
 n't ha' thought of it. When my wife says to me : 
 " She wants you to go and set in her setting-room, of 
 an evening, and tell her all about it," I was stmck of 
 a heap. But I could n't back out after I 'd got my 
 foot in. So here I be. I '11 tell you. I '11 tell you 
 best way I know how, I don't know 's I care much 
 about your tellin' other folks ; but I 'm not against 
 it. I have n't only one thing I 'd like to stipperlate 
 about that. Bamboozle 'em with the given name. 
 That 's all. I "d rather you would n't use my given 
 name. I ain't partikkeler on any other point as I 
 know of. I '11 leave the rest to you. I 'm willin', if 
 you are. 
 
 My name is Charles S. — call it Scattergood if you 
 like ; Charles S. Scattergood. That 's as good as 
 any, for bamboozling purposes. I knew a man once
 
 A BRAVE DEED. 203 
 
 named Scattergood. He was in hogs, out to Chicago 
 — packed pork ; he come to a violent end from mis- 
 takin' of a bottle of solfurious acid for a hot scotch : 
 that 's the way I come to remember the name. 
 
 I am a lineman in the Atlantic and Pacific Tele- 
 phone Company. I 've been on the force six years. 
 It ain't an easy life. Any lineman will tell you. 
 Ask 'em. But I have n't come to that yet. That 
 is n't the beginning. The beginning is — No ; let 
 me think. 
 
 You see there was — a girl. The beginning was 
 about a girl. I don't know but that 's the beginning 
 of bother anyhow you fix it ; seems so, don't it ? I 
 can't say. I don't know much about 'em, only this 
 one I speak about. She was my girl. The boys 
 called her my best girl, but they had n't ought to. 
 I had n't any second-best, nor any other girl but just 
 this girl. I ain't that sort. I never took to women- 
 folks that way. I was kind of shy with 'em. I 
 never cared about any girl but this. We 'd been 
 keepin' company quite a while. I think it was as 
 much as a year. We warn't promised, but I never 
 thought of anybody else, ma'am. I 'm that kind. 
 There warn't anything in the way but to wait till 
 she felt like it, herself. She knew that. She warn't 
 in a hurry to be married. I did n't want to skeer 
 her. I did n't say much to her, only to try to please 
 her. I liked her. I never liked anybody so much in 
 all my life. I could n't help it. 
 
 Her name was Annie. Call it Annie — well, call 
 it Annie Hope. That 's a pleasant-sounding name, I 
 think. Hers was pleasant, too. I used to say it over 
 a good deal to myself, while I was to work. I used
 
 204 A BE AVE DEED. 
 
 to think it kept me from getting giddy sometimes on 
 top of extry high poles and crossing roofs, and when 
 it was slippery, and in doin' of dangerous jobs, hun- 
 dreds of feet above safer men that earned their livin' 
 on the sidewalk. It steadied my head. I said it 
 over, as if you was to say, "Annie — Annie Hope," 
 while I was tracing trouble or doing any di:?zy 
 thing. 
 
 You want to know what is tracing trouble ? I '11 
 tell you presently. I '11 explain myself as I go along, 
 but I 've got to go my own ways. I 'm like a mud- 
 turtle — he'll get there, give him time enough-; but 
 lie '11 double and hedge and go like he was molly- 
 coddled out of his points of compass, all the way. 
 I 'm sort of slow in my disposition and set. I never 
 could be hurried. 
 
 There 's another one I 've got to get in first. I 
 want to be quit of explaining how he got here. I 
 want to clear my mind of Charley Scattergood be- 
 fore I go ahead. He was n't a turtle ; there was n't 
 anything slow about hhn ; he was different from 
 me : he 'd do what he d — what he pleased, anyhow 
 you fixed it, quicker 'n a fellow of my sort could find 
 out he meant to do it. He was more like a tarrier, 
 Charley was. You can understand, ma'am, that 
 there was a difference between us just from that 
 point of the way we was called. We had the same 
 name, you see — happened to. It does hapjien, but it 
 ain't so likely with the name of — Scattergood. But 
 there we was on the same force, doing the same 
 jobs, answering to the same orders, and round among 
 the same folks, so they told us apart like twins, that 
 way. Charles S. Scattergood, that 's me, always.
 
 A BE AVE DEED. 205 
 
 But him they called Charley. IS'obody ever called me 
 Charley. It did n't come natural. Charles S., that 
 was me; and Charley, that was him. Folks knew 
 us apart as well as if we'd been Moses and Yan- 
 kee Doodle. He had curly hair for one thing, and 
 I 've noticed when a fellow by the name of Charles 
 has curly hair folks call him Charley. He was a 
 very good-looking fellow. He was better looking 
 than I be. And he had a way about him, a rollick- 
 ing sort of way, for he 'd been a sailor ; a good many 
 of our business have. It comes 'em in good stead, 
 I tell you, spurring up a rotten pole after a sleet- 
 storm. The girls all took to Charley Scattergood. 
 
 Now, there 's one thing I never could see the sense 
 of, and that 's a drunken lineman. I say : Suppose 
 you 're on the roof of a seven-story building shaking 
 out a cross ? I don't drink. It ain't sense. But 
 Charley, he had his sprees ; nothin' never harmed 
 him, either. I 've seen him so far under he could n't 
 walk straight to dinner, and he 'd crawl out onto the 
 eaves to untie a twist or fasten guys or any of those 
 jobs, and not so much as topple. It was his luck. 
 The boys always said Charley Scattergood had luck. 
 Some said it was because he was such a handsome 
 fellow. But some said it was drink-luck. 
 
 Now, ma'am, his making np to my girl — that 
 comes next. I 've got to tell you about that, or you 
 wouldn't understand the story. AVhen first I see 
 him makin' up to her, I says, " That 's Charley Scat- 
 tergood's luck." But I did n't believe he 'd get her, 
 someways. I could n't. She 'd kept company with 
 me. I thought it was one of her little ways — for 
 she was full of 'em ; she was n't like me ; she had
 
 206 A BRAVE DEED. 
 
 the mischief in her, Annie had ; she was always up 
 to something ; and she liked a new man to find out 
 what a pretty girl she was — there most generally 
 was one. I was used to it. I put up with it, for she 
 kept company with me. She always made a differ- 
 ence between me and them. And I says to myself : 
 " She is so pretty ! She 'd ought to have her little 
 ways. I 'm different from she is. I 'm slow and set. 
 And then I ain't a handsome fellow. I must be pa- 
 tient with Annie." 
 
 I was pretty patient, take it all, I guess, for I 
 never riled her, nor upset her mind by jealousness 
 and nagged her. I says to myself : " She don't love 
 you hard enough, Charles S. Scattergood, for you to 
 have her. Wait. Be patient with her. She 's so 
 pretty ! Let her have her ways out, and you keep 
 still. You just wait. Don't you bother Annie." 
 
 I 'd like to tell you what she looked like them 
 days, if I knew how. She was n't like the other girls. 
 She had lots of pluck. She had a queer little way 
 with her — a sort of mannish way. She was n't man- 
 nish, not a bit. I don't like that kind. It was only 
 a sort of trick of hers, like children's tricks when 
 they play at being something. It kind of tickled 
 her to play at it, I thought. She cut her hair short, 
 but it was curly hair, of a yellow color, very light ; 
 and it wrinkled all over her head like a little girl's 
 — she could n't look like a fellow to save her. Some 
 of 'em can. I don't like that sort. Annie never 
 could. She wore a little linen collar sometimes, 
 choking up her pretty throat with a stiff necktie, but 
 her throat was so soft it made you laugh to see it. 
 Then she had a notion, one time, of running her
 
 A BBAVE DEED. 207 
 
 hands into her sack pockets ; and she 'd put her arm 
 over a sofy — that way. But you 'd have laughed — 
 it was so round ; she could n't square off at the elbow, 
 to save her. She had a dimple, too — I liked that. 
 And she had the biggest eyes you ever see ; blue 
 eyes. She was always laughing, Annie was. And 
 when I saw her put on those little ways, those man's 
 ways, I tell you of, I did n't scold her. Mebbe I 'd 
 ought to ; but I could n't, for it amused me. I used 
 to think of when I played house up-country, when I 
 was a little shaver, with some other young one, and 
 if she was a girl young one maybe she 'd say : " We '11 
 take turns. I'll play husband this time;" — as if 
 Annie was up to some such game. There was n't 
 much man in my girl. No. 
 
 !N"or she was n't that way so much to me, I 'd have 
 you understand. I see it more with other folks. 
 She was different with me. That was what I liked 
 about it. She 'd treat them other men as if she was 
 another fellow. But she kept company with me. 
 She kept company with me like she was a girl. 
 
 Now the time I speak of was this time. It Avas in 
 winter, come January, two years ago. It had been 
 a very cold winter, if j^ou remember. It was n't a 
 lineman's winter, you better believe. It come hard 
 on us. But it come toughest on the trouble men. 
 I '11 tell you about that when I get to it. We 'd had 
 a great deal of snow and blow. There 'd been a 
 power of sleet. They 'd kept me pretty busy. 
 
 Maybe it was along of being busier than usual and 
 of not seeing her quite so regular that Annie and 
 him made up so far. I thought so afterwards. Girls 
 like bein' remembered of. Lord knows I never for-
 
 208 A BRAVE DEED. 
 
 got her — used to wish I could. But there's one 
 thing I've noticed about girls. They want to be 
 told things — they're that way. There's another 
 thing : seems as if their minds was insulated on the 
 subject of business ; they don't make connections on 
 it. Seems as if they thought a man could earn his 
 bread and butter makin' love. If it come this way, 
 so 's I was on duty and he was off, he 'd run over 
 there. Then he boarded pretty nigh her. She lived 
 in East Boston. I lived in Paissell Street, myself, 
 with my married sister. She 's a widder lady, and 
 my board helped her along. He had chances against 
 me of running in by spells. Come to think of it 
 afterwards, I guess he made the most of 'em. 
 
 Now this time I tell you of I was going to take 
 her to the theaytre. She Avas very fond of the 
 theaytre, and I 'd said we 'd go first evening I could 
 fix it. So it was to be of a Wednesday or a Satur- 
 day, and if I could n't let her know — her being in 
 East Boston — I was to do the best I could, her being 
 ready to go one of them two nights quite agree- 
 able, and me to call for her. So of a Wednesday I 
 couldn't go, for my chief, he sent me out tracing 
 trouble under Charles Kiver bridge, for a wire was 
 down from the ice that bothered us considerably, and 
 I was to work late and drenched through, — and it was 
 tarnation cold, — and when I got home to Kussell 
 Street and got my supper and into dry close, and de- 
 cent to show myself to her, it was going on to nine 
 o'clock, so I had to put it off. So it come Saturday 
 night, and I got ready early, for it was a mild night 
 and pleasant, and I was in a hurry, and I hurried 
 over to East Boston, and I felt happy, the way a man
 
 A BRAVE DEED. 209 
 
 does when he 's going to his girl, for I had n't seen 
 her since Monday, and it seemed to me as if it was a 
 good while. 
 
 So when I got there to her father's house — for 
 her father is a stone-cutter in Digger and Downs's 
 marble-yard, and he does a steady business, and 
 brought her up most partikkeler, and sent her 
 through the grammar school and talked about the 
 high, and I 've nothin against him only for marrying 
 of a step-mother that Annie didn't like, I don't 
 know 's I ever blamed her, for she had the neurology 
 done up in flannel bandages of a gray color like to 
 make you wish she was n't there — when I got to 
 her father's house this night I tell you, to take my 
 girl to the iheaytve — ma'am, she would n't go with 
 me. 
 
 "I'm obliged to you," she says, "but I ain't 
 a-going. I don't feel like it." 
 
 " But I 've got the tickets," says I, for she 'd never 
 spoke like that to me before. " It 's the play you said 
 — it 's the ' Pearl of the Necktie Factory.' " For she 
 had a shine to see the " Pearl of the Necktie Fac- 
 tory ; " it had run a hundred nights ; she 'd talked 
 about it a sight, and so I 'd got the tickets. I give a 
 dollar for them two tickets. 
 
 " Vfhj, what 's the matter, Annie ? " says I, for 
 she did n't say much to me. " What ails you, dear ? " 
 
 She was setting on the sofa in her father's setting- 
 room, for her step-mother was scolding of the baby 
 in the front chamber, and we was by ourselves. 
 
 So she turned her pretty head and looked at me, 
 and then she looks away. Seems as if she did and 
 did n't. Seems as if she would and would n't. Seems
 
 210 A BRAVE DEED. 
 
 as if she should and should n't — the way a woman 
 does. 
 
 *' You did n't come a Wednesday," so she says to 
 me. 
 
 " I could n't come on Wednesday," says I to her. 
 " I done my best. You 'd ought to know it. I was 
 clearing trouble under Charles Kiver bridge. I done 
 the best I could." 
 
 " AVell," she says, " 1 7vent o' Wednesday. I 've seen 
 the play. I 've seen the ' Pearl of the Xecktie Fac- 
 tory/ and I don't know 's I care to see it again," she 
 says. " You could have come if you 'd tried hard," 
 she says. " A smart fellow like you are (she did call 
 me a smart fellow, don't you see ?), he can do a thing 
 if he set out to." 
 
 " There 's one thing," says I very slow, for I was 
 that cut, " there 's one thing the smartest man can't 
 do ; he can't make a girl reasonable, if she won't 
 be." 
 
 " If it 's so bad as that," says she, " I would n't 
 waste your vallyable time setting here. Maybe you 
 can spend it better," says she, " and so can I, sir." 
 
 And up she gets and leaves the sofy, and off she 
 goes upstairs. 
 
 " You '11 be so polite as to excuse me," she says ; 
 " my step-mother desires me to scold the baby for 
 her this evening, on account of her neurology having 
 struck to her brains." 
 
 " You went to the theaytre with Charley Scatter- 
 good ! " cries I ; like that. 
 
 " I ain't that bound to you not to go with who I 
 please," she says, " nor I won't be in a hurry nei- 
 ther."
 
 A BRAVE DEED. 211 
 
 Ma'am, they seem little things to get between a 
 man and the girl he liked. Don't think they ever 
 did seem so small as they do now I come to tell 'em. 
 If it had been a big thing, I 'd have known what to 
 do with it — something like a runaway horse, or an 
 avalanche, or a fellow I could have hit, or something 
 like that. But it was n't nothing but that little 
 thing — the way a girl's mind worked. I 'm a big 
 fellow, you see ; but all my muscle was n't good 
 for that ! against that strange, small, pretty creature 
 in the working of her mind. I could have carried 
 her in these here arms from Boston to San Francisco ; 
 I could have climbed to the top of a seventy-five foot 
 telegraph pole with her and held her there in a thun- 
 der-storm — but there I set like a baby on the sofy, 
 beaten by the working of her mind. 
 
 I got my hat and left. There was n't nothing 
 else to do. I got my hat and cleared out into the 
 street, and there I walked and walked. I was rasrinsr 
 mad. *I was mortal hurt. I went from mad to hurt 
 and back again from hurt to mad, like I should die 
 for it. I 'm a slow man in my temper, but when it 's 
 up, I take it out ; same way with my feelin's — she 'd 
 hiD't my feelin's. She never hurt me that way till 
 that time. I did n't know she could. She had her 
 little tantrums and little ways with me ; but she 
 never got my feelin's like they was that night. 
 
 Now, I '11 tell you. Whilst I was walking up and 
 down outside and raging to myself, I saw a man come 
 up and ring her door-bell. He come quite sudden to 
 my sight, for there was a street-light opposite her 
 door, and he come flash ! beneath it all to once. He 
 was rigged up in all his Sunday close, and he had
 
 212 A BRAVE DEED. 
 
 blarsted curly hair, and he was a handsome fellow, 
 and I did n't need no spiritooal mejum to tell me it 
 was Charley Scattergood. Worse take him ! 
 
 She come to the door herself. She did. She 
 was n't taking care of no step-baby. She had her 
 things on, and her little hat set sidewise on her short 
 hair, and she wore a little green gown, she had, 
 her Sunday gown with fixin's on it made of fur or 
 feathers, and there she stands, for she seemed to be 
 going somewheres, and I heard him say : — 
 
 " Hilloa, Nan ! " — for he did, he called her Nan. 
 But / had always called her Annie. She never put 
 her hat on the side of her head for me. She never 
 stood that wa}^, with her hand against her — that 
 silly little boyish way — with me. She 'd been all 
 girl to me. But she says : — 
 
 " Hilloa, Charley ! " just as if she 'd been another 
 fellow : and she laughs and nods at him ; and for all 
 it was so silly, she looked so pretty, and her dimple 
 looked so, standing there, I could have killed him. 
 
 But, ma'am, when she come to shut the door, and 
 he went in and I see him in the front entry against 
 the entry light, I saw him reelin' in beside her ; and 
 I said : "He 's drunk." 
 
 Well. She did n't go anywhere with him, for I 
 watched to see ; maybe she had the sense to make 
 out his condition ; maybe her father would n't let 
 her, — for I knew her father was to home and would 
 look after her, — and so I come away. 
 
 I come away, and home I come acrost the ferry, 
 and I looked up at the stars, for it was such a pleas- 
 ant night, and I 'd been so happy coming over — 
 and I went from hurt to mad, and I went from mad
 
 A BE AVE DEED. 213 
 
 to mad, and then I went from mad to terror — lest 
 he should get her after all. And I cursed him, for I 
 could have killed him. I cursed him on that ferry, 
 all the way. I seemed to say to him : — 
 
 " Charley Scattergood, you 've got my girl. She 
 ain't your girl. She 's mine. You ain't fit to have 
 her. Let her be ! I '11 fling you overboard. Let us 
 be!" 
 
 For it seemed as if he was on deck beside me, and 
 I felt about in the dark as if I 'd got him. And I 
 flung my arms across the railing as if it was I flung 
 him over. And I looked down as if I see him going 
 under. And I watched the paddle-wheel as if it 
 dra-awed him in. Bat I cursed him, for I hated 
 him. 
 
 I think I had a sort of fever in my brain, for I 
 never wanted to kill a creature before in all my days. 
 If it was a kitten or a yellow pup, or if it was an old 
 hen, I did n't like to do it. But, ma'am, I could 
 have wrung his neck, or I could have stomped on 
 him, or if I 'd seen him under a locomotive injine I 
 would n't have cared. I hated Charley Scattergood. 
 I wanted him to die. I went from mad to murder in 
 my heart, upon the ferry-boat, so help me God. 
 
 Ma'am, where do you think them things come 
 from, plumb ! into a man's soul ? If he was a steady 
 man and tried to do his dooty, and liked his fellow- 
 creatures, and had gentle thoughts like other folks 
 and never wished no harm to no man. Seems as if it 
 was a brain fever — when you love a girl. Seems as 
 if you was a mad man — if it is a girl. Seems as if 
 it ain't you that love her : it 's a devil or an angel 
 loves her ; and he angels you or devils you, and there 
 vou be !
 
 214 A BRAVE DEED. 
 
 Well. He was n't on tlie ferry-boat. He was set- 
 ting there beside of her in her father's setting-room. 
 Drunk. And calling of her Xan. 
 
 So I did n't murder him, for it was n't hand}^ ; and 
 I went home, for my sister that was a widder lady 
 made me some catnip tea and I give it to the cat, and 
 so I went to bed, and went to sleep. But I give the 
 theotytre tickets to a horse-car driver that I was ac- 
 quainted with that had a girl that squinted. It 
 seemed a pity to waste 'em. 
 
 Now that night there come a storm. It was a 
 sleet-storm. I '11 tell you about it. It sleeted like 
 the Evil all that night, and come morning, if you 
 was to look out, it was like looking on a world of ice 
 that made yoa think of a creature frozen dead ; like 
 it was the corpse of a world. It was the worst sleet- 
 storm we had that winter, for I had a reason to re- 
 member. 
 
 I said I 'd tell you what a trouble man is. He 's 
 one of them detailed to pick out trouble — that 's the 
 way the name come to be given to us. The telephone 
 business is a mighty accidental business ; something 
 happens all the time. First you know your lines 
 won't work. Maybe you sent a message and it 
 sticks somewheres. It 's the trouble men that have 
 to find out wheres. They keep us for that purpose. 
 That 's our job. It ain't an easy job. Wheresom- 
 ever and hovvsomever that line 's out of kilter, from 
 Boston to California, that 's our business to find out. 
 Maybe it's broke by wind; maybe it give way under 
 the ice ; or it 's beaten down by snow ; or it 's struck 
 by lightning ; or it 's crossed somewheres by some- 
 body else's accident, — some telegraph company's
 
 A BRAVE DEED. 215 
 
 had bad luck and tied you up ; or it' s got catched be- 
 neath a bridge, for we have to work under water as 
 well as over air ; and you would n't believe it of a 
 telephone wire, how it can snarl if it sets out. 
 There 's nothing equals the snarling power of a tele- 
 phone wire as I know of unless it 's a woman with 
 the neurology. Seems as if them wires were so many 
 men-folks trying to crochet ; they don't take the 
 reg'lar stitch, but they use up a lot of yarn in mak- 
 ing of the most extra-ordinary pattern. They're 
 pretty stiff, and they slash about a good deal in wind 
 and water. 
 
 Did you ever happen to think, ma'am, of a slip- 
 pery winter morning, what it would be like if you 
 was in our business ? There 's more business goes 
 on over your heads these days than there is upon the 
 ground below. I don't think folks do think much 
 about it. There 's a sight of pity goes to sailors and 
 such-like and firemen and those, and I 'm not denying 
 they deserve it. But our business ain't so well un- 
 derstood in folks' mind to feel a sympathy for line- 
 men. Sometimes seems to me we have a call for it, 
 ourselves, for it ain't a very safe business. It ain't 
 so much pluck — though it does take pluck — but 
 pluck ain't anything to complain of. 
 
 Now, come a morning after such a storm as this I 
 speak about. There 's ice everywhere. Your steps 
 are slippery. All the sidewalks are covered by ashes 
 for peril of your bones. Horses go down in the 
 street. The tops of the fences and the door-knobs 
 and all sorts of little things are sleeted over. -The 
 trees have crusted up like they 'd got into a bathing 
 suit of ice from toe to top. The roof — well folks
 
 216 A BRAVE DEED. 
 
 don't think about roofs. Thei/ are all of a glare. 
 That 's the kind of weather folks stay indoors, if so 
 be they can. Women huddle round the register and 
 say : " I guess I won't go out to-day." Men go to 
 their business in the horse-cars, and talk about how 
 slippery it is. In the evening paper there 's the ac- 
 cidental column — full of how such a one slipped on 
 the pavement and how his leg was broken, or his 
 back was hurt. 
 
 Way down below us whilst we are at work we see 
 folks putting saw-dust on level places and holding on 
 to something whilst they go by. They look kind of 
 small as we look down, like creatures that grow on 
 something. Maybe we 're out on the eaves crawling 
 along toward the eaves-trough to get a wire that got 
 down acrost a water-spout ; or maybe we 're droppin' 
 from one roof to t' other, or we 're holding on to a 
 chimney, or there 's a pole to climb beyond 'em all — 
 a roof-pole you must climb, and you put your spurs 
 in and go up clinging to that pole, to guy a wire 
 over or to untwist some trouble, and slippery — by 
 gracious ! Slippery don't tell it. It 's all glared 
 over — roof, pole, eaves, wires, pins and insulators, 
 the skylights you go out of, the slates you crawl 
 acrost, the lire-escape you hang onto — and you feel 
 the ice melting underneath your fingers, for your 
 hands get numb. Then the wind — Lord ! how the 
 wind blows from the nor'ard after a sleet-storm, on a 
 seven-story roof ! 
 
 That 's the weather when a lineman has to work. 
 Come a day when it ain't safe to put foot acrost your 
 door-sill on the solid earth, that 's the very day the 
 linemen have to crawl like kids and cats hundreds of
 
 A BBAVE DEED. 217 
 
 feet above you in the air, balancing and holding of 
 themselves for life's sake and the sake of your tele- 
 phone message against they slip and go. If he was 
 to make one misstep he 'd be to pieces on the pave- 
 ment before you could say : " There 's a lineman ! " 
 There 's no hope for you if once you slip. If you 
 ain't a dead man, you 're worse. Your back 's broke 
 or it 's laid you up for life. Lucky for you if you 
 knocked your brains out and done with. Your 
 widder'll get on better than if she got a cripple to 
 support, her and him and the children too. 
 
 Now this day I tell you of, this sleety day, I woke, 
 for I was miserable in my mind, and I reported to 
 headquarters for any orders for the day. It was a 
 terrible slippery day. But I thought maybe it did n't 
 irai'.ter, for I was so miserable along of Annie and 
 him that had got my girl away from me. I hated 
 him. I had hated him over night and I hated, him 
 come morning, and I hate — hate — hated him as I 
 walked along, that way, as you'd march to music. 
 My hate and me kept step because of him and Annie. 
 
 Now this is the way we do it. They send us out 
 according to the job, and if there 's four or five of us, 
 we 're what you call a crew. If there 's a good many 
 needed for any purpose, you 'd say we were a force. 
 But a trouble man he may go alone ; he may be by 
 himself, it might so happen to him to be mending 
 trouble somewheres by himself. You might be a 
 trouble man and you might see a lot of poles blowed 
 down, — for when one goes sometimes the rest go 
 like as they Avere cards set up, — and you might go 
 and notify the chief, and he 'd send a force to mend 
 the trouble, but you he might send maybe to some
 
 218 A BRAVE DEED. 
 
 point apart, to set some mischief right you'd set 
 your eye on. Maybe you 'd go to a pole to guy it 
 over — that 's to fasten it over to another pole — to 
 keep it steady and to mend the break, and to stop 
 the rest from going, and maybe you might be up to 
 top of this pole by yourself alone, and it might be it 
 was a high pole, don't you see ? and there you are. 
 
 Now then, this day I speak. of, I was ordered to 
 the South End, for there 'd been the havoc to pay up 
 along there in the region of the city hospital, where 
 those high poles are — we've got some beautiful 
 poles at the South End. So my chief he sent me to 
 pick out trouble way out towards Koxbury, for the 
 wires were down along of the sleet -storm and we 
 were pretty busy — and all at once, for I was going 
 by, I see a horse-car driver stop his car and point 
 his whip upwards over yonder behind me, and I 
 turned and looked. And then I see folks staring and 
 two or three they stopped, and we all looked up. 
 
 And then I see a sight I never saw before nor I 
 don't know 's I 'd care to see it every January morn- 
 ing neither. 
 
 It was a very high pole. I knew that pole. I 'd 
 been up it, time again. It was an eighty-foot pole. 
 It was all glared over with the ice, and it shook 
 against the wind. The wires were down. 
 
 TJ-p at the top of that there pole there was a man. 
 I 'd ought to say there htinf/ a man, for quick as I 
 set eyes on him I knew it was all up with that man. 
 It was a trouble man gone up to guy the pole over, 
 and he 'd gone alone, for nobody was with him only 
 the force to work to the north'ards, where the other 
 poles had all gone down.
 
 A BRAVE DEED. 219 
 
 My heart come into my mouth when I saw that 
 man, and my marrow froze within me, for when I 
 looked, I saw him fling his arms — that way — and 
 topple. When I saw him, for he fell for'ards on his 
 face against the cross-arms of the poles, both arms 
 about it, and kind of come together like a jack-knife 
 — so — and there he hung, as helpless and as sense- 
 less as the buried dead, him eighty feet above the 
 ground. 
 
 " He 's dead ! " cries the horse-car driver. But the 
 conductor said : — 
 
 " He 's drunk ! " 
 
 " He 's in a faint ! " cries somebody. 
 
 " He 's in a fit ! " says some one. 
 
 " He 's got the cramp ! " I heard a fellow say. 
 
 " He 's froze with the weather ! " says a woman 
 going by. 
 
 " God have mercy on him ! " says they all. 
 
 " He '11 drop — he '11 drop in a minute " — 
 
 " There ! " says they. " Oh, look at him." 
 
 II. 
 
 I made short work of it, pushing everybody by, 
 for I ran, and it was slippery, and it took me longer 
 than it would of a different day, but no man, unless it 
 was a lineman, could have got there so quick for be- 
 ing practiced at it, and I ran and I looked up and 
 when I looked up — ma'am, I went as cold as the ice 
 beneath me, and then I turned from cold to hot and 
 then I went from hot to horror, for the sight I saw. 
 
 Ma'am, it was him I saw — it was Charley Scatter- 
 good.
 
 220 A BRAVE DEED. 
 
 It was him atop of that there pole, hanging sense- 
 less eighty foot above my head, across the cross- 
 arms. It was him I hate — hate — hated from my 
 soul. It was him that sent me on from mad to mur- 
 der when I thought of him. It was him I could 
 have stomped on or see beneath an injine or flung 
 over the ferry-boat and get beneath the paddle- 
 wheel. It was him. It was him that took my girl 
 away from me. 
 
 Kow I'll have to explain to you. I '11 have to 
 explain to you about that guy. You could n't un- 
 derstand the nature of my feelings unless you under- 
 stood the situation of that pole and guy. 
 
 You see it 's this way. You 've got a line of poles 
 — there — see? And you've got another connec- 
 tion — there. Maybe you guy over to a roof or to 
 another row — so. 
 
 And if your guy breaks, your poles might begin to 
 go the way I told you, like a row of nine-pins from 
 the storm. And they 've all gone down, we '11 say, 
 like these had, five or six of 'em, in the gale, it 
 blowed so, and this one, it 's made a stand. This 
 one stood its ground and there it is, all them broken 
 wires dangling and groaning in the ice and wind, 
 and a trouble man he 's sent up to guy it over to this 
 roof or to this other pole I tell you of, to make it fast 
 and stop the rest from going. Maybe he guys it over 
 to a stump — that 's what we call a broken pole — 
 and he has the wires to tie, and he has his strap-and- 
 vice to join 'em with, and his pliers to twist 'em with, 
 and his spurs upon his legs — and that 's all he has 
 except his pluck and the ice-storm. 
 
 So I see in a minute Charley Scattergood had been
 
 A BRAVE DEED. 221 
 
 up to guy that pole over, and I see it was n't done — 
 it was n't guyed over — when he was taken with 
 whatever took him ; for I saw the pole shook con- 
 sider'ble and that the wires hung flabby, and, ma'am, 
 I saw another' thing. I saw the pole was a cracked 
 pole. They are sometimes. 
 
 Now it takes me a great while to tell you these 
 here things because I ain't an educated man, but it 
 did n't take me long enough to think 'em — not so 
 long as if you was to say : " Charley Scattergood ! " 
 If I was an educated man I could explain to you 
 the nature of my feelings. You've got learning 
 yourself, and maybe you can understand 'em without 
 I was to tell 'em — maybe that 's what learning does 
 for folks. I don't know. 
 
 But, ma'am, though they did n't take time they 
 took my mortal life — the feelings that I had. It 
 seemed as if I'd die of 'em before it all went 
 through my mind : — 
 
 " That 's him. That 's Charley Scattergood. He 
 took your girl away from you. He's a miserable 
 drinkin' cuss. He '11 drop. You ain't nothing to do 
 with it. 
 
 " Those other linemen are too far off. He '11 drop 
 before they get here. Nor they would n't go up. I 
 don't know a feller on that crew would go up. It 's 
 a cracked pole. . . . You did n't do it. It ain't your 
 work. You did n't hang Charley Scattergood eighty 
 foot above the ground, him senseless on a cross-arm. 
 You ain't got to do nothing but let him be. It 's 
 God A'mighty's- business." 
 
 Now when I got so far as God A'mighty, it did 
 seem as if the feelings that I had would kill me. It
 
 222 A BRAVE DEED. 
 
 seemed like I 'd die before he would. It seemed like 
 I 'd be tore in twenty. Seems as if the Last Trum- 
 pet and the Day of Judgment and the Great White 
 Throne, and all them things we read about in the 
 Good Book, you know, kind of got together in a 
 crew and made a dead set at me. Seems as if they 
 said : — 
 
 " Go up ! Go up ! Go up ! " 
 
 Then it seems as if I ansAvered : — 
 
 " Don't you do it ! Stay where you be ! " 
 
 And then it come : — 
 
 " Go up ! Go up ! " 
 
 And then I says : — 
 
 " It ain't my business. It 's God A'mighty's." 
 
 And then : — 
 
 "It ain't God A'mighty's. It's your business. 
 Go up ! Go up ! " 
 
 And then it comes to me this way, crash ! like a 
 charge of electricity in a thunder-shower : — 
 
 " As layln' betiveen God Almighty and Charles S, 
 Scattergood, ivhich is the lineman of them two ? 
 Him that is the lineman, it 's his dooty to climb that 
 poleP 
 
 Ma'am, we 're taught to do our dooty in our busi- 
 ness and obey our orders, and once it was clear to me 
 in that minute — for all this only took no time at all 
 to go through me — once it was plain to me I 'd got 
 my order and I 'd got it from the Chief — from 
 t' other Chief that sends a sleet-storm and blows a 
 gale easy as ours would set in his office and send a 
 message out acrost a wire — once I understood it was 
 my dooty, I say no more about it. I set my spurs 
 into that pole and I went up. . . .
 
 A BE AVE DEED. 223 
 
 A brave deed you say ? Well. I don't know. It 
 did n't strike me so. It was my dooty. That was 
 all about it. I did n't think about it pertikkelerly. 
 I 'd got my orders. 
 
 So I went up, for it all took quick as I could think 
 it. And I did the best I could. That 's all. It was 
 pretty slippery. Yes. And I knew the pole was n't 
 sound. Yes. And he 'd taken my girl away from 
 me. Yes. But there wasn't anything said about 
 that in the order. So I went. 
 
 Now it 's this way. You know what a cross-arm 
 is. You 've seen 'em on the telephone poles, and the 
 telegraph. They run acrost the top and hold the 
 oak pins and the insulators. Each cross-arm might 
 have ten pins to screw the insulators on. There 
 may be one or two, there may be six or more of these 
 cross-arms. This pole it was a tall pole and in the 
 thick of business — there might be maybe eighty to 
 a hundred wires on such a pole — and it had eight 
 cross-arms, and Charley Scattergood he hung acrost 
 the highest of 'em all, the top one, doubled over — 
 that way. I couldn't help thinking as I went up 
 how like a rag doll he looked hanging acrost a close- 
 horse — for it was so high and he looked small. 
 
 I stuck my spurs in hard, for it was slippery as 
 death, and from the excitement and from knowing 
 that the pole was n't sound it seemed as if I could n't 
 make a footing, and I thought of Annie, for I loved 
 her, and I felt bad to think if so we both come crash- 
 ing down, she 'd feel worse to think it was Charley 
 Scattergood than she Avould for thinking it was me. 
 
 But I said, for I felt a little giddy and it blew so, 
 as I went up, I said : —
 
 224 A BRAVE DEED. 
 
 " Annie, Annie Hope," just as I 've always said to 
 keep a steady head. 
 
 Heaven bless her dear name, ma'am, whether it 
 steadied me as it always had, I don't know as I can 
 prove to you, not being an educated man — but I felt 
 steadier for saying of it, and for feeling of the feel- 
 ing that made me say it, 
 
 " Annie. Dear Annie. Annie Hope," — for the 
 loving feeling that I had to her, and it was like as 
 if my love turned into nerve, ma'am, while I went 
 up, and turned into firm muscles and into a cool 
 brain and into all those things a lineman needs if 
 he 's got a deed like that to do to save a fellow-cree- 
 tur's life, or maybe give his own. And it Avas like 
 as if the love I had turned out the hate I had. And 
 all my soul went up, as my body was going up that 
 pole. It was as if I left my deadly feelings down 
 below upon the ground, and I went from murder up 
 to mercy as I climbed to-ward the sky upon the pole. 
 
 Now this is the holy truth. I 'd never been so 
 keen to hurt him as I was to save him before I got 
 to him. I 'd never wished him half such curses as I 
 prayed Heaven I might do him blessin's and get him 
 down a living man. And I says to myself : — 
 
 " If we topple and go down together I won't re- 
 port at Headquarters for a murderer. Lord Chief 
 A'mighty may He forgive me, but He sha'n't catch 
 me there ! " 
 
 So it blew pretty hard, and I got up. And every- 
 thing was covered with ice. And my spurs slipped. 
 And my hands got pretty numb. But I got up. And 
 I catched hold of him and I felt the pole quiver, and 
 I held on to him and there he was.
 
 A BRAVE DEED. 225 
 
 He 'd had a fit. The feller 'd had a fit. And there 
 he hiing acrost the upper cross-arms with no more 
 knowledge than the dead. And I looked at him. 
 But I 'd left my hate eighty foot below us, and it was 
 as if I liked him, for I wanted so to save him, and I 
 looked to see what I could do, for he showed some 
 signs of coming to. 
 
 So I says : — 
 
 " Charley Scattergood, for the love of God, don't 
 you stir. Stay where you be till I tie you on." 
 
 Now I had my pliers with me in my belt in the 
 sort of pocket where we carry 'em, and I see the 
 broken wires, hanging round, and I remembered that 
 I had some wire with me, a roll I 'd had to do some 
 guying with. So I took that wire, for it was strong- 
 est, and I twisted it around him, and I fastened him 
 tight with my pliers, and I twisted the other wires 
 around him, and I tied him tight, and then I looked 
 to see what next. 
 
 I wanted to guy that pole over, for it might have 
 saved us, and I tried, but do my best I could n't do it, 
 him being in my way, and the pole so shaky, and I 
 see I couldn't, and then I drawed my breath and 
 looked below. 
 
 I don't think it had come over me till that min- 
 ute what a fix it was. But when I looked down I 
 saw the people, for they 'd come from everywheres, 
 and there was quite a crowd, and I saw the linemen 
 that had run up from the nearest crew, and I see 
 they were all discussing of my situation. And they 
 tried to advise me this and that, for I could see 
 'em holler, but the wind blew so I could n't make out 
 a word. And all at once it come to me ; —
 
 226 A BRAVE DEED. 
 
 " How in God's name are you going to get him 
 down ? " 
 
 " Anybody got a rope ? " cried I. 
 
 But nobody could hear me, and I tried again. 
 
 " Anybody happen to have any more wire about 
 him ? " 
 
 And one of the trouble men he understood me, and 
 he sort of beckoned to me, and held up both arms, and 
 I see he had a coil of wire and a coil of rope betwixt 
 his two hands, and I see there was n't any other way, 
 and so I went down the pole. I went some fifty foot 
 or so, for it was slow work, and I looked every min- 
 ute to come dashing down. So some of 'em climbed 
 on something, a cart or something, and got one on 
 t' other's shoulders, for no man dared to add an ounce 
 weight extry to that splitting pole with us two on it 
 
 — and they flung me up the wire and the ropes, and 
 so I caught 'em and took 'em, and climbed up again. 
 
 Yes. I went aloft again. I did n't see no other 
 way. I could n't leave him there, you see. Plucky ? 
 
 — I don't know. It was my dooty. I tried to do it. 
 That 's all there was to it. It is n't much to tell of, 
 come to tell it. 
 
 So I went up and I untied him, and I got the rope 
 about him, and I plied the wire to it, till I had the 
 length to risk it — but the wind blew pretty hard, 
 and Lord ! how that pole did begin to shake. 
 
 Well, he come to a little, not so 's to help himself, 
 but enough so 's not to hender me, and I said -. — 
 
 " Charley, you 're took with something, and I 've 
 got to swing you down, for the pole 's rotten. If you 
 valiy your life — or mine either — don't you darst 
 to do nothing, but do as I tell you." For I knew if
 
 A BRAVE DEED. 227 
 
 he was to wrastle or even to wriggle, it would be all 
 up with both of us. 
 
 So T think he sensed it, for he seemed to, and I 
 made him fast, and I began to lower of him down 
 ahead of me, me descending above him best I could, 
 and he hung quite still, and behaved extra-ordinarily 
 well, for a fitty man. My idea was, if I found we 
 was going, I 'd play out the whole of the cable fast, 
 and some of 'em would catch him before the pole 
 went down. 
 
 Well, I did it. I don't know 's I know exactly 
 how. But I got the feller down. I got him doAvn as 
 far as thirty foot or so above the ground, when all at 
 once I felt it coming. 
 
 That there pole begun to swing this way and that 
 way, — the way a tree will when it 's going to fall — 
 this way and t' other way, — and I' knew it was com- 
 ing — and I cries out : — 
 
 " There he goes ! I can't do nothing more for him ! 
 Catch him some of ye ! " and I played his rope out, 
 and I let him go, and he come down gentle as a sick 
 man that had a little fall upon the floor — and then 
 I heard the s-s-crash / go through the grain of that 
 pine pole — and jumped for my life, and me and it 
 come down together. 
 
 It don't seem much to tell, now, does it ? That 's 
 all there is of it. It makes me kind of ashamed to 
 tell it — as if there was something to tell. 
 
 Why, yes — if you want to know what happened to 
 me — next thing I knew I did n't know anything, by 
 gracious. I come crashing on my head, folks said, 
 and they picked me up, and says : — 
 
 " He 's dead."
 
 228 A BRAVE DEED. 
 
 But Charley Scattergood, a policeman took liim to 
 the hospital ; and when he got well he give up being 
 a Boston lineman, and he went to — No, ma'am, 
 I 'ra not wishing to be profane in a lady's house. 
 He went to New York city. 
 
 So next I knew I opened my eyes one day and I 
 see my sister that was the widder lady coming in 
 the door. And she says : — 
 
 " Mercy, Charles, you 've come to, hain't you ? " 
 And I saw I was to home, and I felt quite smart only 
 for the bandage on my head and for being as weak 
 as a drownded puppy beneath the bed-close. And 
 my sister says : — 
 
 " There 's a young lady in the setting-room, come 
 to inquire after your health," she says. " She 's got 
 a green dress trimmed with feather trimming," says 
 my sister. 
 
 " Tell her I 'm much obliged to her," says I, " and 
 that I take it for an honor." 
 
 So my sister goes and tells her, and in she comes 
 again. 
 
 " The young lady 's crying," says my sister. 
 
 " Dear, dear," says I. 
 
 " And she says to ask you if you 're willing for to 
 see her a minute, me setting in the room beside of 
 her," my sister says. 
 
 And I says : — 
 
 " For a minute or forever — she knows that will- 
 ing ain't the word," says I. 
 
 So back my sister goes, and in they come, her and 
 Annie close behind her. And my sister says : — 
 
 " This is the young lady." 
 
 And I says : —
 
 A BRAVE DEED. 229 
 
 " I 'd a ben shaved if I 'd known you was coming, 
 my dear." 
 
 And my sister says : — 
 
 " I '11 go and see the barber about it this minute. 
 I '11 have him come over after dinner, if the young 
 lady will excuse me half a second." 
 
 I took it very kind of my sister, for Annie 
 could n't speak, she cried so — she could n't speak a 
 word. And when we was alone together, I looked 
 up, for I felt pretty weak, and I could have cried 
 myself to see my dear girl how she looked, for she 
 was pale and miserable to see. 
 
 " I hain't slept day nor night since I heard of it," 
 sobs she. " I like to died myself," says she. 
 
 And I says : — 
 
 " Why, Annie ! " 
 
 " Oh, do7i't ! " says she. 
 
 And I says : — 
 
 " Crying for me, Annie ? — Crying so for me ? " 
 
 '*0h, dear," she says. "Oh, dear, dear, dear! 
 I 'm ashamed of myself," she says. 
 
 "I never called upon a gentleman before," she 
 says, " but if I did n't know you would forgive me I 
 should die ! " she says. " I hope you Avon't think 
 the worse of me for coming. I ain't a forward girl," 
 she says. 
 
 So I held out my hand to her, for I could n't an- 
 swer her. I could n't someways. I took it so, that 
 she could cry like that for me. And she put hers 
 into it as if it had been a little bird she gave me, 
 and she stopped crying, and she says : — 
 
 "I never thought you'd make me ask you !" 
 
 And I says : —
 
 230 A BRAVE DEED. 
 
 " What in God's name do you mean, my dear ? 
 For I ain't very strong. Don't make game of me." 
 
 And she lifted up her pretty face that was all girl 
 to me — her dear face that had the dimple on it, and 
 the tears — 
 
 And it seemed as if she did and did n't ; it seemed 
 as if she would and would n't ; it seemed as if she 
 should and should n't — the way a woman does. 
 But she said : — 
 
 " If you '11 haxje me, I '11 marry you to-morrow." 
 
 " Don't fool me, dear," I said. And she said : — 
 
 " No, I won't fool you. I won't marry you to- 
 morrow. I '11 marry you to-day, so 's I can take 
 care of you and not lose a minute, and nobody to 
 hinder." 
 
 And Heaven bless her — so she did. 
 
 Come now ! I see just what you 're thinking in 
 your mind. I see it very plain. Did n't she prove 
 half plague, half comfort — half lovin', half teasin' 
 — half flirtin', half coaxin' — that kind ? 
 
 Ma'am, you are mistaken. Since my girl become 
 my wife, she 's been all wife to me.
 
 THE SACRIFICE OF ANTIGONE. 
 
 Professor Kosmos, ex-professor of classic and 
 modern. Greek at the leading university of the coun- 
 try, hurried into the restaurant and sat down at his 
 usual table. Professor Kosmos was probably the 
 only man in the land who had been forced to aban- 
 don a professorship for a property. His inheritance 
 was large and unexpected ; and the cutting of cou- 
 pons and the pursuance of an unsalaried Greek en- 
 thusiasm now occupied his life. His long-looked-for 
 volume on " Diogenes in His Tub " was in press for 
 the fall market. The Professor was now at leisure 
 to concentrate his whole nature upon the revival of 
 ancient Greek oratory in Yankee schools. 
 
 Thurston's restaurant was well known about 
 town. There lunched the busy brokers and capital- 
 ists of the city ; and there the literary millionaire, 
 being a phenomenon, was well known. 
 
 The ProfessQi glanced over the bill of fare with 
 a dissatisfied expression, as he balanced his book 
 against the sugar-bowl. The Professor always car- 
 ried a book (and Greek at that). Nothing suited his 
 scholarly taste that noon. 
 
 AVith an Athenian sigh he called for olives — and 
 the waitress added crackers on her own responsibil- 
 ity. She had waited on the Professor before. 
 
 If the Professor had possessed the human rather
 
 232 THE SACRIFICE OF ANTIGONE. 
 
 than the Hellenic temperament he would have stud- 
 ied that waitress sympathetically long before now. 
 As it was he liked her unconsciously. She was so 
 modest, she was so quiet — in short, she was so un- 
 like the usual young lady who banged (in every 
 sense) her way to a man's palate, that not to feel 
 her presence pleasantly was impossible. 
 
 Now the thing which the customer had not no- 
 ticed until to-day was the pallor of the waitress ; 
 the pallor of poverty and hardship, — a color star- 
 tling, as the girl stood in the strong light balancing 
 on her slender hands a hea\'y trayful of roast and 
 salad china from the next table, where four men had 
 just expensively dined. 
 
 " Come here ! " The Professor beckoned ; he did 
 not like to snap his fingers at this girl ; he did not 
 like to call her Polly or Molly — in fact, he did not 
 know her name. The girl answered his summons 
 quickly and quietly. 
 
 " You look ready to drop," said the Professor, in 
 a savage undertone. 
 
 " I am — a little — faint," said the girl ; " but it 
 is n't any matter ; I often am." 
 
 " That waiter is heavy enough for an Irishman ! " 
 growled the Professor. "You're^ not Irish, are 
 you ? " he proceeded, with the want of tact not un- 
 common with scholars. 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 The girl dropped her eyes and flushed brightly ; 
 but a twitch of amusement tugged at the corners of 
 her sad and delicate mouth. 
 
 " Give me that thing — all those dishes — food 
 enough for Xenophon's army. There ! "
 
 THE SACRIFICE OF ANTIGONE. 233 
 
 Before the astonished waitress could protest, the 
 big Professor had seized the heavy tray and stalked 
 across the dining-room with it ; his waving black 
 beard blew in the draught from the dumb waiter, as 
 he deposited his burden haughtily, and returned 
 with long, lean strides to his own table, as uncon- 
 scious that the eyes of all Thurston's were upon 
 him as Xenophon himself. 
 
 " It 's too heavy for you," he said shortly. " Kow 
 get me a cup of that tea I like, and my slice of 
 lemon, please." 
 
 The girl, scarlet and distressed, flew to obey his 
 order. When she returned, with the steaming, fra- 
 grant Pekoe, and had put in his two lumps with the 
 little plated sugar-tongs which trembled in her shak- 
 ing fingers, she said, in a low voice : " Professor 
 Kosmos ? " The Professor laid down his book in 
 which he had been absorbed during the tea interval. 
 " I thank you, sir. It was kind in you ; but don't — 
 donH do that again." 
 
 " And pray why not, my child ? " 
 
 " It might make the other girls angry, sir — and 
 — and — it might cost me my place. I — I 've got 
 to keep the place, sir ; I 've got to live ! " 
 
 Something in the girl's tone made the scholar lift 
 his head, and look at the little waitress long and 
 searchingly. She was as pale as thin porcelain ; the 
 light seemed to strike through her ; veins stood out 
 on her delicate temples and thin hands ; her large, 
 dark eyes appealed to him like a dumb animal's ; 
 they were set deep in a high, full brow, back from 
 which her hair was brushed severely without fuss or 
 friz. " Why, here is a forehead," thought the Pro-
 
 234 THE SACRIFICE OF ANTIGONE. 
 
 fessor. He had. never really looked at it before. 
 She was very plainly and poorly dressed in a blue 
 calico and white apron, and she wore no ornament of 
 any kind, not even a flounce or a frill. 
 
 " There, there ! " muttered the Professor, kindly. 
 He did not know what else to say. He shoved back 
 his chair and took his hat and bowed to the waitress, 
 with respect. 
 
 Now the Professor did what he had never done 
 before — forgot his book. The title of the book 
 was in full sight : 'AvTiyovr]. 
 
 " Oh, you have forgotten your ' Antigone,' sir," 
 said the waitress impulsively. She took the book 
 with a certain tenderness, and handed it to him with 
 a touch expressing both the familiarity and the care- 
 fulness of a reader. 
 
 Xow, indeed, Professor Kosmos stared at his 
 waitress. The last one he had at Thurston's slapped 
 his famous English translation into the gravy one 
 day, and then called it " Anti-gone." 
 
 When the Professor came to Thurston's, a few 
 days after, for his next luncheon, a fat, greasy girl, 
 with bangs and a red jersey, knocked his spectacles 
 off with the bill of fare, and peremptorily demanded 
 his order. 
 
 His little waitress was gone. In surprise and 
 real distress he consulted the proprietor. 
 
 " We don't keep girls that can't carry their own 
 trays," said that gentleman shortly. 
 
 " But it was no fault of the girVs" urged the cus- 
 tomer. " I did it, and you '11 oblige me, Mr. Thurs- 
 ton, by taking her back." 
 
 The proprietor was not unaware of the celebrated
 
 THE SACRIFICE OF ANTIGONE. 235 
 
 Greek reputation that dined off his olives and 
 cheese ; and he replied more suavely : " Why, cer- 
 tainly, to oblige you, Professor, if I can find her; 
 but these girls drop out of sight like a stone in a 
 well. We don't take their address." 
 
 The Professor sighed. He felt unaccountably 
 sorry. He had blundered so kindly. He went over 
 to the rival restaurant across the street, and lunched 
 abstractedly on cold corned beef. 
 
 A few nights after, a reluctant kno(;k rapped at 
 the door of the Professor's eccentrically plain bach- 
 elor lodgings. It was the hour for his washer- 
 woman, and he bawled, " Come in," without lifting 
 his eyes from his copy of " Agamemnon at the Club," 
 learnedly proved by him not to have been written 
 by Homer. 
 
 A slight figure in a waterproof cloak, and wearing 
 a thick veil across a bowed face, timidly entered the 
 study, and a low voice said, " Here are your clothes, 
 sir ; where shall I find the soiled ones, if you 
 please ? " 
 
 The Professor whirled in his revolving study- 
 chair. 
 
 " Where in — Sparta — is Mrs. O'Hooligan ? She 
 does my washing." 
 
 "She is ill, sir. I've taken her work," replied 
 the stranger quickly. 
 
 The Professor pointed over his shoulder in em- 
 barrassed silence. He was not used to veiled laun- 
 dresses — and young ones too. Mrs. O'Hooligan 
 was big and sixty, and usually wore a red woolen 
 " cloud " falling off her back comb. Her silent sub- 
 stitute went to the closet where the linen lay tossed
 
 23G THE SACRIFICE OF ANTIGONE. 
 
 about in classic and masculine disorder, filled the 
 clotlies bag, and got herself out of the room as soon 
 as possible. She Avas hurrying away without her 
 money. The Professor called her back and handed 
 her a two dollar bill. " Never mind the change," he 
 said gruffly. 
 
 "I prefer to return it, sir," answered the laun- 
 dress, in a scarcely audible voice. " I will do so 
 next week. I — have n't it with me to-night." 
 
 What was it about that voice ? No tone of such 
 refinement had ever objected to keeping change in 
 those apartments before. Xo such syntax had ever 
 before graced the subject of his soiled linen. Was 
 it a familiar accent ? But that was impossible. 
 
 It was half - past seven o'clock in the evening, 
 when Mrs. Goodwin De Witt swept through her 
 drawing-rooms on her final tour of rigorous inspec- 
 tion before the Junior Party. JMrs. Goodwin De 
 Witt was one of the most distinguished hostesses of 
 one of the most hospitable cities in the land. 
 
 Celebrated men and women met every week in 
 her beautiful house. All the literary, artistic, and 
 theological stars of the University Town were at 
 home in her salon. She was a woman of two worlds, 
 this and the one to come. Her sympathies were as 
 wide as her true culture. She was President of the 
 Students' Aid Association and of who knew how 
 many charities ? but she never had prettier flowers, 
 or a more attractive dining-room, or invited more 
 celebrities than when she gave her annual reception 
 to the Junior class of the college which admitted 
 women. Nothing was too good for these young
 
 THE SACRIFICE OF ANTIGONE. 237 
 
 people who were not invited to elegant homes any 
 too often, and who had just begun the long struggle 
 for a foothold in the wonderful world which she had 
 conquered, and which had crowned her one of its 
 sweetest queens. 
 
 As Mrs. Goodwin De Witt stood deftly shaking a 
 long lace portiere into graceful shape, her attention 
 was arrested by the sudden sight of an early guest, 
 a student clearly. Who else would come sharp on 
 the stroke of the hour ? And ah ! who else would 
 dress — if the truth were said — like that ? A 
 slight figure, frail to transparency, bent a little with 
 embarrassment, parted the lace with a thin hand. 
 
 "I see I've come too early," faltered the young 
 guest, with a frankness which attracted the woman 
 of society at the first sound. " I don't know any of 
 the girls veri/ well. I am pretty busy. I had my 
 lessons till the last minute, and I thought perhaps 
 you 'd expect us to be prompt ; for we 're only girls 
 — and boys." 
 
 She advanced, holding out her hand, smiling the 
 easy smile of a girl who was not quite as verdant as 
 her early arrival might seem to indicate. She stood 
 in the splendid room, a quaint little figure in an old 
 black alpaca dress, with linen collar and cuffs, — 
 these were beautifully laundered ; an old-fashioned 
 brooch, of hair and gold, fastened her collar; her 
 hair was brushed back from a high forehead. 
 
 " It gives me the more chance to get acquainted 
 with you," welcomed the hostess heartily ; " and 
 that gives me pleasure. Miss — ? " 
 
 " Dreed. Dorothy Dreed is my name." 
 
 Mrs. Goodwin De Witt and Dorothy Dreed sat
 
 238 THE SACRIFICE OF ANTIGONE. 
 
 down on a blue satin tete-a-tete, and in five minutes 
 were fast friends. In ten the older woman knew 
 the younger one's whole story — or thought she did. 
 If she only had, our tale would have found a gayer 
 ending. Dorothy was so gentle, she was so well- 
 mannered, she was so affectionate, she was so frank 
 — how could the experienced hostess know that the 
 proud-hearted little creature held her at bay, and 
 told her all she chose, and not a word beyond, of her 
 struggling history ? 
 
 A Junior in college ? Yes. Competing for the 
 Greek prize ? Trying to — hoping to. It was like 
 Professor Kosmos to offer so large a sum — how 
 large ? Mrs. De Witt forgot. Two hundred dol- 
 lars. A very large sum, Dorothy Dreed said. And 
 she thought it quite like Professor Kosmos ; he was 
 such an enthusiast in Greek. Mrs. De Witt hesi- 
 tated. Was her guest quite well ? She had a frail 
 look. Quite well, Dorothy said. Did she live with 
 friends ? No ; she boarded. Were her parents liv- 
 ing ? Her father was — and her step-mother. 
 
 There were boys ; brothers. The boys had been 
 put through college somehow, all but one, her little 
 brother Teddy. Nobody expected a girl to go. 
 
 " So I came away on my own account, and put my- 
 self through. I entered Freshman year," smiled 
 Dorothy. 
 
 "I — came — without kid gloves," added the poor 
 child pathetically, looking down at her bare hands ; 
 redder and rougher than most of the girls' hands 
 were ; little delicate hands put through some rude 
 Avork foreign to their inheritance and training. She 
 felt that Mrs. De Witt would understand that she 
 could not afford gloves.
 
 THE SACRIFICE OF ANTIGONE. 239 
 
 The black alpaca nestled confidingly against tlie 
 lace and velvet draperies of a hostess with eyes full 
 of tears that f ell — or one did — upon the blue 
 satin cushions where the two sat talking. 
 
 " Here is another case," thought Mrs. De Witt ; 
 her warm heart was overburdened with " cases " all 
 the time. 
 
 " Here is a case for the Aid Society. I must look 
 her up as soon as I can." 
 
 But how was even ]\Irs. De Witt, woman of the 
 world, protector of poor students, searcher of girls' 
 hearts, to know that this " case " was the most des- 
 perate in the whole college that she and a handful 
 of good women tried to "mother" with limited 
 funds and unlimited sympathies ? How was she to 
 know — for there was a stir and a flutter at the 
 door, and gayly a troop of her guests poured in — 
 young ladies and young fellows — chattering and 
 frolicsome ; all in their best clothes and best man- 
 ners ; and none — not one in the class of fifty -two — 
 shrinking out of sight in black alpaca and linen col- 
 lar and poor, bare hands. 
 
 The poorest girl in the lot had managed somehow. 
 Only Dorothy was too poor to manage at all. 
 
 How was Mrs. De Witt to know that her luxuri- 
 ous home held that night a girl put to the hardest 
 for the barest necessities of life ; a girl friendless, 
 cold, half-dressed, all but starving in that great, 
 rich, generous, studious city — a girl tenderly 
 reared, who had beaten about in attic lodgings and 
 hall bedrooms like a desolate waif; who had done 
 every kind of rough, menial work she could put her 
 little hands to, for bread and rent and shoes and
 
 240 THE SACRIFICE OF ANTIGONE. 
 
 fire and books — and never complained of it, never 
 even " told " of it, and who sat there now on those 
 satin cushions, so faint with hunger that the odor of 
 the hot chocolate from the dining-room made her 
 ravenously gidd^^ 
 
 In the course of that happy evening — for it was 
 a very happy evening to those fifty young people 
 and to the kindly lions who came to " meet " them 
 — the thoughtful hostess found a chance to ask the 
 child point-blank who her father was. 
 
 "An Episcopal clergyman," said Dorothy. "He 
 lives in East Omaha, Nebraska. Papa has n't a 
 Icnye parish," added Dorothy; "but he's a good 
 man." 
 
 " You must come and see me," said Mrs. De Witt 
 gently ; " and let us talk more." 
 
 "Thank you," said Dorothy prettily; "after T 
 have tried for the Greek Prize ! I shall have to 
 work hard till then." 
 
 " Ah ! there," murmured the hostess, " is our 
 friend Professor Kosmos himself." 
 
 But when she turned to greet him, the little girl 
 in alpaca was gone. Dorothy had disappeared. 
 Mrs. De Witt and the great Professor looked for her 
 in vain for fully five minutes. Dorothy had van- 
 ished. The dismissed waitress at Thurston's could 
 not make up her mind to meet her customer. The 
 inexperienced washerwoman could not face in those 
 gorgeous parlors the employer whom she " ironed 
 and mended" every week. Poor Dorothy slipped 
 away home — without even her chocolate — and 
 cried and studied and shivered half the night in her 
 dingy attic lodging. The other girls stayed and had 
 a beautiful time.
 
 THE SACRIFICE OF ANTIGONE. 241 
 
 But Dorothy was working for the Greek Prize 
 oration. Only one other girl-student was going to 
 compete at all. The rest were all boys. Dorothy 
 comforted herself by thinking how it would be if 
 she got that prize. Two hundred dollars ! A poor 
 clergyman's daughter who had sewed, and copied 
 for lawyers, and washed and ironed, and tutored 
 other girls, and gone out mending carpets, and 
 waited at Thurston's, and suffered, and shivered, and 
 starved •' for an education " for two years and a half, 
 thought of that sum of money with a kind of dumb 
 incredulous ecstasy. 
 
 " First of all," whispered Dorothy, " I'll get — I'll 
 get a nice beefsteak. And then I think — I'll have 
 some flannels." 
 
 It was the cold, spring term. 
 
 " And then," said Dorothy to herself, " I '11 send 
 something home to Papa — and Teddy. I would n't 
 be selfish with two hundred dollars ! " 
 
 There was unusual excitement in College Hall on 
 a wild March night. 
 
 The Audience-Room was packed to suffocation. 
 Only the President and Professor Kosmos, with the 
 five contestants, occupied the platform. Judge and 
 Mrs. De Witt were prominently seated in front. 
 At the last it was rumored that but one young lady 
 would compete ; the other had backed out in dis- 
 may. 
 
 Now this oratorical contest was an unusual thing, 
 the first of its kind in the country, the hobby of its 
 originator, the famous Professor. Greek declama- 
 tion, of course, was an old story; but an original
 
 242 THE SACRIFICE OF ANTIGONE. 
 
 Greek oration, cast in tlie purest of classic style and 
 delivered in full Greek costume by the orator, was a 
 novelty. It was a step in advance of the popular 
 rendering of Greek plays in the original. 
 
 The four young men upon the platform sat re- 
 splendent in effective tunics of differing colors, from 
 whose low necks their more or less pronounced Yan- 
 kee profiles towered solemnly. The solitary young 
 woman sat modestly covered from neck to ankles 
 with a dark cloak. 
 
 It looked like an old waterproof cloak ; and in- 
 deed it was. The stage was decorated to a repre- 
 sentation of the Acropolis, which it is to be hoped 
 Demosthenes would have recognized if he had been 
 offered a platform ticket. 
 
 The four young men, each in his turn, began to 
 spout like four young North Americans in very cred- 
 itable Greek syntax, and very natural New England 
 accent. The brilliant audience listened with a 
 mobile expression of countenance calculated to show 
 how familiar one was with the dead languages. 
 
 The subject of Phidias was treated in yellow 
 surah ; Plato in brown nankeen ; Alexander in pur- 
 ple merino and gold braid ; while Alcibiades, the 
 descendant of Ajax, harangued his soldiers in full 
 military panoply. These young gentlemen were all 
 enthusiastically applauded. 
 
 A hush preceded the announcement, in full Greek, 
 of the last contestant of the occasion, Miss Dorothy 
 Dreed. She would address the audience upon the 
 plaintive and beautiful topic of Antigone. 
 
 Prom the shoulders of a little figure, trembling 
 very much, the old waterproof cloak dropped slowly.
 
 THE SACRIFICE OF ANTIGONE. 243 
 
 There glided to the front of the platform a lovely 
 creature, slim and swaying, all in white, clinging 
 white, and Greek from the twist of her dark hair to 
 the sandal on her pretty foot and the pattern on her 
 chiton's edge. 
 
 The costume was cheese-cloth, and cost five cents 
 a yard — but who knew ? who cared ? It was stu- 
 dious, it was graceful, it was becoming, it was per- 
 fect, it was Greek — it was Antigone. 
 
 Professor Kosmos gave a start which shook the 
 programme from his hand when the Greek goddess 
 emerged from her black chrysalis ; and when she 
 opened her trembling lips and began to speak with 
 the rhythmic Greek undulation dear to the heart 
 and head of the classic scholar, and delivered an ex- 
 cellent philippic against Creon and a piteous, wo- 
 manly wail for Polynices, and a pathetic appeal to the 
 attentive audience for Antigone's own doomed young 
 life, he covered his eyes with that programme and 
 felt shaken to his soul. In this Antigone, buoyed in 
 terrible struggles by love of art that no privation 
 could quench, bearing woes that no Sophocles had 
 sung, he recognized the face of his waitress and the 
 voice of his washerwoman. 
 
 She took the prize — of course she took the prize. 
 It was a foregone conclusion after five minutes. 
 
 The audience had the refinement and intuition to 
 appreciate the quality of the girl's scholarly work 
 and womanly nature, and rose to their feet en masse 
 as Antigone, like a spirit, melted from the stage. 
 
 Afterward they sought her — they sought her 
 everywhere. But, like a spirit, she had gone ; she 
 could not be found.
 
 244 THE SACRIFICE OF ANTIGONE. 
 
 One of the girls, who knew her better than the 
 rest (though that was little enough), said that she 
 thought Miss Dreed was very tired and had gone 
 home. She had worked too hard, the girl said ; but 
 she kept to herself. They were afraid she was very 
 poor, but nobody knew ; she never told ; she studied 
 too hard to make intimate friends. 
 
 " But, madam, who is this girl ? " cried Professor 
 Kosmos, in much agitation. " I want to hand her 
 the prize myself. She 's magnificent ! But, madam, 
 do you know she 's starving ? " 
 
 In ten words he told Mrs. De Witt all he knew. 
 
 Her stately form trembled with sympathy and 
 sickness of heart. 
 
 " I was going to see her," wailed that good woman. 
 " I got her address — but my husband has been sick. 
 I could nH go. I '11 go to-morrow — to-night. Call 
 my carriage. Professor ! Tell Mr. De Witt. I won't 
 wait ; T canH wait." 
 
 " You 'd better," said the Judge calmly, coming 
 up. '' You are tired out, my dear. Go to-morrow — 
 and the Professor will go with you." 
 
 " That I will ! " cried the uneasy Professor. '' It is 
 distressing ; it is unheard of. Who is the girl, any- 
 how ? Does anybody know ? " 
 
 " She is the daughter of an Episcopal clergyman 
 in East Omaha," sighed Mrs. De Witt. *' She told 
 me — Reverend James Dreed." 
 
 " Castor and Pollux ! " cried Professor Kosmos. 
 " Jim Dreed ! He was my classmate at Harvard, 
 and he ranked above me. Why, I thought the world 
 of the fellow. Jim DreecVs daurjhter ! "
 
 THE SACRIFICE OF ANTIGONE. 245 
 
 It was an attic indeed ; a very poor attic — not on 
 the list of accredited boarding-places in the hands of 
 the College Eegistrar. The poorest student in the 
 University had fared better than this brave and 
 dying, proud and silent girl. 
 
 For that she was dying when they found her no 
 experienced eye could doubt. 
 
 She had crawled home — no one ever knew how 
 — after that last flaring flash of strength, in whose 
 strong flame her fading life had gone out. She had 
 managed to creep into her cold little cot, — too ex- 
 hausted to save what was left of her scanty fire, — 
 and there her landlady, a respectable, but indifferent 
 matron, had found her, unconscious, at noon next 
 day. 
 
 The best of everything Avas done, as it is so often, 
 at the last of all suffering and all endurance. Mrs. 
 Goodwin De Witt's own celebrated physician came 
 and pronounced with his own distinguished lips the 
 fatal prognosis. 
 
 " No hope. The constitution has succumbed to 
 want and work. Make her comfortable. That is all 
 you can do. It is only a question of days." 
 
 In a syncope rather than a fever the girl's life 
 ebbed quietly away. She knew them at times and 
 looked at them gratefully. Gentle hands bore her 
 on a litter to Mrs. De Witt's own elegant mansion. 
 In the luxurious guest-chamber of that most Chris- 
 tian home, the obscure little college girl lay at the 
 last, like a princess — nay, more, like a daughter of 
 the house. 
 
 The tenderness of home, so long unknown by her, 
 cherished her to the end. Motherly mercy brooded
 
 246 THE SACRIFICE OF ANTIGONE. 
 
 over her, and she gave signs that she knew it, and 
 was comforted because of it. The college sent im- 
 portant delegates to honor her who had honored it ; 
 but she seemed to have passed beyond caring for the 
 college. 
 
 She referred to it only once. Then she said — and 
 it was the last word she spoke to any person : — 
 
 " Is the prize money mine — all mine ? " 
 
 " Yes, my dear." 
 
 " Two — hundred — dollars, Professor ? " 
 
 " Poor child — yes — ten times that, if you could 
 use it." 
 
 " Send some of it to Papa," said Dorothy distinctly. 
 " And give the rest to Teddy — to help Teddy go to 
 college. Teddy is my little brother. And Papa is 
 very poor."
 
 SWEET HOME. 
 
 I HAVE been asked to record certain events which 
 came under my observation some years since, and 
 which are thought to have a kind of interest not al- 
 ways adhering to the fashionable fiction of the day. 
 A hurried or tired man, snatching magazine or news- 
 paper for a clutch of freedom from his own private 
 bother, stands the main chance of metaphysics, por- 
 trait photography, or bric-a-brac. As I take it, the 
 main chance is that he wants a story ; the art of tell- 
 ing which bids fair to be a submerged one in the 
 long wave of our transition period. The tale may 
 even be a sad one ; but if something happens, your 
 busy or weary reader feels that he has what he came 
 for. My tale is not a glad one ; but if it offer no 
 mental hyperesthesia or moral dissection table or 
 conversational pyrotechnics, it will at least describe 
 a bit of real life in a plain way, and stop when it is 
 done. 
 
 I am by profession a physician, and my name is 
 Ferm. I am at present practicing in New York; 
 which is neither here nor there, since it is not my 
 own story that I have to relate. I a-m the only liv- 
 ing being — for the nurse has since died — who com- 
 mands all the facts of what, in the latter years of a 
 very varied professional life, I can say is on the 
 whole the most tragic experience which has ever 
 entered into it.
 
 248 SWEET HOME. 
 
 At the time of which I must hasten to speak, with- 
 out further waste of the precious tissue of Avoids, I 
 was in practice in a large Western city, whose name 
 I shall withhold. I was not young ; although but 
 recently married. My youth had been one of close 
 absorption in my profession ; and I had achieved a 
 certain foothold in it, before turning my attention to 
 the personal aspect of life which we call human hap- 
 piness. In fact, I had but just returned from my 
 bridal trip at the time the events I speak of took 
 place. I said a moment since that, as I was not re- 
 lating my own story, personal incidents were out of 
 order in the recital. Already am I compelled to re- 
 tract this rash observation, for already I see that the 
 personal equation gave, or may have given, a power- 
 ful, subjective coloring to the effects of the tragedy 
 on my own mind. I am not used to writing stories. 
 It is possible that it may not be so simple a matter 
 to stick to '' what happened " as I should have sup- 
 posed. At all events, I must tell this story in my 
 own way, good or bad, since there is no one else to 
 tell it ; and as I am not a literary man, and have no 
 professional theory to rise or fall by, I can venture 
 to be myself, and to do the thing naturally : which 
 may be something. 
 
 To be frank, then, it is of no use leaving out that 
 incident of the bridal toiir. As soon as I try to re- 
 vivify the situation in which young M'cAll found 
 himself, the scene which invariably and imperiously 
 presents itself is one which has nothing to do with 
 the actors or action of his history, except as I have 
 to do with it : and I, as I say, was a newly married, 
 happy man, through whose blinding blaze of joy the
 
 SWEET HOME. 249 
 
 dark outline of that other man's lot looked so in- 
 credible as to scarcely come under optical laws ; or 
 it was like some grim object, one of those sea-mon- 
 sters, let us say, just too large to come within reach 
 of the glass through which they must be viewed 
 from shore. 
 
 Let me give you, then, w^hat I see ; and what I 
 see, at the name of Lloyd M'cAll, dashing scintillant, 
 swdft, and unfading before me — what I see is this : — 
 
 We are in our own house, on our own pleasant and 
 prosperous street, just around the corner from the 
 little court where the tragedy to which I refer took 
 place. It is a brilliant morning in the decline of 
 June. We have been two days " at home." I who 
 have been for so many years a homeless man, fight- 
 ing hand to hand for my future, hard-worked and 
 hard-working, and glad of it, a little incredulous j^et 
 of my good luck, stand staring about me, hat in 
 hand, preparing to go out upon my morning rounds, 
 and surprised to find it so much slower a process 
 than it used to be. It takes — how long ! — to say 
 good-by to my young wife. 
 
 We have said it already more times than a man 
 cares to stop and count, and still it seems to cling 
 and float unsaid in the very atoms of the sunny air 
 that palpitate between us as we move apart and re- 
 gard each other gravely with the solemn strangeness 
 of our joy upon us. The house is fair and fresh — 
 dashed with new colors, foreign to my bachelor 
 quarters, and which seem to me like tropical foliage 
 or flora gathered from some till now undiscovered 
 country, and set ablaze in my gray life. My wife 
 glides backward from me smiling ; her feet cling in
 
 250 SWEET HOME. 
 
 her long white morning gown ; she moves to the 
 piano and seats herself there, running her fingers 
 lightly up and down the shining keys. The sun is 
 in the room — a flood-tide of it, throbbing on the floor 
 and cool couches, the books, the strewn music, and 
 falling on the hem of her garment at her feet. 
 
 " You will be late," she says. 
 
 I consult my watch, and vow I have a half minute 
 yet to spare. I have a consultation on hand this 
 morning, and I am a precise man, accustomed to 
 some military method in my duties, and giving what 
 I require from my patients, — obedience to law. 
 But I have never been a just-married man before. 
 
 " Hurlburt ! " 
 
 I have started, but she calls me back. Like the 
 most helpless of my sick, I, who am trained to rule, 
 obey. 
 
 '•' Hurlburt, dear ? " 
 
 How beautiful — how beautiful a creature a happy 
 woman is ! 
 
 " Hurlburt, shall we have the " — 
 
 " What, my love ? " 
 
 " Do you want the strawberries for lunch or din- 
 ner, Hurlburt ? It will weigh on my mind all the 
 morning, if I don't know beyond a moral doubt ! " 
 
 While she is propounding this fateful question in 
 her pretty, accented, girlish voice, she runs her fin- 
 gers merrily up and down the chromatic scale ; she 
 is perched upon the edge of the piano stool with her 
 long draperies flowing about her ; she looks at me 
 over her shoulder with a sidewise motion of her 
 head, like a half-tamed bird's. I laugh, and lean, 
 and bid good-by again, and resolutely turn and leave 
 her, once again.
 
 SWEET HOME. 251 
 
 I ain halfway across the room, when once more 
 she calls me in a dear voice, low and timid ; I stand 
 in the full tide of the sun to listen to her. The long 
 muslin curtain blows in and out in the June Avind. 
 There are flowers in the room, and a sweet-scented 
 creeper of some sort on the hot brick walls without. 
 The outer and inner perfumes mingle in the warm 
 gust that breathes and brushes past me. Life, light, 
 home, hope, love — what a world ! — for these are in 
 it! 
 
 ''Happy, Hurlburt?" 
 
 At this instant my bell rings sharply. I give my- 
 self one blessed moment to answer her dear ques- 
 tion, and hurry to the hall. As I do so, she reseats 
 herself at the piano, and without prelude begins to 
 sing. My wife is a pleasant singer. These are the 
 words she sings : — 
 
 " Beyond the sea of death love lies. 
 Forever, yesterday, to-day, 
 Angels shall ask them : ' Is it well f ' 
 And they shall answer: 'Fea.' " 
 
 My boy meets me in the hall. His name is Dubby 
 Joe. At least, I believe, strictly it is Joe Dubby, 
 but the transposition has been so long effected by 
 my clientele that it has ceased to be questioned by 
 anybody, least of all by Joe himself. 
 
 " It 's Pirky Trust," says Dubby Joe. " You 're 
 wanted right away over to Trust's. Sister 's sick." 
 
 Pirky Trust stands pallid on the door-steps, cap in 
 hand. 
 
 Pirky is an overgrown, lounging boy of an in- 
 definite age. All the Trust boys are overgrown, and 
 all lounge ; there are five of them ; they look like
 
 252 SWEET HOME. 
 
 obtuse angles, and behave as they look, I am apt to 
 think, wJien I treat their sister, — the only woman 
 in a big, motherless, masculine, burly family, and 
 " put upon " accordingly. 
 
 " What is the matter with your sister, Pirky ? " 
 
 " Dunno," says Pirky, after some thought. " They 
 're all scared of her. She 's dangerous. They told 
 me to bring you lickity-split." 
 
 " Who is with her — who sent you, Pirky ? " 
 
 "Dr. M'cAll sent me. He's there. And pa's 
 there. And Mrs. Gumbrugen 's there — and Gum- 
 brugen. But he would n't come for you himself, Jim 
 Gumbrugen would n't. He said I was to go. He 
 won't go out of her sight. I guess they think she 's 
 pretty dangerous. Dr. M'cAll told me to run's I 
 never run in all my born days — I 'm beat out," 
 panted Pirky plaintively. 
 
 It is a waste of moral force to reason with the 
 essential selfishness of Pirky. I have long since 
 learned that. He loves his sister, too ; they all do 
 as much as that. Acutely as I should enjoy picking 
 Pirky up by the back of the neck, as one does a 
 puppy, and flinging him halfway home, I am so con- 
 scious what a breach of politico-spiritual economy 
 that would be that I content myself with saying 
 mildly : — 
 
 " Jump into the carriage, Pirky, and I '11 take you 
 round;" and Pirky jumps — no, I should say that 
 Pirky, panting, pathetic, with the lofty moral ex- 
 pression of a martyr, lunges in. 
 
 I shut the front door and pass out into the hot, 
 bright morning. The lines in the red brick walk 
 show hard and strange to me, and I am conscious of
 
 SWEET HOME. 253 
 
 counting them as I go out over our little front yard 
 and down the steps to the sidewalk. All my nature, 
 made idle and unsympathetic by happiness, braces 
 itself to its task, — the healer's ceaseless, remorseless, 
 blessed task of holding to his heart, though it stab 
 him to his hurt — nay, though it stab him to his 
 death, suffering not his own. 
 
 I linger to send Dubby Joe up-town to defer the 
 consultation ; for I see — no, I do 7iot see what is 
 before me. As Pirky and I turn the buggy round, I 
 look back at the open window, through which I hear 
 my young wife singing still : — 
 
 " Beyond the sea of death love lies " — 
 
 Here, properly speaking, my story should begin. 
 Let me tell you, then, in as few words as may be, 
 who a-nd what they were of whom I write. 
 
 Lloyd M'cAll was the young doctor to whom I 
 gave my overflow work. I meant to take him into 
 partnership some day. He was the son of a personal 
 friend. I had always known him ; had been his pre- 
 ceptor ; given him his first patient ; hurrahed over 
 his first cure ; helped him over his first failure ; 
 loved him and trusted him, and " made of him," as 
 the women say. He was a sensitive, lovable fellow, 
 and deserved all that he ever had from me, and 
 more. 
 
 Home Trust was our patient ; for some time past 
 M'cAll had treated her. She was a sick woman, 
 worn out in the service of an exacting, thoughtless 
 family of six men, who demanded and found mother, 
 daughter, sister, nurse, seamstress, laundress, cook, 
 in the body and soul of one delicate girl. 
 
 He was a gentleman.
 
 254 SWEET HOME. 
 
 She was the daughter of a very respectable baker. 
 
 He was her physician. 
 
 She was his patient. 
 
 He was well-born, well-bred, well-read, and not 
 without talent. 
 
 Her simple education at the common schools came 
 to an end on the day of her mother's funeral, when, 
 at the age of fourteen, she came home to " do for " 
 the bereaved baker and the five long, loungy, little 
 Trust boys. 
 
 He was unwedded and unbound. 
 
 She was engaged to be married. 
 
 He was a man of high aspirations and delicate 
 honor. 
 
 She was a charming creature. 
 
 Let me recall what I can of the girl's personnelle. 
 Perhaj)S I did not at the time occupy myself to call 
 her beautiful, but I was a busy man. My patients 
 moved beneath my orders like pawns upon a chess- 
 board, and so that they moved obediently I had lit- 
 tle time to think further about them. To my own 
 mind, the relation between patient and physician is 
 one so peculiar to itself, so essentially out of the 
 natural environment in which human beings meet, 
 and ought to meet, that the introduction of any- 
 thing like personal sentiment into it is unpleasant 
 to me. I do* not like even to treat my own wife. 
 She was never my patient. I find it difficult to esti- 
 mate, perhaps, the full emotional chances of the relar 
 tion. 
 
 It is true, perhaps, that there was something 
 about Miss Trust which one had to think about ; for 
 I find that some little personal details occur to me
 
 SWEET HOME. 255 
 
 quite easily. I am sure she had a pleasant figure, 
 and that she was graceful in her motions. There 
 was something quiet and pleasing about her dress, 
 which never flaunted or flared into the incoherent 
 fashions favored by women, especially by young 
 women of her social opportunities ; there was a gen- 
 tle a,nd nunlike effect to the colors she wore, or else 
 to her way of wearing them — not that the girl was 
 a bit of a nun — rather a real piece of human na- 
 ture, sweet and fresh. She had those large gray 
 eyes of the iridescent type, which deepen to dark 
 brown when one is much moved. She had a refined 
 voice, and the merriest laugh that ever caught itself 
 in a sick-room. People are feared or respected for 
 this or that ; they are beloved for their laugh or 
 smile. Home Trust was too young to smile. We 
 had them — widows, and women with their lives be- 
 hind them ; plenty of them in our clientele ; who 
 smiled on their doctors like Sisters of Charity, or 
 even (at respectful intervals) like angels. This sick 
 girl still laughed. It was delightful. 
 
 Her name was Homer — E. Homer, I think, 
 Ellen, Eliza, Emma or whatever — but the name 
 which the poor child's mother had attached to her 
 in this beautiful contraction clung to her like her 
 own bright hair. iSTow that I think of it, she was a 
 blonde. 
 
 This loving and lovable name had been improved 
 upon in a pretty way. 
 
 I really cannot say what started it — whether it 
 was the sweet fame of her service for that great 
 hulking family, who would no more have thought of 
 such a thing themselves than would last year's buns ;
 
 256 SWEET HOME. 
 
 or whether it was her rare way of " getting along " 
 with her neighbors, not one of whom but was in 
 debt to her for some of the endless kindnesses which 
 now and then make neighborhood an ideal matter ; 
 or whether it grew out of her attention to neglected 
 children, to whom at her busiest and her weariest 
 she had a passion for offering all sorts of little hos- 
 pitalities and brooding, motherly care ; or whether 
 the name, as I have heard it suggested, originated 
 with a poor, wretched girl, who sought refuge at 
 the baker's door one winter night in a deadly storm, 
 and was found to be in a dying condition. 
 
 Home Trust gave her own decent room to this pit- 
 eous creature, and nursed her there until she died. 
 The nearest hospital of any class which would ad- 
 mit the patient was in a neighboring city. Suffer- 
 ing and risk were involved in the tramsfer of a per- 
 son at so low a stage of vitality. 
 
 " It can't be thought of," said Miss Trust quietly, 
 and so kept the stranger, making no fuss about it, 
 and offered the sacred hospitalities of a good woman's 
 soul to this poor wretch while she had need of them. 
 The outcast died, praying in her arms, — praying, I 
 have been told, most pathetically and passionately, 
 in a way to break one's heart. This woman, it has 
 been sometimes said, first called the young girl — 
 for she was then a very young girl — Sweet Home. 
 
 Nobody was laggard to catch the charming nick- 
 name ; and Sweet Home she was, and shall be still 
 to all who knew her and knew her bright and sweet 
 unselfishness in every attitude she took toward life. 
 She never had an easy life, poor child. Let these 
 things not be forgotten of her now.
 
 SWEET HOME. 257 
 
 Her father loved her, and overworked her. The 
 five lumbering boys loved her and imposed upon 
 her. It was their nature to. The mother had al- 
 ways suffered herself to be imposed upon. She took 
 feminine existence at the masculine estimate, and 
 thus, by the simplest laws of hereditary transmis- 
 sion, the sons imposed, the daughter endured, and 
 so it went. Sweet Home, a vigorous, cheerful, ardent 
 girl, with that laugh of hers, and a dimple, full of 
 good humor and good blood and good vitality — at 
 20, ailed and paled and laughed at it, and would not 
 talk about it, and went on ailing and paling and 
 laughing and working, using up the vital centres, 
 and at last broke down roundly with what it is now 
 fashionable to diagnose as nervous exhaustion. 
 This in a family — and a family of men — where 
 nobody but herself possessed a nerve that could be 
 brought under the microscope was serious business. 
 I remember once trying to explain to the baker why 
 his daughter could no longer officiate at the family 
 wash-tub, by suggesting that he make rolls to-mor- 
 row without baking-powder. 
 
 " Ye mean she 's lost her yeast ? " asked the fa- 
 ther, after some conscientious reflection. 
 
 M'cAU and I had tried to do the best we could 
 for her. I think I may say as much as that. Under 
 consultation, I had left the case for six months 
 largely to my junior. I saw the girl whenever ne- 
 cessary ; but I was driven, and she seemed contented 
 enough with him. They got on very well together, 
 and I kept, or thought I kept, her confidence. Per- 
 haps I flattered myself just there, with the subtle 
 self-delusion which a doctor is apt to cherish about
 
 258 SWEET HOME. 
 
 his established patients. We are men of weaknesses 
 peculiar to our profession. 
 
 Miss Trust was expected to marry a person by the 
 name of James Gumbrugen. He drove an express 
 cart. His mother was a professional nurse. I had 
 often employed her ; they were very respectable 
 people. The engagement had.lasted some years. I 
 believe she said she Avas waiting for Firky to grow 
 up. Pirky was the youngest, the longest, the lank- 
 est, the noisiest, the stupidest, the most spoiled, and 
 the least considerate of the tribe ; but sometimes 
 when I observed Gumbrugen, I was not in a hurry 
 for Pirky to grow up. There was nothing the mat- 
 ter with the fellow that I know of, except that he 
 was bald and had a double chin. He was a highly 
 respectable young man. He was pertinaciously 
 loyal to Sweet Home, and perfectly willing to wait 
 for Pirky to grow up. I suppose a man may be 
 very much in love even if he has a double chin. 
 The girl had never expressed any dissatisfaction 
 with her lover — and as I repeat, he was a most es- 
 timable young person. At the time of which I speak 
 Miss Trust had improved a little. M'cAll and I be- 
 gan to have hopes that she might not become a 
 chronic invalid, a prospect of which we had never 
 given any intimation to the patient, as I was after- 
 ward glad to remember. She expected — I may 
 say, she exacted — recovery with the radiant hope- 
 fulness of her resolute nature, and bore her suffer- 
 ings as sweetly and trustfully as she bore with 
 Pirky, waiting for health, as she waited for the 
 other tyrant to " grow up." She was a very lovable 
 patient.
 
 SWEET HOME. 259 
 
 Lloyd M'cAll was that most wretched of beings, 
 a morbidly sensitive or sensitively morbid man. In 
 the medical school, where he was an excellent, 
 though not a brilliant scholar, he took life hard. 
 He fainted in the dissecting-room four times ; but 
 pluckily got up and at it again, till he conquered 
 himself, and produced admirable, painstaking demon- 
 strations. He used to tell with feeling the story of 
 Berlioz, who would have studied medicine, but, at 
 his first glance at the " material," turned and fled, 
 dashing through the open window and home, to roll 
 on the floor in agony for days ; hence the Avorld lost 
 a poor doctor and gained a great musician. 
 
 Throughout his course of study, young M'cAU 
 worried. If he failed in a recitation, forthwith he 
 was prepared to fail of his diploma. If he did a 
 good thing, he Avas oppressed by his sense of its 
 mediocrity. If a professor praised him, he care- 
 fully weighed the relative importance of the profes- 
 sor. 
 
 The drudgery of mastering anatomy — one of the 
 hardest of recitation-room studies to be found in the 
 educated world — disheartened him out of all pro- 
 portion. He crammed for his examinations at night 
 on strong coffee, Avent to them trembling in every 
 nerve, and was ill for days thereafter. He was a 
 faithful student, but he never knew a student's com- 
 fort. He saw life steadily, as well as whole, through 
 magnifying glasses of conscientious discouragement. 
 I never thought him quite well. His father had 
 died of excessive smoking, and there was a very ner- 
 vous diathesis. 
 
 With all this he was a refined and attractive fel-
 
 260 SWEET HOME. 
 
 low, with decided power of his own kind, and a pros- 
 pect of round success if he had a fair amount of 
 human happiness. He was one of those people on 
 whom suffering acts like vitriol, and ^\'hom a given 
 amount of it eats out. He was a conscientious, stu- 
 dious physician and gaining a good practice. I 
 trusted him with my own work to any extent. 
 
 With a man of this sort nothing is so sure as that 
 a woman will make or mar him ; and a cheerful 
 woman is a foreordained influence of a powerful 
 kind. 
 
 " I sometimes think," he said once, when he was 
 dining with me, " that the best kind of a wife a man 
 could have would be a woman of a sunny disposi- 
 tion who was a little shallow." 
 
 The next day he came and told me he hoped I 
 would n't mistake his meaning, and wished me to 
 understand that his ideal of Woman was a remark- 
 ably high one. 
 
 He was not in love, and his freedom from all 
 emotional entanglement gave him special value, to 
 my mind, in the business I turned over to him. He 
 worked as impersonally as a numeral on a slate, and 
 Avhere his duty was his heart was. 
 
 To Lloyd M'cAU, and not to me (and this was as 
 it should be, or if it were not I had only myself to 
 thank for it), to the devoted young assistant, and 
 not to the busy family doctor, the summons had 
 gone Avhich brought sudden help to urgent need at 
 the bedside of Sweet Home. He was there before 
 ]ne ; had been sent for, Pirky said, in the night, be- 
 sides ; and yesterday afternoon — he made a long 
 call yesterday ; and again, Pirky thought, the day 
 before.
 
 SWEET HOME. 261 
 
 How it had all been, who knew ? Who knows ? 
 They had been necessarily often together — she in 
 her charm and helplessness, he in his sensitive 
 youth. On the iron discreetness due to their sacred 
 relation I would have staked my honor that he had 
 never encroached by the breadth of a graver's point. 
 He was a physician, and a gentleman. She was his 
 patient. He was a man of unblemished integrity. 
 And to distrust Aer would have been like distrusting 
 the mountain snow. ISTo one did distrust. At the 
 worst and most, and when we knew all that was ever 
 known, the breath of a doubt was never cast upon 
 those two. Their spotless memory became, in a sol- 
 emn and awful sense, the guarded treasure of their 
 friends. 
 
 Would he have wedded her ? Would she have 
 broken her troth for him ? Did they love ? Si- 
 lently ? Confessedly? Calmly? Madly? Did 
 they face their position, or evade its facts ? Curse 
 their fate, or vow to conquer it ? Did he plead, and 
 she recede ? Did he hope, and she despair ? Did 
 she wear that beautiful, gossamer mask of deceit 
 which women wear for their own strange nature's 
 sake, when love, the nature within the nature, bids 
 them reveal love's dazzling face ? Or did she wear 
 that deeper, sadder, more impenetrable disguise to 
 which a woman betakes her when she would protect 
 from himself the man she loves ? Did she thus ? 
 Did he so ? Was it this ? Was it that ? God 
 knows — and they. Let him who knoweth answer. 
 
 Pirky hurried on before me into the tidy home 
 where he had been served like a sultan and behaved 
 like an imp for eleven years, and noisily kicked open 
 the door with his cowhide boots.
 
 262 aW'EET HOME. 
 
 " Be quiet, Pirky ! How many times have Dr. 
 M'cAll and I told you that noise hurts your sister, 
 and that you " — 
 
 I paused. One look told me that she Avould suffer 
 no more from Pirky's boots. Pirky might " grow 
 up," now, as fast or as slow as he pleased, or not at 
 all, as he pleased. His day for torturing those deli- 
 cately poised nerves and that more delicate heart 
 was over. 
 
 Her father was in the room, and Mrs. Gumbrugen. 
 Gumbrugen himself was there, and one of the older 
 Trust boys, and M'cAll. 
 
 On the bed, in the corner of the neat, modest, 
 maidenl}'- room, Sweet Home lay, with all her yellow 
 hair about her, in her white night-clothes, lightly 
 covered with a thin blanket — even then a lovely 
 creature. 
 
 She was still breathing ; the faint, paralytic 
 breathing which, with certain other symptoms not 
 necessary to dwell upon, told me on the instant at 
 least a part of the terrible story. 
 
 As I entered the room Lloyd M'cAll stirred, but 
 did not speak. He w^as standing with his back to 
 the patient. He was not a tall man, and he ap- 
 peared to have shrunken in height, and to crouch as 
 a person does before a blast. His pallor was height- 
 ened, perhaps, by his dead-black hair and beard and 
 black eyes ; but he seemed to me the palest breath- 
 ing man I had ever seen in my life. It was Gum- 
 brugen who made wav for me beside the bed. 
 
 "You — you'll save her," he said confidently. 
 " You 've had more experience. You 're an older 
 man. I said you'd save her." But a quiver not
 
 SWEET HOME. 263 
 
 confident caught the double chin, and his bald head 
 sank into his hands. 
 
 " Dying, doctor ? " whispered Mrs. Gumbrugen. 
 
 " She is a dead woman ! " 
 
 I spoke passionately. It seemed incredible that I 
 had not been called before. It was no time — there 
 might never be a time — to tell these people the 
 truth ; to say that Sweet Home was dying from an 
 overdose of — something — beyond all human doubt ; 
 chloral I should have said. 
 
 "What ails my girl?" The big baker straight- 
 ened himself with a dazed, dull look. " She used to 
 be a healthy girl. I never thought she "d be likely 
 to die." 
 
 Even as he spoke, and I bent over the poor girl, to 
 hold her gentle hands — constrained by an anguish 
 half anger, that she should die without her old doc- 
 tor to help her — even as her father spoke. Sweet 
 Home passed beyond that phase of life which we 
 call death, and that stage of resolve which is within 
 the power of recall. 
 
 As I put my hand upon her eyes I heard a little 
 click or thud upon the floor. It was Pirky pulling 
 off his boots and tramping in his stocking-feet to see 
 how quiet he could be ; like many wiser and better 
 than Pirky, rendering unto remorse the things that 
 were love's, and unto death the things that were 
 life's. 
 
 At this moment a voice, which I can describe by 
 no other word than haggard, said slowly behind 
 me : 
 
 " Doctor Ferm, is she dead ? "
 
 264 SWEET HOME. 
 
 "Yes, M'cAll." 
 
 " Quite dead ? I don't want to look at her." 
 
 " Quite dead." 
 
 " You '11 do everything, will you ? I — must go 
 home a minute. I sha'n't be gone long." 
 
 " I shall wish to see you as soon as possible, 
 M'cAll." 
 
 " Very well, sir. Good-by, sir." 
 
 " Good-by, M'cAll." 
 
 I said this mechanically, not turning to look at 
 my assistant. I was more shocked than by any- 
 thing that had occurred in my professional life be- 
 fore, and had not found my thoughts or their ex- 
 pression ; both seemed a tremendous duty, difficult 
 and delicate past belief. 
 
 I gazed into the dead girl's face long and search- 
 ingly. Did I summon the corpse to speak ? Did I 
 bid the soul to answer ? I am a busy, practical 
 man, not given to fancies. What could the evasive, 
 illusive, vanished spirit do with my unpracticed 
 imagination ? How should it find a vocabulary for 
 one who had never opened the grammar of its lan- 
 guage ? Like most men of my vocation, what is 
 called spiritual truth was the last thing that I had 
 made time — or perhaps taste — to think about. 
 Yet, at that moment, I found it not possible to be- 
 lieve that a dose of chloral had stopped the delicate 
 " complex " of beauty and sweetness and unselfish- 
 ness, of hope and vitality, and half-developed joy- 
 giving and joy-receiving power which we called 
 Sweet Home. 
 
 " Poor child ! " I said. « Poor child ! " 
 
 A little ashamed of the consulting physician for
 
 SWEET HOME. 265 
 
 exhibiting an emotion in the presence of those 
 whose emotion he was expected to restrain, I turned 
 to recover myself, and found that Mrs. Gumbrugen 
 and I were alone. Father, brothers, and lover had 
 instinctively got themselves away, and left us with 
 our patient. 
 
 Mrs. Gumbrugen was an accomplished nurse ; she 
 was accustomed to possess herself. I do not know 
 that I had ever seen her weep before, and when she 
 lifted her sturdy face to me, streaming with tears, I 
 experienced a feeling almost of embarrassment. 
 
 A general could hardly be more the victim of the 
 unexpected who found his aid in hysterics on the 
 eve of battle. 
 
 "I was fond of her," sobbed Mrs. Gumbrugen; 
 " we all were. And Jamie " — 
 
 Truly, I suppose there is no reason in law or gos- 
 pel why an expressman with a double chin should 
 not be known as " Jamie ; " but it took time for me 
 to reconcile these facts to my imagination ; or to 
 stammer forth the phrase or two of comfort due, as 
 I miTst perceive, to the mother of Sweet Home's be- 
 reaved lover. This interval, however, was enough 
 for the trained nature of one of my best nurses to 
 regain itself; and when Mrs. Gumbrugen spoke 
 again it was quite with her usual professional quali- 
 ties of calm, clearness, and conciseness. 
 
 She gave me the facts, such as I asked for — no 
 more, no less — in her customary method and man- 
 ner. She turned her personal emotion out-of-doors 
 and put herself on duty. My command was her re- 
 sponse, and thus I had the circumstances ; all there 
 were — or all there seemed.
 
 266 SWEET HOME. 
 
 At half - past two o'clock in the mcruing Home 
 Trust had called for help. She complained of great, 
 indefinite distress, and seemed more agitated by it 
 than she was ever known to be by the fluctuations 
 of her illness. The boy Pirky slept in the next 
 room, and she had tried to wake him, but ineffec- 
 tually ; whether he did n't hear, or would n't hear, 
 probably Pirky alone would ever fully know. Her 
 groans had aroused her father, after no one knew 
 how long a period of solitary suffering. Frightened 
 and helpless, he had fled to the neighbors for aid. 
 By good fortune Mrs. Gumbrugen was at home, and 
 had reached the sick-room in less time than it would 
 have taken a less experienced woman to get on her 
 stockings. 
 
 Sweet Home was then quite conscious, knew her, 
 thanked her, kissed her, and said she was glad to 
 have a woman there. She asked that Dr. M'cAll be 
 sent for, and the baker roused one of the older boys, 
 and brought him with such speed as might be. 
 Mrs. Gumbrugen had, indeed, suggested that I be 
 summoned, but the patient objected. She seemed 
 by that time dazed and stupid, and the nurse thought 
 her half asleep ; but she intimated a decided prefer- 
 ence for Dr. M'cAll ; seeming to try to say some- 
 thing to the effect that he had been managing the 
 case, or that he was to be trusted, but failing to say 
 it exactl}^ ; only making it clear that she desired 
 and expected his presence. 
 
 " He is a good doctor," she murmured once. 
 " Everybody calls him so. He has done me a great 
 deal of good. He has helped me very much." 
 
 Once, besides, she spoke quite distinctly, rousing 
 with some effort to say : —
 
 S WEET HOME. 267 
 
 "Tell Jamie " — but what she would have told 
 Jamie, Jamie will never know. The sentence broke, 
 like a sentence in a dream, and after this she spoke 
 but once again, quite coherently, to say that it was 
 growing cold, and she was afraid Pirky was uncov- 
 ered ; would Mrs. Gumbrugen go in and look after 
 Pirky ? 
 
 Dr. M'cAll came. He made no delay in replying 
 to the summons, but the patient was either far 
 in sleep or stupor before he came. She answered 
 his questions, Mrs. Gumbrugen thought, by signs or 
 murmurs ; she was sure that no conversation passed 
 between them. It was certain, however, that Sweet 
 Home knew him. When he was leaving her she 
 put out her hand and laid it appealingly upon his 
 arm for a moment; then dropped it heavily upon 
 the bed and turned her face away. Mrs. Gumbru- 
 gen suffered herself to say that it occurred to her 
 that the patient did not tvant to talk. 
 
 " It crossed my mind, sir, she wanted the doctor 
 to stay ; but she would n't say — or she could n't 
 say — not so much as that. HoAvever, he did n't." 
 
 Mrs. Gumbrugen thought that Dr. M'cAll had not 
 considered the patient dangerously ill. He had 
 stayed with her an hour, prescribed for her, ob- 
 served the working of his prescriptions, desired the 
 nurse to remain in the room the rest of the night, 
 and asked to be called at once if there were any new 
 symptoms. His house was just around the corner, 
 opposite my own ; and the father agreed that some- 
 body should sit up, ready to call the doctor if needed 
 again before the early hour at which he had prom- 
 ised to return. Dr. M'cAll said that Miss Trust was
 
 268 SWEET HOME. 
 
 doing well, and that she would sleep off her nervous 
 distress, he thought. 
 
 " Do you know what Dr. M'cAll prescribed ? " 
 
 " He said chloral, sir." 
 
 " Did he happen to mention the dose ? " 
 
 " He told me that he had given the usual dose — 
 no, a little less than the usual dose." 
 
 " Are you sure of this ? " 
 
 " Perfectly sure." 
 
 " He did not speak of a large dose, in view of her 
 great distress ? Or perhaps he repeated the first 
 one ? " 
 
 " He said it was rather less than the usual dose, 
 and he did not repeat it." 
 
 "Did you stay with Miss Trust the rest of the 
 night ? " 
 
 " I did, sir. She slept quietly, and I thought she 
 was doing remarkably well. I slept some myself, 
 sitting in the rocking-chair." 
 
 "When and why did you send for Dr. M'cAll 
 again ? " 
 
 " At quarter before eight. And because I found 
 her as you saw. I sent for you at the same time. 
 Pirky stopped for Dr. M'cAll, and then he went for 
 you. By some mistake he came back here first. I 
 told him to hurry back. Understanding her condi- 
 tion I allowed my son to be called ; it could do no 
 harm, and it Avas his right to be present." 
 
 " What did Dr. M'cAll say when he got here ? " 
 
 " He turned round — like that ! — and told Pirky 
 to go for you as fast as he could go." 
 
 " What else did he say ? " 
 
 " Nothing."
 
 SWEET HOME. 269 
 
 « Nothing at all ? " 
 
 " Not one word, sir. He stood and looked at her. 
 That was just all. He saw it was too late — we all 
 did. He never spoke one word more from the time 
 he got here till he spoke to yourself, Dr. Term, and 
 asked you : ' Is she dead ? ' " 
 
 Now M'cAll, who should surely have been with 
 me by this time, had not returned. It was natural, 
 under the circumstances, that he should be loth to 
 hasten back to that house, and with a sudden move- 
 ment of the heart toward him, — my pet student, 
 my dear boy, the sensitive, promising, conscientious 
 young fellow, whose mistake I could well-nigh have 
 taken upon myself if I might have spared it him, — 
 with unbearable pity in my soul, I left the dead and 
 sought the living sufferer. 
 
 Dr. M'cAll occupied a suite of rooms in a comfort- 
 able boarding-house not far from my own house ; his 
 offices, reception and consultation rooms were on the 
 first floor, and as I ran up the steps and was hurry- 
 ing in to find him I was met by James Gumbrugen 
 face to face. He was about closing the front door, 
 and was exceedingly agitated. 
 
 " I was jvist coming for you, doctor," he said, with 
 a scared look. " They sent me. Something has hap- 
 pened. I came over to see M'cAll — for I wanted to 
 talk with him about — about the case. I 've nothing 
 against Dr. M'cAll, but I wanted to talk with him a 
 little. Seems as if he 'd ought to known she was — 
 the whole thing 's been so sudden, doctor ! I — she 
 — I'd been courting her four years, you know. We 
 was to have got married when Pirky grew up. I 
 came over to see M'cAll — to ask him some questions
 
 270 SWEET HOME. 
 
 I wanted to ask. But they Avould n't let me see him. 
 Something has happened. Mrs. Chipper sent me to 
 bring you right away. She told me to bring you, and 
 say nothing to nobody, and I " — 
 
 I broke past Gumbrugen and dashed in. M'cAll's 
 landlady, a frivolous, merry little woman, met me 
 within and caught me by the hand with a clutch 
 that made my heart stand still. Mrs. Chipper's face 
 was one of those rudimentary feminine faces which 
 never seem to have developed beyond the stage of 
 cackling laughter. It turned itself up to me, blanched 
 to the last vein, rigid, and cast into a mould of hor- 
 ror which seemed all the more horrible because she 
 usually cackled. 
 
 " For God's sake. Dr. Ferm — shut the door and 
 keep Gumbrugen out. Keep everybody out — for the 
 sake of the house. Help me to keep it quiet as long 
 as I can ! Come with me. . . . This way ! And 
 tell me what to do ! " 
 
 She led me down the hall, through a side-door, 
 into the consulting - room. M'cAU was not there. 
 The room wore its usual aspect, and gave no signs of 
 the unknown tragedy which I had dashed in expect- 
 ing — why ? — to find. Folly ! My nerves were over- 
 strained, shaken ; I flung myself into his chair and 
 opened a window, and occupied myself with trying 
 to conceal from the rudimentary woman the shock 
 which she had given me. But she with absolute 
 composure and that blanched, clay - like face, was 
 locking the door — all the doors — in silence, and 
 with a purpose in which the instinct of the land- 
 lady overcame every other human emotion. 
 
 " Now," she said, " no one can come in. See here ! "
 
 SWEET HOME. 271 
 
 I was sitting in M'cAU's office-chair, at his office- 
 table ; the table was littered with letters, ledgers, 
 note-books, his microscope, laryngoscope, a volume of 
 therapeutics, Gross's Surgery, and so on. 
 
 On the table a piece of his own engraved profes- 
 sional note-paper caught my eye. Mrs. Chipper, with- 
 out a word, put her shaking, little, ringed linger 
 upon the white page. At the top of it was written : — 
 
 " My dear Doctor " — 
 
 There the hand had paused. The purpose had 
 changed. What had superseded it ? The ink was 
 still damp. 
 
 " ISTow," said the landlady, " come with me." She 
 led me without a word, and without a word I fol- 
 lowed. She led me to the reception-room, and with a 
 mute, womanly sign of sympathy to prepare me for 
 what we saw, hid her frivolous face upon her hands 
 and sobbed out such heart as she had. 
 
 Lloyd^M'cAll lay upon the floor. His Smith & 
 Wesson 38 - cartridge revolver lay beside him half- 
 clutched yet in his outstretched hand. He had come 
 straight from Home Trust's death-bed, locked the 
 door of his reception-room, forgotten or omitted to 
 lock the others ; held counsel with his own soul for 
 such time as he would or could-; put the muzzle at 
 the base of the brain, and fired. AVhen the report 
 came, the landlady (whose lodgers, chiefly gentle- 
 men, were at their places of business, and hence no 
 publicity had yet been given to the event) had the 
 presence of mind to go in through the consulting- 
 room alone. He was quite dead when she found him. 
 
 All things in this world can be measured, esti-
 
 272 SWEET HOME. 
 
 mated, counted upon, brought under law, forced into 
 science, except the substance and movement of the 
 spirit. Of air, ocean, earth, we can predict. Elec- 
 tricity, steam, flame, we can conquer. We foreknow 
 the tornado, forecast the pestilence, and calculate the 
 relation of unborn generations to their means of sub- 
 sistence in uninhabited lands. Who has ever formu- 
 lated human joy ? Who has ever brought human 
 suffering under a binocular ? In whose crucible has 
 tlie capacity of anguish in a sensitive — in what we 
 flippantly and ignorantly call a morbid — soul ever 
 been reduced to its chemical elements ? 
 
 Who was to say what the soul of Lloyd M'cAll, 
 supposing himself to have committed the ultimate 
 blunder of his profession, at the outset of his young 
 life, upon the patient who trusted him, upon the 
 woman, whom perhaps (God knows !)* he loved ; 
 who was to say, I ask, what the soul of Lloyd M'c- 
 All endured in those moments which sepailted his 
 discovery of the facts from his method of escaping 
 their corrosion upon his will-power ? If we compute 
 the endurance by the deed, where are our scales to 
 weigh it ? I, for one, have none. 
 
 However that may be, Sweet Home was dead from 
 a dose of chloral, and the hand that had uncon- 
 sciously done the deed had consciously done the 
 worse; and there lay the two that June morning, 
 past all philosophy, faith, or help. And life and law, 
 and order and trust and obedience must move on 
 without a jar across this ghastly obstruction, and 
 there was my poor boy to be cared for, and Mrs. 
 Chipper to be managed, and Gumbrugen to be sent 
 home — and Dubby Joe to appear and say that the
 
 SWEET HOME. 273 
 
 consultation must come off at the earliest possible 
 moment, for the other doctor had fits, and had got to 
 go — and like a spoke in the wheel of fate I turned 
 to the next revolution. 
 
 It was when I was hurrying back from the con- 
 sultation to M'cAll's rooms that Mrs. Gumbrugen 
 stopped my buggy. She was watching for me, with 
 her bonnet and shawl on. 
 
 " I know you have n't a minute to spare, doctor. 
 But I 've got something to tell you. I thought I 'd 
 be ready to jump right into the carriage. I '11 go 
 over there with you if you say. It '11 save time." 
 
 Mrs. Gumbrugen never wasted words or con- 
 structed scenes. She had my confidence as much as 
 my probe had. I took her in and took her there, 
 and shut the doors, and before my dear boy's body 
 bade her speak. 
 
 " I think it is time," she said, "for me to tell you 
 all I know." 
 
 " Very well, Mrs. Gumbrugen. What do you 
 know ? " 
 
 " Dr. Ferm, I shall surprise you." 
 
 " The more reason for doing so at once." 
 
 " He did not do it, doctor." 
 
 " I do not understand you." 
 
 " Dr. M'cAll's prescription was not the cause of 
 Home Trust's death. It is a very sad business, sir, 
 but not that." 
 
 " Go on," I said, after a moment's hesitation. 
 
 " Dr. M'cAU should have waited," said Mrs. Gum- 
 brugen with some feeling, either personal or profes- 
 sional, or both, " before he brought this thing on us 
 — to be talked over. He should have known that
 
 274 SWEET HOME. 
 
 the dose he gave, does n't do that. If he had waited 
 at least to consult with you or me — he might have, 
 I think ! " 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " I said. 
 
 "Well, perhaps so, sir. I am not wishing to be 
 uncharitable to a dead man — though I 'm not so 
 gentle in my ways as yourself. Dr. Perm, and I am 
 Avrought upon, I'll not deny it, for Jamie's sake. 
 See here, sir ! " 
 
 She drew from her pocket a little bottle, which 
 she put into my hand. It was marked Hydrate: 
 Chloral, and bore the imprint of a down-town apoth- 
 ecary. It was a strong solution. The bottle was 
 empty. 
 
 Still perplexed or dull, I turned the bottle over 
 and over in my hand, helplessly regarding Mrs. 
 Gumbrugen, 
 
 " It was hers," said the nurse, in a lower and gen- 
 tler tone. " She did it." 
 
 " She did it ? " 
 
 "Home took it herself. Dr. Term. I have been 
 uneasy for weeks. I did not like the way she talked 
 nor the way she acted. I 've seen too much of such 
 things. She 's been a low-spirited woman for a long 
 time. And the lower her spirits the more she 
 laughed and the merrier. That 's her way. She was 
 discouraged about her health, I think," added Mrs. 
 Gambrugen, with slow emphasis. " She had every- 
 thing else to be contented with. She was going to 
 marry my boy. If you please. Dr. Ferm " — the 
 mother's voice faltered — "we won't tell my boy 
 what I am telling you. If I can help it, I 'd rather 
 Jamie wouldn't know. Jamie was very fond of 
 her " —
 
 SWEET HOME. 275 
 
 " I found this bottle," continued Mrs. Gumbrugen, 
 collecting herself, jifter a moment's weakness, " un- 
 der the mattress when I came to do for her. I am 
 convinced she took the chloral last night. Maybe it 
 was to get to sleep ; maybe it was n't. There 's no- 
 body to say. I know what I think ! She took 
 enough — as you see. She must have died. When 
 she sent for Dr. M'cAll, she was a poisoned woman." 
 
 " And he gave her " — I checked myself. 
 
 " At least he did not do it ! He did not do it ! " 
 
 I turned with an awful yearning to the mute 
 figure by the side of which we stood. Had death no 
 ears to hear ? Had life no lips to cry ? Was there 
 in all science and all faith, in fact or dream, or' in- 
 vention or creation, no way to make him under- 
 stand ? 
 
 "Dead folks are dead folks," said Mrs. Gum- 
 brugen, in her just, orderly voice. " It 's the living 
 have the worst of things." 
 
 I did not go home to lunch that day till the last 
 moment. It was not easy to go. Come what might, 
 I would not darken the bridal look in those sweet 
 eyes with the grim details of my calling. This I 
 was resolved upon. 
 
 Perhaps I was right ; perhaps I was wrong ; but 
 at least I began our married life in that way, out of 
 a full determination to spare her if, and all, I could. 
 No man knows quite how to make a woman happy 
 in the wisest way ; and years after I may have 
 learned to reconsider this determination for her own 
 sake. But then — why, we had not been married 
 two weeks !
 
 276 SWEET HOME. 
 
 I went back to her slowly. As I began to put 
 those two mute faces behind me» I perceived that it 
 was still June — hot, bright, blossoming, singing 
 June. It was noon, and the walls that held what I 
 had left cast no shadow upon the paved streets 
 across which I moved. When I came to my own 
 front yard, I found myself counting the briclis 
 again ; but this time I finished the count. There 
 were one hundred and six. 
 
 As I stood with my hand on my latch a spray of 
 the creeper leaned over, stirred by the warm wind, 
 and seemed to observe me ; the perfume was almost 
 sickeningly sweet. Involuntarily, I put out my 
 hand and pushed ths flower back. 
 
 June, home, hope, love — these were in the world ; 
 but was the world of these ? 
 
 I went in softly. She did not hear me at first. 
 She was in the inner room, our dining-room, arran- 
 ging grape leaves about the strawberries in a glitter- 
 ing glass dish ; her white hands shone against the 
 red fruit. She still wore that pretty morning gown, 
 but had put fresh color — so I saw — in the ribbons 
 at her throat and waist. As I stood, to watch her, 
 the long curtain blew again in the peaceful wind, 
 with a dainty, idle motion, as if nothing harder or 
 sadder than its pretty play had been done in our dear 
 home that summer morning long. 
 
 She was hununing to herself, below her breath, 
 not knowing that she was overheard, and I made out 
 that she sang snatches of the same song which had 
 beaten time in her happy thoughts since I left her all 
 those hours ago : — 
 
 " Beyond the sea of deatli love lies."
 
 SWEET HOME. 277 
 
 Turning at last with the languorous sweet motion, 
 of happiness and ease, my young wife moved and 
 saw me. She stretched out her lovely arms, and, 
 half in shyness, half in rapturous impulse, met me — 
 like a soft wave of joy broken upon the shore of my 
 heart. 
 
 " Were you too late, dear Love ? " she asked. 
 And presently, for I did not answer, — could not, 
 dared not answer, — she stirred and put her hand 
 upon my cheek, and said : — 
 
 " Happy, Hurlburt ? " 
 
 But when I put her down and moved apart to hide 
 my agitated face, my dear one, in the very brimming 
 of her joy, broke into clear and passionate singing, 
 half unconscious that she did ; and while she drew 
 the blinds and gathered the green shadow into our 
 cool, still home, and shut out the world, and shut in 
 ourselves, and shut out sorrow, and shut in delight, 
 and shut out all hard things and all cruel questions, 
 and shut in all blessed truths and all simple answers, 
 thus again I heard her sing : — 
 
 " Beyond the sea of death love lies. 
 Forever, yesterday, to-day, 
 Angels shall ask them, ' Is it well ? ' 
 And they shall answer " —
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 John True came home from his work one day 
 ■with a slower step than usual. It was a June day 
 in 1861. John True lived in Dogberry, a Massa- 
 chusetts village. He was a house-painter by trade, 
 and had on his working clothes, which were not be- 
 coming, being of an unassured bleached-cotton color 
 to begin with, and splashed with conflicting tones of 
 paint, in which red had obtained a murderous pre- 
 dominance. But John had one of the figures that 
 conquer clothes ; he swung easily at the hips, car- 
 ried a straight shoulder, and put down an elastic 
 foot. He had curly hair, and the indefinable ex- 
 pression in the background of the eyes, belonging to 
 a man who has a happy home. 
 
 It was not a sharply individualized home, seen 
 from the outside, being a cheap white house, like 
 other cheap white houses in Dogberry ; too heavy in 
 the brows, too narrow in the cheeks, uncertain in 
 the jaws, and of a chilly expression. It had white 
 shades and a white fence, and an acre or two of land, 
 wherein nature seemed to relieve herself in a gasp 
 of green, and to dash up the deep sepia loam, where 
 the potatoes grew, in a riotous outburst of personal 
 feeling. There were currant-bushes in the garden, 
 and a tall cherry-tree, which budded late, now pale 
 with dropping blossoms. As the master of the
 
 TOO LATE. 279 
 
 house came up the front yard he stopped to examine 
 the cinnamon rose-bush, and looked over at the cab- 
 bages in the southwest corner. 
 
 A child's voice came through the open door and 
 windows — a little boy's voice ; he was singing ; he 
 sang one' of the Sunday-school hymns taught in the 
 emaciated (white) meeting-house on the hill beyond 
 the village. The result of his musical effort was 
 somewhat to this effect : — 
 
 " My omeizzen Ye-ev-in^', my 
 Resizzenere ; 
 Ven wy shoulda ma-a-mo, 
 If twyalsypere ? " 
 
 Another voice sounded clearly within, but that 
 one sang a wordless lullaby, " 'sh-shing " to sleep a 
 gurgling baby ; and neither the coo nor the lullaby 
 struck a false note against the shrilling song of the 
 theologically minded little musician, who piped on 
 gloriously. 
 
 John True, out by the cinnamon rose-bush, said to 
 himself : — 
 
 " Happy to-day, ain't they ? " And then, when 
 he had said it to himself, he said it aloud to the 
 roses : — 
 
 " The folks seem happy to-day, don't they ? " 
 
 Nobody from within had seen him yet, and he 
 lingered about, fussing with the bush. In general, 
 he held that the floral kingdom was created for the 
 amusement of the female mind ; cabbages called for 
 a certain masculine force. But he picked a rose- 
 bud, clumsily, before he went to examine the cab- 
 bages, which he did with a vague attention that 
 overflowed upon the potato-patch ; he had a sense of
 
 280 TOO LATE. 
 
 strengthening his character by concentration upon 
 these sturdier facts. It took him a good while to 
 get into the house. 
 
 He came at last, with what seemed a reluctant 
 step, in which there was this curious thing to be no- 
 ticed, that he trod softly, like a man who is 'afraid 
 that he shall wake the sleeping. Yet clearly the 
 baby had nothing to do with it, for little Mrs. True's 
 was one of those exceptionally blessed households 
 in which the baby's nap is not a thing of terror and 
 a gloom forever to all mature existence. As a rule, 
 the more noise you made, the better the True babies 
 slept. 
 
 The door was open, as I said, and John True 
 stepped in on tiptoe. A rag mat, clean enough but 
 very old, lay in the little entry ; he looked down at 
 it as he entered, wiping his feet, which were dusty 
 dry, with mechanical patience. The mat had a blue 
 flannel rose on it, touched off in black alpaca on one 
 of the petals where the flannel had given out. A 
 child's tin horse, without a head, stood in the entry, 
 and trundled about when his foot hit it. 
 
 The little tinkling noise betrayed his presence, 
 and the lullaby in the inner room stopped abruptly. 
 A woman's voice said : — 
 
 " That you ? " 
 
 " It 's me," said John. He hung his hat up and 
 stood hesitating. The little boy was singing with 
 piercing shrillness : — 
 
 " Wy shoulda ma-a-ma 
 If twyalsypere ? 
 My omeizzen Ye-ev " — 
 
 "'Sh-sh, Tommy ! " interrupted the woman's voice.
 
 TOO LATE. 281 
 
 dropping on meanwhile contentedly into her lullaby. 
 " Go see who that is in the entry, Toinm}^ 'Sh-sh- 
 sh-h, my dear ! Lie still and slu-umber ! " 
 
 Tommy checked himself in the midst of his reli- 
 gious aspirations and ran to the door, where he stood 
 peering — a pleasant little rogue, well built and red ; 
 he had on a green gingham apron, and had been eat- 
 ing gingerbread. Tommy said : — 
 
 " W'y, it 's PupTpev ! " with the eternal surprise of 
 childhood, to which all things are forever new. His 
 father patted him on the head, and said : — 
 
 " There, there ! " while he re-hung his stained 
 straw hat, which had tumbled down. The hat was 
 brown, and had a row of air-holes perforated about 
 the crown — a new fashion then. True began to 
 count them as he stood staring. The child crept 
 back and tugged at his mother. True heard him 
 tell her that "Pupper" didn't kiss him, but only 
 spatted him. The mother crooned on to the gur- 
 gling baby. 
 
 " I believe I '11 change my clothes first," called 
 John, without entering the room. 
 
 The lullaby stopped short. 
 
 "Why, John!" 
 
 John flushed, and went in at once. As he entered 
 the room, details blurred and slipped away before 
 his eyes ; he perceived chiefly that the windows and 
 blinds were open, and the late summer light came 
 quivering into the western corner of the room where 
 the woman sat with the baby ; the child fell heavily 
 back upon her long, maternal arms away from her 
 half-draped breast. The light blinded her a little, 
 and she moved out of it, holding up her face like a
 
 282 TOO LATE. 
 
 Madonna to the Lord. John kissed her with the si- 
 lent reverence with which even a house-painter, my 
 aesthetic friends, may kiss his wife when she gets 
 one of these aureolas about her. 
 
 "Kow, Father," she said, with sweet mock re- 
 proach in a voice to which clearly reproaching was 
 not natural, " you may go change your clothes ! The 
 idea ! I guess it would have been the first time for 
 twelve years, would n't it. Tommy ? Think of Pup- 
 per stopping to clean up before he kissed us, 
 Tommy ! " 
 
 " I 'd got an extra daub on to-day," said John 
 True, glancing down at his unbleached cotton blouse 
 and overalls. " I 've been to work to Seth Grimace's. 
 There seemed to be such lots of — red." 
 
 He went away into the shed and hung up the 
 splashed and spattered clothes. It took him longer 
 than usual to "clean up," a process which he con- 
 ducted by the aid of the yard pump and kitchen 
 roller. Some of the paints especially would not 
 come off his fingers, even for the turpentine. 
 
 " I hate to paint a red house," he said. 
 
 His wife called him two or three times to supper 
 before he answered : — 
 
 "Yes, yes, Mary," and with a deep breath joined 
 himself to them. He felt all the dear and delicate 
 currents of daily life sweep him on. It was like 
 any other supper, after all. He sat, shining and 
 soapy, at the head of the pine table. Tommy was 
 beside him ; the baby was sound asleep in the sitting- 
 room. Their mother had brushed her hair, and sat 
 smiling. She talked about the doughnuts and the 
 hash. He ate both with relish — he felt very hiin-
 
 TOO LATE. 283 
 
 gry. Ever3^thing seemed to be going on, and would 
 go on forever. 
 
 " Where 's Sissy ? " asked John suddenly, laying 
 down a pickled cucumber that was already melting 
 at his lips. 
 
 " Why, she 's gone to the Sunday-school picnic, 
 you know," said Sissy's mother. "She wore her 
 pink cambric. I gave her some of that cold mutton, 
 with the sausage and pie. I made her take the um- 
 brella, in case it should rain. She won't get home 
 before nine. Jenny Severby went with her." 
 
 '' They 've got a letter from Severby. He ain't 
 wounded much," said John absently. He was think- 
 ing about Sissy, and to himself he said : " One less." 
 
 He was glad Sissy was at the picnic, and yet he 
 wished, too, that she were at home ; an empty place 
 made the table look so. He finished his pickle, and 
 took another doughnut. 
 
 "I hain't had squshed pienough," announced 
 Tommy at this juncture. This was a point upon 
 which Tommy and his mother cherished differences 
 of opinion, and a gentle domestic flurry celebrated 
 the controversy. It was difficult even for his par- 
 ents to conceive the inconceivable, so far as to be- 
 lieve that any boy could cry louder than Tommy. 
 John ate on calmly ; he was iised to it, and Mary 
 had a way with the child. He wondered sometimes 
 which groggery he should have selected, if he had 
 married a scolding wife. Simpson's had its advan- 
 tages, but Joe's was farther from home. This was 
 the deepest metaphysical speculation in which John 
 True had ever gone adrift. He pursued it dreamily 
 now, as Tommy, subsiding from agony to theology,
 
 284 TOO LATE. 
 
 as so many wiser than Tommy had done before him, 
 struck up again : — 
 
 " My omeizzen Ye-ev-ing, my 
 Resizzenere ; 
 Veil wy shoulda ma-a-ma 
 If twyalsypere ? " 
 
 " What is that boy singing ? " asked his father. 
 " Why, it 's plain enough, I 'm sure," said Mary, 
 in a gently reproving tone. " He says : — 
 
 ' My home is in Heaven, 
 My rest is not here ; 
 Then why should I murmur 
 If trials appear ? ' 
 
 It 's easy enough to understand the boy. He speaks 
 very plain, I 'm sure he does. I think he 's going to 
 have a beautiful voice when he 's old enough. Let 's 
 send him to singing-school, John, sha'n't we ?" 
 
 " I guess I '11 go and get my smoke," said John. 
 But he came back in a moment, fumbling awkwardly 
 in his pocket, whence he drew an abject-looking cin- 
 namon rosebud, which Tommy had freely sat on 
 more or less during the evening meal. 
 
 " I meant to have put it in your gown before sup- 
 per, Mary." John came bashfully up, and held the 
 flower between his thumb and little finger. 
 
 His wife said : " You dear old thing ! " for he did 
 not often give her flowers. He was not one of those 
 men. She put the rose in her bosom coquettishly, 
 and nodded at him. A fine color flowed over her 
 face. She felt ten years younger, and looked five. 
 She began to sing, as she washed the dishes, on a 
 full Baptist - choir soprano, merrily joining Tommy 
 in the statement that his home was in Heaven, till it
 
 TOO LATE. 285 
 
 seemed to become a general family joke, they were 
 all in such spirits about it. 
 
 John listened to them as he sat smoking on the 
 back door-steps. He looked over the potato-field ; 
 the arms of the cherry-tree leaned around the corner 
 of the house toward him ; the chickens came up and 
 pecked confidingly at his boots, but the rooster dis- 
 liked tobacco and kept at a distance. Tommy came 
 out and strangled him from behind with two little 
 green-checked arms. The child's kisses produced 
 the effect of a vertigo upon the man. He got up to 
 put away his pipe, and stood staggering. 
 
 His wife came out and talked about the cherries 
 and the chickens. She hung upon him, and they 
 wandered about the little yard and garden till the 
 sun sank behind the meeting-house belfry, and the 
 currant leaves looked no longer like thin gold, but 
 like thick agate or lava, and drooped with dew. In 
 the sky, purple forms, like banners, came up and on, 
 and the mists in the valley moved solemnly, as if 
 they had been thoughts. In the fading of the day 
 the woman's face seemed to grow shrunken and des- 
 olate. 
 
 " You look thin," said John. 
 
 " I don't feel thin," said Mary. 
 
 It seemed she was not thinking about the sunset, 
 but about the potatoes. She had many questions. 
 Should they plant pink-eyes next year ? How did 
 the new fertilizer affect the cabbages ? Might n't 
 she have a fuchsia and three geraniums under the 
 L window ? Tommy must have a swing on the 
 cherry-tree. In the fall, where should we put Sissy's 
 teeter-board ? She 'd been promised one in Septem-
 
 286 TOO LATE. 
 
 ber. And when should the chicken-house be painted 
 red ? And, John, could we get a rabbit for Tom? 
 And, John, did Sissy grow so fast that we must cut 
 her hair ? 
 
 '' Don't you think it 's getting a little damp ? " 
 asked John, 
 
 He spoke in the high throat-voice his wife was 
 used to when he had the toothache. She said : — 
 
 " What ! that old wisdom at it again ? Poor fel- 
 low ! " and reached up to pat him upon the cheek be- 
 fore she took the boy in. 
 
 He watched them as they went. Tommy, half 
 asleep, leaned heavily, tugging at his mother's 
 bright calico dress, which in the dusk had faded to a 
 gloomy color. Mary half lifted, half led the little 
 fellow. The baby woke, and cried faintly from the 
 dark 'house. 
 
 John True stood under the cherry-tree and stared 
 after them. He did not smoke any more. He felt 
 the delicate white blossoms falling to the ground 
 around him. 
 
 He was a man to whom nothing had ever hap- 
 pened. The impossibility of change was like the 
 remoteness of death. H§ tried to fix his mind upon 
 the passing hour. He thought of little things. It 
 occurred to him that he would go into the house and 
 look at the green check on Tommy's apron. 
 
 The lamps were lighted before he got in, and he 
 groped dizzily toward them through the heavy, 
 sweet-scented night air, across the narrow yard. 
 His wife glanced at him as he came in, but did not 
 at the moment speak. She had brown eyes and 
 brown hair, and always looked prettier by lamp-
 
 TOO LATE. 287 
 
 light. She had put the cinnamon rose into her hair 
 because the baby snatched at it. 
 
 John sat down on the hair-cloth sofa in the sit- 
 ting-room while Tommy was being put to bed. He 
 felt like a visitor in his own house. Tommy kissed 
 him good-night hilariously, and said his prayers for 
 Pupper in a metrical manner, closely resembling the 
 tune of '' Three Little Kittens," and replacing by an 
 emphatic Amen the historic "basket of saw-aw- 
 dust." 
 
 Then Sissy came home from the picnic. Sissy was 
 a tall, bleached girl with freckles, and wore her hair 
 in two long braids behind. She did not look like 
 her mother or her father, but like a queer great- 
 aunt who made an unfortunate marriage. It was 
 necessary to talk a great deal about the picnic, and 
 Sissy had lost the umbrella. 
 
 John remembered that he had not collected his 
 mind by counting the squares on Tommy's apron, 
 which had disappeared with Tommy ; it seemed that 
 a great opportunity was lost. 
 
 But Sissy too was tired, and would go to bed. 
 When she came to say good-night, her father asked 
 her how old she was, and Sissy told him she was 
 eleven, and her mother said : — 
 
 " "Why, John ! what a funny question ! " And 
 John said nothing at all. And so, presently. Sissy 
 too had gone to bed, and her mother went up with 
 her; and John said he would finish his smoke. 
 
 He did not smoke, however, but stood in the sit- 
 ting-room where they had left him. When he was 
 quite alone, he stretched his arms with one mighty, 
 pathetic gesture above his head. The awful power
 
 288 TOO LATE. 
 
 of a human home was on him ; he felt as helpless 
 before it as the child in the cradle. His soul shot 
 out tendrils everywhere ; he could have clasped the 
 tall rocking-chair, the baby's sock that had fallen 
 beneath it, the old mat that stood before his wife's 
 sewing-chair, the scraps of her work scattered about. 
 Her voice and Sissy 's came from the bedroom above. 
 Tommy was singing himself to sleep with a droning 
 sound : — 
 
 " My ome — izzen Ye-ev-ing." 
 
 " IHl bet the chap that wrote that never had one to 
 his name anywheres else ! " cried John True. 
 
 Mary came down -stairs. As she entered, she 
 glanced at him, but said nothing. 
 
 She moved about with gentle bustle, picking up 
 scraps of cloth and spools, and the children's play- 
 things ; she drew the green paper shades, and 
 smoothed the worn red table-cloth, and pulled her 
 rocking-chair around away from the light. 
 
 " Wy shoulda ma-a-ma ? " 
 
 sang Tommy, and so sank into his first nap, from 
 which he aroused but once to ejaculate — 
 
 " Twyalsypere ! " 
 
 in a firm voice, before silence settled for that summer 
 night upon the cheap white house. 
 
 Mary True sat beside her husband in the quiet 
 room ; she was run-and-back-stitching the seam on a 
 red delaine dress for Sissy. 
 
 " It 's her fall dress," she said, " but I thought I 'd 
 begin. I made it over out of that one of mine — do 
 you remember, John ? " 
 
 " I guess so," said John, with a mighty effort of
 
 TOO LATE. 289 
 
 the imagination. " It looks as if I 'd seen some 
 woman wear it. I guess I remember it, Mary." 
 
 " Why, Jolm ! It 's the dress I had made up one 
 wedding-day two years ago, to surprise you in. And, 
 John ! you kissed me three times extra in it the 
 night I put it on, and said I looked younger than 
 Clara Severby. I should think even a inian would 
 remember that ! " with great contempt. 
 
 " Why, yes, I said I remembered it," replied John 
 meekly. "Clara looks old," he went on, ''since 
 Severby — are you going to send Sissy to the High 
 School, Mary ? " 
 
 "I — have always thought we would educate Sissy," 
 said Sissy's mother, speaking slowly. " And John, 
 dear " — 
 
 " Well, Mary ? " 
 
 " Don't you suppose " — 
 
 *' Don't I suppose ? " 
 
 '' Don't you think we might, somehow, manage — 
 other folks do that ain't better off than we are — 
 don't you think we might — if I did n't have any 
 new dresses, John, only the children's things — and 
 if we did n't have much doctoring — don't you think 
 we might send him to college ? " 
 
 " Send who to college — Severby ? " 
 
 "I meant Tommy," said Mary, hanging her brown 
 head, " but I know it 's " — 
 
 " Yes, Mary, it is," answered John in a deep voice. 
 "The boy must work — like his father — he must 
 help you — he must help us all. God must help us 
 all." 
 
 He got up and paced the little room, shook off her 
 hand ; then, returning, lifted her work-worn lingers
 
 290 TOO LATE. 
 
 with the courtliness of love, close to his set, strong 
 lips. 
 
 The woman had dropped her sewing now. Sissy's 
 red dress-waist fell to the floor. Her mother, after 
 a moment's silence, picked it up, folded it methodi- 
 cally and laid it away for the night. 
 
 " I think I '11 go see if the children are covered 
 up," she said lightly. " It has changed to the east." 
 
 The rocker of her little sewing-chair creaked as 
 she moved ; Tommy half waked and called her ; and, 
 from the inner room, she could be heard hushing the 
 stirring baby in inarticulate, beautiful, maternal poly- 
 syllables. The east wind drove in at the open front 
 door, and sounds from the distant village, broken, 
 stirring, and solemn, came in. 
 
 Mary came back soon enough, and they sat to- 
 gether and talked of many things. Her thoughts 
 ran wild with the future that night : what trades the 
 boys would like ; how old Sissy should be when she 
 married ; whether he, John, would grow tired of her, 
 Mary, when she grew old. They talked about a new 
 oil-cloth in the entry and the prevention of pro- 
 fanity in a boy like Tom. They discussed the lin- 
 ing to the kitchen stove and the last lie that Sissy 
 told. They considered the price of rump-steaks and 
 whether, if John were a church-member, he would 
 have family prayers. They talked of when he must 
 have new shirts and how long they had been mar- 
 ried. They criticised the old rooster and the new 
 minister. They spoke of the pudding they would 
 have to-morrow and the good they would have done 
 if they had been rich people. They spoke of the last 
 time they were cross to each other and of how they 
 would love each other forty years to come.
 
 TOO LATE. 291 
 
 John got himself through it all in a stern, soldierly 
 fashion. He kept his hands clasped behind his head 
 at first, and gave her his sad, straightforward eyes, 
 regarding her with the pathetic reticence character- 
 istic of certain men ; his look seemed to lift her up 
 as if she had been one of the children like Sissy or 
 Tom, and to hold her to the heart of thoughts as un- 
 spoken as his pure and perfect love. It was as if 
 this awful individuality of the purpose of a man 
 stepped out like another being between the husband 
 and the wife, and made three of them. She appre- 
 hended it before she spoke. She was not wise 
 enough to put it into words, but she felt, from the 
 bottom of her heart, and knew, from the limits of her 
 understanding, that she had for the first time come 
 up against that in the man's nature with which she, 
 Mary, his wife, whom he had sworn to cherish till 
 death did part them, could not, by might or right or 
 love or longing, hope to intermeddle. 
 
 As they talked, her face blanched sadly ; but she 
 was not a crying woman; she looked steadily on 
 straight before her. She had been sitting in the low 
 rocker all this while without her work, her hands, in 
 the rare and awkward idleness of a working- woman, 
 crossed clumsily in her lap. She had not touched 
 him. 
 
 But now, at last, she put out her fingers and slid 
 them timidly into his. She rose then, and, still 
 timidly, she gave him the other hand. For a mo- 
 ment so, she looked down at him. 
 
 " John," she said, " do you want to take me in 
 your lap a minute ? " 
 
 In the silence he held up his shaking arms. The
 
 292 TOO LATE. 
 
 distant drum-beat from the village sounded out as 
 she crept to him. 
 
 " John, do you — Oh, hush ! hush ! Oh, I know 
 you love me ! Oh, I won't ask ! I '11 never be so 
 cruel. I '11 save you, dear — you shall not tell. Oh, 
 my poor boy ! my dear boy ! I know you have en- 
 listed. I knew it when you first came home ! " 
 
 II. 
 
 The crimson panorama was comfortably folded 
 away at last from our sensitive sight. The dis- 
 banded armies and the disbanded lives had dispersed 
 as best they might. The silken battle-flags, splashed 
 and rent, were aesthetically draped in the State 
 Houses, and still pointed out to rural visitors on a 
 pleasant Saturday afternoon. The birds sang shrilly 
 in the great cemeteries at Arlington, at Gettysburg, 
 and the rest. The old uniform was cut over to make 
 a coat for the boy. Men had learned to pass the red 
 cap of the messenger without touching their own. 
 Women had already dared to scold the saved soldier, 
 for whose life they would have sold their souls. The 
 crape was worn out, and the tears were dry. It was 
 beginning to be too much to ask of one to follow the 
 procession on Decoration Day. It was ten years 
 after the war. 
 
 It was wearing to the end of a Xovember day, and 
 a poor sort of day even at that. The wind had blown 
 from the east for forty-eight hours, and was rising 
 still. The trees objected heavily to this fact with 
 groaning bare boughs, and in these little su.burban 
 places there seemed to be a dismal superfluity of
 
 TOO LATE. 293 
 
 trees. They stood about forlornly in rows, like vet- 
 erans who were no longer wanted. Now that the 
 elm and maple leaves lay crushing paralytically 
 under foot, or whirled hysterically overhead and 
 athwart through the gray air, of what use was all 
 this gauntness of outline and tenacity of existence, 
 except to drip into one's eyes and make the houses 
 damp ? 
 
 It was going to rain when it could make up its 
 mind to. No one stayed out-of-doors who could 
 help it. The pedestrians were few out here in these 
 wide spaces. The afternoon drives were over. The 
 fat horses had bowled the carriages away to the 
 luxurious stables. Ladies prattled shivering within, 
 and ordered the parlor-fire lighted. The gentlemen 
 had come earlier, and crosser, than usual from their 
 business. The lap-dogs sat in the bay-windows, oc- 
 cupying crimson cushions and wearing bows to 
 match. The horse-car on the long single track made 
 the chief sign of motion in the windy dusk, unless 
 one noticed the newsboy or had a personal stake in- 
 volved in the coming of the evening express. Even 
 the leaves had the air of trying to get in-doors, and 
 the whirls of dust wore a dejected look, as of objects 
 dependent on private charity for shelter. 
 
 It was no night, it was no place, for a peddler, as 
 anybody but a peddler would have known. The 
 poor fellow who came toiling on behind the half-past 
 live Scotch-plaid horse-car, which had stopped to let 
 off the stout gentleman at the large, high-art green 
 house that stood back from the street, looked as if 
 he would have shown more discouragement if he had 
 been more used to hope. He walked most wearily,
 
 •294 TOO LATE. 
 
 and as one observed liini one might have seen that it 
 was the weariness of disease, which differs from that 
 of healthy fatigue with a kind of distinction that the 
 well cannot perceive. He had a little bag or knap- 
 sack strapped across his shoulders in an easy way, 
 as if they were well used to it ; he bore it, indeed, 
 with a certain grace. He had the figure of a man 
 who would have walked erect if he had been well. 
 He Avas tall and well put together. He had a pair 
 of line blue eyes, but these no comfortable person 
 would have cared to examine, for fear that he should 
 remember them; would have gone on perhaps, as 
 the stout gentleman did, whistling down an uneasy 
 sense that he had seen the saddest thing yet in the 
 whole November landscape. 
 
 " I might try it myself," said the peddler, pausing 
 before the high-art green house. That house was a 
 novelty then, the daring freak of a young English 
 architect. It attracted all manner of moths like this, 
 by the sheer barbaric force of color. The people 
 who lived there — Hathaway by name, though that 
 is of small importance to us or the peddler — had 
 observed it. Mrs. Hathaway complained that she 
 could halve the number of beggars and other tramps 
 by a coat of cool, gray paint — something after the 
 manner of Ruskin, who doubtless had these social 
 facts in view, in the promulgation of his architectural 
 theories. 
 
 " I 've tried most all sorts," said the peddler pa- 
 tiently, " the big and the little, yellow and white. I 
 have n't tried a (/reen house yet. There 's a deal of 
 yellow ochre in it. It 's a very well painted house 
 — unfashionable though. 1 might as well venture.
 
 TOO LATE. 295 
 
 Unfashionable folks ain't so likely to have fashion- 
 able hearts ; nor their views about tape and needles 
 ain't so stylish either," he added aloud, as he turned 
 into the dusky avenue. 
 
 Of sane people, only the very solitary talk aloud. 
 As he turned from the avenue to strike the little 
 winding path that led to the back of the house, the 
 great front door of the mansion opened, and several 
 people came out. There were perhaps four ladies 
 and two gentlemen. A carriage or two had now 
 driven up, and stood waiting. The hostess herself 
 followed her guests to the door, saying something 
 about the Scotch-plaid car, which was overdue. They 
 were all people of elegant dress and easy demeanor. 
 They were talking earnestly among themselves, and 
 lingered on the porch. 
 
 '' I wonder," said a gray-headed gentleman with a 
 classic profile and a bronchial cough, " if it would do 
 to loan Michael Cavarini ten dollars ? " The classic 
 gentleman spoke timidly. 
 
 " We cannot be too firm, Mr. Wax," suggested 
 Mrs. Hathaway, '" although there must be exceptions 
 to all theories. Do you not think Michael Cavarini 
 has had time to become self-supporting ? There is 
 the wood-yard, and the snow-shoveling will soon 
 come on." 
 
 " His visitor says he can't get into the wood-yard, 
 you know," observed the youngest person present — 
 a very young gentleman, who had a conscientious 
 mustache. 
 
 "True," replied Mrs. Hathaway, "and snow-shov- 
 eling has not been a fruitful means of livelihood 
 since April, poor fellow ! Well, we must think
 
 296 TOO LATE. 
 
 again. Don't you think it would do to continue his 
 case at the next council ? " 
 
 " Unless I get more light on the subject before 
 Tuesday," said Mr. Wax earnestly, " I shall vote for 
 the loan. I might even advocate its being twenty- 
 five dollars, and no interest." 
 
 "As to Mrs. O'Flaherty," urged the very young 
 gentleman, " it seems to me we might give her a pair 
 of shoes. I really don't see how she is to go out 
 scrubbing — I think we decided she was to scrub on 
 trial, did n't we ? — without shoes. Then she said 
 she needed something flannel — I 'm not clear what 
 — some of the ladies may know. She said she pre- 
 ferred it red. I have been in great perplexity over 
 Mrs. O'Flaherty. My mother offered me an old 
 dress for her. Do you think it would demoralize 
 her past redemption ? " 
 
 The rest of the little company broke into merri- 
 ment at this, and as the car came swinging round 
 the corner they parted laughing, the ready, nervous 
 laugh of people who have dwelt upon great respon- 
 sibilities too long for their ease of heart. 
 
 "There," said one of the party, as they went 
 down the avenue, "there is one of them this mo- 
 ment, Mrs. Hathaway. Your theories are at your 
 threshold. If they don't keep away from you, what 
 hope is there for the age ? Of what use is it for us 
 to lavish our souls and bodies on those problems 
 when we can't keep beggars off from our own doors ? 
 Why should we " — 
 
 " I 'm no beggar," said a sturdy voice from the 
 uncertain shadow that the dusk was building by the 
 servants' doors.
 
 TOO LATE. 297 
 
 The little group stopped and stared at the peddler 
 — all but the very young gentleman with the con- 
 scientious mustache, who ran to catch the plaid 
 horse-car, and lost it ; whereupon, I regret to say, 
 he devoutly expressed the wish that he had never 
 made the acquaintance of Mrs. 0' Flaherty. 
 
 " What are you ? " asked Mr. Wax, trying to 
 speak sternly (he had a vague impression that the 
 man had been impertinent), but not succeeding in 
 the least. 
 
 " I 'm a peddler," stoutly. " I 've never taken 
 charity from no man — yet." 
 
 " Very good. That is excellent. I hope you 
 never will," said Mrs. Hathaway hastily. '"You 
 talk like a man." 
 
 "Anything Avould be better than to pauperize 
 yourself," suggested a lady who did not smile. 
 " Cold and hunger are not the worst things in the 
 world." 
 
 " Marm," said the peddler, " did you ever try it ? " 
 
 The four refined, benevolent, perplexed, and com- 
 fortable faces glanced hard for the moment at the 
 peddler's sickly, shrinking one. He had a hunted 
 look, glaring across the dark at them, where he 
 stood apart. 
 
 " My horses are getting restless," said the lady 
 who thought cold and hunger were not the worst 
 things in the world, " and I must really go." 
 
 But Mr. Wax said he should stay and see a little 
 more of this. 
 
 " Go round into the side porch," suggested Mrs. 
 Hathaway to the peddler. " We will look at your 
 things there."
 
 298 TOO LATE. 
 
 The peddler did as he was bidden, walking slowl3^ 
 He stood on the uppermost step but one, and looked 
 up at the lady and gentleman who waited in the 
 open doorway against a background of bright, in- 
 definite interior, as delicate and mysterious to the 
 man as the heart of a rose. His arrested attitude 
 was not without significance ; it was that of one 
 who could not go up, and would not go down. 
 
 " What is your name ? " began Mrs. Hathaway 
 promptly. 
 
 " Tape and needles, pins and ruffling, lace and 
 hairpins — oh ! John True, marm." 
 
 " I will look at the needles. Do you make a com- 
 fortable living ? " 
 
 " Sometimes," said the peddler, evasively. 
 
 " Have you a permit ? " asked Mr. Wax, with the 
 determination of a man resolved to say the proper 
 thing. 
 
 " Sir ? — Yes. Those are American pins, marm. 
 I 've got no English to-day." 
 
 " Have you sold much to-day, John True ? " 
 
 " Not much to-day, nor yet yesterday," said John 
 True, hesitating. " I got a breakfast for a couple of 
 box-plaits and some pink tape." 
 
 "You look hungry," said Mr. Wax, with blunt 
 compassion. 
 
 The peddler looked at the Committee of the So- 
 ciety for the Prevention of Pauperism. He did not 
 speak. The stout gentleman had come out and 
 joined them ; he called Mrs. Hathaway " JNIy dear." 
 The pug had followed also, and stood airing his 
 crimson ribbons with high personal reserve on the 
 door-sill ; he had the aspect of a sub-committee not
 
 TOO LATE. 299 
 
 expected to give advice, but admitted to unfathoma- 
 ble confidence. 
 
 " We will have some supper," said the lady with 
 vague kindness. Her thorough training as a social 
 economist prevented her from saying, "I will give 
 you a supper." 
 
 " Thank you, marm," said John True, " if the 
 needles will pay for it." 
 
 " This is an excellent spirit, Mr. Wax," said Mrs. 
 Hathaway. A child at this moment ran from some- 
 where and dashed at the stout gentleman's neck — 
 plainly a boy, by his boisterous loving. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the peddler, with a change of man- 
 ner, " he 's a pretty little fellow." 
 
 " Some of your own, perhaps ? " asked the lady. 
 
 " Hush ! " said Mr. Wax, who was a bachelor, 
 "you — you hurt the man." 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said John True. There was 
 an awkward silence. The peddler was the first to 
 break it. 
 
 " I find it hard " — he fumbled weakly with an 
 imitation Valenciennes ruffle, drawing it through and 
 through his gaunt fingers — "I don't find it easy, yet, 
 to talk about it all. I 'd ought to hy this time. My 
 boy had the scarlet fever while I was in the war — 
 him and the baby. They both died in one week. 
 My wife wrote me about it. That and the war broke 
 her all up. She kind of pined away. She did n't 
 live long after I got home, herself. That 's how it 
 comes I have n't anybody. She was a good wife. 
 My boy's name was Tommy. He was just the size 
 of yours, sir — much them ways. ]\[y wife wanted 
 him to go to college. I don't think she ever
 
 300 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 thought he could die. I never thought of it myself 
 till the letter came. I was n't so much acquainted 
 with the baby; but he was a cunning little thing. 
 I suppose he would have grown up. My wife was 
 very fond of him. My wife was a brave woman." 
 He drew himself up. " She never asked me not to 
 go — not once. I got wounded once or twice, and 
 once my name got into the dead-list. It broke her 
 up — I think it broke her up as much as the chil- 
 dren. She said a woman had to sit at home and 
 read the papers. She said a man did n't know. I 
 got home unexpected one day. When I come in — 
 Madam, if you are suited with the needles, I will go." 
 
 " Wait a little," said the lady gently ; " we Avould 
 like to hear some more about you before you go. 
 Perhaps you would like your supper first ? " 
 
 "If I've got to talk," answered the man after a 
 silence, "I'd rather be over with it before I eat. 
 But I don't want to be asked any more questions 
 about her — nor yet the boy, I ain't in the habit of 
 talking — about 'em. I ain't very well. It tires 
 me. My breath don't come right." 
 
 "The man has asthma," said Mr. Wax in an un- 
 dertone. 
 
 " Asthma and shakes," replied the soldier cheer- 
 fully, " and an old wound in the hip, and some other 
 troubles that soldiers have. There's sorts enough 
 if that would answer." 
 
 " Helen," said the stout gentleman, speaking for 
 the first time, " bring this man in out of the cold, 
 and order up his supper in the hall, would n't you ? 
 It 's warmer for us all in there. Mr. True, come in. 
 We won't plague you about your family."
 
 TOO LATE. 301 
 
 The peddler stepped in reluctantly to the great 
 crimson-carpeted hall. He glanced at the engrav- 
 ings and statuary, and removed his hat, but stood 
 uncertain. 
 
 '' I 'd rather eat below, sir, but I '11 set a moment 
 if 5^ou wish. I am tired." He sank back, panting, 
 upon one of the tall carved chairs. 
 
 " Don't sell much, I take it," said Mr. Hathaway, 
 with the directness of the business man, who had 
 little or no time for philanthropy. 
 
 " Not much, sir — no. It 's a poor business. I 
 would n't be at it if I could get my pension. Folks 
 don't like peddlers." 
 
 "But you must have had a trade," suggested Mrs. 
 Hathaway, " and why can't you get your pension ? " 
 
 *' I was a house-painter, but that gives you the 
 lead-colic, marm, if you ain't pretty tough to start 
 with. I tried it at first, but the shakes come on, 
 and I fell off the ladder one day. They would n't 
 have me after that. Marm, I 've tried everything — 
 you need n't ask me. This is all I can get. I 
 hoped I 'd get my pension. I applied in '65. They 
 say it 's a clear claim. But it ain't come 5'et. I 
 hope I '11 hold ovit till it does. I 've got a right to 
 it, I think." 
 
 His gaunt blue eyes flashed out once — he glanced 
 about the warm, luxurious place. It occurred to 
 him at that moment that the lady might not have 
 had all these things — and her live husband — and 
 be able to send that boy to college, if it had not been 
 for men like him. But he thought it would be im- 
 polite to tell her so. Pie was her company just now. 
 
 " Take all his things, Helen," said Mr. Hathaway
 
 302 TOO LATE. 
 
 turning away abruptly, "and come to dinner when 
 you can." The man made him uncomfortable. He 
 almost wished he had not sent a substitute himself. 
 His easy gray eyes fell before the staring blue ones 
 of the peddler. 
 
 There was no end to the pension question if one 
 got into it. Helen, thank fortune, had never been 
 drawn into that yet. People had got tired of sol- 
 diers before she took up philanthropy. They were 
 outworn, unfashionable long since. Government 
 was supposed to look after them. There were a 
 hundred other whims, now, for the occupation of 
 elegant leisure and well-meaning consciences. Hear 
 her now, with her beautiful persistence, going at 
 that poor fellow ! 
 
 "But surely, Mr. True, if you are a deserving 
 man, you should have got your pension long before 
 now. I do not understand this business. I have 
 — been occupied in other — directions. I should 
 wish to help you if I knew how. We owe a debt — 
 we are under obligation to you." 
 
 She stopped suddenly, remembering what obliga- 
 tions her sheltered, happy life was under to this 
 peddler of tape and needles, lace and hairpins. She 
 was a young woman yet. She was of the genera- 
 tion that had sprung up since 1865. Her husband 
 was older than herself. She had never picked lint 
 or rolled bandages. She looked upon Memorial Day 
 as a questionable popular festival, calculated to 
 make drunkards, and teach the poor unthrifty hab- 
 its. She had never searched a list of killed and 
 wounded in the morning papers. She was able to 
 hear military music with composure. She did not
 
 TOO LATE. 303 
 
 have to lock herself away alone, with her hands 
 pressed like the clods of the grave upon her ears, 
 when a soldier's funeral passed the house. She 
 could meet a blue uniform in the street without the 
 heart-throb that tore the life, or the blinding mist in 
 the eyes that darkened the face of the heavens and 
 the earth. She did not have to get out of the room, 
 when young people sang army songs, and wander 
 about till they came calling and wondered why she 
 was not there to plaj^ the waltzes. She was one of 
 the blessed among women who had not lived the 
 war. 
 
 " We are under obligations to you," repeated the 
 gentle philanthropist, not without embarrassment. 
 
 " There 's hundreds of thousands of us," said 
 John True monotonously. " I had n't ought to won- 
 der so much if I'm one of 'em. It's queer how 
 folks always have a feeling of surprise at their own 
 troubles ; but I guess," brightly, " I '11 get my pen- 
 sion come January." He closed his little valise 
 and shifted it cheerfully across his shoulder. His 
 breath came with a painful sound. " I 've got one 
 of those holes in the lungs," he said carelessly. He 
 thrust his hand under his thin shirt up to the 
 knuckles in a pitiful concavity, such as his disease 
 sometimes wears out of the living bone amd tissue. 
 " It makes me stoop," he added, " and it 's bad about 
 breathing ; but I kep' my arms and legs — and eyes. 
 I thank you, marm, for buying so much stock of me. 
 It will keep me a good while — it will keep me sev- 
 eral days." 
 
 " Have you consulted no physician ? " asked Mr. 
 Wax, as John True moved to the door. A great
 
 304 TOO LATE. 
 
 gust of the damp night swept in. The peddler 
 coughed and shivered. It was beginning to rain. 
 
 " Oh, I have my quinine," said the soldier eva- 
 sively. " There 's nothing else for it." 
 
 '* There are objections to medicating yourself with 
 this drug and — risks," suggested Mr. Wax ear- 
 nestly. 
 
 " Sir," said John True, " did you ever have the 
 shakes under McClellan along the Potomac ? " 
 
 " Well, well ! " said Mr. Wax deprecatingly. 
 
 The pug was sniffing superciliously at the ped- 
 dler's heels, as one who was constituted an advisory 
 committee for the emergency, and must officially re- 
 mind him that the open door would chill the house. 
 The little boy, too, was calling his mother in to din- 
 ner. He could be seen through the open library 
 door making darts at his father from behind, and 
 strangling him Avith uproarious kisses. 
 
 " Go below for a good hot supper, and I should 
 like to give you the address of our society," sug- 
 gested Mrs. Hathaway thoughtfully. " It may serve 
 you in some emergency. We make it a point to 
 help honest people to be self-supporting. We have 
 our industrial branches. I will write it for you — 
 There. We do not give in charity, except in real 
 extremities." 
 
 " I have n't fallen that far yet," said the soldier, 
 lifting his head. He looked at the sky, but there 
 were no stars — it was deadly dark. " I guess I '11 
 get my pension in January," cheerfully. " I hope 
 I '11 hold out. I thank you, marm, for the supper. 
 Next time I come around this way I '11 bring some 
 extry crimpled hairpins for j'ou. I have a kind in
 
 TOO LATE. 305 
 
 a box with a lady on it in a pink gown. Generally 
 I ask something extry for the box. I should like to 
 have you have it to remember me by. I wished I 
 had something in my stock that would please that 
 little fellow. But it 's all women's gear. Good- 
 night, sir," to Mr. Wax, who held the door open and 
 said nothing. 
 
 But the chairman of the committee of the Society 
 for the Prevention of Pauperism, hastily excusing 
 himself from his hostess and colleague in philan- 
 thropy, shut the door of the high-art green house, 
 and followed the peddler down the piazza steps. 
 The two stood for a moment in the now heavily fall- 
 ing rain. 
 
 " You have no umbrella," said the representative 
 of the Extinction of Pauperism under his breath. 
 
 " Well, sir, no. I parted with mine one day for a 
 — well, for a supper. I had n't had anything to eat, 
 only a few blackberries that was pretty well dried 
 with the drought, since the day before of a breakfast 
 time. I have n't any umbrella, but I '11 get under 
 shelter in a place I know before long, now ; thank 
 you, sir." 
 
 "You must take mine," said Mr. Wax guiltily. 
 " I insist upon it. And I wish — here — I — I beg 
 your pardon," cried Mr. Wax, looking all around 
 him with a scared air, " but I never enlisted myself. 
 I had an invalid sister, and I — at any rate, I did n't. 
 I do not enjoy it to see a soldier going about the 
 State of Massachusetts in the condition you are in. 
 I really do not enjoy it ! " repeated Mr. Wax, wiping 
 his forehead ; " and if you won't look upon it as a 
 charity — for we seldom give in charity, nor even as
 
 306 TOO LATE. 
 
 a loan, for our loans, you know, are subject to the 
 advisory committee — and, in fact, if you would be 
 so good, Mr. True, as not to look upon it — offi- 
 cially, anyhow — but just to give one human being 
 the privilege of putting some comforts, such as um- 
 brellas and other necessaries of life, into another hu- 
 man being's way," finished Mr. Wax wildly, " I 
 should be infinitely grateful to you. As a civilian," 
 added Mr, Wax, " who is under obligations to a sol- 
 dier, I must say that I will not have you look upon 
 this as a charity. It would be contrary to your excel- 
 lent instincts ; it would be contrary to all our princi- 
 ples ; it would be — Good-night, sir,'* cried Mr. Wax 
 severely, and, glancing about him with the air of one 
 detected in a felony, the chairman of the committee 
 of the Society for the Prevention of Pauperism 
 tucked a fat bill into the peddler's thin hand, and 
 fled for his life. 
 
 III. 
 
 The nation had come up like a convalescent from 
 a fever, not without a certain incredulity of the dis- 
 ease which it had survived. The public credit Avas 
 sturdy. The reduction of the war debt had become 
 one of the financial wonders of the world. The busi- 
 ness outlook was clear. So long as England ate our 
 beef, and our superfluous grain went as ballast to the 
 merchantmen, what would Ave ? Since the great 
 Western crops were assured, the chinch-bug to be 
 disposed of by kerosene and milk (one could hardly 
 respect even a chinch-bug who refused to surrender 
 life upon that diet), the forest fires out, the floods
 
 TOO LATE. 307 
 
 down, and the Hutchison and Saint Gray Eailroad 
 managed by Boston capital, who could complain ? 
 If the banking system is safe, and the kindergarten 
 semi-annual has subscribers ; if pencil-lined summer 
 silk is fifty cents a yard, the Prohibitory law de- 
 feated, the three-and-a-half per cents afloat, and we 
 have a country week for sick babies, " what can we 
 want besides ? " A chorus of fifty million voices 
 adopts this national anthem from the hymn-book, 
 and chants piously. 
 
 It is the day when we look in the morning papers 
 for the score of the last national base-ball match. 
 It is the day when we thrill over the accident to the 
 stroke of the inter-collegiate regatta. It is the day 
 when we play lawn tennis with the ladies. It is the 
 time when all the ardor of our soul is flung into the 
 cut of our landau ; when we discuss the bang on the 
 tails of our horses ; when we camp out in the Yel- 
 lowstone on an Augiist vacation, and our wives pray 
 for us as for men in mortal peril. It is the time 
 when we give thirty thousand dollars for a French 
 painting ; when we agonize over the " punkin "-col- 
 ored frieze claimed as old gold upon our summer 
 villas ; when Ave amuse ourselves chasing what we 
 call a fox, at the watering-place affecting imported 
 fashions and humanities ; when the crack in the fai- 
 ence vase stirs our natures to their depths. It is 
 the day when gamboge yellow china monsters, cost- 
 ing a hundred dollars a pair, sit over against our 
 thresholds in the front hall. It is the day when we 
 give five hundred for a lap-dog, and three dollars a 
 visit for the calls of the dog-doctor. It is the day 
 when Ave have adapted social science to the impulses
 
 308 TOO LATE. 
 
 of the heart. It is the day when we know to a cop- 
 per how much it is right to give our starving sister. 
 It is the da}- when we are generous to a fault with 
 our thoughts, with our time, with our nerve, with 
 our privacy, with all the sweet and sacred resources 
 which have a value to human need, beside which, 
 indeed, mere money may be a slight and chilly con- 
 tribution. It is the day when Ave find ourselves 
 proud of the extent to which we have become our 
 brother's keeper. It is the day of harbor excur- 
 sions, and women's prisons ; of the society for edu- 
 cating 3-0U at home, and the great firm that takes 
 you from behind its counter to send you abroad. 
 It is the day of the flower charity and rides for in- 
 valids. It is the day when we stubbornly investi- 
 gate insane hospitals, and when women on the State 
 Boards of Charity discover that female convicts have 
 not been supplied with nightgowns. It is the day 
 when the merciful executioner of our superannuated 
 dogs or horses gives a new trade to society and a 
 new humanity to life. It is the day when the law 
 takes a child away from a drunken parent, and a 
 man may be arrested if he kicks a donke3^ It is the 
 day when our navy consists of fourteen unarmored 
 cruisers and twelve old-fashioned monitors. It is 
 the day when the applications for pensions are com- 
 ing in at the rate of three thousand a mouth. It is 
 the day when two hundred thousand pension claims 
 remain unsettled. It is the day when over one hun- 
 dred Massachusetts soldiers are found in almshouses. 
 It is twenty 3-ears after the war. 
 
 On a hot, bright day in ]May, 1882, the physician
 
 TOO LATE. 309 
 
 in charge of the State Almshouse at Tewksbury re- 
 ceived a summons to attend a sick pauper as promptly 
 as possible. It was not the first call ; the man had 
 troubled him before, but of late had kept more quiet. 
 At one time there had been talk of sending him to 
 the insane wing, but for this reason and that, it had 
 never been done. The doctor went to the pauper's 
 bedside with a dubious expression, as one who dis- 
 trusts his own leniency. 
 
 The patient was the last in the long row in the 
 men's ward. His cot came up blankly against the 
 wall. Some of the men had a window. 
 
 " I get tired of the wall," said the patient abruptly, 
 as the physician entered. 
 
 " It 's always something, you know. True," an- 
 swered the doctor carelessly. ''Well, how is it to- 
 day ? Choking again ? " 
 
 " It 's always choking. Doctor," patiently, " but it 's 
 the cannon in my head I mind the most to-day. 
 There 's flashing and firing enough to blow Lee into 
 eternity. Off and on I feel shells — then they bust 
 and scatter down my backbone. Seems I was blown 
 up nigh all night. Jiggs says I kep' him awake. I 
 think very like. I thought he was Beauregard, till 
 it come sun-up. But I hadn't nothin' to fling at 
 him, only the pillow, and I ain't strong enough to 
 fling the pilloAV. You need n't find fault ; I laid 
 still. Doctor. It was hard not to go at 'em, but I 
 kep' still. I 'm better to-day, Doctor — if you could 
 muzzle them cannon." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I '11 muzzle the cannon," said the physi- 
 cian lightly. He poured a teaspoonfrd from a vial 
 which was labeled Bromide Potass.
 
 310 TOO LATE. 
 
 " You canH muzzle 'em ! " cried the patient con- 
 temptuously, " and you know you can't. I ain't a 
 Imiy — yet, nor I ain't a born fool. That sort of 
 talk don't help a man in his senses. We used to 
 hav^e a doctor to home I 'd like to see. My wife was 
 very fond of that doctor. He understood my consti- 
 tution, she said. He 'd know Avhether I was dying 
 or not. I never thought I 'd come to a poor-house 
 doctor." 
 
 " Dying fiddlesticks ! " retorted the doctor good- 
 humoredly ; but he took in the man, soul and body, 
 at one long glance, before he left him. The eye of 
 an anxious physician is like a sharpshooter. 
 
 "Take the medicine, and let the cannon roar, if 
 they will. True. They won't hurt anybody. I '11 be 
 back if you don't feel easier." 
 
 " I fought in fifteen battles, Doctor ! " the patient 
 cried after him — his voice reechoed through the 
 long, gaunt room — "I fought in fifteen battles. I 
 was at Fair Oaks, and Malvern Hills, and Bull Run, 
 and Antietam, and — oh, I 've forgotten the rest. I 
 was wounded twice. Once I got on the dead-list, 
 and my wife read it in the papers. I was — look 
 here, I never told you before. I don't often speak 
 of it. I fought the war out ; I did n't talk about it 
 while I was peddlin' ; I was afraid folks would say 
 I was tradin' on my miseries. You know you 
 could n't be the same man after all them years if j^ou 
 was to try. I did the best I could at peddlin'. I 
 never thought I 'd come to Tewksbury — I never 
 thought of it ! " 
 
 His voice rose to a kind of wail, which was the 
 worst thing in the world for the paupers. Some one
 
 TOO LATE. 311 
 
 ordered him sharply to keep still. The doctor went 
 down to discuss the patient with the superintendent ; 
 it was not a case exactly for the State visitors who 
 were coming any day now ; yet it seemed hard to 
 turn him into the asylum. 
 
 " He 's only quinine-crazy ; it is n't like the genu- 
 ine thing, you know. I don't incline to disturb 
 him ; he 's a pretty sick man. He takes the whole 
 business hard. He was n't cut out for a pauper — 
 the more 's the pity." 
 
 "Look here, True," said Jiggs, after the doctor 
 had gone, " I 'm sorry for ye, upon my word. I 'd 
 give ye somethin' to fling at me if I had it. I 'm 
 nothin' but a dummed fool that drank himself into 
 this, but by the Lord Harry, if I 'd fit for my coun- 
 try — too drunk ; they would n't have me — I should 
 call this a dummed shame. Be as crazy as you like, 
 for all me — I won't complain of ye." 
 
 " Thank you, Jiggs," said the sick man patiently. 
 He fell silent after this ; so silent that they thought 
 him much improved. He turned over on his little 
 cot with his face to the great white wall, and 
 dropped into a stupor, half doze, half day-dream, 
 through which his thoughts stirred with a sluggish 
 fear, like lost things that dared not move lest they 
 should get farther still astray. He had always had 
 these sullen times since he had been at Tewksbary. 
 He had been there over two years. They had found 
 him a tractable pauper ; helpless with malaria and 
 asthma, and his other ails ; deranged at times Avith 
 the over-use of quinine — a poisoned wreck. His 
 fine blue eyes were hollow, and his lips livid. He 
 was no longer a pleasant-looking fellow. One won-
 
 312 TOO LATE. 
 
 dered what this defender of his country might be 
 thinking of, lying there with his face to the poor- 
 house walh His lost life,? His last battle ? More 
 probably his next dose. He muttered a good deal 
 and stared about. He had quite outlived his own 
 romance (a pitiable fate for the most attractive of 
 us), and no longer appealed to any but the most 
 keenly imaginative sensibilities. 
 
 Some one spoke to him softly, as he lay there stu- 
 pidly enough, that hot June day. At first he thought 
 it was the robin that sang afternoons on the tree 
 that grew across the street on the other side of the 
 poor-house ; but after a moment's attention he per- 
 ceived that it was the voice of a woman. When he 
 turned, he saw that several people were by his bed- 
 side, some gentlemen and this lady. He made a 
 sign to intimate that he had seen her before, and 
 that he welcomed her. 
 
 " I have often thought of you," said Mrs. Hatha- 
 way, "but I had 'never expected to find you here. 
 My duties bring me here to observe the condition of 
 the inmates. I am sorry to find you one of them." 
 
 " I want to speak to that man," said John True 
 faintly. He pointed to Mr. Wax, who shrank a little 
 in the background. The gentleman advanced, and 
 leaned over the cot. 
 
 " I won't tell of you," whispered the pauper. 
 
 " Don't," sighed Mr. Wax. 
 
 " But it did a heap for me, sir. I got boots and 
 flannels come winter. It kejD' me in comforts, till 
 you seemed to me, as I thought on you, most like 
 own folks, sir. But I never told on you." 
 
 " I 'm much obliged to you," said Mr, Wax, cough-
 
 TOO LATE. 313 
 
 ing heavily. His bronchial condition explained a 
 great deal of surplus emotion that a philanthropist 
 must find inconvenient. 
 
 '• I am very sorry to find you here," repeated Mrs. 
 Hathaway gently. *' We will hope soon to — to 
 have you self-supporting and happy." She looked 
 vaguely about ; then suddenly her fine eyes filled. 
 The peddler was greatly changed. She was not used 
 to sick people, but she began to see that he looked 
 very ill. 
 
 •' He 's crazy as a coot," volunteered the amiable 
 Jiggs from the next cot ; " but I let him fling pil- 
 lows at me," complacently. " I 'm no thin' but a 
 dummed drunkard myself." 
 
 " You 're an excellent fellow," said Mr. Wax help- 
 lessly. 
 
 " Tell us," urged Mrs. Hathaway, " how you came 
 here, Mr. True, can't you ? I am so very sorry. I 
 have a better place for you, I think. I see you are 
 not able to work at present. We are establishing a 
 home " — 
 
 " It takes a pensionable status to get into hospi- 
 tals," interrupted John True. " They would n't have 
 me — I 've never got my pension yet. Something 
 was always the matter. I thought I 'd get it come 
 January when I was to your house, but it was always 
 something. Last of all, the surgeon he up and died. 
 I had to have his testimony as to what ailed me at 
 the time of my discharge. We got most all the other 
 witnesses — one of 'em he 'd cleared out to Indiany 
 after a divorce, and it took all that time to captur' 
 him — then this feller had to go and die. They said 
 my claim warn't good for nothin' without the
 
 314 TOO LATE. 
 
 surgeon's testimony. That clean discouraged me," 
 added the soldier. " I 'd been in fifteen battles ! 
 I 'd been wounded twice ! I fought in Fair Oaks, 
 and Malvern Hills, and Bull Hun, and Antietam, and 
 — oh, seems to me if there was n't so many folks 
 round I could remember the rest." He looked wildly 
 about, panting. 
 
 '' I hoped that sedative would work better," said 
 the doctor, who had joined the group. 
 
 "But this is not to be a national hospital," per- 
 sisted Mrs. Hathaway. '' It is to be a State affair, 
 where you will not have to wait for anything. There 
 is to be as little red tape as possible. I have become 
 very much interested in it — I am one of the com- 
 mittee. I confess I think it is rather late, but better 
 late than never. We must get you into it, IMr. True." 
 
 "I don't know nothing about it," said the pauper 
 apathetically. 
 
 " We will speak to the superintendent at once," 
 urged the lady nervously. " We will have you made 
 comfortable there for the rest of your days." 
 
 " Thank you, marm ; but it 's too late for that." 
 
 The soldier turned his face to the wall. He was 
 tired of all these fine people. He had no faith in 
 their homes and hospitals. It would be like the 
 pension. 
 
 "There'll be sure to be something the matter. 
 You '11 see, they won't let me in. They '11 find rea- 
 sons agin it. They won't want me. I don't know 
 why. It ain't because I did n't fight. It ain't because 
 I was n't wounded. It ain't because I was n't honor- 
 ably discharged. It ain't because I ain't sick. . . . 
 Lord ! I never thought I 'd come to the poor-house !
 
 TOO LATE. 315 
 
 I never thought of it ! I 've been here two years 
 and three months, and I ain't dead yet. . . . Lord, 
 how I took on at first ! I 've got used to it now." 
 
 " What 77iade you come at the last ? " some one 
 asked him gently. 
 
 •'They took me, sir. They said I was starving. 
 The selectmen found me in a cornfield of a Novem- 
 ber night. I was n't very well. It was in a town 
 where I had n't sold much of anything." 
 
 " Oh, well," said Mrs. Hathaway, restraining her- 
 self with much emotion, " we will take you out of the 
 poor-house. AVe will come back for you next week." 
 
 "Marm," said the pauper, "I ain't an object of 
 interest for a lady now. I would n't trouble yourself 
 if I was you." 
 
 He turned his face to the wall again, and said no 
 more to them. Only, as the gentlemen passed out 
 of the ward, he beckoned once, and Mr. Wax returned 
 and asked his pleasure. 
 
 "Will this be a real thing, this place you tell 
 of ? " asked the pauper. '' No play-work, an orderly, 
 and a flag, and other soldiers ? I 'd like to die under 
 a roof where the flag belonged, if I could as well as 
 not. It ivould be something not to die in the poor- 
 house, would n't it, sir ? " 
 
 They had moved him, although he was very weak. 
 It was thought best, at the last moment, to make the 
 experiment, and they bore him with what tenderness 
 they might, on the little journey from Tewksbury to 
 Chelsea, and so through the welcome dashes of the 
 sea-winds up the Powder-Horn Hill, and into the 
 home which Massachusetts had provided for her
 
 31G rOO LATE. 
 
 scattered heroes. It was an exceedingly hot day, and 
 as he got out of the carriage, which he tried to do 
 without assistance, he turned his face to the salt 
 breeze and looked pathetically about. 
 
 " It 's cooler here than it was in Tewksbury," he 
 said. ''I 've nothing against 'em at Tewksbury ; but 
 it was a hot place for sick folks." 
 
 Then, glancing up the height of the building, his 
 gaunt, dull face flashed fire. 
 
 "Oh, there's the Flag! See! How she flies! 
 Ain't she a living beauty ! Oh, I 'm glad to get 
 under the Flag ! " 
 
 He made the military salute gravely, then bared 
 his head, his face upturned to the solemn symbol for 
 which he had sacrificed youth, health, home, hope, 
 and life : not much, to be sure, but this obscure man 
 gave what he had. We may remember it, now and 
 then, although we are truly busied about many other 
 things. Thirty years are a generation. Half of the 
 men who sent him forth are in their graves. We 
 who remain have more modern subjects of thought 
 and care than these poor wrecks, who have sifted 
 through the strain of broken business habits, incura- 
 ble disease, growing age, and increasing friendless- 
 ness. You who have sprung up since the rank and 
 file were our hope and our glory, to whose happy 
 young ears a drum-tap has no more solemn meaning 
 than a serenade, and to whose fancj^ a soldier pre- 
 sents the form of the sleek Cadet disporting himself 
 at Magnolia, or the useful messenger who carries 
 your invitations — it is our fault if we have suffered 
 you to forget that sacred debt whose bonds bear in- 
 terest unto the third and fourth generation of them
 
 TOO LATE. 317 
 
 that owe it, and shall reflect the military quality of 
 loyalty upon thousands of them that honor it and 
 reverence its obligations. 
 
 These were our trust ; how fare they at our hands ? 
 Our saviors then ; are they our heroes now ? 
 
 John True went into the Soldiers' Home quietly ; 
 they helped him on either side, for the outbreak 
 of life with which he had greeted the flag passed 
 quickly, and he moved and breathed with difficulty. 
 
 Comrades saluted him as he crossed the threshold, 
 and the '' orderly," about whom he had asked, was 
 there. They took him to the place assigned him. Its 
 coolness, size, and comfort seemed to confuse him. 
 /'These are your quarters," said the orderly. 
 
 "Eh? Not— here?" 
 
 " Yes, these are your quarters." 
 
 " But this must be officers' quarters. I was n't an 
 officer." 
 
 " No ; these are rjour quarters." 
 
 The pauper soldier began to tremble, looked ap- 
 pealingly about — made as if he would entreat to be 
 left alone ; then : — 
 
 " My God ! My God ! " he cried aloud, and sank 
 down, sobbing mightily before them all. 
 
 He lingered for a little while, not in great pain, and 
 with so much comfort that they had at first hopes of 
 his regaining life. He knew better than this him- 
 self, but he did not try to undeceive them. He lay 
 quietly, sleeping a good deal, and smiling upon all 
 who spoke to him. He often said : — 
 
 " Oh, I am so comfortable, so comfortable ! "
 
 318 TOO LATE. 
 
 Sometimes lie told the boys that he never thought 
 he should have come to the poor-house ; and once he 
 said again that it was a good deal to die with the 
 flag over your head. 
 
 One day he called the orderly and said : — 
 " I forgot to tell those gentlemen why my daugh- 
 ter could n't support me. I had a daughter, but she 
 married at sixteen — that 's why. Sissy married a 
 drunkard. He was a Dogberry fellow — his father 
 drank before him. Thev 're out West someAvhere, 
 but I have n't heard from her for a long spell. Sissy 
 couldn't do the first thing forme. It would have 
 been better for Sissy if she had had the scarlet fever 
 when the boys did — but she lived instead." 
 At another time he said, with some anxiety : — 
 " I forgot to ask that lady whether she ever got the 
 extry box of hairpins I owed her for my sui)per. I 
 sent it by another peddler I knew. It had a picture 
 on the cover — it was a pretty box. I wish I 'd 
 asked her." 
 
 It was noticeable that, as he failed, the more un- 
 pleasant aspects of his appearance gave place to a cer- 
 tain touching refinement, which might have been na- 
 tive to the man. As death advanced, the most pain- 
 ful marks of disease retreated. Fire returned to his 
 fine blue eye. That weak dropping of the under lip 
 fell into firmer lines. The muscles of his face began 
 to move with a kind of precision, like men on duty 
 under clear orders. The vacillation of pauperism 
 departed from the soldier's face in those last days. 
 He spoke less and less ; when he did, it was usually 
 to say something about Mary, and some one asked 
 him one day if Mary was his wife. He nodded
 
 TOO LATE. 319 
 
 silently. He did not feel that he cared to talk 
 about her to these strange men. 
 
 He thought of her — it seemed to him that he 
 thought of her all the time. It was as if he had for- 
 gotten everything while he was in the poor-house. 
 Now, it was like getting home again, after these 
 twenty years. 
 
 Whether adreaui or awake — who should say that 
 has not himself come to that haze which separates 
 the facts of this which we call life from the mys- 
 teries of that which we name death ? — he experi- 
 enced much that had gone from his memory, leaving 
 a blankness like that Avhich rests in one's mind upon 
 the lives of other men. 
 
 He remembered the row of holes perforated in the 
 brown straw hat that he hung up in the entry the 
 day he had enlisted. There was a little tin horse 
 under foot, and he hit it, so it trundled away with a 
 tinkling sound. There was a rag mat in the entry ; 
 it had blue roses, and one of the petals was worn, and 
 pieced out with black alpaca. As he looked down at 
 it, fumbling and delaying, dreading to tell her as he 
 had never once since dreaded death when under fire, 
 the child from within piped out shrilly : — 
 
 " My omeizzen Ye-ev-2n<7, my 
 Resizzenere ; 
 Ven wy shoulda ma-a-7na 
 If t-wyalsypere ? " 
 
 And Mary was hurt because he went to wash him- 
 self without first kissing her. But he was so covered 
 with red paint ! He had been painting a red house 
 — 8eth Grimace's house.
 
 320 TOO LATE. 
 
 They had doughnuts and hash for supper, and 
 Sissy was not there. Sissy was at the picnic: she 
 had the umbrella, lest it should rain, and was coming 
 home with Jenny Severbj^ Sissy looked like her 
 great-aunt who married a dissipated fellow. Poor 
 Sissy ! But Tommy crushed the cinnamon rose in 
 his father's pocket, leaning so close against him at 
 supper-table. . . . How she looks with the rose in 
 her bosom — pretty ! The baby pulled at it, and 
 she put it in her hair. That was more becoming. 
 Mary Avas always neat. 
 
 See ! we go out into the garden after tea to walk. 
 He throws away the pipe, and the rooster objects to 
 tobacco; that pleases Tommy, strangling him with 
 kisses from behind. Tommy has on a green-checked 
 gingham apron. Let us count the checks to steady a 
 man's mind against this thing he has to do, that is 
 so much worse than the deadliest battle of them all, 
 though he fought the war out, and was taken out of 
 Tewksbury poor-house before he died. There are 
 the currant-bushes; the cherry-tree is in blossom, 
 and the flowers fall like snow. There are the cab- 
 bages, in the southwest corner, doing well. The sun 
 is setting. Where shall we put Sissy's teeter-board ? 
 Shall Tommy have a rabbit ? Yes, Mary, have your 
 geraniums, my girl, anywhere you like. She hangs 
 upon his arm now, leaning toward him ; puts up her 
 hand. Oh, how soft it is ! There were only men 
 — men out there. In all these years, Mary, I have 
 never touched another woman — not even her hands. 
 You never need be jealous in your grave, my girl. 
 ... I '11 tell you when we get into the house. Not 
 yet ! not just yet ! Give me a few moments' time !
 
 TOO LATE. 321 
 
 I can't tell you this minute ! . . . " I 'm choking ! — 
 doctor ! — sir, excuse me. I have made you trouble ! 
 I was thinking about another matter." . . . 
 
 The baby cried and she went in. I think I '11 put 
 it off. I will not tell her to-night. I had rather get 
 a little stronger before I tell my wife I have en- 
 listed. . . . That was just like her ! To spare me — 
 everything. She always did. But I would have told 
 her if she'd waited a little longer. When I felt 
 better I 'd have told her. Oh, my girl, come here ! 
 Come here ! 
 
 I have n't held no other woman in my arms, Mary, 
 — and it 's fourteen years since she died. Come 
 here, and let us talk it over, if we can. ... I say, 
 boys, do you hear that ? ISTo ? Oh, no. I see — it 
 is some music that I heard. My little boy used to 
 sing. This is the hymn. Why, / hear it : — 
 
 " My home is in Heaven." 
 
 Don't hear it, boys, none of you ? 
 
 " My home is in Heaven, 
 My rest is not here." 
 
 I can hear it very plain. We didn't get much 
 home here, did we, boys ? Broke up somehow — 
 upset, seems to me — come to an end before its time. 
 I had a pleasant home before the war. 
 
 " Home is in Heaven ! " 
 
 Well, maybe — I would n't undertake to say ; but 
 it's asking a good deal of folks ... to wait . . . 
 so long.
 
 322 TOO LATE. 
 
 Ready ! Aim ! Fire ! . . . Fair Oaks I — Malvern 
 Hill! — Bull Run! — Antietam! Give it to 'em, 
 boys ! give it to 'em ! Look at the Flag and think of 
 your folks at home ! Shall we give our lives for 
 nothing ? Aim low, boys ! Government will look 
 after ye, don't ye fear ! Old Massachusetts won't 
 allow us to suffer ! Each mortal man of us has got 
 the promise of the United States of America to care 
 for him and his'n if he drops ! Let 'em have it, 
 boys ! Hurrah for the old Flag ! Fair Oaks ! — Mal- 
 vern Hill ! — Bull Eun ! — Antietam ! 
 
 They went swiftly to his bedside, and held him to 
 the strong, salt air. They spoke affectionately. 
 There was little to say. Some one prayed aloud, but 
 it was doubtful if he heard. He stretched his arms 
 out with a gesture of infinite tenderness, and to the 
 comrade nearest who supported him he said : — 
 
 u 1 "yg gQ^ jQj discharge, old fellow, and now I 'm 
 going home to see my wife. I almost dares n't, for 
 she is n't very strong. Do you think it will be too 
 much for her — so sudden — when she — sees me 
 coming in ? "
 
 THE EEVEREND MALACHI MATTHEW. 
 
 One chilly November day, toward five o'clock in 
 the afternoon, a crowd of people poured from the 
 First Church of Pepperville. The deacons were all 
 out ; the Sewing Society was there in force ; the 
 Dorcas Eelief was thoroughly represented ; the Town 
 Missionaries were every one of them present; the 
 Sunday-school teachers were on the ground almost 
 en masse ; the officers of the Ancient and Honorable 
 Experiment for the Suppression of .Intemperance 
 were, to a man and a woman, on the spot ; scarcely a 
 church member in good and regular standing could 
 be found who had absented himself from this occa- 
 sion. In fact, sundry persons of doubtful, if irregu- 
 lar, standing in the First Church — not to mention a 
 sprinkling of the world's people, including two re- 
 porters, a horse-jockey, one editor, some mill-girls 
 out on a strike, a down-town bar-keeper, and a drunk- 
 ard — were in the meeting-house that afternoon. 
 
 It was a white meeting-house with green blinds. 
 The blinds were taken off in the winter, to save the 
 paint. This economical process being under way, but 
 as yet incomplete at the time we refer to, the church 
 presented to the irreverent somewhat the aspect of 
 the historic personage well known to the nursery, 
 who appeared in public with " one shoe off and one 
 shoe on." In fact, the youngest son of the oldest
 
 324 THE REVEREND MALACHI MATTHEW. 
 
 deacon had disgraced himself and the family by dis- 
 tinctly singing, on a high key, outside the graveyard 
 "windows, in full hearing of the av;dience, this very 
 refrain, with the classic addition about my son John, 
 with which we are all familiar. 
 
 There were two air-tight stoves in the meeting- 
 house, with black funnels, as long and as narrow as 
 theology, running the length of the building. There 
 were fires in both these stoves. All the windows 
 were closed. The double windows, however, as if to 
 furnish the casuistical mind with, at least, one proof 
 of the benevolence of the Creator, were not yet on. 
 Ventilators, the First Church would have you under- 
 stand, were not in vogue when the First Church was 
 built. It had yet to be learned that the apostles 
 used ventilators, or that the early Fathers were de- 
 pendent upon oxygen. Nothing so fresh as fresh 
 air- need be expected of Pepperville First Church 
 and Society. We were conservative and cautious. 
 If carbonic acid gas was good enough for our sainted 
 ancestors, it was good enough for us. If they raised 
 Christians on it, why could not we ? 
 
 Besides, the senior deacon had to wear a skull-cap, 
 as it was ; two of the pillars were bald, but would n't 
 own it ; the superintendent's wife was of what is 
 known in Pepperville as " a chilly disposition," and 
 the heaviest pew-owner kept his own domestic ther- 
 mometer at 82°. 
 
 The exercises in the church on this November day 
 (it was a Tuesday of which I speak) had begun at 
 nine o'clock in the morning. There had been an in- 
 terval of an hour for a cold collation in the vestry, 
 between twelve and one. The " performance " (as
 
 THE REVEREND MALACHI MATTHEW. 325 
 
 the bar-tender called it, but was correoted by the 
 horse-jockey, who preferred circus) had begun again 
 at one. For seven mortal hours all Pepperville, in 
 its best clothes, had sat between those two air-tights, 
 anxious, intent, intense. It was now five o'clock, 
 and Pepperville was let loose. 
 
 There were the young men, the very young men, 
 the boys, awkwardly adorning the long flight of 
 wooden steps which they gazed at sadly, as those 
 who were prevented by force of public opinion from 
 whittling. There were the young men comparing 
 keen, alert 3^oung impressions ; nodding sharply ; 
 laughing, not always pleasantly; receptive as moss 
 is to a northeaster ; growing as silently as the young 
 oak ; the future fathers of the great church or future 
 victims of the great world, swarming in and out of 
 Pepperville meeting-house in business hours, as if 
 they had a President to elect, or a felon to try, or a 
 race to see. 
 
 There were the women, oh ! the women ! grave 
 and gay, saint and sinner, maid and matron, black 
 silk and alpaca, in groups, in twos, alone, manned 
 and manless, chattering, silent, whispering, tearful, 
 giggling, stern. my sisters, to whom the sweet- 
 ness and light of the earth are intrusted, what mon- 
 ster or what marvel came ye out for to see, that ye 
 sit seven hours idle here on ironing-day ? 
 
 There were the pillars — Heaven guide the pillars ! 
 — the solid, tax-paying, anxious brethren, with the 
 furrowed brows, with the bent shoulders, with the 
 respectable overcoats, with the whole Denomination 
 at their backs, not to say at their heels. They came 
 next; they walked decorously and spoke under
 
 326 THE REVEREND MALACHI MATTHEW. 
 
 breath, as at a funeral ; they conversed confidentially 
 ■with the important men who constituted the rear- 
 guard of this agitated army. 
 
 These important men were strangers chiefly, the 
 guests of Pepperville and of the First Church ; bet- 
 ter looking than the deacons, better- dressed than the 
 pillars, used better grammar than the members ; 
 clearly an imported article, but clerical, wholly. 
 This rearguard composed a familiar and fearful body 
 known in ecclesiastical communities as a " counsel," 
 a '•' consul," a " caounsl," or even as a council. 
 
 This Council, which had met (on ironing-day, as 
 might have been expected of the sex) to honor Pep- 
 perville by its presence and advice, at five o'clock 
 that afternoon presented a grave appearance. 
 
 Its brow was dark, its eyes were bright, its lips 
 compressed, its voice severe. Now and then it 
 slipped up on the lifelong ministerial habit of jok- 
 ing, and forgot itself ; but for the most part it re- 
 membered itself very w^ell, and comported itself with 
 the gloom w^hich was evidently felt to hang over the 
 occasion. 
 
 It discoursed plaintively, in low tones, as it joggled 
 slowly down the aisle behind the dispersing crowd. 
 Occasionally it wiped a furtive eye. Sometimes it 
 clenched a sacred hand. Whether it was a council 
 in affliction or a council on the war-path was a ques- 
 tion which a neutral observer would have not been 
 able immediately to decide ; but that it was no com- 
 mon council, met under no common circumstances, 
 was not to be doubted. 
 
 Slowly out of the First Church, down between the 
 air-tights, out of the red-hot audience-room, through
 
 THE REVEREND MALACHI MATTHEW. 82T 
 
 the draughty, wheezy little entry, down the wooden 
 steps, out of the carbonic acid gas into the fresh air, 
 wriggled all Pepperville as best it might, — the maids, 
 the matrons, the youths, the deacons, the pillars, the 
 rumseller, the reporter, the horse-jockey, the mill- 
 girls, and the drunkard ; and the Council solemnly 
 bringing up their rear, — as if to guide a flock of 
 steers that had been driven into a narrow street, got 
 frightened by a dog, and were jumping fences. As 
 the crowd reached the air, the hum of voices rose to 
 something intense. Pepperville was in subdued 
 hysterics. 
 
 At a wide di'stance from the gesticulating, arguing, 
 angry crowd, far behind the Council, far behind the 
 deacons, and out of the way of everybody, there stole 
 silently down the fast-darkening aisle the object of 
 this mad excitement. 
 
 It was a tall, young man ; a very young man. His 
 hair was light and long ; his arm was long and lank ; 
 he stooped ; his best coat was shiny on the seams. 
 He was very pale and had a scared look. He 
 walked weakly and tottered once or twice. 
 
 He was (or would have been) the Kevereud Malachi 
 Matthew. 
 
 He was the pastor (non-elect) of the First Church 
 in Pepperville. The poor young man was not 
 " sound." The Council had refused to ordain him. 
 
 As he crawled feeling his way down the aisle, a 
 woman crept out of one of the pews. It was now 
 almost dark where she sat. She was a little woman. 
 She wore a black alpaca suit and straw bonnet, and 
 a pair of new kid gloves, too large for hands plainly 
 unused to them. She was a very gentle, rather a
 
 328 THE REVEREND MALACHI MATTHEW. 
 
 pretty little woman, and she crept up to him with a 
 silent gesture of comfort. 
 
 " Well, Mary ? " said the poor young man. 
 " Never mind, dear," said Mary. 
 She put her arm through his and closed her two 
 hands together over it. 
 
 " I had to be honest, Mary. I could n't help it. 
 Could I ? " 
 
 "I didn't understand it all," sobbed Mary; "but 
 I am sure you were right." 
 
 Both were thinking what neither dared to say, as 
 they walked, a little set apart from the others, down 
 the broad aisle together, through the gathering gloom 
 of the fast-emptying church. What next ? 
 
 Three years in the academy, four at college, two 
 teaching school, three in the seminary ; all he had, 
 long since gone ; all he could borrow wellnigh taken ; 
 every nerve of soul and body strained to hold out 
 till the first call ; in debt and in doubt and in dis- 
 grace — What next ? 
 
 Married just out of college, when they thought he 
 would teach a high school for life ; drawn by the 
 morbid New England conscience into the ministry 
 "from a sense of Christian duty ; " fighting his way, 
 with a wife and three babies about him, inch by inch 
 through the theological school ; counting the months, 
 adjusting the days to a dime's expenses more or less, 
 till he should be a man again and free to go to work 
 — for this ; for this ! 
 
 They had lived it all over in the space of time it 
 took them to crawl down that broad aisle from the 
 pulpit platform to the wheezy entry — those years 
 in the little tenements, such as were reserved for the
 
 THE REV BEEN I) MALACHI MATTHEW. 329 
 
 ■washwomen and the poor students in the seminary 
 town ; where he studied Avith cotton in his ears, to 
 deaden the sound of the baby's crying ; the years 
 when they went without meats and fires and flannels 
 and doctors and books, and when he preached in 
 mission churches for two dollars and a half a Sunday 
 once in a while ; those years when they had planned 
 and contrived and given each other slow drops of pre- 
 cious courage, and hungered and shivered and sick- 
 ened and never despaired — "for Christ's sake," they 
 called it; to "preach the Gospel," they used to say 
 — those years when they had sat together spending 
 over and again the first quarter's salary from " their 
 parish " that was to be ; so much, first, for the debt ; 
 so much for an encyclopaedia ; this for a coat for him 
 to preach in ; that for a winter cloak for her to hear 
 him in, since it would never do for a minister's wife 
 to wear the blanket shawl ; that, perhaps, for a baby- 
 carriage, to save her strength. Oh ! those years. 
 
 And now, what next ? 
 
 They only clung to each other ; there was nothing 
 to say. Once he patted her hand in the dark, when 
 it closed about his shaking arm. 
 
 Pepperville, on the church-steps and out in the 
 keen November air, surged to and fro. 
 
 Poor little Mr. Malachi Matthew had doubts as to 
 the final and eternal disposition of the impenitent, 
 immediately upon the incident of death. He had 
 been man enough to say so. For seven mortal 
 hours this modest young fellow, who desired to 
 preach the gospel of Christ, had been badgered and 
 cross-questioned, with his whole history of self- 
 denial behind him and professional ruin before him.
 
 330 THE REVEREND MALACHI MATTHEW. 
 
 his wife watching him from the front pew, his 
 babies and his creditors awaiting him. He had been 
 raked fore and aft by all the doctrines that had a 
 lodgment in all the heads of all the Council, — Pre- 
 destination, Justification, Foreknowledge Absolute, 
 Total Depravity, the Trinity, Vicarious Atonement, 
 Verbal and Plenary Inspiration, Regeneration, Sanc- 
 tification, and Botheration, — and he had come out of 
 them all like a scholar and a Puritan, with a clear 
 head, good sense, and the calm, dogmatic assurance 
 to which he had been trained. Some of the questions 
 which were asked him were of interest as ecclesias- 
 tical curiosities : " Did the Son exist coordinate with 
 and yet subordinate to the Father ? " " Were the 
 three Persons in the Trinity separate as qualities, 
 or as natures ?" ''Was the first sin of a child an 
 infinite fact requiring an infinite punishment and in- 
 volving an infinite atonement ? " " Did an impeni- 
 tent person ever j)ray ? " " Could a man become 
 regenerate without waiting for the compelling action 
 of the Holy Spirit ? " " Were the audience in Pep- 
 perville First Church responsible for the guilt of 
 Adam ? " 
 
 So far the candidate triumphantly remained, hop- 
 ping about in the theological sieve. Up to that 
 point they could not strain him through. He was well 
 versed in all these important particulars. He had 
 the tongue of the ready. So far as these vital mat- 
 ters went, he was fully qualified to preach the gos- 
 pel of the Nazarene. Nobody put to him any less 
 burning questions. Nobody asked him for his views 
 on the great modern theories about pauperism or in- 
 temperance. No one wanted to know how he
 
 THE REVEREND MALACHI MATTHEW. 331 
 
 thought a Christian minister ought to treat a beggar, 
 or cure a drunkard, or save a castaway. 
 
 Not one of these pious and learned gentlemen had 
 inquired what he would do with a young forger ; 
 how he would manage a tempted girl ; how he 
 would handle a dissipated boy ; how he Avould in- 
 culcate purity among little children ; how he would 
 treat a pardoned prisoner ; what were his views on 
 the relation of working-people to their employers ; 
 how he would amuse the young people of his parish 
 on winter evenings ; how he should treat spiritual- 
 ism, politics, the great charities, the refining arts, 
 and domestic duties in his pulpit. 
 
 At length, as the subject of Eschatology comes 
 last on the theological betting-list, poor young Mr. 
 Malachi Matthew reached the point where he missed 
 his " Eeverend " and his parish, and where Pepper- 
 ville begair to surge. Did the candidate believe in 
 the doctrine of an Everlasting Punishment? Did 
 he explicitly hold that the impenitent are damned at 
 death, without further or second probation, and that 
 opportunity for salvation ends with this life ? 
 
 The candidate gazed at the lynx-eyed Council, 
 glanced at the breathless audience (liis first people, 
 who had chosen and loved him), looked once at his 
 wife, thought of his babies, thought of his creditors 
 — hesitated for the space of one of those conflicts 
 an instant broad, but deep as eternity, in which 
 young preachers have sold their souls, — then man- 
 fully held up his head, and, in a modest but distinct 
 voice, said he did not know. 
 
 Then the hounds were let loose upon him. This 
 was at eleven o'clock in the morning. Prom midday
 
 332 THE REVEREND MALACHI MATTHEW. 
 
 till twilight the keener heresy-hunters, in a Council 
 famed for its Orthodoxy, chased the poor fellow 
 hither and yon. He would not lie. He really did 
 not know. He felt it to be possible that the limits 
 of the Almighty's loving-kindness might exceed the 
 wisdom of even the soundest theological education. 
 He experienced doubt as to his own fitness, at his 
 present age and stage of training, to pass final judg- 
 ment uj)on a matter of such fundamental gravity, 
 and one upon which the wise and devout were at 
 present more than usually in divergence of opinion. 
 He even admitted that he thought it possible that 
 death did not finally damn every unready, sinful soul 
 that appeared before its Eternal Father for judg- 
 ment. He had a formula of his own, poor fellow, by 
 which he had expected to give ecclesiastical satisfac- 
 tion ; but they muddled it all out of him or rolled it 
 away from under him, like the mule on which we 
 hang horse-thieves in our good Western States, and 
 so left him to his professional death. He met it 
 quietly — neither hedged, nor equivocated, nor re- 
 tracted ; and the Council dissolved, leaving him 
 branded as a heretic, without a pulpit, and the First 
 Church in an uproar, without a pastor. 
 
 Now, it so chanced that nothing worse than this, 
 short of eternal damnation itself, could well have 
 happened to Pepperville First Church and Society. 
 Their last pastor, a man beloved by many and re- 
 spected by all, had resigned, accused of unsoundness 
 by a faction in the parish. For two years before he 
 left them, Pepperville had been torn from end to 
 end by the Nature of — I think it was Predestina- 
 tion. For two years thereafter the parish had been
 
 THE BEVEKEND MALACHI MATTHEW. 333 
 
 pastorless, searching the ecclesiastical battle-field for 
 a talented, eloquent, healthy, married, sound man, 
 anxious to preach the gospel on a small salary, not 
 requiring a year in Europe to start off on, capable of 
 originating a f evival the first winter, and filling the 
 house on stormy Sundays. These requirements, 
 even to the revival, had been so well met, during his 
 candidacy, by Mr. Malachi Matthew that the people 
 had found themselves already zealously, even affec- 
 tionately inclined to their chosen pastor. Therefore, 
 Pepperville had received a blow. Therefore, Pep- 
 perville surged, as I say. 
 
 "The laxity of the present day presents many 
 subtle devices," observed the oldest member of the 
 Council. He wore a huge collar and white choker, 
 into which he sank, after he had spoken, with the 
 air of a man who said : " My sacred of&ce ! Eespect 
 it, and do not hit me as hard as you would a secular 
 man." 
 
 "It seems to me, Dr. Croaker," said one of the 
 younger brethren, crushing on his soft felt hat, and 
 feeling with rather a worldly air for the ends of his 
 mustache — "it seemed to me the man was more 
 muddled than anything else. I suppose we all have 
 our little private reservations. These things have 
 to be taken for substance of doctrine. It's a bad 
 mess, anyhow." 
 
 " If he had only paid more attention. Brother 
 Smart, to my question about the nature of duration," 
 chimed in earnestly an honest, plain brother, from a 
 rural parish, " it seemed to me he could have extri- 
 cated himself. There was a nice psychological 
 point there. I tried to help him. He would n't see 
 it. I was sorry for him."
 
 334 THE REVEREND MALACUI MATTHEW. 
 
 " It is better as it is, Brother Hearty," said Dr. 
 Croaker. '' It is time that we made a stand — made 
 a stand. The young man represents a fatal weak- 
 ness in our modern theology. There must he some 
 examples made. It might as well be Re as another. 
 God's Word is not to be trifled with." 
 
 " It struck me," interposed one of the Society (a 
 brisk manufacturer, who rented a front pew, but did 
 not " profess ") — '' it struck me that was precisely 
 what Mr, Matthew thought. As nearly as the pro- 
 fane mind could grasp what you were up to, he 
 claimed that the Bible left so much room for a dif- 
 ference of opinion on this poiut that it was not busi- 
 ness-like to play too sharp a game with the text. 
 That 's what I took him to mean." 
 
 " Sir," said Dr. Croaker solemnly, '< I am sorry 
 for the disappointment of the First Church ; but 
 you may thank the Lord that you have been warned 
 in time. Great danger would have threatened your 
 youth if such laxity Avere allowed to creep into the 
 sheepfold, under the very banner of the Shepherd." 
 He sheltered himself under his choker and turned 
 ponderously away. 
 
 " Calls that argument, does he ? Humph ! " said 
 the manufacturer to the prosperous retail grocer, 
 who was walking sadly by his side. 
 
 "Never saw a shepherd with a banner myself," 
 said the grocer ; " but perhaps he has. There 's no 
 telling what that stock and dickey are capable of. 
 Now we've got to begin this roAV all over again. 
 Four years more of it, eh ? There won't be any too 
 much piety left in this parish by the time we get a 
 man."
 
 THE REVEREND MALACHI MATTHEW. 335 
 
 "It is very strange," the oldest deacon was saying 
 to the youngest minister. " The young man has 
 preached for us nearly a year, off and on. We 
 never discovered in him any such unsoundness of 
 views as you have. If he held such reprehensible 
 doctrines — as it is plain he does, I suppose — he 
 never preached 'em in this pulpit. It 's all nooz to 
 us. It 's a great pity ; for we 're in a demoralized 
 condition, spiritooally and financially. I don't know 
 what in " — the deacon recollected himself in time, 
 drew himself up sharply, and severely said — 
 " what in the world is going to become of us ? " 
 
 By this tinie the shriller voices of the women be- 
 came audible. 
 
 '• I do declare, I 'm awful sorry for his wife." 
 
 " Well, she 's married a heretic ; she 'd better have 
 read her Bible where it says about being yoked to 
 unbelievers." 
 
 " She 's kind of pretty. Two rows of something 
 would have improved that alpaca." 
 
 " Yes ; we 'd have fixed her up after they came. 
 She might have had one of Jordan & Marsh's ready- 
 made suits at a darnation party." 
 
 This profane suggestion came from a dressy young 
 girl, whose eyes brimmed with something for which 
 Pepperville gave scanty overflow room. 
 
 " Well, she split one of her gloves. I saw it — 
 across the thumb." 
 
 " She did it wringing her hands together, under 
 her overskirt, out of sight, after she saw it was going 
 against him." 
 
 " Is that so ? How do you know ? " 
 
 " I saw her. My ! how pale he was. It 's a 
 shame."
 
 336 THE REVEREND MALACHI MATTHEW. 
 
 " It seems to me as if he 'd played a kind of game 
 on us, not allowing that he was so unsound all this 
 while." 
 
 '' lie 's never preached one damnation sermon 
 since he came, come to think of it." 
 
 ''That was our look-out," interposed the dressy 
 3'oung lady. " If we wanted damnation, we ought 
 to have put it in the bargain. A little more hell- 
 fire, sir, or another candidate." 
 
 " Mary Eliza ! " said a matron sternly, " if you 
 were pious yourself, you would not swear like that. 
 It 's very unladylike, besides." 
 
 " I put it to anybody if that is n't the upshot of 
 it ? " said Mary Eliza. " There 's Jim. Ask him." 
 
 The young fellow who approached, laying down 
 his cigar and doffing his hat, looked rather earnestly 
 — for a young fellow — at the pretty girl. 
 
 " Miss Mary, can you make out what they want it 
 to be true for ? I can't." 
 
 " They take on about it as if they did ; that 's a 
 fact," said Mary Eliza. "One would think — if it 
 could be made out any other way — they 'd be glad 
 of it. But," more softly, "it's too much for us, 
 Jim. May he true, for all we know. Why, yes. I 
 don't know but I '11 walk a little wa5^ I must get 
 home to supper. How 's youY pony, Jim ? What 
 was it she had ? Blind stages, or whooping cough ? 
 I forget." 
 
 " And he did set so agreeable on this parish ! " 
 continued the matron who had rebuked Mary Eliza. 
 " His sermon on affliction I never heard the beat of. 
 It was a beautiful discourse. Mis' Penny and old 
 Mis' Drowsy, they cried most through the whole of
 
 THE REVEREND MALACHI MATTHEW. 337 
 
 it. There 's few young men could have had such 
 testimony to their labors. And Mary Eliza's young- 
 est sister has taken an interest ever since he 's been 
 here. For my part, I liked him first-rate and I al- 
 ways had stipposed we were led. But it seems we 
 was n't." 
 
 "1 liked him myself," courageously uprose an- 
 other voice, the feeling plainly creeping, like a slow 
 tide, in favor of the rejected heretic. " He had such 
 a way with him. He 's the first minister we 've had 
 here my Tom would look at. He said he liked his 
 stories, and he said the chap was honest. It was 
 disrespectful of Tom ; but he did — he called him a 
 chap ! You know boys will be " — 
 
 " I don't see that he was any such terrible sight of 
 a heretic, after all. Do you. Miss Teazer ? " 
 
 "Why, no," plaintively from Miss Teazer, a 
 maiden lady, with perplexed eyes and assured mouth. 
 "Wh}^, no. He didn't say everybody would be 
 saved. Did he ? It was only heathen and — let me 
 see — heathen, idiots — and what was the other ? " 
 
 " Women, perhaps," suggested Mary Eliza, linger- 
 ing to laugh back across her pretty shoulder. 
 
 " I don't think it was women," said Miss Teazer, 
 with an air of great mental acumen. Somebody sug- 
 gested " babies." Mary Eliza observed that it was 
 all the same. The chatter uprose again more vehe- 
 mently, if not more coherently. 
 
 " After the tea-fights and coffee-scrapes and candy- 
 pulls a7id the sacred tableaux, us women have gone 
 through to raise his salary to nine hundred dollars, 
 for my part, I think a lot of men had n't ought to sit 
 and vote our minister away from us. Now, I s'pose
 
 338 THE REVEREND MALACIII MATTHEW. 
 
 we 've got it all to do over again. My doctor 's for- 
 bid me ever taking a table again. Jenny says she 
 wishes Eebecca at the Well had never been born. 
 She caught her bronchitis out of the lemonade, you 
 know." 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Banner, have you heard about the 
 fight in the Keform Club ? " 
 
 " Whj, I heard they 'd fit ; but, there, I 've been 
 so busy getting ready for this Consul, I have n't 
 been able to 'tend up to the Eeform Club very well." 
 
 " oSTor I have n't, either. I heard Job Jacobs had 
 broken." 
 
 " So did I ; but he was out to-day. It 's a shame." 
 
 " So it is. They need a lot of looking after. I 
 wish we had more time. Oh, Miss Teazer, I be- 
 lieve Molly McGilp is in your class. Can you tell 
 me the facts about that story, you know, that 's going 
 the rounds about her ? I said I would n't believe it 
 till I knew it, you know." 
 
 " I have n't seen Molly, lately," said Miss Teazer. 
 " She was n't at Sunday-school, and we have been so 
 extremely busy. You know we entertained two 
 clergymen at our house. There was a good, deal of 
 cake to bake, and I always make the sausages my- 
 self for such occasions. We sent something to the 
 church, too. It has been a very busy season. I 
 hope I have n't neglected Molly. I shall hunt her 
 up this week." 
 
 "How long do jj^ou suppose this eternal punish- 
 ment lasts, anyway ? " 
 
 " There 's Mr. Bowker. Let 's ask him. Men 
 know things." 
 
 *' Well, I don't know. Seems to me they did n't
 
 THE REVEREND MALACHI MATTHEW. 339 
 
 know any too much to-day. Mr. MattheAV lost his 
 breath when they asked him if he would send a Five 
 Points thief to Heaven." 
 
 " Is that so ? " 
 
 "Yes, 'n' I thought she Avould faint when they 
 tripped him up so on Gehenna and that Greek word. 
 But I guess she ain't the fainting kind. Thank you, 
 Mr. Bowker. It is rather a heavy shawl. We were 
 just going to ask you how long eternal punishment 
 really lasts. We thought you 'd know." 
 
 As Mr. and Mrs. Malachi Matthew came out of 
 the church, looking about them timidly, they found 
 themselves close upon a little group which seemed 
 almost as set apart as they were, from the members 
 of Pepperville First Church and the Reverend Coun- 
 cil presiding over its Orthodoxy on that unfortunate 
 day. 
 
 This group was composed of a few mill-girls, the 
 rumseller, the drunkard, and the horse-jockey, and 
 were all in excellent spirits. One of the reporters 
 stood not far off, writing on the top of his hat. The 
 editor lingered behind the Reverend Mr. Smart and 
 Mr. Hearty, and looked back nodding, not unkindly, 
 at the heretic minister. After a moment's hesita- 
 tion, this gentleman came back and shook hands 
 with the disgraced man, and said he would be glad 
 of a digest of his views for " The Watch-Tower of 
 Zion ; " but that he was late to his train and must 
 hasten away. This attracted the attention of 
 Brother Hearty to the forlorn position of the two 
 poor young people, and he turned to speak to them. 
 One or two women of the parish, conspicuously Mrs. 
 Drowsy, who found such comfort in weeping over
 
 340 THE REVEREND MALACHI MATTHEW. 
 
 the sermon on Affliction, also made as if they Avould 
 address the beloved pastor, who had taught them 
 such deadly doctrine for a year without their know- 
 ing it. But some one was before them all. It was 
 a well-dressed, self-possessed man, with a large gold 
 watch-guard and a large, cold eye. He tipped his 
 hat to the young preacher, and intimated that he 
 had a word to say to him. 
 
 " Are you in concern, my brother ? " asked Mr. 
 Malachi Matthew, flushing a little with pleasure at 
 this appeal. 
 
 " Why, no," said the man, " it 's no concern of 
 mine. That's a fact. It's your' concern, I know. 
 All I 'm after is just to say I like your grit." 
 
 " Thank ;y on, my friend," said the minister, a lit- 
 tle embarrassed. 
 
 " I ain't your friend. Don't you mistake, I ain't 
 pious. I sell rum. I don't drink myself. It 's a 
 nasty habit. Keeps you poor. I never drink. But 
 I sell. I sell to Job Jacobs here. I '11 own it. It 's 
 ruined him. He went to hear you one spell. Give 
 me the cold shoulder for a month. I was glad of it. 
 Job and me was boys together, and I would n't mind 
 if you did sober Job. But what I come to say is, I 
 like your pluck. I heard you preach that temper- 
 ance discourse of yours. It cost me several custom- 
 ers — for a time ; but I liked it. You attend to 
 your business. I 'tend to mine. According to your 
 views, I 'm one of them that '11 go to the place they 
 haul you up for knowing nothin' about it, never hav- 
 ing had a personal experience ; but I can't help that. 
 May be such a place for aught I say. I should n't 
 wonder. I ain't pious, but I like your grit."
 
 THE REVEREND MALACHI MATTHEW. 341 
 
 " Like 'em myself," said the drunkard solemnly. 
 He stood beside the rumseller in a friendly man- 
 ner. 
 
 " Oh, Job ! " said Mr. Malachi Matthew, " do I 
 see you intoxicated again ? And in church too ? " 
 
 "Come to hear 'em pitch in ter yer," said Job. 
 " Sorry yer goin'. Giv' yer my 'and. Club 's busted. 
 Reform if yer stay." 
 
 " Come, come. Job," said the rumseller, a little 
 abashed ; for a crowd was gathering. He jjut his 
 arm through Job's, and they walked unsteadily away. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Malachi Matthew looked sadly after 
 them ; but Brother Hearty came up, and some of the 
 sisters, and the two young people shook hands with 
 these few friends, and exchanged a few confused 
 words. They were very tired and wished to be 
 alone. They looked about, still timidly, and walked 
 as if uncertain of their next step. 
 
 The horse-jockey lingered behind, with the mill- 
 girls ; more especially with one mill-girl, who wore 
 a red feather and bead trimming. One of the others 
 said : — 
 
 " Molly McGilp, Bob wants you." 
 
 " I want to know ! " said Molly. A little stir 
 while they stood there attracted their attention. One 
 of the Sunday-school teachers, a conscientious girl, 
 was collecting the infant-class in the vestry for half 
 an hour's rehearsal for the Christmas concert. They 
 met on Tuesdays, just before tea, for this commend- 
 able purpose. The conscientious girl was very tired 
 to-night, with her seven hours' session at the Coun- 
 cil, and collected her flock with difficulty. As soon 
 as the doors were shut, they began at once to sing.
 
 3-42 THE liEVEREXD MALACHI MATTHEW. 
 
 The conscientious girl played the instrument known 
 as a cabinet organ. The children shrilly sang : — 
 
 " Jesus loves me, that I know, 
 For the Bible tells me so ! " 
 
 " Hear that," said Bob. 
 
 "Molly's graduated from the Sunday-school," 
 said one of the girls. " She was n't sound." 
 
 '' You need n't have said it, Meg," said ^lolly, in 
 a low voice. She looked down the dark street 
 where the drunkard, now deserted by the rumseller, 
 reeled away alone. At the bend of the road a shad- 
 owy figure or figures watched for him. It looked 
 like the ghost of a woman holding the hand of a 
 ghastly child. 
 
 " Poor Job ! " said the girl. " I 'm sorry for Job." 
 
 The little voices from the vestry sang out, with 
 gathering force : — 
 
 "Jesus loves me, that I know." 
 
 "He took a shine to the new parson for a while," 
 said Molly. "And while they kept that Eeform 
 Club going he kept real straight. The women petted 
 him at first; but I suppose they got tired of him. 
 That Club 's about broke up. There 's nothing going 
 on in Pepperville but heresy these days. Seems 
 they 're so anxious we shall be damned in the next 
 world they have n't time to notice what we do in 
 this." 
 
 " I don't know 's that 's exactly fair, Molly," said 
 the quietest of the girls. " Some of 'em mean well." 
 
 " Oh, yes, we all mean well," said Molly wearily. 
 "Here 's Bob. He means well. Don't you. Bob ? " 
 
 She flung him a bitter look; but, softening, her 
 fine, dark eyes wandered down the street.
 
 THE REVEREND MALACHI MATTHEW. 343 
 
 " There 's Job's wife, waiting for him. And the 
 young one. See ! she 's got him by the arm. How 
 she begs ! Asking him to go home. Cruel they 
 are — men ! Poor Betty ! Job used to be a hand- 
 some fellow." 
 
 She broke into wild singing ; a snatch of a chorus 
 that the girls liked, and carried from loom to loom, 
 with passionate power, on dark winter afternoons : — 
 
 " Let us live, let us live, 
 
 While we can. 
 Where is the soul 
 
 Of a man ? 
 Find out for yourself, 
 
 By and by. 
 To-morrow, to-morrow 
 
 We die." 
 
 One of Molly's companions took up the refrain, 
 and the horse-jockey struck in on the bass in the 
 last line ; but the Sunday-school class in the vestry 
 went bravely on, and strong athwart the factory 
 song the children's voices grew : — 
 
 " Lord, thou hast here thy ninety-and-nine ; 
 Are they not enough for thee ? 
 But the shepherd made answer : ' This of mine 
 Has wandered away from me ! ' " 
 
 The conflict of these two discordant strains flung it- 
 self far in the clear November air ; and many of the 
 good people going home from the meeting-house 
 heard the sound, and lingered, listening or comment- 
 ing idly among themselves ; how faithful Lucy was 
 with her class ; how rude the mill-girls were grow- 
 ing since the strike; and what was that point Dr. 
 Croaker made about the difference between restora- 
 tion and annihilation ? and, if a man were unable to 
 repent until the Holy Spirit —
 
 344 THE REVEREND MALACHI MATTHEW. 
 
 " But none of the ransomed ever knew 
 
 How dark was the night that the Lord passed through, 
 Till he found the sheep that was lost ! " 
 
 sang the little voices in the vestry. 
 
 " Come, Molly," said the horse-jockey, after a mo- 
 ment's hesitation. " Have an oyster supper ? " 
 
 " I don't know as I will to-night. Bob," said the 
 girl. The others had moved away. The young 
 man and the young woman stood by themselves in 
 the shadow of the now dark and deserted church. 
 Molly looked up once at the height of the white, 
 dumb building. In the darkness it seemed to frown. 
 
 " I go to the desert to find my sheep," 
 
 sang once more the unconscious children. 
 
 " Come, Molly." 
 
 She shook her head, and, putting out one hand, 
 she even gently motioned him away. 
 
 The Sunday-school hymns stopped. The conscien- 
 tious girl closed the cabinet organ. The children 
 flocked out. Lucy locked the vestry door. Her 
 class clung about her, as she walked 'away. Their 
 steps grew fainter. The voices of the crowd return- 
 ing from the Council had now quite died away. 
 These good people were all well in their respectable 
 homes, preparing to eat their respectable suppers, 
 and respectably have family prayers. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Malachi Matthew were sitting side by side, quite 
 silent, aboard the evening train. The well-dressed 
 rumseller vividly described the afternoon's events 
 across his counter, as he recommended " Bitters " to 
 a boy who feared to find whiskey too much for him. 
 Job Jacobs struck out rather hard at the man who
 
 THE REVEREND MALACHI MATTHEW. 345 
 
 spoke slightingly of the parson, and, getting knocked 
 down and more than usually trampled on, was sent 
 home, looking badly enough, to his wife. She was 
 listening, and came with a light in her hand. A 
 sickly child followed her. The baby was crying. 
 The house was cold, and there seemed to have been 
 no supper, 
 
 "■ Poor Job ! " she said, as they brought him in. 
 
 "It's blamed ghastly here by the graveyard," 
 said Bob, after a long silence. " Ain't you tired of 
 it, Moll ? " 
 
 '■' Go home without me — this once. Bob." 
 
 '' Molly, come ! " 
 
 " I wonder how high that spire goes ! " said Molly 
 coldly. She was looking up, infinitely up, beyond 
 the fine, vanishing point that the spire made against 
 the sky, among the stars. But it tired her eyes to 
 do this. She turned away and put her hand through 
 the young fellow's arm. She did not talk as they 
 walked down the lighted street, and Bob hummed 
 the factory song until she joined him, faintly, 
 louder, clearer, strong at last : — 
 
 " Let us live, let us live 
 While we can. 
 Where is the soul 
 Of a man?"
 
 HIS RELICT. 
 
 It is fifty-seven years since Eliakim Twig received 
 from the Congregational Council then holding at 
 Hatfield, Conn., his license to preach. The first 
 person to whom he showed it was Miss Obedience 
 Biuney. She received it with awed and trembling 
 fingers. She had always had faith in him — the 
 kind of faith that a thin woman, with delicate fea- 
 tures and a Connecticut - Valley bonnet, gives to a 
 man with loud voice and broad shoulders, who has 
 lived in New York city and once preached near Bos- 
 ton. She addressed a letter to him the next week, 
 when he went to East Hartford, as the Reverend E. 
 Twig, for which the recipient rebuked her with some 
 decision, reminding her that the sacred ceremony of 
 ordination must precede a man's claim to the title 
 which she so ignorantly handled. Miss Binney 
 blushed for shame, and wrote no more, till at least 
 two of his letters had lain unanswered for some 
 days. 
 
 In course of time, however, Eliakim Twig passed 
 through the mysterious process which converted him 
 from a plain Mister into a Reverend expounder of 
 the Word of God to the less highly-endowed or pre- 
 sumably less highly-sanctified of his fellow-worms. 
 Miss Obedience Binney wondered that he did not 
 immediately receive that urgent call to a prosperous
 
 HIS RELICT. 347 
 
 and important parish wliicli she had been led to sup- 
 pose (she really could not remember exactly how), 
 as a matter of course, awaited the remarkable man 
 who had honored her with what he called his " affec- 
 tion and esteem," and with the proposition that she 
 should eventually share the privileges and minister 
 to the needs of his important life. Obedience Bin- 
 ney (though she had never said so, which would not 
 have struck her as maidenly) was ready to get upon 
 the knees of her soul to " minister " to this loud, 
 long man. Of her own life, as an integer in their 
 mutual problem, the Eeverend Mr. Twig had thought 
 little, and she less. So both were satisfied. Obedi- 
 ence, by the way, was rather pretty when she was 
 young and happy. Most of us, to be sure, can be as 
 much as that, under those two conditions. She, 
 however, had a good complexion (the fair one, with 
 the delicate flush, that loud men fancy) and excellent 
 features, as I said, besides a fine hand. 
 
 The Eeverend Mr. Twig was born upon a Connect- 
 icut tobacco-farm, and, having a soft-hearted though 
 loud-voiced father, had received that high -school 
 education which, for reasons never fully revealed to 
 an inquiring public, comes to a pause at the end of 
 the second year. The young man turned from the 
 cultivation of his intellect to that of the parental 
 tobacco, which he pursued with indifferent anima- 
 tion for an uncertain number of years. While at 
 school, he had, unfortunately, developed what was 
 understood in Hatfield to be elocutionary talent, and 
 had been the star of the anniversary exercises upon 
 several occasions, still well preserved in the Hatfield 
 memory. A popular ballad (delivered a good deal
 
 348 HIS RELICT. 
 
 on one foot) beginning " Arroint thee, knave ! " was 
 his masterpiece, unless we except Byron in the " Coli- 
 seum," in which, especially upon the line embodying 
 the " Owl's ^o-ong cry," he was said to excel him- 
 self. 
 
 Haunted during the obscure tobacco period by the 
 recollection of these intellectual triumphs, as well as 
 by the stinging consciousness of unusual and unem- 
 ployed lung-power, young Mr. Twig was not without 
 those restless surgings of the spirit toward higher 
 things which, Avhen we find them in superior natures 
 we respect and stimulate, while in the commoner 
 types, where they are infinitely more pathetic and 
 in vastly more need of our delicate handling, we 
 gain from them chiefly food for our sense of the 
 ludicrous, which is apt to be the most cruel of our 
 faculties ; like other cruel facts in the economy of 
 the universe, perhaps one of the most necessary. 
 
 Influenced possibly by these unfulfilled aspira- 
 tions and by the depression which aspiration may 
 produce even in people with big voices, Eliakim 
 Twig, after two or three years of tobacco, in one of 
 the annual winter revivals which chronically visited 
 the Hatfield church, became converted. Unfortu- 
 nately, he developed in the daily meetings, which 
 were the chief moral and social excitement of Hat- 
 field for several weeks, what was known as a " gift 
 in prayer." His voice was fatal to him, if not to the 
 gospel ministry, which he immediately decided to 
 enter. He went to Xew York (where he chanced to 
 have a forbearing relative, who boarded him at cost), 
 and entered or attempted to enter the Theological 
 Seminary in that city. His stay was short and was
 
 HIS RELICT. 349 
 
 understood in Hatfield to be detrimental to his 
 health. He abandoned New York theology as he 
 had abandoned Hatfield tobacco, and, after an inter- 
 val vaguely supposed to be spent in private study, 
 drifted into a rural seminary in Maine, which pro- 
 vided what was known as an " extra course " for 
 students of superabundant zeal and deficient educa- 
 tion. It is easy to speak of these things lightly ; 
 easier than to remember what hard and heavy facts 
 they represent. 
 
 At the end of two years, the young man was 
 ''graduated" in the profound and sacred science 
 with which his profession deals, and turned over to 
 the Hatfield Council, as we said, for his license to 
 carry the message of the Eternal God to blind and 
 busy men. It might have been worse. The embryo 
 preacher was not a hypocrite ; he was only an honest, 
 healthy, vain young man, with a, taste for declama- 
 tion. We all knoAV such cases, and we know now 
 and then one where there has existed a personal 
 surrender to the service of the modest and self-sub- 
 duing Galilean whom these youth dare to represent, 
 which has made of a half-taught but wholly conse- 
 crated man a Christian priest of whom the world 
 and the glory of it are not worthy. 
 
 One person at least believed Eliakim Twig to be 
 such a man, and that was Obedience Binney the day 
 he married her, in her step-mother's parlor, in the 
 presence of a large number of Hatfield church mem- 
 bers in good and regular standing, and of family 
 friends, including the New York relative, who kept 
 his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the bride, and 
 his thoughts to himself. Obedience wore a white
 
 350 HIS RELICT. 
 
 muslin gown, shirred at the waist, with full sleeves 
 and a white satin ribbon. She looked exceedingly 
 pretty, in spite of the artificial orange blossom in 
 her hair. Her young face had the rapturous and 
 fatal feminine trust. Mr. Twig looked as if he were 
 about to offer prayer. 
 
 It was in December, and there was a great fire in 
 the air-tight stove during the entire. ceremony. Mrs. 
 Binney said afterward she hoped nobody took cold. 
 
 They married upon faith, an income commonly 
 supposed sixty years ago to be both suitable and 
 sufficient for members of Mr. Twig's profession, and 
 they proceeded to live upon their income. The Rev- 
 erend Eliakim Twig did not as yet receive that press- 
 ing call to that important church for which his 
 wife, in common with himself, still pathetically sup- 
 posed him to be destined. He preached at odd times 
 and in odd places. Now and then he " supplied " for 
 a few months. More often than now and then he 
 " candidated " in empty and critical pulpits. Mrs. 
 Twig acquired a sad familiarity with these profes- 
 sional terms, and could no longer be accused of any 
 technical ignorance. She corrected her mother for 
 saying that Mr. Twig had " castigated " several Con- 
 necticut churches. 
 
 The young couple were understood to be tem- 
 porarily boarding at the bride's mother's, a phrase 
 which contained no reflection upon the present and 
 much promise for the future, and was adopted Avith 
 a readiness creditable to Hatfield society. For the 
 brief and blessed interval that fate allows to many 
 not joyous lives, Obedience had happiness. Her 
 gentle, unassertant nature was not critical of com-
 
 HIS RELICT. 351 
 
 fort. She passed through her first illusions brightly, 
 and met her first disenchantments in silence. When 
 her husband lost his temper because his boots Avere 
 muddy, she said: "I'll black them, dear." {De 
 niortuis nil — history does not compel me to state 
 whether he let her do it.) Perhaps the most aston- 
 ishing discovery of her married life was that Mr. 
 Twig found it so hard to bear a toothache. His 
 ability to take all the cream without asking her if 
 she had any did not shock her; she considered 
 cream one of his marital rights. The first time he 
 was cross to her, she cried a little ; but she shut her- 
 self into her own room to do it, and carefully removed 
 all traces of the tears before she went to supper. 
 The second time she did not even cry. Mr. Twig 
 had just returned from candidating (she had begun 
 to experience nervous chills at the sound of the 
 word, especially when it was distinctly pronounced 
 and the second syllable not slurred over ; there 
 seemed to be degrees of moral emphasis in the use 
 of it). Mr. Twig had been candidating in East Hart- 
 ford, and she said : " Poor fellow ! " 
 
 East Hartford did not want him. That important 
 place " near Boston " did not invite him. There was 
 a vacant pulpit in Massachusetts which had been for 
 five years unable to agree upon a pastor, and which, it 
 was estimated, had pronounced against one hundred 
 and seventeen presumptuous young men. It was a 
 parish of about sixty families, and offered a salary of 
 six hundred dollars to the fortunate applicant. The- 
 ological seminaries and clerical exchanges had grown 
 shy of that pulpit, and it was thought that Mr. Twig 
 would have received a call. He did, indeed, make
 
 35-2 HIS RELICT. 
 
 the impression of being a man of talent, and the 
 vote in his favor was considerable, it being urged 
 by an infltiential deacon that "we might go fur- 
 ther and far' wus ; " and suggested that for a gift 
 at reading funeral hymns, more especially " Why do 
 we mourn ? " and " Sister thou wast," it would not 
 be easy to find his superior. The women of the 
 parish were largely, though not unanimously, in his 
 interest ; but, as they had no votes, constituted 
 three fourths of the church members, and had paid 
 off the society's debt by laborious doughnuts and 
 persistent pincushions, their opinions were not con- 
 sulted. Mr. Twig was invited to supply for six Sun- 
 days, and even the gentle Obedience wondered at 
 the result and went the daring length in skepticism 
 of admitting to herself that the ways of Providence 
 were mysterious. But to her husband she only said : 
 " Kever mind, dear. They are a people who could 
 not appreciate you ! " and timidly stroked his coarse 
 black hair with her fine hand. When his gloomy 
 features relaxed, and he took her face upon those big 
 shoulders, and said she was a good wife, she could 
 not have been much happier if he had candidated 
 successfully in the Golden City, and she had sat in 
 the front pew of the Church Triumphant, watching 
 the enraptured faces of the influential archangels 
 who were to pronounce upon the celestial call. 
 
 The Eeverend Mr. Twig had that unintelligent 
 pride and obstinacy which often characterize people 
 who have nothing to live on, and he refused the 
 Massachusetts supply. Preaching was scarce, just 
 then, and it went rather hard with them, especially 
 as the young clergyman's step-mother-in-law hap-
 
 HIS RELICT. 353 
 
 pened to die about that time and threw them out of 
 a boarding -place. Old Mr. Twig offered them a 
 home for an uncertain time, to be sure ; but he had 
 a shrewd Yankee mortification in his son, which he 
 found it difficult to conceal, and he offended Elia- 
 kim bj suggesting that he turn to at the tobacco 
 again. 
 
 '' I don't see what it is about 'Likim," the old man 
 said to Obedience. " I 've taken some pains to find 
 out why he ain't successful in his trade. I spent a 
 sight on his learnin', and Mis' Binney, she 's boarded 
 him "how two year. He 's got learnin' and he 's got 
 lungs. What more dooz a man want to run a pulpit ? 
 I inquired of a man that knew another man that 
 come from East Hartford, and he said the East Hart- 
 ford folks had n't no sort of objections to 'Likim. 
 He was piods, and he read the impertory psalms as 
 never was by no minister in that pulpit ; but he said 
 their old deacon said all the young man wanted was 
 a few idees. I told 'Likim that, for I thought, if 
 that was all, he 'd ought to know it and lay in a sup- 
 ply ekal to the demand. It 's common business 
 sense. Just lay in a supply ekal to the demand. I 
 allers did with my tobacco." 
 
 But old Mr. Twig, in the evening of a life severely 
 consecrated to that elevating vegetable, had secretly 
 slipped into one of those fatal lapses to which long- 
 sustained virtue is pitiably liable, and, unknown to 
 his family or his deacons, had speculated in the then 
 popular stock of the Consolidated Dare and Doubtful 
 and Widow's Mite Railways. Hence, when he like- 
 wise was soon afterward removed, on a calm autumn 
 morning, from the garnering of tobacco to that of
 
 354 HIS RELICT. 
 
 amaranth and asphodel, whatever may have been 
 said by the angels in Heaven, it was forced upon the 
 executors on earth to announce that the Dare and 
 Doubtful and the Widow's Mite had swallowed and 
 digested the estate, and that there remained to the 
 only son and heir three hundred and twelve dollars, 
 and a set of " Barnes's Notes." 
 
 " Never mind, dear," said Obedience. " He was a 
 kind father, and he educated you for the Christian 
 ministry." 
 
 Now the current swerved a little, soon after this, 
 as it will with the most unlucky of us, and the "Rev- 
 erend Mr. Twig, after nearly three years of that kind 
 of probation which quenches the light out of women's 
 eyes and wrings the good temper out of men's hearts, 
 received a call to become the pastor of a parish of 
 uncertain geographical location and limited histori- 
 cal importance in the State of Maine. 
 
 He was inclined, at first, to refuse the invitation, 
 on the ground of the insufficient importance of the 
 position ; he had of late been in correspondence with 
 a seminary classmate, who had declined five calls, in 
 the belief that the Lord intended him for a larger 
 type of usefulness ; but the plain good sense of Mrs. 
 Twig, for once in her gentle life, uprose and claimed 
 a hearing. She carried her point and settled her 
 minister. They had four hundred dollars and a par- 
 sonage ; and ah ! they had, at last, a parish, a posi- 
 tion, and a justification for existence. Obedience 
 \wnt the length in extravagance of new gray bonnet- 
 strings (satin, with a pink sprig) at the installation, 
 and at the first Sunday-morning service in their own 
 church, hid beneath her beaver poke those tears of
 
 HIS EELICT. 355 
 
 tenderness and tremulous hope which a sweet- 
 hearted woman can wring out of the most barren 
 contingencies^ of life. She held up her head with a 
 beautiful motion when she waited for her husband to 
 lead her down the aisle, to introduce her to the pres- 
 ident of the sewing-society. To the end of her daj's 
 she spoke with a pathetic pride of "our people." 
 Mr. Twig remained in that parish (East Economy 
 was the name of it) for three years and a half. 
 
 It is not within the scope of these brief records to 
 follow the Eeverend Mr. Twig through the details of 
 his professional career ; but his wife, we must re- 
 member, had to. Life to her was one dread attend- 
 ance upon the moods, and dependence upon the 
 mercy, of church committees. Between the apathy 
 of parishes and the undoubted superiority of Mr. 
 Twig's gifts, her unspeculative soul vibrated with 
 piteous helplessness. When he was in search of a 
 pulpit, she trusted the Lord, and fiercely adored her 
 husband. When he had one, she felt that the world 
 was more appreciative than she had given it credit 
 for ; but kept one eye on the senior deacon, to see 
 how the long prayer struck him. When Mr. Twig 
 became a traveling agent for a denominational so- 
 ciety, she perceived that now, for the first time, he 
 had found the right field for his talents, and in her 
 secret soul gave thanks that the day of deacons was 
 over. W'hen the society no longer required his ser- 
 vices, she made him an omelette for supper, and did 
 all her crying after he was asleep. When he taught 
 classes in elocution, she experienced a rising tide of 
 admiration for him. When he assisted in editing a 
 religious paper, she stood in awe of him. When he
 
 356 HIS RELICT. 
 
 wrote a book on Samuel Hopkins, she taught an in- 
 fant - school, to help him. When the book failed to 
 find a publisher, she took boarders to support him. 
 When he started out as an evangelist, she stayed at 
 home and prayed for him. Thus life dealt with her. 
 
 The gray was heavy in her hair and the fire low in 
 her heart when their first and only child was born to 
 them. They had been married fifteen years, and the 
 baby took by surprise a struggling and dejected home. 
 To the father he was a phenomenon, to be regarded 
 alternately with a certain inevitable stirring at the 
 heart-strings, or with a sense of extreme personal in- 
 convenience. For the mother, he added another to 
 the terribly unquestioning devotions, raptures, and 
 agonies of her life. When her husband was irritable 
 she kissed her child. When she went without meat, 
 to save seventeen cents a week to buy the boy shoes, 
 she thought less about Mr. Twig's misfortunes. 
 
 The boy grew fast, and did not, even his mother 
 acknowledged, early develop a spiritual tempera- 
 ment. He was a big, hearty, rollicking fellow, who 
 stamped through all his boots before there were any 
 more, even after she had given up eggs and cut 
 down her tea. He had curly hair and did not like 
 his father. He objected to being punished for whis- 
 tling at prayers when Mr. Twig read the chapter re- 
 cording the murder of the priests of Baal by Jehu on 
 Christmas Eve. The boy expressed bitter disloyalty 
 to the professional environment of the family, and 
 many unfilial intentions to see " a world that was n't 
 pious ; " and one Kew Year's night, he being then 
 thirteen and a handsome fellow, more full of vigor 
 than conscious of tenderness, his mother missed him.
 
 HIS RELICT. 357 
 
 and the child of prayer and patience, like any off- 
 spring of neglect and vice, turned his soul from her 
 who bore him, and vanished in the mighty world. 
 
 Obedience Twig aged fast after this befell her; 
 and when, while still in the prime of life, and look- 
 ing much younger than herself, her husband, too, 
 disappeared into that mightier world whose mysteri- 
 ous relation to this he had undertaken to interpret 
 to men of less vocal gift, and perhaps of less real 
 loftiness of purpose, but alas! of more common 
 sense — when Mr. Twig had pneumonia and died, like 
 any common man. Obedience for a time confidently 
 expected to follow him quite soon. He had a brief 
 illness — it seemed mysterious that he could give 
 way at the lungs, after all ; and he was very gentle 
 and patient, and told Mrs. Twig that the Lord would 
 provide, and that she had been a good wife. In one 
 of his delirious moments he said that perhaps he 
 had better have stuck to the tobacco ; but he passed 
 aAvay, repeating sonorously a biblical quotation, and 
 when Obedience passionately cried : " Mr. Twig ! 
 Mr. Twig ! Speak to me once more ! Eliakim ! " 
 he put his hand upon his wife's head, and finished 
 the most beautiful of all apostolic benedictions : 
 '• The Lord cattse His face to shine ujion thee and 
 give thee jpeaceP And so, like wiser men, Mr. Twig 
 took upon himself the dignity of death. 
 
 At first, as I say, his wife expected to follow him. 
 That physical death which hid under the snow and 
 frozen sod seemed a far less palpable fact than the 
 moral disintegration of her personality. Her meek 
 little pinched face looked like a lamp that was going 
 out. What remained for a woman who had been the
 
 358 HIS RELICT. 
 
 wife of the Reverend Eliakim Twig ? She looked 
 at his gray slate tombstone enviously, dreaming of 
 the day when she, like other *• relicts " in Hatfield 
 churchyard, should rest from her labors beside her 
 lord. She was worn out, poor soul. There was, in- 
 deed, very little of her left over, after Mr. Twig's 
 abundant voice had, for the first known occasion in 
 his life, faltered in that final benediction. 
 
 But Obedience Twig, like stronger women, learned 
 that, however little is left over when the heart is 
 broken, death does not come because he is expected, 
 still less because he is desired. The smoking flax 
 burns long, and the bruised reed, because the first to 
 bend, may be the last to break. 
 
 One thing was left to her. She had a dignity to 
 maintain. She had been the wife of Eliakim Twig. 
 When people asked her what she intended to do, she 
 gently replied, " Something suitable will open," and 
 prayed the Lord for respectability as fervently as 
 she ever had for sanctification or .a call. She fought 
 for it, too, in the mild, unnoticed way in which such 
 women battle. She resumed the infant-school. She 
 gave (may Art forgive her !) lessons upon the piano. 
 She embroidered, and kept boarders. She trimmed 
 bonnets, and sold tatting. She had no near relatives, 
 and when one of Mr. Twig's cousins in South Hat- 
 field invited her to spend Thanksgiving and half of 
 the following week, she declined. For ten years she 
 kept her bod}^, if not her soul, alive. She was then 
 over sixty years old, and it grew hard. 
 
 It grew hard, and then harder. She felt compelled 
 to offer her services as a housekeeper. She had 
 never heard before of a minister's wife advertising
 
 HIS BELICT. 369 
 
 for snch a position. She pictured Mr. Twig as de- 
 claiming (chiefly from the Book of Kevelation) to a 
 large celestial audience, and feeling very much 
 ashamed of her. The position proved to be that of 
 what is called a working housekeeper, in a family en- 
 gaged in some business obscurely known as " fish," 
 in a cheap seaport town ; and the old lady found her- 
 self virtually the servant of a salt-cod packer and his 
 seven noisy children. She wondered patiently what 
 any of the people in East Economy would have 
 said to see her in this place ; and when, indeed, one 
 of that now almost mythical community happened to 
 find her there, and called upon her, she put off her 
 cooking-apron with trembling hands, and choked, 
 blinded, when she saw the man's face, for pride and 
 shame. " I am very comfortable, Deacon Bobley," 
 she sobbed. " I want for nothing. I have a very 
 respectable and suitable position. I have prayed, 
 night and morning, for twelve years, that I might 
 be kept out of the — put of the — that I might be 
 kept from a dependence upon charity. And I think 
 the Lord will hear me, Deacon Bobley — for Mr. 
 Twig's sake," she added, unconscious of the pa- 
 thetic irreverence of those four words. 
 
 As she grew older and feebler, her sturdy Ameri- 
 can dread of becoming an object of public charity 
 deepened to a horror. No one in her presence pro- 
 nounced the one word which never passed her own 
 lips. People who knew her turned sharp corners in 
 conversation to avoid mention of an alms-house or a 
 pauper. 
 
 This was more noticeable in Screwsbur}', a little 
 town in Connecticut, to which she had wandered,
 
 560 HIS RELICT. 
 
 after having a slow fever at the salt-fish packer's, 
 and receiving her notice to leave. In Screwsbury, 
 she took a tiny room, and advertised for plain sew- 
 ing and light nursing, and here for a time, in a for- 
 lorn way, she found ease. People treated her civ- 
 illy in Screwsbury. She felt that they understood 
 that she had been a clergyman's wife. She had a 
 seat in the minister's pew, till his boys came home 
 from college and filled it. He was an excellent min- 
 ister, but she wished he could have heard Mr. Twig 
 unite in prayer. 
 
 It was in Screwsbury that Mrs. Twig began to feel 
 that she was growing old. She did not go out, except 
 to church and upon her business. One road in town 
 she carefully avoided. It led to the Screwsbury 
 poor-house. It was said that she had never seen the 
 place. As her body grew feebler, that horror grew 
 stronger. It was very strong in Screwsbury. 
 
 She had no friend or old neighbor in this place, 
 and her little straits, and economies, and silences, had 
 the sad shield of age and obscurity. Nobody quite 
 knew, or much cared, how poor she was, until fit 
 after fit of sickness brought her condition to the 
 knowledge of well-meaning people, who gave cur- 
 rency to that little notion of hers about the poor- 
 house, and so drew her case under the attention of 
 the town ofiicers. She had commanded a certain re- 
 spect in Screwsbury, from her tenderness to the sick, 
 and the uncomplaining reserve, called Christian, with 
 Avhich she Avithheld her own sufferings from the com- 
 passion of others. What should Screwsbury do with 
 her? 
 
 " I cannot go to the . I cannot be dependent
 
 HIS RELICT. 361 
 
 on charity," she said, witli gentle insistence. "I 
 shall be better soon. I have snpportecL myself for 
 twenty years. The Lord will provide. You must 
 
 not send me to the — . It would not be suitable. 
 
 I am a minister's wife. My husband wac the Kever- 
 end Mr. Twig." 
 
 It was a hard case; but what could Screwsbury 
 do ? She had her own paupers, and invalids, aud de- 
 cayed gentility to the manor born ; but Screwsbury 
 found herself uncomfortable to leave a woman of sev- 
 enty years without a fire in March ; and to let her die 
 from insufficient food and attention, because she in- 
 sisted on it, was asking a good deal even of Screws- 
 bury. Cold, and hunger, and nakedness, the town 
 auditor could understand ; but for that starving need 
 called delicate feeling, the treasurer had made no 
 provision. Screwsbury was puzzled. A certain sum 
 was raised, and the old lady made comfortable in a 
 desultory way till spring. In the summer, she sewed 
 a little, and a little more was collected in the irregu- 
 lar manner known to village charity. iSTobody was 
 responsible for her, and when the weatiier chilled 
 again, with the chill of her seventy - first autumn, 
 Screwsbury shook its head. 
 
 On a sharp October day, a man not personally 
 known to Mrs. Twig, called upon her, Avith a couple 
 of ladies who had sent her cranberry jelly, and ex- 
 plained to her that, owing to her feeble condition, it 
 had been thought best by her friends in that town to 
 remove her to a boarding-place, where she would re- 
 ceive every care and attention, and that arrange- 
 ments had been made to that effect. He added that 
 he would take her to this good place to-morrow, and
 
 362 HIS RELICT. 
 
 one of the ladies at this point produced a new jar of 
 jelly, and ^aid it would be an excellent thing ; but 
 the other one brought her a meat-pie, and said 
 nothing. 
 
 " Did yon say it was a boardinff--pla,ce ? " asked 
 Mrs. Twig, after a painful silence. 
 
 " Yes, niarm, I — did," replied the man. 
 
 " Who pays my board ? " 
 
 " Why, some ladies and gentlemen that live here. 
 We think, marm, you will be more comfortable." 
 
 Mrs. Twig looked at the lady with the meat-pie, 
 but she had turned her back. The jelly lady said it 
 would be a very comfortable home. Mrs. Twig 
 lifted her faded eyes with the fatal feminine trust 
 that life had not drowned out of them, and simply 
 said : — 
 
 " You have been good to me. I do not think you 
 would deceive me. I will go to this boarding-place, 
 and I thank the ladies and gentlemen who have been 
 so kind." 
 
 She was very feeble the next day ; but she bravely 
 got herself into her best clothes and rode away with 
 the excellent man and the jelly lady. The lady who 
 brought the meat-pie did not return to see her off, 
 and Mrs. Twig sent her love to her, and said how 
 tender the crust was. It was dusk when they called 
 for her, and her eyes were a little blind with the 
 scanty tears of age. She felt that the Screwsbury 
 neighbors were kind, but she wished it had been some 
 of "our people" down at East Economy, to whom 
 she might have been thus indebted — some of the 
 ladies in the parish who said she was the most 
 spiritual minister's wife they ever had, or one of
 
 HIS RELICT. 363 
 
 those sweet Sunday-school girls who used to kiss 
 her. She thought a good deal about the people as 
 she rode to her boarding-house ; but she said nothing 
 of her thoughts, and thanked everybody, and was 
 very docile and feeble, and went at once to bed, only 
 calling the jelly lady back, to say : — 
 
 " I could not have gone to the . I am a min- 
 ister's wife. It would not have been proper. I 
 thank the ladies and gentlemen for this kind home." 
 
 She seemed contented, they said, and slept peace- 
 fully that night. 
 
 " Do you mean to say " — began the siiperintend- 
 ent, when the selectman came down-stairs. 
 
 " Yes, I mean to say just tliat. She don't know 
 where she is. She would have froze in the street 
 first. Seventy-one years old and nigh used up, and 
 a little woman without much voice ; but, I can tell 
 you, she 'd have done it, she 'd have froze stiff as a 
 pipe-stem, if she had known. She's that grit." 
 
 ''' It seems a pity," observed the alms-house super- 
 intendent. 
 
 " Wall, it dooz," admitted the selectman. 
 
 "But we'd collected a good while," said the lady 
 who made jelly. 
 
 " You say she don't know ? " repeated the superin- 
 tendent. 
 
 " I wish she need n't," suggested the lady. " I 
 might go on sending her jelly, to make it natural." 
 
 " By George, I wish so too," said the selectman. 
 " I told you t' other day the women said so ; but I 
 told 'em it warn't possible." 
 
 " A great deal is possible in my alms-house," said 
 the superintendent, drawing himself up. " She never 
 shall."
 
 3G4 HIS RELICT. 
 
 The selectman shrugged his shoulders, but the 
 women believed ; and the one who made jelly sent 
 the superintendent a Christmas card, upon which a 
 red angel practiced gymnastics in a loop of blue 
 roses, and seemed to have missed his footing and 
 come down hard. 
 
 If it were not true, it would be so preposterous a 
 thing to originate that I might possibly expect to be 
 believed ; but, as it is no fiction, probably the fact 
 will go hard with the reader. Nevertheless, a fact 
 it is that she never did. 
 
 The poor old lady lived on to the end in touching 
 gratitude to the ladies and gentlemen of Screwsbury 
 who had provided her with such a pleasant boarding- 
 place. No person undeceived her. She became bed- 
 ridden, and failed fast. They gave her a position of 
 consideration in a small ward, and her nearest room- 
 mate was deaf and dumb. The others regarded her 
 with interest, and spoke to her with caution. They 
 acquired a certain skill and pleasure in deterring the 
 old lady from the consciousness of their common 
 fate. It became the pride of the institution to pre- 
 serve her in this merciful delusion. Many ludicrous 
 and touching instances are related of the efforts of 
 these hapless beings to heighten her sense of her 
 own privilege and of that precious self-respect for 
 which she had fought so long. They did the thing. 
 The Screwsbury paupers had that delicacy. She 
 never knew. 
 
 But, as I said, she failed fast in her excellent 
 boarding-place, and on Christmas week she wandered 
 a little, and talked a good deal about Mr. Twig, and 
 now and then her boy. But only the deaf-mute was
 
 HIS RELICT. 365 
 
 near at hand. She was a big woman and gentle, and 
 Mrs. Twig liked her for a nurse. " I am a minister's 
 wife," said Mrs. Twig. '• I prayed night and morn- 
 ing for twelve years that I should never go to the 
 poor-house. I always knew the Lord would hear that 
 prayer." 
 
 The deaf mute nodded. 
 
 " This is a very pleasant boarding-place," said Mrs. 
 Twig. " It would gratify my husband. My husband 
 was the Eeverend Mr. Twig." 
 
 On New Year's Eve she seemed so weak that the 
 superintendent, who had a message for her, hesitated 
 at the door ; but came in at length and said that 
 there was a caller for her, and would she see the 
 gentleman ? 
 
 " It may be some of our people," said Mrs. Twig 
 faintly. "Ask the deaf lady to find me my best 
 cap. Maybe it is Deacon Bobley." 
 
 But when the gentleman came in, it was not Dea- 
 con Bobley. She gathered herself, and seemed in a 
 kind of terror for a moment, to retreat from him ; 
 but against the thin little alms-house pillows she lay 
 at bay. The gentleman came softly up and leaned 
 above her ; but no one spoke, until, in low, awed 
 tones, that penetrated the silent ward, she said : 
 " Ai-e you Mr. Twig ? Am I dead already ? " 
 
 " Oh, mother, no ! Thank God ! " 
 
 She threw out her slender, shrunken hands, and 
 gasped, and he held her to the air, daring neither to 
 speak nor to be mute, and praying, perhaps, that he 
 might not have killed her — the first prayer of eigh- 
 teen wandering years. He was a big, handsome 
 fellow, and his face bore the marks of a reckless
 
 366 HIS RELICT. 
 
 life ; yet there was a certain touching likeness be- 
 tween the two. The paupers talked of it for many a 
 
 day. 
 
 " I had a little boy," said the old lady drearily. 
 " He Avore jackets and a round cap. His name was 
 ■Likim. He was named for his father. His father 
 was the Eeverend Mr. Twig. He was a minister's 
 son. He had a respectable home. He used to see77i 
 to love his mother." 
 
 The prodigal hid his face and groaned. The sound 
 seemed to arouse her, and perhaps to clarify thoughts 
 which she had no strength to express. She regarded 
 him long and steadily, and at last she said : " It is 
 very kind in you, my son, to come and see me." 
 
 Then the young man cried, it has been said, with 
 an exceeding great and bitter cry : " Mother, you '11 
 kill me ! " And, brokenly protesting that he Avas bad 
 enough, God knew, but not so black as he seemed, 
 tried to make her understand some story that he had 
 to tell, about believing she was dead, 
 
 " I read it in a Connecticut paper (I was in Idaho) 
 — Mrs. Obedience Twig. I thought it must be you. 
 I thought there was nothing to come back for. I 
 didn't care for father. He and I never got on. 
 Mother, can't you live a little while ? " and so on, 
 piteously enough. 
 
 " Was it the Reverend Mrs. Obedience Twig ? " 
 asked the old lady distinctly. " It would have been 
 the Eeverend Mrs. Twig," she added, and sank away 
 into a kind of faint. 
 
 When she came to herself again, she seemed to 
 have accepted both her shock and her joy in a beau- 
 tiful and placid manner. She held his hand, and
 
 HIS RELICT. 367 
 
 called him little 'Likim, and thanked him when he 
 kissed her, and asked him what he was crying for. 
 She said she felt much better, and that to-morrow 
 she would tell him what a pleasant boarding-place 
 she had. 
 
 " AYe will go away to-morrow," urged the young 
 man. "I will find you a better place." 
 
 But the superintendent in the doorway motioned, 
 putting a finger on his lips. 
 
 " It is a very pleasant place," said Mrs. Twig. 
 " The ladies and gentlemen were very kind. I was 
 
 afraid I should come to the . That would have 
 
 — mortified — you. I knew that prayer would be 
 answered. I 'm very glad to see you, 'Likim, in my 
 boarding-house." 
 
 But after this, she talked no more for a long time. 
 Only now and then she called him her dear son, 
 and patted him upon the head, and said she was 
 glad he had come to see her, and that he loved his 
 mother. 
 
 Toward midnight she turned, and asked for the 
 deaf lady, saying that she wanted to kiss her, which 
 she did with a gratitude and tenderness moving to 
 see. 
 
 After this, she asked for a pencil and paper, and 
 laboriously wrote for some time. When she had 
 written, she gave the paper to her son, explaining to 
 him that it contained the inscription upon Mr. 
 Twig's slate tombstone, and that which she desired 
 to have added. 
 
 "If it does n't cost too much," she said timidly. 
 " If you can afford it just as well as not, I should 
 like it all put on. The engraver asked so much a
 
 368 HIS BELICT. 
 
 letter, when your fatlier died ; we had to do the best 
 we could. Have you got a little ready money, 
 'Likim ? " 
 
 " A little, mother." 
 
 " And you 're sure you won't mind the expense of 
 it, my son ? It would be a comfort to me ; but I 
 would n't like to put you to expense." 
 
 But with that, for she saw how moved he was, she 
 stroked his hair again and said : — 
 
 " There, there, my son. Never mind, dear ! " — 
 just as she used to speak to his father, after candi- 
 dating ; and so said nothing after this again ; and 
 the deaf-mute cried'; but the superintendent went 
 downstairs. 
 
 By and by the young man read what was written 
 on the wet and crumpled paper that he had been 
 crushing in his hands : — 
 
 " Here lies the body of 
 
 The Reverend 
 
 Eliakini Twig, 
 
 Who died in the hope of a hies* Resurrectio"." 
 
 Then followed a date, and after that the addenda 
 for which the engraver had charged too much : — 
 
 " An earnest Preacher. . 
 
 A devout Man. 
 
 A devoted Husband. 
 
 Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven." 
 
 " Here lies the body of 
 
 Obedience, 
 
 Relict of the Reverend 
 
 Eliakini Twig 
 
 And mother of ." 
 
 A space was left here for the young man's own
 
 HIS RELICT. 369 
 
 name, and for the date and circumstances of his 
 death. Under this blank, her trembling hand had 
 scrawled : — 
 
 " A Kind and Affectionate Son. 
 A Credit to 
 Hia Godly Father, and 
 The World."
 
 MAEY ELIZABETH. 
 
 HER TRUE STORY. 
 
 Mart Elizabeth was a little girl with a long 
 name. She was poor, she was sick, she was ragged, 
 she was dirty, she was cold, she was hungry, she 
 was frightened. She had no home, she had no 
 mother, she had no father. She had no supper, she 
 had had no dinner, she had had no breakfast. She 
 had no place to go, and nobody to care whether she 
 went or not. In fact, Mary Elizabeth had not much 
 of anything but a short pink calico dress, a little red 
 cotton-and-wool shawl, and her long name. Besides 
 this, she had a pair of old rubbers, too large for her. 
 They flopped on the pavement as she walked. 
 
 She was walking up Washington Street in Boston. 
 It was late in the afternoon of a bitter January day. 
 Already the lamplighters were coming with their 
 long poles, and gas-lights' began to flash upon the 
 grayness — neither day nor night — through which 
 the child watched the people moving dimly, with a 
 wonder in her heart. This wonder was as confused 
 as the half-light in which the crowd hurried by. 
 
 " God made so many people," thought Mary Eliz- 
 abeth, " he must have made so many suppers. 
 Seems as if there 'd ought to been one for one extry 
 little girl." 
 
 But she thought this in a gentle way. She was a
 
 MARY ELIZABETH. 371 
 
 very gentle little girl. All girls who hadn't any- 
 thing were not like Mary Elizabeth. She roomed 
 with a girl out toward Charlestown who was differ- 
 ent. That girl's name was Jo. They slept in a box 
 that an Irish woman let them have in an old shed. 
 The shed was too cold for her cow, and she could n't 
 use it ; so she told Jo and Mary Elizabeth that they 
 might have it as well as not. Mary Elizabeth 
 thought her very kind. There was this difference 
 between Jo and Mary Elizabeth : when Jo was hun- 
 gry, she stole ; when Mary Elizabeth was hungry, 
 she begged. 
 
 On the night of which I speak, she begged hard. 
 It is very wrong to beg, we all know. It is wrong 
 to give to beggars, we all know, too ; we have been 
 told so a great many times. Still, if I had been as 
 hungry as Mary Elizabeth, I presume I should have 
 begged, too. Whether I should have given her any- 
 thing if I had been on Washington Street that Janu- 
 ary night, how can I tell ? 
 
 At any rate, nobody did. Some told her to go to 
 the Orphans' Home. Some said : " Ask the police." 
 Some people shook their heads, and more people did 
 nothing at all. One lady told her to go to the 
 St. Priscilla and Aquila Society, and Mary Elizabeth 
 said : " Thank you, ma'am," politely. She had 
 never heard of Aquila and Priscilla, She thought 
 they must be policemen. Another lady bade her go 
 to an Office and be Registered, and Mary Elizabeth 
 said : " Ma'am ? " 
 
 So now she was shuf&ing up Washington Street, 
 — I might say flopping up Washington Street, — 
 not knowing exactly what to do next ; peeping into
 
 372 MARY ELIZABETH. 
 
 people's faces, timidly looking aAvay from them ; 
 hesitating ; heart-sick, — for a very little girl can 
 be very heart-sick, — colder, she thought, every min- 
 ute, and hungrier each hour than she was the hour 
 before. 
 
 The child left Washington Street at last, where 
 everybody had homes and suppers without one extra 
 one to spare for a little girl, and turned into a short, 
 bright, showy street, where stood a great hotel. 
 Everybody in Boston knows, and a great many peo- 
 ple out of Boston know, that hotel ; in fact, they 
 know it so well that I will not mention the name of 
 it, because it was against the rules of the house for 
 beggars to be admitted, and perhaps the proprietor 
 would not like it if I told how this one especial lit- 
 tle beggar got into his well-conducted house. In- 
 deed, precisely how she got in nobody knows. 
 Whether the door-keeper was away, or busy, or sick, 
 or careless, or whether the head-waiter at the dining- 
 room door was so tall that he could n't see so short a 
 beggar, or whether the clerk at the desk was so 
 noisy that he could n't hear so still a beggar, or how- 
 ever it was, Mary Elizabeth did get in, — by the 
 door-keeper, past the head-waiter, under the shadow 
 of the clerk, — over the smooth, slippery marble 
 floor, the child crept on. She came to the office 
 door, and stood still. She looked around her with 
 wide eyes. She had never seen a place like that. 
 Lights flashed over it, many and bright. Gentlemen 
 sat in it smoking and reading. They were all warm. 
 Not one of them looked as if he had had no dinner, 
 and no breakfast, and no supper. 
 
 " How man}^ extry suppers," thought the little
 
 MARY ELIZABETH. 373 
 
 girl, '4t must ha' taken to feed 'em all. I guess 
 maybe there '11 be one for me in here." 
 
 There was a little noise, a very little one, strange 
 to the warm, bright, well-ordered room. It was not 
 the rattling of the " Boston Advertiser,'' or the 
 " Transcript," or the " Post ; " it was not the slight 
 rap-rapping of a cigar stump, as the ashes fell from 
 some one's white hands ; nobody coughed, and no- 
 body swore. It was a different sound. It was the 
 sound of an old rubber, much too large, flopping on 
 the marble floor. Several gentlemen glanced at 
 their own well-shod and well-brushed feet, then up 
 and around the room. 
 
 Mary Elizabeth stood in the middle of it, in her 
 pink calico dress and red-plaid shawl. The shawl 
 was tied over her head, and about her neck with a 
 ragged tippet. She looked very funny and round 
 behind, like the wooden women in the Noah's Ark. 
 Her bare feet showed in the old rubbers. She be- 
 gan to shuffle about the room, holding out one purple 
 little hand. 
 
 One or two of the gentlemen* laughed ; some 
 frowned ; more did nothing at all ; most did not 
 notice, or did not seem to notice, the child. One 
 said : — 
 
 " What 's the matter, here ? " 
 
 Mary Elizabeth flopped on. She went from one 
 to another, less timidly ; a kind of desperation had 
 taken possession of her. The odors from the din- 
 ing-room came in, of strong, hot coffee, and strange, 
 roast meats. Mary Elizabeth thought of Jo. It 
 seemed to her she was so hungry that, if she could 
 not get a supper, she should jump up and run, and
 
 374 MARY ELIZABETH. 
 
 rush about, and snatch something, and steal, like Jo. 
 She held out her hand, but only said : — 
 
 " I 'ni hungry ! " 
 
 A gentleman called her. He was the gentleman 
 who had asked, " What 's the matter, here ? " He 
 called her in behind his " Xew York Times," which 
 was big enough to hide three of Mary Elizabeth, and 
 when he saw that nobody was looking, he gave her 
 a five-cent piece, in a hurry, as if he had done a sin, 
 and quickly said : — 
 
 " There, there, child ! go, now, go ! " 
 
 Then he began to read the '' Times " quite hard 
 and fast and to look severe, as one does who never 
 gives anything to beggars, as a matter of principle. 
 
 But nobody else gave anything to Mary Elizabeth. 
 She shufiled from one to another, hopelessly. Every 
 gentleman shook his head. One called for a waiter 
 to put her out. This frightened her, and she stood 
 still. 
 
 Over by a window, in a lonely corner of the great 
 room, a young man was sitting, apart from the 
 others. Mary Elizabeth had seen that young man 
 when she first came in, but he had not seen her. 
 He had not seen anything nor anybody. He sat 
 with his elbows on the table, and his face buried in 
 his arms. He was a well-dressed young man, with 
 brown, curling hair. Mary Elizabeth wondered why 
 he looked so miserable, and why he sat alone. She 
 thought, perhaps, if he were n't so happy as the 
 other gentlemen, he would be more sorry for cold 
 and hungry girls. She hesitated, then flopped along, 
 and directly up to him. 
 
 One or two gentlemen laid down their papers, and
 
 MAEY ELIZABETH. 375 
 
 watched this ; they smiled and nodded at each other. 
 The chikl did not see them, to wonder why. She 
 went up, and put her hand upon the young man's 
 arm. 
 
 He started. The brown, curly head lifted itself 
 from the shelter of his arms ; a young face looked 
 sharply at the beggar-girl, — a beautiful young face 
 it might have been. It was haggard now, and 
 dreadful to look at, — bloated, and badly marked 
 with the unmistakable marks of a wicked week's de- 
 bauch. He roughly said : — 
 
 " What do you want ? " 
 
 " I 'm hungry," said Mary Elizabeth. 
 
 " I can't help that. Go away." 
 
 " I have n't had anything to eat for a whole day 
 — a tvhole day I " repeated the child. 
 
 Her lip quivered. But she spoke distinctly. 
 Her voice sounded through the room. One gentle- 
 man after another had laid down his paper or his 
 pipe. Several were watching this little scene. 
 
 " Go away ! " repeated the young man irritably. 
 " Don't bother me. / have n't had anything to eat 
 for three days ! " 
 
 His face went down into his arms again. Mary 
 Elizabeth stood staring at the brown, curling hair. 
 She stood perfectly still for some moments. She 
 evidently was greatly puzzled. She walked away a 
 little distance, then stopped, and thought it over. 
 
 And now, paper after paper, and pipe after cigar 
 went down. Everj'- gentleman in the room began to 
 look on. The young man, with the beautiful brown 
 curls, and dissipated, disgraced, and hidden face, 
 was not stiller than the rest. The little figure in
 
 376 MARY ELIZABETH. 
 
 the pink calico, and the red shawl, and big rubbers 
 stood for a moment silent among them all. The 
 waiter came to take her out, but the gentlemen 
 motioned him away. 
 
 Mary Elizabeth turned her five-cent piece over 
 and over slowly in her purple hand. Her hand 
 shook. The tears came. The smell of the dinner 
 from the dining-room grew savory and strong. The 
 child put the piece of money to her lips as if she 
 could have eaten it, then turned, and, without fur- 
 ther hesitation, went back. She touched the young 
 man — on the bright hair, this time — with her 
 trembling little hand. 
 
 The room was so still now that what she said 
 rang out to the corridor, where the waiters stood, 
 with the clerk behind looking over the desk to see. 
 
 " I 'm sorry you are so hungry. If you have n't 
 had anything for three days, you must be hungrier 
 than me. I 've got five cents. A gentleman gave it 
 to me. I wish you would take it. I 've only gone 
 one day. You can get some supper with it, and — 
 maybe — I — can get some, somewheres ! I wish 
 you 'd please to take it ! " 
 
 Mary Elizabeth stood quite still, holding out her 
 five-cent piece. She did not understand the sound 
 and the stir that went all over the bright room. 
 She did not see that some of the gentlemen coughed 
 and wiped their spectacles. She did not know why 
 the brown curls before her came up with such a start, 
 nor why the young man's wasted face flushed red 
 and hot with noble shame. 
 
 She did not in the least understand why he flung 
 the five-cent piece upon the table, and snatching her
 
 MART ELIZABETH. 377 
 
 in his arms held her fast, and hid his face on her 
 plaid shawl and sobbed. ISTor did she know what 
 could be the reason that nobody seemed amused to 
 see this gentleman cry ; but that the gentleman who 
 had given her the money came up, and some more 
 came up, and they gathered round, and she in the 
 midst of them, and they all spoke kindly, and the 
 young man with the bad face that might have been 
 so beautiful, stood up, still clinging to her, and said 
 aloud : — 
 
 " She 's shamed me before you all, and she 's 
 shamed me to myself ! I '11 learn a lesson from this 
 beggar, so help me God ! " 
 
 So then, he took the child upon his knee, and the 
 gentlemen came up to listen, and the young man 
 asked her what was her name. 
 
 "Mary Elizabeth, sir." 
 
 " Names used to mean things — in the Bible — 
 when I was as little as you. I read the Bible then. 
 Does Mary Elizabeth mean Angel of Kebuke ? " 
 
 "Sir?" 
 
 " Where do you live, Mary Elizabeth ? " 
 
 " Nowhere, sir." 
 
 " Where do you sleep ? " 
 
 "In Mrs. O'Flynn's shed, sir. It's too cold for 
 the cows. She 's so kind, she lets us stay." 
 
 " Whom do you stay with ? " 
 
 "Nobody, only Jo." 
 
 " Is Jo your brother ? " 
 
 " No, sir. Jo is a girl. I have n't got only Jo." 
 
 " What does Jo do for a living ? " 
 
 " She — gets it, sir." 
 
 " And what do you do ? "
 
 378 MARY ELIZABETH. 
 
 " I beg. It 's better than to — get it, sir, I think." 
 
 " Where 's your mother ? " 
 
 " Dead." 
 
 " What did she die of ? " 
 
 " Drink, sir," said Mary Elizabeth, in her distinct 
 and gentle tone. 
 
 " Ah, — well. And your father ? " 
 
 " He is dead. He died in prison." 
 
 " What sent him to prison ? " 
 
 " Drink, sir." 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 " I had a brother once," continued Mary Elizabeth, 
 who grew quite eloquent with so large an audience, 
 " but he died, too." 
 
 " W^hat did he die of ? " 
 
 " Drink, sir," said the child cheerfully. " I do 
 want my supper," she added, after a pause, speaking 
 in a whisper, as if to Jo or to herself, " and Jo '11 
 be wondering for me." 
 
 " Wait, then," said the young man. " I '11 see if / 
 can't beg enough to get you your supper." 
 
 " I tJiought there must be an extry one among so 
 many folks ! " cried Mary Elizabeth ; for now, she 
 thought, she should get back her five cents. 
 
 And truly ; the young man put the five cents into 
 his hat, to begin with. Then he took out his purse, 
 and put in something that made less noise than the 
 five-cent piece, and something more, and more and 
 more. Then he passed around the great room, walk- 
 ing still unsteadih", and the gentleman who gave the 
 five cents and all the gentlemen put something into 
 the young man's hat. 
 
 So when he came back to the table, he emptied
 
 MARY ELIZABETH. 379 
 
 the hat and counted the money, and truly, it was 
 forty dollars. 
 
 " Fortij dollars ! " 
 
 Mary Elizabeth looked frightened. 
 
 " It 's yours," said the young man. " Now, come 
 to supper. But see ! this gentleman who gave you 
 the five-cent piece shall take care of the money for 
 you. You can trust him. He 's got a wife, too. 
 But we '11 come to supper, now." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said the gentleman, coming up. " She 
 knows all about every orphan in this city, I believe. 
 She '11 know what ought to be done with you. 
 She '11 take care of you." 
 
 ''But Jo will wonder," said Mary Elizabeth loy- 
 ally. " I can't leave Jo. And I must go back and 
 thank Mrs. O'Elynn for the shed." 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes ; we 'U fix all that," said the gentle- 
 man, " and Jo, too. A little girl with forty dollars 
 need n't sleep in a cow-shed. But don't you want 
 your supper ? " 
 
 " Why, yes," said Mary Elizabeth ; " I do." 
 
 So the young man took her by the hand, and the 
 gentleman whose wife knew all about what to do 
 with orphans took her by the other hand, and one or 
 two more gentlemen followed, and they all went out 
 into the dining room, and put Mary Elizabeth in a 
 chair at a clean Avhite table, and asked her what she 
 wanted for her supper. 
 
 Mary Elizabeth said that a little dry toast and a 
 cup of milk would do nicely. So all the gentlemen 
 laughed. And she wondered why. 
 
 And the young man with the brown curls laughed, 
 too, and began to look quite happy. But he ordered
 
 380 MAEY ELIZABETH. 
 
 chicken, and cranberry sauce, and mashed potatoes, 
 and celery, and rolls, and butter, and tomatoes, and 
 an ice cream, and a cup of tea, and nuts, and raisins, 
 and cake, and custard, and apples, and grapes — and 
 Mary Elizabeth sat in her pink dress and red shawl, 
 and ate the whole ; and why it did n't kill her no- 
 body knows ; but it did n't. 
 
 The young man with the face that might have 
 been beautiful — that might yet be, one would have 
 thought who had seen him then — stood watching 
 the little girl. 
 
 " She 's preached me a better sermon," he said, be- 
 low his breath ; "better than all the ministers I ever 
 heard in all the churches. May God bless her ! I 
 wish there were a thousand like her in this selfish 
 world ! " 
 
 And when I heard about it, I wished so, too.
 
 ANKIE LAUEIE. 
 
 The outcry of the coming tide was pealing in. It 
 had the resonance of a heavy sea ; one could hear it 
 a mile further into the town than one expected, and 
 felt a sense of surprise at the depth of the tone. 
 The ocean was quite gray. The sky seemed rather 
 to take than to give the universal color which hung 
 upon the village and the headland, and gathered 
 against the breakwater with a force and an -impor- 
 tance that made the impression of a waste of sad- 
 ness ; as if the world had filled up and brimmed over 
 with it, and had gone into gray as people go into 
 mourning ; that being the easiest way of recogniz- 
 ing what there was nothing to be said about. The 
 effect was heightened by the prevailing tones of the 
 granite which filled the landscape. The great quar- 
 ries in the background gaped into a gray earth ; the 
 cars which rolled or trundled by were loaded with 
 massive grayness ; so the sloops that lay at anchor 
 in the little artificial harbors ; the wharves w^ere 
 piled with gray paving, regularly disposed, making 
 rectangular outlines against the sky, which hung 
 close, like a curtain of a shade darker than the stone, 
 against it. Derricks, lifting gray blocks, cut the 
 gray air on either side of the street, where the stone- 
 dust blew about under the hammers of the paving 
 cutters. Granite houses presented their unrelenting
 
 382 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 faces to the severe harmony of the scenery ; and the 
 breakwater itself, a solemn gray figure like a sarco- 
 phagus, stretched drearily out into the disturbed sea. 
 
 There was no fog. The face of the ocean was dis- 
 tinctly to be seen, furrowed with black wrinkles. 
 Against the breakwater the surf leaped high ; 
 tongues of white flame licked the edge of the great 
 granite dike and blazed up. The day was so gray 
 that these dazzled the eye like the sunlight for 
 which they were the substitute. The rocks, wet 
 with an immense sweep of spray, glittered; they 
 had not been frosted for some days, but now the 
 night was turning cold. It was the 24th of Decem- 
 ber, and in Stoneport. 
 
 Stoneport lies far down the index finger of the 
 Massachusetts coast, and has a right to its climate. 
 God and the fishermen know what that is. Para- 
 lyzed with the weather, the long arm of the Cape 
 stretches into midwinter, and bears the cold like 
 dead fliesh. When a gentle mood like that of this 
 Christmas week comes to Stoneport in winter the 
 people lift their eyes to the breakwater, glance at 
 the bows of the boats to see which way the wind 
 points, look to their little piles of coal, cut lasting 
 for their windows, get out the children's woollen 
 tippets, and say, " This is a weather-breeder ; I wish 
 your father was ashore." 
 
 It had been a singularly gentle week, peaceful and 
 a,lmost warm ; purple mist throbbed and melted in 
 yellow air, and the snow fled ; the water had warm 
 loving colors — April colors of blue and violet and 
 tender browns ; and the kelp palpitated on the red 
 rocks over on the headland by the light-house as if
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 383 
 
 it breathed ; the quarrymen worked one day in their 
 woollen shirtsleeves. Clearly this was well over 
 now. The wind had set its teeth into the east, and 
 all the world gathered itself for the coming storm. 
 
 The qnarrymen had their share of Stoneport 
 weather, be it understood ; they understood it. It 
 was no light job to be a fisherman, perhaps ; but 
 there were other people in the world than fishermen. 
 Three hundred men looked up at the offended sky 
 from the great (Quarries and works of Stoneport, and 
 said, each man to himself or to his neighbor, accord- 
 ing to his temperament, " We '"re goin' to have a spell 
 of weather." 
 
 It was sometimes pretty cold chipping stone in 
 winter in Stoneport, but it was not fashionable for 
 the quarrymen to complain. There were a good 
 many Scotch among them. They had reserve and 
 pride — a man attended to his own business and took 
 Ms own risks ; he was not an object of pity to sum- 
 mer visitors or newspaper reporters ; he respected 
 his calling, and defended it ; he was even in the 
 habit of comparing it with others, to the disadvan- 
 tage of any man not privileged to be a Stoneport 
 quarryman. Grievances he had ; but he did not 
 babble about them ; he treated them Avith a guarded 
 reticence, as cultivated people do their physical in- 
 firmities, and brought his hammer down upon your 
 question to remind you that his time and skill were 
 marketable commodities. Every line in his heavily 
 chiseled face, which looked as if his own tools had 
 hacked at it for half a century, expressed skepticism 
 as to the national usefulness of any person who had 
 nothing better to do than to ask why he called his
 
 384 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 stand a "berth," or how deep a quarry was. Never- 
 theless, in the winter it was cold cutting granite in 
 Stoneport. 
 
 " We '11 have the quarry to shovel come moruin'," 
 observed an authoritative-looking, square-built fellow 
 from the bottom of the busiest pit in town. They 
 were loading the derrick as he spoke ; it groaned 
 like a living thing beneath its mighty burden as the 
 huge slab swung around and off into the snowy air. 
 The men watched it with glances of something like 
 sympathy, as if they felt a kinship between them- 
 selves and the straining, senseless thing. They 
 were muscular men, most of them, and bent to their 
 work sturdily. 
 
 '' You 're out there, AVashington Kock," a cheerful 
 voice made answer from the door of the engine- 
 house. " I 'd like to see the Granite Company that 
 'ud set you shovelin' on a holiday." 
 
 '' Christmas ! I forgot it ; that 's the gospel truth. 
 She 's got up some kinder rinktum for us to remem- 
 ber it by, Herself ; hain't she, Jefferson ? I wonder 
 I forgot it." 
 
 " It 's a kind of a party ; it 's a gatherin' at Her 
 house. It 's the day She celebrates," replied another, 
 chafing his ears briskly, for it was undeniably grow- 
 ing cold and colder. " I had a letter myself for an 
 invite. It was written on 't : ' Mr. Madison Eock. 
 K. S. V. P.' My woman said them two fust letters 
 meant ' Rite Soon,' but what ' V. P.' stood for she 
 warn't so sure. Say, Monroe, what did you make 
 on 't ? Did you have one ? " 
 
 " Stands to sense I had one," growled Monroe from 
 the pit's stairway. " Did ye ever know Her to slight
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 385 
 
 anybody or sarse anybody ? She 's the only person 
 I ever knew that treated me like a gentleman sence 
 I was born a qnarryman. Lord bless her ! My girl," 
 he added, with an air of not being too proud to 
 mention it — " my girl 's been to high school two 
 seasons, and she say's ' V. P.' means ' Very Prompt ; ' 
 that 's what that stands for. But there 's a girl 
 alongside of her that 's been to Boston, who says it 
 stands for ' Verse of Poetry.' " 
 
 The other men listened with deference. The Eock 
 boys were held in great respect in the quarry ; there 
 were four of them, two brothers, two cousins, named 
 by patriotic parents in the Presidential order men- 
 tioned. The Eock boys had always felt the dignity 
 of their names, and perceived that they had some- 
 thing to live up to. They did not get drunk ; they 
 had money at the savings-bank ; they " bossed" the 
 rest of the gang as a matter of course. Now and 
 then an old Scotchman by the name of Dawse re- 
 belled faintly, and there was a Finlander who had 
 lost one eye by an explosion, reported to be " worth 
 something " himself, and maintaining on both 
 grounds a certain right to private opinion. 
 
 " There 's a book of etikwette at our house on top 
 shelf somewheres along of the Bible and the cook- 
 book," said Washington Eock. " It ain't no gret of 
 a chore to find out what ' E. S. V. P.' dooz stand for. 
 She knows we can read, if we ain't rich." 
 
 Miss Laurie, by the way, understood the quarry- 
 men very well in this matter. The more ceremony 
 about her hospitality, and the less they understood 
 it, the better they liked it. 
 
 " Yon gaes the marster," observed the Scotchman,
 
 386 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 with the manner of one who thought the Eock boys 
 had monopolized the conversational resources of the 
 quarry long enough. 
 
 " Goes he to her ? " asked the Finlander, dropping 
 his drills, and casting the scrutiny of his single eye, 
 with the intensity belonging to deficiency, over the 
 dreary landscape. " She deserves a husband." 
 
 '' She 's too good for him," protested Washington 
 Rock. 
 
 " He ain't wuth the right to tie her shoe-strings," 
 cried Jeiferson Rock. 
 
 " She '11 never be married," said Madison. 
 
 " Lord forbid ! " said Monroe. 
 
 "No man ain't blocked out fit for her," urged 
 Washington Rock in a final tone. 
 
 " He goes not to her," objected the Finlander, 
 peering between the guys of the moaning derrick. 
 " He will turn him down the road by Satan's Pit." 
 
 "■ No, sir," persisted Washington Rock ; " Martin 
 Derrick 's on his way to nowheres but to her." 
 
 " That 's so," said Jefferson Rock. 
 
 " Bet your Sunday mornin' brown-bread on 't," said 
 Madison, " he 's after her." 
 
 " Yes," said Monroe, -'he 's after Annie Laurie." 
 
 *' Gin he war," suggested Dawse, the Scotchman, 
 after a severe silence, " is there a lad in these quar- 
 ries to hinder the lass ? " 
 
 The men did not look at each other ; no one an- 
 swered the old man. They were poor quarrymen, 
 plain fellows ; she of whom they spoke was not of 
 their sort : teacher, angel, idol, but woman not for 
 them. The}' thought of her as they thought of the 
 evening star, which looked down into the quarry
 
 ANNIE LAUBIE. 387 
 
 through a break in the clouds from a great height, 
 piercingly, seeing everything, but touchiug nowhere. 
 Yet there was not a man among them who could 
 have wished her married. 
 
 " Mayhap it 's right ye are, boys," said the old 
 Scotchman softly, as if he had been answered. 
 " Gin I had the chusin' of a mon for her me ain sel', 
 I 'd sooner tak' him frae th' ither warld nor this." 
 
 Annie Laurie sat in her little music-room alone. 
 She had the thoughts that, like wild birds, venture 
 near the heart only when one is alone and still. 
 
 Annie Laurie was fifty-one years old — fifty-one 
 to-morrow, for Christmas was her birthday too. She 
 had passed the years when one is a heroine. Life 
 was behind her. She Avas a heroine to nobody now 
 except to the quarrymen, poor fellows, who idealized, 
 she said, a little common humanity, or perhaps a bit 
 of experimental Christianity, so easily that one could 
 cry to think of it. 
 
 She thought of it that evening, sitting there by 
 herself, and twisting bonbons for their Christmas 
 party. She had done a good many things for the 
 quarrymen, as all Stoneport knew — womanly, neigh- 
 borly things, warm-hearted, courageous, and charac- 
 teristic. Stoneport expected them of her, but it was 
 the first time that she had ever invited the quarry- 
 men, her own particvilar quarrymen, to a party. She 
 was as excited about it as if she had been fifteen in- 
 stead of fifty-one. 
 
 " It is the pleasantest thing I ever did in my life," 
 she said to Mrs. Tombs ; " it is delightful ! " 
 
 Mrs. Tombs lived with Annie Laurie ; whether
 
 388 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 maid, mother, guide, philosopher, housekeeper, or 
 friend, her vocation was complex. She was said to 
 have a pretty, cheerful name — Kate or Jenny, or 
 what not ; but Mrs. Tombs and only Mrs. Tombs 
 she was and would be. It was supposed that she 
 conceived herself thus either to maintain that per- 
 sonal dignity which defies position or that which 
 comes from it ; whether one was to forget that she 
 cooked the dinner or remember that she had been 
 married, was never clearly proved. Authorities dif- 
 fered on this point ; Miss Laurie yielded it without 
 inquiry, and merrily called her Mrs. Tombs. 
 
 "It took you to think on't," said Mrs. Tombs. 
 " I would n't stone a raisin for 'em, nor for no mortal 
 human, without it was to amuse you. But, Lordy, 
 if it amuses you ! " 
 
 Mrs. Tombs had succumbed on twisting bonbons. 
 She said it gave her an indigestion in the brain to 
 think of it. She had gone away to look after some 
 heavy moral responsibilities in the matter of choco- 
 late frosting. Annie Laurie could hear Mrs. Tombs 
 singing in the kitchen, — 
 
 " Day of -wrath, that dreadful day," 
 
 by way of Christmas carol, while she whipped the 
 eggs. Miss Laurie herself, alone in the music-room, 
 was submerged in waves of colored paper and in the 
 tide of her own thoughts. 
 
 These to-night were the long thourrhts of her 
 years, the quiet thoughts with which peaceful mid- 
 dle age comes to anniversary days. Annie Laurie 
 had not always been quiet ; she was too handsome a 
 woman even at fifty to have had a quiet life ; and
 
 ANNIE LAUEIE. 389 
 
 then her eyes were too dark. They were deep as well 
 as dark, and bright as well as deep ; they flashed as 
 easily as a September sea. She had abounding 
 health, and sang like a morning star sometimes even 
 now ; her hair seemed to have turned gray more 
 because it became her than because she was growing 
 old. She had an erect figure, richly moulded, and 
 a firm musician's hand. Her face was vivid and 
 strong ; and when she was moved in the right way it 
 was sweet. 
 
 Strong or sweet, or brave or merry, it was im- 
 possible at Christmas time and birthday time not to 
 remember — How a woman remembers ! She had 
 often prayed for a man's power of forgetting, and 
 then prayed to be forgiven for the prayer. She 
 knew that she would not have felt she was half a 
 woman if she could forget. She would have scorned 
 herself as if she had done something rude. It was 
 the way she was made ; it was like the depth of her 
 eyes or the quality of her soprano. Who was to 
 help it ? She had loved one man, and he had died. 
 Her story was the story of her country. Twenty- 
 one, almost twenty -two years ago, Annie Laurie was 
 one of those who " gave their happiness instead." 
 He gave his life ; she knew it was the easier por- 
 tion ; she never said so, lest she should seem to un- 
 dervalue his share of their sacrifice or overvalue hers. 
 They loved each other, and he went to the war. 
 
 They had loved much — being so young ; and she 
 had thought he would come through somehow and 
 come back to her. She really had. It was her ar- 
 dent, vigorous nature to do so. She hoped easily, or 
 at least deeply ; she did not believe that George
 
 390 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 would be killed. Sire had expected to be happy. 
 She always had been. She had known the glad 
 youth of health and ease and beauty. It was new 
 to have to suffer. She had to learn how. 
 
 Theirs had been one of the natural, happy betrothals 
 whereunto all the common currents of life set easily. 
 Friends had blessed and circumstances had laughed. 
 Annie Laurie was the daughter of the village doctor. 
 George Cliff was in the Granite Company — icas the 
 Granite Company after his father died. (And the 
 Granite Company failed during the war ; after he 
 was shot.) Her lover was older than she. They 
 had known each other half their lives, ever since Dr. 
 Laurie bought out the old deaf doctor's practice. 
 Everybody was glad to have them marry. Their 
 personal preference seemed really only the official 
 expression of public opinion ; that was delightful. 
 The handsome girl was well liked in Stoneport even 
 then ; she had her father's hearty way wath people, 
 though she did not trouble herself about the quarry- 
 men in those days. She was too merry a girl to play 
 ]\Iy Lady Bountiful. Hers had been the humanity 
 learned at the feet of sorrow, and, like the other 
 lessons w^hich are taught by that thorough teacher, 
 learned well if learned at all. 
 
 She was going down into the kitchen to give an 
 order for her father's comfort (for she was a mother- 
 less girl) one May day, now almost twenty-two years 
 ago, when the doctor came in and called her, in a 
 voice which she had never heard in all her life. He 
 met her at the head of the stairs. The entry window 
 was open. She saw the sky and birds and the branch 
 of the old maple. She had on a pink summer dress,
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 391 
 
 for it was warm. Blue of the sky and rose of the 
 happy woman's robe melted into a dense violet haze 
 between herself and her father's face. The old 
 man held the morning paper in his shaking hand. 
 
 " Wait a minute, father," said Annie Laurie ; 
 " Jane, make the doctor's coffee carefully for dinner. 
 He is tired." 
 
 Then she turned and kissed him before she put 
 out her hand and took the paper, and went away 
 with it alone vipstairs. 
 
 It would have been something if she could have 
 laid her lips against the grass upon her soldier's 
 grave. But he lay among the nameless dead, six 
 hundred miles away from her. He fell in the ter- 
 rible charge at Chancellorsville, and was not seen by 
 comrade or by friend again. She had no word, no 
 trace. The poor girl had not even the ring she put 
 upon his finger, nor her letters — not one of the little 
 sacred signs that grief cheats itself upon. Jealous 
 death had swallowed everything. He had dropped 
 out of her life as a jewel drops into the sea. 
 
 The sorrow of the young is a cruel sorrow. An- 
 nie Laurie was strong as well as young, and she suf- 
 fered as the strong do. Turn the leaf — turn the 
 leaf upon the story, and read on. 
 
 Trouble, as we know, is one of the contagions of 
 life. Her first was not her last, and before she had 
 come past thirty years the brave girl had her heavy 
 share. When the doctor took a malignant fever 
 from a pauper patient, and yielded the struggle for 
 life at a week's end, she was not out of the black 
 dress worn for her lover ; and so she kept it on.
 
 392 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 She was left with lier house, her musical educa- 
 tion, her voice, and a bank-account that paid the un- 
 dertaker and the grocer. The week after the funeral 
 Mrs. Tombs came in at the front door without ring- 
 ing, and said : " I 'm a patient. I set a store by the 
 doctor. He cured me of a terrible thing I had the 
 matter of me. I 'd ha' ben alongside of Mr. Tombs 
 if your father had n't pervented. You 'd better be- 
 lieve I was thankful to mercy for that. I loved the 
 doctor. His patients did, you know. I '11 live with 
 you if you want me to. I can get along on board 
 wages. I 'm well off, considerin' what Mr. Tombs 
 was. I'd like to do something for my doctor's 
 daughter." 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Tombs," said Annie Laurie. 
 She went up and kissed Mrs. Tombs, and that was 
 the beginning and end of that. In three weeks she 
 opened her singing-school ; and the summer people 
 took vacation lessons, when they came, for their lit- 
 tle girls. She sang in a choir in Fairharbor ; she 
 played to rich invalids ; she was not unheard of at 
 parlor concerts; she toiled over the drifts of Cape 
 Ann in winter to give private instruction to mechan- 
 ics' daughters : in short, she struggled for existence, 
 and had it. She was a brave, busy woman. Every- 
 body knew Annie Laurie. She was not a saint — 
 not a bit of it ; her eyes flashed too quickly. She 
 was a live human creature ; she had even a little 
 temper of her own ; she scolded her quarrymen or 
 her pupils if they deserved it, and made up for it 
 next time by bountiful bursts of tenderness. Al- 
 though a poor woman, she had moods ; she was not 
 always the same ; she gave herself the luxury of a
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 393 
 
 varied nature, and though she sometimes lost a 
 friend because of it, she kept more than she lost. 
 At fifty-one she was a bright-eyed, handsome, heart- 
 some soul to look upon, with a maternal manner and 
 the laugh of a girl. 
 
 People used to say that she would get over it and 
 marry ; but they had, for the most part, given that 
 up now. She had been beloved, of course, as most 
 women are; times not a few, as such women are. 
 But she had followed her solitary life as one follows 
 a page that is to be read. 
 
 Martin Derrick, coming up to her door that night, 
 looked in from the threat of the storm to the caress 
 of the house with heavy, hungry eyes. He could 
 see her before he entered, for the curtain was not 
 quite close, and even blew in the gasps of the rising 
 gale that puffed through the loose, old-fashioned 
 window-casings. 
 
 " She needs a carpenter here for a week," he 
 thought. She made merry of her economies ; one 
 would have thought they were her luxuries ; but it 
 went hard with him to look on and see them. 
 
 She sat alone in the lamp-light (there was a rose- 
 colored shade upon the lamp), with her fine fingers 
 — whiter for the colors of. the gay paper — flashing 
 to and fro at her Christmas work. She sat erect 
 and strong. 
 
 Her brave face was bent; it had a sweet mute 
 look. He wondered of what she was thinking. Her 
 thoughts seemed to him something precious and far, 
 like the setting or the rising of the sun. He was a 
 plain, busy man, who wrought in stone and lived a 
 little rigidly. The granite of his quarries had got
 
 394 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 into liim, one miglit say ; his mind was well strati- 
 fied. He knew what he wished ; he usually had it. 
 He had desired success, and got it ; fortune, it came ; 
 marriage, and his wife adored him ; children, and 
 they were fine fellows — never fell sick and never 
 went wrong. He had always prospered. He ex- 
 pected matters to go as he chose to have them. 
 Nothing had ever thwarted Martin Derrick in all his 
 life but death and Annie Laurie. 
 
 For Mrs. Derrick died, and Annie Laurie — He 
 was a plain man, as I say, not given to that uncom- 
 mercial weakness which we call imagination ; but 
 Annie Laurie seemed as far from him, at her near- 
 est, as the color or the approach of the sky. He 
 thought of her with the reverence with which a baf- 
 fled man thinks of the unattainable ; it amounts to 
 religion in some men, and practically serves many 
 of the same purposes. 
 
 This did not affect his general belief that a thing 
 which was not to be had for the asking was to be 
 had by persisting. This was the natural belief of a 
 successful man. When he came in that night and 
 sat down by her and looked at her serene and stately 
 face, his hands clinched. 
 
 Good God ! he thought, if the heart of the solid 
 earth could be hewn out and cut to pieces, and made 
 to serve the human will, as he had seen it, as he had 
 felt it, all his days and in all his being, could not 
 the tenderness of one solitary woman be won ? 
 What was a man a man for if he could not do it ? 
 Why was a woman a woman unless she needs must 
 yield ? He brought his lips together under his gray 
 beard, and watched her without disguise ; she knew
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 395 
 
 how it was with him ; there was no passion either 
 to conceal or to confess between them. 
 
 " I don't see," he said, Avith the abruj^t candor of 
 long acquaintance, " that you look a day older than 
 you did when you were thirty-five. Of course you 
 know that you are a handsome woman, though I 
 don't know that I have talked about that. But to- 
 night — what ails you to-night ? " 
 
 ''It is because I feel so young, I think," laughed 
 Annie Laurie, turning her fine gray head in the 
 penumbra of the rose-colored lamp. " I am fifty-one 
 to-morrow, and fifty-one of my boys are coming to a 
 birthday party with Mrs. Tombs and me on Christ- 
 mas night. Will you come too ? That will be de- 
 lightful." 
 
 " I never knew anybody do such delicate things 
 for rough people." He touched the dainty trifle she 
 was twisting, with a tremor in his strong hand. 
 " Yon cast your precious pearls before " — 
 
 " No, no ! " she cried ; " I have never felt the 
 tusks — never once. You know better than that, 
 Martin Derrick. How was it in the strike last win- 
 ter ? Did they behave like " — 
 
 " They behaved like lambs led at your feet by a 
 piece of blue ribbon," admitted the master of the 
 Granite Company. "You saved the Company a 
 hundred thousand dollars ; and the hands — but the 
 thing of it was, they could nH understand what you 
 saved them. They took the trouble to keep out of 
 ruin and starvation and the poor-house, with no idea 
 in their skulls except that they were doing a favor 
 to you." He brought his clinched hands down heav- 
 ily upon the table among the bonbons.
 
 396 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 " So they were/' said Annie Laurie ; " the great- 
 est they could do me. I was very much obliged to 
 them. It was delightful." She repeated this favor- 
 ite phrase in the hearty girlish way she had. 
 
 The senior partner of the Granite Company 
 smiled. " You attempt to reduce the whole tremen- 
 dous labor problem which is convulsing the world 
 to-day to the solution found in the influence of one 
 extraordinary woman. That is not political econ- 
 omy." 
 
 "On the contrary, I reduce it to the solution 
 wrought out by one extraordinary man," returned 
 Annie Laurie, in a low voice. 
 
 " Who is that ? " he asked, forgetting himself. 
 
 " He died some nineteen centuries ago," she an- 
 swered gently. 
 
 " Oh, if you make a religious question of it " — 
 He waved his hand lightly, but the look in his gray 
 eyes was not light. Perhaps Miss Laurie's way of 
 speaking had the more weight because she was not 
 exactly what is called in Stoneport " a pious woman," 
 dealt more in flannels than in tracts, and was more 
 apt to bring you beef tea than a Bible ; was so desti- 
 tute of a '•' gift in prayer " that it was said but one 
 poor woman, a paralytic, whose only child had been 
 killed by a premature blast, had ever heard that 
 strong, merry, merciful voice pleading for the help 
 of Cxod. 
 
 " I have offered no political economy to the Stone- 
 port Granite Company," she said. "I have nothing 
 for anybody, be he in the quarry or in the counting- 
 room, but a little good sense that I happened to find 
 in the New Testament. I have never done anything
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 397 
 
 for your quarrymen except to love theni and to scold 
 you." 
 
 "And T," lie slowly said, "have done little but 
 reverse the process. I have scolded them and 
 loved " — 
 
 " Hark ! " cried the woman ; " I thought I heard 
 
 — did you hear anything ? Anything outside — in 
 the storm ? " 
 
 For the storm was rising now, and the night was 
 growing wild. She went to the window and flung it 
 up with one strong hand. The wind rushed in, and 
 snow ; it was turning deadly cold. The fierce cry of 
 the sea fi:lled the air, and battled with the sound of 
 the gale, and beat it down, and conquered it. 
 
 " There is nothing," she said restlessly — " no- 
 thing else. I thought I heard " — 
 
 She shut the window and came back. Snow was 
 on her hair and her black dress ; she glittered in the 
 red light by the lamp ; her cheeks blazed ; she 
 looked like one who has the secret of eternal youth. 
 His heart arose and worshiped her. His love came 
 upon him with the power of the passion of middle 
 life. But he only said: "You sing to the men 
 sometimes. Give one song to the master, won't 
 you ? You know the one I like — everybody likes 
 
 — to hear you sing. Let me have it, please, for 
 Christmas' sake." 
 
 She acquiesced, silently moving to her little up- 
 right piano, looking gentle, dumb, and sorry. Her 
 rich voice slowly rose and swelled and filled the 
 warm, small room, which seemed to throb with it, 
 like a heart. 
 
 " Maxwelton's braes are bonnie 
 Where early fa's the dew,
 
 398 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 And it "s there that Annie Laurie 
 Gied me " — 
 
 She dashed the music down and broke away. 
 
 " I can't. Not to-night. Not even for Christinas' 
 sake. Don't ask me. Don't want it. Don't " — 
 
 " Don't love yon ? But you know I do." His 
 square, gray-bearded jaw trembled ; he put out his 
 hands, but did not touch her. He thought how 
 happy he would have tried to make her ; he thought 
 how hard her life was. It seemed to him as if his 
 love and her loneliness would break his heart. 
 
 As if she understood and answered what he did 
 not say, she raised her troubled eyes and looked at 
 him piteously. " You are a good man, Martin Der- 
 rick. I am fond of you. I never liked any other 
 man so much — except — but " — 
 
 " I should not ask you to give me the feeling you 
 gave that dead man," he urged. 
 
 She lifted her head. The blush of fifteen came 
 upon the cheek of fifty years. 
 
 " Could a woman be a man's wife, and not feel — 
 like that ? It is n't my fault," she added, timidly ; 
 " I can't help it. I can't help being true to him." 
 
 The man of granite looked at her ; his eyes had 
 the expression of a hurt boy : he thought of his 
 luxvirious home, his fortune, what people called his 
 position, his success — all those small things ; they 
 were so small she did not think of them at all. 
 What was great ? Nothing was great to her — in 
 all this world, in all her solitary life, her coming 
 age, her toil and trouble, her anxieties and poverty 
 and growing need of daily tenderness — nothing was 
 large enough for her to see but loyal human love.
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 399 
 
 iVIartin Derrick brought his hand across the notes 
 of " Annie Laurie " as if he chitched at something. 
 He was jealous of that ghost. 
 
 " I will go," he said ; and so he said no more, but 
 hurried from her. In his heart he meant to win her 
 yet. He loved her so much that he could be pa- 
 tient. As he opened the outer door the storm came 
 in with a stampede. Peet seemed to follow it — 
 human feet. Annie Laurie sprang. 
 
 "The cry! "she said — ''the cry! There is a 
 cry. Does n't anybody hear it but me ? Let me 
 come ! Let me by ! " 
 
 Before his wits or his hearing came to him she 
 had sprung, and got herself past him and out into 
 the snow. She had snatched a long cloak from 
 somewhere, and was struggling to wrap it about her 
 as she ran, for it dragged, and the wind took it and 
 blew it away from her tall figure like the mantle of 
 an Aurora on a Roman vase. 
 
 Feet, indeed, there were, and voices. In the ad- 
 vancing dark some of the quarrymen could be seen ; 
 they were moving to and fro with the wasted force 
 and purpose of people in great excitement. Some 
 of them turned irresolutely, then came pushing and 
 rushing toward the music-teacher's house. Some 
 one cried : — 
 
 "Annie Laurie! Call Her. Send for Annie 
 Laurie ! " 
 
 Washington Rock, with a boy close at his feet, 
 and the ^inlander panting behind, dashed up. 
 
 "There's a man in the pit — Satan's Pit — the 
 old pit." 
 
 "Why, but he must be got out/'' said Miss 
 Laurie.
 
 400 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 " Get the men to work, and keep your wits, and 
 don't bother the lady, Rock," said Martin Derrick. 
 "It's no place for her. Go back to the house, Miss 
 Laurie. I will attend to everything. Go. — Come, 
 Washington." 
 
 His voice had the master's ring ; but the man 
 glanced at him with the sly smile of unemployed 
 opinion. 
 
 " She '11 go," he said. " She 'd rather." 
 
 They were plunging on together through the fast- 
 drifting snow, for no time had been lost in words. 
 She had paid no more attention to Derrick's sugges- 
 tion than if it were a snow-flake that she brushed 
 away from her. She was used to being with the 
 quarrymen in their emergencies — sickness, acci- 
 dent, whatever it was ; they expected her. Their 
 homes knew her, their wives loved her, their rascals 
 feared her, their children kissed her ; she was a part 
 of their life, as delicate womanhood may become a 
 part of the life of rough manhood, as love and wis- 
 dom and strength can become a part of suffering and 
 ignorance and weakness. It was a matter of course. 
 Nobody thought anything of it. If a wedding hap- 
 pened, or a burial, why, where was Annie Laurie ? 
 If a blast exploded too soon and hit in the wrong 
 place, and somebody must hold him and catch the 
 last words, and then go and tell the widow — send 
 for Annie Laurie. If a man fell over a disused pit 
 on a winter's night, sheer a hundred feet into the 
 icy water — Annie Laurie ! Annie Laurie ! 
 
 ' " She comes ! " called the ^inlander. He rolled 
 on ahead, to show that he could run as fast as any 
 man, if he was a foreigner. " I see," he added, with
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 401 
 
 the comfortable tone of one who argued that two 
 eyes were therefore a superfluity. 
 
 " We Ve got her," cried the boy, who had gained 
 upon them all ; " we 've got Annie Laurie." 
 
 It was longer than it should have been to Satan's 
 Pit. It had never seemed so long before. Derrick 
 held her up as they ran on together, but they wasted 
 no strength in speech ; she knew she should need it 
 all. It was very dark. The lights in the lowly 
 houses on the lonely street shone faintly through 
 the snow. It was very slippery, for it had glazed 
 over. Beyond the \dllage the uttermost, nethermost 
 blackness of the sea-line yawned like a chaos or 
 chasm into which the whole world must sink. The 
 rage of the full tide filled ocean, earth, and sky. 
 
 Yonder, nearer, more near, at last, the lanterns of 
 the little group of startled quarrymen trembled upon 
 the edge of the disused pit. 
 
 " The feller was a stranger," piped the boy, in his 
 shrill treble. " He never knew nobody used Satan 
 in these parts these days. Madison Eock says 
 that 's how he come to tumble in." 
 
 " Nobody but a fool or a furriner would ha' thought 
 on 't," said AVashington Eock, as decisively as a 
 heavy man may speak who is running for dear life 
 • — not his own. The Finlander took untimely of- 
 fense at this, and threatened to give his reasons at a 
 more convenient season ; but Miss Laurie paid no 
 attention to this military episode. 
 
 As she ran, hand in hand with Martin Derrick, 
 vigorously battling with the storm as she knew how, 
 the sleet was sharp upon her face, the deadly peril 
 of a human life was on her nerves, but her heart 
 went strange ways.
 
 402 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 Two-and-fcwenty were the years of the way it 
 went. The night was warm, for it was June. The 
 moon looked as it looks to the young and to the lov- 
 ing. On the edge of the old pit they stood together 
 — they two, she who was living and he who was 
 dead — and gazed down. The pit was in use then ; 
 the derricks were busy, the abyss was dry ; they had 
 grown up with it ; they were not afraid of it ; they 
 wandered about it with the affectionate familiarity 
 that we give to usual things. It was a place to be 
 alone in, that was all. It was a pleasant place to 
 be alone in on a summer night, and she wore a white 
 dress, and he liked it ; the moon shone in her face 
 when she lifted it to him, and they walked and 
 talked a little while ; and Avhen she said she must 
 go home, for her father would be in, and need her, he 
 had said, " I love thee, Annie," and she had an-- 
 swered — 
 
 " Here we are ! " said Washington Eock. 
 
 " Here we be ! " cried the boy. 
 
 " "We come I " panted the Fiulander. 
 
 But Martin Derrick had let go her hand, and 
 made on, and got among the men. 
 
 With the supple motion and the practiced power 
 learned of two-and- twenty years, her heart re- 
 bounded. Her lips moved ; no sound came from 
 them ; but afterward she remembered that to her- 
 self she said : " George, I want to save this man. 
 Help me, won't you ? " Then she drew her hood 
 back from her face, and walked quietly in among 
 the men — went straight to the edge of the pit and 
 looked down. 
 
 Half-a-dozen sprang to hold her; it was deadly
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 403 
 
 slippery, and the wind blew so ! They cried out 
 that it was all up with him — that they had done 
 their best ; that jNladison Eock had clambered half- 
 way down ; that tn^o Scotchmen had tried ; that it 
 was so glazed over, and death to go ; that nothing 
 could be done. Mr. Derrick himself admitted that 
 he feared the worst, but he busied himself in giving 
 short, sharp orders — something about ropes, and 
 the stairway in the rock. The men obeyed or made 
 a feint of obeying the master, but they glanced at 
 Annie Laurie. 
 
 She, shuddering upon the pit's edge, stood during 
 all this protest, silently looking down. 
 
 " But the man is not in the water," she said, in a 
 low voice ; " he is clinging to the rock — he holds to 
 the quarry. He is alive. He can be saved." 
 
 "He has slipped," somebody whispered behind 
 her — "he has slipped from there, — to there, since 
 we first saw him." 
 
 " An' there 's fifty foot of ice-water in the pit." 
 
 " Gin I war fifty year younger, I 'd doon for the 
 mon me ain sel', by me lane!" cried old Dawse, 
 stamping the icy snow. 
 
 " Ay, ay," muttered a voice ; " but would ye send 
 yer lad ? Come, now ; that 's the question." 
 
 The little boy who had run on with the Fin- 
 lander stood by, silently. He had the muscle and 
 the eyes of children who work in the stone-yards ; 
 he was compact, like a miniature man, and ob- 
 served everything. He did not speak, but went and 
 stood by the old Scotchman ; he drew himself to his 
 full height, and locked his hands behind his little 
 back.
 
 404 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 " Charley," said his father, " if there 's onything a 
 lad can do to save the mon, I '11 no forbear ye." 
 
 " I 'd just as liefs," said Charley. 
 
 A sort of huzza arose at this, stifled below breath 
 lest the outburst should startle the poor wretch be- 
 low. Annie Laurie, who had till now remained peer- 
 ing over the pit's edge at the sickening sight, turned, 
 and suddenly leaning over, threw the full force of 
 her powerful voice off and down into the pit. 
 
 " Have hope ! " she cried. " Have courage ! Hold 
 on for your life ! Hold on ! The Stoneport quarry- 
 men will save you ! Hold on ! Hold on ! " 
 
 " There, boys," she said, turning about ; " I 've 
 pledged you to it." 
 
 " Ye hae no bairns to feed like we," said one of 
 the Scotchmen who had tried the descent and failed 
 to make it. 
 
 " Give me the rope ! " cried Annie Laurie, tower- 
 ing in a passion. " Put it round me, some of you, 
 and let me down, for by all that 's brave in man or 
 woman I '11 not stand on this pit's edge and see a 
 human being perish, and not a hand in Stoneport 
 stretched to save him ! I 'd rather die ! " 
 
 Murmurs ran around from man to man. They 
 looked at her — they were accustomed to believe 
 she was right ; it was a habit to trust her. 
 
 " You 're pretty hard on iis," one voice said. 
 
 "I can go myself," answered Martin Derrick. 
 He thought of those boys of his — motherless. He 
 wondered if she remembered them. 
 
 " I '11 go," said Washington Kock. " Mr. Derrick, 
 sir, you ain't young enough. It ain't sootable. I '11 
 go."
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 405 
 
 " I '11 try," said Madison Kock. 
 
 "No," said Jefferson ; "you and Monroe hain't no 
 call; you are married men. Washington and me 
 can manage." 
 
 " I come," said the Finlander, after a moment's 
 hesitation. 
 
 It was not as long as it takes in the telling before 
 this inevitable delay gave place to urgent action. 
 Under Derrick's directions the volunteers moved as 
 quickly as might be to the forgotten, disused stair- 
 way cut in the solid cliff, up and down which men 
 had passed, on happier business than this, two-and- 
 twenty years ago. 
 
 Lights flashed, cables swung, orders rang out, an- 
 swers came ; but Annie Laurie looked on, trembling 
 and tortured. Her heart was breaking for her men, 
 whom her voice had sent upon this doom. She 
 cried out and followed them, weeping like a very 
 woman. 
 
 '•' Boys ! oh, boys ! I had no right to treat you so. 
 I should n't have shamed you to your duty. I 'd go 
 myself, and thank you for the chance to take your 
 places. Brave boys ! my brave boys ! " 
 
 " We 'd ought to do it," Washington Kock made 
 answer, slowly, as they adjusted the rope about his 
 waist. "It ain't proper to see a fellar-critter 
 drowned before your eyes — of a night before Christ- 
 mas, too — and never try to do nothin' for him. It 
 ain't your fault it 's so slippery." 
 
 The quarryman spoke soothingly, as he would to 
 a troubled child ; he held out his rough hand and 
 touched hers — for she wept so — and begged her 
 not to mind, and shook hands with his brother, and
 
 406 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 said he giiessed he wouldn't send any message to 
 his mother, for like as not he 'd come out all right. 
 And so they gave the rope out, and he went down. 
 
 The ruined condition of the stairway, and the ice 
 that covered everything, made the descent danger- 
 ous and solemn. The volunteer was so far pro- 
 tected as a stout rope and a score of men to hold it 
 at the pit's edge could protect ; but they could see 
 that he clung like a goat for his footing, and that it 
 went hard with him. The danger, which all recog- 
 nized, but of which no one spoke, lay in the chafing 
 of the rope against the icy edges of the pit. — If it 
 should cut ? 
 
 Annie Laurie, leaning over and looking steadily 
 down, was the first to see the quarryman stop, and 
 crawling from the stairway to the ledge below, come 
 perilously out from the deeper shadow to the paler 
 one, whereon, an atom between dark and dark, a 
 heart-throb between the frozen rock and freezing 
 gulf, the huddled figure lay. 
 
 The cry came up ; " He is hurt ; he ain't conscious. 
 I must have help." 
 
 Madison Eock, tied in like manner with the other, 
 went down without a word. The little Scotch boy 
 came forward and pleaded to be allowed to follow : 
 " I 'd just as liefs as not. I ain't so big as some, 
 but I can stick pretty tight. I 've played hide-'n'- 
 seek on that ledge. It ain't very broad — for a 
 larffe man." 
 
 " Eun for a doctor, Charley," said Miss Laurie ; 
 " you '11 go faster than any other man." 
 
 Soothed to the soul by these last two inspired 
 words, Charley smiled and ran.
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 407 
 
 One who was peering down from the quarry's 
 edge could perceive that the men were having a hard 
 time of it with their brave deed. They seemed to 
 experience great difficulty in getting the rope about 
 the body of the unconscious man, in traversing the 
 space back to the stairway, in deciding what to do 
 and how to do it, in all the terrible perplexity of 
 the terrible moments which seemed without an end 
 to those who watched above. Above and below, it 
 had grown significantly still. No one spoke. Mr. 
 Derrick gave his orders by signs. He kept a clear 
 head, and thought of everything. The men, from 
 habit, obeyed quickly. The savage cry of the ocean 
 pealed on. The wind had abated or lulled a little, 
 but snow still fell steadily. Once a piece of ice 
 broke, and dropped into the gulf. Annie Laurie 
 could hear it splash into the black water. The lan- 
 tern which she had taken and held at arm's-length 
 shuddered in the snowy air, and sent a little sickly 
 light over and down the chasm. Dawse, the Scotch- 
 man, stood close to her, and kept his hand upon her. 
 She stood too near the edge. " I winna let her 
 doon," he said to the men. He felt that the heav- 
 iest responsibility of the rescue rested upon him ; 
 only here was preciousness in peril. What was the 
 life of yonder pauper in the pit ? Was there a 
 creature in the whole world who cared ? Not so 
 much as a fule lassie to greet for him. But Annie 
 Laurie ! — oh, Annie Laurie ! 
 
 The cry came up : " We 're afraid we can't do it ! " 
 
 Her cry went down : " Boys, j^ou caii do it ! It 
 must be done ! " 
 
 The cry came up : " He 's pretty heavy ; he don't 
 know anything ; he can't help himself any."
 
 408 ANNIE LAUEIE. 
 
 The cry went down : " Boys, bring me up the 
 poor man ! Bring him up as if he were my brother ! 
 Handle him as if 1 cared — Treat him, hoys, as if 
 I loved him ! " 
 
 " Sing," said old Dawse softly ; '' sing to the lads 
 while they do the deed. Ye '11 hearten 'em." 
 
 ** Ay, ay ! " somebody made answer. " She sings 
 to us times we 're workin' in th' quarry. They 're 
 used to it ; they '11 like it." 
 
 " Oh, perhaps," wailed Annie Laurie, wringing 
 her hands passionately ; '' but I 'd rather be risking 
 my life in the pit beside them than to stay safe up 
 here and sing at them." 
 
 " It is the lassie's place," replied the Scotchman, 
 — " it is the lassie's part." 
 
 With this she stood erect, and throwing her long 
 cloak back that she might be quite unimpeded in her 
 motions, poured all her courage into her fine voice, 
 and so began : — 
 
 " Maxwelton's braes are bonnie " — 
 
 The cry came up from the pit : "■ Ay, ay ! Sing ! 
 That's right. Sing!" 
 The song went down : — 
 
 " Maxwelton's braes are bonnie, 
 Where early fa's the dew, 
 And it 's there that Anuie Laurie 
 Gied me her promise true." 
 
 She sang and saw not — did not trust herself any 
 longer now to see ; knew that the quarrymen were 
 ascending with their burden bravely, like the men 
 they were, perilously as they must — but only kept 
 " the lassie's part ; " and standing high above them, 
 tall against the sky, sang on : —
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 409 
 
 " And it 's there that Annie Laurie 
 Gied me her promise true, 
 Gied me her promise true, 
 Which ne'er forgot will be, 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 I 'd lay me dune and dee. 
 Which ne'er forgot will be, 
 Which ne'er forgot will be." 
 
 " It is all over," said Martin Derrick, coining up 
 and trying to wrap her cloak about her, for she had 
 now begun to shiver visibly, whether from horror or 
 from cold. " They have come up. They are safe. 
 Nobody is hurt. Go home now." 
 
 " I suppose I must see the man," she said, shrink- 
 ing. " Is he dead ? " 
 
 " Only fainted, I think, and hurt upon the arm 
 and head ; but really not much. It is one of the in- 
 credible escapes. I would n't look at him." 
 
 " Oh, yes," she answered in a strange tone. " I 
 must look at him." 
 
 His face was turned away when she saAv him, and 
 the men said he looked badly, and advised her to 
 leave him to them. He was a man of perhaps sixty 
 years or so ; his hair was quite white ; he was a poor 
 man, it seemed, scantily dressed, cruelly unprotected 
 from the weather, from which he must have per- 
 ished, even though uninjured, soon enough. He 
 was some piteous, friendless creature, just the one, 
 as they all knew, to set her sweet soul beside itself 
 with sympathy. 
 
 When she had looked at him she said, authorita- 
 tively, " Bring him to my house." 
 
 Some one objected, but no one disobeyed. She 
 turned in silence and walked on ahead of them, and
 
 410 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 they followed her with their burden, and so brought 
 him to her door. 
 
 Mrs. Tombs (so she said) was sorely put about on 
 Christmas morning. As though it were not enough 
 to have chocolate cake for quarrymen upon one's 
 hands, that a frozen pauper should be added, and 
 Annie Laurie herself, suddenly gone, by the mys- 
 terious dispensation of Providence, as helpless as 
 other folks. For Annie Laurie had no sooner got 
 the poor wretch across her threshold than she had 
 dropped him from her personal attention, as though 
 he had been a gentleman. 
 
 The men, she said, would do everything, and Mrs. 
 Tombs. The doctor would see to it all, and Mrs. 
 Tombs should keep one of the Eock boys to do what- 
 ever was needed. She complained of feeling ill after 
 all the shock and exertion, and got herself into her 
 own room and locked her door. But when Mrs. 
 Tombs came to it hours after to tell her that the 
 man had come out of his faint spells, and for her 
 part, she thought he was n't hurt any more than he 
 ought to be, and what in the name of goodness to 
 gracious was she to do with a tramp in her spare 
 room come mornin' ? Annie Laurie unlocked the 
 door and let the elder woman in, and, for the first 
 time in all the years that they had lived together, 
 put her strong arms about the other's neck, and 
 sobbed as if her heart would break. 
 
 " It is the resemblance ! " she cried. " Oh, it is 
 the resemblance ! I am used to them ; I see a great 
 man}', — all these years. Sometimes in the city on a 
 street — or perhaps it is a face at church. It 's just
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 411 
 
 a look, sonietliing in the hair, or the way they move 
 their head, or the color of something, or the eyes. 
 For twenty-two years I 've seen them. But this one 
 — I was worn out, and it came so suddenly ! I 've 
 behaved badly," she added, kissing the old woman, 
 and smiling girlishly through her tears. " I was so 
 tired ; I 've left too much to come on you. To-mor- 
 row I will see him ; I will attend to everything ; I 
 will see the poor fellow in the morning." 
 
 In the morning it was as she had said. The in- 
 jured man was quite comfortable, they told her, only 
 weak and silent. They could make but little out 
 of him ; he seemed confused or troubled ; he had 
 asked whose house he was in. 
 
 The storm had now ceased, but the day was bit- 
 terly cold, and fires in that plain house few. Mrs. 
 Tombs had got her unwelcome guest over into the 
 music-room, and left him there alone, where it was 
 warm ; and there, in the broad, bleak day-light, sit- 
 ting on the sofa, with his poor head bound, and his 
 arm in a sling, and staring toward her, Annie Laurie 
 found him. 
 
 She shut the door and locked it. ^Hiy, she could 
 not tell. She shut the door and went halfway across 
 the room, and then — stood still. 
 
 It was no resemblance. God of mystery ! God of 
 mercy ! it was no resemblance. ISTone of those tricks 
 and feints of imagination ; none of those cruel traps 
 in which her weary eyes had caught her for two-and- 
 twenty years. That pitiful figure, wan with misery, 
 ragged, with a scared face ; old, gray, with the beau- 
 tiful eyes that had won her, the eyes that neither 
 life nor death could change — whether blessed or ac-
 
 412 ANNIE LAUEIE. 
 
 cursed, whether she had died or he did live, — God 
 help her ! it was past resemblance. 
 
 " George ! " she cried, in a heart-breaking voice. 
 They took one blind step toward each other, as the 
 living and the dead meet in the world that is not as 
 this. Then — for she came to herself — she stopped, 
 threw up her arms with a terrible cry, and retreated 
 from him. 
 
 The real meaning of the situation had come upon 
 her. It had come like the hand of a God more cruel 
 than the most impious thought of all her life could 
 conceive. 
 
 " But you were dead ! " she cried, in a ringing 
 voice. " You have been a dead man for twenty-two 
 years ! I wish you were. / ivish you had been ! " 
 
 He seemed to put his hands out as if she had 
 struck him, but she saw them not ; he tried to speak, 
 said nothing ; caught at the top of the tall rocking- 
 chair, and bowed his head before her. He did this 
 in a way so piteous that, had she been less in mortal 
 strait than she was, the sight must have come to her 
 heart. 
 
 She had now gone deadly white, and stood tower- 
 ing above him, as men shot through a certain portion 
 of the brain are known to keep on standing after 
 death. As if she had been the dead and he the liv- 
 ing soul, they parted from each other in that moment 
 for the second time. The silence that fell between 
 them was more cruel than the silence of the grave. 
 
 Then the woman gave one shudder, and then her 
 words poured out : — 
 
 " You were not dead ; you were alive — all these 
 years. You did not come to me. You chose — Oh,
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 413 
 
 my gracious God ! he was not dead ! What shall I 
 say to him ? What does a woman say to a man who 
 has done — such a thing ? 
 
 " How cold I am ! I shall die of the cold. My 
 heart is ice. Feel my hands. No ! he must not touch 
 my hands. He did not die. He deserted me. You 
 did not die. It is nothing, if it is only death. You 
 see I know — I 've borne that. 
 
 '' ^YhJ, George " — 
 
 Her wild cry fell now into a wail that might have 
 haunted the soul of a man as long as he had any. 
 He made some effort or protest, as if he would have 
 spoken or pleaded with her ; but she was or seemed 
 unconscious that he had the power of speech. 
 
 " Why, George, I loved you ! I said I would be 
 your ^'ife. You asked me to. We loved each other. 
 You went to the war, and you died — and I loved 
 you. All these years I have been like — like — 
 Why, see ! I have kept your ring upon my hand. 
 My dress is black. I have been like — like your " — 
 Her voice sank. She covered her face with her 
 hands. 
 
 " I can't tell him — how it is. No, no. A woman 
 must not tell a live man things like that. Oh, I 
 thought I had a sorrow ! I thought I had trouble 
 because you were dead. I thought I had suffered — • 
 people do think so. I must tell them, I shall have 
 to tell them, for they do not know any better. To 
 live all your life — if he is dead — that is not sor- 
 roio / There is nothing hard in that. George Cliff, 
 you might have left me your ghost to love. Why, I 
 had it all — love, honor, truth — I had all you. You 
 were not dead. You never died, you never died, you
 
 414 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 never died till this minute here before my eyes ! Oh, 
 you have done wrong — you should have had mercy 
 on me. You should " — 
 
 " Annie," said George Cliff, " Annie, I have a word 
 to say to thee." 
 
 He advanced and gently touched her, lifting her 
 clinched hand as indeed a spirit might. 
 
 " Annie, my girl, I could n't help it. Try to be- 
 lieve me. I have been — where I could n't come." 
 
 She smiled upon him in a frightful way. Her 
 words were over ; she had spent herself ; her bitter- 
 ness and scorn were going deaf and dumb. 
 
 " Perhaps I can't expect to be believed," he said 
 pathetically, " but I have been insane. I was hurt 
 about the head. I have been in an asylum." 
 
 " For twenty-two years ? " 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 " As God hears me — no. I cannot tell you what 
 has happened to me. I have been — a long time — 
 sick — confused. When I came to myself I came to 
 you. It is hard to explain it, Annie. I've had a 
 pretty hard time," he added gently. "Perhaps I 
 ought n't to have expected to be believed. I thought 
 you 'd listen to me. But I suppose it is n't a usual 
 case, and it tires me to talk about it. I have n't 
 talked much lately." 
 
 " Oh, as God made us two," cried Annie Laurie, 
 " tell me the truth in His sight, and tell me all you 
 can ! " 
 
 "It hurts me — here;" he put his hand to his 
 head weakly. She began to see how shattered, what 
 a wreck he was ; the force of his incredible words
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 415 
 
 urged itself upon her before he uttered them ; but 
 she stood apart until she had heard them all ; and 
 so he spoke to her. 
 
 He told her such of the pitiful tale as his ruined 
 memory served him to. It was a strange and broken 
 story. Perhaps in the records of the civil war there 
 may be stranger, but no sadder can be found. 
 
 He supposed, he said, it must be thus. That he 
 had been left for dead upon the field, wounded in 
 the head, caj)tured in the delirium of surgical fever, 
 and made maniac, or kept so, in some of those pris- 
 ons of theirs ; but he could not swear to her, for, be- 
 fore God, he did not know. This was his belief. He 
 had further the belief that he must have escaped, 
 perhaps got himself into some enemy's disguise, and, 
 still being as he was, had been swept into some county 
 hospital of the dark, old-fashioned type, where he 
 had been detained, and no doubt with cause enough, 
 for years more than he had means of counting, and 
 treated — as he was. He remembered something of 
 the experience and something of what befell him 
 after. He thought he must have had periods of com- 
 parative sanity, in their turn succeeded by attacks of 
 the other, produced by his despair of freedom. But 
 the great trouble, he thought, had been with his 
 memory. 
 
 The fate, not unknown to medical history, which, 
 after wounds, fever, and hardships, paralyzes the 
 memory, had come upon him. His past was gone ; 
 with it his home, his name. 
 
 He thought he had again escaped. Perhaps there 
 was a fire ; he seemed to remember a fire, and that 
 an old patient was burned ; but whether he escaped
 
 416 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 or was discharged he could not say. That he had 
 been free for several years he thought was true. He 
 thought he had wandered westward and back again. 
 Once he had been put in a county-house again ; that 
 Avas in Pennsylvania somewhere. There, he said, he 
 had been cared for. He thought there must have 
 been real medical skill ; he was fond of the superin- 
 tendent. One of the doctors said to another one day, 
 "It is loss of identity." The words made an im- 
 pression on him ; he did not forget them. He grew 
 better ; they were kind to him. He told them what 
 came into his mind, and he thought he must have 
 told a straight story, and that in time they had dis- 
 charged him ; but as to that he could not say. He 
 was quite sure that he had never been able to give 
 them his name. He had tried hard to remember his 
 name ; it was probable that he had invented some- 
 thing when it served a purpose. He had tramped 
 for a living, had worked in the fields and on the 
 roads, as such cases do ; he did not know how he got 
 along. He tried a place in a store one cold week 
 somewhere, but he could not make change, and they 
 turned him off. His memory was always the trouble. 
 He used to wish he could remember where he came 
 from. When he escaped he always thought he should 
 get home ; it disappointed him that he never did. As 
 he grew physically stronger, in the open air so much, 
 and with his freedom and the hard muscular exer- 
 cise, he said that he could remember how he strug- 
 gled to remember, and that by degrees he seemed to 
 catch and miss at something, but it did not come. 
 Still he remained a man without a past. Sometimes 
 he had strange, strong thoughts of rocks, a quarry,
 
 ANNIE LAUBIE. 417 
 
 the sea ; but these were confused, and gave him dis- 
 tress when he had them ; he did not cultivate them. 
 " One day," he said, " it was evening, and I had 
 mowed all day on a man's farm. It was sunset, and 
 all the men were tired. It was a bright night. We 
 started to go up over the pasture — for I remember 
 that very well — in a long row, in a little foot-path, 
 single file. Every man carried his scythe, and I saw 
 the sun flash on the blades before me as I walked 
 along. The men began to sing, while we were walk- 
 ing, to keep their courage up, for we were very tired. 
 I Avas tired — tired in the body ; but my head was 
 cool and quiet. The men began to sing. They sang 
 those lines you know : — 
 
 " ' Her face it is the fairest 
 
 That e'er the sun shone on. . . . 
 And she 's a' the world to me.' 
 
 When I heard that, I stopped short behind the men, 
 and I said, ' Good God ! ' for the song they sang was 
 ' Annie Laurie.' And it came upon me. My mem- 
 ory came upon me, like the brook that flowed across 
 the field, quiet and trickling, and then as clear as 
 clean water underneath the sky. I put down my 
 scythe, and fell upon my knees, and lifted up my 
 hands, and said : ' That is her name. Annie — Annie 
 Laurie. That is my dear girl's name.' And then I 
 said, flash ! like that, ' George Cliff! Annie Laurie, 
 Annie Laurie, Annie Laurie ! She 's a' the world to 
 you ! ' 
 
 " So my memory came upon me from that hour, 
 and I arose and came to thee. — You must do as you 
 think best about believing in me, Annie," he added 
 pitifully.
 
 418 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 But she had sunken slowly, inch by inch, till she 
 fell upon her knees, till she crawled upon the floor 
 before him, and laid her cheek upon his ragged shoe. 
 
 The quarrymen had their Christmas party, not- 
 withstanding. In all the shock and solemn strange- 
 ness of what befell her, she did not forget them, and 
 wished it to be so. She put away her black dress, 
 and stood among them in a gown of white wool, 
 looking unfamiliar to them, and remote, as one who 
 knew not whether she were of the dead or living. It 
 was a suggestion of the long burden which love, the 
 burden-bearer and burden-easer, Avould bring to her 
 in such strangely heavy measure, that the sick man 
 was too ill to be present. 
 
 The startled word of what had come to her had 
 gone abroad among the men. They received it as the 
 Sadducees received the resurrection. She tried to tell 
 them how it was, herself, but her strength failed her, 
 and she asked Washington Eock to speak for her. 
 He did the best he could. Despite themselves, the 
 quarrymen looked skeptical and sober ; they mut- 
 tered about the crazy man, and the care she took 
 upon herself; that he was likely to have spells. 
 Who knew what he would do in them ? And his 
 folks and his property were gone ; he 'd be a burden 
 to her. And thus, and thus, and so. 
 
 " Come, boys," said Washington Eock, " give her 
 joy ! You 'd oughter. It is the Lord's doing, and it 
 ain't for the like of us to argefy upon His miracles. 
 If He takes the trouble to work 'em in Palestyne or 
 Massachusetts, that ain't our lookout. It's His'n. 
 Give her jo}', boys ! Don't you think she needs it ?
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 419 
 
 Come ! Think of the years she 's been in and out 
 amongst tis — in our homes, amongst our wives and 
 children and our old folks, when we was sick, and 
 when we was well and happy, or if we was in trouble 
 — she so different ; she going home after it by her- 
 self, not like us ; nobody that you might call her 
 own. And now this that has happened, it has hap- 
 pened, boys ; and the lad she has been true to ever 
 since we knowed her, he was dead and is n't, and the 
 hand of God was heavy on him. She says for me to 
 tell you that they will spend their old age together, 
 please God, and that she will care for him, and do 
 for him, and be a good wife to him, and be a happy 
 creetur like other human creeturs, and that she 'd 
 like our love and blessin' — and I believe that 's all. 
 And I, for one, say, Give it to her — give it to her 
 hearty ! " 
 
 "Well," said Madison Eock, "we'll give it 
 hearty." 
 
 " We bless her," said Monroe and Jefferson. 
 
 " I bless," said the Finlander. 
 
 " Amen," sobbed Mrs. Toombs. 
 
 " Hooroar ! " cried Charley Dawse ; " I 'd just as 
 liefs." 
 
 " I 've said the word before the day," said the old 
 Scotchman, " gin I had the chusin' of a mon for her, 
 I 'd sooner tak' him frae t 'ither warld nor this." 
 
 " May God Almighty bless her ! " said Martin Der- 
 rick, last of all. But he went out and walked to and 
 fro upon the heavy snow, in the still, cold Christmas 
 night. It was quite still. It was very cold. The tide 
 was going out. There was no wind. Against the 
 dark sea-line the darker finger of the breakwater
 
 420 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 pointed to the east. The quarries yawned black, 
 like gulfs of silence, into which one might drop 
 something articulate, and lose it for all time. He 
 wondered that he had ever been jealous of a ghost.
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 AN EASTER STORY. 
 
 The Governor of the State was eating kidgeree. 
 
 Now, as is well known, the Governor is popularly- 
 supposed to breakfast on turbot, reed-birds, sweet- 
 breads, croquettes, black Hamburg grapes, and, in 
 general, a menu so expensive as to justify the taxes. 
 The simple fact which I notice may, therefore, 
 hardly be credited, but is none the less a fact ; and, 
 as it has an indirect connection with the events of 
 our story, it is given for what it is worth. 
 
 For the Governor, like most of our republican 
 rulers, having once been a man of simple life, had 
 never entirely outgrown the tastes of his humbler 
 days, and it was his pleasure now and then to grat- 
 ify them. This he did at the cost of some mild 
 diiference of opinion between himself and his wife ; 
 who always yielded, however (since it was not an 
 important point), to her lord's preference in the end, 
 and on this particular morning had even gone below 
 and supervised the ordering of the plebeian break- 
 fast, which the chef, scorning this lapse from high 
 life, had definitely determined to burn. 
 
 " Your cook improves, my dear," said the Gover- 
 nor, contentedly. '' This is the best kidgeree I have 
 had since we lived opposite the factory and you used 
 to make it yourself."
 
 422 TUE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 The Governor's wife, looking along the pattern of 
 her pretty breakfast-cloth, smiled brilliantly. 
 
 " And you thought we could n't affoi d it because 
 it took six eggs, I remember.'" 
 
 " Two, Mr. Masscon, two ! But then, as it used up 
 the fish "— 
 
 " And the rice, was n't it ? " 
 
 " Yes ; it really was an economical ' left-over.' 
 And I never saw any man enjoy anything more. 
 Do you remember " — 
 
 " What is it, Thomas ? Not now. Let him wait, 
 whoever it is, till the proper time, or else let him go 
 about his business, and come again. What were you 
 saying, my dear ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing — ■no — really I have forgotten. I 
 was only thinking of those old days. Harold was 
 a baby then. We were so happy." 
 
 " We were very happy ! " replied the Governor 
 emphatically. " And that is one thing I like about 
 kidgeree. It is full of reminiscences." 
 
 " I notice it always made you good-natured," 
 laughed the lady. " If I wanted to gain a point 
 with you, I should give you a kidgeree breakfast. 
 Estimate my devotion, then, by the fact that I have 
 no point to gain to-day. '■ — Oh, Thomas ! There 
 again ? What is the matter ? " 
 
 " I ordered you to let him go, Thomas, did n't I ? " 
 said the Governor, in a voice of pathetic appeal. 
 
 He used to give orders with twice the authority, 
 back in those days when he was foreman of the 
 Whisk Broom Factory ; long before he entered the 
 firm. 
 
 The Governor of the best State in the Union was
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 423 
 
 the most inoffensive man in the world ; compared 
 with the proprietor of the factory that had made 
 his fortune, he was curiously averse to the use of 
 authority. His servants managed him easily, his 
 inferior officers adored him, and his wife had only 
 to smile on him. 
 
 " Now, Thomas, what is it ? Why don't you send 
 the visitor away ? Tell him " — 
 
 " If you please, sir," interrupted Thomas, with the 
 respectful familiarity of an old factory hand years 
 ago promoted to be inside man, and now aspiring to 
 the title of Governor's butler, " it is n't a him, it 's a 
 her. I think if you was to see her, sir " — 
 
 " Oh, well, well," said the Governor wearily, "I 
 suppose so, I suppose so ! Is she a type-writer girl ? 
 Or an autograph fiend ? Or does she want a loan 
 of five thousand dollars t6 take a university course ? 
 Or perhaps she gives me the privilege of buying her 
 poems. Probably she would like an office for her 
 young man." 
 
 " ISTo, sir," said Thomas, with an injured air ; "■ I 
 should hope I had more experience, sir. I ain't in 
 the habit of disturbing the family at breakfast for 
 none of them. All I would wish to say is, if you 
 was to see her yourself — she says she 's got to get 
 away by half - past, and you '11 understand why when 
 you hear her errand, she says. You might take a 
 chance peek through the crack of the reception-room 
 door, sir, and then I could abide by your judgment, 
 sir." 
 
 " Very well, Thomas, very well. I will come 
 after breakfast. Let her sit till then. Fancy, my 
 dear I " laughed the Governor, turning his round,
 
 424 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 happy face back toward the head of his breakfast- 
 table, "the Governor of the greatest State in the 
 Union peeking through a crack at his own callers ! 
 There is no more sense of state in this house than 
 there is — or — was " — 
 
 " In the Broom Factory ! " nodded Mrs. Masscon. 
 " Not as much, Henry, not as much ! And still," 
 added the lady thoughtfully, "we seem to be so 
 happy ! " 
 
 " Happy ! I should think so ! " repeated the Gov- 
 ernor, with that resonant, affectionate emphasis 
 which made him so lovable after forty years of mar- 
 ried life. 
 
 He kissed her when he had finished his kidgeree 
 and coffee and rolls, just as he used to do every 
 morning, when he went to his day's work at the fac- 
 tory ; and patted her on^ the cheek, — she had a 
 handsome cheek still, — and hurried, " Herald " and 
 "Times" in hand, busily to the reception-room to 
 have it over with the visitor. 
 
 Now the Governor's house was large ; larger than 
 many of its kind, even in this country of private 
 palaces. In fact, it was truly little less than a pal- 
 ace ; a new house well designed and gorgeously ap- 
 portioned. He had some distance to walk across 
 the halls to the reception-room, which, far by the 
 door yonder, commanded a glimpse of the family 
 breakfast-room. Seen at that distance, and in the 
 freshets of sunshine overflowing the room, it had a 
 dazzling look, and whirred before the eyes of the 
 woman as she saw his round figure starting from 
 the brilliant background, and advancing toward her 
 across the soundless carpets, with a rapid step.
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 425 
 
 Now the Governor was still looking over the " Her- 
 ald," as he came down the long hall, and continued to 
 do so until upon the threshold of the reception- 
 room. The woman had, therefore, ample time to ob- 
 serve him before he glanced at her ; and, before he 
 did so, she pulled down her veil. 
 
 It was an old green barege veil, much worn with 
 the frosty breaths ,of many winters; it had a little 
 thin rim across her mouth. Her dress of black 
 serge, also, was worn sere. Her cloak, of cheap 
 cloth, was thin, and the nap was gone ; her gloves 
 were mended and stained. She had a black Spanish 
 lace tie or scarf, much darned, tied as a tippet about 
 her throat ; knit woolen gaiters, tucked into low rub- 
 bers, covered her feet and ankles ; the gaiters were 
 damp with the snow and slush; for the month 
 was December. One noticed this because her dress 
 was so carefully pinned up over her petticoats that 
 she could not let it down, although in the Gover- 
 nor's house. She seemed to be an old woman and 
 not strong ; for she trembled visibly when the Gov- 
 ernor entered the room. 
 
 His keen official eye took her in at a glance ; and 
 its kind, personal expression shot athwart the pupils. 
 
 " Your errand, madam ? " he began, with his pleas- 
 ant manner. 
 
 " It will — take — a little time," faltered the vis- 
 itor. 
 
 " I can give you ten — no, I will give you fifteen 
 minutes," replied the Governor, taking out his watch. 
 At the sound of her voice he had thrown a piercing 
 look at her veiled face, and now, as he sat down op- 
 posite her, he wheeled suddenly, and, rising, called
 
 426 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 to his wife, whose white morning-robe he heard trail- 
 ing through the hall at that moment. 
 
 " Mrs. Masscon ! My dear, will you have the 
 goodness to order Thomas to bring a cup of coffee ? 
 This person here is chilled and wet." 
 
 " I need nothing, nothing ! " protested the visitor, 
 " I have breakfasted. I am quite strong." 
 
 "I will bring it myself," replied Mrs. Masscon 
 unexpectedly. She had never been known to fail to 
 take an important hint from her husband in all their 
 official life. 
 
 She took the coffee from Thomas in the simple, 
 natural way in which things were done in that 
 house, and brought it to the woman herself, sweep- 
 ing in tall, white, and warm, a vision of luxury and 
 happiness. At sight of her the poor woman brought 
 her thin lips together with a little dry sound — an 
 involuntary outcry of misery before a vision of joy. 
 
 "Let me help you to untie your veil, madam," 
 said Mrs. Masscon gently. Without waiting for the 
 protest she deftly removed the old green veil ; with 
 the instinct of a lady, she took the trouble herself to 
 fold it before she laid it in the lap of the trembling 
 creature. 
 
 As the barege fell from her pinched face the vis- 
 itor drew a sharp breath. It had been the folly of 
 her weakness and her misery to defer the inevitable. 
 Now that it had come, she was glad of it. 
 
 As the Governor's eyes searched her face his ex- 
 pression underwent a palpable change. 
 
 " Madam," he said coldly, " I have seen you here 
 before." 
 
 Mrs. Masscon set down the coifee upon a little
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 427 
 
 mosaic table, and quietly left the room. Tlie old 
 lady looked at the cup, which she did not touch. It 
 was a Dresden cup ; the tray was silver ; the doyley 
 silk. The rich, strong coffee steamed up with a fine 
 aroma. Her lips twitched with the weakness of a 
 half-fed woman. 
 
 "You had better drink it," he said, without 
 warmth of manner. She shook her head. 
 
 " I have come back," she gasped. " I have come 
 again." 
 
 "It is a pity," said the Governor more softly. 
 "It is useless," he added, chilling again. "It is 
 quite useless. It is a waste of your strength — and 
 of my time." 
 
 " I have something to tell you, sir," murmured the 
 old lady. " I thought you would hear me. You are 
 a kind man. I have always told Joseph you were a 
 kind man." 
 
 " I am the Governor of the Commonwealth whose 
 laws your son has broken," he said rigidly. " I am 
 responsible to my con — " he hesitated ; it occurred 
 to him to wonder if she would understand what 
 " constituents " were — " to the people for the exe- 
 cution of the statutes." 
 
 " I suppose so," she answered humbly ; " but that 
 does n't help Joseph any." 
 
 " The pardoning power," began the Governor, try- 
 ing to harden himself before this naive reply, " is 
 not a mere privilege, a luxury of office ; it is a sa- 
 cred responsibility, Mrs. Luke. I must fulfill it to 
 the best of my judgment and my conscience. I 
 must — Do drink that coffee. You look faint, 
 madam."
 
 428 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 She looked at the coffee with a spark in her faded 
 eye. It would have choked her ! She felt that she 
 could have starved more easily than she could have 
 broken fast in this gorgeous, incomprehensible, un- 
 assailable palace, where power to bless her so utterly 
 denied her so inexorably. To her limited feminine 
 view of life the conscience of justice was inconceiv- 
 able. With how many such pitiable visits as this 
 had she cheated hope and fed despair ! 
 
 " You are the fourth," she said suddenly. " I 've 
 seen every Governor, every one of 'em ! I 've been 
 and been till they wouldn't let me in. I had to go. 
 I have to come. Governor Hopkins was the first — 
 but Joseph had only just received his sentence then. 
 Governor Adams said he 'd consider the case. But 
 Governor Wise was a Unitarian," she explained, 
 with that simplicity which in such natures as hers 
 passes with themselves for shrewdness. "And we 
 are Orthodox. Joseph's father was the Rev. Haggai 
 Luke, you know. I did n't expect much from a Uni- 
 tarian. Oh, Governor Masscon, Governor Masscon ! 
 I expected everything from you ! You came of pious 
 stock yourself. You were more like us once — in 
 your young days — I thought you would understand 
 the case; I thought you would be sorry for Joseph. 
 He has been in prison," she cried shrilly, " for nine 
 years. Just think of that ! and he has n't anybody 
 but me in this world. Even his wife has deserted 
 him. Miranda was a frivolous thing. I've got to 
 get him out ! I 've got to come here ! I 've got 
 to get him out before I die — I sha'n't live three 
 years more," she added gently. " It 's this trouble 
 I have at the heart, I think. I don't mind it very
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 429 
 
 much except for tliat ; I wanted to see him a free 
 man — only for twenty-four hours before I died. We 
 meant to have a little home together ; if it was only 
 two rooms — just for twenty -four hours before I 
 died ! You can't think how I pray for that — every 
 morning — every night. Sometimes," she said, stop- 
 ping short, " I pray till I 'm sick." 
 
 Her hand wandered to her heart, and fell on her 
 lap. Her lips had gone so blue that the governor 
 glanced at her uncomfortably. He rose to ring for 
 his wife, or for a maid ; the woman really had a 
 deadly look ; but a feeble motion of the old mended 
 gloves restrained him. 
 
 " I don't ask much," she pleaded, " only one more 
 hearing — only to remit his sentence by two years. 
 He will be entitled to his one year, anyhow, for good 
 conduct. He is such a good boy now. Perhaps you 
 don't understand, sir, how good a prisoner he is. He 
 is very sorry for what he did," she added simply ; 
 " he told me so. Besides, Mr. Governor, Joseph is 
 another man. I have reason to believe that he has 
 met with a change." 
 
 She used the old ecclesiastical phrase so solemnly, 
 with such a beautiful reverence of voice and man- 
 ner, that Governor Masscon did not smile. Perhaps 
 this was because he too, as she said, had been once 
 educated to respect such phrases, and the sacred re- 
 alities which they represented. Experienced in the 
 darker education of his office, used to every trick 
 and wile invented by crime to play upon executive 
 clemency, he did not think it necessary to jeer at the 
 simple faith of a broken-hearted mother in the peni- 
 tence of a disgraced son.
 
 430 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 His own eyes dimmed. 
 
 " I hope so," he said gently. " Such things do 
 happen — sometimes. But you must remember that 
 the law does not take cognizance of a man's private 
 religious experience in — ah — such a condition as 
 your son's. How is his health, madam ? " 
 
 " He is better," answered Mrs. Luke, in a low 
 tone. 
 
 What these three words cost the woman, only the 
 Maker of her honorable conscience could have under- 
 stood. She would have died on the spot to be 
 able to say that the prisoner was ill ; that he was ill 
 enough to justify the mercy of the law, often granted 
 to sick prisoners whose time is nearly served. But, 
 with trembling, broken voice, she told — as she was 
 used — the holy truth. 
 
 Perhaps it did her cause no harm, for an expres- 
 sion of appreciation moved over the governor's face. 
 
 " There was a plea, I think," he urged, " an effort 
 to free him once, on the ground of sickness ? " 
 
 "That was in Governor Adams's time," replied 
 the mother wearily. "We thought he was dying. 
 They might have pardoned him, if he had not got 
 better. But he did." 
 
 " How did he happen to get better — if he was so 
 ill ? " demanded the governor, more sternly. 
 
 " Oh," she said, " we sent him the cream." 
 
 " Cream ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir. The cream for his cough. It cost fifty 
 cents a day. But I was out nursing then. I earned 
 more than I do sewing. I was stronger. One of Mr. 
 Luke's old parishioners helped me a little, and a 
 third cousin of Joseph's met the expense for two
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 431 
 
 weeks. We sent the cream for six montlis. The 
 deputy warden put it in his own ice-chest ; he was a 
 kind man. So Joseph got over the cough. I tell you 
 just as it was, Mr. Governor. Joseph suffers a great 
 deal, but he is not dying. I can see that he fails in 
 strength from year to year ; but I cannot say that I 
 do not expect him to live till his term is up." 
 
 " Mrs. Luke ! " said the governor impulsively, " I 
 respect you, madam ; and I am sorry for you with all 
 my heart." 
 
 " Thank you, sir," she said drearily ; " but I 'd 
 rather you 'd be sorry for Joseph. — Will you be so 
 good as to tell me the time, sir ? It is visiting day 
 at the prison, you know. I must get the ten o'clock 
 car, sir. I can't possibly miss that. I would n't have 
 disturbed you so early, if it was n't visiting day. I 
 thought — I did n't know — if there was any hope — 
 if I could have told him anything to-day ! You see 
 how it is. It 's more than I can bear to go to my 
 poor boy without one word to comfort him." Her 
 voice broke ; and the first tear which he had seen on 
 her aged cheeks during the whole interview trickled 
 slowly down a haggard wrinkle. She had a refined, 
 small face, and might have been a pretty woman 
 once. She was a pitiable woman now. 
 
 " She is half starved, — half frozen, — heart- 
 broken, — and dying," thought the Governor. His 
 round face contracted painfully. He felt a stricture 
 in his throat. At that moment he would rather have 
 been superintendent in the Whisk Broom Factory 
 than Governor- of the grandest State in the Union, 
 with the pardoning power in his hand, and the law 
 behind his back. His was not a pardoning adminis-
 
 432 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 tration. There had been too much of that, and the 
 tide was running low the other way just now. Had 
 a man wished to make himself thoroughly unpopular 
 in that Christian State, ho could not have selected a 
 surer or swifter means to the end than the pardon 
 of an important felon. A blunder or two in this line 
 had embittered public feeling, and a few atrocious 
 crimes had pushed the subject into politics. 
 
 The governor's lij^s moved, to make the petitioner 
 some merciful ansAver, the best paltry comfort that 
 he could invent ; some kindly, cruel, idle words. 
 
 But at that moment, a commotion in the hall 
 startled and diverted him. 
 
 The bell rang violently. A fine young fellow 
 bounded in; his setter and luggage tumbled after 
 him ; the wet dog tramped familiarly, unrebuked, 
 over the Axminster carpet. There were cries of wel- 
 come, and the sound of warm kisses, and boisterous, 
 boyish words, and melting, motherly tenderness — 
 and a little whirl of delight and love stormed through 
 the governor's palace. 
 
 " Excuse me, madam," said the governor, with a 
 flush of vivid joy, ''my son has just returned from 
 college." 
 
 In the confusion, everybody forgot the old lady, 
 and she melted away, afterward no one recalled ex- 
 actly how. She went down the long freestone steps 
 slowly. Her hand clung to the railing for support. 
 
 She tried to gather her dress from her wet gaiters, 
 but she could not grasp it. She crawled down, and 
 stood for a moment in the slush, looking about her 
 uncertainly. Her aged face was drawn tightly, like 
 a mask, rigid and gray. Her breath came short. She
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 433 
 
 put lier hand to her heart, and tried to steady her- 
 self. The white snow had turned blue-black before 
 her whirling eyes. She crept on a little way, and, 
 groping for a lamp-post, held to it. 
 
 " Mr. Harold," whispered the inestimable Thomas? 
 beckoning mysteriously to the collegian, at the break- 
 fast-room door, "I'd be obliged if you was to break 
 it to your father and mother that the person who 's 
 ben a-callin' on the Governor has just dropped 
 dead in front of the house." 
 
 When she came to her life, she stared about her 
 stupidly. She lay on a wonderful bed, in an incredi- 
 ble room. Luxuries of whose mere existence she 
 had never conceived blurred before her eyes — the 
 simple conditions of daily existence to these fortu- 
 nate, kind-hearted people. Mrs. Masscon herself sat 
 beside the poor woman, with a sympathetic finger-tip 
 upon her pulse. The voice of the Governor's own 
 distinguished physician was heard in the hall. 
 
 " Ah," murmured the old lady, raising herself 
 weakly, " you did not send me to the hospital ? I 
 did not know you were people like that." She sank 
 back upon the lace-trimmed pillows. 
 
 " I don't see but you are just like folks, after all," 
 she added. Suddenly, full remembrance came. She 
 sprang, gasping, to her feet. 
 
 " What time is it ? " she cried sharply. " What 
 o'clock is it ? — Half-past ten ? Oh, I 've lost my 
 train, my only train ! There is n't any other goes to 
 the prison. Visiting hours will be over. We ain't 
 allowed to go but once in two months. At first, it
 
 434 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 was only once in three. I 've been lyin' here with 
 that heart attack a whole hour, and I 've lost my 
 train to the prison. Oh, madam, have mercy on me 
 and tell me how to bear it ! If it was your son, 
 madam — that fine young fellow — and I 've never 
 failed him once, not once before, in all these years. 
 Eain or shine, or sick or well, I 've got there someliow. 
 What will he think ? What will he do ? And I 
 can't write even to tell him, even to explain it till 
 next week. We can't even write to 'em only once a 
 week, and that 's only lately. It seems as if I were 
 out of my senses. Madam, be patient with me," 
 said the old lady, with sudden self - possession. " I 
 beg your pardon. I have been very troiiblesome to 
 you. I thank you, and I will go now ; I must not 
 burden you any longer. You couldn't help it; yon 
 have been kind to me. Xobody is to blame ; it is 
 the will of God. By and by I shall bear it better." 
 
 She staggered, and walked across the room, feel- 
 ing for the door like a person gone blind. On the 
 threshold she turned and, with a trustful, feminine 
 instinct, asked that other woman to help arrange her 
 disordered dress. Was not her bonnet crooked, and 
 crushed by the fall ? Her veil was muddy, she 
 thought. Did she look decent now ? Was she tidy ? 
 Should she straighten it — so ? 
 
 "I wouldn't like to go out there looking unlady- 
 like," she said gently. '•' I shall go out and see the 
 outside of the prison. I can get so near as that. He 
 might be at work near one of the windows, and see 
 me, you know. I would n't want to go looking 
 shabby. I loould nH want to disgrace my son ! " 
 
 " Stay," said the Governor's wife, with broken
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 435 
 
 voice. " Wait one moment. / will see that you 
 reach the prison — before visiting hours are over." 
 
 The Governor's horses, splashing through the 
 slush and mud, made a fine record that December 
 day, in spite of the Governor's coachman, who dis- 
 approved of his orders, and obeyed them under pro- 
 test. It was a good ten-mile pull ; but in fifty-seven 
 minutes the coach drew up in sight of the State 
 Prison, a lonely building, rising, sullen and dark, a 
 fortress on the pacific, suburban horizon which was 
 supposed to render escape difficult and identification 
 easy. 
 
 The old minister's widow sat within the satin- 
 cushioned, sachet-scented coach, a bewildered, soli- 
 tary passenger. She looked out at the gravel-pits 
 and rows of birches broken by the last ice storm. 
 She held her wet skirts around her shaking limbs 
 that they might not touch the plush and broadcloth 
 robe. She did not lean back against the malachite- 
 colored satin covering, " lest she should hurt it." 
 She looked out of the carriage windows with blurr- 
 ing eyes. Her lips moved. She said : " God bless 
 her."' 
 
 Upon that journey in that carriage she fell into 
 political reflection, — the first in her simple life : — 
 
 " This is a great country. Folks ought to know 
 it. Governors are people. If folks understood how 
 it is they wouldn't complain of their betters. I 
 must explain how it is. It is a great country." 
 
 "But, my dear ! '^ gasped the Governor. "The 
 official coach seen at the prison — under such cir-
 
 436 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 cumstances ! The episode is unprecedented. If you 
 had consulted me — I don't know what my con- " — 
 
 " Your constituents have never yet elected 77ie / " 
 said Mrs. Masscon, with her charming decision of 
 manner. " I don't see that it is their business where 
 I send my own carriage — for it was n't the Gov- 
 ernor's coach. I had no intention of consulting you, 
 my love. All I intended was to get that old lady 
 out to see her son in season. Your constituents " — 
 
 " Confound my constituents ! " said the Governor 
 unexpectedly. 
 
 His wife smiled peacefully. She did not tell him 
 that she had offered the coachman three dollars to 
 make the trip on time. 
 
 It was beginning to rain, and the morning was 
 well worn away. It had been a gray day at the 
 start. Now, on the wings of the storm, twilight 
 had swept into the prison before midday. 
 
 Joseph Luke, Convict Number 223, recently pro- 
 moted to be superintendent of the picture-frame 
 workshop, cast nervous glances at the high windows 
 between whose black bars a glimpse of the soaking 
 road and dreary horizon, of gravel - pits and broken 
 birch-trees, could be gained if one knew just where 
 to stand and precisely how to look for it. 
 
 The other prisoners glanced at Luke with that 
 low delight in the disappointment of a man whom 
 they had found themselves usually occupied in en- 
 vying which is characteristic of their kind and 
 of their lot. The red-headed convict (whose very 
 name was Damm), who was up for the most abomi- 
 nable crime on the statute-book, and who had been
 
 THE LA W AND THE GOSPEL. 437 
 
 docketed as Luke's messmate for a montli past, 
 made audible comments which sent the color hotly 
 to Luke's sunken face. But the mild little prisoner 
 with the frightened eyes, sentenced to life for mur- 
 dering his mother-in-law with a carpet-sweeper when 
 he was drunk, comforted the overseer, in his fash- 
 ion, as well as he could : — 
 
 " She hain't never missed comin', not once. She 
 would n't go back on you. Must be something hap- 
 pened to her." 
 
 " Yes, yes. Lamb," said Joseph Luke, with an en- 
 treating gesture ; he could not talk ; he was more 
 overcome than he could bear to sliow in the work- 
 shop. It had never occurred to him that his mother 
 could miss a visiting day. Nobody else came to see 
 him. In all the free and reputable world she who 
 bore him was his only friend ; he had counted upon 
 her as children when they are hurt do upon their 
 mother's kisses. 
 
 He was a man still in the prime of life ; he had 
 been sentenced at thirty. He had the chest of a 
 consumptive, but the muscle of a jDcrson quite able, 
 under suitable conditions, to overcome his diathesis. 
 As a free man, with a clear conscience, he would 
 have lived a comfortable, equable, not too sensitive 
 life, and have drawn in a considerable share of 
 human happiness. I was going to say "swooped 
 in," for the expression somehow came naturally with 
 a first glance at the man. At the second a gentler 
 phrase would succeed. He was greatly broken. 
 
 He had been an educated man ; and the prison 
 had done its Avork accordingly. He had been a rich 
 man, but that proved to be, rather to his surprise, a
 
 438 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 secondary fact in the sequence. It gave him some 
 relief to remember that he had once honestly ac- 
 quired the luxuries which he fell to retain ; but the 
 mere surfaces of a life of ease had gone to ashes 
 more readily in this nine years' hell than the in- 
 structed intelligence. It had been easier to see 
 the impulses of what he used to call social posi- 
 tion crunched between the iron teeth of his grated 
 window than to crush the instincts of cultivated 
 thought. It took him some time to discover this ; 
 but when he had found it out he said to himself : 
 "Herein lies my real incarceration." He was a 
 greedy reader, passionately feeding upon everything 
 that he could get hold of in the name of a book. In 
 nine years he had read enough in that cell to have 
 made a scholar of him, had he had the scholar's 
 nature or a freeman's opportunity. As he read, in 
 his fashion he thought. This was itself a new ex- 
 perience. He had been one of those comfortable 
 men who prance through life with apparent aims, 
 but little real reflection. He had gone waltzing 
 from his father's country parsonage to the first uni- 
 versity in the country, thence to the first great rail- 
 road in the section ; had married the Treasurer's 
 daughter, won the confidence of the corporation (he 
 was a handsome, lovable fellow), become Assistant 
 Treasurer, " boomed " the Koad, played with it, al- 
 most ruined it, and bowed to its sentence. For the 
 Road condemned him. When his embezzlement 
 was discovered, he had offered all his private prop- 
 erty, including the house which he held in his own 
 name, and pleaded "For God's sake and his mo- 
 ther's," to be allowed to work out restitution in si-
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 439 
 
 lenc.e, and without penal disgrace. He had asked 
 nothing in his own name, nor in that of his wife, 
 who, upon the day when tlie facts were made known 
 to her, had returned to her father's house. But the 
 defalcation was enormous ; it was publicly reported 
 at nearly half a million, and probably reached at 
 least half the size of the report ; and the Road, a 
 raging victim of the cleverest brain that had ever 
 handled its books, called upon the law by all the 
 furies to avenge it. At a suggestion of clemency, 
 the President was said to have sworn the wittiest 
 and wickedest oath of his life, which became the 
 after-dinner hon mot of the directors for many a 
 grim day. Feeling ran to a wild height. For fif- 
 teen years no man had added to the annals of crime, 
 in that State, a case more hopeless of public mercy 
 or more destitute of private sympathy. Even a 
 " pardoning Governor " might scarcely have dared 
 so much as to cast his gentle eye in Joseph Luke's 
 direction, 
 
 " Never mind, dear, I '11 make it all up to you," 
 his mother had said once, in one of those heart- 
 throbs, we might say heart-throes of feminine ten- 
 derness which the finest man in the world does not 
 know how to treat. Joseph Luke was not that man, 
 and he had answered wearily, closing his eyes, and 
 leaning his head back against the prison wall. The 
 old lady felt indefinably hurt ; but she did not tell 
 him so. She only went away a little earlier than 
 usual, not staying quite to the limit of her time. 
 
 In those first years it is to be feared that he had 
 often been impatient with her. Men will, with 
 the women they love above all earthly things. She
 
 440 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 always excused him. She said : " Poor fellow ^ he 
 gets so nervoiis in there. Who can wonder ? " 
 She never resented any of the moods which impris- 
 onment wrought upon the wretched man ; they 
 were not always easy to bear. 
 
 She counted it her great mercy that for a year or 
 two past she had found him more equable, quite gen- 
 tle, and thoughtful of her. He had grown to lean 
 greatl}'^ upon her, with a childish dependence that 
 was pathetic to see; he hungered and thirsted for 
 her ; he met her affectionately ; he lavished loving 
 words upon her, and little signs and touches — the 
 things that women will die for ; or live for, which 
 is saying vastly more. He had begun to recognize 
 her supreme devotion, and to repay it with the poor 
 coin of his broken nature. 
 
 AVhen the old lady said that he had " met with a 
 change," the phrase had a perfectly definite mean- 
 ing to her; and if, in all religious phraseology, it 
 meant half as much, what she called " the world " 
 would begin to respect it. 
 
 It lacked fifteen minutes of the close of visiting 
 hours, and the prison had quite given the old lady 
 up. Luke himself had abandoned all hope of seeing 
 her an hour ago. She had always been the first vis- 
 itor to stand waiting before the opening bars, and 
 hers the last, longing face which they shut out. 
 The convict overseer bowed his head over the clumsy 
 work of a new inmate (a whistling burglar), thus hid- 
 ing his blanched cheeks a little from the curiosity of 
 the prisoners an9. guards ; he trembled in every 
 nerve ; he felt sick enough to fall to the stone floor 
 like a fainting woman. The gilding brush in his
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 441 
 
 hand shook and spattered the coarse walnut moulding 
 in the wrong place ; he laid the frame down. 
 
 "I — can't teach you, to-day, Picket, I am not — 
 I have not been " — 
 
 At this moment the chaplain touched him on the 
 shoulder. The chaplain was fond of Joseph Luke, 
 in whom he believed himself to have found a pet 
 convert, at all events a sincere and sorry man ; and 
 the chaplain had been in office seventeen years ; he 
 had grown shrewd as well as holy in that barren 
 field where the sacred grain sprouted so slowly ; it 
 was not easy to dupe him. The chaplain said 
 gently : — 
 
 " Come. She is here — after all. She looks 
 pretty tired. I would meet her quietly if I were 
 you." 
 
 The day being so dark and wet, and the hour so 
 late, visitors were fewer than usual ; the last one 
 had left the visitors' room. This was a school-boy 
 who came to see his father. The old man had 
 forged a check to pay a surgeon's bill for an acci- 
 dent to the lad at foot-ball. His son was ashamed 
 of him, but he came sometimes, asked a few proper 
 questions, and went coldly away. 
 
 The old prisoner was passing through the door 
 as Luke entered it ; he was wiping his eyes. Joseph 
 put out his hand, unnoticed, and stroked the old 
 man on the sleeve. Once he would not have thought 
 to do that. 
 
 So it came about that the son and the mother 
 were alone in the visitors' room. This was a rare 
 and precious circumstance. 
 
 He remembered what the chaplain had said, and
 
 442 THE LAW ANB THE GOSPEL. 
 
 tried not to agitate her ; but his panting breath came 
 as weakly, ahnost, as her own. She stood swaying 
 before him, white, transparent, and smiling. Almost 
 any other woman would have fallen or sobbed ; but 
 she never cried at the prison, — she waited till she 
 got away. She called that " keeping up," for " his 
 sake." He put his arm about her tenderly and got 
 her to a bench, and sat down beside her. In nine 
 years he had never seen her look like this. A spasm 
 of agonized divination crossed his face. He under- 
 stood perfectly that she had been dangerously ill, 
 but he knew that she did not mean to tell him so. 
 
 "I was — delayed. I — couldn't help it, dear," 
 she breathed. " It was nothing — a little matter — 
 I could not come." 
 
 " Yes, Mother ; I see — I understand. It is all 
 right." 
 
 "I would have come sooner if I could, Joseph. 
 You know I would, don't you ? You know it was a 
 little accident — something I could n't help." 
 
 " Yes, Mother, I know. Dear Mother ! Dear- 
 Mother ! " 
 
 Her lip trembled at the tremulousness and tender- 
 ness of his voice. 
 
 " I thought I could n't get here," she gasped. " I 
 lost the train ! I lost the train for the first time in 
 all these years." 
 
 " Such things will happen ; but it 's all right now. 
 There, there, dear ! " He comforted her, and patted 
 the old Spanish lace scarf. 
 
 " Yes, I 've got here now. I won't let anything 
 happen another time, Joseph, to make me late." 
 
 " Of course you won't. I 'm sure of it. God
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 443 
 
 bless you, Motlier ! You 've never missed once. 
 You are all I have. You keep me alive. Body and 
 soul you keep me alive in tliis awful place." 
 
 " Thank you, dear." She gave him a pathetic 
 smile. " You 're a good boy, Joseph. You comfort 
 me. You are my only son, and you are a great com- 
 fort to me." 
 
 Thus they beguiled each other with the divine de- 
 ceit of love. If neither was deceived, neither said 
 so, and the tender hypocrisy soothed them both. 
 
 " You don't ask how I got here," urged the old 
 lady, rousing herself suddenly. She began to laugh, 
 and to make merriment of her sad eyes. This she 
 called "cheering him up." 
 
 " Guess I " she cried, pulling off her mended 
 glove nervously ; she had taken off her veil and the 
 darned lace scarf ; her bonnet seemed more awry 
 than usual, and her hair was blown about her wrin- 
 kled forehead ; she was a very neat old lady, and 
 she kept pulling at things and pushing things away 
 to straighten them. 
 
 " I came in the Governor's carriage ! " She re- 
 vealed this startling fact with a pretty, feminine 
 motion of the head that might have made her charm- 
 ing when she was young. 
 
 ''Oh — you've seen the Governor again, then." 
 The prisoner's face became suffused, and then 
 turned gray. To the incident of the carriage he 
 seemed quite oblivious. It was the least trifle in 
 the tremendous fact. If the executive clemency had 
 been tested again and had been again denied him — 
 
 " You should n't have gone. Mother ! " he said 
 sharply. It was his only hard word to her that day.
 
 444 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 Anguish wrung it from him ; let us forgive him — 
 as she did. 
 
 " Women cannot understand these things," he 
 said, trembling. "You may make a fatal blunder. 
 You ought to let the case alone." 
 
 " But it was her carriage ! " protested the old lady. 
 *' She sent me out in it herself. She is just like 
 any other Christian, bless her ! She said she 'd get 
 me here before visiting hours were over." 
 
 " They are over now," said Luke, recovering him- 
 self, and speaking with dreary gentleness. " There 
 comes the guard to say so. Our time is short to- 
 day, mother. Forgive me. Mother. Kever mind 
 the carriage. I didn't mean that. It's all right. 
 Kiss me good-by. — There. Once more. — There, 
 there. Mother dear ! See ! Don't grieve, little 
 Mother. Write me all about it. All I ask is, don't, 
 don't go to the Governor again without my know- 
 ledge. You don't understand how these things have 
 to be managed. My lawyer will know best. Don't 
 make these feminine emotional moves. They may 
 work incalculable harm. I '11 write to Gibson, my- 
 self — go and see Gibson. Don't act on your own 
 hook — don't ! What did the Governor say ? — No. 
 Don't tell me. I see, I understand. There is no 
 hope ; not a ray of it, from Masscon. You must see 
 that. You must accept that fact, and be guided by 
 the judgment of men who understand the world, and 
 politics — and the public currents that eddy about 
 the subject of crime. Women can't be expected to 
 comprehend these matters. Therefore they should 
 let them alone." 
 
 While he spoke, with great self-restraint but with
 
 TRE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 445 
 
 the passionate, intelligent masculine emphasis that 
 had always controlled her since he was a little fel- 
 low and she had let him have his " way," her aged 
 face fell heavily. She looked more puzzled than 
 hurt ; but a certain feminine obstinacy, settling 
 gently upon her eyes and mouth, replied to him. 
 He noticed this, and smiled sadly. If she had ruined 
 his cause he would not undeceive her. He patted 
 her cheek, and gently supported her to the door. 
 
 " My chances are up," he said to himself. " They 
 are all up. I get no pardon from this Administra- 
 tion." 
 
 He did not ask her what the Governor said, but 
 bade her good-by lovingly and silently ; and she 
 went out. 
 
 As she passed the threshold he called her back. 
 The indulgent guard winked pleasanth^, and delayed 
 to let her come. 
 
 Luke was a favorite in the jail — a good prisoner, 
 obeying with the fidelity and the docility of intelli- 
 gence. He gained an extra moment without diffi- 
 culty, and, restraining his mother for the space of it, 
 whispered something in her ear. 
 
 " No," she said, '' no. I have not seen her. Only 
 that once I told you of — in her carriage — going to 
 a concert of a sunny afternoon." 
 
 She put her lips together stiffly, and said no 
 more. It was a long time since he had inquired 
 about his wife. Mrs. Luke hoped he had forgotten 
 her. She could not help it; she always felt un- 
 happy when he talked of Miranda ; a little blonde 
 woman, who rouged, and left her husband because 
 he was in trouble — a petty creature, sobbing in ex-
 
 446 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 pensive dresses over her wrongs and her miseries 
 while Joseph was in jail. 
 
 For nine years the wife had kept her long, un- 
 wif elike silence. She had never broken it by a visit, 
 by a letter, by a message. Not a thought had come 
 from her to the unhappy man whose name she bore. 
 Not a sign had told him so much as that he was for- 
 given. The dumbness of scorn, the deafness of 
 death, she had set between them utterly ; he had not 
 sought to break it ; and what he thought of it, or 
 what it meant to him, even his mother did not know, 
 and dared not ask. 
 
 She thought of that other woman with a hot heart. 
 It gave her a kind of jealousy that he should speak 
 of Miranda — a doll ; a creature who could desert 
 him. She went heavily down the prison steps ; she 
 held her skirts up from her old gaiters, but they 
 were soaked through. She had half a mile to walk 
 to the station, and it was now raining violently. 
 She put up her faded umbrella weakly, tied on her 
 veil, and bowed her head to the storm. One of her 
 gaiters slipped down, for they did not fit very well, 
 and she leaned against a broken birch-tree to pull it 
 up. The prisoners were just going into their din- 
 ner, rank in file, two by two. 
 
 " Hi ! " said he who was called Damm, " me if 
 
 that ain't the old lady, yonder ! " 
 
 Luke glanced over the red head of the ruflSan 
 prisoner through the long bars. He could just see 
 her clutching at her dripping skirts, and trying to 
 hold the umbrella (it looked like the very one his 
 father used to carry to prayer-meetings) Avhich the 
 storm had twisted inside out. She passed the
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 447 
 
 birches, crossed the gravel-pits, and then the abom- 
 inable prisoner pushed him along the corridor. 
 
 It was April, and a blast that would have done 
 credit to February thrust the eminent gentlemen up 
 the steps of the State House viciously, as if it had a 
 grudge against them, or against the object of the 
 hearing. For the hearing was a foregone conclu- 
 sion now. In her quiet, obstinate way, the old lady 
 made up her mind on that. All the winter, Avhile 
 she crouched over her sewing-machine, in the chilly 
 hall bed-room of her poor boarding-house, or crawled 
 to and fro across the ice from grand houses where 
 she made and mended carpets — she had resolved 
 her purpose firmly, fearlessly, and secretly. For 
 once in her life she had concluded that she knew 
 better than Joseph. The petition should go in. 
 Gibson, his lawyer, should take it in. That parish- 
 ioner of Mr. Luke's who was kind to her should head 
 it. The third cousin should sign it. There should 
 be another hearing. She was quite reserved with her 
 son, on this point, evading his questions, diverting 
 his anxiet}'-, and feigning inaction and despair. 
 
 " Don't expect a pardon, dear," she had said, " and 
 you will bear it better. It is only three years more." 
 
 She thought herself diplomatic in the extreme. 
 Whatever the prisoner thought, he had dropped the 
 subject. With it, so nearly as could be learned, he 
 had dropped the restlessness of hope. He grew 
 very quiet, dull, and pale. His eye wandered. He 
 spoke little; he missed writing to her once or 
 twice ; he grew averse to reading ; he sat for hours, 
 with his head sunk upon his breast.
 
 448 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 The April gale ^' took it out " on the poor old lady 
 — she blew up the steps so much more easily than 
 the unpettieoated and solid politicians who preceded 
 her,' pufl&ng, to the Blue Eoom, which the wisest 
 State in the Uuion sets apart in her State House for 
 tragedies like these. Mrs. Luke shrank in, late and 
 breathless. In fact she looked so, when she came 
 to the top of the second flight of stairs, that the old 
 parishioner gave her a scared glance, and got her 
 into an ante-chamber behind a screen. 
 
 " She is in no condition to be present at the hear- 
 ing," he managed to send word to the Governor. 
 "What is to be done with her ? She 's liable to die 
 on the spot. How shall we get rid of her ? " 
 
 " Tell her," said the Governor, wrinkling his 
 round, kind face, " that Governor Masscon thinks 
 she will do most service to her case by remaining 
 where she is until he calls for her." 
 
 At the mention of the gubernatorial name the old 
 lady nodded happily. She made no objection or re- 
 sistance to his wishes ; obeying humbly, and with a 
 childlike trustfulness which was pathetic to see. 
 She sat down alone in the ante-room. The third 
 cousin's wife would have accompanied her, but an 
 urgent engagement on a church committee unfortu- 
 nately interfered. The doors into the Blue Room 
 were open. The screen concealed her ; and the hear- 
 ing, to the great relief of the Governor's Council, the 
 lawyer, and the old parishioner, opened without her. 
 
 It opened promptly, and it proceeded briskly. The 
 Governor's Council had their minds definitely formed 
 on the case, and intended to make short work of it. 
 They listened to the petition deferentially, and dis-
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 449 
 
 posed of it summarily ; they were bored, not to say 
 annoyed, by its repetition at this time. 
 
 " I suppose," observed the Chairman of the Par- 
 don Committee, " that this particular hearing is a 
 matter of form, and the sooner over the better. It 
 is an old case, quite familiar to this and other Coun- 
 cils, and we see no reason to change the results of 
 former discussions. It strikes me as a work of time 
 to go over the ground." 
 
 "Allow me, sir " — began the prisoner's lawyer. 
 
 " And I would suggest " — urged the old parish- 
 ioner. 
 
 The usual hopeless arguments followed in the 
 usual hopeless manner. The Council listened and 
 drummed on the table. The Chairman of the Par- 
 don Committee drew plans for his seaside villa on a 
 page of his note-book. The lawyer stammered, the 
 third cousin looked at his watch, and the old parish- 
 ioner shook his head. From that Anti-pardon Ad- 
 ministration it was clear that the most eminent em- 
 bezzler the State had sentenced for thirteen years 
 could look for no executive m.ercy. The pitiful farce 
 proceeded as was to be expected, and was rapidly 
 approaching its conventional end, when the Governor 
 unexpectedly arose and walked two or three times 
 nervously across the room. 
 
 " Gentlemen " — he began suddenly. Then came 
 the bomb-shell. In his impetuous, incisive voice he 
 hurled out a few words — six only, but they started 
 the Blue Room to its feet. 
 
 " Impossible ! " 
 
 " Unprecedented ! " 
 
 " Most indiscreet." 
 
 d
 
 450 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 " Beyond the sympathy of the Council." 
 
 " But, Governor, you do not consider " — 
 
 " I have considered," said the Governor firmly ; 
 " and I mean the thing I say." 
 
 He shut his lips together in a way which his Coun- 
 cil recognized. He was the easiest, jolliest, best- 
 natured man in the world, bon camarade to every 
 member of his staff, and hail-fellow-well-met with 
 his Council, who expected to control him three quar- 
 ters of the time. On the fourth occasion they might 
 as well have tried to manage a pyramid. This 
 proved to be the fourth. 
 
 When the Council looked him in the eye, they per- 
 ceived that their camarade had vanished from the 
 Blue Room. The official glance replied to them. It 
 was as keen as a sword-thrust, and as cool. It was 
 the Governor of the Commonwealth who listened to 
 his Council (they protested for some time) politely, 
 with gentlemanly interest, deferentially, as one with 
 a high regard for their opinions — but unmoved. 
 
 The Chairman took him one side, and got him be- 
 fore a window. The two men looked down on the 
 dreary, driving, striving streets for a moment in sig- 
 nificant silence. The gale was blowing the citizens 
 along like leaves. It was Holy Week, and the 
 streets were unusually full. Seen at that height, in 
 the dust and struggle, humanity seemed a sad thing. 
 
 "There is misery enough in the world," thought 
 the Governor. The power to give joy occurred to 
 him at that moment as something God-like. It ran 
 through his veins like rapture. 
 
 " I only wished to remind you," observed the 
 Chairman, in a low, strenuous voice. "Of course,
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 451 
 
 your Council are amenable to your judgment and 
 wishes — but I think it my duty to remind you that 
 you are elected b}' an Anti-pardon party. I must 
 recall to your Excellency's remembrance the pros- 
 pects of a reelection. It might be a pity to lose it — 
 for one felon. Permit me to remind you of your 
 second term. Allow me to observe that your con- 
 stituents " — 
 
 The Governor's face flushed. He turned sharply 
 from the window, and paced the room again, for 
 some moments. No one addressed him. The Chair- 
 man stroked his beard, and smiled indulgently. The 
 Council talked of bi-metalism, with well-executed in- 
 difference. The lawyer and the old parishioner hud- 
 dled together, consulting in disheartened whispers. 
 
 A divine drama was going on in the Blue Room ; 
 but this commonplace scene gave no signs of it ; 
 perhaps these commonplace spectators had no con- 
 sciousness of it. 
 
 A slight, almost inaudible sound stirred from the 
 ante-room, and stopped ; it was like the nibble of 
 some helpless creature against a wall of stone. 
 
 The Governor heard it, and strode over the cor- 
 ridor. He stood before the screen a moment before 
 he touched it. Then he swung it gently. 
 
 The old lady did not stir. She had crawled to the 
 bare floor, and there she knelt. Her face was in 
 her hands, her bands upon the wooden chair. Her 
 lips moved. Ko sound came from them. She was 
 praying. From earth and earthly mercy, she had 
 abandoned hope. But God was left. 
 
 The Governor put his finger on his lips, and 
 beckoned to his Council. Every man rose to his 
 feet, and looked at her.
 
 452 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 The Governor replaced the screen reverently, and 
 shut the door. He put his hand upon the Chair- 
 man's shoulder and distinctly said : — 
 
 " my constituents ! " 
 
 On the wings of the wind the lawyer called a 
 hackney coach. He and the old parishioner got into 
 the carriage with her. The third cousin congratu- 
 lated her, and ran for his horse-car to meet his wife 
 at the Good Friday vespers. The two men who did 
 not run were very nervous ; they were afraid she 
 would die on their hands. The old parishioner, with 
 unprecedented personal emphasis, remarked : — 
 
 '' Ml/ wife would have been present on this occa- 
 sion if she had n't been in her grave for nineteen 
 years ! " 
 
 It seemed unfortunate that there should be no 
 other woman with the convict's mother just then ; 
 but she took it very sweetly and uncomplainingly, as 
 she did most things which befell her. 
 
 She had not spoken a word. Her pallor was 
 alarming, but still she seemed to possess a certain 
 marvelous strength. Her breath came in sickening- 
 gasps, but her hands held firmly to the carriage 
 strap. Rapture of the soul and agony of the flesh 
 fought together upon her aged face ; but the look of 
 her eyes was as those may look who have reached 
 the world of utter blessedness. These unimaginative 
 men regarded her silently, and felt puzzled. The 
 old parishioner passed his hand across his forehead. 
 Once he begged her to " keep up, for Reverend Mr. 
 Luke's sake, madam, your poor son's deceased fa- 
 ther."
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 453 
 
 When they reached the prison it was thought best 
 for her to see him quite alone. The chaplain bustled 
 about eagerly. The warden, a humane man, gave 
 every possible order for the comfort of the old lady 
 in this trying scene. 
 
 Kumors buzzed through the prison like wasps. In 
 ten minutes four hundred and thirteen inmates knew 
 the facts. The abominable prisoner related them 
 viciously to the mild murderer, who spilled the gild- 
 ing when he heard them. The old forger wept when 
 they reached his deafened ears. But Picket, the 
 burglar, whistled " Old Folks at Home." 
 
 Guards redoubled their attentions to the prisoners. 
 Any excitement, sad or glad, was dangerous within 
 those dire walls. The chaplain was pale with the 
 occasion. Every officer's eye was upon Number 223 
 when he passed along the corridor, well-guarded, to 
 his cell. 
 
 He had been summoned there from the workshop, 
 on some pretext, and went listlessly enough. He 
 walked feebly. He had changed much that winter. 
 The prison physician had expressed anxiety about 
 him. He coughed, and his eye was vagrant and 
 subtle. His hands hung at his side. 
 
 They led him into his cell ; and there he found 
 the chaplain, who addressed him with evident emo- 
 tion. 
 
 " Mr. Luke," he said. The convict stirred slightly 
 at the prefix, but looked dully at the chaplain — " Mr. 
 Luke, you have not been very well of late, and the 
 authorities have allowed your mother to come and 
 see you." 
 
 " It is not visitors' day," said the prisoner apathet- 
 ically.
 
 454 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 " But she is here," urged the chaplain ; his voice 
 trembled. " She is to come and see you for a little 
 while." 
 
 Joseph Luke rose, with the mechanical instinct of 
 long captivity, to obey. He said : — 
 
 " Where is the guard ? They will not let me go 
 to the visitors' room without a guard." 
 
 The chaplain's eye filled. " You are to receive 
 your mother here," he said. " It is a special arrange- 
 ment." 
 
 "When he turned she was standing behind him ; 
 she was perfectly self-possessed. She said : " Good- 
 afternoon, Joseph. I 've come to see you a few min- 
 utes, my dear." 
 
 The chaplain bowed and passed her. He went 
 nervously to the visitors' room and found the law- 
 yer and the old parishioner, and sat down beside 
 them, and took off his spectacles, and said they 
 needed a new lens, and put them on again, and then 
 covered them with his hands. 
 
 " Well, Joseph," she said, " are n't you glad to see 
 me ? " 
 
 " They have forgotten the guard ! " he muttered.- 
 
 " I came out with Mr. Gibson and your father's 
 old deacon, Joseph. We came to make a little call 
 on you. They wanted to consult you about a peti- 
 tion." 
 
 " Mother," he said half complainingly, " we are 
 not watched. There is no officer here. I don't un- 
 derstand it." 
 
 She went straight up to him then, and put her 
 trembling, thin old arms about his neck.
 
 THE LA W AND THE GOSPEL. 455 
 
 " Oh, Joseph ! Try to bear it ! " she said. He 
 scarcely changed color at her broken words, but 
 bowed his head upon his breast. 
 
 " I can bear it, mother. Don't spare me. I am 
 quite prepared. I knew the petition would fail. I 
 don't blame you any, mother. We must make the 
 best of it. It was to be expected." 
 
 Then she cried out tumultuously — word over word 
 
 — gasp after gasp — sob upon sob : — 
 
 " Bear it, Joseph — bear it ! There is no guard. 
 jSTobody watches us. Nobody ever will, any more. 
 The petition did n't fail. Your old mother was n't 
 so silly as you thought her. Try to bear it, Joseph 
 
 — try to bear it to be free ! " 
 
 The railroad station was throbbing full, for it was 
 Saturday afternoon. It was full to over-brimming, 
 for it was the busiest, hopefulest Saturday in the 
 calendar. 
 
 It had been the pleasant fancy of the governor to 
 bestow all that joy upon Good Friday, and his ad- 
 visers did not gainsay him. Wait till Thanksgiving, 
 and who could say where that deathly faced old 
 woman would be ? Thus it happened that the offi- 
 cial pardon had been formally extended to the pris- 
 oner upon the solemn day when He who pitied and 
 considered prisoners, and forgot sin, and remem- 
 bered repentance, is cherished in the hearts and 
 minds of all the world. 
 
 Joseph Luke had chosen to remain in his cell till 
 dawn of the next day. On the breaking of the morn- 
 ing, before the prisoners were astir, the chaplain had 
 got him quietly away, and had himself accompanied
 
 450 TUE LAW AyiJ THE GOSPEL. 
 
 the pardoned convict into the city, where she awaited 
 them, trembling, sitting on her packed trunk in the 
 cold hall bedroom. The chaplain had remained by 
 them, meeting everj'- responsibility through the agi- 
 tations of the day. He did this with the happy 
 enthusiasm of those plain, imselfish men, who fill 
 hard places such as his, receiving no glory, and little 
 recognition outside of them. He had just left the 
 two together, having blessed them, and received 
 their blessing, and so, bidding them Godspeed, he 
 had gone his ways. 
 
 The two sat straight on the station bench, side by 
 side, with clasped hands. 
 
 It was an hour yet before the train left. 
 
 " We 'd better be sure and be in time," the old lady 
 had said. He seemed to share her nervousness ; he 
 was panting to be off and away, out of the old air, 
 far from the old faces, where no eye but hers should 
 look in his with the consciousness that he felt 
 would kill him. He had not understood that to be 
 free is the least of freedom. To be held worthy of 
 freedom — was that the thing ? His sick soul petu- 
 lantly craved the impossible : the trust, the respect, 
 the confidence, the affection of honorable men. 
 
 Without a friend, without a dollar, without a foot- 
 ing in the life of the world, without a home, without 
 so much as a shelter, without an occupation or the 
 prospect of any, Avithout reference to a past, or hope 
 for a future, how were these two weaklings of error 
 and fate to use the dark and doubtful privilege of a 
 convict's pardon ? They had run out into it, like 
 children playing on an iron track before the advan- 
 cing train that thunders behind them in the dusk. 
 Like children, they had been taken up and carried.
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 457 
 
 That Christian woman, the Lady of the State, who 
 was "just like folks," had made herself the goddess 
 of the emergency in the quiet, almost unrecognized 
 way in which she was accustomed to do such things. 
 The Governor, who was used to shut his official eyes 
 to his wife's private charities, smiled, and asked no 
 questions for policy's sake, but ordered his horses 
 and went off for a ride with his boy, and said they 
 would trot out to the Whisk Broom Factory, and 
 whistled all the way. Once he was heard to say : — 
 
 " Confound a second term ! " 
 
 The Governor's wife and the prison chaplain had 
 arranged it all between them. Heaven knows how, in 
 a snatch of time like that. But both were accus- 
 tomed to the conquest of exigencies ; and she was 
 a general at the management of helpless people. 
 Since she had that old grocery store in the obscure 
 mountain village in the remote end of the State, 
 where she went sometimes in the summer, to be un- 
 fashionable and happy; and since ths store was closed 
 for lack of a man of " gumption " to make it go, and 
 sure of the " go," if it had the gumption ; and since 
 she was willing to trust the little business to an ex- 
 convict — was that anybody's affair, she should like 
 to ask ? 
 
 " God Almighty's, possibly, madam," the chaplain 
 had said, winking very fast. " You may find that 
 grocery store down on His real estate list, some 
 day." 
 
 The chaplain was so accustomed to give spiritual 
 advice that it flowed along naively upon the great 
 lady, who received it, smiling indulgently, and pro- 
 ceeded to ask : And since over the grocery store
 
 458 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 there was a little tenement, five rooms or so, decent, 
 and could be made quite comfortable, and were fur- 
 nished after a fashion by the last occupant; and 
 since a telegram could warm them up and put a few 
 things in the larder for the two poor travelers ; and 
 since they could get them to supper on Holy Satur- 
 day, and spend their Easter there, at home, together 
 
 — was there any reason, Mrs. Masscon demanded, in 
 her ringing voice (it was the voice of the Governor's 
 wife, iised to having matters as she chose them to be) 
 
 — was there any reason why Mr. and Mrs. Luke 
 should not at once occupy this position and this 
 home ? Having said this, she found no more to say, 
 but bade Hans drive home, sent for the cook, and 
 ordered to-morrow's breakfast : of kidgeree. 
 
 Thus it was that the travelers sat in the station, 
 alone, an hour before train time, white and trem- 
 bling, frightened at joy, awed before the mercy for 
 which they had been entreating Heaven for nine 
 wretched years. No person whom they kncAV had 
 spoken with them, unless we except the Governor's 
 Thomas, who deposited a roast of beef and a basket 
 of fruit and a package of new books at the old 
 lady's feet, and disappeared, sniffing considerably, 
 without any social overtures. 
 
 Joseph Luke had not spoken for some time ; his 
 hands were shut tightly into each other ; his free- 
 man's clothes sat awkwardly on him after so long 
 an estrangement ; he glanced furtively at the cut of 
 other men's hair ; he winced a little when the station 
 police passed through the waiting-room to help him- 
 self to a cvip of water. His mother did not chatter 
 nor try to interrupt his reserve. Perhaps her own
 
 / 
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 459 
 
 soul was too solemn ; perhaps her body was too 
 weak. A bright color burned on her wrinkled 
 cheeks. Her eyes looked large, and seemed to see 
 to a long distance. She opened her old valise and 
 packed away her gaiters ; it strengthened her to do 
 some unimportant thing. When she raised her 
 head, having shut and clasped the valise, the seat 
 beside her was empty. 
 
 With a shiver of horror she sprang to her feet. 
 Joseph was gone. He was not to be seen. Afraid 
 to call him, afraid to cry out or seek help, she tot- 
 tered out into the middle of the room and stood 
 staring. 
 
 Then she turned slowly, and crawled back to her 
 seat. 
 
 At the window of the ticket-office a lady, in fresh 
 and expensive mourning, stood, taking ten cents for 
 a rebate from some suburban passage bought upon 
 the cars. They are usually people of ease Avho look 
 most carefully after their dimes, and the little 
 woman plainly led a comfortable life. As she closed 
 her wallet and tossed back the heavy crape veil, 
 which fell almost to the hem of her long cloak, she 
 turned her soft face. 
 
 Joseph Luke stood directly before her. It was 
 his wife. 
 
 The blonde gasped for breath, and walked a step 
 or two and passed him. She seemed to hesitate. The 
 real color ran beneath her rouge. The ex-convict, 
 haggard, with cropped hair and awkward shuffle, fol- 
 lowed her silently. As the lady advanced, the man 
 pursued. The contrast between the two was so evi- 
 dent and so pitiful that the audacity of his act could
 
 460 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 not escape notice. People in the waiting-room began 
 to raise their eyes. The station policeman might 
 have been observed not to seem to observe the scene. 
 The freed prisoner trod firmly. The doll began to 
 tremble ; she hurried, and her high French heels made 
 little clicks on the bare floor. He followed her dog- 
 gedly. She did not repulse him. He followed her 
 into the ante-room that led to the exit, and the door 
 swung to. 
 
 The old lady sat alone by the big valise. She did 
 not look at the ante-room door. She did not dare 
 to. For her life — and the long, irregular throbs of 
 her heart told her that life and death were wres- 
 tling in her weak body — she would not have in- 
 tnided on those two, nor so much as said, " Joseph, 
 have you forgotten your old mother ? " 
 
 Miranda was his wife. There had been no di- 
 vorce. God had joined them ; whom sin and weak- 
 ness had put asunder. 
 
 " Miranda is the kind of woman who has to see a 
 man," she thought. " He could do anything with 
 her once. He might again." 
 
 Old Mrs. Luke sat quite still. She stared straight 
 before her. Whether moments or hours passed she 
 did not know. She dared not look at the station 
 clock. It occurred to her that they might lose the 
 train, but she could not remind him. AA'ho knew ? 
 Perhaps he meant to lose the train. 
 
 He was a man now ; no prisoner any longer, to be 
 dependent on the coddling of an old mother. He 
 could do as he pleased. 
 
 The station policeman sauntered in, and made an 
 errand in the ante-room, and strolled back. The
 
 TUE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 461 
 
 colored man came in and announced two or three 
 trains ; then at last their own ; the train that led to 
 the little store and the tenement — to home, to hope, 
 to rest, to peace. 
 
 The ante-room door swung, and an Irish woman 
 with five children bounced in. She was followed 
 by an old gentleman crawling through on crutches. 
 The door slammed back. 
 
 Mrs. Luke's brain spun ; her ears rung ; the room 
 grew black. 
 
 " Well, mother ? " 
 
 Suddenly his voice smote her, and she saw him. 
 In her confused condition his appearance took on 
 the nature of the miraculous. It had not occurred 
 to her that there was any other door. 
 
 He sat down beside her, and began to take up the 
 valise. He did not seem as agitated as she expected. 
 His eye had a strange, strong look, and his mouth 
 shut decidedly ; his weak expression seemed to have 
 been unlocked from his face like a fetter. 
 
 " Well, mother ? " he repeated quietly. 
 
 " What did Miranda say, Joseph ? " 
 
 She leaned her head back against the high dado 
 of the station wall, and closed her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, not much." 
 
 " What is she in all that black for ? She wore 
 blue velvet the last time I saw her."' 
 
 " Her father is dead." 
 
 " Oh ! I never heard that. Did you know it be- 
 fore ? " 
 
 " Certainly. It was in the papers two months 
 ago." 
 
 " You never mentioned it to me, Joseph."
 
 462 THE LA W AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 « No." 
 
 " What else did Miranda say ? " 
 
 " Not much of anything. She would have come 
 back to me, I think, if I had asked her." 
 
 " Did you ask her ? " 
 
 " It is time to take our train, now, mother. Give 
 me that valise." 
 
 " I did n't know but what you 'd — given up going, 
 Joseph ? " 
 
 *' Give me your tickets. There. Take my arm, 
 mother. Come along. Come this way. Lean on 
 me." 
 
 " But what did you say to Miranda ? " panted the 
 old lady, trotting along, trying to keep pace with 
 him. 
 
 " Why, not much. I told her my mother had 
 stood by me like God Almighty, and all Hell 
 should n't part us now. That 's all." 
 
 But when they had got into the cars, the old lady 
 gave him a furtive look. 
 
 " He will go back to her," she thought. " He 
 loves Miranda — after all. He will go back to her 
 when I am gone." 
 
 Easter broke brilliantly. In that remote village, 
 the late, reluctant spring yielded suddenly and ten- 
 derly upon the sacred morning, and all the wide 
 country, delicate of color, pure of breath, opened 
 before the faded eyes that saw it and blessed God. 
 
 She seemed utterly, incredibly, divinely happy. 
 He watched her anxiously, for the transparency of 
 her countenance alarmed him. But she said : — 
 
 " I am quite well, my son." Then in a few mo- 
 ments : " What can I do for you, my dear ? "
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 463 
 
 " Joseph — are you comfortable ? " 
 
 " My son, did you rest well ? Did I make the 
 bed to suit you ? Were you warm ? And happy ? 
 Dear, was the coffee to your taste ? " 
 
 " Joseph, are you resting ? Are you sure you 're 
 happy ? This is a very comfortable home, I think. 
 We can make ourselves quite happy here. It only 
 needs a little fixing, and to care for it and pet it. 
 Homes need petting, Joseph, just like people." 
 
 " Thank you, dear. I 'm much obliged to you for 
 kissing me. You are a good son ; you are a comfort 
 to me, Joseph. I am glad I did not die. I am very 
 happy. It is Easter Sunday. I should like tp go 
 to church, I think ; I am so happy. Would you 
 mind, my son ? " 
 
 He could not bring himself to disappoint her ; and 
 he accompanied her, shrinking and abashed, to the 
 village service, and heard the resurrection hymns, 
 and breathed the Easter flowers, and was not sorry 
 he had gone ; and came home gently and passed the 
 day beside her. They talked of all their little plans 
 and hopes and dreams ; of freedom, of peace, and 
 honor, and the respect of neighbors, and honest 
 labor, and years of calm content. She was feverish 
 and excited, but celestially happy. 
 
 They parted early that night, for he saw how she 
 needed sleep ; and she kissed him and blessed him, 
 and he knelt before her, and put his face upon her 
 lap as he used to do when he was a little boy. 
 
 " Your curls will grow again, fast," she said, pass- 
 ing her trembling hand across his poor head. " You 
 will soon be my own boy again." 
 
 She did not say anything more after this, but
 
 464 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 Avent to her own room and seemed to be very quiet 
 and peaceful. It was a beautiful night, with a high, 
 fair moon. 
 
 In the morning, when he had started the fire, she 
 did not slip out in her patched wrapper to make the 
 coffee as early as he had expected, so he went down 
 to the grocery store and dusted it out, and busied 
 himself a while. His heart throbbed at being trusted 
 with this rude duty. As he swept, snatches of the 
 Easter chant rose to his unaccustomed lips. He felt 
 almost embarrassed there alone in the empty store, 
 because he found himself humming softly : — 
 
 " The Lord is risen, 
 The soul is free ! ' ' 
 
 Now, she slept so late, that it occurred to him 
 presently to go up-stairs and see if she needed him 
 for anything. So he put away the broom, straws 
 uppermost, with the methodical fidelity of a happy 
 person, and climbed the stairs, still humming : — 
 
 "The soul is free ! 
 The soul is free ! " 
 
 When he had washed the dust from his face and 
 hands, he went in at last, and spoke to her. 
 
 Afterward it was remembered hoAv she had asked : 
 " To see my son a free man — and to have a little 
 home of our own — if only for twenty-four hours 
 before I die ! "
 
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