EH 
 

 LINCOLN ROOM 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 LIBRARY 
 
 MEMORIAL 
 
 the Class of 1901 
 
 founded by 
 
 HARLAN HOYT HORNER 
 
 and 
 
 HENRIETTA CALHOUN HORNER 
 
y&c I 1 //^ 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/fatherOObrow 
 
THE FATHER 
 
The Father 
 
 by 
 J^atharine J-folland ^Brown 
 
 CttJ><l&n 
 
 New York 
 
 THE JOHN DAY COMPANY 
 
 1928 
 
928, BY THE WOMAN'S HOME COMPANION 
 COPYRIGHT, 1928, BY KATHARINE HOLLAND BROWN 
 FIRST PUBLISHED, NOVEMBER, 1 928 
 
 PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. 
 
 FOR THE JOHN DAY COMPANY, INC. 
 
 BY THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY, INC., RAHWAY, N. J. 
 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 
 
 KATHARINE HOLLAND BROWN was born in 
 Alton, Illinois. She was graduated from the Uni- 
 versity of Michigan, where she was an honor student and 
 was elected to Phi Beta Kappa. Following her graduation 
 Miss Brown taught in the Quincy High School for two 
 years and then engaged in newspaper and magazine 
 writing. 
 
 Since then she has contributed many short stories and 
 serial stories to the magazines and is the author of several 
 novels: Diana, A Romance of the Icarian Community; 
 Dawn; Philip fa at Halcyon; The Messenger; White 
 Roses ; Uncertain Irene; Hallowell Partnership; Wages 
 of Honor ; The Touchstone; and a collection of Short 
 Stories from the Bible. 
 
 In 1924 Miss Brown received an honorary M.A. de- 
 gree from the University of Michigan. 
 
 Her permanent home is in Quincy, Illinois, although 
 she lives at Orlando, Florida, a great part of the time. 
 
THE FATHER 
 
CHAPTER ONE 
 
 IT was Sunday morning. No doubt about that. It looked 
 like Sunday, all tranquil autumn sunshine, and soft 
 breezes, and mellow golden air. It sounded like Sunday, its 
 sweet hours measured by the music of far bells. And as 
 little Thomas observed, and wrinkled his fat nose wist- 
 fully, it smelled like Sunday. To be sure, it would seem 
 that Thomas had shipped enough fuel at breakfast for the 
 whole day's cruise. Baked beans, hot and savory from Satur- 
 day night in the brick oven, brown bread, so tender that you 
 must eat it with a spoon, after plastering it with Grand- 
 aunt Celestia's sacrosanct quince jam, brought down with 
 ceremony from the sealed mysterious cupboard of her cot- 
 tage up Stafford Hill; and finally a solid ballast of dough- 
 nuts. But in the year of our Lord 1850, the storage ca- 
 pacity of a five-year-old boy was a thing of wonder, even 
 as to-day. 
 
 Adoniram, his eldest brother, gave him a rebuking 
 glance, then bent his skinny shoulders over his Old Testa- 
 ment. Past the freckles that enveloped him, even as a small 
 god in a cloud, you caught glimpses of a bony sedate little 
 face, brown eyes, a sober mouth. Adoniram was growing 
 up. He did not find it a cheering process. When at the age 
 of nine you are required to be the mark and pattern for 
 two obstreperous younger brothers life becomes a heavy 
 task. Little Thomas wasn't so awful, he reflected; but when 
 it came to being responsible for Seth, Seth who was born, 
 so Aunty declared, with both feet in the milk-pail . . . ! 
 
 He sighed, chewed his tongue reflectively, and addressed 
 himself to his text. 
 
4 THE FATHER 
 
 — "And the children of Israel dwelt among the Ca- 
 naanites, Hittites and Amorites, and Perizzites and Hivites 
 and Jebusites " 
 
 He took a long breath, pushed on. 
 
 — "And the children of Israel did evil — and served Baa- 
 lim and the groves " 
 
 "Therefore the anger of the Lord was hot against Israel, 
 and he sold them into the hand of Chushan-Rishathaim, 
 king of Mesopotamia; and the children of Israel served 
 Chushan-Rishathaim eight years " 
 
 A spark of interest kindled in Adoniram's eyes. 
 
 "Father! Say, Father, did you know the children of Israel 
 got sold once, to a mean old king?" 
 
 Father looked up from his new Atlantic World, 
 
 "What are you reading, Adoniram?" 
 
 "Judges, third chapter. Yes, sir, and I'll bet old Chushan 
 made slaves out of them, too. Just like the slaves we got, 
 right here in America." 
 
 Now, one moment before, Father had sat there, so slim 
 and silent and aloof, from young silvered crest to gleaming 
 morocco boots the very portrait of a sedate New England 
 gentleman. But now he sprang to his feet. His lordly head 
 flung high, his eyes began to flame. His tall black stock had 
 been tied so firmly, it seemed only a convulsion of nature 
 could budge it. But at the mere word "slaves" it reared 
 erect, jumped under his left ear. A barometer, that stock. 
 
 "True, my son. In its day, every nation has staggered 
 under the monstrous burden of slavery. Even our own 
 free world still drags her chains. If I and my generation 
 cannot throw off this crushing weight, you and yours will 
 have to carry that load." 
 
 Deep water for Adoniram. He sighed reflectively, read 
 on. 
 
 "And Sisera gathered together his chariots, even nine 
 
THE FATHER 5 
 
 hundred chariots of iron. ... So Barak went down from 
 Mount Tabor, and ten thousand men after him. . . . And 
 all the host of Sisera fell upon the edge of the sword; and 
 there was not a man left " 
 
 "Gosh ! Must have been a bully fight." 
 
 "Adoniram!" With hardly a rustle, Aunt Celestia had 
 entered the room. She stood before the shocked Adoniram 
 in flounced black bombazine and gigantic hearse-plumed 
 bonnet, and all her Sabbath wrath. "What language ! What 
 an example to your younger brothers!" 
 
 Adoniram humped. He appeared to shrink into himself 
 like a harassed little snail. Father opened his mouth, then 
 shut it again. Train up the child in the way he should go. 
 
 At the same time He put a reassuring hand on Adoni- 
 
 ram's humbled shoulder. 
 
 "Donny, son, when we come home this afternoon, we'll 
 go down to Kimball's orchard. Remember that flat place, 
 by the brook, where we roast our potatoes, for picnics? 
 We'll call that the Plain of Kedesh, and the big hummock 
 can be where the chariots of Sisera stood, and we'll take 
 along all the clothes-pins for soldiers " 
 
 "Goody, goody!" Seth hurtled in, like all the battering- 
 rams of the Amalekites. He tripped over Aunty's ottoman 
 and he crashed into the center-table. The beaded air-castle 
 jingled, the waxen pomegranates leaped upon their crystal 
 throne. 
 
 " 'Scuse me, Aunty. I forgot it was Sunday." 
 
 "Forgot it- was Sunday. I don't wonder. Of all the un- 
 godly conversations! Battles, and roasting potatoes, and 
 clothes-pins " 
 
 Father wheeled on his sons with terrifying ferocity. 
 
 "Put down your Testaments! Off with your jackets! 
 Scoot, now! Run up and down the garden till you've blown 
 off some steam. You're boiling over. Out of here. Travel ! " 
 
6 THE FATHER 
 
 There was a smothered whoop. Out the three shot, like 
 arrows from the Israelitish bow. Father remained, the 
 scapegoat. As usual. 
 
 "John Stafford, what has come into you! Pompering your 
 children like this! Doesn't the Scripture warn you, 'Evil is 
 bound up in the heart of the child ' " 
 
 " 'Children are an heritage from the Lord. Blessed is the 
 man who hath his quiver full.' " Father fixed his clear dark 
 gaze on the Praying Samuel on the mantelpiece. Not even 
 the Praying Samuel wore an aspect more smug. 
 
 Aunty sniffed. 
 
 " 'The rod and the reproof give wisdom: but a child left 
 to himself bringeth his mother to shame.' " 
 
 "Solomon was a wise man, Aunty." A glad light awoke 
 in Father's eye. Hooray! Here was the chance of a life- 
 time! "But I cannot feel that he was a success in rearing 
 children." 
 
 "Humph. No more was David." 
 
 Father choked. He might have known that his great-aunt 
 would have him there. For thirty years he had striven to 
 get the better of his grim ancient kinswoman, just once. For 
 thirty years she had pricked that upblown ambition, as 
 deftly as she pricked the crusts of her famous apple-pies. 
 Royal adversary, she never gloated over her triumph. In- 
 stead, with somewhat ponderous tact, she invariably 
 changed the subject. 
 
 Now she turned to the tall eagle mirror, and gazed 
 disapprovingly at her dour First Day grandeur, the mourn- 
 ful cameo at her withered throat. 
 
 "I mistrust I ought to give Mercy Rose my tombstone." 
 
 "Why? Mercy is barely sixteen. Too young for such 
 costly ornaments." 
 
 "And I'm too old for 'em. Vanities, they are, for a 
 woman seventy-four, going on seventy-five. Though I al- 
 
THE FATHER 7 
 
 ways did enjoy it. That weeping willow sets off the grave 
 so tasty." With shamed fondness, she adjusted the vast and 
 doleful gaud, then turned as a light step clicked on the 
 stairs. 
 
 "Well, Mercy Rose! High time you finished primping. ,, 
 
 "Daughter, you look very nice and tidy." Father put out 
 his hand to her. He did not offer to caress her. Parents did 
 not lavish caresses on young daughters in the year of our 
 Lord, 1850. But as he looked on her, his face changed 
 oddly. A curious light came upon it. Perhaps that light was 
 the reflection of the young shining fairness before him. 
 Perhaps it was the glow that comes to the face of any man 
 when he looks on the woman who gives meaning and value 
 to his life; even when that woman is his own motherless 
 child. 
 
 Now when you looked at Mercy Rose all ready for 
 church in her flounced and snowy dimity, the string of 
 frosty seed-pearls on her round throat, her face shadowed 
 by her wreathed and tilting bonnet, little mitted hands so 
 primly folded, you said to yourself, "What a meek little 
 silver-gilt saint!" But just then you caught a glimpse of 
 her chin. Softly molded, velvet-white, but a chin. And as 
 she took off her bonnet, the sun struck down on those thick 
 silvery-gold braids, and woke in them a gleam darker than 
 raw gold, a smoldering flame. And rather hastily you re- 
 vised your first impression. 
 
 She stood a moment irresolute. For all her Puritan rear- 
 ing Mercy was regrettably lax at times. She tripped across 
 to her father, pounced on his hand and gave it a swift de- 
 fiant squeeze. Then, squirming slightly as Aunt Celestia's 
 eye bored a hole into her shoulder, she planted a small 
 panicky kiss on his ear. 
 
 Aunty scorned to comment on this un-Sabbath-like be- 
 havior. Instead she turned indignantly away. 
 
8 THE FATHER 
 
 "Aunty doesn't like that." Father spoke under his breath. 
 
 "No. But I do." Mercy flashed a mutinous hazel eye at 
 him. Aloud, she added: "I must tie your stock over, Father. 
 It's all skewy. Now we ought to start. Wherever are the 
 little boys? I'll wager they're all hot and mussy by now. 
 Seth! 'Doniram! Little Thomas!" 
 
 The three appeared as by magic, agog with conscious 
 virtue. Not a grimy face was to be seen. Adoniram wore as 
 always the burdened aspect of the head of a large and un- 
 ruly family. Like his brothers he was apple-cheeked and 
 hazel-eyed, with even clear features, well sprinkled with 
 cinnamon freckles, and the sadly misleading expression of 
 a cherub. Like his brothers, too, his thick fair hair was 
 brushed high into a smooth roach, his small body was clad 
 in a swallow-tailed, brass-buttoned jacket of deep and 
 lurid blue, his short legs floundered in long tight flounced 
 trousers of bright yellow nankeen. All three of them, as 
 like as three peas, were the stern charge of Aunt Celestia, 
 the pride of their father, and the anxious treasure of their 
 elder sister's heart. 
 
 In other ways, however, the three were as absolute a set 
 of individualists as so many snow-crystals. For all his care- 
 worn guise Adoniram had a flair for mischief that ap- 
 proached genius. Lucky little sinner, he had long since dis- 
 covered that Nemesis would sigh and turn aside whenever 
 he put on what Mercy called his lonesome look. For through 
 his days Adoniram moved as lonely, declared Father, as a 
 poor freckled wild goose who has lost his mate. That wist- 
 ful gaze had been known to subdue even Aunt Celestia. He 
 carried it before his most riotous misdeeds, a mystic shield. 
 Little Thomas, too, possessed an unfailing weapon in his 
 croupy cough. In earliest youth the croup had all but cost 
 him his life. Nowadays the mere suggestion of a croupy 
 gasp would rouse his father to instant action, strike terror 
 
THE FATHER 9 
 
 to Mercy's heart. One need not add that even a faint and 
 unconvincing bark was a very present help in trouble. Un- 
 cannily shrewd, Thomas had not worn out his alibi. It was 
 good for years to come. 
 
 Seth, alas, could claim no such spiritual defender. He 
 stood unshielded before the tempests of this world. "Every- 
 thing I do is laid to me," he once lamented. And Seth 
 got into trouble as the sparks fly upward. It was Seth who ate 
 too much gingerbread, Seth who tumbled into the well, Seth 
 who, while kneeling at family worship in the reverently 
 darkened parlor, had attempted to unite the shoestrings of 
 Adoniram to those of little Thomas. At least, such had 
 been his intent. But in that Egyptian blackness he had 
 blundered, as usual. And nobody was more astonished than 
 Seth when, as the echoes of the crash died away, it was 
 discovered that he had mistaken the shoestrings of their 
 visiting parson for those of Adoniram. 
 
 In the bare high-shouldered meeting-house they sat in a 
 decorous row. First Aunty entered, with some difficulty, 
 for her voluminous crinoline must be steered with skill to 
 make the strait and narrow channel of the pew door. 
 Then the three boys, then Mercy, then Father. Father 
 always closed the door on his flock with the air of a patri- 
 arch, but a jaunty and complacent young patriarch at 
 that. Faults in plenty John Stafford possessed, but according 
 to Aunty his worst failing was his sinful pride in his 
 children. At her grim predictions, Mercy shivered with 
 apprehension. If fire should actually sweep down from 
 
 Heaven, to consume Father and his arrogant pride Oh, 
 
 well! That flame of retribution was welcome to come right 
 along and consume her, too. So there! 
 
 As they settled into their places a little breeze passed 
 over the congregation. It was a curious little breeze, not 
 
10 THE FATHER 
 
 quite welcoming, not quite friendly. And the glances that 
 went with it were almost inimical. Mercy stiffened Her 
 steady eyes blazed. 
 
 "IVs all on account of Father's editorial in last month's 
 Intelligence," she thought, angrily. 
 
 That editorial had roused thousands to fuming resent- 
 ment. B.tterly Mr. Stafford had accused his state of hypoc- 
 risy. Shame upon you, men of Massachusetts! You who 
 boast that your State is the cradle of freedom! In your own 
 greed lies the very tap root of slavery. Hold fast to your 
 mills, those looms of torment, whose cloth is woven of 
 blood and tears. Build your vast ships, make staunch their 
 masts, your ships that carry so infamous a cargo!" 
 
 No wonder that his timorous prosperous townsfolk had 
 flinched and glowered as he passed by. 
 
 "Though that editorial wasn't any worse than the way he 
 upset everybody last Town Meeting Day." 
 
 True. On Town Meeting Day Father had jarred Green 
 River to its foundation stones. Following on the regular 
 business meeting a group of august elders had debated 
 among themselves whether the right hand of fellowship 
 should be held forth to a family of newcomers whose son 
 had served a sentence in Charlestown Prison for man- 
 slaughter. A relentless majority had held that the sins of the 
 unfortunate should be visited upon his kindred, even to 
 the third generation. "For assuredly we dare not open the 
 doors of our sanctuary to these unhappy townsmen, whose 
 nope of a future blessedness is thus destroyed, forever." 
 
 Even as their chairman spoke, up came Editor Stafford. 
 Respectfully he bowed to his grim elders, and stepped for- 
 ward. But, most injudiciously, the chairman motioned him 
 back. 
 
 "Where do you stand, Brother Stafford? Do you not 
 agree with us, that our decision is but just?" 
 
THE FATHER n 
 
 Pompously, he explained. Father listened. His tall stock 
 twitched somewhat, but his courteous attention did not 
 waver. But over his face came an ominous sweetness; when 
 he spoke at last, his voice was smooth as cream. 
 
 "I see your viewpoint, gentlemen. I would say that a 
 mile down the post road, you will find a sizable heap of 
 stones. It will be edifying to see which among you decides 
 that he is the one to cast the first stone." 
 
 That was all. It was quite enough. Too jolted for words, 
 the committee sat gaping. No doubt but that Father and his 
 household would have been expelled from the congrega- 
 tion but for one potent reason: the meeting-house needed a 
 new roof, and Editor Stafford, like his forbears, was a 
 generous giver. 
 
 "They knew Father would pay half of the roof, maybe 
 more. But they looked down their noses at him for months. 
 Then the Pacific Railroad came along — my goodness !" 
 
 The Pacific Railroad had been a nine days' scandal. 
 Rash prophet, Editor Stafford had set forth, beneath his 
 own unabashed signature, his astounding prediction. He had 
 declared that he and his sons would live to ride on a rail- 
 road that would stretch directly across the Continent and 
 tie Boston Harbor to that ungodly hamlet, San Fran- 
 cisco! Foolishness, hey? Blasphemy. Rank blasphemy. Had 
 not the Almighty set an eternal barrier between the East and 
 the West, a barrier built up of wall on wall of mountain 
 range, of league on league of desert? yet here stood John 
 Stephen Stafford, poor presumptuous worm of the dust, 
 and launched his puny challenge at that deathless Law! 
 
 Yet their supreme grievance was his stand on Abolition. 
 For a Stafford, a Green River Stafford, a prince of the 
 blood, whose ancestors had not only built Green River, but 
 had endowed it with its loftiest traditions, to join that rag- 
 tag and bob-tail crew! And drat the man, he was so in- 
 
12 THE FATHER 
 
 fernally serene about it! To see him stride down Stafford 
 Hill, his silver head flung high, his gray eyes snapping, his 
 tall stock fairly spoiling for a fight, you'd think that those 
 Black Republican notions of his were something to be 
 proud of. Agitator. That was the word for him. Agitator. 
 A traitor to his exalted forbears. A hissing and a reproach. 
 
 Mercy turned and looked at him, serious, adoring. It 
 was as if she looked into a mirror of prophecy. Feature for 
 feature, glance for glance, they two were cast in the same 
 mold. Broad forehead, clear hazel eyes set wide apart, 
 cool lips, unflinching chin. Even her silver-gilt hair, thick 
 and fine in its netted braids, held the glint of his heavy 
 silver crest. But on her face, so lovely, so untouched, 
 shone all youth's heady eagerness, its flying mystery; while, 
 graven deep on his own, you read the hard endurance, the 
 dogged scornful patience, of a man who has carried too 
 heavy burdens, who has labored always on tasks not right- 
 fully his own. The face of a dreamer, gentle yet arrogant, 
 sardonic, patient and aloof. 
 
 Her father turned, glanced at her. Through him there 
 swept like a wave the tender awe, the passion of love and 
 gratitude, that swept him always when he looked on this, 
 his dearest child. He held his sturdy sons in proud affection. 
 But Mercy was different. She was not just the child of his 
 body. She was the substance of things hoped for, the evi- 
 dence of things not seen. Of all his hopes, she was fulfill- 
 ment. To all his deep perplexities she gave triumphant 
 answer. His eyes upon her were tenderness. Of what could 
 she be thinking, to bring that grave thought to her eyes, 
 that stainless wonder? 
 
 Absently Mercy shifted Thomas higher against her shoul- 
 der, and freed one parboiled arm for a brief respite. 
 Thomas had succumbed early, and as was his custom, he 
 had gone to sleep on the first person that came handy. Of 
 
THE FATHER 13 
 
 wintry Sabbaths, his hot chunky body was a comfort. But in 
 this summer warmth, he steamed up like a dear little stove. 
 She then resumed her reflections, which dealt with the 
 starched splendors of her new pantalettes. With chastened 
 satisfaction, she reflected that not another girl in the 
 congregation could boast such pantalettes. She twisted a 
 slim leg, to get a better view. Aunty had embroidered them 
 for her, of course. Aunty was forever rebuking her for 
 vanity and quoting Jeremiah about the daughters of Zion 
 with their wimples and their crisping-pins; but it was Aunty 
 who had sewn the fairy tucks in her four clattering wagon- 
 sheets of petticoats, and bought her a whole carnal yard of 
 white hair-ribbon, and given her the sumptuous Neapolitan 
 coal-scuttle with its wreathed roses inside which framed her 
 face like a mist. 
 
 She turned to her father again and slid her hand against 
 his wrist. On his face lay a strange shadow. A dark new 
 anxiety. A clouding dread. 
 
 An anxious ache woke in Mercy's heart. For weeks, her 
 father had seemed rasped and worried. She could not imag- 
 ine why. 
 
 "He ought to tell me things," she thought resentfully. 
 "He never does tell me anything that he's afraid will 
 worry me. Everything is all right with the house and 
 the children, I know that. And when people pick at him, he 
 doesn't care one bit. He just laughs at them inside. Outside, 
 sometimes, too. I wish I knew what bothers him. If 
 on l y » 
 
 Her father did not look her way. His eyes were dark with 
 heavy thought. One lean fine hand clenched on his knee. 
 
 "Firstly, my brethren, we will consider " 
 
 Mercy leaned to Adoniram, gave him a consoling pat, 
 slicked down Seth's cowlick, then braced herself for the 
 long, strong pull of the sermon. Invariably she listened, 
 
14 THE FATHER 
 
 with a face of angelic absorption, until she had grasped 
 the text and enough of the interpretation thereof to fortify 
 her against Aunty's vigilant Sunday-dinner catechism. This 
 task discharged, she permitted her mind to relax to things 
 mundane. Under demurest lashes she pondered upon her 
 fellow-worshipers. 
 
 Across from her sat Lucinda Perkins, her most intimate 
 friend. But Mercy did not dare look her way, for Lucinda, 
 plump and apple-cheeked and bouncing, was a giggler from 
 the cradle. One glance, one nod, would set her off. Safer to 
 keep your eyes on the parson. 
 
 In front of Lucinda, in the chill red-rep dignity of the 
 Amberley pew, drooped the wan and lovely Miss Evelina 
 Amberley, in all her frills and laces and f ollow-me-lads, as 
 scalloped and frilled and fluted as her name. Miss Evelina 
 was a puzzle. She was more than twenty years old, an old 
 maid, no gainsaying that, but such an old maid! With her 
 transparent fairness, her deep blue eyes, the pale soft 
 ringlets that framed her lily face, she could have sat for 
 the Spirit of Poesy. The drooping billowing flowing Poesy 
 of 1850. But deep in those violet eyes, flickering in that 
 slow grace of movement, you caught something that was not 
 in the picture: a glint of bleak sullen question; a tragic 
 gleam. 
 
 Mercy now devoted some moments of reflection to Miss 
 Evelina. She sat there, as frail and translucent as the 
 spun-glass lilies in Aunty's teakwood cabinet, as crisp and 
 brittle as the fine paper ladies that Mercy used to cut from 
 Godey's Lady's 1 Book. She was like nothing on earth but a 
 paper lady, Mercy thought, she'd crumple and break if you 
 so much as breathed on her. 
 
 Yet this very morning, as the family had come up the 
 church-yard path, Miss Evelina had stepped down from 
 her grand barouche. Clouded in laces, misty, pale, silent, 
 
THE FATHER 15 
 
 she had stood a moment, her eyes fixed on the three little 
 boys. 
 
 Then with a soft rush, she had pounced on little Thomas, 
 snatched him into her slight arms, and hugged him till his 
 fat astonished ribs creaked. Swiftly as she had caught him 
 up, she put him down, and turned so softly, so silently, 
 away. 
 
 "But she didn't say one word to the rest of us!" Mercy 
 stared after her. A curious memory awoke. "That other 
 time, I must have been only ten years old. Ten, going on 
 eleven, maybe " 
 
 Ten, going on eleven, and she and Lucinda were play- 
 ing down the orchard, making hollyhock dolls. Up the 
 broad brick walk to the house, came Miss Evelina. She had 
 driven up to pay her stately annual call; — but — incredible! 
 At sight of the two little girls, she had hesitated; then she 
 had turned, floating across the sun-warmed grass to them. 
 
 "I used to make flower dolls," she said, shy as another 
 child, for all her grown-up young-lady splendor. "May I 
 play, too?" 
 
 Down she sank beside them. The next minute, she was 
 fashioning the most ornate ladies ever beheld. Daisy petals 
 made point-lace frills around slim broom-straw necks, 
 petunias tilted to form bewitching sun-shades. She was just 
 looping up a fern-leaf train when Uncle Joel came gallop- 
 ing up the lawn on his great black Diomed. Uncle Joel, 
 Mercy's wonderful young uncle, galloping back, as always, 
 from one of his mysterious romantic journeys. Although he 
 had been gone for a month, he had not stopped at the 
 house, to face Aunty's cold rebuking eyes, to grant one 
 minute to father's anxious questions. Not Uncle Joel. 
 
 "Oh! Uncle Joel!" Mercy sprang up and ran to him. 
 But he did not stoop to kiss her, and toss her up for a canter 
 on Diomed. He did not even speak to her. Instead, he stood 
 
16 THE FATHER 
 
 perfectly still, and looked and looked at Miss Evelina, as 
 if he saw her for the first time. 
 
 Miss Evelina looked back at him. Her blue eyes did not 
 flinch. Her beautiful mouth did not quiver. 
 
 Then, before you could blink, he had laughed out loud 
 and high, and he had snatched up Miss Evelina, and tossed 
 her to his saddle, and leaped up behind her, like a great gay 
 prince in a story-book. Down Stafford Road the black horse 
 galloped away. 
 
 Horrified and delighted, Mercy and Lucinda stared after 
 them. It was more than an hour before they came galloping 
 back. 
 
 But now Uncle Joel was not laughing at all. He had 
 sprung down and lifted Miss Evelina to her feet, as care- 
 fully as if he lifted down the spun-glass lily itself. Then 
 he had stood and looked at her again. Suddenly he had 
 caught Miss Evelina up into his arms, and held her to him a 
 long minute, his dark head dropped against her lacy shoul- 
 der, his face hidden in her throat. 
 
 Only a minute, though. For it seemed as if Miss Evelina, 
 frail little paper-lady, was stronger than he; for she put up 
 her tiny soft hands, and pushed him back. And he had 
 yielded, and let her go. He drew back, staring down into 
 her stern ashen-white face. And in the late sunlight, his 
 hard handsome young face was even whiter than her own. 
 
 Beside Miss Evelina in their tall fortress-pew sat her 
 father, stately old Judge Amberley. Between Father and 
 Judge Amberley lay a life-long friendship. Sixty years ago, 
 a starved terrified waif of nine, ragged little Lucius Am- 
 berley had been apprenticed to Father's grandfather, Richard 
 Huntingdon. Richard Huntingdon, wealthy, generous, kind, 
 had reared the boy in his own household, educated him, 
 set his feet on the road of success. Then the pendulum had 
 
THE FATHER 17 
 
 swung, and while the Huntingdon estates had diminished, 
 young Lucius had doubled, trebled, quadrupled, his slender 
 gains. His ships were symbols of fortune. His great house 
 on Beacon Hill was a palace, even in the midst of palaces. 
 But every year he came back to Green River, more to feast 
 his eyes on the sight of Father, beloved descendant of his 
 own second father, than for any other reason. To-day 
 Mercy saw him turn his splendid old gray head, saw his 
 deep eyes light with proud confident affection. 
 
 "He looks at Father just as Father looks at Adoniram," 
 she thought. "When Adoniram's got his ears pinned back, 
 that is. Not always." 
 
 Two seats away sat Deacon Heber Lyman, just back 
 from a journey to the wilds of Illinois, where he had been 
 the guest of his twin brother, Timothy D. At thought of 
 the absent Timothy, Mercy's lips quirked. Whenever those 
 twins sat side by side in meeting, it took a superhuman effort 
 to tell them apart. They differed only as one stiff frozen 
 salt codfish from another. To be sure, Timothy was a cod 
 smooth-shaven, while the Deacon was a codfish with side- 
 whiskers. But both gave you the same slippery, squeamy 
 feeling, both wore square green spectacles; and behind 
 those spectacles, you met the same cold salt filmy glare. 
 
 "Sixthly, my brethren," droned Parson Avery. Mercy 
 groaned. Sunday before last, he'd gone on to Seventeenthly. 
 No telling. Her foot was asleep. Her very ears felt stuffed 
 and taut. 
 
 Away she fled on the trail of magic. Alone she fled. But 
 not for long. At the first turn of the woodland path, he 
 would come galloping to meet her, lordly on his snow-white 
 charger, her prince, her lover. His lance at rest, his banner 
 flying in the wind, that wind that never blew on land or 
 sea. . . . 
 
 From across the aisle she could feel the eyes of Lemuel 
 
18 THE FATHER 
 
 G. Crowther glued upon her face. Lemuel, arrayed like a 
 youthful Solomon, sat in the bosom of his devoted family. 
 If you didn't mind pretending, you could pretend that 
 Lemuel was your knight, though it was uphill work. 
 There was no doubting Lemuel's devotion. He had brought 
 her maple sugar in rough-edged luscious chunks, he had 
 spied out the first snow-apples for her; he had even sent 
 her a valentine, all hearts and darts, with an original poem 
 of a hauntingly familiar flavor. 
 
 Above Lemuel's pale blue eyes, his pale pink hair reared 
 in a lofty roach. It glittered with bears' grease, it was 
 scented with bergamot till all the winds of heaven were 
 faint with him. Below that august front one observed a 
 ruffled white shirt and tight trousers strapped under cruel 
 tight new boots. He would look lots more knightly, she 
 thought with regret, if he wasn't chewing surreptitiously 
 on a chunk of sassafras root. Between those spit-curls and 
 that clamped, industrious jaw, he didn't quite qualify. When 
 you thought it over, there wasn't a single boy in Green 
 River who seemed one set apart for chivalry. Eliphalet 
 Gurney, Amariah Prescott, Lemuel, — each had made 
 sheep's eyes at her, but that was all. 
 
 It would be nice if a girl could go riding out and find 
 her own true knight. But how unladylike! Still, the damsels 
 of Faery were forever getting rescued. And how could she 
 ever need rescuing if she hadn't started out and got into 
 distress, first? 
 
 A joyful gurgle fell upon her ear. Beside her Seth had 
 sat this endless hour, his active mind aching with enforced 
 idleness, his plump legs dangling in torture over the high 
 knife-edged seat. Suddenly came respite. Through the tall 
 bare window floated a bee. 
 
 Seth saw it first. In an ecstasy of gratitude, he leaned for- 
 ward, farther and farther, to watch that whimsy flight. In 
 
THE FATHER 19 
 
 evil joy, he prayed that it might alight on Preacher's book. 
 Then his breath caught in rapture. For he saw it was headed 
 straight for Mrs. Deacon Kimball's bonnet. It was a very 
 lummox of a bee, for didn't it alight, confidingly, on the 
 ghastly scintillating wheat stalks, embalmed in alum, that 
 twined a spectral garland around her red good-humored 
 face. Then, sadly disillusioned, it buzzed aloft, wavered, 
 with confidence renewed, it settled down on the smashed 
 blue rose, just above one matronly ear. 
 
 Taut with delight, Seth leaned out, farther, farther; 
 . . . with a splutter of fright he sprawled off the seat and 
 lit with a thump on the bare board floor. 
 
 Paralyzed with horror, Aunty sat, speechless. But Father 
 stooped, seized him by his infant swallow-tails, and swung 
 him back on the seat with an even louder thump. Then he 
 glanced at Mercy. Mercy glowed back. Her heart began 
 to dance. Father couldn't be much worried and laugh inside 
 like that. 
 
 "Finally, my brethren," Parson Avery was tuning up to 
 his climax, "Finally, my brethren, let us stand firm in the 
 faith, let us not be led aside by false prophets in sheep's 
 clothing, while within they are ravening wolves. It is borne 
 in upon me, to my sorrow, that in this congregation of the 
 righteous, there stand men who would tempt us aside from 
 ways of holiness. These have been drawn away by the 
 smooth word of the fanatics, the agitators, who would set 
 at naught the Lord's decrees. What saith Holy Writ? 'Let 
 them be hewers of wood and drawers of water forever.' 
 Yet these misguided men would set free the bondsman 
 from his ordained place. They would strike down, they 
 would destroy, they would drench this nation in blood. 
 Brethren, let us be warned. Let us beware!" 
 
 Again that chill breeze went through the congregation. 
 
20 THE FATHER 
 
 A chill that struck the heart. Again those unfriendly eyes 
 turned to the Stafford pew. But not one Stafford flinched. 
 The boys were too little to understand. Father's face was 
 cut from granite. Aunt Celestia did not bat an eyelash. 
 But, hid in her flounces, Mercy's hands clinched. Fury 
 choked in her throat. How dared Parson Avery to strike at 
 Father! Strike at him right in meeting! A minister, in- 
 deed! Hateful, meddling old man! For two cents, she'd 
 tell him what she thought of him. Tell him right to his 
 horrid old face. 
 
 She looked at Father. Father looked back at her. A 
 dancing devil awoke in his eye. 
 
 Fearfully she looked at his stock. It stood straight as a 
 ramrod, inimitably serene. Not one skew to it. Not one 
 single agitated quirk. 
 
CHAPTER TWO 
 
 MERCY sat in her little white bedroom. On her knee 
 she held two books. One was a plump pale blue vol- 
 ume entitled Henry Esmond, by an English gentleman 
 named Thackeray. Lucinda Perkins, her very dearest friend, 
 had slipped it into her reticule last prayer-meeting night 
 when Aunty wasn't looking. The other volume was her 
 diary, a gift from Aunty, upon her graduation from the 
 Green River Academy last May. It was a ponderous affair, 
 and, like all Aunty's gifts, austere and costly. It was bound 
 in heavy black leather, and it was stamped in gold: 
 
 MERCY ROSE STAFFORD 
 
 MAY THE FIRST 
 185O 
 
 Inside was written in Aunty's cramped and spidery hand: 
 
 Refrain, my Pen, from words, or Mean, or Vile. 
 Even as my Tongue refrains from Sfeaking Guile. 
 
 Further, upon each day's pages, Aunty's own foresighted 
 pen had bracketed off a space marked "Spiritual Medita- 
 tions." Three hundred and sixty-five times, had she set aside 
 this small, inexorable space. "Here I expect you to write 
 down your deepest convictions as well as your most exalted 
 thoughts," she had announced, when she laid the diary into 
 Mercy's hands. 
 
 How under the firmament could anybody scare up deep 
 convictions every single day of the year? thought Mercy, 
 dismayed. 
 
 Aunty had added, "Remember, no human eye will ever 
 
22 THE FATHER 
 
 read these lines. What stands written here is between you 
 and your own soul." Therefore, when Mercy's spirit de- 
 clined to soar to far heights, the extra lines came in handy 
 for a secular overflow. 
 
 Now she looked on Henry Esmond with longing eyes. 
 Sad, but stern, she rose, and tucked him safely behind Mil- 
 ton on the top shelf. But again temptation assailed her. 
 
 "No, I will not read it to-day, for it does not befit the 
 Sabbath. — Only one peek. To see whether they really 
 do get married " 
 
 The long gold afternoon waned. Mercy sat scrouged into 
 her dormer window. Her cheeks were burning, her eyes 
 glowed dark. She was no longer Mercy Rose Stafford of 
 Green River, Massachusetts, in embroidered pantalettes and 
 a brand-new blue delaine. She was Beatrix Esmond, fair, 
 regal, haughty as any queen. Her glorious head was flung 
 high, her robe of velvet trailed upon the marble stair. Before 
 her knelt Colonel Esmond. His strong hand shook on his 
 scabbard: his proud head bent so close she could touch the 
 dark shining locks that brushed her knee. . . . 
 
 "Mercy Rose! Haven't you finished your chapter for next 
 Sunday?" 
 
 Henry Esmond shot under Thomas's trundle bed. 
 
 "Please, Aunty, I would like to write in my diary." 
 
 "Oh." A gratified pause. "Well. Come down as soon's 
 you're through." 
 
 Mercy seized her tall quill pen, planted herself at her 
 desk, set resolutely to work. 
 
 "First Day, September third, 1850. 
 "This is a beautiful Sabbath day. We had a verry edify- 
 ing Sermon, on the text, They have sown wheat, they shall 
 reap thorns. Jeremiah XIII. 
 
THE FATHER 23 
 
 "I am so hopping mad at Parson Avery for saucing 
 Father right out in meeting that I cannot think of anything 
 else, but I will put him aside and discuss him when I get 
 to my spiritual meditations. I am proberly getting red-hot 
 for nothing at all, for Father did not seem to mind. He 
 only laughed at me. Though Aunty said that it was enough 
 to Blast him where he stood. Aunty said also that whenever 
 any of her family stood in need of correction, she was capa- 
 ble of giving it herself, and that with all due reverence to 
 Parson Avery, he was a born Nosey if she ever saw one. 
 Sometimes I feel that Aunty is the most agreeable relation I 
 have got. 
 
 "Father wore his new Morocco boots to church. They 
 cost twenty-two dollars. Thomas said he thought Father's 
 legs were beautiful and Aunty said that was all vanity, and 
 that the Lord hath no pleasure in the legs of a man. 
 
 "As soon as service was over, Father hunted up Miss 
 Euphemia Parish, and Old Captain Jones and invited them 
 to dinner, and brought them in the carryall. So poor Miss 
 Euphemia had something beside bread and tea for once in 
 her life. I think it is dreadful to be seventy-six and a maiden 
 lady and have made your living for sixty-eight years, doing 
 plain needlework, and no wonder she enjoys chicken pot- 
 pie and black fruit-cake. And the Captain is eighty-six, and 
 he fought through the Revolution and then came home and 
 got married twice and after a while there came the War 
 of 1 81 2 and he fought aboard Perry's Flagship, and then 
 came home and got married again and then he wanted to 
 go to the Mexican War, because, he told Father, it seemed 
 to come so natural. But by that time he was eighty and they 
 couldn't take him along and now his son-in-law lets him 
 live there and allows him fifty cents a month for clothes 
 and tobacco money. A very Christian act. 
 
 "He comes to dinner almost every Sunday, and he gets so 
 
24 THE FATHER 
 
 excited and happy, and tells us all about the battles he has 
 been in, and stomps up and down the dining-room floor and 
 acts it all out, and Aunty thinks it is scandalous for Father 
 to let him carry on so on the Sabbath, and Father says, 'If I 
 was eighty-six I would want the privilege of showing off, 
 too.' But Aunty says It is a grievous example for the little 
 boys. Besides, she says she feels that if Father is bound 
 to profane the Sabbath day by bringing folks home to din- 
 ner, he might invite somebody elegant for once, like Judge 
 Amberley, or Major Preston from Ipswich, and Father 
 says, 'Perhaps you are right, Mrs. Dives,' and he laughed 
 and patted her shoulder, but she didn't see what he meant 
 by Mrs. Dives, and no more do I. 
 
 "It is borne in upon me that I ought to keep my mind on 
 serious things, for I heard Aunty tell Father she intended 
 to give me her tombstone and I realize she feels I am grow- 
 ing up and should be making up my mind unless I wish to 
 be considered an old maid like Miss Euphemia. Of course if 
 I was picking out any special boy for my own true knight, 
 I should like to please the folks as well as myself, and I 
 guess that won't be so easy. 
 
 "To begin with, there is Jonas Tuckerman. He is tall and 
 sightly-looking, but the little boys plumb despise him, be- 
 cause he came along last March in his cutter to take me 
 sleighing and I had gone skating with Lemuel, so Jonas 
 was annoyed and said to the little boys, Hitch on your sleds 
 and I will take you all for a ride, so they hitched and 
 didn't he haul them out as far as Newell's Mill, and then 
 cut the sled ropes, and off he kited, and they had to walk 
 all the way home, and Thomas had croup for a week. And 
 Aunty scalded Seth twice with yarb tea. 
 
 "I felt I could never forgive Jonas that cruel trick, but 
 Jonas brings me Boston candy in a box with paper lace on 
 
THE FATHER 25 
 
 it every single week and he also sent me the most expensive 
 valentine I ever saw. It had 35c marked inside. And Jonas's 
 father has just bought a fine new farm, down Fitchburg 
 way, so a person has to be forbearing in all things. 
 
 "Then there is Eliphalet Carver. His mother is always 
 asking me there to supper, and telling me what a good little 
 boy he used to be and always went to bed when told, and 
 never talked back in all his born days. But Aunty says she 
 never could really abide 'Liph because he resembled the 
 Prodigal Son in the Bible picture. 
 
 "Of course there is always Lemuel G. Crowther. He has 
 shown me much real devotion. I believe he regards me as his 
 life's ideal. Anyhow, in the poem he wrote me last Christ- 
 mas, he same as said so. But Father says, if Eliph looks 
 like the Prodigal Son, then Lemuel looks like the Fatted 
 Calf. I consider Lemuel good-looking, but I do wish he 
 would not wear those spit-curls. Nor that blue nuby. But 
 his mother says his chest is tender, so I suppose it is neces- 
 sary. Aunty says she has no patience with any of them, they 
 are so half baked, and if 'Liph and Jonas do not cease wear- 
 ing their trousers so tight their legs will mortify. I respect 
 Lemuel and I admire him, but I can't help wishing he had 
 some of Jonas's style, and it would be grand to have him 
 bring me Boston candy, instead of always blackjack and 
 Gibraltars stuck together in a paper bag. . . ." 
 
 A cooler wind drifted through the reddening maples, and 
 sent whispering flights of scarlet and gold and amber scurry- 
 ing up and down the path. Even while their dinner guests 
 lingered, the little boys had tugged imploringly at Father's 
 coat. Decorous and silent, so as not to worry Aunty, Seth 
 gathered up the clothespins. Then, Indian file, stepping 
 lightly as so many Mohawk pappooses, they glided down to 
 
26 THE FATHER 
 
 KimbalPs orchard. Mercy looked after them wistfully. But 
 Father's Sundays were possessed in fee simple by the little 
 boys. 
 
 "Mercy Rose Stafford, are you ever coming down?" 
 
 Mercy laid down her diary and fled down the stairs. 
 
 Faint echoes of conflict came from the orchard, for the 
 little boys were now in full cry after the Amalekites, and 
 the Jebusites were being hurled asunder. Fortunately, 
 Aunty's deaf ear was turned toward the window. 
 
 Aunty wore her Sabbath afternoon face, sterner than 
 her weekday aspect, yet inexplicably more gentle. She had 
 taken off her Sunday hoops to save the wear and tear and 
 this gave her a singularly deflated look. She sat in the slip- 
 pery hair rocker with the pomegranates carved atop, exactly 
 where her weary head would slide off with a racking jolt if 
 it dared to lean back for one instant. But no earthly power 
 would ever beguile Aunty into an easy chair. 
 
 Aunty did not sit alone in that wide tranquil room. There 
 were other people there; people whose eyes followed you 
 wherever you went. Dusk-painted shadows, these others, 
 whose flowing trains and velvet breeches, plumes and jewels 
 and tarnished sword-belts, made flares of wine and crimson 
 and silver against the gray walls. There was Great-grand- 
 father Davenport, with his plum-colored coat, his bluff 
 red face, his proud Georgian wig, and the wall-eye which 
 the conscientious artist had emphasized rather than glossed 
 over. There were his three daughters, the Three Graces, 
 as Beacon Hill of their day had declared them, slim dryad 
 damsels in narrow pale Empire satins. Their delicate high 
 breasts were girdled with pearls, their long pale arms were 
 circled in rose-coral and in gilded traceries of filigree. 
 And there was not one crinoline, not so much as one modest 
 womanly petticoat, among all three! Across from them 
 hung Great-grandmother Huntingdon, all peach brocade 
 
THE FATHER 27 
 
 and emeralds, a gorgeous sulky macaw chained on her 
 wrist, while two tiny negro pages in vermilion livery waited 
 to tend on her brocaded train. Father's people, brought back 
 from the dark old Mount Vernon Street house to Green 
 River, his mother's birthplace, when death and waning 
 fortunes had driven the family from its high place. Not 
 that that harsh truth meant anything in Mercy's life. All 
 her days had been spent in this sunny homestead. To her, 
 this peaceful old house with its flowery garden, its broad 
 farms, its cradling orchards, spelled home. It would spell 
 home forever. 
 
 Aunty looked up and gave her an approving nod. 
 
 "Your hair looks master neat in that chenille net, Mercy. 
 Fine as your great-grandma's." 
 
 Mercy eyed her ancestress with scant favor. 
 
 "I think great-grandmother looks stuck up. Maybe she 
 couldn't help that, being as she was born in Virginia. But 
 she needn't have peacocked around forever, balancing those 
 plumes and fallals and trailing that train. Even if she did 
 have two little darkies in short pants, to carry it for her." 
 
 "She didn't spend all her days in peacocking, Miss, mind 
 that. She managed her home plantation with three hundred 
 slaves on it, she taught her girls to spin and weave and wash 
 and cook, and she kept an eye on the fields and the gardens, 
 besides. She was a born leader, and a fighter, too. When the 
 Britishers came to burn the big house and loot the place, 
 didn't she order up her field hands and arm them with the 
 muskets she had bought and hid in the tobacco warehouse. 
 She'd even drilled her men against that very chance. And 
 she tucked up her petticoats, and led them out against the 
 attack, herself. They tell it that she shot his horse from 
 under the English captain who was leading the raid, and 
 held her pistol to his aide's head, and forced them both to 
 yield their arms, and then locked 'em in the south guest 
 
28 THE FATHER 
 
 chamber till your grandfather came rushing home, half mad 
 with fear for her." 
 
 "Then what did she do to the Britishers? Keep them 
 locked up on bread and water?" 
 
 "Not she. She brings out her keys and opens up her store- 
 room, and sets them down to a dinner fit for King George 
 himself. And the Britishers ate like starved hounds. They 
 ate till she was clean scared for them. Yes, she was as fine 
 as they come. Be thankful that you take after her." 
 
 "Well, maybe I do take after great-grandmother. 
 But " she frowned rebelliously, "but look at her chin!" 
 
 Chin, indeed. Steady and hard and square, lifted high 
 above the Flemish laces, the glittering stones. Iron. 
 
 "Oh, very well, Miss. It happens to be your own chin, 
 too." 
 
 Mercy felt of her own chin. Velvet. Under the velvet, 
 the square little hard jaw. Iron. 
 
 "Never you mind, Mercy. Folks have got to have a mite 
 of iron in them, if they hope to amount to anything. Besides, 
 it's your father's chin, too. Every inch of it." 
 
 Mercy's eyes cleared. Anything to be like Father. 
 
 "Does everybody have to go back to somebody else?" 
 
 "Everybody goes right back to somebody else. Seth takes 
 straight after my grand-uncle, Simeon. Simeon was a bog- 
 gier and a blunderer, every day of his life. Adoniram is the 
 breathing image of Gran'ther Davenport, freckles, and 
 solemn pop-eyes, and all. Your father has skimmed the 
 cream off the whole batch. If just he wasn't so sinful proud, 
 so high-headed, so stubborn!" 
 
 Father was perfection's self. Only 
 
 "I think Father is all the grander, just because he is so 
 
 set. But Oh, Aunty, I do wish he wasn't so set on 
 
 anti-slavery ! " 
 
 "I know, Mercy. I never could hold with those abolition 
 
THE FATHER 29 
 
 notions of his. Land knows, I've tried to reason with him. 
 Might's well try to reason with the wind. And other folks 
 despise his Black Republican ideas, even worse than I do. 
 Take Mr. Emerson. He's dead against slavery, but he stops 
 short of being a fanatic. He don't believe in carrying any 
 fight so far. Remember the last time he stayed with us? 
 He and your father wrangled it out all night. I consider 
 Mr. Emerson is sinfully unorthodox, but when it comes to 
 anti-slavery, I'll own he shows more good hard gumption 
 than John ever dreamed of." 
 
 Mercy remembered. She could see Mr. Emerson, his tall 
 stooped figure, his lean keen face, his blue eyes, hard as 
 blue stones, under clear questioning brows. She could hear 
 his steady reiterated words: 
 
 "I know, I know, Stafford. But you and I have other 
 prisoners to free, not negroes alone. It is our work to free 
 imprisoned spirits, shackled thoughts, to free the minds of 
 men, before we seek to break the chains of bondage " 
 
 — "And much good it did him, to argue himself 
 hoarse. Your father didn't yield him a hair's breadth. But 
 it's not just John's high-flown ideas that worry me, Mercy. 
 It's the way he makes a pack-horse of himself, year in, year 
 out, for folks that ain't fit to black his boots for him. Not 
 only for his own blood, but for everybody else. His kinsfolk 
 is the worst, though. They've all hung on his coat-tails, 
 forever more. From Great-grandfather Davenport, on 
 down." 
 
 "I know that." Oh, if Father could only take life a little 
 easier! If he could only go prancing through his days, like 
 Uncle Joel! 
 
 "Listen, Aunty. Who does Uncle Joel take after?" 
 
 "What!" Aunty wheeled sharply. All the Sunday peace 
 went out of her face. Her faded mouth grew hard, her 
 eyes grew stony. "Don't talk to me about your Uncle Joel ! " 
 
30 THE FATHER 
 
 "W-why " 
 
 "H'm. Don't I know him, root and branch? Always gal- 
 loping off on the finest horses money can buy; always tear- 
 ing away to the world's end, to make his everlastin' fortune ; 
 always careerin' home with some new plan that's bound to 
 put the Staffords back at the top of creation, right where 
 they belong, and spending your Pa's money to do it 
 with " 
 
 Aunty stopped. A mortified scarlet poured over her face. 
 Aunty was a bred-in-the-bone Puritan, with all that that 
 implies. But unlike her critics of to-day, she hesitated to 
 smirch the mind of a child. 
 
 "I donno what possessed me, Mercy. Your father thinks 
 Joel is the pick of creation. He's the young brother, the 
 Benjamin of his house, to your father." 
 
 "But — why — how " 
 
 "Have you learned your chapter for next Sunday, Mercy? 
 Recite it to me. Right now. You haven't so much as started 
 it? Well, I donno what children are coming to. In my 
 day " 
 
 Mercy sniffed. Trust Aunty to change the subject when- 
 ever she saw fit, and change it with a bang. 
 
 Up from Kimball's orchard, hot and tired and gor- 
 geously happy, came the three little boys. Lightly they trod. 
 No need of worrying Aunty. They had smitten the Canaan- 
 ites and despoiled the Egyptians and walloped the Amale- 
 kites and sent the Moabites scuttling for shelter. "Moab 
 shall be my washpot, over Edom will I cast out my shoe," 
 chanted Adoniram, a ferocious young conqueror. Seth, a 
 wounded archer, strutted before him, holding his bandaged 
 arm outstretched. Little Thomas swaggered high in his 
 war chariot. Wreathed dancing girls tossed their timbrels 
 before him. Wailing captives dragged his dreadful car. Lit- 
 tle boys can dream dreams, too. 
 
THE FATHER 31 
 
 "Oh, didn't we have a grand old fight! Mercy, you 
 ought to of been there, too!" 
 
 Father pinched Mercy's ear, looked down at her, ten- 
 derly, quizzically. Over her shoulder the new moon 
 threaded silver, silver as her folded braids against the gold 
 of sunset. She was like the new moon herself, this girl of 
 his, this branch of young willow, white as curds, slim as a 
 reed in the wind. 
 
 "The grandest victory of our campaign, Mercy. Next 
 time, you must come along." All the dark worry of the 
 morning had faded from his eyes. He himself was just a hot 
 tired happy little boy. 
 
 Suddenly Seth forgot his honorable wounds. He shot past 
 them, with a joyful shout, "Who-ee! Goody, goody, goody! 
 It's Uncle Joel, it's Uncle Joel!" 
 
 "Joel!" 
 
 Father dropped Mercy's hand. He stepped back. All that 
 contentment, that impish fun, vanished like a breath. All 
 that dark weary anxiety came flooding back upon his face, a 
 drowning wave. 
 
 Then he jerked himself erect, went forward, hands out- 
 stretched. His high clear voice rang out 
 
 "Joel, boy! Glad to see you. Here, Donny, take his 
 horse for him. Welcome home!" 
 
CHAPTER THREE 
 
 UNCLE Joel! No royal guest was ever welcomed more 
 joyfully. Father grasped his hands and clapped him 
 on the shoulder. The little boys hurled themselves upon him 
 with hugs and yelps of eager delight. There was never any- 
 body so wonderful as Uncle Joel. Just when you thought 
 him far away in Paris or California or South America, he 
 would come storming in, with the pockets of his greatcoat 
 stuffed with gifts, and a score of adventures on his tongue. 
 He was only ten years younger than Father, and Father was 
 nearly forty, which was crowding Methuselah, but you 
 could never look on Joel without a thrill. The thrill of his 
 youth, the high-pitched insolent splendor which was as much 
 a part of him as the laugh in his gay eyes, the ring in his 
 loud gay voice. He was supposed to be a clerk in a Boston 
 bank, learning the business, but you could never see Uncle 
 Joel in a sagging linen coat and a faded eye-shade. Never. 
 He was as one predestined, set apart, to prance through the 
 world on a mettlesome steed, a lordly cavalier. Even as he 
 dashed headlong from your sight, his bold, merry spirit 
 called back to you, echoing down the years. No. The dingy 
 desk, the drudging hours, were not for Uncle Joel. 
 
 Now he threw his arms around his elder brother. He 
 tossed his costly hat on the ground, put both unabashed arms 
 around Aunty, and planted a vigorous kiss upon her withered 
 cheek. Aunty attempted a shocked but unconvincing sniff. 
 He romped with the little boys, he bowed low before 
 Mercy, even while he pulled her shining braids and pinched 
 her chin. Only John Stafford looked on his brother, his 
 
THE FATHER 33 
 
 Benjamin, without eagerness, without delight, but with a 
 great anxious love and fear. 
 
 The sunset faded. The little boys went reluctantly to 
 bed. Father led Uncle Joel into his study, and the two men 
 faced each other. The younger face, so reckless, so insolent, 
 clouded swiftly. 
 
 "No, John, I'm not doing as well with my investments 
 as I'd hoped. Yes, to be sure you let me have that three 
 thousand last spring. I was certain I'd double it by now. 
 But the fact is " 
 
 "What were your investments, Joel?" 
 
 "Why, there were several of them. They promised huge 
 returns. But by fiend's luck, they've all gone by the board. 
 I've been forced to — to borrow money in order to keep 
 my footing, till I can — realize " 
 
 "Just what were the investments, Joel?" 
 
 All at once, Uncle Joel flared up like a rocket. 
 
 "Oh, if you're bound you'll push me to the wall! I took 
 a long chance and that started the trouble. Trying to recoup, 
 I lost every copper. But I was sure I couldn't lose a third 
 time. I — my luck turned, I tell you. I'm flat broke. And 
 what the bank will say " 
 
 "You mean that you borrowed from the bank. How 
 much?" 
 
 Joel glared up with stricken eyes. For all his insolent 
 young splendor, he looked younger now than little Thomas. 
 And his brother's heart melted within him. 
 
 "Never mind, Joel, tell me. In round numbers, what 
 does it come to? Your losses at faro, and the lottery shares, 
 and all of it." 
 
 "Oh, nine thousand, or thereabouts. Not a cent less." 
 
 For a minute, John Stafford was too stunned to speak. 
 
 "Joel, you can't have lost all that! Why, it's more than 
 our whole estate. You know it has taken all I could earn, to 
 
34 THE FATHER 
 
 pay off father's debts. I'm still owing the Salem firms for 
 their losses on the Semiramis " 
 
 "The Semiramis! And she sank in '36! For God's sake, 
 don't rake up all that ancient history. Keep your eyes on 
 the hole I'm in. I tell you, I've got to have the money. 
 
 And here you yammer away about paying Father's 
 
 debts! Father's in his grave. He's not the one who's facing 
 ruin." 
 
 "Joel, you know I'll do everything I can " 
 
 "If you didn't throw away so much time and money on 
 
 your demented notions about freeing slaves You're one 
 
 of the ablest editors in America. Yet here you waste your 
 time, you make a laughing stock of yourself, in your absurd 
 Intelligence, When you know I'm at the end of my rope ! " 
 
 Father pulled himself together. 
 
 "Steady, Joel. We'll manage, somehow. You can depend 
 on me. You know that. Every time." 
 
 Joel's white face flushed with swift relief. He leaned 
 back with a long shivering sigh. 
 
 "Yes, I know that. I was a beast, to say what I did. I 
 might have known that you'd stand by. You always do." 
 
 He leaned toward his elder brother. But John Stafford 
 thrust him back with a stern question. 
 
 "Joel, what about that girl? Beautiful, gentle creature! 
 She never asks for you. She has her pride. But when I see 
 her, when I see the way she looks at me, it makes me sick 
 at heart." 
 
 "Oh, it does, does it? Then maybe you can guess what 
 the thought of her does to me. Love her? I love the ground 
 she walks on. But she's made of steel, I tell you. Steel. Of 
 course, her father started it all. 'Go out into the world, and 
 prove yourself a true Stafford, worthy of your high name,' 
 he said to me. There he stood, in his fine clothes, with his 
 gold-headed cane, and his jaw set like the everlasting hills, 
 
THE FATHER 35 
 
 and glowered at me. The beggar on horseback he is! But 
 I don't mind him. He's easily handled, for back of all that 
 bluster he's an honorable old fellow. He knows that he'd 
 be nobody to-day if it hadn't been for us Staffords. And 
 there's a streak of softness in him, every time. But Evelina! 
 She's steel, I tell you, she's steel to the core." 
 
 "You mean " 
 
 "I mean that she'd hold me back, even though her father 
 had given way completely. 'My father has spoken for me,' 
 she said, 'I do not pledge myself to a spoiled boy, Joel.' So 
 little and slim and light, I could break her with my finger. 
 Hard? Worse. Cruel. And yet " 
 
 "Yet, if you love her so, how can you take such mad 
 chances ?" 
 
 "If you want to know, it was for her that I took this last 
 chance. I knew well enough that I was running the devil's 
 own risk. But I'm mad for her, I tell you " 
 
 He stood up, trembling. 
 
 John Stafford put his hand on the younger man's shoulder. 
 
 "Right, Joel. I'll see you through. I'll manage." 
 
 A leaden weariness darkened his eyes. But his voice held 
 itself to gentleness. "Yes, I'll manage. I've got to." 
 
CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 TVTERCY ROSE was dressing for Wednesday evening 
 -*■*•■■ prayer-meeting. Now for the proper damsel of that 
 day, prayer-meeting called for second-best from bonnet to 
 slippers. First-best was for Sunday morning alone. Hence 
 her pantalettes were not embroidered, merely tucked, and 
 her hat was a sedate ribboned Leghorn. Instead of the thread 
 of tiny pearls that had been her mother's and the Chantilly 
 shawl from Grandmother's lace chest, she wore a flat gold 
 locket and an amber Canton scarf with wreaths of wisteria, 
 of fading lilac-blue. Her second-best slippers had wide rib- 
 bon ties which Aunt Celestia had cut out of her old black 
 lute-string, instead of stiff new rat-tail strings. They were 
 not dependable, those wide and elegant ribbons, for the 
 silk was old, and even a mild tug would snap them. But 
 they flapped elegantly on her slender feet. 
 
 The locket, though, was disappointing. In an absent- 
 minded hour, her father had bought it for her in Boston, 
 and the wicked jeweler had cheated him with a thinly 
 plated object which soon betrayed its base foundation. Partly 
 that was Thomas's fault. Through weary hours in meeting, 
 Thomas had cut his first teeth on that locket. He still 
 chewed it in moments of stress. More than once, Mercy had 
 felt alarmed lest the verdigris might work him grave injury. 
 But so far Thomas's insides had proved of sterner stuff. 
 
 She clasped the locket, and viewed herself in the dim old 
 mirror with chastened approval. Really, she looked quite 
 ladylike. You'd never dream what a hoodlum she had been 
 that very afternoon. Hoodlum was Aunty's word, and it was 
 
THE FATHER 37 
 
 only too accurate. "But I don't care. Not a mite!" Dark 
 scarlet burned in her cheeks. "Just let that little scamp say 
 Black Abolitionist again, then watch me!" 
 
 It was Seth as usual who had started things. Seth, sent 
 forth all scrubbed and garnished for his Latin lesson, had 
 returned betimes, roaring at the top of his lungs, and wear- 
 ing the aspect of one who has fought with wild beasts at 
 Ephesus, and come out a bad second. 
 
 "Seth! If you haven't been fighting again!" Mercy took 
 her hands out of the cooky dough, and rushed to him. 
 
 "Here, stand by the sink Goodness, it isn't just your 
 
 nose that's bleeding, it's that front tooth Hold still!" 
 
 She snatched out the hapless little milk-tooth with a stern 
 finger. "Never mind, you had to lose it, anyhow. Oh, how 
 can you be so quarrelsome " 
 
 "I ain't quarrelsome! I didn't start nothin'! Josiah 
 Baynes, the big bully, he comes snoopin' out of Preston's 
 lane, and hollers after me: 'Seth's pa's a Black Republican, 
 a Black Nabolitionist, a Black Republican!' And I says, 
 'Say that again and I'll bang your snoot for you ' " 
 
 "Seth!" 
 
 "Never mind, Aunty, that isn't really swearing. So he 
 called Father a Black Abolitionist, did he? What did he 
 say then?" 
 
 "He says it all over again. 'Black Republican — Black 
 
 Republican !' And I says, 'Do you want it?' And he 
 
 hollers, 'Try and do it!' And I give him one good bust. 
 But he comes back and gives me a smack on the jaw, that 
 knocks me flat. Then he scoots off, and yells back, 'Tell 
 your pa we're fixin' for to run him out — run him out — 
 run him out — !' " 
 
 "H'm. He said folks would run Father out, did he?" 
 Mercy took off her apron, washed the flour from her 
 hands. Then she tied on her shade hat, snatched down 
 
38 THE FATHER 
 
 Aunty's black crape dolman, with the long sad weepers, 
 drew on her long lace mitts. 
 
 "Mercy Rose Stafford! What are you up to?" 
 
 "I'm going to call on Josiah Baynes, and pass the com- 
 pliments of the day. Want to come along, Seth?" 
 
 "Goody, goody!" Joyously comprehending, Seth fol- 
 lowed at her heels. A minute later, Josiah, chanting of his 
 prowess to an admiring audience, beheld the approach of 
 Fate. Wild-eyed, he dropped his recitative midway, and 
 scuttled up a near-by tree. Alas, it was a frail young maple, 
 and before he could descend, his enemy was upon him. 
 
 "Get down from that tree." 
 
 "I won't." 
 
 "Get down quick, young man. Unless you want me to 
 come up after you." 
 
 "You can't. You're just a girl " 
 
 Mercy's hat went one way, Aunty's dolman the other. 
 With a flying leap, she caught the lowest branch, and 
 swung her weight on it. This was the last move that Josiah 
 expected. With a horrified squeal, he bounced off the 
 branch, precisely as if he had bounced off a springboard. 
 
 He lit on his feet, but before he could start to run Mercy 
 had gripped him firmly by one large tender ear. 
 
 "Don't you dast touch me! Don't you dast smack me! 
 I'll tell my paw on you " 
 
 "You need not. I shall tell him myself, if I think best." 
 Mercy's fingers were soft as silk, but they held that 
 crimson ear with a merciless grip. "March, now." 
 
 Mercy trod demurely up the lane. On one side there 
 dragged and wailed and fought Josiah. On the other danced 
 and shouted the cruelly joyful Seth. Straight on went 
 Mercy, straight into the clump of little boys, who a moment 
 since had gazed in admiration on their Goliath, now, alas, 
 
THE FATHER 39 
 
 in thrall beneath a woman's brutal thumb. They started to 
 run, but Mercy motioned them back. 
 
 "Stay here, boys. Josiah has something to say to you." 
 
 "I won't " 
 
 "Josiah is sorry he spoke so rudely to Seth. Say it, Josiah." 
 
 "I won't, I tell you." 
 
 "Say it." 
 
 Josiah began to blubber. 
 
 "I have plenty of time, Josiah. We'll stay here till sup- 
 per-time, if you like." 
 
 The perfidious little boys began to squeak and gibber 
 with delight. They danced and circled around Josiah, they 
 jeered and hooted. 
 
 Mercy stood, an inexorable Patience on her monument. 
 
 "Listen, Mercy." Seth stopped, paled. "There's a whole 
 parcel of folks, coming up Stafford Hill. They'll all see 
 you " 
 
 Mercy turned still paler. 
 
 "Folks coming — and they'll see Oh! And won't 
 
 they stare ! " She quaked. Her mouth grew dry with terror. 
 But grimly she stood her ground. 
 
 "I think I see your father coming, Josiah. And Parson 
 Avery. And Professor Ames, from the 'Cademy " 
 
 Josiah turned white to his white eye-winkers. 
 
 "Pa says he'll lick me, next fight I get into Oh, 
 
 turn me loose!" 
 
 Mercy beckoned the little boys. Wan silence fell upon 
 them. 
 
 "Want to apologize now, Josiah? Say, C I beg your par- 
 don, Seth.' " 
 
 Josiah squirmed and mumbled and snuffled. Finally he 
 screwed out the loathed words. 
 
 "Now, one thing more. Say, 'I take back what I said 
 about your father ' " 
 
40 THEFATHER 
 
 "I won't!" 
 
 "Very well. We'll wait right here." 
 
 "Take it back, take it back " 
 
 Mercy let go. 
 
 Down the path shot Josiah like a tow-headed bullet. 
 After him pelted a string of taunting small fry. By Provi- 
 dential chance, Adoniram and Thomas had trotted up the 
 lane, just in time for the climax. Round and round Mercy 
 they pranced, three ecstatic young dervishes. 
 
 "Boys, stop it. This minute. Not one word to Father. 
 Mind, now!" 
 
 The faithful subsided. 
 
 Mercy then went home, to give humble ear to Aunt 
 Celestia's observations concerning unwomanly females who 
 would cause their remotest forbears to rise from their graves 
 for horror and for shame. Nobly the little boys kept silence. 
 At least, until Mercy had taken herself demurely to prayer- 
 meeting. Then mortal bonds cracked under the strain. 
 
 "And she stood there, and held him tight by his big red 
 
 ear " thus Thomas. "And says she, ' 'Pologize. And 
 
 take back what you said about Father.' And he done it. 
 Gosh, but he hipered out of there! He didn't lose one 
 second!" 
 
 "So Josiah called me a Black Republican. And Mercy 
 made him take it back." Mr. Stafford tried to laugh. But 
 he was preposterously hurt. So Mercy was ashamed of his 
 profound convictions, ashamed of the faith that was as 
 his breath of life! 
 
 All his small world stood against him, he thought, wryly. 
 Aunty, patient, loyal, tranquilly contemptuous; Joel, his 
 Benjamin, who, trapped in the labyrinth of his own blun- 
 ders, could pause in the very face of hazard, to jibe; Emer- 
 son, his life-long friend, who, for all his affection, yet held 
 aloof. Nobody had ever understood. Not even his young 
 
THE FATHER 41 
 
 wife. She had sat by, her babies' silky heads nestled on her 
 deep young breast, and she had wondered at him and adored 
 him and never, in her beautiful and beloved days, had she 
 understood him. No. Not one of all his house would ever 
 understand. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mercy and Lucinda sat as demure as two 
 ringleted, hoopskirted angels in the high-shouldered Staf- 
 ford pew. Mercy had spent an hour memorizing her chap- 
 ter, but it grew dim before the vision across the aisle. For 
 there, seated in a calm but tremulous row, she beheld 
 Eliphalet Kimball, Amariah Prescott, and Lemuel G. 
 Crowther. To be sure, she never glanced their way. Even a 
 fleeting glimmer would have been most immodest. But 
 inwardly she was planning what would happen as soon as 
 the benediction was spoken. Although she and Lucinda had 
 come to meeting together, they would not thus depart. Far 
 from it. Directly after Parson had dismissed them, Lucinda 
 would giggle and simper. She would seize on the arm of 
 Rodolphus Applebee, one of the stuttering Applebees from 
 North Fitchburg, before he'd had time to gasp out his in- 
 vitation, and away they would go, down the dark maple 
 lanes to Luanda's house. Meanwhile three bashful cavaliers 
 would stand before Mercy. Small use to choose between 
 them, she thought, dismally. Eliphalet would turn red as 
 a turkey gobbler, and blurt out: "May I — haveth'honor t'see 
 y'home?" in a stern but skittish bass. Amariah would choke 
 and fall over his own large feet. Lemuel would fix his 
 pale blue eyes on hers, and the sweat would stream down 
 his cheeks, and he would grab out a large red handkerchief, 
 thus releasing a veritable cloud of bergamot, and look like 
 a terrified but resolute rabbit. But Lemuel was the best of 
 the lot. It might as well be Lemuel. 
 
 Prayer-meeting went on and on. At last the final hymn 
 
42 THE FATHER 
 
 was sung. The neighborly groups chatted, then went their 
 ways. Lucinda and her Rodolphus had departed, leaving 
 only a trail of giggle, a wake of stutter, on the starlit air. 
 Lemuel, shivering but unflinching, was walking close to 
 her side. There burned in Lemuel's eyes an honest young 
 devotion. 
 
 "M-Mercy Rose " 
 
 Mercy turned and looked at him. In the shadows his 
 roach loomed, magnificent. For an instant, it was as if 
 there flashed on his brow the glint of a silver casque. And 
 for once in his mortal days, he was not chewing sassafras. 
 
 "What is it, Lemuel ?" 
 
 Then Lemuel, the blood beating high in his honest boy 
 heart, his hot hands shaking, put both his warm clumsy arms 
 around her, and touched his lips an instant to her cheek. 
 With the movement, he set free an all but deafening blast 
 of bergamot. But, mysteriously, he ceased right then to be 
 a lumpy cub, and became by virtue of some kindly necro- 
 mancy the Prince, the very Knight of Dream. . . . 
 
 "What can keep Mercy so long? Prayer-meeting must 
 have been dismissed an hour ago." 
 
 Aunty sniffed. A sniff of chilly wisdom. 
 
 "H'm. You let her go yourself." 
 
 "Why not? Surely she's safe there!" 
 
 "Safe enough. Too safe." 
 
 "What can you mean, Aunty?" 
 
 "Haven't you seen that great sawney of a Lemuel G. 
 Crowther, making sheep's eyes at her?" 
 
 "Lemuel G. Crowther! The last time I laid eyes on 
 him, he was hanging by the band of his petticoats to Deacon 
 Kimball's cherry tree. Right over the brook, and bawling 
 bloody murder. I hauled him down, but I laughed so, I 
 all but dropped him into the brook." 
 
THE FATHER 43 
 
 "Lemuel isn't hanging from the cherry tree now. He's 
 hanging around Mercy. Every minute." 
 
 "The great simpleton! Mercy will make short shrift of 
 him." 
 
 "Maybe so. Maybe not." 
 A queer shiver ran down Father's neck. 
 "Nonsense. She wouldn't even look at him. She's nothing 
 but a baby." 
 
 "She's close on sixteen. Her mother married you when 
 she wasn't quite seventeen." 
 
 Father shrugged, indifferent and amused. He picked up 
 his new Atlantic World. He did not turn a page for per- 
 haps the next half hour. 
 
 Finally Mercy's light step came up the portico. Her 
 father glanced up casually. 
 
 He felt her slim little body lean against him. He slid 
 his arm around her, still casually. He looked into her grave 
 exquisite little face. The face of Kilmeny, returned from 
 a far country, its radiance still upon her. 
 
 His heart shut like a fist with a wrench of rage and 
 terror. Bitter, pitiful father-terror. Here she stood, her soft 
 hand folded in his own, her cheek to his. And she might 
 have been a thousand miles away. 
 
 Father did not fall asleep readily that night. It was past 
 three when he finally slipped off. He awoke in the vague 
 dawn to the clink of pebbles on his window, the sound of a 
 low hurrying voice. 
 
 "John! John! Come down, quick. It's Joel. Quick, I 
 say!" 
 
 Father ran down silently. In the gray light, Joel's face 
 was pinched and drawn with fear. 
 
 "The bank has found out. Frank Upham got wind of it, 
 and warned me. What can I do, John? Help me." 
 
44 THE FATHER 
 
 "The bank — Joel! What do you mean? What have 
 you done?" 
 
 But even as he spoke, Father had turned and was stum- 
 bling up the stairs. He snatched his gold belt from the 
 dresser, tore down again. 
 
 "Here is every cent in this house, Joel. I'll rush all I 
 can get from the bank here, to you, and get it off the first 
 thing in the morning. Where are you going, boy?" 
 
 "How do I know? I've got to get away, that's all I 
 know. I'll pay back the money. Tell them that, will you? 
 Tell them I — tell them we'll make good. But I must be 
 off now. God bless you, John. Good-by." 
 
CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 FATHER was going traveling! He would take Button 
 and the chaise and drive to Concord, and visit Mr. 
 Emerson, and stay two days and two nights! This was a 
 notable event. For while Mr. Emerson stopped at their 
 house whenever his lecture trips brought him near, Father 
 rarely found time to go to Concord. His work for the 
 Intelligence and the management of his farms kept him 
 close at home. But at nineteen, Mr. Emerson had been head 
 usher in Dr. Ripley's school at Waltham. To Father, aged 
 twelve, this gentle quizzical young tutor had embodied all 
 wisdom. In every real crisis, Father turned to Mr. Emerson 
 for encouragement as well as for advice. 
 
 The little boys stood around large-eyed and wistful and 
 watched Father make ready. But only Mercy would go. 
 Father was grimly definite on that point. He and Mr. 
 Emerson had urgent matters to talk over, and he would 
 have no time to fish Seth out of Concord Pond, or to 
 plaster mud on Adoniram's bee-stings, or to sit up nights 
 with Thomas and the croup and the goose-grease. 
 
 From this decree, there was no hope of yielding. But 
 while the little boys were mournful, Aunty was sniffy. 
 Extremely sniffy. 
 
 "Just like a man. Thinks he's got to go consult with 
 Mr. Emerson, every whip-stitch, or the world will quit 
 going around. Thinks his Concord friends hung up the 
 sun and moon. Yet not one of 'em is even halfway ortho- 
 dox. Mr. Emerson started out to be a middling good 
 preacher, but he must go traipsing off to Italy and all such 
 Papish countries, and he came back all led astray, and 
 
46 THE FATHER 
 
 far's I can see he has turned out no better than an infidel. 
 And Nate Hawthorne's folks, I knew well. Fine, depend- 
 able people as ever trod shoe-leather. But look at him! 
 Lets his good Custom-house job go, and drizzles around, 
 writing sinful novels! As for Horace Mann, your father 
 bows down to him like he's the Lord's Anointed. Yet he's 
 nothing but a schoolmaster, and a flighty schoolmaster, at 
 that. Mind you, the selectmen gave him the finest office in 
 all Boston. Accept it? Not he. He posts off to that muddy 
 little Ohio town, and sets up a college right in the wilder- 
 ness. Latin and Greek, for folks that are so torn-down poor, 
 they've got to scratch gravel, so's to earn corn-meal and 
 side-meat. Pity knows, he'd ought to put a plow-handle in 
 their hands, instead of a parcel of pagan books. And Mrs. 
 Mann goes right along with him, down to that wilderness, 
 and pretends she likes it! Poor deluded woman! I tell you, 
 Mercy Rose, men-folks are a terrible responsibility." 
 
 Mercy was not greatly burdened by this warning. She was 
 rosy with satisfaction. It was thrilling to put on her shirred 
 sky-blue calash and her gray taffeta with the pinked ruffles, 
 and her prunella boots, and go traveling with Father. But 
 she was puzzled, dismayed, even. Never had she seen her 
 father so worn and tense, so harassed, so irritable. 
 
 "Well! Can it be that we are actually ready, — at last? 
 Listen, Aunty, we are not starting for the North Pole. 
 We do not need provisions for six months. Now, my sons, 
 
 obey your Aunt Where is Thomas, pray tell? Find 
 
 him, Seth, and be quick about it Oh, tell him good-by 
 
 for us. I'll not wait another minute." 
 
 Button stepped off briskly. Two doleful faces and one 
 stern disapproving one watched them down Stafford Hill. 
 
 Once started, Father relaxed a shade. But only a shade. 
 With steadfast will, with hard determination, he was chart- 
 ing a long course, through clouds of uncertainty, past 
 
THE FATHER 47 
 
 shoals of indecision. The menace of poverty, the loss of 
 opportunity, failure in the eyes of his small world; for the 
 sake of his great aim, he could face them all, without a 
 whimper. But when he thought of his children, his trusting 
 little sons, his daughter, child of his heart: could he ask 
 them to face this strange, difficult new life with him? 
 
 He glanced at Mercy. 
 
 Mercy wore her Kilmeny look. She had not looked his 
 way. She had not said one word. 
 
 Father's eyes grew baffled and angry. Always Mercy's 
 door had stood wide open to him. To-day her door was 
 shut. And out of all the inhabitants of the known world, 
 it must needs be shut by the large freckled paw of that un- 
 speakable oaf, Lemuel G. Crowther. 
 
 Then over Father's drawn face there came a slow, 
 consoling grin. 
 
 "There is always a silver lining," he said to himself. 
 "Even though I must sell all I possess, to help Joel, although 
 I'm taking my Mercy away from her home and from all 
 the small womanly advantages — at least I am taking her 
 away from Lemuel G. Crowther! And once I get her 
 away, she will forget him, fast enough! She shall have a 
 chance at youth, my good dear child, she shall hold fast to 
 her girlhood a while longer. To save my daughter from 
 such a ridiculously early marriage, a marriage to such a 
 
 hapless young booby Well! Even such a calamity as 
 
 mine has its compensations." 
 
 Something stirred in the straw under the chaise seat. 
 There came a muffled but terrific sneeze. 
 
 "My goodness gracious! That sneeze came from right 
 under- foot! Thomas Chalmers Stafford!" 
 
 Red and choking, out crawled the stowaway. Father 
 seized a fat leg, hauled out his youngest, and set him right- 
 side-up in the road. 
 
48 THE FATHER 
 
 "My son, I am surprised at you. March home. At once. 
 Tell Aunty that you are to go to bed for the rest of the 
 day." 
 
 "Yeth, thir." 
 
 "You are to have bread and water for dinner. And 
 bread and water for supper." 
 
 "Yeth, thir." 
 
 Thomas's corn-silk head drooped. But he took it like a 
 soldier. He put up his hands. 
 
 "Please give me your pond-lily carpet bag. I bringed my 
 nighty in it. I thought maybe — maybe I'd need it to-night." 
 
 Father dug through the straw till he found the pond- 
 lily bag, a dingy relic adorned with large grimy lilies and 
 poison-green leaves. As he set it down, the bag yawped 
 like a catfish. To the casual glance appeared Thomas's 
 woolly yellow drawers, a Gargantuan hair-brush, his Tes- 
 tament, three apples and a half-eaten chunk of pound cake, 
 and the somewhat disarranged innards of Seth's pocket 
 rifle, which had given up the ghost last Fourth of July. 
 When journeying through savage country, it is well to go 
 armed and well prepared. 
 
 Father gazed at the blue distant hills. Life is hard on a 
 conscientious parent who is bedeviled by an untimely sense 
 of humor. 
 
 That delay before execution was too much. Thomas 
 gasped aloud. His brown eyes popped. Beads of sweat gath- 
 ered across his fat little nose. 
 
 "Oh, Father! Oh, sister Mercy! Oh, I want to go, so 
 awful bad! And I haven't been anywhere for years and 
 years, and I've been a good boy for ever and ever so 
 long " 
 
 That was the end of Mercy. Little Thomas was so very 
 small, so very fat, so pitiful in his pleading! Little Thomas, 
 to walk back alone, those four long hilly miles! 
 
THE FATHER 
 
 49 
 
 "Oh, please, Father! His legs are so short, and he's 
 so pudgy, and maybe a bear or an Indian — or — or — gyp- 
 sies " 
 
 Father did not turn his head. 
 
 Thomas took a fresh grip on himself. He swallowed his 
 tears, swung the heavy bag over his shoulder, and set off 
 up hill. 
 
 Not a word from Father. He stood looking after that 
 chubby malefactor, trudging grittily on his way. 
 
 Never in all her life had Mercy questioned Father's 
 
 judgments. But now 
 
 "Please, Father! He can sit by my chair at dinner, so I 
 can pinch him if he starts gobbling. And he can sleep 
 with me, and I'll keep him scrubbed up. You could see he'd 
 tried to wash his ears. There was a clean streak right back 
 
 of his ears " 
 
 "Thomas!" 
 
 Thomas wheeled like an automaton. 
 "Thomas, your sister has asked me to overlook this dis- 
 obedience. We will defer your punishment till we return 
 home. Hop in. No, stop hugging me. Will you take your 
 feet off that laprobe? Don't tickle Button's ears with the 
 whip. Nonsense, you can't need a sandwich. It's barely 
 
 nine o'clock " 
 
 Oh, memorable journey! True, they ate their lunch by 
 the roadside, picnic fashion. But they slept in a Boston 
 hotel, a real hotel, exactly as if they were honest-to-good- 
 ness travelers. And the day at Mr. Emerson's promised pure 
 delight. Noon dinner would be something of an ordeal, 
 though, for Mr. Emerson had bidden several illustrious 
 friends to meet Father. There would be the eminent mer- 
 chant-philanthropist from Boston, Mr. Lucius Searle, tall, 
 magisterial, imperious. There would be Mr. Horace Mann, 
 so gracious, so gentle, yet ground to a wire edge, so des- 
 
5 o THE FATHER 
 
 perately intent upon his plans for his struggling little col- 
 lege, so cruelly tired. There would be Mr. Alcott, sound 
 and sweet as a ripe Spitzenberg apple, benign, visionary, 
 bland. There would be Mr. Hawthorne, who gave up his 
 good steady job to drizzle around and write novels. . . . 
 
 She tied Father's stock for him, she scrutinized him as 
 well as Thomas with a stern maternal eye. But Father was 
 impeccable, and the odor of sanctity was thick upon Thomas. 
 He had not stopped with washing his ears; his shining 
 pinkness appeared not only scrubbed but scalded and scraped. 
 
 Suddenly shy, she did not go downstairs till the last 
 moment. When she slipped in, the little brother clinging 
 to her hand, and made her swooping curtsey, the men rose 
 to welcome her, but they did not greet her gayly. They 
 looked on her with the tenderness, the reverence, even, that 
 men accord the daughter who struggles, no matter how 
 clumsily, to take her mother's place. 
 
 "Where is Nate?" asked Mr. Mann. 
 
 "I suppose he had one of his panics. Mr. Hawthorne 
 would face a regiment single-handed, rather than a room- 
 ful of company." Mr. Emerson, lean, stooped, caustic, gave 
 his faint caustic smile. 
 
 The dinner, which had set sail upon a pleasant sea of 
 light talk, suddenly found itself grazing reefs of argu- 
 ment. 
 
 "Why this haste, Mr. Stafford, sir?" Thus the majes- 
 tical Mr. Searle. "The Almighty, wise men tell us, gives 
 centuries to the perfection of His slightest creation. Why 
 then, so urge on this reform " 
 
 Father's stock shot under his left ear. 
 
 "Because, Sir, we Abolitionists are not the Almighty. 
 We are not trying to perfect, but to abolish — to abolish 
 the evil which our ancestors left us, their vile heritage. 
 That evil had its roots in the day when they set out to 
 
THE FATHER 51 
 
 trade rum for slaves, to debauch the North, their own 
 land, as well as to ruin the South " 
 
 "Our ancestors, Sir? I ask you to retract that. My own 
 were never guilty of that vicious trade." 
 
 In rushed Mr. Emerson with a small and inefficient olive 
 branch. 
 
 "Oh, when it comes to that, we're all tarred with the 
 same stick " 
 
 "Not all of us." Mr. Searle held grimly to his point, the 
 autocrat that he was. "Moreover, it is not for us to vaunt 
 our own judgment above a loftier decree. Slavery has always 
 existed. It will always exist. It stands before our eyes, an 
 eternal punishment to an erring race " 
 
 "While we, the self-anointed righteous, profit by that 
 punishment " Father choked. 
 
 Mr. Alcott looked across at him with shining, kind eyes, 
 ineffably complacent, immutably bland. 
 
 "Education, my dear Mr. Stafford. Education! Light in 
 darkness. There lies the true solution to these problems. 
 Inform and clarify the public mind. Replace its base ideals 
 with loftier motives " 
 
 "Put aside the question of slavery till we have freed 
 those who lie in bonds of prisoning thought." Mr. Emerson 
 spoke gently, as always. But Father winced under that 
 gentle finality. 
 
 Baffled, defeated, put aside like a blundering child by 
 this council of his mild, indulgent elders, Father slumped 
 back into his chair. 
 
 No. Not one of them would ever realize. Not one among 
 them would ever understand. 
 
 Dinner was ended. Up rose Mrs. Emerson, so frail, so 
 gentle, so serene, and gathered up Thomas, now a solid 
 lump of sleep, and carried him to her own room. 
 
 "He can play with the little children when he wakens," 
 
52 THE FATHER 
 
 she told Mercy, gently. "You go and visit with the Alcotts, 
 dear. They'll be so glad to have you. Stay to supper, if you 
 like." 
 
 Away ran Mercy to the beloved Alcotts, for the long 
 afternoon. Nowhere in all her world would she ever find 
 such wild disorder, such threadbare poverty, such golden 
 welcome. Louisa was at home for a two days' rest from 
 her grinding hard teaching in Boston. Dear merry Louisa, 
 with her gaunt tired eyes and her inky fingers and her 
 eager clumsy hands, that tried always to do every loving 
 service for you, and never did anything just right. 
 
 Shining with hospitable love, the family welcomed 
 Mercy. May, daubed in paint, found a clamshell and before 
 Mercy's ravished eyes painted for her a tiny landscape. 
 Mrs. Alcott taught her a new embroidery stitch. And after 
 supper Louisa, bent on crowning the day with roses, read 
 aloud a chapter from her new novel; a harrowing tale, en- 
 titled The Maniac's Bride. No wonder that Mercy stayed 
 on and on, forgetting even little Thomas in her rare 
 freedom. 
 
 Finally she glanced at the tall clock. 
 
 "Ten o'clock! My gracious! No, no, don't come with 
 me. I know every step. Good-night!" 
 
 She sped away, regardless of kind protesting voices. She 
 knew the paths well. But as she raced down the dark, tree- 
 shadowed paths, she grew bewildered. "I must take the first 
 turn in the road," she thought. Now, surely this was the 
 first turn. But how queer and unfamiliar it felt! The 
 wavering shadows baffled her. The gravel felt strange be- 
 neath her feet. 
 
 She looked up. To the east, through the black lace of the 
 elms, glimmered a waning moon. Across it, ghosts from 
 an enchanter fleeing, blew shreds of watery mist. At her 
 
THE FATHER 53 
 
 feet, like tired little wraiths, fluttered the autumn leaves, 
 all their brave gold and scarlet dimmed in that pale light 
 to pitiful gray. A small cold fear gripped Mercy's heart. 
 By day these woodland roads were all so safe, so cheerful ! 
 But by night. . . . 
 
 Something stirred in the hedge. Something dark, yet fit- 
 fully seen against the night. Light feet prowled deep in 
 the hedge shadow, light steps crept nearer, nearer. What 
 was that sound, so eerie on the thin chill air? A whimper? 
 A chuckle? 
 
 Mercy would have given her soul to run and scream. 
 But not Mercy Rose Stafford. Never. 
 
 The velvet step came closer. The chuckle broke in a 
 whine, a wail. . . . 
 
 Mercy tore down the black road like a mad thing. She 
 was so blind, so crazed with fear, that when strong hands 
 caught her, and a kind voice spoke with quick reassurance, 
 she could not even hear. She did not scream. But she 
 fought like a little tigress. But the big hands drew her up 
 and planted her against a tree-trunk, and the kind voice 
 spoke on, so gently: "Why, it's just a little girl! Whew, 
 you struck out like a — a gladiator! My child, don't be 
 afraid. Everybody knows me. My name is Hawthorne." 
 
 "Oh-h!" Mercy clutched a moment at those big hands. 
 Then, very disposedly, she smoothed down her hoops, and 
 straightened her flapping calash. "I regret that I have trou- 
 bled you " 
 
 She stopped on a gulp that threatened to engulf her. 
 
 "There, don't talk." Hawthorne fell into step beside 
 her. He was as gentle as her own father, yet as aloof now 
 as if he stood upon the farthest star. "No wonder you were 
 alarmed. That wail is popularly supposed to freeze one's 
 blood. The animal is young Augustus Seabury's tame lynx. 
 
54 THE FATHER 
 
 He has taught it to trot after him and howl, in which event 
 he gives it a lump of sugar. Hence the creature's unwel- 
 come attentions to you." 
 
 Mercy essayed a wan giggle. This satisfied Mr. Haw- 
 thorne. He dropped her hand and went cruising off down 
 the misty lanes. Having done his Christian duty, he would 
 now turn to his own diversions. 
 
 "Anyway, he's as good as gold, to take me home," 
 Mercy reflected. But in a few minutes, he was back again. 
 Without a word, he thrust something into her hand. 
 
 It was a handful of mint, dew-wet, spicy-fragrant. 
 
 Mercy gripped it, tight. The last gulp vanished into 
 limbo. Any other man would have spoken on and on, 
 with soothing, exasperating reassurance. But this sylvan 
 shy creature knew a better comforter than words. The 
 mystic in him spoke in that wild healing fragrance. 
 
 Now they turned into Mr. Emerson's yard. The front 
 door opened. Now Mr. Emerson, his clear, quizzical face 
 lighted by the tall whale-oil lamp in his hand, was wel- 
 coming them in. 
 
 "Come right in, Mr. Hawthorne. Don't look apprehen- 
 sive. No company. Just ourselves." 
 
 "Well." Hawthorne entered, wary as a stag. He shook 
 hands with Father, then slid past the two men and settled 
 himself in a dusky corner. Only his hands moved. For he 
 had pulled a handful of ribbon-grass, and as he sat there, 
 his long fingers wove and wove. Deftly, absently, they 
 twisted the shreds of cream and emerald and dark sea- 
 green into a strange design. It was as though he wound 
 the threads in a fantastic arras. Could you but see that arras 
 through his own eyes, what weird and tragic beauty! A 
 girl, her child caught high in both frail arms, the baby's 
 fingers tugging at the broad scarlet A on the mother's 
 
THE FATHER 55 
 
 breast. A boy's face, gay as a young Bacchus, wreathed 
 with vine leaves that could not quite hide the leaf-like ear. 
 
 And through and through the quiet of the evening, 
 Father and Mr. Emerson were weaving, too. Only they 
 wove with slow, inexorable words. And with those words 
 they wove the cloth of destiny. 
 
 Mercy tried to keep politely awake. But she was leaden 
 with sleep. The voices faded, dimmed. 
 
 "Well, Stafford, we have talked this over from A to Z. 
 I cannot say I'm in full accord with your plans. But you 
 know I have every confidence in you, and since you seem 
 determined to leave Massachusetts and make a fresh 
 start " 
 
 "Precisely what I mean to do, Mr. Emerson. And I 
 shall sell my land here, all of it, and emigrate within a 
 month's time. Emigrate to Bakerstown, Illinois. It is a 
 thriving village near Springfield. Deacon Heber Lyman has 
 just returned from a visit to his twin brother, Timothy, 
 who has settled there. He tells me that the town is split 
 into two camps, the abolitionists and the anti-agitation men. 
 Not pro-slavery, this second group, but those who are vio- 
 lently opposed to any agitation. You know. The cat- footed 
 sort, — neither afoot nor a'horseback. For a while they had 
 an abolition weekly of their own, but when Lovejoy was 
 murdered and his press destroyed the editor got scared and 
 fled the country. So I shall take what I can get for my 
 farms, and for the home place, and go. Timothy Lyman 
 will pick out a small farm for me near the town. I'll buy 
 that abandoned press and start the anti-slavery weekly again. 
 That will give us our bread and butter. Then I shall find 
 good helpers to run the farm. The outdoor life will be fine 
 for the little boys. 
 
 "As for Mercy — for Mercy, I realize that such a change 
 
56 THE FATHER 
 
 will bring its trials. At all events, she will be quite as well 
 off in Illinois for the present. I prefer to take her out of 
 certain — influences." 
 
 "But what about your newspaper work here with the 
 Intelligence " 
 
 Father's tired face blazed. 
 
 "The Intelligence? Let me tell you that the Intelligence 
 has practically kicked me out. I am too radical, too forth- 
 putting, for the paper's policy. Green River subscribers have 
 threatened to cancel their subscriptions, I am informed, 
 unless my articles are toned down, made less annoying to 
 my townsmen. I've known for a long time that I and my 
 Black Republican ideas were a Green River disgrace " 
 
 "If you feel you must move away from Green River, 
 why not go to New York? Mr. Greeley " 
 
 "Mr. Greeley has made me an excellent offer. But I 
 would be hampered there, precisely as I am hampered here. 
 No, I must strike out for myself. I must complete the work 
 that I know is allotted to me." 
 
 "But listen, Stafford. You don't understand what you 
 are attempting. Your farm will be no help to you. Instead, 
 you'll be lucky if it does not prove a dead weight. Out 
 west, competent farm help is impossible to find. As for 
 breaking a prairie farm yourself, you're about as well qual- 
 ified for such terrific work as I am. A wild young country 
 will yield her riches only to men of force and power and 
 youth. Where, in your household, will you find one such 
 worker. You yourself will be tied down by your newspaper. 
 Your sons are too young. If your brother Joel would go 
 with you, and give his strength " 
 
 "I can hardly expect such aid from Joel." A curious 
 seared look came on Father's face. 
 
 "And when you think of your young family. . . . For- 
 give me, Stafford, but is this plan quite just to them?" 
 
THE FATHER 57 
 
 " 'Hostages to fortune ' " Father put out his hand 
 
 to his sleeping girl. "I know, Mr. Emerson. You are right. 
 But — man, can't you see? Can't you understand? This work 
 has been laid on me, as the old-time folks used to say. I 
 dare not hold back. I cannot. It's my work. It is my allotted 
 task. How dare I withdraw my hand from the plow?" 
 
 There was a long silence. 
 
 "I know I am making the right decision. The only choice 
 
 for me to make. Yet " Father flinched, then, and his 
 
 drawn face reddened miserably. a Yet — oh, Lord, how I 
 wish that a man could set out to do his nation a service 
 without feeling himself such an infernal prig!" 
 
 Mr. Emerson nodded. Into his blue impenetrable eyes 
 crept that slow caustic smile. 
 
 "That is the immemorial curse upon the preacher. Who 
 are you, says your world, to set yourself up as a judge, a re- 
 former — odious word! Nobody jeers at the man who fights 
 for his country. Everybody jeers at the man who, forced to 
 see the dangers that menace his country, dares to point out 
 those dangers, urge a remedy. No, Stafford, you won't have 
 even the satisfaction of feeling that you are a martyr to 
 your noble faith. Martyr, forsooth ! You'll be a dreary nui- 
 sance. And when you have given your all, when you have 
 laid down body and soul, some worthy citizen will come 
 along and turn you out. Because, like Aristides' critic, 
 he is tired of hearing you called The Just." 
 
 There fell another silence. But at last Mr. Emerson 
 spoke again. 
 
 "To be sure, Stafford, there is another side to this. Once 
 in an aeon, your words may strike home to some man, drive 
 your truth deep into his mind and heart. This man, having 
 listened and believed, may pass your word along. Then, if 
 enough men listen, if enough men pass your word 
 along " 
 
58 THE FATHER 
 
 Father sprang to his feet. His worn face was aglow. 
 
 "There you are! If I can hope to reach just one man, 
 Mr. Emerson! A man who will have the judgment, the 
 cold reason, the unswerving will " 
 
 Then Mr. Emerson lifted his face to the light. And like 
 a stronger, clearer light, came his slow musing answer. 
 
 " 'There is a tide in the affairs of men ' Yes, Staf- 
 ford, and there is a tide in men themselves. Humanity is at 
 a low ebb. The time is ripe for a high-tide man. A man 
 who does not know fear, who, once his course is set, can 
 never yield. If you can reach that man, if you can open his 
 way for him, if you can hold up your torch for him, even 
 for one hour " 
 
 Shivering, numb with sleep, Mercy dragged herself 
 awake and stumbled up the stairs. She tiptoed to Thomas's 
 cot to make sure he was tucked in tight. Alas, even as she 
 bent above him, her ears were greeted by a heart-shattering 
 whoop. Poor little Thomas had fallen from grace. Against 
 all commands, he had spent half the afternoon wading in 
 Concord Pond, and he was close on suffocation. Patient 
 Mrs. Emerson hurried up, bringing all the supererogatory 
 horrors of croup, in so many black bottles. Father and Mr. 
 Emerson came on the jump, and Father said sternly that 
 this served Thomas quite right, and that he richly deserved 
 it, and then melted considerably, after the manner of 
 fathers, when the small, struggling, gasping creature flung 
 up drowning arms and clutched him for its life. 
 
 But finally the cruel grip loosened on the chunky little 
 throat, and Thomas toppled back, dead asleep, into his sis- 
 ter's arms. And the next morning the criminal was driven 
 home in sackcloth and ashes, to say nothing of the leg of 
 Mr. Emerson's red-flannel drawers, wrapped tight around 
 his neck, to hold fast the fat bacon rind which was Mrs. 
 
THE FATHER 
 
 59 
 
 Emerson's final prescription. And the days that followed 
 were so filled with wonders that it was not till many years 
 had passed that Mercy remembered that hour in the quiet 
 white- walled study. She was a woman grown before there 
 came to her the memory of those slow poignant words: 
 
 — "If I can reach just one man " 
 
 "If you can open his way for him, if you can hold up 
 your torch for him, for even one hour " 
 
CHAPTER SIX 
 
 MERCY raced up the long hill to Aunt Celestia's. The 
 September wind, cool and sweet and rowdy as March, 
 ran with her. It pulled and tweaked the silver-gilt rings that 
 it had snatched loose from her net, it tossed her wide-flow- 
 ing dimity sleeves, it flung her hoops impudently sidewise 
 till she felt like a runaway balloon. But faster than the 
 wind she flew. Hurry, hurry, hurry! She was breathless, 
 she was bursting with her news when she hurled herself 
 into Aunty's keepin' room. 
 
 To come into that room was to come into a dusky, stuffy 
 worsted- work cave; its ceiling all hung with stalactites of 
 jingling bead-and-yarn tassels and cardboard aircastles and 
 rainbow prisms, its floor cluttered with stalagmites of small, 
 treacherous footstools, topped by life-size satin-stitch cats. 
 All the chairs toed the line, wearing starched and slippery 
 tidies like so many meek little orphans in spotless pinafores. 
 The high board mantel wore not only a white pinafore but 
 a long glittering overskirt of bead fringe, reminiscent of 
 the cannibal ladies in Tales from Heathen Lands which 
 adorned the inlaid ebony center-table. The cage for Zeno- 
 bia, the macaw, was draped in a modest bead ruffle. Even 
 the tall whale-oil lamp on the desk was flounced and cor- 
 seted with beads of every hue. The only object in that 
 room that didn't wear beads was Cyrus. 
 
 Cyrus, Aunty's ancient Chinese carp, considerably over- 
 weight and of a morose and disdainful disposition, swam 
 languidly round and round his globe, unadorned. However, 
 as Seth had once remarked, Cyrus wore side-whiskers ex- 
 actly like the precentor's. And his globe stood on a cro- 
 
THE FATHER 61 
 
 cheted thread mat of red-white-and-green, fine as cobweb, 
 with every point in its leaf border tipped by a diamond-drop 
 crystal. 
 
 "Aunty, where are you? Quick!" 
 
 Aunty appeared from her bedroom wrapped in Joseph's 
 Coat. Joseph's Coat was not only a family relic. It was a 
 family tree. It was what a later generation would call a 
 lounging robe, only Aunty never lounged at all. In design- 
 ing it, her flair for thrift had held full sway. Set on a 
 foundation of faded old cherry paduasoy, it was built of 
 many-colored patches joined with featherstitching. Affec- 
 tionately your eye recognized the raiment of three genera- 
 tions past. 
 
 There was Grandfather Huntingdon's wedding waistcoat 
 of white plush with embossed wreaths now yellowed to 
 ivory. There were scraps of heavy amber brocade, Great- 
 aunt Davenport's Josephine gown in which she had trailed 
 like an amber bird-of-paradise at the Peace Ball. There 
 were slab-sided chunks of Father's wedding coat. That coat 
 would have made small pantaloons for ages to come, if mice 
 hadn't found it precisely the thing for crib linings. There 
 was a scrap of blue cloth striped with tarnished gold braid 
 cut from the small but gallant trousers of Second-cousin 
 David, worn in the days when, a commissioned officer aged 
 twelve, he strode the Essex quarter-deck beside Admiral 
 Porter. There were artless scarlet high-lights cut from por- 
 tions of the little boys' outgrown woolen underwear. And 
 Mercy's scalp always prickled slightly when she viewed a 
 large pentagon of somber black plush; a scrap salvaged from 
 Great-Uncle Jonathan's coffin lining. 
 
 Aunty gazed on her rebukingly. 
 
 "Mercy Rose Stafford, what in time is the matter with 
 you? You scared me out of a year's growth. I all but swal- 
 lowed my lower plate." 
 
62 THE FATHER 
 
 "Oh, Aunty, we're going West. To stay forever!" 
 
 Aunty sat down suddenly. 
 
 "Whatever in calamity " 
 
 "Away out to Illinois. Father had a letter from Deacon 
 Lyman's brother. He has bought us a fine little farm, and 
 father has sent him the money to buy the town printing- 
 press, too. Yes, and Lucinda's pa wants to buy our place 
 here, house and orchard and farms and all. And father 
 says we'll start soon as ever he can buy a good Conestoga 
 and a wagon-team. Of course we could go on the railroad, 
 part way, but father thinks the little boys will have such a 
 royal time camping out. Oh, isn't it grand!" 
 
 Aunty did not look so very uplifted. She sat very white 
 and still. Her strong old hands shook on her knee. 
 
 "This is part and parcel of John's anti-slavery doin's," 
 she said, when she could speak. "Bought a farm, sight un- 
 seen. Pig in a poke, most like. I'll wager it hasn't even a 
 good well on it." 
 
 "Oh, but, Aunty, it has a wonderful one. It's an ever- 
 flowing spring, and it never was known to go dry. That's 
 one reason why father wrote Mr. Timothy to go right 
 ahead and buy it." 
 
 Aunty merely snorted. 
 
 "And sent money for a printing press. Mess of rust, of 
 course. Stafford, all over. And why hasn't he been up to 
 tell me, himself?" 
 
 "He couldn't. Everything happened this morning. All at 
 once. He'll be up to-night as soon as supper is finished." 
 
 "Is your father aimin' to take all your furniture? The 
 portraits, too?" 
 
 "No, he'll sell most of the things. It costs too much to 
 carry them along. But the portraits we'll take, and the linen 
 and silver." 
 
THE FATHER 63 
 
 "H'm. If your grandfather goes, wall-eye and all, I 
 plan to take everything I've got. 'Specially Cyrus." 
 
 "Aunty ! You don't mean you'd go with us ? " 
 
 "Think you could leave me behind?" 
 
 "Oh, Aunty, you precious! I might have known you'd 
 stand by." 
 
 "Only thing that would make me hang back, is how 
 Cyrus will take it. Illinois water may be different from 
 New England spring water. It won't be easy for him to 
 change. If I dragged that poor fish out west and made 
 him miserable for the rest of his days, I'd never forgive 
 myself." 
 
 "Oh, Cyrus will love it." Mercy tapped the globe with 
 a beguiling finger. Cyrus responded with a chill glare, and 
 an insolent twirl of his muttonchop whiskers. He then swam 
 churlishly away, and retired to the dungeon of his castle. 
 
 " 'Pears like he understood every word we say. And he 
 doesn't like it." 
 
 "Oh, he'll perk up, once we start," Mercy assured her 
 hurriedly. 
 
 "Mind you send your father up, the minute he comes 
 home. I've got some questions to ask him." 
 
 But when John Stafford came up the petunia path, 
 Aunty asked only one question. 
 
 "John, can you tell me one thing? Do you feel you have 
 a call to this work? That you — that you've got it to do?" 
 
 "Aunty, I know. It stares me in the face night and day. 
 If just I'm given the power to carry it through!" 
 
 Aunty swallowed hard. All her safe, small world pitched 
 into ruin. The very walls of her life were toppling around 
 her. 
 
 "That settles it, John. I go with you. And I stay by." 
 
 Aunty, all over. Never for an hour could she compre- 
 hend John's aims. But being Aunty, she was faithful. That 
 
64 THE FATHER 
 
 faithfulness was her pillar of cloud by day, her pillar of 
 fire by night. She put on the whole armor of loyalty. She 
 girded on her three alpaca petticoats and her brass-bound 
 specks and her plumed and intimidating bonnet. She packed 
 her squatty little sole-leather trunk, broken out in a perma- 
 nent rash of brass nails, she bought a costly new copper ket- 
 tle for Cyrus* traveling carriage and sewed her ancient 
 purple nuby into a cover for Zenobia's cage. She broke all 
 her contented old ties without a murmur. 
 
 Another woman might have said to herself, "Fruitless, 
 piteous folly. But to this man, here stands his mighty hope. 
 So stand back. Let him follow his dream." But no such deep 
 understanding sustained Aunty. Her loyalty was the more 
 deeply loyal because she did not ask to understand, but 
 only to serve. 
 
 Breaking up the home of a lifetime is a dreary process. 
 Aunty aged daily. Even Father wore to a raw edge. Only to 
 the little boys were these hurried days a wonder and an 
 ecstasy. Injuns, bears and catamounts! Bronzed scouts, stern 
 spies, grim feathered red-skins draped in scalps, lined the 
 roads in endless procession from Green River, Massachu- 
 setts, to Bakerstown, Illinois! An enterprising arrow which 
 took Deacon Jedediah Perkins in the small of the back and 
 all but suspended negotiations on the sale of the homestead, 
 put a check on Seth's bloodthirsty career; but little Thomas 
 slew his thousands daily. Mercy complained that she waded 
 in gore. 
 
 Mercy was having troubles of her own. Lemuel, dismayed 
 by impending separation, begged her to be really engaged 
 to him. "Wear my ring, Mercy. I've got an elegant one, 
 half paid for, down at the postoffice store. Cost me a dollar 
 and fifty cents. Once we tell them we're engaged, your 
 father and mine can't say anything." 
 
 Mercy, however, felt that they could say aplenty. Es- 
 
THE FATHER 65 
 
 pecially her own father. It would hurt him, too. Hurt him 
 cruelly. 
 
 "I think it would be piggy not to tell Father all about it 
 first. And your own father would be mad as hops." 
 
 "Well, just as you say." Lemuel sighed. "But it's going 
 to be terrible hard on me. Engaged to a girl out West, so I 
 dassent so much as go to singing school with any of the 
 girls here. Yet I won't even have the satisfaction of saying 
 I'm tied up to you. Can't you see that?" 
 
 " 'Tied up> ' " Mercy tried the words over. Somehow 
 
 they sounded very queer indeed. Not so very knightly either. 
 Still, any knight must needs be allowed to relax at times. 
 
 Lemuel had relaxed a good deal. He was nailing up pack- 
 ing boxes for Aunty. His brow was wet with honest sweat, 
 his sleeves were rolled up over grimy arms, the seat of his 
 blue jeans breeches gave back a radiance that outshone the 
 sun, for Aunty had been regilding Zenobia's cage ("Small 
 chance I'll find any gold paint in all that wilderness!") and 
 Lemuel had sat down casually in the gilt. 
 
 But a knight is a knight. No matter where his effulgence 
 is located for the time being. And the thought of that ring 
 at fhe postoffice store, her own engagement ring to be! 
 Mercy yielded. 
 
 "W-well. You bring me the ring, and I'll wear it on a 
 ribbon. Around my neck. Under my tucker. It won't mean 
 I am really engaged to you. But you can be engaged to me, 
 and I'll think it over. But neither of us is to tell anybody 
 till we're all ready to get married. Then we'll tell my own 
 father, first of all. Mind that." 
 
 "Oh, all right!" Lemuel started to kiss her, then gave an 
 apprehensive glance towards -the kitchen door. Between 
 Aunty and the little boys a man never knew when he was 
 safe. "I'll bring your ring to prayer-meeting. And on the 
 way home Yes, mom, I just finished the box with the 
 
66 THE FATHER 
 
 wax pomegranates. Yes, mom, I packed about a million 
 tidies round 'em, more or less. Yes, mom. you're kindly 
 welcome. Good-by." 
 
 Aunty stood frowning wearily. She needed an outlet. She 
 seized on one. 
 
 "My land! Seems like my back would break square in 
 two. Mercy, what's come over your hair? It always has 
 some red in it, but to-day it's redder than ever." 
 
 That dark red under-gleam was always a chastening. 
 Mercy gave a ferocious tug to the thick braid. "I know. 
 It's getting redder all the time. But what can I do about 
 it?" 
 
 "In my day, folks used to say that red hair was a pun- 
 ishment for some transgression away back. Before you were 
 born, maybe." 
 \ "But how could I sin before I was born?" Mercy flared 
 up heatedly. 
 
 "Don't ask such questions. They come too close to blas- 
 phemy." 
 
 Mercy reflected. That evening she swooped down on 
 Father. Desperately tired, haggard with discouragement, he 
 was taking out his worry by wrassling with the little boys. 
 Between Aunty's generation and Father's own there lay a 
 gulf as wide as the sea. 
 
 "Thomas! Let go Father's ears, I want to ask him a 
 question. Listen, Father. Do you mind it, because I have 
 red hair?" 
 
 "Do I mind it — because you have red hair?" Father 
 parted his knees, like a breaking bridge-span. Thomas de- 
 parted for the floor with a yell of terrified joy that jarred 
 the rafters. "What on earth " 
 
 "Aunty says " 
 
 "Mind it — mind it?" Stunned, her parent groped for 
 words. "I thought you children had asked all the astound- 
 
THE FATHER 67 
 
 ing questions beneath the arched canopy of Heaven, but it 
 appears there are a few left. Why, if you please, should I 
 mind it?" Under his frosty crest, his eyes began to snap. 
 "Why, I gave it to you myself!" 
 
 "Why, Father " 
 
 "The first time I ever laid eyes on you, young lady " 
 
 Father shook off Seth and Donny and pulled Mercy down 
 on his knee, "you were not a young lady by any means. Far 
 from it. You were just a roll of yellow flannel with a red 
 scalplock sticking out of one end and two bright red flat- 
 iron feet out of the other." 
 
 "Why, Father " 
 
 "You don't believe me? See here." He tossed her down, 
 too, and went to the dim old eagle mirror. "I have not 
 looked for traces of my long lost beauty, these many years, 
 
 but perhaps " He parted his thick silver crest, searched 
 
 earnestly. "There!" 
 
 Under his finger lay a thread or so of glittering red- 
 bronze glinting into silver. 
 
 "Why, Father " Seth stood aghast. "Why, you used 
 
 to be a red-head, too." 
 
 "Certainly I was. A dangerous one at that. Let me 
 show you how savage I used to be." 
 
 He grasped Seth by his scant raiment, held him at arm's 
 length, brandished him, squawking. Adoniram and Thomas 
 fell upon their cruel parent from the rear. Ensued a gor- 
 geous melee. At the climax fell the doomful voice of 
 Aunty. 
 
 "John Stafford! I've just patched Seth's trousers, and 
 you waving him around by the patch! Of all the heathen 
 doings " 
 
 Father's proud crest fell. The little boys made them- 
 selves judiciously scarce. But Mercy crowed inwardly. At 
 one fateful stroke Aunty had forsworn her infallibility of 
 
68 THE FATHER 
 
 years. So. Red hair was a proof of sin, was it? Yet Father, 
 Father, who could do no wrong, had given it to her! 
 
 Being eminently human, the citizens of Green River, 
 once realizing that John Stafford and his family were shak- 
 ing the Green River dust from their feet, began to hedge 
 and sidle. A bit shamefaced, people stopped him on the 
 street and told him he needn't expect any success in such a 
 wild-goose chase, but wished him good fortune none the 
 less. A steady stream of votive offerings trickled through 
 the kitchen. Father might starve for sympathy in Green 
 River but Green River housewives would never permit him 
 to go hungry for more material food. 
 
 Perhaps those who had no farewell gifts to bring, were 
 the most deeply grieved. One afternoon old Captain Jones 
 hobbled up the hill to say good-by. 
 
 "Donno's how I'm goin' to make out, once you folks are 
 gone." The Captain's brittle old voice quavered and broke. 
 He looked at Father with dry, despairing old eyes. "Lew, 
 my son-in-law, he says as how he can't leave me have more 
 than two bits a month spending money any more. And he 
 grudges me every mouthful I eat. He even keeps 'count of 
 the sassidges. And they don't give me no feather-bed win- 
 ters, and nights I plumb freeze. Couldn't you make out to 
 take me along? Yes, I know I'm eighty-five, going on 
 eighty-six, but there's a power of hard work in me yet. I 
 kin chop wood, and churn, and shovel snow; I'll earn my 
 keep, anywheres. Can't you make out to take me along?" 
 
 Father couldn't stand out against that. 
 
 "We'll manage, somehow," he told Aunt Celestia. "No, 
 there's not an inch of room for him in the carryall. No 
 space in the wagon, either. But I've got to take him along. 
 I won't leave him behind." 
 
 "John, we can't. He's so feeble right now, he can hardly 
 
THE FATHER 69 
 
 shuffle. Listen. You know I've got my eighty dollars a year, 
 interest money. I can easily spare him a dollar a month. 
 We'll fix it so that his tight-fisted son-in-law needn't know 
 one thing." 
 
 Father growled, but he yielded with scant argument. 
 
 "Gave in and behaved sensible, for once in his life," 
 Aunty remarked to Mercy later. "Sometimes I think that 
 verse in the Bible was writ special about him. 'And that 
 thou takest the needy into thine house.' John would take in 
 the whole world-full of needy folks, if so's he could. He's a 
 good man, Mercy. None better. But I surely am thankful 
 that he has you to take care of him. No matter how good 
 your menfolks are, they're an awful responsibility." 
 
 "Everybody comes to see us," wrote Mercy in her diary, 
 "to poke and pry around, and figure out what we're taking 
 along, and find out how much money Father is getting for 
 the farms, and how much he paid for the new place out 
 west, and are we ever coming back, and Well, we do hope 
 you succeed. But no telling. To-day, though, we had two 
 very remarkable visitors. They were old Judge Amberley 
 and Miss Evelina. But they did not come together, and I 
 don't believe that either one knew that the other was 
 coming. 
 
 "First came Miss Evelina. She walked up the hill, though 
 nobody ever saw her walk so far before. Always she sits, 
 all primmed up, in the big barouche alongside of her father, 
 and never looks to right nor to left. But this time she came 
 flying up all alone. She looked perfectly beautiful, for she 
 had on an apple-green taffeta dress with rosebuds embroid- 
 ered on all the flounces, and a great swinging cape of yellow 
 old lace over it, and a bonnet all frills and stiff little cin- 
 namon pinks. But her cheeks were blazing red, and she was 
 out of breath and shaking all over. 
 
70 THE FATHER 
 
 "She hardly spoke to Aunty and me. She went straight to 
 Father. He was roping Grandfather Davenport into a 
 Rising Sun quilt but he stopped quick and came straight to 
 her, shirt-sleeves and all. 
 
 " 'Good morning, Mr. Stafford,' says she, very proud 
 and cool. But she put her hand on his arm, and I could see 
 it tremble. 'I have come to ask a great kindness of you. 
 Will you take me west with you? I wish to remain west 
 permanently.' 
 
 "Father's eyes simply popped out. So did Aunty's. So did 
 mine. Then all of a sudden Father said, 'Oh, my dear 
 child!' as if she had told him something, without saying it 
 out loud. Then he put his arm around her and said, so 
 gently, 'But your own father?' 
 
 " 'My own father — I cannot talk to him. He is kind. 
 But he could never understand. But you ' 
 
 "She stopped, and sort of thought it over. 
 
 " 'Listen. In the past three years I have made eight bead 
 reticules, one with France weeping at the grave of Na- 
 poleon on it. I have embroidered three fire screens, and 
 knitted the lace for seven petticoats. I have not stirred 
 abroad, save as I took the air with my father. I have not 
 baked a loaf of bread. I have not fed a child.' 
 
 "She stopped right there. Her cheeks were flaming, and 
 she looked as if she was so angry she daren't speak another 
 word. Then 
 
 " 'I am only a woman. I know that. But I have the 
 right to live like other women, to work, to do my 
 share ' 
 
 "She stopped again. 
 
 "Father stood there with his arm around her. He looked 
 sort of white and queer and sorry. At last he said, 'But you 
 cannot hurt your father so. You are his beloved only child. 
 You cannot shame him.' 
 
THE FATHER 7 i 
 
 "Miss Evelina waited till he had finished. Then she 
 pulled herself away from Father, and laughed out loud, 
 right in his face. She drew back, and gave him a great 
 sweeping curtsey. 
 
 " 'Men are all alike, when it comes to women. Thank 
 you with all my heart for your stone, Mr. John Stephen 
 Stafford!' 
 
 "Then she curtsied to Aunty, and kissed me, and her 
 lips were like ice. And off she went, drifting down the 
 garden like a queen in a fairy book. 
 
 "Father stared after her. Then he said, sort of under 
 his breath, 'But, good God, what can a man do?' 
 
 "I thought Aunty would rebuke him for such outrajus 
 language, but she never peeped. She just patted his shoul- 
 der, and didn't say one word. I surely do wish I knew what 
 Miss Evelina meant by giving her a stone, but you may 
 believe I knew better than to ask. 
 
 "That very afternoon, Father was down in the home 
 orchard. Giving up the orchard is harder for Father than 
 anything else. He loves it more than the house, even, a 
 thousand times more. I know just how he feels, for the trees 
 are like people to me, too. The apple trees are so moth- 
 erly, and the pear trees are such fussy conceited things, 
 always showing off, and yet so elegant, you have to treat 
 them like quality, everyone; and the peaches and cherries 
 all bloom in such a rush, like so many excited brides, as if 
 they were head-set on beating each other every year. Father 
 had the little boys with him and they were picking apples, 
 but most of the time Father was being a wild horse of 
 the Pampas, and Thomas was riding him bareback, and the 
 other two were lassoing him with pieces of grapevine. 
 
 "Right then up comes Judge Amberley, sitting so straight 
 and stately in his bottle-green barouche, with his black 
 
72 THE FATHER 
 
 coachman, all bottle-green, too, perched all high and mighty 
 up aloft. 
 
 "When Father saw Judge Amberley, he shucked Thomas 
 off his back, and hurried to meet him. 
 
 "Now I thought it was very romantic of Miss Evelina, 
 to want to go West with us, and that maybe the Judge was 
 behaving like a Cruel Parent to her, though you'd never 
 believe that to look at him and, anyway, I thought it would 
 be interesting to listen. But the Judge never once spoke 
 Miss Evelina's name. I don't believe he so much as dreamed 
 that she wanted to go West. But he was terribly worked up. 
 He struggled out of the barouche, and he went straight to 
 Father, and gripped Father's hands hard. 
 
 " 'John, my boy, a strange report has come to me. People 
 tell me that you are selling your lands, that you are going 
 West, that you will cast in your lot with the abolitionists. 
 I cannot believe this. Tell me that this is not true. Surely 
 you will not join that pestilent crew.' 
 
 "Poor Father, I was so sorry for him. He loves Judge 
 Amberley so dearly. He tried to answer, but he just couldn't 
 speak. Finally he got it out. 
 
 " c These reports are true, Judge Amberley. I — I'd give 
 anything if you could feel as I do ' 
 
 " 'John, you are your father's son, and as his son, noth- 
 ing can turn you away from me. But Oh, you can- 
 not mean to do this thing! You will not ruin your life, 
 you will not blacken your honored name!' 
 
 " 'Judge Amberley' — poor Father, he was shaking all 
 over — T must follow the command of my own conscience. 
 Surely you will not cast me out?' 
 
 "Judge Amberley tried to speak, but he couldn't. He 
 just choked up, too, and stood staring at Father. Father 
 put out his hand, but the Judge didn't see it. He turned to 
 the barouche and held to it a minute, as if he was going 
 
THE FATHER 73 
 
 to fall, but he didn't. He pitched and blundered up the steps, 
 and sort of fell back into the seat. And then the bottle-green 
 coachman drove him away. 
 
 "He'd hurt Father terribly. I knew that. For a minute, 
 I was so angry I couldn't speak myself. But as the barouche 
 turned down the driveway, I got a good look at his face. 
 My, but he looked so gray and sick and old! And his poor 
 old veiny hands were clutching out, groping out, as if he'd 
 let go of something that he couldn't ever get hold of again. 
 
 "I just packed Father's chessmen in the box with the win- 
 ter flannels. Father says small chance he will find anybody 
 to play chess with out west. But I want him to have them, 
 for when he is tired from writing, an hour of chess rests 
 him so much. Aunty says she has never approved of any 
 game of chance, and she considers that to play chess is to 
 undermine your character, but if she was not seventy-six 
 going on seventy-seven she would try to learn, so's to be 
 company for him. Aunty always smacks you first and 
 then gives you a peppermint afterwards. 
 
 "Father has hired Miss Euphemia to make new round- 
 abouts for the little boys, all over brass buttons, and new 
 nankeen pantaloons, and he bought me a fine lilac poplin 
 with green velvet moss trimming, for my very best. He 
 should have bought himself a new great-coat. The one he 
 has is very genteel-looking when he gets it on, but it is so 
 shiny on the seams that Aunty roughs it up with sand- 
 paper every week. I've tried hard to coax him to buy a new 
 one, but he says he cannot afford to this year. I can't under- 
 stand why he wants to pinch himself like that. He never 
 used to. Of course I know we are not rich folks and never 
 have been, not since Greatgrandfather whiffed everything 
 away. But if Father can afford new clothes for us children, 
 he ought to have some for himself. 
 
 "Aunty says his greatcoat cannot be good material, for 
 
74 THE FATHER 
 
 any greatcoat ought to last 15 years at the least, and that 
 she has had her paddy-soy mantle for 18, and expects to 
 wear it to the Grave. Aunty is very forehanded. She has 
 her shroud all ready. She let me peek at it. It is India 
 muslin, very fine and sheer, and all embroidered. Grand- 
 father brought it back from Bombay in the Semiramis, in 
 1 82 1. She expects to wear it with three laced petticoats, but 
 no hoops, as she says they are not customary " 
 
 At last the house and the farms were sold. All the money 
 received, except the dangerously small sum that Father 
 held back for his children, had been sent to Joel. Sent 
 through Mr. Emerson, who had paid almost all of it on 
 Joel's debt to the Bank; then he had sent what remained to 
 Joel, through the hands of a trusted friend. It was best 
 to keep Joel's address absolutely secret. The wagons were 
 loaded to the Plimsoll mark. The good-bys were all 
 spoken. 
 
 Then, on the very last day, Green River's civic heart 
 melted. Here went its foremost citizen away to a new and 
 lonely world. Green River must rise up and bid him God- 
 speed. Shops closed their doors, and the whole town gath- 
 ered before the schoolhouse, an awed, sober, friendly 
 crowd. 
 
 Up rose the town clerk, his brown wig a bit askew, his 
 voice quivering between upblown importance and sincere 
 emotion. He lifted his hand for silence: from the broad 
 parchment, nourishing scrolls and flutes and flowers that 
 never bloomed by land or sea, he read aloud his tribute: 
 
 "We, the men and women of Green River, Massachu- 
 setts, in Union and Harmony assembled, do hereby: 
 "Resolve: 
 
 "That, since to-day we have gathered to say Farewell to 
 
THE FATHER 75 
 
 our friend and fellow-citizen, John Stephen Stafford, and 
 his Family, upon their departure for the Sangamon Coun- 
 try, Illinois: that we hereby tender to them our Generous 
 Hopes, and our Wishes for their Success, their Spiritual 
 and Moral Welfare, and their Longevity. We also 
 "Resolve: 
 
 "That we commend them to the Brotherly Kindness of 
 such Communities as they may visit during their Earthly 
 Sojourn : 
 
 "We further 
 "Resolve: 
 
 "We trust that they may receive, from such Communi- 
 ties, the Hospitality, the Generosity, and the Virtues of 
 Religion of which they themselves have been always such 
 Notable Exponents, and which they are now leaving 
 behind." 
 
 Nobody noticed that startling peroration. Nobody smiled. 
 Father, grim and white, his shaken mouth set hard, clutched 
 Mercy in one hand, held an awed leash of little boys in 
 the other. In three unsteady words, he spoke his gratitude. 
 Then he loaded them into the carryall, Aunty first. On her 
 lap he set the kettle holding the moody Cyrus. Zenobia 
 squawked against her shoulder, Mouser flounced indig- 
 nantly in her gunny-sack under the front seat. Mercy and 
 the little boys crammed themselves in behind. 
 
 Aunty stared ahead, up the peaceful autumn road. Pres- 
 ently she wiped her eyes, drew a long breath. 
 
 "Well, John, we're off." 
 
 "Yes, Aunt Celestia, we're off. Good fortune go with 
 us." 
 
 Aunty did not reply. She was straining her eyes after the 
 covered wagon, which wallowed ahead like a ship in a heavy 
 sea. 
 
76 THE FATHER 
 
 "John Stafford! Who is driving that wagon?" 
 
 Again, in its utter guilelessness, Father's face rivaled the 
 Praying Samuel. 
 
 "Why, I never thought to tell you. It's old Captain 
 Jones." 
 
 "Captain Jones!" 
 
 "Yes. I meant to drive the wagon myself, and let Mercy 
 drive the carryall. But I thought it over, and decided I'd 
 give Great-aunt Davenport to the museum, instead of haul- 
 ing her along to Illinois. That would make room for the 
 Captain. Better take along a live friend than a dead an- 
 cestor, any day." 
 
 There fell a silence. A terrifying silence. 
 
 Then Aunty dug into the depths of her bag. She pulled 
 out a peppermint. She thrust it into Father's hand. 
 
 "John," said she, magnanimous in defeat, "have a pep- 
 permint!" 
 
CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 A WEEK on the highway, two weeks, and still the 
 golden autumn held like a tranquil charm. The morn- 
 ings glowed through pearly mists, the days were a chain of 
 amber hours, the evenings fell softly through Indian sum- 
 mer haze, colored like smoky topaz, soft as down. Under 
 that still and gentle sky, Father rested from all his burdened 
 thoughts. 
 
 Aunty relaxed, too; at least after the Captain had found 
 a safe hook for Cyrus and his kettle aboard the big wagon, 
 so that she need no longer strain her bony old knees by 
 carrying him, his heavy kettle, and a gallon of his native 
 element. Cyrus was a good traveler, she declared proudly. 
 At least, he never made any complaints. Although he surely 
 had grounds for complaint, for the constant jouncing would 
 have caused sea-sickness in the most accustomed voyager. 
 On rough stretches of road he was not only jounced, he 
 was churned. 
 
 "He won't be a goldfish much longer, he'll be a butter- 
 fish," remarked the unterrified Seth. Luckily, Aunty's deaf 
 ear was turned his way. 
 
 Uncle Joel had once observed that Aunty was so de- 
 voted to Cyrus because he neither tramped in mud nor 
 stayed out nights. But he had other sterling qualities. His 
 was the gift of silence. And when you compared his be- 
 havior to that of Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra, you realized 
 his solid worth. 
 
 Zenobia was different. Like every macaw since the world 
 began, she had an exaggerated idea of her beauty and of the 
 
78 THE FATHER 
 
 privileges that it bestowed upon her. Loudly she bewailed 
 the fate that had cast her forth from the haven of the 
 worsted-work cave. She shrieked, she squawked, she nipped. 
 She scolded the little boys, she snarled at Father like the 
 virago she was, and she set up a prompt feud with the old 
 Captain. 
 
 Being very human the Captain took vast comfort in giv- 
 ing her sass for sass. With his voice dropped to a madden- 
 ing whisper that it might not reach Aunty's ear, he hurled 
 affronts at Zenobia that made her squall for fury. Jezebel, 
 he called her, right to her outraged face. At sight of him 
 she went into a frenzy, she beat her wings and she clashed 
 her beak. 
 
 "I wonder if the Captain ever gave her a little smack," 
 said Mercy to Adoniram. 
 
 "No, Sister, but the day we started she called him names, 
 and he told her she wasn't no lady. And she's never forgot- 
 ten it. I'm skairt of Zenobia myself. Captain says she's Mrs. 
 Apollyon, all diked out in feathers." 
 
 "Of all the ridiculous " 
 
 " 'Taint ridiculous. Not one bit. Captain says, all macaws 
 are in league with Satan." Adoniram lifted solemn eyes. 
 "Lucifer is their schoolmaster. 'Stead of prayin', they scoff. 
 'Stead of gospel hymns, he teaches 'em to holler blasphemy. 
 They even wear his colors. Flame color on their throats, says 
 Captain, and blister-scarlet on their tails, and sulphur on 
 their weskits." 
 
 "Never mind. Let Mrs. Apollyon alone and she won't 
 pester you. Now let's go drive for Captain, so he can lie 
 down in the wagon awhile and rest." 
 
 Adoniram needed no urging. Being the eldest of the 
 obstreperous three might have its sorrows, but it had one 
 royal prerogative. Neither Seth nor Thomas was ever 
 trusted with the reins. Alone Adoniram rode on the high 
 
THE FATHER 79 
 
 seat, the heavy leathers clutched in his freckled paws, 
 prouder than Phaethon. 
 
 The wagon, so shrewdly packed, held a fascination of 
 its own. Father had loaned all the family portraits, except 
 those of Grandfather and Grandmother, to the little Green 
 River Museum. He had given away scores of books, and 
 had shipped scores west to the new home. Then, by wise 
 planning, he had crammed in everything that they would 
 use on the journey. Not just the things that spelled absolute 
 need, but things for comfort, too. 
 
 As a result the wagon itself looked like a traveling 
 museum. Prosaic necessities elbowed pitiful uprooted treas- 
 ures. Ax and water-bucket, bread-board and rolling-pin, 
 Aunty's feather-bed, the canvas hammocks, a huge skillet, 
 two leather-bound pack-baskets. Father's shot-gun, an old 
 but efficient horse-pistol, Seth's hapless pocket-rifle, Thomas's 
 bow and arrows. And cheek by jowl with these stern mat- 
 ters were the haughty old portraits, the fine and costly 
 furniture, the faded velvet curtains, relics of a day whose 
 splendor was long since past and gone. 
 
 Promptly Grandfather's portrait slipped its moorings of 
 patchwork quilt. His wall-eye glared out as if he called 
 down the vengeance of Heaven upon his impious descend- 
 ants who had snatched him from the safe south wall where 
 he had hung so many years. Grandmother had shifted her 
 blanket drapery, too. You saw nothing of her, except her 
 chin, to be sure. But that chin was eloquent. 
 
 The furniture was even more eloquent in its aspect of 
 helpless protest. At the rear were Aunty's parlor chairs, 
 beautiful old rosewood and marquetry, with cunningly 
 woven rush seats. They stood bunched together, with the 
 seats stuck out backward. They wore an air of frightened 
 humiliation, as if they had just been turned up to be spanked, 
 said little Thomas, with reminiscent sympathy. 
 
8o THE FATHER 
 
 Aunty's pineapple bed leaned fainting against the side 
 of the wagon, its four fat pineapples clutching up like im- 
 ploring hands. Opposite stood her Chippendale table, a piece 
 fit for a Signer's drawing-room, now set against a back- 
 ground of lard pails, frying-pan, storm boots, and iron lan- 
 tern. Everything that could be hung from walls or roof was 
 thus suspended, including Zenobia's cage, still wearing its 
 bead overskirt. Directly above it hung Cyrus's kettle. Oc- 
 casionally a heavy jolt would splash water from Cyrus's 
 traveling tub down on Zenobia, and the protest that ensued 
 would rend the firmament on high. Luckily, Cyrus himself 
 never spilled. Had he done so, Zenobia would have gobbled 
 him without compunction. 
 
 Ponderous gray Mouser, who had ruled Aunty's kitchen 
 for sixteen years, rode safely if obscurely beneath the car- 
 riage seat. Mouser was just two months older than Mercy. 
 "Mercy's twin," as the little boys called her, had viewed 
 Mercy with supercilious eye, ever since their earliest youth. 
 No Chinese cat, carved in pallid jade above a Chinese lintel, 
 could win over Mouser's poise. Even the indignity of a 
 gunny-sack had not shaken her royal calm. But occasionally 
 the humiliation of her lowly place proved beyond enduring. 
 At such times, a surprised yelp from one of the little boys 
 told that Mouser had avenged herself on a handy fat leg. 
 
 Even the under side of the wagon carried its burden, and 
 a precious one. There hung long slim branches, saplings 
 and seedlings and cherished cuttings, the cream of their 
 deep old gardens. Aunty's quince seedlings, the Duchesse 
 d'Angouleme pears that were Father's pride, the snow 
 apples, the knotted ropes of Concord grapes, the raspberry 
 canes, the apricots and plums and peaches. Then, wrapped 
 even more tenderly in their burlap cradles, the lovely trees 
 of spring. Lilac, syringa and smoke trees with their April 
 promise of coppery lace. Moss-roses, sweet as old valen- 
 tines; spirea, brought from Old Ipswich a hundred years 
 
THE FATHER 81 
 
 ago, where it had spread its pearly wreaths for a hundred 
 years before; damask roses, forlorn and skinny little stalks 
 to-day, but promising banks of ivory and crimson loveli- 
 ness for Mays to come. There were canvas sacks, too, that 
 gave out pungent odors. Seth sniffed at them resentfully. 
 Camomile, sage, peppermint. Though you fled to the utter- 
 most parts of the earth you'd never escape Aunty's yarb tea. 
 
 Each day brought its fill of marvels. They ate of venison 
 — not the commonplace sort, bought from the Green River 
 butcher's cart, but cut before their ravished eyes, from 
 the flank, still warm, of a deer that Father himself had shot. 
 They stood on the blood-stained ground, the very sod, 
 maybe, of the Mohawk Massacre. True, that massacre had 
 taken place when Father was a few years younger than 
 Thomas, but the thrill of it still lived. You looked back of 
 you cautiously; little icy shivers trickled down your spine. 
 No telling: at any minute the thick hemlock branches 
 might give way to a swarming rush of tall feathered shapes, 
 your ears might ring to the deafening surge of war-whoops. 
 Ecstasy! Ecstasy! Never again such wonder-joys as these. 
 For such glory cannot shine for you nor for me. Never 
 again. Not after we're nine years old, going on ten. 
 
 Yet all the youngsters' rambunctious happiness was a glory 
 thin and faint when set against the look on the old Cap- 
 tain's face. For he had been thrown aside, cast away. Now 
 he stood, snatched back to helpfulness, usefulness, au- 
 thority. He had been old. But now he was young. 
 
 Out of all the travelers only Mercy knew regret. For 
 the most part she was still such a child that she was carried 
 away by this miraculous new world around her; but when 
 she did remember, she was all one ache of self-reproach. 
 Never before had she kept an hour's secret from Father. 
 The blue ribbon tied beneath her ruffled tucker, and carrying 
 Lemuel's carnelian ring which had cost a dollar-fifty at 
 the postoffice store, was a millstone around her neck. 
 
82 THE FATHER 
 
 Aunty was really the pride of that long journey. Care- 
 fully Father had planned for her comfort, in so far as 
 comfort might be possible. To go as far as they could by 
 railroad would have been much easier for her, of course. 
 But Aunty had refused to discuss that. Plenty of women- 
 folks as old as she, and older, had traveled by covered 
 wagon in the years gone by. Plenty were still journeying 
 thus, and none the worse for it. Women- folks a sight bet- 
 ter than she was, any day. And here she went, rolling in 
 state in the big carryall, with its deep springs, its cushions 
 packed close around her, fine as any queen. More, there came 
 with her her own beloved feather-bed, hung on a broad 
 sailcloth hammock, so she could rest at night as peacefully 
 as in her own cozy room! A pretty figure she'd cut if she 
 dared breathe one word of complaint! Besides, hadn't she 
 seen pictures of railroad trains that had run off the track, 
 and tossed their passengers head-first into rivers and slammed 
 them against houses, and, far worse, spitted them on a 
 curling rail that had pierced through the coach floor and 
 stood them thus aloft, holding them as if ready for broiling, 
 like so many partridges? No such heathenish devices for 
 Aunty. 
 
 Besides, as she confided privately to Mercy, no real lady 
 would ever take the chance of dying in public. "Think of 
 it, Mercy Rose! How would you feel being brought face 
 to face with eternity, and you in your chimmy like as not, 
 and maybe not even your hoops on! You'd never get over 
 it. Never in this world." 
 
 So, having set her course, Aunty followed it with not 
 one whimper. An aching old martyr but a courageous old 
 martyr, mind that. 
 
 Although they had planned to stop at taverns over night, 
 the dry warm weather made it possible for them to camp 
 instead. Aunty and Mercy slept on the great feather-bed 
 in the wagon, and Father and the Captain swung up a sail- 
 
THE FATHER 83 
 
 cloth hammock apiece, for there were always obliging neigh- 
 borly trees to tie to. The little boys curled up like so many 
 puppies on a fat straw tick beside the camp fire. This, one 
 need not add, spelled the crowning rapture. 
 
 To their deep disgust, their caravan need set up no pro- 
 tection against bears and Indians. However, they encamped 
 in the old pioneer way. A great fire was built, for the au- 
 tumn nights were cool. The wagons were ranged close by, 
 and the horses were picketed some distance off. First, every- 
 body set to gathering sticks and brush for the fire. Then, 
 when it had burned down to coals, the roasting ears and 
 the potatoes were tucked into the hot ashes, the big three- 
 footed skillets of squirrels and fish were set on the coals, 
 and the coffee was put to boil. After that luscious supper, 
 how good the warm rest by the fire, while the stars stood 
 guard behind the swaying branches, and a round red October 
 moon glowed like a lantern in the deep night of the sky! 
 
 Through the mellow golden days they journeyed on. 
 By Indian trails they went as through a sorcerer's highway, 
 roofed by green drooping branches, walled with the blood- 
 red tapestry of November oak-trees, carpeted by rustling 
 many-colored leaves. Pure pale gold, as softly gold as Miss 
 Evelina's ringlets; apricot and cherry and clear translucent 
 crimson; crimson of burning-bush, crimson of sumac, 
 carved fiery orange of bittersweet. Sculptured cornices of 
 ivy, now tipped with fire, now darkly, bravely green. On, 
 down the great valley, bound by its mountains folded in 
 their eternal blue. On, on. 
 
 Always the little boys watched eager-eyed, their hearts 
 pounding in the fearful hope of Indians. Indians in plenty 
 they saw. Slouchy cropheaded men; squat wrinkled women, 
 carrying their nests of baskets for sale; grim stolid chil- 
 dren. Always their ears were alert to catch the crackle of 
 moccasined feet on the dry brush, the campfire flames in 
 
84 THE FATHER 
 
 a deep hidden glade, the singing sting of arrows, the shrill 
 bloodcurdling wail of the warwhoop. 
 
 "I guess the truly Indians have gone on a visit," sighed 
 little Thomas. But on that very night, his wildest hope came 
 true. For in dark and gloom and single file, down the trail 
 towards them swung a line of Iroquois braves, in full war- 
 paint. Lean tall bodies, fierce painted faces, proud high- 
 flung eagle-feathers: phantom-dim against the cold yellow 
 sunset they strode by. Away they glimmered, far into the 
 dusk. Wraiths of past splendor, shadows of a glory for- 
 gotten, they vanished, painted for one breath against the 
 fading November sky. 
 
 "Oh, oh!" Thomas shuddered with joyful awe. "Oh, if 
 they'd only have a battle, so's we could stop and see ! " 
 
 "I'd hardly call that a warrior band," said Father dryly. 
 Father's eye had caught their threadbare blankets, their 
 torn and ragged moccasins, their broken eagle feathers. 
 Pitiful vaunting tag-ends of their once mighty tribe, they 
 had swaggered past, they had flaunted their way down their 
 last dark road, the road to night. 
 
 But Thomas would have known an even deeper thrill, 
 had he realized that, throughout the next two nights, 
 Father had sat close to the wagon, his rifle across his knees, 
 his eyes alert at every crackle in the brush, peering sharp at 
 every shadow. But not in dread of those forlorn enemies, 
 but because this was a lonely stretch of the road. And 
 strange and cruel things had happened there. 
 
 Now there opened yet one more gate of magic. For soon 
 they boarded a packet out of Albany for Buffalo, by way 
 of the Erie Canal. Not one element of that voyage escaped 
 the youngsters' eyes. The long narrow boat itself was fitted 
 so snugly into the slim strip of water that the two might 
 have formed a Titan plaything. The drivers, some of them 
 mere boys, who bawled and swaggered and cursed, with an 
 eager eye out for the shocked admiration of the three 
 
THE FATHER 85 
 
 little brothers. The regal captain in his high boots and his 
 curly-brim beaver, with his reverential bows to Aunty, and 
 his beaming strut whenever Mercy came into view; a gal- 
 lantry which Mercy gazed upon, oblivious, although a bit 
 flattered inwardly. For how should a woman betrothed, 
 even though but halfway betrothed, stoop to glance upon 
 an alien worshiper? 
 
 The canal itself unfolded wonder upon wonder. There 
 was Montezuma Marsh, where folks came by scores, so 
 Aunty told them, to buy flags for rush chair-seats. All six 
 of Aunty's superb old mahogany chairs had soft lustrous 
 seats of rushes, her pride, alas, too soon to be her grief. 
 All their own chairs of rosewood, inlaid with mother of 
 pearl, part of their young mother's dowry, had rush seats, 
 too. So that the great marsh held a friendly feeling of 
 home. Even now, in late autumn, it held a wild and deso- 
 late beauty. All around, as far as eye could see, stretched 
 the vivid green of the lowlands, a living emerald against 
 the masses of dry rustling reeds and the great brown papery 
 plaques of the water-lily pads. All through those dun reed 
 forests sounded the whirr and ripple of birds, arriving, de- 
 parting, themselves so many hurrying pioneers. The lonely 
 cry of the wild geese, the plaintive call of the quail, the sigh 
 and tremor of uncounted wings. For, as in the dry dead 
 reeds there lay the green jewel of the deathless marsh- 
 grass, so amid the lone cold marsh itself there awoke and 
 shone these jewels of eager life. 
 
 Then came the famous hill of Palmyra, "The hill of 
 Cumorah," where the golden plates of Moroni were buried; 
 and after that, the bewildering lock at Fairport. "How on 
 earth could the canal climb so high?" inquired the puzzled 
 Seth. At Palmyra, Thomas hopefully desired to be put off, 
 armed with the fire-shovel, that he himself might dig up 
 Aladdin's treasure. He was dissuaded from this glorious 
 
86 THE FATHER 
 
 aim with much difficulty. But soon he had dried his tears, 
 absorbed by the endless panorama of the passengers. 
 
 And such passengers ! So many folks, and all so different 
 from the staid and righteous citizenry of Green River! The 
 vast stream of 1854 was yet to come. But a river of emi- 
 gration was pouring down the narrow channel of the canal. 
 Stream on stream it came, whole families, whole neighbor- 
 hoods, whole townships, on their way to the newer coun- 
 tries, to Michigan, Wisconsin, Iowa, Missouri, Kansas. 
 
 And such people ! The women held no vital interest. As 
 the Captain observed, with the sapience of eighty-odd, 
 wimmen folks is wimmen folks, the world over. Rip 'em 
 up by the roots, and start 'em traveling, and they're so 
 many scairt lost cats. Tired, harried, hopeful, despondent, 
 they carried their heavy, squirming, squalling babies, and 
 tagged after their men. The very cores of their homes, 
 the leaven of life they might be, yet worn to listlessness, 
 dazed, spent, they seemed no more than the autumn leaves 
 that blew along the shores. 
 
 But the men! Back on their rocky little farms, toiling 
 in dull villages, they too might have been listless and de- 
 pressed. But now, swept out of their narrow ruts by this 
 mighty torrent, this sweep of motion, this change on change 
 was as new blood in their veins. Adventurers, explorers, 
 pioneers by rooted instinct, they thrust on. They were as 
 men coming into their birthright, coming in confidence, in 
 unquestioning hope. Their shoulders lifted, their strides 
 grew proud, they seemed to swell and grow tall. And 
 clutching their household goods, dragging their children, 
 their women tagged at their cocksure heels. 
 
 Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor — they were all there, just 
 as on Mercy's outgrown button-string. Roaring lumbermen, 
 down from the northern forests. Sturdy, red-faced drovers, 
 west-bound to take up wider pastures; spruce young officers 
 ordered to distant forts, puffed up with a little brief author- 
 
THE FATHER 87 
 
 ity. Land agents, a swarm of them. Some of them were 
 men of probity. But a sad majority were as thorough-paced 
 scoundrels as ever dodged a rope. 
 
 One of these dubious gentlemen, a youngish man named 
 Norris, made of himself a special irritation to Father 
 throughout the six days' journey. He badgered him con- 
 stantly with glittering offers, until Father longed to take 
 him by the scruff of his impudent neck, and chuck him into 
 the canal. "Only," as he complained to Mercy, "that sort 
 would swim out before he struck the water." 
 
 Finally, under repeated snubs, Norris subsided. But he 
 was a brazen sort, and no snub could silence him for long. 
 
 Through the blue-and-gold days, the big boat moved to 
 a quaint mingled measure. The ring of the captain's voice, 
 the tired crooning of the mothers to their broods, the crack 
 of the drivers' whips, made a constant rhythm. But when 
 twilight came, and the huge whaleoil lamps were lighted in 
 the cabin, the boat rocked and swayed with song. A mid- 
 century traveler once set it down as a fact that these later 
 pioneers did not merely travel west, they argued and 
 wrangled every inch of their way west. But in their more 
 mellow hours, they sang and played their way west, no 
 doubt of that. They brought out their flutes and violins, and 
 also their dulcimers, their accordions and their mouth- 
 organs. There was hardly a soul aboard but could carry a 
 tune. Or at least, there was hardly a soul who did not pos- 
 sess a touching confidence in his talents for melody. Night 
 after night, the old songs resounded over lonely black 
 marshes, through dim forest trails. The Junifer Tree; Oh, 
 Susannah; The Jay Bird's Altar; Jim Along, Jim Along, 
 Josie; Far Beyond the Northern Sea — the very stars must 
 dance to these rollicking old airs. 
 
 Soon one voice would lift a graver note. Then the whole 
 cabinful would join in a noble old hymn. Following the 
 hymn, some ardent nature would be moved to rise up and 
 
88 THE FATHER 
 
 address the passengers. Sometimes three or four earnest 
 speakers would be on their feet at once. The topics of their 
 discourse varied, from the end of the world — which was 
 scheduled by a large element for the following April — to 
 personal opinions concerning various public servants, from 
 the President on down. Very personal opinions, these were, 
 and the evening would reach a speedy climax when several 
 indignant champions would spring up to defend their favor- 
 ites. However, the captain kept an eagle eye on events. Just 
 as the evening reached the boiling point, he would stride 
 to the front, seize on a flushed vituperative orator, and 
 propel him rapidly to the narrow deck. There, in the cool- 
 ing starlight, he would urge the disputant to cool off and 
 be quick about it, or else take to the tow-path. Invariably 
 this method worked like magic. That is, until the boat 
 reached the landing at Lockport. 
 
 At Lockport, Freedom's Band came aboard, en route 
 for Buffalo. 
 
 At first glance, Freedom's Band looked appealingly inno- 
 cent. It was a quartette; two apple-cheeked young soprano 
 sisters, two husky young basso brothers. They were travel- 
 ing through the Middle West, giving concerts in every 
 settlement, in every schoolhouse, even. Between them they 
 lugged two violins, a flute, a clarinet, a French horn, and 
 a small but efficient drum. Every one of them could double 
 in brass at the slightest provocation. Every one of them 
 could sing as sings the lark at Heaven's gate. But their 
 vocal programs were made up of anti-slavery songs of a 
 violence that would rouse wild enthusiasm and even wilder 
 fury in any partisan audience. So that they were quite as 
 safe an addition to this emotional passenger list as so many 
 lively young charges of dynamite. 
 
 They devoted their first evening aboard to instrumental 
 music. This was a fortunate choice. Even the captain re- 
 laxed his vigilance, and sat happily keeping time with a 
 
THE FATHER 89 
 
 large varnished boot to the March of Chafultej>ec y and My 
 Ladylove Polka. On the second evening, the passengers 
 crowded eagerly into the forward cabin, all agog for the 
 new program. 
 
 The four sturdy young folks stepped upon the dais and 
 scraped and curtsied charmingly. The two girls, engaging 
 young creatures in flounced pink satin crinolines, their yel- 
 low hair piled into massive birds' nests, their round faces 
 beaming, stepped forward and lifted up their voices. 
 Through the packed little room rang their deafening young 
 entreaty : 
 
 "We'll strike the fetters from the slave. 
 We'll blot this shame from our fair land " 
 
 Then like the crash of thunder, the two powerful broth- 
 ers came storming in 
 
 "Do you belong to Freedom's Band!" 
 
 The splendid voices rang in a tremendous challenge. 
 Over the staring upturned faces, there blazed an answering 
 flame. 
 
 A moment of dead silence. Then a score of passengers 
 leaped to their feet. 
 
 "Hooray!" "Glory Hallelujah!" "Throw them into the 
 
 canal, the nigger-stealers!" "Take your hands ofTen 
 
 them wimmen-folks, or I'll " 
 
 One minute ago the room had been a decorous assem- 
 blage of crinolines and frock coats. Now it was a frantic, 
 seething mob. 
 
 Father scooped up the little boys and crammed them 
 into the nearest berth. He seized on Mercy and thrust her 
 behind him. 
 
 The captain caught Father's eye. 
 
 "Grab 'em!" he shouted. He made a clutch for three 
 overwrought gentlemen who had seized on the two burly 
 
90 THE FATHER 
 
 brothers and were dragging them off the dais. The pink- 
 satin sisters were shrieking at the top of their strong lungs, 
 and trying to haul their brothers back. "Be quick, will you?" 
 
 Father was quick. He caught two vociferous partisans by 
 their rearing velvet collars, jerked open the big double 
 doors and shoved them outside. The captain followed, hus- 
 tling three more. With unbelievable speed, he pushed all five 
 over the edge of the deck. 
 
 They landed waist-deep in the cold canal water, splut- 
 tering, heaving, squawking. The captain whirled back and 
 faced the mob. 
 
 "Any more of you want to swim to Buffalo ?" he bawled 
 at the astounded crowd. 
 
 The hullabaloo stopped as if the mob had been stricken 
 dumb. There fell a dazed silence. 
 
 Then, like a scene in some preposterous play, over the 
 deck-edge scrambled two drenched and sodden figures. 
 Pop-eyed and clawing, they floundered on board. Their 
 long locks and their whiskers dripped with water. 
 
 From the crowded room there rose a shout that might 
 have split the packet roof. A shout of wild Homeric laugh- 
 ter. 
 
 One minute ago, the mob had grazed black tragedy. But 
 all that wild mob fury fell away, snuffed out by even 
 wilder mirth. 
 
 Over the deck crawled another drenched, snorting ob- 
 ject, another, another. Across the narrow deck they 
 clumped, dripping. Red-faced and sheepish, they scuttled 
 through the forward saloon to the calico-draped recesses 
 of the women's cabin. The howls of laughter followed 
 them, a mounting wave. And with that laughter, the whole 
 crowd grew magically serene. 
 
 "Nothing like a good laugh, to pacify folks." The cap- 
 tain turned to Father, with a grin of relief. 
 
 "If only they stay pacified." Father grinned back at him. 
 
CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 " A THIRD of our journey past, yet we all survive. 
 -*\. Blessed be monotony !" 
 
 Father stood on the dock at Buffalo in the midst of the 
 swirling crowd. Out of that tangle one figure stood out 
 sharp and clear. No wonder. This apparition was an elderly 
 man, tall, solid, bronzed to saddle-color. But it was not 
 his face, it was his clothing that caught the eye and held it 
 spell-bound between amazement and wild, unseemly mirth. 
 He wore a single garment of checked blue cotton, of the 
 identical material used for Thomas's infant pinafores, but 
 it was not a pinafore in cut. A chiton, rather. It hung 
 straight from his wide shoulders in alarmingly classic lines, 
 fastened none too securely by a black shawl pin. His mus- 
 cular arms were uncovered, and his strong lean legs were 
 as bare as a Highlander's; his massive feet were thrust into 
 sandals the size of small scows. Over his chest flowed his 
 uncut beard, a grizzled flood that reached his waist. His 
 large round guileless face was rosy with soap and water, 
 his blue frock was spotless and starched till it swung out 
 from his bony calves like a giant lamp-shade. His beard 
 looked scoured and starched too. The equipment he carried 
 suggested a Roman soldier in light marching order. A small 
 dishpan hung over his chest, like a diminutive shield. A 
 skillet, a hair-brush, and several artless toilet articles were 
 tied to its handle. Small sacks of potatoes and onions, meal 
 and salt, were lashed to his back. He caught Father's eye 
 and beamed. 
 
 "I am the Apostle of the Clean Hand," he introduced 
 himself. "Cleanliness is the cornerstone of my faith. I eat 
 
92 THE FATHER 
 
 no food, save that which I myself prepare. I use no dish 
 nor linen that I myself have not cleansed. I use no buttons, 
 you see, for they are a temptation to vanity. I have never 
 cut my beard," he caressed the amazing ornament with a 
 blandly gratified hand, "for I mar not the image of God, 
 which I myself am. I am an Owenite, a Fourierite, a Veg- 
 etarian, a Grahamite. Also, I am a phrenologist and an 
 astrologer, with some leanings to Spiritualism. And above 
 all things, I am an Abolitionist." 
 
 Mr. Stafford gulped. 
 
 "But to-day I am minded to put aside my raiment of 
 peace and take on the armor of wrath. Among these incom- 
 ing passengers there is a land agent, one Norris by name, 
 who has done me great wrong. By trickery he brought me 
 to accept a deed to land in Indiana which he avowed to 
 be a very Garden of Eden, but which I find to be but marsh 
 and swamp, with not one rood of good plow soil. No man 
 of law will take my case. So I have come to meet him 
 here and counsel with him upon the error of his ways." 
 
 Mr. Stafford looked pityingly at this guileless elderly 
 child. If no lawyer would take his case he could counsel 
 till the cows came home, for all the good it would do him. 
 
 "He is expected on this packet. So I have walked many 
 weary miles Ah, sir, there he comes now!" 
 
 Head high, his ferret face rosy, his diamonds glittering, 
 Norris strode from the cabin. 
 
 "Wonder what he'll say to the scamp!" 
 
 Amused and pitying, Father stepped forward. But only 
 a step. For in the twink of an eye, the Apostle had forgotten 
 all the mild persuasion that lay upon his tongue. With a 
 bellow anything but apostolic, he flung himself across the 
 deck and landed on Norris with a thud. 
 
 Norris fell back against the cabin wall. 
 
 Those were the good old times when men fought at the 
 
THE FATHER 93 
 
 drop of a hat, or without it. Among the milling crowd were 
 several men who held bitter grudges against Norris. Others 
 of his own cloth rushed to his rescue. A large faction, who 
 knew nothing of what this fracas might be about, but who 
 loved a fight for the fight's sake, hurled themselves gladly 
 into the melee. In three seconds the whole dock was a mag- 
 nificent free-for-all. Everybody came gleefully in. Sailors, 
 laborers, canal-drivers, passengers; even the high and mighty 
 young army men and the lordly judge in his fine furred 
 coat threw all dignity to the winds, and sailed in, heart 
 and soul, fists and feet. 
 
 Nobody protested. Nobody sent in a riot call. In those 
 happy days, there were no such things as riot calls. Besides, 
 to interfere would mean a grave infraction of vested 
 rights. 
 
 Alone of all the crowd, Mr. Stafford was not yearning 
 for a fist-fight. He thrust his way, bruised and furious, out 
 of the mob. But as he struggled free, there rose a whoop. 
 The Apostle had slammed Norris back against the cabin 
 again, and was flailing him right and left with both large, 
 clean, powerful hands. Given two minutes more he would 
 have polished off the job to a T. But Norris's friends, with 
 regrettable loyalty, rushed him from the rear. The Apostle 
 turned to beat back his assailants. Instantly Norris leaped 
 on his shoulders and hurled him backward. He pitched 
 down, crashed on the stone dock, and rolled over, limp. 
 The gang closed in on him like wolves. 
 
 Mr. Stafford shot into the crowd. He grabbed the fallen 
 Apostle and dragged him inside the warehouse door. Half 
 a dozen partisans then jumped on Norris and his crew. One 
 enthusiast wielded a crowbar with notable results, another 
 did execution with a bung-starter. Norris, realizing that the 
 fight was turning against him, vanished like quicksilver. 
 
 The crowd, refreshed and rambunctious, indulged in a 
 
94 THE FATHER 
 
 few more yells and a scuffle or so, then melted amiably 
 away. There remained only the bruised and dusty Apostle, 
 the packet captain, who, now that the storm was over, had 
 ventured from his own cabin, and was making stern offi- 
 cial inquiries, and Mr. Stafford, one sleeve torn out of 
 his Sabbath coat and his stock rearing furiously under one 
 ear. 
 
 "So this is what you call brotherly counsel, eh?" He 
 braced the Apostle's head against his knee, and splashed him, 
 not too tenderly, with a bucket of water. 
 
 The Apostle revived, looked up with a sheepish grin. 
 
 "I will own that my sinful mortality was too much for 
 me. But my evil nature has won for me some gain." 
 
 "It's won you a black eye and some ugly bruises." 
 
 "You fail to understand. In my dealings with this land 
 shark, I observed that he carried his riches in a wallet, in- 
 stead of wearing a gold belt, as do sensible men. So, when 
 I first grappled with him, I tore out the wallet and hurled it 
 from me as far as I could. In that turmoil, I felt sure that 
 no one would notice my act. So I presume the wallet is still 
 where it fell. It landed, I believe, in yon bunch of weeds." 
 
 Again Mr. Stafford gulped. Groggy but serene, the Apos- 
 tle floundered to his feet, stumbled across the wharf, and 
 dived into the dusty clump. He returned, still groggy, but 
 still serene. He opened the wallet and rummaged through 
 it. It held a fat roll of bills, and a bundle of legal papers. 
 From these he fished out the note that he had given on his 
 worthless place. 
 
 "Just as I supposed. This is well worth a black eye, my 
 friend. It rescues me from the misery of bondage. More- 
 over, I shall take a few of these bills, to pay for my jour- 
 ney, as well as to recompense me for the money already so 
 unjustly paid." 
 
 Mr. Stafford got his breath with an effort. 
 
THE FATHER 95 
 
 "You mean you'll take his wallet? Why, man, Norn's 
 will have a posse out for you in two shakes." 
 
 "I think not. I shall return to him by mail all the con- 
 tents of the wallet, except what is rightly my own. Then 
 it is borne in upon me that I shall be wise to leave the city 
 at once. In a private conveyance. I trust, sir, that you will 
 give me a seat in your wagon as far as you go?" 
 
 Father opened his mouth to speak. Then he shut it again. 
 
 He went in search of Aunty. Aunty received him with 
 infuriating calm. 
 
 "Fixin' to adopt another orphan?" 
 
 "I have no choice about it. If we abandon the Apostle 
 here, there's no telling what Norris will do to him. At least 
 we can squeeze up and carry him as far as the Indiana 
 border." 
 
 "Well." Aunty's eye was as cold as Cyrus's own. "S'pose 
 we can stand him if we got to. But stop at the very next 
 settlement and buy some jeans and I'll cobble him up a 
 pair of breeches. I won't have him careerin' around with 
 nothing on but a check gingham apron." 
 
 Father broached the topic of pants. But the Apostle 
 vetoed them with emphasis. 
 
 "Pants are a delusion and a snare. They are food for 
 vanity." 
 
 "But they are an established custom " 
 
 "There lies your Bible, sir. It has many sacred pictures. 
 I have seen them. Do you find the patriarchs and the 
 prophets wearing pants? Never." 
 
 Aunty sighed. 
 
 "S'pose we got to stand it. Hope we don't meet up with 
 many travelers, that's all I got to say. You have to take 
 him along, though, seeing that he's a brother Abolitionist." 
 
 Father bit off a brief but poignant word. Aunty didn't 
 mean to be so enraging. But it would be some comfort, if 
 
96 THE FATHER 
 
 just one of his placid Laodicean household could under- 
 stand. 
 
 He glanced at Mercy. She was looking away up the white 
 road to the east. Her eyes were dark stars. What was it 
 she gazed at? Was it the face of Lemuel G. Crowther? Did 
 she catch a whiff of bergamot? 
 
 The Apostle made himself willingly at home. Quite too 
 much at home. His was the gift of tongues, and he used 
 it in season and out of season. High on the driver's seat, 
 the old Captain scowled and growled about folks that got 
 themselves up in women's duds, but thought they was so 
 gosh-dingit smart that they could hand out advice to a man 
 who had driven horses before they'd cut their teeth. Back 
 in the carryall Aunty smoldered and thought up cutting 
 retorts to his generous criticism of her cooking, which wasn't 
 such poor eating as might be, but which was badly planned 
 and not too clean, — this to Aunty! — and of a wastefulness 
 which would bring her to the poorhouse, long before her 
 day was spent. His cup ran over, full measure, with unasked 
 advice and well-meant rebuke. He even poured it over 
 Mercy when they stopped for Sunday at a village, and she 
 put on her best blue delaine and her Chantilly shawl. 
 
 "Sinful folly, these gauds. Sinful folly " 
 
 He rose at gray dawn, before even the little boys awoke, 
 and sang hymns in a voice that jarred the monarchs of the 
 forest around him. He was as vinegar to the eyes; as sand- 
 paper to the spirit. He was cleanly of body, he was honest 
 and industrious, he was cheerful and helpful and righteous 
 in all things. And your one earthly desire was to tie him 
 up in his blue gingham apron and cast him into the depths 
 of the sea. 
 
 At length, a pitying Providence took a hand. At a cross- 
 road they met another caravan. This caravan was taking a 
 
THE FATHER 97 
 
 road that would bring it within sixty miles of the Apostle's 
 village. Promptly the Apostle invited himself to join them. 
 In fact, he had given both invitation and acceptance before 
 the leader could catch his astonished breath. Fondly the 
 Apostle bade them all good-by, warned Aunty against the 
 evils of vanity — "Turn from the errors of your ways, 
 my sister, else those feathers in your bonnet will scorch 
 over hell-fire" — adjured Father that he need expect noth- 
 ing but evil in this world if he did not stop earing bacon 
 for breakfast; warned the Captain that no tobacco-chewer 
 could inherit the Kingdom of Heaven; and promised to 
 come to the Sangamon country soon and make them a good 
 long visit. 
 
 As the caravan departed, Aunty looked at Father. Father 
 grinned sheepishly back. 
 
 "Don't feel so cheap, John. No doubt but he was an 
 instrument appointed to us for chastening. And I got used 
 to that heathen rig, 'specially after it turned so chilly, he had 
 to wrap up in my Paisley shawl." 
 
 "We'll have easy sailing now," vowed the Captain, and 
 flourished a sardonic plug towards the departing Adviser. 
 
 Vain hope. Their blue and gold Indian summer vanished 
 under driving squalls of rain. They took refuge in a filthy 
 tavern, where Aunty slept sitting up in one chair with her 
 feet on another; a haunted sleep. Three times a day they 
 were fed bitter boiled coffee and greasy salt pork and huge 
 slab-sided biscuit streaked green with saleratus. 
 
 After the first meal Mercy went in search of the land- 
 lady. She was a stout and slapdash female who sat by the 
 fire and chewed spruce gum and shuddered comfortably 
 over a blood-and-thunder novel. Mercy asked permission to 
 bring in their own provisions and cook for the family her- 
 self. The slovenly landlady made no objection. But Aunty 
 
98 THE FATHER 
 
 said no. "Think I could swallow even our own vittles if 
 they were once carried through that kitchen?" She shud- 
 dered at the thought. 
 
 They set off as soon as the storm was over. But now all 
 the demons that beset the traveler swooped down. Indian 
 summer yielded to a week of squaw winter. It grew colder 
 and colder. A silvery rime touched the water-pails at day- 
 break. Ribbons of frost lay in the rutted road. Father and 
 the old Captain shivered in their canvas hammocks, and 
 Mercy insisted on taking the little boys into the covered 
 wagon at night. 
 
 After that their nights were Bedlam, for Thomas kicked 
 and flounced, and Adoniram talked in his sleep, thus rous- 
 ing Zenobia to injured squawks; and Seth, even in his slum- 
 bers, could conjure up devastation. Twice he rolled over and 
 upset the dim-lit lantern, which hung at the rear of the 
 wagon. The second time it exploded, and if Father had not 
 leaped up and smothered the flame with his blanket, wagon 
 and family and all would have gone up in smoke. 
 
 Not thirty miles from the tavern, Button went lame. 
 They crawled at a snail's pace for days. Their frequent halts 
 gave the little boys ample time to scout around and explore 
 the woods near by. Of course Thomas promptly got lost, 
 and half a day of agonizing search went by, before Father 
 came upon his youngest, stuck to his arm-pits in a swamp, 
 and weeping like a fountain. 
 
 "Quicksands. Thank Heaven they weren't deep enough 
 to smother him." Father dropped down, pale as ashes. 
 
 By the time Mercy had scraped the mire off Thomas and 
 stripped him and boiled him until he looked like a repentant 
 little lobster, and plastered him with camphor and mutton 
 tallow against the croup, it was not worth while to set off 
 till morning. And by morning Thomas and his brothers 
 were fresh and energetic again and ready for high emprise. 
 
THE FATHER 99 
 
 Seth, racing ahead, saw a small grayish mound under a 
 tangle of wild grape vines. From immemorial instinct, he 
 let fly a rock. Promptly the gray mound exploded. Ex- 
 ploded into a humming cloud of yellow-jackets. Seth de- 
 parted with alacrity. Unluckily the Captain, directly be- 
 hind him, was leading Button and Betsy down to the creek. 
 The first yellow-jacket got in a quick jab at Button. But- 
 ton forgot his lame leg. He plunged, reared, knocked the 
 old man flat, and went careering through the trammeling 
 vines like Pegasus turned loose. Betsy was not so fortu- 
 nate. One heavy withe took a turn around her foreleg. As 
 she charged ahead, the leg doubled under her. She went 
 down headlong, kicking crazily. Father dashed to her 
 rescue, only to be hurled back by a flying squadron of yel- 
 low-jackets. He fled back to Aunty and tore the Paisley 
 shawl from her shoulders. 
 
 "John! Don't you dare go back. They'll sting your eyes 
 out!" 
 
 "Father, they'll kill Betsy!— Oh, oh !" 
 
 "Confound the yellow-jackets! — Confound Betsy! It's 
 the Captain! He's trapped in those vines, he's sprawled 
 right against the nest! They'll sting him to death." 
 
 Half blinded by the shawl, Father rushed stumbling 
 back. The Captain, still struggling in the vines, raised a 
 warning shout: 
 
 "Hey, Stafford! Let me alone! Keep out! Get away, ye 
 donnerd fool!" 
 
 "What in the nation " 
 
 "I'm bee-proof, I tell ye. Been stung from head to foot, 
 a thousand times over. But they can't pizen me. Never did. 
 Never will." 
 
 A cloud of yellow-jackets buzzed around him, darting 
 at his face, crawling over his hands. He tore the withes 
 free, stood up, and brushed the angry swarm away like so 
 
ioo THE FATHER 
 
 many midges. "Here, gimme that shawl, I'll flap 'em away 
 from your head while you haul Betsy to her feet." 
 
 "Betsy's leg is broken. I know it. The kindest thing I can 
 do is to shoot her." 
 
 "Fiddlesticks. Get her up, I tell you. Here! Hey!" 
 
 He flapped and he flourished. Father, batting his eyes 
 frantically against malicious stings, slashed away the vines, 
 and jerked Betsy to her feet. Mad with pain, she tore 
 down the trail, Father clinging to her head. She ran half 
 a mile before Father could drag her to a stop. When she 
 slowed down at last she was wild-eyed and foaming. Her 
 velvet nostrils were cruelly stung, her shoulders dappled 
 with lumps. 
 
 "We'll tie her up to a sapling and slap on mud," the 
 Captain said, taking command. "You boys fill up the pails, 
 then keep a'sloshin'. If we can hold her quiet till it dries, 
 she'll be fit as a fiddle." 
 
 "Mud poultices on a horse ! " 
 
 "If you don't put 'em on, you'll have a dead horse by 
 morning. She's got enough pizen aboard her to sink a ship." 
 
 Everybody set to work. Everybody kept a'sloshin' and 
 a'sloshin'. Poor Betsy was a wise creature. Instantly aware 
 of that healing coolness, she stood like a lamb. Many hands 
 made light work, but somewhat reckless work. Everybody 
 got sloshed as well as Betsy. At last, Betsy stood clay from 
 mane to hoofs, looking like the model for an equestrian 
 statue. 
 
 "You'll have to shear that mane off. The mud will never 
 wash out. Looky here, while we're at it, we better plaster 
 you up, too. You got a pair of black eyes ahead of you, 
 certain sure." 
 
 Aunty had already poured camphor on Father's stings. 
 But he submitted to a thick layer of clay as meekly as 
 
THE FATHER 101 
 
 Betsy herself. He ate his supper with some difficulty, for his 
 lips swelled to his cheek-bones. 
 
 "Better stop off a day," advised the Captain. "Betsy is 
 considerable bunged up, and Button has managed to jam 
 his shoulder again. And it won't hurt you to get some extry 
 sleep." 
 
 Father seized the opportunity. He slept like a log 
 through the morning. But at noon he was awakened by a 
 deafening uproar. He tumbled out of his blankets to see his 
 family go pelting down the slope to the creek, like figures 
 on a demented frieze. The Captain galloped ahead. He ran 
 so fast that his blue coattails stood out straight in the breeze. 
 
 "What in the mischief " Father grabbed for his 
 
 boots and joined the chase. 
 
 The Captain reached the creek edge, stooped: there rose 
 a wail of utter anguish. Aunty's voice. 
 
 "Oh! Oh, Captain, what have you done! Oh, I told you 
 he was dying, to put him in the water, quick. But I meant, 
 into the bucket } not the creek! Now he'll swim away, and 
 I'll never, never see him again!" 
 
 "Who's dying? What in pity's name " 
 
 Then it all dawned on Father. He sat down feebly on 
 the nearest stump. When he rose up, he was weak and spent, 
 but he had conquered the godless mirth that almost over- 
 whelmed him. His features composed to decent sympathy, he 
 hastened to the creek. 
 
 Aunty turned, her poor face wet with tears. 
 
 "It was all Seth's doing " 
 
 "But, Aunty, I didn't mean to " 
 
 "Didn't mean to, lived in a lean-to! I'd brought Cyrus's 
 kettle out to give him some fresh water. Seth and Adoniram 
 were scuffling, and between 'em they tipped over the kettle, 
 Cyrus and all. I hear a yell from Adoniram, and there lies 
 
102 THE FATHER 
 
 Cyrus, flat on his back, and just breathing his last. The 
 Captain was right by, and when I screamed, he grabs up 
 Cyrus, and doesn't he think I meant, Put him in the creek! 
 And the harder I tore after him, the faster he ran " 
 
 "Well, what's a man to do?" The Captain shuffled mis- 
 erably. "You come rarin' after me, screechin' blue blazes, 
 and that durn fish just giviV his last flop on earth. So I 
 thinks you want me to hurry. And I hurried." 
 
 It was all clear enough. The Captain's one thought had 
 been to rush the gasping Cyrus to his native element, not 
 to give him the freedom of the seas. But Cyrus was 
 charmed by this venture into the real world. He swam in 
 full view, gayly exploring the shallow creek. When poor 
 Aunty called him fondly and stooped to grasp him, he 
 flirted an impudent fin at her, and flickered away. She 
 knelt on the miry bank, she begged, she entreated. Cyrus 
 slid away under a giant root, and meditated. 
 
 "We can scoop him up in the bucket, Aunty. Lemme 
 try." 
 
 Scooped up in the bucket of captivity? Not for Cyrus. 
 At last Mercy suggested a butterfly net. 
 
 Butterfly nets not being included in their camping out- 
 fit, father ripped a hoop off their cask of china, and Mercy 
 sewed her sheerest petticoat thereon. This ruse succeeded. 
 Surprised and annoyed, Cyrus found himself outgeneraled. 
 For days he sulked, to Aunty's distress. But soon he was 
 his old supercilious self. 
 
 Again the weather cleared. Away flew squaw winter. 
 Back came Indian summer, softer, milder, lovelier than 
 before. Day followed day, so luminous, so shining blue, 
 that it seemed as if for their sakes the year had swung 
 from November back to June. 
 
 Late on the third sweet tranquil night, Mercy awoke. 
 
 She twitched back a corner of canvas and peeped out. 
 
THE FATHER 103 
 
 It was close on midnight. Some yards from the wagon lay 
 the campfire, a heap of glowing coals. In his hammock 
 the Captain slept, peacefully, rhythmically. But Father 
 was not asleep. Rolled in his blanket, he sat on a log near 
 the fire. The firelight shone rosy silver on his silver head. 
 He sat staring into the coals. 
 
 Mercy groped for her woolly slippers. She pulled down 
 Joseph's Coat and slid it on over her frilled and fluted 
 nighty. Not even the wagon-step creaked as she slipped 
 down into the dew-fleeced grass. 
 
 Father glanced up. He did not say anything. He pulled 
 her down on his knee, tucked her feet up on the log 
 beside him, and wrapped his blanket around them both. 
 Mercy's head settled into the round of his broad shoulder. 
 Her heavy braids bumped over his arm, ropes of bronze 
 where the light struck them. She took a firm grip on 
 Father's free hand, and tucked it tight under her chin. 
 
 A tired old moon was creeping down the west. One small 
 star tagged after it, clutching its apron-strings of mist, ex- 
 actly as little Thomas clutched forever at Aunty's apron- 
 strings. High and far through the elms' black tracery Cas- 
 siopeia queened it on her jeweled throne. Late November; 
 yet even in the dim moonlight there wavered on the blue 
 far hills a faint blue mist — the last pale smoke of Indian 
 camp-fires. No chill lay on that still fragrant air. And all 
 the little hunting winds blew soft as spring. 
 
 After a while her father spoke. 
 
 " 'Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim?' " 
 
 "No, sir. Thank goodness, they went to sleep early. All 
 three. I can't think what's come over them. They've been 
 too good to be true, all day." 
 
 Father chuckled. Mercy's eyes lifted again to the vast 
 illumined pageant of the sky. 
 
 Crossing the zenith went a mighty processional. Priests 
 
104 THE FATHER 
 
 in flowing, swirling white, acolytes waving pale censers 
 that brimmed with dim and curling smoke, all molten gold, 
 all drifting silver. Then in a breath that lofty ceremonial 
 vanished. Now all the clouds were huge galleons, plunging 
 full-sail across that dark, tempestuous blue. Ship on ship 
 swept by, swept by. All the old splendid cruel names rang 
 in her ears. Salamis, Gravelines, Trafalgar — you read about 
 them in your history. But there they were just names, and 
 bothersome to spell at that. Now they stormed on, all glori- 
 ous before your eyes. Up the Channel came the Great 
 Armada, racing on the heels of the royal flagship, whose 
 mainmast pierced the stars. A sweep of canvas, a flare of 
 ghostly cannon, a soundless, blinding whirl of spray as 
 the last ship plunged beneath the black and bitter sea. O 
 wonderful, O pitiful! All the mighty galliasses with their 
 laboring chained galley-slaves, all the airy pinnaces, all the 
 glittering banners, the crashing brazen ordnance. . . . 
 Then, even as you caught your quivering breath, the wan- 
 ing moon shone through. And all the white sails turned to 
 whiter plumes, to trailing misty garments. Up the long hill 
 of the sky they trod, pale princesses-royal, every one. The 
 wan exquisite procession of the young wives, as they fol- 
 lowed their lord's bier to the burning-ghat. On and on they 
 went, trembling, faltering, fearless, serene. Proudly they 
 laid their doomed loveliness beside their prince, their prince 
 in life and in death. Still upon the ivory catafalque they 
 lay, that high throne of sorrow, already lighted by the 
 ghostly brands of moonlight. . . . She saw them all, 
 so clear! They were robed like the Ladies of the Zenana, 
 according to the artless imagination of the editor of Godey's 
 Lady's Book, and they wore sheer pantalettes, and wide 
 crinolines, and flowing undersleeves, and their glorious 
 tresses were combed into waterfalls or else bound in netted 
 chignons, and could their lord and king have but beheld 
 
THE FATHER 105 
 
 them he would undoubtedly have gasped for horror and 
 risen straight up from his illustrious bier. 
 
 . . . Then, even as she sighed and trembled under the 
 terror of her fantasy, all that sad beauty vanished as beneath 
 a wand of magic. All that far majesty turned to mighty 
 walls, upspringing turrets. High arches flung themselves 
 across the sky. And through her mind wove the hushed 
 enchanted words: 
 
 "The cloud-caffed towers, the gorgeous falaces 
 The solemn terrifies, the great globe itself n 
 
 She stopped. As if she had spoken aloud, her father's voice 
 took up her thought 
 
 <c 'And, like this unsubstantial fageant faded ' 
 
 "Mercy Rose! Hark!" 
 
 Down through the forest came a rush of flying hoofs. 
 Through the screen of willows burst a horseman, a tall 
 boy, clinging weakly to his frenzied horse. Wild-eyed, 
 snorting, the horse stopped at the very edge of the camp-fire. 
 The boy tumbled off and stood clinging to the saddle. One 
 arm hung lax and useless. Blood streamed from his fingers. 
 His face was a mask of blood. 
 
 "I saw your camp-fire," he gasped. "I'm driving up 
 from Barclay's, with a load of refugees for the Under- 
 ground. They're after me — the slave-grabbers — can you 
 hide me?" 
 
 Then he pitched down in a limp sprawl at Father's feet. 
 
CHAPTER NINE 
 
 FATHER, is he killed?" 
 "Nonsense, no. But he's lost a good deal of blood." 
 Father went down on his knees, tore back the boy's sleeve, 
 clamped his fingers on the welling cut. "Artery. I've got 
 to put on a tourniquet, quick. Tear off a strip of Joseph's 
 Coat. Hurry." 
 
 Mercy jerked and pulled, but the thick quilted stuff 
 would not give way. 
 
 "Can't you tear it? Here, take my jack-knife. Don't you 
 see the fellow is bleeding to death?" 
 
 The knife sawed through Aunt Euphemia's follow-me- 
 lad, slashed out a thick chunk of somber plush: Great-uncle 
 Jonathan's coffin lining. 
 
 "In heaven's name, how can I make a tourniquet of that! 
 Find something thin, that will sink in. Tear a piece off your 
 night-gown. Thin, I tell you. A ribbon, if you've got 
 one " 
 
 Mercy's hands went to her throat. She snatched off the 
 narrow blue ribbon, and thrust it into Father's hands. The 
 little ring, still knotted in place, went too, but she did not 
 even look at it. 
 
 Father grunted. 
 
 "That will have to do. Here, keep your fingers on that 
 cut while I tie it." 
 
 Stars, trees, campfire, joined in a mad dance. But she 
 pressed the torn edges together, deftly, skillfully. Father 
 rolled the plush into a wad, crammed it on, tied it tight. 
 Another minute, and he had torn the lace-edged hem from 
 her night-dress, and bandaged the boy's head with it. His 
 
THE FATHER 107 
 
 fingers flashed over the limp huddle from head to foot. 
 "No bones broken. Only bullet scratches. Lucky for him. 
 Aha, here's a chest wound. Only grazed, though." 
 
 He lifted the lax shoulders and laid the unconscious head 
 in Mercy's lap. She looked down dizzily at the face on 
 her knee. Between the wide bandage and the drench of 
 blood, she could see very little of that face. She made out 
 black, heavy brows, a square jaw, an insolent mouth. 
 
 "I'll set the coffee-pot on the fire. As soon as he can 
 swallow, we will give him some. That will steady him up. 
 Listen. Hear that?" 
 
 Again that muffled drumbeat: nearer, nearer, like swift, 
 ominous thunder. 
 
 "Get into the wagon, quick! They must not see you. 
 Pull the blankets over you. Child, you're smeared!" 
 
 "I suppose so." Mercy looked down at her blood-wet 
 hands, her long frilled sleeves all splashed and dabbled, the 
 sodden Joseph's Coat. 
 
 "Here, help me. We've got to hide him. Quick!" 
 Father snatched up the long slack body and shoved the 
 boy head-first into the wagon alongside of Aunt Celestia's 
 bed. As he pushed him in, his head struck Zenobia's cage. 
 Zenobia raised a shocked fine-lady squawk. 
 
 "Confound that bird! Let her once get started, and she'll 
 rouse the whole camp!" 
 
 But Zenobia sank into affronted silence. Father hoisted 
 Mercy and thrust her into the wagon. She curled up tight at 
 the back, and pulled the red comforter to her eyes. Luckily 
 the two older boys were sleeping outside to-night. Other- 
 wise the wagon would probably have burst. 
 
 "Now for his horse." Father snatched off saddle and 
 bridle, threw them on the ground and gave the horse a 
 slap that started it trotting down the trail to where Button 
 and Betsy were tethered. 
 
108 THE FATHER 
 
 "Be thankful Aunty isn't sleeping on her deaf ear! 
 Here they come!" 
 
 He seized his blankets, rolled them around him, and 
 squatted down by the fire. The pounding thunder galloped 
 up the hill. Three horsemen burst into the clearing. 
 
 "Hallo, the camp!" 
 
 Mercy peeped through a crack. 
 
 At that shout Father rolled over drowsily. He straight- 
 ened up, rubbing his eyes. 
 
 "Hallo, I say! Wake up, you!" The leader sprang from 
 his horse, and prodded Father with the butt of his whip. 
 
 "Hey, stop that! What's the trouble?" Father scrambled 
 up, yawning violently. 
 
 "Trouble, eh? We're a posse from down-river. Sumner 
 County. We're hunting a young whipper-snapper who's been 
 running slaves up north. Drove a wagon load away from 
 the Barclay farm, a big underground station, this morning. 
 Got wind we was after him, so he dumps his load some- 
 where in the swamps between here and Barclay's, no telling 
 where, and lights out a'horseback. We ain't found no track 
 of the niggers. No use tryin' to hunt 'em through those 
 bogs. But we're out to find him. And get him. We'll make 
 an example of him, mind that. You seen him?" 
 
 "I'd say not," lied Father cheerfully. "Sure he came 
 this way?" 
 
 "No. We ain't sure of nothin'. But this looks kinder 
 queer. How come you got your coffee-pot on, at two in 
 the morning?" 
 
 "Woke up chilly, and wanted something to warm me 
 up. Have some?" Father reached for the big pot. "Say, I 
 must have dropped off. The pot's boiled dry." 
 
 "Sure you ain't seen hide nor hair of that boy?" 
 
 "Nair hide, nair hair. Search the camp if you want to." 
 
 The men hesitated. 
 
THE FATHER 109 
 
 "We ain't got a minute to lose. Once he gets to the set- 
 tlement that Abolitionist gang will hide him out. Spoil our 
 last chance of catchin' him." 
 
 "Oh, haven't you a warrant?" 
 
 "Warrant? What do we want with a warrant? Hain't he 
 run off with our niggers? Ain't he been stealin' niggers, 
 fast as they can slip across the Ohio? Ain't it high time 
 us citizens took care of our proputty?" 
 
 "Well, sorry I can't help. Look all over, if you got time. 
 Easy, though," for one man was poking his head into the 
 covered wagon. "That's my women-folks' wagon. My 
 little boy sleeps there, too. No use scarin' them stiff." 
 
 Mercy thought she had covered herself up from top to 
 toe. But one long gleaming braid had fallen outside the 
 blanket, in plain view. Prodded by a watchful guardian 
 angel, little Thomas rolled over at that moment and stuck 
 out a convincing fat leg. 
 
 "Say, boys, let's get on. No use giving him time to get 
 clear. Come along!" 
 
 With a trampling rush the three were gone. Father 
 slumped down on his tick again, settled apparently into 
 heavy sleep. Mercy lay motionless. She scarcely dared to 
 breathe. At length, her father rose and came quietly to the 
 wagon. 
 
 "Still awake, daughter?" 
 
 Awake! As if she could go to sleep! 
 
 "All right. I'll slide our young man out, and plump him 
 down on the tick with me. I'll let him snooze an hour or 
 so. Then if he can stick on his horse I'd best get him off 
 before daybreak." 
 
 The boy groaned and muttered as they dragged him 
 down, but he did not waken. 
 
 "Now roll yourself up warm with Aunty, and go to 
 sleep, too. Pop off, quick." 
 
no THE FATHER 
 
 Wholesome advice. For a time she lay staring into the 
 dark, her hands like ice, her heart pounding. But the 
 feather-bed was so deep and cozy, little Thomas had cud- 
 dled up so tight, his warm arms were so snuggly around 
 her neck. . . . 
 
 "Well, Mercy Rose! Hadn't you better rouse up, before 
 
 the boys gobble the last bite of bacon? You What in 
 
 the nation have you done to Joseph's Coat? W here's Uncle's 
 casket lining?" 
 
 Mercy blinked and sputtered in full daylight. Father, 
 shaven and smart and annoyingly wide awake, stepped in 
 to draw the fire. 
 
 "Give the child time to open her eyes, Aunty. . . . 
 Why, a young fellow stopped by last night for help. He'd 
 hurt his arm. That was after you'd gone to bed. I wanted a 
 rag for a bandage. I didn't realize you prized that piece." 
 
 "Prized it — frized it! I'd rather lose every other keep- 
 sake I've got!" 
 
 "Well, I'm sorry. Maybe if we write back to Lunenburg 
 his daughter-in-law will have another piece." 
 
 "Likely! Where's that young fellow gone? Perhaps, if 
 we follow him up> " 
 
 "It isn't probable we can catch up with him. By the 
 way, do you realize we're only eighty miles from our farm? 
 I just figured it up. On my map." 
 
 Only eighty miles! Even Uncle's lost memento was for- 
 gotten in that glad news. 
 
 "We ought to make it in six days, John. Five, maybe. If 
 ever I set foot on solid ground again I hope I take root for- 
 ever. Boys, hark. In maybe four days, we'll be home." 
 
 Alas, fond hope! Seth being Seth, he proceeded to knock 
 this dream into a cocked hat. Next morning he awoke even 
 earlier than usual, whining and sniffling. Always so sunny, 
 
THE FATHER in 
 
 he was now one embodied grump. His first mouthful 
 brought a wail of dismay. 
 
 "Mumps." Aunty poked the poor little swollen jaw with 
 an experienced finger. "I'll lay to it he gets 'em on both 
 sides. Then passes 'em on to the other two. I wouldn't be 
 surprised if you caught 'em yourself, Mercy. And you, 
 John. . . . And maybe the Captain." 
 
 "Cassandra wouldn't have had a chance." Father spoke 
 under his breath. "Never mind, Seth. You like mush and 
 milk, and you shall have plenty of that." 
 
 They pushed on all that day. But by night, the other 
 two were beginning to swell up like two unhappy little 
 puffballs. Leave it to Seth. "Nobody but Seth could manage 
 to find the mumps in a wilderness like this. Almost in reach 
 of our own cabin, at that!" said Aunty bitterly. "We'll 
 have to stop at the very next tavern. And stay there until all 
 three are well again." 
 
 Only seventy miles from their own farm. But no help 
 for it. 
 
 The last tavern had been filthy beyond words. But this 
 tavern was worse than filthy. It was sinister. The house 
 had no mistress. A stout surly landlord greeted them un- 
 graciously, thrust them into grimy unkempt rooms, and set 
 wretched food before them. But they dared not leave. The 
 three little boys must be kept warm and quiet at any cost. 
 
 Aunty was too exhausted to do much nursing. Mercy did 
 the most of it, with the clumsy willing help of Twonnet, 
 the half-breed girl who was the only servant on the place. 
 Father was good help, too. But the old Captain was a host 
 in himself. He kept the little boys' eyes popping with 
 stories, he sang and sang till his tongue hung out. Neither 
 songs nor stories were exactly orthodox, but what of that? 
 He trudged up and down with Thomas and his nighty 
 
ii2 THE FATHER 
 
 balanced on a trembly old arm as he sang to the tune of 
 Auld Lang Syne: 
 
 "Old Grimes is dead, that good old man } 
 We ne'er shall see him more. 
 He used to wear an old gray coat. 
 All buttoned down beeeeee-fore. 
 
 "He lived at peace with all mankind. 
 In friendship he was true. 
 His coat had focket-holes behind, 
 
 His pantaloons were blue B'Gosh! 
 
 His pantaloons were blue." 
 
 "Better not let Aunty hear you sing that, Thomas." 
 "Aunty can't spank me now. I'm too sick. And she 
 dassent spank the Captain." 
 
 When five days had gone by and Mercy was so des- 
 perately tired that she blundered off asleep every whipstitch, 
 respite came. Up to the tavern rolled a huge luxurious car- 
 riage, all red wheels and real windows and leather cushions 
 and folding steps. Out stepped a gentleman from Virginia 
 and his wife. Four slaves attended them, three sturdy com- 
 petent men, and one stout beaming mammy, her turban 
 starched till, as Aunty remarked approvingly, it could stand 
 alone. Within the hour the master had made friends with 
 Father. Another hour, and the lady, a very great lady, so 
 sweet, so still, so gentle, in her flowing puce silks and her 
 dim flat-cut old emeralds, had slipped in softly and sent 
 Mercy to bed for the whole afternoon, put Adoniram and 
 Seth to playing checkers, and sat cutting out paper soldiers 
 for Thomas. Never marched such paper soldiers in any regi- 
 ment since wars began. For the drummer-boy and his drum 
 were so real, you could hear the thump of booted feet, you 
 
THE FATHER 113 
 
 could feel the throb and thrill of the drumbeat. And the 
 plumes on the major's shako tossed and waved in the breeze. 
 
 Then when the soldiers were all marching, striding, rank 
 on rank across the dingy counterpane, those bewitched 
 scissors, with the gold grapes carved on the handles, set to 
 cutting out a group of trappers, glorious men from the 
 Far North, all in fur parkas, and coonskin caps; the caps 
 so lifelike that every coon flirted his bushy tail at you as 
 they went by. When the trappers had passed, came a ship- 
 load of pirates, tiny swaggering giants in jerkins and jack- 
 boots, their impudent queues tied at the backs of their un- 
 sanctified necks. Even a pirate ship, murderous plank and 
 treasure-chests and all, came sailing down the wind from 
 those enchanted scissors. 
 
 And presently Thomas keeled over, dead asleep from 
 weariness and joy and wonderment. And all that day, and 
 the next, the lovely lady played with them, so gentle, so 
 sweet, so wise. So that when on the third morning she and 
 her husband must drive away, Donny and Seth looked after 
 them wistfully and Thomas gave way to candid sniffles. 
 
 "I will say," thus Aunty, giving Thomas a firm but 
 kindly pat, "I must say that, even though they are slave- 
 holders, they could teach a few professing Christians some 
 things they need to know." 
 
 "Slave-holders!" Thomas gasped. "Why, they can't be 
 slave-holders, Aunty. Neither one of 'em has got horns, nor 
 a tail!" 
 
 Donny and Seth fell upon him with lavish and jeering 
 correction. Little Thomas sighed. Even at five it is difficult 
 to readjust one's standards in this puzzling world. 
 
 As they drove away, unspeakable dullness settled down 
 upon the tavern. But not for long. 
 
 Ever since their coming, Aunty had fidgeted whenever 
 
ii4 THE FATHER 
 
 her eye fell on the silent furtive Twonnet. In the gray of 
 the morning she had once heard an angry voice and a scared 
 sobbing answer. Then a blow, a cry. 
 
 "Let's get out of here, John. Quick's we can." 
 
 "If I thought that brute was abusing the child " 
 
 "Haven't you got plenty of other folks' troubles to stew 
 over, without hunting up some more?" 
 
 Father flinched. She was right. Miserably he began to 
 count up. How could this journey have cost so much? How 
 could it be that he had so little, so frighteningly little, left 
 from the sale of the house, the barns? By the time he had 
 bought just the barest needs for the new farm, seed and 
 tools and a few animals, he'd be scraping his last hundred 
 dollars. He had planned to send Mercy away to school for 
 the winter term but six months at Knox College would 
 cost him ninety dollars. An impressive sum. He could have 
 managed it if only Joel had not needed so much. If he 
 weren't grimly sure that Joel would need still more. 
 
 Mercy came down the cobwebby hall, the convalescent 
 little Thomas clinging to her skirts. She carried a tray with 
 the boys' suppers. It was heavy and awkward to handle. 
 She heard Twonnet's voice from the side hall. She stopped 
 and called. 
 
 "Twonnet! Want to help me carry up this supper?" 
 
 No reply. 
 
 A heavy step. A door closed, slowly. Then a man's voice 
 on a strange hoarse note, a note that told fury; and some- 
 thing worse than fury. 
 
 "I'll show you how to slink off and dodge me! Hell-cat! 
 Take that " 
 
 Then a thin anguished scream. 
 
 The hall looked queer and swimmy: red, too. A thick red 
 mist. Mercy set down the tray on a rickety table. Slowly. 
 Carefully. 
 
THE FATHER 115 
 
 "Thomas, go straight to your room. Travel." 
 
 Thomas never cheeped. He followed like a fat streak 
 at her flying heels. 
 
 She sped into the side hall, grasped the doorknob. The 
 door was locked. 
 
 "Open this door!" 
 
 No answer. She seized it and shook it with all her might. 
 The flimsy lock gave way. She plunged in. 
 
 With an oath, the landlord leaped up, whirled to face 
 her. 
 
 "You — beast!" Mercy sprang on him, jammed her 
 clenched fists into his face. The astonished man stumbled 
 back, pitched against the wall. The butt of the raw-hide 
 rolled perilously under Mercy's foot, but she caught herself 
 instantly and struck out with every inch of force in her. 
 The man grabbed both her wrists; huge and powerful crea- 
 ture that he was, he would have made short shrift of her, 
 but for two reasons. One was Twonnet. She crawled to her 
 feet, threw herself on him from behind, dug steely fingers 
 into his fat throat. The other was little Thomas. Promptly 
 he went Berserk. Small, but mighty, he grabbed the land- 
 lord's knee and sunk his milk teeth, sharp as spurs, into the 
 gross fat leg. 
 
 With a screech of pain the man stumbled back, and 
 pitched down flat. As he struggled for footing Mr. Stafford 
 bolted in. 
 
 "Mercy! What happened? What are you doing to my 
 daughter?" 
 
 The landlord shook off his three assailants. He stood 
 purple, gurgling. 
 
 "Doin' to your daughter My Lord A'mighty, look 
 
 what she's doin' to me! Smashes down my door and jumps 
 in and lambastes me. And me doin' nothin' at all " 
 
 "Nothing at all? Look at Twonnet! Look at that welt. 
 
n6 THE FATHER 
 
 You'd knocked her down, you were slashing her in the 
 face " 
 
 "Yeth, thir, and he tried to thmack Mercy, too. I theen 
 him." 
 
 Father scooped up his belligerents and hustled them to 
 his own room. 
 
 "You might be two raftsmen. While you were at it why 
 didn't you try to gouge his eyes out?" 
 
 "I wish I had. I do. I do!" Mercy was sobbing, loud 
 dry sobs of fury. A white line broadened around her mouth. 
 Her hands shook, her face blazed crimson. She was a fury 
 in starched pantalettes and a bird's-nest braid. "The wicked, 
 cruel " 
 
 "Stop that. You'll have hysterics. I'll warn the landlord 
 that if he dares abuse Twonnet again " 
 
 "What good will that do? He's got her here. All to him- 
 self. He'll beat her, he'll torture her! Oh, Father, let's take 
 her with us. We've got to get her away from him! I can't 
 leave her here. I won't!" 
 
 "Mercy is right, Aunty. No use talking. We've got to 
 take the girl along." 
 
 For weeks Aunty had held herself with a tight rein. She 
 held it now. 
 
 "Just as you say, John. Only I sort of wonder Do 
 
 you know anything about her?" 
 
 "French father, Indian mother, she says. Bound out to 
 this man and his wife when she was six. That is all she 
 knows." 
 
 "You can see plain enough that's all she knows. Maybe 
 we can teach her to scrub and to cook. Doubt it. Once an 
 Indian, always an Indian. Well. What with you aidin' and 
 abettin* a fugitive from justice that night" (now, how had 
 Aunty guessed that?), "and Mercy gettin' into fist fights 
 over heathen orphans, we're making an elegant start on our 
 
THE FATHER 117 
 
 pioneering. But if it suits you, why, I can't complain. At 
 least I wouldn't, if you thought there was any chance of 
 ever comin' up with that young man and Uncle Jonathan's 
 casket lining." 
 
 As soon as possible, they left the tavern. Twonnet, dazed, 
 silent, as dumbly grateful as an animal freed from a trap, 
 went with them. Mr. Stafford carried things through with 
 a high hand, although he had expected a pitched battle. 
 But astonishingly the landlord made scant protest. He was 
 subdued to the point of meekness. Only a few weeks ago 
 the countryside had rung with reports of a case where three 
 bound children had been brutally tortured. A mob had 
 formed, and the offender had been tarred and feathered 
 and driven out of the county. The landlord had had a taste 
 of what such indignation might mean. He had no desire 
 for more. 
 
CHAPTER TEN 
 
 AGAIN they set forth. But now calamity followed on 
 calamity. The very day they started the wagon broke 
 down. Father and the Captain did some emergency patch- 
 ing, so that they could reach the next clearing, and there 
 they found a forge. The smith and his helper were hurry- 
 ing to shoe a troop of horses, brought in by a drover. So 
 they shoved the Stafford wagon close to the racks where this 
 troop was hitched, but very casually hitched. The next day, 
 when Father walked down from their camp to drive their 
 wagon back, he did not happen to look at their beloved 
 chairs, lashed to the back of the wagon. But when Aunty 
 started to climb in, there rose a wail. 
 
 "John Stafford! Will you look at my chairs! Somebody's 
 slashed the rush seats right out of 'em!" 
 
 "That landlord! I knew he'd be up to something " 
 
 "But, Aunty, they aren't cut, they're chewed! Just as if 
 a giant mouse had nibbled them." 
 
 Giant mice had nibbled, and to some purpose. The drove 
 of waiting horses had found something with which to fill 
 their time. Not a seat was left whole. 
 
 The family gazed on that ruin, aghast. 
 
 "We ought to make that drover pay for them." 
 
 "But he'd say it was the blacksmith's fault. For he shoved 
 the wagon too close to the hitching racks." 
 
 "While we're about it, let's see if they've chewed any- 
 thing else." 
 
 "Probably they've gnawed up Joseph's Coat, what's left 
 of it." Aunty's voice dripped gloom. 
 
 Joseph's Coat proved intact, save for the sad vacant 
 
THE FATHER 119 
 
 pentagon which Aunty had never ceased to mourn. But the 
 chairs were misfortune enough. To weave rush seats de- 
 mands real skill. Small chance that anyone in their new 
 home could replace them. And at best, the expense would be 
 past reach. 
 
 "We'll knock up some benches out of the goods boxes 
 when we get there. They'll do well enough. Hey, there, 
 where's all that dunnage of yourn?" The Captain pried 
 under the wagon, where had hung the precious little trees 
 in orderly array. Alas, all had vanished: seedlings, roots, 
 bulbs, yarbs, everything. 
 
 "No, the horses ain't et 'em up," the Captain shook his 
 head. "They've slipped their moorings, somewheres on the 
 road." 
 
 The family, too horrified to speak, stood by, while he 
 inspected the slack cords and ropes. 
 
 "Another storm coming up, so's we dassent go back to 
 look for 'em. Oh, well! No telling what'll go wrong by 
 to-morrow." He hacked an extra large chunk from his plug, 
 and clambered to his high seat. As an optimist, thought 
 Father, Cap'n could give points to Bildad the Shuhite. 
 
 To-morrow came inexorably. It brought a stormy crim- 
 son dawn, a raw wind barbed with sleet. Then the rains 
 descended and the floods came. 
 
 They were miles from any tavern, from any grove, from 
 any adequate camping place. Mr. Stafford proudly consid- 
 ered himself an able pioneer, at least in theory. He had heard 
 all about building an open-face camp, he knew precisely 
 where to dig the trenches around it. But how, how could you 
 set about building a log camp with not a tree in sight? Far 
 on the open prairie, at that, with a young cloudburst beating 
 on your wagon roof. And how to camp at all, while water 
 sluiced through your canvas roof and rose to the hubs? 
 
 "Goody, goody! We're sailors in a gale, and the ship's 
 
120 THE FATHER 
 
 going down right under our feet," chanted Seth, wild with 
 delight. 
 
 "I only hope we don't sink with all hands aboard. 
 Captain, what shall we do?" 
 
 "Bundle up and kiver up. And let her rain." 
 
 Nothing else for it. But this proved a dreary ordeal. Even 
 the little boys' enthusiasm was dampened by sundown. No 
 chance at a hot meal. They sat in a soggy huddle and ate 
 whatever was in reach. 
 
 Morning brought leaden skies, but the rain held off; so 
 they started early, and drove on splashing, hour on dreary 
 hour. They plodded through miles on miles of trackless 
 prairie, guided only by the occasional stakes that helped 
 Father to check up on his map. 
 
 Steadily the prairie grew wider, wider. Now they were 
 so many castaways, adrift on this endless ocean of dark 
 and sodden land, under this gray and sodden sky. 
 
 Zenobia scolded without ceasing. The tired horses 
 struggled through miry roads, which were no more than 
 trails, across sloughs where only the logs thrown down into a 
 semblance of corduroy road saved them from sinking into 
 bottomless mire. Even the little boys grew subdued. Even 
 Mercy drew a little closer to her father, her eyes darkened 
 with a nameless fear. 
 
 The utter weariness of this dark endless world, the 
 menace of that dun unchanging sky! She could not know 
 the real prairie: she could not foresee that when spring 
 awoke the prairie would waken into glorious life. Only 
 a few months, and that dull miry stretch would be an ocean 
 of emerald grass, waist-high, shoulder-high, horse-high, a 
 green-gold murmuring sea, starred with a thousand flowers, 
 rippling beneath the sweet winds like a great web of watered 
 silk, now forest-green, now pale lake-silver, now blinding 
 dazzling gold. But to-day, all that her eyes could see was 
 
THE FATHER 121 
 
 the gray desolation, the raw and bitter cold, a cold that 
 chilled your body, chilled your soul. 
 
 Just before dusk, the trail skirted a great marsh. Father, 
 who had been sitting silent, put the reins into Mercy's hands 
 and pulled out his map. 
 
 "We're within two miles of our land. Hallo, Captain! 
 Turn to the left, then down that long slope. We ought to 
 reach our new home in half an hour." But there was no 
 exultation in his voice. 
 
 The ragged trail was hardly more than a rut in the sea 
 of mud. Not twenty yards beyond spread the marsh. It 
 reached on and on, an endless sweep, to the dark horizon. 
 
 "I don't understand this. There's no marsh indicated on 
 this map. You and the Captain wait a bit." Father gave 
 Mercy the reins, took his riding-horse, and galloped away. 
 It seemed hours before he came galloping back. 
 
 He pointed with his whip towards the foot of the slope. 
 
 "Our land begins right yonder." 
 
 "Our land! It can't be! Why, our land isn't a swamp, 
 it's a farm ! " 
 
 "Yes, it is ours. It is marked by a split post, with a chain 
 caught through the top, just as Deacon said. There is a house 
 too. If you want to call it that." 
 
 Mercy began to tremble. His low voice held a note that 
 terrified. 
 
 "According to the Deacon this deed calls for cleared land 
 ready for planting. I — I didn't dream that they'd sell me a 
 swamp. And a clump of woods with not even the brush 
 cut out." 
 
 They plodded on. Mercy made out a small log cabin. It 
 stood close to the hummock where the woods began. In all 
 that empty world that cabin was the one sign of life. 
 
 "But where's our house, John?" 
 
 "Right yonder." 
 
122 THE FATHER 
 
 "Right yonder?" Seth shrilled in angry surprise. "But 
 that's not our house, that's our cowshed." 
 
 Father laughed out. A queer rasping laugh. 
 
 "Then we'll have to live in the cowshed, son. Move 
 along, Button." 
 
 They turned into the clearing. Close behind came the 
 Captain driving the big covered wagon. The Captain had 
 never whined all the long hard way. But now he was so 
 tired that his old wits were muddled, his eyes could hardly 
 see. He missed the narrow corduroy road, which led from 
 highway to cabin: the wheels plowed into the rim of the 
 marsh and sank to the hubs. The team struggled to reach 
 the road, but the mire was too deep. They floundered, 
 stumbled; the wagon canted to the left, righted itself, sank 
 again to a hopeless angle. The Captain managed to keep 
 his balance, but all his shouting and urging could not move 
 that wagon one inch. The horses stood with heads hung low. 
 Their miry coats steamed in the cold wind. They did not 
 even look around. They paid no attention to whip or com- 
 mand. They were through. 
 
 "Here, I'll help." Donny ran to their heads and coaxed. 
 Thomas and Seth pushed nobly from behind. So did Mercy. 
 Twonnet, too. Father, queerly, paid no attention. He stood 
 staring around the drowned fields, the desolate empty high- 
 way. This, then, was the land for which he had spent every 
 dollar that he dared hold back from Joel's need. This was 
 the land that was to carry him through the years of toil 
 that lay before him. 
 
 "We can't budge her. Looky, yonder comes a man on 
 horseback. Holler to him. Maybe he'll lend a hand." 
 
 The man on horseback splashed and floundered up the 
 road. He was an amazing figure. He was tall, incredibly 
 tall, a very Titan against that dark and lowering sky. His 
 clothes were past belief. A huge gray shawl hung cat- 
 
THE FATHER 123 
 
 a-corner over his enormous shoulders, and flapped above an 
 ancient jim-swinger frock coat, green with age, and dis- 
 reputably crumpled. From that frock-coat, your eye trav- 
 eled downward to trousers which in some earlier day might 
 have been of adequate length. But nowadays they had been 
 drenched and shrunken till they hunched shin-high above 
 white yarn socks and gigantic soft-sided shoes. He sat hump- 
 shouldered on his big plodding bay. Until he dismounted, 
 you could not dream how tall he was. And when he did 
 dismount, he seemed to let go and lengthen out like a 
 leisurely foot-rule; yards and yards of him stretched up and 
 up till his tall bulging beaver hat must scrape the sky. 
 
 "What makes him so terrible big?" Thomas, cold and 
 hungry and scared, clutched Mercy's hand. 
 
 "Aw, hush up, Thomas. This is Out West. They grow 
 bigger here." Thus Adoniram, with his invariable weary 
 superiority. 
 
 The man bowed to Father and lifted his hat to Aunty. 
 You saw that his face was a gaunt mask of fatigue. But 
 under the coarse black hair, all rumpled and tangled over his 
 great gaunt bony head, his hooded eyes were tired and kind. 
 And his voice boomed friendliness, a slow deep organ note. 
 
 "Evening, folks. Let me take a hand here. We all get 
 stalled right by this marsh, every day in the week. Used to 
 it. Digging each other out of the mud is right in the day's 
 work." 
 
 He threw off his bulky shawl and the jim-swinger coat. 
 He rolled up his sleeves. His bare arms were masses of 
 corded muscle. Under the bronzed skin, those muscles 
 rippled like knotted heavy silk. 
 
 "You take the horses' heads, while I lift from behind." 
 
 Father protested in amazement. 
 
 "You lift? Why, that wagon is loaded to the roof. It 
 
124 THE FATHER 
 
 weighs a ton. Don't try that, sir. We'll unpack right 
 here " 
 
 "When I say Go, you h'ist. H'ist like the nation." 
 
 "But, sir " 
 
 "Go!" 
 
 The team strained frantically. There was a sucking 
 sound: the wagon wavered, tipped, then plunged out of the 
 mire. It stood, rocking but safe, on the log road. 
 
 Even Father, always so tranquil, so urbane, stood gasp- 
 ing at that mighty strength. 
 
 "I would not have believed it! Sir, you have my grateful 
 thanks. I cannot understand that you have done this, one 
 man, alone " 
 
 "I did not do it alone. You hefted your share." The 
 stranger's wide mouth broke into a smile. He brushed the 
 mud from his knees, his shoulders. "You are Mr. Stafford, 
 from Green River, Massachusetts? We had heard that you 
 were driving this way, so I've ridden this road every day, 
 on my way home from Circuit Court. Thought I'd like the 
 chance to meet you, sir. Permit me to welcome you to the 
 Sangamon country. And let me hope that your settlement 
 here will mean happiness and prosperity. This is your 
 family?" 
 
 He put out a colossal hand. He seized Thomas by the 
 collar of his roundabout. 
 
 Thomas squeaked. Down his fat back sped the tingling, 
 terrifying thrill of a large ice-cold two-cent piece. 
 
 "My family, sir. And whom may we thank for this 
 neighborly kindness?" 
 
 "I am a backwoods lawyer." The gaunt stranger 
 scratched his rumpled black head with that huge hand; in 
 the waning light he looked like a tall sober gentle scare- 
 crow. "My name is Abraham Lincoln." 
 
CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 "QETH! Will you stop nibbling that parched corn!" 
 **-* Mercy menaced him with the pancake lifter. "Break- 
 fast will be ready in two jiffs. Listen! If you don't stop, 
 you'll sprout!" 
 
 "Where will I sprout?" inquired Seth with interest. 
 
 "Outen your eyes. And your ears. And I'll hev to plow 
 you and harrow you and weed you night and day, if I figger 
 on any crop." The Captain pulled a pink ear. 
 
 "Something smells elegant," chirped 'Doniram. "Hey, 
 folks, guess!" 
 
 "Sassengers," piped up the Captain from his big rocker 
 close to the fire. "And they ain't nobody going to keep tab 
 on me neither!" His clean wrinkled old face, scrubbed as 
 industriously as Seth's own, was shiny with soap and happi- 
 ness. His shriveled old hands lay folded on his knees, 
 tranquil with content. To Father this new home might mean 
 crushing disappointment: to the Captain it was foretaste of 
 Paradise. Wasn't he accorded the warmest corner, the 
 thickest buffalo robe, by common consent? Wasn't he busy 
 from morning till night, watering the horses, bringing in 
 kindling, planning for long hours on end just where he'd 
 make garden and set out cabbages the minute that spring 
 came? Wasn't he eagerly consulted twenty times a day 
 on every problem that beset the little boys? Didn't Father 
 ask his advice? Follow it too? Well, then! What more 
 could a man want? 
 
 Mr. Stafford looked at him. Through his fog of anxiety 
 and disappointment he felt a vague comfort. It was some- 
 
126 THE FATHER 
 
 thing, to awaken such utter content on the face of a tired 
 forgotten old man. 
 
 "Twonnet! do look what you're doing! Oh, you're 
 dribbling gravy all over my clean table-cloth! For pity's 
 sake There, don't set that hot skillet down on the high- 
 boy! You'll burn the whole top off! I can hear it sizz!" 
 
 Aunty was frantic. Twonnet was always making her 
 frantic. And yet she meant so well! But when she didn't 
 break she spilled, and when she didn't spill she scorched, and 
 when she didn't scorch she — but she always did scorch. 
 Everything she could lay her hands on. Always and forever. 
 The cabin was blue from morning till night with the smoke 
 of blackened toast, the smell of leathery fried eggs, of burnt 
 overshoes and frizzling undershirts. She was not merely 
 awkward, she was Calamity let loose. 
 
 "Maybe she'll learn. Some time." Aunty spoke with 
 desperate patience. "I'll say for you, Mercy Rose, you're a 
 sovereign good manager. If it hadn't been for the mumps 
 and the Apostle we'd have been settled long ago." She roused 
 herself to rare praise. "When you think of the hooraws' nest 
 this place was three days ago! And look at it now!" 
 
 Father looked. In three days the four log walls and a 
 roof, the icy caves of rooms, the dark narrow hall that ran 
 through the cabin, had grown warm and bright and cozy. 
 The forlorn shelter had become a home. 
 
 "The child would make a home in the desert." He put 
 out his hand to her as she flashed by, set down the big platter 
 of cakes and the crackling sausages, swept Donny's spelling 
 book out of his hands, tucked in Seth's napkin, and planted 
 Thomas in his chair with a shake and a kiss, all in the 
 same breath. The little boys turned to her as flowers to 
 the sun. Twonnet, dark, sullen, watched her with eyes that 
 worshiped dreamily — and being Twonnet she splashed a 
 yellow pool of pancake batter on the spotless floor. 
 
THE FATHER 127 
 
 "Company's coming. I see 'em. In Aunty's tea-cup." 
 Seth leaned to scrutinize the fragment of leaf. 
 
 "Company's here right now." Donny ran to the window. 
 "Looky, it's that big jackknife man that hauled us out of 
 the mud the night we came!" 
 
 "And dropped his two-cent piece down my back!" 
 Thomas leaped up in lively hope of favors to come. 
 
 "Ask him to breakfast, Father. Hurry, dear! Oh! He 
 looks like an enormous black rooster sitting on a stick nest! 
 Lookt" 
 
 The gaunt roan plodded up the muddy lane. Mr. Lincoln 
 swung leisurely off. Tied to his saddle behind was a bundle 
 of slim black switches. 
 
 With his high stovepipe hat, his bony beaked face, his 
 flapping coattails, he was a masculine witch of Salem strad- 
 dling the withes for a broomstick. He stumbled in, stiff 
 from the long cold daybreak ride, put down his witch- 
 broom, picked up 'Doniram, Seth and Thomas in one fell 
 swoop and squeezed them jointly and severally. 
 
 "Lend me a spade, will you?" to Father. "Struck me, the 
 night you folks came, that this place needs a few fruit 
 trees. Nothing on the place but some gnurly apples. Yes, it's 
 a last chance, but even late planting is better than none. 
 Thought we'd stick these peach seedlings in near the well. 
 What d'you say?" 
 
 For a minute Mr. Stafford could only stare at the little 
 trees. The thief who had carried off their baby orchard had 
 stolen more than slips and cuttings. He had stolen the very 
 essence of home. These little new trees were so many 
 friendly outstretched hands. 
 
 "Of all the neighborly ! Sir, I hardly know how to 
 
 thank you. We'll plant them at once. But first you will 
 breakfast with us?" 
 
 Mr. Lincoln considered that table. The platter of smok- 
 
128 THE FATHER 
 
 ing sausages, the stout hospitable coffeepot, the pile of 
 tender cakes. 
 
 The old Captain added his welcome. 
 
 "Set down, stranger. You're welcome. Nobody in this 
 house never keeps tab on you, neither." 
 
 "Reckon I will, thank you. I'm riding circuit, and I 
 started from the tavern before five o'clock. Due at the 
 Courthouse by nine. Breakfast wasn't ready yet. However, 
 that wasn't any great loss. You know. There's taverns. And 
 taverns. Thank you kindly, ma'am." 
 
 He sat down, section by section. He squared himself, 
 as a man who approaches an agreeable but important task; 
 cakes, sausages melted before him. The little boys sat spell- 
 bound. From time to time the Captain nodded, encourag- 
 ingly. Twonnet at the griddle gazed and gazed and slopped 
 more batter. 
 
 At last he stood up and bowed to Aunty and Mercy. 
 
 "Now for the spade." 
 
 "What kind of trees will they be when they grow 
 up?" 
 
 "That depends on yourselves, boys. No telling. Maybe 
 peach-pie trees. Maybe switchin' trees. You got to settle that. 
 We might plant 'em by the barn, or else over on the Indian 
 mounds." 
 
 "Indian mounds " 
 
 "Why, yes. See? Those three, right yonder. This farm 
 raises a mighty big crop of arrowheads, every year." 
 
 Arrowheads! Indian mounds! Buried treasure! 
 
 The three little boys dashed out as if moved by a single 
 spring. They fell upon the nearest mound like three 
 frenzied chipmunks. Mr. Lincoln laughed and followed. 
 But once outside he turned to Father alone. 
 
 "I don't want to be intrusive, sir. But may I ask how 
 you happened to choose this location?" 
 
THE FATHER 129 
 
 In his bitter humiliation at the fraud that had been 
 played upon him, Father did not want to confide in any 
 human being. But something in this serious, gentle giant 
 not only invited confidence, it drew it bodily out of you. 
 In ten sentences Father had told him the whole story. 
 
 Mr. Lincoln reflected. 
 
 "You bought from Timothy Lyman, sight unseen. Well, 
 I'm nobody but a backwoods lawyer. I can't hold out much 
 hope that you'll get your rights now that the sale is closed. 
 But I can pull some of the packing out of this case for you. 
 Timothy Lyman himself bought this land sight unseen. 
 Bought it from a slick-tongued land-agent who sold him 
 this worthless strip of marsh and hookin' quarter, and 
 ground every cent of the top price out of him at that. The 
 minute Timothy laid eyes on it he looked around to unload, 
 you see. And here you were, asking his own brother for 
 advice on location. So between 'em they sawed it off on you. 
 Now the miserable truth is, you'll never make a living for 
 that splendid young family, on this worthless soil " 
 
 "I don't figure on that." Father launched into his great 
 plan. Mr. Lincoln listened. But his steady face took on a 
 slow cold disapproval. 
 
 "An Abolitionist newspaper Well. Far's I'm con- 
 cerned I'm afraid you've come to the goat's house for 
 wool. I hope I'll live to see slavery abolished. But by 
 ballots, not bullets. By mutual agreement, never by the 
 sword." 
 
 "How many centuries will it take," Mr. Stafford flared 
 up promptly, "to educate people up to that point?" 
 
 "As soon as men come to realize that the slavery issue 
 spells danger every hour to the unity of this nation " 
 
 "Meanwhile this monstrous situation will go on and on, 
 in injustice, in cruel suffering." 
 
 "I see your point of view." Mr. Lincoln halted. He 
 
130 THE FATHER 
 
 stared down the stretch of dark November fields. "But 
 you've got to look at it with a cold mind. We've got to 
 hold our union together, a union inseparable. But we 
 can't settle the whole slavery problem in one morning. 
 
 Perhaps " He spoke rather shyly. "D'you care to ride 
 
 into town with me? I'd like to have you meet some 
 friends of mine. And talk over your plans." 
 
 Father agreed eagerly. When he started home six hours 
 later, all his black depression had vanished as the morning 
 dew. He was boyishly happy. Mr. Lincoln, awkward, diffi- 
 dent, gentle, had taken him about to meet all the substantial 
 citizens of Bakerstown, and these men had treated him like 
 visiting royalty. It meant something, this was evident, to be 
 introduced by this big clumsy backwoods lawyer. Generous 
 welcome, hearty encouragement, ready Western friend- 
 liness, all were lavished upon him. With such allies as these, 
 how could he fail? How could he grow despondent, even? 
 
 He turned into the crossroads and galloped Button down 
 to the Corners' Postofhce, hardly two miles from his home. 
 By to-day, there would surely be mail for him. 
 
 There was mail. A handful of letters. He looked through 
 them with shaking eagerness. But nothing from Joel. How- 
 ever, on the next stage from Chicago, there would surely 
 be some news from him. 
 
 But while there was no word from Joel, there was a let- 
 ter from Horace Mann. A glowing enthusiastic letter. 
 
 "I am thankful to tell you that we are actually getting 
 under way. Nothing marvelous yet. But we are glad of 
 every new pupil. Of course we need money. Only a few 
 of our young folks can pay the cost of tuition, which is 
 twelve dollars a year. To say nothing of their living ex- 
 penses. For those who are well-to-do, I have fixed the 
 price of board and room at two dollars a week. That 
 
THE FATHER 131 
 
 sounds exorbitant, but you would be surprised to learn that 
 it barely covers the cost of food and fuel. My faculty feels 
 that each member should have thirty dollars a month, so 
 generous friends in Boston are paying the salaries. We have 
 eight instructors, so that is a terrible expense; but so far 
 it has been Providentially met. My great dream is to see 
 the day when every student will be able to work his way 
 through college and be prepared to meet the world, twice 
 armed by a training both of brain and of hands. If only 
 we workers were given a few more years, Stafford! But 
 sheer need will raise up a man to fill my place. My dream, 
 even as your own dream of freedom, will be made real. 
 Even if we, ourselves, do not live to see the day. 
 
 "I want you to send me your daughter, for a term, at 
 least. Mrs. Mann will keep a motherly eye on her. I need 
 not tell you that she will be as welcome as the day, and you 
 shall be at no expense for her, none whatever. Thanks to 
 our generous friends, we have a hundred and fourteen 
 dollars in our treasury, which gives us an abundance to go 
 on. 
 
 "With deep respect, and with every good wish for the 
 welfare of your own splendid plans, 
 
 Your Friend, 
 
 Horace Mann." 
 
 "If only I could send the child! But till I hear from 
 Joel I dare not spend a cent beyond our bare living. Per- 
 haps if I hadn't brought the Captain along — but he surely 
 earned his salt on the journey. And he tries so hard to help! 
 Then Twonnet — but I'd not sleep if we'd left her behind. 
 
 And how I could manage without Mercy right now 
 
 No, I couldn't spare her, not even if I had the money at 
 hand. Maybe, by spring " 
 
132 THE FATHER 
 
 He turned Button towards home. But the postmaster 
 shouted after him. 
 
 "Hey, you got a Mercy Rose Stafford at your house? 
 Here's a letter for her, too. 'Most forgot it." 
 
 He took the letter. It was a pale and tender blue. It 
 was addressed in a large round youthful hand, adorned with 
 plenty of deep-shaded spraggles and swoops. It was sealed 
 by a pair of highly colored embossed doves. He need not 
 read the return address. "Return to Lemuel G. Crowther, 
 Green River, Mass." 
 
 Just what he might have expected. A surge of fright- 
 ened jealousy went over him, an icy wave. 
 
 Oh, well. This was what you got for being a father. 
 You loved your children so terribly, you gave up everything 
 for them, you spent yourself body and soul year after year. 
 Then, just as they've grown to be some real comfort, 
 along comes a wistful knock-kneed lump, all oiled and 
 curled like a young Assyrian bull, and falls over his large 
 feet and gasps out his imbecile worship. Does your child 
 laugh at him and send him away? She does not. She listens. 
 Not only listens, but smiles on him, gives him permission to 
 write to her, to pour out his mushy soul. . . . 
 
 Mercy was sitting at the east window. Three young 
 archaeologists swarmed over her, their faces grimy with 
 mud, their hands full of arrowheads and bits of queer 
 gray pottery. Armed with the flreshovel and a couple of 
 trowels, they had plunged into excavation the minute they 
 had come back from school. They fell on their father with 
 exultant whoops. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I see. I see. Don't all climb my back at 
 once. Mercy, my child" — he hesitated — that wave of funny 
 pitiful jealousy swept him again. "Here's a letter." 
 
 Mercy reached for it eagerly. Cruel eagerness! Her 
 
THE FATHER 133 
 
 grave eyes lighted. Her petal cheek colored like an anem- 
 one in the wind. 
 
 As she read, that soft rose deepened to scarlet. She thrust 
 the letter into her belt, she leaned against the window, and 
 stared down the road. Past the row of Indian mounds, past 
 the marsh, away to the east, far, far. 
 
 John Stafford watched her with impatient eyes. Looking 
 back eastward, was she? Looking back towards the hills of 
 her old home, the elm-shaded lanes where she had walked 
 with that young oaf, the garden path where he had bowed 
 his chucklehead before her! Yes, this was what you got, for 
 being a father. Once in a lifetime they gave you an hour 
 or so of happiness. And you, you poor fool, you went on 
 hoping for more and more. But just let them grow up, and 
 see how quickly they can forget you, throw you away! 
 
 Mercy was looking eastward, indeed. Looking back and 
 seeing all too clearly the face of Lemuel. But the crimson 
 in her cheeks was not the crimson signal of her love. 
 Rather was it the guilty flush of shame. For consider: here 
 she sat, an engaged woman; a settled woman, as Aunty 
 would sedately say. Yet how shockingly had she betrayed 
 her promises! Not exactly promises in word, but in spirit! 
 True, it was not her fault that Father, in his desperate 
 haste, had snatched away her ribbon, ring and all. But 
 within her there must be a deplorable element of light- 
 mindedness. Fickleness, even. For now she saw Lemuel as 
 he really was. Stout, solemn, his blue eyes slightly popped 
 with emotion, his pumpkin hair arranged in its imperish- 
 able spit-curls. But to-day no knightly panoply enfolded 
 him. No longer did a golden helmet crown those ringlets. 
 Upon his image there shone no glamor, although her mem- 
 ory still caught the gleam of Aunty's gilt birdcage paint. 
 And crowding upon that vision, thrusting it back, there 
 
134 THE FATHER 
 
 came a keener, clearer vision. Not really a vision: rather 
 a glint, a flying shadow. The blood-masked face of a boy in 
 shabby riding-clothes. The clutch of cold groping fingers. 
 The weight of a dark head against her knee. 
 
 She jerked herself away. Dutifully, resolutely, she re- 
 read Lemuel's letter. From his desk, her father looked 
 across at her with anxious eyes. 
 
 "Miss Mercy Rose Stafford — 
 Bakerstown P.O. 
 Sangamon County, 
 Illinois. 
 
 Esteemed Friend: 
 
 "Dear Dearest Mercy : I have been verry lonesome since 
 you and your respected Family set off for the Far West. I 
 wish I was going out west. Pa says maybe we will all go 
 west in the spring. In which case we will proberly locate 
 near you. I wish you would tell your folks we are going to 
 be married and let me tell my folks here for they are all 
 saying you fooled with me and then gave me the Mitten 
 and I want to make them set up and take notice. Also when 
 they know I am Engaged, those girls up to the Academy 
 will let me alone for as it is they run me up a tree. 
 
 "I wish to be remembered respectfully to your father 
 and Aunty. If we go west I hope my pa will buy land that 
 joins your pa's for it is always a good thing for to join up 
 lands if you are planning to get married to anybody. 
 
 "We have had 3 big snows and I got to take my bob- 
 sled to the forge and have the runners sharpened. I wish I 
 could take you sledding up Kimball Hill. I am going sled- 
 ding to-night with a crowd of fellows but I would swop 
 them all for one girl. 
 
 "Guess who. 
 
 "I found this poem in The Lady's Book of Flowers and 
 
THE FATHER 135 
 
 Poetry. It is by N. P. Willis. It has a beautiful sentiment. 
 It reminds me of you and me. 
 
 With Sincere regard, I am 
 
 Your Engaged Husband, 
 
 Lemuel G. Crowther." 
 
 "Any news from home, Mercy?" Thus Aunty, rousing 
 from her dose. Aunty dozed a good deal these days. Her 
 frail old body had a warped look. Her lips were gray. 
 
 "N-no. Nothing much. Only Lemuel says maybe their 
 whole family will come west in the spring." 
 
 "Oh. They will." Father went on with his writing. But 
 the quill bent and spattered and finally splintered in his 
 hard grip. Angry pulses hammered in his throat. Well, let 
 him come. Much good would it do him! By March at the 
 latest, Joel would surely pay back some of that money. The 
 minute it reached his hands he would send as large a por- 
 tion as he dared to Horace Mann. With it he would send 
 Mercy. And at Antioch, under Mrs. Mann's eyes, she would 
 stay, till the fond Lemuel was firmly married to some other 
 girl. 
 
 "That'll be soon enough, if I'm any judge. The great 
 softy!" 
 
 Heaven be praised for the cloistered security of Antioch! 
 
 Next morning, a sharp freeze made the roads a shade 
 less impossible. Father hitched up and took Aunty and 
 Mercy to Bakerstown, to see his new press. Inwardly he 
 desired to crow over Aunty, for the little press had proved 
 to be anything but a mess of rust. It was primitive enough, 
 but in good trim, and there were abundant supplies in the 
 tight little shack which was office, composing room, every- 
 thing in one. The little boys yearned loudly to go, but 
 Father put his foot down. 
 
 "We'll be away only a few hours. Trot along to school. 
 
i 3 6 THE FATHER 
 
 And when you come home, mind you obey Twonnet." 
 
 "I only hope she doesn't scorch anything while we're 
 away." 
 
 Aunty sniffed. 
 
 "She's scorched everything already, but the roof. And 
 the little boys." 
 
 In twenty-four hours, by some mysterious wireless teleg- 
 raphy, the word of their coming had flown through the 
 whole township, and had prepared for them a generous 
 welcome. They started home in high spirits. Even Aunty 
 glowed. For hadn't she been urged to join the church sewing 
 society and the neighborhood prayer meeting, and bidden to 
 three house-raising dinners in the next week? 
 
 They drove into their home lane and stopped at the barn. 
 Trouble, their new puppy, ran ahead and sniffed at the 
 closed door. Then with a yelp that was all but a shriek, he 
 turned and hurled himself back towards the house. Tail 
 at half-mast, yelping like a banshee, he leaped and scratched 
 and whined to get in. 
 
 "What ails Trouble ? Here ! Whoa! Hang on 
 
 tight, Aunty. What on earth " 
 
CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 BUTTON and Betsy, always so docile, were rearing 
 and plunging. Father gripped the reins, leaned far 
 over the dash-board, dragged and tugged with all his 
 might. 
 
 The carryall lurched, tilted. The horses bucked and 
 backed and struggled. 
 
 "Hang tight, Aunty! Hold on, Mercy! Whoa, I tell you! 
 Whoa!" 
 
 "It's the barn, Father! They're just like Trouble, they're 
 frightened to death of the barn " 
 
 "Of all the demented Whoa, stop it! Whoa, I 
 
 say !" 
 
 He drove the frantic creatures across the field a hundred 
 yards away from the barn. Out of scent of the building 
 they gave way trembling. Sweat poured off their thick 
 winter coats. They backed and flinched and quivered, they 
 rolled terrified eyes towards the barn. 
 
 "Some wild animal But where are the children! 
 
 What on earth has become of Twonnet ?" 
 
 He tied the horses securely to the fence. He ran back. 
 But when he was halfway back, the barn door opened. Out 
 boiled a geyser of boys. His own three came first. Then a 
 deluge of small boys, middle-sized boys, tall gangling 
 boys. 
 
 "Oh, Father, oh, Father!" Adoniram got there first. 
 Adoniram's face was almost purple, his freckles fairly 
 stood out in relief. "Oh, oh, we were all coming home from 
 school and right on the turnpike, we met them And 
 
138 THE FATHER 
 
 oh, we got a circus! A real live circus, and a real live roar- 
 ing lion ! Right here, in our own barn ! " 
 
 "What under the firmament " 
 
 "Yes, sirree. And all the fellows was coming out of 
 
 school, and they all swarmed around the circus " Seth 
 
 took up the tale. "And they acted awful rude and mean, 
 and made fun of the poor man in the gold wagon, and 
 throwed sticks at him, and we told them to quit! And they 
 wouldn't quit. They followed us clear up the road. The 
 man is sick, so sick, he couldn't climb out of his wagon, he's 
 got the reins hung on a hook, 'cause he can't drive, even. 
 We told him he could come stay to-night in our barn. But 
 he couldn't answer us back he just talks so funny, we can't 
 tell one word he says. And the other fellows kept right on 
 behind, and they tagged us right into our barn, they 
 wouldn't go away. And they've kept on a-plaguin' the poor 
 man, and a-pestering him " 
 
 "Clear out, boys." Mr. Stafford pushed his way through 
 the pop-eyed mob. 
 
 "Monkeyth!" Thomas was all but incoherent. "Mon- 
 keyth, and a spotty dog that does trickth! Oh, oh, 
 
 Father ! And a red wagon, all over gold ladies without 
 
 any clothes on, and two ponies, all spots, too. Oh, Father! 
 Can't we keep 'em always? We can fix up a circus right in 
 our barn, and charge ten cents and make hundreds and 
 millions of dollars Oh, Father, we got to!" 
 
 Father waded through them into the barn. From a dark 
 corner, four small half -frozen monkeys shrieked and gib- 
 bered. Beside them, crouched in his tarnished cage, shiv- 
 ered a sad moth-eaten old lion. But Father went straight 
 to the scandalous gold wagon. 
 
 "Clear out, boys. You're in the way. Get along, I tell 
 you. And be quick about it." 
 
THE FATHER 139 
 
 The mob from District School Number Two stood aside, 
 grudgingly. 
 
 "He ain't nobody but a furriner," drawled one tall 
 somber-eyed boy. "Can't so much as tell his name." 
 
 He prodded the wan little shape, sprawled on the tat- 
 tered blanket, with a large grimy hand. It was not a cruel 
 prod. It was merely experimental. Briefly, would a furriner 
 squirm if you punched him? 
 
 But Editor Stafford, finicky creature that he was, flared 
 up like a rocket. The heavy buggy-whip was still gripped 
 in his hand. He wheeled in a flash and brought the whip 
 curling across the boy's shoulders. 
 
 "Get along with you! Keep your hands off, you young 
 fool. Clear out, every last one of you. March!" 
 
 The barn cleared as if by magic. But the older boys 
 went scowling and muttering. Things had come to a pretty 
 pass if you couldn't so much as punch a furriner, nor throw 
 sticks at him, even! 
 
 Father bent again over the dark little wraith in the 
 wagon. The man's twisted brown hands were thin as the 
 monkey's claws. His black eyes were bright with fever. 
 Weakly he pulled himself up and began to sputter in 
 Italian. Father took good grip on his own scanty under- 
 standing thereof. 
 
 Two minutes later, he hurried back to the house. He 
 paid no heed to the storm of questions that greeted him. He 
 heated a pitcher of milk, rolled up a couple of blankets, and 
 set the soapstones to warm. Then he addressed his dis- 
 traught family. 
 
 "Keep out of that barn. Every one of you. Thomas 
 Stafford, this means you. Not one of you go near it unless 
 I give you leave. No, Aunty, I don't need you. First I've 
 got to get some food into this starved little chap, and thaw 
 him out " 
 
HO THE FATHER 
 
 "For pity's sake, John Stafford, and you don't even know 
 his name " 
 
 "Well, what of it? His first name is Giovanni. That's 
 all I've tried to get out of him. He's too beat to say any 
 more " 
 
 "Yes, sir, Aunty, and Father made the boys get out, and 
 get out quick. He even took his whip to 'em. Even that big 
 bully of a Jim Wallis. Just give him one switch, and did 
 he hop it? He was a-pokin' the poor circus man, and 
 a-proddin' him, an' a-tormentin' him " 
 
 "Jo Vanny." Aunty reflected. "That's a regular New 
 England name, John. I knew a wood-chopper once, down 
 Ipswich way, a Portugoose he was, that sounded like 
 that " 
 
 "And next thing, I'm going straight back to Bakerstown, 
 and bring the doctor. We'll find out what ails him." 
 
 "Smallpox, most like. And we'll every one of us get it." 
 
 "No telling. Here, somebody hurry up those soapstones!" 
 
 At that, Twonnet emerged from her hiding-place behind 
 the big pineapple bed. When the crowd had swarmed into 
 the yard, Twonnet had decided to take no chances. 
 
 Willingly she crowded in fuel. The soapstones didn't 
 scorch but they did crack. But in the excitement, nobody 
 noticed that. 
 
 Everybody waited, agog, till Father came galloping 
 back. Behind him rode the doctor, in his high mud-spattered 
 gig. Both men tied their horses to the front rail, some dis- 
 tance from the barn. But the barn door stood open, and 
 the doctor's mare caught a good jungle whiff. She danced 
 and flounced and curveted. Finally she managed to jerk 
 the reins loose, tangle herself in them, and break a shaft. 
 Disgustedly the doctor hauled her to her feet, where she 
 stood trembling, actually faint with panic. 
 
 "Before you get through with this performance, you'll 
 
THE FATHER 141 
 
 have to get rid of this wild-beast odor. And before you 
 can do that, you'll have to burn down your barn." 
 
 "We'll put Twonnet at that chore. Now what ails this 
 poor little wretch? Smallpox?" 
 
 "Smallpox? Starvation, you mean. And a bad knee — 
 poor little chap, he's crippled up for months to come. His 
 animals are in bad shape, too. Looks like you'll have the 
 whole outfit on your hands. It ought not take more than 
 ten pounds of fresh meat a day to put that lion into top- 
 notch trim." 
 
 "Fresh meat isn't easy to come by out here, now that 
 fall butchering is over with. But I might utilize the little 
 boys." 
 
 Father's voice was somewhat grim. You couldn't turn 
 away this poor little crumpled, famished foreigner. "But I 
 don't see myself taking the food out of my own children's 
 mouths to keep life in a weak-kneed old lion." 
 
 Floods of tears greeted his decision. 
 
 "Stop howling, Thomas. Listen to me. This poor man 
 says he knows he cannot feed the lion any longer. He 
 realizes too that the lion will not live through the bitter 
 cold. He himself is too sick and weak to go away. Worse, he 
 has no place to go. So he says, Do as you think best. So we 
 will manage to keep the ponies for him, through the winter. 
 And, if we can, the monkeys. But the lion will have to be 
 — sent away." 
 
 "Oh, but, Father! I'll let him sleep in my loft, I'll give 
 him all my breakfast " 
 
 "And I'll let him have my blanket " 
 
 "That will do, boys. You must leave this to me. Re- 
 member, the ponies will stay a while. Possibly the man 
 will let you ride them." 
 
 Pallid hope lightened that black despair. 
 
 "I suppose I've got to take the lion out while the boys 
 
H2 THE FATHER 
 
 are at school and shoot him," Father told Mercy. "When I 
 was a young fellow, I used to dream of the day when I'd 
 be rich enough to build a ship and sail away to Africa and 
 go lion-hunting. But I never dreamed that I'd reach the 
 point where I'd go lion-hunting in my own back yard and 
 shoot a poor guileless old beast right down in his own 
 cage." 
 
 But right there, up rose Aunty. 
 
 "One thing certain, John. While these creatures stay here 
 with us, they've got to be made comfortable. You build a 
 good fire in the lean-to, and we'll make up a warm bed 
 for Jo Vanny. Then I'll tend to the animals. The monkeys 
 are all sneezing, and the lion looks as if he'd have chills 
 and fever by supper time. Mercy, make some sage tea, and 
 stew up some onions and molasses. Twonnet, fix me a ket- 
 tle of boiling water, if you can boil it without burning it. 
 Seth, you run up attic and find my old red check shawl. 
 Yes, and the sack of linseed, too." 
 
 Everybody obeyed on the jump. At what ensued, nobody 
 cracked a smile. But years after, Mercy would waken 
 and lie shaking in her bed at the thought of Aunty's patient 
 ministries. 
 
 First Jo Vanny himself, despite the pitiful pleading in his 
 eyes, was plastered with scalding linseed poultices, rolled in 
 hot blankets, and filled to the Plimsoll mark with boiling 
 yarb tea. 
 
 Then Aunty laid firm hands upon the spotty dog and 
 his torn paw. She bathed it carefully and tied on a wad of 
 clean rags. 
 
 The spotty dog was fat and scant of breath, with a broad, 
 plaintive face, even more freckly than Adoniram's. He 
 limped and wheezed about like a gouty old gentleman, he 
 held his wrapped foot tenderly aloft and yapped testy 
 alarm if anybody dared pat him, even. Next came the 
 
THE FATHER 143 
 
 monkeys' turn. Every one of the four had a cold in his 
 mournful head. First she fed each a great saucerful of 
 stewed onion and molasses. They eyed this unholy brew 
 with dubious eyes, but they gulped it down without demur. 
 Then Aunty tore the red check shawl into squares and 
 bundled up each wizened head with a tidy knot atop. They 
 looked like so many sad little black mammies with the 
 toothache. When she came to the smallest monkey, who 
 was wheezing dismally, she wound the last pieces of shawl 
 over his poor little panting chest, and fastened them with 
 a large brass pin. 
 
 "Well, that chore's chored! Now what?" 
 
 "Now for the lion." Little Thomas pranced with rap- 
 turous dread. 
 
 Aunty scrutinized the lion. He had reached the yawny 
 stage of his chill. Even as she gazed, his mighty jaws 
 parted: she looked down into an incredible gulf. Aunty 
 knew not the face of fear, but at that fathomless abyss she 
 flinched a shade. 
 
 "What he needs is onions and molasses, about a gallon 
 and a half, I'd say, spooned down him so quick, he wouldn't 
 have time to fuss. And a linseed poultice, same's Jo Vanny 
 himself. But I don't aim to be et up by any circus lion, 
 especially at my time of life. No, you needn't flourish that 
 dipper at me, Seth, for I won't try to dose him and you 
 shan't. We'll hang this old carpet over his cage, to keep 
 out the draft. Then that old Rising Sun bedquilt has con- 
 siderable warmth left. Step and fetch it, Thomas. You 
 help me with the step-ladder, 'Doniram." 
 
 Calmly she ascended the ladder; calmly she opened the 
 trap-door in the top of the cage. Calmly she lowered the 
 Rising Sun quilt until it fell on the lion's hunched shoul- 
 ders. Miraculously, he did not snatch it away. Perhaps he 
 was too chilled to move. At any rate, he did not even stir. 
 
144 THE FATHER 
 
 He crouched there like a tired old man, the Rising Sun 
 quilt draped like a green and red and orange robe of 
 coronation over his ponderous old back. 
 
 "Now if your father makes up his mind to shoot him — 
 well. At least he will have had a few hours of comfort, 
 first." 
 
 But late that afternoon, Mr. Lincoln stopped in. 
 
 "Understand the Ark grounded in your barn, lately." 
 
 "The Ark," agreed Father, "and most of the animals. 
 Especially a white elephant of a lion. Take a look." 
 
 Mr. Lincoln stalked out to the barn. At sight of the 
 casualties, he sat down hastily on the wheelbarrow, and 
 rocked back and forth. Finally he regained his composure. 
 He then felt in his trousers pockets. Not finding that which 
 he sought, he dug down till he reached his gold belt. He slid 
 a heavy gleaming coin into Father's hand. 
 
 "You've got a land-office job on your hands," he an- 
 swered Father's protest. "No almshouse in this county, 
 either. The least that your neighbors can do is to give you 
 a boost. Now, about this ferocious collection, of course you 
 can't keep it. For one thing, you'll have to build a new 
 barn. You can see for yourself, horses and jungle beasts 
 don't mix. Perhaps you can keep the monkeys in that shed 
 down by the marsh. But it's a pity to throw away an able- 
 bodied lion." 
 
 "But what can I do with him?" 
 
 "I'm coming to that. Tied up below Beardstown is a 
 little flat-boat that gives shows up and down the river 
 summers, and floats down to New Orleans for the winters. 
 They carry a trick parrot and a wildcat and so on. They 
 start down-river this week, the owner told me. Why not 
 pile your assortment into the Ark, drive down to Beards- 
 town, and strike a bargain with the owner?" 
 
 No sooner said than done. Absurdly chicken-hearted, 
 
THE FATHER 145 
 
 Father waited till the boys had gone to school. Then he 
 and Mr. Lincoln drove away, shocking gilt wagon, piebald 
 ponies, monkeys, lion, and all. Be it admitted that he 
 squirmed a bit. For John Stafford, son of the Green River 
 StafFords, to appear driving a circus van on the week of his 
 arrival in a new country! 
 
 However, he was spared all embarrassment, for they 
 met only three teams, and at the first faint whiff, these 
 three promptly stampeded into the prairie. Further, by the 
 time that the two reached home they were deep in an argu- 
 ment that threatened to shatter this new friendship to bits. 
 
 "But I repeat, sir, it is no matter, which side began this 
 wrangle. North or South, what difference " 
 
 "W-well. Better to wait till the whole nation is 
 aroused " 
 
 "Wait, eh? Wait for what?" 
 
 "But you don't see eye for me, Mr. Stafford. The 
 sooner a bad law is repealed, the better. But until it is 
 repealed " 
 
 "Isn't there a higher law? The law of humanity " 
 
 "Father! Look at you, driving right into the buttery 
 door! Oh, and Mr. Lincoln came home with you! Please 
 come right in and have supper with us — please! Aunty 
 baked a 'lection cake, a big one, and we've got roast pota- 
 toes and squirrel stew with lots of gravy, and cold wild 
 goose and broiled partridges besides. Your place is all set 
 for you, Mr. Lincoln. Oh, please!" 
 
 "Yes, and how did your bargain come out? Tell us, right 
 straight." Thus Aunty. 
 
 Mr. Lincoln grinned at Father. Father grinned back. 
 
 "Let me tell it, Stafford?" 
 
 "Go ahead." 
 
 "Well. We told that flatboater," he spoke with a face of 
 putty innocence, "that the lion was the finest bargain he'd 
 
146 THE FATHER 
 
 find in a year to come. Pointed out that he'd earn his board 
 and keep, twenty times over. He was easily persuaded until 
 along came his wife. She's one of those imperial women. 
 Yes, I'd say imperial is just the word. She sailed into the 
 subject and into us, heart and soul. She told him how witless 
 he was to let us coax him into boarding the lion all winter, 
 and she mentioned several other bargains he had made that 
 didn't turn out so well, and finally she said, 'If that lion 
 comes aboard, that's where I leave.' But that flatboatman — 
 well, there's something superhuman about him. Did he 
 knuckle down to her? Not he. He let her talk on and on. 
 Then, right before her eyes, he up and pulled out his 
 wallet and paid Mr. Stafford for his kindness in bringing 
 the lion down to Beardstown. Then he added six dollars 
 more, for lion-rent through the winter." 
 
 Slavery, abolition, receded into the middle distance. As 
 Father drove the red-and-gold wagon out of the buttery 
 and into the barn, he reflected with a mild chuckle that for 
 him to make a spectacle of himself as he had done to-day, 
 would hardly win for him the serious attention of his asso- 
 ciates. But the circus van was not merely a circus van with 
 unabashed gilt ladies on it. It was to prove a car of destiny. 
 
CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 ANIGHT or so later, Mercy sat writing in her diary, 
 full speed ahead. Seth and Thomas were properly 
 asleep in their own loft, but Adoniram had been seized 
 with a lonesome streak. 
 
 " 'N' I feel awful. 'N' I want sleep right 'longside of 
 you." 
 
 Consequently Mercy had hauled out the trundle-bed 
 from which Thomas had so proudly graduated in Green 
 River. Ample for Thomas, it was a Procrustean fit for 
 Donny, whose lanky legs waved over the foot while his 
 skull jammed the head-board. But he had dropped off 
 comforted, a fold of his sister's dress gripped tight in one 
 small freckled hand. Mercy's pen raced on. 
 
 "If we were back in Green River, we'd think we were 
 dreadfully unlucky, for this house is so small, and only 
 four real rooms to it, besides the lofts, and you have to 
 climb up to them by ladders. But there is a lean-to with a 
 big fireplace in it; we're going to give it to the Captain 
 for his own. And there is a fair-sized barn, and a shed 
 near the marsh for Jo Vanny to live in and keep the an- 
 imals, except the lion, Cartouche, and the monkeys that 
 went south on the flat-boat with him. And when summer 
 comes there will be loads of wild flowers in the marsh. 
 But not one solitary tree. Only the little peach-pie trees 
 that Mr. Lincoln brought. 
 
 "Of course I can manage all right, though it is handier 
 to keep a house with ten rooms, besides the toolhouse and 
 the carriage-house and a big barn and a wagon-shed and all 
 
148 THE FATHER 
 
 the rest. Besides back home we had water piped into the 
 house, and that is much easier than carrying it all the time. 
 The Captain pumps lots, but he gets tired, and then he 
 splashes so. And Twonnet forgets or else she fusses at the 
 Captain for spilling and he snaps back at her. Aunty is right. 
 If the mumps and the Apostle hadn't delayed us so, we'd 
 have been settled long ago. 
 
 "AH our old things look hustled and scared and queer. 
 We had to nail board seats onto Aunty's chairs where the 
 horses chewed them and it makes them look too forlorn, and 
 we couldn't get the pineapple bed into the house unless 
 we chopped off the poor little pineapple hands first, and 
 the carpets are miles too big, and the eagle mirror has to 
 sit flat on the floor. 
 
 "I'm beginning to see what Mr. Emerson meant when 
 he scolded Father so, and told him he wasn't pioneer ma- 
 terial. If we didn't have Mr. Lincoln around, I don't see 
 how we would ever manage. He drops in almost every 
 day, and he always finds something to do. He chops wood 
 and he surveyed our land over again and found it was six 
 acres short, so he took Father into town and hunted up Mr. 
 Timothy Lyman, and told him he'd have to make a new 
 deed and have it recorded. Mr. Timothy said, very brash 
 indeed, Oh, is that so, the sale is over and done with, and 
 Mr. Lincoln told him, Oh, all right, we will see what the 
 court says about that. Then Mr. Timothy said, Do you 
 want to ruin me, Lawyer Lincoln and Mr. Lincoln told 
 him, Not for untold riches. I merely want to help your 
 good deeds to shine out in a naughty world. So Mr. Tim- 
 othy gave in and now we have six more acres of good 
 plow land. 
 
 "Father says he is going to farm the place himself, but 
 I don't see how he can, for he works so hard down at the 
 office, as it is, and prints dozens of hand-bills every day. 
 
THE FATHER 149 
 
 We are thankful that he has them to do, for every little 
 helps. Mr. Lincoln has brought the cunningest yellow 
 puppy for the little boys, and the little boys are ready to 
 burst with pride because Mr. Lincoln told them he was 
 at least six kinds of dog, maybe more. His name is Trouble, 
 and he certainly earns it, for he is cutting his teeth on 
 everything. But we all love him. Except maybe Aunty. 
 
 "People here are pretty much like the way they are 
 everywhere else, except in some ways they are different. I 
 am going to the office to help Father, all next week. It 
 would be lots of fun if it wasn't for the Owens. There are 
 two Owens, and they are forever hanging around Father's 
 office, and acting as if they owned the place and Father 
 and me and all. They are brothers and sort of youngish 
 and very rich. They own two thousand acres of splendid 
 land and they have no end of cows and horses and they 
 drive the fastest teams in the state. Folks all tell you so. 
 They wear the most elegant checked suits and stovepipe 
 hats every single day and enormous diamond rings and 
 high shiny boots. Father says you can see to shave yourself 
 in them. The elder Owen is all right, they say, but Fred- 
 erick, the younger, is a Smart Aleck if ever I saw one. I 
 have never laid eyes on him but once. However, that once 
 was enough for me. 
 
 "Bakerstown has lots of stores but only one church. 
 Folks call it the Lord's Barn, and anybody who feels he 
 has a call can come along and preach in it. It has benches 
 instead of pews, and last Sunday there was a Campbellite 
 audience, and the week before came the Hard-shell Baptists, 
 and to-morrow we shall have the privilege of hearing a 
 prominent Phrenologist from Boston. 
 
 "I have not had a letter from Lemuel, only the one 
 Father brought from the office the other night. I do not 
 worry much about Lemuel. In this letter he said, What 
 
150 THE FATHER 
 
 with the town girls and the Academy girls both he was 
 surrounded by Temptation and he did wish I would write 
 home and tell everybody that I am engaged to him. 
 
 "I wish he would yield to his old Temptations and quit 
 pestering me." 
 
CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 
 THE CLARION CALL OF FREEDOM 
 
 Volume One. Published at Bakerstown, Illinois. Number One 
 
 December first, eighteen hundred and fifty 
 
 State Sovereignty and National Union 
 
 FATHER pulled out the damp page with hands that 
 shook. The first copy of his new paper. He had 
 written it and set it up and toiled over it inch by inch. 
 Here it stood, the bodying forth of his long dream. 
 
 The Clarion had just four large flapping pages. The 
 front page bore a majestic heading portraying the God- 
 dess of Liberty blowing a trumpet. Evidently the Clarion 
 itself. On her robust shoulder perched the Eagle, a meek 
 and lop-sided eagle, but fairly impressive. From its beak 
 floated a scroll which set forth the invariable slogan : "State 
 Sovereignty and National Union." 
 
 The entire first page was devoted to the first installment 
 of that thrilling and meritorious novel, The Bandit's 
 Bride> by L. M. Alcott, and two solid columns of appal- 
 ling obituary poetry by home talent. Forthright and two- 
 fisted home talent. Father had groaned at the avalanche 
 of harmony that descended on him from the first hour. 
 But Mr. Lincoln urged him to print every word that was 
 sent in. 
 
 "Remember, Stafford. You can criticize a man's looks, 
 or his clothes, or his wife. You can give it out that he has 
 
152 THE FATHER 
 
 sneaked out here to live down a regrettable past. You 
 can spread the glad tidings that back east he was well 
 known as a miser and a usurer, a liar and a horse-thief. 
 All that will be forgiven you. But if he sends in a chunk 
 of obituary poetry, publish it. No matter though it has 
 stringhalt and is sway-backed and lame in both knees. 
 Publish it. And plaster it up with praise. For you've got a 
 growing family to support. You don't want to be cut down 
 in the prime of life. Not yet." 
 
 Hence the flow of soul that spread over the front page 
 and splashed melodious trickles on the inner pages, too. 
 
 After you had waded through that freshet of harmony 
 you climbed on the extremely dry land of the inner pages. 
 A few lines of news; a long and harrowing description, 
 by an eye-witness, of the battle of Buena Vista, which 
 had occurred only four or five years ago; one or two items 
 concerning a recent county election, during which several 
 gentlemen received black eyes and various bruises; a column 
 of land sales. Next, the advertisements: Fresh Eggs at 
 five cents the dozen, Butter eight cents a pound, Fresh 
 Venison the quarter, seventy-five cents. In more impres- 
 sive type, "C. Warren, Apothecary. Also deals in Shoes, 
 Tinware, Violins, Fodder, and Seraphines." "J. D. Badger, 
 Stylish Daguerrier." "John Carter, Genteel Undertaker." 
 "E. Guthrie, Mouth Organs, Tuning Forks, Files, Saws, 
 and Gen'l Hardware." The half-column of bank-paper 
 values, copied from The Detector, completed the issue. 
 All but one short paragraph. 
 
 This paragraph headed the Editorial Column, the most 
 conspicuous place to be found. It was not merely an edi- 
 torial. It was a slogan. 
 
 "The Editor is informed that there exists in this dis- 
 trict a division of opinion on the subject of Negro Slavery. 
 
THE FATHER 153 
 
 We wish to place ourselves on record as being unalterably 
 opposed to the continued existence of Slavery. We demand 
 of our Government its immediate Abolition. Abolition by 
 purchase and colonization, by measures of peace, if that 
 be possible. But Abolition, even though it may be con- 
 summated only by the Sword." 
 
 He read that paragraph twice. Then he folded the paper 
 and went out on the dull December street. He was shaking 
 with exultation. A fever of triumph swept him. He had 
 carried out his lifelong wish. He had made his creed so 
 clear, so convincing, that it seemed impossible that any 
 human being could fail to accept it. His battle was as good 
 as won. He drove home at top speed, dizzy and aflame 
 with glory. 
 
 He sprang off Button and banged into the living-room. 
 
 "Mercy Rose! See what I've brought for you. Look!" 
 
 The living-room was warm and silent. He called again. 
 From the sofa in her own room, Aunty called feebly: 
 
 "She went to the schoolhouse for the little boys. Then 
 she said they'd all walk to the postoffice and bring the 
 mail." 
 
 Father's exultation dimmed. He scowled irritably. What 
 possessed her? Didn't she know that his paper was coming 
 out to-day? Why couldn't she have stayed at home this 
 day of all days? 
 
 He chafed in silence till she came. There had been a 
 light fall of snow followed by a crispy crunch of sleet. 
 So the little boys had taken their sleds and she rode home 
 in bumpy state, hauled first on one sled, then on another. 
 The sharp air lit steady fires in her gray eyes, colored her 
 petal cheeks to fiery rose. Sticking from the pocket of her 
 short jacket he glimpsed a pale blue envelope. Behind that 
 envelope you could see two wistful pale blue eyes, two 
 
154 THE FATHER 
 
 pale tow spit-curls. You staggered under a thunderous 
 whiff of bergamot. . . . 
 
 Not one word did Mercy speak regarding that letter. 
 And to her father this silence was in itself betrayal. In 
 the midst of her eager, anxious praise he saw her hand 
 stray to touch that envelope. 
 
 "And what do you say to my editorial, Mercy? I plan 
 to keep it standing permanently at the head of that column. 
 They shall not say I am evading the issue." 
 
 "Your Why, yes. Why, it's perfectly splendid, 
 
 Father. I don't believe there is another editor in America 
 who could have written it half so well. Whenever I think 
 of it I'm going to be prouder of you than ever." 
 
 Loyal, loving, proud. Flesh of his flesh. Core of his 
 lonely soul. And to-day farther from him than the farthest 
 star. 
 
 The winter weeks slipped by, beads of pale amber and 
 snow and pearl on a string of silver frost. Every day 
 brought new puzzles for Mercy. Her days were swifter 
 than the flying clouds. Somehow the Clarion did not ex- 
 actly prosper. For one thing, some of the solid citizens 
 from whom Father had expected both approval and coop- 
 eration drew back. Drew back and looked down their 
 worthy noses from the moment that they laid eyes on the 
 first issue. They admired the paper. Oh, surely. But if 
 Father dared refer to that editorial challenge, his slogan, 
 there fell a blighting silence. Sometimes an even more 
 blighting comment. 
 
 "Tell 'em that if they don't like your slogan, Father, 
 they can lump it." 
 
 "They're not really bitter against my beliefs. They hate 
 the thought of agitation, that's all. They want to slide 
 along in their comfortable old groove." 
 
THE FATHER 155 
 
 "Let them slide, then. They can't discourage you, any- 
 way." 
 
 "They're rather discouraging to my pocketbook, though. 
 Sorry to admit it." 
 
 Another unexpected difficulty lay in the reluctance of 
 the subscribers to pay up in real money. Instead, they 
 would haul in a load of wood, poor wood at that; a few 
 bushels of vegetables, a half-dozen chickens. The little 
 office grew cluttered with artless swaps. A patent churn, 
 which shot a geyser of cream to the ceiling on its first 
 tryout, a farm gate which shut automatically but wouldn't 
 open unless you took the ax to it, a rickety melodeon, a 
 collection of preserves from some too-thrifty pantry, prof- 
 fered with the air of an all-too-cheerful giver, and prov- 
 ing to be either sugared off or worked. And then the 
 turnips! Evidently the editor who preceded Father had 
 cherished a guilty passion for turnips. They stood stacked 
 in bushels on the office floor till the Captain got around to 
 digging a pit for them, under the barn. And the gnurly 
 apples and sad, stringy carrots and cabbages that looked 
 as if they had been buried once and then dug up again! 
 But the supreme offering was the fearful and wonderful 
 portrait of his maternal grandfather brought by one frugal 
 subscriber. This ancestor had been without doubt an esti- 
 mable citizen, a good provider, a kind husband and father. 
 But in this portrait his godly lineaments appeared a con- 
 glomeration of features resembling at once the benevolent 
 and bewhiskered Nathaniel Wigglesworth, and the late 
 river pirate, Murrell. 
 
 "They was a peddler came along once, and he painted 
 portraits at a dollar apiece or two for a dollar-fifty. So we 
 had Grampa and Gramma painted. I always kind of liked 
 
 them, but my wife Well. You know what wimmen 
 
 folks are. Along the third time I found Gramp down in 
 
156 THE FATHER 
 
 the root-cellar, I kind of decided she didn't care much for 
 having him around. Even though I'd paid out two dollars 
 and a quarter for this elegant gold frame. So I brought 
 him over. I 'lotted he'd ought to pay my subscription, 
 maybe three years ahead." 
 
 "Sorry, but I can't apply your grandfather on your 
 subscription. I've got more family portraits than I can use 
 right now." 
 
 "But maybe Say, listen. I donno's grandfather is 
 
 worth so much. But that frame cost money. S'pose you 
 credit me with the two dollars and a quarter. Then some 
 time you may have your own portrait painted, and that 
 frame will come in mighty handy." 
 
 "Heaven forbid!" But Father spoke under his breath. 
 For the would-be subscriber was John Carter, Genteel Un- 
 dertaker. He had already put a paid advertisement in the 
 Clarion. He might be persuaded to enter another. Thus 
 expediency doth make cowards of us all. For months on 
 months Gramp shed a lurid splendor from the office wall. 
 
 Twonnet was an enigma in herself. She worshiped 
 Mercy. But as worshipers so often are, she was a weari- 
 ness to her idol. Mercy needed, and desperately, a capable 
 Martha in her household. But there was little of Martha 
 in Twonnet. Pocahontas, rather, and an untutored Poca- 
 hontas at that. Deep in Twonnet, her Indian blood, her 
 gypsy blood, was forever tugging at the leash of love and 
 gratitude that held her to Mercy. She would no more have 
 severed it than she would have severed her own veins. 
 But the pull was there. She fretted under it. And so did 
 Mercy. 
 
 "But Twonnet would die for you, daughter." 
 
 "Nobody asks her to die for me. But I'd be thankful if 
 she would wash the milkpans just once without leaving soft 
 
THE FATHER 157 
 
 soap rims on 'em. Show her how? I've showed her till I 
 can feel my brain crinkle into knots." 
 
 "Try her with outdoor work." 
 
 Mercy attempted to teach her to milk. The cows, how- 
 ever, viewed Twonnet with alarm and refused to give down 
 their milk. She set her to sweep and clean. Twonnet left the 
 mop-pail where the Captain's tottery old foot would be 
 sure to trip on it. She attacked Jo Vanny's shed with 
 unholy zeal and swept Jo out bodily, coughing and sneez- 
 ing and speaking strange Sicilian words (words eagerly 
 adopted by the little boys, who joyously collected anathe- 
 mas as ancient as their collection of arrowheads). She set 
 Twonnet to scalding the wash. Twonnet forgot and left 
 the boiler to its own devices. It was jam-full of Aunty's 
 solidly embroidered best petticoat, the fruit of a year's 
 handiwork. Of course it was scorched to ruin. "And I'd 
 calculated on another five years' wear, anyway, and then 
 I 'lotted on wearing it under my shroud! You hear me, 
 Mercy, no use trying with her. She's upset the cows' 
 stomachs, and she's got the Captain miffed, and who 
 wouldn't be, with every inch of skin knocked off both 
 shins, and she's put Jo Vanny where he froths at the 
 mouth whenever he sees her coming. Does worse with his 
 mouth than froth, too. Let her pump water and bring in 
 firewood and play tag with the little boys. That's all she's 
 good for." 
 
 So Twonnet played tag. Incidentally — for she hated 
 the tight, warm house like the wild thing she was — she 
 helped herself to the twigs and branches from the pile of 
 firewood, and by adding armfuls of clean straw she built 
 up a tiny tepee close to the well. In it, save in the bitterest 
 weather, she ate and slept. The little boys were enchanted. 
 They popped in to visit her in season and out of season. 
 
158 THE FATHER 
 
 "Let her alone. 'Drive out Nature with a stick, she 
 will come running back,' Mr. Emerson used to say," de- 
 clared Father consolingly. Mercy sighed with relief. With 
 Twonnet safely in the tepee, she could neither spill nor 
 burn nor break. 
 
 The Captain, frail as he was, proved less a source of 
 worry. And Jo Vanny had regained his strength, although 
 he was still pitifully lame. He had regained his appetite 
 too. Now and then, when Mercy observed his activities as 
 a trencherman, a queer shiver ran through her. Oh, well! 
 Never mind. What with the pickerel stored in the ice-cov- 
 ered brook and the squirrels that the little boys so proudly 
 brought in and the venison and the wild turkeys and the 
 vegetables that the subscribers offered, they would fare 
 sumptuously through the winter. By spring, everything 
 would be all right. Everything always worked out all 
 right when spring came again. Anyhow, Father would 
 have been ten times as hurried and anxious and miserable 
 if he had turned away these forlorn waif -children of his. 
 As long as Father had a roof and a kettle of cornmeal 
 mush, it wouldn't be Father if he wasn't eager to share. 
 
 Then there was Mr. Lincoln. But at thought of him, 
 Mercy glowed, contentedly. No puzzle in Mr. Lincoln's 
 visits! Solutions, rather. He dropped in almost every day. 
 There was something curious about Mr. Lincoln. He was 
 often grave, sometimes as serious, as depressed, even, as 
 was Father. But he brought always a sense of rest and 
 ease, of tranquil, unchanging comfort. It wasn't just the 
 kind and generous things he did for you, though they were 
 past counting. But the minute he entered the house, you 
 felt his presence. A great sober, gentle presence, who knew 
 all the things that bothered you and harassed you though 
 you did not tell him one word. Who quietly, patiently, 
 put his mighty shoulder to the wheel and lifted, precisely 
 
THE FATHER 159 
 
 as he had put his mighty shoulder to their mired-down 
 wagon. Who, understanding everything, never pried, never 
 pestered; but gave forth, gently, silently, a comradeship 
 that picked you up out of your small fractious, worrying 
 day and set you on a high mountain where you could see 
 how tiny, how trifling, were all your frets and worries and 
 how surely you were conquering them. 
 
 He would ride up, a gaunt scarecrow on his clumsy, sure- 
 footed Old Tom, looking to outward sight as sullen and 
 dismal as the sullen day itself. He would be clad, as 
 always, in the flapping black coat above trousers that struck 
 high-water-mark on his endless shanks. Sometimes over it 
 he wore the frayed old greatcoat that looked as if it had 
 been soaked in the creek and then dried over a chair-back, 
 as it undoubtedly had been. He would sit down — lop down, 
 to use Aunty's word — in the biggest chair, and overflow 
 it with his sprawling, unbelievable legs and arms, and tilt 
 back his rumpled head with its coarse, rough, black hair 
 ("Injun hair," again to quote Aunty), as if he were too 
 tired, too disheartened, for speech. But don't you believe 
 it. In two minutes he'd be "wrassling" with Adoniram, 
 while Seth and Thomas, mad with excitement, jumped up 
 and down and cheered him on. Then (providing Aunty did 
 not come in and inquire in her mildly scornful tones, 
 was this a civilized house, or had they taken to breaking 
 wild horses here) he would transform himself into all the 
 animals that ever pranced out of the Ark. He would be a 
 terrifying lion, an agile kangaroo, a gigantic serpent, 
 writhing towards its bawling, ecstatic prey. He would be a 
 wild boar, a slim and languishing giraffe. Usually he would 
 wind up, grunting and bubbling (just as it told you in 
 the Thompson's Natural History!) a ship of the desert. 
 The resultant ship-wreck, square in the middle of the 
 Sahara, would leave the survivors hoarse and frenzied. 
 
160 THE FATHER 
 
 "What's this board, all inlaid in pearl and ivory and 
 silver?" he asked, after one such bout, as he stood panting 
 by the old Chippendale table. 
 
 "That's Father's chess-board." 
 
 "I've read about them. But I never laid eyes on one 
 before. Want to show me how to play the game?" 
 
 Ensued a triangular riot. The victor then plunged into 
 the envied task, summoned the ranks of ivory and ebony. 
 
 "First you fix them like this. Pawns in the front row. 
 Then kings and queens and knights and castles and 
 bishops " 
 
 "Sounds like real folks. Pawns are common folks like 
 you and me. So you put the pawns right in front where 
 they'll get the full shock of battle. H'm'm. Sounds like 
 nowadays, doesn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. And you fix 'em straight and steady. Kings 
 and queens right where they belong " 
 
 "I see. Kings and queens have to toe the mark like 
 everybody else, eh?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. And then you sit down. And you think." 
 
 "Here! What's that? Think! Why, man alive, think- 
 ing is the toughest work anybody can do. Too tough for 
 most of us. Why, lots of people go floundering from the 
 cradle to the grave and never think once." 
 
 "But Father says you can't play a good game of chess, 
 'less you think, hard." 
 
 "No. Nor a good game of anything else, I reckon. Not 
 even of lawing. Evening, Mr. Stafford. Here's your son, 
 the precocious young sprout, setting forth the truth that 
 even in chess there is no profit save to the toiling mind. 
 Adam's curse is smeared over everything. Even that chess- 
 board." 
 
 "No. The toiling mind must dominate all our world. It 
 ought to dominate our political views too, Mr. Lincoln." 
 
THE FATHER 161 
 
 Mr. Lincoln looked amazingly squelched. Then fell a 
 silence. In that dim twilight room you had the queerest 
 feeling that someone else had put a mighty Question. And 
 that Mr. Lincoln had turned aside rather than try to 
 answer. 
 
 "In time even that miracle will be wrought." 
 
 But Father was merciless. 
 
 "Judging by the deliberations that our best citizens in- 
 dulge in, I should figure that date as approximating the 
 Millennium." 
 
 Mr. Lincoln actually flinched at that. 
 
 "Well. . . . All we can do right now is to hold fast to 
 the camp-meeting hymn," and he rose aloft like a leisurely 
 Titan. He flung Thomas to his shoulder and began to march 
 and sing, 
 
 "Keep a-inchin y along, 
 Keep a-inchin y along. 
 And we'll all git to Heaven, by and by." 
 
 "Thomas, I brought along a bite or so for my own 
 supper. Suppose Aunty and Mercy will let me stay and eat 
 with you folks?" 
 
 Then Thomas and his brothers would depart for the 
 barn, whooping. They would dig into Mr. Lincoln's sad- 
 dle-bags and find mysterious parcels. These would not be 
 for Mr. Lincoln's supper alone. Far from it. There would 
 be a ham, a big, tender, juicy one, not much resembling the 
 scrubby relics that the subscribers brought in. There would 
 be choice tea for Aunty and a big sack of raisins, and 
 maybe, for a grand treat, an orange apiece. Then Mercy 
 would hurry their supper on the table and Father and Mr. 
 Lincoln would eat and talk and talk and eat, and minute 
 by minute you could see them grow rested and reassured. 
 They would throw off the day's heavy weariness. They 
 
i62 THE FATHER 
 
 would settle into the collar, as Mr. Lincoln would say, 
 ready for the next long, grinding-hard day. And when the 
 fat whale-oil lamp burned low, Mr. Lincoln would say, 
 with ceremony, "Thomas, may I share your bed-chamber 
 this once more?" And up the ladder-steps they would 
 climb. Little 'Fraid's yellow head bobbing with sleep, and 
 Big 'Fraid spreading out a hand the size of the Hand of 
 Providence, to make sure he wouldn't fall. 
 
CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 CHRISTMAS was coming, Seth remarked, but with- 
 out much conviction. For to proper New England 
 children Christmas was a Papist festival, nothing more. 
 If you were a Puritan father and longed shamefacedly to 
 give your little sons some special happiness you put a shiny 
 new dime and maybe a jack-knife, and a stick of candy 
 under their plates on New Year's morning. But never, 
 never did you give one shred of tribute to Christmas Day. 
 Never. 
 
 Thus far these pitiful substitutes for the loveliest day 
 of the year had been eminently satisfactory, for the little 
 boys knew nothing better. But here in this mid-west 
 school they had been thrown with pagan children who 
 spoke of Santa Claus with an assurance which roused long- 
 ings akin to desperation. 
 
 Father listened: then he so far forgot his principles as 
 to tell Aunty what he wanted to do. Aunty nipped his 
 yearnings in the bud. 
 
 "Heathen performance as I ever heard tell on. What if 
 the other parents do give their children Christmas gifts, 
 Ephraim is joined to his idols. Let him go." 
 
 "But, Aunty, when you think it over " 
 
 "Don't think it over. Else you may open the door of your 
 soul to the Devil himself. Hold fast to the beliefs of your 
 fathers. So shall you escape everlasting destruction." 
 
 Father made a stagger at that. But two days before 
 Christmas, little Thomas had a bad attack of croup. It 
 was hard enough to resist little Thomas under any condi- 
 
1 64 THE FATHER 
 
 tions. But when he sat propped up in the wide pineapple 
 bed glittering with goosegrease, smelling to heaven with 
 lard and turpentine, and gasped hour after hour for his 
 little life, small chance of withstanding him. 
 
 "Now, Thomas, swallow this. Down it, quick, son!" 
 
 Little Thomas turned faintly green, but gulped, obe- 
 diently. 
 
 "Good. Goes down pretty hard, doesn't it?" 
 
 "It would go down lots easier" — a gulp — "if I thought 
 maybe we was going to have any Christmas." 
 
 That settled Father. It would have settled a Spartan 
 parent. 
 
 At twilight he went to the barn, hitched up Button, 
 tossed in the ax, and drove down towards the evergreen 
 grove three miles away. This was an unfrequented road. 
 The nearest house was the Hewitt's, almost a mile away. 
 Old Major Hewitt was past ninety and his gaunt old-maid 
 daughter was close on seventy, and in this raw cold weather 
 they would hardly venture out to spy. But Father crept 
 through the grove with guilty caution and slid behind a 
 clump of trees whenever he imagined that he heard an 
 approaching team. He seized on the first tiny tree in sight, 
 chopped it down, and hustled it under the buffalo robe as 
 if he hid stolen treasure. 
 
 It was full dusk when he drove into the barnyard. Jo 
 Vanny hobbled to meet him and put up Button. Father 
 waved him away. Then the old Captain came weaving 
 down the steps. 
 
 "Let me tend to that air horse. You go in and git your 
 supper." 
 
 "Never mind. I'll put Button up myself." 
 
 He drove into the barn, chaise and all. Pity a man 
 couldn't be permitted to put up his own horse, and thus 
 have a chance to slip his stolen goods into the hayloft! 
 
THE FATHER 165 
 
 But he had just unhitched Button when he heard the ring 
 of hoofs. And then Mr. Lincoln's voice: 
 
 "Never mind, Captain. I'll put up Old Tom myself. 
 Go 'long, Jo Vanny, I don't need any help. Listen, if I 
 want either of you I'll holler." 
 
 Father cowered behind a manger. 
 
 Into the barn clattered the big roan. After him, stealthy 
 as the First Conspirator, trod Mr. Lincoln. He carried 
 something long and bristling. As he passed Father, a brush 
 of prickling spicy needles swept his cheek. 
 
 The devil entered into Father. 
 
 "Halt!" 
 
 Mr. Lincoln stopped as if he were shot. Father struck 
 a match; the lantern wick flared high. They stood and 
 glared at each other, sheepish as two schoolboys. Under one 
 arm Father still clutched his fat little tree. High in Mr. 
 Lincoln's arms reared another tree: a tall, lean, scrawny 
 tree, but a Christmas tree for all that. 
 
 "Why " Mr. Lincoln actually stammered. "Why 
 
 — my wife and the boys have gone to Kentucky to her 
 father's for Christmas. I thought you folks wouldn't mind 
 if I " 
 
 "What in the name of common sense " 
 
 The barn-door opened again. Father gasped. He all but 
 dropped the lantern. Aunt Celestial 
 
 Aunty's steel specks were cocked like horrified eye- 
 brows. Her crimped front bristled; her eyes snapped sparks. 
 
 "What in Tunket John Stafford, what have you 
 
 been up to? After what I told you ! And you, Mr. 
 
 Lincoln! I am surprised!" 
 
 The men stood limp. Not a sound out of them. But sud- 
 denly Father's cringing head lifted high. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Aunt Celesty. But what's that in 
 your apron pocket?" 
 
1 66 THE FATHER 
 
 It was Aunty's turn to gasp. 
 
 "None of your business, young man." 
 
 But surely the Fiend himself had entered into Father. 
 Lincoln gaped at him awestruck. For he strode forward, 
 seized the apron, and deftly turned the pockets inside out. 
 A long string of fluffy kernels of popcorn; under that a 
 sack of spendthrift store candy. Then a scarlet mitten, 
 half knit; and, supremely incriminating, a great ball of 
 soft rose wool. 
 
 "Come now, Aunty! Own up!" 
 
 Aunty's shriveled cheeks blazed. 
 
 "Nobody ever heard tell of such impudence! Well. If 
 you've got to know, the boys need mittens all round. And 
 I've been aimin' to make Mercy a nuby, and I bought pink, 
 because she likes it. And the popcorn — I heard Thomas 
 telling Seth that on Christmas eve he was going to pretend 
 his bedpost was a tree and trim it up with his string of 
 arrowheads. I don't believe anybody would ever mistake a 
 bedpost for a heathen idol so I thought maybe I'd get 
 them a couple of sticks of candy. And giving it to 'em on 
 the twenty-fifth of December ain't much difference from 
 the twenty-fifth of any other month." 
 
 Many Christmases would come for the small StafTords, 
 but never a one so marvelous as this. For Mr. Lincoln un- 
 bent abjectly from his grand estate and dressed up as Santa 
 Claus in a buffalo robe and a shrunken red flannel shirt of 
 Father's that strained ominously in the seams and split a 
 foot or so in the back. And Aunty — Aunty! — brought a 
 gunny sack and hung it to his shoulders. First she packed 
 it half full of dry corn to make it look gloriously stuffed. 
 But next she tucked in two warm, thick, home-made shirts 
 for the Captain and a scarlet jacket for Twonnet and a 
 woolly muffler for Jo Vanny! to say nothing of mittens 
 
THE FATHER 167 
 
 for the small boys and the rose-pink nuby for Mercy and a 
 fine black paddy-soy stock for Father, made from an old 
 silk flounce. Father put in a quarter and a shiny new 
 Barlow knife for each boy. And Mr. Lincoln capped the 
 climax by piling on three pairs of rubber boots — high red- 
 top boots at that! 
 
 Even as she crammed in these evil gifts Aunty felt 
 a weak gratitude that Green River could not see her. 
 
 "Sorry I don't favor any Santa Claus I've seen." Mr. 
 Lincoln observed himself sadly in the ancient eagle mirror. 
 "His specifications aren't on my lines. If I could just take 
 about two feet off my lateral and hook it on to my hori- 
 zontal " 
 
 "You'll do for me, just as you are," croaked Thomas, 
 weak with ecstasy. 
 
 Then came Christmas dinner, and it was a lordly feast 
 in truth. For Father had shot a wild turkey, and Mr. Lin- 
 coln brought in a chunk of roasted venison, and Mrs. 
 Isaiah Brooker, their nearest neighbor, only two miles 
 away, had struggled through the drifts to bring a vinegar 
 pie and a persimmon pudding, spicy sweet. Even Thomas 
 was brought to the table, goosegrease and all, to have his 
 share. 
 
 "Whenever I sit down to a meal as grand as this one," 
 remarked Mr. Lincoln, "it puts me in mind of the first 
 really grand table I ever stuck my legs under. I was four- 
 teen, I reckon, and a man grown; I was working for Cap- 
 tain Taylor, ferrying on Anderson's Crick. Never in my 
 life had I known any folks who had all they wanted to 
 eat every day. And ate in style at that. But old Judge Wel- 
 lin had just married his fourth wife and they were keeping 
 open house and they asked Gene Taylor, my chum, and 
 me, to Sunday dinner. 
 
 "There was a white cloth on the table. I didn't know 
 
168 THE FATHER 
 
 why it was there, and I was scared I'd spill things on it, so 
 when nobody was looking I turned back my corner of it 
 so I could eat on the bare boards. Then I saw there was 
 another piece of white cloth, laid right at my place. I 
 didn't know what in the nation to do with that, but I saw 
 that the Squire had one too and he tucked her up under 
 his whiskers tight and firm. So, while I hadn't any whis- 
 kers, I decided most likely that was the proper thing. And 
 I anchored her by one corner inside the neck of my shirt. 
 I was as nervous as a colt and so shaky I was scared I 
 wouldn't be able to swallow. Something — that white cloth, 
 maybe — seemed to tie up my neck and choke me. But after 
 I'd once got going I went right on as natural as life. And 
 nobody seemed to notice anything amiss. One thing I do 
 know: my hosts couldn't complain that I had slighted 
 anything. No, sir, I'd put my hand to the plow and I never 
 once turned back. Corn bread, hot biscuit, and waffles with 
 short sweetnin' and long sweetnin' both, and roastin' ears 
 and squirrel pie and ham and gravy and all the trimmings. 
 No, sir, nothing passed me by. Nor me it." 
 
 "Did you get real filled up?" Thus Seth, with eager 
 sympathy. 
 
 "As near's I ever can fill up. I've got a good deal of 
 cargo space, you know." 
 
 "You're considerable longed out," little Thomas re- 
 flected. "But you're kind of caved in the middle, aren't 
 you?" 
 
 "Some. I got my growth so quick, son, I've never had 
 time to fill out. Fact is, when I was your age, I never 
 knew what it meant to be comfortable. Always cold. Al- 
 ways hungry. And sickness. And the rain coming through 
 the roof and the snow dusting through the cracks and never 
 anything real dry or warm. Mother tried her best, but she 
 was always having the three-day ager, and when you've 
 
THE FATHER 169 
 
 got that all you can do is to shiver one day and burn up 
 the next. And Father never seemed to get ahead, for it kept 
 him busy scratching for meal and molasses to keep the 
 meat on our bones. Down on those bottom lands it was 
 always lonesome, too. Woods and swamps and pretty 
 much nothing else. And always seeing so much misery." 
 
 Over his face came a gray look: the gray shadow of 
 that childhood, so bleak, so cold, so lonely. The look of 
 one into whose soul loneliness has seeped like the rain 
 through the log chinks till the very tissues of his spirit 
 are sodden within him. 
 
 "Mind this, boys. Soon's you fellows grow up and get 
 ahead so you can spare something for other folks, pass 
 along what you've got to children. Old folks like us have 
 learned that hard times don't last forever. But children 
 . . . when a boy is hungry and cold and miserable it 
 seems to him that things never can be different. All that 
 misery makes a mark on him that never wears out. It sinks 
 in. Sinks in to stay." 
 
 On his own face you could see the truth of what he 
 spoke: the shadow that had sunk in. 
 
 "When I think of it, it sort of explains why I don't 
 get along better. Remember, you boys, I'm banking on 
 you to turn out a sight better than I've done. You've got 
 your chance of a fine education: hold tight to it. Look at 
 me, a poor lummox of a country lawyer. Forty-one years 
 old and never had any real education. Never had any real 
 schooling. Never had a real chance. Used to have an idea 
 I might amount to something, do something for folks. 
 But I've pretty near given up now." 
 
 Nobody said anything. After a minute Aunty got up, 
 her bombazine flounces rustling, and went across to Mr. 
 Lincoln and gave him a little pat. When you looked at 
 Aunty's strong bony old hand you'd have thought you'd as 
 
170 THE FATHER 
 
 soon be patted by an armadillo. But somehow her touch 
 warmed you through and through. 
 
 "Never you mind, Mr. Lincoln. Forty-one is getting 
 along, but it ain't so old, after all. I wouldn't be surprised 
 but you'll do something real useful for folks even yet." 
 
 Over Mr. Lincoln's gaunt, tired face came a queer 
 wry grin. 
 
 "That's as fine a compliment as any man could wish, 
 Ma'am. I ask your pardon for complaining. Only — when 
 I get to questioning myself, distrusting myself, I slump 
 down so far it takes a team of oxen to haul me out." 
 
 "Every real man distrusts himself." This from Father. 
 "Even when he's doing his level best to carry his responsi- 
 bilities without a whine he knows he is lugging the heavier 
 load of his own nature. Deep in him are strange, rebellious 
 forces. They're built into us, strained into our blood, from 
 generations back. They baffle us and trip us up. They make 
 us doubt everybody. Ourselves, most of all." 
 
 "I know that. No man lives to himself, in himself. 
 Curious. Some of us distrust ourselves all the time. Those 
 are the hopeless losers, the barren stalks. Others never dis- 
 trust themselves. They trudge along, all bulging with as- 
 surance because they haven't enough gumption to know 
 better. Still others fight out that battle every day. Courage: 
 despair. Courage: despair. And they are the salt of the 
 earth, the backbone, the wheat. And when their end comes 
 they lie down in the dark. But their faces are turned to 
 the light." 
 
 There was a long silence. At last there came a sound 
 from little Thomas. It was not a croupy bark. It was a 
 sigh. A sigh that came from the depths of his small in- 
 nards. Mr. Lincoln looked across at him. His face broke 
 up into understanding crinkles. 
 
 "This isn't what you'd call a lively session, is it, 
 
THE FATHER i 7 i 
 
 Thomas? Never mind. We're going to chirk up right now. 
 Seth and Adoniram, you two thought I was so busy eating 
 my dinner that I wasn't checking up on you. But I did. And 
 it's my belief that in ratio to our respective capacities you 
 ate more than I did. Come outdoors and I'll race you down 
 the lane and back. The first one that founders has got to 
 sing a song, cut a caper, and wash the dishes." 
 
 Down the lane tore the three. Santa Claus's flannel shirt 
 still blew in crimson fragments from Mr. Lincoln's shoul- 
 ders. Aunty's purple nuby flapped around his neck. Donny 
 and Seth, despite their brief legs, distanced him without 
 mercy. 
 
 "Now for your caper," squawked Thomas, hoarse with 
 delight. 
 
 Obediently Mr. Lincoln cut it. It jarred the solid logs 
 on their foundations. 
 
 "Now your song " 
 
 Mr. Lincoln stretched himself upward, up and on till 
 his rough black head scraped the ceiling. In a voice that 
 drowned the rising wind without, he lifted an ear-splitting 
 chant. 
 
 "I'll chase the antelofe over the flain. 
 The lion wild, Pll bind with a chain. 
 And the dear gazelle, with its silvery feet 
 Pll bring to you for a flay thing, sweet " 
 
 Everybody applauded, determinedly. All but Thomas. 
 "Don't you like my singing voice, Thomas?" 
 "I'd ruther watch you wrassle," said the truthful little 
 Thomas. 
 
CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 THEN straight after Christmas came the cold, the ter- 
 rible prairie cold, that locked their world in a prison 
 of snow and ice and threw away the key. You would not be- 
 lieve that even April could ever find that key. The Stafford 
 family had known just as bitter weather every winter of 
 their lives back in New England. There, when you had 
 trudged for weeks on weeks beneath clouds like gray sod- 
 den blankets in a sky like gray iron, some freezing starless 
 night would come a sleet storm. Then you would waken to 
 white magic, to sunlight that blazed on a world all blue and 
 rose and emerald, fir-trees that stood like warriors in dia- 
 mond mail, and meadows that rolled away at your feet, a 
 sea of glass, mingled with fire. All the hills unrolled a 
 jeweled script, the pages of a mighty book: the pines wrote 
 out their immemorial creed in black, unfaltering charac- 
 ters upon those pages. Below a fair illumined margin, you 
 caught the glitter of the frozen brook. And over all lay 
 light, the dear and lovely light, the light of a deathless 
 wonder that could lift up your heart and carry you as on 
 wings through the black days and weeks to come. The 
 light that was a promise and a covenant, a surety for spring. 
 
 But here only the gloom, the cold, the crying wind, the 
 snow that shut you as into impassable walls. 
 
 In the darkness that comes before the dawn, Mercy 
 would waken. She didn't jump out of bed at once. It took 
 a minute or so to screw up her courage. Then she sprang out 
 and ran to the fireplace, and jammed in armsful of cobs 
 and splinters and chunks of fat pine. Then she fled back to 
 bed and snuggled against Aunty, as if Aunty were a long 
 
THE FATHER 173 
 
 slim, hot soapstone, until the splinters flared up like candles 
 and the chunks began to blaze. Presently she hopped out 
 again with determination and built the kitchen fire and 
 put on the kettle. Of course that was Twonnet's work, but 
 somehow Twonnet was never up on time, and Mercy knew 
 she'd freeze to death if she ran out to the tepee and tried 
 to wake her. 
 
 The Captain would have crept willingly from his snug 
 little lean-to, but she hated to let him build fires because 
 he was so trembly and uncertain, and Jo Vanny was still so 
 lame. And the little boys needed to get their sleep out. 
 
 Next she dressed in a jiffy and put on the coffee and the 
 bacon and called the little boys. Taught by experience, she 
 kept on calling till the thud of feet and a drowsy whimper 
 assured her that one of them was beginning to wake up. 
 That meant the whole-hearted awaking of the other two. 
 
 Then she took a pitcher of hot water to Father. Probably 
 Father had worked half the night on the articles he was 
 writing for Mr. Greeley's paper. Mr. Greeley's payments 
 were moderate but always Providential. Father would pull 
 her bronze-gilt braids and wonder impatiently why she 
 couldn't send Twonnet and save herself so many steps, 
 but he liked all her small services, she knew that. Father 
 usually liked everything she did for him. Then the in- 
 variable scramble to get everything on the table at once, and 
 all smoking hot, too. 
 
 Right after breakfast came morning prayers, with 
 Thomas kneeling at her side with a face like a seraph, 
 and pinching Seth in unshielded portions meanwhile. Then 
 a scramble to get the boys ready for school in time to ride 
 with Father. For Thomas had lost his spandy new mittens, 
 and Donny had scuffed a hole in one of Mr. Lincoln's 
 elegant Christmas gum boots, and the school-children had 
 teased Seth to fury about his unruly cow-lick, so at the very 
 
174 THE FATHER 
 
 last minute, Mercy had to run for the big bottle of sweet- 
 oil and plaster that cow-lick down flat. Of course it bravely 
 rose erect the minute Seth's cap came off. 
 
 "Seth, stop wriggling Will you hold still ! " 
 
 "Ow, ouch! You pull like sixty! Oo, that oil is dribbling 
 down my ears! And here I washed my neck this very 
 morning! If you aren't careful I'll have to go out to the 
 wash-bench and scrub it all over again!" 
 
 "Calamity!" This from Father, dryly. "Travel now, 
 youngsters. I give you one more minute. Thomas Stafford, 
 go wash your hands. Do you hear me? Washed them al- 
 ready? H'm. Look at the water in that basin! Clear as 
 crystal! Move, now." 
 
 Then after they were gone the day piled up, piled up, 
 no matter how hard she tried. Milking, with the Captain 
 determined to help. She was lucky if he didn't spill a whole 
 pailful. Baking, for somehow or other she had to bake 
 every day. Six grown-ups and three small boys can work 
 havoc even in a well-stocked pantry. Father and the boys 
 took their lunch-pails, so she need cook a hot noon meal 
 for only five people. But even that took some time, and 
 Aunty was too rheumatic to help much. Then came an 
 hour or more of struggle with Twonnet. Twonnet had 
 flatly declined to go to school and take her sadly rightful 
 place with the primary class. So Mercy was teaching her to 
 add and subtract and to read about the Rat and the Cat in 
 Thomas's discarded primer. Which was, as Mr. Lincoln 
 put it, a land-office job. 
 
 Then before you'd believe it the wan and frozen sun 
 had sunk behind gray cloud banks, and the water-pails 
 were all empty, and Jo Vanny had forgotten to split any 
 kindling, and Twonnet had slipped away to her tepee. So 
 Mercy must slide across the gliddery crusted snow and re- 
 mind her. It would have been easier to chop it herself, but 
 
THE FATHER 175 
 
 Father had insisted that Twonnet must do her share. Then 
 in clamored the little boys, an army with banners, and 
 empty to the soles of their copper-toed shoes. A scramble 
 to get supper. After supper she read and dutifully admired 
 Father's new article on "Kansas: A Nation's Glory or a 
 Nation's Shame," for the Atlantic World. She heard 'Don- 
 iram's spelling, she helped Seth with his arithmetic, she 
 hammered it into Thomas's head that there were twenty- 
 eight states and twenty territories, and the District of 
 Columbia, and No, a territory was not a wild animal, it 
 was a piece of land. How big? W-well, different sizes. 
 Did it have wolves and bears and rattlesnakes and lions on 
 it? My goodness, how should I know? Learn your lesson, 
 and don't ask so many questions. Then 'Doniram brought 
 nuts and apples from the cellar, and Seth and Thomas 
 wrassled over the biggest apple. Thereupon Father sternly 
 summoned them all to evening prayers, and then Thomas 
 choked alarmingly on a hazel-nut, and Father had to 
 desert Jeremiah and stand Thomas on his head and pound 
 him on the back. 
 
 Then Father covered the fires, and Mercy set her bread 
 for to-morrow. And then the heavenly still abyss of sleep. 
 And to-morrow was another day. 
 
 January crept on leaden feet. February came on the 
 wings of fearful cold that froze the milk before she 
 could carry it indoors, that even drove Twonnet from her 
 tepee o' nights to a blanket before the fireplace. Then, be- 
 fore her astonished eyes, that numbing cold had flown and 
 February lay on the mounded snow, all pale sunlight and 
 folded amethyst shadows. And March shouldered in with 
 angry, screaming winds and sleet that burnt her cheeks 
 and sheathed the roads with pebbles of ice that looked ex- 
 actly like fever'n'ager pills, so Thomas observed. But 
 March was only a braggart and a boaster. For in a week 
 
176 THE FATHER 
 
 the sparkling frozen marsh was a sheet of sparkling water, 
 and Seth and Thomas came to blows over which one had 
 seen the robin first, and the Captain, red spots of eager- 
 ness on his parchmenty old cheeks, had coaxed Father to 
 buy a new cherry-red plow, with a sticky gold stripe down 
 the handle. The Captain was set on doing the plowing 
 himself, but his unsteady old hands couldn't guide the 
 horses, his trembly knees doubled up with every step. 
 
 "It isn't me that's playing out, it's the plow that's so 
 onery," he explained. He looked up at Father, beseeching, 
 like a frightened old baby. 
 
 "Of course it's the plow. I couldn't manage it myself," 
 Father lied gently. Aunty sent the Captain to bed with a 
 mustard plaster and a hot brick. 
 
 When Father and the boys were safely away, Mercy 
 made a fine start. But her small hands could not take a 
 good grip, and her slender back set up a rebellious ache. 
 Soon Aunty caught sight of her, and descended on her with 
 violence. 
 
 "Mercy Rose Stafford! I am ashamed of you! Drop that 
 plow. This minute. I'd rather run it myself " 
 
 At that moment Twonnet hove in sight. She had romped 
 down to the schoolhouse with the little boys. All her an- 
 cestral hatred of the plow flared awake in her darkening 
 eyes. But then she leaped to Mercy's side. She snatched the 
 plow from Mercy's hands and like a furious Ceres she set 
 to work without one word. 
 
 When Father came home to supper he gaped at the wide 
 strip of black, rich furrows. Twonnet sat moveless, sullen, 
 under his quick, kind praise. But after supper in the frosty 
 early starlight she crept out to plow again. Under her 
 feet rolled another long black string of woven roots and 
 soil. As she plowed she sang under her breath a queer old 
 
THE FATHER 177 
 
 troll of a tune. Nobody had ever heard Twonnet sing 
 before. Perhaps the spring had found a key to Twonnet, 
 too. 
 
 Prisoned by that cold, those snow-blocked roads, it would 
 seem that winter must spell endless dreariness. But though 
 they might be isolated for weeks, time fled too swiftly. 
 Whenever the roads were broken there were spelling 
 matches and singing-school at the schoolhouse. There were 
 candy pulls at the Isaiah Brookers' with their houseful of 
 youngsters, only two miles away. Once in a long time 
 came a sleighing party, although Aunty frowned on these 
 as tending towards frivolity. Best of all, there was Mr. 
 Lincoln. Not even the harshest weather could keep him 
 away. The rougher the storm, the more certain was he to 
 appear. 
 
 He would come in shivering, blowing on his huge half- 
 frozen hands, his great gray shawl flapping from his enor- 
 mous shoulders, his lean face ground to the bone by cut- 
 ting sleet, a great, gaunt, perishing scarecrow. He would 
 make his gentle, awkward compliments to Aunty and ruffle 
 the little boys' silky heads, then settle down, one joint at a 
 time, before the hearth-fire and bask in that deep glowing 
 heat. There he would rest, tired soul and body, hardly 
 speaking, like a creature whose contentment is too deep for 
 words. There was something piteous in his humble, grate- 
 ful contentment as he stared around the warm, bright, 
 friendly room. Grateful as if he, always so lonely, so for- 
 lorn, could never quite believe in this comfort, this happy, 
 every-day affection that reached out to him so eagerly, that 
 made him so generously its own. This New England home, 
 so plain, so bare, so rich with proud, loyal love, opened its 
 doors upon him like a new, gentle, compassionate world. 
 
 "Seems to me this is the one place on earth where I ever 
 get honest-to-goodness warm. Warm clear through." 
 
178 THE FATHER 
 
 "If you're cold, Mr. Lincoln, I'll go fetch my red 
 blanket." 
 
 "I don't need it, Seth. It isn't fires and blankets, it's 
 you folks, I reckon, that melt the frost out of my bones." 
 He leaned back in the big splint rocker, he sighed as from 
 measureless depths of comfort. "When I was along fryin' 
 size, like you, we never did get enough fire to keep warm. 
 First memory I've got is of chopping up pine splinters with 
 ma's chopping knife. They stuck an ax into my hands 
 quick's I could carry it without tipping over. — Reckon my 
 last memory will be chopping splinters, too." 
 
 "Didn't you have stoves, Mr. Lincoln? And a nice 
 warm house like ours?" 
 
 "Not exactly. First winter we lived in Indiana we had 
 an open- face camp. Know what that is? It's a log cabin 
 with no south wall to it except a fireplace, and it's built a 
 lot like a mud-dauber's nest. All thatched on top with little 
 sticks and brush, and the chinks catted — packed with clay 
 that's mixed with straw. If you've got a good tight cabin, 
 and piles on piles of fuel ready; hardwood back-logs, and 
 chunks of dry hickory, and pine branches, to flare up in a 
 rush; if you've got good solid bunks built against the walls, 
 and feather beds shoulder-high and plenty of bearskins, 
 why you can make out to live and stand even a bitter win- 
 ter. 'Specially if there's lots of snow that you can bank 
 up around the cabin. But you've got to kind of coil your- 
 self up, 'specially a person that's built in sections like me. 
 And from November to April, you never get warm enough 
 to go slack. When the frost let go we all had to sit in the 
 sun and thaw out like so many glass snakes, else we'd crack 
 off a section or so." 
 
 "But it wasn't winter all the time." 
 
 "I'd say not. My, Adoniram, you boys have a dull time 
 of it nowadays compared to us. Soon's I could carry a gun, 
 
THE FATHER 179 
 
 my dad took me hunting with him. I've brought down wild 
 turkey and deer and even a black bear when I was so 
 little the gun would kick me flat every shot. One time I 
 killed a bear that measured mighty nigh as big as a cow. 
 He clawed me some, but I got him." 
 
 A sigh of anguished envy from the little boys. 
 
 "Skinned him myself, and cured the skin for my step-ma 
 for a foot-blanket, nights. She was so pleased she packed 
 up what eggs and butter she dared take, and walked seven 
 miles to the settlement and swapped her stuff for a bag of 
 raisins for me and a stick of peppermint candy. First time 
 in my life I'd tasted candy. Yes, we had bee sweetnin' and 
 tree sweetnin', and times when we were real rich, a jug of 
 molasses. But that candy! I can see it yet. It was red and 
 white, barber-pole — I looked at it ten minutes or so before 
 I dared even take a lick. Then I hollered to Sarah, my 
 sister. She came in and she looked till her eyes popped. 
 Then I says, You get the first lick, and after that we took 
 lick about. There's a place in the Bible that tells about the 
 Heavenly gates. — Always seems, when I shut my eyes 
 I can see 'em straight and clear. But they aren't pearl, mind 
 that. They're barber-pole peppermint. 
 
 "My step-ma was a mighty smart woman. Thrifty, too. 
 She worked from sun-up till sun-down every day of her 
 life. But she always found time for her garden. Folks 
 said of her, she was the growin'est woman they ever did 
 see. It wasn't much of a garden, maybe, but it meant a lot 
 to her. And to us. Everything she touched would thrive 
 for her. She planted every kind of yarb she could find, 
 and every kind of shrub. Sassafras, poke-berry, camomile, 
 juniper — couldn't tell you the names of all of 'em. When- 
 ever we moved, she'd lug along seeds and cuttings. We had 
 roses, too, and spirea and laylock. 'Course we were poor. 
 Torn down poor. But whenever new settlers came along, 
 
180 THE FATHER 
 
 you could depend on my ma to get over to their cabin and 
 take them something for welcome. A pat of butter, say. Or 
 some jerked venison. And always a slip from one of her 
 shrubs, or a handful of garden truck. She'd say there was 
 nothing that would cure homesickness so quick as something 
 you can plant right off and watch it grow. 
 
 "But mind you, she was canny, too. She'd hang around 
 and watch to see if they were the kind of folks that 
 owned books, see? Then she'd say, real politely: T've got 
 a boy at home that's plumb cracked over books. Maybe it's 
 so you'd let him take a peek into yours some day?' And 
 time and again she'd come home carryin' maybe one book, 
 maybe three or four, and tickled to pieces. For a long while 
 I was too bashful to ask for myself. But my, how I banked 
 on ma asking for me! 
 
 "It was ma's doing that I met the two men that counted 
 most to me, most out of all the folks I ever knew, those 
 times. One was an old broken-down school teacher who 
 had settled down in an abandoned cabin right up the hill 
 from Anderson's Ferry. I was working on the ferry then. 
 He lent me all the books he had. I could tell you the names 
 of every one and 'most every word that was in them — and 
 nights he used to lie there on his torn old blanket and talk 
 to me. And when he talked he said something, mind you 
 that. One night I was flattened out on his hearth reading 
 Plutarch's Lives, and said he, £ Abe, what's your handle? 
 Picked it out yet?' I didn't get what he meant right away. 
 'Abe,' says he, 'All this reading you're doing; in the end, 
 what are you doing it for?' And I said, 'Because I want to 
 read every book in the world. I want to know everything I 
 can learn.' 
 
 " 'Well, all right. Good books are good tools,' he said. 
 'But every good tool has got to have a handle. Look at 
 your ax, yonder. Good metal and sharp, but precious little 
 
THE FATHER 181 
 
 good it is if you haven't got a handle to swing it with.' 
 And I began to see daylight, and I said, 'You mean, when 
 I've got my head stuffed full of book-learning how am I 
 going to use it?' and he nodded. And he was right. You 
 listen to me, boys. The man who gives you food, who shel- 
 ters you from the cold, he's a good friend to you. But the 
 man who gives you a handle to your tools, a grip on what 
 learning you've got, a handle to your own self — he's the 
 grandest friend you've got or ever will have." 
 
 This was far past those three yellow heads. 
 
 "What is your handle, Mr. Lincoln?" 
 
 That melancholy mischief glimmered on his face. 
 
 "Right now, your pa is trying to pry the handle of his 
 own supreme ambition into my grip. Maybe he'll succeed. 
 No telling." 
 
 "I'm still hoping against hope." Mr. Stafford granted 
 him a grim chuckle. Between the two men flashed a glint 
 of understanding, of exasperated affection, of shrewd 
 mirthful protest; yet that protest held a queer daunted 
 look, as if Mr. Lincoln were abashed, yet not willing to 
 admit it, not even to his own mind. 
 
 "Watch me. I'll make a topnotch Abolitionist out of 
 you yet." 
 
 Suddenly Mr. Lincoln's mood swerved, darkened. 
 
 "Why in the Sam Hill are you so head-set on making an 
 anti-slavery worker out of me? Even if you did convince 
 me, even if you did set me to work, I'd be precious little 
 use. For I'm nobody. I'm a middle-aged back-woods law- 
 yer and a failure at that. Yes, I did go to Congress — once. 
 But the only piece of legislation I tried to put through was 
 my bill to destroy slavery in the District of Columbia, 
 and they threw that out. And now I'm out of politics, out 
 of everything. I'm as good as dead. I've got to keep on 
 with the law, for I've got a family to support. But I'm 
 
182 THE FATHER 
 
 nothing but a pack-mule. A drudge. No almighty hopes left 
 in me " 
 
 His big body slumped. His head dropped into his hands. 
 The gesture of his puzzled, tired soul. 
 
 "But I do want you. I've got to have you. As to being 
 a failure, nonsense ! No man is a failure till he lets go. And 
 you're not the kind that lets go. Never." 
 
 "A fellow can't help distrusting himself." 
 
 "Not distrusting himself as much as his motives." 
 
 This was a home thrust. 
 
 " 'Still harping on my daughter.' " Lincoln flinched, 
 grinned. "There's one advantage about distrust. — Yes, to 
 be sure, the fellow who hasn't sufficient faith in himself can 
 never get anywhere. I've been up to my neck in that slew 
 a good many times over. But the bull-headed fellow who 
 is so arrogantly certain of himself is even less use. He not 
 only drives himself into the ditch of his blunders, he drags 
 others in with him." 
 
 "W-well. Perhaps." 
 
 "Not perhaps. Absolutely. But I'll admit that if you 
 feel a failure one day, why the next day you've got to 
 make up your mind that you're the Lord's Anointed. No 
 matter how much evidence stands against that." There was 
 a silence. 
 
 "Back of all our uncertainties, our miseries, are two 
 causes, I reckon. For one thing, everybody's lonesome. No 
 escaping that. We're born lonely. We die as lonely as if 
 we stood on different spheres. The other thing is, we spend 
 our lives hunting for something that we never find. Hunt- 
 ing — yet half the time we don't know what we're hunting 
 for. 
 
 "A while back I went to a lecture in St. Louis to hear 
 that old friend of yours, Mr. Emerson. Queer looking fel- 
 low, so tall, and as lean as a cornstalk; a lean dry head, too. 
 
THE FATHER 183 
 
 Looks all bone. Not enough meat on those bones to bait a 
 mouse-trap. But there was something inside that bone, you 
 can bet on that. He was talking about Abolition, about the 
 hopes and plans and schemes that we pull and haul and 
 struggle for, all our lives long. I'd driven down from 
 Grafton and I was dog-tired to start with, and by the time 
 I'd taken that long drive and pried my cutter out of drifts 
 a dozen times or so I was dead with sleep. But I got the 
 gist of what he said. All these hopes and aims and suc- 
 cesses, says he, are all very well. And to some men, material 
 success is all they know how to want. But all the riches in 
 the world, all the fame, can not for long content — 'the 
 awful Soul that dwells in clay.' That phrase stuck in my 
 mind. It's stuck there ever since. It tells you so much. It 
 answers all your nagging, pestering questions. It makes you 
 see why all your hard work, all your scheming, will stand 
 for nothing when you close up your books. — 'The awful 
 Soul that dwells in clay ' " 
 
 "Nothing counts," said Father gently, "except the search 
 that we all make. And whether we find that for which we 
 search." 
 
 "Whether we've wrestled with our Angel — and thrown 
 him." 
 
 Mr. Lincoln stared into the fire. Then up spoke Thomas. 
 
 "I never did think it was so very polite of that Angel, 
 to come and make Jacob wrassle with him just when Jacob 
 was all tired out." 
 
 "Thomas!" Aunty paled with horror. 
 
 But Mr. Lincoln took him up. 
 
 "It's mostly when we are all tired out that we have to 
 'wrassle' the hardest, Thomas." 
 
 And on his face lay the gray weariness of one who 
 has wrestled with his angel, long years, and knows the 
 conflict still uncertain. 
 
184 THE FATHER 
 
 Other days he would come clattering in a different crea- 
 ture, his gaunt face wrinkled with rare fun. He would 
 struggle out of his shawl and his buffalo greatcoat, and 
 career after the little boys like a blood-sweating behemoth, 
 to their screaming delight. Then he would sink to the floor, 
 and let the three youngsters pommel him till he must howl 
 for mercy. 
 
 "Let up, boys! Here, no gouging! No ear-chewing, 
 either. Quit that, Seth. You might be one of the gang that 
 jumped my flat-boat 'way back in '28." 
 
 "Jumped your flat-boat! Oh, were they bandits? Were 
 they Indians?" 
 
 "They were half men and half alligator." This with 
 an apprehensive eye on Aunty. "We were floating our boat 
 down to New Orleans to sell our load of stuff there. Hides 
 and beeswax and cloth my ma and the other women-folks 
 had woven, and hogsheads of sorghum. We tied up along- 
 shore, nights. And one night these alligator-men came slam 
 down on us " 
 
 "Were they real 'gators? Honest, now?" 
 
 "If you'd been there you'd have seen. My memory's 
 failing, so I can't be sure. Anyhow, down they came 
 lickety split, seven to our two. And they fought like lions 
 and tigers and 'gators all at once. But we did some fighting 
 ourselves. My mate got a stranglehold on two of 'em and 
 threw them overboard, and I grabbed three and slung them 
 ashore right into the deepest part of the marsh. Then the 
 other two kind of stopped. To get their bearings, I reckon. 
 And while they were sorting themselves out we cut the 
 cable and off we put. We weren't so leisurely either. I had 
 two ugly cuts on my head and a couple of ribs caved in, 
 and my partner had a broken arm and a few teeth knocked 
 out " 
 
THE FATHER 185 
 
 "Oh, oh, I do wish I'd been there!" 
 
 At which Aunty exploded. 
 
 "Fine ideas to put into their heads! And they spoiling 
 for a fight every day as 'tis!" 
 
 Mr. Lincoln drooped. You might almost say he moulted. 
 Every triumphant feather of him fell to half-mast. 
 
 "Yes'm. I reckon that's so. Well. The upshot was we 
 went on down to New Orleans feeling some set up, be- 
 cause we'd chased off the alligator men seven to two and 
 saved our cargo. We sold that cargo, hide and hair, at the 
 great City market. It was warm and pleasant down there, 
 so we slept out on the levee nights, with our money belts 
 strapped tight and an armful of sugar-cane handy. My, 
 nothing ever tasted finer than that sugar-cane. Not even 
 my peppermint-stick. 'Peared like I'd never get enough 
 of it. 
 
 "Coming up-river we got us a free ride on a grand 
 packet. That is it was free, only we worked our passage. 
 My, that packet, all white and grand and graceful like a 
 swan, and the fiddlers playing from morning till night, and 
 the officers all in their fine uniforms, and the ladies in 
 flounces and laces and great flourishing plumed bonnets 
 and little slim white slippers like chips off the new moon! 
 
 "And coming up-river, seems as if there's not a yard of 
 that shore but has its story. Hardly five miles up from 
 Vicksburg was Hilton's Cave. The mate pointed it out to 
 me himself. Hilton's gang of river pirates used to hide 
 their booty there. Back in those good old days they'd all go 
 out together and loot the little towns, or maybe rush down 
 on a steamer that was tied up for a night and open fire on 
 her, then strip the purser's office and clean out the passen- 
 gers. There was always a bunch of gamblers aboard, so that 
 was a paying job. No, Thomas, no use going down there 
 
186 THE FATHER 
 
 now to pick up a few sacks of double-eagles and a bunch 
 of diamonds. That cave has been scraped with a fine-tooth 
 comb over and over. 
 
 "Then there's Ghost City. It's an abandoned settlement 
 right below the mouth of the Ohio. When it was running 
 full steam it must have had a couple of hundred citizens, 
 anyway. But a pirate crowd swooped down early one spring 
 afternoon and shot down the whole city, men, women and 
 children, and stripped the place. For all the world like the 
 way the Goths used to strip a helpless Roman city. Left 
 not a wall standing, not a soul alive. They tell it that for 
 one night in the year, St. John's Eve, the city rises from 
 its ashes, and goes about its business just as it always used 
 to do. The laborers take up their tools, the fishermen go to 
 the river with their nets, you can see the farm carts coming 
 in to market. Only you never hear hoof beats, nor the sound 
 of hammers, nor a human voice. With the first cock-crow 
 they all melt away, and the city's walls and roofs melt with 
 them. 
 
 "Then when you come to the river herself she's a very 
 highroad of romance. Take 1833, the year of the great 
 plague, and the story of The Creole Belle. She started up- 
 river on September twentieth, her flags flying, her band 
 playing, her decks jammed with a grand, gay crowd. There 
 was the captain, a great dandy in his brass-buttoned blue 
 coat and his tight doeskin breeches and his tall shiny hat 
 and his knee-high kidskin boots as fine as silk; the pas- 
 sengers, rich planters in ruffled shirts and velvet waistcoats, 
 their body-servants following at heel; the gamblers, with 
 their high stocks and their glittering canes, the diamonds 
 and emeralds clustered on their smooth, slippery fingers; 
 the fine, sweet, gracious ladies; all the brightest, gayest 
 world afloat in that late warm summer. But suddenly, be- 
 fore they'd gone halfway up-stream, a queer rumor crept 
 
THE FATHER 187 
 
 about. Two of the crew had died within an hour of each 
 other. Died, and their bodies carried ashore by night and 
 thrown into a swamp. . . . The steamer had not even 
 made landing at a settlement so they could have Christian 
 burial. The Fever. . . . 
 
 "Then in a breath came panic. The passengers went 
 into a frenzy. They begged to be put ashore, anywhere, 
 anyhow. The captain refused. You can mighty near see it, 
 can't you?" Lincoln's eyes grew dark. "Here stands the 
 captain, so haughty and fine, in his grand blue coat and 
 his brass buttons and his face like death. Standing there, 
 both guns in his hands, with the mate so tall and lowering 
 at his elbow. Together they'd hold back that crazy, raging 
 crowd 
 
 "The mate, they say, was along seventeen or so, just a 
 big tow-headed boy. But he was game all right. He'd never 
 seen the face of fear. He laughed in the passengers' faces 
 when they raved at him and struck him and tried to fight 
 their way ashore. 'Much good that would do you,' he jeered 
 at them. 'You'd be shot down in your tracks before you'd 
 get a mile.' But the passengers were madmen every one. 
 They went down on their knees, they begged and whined 
 and prayed, they tore off their gold belts and threw them 
 at the captain's feet. The women snatched off their jewelry, 
 and crammed it into his hands. But neither man gave way. 
 
 "Then a handful of 'em seized a yawl, and rowed ashore 
 right close to a little town. The captain and the mate 
 ordered them back. When they refused to come the mate 
 fired on them, and killed two. Well. I reckon the rest of 
 the yawl-load reached the shore alive. But — the word went 
 flying ahead up-river. That the ship was alive with yellow 
 fever, that she was bringing Black Jack upstream with 
 her. A plague-ship. A floating charnel-house. . . . 
 
 "So, when she swung around the bend, and headed into 
 
188 THE FATHER 
 
 the next landing, they found the sheriff and an armed 
 posse waiting for them, ready to shoot down the first man 
 that tried to land. So they didn't dare so much as to let 
 down their gang-plank. The boat swings back into mid- 
 channel. Upstream she goes, fast as the firemen could rush 
 coal into her. But the word of her coming went faster 
 still. 
 
 "Again and again she tried to make a landing. But even 
 when she tried by night to head into the willows where 
 there was no town, up from the thickets would rise armed 
 men and drive her negroes back to the boat. No chance. 
 No hope. 
 
 "All the time passengers and crew were dying like flies. 
 The Creole Belle went on and on. She passed Memphis 
 with barely half her crew alive. She pushed on, a doomed 
 thing, trying to force her way out of that mesh of terror. 
 No chance. 
 
 "The fag-end of the crew couldn't handle her alone. 
 So the captain pressed the passengers into service. He 
 must have had a grim sense of humor, that captain. He 
 picked on Colonel Mountford, the most eminent judge in 
 all Louisiana, a pompous old tom-turkey he was, to be the 
 oiler. He ordered a half-dozen of the brightest ornaments 
 of the Mississippi bar to the stoke-hole. He sent the ladies 
 to be nurses. God knows they were needed, for the fever 
 swept above-decks like a prairie fire. 
 
 "And the boat went on. On up-river, food enough 
 aboard, fuel enough. Money enough aboard the Creole 
 Belle to buy up the Mississippi basin. But not all that wealth 
 could buy a foothold ashore. 
 
 "The mate lived through that voyage to tell the story. 
 His youth saved him. And his pluck. And the way he could 
 laugh. Somehow the people who can laugh at death are 
 usually the ones who win out. I reckon Death sort of sneaks 
 
THE FATHER 189 
 
 off when he's laughed at. But that tow-head of his was 
 gray before the year was out. 
 
 "Finally they caught on a sandbar, above Cairo. There 
 were just eighteen souls left alive, now. Eight men and 
 ten women. Somehow they made their way ashore by night, 
 crept for miles through the river-woods and escaped. And 
 there, day after day, week after week, its cargo untouched, 
 for its dead still lay on board, hung that boat of death. 
 The country folks would drive down to the Kentucky shore, 
 and stare at it, awestruck. None of them would venture 
 close enough to snatch at the high-piled bales of cotton, 
 the barrels of sugar, the clothes and jewels and treasure, 
 that lay aboard. 
 
 "But at last along came a back country farmer, a stodgy 
 fellow, and grinding poor. He had a runt of a farm and 
 a troop of growing boys, and one beautiful slip of a girl, 
 maybe sixteen. Back east his wife's folks had things gen- 
 teel, and she was forever nagging him because he'd never 
 bought her a stick of good furniture. Not so much as a 
 chair to her name. She taunted him day and night. And 
 she was always dinging it into him that this young daugh- 
 ter hadn't even a looking glass to see her lovely face. 
 
 "So he slips out by night, and drives to the shore, then 
 sculls across to the boat. They tell it that his dog wouldn't 
 go with him. That when the creature saw he was steering 
 towards the sandbar he jumped out whining and shivering 
 and swam back to the shore. But the man was game. He 
 brought his skiff alongside, grabbed up his pine-knot and 
 scrambled aboard. 
 
 "Can't you see him, picking his way up the steps of the 
 Creole Belle? He'd be kind of awkward, you know. His 
 feet were used to furrows, and he'd find it tricky footing 
 to make his way on those narrow polished stairs, then 
 down the long glittering floor of the grand saloon. It 
 
190 THE FATHER 
 
 wasn't dark, for his pine-knot lit up the great crystal 
 chandeliers and made them blaze and sparkle. It wasn't 
 close nor damp. For the stateroom doors were all standing 
 open, just as the folks had left them. — And the river wind 
 blew through and shrilled and whistled. I don't know. I'd 
 as lieve had darkness and silence if it was me. 
 
 "Well. He went creeping and sliding on till he got 
 to the end of the great gleaming hall. It winds up aft, not 
 in a square, but in a great swan-breasted curve. 
 
 "There his torch lit the great mirror, swinging in its 
 gilded pillars. I reckon that mirror had held many a curious 
 picture in its day. The flowing sparkling ladies, the swag- 
 gering dandies, the blustering old captain Where had 
 
 all their sparkle and swagger and bluster gone to now? 
 
 "Well, as I told you, that farmer had grit. Grit clear 
 through. It was a job for three men, not one, to ship that 
 mirror down and carry it the endless slippery length of the 
 cabin, and lower it into his skiff, and row it ashore. But 
 he did it. By bull strength. He hauled it up the bank and 
 hoisted it into his wagon. 
 
 "His horses were as dependable as daylight. But they 
 gave him a tough time right then all right. First they 
 tried to bolt; when he'd finally lashed them down they 
 kept rearing and twisting, and tossing their heads, their 
 white eyeballs rolling. Once the off horse got a square look 
 at that tall shining thing. They galloped a mile or so then, 
 before he could rein them down steady. 
 
 "Finally he got home. And his daughter was wild with 
 delight, and that made him forget. But nine days more, and 
 his girl lay dead, his wife and the boys were dying. He 
 died himself, for the fever swept through that house like 
 a great scythe of flame. From that house the plague swept 
 the country. Not a cabin but one lay dead. Nobody has 
 set foot inside that house from that day to this." 
 
THE FATHER 191 
 
 "W-where is that cabin?" quavered 'Doniram. 
 
 "Right over in Cooper Township. Not twenty miles 
 away." 
 
 "Wish I could see it," sighed Seth. 
 
 "I'm going to see it some day." This was Mercy, under 
 her breath. Her cheeks flared scarlet, her eyes were wide 
 with wonder, with tragic pity. 
 
 "You'll none of you boys live to see it. You'll all freeze 
 to death before spring," thus Aunty, Gorgon-stern, "unless 
 you hiper out and bring in some wood. Here you all sit 
 a-gopherin' and a-gogglin' at these stories while the fires 
 go out right under your noses!" 
 
 "My fault, Aunty." Mr. Lincoln picked himself up 
 penitent. "When I get going, it's hard to pull me in. Come 
 along, boys. Let's pile up plenty of wood before Father 
 comes home and ketches us!" 
 
 Times like this he would reach for his coat and go and 
 bring up a great heap of logs, and before he finished he'd 
 have a pile of firewood big enough to last a week. After 
 that he would pump all the waterpails full, and go out and 
 help milk. Presently he would remember that he'd brought 
 a haunch of venison and a sack of meal, "Got to pay up 
 just part of the board I'm always sponging off you folks." 
 
 And when Father came home in the bitter dusk all his 
 chores would be done and he and Mr. Lincoln could sit 
 by the fire and wrangle and argue to heart's content. 
 
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
 
 AFTER the weather had moderated, but before the 
 great rains came to choke the roads with mire, they 
 spent more time at the little office in town. Other men 
 dropped in, too, to gossip, to swap stories, to argue. Old 
 Major Hewitt, frail as splintered glass but still peppery 
 and spry at ninety, bundled into knitted vests and nubys 
 and double mittens till he looked, as Seth observed, like the 
 worsted-work cave turned inside out, would totter in, 
 throw off his innumerable wrappings, and scold shrilly at 
 every new thing under the sun. What was the world coming 
 to, hey? Tell me that. Here's the trustees of the Lord's 
 Barn hev up and give permission to a pianny, set right down 
 on the preacher's platform. Blasphemous. Plumb blasphe- 
 mous. Say it's to lead the singing? Huh. Tell 'em to use a 
 tuning fork and shame the Devil. Here's another man, a 
 mad editor down East, says time's coming we'll build our 
 houses and stores out of steel and glass 'stead of wood and 
 plaster. Just let the fool try it. Steel, eh? His house will 
 be struck down by lightnin' before he can trice up his 
 scaffolds. Down to the Corners, they's been a woman come 
 from Boston says as how men have got to up and give 
 wimmen- folks the vote. Give wimmen the vote, hey! Then 
 set out an' teach the hens to crow! 
 
 But nine times out of ten, one burning question held 
 the floor. 
 
 "You don't grasp my point of view, Mr. Stafford. For 
 the sake of argument, we will admit that slavery is wrong. 
 Morally, socially, politically wrong. But you look on an 
 institution that is embedded in the life of this nation, and 
 
THE FATHER 193 
 
 imagine that you can destroy it with your words and your 
 pamphlets as easily as Joshua knocked down the walls of 
 Jericho." 
 
 "If you'd happened to read that chapter with more than 
 half an eye, Mr. Lincoln, you'd have noticed that Joshua 
 and his priests and their trumpets were merely a symbol of 
 the Almighty Power that commanded them." 
 
 "W-well. If you feel sure that the Almighty has picked 
 on you as a second Joshua " 
 
 "As far as my limited perceptions would indicate, He 
 has. He lays that obligation on every thinking man. That's 
 why I am in this fight. That's why I mean to stay in it. 
 That's why you ought to be in it yourself. Heart and soul. 
 Body, bones and hymnbook, too. If you think I exaggerate 
 the situation, go down to New Orleans, and take one look 
 at the slave-market. If that doesn't sicken you " 
 
 So the battle would rage. Until finally Mr. Lincoln 
 would say: 
 
 "Well. Time will come we'll find a solution. . . . 
 School out, Thomas? What is that new book?" 
 
 "My new Reader." Thomas scrambled on Mr. Lincoln's 
 knee, bursting with eager pride. 
 
 "You haven't written in it yet?" 
 
 "No, sir. What shall I write?" 
 
 "See what I wrote one time. In my schoolbook." 
 
 Mr. Lincoln reached a long arm to Father's desk and 
 scrawled a couplet. 
 
 "Abraham Lincoln, His Book and Pen. 
 He will be Good But God Knows When." 
 
 "Why, it makes rhyme!" Thomas bounced, delighted. 
 
 "Maybe it makes more than rhyme. Maybe it's a proph- 
 ecy." Mr. Lincoln rolled a melancholy glimmer at Father. 
 Father tried to look coldly disapproving, then he chuckled. 
 
194 THE FATHER 
 
 "I only hope it proves a prophecy. Trot home now, boys. 
 Mercy will be anxious." 
 
 Out on the echoing board walk, Seth summed up his 
 opinion. Seth might have been born with both feet in the 
 milkpail, but at times he betrayed a surprising insight. 
 
 "Mr. Lincoln doesn't like it because Father prints those 
 little green Nabolitionist pamphlets all the time. But he 
 goes right on turning the press for him just the same." 
 
 As the little boys trudged away, Father turned to the 
 table and picked up a letter. A cheap yellow sheet, written 
 in a clumsy disguised hand. He handed it to Mr. Lincoln. 
 Mr. Lincoln read it. 
 
 "John Stephen Stafford: 
 
 Black Abolishionist & Law-Breaker: 
 
 You had better quit your fooling remember what hap- 
 pened to that Yellow Dog Lovejoy we hear tell you was for 
 the Underground other mens presses have been burnt too 
 
 You know who we Are" 
 
 There was no signature. But in the corner was a roughly 
 drawn skull and crossbones and what looked like a loop 
 of thread, but was meant no doubt for a noose. 
 
 "I don't like this, Stafford. Not one of our own citizens 
 would offer you such an insult. But we have a group of 
 drifters here, some of them members of the Clary gang, 
 who have nothing to lose. They wouldn't hesitate at smash- 
 ing your press, if they took the notion." 
 
 "I'm not worried. This is the fourth warning sent to me 
 this winter." 
 
 "I don't like it, I tell you." Lincoln's face grew dark. 
 "Keep your eye cocked for trouble." 
 
 "Nonsense. Only a coward writes an anonymous letter. 
 An ignoramus, at that. And look at the spelling." 
 
THE FATHER 195 
 
 Mr. Lincoln grunted disapproval. 
 
 "Plenty of men who wouldn't know Noah Webster if 
 they met him on the street, can handle a crowbar." 
 
 Father grinned at him. 
 
 "I showed you that to give you a laugh. Not to bring 
 down a jeremiad on my head." 
 
 He threw the letter into the fire. As he passed the win- 
 dow he glanced out. 
 
 "Looks as if it was working around to snow again. I — 
 why — who " 
 
 He stood motionless, staring. His face turned a slow 
 angry crimson. 
 
 "What's wrong, Stafford?" Mr. Lincoln arose and 
 joined him. 
 
 Outside stood a group of three men, laughing and talk- 
 ing. They waved their hands to Father, and beckoned him 
 eagerly. 
 
 "What ails you, Stafford? Enemies, hey?" 
 
 "Great Scott, no! Old neighbors." 
 
 Father jerked open the door and called to them with 
 loud cordiality. They thundered in, shouting greetings. 
 Old Green River neighbors, everyone of them. Doctor 
 Allis, Roger Hill, Truman Crowther. Truman Crowther, 
 stout, jovial, seized Father's shoulders and shook him with 
 vim. 
 
 "Here we are, all of us! I'm the only one of the 
 Crowther tribe, so far, but we're all coming west. Lock, 
 stock and barrel. Came out the same way you took, last 
 fall. First by way of the Big Ditch, then overland from 
 Buffalo. Canal still full of floating ice, but a fine trip." 
 
 "All your family is coming, you say? Your brother 
 Lemuel? And young Lemuel, too?" 
 
 "Everyone of us. The two Lemuels will be along in a 
 couple of weeks. I believe young Lem was wilder to start 
 
196 THE FATHER 
 
 west than all the rest of us, put together. But his father 
 made him stay and help settle things up. I have a notion 
 that the Sangamon Country is not the sole attraction for 
 young Lemuel. Before you started west, he seemed to take 
 a considerable shine to that young daughter of yours." 
 
 "That so?" Father smiled blandly. "Speaking of the 
 canal being full of ice, has anybody heard about conditions 
 on the Ohio? Is it still frozen over? Or have the packets 
 started?" 
 
 "Queen of the West starts upstream from St. Louis next 
 Thursday, for Cincinnati." 
 
 "To be sure. Providing she gets there whole. Runs a big 
 chance in all this floating ice. Let one sizable cake hit her, 
 and her hull will crumple like tinfoil. Then good-by, boil- 
 ers, and passengers, too." 
 
 "Wonder what the fare is." 
 
 "I'm not sure, but I think it's around twenty dollars. 
 She'll charge enough, mind that. But she'll get the cream of 
 the early spring trade." 
 
 "I dare say." Father smiled on, bland and serene. 
 
 The men hung about idly for some minutes. But at 
 last they drifted away. Mr. Lincoln would have strolled 
 away with them, but Father beckoned him back. 
 
 "I've got a favor to ask, Mr. Lincoln. If you can 
 possibly figure on it " 
 
 "Figure on what?" Mr. Lincoln stared at Father's 
 flushed face, his unsteady hands. "You know well enough, 
 Mr. Stafford, if there's any way I can serve you " 
 
 "Well. I'm asking a great deal. But I'm at the end of 
 my rope. Could you lend me as much as — sixty dollars?" 
 
 "I'd hope so. The Ferrand case paid up in full last week. 
 A hundred and twenty, cash. You get twice your sixty if 
 you say the word." 
 
 "Sixty will be enough." He figured frantically. Twenty 
 
THE FATHER 197 
 
 dollars fare on the Queen of the West. Ten dollars to take 
 the child by stage from Cincinnati to Yellow Springs. Six 
 dollars by stage from here to St. Louis. Yes, sixty would be 
 plenty. If only he had time to write Horace Mann in ad- 
 vance, so that he would know Mercy was on the way, and 
 would meet her! 
 
 His grasp tightened on the handful of gold-pieces which 
 Mr. Lincoln pulled from his gold belt. 
 
 "I can't begin to tell you how I appreciate this." 
 
 "Drop that. It's an honor. How long will you be away?*' 
 
 "Only three or four days." 
 
 "W-well." Mr. Lincoln scratched his head. "I reckon 
 your paper has got to come out, the same as ever, whether 
 you're here or not. If it doesn't there are a good many 
 folks that will be disappointed. Provoked, too." 
 
 "I never thought of that. The issue is all blocked out. 
 But there isn't a soul to set it up. To say nothing of turning 
 the press " 
 
 "Well." Mr. Lincoln looked sheepish. "Court adjourns 
 to-morrow, for a week. I'll have some spare time on my 
 hands. Don't you worry about the paper." 
 
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 
 
 MERCY sat alone in a small tight room in a small 
 tight splint rocker adorned with a small tight patch- 
 work cushion. Everything in that room was small and 
 skimp and compact as a needlebook. There was a narrow 
 single bed, a chest of drawers with a mirror no larger 
 than a man's hand, a diminutive washbowl and pitcher, a 
 miniature glass hand-lamp, and a pile of books. The books 
 alone bore a massive aspect. They included an alarming 
 collection of text-books, a smart new McGuffey's Fifth 
 Reader chosen for its Oratorical Selections, a Colburn's 
 Mentaly her Bible, her diary. 
 
 Outside the narrow window, tossing frozen tree- 
 branches drew squares and triangles and did cube roots 
 against a frozen moonlit sky. 
 
 Mercy rubbed her eyes and pinched her wrists with 
 firm pink fingers. But it was all real. The marvels of the 
 past five days raced before her eyes, tiny, vivid, clear, like 
 the hurrying mimic rainbows that chased each other over 
 Cyrus's shining glass bowl. 
 
 She saw herself that last evening at home, as she stood 
 frying a great panful of mush for supper. Twonnet was 
 scouring the knives, Aunty sat knitting in her fireside chair. 
 The little boys clung to their sister's skirts and poured out 
 the doings of the day. 
 
 "And teacher she says to 'Doniram, 'Where is Egypt?' 
 and he says, 'Northern Africa.' And she says, 'Bound it.' 
 And he tells her, 'Bounded on the north by the Mediter- 
 ranean, on the east by the Red Sea, on the south by the 
 Nubian Desert ' Then he gets stuck, but he knows he's 
 
THE FATHER 199 
 
 got to say something, so he squeaks out, 'And on the west 
 by a row of pyramids ' " 
 
 Down on Seth's candid mouth landed a small hard palm. 
 A startled yelp: then the two clinched and went to the 
 floor. 
 
 "Boys! Stop that. This minute. Here's Father. What will 
 he say?" 
 
 The shindy ceased promptly. But Father did not even 
 look their way. He threw of! his coat and took the mush- 
 turner from Mercy's hand. 
 
 "Where's Twonnet? Twonnet, please come and finish 
 getting supper. Mercy, I have something to talk over with 
 you." 
 
 He drew her into his own room and shut the door. 
 
 "Daughter, can you pack up your clothes to-night? 
 You're going to Yellow Springs. To Mr. Mann's college. 
 Right away." 
 
 "Why, Father " 
 
 "I've told you always that you were to go to college. 
 Right now comes your opportunity." He laughed, a little 
 harshly. "To-morrow morning, we'll take the stage to 
 St. Louis. Thursday morning, I'll put you on the Queen 
 of the West, going to Cincinnati. I'll put you in the 
 Captain's care. At Cincinnati you're to take the northbound 
 stage to Yellow Springs. Tell Mr. Mann that I sent you. 
 I'll send him a letter by you, too." 
 
 "But, Father! How can you manage without me? You 
 can't!" 
 
 "I'll have to manage, that is all. Now pack whatever 
 you'll need. We must start early." 
 
 The picture dimmed, vanished. In its place she saw 
 Aunty stooping above her little trunk to lift out her 
 treasures. 
 
 "You shall take my dolman with the weepers and my 
 
200 THE FATHER 
 
 cameo tombstone. High time I gave it to you. And my 
 gold beads and your grandmother's ivory fan and her 
 torty-shell comb. And I've got a little interest money left. 
 Almost eight dollars. Better take it. You may need some 
 extra fixings." 
 
 Past Aunty's stooped black shadow gleamed the glittering 
 blinding sweep of the great ice-strewn river. Regal in 
 white and gold, the great boat swung round the bend. In 
 midstream she slackened, turned slowly, then glided in- 
 shore. 
 
 The gangplank fell. Noise, confusion. Then through 
 the tumult came the Captain, punctilious, emblazoned, and 
 bowed to her with ceremony. She felt Father's grip grow 
 tight, then loosen. The Captain took her cold little fingers 
 and led her down the gangplank into the gilt and crystal 
 splendor of the great cabin. 
 
 Then came three unbelievable days on the river, her first 
 real journey into the proud world of the day. Another day 
 on the stagecoach. Then Mrs. Mann's sweet and gentle 
 welcome and Mr. Mann's eager hospitality and hurried 
 generous kindnesses. Hurried by reason of that cruel haste 
 that forced him to crowd all his merciless tasks into the 
 pitifully little time that remained to him. . . . 
 
 But the pictures raced on each other's heels. "I ought to 
 set down all these things. So I'll never forget." Con- 
 scientious and important, she took her diary from the bump- 
 tious little trunk, and set to work. 
 
 "Yellow S f rings y Ohio, March seventh. 
 "This is the most remarkable day of my life. I am now 
 enrolled as a freshman in Antioch College. I came up alone 
 from St. Louis, aboard the Queen of the West. The Captain 
 of the steamboat was very kind to me. His wife is beauti- 
 ful. She was making the trip with him because it is the 
 
THE FATHER 201 
 
 first run of the year and she had to come to bring the boat 
 good luck. She had on an apricot-colored lutestring dress, 
 with three flounces embroidered in green and red velvet 
 cherries. They were life-size, and looked very natural. 
 She had a necklace and earrings of red coral cherries, too. 
 They also looked natural. She uses a great deal of Balm of 
 a Thousand Flowers, You can smell it all the way down 
 the cabin. She was very kind to me. There were not many 
 ladies on the boat, but a great many gentlemen. There were 
 5 young men who were going to Cincinnati on the boat 
 and then to New York on the steam cars. They were always 
 coming to ask if I did not wish to go up on the hurricane 
 deck, and watch the moon. They were very kind to me. 
 
 "The second evening, all 5 asked me. They were very 
 polite, especially one of them. He had had too much peach 
 brandy at supper. He kept saying, 'Queen and Huntress, 
 Chaste and Fair,' to me. I think he got it out of a book. 
 
 "The moon was very large and bright. You could see 
 away up the river. The floating ice looked black some- 
 times, and other times it was like little shining ships, all 
 made out of glass and rainbows. I kept thinking how 
 Thomas would like some of them to play with. I fear I 
 am going to be somewhat homesick for Thomas. 
 
 "Away up the river was something long and slim and 
 black. It looked like a log. Only it went straight and even 
 across the river, and soon we saw it was not a log. It was a 
 long black rowboat. There were people in it. I counted 
 seven, and I think there were two more, huddled in the 
 bottom of the boat. Only one man was rowing, so it went 
 very slow, and the ice-cakes kept bumping it. 
 
 "Pretty soon the Queen of the West turned inshore to 
 make her channel. She came so close, we could see the 
 people, and they looked like negroes, except for the oars- 
 man. He was a young man. He was tall and dark and had 
 
202 THE FATHER 
 
 no cap on and no coat, but he had a strip of white cloth 
 tied across his forehead. The Captain came along and I 
 said, Who are those people, and are they not reckless to try 
 to cross the river through the ice? And the Captain laughed 
 and said 'I would take a few risks myself, if this was my 
 one chance of escaping slavery.' Then the peach-brandy 
 young man said, 'By Jove, they are runaway niggers, let's 
 take a pot shot at them!' And he jerked out a very hand- 
 some pearl-handled revolver and pointed it right at them. 
 I felt very vexed at that, and threw up my hand and struck 
 his pistol arm. I did not mean to strike so hard, but I guess 
 the Davenport temper must have possessed me, for he yelled 
 like sixty and dropped the revolver. 
 
 "However, it was just as well, for the revolver was 
 cocked, and when it struck the deck it went off like a can- 
 non. And the Captain rushed at him, and called him a per- 
 fectly dreadful name, and said, You drunken fool, I have 
 a mind to throw you overboard. What do you mean, pull- 
 ing a gun and ladies present? Then the young man acted 
 very Saucy, and the Captain took him by his coat-collar, 
 and dragged him down the stairs to the cabin. I thought it 
 was then time that I went down to the Captain's wife, so I 
 did so, but just as I got to the cabin door the young man 
 lost his temper and struck the Captain right in the eye, and 
 then the Captain jumped on him, and shook him till he 
 flapped and threw him across the cabin and the young man 
 went bang into the grand piano. All the ladies present 
 jumped up and screamed and started to faint, and the 
 fiddlers stopped and started to run, fiddles and all, and for 
 a few minutes it was quite exciting. I hope this will be a 
 lesson to the young man not to drink so much brandy 
 after dinner. Anyway, I am glad I kept him from firing 
 on the negroes, for if Father is an Abolitionist, I am one 
 myself. Besides, he might have hit the white boy who was 
 rowing them. 
 
THE FATHER 203 
 
 "Aunt Celestia lent me all her best things except her 
 hoops. I knew she could not spare them, so I did not ask 
 for them. But I felt terribly to have only my old set which 
 is absolutely ruined ever since Seth jumped off the shed 
 with them trying to play parachute and broke all the steels. 
 But early the morning we started I took Adoniram and the 
 wire shears and we climbed up and got a whole armful 
 of grape-vine off the barn. I was afraid it was so frozen 
 it would break, but the sap was running so it was all right. 
 Then I took my tucked petticoat and ran the vine into the 
 tucks, and it looks as well as the steel ones, only you 
 have to be careful how you sit down. Adoniram is a great 
 comfort, now he is growing up. 
 
 "I have filled up all my space and have no room for 
 Spiritual Meditation only will say that the College will have 
 visiting ministers every Sabbath, and I presume they will 
 set before us their most uplifting doctrines. 
 
 "P.S. There was a new student at the dining-hall to- 
 night. He is very tall and he had an ugly dark bruise across 
 his forehead. We had scrapple for supper, and the student 
 waiters kept hanging around him and filling his plate till 
 I thought he would founder. He is very genteel in manner. 
 He looks more like Henry Esmond than Lemuel Crowther 
 could ever look in 1,000,000 years. 
 
 "I wish I could see Father tonight. I am afraid I will 
 be more homesick for him than I am for Thomas." 
 
 Outside the dormitory window the moon hung chill and 
 wan above the empty fields. Miles away, to the west, it 
 lighted past other empty fields, on and on. It poured a 
 thin and fitful light into Father's little uncurtained study. 
 Adoniram, pursued by the threat of a lonesome streak, lay 
 on the cot with Joseph's Coat pulled over his slumbering 
 head. Under his dim lamp, Father sat and toiled over a 
 closely written page, an article for The Atlantic World, 
 
204 THE FATHER 
 
 If the editor liked it, he might get as much as ten dollars 
 for it. In that case, thank Heaven, he could pay Mr. Lin- 
 coln five dollars on his loan, at once. 
 
 It was not easy to write, however, for his mind kept 
 crowding the article aside, thrusting before him the one 
 passionate tender question, was it well with his child? Was 
 she safe with his friends to-night, and contented and 
 happy ? 
 
 "If only she enjoys the school, if only she does well 
 there, I can manage without her," he told himself. 
 
 But the loneliness for her was tearing him to pieces. 
 Oh, he could stand that. At least, he had saved her from a 
 possible romance with that large oaf of a Lemuel Crowther. 
 
 Down in the depths of him he knew perfectly well that 
 he could not hold Mercy forever. And she had her right to 
 womanhood. But not now. She was so little, so innocent, so 
 utterly a child. She needed a father, not a lover. When she 
 grew older, say twenty-five. That would be quite early 
 enough. By that time, she would have had time to meet 
 men who were more nearly her equals. Not that any man 
 could ever be good enough for his girl. But Lemuel G. 
 Crowther, the great worshipful booby Never! 
 
 He looked at his watch. Eleven o'clock. He took the 
 key from his chain, wound it slowly. Then for a few 
 minutes he sat, motionless. 
 
 Clouds passed over the moon, shadowing the world to 
 darkness. Swiftly they passed: the room was again illumined 
 by that chill and lonely light. 
 
 Father put out his hand. He did not put it out to touch 
 'Doniram. Instead, his fingers stroked a small warm sleepy 
 bundle. A bundle of yellow flannel. From one end, there 
 depended a tiny red scalplock. From the other, dangled a 
 pair of bright red flatiron feet. 
 
CHAPTER NINETEEN 
 
 MERCY had been a college woman for five days. 
 It felt like five years, she reflected, with a certain 
 complacence. For in that time, she told herself, she had 
 settled into the groove of her classes, she had thrown off her 
 besieging homesickness, she had made a brand-new intimate 
 friend, Deborah Sherwin. Deborah, sturdy, wholesome, 
 sweet, with a lisp that awoke aching memories of little 
 Thomas and freckles that stirred wild longings for Adoni- 
 ram, had set herself to the pleasing task of instructing the 
 stranger upon the world of Antioch, with all possible speed. 
 
 "This isn't just a college, Mercy Rose. It's a place where 
 all sorts of folks come, whenever they think they have 
 something to say. And they say it. I figure there's maybe a 
 hundred kinds of preachers been here, all trying to convert 
 us to their notions. To begin with there are all the regular 
 religions you ever heard tell of. But that isn't a drop in 
 the bucket. 
 
 "There are the men who think it is sinful to get their 
 hair cut, and those that run around without any socks, no 
 matter what awful chilblains they get, and the Hook-and- 
 Eyers who won't wear buttons, and the Seamless Ones, who 
 cut their clothes out of double-wove sheeting so's it won't 
 have to be sewed anywhere. Goodness, you can't begin to 
 count them." 
 
 Deborah spoke truth. In the early fifties the whole coun- 
 try seethed with the ferment of a thousand agitations and 
 reforms. Cult after cult sprang up, so many impassioned 
 little mushrooms, sprouting overnight in that hot teeming 
 soil of bitterness and disunion. Millerite, Grahamite, 
 
206 THE FATHER 
 
 Phrenologist, Communist, a swarming host, known afar off 
 by their intolerable deal of beard and their plentiful lack 
 of collar, stormed Antioch's gates. And every man of them 
 gayly quartered down on the struggling little college and 
 its patient Head, naively sure of broad fellowship, unfail- 
 ing sympathy. 
 
 "Sounds like the Apostle." 
 
 "What Apostle? Goodness, we've had eight kinds of 
 Apostles, only this spring." 
 
 "Our Apostle. The one with the dishpan. And the long 
 hair." 
 
 "They all have long hair. Then there are the States' 
 Righters. Not so many of them, but they stomp and holler 
 till you're plumb deef. Mr. Mann doesn't believe as they 
 do, but he says, Let them talk, for a college must be an 
 open forum. 
 
 "And the Abolitionists. They don't talk so much. They 
 work. There's a string of Underground stations all the way 
 across Ohio from Cincinnati to Cleveland, and the con- 
 ductors stop here on their way back. They talk, too. But 
 mostly they're too tired to say much. I think the Aboli- 
 tionists are elegant. Mr. Phillips came out from Boston last 
 year 'purpose to address us. He wore the handsomest waist- 
 coat I ever saw in all my born days. Black velvet, with gold 
 acorns on it. He's almost as stylish as Mr. Mann himself. 
 Wait till you meet Mr. Mann on the campus, and he bows 
 to you. You'll feel like Queen Victoria." 
 
 "He has. And I did." 
 
 "Some of our students are working on the Underground 
 right now. 'Specially one new boy, who only came a week 
 or so ago. His name is Richard Harrison. He is the most 
 stuck-up thing you ever laid eyes on. His folks used to be the 
 grandest folks in Boston, they say, but they lost most of 
 their money and now they're all dead, and he has a 
 
THE FATHER 207 
 
 guardian back east till he's twenty-one. The guardian is 
 very old and set in his ways, and he thinks the Underground 
 road is the sure path to perdition. And Richard has no 
 money, except what this old man gives him. Nowadays, 
 since the boy has taken up with the Abolitionists, the old 
 fellow won't give him a copper. So he came here to work 
 his way through Antioch, with Mr. Mann giving him what 
 help he can. Whenever the Underground wants him they 
 send him word and he drives for them by night. Some- 
 times he takes a load all the way from the Ohio shore clear 
 across the state and lands the negroes at the Lake where 
 there's somebody waiting to take them on as stowaways. He 
 even rows across the Ohio and fetches them from the other 
 side. Right through floating ice, mind that. They say he 
 isn't afraid of the face o' clay." 
 
 Before Mercy's eyes flowed that moonlit icy river, the 
 narrow black row-boat, the dark huddled faces. Then the 
 white face of the oarsman, the white bandage across his 
 forehead. 
 
 "I'll point him out to you. He comes to our geometry 
 class whenever he's here. The boys are all crazy about him. 
 They think he's a hero. But he's too offish for us girls. He 
 won't come to our taffy pulls even if he's especially invited. 
 Didn't I write him an invitation to the last one my own 
 self and on my pink paper!" 
 
 Mercy sat staid and prim in the geometry class. Serenely 
 she realized that she looked very well indeed. Her slippers 
 were especially gratifying. They were old, but freshly 
 blacked, and Aunty's wide grosgrain ties gave them a 
 pleasing touch of elegance. She was drawing demure tri- 
 angles in her Colburn's Mental, when Deborah's fingers 
 nipped her arm. 
 
 "Mind what I told you about Richard Harrison? Here 
 he comes large as life. Isn't he genteel-looking? Or would 
 
208 THE FATHER 
 
 be if he wasn't so hulking big. Stuck-up thing. Look at the 
 straps on his trouserth." 
 
 Mercy looked up. The boy who was coming down the 
 aisle was certainly big enough. A slim young Colossus in 
 strapped nankeen pantaloons, tight as a glove, and a blue 
 jacket, from which his enormous wrists sprouted, pathetic, 
 unbelievable. His black hair made a heavy glittering cap 
 above his dark face. His eyes, dark, heavy-lidded, yet keen as 
 a hawk's, looked at her, past her, back to her again. He 
 would have been more than genteel, she thought, he would 
 have been handsome, if it were not for the broad livid 
 scar across his forehead. 
 
 The boy had stopped short now. He was not just glancing 
 her way. He was staring at her. His hooded eyes widened. 
 Then the red flared up into his face. He strode on past her. 
 
 As the two went staidly down the corridor, Deborah 
 giggled. 
 
 "My sakes alive! How he gaped at you! Have you ever 
 seen him before?" 
 
 "Why, no. B-but " 
 
 Mercy's voice died in her throat. The boy had stopped 
 at the west door. He was waiting for them. He was now all 
 but purple with embarrassment, but he had something to say, 
 and he intended to say it, though the heavens fell. 
 
 "Miss Sherwin, will you please introduce me? I wish 
 to speak to this lady." 
 
 Mercy dropped a hasty curtsey. 
 
 "I think I have a lost article I mean, you lent it to 
 
 me If I may explain " 
 
 He was staring at her feet, now. Thank goodness, she 
 had on her trim slippers with the wide bows. 
 
 But the boy was not admiring them. Instead, he was 
 kneeling beside her. 
 
 "Will you allow me?" 
 
THE FATHER 209 
 
 Her own glance fell. Over her rolled a tide of horror. 
 Those treacherous slipper bows! Oh, if Aunty had only 
 made them of her second-best silk and not of the third- 
 best! For one ribbon had broken like a cobweb. Outrageous 
 slattern! She looked miserably at the treacherous gaud. Oh, 
 would the kind earth please, please open and swallow 
 her up? 
 
 The boy bent before her. He knotted the malicious rib- 
 bons: with fiendish trickery, they frayed and tore again. 
 He choked out a mumbled word. 
 
 "Please don't trouble," Mercy gasped out, "I've got some 
 other strings " 
 
 He straightened up, brushed the sweat from his blazing 
 face. His dignity was overpowering. 
 
 "You do not recall me to mind, Miss Stafford. But I 
 know you. If you will permit me a few moments under the 
 big sycamore at the north end of the Glen at maybe four 
 o'clock this afternoon " 
 
 "LAWS AND REGULATIONS OF ANTIOCH 
 COLLEGE 
 
 (From the Antioch Catalogue, 1 851) 
 Regulation No. 27 
 
 "In order to give the respective sexes equal opportunities 
 of visiting the Glen and enjoying its shades and its waters, 
 they will have the privilege to do so on Alternate Days, — 
 that is, on Wednesday, the first day of each Term, the 
 Young Gentlemen may visit it. On Thursday, the Young 
 Ladies, and so on, alternating from day to day, through 
 the Term. 
 
 "However: Neither Sex will be allowed to encroach 
 upon the Day allotted to the Other Sex." 
 
210 THE FATHER 
 
 — But why such Draconian rules, if not to be forgotten? 
 
 Spring came slowly down the Glen. The catkins were so 
 many tiny velvet fingers, yet on them still lay a silver 
 powdering of frost. Underfoot the turf lay wet and cold 
 and ice-flecked, but overhead danced a gleam of green in 
 the swelling buds. Past them, for all the piercing chill, the 
 sky shone blue as a bowlful of bluest sea. 
 
 Mercy had not spoken. She did not need to speak. 
 
 "You don't know me. But I knew you the minute I 
 saw you. You kept your fingers on that cut. You took the 
 ribbon off your neck, so your father could make a tourni- 
 quet of it." He stopped, trembling. 
 
 "I — I've seen you another time, too. Not a week ago. 
 You had on this same blue dress, and this cape. You stood 
 right under the torches on the hurricane deck. I could see 
 you just as clear. And you knocked the gun out of that 
 fool's hand when he started to fire on us " 
 
 Mercy sat in her splint rocker, close to the smoky airtight 
 stove. Snuggled down in the deep feather-bed Deborah 
 slept, had slept for hours. But Mercy's eyes were gray 
 fires. She gripped her diary with one icy little hand, her 
 tall quill pen with the other. 
 
 "He says he has known me always. First, you think his 
 eyes are black but they are not. They are very dark gray 
 like father's, but his eyelashes are so black you think his 
 eyes are, too. Deborah says he is too hulking big. Much she 
 knows about it. He is tall and splendid and he looks like 
 Hektor in Aunty's engraving of the Fall of Troy, only 
 sometimes he more resembles Henry Esmond, and when he 
 gets excited he is precisely like Mr. Rochester in Jane 
 Eyre. On Page 346, when he comes to save her from the 
 Maniac. 
 
THE FATHER 211 
 
 "When we came home he had to leave me at the campus 
 gate, because it is not considered seemly for boys to walk 
 with girls, and anyway there is always somebody snooping. 
 And he pretended he had dropped a paper out of his note- 
 book, and had to stoop to pick it up, and as he did so he 
 kissed the back of my hand. At least he tried to, but he 
 brushed against my undersleeve instead. It was one of the 
 Mechlin undersleeves Aunty made me out of the lace on 
 Grandmother's wedding bonnet. 
 
 "His eyebrows are very black and thick, and there is a 
 dent in one of them. I presume he proberly fell off the 
 woodshed when he was a little boy. Like Seth did the time 
 he broke my hoopskirt. I wish I had known him when he 
 was a little boy. He does not laugh much, except with his 
 eyes. He said he had something of mine, to give back to me. 
 I presume it was my engagement ring that Lemuel bought 
 me from the postoffice store for $1.50. But we both forgot 
 about it. 
 
 "When we got back, I found a letter from Lemuel. But 
 I have not had time to open it." 
 
 (That statement was erroneous. Instead of opening Lem- 
 uel's letter at once she had yielded to panic and jammed it 
 under her shoe-box in the lower drawer.) 
 
 "I suppose I should open it and reply to it at once. Poor 
 Lemuel, he has given me his heart's true devotion. But I 
 cannot love him as he deserves to be loved. Not ever again. 
 I do not know how I can break the news to him. It is a 
 dreadful thing, to realize you can no longer love the man 
 to whom you were thinking about being betrothed. I hope 
 Lemuel does not go into a Decline. If he should die of 
 grief, I would never get over it. 
 
 "We did not have any visiting minister Sunday, so I have 
 not any Spiritual Meditations to write about." 
 
212 THE FATHER 
 
 You woke with the first dim gray of the morning. Under 
 the misty sky the world lay hushed. Only an inquiring robin 
 lifted a vague far note. The night was flowing away so 
 smoothly, so slowly, a dim river that turned from black 
 to gray, from gray to silver. Down that river the wind came 
 drifting and stirred the willows and made them whisper. 
 Then it faltered and was still. The stars flared white as 
 burning paper, against that paling sky. 
 
 Then up the east came the trumpeters, file on gleaming 
 file. They blew their reveille in notes of scarlet and gold 
 and mounting blinding flame. And as the new day came 
 marching up the sky you laughed at it softly. For how 
 arrogant was this day, to dream that it could hold more of 
 magic, more of glory, than yesterday had held, than to- 
 morrow would fling down before you! 
 
 "Here's your blue ribbon, Mercy, what's left of it. And 
 your ring. Tell me, who gave you that ring? Your father?" 
 
 Mercy looked up with a start. A quick pulse leaped in 
 her soft throat. Richard looked down on her. He asked 
 nothing more of this world than the chance to kneel down 
 and kiss that little leaping pulse till it was quieted beneath 
 his lips. 
 
 "Come on, Mercy. Tell me." 
 
 "A— friend. Back east." 
 
 "Are you promised to marry him?" 
 
 "No. Not exactly." 
 
 "How much are you promised, then?" 
 
 "Well, I told him I'd think it over." 
 
 "Was that all? Cross your heart?" 
 
 "Y-yes." 
 
 "All right. I'll do your thinking for you after this. 
 Forget him." 
 
 "But I ought to write to him, and explain." 
 
THE FATHER 213 
 
 "Explain what? Just tell him that — that " Then 
 
 that front of Jove faded into nothingness. There remained, 
 not a frowning Splendor, but a terror-stricken small boy. 
 "T-tell him that you're th-thinking about somebody else. 
 That's all." 
 
 Mercy tripped sedately down the stairs to early chapel. 
 This sedateness was no easy achievement. For her feet were 
 dancing, her eyes were dancing, her heart was dancing in 
 her breast. 
 
 Richard was standing at the door. Richard's glance was 
 casual, unconcerned. Between the two there leaped a flash 
 of living flame. 
 
 Then as they stood together, before they could speak one 
 word, there came to them President Mann. Quiet, urbane, 
 he laid his hand on Richard's arm. 
 
 "A messenger has come for you, Richard. He says for 
 you to go on horseback to the Armistead farm and drive 
 some — some friends to Cleveland. You are to start at once." 
 
 Richard bowed respectfully. Then, as President Mann 
 turned away he spoke under his breath. 
 
 "Back by Monday. Maybe sooner. You know why I'm 
 going." His voice fell to a whisper. "I'll be thinking about 
 you every minute I'm gone. I'll be thinking about you — 
 forever. Good-by." 
 
 She stared after him as he strode away. She knew that 
 he was going straight into danger. She knew that she should 
 be dismayed, afraid. But the diamond morning still shone 
 around her, her joy beat out its rush of ecstasy. 
 
 At the chapel door stood the table on which the mail for 
 the students was placed. Another letter for her! Could 
 this be from Lemuel, too? 
 
 This letter was not from Lemuel. It was a large ruled 
 sheet, laboriously printed by Seth's chubby hand. Seth, her 
 
2i 4 THE FATHER 
 
 precious little boggier of a brother! She tore it open. Seth 
 might be the family blunderer; but no more loyal little 
 spirit ever clumped in copper-toed shoes. 
 
 "Dere Mercy I guess father would lick me if he knew 
 I told you because he said I am not going to tell Mercy the 
 press & offis got burnt and worry her it was a mask mob 
 done it they says they would get father too but they dident 
 Ant Celesty is sick abed Twonnet tries to cook Jo Vanny 
 cut his leg open with the ax the Captn has roomatism he 
 cant even hobbel no more at present from your loving 
 brother 
 
 Seth Huntingdon Stafford." 
 
 For a moment Mercy held the letter in her hand staring 
 down at it: then she fled up the stairs. One hour more and 
 the southbound stage would leave Yellow Springs for Cin- 
 cinnati. If she made that stage she could take the next 
 steamboat for St. Louis. If she did not reach Cincinnati in 
 time she would have to wait seven days, seven eternities for 
 the next boat that would take her home. Oh, if she could 
 only make it! She must see Father this minute, she must 
 know whether Seth had told her all the truth. Was Father 
 hurt? Was Seth trying to break cruel news, yet break it 
 gently? 
 
 Into her trunk she hurled books, clothing, trinkets. Her 
 Colburn's Mental was jammed in last of all. Into its pages 
 she thrust a handful of letters. Then away she fled to catch 
 the stagecoach for Cincinnati. 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY 
 
 THE living-room was a trifle crowded. Mercy, still in 
 her calash and her best alpaca, sat in her father's 
 arms. Over the two of them surged a torrent of little boys. 
 Aunty, wrapped in Joseph's Coat, lay on the sofa. Twonnet 
 hung about, going through the motions of cleaning the 
 hearth, but her eyes never turned from her darling, who 
 had been lost and now was found. The Captain had crept 
 in from his snug fire-lit little lean-to. Jo Vanny gloated 
 from the doorway. And in the chimney-corner sat Mr. Lin- 
 coln, taller, lanker, more soberly kind than ever before. 
 
 Mercy took a fresh grip around Father's neck. She felt 
 herself a queen surrounded by her subjects. All her subjects 
 but one. 
 
 "Tell me about it, Father. Quick!" 
 
 "There's not much to tell. The mob was masked. Most 
 of them were drunk. The Clary gang was back of it all, I 
 don't doubt. They didn't attack the office till midnight. 
 They all knew that I was sleeping there that night, for it 
 rained so hard, I did not try to go home. What they didn't 
 know was that Mr. Lincoln had stopped in and had stayed 
 the night with me. He was sleeping, or trying to, all coiled 
 up on the table in his big shawl. He'd made me take the 
 lounge myself." 
 
 "And I was enough better off, too. That table is more 
 than six feet and the cot only about five. I only had to 
 double my legs once." Mr. Lincoln smiled wryly. 
 
 "It's fortunate for me that you were there. Legs and 
 all. Mr. Lincoln saved the day, as well as my life, Mercy. 
 When the mob came tearing up and started to break in the 
 
216 THE FATHER 
 
 door he grabbed the man with the maul, threw the maul 
 back to me, and then slung the fellow out in the road. He 
 lit in a mudhole. I dare say he's there yet. Then he set to 
 work on the next two men with that maul. They were so 
 astonished, they fell back for a minute. That gave us time 
 to bolt the door and drag the press against it. Then Mr. 
 Lincoln gave me his shotgun. By sheer luck he had brought 
 it along and it was loaded and ready for business. And he 
 pulled out his pistol and began shooting through the win- 
 dow. He grazed two, may three. I heard them yelling and 
 cursing as they ran. That sobered the mob. They drew off 
 and I thought they were clearing out. 
 
 "But Mr. Lincoln knew better. He jerked me to the 
 back window. The rest of the crowd had slipped around and 
 set a keg of turpentine against the back door. Somebody 
 tossed in a lighted splinter. As it flared up and gave us a 
 good aim Mr. Lincoln and I handed them a regular broad- 
 side. I don't believe we killed anybody, but we certainly 
 broke their courage. They ran like kildeer. Of course we 
 had to run, too, for the back wall of the office was smok- 
 ing. But the wood was too wet to burn, so it did small 
 damage. We found a bucket of tar in the yard. Easy to 
 guess what they had planned to do with it." 
 
 Fury poured through Mercy's veins. She clutched him 
 tighter. 
 
 "You never saw such floods of smoke, though. We were 
 blinded, smothered. And the front door was barricaded, so 
 we had no time to try for that. So we scrambled through a 
 window. You may thank Mr. Lincoln for that escape, too." 
 
 "Finish your story, Mr. Stafford. I'm in your debt quite 
 some, remember. Mind how I stuck, halfway through? 
 Your father had to scrunch me through as if I was a pig 
 stuck under a gate. Scraped me considerable, 'specially 
 my knees and elbows." 
 
THE FATHER 217 
 
 "Well, there'd be one less press and one less Abolitionist 
 if you hadn't stayed that night." 
 
 "Fortunate coincidence my being there, I reckon." 
 
 Mercy looked at Mr. Lincoln, hard. He gazed past her 
 at the wall. His face" was childlike and bland. Much too 
 bland. 
 
 "Going to repair the office, Mr. Stafford, and go right 
 on?" 
 
 "What else would I do? Think I'd lie down and quit 
 because a parcel of drunken fools tried to burn me out?" 
 
 "Hardly. But local opinion isn't altogether with you. 
 Of course our solid citizens have all stopped in and assured 
 you that they regret this performance. But they're shedding 
 crocodile tears, Mr. Stafford. Down inside they're saying, 
 Well! What else could he expect?' " 
 
 "Local opinion be " Father swallowed hard. "I 
 
 know well enough what this town is saying. 'Stafford means 
 
 well but he's no better than an agitator ' They're right, 
 
 at that. I am an agitator. I mean to keep on being an agi- 
 tator till the last horn blows. Wait for the ballot to sweep 
 out slavery if you choose. You may as well start your sweep- 
 ing with Twonnet's turkey wing." 
 
 "I don't figure on sweeping out slavery — yet. But I do 
 want to hold it down inside its present limits. If we can 
 keep it within its boundaries of to-day it will in time become 
 extinct." 
 
 "Extinct? Yes, at the identical time that this nation itself 
 becomes extinct !" 
 
 "John, Mercy has had a hard journey. Let us have wor- 
 ship, so she can go to bed." 
 
 "You're right, Aunty." Father motioned to Adoniram. 
 "Bring the Bible, son. Now whose turn is it to read the 
 chapter?" 
 
 "Mine!" 
 
218 THE FATHER 
 
 " 'Tis not! You read the chapter last night!" 
 
 Little Thomas scorned to argue. He made a flying leap 
 for Seth. Seth was ready for him. With one accord they 
 clinched and went to the floor. 
 
 "Boys! Stop it. Of all the outlandish " 
 
 "It's Thomas's turn." Adoniram separated the com- 
 batants with a firm impartial hand. "Seth read last night. 
 All about the lazy fig tree that didn't have any figs on it." 
 
 "Thomas, then. Let go his hair, Seth. Sit up and behave, 
 both of you, or I'll give the Bible to Adoniram. Do you 
 wish to choose your chapter, Thomas? Or will you open the 
 Bible at random, and read whatever Scripture your hand 
 falls upon?" 
 
 "I want to take a chance, please, Thir." Thomas's eyes 
 sparkled. This was a rare privilege. His fat paw hovered 
 anxiously over the Book. Finally, portentously, Thomas 
 opened to a certain page. 
 
 "It's only about building a house," he said finally, a bit 
 crest-fallen. 
 
 "The house that lummox built on the sand? Any fool 
 would know better than that," Adoniram snorted. 
 
 "No. It's about a house that's divided " 
 
 His round face sobered. The firelight shone like sun- 
 shine on his yellow head. His small voice rang out, serious 
 and sweet. 
 
 "Every kingdom divided against itself shall be brought 
 to desolation. And every city or house divided against 
 itself shall not stand. . . ." 
 
 "What's all that, Thomas?" Mr. Lincoln looked up 
 sharply. His gaunt head reared, his deep-set eyes began to 
 shine. 
 
 Obediently Thomas read again. 
 
 When he had finished, there was a curious silence. 
 
 "Much obliged, son," Mr. Lincoln spoke at last. On his 
 
THE FATHER 219 
 
 dark face shone a queer deep satisfaction. "Glad you hap- 
 pened on that chapter to-night. Curious. Seems to me as if 
 I'd been hunting for that identical verse my whole life 
 long. Curious. . . ." 
 
 Mercy took Thomas to bed with her that night. She had 
 been away from him just two weeks. But she could not get 
 enough of him, his warm little body, his clinging arms, his 
 sleepy voice against her cheek. 
 
 "That was a nice chapter, Thomas. I'm glad it pleased 
 Mr. Lincoln, too." 
 
 Thomas reflected. 
 
 "Father thinks Mr. Lincoln is the smartest man in town. 
 But I don't think he's so awful bright. He said he'd been 
 looking for that text all his life. Yet here it was right in 
 the Bible, all the time." 
 
 Mercy hung up her calash, took her keys from her hand- 
 bag, pounced on her little trunk and searched it by inches. 
 She shook every garment, she even hunted through the 
 chintz trunk lining. Finally she sat down by the fire, a rosy 
 image of despair. The soft light shone on her, lighting dark 
 gold sparks in her thick braids and warming her cheeks to 
 crimson. She reached for her diary and her pencil. 
 
 "Maybe if I write things down in my diary," she began, 
 "it will help me remember where I could have put Lemuel 
 G. Crowther's pestiferous old letter. But I'm almost sure 
 I left it at Antioch. I shall write the College to-morrow 
 and ask if they won't please find it and send it on to me. 
 Though ten to one it has been thrown away or burned. 
 
 "I never did behave like such a Lunkhead. If I'd had 
 any sense, I'd have read that letter when it first came. But 
 quick's I laid eyes on it, I felt sort of panicky. To be sure, 
 I am not absolutely promised to Lemuel. I told him I 
 
220 THE FATHER 
 
 would think about it. But if I hadn't been such a greedy 
 pig about wanting his old ring I would not feel so scared. 
 Nor so cheap, either. 
 
 "If Richard writes to me the minute he gets back from 
 taking those runaways north, his letter ought to start from 
 Antioch Tuesday. Then it will come down from Cincin- 
 nati on the first packet. If the boat is on time, I should have 
 the letter by next Saturday. I hope it will not be sent by 
 railroad, it takes so much longer. The boat is safer, too. 
 
 "Richard sneezed twice when he was saying good-by. It 
 may be just the way Seth sneezes when anything exciting 
 happens. But I wish I had told him to be sure and take dry 
 socks along. 
 
 "When I think how poor Father spent all those 60 dol- 
 lars in sending me to college for just these two weeks, I 
 simply ache. But if he had not sent me I would never have 
 met Richard. And if I thought I was never going to meet 
 him, I'd lie down and pass away. This minute. 
 
 "Seems to me I can never leave Father again. It is too 
 dangerous. Just let that mob try again when I'm around. 
 
 "Mr. Lincoln acts so innocent, but I can see right 
 through him. He'd heard a rumor that the mob might 
 come. That's why he stayed all night. A-purpose to take 
 care of Father. That's why he brought his gun, all loaded 
 with buckshot, and his pistol, too. Coincidence, nothing. 
 
 "... I don't see how I am going to manage without 
 him. Perhaps he will come by fall. But this is only spring. I 
 can't wait. It's just as if I had a nuby wrapped around my 
 head and couldn't breathe. 
 
 "Anyhow, Father couldn't spare me, no matter if I did 
 want to go back to Antioch. Repairing the office will cost 
 maybe as much as fifteen dollars. And what with Aunty so 
 feeble, and Jo Vanny all banged up, and poor Captain so 
 lame, and the garden not half started! 
 
THE FATHER 221 
 
 "And I don't believe the little boys have had one real 
 scrub since I went away. Thomas's finger-nails are scan- 
 dalous, and Seth's cow-lick stands straight up, though I 
 have poured buckets and barrels of oil on it for years and 
 years and it was beginning to flatten down. And the house 
 looks as if the barn had fallen on it. No. I've got to stay 
 right here." 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 
 
 "The glories of our Blood and State 
 Are Shadows, not substantial Things, 
 There is no Armor against Fate. 
 Death lays his icy Hand on Kings. 
 Scefter and Crown 
 Must tumble down. 
 And in the Dust be equal made 
 With the foor crooked Scythe and Spade " 
 
 DON'T like it so awful much," quavered poor 
 •*■ Adoniram. 
 
 "What if you don't?" thus Aunty, sternly. "It's elegant 
 poetry. It wouldn't be in The Wreath of Poesy if it 
 wasn't. And long's you've got to speak a piece on Friday 
 you may as well take this one and be done with it." 
 
 Adoniram's chin wabbled. Speaking a piece, right out 
 loud, before the whole school, was a serious matter. For 
 Thomas, speaking pieces was all in the day's work. He 
 memorized like a shot, he hopped up on the platform like a 
 plump, complacent robin and chirped out The Boy Stood on 
 the Burning Deck or Marco Bozzaris, without turning a 
 yellow hair. Seth, too, viewed this public duty without dis- 
 may. True, Seth always bogged and stumbled, but the 
 class laughed at him admiringly, which sent him to his 
 seat convinced that he was a master of oratory. But for 
 Adoniram, Friday afternoon spelled linked torture long 
 drawn out. 
 
 "I'd ruther sweep the whole schoolhouse. Scrub it, too," 
 he told Mercy. 
 
 Mercy patted his head absently, her eyes on the road. 
 
THE FATHER 223 
 
 Father would be back from town before long. The mail 
 stage was due to-day. If Richard had written the Saturday 
 before — if he had sent the letter to Cincinnati, in time for 
 the west-bound packet 
 
 "Oh, never mind, Donny. You'll speak it all right." 
 
 Donny's eyes filled. 
 
 "I want to sit in your lap," he sniffled. He heaved up his 
 solid little chunk, and planted himself on her knee. 
 
 Mercy groaned aloud. 
 
 "Donny, you feel like the Great Pyramid." But she 
 pulled him up tight. By instinct, she knew that life wasn't 
 so funny for an overgrown cub who had been little enough 
 to cuddle only a day or two ago, but now found himself 
 pushed out of everybody's lap to make room for the younger 
 boys. 
 
 "Want to speak your piece for me?" 
 
 "N-no. It isn't learned, yet." 
 
 "Then you'd better learn it. Right away. Take your 
 book up to the loft where the other boys won't bother." 
 
 Adoniram went, obediently. He sat an hour in the chilly 
 loft wrapped in Joseph's Coat and worked on his piece line 
 by line. Even the separate lines spoken alone made his nose 
 tingle and his eyes feel hot, but he stuck to it resolutely. 
 At last he found that he could speak the resounding meas- 
 ures without one choke. 
 
 "I guess I can get through it," he assured himself, and 
 so took heart of grace. 
 
 Friday morning came inexorably. The pitiless hours raced 
 on. Ten — eleven — twelve — the two younger brothers 
 grabbed their dinner-pails and fled, whooping. But Donny 
 wasn't interested in turnovers and ginger-cake. One — two 
 — three 
 
 At four o'clock, Seth and Thomas hurtled into the 
 kitchen. 
 
224 THE FATHER 
 "Donny said his piece, and then 
 
 "No, siree, he did not say it! He tried. But he couldn't 
 say only the first two lines " 
 
 Plunging after them, came Adoniram. His face was so 
 white that his cinnamon freckles stood out in relief. His 
 lips quivered. His hazel eyes widened with helpless misery. 
 Valiantly he tried to answer Mercy's question. But the 
 words were strangled on his mouth. With a drowning 
 gulp he fled. You heard his copper-toes go clattering up the 
 loft ladder. 
 
 "What under the sun " But even Mercy couldn't 
 
 know. Even Mercy couldn't understand that these tre- 
 mendous magnificent words were too sublime, too cruelly 
 exalting for a little boy, that their relentless majesty trod 
 him into the dust, that he went down like a little defeated 
 army before their trampling splendor. 
 
 Presently she slipped up the loft ladder. Donny lay 
 curled in a ball, Joseph's Coat pulled over his head. She 
 started to speak. Then suddenly she knew better. She lay 
 down beside him and pulled Joseph's Coat and the poor 
 little shaking nubbin into her arms. She did not say a word. 
 She did not kiss him. Only she held him tight till that 
 quivering little nubbin went limp, till she knew he had 
 slipped off into exhausted sleep. 
 
 After a while her practiced ear realized that downstairs 
 there sounded a portentous hubbub. Probably that was 
 Father home with the mail. But why the uproar? 
 
 Cautiously she slipped her arm from under Donny. Cau- 
 tiously she crept down the ladder. Stars lit in her eyes. Her 
 heart began to pound. Almost a fortnight since she had 
 had a letter. Surely, oh, surely 
 
 As she reached the kitchen Seth banged in. His voice 
 awoke the echoes. 
 
 "Mercy! Come, quick. You've got company! A great 
 
THE FATHER 225 
 
 big fellow so tall he bumped his head on the lintel and all 
 dressed up in store clothes. He used to go to school with you 
 at Antioch!" 
 
 Then, sibilant and terrifying, Aunty's voice: 
 
 "You, Seth! What if Mercy has got a beau? You needn't 
 tell the township." 
 
 He was waiting for her. Waiting, right here in the liv- 
 ing-room, with the children's arrowheads and playthings 
 scattered about and the hearth untidy with ashes. Muddy 
 tracks all over the rag rugs, muddy little shoes drying on 
 the fender, small nameless garments damp from the wash 
 on every chairback, Father's candid yellow undershirt, 
 freshly ironed, hung out to mend. A great bowl of bread 
 dough in its linen nightcap was put to rise in the chimney 
 corner. Thus was set the stage for the coming of Henry 
 Esmond, for Sir Lancelot, for the Prince of Dreams! 
 
 But Mercy tripped in airy and serene. It was only when 
 she saw him that her heart caught in her throat. The room 
 blurred and glimmered. For he was so much taller than she 
 remembered him, he was so glorious. A curly-brim beaver 
 crowned his young royal head, a beaver a size too large, 
 so that it dipped over his ears, but was all the more regal 
 for that. His new suit was to her eyes a mantle of splendor, 
 although it had been cut so thriftily that it pinched his 
 broad chest and reared up the back and climbed affrighted 
 from powerful young wrists and muscular ankles. His 
 suffocating stock, his cruel high boots! All this glory, all 
 this young majesty, to stoop his lordly head and enter her 
 humble door! 
 
 No sooner were they seated than the march past began. 
 Of what avail, she reflected bitterly, to be the lady sought 
 by this most noble knight if the entire population of south- 
 ern Illinois must tread upon each other's heels to enter and 
 to gaze? 
 
226 THE FATHER 
 
 First came the Captain. The Captain had his own snug 
 little room, his big, warm stove, his turkey-red rocker. 
 There he sat and dozed contentedly day after day. But to- 
 day for the first time in weeks he must wander placidly in 
 attired in extreme neglige and fondly clasping his villain- 
 ous old pipe and sit down cheerfully to help entertain the 
 guest. In meticulous detail, he described the battle of Lake 
 Erie as beheld by his own eyes. After him, strolled Mouser. 
 Mouser was shedding. Smug and condescending, he strolled 
 up to the guest and rubbed against his leg, leaving on the 
 black broadcloth a generous tribute of white hairs. Then he 
 sat down facing him and viewed him with an unblinking 
 stare. 
 
 After that Adoniram bolted in refreshed and rambunc- 
 tious, Trouble bounding at his heels. He murmured a 
 shocked — "Gosh, company!" and fled as one who flees the 
 plague. Presently the kitchen door creaked. Twonnet's 
 scowling eye appeared at the crack. Forthwith she entered, 
 turkey wing and dustpan in hand. 
 
 "Never mind the hearth, Twonnet." 
 
 This was meant for dismissal. Twonnet did not accept 
 dismissal readily. Gloomily she laid down the turkey-wing. 
 Gloomily she crouched in a far corner. Her black brows 
 drew into an ominous line, her black eyes were opaque 
 and sullen. Her eyes never left Richard's face. In them 
 flared an instant comprehension, a blistering jealousy so 
 dark that it seemed to lie upon the air, a fury made visible. 
 
 Soon Jo Vanny limped in. At sight of the two, Jo Vanny 
 felt no jealous pang. Not he! True child of his golden 
 Sicily, he knew a lover when he saw one and rejoiced in 
 him openly. He beamed on them and made happy little 
 noises in his throat. He sat down on the floor, tucked his 
 ragged toes into the warm ashes and smiled radiantly on. 
 He looked a faun, stopping, with eerie curiosity, above the 
 
THE FATHER 227 
 
 hearth fire that would never be his, and poised like a wild 
 thing for instant flight. But flight, alas, was the last thing 
 in Jo Vanny's thoughts. 
 
 Ten minutes more and in charged Thomas, a mammoth 
 splinter imbedded in his fat chapped thumb and roaring to 
 high heaven. He hurled himself into Mercy's arms. Hotly 
 embarrassed but anxious to aid, the Prince bent his lordly 
 head, and helped dig out the splinter. Thomas showed scant 
 gratitude. His sobs dwindled to snuffles, but he sat on, suck- 
 ing his thumb. Occasionally he turned to Richard, glared, 
 and stuck out a small lightning tongue. 
 
 Out of all her suffocating household only Cyrus had the 
 manners to ignore the two. Calm, aloof, goggle-eyed, 
 round and round his bowl he swam. Not once did he 
 glance their way. Mercy felt a gloomy gratitude to Cyrus. 
 
 Last of all came Mr. Lincoln. He was in a large, har- 
 monious mood. He threw off his gray shawl, settled down 
 before the fire, and remarked that this was good courtin' 
 weather; then he devoted half an hour or so to kindly in- 
 quiries about Antioch and Mr. Mann. This attended to, he 
 observed — "Well, folks, there's another room in this house. 
 I move the Court adjourns to the kitchen and leaves this 
 bill in committee." Whereat he shooed out the whole 
 roomful. 
 
 All but Thomas. Thomas looked up at Mr. Lincoln. 
 This rock shall fly from its firm base as soon as I, said 
 little Thomas's icy glare. 
 
 As they dragged unwillingly away, the last blow fell. 
 
 Mercy glanced up. In the old eagle mirror she saw her 
 full reflection. A sick shudder ran through her. 
 
 No use. No hope. She could never hold up her head again. 
 Wreck of matter. Crash of worlds. 
 
 Some time after supper she crept up to the loft, and took 
 down her diary. 
 
228 THE FATHER 
 
 "Richard Harrison came to-day. I presume he will 
 never come to see me again. When I think about it I wish I 
 could lie down and die. All the folks came in and gawped 
 at him, exactly as if he was stuck up at ten cents a look. 
 And Twonnet sat like a bump on a log and scowled at 
 him. And Thomas bellowed and stuck out his tongue. And 
 considering the way I looked and always do, he will con- 
 sider me a slattern and a Savage. First time he ever laid 
 eyes on me, I had on my nightgown and Joseph's Coat, with 
 the casket lining sawed out of it, and my hair all pigtails. 
 Next time my shoestring broke. And to-day it was so chilly 
 I had on my flannel petticoat, and when Thomas shovelled 
 himself into my lap his heel caught the tilter of my hoop, 
 and I didn't know till I looked in the mirror that it had 
 hiked up till you could see a whole inch of stocking, and 
 the red petticoat scallop, too. 
 
 "Of course he cannot wish to continue his acquaintance 
 with such a Slap-Dash Sally-Ann. I cannot ask it. Never." 
 
 From the room below came Thomas's voice. 
 
 "Yes, sir, Mr. Lincoln, sir, 'Doniram up and learned his 
 piece slick as a whistle. But when he tried to say it he just 
 choked up and bawled and ran." 
 
 "Let's see his piece. 'Scepter and Crown ' Um. Can't 
 
 say I'm surprised at 'Doniram. If I tried to speak that first 
 verse I'd choke up and bawl, too." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "Because there are some things that are too big and 
 solemn and splendid for common ordinary folks like me 
 to measure up to. Yes, I know just how Donny felt. When 
 I was along nine I found Milton's Paradise Lost in a barrel 
 of old books that some settler had left at the tavern. I can 
 remember to-day how those harpings and hallelujahs went 
 
THE FATHER 229 
 
 thundering through me. I sniveled and sniveled and finally 
 I went and crawled under the woodshed." 
 
 "Well, I never!" Through Thomas's eyes, you could 
 see Mr. Lincolin's pedestal tottering beneath him. "Do you 
 ever write poetry?" 
 
 Mr. Lincoln cocked a glimmering eye towards Father. 
 
 "If I ever did fall into poetry, Thomas, I'll wager mine 
 would bring tears from a harder heart than yours." 
 
 Up in her loft Mercy turned a fresh page. 
 
 "He stayed a good while after they were gone, though. 
 All but Thomas. And he got redder and redder, and I knew 
 he wanted to say something, but I simply could not shake 
 Thomas loose. Finally I said Maybe I'd make pancakes for 
 supper if I had some obliging boy to make them for. And 
 Thomas said, Buckwheat, with maple sugar? and I said 
 [Yes, so Thomas backed out, but he kept his tongue sticking 
 out at Richard all the way. I fear Thomas will grow up a 
 bargaining Jacob. Then Richard said, Where is that 
 daguerrotype, and I hated to tell him that it would be 
 unseemly for me to have one taken for him as long as an- 
 other man is engaged to me, and he began to tease, only 
 very dignafied. But right then, Father came in. I guess 
 Father had had a bad day for he looked awfully tired, and 
 acted grumpier than Thomas, even, and did not so much 
 as ask Richard to supper. If it was anybody but Father, I'd 
 say he acted snippy, but Father never is snippy. He doesn't 
 know how. So Richard went away. But as he went down 
 the steps, he said, May I call when you are not so ab- 
 sorbed? and I said, Yes. Much chance he'll ever darken 
 this door again ! 
 
 "I cannot think of any Spiritual Meditations to-night, 
 
230 THE FATHER 
 
 except what Job says, in Chapter Seven. My days are 
 swifter than a weaver's shuttle, and are spent without 
 hope. 
 
 It was late afternoon and raining, a cold, raw, dismal 
 rain. Father was at work in the miry garden. Twonnet had 
 plowed, the Captain had planted, now Father was weeding 
 in between the drooping little stalks of corn. Somehow, 
 thought Father, it had been always cold, always raining, this 
 long, uncertain spring. His fine shoulders stooped. His eyes 
 were sullen. 
 
 Here he had snatched his girl away from Green River, 
 away from the risk of a too-early marriage to Lemuel G. 
 Crowther, that young lummox. Then, when Lemuel 
 loomed again on her horizon, he had sent her away to 
 sanctuary at Antioch, only to throw her straight into the 
 arms of this dashing young jackanapes of a Richard Har- 
 rison. — Oh, perhaps it was not just, to blame the boy. It 
 was not his fault that his body moved slim and sinewy as a 
 young panther's, that his mouth was the mouth of Buona- 
 rotti's David, that his bold head was crowned by a cap of 
 lusterless waving black, miles from the perfumed and glis- 
 tening brow of Lemuel G. Crowther. But the audacity of 
 him, the devil-may-care bravado of him! How dared he 
 force his acquaintance on Mercy Rose? For her to help tie 
 up his broken head that night was hardly an act of en- 
 couragement. Mere common humanity. Yet, doubly inso- 
 lent, he must follow her here, thrust himself, unbidden, 
 inside her father's door! 
 
 Anger shook him. No, not just anger. The pitiful rea- 
 sonless jealousy of the father who sees himself forgotten, 
 left behind. . . . 
 
 "Father! Oh, Father!" 
 
 She was coming to him, racing down the path, 'Doni- 
 
THE FATHER 231 
 
 ram's jacket flung scarf-wise over her head. She threw up 
 her arm, pulled his head down and gave it a vehement 
 squeeze. 
 
 u 'Scuse, please. I haven't seen you since dinner-time. 
 Listen." Her cheek to his, he could not see the mischief in 
 her eyes. "A man just stopped by and asked, could he stay 
 the night. He's a dripping sop, and tired, and I think he's 
 hungry, too. Shall I bring him in?" 
 
 "Why, of course. Get my dry clothes out of the chest. 
 Fix him something hot, and make up the fire. Did he tell 
 his name?" 
 
 "N-no, sir, he didn't mention it. But I think it's Emer- 
 son." 
 
 "Emerson! You imp!" 
 
 As he dropped his hoe and turned toward the house, 
 Emerson came down the path, hands outstretched. At sight 
 of his flapping drenched coat, his bony ascetic face, his 
 shining eyes, the gray day cleared and shone. 
 
 "Why couldn't you let me have word ahead?" Father 
 gripped his shoulders hungrily. "You know I'd have come 
 into town to meet you " 
 
 "Because I didn't want you to try it. Our stage was six 
 hours late. We brought all the top-soil in Sangamon 
 County on our wheels." He shook off his wet greatcoat, 
 took off his rusty boots before the fire and put on the rusty 
 carpet-slippers that Thomas brought him. "Wish my Con- 
 cord garden had some of this rain." 
 
 "How is your garden? Incidentally, how is your family? 
 And all the friends in Concord?" 
 
 "Flourishing when I left. Especially Louisa Alcott. She 
 sold a serial for a hundred and fifty dollars the other day 
 and the family is rolling in her ill-gotten wealth. Bronson 
 Alcott protests that there is not a word of constructive 
 philosophy in the entire story, but he rolls, too. He and 
 
232 THE FATHER 
 
 Hawthorne both promised to drop in and tend garden while 
 I'm away. If talk would weed beans I'd have a sovereign 
 crop." 
 
 "My, it's good to see somebody from home. No matter 
 who." Aunty stooped at the hearth to heat a kettle of veni- 
 son broth. She beamed up at him. "And where have you 
 been?" 
 
 "Lecturing. Iowa and Illinois. I've given eighteen lec- 
 tures so far, with an average of seventeen people at each 
 lecture." 
 
 "A good turnout. Considering you're so unorthodox. 
 Now, Mercy, you mix up some batter-bread and send 
 Twonnet to kill a couple of chickens, and I'll open my 
 gingered pears and heat up a mince pie. It'll be pioneer 
 food, Mr. Emerson, but maybe you can make out a meal." 
 
 As they sat down to their humble pioneer supper Mr. 
 Lincoln dripped in. He was soggy-wet, splashed with mud, 
 gray with fatigue. But at sight of Mr. Emerson, he fairly 
 blazed alive. 
 
 Not one of the three men ever forgot that night. The 
 hours marked for Mr. Lincoln a high tide. He listened to 
 Father and to Mr. Emerson with a queer puzzled wist- 
 f ulness. Always he had handled his slow, cold, logical mind 
 as a sculptor would handle his chisel. But never had he 
 dreamed of using it to carve such airy arabesque as this. 
 
 For these were men who used their fine intelligence not 
 just as a laboring mechanism for reasoning, but as a gay 
 diversion! Like hounds they raced, they doubled on their 
 courses, they romped in a frolic of thought that held mo- 
 ments of friendly malice. One would nose out an idea, the 
 other pounce on it instantly, worry it, harry it. They used 
 their swiftest reasoning, their keenest logic, merely to 
 stimulate each other. They assumed outrageous premises, 
 then defended their moment's whim as frantically as if they 
 
THE FATHER 233 
 
 defended their altars and their fires. They brought up their 
 light guns, their heavy guns, their earth-shaking artil- 
 lery. . . . 
 
 Mr. Lincoln sat by, delighting in every sally, yet curi- 
 ously, sadly, the outsider. For his own deep understanding, 
 his hard-won culture, he had fought with blood and tears 
 and hunger. Could there be men to whom this riches of 
 learning could mean just a jeweled favor to pin on a coat? 
 
 Suddenly Father glanced Mr. Lincoln's way. Quick 
 shame awoke in him. How stupidly he had neglected this 
 beloved guest! 
 
 "Mr. Lincoln, you are not doing your share. Here we 
 sit, deciding all the problems of the universe. Come on and 
 do your part." 
 
 Mr. Lincoln grinned. 
 
 "I'm playing audience, thank you. And enjoying it. I 
 never knew till to-night that folks could have so much fun 
 with their minds. You've made me sweat to keep up with 
 you." 
 
 "You'll make us sweat when it comes to arguing reali- 
 ties." 
 
 "Here, Stafford, don't pull a long face like that. I've 
 had so many hard knocks the last few years that you can't 
 know what it means to slip out of the harness like this and 
 forget. Forget what a worthless old failure I am. Well, it 
 does me no end of good to get away." 
 
 He pulled a long face then himself. A bitter long face. 
 Harsh lines grooved themselves around his mouth. Black 
 discouragement shadowed his eyes. 
 
 "If you're a failure," Father spoke sharply, "then Mr. 
 Emerson and I are failures and worse. Here goes Mr. 
 Emerson trudging around the country, trying to wake the 
 people up with his books and his lectures. When he's lucky 
 maybe seventeen people turn out to listen to him. Here I 
 
234 THE FATHER 
 
 go, bungling away at my newspaper. If I ever had as many 
 as seven readers who agreed with me all at once, I'd feel 
 I was a rival to Timon of Athens in his heyday." 
 
 Mr. Lincoln grimaced. 
 
 "You can count me as one reader who agrees with you. 
 Almost to the last word." 
 
 "Not on the supreme issue, Mr. Lincoln." 
 
 Now Mr. Emerson rose up, whimsical, commanding. 
 
 "Let us have no slavery talk, gentlemen. Let us cease 
 from our labors this one night and forget." 
 
 "I only wish we could forget." This from Father. 
 
 The three men stared at each other. Again it was as if 
 an unseen Presence had put its eternal question. The 
 anguished need of their vast, blind, tortured nation beat 
 down on them like the winnowing of mighty wings. 
 
 Then Father spoke again. Bitter, disheartened words. 
 
 "It does not seem as if we three could ever amount to 
 much. For by our own mouths we are failures at our own 
 appointed work. How can we ever hope to solve the great- 
 est problem of our day?" 
 
 Nobody spoke. Nobody tried to answer him. Uncon- 
 sciously the men drew closer together. Three dead-tired, 
 middle-aged men. Three failures. 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 
 
 MR. LINCOLN came riding down the turnpike, his 
 tall, battered stovepipe pushed back from his face, 
 his gray shawl swung over his shoulders. It had rained all 
 day and the roads were mire. The prairie swales were 
 flooded, the creek half a mile away was a rushing torrent. 
 Old Tom's hoofs churned and splashed with every step. 
 But Mr. Lincoln's eyes were placid with contentment. He 
 had just won the Harkness case which had cost him weeks 
 on weeks of steady work. Lloyd Harkness, brimful of grati- 
 tude for the farm that Mr. Lincoln had saved for him, 
 had unstrapped his thin wallet and urged on him the full 
 amount of his fee. His wife, a worn gentlewoman, had 
 sobbed out words of gratitude that had brought the red to 
 his gaunt neck. It was pretty fine to be able to help a de- 
 serving pair like the Harknesses. They had paid a gener- 
 ous fee, too. Twenty-eight dollars and fifty cents. This 
 wasn't such a bad world, after all. 
 
 Under his breath he began to hum his beloved song — 
 "Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud " 
 
 On the road ahead, stood a covered wagon. Not an 
 opulent affair: a small vehicle half the size of the broad 
 Conestogas and forlornly ill-equipped. 
 
 "Reckon they're stuck in this mud," he thought. 
 
 He prodded up Old Tom, and rode alongside. 
 
 "Anything I can do, folks?" 
 
 The canvas parted. Two ashen young faces stared out at 
 him. A girl, her face drawn, her eyes swollen: a boy, a 
 frail and bewildered young fellow, holding a small box, 
 wrapped in linen. They had none of the gay pluck of the 
 
236 THE FATHER 
 
 average young pioneer. They stared out at Mr. Lincoln 
 like two beaten children. 
 
 "What's up? Tell me. Maybe I can be of some use." 
 
 "Nobody can be of any use." The girl's face was ter- 
 rible. "For we daren't wait a day, we've got to join our 
 wagon train at St. Louis, and go on to Kansas with them. 
 And they ain't no way we can lay him in consecrated 
 
 ground We got to leave him here all alone, on the 
 
 prairie." 
 
 "Mary pity women!" The poor young husband bowed 
 his head. He was ghastly with the agony of her agony. Mr. 
 Lincoln's face was as ashen as her own. 
 
 "You poor child, your baby shall lie in a churchyard. 
 You shan't have to leave him alone." 
 
 "But there isn't a burying ground in miles, except across 
 the creek. And look at that creek! Out of its banks and a 
 current that would sweep a horse clean off its feet. Quick- 
 sands, too. The folks down to the Crossroads warned us. 
 They 'lowed we can leave my baby in their dooryard, and 
 they'll take care of his grave, their own selves. But maybe 
 they'll have to give up their land, come another year. I 
 can't go away and leave him that-away. I can't!" 
 
 "No. And you shall not. Wait." 
 
 He rode away, back to the Crossroads. He stopped at the 
 blacksmith shop, called the smith and his burly son to the 
 door. Presently the three rode back to the wagon. 
 
 "Your team and the wagon will have to stay here. But 
 we've fixed it up. Here, you fellows take down the 
 wagon seat and put the mother on it. You can swim across 
 the creek and float her between you. I'll wade across be- 
 cause I'm the tallest, and carry him. I'll manage all right 
 if the water doesn't reach my shoulders. Yes, I know there's 
 quicksands, but I'll dodge 'em. Got to. Easy now!" 
 
 It was a long mile, across the flooded lands. The girl 
 
THE FATHER 237 
 
 never spoke. She sat there, high on the wagon seat, carved 
 of grief. 
 
 The two men bogged and floundered across to the creek, 
 the girl lifted between them. 
 
 When Mr. Lincoln reached the slippery bank, he halted, 
 studied the swollen, rushing stream. He lifted the pine box 
 with its precious bit of dust. He shoved on, slipping, splash- 
 ing. The water was up to his chest. It crept an inch higher — 
 another 
 
 At last the girl and her carriers reached the bank ten 
 yards below him. Mr. Lincoln waded and scrambled up a 
 steep miry shelf. Finally he stood on safe higher ground. 
 He stood there a minute, still holding the pine box high. 
 Mud and water dripped from him: he looked like a tired 
 scarecrow. Quiet, grotesque, sublime. 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 
 
 * ' T WILL say for Richard Harrison that he knows what 
 A he wants," wrote Mercy in her diary that night. 
 "Talk about impudence! Here I thought I had such a 
 grand letter, yet when I opened it, it held just four big 
 pages of foolscap, with not one word written on them, 
 except a line at the top of each page. "Don't forget the 
 daguerreotype. I'm starved for it. Better send me two 
 daguerreotypes, I might lose one of them." I suppose I've 
 got to have one taken, as long as he's so pigheaded about it. 
 Anyway, Father says that the daguerreotype wagon has 
 come to town. I'll go in before long, and see what it costs. 
 I'll take Thomas along. He's been so good lately, it scares 
 me. But how can I ever pay for a picture? I just know it 
 will be all of a dollar. Maybe a dollar and a half." 
 
 She put down her pen. She burrowed into the little trunk 
 that held all her choicest possessions. If she could possibly 
 manage it, she'd have him make two. Then she'd hide one 
 away, to surprise Father on his birthday. 
 
 But she searched the trunk in vain. Trinkets, bits of old 
 lace, a broken rose-coral necklace, two seed-pearl bracelets 
 with half the pearls out, a filigree bouquet holder, three 
 Bible bookmarks. And not one single copper cent. 
 
 Finally she pulled out a tiny shagreen case. Grand- 
 father's snurT-box. Within it was a brooch. An awful 
 brooch. It was of black and gold enamel, containing a 
 wreath, constructed from a lock of Great-grandfather 
 Davenport's hair. 
 
THE FATHER 239 
 
 "If I dared ask the daguerrier to take this pin in ex- 
 change. Maybe " 
 
 But what an act of blasphemy, to put your great-grand- 
 father's ringlets to such base uses! 
 
 "I suppose this is a judgment on me, because I am sort 
 of playing fast and loose with Lemuel. Well, I never was 
 really engaged to Lemuel, at that. Maybe it was un- 
 womanly of me, to treat him as I have done. But if I just 
 had a dollar and twenty-five cents " 
 
 Rainbows dazzled on her wet lashes as she blew out her 
 candle. 
 
 The great spring freshets had come, a tempest of rain 
 and wind; then followed a tempest of splendor, the prairie 
 spring. The sun stood high in cloudless blue, the earth was 
 a tapestry unrolled of emerald and rose and deepening 
 sapphire. Look to the south, and as far as you could see, 
 the flag flowers spread their azure carpet. Look to the east, 
 and the marsh was a sheet of pure gold. And all Mercy's 
 hours struck golden bells, all her days were light and flame. 
 Richard's letters came as if on wings. She read them, hid 
 them, drew them out when the household was asleep, read 
 them again, again. They were Richard himself, those let- 
 ters. They were tender and arrogant, insolent and shy. 
 She knew them by heart, every word. She told them over, 
 beads upon her stainless rosary. Reading those letters, she 
 would stop suddenly, and run to hug the nearest little 
 brother, regardless of his protests, the tenderest pity aching 
 in her heart. Poor, poor defrauded little boys! If they 
 had only been born girls, what ecstasy might be in store 
 for them! 
 
 Always from those letters shone the light that never 
 
240 THE FATHER 
 
 was on land or sea. And always at the end, a sentence that 
 caught and tore her heart with agony. For into her garden 
 of love had crept black fear. 
 
 "They all but got me, the other night. I was driving 
 some refugees down the Ridge road, and a gang jumped 
 out on me. I had good fresh horses, and a light load. I 
 reckon that's all that saved yours truly. Of course they 
 fired on me. Took a slice off my left ear. If I couldn't 
 shoot straighter than that, I'd practice on a barn door. 
 You are the loveliest girl in this world, and I think of you 
 every minute. Just the same, if you don't tend to that 
 daguerreotype pretty soon, I'll find me some other girl. 
 Only I'll never find a girl in all the world that can hold 
 a candle to you " 
 
 "When I think, how poor Father spent all those 60 dol- 
 lars sending me off to college! I'm thankful I've got 17 
 dollars left of it, anyway. 
 
 "I ought to tell Father about Richard and me, but I am 
 afraid he will think I am light-headed. To have two suitors 
 at once. But how could anybody look at poor Lemuel, when 
 Richard is around! Or even if he isn't. 
 
 "I wish I had told him to take along an extra flannel 
 shirt and some ague pills. Then if he has to drive all night, 
 he won't be near so apt to catch cold." 
 
 Life, to Jo Vanny, had grown insupportable without his 
 precious family. Day by day he grieved for the monkeys, 
 night after night he mourned for Cartouche. Would the 
 flatboat man feed the monkeys enough to hold their poor 
 little skeletons together through the long winter? Would 
 he procure for Cartouche, that aged and infirm treasure, 
 abundance of bread and milk, for his toothless jaws? Or 
 would he be fed on miserly bread and water, alone? 
 
THE FATHER 241 
 
 His mind grew racked with worry, his lonely little spirit 
 chafed and fretted. Aunty dosed him with camomile tea- 
 Mercy fussed up tempting messes for him. In vain. He 
 drooped, he grew a shadow, even, of his piteous little self. 
 
 While Mercy was away, Mr. Lincoln had stopped in 
 for supper even more frequently than before. Now, since 
 the high water came, the roads were so atrocious that he 
 took to spending the nights, as well. 
 
 "I don't see how I can keep on riding circuit, unless 
 you take me in," he urged Father. "If I want to keep on 
 practicing law, I've got to get me a web-footed horse. Or 
 else swim. The chance to get fed up and dried out, mid- 
 way my circuit, is worth good tavern money. And more." 
 
 Mr. Stafford shrugged. 
 
 "Let you pay? I'd like to see you try it. When we're 
 deep in debt to you now, for all those victuals you've 
 brought in!" 
 
 "Oh, all right, all right. Next time I go to St. Louis, 
 I'll order me a diver's suit." 
 
 Mr. Stafford went to Mercy. She listened, while rolling 
 out cooky dough with swift, deft hands. 
 
 "Please let him pay, Father. I hate to tell you, but as 
 soon as the cobbler comes by, I've got to have shoes made 
 for all three little boys. And they must have new panta- 
 loons apiece. They're simply destitute. And Thomas's new 
 roundabout is split down the back. He did that digging for 
 treasure, in the Indian mound." 
 
 "Confound those mounds! The children have wasted 
 months clawing through them. But where will he sleep?" 
 
 "He can share the big loft with the boys. They'll love 
 to have him." 
 
 "That makes us pretty crowded. 'Specially since I've 
 brought the press home, till the office is repaired." 
 
242 THE FATHER 
 
 "Well, don't let's mind. Besides, I feel lots safer to 
 have you right in reach. When I think of that mob, and 
 their tar-bucket " 
 
 Her Father chuckled. It was quite as well that she had 
 not seen the latest warning sent to him: a pleasing re- 
 minder. 
 
 "Plenty more Turpentine and matches where those 
 came from. We want no Agitators here. Take your chance 
 wile you got one." 
 
 Mr. Lincoln came. As Mercy suspected, he came in 
 order that his tiny "tavern money" should help them 
 through these shoal waters. But she did not suspect his 
 deeper motive: his determination that, by his intimacy 
 with the household, he would influence public opinion in 
 Father's favor. He knew, too well, how strong had been 
 the shift of local thought, from moderate friendliness to 
 actual opposition. Nobody loves a man who has incurred 
 the dislike of an obscure yet powerful faction, which may 
 vent its disapproval on the victim's acquaintance. 
 
 Very soon, his shrewd diplomacy bore fruit in increasing 
 neighborliness. There came even a dozen or so new sub- 
 scribers to the Clarion. Unhappily, these were paid for in 
 somewhat dubious coin. 
 
 "My last subscriber brought in a load of sprouted pota- 
 toes, and another man offered me a goat. Said it had been 
 raised a pet, but it was getting so cantankerous, he didn't 
 want it around the children any longer. I suppose he 
 thought my own children were made of more enduring 
 stuff than are his own." 
 
 "Oh, Father! Let me have it! I'll teach it to draw a 
 little wagon." 
 
 "Yes, but you won't teach it to refrain from butting 
 Aunty and Mercy. That will do, Thomas. No use pucker- 
 
THE FATHER 243 
 
 ing up. I suppose that man remembered we once quartered 
 a circus here." 
 
 "Even if he didn't," Mr. Lincoln's face was lamblike. 
 "Even if he didn't, he may feel that an Abolitionist head- 
 quarters is pretty much the same thing." 
 
 Father grinned reluctantly. Try as you might, you could 
 never stand out against Mr. Lincoln. 
 
 Thanks to his championship, the social leaders, too, grew 
 more friendly. Aunty was keenly gratified by her frequent 
 invitations. Quiltings, sewing bees, sings, church suppers, 
 house-raising dinners, poured in upon her. 
 
 "If I wasn't so trembly nowadays, I'd admire to go to 
 every one of 'em. And of all things, I wish I could go to 
 that church carpet-supper. I always did feel the Methodists 
 was misguided, but they're cream kind, for all that. Don't 
 you want to go and take the boys? I've promised the com- 
 mittee a whole quarter. It's a shame if we can't get three 
 meals out of that, four maybe." 
 
 "I don't believe I care to." Mercy was all dimples. A 
 church carpet-supper, indeed, when she had a fat letter from 
 Richard up her sleeve, and not a free minute, so far, to 
 read it! "I'll send the little boys." 
 
 Donny had gone to town with Father, but Thomas and 
 Seth, after being scrubbed, polished and rigidly inspected, 
 were permitted to go. Afterwards Mercy regretted that she 
 had not left Richard up her sleeve, and accompanied them. 
 For it was not three hours till Thomas appeared impor- 
 tantly, dragging an all but comatose Seth. 
 
 "Well, it was this way. I ate lots of breakfast this 
 morning, so I wasn't so very hungry. But Seth, he was 
 plumb starved. And when we got there, they had wild tur- 
 key, and roast ham, with cloves in, and partridges with 
 bacon on 'em. And Mis' Isaiah Brooker, she says to holp 
 ourselves, plenty. And Seth, he holp himself " 
 
244 THE FATHER 
 
 "Helped, not holp, Thomas." 
 
 "Yes, Ma'am. So Seth, he helped himself plenty. And I 
 took some turkey, but I wasn't very hungry. But Seth, he 
 et and he et " 
 
 "Ate, Thomas." 
 
 "Yes, Ma'am. Ate. Well, he ate. Then comes Mis' 
 Isaiah, and she says, 'Land o' Goshen, look at that poor 
 child's plate! Scraped clean!' So she fetches him some more 
 turkey. And a great sasserful of succotash, and five or six 
 sweet pickles. And a great slice of venison. I forgot they 
 had venison. And Seth didn't want to be impolite. So he et 
 that. And I wasn't hungry. Then after a while comes 
 Missis Isaiah's grown-up daughter, with a big crock of 
 smearcase, and another of cabbage, and some spiced pears." 
 
 "So Seth piled Ossa upon Pelion." Father spoke some- 
 what grimly. Thomas looked doubtful. 
 
 "I didn't see any of that." 
 
 "Never mind. It would be easier to catalogue Homer's 
 ships. Cut it short, son." 
 
 "Well, somebody had sent Mis' Rogers a sack of raisins. 
 So she had made raisin pie. And Seth ate that. Then some 
 of the other boys told Seth he dasn't smoke some of their 
 sweet fern. And Seth didn't want to be rude, so he did. 
 Then we had some watermelon preserve. And Seth, he 
 didn't want to slight anybody." 
 
 "Don't worry, Thomas. Nobody could have felt 
 slighted." 
 
 "Anyhow, after a while, I got scared. And I said, 'If 
 you don't quit, you'll have the bellyache 
 
 "Thomas!" 
 
 "Yes, Ma'am. And he's got it." 
 
 "Hard luck, Seth," Mr. Lincoln consoled him, later. 
 "We've all tried to please everybody in our day. We've 
 
THE FATHER 245 
 
 been lucky if we got off with nothing worse than a stom- 
 achache. Now hurry and get well. That flatboat fellow who 
 took Jo Vanny's menagerie is back in Beardstown. He is 
 going to show his animals in every township in Illinois, he 
 says. Now I've got four dimes, and they'll burn four holes 
 in my pocket if I don't go to see those animals, and take 
 three friends with me, and be quick about it." 
 
 Jo Vanny was sitting at the hearth, shelling corn. He 
 looked up, he stared wildly. Without waiting for his sup- 
 per, he fled to the barn, hitched the spotted ponies to his 
 red-and-gold wagon, and was on his way. 
 
 The flatboat man had gone to the postoffice. But the lady 
 of the boat received Jo Vanny, totally without enthusiasm. 
 
 "Yes, I never seen you before, but I know who you 
 are. Now don't let me catch you, bringing any more 
 heathen beasts around, and tryin' to palm 'em off on us 
 for the winter." 
 
 Jo Vanny tried to explain, but his English deserted him. 
 Only by violent gestures did he make his wishes clear. 
 
 "You mean, you want to take y em back? Land's sakes, 
 take 'em, and good riddance. Here, what you up to? My 
 grief, you lettin' that lion loose?" 
 
 Jo Vanny had flung open Cartouche's door. He was 
 weeping on Cartouche's giant shoulder. He showered the 
 monkeys with embraces. These were his people, these were 
 his treasures. Jo Vanny was as one who, long exiled, treads 
 again the soil of home. 
 
 "Say, calm down. No use having conniptions all over the 
 place." 
 
 The flatboat lady and a couple of ferrymen, charmed 
 with their novel task, helped hoist the cages into the wagon. 
 Mindful of Father's irrational objections, Jo Vanny drove 
 his treasures to an abandoned cabin, well past the marsh. 
 
 When Father and Mr. Lincoln rode home, Jo Vanny 
 
246 THE FATHER 
 
 sat on the back steps, exuding an aroma that set both horses 
 dancing. Jo Vanny poured out his hopes. If Father would 
 give him use of his shack, he would make it a zoo, charge 
 five cents admission, earn boundless sums, at once. His sole 
 expenses would be food, and a fiddle. The fiddle, his elo- 
 quent hands set forth, was necessary to lure by its music 
 the wandering passer-by. 
 
 Father refused flatly. Jo Vanny could take his animals 
 to whatever spot on the earth's surface he chose. But no 
 circus in the Stafford marsh. That was that. 
 
 Jo Vanny made no protest. He was used to refusals. He 
 gathered himself up, twisted leg, bent little back and all. 
 He hobbled weakly away, down the miry road. 
 
 Father looked after him. 
 
 "If it wasn't for the little boys ! But no keeping 
 
 them away from that shack. They'll spend the rest of 
 their natural lives carrying mush and milk to the lion, 
 they'll fall down and worship the monkeys till doomsday." 
 
 Mr. Lincoln maintained a judicial silence. 
 
 "Besides, it'll be an odious nuisance, having him within 
 half a mile of the house. No-no, the horses won't notice 
 the odor, that far. But he'll be perpetually trudging over, 
 for food and help and advice and kindling-wood, and 
 Heaven knows what. Better settle the thing, once and for 
 all." 
 
 Mr. Lincoln stooped from his horse, pulled a grass 
 blade, nibbled it reflectively. 
 
 "Though I've always said, I'd never turn away any- 
 body Hi, Jo Vanny! That's poison ivy you're pulling! 
 
 Give that to the monkeys, and you'll have a community 
 funeral on your hands. Isn't that just what you could ex- 
 pect? The poor oaf, he doesn't know a deadly poison when 
 he sees it!" 
 
 "When I was down in St. Louis, last month," thus Mr. 
 
THE FATHER 247 
 
 Lincoln, innocent as the Serpent in the Garden, "I saw 
 what looked like a mighty good violin, stuck in a pawnshop 
 window. I asked the man what he wanted for it. He tried 
 to stick out for seven dollars and a half. I'll bet he'd be 
 glad to hand it over for five, cash." 
 
 Jo Vanny plodded on. 
 
 "Hang it, the poor fool didn't even stop for his sup- 
 per! And of course he hasn't so much as a spoonful of 
 meal in his shack. No fire to cook it with. No stove, no 
 bed, no anything " 
 
 Far ahead, the little stumbling figure struggled on. On 
 through the thickening dusk. 
 
 Father hesitated one minute more. Then he gave Button 
 a slap. Top speed, he galloped down the road. 
 
 Mr. Lincoln looked after him. Over his gaunt face came 
 a wide, contented grin. 
 
 "Next time I get to St. Louis, I reckon I may's well buy 
 that violin." 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 
 
 YOU'RE figuring on staying in Illinois this summer?" 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "You've found a good job, then?" 
 
 "Y-yes, sir." 
 
 Mr. Lincoln swung back comfortably in the big hickory 
 rocker. Upon him lay a veritable halo of beneficence. Ten 
 minutes ago Richard Harrison had arrived, a dressy young 
 princeling, to call on Mercy. When the pop-eyed Seth had 
 ushered him in ("Here's Mercy's company — again!") Mr. 
 Stafford had glanced up from his newspaper and given the 
 boy a nod of greeting so curt that it verged on rebuff, then 
 had risen, glowering and pale, and stalked from the room 
 without one word. In the kindness of his heart Mr. Lincoln 
 had flung himself into the breach. You couldn't blame 
 Stafford for being jealous of this young Majesty. Even his 
 own seasoned old heart owned a twinge at the swift radi- 
 ance on the girl's flower-like face. But it was hard for the 
 boy to find himself so unwelcome. He would stay and visit 
 with the two for awhile. Thus he would put young 
 Majesty at ease. 
 
 He launched cheerfully into a topic which vastly inter- 
 ested him nowadays: the chances of Federal improvement 
 of the Sangamon River. Statistics flowed from his tongue. 
 Plans, concessions, appropriations, details without number, 
 were spread before the two. He was so intent on his cher- 
 ished topic that he took no heed whether or not his hearers 
 were interested. 
 
 Richard never took his eyes from Mercy, save to look 
 bleakly upon the clock. Mercy never once took her eyes 
 
THE FATHER 249 
 
 from Richard for any purpose whatever. All that greeting 
 radiance was dimmed in gray despair. 
 
 "You'll see this sparse untraveled country blossom as the 
 rose before you two get your growth." 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Lincoln." 
 
 "And you will live to enjoy, not only prosperity, but 
 modest wealth, if this plan is carried through." 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Lincoln." 
 
 "Well. Reckon I'll be going. Mercy, did your Father 
 say he would be riding back to town this afternoon?" 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Lincoln. He must be at the office by two." 
 
 "By two? On my word, it's close on two, now. You 
 will excuse me?" 
 
 They would, they certainly would, so they assured him, 
 with a willingness all but pitiful. Mr. Lincoln beamed on 
 them, and departed happily certain of a kindly service 
 graciously done. 
 
 The two looked at each other, dazed at this unexpected 
 reprieve. Silently, as with unspoken accord, they fled the 
 house. 
 
 "We can sit on the far side of Mount Everest," quavered 
 Mercy. Mount Everest was Seth's name for the tallest of 
 the little Indian mounds. 
 
 "Yes, let's. Nobody will bother us there. Not unless the 
 Captain comes along. Or Twonnet, or your Aunt Celestia, 
 or a few of the little boys. I'd really like half an hour to 
 myself if you can spare it from your folks. I've got some- 
 thing to tell you. This looks like my only chance before I 
 go away." 
 
 Dread knocked at Mercy's heart. 
 
 "Go away?" 
 
 "The Underground folks are sending me to Pitts Land- 
 ing, near St. Louis. From there I'm to drive the route to 
 Davenport, then hand over my passengers to a man who 
 
250 THE FATHER 
 
 will take them on to Chicago. I may not get back this way 
 before September." 
 
 Mercy did not answer. She could not. She sat down on 
 the warm, dry grass atop Mount Everest. Richard did not 
 say anything more. He stared out over the prairie. On this 
 tiny vantage point, the one lift in that endless golden- 
 green, you stood as on a ship at sea. Before you, behind you, 
 stretched that vast rolling, burning floor. Mile on mile, 
 world upon shining world. Liquid gold, the gold of the 
 waist-high shoulder-high prairie grass, waves on waves 
 baked as by furnace heat, under that molten sunshine. 
 Liquid gold, dappled with cloud-shadows that raced over 
 it like tall ships flying before the high sweet midsummer 
 gale. And always that rising, falling tide of wind, that 
 eternal lullaby, that hush, hush, hush of the sleeping prairie 
 sea. 
 
 "Don't keep looking back at the house, Mercy. Yes, I 
 know the little boys will be coming home half-starved. But 
 I'm starved myself. For — you." 
 
 "Oh, well " Mercy would not let herself smile, she 
 
 would not look his way. Starved, was he? Because he had 
 seen her only once since Monday? Starved for her? Oh, if 
 she could just look up at him, smile at him, tell him! Tell 
 him of her own hunger for him, of the love that ached 
 in her throat, that quivered on her mouth! But before her 
 eyes, like a drawn sword, hung the thought of Lemuel: the 
 blighting memory of that lost letter. . . . 
 
 Richard leaned closer. At last, shy, bold, he slipped his 
 arm around her. His rough sleeve was hot from the sun. 
 Its prickle burnt deliciously on her cheek. Only this one 
 day together. Then he would be gone the whole cruel sum- 
 mer. And she would have to live and bear that separation. 
 Well, she couldn't live and bear it, that was all. Three 
 
THE FATHER 251 
 
 whole months, with not a sight of him? She could not. 
 She'd drown. 
 
 "Where's that daguerreotype you promised me?" 
 
 "Promised you?" 
 
 Richard laughed out. Oh, how could he laugh, how could 
 he? 
 
 "Trying to slip out? No use. Because I'm going to have 
 that picture of you, whether or no. It isn't safe to let me 
 start away without one, see? I might happen across some 
 other girl, and forget all about you by to-morrow morn- 
 ing. Only " 
 
 Mercy held her breath. 
 
 "Only — no chance that I'd ever find a girl to hold a 
 candle to you. Not anywhere." 
 
 Silence. 
 
 "Listen. After all that, — don't I deserve that daguer- 
 reotype ? " 
 
 But Mercy's stern little chin was quivering. 
 
 "I — I haven't a picture of myself. If I had — why — 
 maybe But I can give you a keepsake, if you 1-like." 
 
 She tugged at the blue ribbon round her neck. The 
 carnelian ring hung there no longer. But the ribbon held 
 the family locket. 
 
 "If you'd like it, I — I'd be very pleased to give you this. 
 I'm sorry it isn't real gold. Thomas cut his teeth on it, and 
 he sucked off the gold, you see. There wasn't much to begin 
 with. But I've always liked it because Thomas enjoyed it 
 so much. If you care to have it " 
 
 "Care for it — care for it!" All the teasing fun went 
 out of Richard's face. Mercy pulled the locket from her 
 neck, laid it in his hand. She looked up. But her eyes fell 
 before the look in his own eyes. The look Father gave her, 
 so many times. The look Adoniram gave her, when she had 
 
25* THE FATHER 
 
 dragged him through a lonesome spell. And something 
 more. Something far more. 
 
 "It has a place for a lock of hair, but I guess Thomas 
 chewed it till he broke the catch." 
 
 "What do I want with a lock of your hair? You blessed 
 little fool! When I — I'm going to have all of you!" 
 
 He was crouched on his knees now, his black head against 
 her little shoulder, his big body trembling. Mercy pushed 
 him back. Although her heart was breaking in her breast. 
 
 "Richard, I can't. I Oh, I've got to tell you!" 
 
 "Tell me what?" All his white adoration was gone in a 
 breath. "Who is it? Who is this other man you're holding 
 to? The one who gave you that ring — I knew it! You're 
 still holding fast to him, you still want him. More than 
 you want me!" 
 
 "Oh, Richard! Don't make it so hard. I — I had a letter 
 
 from him. And I've lost it. And Oh, I don't want to 
 
 make it too cruel hard for him." 
 
 "Have you any idea, how hard you're making it for 
 me?" Then, suddenly changing his mood: 
 
 "Mercy, I came on purpose to tell you that I haven't one 
 solitary dollar to my name." He laughed out, as at some 
 delightful joke. "But by fall I'm hoping my guardian will 
 come around and be generous. He's had these tempers be- 
 fore, and it takes him about a year to sweeten up each 
 time. Maybe, by fall, he'll let me have my interest money 
 again. It amounts to nearly two hundred, now. And if I can 
 get work this winter, any work at all, I ought to be able to 
 save up fifty dollars or more. Then, by spring, I — I've got 
 to have you. No, don't start telling me that they can't spare 
 you at home. Of course they can't spare you. They never 
 can. But no more can I. I've got to have you. I can't go on 
 living, without you. And as for that fellow back east " 
 
 Mercy laid a soft little silencing hand on his mouth. It 
 
THE FATHER 253 
 
 completely failed of its purpose. Richard snatched it and 
 put a band of kisses round the warm little wrist and down 
 the satin palm. 
 
 "Oh, but Richard " Locked doors cannot hold back 
 
 a New England conscience after all. 
 
 "Of course your father will never give you up. You 
 need not tell me that. But he doesn't understand how I'll 
 take care of you. I'll never let anything hurt you, my 
 sweet. I'll never forget you. Not for one single hour " 
 
 After all, what chance has a New England conscience 
 against Majesty and nineteen? 
 
 The long gold day burned on. Wrapped in that im- 
 mortal light, they sat together, spoke their immortal lines, 
 grave young actors rapt in their undying roles. Roles taught 
 them before the breath was on their lips or the pulse-beat 
 in their hearts. 
 
 Finally Richard stood up. 
 
 "I've got to go, Mercy. I'm riding to Springfield to- 
 night, then taking the early stage to St. Louis. I'll come 
 back, the very first chance I get, if I can only stay an hour. 
 And you'll write to me? You'll remember " 
 
 "I'll remember." Mercy walked silently beside him. A 
 curious shyness seized on both. 
 
 "Then, — Even though you won't promise, you do 
 care " 
 
 Suddenly Mercy pulled her hand away. 
 
 "Richard, look yonder. See that man on horseback riding 
 south across the prairie. Is that one of the Clary gang, do 
 you suppose? What can he be doing, on Father's land? 
 Richard, what is he up to?" 
 
 Richard stared against the dazzle of prairie and sky. 
 
 "What can he be doing? He's stooping right out of the 
 saddle " 
 
254 THE FATHER 
 
 "I know that. I know what he's doing too. Blow your 
 horn for Twonnet, Mercy. Quick. Get all the blankets in 
 the house and wet them at the well. Find Adoniram and 
 put him on my horse and send him to town for your 
 father and Mr. Lincoln. Tell him to bring everybody 
 else who'll come and help." 
 
 "Richard, what is it?" 
 
 Over the lake of the prairie whiffed up a faint purplish 
 cloud. 
 
 "Making another try to burn your father out, that's all. 
 He's set the grass afire. The wind is blowing straight this 
 way." 
 
 One hour, two hours, three. It seemed to Mercy that she 
 had toiled for years, pumping water from the well, throw- 
 ing in the singed sodden blankets, rushing back and forth 
 to Father, to Mr. Lincoln, to Richard, where they plowed 
 and slashed at the tall grass like madmen, to cut their fire- 
 break before these creeping flames should crowd their way 
 past. She splashed water over the men continually so that 
 the sparks which blew everywhere should not char their 
 clothing and burn their flesh. Twonnet, her dark face 
 crimson, worked nobly, shoulder to shoulder with the men. 
 The old Captain, who had struggled from his bed to help, 
 crept along behind and beat feebly at treacherous little 
 smolders. Aunty and the little boys toiled with all their 
 might. Nobody spoke. Every breath was precious. 
 
 Flame and heat and cruel hurrying wind. Sparks that 
 lighted on your hair, your drenched pink dimity, your sod- 
 den slippers. Sparks blowing past your face, a hideous fiery 
 rain. Father and Richard and Mr. Lincoln had thrashed out 
 blaze after blaze, pounded down each rising flame as it 
 flared alive. If they could stop that new fire behind the 
 
THE FATHER 255 
 
 barn. ... If they could trample back those nests of gusty 
 fire that leaped up almost at the cabin door. . . . 
 
 After a while, she knew dimly that she was back in the 
 cabin, sitting on the big lounge. Thomas, hoarse and 
 screaming with excitement, flounced in her lap. Mr. Lin- 
 coln stood at the water-pail gulping down gourdful after 
 gourdful. It seemed as if he would never get enough, as 
 if he were parched inside, just as he was parched and seared 
 and dried to a crackle outside, every brave inch of him. 
 He looked rather funny, too, she reflected dizzily, for he 
 was still wearing his jim-swinger Court Day coat; he'd 
 never thought to take it off. The strips of ruined cloth were 
 actually falling from him in tatters. His trousers were all 
 burnt, too. His shoes were done for. Everybody's shoes were 
 ruined, as well as everybody's clothes. Her pink dress was 
 burnt in spots, and torn to rags on her. As for Richard, he 
 was worse than rags. As Aunty laid her hand on his shoul- 
 der, the jeans shirt came off him, in one baked-to-powder 
 strip. Richard did not seem to notice that. He was sitting 
 very dignifledly on a kitchen chair, and he kept saying over 
 and over: "S-nothing. Guess I'll go home. Soon's I can 
 see " 
 
 "Much you'll go home. You'll stay right here. Mercy 
 Stafford, wake up, can't you? Bring me that linseed oil 
 your pa bought for the new paint, and fetch my camphor 
 bottle. Don't you see this boy can hardly sit up?" 
 
 Then Mercy woke up. She could not say much, but she 
 could work, blindly, stupidly. Everybody had burns and 
 scorches, but Richard's hurts were by far the worst, and 
 he was near collapse. He roused soon, and tried to make 
 light of his injuries, but the rest worked on, with every 
 remedy at hand. 
 
 "Carry him into my room," commanded Aunty. "Take 
 
256 THE FATHER 
 
 his feet, John. You, Mr. Lincoln, carry his head — I said 
 carry it, not ram it against the door frame! There. That's 
 better. Mercy, make some coffee and we'll give him some 
 soon's he can swallow. John, you look beat out. Better drink 
 some, right away. And Mr. Lincoln, too. Mercy Rose, do 
 you know a coffee-pot when you see one or shall I come 
 and point it out to you? Then you menfolks lie down and 
 get a wink of sleep " 
 
 "Sleep!" Mr. Lincoln soused linseed oil on his tortured 
 hands. "We men will patrol that prairie for the night. If 
 that flame jumps up again, no saving this house, nor any- 
 thing else." 
 
 Before Aunty had finished her bandaging Richard lay 
 in a leaden sleep. Mercy, still dazed and clumsy, made 
 the coffee for Father and Mr. Lincoln. The two swallowed 
 it hurriedly and then stumbled outdoors again. She poured 
 left-over mush and milk down the little boys and ordered 
 them to bed. They went without protest, so tired they could 
 hardly wait to pull off scorched jackets and crackling, split- 
 ting shoes. 
 
 Presently she crept up the ladder-steps after them. She 
 sat down at her window and looked out dully. Only an 
 hour ago, and they were all wading in smoke and flame. 
 But now the wind had gone down with the sun, the air 
 grew swiftly cooler. Only a gleam of sunset still lighted 
 the clouded west. Like scraps of tinsel, the first stars floated 
 in a smoky blue bowl of sky. 
 
 "I'd like to lie down just one minute," she thought. But 
 she was too tired to stir. Too tired to sleep. She knelt down 
 by Thomas's cot. Thomas was too deep in sleep to cuddle 
 up to her for his prayers, even. . . . 
 
 Forty yards away, Father and Mr. Lincoln stood talking. 
 Their voices were low, but she heard every word, 
 
 "Oh, don't take it so hard, Mr. Lincoln. They're trying 
 
THE FATHER 257 
 
 to drive me out to be sure. But I'm getting used to that. 
 What does rasp on me is the fact that I'm making no head- 
 way. Here I've planned and hoped that I could convince a 
 few thinking men. And so far, I have done more harm 
 than good, seems to me. Instead of convincing, I've re- 
 pelled. I haven't won an inch of ground. Not even with 
 you." 
 
 "Well, I'd be mighty small game if you had brought me 
 down. A third-rate backwoods lawyer like me. But you've 
 got to have patience, Stafford. One of these days this nation 
 will listen to you with an open mind. But you've got to 
 give these changes time. A whole lot of time." 
 
 "If you believe, Mr. Lincoln, that this nation can afford 
 to spend much time in vain argument!" Father's voice stung 
 with cold anger. 
 
 "They're both so worked up over their old argument 
 they'd never notice it if the whole prairie burst into fire 
 around them," Mercy thought. "And I'll wager neither 
 one of them has given Richard another thought. Not even 
 gone in to give him a drink of water." 
 
 Her head sank. Not knowing, she must have slept. For 
 when she roused herself all was black darkness. 
 
 She crept down the ladder. Sprawled on the keeping- 
 room floor, not even a pillow under his head, lay Mr. 
 Lincoln, sleeping like a log. Sprawled on the kitchen floor 
 lay Father. Not Gabriel and his trump could ever have 
 roused those two. 
 
 She slid into Aunty's room. Aunty slept too, balanced 
 precariously upright in the pomegranate rocker. Had she 
 searched for days she could not have found a more wretch- 
 edly uneasy seat. 
 
 And prone on the pineapple bed, the four mutilated little 
 hands stretched up appealingly around him, lay Richard. 
 He lay thrown down like a drowned creature, every muscle 
 
258 THE FATHER 
 
 lax. His poor funny hands were the size of sofa cushions. 
 Around his black head, Aunty had tied her blue check apron, 
 turban fashion, to hold the bandages in place on his singed 
 scalp. And from him there emanated a mingled and over- 
 powering fragrance. Camphor, linseed oil, mutton-tallow, 
 liniment, camomile, rosemary, sage, — every aroma ever 
 known to Araby the Blest and elsewhere. All: all save 
 bergamot. 
 
 Not even a whiff of bergamot. 
 
 Candle in hand, Mercy leaned over him. He was so lost 
 in sleep it was as if he lay carved in effigy, carved in one 
 with the straight white folds of linen, the great sculptured 
 bed. So lost, so far away. His beautiful marred face was as 
 moveless as though it lay beneath deep water. 
 
 She leaned closer. Her soft lips touched his forehead, 
 brushed his hair, more lightly than the breeze. So Psyche 
 bent over her sleeping Eros. So bent the girl queen of the 
 far Latmian night above Endymion. 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 
 
 THOMAS, come here. Want to do something grand 
 with me?" 
 
 "What?" Thomas hung back. Jo Vanny had said some- 
 thing about cutting the lion's toe-nails that week in the 
 dark of the moon, and Thomas was sticking to Jo Vanny's 
 shack like glue. Not for a king's ransom would he have 
 missed that auspicious rite. 
 
 "Listen. It's a secret. We're going across the bluffs 
 to that daguerrier-wagon — you remember? You and I, 
 'purpose to have our picture taken. For — Father's birth- 
 day. Isn't that fine?" 
 
 Thomas was interested but not enthusiastic. 
 
 "Do I have to get washed?" 
 
 "You have to get washed anyhow. You might as well 
 make up your mind to that. Thomas Stafford, what is that in 
 your pocket?" 
 
 "Well, you needn't squeal so. It's nothing but a poor 
 little snake. It's all dead, besides, it can't hurt you " 
 
 "If you think I'll have a dead snake coming to the 
 
 dinner-table ! Throw it away, then go wash your 
 
 hands, and be quick about it." 
 
 "I want to give it to Cartouche. I'll bet he'd like it. To 
 eat." 
 
 "Lions don't eat snakes." 
 
 "Maybe they do. I want to try him with it. I'll bet he 
 likes it if I give it to him." 
 
 "Thomas, if Aunty hears you say I'll bet again, you'll 
 go without your supper." 
 
 "Well, — Mr. Lincoln says it. All the time." 
 
260 THE FATHER 
 
 Mercy had learned to crawfish, too. 
 
 "Oh, all right! Take it over to Cartouche, then hurry 
 back. I want to start for the daguerrier's soon 's we're 
 ready." 
 
 "Do we go the bridge way?" 
 
 "We do not. We go up Post-office Hill." 
 
 "But I want to go the bridge way. It feels so funny, 
 when you stand in the middle and jump up and down. The 
 bridge goes rickety-rackety like it would tumble down any 
 minute." 
 
 "That's just what it will do one of these days. Father 
 says it's a shame to the county it hasn't been taken down 
 long ago." 
 
 Little Thomas's face clouded. 
 
 "If we dassent go the bridge way, I'd rather stay home. 
 Maybe Jo Vanny will cut Cartouche's nails to-day. If he 
 did and I wasn't here I couldn't stand it." 
 
 Mercy had not the cruelty to shatter this hope. 
 
 "You tell Jo Vanny to come over, right away. I want to 
 give him a bucket of cornmeal to cook for the monkeys. 
 Then I'll make him promise that he will not touch Car- 
 touche unless you're there. Not even trim his whiskers." 
 
 Reassured, Thomas departed, swinging his votive offer- 
 ing by its dejected tail. Mercy hurried into her treasured 
 blue delaine, her Chantilly shawl, her pearl necklace. She 
 borrowed Aunty's carriage parasol, a small but ponderous 
 relic covered solidly with black crape and adorned with a 
 thick moss fringe, which made it look like a mushroom in 
 mourning. She pinned on the tombstone, thrust her round 
 arms into lacy Sunday mitts. Thomas, sweetly docile, en- 
 dured not only a wash but a choking clean collar and a 
 flowing plaid tie. 
 
 The parasol took splendidly, and you could easily tell 
 Mercy and Thomas apart, but that was about all you could 
 
THE FATHER 261 
 
 say. Despite the Iron Maiden's clutch on his upper vertebra 
 Thomas had moved, and his face was smeared all over 
 Mercy's shoulder, while Mercy looked rising thirty and of 
 a morose disposition. This was due to the head-brace, which 
 dug steadily into her left ear. The artist had posed her in 
 wistful grace, looking backward over one lovely shoulder, 
 but between the brace and the camera she appeared vin- 
 dictive rather than wistful. However, a daguerreotype is a 
 daguerreotype. If only Richard liked it! That was all she 
 could ask. 
 
 When it came to payment the daguerrier was a trifle re- 
 luctant about accepting the hair brooch. Mercy assured him 
 that Great-grandfather had been the greatest shipmaster 
 that ever sailed out of Salem Harbor, but he was not im- 
 pressed. However, he owned that there might be six bits' 
 worth of gold in it. And he threw in two glazed-paper en- 
 velopes with raised forget-me-nots on, for good measure. 
 
 Going home across the bluffs Thomas insisted on cross- 
 ing the bridge. It was not a bridge but a handful of groggy 
 planks over a deep gully, perhaps fifty feet in depth, and 
 half a mile long. To cross on it would save a long, muddy 
 walk. 
 
 "Please, Mercy! I won't jump, honest! We can scoot 
 right across, just that quick!" 
 
 "Well " Mercy hesitated, then yielded. Some dis- 
 tance down the road she saw a familiar figure approaching: 
 Frederick Owen, toplofty as always, his fine long dove-col- 
 ored coat flung back, his purple waistcoat ablaze with the 
 big diamonds that kept Bakerstown dazzled and agape. He 
 caught her eye: he swung off his curly white beaver and 
 gave her a roistering salute. His impudent voice rang out: 
 
 "Good morning, Beauty! Wait, I'll cross the bridge 
 with you. My team is across the gully. I'll drive you home." 
 
 Mercy gave him a freezing nod and quickened her steps. 
 
262 THE FATHER 
 
 Stiff as a ramrod, she hurried on towards the bridge; but 
 as she neared it, Thomas let out a surprised yelp. 
 
 "Look, Mercy! Somebody's started to tear it down! Both 
 big boards are torn out!" 
 
 She looked. Yes, the big boards lay on the gully edge. 
 There remained but one footboard and a hand-hold. The 
 bridge was little more than a cobweb. It actually swayed in 
 the wind. Behind them Owen shouted with laughter. 
 
 "No good running away, Beauty! You'll have to take 
 the long way after all. Come back and walk with me like 
 a lady." 
 
 Mercy stared around her. Not another soul in sight. She 
 was well outside the village. The nearest farmhouse was 
 half a mile away. 
 
 The man laughed again, loudly. Something in that 
 laugh drove the blood from her heart. 
 
 "Afraid of me, hey? You lovely little fool! Here, don't 
 risk that bridge! Don't you see they've started to pull it 
 down?" 
 
 "Thomas! Run. Quick!" 
 
 Thomas shot across the bridge. Mercy flashed after him. 
 The narrow board seemed to crumple under their feet. 
 As they stepped on the farther edge, it swayed like a branch 
 in the wind. 
 
 "Goody, didn't she rock, though!" 
 
 "We've made it " Mercy stood trembling. "Now 
 
 he'll make it too " 
 
 He was making it. He was laughing at the top of his 
 voice and flourishing his hat and cane. He'd had some- 
 thing to drink. A good deal to drink. Oh, hurry, hurry! 
 But desperate terror kept Mercy motionless. 
 
 Owen came on, leisurely and triumphant. He kept on 
 laughing, that maudlin, cheerful laugh. Midway the bridge 
 he paused and flourished his hat again. 
 
THE FATHER 263 
 
 That flourish was fatal. Under his feet the light boards 
 swung, tilted, yielded. With a whoop of fright he leaped 
 forward. He reached the farther rim just as the bridge 
 wavered once more, fell. Had he been sober, he could 
 have made it: but his unsteady hand clutched the upright 
 just as it toppled down. 
 
 Yet luck was with him. Not a timber struck him. He 
 did not even fall to the bottom of the gully. Instead, he 
 lunged against the slanting wall, then rolled and clawed 
 and tumbled on down by degrees. Twice he caught the 
 bushes, but they tore loose. Clawing, spraddling, swearing, 
 he bumped on, bumped on, till he landed with a splash in 
 the muddy rivulet below. 
 
 He stood up, also by degrees. He regarded his once dove- 
 colored greatcoat, he pawed at his unspeakable trousers, 
 his spattered purples. He picked up his fine beaver hat. Not 
 even the parent beaver would ever have known her child. 
 
 Little Thomas gazed down. He emitted a shocked giggle. 
 That giggle was the last straw. Owen threw down his hat 
 and jumped on it. His yells of rage echoed down the gully. 
 
 "Think this is funny, don't you! Jus* you wait. Jus* 
 wait till I get out. Then I'll show you " 
 
 "Run, Thomas!" 
 
 "I want to wait and see him climb out " 
 
 "Run, I tell you!" 
 
 Thomas ran. But his sturdy legs could not keep up with 
 Mercy's flying feet. He was panting and breathless when 
 they reached the highroad. He was wabbly and indignant 
 when they stumbled up their own lane. 
 
 "You're awful silly, Mercy. He wouldn't have hurt you. 
 Come along, let's tell Father how funny he looked. Like a 
 toad in a mud puddle " 
 
 "Thomas, you listen to me. If you ever tell one single 
 
264 THE FATHER 
 
 solitary word about this, I — I'll make Father send Jo Vanny 
 and Cartouche away forever. Hear that!" 
 
 Richard did like the daguerreotype. He wrote in detail to 
 that effect. Although he remarked that he was never quite 
 certain whether he was kissing Mercy or the parasol. Or 
 possibly little Thomas. He complained, too, that in her 
 white shawl with her face turned a-lack-a-daisy over her 
 shoulder, Mercy put him in mind of the late Mrs. Lot of 
 Sodom, and that he found on his lips a taste of salt. And 
 was she quite sure that she was gazing back regretfully at 
 Sodom, and not at that fellow back east. 
 
 But that was just Richard's way. None the less, that 
 lurking fear for him, that creeping dread, drew closer, 
 closer. Always heavy on her heart lay that dark shadow- 
 brother of Love, who is Fear. 
 
 Why must love be like this, she wondered. The books 
 told you it was all roses and nightingales, moonlight and 
 dreams. Much the books knew about it! It was joy, yes, 
 but it was joy all stained and blurred and made bitter by 
 pain, by anxiety, by rasping, aching dread. It swung you 
 up on a leaping flame of rapture. Then at a breath, a 
 word, that flame could sink to ashes at your feet. 
 
 On the days when Richard's adoring, bullying letters 
 were due, Mercy would be a winged creature, young 
 morning in her eyes, her face a rose. But let that letter be 
 delayed a day, two days. Mercy would not say one word. 
 She would cook and sweep, and wash little Thomas's ever- 
 lastingly grimy hands; she would oil Seth's cowlick, and 
 cuddle Adoniram through a lonesome spell; she would 
 tend on Aunty and settle one fracas after another between 
 the jealous Twonnet and the quarrelsome Jo Vanny. But 
 she would stumble through her hours like a creature too 
 dazed to speak her grief, too stricken to fight against it. 
 Those days she would sit in the window, a basket of mend- 
 
THE FATHER 265 
 
 ing in her lap, her needle wavering through torn round- 
 abouts or disgraceful socks. Why couldn't love be just love, 
 alone? Why must it be so rooted and grounded, so woven 
 and interwoven, so cruelly close with pain? 
 
 Day after day, night after anguished night, her misery 
 walked with her. "There is one glory of the sun, and an- 
 other glory of the moon " To-night, Donny had read 
 
 the ancient mystic words. Well, Donny and the Bible were 
 both wrong. Glory? Terror. Terror of the sun, the cruel 
 blinding sun, that would hurl down its pitiless heat as Rich- 
 ard rode those long, long prairie miles to his meeting-place. 
 Another terror of the moon, the pale malicious moon, who 
 would tilt her white lantern through the woods, reveal the 
 dark wagon and the cowering black faces within it as clear 
 as day. Another terror of the stars, the bland, indifferent 
 stars. They could destroy him without an effort. They 
 wouldn't turn traitor like the moon. Not they. They would 
 give always a light so faint, so dim, that for all his strain- 
 ing eyes Richard could not read the blazes on the tree- 
 trunks. Baffled, he would turn from his safe trail and 
 drive down the wrong road straight into the group of grin- 
 ning, triumphant men. She could hear Richard's shout of 
 anger as he saw he was caught. With her burning eyes she 
 could see the fight, Richard alone against twenty. The 
 splendor of it, the desperate courage, the hopelessness. . . . 
 And she could see Richard pitch and fall, struck down by 
 a brutal fist, she could see his dark head dabbled in red, his 
 beautiful face marred, his splendid body sprawled limp and 
 moveless 
 
 Oh, why was everything so different! Richard was hers. 
 She only should possess him. But nothing was sure any 
 more, nothing was certain, nothing was sure but terror. 
 
 She stood up. She lifted her arms, she stretched her 
 slight body, as if she would stretch it into wings to shield 
 
266 THE FATHER 
 
 him. If only she could make of her body a shield, if only 
 she could take the blows, the pain ! How could she sit here 
 in the moonlight, so still and useless and whole, when in 
 her flesh she knew the suffering of his blows, when in her 
 body she knew the thirst, the hunger, the deathly weari- 
 ness! 
 
 Night after night she sat in her dark little room, till the 
 blackness grew thin, translucent, and the eastern sky grew 
 pale, cool silver. Then a deeper flame would mount the 
 horizon and, as if wide curtains were drawn by a silent 
 mighty Hand, that fiery splendor would pour up in a vast 
 wave. Flame and rose, flame and rose, and then the living 
 amber over the prairie. And down by the well the little 
 peach-pie trees would waken and murmur among them- 
 selves as if they were wondering why they had to put up 
 with just silky little leaves. 
 
 "Only leaves this year. But next year many blossoms 
 and soft velvet fruit. And we know that, and we can 
 wait." 
 
 And then the waking voices downstairs, the happy chirp 
 of the little boys, Twonnet's shrill scolding, Jo Vanny's 
 clattering Sicilian in reply. 
 
 And before her stretched the blank misery of the coming 
 hours. Hours to be filled, somehow, with work that must be 
 done. Hours that would drag, and drag, and drag her with 
 them, chained, staring. . . . 
 
 Then the little boys' voices would swell to a rejoiceful 
 whoop. 
 
 "Mercy! Mercy Rose, hurry quick! Here comes Rich- 
 ard! Richard!" 
 
 Her foot would not touch the loft stairs, even. She did 
 not need to take one step. For that vast prairie light had 
 swept her away, swept her down on a flood of joy that all 
 but drowned her. She was out of the house, she had flashed 
 
THE FATHER 267 
 
 across the yard, she was clutching Firefly's bridle before 
 Richard could spring down. Richard, with his haggard, 
 dirty face, and his outrageous dirty hands, and a red and 
 black powder burn across his cheek, Richard, dog-tired, but 
 alive and whole, and hungry as a starved wolf. He would 
 snatch her up and shake her till her teeth chattered and 
 give her one rough, hasty kiss, and then dash for the 
 wash-bench and scrub his unspeakable hands, and mean- 
 while turn his passionately yearning gaze on the kitchen 
 door. 
 
 "Naw, not one mouthful since we started yesterday 
 afternoon. No, nor a drop of water. They made us step, 
 you bet. Haul up a bucket of cold water for Firefly and 
 me. I'm famishing. I'll drink a whole bucket myself. Sau- 
 sages! Didn't I dream about 'em the whole night long? 
 
 Yes, and fried potatoes, and pancakes Gosh! Oh, 
 
 Gosh!" 
 
 And he would eat and laugh, and laugh and eat. Then 
 with a leap he and Firefly would be off and away. And she 
 would go blundering and stumbling through the day, so 
 blind with ecstasy that she groped and boggled and spilled 
 everything she touched. 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 
 
 THREE gods did Jo Vanny worship. And his little 
 heart swelled with adoration at the thought of each 
 and every one. First came Father. To Father who had 
 saved him and his dear animals from starvation, who stood 
 between him and the jeering Bakersfield rowdies, he lifted 
 up his lonely little heart. For to Jo Vanny, Father held the 
 power of life and death in his strong, kind hands. 
 
 Next to Father came Mr. Lincoln. Mr. Lincoln stood 
 by Jo Vanny exactly as he stood by everybody, thought 
 Mercy. Mr. Lincoln was a strong tower. He was a great 
 rock in a weary land. Always Mr. Lincoln understood. He 
 knew even better than Father could know, how passionately 
 Jo Vanny loved his animals, how hungrily he snatched at 
 every word of praise for his little show. Mercy had seen 
 Jo Vanny actually prance and strut with upblown pride, 
 the days when Mr. Lincoln led a trail of ecstatic small boys 
 into his battered little tent. And Mercy had seen the look 
 on Jo Vanny's face, the night that Mr. Lincoln came home 
 from St. Louis and brought Jo Vanny his violin. 
 
 "First I wanted to laugh. For Jo Vanny's eyes were 
 sticking out of his head," she wrote. "And then I wanted 
 to cry. For Jo Vanny stood there afraid to touch that fiddle, 
 afraid to put out his hand, even. He was trembling all over, 
 he was so scared for fear he'd wake up and find it was just 
 a dream! At last Mr. Lincoln said, 'Come on now, Jo 
 Vanny, it won't bite,' and he put out his poor little shaky 
 hand and clutched it, and then he ran away as fast as he 
 could scoot. As if he was afraid that Mr. Lincoln would 
 snatch it back. And I haven't seen it but once, since then. 
 
THE FATHER 269 
 
 I've heard him fiddling at night, sometimes. Donny says he 
 sleeps with it under his pillow. And Seth says he says his 
 prayers to it." 
 
 So Mr. Lincoln was Jo Vanny's second god. And Jo 
 Vanny loved him and revered him with a full heart. But to 
 his third god he offered piteous libations, wrung from his 
 sad, bewildered little soul. For his third god was Richard. 
 
 Ever since the first day Richard appeared, little Jo Vanny 
 had looked on him with proud wonder. Richard was so 
 tall, so strong, so breezy and assured! Richard was every- 
 thing that Jo Vanny was not. Poor little Jo Vanny could 
 only gaze and gaze and marvel. There was no taint of 
 envy in his gentle little heart. The son of another nation 
 might have dreamed that in time he could aspire to Rich- 
 ard's likeness. But not Jo Vanny. For he had a piteous 
 wisdom. He knew how far he was from reaching Richard, 
 how deep and wide was the gulf between them. He could 
 only stand and wonder before him, with the puzzled won- 
 der of a grieved yet a loyal child. 
 
 But to Father he poured out all his devotion. Inconven- 
 ient devotion it was, alas, and calculated to ruffle the tem- 
 per of a saint. But Father held fast to his wavering patience. 
 For Jo Vanny was so eager, so full of radiant faith. How 
 could Father bear to frown on him, to hurt this tremulous 
 little worshiper by glance or word! 
 
 "He's the very spirit of gratitude," said Father to Mercy. 
 "He loves us all so devotedly, he never forgets for one 
 moment what he owes us. He longs to repay a thousand 
 times over, the little that we have done for him. He'd give 
 his life for us, daughter." 
 
 "I know he would. I'm ashamed, Father. But if he'd 
 only stop taking the little boys to medicine shows, and buy- 
 ing you those awful striped pink shirts " 
 
 Mercy ended on a hopeless chuckle. It was Jo Vanny 
 
2 7 o THE FATHER 
 
 who had trudged through the Bakerstown streets day after 
 day last week, the three little boys tagging joyfully at his 
 heels, in pursuit of an Indian medicine show; with the sad 
 result that Thomas came home choking with croup, and 
 Seth brought back three startling new swear-words, which 
 earned him a spanking and a bread-and-water supper, and 
 Donny dragged in an hour later, pale and limp from too 
 free an indulgence in a large black sample bottle. It was 
 Jo Vanny, armed with the seven dollars and twenty cents 
 which were his whole months' gains, who rode into town 
 with the neighborly Mr. Isaiah and came back loaded with 
 gifts for his dear protectors. A sack of virulent green stick- 
 candy for the little boys, a bunch of hair-ribbons for Mercy, 
 a flaming brass neckchain for Aunty, and a poisonous 
 magenta vest barred the climax. 
 
 "It's just like the medicine man's, Father," Seth sighed, in 
 awe. "And looky the galluses he brought you. They've got 
 a lily and a dove embroidered on 'em! Plain as day!" 
 
 "No denying it." Father's voice was a trifle dry. And Jo 
 Vanny, pale with joy because his idol looked upon his gifts 
 with favor, hied himself back to the Bakerstown Em- 
 porium, and added a necktie to his lavish heap. A necktie 
 which rivaled the prairie sunsets in glory. 
 
 All these things could be endured. But when it came to 
 the animals! True, Father had sternly forbidden Jo Vanny 
 to bring any of his dear ones to the house. Obediently 
 had Jo Vanny promised, only to forget by the following 
 day. He did his few and casual chores with a monkey or 
 so perched on his shoulder. The monkeys, growing bored, 
 would scamper off his arm and slip into the kitchen. Aunty 
 would find them prying into the cake-box, stealing nutmeg 
 and ginger from the cupboard, wrenching open her pre- 
 serve jars. On the momentous afternoon when Aunty was 
 
THE FATHER 271 
 
 entertaining the Bakerstown Dorcas Society, he strolled 
 over, leading Cartouche on a piece of frazzled wire in lieu 
 of a leash. He looped the wire over the woodshed door, then 
 set to chopping kindling. 
 
 Cartouche caught a whiff of hot doughnut. Hopefully 
 he followed his nose to the swept and garnished living- 
 room where the eighteen Dorcases were enjoying light 
 refreshments. 
 
 Ensued battle, murder and sudden death. As Aunty re- 
 marked grimly it was bad enough to be known as Abo- 
 litionists without the added ignominy of wild beast tamers. 
 
 Mercy's irritation against Jo Vanny had even a graver 
 basis. Throughout their young lives she had labored to bring 
 up the little boys in the strait and narrow path of the nail- 
 brush. From infancy she had exhorted them, "If you want 
 to amount to anything in this world, you've got to keep 
 scrubbed. Scrub up every single day." Formerly they had 
 given heedful ear. But along came Jo Vanny, who never 
 scrubbed at all. And in spite of this drawback, had he not 
 acquired a red wagon with gilt wheels, a lion, a cageful 
 of charming monkeys? Discipline tottered on its throne. 
 
 All this annoyance came to a head on a certain Sunday 
 morning. Jo Vanny had appeared bright and early to wash 
 up the carryall. Cartouche had seemed ailing, so Jo Vanny 
 had brought him along and put him on the back of the 
 carryall while he cleaned the muddy wheels. Cartouche was 
 drowsy. The cushions were soft. He went fast asleep. And 
 Jo Vanny forgot him. 
 
 By this time, Button and Betsy had grown so used to 
 the jungle odor which emanated always from Jo Vanny's 
 raiment that when he hitched them to the carryall they 
 merely whickered disapproval and let it go at that. 
 
 Mercy and the boys had set off early to Sabbath school. 
 
272 THE FATHER 
 
 Father and Aunty were driving in to church. Father sniffed 
 disgustedly as he lifted Aunty into the front seat. 
 
 "On my word, I'll have to clean the carryall myself. 
 That animal scent grows stronger and stronger every time 
 Jo Vanny comes on the place." 
 
 Behind him, Cartouche snoozed contentedly. Many a 
 year, during his circus days, Cartouche had slept in a jolting 
 van, without lifting an eye-winker. But as they turned into 
 the churchyard, he sat up and inspected his surroundings 
 with mild interest. 
 
 But mild interest was not the emotion which greeted his 
 appearance. Deacon Willis's aged and dignified team took 
 one whirl, one glance: they lifted over the stake-and-rider 
 fence like two trained hunters, the staid old chaise clatter- 
 ing behind them. Mr. Newbury's valuable bay ripped his 
 halter and tried to climb the nearest sycamore. Failing in 
 that, he galloped straight down the lane, followed by all 
 the horses that could tear themselves loose from their hitch- 
 ing posts. The Bedlam that ensued brought the congrega- 
 tion rushing to the rescue, and broke up the service. It was 
 nearly an hour before the frantic horses were calmed down, 
 and Father, scarlet and fuming, had discovered the cause 
 of the riot, and had driven Cartouche home. As he en- 
 tered the barnyard, Jo Vanny rushed to seize his treasure. 
 
 "Me, I lef heem. In back seat. I all forgot " 
 
 "You all forgot, eh? That's more than any United 
 Presbyterian in this county will do. For all eternity. Take 
 that creature to your shack. The next time I catch him 
 rambling outside your door, he stays out. So do you. And 
 your monkeys. And everything else. I'm at the end of my 
 rope with you." 
 
 Jo Vanny grasped that all was not well. For a week, he 
 kept the animals in rigid bounds. Then one morning a very 
 queer thing happened. 
 
THE FATHER 273 
 
 Jo Vanny had been told to clean the cow-shed. The shed 
 was half a mile from his shack, and meant a full morning's 
 work. 
 
 Now back in Jo Vanny's mind was always the dread lest, 
 while he was away, some thief might creep in and steal 
 Cartouche. It never occurred to him that it would take a 
 valorous thief indeed to carry off a large elderly lion. But 
 this fear haunted him always. 
 
 Now Father had gone to town and had taken Mercy 
 with him. The little boys were at school. Only Aunty was 
 in the cabin. Jo Vanny, mindful of father's ultimatum, yet 
 decided to take a chance. 
 
 As he stood in his doorway considering, down the big 
 road tore a small rickety covered wagon, drawn by two 
 galloping horses. The wagon stopped below his lot. Out 
 sprang Richard Harrison. He came racing up the lane. 
 
 Jo Vanny regarded him with solemn joy. Richard, his 
 god, Richard the beloved of Jo Vanny's beautiful lady! 
 Who could be more welcome? 
 
 But to-day Richard was not on pleasure bent. He stood 
 panting and clutching into his pockets. From them he pres- 
 ently extracted two gleaming, gorgeous silver dollars. 
 
 "This is every cent — I've got," he gasped. "Give you 
 more — if I had it. Tve got three runaways here. The 
 slavers are out after me, full tilt. You let the negroes hide 
 here, then you clear out. Go over to the big house — any- 
 where. Ten chances to one, the hunters won't search your 
 zoo. If they do, why — you don't know anything about them 
 — you won't even see where I hide 'em. See?" 
 
 Jo Vanny did not see at all. He did grasp the lovely 
 reality of those silver dollars. He observed with bewilder- 
 ment the three shivering, tottering fugitives that the young 
 man hustled indoors and crowded into the straw pile be- 
 hind the monkeys' cages. These were dark people, even 
 
274 THE FATHER 
 
 darker than Twonnet and himself. But that was a small 
 matter. What did matter was the fact that he now had an 
 excellent excuse for keeping Cartouche with him. For who 
 could know what base plans these strange dark people might 
 cherish? 
 
 Away down the road tore the little covered wagon, rock- 
 ing like a ship at sea. Very disposedly Jo Vanny led Car- 
 touche to the barn and tied him up with a wisp of clothes- 
 line. 
 
 He had just set to work when he perceived three men, 
 all armed, coming at a gallop up to the house door. Stran- 
 gers, two of them. But at sight of the third, Jo Vanny 
 bristled a shade. The third man was not a stranger. He 
 was Frederick Owen, whom Jo Vanny knew by most un- 
 pleasant repute — to say nothing of direct and odious per- 
 sonal acquaintance. On Jo Vanny's recent venture into the 
 great world of Bakerstown, when he had driven his proud 
 caravan into town for a lively Saturday evening, Frederick 
 Owen had been among the rough crowd that greeted him, 
 with deafening whoops and jeers. More heinous still, he 
 had swung his limber cattle-whip and taken Jo Vanny's 
 dearest monkey under the chin with a clip which brought 
 the blood and sent the little fellow into shrieks of terror 
 and pain. When Jo Vanny chattered protest, Frederick had 
 merely swung the cruel little cracker and taken Jo Vanny 
 under the chin, likewise. The crowd had yelled apprecia- 
 tion. Jo Vanny had crawled trembling away down a side 
 street. His little heart was just a bubbling cup of fury. That 
 fury seethed afresh at sight of the handsome, insolent boy. 
 
 To do Owen fair justice, he had ridden out with the 
 slave hunters with no especial malice aforethought. Merely 
 there was about to be some pleasing excitement at that blue- 
 nosed editor's expense. Why not go along and see it? 
 
 But Jo Vanny took his coming very seriously indeed. 
 
THE FATHER 275 
 
 Almost as seriously as he took the appearance of the two 
 hunters themselves. 
 
 These gentlemen had now reached the house door. One 
 of them flung his bridle rein over the hitching post and 
 pounded heavily on the door. 
 
 Jo Vanny looked on with interest. He saw Aunty open 
 the door. Then at the man's first word, he saw her slam it 
 shut. Not quite shut, for the man jammed an ample foot 
 into the crack, and proceeded to shout at her. Loud and 
 insulting shouts, at that. 
 
 Jo Vanny reflected. Back in his own dear Sicily he had 
 seen the tax-collector on his too-frequent visits. This was 
 something new for America. He did not like it at all. There 
 was nothing he could do, for his small brittle body would 
 not last one minute in these ruffians's hands. However, it 
 occurred to his gentle Latin mind that Cartouche might 
 come in handy. He stepped into the barn, untied the 
 clothesline, and shooed Cartouche through the door. 
 
 For all his amiability, Cartouche was not quite himself 
 that morning. Mercy had promised him some butchers' 
 scraps from town, but the waiting had proved too long. He 
 did not care for these men. They had not even looked his 
 way, which was disrespectful. Their horses stood with 
 heads drooped, snatching at mouth fuls of clover. 
 
 Suddenly one horse wheeled, quivered: then with a 
 shriek of terror he bolted at a whirlwind gallop. The second 
 horse followed without even waiting to shriek. 
 
 The first slave-hunter turned, and stared dizzily. If his 
 eyes did not deceive him, a lion, a large fretful-looking 
 lion, was standing in the barn door. 
 
 As the hunter stared, unwittingly he removed his large 
 foot from the crack. Instantly Aunty slammed and bolted 
 the door. 
 
 "Lemme in! For God's sake, lemme in!" 
 
276 THE FATHER 
 
 Frenziedly he pounded on the locked door. Much good 
 that did him. Behind it, poor Aunty had dropped to the 
 floor in a dead faint. 
 
 Cartouche was coming on, in long graceful flowing leaps, 
 graceful as the mighty winged lions, immortal keepers of 
 the gates of Babylon. But all that beauty of motion was lost 
 on the hunter. Howling, he leaped for the first sanctuary 
 in sight: the corncrib. He fell inside, just as Cartouche's 
 huge paw struck the crib door. 
 
 Cartouche was irritated. At feeding time on the flat- 
 boat, the men had behaved in exactly this playful manner. 
 They would offer him a chunk of meat. Then as he grabbed 
 for it, they would snatch it back and run gayly away. He 
 looked around him for the second hunter. 
 
 The second hunter was stout but light on his feet. He had 
 reached the barn ridgepole in less than it takes to tell it. 
 
 Cartouche's irritation grew. This horseplay was not to his 
 taste. He'd stay and keep watch till they handed him his 
 meat or know the reason why. 
 
 So he opened his massive jaws and gave a couple of 
 coughing roars, like the rasp of a Titanic nutmeg against 
 a colossal grater. 
 
 Now to Frederick Owen, those roars were emphatically 
 the last straw. At their thunderous reverberation he turned 
 distinctly green. From his perch on the barn ladder, he 
 took one despairing glance at Cartouche: then he shot to 
 the top rung, and plunged into the loft. He sank to his ears 
 into the bristling deeps of the haymow. 
 
 Cartouche now sat down to await events. So did Jo 
 Vanny. 
 
 After an hour or so, Father and Mr. Lincoln drove up. 
 Button merely snorted, but Mr. Lincoln's Old Tom 
 pranced and kicked and had to be escorted down the lane 
 and pacified. 
 
THE FATHER 277 
 
 Father was furious. 
 
 "Will you look at that! I'll have to send the little scamp 
 away. I will not tolerate this another hour." 
 
 "Steady, Stafford." Mr. Lincoln grinned. "Don't chase 
 Cartouche off quite yet. Hasn't he treed something?" 
 
 Jo Vanny had watched their arrival. He smiled. A gen- 
 erous dash of humor had been included in Jo Vanny's 
 make-up. He had enjoyed this hour hugely. As the two 
 men tied their horses down the lane he reflected that he 
 could now collect his lion. He strolled down the yard lead- 
 ing the grouchy Cartouche like a Brobdingnagian puppy on 
 a string. 
 
 The two listened. They surveyed Exhibit A, now gibber- 
 ing in the corncrib, and threatening to have the law on 
 Father and all his kinsfolk for trainin' a savage brute to 
 tarrify honest men out of doin' their bounden duty. They 
 gazed up at Exhibit B, who still bestrode the ridgepole, 
 crimson and sweating in the blazing sun and looking as 
 foolish as any distraught fat man need ever hope to do. 
 
 Now from the kitchen came Aunty and the camphor 
 bottle. This experience had not been funny for Aunty. 
 Far from it. At sight of her bruised arm, her quivering old 
 mouth, Father's face grew hard. Mr. Lincoln sucked down 
 his upper lip. He looked like a hanging judge, resolved to 
 mete out vengeance though the heavens fell. 
 
 "I've heard you fellows' side. Seen it, too. Strikes me 
 this is a clear case, Mr. Stafford, of assault and battery, 
 trespass, and a few other offenses. Here you've intimidated 
 this lady, mistreated her as well. Further, you broke your 
 way into another man's property — I mean corncrib " 
 
 "Broke into the corncrib My gosh, and that dam' 
 
 lion grabbing for my boots as I jumped in " 
 
 "Mr. Stafford can bring very serious charges against you. 
 You'll swear out a warrant at once, Stafford?" 
 
278 THE FATHER 
 
 "Will I? And one for murderous assault on Aunty " 
 
 Exhibit B had heard all that he desired to hear. So 
 had Frederick Owen, in his smothering retreat in the loft. 
 With a despairing yell, Exhibit B scrambled down from 
 the roof and made for the highroad. After him, full 
 speed ahead, tore Exhibit A. And well in the rear, but 
 taking a pace that astounded his audience, an aura of hay 
 surrounding him like a dusty mantle, fled Frederick Owen. 
 
 "Me, I seenk they will not hurry so queek back," re- 
 marked Jo Vanny. 
 
 "But what has become of the refugees?" 
 
 "They play wis ze monk." 
 
 They play wis ze monk, indeed. They were crouched in 
 the red and gilt van, cowering but safe. 
 
 — Late that night, Richard drove up in his wagon and 
 carried the refugees away. And with him as always went 
 Mercy's self. All her life and sparkle, all her rapture and 
 delight. For he held her in his hand, her life, her will. 
 She was just a second pulse, a second breath. 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 
 
 THE August days flamed by, great gilt chariots of fire. 
 The prairie grass had turned yet a deeper emerald 
 under the July thunderstorms that rocked the earth. Then 
 with the passing weeks it veered to orange-tawny, to a 
 sweep of parched and brittle gold. With the great heat 
 that scorched there came the Fever. Not the destroyer that 
 had laid waste the Southern country years before. This 
 was a milder epidemic. It passed within the month. But 
 while its time held it spelled destruction. 
 
 "The fever is sort of notional, " wrote Mercy. "It strikes 
 hit-or-miss. Over in Cooper Township it has taken one 
 child out of every family just like the Plague of Egypt, the 
 terror that walketh by noonday. Here in our neighborhood 
 nobody has had a touch even. But right over in Summer 
 County it has wiped out one family after another. And it 
 has taken the father and the mother from eight houses in 
 Brandonville. Father let the paper go by and he and Mr. 
 Lincoln waded right in and nursed the sick folks and buried 
 the dead for 'most a month. Then last week Mr. Lincoln 
 bought a load of boards and Father and he put up a new 
 shack, just boards and thatch roof alongside of Mount 
 Everest. And we've taken the little Worrell children, five 
 of them, and the Carews, — there's only four of them, 
 though, and Jessie and both twins are old enough to help 
 a lot. And we're going to keep them with us till the town 
 meeting figures out what to do with them. The Worrells 
 have kin back east. Poor folks, though. But the Carews 
 haven't one living kin. We couldn't feed them, only all the 
 
280 THE FATHER 
 
 subscribers paid Father with the farm stuff this spring and 
 we have about a ton of new wheat stored in the barn. Be- 
 sides that the whole town is helping out. These folks may 
 be scared, but they're good as gold down inside. Colonel 
 Andrews drives out every week with a load of sweet corn 
 and harvest apples and butter, and Mrs. Isaiah brings butter 
 and eggs and always a great baking, and other folks have 
 lent us blankets. And old Mrs. Carter jumps on her horse 
 and comes out with two bushel baskets of sugar every single 
 week. It certainly is lucky for us that our well never runs 
 dry. My, but we use up gallons and gallons every day! 
 
 "Father and Mr. Lincoln put up a long board table with 
 benches outside for us all to eat on. We can't get all the 
 children into the house at once. Yes, and Mr. Lincoln 
 bought us a new cow so's we could have plenty of milk, and 
 he never comes out without bringing a ham, or a whole leg 
 of beef, or maybe a roasting pig. It keeps me on the jump, 
 cooking. But it is lots of fun to have them all here. 
 
 "Aunty made up four gallons of thieves' vinegar for 
 each of us to take a wineglass full each day. That was to 
 keep us from catching the fever. But it had spice and 
 molasses in it, so the little boys gobbled it all up inside 
 of a week. 
 
 "I suppose the Worrell's kin will be bound to have them, 
 but I hope we can keep the Carews always, they are such 
 duckies. 
 
 "The little boys are pleased to pieces for they think an 
 Epidemic is a sort of picnic, because the children are here 
 and we eat outdoors and drink out of tin cups. Mr. Lin- 
 coln bought them in Springfield, because he knew I 
 wouldn't have dishes enough. He came banging and clat- 
 tering out on Old Tom with a string of cups hung over 
 one shoulder and an elegant new skillet slung on his back, 
 just like a peddler. Mr. Lincoln is the grandest neighbor 
 
THE FATHER 281 
 
 we've got. Aunty used to say he didn't pretty up much, but 
 Father always told her he was a singed cat, and more to him 
 than meets the eye. And Father was right. Last week, he got 
 paid up for a tremendous big patent case he won for some 
 folks in Cincinnati. He got the biggest fee I ever heard 
 tell of. Ninety-five dollars and fifty cents. And didn't he 
 come tearing out from town with a great big roasting over- 
 coat on his arm. He says, while he was away in Cincinnati 
 there was a tailors' sale of men's clothes, and Mrs. Lincoln 
 went down and bought him this overcoat, and she got the 
 biggest one she could find. But it nips him through the 
 chest and climbs his back so he darsn't flap his arms or 
 he'll split, and he feels like a rooster with his wings clipped. 
 He asked Father to take it off his hands. And Father just 
 hooted, but Aunty felt of the cloth, and then made him 
 try it on. And it fitted just like his old one used to. (He 
 bought that the winter before Donny was born. He nearly 
 froze in it last winter, too.) So finally he said, 'How much 
 is the confounded thing?' and Mr. Lincoln put on that 
 Meeky-Moses look of his, and said, 'Five dollars and fifty 
 cents.' Aunty says, 'It is the best kersey. At that price it is 
 not a bad bargain.' And Father said, 'I don't believe in 
 hanging all my perishing riches on my mortal frame, but it 
 will come in handy next winter,' so Mr. Lincoln took his 
 note for it, and he rode off looking pleased as Punch. 
 Father always looks elegant, but come winter time, when 
 he puts on that coat and his best morocco boots, he will look 
 like Lord Byron in The Corsair. Poor Mr. Lincoln in that 
 big gray granny-shawl of his will be simply pitiful beside 
 him. 
 
 "Yesterday, Father needed me in the office, so I went to 
 town for all day. Frederick Owen came into the office and 
 hung around, but I was doing handbills and paid him no at- 
 tention. I was scared, though, because Father was out, and 
 
282 THE FATHER 
 
 Frederick always scares me, I do not know why. Finally 
 he said, 'Will you not go to the Baptist picnic with me/ 
 and I told him I was not a Baptist; and then he tried to be 
 funny and said, 'You can eat fried chicken without being 
 immersed/ but I considered that that was sacreligious, so I 
 said nothing. Then he reached inside the top of his patent- 
 leather boot and got out a little dirk, a beauty, with a 
 chased handle, all gold and steel, and the blade chased, too, 
 and he said 'This came from Seville and it is the finest 
 blade money can buy.' And he began whittling at the office 
 wall. I pretended not to notice what he was doing, but I 
 was so curious I thought I would burst and finally I said, 
 'Would you please not to deface our office wall/ He 
 laughed and said, 'Do you call it defacing, to carve your 
 lovely name on it, forever/ and I looked, and here he had 
 drawn a heart and was cutting our initials inside, F. and 
 M. That made me so mad I forgot I was scared and a lady 
 and a Presbyterian, and I grabbed up a ruler, and knocked 
 the knife out of his hand. He tried to laugh but he was 
 firing mad inside, and he said, 'Oh, all right, Beauty, I 
 was only carving it so you would have it to remember me 
 by, but I will carve it yet. Carve it some place where you 
 never can forget.' And right then Father came in, and he 
 looked Frederick up and down, the way he does when he's 
 angry. Then his voice got velvety and he said, T fear 
 my little daughter is trespassing on your time, Mr. Owen. 
 We must not allow her to do that for you are a busy man. 
 A very busy man, and undoubtedly needed in your own 
 place of occupation.' And he picked up Frederick Owen's 
 elegant white beaver hat by the rim and stuck it out at him 
 as far as he could reach, as if it was Thomas's dead mouse, 
 and kept on looking at him. If Father ever looked at me like 
 that I would not wait to die. I would curl right up like a 
 caterpiller. Frederick Owen did not shrivel, but he kind of 
 
THE FATHER 283 
 
 squirmed, and said, 'I must be going, Miss Mercy. My 
 invitation is still at your disposal.' And then Father got 
 perfectly white, and he said, 'We appreciate your invita- 
 tions, Sir, but my daughter's time is permanently engaged.' 
 And Frederick opened his mouth and started to say some- 
 thing but Father just kept on looking at him, and he 
 squirmed some more and finally went away. Then Father 
 set to writing, but he broke the two nice quills I had 
 sharpened for him and finally he said, 'If that yellow Cur 
 speaks to you again I will attend to him,' and I said, 'Yes, 
 Sir.' But that was not a promise, for I shall be very cautious 
 about telling Father if F. Owen should have the Brass to 
 speak to me again. For that dirk can cut, in spite of all the 
 engraving on it. And as soon as Father went out, I found 
 some sandpaper and rubbed his silly carving off, for if 
 Father ever saw it he would certainly have a Gimini fit. 
 
 "We tried to bring Mr. Lincoln home to supper, but he 
 said, 'Not to-night, for I am as busy as a little dog in high 
 oats. I have found a book that tells how to play chess and 
 I intend to devote myself to its perusal until I can massacre 
 your respected father in cold blood.' But he could learn 
 it fast enough by playing with Father, only they get to 
 talking anti-slavery, and then they get so spunky one of 
 them is sure to knock the board down and spill everything. 
 
 "Mrs. Isaiah invited Aunty to come over to her garden 
 and pick out seedlings and roots and things to plant in our 
 own garden for next spring. So Aunty went, and she came 
 back with her arms full. But what do you suppose was the 
 very first thing she planted! Bergamot! 
 
 "To-day the stage brought a letter from Rich. He says 
 he is coming soon, for he is sick and tired of kissing Mrs. 
 Lot, and she is so tired of him that whenever she sees him 
 coming she runs out a rock salt tongue." 
 
284 THE FATHER 
 
 Up the lane tore Button. Mr. Stafford swung down, 
 hurried into the cabin. Adoniram jumped up eagerly. 
 
 "Hullo, Father. Why, where's Mr. Lincoln? You said 
 he was coming out to-day." 
 
 "Mr. Lincoln will not come out for some time, Donny." 
 
 "Why not? Is he sick?" 
 
 "No. But there is sickness in the family." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Don't ask so many questions, son." 
 
 Adoniram subsided. Mr. Stafford went into the kitchen, 
 and closed the door. 
 
 "Aunty, I have bad news for you. Mr. Lincoln's young- 
 est boy is very sick." 
 
 Aunty rose up and seized her bonnet and shawl. 
 
 "No, they don't need you. Half Springfield is there now, 
 trying to help. I'm going to sit up with them to-night. I-I 
 don't believe there is much hope. I put the Clarion into 
 shape this afternoon. If I can't get home to-morrow, Mercy 
 and Jo Vanny can get it out for me. Got to hurry now." 
 
 He was off, at tearing speed. 
 
 He did not come back until supper-time, next day. When 
 he did come, he said nothing. He sat in the chimney-corner, 
 tired, silent. He would not let the little boys out of his sight. 
 He kept pulling Thomas up to him, holding him tight 
 against his booted knee. 
 
 Later he spoke briefly to Aunty. 
 
 "He can't talk to anybody yet. I wouldn't know what to 
 say to him, for that matter. If it was one of my own — if it 
 was Mercy!" 
 
 He broke off, staring at the wall. After supper, he went 
 up to the loft. He sat where he could keep close watch on 
 those three sturdy armfuls of sleep. 
 
 A week later, court opened its fall session. On his way 
 
THE FATHER 285 
 
 to the court-house Mr. Lincoln would ride down the short 
 cut, just below the big hickory tree. So many times, he 
 had ridden that way. Aunty often said she could set her 
 clock by him, her calendar, too. 
 
 To-day she planned, quietly. Father had gone to town 
 early. The little boys were in school. She sent Mercy to 
 Mrs. Isaiah's on an errand. 
 
 Then she sat down by the open door. She sat there a good 
 while. Her keen old eyes watched the road. 
 
 Presently she saw Mr. Lincoln approaching. His big 
 gaunt body hung limp in the saddle. He was all weariness. 
 Tired body, beaten soul. 
 
 Aunty hurried spryly down the lane. 
 
 "Morning, Mr. Lincoln. 'Light and come in. I've been 
 waiting for you." 
 
 He stopped his horse. He looked around him dazed and 
 blank. Perhaps he would not have stopped for any other 
 human being. But he could not refuse Aunty. He lunged 
 off his horse. The face he bent to her was the face of a 
 man dying with thirst. 
 
 "I don't want to see anybody." He spoke at last, with a 
 dry tongue. 
 
 "Nobody's here but me. Come in." 
 
 She led him in. He followed stupidly, as if he must 
 grope his way. 
 
 Aunty sat down. She waited. After a while, he spoke. 
 
 "Reckon it's just as I told you." He looked down at her 
 dully. "Reckon I'm a failure. A failure in everything. 
 I couldn't even keep my little son alive." 
 
 "I know how it is." Aunty spoke under her breath. "You 
 can't talk about it to your wife for she can't bear it. You 
 can't talk about it to other folks, for they don't know one 
 thing about it. But I'm 'most eighty, and I do know." She 
 
286 THE FATHER 
 
 leaned to him, she put out mother-arms, this old, old woman 
 who had never borne a child. "I know all about it. You can 
 tell me." 
 
 They sat there a long time, the worn indomitable old 
 woman, the big gangling defeated man, on his knees by her 
 chair, his gaunt head buried on her caved old breast. 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 
 
 UGUST, September, October No, it wasn't 
 
 possible that autumn could come so soon. To count the 
 racing weeks, the flying days, made Mercy dizzy. In March 
 she had gone to Antioch, she had met Richard. In May he 
 had traveled all the way to Illinois to see her just for those 
 few days. That trip had cost him, as she well knew, every 
 cent that he had earned in the two months preceding. In 
 July, he had come again, and they had celebrated the day 
 with the prairie fire. Then came two long months with only 
 Richard's letters to keep life in her. His last visit in early 
 September had been just a hurried glimpse of each other 
 snatched from one of Richard's Underground journeys. 
 He had dared stay less than a day. That day their guardian 
 angel had conspired to hold inviolate, their very own. 
 
 But that was four weeks ago. Five weeks. Five weeks and 
 three days to be exact. And now Richard was coming to- 
 morrow! Twenty more hours to wait. Sixteen more. Only 
 twelve more hours and eighteen minutes! 
 
 Richard had come. Thinner than ever from his double 
 tasks of driving by night and surveying whenever he could 
 get a job at it by day. Haggard, dog-tired, uproariously joy- 
 ful to see her, as rackety and teasing as all three little 
 brothers put together. That was the first two minutes of 
 him. Two minutes more and all that uproar was silenced 
 and he was her man, her young grave lover, his gaunt weary 
 eyes on her, clinging to her, as if the very sight of her 
 was food and drink and rest. Another breath; and again he 
 was the eager boastful teasing little boy. 
 
 "Daren't spend but this one day with you, young lady. 
 
288 THE FATHER 
 
 But we're going to have one glorious time of it. Didn't 
 notice, what I'd brought along, did you? Girl, all over. 
 Careless piece, you are. Never had eyes for anything but 
 me. Well, I'll overlook your heedlessness this once. Look, 
 now." 
 
 At the hitching rack stood a smart high gig. Harnessed 
 to it was a stunning black team, the finest horses in Bakers- 
 town. 
 
 "Old Currier's team. He let me hire them for this 
 afternoon as a special favor. No, this trip, we do not take 
 the little boys along. Nor Aunty. Nor even Cartouche. Un- 
 derstand that?" 
 
 Now to go riding publicly with your suitor was equivalent 
 to announcing your engagement. 
 
 "But, Richard " 
 
 "There aren't any Buts. Come on." 
 
 Only Mercy herself could tell the story of that after- 
 noon. Even her hand and pen must fall far short. 
 
 "Back east, once in a coon's age, I used to go riding 
 with Lemuel or Eliphalet or Amariah, with some of their 
 aunts, cousins, etc., along. But this ride was different. It was 
 the most elegant experience I ever expect to have, and also it 
 became quite exciting along towards the end. I mean after 
 we met Frederick Owen and his twin. But in the begin- 
 ning it was just wonderful, that's all I can say. I had on 
 my blue velvet bonnet that Aunty made over this fall, and 
 Richard had some new boots and a light blue neckerchief, 
 with polka dots on it just the shade of my bonnet, which 
 was a very singular coincidence. I thought we would both 
 talk every minute, for we had so much to tell each other 
 about, but neither of us said one word, till we had gone 
 away past Tuckerman's woods, up the little hill. 
 
THE FATHER 289 
 
 "There Richard stopped the horses, and hunted in his 
 pockets till he found a little gold box, and he opened it 
 and there was the most beautiful ruby ring. And he said, 
 'I wrote to Guardy and told him that I couldn't force him 
 to give me my money, but that he'd got to send me my 
 mother's betrothal ring. My father had given it to her 
 because she was the only girl in the world for him, and 
 now I wanted to give it to the only girl in the world for 
 me. So put up your hand, Mercy.' Then I felt like Jezebel 
 and Sapphira because I have never yet told him the exact 
 truth about Lemuel G. Crowther and his hateful old lost 
 letter concerning which I do not know to this day what he 
 wrote in it. So I began to cry, I could not help it. I felt 
 so guilty and yet I was mad enough to bite Lemuel's head 
 off. 
 
 "Richard took hold of my hand and put the ring on and 
 kissed it to make it stay always. Then I cried harder than 
 ever, because I knew I was not being honorable to accept it 
 before I had absolutely broken with Lemuel and yet it 
 looked so magnificent I could not bear to take it off. 
 
 "Richard said, 'Why do you cry, you darling, am I such 
 a tough prospect as all that?' And that made me laugh, 
 which was worse yet. 
 
 "Then Richard said 'Stop shaking and blow your nose 
 and kiss me back, you stingy, and tell me what is the matter. 
 I am beginning to think this is not a joke. Are you still 
 grieving over that big sawney back east.' Then he began 
 to look so black and stern, and I had just started to tell 
 him that Lemuel meant nothing in my life when up the 
 hill comes the two Owens in the most genteel new chaise 
 with maroon cushions, both dressed up like new sixpences 
 and more drunk than usual. They drove right alongside 
 
290 THE FATHER 
 
 and cramped their rig so we could not pass without sliding 
 down into a deep gully. 
 
 "I whispered to Richard to get away, quick, for while I 
 do not consider myself a Coward, yet I am so scared of both 
 Owens that whenever I meet them it makes me kind of 
 blind and sick. So Richard spoke civilly and said, 'Will you 
 kindly let us pass.' But Frederick Owen yelled out, 'Why, 
 here is our Beauty, Beauty and the Beast!' And Simeon 
 says, 'Not in a thousand years will we let you pass. What 
 have you been doing to her, you great lout, to make her cry,' 
 and Richard told him, 'None of your business,' and tried to 
 scourge the horses past. 
 
 "Then they both hollered at him, and swore, and I 
 called to please let us by, but Frederick Owen, the big 
 booby, sings out: 'You are a brave girl, Beauty, to shield 
 this yellow Cur, but we will not see you mistreated, so we 
 will rescue you.' Only he hiccuped so much it was hard 
 to make sure what he was saying. 
 
 "By now Richard was getting red around his jawbones, 
 and I knew what that meant. But he was trying to get 
 away peacably, just the same, and we would have slipped 
 of! all right, only for that dumb Frederick. Didn't he give 
 his team a slash, and then jumped sidewise, and shoved 
 us right off the edge of the high bank down into the gully! 
 
 "It was the favor of Providence that we did not upset. 
 Instead, we went pitching and sliding down the hill till 
 we stuck, rig and all, in the hazel brush at the bottom. Of 
 course our horses tried to bolt, but Richard snatched me out 
 and then quieted them down. 
 
 "If the Owens had had any sense, they would have lit 
 out for home after playing such a hateful trick. But in- 
 stead, they jumped out and ran to the edge of the gully 
 and screeched down and made rude sport of Richard and 
 
THE FATHER 291 
 
 told him he had better drive oxen, not horses, after this. 
 Then Richard got perfectly scarlet, and he said, 'Get into 
 our rig, Mercy, and take the reins and I will lead the 
 horses back to the road/ which he did. Then he took our 
 hitching strap, and went to the Owens. 
 
 "They were sitting there on the bank laughing fit to kill, 
 and Richard did not say one word. He grabbed them both 
 and knocked their heads together and then jammed their 
 heads under his left arm, and tipped them over his knee, 
 both at once, and sailed in with the strap. I was frightened 
 'most to death, for they were so surprised and furious, 
 and they kept kicking and biting and swearing. But they 
 could not get any grip on Richard anywhere, for they were 
 too drunk, and the more they flapped and lunged at him 
 the better licks Richard got in. 
 
 "Finally Simeon began to holler 'Enough' and then Rich- 
 ard tipped them back on their feet and slapped their faces 
 for them and said, 'The next time, gentlemen, that you 
 honor us by your interference, you will get a real thrash- 
 ing, not an imitation.' Then he hoisted them back into their 
 chaise, and slapped their faces again for luck, so loud you 
 heard the crack, and gave their team a cut and away they 
 went, kiting. Then he came back to me, and told me I 
 was a lovely silly to look so pale, and he was so pleased I 
 guess he forgot he was just as good as engaged to me, and 
 he whistled all the way home. 
 
 "I feel very proud of Richard, not just because he whaled 
 both the Owens but because he is proving such a successful 
 business man. He has a job all the time now, surveying. 
 Then he drives for the Underground, nights, whenever they 
 want him, and that is 'most all the time, for they are hurry- 
 ing runaways north, before the cold weather sets in. If he 
 drives all night, they pay him a dollar for the trip, and give 
 
292 THE FATHER 
 
 him two bits besides, to buy his breakfast. Times when he 
 has to drive all night and all the next day, stopping only for 
 fresh horses, they sometimes give him as much as two-fifty. 
 That is wonderful pay. Of course it is risky, for every once 
 in a while he is chased and they fire on him, but usually 
 he manages to dodge. I told him I would not stay engaged 
 to him however unless he promised to carry plenty of cart- 
 ridges and some dry socks. 
 
 "Mr. Lincoln gave him a letter to some friends and 
 asked them to give him that surveying position, that is the 
 way he got it. He feels very much obliged for the letter, and 
 so do L But Mr. Lincoln says that driving nights for the 
 Underground and carrying chain all day is what he would 
 call a land-office job. 
 
 "Richard and Father are very different. Father wants to 
 free the slaves, and he worries about them all the time. 
 Richard wishes to free the slaves, too, but he wants some 
 excitement while he is doing it. And he does not worry over 
 them. Not Richard. 
 
 "I am almost thankful he had to go right away. If I 
 know the Owens, they will go and get sober just for spite, 
 on purpose to take revenge. I could hardly let him go, 
 though, and first he made fun of me and then he told me 
 that if the little boys were not around he would tell me 
 what I really mean to him. But of course the little boys 
 were around every minute. So was the Captain. And Twon- 
 net. And Aunty. So Richard did not tell me then. I do hope 
 he does not forget to write it. 
 
 "If I cannot get things straightened out with Lemuel I 
 believe I shall die. I cannot bear it. I never supposed I 
 would live to do anything so shameful as to have an under- 
 standing with one man, right when I am engaged forever to 
 another. I keep putting the ruby ring on and then taking it 
 off and putting on the carnelian one. I used to think the 
 
THE FATHER 293 
 
 carnelian was perfectly elegant, but now I wish Lemuel 
 had kept it himself and given it to the first Academy girl 
 who chased him up a tree. 
 
 "The only thing I can do is to write Lemuel and tell 
 him that if it is all the same to him I wish to release him 
 from his promise. I shall send back his ring, too. Though 
 I certainly hesitate to do so until I have a reply from 
 Lemuel to my letter. I do not wish to shock him too se- 
 verely. Poor boy, I know this will hurt him terribly. But 
 it is dishonest to keep him longer in Suspense." 
 
 Early the next day, Mercy sat down to her Herculean 
 task. She wasted sheets on sheets of her best note-paper, she 
 chewed her own pen to pulp, then began on Father's with 
 disastrous results. But at last the fatal letter was written. 
 She surveyed it with a certain justifiable pride. Surely its 
 tactful phrases would all but atone for the grief it must 
 inflict. 
 
 She carried it to the Corners postoffke at once. She 
 had just reached home when the little boys pelted in. 
 Adoniram was shining. 
 
 "I'm promoted," he announced loftily. "And I got to 
 have new schoolbooks. I want fifty cents to buy me a Col- 
 burn's Mental." 
 
 "Why, Donny, that's fine. But you can have my old 
 Colburn's Mental. It's upstairs in Aunty's little trunk. I've 
 never touched it since I left Antioch." 
 
 "Fine!" Donny pranced as she lifted it from the little 
 trunk. "And I'll use these papers for bookmarks. This 
 letter anyhow." 
 
 "What letter?" 
 
 "Why, this big fat one. How funny! You've never 
 opened it." 
 
294 THE FATHER 
 
 Mercy caught the letter from his hand. A pale blue 
 envelope, still faintly odorous of bergamot. 
 
 "My gracious sakes alive!" She tore it open with the 
 speed of light. 
 
 "Green River, Massachusetts. 
 March tenth. 
 "Respected Friend: 
 
 "Dear Mercy: I write this with some Apprehension, as 
 I do not just know how you are going to take what I will 
 say. You must be aware that I think of you with the highest 
 Regard. I have considered you as my affianced Wife, and 
 you will agree that I have thus acted in bestowing upon 
 you my attentions, viz., letters, gifts, valentine, ring, etc., 
 etc. But I have this to say. As you will recall, my father 
 bought from your father's property the pastures and the 
 woodlot. These border right on the land bought by Mr. 
 Jedediah N. Perkins, the Pa of your friend Lucinda Per- 
 kins. After thinking it over I find that I prefer to remain 
 here in Green River rather than to go West, as was first 
 intended. Now I write to ask, Do you still think favorably 
 of my suit? If so, I wish to tell everybody and to do so at 
 once. They all pick on me because they say I was too slow 
 and choosy, and you gave me the Slip. If I could once tell 
 them you are engaged to me, they would shut their Trap. 
 But as it is, between the folks at home nagging and the 
 Academy girls always asking me to parties and then saying 
 right out that they know they are safe in so doing because 
 I never accept, a fellow feels like a fool. 
 
 "If you wish to keep things as they stand, then all right. 
 But if you should feel that your affections are growing 
 cold, then notify me at once. 
 
 "I have seen a good deal of Lucinda since your depar- 
 ture. I consider her a perfect woman, nobly planned. To 
 
THE FATHER 295 
 
 warn to comfort and command. She already has a right 
 smart of property, and since her pa has bought your pa's 
 woods and pasture it almost seems like a leading. 
 "I remain as always 
 
 "Yours with deepest respect and with 
 "Heart-whole Devotion, 
 
 "Lemuel G. Crowther. 
 
 "P.S. If you do not care for my ring any longer, do not 
 feel that you have got to keep it. It cost $1.50 at the Post- 
 office Store. You can send it back in a letter. It may cost as 
 much as 10^ to return it to me, so I am inclosing 12^ for 
 postage." 
 
 Mercy flashed down the loft ladder, seized her bonnet 
 and cape. 
 
 "My letter to Lemuel! Oh, oh, the stage is due at the 
 Corners, this minute! Oh, if I can just get there in time 
 to snatch it back!" 
 
 It was two miles to the postoffice. Long rutted miles, at 
 that. Mercy raced down that road like a mad thing. Be- 
 hind her shrieked a trail of astonished little brothers. Gasp- 
 ing, crimson, she tore into the little crossroads store. 
 
 "My letter, my letter! Give it to me. Quick! 
 
 "Why, I put her into the mailbag, not ten minutes ago. 
 And here's the stage, right now. Didn't you want her to 
 go?" 
 
 "Open that mailbag! Hurry!" 
 
 "Hey, listen, Miss Mercy. Ain't I just locked her and 
 stuck some red gov'ment sealing wax on her? She's Federal 
 property, now. I dassent " 
 
 Mercy's eye caught the store carving knife, adapted 
 genially to every purpose from slicing bacon to whittling 
 plug tobacco. She caught it up, cut the mailbag cords, 
 
296 THE FATHER 
 
 groped frantically in. The postmaster stood by, uncertain 
 whether to interfere. But she had jerked out her own letter 
 and was re-tying the cords before he could put his protest 
 into further words. 
 
 The stage halted with a flourish, a yell of command. 
 "Hustle with that mail! We're late, now." 
 
 Mercy hurried. She seized on the sealing wax, still warm, 
 dabbed on a splash, and tossed the bag to the driver. The 
 coach pelted away. 
 
 Late that night, she awoke. She felt as if the burden 
 of Atlas had rolled from her shoulders. Heaven be thanked, 
 she had not played fast and loose with Lemuel's young 
 affections. As a matter of fact it was Lemuel who had 
 played fast and loose with her own. She reached over to 
 Thomas's cot to make sure he was safely tucked in. 
 
 "Awake, Thomas?" 
 
 Thomas emitted an unsociable grunt. 
 
 "Because, if you are, I've got a secret to tell you. I've 
 been jilted. And I'll wager there never was a jilted woman 
 in all the world, who enjoyed it as much as I do." 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 
 
 NOVEMBER, December, Mercy carried those days 
 like a brimming cup. Not another drop of joy could 
 you pour into that cup. 
 
 "I have the grandest news to write tonight. Father 
 brought another long letter from Rich. He says he is now 
 getting $14 a week, and saving $11 every single payday. 
 If he can keep this job till next June he will have two 
 hundred dollars. Then we can get married, for that will 
 pay half on our farm and leave us something for stock, 
 tools, etc. All Rich needs, he says, is a new suit. As for me, 
 I do not need any clothes for I have plenty to make over. 
 Only I do want to have my best shoes half-soled. And my 
 heart is set on a wedding bonnet, like Mrs. Isaiah's. She 
 wore it over here the other day to show it to us. It was 18 
 years old last May. It is white velvet with long white 
 plumes, and it has a peach velvet follow-me-lad. She has 
 worn it just 5 times and there is not one speck on it except 
 where her oldest boy chewed the follow-me-lad, and she 
 tried to clean it with lye soap. I thought it was dreadful 
 and Aunty said Nobody but a Ninkum would ever try 
 to clean peach velvet with lye soap. However I can get 
 married without a bride's bonnet if it is necessary. 
 
 "Besides Rich's letter, Father brought one from Lucinda. 
 She put in one of her wedding invitations, for she and Lem- 
 uel expect to get married on the fifteenth. It is purple 
 cardboard with a gilt Cupid holding two hearts in the 
 corner, tied with blue ribbon. It is perfectly elegant. She 
 
298 THE FATHER 
 
 also sent me a piece of her wedding dress. It is white lute- 
 string, and looks rich and dignified, but Aunty says it is as 
 sleazy a piece as she ever laid eyes on. 
 
 "Father came home late so shaky and sick he could not 
 eat any supper. He says that he is certain that President 
 Pierce will sign the repeal of the Missouri Compromise. 
 He believes that if he does it will mean the destruction of 
 the Union. 
 
 "Richard says he is wearing his winter flannels, because 
 I told him he had got to, but I think he is telling a false- 
 hood, because in the last letter before this he said these suits 
 were so scratchy, he would as lieve turn into a porcupine 
 and be done with it. I certainly am thankful that she got 
 Lemuel and not me. 
 
 "I am beginning to think that Mr. Lincoln is the kind- 
 est human being that ever drew breath, but I wonder some- 
 times where he expects to finish up, he is such a perfectly 
 terrible liar. Father took me to Springfield last week and 
 I was in a store trading when along came Mrs. Lincoln. I 
 said to her, how pleased I was because Mr. Lincoln gave 
 Father a chance to buy that elegant overcoat for 'most 
 nothing, and Mrs. Lincoln opened her eyes wide and said, 
 'Overcoat, what overcoat?' And I said, 'The one you 
 bought for him,' and Mrs. Lincoln said, 'Child, are you 
 crazy? I never bought Abraham Lincoln a coat in all my 
 days. Why he could not squeeze into a boughten overcoat 
 to save his soul.' So I tried to squirm out of it, but I did 
 not squirm any too well and when I went away she was 
 still looking after me in a very singular manner. Of course 
 I know now what he was up to. He bought that overcoat for 
 Father on purpose, because the old one was just falling off 
 him. But Father never guessed. And while I do not believe 
 in overlooking such a whopper I am going to keep my 
 mouth shut." 
 
THE FATHER 299 
 
 Event crowded on event. One bitter November night, 
 Mercy pulled Thomas inside the red comforter with her 
 to serve as a footstove while she should chronicle the latest 
 absorbing crisis. 
 
 "Out here, things never do quit happening. To-day, right 
 in the midst of the biggest snowstorm of the year, we had 
 company come. The most genteel company that ever stepped 
 inside our door. Miss Evelina Amberley! 
 
 "We never dreamed she was coming. First thing we 
 knew, the stage came up our lane and the driver swung 
 down and made the grandest flourishes, and then he lifted 
 down two trunks and about eight band-boxes, and then 
 handed out a lady. She was all in black velvet, a long 
 sweeping pelisse and a wide black hat, all plumes, and 
 then a great soft ermine coat. 
 
 "But the minute we saw her face, we all forgot how 
 beautiful and stately she was, and we just fell on her and 
 ate her up. She did not seem to mind, not one bit. She 
 hugged and kissed us all as if she never would stop. 
 
 "We were all so glad to have her. All but Father. He 
 was glad to see her of course, but he was sort of horrified, 
 too. He put his arms around her and he said, 'My child, 
 what of your own father?' And she shrugged a little and 
 said, 'By this time he understands.' And she looked up into 
 Father's face, and said, 'You won't send me back? You will 
 let me stay?' And Father said, 'This is your home, until 
 you choose another,' and she put her head on his shoulder 
 and did not say another word. 
 
 "There is something very peculiar about the whole 
 thing, I can see that. I know she has told Aunty something, 
 for Aunty pets her all the time, and calls her My Lamb, 
 and goodness knows she hasn't called any of us My Lamb 
 for years and years, except Thomas. And not even Thomas 
 
300 THE FATHER 
 
 nowadays. Not since the time he and the poor old captain 
 spilled Cyrus into the brook instead of the water-bucket. 
 
 "It surely is grand to have Miss Evelina here, and she 
 is the happiest thing you ever laid eyes on. She wants to help 
 every minute. Of course she doesn't know how to do any- 
 thing, really, for she has never so much as milked and the 
 only things she knows how to cook are pound cake and 
 quince tarts and marzipan. But she tries so hard. She even 
 offers to wash the dishes, even though Mr. Lincoln won't. 
 
 "I don't know that we will have much Christmas this 
 year, but I do know I shall make popcorn balls for the 
 little boys and embroider some very elegant handkerchiefs 
 for Richard. Aunty gave me a roll of linen she'd had saved 
 up for years, and I shall hem it and then put R.H. in the 
 corners with seed stitches to touch it up. I shall make him 
 some popcorn balls, too." 
 
 The days grew short and dark and cold. The last wild 
 geese practiced their airy Spencerian V's across the sullen 
 sky. To Father this autumn spelled increasing anxiety long 
 drawn out. Not one word had come from Joel. He had 
 vanished utterly from the earth. Guarded messages came 
 from Mr. Emerson, telling that the tiny sums Father 
 squeezed out and forwarded to him were applied on 
 Joel's debt to the bank exactly as he had directed. Except 
 the dollar or so that was sent on to Joel himself. But for 
 any acknowledgment that came those hard-won dollars 
 might have been thrown into the sea. 
 
 The Clarion dragged along as usual. It earned a dollar 
 or so a week, it brought in occasional baskets of vegetables 
 or loads of wood. The articles Father wrote for Mr. 
 Greeley and for the Eastern magazines did better. You 
 could count on them to pay as much as eight or ten dollars, 
 
THE FATHER 301 
 
 and that was a great help. But daily Father grew older, 
 more bitterly quiet. Joel, his brother, his Benjamin! How 
 did life fare with him? Would there ever be word of him 
 again ? 
 
 But to Mercy everything was so different! Winter was 
 not winter any more. Its days sped by in crystal sunlight, its 
 nights went robed in stars. To Father this might be a 
 desolate lonely country far on the edge of the world. To 
 her it spelled enchantment. Here, anything could happen. 
 Even in this bitter chill, her beauty, always so folded and 
 so shy, had flamed awake. She sped through the gray weeks 
 a creature transformed. Her father would stare at her as 
 if the very look of her could light his darkening hours. 
 The little boys clung tighter to their sister. Even Aunty, 
 that dry and brittle branch, leaned to her now with an added 
 gentleness. Love walked with her, and the love of others 
 went out to her and blessed her unawares. 
 
 Twonnet was still a problem, although she was learning 
 to help, after her fashion. Contrary forever, she soon took 
 to doing the milking, not only for themselves, but for the 
 feeble old Tuckermans, their neighbors, and for a won- 
 der, did it fairly well. Sometimes, too, she went to work 
 in village households when extra help was needed. But for 
 the most part she played with the little boys or sat in her 
 tepee day on day. Yes, Twonnet was still a problem. But 
 as Father had said of her, of the Captain, of Jo Vanny, 
 "If we don't take care of them, who under the sun ever 
 will? And of course we can't turn them away." 
 
 In the winter the Captain slipped away. He sat by the 
 hearth as usual that day, always so tranquil, always drowsily 
 content. Late in the afternoon Seth tore in waving his re- 
 port card. For once in its harried existence that card was 
 adorned with amazingly high marks. Seth, jubilant, pounced 
 
302 THE FATHER 
 
 on the old man, waving the card like a banner of victory. 
 
 "Looky my report, everybody! Look, Aunty! Say, why 
 doesn't the Captain wake up and see it too?" 
 
 Aunty laid her fingers on the shriveled old wrist. Then 
 she spoke, very gentle. 
 
 "Never mind waking him, Seth. Well . . . I'm thank- 
 ful we kept him warm and comfortable, long's we could." 
 
 The long suspense for Joel had told heavily on Father. 
 But hardly less than his fear for Joel was his black 
 prescience for his nation. The shadow of that vast ap- 
 proaching conflict lay always upon him the while his own 
 helplessness rasped him, shamed him. He had dared believe 
 that he could do effective work against slavery, that he could 
 build of his own life a center of service for liberty. Poor 
 fool! Not one man had listened to him. Not one man had 
 pledged himself to stand by. Even Mr. Lincoln, whose de- 
 voted friendship meant half of life to him, refused to 
 agree, refused to comprehend. 
 
 "Maybe Mr. Lincoln is too old, too tired," he thought 
 bitterly. "Well, I'm too old, too tired myself to struggle 
 any longer." 
 
 But he struggled on. Resolve to give up? He might as 
 well resolve to give up breathing. 
 
 Into his arguments nowadays there crept a certain as- 
 perity. Up to this time he had thought himself a model of 
 forbearance. But now his sensitiveness, the vehemence of 
 his beliefs, his inborn arrogance, the arrogance made up 
 of pride of birth and pride of principle, all worked against 
 him. Mr. Lincoln knew this and gauged it wisely; still 
 more wisely, he tried always to temper the wind of Mr. 
 Stafford's discourse to the outraged flock of subscribers 
 who wanted less sass, by gorry, less interference with their 
 own opinions, and more willingness to grant free speech 
 and thought, all the gol-durned Abolitionists in creation to 
 
THE FATHER 303 
 
 the contrary notwithstanding. Profoundly kind, he had 
 tried from the first to make the Clarion office a common 
 meeting place for the town; to bring the citizens together 
 in a spirit of friendly discussion, not of vindictive wran- 
 gling. But now it seemed as if all his efforts were worse 
 than useless. 
 
 "Father and Mr. Lincoln were getting more fussy and 
 snippy and snarly than the little boys ever were. Not even 
 when they had the mumps," wrote Mercy in her diary. 
 "One comfort. No matter how hard they quarrel they 
 manage to make it up afterwards. But no telling how long 
 they will make up. Mr. Lincoln was here to supper, and 
 we had apple dumplings with hard sauce, and right in the 
 middle of his dessert Father flared up and said, 'Why 
 are you not going to the Abolition Convention? Do you 
 realize that you are shirking your sacred duty?' And Mr. 
 Lincoln stopped with his mouth full and said, 'Stafford, 
 I love you like a brother, but if you halt me in the midst 
 of this dumpling all will be at an end between us.' 
 
 "Father was cross and tired, I guess, and for once in 
 his life he could not take a joke. He put down his spoon, and 
 his stock rared clear past his ear, and he said, 'Is this an hour 
 for jesting when your nation's honor is at stake ? ' And Mr. 
 Lincoln reached for the hard sauce and said, 'Even a con- 
 demned criminal is permitted to finish his breakfast before 
 he mounts the scaffold.' 
 
 "Then Seth began to laugh. Poor Seth, he always man- 
 ages to laugh in the wrong place. Father said, 'You may 
 leave the table,' and Seth went, though he was only half- 
 way through his dumpling, but I hid it for him afterwards, 
 so the other two would not get it. 
 
 "Mr. Lincoln tried to mollify Father, and said, 'A man 
 in my position has to go slow, Stafford. You know that I 
 
304 THE FATHER 
 
 believe slavery is an evil. But while the law stands we must 
 obey that law. We will gain nothing by repudiating our 
 deepest obligation. Further, I am not yet convinced that 
 abolition measures are the best road out of slavery.' And 
 Father said, Tor that matter, are you possessed of any 
 convictions whatever? Do you desire to lift your country 
 out of this pit of shame? Or are you governed by a base 
 expediency? It would look to me, Mr. Lincoln, that you 
 would hold with the hare yet run with the hounds.' 
 
 "That was too bad of Father, for I know it cut Mr. 
 Lincoln to the quick. He jumped up and pushed back his 
 dumpling, and first he tried to joke it off, and said, 'Looky 
 here, Stafford, leave enough hide on me to remember me 
 by. Isn't a man's soul his own?' And Father said, 'Not when 
 his nation demands that soul and he withholds it.' 
 
 "Then they surely did have it hot and heavy. Finally 
 they were both so fighting mad they couldn't speak, and 
 Mr. Lincoln marched out of the house and banged the door 
 and Father said, 'Just what I might have expected. Well, 
 here is an end to that false friendship.' 
 
 "But yesterday Mr. Lincoln came sneaking in when he 
 knew Father had gone to town. And he pitched in and 
 sawed about a million sticks of wood. But Father came 
 home earlier than usual and caught him stacking the wood 
 in the shed. They stood there and looked at each other and 
 both looked sort of sheepish and finally Father said, 'If you 
 will come in and eat supper with us, Mr. Lincoln, I promise 
 that I will not say one word that begins with S.' And Mr. 
 Lincoln said, T will not only eat supper with you, you sanc- 
 timonious blue-nosed nigger-stealer, but I will play chess 
 with you afterwards and I will whale the everlasting day- 
 lights out of you. Darned if I won't. (Only he did not say 
 Darn. But it was Providential Aunty was in the kitchen, 
 and did not hear just what he did say.) So he stayed the 
 
THE FATHER 305 
 
 night and they had a grand time, and Mr. Lincoln was so 
 happy he sang every word of Oh, Why Should the Spirit of 
 Mortal be Proud, twice over. 
 
 "Father says that Congress is deciding whether they 
 will make Kansas free territory. They are arguing about it 
 all the time. Adoniram asked him did Congressmen get 
 any pay, and Father said, 'Yes, they are paid by the Gov- 
 ernment every day no matter whether they succeed in set- 
 tling this question righteously or not.' I think it is sinful 
 for the Government to throw away money like that. Be- 
 sides if Kansas had one mite of sprawl she would make 
 up her own mind whether to be slave or free, no matter 
 what other folks said." 
 
 Late one raw February day Mercy sat in her loft trying 
 to write. The three small boys tumbled over her like so 
 many puppies. Overgrown puppies at that. She gazed on 
 them with a fond dismay. What could possess little boys to 
 grow up so amazingly fast? They not only shot up, they 
 shot down, like so many onion sprouts. Their pantaloons 
 leaped above small bony shins, their wrists distanced their 
 roundabout sleeves by half a length, their jackets cracked 
 at the seams and squeejawed in the back. Thomas was bid- 
 ding farewell to his baby teeth, leaving a mournful pink 
 expanse. Seth had split out of his spandy new suit like an 
 active young tadpole. Adoniram had grown so tall that you 
 could get only a small portion of him on your lap at a 
 time, even when he had a lonesome streak. But happily, 
 lonesome streaks were few and far between. 
 
 "Anyway, they all suit me. And I suppose the quicker 
 they grow up, the better," she reflected. "Besides that, I'm 
 too thankful that they are all taking after Father, every 
 day. For I don't want them to take after Uncle Joel. I 
 love Uncle Joel, I'll love him always. But " 
 
306 THE FATHER 
 
 Mercy was growing up, too. Growing up to understand 
 certain matters that had been mysterious before. 
 A few days later she wrote: 
 
 "You never could guess what happened today. Uncle 
 Joel came back! Just for a few hours. But my, how thank- 
 ful we all were to see him alive again! 'Specially Father. 
 I never knew till now just what has worried Father so 
 much. But I do know now. It's because Uncle Joel has 
 never grown up. But maybe he will now. Now that Miss 
 Evelina has said what she did. No telling . . . 
 
 "He came just as he always does. He did not send one 
 word ahead. Only it was all different. For one thing he 
 didn't come prancing up on horseback the way he always 
 used to. He was on foot and the roads were all glare ice, 
 so he had tied some old bits of carpet over his shoes to keep 
 him from falling. His shoes really didn't amount to much 
 for they were all split over the instep, and the soles torn 
 half off besides. And he looked terribly thin and sort of 
 out of breath. But he was as swinging and gay as ever. He 
 grabbed us all up and kissed us. He didn't jerk a lot of pres- 
 ents out of his overcoat pockets like he always used to. 
 He didn't have any pockets to jerk from. He didn't have 
 any overcoat. 
 
 "Father was in his room, writing, when the boys came in, 
 whooping that Uncle Joel had come. Father came out and 
 stood and looked at him, just a minute. Then he put his arm 
 around Joel, as if he wasn't any bigger than little Thomas, 
 and pulled him away, into his own room. 
 
 "They didn't come out for a good while. When they 
 did come he had on Father's good heavy suit, and he'd had 
 a scrub and a shave and he was all smartened up. But you 
 could see how thin he was and how tired. I never did see 
 anybody so tired. Mrs. Isaiah had sent us some prairie 
 
THE FATHER 307 
 
 chickens, and I had made a pie, and Uncle Joel used to 
 love chicken pie, but this time he wouldn't eat for a long 
 while. Finally he pitched in and ate as if he was half 
 starved. He didn't talk at all, though. And Father never 
 took his eyes off him. 
 
 "Then they went back to the study and talked a long 
 time. Finally they came out and Uncle Joel said he must 
 be going, but Father said, 'Joel boy! Wait! I hadn't 
 realized, you have no overcoat.' 
 
 "Uncle Joel kind of laughed, and said, 'Oh, I manage 
 all right, without.' But Father went straight back to his 
 room and came out with his own grand new one. 
 
 "Uncle Joel looked at it. He got awfully red, and he 
 sort of trembled all over. But Father said, 'Come now, 
 Joel, boy, you need it ten times more than I do.' So Joel 
 took it and put it on. 
 
 "But right then the door opened and in came Miss 
 Evelina. (She had been to Springfield to visit Mrs. Lincoln 
 for a week.) She stood there all shining and lovely, and 
 for a while those two just stood and looked at each other. 
 Then Uncle Joel spoke. 
 
 " 'I didn't know that you were here, Evelina. For that 
 matter, it doesn't mean much, now that I do know. For I 
 can't speak one word to you. Not yet.' 
 
 "Miss Evelina looked at him a long while. Then she said 
 a queer thing. 
 
 " 'Are you ever coming back, Joel?' 
 
 " 'I'm coming back if I — if I ever dare to.' 
 
 " 'Then,' said Miss Evelina, very cool and clear, 'in that 
 case, I'll wait.' 
 
 "Uncle Joel didn't seem to understand for a minute. 
 Then he sort of straightened up all over. He looked down at 
 the overcoat. He turned perfectly scarlet. He took it off and 
 laid it on Father's arm. 
 
308 THE FATHER 
 
 " 'Much obliged, Jack,' he said, 'but I reckon I won't 
 need it, after all.' 
 
 "He gave Father a handshake, and went down the lane. 
 Halfway down, he turned and looked back. But he didn't 
 look back at Father, nor us children. He looked right at 
 Miss Evelina, so slim and lovely and still. 
 
 " 'You won't have to wait very long,' he said. Then 
 he went away over that glare ice with the old pieces of car- 
 pet tied over his shoes. But he went like lightning just the 
 
CHAPTER THIRTY 
 
 LATE one blowy cloudy spring day Mr. Lincoln rode up 
 ' the lane. Only two nights ago he had stopped in for 
 supper and a long contented visit. To-day he was ten years 
 older. His dry wrinkled face had fallen into leathery fur- 
 rows. His cavernous eyes were pits of dark. 
 
 He slumped down into a chair and turned his gray be- 
 wildered face to Father. Father, drawn and haggard, looked 
 back at him. 
 
 "You've heard the news, Stafford?" 
 
 "This morning. At the postoffice. I've looked for this 
 all along. Yet I didn't really believe it. I can't believe it 
 now." 
 
 "Probably it won't go through, after all. This is merely 
 their first gain. Plenty of time to defeat them." 
 
 "Defeat them? How can we? They have repealed the 
 Missouri Compromise. The covenant of our Constitution is 
 broken within our hands." 
 
 "It shall not be broken, Stafford. There are enough of 
 us, the anti-slavery men, to force a reaction. Right here and 
 now." 
 
 "You can't believe what you are saying. For if the 
 nation's faith in our Union is so strong, then how has this 
 infamous action won its ends?" 
 
 Mr. Lincoln had been talking against himself, that was 
 certain. Now he threw off that mask of senseless hope. 
 
 "God help this nation, Stafford. This is the beginning of 
 universal freedom. Or else — it is the beginning of the end." 
 
 "They sat there a long time and didn't say one word," 
 wrote Mercy. "Exactly like two poor miserable little boys, 
 
310 THE FATHER 
 
 who had been whipped and scolded besides. Father wouldn't 
 say anything. And for once in his life, I guess Mr. Lincoln 
 couldn't find anything to say. At last he said, 'Well, Staf- 
 ford, I know now how you have felt these years past. I 
 never did understand before.' But Father didn't seem to 
 hear him. Goodness knows, I wish they didn't make them- 
 selves so unhappy about something they can't help. But 
 Aunty says that's menfolks for you. Every time." 
 
 For days after the certainty that the Missouri Com- 
 promise had been repealed, John Stafford went about, 
 stunned, silent. All these years he had longed so terribly to 
 help, to share. He had poured out his strength, he had given 
 the best of his life. And he had failed. All his pleadings 
 had fallen on deaf ears. Not one man had listened. Not one 
 hand had stretched out to grasp the torch from his eager 
 hand. 
 
 Emerson had been right, of course. "You won't even 
 have the satisfaction of being a martyr. You'll be a dreary 
 nuisance. . . ." 
 
 But a man must use what talents are vouchsafed him. 
 He was as his life and the lives of his forebears had made 
 him. Perhaps he would have accomplished more if he had 
 waved and shouted and made a noisy personal appeal. But 
 he could not. He hadn't known how. He had no traffic with 
 the virulent, not with the cheaply sentimental. He could 
 speak only truth, no matter how cold, how dull. His pen 
 would have turned in his hand had he forced it to blacken 
 the South or to deny the faults of the North. Well, he 
 was a failure, that was all. He was a barren old fig-tree, 
 cursed with the pulsing sap of eager hope, never to be 
 blessed with fruit. 
 
 What was it he had told Emerson? "If I can only find 
 one man " What a fool, what a presumptuous fool 
 
THE FATHER 311 
 
 he had been to dream that he might find even one. Every 
 great army must have its stragglers. He himself was just a 
 straggler, a camp-follower, when he had fancied himself a 
 leader, a counselor! 
 
 Well, there had been other fools before his time. There 
 would be more fools to follow. "Who hath believed our 
 report?" The ancient bitter cry rang in his ears. Why ask? 
 There could be no reply. He had believed, he had followed 
 his mighty hope, and it had disowned his worship. His 
 faith itself had fallen to ashes before his eyes. 
 
 So he stumbled on through darkening hours. Then, 
 Strangely, there was granted to him a gleam of promise. 
 
 He had ridden to Springfield where he spent some days. 
 The evening of his return Mr. Lincoln had suggested that 
 he would ride home with Father and stay the night, as he 
 did so often in order to make an early start to court the next 
 morning. 
 
 Now back of the Stafford land lay a strip of woods which 
 abutted on the highroad between Springfield and St. Louis. 
 This highroad was constantly used by emigrant trains on 
 their way west. It was a winding turnpike, which finally 
 merged with the road which lay in front of the Stafford 
 home. That merging point lay a full two miles below the 
 place. But now a new cross-road had been cut which united 
 the two at a point just below Father's land. This new road 
 would cut off miles of driving for the west-bound travelers. 
 It would bring the stream of emigrants within a few yards 
 of the Stafford house itself. 
 
 On their way back the two men took this short cut. It had 
 been open only a few days. Neither man had ridden on it 
 until to-day. 
 
 They had hardly entered it until they had to rein in 
 their horses to make way for an oncoming train. 
 
 At first glance this caravan was the prototype of the 
 
312 THE FATHER 
 
 thousands of caravans that so constantly crossed the state. 
 But as the two sat waiting on their restive horses, a curious 
 question came to them. How long could this string be? How 
 long had they waited? Five minutes — ten minutes — half 
 
 an hour 
 
 "Isn't there any end to this procession?" Mr. Lincoln 
 bent forward, peering. As far as eye could see they were 
 coming still. Huge white-topped wagons, patient teams, led 
 horses, provision trains. Gigantic flat trucks drawn by eight 
 yoke of oxen dragged the wheels and boilers for a mill. 
 Another truck carried a forge with the blacksmith hard 
 at work, welding a white-hot chain. And every wagon bore 
 not only its own emblem, a maple branch, a coonskin, a 
 horseshoe; but on every white canvas top was painted its 
 insolent gay goal: "On to Kansas!" "Kansas and Free- 
 dom!" "Beecher Bibles for Border Bullies!" 
 
 "This isn't just an emigrant train," finally Mr. Lin- 
 coln spoke. "This is a crusade, Stafford, don't you see? A 
 pilgrimage. The pilgrimage of a nation." 
 
 Mr. Stafford did not answer. He could not have an- 
 swered had he tried. For one moment, the old swift exulta- 
 tion awoke in him. If only for this breath his shamed 
 dream was his again. 
 
 "If I could only go myself!" But old, tired, all but pen- 
 niless, the Promised Land was not for him. "Oh, if I could 
 help even " 
 
 Help! The pitiful absurdity of that! Not a dollar had 
 he to spare, not an hour of time, not an ounce of strength 
 that was not pledged over and over to earning for the actual 
 needs of his own children! 
 
 "But there must be something I can do. If I had one 
 single advantage that I could share with these people, one 
 comfort, one lift that I could give them on their way! 
 
THE FATHER 313 
 
 But I have nothing. Nothing but barely enough food for my 
 own. Actually, the only thing left to me that I dare to share 
 is my well. Good drinking water. That's the only thing 
 of which we have enough and to spare. . . ." 
 
 "The little boys have a new job," wrote Mercy. "The 
 first real honest-to-goodness job they have ever had, and 
 they are proud enough to burst, all three of them. Now that 
 the new road is cut and the Free-Kansas men are crossing 
 through only a little way from our house, Father has told 
 the boys that they can take turns providing fresh water for 
 the travelers' casks, and watering their horses, too. Some- 
 times as many as three great long caravans come trailing 
 through in one day. You wouldn't believe how surprised and 
 grateful the travelers are. They are well equipped, most of 
 them, with fine new Conestogas, and good beds and plenty 
 of blankets and cooking things. But as one man told Father 
 yesterday the finest Conestoga made can't carry a flowering 
 well with water as cold as ice, and so fresh and pure. They 
 drink and drink and drink. They're always so hot and 
 thirsty their tongues fairly hang out. Afterward we let their 
 horses and cattle drink too. Its lucky for us that our well 
 is fed by a spring that never was known to fail. 
 
 "The little boys pretend they are on a ship at sea, so one 
 of them must perch up atop of the gate-post so he can 
 watch out over the prairie. Then when he sees a wagon- 
 train coming he signals the others, and they pump the drink- 
 ing casks full and ready. They work as hard as they ever 
 did digging in the Indian mounds, and they wear their 
 clothes out faster than ever, but Father doesn't seem to 
 mind. I worried at first to have Thomas paddle in the 
 water so much for fear it might bring on croup again, 
 but he hasn't wheezed once. But we have to tie Trouble in 
 
314 THE FATHER 
 
 the barn for he thinks it is his bounden duty to thrash all 
 the pioneers' dogs, and that keeps him too busy. 
 
 "I wrote Richard about how we are sharing our water 
 with everybody that goes by, and he thinks it is a splendid 
 idea. He says, times that he has been stuck up on a broil- 
 ing wagon-seat, driving a load of refugees, he would have 
 given a year of his life if he'd dared stop long enough for 
 a swallow of cold well-water. Mr. Lincoln says he is proud 
 of these pioneers, and thinks we should feel honored by 
 the chance to give them this lift. He gave an oration about 
 them at the Lord's Barn last Sunday. He said these folks 
 are like the Pilgrim fathers only finer if anything, be- 
 cause the Pilgrims left their own land to escape persecution 
 and to win freedom for themselves. But that these Free- 
 Kansas men did not have to run away from persecution. 
 Instead, they had turned their backs on their own comfort 
 and ease and set out for a rough new country to save it for 
 freedom. He said we should always call them pioneers, not 
 emigrants. 'For the emigrant goes out into strange lands 
 to better himself,' says Mr. Lincoln, c and that is all very 
 well. But the pioneer leaves safe comfortable lands, and 
 starts out to better the country to which he goes. Maybe he 
 will improve his own condition by so doing, maybe not. 
 Moreover, the emigrant will build up a civilization by slow 
 degrees. But the pioneer, at least such pioneers as these, 
 will take with him his civilization, the finest civilization 
 that this continent has ever known. 
 
 " 'Plenty of people think that these Kansas pioneers are 
 starting out armed with Beecher Bible * and a skillet, and 
 precious little else. But I tell you that these covered wagons 
 that pass us today are chests of treasure. Look in them and 
 
 * The Beecher Bibles were the Springfield rifles sent out with 
 the Free-Kansas expeditions which were equipped by Henry Ward 
 Beecher and his congregation. 
 
THE FATHER 3 ! 5 
 
 you will find the things tangible: old royal land grants, 
 rosewood cradles, books and manuscripts, fine old silver. 
 Listen to their talk, and you will find the things intangible: 
 stately memories, proud traditions. For these tired dusty men 
 who pass us to-day are the wheat, the cream, the marrow of 
 their nation. They are fiber and sinew, flesh and spirit, the 
 kernel of America's finest grain. And this, their journey, is 
 not just a dull migration. This is the onslaught of an al- 
 mighty hope. These men sow in splendor. They shall reap 
 in freedom.' 
 
 " — I felt that it was a very genteel discourse, but lots 
 of our folks were quite sniffy about it. They say that Mr. 
 Lincoln might just as well come right out and say he's an 
 Abolitionist and be done with it. And Mr. Timothy Lyman 
 says he'd wager they's plenty of your fine pioneers who 
 have lit out from their home country, a-purpose to get out 
 from under their home-town constable's thumb. 
 
 "Richard writes that he is coming some time this spring 
 to stay two days. We can't get married this time, for he 
 has to earn quite a bit more before he can pay enough on his 
 land to hold it. But I don't care. I just want to see him so 
 dreadfully that I won't complain if he can stay only one 
 day. Or one hour. Or one minute." 
 
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 
 
 RICHARD had come, for a day and a night. Richard 
 here, for the first time since last October, and here it 
 was June! It had been so long. Too long. Yet here he stood, 
 so tall, so glorious, so brimming-full of love and teasing 
 and rascally small-boy delight! She had planned his com- 
 ing, so many times over, she had pictured out every perfect 
 moment. But here, sitting beside him on Mount Everest, 
 she could not speak. She did not want to move. She wanted 
 only to sit there motionless in the great gold sweep of sun 
 and wind and prairie, and listen to his rushing eager voice, 
 and be quiet. Quiet in a happiness that was life and breath 
 and healing. Not a thought of dread or worry left to her. 
 Not even a shadow of fear. 
 
 "Turn around, Mrs. Lot, so I can rest my eyes on you. 
 Actually, you haven't aged so very much. Not nearly as 
 much as I'd expected." He took up her slender little hand, 
 scrutinized it, then kissed the little broom-and-churn cal- 
 louses on the rosy palm. 
 
 "Ridiculous-looking hands you've got. Don't know 
 whether I really ought to marry you. For I want a wife 
 who will be some good for pioneering. The kind that can 
 pull stumps and shoe the mules and knock the Indians off 
 the front stoop. These don't look worth shucks. They look 
 like they were made out of May-apple blooms. Or else 
 spring beauties. Although if a man wants something to 
 look at, they'll do well enough." 
 
 Mercy utilized one of them to cuff his ears. Then she 
 took his own paw, bent the fingers back, and set to tapping 
 his broad palm with her fingertips. 
 
THE FATHER 317 
 
 "What's all that performance?" 
 
 "It's a sort of code Father taught me." Mercy gazed 
 up at him, sedate and grave. "Suppose you're in church or 
 some place where you mustn't talk out loud. Well, you 
 can spell out what you want to say, or even tap it without 
 speaking a word. Here, I'll make three taps. Can you guess 
 what that means?" 
 
 "Yes," said Richard, promptly. "But I know a lot better 
 way to say it. I'll show you." 
 
 He did. 
 
 "I'm going to get that same team from old Currier and 
 we'll go for a drive, Mercy." 
 
 "Oh-h, Rich! But ought we to spend?" 
 
 "Hush, I guess I can afford to take my girl riding just 
 once in six months. Besides, Mr. Lincoln wants me to do 
 an errand for him. He asked me to take some legal papers 
 over to Colonel Andrews down beyond Coles Creek." 
 
 "Right across Cooper Township?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "That will be fine, for I need some early apples for 
 pies, and we can stop at Mrs. Isaiah's for them. That's 
 near Coles Creek. You see Father is taking Aunty and 
 Miss Evelina and the two older boys to Springfield. Mr. 
 Phillips is to lecture there to-day. He'd take Thomas, too, 
 only Thomas was croupy last night and I'm afraid to let 
 him go. But we can take him on our ride, for we'll be 
 home before dark." 
 
 "Take Thomas along! Great Scott!" 
 
 A spark of Father's own devilment awoke in Mercy's 
 eyes. 
 
 "Why, Richard, he's been so good all week he deserves 
 it. If I wanted to take all three little boys, you might have 
 some excuse to fuss." 
 
 Thereupon Richard indulged in what would be called, if 
 
318 THE FATHER 
 
 he were Thomas's age, a tantrum. Mercy adored it, while 
 she derided it. 
 
 "Anybody would think Thomas was a raging hyena 
 instead of a good obedient little boy who never bothered 
 anybody in all his life. I'll tell you what we can do. We 
 will drive over to Mrs. Isaiah's, leave Thomas there, then 
 come back for him later. No, I cannot leave him here, soul 
 alone. Even Twonnet is staying at old Miss Tuckerman's 
 this week." 
 
 "Oh, well. If we've got to " 
 
 Then he looked at Mercy. Looked at her as if he would 
 grave her face upon his sight, as if he never asked to 
 see anything again except those silver-gilt braids, that 
 long clear serious glance, that square small chin, those 
 lips that were his own. Her thoughts were his thoughts, 
 she had no wish that was not woven into his, dyed with 
 the color of his will. She would have followed him bare- 
 foot through the world. 
 
 "You!" he said, under his breath. 
 
 They stopped at Mrs. Isaiah's and deposited Thomas, 
 exuding a veritable odor of sanctity, under her neighborly 
 wing. Then the two drove on. Halfway across Cooper 
 Township came Coles Creek, now swollen by heavy rains 
 to a young flood. The Andrews' farm was only a few 
 hundred yards from the farther shore. But between them 
 stretched a tumble of muddy water. 
 
 "Will you look at that! We never can cross with the 
 team. We'll bog down, sure as fate." 
 
 "Yes, and these papers are urgent. I promised Mr. 
 Lincoln that the Colonel should have them to-day sure as 
 shootin\" 
 
 "You take one horse, and make him swim across. I'll 
 stay here till you get back." 
 
 "Yes, I'd feel fine leaving you here alone!" 
 
THE FATHER 319 
 
 "Don't be a goose, Rich. I'll be perfectly safe." 
 
 "But look at those clouds. Rolling up for another rain." 
 
 "Oh, it won't rain for an hour or more. If it does, I'll 
 run for the haunted cabin." 
 
 "The what?" 
 
 "The cabin where the haunted mirror hangs. Didn't 
 I ever tell you about it? Right over yonder." She pointed 
 out the sagging gables, the crumbling chimney, clearly 
 seen past the abandoned orchard. "We've passed it a dozen 
 times, but Father is so notional, he never lets me step 
 inside." 
 
 "Your father is a mighty sensible man. Just let me 
 catch you sticking your nose inside a place like that." 
 
 This was a shade too proprietary. 
 
 "Oh, hurry along, Rich. Can't you see how fast that 
 rain is coming?" 
 
 A bank of purple darkened the horizon. The air was 
 growing hazed and dim. 
 
 "Well, I'm off. Stay here, then. I won't be out of calling 
 distance. At least, not more than ten minutes." 
 
 Two minutes more and he and his horse were pound- 
 ing up the farther bank. He waved and shouted back, then 
 disappeared behind the trees. 
 
 Mercy had miscalculated. It was not five minutes until 
 those purple banks stretched from horizon to zenith. 
 There came a crash of thunder followed by swift heavy 
 drops. 
 
 "No matter how bossy Rich likes to be, he wouldn't want 
 me to stick around here through a storm. I'm going to the 
 cabin. After all these years I couldn't possibly catch the 
 fever. And I do so want a peep at that mirror!" 
 
 To enter the cabin was to enter a cave of dust and 
 gloom. Spiderwebs curtained the narrow window. Small 
 
320 THE FATHER 
 
 squeaks and rustles startled her as she slipped across the 
 room. Broken chairs, a torn rag rug, a splintery board 
 table, but tall, golden, royal, towering in that grimy murk, 
 shone the great gold mirror. 
 
 Awe and pity shook Mercy's heart. She stared into those 
 vague depths that had gathered to themselves so much of 
 loveliness, so much of reckless joy, such terror. Mr. Lin- 
 coln's words came echoing back: "The flowing sparkling 
 ladies, the swaggering dandies, the blustering old captain — 
 where had all their sparkle and swagger and bluster gone 
 now?" 
 
 Where would it all go, anyway? She too stood here, but 
 only for this moment: her soft cheek, her strong little 
 hands, her blue delaine dress with its white starched ruffles. 
 So would Rich shine here, for one instant . . . Rich's 
 dear insolent handsome face, the scar across his forehead, 
 the funny little dent that cocked one black eyebrow. All 
 Rich's splendor would flare one instant, across that glim- 
 mering expanse, then vanish as she too would vanish. 
 Never to shine in this gray gloom again. 
 
 Thunder volleyed. The room grew darker still. The 
 rickety door blew open. Mercy ran to prop it shut. 
 
 "Rich will be drenched. And he won't be able to coax 
 that skittish horse across the creek till this downpour stops." 
 
 She must have spoken aloud. From across the room came 
 a quiet chuckling voice: 
 
 "That will give us time for a fine long visit. Eh, 
 Beauty?" 
 
 With a grasp, she whirled and faced the voice. 
 
 Frederick Owen. Frederick Owen, in his long dove- 
 colored riding coat, and his violet waistcoat, and the clear 
 white diamonds glittering on his neckcloth. Frederick 
 Owen. He was coming towards her, laughing softly with 
 each slow reeling step. He bent his head, looked straight 
 
THE FATHER 321 
 
 down into her eyes. That look tore through her like a huge 
 unclean hand. 
 
 All the breath went out of her body. She leaped for 
 the door. 
 
 Drunk though he was, Frederick was quicker. Quick as 
 a hawk. He was down on her with one swoop, he had 
 pinioned her hands and thrown her against the wall, he 
 was slamming her back and forth against the door casing, 
 beating her head against it with every shake. She tried to 
 scream, but the pain was too fearful. She fought and 
 twisted and kicked, but he had jammed his knee against her 
 knee, flattened her body taut against the wall. She ducked 
 her head, set her teeth into his hand. He yelled with fury 
 and struck her in the face with his free hand. Holding her 
 clenched against the wall, he stooped and pulled the little 
 dirk from his boot. 
 
 "Listen, Beauty. You wouldn't let me carve our names 
 on th' office wall, remember? Well, all ri\ AIL ri\ But 
 I am' discouraged yet. Not me. I'm goin' carve those 
 nishels right here, where you won* forget. Right on your 
 sweet little neck, so's you can't never forget " 
 
 The dirk slashed through her blue delaine shoulder, 
 sheared away the starched frills. A stab of pain followed 
 the dirk, a quick gush of blood. 
 
 Something crashed behind them. Frederick gave a queer 
 smothered squeal. The dirk clattered on the floor. He 
 let go Mercy's hands, turned to face that crash. 
 
 He did not have a chance. As the door toppled inward, 
 Richard had sprung on him. He gripped him as a terrier 
 grips a rat. You could not see in that dark room. You 
 could not hear, you could not feel, even, for your hands 
 were too numb, your whole body was struck motionless. 
 Yet you knew the thud of iron flesh on flesh, the gasping 
 breaths. Then a silence that screamed in your ears. 
 
322 THE FATHER 
 
 Richard shoved the door open, propped it with a broken 
 chair. In the dim light you saw Richard's torn shirt, his 
 bleeding face, the bleeding huddle that lay face down on 
 the stone of the hearth. 
 
 "Settled him." Richard pushed the heap aside with 
 his foot. "Now, you " 
 
 He tried to go on. He couldn't. He lurched across the 
 room and gathered up Mercy somehow, then stumbled 
 over to a bench and sat down with her. He sat there a good 
 while clutching her to him weakly. Finally he began to 
 mumble incoherent words, to sob over her, to croon over 
 her. 
 
 "Richard, darling! Don't, don't. I'm not hurt. Only 
 this one cut. And he's spoiled my collar, but the dress will 
 wash, all right. Richard, don't! Stop now!" 
 
 He couldn't stop. He cried the way Donny used to cry 
 when he was very little. Thank goodness, Donny didn't 
 cry like that any more. On and on, hopelessly, despairingly, 
 as if he was locked away somewhere, forgotten, as if he % 
 knew he'd never be found again. 
 
 Presently Mercy roused herself. She shook herself free 
 from Richard's arms. She pulled him to his feet. She 
 dragged him outside, and splashed water on him from the 
 hogshead below the eaves. She kissed him and scolded 
 him and comforted him. 
 
 "Anybody would think you were five years old, going 
 on six. Stop gulping, or I'll smack you. Keep sopping your 
 face with your wet handkerchief and maybe that will stop 
 the bleeding. And for goodness' sake, find me a pin. You 
 must have one stuck in your coat somewhere. You don't 
 want me to ride home with my sleeve cut clear off my 
 shoulder like this. There, there, I didn't mean to start 
 you all over again. Richard, stop it! 
 
 At last Richard stopped. He couldn't stop trembling, 
 
THE FATHER 323 
 
 though. He shook like a leaf when Mercy, scolding, 
 urging, drove him back into the room, and made him pick 
 Frederick up and bring him outdoors. 
 
 "Reckon I've killed him. Hope so, anyway." 
 
 "That's a fine way to talk. Anybody would think you 
 were a bushwhacker. Pick him up, now. Goodness, how 
 floppy he is. But maybe he'll brace up when we get him 
 into the air." 
 
 It took some time to rouse Frederick. When he did 
 rouse, he could stand, but could not walk. He moaned and 
 wailed when they tried to make him step, he sniffled like 
 a sick puppy. 
 
 Richard felt him over, none too gently. 
 
 "Can't find anything broken, except his jaw. Whew, I 
 gave him some ugly bruises. Look at his face." 
 
 Mercy did not want to look at his face. It made her 
 feel too peculiar inside. It was not much of a face any 
 more. It was black, where it wasn't purple, and it was 
 pulpy all over. His swollen and broken jaw made his 
 whole head look knocked sidewise, like a lump of bluish 
 dough. 
 
 "Take your handkerchief, Rich, and tie up that poor 
 jaw. It must hurt dreadfully. Yes, I know it's one I made 
 for you. What of it? I'll make you another. Yes, I'll steady 
 his head. But hurry." 
 
 They bandaged the lolling head as best they could. 
 
 "Now hold his horse, Mercy, while I hoist him on." 
 
 Easier said than done. The horse, young and fractious, 
 sidled and bucked. Frederick was too logy to help him- 
 self. But at last they got him into the saddle. As Richard 
 put the reins into his hands he took a fairly firm hold. 
 Whining with the pain of every movement, he yet drew 
 himself erect, and struck out clumsily with the whip that 
 
324 THE FATHER 
 
 Mercy had given him. The horse galloped away down 
 the road towards his home. 
 
 "He'll get home, all right. Wish I had finished him, 
 though. Damn him!" 
 
 "Richard Harrison, I am surprised at you. Harness 
 quick, now, and let's go for Thomas. Mrs. Isaiah will 
 think we've dumped him on her hands for all night." 
 
 They drove away toward Mrs. Isaiah's. It was fortunate 
 that they had no more creeks to cross, for this rain had 
 been more than a rain. It had been a cloudburst. 
 
 "Father and the folks will have to stay in Springfield 
 to-night." 
 
 "They'll be lucky if they don't have to stay to-morrow 
 night. This rain is a young flood. Hi, there's Thomas. 
 Will you look at him ! You'll have to run him through the 
 wringer." 
 
 This was too accurately put. All traces of Thomas's re- 
 cent sanctity were washed away. Mrs. Isaiah was an easy- 
 going guardian. Thomas and the young Brookers had spent 
 a delightful afternoon, playing Duck on a Rock, and a 
 trifle like a cloudburst had not interrupted their fun. 
 Thomas was soaking from head to foot, he was stuffed 
 with green apples, he wheezed like a cheerful little gram- 
 pus. Mercy saw a prolonged session with camphor, and 
 goosegrease. 
 
 Her foresight was too well vindicated. By suppertime, 
 Thomas's cheery air had given way to heavy choking 
 drowsiness. When Richard came in from the milking, he 
 found Mercy before the fire rocking the poor little sinner 
 in her arms, while a loathly mess of onion-and-molasses 
 simmered on the hob. By eight o'clock Richard was begging 
 to go for a doctor. 
 
 "You can't reach town to-night. Not in this storm. 
 
THE FATHER 325 
 
 Anyway, Richard, I'd like you to stay with us till the folks 
 get home." 
 
 "Think you could drive me away? I stay here to-night 
 and to-morrow, too, if you need me. Whoa, Thomas! 
 Here, let me carry him to the window. Maybe he can 
 breathe there." 
 
 Thomas was getting very tired of breathing. He had 
 made a gallant fight, but his chuffy little neck was swollen 
 hard, his voice came slowly in agonized toiling gasps. 
 Mercy fought with him, shoulder to shoulder. All her 
 skill, all the life in her, fought too. She forgot Richard, 
 she forgot Frederick Owen. She knew nothing but that 
 precious little body in her arms, the small hot clutching 
 hands, the tortured wrenching breaths. At ten o'clock, she 
 and Richard looked at each other in terror. At midnight, 
 there was a respite. Thomas breathed easier. From one 
 o'clock till four, they fought death hand to hand. 
 
 At daybreak, the agony yielded. Thomas did not lift 
 his head. He did not even open his eyes. But every taut 
 straining muscle let go. He pitched backward, limp, ashen, 
 into Mercy's lap. 
 
 Mercy looked down incredulously at the lax little arm- 
 ful, the dark congested little face, slowly clearing to a dim 
 drowned likeness of itself. Then she gathered the child 
 up, and went staggering into Aunty's room. She pitched 
 down on the great pineapple bed. She knew nothing, asked 
 nothing, but the chance to lie where she had fallen, the 
 little boy still clasped to her breast. But even as she sank 
 into exhausted sleep, her arms did not loosen. And in the 
 depths of his own sleep, Thomas clung feebly round her 
 neck, as if he knew that only in his sister's clasp lay 
 safety. 
 
 Richard looked down at them. He laid a blanket over 
 
326 THE FATHER 
 
 them and tucked it in. Then he looked at the clock. 
 Twenty minutes of five. 
 
 He closed the door softly and crouched on the kitchen 
 step. He did not turn his eyes from the silent room. 
 
 — It was high noon when Mercy awoke. Thomas still 
 slept. Richard was clumping around the kitchen trying to 
 cook breakfast. Mercy swallowed a cup of his unspeak- 
 able scorched coffee and ate a slice of bread. Thomas lay 
 in a lax ashen little heap, but he was out of danger. That 
 she knew. She and Richard looked the worse for wear 
 but that was all. Yet upon both of them lay a queer 
 lethargy, a heavy burden of dread. 
 
 "What ails us?" thought Mercy. "By six o'clock, Rich 
 must start back to Springfield. We have only these few 
 hours together. And here we must sit as dumb as two 
 graven images. I'm ashamed of us!" 
 
 At five o'clock that afternoon Father and his solidly 
 packed household drove up the lane. Worn out by the long 
 drive home through the flooded fields, they wasted scarce 
 a word of greeting upon Richard. Mercy forebore to trouble 
 them at once with an account of Thomas's illness, but in- 
 stead set about making her family comfortable. 
 
 She brought out dry clothing and started a kettle of soup. 
 
 While she was setting the table two men rode up the 
 lane. Sheriff Correll and Lind Wheeler, his deputy, both 
 armed. They entered, hardly pausing to knock. Father rose 
 up and greeted them cordially. 
 
 "Sit down, gentlemen. Supper will be ready in a minute. 
 We are glad to have you with us." 
 
 The sheriff looked at him queerly. 
 
 "Sorry, Mr. Stafford, but I reckon you know why we're 
 here. We want your young friend." 
 
 "What young friend?" 
 
 "Richard Harrison. He can tell you why we want him, 
 
THE FATHER 327 
 
 all right. Folks found young Owen lying dead in Coles 
 Creek in shallow water close by the Andrews' place. 
 Drowned? Yes, and worse than drowned. He'd been beat 
 and pounded to death first, then slung into the creek. He 
 was all one black bruise from head to foot. Colonel An- 
 drews told us that young Harrison had stopped there yes- 
 terday, with some papers from Lawyer Lincoln. And 
 Owen's jaw was tied up with a handkerchief. A handker- 
 chief with 'R.H.' sewed on it." 
 
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 
 
 AFTERWARDS, Mercy need not try to remember. 
 > She could see it all, very small and sharp and clear, as 
 if drawn with the finest of pens on the thinnest parchment. 
 So fine, so clear, she could see the coarse stained skin of 
 the sheriff's hand as he dropped it on Rich's shoulder. She 
 could see the blank amazement on Rich's face change to 
 question, then to slow kindling anger. She could see her- 
 self flash across the room and tear the sheriff's hand away. 
 She could hear her own senseless scream of fury. "Rich 
 didn't — he didn't! When Rich put him on his horse he 
 was able to ride away. Rich didn't go back and drown him. 
 He couldn't! He stayed right with me " 
 
 Then Rich had turned and struck his hand down over 
 her mouth, struck down so hard it bruised her lips till they 
 bled. His swift angry whisper rang in her ears. "Mercy 
 Rose! Be quiet. Don't you dare say one word. Not one 
 word — to anybody!" Then Father had caught her back, 
 hushing her sternly. And before she could tear herself 
 from him, before she could snatch Rich away from them, 
 they had snatched him away from her. And Father's voice 
 was echoing too. 
 
 "Mercy, be quiet. Richard is innocent. He could not 
 have done this thing. Be quiet!" 
 
 "Go get Rich for me then! Go bring him back to me!" 
 
 "I'll have to wait. We must both wait. You shall have 
 Rich again. But to-night we must give way to the law. 
 To-morrow I'll get Mr. Lincoln " 
 
 "To-morrow — to-morrow! Get him to-night. I won't 
 wait. / won't!" 
 
THE FATHER 329 
 
 "My child, look at that flooded road. It took me seven 
 hours to bring us home from Springfield to-day. It would 
 take even longer if I tried to go back to Springfield by 
 night. I'll start at daybreak. Even if I could reach Mr. 
 Lincoln to-night, he could do nothing till morning. We'll 
 have to go into court, we'll have to try for bail " 
 
 "I want Rich to-night. I will have him to-night. Father, 
 you must bring him. You must!" 
 
 He could not soothe her. He could not silence her. He 
 knelt beside her, holding her tight, he poured out his 
 anguished tenderness, his tortured futile pity. At last 
 through her agony there came a gleam of light. 
 
 Richard was innocent. Anybody could see that, who had 
 the sense to see at all. All she need do was to hold her 
 silence as Rich had commanded her — to say nothing of 
 Owen's attack upon her, nothing of that day and night. It 
 would be hard. Mercy's stern little chin quivered at the 
 thought. But it was the only way that she could deal hon- 
 estly by Rich. 
 
 Aunty was right. Men folks were a terrible responsi- 
 bility. But Rich was innocent. Everybody could see that. 
 And by suppertime to-morrow night, Mr. Lincoln would 
 have come and straightened out everything. Just as he 
 always did. And Rich would be here, just as always. He 
 would be laughing at her for being such a silly calf about 
 him. He'd be telling Aunty that the eye of man had never 
 alighted on such squirrel pie, and he'd be challenging 
 Thomas to a pancake contest, and stuffing down fat little 
 sausages meanwhile with the speed of light. . . . 
 
 Then deathly terror caught her, swept her from head 
 to foot. 
 
 She stood up. Her knees shook under her, a black mist 
 rolled before her eyes. But she lifted her head high, and 
 she set her little chin like iron. Father's own chin. 
 
330 THE FATHER 
 
 "I'm sorry, Father. I'm going to behave now. To- 
 morrow things won't be so dreadful." 
 
 Father wasn't grown up, really. He was nothing but a 
 little boy. Not one minute older than Adoniram. For she 
 hadn't got the words out of her mouth till that gray terror 
 was fading from his face. He pulled himself together, 
 precisely as Donny pulled himself together when you'd 
 tided him through a lonesome spell. All the light came 
 back into his face, all the cheerfulness to his voice. . . . 
 N-no. Perhaps not quite all. 
 
 "There's my good girl!" Father's arms caught her 
 tight. 
 
 But back of that cheerful patient voice she could feel 
 the heavy beat of his heart. Father's dear patient heart, 
 weighed down, leaden with fear for her. "We'll get Mr. 
 Lincoln by daylight. He'll straighten everything out. No 
 doubt about it. Now sleep, dear." 
 
 Sleep! Could she ever sleep again? 
 
 But sleep she did. On her narrow bed, Thomas held 
 tight for comfort, she lay in a sleep like death for hours 
 on hours. When she awoke at last, she scrambled out of 
 bed, realizing only that she had slept outrageously late, 
 and stood struggling drowsily to brush the sleep from her 
 heavy eyes. It was not till she stooped to kiss little Thomas 
 awake that that black remembering swept down on her. 
 
 For a minute she stood gripping the limp little Thomas. 
 Her face turned white as chalk, her hands grew ice. The 
 room whirled and darkened around her. She stood there 
 very straight and small in her skimpy little nightgown. 
 She fingered the lace sleeve ruffles, with numb bewildered 
 hands. Yes, it was that identical old lacy gown. Father 
 had torn the hem from it that night, to make Rich's 
 bandage. Aunty had mended it for her, and she had scolded, 
 too, because the whole lower edge, with two yards of inch- 
 
THE FATHER 331 
 
 wide shell-crochet lace, was gone beyond recall. Mercy 
 chuckled faintly. Oh, well, who cared? Even if shell 
 crochet was poky to make, it had done good service. It had 
 tied up that ugly cut for Rich. For Rich. But now Rich 
 was gone and this time she couldn't reach him. She couldn't 
 help him. All she could do for him was to keep still. Rich 
 had told her to keep still. Well, all right. But it surely 
 would be hard. . . . Again that black mist thickened 
 before Mercy's eyes. The rough boards slid away beneath 
 her feet. Yes, it would be hard. But Rich had commanded 
 her. At least she could do this one thing that he asked her. 
 Menfolks had to have their way about things. And any- 
 way, there was no use in worrying Father. 
 
 Before sunrise, Father had started on horseback to 
 Springfield. He came back hours after. He looked very 
 queer, and ashen white. When he swung off Button he 
 stumbled and nearly fell. Mr. Lincoln had gone to Rock 
 Island. Something to do with a Government case. Mrs. 
 Lincoln had said he might be back in three days. But no 
 telling. 
 
 Mercy did not say much. If she had to keep still, she'd 
 keep still. It wasn't as hard as you'd think. Not when she 
 was doing it for Rich. For Rich. 
 
 The day dragged endlessly. The little boys hung around 
 their sister, awed and quiet. They did not understand. But 
 something had hurt their sister. She did not romp with 
 them, not once that whole long day. She did not talk about 
 their school. She did not talk about anything. She wasn't 
 Mercy, that was all. When they came home from school, 
 she didn't run to meet them. To be sure, she did draw 
 a bucket of water from the well and fill the basin, so that 
 they could wash their grimy hands. She spread a royal 
 plateful of bread and 'lasses, and tied up Thomas's 
 
332 THE FATHER 
 
 stubbed toe, and soused sweet-oil on Seth's cowlick, just 
 as she always did. But she wasn't Mercy. She wasn't there. 
 She was looking for something she had lost, searching for 
 somebody else. Richard. Richard. Richard. 
 
 Once or twice, that dark mist thickened before her till 
 she found herself clutching out, snatching to grasp him, 
 till she could feel her throat so dry and taut in the effort 
 to shriek his name. But she choked back that scream, she 
 forced her gripping hands to go back to whatever task lay 
 near. There was quite enough to keep her hands busy. 
 Thomas's last trousers were worn through at the knees, and 
 Donny hadn't a decent pair of stockings to his name, and 
 Seth had played lion-tamer last Sunday and tried to tease 
 Cartouche into a rough-and-tumble fight. Cartouche, for 
 all he was so lazy and so drowsy, had given Seth one large 
 impatient slap with a huge paw which raked his Sabbath 
 raiment fore and aft. How in the nation could anybody 
 mend cat scratches that had ripped good heavy broadcloth 
 into fringe, Aunty had declared indignantly. But Mercy 
 had taken hold and was weaving the raveled fibers back 
 inch by inch. Although as Mr. Lincoln would say, it was 
 proving a land-office job. — After a while Mr. Lincoln 
 would come. And he would straighten out all this hideous 
 tangle. He would clear Richard. He would make every- 
 thing right. Richard. Richard. Every thought led back to 
 Richard. Because Richard was all the world. And you 
 couldn't go on living without him much longer. 
 
 And soon, queerly soon, came the night. And sleep 
 that folded her like the cloak of death, itself. 
 
 Then came the brazen flaming of another day. And on 
 this day Father did not leave the house. He hung around 
 near Mercy, his eyes hardly left her face. Through that 
 black mist, Mercy was very sorry for Father. She knew 
 that he was suffering for her. She knew that he was doing 
 
THE FATHER 333 
 
 everything in his power for Rich. She knew that the reason 
 he didn't speak to her was because he was in too much mis- 
 ery to speak. Well, she didn't dare speak, either. Rich had 
 told her not to say anything. She must hold fast to Rich's 
 command. Menfolks were queer, anyway. But Rich had 
 ordered silence. It was hers to obey. 
 
 The second day dragged on and on. It was a cruel day. 
 It would never make an end. Blundering, blinded under 
 that thickening mist, Mercy stumbled on and on. 
 
 On the third day, she rose up with a flare of desperate 
 courage. Three days. To-day Mr. Lincoln would come. 
 Mr. Lincoln would make everything right. But nothing 
 seemed to change at all. 
 
 It was just another day. Just another day of agony, of 
 fear. 
 
 Over and over she fought that creeping dread. 
 
 "When Mr. Lincoln comes " she said to herself, a 
 
 quivering promise. "When Mr. Lincoln comes " 
 
 But she said not one word to Father. What good did 
 it do? And anyway, she'd only worry Father. 
 
 After a while she knew that the foundations of her 
 world were giving way beneath her feet. For till now 
 Father had always done everything. Father had always 
 understood. Now Father could only stumble up and down 
 the lane, hour on hour. Or else sit with his hands locked 
 together and stare into her face, as if the sheer power of 
 his great anguished love could lift this shadow from his 
 darling. Mercy knew what he was suffering. To know 
 that this was hurting Father so terribly was just one more 
 stab. But she couldn't say a word without hurting Father 
 still more. And anyway Richard had told her to keep 
 silence. Richard. Richard. . . . 
 
 At four o'clock Donny and Seth and Thomas came 
 banging into the house. 
 
334 THE FATHER 
 
 Donny and Seth entered in a humor far from brotherly. 
 Donny was as one beset by the cantankerousness of this 
 present world. The school children had long since dis- 
 cerned his sensitive side, and ingenious young fiends that 
 they were, they had profited largely by their discovery. On 
 hot moisty days like this one, Donny's freckles, always too 
 visible, grew actually luminous. To-day he had faced hours 
 of torment. "Ginny-egg, Ginny-egg!" The hateful cry 
 had hailed him at every turn. Donny was adding day by 
 day to his slim little store of pluck, but a whole day of 
 bullying was too much. Only one place in the world, he 
 knew, meant comfort. He headed straight for Mercy's lap. 
 
 Seth, too, had his woes. Chief among them was his de- 
 spised cowlick. For the sake of that cowlick he had en- 
 dured jibes without number. To-day his enemies had been 
 all but inspired in epithet. 
 
 Now deep in Seth's heart, a tiny flame of envy had al- 
 ways smoldered towards Donny. Donny, who need only 
 turn pale and sniffle a time or so, to gain his sister's eager 
 anxious pity. To-day when he observed his brother hasten 
 to the coveted refuge that tiny fire flamed high. 
 
 Seth and Donny arrived on Mercy's lap at precisely the 
 same moment. Two heads bumped together with a rever- 
 berating crack. Seth, plump and a bit clumsy, spilled off 
 Mercy's knee and landed sprawling on the floor. But 
 Donny, agile little rascal, had seen Seth coming. His strong 
 little arms shot around Mercy's neck in a choking grip. 
 A cruel grip. Mercy gasped out as those powerful little 
 fingers closed on the unhealed cut. 
 
 "Oh-h-h! Don't, Donny! Oh, please!" 
 
 She stopped with a gulp. No. You mustn't worry Father. 
 That was her instant thought. But Father had seen too 
 much. He had sprung to his feet, he had caught Donny 
 
THE FATHER 335 
 
 from her arms and set him down on the floor with a bump 
 that jarred the rafters. 
 
 "What do you mean, sir? Can't you see you've hurt your 
 sister?" 
 
 "Oh, but he didn't!" Mercy had dropped back, dizzy 
 and sick. For the pain was dreadful. So dreadful that it 
 loosed the words upon her tongue. "Donny didn't know — 
 he wouldn't have hurt me for the world " 
 
 But Father had let go of Donny. He stood there looking 
 down at Mercy Rose. Mercy had never seen him look like 
 that. His face was gray and drawn and old. His eyes were 
 blazing. Mercy floundered on. 
 
 "Donny couldn't have hurt me, Father. If it hadn't 
 been for that cut " 
 
 "What cut?" 
 
 Mercy felt shaken and queer. Never in all her life had 
 Father spoken to her like this. His voice was quiet. Deadly 
 quiet. His eyes on her were dark flames. 
 
 "Why, the poor little fellow ... he just brushed the 
 place where Frederick Owen " 
 
 Father's voice was gentle as always. Gentle, even now. 
 But the quiet syllables seared. 
 
 Father waited. He put out his hand to Mercy, then drew 
 it back again. Mercy stared at it vaguely. If he had touched 
 her, she would have known how cruelly he was trembling, 
 how cold he was. Cold with terror of what her next words 
 might be. But he did not touch her. He just stood there in 
 his dusty work clothes, leaning to her. His beautiful gray 
 head bent close. 
 
 "Tell me." 
 
 Oh, you couldn't say No to him. And yet 
 
 "Tell me, dear." 
 
 Again that gentleness, that merciless gentleness, that 
 all but broke her down. 
 
336 THE FATHER 
 
 "I — I mustn't. Richard told me not to say one 
 word » 
 
 "Richard!" Father was shaken with a fury that all but 
 stopped his breath. Always, always Richard. "How did he 
 dare." 
 
 "Oh, Father, you're all wrong! Richard didn't do one 
 thing to me. But when Frederick Owen slashed into my 
 shoulder " 
 
 "Mercy Rose! Will you tell me " 
 
 But now Father's voice was terrible. His face was whiter 
 than the gray-white wall behind him. Mercy began to 
 choke. She was suffocated with bewilderment and fear. 
 
 "Oh, Father, I haven't told you one word. I was so 
 afraid I would hurt Rich. Anyway, it's nothing so terrible. 
 It's n-nothing " 
 
 Then Mercy's iron clutch on herself gave way disgrace- 
 fully. She began to cry. All the tears that she had held back 
 these endless days broke past her wall of self-command, 
 swept her, drowned her. 
 
 But she had been all wrong about Father. Father's voice 
 was still so hard and cold and tremulous, but it wasn't 
 harsh. Not one bit. Because when you'd gotten hold of the 
 last shred of Father's voice, there wasn't any harshness 
 left in it. It was all tenderness. 
 
 "Mercy Rose," he spoke again, "tell me. Tell Father." 
 
 When Father spoke like that, you had to answer him. 
 But it was tearing her in little pieces. 
 
 She swallowed back her tears and set her grim little chin. 
 The chin that was so precisely like Father's own. 
 
 "I'm awfully ashamed, Father. To be such a baby about 
 this. But you see, it hasn't healed right. And if you touch 
 it, you — well you can't really stand it. And when Donny 
 landed so hard " 
 
 Father had reached the end of his rope of endurance. 
 
THE FATHER 337 
 
 With one movement, light as the breeze, gentle as a falling 
 leaf, he had lifted the bandage from her throat. 
 
 He did not say anything. Only he drew one quick hard 
 breath at sight of the pitiful angry scars. Then he put back 
 the bandage, and found fresh linen to fold over it. After 
 a while, he spoke. 
 
 "I wouldn't tell Aunty, dear." 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "But I would tell Mr. Lincoln." 
 
 "Why, Father " 
 
 "I mean it, daughter. Yes, I know Richard did not want 
 you to say — anything. But tell Mr. Lincoln. Maybe he'll 
 reach home by morning." 
 
 His voice stopped. Up the lane, his horse's hoofs splash- 
 ing in every puddle, came Mr. Brooker. He called a 
 friendly hail. 
 
 "How are you, neighbor? I stopped by to bring your 
 mail. I saw Mr. Lincoln getting off the stage, maybe an 
 hour ago. He looked some ilaxed out. Reckon Government 
 cases ain't so easy sledding as they look. Reckon he's glad 
 to get home again." 
 
 Father nodded briefly. He reached for his bundle of 
 mail. But Mercy gave one quick exultant gasp. Mr. Lin- 
 coln was in Springfield this minute! 
 
 "We'll ride in to see Mr. Lincoln the first thing to- 
 morrow morning, daughter." Father had read her thought. 
 She laid her cheek to his, submissively. But back of that 
 submission, her wild heart was throbbing out its will. To- 
 night! To-night! To-night! 
 
 It did not take long for the house to grow quiet, that 
 evening. But to Mercy, waiting at her attic window, it took 
 hours. She did not think to put on a dark dress. It never 
 entered her mind to change her light shoes. When at last 
 
338 THE FATHER 
 
 she crept out, slid to the slanting shed roof and dropped to 
 the ground below, her thin slippers were soaked in the first 
 three steps. Her pink dress and white apron made a pale 
 blur against the night. 
 
 She would have to take Button. This was chancy enough, 
 for he was forever going lame. But Betsy would be sure 
 to snort and whinny as she led her from the barn. And 
 Father was only too easily awakened. 
 
 Button was exasperating. He did not approve of this 
 performance, and he stamped and sidled till she quaked 
 with fear. If Father should waken! But at last they 
 reached the highroad. Once under way Button went like 
 clockwork, in spite of the slippery mire. 
 
 After a while the rain stopped. Out of the cloud-drifts 
 wandered a pallid bedraggled old moon, trailing shreds of 
 mist. One small star tagged after her, clinging to her 
 tattered apron-strings. Mercy looked up at her. Just such 
 a dreary forlorn old moon had wandered down the sky 
 that night a year and a half ago. The night that she and 
 Father had sat together in the midnight woods. The night 
 when down upon them like a spent arrow had fallen the 
 beautiful wounded boy. Her boy. How young she had been 
 in those days, what a funny silly little calf, to dream of 
 a princely lover who would come racing down the forest 
 road to rescue her! Rescue her, indeed! When all she asked, 
 when all she could ever ask in this created world, was the 
 chance to rescue him, to snatch him back from the dark 
 brink where he stood to-night! Aunty's sardonic old voice 
 rang in her ears. "Menfolks are an awful responsibil- 
 ity " Oh, and weren't they worth it! Weren't they! 
 
 Button splashed on. It was a little easier going, now. 
 To be sure, the mud was fetlock deep, but the faint moon- 
 light was a help. 
 
 Before her loomed a sign-post. She urged Button as far 
 
THE FATHER 
 
 339 
 
 as she dared from the road, so that she could peer up at 
 it. Johnston Crossroads. Good enough. If they could keep 
 up as steady a pace as this, she could reach Springfield not 
 long after midnight. 
 
 Button floundered miserably. This patch of road was 
 far worse than the miles that had preceded it. He stumbled 
 and lost his balance with a racking jerk. Mercy pulled him 
 up sharply. Too sharply. He slipped and plunged to his 
 knees. He scrambled to his feet at once. But now he 
 lunged and staggered at every step. 
 
 "He's wrenched that shoulder again. I don't dare make 
 
 him go another minute. But Oh, I never can make 
 
 it afoot! Button, try, try!" 
 
 No use coaxing. Button was done. He stood still, snort- 
 ing, quivering. Mercy sprang down and turned him into 
 a field near by. 
 
 This was grim ill-luck. But maybe she could walk 
 the rest of the way, after all. Five miles, six miles, in 
 mud to her knees. Yes, she could make it. 
 
 Only What about Coles Creek? 
 
 She'd forgotten Coles Creek. Even yesterday it had been 
 far out of its banks. By to-night it would be a flood. Even 
 a strong swimmer would have found that rough cold 
 current a heavy strain. Mercy could not swim a stroke. 
 
 "I can swim it, if I've got to," she said to herself. But 
 at thought of that black water, that shelving treacherous 
 bank, she grew queerly limp and sick. "I — I've got to 
 swim it. If I can get to Mr. Lincoln by morning — if I can 
 
 tell him all that happened Oh, well, I can make it. 
 
 I can make it for Rich. For Rich . . ." 
 
 She pushed steadily on. 
 
 After a while she realized that she was getting very 
 tired. She had plodded through the mire, halfway to her 
 knees, at a steady unrelenting pace. But now her gait was 
 
340 THE FATHER 
 
 slackening, and she hadn't even reached Coles Creek. 
 It was still more than a mile away. 
 
 "I ought to step up faster," she thought. For fifty yards 
 or so she did step up faster. But it seemed as if the mud 
 grew deeper with every step. This wouldn't do at all. 
 She would have to hurry. 
 
 She tried to hurry. But with the first longer step a 
 wrench of pain caught at her leg muscles, twisted them, 
 wrung them. She went pitching against the worm fence 
 with a wail of misery. 
 
 "I can't, I can't. Yes, you can, too. Get along with you, 
 you 'fraid-cat, for this is for Rich. This is for Rich." 
 
 Every step meant a wrench of torture. She plunged on. 
 After a while, she heard a faint distant sound. The far- 
 away irregular thump of a horse's hoofs. It was so far 
 behind her that it must be miles away. Farther behind than 
 the field where she had abandoned Button, she thought. 
 
 "Somebody in a hurry," she thought dully. "Well, I 
 ought to be in a hurry myself. Get along, you coward. 
 Can't you remember that you've got to get there in time? 
 You've got to reach the house by midnight. Earlier, maybe. 
 Can't you realize that this is your best chance? You want 
 to get hold of Mr. Lincoln before everybody else finds out 
 that he has come home. For they'll all want him, on their 
 own court cases. And I've got to have him for Rich. For 
 Rich. . . ." 
 
 She struggled on. The moonlight was some company 
 for her, but only for a while. Soon the waning crescent 
 had slipped to the rim of the horizon. The faint star shine 
 which would be now her only light was dimmed by fog. 
 The road grew heavier; it was harder and harder to keep 
 her footing on those hummocks of mire. 
 
 At last she glimpsed Coles Creek. Under the vague star- 
 
THE FATHER 34 i 
 
 light, the swift black water was veiled so heavily in fog 
 that she could not discern the farther shore. 
 She stopped, breathless, on the steep bank. 
 "If it wasn't quite so slippery ! If the water wasn't quite 
 
 so high " 
 
 But the bank was high and steep, and the current below 
 was one dark rush and swirl. Mercy tried dizzily to descend 
 that treacherous crumbling shore. Almost at the water 
 level, she slipped, blundered. The racing water swept 
 across her ankles, and rose like a flood of ice to her knees. 
 Terror-stricken, she scrambled back to higher ground. 
 "If it wasn't so dark," she gasped, through chattering 
 teeth. "There's a ford near by, I know that. If only I 
 
 could wade across I've got to cross, I tell you. I've got 
 
 to get to Mr. Lincoln for Rich— for Rich " 
 
 The horseman behind was approaching. His horse was 
 fresh and swift, that was clear. The animal's hurrying 
 bucketing gait told that. There was something queerly 
 familiar about that gait. 
 
 "I've heard that horse's pace before. I wish I knew 
 
 O-Oh, it's Betsy! And Father is riding her Oh, 
 
 Father, Father!" 
 
 Betsy was picking her way like the fussy fine lady 
 she was, down the miry slope. Father had slipped to his 
 feet and was walking beside her, guided by her. In the 
 dim light Mercy could not see his face. But she stumbled 
 up the shelving bank to him. Father still held to Betsy's 
 bridle. His free arm shot out and caught Mercy tight. 
 "Oh, Father, I knew you'd come!" 
 Father chuckled, his own old soothing reassuring 
 chuckle. 
 
 "Don't you think it was about time?" 
 
 Something leaped and soared in Mercy's breast. The 
 
342 THE FATHER 
 
 dying moon lifted a torch of flame. The black miry road 
 turned to a highway of silver. 
 
 "Now, dear, we've got to find that ford. Betsy will 
 pick her way to it. We don't need to worry." 
 
 They did not need to worry. Betsy, shrewd creature, 
 tiptoed down the creek bank for nearly half a mile. Finally 
 she halted, for a minute or so. She sniffed and tossed her 
 head, protesting. Then, with the drollest hesitation, exactly 
 as if she were picking up intangible petticoats, she tiptoed 
 into that black water. 
 
 Mercy crouched high on the pommel, but the racing 
 current washed over her and all but tore her from her 
 seat. Father swam beside Betsy. His low voice never ceased 
 coaxing her, encouraging her. Twice Betsy halted, shud- 
 dering. The icy rush of the water was almost beyond the 
 might of her stout heart. But she struggled on. 
 
 The opposite bank loomed high. Suddenly Betsy caught 
 a secure footing. Tilting, balancing like a ballet dancer, 
 she thrust her way up the bank, stopped with a neigh of 
 triumph on solid ground. 
 
 Father shook himself like a big dog. Water dripped in 
 steady streams from his big shoulders. Mud squelched in 
 his shoes and plastered his face and hands. 
 
 "Who said we couldn't make it! Only three miles more 
 to Springfield and Mr. Lincoln's house, Mercy. Only three 
 miles more!" 
 
 A pale and watery dawn was painting the sky with a 
 raw gray light as they reached Mr. Lincoln's house and 
 looped Betsy's bridle over the hitching post. 
 
 It took a good while to waken the house. Father rang 
 and rang the clanging old bell. Mercy pounded on the 
 door. 
 
 Finally an upper window opened. Out thrust a tousled 
 head. 
 
THE FATHER 
 "What in the name of judgment- 
 
 343 
 
 'Come downstairs a minute, Mr. Lincoln. It's just us." 
 
 "Mercy Rose! And Mr. Stafford! What in the na- 
 tion " 
 
 The head disappeared. Soon the front door swung open. 
 Mr. Lincoln, wrapped in vast yellow-flannel toga, stood, 
 candle in hand. 
 
 "Where did you two come from? What has happened? 
 ,You look as if you'd been dipped in the creek!" 
 
 Mercy looked up at him. In the gray light, her little 
 ghostly face was pure joy. 
 
 "It's about Richard. But now I've found you, every- 
 thing will be all right. You'll take care of Richard. You'll 
 save him. For me." 
 
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 
 
 "TlSTEN to me, son. Let me get this straight." For the 
 A-' twentieth time, Mr. Lincoln took a fresh grip on 
 his waning patience. He leaned forward and bent steady 
 keen eyes on Richard's steady keen face. "You want to 
 remember I'm your attorney. I'm doing my best for you. 
 But I've got to have the whole story. You must give a 
 man something definite to work on. Out with the rest of 
 it." 
 
 "I've told you all you need to know. I've told you 
 that I thrashed Frederick Owen. Thrashed him hard. But 
 I didn't kill him. That's all I've got to say." 
 
 "You say that after you'd thrashed him you tied up his 
 broken jaw and helped him on his horse and saw him 
 ride off. Where did you go after that?" 
 
 "Where I went then is my own affair. I take my oath 
 that, the last time I laid eyes on Owen, he was riding away 
 in the direction of his farm. That's all I've got to say." 
 
 "But man alive, you must prove your whereabouts dur- 
 ing the time intervening. You say it was around four 
 o'clock when you and Owen fought. Where were you for 
 the next twenty- four hours? What were you doing? Can't 
 you see that your life hinges on that measure of time?" 
 
 "That happens to be nobody's business. Not even yours, 
 Mr. Lincoln." 
 
 Mr. Lincoln got up, strode across the room, and then 
 slumped down into his chair again. 
 
 "The minute Mercy and her father had given me a 
 clear road, this fool had to block it," he thought wrath- 
 fully. 
 
THE FATHER 345 
 
 What was a man to do with such a chivalrous young 
 idiot? Especially when he knew very well that if he stood 
 in the young idiot's shoes, he himself would hold this 
 identical stubborn silence. 
 
 "Look here, Richard. You want to shield little Mercy. 
 But she does not need your protection now, not as she will 
 need it in years to come. If you really want to take care 
 of her, you'll save your life for her. You'll not risk it like 
 this." 
 
 Not a flicker came on that young hard face. 
 
 "I'm willing to take my chances on it." 
 
 Mr. Lincoln got up again and paced the jail floor, speak- 
 ing eloquently under his breath. Finally he took another 
 tack. 
 
 "If I promise not to repeat one word you say, if I give 
 you my oath on that, will you tell me? Tell me, not for 
 your own sake, but for Mercy's?" 
 
 Richard was not so adamantine as he appeared. 
 
 "If you put it that way. . . . Well. I'd like to tell you 
 what happened, and maybe you can find a way out for me. 
 But you're not to bring in Mercy's name. Mind that. If 
 you do, I'll stand right up in court and tell the jury that 
 you're lying to save me. The whole town, the jury itself, 
 is dead against me as it is, because of my Underground 
 work. You know that. You'd have the easiest time in the 
 world convincing them that I ought to be hung. So don't 
 slip up. Don't speak her name. For if you do you'll hang 
 me." 
 
 "Hold your horses, son. I promise, right now, never to 
 speak her name. But go on. Maybe I can find us a crack to 
 crawl through. No telling." 
 
 "All right. Here goes. Mercy and I went out riding. 
 Owen accosted her, attacked her at that. I gave him what 
 he needed, and gave it good and plenty. Then I took Mercy 
 
346 THE FATHER 
 
 home. Her folks had all gone to Springfield and I stayed 
 there that night. All night. Don't you see that I can't men- 
 tion her name?" 
 
 He stopped. All that insolent calm of his was shaken. 
 Slow crimson poured into his face. 
 
 "Oh. Of course I see." Over Mr. Lincoln's own face 
 came measureless pity. Of course he understood, he said 
 to himself. The two adoring young creatures, alone in that 
 empty house. Blame them? As well blame the wind of 
 destiny that had swept them together. 
 
 "Yes. I see. No, I'll not mention that child's name in 
 the court room, Harrison. Nor will I mention it anywhere 
 else. You can depend on me." 
 
 Mercy sat in the window, trying to mend the tattered 
 object that was Seth's last surviving roundabout. She had 
 sat there and fumbled with it for an hour. Probably she 
 would fumble another hour before Aunty would come in 
 and take it from her hands and say, so gently, "Never 
 mind, my lamb. I've got a plenty of time for the mending. 
 Go lie down, now. Try to sleep. 
 
 Try to sleep. That was what they always said to her. 
 Try to sleep. If they would only help her to wake up 
 instead! If they could only help her to break down the 
 wall of mist that was rising around her hour by hour! 
 That wall of mist that had changed too swiftly, so in- 
 credibly, into a wall of glass that cut her off from breath- 
 ing, even! 
 
 She looked back curiously at the faraway night when 
 she had fought her way to Mr. Lincoln, when she had 
 thrown her whole burden of fear on his great shoulders. 
 Mr. Lincoln was her strong hope. Surely, surely he could 
 not be failing her! 
 
 That was two weeks ago, and Richard still sat alone 
 
THE FATHER 347 
 
 and waited. And she too must sit waiting, waiting with a 
 face of ashes, the pulse in her blood a waning thread. And 
 now Mr. Lincoln was yet holding his silence. Oh, could 
 Mr. Lincoln be defeated, too? 
 
 She had made Father take her to see Richard, just once. 
 She stared back at that glimpse of him with a dull wonder. 
 At sight of him, it seemed to her as if her heart had 
 broken, very quietly. Everybody stood so far beyond that 
 mighty wall of glass. But Richard was farther away than 
 anybody. Miles away. Never again could she reach him. 
 Never could she break her way through that crystal wall. 
 Richard looked just as usual. He didn't look like a pris- 
 oner on trial for murder. He had on his best suit, and his 
 hair was brushed like satin, and he glanced at her as if 
 he hardly knew her, and said, "Hello, Mrs. Lot," and that 
 was all. When he spoke, though, his mouth had given a 
 little twitch. She had seen that twitch around Donny's 
 mouth when he was trying to keep a stiff upper lip and not 
 give way to a lonesome streak. You could usually comfort 
 Donny by giving him something interesting to do. But you 
 couldn't give Rich anything so very interesting. Not when 
 he was fighting for his life. 
 
 Though he would not talk to her, he did say something 
 to Father. Poor Father, so gray and shaky, with his gray 
 
 shaky whisper "Richard, tell me what to do. God 
 
 knows I'd do anything. Anything!" 
 
 Richard had stared at him. Then he had pulled Father 
 aside. But Mercy caught his fierce undertone: "Keep 
 Mercy's name out of this. Don't bring her here again. 
 
 Don't let them drag her in. Not even if Never, I tell 
 
 you!" 
 
 Perhaps it was quite as well that she had not asked 
 Father why Rich was so stern about it. Didn't he know 
 well enough that she was keeping still, just as he had bade 
 
348 THE FATHER 
 
 her? But even if Father had tried to explain, the chances 
 are that she would never have understood him. For her 
 anguish had dulled her past all understanding. She had 
 gone home and ironed the tablecloths and Father's shirts. 
 Twonnet couldn't iron a shirt decently, and Aunty got too 
 tired. She had done a great baking and made wild-straw- 
 berry preserves and sent Jo Vanny to dig a huge mess of 
 dandelion greens. "Get enough for the monkeys and us, 
 too." And Father had come home, and called her into his 
 little study, and brought a basin of water and the liniment, 
 and he had bathed her throat and bandaged it, with hands 
 that shook for tenderness and eyes that could hardly see. 
 It made her throat feel better, but it was dreadful to worry 
 Father so. And she had moved about like a little chalk 
 image, driven by rusty jerky wires. And all the time she 
 was counting. Seven days till Richard's trial. Six days. Five. 
 Four. Three. Two. One. 
 
 She awoke long before daybreak that last morning. She 
 crept down from her loft and went out into the dark rain- 
 wet garden. In the soft night, she groped to the little peach- 
 pie trees, and stood holding fast to a slim branch. There 
 was something she must think out. There was something 
 she could do for Rich. 
 
 If she could only remember. If she could only plan. 
 But now she could not think. She could not even feel. She 
 could not see. She put the ruby ring to her lips, she peered 
 through the dark, but she could not see Rich's face. The 
 wall of glass was too tremendous. Rich was too far away. 
 
 It was barely daylight when Mr. Lincoln plodded up 
 the lane and tied old Tom to the rack. Even the little boys 
 were not yet awake. Mr. Lincoln bent over Mercy as she 
 sat crouched on the doorstep. 
 
THE FATHER 349 
 
 "Beat me up this morning, didn't you? Want to fetch 
 me a bite of breakfast, my dear?" 
 
 Mercy stumbled obediently into the kitchen. She brought 
 him some porridge and milk and set a slopped cup of 
 coffee before him. Not even Twonnet could have been 
 more clumsy. She had put on a fresh blue muslin dress and 
 a crisp pink apron. Above that smart starched rose and 
 blue her face was lusterless, her mouth was sagged and 
 dull. 
 
 "Mercy, to-day is Richard's trial." 
 
 (How funny of him to tell her that!) 
 
 "And you had better come to the court house. Be 
 there by ten. I shall call you to the stand. I want you to 
 tell the Judge that Richard came home with you after his 
 fight with Owen. And that he never left you. And that 
 he was never out of your sight till the sheriff arrested him 
 the next afternoon." 
 
 Mercy stared at him listlessly. He was darkly flushed. 
 He was trying to drink his coffee but his hand shook so that 
 he splashed it all over the clean tablecloth. 
 
 "Why, of course he never left me. Not for one minute. 
 The judge must know that." 
 
 "The judge does not know that." 
 
 "Didn't Rich explain why he stayed all night with us?" 
 
 Mr. Lincoln stared down into her puzzled eyes. He 
 felt as if he were striking a child. 
 
 "Listen, Mercy. As the case stands, the court believes 
 that, after giving Owen that beating, Richard took you 
 home and then went back alone, killed Owen, and threw 
 him into Coles Creek. If you can make the court under- 
 stand that Richard did not leave you . . . don't you see 
 that that gives him a chance at acquittal?" 
 
 Mercy tried hard to understand. 
 
350 THE FATHER 
 
 "You mean that Rich has never explained all that. That 
 he Oh, I see now." 
 
 Mercy' s small chin set hard. Slow painful scarlet 
 burned to her eyelids. 
 
 "Yes. I understand, now. Don't you worry about me, 
 Mr. Lincoln. I'll come." 
 
 Mr. Lincoln rode away. On his gaunt face there was 
 an expression at once heartsick and grimly satisfied. 
 
 "All all events I have kept my word to young Harrison. 
 By a shyster's trick, though. I swore I'd never bring 
 Mercy's name into court. I did not swear that I would not 
 bring Mercy herself." 
 
 It was a long way up the courthouse steps. Mercy had 
 to take those steps one at a time, she was so dizzy. She 
 had slipped out of the house cautiously, for fear they might 
 see her and make her stop. But only Thomas had seen. 
 Promptly he had tagged after her. 
 
 "Where you going, sister? I want to go, too." 
 
 "Come on, then." She took his warm little hand. His 
 chubby grasp was vaguely pleasant. She hadn't thought of 
 taking anybody. But, far behind that huge impassable wall, 
 she was rather glad to have him beside her. 
 
 She crept down the dingy halls. It was a hot day. The 
 courtroom door stood open. Through it came a high snap- 
 pish voice, asking questions. Then Richard's voice, cool 
 and insolent and serene. 
 
 "That is all you have to say in your own defense?" 
 
 "That is all I have to say." 
 
 Richard was just leaving the stand. In the hour he had 
 stood there under fire, he had managed to antagonize the 
 entire audience. He had made an abominable witness for 
 himself, Mr. Lincoln thought angrily. Had he played for- 
 lorn and persecuted youth, unjustly accused, he might have 
 
THE FATHER 351 
 
 won for himself some sympathy. Instead, he strode into 
 the courtroom, his head up, his trim garments as brushed 
 and ordered and fresh as a bridegroom's, so unabashed, so 
 jaunty, and he had looked down on the stubby little prose- 
 cutor almost with amusement. As he stepped down an ugly 
 mutter drifted through the room. 
 
 Mercy pushed forward, holding Thomas's hand. No one 
 had noticed them. They might have been two children who 
 had wandered curiously in. 
 
 She drew close to Mr. Lincoln. She reached over and 
 touched his arm. 
 
 Mr. Lincoln looked up. With a great start he sprang to 
 his feet. Away from the other side of that wall of glass, 
 she heard his stammering words, "New witness — unex- 
 pected — if your honor will permit " 
 
 She stood before Judge Parsons now. Was that her own 
 voice? What a funny crackly little squeak! She must do 
 better than that. But it was sort of bewildering, for now 
 they were all craning and staring at her. Staring as if she 
 was some ridiculous little animal that had crept into this 
 solemn place. Well, what of it? They looked rather 
 ridiculous themselves. The stout old judge, huddled behind 
 his desk, looked like a surprised old rabbit. His shoulders 
 were hunched, his large lumpy nose was quivering. His 
 white blobs of whisker twitched, his dewlaps swung as if 
 they meditated flight on their own account. The jurymen 
 reached forward from their tight pew. They were all 
 Bakerstown folks, they all knew her, but they gaped and 
 goggled as if they'd never laid eyes on her before. But she 
 could not see them so very clearly. For the glass wall was 
 shimmering now like a great glass bubble, and its curving 
 transparence sucked in and out, so that all the faces flick- 
 ered and glimmered like faces seen in a blazing fireplace. 
 Still, she knew everyone. And there was Father, in his 
 
352 THE FATHER 
 
 black Sunday clothes, with his mouth set white and his 
 dear hands clenched on the back of the chair in front of 
 him. Father wouldn't look at her, for he was afraid that 
 one glance might shake her courage. Likely! Mr. Lincoln 
 was standing up, holding her with his eyes, tall and yellow 
 and slouching, with his coarse black Injun hair, as Aunty 
 called it, all scrabbled back from his cadaverous face and 
 the sweat of misery running in rivulets down his fur- 
 rowed cheeks. But even his face blurred and grew dim. All 
 the faces were dim. All but one. Richard's. Richard's face 
 stood out sharp and clear, graven like marble against the 
 stained buff wall. Richard 
 
 No. She must not look at him. She dared not. For if she 
 once met Richard's eyes, those curving walls of glass would 
 shiver around her. And all her strength would fall in 
 splinters, too, and there wouldn't be one thing left of her. 
 Nothing but the handful of glass right under folks' feet. 
 
 "Mercy Rose Stafford " It was Mr. Lincoln speak- 
 ing, a hum of meaningless words like swarming bees. 
 
 "If you please, Mr. Lincoln, may I tell Judge Parsons 
 just what happened?" 
 
 Again that blur of words. 
 
 "Judge Parsons, I don't believe anybody really knows 
 what a plague Frederick Owen was to me. He was ugly 
 to me from the start. It all began in Father's printing 
 office. I was working at the press, and he came in and 
 started to make fun of me and of the press because it 
 wasn't doing very good work. He tried to make sport of 
 Father, too. When he found we didn't pay attention to him 
 he got awfully silly. He tagged me everywhere, and asked 
 me to go riding, he brought me boxes of store candy, he 
 even brought Thomas a peppermint cane and Adoniram a 
 
THE FATHER 353 
 
 toy rifle. But I made Donny give the rifle back. Finally 
 he came to the office again and started to cut our initials 
 on the wall, his and mine. And I made him stop. That 
 vexed him. I guess he made up his mind that he wanted 
 to hurt me. Worse than hurt me. Shame me so dreadfully 
 that it would shame Father and all of us " 
 
 Richard shot to his feet, but the sheriff's heavy hand fell 
 on his arm. Father leaped forward. Mr. Lincoln's instant 
 warning gesture thrust him back. 
 
 "Well, he got his chance to hurt me. And he took it." 
 
 The people in the courtroom weren't people any more. 
 They were just eyes. Ring on ring of staring eyes. 
 
 She halted again. The room had begun to rock and 
 swing. Mr. Lincoln lunged over to the water-bucket and 
 filled a tin cup. She drank obediently. Then he drank, 
 gulping, the way he did the day of their prairie fire. His 
 big hands shook as he set down the cup. 
 
 The water tasted good. It washed the queer husk out 
 of Mercy's throat. She spoke on. 
 
 "You remember telling us about the Creole Belle mirror, 
 Mr. Lincoln? Rich and I went driving over that way. He 
 was taking those papers to Colonel Andrews for you. Coles 
 Creek was so high that he left me and the chaise on this 
 side and swam one of the horses across. He wasn't gone 
 half an hour, but it began to rain, so I went into the 
 haunted cabin. 
 
 "Frederick Owen was there. I didn't know it till he 
 spoke to me. Then I saw that he was very drunk. Surly, 
 too. I started to run, but he caught me and threw me 
 against the wall and struck me over and over. Then he 
 jerked out that little dirk of his and cut my dress off 
 my shoulders and began to cut his initials on my throat. 
 Look." 
 
354 THE FATHER 
 
 She pulled back the blue gingham ruffles. On her soft 
 throat, the jagged unhealed scar stood out, a swollen 
 crimson ridge. 
 
 "He'd made only that one cut, though, when Rich came 
 tearing in. Rich was furious. He grabbed Frederick and 
 gave him a terrible thrashing. Then I helped him tie up 
 Frederick's jaw. And he put him on his horse and he rode 
 away towards his farm. He was so drunk, though, and so 
 shaken up from his beating that I suppose he must have 
 turned his horse and tried to cross the creek. That was why 
 they found him in the creek, drowned." 
 
 The room was deadly still. So still, you could hear a 
 blue fly buzzing against the pane. 
 
 Then Mr. Lincoln spoke. 
 
 "You are telling us all this in order to prove that 
 Richard Harrison had sufficient provocation " 
 
 "No, Mr. Lincoln. I want to prove that Richard could 
 never have killed Frederick Owen. He couldn't. For after 
 Frederick had galloped off, Richard took me home. He 
 meant to start west that night, but I wouldn't let him go. 
 I made him stay. All the folks were in Springfield, and I 
 was afraid to stay alone with Thomas, for poor Thomas 
 had the worst attack of croup I ever laid eyes on. If your 
 own little boys ever had croup, Judge Parsons, you know 
 all about it. You know how terrible it is when they choke 
 and choke and you can't help them. Richard and I worked 
 all night and twice I thought Thomas would strangle. But 
 he pulled through, though he's croaky even yet. It was al- 
 most five that morning, though, before he could breathe. 
 So you see Rich was never out of my sight. He had no 
 chance to go back and kill Frederick, even if he had wanted 
 to." 
 
 She halted. The room was growing very dark. Probably 
 
THE FATHER 355 
 
 a thunderstorm was coming up. The watching eyes stared 
 at her through a thickening blur. 
 
 — "Judge Parsons, I should have told you all this long 
 ago. But I never dreamed how foolishly my menfolks 
 were behaving. I didn't know that they were keeping all 
 this back. And all on my account. You know how ridicu- 
 lous your own men can be. Always trying to take care of 
 you, to keep people from talking about you, from telling 
 cruel lies — as if lies could ever make any real difference! 
 Always so set on shielding you, even if they risk their own 
 lives to do it. They never do understand. Not for one 
 minute. They never can realize that you've got the right to 
 shield them, to take care of them — that they belong to 
 you, just exactly as much as you belong to them " 
 
 The curved glass walls were sliding, swerving: they 
 grew thinner, every instant. But the room was so dark. 
 She could not see Mr. Lincoln any more. She could not see 
 Rich. She must hurry and finish, and finish, and go to 
 Father. Father's face she could see, and clearly. Under his 
 silver crest, his face was like death. If she could just reach 
 him, comfort him 
 
 But there was a splintering crash. And the darkness 
 closed down. 
 
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR 
 
 A T eight o'clock that night, Old Tom's hoofs clattered 
 ■* * up the lane. Mercy, lying in Father's big chair, lifted 
 her drowsy head. This was an unheard-of hour for Mr. 
 Lincoln to arrive. It was part and parcel of this unheard-of 
 day. What could bring him so late? 
 
 She looked down on her small elegant self with vague 
 complacence. She had lain asleep all afternoon, a limp ex- 
 hausted sleep. But to-night, Aunty and Miss Evelina had 
 helped her to get up and dress. Each glimpse at the eagle 
 mirror gave an added satisfaction. Over her delightful lilac 
 poplin lay her mother's shawl of amber crepe, with fading 
 wistaria wreaths of lilac-blue. On her feet were her Sun- 
 day slippers; on her little hand glittered the great ruby, 
 shining with deep promise. Through the kitchen door she 
 could see Rich, attended by the admiring little boys. In the 
 presence of this, their hero, even little Thomas had long 
 since ceased to stick out a jealous tongue. 
 
 However, Rich had failed to live up to his glories. 
 Even as they hurried him home from the courthouse, he 
 had put that black fortnight behind him as if it had never 
 been and had inquired anxiously whether they had plenty 
 of Mercy's bread and cookies at hand. It appeared that jail 
 fare consisted largely of greenish saleratus biscuits and 
 sodden doughnuts. Once arrived, he had been fed by a 
 dozen eager hands at once. His capacity, however, ap- 
 peared unlimited. He had eaten, then slept for hours, then 
 arrayed himself with splendor and wandered to the kitchen 
 again, where he and the little boys were now sociably pick- 
 
THE FATHER 357 
 
 ing the bones of the roast wild turkey that Mrs. Brooker had 
 sent over. Father was out there too. 
 
 "Poor Father, he's always been so cruelly jealous of 
 Rich," thought Mercy. "But he knows now that he can't 
 hate Rich without hating me. For I'm just a piece of Rich, 
 now. And he's doing his very best to take him as his own. 
 But it's what Mr. Lincoln would call a land-office job. 
 Goodness, what can have made Mr. Lincoln come away out 
 here? At such a time of night?" 
 
 Mr. Lincoln had stopped at the kitchen door. There was 
 a clamor of welcoming voices. He came in, the whole 
 family trailing at his muddy heels. He looked at once 
 embarrassed and smug, as well he might. For he carried 
 two parcels. One was a jeweler's box, small dainty, tied 
 with betraying white ribbon. The other was a bandbox, a 
 gigantic flowered bandbox, covered with Chinese paper, all 
 green and gilt chrysanthemums, and sky-blue pagodas, and 
 plum-colored dancing girls. 
 
 "W-why " 
 
 With vast ceremony, Mr. Lincoln put the little parcel 
 in her hand. She opened it. Before her delighted eyes 
 shone twelve brand new silver spoons. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Lincoln " 
 
 "Well. We've sort of decided, your Father and I, 
 that this district isn't too healthy for Richard. Folks act 
 some grouchy because he's been acquitted. So we two con- 
 cluded we'd marry you off to-night. And ship you off to 
 Springfield. Mrs. Lincoln and the boys are over to Van- 
 dalia on a visit. There isn't a soul in the house, and you'll 
 take my front door key. Early to-morrow morning, you 
 slip out and take the early morning stage to St. Louis. 
 There you will meet a big Kansas-bound caravan that starts 
 out west by Thursday. I'll give you a letter to the leader, 
 Ainsley. He's an old friend of mine. He'll help you buy 
 
358 THE FATHER 
 
 your horses and outfit right in St. Louis, and he'll advise 
 you where to buy your land when you get out to Kan- 
 sas " 
 
 The tumult that arose drowned his voice completely. 
 
 "Married to-night! Of all the outlandish " "But, 
 
 Mr. Lincoln, Richard is too tired to start off on the 
 jump " "But I want Mercy Rose to have a real wed- 
 ding cake and a wedding-dress " "Those things do not 
 
 matter, Aunty. But to give Mercy up, and no warn- 
 ing " "Sister, wait for me. I want to go, too!" 
 
 Father and Rich were gasping in unison. Mr. Lincoln 
 went serenely on. 
 
 "Now this will be a hard drive, and I know your team 
 isn't up to it to-night. So this is Jo Vanny's job. Here, Jo 
 Vanny! Harness up your gilt wagon, and the ponies. Even 
 if you drive straight into the mob, no danger. For they'll 
 never look for our bride and groom in your circus wagon." 
 
 Jo Vanny stood nailed in his tracks. His brown little face 
 grew pale. 
 
 "Who, me?" 
 
 "Yes, you. Go tidy up your chariot!" 
 
 Jo Vanny fled in ecstasy. 
 
 "Now I realize that no wedding is legal without a pres- 
 ent or so. I thought up the spoons myself." Mr. Lincoln 
 expanded slightly. "And when I was here this morning, 
 I asked your Aunty what sort of a present you'd probably 
 like best, and she said, a wedding bonnet. I couldn't get 
 a regular bride's bonnet, there wasn't one in town. But 
 I did bring this one. Seems kind of topheavy, but maybe it 
 will do." 
 
 He dived into the bandbox. There was made manifest a 
 bonnet. It was an awful bonnet. It was an unspeakable 
 bonnet. 
 
 "I showed it to Mary," perhaps Mr. Lincoln had read 
 
THE FATHER 359 
 
 Mercy's stricken eyes. "She said, 'For Heaven's sake, Abra- 
 ham Lincoln, who ever sold you that? I wouldn't be 
 found dead in it.' I guess the milliner kind of outdid her- 
 self." 
 
 "There's a good deal of it, isn't there?" Thus Seth, the 
 unterrified. 
 
 Then Mercy rose to starry heights. 
 
 "I think it's wonderful, Mr. Lincoln. I thank you with 
 all my heart. There never was anybody like you." 
 
 Mr. Lincoln beamed. "Stick it on." 
 
 Mercy stuck it on. 
 
 There was a silence. Mrs. Lincoln was right. Nobody 
 would have been found dead in it. It had started out in 
 life to be a violet Tuscan coal-scuttle with long filmy 
 beau-catchers of lilac. So far, so good. But when you 
 added a large indigestible wreath of green grapes, and 
 three shaded purple plumes; when a bunch of pink roses 
 simpered over one ear and a stuffed Brazilian parrot leered 
 above the other. . . . Oh, if it would please Mr. Lincoln 
 she'd wear anything. Anything! 
 
 But Mr. Lincoln was viewing it with a dubious eye. 
 
 "Seth's right. Maybe if you'd skin off that embalmed 
 bird " 
 
 Then descended Aunty, another Atropos, scissors in 
 hand. The parrot, the acrid green grapes, the funereal 
 plumes, the roses, all fell as ripe grain before the sickle. 
 There remained a small rapturous face, framed in violet, 
 wreathed in a mist of lilac. 
 
 Mr. Lincoln looked on, amazed. Then he looked at 
 Aunty. In his eyes lay awe. 
 
 "Keep those scissors handy, Aunty. For I've got a raft 
 of speeches to make this summer. And I'll bet my last dime 
 that I'll need those scissors. And you to work 'em." 
 
 He went leisurely to the door. Father and Rich went 
 
360 THE FATHER 
 
 leisurely with him. Father's voice was quick and quiet in 
 his ear. 
 
 "You didn't ride all the way from Springfield, purposely 
 to bring Mercy that bonnet!" 
 
 "The bonnet. And a few rounds of ammunition. I don't 
 like the humor that this town is in, Stafford. Your recent 
 articles in the Clarion have stirred folks up a good deal. 
 And Richard's acquittal has made them boil over. Of course 
 the decent folks are keeping their mouths shut, but a few 
 hot-heads are trying to wake things up. Just as well I stay 
 here to-night." 
 
 Richard turned away, towards Mercy. The two older 
 men stood looking darkly into each other's faces. Father 
 spoke out their thought. 
 
 "If I only shared Mercy's utter faith in Richard. . . . 
 But no matter how generously I try to feel towards the 
 boy, I can't feel certain that his innocence is proven. For 
 Frederick Owen is dead. I don't believe he drowned by 
 accident. Somebody killed him. And if not Richard — then 
 who?" 
 
 "I know how you feel." Mr. Lincoln's gaunt face grew 
 dull with tormenting thought. "I've told myself a dozen 
 times over, that Rich is innocent. Yet if Owen died because 
 of Rich's thrashing, it puts even a darker stain. Anyway, 
 all my sympathy is with Rich. He'd be a poor sort, if he 
 hadn't struck a blow for his betrothed. . . . Lord, but I 
 wish I knew!" 
 
 He halted. Father, grim and haggard, had thrust in. 
 
 "We'll hurry Mercy and Rich away to-night, if you 
 think it is necessary. But wherever can we find a minister?" 
 
 Then Mr. Lincoln unbent, with a long triumphant 
 chuckle. 
 
 "Leave that to me. I picked up the young man who is to 
 
THE FATHER 361 
 
 preach for us at the Lord's Barn next Sunday. He's badly- 
 scared, for this will be his first wedding, but he has prom- 
 ised to do his very best, and I believe we can trust it to him. 
 I found him as I came through Bakerstown. He says he's as 
 orthodox as they come, though he hasn't yet made up 
 his mind which denomination he belongs to. But that is 
 no concern of ours. The main thing is that he's waiting 
 down the lane, this minute." 
 
 To Mercy Rose the short hour that followed sped like 
 a wheel of magic. Picture on picture graved itself upon 
 her memory. Aunty, issuing stern hurrying commands to 
 everybody, from Mr. Lincoln on down, yet her tense hands 
 shaking, her poor face wet with unknowing tears; Miss 
 Evelina, so swift to help, so loving and so sisterly, yet her 
 soft eyes dark with strange envy; the little boys, who 
 nocked around her, very quiet, very manly, but decidedly 
 tremulous. Finally poor Thomas yielded to whole-hearted 
 gulps, and that set off all three. 
 
 "Oh, boys, don't!" Mercy was on her knees on the floor, 
 she was trying to get all three forlorn little figures into her 
 arms at once. "Don't start on a lonesome spell yet, Donny. 
 And, Seth, you mustn't roar so, I can't live and bear it. 
 Listen, now! As far back as I can remember, I've wanted 
 three things. I've wanted to ride away, forever, with a 
 prince. A real prince. Ride away through moonlight. And 
 in a gold coach. Now, I'm going to have my three wishes. 
 Moonlight, gold coach, prince and all!" 
 
 "Huh." Seth made a plucky effort to swallow back his 
 sobs. "If Mercy's got what she wants, us fellows may's 
 well hush up. Listen, Mercy. Dast we be bridesmaids?" 
 
 Bridesmaids they were, much to the bewilderment of 
 the serious, somewhat thick-headed young man whom Mr. 
 
362 THE FATHER 
 
 Lincoln had commandeered. It was a trying experience at 
 best for that puzzled youth. From the first, he had agreed 
 to perform this ceremony with much misgiving. Was it an 
 orthodox act, indeed, to marry a man who had stood in 
 court not twenty- four hours ago, accused of willful mur- 
 der? And whoever laid eyes on such a light-minded bride, 
 her bonnet tied on all very neatly, — this was Aunty's doing, 
 — but a forgotten pink gingham apron still tied around 
 her waist, and three excited little boys clinging to her, and 
 pinching each other into decorous behavior? And who 
 ever beheld such a distracted bridegroom, a groom as white 
 as ashes, who gave his bride hardly a moment for her fare- 
 wells, but hustled her into the preposterous gilded wagon 
 and carried her away, in such mad haste that her little trunk 
 must be hurled in half-packed, its rawhide straps still wav- 
 ing in the breeze! To be sure, he had gathered a vague 
 idea that there was need for prompt departure. But what 
 unseemly haste! 
 
 Mercy was not abashed by his cold young disapproval. 
 Over and over she counted her dear new memories. Aunty's 
 face, Miss Evelina's, Twonnet's, glowering on Rich in 
 
 bitter dread: Father's look No, she need not try to 
 
 remember Father's look. For Father's face would be with 
 her always. 
 
 And Jo Vanny! Keenest of all her memories in days to 
 come, would be the recollection of Jo Vanny's face, when 
 Mr. Lincoln had commanded him to take Richard and 
 herself on the first hours of their wedding trip. All humility 
 fled Jo Vanny. He fairly reared and swaggered. With 
 difficulty was he persuaded not to polish his wagon once 
 more for this dripping prairie ride. This was his wedding, 
 please understand, and lesser folk like Father and Mr. 
 Lincoln had better keep away. Promptly the little boys lost 
 
THE FATHER 363 
 
 all interest in these trivial beings, the bride and groom. 
 They tagged Jo Vanny from house to barn and back again, 
 they clung to him with solemn admiring eyes. 
 
 "Only one thing kind of roils me," sighed Mr. Lin- 
 coln. "When I tell Mary Lincoln what she's missed " 
 
 "Oh-h, if you think she wouldn't like it for us to stay 
 overnight " 
 
 "Go slow, Mercy. You're on the wrong track. Mary 
 won't think of holding that against you. But I surely wish 
 there had been time for me to fetch her in. She dotes on 
 weddings and on funerals. Cries her eyes out at either one. 
 Well, she'll feel I've been holding something from her. No 
 doubt about that." 
 
 But now their golden chariot was at the door. A vast 
 bland moon had lifted its lantern against the mi6ty sky. 
 Laughing, crying, awed, exultant, they rode away. 
 
 At daybreak, Father and Mr. Lincoln awoke. Both felt 
 extremely sheepish. For the threat of a mob had vanished 
 into thin air. 
 
 "We might as well have waited till morning, then sent 
 them off with a flourish," grumbled Mr. Lincoln. 
 
 "We might as well have kept her with us, those few 
 hours more," thought Father. 
 
 "Let's ride into Bakerstown, Stafford. You've got to set 
 up the Clarion to-day. I'll give you a hand at it." 
 
 Father said nothing. They rode silently into the village, 
 towards the little Clarion office. 
 
 Something queer about the building caught Mr. Lin- 
 coln's eye. 
 
 "What in the nation — why, yonder stands Jo Vanny's 
 gold chariot, and his ponies! He must have taken Rich and 
 Mercy into Springfield, just as I told him to, then he's 
 
364 THE FATHER 
 
 driven back this way. And stopped at the Clarion. Or 
 else " 
 
 He halted. Father did not say one word. For somehow 
 Father knew. 
 
 Mr. Lincoln seized the latch. Then he dodged back. He 
 dodged just in time. 
 
 The door had been lifted off its hinges, then poised so 
 that at a touch it would fall outward and crash on whoever 
 tried to enter. 
 
 The two men picked it up and shoved it aside. Still silent, 
 they looked in. 
 
 The office was a wreck. Chairs, tables, stove, books, all 
 were chopped and broken and torn, then piled in a heap in 
 the middle of the hacked and splintered floor. The little 
 press was damaged past repair. Axes and mauls had left 
 it only a pile of ruin. The windows were broken, the very 
 walls were slashed and torn. And on that heap of de- 
 struction, there lay another, smaller heap: a little crumpled 
 bundle. 
 
 Even as he bent over that moveless little heap, Father 
 knew. 
 
 "Jo Vanny! Speak to me! Tell me " 
 
 Now you would have said that Jo Vanny would never 
 speak again, he lay so lax and gray and lifeless. But at 
 Father's voice he roused himself with a cruel effort. He 
 lifted his heavy eyes. Almost he tried to smile. 
 
 "I take them," he whispered. "All safe. I drive back. 
 Men here. I try hard to save " 
 
 "Jo Vanny, what possessed you! You faced that mob, 
 you gave up your life for my press " 
 
 Jo Vanny smiled, a queer little gratified smile. 
 
 "Me, I push him. Make him go drown. Long time 
 ago " 
 
 "Push who? For God's sake, Jo Vanny " 
 
THE FATHER 365 
 
 "Freder-ique. He like very much hurt Mercy. I drive 
 by river. He try swim out. I push him back " 
 
 Poor little Jo Vanny! Lucky little Jo Vanny! He had 
 prospered at his appointed task, he had paid his debts, he had 
 paid his greatest debt of all, his debt of love. For he had 
 lifted the heaviest of all burdens from Father's tired shoul- 
 ders. Oh, lucky little Jo Vanny! 
 
 "Greater love hath no man " said Father under his 
 
 breath. Then he choked. Mr. Lincoln tried to say some- 
 thing. But he choked, too. 
 
 They laid Jo Vanny away with his broken violin beside 
 him. All the music was smashed out of that violin. All the 
 music and the courage and the maddening heedlessness and 
 the white shining gratitude were smashed out of Jo Vanny, 
 too. But he had lived to pay his debts, he had paid his 
 greatest debt of all. Lucky little Jo Vanny! 
 
 "No use trying to patch up this press. No use whatever." 
 
 Father stood on the broken door-stone. He and Mr. 
 Lincoln had finished listing the destruction. It had not 
 taken long. 
 
 Mr. Lincoln straightened his bent shoulders and stared 
 away at the rippling green of the prairie, the rippling blue 
 of the sky. 
 
 "Reckon you're right. Well, let's see what we can do 
 about another press, long as this one is done for." 
 
 "No use trying for a new one now, Mr. Lincoln. I'm 
 owing everybody. No chance." 
 
 "I'm not so sure about that. But I do know that you're 
 too tired to plan. Go home, Stafford, and get some sleep. 
 I'll ride over late this afternoon and then we'll thresh this 
 out." 
 
 Father went home obediently. He was too dead with 
 
366 THE FATHER 
 
 weariness to think, to plan. He slept for heavy hours. He 
 ate, listlessly. He dragged around the farm doing odds 
 and ends of chores, while the little boys, lonesome and 
 fractious without their sister, trailed after him. For him- 
 self, he did not miss Mercy. Not yet. That loneliness was 
 yet to come. 
 
 When he crept indoors again, Aunty was waiting. To 
 her alone he told of the wreck of his office. She listened, 
 without comment. When he had done, she spoke. 
 
 "John, I can't help much. But I can take one load off 
 your mind." Her worn old face quivered. "And that's 
 myself. I'm going to take Cyrus and go back east." 
 
 "Why, Aunty " 
 
 "No, don't interrupt me. I came out with you feeling 
 sure and certain that I would be a help. But all I can do is 
 to lop around and be a pester and a hindrance." 
 
 Father tried to protest. Aunty shook her head. There 
 were tears in her eyes now. The difficult tears of tired old 
 age. 
 
 "Last week, my interest money came. There's enough to 
 take me back to Green River. I'll take the little boys with 
 me. I can keep 'em for a year, while you get a fresh start. 
 You see 
 
 "John, I guess I'll have to tell you the whole truth. 
 I've been deceiving you, right along. For I have been an 
 untruthful woman. For years and years. I've let you think 
 I was seventy-four, going on seventy-five. But right now, 
 I'm eighty. Going on eight-one. I — well. I've got so used 
 to saying seventy-four, I've pretty nigh believed it myself. 
 But there's a master difference when you get to eighty, 
 John. You feel like you'd ought to settle down. You get 
 kind of tired. So I want to go back home. Go back and 
 stay." 
 
THE FATHER 367 
 
 After a few hours, Mr. Lincoln came. He was all agog 
 with plans. But Father checked him. 
 
 "I'm going to sell my farm, and buy another press. 
 With my own money, Mr. Lincoln. And keep right on." 
 
 "But your little boys?" 
 
 "They are going back east. With Aunt Celestia." For 
 one moment the desolation of the coming days struck down 
 upon him. "I'll rent a room in Bakerstown for myself and 
 keep the Clarion going. I have accomplished nothing, so 
 far, but maybe I will win over one man, make one con- 
 vert, before they kick me out." 
 
 Mr. Lincoln stood on one foot, then on the other. He 
 looked half-defiant, half-abashed. 
 
 "H'm. If you're so set on winning one convert to your 
 standard, then listen. You've got one now. That's myself." 
 
 "You? You mean to tell me that? You're willing to 
 agree with me?" 
 
 "I don't go so far as to say, willing." Mr. Lincoln 
 shifted again to the other foot. He was embarrassed, he 
 was trying to pass this off as a joke. But under the joke 
 you could see that he was in deadly earnest. "You've got 
 me licked, Stafford. I'm not wishful to come over to your 
 side, but I've got to. You've never once let up on me. 
 You've pushed and prodded and kicked and shoved. When 
 I've tried to argue, you've cut the ground from under my 
 feet. You've made me open my eyes and see. By George, 
 sometimes I wish you had let me alone. It's a heap more 
 comfortable to stay blind. Even the children have fought 
 for you. Remember the night that Thomas gave me that 
 clue — the house divided? Yes, I'm right with you, from 
 now on. But don't pride yourself too much. As conquests 
 go, I'm mighty small potatoes. A dumb old backwoods 
 lawyer like me." 
 
 "It's good of you to tell me this." Father spoke me- 
 
368 THE FATHER 
 
 chanically. "It is an encouragement. The greatest en- 
 couragement you could give me." 
 
 "Well," Mr. Lincoln reached for his tall hat, crammed 
 the roll of papers in securely. "I'm due at Carlinville 
 to-night. Remember, whenever I can be of any use to you, 
 you're to let me know." 
 
 He gave Father's hand a hard grip and was gone. 
 
 Father sat there a long time. The house was very quiet. 
 Long gold shadows were deepening across the prairie when 
 at last he roused himself. 
 
 "It was good of Mr. Lincoln to tell me that. And I'm 
 thankful if I have helped him to see. Although I can't 
 help wishing that my work had brought me a more efficient 
 man. Mr. Lincoln is too old to accomplish much. Too old, 
 and too disheartened. If only I had managed to convince a 
 younger man, a man with spirit, energy, enthusiasm! Yet 
 he may prove to be of some use. You never can tell." 
 
 Then Father forgot about Mr. Lincoln. He forgot his 
 own long weary toil, his crushing anxieties, his bitter fail- 
 ures. 
 
 A long minute, he sat, eyes closed, his tired head bent. 
 Presently he stretched out his hand and touched some- 
 thing, very gently. He need not look to see that which lay 
 beneath his hand. A warm sleepy roll of yellow flannel. 
 From one end of that roll depended a small red scalp* 
 lock. From the other hung two bright-red flatiron feet. 
 
 THE END 
 
THE 
 
 JOHN DAY 
 
 COMPANY 
 
 INC. 
 

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