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A Beautiful Possibility

by Edith Ferguson Black · English · Gutenberg #10037 · 386,387 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Beautiful Possibility

Author: Edith Ferguson Black


        
Release date: November 1, 2003 [eBook #10037]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10037

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BEAUTIFUL POSSIBILITY ***

[Illustration: LOUIS DASHED THE GLOWING END OF HIS CIGAR IN THE NEGRO'S
FACE.]




A BEAUTIFUL POSSIBILITY

BY

EDITH FERGUSON BLACK





A BEAUTIFUL POSSIBILITY.



CHAPTER I.


In one of the fairest of the West Indian islands a simple but elegant
villa lifted its gabled roofs amidst a bewildering wealth of tropical
beauty. Brilliant birds flitted among the foliage, gold and silver
fishes darted to and fro in a large stone basin of a fountain which
threw its glittering spray over the lawn in front of the house, and on
the vine-shaded veranda hammocks hung temptingly, and low wicker chairs
invited to repose.

Behind the jalousies of the library the owner of the villa sat at a
desk, busily writing. He was a slight, delicate looking man, with an
expression of careless good humor upon his face and an easy air of
assurance according with the interior of the room which bespoke a
cultured taste and the ability to gratify it. Books were everywhere,
rare bits of china, curios and exquisitely tinted shells lay in
picturesque confusion upon tables and wall brackets of native woods;
soft silken draperies fell from the windows and partially screened from
view a large alcove where microscopes of different sizes stood upon
cabinets whose shelves were filled with a miscellaneous collection of
rare plants and beautiful insects, specimens from the agate forest of
Arizona, petrified remains from the 'Bad Lands' of Dakota, feathery
fronded seaweed, skeletons of birds and strange wild creatures, and all
the countless curiosities in which naturalists delight.

Lenox Hildreth when a young man, forced to flee from the rigors of the
New England climate by reason of an inherited tendency to pulmonary
disease, had chosen Barbadoes as his adopted country, and had never
since revisited the land of his birth. From the first, fortune had
smiled upon him, and when, some time after his marriage with the
daughter of a wealthy planter, she had come into possession of all her
father's estates, he had built the house which for fifteen years he had
called home. When Evadne, their only daughter, was a little maiden of
six, his wife had died, and for nine years father and child had been all
the world to each other.

He finished writing at last with a sigh of relief, and folding the
letter, together with one addressed to Evadne, he enclosed both in a
large envelope which he sealed and addressed to Judge Hildreth,
Marlborough, Mass. Then he leaned back in his chair, and, clasping his
hands behind his head, looked fixedly at the picture of his fair young
wife which hung above his desk.

"A bad job well done, Louise--or a good one. Our little lass isn't very
well adapted to making her way among strangers, and the Bohemianism of
this life is a poor preparation for the heavy respectability of a New
England existence. Lawrence is a good fellow, but that wife of his
always put me in mind of iced champagne, sparkling and cold." He sighed
heavily, "Poor little Vad! It is a dreary outlook, but it seems my one
resource. Lawrence is the only relative I have in the world.

"After all, I may be fighting windmills, and years hence may laugh at
this morning's work as an example of the folly of yielding to
unnecessary alarm. Danvers is getting childish. All physicians get to be
old fogies, I fancy, a natural sequence to a life spent in hunting down
germs I suppose. They grow to imagine them where none exist."

He rose, and strolled out on the veranda. As he did so, a negro, whose
snow-white hair had earned for him from his master the sobriquet of
Methusaleh, came towards the broad front steps. He was a grotesque image
as he stood doffing a large palm-leaf hat, and Lenox Hildreth felt an
irresistible inclination to laugh, and laughed accordingly. His
morning's occupation had been one of the rare instances in which he had
run counter to his inclinations. Sky blue cotton trousers showed two
brown ankles before his feet hid themselves in a pair of clumsy shoes; a
scarlet shirt, ornamented with large brass buttons and fastened at the
throat with a cotton handkerchief of vivid corn color, was surmounted by
an old nankeen coat, upon whose gaping elbows a careful wife had sewn
patches of green cloth; his hands were encased in white cotton gloves
three sizes too large, whose finger tips waved in the wind as their
wearer flourished his palm-leaf headgear in deprecating obeisance.

"Well, Methusaleh, where are you off to now?" and Lenox Hildreth leaned
against a flower wreathed pillar in lazy amusement.

"To camp-meetin', Mass Hildreff. I hez your permission, sah?" and the
negro rolled his eyes with a ludicrous expression of humility.

His master laughed with the easy indulgence which made his servants
impose upon him.

"You seem to have taken it, you rascal. It is rather late in the day to
ask for permission when you and your store clothes are all ready for a
start."

"'Scuse me, Mass Hildreff," with another deprecating wave of the
palm-leaf hat, "but yer see I knowed yer wouldn't dissapint me of de
priv'lege uv goin' ter camp-meetin' nohow."

Lenox Hildreth held his cigar between his slender fingers and watched
the tiny wreaths of smoke as they circled about his head.

"So camp-meeting is a privilege, is it?" he said carelessly. "How much
more good will it do you to go there than to stay at home and hoe my
corn?"

The eyes were rolled up until only the whites were visible.

"Powerful sight more good, Mass Hildreff. De preacher's 'n uncommon
relijus man, an' de 'speriences uv de bredren is mighty upliftin'. Yes,
sah!"

"Well, see that they don't lift you up so high that you'll forget to
come down again. I suppose you have an experience in common with the
rest?"

"Yes, Mass Hildreff," and the palm-leaf made another gyration through
the air. "I'se got a powerful 'sperience, sah."

"Well, off you go. It would be a pity to deprive the assembly of such
an edifying specimen of sanctimoniousness."

"Yes, sah, I'se bery sanktimonyus. I'se 'bliged to you, sah."

With a last obsequious flourish the palm-leaf was restored to its
resting-place upon the snowy wool, and the negro shambled away. When he
had gone a few yards a sudden thought struck his master and he called,--

"Methusaleh, I say, Methusaleh!"

"Yes, sah," and the servant retraced his steps.

"What about that turkey of mine that you stole last week? You can't go
to camp-meeting with that on your conscience. Come, now, better take off
your finery and repent in sackcloth and ashes."

For an instant the negro was nonplused, then the palm-leaf was
flourished grandiloquently, while its owner said in a voice of withering
scorn,--

"Laws! Mass Hildreff, do yer spose I'se goin' ter neglec' de Lawd fer
one lil' turkey?"

His master turned on his heel with a low laugh. "Of a piece with the
whole of them!" he said bitterly. "Hypocrites and shams!"

"Evadne!" he exclaimed impetuously, as a slight girlish figure came
towards him, "never say a single word that you do not mean nor express
a sensation that you have not felt. It is the people who neglect this
rule who play havoc with themselves and the world."

"Why, dearest, you frighten me!" and the girl slipped her hand through
his arm with a low, sweet laugh. "I never saw you look so solemn
before."

"Hypocrisy, Vad, is the meanest thing on earth! The pious people at the
church yonder call me an unbeliever, but they've got themselves to thank
for it. I may be a good-for-nothing but at least I will not preach what
I do not practise."

"You are as good as gold, dearest. I won't have you say such horrid
things! And you don't need to preach anything. I am sure no one in all
the world could be happier than we."

Her father put his hand under her chin, and, lifting her face towards
his, looked long and earnestly at the pure brow, about which the brown
hair clustered in natural curls, the clear-cut nose, the laughing lips
parted over a row of pearls, and the wonderful deep gray eyes.

"_Are_ you happy, little one?" he asked wistfully. "Are you quite sure
about that?"

"Happy!" the girl echoed the word with an incredulous smile. "Why,
dearest, what has come to you? You never needed to ask me such a
question before! Don't you know there isn't a girl in Barbadoes who has
been so thoroughly spoiled, and has found the spoiling so sweet? Do I
look more than usually mournful to-day that you should think I am pining
away with grief?" She looked up at him with a roguish laugh.

He smiled and laid his finger caressingly on the dimpled chin. "Dear
little bird!" he said tenderly; "but when this dimple captivates the
heart of some one, Vad, you will fly away and leave the poor father in
the empty nest."

Her color glowed softly through the olive skin. She threw her arms
around his neck and laid her face against his breast. "You know better!"
she exclaimed passionately. "You know I wouldn't leave you for all the
'some ones' in the world!"

Her father caught her close. "Poor little lass!" he said with a sigh.

The girl lifted her head and looked at him anxiously. "Dearest, what
_is_ the matter? I am sure you are not well! You have been sitting too
long at that tiresome writing."

"Yes, that is it, darling," he said with a sudden change of tone.
"Writing always does give me the blues. I think the man who invented the
art should have been put in a pillory for the rest of his natural life.
Blow your whistle for Sam to bring the horses and we will go for a ride
along the beach."

Evadne lifted the golden whistle which hung at her girdle and blew the
call which the well-trained servant understood. "Fi, dearest!" she said,
"if there were no writing there would be no books, and what would become
of our beautiful evenings then? But I am glad you do not have to write
much, since it tires you so. What has it all been about, dear? Am I
never to know?"

"Some day, perhaps, little Vad. But do not indulge in the besetting sin
of your sex, or, like the mother of the race, you may find your apple
choke you in the chewing."

Evadne shook her finger at him. "Naughty one! As if you were not three
times as curious as I! And when it comes to waiting,--you should have
named me Patience, sir!"

Her father laughed as he kissed her, then he tied on her hat, threw on
his own, and hand-in-hand like two children they ran down the veranda
steps to where the groom stood waiting with the horses.



CHAPTER II.


A month full of happy days had flown by when Evadne and her father
returned one morning from a long tramp in search of specimens. A
delightful afternoon had followed, he in a hammock, she on a low seat
beside him, arranging, classifying and preparing their morning's spoil
for the microscope. Suddenly she turned towards him with a troubled
face.

"Dearest, how pale you look! Are you very tired?"

"It is only the heat," he answered lightly. "We had a pretty stiff walk
this morning, you know."

"And I carried you on and on!" she cried reproachfully. "I was so
anxious to find this particular crab. Isn't he a pretty fellow?" and she
lifted the box that her father might watch the tiny creature's play. "I
shall go at once and make you an orange sherbet."

"Let Dinah do it and you stay here with me."

"No indeed! You know you think no one can make them as well as I do. I
promise you this one shall be superfine."

"As you will, little one,--only don't stay away too long."

He lay very still after she had left him, looking dreamily through the
vines at the silver spray of the fountain. The air had grown
oppressively sultry; no breath of wind stirred the heavily drooping
leaves, no sound except the rhythmic splash of the fountain and the soft
lapping of the waves upon the beach. He closed his eyes while their
ceaseless monotone seemed to beat upon his brain.

"Forever! Forever! Forever!"

A spasm of pain crossed his face as Evadne's voice woke the echoes with
a merry song. "Poor little lass!" he murmured. Then he smiled as she
came towards him, quaffed off the beverage she had prepared with loving
skill, and called her the best cook in all the Indies.

"Has it refreshed you, dearest?" she asked anxiously.

"Immensely! Now you shall read me some of Lalla Rookh, and after dinner
I will set about making a Mecca for your crab."

Evadne stroked the dainty claws,--

"Poor little chap! So you are a pilgrim like the rest of us. I wish we
did not have to go on and on, dearest!" she exclaimed passionately,
"why cannot we stand still and enjoy?"

"It would grow monotonous, little Vad. Progress is the law of all being,
and seventy years of life is generally enough for the majority. You
would not like to live to be an old lady of two hundred and fifty? Think
how tired you would be!"

She laid her cheek against his upon the pillow. "I should _never_ grow
tired,--with you!"

The evening drew on, hot and breathless. Low growls of distant thunder
were heard at intervals, and in the eastern sky the lightning played.

Evadne watched it, sitting on the top step of the veranda, her white
muslin dress in happy contrast with the deep green of the vines which
clustered thickly about the pillar against which she leaned. On the step
below her a young man sat. He too was clad in white and the rich crimson
of the silken scarf which he wore about his waist enhanced his Spanish
beauty. A zither lay across his knees over which his hands wandered
skilfully as he made the air tremble with dreamy music. Mr. Hildreth
paced slowly up and down the veranda behind them.

"What is the news from the great world, Geoff? I saw a troop ship
signaled this morning. Have you been on board yet?"

"No, sir, I have been looking over the plantation with my father all
day, and only got home in time for dinner."

"You chose a cool time for it!" and Mr. Hildreth laughed.

Geoffrey Chittenden shrugged his shoulders. "When Geoffrey Chittenden,
Senior, makes up his mind to do anything, he has the most sublime
indifference for the thermometer of any one I ever had the honor of
knowing. But the ship only brought a small detachment, I believe; she
will carry away a larger one. The garrison here is to be reduced, you
know."

"Yes, it is a mistake I think. Will Drewson have to go? He has been on
this Station longer than any of the others."

"Yes, his company has marching orders for Malta. He told me last night
he was coming to take leave of you next week."

"Our nice Captain Drewson going away!" Evadne exclaimed, aghast. "Why,
dearest, he is one of our oldest friends!"

"The law of progression, Vad darling."

"How I hate it!" she cried, while her lips trembled. "Why can't we just
live on in the old happy way? You will be going next, Geoff, and the
Hamiltons and the Vandervoorts. Does nothing last?"

Her voice hushed itself into silence and again Lenox Hildreth heard the
soft waves singing,--

"Forever! Forever! Forever!"

"Oh yes, Evadne," Geoffrey said with a laugh: "we are very lasting. It
is only the unfortunate people under military rule who prove unreliable.
Let me sing you my latest song to cheer your spirits. I only learned it
last week."

He struck a few chords and was beginning his song when a low groan made
him spring to his feet. Evadne passed him like a flash of light and flew
to her father's side. He was leaning heavily against a pillar with his
handkerchief, already showing crimson stains, pressed tightly against his
lips.

They laid him gently down and summoned help. After that all was like a
horrible dream to Evadne. She was dimly conscious that friends came with
ready offers of assistance, and that Barbadoes' best physicians were
unremitting in their efforts to stop the hemorrhage; while she stood
like a statue beside her father's bed. She was absolutely still. When at
last the hemorrhage was checked the exhaustion was terrible. Evadne
longed to throw herself beside him and pillow the dear head upon her
bosom, but Dr. Danvers had whispered,--

"A sudden sound may start the hemorrhage again,--the slightest shock is
sure to." After that, not for worlds would she have moved a finger.

The day passed and another night drew on. One of the physicians was
constantly in attendance, for the hemorrhage returned at intervals. Just
as the rose-tinted dawn looked shyly through the windows, her father
spoke, and Evadne bent her head to catch the faint tone of the voice
which sounded so far away.

"Vad, darling, I have made an awful mistake! I thought everything a
sham. I know better now. Make it the business of your life, little Vad,
to find Jesus Christ."

Again the red stream stained his lips, and Dr. Danvers came swiftly
forward, but Lenox Hildreth was forever beyond all need of human care.

       *       *       *       *       *

A week passed, and day after day Evadne sat by her window, speaking no
word. Outdoors the fountain still sparkled in the sunshine and the birds
sang, but for her the foundations of life had been shaken to their
center. Her friends tried in vain to break up her unnatural calm.

"If you would only have a good cry, Evadne," Geoffrey Chittenden said
at last, "you would feel better, dear. That is what all girls do, you
know."

She turned upon him a pair of solemn eyes, out of which the merry
sparkle had faded. "Will crying give me back my father?"

"Why, no, dear. Of course I didn't mean that. But these things are bound
to happen to us all, sooner or later, you know. It is the rule of life."

"'The law of progression,'" she said with a dreary laugh. "I wish the
world would stop for good!"

When the clergyman came she met him quietly, and he found himself not a
little disconcerted by the steady gaze of the mournful grey eyes. He was
not accustomed to dealing with such wordless grief, and he found his
favorite phrases sadly inadequate to the occasion. There was an awkward
pause.

"Dr. Danvers says your father told him some time ago that, in the event
of his death, he wished you to make your home with your uncle in
America?" he said at length.

Evadne bowed.

"Well, my dear young lady, you will find it in all respects a most
desirable home, I feel confident. Judge Hildreth holds a position of
great trust in the church, and is universally esteemed as a Christian
gentleman of sterling character."

The grey eyes were lifted to his face.

"Shall I find Jesus Christ there?"

"Jesus Christ?" The clergyman echoed her words with a start. "I beg your
pardon, my dear. The Lord sitteth upon his throne in the heavens. We
must approach him reverently, with humble fear."

"That seems a long way off," said Evadne in a disappointed tone. "There
must be some mistake. My father told me to make it the business of my
life to find him."

"Your father, my dear! Oh, ah, ahem!"

An indignant flash leaped into the grey eyes. Evadne rose and faced him.
"You must excuse me, sir," she said quietly. Then she left the room.

And the tears, which all the kindly sympathy had failed to bring her, at
the first breath of censure fell about her like a flood.



CHAPTER III.


Judge Hildreth sat with his family at dinner in the spacious dining-room
of one of the finest houses in Marlborough. He was a handsome man, with
a stateliness of manner attributable in part to the deferential homage
which Marlborough paid to his opinion in all matters of importance. His
wife, tall and queenly, sat opposite him. Two daughters and a son
completed the family group. Louis Hildreth had his father's dark blue
eyes and regular features, but there were weak lines about the mouth
which betokened a lack of purpose, and the expression of his face was
marred by a cynical smile which was fast becoming habitual with him.
Isabelle, the eldest, was tall and fair, except for a chill hauteur
which set strangely upon one so young, while her firmly set lips
betokened the existence of a strong will which completely dominated her
less self-reliant sister. Marion Hildreth was just Evadne's age, with a
pink and white beauty and soft eyes which turned deprecatingly at
intervals towards Isabelle, as though to ask pardon for imaginary
solecisms against Miss Hildreth's code of etiquette.

The covers were being changed for the second course when a servant
entered and approached the Judge, bearing a cablegram upon a silver
salver. He ran his eyes hastily over its contents, then he leaned back
heavily against his chair, while an expression of genuine sorrow settled
down upon his face.

"Your Uncle Lenox is dead," he said briefly, as the girls plied him with
questions.

"Dead!" Mrs. Hildreth's voice broke the hush which had fallen in the
room. "Why, Lawrence, this is very sudden! We have looked upon Lenox as
being perfectly well."

"It is not safe to count anyone well, Kate, who carries such a lurking
serpent in his bosom. Only forty-three! Just in his prime. Poor Len!"
The Judge leaned his head upon his hand, while his thoughts were busy
with memories of the gay young brother who had filled the old homestead
with his merry nonsense.

"And what will become of Evadne?" Again Mrs. Hildreth's voice broke the
silence.

"Evadne?" the Judge looked full in his wife's face. "Why, my dear, there
is only one thing to be done. I shall cable immediately to have her come
to us." He rose from the table, his dinner all untasted, and left the
room.

Louis was the first to speak. "A Barbadoes cousin. How will you like
having such a novelty as that, Sis, to introduce among your
acquaintance?" He bowed lazily to Mrs. Hildreth. "Let me congratulate
you, lady mother. You will have the pleasure of floating another bud
into blossom upon the bosom of society."

"I do not see any room for congratulation, Louis," Mrs. Hildreth said
discontentedly. "It is a dreadful responsibility. One does not know what
the child may be like."

"Hardly a child, mamma," pouted Marion. "Evadne must be as old as I."

"If that is so, Sis, she must have the wisdom of Methusaleh!" and Louis
looked at his sister with one of his mocking smiles. "At any rate she
will afford scope for your powers of training, Isabelle. It must be
depressing to have to waste your eloquence upon an audience of one."

Isabelle tossed her head. "I am not anxious for the opportunity," she
said coldly. "Likely the child will be a perfect heathen after running
wild among savages all her life."

Louis whistled. "A little less Grundy and a little more geography would
be to your advantage, Isabelle! Barbadoes happens to be the crème de la
crème of the British Indies. I would not advise you to display your
ignorance before Evadne, or your future lecturettes on the
conventionalities may prove lacking in vital force."

"Why, Isabelle, my dear, you must be dreaming!" and her mother looked
annoyed. "Don't let your father hear you say such a thing, I beg of you!
When he visited Barbadoes he was delighted, and he thought Evadne's
mother one of the most charming women he had ever met. If she had lived
of course Evadne would be all right, but she has been left entirely to
her father's guidance, and he had such peculiar ideas."

"When, did she die, mamma?" asked Marion.

"I am sure I cannot remember. Six or seven years ago it must have been.
But we rarely heard from them. Your Uncle Lenox was always a wretched
correspondent, and since his wife's death he has hardly written at all."

"The house of Hildreth cannot claim to be well posted in the matter of
blood relations," said Louis carelessly, as he helped himself to olives.

       *       *       *       *       *

Upon the deck of one of the Ocean Greyhounds a promiscuous crowd was
gathered. Returning tourists in all the glory of field glasses and tweed
suits; British officers going home on furlough from the different
outposts where they were stationed; merchants from the rich markets of
the far East; picturesque foreigners in national costume; and a bishop
who paced the deck with a dignity becoming his ecclesiastical rank.
There was a continuous hum of conversation, mingled with intermittent
ripples of laughter from the different groups which were scattered about
the deck. Among the exceptions to the general sociability were the
bishop, still pacing up and down with his hands clasped behind him, and
a young girl who sat looking far out over the waves, utterly heedless of
the noise and confusion around her.

She was absolutely alone. The gentleman under whose care she was
traveling made a point of escorting her to meals, after which he
invariably secured her a comfortable deck chair, supplied her liberally
with rugs and books, and then retired to the smoking-room, with the
serene consciousness of duty well performed; and Evadne Hildreth was
thankful to be left in peace. She was no longer the buoyant, merry girl.
Her vitality seemed crushed. Hour after hour she sat motionless, her
hands folded listlessly in her lap, looking out over the dancing waves.
She had caught the last glimpse of her beloved island in a grey stupor.
Everything was gone,--father and home and friends,--nothing that
happened could matter now,--but, oh, the dreary, dreary years! Did the
sun shine in far-away New England, and could the water be as blue as her
dear Atlantic, with the gay ripple on its bosom and the music of its
waves? She looked at the tender sky, as on the far horizon it bent low
to kiss the face of the mysterious mighty ocean which stretched "a sea
without a shore." That was like her life now. All the beauty ended, yet
stretching on and on and on. And she must keep pace with it, against her
will. And there was no one to care. She was all alone! No, there was
Jesus Christ!

She started to find that the Bishop's lady was speaking to her. Evadne
recognized her, for she sat at the next table, and several times she had
stood aside to let her pass to her seat. Something about the solitary,
pathetic little figure, the hopeless face and mournful grey eyes, had
won the compassion of the good lady, for she was a kindly soul.

"My dear, you have a great sorrow?" she said gently. "I hope you have
the consolations of our holy religion to help you bear it."

Evadne turned towards her eagerly. Her husband was the head of the
church. Surely _she_ would know.

"Can you help me to find him?" she asked abruptly.

"Find whom, my dear? Have you a friend among the passengers?"

"Jesus Christ."

"Oh!" The Bishop's lady sat back with the suddenness of the shock, "Are
you in earnest, my dear?" she asked with a tinge of severity in her
tone. "This is a very serious question, but, if you really mean it, I
will lend you my Prayer Book."

Evadne smiled drearily. "Oh, yes, I am terribly in earnest. My father
said I was to make it the business of my life."

"Oh, ah, yes, to be sure," said the lady a trifle absently. "That is
very proper. Christianity should be the great purpose of our life."

"I do not want Christianity," said Evadne impatiently, "I want Christ."

"My dear, you shock me! The eternal verities of our holy religion must
ever be--"

"Do you believe in him?" asked Evadne, interrupting her.

"Believe in him? whom do you mean?"

"Jesus Christ."

Aghast, the Bishop's lady crossed herself and began repeating the
Apostles' Creed.

"That makes him seem so far away," said Evadne sadly. "I do not want him
in heaven if I have to live upon earth. Have _you_ found him?" she asked
eagerly. "Are you on intimate terms with him? Is he your friend?"

The Bishop's lady gasped for breath. That she, a member of the Church of
the Holy Communion of All Saints should be interrogated in such a
fashion as this! "I think you do not quite understand," she said coldly.
"I will lend you a treatise on Church Doctrine. You had better study
that."

"Charlotte," said her husband when she reached her stateroom, "I have
arrived at an important decision this afternoon. I have finally
concluded to take the Socinian Heresy as my theme for the noon lectures.
The subject will admit of elaborate treatment and afford ample scope for
scholarship."

"Heresy!" echoed his wife, who had not yet recovered her equanimity;
"why, Bertram, I have just been talking to a young person who asked me
if I was on intimate terms with Jesus Christ!"

"Ah, yes," said the Bishop absently, "the radical tendencies of the
present day are to be deplored. Have you seen that my vestments are in
order, Charlotte? I shall hold Divine service on board to-morrow."

In a neighboring stateroom a lonely soul, bewildered and despairing,
struggled through the darkness towards the light.

       *       *       *       *       *

The last snow of the winter lay in soft beauty upon the streets of
Marlborough as Evadne's train drew into the railway station. Instantly
all was bustle and confusion throughout the cars. Evadne shrank back in
her seat and waited. Instinctively she felt that for her there would be
no joyous welcome. Inexpressibly dreary as the journey had been she was
sorry it was at an end. An overwhelming embarrassment of shyness seized
upon her, and the chill desolation of loneliness seemed to shut down
about her like a cloud.

A young man sauntered past her with his hands in his pockets. When he
reached the end of the car he turned and surveyed the passengers
leisurely, then he came back to her seat. He lifted his hat with lazy
politeness.

"Miss Hildreth, I believe?"

Evadne bowed. He shook hands coolly.

"I have the honor of introducing myself as your cousin Louis."

He made no attempt to give her a warmer greeting, and Evadne was glad,
but how dreary it was!

Louis led the way out of the station to where a pair of magnificent
horses stood, tossing their regal heads impatiently. A colored coachman
stood beside them, clad in fur.

"Pompey," he said, "this is Miss Evadne Hildreth from Barbadoes."

The man bent his head low over the little hand which was instantly
stretched out to him. "I'se very glad to see Miss 'Vadney," he said with
simple fervor. "I was powerful fond of Mass Lennux;" and Evadne felt she
had received her warmest welcome.

She nestled down among the soft robes of the sleigh while the silver
bells rang merrily through the frosty air. It was all so new and
strange. A leaden weight seemed to be settling down upon her heart and
she felt as if she were choking, but she threw it off. She dared not let
herself think. She began to talk rapidly.

"What splendid horses you have! Surely they must be thoroughbreds? No
ordinary horses could ever hold their heads like that."

Louis nodded. "You have a quick eye," he said approvingly. "Most girls
would not know a thoroughbred from a draught horse. You have hit upon
the surest way to get into my father's good graces. His horses are his
hobby."

"What are their names?"

"Brutus and Caesar. The Judge is nothing if not classical."

As they mounted the front steps the faint notes of a guitar sounded from
the front room.

"Confound Isabelle and her eternal twanging!" muttered Louis, as he
fumbled for his latch-key. "It would be a more orthodox welcome if you
found your relations waiting for you with open arms, but the Hildreth
family is not given to gush. Isabelle will tell you it is not good form.
So we keep our emotions hermetically sealed and stowed away under
decorous lock and key, polite society having found them inconvenient
things to handle, partaking of the nature of nitroglycerine, you know,
and liable to spontaneous combustion."

He opened the door as he spoke and Evadne followed him into the hall.
She shivered, although a warm breath of heated air fanned her cheek. The
atmosphere was chilly.

Marion, hurried forward to greet her, followed more leisurely by
Isabelle and her mother, who touched her lips lightly to her forehead.

"I hope you have had a pleasant journey, my dear, although you must
find our climate rather stormy. I think you might as well let the girls
take you at once to your room and then we will have dinner."

"Where is the Judge?" inquired Louis.

"Detained again at the office. He has just telephoned not to wait for
him. He is killing himself with overwork."

To Evadne the dinner seemed interminable and she found herself
contrasting the stiff formality with the genial hospitality of her
father's table. She saw again the softly lighted room with its open
windows through which the flowers peeped, and heard his gay badinage and
his low, sweet laugh. Could she be the same Evadne, or was it all a
dream?

Isabelle stood beside her as she began to prepare for the night. She
wished she would go away. The burden of loneliness grew every moment
more intolerable. Suddenly she turned towards her cousin and cried in
desperation,--

"Can _you_ tell me where I shall find Jesus Christ?"

Isabelle started. "My goodness, Evadne, what a strange question! You
took my breath away."

"Is it a strange question?" she asked wistfully. "Everyone seems to
think so, and yet--my father said I was to make it the business of my
life to find him."

"Your father!" cried Isabelle. "Why Uncle Lenox was an----"

Instantly a pair of small hands were held like a vice against her lips.
Isabelle threw them off angrily.

"You are polite, I must say! Is this a specimen of West Indian manners?"

"You were going to say something I could not hear," said Evadne quietly,
"there was nothing else to do."

Isabelle left the room, and, returning, threw a book carelessly upon the
table. "You had better study that," she said. "It will answer your
questions better than I can."

"I told you she was a heathen!" she exclaimed, as she rejoined her
mother in the sitting-room; "but I did not know that I should have to
turn missionary the first night and give her a Bible!"

Upstairs Evadne buried her face among the pillows and the aching heart
burst its bonds in one long quivering cry of pain.

"Dearest!"



CHAPTER IV.


A day full of light--warm and brilliant. The sun flooding the wide
fields of timothy and clover and fresh young grain with glory; falling
with a soft radiance upon the comfortable mansion of the master of
Hollywood Farm, with its spacious barns and long stretches of stabling,
and throwing loving glances among the leaves of its deep belt of
woodland where the river sparkled and soft rugs of moss spread their
rich luxuriance over an aesthetic carpet of resinous pine needles.

Near the limits of Hollywood the forest made a sudden curve to the
right, and the river, turned from its course, rushed, laughing and
eager, over a ridge of rocks which tossed it in the air in sheets of
silver spray.

Standing there, leaning upon a gun, a boy of about seventeen looked long
at a squirrel whose mangled body was staining the emerald beauty of the
moss with crimson. His face was earnest and troubled, while the
expression of sorrowful contempt which swept over it, made him seem
older than he was. It was a strong face, with deep-set, thoughtful eyes
which lit up wondrously when he was interested or pleased. His mouth was
sensitive but his chin was firm and his brown hair fell in soft waves
over a broad, full brow. People always took it for granted that John
Randolph would be as good as his word. They never reasoned about it.
They simply expected it of him.

He began to speak, and his voice fell clear and distinct through the
silence.

"And you call this sport?" There was no answer save the soft gurgle of
the river as it splashed merrily over the stones.

"You are a brute, John Randolph!" And the wind sighed a plaintive echo
among the trees.

He was silent while the words which he had read six weeks before and
which had been ringing a ceaseless refrain in his heart ever since,
obtruded themselves upon his memory.

"It is the privilege of everyone to become an exact copy of Jesus
Christ."

"Well, John Randolph, can you picture to yourself Jesus Christ shooting
a squirrel for sport?" He tossed aside the weapon he had been leaning
upon with a gesture of disgust, and, folding his arms, looked up at the
cloud-flecked sky.

"Are you there, Jesus Christ?" he asked wistfully. "Are you looking
down on this poor old world, and what do you think of it all? Men made
in God's image finding their highest enjoyment in slaughtering his
creatures. Game Preserves where they can do it in luxurious leisure; fox
hunts with their pack of hunters and hounds in full cry after one poor
defenceless fox, and battle-fields where they tear each other limb from
limb with Gatling gun and shells; and yet we call ourselves honorable
gentlemen, and talk of the delights of the chase and the glories of war!
Pshaw! what a mockery it is."

Stooping suddenly he laid the squirrel upon his open palm and gently
stroked the long, silky fur. He lifted the tiny paws with their perfect
equipment for service and looked remorsefully at the eyes whose light
was dimmed, and the mouth which had forever ceased its merry chatter. A
great tenderness sprang up in his heart toward all living things and,
lifting his right hand to heaven, he exclaimed, "Poor little squirrel, I
cannot give you back your happy life, but, I will never take another!"

Then he knelt, and scooping out a grave, laid the little creature to
rest at the foot of a tree in whose trunk the remnant of its winter
store of nuts was carefully garnered. When at length he turned to
leave the spot the tiny grave was marked by a pine slab, on which was
pencilled,

  "Here lies the germ of a resolve.
  July 17th, 18--"

He walked slowly along the fragrant wood-path, looking thoughtfully at
the shadows as they played hide and seek upon the moss, while through
the trees he caught glimpses of the sparkling river which sang as it
rolled along.

When he reached the border of the woodland he stood still and his eyes
swept over the landscape. Hollywood was the finest stock farm in the
country. After his father's death he had come, a little lad, to live
with Mr. Hawthorne, and every year which had elapsed since then made it
grow more dear. He loved its rolling meadows, its breezy pastures and
its fragrant orchards. Its beautifully kept grounds and outbuildings
appealed to his innate sense of the fitness of things, while its air of
abundant comfort made it difficult to realize that the world was full of
hunger and woe. He loved the green road where the wild roses blushed and
the honeysuckle drooped its fragrant petals, but most of all he loved
the graceful horses and sleek cows which just now were grazing in the
fields on either side; and the shy creatures, with the subtle instinct
by which all animals test the quality of human friendship, took him into
their confidence and came gladly at his call and did his bidding.

When he reached the end of the road he stopped again, and, leaning
against the fence adjoining the broad gate which led to the house, gave
a low whistle. A thoroughbred Jersey, feeding some distance away, lifted
her head and listened. Again he whistled, and with soft, slow tread the
cow came towards him and rubbed her nose against his arm. He took her
head between his hands, her clover-laden breath fanning his cheeks, and
looked at the dark muzzle and the large eyes, almost human in their
tenderness.

"Well, Primrose, old lady, you're as dainty as your namesake, and as
sweet. Ah, Sylph, you beauty!" he continued, as a calf like a young fawn
approached the gate, "you can't rest away from your mammy, can you?
Primrose, have you any aspirations, or are you content simply to eat and
drink? You have a good time of it now, but what if you were kicked and
cuffed and starved? You are sensitive, for I saw you shrink and shiver
when Bill Wright,--the scoundrel!--dared to strike you. He'll never do
it again, Prim! Have you the taste of an epicure for the juicy grass
blades and the clover when it is young,--do you love to hear the birds
sing and the brook murmur, and do you enjoy living under the trees and
watching the clouds chase the sunbeams as you chew your cud? Do you
wonder why the cold winter comes and you have to be shut up in a stall
with a different kind of fodder? Do you ever wonder who gave you life
and what you are meant to do with it? How I wish you could talk, old
lady!"

He vaulted over the gate, and whistling to a fine collie who came
bounding to meet him, walked slowly on towards the stables.

"Hulloa, John!" and a boy about two years his junior threw himself off a
horse reeking with foam. "Rub Sultan down a bit like a good fellow.
There'll be the worst kind of a row if the governor sees him in this
pickle."

John Randolph looked indignantly at the handsome horse, as he stood with
drooping head and wide distended nostrils, while the white foam dripped
over his delicate legs.

"Serve you right if there were!" and his voice was full of scorn.
"You're about as fit to handle horseflesh as an Esquimaux."

"Oh, pish! You're a regular old grandmother, John. There's nothing to
make such a row about." And Reginald Hawthorne turned upon his heel.

John threw off coat and vest, and, rolling up his sleeves, led the
exhausted horse to the currying ground. Reginald followed slowly, his
hands in his pockets.

"How did you get him into such a mess?" he asked shortly.

"I don't know, I didn't do anything to him," and Reginald kicked the
gravel discontentedly. "I believe he's getting lazy."

"Sultan lazy!" and John laughed incredulously. "That's a good joke! Why,
he is the freest horse on the place!"

"Well, I don't know how else to explain it. He's been on the go pretty
steadily, but what's a horse good for? Thursday afternoon we had our
cross-country run and the ground was horribly stiff. I thought he had
sprained his off foreleg for he limped a good deal on the home stretch,
but he seemed to limber up all right the last few miles. I was sorry not
to let him rest yesterday; would have put him in better trim I suppose
for to-day's twenty mile pull,--but Cartwright and Peterson wanted to
make up a tandem, and when they asked for Sultan I didn't like to
refuse. They are heavy swells, and you know father wants me to get in
with that lot. But that shouldn't have hurt him. They only went as far
as Brighton. What's fifteen miles to a horse!"

"Fifteen miles means thirty to a horse when he has to travel back the
same road," said John drily; "and your heavy swells take the toll out of
horseflesh quicker than a London cabby."

"Why, John, what has come to you? You're the last fellow in the world to
want me to be churlish."

"That's true, Rege,--but I don't want them to cripple you as they have
poor Sultan. What kind of fellows are they?"

"Oh, not a bad sort," said Reginald carelessly. "Lots of the needful,
you know, and free with it. Not very fond of the grind, but always up to
date when there are any good times going. What do you suppose put Sultan
in such a lather, John? I was so afraid father would catch me that I
came across the fields, and it was just as much as he could do to take
the last fence. I made sure he was going to tumble."

"Well for you he didn't," and John smoothed the delicate limbs with his
firm hand, "these knees are too pretty for a scar. Go into the vet room,
Rege, and bring me out a roll of bandage."

"Hulloa! That will give me away to the governor with a vengeance! What
are you going to bandage him for?"

"He is badly strained, and if I don't his legs will be all puffed by the
morning. It will be lucky if it is nothing worse. He looks to me as if
he was in for a touch of distemper, but I'll give him a powder and
perhaps we can stave it off."

Reginald brought the bandage and then stood moodily striking at a beetle
with his riding whip. He was turning away when a hand with a grip of
steel was laid on his shoulder and he was forced back to where the
beetle lay, a shapeless mass of quivering agony, while a low stern voice
exclaimed,--

"Finish your work! Even the cannibals do that."

Reginald wrenched himself free. "Pshaw!" he said contemptuously, "it's
only a beetle." But he did as he was told.

Then he stood silently watching as with swift skilfulness John swathed
the horse's limbs in flannel. "I guess Sultan misses you, John. Over at
the college livery their fingers are all thumbs."

"Poor Sultan!" was all John's answer, as he led the horse into a large
paddock thickly strewn with fresh straw.

A night full of stars--silent and sweet. John Randolph leaned on the
broad gate which opened into the green road where he had lingered in the
afternoon. The thoughts which surged through his brain made sleep
impossible, and so, lighting his bull's-eye, he had gone to the stables
to see how Sultan was faring, and then wandered on under the mystery of
the stars.

The night was warm. A breeze heavy with perfume lifted the hair from his
brow. He heard the low breathing of the cattle as they dozed in the
fields on either side, and the soft whirr of downy plumage as the great
owl which had built its nest among the eaves of the new barn flew past
him. Suddenly a warm nose was thrust against his shoulder and, with the
assurance of a spoilt beauty, the cow laid her head upon his arm. He
lifted his other hand and stroked it gently.

"Hah, Primrose! Are you awake, old lady? What are your views of life
now, Prim? Do the shadows make it seem more weird and grand, or does
midnight lose its awesomeness when one is upon four legs?"

He looked away to where the stars were throbbing with tender light,
crimson and green and gold, and the words of the book which he had been
studying every leisure moment for the past six weeks swept across his
mental vision.

"'I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in
darkness, but shall have the light of life.'

"'The light of life,'" he repeated slowly. "Why, to most people life
seems all darkness! What is 'the light of life'?"

Still other words came stealing to his memory. 'I am the way, the truth,
and the life, no one cometh unto the Father, but by me.' 'Except ye
turn, and become as little children, ye shall in no wise enter into the
kingdom of heaven.' 'This is life eternal, that they should know thee
the only true God, and him whom thou didst send, even Jesus.'

A great light flooded John Randolph's soul.

"'I' and 'me,'" he whispered. "Why, it is a personality. It is Jesus
himself! He is the way to the kingdom, the truth of the kingdom and the
life of it. The kingdom of heaven, not far away in space, but set up
here and now in the hearts of men who live the life hid with Christ in
God. I see it all! Jesus Christ is the light of the life which God gives
us through his Son."

He stretched his hands up towards the glistening sky.

"Jesus Christ," he cried eagerly, "come into my life and make it light.
I take thee for my Master, my Friend. I give myself away to thee. I will
follow wherever thou dost lead. Jesus Christ, help me to grow like
thee!"

The hush of a great peace fell upon his soul, while through the
listening night an angel stooped and traced upon his brow the kingly
motto, 'Ich Dien.'



CHAPTER V.


"Don, Don, me's tumin'," and the baby of the farm, a little child with
sunny curls and laughing eyes, ran past the great barns of Hollywood.

John Randolph was swinging along the green road with a bridle over his
arm, whistling softly. He turned as the childish voice was borne to him
on the breeze. "All right, Nansie, wait for me at the gate." Then he
sprang over the fence and crossed the field to where a group of horses
were feeding.

The child climbed up on the gate beside a saddle which John had placed
there and waited patiently. He soon came back, leading a magnificent bay
horse, and began to adjust the saddle.

"Now, Nan, I'll give you a ride to the house. Can't go any further
to-day, for I have to cross the river."

The child shook her head confidently. "Me 'll go too, Don."

"I'm afraid not, Nan. The river is so deep, we'll have to swim for it.
That is why I chose Neptune, you see."

"Me's not 'fraid, wiv 'oo, Don."

"Better wait, Baby, till the river is low. Well, come along then," as
the wily schemer drew down her pretty lips into the aggrieved curve
which always conquered his big, soft heart. She clapped her hands with
glee, as he lifted her in front of him and started Neptune into a brisk
trot, and made a bridle for herself out of the horse's silky mane.

"Gee, gee, Nepshun. Nan loves you, dear."

When they reached the fording place John's face grew grave. The river
had risen during the night and was rushing along with turbulent
strength. There was no house within five miles. His business was
imperative. He dared not leave the child until he came back. Crouching
upon the saddle, he clasped one arm about her while he twisted his other
hand firmly in and out of the horse's mane.

"Are you afraid, Nansie?"

She twined her arms more tightly about his neck until the sunny curls
brushed his cheek.

"Me'll do anywhere, wiv 'oo, Don."

Just as the gallant horse reached the opposite bank Reginald galloped
down to the ford on his way home for Sunday.

"Upon my word, John, you're a perfect slave to that youngster! What mad
thing will you be doing next, I wonder?"

"The next thing will be to go back again," said John with a smile, while
Nan clung fast to his neck and peeped shyly through her curls at her
brother.

"Where are you off to?"

"Henderson's."

Reginald turned his horse's head. "I might as well go along. A man's a
fool to ride alone when he can have company."

John gave him a swift, comprehensive glance.

"How are things going, Rege? You're not looking very fit."

Reginald yawned and drew his hand across his heavy eyes. "Oh, all right.
Oyster suppers and that sort of thing are apt to make a fellow drowsy."

"Don't go too fast, Rege."

"Why not?" said Reginald carelessly. "It suits the governor, and that
book you're so fond of says children should obey their parents."

       *       *       *       *       *

"I declare, John, you're a regular algebraic puzzle!" he exclaimed later
in the day, as he stood beside John in the carpenter's shop, watching
the curling strips of wood which his plane was tossing off with sweeping
strokes. "You put all there is of you into everything you do. You take
as much pains over a plough handle as you would over a buggy!"

"Why not? God takes as much pains with a humming-bird as an elephant.
Mere size doesn't count."

"Nan loves you, Reggie," and a tiny hand was slipped shyly into her
brother's.

"All right, Magpie," he said carelessly. "You had better run home now to
mother. Your chatter makes my head ache."

The laughing lips quivered and the child turned away from him to John
and hid her face against his knee. He lifted her up on the bench beside
him and gave her a handful of shavings to play with.

"I don't see how you accomplish anything with that child everlastingly
under your feet!" Reginald continued, "yet you do two men's work and
seem to love it into the bargain. I'm sure if I had to cooper up all the
things on the farm as you do, I should loathe the very sight of tools."

"I _do_ love it, Rege. Jesus Christ was a carpenter, you know. I get
very near to him out here."

"Jesus Christ!" echoed Reginald with a puzzled stare. "What is coming
to you, John?"

"It has come, Rege," John said with a great light in his face. "I have
found my Master."

"Upon my word, John, you are the queerest fellow! What next, I wonder?"

"The next thing, Rege," and John laid his hand affectionately upon his
friend's shoulder, "is for you to find him too."

"So, you're going to turn preacher, John? You'll find me a hard subject.
A short life and a merry one is what I am going in for. I've no turn for
Christianity."

"It pays, Rege."

"Don't believe it. How can life be worth living when you're drivelling
psalm tunes all day long?"

John laughed, and there was a new note of gladness in his voice which
Reginald was quick to notice. "I haven't begun to drivel yet, Rege; and
life counts for a good deal more when a man has an object than when he
is living just to please himself."

"And who should a man please but himself, I should like to know?"

"Jesus Christ."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Upon my word!" said Reginald some weeks later, as he came upon John
sitting astride a cobbler's bench busily mending a pair of shoes, while
Nan looked on admiringly. "Do you learn a new trade every month?"

John laughed quietly. "I took up this one because there are so many
repairs always needed on the harness, and your father thinks all talent
should be utilized."

There was a quizzical look about his mouth as he spoke. Reginald caught
the look and answered hotly.

"The governor ought to be ashamed of himself! Why don't you strike,
John?"

"Why should I? Knowledge is power, Rege."

"Knowledge of shoemaking!" said Reginald contemptuously. "It won't add
to your strength much, John."

"Never can tell," said John sententiously. "You remember that lame
fellow saved a battle for us by knowing how to shoe the general's
horse."

"Next thing you'll be going in for a blacksmith's diploma!"

"I'm thinking of it," said John coolly. "That fellow at the Forks has no
more sense than a hen. He pared so much off Neptune's hoof last week
that he has been limping ever since. I had to take him this morning and
have the shoes removed."

"I wish you'd do some shirking, John, like the rest of us."

"Jesus Christ never shirked, Rege."

"Pshaw! You're so ridiculous!" and Reginald walked discontentedly away.

"Here, John, John, I say," he called, when the time came for him to
return to College, "go catch and saddle Sultan for me. You're so fond of
work, you might as well have two masters. Be quick now, for I'm in the
mischief of a hurry."

John's face flushed. This boy was younger than himself, and his father
had been Mr. Hawthorne's friend.

"Do you hear what I say, John?" demanded Reginald. "You're only here as
a servant any way, and I'll be master some day, so you might as well
learn to obey me now."

John's brow cleared, while the words echoed in his heart with a glad
refrain,--

"A servant of Jesus Christ," and "The Lord's servant must not strive,
but be gentle towards all ... forbearing." After all, life was a matter
between himself and the Lord Jesus. What could Reginald's taunts affect
him now?

"All right," he said quietly, and started for the field.

"I declare!" muttered Reginald, as he watched the tall, lithe form
cross the field with springing step, "you might as well try to make the
fellow mad now, as to storm Gibraltar! What has come to him?"

"Here you are, Sir Reginald," said John good-humoredly, as he led the
freshly groomed horse to the riding-block.

Reginald's voice choked. "Shake hands, John," he said huskily. "I am a
brute! There must be something in this new fad of yours after all. If
you had spoken to me as I did to you just now, I should have knocked you
down."

He rode on for a mile or two in moody silence, then he gave his
shoulders an impatient shrug.

"I'd like to know what it is about John Randolph that makes me feel so
small! I have good times and he is always on the grind. I have all the
money I can spend and he has nothing but the pittance the governor gives
him, and yet he is three times the better fellow of the two. I envy him
his spunk and go. He comes to everything as fresh as a two-year old, and
he works everything for all there is in it. To see him climbing that
hill yesterday, with the youngster on his shoulder, actually made me
feel as if climbing hills was the jolliest thing in life. And it's so
with everything he does. Confound it! I don't see why I can't get the
same comfort out of things. I don't see where the fellow gets his vim.
If I worked as hard as he does, I'd be ready to tumble into bed instead
of pegging away at Latin and Mathematics. I'll have to put on a spurt in
self-defence or he'll be tripping me up with his questions. He's got the
longest head of anyone I know. The idea of the governor daring to set
such a fellow as that to cobble shoes!"

"It's queer about the governor," he continued after a pause. "He's
always ready to shell out when I ask him for money, but he keeps poor
John with his nose to the grindstone all the year round. I suppose he
expects me to pay him in glory. He's set his heart on my being a
judge,--Judge Hawthorne of Hollywood. Sounds euphonious, and I verily
believe the old gentleman has begun to roll it like a sweet morsel under
his tongue. Can't say I have a special aptitude for the profession, and
certainly the brains are not in evidence, but I suppose the governor
thinks money will take their place. He has found it takes the place of
most things.

"Sultan, old boy, we seem down on our luck this morning. We had better
take a speeder to raise our spirits. It is hardly the thing for Judge
Hawthorne of Hollywood to envy John Randolph his humdrum life of mending
rakes and shoes," and he urged his horse into a mad gallop.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I believe I'd like to be poor and work, John," he exclaimed one day.
"It gets tiresome having everything laid ready to your hand, with
nothing to do but take it. Life must be full of snap when you have to
dash your will up against old Dame Fortune and wrest what you want out
of her miserly clutches."

"Yes," said John simply, "Jesus Christ was poor."

"Look here, John. If you don't stop that nonsense, people will be
dubbing you a crank."

"I am ready!" he cried, and there was a strange, exulting ring in his
voice. "They called him mad, you know."



CHAPTER VI.


Evadne found herself one morning in Judge Hildreth's roomy coach-house,
watching Pompey, as he skilfully groomed her uncle's pets.

It had been decided that after the summer holidays, she should become a
member of the fashionable school which Isabelle and Marion attended. In
the meantime she was left almost entirely to her own devices. Her uncle
was away all day, Louis at College, and her aunt busy with social
duties. Her cousins had their own particular friends, who were not slow
to vote the silent girl with the mournful grey eyes, full of dumb
questioning, a bore; while Evadne, accustomed to being her father's
companion in all his scientific researches, found their vapid chatter
wearisome in the extreme.

Horses were a passion with her, and she noted with pleased interest
Pompey's deft manipulations. She stood for a long time in silence.
Pompey had saluted her respectfully then kept on steadily with his work.
Dexterously he swept the curry-comb over the shining coats and then
drew it through the brush in his left hand with a curious vocal
accompaniment, something between a long-drawn whistle and a sigh, and
the horses laid their heads against his shoulder affectionately and
looked wonderingly at the stranger out of their large, bright eyes.

"Did you really know my father?" she asked at length.

"Laws, yes, Missy!" and Pompey's honest black face grew tender with
sympathy. "Mass Lennux stayed with the Jedge 'fore he went ter
Barbadoes, an' he spen' powerful sight of his time out here wid me an'
de horses. He wuz allers del'cut,--warn't able ter do nothin' in this
yere climate,--but he bed sech a sperit! He wouldn't ever let folks know
when he wuz a sufferin'. He use ter call me 'Pompous,'" and Pompey
chuckled softly. "He say when I git inter my fur coat I look as gran' on
de box as de Jedge do inside; an' one day he braided de horses' manes
inter a hunderd tails an' tied 'em wid yaller ribbun, 'cause he said de
crimps wuz in de fashun an' yaller wuz de Jedge's 'lecshun color. De
Jedge wuz powerful angry. He don't like no sech tricks wid his horses.
But, laws, he couldn't keep angry wid Mass Lennux! He jes' stood wid
his hans on his sides an' larf an' larf, till de Jedge he hev ter larf
too, an' he call him a graceless scamp, an' say he send him ter
Coventry, an' Mass Lennux he say 'all right ef de Jedge go 'long too,
an' take de horses, he couldn't do widout dem nohow.'"

"Were these the horses my father used to ride?"

"Laws, no, Missy. Dey wuz ez black ez night. Mass Lennux use ter call
'em Egyp an' Erybus."

Pompey's face softened.

"When my leetle gal died he jes' put his han' on my shoulder an' sez
he,--'Pompous, you jes' go home an' cheer up de Missis, yer don't hev no
call to worry 'bout de horses.' An' he tuk care of dem jes' as ef he'd
ben a coachman. We'll never fergit it, Dyce an' me."

Evadne's eyes shone. That was just like her father!

"'Specs little Miss is powerful lonesum 'thout Mass Lennux?"

The soft voice was full of a genuine regret. Evadne sank down on a bench
which stood near by and burst into tears.

"Oh, Pompey, I wish I could die!"

"'Specs little Miss hez no call ter wish dat," said Pompey gently.
"'Specs de Lord Jesus wants her to live fer him."

Evadne opened her eyes in wonder.

"'The Lord Jesus,'" she repeated. "Why, Pompey, do you know him?"

A great joy transfigured the black face.

"He is my Frien'," he said simply.

Evadne leaned forward eagerly. "Oh, Pompey, if that is true, then you
can help me find him."

Pompey smiled joyously. "Miss 'Vadney don't need ter go far away fer
dat. He is right here."

"Here!" echoed Evadne faintly.

"Lo, I am wid you all de days'" Pompey repeated softly. "De Lord Jesus
don't leave no gaps in his promises, Miss 'Vadney. He's allers wid me
wherever I is workin', an' when I is up on my box a drivin' troo de
streets, he's dere. He's wid me continuous. Dere's nuthin can seprate
Pompey from de Lord," he added with a sweet reverence.

"How can you be so sure?" she asked wistfully.

"I hez his word, Missy. You allers b'lieved your father? 'I will not
leave you orphuns, I will cum ter you.' I 'specs dat verse is meant
speshully fer you, Miss 'Vadney."

"But we can't see him," said Evadne.

"Only wid de eye of faith, Missy. We trusts our friens in de dark. You
didn't need ter see your father ter know he wuz in de house?"

"Oh, no!" Evadne's voice trembled.

"It's jes' de same wid my Father, Miss 'Vadney."

"How can you call God so, Pompey?"

A great sweetness came over the homely face.

"'Cause he hez sent his Sperit inter my heart, an' poor black Pompey can
look up inter de shinin of his face an' say 'my Father,' 'cause I'se
hidden away in his Son. I'se a little branch abidin' in de great Vine.
I'se one wid de Lord Jesus."

"I don't know where to look for him!" Evadne cried disconsolately.

Pompey laid aside his curry-comb and brush and folded his toil-worn
hands.

"Lord Jesus," he said quietly, "here is thy little lamb. She's out in de
dark mountain, an' she's lonesum an' hungry, an' de col' rain of sorrow
is beatin' on her head. Lord, thou is de good Shepherd. Let her hear thy
voice a callin' her. Carry this little lamb in thy bosom an' giv her de
joy of thy love."

       *       *       *       *       *

Judge Hildreth sat in his library far into the night. He was reading for
the twentieth time the letter which Evadne had placed in his hands the
morning after her arrival, and as he read, he frowned.

"It is ridiculous, absurd!" he exclaimed impatiently. "Just of a piece
with all of Len's quixotic theories. By what possible chance could a
child of that age know how to manage money? She would make ducks and
drakes of the whole business in less than a year!"

A letter addressed to Evadne lay upon the pile of age-worn papers in an
open drawer at his side.

"I enclose herewith a letter to Evadne," his brother had written,
"giving full and minute explanations as to her best course in the
matter. These she will follow implicitly, under your supervision, and I
feel confident the result will be a well-developed character along the
lines on which women, through no fault of their own, are so lamentably
deficient, namely, the proper conduct of business and management of
money."

Judge Hildreth looked again at the envelope with its clear, bold
address. "That is not the handwriting of a fool," he muttered. "I wish I
could make up my mind what to do."

Through the solemn hush of midnight his good and evil angels contended
for his soul. In a strange silence he listened to their voices, the one
insidious, tempting, the other urging him to take the upright course.
Had his eyes not been holden he would have seen them, the one
dark-browed, malignant, clothed in shadows, the other robed in light;
while other angels hovered near and looked on pityingly. The white-robed
angel spoke first.

"It is not a question to be decided by your judgment. There is no other
course left open to you."

Mockingly the other answered. "It is a most unprecedented proceeding.
You should have been appointed her guardian, with sole control."

"It is your brother's last will and testament."

"Some wills are made to be broken. This one is against sound reason."

"It is the only honorable thing to do."

"It is unnecessary. The child need not know, and, if she did, would
thank you for saving her from care."

"It is your brother's money. He had a right to do as he will with his
own."

"If he had known to what straits this year's speculations have brought
you, he would be glad to give you a lift. If you do not have money now
what are you going to do? This has come just in time, for you know your
credit is already strained to its utmost." "Your niece will be anxious
to have your advice as to profitable investments. You can borrow the
money from her."

"That would be awkward, in case the bottom fell out of the mine. A
little capital in hand would give you a chance to water the Panhattan
stock and develop a new lead in the Silverwing."

"If you use money that does not belong to you, you will be a thief!"

"If you do not use it, you will be a pauper. You have paper out now to
five times the amount of your income. This is an interposition of
Providence to save you from ruin."

"What right had you to put yourself in the way of ruin?"

"You did it to advance the interests of your family. The Bible says, 'If
any provide not for his own, especially his own kindred, he ... is worse
than an infidel.'[Footnote: Marginal rendering A. V.]"

"If you do this thing you will be dishonored in the sight of God."

"If you do not save yourself from this temporary embarrassment, you will
be disgraced in the eyes of the world. You owe it to your position in
society, and the church, to keep above the waves." The listening
spirits heard a low, malicious laugh of triumph and the white-robed
angel turned sadly away.

Judge Hildreth had thrust Evadne's letter, with his own, far under the
pile of papers, and double-locked the drawer!

       *       *       *       *       *

Above the coach-house was a large room where Pompey kept a store of hay
and grain, and there Evadne often found herself ensconced with
Isabelle's Bible, during the long mornings when she was left to amuse
herself as best she might. The atmosphere of the house stifled her, and
Pompey had loved her father! It was scrupulously clean. Under Pompey's
régime spiders and moths found no tolerance, and a magnificent black cat
effectually frightened away the audacious rodents which were tempted to
depredations by the toothsome cereals in the great bins. In one corner
Pompey had improvised for her a luxurious couch of hay and rugs, and in
this fragrant retreat Evadne studied her strange new book. She brought
to it a mind absolutely untrammeled by creed or circumstance, and in
this virgin soil God's truth took root. Slowly the light dawned. Hers
was no shallow nature to leap to a hasty conclusion and then forsake it
for a later thought. Gradually through the darkness, as God's flowers
grow, this human flower lifted itself towards the light.

Sometimes she would sit for hours with the stately cat upon her knee,
thinking, thinking, thinking, while Pompey sang his favorite hymns about
his work and the mellow strains floated up the stairway and soothed her
lonely heart. His childlike faith became to her a tower of refuge, and
often, when bewildered by life's inconsistencies, she felt as if the
eternal realities were vanishing into mist, she was calmed and comforted
by his happy trust.

"I cannot imagine, Evadne," said Isabelle one evening at dinner, "what
pleasure you can find in sitting in a stable in company with a negro! It
certainly shows a most depraved taste."

"Christ was born in a stable, Isabelle."

"What in the world has that to do with you?"

"I am beginning to think he has everything to do with me," answered her
cousin quietly.

"Well," said Isabelle with a toss of her head, "we are known by the
company we keep. I should imagine Pompey's curriculum of manners was not
on a very elevated plane."

"Pompey! Isabelle," said Judge Hildreth suddenly. "Why, my dear, Pompey
is a modern Socrates, bound in ebony. There is no danger to be
apprehended from him."

"Well, it is a peculiar companionship for Judge Hildreth's niece, that
is all I have to say," said Isabelle coldly, "but _chacun à son goût_."

"I read this morning in your Bible that God had chosen the base things
of the world, and things which are despised, and things which are not,
to bring to nought things that are. What does that mean, Isabelle?"

"Really, Evadne, we shall have to send you to live with Doctor Jerome!"
said her aunt, with a careless laugh. "You are getting to be a regular
interrogation point. We are not Bible commentators, child, you cannot
expect us to explain all the difficult passages.

"The Embroidery Club meets here tomorrow, Evadne," exclaimed Marion,
"and I don't believe you have touched your table scarf since they were
here before. What will Celeste Follingsby think? She works so rapidly,
and her drawn work is a perfect poem."

"No, I have not," confessed Evadne. "It seems such silly work, to draw
threads apart and then sew them together again."

Isabelle elevated her eyebrows with a look of horror.

Louis laughed. "She's a hopeless case, Isabelle. You'll never convert
her into an elegant trifler. You might as well throw up the contract."

"It seems to me, Evadne," said his sister icily, "that you might have a
little regard for the decorums of society. Don't, I beg of you, give
utterance to such heresies before the girls. And I wish you would not
call it _my_ Bible. I did not make it."

"That is quite true, Evadne," said Louis gravely. "If she had, there
would have been a good deal left out."

Isabella shot an angry glance at him but made no remark. Her brother's
sarcasms were always received in silence.

"Eva," she said after a pause, "I intend to call you by that name in
future,--your full one is too troublesome."

Evadne shivered. Her father was the only one who had ever abbreviated
her name. "I shall not answer to it," she said quietly.

"Why, pray?"

"Because, I suppose, in common with the rest of the lower animals, I
have a natural repugnance to being cut in two."

"How tiresome you are!" exclaimed Isabelle with a pout. "I do not object
to my first syllable. All the girls at school call me Isa. Mamma, did
you remember to order the tulle for our wings? Claude Rivers has
finished hers and they are perfectly sweet. She showed them to me this
afternoon."

"Wings, Isabelle! What in the world are you up to now?"

"A Butterfly Social, Papa. We must raise money in some way. The church
is frightfully in debt."

"That is a deplorable fact, but I did not know butterflies were famed as
financiers."

"Oh, of course it is just for the novelty of the thing. The last social
we had was a Mother Goose, and we have had Brownie suppers and Pink teas
and everything else we could think of. We must have something to
attract, you know."

"I wonder if it really pays?" ventured Marion. "It never seems to me
there is much left, after you deduct the cost of the preparation. People
might as well give the money outright. It would save them a world of
trouble."

"Why, you silly child, it is to promote sociability in the church. As to
the trouble, of course we do not count that. We must expect to make
sacrifices."

"But they do not make the church any more sociable," said Marion boldly,
who, having struck for freedom of thought, was following up her
advantage. "The same people take part every time and the others are left
outside."

"Nonsense!" said Isabelle hotly. "It is only those who cannot afford to
take part, and think what a treat it is for them to look on!"

"A sort of half-price theatre," said Louis with a sneer.

"I don't believe they find the looking on such fun as you think," said
Marion, who was astonished at herself. "Suppose you try if they wouldn't
like to take part and offer your place in the Cantata to Jemima Dobbs."

"Well done, Sis!" and Louis applauded softly.

Isabelle's lip curled. "Upon my word, Marion, you bid fair to become as
hot an anarchist as Louise Michel. It is a mystery to me where you find
out the Christian names of all the ungainly people in the congregation.
The other sopranos would feel complimented to have a prima-donna with a
face like a full moon and hands like a blacksmith's foisted upon them!
One must have a little regard for appearances," and Isabelle drew her
graceful figure up to its full height.

"Jemima Dobbs isn't dynamite, and I have no anarchical tendencies,"
persisted Marion stoutly,--"but beauty is only skin deep, Isabelle. She
supports a sick mother and five children and that is more than any of
the rest of us could do," and Marion, frightened at her momentary
temerity, shrank back into her shell.

"It is a most unaccountable thing, Lawrence," said Mrs. Hildreth, "why
the church should be so heavily encumbered. I am sure you contribute
handsomely and the pew rents are high. There is always a large
congregation. I cannot understand."

"It is largely composed of transients though, my dear, and they never
carry more than a nickel in their pockets, so the weight of the burden
falls upon a few. The expenses are very heavy. Jerome wants to make it
the most popular church in the city, and the new quartette proves an
extravagant luxury."

"Oh, well," said Mrs. Hildreth, "of course one cannot grudge the money
for that. Professional singing is such an attraction! The way Madame
Rialto took that high C last Sunday was superb."

"Well," said Isabelle, "I don't think there is any doubt that Doctor
Jerome is the most popular preacher in the city. He is going to preach
next Sunday on the moral progress of social sciences, and next month he
commences his series of sermons on the social problems of the day. He
does take such an interest in sociology."

"But why doesn't he preach Jesus Christ?" asked Evadne wonderingly.

"You will get to be a regular fanatic, Evadne, if you ring the changes
on that subject so often. Doctor Jerome says he wants his people to have
an intelligent idea of the progress of events. Of course everyone
understands the Bible.

"I do think he is the loveliest man!" she continued rapturously, "he is
so sympathetic; and Celeste Follingsby says he is 'perfectly heavenly in
affliction.' Her little sister died last week, you know. It is so
awkward that it should have happened just now. She will not be able to
take any part in the Cantata, and she had the sweetest dress!"

"Very ill-timed of Providence!" said Louis gravely. "What a pity it is,
Isabelle, that you couldn't have the regulation of affairs." He yawned
and strolled lazily towards the fireplace. When he looked round again,
Evadne was the only other occupant of the room.

"Well, coz, what do you think of the situation? I belong to the
worldlings, of course, but I confess the idea of Jesus Christ at a
Butterfly Social is tremendously incongruous. We have the best of it,
Evadne, for we live up to our theories. Give it up, coz. You'll find it
a hopeless task to make the Bible and modern Christianity agree."

He looked at his watch.

"I say, Evadne, Jefferson is playing at the Metropolitan in Richard III.
to-night. Let us go and hear him."

And Evadne went, and enjoyed it immensely.



CHAPTER VII.


"I am going for a long ride into the country, Evadne," said her uncle
one morning, "would you like to come with me?"

Evadne gave a glad assent. After her beautiful tropical life, it seemed
to her as if she should choke, shut away from the wide expanse of sky
which she loved, among monotonous rows of houses and dingy streets.

As they left the city behind them and the road swept out into the open,
she gave a long sigh of delight. Her uncle laughed.

"Well, Evadne, does it please you?"

"It is the first time I have felt as if I could breathe," she said.

"So you don't take kindly to Marlborough? Well, I suppose it is a rude
awakening from your sunny land, but you will get used to it. We grow
accustomed to all life's disagreeable surprises as time rolls on."

Evadne shivered. "I do not think I shall ever grow accustomed to it,
Uncle Lawrence."

"Ah, you are young. We grow wiser as our hair turns grey."

"If that is wisdom, I do not care to grow wise."

"Not grow wise, Evadne!" said her uncle quizzically. "In this age, when
women claim a surplusage of all the brain power bestowed upon the race!
What will you do when you have to attend to business?"

"Business," echoed Evadne, "I have never thought about it, Uncle
Lawrence."

"No turn for dollars and cents, eh? Did your father never consult you
about his affairs?"

Evadne's lip quivered. "Oh, yes," she said, and her words were a cry of
pain, "he consulted me about everything, but I do not think there was
ever any mention of money. Does money constitute business, Uncle
Lawrence?"

"Wealth gives power, Evadne. Money is one of the greatest things in the
world. While we are on the subject I may as well tell you that your
father wrote me concerning the disposition of his property. I shall look
after your interests carefully, together with my own, and give you the
same quarterly allowance that my own girls have. When you are older I
will go more into detail, but it is not worth while now to worry your
head over columns of uninteresting figures. I shall open an account for
you at the National Bank and you can draw on that for your expenses.
Your aunt will initiate you into the mysteries of shopping. By the way,
you must have gone through that experience in Barbadoes. How did you
manage there?"

Evadne turned her head away and clenched her hands tightly as the flood
of bitter-sweet memories threatened to engulf her.

"Papa always went with me," she said slowly, "whatever he liked I
chose."

Judge Hildreth gave a sigh of relief. He had extricated himself from a
difficult position with diplomatic skill. It did not occur to him that a
lie which is half the truth is the meanest kind of a lie. He had
acquainted his niece with all that was necessary for her to know at
present, and at the same time left himself a loophole of escape from the
imputation of disregarding his brother's wishes. When she became old
enough to assume the responsibility, and he got his affairs straightened
out sufficiently to admit of transferring to her care the funds which
were so absolutely essential to his present success, he would put Evadne
in full possession of her inheritance. Results had proved the wisdom of
his decision. By her own acknowledgment his niece had never given a
thought to the subject. His brother's plan would be a height of
imprudence from which he was bound to shield her.

In Evadne's mind also thought was busy. "Money is one of the greatest
things in the world," her uncle had said, and she had read that morning,
"tongues shall cease, and knowledge shall be done away, but love never
faileth. Now abideth faith, hope, and love; the greatest of these is
love." Was Louis right? Did Christians and the Bible not agree? And the
business of _her_ life was to find Jesus Christ. Was there any money in
that?

When they reached Hollywood, where Judge Hildreth had business with Mr.
Hawthorne, Evadne was in an ecstasy of silent rapture. She had never
dreamed what a New England farm might be. Its varied beauty, clad in the
dazzling robes of early summer, came upon her with the suddenness of a
revelation. She begged to be allowed to wait for her uncle out of doors,
and wandered slowly on past the great barns to where the wide gate
stretched across the green road. When she reached it she stopped and
looked with keen delight at the beautiful creatures in the fields on
either side. The sunshine fell upon her with loving warmth; in the
distance she could hear the whirr of a mowing machine and the shouts of
the men at work. A magnificent young horse thrust his head familiarly
over the fence near by, and under the shade of a great tree Primrose,
with her graceful calf beside her, was lazily chewing her cud.

Everything spoke of contentment and comfort and peace. An unutterable
longing seized upon the lonely girl. Here at least she would have God's
creatures to love, and his woods and the sky! She laid her head down
upon the gate with a smothered cry.

"If I only belonged,--like the cows!"

"Pitty lady!"

Startled by the sweet, baby voice, Evadne looked up to find a pair of
laughing blue eyes peeping sympathetically at her. The sun-bonnet had
fallen back and the golden curls were tossed in luxurious confusion over
the little head.

Evadne caught the child in her arms.

"You little darling!"

"Yes, me is," said the child, resting contentedly within Evadne's
embrace, as if, with the mysterious telepathy of childhood, she
recognized a spiritual affinity which she was bound to help. "Me's very
nice. Don says so."

"And who is Don?" asked Evadne.

"Don's my bootiful man. Me's doin' to marry Don when me gets big. Oh,
dere he is!" and breaking from Evadne, she rolled herself between the
bars of the gate and ran at the top of her speed towards John Randolph,
who just then appeared around a bend in the road, one arm thrown lightly
over the neck of the horse he had been training.

"Halloo, Nansie!" Evadne heard his cheery greeting, saw him stoop and
lift the child on to the horse's back, and was so interested in the
pretty scene that she forgot she was a stranger. When she came to
herself with a start the little cavalcade had reached the gate and John
Randolph stood before her with his hat in his hand.

Evadne bowed. "It is so beautiful!" she said. "I have been waiting for
my uncle and lost myself among the harmonies of Nature."

John Randolph's eyes lightened. "It is God's world," he answered with a
sweet reverence.

Evadne looked full into the shining face. "Do you know Jesus Christ?"
she asked impulsively.

The face softened into a great tenderness. "He is my King."

"And do you love him?"

"With all there is of me."

A servant came just then to say the Judge was waiting.

"I will come at once," Evadne said courteously. Then she turned once
more to John. "And what do _you_ think of life?" she cried softly.

"Life!" he said, and there was a strange, exultant ring in his voice.
"Life is a beautiful possibility."

There was no time for more, but in the spirit realm of kinship no
multitude of words is needed. Only a few moments had passed, yet in that
little space two souls had met. What did it matter if the devious
turnings of life should lead them far apart, or the barring gate of
circumstance forever separate them? They had found each other!

"Pitty lady!--Nan loves oo, dear," and the child whom John held seated
on the broad top rail of the gate, held up her rosy lips for a kiss.

Instinctively Evadne held out her hand to John. Spiritual ethics laugh
at the conventionalities of time. "Good-bye," she said, "and thank you."

She looked back once to wave her hand to little Nan. John was standing
as she had left him, one arm encircling the child who nestled close to
him, while over his right shoulder the horse had thrust his handsome
head. Always afterward she saw him so. It was a parable of what God had
meant man to be.

       *       *       *       *       *

Long after the sound of the carriage wheels had died away John stood
motionless, beholding again as in a vision the earnest face and
wonderful grey eyes. Then he stooped for his hat which had fallen to the
ground when he had taken her hand in his. As he did so, he saw a dainty
bit of lawn lying on the other side of the gate. He put his hand between
the bars and caught it just as the breeze was about to blow it away. He
looked at the name which was delicately traced in one corner with a
strange sense of pleasure: Evadne.

"It fits her," he said to himself. "There's a sweet elusiveness about
her. She makes me think of a bird. She'll let you come just so far,
until she gets to trust you, and then you'll have all her sweetness."

He drew a long breath which was strangely like a sigh, and, folding the
handkerchief carefully, put it in his pocket.

"Pitty lady," murmured little Nan drowsily, and John caught her up and
kissed her,--he could not have told why.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I do think Dorothy Bruce is the kindest creature!" exclaimed Marion one
Saturday morning as they lingered with a pleasant sense of leisure over
the breakfast table. "She offered to give up the whole of to-day to me.
I thought it was lovely when she works so hard all the week."

"Give it up to you. Why, what do you mean, Marion? We never have
anything to do with her in school. What could you possibly want of her
here?"

"Oh, it is that doleful algebra," sighed Marion. "It is utterly
impossible for me to get it into my head, and Dorothy takes to it like a
duck to water, and she is a born teacher. Madame Castle says her
aptitude for imparting knowledge amounts to genius. You must allow it
was kind of her, Isabelle."

Isabelle shrugged her shoulders. "Self-interested, most likely. That
sort of people would do anything to obtain a foothold."

"Oh, Isabelle!" cried Evadne. "Do have a little faith in your
fellow-man! Why should you set yourself up on a pinnacle and despise
everyone who is poor, when the father of us all hoed for a living?"

Louis looked up from the paper he was reading. "There are two things
Isabelle has no faith in, Evadne. The Declaration of Independence and
the book she loaned you. One says all men are free and equal,--the other
that God has made of one blood all the nations of the earth. Her Serene
Highness objects to this. She will have the blue blood come in
somewhere, though where she gets it from heaven only knows!"

"Louis, I do wish you would not be so radical!" Isabelle said,
peevishly. "You must admit there is such a thing as culture and
refinement."

"Certainly I admit it. The only thing I object to is that you talk as if
you possessed a monopoly of the article, whereas I hold that it is just
a question of environment. It is no thanks to you that you were not born
a Hottentot or a Choctaw. Give yourself the same ancestors and
surroundings as your chimney-sweep and wherein would you be superior to
him? And when it comes to ancestry, by the way, probably Miss Bruce can
trace back to some of the grand old Highland chiefs who covered
themselves with glory long before the lineage of Hildreth had emerged
from obscurity."

"I don't know anyone who likes to choose his company better than you!"
observed Isabelle sarcastically.

"Certainly I do. Similarity of environment presupposes similarity of
tastes. Probably my idea of enjoyment would not accord with the
chimney-sweep's, but at the same time I don't look down on the poor
beggar because he hasn't been as fortunate as I in getting his bread
well buttered. There is a law of cultivation for humanity as well as
plants. Surround a succession of generations with all the advantages of
wealth, education and travel, and you produce the aristocrat; just as
you get the delicate Solanum Wendlandi from the humble potato blossom.
Set your aristocrat in the wilderness to earn his living by the sweat of
his brow,--let the rain and wind beat upon his delicate skin,--shut him
away from all the elevating influences to which he has been accustomed,
and, in course of time, what have you? His descendants have retrograded.
The Solanum has become a potato again."

"That is all very well," said Isabelle, "but I believe the instinct of
culture will be dormant somewhere."

"Then why do you not recognize it in your chimney-sweep? For all you
know he may be the descendant of some impecunious sire of a lordly
house. Probably plenty of them are."

Louis rose and tossed the paper carelessly to his mother, who had been
an amused listener to the discussion. It never occurred to him to do so
before. What did women want to know about politics or the turf?

"Jesus Christ never seemed to care about externals," said Evadne
softly. "He chose his friends among the common people."

"For pity's sake, Evadne!" cried Isabelle. "When will you learn that the
Bible is not to be taken literally?"

"Not to be taken literally!" echoed Evadne in wonderment. "How is it to
be taken then?"

"Isabelle means that we have to make allowances," said her aunt. "Christ
could do a great many things that you cannot."

Evadne was silent, while the words of Jesus kept ringing in her ears:
"For I have given you an example, that ye also should do as I have done
to you." If only she could understand!

"By the way, Evadne," said Mrs. Hildreth, "I beg you will not repeat
your mistake of yesterday."

"What do you mean, Aunt Kate?"

"Bringing such a disreputable character into the house. When I came in
and found her sitting in the hall and you talking to her I was perfectly
paralyzed. Horrible! Why her rags were abominable, and her feet were
bare!"

"But she had no shoes, Aunt Kate, and she was just my height. I was so
glad that my clothes would fit her."

"A pretty thing to have your clothes paraded through the streets by
such a creature! Most likely she would pawn them for gin. I am sure she
was an improper character."

"But, Aunt Kate," pleaded Evadne, "Jesus Christ says we must clothe the
naked and feed the hungry if we would be his followers. I must do as he
tells me for I am going to follow him."

"Your uncle does enough of that for the family," said her aunt coldly.
"I do not wish you to try any such experiments again."

Puzzled and chilled, Evadne left the room. Was obeying the commands of
Christ only an "experiment" after all?

She crept up to her favorite retreat and threw herself upon her gayly
covered couch. "Oh, Jesus Christ!" she cried passionately, "I am _glad_
I did not live in Galilee when you were there! Aunt Kate and Isabelle
would have thought it bad form for me to follow you in the crowd where
the sinners were. But they can't keep me from doing so now!

"Oh, I wish I were dead! No one would care. Yes, Pompey would be sorry.
Louis would call it 'a sable attachment,' but Pompey loved my father.
Oh, dearest! dearest!"

She buried her head in her hands while wave after wave of desolation
broke over the lonely soul. "A beautiful possibility" her knight of the
gate had said. Could life become that to her?

Downstairs Pompey began to sing,--

  "Shall we meet beyond the river,
  Where the surges cease to roll,
  Where in all the bright forever
  Sorrow ne'er shall press the soul?"

The rich vibrations rolled up and trembled about her. She held out her
arms and her voice broke in a cry of triumphant faith, "Yes, we _shall_
meet, Lord Jesus, face to face!"



CHAPTER VIII.


"Pompey," said Evadne one morning, "I am going to see your wife."

The black face beamed with satisfaction. "Dyee'll be mighty uplifted,
Miss 'Vadney. She think a powerful sight o' Mass Lennux."

Evadne stood watching him as he gave finishing touches to the silver
mountings of the handsome harness. "I don't believe there is another
harness in Marlborough that shines like yours, Pompey," she said with a
laugh. "You are as particular with it as though every day was a special
occasion."

"So 'tis, Miss 'Vadney," said Pompey simply. "Can't slight nuthin' when
de Lord's lookin' on. Whoa, Brutis! Dere's goin' ter be Holiness to de
Lord written on de bells ob de horses bimeby, Missy. I'se got it writ
dere now."

"I believe you have, Pompey," said Evadne soberly, "for you do your work
just as perfectly whether Uncle Lawrence is going to see it or not. It
almost seems as if you were trying to please someone out of sight."

Pompey drew himself up to his full height. "I'se a frien' ob de Lord
Jesus, Miss 'Vadney. I'se got ter do everything perfect 'cause ob dat.
Couldn't bring no disgrace on my Lord."

"But would that disgrace him?" asked Evadne in wonderment.

"Why, yes, Missy. Ef I wuz a poor, shifles' crittur, only workin' fer de
praise o' men, folks would say,--'he's no differen' frum de rest; you've
got to keep yer eye on him ef yer want tings done properly. De King's
chillen ain't no better dan de worl's chillen be.'

"De Lord Jesus, he say to me,--'Pompey, you must be faithful in de
little things as well as in de big. I never slurred nuthin when I wuz a
walkin' up and down troo Palestine. I sees you, Pompey; don't make no
difference whether de earthly master does or not.' So I does all de
little tings to de Lord, Miss 'Vadney, an' de Jedge knows he can depen'
on Pompey. Whenever he wants me, I'se here."

"That is lovely!" said Evadne softly. "But don't you get dreadfully
tired doing the same work over and over? Every day you have to do
exactly the same things. It is as bad as a tread-mill. You just keep on
going round and round."

Pompey gave one of his low chuckles. "'Specs dat's de way in dis worl',
Miss 'Vadney. We'se got ter keep on eatin', an' we can't sleep enuff one
night ter last fer a week,--but I 'low it's jes' one o' de beautiful
laws ob de Lord,--de sun an' de moon an' de stars keeps a'goin over de
same ground most continuous. So long as we'se doin' his will, Missy, it
don't matter much whether we'se goin' roun' an' roun' or straight ahead.
Stan' over, Ceesah!" and Pompey gave a final polish to the horse's
already immaculate legs.

"Why don't you blacken their hoofs, Pompey? They used to do it in
Barbadoes."

Pompey's eyes twinkled. "Dat's a no 'count livery notion, Miss 'Vadney,
a coverin' up de cracks an' makin' de horse's hufs look better dan dey
is. De King's chillens can't stoop ter any sech decepshuns. De Lord
Jesus says, 'Pompey, I is de truff. You's got ter speak de truff an'
live de truff ef you belongs ter me.' We ain't got no call ter cover up
anything, Miss 'Vadney, ef we'se livin' ez de Lord wants us to. 'Sides,
der ain't no 'cashun fer it. Ef we keeps de stable pure an' de food good
an' gives de horse de right kind of exercise an' plenty of 'tention, de
hufs will take care ob demselves," and he held Caesar's foot up for her
inspection.

"Halloo, Evadne, are you taking lessons in farriery? What's the matter,
Pompey? Has Caesar got a sand crack?" and Louis sauntered up, the
inevitable cigar between his lips.

"I don't 'low my horses ever hez sech things, Mass Louis," said Pompey
grandly.

"Ha, ha! what a conceited old beggar you are. But I'll give the devil
his due and acknowledge the horses are a credit to you." He held a dollar
towards him balanced on his forefinger. "Here, take this and fill your
pipe with it."

"Don't want no pay fer doin' my dooty, Mass Louis."

"Pshaw, man! Take a tip, can't you?"

Pompey shook his head. "I don't smoke, Mass Louis."

"Don't smoke!" ejaculated Louis. "You don't here, I know, because the
Judge is afraid of fire, but you'll never make me believe that you don't
spend your evenings over the fire with your pipe. You darkeys are as
fond of one as the other."

"You's mistaken, Mass Louis," said Pompey quietly.

"'Pon my word! And why don't you smoke, Pomp? You don't know what you're
missing. It is the greatest comfort on earth."

"'Specs I don't need sech poor comfort, Mass Louis. I takes my comfort
wid de Lord."

Pompey's voice was low and sweet. Evadne felt her heart glow.

"But come now, Pomp," persisted Louis, "that's all nonsense. You must
have some reason for not smoking. Everybody does. Come, I insist on your
telling me."

Pompey was silent for a moment. "'The pure in heart shall see God,'" he
said slowly. "I 'low, Mass Louis, de King's chillen's got ter be pure in
body too."'

"You insolent scoundrel! How dare you?" and Louis dashed the glowing end
of his cigar in the negro's face.

For a moment Pompey stood absolutely still,--the cigar which had left
its mark upon his cheek lying smouldering at his feet,--then he turned
quietly and walked away.

Louis strode out of the coach-house. Evadne followed him, her eyes
blazing. "You are a coward!" she cried passionately. "You would not have
dared to do that to a man who could hit you back. You forced him to tell
you and then struck him for doing it! If this is your culture and
refinement, I despise it! I am going to be a Christian, like Pompey.
That is grand!"

"Well done, coz!" and Louis affected a laugh. "There's not much of the
'meek and lowly' in evidence just now at any rate."

He looked after her as she walked away, her indignant tones still
lingered in his ears. "By Jove! there's something to her though she is
so quiet! I must cultivate the child."

Seen through Evadne's clear eyes his action looked despicable and his
better nature suggested an apology, but he swept the suggestion aside
with a muttered "Pshaw! he's only a nigger," and turned carelessly on
his heel.

"You are Dyce!" cried Evadne impulsively when she reached the cottage in
whose open doorway a pleasant-faced colored woman was standing. "Pompey
has told me about you. I think your husband is one of the grandest men I
know."

"Thank you, Missy. Walk right in, I'se proper glad ter see Mass Lennux's
chile."

"Why, how did you know me?" asked Evadne wonderingly.

The woman laughed softly. "Laws, honey, you'se de livin' image of yer
Pa."

She excused herself after a few moments and Evadne laid her head against
the cushions of a comfortable old rocking chair and rested. She wondered
sometimes where her old strength had gone. She had never felt tired in
Barbadoes. The tiny room was full of a homely comfort which did her
heart good. There were books lying on the table and flowers in the
window, a handsome cat purred in front of the fireplace, and on a
bracket in one corner an asthmatic clock ticked off the hours with
wheezy vigor. In an adjoining room Evadne could see a bed with its gay
patchwork quilt of Dyce's making, and in the little kitchen beyond she
heard her singing as she trod to and fro. A couple of dainty muslin
dresses were draped over chairs, for Dyce was the finest clear starcher
in Marlborough, and her kitchen was all too small to hold the products
of her skill. She entered the room again bearing a tray covered with a
snowy napkin on which were quaint blue plates of delicious bread and
butter, pumpkin pie, golden browned as only Dyce could bake it, and a
cup of fragrant coffee.

"I did not know anything could taste quite so good!" Evadne said when
she had finished, "you must be a wonderful cook."

Dyce laughed, well pleased. "When de Lord gives us everything in
perfecshun, 'specs it would be terrible shifles' of me ter spoil it in
de cookin', Miss 'Vadney."

"The Lord," repeated Evadne. "You know him too, then? You must, if you
live with Pompey."

Dyce's face grew luminous. "He is my joy!" she said softly.

"And does he make you happy all the time?" asked the girl wistfully.
"You seem to have to work as hard as Pompey. What is it makes you so
glad?"

"Laws, honey, how kin I help bein' glad? De chile o' de King, on de way
ter my Father's palace. Ain't dat enuff 'cashun ter keep a poor cullered
woman rejoicin' all de day long? I'se so happy I'se a singin' all de
time over my work, an' in de street; it don't matter where I be."

"But you can't sing in the streets, Dyce!"

"Laws, chile, don't yer know de heart kin sing when de lips is silent?
It's de heart songs dat de King tinks de most of, but when de heart gits
too full, den de lips hez ter do deir share."

"But suppose you were to lose your eyesight, or Pompey got sick,
or----"

Dyce gave one of her soft laughs. "Laws, honey, I never supposes. De
Lord's got no use fer a lot o' supposin' chillen who's allers frettin'
demselves sick fer fear Satan'll git de upper han'. De Lord's reignin',
dat's enuff fer me. I 'low he'll take care o' me in de best way."

Evadne looked again at the exquisitely laundered dresses. "Why do you
work so hard?" she asked. "Doesn't Pompey get enough to live on?"

"Oh, yes, honey; de Jedge gives good wages; but yer see, we wants to do
so much fer Jesus dat de wages don't hold out."

"So much for Jesus!"

"Why, yes, Missy. He says ef we loves him we'll do what he tells us, an'
he's tol' us ter feed de hungry, an' clothe de naked, an' go preach de
gospel. So, when we cum ter talk it ober, it seem drefful shifles' in me
ter be doin' nothin' when de Lord worked night an' day, so I begun ter
take in laundry work an' now we hev more money ter spen' on de Lord. But
we never hez enuff. De worl's so full o' perishin' souls an' starvin'
bodies. I tells Pompey I never wanted ter be rich till I began ter do de
King's bizniss. It's drefful comfortin' work, Miss 'Vadney."

       *       *       *       *       *

The chill March wind blew fiercely along the streets of Marlborough one
afternoon and Evadne shivered. She had been standing for an hour wedged
tightly against the doors of the Opera House by an impatient crowd which
swayed hither and thither in a fruitless effort to force an entrance. It
was Signor Ferice's farewell to America and it was his whim to make his
last concert a popular one, with no seats reserved. Every nerve in her
body seemed strained to its utmost tension and her head was in a whirl.
She turned and faced the crowd. A sea of faces; some eager, some sullen,
some frowning, all impatient. The scraps of merry talk which had floated
to her at intervals during the earlier stages of the waiting were no
longer heard. A gloomy silence seemed to have settled down upon every
one. Suddenly a laugh rang out upon the keen air,--so full of a clear
joyousness that people involuntarily straightened their drooping
shoulders, as if inspired with a new sense of vigor and smiled in
sympathy.

Evadne started. Surely she had heard that voice before! It must
be,--yes, it was,--her knight of the gate! Their eyes met. A great light
swept over his face and he lifted his hat. Then the surging crowd
carried him out of her range of vision.

"I don't see what you find to look so pleased about, Evadne," grumbled
Isabelle, as they drove homeward. "For my part I think the whole thing
was a fizzle."

"I was thinking," said Evadne slowly, "of the power of a laugh."

"The power of a laugh! What in the World do you mean?"

"I mean that it is a great deal better for ourselves to laugh than to
cry, and vastly more comfortable for our neighbors."

"Evadne will not be down," announced Marion the next morning as she
entered the breakfast room. "She caught a dreadful cold at the concert
yesterday and she can't lift her head from the pillow. Celestine thinks
she is sickening for a fever."

"Dear me, how tiresome!" exclaimed Mrs. Hildreth. "I have such a horror
of having sickness in the house,--one never knows where it will end.
Ring the bell for Sarah, Marion, to take up her breakfast."

"It is no use, Mamma. She says she does not want anything."

"But that is nonsense. The child must eat. If it is fever, she will need
a nurse, and nurses always make such an upheaval in a house."

"You had better go up, my dear, and see for yourself," said Judge
Hildreth. "Celestine may be mistaken."

"Mercy!" cried Isabelle, "it is to be hoped she is! I have the most
abject horror of fevers and that is enough to make me catch it. Fancy
having one's head shorn like a convict! The very idea is appalling."

"Oh, of course if there is the slightest danger, you and Marion will
have to go to Madame Castle's to board," said her mother. "It is very
provoking that Evadne should have chosen to be sick just now."

"Not likely the poor girl had much choice in the matter," laughed Louis.
"There are a few things, lady mother, over which the best of us have no
control."

"I wish you would go up and see the child, Kate," said Judge Hildreth
impatiently. "If there is the least fear of anything serious I will send
the carriage at once for Doctor Russe. It is a risky business
transplanting tropical flowers into our cold climate."

The kind-hearted French maid was bending over Evadne's pillow when Mrs.
Hildreth entered the room. She had grown to love the quiet stranger
whose courtesy made her work seem light, and it was with genuine regret
that she whispered to her mistress,--"It is the feevar. I know it well.
My seestar had it and died."

Evadne's eyes were closed and she took no notice of her aunt's entrance.
Mrs. Hildreth spoke to her and then left the room hurriedly to summon
her husband. Even her unpractised eyes showed her that her niece was
very ill.

Doctor Russe shook his head gravely. "It is a serious case," he said,
"and I do not know Where you will find a nurse. I never remember a
spring when there was so much sickness in the city. I sent my last nurse
to a patient yesterday and since then have had two applications for one.
It is most unfortunate. The young lady will need constant care. She
requires a person of experience."

Pompey, waiting to drive the doctor home, caught the words, spoken as he
descended the steps to enter the carriage, and came forward eagerly. "If
you please, Missus," he said, touching his hat, "Dyce would come. She's
hed a powerful sight of 'sperience nussin' fevers in New Orleans. She'd
be proper glad ter tend Miss 'Vadney."

"How is that?" questioned the busy doctor. "Oh, your wife, my good
fellow? The very thing. Let her come at once."

So Dyce came, and into her sympathetic ears were poured the delirious
ravings of the lonely heart which had been so suddenly torn from its
genial surroundings of love and happiness and thrust into the chilling
atmosphere of misunderstanding and neglect.

Every day the patient grew weaker and after each visit the doctor looked
graver. Mrs. Hildreth began to feel the gnawings of remorse, as she
thought of the lonely girl to whom she had so coldly refused a
daughter's place; and the Judge's thoughts grew unbearable as he
remembered his broken trust; even Louis missed the earnest face which he
had grown to watch with a curious sense of pleasure; while the girls at
school felt their hearts grow warm as they thought of the young cousin
so soon to pass through the valley of the shadow.

But Evadne did not die. The fever spent itself at last and there
followed long days of utter prostration both of mind and body. Dyce's
cheery patience never failed. Her sunny nature diffused a bright
hopefulness throughout the sick chamber, until Evadne would lie in a
dreamy content, almost fancying herself back in the old home as she
listened to the musical tones and watched the dusky hands which so
deftly ministered to her comfort. One day after she had lain for a long
time in silence, she looked up at her faithful nurse and the grey eyes
shone like stars.

"Dyce!" she cried softly. "I have found Jesus Christ!"



CHAPTER IX.


Reginald Hawthorne lay upon a couch on the wide veranda of his lovely
home. The birds held high carnival around him,--nesting in the large
cherry tree, playing hide and seek among the fragrant apple blossoms and
making the air melodious with their merry songs. Brilliant orioles
flashed to and fro like gleams of gold in the sunlight, as they built
their airy hammocks high among the swaying branches of the great willow,
and one inquisitive robin swept boldly through the clustering vines
which screened the front of the veranda and perched upon his shoulder.
He heard the merry hum of the bees at work and the strident call of the
locusts, mingled with the distant neighing of horses and the soft lowing
of the cows, but all the sweetness of nature was powerless to lift the
gloom which seemed to envelop him as in a shroud. His face was white and
drawn with pain and there were heavy rings beneath his eyes. Reginald
Hawthorne would be a cripple for life.

The College Football Club had met a New York team in the yearly
contest, which was looked forward to as one of the events in the
athletic world, and Reginald had been foremost among the leaders of the
play. Fierce and long had been the fight and the enthusiastic spectators
had shouted themselves hoarse with applause or groaned in despair when
the honor of Marlborough seemed likely to be lost. Then had come a
mighty onward rush and the opposing forces concentrated into one
seething mass of struggling humanity. When they drew apart at last the
College boys had made the welkin ring with shouts of victory, but their
bravest champion lay white and still upon the field.

Long days and nights of pain had followed, when John and Mrs. Hawthorne
were at their wits' end to alleviate the sufferings of the unfortunate
boy. Now the pain had resolved itself into a dull aching but Reginald
would never walk without a crutch again.

The mortification to his father was extreme. A passionate man, he had
centred all his hopes upon his son, whose position in life he fondly
expected to repay him for his years of unremitting toil, and this was
the end of it all! He grew daily more overbearing and hard to please,
and his ebullitions of disappointment and rage were terrible to witness.
He vented his anger most frequently upon John, the sight of whose
superb strength goaded the unhappy man into a frenzy, and John's
forbearance was tried to the utmost, but there was a sweet patience
growing in his soul which made it possible to endure in silence, however
capricious or unreasonable the commands of his master might be, and
Reginald, watching him critically, marvelled at the mysterious inner
strength of his friend.

He came along now with his quick, light step and drew a chair up beside
Reginald's couch. He planned his work so as to be with the invalid as
much as possible, and his constant sympathy and cheer were all that made
the days bearable to him.

"Well, Rege, how goes it?" he asked in tones as tender as a woman's.

Reginald looked up at him with envious eyes. There was such a freshness
about this strong young life, as if every moment were a separate joy.

"I wish I was dead!" he answered moodily.

"Don't dare to wish that!" said John quickly, "until you have made the
most of your life."

"The most of my life!" echoed Reginald contemptuously. "That's well put,
John, I must say! What is my life worth to me now? You see what my
father thinks of it. A useless log, as valuable as a piece of waste
paper. I believe it would have pleased him better if I had been killed
outright. He wouldn't have had the humiliation of it always before his
eyes. If it had been any sort of a decent accident, I believe I could
bear it better, but to be knocked over in a football match, like the
precious duffer that I am--bah!"

The concentrated bitterness of the last words made John's heart ache.
"Looking backward, Rege," he said quietly, "will never make a man of
you. It is only a waste of time and vital tissue. But there are lots of
noble lives in spite of limitations. Paul had his thorn in the flesh,
you know, and Milton his blindness. Difficulties are a spur to the best
that is in us."

"Difficulties, John. You never look at them, do you?"

John laughed. "It is not worth while except to see how to surmount
them."

"I wish you could be idle just for an hour," said Reginald peevishly,
"you make me nervous."

John took another stitch in the halter he was mending. "Old Father
Time's spoiling tooth is never still, Rege. I have to work to keep pace
with it."

"I should think you would need a month of loafing to made up for the
sleep you have lost. You're ahead of Napoleon, John, for he only kept
one eye open, but I've never been able to catch you napping once. How
have you stood it, man?"

"Forty winks is a fair allowance sometimes, Rege."

Reginald groaned. "Your pluck is worth a king's ransom, John. I wish I
had it."

John began to whistle softly as he drew his waxed ends in and out.

"I declare, John, I can't fathom you!" and Reginald moved impatiently
upon his couch. "You are invulnerable as Achilles. I never saw a fellow
get so much comfort out of everything as you do, and yet your life is a
steady grind. What does it all mean?"

"It means," said John softly, "that I am a Christ's man, and he has
lifted me above the power of circumstances. Jesus is centre and
circumference with me now, Rege.

"You were talking yesterday about some men wanting the earth. I _own_
the earth, because it belongs to my Father,--the best part of it, you
know,--there is a truer giving than by title deeds to material
acres--and the world has grown very beautiful since my Father made me
heir of all things through his Son. The birds' songs have a new note in
them, and the sunlight is brighter, and there is a different blue in
the sky. I'm monarch of all I survey because I get the good out of
everything,--mere earthly possession doesn't amount to much, a man has
to leave the finest estates behind him,--but I get the concentrated
sweetness of it all wherever I am. It is God's world, you know, and he
is my Father."

John was called away just then to attend to some gentlemen who had come
to look at the horses, and Reginald waited for his return in vain. He
heard his father's voice once, raised high in stormy wrath, then all was
still again. Some time afterwards, through the leafy curtain of his
veranda, he saw Mr. Hawthorne drive past with a face so distorted with
passion that he shivered.

"There's been no end of a row this time," he soliloquized. "It is a
mystery to me why John puts up with it. He's free to go when he chooses.
I'm sure I'd clear out if I wasn't such a good-for-nothing. The governor
is getting to be more like a bear than a human being, it's a dog's life
for everybody unlucky enough to be under the same roof with him."

       *       *       *       *       *

Down at the bend of the river a tall figure lay stretched upon the moss.
The river laughed and the birds sang, but John Randolph's face was
buried in his arms.

To leave Hollywood--that very night! The place whose very stones were
dear to him, where he had learned all he knew of home. To be turned off
like a beggar, without a moment's warning, after all his years of toil!
To say good-bye forever to the human friends who loved him, and the
dear, dumb friends whom he had fondled and tended with such constant
care. Never again to swing along through the sweet freshness of the
morning before the sun was up to find the earliest snowdrops for Mrs.
Hawthorne, or take a spin in the moonlight with every nerve a-tingle
across the frozen bosom of the lake, or wander in delight along the wood
roads when every tree was clad in the witching beauty of a silver thaw,
or sweep across the wide stretching country in the very poetry of
motion, or hear the soft swish of the tall grass as it fell in fragrant
rows before the mower, or the creak of the vans as they bore its ripened
sweetness towards the great barns, while bird and bee and locust joined
in the harmony of the Harvest Home, until the sun sank to rest amidst
cloud draperies of royal purple and crimson and gold and the
sweet-voiced twilight soothed the world into peace.

On and on the hours swept while John fought his battle. At length he
rose, and with long, lingering glances of good-bye to every tree and
rock and flower, began his homeward way. He would think of it so while
he could. In a few short hours he would be a wanderer upon the face of
the earth. A sudden joy crept into the weary eyes. So was Jesus Christ!

"Why, John, what has happened!" cried Reginald, as his faithful nurse
came to make him comfortable for the night. "You look like a ghost, and
you have had no dinner! What the mischief is to pay? You must have been
precious busy to leave me alone the whole afternoon."

"I have been, Rege," said John quietly, "very busy."

"I declare, John, I'd make tracks for freedom if I were in your shoes.
You're a regular convict, and, since you've had me on your hands, a
galley slave is a gentleman of leisure in comparison! Why don't you go,
John? You've had nothing but injustice at Hollywood."

John fell on his knees beside the bed. "I am going, Rege. Your father
has ordered me away."

When the thought which has floated--nebulous--across our mental vision,
suddenly resolves itself into tangible form and becomes a solid fact to
be confronted and battled with, the shock is greater than if no shadowy
premonition had ever haunted the dreamland of our fancy. Reginald gave a
low cry, then he lay looking at John with eyes full of a blank horror.
His mind utterly refused to grasp the situation.

"You see, Rege, it is this way," said John gently. "Your father seems to
have taken a dislike to me and lately I have fancied he was only waiting
for an excuse to turn me off. As soon as those fellows began to talk to
him about the horses I saw there was trouble brewing. Everything I did
was wrong, and once he swore at me. He would order me to bring one horse
and then change his mind before I got half across the field, and then he
would rail at me for not having brought the first one.

"They pitched on Neptune at last, and asked if he had been registered. I
said 'No,' so then they refused to pay the price your father asked, and
he had to come down on him. He was furious, and, as soon as the men's
backs were turned, he ordered me out of his sight forever. He says I
have ruined the reputation of Hollywood," John's voice broke.

"But, John, you mustn't go!" cried Reginald. "You cannot! My father is
out of his mind. People don't pay any attention to the ravings of a
lunatic."

John shook his head sadly. "He is master here, Rege. There is nothing
else for me to do."

"But, John, it is impossible--preposterous! Why, everything will go to
ruin without you, and I will take the lead."

"No, no!" said John quickly. "You will be a rich man some day, Rege.
Wealth is a wonderful opportunity. Prepare yourself to use it well."

"I tell you I can't do anything without you, John. I am like a ship
without a rudder. It is no use talking. I cannot spare you. You must not
go!"

"If you take the great Pilot aboard, Rege, you will be in no danger of
drifting. It is only when we choose Self for our Captain that the ship
runs on the rocks."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Don, Don!" The child heard his step in the hall long before he reached
the door. He was coming, as he did every night, to give her a ride in
his arms before she went to by-by. She held out her little arms from
which the loose sleeves had fallen back. John lifted her up, for the
last time.

He laid his strong, set face against the rosy cheek, and looked into the
laughing eyes which the sand man had already sprinkled with his magic
powder. "Nansie, baby, I have come to say good-bye."

"Not dood-bye, Don, oo always say dood-night."

"But it is good-bye this time, little one, there will be no more
good-nights for you and me. I am going away."

A bewildered look swept over the child's face. "Away!" she echoed, "to
leave Nan an' Pwimwose an' the horsies? Me'll do too, Don. He'll do
anywhere wid oo, Don."

"I wish I could take you!" and John strained her to his breast. "But
there is no Neptune to carry us now, little one. Your father sold him
this afternoon."

"My nice Nepshun!" The child's lip quivered, but something in the
suffering face above her made her say quickly, "Me'll be dood, Don, an'
when oo turn back, me'll be waitin' at de gate."

She patted his cheek confidingly. "Nice Don! Nan loves oo, dear, an'
Desus. Nan loves Desus 'cause oo do, Don."

John's voice choked. "Keep on loving, Nansie."

"Yes, me will. Does Desus carry de little chil'en in his arms like oo
do, Don? Me's so comf'able. Me loves Desus."

The little arm, soft and warm, crept closer around his neck, while the
golden curls swept his cheek. "Oo's my bootiful man, Don. Me'll marry oo
when me gets big," and then, all unconscious of the sorrow which should
greet her in the morning, the baby slept.

To and fro across the floor John trod lightly with his precious burden.
His arms never felt the weight. They would be such empty arms
bye-and-bye! Then at last he laid her down, and, taking a pair of
scissors from his pocket, he carefully severed one of the golden rings
of hair, and laid it within the folds of the handkerchief which he still
carried in his vest pocket. The fair girl and the little child. These
should be his memory of womanhood.

[Illustration: 'ME'LL DO ANYWHERE, WIV OO, DON.]

       *       *       *       *       *

In Reginald's room kind-hearted Mrs. Hawthorne was weeping bitterly. She
loved John as her own son, but no one ever dreamed of disputing the
tyrannical dictates of the master of Hollywood, however unjust they
might be.

Reginald lay as John had left him with his face buried in the pillows
and utterly refused to be comforted. What comfort could there be if
John was going away? It never occurred to him that his mother needed
cheer as much as he. Like all selfish souls his own pain completely
filled his horizon.



CHAPTER X.


"I don't see what we are to do about Evadne!" and Mrs. Hildreth sighed
disconsolately. "She looks like a walking shadow. I should not be
surprised if she had inherited her father's disease, and they say now
that consumption is as contagious as diphtheria."

"Horrors!" cried Isabelle. "Do quarantine her somewhere, Mamma, until
you are quite sure there is no danger. I haven't the faintest
aspirations to martyrdom."

"It is a great care," sighed Mrs. Hildreth. "All of you children have
always been so healthy. I don't believe Doctor Russe will listen to her
going to the seaside, and the mountains are so monotonous! Other
people's children are a great responsibility."

Suddenly Isabelle clapped her hands. "I have it!" she cried. "Send her
up to Aunt Marthe, and then we can tease Papa to let us go to Newport.
Marion is going to spend the summer with Christine Drayton, you know,
and Papa does not intend to leave the city, so we can persuade him that
it is our duty to seize such a golden opportunity of doing things
economically. I am sure I don't know what people must think of us, never
going to any of the fashionable places. For my part I think we owe it to
Papa's position to keep up with the world."

"I believe it might be managed," said Mrs. Hildreth after some
consideration. "It was very clever of you to think of it, Isabelle. You
ought to be a diplomat, my dear," and she smiled approvingly on her
daughter.

       *       *       *       *       *

The train swept along through the picturesque Vermont scenery and Evadne
looked out of her window with never ending delight.

"I am like a poor, lonely bird," she said to herself, "who flits from
shore to shore, seeking rest and finding none. Another journey in the
dark! I wonder what will be at the end of this one? Well, I'll hope for
the best. Aunt Marthe's letter was kind, and her name sounds as cheery
as Aunt Kate's sounds cold."

Mr. Everidge came to meet her as the train steamed into the little
station, and Evadne soon found herself seated in a comfortable carriage
behind a handsome chestnut mare, bowling along a fragrant country road,
catching glimpses at every turn of the verdure-clad hills.

She found her new uncle very pleasant. There was a silver-tongued
suavity about him in striking contrast to the growing preoccupation of
Judge Hildreth, and a sort of airy self complaisance which took it for
granted that he should be well treated by the world.

"I am very glad you have come, my dear niece," he said, "to relieve the
tedium of our uneventful existence. You must let our Vermont air kiss
the roses into bloom again in your pale cheeks. It has a world-wide
reputation as a tonic. I hope you left our Marlborough relatives in a
pleasant attitude of mind? It is one of the evidences of this
progressive age that you should woo 'tired Nature's sweet restorer' one
night under the roof of my respected brother-in-law, the next under my
own. The ancients, with their primitive modes of laborious transit, were
only half alive. We of to-day, thanks to the melodious tea-kettle and
inventive cerebral tissue of the youthful Watt, live in a perpetual
hand-clasp, so to speak, and, by means of the flashing chain of light
which girdles the globe are kept in touch with the world. It is food for
reflection that the thought which is evolved from the shadowy recesses
of our brain to-day, should be, by the mysterious camera of electricity,
photographed upon the retina of the Australian public to-morrow, and we
need to have the archives of our memory enlarged to hold the voluminous
correspondence of the century.

"Ah, Squire Higgins, good-evening. My niece by marriage, Miss Hildreth
of Barbadoes."

The Squire lifted his hat, there was a little desultory conversation,
then the carriages went on their separate ways, and soon Evadne found
herself at her destination.

She looked eagerly at the pretty house with its _entourage_ of flowers
and lawns, grand old trees and distance-purpled hills, then Aunt Marthe
appeared in the doorway and she saw nothing else.

She was of medium height with a crown of soft, brown hair, and eyes
whose first glance of welcome caught Evadne's heart and held her
captive. There was a wonderful sweetness about the smiling mouth, and
the face, although not classically beautiful, possessed a subtle
spiritual charm more fascinating than mere physical perfection of color
and form. She moved lightly with a buoyant youthfulness strangely at
variance with the stately dignity of Mrs. Hildreth and the studied
repose of Isabelle.

"You dear child!" The soft arms held her close, the sweet lips caught
hers in a kiss, and Evadne felt with a great throb of joy that the
weary bird had found a resting-place at last.

She led her into a cool, tastefully furnished room, drew her down beside
her on the couch and took off her hat and gloves, then she handed her a
fan and went to make her a lemon soda.

Evadne looked round the room with its soft curtains swaying in the
breeze, the cool matting on the floor with a rug or two, the light
bookcases with their wealth of thought, the comfortable wicker rockers,
the bamboo tables holding several half cut magazines, an open
work-basket, a vase with a single rose, while on the low mantel a
cluster of graceful lilies were reflected in the mirror. "Why, this is
home!" she cried and she laid her head against the cushions with a
delightful sense of freedom.

The early supper was soon announced and Evadne found herself in a cozy
dining-room seated near a window which opened into a bewildering vista
of summer beauty. There were flowers beside each plate as well as in the
quaintly carved bowl in the centre of the table. Evadne caught herself
smiling. That had always been a conceit of hers in Barbadoes.

Everything was simple but delicious. The tender, juicy chicken, the
delicate pink ham, the muffins browned to a turn, the Jersey butter
moulded into a sheaf of wheat, and moist brown bread of Aunt Marthe's
own making, the blocks of golden sponge cake, the crisp lettuce, the
fragrant strawberries, the cool jelly frosted with snow. Evadne drank
her tea out of a chocolate tinted cup, fluted like the bell of a flower,
and felt as if she were feasting on the nectar of the gods, while Mr.
Everidge's silvery tones kept up a constant stream of talk and Aunt
Marthe's beautiful hospitality made her feel perfectly at home.

"Tea, my dear Evadne," he said, as he passed her cup to be refilled, "is
an infusion of poison which is slowly but surely destroying the coatings
of the gastronomical organ of the female portion of society. I tremble
to think of the amount of tannin which analysis would show deposited in
the systems of the votaries of the deadly Five o'clock, and the
unhealthy nervous tension of the age is largely traceable to the
excessive consumption of the pernicious liquid. Chocolate, on the
contrary, taken as I always drink it, is simple and nutritive, with no
unpleasant after effects to be apprehended, but this decoction of bitter
herbs, steeped to death in water far past its proper temperature, is
concentrated lye, my dear Evadne, nothing but concentrated lye. By the
way, Marthe, I wish you would give your personal supervision to the
preparation of my hot water in the future. Nothing comparable to hot
water, Evadne, just before retiring. It aids digestion and induces
sleep, and sleep you know is a gift of the gods. The Chinese mode of
punishing criminals has always seemed to me exquisite in its barbarity.
They simply make it impossible for the unhappy wretches to obtain a wink
of sleep, until at length the torture grows unbearable and they find
refuge in the long sleep which no mortal has power to prevent. So, my
dear Marthe, see to it if you please in future that my slumber tonic is
served just on the boil. The worthy Joanna does not understand the
mysteries of the boiling process. Water, after it has passed the
initiatory stage becomes flat, absolutely flat and tasteless. What I had
to drink last night was so repugnant to my palate that I found it
impossible to sink into repose with that calm attitude of mind which is
so essential to perfect slumber.

"See to it also, my dear, that I am not disturbed at such an unearthly
hour again as I was this morning. Tesla, the great electrician, has put
himself on record as intimating that the want of sleep is a potent
factor in the deplorably heavy death rate of the present day. He thinks
sleep and longevity are synonymous, therefore it becomes us to bend
every effort to attain that desirable consummation."

Involuntarily Evadne looked at Mrs. Everidge. Her face was slightly
turned towards the open window and there was a half smile upon her lips,
as if, like Joan of Arc, she was listening to voices of sweeter tone
than those of earth. She came back to the present again on the instant
and met her niece's eyes with a smile, but in the subtle realm of
intuition we learn by lightning flashes, and Evadne needed no further
telling to know that the saddest loneliness which can fall to the lot of
a woman was the fate of her aunt.

Immediately after supper Mrs. Everidge persuaded Evadne to go to her
room. The long journey had been a great strain upon her strength and she
was very tired.

"I wish you a good night, Uncle Horace," she said as she passed him in
the doorway.

"And you a pleasant one," he rejoined with a gallant bow. "'We are such
stuff as dreams are made of--and our little life is rounded with a
sleep.'"

She lay for a long time wakeful, revelling in the strange sense of peace
which seemed to enfold her, while the evening breeze blew through the
room and the twilight threw weird shadows among the dainty draperies.
At length there came a low knock and Mrs. Everidge opened the door.

Evadne stretched out her hands impulsively. "Oh, this beautiful
stillness!" she exclaimed. "In Marlborough there is the clang of the car
gongs and the rumble of cabs and the tramp of feet upon the pavement
until it seems as if the weary world were never to be at rest, but this
house is so quiet I could almost hear a pin drop."

Mrs. Everidge smiled. "You have quick ears, little one. But we are
quieter than usual to-night; Joanna is sitting up with a sick neighbor,
your uncle went to his room early, and I have been reading in mine."

She drew a low chair up beside the bed. "Now we must begin to get
acquainted," she said.

"Dear Aunt Marthe!" cried Evadne, "I feel as if I had known you all my
life."

She gave her a swift caress. "You dear child! Then tell me about your
father."

Evadne looked at her gratefully. No one had ever cared to know about her
father before. Forgetting her weariness in the absorbing interest of her
subject, she talked on and on, and Mrs. Everidge with the wisdom of true
sympathy, made no attempt to check her, knowing full well that the
relief of the tried heart was helping her more than any physical rest
could do.

"And now, oh, Aunt Marthe, life is so desperately lonely!" she said at
last with a sobbing sigh.

Mrs. Everidge leaned over and kissed the trembling lips. "I think
sometimes the earthly fatherhood is taken from us, dear child, that we
may learn to know the beautiful Fatherliness of God. We can never find
true happiness until our restless hearts are folded close in the hush of
his love. Human love--however lovely--does not satisfy us. Nothing
can,--but God!"

"The Fatherliness of God," repeated Evadne. "That sounds lovely, but
people do not think of him so. God is someone very terrible and far
away."

"'And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.' Does that sound as
if he were far away, little one? 'As one whom his mother comforteth, so
will I comfort you.' Why, God is father and mother both to us, dear
child. Can you think of anyone nearer than that?"

Evadne caught her breath in a great gladness. "I believe you are his
angel of consolation," she said in a hushed voice.

"'Even unto them will I give ... a place and a name better than of sons
and daughters,'" quoted Aunt Marthe softly. "That means a location and
an identity. Here, sometimes, it seems as if we had neither the one nor
the other. Christ follows out the same idea in his picture of the
abiding place which is being prepared for you and me. Everything on
earth is so transitory, and the human heart has such a hunger for
something that will last."

"Have you felt this too?" cried Evadne. "I thought I was the only one."

Mrs. Everidge laughed. "The only one in all the world to puzzle over its
problems! Oh, yes, the older we grow, the more we find that the great
majority have the same feelings and perplexities as ourselves, although
some may not understand their thought clearly enough to put it into
words."

"What is your favorite verse in all the Bible?" asked Evadne after a
pause.

Mrs. Everidge laughed again, and Evadne thought she had never heard a
laugh at once so merry and so sweet.

"You send me into a rose garden, dear child, and tell me to select the
choicest bloom out of its wilderness of beauty. How can I when every one
has a different coloring and a fragrance all its own? Two of my special
favorites are in the Revelation,--'To him that overcometh, to him will
I give of the hidden manna, and I will give him a white stone, and upon
the stone a new name written, which no one knoweth but he that receiveth
it.' 'And they shall see his face, and his name shall be on their
foreheads.'

"That means a possession and a belonging. It is the spiritual symbol
which binds us to our heavenly lover for eternity just as the wedding
ring is a pledge of fidelity for our earth time. It is only as we see it
so, that we get the full beauty of the religion of Jesus. His
church--the inner circle of his chosen 'hidden ones'--is his bride, and
what can be more glorious than to be the bride of the King of kings? The
dear souls who only serve him with fear do not get the sweetness out of
it at all. How can they, when their lives are all duty? 'Perfect love
casteth out fear' and there is no duty about it, for when we love, it is
a joy to serve and give. It hurts the Christ to have us content to be
simply servants when he would lift us up to the higher plane of
friendship, when he has put upon us the high honor of the dearest friend
of all! Earthly brides spend a vast deal of time and thought over their
trousseau, so I think Christ's bride should walk among men with a sweet
aloofness while the spiritual garments are being fashioned in which she
is to dwell with him. The Bible says a great deal about dressing. 'Let
thy garments be always white'--the sunshine color, the joy color--for
bye and bye we are to walk with him in white, you know. Our spiritual
wardrobe must be fitted and worn down here. It is a terrible mistake to
put off donning the wedding robes until we come to the feast. And the
wardrobe is very ample. Christ would have his bride luxuriously
appareled. 'Be clothed with humility.' That is a fine, close-fitting
suit for every day, but over it we are to wear the garment of praise and
the warm, shining robe of charity. Can you fancy anything more beautiful
than a life clothed in such garments as these? And to me the loveliest
of all is charity. The highest praise I ever heard given to a woman was
that 'she had such a tender way of making excuses for everybody.'

"Very fair must be the bride in the eyes of her royal lover, clothed in
the garments which he has selected,--all light and joy and tenderness,
for, the King's daughter is all glorious within."

"Aunt Marthe," said Evadne, after a long silence, in which they had been
tasting the sweetness of it, "I do not need to ask if you know Jesus
Christ?"

The lovely face took on an added beauty. "He is my life," she said.



CHAPTER XI.


Evadne was swinging in the hammock one golden summer afternoon, humming
soft snatches of her old songs while she played with her aunt's pet
black and tan. The sweet freshness of her new existence was rapidly
restoring tone to her mental system, and life no longer seemed a
hopeless task. The days were full of dreamy contentment. She spent long
mornings under the murmuring pines in the deep belt of forest which
stretched for miles behind the house, or helped Mrs. Everidge keep the
rooms in dainty order; drove with her along the grass-bordered roads,
while ears and eyes feasted on the symphonies of Nature and the ever
changing beauty of the hills; or stood beside Joanna in a trance of
delight out in the fragrant dairy, whose windows opened into a wild
sweetness of fluttering leaves, and whose cool stone floor made a
channel for a purling brook, watching her as with dexterous hands she
shaped and moulded the bubbley dough or tossed up an omelet or made one
of her delicious cherry pies, conscious through it all of the sweet
influence which seemed to pervade every corner of the house and grounds.

"I wonder what it is about you, you dear Aunt Marthe?" she soliloquized,
as she pulled Noisette's silky ears. "When you are away I cannot bear to
go into the house,--everything seems so different, so cold and
dark,--but the moment you come home again it is as lovely as ever.
Concentrated light. Yes, that name would suit you, for light is sweet
and pure and stimulating and precious. If all the people in the world
were like you, _what_ a world it would be!"

She looked up as she heard footsteps approaching, and then rose to
welcome her visitor. A woman twenty years her senior, bright, capable,
energetic, with a shrewd face and kindly eyes whose keen glance was
quick to pierce the flimsy veil of humbug, and a tongue whose
good-natured sarcasm had made more than one pretender feel ashamed.

"How do?" she said briskly, as she took the chair Evadne offered. "I
hope you're feelin' better sence you've cum?"

"Much better, thank you. I am very sorry my aunt is not at home."

"I'm sorry likewise, though it don't make as much difference as it might
have done, as I'm callin' a purpose to see you."

"That is very good of you," said Evadne with a laugh. There was a spicy
flavor about this child of the mountains which she found refreshing.

"It's a bit awkward," continued her visitor with a twinkle in her eye,
"as we'll have to do our own introducin'. My name's Penelope Riggs,
Penel for brevity. What's yours?"

"Evadne Hildreth."

"Evadne. That's uncommon and pretty. I'm goin' to call you so if you're
not objectionable to it. Life's too short for handles."

Evadne laughed merrily. "I'm not in the least objectionable," she said.

"No, that's a fact," said her visitor after a moment's kindly scrutiny.
"You're true and thorough. I knew I was goin' to like you when I saw you
in meetin'."

Evadne flushed with pleasure. "Why, that is a beautiful character! I
only wish I deserved it. But I fear you are very much mistaken in me,
though it is very kind in you to think such nice things."

"Nonsense, child! I don't waste my time thinkin'. Let me have a good
look at your face for half an hour and I'll know as much about you as
you could tell me in a week. Malviny Higgins has just come back from
Bosting with her head full of sykick forces an' mental affinities an'
the dear knows what else, but I think it's just a cultivation of our
common senses--number, five. You can feel a person without touching
them; it's in the air all round you; and you don't need much
discrimination to know whether what you will say will hurt them or be a
blessin'. The main thing is to put yourself in their shoes before you
begin to talk."

"Their shoes, Miss Riggs," laughed Evadne, "why they might not fit."

"Penelope," corrected her visitor, "Penel for brevity. Yes, they will
too, that kind of shoe leather is elastic. It's the old Bible doctrine,
'never do anything to others that you wouldn't like others to do to
you.' If people got the shoes well fitted before they let their tongues
loose, there would be a deal less sorrow and heartburn in the world."

"'Love thy neighbor as thyself,'" said Evadne. "I never thought of it in
that way before."

"Well," said Miss Riggs briskly, "I'm dredful glad you've cum, Evadne.
It'll do Mis' Everidge a sight of good to have you, though Marthe
Everidge is raised above the need of humans as far as any mortal can be
on this earth. With all their inventions there ain't nobody discovered
how to make spiritual photographs yet, or I would have the picture of
_her_ character in all the windows of the land. 'Twould do more good
than miles of tracts. I agree with Paul that livin' epistles make the
best readin' an' it don't seem fittin' that she should be shut up in
this little place where only a few of us have the right kind of
spectacles to see her through. Most of the folks just allow it's Mis'
Everidge's way, and would as soon think of tryin' to imitate her as a
tadpole would a star."

"But we are to imitate Christ," said Evadne.

"'Course, child! But it's dredful comfortin' to have a human life in
front of us to show us that is possible. Lots of times when life looks
like a long seam an' the sewin' pricks my fingers, a new light falls on
this picture, and I sez to myself, 'Penel,' says I, 'look at Marthe
Everidge. The Lord has made you both out of the same material. There
ain't no reason why she should be always gettin' nearer heaven and you
goin' back to earth. She has difficulties and worriments, same as you
have, but if she can make every trial into a new rung for the ladder on
which she is mountin' up to God, there ain't no reason why you should
make a gravestone out of yours to bury yourself under; and so I start
on with a new courage, an' when we get to the end of the journey, I'll
not be the only one who'll have to thank Marthe Everidge for showin' the
way."

Evadne's eyes shone. "You make me feel," she cried, "as if I would
rather live a beautiful life than do the most magnificent thing in the
world!"

"That's a safe feelin' to tie to," said Penelope with an approving
smile; "for character is the only thing we've got to carry with us when
we go."

"Well," she continued, "I must be goin'. I did think I'd be forehanded
in callin', but mother's been dredful wakeful lately, and when daylight
comes, it don't seem as if I had the ambition of a snail. She don't like
to be left alone for a minit, mother don't, so it's a bit of a puzzle to
keep up with society."

She laughed cheerily as she held out her hand. "Well, I'm dredful
pleased to have met you. I'll be more than glad to have you come in
whenever you're down our way."

Evadne watched her as she walked briskly along the road. "She is not
Aunt Marthe," she said slowly; "I suppose Louis would call it a case of
the solanum and the potato blossom, but she is one of the Lord's plants
all the same."

"Aunt Marthe, what _is_ culture?" she asked suddenly, as later in the
afternoon Mrs. Everidge sat beside her hammock. "Is Louis right? Is it
just the veneer of education and travel and environment?"

"You can hardly call that a veneer, little one. Real education goes very
deep. Emerson says 'nothing is so indicative of deepest culture as a
tender consideration of the ignorant.' I think that culture, to be
perfect, must have its root in love. It is impossible that anyone filled
with the love of Christ should ever be discourteous or lack in
thoughtfulness for the feelings of others."

"Why that must be what Penelope Riggs meant by her 'elastic shoe
leather,'" said Evadne with a laugh, and then she repeated the
conversation.

"Oh, she has been here! I am glad. It will do you good to know her. She
is the cheeriest soul, and the busiest. She always acts upon me as a
tonic, for I know just how much she has had to give up and how hard her
life has been."

"Why, Aunt Marthe, she says when she gets to heaven she will have to
thank you for showing her the way. She thinks you are perfection."

"'Not I, but Christ,'" said Aunt Marthe with a happy smile. She went
into the house and returned with a book in her hand. "You asked what
culture really was. This writer says 'Drudgery.' Listen while I give you
a few snatches, then you shall have the book for your own.

"'Culture takes leisure, elegance, wide margins of time, a pocket-book;
drudgery means limitations, coarseness, crowded hours, chronic worry,
old clothes, black hands, headaches. Our real and our ideal are not
twins. Never were! I want the books, but the clothes basket wants me. I
love nature and figures are my fate. My taste is books and I farm it. My
taste is art and I correct exercises. My taste is science and I measure
tape. Can it be that this drudgery, not to be escaped, gives 'culture?'
Yes, culture of the prime elements of life, of the very fundamentals of
all fine manhood and fine womanhood, the fundamentals that underlie all
fulness and without which no other culture worth the winning is even
possible. Power of attention, power of industry, promptitude in
beginning work, method and accuracy and despatch in doing it,
perseverance, courage before difficulties, cheer, self-control and
self-denial, they are worth more than Latin and Greek and French and
German and music and art and painting and waxflowers and travels in
Europe added together. These last are the decorations of a man's life,
those other things are the indispensables. They make one's sit-fast
strength and one's active momentum,--they are the solid substance of
one's self.

"'How do we get them? High school and college can give much, but these
are never on their programmes. All the book processes that we go to the
schools for and commonly call our 'education' give no more than
opportunity to win the indispensables of education. We must get them
somewhat as the fields and valleys get their grace. Whence is it that
the lines of river and meadow and hill and lake and shore conspire
to-day to make the landscape beautiful? Only by long chiselings and
steady pressures. Only by ages of glacier crush and grind, by scour of
floods, by centuries of storm and sun. These rounded the hills and
scooped the valley-curves and mellowed the soil for meadow-grace. It was
'drudgery' all over the land. Mother Nature was down on her knees doing
her early scrubbing work! That was yesterday, to-day--result of
scrubbing work--we have the laughing landscape.

"'Father and mother and the ancestors before them have done much to
bequeath those mental qualities to us, but that which scrubs them into
us, the clinch which makes them actually ours and keeps them ours, and
adds to them as the years go by,--that depends on our own plod in the
rut, our drill of habit, in a word our 'drudgery.' It is because we have
to go and go morning after morning, through rain, through shine, through
toothache, headache, heartache to the appointed spot and do the
appointed work, no matter what our work may be, because of the rut,
plod, grind, humdrum in the work, that we get our foundations.

"'Drudgery is the gray angel of success, for drudgery is the doing of
one thing long after it ceases to be amusing, and it is 'this one thing
I do' that gathers me together from my chaos, that concentrates me from
possibilities to powers and turns powers into achievements. The aim in
life is what the backbone is in the body, if we have no aim we have no
meaning. Lose us and the earth has lost nothing, no niche is empty, no
force has ceased to play, for we have no aim and therefore we are
still--nobody. Our bodies are known and answer in this world to such or
such a name, but, as to our inner selves, with real and awful meaning
our walking bodies might be labelled 'An unknown man sleeps here!'

"'But we can be artists also in our daily task,--artists not artisans.
The artist is he who strives to perfect his work, the artisan strives to
get through it. If I cannot realize my ideal I can at least idealize my
real--How? By trying to be perfect in it. If I am but a raindrop in a
shower, I will be at least a perfect drop. If but a leaf in a whole
June, I will be a perfect leaf. This is the beginning of all Gospels,
that the kingdom of heaven is at hand just where we are.'"

"Oh!" cried Evadne, drawing a long breath, "that is beautiful! I feel as
if I had been lifted up until I touched the sky."

"Marthe," exclaimed Mr. Everidge reproachfully, suddenly appearing in
the doorway with a sock drawn over each arm, "it is incomprehensible to
me you do not remember that my physical organism and darns have
absolutely no affinity."

Mrs. Everidge laughed brightly. "If you will make holes, Horace, I must
make darns," she said.

"Not a natural sequence at all!" he retorted testily. "When the wear and
tear of time becomes visible in my underwear it must be relegated to
Reuben."

"But Reuben's affinity for patches may be no stronger than your own,
Uncle Horace," said Evadne mischievously.

Mr. Everidge waved his sock-capped hands with a gesture of disdain.
"The lower orders, my dear Evadne, are incapable of those delicate
perceptions which constitute the mental atmosphere of those of finer
mould. The delft does not feel the blow which would shiver the porcelain
into atoms, and Reuben's epidermis is, I imagine, of such a horny
consistency that he would walk in oblivious unconcern upon these
elevations of needlework which are as a ploughshare to my sensitive
nerves. It is the penalty one has to pay for being of finer clay than
the common herd of men."

Evadne looked at Mrs. Everidge. A deep flush of shame had dyed her
cheeks and her lips were quivering.

"Oh, Horace," she cried, "Reuben is such a faithful boy!"

"My dear," said her husband airily, "I make no aspersions against his
moral character, but he certainly cannot be classed among the
velvet-skinned aristocracy. By the way, I wish you would see in future
that my undergarments are of a silken texture. My flesh rebels at
anything approaching to harshness," and then he went complacently back
to his library to weave and fashion the graceful phrases which flowed
from his facile pen.

"Why should he go clothed in silk and you in cotton!" cried Evadne,
jealous for the rights of her friend.

Mrs. Everidge's eyes came back from one of their long journeys, "Oh, I
have learned the luxury of doing without," she said lightly.

Evadne threw her arms around her impulsively. "But why, oh, Aunt Marthe,
why should not Uncle Horace learn it too?"

"We do not see things through the same window," she answered with a
smile and a sigh.



CHAPTER XII.


John Randolph walked slowly through the soft dawning. It had been a
brilliant night. The late moon had risen as he was bidding good-bye to
the graceful creatures he should never see again, and Hollywood had been
clad in a bewitching beauty which made it all the harder to say
farewell. Far into the night he had lingered, visiting every corner of
the dearly loved home, then at last he had turned away and walked
steadily along the road which led to Marlborough.

The sun rose in a blaze of splendor and the birds began to twitter. The
gripsack which he carried grew strangely heavy, and he felt faint and
weary. The long strain of the day before was beginning to tell upon him,
and it was many hours since he had tasted food.

A sudden turn of the road brought him in sight of a trig little farm,
against whose red gate a man was leaning, leisurely enjoying the beauty
of the morning before he began work. He had a pleasant face, strong and
peaceful. No one had ever known Joseph Makepeace to be out of temper or
in a hurry. He would have said it was because he commenced every day
listening to the inner voice among the silences of Nature. Joseph
Makepeace was a Quaker.

"Why, John, lad!" he cried, "thou art a welcome sight on this fair
morning. Come in, come in. Breakfast will soon be ready and thou art in
sore need of it by the look of thy face." He gave John's hand a mighty
grasp and took his gripsack from him.

"Why, John, hast thou walked far with this load? Where were all the
horses of Hollywood? Is anything wrong, John? I don't like thy looks,
lad."

John's voice trembled. "I have left Hollywood" he said. "Mr. Hawthorne
has turned me off."

"Left Hollywood! You don't mean it, John? Well, well, folks say Robert
Hawthorne has not been right in his mind since his boy got hurt. I
believe it now. It's a comfort that the great Master will never turn us
off, lad. Thee'd better lie down on the lounge and rest thee a bit,
John, while I go and tell mother."

He entered the spotless kitchen where his wife was moving blithely to
and fro. "Thee has another 'unawares angel' to breakfast, Ruth. It's a
grand thing being on the public road!"

Ruth Makepeace laughed merrily. "An angel, Joseph? I hope he's not like
thy last one, who stole three of my best silver spoons!"

"So, so, thee didst promise to forget that, Ruth, if I replace them next
time I go to Marlborough."

"Well, so I do, except when thee does remind me. Is this a very hungry
angel, Joseph? Does thee think I'd better cook another chicken?"

"He ought to be hungry, poor lad, but I doubt if he eats much. Does thee
remember friend Randolph, Ruth?"

"Of course I do. But he's been dead these ten years. Thee doesn't mean
he's come back to breakfast with us?"

Her husband put his hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. Then he
kissed her. "Thee is fractious this morning, Ruth. Friend Randolph had a
son, thee dost mind, whom Robert Hawthorne took to live at Hollywood. It
is he whom the good Lord has sent to us to care for, Ruth. He's just
been turned adrift."

"If thee wasn't so big I would shake thee, Joseph! The idea of John
Randolph being in this house and thee beating round the bush with thine
angels!" and with all her motherhood shining in her eyes, Ruth Makepeace
started for the parlor.

In spite of the overflowing kindness with which he was surrounded John
found the meal a hard one. He had been used to breakfast with little Nan
upon his knee.

"When thee is rested we'll have a talk, lad," said his host, as they
rose from the table; "but thee'd better bide with us for the summer and
not fret about the future: thee dost need a holiday."

"Of course thee dost, John!" said blithe little Mrs. Makepeace. "I wish
thee would bide for good."

Her husband laid his hand upon his shoulder. "Thou knowest, lad, there
is the little grave out yonder. Thee should'st have his place in our
hearts and home. Would'st thee be content to bide, John?"

John Randolph looked at his friends with shining eyes. "You have done me
good for life!" he said, "but the world calls me, I must go. I mean to
work my way through college, and be a physician, Mr. Makepeace."

"So! so! Well, we mustn't stand in the way, Ruth. Thee'll make a good
one, John. But how art thee going to manage it, lad?"

"The Steel Works in Marlborough pay good wages. I mean to get a place
there if I can, and study in the evenings."

"Why, John, lad, the Steel Works shut down yesterday afternoon."

For an instant the brave spirit quailed, only for an instant. "Then I
must find something else," he said quietly.

"It's a bad season, John, and the times are hard." Joseph Makepeace
thought for a moment. "There's friend Harris up the river. What dost
thee think, Ruth?"

"Why, he wants men to pile wood," exclaimed his wife. "Thee would'st not
set John at that!"

"Lincoln split rails," said John with a smile, "why should not I pile
them? It's clean work, and honest, Mrs. Makepeace."

"He has a logging camp in the winter. Thee would'st have good pay then,
John."

"But thee would'st be so lonely, John, amongst all those rough men! And
thee did'st say once it was dangerous, Joseph. It's not fit work for
John."

"I am not afraid of work, Mrs. Makepeace, and I can never be lonely with
Jesus Christ."

       *       *       *       *       *

In far Vermont Evadne was reading aloud from a paper she had brought
from the post-office. "The whole sum of Christian living is just
loving." "Do you believe that, Aunt Marthe?"

"Surely, dear child. Love is the fulfilling of the law, you know. When
we love God with our whole heart, and our neighbor as ourselves, there
is no danger of our breaking the Decalogue. 'He who loveth knoweth God,'
and 'to know him is life eternal.'"

"Just love," said Evadne musingly. "It seems so simple."

"Do you think so?" said Aunt Marthe with a smile. "Yet people find it
the hardest thing to do, as it is surely the noblest. Drummond calls it
'the greatest thing in the world' and you have Paul's definition of it
in Corinthians. Did you ever study that to see how perfect love would
make us?

"'Love suffereth long,' that does away with impatience; 'and is kind,'
that makes us neighborly; 'love envieth not,' that saves from
covetousness; 'vaunteth not itself,' that does away with self-conceit;
'seeketh not its own,' that kills selfishness; 'is not provoked,' that
shows we are forgiving; 'rejoiceth not in unrighteousness,' makes us
love only what is pure; 'covereth [Footnote: Marginal rendering.] all
things,' that leaves no room for scandal; 'believeth all things,' that
does away with doubt; 'hopeth all things,' that is the antithesis of
distrust; 'endureth all things,' proves that we are strong; and then the
beautiful summing up of the whole matter, 'love never faileth.' If that
is true of us, it can only be as we are filled with the spirit of the
Christ of God, 'whose nature and whose name is love.'"

"You see such beautiful things in the Bible!" said Evadne despairingly,
"why cannot I get below the surface?"

"You will, dearie. You forget I have been digging nuggets from this
precious mine for years and you have just begun to search for them.
Would you like another drive, or do you feel too tired?"

"Not in the least. What can I do for you?"

"I would like to send some of that currant jelly I made yesterday to old
Mrs. Riggs, if you are sure you would like to take it?"

"As sure as sure can be, dear," said Evadne with a kiss, "Where shall I
find it?"

"In the King's corner."

"'The King's corner?'" echoed Evadne with a puzzled look.

"Oh, I forgot you did not know. I always give the Lord the first fruits
of my cooking, and keep them in a special place set apart for his use,
then, when I go to see the sick, there is always something ready to
tempt their fancy. It is wonderful what a saving of time it is. I rarely
have to make anything on purpose,--there is always something prepared."

She followed her niece out to the carriage, helped her pack the jelly
safely, with one of her crisp loaves of fresh brown bread, bade her a
merry farewell and went back to the house again singing.

"Oh, Aunt Marthe!" cried Evadne, as she drove slowly under the trees,
"shall I ever, ever learn to be like you?"

She found the old lady sitting by the fire wrapped up in a shawl,
although the day was sultry.

"Good-morning," said Evadne, as she deposited her parcels on the table.
"I come from Mrs. Everidge. She thought you would fancy some of her
fresh brown bread and currant jelly."

"Hum!" said the old lady ungraciously, "I hope it's better than the last
wuz. Guess Mis' Everidge ain't ez pertickler ez she used ter be."

"Aunt Marthe!" cried Evadne indignantly. "Why, everything she does is
perfection!"

"Land, child! There ain't no perfecshun in this world. It's all a wale,
a wale o' tears. We'se poor, miserable critters,--wurms o' the
dust,--that's what we be."

"There isn't any worm about Aunt Marthe," cried Evadne with a laugh. "I
think you must be looking through a wrong pair of spectacles, Mrs.
Riggs."

"Land, child! I ain't got but the one pair, an' they got broke this
morning. But it's jest my luck. Everything goes agin me."

"But you can get them mended," said Evadne.

"Sakes alive! There ain't much hope o' gettin' them mended, with Penel
behindhand on the rent, an' the firin' an' the land knows what else. I
don't see why Penel ain't more forehanded. I tell her ef I wuz ez young
an' ez spry ez she be, I guess I'd hev things different, but, la! that's
Penel's way. She's terrible sot in her own way, Penel is. She's not
willin' ter take my advice. Children now-a-days allers duz know more
than their mothers."

"Where is Penelope?" asked Evadne.

"Oh, skykin' round. She's gone over to Miss Johnsing's ter help with the
quiltin'. That's the way she duz, an' here I am all alone with the fire
ter tend ter, an' not a livin' soul ter do a hand's turn fer me! She sez
she hez ter do it ter keep the pot bilin'--'pears ter me Penel's pots
take a sight uv bilin'."

"But she has left a nice pile of wood close beside you, Mrs. Riggs."

"La, yes," grumbled the old lady, "but it's dretful thoughtless in her
ter stay away so long, when she knows the stoopin' cums so hard on my
rheumatiz. An' it's terrible lonesome. I get that narvous some days I'm
all of a shake. 'Tain't ez ef she kep within' call, but t'other day she
went clean over ter Hancocks,--a hull mile an' a half! She sez she hez
ter go where folks wants things done, but that's nonsense, folks oughter
want things done near at hand,--they know how lonesome I be. Why, a bear
might cum in an' eat me up for all Penel would know. She gits so taken
up a' larfin' an' singin', she ain't got no sympathy. Oh, it's a wale o'
tears!"

"But there are no bears in Vernon, Mrs. Riggs," laughed Evadne.

"Land, child! you never know what there might be!" said the old lady
testily. "Be you a' stayin' at Mis' Everidge's?"

"Yes," said Evadne, "she is my aunt."

"Hum! I never knew she hed any nieces, 'cept them two gals uv Jedge
Hildreth's down ter Marlborough."

"I am their cousin, Mrs. Riggs. I used to live in Barbadoes."

"Well, I declar! Why, Barbaderz is t' other side of nowhere! Used ter
be when I went ter school. Well, well, some folks hez a lion's share uv
soarin' an' here I've ben all my life jest a' pinin' my heart out ter
git down ter Bosting, an' I ain't never got there! But that's allers the
way. I never git nuthin'. I'm sixty-nine years old cum Christmas an' I
ain't never ben further away frum hum than twenty miles hand runnin',
an' here's a chit like you done travelin' enuff ter last a lifetime."

"But I didn't want to travel, Mrs. Riggs," said Evadne gently. "I would
so much rather have stayed at home."

"There you go!" grumbled the old lady. "Folks ain't never satisfied with
their mercies. Allers a' flyin' in the face uv Providence. I tell you
we'se wurms, child; miserable, shiftless wurms, a' crawlin' down in this
walley of humiliation, with our faces ter the dust."

"But you've got a great deal to be thankful for, Mrs. Riggs," ventured
Evadne, "in having such a daughter. Aunt Marthe thinks she is a splendid
character."

"So she oughter be!" retorted the old lady, "with sech a bringin' up ez
she's hed. But land! childern's dretful disappointin' ter a pusson.
There ain't a selfish bone in _my_ body, but Penel's ez full uv 'em.
She'll let me lie awake by the hour at a time while she's a' snoozin'
on the sofy beside me. She don't sleep in her own bed any more because I
hev ter hev her handy ter rub me when the rheumatiz gits ter jumpin'.
She sez she can't help bein' drowsy when she's workin' through the day,
but land! she'd manage ter keep awake ef she hed any sympathy! She ain't
got no sympathy, Penel ain't; an' she ain't a bit forehanded.

"But I don't 'spect nuthin' else in this world. It's a wale o' tears an'
we ain't got nuthin' else ter look fer but triberlation an' woe. Man ez
born ter trouble ez the sparks fly upward, an' a woman allers hez the
lion's share."

Evadne burst into the sitting-room with flashing eyes. "Aunt Marthe, if
I were Penelope Riggs, I would shoot her mother! She's just a crooked
old bundle of unreasonableness and ingratitude!"

Mrs. Everidge laughed. "No, you wouldn't dear, not if you _were_
Penelope."

"But, Aunt Marthe, how does she stand it? Why, it would drive me crazy
in a week! To think of that poor soul, working like a slave all day, and
then grudged the few winks of sleep she gets on a hard old sofa. I
declare, it makes me feel hopeless!"

"The day I climbed Mont Blanc," said Mrs. Everidge softly, "we had a
wonderful experience. Down below us a sudden storm swept the valley.
The rain fell in torrents, and the thunder roared, but up where we stood
the sun was shining and all was still. When we walk with Christ, little
one, we find it possible to live above the clouds."

"An Alpine Christian!" cried Evadne. "Oh, Aunt Marthe, that is
beautiful!"



CHAPTER XIII.


"The ancient Egyptians, Evadne," remarked Mr. Everidge the next day at
dinner, as he selected the choicest portions of a fine roast duck for
his own consumption, "during the period of their nation's highest
civilization, subsisted almost exclusively upon millet, dates and other
fruits and cereals; and athletic Greece rose to her greatest culture
upon two meals a day, consisting principally of maize and vegetables
steeped in oil. Don't you think you ladies would find it of advantage to
copy them in this laudable abstemiousness? There is something repugnant
to a refined taste in the idea of eating flesh whose constituent
particles partake largely of the nature of our own."

"Why, certainly, Uncle Horace," said Evadne merrily. "I am quite ready
to become a vegetarian, if you will set me the example. The feminine
mind, you know, is popularly supposed to be only fitted to follow a
masculine lead."

"Ah, I wish it were possible, my dear Evadne, but the peculiar
susceptibility of my internal organism precludes all thought of my
making such a radical change in the matter of diet. Even now, in spite
of all my care, indigestion, like a grim Argus, stares me out of
countenance. I wish you would bear this fact more constantly in mind, my
dear Marthe. This duck, for instance, has not arrived at that stage of
absolute fitness which is so essential to the appreciation of a delicate
stomach. A duck, Evadne, is a bird which requires very careful treatment
in its preparation for the table. It should be suspended in the air for
a certain length of time, and then, after being carefully trussed, laid
upon its breast in the pan, in order that all the juices of the body may
concentrate in that titbit of the epicure,--then let the knife touch its
richly browned skin, and, presto, you have a dish fit for the gods! The
skin of this duck on the contrary presents a degree of resistance to the
carver which proves that it has been placed in the oven before it had
arrived at that stage of perfection."

"Why, Horace," laughed Mrs. Everidge, "I thought this one was just
right! You remember you told me the last one we had, had hung five hours
too long."

"Exactly so. My friend, Trenton, will tell you that five hours is all
the length of time required to seal the fate of nations. It is a pet
theory of his that the finale of the material world will be rapid. He
bases his conclusions upon the fact of the steady decrease in the volume
of the surrounding atmosphere and the almost instantaneous action of all
of Nature's destructive forces, fire and flood, storm and sunstroke,
lightning and hail, earthquake and cyclone. Oh, _apropos_ of my erudite
friend, Marthe, he has promised to spend August with us, so you will
have to look to your culinary laurels, for he is accustomed to dine at
Delmonico's."

"Professor Trenton coming here in August!" cried Mrs. Everidge in
dismay. "Why, Horace, you never told me you had invited him!"

"My dear, I am telling you now."

"But I meant to take Evadne up to our mountain camp in August. I am sure
the resinous air would make her strong. I had my plans all laid."

"'The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley,'" said her husband
suavely. "Evadne's mental strength cannot fail to be developed by
intercourse with such a clever man. We must not allow the culture of the
body to occupy so prominent a place in our thoughts that we forget the
mind, you know."

"A fusty old Professor!" pouted Evadne. "Oh, Uncle Horace, why didn't
you leave him among his tomes and his theories and let us be free to
enjoy?"

"Mere sensual gratification, Evadne," said Mr. Everidge, as he
replenished his plate with some dainty pickings, "is not the true aim of
life. I consider it a high honor that the Professor should consent to
devote a month of his valuable time to my edification, for he is getting
to be quite a lion in the literary world. You had better have your
chamber prepared for his occupancy, Marthe. As I remember him at college
he had a fondness amounting almost to a craze for rooms with a western
aspect."

Joanna came in to announce the arrival of a visitor whom Evadne had
already learned to dread on account of her continual depression.

"Oh, Aunt Marthe!" she exclaimed, "must you waste this beautiful
afternoon listening to her dolorosities. I wanted you to go for a
drive!"

"You go, dearie, and take Penelope Riggs. It will be a treat to her and
you ought to be out in the open air as much as possible."

Evadne went out on the veranda. Through the open window she could hear
the visitor's ceaseless monotone of complaint mingled with the soft
notes of Mrs. Everidge's cheery sympathy. "Oh, dearest," she murmured,
"if you had seen this beautiful life, you would have known that there is
no sham in the religion of Jesus!"

She waited long, in the hope that Mrs. Everidge would be able to
accompany her, then she started for the Eggs cottage. She found the old
lady alone. "Where is Penelope, Mrs. Riggs?"

"Oh, skykin' round ez usual," was the peevish response. "It's church
work this time. When I wuz young, folks got along 'thout sech an
everlastin' sight uv meetins, but nowadays there's Convenshuns, an'
Auxils an' Committees, an' the land knows what, till a body's clean
distracted. Fer my part I hate ter see wimmen a' wallerin' round in the
mud till it takes 'em the best part uv the next day ter git their skirts
clean."

"But there is no mud now, Mrs. Riggs," laughed Evadne.

"Land alive, child! There will be sometime. In my day folks used ter
stay ter hum an' mind their childern, but now they've all took ter
soarin' an' it don't matter how many ends they leave flyin' loose behind
'era."

"But Penelope has no children to mind, Mrs. Riggs."

"Land alive! She hez me, an' I oughter be more ter her than a duzzen
childern,--but she ain't got no proper feelin's, Penel ain't. When I'm
a' lyin' in my coffin she'll give her eyes ter hev the chance ter rub my
rheumatiz, an' run for hot bottles an' flannels an' ginger tea. It's an
ongrateful world but I allcrs sez there ain't no use complainin'; it's
what we've got ter expec',--triberlation an' anguish an' mournin' an'
woe. It's good enuff fer us too. Sech wurms ez we be!"

"Well, Evadne, how do you do, child? I'm dretful glad to see you," and
Penelope, breezy and keen as a March wind, came bustling into the room.
"Why, yes, I'm well, child, if it wasn't for bein' so tumbled about in
my mind."

"What has tumbled you, Penelope?" asked Evadne with a merry laugh.

"The Scribes and Pharisees," was the terse rejoinder. "I've just cum
from a Committee meeting of the Missionary Society an' I'm free to
confess my feelin's is roused tremendous. Seems to me nowadays the
church is built at a different angle from the Sermon on the Mount an'
things is measured by the world's yardsticks till there ain't much
sense in callin' it a church at all. Ef you'd seen the way Squire
Higgins' girls sot down on poor little Matildy Jones this afternoon,
just because her father sells fish! Their father sells it too, but he's
got forehanded an' can do it by the gross, an' so they toss their heads
an' set a whole garden full o' flowers a' shakin' upan' down. They're
allers more peacocky in their minds after they git their spring bunnets.
The Lord said we was to consider the lilies, but I guess he meant us to
leave 'em in the fields, for I notice the more folks carries on the tops
of their heads the less their apt to be like 'em underneath."

"But what did they say to her?" asked Evadne.

"You're young, child, or you'd know there's more ways of insultin' than
with the tongue, an' poor little Matildy is jest the one to be hurt that
way. Some folks is like clams, the minute you touch 'em, they shut
themselves up in their shells an' then they don't feel what you do to
'em any more'n the Rocky mountains, but Matildy isn't made that way. She
just sot there with the flushes comin' in her cheeks an' the tears
shinin' in her pretty eyes till my heart ached. I leaned over to her an'
whispered, 'Don't fret, Matildy, they ain't wuth mindin'. She gave me a
little wintry smile but the tears kep a' comin' an' by an' bye she got
up and went out, an' ef she don't imitate the Prophet Jeremi an' water
her piller with her tears this night, then I've changed my name sence
mornin'.

"I was so uplifted in my mind with righteous indignation that I felt
called upon to let it loose, so I begun in a musin' tone, as ef I was
havin' a solil."

"'A solil?'" said Evadne in a mystified tone.

"Why, yes; talkin' to myself, child. I did think, ef there was any place
folks was free an' eqal 'twould be in the Lord's service,' sez I. 'The
Bible teaches it's a pretty dangerous bizness to offend one uv these
little ones. I'm not much of a hand at quotations, but there's an
unpleasant connection between it an' a millstun,' sez I.

"Malviny Higgins tossed her head an' giv me one uv her witherinest
looks, but I'm not one uv the perishin' kind, so I kep on a' musin'.

"'It's wonderful what a difference there is between sellin' by the poun'
an' the barrel,' sez I. 'It's unfortunet that there's only one way to
the heavenly country, an' it's a limited express with no Pullman
attached. The Lord hedn't time to put on a parlor car fer the wholesale
trade; seems like as if it was kind uv neglectful in him. It would hev
been more convenient an' private.'

"Malviny's cheeks got as red as beets an' the flowers on her bonnet
danced a Highland Fling as she leaned over to whisper somethin' to her
sister, but I hed relieved my feelin's an' could join in quite peaceful
like when Mrs. Songster said we'd close the meetin' by singin' 'Blest be
the tie that binds.' Well, there'll be no clicks in heaven, that's one
blessin'."

"'Clicks,' Penelope?"

"Why, yes, child, the folks that gets off by themselves in a corner an'
thinks nobody outside the circle is fit to tie their shoe. I expect to
hev edifyin' conversations with Moses an' Elija, an' the first thing I
mean to ask him is what kind of ravens they really were."

"'Ravens,'" echoed Evadne bewildered, "what _do_ you mean, Penelope?"

"Sakes alive, child! Haven't you read your Bible? and don't you know the
ravens fed the old gentleman in the desert, an' that folks now say they
were Arabs, because the ravens are dirty birds an' live on carrion, an'
it stands to reason Elija couldn't touch that if he hed an ordinary
stumach. As if the Lord couldn't hev made 'em bring food from the king's
table if he hed chosen to do it! It's all of a piece with the way folks
hev now of twistin' the Bible inside out till nobody knows what it
means. For my part I believe if the Lord hed meant Arabs he would hev
said Arabs an' not hev deceived us by callin' 'em birds uv prey. Folks
is so set against allowin' anything that looks like a meracle that
they'll go all the way round the barn an' creep through a snake fence if
they can prove it's jest an ordinary piece of business. They do say
there are some things the Lord can't do, but I'm free to confess I've
never found them out."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Aunt Marthe," said Evadne, when they had settled down for their evening
talk, "what does it all mean? 'The victory of our faith,' you know, and
the 'Overcomeths' in Revelation? I thought Christ got the victory for
us?"

"So he does, dear child, and we through him. I came across a lovely
explanation of it some time ago which I will copy for you; it has been
such an inspiration. Listen,--

"'When you are forgotten or neglected or purposely set at naught and you
smile inwardly, glorying in the insult or the oversight,--that is
victory.

"'When your good is evil spoken of, when your wishes are crossed, your
tastes offended, your advice disregarded, your opinions ridiculed, and
you take it all in patient and loving silence,--that is victory.

"'When you are content with any food, any raiment, any climate, any
society, any position in life, any solitude, any interruption,--that is
victory.

"'When you can bear with any discord, any annoyance, any irregularity or
unpunctuality (of which you are not the cause),--that is victory.

"'When you can stand face to face with folly, extravagance, spiritual
insensibility, contradiction of sinners, persecution, and endure it all
as Jesus endured it,--that is victory.

"'When you never care to refer to yourself in conversation, nor to
record your works, nor to seek after commendation; when you can truly
love to be unknown,--that is victory.'"

"Now I see!" exclaimed Evadne. "It means the beautiful patience with
which you bear aggravating things and the gentle courtesy with which you
treat all sorts of troublesome people. Oh, my Princess, I envy you your
altitude!"



CHAPTER XIV.


Professor Trenton had come and gone and the glory of the autumn was over
the land. The early supper was ended and Evadne had ensconced herself in
her favorite window to catch the sun's last smile before he fell asleep.
In the room across the hall Mr. Everidge reclined in his luxurious
arm-chair and leisurely turned the pages of the last "North American
Review." It was Saturday evening.

"Why, Horace, can this be possible?" Mrs. Everidge entered the room
quickly and stood before her husband. Neither of them noticed Evadne.

"My dear, many things are possible in this terrestrial sphere. What
particular possibility do you refer to?"

"That you have discharged Reuben?" The sweet voice trembled. Mr.
Everidge's tones kept their usual complacent calm.

"That possibility, my dear, has taken definite form in fact."

"But, Horace, the boy is heart-broken."

"Time is a mighty healer, my love. He will recover his mental equipoise
in due course."

"But you might have given him a month's warning. Where is the poor boy
to find another place? It is cruel to turn him off like this!"

"Really, my dear Marthe, I do not feel myself competent to solve all the
problems of the labor question," said Mr. Everidge carelessly. "Reuben
must take his chances in common with the rest of his class."

"But, Horace, I cannot imagine what your reason for this can be! Where
will you find so good a boy?"

"I am not aware that Socrates thought it necessary to acquaint the
worthy Xantippe with the reasons for his conduct," remarked Mr. Everidge
suavely. "The feminine mind is too much disposed to jump to hasty
conclusions to prove of any assistance in deciding matters of
importance. The masculine brain, on the contrary, takes time for calm
deliberation and weighs the pros and cons in the scale of a well
balanced judgment before arriving at any definite decision. But my
reason in this case will soon become apparent to you. I do not intend to
keep a boy at all."

"But who will take care of Atalanta? Are you going to forsake your
cherished books for a curry-comb?"

"Really, Marthe!" exclaimed her husband in an aggrieved tone, "it is
incomprehensible that you should have such a total disregard for the
delicacy of my constitution,--especially when you know that the very
odor of the stable is abhorrent to my olfactory senses. Atalanta has
quarters provided for her at the Vernon Livery, and one of the grooms
has orders to bring the carriage to the door at two o'clock every
afternoon."

"But that will make it very awkward, Horace. I so often have to use the
carriage in the morning."

"'Have,' my dear Marthe, is a word which admits of many
substitutions,--'cannot' in this case will be a suitable one. I find it
is necessary to resume possession of the reins. Atalanta is retrograding
and is rapidly losing that characteristic of speed which made her name a
fitting one. There is a lack of mastery about a woman's handling of the
ribbons which is quickly detected by horses, especially when they are of
more than average intelligence."

"But, Horace, if Reuben goes, Joanna will go too. You know she promised
her mother she would never leave him."

"In that event, my dear, you will have an opportunity to become more
intimately acquainted with the mysteries of the culinary art," observed
Mr. Everidge cheerfully. "It will be a splendid chance to evolve that
finest of character combinations, Spartan endurance coupled with
American progressiveness."

Mrs. Everidge smiled. "But what if I do not have the Spartan strength,
Horace?"

"That is merely a matter of imagination, my love. It proves the truth of
my theory that necessity develops capacity. A woman of leisure, for want
of suitable mental pabulum, grows to fancy she has every ill that flesh
is heir to, whereas, when she is obliged by compelling circumstances to
put her muscles into practice, her mind acquires a more healthy tone.
Self-contemplation is a most enervating exercise and involves a
tremendous drain on the moral forces."

"Do you think I waste much time in that way, Horace?" Mrs. Everidge
spoke wistfully, and Evadne, forced to be an unwilling listener to the
conversation, felt her cheeks grow hot with indignation.

"My dear, I merely refer to the deplorable tendency of your sex. All you
require is moral stamina to tear yourself away from the arms of Morpheus
at an earlier hour in the It is a popular illusion, you know, that work
performed before sunrise takes less time to accomplish and is better
done than later in the day. My mother used to affirm that she
accomplished the work of two days in one when she arose at three a.m.,
but then my mother was a most exceptional woman," with which parting
thrust Mr. Everidge retired behind the pages of his magazine.

Upstairs in her own room Evadne paced the floor with tightly clenched
hands. "Oh!" she cried, "what shall I do? I hate him! I hate him! How
dare he! He ought to be glad to go down on his knees to serve her, she
is so sweet, so dear! Oh, I cannot bear it! That she should be compelled
to endure such servitude, and I can do nothing to help, nothing!
nothing!" She threw herself across the bed and burst into a passion of
tears. Was this the silent girl whom Isabelle had voted tiresome and
slow?

A little later than usual she heard the low knock which always preceded
the visit which she looked forward to as the sweetest part of the day.
Could it be possible she would come to-night? Was no thought of self
ever permitted to enter that brave, suffering heart?

She rose and opened the door. The dear face was paler than usual but
there was no shadow upon the smooth brow. Marthe Everidge had crossed
the tempest-tossed ocean of human passion into the sun-kissed calm of
Christ's perfect peace.

Evadne threw her arms around her neck and laid her storm-swept face upon
her shoulder. "Forgive me!" she cried, "I heard it all. I could not help
it. I think my heart is breaking. Do not be angry, you see I love you
so! How can I bear to have you subjected to this? You are so tender, so
true. There is such a charm about you! You are so beautifully unselfish!
Oh, my dear, my dear, how can you, do you bear it?"

Mrs. Everidge lifted her face tenderly and kissed the quivering lips.
"It is 'not I but Christ,' dear child. That makes it possible." Then she
drew her over to the lounge and began to undress her as if she had been
a baby. "My dear little sister. You are utterly exhausted. You are not
strong enough to suffer so."

"Oh, will you let me be your sister and help you bear your burdens?"
cried Evadne, unconscious that all the time the skilful hands were
keeping up their sweet ministry and that her burden was being lifted for
her by the one who had the greater burden to bear.

When she was comfortably settled for the night Mrs. Everidge drew her
low chair up beside the bed. Evadne caught her hand in hers and kissed
it reverently. "I wish I could make you understand how I honor you!" she
said.

"You must not do it, dear!" said Aunt Marthe quickly. "Honor the King."

After a pause she began to speak slowly and her voice was sweet and low.
"When, the first night you came, you asked me if I knew Jesus Christ, I
told you he was my life. That explains it all. It is very sweet of you
to say the kind things that you have about me but they are not true. In
and of herself, Marthe Everidge is nothing. The moment she tries to live
her own life she utterly fails. If there is anything good about her
life, it is only as she lets Christ live it for her."

"I do not understand," said Evadne with a puzzled look. "How is it
possible for any one else to live our lives for us?"

"No one can but Jesus," said Aunt Marthe with a smile. "He does the
impossible. Take that exquisite fifteenth chapter of St. John and study
it verse by verse. 'Abide in me, and I in you.' There you have the two
abidings. We are _in_ Christ when we believe in him and are accepted
through the merit of his blood and brought by adoption into the family
of God, but not until he abides in our hearts shall our lives become as
beautiful as God means them to be. Fruitfulness,--that is the cry
everywhere. Men are calling for intellectual fruitfulness and mechanical
fruitfulness, and are bending their energies to find the soil which will
develop at once the best quality and greatest amount of fruit. Take a
tree, to make my meaning clearer. The tree may abide in the soil and be
just alive, but it is not until the essence of the soil enters into and
abides in the tree, that it really grows and bears fruit. Growers of the
finest varieties will show you plums that look as if they had been
frosted with silver, and peaches with cheeks like the first blush of
dawn. The 'fruits of the Spirit,' have a wondrous bloom and an exquisite
fragrance."

"'Love, joy, peace,'" Evadne repeated slowly, "'long-suffering,
gentleness, goodness, faith.' But those belong to the Spirit, Aunt
Marthe."

"Yes, dear child, the Spirit of Jesus. The Spirit whom he sent to
comfort his people when he took his bodily presence from the earth. The
holy, indwelling presence which is to reveal the Christ to us and
prepare us for the abiding of the Father and the Son. It is the
beautiful mystery of the Trinity."

"But we cannot have the Trinity abiding in our hearts!" said Evadne in
an awestruck voice.

"The Bible teaches us so."

"Not God, Aunt Marthe!"

"Jesus is God, little one. He said to the Jews, 'I and my Father are
one.' He says plainly, 'If any man love me, he will keep my word and my
Father will love him, and we will come unto him and make our abode with
him,' and in another place we are told to be filled with the Spirit. It
is three persons but three in one."

"I do not understand, Aunt Marthe."

"No, dear, we never shall, down here. Thomas wanted to do that and
Christ said 'Blessed are they that have not seen and yet have believed.'
The Spirit is continually giving us deeper insight into the love of the
Son, just as the Son came to make known to the world the wonderful love
of the Father."

"But 'be filled,'" said Evadne. "That looks as if we had something to do
with it."

"So we have, dear child. Suppose a man owned one hundred acres of land
and gave you the right of way through it from one public road to
another,--that would leave him many acres for his own use on which you
have no right to trespass. I think we treat Jesus so. We are willing
that he should have the right of way through our hearts, but we forget
that every acre must be the King's property. There must be no rights
reserved, no fenced corners. Jesus must be an absolute monarch."

Mrs. Everidge spoke the last words softly and Evadne, looking at her
uplifted face, shining now with the radiance which always filled it when
she spoke of her Lord, saw again that glowing face which she had watched
across the gate at Hollywood and heard the strange, exultant tones, 'He
is my King!' Ah, that was beautiful! That was what Aunt Marthe meant,
and Pompey and Dyce.

"Jesus must come to abide, not merely as a transient guest," Aunt Marthe
continued in her low tones. "We must give him full control of our
thought and will. We must hand him the keys of the citadel. We must give
the all for the all,--that is only fair dealing. You see, dear child,
Christ cannot fill us until we are willing to be emptied of self. He
must have undivided possession. There is a vast amount of heartache,
little one, in this old world, and self is at the bottom of it all, when
we stop to analyze it. We want to be first, to be thought much of, to be
loved best. No wonder that the selfless life seems impossible to most
people. Think what a continuous self-sacrifice Christ's life was! So
utterly alone and lonely among such uncongenial surroundings with
people uncouth and totally foreign to his tastes. Ah! we don't realize
it. We look at him doing the splendid things amidst the plaudits of the
multitude, but think of the monotonous, weary days, going up and down
the sun-baked streets surrounded by a crowd of noisy beggars full of all
sorts of loathsome disease, and the humdrum life in Nazareth; and all
the time the great heart aching with that ceaseless sorrow,--'His own
received him not!' Oh, what a waste of love! We do not realize that it
is in these footsteps of his that we are called to follow. We are
willing to do the great things, with the world looking on, but not for
the loneliness and the pain! It seems a strange antithesis that Paul
should count that as his highest glory, and yet how comparatively few
seem counted worthy to enter with Christ into the shadow of that
mysterious Gethsemane which lasted all his life. 'The fellowship of his
sufferings.' It must surely mean the privilege of getting very near his
heart, just as human hearts grow closer in a common sorrow,--knit by
pain. Yes, dear child, self must die: and it is a cruel death,--the
death of the cross. But then comes the newness of life with its strange,
sweet joy which the world's children do not know the taste of. How can
they when it is 'the joy of the Lord,' and they reject him?"

"You talk of the cross, Aunt Marthe, and other people talk of crosses.
Aunt Kate and Isabelle are always talking about the sacrifices they have
to make, and Mrs. Rivers carries a perfect bundle of crosses on her
back. She is wealthy and has everything she wants, and yet she is always
wailing, while Dyce is as happy as the day is long. Do the poor
Christians always do the singing while the rich ones sigh?"

Mrs. Everidge smiled. "We make our crosses, dear child, when we put our
wishes at right angles to God's will. When we only care to please him
everything that he chooses for us seems just right. I have heard people
speak as if it were a cross to mention the name of Christ. How could it
be if they loved him? Do you find it a cross to talk to me about your
father? People make a terrible mistake about this. The only cross we are
commanded to carry is the cross of Christ."

"And what is that, Aunt Marthe?"

"Self renunciation," said Aunt Marthe softly, "the secret of peace.

"Among all the pictures of the Madonna," she continued after a pause,
"the one I like best is where Mary is sitting, holding in her hands the
crown of thorns; everything else had been wrenched from her grasp, but
this they had no use for. What a legacy it was! As I look at it I see
how he has gathered all the thorns of life and woven them into that
kingly garland which is his glory. All the wealth of the Indies could
not shed as dazzling a light as that thorny crown. Like the brave
soldier who gathered into his own breast the spears of the enemy, Christ
has taken the sting from our sorrows and made us more than conquerors
over the wounds of earth. Surely he has tasted it all for us,--the
baseness and coldness and ingratitude and treachery which have wrung
human hearts all through the ages,--when Judas betrayed him, Peter
denied him and they all forsook him and fled, do you suppose any other
pain was comparable to that? Only our friends have the power to wound
us, you know, and, 'he was wounded in the house of his friends.' When
people talk of the crucifixion they think of the nail-torn hands and
pierced side,--I think of his heart! Oh, my Lord, how _could_ they treat
thee so!"

Evadne looked wistfully at the rapt face, irradiated now by the
moonlight which was streaming in through the window. "_How_ you love
him, Aunt Marthe!"

"He is my all," she answered simply. The girl stroked the hand which
she still held in both her own. She is absolutely satisfied, she thought
sorrowfully, she wants nothing that I can give her. And then through the
stillness she heard the sweet voice singing,--

  "I love thee because thou hast first loved me,
  And purchased my pardon on Calvary's tree;
  I love thee for wearing the thorns on thy brow,
  If ever I loved thee, my Jesus, 'tis now."



CHAPTER XV.


"Dear Aunt Marthe," cried Evadne one afternoon, "what is love?"

"I will answer you in the words of one who for years has lived the
love-life," said Mrs. Everidge.

"'One must be himself infinite in knowledge to define it, infinite in
comprehension to fathom it, infinite in love to appreciate it. Love is
God in man, for "God is love," and "every one that loveth is born of
God;" but love is not merely veneration, nor respect, nor justice, nor
passion, nor jealousy, nor sympathy, nor pity, nor self-gratification;
to love something as our own is but a form of self-love; to love
something in order to win it for ourselves is just a perpetration of the
same mistake.' Dr. Karl Gerok wrote,--'Love is the fundamental law of
the world. First, as written in heaven, for God is love; second, as
written on the cross, for Christ is love; third, as written in our
hearts, for Christianity is love,' And Drummond tells us that 'Love--is
the rule for fulfilling all rules, the new commandment for keeping all
the old commandments, Christ's one secret of the Christian life.' And
another writer says,--'You are a personality only as your heart lives,
and the heart lives only as it loves. Love is all action, therefore the
amount of your active love measures the size of your personal heart.'"

"Love has been defined as 'the desire to bless.' That is like divine
love, for there can be no self thought in God. God's love is over all
and above all, but when our love responds to his, his love becomes to us
a personal experience. Love can reach down when in loving trust we reach
up. Love is like the seed. It manifests no life until it begins to grow.
Like the seed it must rise out of the dark ground into the light of
heaven,--out of self thought into God. God's love to us is like the
sunlight. We can make it our own only by being in it, if we try to shut
up the sunlight, we shut it out. We forget to do wrong when loving God.
As we love God, the love we feel for him goes out to others."

Evadne sighed. "You make it seem a wonderful thing to be a Christian,"
she said.

"To be a Christian, little one, Andrew Murray tells us, 'just means to
have Christ's love.' Real love means giving always, of our best."

[Illustration: THE SILENT FIGURE WITH THE AWFUL ENTREATY IN ITS STARING
EYES]

God so loved that he gave his Son, the essence of himself. Jesus gave
his life, not only in the final agony of the crucifixion, but all
through the beautiful years of ministry in Nazareth and Galilee. There
is a truer giving than of our temporal goods. Our friends, if they
really love us, want most of all what we can give them of ourselves. It
is those who give themselves to the world's need who come nearest to the
divine pattern Christ has set for us to copy, and, if we truly love him,
we shall want not his gifts but himself.

"People seek after holy living instead of perfect loving, they do not
realize that we can be truly holy only as we love, for 'love is the
great reality of the spiritual world.'"

Evadne laid her cheek caressingly against Mrs. Everidge's. "If it were
only you, dear, how delightfully easy it would be, but do you suppose it
is possible for me to love Aunt Kate and Isabelle?"

"Yes, dear child, with the love of God."

"You can't imagine how I dread the idea of going back!" Evadne said with
a sigh. "This summer has been like a lovely dream. How shall I endure
the cold reality of my waking?"

"Where is your joy, little one?"

"Joy, Aunt Marthe!" exclaimed Evadne drearily, "why, I haven't got any
apart from you. Just the mere thought of the separation makes my heart
ache."

"'The joy of the Lord,'" said Mrs. Everidge softly. "If Jesus Christ is
able to fill heaven don't you think he ought to be able to fill earth
too? The trouble is we turn away from him and pour our wealth of love at
earthly shrines. Mary showed us the better way,--she _broke_ the box,
that every drop of the precious ointment might fall on his dear head.
What is going to be the crowning satisfaction of heaven? Not that we
shall meet our friends, as so many seem to think, but that we shall
awake in _his_ likeness and see _his_ face. We shall be 'together,'--we
have that comfort given us, but it will be 'together with the Lord.' He
is to be the centre of attraction and delight always. What an
unfathomable mystery it must be to the angels that he is not so with us
now!"

Evadne took a long, yearning look at the dear face, as if she would
imprint it upon her memory forever. "He _is_ with you," she said softly.
"_You_ will never be a puzzle to the angels."

       *       *       *       *       *

The time of her stay in Vernon drew near its close, and on the last day
but one she went to say good-bye to Penelope Riggs. She found her
sitting alone in the house, her mother having taken a fancy to have a
sun bath. Her right hand was doubled up and she was rubbing it slowly up
and down the palm of her left while she sang softly.

"Why, Penelope, what are you doing?" cried Evadne in amaze.

"Polishin', child. I learnt it long ago. One day I was that wore out I
wouldn't have cared if the sky had fallen,--things had been goin'
crooked, an' Mother hadn't slept well for a fortnight, an' I was that
narvous an' tuckered out I thought I'd fly to pieces. There's an old
hymn Mother's dredful fond of,--I don

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