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Uncle Terry: A Story of the Maine Coast

by Charles Clark Munn · English · Gutenberg #28446 · 443,948 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Uncle Terry: A Story of the Maine Coast

Author: Charles Clark Munn

Illustrator: Helena Higginbotham


        
Release date: March 30, 2009 [eBook #28446]
                Most recently updated: January 4, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNCLE TERRY: A STORY OF THE MAINE COAST ***




Produced by David Garcia, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net









                           UNCLE TERRY

                    A Story of the Maine Coast

                      BY CHARLES CLARK MUNN

                    Author of "Pocket Island"

               _ILLUSTRATED BY HELENA HIGGINBOTHAM_


BOSTON
LEE AND SHEPARD
M C M

COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY LEE AND SHEPARD

_All rights reserved_

Rockwell and Churchill Press
BOSTON, U.S.A.




                         To

    THOSE WHO LOVE TO WANDER OVER GREEN MEADOWS,
               ALONG MIRTHFUL BROOKS,
       OR BENEATH FOREST TREES WHERE THE BIRDS
          DWELL, OR FIND CONTENT ON LONELY
              SHORES AND MUSIC IN THE
                  OCEAN'S VOICE,
        This book is respectfully dedicated
                  BY THE AUTHOR




[Illustration: THE HOME OF UNCLE TERRY]




CONTENTS


I. A WAIF OF THE SEA

II. UNCLE TERRY

III. TWO ORPHANS

IV. A SPIDER IN HIS DEN

V. WAYS THAT ARE DARK

VI. A PUSH DOWNWARD

VII. A SERMON

VIII. A HELPING HAND

IX. SHARP PRACTICE

X. AMID THE GREEN MOUNTAINS

XI. BY THE FIRESIDE

XII. A COUNTRY SCHOOLMA'AM

XIII. SOUTHPORT ISLAND

XIV. A LEGALIZED PICKPOCKET

XV. THE VALUE OF GOOD EXAMPLE

XVI. SWEET ALICE

XVII. A BY-WAY SCHOOLHOUSE

XVIII. VILLAGE GOSSIP

XIX. PLOTS AND PLANS

XX. A PAIR OF BLUE EYES

XXI. A NEW CLIENT

XXII. UNCLE TERRY'S GUEST

XXIII. A STRANGE STORY

XXIV. A WHISPER OF THE OCEAN

XXV. THE "GYPSY" RETURNS

XXVI. THE MISER IN HIS DEN

XXVII. IN SHADY WOODS

XXVIII. WHERE THE LILIES GROW

XXIX. A FRIEND AT COURT

XXX. NEMESIS

XXXI. THE GLAD HAND

XXXII. THE DEMNITION GRIND

XXXIII. OLD AND YOUNG

XXXIV. FIRELIGHT FLASHES

XXXV. THE "WIDDER" LEACH

XXXVI. A NAMELESS COVE

XXXVII. AMID FALLING LEAVES

XXXVIII. THE OLD SONGS

XXXIX. SOCIETY

XL. "YES OR NO"

XLI. AN HEIRESS

XLII. THE PATHOS OF LIFE




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE HOME OF UNCLE TERRY

UNCLE TERRY AND TELLY

ALICE

THE OLD MILL




UNCLE TERRY

A STORY OF THE MAINE COAST




CHAPTER I

A WAIF OF THE SEA


"It's goin' to be a nasty night," said Uncle Terry, coming in from the
shed and dumping an armful of wood in the box behind the kitchen stove,
"an' the combers is just a-humpin' over White Hoss Ledge, an' the
spray's flyin' half way up the lighthouse."

"The Lord-a-massy help any poor soul that goes ashore to-night,"
responded a portly, white-haired woman beside the stove, as a monster
wave made the little dwelling tremble.

Uncle Terry took off his dripping sou'wester and coat, and, hanging them
over the wood box, went to the sink and began pumping a basin of water.

"Better have some warm, Silas," said the woman, taking the steaming
kettle from the stove and following him; "it's more comfortin'."

When he had washed, and combed his scanty gray locks and beard at a
small mirror, he stood for a moment beside the stove. His weather-beaten
face that evinced character, so pronounced were its features, wore a
smile, and his deep-set gray eyes emitted a twinkle.

"Supper 'most ready, Lissy?" he asked, eyeing a pot on the stove that
gave out an appetizing odor. "I'm hungry 'nough to eat a mule with the
harness on!"

"'Twill be in a minit," was the reply. "Better go into t'other room
where Telly's settin' the table."

Uncle Terry obeyed, and, finding a bright fire burning there, stood back
to it, smiling affectionately at a young girl busy beside the table. She
had an oval face, a rather thin and delicate nose, small sweet mouth,
and eyes that were big, blue, and appealing. A wealth of light hair was
coiled on the back of her head, and her form was full and rounded.

"It's blowing hard to-night, father, isn't it?" she observed. "I can
feel the waves shake the house." Then, not waiting for an answer, she
stepped to a closet, and bringing a short gray coat and felt slippers,
pushed an arm-chair to the fire, and placing the slippers beside it,
held the coat ready for him to put it on.

"You might as well be comfortable," she added; "you haven't got to go
out again, have you?"

The man seated himself, and drawing off his wet boots and putting on his
slippers, opened his hands toward the blaze and observed: "You and
Lissy's bound to cosset me, so bimeby I won't stir out 'cept the sun
shines."

Silas Terry, or Uncle Terry, as everybody on Southport Island called
him, was, and for thirty years had been, the keeper of "The Cape" light,
situated on the outermost point of the island. To this he added the
daily duty of mail carrier to the head of the island, eight miles
distant, and there connecting with a small steamer plying between the
Maine coast islands and a shore port. He also, in common with other of
the islanders, tilled a little land and kept a few traps set for
lobsters. He was an honest, kind-hearted, and fairly well-read man,
whose odd sayings and quaint phrases were proverbial. With his wife,
whom everybody called Aunt Lissy, and adopted daughter Telly, he lived
in a neat white house close to the Cape light and, as he put it, "his
latch-string was allus out."

Uncle Terry had a history, and not the least interesting episode in it
was the entrance into his life of this same fair and blue-eyed girl.
Perhaps his own graphic description will best tell the tale:

"It was 'bout the last o' March, nigh onto eighteen year ago, and
durin' one o' the worst blows I ever rec'clect since I kep' the light,
that one mornin' I spied a vessel hard an' fast on White Hoss Ledge,
'bout half a mile off the pint. It had been snowin' some an' froze on
the windows o' the light, so mebbe she didn't see it 'fore she fetched
up all standin'. The seas was poundin' her like great guns, an' in her
riggin' I could see the poor devils half hid in snow an' ice. Thar
wa'n't no hope for 'em, for no dory could 'a' lived a moment in that
awful gale, and thar wa'n't no lifeboat here. Lissy an' me made haste to
build a fire on the pint, to show the poor critturs we had feelin' for
'em, an' then we just stood an' waited an' watched for 'em to go down.
It might 'a' been an hour, there's no tellin', when I saw a big bundle
tossin' light, an' comin' ashore. I ran over to the cove where I keep my
boats, and grabbed a piece o' rope an' boat hook, and made ready. The
Lord must 'a' steered that bundle, for it kept workin' along, headin'
for a bit o' beach just by the pint. I had a rope round my waist, an'
Lissy held onto the end, an' when the bundle struck I made fast with the
boat hook and the next comber tumbled me end over, bundle an' all, up
onto the sand. I grabbed at it, an' 'fore the next one come, had it high
an' dry out o' the way.

"It's allus been a puzzle to me just why I did it, for I was wet
through an' most froze, an' what I'd pulled out looked like a feather
bed tied round with a cord, but I out with my knife an' cut the cords,
an' thar in the middle o' two feather beds was a box, an' in the box a
baby alive an' squallin'!

"I didn't stop to take the rope off my waist, but grabbed the box an'
ran for the house with Lissy after me. We had a fire in the stove, an'
Lissy warmed a blanket and wrapped the poor thing up an' held it over
the stove an' kissed it and took on just as wimmin will. When I see it
was safe I cut for the pint, thinkin' to wave my hat an' show 'em we had
saved the baby, but a squall o' snow had struck in an' when it let up
the vessel was gone. Thar was bits o' wreck cum ashore, pieces o' spars,
a boat all stove in, an' the like, an' a wooden shoe. In the box the
baby was in was two little blankets, an', tied in a bit o' cloth, two
rings an' a locket with two picters in it, an' a paper was pinned to the
baby's clothes with furrin writin' on it. It said the baby's name was
Etelka Peterson, an' 'To God I commend my child,' an' signed, 'A
despairin' mother.' From bits o' the wreck we learned the vessel was
from Stockholm, an' named 'Peterson.'

"The paper was sech a heart-techin' appeal, an' as we'd just buried our
only child, a six-year-old gal, we was glad to adopt this 'un an' bring
her up. In due course o' time I made a report o' the wreck to the
Lighthouse Board, an' that we had saved one life, a gal baby, an' give
all the facts. Nothin' ever came on't, though, an' we was glad thar
didn't. We kep' the little gal, an' she wa'n't long in growin' into our
feelin's, an' the older she growed, the more we thought o' her."

Of course the history of Uncle Terry's protegée was known to every
resident of the island, and as she grew into girlhood and attended
school at the Cape--as the little village a quarter mile back of the
point was called--until she matured into a young lady, every one came to
feel that, in a way, she belonged to the kindly lighthouse keeper and
his wife Melissa.

To them she was all that a devoted daughter could be, and when school
days were over she became Uncle Terry's almost constant companion. On
pleasant days she went with him to attend his traps, and on his daily
drive to the head of the island. She was welcome in every house and well
beloved by all those simple, kindly people, who felt an unusual interest
in her existence. Of tender heart and timid nature, her appealing eyes
won the love of young and old. On Sunday evenings she was always one of
the small congregation that gathered to hold simple services in the
little church at the Cape--a square one-story building that never knew
paint or shutters.

[Illustration: UNCLE TERRY AND TELLY]

Of beaux she hardly knew the meaning, and it must be said the few young
men who remained on the island after reaching the age of courtship were
neither in garb nor manners such as would attract a girl like Telly.

One special talent she was gifted with and that the ability to draw and
paint well. Even as a child at school she would draw pictures on a slate
that were surprising, and when older, and she obtained materials, she
worked until she became, in a way, quite an artist. As Uncle Terry put
it, "Makin' picters comes nat'rl to the gal."

She had never received even the first lessons in that charming art, but
for all that every room in the house had dozens of her efforts, large
and small, hanging on the walls, and in the oddest frames. Some were of
strips of thin board covered with little shells or dried moss, and
others of rustic handiwork and mounted with fir cones.

There was but one shadow in her life and that the fact that no one of
the relatives she imagined she must have in far-off Sweden ever made any
effort to learn the fate of her parents, who she knew had gone down so
near her home. The story of her rescue with all its pitiful details was
familiar to her and in her room were treasured all the odd bits of
wreckage: the locket that contained her parents' pictures; the two
rings; the last message of her mother; and even the wooden shoe that had
floated ashore. How many times she had looked at those two pictured
faces, one a reflection of her own, how many tears she had shed in
secret over them, and how, year after year, she wondered if ever in her
life some relative would be known to her, no one, not even her
foster-parents, ever knew. Neither did they know how many times she had
tried to imagine the moment when her despairing mother, with death near,
and with prayers and tears, had cast her adrift, hoping that the one
little life most dear to that mother might be saved. The fatal reef
where those parents had gone down also held for her a weird fascination,
and at times the voice of the ocean seemed like the despairing cries of
mortals. One picture, and it was her best, was a view of the wreck, as
near as Uncle Terry could describe it, with human forms clinging to the
ice-clad rigging and tempestuous seas leaping over them. The subject
held an uncanny influence over her, and she had spent months on the
picture. But this shadow of her life she kept carefully guarded from
all.




CHAPTER II

UNCLE TERRY


"I wa'n't consulted 'bout comin' into this world," said Uncle Terry
once, "an' I don't 'spect to be 'bout goin' out. I was born on a wayback
farm in Connecticut, where the rocks was so thick we used ter round the
sheep up once a week an' sharpen thar noses on the grin'stun, so't they
could get 'em 'tween the stuns. I walked a mile to school winters, an'
stubbed my toes on the farm summers, till I was fourteen, an' then the
old man 'greed to give me my time till I was twenty-one if I'ud pay him
half I earned. I had a colt an' old busted wagon, an' I took to
dickerin'. I bought eggs an' honey an' pelts of all sorts, an' peddled
notions an' farmin' tools. When I cum of age I went to the city an'
turned trader an' made a little money; got married an' cum down into
Maine an' bought a gold mine. I've got it yit! That is, I've got the
hole whar I s'posed the mine was. Most o' my money went into it an'
stayed thar. Then I got a chance to tend light and ketch lobsters, an'
hev stuck to it ever since. I take some comfort livin' and try an' pass
it along. The widder Leach calls me a scoffer, but she allus comes to me
when she's needin', an' don't allus have to cum, either. My life's been
like most everybody else's--a streak o' lean an' a streak o' fat, with
lean predominatin'. 'Twas a streak o' fat when I found a good woman an'
she said 'yes,' an' a streak o' lean when I was bamboozled by a lawyer
into buyin' a gold mine. I've kep' that hole ever since an' paid taxes
on't, to prove to myself jest how big a fool a man can be an' live.

"I've never wronged nobody, nor done much prayin', an' when the Almighty
calls me I think I'll stand jest as good a chance o' gittin' a harp as
those who's done more on't. The worst skinnin' I ever got was done by
this ere lawyer who never sot down to meals 'thout askin' a blessin',
an' mebbe that's the reason I'm a scoffer. I've observed a good deal
since I left the old farm, an' have come to the belief that thar's a
sucker born every minit and two ter ketch him. When I was young I took
hold o' the big end o' the log an' did the liftin'; but now I take hold
o' the little end an' do the gruntin'! Thar's one thing I've larned, and
larned it for sartin, an' that is, thar's dum few people in this world
that cut a ham in the middle. Most on 'em cut few slices an' cut 'em
thin."

Among the Southport islanders Uncle Terry was considered an odd stick,
and yet one who would go out of his way to do a good turn to others. He
was seldom seen at church, though his wife and Telly usually were. As he
once remarked: "It's a good thing for 'em, 'cause it takes up thar mind
an' is more sociable, tho' prayin' allus seems to me a good deal like a
man tryin' to lift himself by his boot-straps. It keeps him busy, tho',
an' it's healthy exercise."

In spite of his investment in a mine, he had been frugal and owned most
of the land between the village and the point, and was also joint owner,
with two other men, in a small trading-schooner that made semi-monthly
trips between the Cape and Boston. She carried fish, clams, lobsters,
hay, and potatoes, and fetched an "all sorts" cargo useful to the
islanders, from a paper of needles to a hogshead of molasses.

The most pronounced characteristic of Uncle Terry was his unfailing good
humor, tinged with a mild sarcasm. He loved his fellow-men, and yet
enjoyed puncturing their small conceits, but so droll was his way of
doing it that no one felt the sting. To Bascom, who kept the only store,
and also post-office, at the Cape, and dearly loved to hear himself
talk, Uncle Terry once said: "You've got the greatest gift o' gab I ever
heerd, Bascom, and you could 'a' made your fortin in the show business.
But if you're ever took with religion, the hull island'll turn
infiddle."

And again: when Deacon Oaks, the leader at all prayer-meetings, assured
him how great a blessing religion was, and how much he enjoyed divine
service, Uncle Terry answered: "Your takin' the lead at meetin's is a
blessin' to the rest, for none of 'em has to worry 'bout who's goin' to
speak next. They know you're allus ready."

In this connection it must be stated that the spiritual life of
Southport was of a primitive description. The small unpainted church at
the Cape, above which hung a diminutive bell, was the only place of
worship, and to this, every other Sunday, came a minister from the
mainland. It was furnished with long wooden settees and a small cottage
organ graced the platform, upon which an antique desk did duty as pulpit
and a storage place for hymn books. Four wall bracket lamps lighted this
room for evening service, and their usually smoky chimneys lent a
depressing effect to all exhortation. "Mandy" Oaks presided at the organ
and turned gospel hymns into wheezy and rather long-drawn-out melodies.
Most of the audience tried to chase the tunes along and imagined they
were singing, which, perhaps, is all that is necessary. On the Sundays
between the minister's visits only evening services were held, and
every Thursday evening a prayer-meeting. It was on these latter
occasions that Deacon Oaks was in conspicuous evidence. The Widow Leach,
a poor unfortunate woman who had seen better days, and in whose poverty
stricken life religion was the only consolation, was also prominent; and
her testimony, unvarying in tenor as the tunes played by Mandy, helped
to fill out the service.

"It's lucky the widow's sure o' lots o' happiness in the next world,"
observed Uncle Terry once, "for she ain't gittin' much in this.

"I can't hear Oaks, though, 'thout thinkin' o' Deacon Rogers up in
Wolcott, who never mentioned the need o' rain till he'd got his hay in.
He was a sly fox, and allus thanked the Lord for sendin' rain nights an'
Sundays, so the poor hired men could rest.

"I used to have him held up as a shinin' example, but he opened my eyes
arter I began dickerin' by sellin' me a lot o' eggs that had been sot on
two weeks, an' the storeman I sold 'em to never trusted me agin. 'Twas a
case o' the ungodly sufferin' for the sins o' the righteous that time,
which may be a pervarsion o' Scriptur, but the truth, just the same.

"But I got a little comfort finally, for when the Deacon died, by some
inadvartance the choir sang, 'Praise God from whom all blessin's flow,'
an' I wa'n't the only one who felt that way, either."

In spite of Uncle Terry's mildly flavored shafts of sarcasm, he made no
enemies and his kind heart and sterling honesty were respected far and
near. He was considered a doubter and skeptic, and though seldom seen at
church, as he had originally contributed his share when that edifice was
built, his lack of piety was forgiven.

There is a sense of justice underlying all men's minds, and the natural
instinct is to judge others by what they are and how they live, rather
than by what they profess, and so it was in Uncle Terry's case. He lived
truthfully, obeyed his conscience, observed the Golden Rule, wronged no
one, and as with many others who do likewise, he had a right to feel
that in the final balance his book of life would show a wide margin on
the credit side.




CHAPTER III

TWO ORPHANS


A stranger visiting Sandgate on a summer afternoon would inevitably
conclude the town was asleep. Often not a person would be visible the
entire length of its main street, cooled by three rows of maples, one
dividing it, and one shading each of the two sidewalks formed of narrow
strips of weather-stained marble. Under some of these trees that almost
touch branches for half a mile one or two cows might be grazing or
taking a siesta while chewing the cud of content. On the vine-hid porch
of the village tavern landlord Pell would quite likely be dozing in an
arm-chair tilted back, and across the way Mr. Hobbs, who keeps the one
general store, would as likely be napping on a counter, his head
pillowed upon a pile of calico. A little further up the street and near
the one tall-spired white church Mrs. Mears, the village gossip, may be
sitting on the veranda of a small house almost hid by luxuriantly
growing Norway spruce, and idly rocking while she chats with the widow
Sloper, who lives there, and whose mission in life is to cut and fit
the best "go to meetin'" gowns of female Sandgate. Both dearly love to
talk over all that's going on, and whether this or that village swain is
paying especial attention to any one rosy cheeked lass, and if so
"what's likely to come on't." Both mean well by this neighborly
interest, and especially does Mrs. Sloper, who always advises plaits for
stout women, "with middlin' fulness in the bust" for thin ones.

One or two men may be at work haying in the broad meadows west of the
village, through which the slow current of a small river twists and
turns, or others wielding hoes on a hillside field of corn to the east,
but so far as moving life in the village street goes there will be none.
On either side of the Sandgate valley two spurs of the Green Mountain
Range, forest-clad, stand guard as if to isolate from all the world this
peaceful dale, whose dwellers' sole ambition in life may be summed up
in--to plow, plant, reap, and go to meeting.

On the north end of this park-like highway, and beyond the last house,
it narrows to an ordinary roadway and divides. One fork turns to the
right, following up the banks of a winding stream to an old grist-mill
with moss-covered wheel and lily-dotted pond above. The other turns to
the left, crosses the narrow Sandgate valley, and bears south past the
Page place. If it were Sunday, not many years ago, and about eleven in
the morning, a stranger passing the church would have heard through the
open doors and windows the exquisitely sweet voice of Alice Page, clear
as a bell and melodious as a bird's, toying and trilling through
"Coronation," or some other easily recognized hymn; and had that
stranger awaited the close of service he or she would have seen among
the congregation filing out one petite and plump little lady, with
flower-like face, sparkling blue eyes, and kiss-inspiring mouth, who
would most likely have walked demurely along with her big brother
Albert, and turning down a narrow pathway, follow him across the
meadows, over a foot-bridge that spans the stream, and up to an
old-fashioned elm-shaded house.

This landmark, known far and wide as the Page place, is historic. Built
in the time of King George, and one of the first three erected in
Sandgate, it has withstood the storms of two centuries and seen many
generations of Pages come and go. Additions have been made to it--an ell
on one side, larger windows and a wide veranda in front. Inside it is
much the same, for the open fireplaces remain in parlor and sitting-room
and a tall clock of solemn tick stands in the hall where it stood when
Paul Revere took his famous ride.

The last owner, Simeon Page,--or, as he was called, Squire Page,--joined
the great majority two years after an enterprising railroad crept up the
Sandgate valley. He had bitterly opposed its entrance into the town and
it was asserted that chagrin at his defeat hastened his death. His
widow, with their two children, Albert and Alice, and a widowed sister,
remained and with the aid of hired men managed the farm. But bushes
began to choke the pastures and meadows; the outbuildings grew shabby;
the house received no paint; and as the children grew up and needs
increased, one by one the broad fields were sold. It had been the
squire's ambition that his only son should become a professional man,
and carrying out his wishes, Albert's mother had pinched and saved,
denying herself all luxuries, and given him a collegiate education. He
had graduated with honors; read law; been admitted to the bar; and then
returned to Sandgate and opened an office. Alice, three years his
junior, had been sent to a boarding-school for two years, where she
devoted most of her time to music, then came home again as mother's
helpmate.

But the years of self-denial were at an end, for one June day that
mother laid down her burden and was placed beside her husband in the
village cemetery. Then the two orphans found themselves joint heirs to
to an old time-worn house, a few acres of meadow, a couple hundred
dollars of debts, and--nothing else. No; that is not right, for they
both had youth, good health and habits, and good educations.

Albert, who had rather taken charge of matters since his return to
Sandgate, kept the debt situation from Alice after his mother's death,
feeling she had grief enough to bear without it, but for all that, it
troubled him seriously. The income from his practice was scarcely enough
to clothe him and not likely to increase, for Sandgate had scant use for
a lawyer; and what to do, or which way to turn, he knew not. If it were
not for Alice and Aunt Susan he thought it would be easier, but they
must be provided for. Alice, who had been his companion, playmate, and
confidant since the days of short dresses, he especially cared for, and
that feeling was mutual.

So devoted a brother and sister were they that it had kept them from
forming other associations, and when Albert had been asked why he did
not escort some other young lady to the husking-bees, barn dances, or
church sociables, his usual reply was: "Alice is good enough for me, and
when she prefers another beau I may, but not till then."

With Alice, though many of the village swains wooed,--she wouldn't. Even
Jim Mears, stalwart, and with a hand like a foot, fared no better, and
when Albert rallied her once about young Mears she answered: "Oh, Jim's
all right. He isn't handsome, but then, he is strong," which delicate
sarcasm may be considered a sufficient reflex of her feelings toward
others of the would-be attentive young farmers.

But for all that, Alice was counted in on every festive gathering. If it
was a barn dance she was always there and never lacked partners, and
when the jolly party rode home in a big wagon filled with straw it was
her voice that always started "The Quilting Party," or other old-time
ballad usually inspired by moonlight. When a strawberry festival was in
order at the church she was given a post of honor, and when Christmas
decorations were necessary every young man felt it a privilege to obey
her orders. At home she was the same winsome little queen, and had no
more devoted subject than her brother.

For a month after the funeral he worried a good deal. He knew that bills
had been left unpaid through his mother's illness, and that the family
were in straitened circumstances. His own law practice so far had
yielded scant returns, and what to do and where to turn was a puzzle. He
wrote to a former classmate whose father was a prominent merchant in
Boston, stating his situation and asking advice. It was two weeks ere he
received a reply, and then, though a cordial letter of sympathy, it did
not go far toward solving the problem. A week later, however, came a
letter from a lawyer in that city by the name of Frye, offering him a
position as assistant in his office at a small salary. It was so small
that Albert thought it a hopeless task to pay home expenses out of it
and leave anything towards their debts. It was more than his present
income, however, and yet to accept the offer and leave Aunt Susan and
Alice alone seemed hard. On the other hand, to borrow money on what
little of the farm was left did not help matters, for when that was
gone, what then?

Matters came to a climax one day, and ended his indecision. He had been
away from his office all that afternoon, taking a long stroll in the
woods to escape his loneliness, and returning at tea time, found a cloud
on his sister's face.

"Mr. Hobbs called this afternoon," she said as they sat down to the
table, "and asked for you. Said he went to your office, and not finding
you in, came here." And then she added with a quiver in her voice, "Oh,
Bertie, we owe him over one hundred dollars!"

The trouble was all out now, and Albert looked gloomy. "I don't think
any more of him for coming here to dun us," he answered savagely; "he
might have waited until he saw me."

"Oh, he was very nice about it," responded Alice, "and begged my pardon
for speaking of it. He said there was no hurry, only that he had made
out his bill as a matter of form, etc., and we could pay it when
convenient."

Albert made no further comment, but when the meal was ended, said: "Come
out on the porch, sis, and let us talk matters over." She followed him,
feeling there was trouble coming, and drawing her low chair next to his,
placed one elbow on his chair arm and covered her face with that hand.
For a few moments he remained silent, watching the fireflies beginning
their evening dance over the meadow and listening to the distant call of
a whippoorwill. Across the valley the village lights were coming in
sight, one by one, and a faint odor of new-mown hay came to him. The
pathetic little figure at his side unnerved him, however, and he dreaded
to say what he must.

"Well, sis," he said at last, "I've kept matters from you as long as I
can. We not only owe Hobbs a good deal, but as much more in smaller
bills to others, and there is no money to pay them. I've worried about
them more than you know, or than I cared to have you. One of two things
must be done, either borrow money and pay these bills or I must go away
and earn some."

Then the little head beside him sunk slowly to his chair, and as he
began stroking it he added, "I've written to Frank Nason, my old college
chum, and through him have received a fair offer to go to Boston, and
have decided to accept it. I shall leave here as soon as I can get
ready."

The trouble was growing serious now, and as he ceased speaking he caught
the sound of a suppressed sob. "Don't cry, Alice," he said tenderly, "it
can't be helped. Our home must be broken up sometime and it may as well
be now as any other. The thing that worries me most is leaving you and
Aunt Susan here alone."

Then the sobs increased and the bowed form beside him shook.

"Oh, Bertie," she said at last in a choked voice, "don't leave us here
alone. Let us sell the old house, pay the bills, and if you must go
away, let us go too."

"No, dear, that is not best," he answered softly. "I can't earn enough
at first to do it. You will have to stay here till I can."

Then the proud spirit that had come to Alice Page from many generations
of self-helpful ancestors spoke and she said as she raised her head and
brushed away the tears: "If you are to leave me here I shall go to work
as well. I can teach school, or do something to help you, and I shall,
too!"

Her defiant little speech hurt Albert just a bit and yet he felt proud
of her for it. "It may be best for you if you could get a chance to
teach," he responded, "and it will help me some, and take up your mind,
which is worth a good deal."

But the worst was to come, and the evening before his departure she
never forgot. There were some consolations to exchange, however, for she
had seen Mr. Mears of the school committee and obtained a position to
teach the north district school in Sandgate,--a small by-road
schoolhouse, two miles from her home,--and felt a little pride in
telling about it; while he had to report that all whom they owed had
promised to wait patiently for their dues.

"Mr. Hobbs even offered to lend me money if I needed it," he said after
they had talked matters over, "and so, you see, we have a good many
friends in Sandgate after all. And now I want you to sing a few of the
old songs for me, so that I can have them to think about when I am
lonesome and homesick."

But the singing was a failure, for Alice broke down in the middle of the
first song and they had to go out and watch the fireflies once more,
while she conquered her tears.

"You will write to me every day, won't you, Bertie?" she asked
disconsolately, as they waited the next morning for the train that was
to separate them. "I shall be so lonesome and blue all the time!"

When he kissed her good-by she could not speak, and the last he saw, as
the train bore him away, was that sweet sister's face, trying bravely to
smile through its tears, like the sun peeping out of a cloud.




CHAPTER IV

A SPIDER IN HIS DEN

     "Thar's a sucker born every minit, an' two ter ketch him."--_Uncle
     Terry._


There are lawyers and lawyers. Not all are legalized pickpockets, and
not all are imbued with the sole and noble purpose of serving the ends
of justice, whether that service lines their pockets or not. Some, and I
may say many of them, contrive to reverse matters and to make justice
serve them, and if the ways of justice do not conspire to that end, so
much the worse for the blind goddess. Modern justice oft-times means the
longest purse and the keenest ability to evade the law, and while an
unprincipled lawyer will not exactly throttle the mythological maiden
who holds the scales, he will, if necessary, so befog her every sense
with evasions, subterfuges, and non-pertinent issues that she might just
as well have been born deaf and dumb, and without feeling, as well as
blind, for all the use she has of those senses. Not only does modern law
service frequently resolve itself into a contest of unscrupulous
cunning, but modern law-making is occasionally shaped to serve the ends
of the profession, instead of justice. While the majority of lawyers are
not rascals in name, a good many are at heart, and with the most, when
it comes to the question of justice and a small fee and injustice and a
big one,--well, draw your own conclusions, all ye who have been fools
enough to seek recourse at law.

Lawyers seem to thrive on the passions and vanities of mankind, and many
of them are looking for fools who have money and a grievance. The
time-worn sarcasm that "After man came woman, and she has been after him
ever since" would be more to the point if "lawyer" were substituted for
"woman."

But the world is full of fools who thirst for revenge in law, or seem
anxious to find some one to dupe them in other ways and always succeed;
so Uncle Terry was more than half right when he said, "Thar's a sucker
born every minit, an' two ter ketch him."

Of all the smooth, elusive vultures lurking in the shadow of the temple
of justice, or perching upon it, Nicholas Frye, or "Old Nick," as many
called him, was the most cunning. Nor did his looks belie the
comparison, for he had deep-set, shifty, yellow-gray eyes, a hooked
nose, and his thin locks, dyed jet black, formed a ring about his bald
poll. He walked with a stoop, as if scanning the ground for evidence or
clues, and to add to his marked individuality, when he talked he rubbed
his hands together as though washing them with invisible soap. It was
not from any sense of cleanliness that he did this, for they had many
times been soiled willingly in the most nefarious transactions. A client
was to him a victim to be kept in waiting; exasperated in regard to his
grievances by all possible means; deluded as to his chances of success
in quest of justice; deceived as to its cost; and robbed in every way
known to an astute lawyer. He had been the legal adviser of John Nason
for many years, and when that busy merchant came to him on behalf of his
son, who wanted to find a position for Albert Page, Frye readily
promised to give him employment. It was not because he needed him, but
because he saw at once that through some friendship for this young sprig
of the law, as he intuitively considered Albert to be, he could
strengthen his hold upon the father and obtain some secrets that might
eventually be used to rob him. In plain words, he thought to use this
young country lawyer as a spy. He knew that John Nason felt a keen
interest in his only son Frank, and that was another reason for
employing that son's friend. He knew also that Frank was given a liberal
allowance, spent it rapidly, and most likely would be getting into
various scrapes needing a lawyer's efforts to rescue him, and so he
would have further pickings in that direction. These were two good
reasons for his ostensible acts of kindness, and so he at once sent for
Page to come.

When, the morning after his arrival in Boston, Albert presented himself
at Frye's office, he found that lawyer busy reading his mail.

"Take a seat, sir," said Frye politely, after Albert had introduced
himself, "and excuse me until I go through my letters." And then, for a
long half hour, Albert was left to study the bare office walls and
peculiar looks of his future employer. Finally Frye turned to him and
asked rather abruptly: "Well, Mr. Page, what do you know about law?" at
the same time scanning him as if expecting to see hayseed adhering to
his garments.

"Not much, perhaps," replied Albert modestly, uncertain of his ground.
"I have been in practice only a year at Sandgate, and the few people
there do not have much use for a lawyer."

"Then why didn't you stir 'em up a little and bring 'em to see they
needed your services?" was Frye's next query. "You will never succeed as
a lawyer unless you make business. Did you bring your sheepskin with
you?"

"No, sir," answered Page, "I didn't think it necessary, after what I
wrote you. I have it in my trunk."

"Well, bring it to-morrow," said Frye. "I make it a rule to take nothing
for granted and have everything in writing;" and then he added with a
searching look, as if he was about to utter a crusher, "What is your
idea of a lawyer's chief object in existence?"

Page was a little nonplussed. "Oh, I suppose," he replied slowly, "to
see that laws are properly executed and justice done."

Frye looked at him a full minute without making any further comment,
while a sardonic grin gradually drew his lips apart, showing a full set
of false teeth, and then, as he began rubbing his hands together, he
said:

"It's evident, young man, you have much to learn in your profession.
Laws are made for lawyers, and are the tools of our trade. If the world
does not see fit to use those tools, it is our business to make them,
and as for justice, that is an allegory, useful in addressing a jury,
but considered a fable by the judge. Laws are useful to oppose other
laws with, and various decisions are only good in so far as they help
your case and hinder your opponent's.

"You seem an honest-appearing young man, which is well so far as our
relations go, but no further. I want an assistant, and one who is ready
and willing to do just as I direct and to ask no questions. Do you think
you can fill the bill?"

"I can try," replied Albert quietly, "and as soon as I get used to your
methods of procedure here I think I can succeed."

He was a little startled at the peculiar character of his employer, and
in a way slightly disgusted, but he was not in a position to cavil or
feel squeamish over apparent lack of honesty, and resolved at once to
ignore it.

"What do you wish me to do?" he continued after a moment. "I will do the
best I can for you and am ready to go to work now."

"You are to be at the office at eight o'clock sharp," replied Frye,
"take one hour for lunch, and remain till six." Then he added by way of
a spur to his slave's fidelity, "I am paying you seventy-five dollars a
month on the recommend of an important client of mine who wanted to
humor his son. It was your good luck to have this son's friendship, as
he belongs to a wealthy family. He is a spendthrift, of course, but that
is no matter, and all the better for us. Take my advice, and cultivate
him all you can. It may be the means of bringing us more business. What
I say to you I shall expect you to consider a professional secret and I
hope you will make good use of your time when with this young friend of
yours, and heed well what I have said to you."

That ended the interview and Albert was set at work copying legal
documents and at the same time trying to reconcile himself to his new
surroundings. That night he wrote to Alice: "I have hired out to a most
unmitigated old scoundrel, and yet one of the sharpest lawyers I ever
met. He assured me I must lay aside my conscience if I mean to succeed
and hinted that he might use me later on as a sort of spy upon Frank, I
imagine. He employs a stenographer of uncertain age who comes in and
takes dictation and does her work outside. The only stupid thing he has
said was to warn me not to flirt with her."

Then he wrote to his friend Frank, telling him where he was located,
thanking him for his assistance, and begging him to call at an early
date. After that he smoked for an hour in glum silence. His room was
small and cheerless, and, in comparison with his home quarters, a mere
den. But it was a question of saving, and the luxury of space, even, he
could not afford. There is no more lonesome place in the wide world than
a great city to one born and bred amid the freedom of the wide fields
and extended woodlands as Albert had been, and now that he was shut in
by brick walls all day, and imprisoned in one small room at night, with
a solitary window opening on an area devoted to ash barrels and garbage,
it made him homesick. He was a dreamer by nature and loved the music of
running brooks, the rustling of winds in the forest, and the song of
birds. The grand old mountains that surrounded Sandgate had been the
delight of his boyhood, and to fish in the clear streams that tumbled
down through narrow gorges and wound amid wide meadows, or in the
lily-dotted mill pond, his pastime. He had the artist's nature in him
also, and loved dearly to sketch a pretty bit of natural scenery, a
cascade in the brook or a shady grotto in the woods. He loved books,
flowers, music, green meadows, shady woods, and fields white with
daisies. He had been reared among kind-hearted, honest, God-fearing
people who seldom locked their doors at night and who believed in and
lived by the Golden Rule. The selfish and distrustful life of a great
city, with its arrogance and wealth and vanity of display, was not akin
to him, and to put himself at the beck and call of a mercenary and
utterly unscrupulous old villain, as he believed Frye to be, was gall
and bitterness. For two weeks he worked patiently, hoping each day that
the one and only friend the city held for him would call, passing his
evenings, as he wrote Alice, "in reading, smoking, and hating myself a
little, and Frye a good deal."

He had hesitated to write Frank in the first place, disliking to ask
favors, but it could not be helped, and now he began to feel that his
friend meant to ignore him. This humiliating conclusion was growing to a
certainty, and Albert feeling more homesick than ever, when one
afternoon, while he was as usual hard at work in Frye's office, Frank
came in.

"Pray excuse me, old man," remarked that youth briskly, after the first
greetings, "for not calling sooner, but I was off on my yacht about the
time you came, and then I ran down to New York to take in the cup races.
You see, I'm so busy I do not get any time to myself. I want you to come
over to the club and lunch with me to-day, and we can talk matters
over."

"You will kindly excuse me," replied Albert. "I have a lot of work cut
out, and am only allowed one hour for lunch. Can't you come around to my
room to-night and have a smoke-talk?"

"Maybe," replied Frank, "and we can go around to the club later. You
will meet some good fellows there, and we always make up a game of
draw--small limit, you know. Say, old man," he added interestedly, "how
do you like Frye?"

As that worthy happened to be out just then, the two friends had a good
chance to exchange opinions. Albert's is already known, but, for
reasons, he did not care to express it to Frank at this time.

"Frye is a shrewd lawyer, I presume," he answered, "and so far I have no
fault to find. He takes good care to see I have work enough, but that is
what I am hired for, and I have been rather lonesome, and glad of it."

Then to change the subject he added: "I want to thank you once more,
Frank, for getting me the place. Things were in a bad way at home, and I
needed it."

"You may thank dad, not me," replied Frank; "I was just going off on a
trip when your letter came, and I turned the matter over to him. Frye's
his attorney, you see."

"Are you personally well acquainted with Mr. Frye?" asked Albert, having
an object in mind.

"No, not at all, except by sight," was the answer. "I believe he is
considered a very sharp lawyer, and almost invariably wins his cases.
Dad says he has won out many times when the law was all against him, and
is not over-scrupulous how he does it. They say he is rich, and a
skinflint. He always reminds me of a hungry buzzard."

Albert thought of Burns' apt cynicism just then, and wished that Frye
might for one moment see himself as others saw him. He felt tempted to
tell Frank just what Frye had said, and what his opinion of him was, but
wisely kept it to himself. Had he been a woman, it is doubtful if he
would have shown so much discretion, and not every man would.

"Well, I must be going," said Frank, at last. "I've got a date for the
mat., this aft., so ta-ta. I'll call round some eve., at your room, and
take you up to the club."

When his friend had departed, Albert resumed his rather monotonous
copying the gist of a lot of decisions bearing upon a case that Frye had
pending just then, and when he went out to lunch, it was, as usual,
alone, and to a cheap restaurant.

"It's nice to have a rich father, a yacht, plenty of money and nothing
to do but spend it," he said to himself ruefully that night, as he sat
in his cheerless room smoking and dwelling upon the picture of a gay
life as disclosed by his friend. "But we are not all born to fortune,
and perhaps, after all, I might be worse off,"--which, to say the least,
is the best way to look at it.




CHAPTER V

WAYS THAT ARE DARK


With "Old Nick" Frye the eleventh commandment, "Thou shalt not get
caught," outweighed all the rest. It was not because he especially
needed the assistance of Page that he had hired him, although he could
serve him in a way; but it was that he could use him as a means to an
end in a totally different capacity from copying law reports. John
Nason, one of his principal clients, was a wealthy and successful
merchant, and both proud and fond of his only son. Frye had heard
various stories of the elder Nason, connecting his name with certain
good-looking girls that had been or were in his employ, and that
vulture, with a keen scent for evil, was only too ready to take
advantage of anything, no matter what, so long as it would aid him in
his efforts to make the most out of his client. He knew also that Frank
was, as the saying goes, "cutting a wide swath." To use the son's friend
as a means to reach the son, and through him possibly the father, was
considered by Frye a wise stroke of policy.

When, a few days after Frank had called upon Page, the latter chanced to
mention it to Frye, he made a note of it at once.

"I am glad," he said cordially, "that your friend has hunted you up. I
knew he was away on his yacht when you came, and was going to suggest
that you call on him as soon as I knew he was at home. As I told you,
cultivate him all you can. He will serve as a door to get you into good
society. When did he call?"

"It was one day while you were out," answered Page, "and he invited me
to lunch with him at his club."

"Which of course you did?" said Frye.

"No, sir; I knew I shouldn't have time for it during my one hour, and
then, you had given me a lot of work to do that day."

A shade of annoyance came over Frye's face.

"Well, that's all right, of course," he said, "but when he calls again
take all the time you need if he asks you out, and," with a scrutinizing
look at Page, "as I said, cultivate him. It's business. His father is my
most valued client, and the more intimate you become with his son the
sooner you will have an acquaintance that will be of value to you."

Page could not quite fathom all this, but the more he thought of what
Frye had said the more certain he became that kindly regard for his own
welfare did not enter into that shrewd schemer's calculations. He was
more and more disgusted, also, each day, with his employer's cynical
indifference to all sense of honor and honesty, coming to the conclusion
that he was no better than a thief at heart.

Beneath Albert's disposition to adapt himself to those he mingled with
lay a vein of sterling good sense, fine honor, and the energy of
self-sacrifice, if necessary, and Frye's attributes were so obnoxious to
him as to be simply repulsive. At college he had never indulged in much
"larking," and just why the bond of friendship between himself and the
good-natured, self-indulgent, happy-go-lucky classmate, Frank Nason, had
been cemented is hard to explain, except upon the theory of the
attraction of opposites. When, a few days later, that young man appeared
at the office just before closing time, and suggested they "go out for a
night's racket," as he phrased it, Albert was not inclined to accept.

"What are you up to?" he said as they walked away from the office, "and
what do you mean by a racket? If it's likely to be expensive, count me
out; I can't afford it."

"Well," answered Frank lightly, "you are working too hard, and need
shaking up, so I thought I'd drop round and do it. We will dine at the
club, then go to the Castle Square, where there is a burlesque on and no
end of pretty chorus girls. I know two or three of them, and after the
show we will take them out to supper; that is all."

"It's all right except the end-up," answered Albert, "and on that I
think you had best skip me. As I said, it's a diversion I can't afford.
I've no money to spare to buy wine for ballet girls."

"Oh, that's all right," responded Frank cheerfully. "I've asked you out
and it's my treat. I'll pay the shot this time."

"I shall pay my share if I go," asserted Albert firmly, "but I would
rather omit the after part. We will have the evening together and then
you can go and entertain your chorus girls and I'll go to my room."

It was a laudable resolution, but it came hard, for beneath all Albert's
good resolves was lurking desire for a little excitement to break the
dull monotony of his life. He had been to the theatre only twice since
he came to Boston, desiring to save in every way he could, and only the
week before had sent Alice one-third of his first month's salary. At the
club Frank introduced him to several of his friends and of course they
were asked to join them in a social glass, which did not tend to
strengthen Albert's resolution. At the theatre the exhilarating music,
and the glitter of a stage full of pretty girls in scant drapery, all
had their usual effect, and by the time the show was over he found it
next to impossible to resist his friend's urging that they go around to
the stage door and meet the girls he had invited to sup with them.

"Mind you, let me pay my share," whispered Page, and then he found
himself being introduced by his first name to two highly colored queens
of the ballet, and all four proceeded at once to a private supper-room.
Albert found the girls bright, vivacious, and expressive, so far as a
superficial use of slang goes: they ordered the choicest and
highest-priced items on the bill of fare; called for champagne and drank
it freely; addressed their escorts as "Cully," "Old Sport," and "Old
Stocking;" smoked cigarettes; and talked about their "mashes" in other
cities in a way that made Albert grateful that he had been introduced by
his first name only.

It was not an immoral proceeding, though not exactly proper, and when in
the wee small hours they--with a mistaken sense of gallantry--escorted
the two actresses (if such they may be termed) to their boarding-place,
Page, at least, was glad to be well rid of them. And when he reached his
room, it must be said to his credit, he did not feel particularly proud
of himself.

He felt less so the next morning when he received a letter from Alice
which said:

     MY DARLING BROTHER: I was so pleased when I received your loving
     letter and the money you sent. You do not know how it hurts me to
     feel we owe so much, and I have cried over it more than you will
     ever know. Last week I received my first month's pay,--thirty
     dollars,--and I was very proud of it, for it is the first money I
     ever earned. I took half and put it with the twenty-five you sent
     and gave it to Mr. Hobbs. I have only six dollars left, for I had
     to buy some boots and gloves, but that will last me a month, for
     I've not the heart to spend a penny I am not obliged to, until the
     debts are paid. I had to buy the boots, because walking four miles
     a day wears them out very fast.

And he had spent twenty dollars the night before to have a couple of
ballet girls talk slang, smoke cigarettes, and call him "Cully"!

When he thought of his sweet and loving sister, with her perfect faith
in his manhood, walking four miles a day to earn less than two dollars,
while he had been induced to spend in one foolish evening as much as she
could earn in two weeks, it was no wonder he did not feel proud of
himself.




CHAPTER VI

A PUSH DOWNWARD

    "He digged a pit, he digged it deep,
      He digged it for a brother;
    But oh, alas! he fell into
      The pit he digged for another."

                                _Old Saw._


Page was a little late at the office the next morning and Frye was there
ahead of him.

"I was out with young Nason last evening," he explained, as the old
lawyer bade him a rather crusty good morning, "and I overslept."

"Oh, that is all right," responded Frye, in an instantaneously sweetened
tone, "I am glad you were, and, as I told you, you are wise to cultivate
him. I suppose," he continued with a leer, "that you were buying wine
for some of the gay girls?"

Page looked confused. "Well, we went to the theatre, and after that had
a late supper," he explained, "and it was after one before I returned to
my room."

"I don't care how late you are out, or what you did," said Frye, still
eyeing Page, "so long as you were with young Nason and kept out of the
lockup. His father pays me a salary to look after his law business, and
his son is the pride of his heart. I trust you understand my meaning. If
you don't feel like work this morning," he continued suavely, "mount
your wheel and take a run out to Winchester and see if that mortgage on
the Seaver estate has been satisfied. The exercise and air will do you
good."

Page was nonplussed.

"He has some deep-laid plot in his mind," he thought as he looked at
Frye, who, having delivered this amazing pat, turned at once to his
mail. It was all the more amazing because at the start he had been
assured that punctuality and good conduct on his part were obligatory.
Now he was to all intents and purposes not only told he might lark it
with young Nason all he chose, but even urged to do so. He was glad to
escape the office, however, for his head felt full of bees, and thanking
his employer for the permission, he quickly left the city behind him.
The crisp October air and exercise soon cured his headache, and in a
measure drove away some of the self-reproaches at his own foolish
conduct of the night before.

The errand at Winchester was attended to, and then, after taking a glass
of bromo-seltzer, he headed back for the city, taking another course. By
the time he reached town he was faint from hunger, for he had eaten no
breakfast. A good dinner restored him to his natural self-possession,
and then he went to the office.

For a week he reproached himself every time he thought how much his
escapade had cost, and felt too ashamed to answer Alice's letter. When
he did he assured that innocent sister that he was saving all he could
and should send more money as soon as possible. Frank called twice, and
the second time urged him to join the club, to which Page assented.

"It will serve as a place to spend a lonesome evening," he thought. It
was a wise step, for it is during lonesome hours, if ever, that one's
steps are turned toward evil associations.

Several times Frye had made casual inquiries as to the progress of his
intimacy with young Nason, all of which led Page to wonder what his
object was and why it concerned him. At last, one day just at closing
time, and after he had told the office boy he might go, Frye let a
little light into that enigma.

"Sit down a moment, Mr. Page," he remarked, as the latter was preparing
to leave; "I have a proposition of an important nature to make to you,"
and then as he fixed his merciless eyes on his clerk and began to slowly
rub his hands together, he continued: "You have been nearly three months
in my employ, Mr. Page, and have fulfilled your duties satisfactorily. I
think the time has come when I may safely enlarge them a little. As I
told you, John Nason pays me a yearly retainer to attend to all his law
business. I have reason to feel he is not entirely satisfied to continue
that arrangement, and I am forced to find some way to bring a little
pressure to bear on him in order that he may see it is for his interest
to still retain me. Now I believe John Nason is not entirely happy in
his home relations and is leading a double life, and that a certain Miss
Maud Vernon, a cashier in his store, receives a share of his attentions.
She and a supposed aunt of hers occupy a flat in a block owned by Nason,
and while they are never seen in public together, gossip links their
names. What I want is for you to find out, through your acquaintance
with the Nasons, just what bond there is between the elder Nason and
this Miss Vernon, and report to me. I do not intend to use the knowledge
for any illegal purpose, but merely as a leverage to retain Nason's
business. I am aware that to prosecute your inquiries discreetly by
means of your intimacy with young Nason will require more money than I
am paying you, and therefore, if I can depend on you to do a little
detective work, I shall from now on increase your salary from
seventy-five to one hundred and seventy-five dollars. What do you say?"

The first impulse that Page felt was to absolutely refuse, there and
then, to have anything to do with Frye's nefarious scheme, but the
thought of his situation, the unpaid debt at home, and the certainty
that a refusal would mean a loss of his position conquered his pride and
kept him silent. For a moment he reflected, trying hard to see a way out
of the dilemma; and then said:

"It is rather a hard task you ask, Mr. Frye, for I am not accustomed to
the role of detective, but I am in your employ, and as long as I am I
will do the best I can for your interests."

It was a temporizing reply, and Frye so construed it at once.

"I must insist, if you accept my offer," he said, "that you give me your
promise to do your best to earn the money. It doesn't pay to be too
squeamish in this world," he continued, in a soothing tone; "all
business is to a certain extent a game of extortion--a question of do
the other fellow or he will do you." Then arising, and holding out a
skinny hand to grasp Page's, as if to bind the bargain, he added: "I
shall expect you to keep faith with me, Mr. Page," and the interview
ended.

When Albert entered the dining-room at his boarding-place that night he
felt as if his face must show guilt, and when later he met Frank at the
club that feeling increased. He was preoccupied and morose, and Frank,
noticing his frame of mind, tried to cheer him.

"You look as if you had been given a facer, old man," he said. "What is
the matter? Has Frye been calling you down for something?"

Page looked at his friend a moment, and the impulse to make a clean
breast of it, and relieve his feelings, was strong, but he did not.

"I do not like Frye," he said instead, "and the more I see of him the
less I like him. At times he makes me feel as if he was a snake ready to
uncoil and strike. Did you ever notice his eyes, and the way he has of
rubbing his hands when talking?"

"I have," was the answer, "and he has the most hideous eyes I ever saw
in a human being. They look like a cat's in the dark. Dad told me once
he saw Frye look at a witness he was cross-examining in such a way that
the poor fellow forgot what his name was, and swore black was white.
Those eyes are vicious weapons, they say, and he uses them to the
utmost when he wants to scare a witness."

"They make me feel creepy every time I look at them," said Albert, and
then, as if anxious to change the subject, he added, "Let's leave here,
Frank, and you come with me to my room, where we can have a quiet talk
together. I am in the dumps to-night, and want to unbosom my troubles to
you."




CHAPTER VII

A SERMON


"What ails you, old man?" asked Frank, after they were seated in
Albert's room and were smoking fraternal pipes; "you look as if you had
lost your best friend."

"I did, last June, as you know," was the rather sad answer, "and on top
of that, I hate myself for one or two things; for instance, the escapade
we indulged in the other night, and being Frye's slave, for another."

"I am sorry for the first," responded Frank; "it was my fault that you
were coaxed into it. I won't do it again, I assure you. Don't worry over
it, my boy. It wasn't anything serious; only just a little after-theatre
fun, and hearing those sporty girls talk slang."

"Yes, and spending a lot of money for very poor fun," replied Albert. "I
don't think any better of myself for doing it, do you?"

"Oh, I don't think about it one way or the other," answered Frank, "I
have so much time to kill, and that's no worse than any other way. We
go to the theatre and see those same girls half nude and hear them say
just as naughty things as they said to us that night, so what's the
harm? We are a little nearer to them, that is all, and pay extra for the
privilege."

"Well, of course it's all right, and as you do not think any the less of
yourself for doing it, there is no harm," replied Albert, "only I do;
and so it is worse for me than for you." Then he added, looking
curiously at his friend, "Tell me honestly, Frank, did you enjoy having
cigarette smoke puffed in your face, being called 'Cully,' and hearing
silly brag about 'mashes,' and how they 'worked' some other fellow? Did
it occur to you that those same rouge-finished queens of the ballet
would describe us, and how they 'worked' us for a wine supper, to other
jays, and that no doubt they have done so to one or a dozen since that
night? They were pert and saucy, it is true, and up to date so far as
slang goes, but did you really enjoy their society?"

"No, I can't say I did," was the sober answer, "only there was a spice
of excitement about it, a sort of novelty. I would not want it every
night, however."

"And while I am about it," continued Albert, warming up, "did you notice
that those same fairies of the footlights had been so busy putting red
paint on their lips and black lead on their eyelashes that they forgot
to use a toothbrush, and left their fingernails in mourning? And what is
more to the point, was there one word they uttered that you and I could
not have fore-stalled long before it fell from their lips? Now you have
a mother and sisters who think well of you, no doubt: how would you have
felt to have had any one of them peep in that night and see what manner
of company you were in? My mother is in her grave, but maybe she could
see where I was and with whom I was that evening, and the thought makes
me feel mean. I have a sister, one of the purest and sweetest little
women God ever blessed the earth with, and not for all that I can earn
in one year would I have her know what a foolish thing I did. For two
days I was so ashamed of myself I felt miserably."

Frank sat in stupefied silence at his friend's outburst. "If I had
imagined you were going to feel that way, old man," he said at last, "I
would never have urged you to go with me. I never will again, I assure
you."

"Oh, I am as much to blame as you," observed Albert. "I went willingly,
but after it was all over I was sorry I did. I am no prude, I enjoy a
little excitement and don't mind a social evening with a few friends,
but it doesn't pay to do things you despise yourself for the next day."

"But," put in his friend with a quizzical look, "do you know you are
preaching a sermon, and I rather enjoy it, too? It sets me thinking. As
for such girls as we wined, I don't care a rap for them. If I could find
any other and better amusement, they might go hang for all I care. What
you say of them is true enough, and I agree with you they are a
profitless lot of trash, but what is a fellow going to do to kill time?
I try tennis and golf with fellows and girls in our set, but that is
tame sport. I go to 'functions' once in a while, and if I dance twice
with a pretty girl who has no _dot_, mother glares at me, and says I've
no family pride. Most of the girls talk silly nonsense that wearies a
fellow, and the more _passé_ they are the worse they gush. The only
thing I really enjoy that is respectable is yachting, and then I have
trouble to find good fellows who have time to go with me. Once in a
while I get disgusted with myself, and wish I had to work for a living."

Albert looked surprised. Was it possible that this young and handsome
fellow, with dark brown honest eyes, curly black hair, and garb and
manner of refinement, who never had known what it was to work, really
wanted to earn his own way in the world, just from sheer _ennui_?

"Frank," he said at last, "you ought to be ashamed to talk so. You have
plenty of money, nothing to do but enjoy yourself, and yet you complain!
You ought to have a few months of old Frye. It would reconcile you to
your lot."

Frank looked sympathetic. "Is he so bad as that?" he said.

"No worse than any other old skinflint who feels he owns you, body and
brains," replied Albert, "but I do not want to talk about him to-night.
I've got the blues."

"I am sorry, old man," rejoined Frank in a low tone, "I wish I could
help you. Maybe I can in the near future."

Albert was silent, while the comparison of his lot with that of his
friend passed slowly in review.

"It seems to me you have everything to be thankful for, Frank," he said
at last in a dejected tone,--"a kind father, good home, plenty of
friends, a nice yacht, all the money you want, and nothing to do. With
me it is different. Would it bore you if I unloaded a little of my
history? I feel like it to-night."

"Not a bit," answered Frank, "I would really like to hear it. I didn't
know much of your home affairs at college, and since you came to Boston
I hated to ask you, for fear you would think me impertinent."

"Well," continued Albert, "when we were at college I was a little too
proud to let you know I was the only son of a poor widow who was denying
herself every luxury to educate me; but it was a fact. After we
separated, I tutored some, read law, and was admitted to the bar. I
opened an office in my native town and wasted a year waiting for
clients, while I read novels, sketched, and fished, to pass the time.
Last June my mother died and left my sister and me an old house that has
been in the family over a century, a few acres of meadow lands, and
maybe two hundred dollars in debts. Then I wrote to you. I was more than
grateful for the chance you obtained for me to work for even such a man
as Frye. I am paying those debts as fast as I can, and my sister is
helping by teaching in a cross-road schoolhouse and walking four miles
each day to do it."

"And I coaxed you to go out and spend money on a couple of ballet
girls!" responded Frank regretfully. "Say, old man," reaching out his
hand and clasping Albert's, "if I had known all this that evening I
would have bit my tongue before I asked you to go with me."

"That is all right," replied Albert; "I should have told you that night
what I have told you now, but maybe I was a little ashamed to do so."

"I would like to see that brave sister of yours," said Frank after a
pause. "From what you tell me, she must be a trump."

Albert made no answer, but going to the mantel he took a framed
photograph that stood there and handed it to his friend. It was a
picture of a young girl with a face like an artist's dream and eyes like
two pansies.

Frank gazed at it long and earnestly. "Your sister, I suppose," he said
at last, still looking at the face. "I do not wonder you preached me the
sermon you have this evening. You must be proud of her."

When it came time for him to go the two shook hands with a warmer clasp
than ever, and when he was gone the little room did not seem quite so
cheerless to its occupant as before.

Albert Page had builded wiser than he knew.




CHAPTER VIII

A HELPING HAND


"I should like to be excused to-morrow forenoon, Mr. Frye," said Albert
a few days later. "Frank has promised to introduce me to his father."

"Certainly," replied Frye, cheerfully, "take the entire day, if you
wish, and if you have a good chance try to make the acquaintance of Miss
Maud Vernon, a cashier in Mr. Nason's store, or at least take a good
look at her. She is the key that will unlock the information I need, and
I shall depend upon you to obtain it."

"I will keep my eyes open," replied Albert aloud, mentally resolving
that it would not be in the interest of Frye and his sinister plot. The
next day he met Frank by appointment, and the two called upon John Nason
at his office. Albert was greeted cordially, and, after an exchange of
commonplaces, soon found himself being interrogated by a series of
questions pertaining to his home and college life, his knowledge of law,
and how he liked his present employer, all of which with their answers,
not being pertinent to the thread of this narrative, need not be quoted.
They were for a purpose, however, as all of John Nason's business
questions were, and at their conclusion he said:

"I am glad to have met you, Mr. Page. My son has spoken in the highest
terms of you, and what has interested me more, Mr. Frye has also. He
does not usually bestow much praise on any one, but is more apt to
sneer. After you are a little better acquainted with legal proceedings
here, come and see me. I may be able to do something for you. You
might," addressing Frank, as if to end the interview, "show Mr. Page
over the store now; it may interest him."

After an hour spent walking through the vast human hive, where over one
thousand clerks and salesgirls were employed, the two friends returned
to their club for lunch.

"Well, what do you think of the old gent?" asked Frank, as he sat down.

"I like him," was the answer; "he talks to the purpose, though, and I
fancy his rapid-fire questions were for an object."

"You may be sure they were," replied Frank, "and, what is more, I saw by
his expression that you had made a good impression. Do you know what I
did the other day? I told him all about our escapade with the two
fairies, and repeated all I could recall of the sermon you preached
about it."

Albert looked astonished.

"I am sorry you did that," he said; "he must have thought me very weak
not to have refused in the first place. What did he say?"

"Oh, not much," replied Frank; "he laughed, and said he guessed the
closer I stuck to you, the better I would behave myself."

"Do you make a practice of confessing all your larks to your father?"
observed Albert.

"Oh, I don't conceal much," answered Frank laughingly; "he and I are the
best of friends, and he is so good to me I haven't the heart to deceive
him. I had an object in telling him of our racket, however;" and then
after a pause, "I wish you were to be at liberty this afternoon, Bert; I
am going to take the 'Gypsy' round to Beverly to her winter quarters and
I'd like your company."

"Well, I can go if I've a mind to," answered Albert; "Frye said I might
take a day off if I wished."

Frank looked astonished. "Isn't he in danger of heart-failure?" he said;
"the old buzzard must be getting stuck on you, I should say."

When the two had boarded the yacht, and while the engineer was getting
up steam, Frank showed his guest all over that craft.

"I am surprised at the size of your boat," said Albert; "why, she is
large enough for an ocean voyage."

"We may take one in her some day," replied Frank; "stranger things have
happened. I believe she cost over eighty thousand dollars, but dad
bought her for less than half that at an assignee's sale."

When steam was up they took a run out around Minot's Light and across to
Cape Ann, and as the day was a delightful one, Albert enjoyed it
immensely.

"I can't imagine a more charming way of spending a summer than to have
such a craft as this and a well-chosen party of friends for company, and
go where you like. Why, it would seem like a dream of life in an
enchanted world to me."

It was late in the afternoon when they ran in past Baker's Island, and
at Beverly they went ashore, and leaving the crew to moor the yacht in
the stream between the two bridges, returned to Boston.

It was almost Thanksgiving time ere Albert saw Mr. Nason again, and then
one day Frank said to him: "I want you to call on dad to-morrow. He
wants to see you."

It came as a most agreeable surprise to Albert, and yet, as he entered
that magnate's palatial store the next day, he did not dare to allow
himself to hope that it would mean anything to him. He took the elevator
to the fourth floor, where Mr. Nason's private office was, and with
beating heart entered. His greeting was more cordial than before, and
Mr. Nason, who, it may be observed, was a man that went about business
as a woodcutter chops a tree, said:

"Are you under contract or obligation to remain with Mr. Frye any
specified time, Mr. Page?"

"Nothing more than to give him a reasonable notice that I wish to quit,"
replied Albert; "I am paid so much a month 'for the present,' as he put
it when I went there, and I certainly shall leave him as soon as I see
any chance of bettering myself."

"That being the case, I see no reason why you cannot entertain the
proposition I have decided to make you," said the merchant, "which is
that you sever your relations with Mr. Frye between now and the first of
the year, and then take hold and see what you can do in looking after my
legal matters. The fact is, Mr. Page, as I intimated to you a short time
ago, I am not entirely satisfied with Mr. Frye. Just why need not be
considered now. The only point is, do you feel yourself capable of
acting as my attorney and assuming charge of any law business that may
arise?"

"Well, so far as my knowledge of the law goes," replied Albert, "I
passed a good examination when I was admitted to the bar, I had some
practice in Sandgate, and since I've been with Frye I've learned a good
deal of the usual procedure here. I think I can do all that is
necessary."

"My needs in a legal line are not complicated," continued Mr. Nason; "it
is mostly looking up deeds and making transfers, seeing that titles are
clear, etc. You will have to watch the custom officers, and there are
more or less collections to be made. Occasionally I have to resort to
the courts, but try to avoid them as much as possible."

"I think I could attend to all such matters to your satisfaction," said
Albert confidently; "they are not hard tasks."

"Very well," replied Mr. Nason. "I have decided, partly at the request
of my son and partly from my own estimate of your ability, to give you
the trial. I will pay you twenty-five hundred dollars per annum to look
after my needs, and you are also at liberty to take such other business
as comes to you so long as you do not neglect mine."

"I thank you, Mr. Nason, for this offer," replied Albert, rising and
proffering his hand, "and I accept gladly and will devote all my time,
if need be, to your service."

"Very good," responded Mr. Nason; "separate yourself from Frye at once,
or between now and the new year, and in the meantime I would suggest
that you rent a suitable office. There are one or two vacant in a
building I own on Water street that will serve very well, and when you
are through with Mr. Frye, come and see me. I shall consider you in my
employ from now on, and as you may need funds in fitting up your office,
I will advance you a little on your salary," and without further comment
he turned to his desk and wrote and handed Albert a check for five
hundred dollars. "I should prefer," he added hastily, as if to prevent
any word of thanks, "that you make no mention whatever of our agreement
to Mr. Frye, or in fact to any one, until after January first." Then
rising and offering his hand to Albert as if to dismiss him, he added:

"Come out to my house any evening, Mr. Page; we shall be glad to see
you, and I am usually at home."

There are moments when our emotions nullify all attempts at speech, and
to Albert Page, who before had felt himself alone and almost friendless
in a great city, this was such a one.

"Never mind the thanks now," said Mr. Nason, as he saw Albert's
agitation; "put your thanks into your work, and in a year we will talk
it over."

"And this is the man I had almost hired myself out to spy upon!" said
Albert to himself as he left the store.




CHAPTER IX

SHARP PRACTICE


For a few days after his interview with John Nason Albert tried to find
some plausible excuse for leaving Frye. He did not want to make an enemy
of him, and more especially now that he was to succeed him as John
Nason's legal adviser. He knew that Frye would know he could not easily
better himself, and would reason that, unknown and without money in a
great city as he was, it would be some unusual opening that would make
him turn away from what Frye considered a large salary. Then again, he
had promised Mr. Nason not to disclose their agreement to Frye, and more
than that, he felt in honor bound not to let Frye even suspect it. It
was while perplexed with the situation and trying to solve it that it
solved itself in an unexpected way.

Frye was out that day, and Albert was, as he had been for three days,
thinking how to escape, when a red-faced and rather bellicose sort of a
man came in and inquired for Frye.

"My name is Staples," he said, "and I've got a lawsuit on my hands. I've
laid the facts before your partner, I s'pose, but I thought I'd just
drop in and give him a few pointers that might help my case."

"What is your case?" asked Albert, a little amused at being taken for
Frye's partner.

"Wal, the facts are," replied Staples, "I've had to sue a miserable
whelp in self-defence. I live in Lynnfield. It's a small place about ten
miles out, and last spring I bought the good will, stock in trade, an'
all of a man by the name of Hunt, who was in the meat business. He
signed a paper, too, agreein' not to engage in the business in or within
ten miles o' Lynnfield for a period o' five years, and a month ago he
opened a shop almost 'cross the street from me and is cuttin' my prices
right and left, confound him."

"And you are bringing an action for breach of contract?" interposed
Albert, thinking to have a little fun at the expense of his caller.

"I'm a-suin' him for ten thousand dollars' damage, if that's what you
mean," replied the belligerent Staples. "I won't get it all, but then,
as your partner said, we may get more than if we sued for less. Law's a
big game of bluff, I reckon."

Albert smiled. "And so you are basing your suit on this signed
agreement, are you?" he said; "well, you might as well stop just now,
for you have no case in law, though no doubt a good one in justice."

"But the agreement is all signed and witnessed," exclaimed Staples, "and
Mr. Frye said I had good reason to bring suit, and I've paid him two
hundred dollars on account to do it."

"That may be," said Albert, realizing he had put his foot in it, so to
speak, "and perhaps you have other grounds to base a suit for damages
on, but as for the agreement this man Hunt signed, it's of no value
whatever."

"Then why in thunder did Frye tell me I had a good case, and take my
money?" gasped the irate Staples.

"That I can't say," replied Albert, foreseeing the rumpus he had
started, "you'd better come to-morrow and have a talk with him. He may
have seen some loophole for you to win out through that I do not see,
but so far as your agreement goes, it's not worth the paper it's written
on."

When the law-thirsty Staples had departed it dawned upon Albert that he
had unintentionally paved the way for his own escape from Frye. "I'll
stay away to-morrow," he said to himself, "and let Staples get in his
work, and then face the inevitable storm that I have started." He had
surmised the results accurately, for when, two days later, he purposely
reached the office late, Frye did not even bid him good morning.

"Where were you yesterday?" he said curtly, as Albert entered.

"I was availing myself of your express wish that I cultivate young
Nason," was the answer. "We went to Beverly to see to the housing-in of
his yacht for the winter."

"And what did you say to Mr. Staples the day before, I would like to
know?" continued Frye in a sneering tone. "He has retained me for an
action for breach of contract, and you have told him he had no grounds
for suit. He came in yesterday, mad as a wet hen, and wanted his money
back. Are you a fool?"

"Maybe I am," replied Albert, trying hard to keep cool, "but I do not
care to be told of it. Mr. Staples explained his case to me, and I
inadvertently told him that the agreement he held was of no value in
law, which is the truth."

"And what has that to do with it?" said Frye, with biting sarcasm. "I
didn't hire you to tell the truth and lose me a paying client. If that
is your idea of law practice you had better go back to Sandgate and hoe
corn for a living. I knew very well his agreement was of no value, but
that was a matter for him to find out, not for us to tell him. You have
made a mess of it now, and lost me several hundred dollars in fees."

Albert had remained standing through all this tirade, and looking
squarely at his irate employer.

"You need not say any more," he put in, when Frye had paused for breath;
"if you will further oblige me with a check for the small balance due
me, I will not again upset your plans. You need not," he added, feeling
himself blush, "consider that you owe me any part of the increase you
recently promised. I do not want it."

It was Frye's turn to be astonished now. That this verdant limb of the
law, as he considered Albert to be, could have the manliness to show any
resentment at his scourging, and what was more surprising, coolly resign
a good position, he could not understand. For a few minutes the two
looked at each other, and then Frye, for reasons of his own, weakened
first.

"You are foolish," he said, in a modified tone, "to act so hastily.
Perhaps I have spoken rather rudely, but you must admit you gave me
provocation. Do not throw away a good chance for a few hasty words."

"I do not care to discuss it," answered Albert firmly; "the role of
private detective that you want me to assume is not to my taste, anyway,
and your words have convinced me we can never get along together. I
will not remain longer on any terms."

"And what will you do now?" sneered Frye, a sinister look entering his
yellow eyes, "steal or starve?"

"Neither," replied Albert defiantly; "I'll go back to Sandgate and hoe
corn first."

Then, as a realizing sense of how much he was in the power of this
courageous stripling came to Frye, his arrogance all melted, and as he
turned and began to play with a paper-cutter he said meekly:

"Come, Mr. Page, overlook it all. I spoke too hastily, and I apologize."

It was the guilty coward conquering the brute instinct, but it availed
not.

"Will you oblige me with the small balance due me to-day," asked Albert,
"or shall I call again for it?"

"And if we part company now," muttered Frye, "what am I to expect? Are
you to be a friend or an enemy?"

"If you refer to your scheme to blackmail John Nason," replied Albert
resolutely, and not mincing words, "I am too ashamed to think I ever
listened to your proposals to even speak of it."

It was a hard blow and made Frye wince, for it was the first time he had
ever been openly called a villain, but, craven hypocrite that he was,
he made no protest. Instead, he silently wrote a check for Albert's due
and handed it to him.

"I am much obliged, Mr. Frye. Good morning, sir," said Albert in a
chilly tone, and putting on his hat, he left the office.

When the door was closed behind him he turned, shook his fist at it, and
muttered: "You miserable old villainous vulture! I am glad I saved one
victim from being robbed by you!"

But Albert cooled off in time. We always do.

That night when he met Frank at the club he grasped one of that young
man's hands in both of his and as he shook it, exclaimed:

"If you were Alice now, I would hug and kiss you!"

"Well," responded Frank, "if you were Alice now, all I can say is, it
would meet my entire approbation; but tell me what ails you? Have you
had a fortune left you?"

"Yes and no," replied Albert; "your father has given me the chance of a
lifetime and I am free from old Frye. I have you to thank for the
chance, I am sure."

"Well, I put in a good word for you when I had the opportunity," said
Frank modestly, "and the sermon you preached me once, and which I
reported to dad, may have had some weight with him."

In a week Albert had his office fitted up, and then he presented himself
to John Nason, and after that he not only had all the responsibility
thrust upon him that he was able to assume, but he no longer felt
himself in the position of a menial. To one of his proud spirit it meant
self-respect, life, and sunshine.




CHAPTER X

AMID THE GREEN MOUNTAINS


There are two characteristics sure to be found among the residents of a
small country village, and those are kindness of heart and a love of
gossip. The former showed itself in Sandgate when Albert Page went to
those his family were indebted to, and, with much humiliation to
himself, asked them to wait. Mr. Hobbs' reply is all that is necessary
to quote, as it was a reflex of all the others.

"Don't ye worry one whit, Mr. Page," he said; "take your own time, an'
if it's a year it's no matter. The only reason I called with the bill
was because it's customary when an estate is bein' settled. Tell your
folks I expect and want 'em to keep right on tradin' with me."

When Alice appealed to Mr. Mears she also met only the kindest of words.

"Ye can drive back an' forth, an' not be away from home over night,"
said he, "till snow comes, an' then I'll git ye a boardin'-place clus by
the schoolhouse and fetch and carry ye Mondays and Fridays."

The love of gossip showed itself as distinctly in a general discussion
by the townsfolk of the affairs of the Pages. For a month after Albert
had gone away and Alice had begun teaching, they were the subject of
much after-church and sewing-circle talk.

"If Alice could only git married now," observed Mrs. Mears, who was
perhaps the leader among the gossips in Sandgate, "it 'ud be the most
fortunit thing that could happen, but she holds her head perty middlin'
high for a poor girl, which p'raps is nat'ral, she comin' from one o'
the oldest families. They say there wa'n't nothin' left to either on 'em
when the Widder Page died, an' the wonder is how she managed to git
along as well as she did."

Fortunately none of this gossip, of which Mrs. Mears' remarks are only a
sample, reached Alice, for she had enough to bear as it was. The
vexations of an effort to pound the rudiments of an education into the
heads of two dozen or so barefooted boys and girls that comprised her
charge were far less hard to bear than the desolation of a home bereft
of mother and brother. Occasionally some one of the neighbors would drop
in of an evening, or one or two of her girl friends come and stay all
night. On Sundays she was, as she always had been, a regular attendant
at the village church, where she formed one of the choir. She had never
encouraged the attentions of any of the young men, who mostly wore the
habiliments of farmers on week days and worse-fitting ones on Sundays,
which accounted for Mrs. Mears' remark that "she held her head perty
middlin' high." It was true in a way, not from any false pride, but
rather because Alice was of a more refined and fastidious nature than
those who "would a-wooing go."

She was like a flower herself, not only in looks, but in delicacy of
feeling and sentiment, and her sweet face, sheltered by a mourning-hat
on Sunday at church, was a magnet that drew the eyes of many a village
swain. The days and weeks of her new life as a teacher passed in
uneventful procession until one by one the leaves had fallen from the
two big elm trees in front of the desolate home, the meadows were but
level fields of snow, and Christmas was only two weeks away. Then she
received a letter from the absent brother that caused her heart to beat
with unusual excitement. It read:

     DEAR SIS: Three weeks ago I received a most flattering proposal
     from Mr. Nason, Frank's father, who offered me a good salary to
     take charge of his law business, and also the chance to accept
     anything else that came my way. I have a nice office now in a block
     he owns, and am so busy I do not find time to write to you even.
     It's an opening of a lifetime, and I owe it mainly to Frank. Now I
     am so homesick I am coming up to spend Christmas with you, and I've
     invited Frank to come also. We shall be up the day before and stay
     till the Monday after. Frank has done so much for me that I want to
     entertain him in the best way possible. He knows absolutely nothing
     about country life, and it may be dull for him, but he seems
     desirous of coming, and so I want you to help me to make it cheerful
     for him. To be candid, sis, I think the chance to see you, whom he
     has heard me say so much about, is the real loadstone. I enclose a
     bit of paper, and I want you to use it all in any way you wish.

It was a check for one hundred dollars!

It was not strange that at school next day Alice's thoughts were not on
the recitations, and when one boy spelled beauty "b-o-o-t-i-e," and
raised a laugh, she did not understand why it was. Children are in some
ways as keen as briers, and her pupils soon discovered that "teacher"
was absent-minded and they whispered right and left. When she discovered
it she didn't have the heart to punish them, and was glad when the time
came to dismiss school.

The instinct of her sex was strong within her, however, and that night
she said to Aunt Susan:

"Do you think, auntie, we could manage between us to make up some sort
of a pretty house-dress? Of course I must wear black when I go out, but
it would be no harm to wear something brighter at home. I could get some
delicate gray cashmere, and Mrs. Sloper can cut and fit it, and you and
I can make it evenings. I want a sort of house-gown trimmed with satin.
I wish I dared to have a new hat for church, with a little color in
it,--my mourning-bonnet makes me look so old,--but I am afraid people
would talk."

The feminine fear of looking old was needless in her case.

But how the days dragged, and how many times she counted them to see how
many more were to pass ere that dearly beloved brother was to arrive!
And what sort of a looking fellow was this Frank? she wondered. She
hoped he was tall and dark, not too tall, but good and stout. And how
could she ever entertain them? She could play and sing a few pretty
ballads, and any number of hymns, but as for conversation she felt
herself wholly deficient. Of the world of art, literature, and the drama
she knew but little. She had read a good many novels, it is true, and
had seen "Uncle Tom's Cabin," "East Lynne," and one or two other
tear-moving dramas played in the town hall, but that was all. She had
never even journeyed as far as Boston or New York. "He will think me as
green as the hills around us," she thought ruefully, "but I can't help
it. I can cook some nice things for him to eat, anyhow, and Bert must do
the talking. I wonder if he plays the piano. I hope not, for if he does
I'll not touch it."

Christmas came on Thursday that year and her school was to close for a
week on the Friday before. She had a little plan in her mind, and the
last day of school she called on two of the big boys to help her.

"My brother is coming home to spend Christmas," she said to them, "and I
want a lot of ground-pine to trim up the house. Will you bring me some?"

If there is anything that will touch a country boy's heart it is to have
"teacher"--and especially a young and pretty teacher--ask him to go for
ground-pine; so it is needless to say that Alice was supplied with an
ample outfit of that graceful vine. More than that, they begged for the
privilege of helping her festoon it, and when long ropes of it were
draped over the windows and above the fireplace in the big parlor, and
the hall and dining-room received the same decoration, the house
presented a cheerful appearance. The culinary department was not
neglected either, and a great store of pies, frosted cake, and doughnuts
was prepared.

"I do not know what I should do without you, Aunt Susan," the fair young
hostess said the day before the guests were to arrive; "I couldn't do
this all alone, and I want to give Bert a welcome."

It may be surmised that consideration for that big brother was not the
sole force that moved her, but the veil that shelters the heart of a
sweet young girl must not be rudely drawn aside. She had written: "I
shall be only too glad to do all in my power, in my poor way, to
entertain your friend who has done so much for you," and we will let
that disclosure of gratitude suffice.




CHAPTER XI

BY THE FIRESIDE


"You must not expect much excitement up in Sandgate," Albert said to his
friend the day they started for that quiet village. "It is a small
place, and all the people do in the winter is to chop wood, shovel snow,
eat, and go to meeting. We shall go sleighing and I shall take you to
church to be stared at, and for the rest Alice and Aunt Susan will give
us plenty to eat."

It must be admitted that this same Alice, whose picture had so
interested him, was the attraction which made young Nason glad to accept
his friend's cordial invitation, and then he really felt a very warm
friendship for that friend. It is likely that the perfect sincerity and
wholesome ideas of Albert attracted and held his rather more pliable and
easy-going nature. The strong attract the weak, among men, and Frank
Nason, never having been hardened by adversity, looked up to and admired
the man who had courage and perseverance. He wondered if Alice was like
him, and rather hoped not. It was nearly dark and snowing when they
reached Sandgate, and when he saw a plump girlish figure with slightly
whitened garments rush forward, almost jump into his friend's arms, and
kiss him vehemently, it occurred to him that a welcome home by such a
sister was worth coming many miles for.

Then he heard his name mumbled in a hurried introduction and, as he
raised his hat, saw this girl withdraw a small hand from a mitten and
offer it to him.

"I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Nason," she said with a bright smile;
"my brother has told me so much about you I feel almost acquainted." And
then, turning to that brother, she added: "I have the horse hitched
outside, Bert, so we will go right home."

She led the way, and when they had stowed their belongings in the sleigh
she said, "You can hold me in your lap, Bert, and I'll drive. I'm used
to it now." She chirruped to the rather docile horse, and as the bells
began to jingle she added: "What have you got in that box, Bertie?"

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no fibs, Miss Curious," he
answered. "Wait until to-morrow and then I'll show you."

When they drove into the yard he said: "Take Frank right in, sis, and
I'll unharness."

It was quite dark now, but Frank noticed, as he gathered up the bags and
bundles and followed his hostess, that the rather stately house was
aglow with light.

"Leave your hat and coat here in the hall, Mr. Nason," she said
cordially, "and go right into the parlor and get warm. You will kindly
excuse me now. I'm first and second girl, housemaid and cook, and I must
go and help Aunt Susan to get supper ready. You two gentlemen are
hungry, I'm sure."

It was not a formal reception, but it was a cordial one, which was
better, and when Frank entered the parlor he was surprised at the
cheerful sight, for the room was festooned all around with ropes of
evergreen. The long mantel over the fireplace, bright with flames, was
banked with a mass of green, and against each white lace curtain hung a
wreath. In one corner stood an upright piano, in sharp contrast with the
rather antique hair-cloth chairs and sofa. He had just drawn a chair to
the fire, when Albert came in and gave a low whistle at the sight of the
decorations. "That's one of the perquisites of a country schoolma'am,"
he observed, "and I'll bet the boys that gathered all this green for
Alice enjoyed getting it. I used to when I was a boy. Well, old
fellow," he added, addressing Frank, "here we are, and you must make
yourself at home."

Then Alice came in and announced supper, and after Aunt Susan had been
introduced, they all sat down. It was an old-fashioned meal, for while
the brother helped to the ham and eggs and fried potatoes, Aunt Susan
served the quince preserves and passed the hot biscuit, and Alice poured
the tea. The table too had a Christmas touch, for around the mat where
the lamp stood was a green wreath brightened with clusters of red
berries. It was all a charming picture, and not the least of it was the
fair girl who so graciously played the hostess. When the meal was over
she said:

"Now you two gentlemen must go into the parlor and smoke, and I'll join
you later. I command you to smoke," she added imperiously, "for I want
the house to smell as if there was a man around."

When she came in later, wearing her new house-dress, she drew her chair
close to her brother's and resting her elbows on his knee and her chin
in her open palms she looked up and said with a witching smile:

"Now, Bertie, I've fed you nicely, haven't I? and I've done all I could
for your comfort, so now please tell me what is in that long flat box
you brought."

It was charmingly done, but the big brother was proof against her wiles.
"You are a bewitching coaxer, sis," he answered, "but I am hard-hearted.
I'll make a trade with you, though. First tell us all about your
school-teaching and sing us all the songs I ask for, and then I'll open
the box."

"You are very modest in your wants," she replied archly, "but like all
men you must be humored to keep you good-natured, I presume."

"I wish you would tell us about your school, Miss Page," put in Frank;
"you are not a bit like the schoolma'am of my boyhood, and I would like
to know how you manage children."

"Well, it was a little hard at first," she answered, "for boys and girls
of ten and twelve have surprisingly keen intuitions, and it seemed to me
they made a study of my face from the first and concluded I was
soft-hearted. I had one little boy that was a born mischief-maker, but
he had such winsome ways I had to love him in spite of it. But he had to
be punished some way, and so one day I kept him after school and then
told him I must whip him hard, but not at that time. I explained to him
what I was going to punish him for, 'but,' I said, 'I shall not do it
to-night. I may do it to-morrow or the day after, but I will not tell
you when the whipping is to come until I am ready to do it.' My little
plan was a success, for the next night he waited till all the rest had
gone, and then came to me with tears in his eyes, and begged me to whip
him then. I didn't, though, and told him I wouldn't until he disobeyed
again. He has been the most obedient boy in the school ever since. There
is one little girl who has won my heart, though, in the oddest way you
can imagine. The day I received your letter, Bert, I was so happy that
the school ran riot, and I never knew it. They must have seen it in my
face, I think. Well, when school was out, this girl, a shy little body
of ten, sidled up to my desk and said, 'Pleath may I kith you, teacher,
'fore I go home?' It was such an odd and pretty bit of feeling, it
nearly brought tears to my eyes."

"I should like to give that little girl a box of candy, Miss Page,"
observed Frank, "and then ask her for a kiss myself."

For an hour Alice kept both the young men interested in her anecdotes of
school-teaching, and then her brother said:

"Come, sis, you must sing some, or no box to-night!"

"Well," she replied, smiling, "what shall it be? a few gems from Moody
and Sankey, or from 'Laurel Leaves'?" And then turning to Frank she
added: "My brother just dotes on church music!"

"Alice," said her brother with mock sternness, "if you fib like that you
know the penalty!"

"Do you play or sing, Mr. Nason?" she inquired, not heeding her brother.

"I do not know one note from another," he answered.

"Well, that is fortunate for me," she said; "I only sing a few
old-fashioned ballads, and help out at church."

Then without further apology she went to the piano. "Come, Bertie," she
said, "you must help me, and we will go through the College Songs." And
go through them they did, beginning with "Clementine" and ending with
"The Quilting Party."

"Now, sis," said her brother, "I want 'Old Folks at Home,' 'Annie
Laurie,' 'Rock-a-bye,' and 'Ben Bolt,' and then I'll open the box."

It was a simple, old-fashioned home parlor entertainment, and no doubt
most musical artists would have sneered at the programme, but Alice had
a wonderfully sweet and sympathetic soprano voice, and as Frank sat
watching the fitful flames play hide-and-seek in the open fire, and
listened to those time-worn ballads, it seemed to him he had never heard
singing quite so sweet. Much depends upon the time and place, and
perhaps the romance of the open fire sparkling beneath the bank of
evergreen, and making the roses come into the fair singer's cheeks, and
warming the golden sheen of her hair, had much to do with it. When she
came to "Ben Bolt," that old ditty that has all the pathos of our lost
youth in it, there was a tiny quiver in her voice; and when she
finished, had he been near he would have seen the glint of two unshed
tears in her eyes, for the song carried her thoughts to where her mother
was at rest.

It was the first time he had ever heard that song, and he never
afterwards forgot it.

"Now, Bertie," said Alice coaxingly, after she had finished singing,
"haven't I earned the box?"

It was an appeal that few men could resist, and certainly not Albert
Page, and, true to his promise, he gave her the mysterious box. With
excited fingers she untied the cords, tore off the wrapper, and as she
lifted the cover she saw--a beautiful seal-skin sacque!

We will leave to the reader's imagination any and all the expressions
that followed, for no pen can give them with all their girlish fervor,
and when the exciting incident was over, it was time for retiring.

That evening, with its simple home enjoyments, sincere and wholesome,
its bright open fire, the unaffected cordiality of brother and sister,
and beyond all, the feeling that he was a welcome guest, made those few
hours ones long to be remembered by Frank. To begin with, the cheerful
fire was a novelty to him, and perhaps that added a touch of romance.
Then Alice herself was a surprise. He had been captivated by her
picture, but had half expected to find her a timid country girl, too shy
to do aught but answer "yes" and "no," and look pleasant. Then her voice
was also a surprise, and when he reached the seclusion of his room it
haunted him. And more than that, so intently had its bird-like sweetness
charmed him that it usurped all his thoughts. He had thanked her for the
entertainment, of course, but now that he was alone, it seemed to him
that his formal thanks had been too feeble an expression. "I don't
wonder Bert adores her," he thought; "she is the most winsome,
unaffected, and sweet little lady I ever met. If I were to remain in
this house a week I should be madly in love with her myself."

He was a good deal so, as it was.




CHAPTER XII

A COUNTRY SCHOOLMA'AM


"I have directed our liveryman to send over his best nag and a cutter
this morning," said Albert at breakfast the next day to his friend, "and
you and Alice can take a sleigh-ride and see Sandgate snow-clad. I have
some business matters to attend to."

Later, when he was alone with Alice, he added with a smile: "You need
not feel obliged to wear your new sacque, sis; it's not very cold."

"Oh, you tease!" she replied, but the light in her eyes betrayed her
feelings.

It was a delightful day for a sleigh-ride, for every bush and tree was
covered with a white fleece of snow, and the morning sun added a tiny
sparkle to every crystal. A thicket of spruce was changed to a grove of
towering white cones and an alder swamp to a fantastic fairyland. It was
all new to Frank, and as he drove away with that bright and vivacious
girl for a companion it is needless to say he enjoyed it to the utmost.

"I had no idea your town was so hemmed in by mountains," he said after
they started and he had a chance to look around; "why, you are
completely shut in, and such grand ones, too! They are more beautiful
than the White Mountains and more graceful in shape."

"They are all of that," answered Alice, "and yet at times they make me
feel as if I was shut in, away from all the world. We who see them every
day forget their beauty and only feel their desolation, for a great
tree-clad mountain is desolate in winter, I think. At least it is apt to
reflect one's mood. I suppose you have travelled a great deal, Mr.
Nason?"

"Not nearly as much as I ought to," he answered, "for the reason that I
can't find any one I like to go with me. My mother and sisters go away
to some watering-place every summer and stay there, and father sticks to
business. I either dawdle around where the folks are summers, or stay in
town and hate myself, if I can't find some one to go off on my yacht
with me. The fact is, Miss Page," he added mournfully, "I have hard work
to kill time. I can get a little party to run to Newport or Bar Harbor
in the summer, and that is all. I should like to go to Florida or the
West Indies in the winter, or to Labrador or Greenland summers, but I
can't find company."

Alice was silent for a moment, for the picture of a young man
complaining because he had nothing to do but spend his time and money
was new to her.

"You are to be pitied," she said at last, with a tinge of sarcasm, "but
still, there are just a few who would envy you."

He made no reply, for he did not quite understand whether she meant to
be sarcastic or not. They rode along in silence for a time, and then
Alice pointed to a small square brown building just ahead, almost hid in
bushes, and said:

"Do you see that magnificent structure we are coming to, and do you
notice its grand columns and lofty dome? If you had been a country boy
you would recollect seeing a picture of it in the spelling-book. Take a
good look at it, for that is a temple of knowledge, and it is there I
teach school!"

Frank was silent, for this time the sarcastic tone in her voice was more
pronounced. When they reached it he stopped and said quietly, "Please
hold the reins. I want to look into the room where you spend your days."

He took a good long look, and when he returned he said, "So that is what
you call a temple, is it? And it was in there the little girl wanted to
kiss you because you looked happy?" And then as they drove on he added,
"Do you know, I've thought of that pretty little touch of feeling a
dozen times since you told about it, and when I go home I shall send a
box of candy to you and ask you to do me the favor of giving it to that
little girl."

It was not what she expected he would say, and it rather pleased her.

Conversation is but an exchange of moods, and in spite of their
inspiring surroundings, the moods of those two young people did not seem
to appeal to each other. To Alice, whose constant life of self-denial
had made her feel that the world was cold and selfish, his complaints
seemed little short of sacrilege; and he felt he had made a mess of it
somehow in his really honest desire to be sincere. But two people so
placed must talk, whether they feel like it or not, and so these two
tried hard to be sociable. He wisely allowed her to do the most talking,
and was really interested in her humorous descriptions of
school-teaching. When they were nearly home he said:

"You are not a bit like what I imagined a schoolma'am was like."

"Did you think I wore blue glasses and petted a black cat?" she asked
laughingly.

"The glasses might be a protection to susceptible young men," he
answered, "and for that reason I would advise you to wear them."

"Shall I get some to-morrow to wear while you are here?" she queried
with a smile. "I will if you feel in danger."

"Would you do it if I admitted I was?" he replied, resolving to stand
his ground, and looking squarely at her.

But that elusive young lady was not to be cornered.

"You remind me of a story Bert told once," she said, "about an Irishman
who was called upon to plead guilty or not guilty to the charge of
drunkenness. When asked afterwards how he pleaded he said: 'Bedad, I
give the judge an equivocal answer.' 'And what was that?' said his
friend. 'Begorra, whin the judge axed me was I guilty or not guilty, I
answered, "Was yer grandfather a monkey?" And then he gave me sixty
days.'"

"Well," replied Frank, "that is a good story, but it doesn't answer my
question."

That afternoon when Alice was alone with her brother, he said: "Well,
sis, how do you like my friend?"

"Oh, he means to be nice," she replied, "but he is a little thoughtless,
and it would do him good to have to work for his living a year or two."

Albert looked at his sister, while an amused smile spread over his face,
and then said:

"If you weren't so abominably pretty you wouldn't be so fussy. Most
young ladies would consider the good-looking and only son of a
millionaire absolutely perfect at sight."

"But I don't," she replied, "and if you weren't the best brother in the
world I'd box your ears! 'Abominably pretty!' The idea!"

The two days intervening before Sunday passed all too quickly for the
three young people. One day they drove to a distant country town and had
dinner, and that evening Alice, true to her sex, invited Frank to go
with her to call upon her dearest girl friend. Just why she did this we
will leave to any young lady to answer, if she will. The next day Albert
invited a little party, and that evening they all met at the old mill
pond and had a skating frolic. Secluded as it was, between wooded banks,
it was just the place for that kind of fun, and the young men added
romance to the scene by lighting a bonfire! When Sunday morning came
they of course attended church, and Frank, as promised, found himself
slyly stared at by all the people of Sandgate. He did not pay much
attention to the sermon, but a good deal to a certain sweet soprano
voice in the choir, and when after service Alice joined them, he boldly
walked right away with her and left Albert chatting with a neighbor. It
is certain that this proceeding did not displease her, for no wise young
lady is averse to the assumed protectorship of a good-looking and
well-dressed young man, especially when other girls are looking on.

On the way home she, of course, asked the usual question as to how he
liked the sermon.

"I don't think I heard ten words of it," he replied; "I was kept busy
counting how many I caught looking at me, and whenever the choir sang I
forgot to count. Why was it they stared at me so much? Is a stranger
here a walking curiosity?"

"In a way, yes," answered Alice; "they don't mean to be rude, but a new
face at church is a curio. I'll wager that nine out of ten who were
there this morning are at this moment discussing your looks and
wondering who and what you are."

But all visits come to an end, and Frank, already more than half in love
with the girl who had treated him in a rather cool though perfectly
courteous way, realized that he would soon be not only out of sight, but
out of mind, so far as Alice was concerned. In a way he had been spoiled
by being sought after by managing mammas and over-anxious daughters, and
was unprepared for the slightly indifferent reception he had met with
from Alice. He had been attracted by her face the first time he saw her
picture, and five days' association had not lessened the attraction.

A realization of her cool indifference tinged his feelings that evening
just at dusk, where he had been left alone beside the freshly started
parlor fire, and when the object of his thought happened in, he sat
staring moodily at the flames. She drew a chair opposite, and seating
herself, said pleasantly:

"Why so pensive, Mr. Nason? Has going to church made you feel
repentant?"

"I don't feel the need of repentance except in one way," he answered,
"and that you would not be interested in. If I am looking pensive," he
continued, turning towards her, "it's because I'm going away to-morrow."

It was a step towards dangerous ground, and she realized it, but a
little spice of daring coquetry impelled her to say:

"Tell me what you feel to repent of; I may be able to offer you some
good advice."

He had turned toward the fire again, and sat shading his face with one
hand, and slowly passing his fingers across his forehead. For a moment
he waited, and then answered:

"To be candid, Miss Page, I'm growing ashamed of the useless life I
lead, and it's that I feel to repent of. A few things your brother said
to me three months ago were the beginning, and a remark you made the day
we first went sleighing has served to increase that feeling. Ever since
I left college I have led an aimless life, bored to death by _ennui_,
and conscious that no one was made any happier by my existence. What
Bert said to me, and your remark, have only served to make me realize it
more fully."

They were both on risky ground now, and no one knew it better than
Alice, but she did not lose her head.

"I am very sorry, Mr. Nason," she said pleasantly, "if any words of mine
hurt you even a little. I have forgotten what they were, and wish you
would. The visit which you and Bert are making me is a most delightful
break in the monotony of my life, and I shall be very glad to see you
again." And then rising she added, "If I hurt you, please say you
forgive me, for I must go out and see to getting tea."

It was an adroit escape from a predicament, and she felt relieved. It
must also be stated that her visitor had taken a long step upward in her
estimation.

The last evening was passed much like the first, except that now the
elusive Alice seemed to be transformed into a far more gracious hostess,
and all her smiles and interest seemed to be lavished upon Frank
instead of her brother. It was as if this occult little lady had come to
feel a new and surprising curiosity in all that concerned the life and
amusements of her visitor. With true feminine skill she plied him with
all manner of questions, and affected the deepest interest in all he had
to say. What were his sisters' amusements? Did they entertain much, play
tennis, golf, or ride? Where did they usually go summers, and did he
generally go with them? His own comings and goings, and where he had
been and what he saw there, were also made a part of the grist he was
encouraged to grind. She even professed a keen interest in his yacht,
and listened patiently to a most elaborate description of that craft,
although as a row-boat was the largest vessel she had ever set foot on,
it is likely she did not gain a very clear idea of the "Gypsy."

"Your yacht has a very suggestive name," she said; "it makes one think
of green woods and camp-fires. I should dearly love to take a sail in
her. I have read so much about yachts and yachting that the idea of
sailing along the shores in one's own floating house, as it were, has a
fascination for me."

This expression of taste was so much in line with Frank's, and the idea
of having this charming girl for a yachting companion so tempting, that
his face glowed.

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," he responded, "than to have
you for a guest on my boat, Miss Page. I think it could be managed if I
could only coax my mother and sisters to go, and you and your brother
would join us. We would visit the Maine coast resorts and have no end of
a good time."

"It's a delightful outing you suggest," she answered, "and I thank you
very much; but I wouldn't think of coming if your family had to be
coaxed to go, and then, it's not likely that Bert could find the time."

"Oh, I didn't mean it that way," he said, looking serious, "only mother
and the girls are afraid of the water, that is all."

When conversation lagged Frank begged that she would sing for him, and
suggested selections from Moody and Sankey; and despite her brother's
sarcastic remark that it wasn't a revival meeting they were holding, she
not only played and sang all those time-worn melodies, but a lot of
others from older collections. When retiring-time came, Frank asked that
she conclude with "Ben Bolt."

"I shall not need to recall that song to remind me of you," he said in a
low voice as he spread it on the music rack in front of her, "but I
shall always feel its mood when I think of you."

"Does that mean that you will think of me as sleeping 'in a corner
obscure and alone' in some churchyard?" she responded archly.

"By no means," he said, "only I may perhaps have a little of the same
mood at times that Ben Bolt had when he heard of the fate of his sweet
Alice."

It was a pretty speech and Frank imagined she threw a little more than
usual pathos into the song after it; but then, no doubt his imagination
was biased by his feelings.

When they stood on the platform the next morning awaiting the train, he
said quietly:

"May I send you a few books and some new songs when I get home, Miss
Page? I want to show you how much I have enjoyed this visit."

"It is very nice of you to say so," she replied, "and I shall be glad to
be remembered, and hope you will visit us again."

When the train came in he rather hurriedly offered his hand and with a
"Permit me to thank you again," as he raised his hat, turned away to
gather up the satchels and so as not to be witness to her leave-taking
from her brother.

It was a tactful act that was not lost upon her.




CHAPTER XIII

SOUTHPORT ISLAND


In summer Southport Island, as yet untainted by the tide of outing
travel, was a spot to inspire dreams, poetry, and canvases covered with
ocean lore. Its many coves and inlets where the tides ebbed and flowed
among the weed-covered rocks; its bold cliffs, sea washed, and above
which the white gulls and fish-hawks circled; the deep thickets of
spruce through which the ocean winds murmured, and where great beds of
ferns and clusters of red bunch-berries grew, were one and all left
undisturbed, week in, week out.

At the Cape, where Uncle Terry, Aunt Lissy, and Telly lived their simple
home life, and Bascom, the storekeeper and postmaster, talked
unceasingly when he could find a listener, and Deacon Oaks wondered why
"the grace o' God hadn't freed the land from stuns," no one ever came to
disturb its quietude. Every morning Uncle Terry, often accompanied by
Telly in a calico dress and sunbonnet, rowed out to pull his lobster
traps, and after dinner harnessed and drove to the head of the island to
meet the mail boat, then at eventide, after lighting his pipe and the
lighthouse lamp at about the same time, generally strolled over to
Bascom's to have a chat, while Telly made a call on the "Widder Leach,"
a misanthropic but pious protegée of hers, and Aunt Lissy read the
"Boston Journal." Once in about three weeks, according to weather, the
monotony of the village was disturbed by the arrival of the small
schooner owned jointly by Uncle Terry, Oaks, and Bascom, and which plied
between the Cape and Boston. Once in two weeks services were held as
usual in the little brown church, and as often the lighthouse tender
called and left coal and oil for Uncle Terry. Regularly on Thursday
evenings the few piously inclined, led by Deacon Oaks, gathered in the
church to sing hymns they repeated fifty-two times each year, listen to
a prayer by Oaks, that seldom varied in a single sentence, and heard
Auntie Leach thank the Lord for his "many mercies," though what they
were in her case it would be hard to tell, unless being permitted to
live alone and work hard to live at all was a mercy. The scattered
islanders and the handful whose dwellings comprised the Cape worked
hard, lived frugally, and were unconscious that all around them was a
rocky shore whose cliffs and inlets and beaches were so many poems of
picturesque and charming scenery.

This was Southport in summer, but in winter when the little harbor at
the Cape was ice-bound, the winding road to the head of the island
buried beneath drifts, and the people often for weeks at a time
absolutely cut off from communication with the rest of the world, it was
a place cheerless in its desolation. Like so many woodchucks then, the
residents kept within doors, or only stirred out to cut wood, fodder the
stock, and shovel paths so that the children could go to school. The
days were short and the evenings long, and to get together and spend
hours in labored conversation the only pastime. It was one of those long
evenings, and when Aunt Lissy and Telly were at a neighbor's, and Uncle
Terry, left to himself, was reading every line, including the
advertisements, in the last "Boston Journal," that the following met his
eye:

     WANTED.--Information that will lead to the discovery of an heir to
     the estate of one Eric Peterson, a land-owner and shipbuilder of
     Stockholm, Sweden, whose son, with his wife, child, and crew, were
     known to have been wrecked on the coast of Maine, in March, 187-.
     Nothing has ever been heard of said Peterson or his wife, but the
     child may have been saved. Any one having information that will
     lead to the discovery of this child will be amply rewarded by
     communicating with

     NICHOLAS FRYE,
     -- PEMBERTON SQUARE, BOSTON. _Attorney at Law._

"Wal, I'll be everlastin'ly gol darned!" he exclaimed after he had read
it for the third time. "If this don't beat all natur, I'm a goat."

It was fortunate he was alone, for it gave him time to think the matter
over, and after half an hour of astonishment he decided to say nothing
to his wife or Telly.

"I'll jis' breathe easy an' sag up," he said to himself, "same as though
I was crossin' thin ice, an' if nothin' comes on't nobody'll be the
worse for worryin'."

Then he cut the slip out and hid it in his black leather wallet, and
then wisely cut out the entire page and burned it.

"Wimmin are sich curis creeters they'd be sure to want to know what I'd
cut out o' that page," he said to himself, "an' never rest till I told
'em."

When Aunt Lissy and Telly came home he was as composed as a rock and sat
quietly puffing his pipe, with his feet on top of a chair and pointing
towards the fire.

"Were you lonesome, father?" asked Telly, who usually led conversation
in the Terry home. "We stopped at Bascom's, and you know he never stops
talking."

"He's worse'n burdock burs ter git away from," answered Uncle Terry,
"an' ye can't be perlite ter him unless ye want t' spend the rest o' yer
life listenin'. His tongue allus seemed ter be hung in the middle an'
wag both ways. I wasn't lonesome," he continued, rising and adding a few
sticks to the fire, as the two women laid aside their wraps and drew
chairs up; "I've read the paper purty well through an' had a spell o'
livin' over by-gones," and then, turning to Telly and smiling, he added:
"I got thinkin' o' the day ye came ashore, an' mother she got that
excited she sot the box ye was in on the stove an' then put more wood
in. It's a wonder she didn't put ye in the stove instead o' the wood!"

As this joke was not new to the listeners, no notice was taken of it,
and the three lapsed into silence.

Outside the steady boom of the surf beating on the rocks came with
monotonous regularity, and inside the clock ticked. For a long time
Uncle Terry sat and smoked on in silence, resuming, perhaps, his
by-gones, and then said: "By the way, Telly, what's become o' them
trinkets o' yourn ye had on that day? It's been so long now, 'most
twenty years, I 'bout forgot 'em. I s'pose ye hain't lost 'em, hev ye?"

"Why, no, father," she answered, a little surprised. "I hope not. They
are all in the box in my bureau, and no one ever disturbs them."

"Ye wouldn't mind fetchin' 'em now, would ye, Telly?" he continued after
drawing a long whiff of smoke and slowly emitting it in rings. "It's
been so many years, an' since I got thinkin' 'bout it I'd like to take a
look at 'em, jest to remind me o' that fortunate day ye came to us."

The girl arose, and going upstairs, returned with a small tin box shaped
like a trunk, and drawing the table up in front of Uncle Terry, set the
box down upon it. It is likely that its contents were so many links that
bound the two together, for as he opened it she perched herself on the
arm of his chair, and leaning against his shoulder, passed one arm
caressingly around his neck and watched him take out the contents.

First came a soft, fleecy baby blanket, then two little garments, once
whitest muslin but now yellow with age, and then another smaller one of
flannel. Pinned to this were two tiny shoes of knitted wool. In the
bottom of the box was a small wooden shoe, and though clumsy in
comparison, yet evidently fashioned to fit a lady's foot. Tucked in
this was a little box tied with faded ribbon, and in this were a locket
and chain, two rings, and a scrap of paper. The writing on the paper,
once hastily scrawled by a despairing mother's hand, had almost faded,
and inside the locket were two faces, one a man's with strongly marked
features, the other girlish with big eyes and hair in curls.

These were all the heritage of this waif of the sea who now, a fair girl
with eyes and face like the woman's picture, was leaning on the shoulder
of her foster-father, and they told a pathetic tale of life and death;
of romance and mystery not yet unwoven, and a story not yet told.

How many times that orphan girl had imagined what that tale might be;
how often before she had examined every one of those mute tokens; how
many times gazed with moist eyes at the faces in the locket; and how, as
the years bearing her onward toward maturity passed, had she hoped and
waited, hoping ever that some word, some whisper from that far-off land
of her birth might reach her! But none ever came, and now hope was dead.

And as she looked at those mute relics which told so little and yet so
much of her history, while the old man who had been all that a kind
father could be to her took them out one by one, she realized more than
ever before what a debt of gratitude she owed to him. When he had looked
them over and put them back in the exact order in which they had been
packed, he closed the box, and taking the little hand that had been
caressing his face in his own wrinkled and bony one, held it for a
moment. When he released it the girl stooped, and pressing her lips to
his weather-browned cheek, arose and resumed her seat. Had observant
eyes watched her then, they would have noticed that hers remained closed
for a few moments and that two tears glistened there.

"Wal, ye better put the box away now," said Uncle Terry at last. "I'll
jest go out an' take a look off'n the pint and then it'll be time to
turn in."




CHAPTER XIV

A LEGALIZED PICKPOCKET


"I've got ter go ter Boston," said Uncle Terry to his wife a few days
later. "Thar's some money due us that we ain't sartin we'll git. You an'
Telly can tend the lights for a couple o' nights, can't ye? I won't be
gone more'n that. Bascom's to take me up to the head, an' if the boat's
runnin' I'll be all right."

This plan had cost Uncle Terry a good deal of diplomacy. Not only did he
have to invent a reasonable excuse for going by exciting the fears of
both Bascom and Oaks regarding money really due them, but he had to
allay the curiosity of his wife and Telly as well. In a small village
like the Cape every one's movements were well known to all and commented
on, and no one was better aware of it than Uncle Terry. But go to Boston
he must, and to do so right in the dead of winter, when to take such a
trip was an unheard-of thing, and not excite a small tempest of curious
gossip, taxed his Yankee wit.

At Bath he had a few hours' wait, and went to the bank and drew a
sizable sum of money from his small savings.

"Lawyers are sech sharps, consarn 'em!" he said to himself, "I'd better
go loaded. Most likely I'll come back skinned! I never did tackle a
lawyer 'thout losin' my shirt."

When, after an all-night ride, during which he sat in the smoking-car
with his pipe and thoughts for company, he arrived in Boston, he felt,
as he would phrase it, like a cat in a strange garret. He had tried to
fortify himself against the expected meeting with this Frye, who he felt
sure would, like all his profession, make him pay dearly for any
service. When he entered the rather untidy office of that legal light he
was not surprised to find that its occupant much resembled a vulture.

"Well, sir, what can I do for you?" asked Frye, after his visitor had
introduced himself.

"Wal," answered Uncle Terry, taking a seat and laying his hat on the
floor beside him, "I've come on rather a curis errand;" and taking out
the slip he had a few days before placed in his wallet, he handed it to
Frye with the remark: "That's my errand."

Frye's face brightened.

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Terry," he said, beginning to rub his
hands together. "If you have any facts in your possession that will aid
us in the search for an heir to this estate we shall be glad to pay you
for them, provided they are facts. Now, sir, what is your story?"

Uncle Terry looked at the lawyer a moment before answering.

"I didn't come here to tell all I knew the fust go-off," he said. "I
know all 'bout this shipwreck, an' a good deal more that'll consarn ye,
but fust I want to know who is lookin' for the information, an' what's
likely to cum on't."

It was Frye's turn to stare now.

"This man won't be any easy witness," he thought; and then he said:
"That I am not at liberty to disclose until I know what facts you can
establish, but rest assured that any information you may have, if it be
proved of real value, will entitle you to an ample reward."

"I reckon ye don't quite ketch on ter my drift," replied Uncle Terry. "I
didn't cum here lookin' fer pay, but to see that justice was sarved and
them as had rights got thar dues."

"Well, sir," said Frye, in a suave voice, "we too are looking to see the
ends of justice served, but you must understand that in a matter of this
importance we must make no mistakes. An estate awaits a claimant, but
that claimant must establish his or her identity beyond the shadow of a
doubt, in order, as you must see, that justice may be done."

"Wal," replied Uncle Terry, stroking his chin with his thumb and finger
while he deliberated, "I s'pose I may as well tell ye fust as last. I
cum here for that purpose, an' all I want to fix is, if thar's nothin'
in it ye'd keep it a secret and not raise any false hopes in the minds
o' them as is near and dear to me."

"It's a lawyer's professional duty never to disclose any business
confidence that a client may confide to him," answered Frye with
dignity, "and in this matter I infer you wish to become my client. Am I
right, Mr. Terry?"

"I didn't cum here exactly purposin' to hire ye," answered Uncle Terry;
"I cum to find what's in the wind, an', if 'twas likely to 'mount to
anything, to tell all I knew an' see that them as had rights got
justice. As I told ye in the fust on't, I'm keeper o' the light at the
end o' Southport Island, an' have been for thirty year.

"One night in March, just nineteen year ago comin' this spring, thar was
a small bark got a-foul o' White Hoss Ledge right off'n the pint and
stayed thar hard an' fast. I seen her soon as 'twas light, but thar was
nothin' that could be done but build a fire an' stand an' watch the poor
critters go down. Long toward noon I spied a bundle workin' in, an' when
it struck I made fast to it with a boat hook an' found a baby inside an'
alive. My wife an' I took care on't, and have been doing so ever since.
It was a gal baby and she growed up into a young lady. 'Bout ten years
ago we took out papers legally adoptin' her, an' so she's ourn. From a
paper we found pinned to her clothes, we learned her name was Etelka
Peterson, an' that her mother, an' we supposed her father, went down
that day right in sight o' us. Thar was a locket round the child's neck,
an' a couple o' rings in the box, an' we have kept 'em an' the papers
an' all her baby clothes ever since. That's the hull story."

"How did this child live to get ashore?" asked Frye, keenly interested.

"That's the curis part," replied Uncle Terry; "she was put in a box an'
tied 'tween two feather beds an' cum ashore dry as a duck."

Frye stroked his nose reflectively, stooping over as he did and watching
his visitor with hawk-like eyes.

"A very well-told tale, Mr. Terry," he said at last. "A very well-told
tale indeed! Of course you have retained all the articles you say were
found on the child?"

"Yes, we've kept 'em all, you may be sure," replied Uncle Terry.

"And why did you never make any official report of this wreck and of the
facts you state?" asked Frye.

"I did at the time," answered Uncle Terry, "but nothin' cum on't. I
guess my report is thar in Washington now, if it ain't lost."

"And do I understand you wish to retain me as your counsel in this
matter, and lay claim to this estate, Mr. Terry?" continued Frye.

"Wal, I've told ye the facts," replied Uncle Terry, "an' if the gal's
got money comin' I'd like to see her git it. What's goin' to be the cost
o' doin' the business?"

"The matter of expense is hard to state in such a case as this,"
answered Frye cautiously. "The estate is a large one; there may be, and
no doubt will be, other claimants; litigation may follow, and so the
cost is an uncertain one. I shall be glad to act for you in this matter,
and will do so if you retain me."

It is said that those who hesitate are lost, and at this critical moment
Uncle Terry hesitated.

He did not like the looks of Frye. He suspected him to be what he was--a
shrewd, smooth, plausible villain. Had he obeyed his first impulse he
would have picked up his hat and left Frye to wash his hands with
invisible soap, and laid his case before some other lawyer, but he
hesitated. Frye, he knew, had the matter in his hands and might make the
claim that his story was false and fight it with all the legal weapons
Uncle Terry so much dreaded. In the end he decided to put the matter in
Frye's hands and hope for the best.

"I shall want you to send me a detailed story of this wreck, sworn to by
yourself and wife," said Frye, "also all the articles found on this
child; and I will lay your affidavits before the attorneys for this
estate, and report progress to you later on."

When Uncle Terry turned his face towards home his pocket was lighter by
two hundred dollars. With most of us when we take an uncertain step, the
farther we get from it the more sure we become that it was an unwise
one, and it was so with Uncle Terry.

"I s'posed I'd git skinned," he muttered to himself after he was well on
his way home, "an' I reckon I have! That dum thief, like all the rest o'
lawyers, knows a farmer at sight, an' when he ketches one he takes his
hay! He's taken mine fur sartin an' I begin to think I'm a consarned old
fool, that don't know 'nuff to go in when it rains! How I'm goin' to
git the wimmin to give up them trinkets, 'thout 'lowin' I've lost my
senses, is one too many fur me!"




CHAPTER XV

THE VALUE OF GOOD EXAMPLE


It has been well said that we grow to be like our nearest neighbors, and
the effect of Albert Page's vigorous efforts to attain success was not
lost upon his friend Frank.

After their Christmas visit to Sandgate Albert had applied himself
diligently to the care of Mr. Nason's legal needs. This brought him into
contact with other business men and the fact that John Nason employed
him easily secured for him other clients. In two months he not only had
Mr. Nason's affairs to look after, but all his remaining time was taken
up by others'. He had spent several evenings at the Nasons' home, and
found the family a much more agreeable one than Frank had led him to
expect. Both that young man's sisters were bright and agreeable young
ladies, and though a little affected, they treated him with charming
courtesy and extended to him a cordial invitation to have his sister
make them a visit. A good-looking, well-educated, and well-behaved young
man, no matter if he is poor, will find favor wherever he goes, and
Albert was no exception.

Since the day he had shaken his fist at the closed door of Mr. Frye's
law office he had met that hawk-nosed lawyer twice and received only a
chilling bow. The memory of that contemptible contract he had tacitly
allowed Frye to consider as made brought a blush to his face every time
he thought of it, but he kept his own counsel. Once or twice he had been
on the point of telling Frank the whole story, but had refrained,
feeling it would do no good, and might cause trouble. He was a thorough
believer in the truism that if you give a calf rope enough, he will hang
himself, and a rascal time, he will get caught.

In his intimate relations with John Nason he saw enough to satisfy
himself that Frye's insinuation against that busy man's character was
entirely false. Mr. Nason seldom spent an evening away from his home,
and when he did, it was to attend the theatre with his family.

After their visit to Sandgate Frank and himself naturally drifted into
more intimate relations, and a day seldom passed that Frank did not step
into his office for a chat.

"Don't mind me, Bert," that uneasy man would say when he saw that Page
was busy, "and if you don't want me to talk any time, tell me to shut
up. I shan't feel offended. The fact is, I don't know what to do with
myself. If it were only summer I'd go off on the 'Gypsy,' even if I had
to go alone."

One evening at the club he made Albert a rather surprising proposition.
Albert, who seldom entered into any card games, and only occasionally
played pool or billiards, was in the reading-room as usual enjoying a
cigar and the evening "Journal" when Frank drew up a chair and sat down.
They were alone, and as Page laid his paper aside to chat with Frank,
whom he really liked very much, despite the fact that that young man
bothered him a good deal, Frank said:

"Do you know, I am getting absolutely tired and sick of doing nothing.
Ever since I left college I've been an idler, and I can't say I'm
enjoying it. I arise in the morning and wonder how I can manage to get
through the day. I read the papers, go down to the store, up to the
club, down to your office, back to the club to lunch, and maybe play
pool for an hour or two with some poor devil as lonesome as I am, or go
to the matinee, and in the evening only do I begin to enjoy myself a
little. I am beginning to realize that a life of idleness is a beastly
bore, and I am sick of it. I want you to let me come into your office
and study law; will you?"

Albert looked at him a moment, while an amused smile crept over his
face.

"Do you know what that means?" he responded at last. "Do you know that
to read law means two years, perhaps, of close application and
perseverance? In my case I had the spur of necessity to urge me on and
even with that stimulus it was a dry, hard grind. With you, who have all
the money you need and are likely to, it will be much worse. I respect
your feeling and I admire your determination very much, and, of course,
do not wish to discourage you. You are more than welcome to my office
and law books, and I will gladly help you all I can," and then after a
moment's reflection he added, "I believe it's a wise step, and I'll be
very glad to have you with me. You can help me out in a good many ways
also that will advance you even faster than steady reading."

He was surprised at the look of pleasure that came into Frank's face.

"I had half expected you would try to discourage me," said he, "and it's
very kind of you to promise to help me."

"Why shouldn't I?" answered Page. "I owe you a good deal more than that,
my dear boy, and when you have been admitted we will go into a
partnership if you want to do it."

"Here's my hand on it," said Frank, rising, "and I mean it, too, and if
you will have patience with me I'll stick it out or own up I'm no good
in this world." He seemed overjoyed and for two hours they sat and
talked it over. "When may I begin?" he said finally. "I want to go at it
right away."

"To-morrow morning at nine o'clock sharp," replied Albert, smiling, "and
I warn you I shall keep you grinding eight full hours, six days a week,
and no let-up until July first. But tell me, when did this sensible and
eminently laudable idea enter your head?"

"Well, to be exact, it came to me in the parlor of your house in
Sandgate, just at dark, the last evening I was there, and a remark your
sister made to me was the cause of it."

A droll smile crept over Albert's face at this frank admission, but he
made no reply, and as he scanned his friend's face, now turned slightly
away from him, and recalled that last evening at home, and how Alice had
so persistently devoted herself to the entertainment of this young man,
a revelation came to him.

"So it's that heart-breaker's blue eyes that have begun to work mischief
in Frank's feelings, is it?" he said to himself, after he had left the
club, and he almost laughed aloud at the thought. "Sis has some rather
pronounced ideas about idleness, and maybe she has read my young friend
a lesson in a few words. She is capable of it!"

When Frank, true to his promise, came to the office next morning, Albert
set him to work and made sure to give him all possible encouragement.

"I think far more of you, Frank," he said earnestly, "for this good
resolve, and when you get fairly into it and begin to take an interest
you will be glad you took hold. I believe every one in this world is
happier and healthier for having an occupation, and certainly you will
be."

It must be recorded that Frank showed a persevering spirit as the weeks
went by, and he became, as Page predicted, thoroughly interested, and an
earnest student. In a way, too, he was a help to Albert, for he could
call on him any time to find some references or some decision bearing on
a case in hand. It was soon after Frank's new departure in life that
Alice received a letter from her brother, and among other things he
wrote:

"What was it you said to Frank the last evening of our visit at home? He
has decided to study law in my office and admits his sensible resolution
to do so was the result of a remark you made then. Knowing what a fine
vein of sarcasm you are blessed with (as well as bewitching ways), I am
curious to know what sort of an arrow you drew from your quiver that
evening."

But Albert was not adroit enough to obtain a confession from his
keen-witted sister, and thereby be enabled to joke her a little about
it, for she never replied to his question.




CHAPTER XVI

SWEET ALICE

    "Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?
      Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown,
    Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile,
      And trembled with fear at your frown?"
                                 _Old Song._


Every person we meet in life makes an impression on us, varying from the
faintest shadow that soon vanishes to a vivid one that lasts as long as
memory.

[Illustration: ALICE]

Alice Page's first impression of Frank Nason did not do him justice. She
thought him a big, good-natured, polite boy, rather conscious that he
was likely to be sought after, and disposed to sulk if he wasn't. His
plea for sympathy on the score that his life of idleness was a bore,
which he made the day they went sleighing, only provoked her derision,
and as she was disposed to judge all men by the standard of her
self-reliant brother, he came near awakening contempt on her part. It
was not until the last evening of his visit that she discovered her
mistake and realized that he had more depth of character than she had
thought. It is likely the keen enjoyment which he seemed to feel when
she sang for him had weight, for we are prone to like those who like us,
and it was natural also that she should feel a little gratitude for what
he had done for her brother.

Her life, hidden away as she was in a by-way corner of a country town,
and seeing no one all the week except her small band of pupils, gave her
plenty of time for thought, and there was no young man in the village
whose company she would tolerate if she could help it. Once a week,
usually on Saturday, she received a letter from her brother, and that,
together with the mild excitement of Sunday church-going, was all that
broke the monotony of her life.

A week after the Christmas visit she received a package containing a new
book, three of the latest popular songs, and a box of candy, and pinned
to the candy Frank Nason's card, on the back of which was written: "For
the girl who wanted to kiss her teacher."

She wrote a polite note of thanks, and then, feeling that she would soon
be forgotten by him, and not caring much whether she was or not, settled
down to the unvarying round of her daily life. It was mid-winter, and
two weeks after her brother wrote that Frank had begun studying law in
his office, when she received a letter from that young man that
surprised her. He wrote:

     MY DEAR MISS PAGE: I trust you will pardon me for intruding myself
     upon you, but I wish you to know that a few pointed words spoken by
     you while I was enjoying your hospitality have not been forgotten,
     and have influenced me to make an effort to be something better
     than an idler in the world. Your brother kindly consented to let me
     read law in his office, and I am now hard at it. I do not imagine
     this will interest you, but I felt that you had scant respect for
     useless people, and as you could rightly so regard me, I wanted you
     to know that I am capable of rising above my aimless life.

     I have recalled so many times all the little incidents of my visit
     to your home, and lived over those evenings graced by your
     presence, and lit by a cheerful fire, time and again. Do not think
     me insincere when I assure you they were the most delightful ones I
     ever passed. If you find time to write a line to one who is now a
     worker in the hive instead of a drone, it will be gratefully
     received by me.

To a girl with Alice Page's sympathetic nature and tender feelings,
words like these made her feel she was what she most enjoyed being--an
inspiration and help to others. In this respect Frank Nason had read her
better than she had read him, or else some fortunate intuition had led
him aright. She answered the letter at once, thanking him for his
flattering words, but forbidding him to use any more of them.

"I do not like flattery," she wrote, "because no one ever can feel quite
sure it is sincere. I will answer all your letters if you will promise
not to tell Bert we are corresponding. Not that I am ashamed of it by
any means, but he is inclined to tease me and I love him so dearly I
can't bear to have him do so. The little girl you sent the candy to was
both astonished and grateful. I did not tell her who sent it, for the
fact would have been all over town in a week if I had, and I do not like
to be gossiped about. I merely told her a good fairy had sent it, which
was better."

Once a week thereafter Alice received a long letter from Frank and as
regularly answered it. It is needless to say that she soon began to
anticipate them and that they added much to her monotonous life. Frank
wisely refrained from any expression of love, though Alice felt sure he
was likely to make such expression in person if ever he had an
opportunity to do so. No woman, much less a keenly sensitive young woman
like her, is ever long in doubt as to a man's feelings, and Alice Page,
whose heart had never felt a stronger emotion than love for her brother,
knew the moment she read her admirer's first letter that its
well-considered words were really inspired by Cupid. More than that, she
felt sure that his commendable efforts to become a useful professional
man, instead of a badly bored idler, were due to the hope that the
effort would find favor in her eyes. In all these surmises it is
needless to say her feminine intuition was quite correct.

That her brother also surmised the truth is quite likely, though he
wisely kept these thoughts to himself for good and sufficient reasons.

"Frank is getting along nicely," he wrote Alice, in the early spring; "I
believe he has the making of a capable lawyer in him. He grinds away
harder than I ever did when reading law, and has never yet complained of
how dry and dull it all is. He is a big, warm-hearted fellow, too, and I
am growing more fond of him every day. He is more devoted to me than a
brother, and we have made a lot of plans for a month's outing on the
'Gypsy' this coming summer. I like his family very much, and Mrs. Nason
and both her daughters have invited me to bring you down when your
school closes to make them a visit. I think I shall run up in June, and
stay over Sunday, and bring Frank with me. I imagine he would like to
come, for once in a while I overhear him humming 'Ben Bolt.'"

"A very nicely worded little plot; but don't you imagine, my dear Bert,
I do not see through it!" was the mental comment of Alice when she read
the letter. "The young gentleman has bravely set to work to become a man
instead of a cipher; my brother likes him; he whistles 'Ben Bolt;' my
brother is to bring him up here again; I am expected to fall in love
with Mr. Cipher that was, and help him spend his money, and I am to be
barely tolerated by mamma and both sisters! A most charming plot,
surely, but it takes two to make a bargain. I think I know just the sort
of people mamma and sisters are. He told me she read him a lecture every
time he danced twice with a poor girl, and now I am expected to walk
into the same trap, and cringe to her ladyship, for the sin of being
poor. I guess not! I'll teach school till I die first, and he can think
of me as having a 'slab of granite so gray' to keep me in place."

But this diplomatic "Sweet Alice" wrote to her brother: "I am delighted
that you are coming up, for I am so lonesome, and the weeks drag so
hard! Bring your friend up, by all means, and I'll sing 'Ben Bolt' until
he hates the name of Sweet Alice. The country will be looking finely
then, and he can go over to the cemetery, and select the corner I am to
occupy. Pardon the joke, and don't tell him I uttered it."

To Frank she wrote: "Be sure to come up with Bert. I will sing all the
old songs, and the new ones you have sent me, as well. If you come up
on a Thursday you may visit my school Friday afternoon, if you will
behave, and then you can see the girl you sent the candy to. She wears a
calico pinafore, and comes to school barefooted."

Consistency, thy name is woman!

From all this it may be inferred that Alice was just a little
coquettish, and that verdict is no doubt true. Like all her charming sex
who are blessed with youth and beauty, she was perfectly conscious of
it, and quite willing to exert its magic power on a susceptible young
man with dark curly hair and earnest brown eyes. Neither was she
impervious to the fact that this said young man was a possible heir to
plenty of money. She never had much lavished on her, and, while not
having suffered for the necessaries of life, she had had to deny herself
all luxuries, and, most vexatious denial of all, a new gown and hat many
times when she needed them. Her tactful reply to her brother's letter,
coupled with his own sincere affection for her, brought her a response
by return mail in the form of a check for one hundred dollars, with
explicit orders to spend every cent of it before he came.

Whether she did or not we will leave to the imagination of all young
ladies so situated.




CHAPTER XVII

A BY-WAY SCHOOLHOUSE


Sandgate was just budding forth in a new suit of green, the meadows
dotted with white and yellow daisies, and here and there a bunch of
tiger lilies waved in the breeze, when one Friday afternoon the teacher
at the north district school heard a knock.

The class in reading, then in evidence, were halted in their sing-song
of concert utterance and Alice Page opened the door to find two stalwart
young men standing there. With a quick impulse of propriety she stepped
out and closed the door behind her, only to find herself clasped in a
big brother's arms and to receive a smack that was heard by every pupil
in the little schoolroom. With a very red face she freed herself and
then presented a small hand to the other young man with the remark:

"I think you are both just as mean as you can be to surprise me in this
way!"

Her eyes told a different tale, however, and when explanations were duly
made, the two visitors were invited inside and given seats. The class
in reading was then dismissed and that in spelling called to what was
now seemingly to them an unexpected misery. A bombshell, or a ghost at
the window, would not have produced any more consternation than those
two strange visitors. This class, that one by one filed up in front of
the teacher's desk, and ranged themselves in line, stood trembling, and
the boy at the head, to whom was put the first word, was unable to utter
a sound. The next one spelled it wrong, and it was tried by two others
and finally spelled right by a girl who could hardly do better than
whisper it. She was told to go to the head, and after that the rest did
better. The search for knowledge in that school had received a set-back,
however, for that day, and Alice decided to do the wisest thing and
dismiss her band of pupils without delay. When the room was cleared of
them she turned to her two callers and said with mock seriousness: "The
first class in deportment will now define propriety."

"Propriety is--is--Propriety," replied her brother, "consists in two
young men surprising one small and very saucy schoolma'am and letting a
lot of imprisoned boys and girls escape to the woods and enjoy an extra
hour of freedom."

"Not right," said Alice severely; "the next pupil will now answer."

"Propriety," answered Frank, "consists in two young men escaping from
the city and relieving one tired school-teacher from her duty and
permitting her to go and gather flowers if she will. But which was the
girl you told the fairy tale to, Miss Page?" he added, as Alice began
putting her books away.

"The only one in the spelling-class you two bold bad men didn't scare
half out of her wits," she answered.

Frank walked about the room, peering curiously at its rather primitive
fittings. Around three sides extended a breast-high shelf, carved and
cut by many a jack-knife, and beneath it a narrower one where books and
slates were stowed. In front were rows of backless benches for seats,
and in the centre of the room an open stove shaped like a fireplace.
Around this were three long, low seats with backs, and on the sides
where the door was, a desk stood on a low platform. Back of this a large
blackboard formed part of the wall, one end covered by the
multiplication tables. No part of the room was plastered, and overhead
the bare brown stringers held extra benches kept there for use on
examination days.

"So this is what you call a temple of learning," he remarked, as he
surveyed the barn-like room; "it is a curiosity to me, and the first
time I was ever in an old-time country schoolhouse. I should like to
peep through one of the knot-holes some day, and watch the performances,
and hear a scared boy speak a piece."

"You had better not try it," answered Alice, "unless you want two or
three farmers to swoop down on you, armed with scythes, and demanding to
know what you are doing there."

When she had locked the schoolhouse door they got into the carriage the
two young men had come in, and left the forlorn little temple to the
solitude of the trees and bushes that almost hid it from sight.

"I will stop in the village," said Albert, as they drove away, "and
leave you two to go home or take a ride, as suits you best; only mind,
be home by tea-time, for I shall be hungry."

There is no time when a drive along wooded country roads is more
charming than when the trees are fast growing green, and the meadows
spangled with daisies and buttercups.

"Let's go around by the mill-pond," said Alice, after leaving her
brother in the village; "that's where we went skating last Christmas,
and the road to it follows the brook up a mile. We may find a few
lilies in the pond."

The brook beside which they were soon walking the horse was a charming
bit of scenery as it came leaping over mossy ledges, laughing,
chattering, and filling the pools with foam flecks, and the old mill,
with its great wheel dripping and clattering, and the mill itself,
proved even a greater curiosity to Frank than the schoolhouse. He
hitched the horse, and helping his fair companion to alight, the two
went inside the mill and watched the rumbling wheels. Alice introduced
her escort to the miller, and after they had been shown the mysteries of
grinding he invited them out to the pond, and after bailing the old
leaky boat so it was usable, the two visitors started after the lilies.

"Mind you don't tip me over," said Alice. "I can't swim."

"If I do I'll rescue you or drown with you," he answered gallantly. What
silly nothings these two young people uttered as they made the circuit
of that long wood-bordered mill-pond need not be recorded. One at least
was just tasting the first sweet illusion of love, and the glassy
surface of the water that reflected the trees bending over it, the
bunches of water flag growing here and there, and the scattered patches
of broad lily pads with now and then a white blossom, made a most
picturesque background for the girl who sat in the stern. Her piquant
face, shaded by a broad sun-hat, was fairer to his eyes than any of the
lilies she plucked, and as she drew one sleeve up a little to reach for
them, the round arm and dimpled hand she thrust into the water looked
tempting enough to kiss. The miller had shut the gate and gone home when
they returned to the mill, and when Alice, with both her wet hands full
of lilies, was helped into the carriage, Frank said: "I am sorry that
dusty old miller has gone. I wanted to give him five dollars for his
kindness."

"He would think you insane if you did," answered Alice.

"Many a man has lost his wits with less provocation," replied Frank
pointedly, "and I feel indebted to him for his help to one of the most
charming hours I ever passed."

"That is all right," responded Alice; "he has known me ever since I was
a little tot in short dresses and rode to mill with father. He would do
more for me than bail his boat out."

"Do you know," remarked Frank, when they had left the mill behind and
were driving through a bit of woods, "that I have anticipated this visit
for weeks? I know scarcely anything about the country and it is all a
revelation to me. I've seen pictures of old mills and ponds covered with
lilies, but no painter can ever put the reality on canvas. Why, that
great wheel covered with moss and churning away all day, so steadily,
with a willow bending over it, is a poem in itself!"

"The mill was built over a hundred years ago," observed Alice, "and has
been grinding away ever since. I love to visit it, for it takes me back
to childhood and," she added a little sadly, "it makes me live over the
happiest days of my life, when father used to take me with him
everywhere he went."

"'But the mill will never grind with the water that has passed,'" quoted
Frank, "'and the tender grace of a day that is dead will never come back
again, 'tis said.' I wish I had been country born. I think I've missed
countless pages of pleasant memories. Do you know," he added, turning to
his companion, "I am rapidly falling in love with the country and--and
its pretty sights?"

It was in his heart to say "you" as he saw the half-pathetic expression
on his companion's face and noted the sad droop of her sweet mouth, but
his courage failed him.

He was enough in love with her already to begin to feel afraid of her.
"I must bide my time," he thought; "she is not to be won easily, and a
word too soon may spoil all."

"Whose idea was it to pounce upon me that way at school?" exclaimed
Alice suddenly, throwing off her retrospective mood and smiling again.
"Was it yours or Bert's?"

"I confess I did it with my little hatchet," answered Frank; "I coaxed
Bert to do it. We had to take the train at five o'clock in the morning
and have coffee and rolls at the station for breakfast and pie and
sandwiches for dinner."

"And all to surprise one poor little schoolma'am and break up her
school," put in Alice; "was it worth all that annoyance?"

"Up to the present moment," answered Frank, "I must honestly say it was.
This drive and the mill I consider cheap at any price."

"I don't mean this part of the surprise," said Alice, blushing a little
at his open admiration, "and you know it." And then in self-defence she
added, "What has become of the 'Gypsy'? Bert writes me that you two are
planning trips in her already."

"She is still in winter quarters," answered Frank. "I've been too busy
studying law to do more than think of her. I've reformed, you know."

Alice made no reply. The memory of what he had so evidently wished her
to infer regarding his reasons for this new departure came to her in an
instant and brought a little wonderment as to the possible outcome of
it. Turn which way she would, and propose what topic she might, he
seemed bound to use it as a vehicle of his undisguised admiration. She
had wished to consider him as a friend, because he had been a friend to
her adored brother when that brother needed one, and while she had
written him a dozen chatty letters which might be printed for all the
privacy they contained, she had studiously refrained from allowing him
to infer, even, that she had any special interest in his actions. That
he came to woo her, he was plainly allowing her to infer by every word
and look, and she had feminine wit enough to see that it was earnest
wooing, and not the simulated article usually designated as gallantry.

"I must avoid giving him opportunities," she said to herself, "or he
will make some rash declaration and spoil our pleasant acquaintance."

When they arrived home Albert was on the piazza and Aunt Susan had
supper waiting. The table was set with blue ware of a very old and
quaint pattern, and when Alice had filled a bowl with lilies for a
centrepiece they gathered around and "passed things" in true country
fashion. The evening was unusually warm for June, and after the two
young men had smoked and chatted for half an hour, Alice appeared
dressed in spotless white, with a half-open lily in her hair and another
at her throat. The moon, which was nearing its full, shone through the
open spaces of the vine-clad porch and added an ethereal touch to the
sylph-like picture she presented, and one that was certainly not lost
upon Frank at least.

"Well," she remarked cheerfully, as she seated herself near her brother,
"my time is yours, and what can I do to entertain you?"

"I had planned to take Frank to a trout brook to-morrow morning,"
responded Albert, "and in the afternoon you and he can hunt for
mill-ponds and grottoes if you like, or gather laurel."

"And leave me alone all the forenoon!" put in Alice. "No, thank you. I'm
shut up for five days and you can't get rid of me so easily. Why can't I
go too?"

"I'm agreeable," replied her brother, "only a trout brook is not nice
walking for a lady."

"I'm aware of that," she responded, "and you two can go fishing and I'll
hunt for laurel in the meantime. We can take a basket of lunch with us
and make a day of it in the woods." Then, as a possible contingency
presented itself to her, she added, "Why not let me invite my friend,
Abby Miles, to go for company? She and I can pick laurel, and when you
have caught all the harmless little trout you want, we can meet where we
leave the wagon and have a picnic."

"That suits me," said her brother, and without waiting for further
discussion this diplomatic fairy in white arose and remarked, "I'll get
a shawl, and then I'll trouble you, Mr. Nason, to escort me over to
Abby's. It's only a few rods, and I want you to meet her. She's ever so
nice."

From this it may be inferred that our "Sweet Alice" had resolved to
protect herself against any romantic _tête-à-têtes_ in the woods with a
certain well-intentioned but presuming young man who might desire to
play Romeo.

This was not quite to his taste, but he had the good sense not to show
it, and all the next day he divided his attentions impartially between
the two young ladies. The plan as mapped by Alice was carried out to the
letter, and when the two young men joined the girls at noon they found a
broad flat rock in the woods had been covered with a tablecloth and
spread with a tempting meal. The girls had gathered great bunches of
that beautiful flower pink laurel, and a cluster of it decked the
table. After dinner our imperious Alice insisted that they visit the
mill-pond once more, and when they returned at night, with two baskets
of trout, and laurel and pond lilies enough to stock a flower stand, the
day was voted an eminent success.

Frank made one error, however, for just before they left the mill he
slipped away unobserved, and finding the miller, put a bit of paper into
his hand with the remark, "Keep this to pay for the boat," and left him
hurriedly. When the old man made examination he found he had a
five-dollar bill. To surprises of this kind he was not accustomed, and
before noon the next day there wasn't a man, woman, or child in Sandgate
who had not heard of it.




CHAPTER XVIII

VILLAGE GOSSIP

    "What care I what the world may say,
    So long as I have my way to-day?--
      For this dear old world,
      This queer old world,
    With tongue like sands of the sea,
      Is never so gay
      As when wagging away,
    And talking of you and of me."


That evening Frank begged for music, and Alice sung for two long hours.
At least they might have seemed long to any but an enraptured young man
who had for the entire day been kept from uttering one of the many
love-lorn words that filled his heart. Albert, who had been informed by
Alice that if he deserted her for a single moment that evening or the
next he need never bring his friend there again, sat outside on the
porch and close by the window, smoking incessantly and smiling to
himself at the clever tactics of his charming but coy sister. When the
concert was ended he observed, "If there's one song in the house that
you have not sung, Alice, I wish you would sing it. I hate to have you
omit any."

"I have only sung what I was asked to," she replied; "is not that so,
Mr. Nason?"

"That is true," replied he boldly, "and you have not sung one that I
wouldn't enjoy hearing again to-night."

"Oh, I have enjoyed them all," said Albert, "only I thought you might
have missed one, and as Frank remarked coming home that he was hungry
for music, I wanted him satisfied."

The next day, as usual, they attended church, only this time all three
walked back together, although Albert felt that he was one too many, and
all the afternoon and evening it was the same. But Alice was
graciousness personified. All her jokes and smiles and all her
conversation were lavished upon Frank. It may be that she wished to make
amends for the opportunities she knew he was anxious to obtain but could
not, for the most charming of women have a little of the feline instinct
in their nature, and whether there is any response to a man's wooing in
their hearts or not, they love to enjoy their power. Several times
Frank, who intuitively felt she did not wish to be left alone with him,
started to ask her to take a walk that Sunday evening, but each time his
discretion prevailed. "If she is willing to listen to any love-making,
she has tact enough to give me a chance," he thought, "and unless she
is, I'd better keep still." Which would show he had at least a faint
inkling of woman's ways. The evening was one to tempt Cupid, for the
moonlight fell checkered through the half-naked elms along the roadway,
and where here and there a group of maples stood was a bit of shadow.
The whippoorwills had just returned to Sandgate, and over the meadows
scattered fireflies twinkled. The houses along the way to the village
were wide apart and the evening air just right for a loitering walk. To
Frank, anxious to say a few words that would further his hopes in the
direction of this bewitching girl, it seemed a waste of good time not to
take advantage of the evening. It was almost past, and the lights in the
houses across the valley had long since vanished when he obtained a
little consolation.

The charm of the evening had stilled conversation and no one had spoken
for a long time when he said, rather disconsolately, "My anticipated
visit is almost over. May I ask you to go in and sing just one song for
me, Miss Page?"

"With pleasure," she responded in her sweetest tone, "what shall it be?"

"I will leave that to your selection," he replied.

Without a word she led the way in and began searching among the pile of
music on the piano, and finding what she wanted, opened and spread the
music on the rack.

It was "Ben Bolt."

She sang it in a minor key, and as the opening words,

    "Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,"

floated out on the still evening air, they seemed to him fraught with a
new meaning and that a veritable sweet Alice was bidding him, another
Ben Bolt, not to forget her. When the last note had faded into the night
air, she turned her now serious eyes toward him and said:

"Did I guess right?"

How much he longed to take that fair girl in his arms then and there and
ask her to be his own sweet Alice need not be specified. For a moment
her tender blue eyes met his brown ones, and then they fell.

"I am glad I did not make a mistake," she said softly.

"I thank you," he almost whispered, "and there won't be many waking
moments in my future when I shall not think of--sweet Alice!"

It was not much of a love scene, but to him it seemed a wide-open door
of hope, and when many miles separated them, and for days, weeks, and
months afterward, even when doing his best to crowd dull law reports
into his brain, the one tender glance she gave him and the tones of her
voice came back with unfailing accuracy.

There is no spot where every one knows everybody else's business and
discusses it that is quite equal in this way to a small country town,
and Sandgate was no exception. The first visit of Frank Nason to the
Page home, his sleigh-rides with Alice, and his appearance at church had
caused no end of comment. It was known that he had been a classmate of
Albert's and came from Boston, and later Aunt Susan vouch-safed the
information that she "guessed he came from one o' the first families and
that he appeared right well behaved."

It was all she really did know, for both Alice and her brother were
considerate of her failings and knew it was not safe to discuss their
visitor in her presence. The tempest of gossip had not more than half
quieted down when it received a regular boom from his second coming. The
pupils of the north end district school spread the news of their
teacher's unexpected callers; that they heard her kiss one, and which
one they did not know; and that she had dismissed school at once and
gone on with the stranger. Old Amos Curtis, the miller, told of their
visit, and, wonder upon wonder, how the next day "her beau" had given
him a five-dollar bill "jest fer lettin' 'em use a leaky old boat fer an
hour."

The buxom Abby Miles had the best and longest story to tell, and her
praise of Mr. Nason, how polite he was, and "how he couldn't keep his
eyes off'n Alice all the afternoon," was whispered to every girl she
knew. The five-dollar incident created the most gossip, however. The
miller had remarked that a "young feller who threw money 'round that way
must be rich," and that remark soon grew into a story that Alice Page's
beau was worth a million, and that she was engaged to him.

As might be expected, the subject of all this gossip heard none of it
until the storm had reached alarming proportions. Some of the village
swains who had tried to pay court to her and failed were inclined to
sneer at the "smart young man from the city" who had cut them out; but
the older people and the girls were disposed to congratulate her upon
what they considered her good luck. It was this inclination that led
Mrs. Mears to be the first one to tell the extent of the gossip.

"They tell me," said that worthy matron to Alice one Sunday, after
church, "that you ain't likely to teach school after this summer."

"And why not?" answered Alice, conscious that she was likely to hear a
choice bit of gossip; "don't I give satisfaction?"

"Oh, 'tain't that," was the answer; "I guess you can imagine the reason
and I want to be the first to congratulate you. They tell me he's worth
a pile o' money, an' he's sartinly well favored, so far as looks goes,
but then, 'handsome is as handsome does' was allus my motto."

Alice colored.

"Do you mean Mr. Nason, my brother's friend?" she said nervously.

"Why, who else would I mean?" responded Mrs. Mears. "I've heard that you
was to be married this fall, and that he is worth a million. They say he
told Amos Curtis he was, though I don't believe that, but anyway, Amos
says he gave him five dollars 'jest fer usin' his old boat that wa'n't
worth splittin' up for kindlin's!'"

It was all out now, and in a moment Alice saw through the whole story
and up to its source. For one instant she felt as if the entire town
was staring at her, and grew correspondingly red. It was unfortunate,
for several besides Mrs. Mears were observing her and drew their own
conclusions. As for the worthy gossiper who had enlightened Alice, the
blush she saw rise on her cheeks and spread until it glowed all over her
face and throat was confirmation enough.

"It's not true, not one word of it," exclaimed Alice angrily, "and if
you care for me one bit, I wish you would tell everybody I said so."

She waited to hear no more, nor for Aunt Susan, who had lingered to chat
with some one, but walked home alone and hurriedly, as if to hide
herself. Once in the silent house, she began to cool off.

"I won't believe he told Amos he was worth a million," she said to
herself,--"he isn't so stupid as that; but I am afraid the silly boy did
give him five dollars, which has started all this gossip."

When Aunt Susan came in she fairly pounced upon her. "Why haven't you
told me, auntie, about all this gossip that's going the rounds regarding
Mr. Nason and myself? I know you have heard it."

"It's all nonsense, Alice," answered that lady rather sharply, "and you
are foolish to listen to 'em. I've heard it, of course, but so long as
it's no discredit to you, why, let it go into one ear and out t'other,
same as I do! Folks must talk in this town, an' what they're sayin'
'bout you ought to make you feel proud--that a young fellow like him,
and worth money, wanted to come courtin', an' he certainly showed he
did, or I'm no judge."

It was homely advice, and from the standpoint of Aunt Susan, as well as
most of the world-wise matrons of Sandgate, it was good advice.

"He's got Aunt Susan on his side as well as Bert," Alice thought, "and I
am glad I kept him at a distance now, just to pay him for being so silly
with his money."

Late that afternoon Alice called upon Abby Miles, and talked about
everything except the subject she most wanted to talk about, and then,
as Abby usually had a Sunday evening caller, Alice came home at dusk.
Never before had the house seemed so lonesome, and as she sat on the
porch and tried to talk with Aunt Susan her thoughts were elsewhere.

When the lights across the valley, which served as curfew by saying
bed-time when they went out, had disappeared, she came in, and seating
herself in the dark at the piano softly played the chords and hummed the
words of a song which need not be mentioned.

"It'll come out all right," said Aunt Susan to herself, and she waited
till Alice called to her to come in and go to bed.




CHAPTER XIX

PLOTS AND PLANS


"The best laid schemes o' mice and men," etc., proved itself true in
Frank Nason's case. He had consoled himself during the many months of
hard study with visions of a yachting-trip in July and August, when
perhaps in some manner Alice Page could be induced to come, with his
mother and sisters to chaperone her, and her brother and some other
friends to complete the party.

He had the "Gypsy" put in first-class shape and all her state-rooms
refurnished, and one in particular, which he intended Alice should
occupy, upholstered in blue. So well formed were his plans that he timed
the start so as to utilize the July moon for the first ten days, and
mapped out a trip taking in all the Maine coast, spending a week at Bar
Harbor and then a run up as far east as Annapolis Bay and the coast of
Acadia.

He had described all the charms of this trip to Alice and extended to
her the most urgent invitation. He had obtained her brother's promise to
supplement it and also to make one of the party, and he had persuaded
his sister Blanch to aid him with his mother, but he had met
discouragement on all sides. In the first place, Alice wrote it was
doubtful if she could go. It would be a delightful outing, and one she
would enjoy, but it would not be right to leave Aunt Susan alone for so
long, and then as her school did not close until the last of June, she
would have no time to get ready. These were not the sole reasons for her
reluctance, and in fact she made no mention of what was her principal
reason. He did not understand that Alice Page was too proud-spirited to
appear willing to put herself in his way and accept an invitation having
for its ultimate object the giving of an opportunity to him to court
her. Then to accept his family's protectorship and hospitality for that
same end was even more obnoxious. With true feminine discretion she did
not dare confide this reason to her brother, and perhaps it was wise she
did not.

To cap the climax of Frank's discomfiture, when July came his mother
announced that she had decided to go to the mountains for the summer,
and then he saw his nicely laid plans were to be an utter failure.

"It's no use, Bert," he said to his friend one evening, "I wanted your
sister to go to Maine with us, and mother and the girls and a few more
to make a party, but it's no go. I can't induce your sister to join us,
and it's no use if she would, for mother has determined to go to
Bethlehem, and that settles it. I feel like going out and getting full.
If you and I have any outing on the yacht, we must make up a gander
party."

"That suits me just as well as, and in fact better than, the other
plan," replied Albert consolingly. "If we have a lot of ladies along we
must dance attendance upon them, and if not we can fish, smoke, play
cards, sing, or go to sleep when we feel like it. I tell you, Frank," he
continued, evidently desiring to cheer up that young man, "girls are all
right as companions at home or at balls and theatres, but on a yacht
they are in the way. Not only are they liable to seasickness, but at
every bit of rough water they will get scared and make no end of
trouble."

It was very good philosophy and to a certain extent true, although it
did not agree with Frank's feelings, but then it must be remembered that
he was suffering from the pangs of love, while his mentor was not.

A week afterward, and early one bright morning, the "Gypsy," with
skipper, crew, and a party of eight jolly young men on board, sailed out
of Boston and that night dropped anchor under the lee of an island in
Casco Bay. She remained there one full day and the next ran to Boothbay
and found shelter in a landlocked cove forming part of the coast line of
Southport Island. It was after dinner next day, and while the rest of
the party were either playing cards or napping in hammocks under the
awning, that Albert Page took one of the boats, his pipe, and sketch
book, and rowed down the coast a mile to an inlet he had noticed the day
before. The outer point of this was formed by a bold cliff that he
desired to sketch, and pulling the boat well up behind the inner point,
tying the painter to a rock and taking the cushions along, he found a
shady spot and sat down. The sloping rock he selected for a seat was a
little damp, but he thought nothing of it, and lighting his pipe began
sketching. He worked for an hour, putting the weed-draped rocks and long
swells that broke over them into his book, and then, lulled perhaps by
the monotonous rhythm of the ocean, lay back on the cushions and fell
asleep. The next he knew he was awakened by a cold sensation and found
the tide had risen until it wet his feet. Hastily getting up, he took
the cushions and returned to where he had left the boat, only to find it
had disappeared. The rising tide had lifted the boat and painter from
the rocks, and it was nowhere to be seen.

"There must be some road back up on the island," he thought, "that will
lead me near the cove where the 'Gypsy' is," and still retaining the
cushions, he started to find it. But he was a stranger to Southport
Island and the farther away from the sea he got, the thicker grew the
tangle of scrub spruce and briers. It was too thick to see anywhere, and
after a half hour of desperate scrambling, the afternoon sun began to
seem about due east! He had long since dropped the cushions, and
finally, in sheer exhaustion, sat down on a rock to collect himself. "It
looks as though I'm billed to stay here all night," he thought, as he
noted the lowering sun, "and nobody knows how much longer! There must be
a road somewhere, though, and I'm going to find it if the light lasts
long enough." He started once more and had not gone ten rods ere he came
to one, and then he breathed easier. His clothes were torn, his hands
and face scratched by briers, and to save himself he couldn't make it
seem but that the sun was setting in the east! He sat down to think. All
sound of the ocean was gone and a stillness that seemed to crawl out of
the thicket was around him. He rested a few moments more, and then
suddenly heard the sound of wheels and presently saw, coming around the
curve, an old-fashioned carryall, worn and muddy, and, driving the horse
at a jog trot, a man as dilapidated-looking as the vehicle. Gladdened
at the sight, he arose, and holding up his hand as a signal, halted the
team. "Excuse me, sir," he said to the man, who eyed him curiously, "but
will you tell me where I am?"

"Wal," was the answer in a slow drawl, "ye'r' on Southport Island, and
'bout four miles from the jumpin' off place. Whar might ye be goin'? Ye
look bushed."

"I am," answered Page, "and badly bushed too. I lost my boat over back
here on the shore, and have had a cheerful time among the Mohawk briers.
I belong to a yacht that is anchored in a cove of this island, I can't
tell where, and if you will take me to her I'll pay you well."

The man in the wagon laughed.

"Say, stranger," he observed with a chuckle, "you 'mind me o' the feller
that got full and wandered round for a spell till he fetched up to a
house, an' sed to the man that cum to the door, 'If you will tell me who
I am, or whar I am, or whar I want ter go, I'll give ye a dollar!'"

Page had to laugh in spite of his plight, for the humorous twinkle in
the old man's eyes as he uttered his joke was infectious.

"I'd like ter 'commodate ye," he added, "but as I'm carryin' Uncle Sam's
mail, an' must git home an' tend the light, and as ye don't know whar
ye want ter go, ye best jump in an' go down to Saint's Rest, whar I
live, an' in the mornin' we'll try an' hunt up yer boat."

It seemed the only thing to do, and Albert availed himself of the
chance.

"Can you tell the spot where you found me?" he said to the man as they
started on. "I'd like to go back there to-morrow and find my cushions."

"Wal," was the answer, "as I've druv over this road twice a day for nigh
onto thirty year, I'm tolerable familiar with it. My name's Terry, an'
I'm keeper o' the light at the Cape, an' carry the mail to sorter piece
out on. Who might ye be?"

"My name's Page, and I'm from Boston, and a lawyer by profession,"
replied Albert.

Uncle Terry eyed him rather sharply.

"I wouldn't 'a' took ye fer one o' them dern pickpockets," he said, "ye
look too honest. I ain't much stuck on lawyers," he added, with a
chuckle. "I've had 'sperence with 'em. One of 'em sold me a hole in the
ground onct, an' it cost me the hull o' twenty years' savin's! You'll
'scuse me fer bein' blunt--it's my natur."

"Oh, I don't mind," responded Albert laughingly; "not all of my
profession are thieves, though some are. You mustn't judge us all by
one rascal."

They drove on, and as they jogged up and down the sharp hills he caught
sight here and there of the ocean, and alongside the road, which
consisted of two ruts, a path, and two grass-grown ridges, he saw wild
roses in endless profusion. On either hand was an interminable thicket.
In the little valleys grew masses of rank ferns, and on the ridges,
interspersed between the wild roses, clusters of red bunch-berries. The
sun was almost down when they reached the top of a long hill and he saw
at its foot a small harbor connected with the ocean by a narrow inlet,
and around it a dozen or more brown houses. Beyond was a tangle of rocks
and, rising above them, the top of a white lighthouse. Uncle Terry, who
had kept up a running fire of questions all the time, halted the horse
and said:

"Ye can now take yer first look at Saint's Rest, otherwise known as the
Cape. We ketch some lobsters an' fish here an' hev prayer-meetin's once
a week." Then he chirruped to the horse and they rattled down the hill
to a small store where he left a mail pouch, and then followed a winding
road between the scattered houses and out to the point, where stood a
neat white dwelling close beside a lighthouse.

"I'll take ye into the house," said Uncle Terry as the two alighted,
"an' tell the wimmin folks to put on an extra plate, an' then I'll put
up the hoss."

"I'm afraid I'm putting your family to some inconvenience," responded
Albert, "and as it is not dark yet, I will walk out on the point. I may
see the yacht and save you all trouble."

The sun, a ball of fire, was almost at the horizon, the sea all around
lay an unruffled expanse of dark blue, undulating with the ground swells
that caught the red glow of the sinking sun as they came in and broke
upon the rocks. Albert walked on to the highest of the shore rocks and
looked about. There was no sign of the "Gypsy," and only one boat was
visible, and that a dory rowed by a man standing upright. Over the still
waters Albert could detect the measured stroke of his oars. That and the
low rumble of the ground swells, breaking almost at his feet, were the
only sounds. It was like a dream of solitude, far removed from the world
and all its distractions. For a few moments he stood contemplating the
ocean alight with the setting sun's red glow, the gray rocks at his feet
and the tall white lighthouse towering above him, and then started
around the point. He had not taken ten steps when he saw the figure of a
girl leaning against a rock and watching the setting sun. One elbow was
resting on the rock, her face reposing in her open hand and fingers half
hid in the thick masses of hair that shone in the sunlight like
burnished gold. A broad sun-hat lay on the rock, and the delicate
profile of her face was sharply outlined against the western sky.

She had not heard Albert's steps, but stood there unconscious of his
scrutiny. He noted the classic contour of her features; the delicate
oval of her lips and chin; and his artist eye dwelt upon and admired her
rounded bosom and perfect shoulders. Had she posed for a picture, she
could not have chosen a better position, and so alluring, and withal so
sweet and unconscious, that for a moment he forgot all else, even his
own rudeness in standing there and staring at her. Then he recovered
himself, and turning, softly retraced his steps so as not to disturb
her. Who she was he had no idea, and was still wondering, when he met
Uncle Terry, who at once invited him into the house.

"This 'ere's Mr. Page, Lissy," he said, as they entered, and met a
stout, elderly, and gray-haired woman; "I found him up the road a spell,
an' wantin' to know whar he was!"

Albert bowed, and was surprised to see her advance and greet him with a
cordial handshake.

"I am sorry to intrude," he said, "but I had lost my boat, and all
points of the compass, when your husband kindly took me in charge."

He started to say he would pay for all trouble, but fortunately did not,
and then being offered a chair, sat down and was left alone. For ten
minutes, that seemed longer, he surveyed the plainly furnished
sitting-room, with open fireplace, a many colored rag-carpet on the
floor, old-fashioned chairs, and dozens of pictures on the walls. They
caught his eye at once, mainly because of the oddity of the frames,
which were evidently home-made, for it was too dark to see more, and
then a door was opened, and Uncle Terry invited him into a lighted room
where a table was set. The elderly lady was standing at one end of it,
and beside her a younger one, and as Albert entered he heard Uncle Terry
say: "This is our gal Telly, Mr. Page," and as he bowed he saw, garbed
in spotless white, the girl he had seen leaning against the rock and
watching the sunset.




CHAPTER XX

A PAIR OF BLUE EYES


Some men have their fancy caught by a woman's face or form, or both;
others by a look, a word, a smile. A witty reply to some masculine jest
has tipped many an arrow for Cupid and won for a maiden a lover.

The appealing yet wondering glance that Albert Page met as he bowed to
the girl standing beside the table that evening was one he never
afterwards forgot. It was only one, for after that, and during the
entire meal, her blue eyes were kept veiled by their long lashes, or
modestly directed elsewhere.

"It's a charming spot down here," he remarked soon after the meal began,
"and so hidden away that it is a surprise. I noticed the light as we
came in, but did not see the village."

"Wal, ye didn't miss anything," responded his host; "none o' the houses
are much for style, an' mebbe it's lucky they're hid behind the rocks."

"I thought them quaint and comfortable," observed Albert; "but what an
odd name you have for the place! Why do you call it Saint's Rest?"

"Chiefly 'cause none o' the people have any chance to become sinners, I
reckon," was the answer; "it's a trifle lonesome in the winter, though."

"I suppose fishing is your principal occupation here," continued Albert,
seeing that sentiment was not considered by Uncle Terry; "your land does
not seem adapted for cultivation."

"There ain't much chance for tillin'," he replied; "the land's wuss'n
whar I was brung up down in Connecticut, an' thar we had ter round up
the sheep once a week an' sharpen thar noses on the grin'stun! We manage
ter raise 'nough ter eat, though."

When the meal was over Uncle Terry said, "It's nice an' cool out on the
rocks, and thar's some seats out thar; if ye enjoy smoking we best go
out while the wimmin are doin' the dishes."

The moon that Frank had planned to use was nearing its full, and high
overhead, and as the two men, so widely separated in all respects,
sought congeniality in tobacco out on that lonesome point, Albert could
not curb his admiration for the scene. His offer of a cigar to his host
had been accepted, and as that quaint man sat quietly enjoying an odor
and flavor he was certainly unaccustomed to, Albert said:

"This experience has been a surprise to me from the moment I met you. I
had an ugly hour's scramble over the rocks and through a tangle of scrub
spruce and briers until I was utterly lost and believed this island an
impassable wilderness. Then you came along and brought me to one of the
most beautiful spots I ever saw. I should like to stay here all summer
and do nothing but look at this magnificent ocean view and sketch these
bold shores."

"Do you paint picturs too?" queried Uncle Terry, suddenly interested.
"Telly's daft on doing that, an' is at it all the time she can git!"
Then he added with a slight inflection of pride, "Mebbe ye noticed some
o' her picturs in the sittin'-room?"

"I saw a lot of pictures there," answered Albert, "but it was too dark
to see them well. I should like to look at them in the morning."

"Ye'll hev plenty o' time," was the reply, "I must pull my lobster traps
fust, an' after that I'll take ye in my dory an' we'll go an' find yer
boat. I guess she must be lyin' in Seal Cove, the only openin' 'twixt
here an' the head she'd be likely ter run into."

"And so your daughter is an artist, is she?" asked Albert, indifferent
now as to where the "Gypsy" was or when he was likely to return to her.
He came near adding that that fact was another surprise, but did not.
Instead he said, "Has she ever taken lessons?"

"No, it comes nat'ral to her," replied Uncle Terry; "she showed the bent
o' her mind 'fore she was ten years old, an' she's pestered me ever
since ter git her canvas an' paints an' sich. But then, I'm willin'
ter," he added in a tender tone. "Telly's a good girl and Lissy and me
set great store by her. She's all we've got in the world;" then pointing
to a small white stone just to the right of where they were, he added,
"Thar's whar the other one's been layin' fer mor'n twenty years."

"This one has grown to be a very beautiful girl," said Albert quietly,
"and you have reason to be proud of her."

Uncle Terry made no reply, but seemed lost in a reverie, and Albert
slowly puffed his cigar and looked out on the ocean, and along the
ever-widening path of moonlight. He very much wished that this fair
girl, so quaintly spoken of, were there beside him, that he might talk
to her about her art. And as he grew curious and a bit surprised at the
sort of people he had unexpectedly come upon, a little desire to know at
least one of them a good deal better came to him. How it could be
managed, and what excuse to give for remaining longer than the morrow,
he could not see, and yet very much wished to find one. He looked
toward the house, white in the moonlight, with the tall lighthouse and
its beacon flash just beyond, and wondered if he should see the girl
again that night. He hoped he might, and was on the point of suggesting
they go in and visit a little with the ladies when Uncle Terry said:

"I believe ye called yerself a lawyer, Mr. Page, an' from Boston. Do ye
happen to know a lawyer thar that has got eyes like a cat, an' a nose
like a gentleman from Jerusalem, an' rubs his hands as if he was washin'
'em while he's talkin'?"

Albert gave a start. "I do, Mr. Terry," he answered, "I know him well.
His name is Frye, Nicholas Frye."

"An' as you're a lawyer, an' one that looks to me as honest," continued
Uncle Terry, "what is your honest opinion o' this Mr. Frye?"

"That is a question I would rather not answer," replied Albert, "until I
know why you ask it, and what your opinion of Mr. Frye is. Mine might
not flatter him, and I do not believe in speaking ill of anybody unless
forced to."

Uncle Terry was silent, evidently revolving a serious problem in his
mind. "I am goin' ter beg yer pardon, Mr. Page," he said at last, "fer
speakin' the way I did regardin' lawyers in gineral. My 'sperence with
'em has been bad, an' naterally I don't trust 'em much. I've had some
dealin's with this ere Frye 'bout a matter I don't want to tell 'bout,
an' the way things is workin' ain't as they should be. I b'lieve I'm
robbed right along, an' if ye'r' willin' ter help me I shall be most
tarnally grateful, an' will give ye my word I'll never let on ter
anybody what ye say--an' Silas Terry never yit broke his promise."

Albert silently offered his hand to Uncle Terry, who grasped it
cordially. "I will tell you, Mr. Terry," he said after the handshake,
"all I know about Mr. Frye and what my opinion is of him. What your
business with him is, matters not. I am certain you are an honest man
and will keep your word. I recently worked for Mr. Frye six months and
left him to open an office for myself. He offered me more than double
what he had been paying to remain, but no money would tempt me to do it.
In that six months I became satisfied Nicholas Frye was the most
unprincipled villain ever masked under the name of lawyer. If all those
you have had business with were like him I don't wonder at your remark
to-day."

Uncle Terry leaned forward with elbows on his knees, resting his face in
the palms of his hands, and ejaculated: "I knew it! I knew it! I'm a
blamed old fool an' ought ter hev a keeper put over me!" Then turning
to Albert he added, "I've paid that dum thief over four hundred dollars
this year an' hain't got a scrap o' paper ter show fer't, and nothin's
been done so fer as I kin see 'bout the business." He meditated a few
moments, and then turning around suddenly added, "My wife an' Telly
don't know nothin' 'bout this, and I don't want they should. Thar's a
sucker born every minit and two ter ketch him, an' I b'lieve it! I've
been ketched an' skinned fer dead sure! I want ter sleep on't, an' mebbe
in the mornin' I'll tell ye the hull story, an' how I've been made a
fool of. I'm beginnin' 

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