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The Life of Nancy

by Sarah Orne Jewett · English · Gutenberg #31473 · 391,284 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Life of Nancy

Author: Sarah Orne Jewett


        
Release date: March 2, 2010 [eBook #31473]
                Most recently updated: January 6, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31473

Credits: Produced by James Adcock. Special thanks to The Internet
        Archive: American Libraries.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LIFE OF NANCY ***




Produced by James Adcock. Special thanks to The Internet
Archive: American Libraries.






[Illustration: "The Old Captains"]

THE LIFE OF NANCY

BY SARAH ORNE JEWETT



BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

The Riverside Press Cambridge



COPYRIGHT, 1890 AND 1895, BY SARAH ORNE JEWETT

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED



CONTENTS

THE LIFE OF NANCY

FAME'S LITTLE DAY

A WAR DEBT

THE HILTONS' HOLIDAY

THE ONLY ROSE

A SECOND SPRING

LITTLE FRENCH MARY

THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMMS

A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK

ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS

A WINTER COURTSHIP


------



THE LIFE OF NANCY.

I.

The wooded hills and pastures of eastern Massachusetts are so close to
Boston that from upper windows of the city, looking westward, you can
see the tops of pine-trees and orchard-boughs on the high horizon.
There is a rustic environment on the landward side; there are old
farmhouses at the back of Milton Hill and beyond Belmont which look as
unchanged by the besieging suburbs of a great city as if they were
forty miles from even its borders. Now and then, in Boston streets,
you can see an old farmer in his sleigh or farm wagon as if you saw
him in a Berkshire village. He seems neither to look up at the towers
nor down at any fashionable citizens, but goes his way alike
unconscious of seeing or being seen.

On a certain day a man came driving along Beacon Street, who looked
bent in the shoulders, as if his worn fur cap were too heavy for head
and shoulders both. This type of the ancient New England farmer in
winter twitched the reins occasionally, like an old woman, to urge the
steady white horse that plodded along as unmindful of his master's
suggestions as of the silver-mounted harnesses that passed them by.
Both horse and driver appeared to be conscious of sufficient wisdom,
and even worth, for the duties of life; but all this placidity and
self-assurance were in sharp contrast to the eager excitement of a
pretty, red-cheeked girl who sat at the driver's side. She was as
sensitive to every new impression as they were dull. Her face bloomed
out of a round white hood in such charming fashion that those who
began to smile at an out-of-date equipage were interrupted by a second
and stronger instinct, and paid the homage that one must always pay to
beauty.

It was a bitter cold morning. The great sleighbells on the horse's
shaggy neck jangled along the street, and seemed to still themselves
as they came among the group of vehicles that were climbing the long
hill by the Common.

As the sleigh passed a clubhouse that stands high on the slope, a
young man who stood idly behind one of the large windows made a
hurried step forward, and his sober face relaxed into a broad,
delighted smile; then he turned quickly, and presently appearing at
the outer door, scurried down the long flight of steps to the street,
fastening the top buttons of his overcoat by the way. The old sleigh,
with its worn buffalo skin hanging unevenly over the back, was only a
short distance up the street, but its pursuer found trouble in gaining
much upon the steady gait of the white horse. He ran two or three
steps now and then, and was almost close enough to speak as he drew
near to the pavement by the State House. The pretty girl was looking
up with wonder and delight, but in another moment they went briskly
on, and it was not until a long pause had to be made at the blocked
crossing of Tremont Street that the chase was ended.

The wonders of a first visit to Boston were happily continued to Miss
Nancy Gale in the sudden appearance at her side of a handsome young
gentleman. She put out a most cordial and warm hand from her fitch
muff, and her acquaintance noticed with pleasure the white knitted
mitten that protected it from the weather. He had not yet found time
to miss the gloves left behind at the club, but the warm little mitten
was very comfortable to his fingers.

"I was just thinking--I hoped I should see you, when I was starting to
come in this morning," she said, with an eager look of pleasure; then,
growing shy after the unconscious joy of the first moment, "Boston is
a pretty big place, isn't it?"

"We all think so," said Tom Aldis with fine candor. "It seems odd to
see you here."

"Uncle Ezra, this is Mr. Aldis that I have been telling you about, who
was down at our place so long in the fall," explained Nancy, turning
to look appealingly at her stern companion. "Mr. Aldis had to remain
with a friend who had sprained his ankle. Is Mr. Carew quite well
now?" she turned again to ask.

"Oh yes," answered Tom. "I saw him last week; he's in New York this
winter. But where are you staying, Nancy?" he asked eagerly, with a
hopeful glance at uncle Ezra. "I should like to take you somewhere
this afternoon. This is your first visit, isn't it? Couldn't you go to
see Rip Van Winkle to-morrow? It's the very best thing there is just
now. Jefferson's playing this week."

"Our folks ain't in the habit of attending theatres, sir," said uncle
Ezra, checking this innocent plan as effectually as an untracked
horse-car was stopping traffic in the narrow street. He looked over
his shoulder to see if there were any room to turn, but was
disappointed.

Tom Aldis gave a glance, also, and was happily reassured; the street
was getting fuller behind them every moment. "I beg you to excuse me,
sir," he said gallantly to the old man. "Do you think of anything else
that Miss Gale ought to see? There is the Art Museum, if she hasn't
been there already; all the pictures and statues and Egyptian things,
you know."

There was much deference and courtesy in the young man's behavior to
his senior. Uncle Ezra responded by a less suspicious look at him, but
seemed to be considering this new proposition before he spoke. Uncle
Ezra was evidently of the opinion that while it might be a misfortune
to be an old man, it was a fault to be a young one and good looking
where girls were concerned. "Miss Gale's father and mother showed me
so much kindness," Tom explained, seizing his moment of advantage, "I
should like to be of some use: it may not be convenient for you to
come into town again in this cold weather."

"Our folks have plenty to do all the time, that's a fact,"
acknowledged uncle Ezra less grimly, while Nancy managed to show the
light of a very knowing little smile. "I don't know but she'd like to
have a city man show her about, anyways. 'T ain't but four miles an' a
half out to our place, the way we come, but while this weather holds I
don't calculate to get into Boston more 'n once a week. I fetch all my
stuff in to the Quincy Market myself, an' I've got to come in day
after to-morrow mornin', but not till late, with a barrel o' nice
winter pears I've been a-savin'. I can set the barrel right for'ard in
the sleigh here, and I do' know but I can fetch Nancy as well as not.
But how'd ye get home, Nancy? Could ye walk over to our place from the
Milton depot, or couldn't ye?"

"Why, of course I could!" answered his niece, with a joy calmed by
discretion.

"'T ain't but a mile an' three quarters; 't won't hurt a State 'o
Maine girl," said the old man, smiling under his great cap, so that
his cold, shrewd eyes suddenly grew blue and boyish. "I know all about
ye now, Mr. Aldis; I used to be well acquainted with your grandfather.
Much obliged to you. Yes, I'll fetch Nancy. I'll leave her right up
there to the Missionary Building, corner o' Somerset Street. She can
wait in the bookstore; it's liable to be open early. After I get
through business to-day, I'm goin' to leave the hoss, an' let her see
Faneuil Hall, an' the market o' course, and I don't know but we shall
stop in to the Old South Church; or you can show her that, an' tell
her about any other curiosities, if we don't have time."

Nancy looked radiant, and Tom Aldis accepted his trust with
satisfaction. At that moment the blockade was over and teams began to
move.

"Not if it rains!" said uncle Ezra, speaking distinctly over his
shoulder as they started. "Otherwise expect her about eight or a
little"--but the last of the sentence was lost.

Nancy looked back and nodded from the tangle to Tom, who stood on the
curbstone with his hands in his pockets. Her white hood bobbed out of
sight the next moment in School Street behind a great dray.

"Good gracious! eight o'clock!" said Tom, a little daunted, as he
walked quickly up the street. As he passed the Missionary Building and
the bookstore, he laughed aloud; but as he came near the clubhouse
again, in this victorious retreat, he looked up at a window of one of
the pleasant old houses, and then obeyed the beckoning nod of an
elderly relative who seemed to have been watching for his return.

"Tom," said she, as he entered the library, "I insist upon it that I
am not curious by nature or by habit, but what in the world made you
chase that funny old horse and sleigh?"

"A pretty girl," said Tom frankly.


II.

The second morning after this unexpected interview was sunshiny
enough, and as cold as January could make it. Tom Aldis, being young
and gay, was apt to keep late hours at this season, and the night
before had been the night of a Harvard assembly. He was the
kindest-hearted fellow in the world, but it was impossible not to feel
a little glum and sleepy as he hurried toward the Missionary Building.
The sharp air had urged uncle Ezra's white horse beyond his customary
pace, so that the old sleigh was already waiting, and uncle Ezra
himself was flapping his chilled arms and tramping to and fro
impatiently.

"Cold mornin'!" he said. "She's waitin' for you in there. I wanted to
be sure you'd come. Now I'll be off. I've got them pears well covered,
but I expect they may be touched. Nancy counted on comin', an' I'd
just as soon she'd have a nice time. Her cousin's folks'll see her to
the depot," he added as he drove away, and Tom nodded reassuringly
from the bookstore door.

Nancy looked up eagerly from beside a counter full of gayly bound
books, and gave him a speechless and grateful good-morning.

"I'm getting some presents for the little boys," she informed him.
"They're great hands to read. This one's all about birds, for Sam, and
I don't know but this Life o' Napoleon'll please Asa as much as
anything. When I waked up this morning I felt homesick. I couldn't see
anything out o' the window that I knew. I'm a real home body."

"I should like to send the boys a present, myself," said Tom. "What do
you think about jack-knives?"

"Asa'd rather have readin' matter; he ain't got the use for a knife
that some boys have. Why, you're real good!" said Nancy.

"And your mother,--can't I send her something that she would like?"
asked Tom kindly.

"She liked all those things that you and Mr. Carew sent at Christmas
time. We had the loveliest time opening the bundles. You oughtn't to
think o' doing anything more. I wish you'd help me pick out a nice
large-print Bible for grandma; she's always wishing for a large-print
Bible, and her eyes fail her a good deal."

Tom Aldis was not very fond of shopping, but this pious errand did not
displease him in Nancy's company. A few minutes later, when they went
out into the cold street, he felt warm and cheerful, and carried under
his arm the flat parcel which held a large-print copy of the
Scriptures and the little boys' books. Seeing Nancy again seemed to
carry his thoughts back to East Rodney, as if he had been born and
brought up there as well as she. The society and scenery of the little
coast town were so simple and definite in their elements that one
easily acquired a feeling of citizenship; it was like becoming
acquainted with a friendly individual. Tom had an intimate knowledge,
gained from several weeks' residence, with Nancy's whole world.

The long morning stretched before them like a morning in far Cathay,
and they stepped off down the street toward the Old South Church,
which had been omitted from uncle Ezra's scheme of entertainment by
reason of difficulty in leaving the horse. The discovery that the door
would not be open for nearly another hour only involved a longer walk
among the city streets, and the asking and answering of many questions
about the East Rodney neighbors, and the late autumn hunting and
fishing which, with some land interests of his father's, had first
drawn Tom to that part of the country. He had known enough of the rest
of the world to appreciate the little community of fishermen-farmers,
and while his friend Carew was but a complaining captive with a
sprained ankle, Tom Aldis entered into the spirit of rural life with
great zest; in fact he now remembered some boyish gallantries with a
little uneasiness, and looked to Nancy to befriend him. It was easy
for a man of twenty-two to arrive at an almost brotherly affection for
such a person as Nancy; she was so discreet and so sincerely
affectionate.

Nancy looked up at him once or twice as they walked along, and her
face glowed with happy pride. "I'd just like to have Addie Porter see
me now!" she exclaimed, and gave Tom a straightforward look to which
he promptly responded.

"Why?" he asked.

Nancy drew a long breath of relief, and began to smile.

"Oh, nothing," she answered; "only she kept telling me that you
wouldn't have much of anything to say to me, if I should happen to
meet you anywhere up to Boston. I knew better. I guess you're all
right, aren't you, about that?" She spoke with sudden impulse, but
there was something in her tone that made Tom blush a little.

"Why, yes," he answered. "What do you mean, Nancy?"

"We won't talk about it now while we're full of seeing things, but
I've got something to say by and by," said the girl soberly.

"You're very mysterious," protested Tom, taking the bundle under his
other arm, and piloting her carefully across the street.

Nancy said no more. The town was more interesting now that it seemed
to have waked up, and her eyes were too busy. Everything proved
delightful that day, from the recognition of business signs familiar
to her through newspaper advertisements, to the Great Organ, and the
thrill which her patriotic heart experienced in a second visit to
Faneuil Hall. They found the weather so mild that they pushed on to
Charlestown, and went to the top of the monument, which Tom had not
done since he was a very small boy. After this they saw what else they
could of historic Boston, on the fleetest and lightest of feet, and
talked all the way, until they were suddenly astonished to hear the
bells in all the steeples ring at noon.

"Oh dear, my nice mornin' 's all gone," said Nancy regretfully. "I
never had such a beautiful time in all my life!"

She looked quite beautiful herself as she spoke: her eyes shone with
lovely light and feeling, and her cheeks were bright with color like a
fresh-bloomed rose, but for the first time that day she was wistful
and sorry.

"Oh, you needn't go back yet!" said Tom. "I've nothing in the world to
do."

"Uncle Ezra thought I'd better go up to cousin Snow's in Revere
Street. I'm afraid she'll be all through dinner, but never mind. They
thought I'd better go there on mother's account; it's her cousin, but
I never saw her, at least not since I can remember. They won't like it
if I don't, you know; it wouldn't be very polite."

"All right," assented Tom with dignity. "I'll take you there at once:
perhaps we can catch a car or something."

"I'm ashamed to ask for anything more when you've been so kind," said
Nancy, after a few moments of anxious silence. "I don't know that you
can think of any good chance, but I'd give a great deal if I could
only go somewhere and see some pretty dancing. You know I'm always
dreamin' and dreamin' about pretty dancing!" and she looked eagerly at
Tom to see what he would say. "It must be goin' on somewhere in
Boston," she went on with pleading eyes. "Could you ask somebody? They
said at uncle Ezra's that if cousin Abby Snow wanted me to remain
until to-morrow it might be just as well to stay; she used to be so
well acquainted with mother. And so I thought--I might get some nice
chance to look on."

"To see some dancing," repeated Tom, mindful of his own gay evening
the night before, and of others to come, and the general impossibility
of Nancy's finding the happiness she sought. He never had been so
confronted by social barriers. As for Nancy's dancing at East Rodney,
in the schoolhouse hall or in Jacob Parker's new barn, it had been one
of the most ideal things he had ever known in his life; it would be
hard to find elsewhere such grace as hers. In seaboard towns one often
comes upon strange foreign inheritances, and the soul of a Spanish
grandmother might still survive in Nancy, as far as her light feet
were concerned. She danced like a flower in the wind. She made you
feel light of foot yourself, as if you were whirling and blowing and
waving through the air; as if you could go out dancing and dancing
over the deep blue sea water of the bay, and find floor enough to
touch and whirl upon. But Nancy had always seemed to take her gifts
for granted; she had the simplicity of genius. "I can't say now, but I
am sure to find out," said Tom Aldis definitely. "I'll try to make
some sort of plan for you. I wish we could have another dance,
ourselves."

"Oh, not now," answered Nancy sensibly. "It's knowing 'most all the
people that makes a party pleasant."

"My aunt would have asked you to come to luncheon to-day, but she had
to go out of town, and was afraid of not getting back in season. She
would like to see you very much. You see, I'm only a bachelor in
lodgings, this winter," explained Tom bravely.

"You've been just as good as you could be. I know all about Boston
now, almost as if I lived here. I should like to see the inside of one
of those big houses," she added softly; "they all look so noble as you
go by. I think it was very polite of your aunt; you must thank her,
Mr. Aldis."

It seemed to Tom as if his companion were building most glorious
pleasure out of very commonplace materials. All the morning she had
been as gay and busy as a brook.

By the middle of the afternoon he knocked again at cousin Snow's door
in Revere Street, and delivered an invitation. Mrs. Annesley, his
aunt, and the kindest of women, would take Nancy to an afternoon class
at Papanti's, and bring her back afterwards, if cousin Snow were
willing to spare her. Tom would wait and drive back with her in the
coupe; then he must hurry to Cambridge for a business meeting to which
he had been suddenly summoned.

Nancy was radiant when she first appeared, but a few minutes later, as
they drove away together, she began to look grave and absent. It was
only because she was so sorry to think of parting.

"I am so glad about the dancing class," said Tom. "I never should have
thought of that. They are all children, you know; but it's very
pretty, and they have all the new dances. I used to think it a horrid
penance when I was a small boy."

"I don't know why it is," said Nancy, "but the mere thought of music
and dancin' makes me feel happy. I never saw any real good dancin',
either, but I can always think what it ought to be. There's nothing so
beautiful to me as manners," she added softly, as if she whispered at
the shrine of confidence.

"My aunt thinks there are going to be some pretty figure dances
to-day," announced Tom in a matter-of-fact way. There was something
else than the dancing upon his mind. He thought that he ought to tell
Nancy of his engagement,--not that it was quite an engagement
yet,--but he could not do it just now. "What was it you were going to
tell me this morning? About Addie Porter, wasn't it?" He laughed a
little, and then colored deeply. He had been somewhat foolish in his
attentions to this young person, the beguiling village belle of East
Rodney and the adjacent coasts. She was a pretty creature and a sad
flirt, with none of the real beauty and quaint sisterly ways of Nancy.
"What was it all about?" he asked again.

Nancy turned away quickly. "That's one thing I wanted to come to
Boston for; that's what I want to tell you. She don't really care
anything about you. She only wanted to get you away from the other
girls. I know for certain that she likes Joe Brown better than
anybody, and now she's been going with him almost all winter long. He
keeps telling round that they're going to be married in the spring;
but I thought if they were, she'd ask me to get some of her best
things while I was in Boston. I suppose she's intendin' to play with
him a while longer," said Nancy with honest scorn, "just because he
loves her well enough to wait. But don't you worry about her,
Mr. Aldis!"

"I won't indeed," answered Tom meekly, but with an unexpected feeling
of relief as if the unconscious danger had been a real one. Nancy was
very serious.

"I'm going home the first of the week," she said as they parted; but
the small hand felt colder than usual, and did not return his warm
grasp. The light in her eyes had all gone, but Tom's beamed
affectionately.

"I never thought of Addie Porter afterward, I'm afraid," he confessed.
"What awfully good fun we all had! I should like to go down to East
Rodney again some time."

"Oh, shan't you ever come?" cried Nancy, with a thrill in her voice
which Tom did not soon forget. He did not know that the young girl's
heart was waked, he was so busy with the affairs of his own
affections; but true friendship does not grow on every bush, in Boston
or East Rodney, and Nancy's voice and farewell look touched something
that lay very deep within his heart.

There is a little more to be told of this part of the story.
Mrs. Annesley, Tom's aunt, being a woman whose knowledge of human
nature and power of sympathy made her a woman of the world rather than
of any smaller circle,--Mrs. Annesley was delighted with Nancy's
unaffected pleasure and self-forgetful dignity of behavior at the
dancing-school. She took her back to the fine house, and they had half
an hour together there, and only parted because Nancy was to spend the
night with cousin Snow, and another old friend of her mother's was to
be asked to tea. Mrs. Annesley asked her to come to see her again,
whenever she was in Boston, and Nancy gratefully promised, but she
never came. "I'm all through with Boston for this time," she said,
with an amused smile, at parting. "I'm what one of our neighbors calls
'all flustered up,'" and she looked eagerly in her new friend's kind
eyes for sympathy. "Now that I've seen this beautiful house, and you
and Mr. Aldis, and some pretty dancin', I want to go right home where
I belong."

Tom Aldis meant to write to Nancy when his engagement came out, but he
never did; and he meant to send a long letter to her and her mother
two years later, when he and his wife were going abroad for a long
time; but he had an inborn hatred of letter-writing, and let that
occasion pass also, though when anything made him very sorry or very
glad, he had a curious habit of thinking of these East Rodney friends.
Before he went to Europe he used to send them magazines now and then,
or a roll of illustrated papers; and one day, in a bookstore, he
happened to see a fine French book with colored portraits of famous
dancers, and sent it by express to Nancy with his best remembrances.
But Tom was young and much occupied, the stream of time floated him
away from the shore of Maine, not toward it, ten or fifteen years
passed by, his brown hair began to grow gray, and he came back from
Europe after a while to a new Boston life in which reminiscences of
East Rodney seemed very remote indeed.


III.

One summer afternoon there were two passengers, middle-aged men, on
the small steamer James Madison, which attended the comings and goings
of the great Boston steamer, and ran hither and yon on errands about
Penobscot Bay. She was puffing up a long inlet toward East Rodney
Landing, and the two strangers were observing the green shores with
great interest. Like nearly the whole stretch of the Maine coast,
there was a house on almost every point and headland; but for all
this, there were great tracts of untenanted country, dark untouched
forests of spruces and firs, and shady coves where there seemed to be
deep water and proper moorings. The two passengers were on the watch
for landings and lookouts; in short, this lovely, lonely country was
being frankly appraised at its probable value for lumbering or for
building-lots and its relation to the real estate market. Just now
there appeared to be no citizens save crows and herons, the sun was
almost down behind some high hills in the west, and the Landing was in
sight not very far ahead.

"It is nearly twenty years since I came down here before," said the
younger of the two men, suddenly giving the conversation a personal
turn. "Just after I was out of college, at any rate. My father had
bought this point of land with the islands. I think he meant to come
and hunt in the autumn, and was misled by false accounts of deer and
moose. He sent me down to oversee something or other; I believe he had
some surveyors at work, and thought they had better be looked after;
so I got my chum Carew to come along, and we found plenty of trout,
and had a great time until he gave his ankle a bad sprain."

"What did you do then?" asked the elder man politely, keeping his eyes
on the shore.

"I stayed by, of course; I had nothing to do in those days," answered
Mr. Aldis. "It was one of those nice old-fashioned country
neighborhoods where there was plenty of fun among the younger
people,--sailing on moonlight nights, and haycart parties, and dances,
and all sorts of things. We used to go to prayer-meeting nine or ten
miles off, and sewing societies. I had hard work to get away! We made
excuse of Carew's ankle joint as long as we could, but he'd been all
right and going everywhere with the rest of us a fortnight before we
started. We waited until there was ice alongshore, I remember."

"Daniel R. Carew, was it, of the New York Stock Exchange?" asked the
listener. "He strikes you as being a very grave sort of person now;
doesn't like it if he finds anybody in his chair at the club, and all
that."

"I can stir him up," said Mr. Aldis confidently. "Poor old fellow, he
has had a good deal of trouble, one way and another. How the Landing
has grown up! Why, it's a good-sized little town!"

"I'm sorry it is so late," he added, after a long look at a farm on
the shore which they were passing. "I meant to go to see the people up
there," and he pointed to the old farmhouse, dark and low and
firm-rooted in the long slope of half-tamed, ledgy fields. Warm
thoughts of Nancy filled his heart, as if they had said good-by to
each other that cold afternoon in Boston only the winter before. He
had not been so eager to see any one for a long time. Such is the
triumph of friendship: even love itself without friendship is the
victim of chance and time.

When supper was over in the Knox House, the one centre of public
entertainment in East Rodney, it was past eight o'clock, and Mr. Aldis
felt like a dim copy of Rip Van Winkle, or of the gay Tom Aldis who
used to know everybody, and be known of all men as the planner of
gayeties. He lighted a cigar as he sat on the front piazza of the
hotel, and gave himself up to reflection. There was a long line of
lights in the second story of a wooden building opposite, and he was
conscious of some sort of public interest and excitement.

"There is going to be a time in the hall," said the landlord, who came
hospitably out to join him. "The folks are going to have a dance. The
proceeds will be applied to buying a bell for the new schoolhouse.
They'd be pleased if you felt like stepping over; there has been a
considerable number glad to hear you thought of coming down. I ain't
an East Rodney man myself, but I've often heard of your residin' here
some years ago. Our folks is makin' the ice cream for the occasion,"
he added significantly, and Mr. Aldis nodded and smiled in
acknowledgment. He had meant to go out and see the Gales, if the boat
had only got in in season; but boats are unpunctual in their ways, and
the James Madison had been unexpectedly signaled by one little landing
and settlement after another. He remembered that a great many young
people were on board when they arrived, and now they appeared again,
coming along the street and disappearing at the steep stairway
opposite. The lighted windows were full of heads already, and there
were now and then preliminary exercises upon a violin. Mr. Aldis had
grown old enough to be obliged to sit and think it over about going to
a ball; the day had passed when there would have been no question; but
when he had finished his cigar he crossed the street, and only stopped
before the lighted store window to find a proper bank bill for the
doorkeeper. Then he ran up the stairs to the hall, as if he were the
Tom Aldis of old. It was an embarrassing moment as he entered the low,
hot room, and the young people stared at him suspiciously; but there
were also elderly people scattered about who were meekly curious and
interested, and one of these got clumsily upon his feet and hastened
to grasp the handsome stranger by the hand.

"Nancy heard you was coming," said Mr. Gale delightedly. "She expected
I should see you here, if you was just the same kind of a man you used
to be. Come let's set right down, folks is crowding in; there may be
more to set than there is to dance."

"How is Nancy, isn't she coming?" asked Tom, feeling the years tumble
off his shoulders.

"Well as usual, poor creatur," replied the old father, with a look of
surprise. "No, no; she can't go nowhere."

At that moment the orchestra struck up a military march with so much
energy that further conversation was impossible. Near them was an
awkward-looking young fellow, with shoulders too broad for his height,
and a general look of chunkiness and dullness. Presently he rose and
crossed the room, and made a bow to his chosen partner that most
courtiers might have envied. It was a bow of grace and dignity.

"Pretty well done!" said Tom Aldis aloud.

Mr. Gale was beaming with smiles, and keeping time to the music with
his foot and hand. "Nancy done it," he announced proudly, speaking
close to his companion's ear. "That boy give her a sight o'
difficulty; he used to want to learn, but 'long at the first he'd turn
red as fire if he much as met a sheep in a pastur'. The last time I
see him on the floor I went home an' told her he done as well as any.
You can see for yourself, now they're all a-movin'."

The fresh southerly breeze came wafting into the hall and making the
lamps flare. If Tom turned his head, he could see the lights out in
the bay, of vessels that had put in for the night. Old Mr. Gale was
not disposed for conversation so long as the march lasted, and when it
was over a frisky-looking middle-aged person accosted Mr. Aldis with
the undimmed friendliness of their youth; and he took her out, as
behoved him, for the Lancers quadrille. From her he learned that Nancy
had been for many years a helpless invalid; and when their dance was
over he returned to sit out the next one with Mr. Gale, who had
recovered a little by this time from the excitement of the occasion,
and was eager to talk about Nancy's troubles, but still more about her
gifts and activities. After a while they adjourned to the hotel piazza
in company, and the old man grew still more eloquent over a cigar. He
had not changed much since Tom's residence in the family; in fact, the
flight of seventeen years had made but little difference in his
durable complexion or the tough frame which had been early seasoned by
wind and weather.

"Yes, sir," he said, "Nancy has had it very hard, but she's the life
o' the neighborhood yet. For excellent judgment I never see her equal.
Why, once the board o' selec'men took trouble to meet right there in
her room off the kitchen, when they had to make some responsible
changes in layin' out the school deestricts. She was the best teacher
they ever had, a master good teacher; fitted a boy for Bowdoin College
all except his Greek, that last season before she was laid aside from
sickness. She took right holt to bear it the best she could, and begun
to study on what kind o' things she could do. First she used to make
out to knit, a-layin' there, for the store, but her hands got crippled
up with the rest of her; 't is the wust kind o' rheumatics there is.
She had me go round to the neighborin' schools and say that if any of
the child'n was backward an slow with their lessons to send 'em up to
her. Now an' then there'd be one, an' at last she'd see to some class
there wasn't time for: an' here year before last the town voted her
fifty dollars a year for her services. What do you think of that?"

Aldis manifested his admiration, but he could not help wishing that he
had not seemed to forget so pleasant an old acquaintance, and above
all wished that he had not seemed to take part in nature's great
scheme to defraud her. She had begun life with such distinct rights
and possibilities.

"I tell you she was the most cut up to have to stop dancin'," said
Mr. Gale gayly, "but she held right on to that, same as to other
things. 'I can't dance myself,' she says, 'so I'm goin' to make other
folks.' You see right before you how she's kep' her word, Mr. Aldis?
What always pleased her the most, from a child, was dancin'. Folks
talked to her some about letting her mind rove on them light things
when she appeared to be on a dyin' bed. 'David, he danced afore the
Lord,' she'd tell 'em, an' her eyes would snap so, they didn't like to
say no more."

Aldis laughed, the old man himself was so cheerful.

"Well, sir, she made 'em keep right on with the old dancin'-school she
always took such part in (I guess 't was goin', wa'n't it, that fall
you stopped here?); but she sent out for all the child'n she could get
and learnt 'em their manners. She can see right out into the kitchen
from where she is, an' she has 'em make their bows an' take their
steps till they get 'em right an' feel as good as anybody. There's
boys an' girls comin' an' goin' two or three times a week in the
afternoon. It don't seem to be no hardship: there ain't no such good
company for young or old as Nancy."

"She'll be dreadful glad to see you," the proud father ended his
praises. "Oh, she's never forgot that good time she had up to Boston.
You an' all your folks couldn't have treated her no better, an' you
give her her heart's desire, you did so! She's never done talkin'
about that pretty dancin'-school with all them lovely little child'n,
an' everybody so elegant and pretty behaved. She'd always wanted to
see such a lady as your aunt was. I don't know but she's right: she
always maintains that when folks has good manners an' good hearts the
world is their 'n, an' she was goin' to do everything she could to
keep young folks from feelin' hoggish an' left out."

Tom walked out toward the farm in the bright moonlight with Mr. Gale,
and promised to call as early the next day as possible. They followed
the old shore path, with the sea on one side and the pointed firs on
the other, and parted where Nancy's light could be seen twinkling on
the hill.


IV.

It was not very cheerful to look forward to seeing a friend of one's
youth crippled and disabled; beside, Tom Aldis always felt a nervous
dread in being where people were ill and suffering. He thought once or
twice how little compassion for Nancy these country neighbors
expressed. Even her father seemed inclined to boast of her, rather
than to pity the poor life that was so hindered. Business affairs and
conference were appointed for that afternoon, so that by the middle of
the morning he found himself walking up the yard to the Gales' side
door.

There was nobody within call. Mr. Aldis tapped once or twice, and then
hearing a voice he went through the narrow unpainted entry into the
old kitchen, a brown, comfortable place which he well remembered.

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you," Nancy was calling from her little
bedroom beyond. "Come in, come in!"

He passed the doorway, and stood with his hand on hers, which lay
helpless on the blue-and-white coverlet. Nancy's young eyes, untouched
by years or pain or regret, looked up at him as frankly as a child's
from the pillow.

"Mother's gone down into the field to pick some peas for dinner," she
said, looking and looking at Tom and smiling; but he saw at last that
tears were shining, too, and making her smile all the brighter. "You
see now why I couldn't write," she explained. "I kept thinking I
should. I didn't want anybody else to thank you for the books. Now sit
right down," she begged her guest. "Father told me all he could about
last night. You danced with Addie Porter."

"I did," acknowledged Tom Aldis, and they both laughed. "We talked
about old times between the figures, but it seemed to me that I
remembered them better than she did."

"Addie has been through with a good deal of experience since then,"
explained Nancy, with a twinkle in her eyes.

"I wish I could have danced again with you," said Tom bravely, "but I
saw some scholars that did you credit."

"I have to dance by proxy," said Nancy; and to this there was no
reply.

Tom Aldis sat in the tiny bedroom with an aching heart. Such activity
and definiteness of mind, such power of loving and hunger for life,
had been pent and prisoned there so many years. Nancy had made what
she could of her small world of books. There was something very
uncommon in her look and way of speaking; he felt like a boy beside
her, he to whom the world had given its best luxury and widest
opportunity. As he looked out of the small window, he saw only a ledgy
pasture where sheep were straying along the slopes among the bayberry
and juniper; beyond were some balsam firs and a glimpse of the sea. It
was a lovely bit of landscape, but it lacked figures, and Nancy was
born to be a teacher and a lover of her kind. She had only lacked
opportunity, but she was equal to meeting whatever should come. One
saw it in her face.

"You don't know how many times I have thought of that cold day in
Boston," said Nancy from her pillows. "Your aunt was beautiful. I
never could tell you about the rest of the day with her, could I? Why,
it just gave me a measure to live by. I saw right off how small some
things were that I thought were big. I told her about one or two
things down here in Rodney that troubled me, and she understood all
about it. 'If we mean to be happy and useful,' she said, 'the only way
is to be self-forgetful.' I never forgot that!"

"The seed fell upon good ground, didn't it?" said Mr. Aldis with a
smile. He had been happy enough himself, but Nancy's happiness
appeared in that moment to have been of another sort. He could not
help thinking what a wonderful perennial quality there is in
friendship. Because it had once flourished and bloomed, no winter
snows of Maine could bury it, no summer sunshine of foreign life could
wither this single flower of a day long past. The years vanished like
a May snowdrift, and because they had known each other once they found
each other now.

It was like a tough little sprig of gray everlasting; the New England
edelweiss that always keeps a white flower ready to blossom safe and
warm in its heart.

They entertained each other delightfully that late summer morning. Tom
talked of his wife and children as he had seldom talked of them to any
one before, and afterward explained the land interests which had
brought him back at this late day to East Rodney.

"I came down meaning to sell my land to a speculator," he said, "or to
a real estate agency which has great possessions along the coast; but
I'm very doubtful about doing it, now that I have seen the bay again
and this lovely shore. I had no idea that it was such a magnificent
piece of country. I was going on from here to Mount Desert, with a
half idea of buying land there. Why isn't this good enough that I own
already? With a yacht or a good steam launch we shouldn't be so far
away from places along the coast, you know. What if I were to build a
house above Sunday Cove, on the headland, and if we should be
neighbors! I have a friend who might build another house on the point
beyond; we came home from abroad at about the same time, and he's
looking for a place to build, this side of Bar Harbor." Tom was half
confiding in his old acquaintance, and half thinking aloud. "These
real estate brokers can't begin to give a man the value of such land
as mine," he added.

"It would be excellent business to come and live here yourself, if you
want to bring up the value of the property," said Nancy gravely. "I
hear there are a good many lots staked out between here and Portland,
but it takes more than that to start things. There can't be any
prettier place than East Rodney," she declared, looking affectionately
out of her little north window. "It would be a great blessing to city
people, if they could come and have our good Rodney air."

The friends talked on a little longer, and with great cheerfulness and
wealth of reminiscence. Tom began to understand why nobody seemed to
pity Nancy, though she did at last speak sadly, and make confession
that she felt it to be very hard because she never could get about the
neighborhood to see any of the old and sick people. Some of them were
lonesome, and lived in lonesome places. "I try to send word to them
sometimes, if I can't do any more," said Nancy. "We're so apt to
forget 'em, and let 'em feel they aren't useful. I can't bear to see
an old heart begging for a little love. I do sometimes wish I could
manage to go an' try to make a little of their time pass pleasant."

"Do you always stay just here?" asked Tom with sudden compassion,
after he had stood for a moment looking out at the gray sheep on the
hillside.

"Oh, sometimes I get into the old rocking-chair, and father pulls me
out into the kitchen when I'm extra well," said Nancy proudly, as if
she spoke of a yachting voyage or a mountaineer's exploits. "Once a
doctor said if I was only up to Boston"--her voice fell a little with
a touch of wistfulness--"perhaps I could have had more done, and could
have got about with some kind of a chair. But that was a good while
ago: I never let myself worry about it. I am so busy right here that I
don't know what would happen if I set out to travel."


V.

A year later the East Rodney shore looked as green as ever, and the
untouched wall of firs and pines faithfully echoed the steamer's
whistle. In the twelve months just past Mr. Aldis had worked wonders
upon his long-neglected estate, and now was comfortably at
housekeeping on the Sunday Cove headland. Nancy could see the chimneys
and a gable of the fine establishment from her own little north
window, and the sheep still fed undisturbed on the slopes that lay
between. More than this, there were two other new houses, to be
occupied by Tom's friends, within the distance of a mile or two. It
would be difficult to give any idea of the excitement and interest of
East Rodney, or the fine effect and impulse to the local market. Tom's
wife and children were most affectionately befriended by their
neighbors the Gales, and with their coming in midsummer many changes
for the better took place in Nancy's life, and made it bright. She
lost no time in starting a class, where the two eldest for the first
time found study a pleasure, while little Tom was promptly and
tenderly taught his best bow, and made to mind his steps with such
interest and satisfaction that he who had once roared aloud in public
at the infant dancing-class, now knew both confidence and ambition.
There was already a well-worn little footpath between the old Gale
house and Sunday Cove; it wound in and out among the ledges and
thickets, and over the short sheep-turf of the knolls; and there was a
scent of sweet-brier here, and of raspberries there, and of the salt
water and the pines, and the juniper and bayberry, all the way.

Nancy herself had followed that path in a carrying-chair, and joy was
in her heart at every step. She blessed Tom over and over again, as he
walked, broad-shouldered and strong, between the forward handles, and
turned his head now and then to see if she liked the journey. For many
reasons, she was much better now that she could get out into the sun.
The bedroom with the north window was apt to be tenantless, and
where-ever Nancy went she made other people wiser and happier, and
more interested in life.

On the day when she went in state to visit the new house, with her two
sober carriers, and a gay little retinue of young people frisking
alongside, she felt happy enough by the way; but when she got to the
house itself, and had been carried quite round it, and was at last set
down in the wide hall to look about, she gave her eyes a splendid
liberty of enjoyment. Mrs. Aldis disappeared for a moment to give
directions in her guest's behalf, and the host and Nancy were left
alone together.

"No, I don't feel a bit tired," said the guest, looking pale and
radiant. "I feel as if I didn't know how to be grateful enough. I have
everything in the world to make me happy. What does make you and your
dear family do so much?"

"It means a great deal to have friends, doesn't it?" answered Tom in a
tone that thanked her warmly. "I often wish"--

He could not finish his sentence, for he was thinking of Nancy's long
years, and the bond of friendship that absence and even forgetfulness
had failed to break; of the curious insistence of fate which made him
responsible for something in the life of Nancy and brought him back to
her neighborhood. It was a moment of deep thought; he even forgot
Nancy herself. He heard the water plashing on the shore below, and
felt the cool sea wind that blew in at the door.

Nancy reached out her bent and twisted hand and began to speak; then
she hesitated, and glanced at her hand again, and looked straight at
him with shining eyes.

"There never has been a day when I haven't thought of you," she said.



FAME'S LITTLE DAY.

I.

Nobody ever knew, except himself, what made a foolish young newspaper
reporter, who happened into a small old-fashioned hotel in New York,
observe Mr. Abel Pinkham with deep interest, listen to his talk, ask a
question or two of the clerk, and then go away and make up an
effective personal paragraph for one of the morning papers. He must
have had a heart full of fun, this young reporter, and something
honestly rustic and pleasing must have struck him in the guest's
demeanor, for there was a flavor in the few lines he wrote that made
some of his fellows seize upon the little paragraph, and copy it, and
add to it, and keep it moving. Nobody knows what starts such a thing
in journalism, or keeps it alive after it is started, but on a certain
Thursday morning the fact was made known to the world that among the
notabilities then in the city, Abel Pinkham, Esquire, a distinguished
citizen of Wetherford, Vermont, was visiting New York on important
affairs connected with the maple-sugar industry of his native State.
Mr. Pinkham had expected to keep his visit unannounced, but it was
likely to occasion much interest in business and civic circles. This
was something like the way that the paragraph started; but here and
there a kindred spirit of the original journalist caught it up and
added discreet lines about Mr. Pinkham's probable stay in town, his
occupation of an apartment on the fourth floor of the Ethan Allen
Hotel, and other circumstances so uninteresting to the reading public
in general that presently in the next evening edition, one city editor
after another threw out the item, and the young journalists, having
had their day of pleasure, passed on to other things.

Mr. and Mrs. Pinkham had set forth from home with many forebodings, in
spite of having talked all winter about taking this journey as soon as
the spring opened. They would have caught at any reasonable excuse for
giving it up altogether, because when the time arrived it seemed so
much easier to stay at home. Mrs. Abel Pinkham had never seen New
York; her husband himself had not been to the city for a great many
years; in fact, his reminiscences of the former visit were not
altogether pleasant, since he had foolishly fallen into many snares,
and been much gulled in his character of honest young countryman.
There was a tarnished and worthless counterfeit of a large gold watch
still concealed between the outer boarding and inner lath and plaster
of the lean-to bedroom which Mr. Abel Pinkham had occupied as a
bachelor; it was not the only witness of his being taken in by city
sharpers, and he had winced ever since at the thought of their wiles.
But he was now a man of sixty, well-to-do, and of authority in town
affairs; his children were all well married and settled in homes of
their own, except a widowed daughter, who lived at home with her young
son, and was her mother's lieutenant in household affairs.

The boy was almost grown, and at this season, when the maple sugar was
all made and shipped, and it was still too early for spring work on
the land, Mr. Pinkham could leave home as well as not, and here he was
in New York, feeling himself to be a stranger and foreigner to city
ways. If it had not been for that desire to appear well in his wife's
eyes, which had buoyed him over the bar of many difficulties, he could
have found it in his heart to take the next train back to Wetherford,
Vermont, to be there rid of his best clothes and the stiff rim of his
heavy felt hat. He could not let his wife discover that the noise and
confusion of Broadway had the least power to make him flinch: he cared
no more for it than for the woods in snow-time. He was as good as
anybody, and she was better. They owed nobody a cent; and they had
come on purpose to see the city of New York.

They were sitting at the breakfast-table in the Ethan Allen Hotel,
having arrived at nightfall the day before. Mrs. Pinkham looked a
little pale about the mouth. She had been kept awake nearly all night
by the noise, and had enjoyed but little the evening she had spent in
the stuffy parlor of the hotel, looking down out of the window at what
seemed to her but garish scenes, and keeping a reproachful and
suspicious eye upon some unpleasantly noisy young women of forward
behavior who were her only companions. Abel himself was by no means so
poorly entertained in the hotel office and smoking-room. He felt much
more at home than she did, being better used to meeting strange men
than she was to strange women, and he found two or three companions
who had seen more than he of New York life. It was there, indeed, that
the young reporter found him, hearty and country-fed, and loved the
appearance of his best clothes, and the way Mr. Abel Pinkham brushed
his hair, and loved the way that he spoke in a loud and manful voice
the belief and experience of his honest heart.

In the morning at breakfast-time the Pinkhams were depressed. They
missed their good bed at home; they were troubled by the roar and
noise of the streets that hardly stopped over night before it began
again in the morning. The waiter did not put what mind he may have had
to the business of serving them; and Mrs. Abel Pinkham, whose cooking
was the triumph of parish festivals at home, had her own opinion about
the beefsteak. She was a woman of imagination, and now that she was
fairly here, spectacles and all, it really pained her to find that the
New York of her dreams, the metropolis of dignity and distinction, of
wealth and elegance, did not seem to exist. These poor streets, these
unlovely people, were the end of a great illusion. They did not like
to meet each other's eyes, this worthy pair. The man began to put on
an unbecoming air of assertion, and Mrs. Pinkham's face was full of
lofty protest.

"My gracious me, Mary Ann! I am glad I happened to get the 'Tribune'
this mornin'," said Mr. Pinkham, with sudden excitement. "Just you
look here! I'd like well to know how they found out about our comin'!"
and he handed the paper to his wife across the table. "There--there 't
is; right by my thumb," he insisted. "Can't you see it?" and he smiled
like a boy as she finally brought her large spectacles to bear upon
the important paragraph.

"I guess they think somethin' of us, if you don't think much o' them,"
continued Mr. Pinkham, grandly. "Oh, they know how to keep the run o'
folks who are somebody to home! Draper and Fitch knew we was comin'
this week: you know I sent word I was comin' to settle with them
myself. I suppose they send folks round to the hotels, these
newspapers, but I shouldn't thought there'd been time. Anyway, they've
thought 't was worthwhile to put us in!"

Mrs. Pinkham did not take the trouble to make a mystery out of the
unexpected pleasure. "I want to cut it out an' send it right up home
to daughter Sarah," she said, beaming with pride, and looking at the
printed names as if they were flattering photographs. "I think 't was
most too strong to say we was among the notables. But there! 'tis
their business to dress up things, and they have to print somethin'
every day. I guess I shall go up and put on my best dress," she added,
inconsequently; "this one's kind of dusty; it's the same I rode in."

"Le' me see that paper again," said Mr. Pinkham jealously. "I didn't
more 'n half sense it, I was so taken aback. Well, Mary Ann, you
didn't expect you was goin' to get into the papers when you came away.
'_Abel Pinkham, Esquire, of Wetherford, Vermont._' It looks well,
don't it? But you might have knocked me down with a feather when I
first caught sight of them words."

"I guess I shall put on my other dress," said Mrs. Pinkham, rising,
with quite a different air from that with which she had sat down to
her morning meal. "This one looks a little out o' style, as Sarah
said, but when I got up this mornin' I was so homesick it didn't seem
to make any kind o' difference. I expect that saucy girl last night
took us to be nobodies. I'd like to leave the paper round where she
couldn't help seein' it."

"Don't take any notice of her," said Abel, in a dignified tone. "If
she can't do what you want an' be civil, we'll go somewheres else. I
wish I'd done what we talked of at first an' gone to the Astor House,
but that young man in the cars told me 't was remote from the things
we should want to see. The Astor House was the top o' everything when
I was here last, but I expected to find some changes. I want you to
have the best there is," he said, smiling at his wife as if they were
just making their wedding journey. "Come, let's be stirrin'; 't is
long past eight o'clock," and he ushered her to the door, newspaper in
hand.


II.

Later that day the guests walked up Broadway, holding themselves
erect, and feeling as if every eye was upon them. Abel Pinkham had
settled with his correspondents for the spring consignments of maple
sugar, and a round sum in bank bills was stowed away in his breast
pocket. One of the partners had been a Wetherford boy, so when there
came a renewal of interest in maple sugar, and the best confectioners
were ready to do it honor, the finest quality being at a large
premium, this partner remembered that there never was any sugar made
in Wetherford of such melting and delicious flavor as from the trees
on the old Pinkham farm. He had now made a good bit of money for
himself on this private venture, and was ready that morning to pay
Mr. Abel Pinkham cash down, and to give him a handsome order for the
next season for all he could make. Mr. Fitch was also generous in the
matter of such details as freight and packing; he was immensely polite
and kind to his old friends, and begged them to come out and stay with
him and his wife, where they lived now, in a not far distant New
Jersey town.

"No, no, sir," said Mr. Pinkham promptly. "My wife has come to see the
city, and our time is short. Your folks'll be up this summer, won't
they? We'll wait an' visit then."

"You must certainly take Mrs. Pinkham up to the Park," said the
commission merchant. "I wish I had time to show you round myself. I
suppose you've been seeing some things already, haven't you? I noticed
your arrival in the 'Herald.'"

"The 'Tribune' it was," said Mr. Pinkham, blushing through a smile and
looking round at his wife.

"Oh no; I never read the 'Tribune,'" said Mr. Fitch. "There was quite
an extended notice in my paper. They must have put you and
Mrs. Pinkham into the 'Herald' too." And so the friends parted,
laughing. "I am much pleased to have a call from such distinguished
parties," said Mr. Fitch, by way of final farewell, and Mr. Pinkham
waved his hand grandly in reply.

"Let's get the 'Herald,' then," he said, as they started up the
street. "We can go an' sit over in that little square that we passed
as we came along, and rest an' talk things over about what we'd better
do this afternoon. I'm tired out a-trampin' and standin'. I'd rather
have set still while we were there, but he wanted us to see his store.
Done very well, Joe Fitch has, but 't ain't a business I should like."

There was a lofty look and sense of behavior about Mr. Pinkham of
Wetherford. You might have thought him a great politician as he
marched up Broadway, looking neither to right hand nor left. He felt
himself to be a person of great responsibilities.

"I begin to feel sort of at home myself," said his wife, who always
had a certain touch of simple dignity about her. "When we was comin'
yesterday New York seemed to be all strange, and there wasn't nobody
expectin' us. I feel now just as if I'd been here before."

They were now on the edge of the better-looking part of the town; it
was still noisy and crowded, but noisy with fine carriages instead of
drays, and crowded with well-dressed people. The hours for shopping
and visiting were beginning, and more than one person looked with
appreciative and friendly eyes at the comfortable pleased-looking
elderly man and woman who went their easily beguiled and loitering
way. The pavement peddlers detained them, but the cabmen beckoned them
in vain; their eyes were busy with the immediate foreground.
Mrs. Pinkham was embarrassed by the recurring reflection of herself in
the great windows.

"I wish I had seen about a new bonnet before we came," she lamented.
"They seem to be havin' on some o' their spring things."

"Don't you worry, Mary Ann. I don't see anybody that looks any better
than you do," said Abel, with boyish and reassuring pride.

Mr. Pinkham had now bought the "Herald," and also the "Sun," well
recommended by an able newsboy, and presently they crossed over from
that corner by the Fifth Avenue Hotel which seems like the very heart
of New York, and found a place to sit down on the Square--an empty
bench, where they could sit side by side and look the papers through,
reading over each other's shoulder, and being impatient from page to
page. The paragraph was indeed repeated, with trifling additions.
Ederton of the "Sun" had followed the "Tribune" man's lead, and
fabricated a brief interview, a marvel of art and discretion, but so
general in its allusions that it could create no suspicion; it almost
deceived Mr. Pinkham himself, so that he found unaffected pleasure in
the fictitious occasion, and felt as if he had easily covered himself
with glory. Except for the bare fact of the interview's being
imaginary, there was no discredit to be cast upon Mr. Abel Pinkham's
having said that he thought the country near Wetherford looked well
for the time of year, and promised a fair hay crop, and that his
income was augmented one half to three fifths by his belief in the
future of maple sugar. It was likely to be the great coming crop of
the Green Mountain State. Ederton suggested that there was talk of
Mr. Pinkham's presence in the matter of a great maple-sugar trust, in
which much of the capital of Wall Street would be involved.

"How they do hatch up these things, don't they?" said the worthy man
at this point. "Well, it all sounds well, Mary Ann."

"It says here that you are a very personable man," smiled his wife,
"and have filled some of the most responsible town offices" (this was
the turn taken by Goffey of the "Herald"). "Oh, and that you are going
to attend the performance at Barnum's this evening, and occupy
reserved seats. Why, I didn't know--who have you told about that?--who
was you talkin' to last night, Abel?"

"I never spoke o' goin' to Barnum's to any livin' soul," insisted
Abel, flushing. "I only thought of it two or three times to myself
that perhaps I might go an' take you. Now that is singular; perhaps
they put that in just to advertise the show."

"Ain't it a kind of a low place for folks like us to be seen in?"
suggested Mrs. Pinkham timidly. "People seem to be payin' us all this
attention, an' I don't know's 't would be dignified for us to go to
one o' them circus places."

"I don't care; we shan't live but once. I ain't comin' to New York an'
confine myself to evenin' meetin's," answered Abel, throwing away
discretion and morality together. "I tell you I'm goin' to spend this
sugar-money just as we've a mind to. You've worked hard, an' counted a
good while on comin', and so've I; an' I ain't goin' to mince my steps
an' pinch an' screw for nobody. I'm goin' to hire one o' them hacks
an' ride up to the Park."

"Joe Fitch said we could go right up in one o' the elevated railroads
for five cents, an' return when we was ready," protested
Mary Ann, who had a thriftier inclination than her husband; but
Mr. Pinkham was not to be let or hindered, and they presently found
themselves going up Fifth Avenue in a somewhat battered open landau.
The spring sun shone upon them, and the spring breeze fluttered the
black ostrich tip on Mrs. Pinkham' s durable winter bonnet, and
brought the pretty color to her faded cheeks.

"There! this is something like. Such people as we are can't go
meechin' round; it ain't expected. Don't it pay for a lot o' hard
work?" said Abel; and his wife gave him a pleased look for her only
answer. They were both thinking of their gray farmhouse high on a long
western slope, with the afternoon sun full in its face, the old red
barn, the pasture, the shaggy woods that stretched far up the
mountain-side.

"I wish Sarah an' little Abel was here to see us ride by," said Mary
Ann Pinkham, presently. "I can't seem to wait to have 'em get that
newspaper. I'm so glad we sent it right off before we started this
mornin'. If Abel goes to the post-office comin' from school, as he
always does, they'll have it to read to-morrow before supper-time."


III.

This happy day in two plain lives ended, as might have been expected,
with the great Barnum show. Mr. and Mrs. Pinkham found themselves in
possession of countless advertising cards and circulars next morning,
and these added somewhat to their sense of responsibility.
Mrs. Pinkham became afraid that the hotel-keeper would charge them
double. "We've got to pay for it some way; there. I don't know but I'm
more 'n willin'," said the good soul. "I never did have such a
splendid time in all my life. Findin' you so respected 'way off here
is the best of anything; an' then seein' them dear little babies in
their nice carriages, all along the streets and up to the Central
Park! I never shall forget them beautiful little creatur's. And then
the houses, an' the hosses, an' the store windows, an' all the rest of
it! Well, I can't make my country pitcher hold no more, an' I want to
get home an' think it over, goin' about my housework."

They were just entering the door of the Ethan Allen Hotel for the last
time, when a young man met them and bowed cordially. He was the
original reporter of their arrival, but they did not know it, and the
impulse was strong within him to formally invite Mr. Pinkham to make
an address before the members of the Produce Exchange on the following
morning; but he had been a country boy himself, and their look of
seriousness and self-consciousness appealed to him unexpectedly. He
wondered what effect this great experience would have upon their
after-life. The best fun, after all, would be to send marked copies of
his paper and Ederton's to all the weekly newspapers in that part of
Vermont. He saw before him the evidence of their happy increase of
self-respect, and he would make all their neighborhood agree to do
them honor. Such is the dominion of the press.

"Who was that young man?--he kind of bowed to you," asked the lady
from Wetherford, after the journalist had meekly passed; but Abel
Pinkham, Esquire, could only tell her that he looked like a young
fellow who was sitting in the office the evening that they came to the
hotel. The reporter did not seem to these distinguished persons to be
a young man of any consequence.



A WAR DEBT.

I.

There was a tinge of autumn color on even the English elms as Tom
Burton walked slowly up Beacon Street. He was wondering all the way
what he had better do with himself; it was far too early to settle
down in Boston for the winter, but his grandmother kept to her old
date for moving up to town, and here they were. As yet nobody thought
of braving the country weather long after October came in, and most
country houses were poorly equipped with fireplaces, or even furnaces:
this was some years ago, and not the very last autumn that ever was.

There was likely to be a long stretch of good weather, a month at
least, if one took the trouble to go a little way to the southward.
Tom Burton quickened his steps a little, and began to think definitely
of his guns, while a sudden resolve took shape in his mind. Just then
he reached the doorsteps of his grandmother's fine old-fashioned
house, being himself the fourth Thomas Burton that the shining brass
door-plate had represented. His old grandmother was the only near
relative he had in the world; she was growing older and more dependent
upon him every day. That summer he had returned from a long wandering
absence of three years, and the vigorous elderly woman whom he had
left, busy and self-reliant, had sadly changed in the mean time; age
had begun to strike telling blows at her strength and spirits. Tom had
no idea of leaving her again for the long journeys which had become
the delightful habit of his life; but there was no reason why he
should not take a fortnight's holiday now and then, particularly now.

"Has Mrs. Burton come down yet, Dennis? Is there any one with her?"
asked Tom, as he entered.

"There is not, sir. Mrs. Burton is in the drawing-room," answered
Dennis precisely. "The tea is just going up; I think she was waiting
for you." And Tom ran upstairs like a schoolboy, and then walked
discreetly into the drawing-room. His grandmother gave no sign of
having expected him, but she always liked company at that hour of the
day: there had come to be too many ghosts in the empty chairs.

"Can I have two cups?" demanded the grandson, cheerfully. "I don't
know when I have had such a walk!" and they began a gay gossiping hour
together, and parted for a short season afterward, only to meet again
at dinner, with a warm sense of pleasure in each other's company. The
young man always insisted that his grandmother was the most charming
woman in the world, and it can be imagined what the grandmother
thought of Tom. She was only severe with him because he had given no
signs of wishing to marry, but she was tolerant of all delay, so long
as she could now and then keep the subject fresh in his mind. It was
not a moment to speak again of the great question that afternoon, and
she had sat and listened to his talk of people and things, a little
plaintive and pale, but very handsome, behind the tea-table.


II.

At dinner, after Dennis had given Tom his cup of coffee and cigars,
and disappeared with an accustomed air of thoughtfully leaving the
family alone for a private interview, Mrs. Burton, who sometimes
lingered if she felt like talking, and sometimes went away to the
drawing-room to take a brief nap before she began her evening book,
and before Tom joined her for a few minutes to say good-night if he
were going out,--Mrs. Burton left her chair more hurriedly than usual.
Tom meant to be at home that evening, and was all ready to speak of
his plan for some Southern shooting, and he felt a sudden sense of
disappointment.

"Don't go away," he said, looking up as she passed. "Is this a bad
cigar?"

"No, no, my dear," said the old lady, hurrying across the room in an
excited, unusual sort of way. "I wish to show you something while we
are by ourselves." And she stooped to unlock a little cupboard in the
great sideboard, and fumbled in the depths there, upsetting and
clanking among some pieces of silver. Tom joined her with a pair of
candles, but it was some moments before she could find what she
wanted. Mrs. Burton appeared to be in a hurry, which almost never
happened, and in trying to help her Tom dropped much wax unheeded at
her side.

"Here it is at last," she said, and went back to her seat at the
table. "I ought to tell you the stories of some old silver that I keep
in that cupboard; if I were to die, nobody would know anything about
them."

"Do you mean the old French spoons, and the prince's porringer, and
those things?" asked Tom, showing the most lively interest. But his
grandmother was busy unfastening the strings of a little bag, and
shook her head absently in answer to his question. She took out and
handed to him a quaint old silver cup with two handles, that he could
not remember ever to have seen.

"What a charming old bit!" said he, turning it about. "Where in the
world did it come from? English, of course; and it looks like a
loving-cup. A copy of some old Oxford thing, perhaps; only they didn't
copy much then. I should think it had been made for a child." Tom
turned it round and round and drew the candles toward him. "Here's an
inscription, too, but very much worn."

"Put it down a minute," said Mrs. Burton impatiently. "Every time I
have thought of it I have been more and more ashamed to have it in the
house. People weren't so shocked by such things at first; they would
only be sentimental about the ruined homes, and say that, 'after all,
it was the fortune of war.' That cup was stolen."

"But who stole it?" inquired Tom, with deep interest.

"Your father brought it here," said Mrs. Burton, with great spirit,
and even a tone of reproach. "My son, Tom Burton, your father, brought
it home from the war. I think his plan was to keep it safe to send
back to the owners. But he left it with your mother when he was
ordered suddenly to the front; he was only at home four days, and the
day after he got back to camp was the day he was killed, poor boy"--

"I remember something about it now," Tom hastened to say. "I remember
my mother's talking about the breaking up of Southern homes, and all
that; she never believed it until she saw the cup, and I thought it
was awfully silly. I was at the age when I could have blown our own
house to pieces just for the sake of the racket."

"And that terrible year your grandfather's and your mother's death
followed, and I was left alone with you--two of us out of the five
that had made my home"--

"I should say one and a half," insisted Tom, with some effort. "What a
boy I was for a grandson! Thank Heaven, there comes a time when we are
all the same age! We are jolly together now, aren't we? Come, dear old
lady, don't let's think too much of what's gone by;" and he went round
the table and gave her a kiss, and stood there where she need not look
him in the face, holding her dear thin hand as long as ever she liked.

"I want you to take that silver cup back, Tom," she said presently, in
her usual tone. "Go back and finish your coffee." She had seldom
broken down like this. Mrs. Burton had been self-possessed, even to
apparent coldness, in earlier life.

"How in the world am I going to take it back?" asked Tom, most
businesslike and calm. "Do you really know just where it came from?
And then it was several years ago."

"Your grandfather knew; they were Virginia people, of course, and
happened to be old friends; one of the younger men was his own
classmate. He knew the crest and motto at once, but there were two or
three branches of the family, none of them, so far as he knew, living
anywhere near where your father was in camp. Poor Tom said that there
was a beautiful old house sacked and burnt, and everything scattered
that was saved. He happened to hear a soldier from another regiment
talking about it, and saw him tossing this cup about, and bought it
from him with all the money he happened to have in his pockets."

"Then he didn't really steal it himself!" exclaimed Tom, laughing a
little, and with a sense of relief.

"No, no, Tom!" said Mrs. Burton impatiently. "Only you see that it
really is a stolen thing, and I have had it all this time under my
roof. For a long time it was packed away with your father's war
relics, those things that I couldn't bear to see. And then I would
think of it only at night after I had once seen it, and forget to ask
any one else while you were away, or wait for you to come. Oh, I have
no excuse. I have been very careless, but here it has been all the
time. I wish you would find out about the people; there must be some
one belonging to them--some friend, perhaps, to whom we could give it.
This is one of the things that I wish to have done, and to forget.
Just take it back, or write some letters first: you will know what to
do. I should like to have the people understand."

"I'll see about it at once," said Tom, with great zest. "I believe you
couldn't have spoken at a better time. I have been thinking of going
down to Virginia this very week. I hear that they are in a hurry with
fitting out that new scientific expedition in Washington that I
declined to join, and they want me to come on and talk over things
before they are off. One of the men is a Virginian, an awfully good
fellow; and then there's Clendennin, my old chum, who's in Washington,
too, just now; they'll give me my directions; they know all Virginia
between them. I'll take the cup along, and run down from Washington
for a few days, and perhaps get some shooting."

Tom's face was shining with interest and satisfaction; he took the cup
and again held it under the candle-light. "How pretty this old chasing
is round the edge, and the set of the little handles! Oh, here's the
motto! What a dear old thing, and enormously old! See here, under the
crest," and he held it toward Mrs. Burton:--

   _"Je vous en prie Bel-ami."_

Mrs. Burton glanced at it with indifference. "Yes, it is charming, as
you say. But I only wish to return it to its owners, Tom."

   _"Je vous en prie Bel-ami."_

Tom repeated the words under his breath, and looked at the crest
carefully.

"I remember that your grandfather said it belonged to the Bellamys,"
said his grandmother. "Of course: how could I forget that? I have
never looked at it properly since the day I first saw it. It is a
charming motto--they were very charming and distinguished people. I
suppose this is a pretty way of saying that they could not live
without their friends. I beg of you, Belami;--it is a quaint fancy;
one might turn it in two or three pretty ways."

"Or they may have meant that they only looked to themselves for what
they wanted, _Je vous en prie Bellamy!_" said Tom gallantly. "All
right; I think that I shall start to-morrow or next day. If you have
no special plans," he added.

"Do go, my dear; you may get some shooting, as you say," said
Mrs. Burton, a little wistfully, but kindly personifying Tom's
inclination.

"You've started me off on a fine romantic adventure," said the young
man, smiling. "Come; my cigar's gone out, and it never was good for
much; let's go in and try the cards, and talk about things; perhaps
you'll think of something more about the Bellamys. You said that my
grandfather had a classmate"--

Mrs. Burton stopped to put the cup into its chamois bag again, and
handed it solemnly to Tom, then she took his arm, and dismissing all
unpleasant thoughts, they sat down to the peaceful game of cribbage to
while away the time. The grandson lent himself gayly to
pleasure-making, and they were just changing the cards for their
books, when one of the elder friends of the house appeared, one of the
two or three left who called Mrs. Burton Margaret, and was greeted
affectionately as Henry in return. This guest always made the dear
lady feel young; he himself was always to the front of things, and had
much to say. It was quite forgotten that a last charge had been given
to Tom, or that the past had been wept over. Presently, the late
evening hours being always her best, she forgot in eager talk that she
had any grandson at all, and Tom slipped away with his book to his own
sitting-room and his pipe. He took the little cup out of its bag
again, and set it before him, and began to lay plans for a Southern
journey.


III.

The Virginia country was full of golden autumn sunshine and blue haze.
The long hours spent on a slow-moving train were full of shocks and
surprises to a young traveler who knew almost every civilized country
better than his own. The lonely look of the fields, the trees
shattered by war, which had not yet had time enough to muffle their
broken tops with green; the negroes, who crowded on board the train,
lawless, and unequal to holding their liberty with steady hands,
looked poor and less respectable than in the old plantation days--it
was as if the long discipline of their former state had counted for
nothing. Tom Burton felt himself for the first time to have something
of a statesman's thoughts and schemes as he moralized along the way.
Presently he noticed with deep sympathy a lady who came down the
crowded car, and took the seat just in front of him. She carried a
magazine under her arm a copy of--"Blackwood," which was presently
proved to bear the date of 1851, and to be open at an article on the
death of Wordsworth. She was the first lady he had seen that
day--there was little money left for journeying and pleasure among the
white Virginians; but two or three stations beyond this a group of
young English men and women stood with the gay negroes on the
platform, and came into the train with cheerful greetings to their
friends. It seemed as if England had begun to settle Virginia all over
again, and their clear, lively voices had no foreign sound. There were
going to be races at some court-house town in the neighborhood. Burton
was a great lover of horses himself, and the new scenes grew more and
more interesting. In one of the gay groups was a different figure from
any of the fresh-cheeked young wives of the English planters--a
slender girl, pale and spirited, with a look of care beyond her years.
She was the queen of her little company. It was to her that every one
looked for approval and sympathy as the laugh went to and fro. There
was something so high-bred and elegant in her bearing, something so
exquisitely sure and stately, that her companions were made clumsy and
rustic in their looks by contrast. The eager talk of the coming races,
of the untried thoroughbreds, the winners and losers of the year
before, made more distinct this young Virginia lady's own look of
high-breeding, and emphasized her advantage of race. She was the newer
and finer Norman among Saxons. She alone seemed to have that
inheritance of swiftness of mind, of sureness of training. It was the
highest type of English civilization refined still further by long
growth in favoring soil. Tom Burton read her unconscious face as if it
were a romance; he believed that one of the great Virginia houses must
still exist, and that she was its young mistress. The house's fortune
was no doubt gone; the long-worn and carefully mended black silk gown
that followed the lines of her lovely figure told plainly enough that
worldly prosperity was a thing of the past. But what nature could give
of its best, and only age and death could take away, were hers. He
watched her more and more; at one moment she glanced up suddenly and
held his eyes with hers for one revealing moment. There was no
surprise in the look, but a confession of pathos, a recognition of
sympathy, which made even a stranger feel that he had the inmost
secret of her heart.


IV.

The next day our hero, having hired a capital saddle-horse, a little
the worse for age, was finding his way eastward along the sandy roads.
The country was full of color; the sassafras and gum trees and oaks
were all ablaze with red and yellow. Now and then he caught a glimpse
of a sail on one of the wide reaches of the river which lay to the
northward; now and then he passed a broken gateway or the ruins of a
cabin. He carried a light gun before him across the saddle, and a
game-bag hung slack and empty at his shoulder except for a single
plump partridge in one corner, which had whirred up at the right
moment out of a vine-covered thicket. Something small and heavy in his
coat pocket seemed to correspond to the bird, and once or twice he
unconsciously lifted it in the hollow of his hand. The day itself, and
a sense of being on the road to fulfill his mission, a sense of
unending leisure and satisfaction under that lovely hazy sky, seemed
to leave no place for impatience or thought of other things. He rode
slowly along, with his eye on the roadside coverts, letting the horse
take his own gait, except when a ragged negro boy, on an unwilling,
heavy-footed mule, slyly approached and struck the dallying steed from
behind. It was past the middle of the October afternoon.

"'Mos' thar now, Cun'l," said the boy at last, eagerly. "See them
busted trees pas' thar, an' chimblies? You tu'n down nax' turn; ride
smart piece yet, an' you come right front of ol' Mars Bell'my's house.
See, he comin' 'long de road now. Yas, 'tis Mars Bell'my shore, an' 's
gun."

Tom had been looking across the neglected fields with compassion, and
wondering if such a plantation could ever be brought back to its days
of prosperity. As the boy spoke he saw the tall chimneys in the
distance, and then, a little way before him in the shadow of some
trees, a stately figure that slowly approached. He hurriedly
dismounted, leading his horse until he met the tall old man, who
answered his salutation with much dignity. There was something royal
and remote from ordinary men in his silence after the first words of
courteous speech.

"Yas, sir; that's Mars Bell'my, sir," whispered the boy on the mule,
reassuringly, and the moment of hesitation was happily ended.

"I was on my way to call upon you, Colonel Bellamy; my name is
Burton," said the younger man.

"Will you come with me to the house?" said the old gentleman, putting
out his hand cordially a second time; and though he had frowned
slightly at first at the unmistakable Northern accent, the light came
quickly to his eyes. Tom gave his horse's bridle to the boy, who
promptly transferred himself to the better saddle, and began to lead
the mule instead.

"I have been charged with an errand of friendship," said Tom. "I
believe that you and my grandfather were at Harvard together." Tom
looked boyish and eager and responsive to hospitality at this moment.
He was straight and trim, like a Frenchman. Colonel Bellamy was much
the taller of the two, even with his bent shoulders and relaxed
figure.

"I see the resemblance to your grandfather, sir. I bid you welcome to
Fairford," said the Colonel. "Your visit is a great kindness."

They walked on together, speaking ceremoniously of the season and of
the shooting and Tom's journey, until they left the woods and
overgrown avenue at the edge of what had once been a fine lawn, with
clusters of huge oaks; but these were shattered by war and more or
less ruined. The lopped trunks still showed the marks of fire and
shot; some had put out a fresh bough or two, but most of the ancient
trees stood for their own monuments, rain-bleached and gaunt. At the
other side of the wide lawn, against young woodland and a glimpse of
the river, were the four great chimneys which had been seen from the
highroad. There was no dwelling in sight at the moment, and Tom stole
an apprehensive look at the grave face of his companion. It appeared
as if he were being led to the habitation of ghosts, as if he were
purposely to be confronted with the desolation left in the track of
Northern troops. It was not so long since the great war that these
things could be forgotten.

The Colonel, however, without noticing the ruins in any way, turned
toward the right as he neared them, and passing a high fragment of
brick wall topped by a marble ball or two--which had been shot at for
marks--and passing, just beyond, some huge clumps of box, they came to
a square brick building with a rude wooden addition at one side, and
saw some tumble-down sheds a short distance beyond this, with a negro
cabin.

They came to the open door. "This was formerly the billiard-room. Your
grandfather would have kept many memories of it," said the host
simply. "Will you go in, Mr. Burton?" And Tom climbed two or three
perilous wooden steps and entered, to find himself in a most homelike
and charming place. There was a huge fireplace opposite the door, with
a thin whiff of blue smoke going up, a few old books on the high
chimney-piece, a pair of fine portraits with damaged frames, some old
tables and chairs of different patterns, with a couch by the square
window covered with a piece of fine tapestry folded together and still
showing its beauty, however raveled and worn. By the opposite window,
curtained only by vines, sat a lady with her head muffled in lace, who
greeted the guest pleasantly, and begged pardon for not rising from
her chair. Her face wore an unmistakable look of pain and sorrow. As
Tom Burton stood at her side, he could find nothing to say in answer
to her apologies. He was not wont to be abashed, and a real court
could not affect him like this ideal one. The poor surroundings could
only be seen through the glamour of their owner's presence--it seemed
a most elegant interior.

"I am sorry to have the inconvenience of deafness," said Madam
Bellamy, looking up with an anxious little smile. "Will you tell me
again the name of our guest?"

"He is my old classmate Burton's grandson, of Boston," said the
Colonel, who now stood close at her side; he looked apprehensive as he
spoke, and the same shadow flitted over his face as when Tom had
announced himself by the oak at the roadside.

"I remember Mr. Burton, your grandfather, very well," said Madam
Bellamy at last, giving Tom her hand for the second time, as her
husband had done. "He was your guest here the autumn before we were
married, my dear; a fine rider, I remember, and a charming gentleman.
He was much entertained by one of our hunts. I saw that you also
carried a gun. My dear," and she turned to her husband anxiously, "did
you bring home any birds?"

Colonel Bellamy's face lengthened. "I had scarcely time, or perhaps I
had not my usual good fortune," said he. "The birds have followed the
grain-fields away from Virginia, we sometimes think."

"I can offer you a partridge," said Tom eagerly. "I shot one as I rode
along. I am afraid that I stopped Colonel Bellamy just as he was going
out."

"I thank you very much," said Madam Bellamy. "And you will take supper
with us, certainly. You will give us the pleasure of a visit? I regret
very much my granddaughter's absence, but it permits me to offer you
her room, which happens to be vacant." But Tom attempted to make
excuse. "No, no," said Madam Bellamy, answering her own thoughts
rather than his words. "You must certainly stay the night with us; we
shall make you most welcome. It will give my husband great pleasure;
he will have many questions to ask you."

Tom went out to search for his attendant, who presently clattered away
on the mule at an excellent homeward pace. An old negro man servant
led away the horse, and Colonel Bellamy disappeared also, leaving the
young guest to entertain himself and his hostess for an hour, that
flew by like light. A woman who is charming in youth is still more
charming in age to a man of Tom Burton's imagination, and he was
touched to find how quickly the first sense of receiving an antagonist
had given way before a desire to show their feeling of kindly
hospitality toward a guest. The links of ancient friendship still held
strong, and as Tom sat with his hostess by the window they had much
pleasant talk of Northern families known to them both, of whom, or of
whose children and grandchildren, he could give much news. It seemed
as if he should have known Madam Bellamy all his life. It is
impossible to say how she illumined her poor habitation, with what
dignity and sweetness she avoided, as far as possible, any reference
to the war or its effects. One could hardly remember that she was
poor, or ill, or had suffered such piteous loss of friends and
fortune.

Later, when Tom was walking toward the river through the woods and
overgrown fields of the plantation, he came upon the ruins of the old
cabins of what must have been a great family of slaves. The crumbling
heaps of the chimneys stood in long lines on either side of a
weed-grown lane; not far beyond he found the sinking mounds of some
breastworks on a knoll which commanded the river channel. The very
trees and grass looked harrowed and distressed by war; the silence of
the sunset was only broken by the cry of a little owl that was begging
mercy of its fears far down the lonely shore.


V.

At supper that night Burton came from his room to find Colonel Bellamy
bringing his wife in his arms to the table, while the old bent-backed
and gray-headed man servant followed to place her chair. The mistress
of Fairford was entirely lame and helpless, but she sat at the head of
her table like a queen. There was a bunch of damask-roses at her
plate. The Colonel himself was in evening dress, antique in cut, and
sadly worn, and Tom heartily thanked his patron saint that the boy had
brought his portmanteau in good season. There was a glorious light in
the room from the fire, and the table was served with exquisite care,
and even more luxurious delay, the excellent fish which the Colonel
himself must have caught in his unexplained absence, and Tom's own
partridge, which was carved as if it had been the first wild turkey of
the season, were followed by a few peaches touched with splendid color
as they lay on a handful of leaves in a bent and dented pewter plate.
There seemed to be no use for the stray glasses, until old Milton
produced a single small bottle of beer, and uncorked and poured it for
his master and his master's guest with a grand air. The Colonel lifted
his eyebrows slightly, but accepted its appearance at the proper
moment.

They sat long at table. It was impossible to let one's thought dwell
upon any of the meagre furnishings of the feast. The host and hostess
talked of the days when they went often to France and England, and of
Tom's grandfather when he was young. At last Madam Bellamy left the
table, and Tom stood waiting while she was carried to her own room. He
had kissed her hand like a courtier as he said good-night. On the
Colonel's return the old butler ostentatiously placed the solitary
bottle between them and went away. The Colonel offered some excellent
tobacco, and Tom begged leave to fetch his pipe. When he returned he
brought with it the chamois-skin bag that held the silver cup, and
laid it before him on the table. It was like the dread of going into
battle, but the moment had arrived. He laid his hand on the cup for a
moment as if to hide it, then he waited until his pipe was fairly
going.

"This is something which I have come to restore to you, sir," said Tom
presently, taking the piece of silver from its wrappings. "I believe
that it is your property."

The old Colonel's face wore a strange, alarmed look; his thin cheeks
grew crimson. He reached eagerly for the cup, and held it before his
eyes. At last he bent his head and kissed it. Tom Burton saw that his
tears began to fall, that he half rose, turning toward the door of the
next room, where his wife was; then he sank back again, and looked at
his guest appealingly.

"I ask no questions," he faltered; "it was the fortune of war. This
cup was my grandfather's, my father's, and mine; all my own children
drank from it in turn; they are all gone before me. We always called
it our lucky cup. I fear that it has come back too late"--The old
man's voice broke, but he still held the shining piece of silver
before him, and turned it about in the candle-light.

   _"Je vous en prie Bel-ami."_

he whispered under his breath, and put the cup before him on the
scarred mahogany.


VI.

"Shall we move our chairs before the fire, Mr. Burton? My dear wife is
but frail," said the old man, after a long silence, and with touching
pathos. "She sees me companioned for the evening, and is glad to seek
her room early; if you were not here she would insist upon our game of
cards. I do not allow myself to dwell upon the past, and I have no
wish for gay company;" he added, in a lower voice, "My daily dread in
life is to be separated from her."

As the evening wore on, the autumn air grew chilly, and again and
again the host replenished his draughty fireplace, and pushed the box
of delicious tobacco toward his guest, and Burton in his turn ventured
to remember a flask in his portmanteau, and begged the Colonel to
taste it, because it had been filled from an old cask in his
grandfather's cellar. The butler's eyes shone with satisfaction when
he was unexpectedly called upon to brew a little punch after the old
Fairford fashion, and the later talk ranged along the youthful
escapades of Thomas Burton the elder to the beauties and the style of
Addison; from the latest improvement in shot-guns to the statesmanship
of Thomas Jefferson, while the Colonel spoke tolerantly, in passing,
of some slight misapprehensions of Virginia life made by a delightful
young writer, too early lost--Mr. Thackeray.

Tom Burton had never enjoyed an evening more; the romance, the pathos
of it, as he found himself more and more taking his grandfather's
place in the mind of this hereditary friend, waked all his sympathy.
The charming talk that never dwelt too long or was hurried too fast,
the exquisite faded beauty of Madam Bellamy, the noble dignity and
manliness of the old planter and soldier, the perfect absence of
reproach for others or whining pity for themselves, made the knowledge
of their regret and loss doubly poignant. Their four sons had all laid
down their lives in what they believed from their hearts to be their
country's service; their daughters had died early, one from sorrow at
her husband's death, and one from exposure in a forced flight across
country; their ancestral home lay in ruins; their beloved cause had
been put to shame and defeat--yet they could bow their heads to every
blast of misfortune, and could make a man welcome at their table whose
every instinct and tradition of loyalty made him their enemy. The owls
might shriek from the chimneys of Fairford, and the timid wild hares
course up and down the weed-grown avenues on an autumn night like
this, but a welcome from the Bellamys was a welcome still. It seemed
to the young imaginative guest that the old motto of the house was
never so full of significance as when he fancied it exchanged between
the Colonel and himself, Southerner and Northerner, elder and younger
man, conquered and conqueror in an unhappy war. The two old portraits,
with their warped frames and bullet-holes, faded and gleamed again in
the firelight; the portrait of an elderly man was like the Colonel
himself, but the woman, who was younger, and who seemed to meet Tom's
eye gayly enough, bore a resemblance which he could only half recall.
It was very late when the two men said good-night. They were each
conscious of the great delight of having found a friend. The candles
had flickered out long before, but the fire still burned, and struck a
ray of light from the cup on the table.


VII.

The next morning Burton waked early in his tiny sleeping-room. The
fragrance of ripe grapes and the autumn air blew in at the window, and
he hastened to dress, especially as he could hear the footstep and
imperious voice of Colonel Bellamy, who seemed to begin his new day
with zest and courage in the outer room. Milton, the old gray-headed
negro, was there too, and was alternately upbraided and spoken with
most intimately and with friendly approval. It sounded for a time as
if some great excitement and project were on foot; but Milton
presently appeared, eager for morning offices, and when Tom went out
to join the Colonel he was no longer there. There were no signs of
breakfast. The birds were singing in the trees outside, and the sun
shone in through the wide-opened door. It was a poor place in the
morning light. As he crossed the room he saw an old-fashioned
gift-book lying on the couch, as if some one had just laid it there
face downward. He carried it with him to the door; a dull collection
enough, from forgotten writers of forgotten prose and verse, but the
Colonel had left it open at some lines which, with all their faults,
could not be read without sympathy. He was always thinking of his
wife; he had marked the four verses because they spoke of her.

Tom put the old book down just as Colonel Bellamy passed outside, and
hastened to join him. They met with pleasure, and stood together
talking. The elder man presently quoted a line or two of poetry about
the beauty of the autumn morning, and his companion stood listening
with respectful attention, but he observed by contrast the hard,
warriorlike lines of the Colonel's face. He could well believe that,
until sorrow had softened him, a fiery impatient temper had ruled this
Southern heart. There was a sudden chatter and noise of voices, and
they both turned to see a group of negroes, small and great, coming
across the lawn with bags and baskets, and after a few muttered words
the old master set forth hurriedly to meet them, Tom following.

"Be still, all of you!" said the Colonel sternly. "Your mistress is
still asleep. Go round to Milton, and he will attend to you. I'll come
presently."

They were almost all old people, many of them were already infirm, and
it was hard to still their requests and complaints. One of the smaller
children clasped Colonel Bellamy about the knees. There was something
patriarchal in the scene, and one could not help being sure that some
reason for the present poverty of Fairford was the necessity for
protecting these poor souls. The merry, well-fed colored people, who
were indulging their late-won liberty of travel on the trains, had
evidently shirked any responsibilities for such stray remnants of
humanity. Slavery was its own provider for old age. There had once
been no necessity for the slaves themselves to make provision for
winter, as even a squirrel must. They were worse than children now,
and far more appealing in their helplessness.

The group slowly departed, and Colonel Bellamy led the way in the
opposite direction, toward the ruins of the great house. They crossed
the old garden, where some ancient espaliers still clung to the broken
brick-work of the walls, and a little fruit still clung to the knotted
branches, while great hedges of box, ragged and uncared for, traced
the old order of the walks. The heavy dew and warm morning sun brought
out that antique fragrance,--the faint pungent odor which wakes the
utmost memories of the past. Tom Burton thought with a sudden thrill
that the girl with the sweet eyes yesterday had worn a bit of box in
her dress. Here and there, under the straying boughs of the shrubbery,
bloomed a late scarlet poppy from some scattered seed of which such
old soil might well be full. It was a barren, neglected garden enough,
but still full of charm and delight, being a garden. There was a fine
fragrance of grapes through the undergrowth, but the whole place was
completely ruined; a little snake slid from the broken base of a
sun-dial; the tall chimneys of the house were already beginning to
crumble, and birds and squirrels lived in their crevices and flitted
about their lofty tops. At some distance an old negro was singing,--it
must have been Milton himself, still unbesought by his dependents, and
the song was full of strange, monotonous wails and plaintive cadences,
like a lament for war itself, and all the misery that follows in its
train.

Colonel Bellamy had not spoken for some moments, but when they reached
the terrace which had been before the house there were two flights of
stone steps that led to empty air, and these were still adorned by
some graceful railings and balusters, bent and rusty and broken.

"You will observe this iron-work, sir," said the Colonel, stopping to
regard with pride almost the only relic of the former beauty and state
of Fairford. "My grandfather had the pattern carefully planned in
Charleston, where such work was formerly well done by Frenchmen." He
stopped to point out certain charming features of the design with his
walking-stick, and then went on without a glance at the decaying
chimneys or the weed-grown cellars and heaps of stones beneath.

The lovely October morning was more than half gone when Milton brought
the horse round to the door, and the moment came to say farewell. The
Colonel had shown sincere eagerness that the visit should be prolonged
for at least another day, but a reason for hurry which the young man
hardly confessed to himself was urging him back along the way he had
come. He was ready to forget his plans for shooting and wandering
eastward on the river shore. He had paid a parting visit to Madam
Bellamy in her own room, where she lay on a couch in the sunshine, and
had seen the silver cup--a lucky cup he devoutly hoped it might indeed
be--on a light stand by her side. It held a few small flowers, as if
it had so been brought in to her in the early morning. Her eyes were
dim with weeping. She had not thought of its age and history, neither
did the sight of such pathetic loot wake bitter feelings against her
foes. It was only the cup that her little children had used, one after
another, in their babyhood; the last and dearest had kept it longest,
and even he was dead--fallen in battle, like the rest.

She wore a hood and wrapping of black lace, which brought out the
delicacy of her features like some quaint setting. Her hand trembled
as she bade her young guest farewell. As he looked back from the
doorway she was like some exiled queen in a peasant's lodging, such
dignity and sweet patience were in her look. "I think you bring good
fortune," she said. "Nothing can make me so happy as to have my
husband find a little pleasure."

As the young man crossed the outer room the familiar eyes of the old
portrait caught his own with wistful insistency. He suddenly suspected
the double reason: he had been dreaming of other eyes, and knew that
his fellow-traveler had kept him company. "Madam Bellamy," he said,
turning back, and blushing as he bent to speak to her in a lower
voice,--"the portrait; is it like any one? is it like your
granddaughter? Could I have seen her on my way here?"

Madam Bellamy looked up at his eager face with a light of unwonted
pleasure in her eyes. "Yes," said she, "my granddaughter would have
been on her way to Whitfields. She has always been thought extremely
like the picture: it is her great-grandmother. Good-by; pray let us
see you at Fairford again;" and they said farewell once more, while
Tom Burton promised something, half to himself, about the Christmas
hunt,

   _"Je vous en prie, Belle amie,"_

he whispered, and a most lovely hope was in his heart.

"You have been most welcome," said the Colonel at parting. "I beg that
you will be so kind as to repeat this visit. I shall hope that we may
have some shooting together."

"I shall hope so too," answered Tom Burton, warmly. Then, acting from
sudden impulse, he quickly unslung his gun, and begged his old friend
to keep it--to use it, at any rate, until he came again.

The old Virginian did not reply for a moment. "Your grandfather would
have done this, sir. I loved him, and I take it from you both. My own
gun is too poor a thing to offer in return." His voice shook; it was
the only approach to a lament, to a complaint, that he had made.

This was the moment of farewell; the young man held the Colonel's hand
in a boyish eager grasp. "I wish that I might be like a son to you,"
he said. "May I write, sometimes, and may I really come to Fairford
again?"

The old Colonel answered him most affectionately, "Oh yes; we must
think of the Christmas hunt," he said, and so they parted.

Tom Burton rode slowly away, and presently the fireless chimneys of
Fairford were lost to sight behind the clustering trees. The noonday
light was shining on the distant river; the road was untraveled and
untenanted for miles together, except by the Northern rider and his
Southern steed.



THE HILTONS' HOLIDAY.

I.

There was a bright, full moon in the clear sky, and the sunset was
still shining faintly in the west. Dark woods stood all about the old
Hilton farmhouse, save down the hill, westward, where lay the shadowy
fields which John Hilton, and his father before him, had cleared and
tilled with much toil,--the small fields to which they had given the
industry and even affection of their honest lives.

John Hilton was sitting on the doorstep of his house. As he moved his
head in and out of the shadows, turning now and then to speak to his
wife, who sat just within the doorway, one could see his good face,
rough and somewhat unkempt, as if he were indeed a creature of the
shady woods and brown earth, instead of the noisy town. It was late in
the long spring evening, and he had just come from the lower field as
cheerful as a boy, proud of having finished the planting of his
potatoes.

"I had to do my last row mostly by feelin'," he said to his wife. "I'm
proper glad I pushed through, an' went back an' ended off after
supper. 'T would have taken me a good part o' to-morrow mornin', an'
broke my day."

"'T ain't no use for ye to work yourself all to pieces, John,"
answered the woman quickly. "I declare it does seem harder than ever
that we couldn't have kep' our boy; he'd been comin' fourteen years
old this fall, most a grown man, and he'd work right 'longside of ye
now the whole time."

"'T was hard to lose him; I do seem to miss little John," said the
father sadly. "I expect there was reasons why 't was best. I feel able
an' smart to work; my father was a girt strong man, an' a monstrous
worker afore me. 'T ain't that; but I was thinkin' by myself to-day
what a sight o' company the boy would ha' been. You know, small's he
was, how I could trust to leave him anywheres with the team, and how
he'd beseech to go with me wherever I was goin'; always right in my
tracks I used to tell 'em. Poor little John, for all he was so young
he had a great deal o' judgment; he'd ha' made a likely man."

The mother sighed heavily as she sat within the shadow.

"But then there's the little girls, a sight o' help an' company,"
urged the father eagerly, as if it were wrong to dwell upon sorrow and
loss. "Katy, she's most as good as a boy, except that she ain't very
rugged. She's a real little farmer, she's helped me a sight this
spring; an' you've got Susan Ellen, that makes a complete little
housekeeper for ye as far as she's learnt. I don't see but we're
better off than most folks, each on us having a work mate."

"That's so, John," acknowledged Mrs. Hilton wistfully, beginning to
rock steadily in her straight, splint-bottomed chair. It was always a
good sign when she rocked.

"Where be the little girls so late?" asked their father. "'T is
gettin' long past eight o'clock. I don't know when we've all set up so
late, but it's so kind o' summer-like an' pleasant. Why, where be they
gone?"

"I've told ye; only over to Becker's folks," answered the mother. "I
don't see myself what keeps 'em so late; they beseeched me after
supper till I let 'em go. They're all in a dazzle with the new
teacher; she asked 'em to come over. They say she's unusual smart with
'rethmetic, but she has a kind of a gorpen look to me. She's goin' to
give Katy some pieces for her doll, but I told Katy she ought to be
ashamed wantin' dolls' pieces, big as she's gettin' to be. I don't
know's she ought, though; she ain't but nine this summer."

"Let her take her comfort," said the kind-hearted man. "Them things
draws her to the teacher, an' makes them acquainted. Katy's shy with
new folks, more so 'n Susan Ellen, who's of the business kind. Katy's
shy-feelin' and wishful."

"I don't know but she is," agreed the mother slowly. "Ain't it
sing'lar how well acquainted you be with that one, an' I with Susan
Ellen? 'T was always so from the first. I'm doubtful sometimes our
Katy ain't one that'll be like to get married--anyways not about here.
She lives right with herself, but Susan Ellen ain't nothin' when she's
alone, she's always after company; all the boys is waitin' on her
a'ready. I ain't afraid but she'll take her pick when the time comes.
I expect to see Susan Ellen well settled,--she feels grown up
now,--but Katy don't care one mite 'bout none o' them things. She
wants to be rovin' out o' doors. I do believe she'd stand an' hark to
a bird the whole forenoon."

"Perhaps she'll grow up to be a teacher," suggested John Hilton. "She
takes to her book more 'n the other one. I should like one on 'em to
be a teacher same's my mother was. They're good girls as anybody's
got."

"So they be," said the mother, with unusual gentleness, and the creak
of her rocking-chair was heard, regular as the ticking of a clock. The
night breeze stirred in the great woods, and the sound of a brook that
went falling down the hillside grew louder and louder. Now and then
one could hear the plaintive chirp of a bird. The moon glittered with
whiteness like a winter moon, and shone upon the low-roofed house
until its small window-panes gleamed like silver, and one could almost
see the colors of a blooming bush of lilac that grew in a sheltered
angle by the kitchen door. There was an incessant sound of frogs in
the lowlands.

"Be you sound asleep, John?" asked the wife presently.

"I don't know but what I was a'most," said the tired man, starting a
little. "I should laugh if I was to fall sound asleep right here on
the step; 't is the bright night, I expect, makes my eyes feel heavy,
an' 'tis so peaceful. I was up an' dressed a little past four an' out
to work. Well, well!" and he laughed sleepily and rubbed his eyes.
"Where's the little girls? I'd better step along an' meet 'em."

"I wouldn't just yet; they'll get home all right, but 't is late for
'em certain. I don't want 'em keepin' Mis' Becker's folks up neither.
There, le' 's wait a few minutes," urged Mrs. Hilton.

"I've be'n a-thinkin' all day I'd like to give the child'n some kind
of a treat," said the father, wide awake now. "I hurried up my work
'cause I had it so in mind. They don't have the opportunities some do,
an' I want 'em to know the world, an' not stay right here on the farm
like a couple o' bushes."

"They're a sight better off not to be so full o' notions as some is,"
protested the mother suspiciously.

"Certain," answered the farmer; "but they're good, bright child'n, an'
commencin' to take a sight o' notice. I want 'em to have all we can
give 'em. I want 'em to see how other folks does things."

"Why, so do I,"--here the rocking-chair stopped ominously,--"but so
long's they're contented"--

"Contented ain't all in this world; hopper-toads may have that quality
an' spend all their time a-blinkin'. I don't know's bein' contented is
all there is to look for in a child. Ambition's somethin' to me."

"Now you've got your mind on to some plot or other." (The
rocking-chair began to move again.) "Why can't you talk right out?"

"'T ain't nothin' special," answered the good man, a little ruffled;
he was never prepared for his wife's mysterious powers of divination.
"Well there, you do find things out the master! I only thought perhaps
I'd take 'em to-morrow, an' go off some where if 't was a good day.
I've been promisin' for a good while I'd take 'em to Topham Corners;
they've never been there since they was very small."

"I believe you want a good time yourself. You ain't never got over
bein' a boy." Mrs. Hilton seemed much amused. "There, go if you want
to an' take 'em; they've got their summer hats an' new dresses. I
don't know o' nothin' that stands in the way. I should sense it better
if there was a circus or anythin' to go to. Why don't you wait an' let
the girls pick 'em some strawberries or nice ros' berries, and then
they could take an' sell 'em to the stores?"

John Hilton reflected deeply. "I should like to get me some good
yellow-turnip seed to plant late. I ain't more 'n satisfied with what
I've been gettin' o' late years o' Ira Speed. An' I'm goin' to provide
me with a good hoe; mine's gettin' wore out an' all shackly. I can't
seem to fix it good."

"Them's excuses," observed Mrs. Hilton, with friendly tolerance. "You
just cover up the hoe with somethin', if you get it--I would. Ira
Speed's so jealous he'll remember it of you this twenty year, your
goin' an' buy in' a new hoe o' anybody but him."

"I've always thought 't was a free country," said John Hilton soberly.
"I don't want to vex Ira neither; he favors us all he can in trade. 'T
is difficult for him to spare a cent, but he's as honest as daylight."

At this moment there was a sudden sound of young voices, and a pair of
young figures came out from the shadow of the woods into the
moonlighted open space. An old cock crowed loudly from his perch in
the shed, as if he were a herald of royalty. The little girls were
hand in hand, and a brisk young dog capered about them as they came.

"Wa'n't it dark gittin' home through the woods this time o' night?"
asked the mother hastily, and not without reproach.

"I don't love to have you gone so late; mother an' me was timid about
ye, and you've kep' Mis' Becker's folks up, I expect," said their
father regretfully. "I don't want to have it said that my little girls
ain't got good manners."

"The teacher had a party," chirped Susan Ellen, the elder of the two
children. "Goin' home from school she asked the Grover boys, an' Mary
an' Sarah Speed. An' Mis' Becker was real pleasant to us: she passed
round some cake, an' handed us sap sugar on one of her best plates,
an' we played games an' sung some pieces too. Mis' Becker thought we
did real well. I can pick out most of a tune on the cabinet organ;
teacher says she'll give me lessons."

"I want to know, dear!" exclaimed John Hilton.

"Yes, an' we played Copenhagen, an' took sides spellin', an' Katy beat
everybody spellin' there was there."

Katy had not spoken; she was not so strong as her sister, and while
Susan Ellen stood a step or two away addressing her eager little
audience, Katy had seated herself close to her father on the doorstep.
He put his arm around her shoulders, and drew her close to his side,
where she stayed.

"Ain't you got nothin' to tell, daughter?" he asked, looking down
fondly; and Katy gave a pleased little sigh for answer.

"Tell 'em what's goin' to be the last day o' school, and about our
trimmin' the schoolhouse," she said; and Susan Ellen gave the
programme in most spirited fashion.

"'T will be a great time," said the mother, when she had finished. "I
don't see why folks wants to go trapesin' off to strange places when
such things is happenin' right about 'em." But the children did not
observe her mysterious air. "Come, you must step yourselves right to
bed!"

They all went into the dark, warm house; the bright moon shone upon it
steadily all night, and the lilac flowers were shaken by no breath of
wind until the early dawn.


II.

The Hiltons always waked early. So did their neighbors, the crows and
song-sparrows and robins, the light-footed foxes and squirrels in the
woods. When John Hilton waked, before five o'clock, an hour later than
usual because he had sat up so late, he opened the house door and came
out into the yard, crossing the short green turf hurriedly as if the
day were too far spent for any loitering. The magnitude of the plan
for taking a whole day of pleasure confronted him seriously, but the
weather was fair, and his wife, whose disapproval could not have been
set aside, had accepted and even smiled upon the great project. It was
inevitable now, that he and the children should go to Topham Corners.
Mrs. Hilton had the pleasure of waking them, and telling the news.

In a few minutes they came frisking out to talk over the great plans.
The cattle were already fed, and their father was milking. The only
sign of high festivity was the wagon pulled out into the yard, with
both seats put in as if it were Sunday; but Mr. Hilton still wore his
every-day clothes, and Susan Ellen suffered instantly from
disappointment.

"Ain't we goin', father?" she asked complainingly; but he nodded and
smiled at her, even though the cow, impatient to get to pasture, kept
whisking her rough tail across his face. He held his head down and
spoke cheerfully, in spite of this vexation.

"Yes, sister, we're goin' certain', an' goin' to have a great time
too." Susan Ellen thought that he seemed like a boy at that delightful
moment, and felt new sympathy and pleasure at once. "You go an' help
mother about breakfast an' them things; we want to get off quick 's we
can. You coax mother now, both on ye, an' see if she won't go with
us."

"She said she wouldn't be hired to," responded Susan Ellen. "She says
it's goin' to be hot, an' she's laid out to go over an' see how her
aunt Tamsen Brooks is this afternoon."

The father gave a little sigh; then he took heart again. The truth was
that his wife made light of the contemplated pleasure, and, much as he
usually valued her companionship and approval, he was sure that they
should have a better time without her.

It was impossible, however, not to feel guilty of disloyalty at the
thought. Even though she might be completely unconscious of his best
ideals, he only loved her and the ideals the more, and bent his
energies to satisfying her indefinite expectations. His wife still
kept much of that youthful beauty which Susan Ellen seemed likely to
reproduce.

An hour later the best wagon was ready, and the great expedition set
forth. The little dog sat apart, and barked as if it fell entirely
upon him to voice the general excitement. Both seats were in the
wagon, but the empty place testified to Mrs. Hilton's unyielding
disposition. She had wondered why one broad seat would not do, but
John Hilton meekly suggested that the wagon looked better with both.
The little girls sat on the back seat dressed alike in their Sunday
hats of straw with blue ribbons, and their little plaid shawls pinned
neatly about their small shoulders. They wore gray thread gloves, and
sat very straight. Susan Ellen was half a head the taller, but
otherwise, from behind, they looked much alike. As for their father,
he was in his Sunday best,--a plain black coat, and a winter hat of
felt, which was heavy and rusty-looking for that warm early summer
day. He had it in mind to buy a new straw hat at Topham, so that this
with the turnip seed and the hoe made three important reasons for
going.

"Remember an' lay off your shawls when you get there, an' carry them
over your arms," said the mother, clucking like an excited hen to her
chickens. "They'll do to keep the dust off your new dresses goin' an'
comin'. An' when you eat your dinners don't get spots on you, an'
don't point at folks as you ride by, an' stare, or they'll know you
come from the country. An' John, you call into Cousin Ad'line Marlow's
an' see how they all be, an' tell her I expect her over certain to
stop awhile before hayin'. It always eases her phthisic to git up here
on the high land, an' I've got a new notion about doin' over her
best-room carpet sence I see her that'll save rippin' one breadth. An'
don't come home all wore out; an', John, don't you go an' buy me no
kickshaws to fetch home. I ain't a child, an' you ain't got no money
to waste. I expect you'll go, like's not, an' buy you some kind of a
foolish boy's hat; do look an' see if it's reasonable good straw, an'
won't splinter all off round the edge. An' you mind, John"--

"Yes, yes, hold on!" cried John impatiently; then he cast a last
affectionate, reassuring look at her face, flushed with the hurry and
responsibility of starting them off in proper shape. "I wish you was
goin' too," he said, smiling. "I do so!" Then the old horse started,
and they went out at the bars, and began the careful long descent of
the hill. The young dog, tethered to the lilac-bush, was frantic with
piteous appeals; the little girls piped their eager good-bys again and
again, and their father turned many times to look back and wave his
hand. As for their mother, she stood alone and watched them out of
sight.

There was one place far out on the high-road where she could catch a
last glimpse of the wagon, and she waited what seemed a very long time
until it appeared and then was lost to sight again behind a low hill.
"They're nothin' but a pack o' child'n together," she said aloud; and
then felt lonelier than she expected. She even stooped and patted the
unresigned little dog as she passed him, going into the house.

The occasion was so much more important than any one had foreseen that
both the little girls were speechless. It seemed at first like going
to church in new clothes, or to a funeral; they hardly knew how to
behave at the beginning of a whole day of pleasure. They made grave
bows at such persons of their acquaintance as happened to be straying
in the road. Once or twice they stopped before a farmhouse, while
their father talked an inconsiderately long time with some one about
the crops and the weather, and even dwelt upon town business and the
doings of the selectmen, which might be talked of at any time. The
explanations that he gave of their excursion seemed quite unnecessary.
It was made entirely clear that he had a little business to do at
Topham Corners, and thought he had better give the little girls a
ride; they had been very steady at school, and he had finished
planting, and could take the day as well as not. Soon, however, they
all felt as if such an excursion were an every-day affair, and Susan
Ellen began to ask eager questions, while Katy silently sat apart
enjoying herself as she never had done before. She liked to see the
strange houses, and the children who belonged to them; it was
delightful to find flowers that she knew growing all along the road,
no matter how far she went from home. Each small homestead looked its
best and pleasantest, and shared the exquisite beauty that early
summer made,--shared the luxury of greenness and floweriness that
decked the rural world. There was an early peony or a late lilac in
almost every dooryard.

It was seventeen miles to Topham. After a while they seemed very far
from home, having left the hills far behind, and descended to a great
level country with fewer tracts of woodland, and wider fields where
the crops were much more forward. The houses were all painted, and the
roads were smoother and wider. It had been so pleasant driving along
that Katy dreaded going into the strange town when she first caught
sight of it, though Susan Ellen kept asking with bold fretfulness if
they were not almost there. They counted the steeples of four
churches, and their father presently showed them the Topham Academy,
where their grandmother once went to school, and told them that
perhaps some day they would go there too. Katy's heart gave a strange
leap; it was such a tremendous thing to think of, but instantly the
suggestion was transformed for her into one of the certainties of
life. She looked with solemn awe at the tall belfry, and the long rows
of windows in the front of the academy, there where it stood high and
white among the clustering trees. She hoped that they were going to
drive by, but something forbade her taking the responsibility of
saying so.

Soon the children found themselves among the crowded village houses.
Their father turned to look at them with affectionate solicitude.

"Now sit up straight and appear pretty," he whispered to them. "We're
among the best people now, an' I want folks to think well of you."

"I guess we're as good as they be," remarked Susan Ellen, looking at
some innocent passers-by with dark suspicion, but Katy tried indeed to
sit straight, and folded her hands prettily in her lap, and wished
with all her heart to be pleasing for her father's sake. Just then an
elderly woman saw the wagon and the sedate party it carried, and
smiled so kindly that it seemed to Katy as if Topham Corners had
welcomed and received them. She smiled back again as if this
hospitable person were an old friend, and entirely forgot that the
eyes of all Topham had been upon her.

"There, now we're coming to an elegant house that I want you to see;
you'll never forget it," said John Hilton. "It's where Judge Masterson
lives, the great lawyer; the handsomest house in the county, everybody
says."

"Do you know him, father?" asked Susan Ellen.

"I do," answered John Hilton proudly. "Him and my mother went to
school together in their young days, and were always called the two
best scholars of their time. The judge called to see her once; he
stopped to our house to see her when I was a boy. An' then, some years
ago--you've heard me tell how I was on the jury, an' when he heard my
name spoken he looked at me sharp, and asked if I wa'n't the son of
Catharine Winn, an' spoke most beautiful of your grandmother, an' how
well he remembered their young days together."

"I like to hear about that," said Katy.

"She had it pretty hard, I'm afraid, up on the old farm. She was
keepin' school in our district when father married her--that's the
main reason I backed 'em down when they wanted to tear the old
schoolhouse all to pieces," confided John Hilton, turning eagerly.
"They all say she lived longer up here on the hill than she could
anywhere, but she never had her health. I wa'n't but a boy when she
died. Father an' me lived alone afterward till the time your mother
come; 't was a good while, too; I wa'n't married so young as some. 'T
was lonesome, I tell you; father was plumb discouraged losin' of his
wife, an' her long sickness an' all set him back, an' we'd work all
day on the land an' never say a word. I s'pose 't is bein' so lonesome
early in life that makes me so pleased to have some nice girls growin'
up round me now."

There was a tone in her father's voice that drew Katy's heart toward
him with new affection. She dimly understood, but Susan Ellen was less
interested. They had often heard this story before, but to one child
it was always new and to the other old. Susan Ellen was apt to think
it tiresome to hear about her grandmother, who, being dead, was hardly
worth talking about.

"There's Judge Masterson's place," said their father in an every-day
manner, as they turned a corner, and came into full view of the
beautiful old white house standing behind its green trees and terraces
and lawns. The children had never imagined anything so stately and
fine, and even Susan Ellen exclaimed with pleasure. At that moment
they saw an old gentleman, who carried himself with great dignity,
coming slowly down the wide box-bordered path toward the gate.

"There he is now, there's the judge!" whispered John Hilton excitedly,
reining his horse quickly to the green roadside. "He's goin' down-town
to his office; we can wait right here an' see him. I can't expect him
to remember me; it's been a good many years. Now you are goin' to see
the great Judge Masterson!"

There was a quiver of expectation in their hearts. The judge stopped
at his gate, hesitating a moment before he lifted the latch, and
glanced up the street at the country wagon with its two prim little
girls on the back seat, and the eager man who drove. They seemed to be
waiting for something; the old horse was nibbling at the fresh
roadside grass. The judge was used to being looked at with interest,
and responded now with a smile as he came out to the sidewalk, and
unexpectedly turned their way. Then he suddenly lifted his hat with
grave politeness, and came directly toward them.

"Good-morning, Mr. Hilton," he said. "I am very glad to see you, sir;"
and Mr. Hilton, the little girls' own father, took off his hat with
equal courtesy, and bent forward to shake hands.

Susan Ellen cowered and wished herself away, but little Katy sat
straighter than ever, with joy in her father's pride and pleasure
shining in her pale, flower-like little face.

"These are your daughters, I am sure," said the old gentleman kindly,
taking Susan Ellen's limp and reluctant hand; but when he looked at
Katy, his face brightened. "How she recalls your mother!" he said with
great feeling. "I am glad to see this dear child. You must come to see
me with your father, my dear," he added, still looking at her. "Bring
both the little girls, and let them run about the old garden; the
cherries are just getting ripe," said Judge Masterson hospitably.
"Perhaps you will have time to stop this afternoon as you go home?"

"I should call it a great pleasure if you would come and see us again
some time. You may be driving our way, sir," said John Hilton.

"Not very often in these days," answered the old judge. "I thank you
for the kind invitation. I should like to see the fine view again from
your hill westward. Can I serve you in any way while you are in town?
Good-by, my little friends!"

Then they parted, but not before Katy, the shy Katy, whose hand the
judge still held unconsciously while he spoke, had reached forward as
he said good-by, and lifted her face to kiss him. She could not have
told why, except that she felt drawn to something in the serious, worn
face. For the first time in her life the child had felt the charm of
manners; perhaps she owned a kinship between that which made him what
he was, and the spark of nobleness and purity in her own simple soul.
She turned again and again to look back at him as they drove away.

"Now you have seen one of the first gentlemen in the country," said
their father.

"It was worth comin' twice as far"--but he did not say any more, nor
turn as usual to look in the children's faces.

In the chief business street of Topham a great many country wagons
like the Hiltons' were fastened to the posts, and there seemed to our
holiday-makers to be a great deal of noise and excitement.

"Now I've got to do my errands, and we can let the horse rest and
feed," said John Hilton. "I'll slip his headstall right off, an' put
on his halter. I'm goin' to buy him a real good treat o' oats. First
we'll go an' buy me my straw hat; I feel as if this one looked a
little past to wear in Topham. We'll buy the things we want, an' then
we'll walk all along the street, so you can look in the windows an'
see the han'some things, same's your mother likes to. What was it
mother told you about your shawls?"

"To take 'em off an' carry 'em over our arms," piped Susan Ellen,
without comment, but in the interest of alighting and finding
themselves afoot upon the pavement the shawls were forgotten. The
children stood at the doorway of a shop while their father went
inside, and they tried to see what the Topham shapes of bonnets were
like, as their mother had advised them; but everything was exciting
and confusing, and they could arrive at no decision. When Mr. Hilton
came out with a hat in his hand to be seen in a better light, Katy
whispered that she wished he would buy a shiny one like Judge
Masterson's; but her father only smiled and shook his head, and said
that they were plain folks, he and Katy. There were dry-goods for sale
in the same shop, and a young clerk who was measuring linen kindly
pulled off some pretty labels with gilded edges and gay pictures, and
gave them to the little girls, to their exceeding joy. He may have had
small sisters at home, this friendly lad, for he took pains to find
two pretty blue boxes besides, and was rewarded by their beaming
gratitude.

It was a famous day; they even became used to seeing so many people
pass. The village was full of its morning activity, and Susan Ellen
gained a new respect for her father, and an increased sense of her own
consequence, because even in Topham several persons knew him and
called him familiarly by name. The meeting with an old man who had
once been a neighbor seemed to give Mr. Hilton the greatest pleasure.
The old man called to them from a house doorway as they were passing,
and they all went in. The children seated themselves wearily on the
wooden step, but their father shook his old friend eagerly by the
hand, and declared that he was delighted to see him so well and
enjoying the fine weather.

"Oh, yes," said the old man, in a feeble, quavering voice, "I'm
astonishin' well for my age. I don't complain, John, I don't
complain."

They talked long together of people whom they had known in the past,
and Katy, being a little tired, was glad to rest, and sat still with
her hands folded, looking about the front yard. There were some kinds
of flowers that she never had seen before.

"This is the one that looks like my mother," her father said, and
touched Katy's shoulder to remind her to stand up and let herself be
seen. "Judge Masterson saw the resemblance; we met him at his gate
this morning."

"Yes, she certain does look like your mother, John," said the old man,
looking pleasantly at Katy, who found that she liked him better than
at first. "She does, certain; the best of young folks is, they remind
us of the old ones. 'Tis nateral to cling to life, folks say, but for
me, I git impatient at times. Most everybody's gone now, an' I want to
be goin'. 'Tis somethin' before me, an' I want to have it over with. I
want to be there 'long o' the rest o' the folks. I expect to last
quite a while though; I may see ye couple o' times more, John."

John Hilton responded cheerfully, and the children were urged to pick
some flowers. The old man awed them with his impatience to be gone.
There was such a townful of people about him, and he seemed as lonely
as if he were the last survivor of a former world. Until that moment
they had felt as if everything were just beginning.

"Now I want to buy somethin' pretty for your mother," said Mr. Hilton,
as they went soberly away down the street, the children keeping fast
hold of his hands. "By now the old horse will have eat his dinner and
had a good rest, so pretty soon we can jog along home. I'm goin' to
take you round by the academy, and the old North Meeting-house where
Dr. Barstow used to preach. Can't you think o' somethin' that your
mother'd want?" he asked suddenly, confronted by a man's difficulty of
choice.

"She was talkin' about wantin' a new pepper-box, one day; the top o'
the old one won't stay on," suggested Susan Ellen, with delightful
readiness. "Can't we have some candy, father?"

"Yes, ma'am," said John Hilton, smiling and swinging her hand to and
fro as they walked. "I feel as if some would be good myself. What's
all this?" They were passing a photographer's doorway with its
enticing array of portraits. "I do declare!" he exclaimed excitedly,
"I'm goin' to have our pictures taken; 't will please your mother more
'n a little."

This was, perhaps, the greatest triumph of the day, except the
delightful meeting with the judge; they sat in a row, with the father
in the middle, and there was no doubt as to the excellence of the
likeness. The best hats had to be taken off because they cast a
shadow, but they were not missed, as their owners had feared. Both
Susan Ellen and Katy looked their brightest and best; their eager
young faces would forever shine there; the joy of the holiday was
mirrored in the little picture. They did not know why their father was
so pleased with it; they would not know until age had dowered them
with the riches of association and remembrance.

Just at nightfall the Hiltons reached home again, tired out and happy.
Katy had climbed over into the front seat beside her father, because
that was always her place when they went to church on Sundays. It was
a cool evening, there was a fresh sea wind that brought a light mist
with it, and the sky was fast growing cloudy. Somehow the children
looked different; it seemed to their mother as if they had grown older
and taller since they went away in the morning, and as if they
belonged to the town now as much as to the country. The greatness of
their day's experience had left her far behind; the day had been
silent and lonely without them, and she had had their supper ready,
and been watching anxiously, ever since five o'clock. As for the
children themselves they had little to say at first they had eaten
their luncheon early on the way to Topham. Susan Ellen was childishly
cross, but Katy was pathetic and wan. They could hardly wait to show
the picture, and their mother was as much pleased as everybody had
expected.

"There, what did make you wear your shawls?" she exclaimed a moment
afterward, reproachfully. "You ain't been an' wore 'em all day long? I
wanted folks to see how pretty your new dresses was, if I did make
'em. Well, well! I wish more 'n ever now I'd gone an' seen to ye!"

"An' here's the pepper-box!" said Katy, in a pleased, unconscious
tone.

"That really is what I call beautiful," said Mrs. Hilton, after a long
and doubtful look. "Our other one was only tin. I never did look so
high as a chiny one with flowers, but I can get us another any time
for every day. That's a proper hat, as good as you could have got,
John. Where's your new hoe?" she asked as he came toward her from the
barn, smiling with satisfaction.

"I declare to Moses if I didn't forget all about it," meekly
acknowledged the leader of the great excursion. "That an' my yellow
turnip seed, too; they went clean out o' my head, there was so many
other things to think of. But 't ain't no sort o' matter; I can get a
hoe just as well to Ira Speed's."

His wife could not help laughing. "You an' the little girls have had a
great time. They was full o' wonder to me about everything, and I
expect they'll talk about it for a week. I guess we was right about
havin' 'em see somethin' more o' the world."

"Yes," answered John Hilton, with humility, "yes, we did have a
beautiful day. I didn't expect so much. They looked as nice as
anybody, and appeared so modest an' pretty. The little girls will
remember it perhaps by an' by. I guess they won't never forget this
day they had 'long o' father."

It was evening again, the frogs were piping in the lower meadows, and
in the woods, higher up the great hill, a little owl began to hoot.
The sea air, salt and heavy, was blowing in over the country at the
end of the hot bright day. A lamp was lighted in the house, the happy
children were talking together, and supper was waiting. The father and
mother lingered for a moment outside and looked down over the shadowy
fields; then they went in, without speaking. The great day was over,
and they shut the door.



THE ONLY ROSE.

I.

Just where the village abruptly ended, and the green mowing fields
began, stood Mrs. Bickford's house, looking down the road with all its
windows, and topped by two prim chimneys that stood up like ears. It
was placed with an end to the road, and fronted southward; you could
follow a straight path from the gate past the front door and find
Mrs. Bickford sitting by the last window of all in the kitchen, unless
she were solemnly stepping about, prolonging the stern duties of her
solitary housekeeping.

One day in early summer, when almost every one else in Fairfield had
put her house plants out of doors, there were still three flower pots
on a kitchen window sill. Mrs. Bickford spent but little time over her
rose and geranium and Jerusalem cherry-tree, although they had gained
a kind of personality born of long association. They rarely undertook
to bloom, but had most courageously maintained life in spite of their
owner's unsympathetic but conscientious care. Later in the season she
would carry them out of doors, and leave them, until the time of
frosts, under the shade of a great apple-tree, where they might make
the best of what the summer had to give.

The afternoon sun was pouring in, the Jerusalem cherry-tree drooped
its leaves in the heat and looked pale, when a neighbor, Miss
Pendexter, came in from the next house but one to make a friendly
call. As she passed the parlor with its shut blinds, and the
sitting-room, also shaded carefully from the light, she wished, as she
had done many times before, that somebody beside the owner might have
the pleasure of living in and using so good and pleasant a house.
Mrs. Bickford always complained of having so much care, even while she
valued herself intelligently upon having the right to do as she
pleased with one of the best houses in Fairfield. Miss Pendexter was a
cheerful, even gay little person, who always brought a pleasant flurry
of excitement, and usually had a genuine though small piece of news to
tell, or some new aspect of already received information.

Mrs. Bickford smiled as she looked up to see this sprightly neighbor
coming. She had no gift at entertaining herself, and was always glad,
as one might say, to be taken off her own hands.

Miss Pendexter smiled back, as if she felt herself to be equal to the
occasion.

"How be you to-day?" the guest asked kindly, as she entered the
kitchen. "Why, what a sight o' flowers, Mis' Bickford! What be you
goin' to do with 'em all?"

Mrs. Bickford wore a grave expression as she glanced over her
spectacles. "My sister's boy fetched 'em over," she answered. "You
know my sister Parsons's a great hand to raise flowers, an' this boy
takes after her. He said his mother thought the gardin never looked
handsomer, and she picked me these to send over. They was sendin' a
team to Westbury for some fertilizer to put on the land, an' he come
with the men, an' stopped to eat his dinner 'long o' me. He's been
growin' fast, and looks peaked. I expect sister 'Liza thought the
ride, this pleasant day, would do him good. 'Liza sent word for me to
come over and pass some days next week, but it ain't so that I can."

"Why, it's a pretty time of year to go off and make a little visit,"
suggested the neighbor encouragingly.

"I ain't got my sitting-room chamber carpet taken up yet," sighed
Mrs. Bickford. "I do feel condemned. I might have done it to-day, but
't was all at end when I saw Tommy coming. There, he's a likely boy,
an' so relished his dinner; I happened to be well prepared. I don't
know but he's my favorite o' that family. Only I've been sittin' here
thinkin', since he went, an' I can't remember that I ever was so
belated with my spring cleaning."

"'T was owin' to the weather," explained Miss Pendexter. "None of us
could be so smart as common this year, not even the lazy ones that
always get one room done the first o' March, and brag of it to others'
shame, and then never let on when they do the rest."

The two women laughed together cheerfully. Mrs. Bickford had put up
the wide leaf of her large table between the windows and spread out
the flowers. She was sorting them slowly into three heaps.

"Why, I do declare if you haven't got a rose in bloom yourself!"
exclaimed Miss Pendexter abruptly, as if the bud had not been
announced weeks before, and its progress regularly commented upon.
"Ain't it a lovely rose? Why, Mis' Bickford!"

"Yes 'm, it's out to-day," said Mrs. Bickford, with a somewhat
plaintive air. "I'm glad you come in so as to see it."

The bright flower was like a face. Somehow, the beauty and life of it
were surprising in the plain room, like a gay little child who might
suddenly appear in a doorway. Miss Pendexter forgot herself and her
hostess and the tangled mass of garden flowers in looking at the red
rose. She even forgot that it was incumbent upon her to carry forward
the conversation. Mrs. Bickford was subject to fits of untimely
silence which made her friends anxiously sweep the corners of their
minds in search of something to say, but any one who looked at her now
could easily see that it was not poverty of thought that made her
speechless, but an overburdening sense of the inexpressible.

"Goin' to make up all your flowers into bo'quets? I think the
short-stemmed kinds is often pretty in a dish," suggested Miss
Pendexter compassionately.

"I thought I should make them into three bo'quets. I wish there wa'n't
quite so many. Sister Eliza's very lavish with her flowers; she's
always been a kind sister, too," said Mrs. Bickford vaguely. She was
not apt to speak with so much sentiment, and as her neighbor looked at
her narrowly she detected unusual signs of emotion. It suddenly became
evident that the three nosegays were connected in her mind with her
bereavement of three husbands, and Miss Pendexter's easily roused
curiosity was quieted by the discovery that her friend was bent upon a
visit to the burying-ground. It was the time of year when she was
pretty sure to spend an afternoon there, and sometimes they had taken
the walk in company. Miss Pendexter expected to receive the usual
invitation, but there was nothing further said at the moment, and she
looked again at the pretty rose.

Mrs. Bickford aimlessly handled the syringas and flowering almond
sprays, choosing them out of the fragrant heap only to lay them down
again. She glanced out of the window; then gave Miss Pendexter a long
expressive look.

"I expect you're going to carry 'em over to the burying-ground?"
inquired the guest, in a sympathetic tone.

"Yes 'm," said the hostess, now well started in conversation and in
quite her every-day manner. "You see I was goin' over to my brother's
folks to-morrow in South Fairfield, to pass the day; they said they
were goin' to send over to-morrow to leave a wagon at the
blacksmith's, and they'd hitch that to their best chaise, so I could
ride back very comfortable. You know I have to avoid bein' out in the
mornin' sun?"

Miss Pendexter smiled to herself at this moment; she was obliged to
move from her chair at the window, the May sun was so hot on her back,
for Mrs. Bickford always kept the curtains rolled high up, out of the
way, for fear of fading and dust. The kitchen was a blaze of light. As
for the Sunday chaise being sent, it was well known that
Mrs. Bickford's married brothers and sisters comprehended the truth
that she was a woman of property, and had neither chick nor child.

"So I thought 't was a good opportunity to just stop an' see if the
lot was in good order,--last spring Mr. Wallis's stone hove with the
frost; an' so I could take these flowers." She gave a sigh. "I ain't
one that can bear flowers in a close room,--they bring on a headache;
but I enjoy 'em as much as anybody to look at, only you never know
what to put 'em in. If I could be out in the mornin' sun, as some do,
and keep flowers in the house, I should have me a gardin, certain,"
and she sighed again.

"A garden's a sight o' care, but I don't begrudge none o' the care I
give to mine. I have to scant on flowers so 's to make room for pole
beans," said Miss Pendexter gayly. She had only a tiny strip of land
behind her house, but she always had something to give away, and made
riches out of her narrow poverty. "A few flowers gives me just as much
pleasure as more would," she added. "You get acquainted with things
when you've only got one or two roots. My sweet-williams is just like
folks."

"Mr. Bickford was partial to sweet-williams," said Mrs. Bickford. "I
never knew him to take notice of no other sort of flowers. When we'd
be over to Eliza's, he'd walk down her gardin, an' he'd never make no
comments until he come to them, and then he'd say, 'Those is
sweet-williams.' How many times I've heard him!"

"You ought to have a sprig of 'em for his bo'quet," suggested Miss
Pendexter.

"Yes, I've put a sprig in," said her companion.

At this moment Miss Pendexter took a good look at the bouquets, and
found that they were as nearly alike as careful hands could make them.
Mrs. Bickford was evidently trying to reach absolute impartiality.

"I don't know but you think it's foolish to tie 'em up this
afternoon," she said presently, as she wound the first with a stout
string. "I thought I could put 'em in a bucket o' water out in the
shed, where there's a draught o' air, and then I should have all my
time in the morning. I shall have a good deal to do before I go. I
always sweep the setting-room and front entry Wednesdays. I want to
leave everything nice, goin' away for all day so. So I meant to get
the flowers out o' the way this afternoon. Why, it's most half past
four, ain't it? But I sha'n't pick the rose till mornin'; 't will be
blowed out better then."

"The rose?" questioned Miss Pendexter. "Why, are you goin' to pick
that, too?"

"Yes, I be. I never like to let 'em fade on the bush. There, that's
just what's a-troublin' me," and she turned to give a long, imploring
look at the friend who sat beside her. Miss Pendexter had moved her
chair before the table in order to be out of the way of the sun. "I
don't seem to know which of 'em ought to have it," said Mrs. Bickford
despondently. "I do so hate to make a choice between 'em; they all had
their good points, especially Mr. Bickford, and I respected 'em all. I
don't know but what I think of one on 'em 'most as much as I do of the
other."

"Why, 'tis difficult for you, ain't it?" responded Miss Pendexter. "I
don't know's I can offer advice."

"No, I s'pose not," answered her friend slowly, with a shadow of
disappointment coming over her calm face. "I feel sure you would if
you could, Abby."

Both of the women felt as if they were powerless before a great
emergency.

"There's one thing,--they're all in a better world now," said Miss
Pendexter, in a self-conscious and constrained voice; "they can't feel
such little things or take note o' slights same's we can."

"No; I suppose 't is myself that wants to be just," answered
Mrs. Bickford. "I feel under obligations to my last husband when I
look about and see how comfortable he left me. Poor Mr. Wallis had his
great projects, an' perhaps if he'd lived longer he'd have made a
record; but when he died he'd failed all up, owing to that patent
corn-sheller he'd put everything into, and, as you know, I had to get
along 'most any way I could for the next few years. Life was very
disappointing with Mr. Wallis, but he meant well, an' used to be an
amiable person to dwell with, until his temper got spoilt makin' so
many hopes an' havin' 'em turn out failures. He had consider'ble of an
air, an' dressed very handsome when I was first acquainted with him,
Mr. Wallis did. I don't know's you ever knew Mr. Wallis in his prime?"

"He died the year I moved over here from North Denfield," said Miss
Pendexter, in a tone of sympathy. "I just knew him by sight. I was to
his funeral. You know you lived in what we call the Wells house then,
and I felt it wouldn't be an intrusion, we was such near neighbors.
The first time I ever was in your house was just before that, when he
was sick, an' Mary 'Becca Wade an' I called to see if there was
anything we could do."

"They used to say about town that Mr. Wallis went to an' fro like a
mail-coach an' brought nothin' to pass," announced Mrs. Bickford
without bitterness. "He ought to have had a better chance than he did
in this little neighborhood. You see, he had excellent ideas, but he
never'd learned the machinist's trade, and there was somethin' the
matter with every model he contrived. I used to be real narrow-minded
when he talked about moving 'way up to Lowell, or some o' them places;
I hated to think of leaving my folks; and now I see that I never done
right by him. His ideas was good. I know once he was on a jury, and
there was a man stopping to the tavern where he was, near the court
house, a man that traveled for a firm to Lowell; and they engaged in
talk, an' Mr. Wallis let out some o' his notions an' contrivances, an'
he said that man wouldn't hardly stop to eat, he was so interested,
an' said he'd look for a chance for him up to Lowell. It all sounded
so well that I kind of begun to think about goin' myself. Mr. Wallis
said we'd close the house here, and go an' board through the winter.
But he never heard a word from him, and the disappointment was one he
never got over. I think of it now different from what I did then. I
often used to be kind of disapproving to Mr. Wallis; but there, he
used to be always tellin' over his great projects. Somebody told me
once that a man by the same name of the one he met while he was to
court had got some patents for the very things Mr. Wallis used to be
workin' over; but 't was after he died, an' I don't know's 't was in
him to ever really set things up so other folks could ha' seen their
value. His machines always used to work kind of rickety, but folks
used to come from all round to see 'em; they was curiosities if they
wa'n't nothin' else, an' gave him a name."

Mrs. Bickford paused a moment, with some geranium leaves in her hand,
and seemed to suppress with difficulty a desire to speak even more
freely.

"He was a dreadful notional man," she said at last, regretfully, and
as if this fact were a poor substitute for what had just been in her
mind. "I recollect one time he worked all through the early winter
over my churn, an' got it so it would go three quarters of an hour all
of itself if you wound it up; an' if you'll believe it, he went an'
spent all that time for nothin' when the cow was dry, an' we was with
difficulty borrowin' a pint o' milk a day somewheres in the
neighborhood just to get along with." Mrs. Bickford flushed with
displeasure, and turned to look at her visitor. "Now what do you think
of such a man as that, Miss Pendexter?" she asked.

"Why, I don't know but 't was just as good for an invention," answered
Miss Pendexter timidly; but her friend looked doubtful, and did not
appear to understand.

"Then I asked him where it was, one day that spring when I'd got tired
to death churnin', an' the butter wouldn't come in a churn I'd had to
borrow, and he'd gone an' took ours all to pieces to get the works to
make some other useless contrivance with. He had no sort of a business
turn, but he was well meanin', Mr. Wallis was, an' full o' divertin'
talk; they used to call him very good company. I see now that he never
had no proper chance. I've always regretted Mr. Wallis," said she who
was now the widow Bickford.

"I'm sure you always speak well of him," said Miss Pendexter. "'T was
a pity he hadn't got among good business men, who could push his
inventions an' do all the business part."

"I was left very poor an' needy for them next few years," said
Mrs. Bickford mournfully; "but he never'd give up but what he should
die worth his fifty thousand dollars. I don't see now how I ever did
get along them next few years without him; but there, I always managed
to keep a pig, an' sister Eliza gave me my potatoes, and I made out
somehow. I could dig me a few greens, you know, in spring, and then 't
would come strawberry-time, and other berries a-followin' on. I was
always decent to go to meetin' till within the last six months, an'
then I went in bad weather, when folks wouldn't notice; but 't was a
rainy summer, an' I managed to get considerable preachin' after all.
My clothes looked proper enough when 't was a wet Sabbath. I often
think o' them pinched days now, when I'm left so comfortable by
Mr. Bickford."

"Yes 'm, you've everything to be thankful for," said Miss Pendexter,
who was as poor herself at that moment as her friend had ever been,
and who could never dream of venturing upon the support and
companionship of a pig. "Mr. Bickford was a very personable man," she
hastened to say, the confidences were so intimate and interesting.

"Oh, very," replied Mrs. Bickford; "there was something about him that
was very marked. Strangers would always ask who he was as he come into
meetin'. His words counted; he never spoke except he had to. 'T was a
relief at first after Mr. Wallis's being so fluent; but Mr. Wallis was
splendid company for winter evenings,--'t would be eight o'clock
before you knew it. I didn't use to listen to it all, but he had a
great deal of information. Mr. Bickford was dreadful dignified; I used
to be sort of meechin' with him along at the first, for fear he'd
disapprove of me; but I found out 'twa'n't no need; he was always just
that way, an' done everything by rule an' measure. He hadn't the mind
of my other husbands, but he was a very dignified appearing man; he
used 'most always to sleep in the evenin's, Mr. Bickford did."

"Them is lovely bo'quets, certain!" exclaimed Miss Pendexter. "Why, I
couldn't tell 'em apart; the flowers are comin' out just right, aren't
they?"

Mrs. Bickford nodded assent, and then, startled by sudden
recollection, she cast a quick glance at the rose in the window.

"I always seem to forget about your first husband, Mr. Fraley," Miss
Pendexter suggested bravely. "I've often heard you speak of him, too,
but he'd passed away long before I ever knew you."

"He was but a boy," said Mrs. Bickford. "I thought the world was done
for me when he died, but I've often thought since 't was a mercy for
him. He come of a very melancholy family, and all his brothers an'
sisters enjoyed poor health; it might have been his lot. Folks said we
was as pretty a couple as ever come into church; we was both dark,
with black eyes an' a good deal o' color,--you wouldn't expect it to
see me now. Albert was one that held up his head, and looked as if he
meant to own the town, an' he had a good word for everybody. I don't
know what the years might have brought."

There was a long pause. Mrs. Bickford leaned over to pick up a
heavy-headed Guelder-rose that had dropped on the floor.

"I expect 't was what they call fallin' in love," she added, in a
different tone; "he wa'n't nothin' but a boy, an' I wa'n't nothin' but
a girl, but we was dreadful happy. He didn't favor his folks,--they
all had hay-colored hair and was faded-looking, except his mother;
they was alike, and looked alike, an' set everything by each other. He
was just the kind of strong, hearty young man that goes right off if
they get a fever. We was just settled on a little farm, an' he'd have
done well if he'd had time; as it was, he left debts. He had a hasty
temper, that was his great fault, but Albert had a lovely voice to
sing; they said there wa'n't no such tenor voice in this part o' the
State. I could hear him singin' to himself right out in the field
a-ploughin' or hoein', an' he didn't know it half o' the time, no more
'n a common bird would. I don't know's I valued his gift as I ought
to, but there was nothin' ever sounded so sweet to me. I ain't one
that ever had much fancy, but I knowed Albert had a pretty voice."

Mrs. Bickford's own voice trembled a little, but she held up the last
bouquet and examined it critically. "I must hurry now an' put these in
water," she said, in a matter of fact tone. Little Miss Pendexter was
so quiet and sympathetic that her hostess felt no more embarrassed
than if she had been talking only to herself.

"Yes, they do seem to droop some; 't is a little warm for them here in
the sun," said Miss Pendexter; "but you'll find they'll all come up if
you give them their fill o' water. They'll look very handsome
to-morrow; folks'll notice them from the road. You've arranged them
very tasty, Mis' Bickford."

"They do look pretty, don't they?" Mrs. Bickford regarded the three in
turn. "I want to have them all pretty. You may deem it strange, Abby."

"Why, no, Mis' Bickford," said the guest sincerely, although a little
perplexed by the solemnity of the occasion. "I know how 'tis with
friends,--that having one don't keep you from wantin' another; 'tis
just like havin' somethin' to eat, and then wantin' somethin' to drink
just the same. I expect all friends find their places."

But Mrs. Bickford was not interested in this figure, and still looked
vague and anxious as she began to brush the broken stems and wilted
leaves into her wide calico apron. "I done the best I could while they
was alive," she said, "and mourned 'em when I lost 'em, an' I feel
grateful to be left so comfortable now when all is over. It seems
foolish, but I'm still at a loss about that rose."

"Perhaps you'll feel sure when you first wake up in the morning,"
answered Miss Pendexter solicitously. "It's a case where I don't deem
myself qualified to offer you any advice. But I'll say one thing,
seeing's you've been so friendly spoken and confiding with me. I never
was married myself, Mis' Bickford, because it wa'n't so that I could
have the one I liked."

"I suppose he ain't livin', then? Why, I wan't never aware you had met
with a disappointment, Abby," said Mrs. Bickford instantly. None of
her neighbors had ever suspected little Miss Pendexter of a romance.

"Yes 'm, he's livin'," replied Miss Pendexter humbly. "No 'm, I never
have heard that he died."

"I want to know!" exclaimed the woman of experience. "Well, I'll tell
you this, Abby: you may have regretted your lot, and felt lonesome and
hardshipped, but they all have their faults, and a single woman's got
her liberty, if she ain't got other blessin's."

"'T wouldn't have been my choice to live alone," said Abby, meeker
than before. "I feel very thankful for my blessin's, all the same.
You've always been a kind neighbor, Mis' Bickford."

"Why can't you stop to tea?" asked the elder woman, with unusual
cordiality; but Miss Pendexter remembered that her hostess often
expressed a dislike for unexpected company, and promptly took her
departure after she had risen to go, glancing up at the bright flower
as she passed outside the window. It seemed to belong most to Albert,
but she had not liked to say so. The sun was low; the green fields
stretched away southward into the misty distance.


II.

Mrs. Bickford's house appeared to watch her out of sight down the
road, the next morning. She had lost all spirit for her holiday.
Perhaps it was the unusual excitement of the afternoon's
reminiscences, or it might have been simply the bright moonlight night
which had kept her broad awake until dawn, thinking of the past, and
more and more concerned about the rose. By this time it had ceased to
be merely a flower, and had become a definite symbol and assertion of
personal choice. She found it very difficult to decide. So much of her
present comfort and well-being was due to Mr. Bickford; still, it was
Mr. Wallis who had been most unfortunate, and to whom she had done
least justice. If she owed recognition to Mr. Bickford, she certainly
owed amends to Mr. Wallis. If she gave him the rose, it would be for
the sake of affectionate apology. And then there was Albert, to whom
she had no thought of being either indebted or forgiving. But she
could not escape from the terrible feeling of indecision.

It was a beautiful morning for a drive, but Mrs. Bickford was kept
waiting some time for the chaise. Her nephew, who was to be her
escort, had found much social advantage at the blacksmith's shop, so
that it was after ten when she finally started with the three large
flat-backed bouquets, covered with a newspaper to protect them from
the sun. The petals of the almond flowers were beginning to scatter,
and now and then little streams of water leaked out of the newspaper
and trickled down the steep slope of her best dress to the bottom of
the chaise. Even yet she had not made up her mind; she had stopped
trying to deal with such an evasive thing as decision, and leaned back
and rested as best she could.

"What an old fool I be!" she rebuked herself from time to time, in so
loud a whisper that her companion ventured a respectful "What, ma'am?"
and was astonished that she made no reply. John was a handsome young
man, but Mrs. Bickford could never cease thinking of him as a boy. He
had always been her favorite among the younger members of the family,
and now returned this affectionate feeling, being possessed of an
instinctive confidence in the sincerities of his prosaic aunt.

As they drove along, there had seemed at first to be something
unsympathetic and garish about the beauty of the summer day. After the
shade and shelter of the house, Mrs. Bickford suffered even more from
a contracted and assailed feeling out of doors. The very trees by the
roadside had a curiously fateful, trying way of standing back to watch
her, as she passed in the acute agony of indecision, and she was
annoyed and startled by a bird that flew too near the chaise in a
moment of surprise. She was conscious of a strange reluctance to the
movement of the Sunday chaise, as if she were being conveyed against
her will; but the companionship of her nephew John grew every moment
to be more and more a reliance. It was very comfortable to sit by his
side, even though he had nothing to say; he was manly and cheerful,
and she began to feel protected.

"Aunt Bickford," he suddenly announced, "I may's well out with it!
I've got a piece o' news to tell you, if you won't let on to nobody. I
expect you'll laugh, but you know I've set everything by Mary Lizzie
Gifford ever since I was a boy. Well, sir!"

"Well, sir!" exclaimed aunt Bickford in her turn, quickly roused into
most comfortable self-forgetfulness. "I am really pleased. She'll make
you a good, smart wife, John. Ain't all the folks pleased, both
sides?"

"Yes, they be," answered John soberly, with a happy, important look
that became him well.

"I guess I can make out to do something for you to help along, when
the right time comes," said aunt Bickford impulsively, after a
moment's reflection. "I've known what it is to be starting out in life
with plenty o' hope. You ain't calculatin' on gettin' married before
fall,--or be ye?"

"'Long in the fall," said John regretfully. "I wish t' we could set up
for ourselves right away this summer. I ain't got much ahead, but I
can work well as anybody, an' now I'm out o' my time."

"She's a nice, modest, pretty girl. I thought she liked you, John,"
said the old aunt. "I saw her over to your mother's, last day I was
there. Well, I expect you'll be happy."

"Certain," said John, turning to look at her affectionately, surprised
by this outspokenness and lack of embarrassment between them. "Thank
you, aunt," he said simply; "you're a real good friend to me;" and he
looked away again hastily, and blushed a fine scarlet over his
sun-browned face. "She's coming over to spend the day with the girls,"
he added. "Mother thought of it. You don't get over to see us very
often."

Mrs. Bickford smiled approvingly. John's mother looked for her good
opinion, no doubt, but it was very proper for John to have told his
prospects himself, and in such a pretty way. There was no
shilly-shallying about the boy.

"My gracious!" said John suddenly. "I'd like to have drove right by
the burying-ground. I forgot we wanted to stop."

Strange as it may appear, Mrs. Bickford herself had not noticed the
burying-ground, either, in her excitement and pleasure; now she felt
distressed and responsible again, and showed it in her face at once.
The young man leaped lightly to the ground, and reached for the
flowers.

"Here, you just let me run up with 'em," he said kindly. "'T is hot in
the sun to-day, an' you'll mind it risin' the hill. We'll stop as I
fetch you back to-night, and you can go up comfortable an' walk the
yard after sundown when it's cool, an' stay as long as you're a mind
to. You seem sort of tired, aunt."

"I don't know but what I will let you carry 'em," said Mrs. Bickford
slowly.

To leave the matter of the rose in the hands of fate seemed weakness
and cowardice, but there was not a moment for consideration. John was
a smiling fate, and his proposition was a great relief. She watched
him go away with a terrible inward shaking, and sinking of pride. She
had held the flowers with so firm a grasp that her hands felt weak and
numb, and as she leaned back and shut her eyes she was afraid to open
them again at first for fear of knowing the bouquets apart even at
that distance, and giving instructions which she might regret. With a
sudden impulse she called John once or twice eagerly; but her voice
had a thin and piping sound, and the meditative early crickets that
chirped in the fresh summer grass probably sounded louder in John's
ears. The bright light on the white stones dazzled Mrs. Bickford's
eyes; and then all at once she felt light-hearted, and the sky seemed
to lift itself higher and wider from the earth, and she gave a sigh of
relief as her messenger came back along the path. "I know who I do
hope's got the right one," she said to herself. "There, what a touse I
be in! I don't see what I had to go and pick the old rose for,
anyway."

"I declare, they did look real handsome, aunt," said John's hearty
voice as he approached the chaise. "I set 'em up just as you told me.
This one fell out, an' I kept it. I don't know's you'll care. I can
give it to Lizzie."

He faced her now with a bright, boyish look. There was something gay
in his buttonhole,--it was the red rose.

Aunt Bickford blushed like a girl. "Your choice is easy made," she
faltered mysteriously, and then burst out laughing, there in front of
the burying-ground. "Come, get right in, dear," she said. "Well, well!
I guess the rose was made for you; it looks very pretty in your coat,
John."

She thought of Albert, and the next moment the tears came into her old
eyes. John was a lover, too.

"My first husband was just such a tall, straight young man as you be,"
she said as they drove along. "The flower he first give me was a
rose."



A SECOND SPRING.

I.

The Haydon farm was only a few miles from the sea, and the spring
wind, which had been blowing from the south all day, had gone into the
east. A chilly salt fog had begun to come in, creeping along where a
brook wound among the lower fields, like a ghostly serpent that was
making its way to shelter across the country.

The old Haydon house stood on high rising land, with two great
walnut-trees at one side, and a tall, thin, black-looking spruce in
front that had lost its mate. A comfortable row of round-headed old
apple-trees led all the way up a long lane from the main road. This
lane and the spacious side yard were scarred by wheel ruts, and the
fresh turf was cut up by the stamping feet of many horses. It was the
evening of a sad day,--the evening after Israel Haydon's wife's
funeral. Many of the people who were present had far to go, and so the
funeral feast had been served early.


The old place looked deserted. The dandelions, which had shone so
bright in the grass that morning, were all shut up, and the syringa
bushes in the front yard seemed to have taken back their rash buds,
and to have grown as gray as winter again. The light was failing fast
out of doors; there was a lamp lighted in the kitchen, and a figure
kept passing between it and the window.

Israel Haydon lingered as long as he could over his barn-work. Somehow
it seemed lonely in the barn, and as long as he could see or feel his
way about, he kept himself busy over the old horse and cow, accepting
their inexpressive companionship, and serving their suppers with
unusual generosity. His sensations, even of grief, were not very
distinct to him; there was only a vague sense of discomfort, of being
disturbed in his quiet course. He had said to many of his friends that
afternoon, "I do' know why 't is, but I can't realize nothing about
it," and spoken sincerely; but his face was marked with deep lines; he
was suffering deeply from the great loss that had befallen him.

His wife had been a woman of uncommon social gifts and facilities, and
he had missed her leadership in the great occasion that was just over.
Everybody had come to him for directions, and expected from him the
knowledge of practical arrangements that she had always shown in the
forty years of their married life. He had forgotten already that it
was a worn-out and suffering woman who had died; the remembrance of
long weeks of illness faded from his mind. It appeared to him as if,
in her most active and busy aspect, she had suddenly vanished out of
the emergencies and close dependence of their every-day lives.

Mr. Haydon crossed the yard slowly, after he had locked the barn door
and tried the fastening, and then gone back to try it again. He was
glad to see the cheerfulness of the lighted kitchen, and to remember
that his own sister and the sister of his wife were there in charge
and ready to companion him. He could not help a feeling of distress at
the thought of entering his lonely home; suddenly the fact of their
being there made everything seem worse. Another man might have
loitered on the step until he was chilly and miserable, but poor
Mr. Haydon only dropped his hand for a moment by his side, and looked
away down the lane; then, with bent head, he lifted the latch as he
always did, and went in. It seemed as if he consciously shouldered the
burden of his loneliness in that dreary moment, and never could stand
upright again.

The season of his solitary life began with more cheer than could have
been expected. The two women were waiting for him placidly, and did
not seem to be curious how he might be bearing this great disaster.
They had cleared away all signs of the great company, and the kitchen
looked as it always did; it had not occurred to them to occupy the
more formal sitting-room. The warmth of the fire was pleasant; a table
was spread with supper. One of the women was bringing the teapot from
the stove, and the other was placidly knitting a blue yarn stocking.
It seemed as if Martha Haydon herself might at any moment come out of
the pantry door or up the cellar stairs.

"We was just about ready for you, Isr'el," said his sister-in-law
Stevens, glancing at him eagerly. "We didn't stop to take anything
ourselves this afternoon, and we didn't suppose 't was so you could;
an' we thought we'd just make a quiet cup o' tea when we had
everything put to rights, and could set down an' enjoy it. Now you
draw right up to the table; that's clever; 't will do us all good."

The good woman bore some likeness to her sister just departed; Israel
had never noticed it so much before. She had a comfortable, motherly
way, and his old face twitched in spite of himself as he bent over the
brimming and smoking cup that she handed across the square table.

"I declare!" said his own sister, Mrs. Abby Martin. "We could reckon
what a sight o' folks there was here this afternoon by the times we
had to make new tea, if there wa'n't no other way. I don't know's I
ever see a larger gathering on such an occasion. Mis' Stevens an' me
was trying to count 'em. There was twenty-six wagons hitched in the
yard an' lane, so William said, besides all that come afoot; an' a few
had driven away before they made the count."

"I'd no idea of there bein' so many," said Israel sadly. "Well, 't was
natural for all who knew her to show respect. I felt much obliged to
the folks, and for Elder Wall's excellent remarks."

"A number spoke their approval to him in my hearing. He seemed pleased
that everything passed off well," said sister Martin. "I expect he
wanted to do the best he could. Everybody knows she was always a good
friend to him. I never see anybody that set so by her minister.
William was telling of me he'd been very attentive all through her
sickness. Poor William! He does mourn, but he behaved very pretty, I
thought. He wanted us to tell you that he'd be over to-morrow soon's
he could. He wanted dreadful to stop with ye overnight, but we all
know what it is to run a milk farm."

"I'd b'en glad if 't was so he could be here with us to-night, an' his
wife with him," said the old man, pushing away his cup. The remnants
of the afternoon feast, with which the table was spread, failed to
tempt his appetite. He rose and took his old wooden armchair by the
stove, and clasped his hands before him. The long brown fingers began
to play mechanically upon each other. It was strange how these
trivial, unconscious habits continued in spite of the great change
which had shaken his life to its foundations.


II.

At noon the next day Israel Haydon and his son William came up across
the field together. They had on their every-day clothes, and were
talking about every-day matters as they walked along. Mr. Haydon
himself had always looked somewhat unlike a farmer, even though there
had been no more diligent and successful tiller of the soil in the
town of Atfield. He never had bought himself a rougher suit of clothes
or a coarse hat for haying, but his discarded Sunday best in various
states of decadence served him for barn and field. It was proverbial
that a silk hat lasted him five years for best and ten for common; but
whatever he might be doing, Israel Haydon always preserved an air of
unmistakable dignity. He was even a little ministerial in his look;
there had been a minister in the family two or three generations back.
Mr. Haydon and his wife had each inherited some money. They were by
nature thrifty, and now their only son was well married, with a good
farm of his own, to which Israel had added many acres of hay land and
tillage, saying that he was getting old, and was going to take the
rest of his life easily. In this way the old people had thrown many of
their worldly cares upon their son's broad shoulders. They had paid
visits each summer to their kindred in surrounding towns, starting off
in their Sunday chaise with sober pleasure, serene in their
prosperity, and free from any dark anticipations, although they could
not bring themselves to consent to any long absence, and the
temptation of going to see friends in the West was never dangerous to
their peace of mind. But the best of their lives was apparently still
before them, when good Martha Haydon's strength mysteriously failed;
and one dark day the doctor, whom Israel Haydon had anxiously
questioned behind the wood-pile, just out of sight from his wife's
window--the doctor had said that she never would be any better. The
downfall of his happiness had been swift and piteous. William Haydon
was a much larger and rosier man than his father had ever been; the
old man looked shrunken as they crossed the field together. They had
prolonged their talk about letting the great south field lie fallow,
and about some new Hereford cattle that the young farmer had just
bought, until nothing more was left to say on either side. Then there
came a long pause, when each waited for the other to speak. William
grew impatient at last.

"Have you got any notion what it's best to do, sir?" he began boldly;
then, finding that his father did not answer, he turned to look at
him, and found that the drawn face was set in silent despair.

"I've always been forehanded; I never was caught so unprepared
before," he faltered. "'T has been my way, as you know, to think out
things beforehand, but it come to the very last before I could give it
up 'bout your mother's gettin' better; an' when I did give up, 't
wa'n't so I could think o' anything. An' here's your aunts got their
families dependin' on 'em, and wantin' to git away soon as may be. I
don't know which way to look."

"Marilla and I should be thankful if you'd come and stop 'long of us
this winter"--the younger man began, eagerly.

"No, no!" said his father sternly. "I ain't goin' to live in the
chimbly-corner of another man's house. I ain't but a little past
sixty-seven. I've got to stand in my lot an' place. 'T wouldn't be
neither your house nor mine, William," he said, in a softer tone.
"You're a good son; your mother always said you was a good son."

Israel Haydon's voice broke, and William Haydon's eyes filled with
tears, and they plodded along together in the soft spring grass.

"I've gone over everything I wish I could forget--all the bothering
tricks I played her, 'way back when I was a boy," said the young man,
with great feeling. "I declare, I don't know what to do, I miss her
so."

"You was an only child," said the father solemnly; "we done the best
we could by ye. She often said you was a good son, and she wa'n't
surprised to see ye prosper. An' about Marilly, 'long at the first,
when you was courtin' her, 't was only that poor mother thought nobody
wa'n't quite good enough for her boy. She come to set everything by
Marilly."

The only dark chapter in the family history was referred to for the
last time, to be forgotten by father and son. The old people had,
after all, gloried in their son's bravery in keeping to his own way
and choice. The two farms joined. Marilla and her mother were their
next neighbors; the mother had since died.

"Father," exclaimed William Haydon suddenly, as they neared the barn,
"I do' know now but I've thought o' the very one!"

"What d'ye mean?" said the old man, startled a little by such
vehemence.

"'T ain't nobody I feel sure of getting," explained the son, his ardor
suddenly cooling. "I had Maria Durrant in my mind--Marilla's cousin.
Don't you know, she come and stopped with us six weeks that time
Marilla was so dyin' sick and we hadn't been able to get proper help;
and what a providence Maria Durrant was! Mother said one day that she
never saw so capable a woman."

"I don't stand in need of nursin'," said the old man, grumbling, and
taking a defensive attitude of mind. "What's the use, anyway, if you
can't get her? I'll contrive to get along somehow. I always have."

William flushed quickly, but made no answer, out of regard to the old
man's bereaved and wounded state. He always felt like a schoolboy in
his father's presence, though he had for many years been a leader in
neighborhood matters, and was at that moment a selectman of the town
of Atfield. If he had answered back and entered upon a lively argument
it probably would have done the old man good; anything would have
seemed better than the dull hunger in his heart, the impossibility of
forming new habits of life, which made a wall about his very thoughts.

After a surly silence, when the son was needlessly repentant and the
father's face grew cloudy with disapproval, the two men parted.
William had made arrangements to stay all the afternoon, but he now
found an excuse for going to the village, and drove away down the
lane. He had not turned into the highroad before he wished himself
back again, while Israel Haydon looked after him reproachfully, more
lonely than ever, in the sense that something had come between them,
though he could not tell exactly what. The spring fields lay broad and
green in the sunshine; there was a cheerful sound of frogs in the
lower meadow.

"Poor mother! how she did love early weather like this!" he said, half
aloud. "She'd been getting out to the door twenty times a day, just to
have a look. An' how she'd laugh to hear the frogs again! Oh, poor me!
poor me!" For the first time he found himself in tears. The grim old
man leaned on the fence, and tried to keep back the sobs that shook
his bent shoulders. He was half afraid and half ashamed, but there he
stood and cried. At last he dried his eyes, and went slowly into the
house, as if in hope of comfort as well as shelter.

The two sisters were busy in an upper room. They had seen William
Haydon drive away, and their sympathy had been much moved by the sight
of his father's grief. They stood at a window watching him from behind
the curtain.

"He feels it much as anybody could," said Mrs. Stevens, not without a
certain satisfaction in this tribute to her own dear sister. "Somehow
or 'nother your brother is so methodical and contained, Mis' Martin,
that I shouldn't have looked to see him give way like other men."

"He never was one that could show his feelin's," answered Mrs. Martin.
"I never saw him shed tears before as I know of, but many's the time
he hasn't been able to control his voice to speak. I wonder what made
William hurry off so? His back looked kind o' provoked. They couldn't
have had no words; whatever it was, they couldn't had no words so soon
as this; an' William 's always respectful."

"'T ain't that either," she added, a moment later. "I've seen sights
o' folks in trouble, and I don't know what nor why it is, but they
always have to get through with a fractious spell before they can get
to work again. They'll hold up an' 'pear splendid, and then something
seems to let go, an' everything goes wrong, an' every word plagues
'em. Now Isr'el's my own poor brother, an' you know how I set by him,
Mis' Stevens; but I expect we'll have to walk soft to get along with
him for a week or two to come. Don't you go an' be too gentle,
neither. Treat him just's you would anyway, and he'll fetch himself
into line the quicker. He always did have days when he wouldn't say
nothing to nobody. It does seem's if I ought to be the one to stop
longer with him, an' be the most help; but you know how I'm situated.
And then 't is your sister's things that's to be looked over, and you
and Marilla is the proper ones."

"I wish 't was so you could stop," Mrs. Stevens urged honestly. "I
feel more acquainted with you than I do with Marilly. But I shall do
my best, as I shall want those who come to do for my things when I'm
past an' gone. I shall get William to come an' help us; he knows more
about his mother's possessions than anybody, I expect. She made a kind
of girl of him, for company's sake, when he was little; and he used to
sew real pretty before his fingers got too big. Don't you recall one
winter when he was house-bound after a run o' scarlet fever? He used
to work worsted, and knit some, I believe he did; but he took to
growin' that spring, and I chanced to ask him to supply me with a
couple o' good holders, but I found I'd touched dignity. He was
dreadful put out. I suppose he was mos' too manly for me to refer to
his needlework. Poor Marthy! how she laughed! I only said that about
the holders for the sake o' sayin' somethin', but he remembered it
against me more than a year."

The two aunts laughed together. "Boys is boys, ain't they?" observed
Mrs. Stevens, with great sagacity.

"Men is boys," retorted Mrs. Martin. "The more you treat 'em like
boys, the better they think you use 'em. They always want motherin',
an' somebody to come to. I always tell folks I've got five child'n,
counting Mr. Martin the youngest. The more bluster they have, the more
boys they be. Now Marthy knew that about brother Isr'el, an' she
always ruled him by love an' easin' of him down from them high perches
he was always settin' upon. Everything was always right with her an'
all wrong with him when they was young, but she could always say the
right word."

"She was a good-feelin' woman; she did make him a good wife, if I say
it that shouldn't o' my own sister," sighed Mrs. Stevens. "She was the
best o' housekeepers, was Marthy. I never went over so neat a house. I
ain't got the gift myself. I can clear up, Mis' Martin, but I can't
remain cleared up."

The two sisters turned to their pathetic work of looking over the
orderly closets and making solemn researches into the suspected
shelters of moths. Much talk of the past was suggested by the folding
of blankets; and as they set back the chairs, and brushed the floors
that were made untidy by the funeral guests of the day before, they
wondered afresh what would become of Israel Haydon, and what plan he
would make for himself; for Mrs. Martin could only stay with him for a
few days, and Mrs. Stevens was obliged to return as soon as possible
to her busy household and an invalid daughter. As long as they could
stay the house went on as usual, and Israel Haydon showed no
apprehension of difficulties ahead. He took up the routine of his
simple fashion of life, and when William asked if he should bring his
team to plough, he received the surprised answer that all those things
were settled when they talked about them earlier in the spring. Of
course he should want potatoes, and it was high time they were
planted. A boy arrived from the back country who had lived at the farm
the summer before,--a willing, thick-headed young person in process of
growth,--and Israel Haydon took great exception to his laziness and
inordinate appetite, and threatened so often to send him back where he
came from that only William's insistence that they had entered into an
engagement with poor Thomas, and the women's efforts toward
reconciliation, prevailed.

When sister Martin finally departed, bag and baggage, she felt as if
she were leaving her brother to be the prey of disaster. He was
sternly self-reliant, and watched her drive away down the lane with
something like a sense of relief. The offending Thomas was standing
by, expecting rebuke almost with an air of interest; but the old man
only said to him, in an apologetic and friendly way, "There! we've got
to get along a spell without any women folks, my son. I haven't heard
of any housekeeper to suit me, but we'll get along together till I
do."

"There's a great sight o' things cooked up, sir," said Thomas, with
shining eyes.

"We'll get along," repeated the old man. "I won't have you take no
liberties, but if we save the time from other things, we can manage
just as well as the women. I want you to sweep out good, night an'
morning, an' fetch me the wood an' water, an' I'll see to the
housework." There was no idea of appointing Thomas as keeper of the
pantry keys, and a shadow of foreboding darkened the lad's hopeful
countenance as the master of the house walked away slowly up the yard.


III.

It was the month of June; the trees were in full foliage; there was no
longer any look of spring in the landscape, and the air and sky
belonged to midsummer. Mrs. Israel Haydon had been dead nearly two
months.

On a Sunday afternoon the father and son sat in two old
splint-bottomed chairs just inside the wood-house, in the shade. The
wide doors were always thrown back at that time of the year, and there
was a fine view across the country. William Haydon could see his own
farm spread out like a green map; he was scanning the boundaries of
the orderly fences and fields and the stretches of woodland and
pasture. He looked away at them from time to time, or else bent over
and poked among the wood-house dust and fine chips with his
walking-stick. "There's an old buckle that I lost one day ever so many
years ago," he exclaimed suddenly, and reached down to pick it up.
William was beginning to look stout and middle-aged. He held out the
rusty buckle to his father, but Israel Haydon sat stiffly upright, and
hardly gave a glance at the useless object.

"I thought Elder Wall preached an excellent discourse this morning."
William made further attempt to engage his father's interest and
attention, but without avail.

"I wish you'd tell me what's the matter with you, sir," said the
troubled son, turning squarely, and with honest kindness in his look.
"It hurts my feelings, father. If I've put you out, I want to make
amends. Marilla's worried to death for fear it's on her account. We
both set everything by you, but you hold us off; and I feel, when I
try to be company for you, as if you thought I belonged in jail, and
hadn't no rights of any kind. Can't you talk right out with me, sir?
Ain't you well?"

"There! don't run on, boy," said the old man sadly. "I do the best I
can; you've got to give me time. I'm dreadful hard pushed losin' of
your mother. I've lost my home; you ain't got the least idea what it
is, William."

His old face quivered, and William rose hastily and went a step or two
forward, making believe that he was looking after his horse. "Stand
still, there!" he shouted to the placid creature, and then came back
and reached out his hand to his father.

Israel took hold of it, but looked up, a little puzzled. "You ain't
going yet?" he asked. "Why, you've only just come."

"I want you to ride over with me to supper to-night. I want you to see
how well that piece o' late corn looks, after all your saying I
might's well lay it down to turnips. Come, father; the horse's right
here, and 't will make a change for you. Ain't you about got through
with them pies aunt Martin left you when she went away? Come; we're
goin' to have a hearty supper, and I want ye."

"I don't know but I will," said Israel Haydon slowly. "We've got on
pretty well--no, we ain't, neither. I ain't comfortable, and I can't
make nothin' o' that poor shoat of a boy. I'm buying o' the baker an'
frying a pan o' pork the whole time, trying to fill him up. I never
was so near out o' pork this time o' year, not since I went to
housekeepin'."

"I heard he'd been tellin' round the neighborhood that he was about
starved," said William plainly. "Our folks always had the name o'
being good providers."

"How'd your mother use to wash up the cups an' things to make 'em look
decent?" asked Mr. Haydon suddenly; there was the humility of broken
pride in his tone. "I can't seem to find nothin' to do with, anywhere
about the house. I s'posed I knew where everything was. I expect I've
got out all poor mother's best things, without knowin' the difference.
Except there ain't nothin' nowhere that looks right to me," he added.

William stooped to pick something out of the chips. "You'll have to
ask Marilla," he said. "It mortifies me to have you go on in such a
way. Now, father, you wouldn't hear to anybody that was named to you,
but if you go on this way much longer you'll find that any
housekeeper's better than none."

"Why, I've only been waiting to hear of a proper person," said Israel
Haydon, turning an innocent and aggrieved countenance upon his son.
"My house is in a terrible state, now I can tell you."

William looked away and tried to keep his face steady.

"What do you find to laugh at?" asked the poor father, in the tone of
a schoolmaster.

"Don't you know I spoke of somebody to you? I believe 't was the very
day after the funeral," said William persuasively. "Her name is Maria
Durrant."

"I remember the person well; an excellent, sensible woman, no
flummery, and did remarkable well in case of sickness at your house,"
said Mr. Haydon, with enthusiasm, stepping briskly toward the wagon
after he had shut and fastened the wood-house doors and put the
padlock key in his pocket. "What of her? You said there was no chance
of getting her, didn't you?"

"I was afraid so; but she's left her brother's folks now, and come to
stop a little while with Marilla. She's at the house this minute; came
last night. You know, Marilla's very fond of having her cousins come
to stop with her," apologized the son, in fear lest his simple plot
should be discovered and resented. "You can see if she's such a person
as you want. I have been thinking all day that she might do for a
time, anyway."

"Anybody'll do," said Mr. Haydon suddenly. "I tell ye, William, I'm
drove to the wall. I feel to covet a good supper; an' I'm ashamed to
own it, a man o' my property! I'll observe this Miss Durrant, an'
speak with her after tea; perhaps she'd have the sense to come right
over to-morrow. You an' Marilla can tell her how I've been situated. I
wa'n't going to have no such persons in my house as were recommended,"
he grumbled on cheerfully. "I don't keep a town-farm for the
incapable, nor do I want an old grenadier set over me like that old
maid Smith. I ain't going to be turned out of my own house."

They drove along the road slowly, and presently the ever-interesting
subject of crops engaged their further attention. When they turned
into William Haydon's side yard a pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman,
in a neat black dress and a big clean white apron, sat on the piazza
with Marilla and the children. Israel Haydon's heart felt lighter than
it had for many a week. He went and shook hands with Maria Durrant,
with more than interest and approval; there was even a touch of
something like gallantry in his manner. William Haydon glanced at his
wife and gave an unconscious sigh of relief.

The next morning Miss Durrant helped with the early work, talking with
William's wife as she went to and fro busily in the large kitchen, and
listening to all that could be said of the desperate state of affairs
at the old farm. The two women so doubled their diligence by working
together that it was still early in the day when Maria, blushing
noticeably, said that she thought there was no use in waiting until
afternoon, as old Mr. Haydon had directed. There must be plenty to do;
and the sooner the house was put to rights and some cooking got under
way the better. She had her old calico dress all on, and she deemed it
best to go over and go right to work.

"There! I don't know what to say, Maria," said Marilla Haydon
doubtfully. "Father Haydon's such a set person."

"So be I," rejoined Maria. "And who knows how bad those rooms need
airing! I've thought of twenty things that ought to be done right off,
before night. Or I could work a spell in the gardin if he don't seem
to want me in the house. Now, wa'n't it affectin' to hear him let on
that he'd gone an' made poor Mis' Haydon's flower gardin same's he'd
always done? It showed real feelin', didn't it? I am goin' to take
holt over there as if 't was for her as well as for him. That time I
was here so long, when you was so sick, I did just admire Mis' Haydon.
She was a beautiful-looking woman, and so pretty-behaved; quiet, but
observin'. I never saw a man age as William's father has; it made my
heart ache when I first caught sight of him driving into the yard last
night."

"He revived up conversin' with you an' makin' such a good hearty tea,"
suggested Marilla, disappearing in the pantry. "I ain't never felt
free with father Haydon, but I do respect him," she added presently.
"Well, now, go right over, Maria, if you feel moved to. I don't know
but what you're wise. P'r'aps William an' I'll walk over, after
supper's put away. I guess you've got a busy day before you."

She stood at the open door and watched Maria Durrant go away, a few
minutes later, with a plump bundle under one arm.

"I should think you were going to seek your fortune," she called
merrily, as the good woman turned into the road; but Maria wagged her
head with a cheerful nod, and did not deign to look back. "I ought to
have given her some bread to tuck under the other arm, like the
picture of Benjamin Franklin. I dare say they do need bread; I ought
to have thought of it," said Marilla anxiously, as she returned to the
pantry.

"But there! Father Haydon's got as far along in housekeeping as
stopping the baker; an' he was put out because I sent things too soon,
before a

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