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The Morning Glory Club

by George A. Kyle · English · Gutenberg #40899 · 303,555 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Morning Glory Club

Author: George A. Kyle

Illustrator: A. O. Scott


        
Release date: September 30, 2012 [eBook #40899]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MORNING GLORY CLUB ***

[Illustration]

[Illustration: _Barbara Wallace_

From a painting by A. O. Scott]





The Morning Glory Club

By George A. Kyle

With a frontispiece in colours

By Arthur O. Scott

[Illustration]

    Boston * L.C. Page and
    Company * MDCCCCVII




    _Copyright, 1907_

    BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY

    (INCORPORATED)

    _All rights reserved_

    Entered at Stationers' Hall, London




    _First impression, February, 1907_




    _COLONIAL PRESS_
    _Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
    Boston, U. S. A._




Contents


    CHAPTER                           PAGE
        I. THE WHEELS BEGIN TO MOVE      1
       II. A MAN AND A WOMAN            33
      III. A MALE GOSSIP                43
       IV. THE "GLORIES" MEET AGAIN     50
        V. THE STOUTS AT HOME           60
       VI. BARBARA AND WILL             70
      VII. CLASSICS AND WOMEN           75
     VIII. A WOMAN'S WAY                87
       IX. MEN TALK TOO                 92
        X. A REHEARSAL                 103
       XI. THE NARROW WAY              116
      XII. GIRL TALK                   124
     XIII. JINGLE BELLS                129
      XIV. MORE TALK                   134
       XV. TWO LETTERS                 144
      XVI. ADVERTISING                 148
     XVII. MORE ADVERTISING            157
    XVIII. THE "BIG SHOW"              164
      XIX. THE DAY AFTER               171
       XX. A SERMON                    186
      XXI. AN ANGEL OF MERCY           201
     XXII. MANY MINDS CHANGE           212
    XXIII. COALS OF FIRE               224
     XXIV. A WEDDING AND A SERMON      235
      XXV. GOOD CHEER--GOOD WILL       244




The Morning Glory Club




Chapter I

The Wheels Begin to Move


"EZRA, this is a morning long to be remembered," said Mrs. Tweedie, as
she looked up from the undulating top of a huge cake which, with the
skill of a professional plasterer, she was bedaubing with a dark brown
paste.

"I hope so, my dear," her husband replied, smilingly, as he put his
paper aside.

"Sometime this house may bear a tablet of bronze," continued Mrs.
Tweedie, "on which, in effect, will be graven that here was founded by
the women of Manville an organization that startled the community."

"My only regret is that I shall not be here to see it--I mean the
tablet, of course," said Ezra.

"We shall prove," Mrs. Tweedie went on with her eyes fixed dreamily on a
distant corner of the kitchen, "we shall prove that the accusation which
you made in anger one week ago to-night, that 'women are the cause of
all of the trouble in the world,' is false! False as the affection of
men!"

Ezra's smile faded to a look that suggested a complication of
homesickness and _mal de mer_. The incident to which Mrs. Tweedie
referred was not their first quarrel. The first had taken place years
before, and ever since Ezra had been different.

"My dear," he replied, weakly, attempting not to let his feelings show
in his voice, "you always accomplish whatever you attempt."

"And why, Ezra, why do I succeed?" (Mrs. Tweedie was given to boasting
when alone with her little, ladylike husband.) "Because," she continued,
replying to her own question, "I possess and use that rare virtue called
tact."

"True, my dear, very true," Ezra acknowledged, meekly. "I have known
always that you had enough for two." He might have added truthfully
that, had it not been for her remarkable tact, and the fact that one of
her relatives had indiscreetly died intestate during their courtship, he
would not have married her.

The income which "dear cousin John's" carelessness and the statutes gave
them was small; only Mrs. Tweedie's tact made it possible for her
family of four to exist in the sham style which they affected. Despite
her tact, their credit was constantly stretched and perilously near to
the C.O.D. point; in fact, the feelings of all the tradesmen of Manville
were correctly described when the milkman vowed that the Tweedies would
be supplied from the bottom of the can until they had settled for the
top. Considered from every point of view the Tweedies were strange
people.

The idea of a club for women was not new to the world, but to the New
England town of Manville it was as new as the newest baby. The germ had
taken up its abode in Mrs. Tweedie's head a week before, and since its
arrival had buzzed so furiously that she was conscious of nothing else.

Two hours after her conversation with Ezra, Mrs. Tweedie was ready to
meet the ladies whom she had invited to take part in the materialization
of her idea. When the door-bell rang announcing the first arrival, she
hastened to the parlour and assumed a becoming attitude, while Ezra, who
impersonated Dora, their maid, when she was otherwise occupied, went to
the door.

"Mrs. Flint, my dear," Ezra announced a moment later, as he bowed the
lady named into the parlour, and then vanished. Mrs. Tweedie was very
fond of Mrs. Flint, her beloved pastor's wife, and greeted her with as
much cordiality as it was possible for her to display. The chief reason
for her fondness was the fact that Mrs. Flint belonged to one of the
oldest families in the State. Her blood was as blue as the bluest blue,
and her ancestry could be traced back into a delightful abyss of years.
Mrs. Tweedie had a profound respect for such things--she had ancestors
herself.

"Tell me," said Mrs. Flint, after they had chatted about little nothings
for five minutes, "how have you succeeded? Was your club idea well
received?"

"Oh, yes, indeed," replied Mrs. Tweedie.

"And did many promise to come?"

"Every one on whom I called was delighted, and promised to be here this
morning," said Mrs. Tweedie, proudly.

"Very encouraging, I'm sure," murmured Mrs. Flint, as she glanced about
the room and noticed that there was dust on the family Bible. Mrs.
Tweedie knew it was there. She also knew that Mrs. Flint knew, and was
annoyed.

"I have heard that your son William has returned," observed Mrs.
Tweedie, hoping to divert Mrs. Flint's mind from the dusty Bible to a
subject that could not be wholly agreeable to the minister's wife, if
the rumours which had reached Mrs. Tweedie were founded on fact.

"Yes, college life is _so_ trying for a young man at William's critical
age. He seems to have broken down completely," sadly replied the fond
mamma of one hundred and eighty pounds of beef, bone, and deviltry.

"Indeed! I am very sorry to hear of his condition, but rejoiced to know
that I have been incorrectly informed concerning his reason for leaving
college," said Mrs. Tweedie. "You must be very happy with him at home
again after such a long absence."

"Yes," replied Mrs. Flint, telling one of those weak little lies that we
all indulge in when it seems to be really necessary.

Mrs. Tweedie's feminine instinct told her the truth, and she generously
dropped William for something more closely related to the club idea.

"Oh, I have invited Mrs. Stout to join. What do you think of her?" she
asked, suddenly.

"She does not attend our church--of course that would make no
difference, but--" The minister's wife hesitated, and raised her eyes
significantly.

"Her grammar is shocking--she speaks so plainly," said Mrs. Tweedie, her
nose in air. "And her manners and dress are--"

"Extraordinary," prompted Mrs. Flint.

"The very word."

"She has, probably, admirable qualities, but--"

"No doubt, except--there's the bell!" And then Mrs. Tweedie added in a
whisper, "I would not have this repeated for worlds."

Just then Mrs. Stout entered the room unannounced.

"My dear Mrs. Stout, good morning," said Mrs. Tweedie. "We were just
this moment speaking of you."

"Was you now?" smilingly responded Mrs. Stout, as she sat down in the
largest chair in the room and began fanning herself with a photograph
that she took from a table. "How d'y do, Mis' Flint. I ain't set eyes on
you since our Fast Day union meetin'. How's the parson? I heard he was
feelin' kinder streaked."

"Quite well, thank you," replied Mrs. Flint, rather coldly.

Mrs. Stout was the wife of Peter Stout, grocer, and the mother of three
boys. Though her grammar, manners, and dress did not reach to Mrs.
Tweedie's lofty ideals, she had many friends in Manville among those who
did not pretend to be more than they were. Her family--of course she had
a father and mother, but her grandfathers and grandmothers--no one had
ever taken the pains to draw the likeness of a tree and write on its
naked branches the names of her ancestors. Despite the lack of
grandfathers and grandmothers, she had a large measure of common sense,
and a big heart.

"We don't seem to be crowded here," remarked Mrs. Stout, after a
moment's pause. "Anybody else comin'?"

"We hope so, but it is early yet, you know, only half-past ten,"
explained Mrs. Tweedie.

"Early? Good land!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout. "I've been up these five hours
and done all my work. Oh, there was somethin' I wanted to ask perticler.
Is Lizzie Sawyer goin' to join?"

"Yes," replied Mrs. Tweedie, and wondered what was coming next.

"Well," said Mrs. Stout, confidentially, "the reason I wanted to know
was that she and I don't get along very well together, but there, I
guess we can manage somehow to keep from clashin'."

Mrs. Tweedie saw rough weather ahead, and proceeded to pour oil upon
the waters before the storm broke.

"Miss Sawyer was one of the first asked to join," she replied. "She is
an exceptionally well-educated woman, and has signified her willingness
to read several papers on vital topics before the club when we are ready
for such work."

"Papers? Newspapers?" Mrs. Stout asked, with a puzzled look.

"No, indeed! Papers--essays on--on--" Mrs. Tweedie tried to reduce her
language to Mrs. Stout's mental level in vain.

"Oh, how stoopid I am!" Mrs. Stout interrupted, thereby unconsciously
rescuing Mrs. Tweedie from her difficulty, "I understand now. I s'pose
she'll try to tell us a lot about religion, and--"

"Pardon me," said Mrs. Tweedie, quickly, "I think not. Would it be wise
to discuss religion at our meetings? I am sure that the _other sex_
never tolerate it in their organizations."

"I s'pose you mean the men?" queried Mrs. Stout.

"I do."

"Well, that's true enough, I guess, but it ain't because they don't
think it's wise. It's because men don't naturally hanker after
religion. There's my husband, a good 'nough man, but I can't get him to
go to meetin' to save me, though he will go fishin' spite of all I can
say or do."

"Really!" gasped Mrs. Flint. "Does he really fish on the Sabbath?"

"He certainly does," replied Mrs. Stout, "jest as reg'lar as he eats his
vi't'ls."

Mrs. Tweedie and Mrs. Flint were horribly shocked, and to their cultured
minds perhaps "vi't'ls" was quite as shocking as Sabbath fishing.

"And what else are we goin' to do besides havin' papers read?" continued
Mrs. Stout.

"We hope," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "to spend our time in the study and
discussion of subjects which will be uplifting, that will make
ourselves, and aid us in helping others, to be stronger, morally and
intellectually."

"You don't mean it!" said Mrs. Stout, with mock gravity. "And when we
ain't doin' that I s'pose we'll be talkin' about other folks and their
businesses."

"I trust not," replied Mrs. Tweedie, much distressed. "Of course, some
people are improperly interested in the affairs of others, but we hope
that those so inclined will not become members of our club."

"Well, I hope so, too," said Mrs. Stout, with a suspicious twinkle in
her eyes. "But it's hard, dreadful hard, Mis' Tweedie, to get a crowd of
women folks together without some one sayin' somethin' about somebody
that they wouldn't have said if she was there."

Mrs. Tweedie was as near to tears of mortification as a woman of her
kind ever gets. She had never realized before how brutally truthful Mrs.
Stout could be.

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, abruptly changing the subject, "is Miss
Wallace, the schoolteacher that boards with you, goin' to belong?"

"Yes," replied Mrs. Tweedie. "She is heartily in sympathy with us, but
will not be able to attend many meetings because of her work."

"I'm real glad that she's goin' to join, I like her," said Mrs. Stout,
simply, and she meant it. Miss Wallace was likable, but not many in
Manville had discovered her good qualities. "There's somebody else!"
exclaimed Mrs. Stout, as she heard the bell which rang at that moment,
and then added, quickly, "Excuse _me_, of course you don't go to the
door when you have a girl."

A soft voice was heard asking for Mrs. Tweedie, and then the masculine
tones of Dora inviting some one to come in.

"Oh, is it you, Miss Sawyer?" said Mrs. Tweedie, all smiles, when the
newcomer appeared in the doorway. "We are so glad that you could come.
Of course, you know Mrs. Stout, and--"

Miss Sawyer bowed stiffly.

"Glad to see you," said Mrs. Stout, telling the lie that has been told
oftener than any other.

Miss Elizabeth Sawyer was a lady of--her age does not matter. She was
tall and very slight, her hair was gray, and her eyes were the bulging,
staring kind that always seemed about to jump from their sockets, caused
in some degree, perhaps, by the black-rimmed eye-glasses secured by a
heavy cord which she constantly wore. She had the reputation of being
very intellectual. The very person, Mrs. Tweedie thought, to shine in a
woman's club.

When Miss Sawyer spied Mrs. Flint she rushed into her arms. She
considered Mrs. Flint as near her equal mentally as it was possible for
any woman in Manville to be. They sat down together, and cooed for
several minutes in the most impolite manner possible, so Mrs. Tweedie
thought, probably because she could not hear a word that they said.
Mrs. Stout moved uneasily, and Mrs. Tweedie coughed several times, but
with no effect.

"Ain't it most time we was doin' somethin' about this club we came here
to get up?" Mrs. Stout asked, impatiently, when she could contain
herself no longer.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "when the others are ready; and I was
waiting--I had hoped that my daughter Fanny, she is to be one of us, you
know, would be here by this time. I can't imagine--" Mrs. Tweedie was
interrupted by the entrance of her son Thomas, the bad angel of the
Tweedie household.

"Ma," he blubbered, "Dora won't give me a piece of cake. Can't I have
some, ma?" This exhibition of domestic turmoil made Mrs. Tweedie very
angry, and it was with difficulty that she controlled herself.

"Thomas, leave the room immediately," she commanded, sternly.

"Am I goin' to have any cake?" the young man demanded when he saw that
tears were of no avail.

"Thomas, I insist upon your leaving the room at once," replied his
mother, firmly. The ladies were watching breathlessly the contest
between mother and son.

"I won't go 'less I can have some cake," said the boy, defiantly. Mrs.
Tweedie went to the door, and called for Dora. The silence that followed
was so impressive that Thomas would have succumbed had it lasted a
moment longer than it did. When Dora came Mrs. Tweedie, with much
determination and latent anger, said:

"Dora, assist Thomas from the room." Dora was delighted; here was an
opportunity for revenge. Her hand went out quickly toward her prey, but
Thomas dodged.

"I won't go!" he screamed.

"Thomas," said Mrs. Tweedie, sadly, "shall I call your father?" A broad
grin spread over the boy's face, and Dora snickered.

"I ain't 'fraid of him," he said, saucily.

"Take him away instantly, Dora!" Mrs. Tweedie ordered, angrily. Dora was
more successful in her next attempt to capture Thomas, though a vase was
broken and two chairs were overturned while she was dragging him from
the room.

"Ladies," said Mrs. Tweedie, in a choking voice, as she removed her
glasses and wiped them, "I cannot tell you how grieved I am to have our
meeting interrupted--" A crash was heard at that moment, the sound
coming from the direction of the kitchen.

"I guess somebudy's dropped somethin'," suggested Mrs. Stout. Her
surmise was correct. Dora had dropped Thomas, and dropped him hard. Mrs.
Tweedie wiped her eyes, put on her glasses, and wondered how much damage
had been done.

"Thomas is a very impulsive child," she said, "I hope that you will
overlook this rare breach in his customary commendable deportment. And
now, had we not better make a start at least on the work for which we
are gathered?"

"I should say it was time," replied Mrs. Stout. "Up to now we've talked
about everything from here to Halifax 'cept business."

"The _other sex_," continued Mrs. Tweedie, after listening a moment to
be sure that her domestic affairs were running smoothly, or, at least,
noiselessly, "the _other sex_," she repeated, "have their lodges and
clubs, why should not we band ourselves together in a similar manner,
and become, in the community, a great power for good?"

"Excuse _me_," interrupted Mrs. Stout, "but don't you think it's
terrible hot here? I'm 'most melted."

Miss Sawyer looked up in astonishment.

"Why, Mrs. Stout, I am positively chilly," she said, coughing dismally.

"I will open a window." Mrs. Tweedie spoke impatiently as she got up and
attempted to raise a window. It resisted her efforts. "Really, I can't
imagine why it will not open--I'll try the other." She did so, but again
her efforts were unsuccessful.

"I guess it's the damp weather," suggested Mrs. Stout.

"I suppose it is," replied Mrs. Tweedie, as she went to the door and
called for Dora, and then by way of explanation turned to the ladies and
added, "Dora is very strong."

"Did you call, ma'am?" asked Dora, a moment later, as she appeared in
the doorway.

"Yes, I want you to open a window," Mrs. Tweedie replied, shortly. Dora
advanced on one of the stubborn windows and exerted all her strength.
Conversation ceased, all eyes were upon Dora. Failing at one window, she
attempted another with the same result. The windows could not be opened
by woman.

"I can't do it, ma'm," said Dora, her face very red.

"Call Mr. Tweedie," Mrs. Tweedie commanded. "One of those windows shall
be opened!"

Dora hurried from the room, and then Mrs. Stout laughed irritatingly.

"Tell us, pray," said Mrs. Tweedie, haughtily, "the cause of your
mirth."

"You must excuse _me_, ladies," Mrs. Stout began, but another burst of
laughter that she could not control prevented her from continuing for
several minutes. "It struck me as awful funny that we should come here
to get up a woman's club, and then have to call in a man the first
thing," she explained.

"Were not the _other sex_ created physically stronger than woman because
it was intended that they should perform just such labour?" Mrs. Tweedie
asked quickly, but before Mrs. Stout had time to reply Mr. Tweedie came
into the room.

"How can I serve you, ladies?" he asked as he bowed low and smiled.

"Open a window, please," said Mrs. Tweedie.

"Certainly, my dear," Mr. Tweedie replied as he went to a window, and,
without any apparent effort, raised it. "There you are," he said,
smilingly. "Anything else to-day?" (Once upon a time Mr. Tweedie had
been a salesman in a dry goods store.)

"No," Mrs. Tweedie replied, sharply. She was displeased with him because
of his untidy appearance, and wished him to leave at once. He did so,
making some senseless remark about the weather as he crossed the room on
his way out.

"Now for goodness' sake let's begin," said Mrs. Stout when the window
was open and the incident closed.

"Yes, do," echoed Mrs. Flint.

"Well," Mrs. Tweedie began, "I have been reading recently a treatise on
parliamentary procedure, and if I am not in error the selection of a
presiding officer should be our first business. Am I not right, Miss
Sawyer?"

"Yes," replied Miss Sawyer. "And I do hope that you will be our first
president, Mrs. Tweedie."

"Oh, but I am not competent," Mrs. Tweedie protested, modestly.

"Never mind," said Mrs. Stout, "take the place, we'll never get anything
done if you don't."

"But, really--" Mrs. Tweedie insisted upon weakly resisting.

"You, Mrs. Tweedie, above all others," interposed Mrs. Flint, "are the
best qualified to lead us."

Mrs. Tweedie appeared to be resigned to her fate.

"I suppose," she sighed, "that if you _all_ insist (there were three who
represented the ladies of Manville), it is my duty to comply with your
wishes. We will immediately proceed to ballot."

"Ought we to hold a caucus?" inquired Miss Sawyer while Mrs. Tweedie was
passing paper and pencils to the ladies.

"Why, what _is_ a caucus?" asked Mrs. Tweedie in astonishment.

"A caucus," replied Miss Sawyer, "is a meeting held previous to an
election. The men invariably hold them."

"Then I am very sure that they are not proper," said Mrs. Tweedie,
positively. "Do you know anything about them, Mrs. Flint?"

The pastor's wife rolled her eyes skyward before replying.

"I have heard Mr. Flint say that caucuses were not proper for decent men
to attend," she replied.

"And my husband," Mrs. Stout retorted, quickly, "says that a caucus is
the only place where a vote counts."

"It surely cannot be necessary in a woman's club," said Mrs. Tweedie.
"Now if you will write on your slips of paper the name of the one whom
you wish to be our president, I will appoint Mrs. Stout a committee to
collect and count the ballots."

"All right, but I can't pass my hat," replied Mrs. Stout, "because if I
took it off I'd never get it on straight again. Put them in my hand, I
promise not to look." Mrs. Stout proceeded to collect and count the
ballots.

"Ladies," said Mrs. Flint while they were awaiting the result, "this is
a day long to be remembered. We have voted for the first time."

"But not the last," said Mrs. Stout, "our time is comin'. Now if you're
ready I'll tell you who's been elected. Mrs. Tweedie has got all the
votes and is elected president. Speech!"

"Really," responded Mrs. Tweedie, "there is no time for a speech even if
I could make one. Of course I am very grateful. We will now ballot for a
secretary and treasurer."

The performance of voting was twice again enacted with the following
result: Mrs. Stout was elected treasurer, and for the office of
secretary there was a tie between Miss Sawyer and Mrs. Flint.

"There's a conundrum for you to settle, Mis' President," chuckled Mrs.
Stout.

"I am sure that I have no idea what should be done," replied Mrs.
Tweedie, much perplexed.

"S'pose we call in Mr. Tweedie and let him vote," suggested Mrs. Stout,
who was bubbling with mirth.

"Preposterous!" exclaimed Mrs. Tweedie. "Give to one of the _other sex_
the privilege of suffrage in a woman's club? Never!"

"Never!" piped Mrs. Flint and Miss Sawyer in chorus.

"Why not let the president vote again?" said Mrs. Flint. "I am sure that
I would willingly abide by her decision. Would that method be
satisfactory to you, Miss Sawyer?"

"I was about to suggest," replied Miss Sawyer, "that I would gladly
withdraw in your favour."

"Oh, no, indeed, Miss Sawyer, I could not let you make such a
sacrifice."

"Really, Mrs. Flint, it would be no--"

"No, no, don't speak of it again, I beg of you."

"But, my dear Mrs. Flint, it seems to me that you--"

"I'm sure it is very good of you to say so, but I really could not
allow--"

"Please, Mrs. Flint."

"No, in fact _I_ insist upon withdrawing in your favour. There, now
please let us not say anything more about it."

"That's right, give in, Miss Sawyer, we ain't gettin' ahead fast enough
to suit me," said Mrs. Stout. Miss Sawyer succumbed with a sigh. "Now,"
Mrs. Stout continued, "I'd like to ask why nobody's made a motion."

"Motions are necessary," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "when action on any
question is contemplated. The chair awaits a motion."

"Mis' President, I--" said Mrs. Stout.

"Mrs. Stout," gravely acknowledged Mrs. Tweedie.

"I motion," continued Mrs. Stout, "that we have a committee to get up
some rules."

"It is MOVED" (Mrs. Tweedie said "moved" in capitals, hoping that Mrs.
Stout would profit by it) "that a committee on rules be appointed. Are
you ready for the question?"

"There ain't any question about it as I can see," said Mrs. Stout,
indignantly. Mrs. Tweedie patiently explained. Then the motion was
"seconded," "put" (real man-fashion), and carried unanimously, and Mrs.
Stout, Mrs. Flint, and Miss Sawyer were appointed on the committee.

"Good land!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout when the announcement was made, "I
don't know anything about makin' rules 'cept for boys. Can I ask my
husband to help?"

"Certainly not," replied Mrs. Tweedie, firmly. "He would only laugh at
you and us; besides, we need no assistance from the _other sex_."

"Madam President," said Mrs. Flint as she arose and smoothed down her
dress. (Where she got the "Madam President" idea no one knew, but it
pleased the ladies immensely.) "I have read that in Congress they have a
committee on ways and means. Will it be necessary for us to have a
similar one?"

"Well, I declare!" unceremoniously interrupted the uncontrollable Mrs.
Stout. "The idea, and three of us married women with children. I say
that when our first baby was born we was each of us appointed a
committee on ways and means by the Lord."

The laughter that followed was suddenly terminated upon the second
entrance of Tommy Tweedie.

"Ma," he bellowed, "Dora slapped my face and made my nose bleed, and pa
laughed at me, and said it served me right."

"My poor, dear, little son!" exclaimed Mrs. Tweedie as she rushed to
him. "Tell mother how it happened," she added anxiously as she wiped the
blood from the little villain's face. Tommy evaded the question by
asking another.

"Can I have some cake now, ma?"

"Certainly you may. Ladies, if you will excuse me for a moment," said
Mrs. Tweedie as she and Tommy left the room in quest of revenge and
cake.

"Did you ever!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout after the ladies had exchanged
knowing glances for a moment.

"I should say so!" piped Mrs. Flint. "I knew that he behaved badly in
Sabbath school--"

"Is Mrs. Tweedie's method the wisest?" asked Miss Sawyer.

"Well," whispered Mrs. Flint, "Mrs. Tweedie is a _lovely_ woman, but--"

"My experience is," interrupted Mrs. Stout, "that all boys have got just
so much bad and noise in 'em, and if it don't come out one way 'twill
another."

This interesting chatter was cut short by the return of Mrs. Tweedie.

"Ladies," she said, "I must again apologize for an irritating
interruption. As I suspected, Dora was wholly to blame. She had the
audacity to tell me that Thomas attempted to steal cake. The idea, my
son steal, and with such blood in his veins."

"Folks that have boys must expect 'em to make some trouble," said Mrs.
Stout, and then turning to Mrs. Flint, added, "I hear that your Willie's
come home from college."

"Yes," replied Mrs. Flint, as a pink flush spread over her face,
"William has returned, and is soon to enter upon a mercantile career."

"Drivin' a wagon, or a job in the factory?" asked Mrs. Stout,
innocently. Mrs. Flint became red with rage, Miss Sawyer was disgusted,
and Mrs. Tweedie mentally vowed that Mrs. Stout should be gotten rid of,
because if she continued saying things there was no telling at what
moment the club would fly to pieces.

"It don't make much difference what a boy works at," Mrs. Stout
continued, wholly unaware of the passion that she had aroused, "so
long's he don't do anything mean. I saw Willie Flint goin' by my house
this mornin'--he was walkin' with Miss Wallace, too, if anybody'd like
to know, they made a nice lookin' couple--and I must say that he's a
fine lookin' feller, too fine lookin' to follow in his father's
footprints. But there, we're 'way off the track, ain't we?"

"We have digressed _slightly_," replied Mrs. Tweedie, with icy sarcasm.
"Our next business will be the selection of a name for our organization.
Suppose that each of us suggest a name, beginning with you, Miss
Sawyer."

"Our meetings are to held in the morning--Wednesdays, I suppose?" asked
Miss Sawyer.

"Yes; that was my intention," Mrs. Tweedie replied. "It's a new idea,
but if any of the ladies object--"

"I don't object," interrupted Mrs. Stout, "only it's a time of day when
most of us ought to be doin' somethin' else."

"I had thought," continued Miss Sawyer, completely ignoring Mrs. Stout,
"that 'The Wednesday Morning Association' would be appropriate."

"Very good," said Mrs. Tweedie. "And what do you suggest, Mrs. Flint?"

"My choice," replied Mrs. Flint, with her eyes find on the ceiling,
"would be 'The Manville Anti-Male Club.'"

Mrs. Stout snickered, whereupon the others glared at her contemptuously.

"I feel that it is my duty to object, Mrs. Flint, to your suggestion,"
Mrs. Tweedie began. "We are all married--excepting one," she added, with
an apologizing smile for the benefit of Miss Sawyer, who was blushing
with embarrassment. "Would the name be appropriate when we consider that
our life companions are of the _other sex_? Would it not reflect on our
judgment in choosing a career in married life?"

"Perhaps we didn't choose," said Mrs. Stout, quickly. "Perhaps--" there
is no telling what Mrs. Stout would have said if she had not been
interrupted by the entrance of a plump, pink-faced young woman.

"Why, Mrs. Thornton!" exclaimed Mrs. Tweedie, as she advanced to greet
the newcomer. "I am _so_ glad that you came. Ladies: Mrs. Thornton. You
are just in time to assist us in the naming of our club. How is that
dear baby?"

"Teething," replied Mrs. Thornton, sadly, as she sat down.

"Oh, that's too bad," said Mrs. Tweedie, sympathetically.

"Yes, I'm all worn out, and I can't find a thing for the poor child to
eat that agrees with him."

"What have you tried?" Miss Sawyer asked, wishing to show some interest,
though she knew nothing of babies or their food.

"Everything," replied the perplexed mother. "Last week my husband
brought home from town a dozen samples of prepared foods; we have tried
them all, but baby's stomach is still in a wretched condition."

"Samples," sniffed Mrs. Stout, contemptuously. "Have you tried cow's
milk?"

"The idea!" the ladies exclaimed, indignantly.

"Oh, I know it ain't fashionable," Mrs. Stout retorted, "but I've
learned from experience that cow's milk comes next to the best thing for
babies."

"Pardon me, ladies," said Mrs. Tweedie, "but I must call your attention
to the fact that, admitting at the same time the necessity for babies,
our club is still nameless. Mrs. Thornton, what name do you suggest?"

"Oh, dear," replied Mrs. Thornton, "don't ask me. I'm too tired to
think. Whatever name is chosen will suit me."

Just then Fanny Tweedie rushed into the room with the energy of an
infant cyclone. Mrs. Tweedie gazed in astonishment at her pretty,
light-headed, light-hearted, impulsive daughter, as though her entrance
was out of the ordinary.

"Why, Fanny!" she exclaimed. "What has detained you?"

"I've been over to Gertrude's to see her wedding things," Fanny replied,
in a rather disrespectful manner, without noticing who was present, and
then, in her quick, impulsive way, continued: "They're just _lovely_!
Really, I never saw such awfully swell things before _anywhere_. She
ought to be happy if any girl ever was. I couldn't _begin_ to tell you
about them in a week; and-- Oh, I heard the worst stories about Billy
Fl--!" A warning look on her mother's face stopped Fanny on the edge of
a precipice. But Billy Fl--'s mother guessed--so did the others. Mrs.
Tweedie came quickly to the rescue.

"Fanny," she said, "we are trying to find a name for our club; please
save your stories for another time. Mrs. Stout, have you any suitable
name in mind?"

"How would 'The Manville Woman's Club' do?" replied Mrs. Stout.

"Very good," said Mrs. Tweedie, "only I am prejudiced in regard to the
name of our town; it is so suggestive of the _other sex_."

"Well," replied Mrs. Stout, "we've all tried, now what do you think we
ought to call ourselves, Mis' Tweedie?"

"I have considered the matter with care," replied Mrs. Tweedie. "Many
names have come into my mind, but for one reason or another, all
excepting one were rejected. The one that appeals to me as being the
most appropriate and beautifully poetic is 'The Morning Glory Club.'"

"Beautiful," murmured the ladies, excepting Mrs. Stout, who laughed
until her fat body shook.

"Excuse _me_," she said, as soon as she could control her mirth. "It's
an awful pretty name, but what a beautiful bunch of morning glories us
old women will make." If the ladies had been profane what opportunities
Mrs. Stout had given them. She continued to laugh, however, despite
their frowns.

"Madam President," said Miss Sawyer, when Mrs. Stout's laughter had
subsided to a gurgling chuckle. "The name that you have suggested is
admirable. The only question in my mind is concerning the word 'club.'
Is 'club' more appropriate than association, or some other word?"

"You might say congregation," replied Mrs. Stout, "or aggregation."

"Club," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "is the term generally used, I believe,
to--"

"What difference does it make, anyway?" Mrs. Stout interrupted. "We'll
never get anything done if we don't 'tend to business better'n we have.
We've done about as much in two hours as the men would have done in ten
minutes."

"Indeed," retorted Mrs. Tweedie, "but would they have done it as well?"
She asked the question in tones approaching anger. (Blue blood boils at
180° F.)

"Better," snapped Mrs. Stout, who was fast losing patience.

"And why?" pressed Mrs. Tweedie, determined this time to utterly squelch
Mrs. Stout if such a thing were possible.

"Because," replied Mrs. Stout, "they wouldn't have talked about
everything under the sun while they was doin' it."

"No, my dear Mrs. Stout" (Mrs. Tweedie knew the irony of "my dear"
perfectly), "it would be because the _other sex_ are more experienced
than woman. And they are more experienced because for centuries it has
been their exclusive right to organize and govern. In the meantime, we
women have been kept under foot and in darkness."

"Good land!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, "perhaps _you_ have been stepped on,
Mis' Tweedie, but I'm mighty sure that _I_ ain't! It would take an awful
big foot to keep me in darkness." An embarrassing silence followed,
after which Mrs. Tweedie put the question, on motion of Miss Sawyer, and
the name, "The Morning Glory Club," was adopted unanimously. At the
moment Mrs. Tweedie announced, "It is a vote," Ezra Tweedie,
unmistakably labouring under some great excitement, appeared in the
doorway.

"What is it?" asked Mrs. Tweedie.

"Mrs. Brown, next door, needs you at once," he stammered.

"Oh!" exclaimed the ladies in a stage whisper. Mrs. Tweedie alone seemed
not to understand.

"What has happened?" she demanded, forgetting for the moment those
present. Ezra blushed, and looked about for some means of escape. (What
foolishly sensitive, over modest fools we all are at times.) "Why don't
you answer?" Mrs. Tweedie almost thundered.

"It's a new baby!" Ezra blurted, and then fled.

The Morning Glory Club adjourned without form.

Late that afternoon when Mrs. Tweedie returned home she found Ezra
asleep on a couch in the sitting-room, while in the kitchen her son,
Thomas, and two of his chums, were trying to tar and feather a fourth
urchin with molasses and the contents of a pillow. The uplifting of our
morals and intellect is trying, and some personal sacrifice is
necessary, she thought, as she drove the boys out of the house, and
awoke her sleeping husband.

"Where's Dora?" she asked, when Ezra sat up and rubbed his eyes.

"I--I," he yawned. "Dora? Oh, she asked me if she could go out for a few
moments, and I gave my consent. I hope, my dear, that I was right in so
doing."

"Right? Certainly not, Ezra. How are we to have any dinner? The fire is
out, Dora is out--"

"And you have been out," Ezra chuckled.

"Three out--all out!" yelled Thomas. "And say, ma, I'm awful hungry."




Chapter II

A Man and a Woman


ON the same day that the Morning Glory Club was born, it happened that
Will Flint met Barbara Wallace on her way to school, and he eagerly
grasped the opportunity to renew a friendship which had begun at
Barbara's home, in his college town, a year before she came to Manville.

"I'm mighty glad to see you, Miss Wallace," he said, with boyish
enthusiasm.

"Thank you," she replied. "And may I ask how you happen to be at home at
this time in the year?"

The smile on his face disappeared.

"I'll walk with you a few minutes if you don't mind, and try to
explain," he said. Will tried to tell the truth and spare himself at the
same time, but did neither well.

"I'm sorry, and in your senior year, too," said Barbara, when he had
finished.

"Yes, that's the worst part of the whole affair. I--I don't know why I
told you, Miss Wallace, but you asked me, and--you see I don't have any
one to tell such things to--never did. I don't mean to be disrespectful,
but father has spent his life trying to save sinners by
preaching--somehow it didn't work on me; and mother, she's good, of
course, but--I can't say it just the way I want to--I guess it's
sympathy I need."

Barbara knew that his earnestness was genuine, but the timidity and
hesitancy of the big fellow amused her.

"One can do very little without it," she said, trying to refrain from
laughter, and then quickly added: "I suppose that you have already
planned for the future."

"No, I haven't decided what I shall do--hardly thought of it, in fact. I
shall stay at home for awhile, and then--I don't know--there's nothing
I'm fitted for. I suppose that I might saw wood, or work on the roads."

"That would never do for a clergyman's son," replied Barbara.

"Would be rather funny, wouldn't it? Anyway, I've got nothing else to do
at present except think about it--I guess something will turn up."

"Wouldn't it be better to find something yourself instead of waiting for
it to come to you?"

"I guess you're right, Miss Wallace; but here's your school and forty
kids waiting for teacher to let them in. I won't forget your question.
Good-bye." Will raised his cap and walked away.

The children loved Barbara, and usually ran to meet her like a drove of
stampeded animals, but on this morning, when they saw her coming
accompanied by a stranger, they remained huddled on the steps of the
schoolhouse.

"Who's that man?" one of the little girls asked when Barbara arrived
within speaking distance.

"Mr. Flint," she replied, with her usual candour.

"Is he a real good man?" piped another. Barbara was not sure, but did
not wish to say so. Without making a reply she unlocked the door and
went in, followed by her flock, and was soon deep in the morning's work:
trying to make the youngsters believe that the earth is round,
explaining such perplexing words as pare, pear, and pair, and proving
that twelve times twelve makes one hundred and forty-four,--if you do it
right.

During the day the question that the little girl had asked, "Is he a
real good man?" frequently came into Barbara's mind. She did not know
the answer, and wondered why she thought of it at all.

Miss Wallace boarded with Mrs. Tweedie. She was a quiet little woman,
but one whose appearance and personality had been, for some
unexplainable reason, the cause of not a little comment among the people
of Manville. Her eyes--Mrs. Tweedie thought that blue eyes lacked
strength; and her hair did not please Mrs. Doctor Jones because it was
neither yellow nor red. According to Mrs. Thornton's standard for
feminine contours, her form was "positively dumpy;" and everybody knew
that Mrs. Deacon Walton had told Mrs. Undertaker Blake, confidentially,
that she "always suspicioned folks that didn't have any more to say
about things and people than Miss Wallace did." Many other women were of
the same opinion.

On the other hand, the men who knew her thought that she was the right
sort; and those who were not acquainted wished that they were. Mr.
Tweedie especially was captivated by her quiet manner, and did
everything possible for her comfort; and Barbara--perhaps it was because
she pitied him--showed in many ways her appreciation of his
thoughtfulness. Thomas, the "Tweedie Indian," as he was sometimes
appropriately called, declared that "She's the best teacher in town, but
when she licks a feller it hurts." Men and women will disagree
sometimes--especially about another woman.

There was no real sympathy between Mrs. Tweedie and her boarder, but
Barbara was a college graduate, and Mrs. Tweedie had heard that her
family was of the best. Education and blood Mrs. Tweedie worshipped. If
the devil had presented himself to her with his family history under his
arm she would have welcomed him. Besides, taking boarders is a much more
genteel way of piecing out an insufficient income than taking in
washing.

Fanny Tweedie thought that Barbara was an awfully nice girl; though she
was forced to admit after an acquaintance of two years that she did not
wholly understand her. And Barbara liked Fanny because, though somewhat
frivolous, she was companionable and amusing.

Barbara tolerated Mrs. Tweedie because boarding places in Manville were
scarce. She did not care for the town, and disliked especially the
manners of most of its people; but she kept her opinions to herself;
which, as has been intimated, did not increase her popularity with the
women.

Will Flint, son of the Rev. Elijah Flint, was a big, manly-looking
fellow who might have been a greater success at college if his parents
had not held the reins so tightly when he was a boy at home. His father
had preached him a thousand sermons, and his mother had wept gallons of
tears; yet here was the object of their labour at home in disgrace, his
career at college ruined in his senior year.

Both said that Will had decided to leave college and engage in some sort
of business. He had left, but to say that _he_ decided to leave was as
far from the truth as right from wrong. The faculty decided, Will left.
He was not all to blame, and nothing dishonourable had been done, but
his frank explanations did not assuage in the slightest degree the grief
of his parents. The disgrace in their eyes was an indelible stain, and a
gloom that was deep and black had reigned in the parsonage since the day
of his arrival. Outside, tongues were wagging at a furious rate. The
sons and daughters of the clergy seem to be the special prey of gossips.
They are supposed to be impervious to temptation, something better than
the ordinary human. We forget that the same God made them that made the
children of the butcher and the baker.

Late that afternoon, after Barbara had sent the last little urchin
homeward, she stood at a window looking out over the fields at the
autumn foliage of the woods beyond. She had been there but a moment
when Will Flint came down the road and turned into the path that led to
the schoolhouse. When he saw her he stopped. Barbara did not know
whether she was pleased or not to see him. It was time to go, however,
so she put on her things, went out and locked the door, and started down
the path.

"Hope you won't be vexed, Miss Wallace, because I came," said Will, "but
I've been so confoundedly lonesome to-day that I--"

"I am not vexed," she said, quickly. His manner and frankness pleased
her, and dispelled the doubt that was in her mind a moment before.

"I'm glad," he said as they turned and walked toward home. "The boys
that I knew," he continued, "have gone away to work, or school. That is
why I'm lonesome I suppose, and then the place seems different."

"But it's not," replied Barbara, and a smile played about her lips. He
was only a big boy, after all.

"Everything seems to be smaller and shabbier."

"Things," said Barbara, "grow old like men and women."

"Yes, I know, but--I can't seem to say things the way I want to. I've
been in the woods all day tramping and thinking; it's done me a lot of
good, but--I guess I won't talk about myself any longer."

"But I am interested," said Barbara, earnestly, and then added, quickly,
"in anybody who is perplexed."

"Thank you, but at present I'm nobody. I have yet to earn the right to
be anybody, much less somebody."

"Very well, if you insist we will drop Mr. Flint."

"I wish that we could drop him out of sight for good," said Will,
bitterly.

"What a wicked thought."

"If my thoughts--" Will checked himself suddenly and then asked: "Can't
we find something else to talk about? I have it, the new woman's club,
have you been invited to join?"

"The _new_ woman's club?" said Barbara, feigning surprise. "I had not
heard of it."

"You're making fun of me."

"Indeed, it is you who are trying to joke at our expense."

"No, really, Miss Wallace, I meant the woman's club that mother and the
rest are getting up. Are you going to join?"

"Yes; do you approve of such things?"

"Really, I--I don't know, and yet I ought to know something about it
because father and mother have been debating the question for a week
past. Mother is very enthusiastic, but my impression is that father
thinks that the club is unnecessary if not really harmful. I shall
expect a great boom in Manville society when it gets in running order,"
Will replied, and then suddenly burst out laughing.

"Tell me, please, I want to laugh, too."

"Manville society! Doesn't it strike you as being funny?"

"Yes, and no."

"A woman's answer."

"Sometimes her only defence."

"Pardon me."

The October sun was disappearing behind the trees toward the west; the
night air was stealing up from the lowlands; and a frost-laden wind was
coming over the hills.

"Isn't the air great?" said Will after they had walked without speaking
for several minutes.

"Splendid!" replied Barbara, taking a deep breath. "The fall is
glorious." They had reached Mrs. Tweedie's gate and stopped.

"I want to thank you, Miss Wallace, for--" Will hesitated a moment, "for
tolerating me to-day." Then he added, "Good night!" and walked quickly
away.

Mrs. Tweedie happened to look out of her parlour window just in time to
see Barbara and Will. The sight caused her to shrug her shoulders and
wonder.




Chapter III

A Male Gossip


SAM BILLINGS was Manville's man of all work, and its most garrulous male
gossip. At fifty he was a gray, wrinkled bachelor--through no fault of
his own, however--living alone on the scanty income that he picked up
through the kindness of his tolerant townsmen. Once Sam had been accused
of having proposed to every single woman and widow in town, and had
refused to deny or affirm the statement. He was still single, however,
and as far from matrimony as he ever had been, except once, when through
a misunderstanding on Sam's part, he became engaged to a loquacious old
maid with whom he had indiscreetly walked home from meeting. But,
fortunately for Sam, the lady died just before the date set for the
wedding, leaving him free and more talkative than ever before.

On the morning of the day following the organization of the "Morning
Glories" Sam went to the home of Mrs. Darling to put on storm-windows.
Mrs. Darling was an attractive woman--to look at--but one of the light
sort mentally, and much more interested in the affairs of others than
her own. She had been invited to be present at the first meeting of the
club, but the arrival of relatives from out of town had prevented her
from going. She welcomed Sam cordially, when he came that morning, and
invited him to have a cup of coffee before he began work. The morning
was cold, the coffee good, and Sam was grateful, and before he had
gulped down the last of it Mrs. Darling knew all that was going on in
town.

"So Mrs. Browning has a baby at last?" she said as Sam wiped his mouth
with the back of his hand.

"Yep."

"Boy, or a girl?"

"One, or t'other, I forget which."

"Really."

"Yep, broke up the meetin' of the club so I heard."

"How dreadfully funny."

"And they say that Ezra Tweedie put his foot in it."

"How was that?"

"Why, he was the one that broke the glad news to the gatherin'."

"Oh. What did you say they named the club?"

"Four-o'clocks, or petunias--somethin' like that, it was the name of a
flower anyway, I don't jest remember which."

"And Mrs. Tweedie was chosen president?"

"Yes, I knew she'd be."

"Who was it, did you say, that told you?"

"Well, I stopped in at the grocery on my way over, and then I had a
bundle to take to Miss Sawyer's, and--Tommy Tweedie told me the rest.
Now I guess I'll start in on the winders if you don't mind. I'm in a
little mite of a hurry 'cause I've got to go over to Mis' Walton's this
afternoon and give her a coat of paint."

"Very well, you'll find the windows in the attic," said Mrs. Darling,
reluctantly. "Oh, you said that you were at Miss Sawyer's this morning,
how is she?"

"Lookin' pretty fair," replied Sam with some embarrassment.

"I thought that _you_ ought to know."

"Where'd you say them storm-winders was?" Sam asked in an effort to
change the subject.

"In the attic. Miss Sawyer would make somebody a good wife."

"I think likely, but--" Sam edged toward the door.

"I've heard, Sam, that you've been going there lately, and that you did
not always have a bundle to deliver."

"You're kind of teasin', Mis' Darling, ain't yer?" replied Sam with a
grin as he backed out of the room and went up-stairs in search of the
storm-windows.

Mrs. Darling was not wholly satisfied with second-hand news, so she ran
into Mrs. Thornton's, next door; and, while the baby with a new tooth
was having his morning "sample," his mamma related her version of the
story of the first meeting of the club.

In order to put on the front chamber windows, it was necessary for Sam
to get out on the roof of the piazza. Just as he was climbing out of a
window, Alick Purbeck, Mr. Stout's clerk, drove up, and when he saw Sam
stopped.

"Hello, Sam," he called, "what you doin' up there?"

"Workin' for my health; doctor says I've got to have three meals a day."

"Doctor nothin'."

"No, Doctor Jones."

"Say, what's this I hear about Billy Flint?"

"Not knowin', I hesitate to say." Mrs. Darling's coffee had put Sam in
a facetious mood.

"There was a man lookin' for him over to the store half an hour ago,"
said Alick, gravely.

"What d' he have, a bill or a warrant?"

"Dunno."

"I hope Billy ain't in any scrape."

"Same here."

"There ain't nothin' crooked about him."

"That's what I say, but there's lots of folks in town that'll believe
anything, 'specially now he's goin' 'round with Miss Wallace some,
same's I heard this mornin' he was doin'."

"She's all right, too," said Sam, enthusiastically.

"You bet," replied Alick. "Did you hear about the woman's club?"

"Some."

"What they goin' to do?"

"Well," Sam drawled, "near's I can make out, they're goin' to improve
themselves, where there's room for improvement, and scatter blessin's
'round to other folks while they're doin' it. I heard that yesterday
they voted ten dollars for a pink tea, and one dollar seventy-five for
foreign missions, and--" Sam was interrupted by Mrs. Stout, who had
approached unobserved by either of the gossipers.

"You're lyin', Sam Billin's," she called, sharply. It was evident that
she had overheard Sam's remarks.

"Hello, Mis' Stout," called Sam, unabashed, as he peeked over the edge
of the roof. "I hear you're a bright and shinin' light in _our_ new
club."

"Don't you let me hear of you tellin' any more such whoppers, Sam
Billin's. Lies breed fast enough in this town without any extra help
from you," replied Mrs. Stout, as she looked up at his grinning face,
and then turning to Alick, continued, "Ain't you got anything else to
do, Alick Purbeck, 'cept sit behind a big cigar and listen to that
shiftless critter up there? Go 'long now, or I'll talk your case over
with Peter."

Alick drove away, and Sam went to work. Mrs. Stout started on her way,
but had gone only a few steps when she met Mrs. Darling returning from
Mrs. Thornton's.

"Good morning, Mrs. Stout," she said, "I'm so glad to see you, aren't
you out early?"

"Good land! no; I'm goin' over to see your friend Mis' Thornton about
her baby. Everybody's s'posed to be foolish over their first baby, but
I guess from what I heard yesterday that she's overdoin' it. She's
feedin' him on samples--turns up her nose at cow's milk--and I just made
up my mind that she needed a talkin' to whether she wanted it or not."

"No doubt you are right, Mrs. Stout, but--"

"Right, I know I am--such nonsense. Of course you folks that ain't had
no children, and don't want any, can't be expected to--" Mrs. Stout
stopped suddenly and looked up. Sam was looking and listening with the
earnest attention of an incurable gossip.

"Eavesdroppin', are you?" said Mrs. Stout, contemptuously, and then
turning to Mrs. Darling added, "Don't you believe one word that
scallywag up there tells you. He gets his news from wash-women and
servant girls."

"Well," drawled Sam, "I've noticed that what you hear at back doors is
most always nearer the truth than what you hear at the front, though it
ain't quite so flatterin'."




Chapter IV

The "Glories" Meet Again


IT was Wednesday, and the morning was as bright and beautiful as the
flower for which the new club had been named.

Across the road from Mr. Flint's church stood the dingy white parsonage,
its windows glistening in the morning sunlight. It was there, and on
this particular morning, that the second meeting of the "Glories" was to
be held.

Mrs. Flint, with the apprehensiveness of a neat housekeeper, was
trotting from one room to another, replacing a chair here, raising or
lowering a curtain a fraction of an inch there, and now and then wiping
away an imaginary spot of dust.

Will Flint was looking out one of the sitting-room windows, and rocking
nervously with one leg thrown over the arm of his chair. He wanted to
smoke and read, but smoking was not to be thought of in the parsonage.

"What's going to happen, mother?" he asked, as she came into the
sitting-room in search of disorder and dust.

"Our club is to meet here this morning," Mrs. Flint replied, proudly.

"Guess I'll go for a walk," said Will, as he got up, stretched his arms,
and yawned.

"I had hoped," sighed Mrs. Flint, regretfully, "that you would stay at
home and meet the ladies."

"No, thank you, mother, I guess I'll be safer out-of-doors," he replied,
with a laugh.

"Will," said Mrs. Flint, reprovingly.

"I beg your pardon, mother dear, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but--a
houseful of women, it's impossible!"

Mrs. Flint suppressed another sigh. Since her son's return from college
she could not accustom herself to his ways. She wanted to say, "Willie,
be sure and return in time for dinner," but she realized that the boy
had become a man, and remained silent.

"I'll be home in time for supper," said Will, as he took his hat and
started for the door, then added, "Good luck, mother," and went out.

Mrs. Flint watched from the window, as he walked down the path and up
the road, until he disappeared. She was about to turn away from the
window when Mrs. Stout waddled into view, stopped in front of the
parsonage, hailed Alick Purbeck, who was driving by, and the following
conversation, which Mrs. Flint and all of her neighbours could hear,
took place.

"How's your folks, Alick?" asked Mrs. Stout.

"Children ain't well."

"Too bad, what doctor've you got?"

"Jones."

"He don't know nothin'."

"He did my wife a lot of good."

"He don't understand children."

"Well, I've had him twice, and--"

"Take my advice and get another."

"I'll see."

"Has Sam Billin's been tellin' you any more trash about the woman's
club?"

"Not a word. Get-ap."

The grocer's wagon rattled off down the street, and Mrs. Stout went to
the door and rang the bell. Mrs. Flint was disgusted, but succeeded in
concealing her feelings, and greeted Mrs. Stout smilingly.

"You are punctual, Mrs. Stout," she said.

"Yes," puffed Mrs. Stout, "I always make it a point to be on time; it
pays and don't cost anything."

"Yes, come right in, punctuality is indeed a virtue, but one that is
unappreciated by those who do not possess it."

"I declare," said Mrs. Stout, as she plumped into a chair, "I do believe
I'm gettin' wheezy in my old age, just that little walk from my house
has tuckered me out. How's the club gettin' along?"

"Splendidly, over twenty ladies have signified their intention to be
present this morning. The committee on rules has completed its work--oh,
by the way, you were on that committee, Mrs. Stout. Did you get my
postal in regard to the meeting?"

"Yes, but I couldn't come. I'll agree to what you and Miss Sawyer have
done, though."

"Very good of you, I'm sure."

"But you can't make women live by rule, any more'n you can mix cats and
dogs without there bein' some fightin'." This remark wounded Mrs.
Flint's cultured feelings, but before there was time to think of a
fitting reply, Mrs. Stout, who was looking out of a window, exclaimed:

"Here's Miss Sawyer! and if she ain't walkin' with that gossipy old
bach', Sam Billin's. I thought she was _awful_ perticler about the
company she kept."

"I dare say their meeting was purely casual," observed Mrs. Flint.

"Most prob'ly," said Mrs. Stout, "but you know how folks will talk."

Mrs. Flint did know, furthermore, she thought, that some folks talked
more than others. Their conversation came to an end upon the entrance of
Miss Sawyer, and the arrival of several other ladies in rapid
succession. Among them was Mrs. Tweedie, who had Mrs. Doctor Jones in
tow. Mrs. Jones was a meek little woman with a mind as changeable as a
weather-vane, but she was a patient, willing worker, one of the sort
always to be found washing dishes after a supper at the church long
after her more brilliant sisters had gone home. Mrs. Tweedie always made
friends of such women; they were useful, and seldom caused trouble.
Another of the new members was Mrs. Deacon Walton, who lived on the edge
of the town--"in the country," some of the village ladies said. Mrs.
Walton was not sure that membership in a woman's club would be pleasing,
proper, or profitable, but was willing to try it.

The ladies were all well acquainted, and immediately began talking in a
delightfully happy manner. As the number increased, so did the chatter,
which soon resembled the sounds of a bird store. Mrs. Tweedie, for a
long time silent and thoughtful, gazed upon the gathering with pride.
Success such as she had never dreamed of was within her grasp. Every
woman who had been invited to come was present--wives of the butcher,
the baker, and the candlestick maker, all were there, and at the signal
for silence stopped talking and looked expectantly at their leader. Mrs.
Tweedie looked over the assemblage gravely and leisurely before
beginning to speak.

"Ladies of The Morning Glory Club," she began, "the founders of our
organization would be indeed ungrateful if they did not appreciate the
generous response to their appeal by so many of the first ladies of our
town. We thank you, and, I must add, hope that you will concur with us
in what has been done at a previous meeting. The records of the last
meeting will be read by our secretary."

Miss Sawyer timidly complied with the president's request, reading from
a neatly written manuscript of daintily tinted and perfumed notepaper,
the sheets of which were fastened together by a pale green ribbon. When
Miss Sawyer had finished, the committee on rules presented their report
in the form of a constitution and by-laws, which were accepted without
debate. Then Mrs. Tweedie suggested that committees on ethics, art,
literature, and the Lord knows what, be appointed. It was done.
Everything that Mrs. Tweedie desired came to pass. She was in the
clouds; never, even in her dreams, had she thought such power possible.

For an hour the meeting progressed, and during that time Mrs. Stout, for
some unfathomable reason, remained silent. When she did rise to speak,
she addressed the chair in such a perfectly proper manner that, for a
moment, the ladies thought that by some strange process she had become
civilized.

"Ladies," she said, "I'm treasurer of this club, and I've been doin' a
lot of thinkin' since our last meetin'. We've got to have some money,
and it'll take for ever and a day for dues at ten cents a month to
amount to anything. We've got to run some kind of a show to raise money.
This ethical and e-comical business is all right, but what we want now
is dollars!"

"A very good suggestion," replied Mrs. Tweedie, who was feeling amiable
enough at that moment even to agree with one whom she disliked. The
ladies murmured their approval. "The chair awaits suggestions,"
continued Mrs. Tweedie. Upon that they, the suggestions, came like an
avalanche--everything was proposed from a spelling-match to military
whist. But Mrs. Tweedie frowned upon them all; only something new to
Manville would suit her. She desired above all things to get as far away
as possible from the provincial ways of the town.

"Whatever we give will cost something," remarked Mrs. Darling.

"We can't spend any money if we haven't got any," squeaked the deacon's
wife.

"Assuredly not," replied Mrs. Tweedie. "The question is--"

"Why not settle this money business first," interrupted Mrs. Stout.
"Mis' Darling says we've got to spend money whatever we do. I say we
ain't, what we've got to buy we can get trusted for--everybody else
does."

"Very true," said Mrs. Doctor Jones, warmly, "they do, and sometimes for
a long time." The wives of the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick
maker looked as though they would like to say "amen." Others moved
uneasily, until Mrs. Tweedie came to the rescue.

"The question is," she said, firmly, "what sort of an entertainment
shall be given, not how we are to pay for it."

"Madam President," some one said from a corner.

"Mrs.--er--" Mrs. Tweedie craned her neck to see who had spoken. "Oh,
Mrs. Thornton."

"What would the ladies say to theatricals?" asked the woman with a baby.

"Good!" exclaimed Fanny Tweedie. "A play, the very thing, what a sweet
idea."

"Fanny," said her mother, reprovingly, yet she liked the idea herself.

"A play!" gasped Mrs. Flint, in dismay.

"I am inclined to think favourably of the idea," replied Mrs. Tweedie,
turning to the parson's wife.

"But the Church, Mrs. Tweedie, have you forgotten what we owe to our
creed?" asked Mrs. Flint, anxiously.

"Oh, no, indeed," said Mrs. Tweedie, with a benevolent smile, "but the
barriers between the stage and the Church are not so high as they were."

"They ain't so high," added Mrs. Stout, "but what most folks can peek
over if they stand on tiptoes, and their minister ain't lookin'."

Mrs. Flint felt certain that the end of all things was at hand.

"I'm sure," she said, "I have no idea what Mr. Flint will say."

"What difference would it make?" Mrs. Stout asked, bluntly. This remark
was followed by the most embarrassing, painful silence in the history of
the club.

When business was resumed, it was voted that a committee of five be
appointed to select a play, and plan for its production.

The Reverend and Mrs. Flint had a long talk that night.

"And the unholy suggestion was made and adopted in my home!" thundered
the reverend, forgetting that his audience consisted of only one.

Manville was waking up.




Chapter V

The Stouts at Home


THE Stouts were common folks--most of us are, for that matter, in one
way or another. Excepting Sundays, Mr. Stout ate his meals with the
frock on that he wore at the store; he used his knife at table in a
manner not prescribed by etiquette; and at all times his English was at
variance with the best authority. But in his dealings with men he was as
honest as his wife in her speech, and made money despite customers who
did not pay their bills. His three sons were healthy urchins, who obeyed
and respected their parents--just like other boys.

"How's that new club gettin' along?" Mr. Stout asked his wife while they
were at supper on the day of the meeting at the parsonage.

"Fine; I ain't enjoyed myself for years the way I do at them meetin's,"
replied Mrs. Stout, enthusiastically.

"There won't be any need of a newspaper here now," observed her husband
without looking up from his plate.

"I expected to hear you say somethin' like that," replied Mrs. Stout.
"But I want you to understand just this much, Peter Stout; that club's
goin' to be the talk of the town, and do more for it than any crowd of
men have ever done so far."

"Won't have to do much," grunted Peter, with his mouth full of
beefsteak.

"You're just right about that. This town has got the laziest set of men,
outside of their own affairs, that I ever heard of. When they're through
work for the day, they just set 'round and smoke, and tell each other
that the town ain't the same as it used to be; and that this thing would
be done, or that thing 'tended to, if the right men was in office. Who
elects the selectmen, I should like to know? And then they talk about
who's goin' to be the next President, and who's goin' to be next
governor, and let the town that they live in, that's right under their
lazy noses day and night, go to rack and ruin. I say the right way is to
do _somethin'_ even if you make a mess of it tryin'."

"Hear, hear!" cried Peter, as he clapped his hands. "That's a great
speech, Emmy, and all true."

"True, I guess it is, true as gospel," replied Mrs. Stout, and then
turning on her oldest son asked, sharply, "Henry Warren Stout, are you
eatin' butter on bread, or bread on butter?" Before the boy had time to
reply he was hit in the eye with a bread pill from the hand of Paul
Jones, whereupon Wendell Phillips fell off his chair convulsed with
laughter.

"We're goin' to give a play," said Mrs. Stout, after she had boxed Paul
Jones's ears, and the commotion had ceased.

"A play!" Peter put down his knife and fork, masticated and swallowed
the food that was in his mouth, and sat staring at his wife in
astonishment.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Stout, "and we're all goin' to be in it. It'll be
the biggest thing this town ever saw or heard of."

"You, goin' on the stage?" said Peter, with a grin, and then he gave way
to hearty laughter.

"I don't see what there is to laugh about, Peter Stout; ain't we got as
much right to give a play as anybody?" asked Mrs. Stout, indignantly.

"Yes, it's all right, and if the play is as funny as the idea, it'll
make a hit," said Peter, his mirth subsiding.

"It ain't goin' to be funny," retorted Mrs. Stout. "It's goin' to be a
classic."

"A classic," he repeated, wonderingly. "What's that?"

"A classic," replied Mrs. Stout, knowingly, "is somethin' you ought to
know about, and--and don't."

"Oh," said Peter, still in doubt.

"I hope you're satisfied now."

"I guess so; I'll wait till I've seen the play before I say anything
more about it."

"I guess you'd better," said Mrs. Stout, triumphantly. "Paul Jones, take
your fingers out of that sauce." Paul Jones obeyed, and licked the sauce
from his fingers.

"Ma, is your club goin' to have a ball-nine?" asked Wendell Phillips. He
played first base on the Manville Juveniles, which was the only club he
knew anything about.

"No, we ain't, Wendell," his mother replied. "Don't you boys get any
silly notions about clubs into your heads."

"Ma'd make a bully catcher," suggested Henry Warren.

"Stop your nonsense about baseball or you'll all go to bed," commanded
Mrs. Stout, in a tone that the youngsters could not fail to understand.

The silence that followed was broken by the ringing of the door-bell.
The boys jumped from their chairs and started on a race for the door.

"Boys!" said Mrs. Stout, sharply, and the three came to a sudden stop.
"Set down." They obeyed, and wistfully watched their mother as she
started for the front door.

"Why, Miss Wallace!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout when she opened the door and
saw who was there. "Come right in."

"Thank you," replied Miss Wallace, "but I haven't time. I called to ask
if Henry was feeling any better."

"Better?" Mrs. Stout did not understand.

"I hope--"

"He ain't any better'n he ought to be, nor any worse'n some other boys I
know of," said Mrs. Stout.

"But is he not sick?" asked Miss Wallace.

"Sick? Good land! No; he's eatin' his supper now," replied Mrs. Stout.
Miss Wallace sighed, some one had been lying. "Who said he was sick?"
asked Mrs. Stout, suspiciously.

"I understood--" Miss Wallace began, and then hesitated for a moment.
"He was absent this afternoon," she continued, "and I understood Paul
and Wendell to say that he was sick."

"Absent was he, from school?" said Mrs. Stout. "And them two boys lied
about it? It won't happen again, Miss Wallace." At that moment a man
walked past. Mrs. Stout peered into the darkness for a moment, and then
called out:

"Hello, is that you, Willie Flint?"

"Yes. Oh, good evening, Mrs. Stout," replied Will, whom it proved to be,
as he turned and retraced his steps.

"I thought I knew your walk," said Mrs. Stout. "Won't you come in?"

"No, thanks."

"How's your mother?"

"Nicely, but I must be going, good--"

"Don't you be in such a hurry, Willie Flint," Mrs. Stout interrupted,
and then added, "This is Miss Wallace here, and I guess you'd better
beau her home; it's a pretty dark night for young women to be runnin'
'round alone."

Barbara almost hated Mrs. Stout for saying that. She had remained
silent because, for one reason, there had been no chance for her to
speak, and another reason was that she hoped--she did and she did
not--that Will would not follow Mrs. Stout's suggestion. Barbara was not
unlike other young women in many ways.

"Good evening, Mr. Flint," she said, determined to make the best of it
whatever the outcome might be.

"_Is_ that you, Bar--Miss Wallace?" said Will as he came into the yard
and up the walk to the steps. Mrs. Stout noticed that he had started to
say Barbara.

"I'll 'tend to those boys, Miss Wallace. Good night," she said abruptly,
and shut the door.

"Good night," replied Barbara and Will, as they turned and went down the
walk together.

"Who was it, ma?" the boys asked in chorus when Mrs. Stout returned to
the dining-room, but their mother ignored them.

"Peter Stout," she began in a tone that made him jump, "Henry didn't go
to school this afternoon, and Paul and Wendell told Miss Wallace that he
was sick."

"What!" exclaimed Peter, turning on his three sons, who sat trembling
before him.

"Yes, she came to see if Henry was any better, and that let the cat out
of the bag. They've got to be 'tended to," replied Mrs. Stout. "Tended
to" in the Stout family meant something painful. The boys looked at each
other in dismay, and then at their parents.

"I ain't got time now," said Peter, "but in the mornin'--" With that
terrible, unspoken threat on his lips Peter put on his hat, and went
back to the store. Mrs. Stout began clearing the table, and the boys
silently filed out of the house and sat down on the front door-steps to
talk it over.

"You've got to give me back that five cents I give you for sayin' I was
sick, Paul," said Henry, "and you too, Wendell."

"I guess not," replied Paul and Wendell, quickly.

"I got found out, didn't I?"

"We said you was sick, didn't we?"

"I'm goin' to get a lickin', ain't I?"

"We're goin' to get one, too, ain't we?"

"I wouldn't lie for money."

"No; you'd get somebody to lie for you," said Wendell, scornfully.

"Yer little brothers," added Paul.

"I wouldn't steal, anyway," retorted Henry. For a moment they were
silent.

"Hello, fellers," yelled a boy from the street.

"Hello, Tom," replied the trio.

"Don't make any noise," cautioned Henry as Tommy Tweedie came up to the
steps.

"Why?" he asked as he sat down.

"I got caught," said Henry.

Tommy whistled his surprise.

"Did the kids (meaning Paul and Wendell) tell?" he asked.

"Nope; Miss Wallace come to see how sick I was."

"What'd your father say?" snickered Tom.

"Said he'd see us in the mornin'. Say, Tom, what's this club for that
your ma and mine are gettin' up?"

"I dunno," replied Tommy, "only I heard pop say we was goin' to have a
tablet, kind of a tombstone, you know, in the yard that told on it when
the club was foundered or somethin' like that; and this mornin' he told
Dora that he wished the tablet was goin' to be put up right away with
the date the club died on it, too."

"Are they goin' to play ball?" asked Wendell.

"Women don't play ball," said Paul.

"My mother says," replied Tom, "that women do everything nowadays."

"Boys," said Mrs. Stout, sternly, from the doorway.

The three guilty ones filed solemnly into the house, and Tommy Tweedie
slipped away into the darkness.




Chapter VI

Barbara and Will


"GOOD luck is with me sometimes, Barbara," said Will, as they turned
into the street from Mrs. Stout's yard.

"Is that a new name for me?" asked Barbara.

"No; but it would be a good one. I meant that I was fortunate in meeting
you; chance meetings, you know, are often best."

"Yes," replied Barbara, and then added, "if the chance is genuine." He
had met her so often of late by chance, that now, as he was bold enough
to speak of it, for a moment she doubted his sincerity.

"Really, Barbara," he replied, quickly, "on honour, I was on my way
home, and had no idea where you were." (Except, he might have added,
that she was first in his thoughts.) Barbara believed him, nevertheless
she was annoyed. Whether her feeling of annoyance was caused by what
Mrs. Stout had said, by the chance meeting with Will, or by what people
were saying about them, Barbara herself was not sure. She was certain,
however, that people were talking and linking her name with his in a
way that she did not like. That very night at supper Mrs. Tweedie had
given her estimate of Will Flint's character. The picture that she
painted, though more suggestive than real, was intended to be anything
except favourable, and Barbara knew that it was intended especially for
her. But despite the talk, she liked Will better than any other of her
acquaintances in Manville, because he at least was companionable and
honest.

"What's going on at the Stouts'?" asked Will. Barbara related the story,
and when she had finished Will expressed his feelings with a long
whistle.

"The little rascals!" he exclaimed. "I suppose it's all my fault."

"Your fault?" said Barbara, in surprise.

"Yes. Early this afternoon as I was on my way to the pond for an
afternoon's fishing I met the Stout boys. Henry asked me where I was
going, and when I told him he expressed a wish that he might go too. I
said come along, and he did, after a whispered conference with the other
two. We had a bully time."

"You great big boy!" exclaimed Barbara, not knowing whether to laugh or
be angry. "And those three boys are going to be punished when you are
the one wholly to blame."

"But, Barbara, I never once thought about school, and Henry didn't speak
of it."

"Of course he didn't, but now he has got to pay for his fun, and yours,
too."

Will stopped and looked back, undecided as to what he ought to do, and
very much disturbed to think that he had been the cause of trouble.

"What shall I do, go back and tell Mrs. Stout?" he asked.

"It is all over now, probably."

"That's so," said Will, gloomily, as they resumed their walk. "But I'll
go down in the morning and confess everything, and then, some day when
there's no school, I'll give those boys a good time to pay for the
whipping they've had. The little villains--do you go to see them all
when they're sick?"

"Yes, unless some one comes to tell me about them."

That was news to Will. He had thought always that common school
teachers' duties consisted of hearing children recite, and the
maintaining of discipline in the schoolroom.

"Do you mean to say," he said, in surprise, "that you think something
of, or rather like, every one of those dirty little kids?"

"Like them!" replied Barbara, warmly; "I love them. How could I teach if
I did not?"

"I--I didn't know, I never thought about it before," he stammered. He
had learned something. He had heard her speak the word "love" with
feeling, and by it he knew the destiny that he had hoped for, and was
humbled. They had reached Mrs. Tweedie's gate and stopped.

"Barbara," said Will, "you don't mind if I walk home with you from the
school sometimes, do you?"

"No," she replied, after a pause. "I am glad to have you--sometimes."

"And the other times, Barbara?" he asked, and then quickly added,
"Pardon me, I have no right to ask; but I may come if not too often?"

"Yes," replied Barbara, and then went quickly up the walk to the door.

"Good night," Will called after her, and then slowly walked toward home
filled with thoughts of higher ideals, of Barbara, and his new love--for
her. What were her thoughts of him? he wondered. Did she ever think of
him at all? He knew something of what others were thinking and saying,
but Barbara-- He knew that many believed that while away from home he
had led a dissolute life, and that he had been expelled from college
because of some dishonourable act. Barbara surely had heard these
stories about him--they were all lies--but how was she to know? Until
then he had not cared what people said, but now-- Was he worthy even to
try to win her? Thus far in his life he had accomplished nothing. What
had he to offer her--not in money or position--but as a man?




Chapter VII

Classics and Women


THE committee on plays was in session at the home of Mrs. Doctor Jones.
During the first fifteen minutes of the meeting its members had
annihilated the works of the poets and dramatists up to the reign of
Queen Elizabeth.

"We really ought to give something from Shakespeare," Mrs. Tweedie was
saying.

"What do folks in Manville know about him?" asked Mrs. Stout. "I say we
ought to give somethin' they can understand."

"My dear Mrs. Stout," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "that is just the reason why
we ought to give something from his works. The people of Manville ought
to know something of one of the world's greatest poets. If they do not,
it is clearly the duty of the Morning Glory Club to assist in their
enlightenment."

"Well, perhaps we can get 'em to come once," retorted Mrs. Stout, "but
you can be sure they won't get caught a second time. I think that
Shakespeare's too high-toned for folks 'round here, but go ahead if you
want to, I've had my say." Mrs. Stout always had her say, and some of
the ladies, particularly Mrs. Tweedie, wished that she did not have it
quite so often.

"Of course," said Miss Sawyer, "we could not dream of attempting the
production of the whole of one of Shakespeare's plays, but there are
many beautiful scenes that we could undertake and be reasonably sure of
success."

"That's a good idea; why not give several scenes instead of one play?"
suggested Mrs. Jones.

"Good!" exclaimed Fanny Tweedie. "Then we could all have star parts."

"Fanny," rebuked Mrs. Tweedie, "our personal ambition must not be
considered, and I sincerely hope that a spirit of self-sacrifice will be
manifested, if necessary, when we come to the assignment of parts. Your
idea, Mrs. Jones, is to give scenes from different plays?"

"Yes," Mrs. Jones replied; "then if one or more of the scenes were
unsuccessful, we could redeem ourselves with the others."

"True," said Mrs. Tweedie, wisely, and then turning to Miss Sawyer,
asked: "What scenes would you suggest?"

As Miss Sawyer was considered the best read woman in Manville, she was
always the first to be appealed to for advice in regard to such
matters, though her shyness--often mistaken for modesty--made her
opinion difficult to obtain.

"During the past week," she began, "I have been looking over my
Shakespeare (Mrs. Tweedie's suggestion) and have found several scenes
that we might consider. I would suggest first the trial scene from the
'Merchant of Venice,' and--"

"That would be great!" interrupted Fanny Tweedie. "Mrs. Stout could be
the judge--I'd like to play Portia myself--and ma would be a lovely
Shylock."

"Fanny," said Mrs. Tweedie, severely, "there are others to be consulted
in this matter." She was provoked, not so much by Fanny's suggestion, as
by the titter it caused.

"Why, ma," Fanny continued, "you know that we talked it over at home,
and--" a warning glance from her mother told Fanny that she had said too
much, and she suddenly subsided. At a word from Mrs. Tweedie, Miss
Sawyer continued:

"There is the balcony scene from 'Romeo and Juliet,' and in 'As You Like
It' there are many beautiful--"

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Jones, "let's give the scene in the forest where
Rosalind, or somebody, hangs valentines on the bushes--it's lovely."

"Very beautiful," murmured Miss Sawyer. "And in the 'Merry Wives of
Windsor' there are many amusing--"

"I didn't know that Shakespeare was funny," blurted Mrs. Stout.

"Not funny," corrected Mrs. Tweedie, "amusing; his wit is of the
keenest."

"Same thing, ain't it?" said Mrs. Stout. "Ain't there a play about the
taming of somebody?"

"The 'Taming of the Shrew,'" Miss Sawyer responded, quickly.

"That's it. Why wouldn't that be a good play for us?" laughed Mrs.
Stout.

"I don't like the name," Mrs. Tweedie replied. "It savours too much of
the domineering of the _other sex_."

"Well," said Mrs. Stout, "we might change the name."

"Change the name!" exclaimed the horrified ladies.

"Change the name of one of Shakespeare's plays!" groaned Miss Sawyer.

"What name, may I ask," said Mrs. Tweedie, majestically, "would you
substitute?"

Mrs. Stout was thoroughly enjoying the discomfiture that she had
caused, and was laughing in a most provoking manner.

"We might call it the 'Un-taming of the Shrews,'" she replied, and then
added: "See here, I don't see any terrible harm in changin' the name of
anything. You changed yours, Mis' Tweedie, didn't you?"

"No," snapped Mrs. Tweedie, "I added a name to the one I already had."
Mrs. Tweedie always wrote her name Aurelia Scraggs Tweedie. (Scraggs was
a famous actor--three times removed--the moves, hasty ones, being from
Providence Plantation to Boston, from Boston to Salem, and from there to
Portsmouth, with the king's officers close upon his heels at every
step.)

"Oh, excuse _me_," said Mrs. Stout, with exaggerated politeness, "but
the rest of us did change our names when we was married."

"Mrs. Stout," replied Mrs. Tweedie, as she glared at the promoter of the
disturbance, "the business before us is not of a humourous nature."

"Good land!" retorted Mrs. Stout. "If we've got to wear funeral faces
every time we get together we'd better bust up now."

"Humour and wit," said Mrs. Tweedie, icily, "have their place, but the
changing of the name of a classic would be sacrilege." For the time
being Mrs. Stout had had enough fun, and permitted Mrs. Tweedie to have
the last word.

"Has any one thought of the old comedies, so-called, of Sheridan and
Goldsmith?" asked Mrs. Jones. "There's 'She Stoops to Conquer,' and--"

"That would never do," said Mrs. Stout, breaking forth again; "we
wouldn't 'stoop to conquer,' not even for a classic," and for once Mrs.
Tweedie agreed with her.

"The title certainly is not appropriate for a woman's club," she
remarked, decidedly.

"The 'School for Scandal' is a famous play," Miss Sawyer ventured to
suggest, but the only approval her suggestion received was another
outburst of laughter from Mrs. Stout.

"If we should give that play," she gurgled, "we'd be sure to make a hit,
it would be so natural."

Fortunately for the future welfare of the Morning Glory Club the
telephone bell rang at that moment, and Mrs. Jones hastened to answer
its summons.

The telephone was in the hall, only a step or two from the room in which
the ladies were sitting, and as Mrs. Jones went out she left the door
ajar. Silence fell over the group--not because that they wished to hear,
of course, but in order that Mrs. Jones might not be annoyed. A message
to a doctor's home might be _so_ important, you know.

"Diphtheria?" they heard her say. "Where?--At school--The Clark
children?--What?--Oh, Miss who?--Miss Wallace?--Sent the children
home?--Yes.--Will you be home to lunch?--What?--Will there be any?--_Of
course_--Good-bye."

"Diphtheria!" exclaimed the ladies when they were sure that Mrs. Jones
was through, and a look of anxiety spread over the faces of those who
had children.

"Did you hear?" asked Mrs. Jones, as she reëntered the room. "Miss
Wallace suspected that one of the Clark girls had diphtheria, so she
sent both of them home. The doctor is at the Clarks' now, and says that
Miss Wallace was right, and that the school will have to be closed."

"Goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, "just think of havin' them three boys
of mine runnin' wild for three or four weeks, to say nothin' of the
danger of their bein' sick."

"What we have heard is very distressing," said Mrs. Tweedie, "but let us
not be unnerved until we learn all of the particulars. In the meantime
would it not be wise to continue with our work? Miss Sawyer, are you
familiar with Ibsen's plays?" Thus did Mrs. Tweedie throw off diphtheria
for Ibsen.

"I have read 'A Doll's House,'" replied Miss Sawyer, blushing.

"'A Doll's House,'" queried Mrs. Stout, "is it a play for children?"

"By no means," snapped Mrs. Tweedie.

"Oh, ma!" Fanny exclaimed, "I don't know anything about Ibsen, but do
you remember 'The Lady of Lyons?' We saw it in Boston. It was about the
loveliest girl--a princess--who married a labourer's son disguised as a
prince, and when she found it out he went into the army, and then came
home as a general or something, and they made up."

"Yes, I remember," replied Mrs. Tweedie. "Let me see, who wrote it?"

"Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer," said Miss Sawyer, promptly. "It's a
beautiful play containing some of the sweetest love-scenes imaginable."

"Has it got anything to do with a circus?" asked Mrs. Stout,
innocently, having in mind, no doubt, the lady in a cage of lions with
the "Ding-a-ling Circus," that came to Manville every year.

"Circus, indeed not!" said Mrs. Jones. "Lyons is the name of a city in
France."

"Oh," was all that Mrs. Stout had to say in reply. She was gaining
knowledge rapidly, and realized it. Only the night before she had said
to her husband that "if the club don't go up I expect to know somethin'
sometime."

Formal suggestions and discussion gave way to general chatting. They
were not getting ahead at all, and Mrs. Tweedie became annoyed. As she
sat watching them, a new and alarming thought came suddenly into her
mind, and a look of consternation spread over her face.

"Ladies!" she exclaimed, in a choking voice, "it has just occurred to me
that in every play that has been suggested there are MALE CHARACTERS!"
The silence that followed Mrs. Tweedie's statement was cruelly
disheartening. What a horrible thought, such a dejected-looking
gathering of women was never seen before.

"Is it possible!" gasped Mrs. Jones, who was the first to recover from
the shock. "Is it possible that in every classic there is a man?"

"Men wrote most of 'em, didn't they?" asked Mrs. Stout.

Mrs. Tweedie's eyes snapped angrily.

"That is not a fair question," she said. "What if they did write the
classics? Doubtless you can guess why."

"Most prob'ly," replied Mrs. Stout, in a tone that was meek for her, "it
was because the women folks had to spend their time washin' dishes and
'tendin' babies, and didn't have time even to try."

"Exactly," said Mrs. Tweedie.

"_Was_ there a Mis' Shakespeare?" queried Mrs. Stout. No one seemed to
know.

"Well," said Mrs. Jones, "if we can't find a play without a man in it,
what shall we do?"

"Play the part of men ourselves," replied Fanny Tweedie, boldly.

"Fanny!" exclaimed her mother.

"A good idea," said Mrs. Stout. "I guess that most of us women know
enough about men to make believe."

"That's so," added Mrs. Jones, "such things have been done, I don't see
what harm it would do."

"But the costuming," said Mrs. Tweedie, "how would that be arranged?"

"Put a sign, 'this is a man,' on the ones that have men's parts,"
suggested Mrs. Stout. A ring at the door quickly stopped the titter
caused by Mrs. Stout's suggestion. Mrs. Jones excused herself and left
the room. Again perfect silence reigned.

"Mother wants the doctor right off," they heard a boy say. "The baby's
broke out all over."

"I'll tell him just as soon as he returns," replied Mrs. Jones.

"Measles," said Mrs. Stout in a loud whisper, "what a time we are
havin'."

"It was Sammy Dobbins," explained Mrs. Jones, when she returned. "That's
the way I have to run all day; first the telephone, and then the
door-bell."

"It must be very trying," said Mrs. Tweedie, sympathetically.

"Here it is, here it is!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, explosively, as she
waved a book that she had taken from a table a moment before. "Listen:
'Vanity Fair, a Novel without a Hero,'" she read. "Ain't there a play by
that name?"

"Nonsense," sniffed Mrs. Tweedie. "It's full of men, and such men--"

"And a woman," added Mrs. Jones.

"Such a woman," said Miss Sawyer. Mrs. Stout closed the book, and
replaced it. She was squelched.

"We are getting on very slowly," sighed Mrs. Tweedie. "Let me suggest a
programme." No one objected. "What would you say to the trial scene from
the 'Merchant of Venice,' the balcony scene from 'Romeo and Juliet,' a
scene from the 'Lady of Lyons,' and a one-act play written by our Miss
Sawyer, entitled 'Yellow Roses'?"

There was much to be said, and the discussion began anew, but Mrs.
Tweedie was determined to win, and win she did.

"The smell of medicine in a doctor's house," remarked Mrs. Stout, as she
walked toward home with Mrs. Thornton, "always makes me feel as though
my last day had come."




Chapter VIII

A Woman's Way


BARBARA WALLACE never forgot the morning on which she discovered that
one of her pupils was threatened with diphtheria. The child affected,
and her sister, were sent home, and Tommy Tweedie was sent for Mr.
George, the chairman of the school committee. While awaiting his
arrival, Barbara went on with the morning's work, but with less interest
than usual, and a heavy heart.

An hour and a half dragged by before Mr. George came. On the way he had
met Doctor Jones, who had seen the sick child, and confirmed Barbara's
suspicions. That morning he had discovered three cases himself.
Conditions were considered serious, and Mr. George decided that the
school should be closed for at least two weeks, and instructed Barbara
to inform the children before they were dismissed at noon. When she made
the announcement, the thoughtless young Americans wiggled like tadpoles
at the prospect of a two weeks' vacation, and danced and shouted for joy
the moment they were out-of-doors. Barbara watched them from the doorway
as they ran off, and when the thought came to her that some of them
might never return, the tears sprang to her eyes. When the children had
disappeared she went back to her desk, for a moment looked over the
shabby little room and the rows of empty seats, then buried her head in
her arms and sobbed like a child.

"Miss Wallace," she heard some one say in a child's sweet voice.

Barbara looked up and saw Bessie Duncan, one of her flock, standing in
the doorway with a bunch of autumn leaves in her hand. Bessie belonged
to one of the poorest, dirtiest families in Manville; she herself,
however, was a diamond, though a dirty one, and Barbara loved her.

"Why, Bessie," said Barbara, wiping her eyes, "did you forget
something?"

"No, um, I--why ain't we goin' to have school any more?"

"Because some of the children are sick, and we don't want any of the
others to be."

"Ain't we ever goin' to have any more school?" Bessie asked, as she
walked slowly toward Barbara.

"Oh, yes, when the children are well again."

The child was silent for a moment, then she smiled, and gave Barbara the
bunch of leaves.

"There ain't any flowers now," she said, "so I got these for you."

"Thank you, Bessie, you were very kind to think of me. Aren't they
pretty?"

"Yes, um, I picked 'em all by myself in the woods. What makes the leaves
fall off?"

"Because winter is coming."

"Miss Wallace," said the child after a pause, "I hope you ain't goin' to
be sick and die."

Barbara took the little one in her arms, and kissed her dirty little
cheek.

"No, Bessie, I hope not."

"I like you, Miss Wallace."

"I am very glad that you do."

"Does that big man like you, too?" Bessie innocently asked, and then
wondered why her teacher's face grew pink. Before Barbara had time to
reply she heard a heavy step, and looking up saw Will Flint, the "big
man," standing in the doorway and smiling at what he thought was a
pretty picture.

"Don't come in," said Barbara, in alarm.

"Why, Barbara, what--" he began as he walked toward her.

"Don't, please--Will," pleaded Barbara. "Please go outside, and then I
will explain."

Will backed slowly out of the door, wondering what had happened to cause
Barbara to speak and act so strangely. When he had closed the door
Barbara put Bessie down, and went to an open window. Will felt relieved
when he looked up and saw her smiling.

"We discovered diphtheria among the children to-day, and I didn't want
you to be exposed," she explained.

"How about yourself?" he asked, bluntly.

"Why, I have got to take my chances with the children."

"Rather dangerous, isn't it?"

"I--I suppose so; the school is to be closed for two weeks."

Will did not like that, he would miss the walks that he had been
enjoying with her.

"Are you going home soon?" he asked.

"Yes, but you must not go with me to-day."

"I'm not afraid," said Will, quickly.

"But I am--for you," she replied. The tiniest bit of hesitation before
the "for you" made Will happy, but he made no reply. Perhaps it was the
time, or place, or the big blue eyes of Bessie Duncan peering at him
over the window-sill, that restrained him from speaking the words that
trembled on his lips.

"Good-bye," was all he said, as he turned quickly and strode away. In
place of the sun and sky, the woods and fields, he saw her face. He did
not hear the chatter of the crows, or the soughing of the wind; only her
voice could he hear saying, "Will," and "for you."

Barbara and Bessie watched until he disappeared around a bend in the
road.

"Is he a good man?" Bessie asked as she took Barbara's hand, and looked
up at her earnestly. It was she who had asked that same question before.
The first time Barbara had evaded an answer, but now she replied
quickly, and with a flood of meaning:

"Yes."




Chapter IX

Men Talk Too


"STOUT'S GROCERY," as the sign over the door read, was the
scene--especially on rainy evenings--of many heated debates and windy
harangues on topics as varied as New England weather. There was decided
the policies of the great political parties; the characters of great or
notorious men were weighed and analyzed; the worth, financial, mental,
and moral, of the citizens of Manville--not present--were frankly
estimated; and, alas, sometimes, the virtues and vices of women received
the attention of the gathering of do-little busybodies.

It was raining. The prophecy had appeared in the evening paper, and it
had come to pass that the prophecy and the elements were working
harmoniously. Only a few brief words were devoted to it by those who had
gathered at the store on this particular evening. Incense, in kind, was
ascending in clouds to one of man's greatest gods--tobacco.

"How's that woman's club gettin' 'long?" Sam Billings asked without
addressing any one in particular.

"I hear," replied Mr. Blake, the undertaker, "that they're doing
first-rate. My wife has joined."

"You 'n' your wife are gettin' to be reg'lar jiners, ain't yer? B'long
to 'most everything now," remarked Sam.

"Well, we like to keep in touch with what's going on in the world,"
replied Mr. Blake, modestly.

"Business is business," chuckled Sam. Mr. Blake made no reply to the
insinuation. "What do they want a club for, anyway?" Sam continued.
"Don't they have enough to do without gettin' together and stirrin'
things up?"

"Perhaps it's because they want a change," suggested Alick Purbeck.

"Change?" sniffed Sam, scornfully. "What change do any of us get? We get
up in the morning every day at the same time, eat our breakfast, go to
work, eat our dinner, go to work, eat our supper, and--sometimes we come
down here and swap lies, and--"

"There's your change," interrupted Mr. Blake. "At our work most of us
men meet different people, we see new faces and new things, but the
women stay at home, wash, sew, cook, care for the children, and never
know when the day is done unless they look at the clock--then they're
not always sure."

"There ain't any use tryin' to argue with you," replied Sam. "What are
they goin' to do at this club that'll give 'em a change?"

"Well," said Mr. Blake, "I understand that they're going to give a play,
study art, science, and so forth, and give social affairs that will
bring the people together in a way that will benefit us all."

"Ump! I'd like to know how they'll do _me_ any good," grunted Sam.

"Well," smiled Mr. Blake, "I can't think of anything at this moment that
they could do to make you any better or worse, but when women set out to
do anything I've noticed that they generally get there."

"You're right about that," said Sam, wagging his head, "they are
persistent critters."

"Perhaps if you were married you'd have more respect for women," added
Mr. Blake.

"Maybe his weddin' ain't so very far off," said Alick Purbeck. "I've
seen him in comp'ny with the same lady three times within a week."

"Jest happened so," retorted Sam.

"Gettin' married jest happens sometimes," replied Alick.

"When a woman ketches me," said Sam, boastfully, "she's got to be mighty
fetchin' in more ways 'n one."

"If there's any catching to be done, I guess you'll have to do it,"
commented Mr. Blake.

Sam felt that he was getting the worst of the argument, and changed the
subject.

"What kind of a show are they goin' to give?" he asked.

"Scenes from the classics," replied Mr. Blake.

"Is it a good play?" Sam innocently inquired. Mr. Blake began to
explain, but before he had finished the door was opened and Ezra Tweedie
came in.

"Evenin', Ezra," said Peter Stout, from his seat on the counter.

"Good evening, gentlemen," replied Ezra, with a queer little nod, and
then giving Peter a slip of paper, added, "Kindly put up those things
for me, Mr. Stout."

"Certain," said Peter, as he slid off the counter.

While waiting for his order to be put up, Ezra sat down with the group
of tobacco slaves. Ezra did not smoke himself, his health would not
permit it, so he said, but everybody knew that the disapproval of
Aurelia Scraggs Tweedie was all that kept him from the use of the
seductive narcotic. He liked _to be smoked_, however, and was always
delighted when his wife sent him to the store in the evening. And the
men, the smokers, liked Ezra--and pitied him.

"How's things with you, Ezra?" asked Sam when Ezra was comfortably
seated.

"About the same, thank you," Ezra cheerfully replied.

"Here's the man," Sam went on, "that can tell us all about the woman's
club, can't you, Ezra?"

"Well," Ezra began, with a cough and a smile, "I cannot say that I know
all about it, but naturally I do know something, perhaps a little more
than any other of _our sex_." "_Our sex_" was the offspring of his
wife's favourite term, the "_other sex_." Ezra was so seldom the centre
of interest, or the source of information, that the position which he
held at that moment pleased him immensely.

"Your wife has been chosen president, I believe," said Mr. Blake.

"Yes," replied Ezra, proudly, "and she was the one who conceived the
idea, the founder, one could justly say."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Sam.

Ezra smiled a broader smile as he looked at the interested, open-mouthed
men about him. Very likely he thought that the next best thing to being
a man himself was to have a manly wife.

"What did you say?" Ezra asked, turning toward Peter, who had spoken
from the depths of a sugar-barrel.

"Green tea, or black?" said Peter as he withdrew his head and shoulders
from the barrel, his face very red.

"Oh, green and black mixed, please," replied Ezra, and then picking up
the thread of the conversation where he had dropped it continued: "Yes,
Mrs. Tweedie founded the club, and is now its president. I feel
confident that it is going to be a grand thing for our town."

"How's that?" Sam asked, hoping to "set Ezra a-goin'," as he would have
expressed it.

"How?" repeated Ezra. "By lifting us out of the mire of ignorance, by
encouraging social intercourse, in fact, by broadening us in every way."

"You don't mean it!" exclaimed Sam.

"Yes, sir, I do mean it." Ezra did mean it at the time he spoke,
notwithstanding sentiments that he had previously expressed to the
contrary.

"What'd I tell you, Sam?" said Alick, vauntingly, and turning to Ezra,
added: "Sam, here, Mr. Tweedie, has been runnin' women folks down, and
we told him it was because he wasn't married."

"And you were right, Alick; a man who is unmarried is not competent to
judge women," Ezra replied.

"And a man that _is_ married don't dare to," retorted Sam.

The entrance of Doctor Jones at that moment saved Sam from a severe
tongue-lashing from the married men present.

The doctor was a jolly, generous soul who did twice as much work as he
was paid for, and was loved and hated after the manner of all general
practitioners of medicine. There were people in Manville who declared
that Doctor Jones could work miracles, while others said that he was a
butcher and a murderer; but men who have the courage to fight disease
and death are not often disturbed or injured by the wagging of
mischievous tongues.

"Well," said the doctor, as he sat down, "who is catching it to-night?"

"The woman's club," Sam promptly replied.

"The town is more stirred up over that club than it ever was about
anything before," laughed the doctor.

"Now, seein' we've got the question before us," said Sam, "s'pose you
give us your opinion."

"Oh, the club is all right, I guess," replied the doctor.

"There, Sam," said Alick, "I guess you're the only woman-hater in the
crowd."

"I ain't no woman-hater," replied Sam, indignantly.

"No," Alick laughed, "but you try to make us think you are."

"No such thing; all I want to know is, what's this woman's club for, and
how's it goin' to help Manville?"

"Well," drawled Alick, "it's _for_ the women, and it's goin' to help
Manville by showin' _you_ what an ignorant cuss _you_ be."

Sam threw a potato at his tormentor, but Alick dodged, and the missile
knocked off Ezra Tweedie's hat.

"No offence, Mr. Tweedie," said Alick, quickly, "strictly
unintentional."

"No harm, no harm," replied Ezra, as he got up and put on his hat; "but
I guess it is time for me to go if my things are ready, Mr. Stout."

Peter handed Ezra his basket, and then whispered something in his ear.
"Certainly, certainly," said Ezra, "it shall be attended to the first of
the week." And then turning to the others wished them, "Good evening,
gentlemen," walked quickly to the door, and went out.

"Ain't he the queerest little man you ever see?" observed Sam, when Ezra
had gone.

"Queer!" replied Alick, "he ain't any queerer in his way than you are in
yours."

"Well, I dunno; he's a little too womanish to suit me," said Sam.

"If you had a streak of it in you perhaps you'd show off better." Just
then the door was opened, and Barbara Wallace came in and started toward
the group of men, hesitated for a moment, and then stopped. The men took
the pipes from their mouths and stared at the woman in dripping
garments. She was evidently in great distress and looking for some one,
but the tobacco smoke was so thick, and the light so dim, that it was
difficult for her to distinguish the faces of the men present. Doctor
Jones got up and went toward her.

"Are you looking for some one, Miss Wallace?" he asked.

"Yes, doctor, I wanted you, and I hoped"--her voice trembled--"I hoped
to find Mr. Blake here, too." When the undertaker heard his name he
joined them.

"Who is it?" asked the doctor, anxiously. He had thought that his
patients were in no danger, at least for the night. Tears came to
Barbara's eyes.

"Bessie Duncan," she replied.

"Are you sure that she is--" the doctor hesitated.

"Yes, but you'll go, doctor, and you, too, won't you, Mr. Blake?"
Barbara pleaded. The expression on the undertaker's face was not
encouraging. "I know about the others," she continued, "but they have
had such a hard time, please go--for me, Mr. Blake. I'll--I--you can
come to me for the money."

"I'll go," said Mr. Blake; "never mind about the money."

"Come," was all that Barbara said as she started for the door followed
by the two men. The three went out into the rain and the darkness of the
night on their cheerless errand.

The talkers at the store were silent for a long time after that. They
had heard all that was said, though it was far from Barbara's intention
that they should, but she had been so eager to secure the assistance of
the doctor and Mr. Blake that she had thought only of them.

"So Miss Wallace wants to pay the bills of that mean, drunken skunk of a
Rufe Duncan," said Sam, fiercely.

"That ain't any of your business," retorted Alick. "If she wants to have
the little girl buried decent, what's the harm?"

"'Tain't her place," replied Sam, more for the sake of an argument than
because he believed it. "What do you say, Peter?"

"I say," Peter began, slowly, "I've heard about angels with wings, but
the only kind I've ever seen is just such little women as Miss Wallace
is."




Chapter X

A Rehearsal


SCENE I, Act IV., of the "Merchant of Venice" was on for rehearsal and
mutilation at the home of Mrs. Tweedie by a cast whose performance
assured a treat for the people of Manville.

Early that morning Mrs. Tweedie, having in mind the domestic friction
which had been displayed at the first meeting of the club, and desiring
to prevent the possibility of its recurrence, had sent her husband on a
long errand, given Dora permission to visit a cousin, and urged Tommy to
spend the day in the woods.

When the hour appointed for the rehearsal came, Miss Sawyer--at a
previous meeting appointed stage-directress--was bustling about
arranging chairs and table in an effort to make Mrs. Tweedie's parlour
resemble a court of justice in Venice. When she had completed her work,
the room looked as though house-cleaning was in progress. While this was
being done, the ladies who had parts in the scene huddled in the front
hall, and chatted in subdued tones. Anticipatory fear was already
hovering over them.

"I am ready, ladies," announced Miss Sawyer. The hearts of the amateur
actresses beat faster as they entered the parlour and gazed upon the
arrangement of the furniture.

"That," Miss Sawyer began to explain as she pointed to a large chair
flanked on each side by two smaller ones, "is where the Duke and
Magnificoes sit, and these chairs and tables down here and those on
either side are to be used by the other characters." If the scene was
set and played as arranged by Miss Sawyer it would resemble a minstrel
circle with the Duke as interlocutor, and Shylock and Antonio for
"bones" and "tambo."

"Where do we come in?" asked Mrs. Jones, timidly.

"When you've got something to say," said Mrs. Stout, before Miss Sawyer
had time to reply.

"We will only use one entrance," explained Miss Sawyer, when the laugh
that Mrs. Stout caused had subsided. "It will be much easier to
remember, and accordingly will prevent confusion. And that," she said,
waving her hand toward one side of the room, "is where the audience is
supposed to be. Now if the cast will please step back into the hall we
will begin."

The "cast" solemnly filed from the room, and Miss Sawyer, book in hand,
took up a position in the centre of the stage.

"'Enter the Duke, the Magnificoes, Antonio, Bassanio, Gratiano, Salerio,
and others,'" she read.

"Who's goin' to be the 'others'?" called Mrs. Stout. Miss Sawyer made no
reply, and the rest did not laugh because each of them, excepting Mrs.
Tweedie and Mrs. Stout, when the name of the character she was to play
was read, had a nervous chill. Miss Sawyer waited patiently for some one
to enter, but no one stirred.

"Who goes in first?" asked Mrs. Blake.

"The Duke," replied Miss Sawyer.

"Goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout. "Have I got to be the first one?"

"Certainly; come right in and act as naturally as you can," said Miss
Sawyer, with a patronizing air of encouragement.

Mrs. Stout entered, followed by her "soot," as she called it, and stood
staring at the open book before her--dumb.

"Well?" Miss Sawyer looked up inquiringly.

"Shall I say what I've got to now?" asked Mrs. Stout.

"Yes, but face the audience first." Strange to relate, Mrs. Stout
seemed to be confused. She turned, but the wrong way. "No, no," Miss
Sawyer corrected, nervously, "this way."

"Oh," said Mrs. Stout, as she faced in the right direction and began to
read.

"It's your turn, Mrs. Blake," prompted Miss Sawyer, when Mrs. Stout had
read her first line. (One would have thought that they were playing
croquet.)

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Blake, all in a flutter, "is it?" and then when she
had found the place, read, "'Ready, so please your grace.'"

And so the rehearsal of the famous scene hitched along until the
approach of Shylock was announced. Mrs. Tweedie, who was to play the
part, was ready, and entered at precisely the right moment with her
accustomed assurance. And when Mrs. Stout had waded and stumbled through
the long speech of the Duke to Shylock, Mrs. Tweedie, scorning to look
at her book, began her lines. She had seen a famous actor play the part,
and tried to imitate him, but failed horribly.

Harmony prevailed until Mrs. Jones balked at a word in the text that a
lady of the Morning Glory Club would not use--outside of her family
circle.

"I cannot, will not, use such a word!" she exclaimed, with tears in her
eyes.

"But, my dear Mrs. Jones," entreated Mrs. Tweedie, "this is the work of
Shakespeare, a classic."

"Umph!" grunted Mrs. Stout, who had discovered the word in question. "If
such words are all right here, then our men folks are quoting the
classics and the Bible most of the time."

"My dear ladies," interposed Miss Sawyer, "you do not seem to understand
the sense in which the word is used; your view-point is incorrect."

"Well," said Mrs. Stout, "I know that when my husband quotes the
classics folks most always _see_ the point."

"Oh, bother!" interrupted Fanny Tweedie. "Let's skip the naughty words;
I'm just dying to have this rehearsal over with."

"Fanny," reproved Mrs. Tweedie. "Do proceed, Mrs. Jones, I am sure that
as we go on we will find a way out of the difficulty."

Mrs. Jones went on with her part, mouthing her lines meaninglessly.

"'The quality of Mercy is not strain'd--'" read Fanny Tweedie, in a
strained voice.

Mrs. Stout interrupted her by innocently observing: "I wonder why
Shakespeare used so many old sayin's."

Mrs. Tweedie and Miss Sawyer turned pale; Fanny Tweedie giggled
unreproved, and then another of those painful silences prevailed.

"Mrs. Stout," said Mrs. Tweedie, when she could control herself, "_we_
have been quoting Shakespeare for over three hundred years; _he_ never
quoted anybody."

"My!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout; then she laughingly added: "Perhaps you and
Miss Sawyer have been quotin' him for three hundred years, but I'm
mighty sure that I ain't."

"When I said _we_ I meant the world," replied Mrs. Tweedie, haughtily.

"Oh," said Mrs. Stout, and the incident was closed.

"What an unfeeling wretch that Shylock was," observed Mrs. Blake, after
the rehearsal had continued without interruption for several minutes.
"It makes me shudder to think of such a man. How are you going to dress
for the part, Mrs. Tweedie?"

"I shall endeavour to dress appropriately, and as becomes my sex,"
replied Mrs. Tweedie.

"Ladies, let us not waste valuable time talking dress," said Miss
Sawyer, impatiently.

"What's the harm, I'd like to know; who's got a better right to talk
about dress than us women?" asked Mrs. Stout, pertly.

"But is the subject appropriate at this time?" retorted Miss Sawyer.

"It's always appropriate," replied Mrs. Stout. "A woman can't be happy
unless she's well dressed, or thinks she is, any more'n a man can be
good-natured on an empty stomach."

"Which proves the inferiority of the _other sex_," said Mrs. Tweedie.

"Ump! I don't know about that," replied Mrs. Stout. "We make just as big
fools of ourselves about dressin' as the men do about eatin' and
drinkin'."

"Indeed, and is it not commendable to appear as well as one can?"
queried Mrs. Tweedie.

"That's all right," retorted Mrs. Stout, "if it ended there, but it
don't. Most women folks would wear a smile, a pink ribbon, and rings on
their toes if the fashion papers said it was proper, and then wonder why
the men stared at 'em."

"Because some women err in such matters, are we--" remonstrated Mrs.
Jones, mildly, but Fanny interrupted her.

"Oh," she exclaimed, in her explosive manner, "I'm in the greatest luck!
Miss Wallace is going to let me take her graduation cap and gown. I've
tried them on and the effect is just killing."

"You are very fortunate, and how is Miss Wallace?" asked Mrs. Blake.

"Tired out," replied Fanny, "running around calling on sick children."

"I have heard," said Mrs. Darling, "that Miss Wallace spent an evening
at the store a few days ago."

"There ain't a word of truth in it!" hotly replied Mrs. Stout. "She went
there just for a minute to get Doctor Jones and Mr. Blake the night
little Bessie Duncan died. The way such lies travel beats automobiles."

"Oh, of course, I didn't believe it for one moment," simpered Mrs.
Darling, "and I wouldn't say a word to injure her for worlds--she's such
a _lovely_ girl."

"Girl," said Mrs. Thornton, "she's every day of twenty-five."

"Why!" exclaimed Mrs. Blake, "I wouldn't have believed it."

"Well," drawled Mrs. Stout, "it's a long time since any of us, 'ceptin'
Fanny, was that age."

"Mrs. Stout will speak the truth at all times," remarked Mrs. Tweedie,
sarcastically.

"Somebody's got to tell it," retorted Mrs. Stout.

"Pardon me, ladies," said Miss Sawyer, "but we have drifted away from
the work of the great poet."

"Poet!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout. "Was Shakespeare a poet?"

"Certainly," replied Miss Sawyer, impatiently.

"And is this play poetry?"

"Yes, much of it."

"Well!" Mrs. Stout's astonishment equalled her ignorance.

"Do you object greatly to poetry?" asked Mrs. Tweedie.

"Oh, no," replied Mrs. Stout, "poetry is good, like angel-cake, but you
can't live on it."

The laugh that followed cleared the atmosphere, and the rehearsal
continued. As it progressed the ladies gained courage, and declaimed
their lines in what they thought was a professional manner. Miss Sawyer
was pleased and beamed on them encouragingly, suggesting now and then a
gesture, inflection, or "business," but, despite her efforts to keep
them constantly on the dramatic road, digressions were frequent.

"I wonder if Miss Wallace cares anything about Will Flint," said Mrs.
Thornton to Mrs. Darling, when they were alone in a corner of the hall
waiting their "turn."

"I am sure that _I_ don't know, but I have heard that he was very fond
of her, and that he walks to and from school with her almost every day."

"Really! and hasn't he anything else to do?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. Of course you know that there are mysterious,
disagreeable stories about him, and that for a minister's son he
is--er--well--"

"I understand perfectly."

"'There's a skeleton--' you know the saying, and--" Just then the
gossipers heard the rustle of skirts in the hall above, followed by the
sound of a door being closed. They looked at each other in dismay.

"Do you suppose?" gasped Mrs. Darling, in alarm.

"I'll find out," replied Mrs. Thornton, as she went to the parlour door
and beckoned to Fanny Tweedie.

"What do you want?" asked Fanny, as she came into the hall.

"Sh! Is--er--Miss Wallace at home?" whispered Mrs. Darling.

"Yes," Fanny replied. "Why?"

"Oh!" gasped the culprits.

"What _will_ she think of us?" groaned Mrs. Darling.

"What are you folks whisperin' about?" asked Mrs. Stout at that moment
as she came out into the hall and joined them. Fanny laughed, she had
guessed the cause of Mrs. Darling's and Mrs. Thornton's discomfiture,
and enjoyed the situation.

"Well," whispered Mrs. Thornton in reply to Mrs. Stout's question, "we,
Dolly and I, were talking out here, and we happened to mention--we spoke
of Will Flint and Miss Wallace, and we think that perhaps she--"

"Heard," interrupted Mrs. Darling.

"Good 'nough for you," said Mrs. Stout.

"Sh! But we didn't say a word that she could object to," continued Mrs.
Thornton.

"At least about her," added Mrs. Darling.

"But," said Mrs. Stout, "you did say somethin' about Willie Flint
that--"

"Hush!" exclaimed the guilty ones.

"I thought so," said Mrs. Stout, lowering her voice. "But let me tell
you that I believe that Willie Flint ain't half as bad as some folks try
to make him out to be, and as for he and Miss Wallace--"

"It is your turn, Mrs. Darling," called Miss Sawyer from the parlour.
The whisperers returned to their work, but in the minds of two of them
were many misgivings.

"Serves her right," whispered Mrs. Darling to Mrs. Thornton at the first
opportunity.

"Indeed it does," was her friend's reply.

The aspirants for histrionic laurels rehearsed the scene twice, and then
sat down to talk it over.

"What I can't understand," said Mrs. Blake, "is why Bassanio and
Gratiano didn't know Portia and Nerissa, with whom they were in love."

"Portia and Nerissa were dressed as men," replied Mrs. Jones.

"And supposed to be miles away," added Miss Sawyer.

"Well," Mrs. Stout began, "all I've got to say is that most men know
their best girls when they see 'em, no matter what they've got on.
Goodness!" she exclaimed as she glanced at the clock. "If it ain't
twelve o'clock! My Peter's dinner will be late, and all on account of
William Shakespeare."




Chapter XI

The Narrow Way


"MRS. FLINT," said the Reverend Elijah one morning when the family of
three were at breakfast, "during the past week I have heard frequently
of the contemplated theatrical performance by the members, and for the
benefit, of the woman's club."

"Yes," replied Mrs. Flint, timidly, "everybody seems to be looking
forward to it with pleasure."

"That was not the point I was about to make," said the parson, curtly.
"You, of course, know that I disapprove of such pastimes."

"Why, yes, certainly, but it all was planned without my approval,"
explained his wife.

"Naturally, if you considered the dignity demanded of you as the wife of
a clergyman." The heavy, rounded shoulders of this conventional
clergyman were raised slightly, and his dull eyes peered over his
spectacles at the troubled face of Mrs. Flint.

"But, Elijah--" she faltered.

"I have given the matter careful thought," interrupted the parson, "and
have arrived at the conclusion that this performance is uncalled for,
unbecoming, undignified, and unnecessary." Mr. Flint never left the
church--he was in the pulpit always, and for ever preaching.

"Elijah!" gasped his wife.

The parson's alliterative denouncement amused his son in the same degree
that it caused his wife's dismay, and it was with difficulty that Will
controlled his mirth.

"And furthermore," Mr. Flint continued, "it is my desire that you sever
your connection with the organization immediately."

"But, Elijah, I am deeply interested in the work, and we--we need the
money--I mean the club does," faltered Mrs. Flint.

"The evil one," said the parson, impressively, "employs many means and
uses countless disguises for that unholy purpose."

"But surely you do not think that the principles of our club are wrong?"

"Not wholly; but the method pursued to further your purposes is far from
my interpretation of right."

"But the other ladies, many of them belong to our church, and they--"

"Over them, in such matters, I have but feeble control," sighed the good
man. "Were it possible I would put a stop to the performance at any
cost."

"What's the harm, father?" asked Will, who saw that his mother was
certain to lose the argument, and pitied her.

"William," said the parson, turning on his son, "your knowledge of such
matters is infinitesimal. The stage is not real, it is but a show of
puppets, and by persons of uncertain character."

"But," persisted Will, "what have the morals of actors got to do with
the stage and plays?"

"What have the morals of a preacher got to do with his sermons? In the
church, and out of it, is not every action watched, every word listened
to and repeated? Is he not supposed to be an example?"

"Yes, father, but after all he is only a man."

"An exemplary one."

"Usually," said Will in a way that neither his father nor mother
understood. For several minutes they ate in silence.

"I thought," began Mrs. Flint with renewed courage, "that Shakespeare's
works were above reproach."

"So they are; there's no finer reading, no clearer understanding of
human nature than in the plays of Shakespeare; but the performance of
them is simply the making believe by actors that they are what they are
not," patiently explained the parson. Will choked over his coffee in an
effort to keep from laughing.

"Of course," sighed Mrs. Flint, resignedly, "if you insist I will leave
the club."

"Let your action be guided by your own judgment, and consideration for
the principles which I believe to be true. Perhaps the example of a
worthy sister of our church who has already taken the step may make it
easier for you to decide," said the parson in milder tones.

"Why, whom do you mean?" asked Mrs. Flint in surprise.

"Mrs. Deacon Walton."

"Has she resigned?"

"She has, or will at the next meeting, so her husband informed me last
evening."

"Then of course I must do likewise," said Mrs. Flint, a little piqued to
learn that Mrs. Walton had been the first to comply with the demands of
their church.

"I knew that you could be relied upon to do your duty," replied the
parson, triumphantly.

"But, father," said Will, quickly, with a trace of indignation in his
voice, "is it her duty to deny herself something that she believes to be
right? Is it right for her to do a thing just because you wish it?"

"I consider it so. Sometimes we do not see, or understand, our duty as
clearly as others. In that case, when we are guided by some one who is
in a position to know, it is certainly right to do a thing, which, at
the time, is against our own will." The parson was irritated by his
son's interference, and spoke sharply.

"You may be right, but I can't seem to understand," said Will,
respectfully. "But then my ideas, and ideals, are usually in opposition
to yours; you are always positive that you are right, and I am equally
certain that I am right; we are father and son, why do we always
differ?"

"You are young, I am old; the world changes," replied the parson,
shortly.

"But other men of your age have changed with the world."

"My son, while I do not live wholly in the past, I must cling to the
customs and beliefs of my youth."

"But the stage, father," persisted Will, with an earnestness that was
strange for him, "in regard to that the ideas of most men have changed,
and no one has been harmed; in fact, have we not been benefited?"

"No," replied the parson, "no one ever has, or ever will, receive good
from it." He had little respect for the opinion of his son, rebelled at
what he considered his disrespectful argument, and was determined not to
budge from the stand which he had taken.

"This performance that the club is to give," continued Will, "can do no
harm, you must grant that, and the ladies who are to take part are of
unquestioned character."

"True, in regard to the ladies, more's the pity; but the play, my son,
professional or amateur, is wrong. As for the club itself, and all
organizations of women outside of the church, I am not sure but that
they are an unfortunate experiment--sowers of discord and discontent."
The parson was unmistakably angry.

"Do you really believe that women should not be permitted to organize,
to enjoy the companionship of others, outside of the home, after the
manner of men? Do you believe that their ideals should be fixed, and no
opportunity given to heighten and beautify them?" Will asked these
questions with deliberation and without raising his voice, yet there
were unmistakable signs of a controlled force that would have been
impossible in a man who did not love a woman. The parson glared at his
son for a moment before replying. "I repeat, it is an experiment--an
experiment," he growled as he left the table and went to his study.
Narrow was the way of this man, his creed was his religion; he loved his
books more than he loved men; in name only was he a minister of God.

"I'm sorry, mother," said Will when the study door was closed. "Are you
going to resign?"

"Yes," she replied, and there were tears in her eyes.

"There's no need of it," said Will, quickly.

"I've got to," continued Mrs. Flint.

"No, you haven't," replied Will, savagely.

"Will!" exclaimed his mother. "It is your father's wish."

"Well," replied Will, in a calmer tone, "if I ever marry, I hope that I
shall have sense enough to let my wife decide such questions for
herself."

"You, married?" said Mrs. Flint, "why, Will, I--"

"I said, 'if,' mother," he laughed. "I must go to work first, and then
if I find some one--"

"Will, are you sure that you have not found some one already?" she
asked, and her voice trembled.

Will turned and looked out of the window. He dared not meet her eyes.
Had his mother guessed his secret?




Chapter XII

Girl Talk


"WHAT are you going to wear?" asked Fanny Tweedie, one afternoon while
she and Barbara Wallace were rehearsing the scene from the "Lady of
Lyons" which they, with Mrs. Blake, were to play at the club
theatricals.

"What are the others, who are to play the part of men, going to wear?"
questioned Barbara in reply.

"Oh, dresses fixed up in some outlandish way, but I had hoped that
you--" said the amateur Pauline, impatiently.

"Would wear something out of the ordinary," Barbara interrupted,
smilingly.

"Yes," replied Fanny, "Claude Melnotte should wear something--something
unexpected."

Barbara laughed, but Fanny stood looking at her doubtfully.

"What in the world are you laughing at, Barbara Wallace?" she demanded.

"How would you define, or describe, an 'unexpected' costume?" asked
Barbara.

"Oh," replied Fanny, "is that what amused you? I meant something
stunning, something that would make the people talk for weeks,
something--"

"Dear me, don't go on like that, Fanny, it's too horrible, too
impossible. I have an idea for a costume, but--"

"Well, tell me what your idea is."

"But I'm not sure yet. When--"

"Please, Barbara--"

"But, Fanny, I don't know myself. When I do--"

"I promise not to breathe a word," persisted Fanny, coaxingly.

"You shall be the first to know when I have decided," said Barbara. She
liked Fanny despite her shallow nature, and Fanny was "awfully fond" of
Barbara, and talked less about her to others than she did about anybody
else.

"There's no use talking," said Fanny when she saw that Barbara could not
be teased into describing the costume she was to wear, "some of the
ladies are simply fearful in their parts, and I'm afraid that they will
be laughed at when they appear in public."

"No doubt," replied Barbara, "if, by 'in public,' you mean before the
residents of Manville."

"Yes, of course that's what I mean," Fanny continued. "_Everybody_ will
be there. The club and what it is doing has caused more talk than
anything that has happened since the Declaration of Independence. And
since Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Walton have resigned, and everybody knows that
_Mr._ Flint is dreadfully set against the club and its theatricals, the
Morning Glories have had a boom."

"Some one certainly has advertised us," said Barbara, much amused. Will
had told her of the domestic scene at the parsonage.

"I suppose," continued Fanny, "that you knew all about Mrs. Flint's
resigning before any of the rest of us." Barbara's face betrayed her.
"Aren't you mean," Fanny went on, "not to tell."

"You little goose," replied Barbara, "what would you think of me if I
ran and told everything that I knew about the minister's
family--supposing that I ever did know anything about their affairs."
Fanny did not think it mean for some folks to run and tell, but she
would have been surprised if Barbara had done so.

"You might tell _me_," she pouted.

Barbara put her arm about Fanny, girl-fashion, and kissed her.

"Fanny, dear," she said, "there's something that I will tell you,
something that I haven't told to a soul in the whole world." Fanny was
all smiles and attention in an instant, and warmly squeezed Barbara's
hand.

"I knew you would," she exclaimed.

"Mr. Flint--" Barbara began, but Fanny interrupted her.

"The minister?"

"No, the other Mr. Flint."

"Oh."

"Mr. Flint--"

"Why don't you call him Will, or Billy?"

Barbara did not choose to answer that question. A _Mr._ persistently
used, is often a good sign--for the young man.

"Mr. Flint," Barbara began again, "is going away."

"To work?"

"Yes."

"Oh, isn't that lovely!"

"Yes," replied Barbara, without enthusiasm.

"I mean, isn't it splendid to think that he is going to do something--be
somebody."

"Was he not somebody before?" asked Barbara, quickly.

"Yes, of course, but--you know how people have talked about him."

"And half that they have said is not true," said Barbara, resentfully.

"You and I know it, but the others don't. Most folks like to hear and
believe horrible things about somebody else." (Fanny was wiser than she
knew.) "When is he going?"

"To-morrow."

"And aren't you going to see him again before he goes?"

"Yes," Barbara replied as a pink flush spread over her cheeks,
"to-night."




Chapter XIII

Jingle Bells


AT four o'clock the next morning Mrs. Tweedie was awakened by the
ringing of the door-bell. She sat up in bed and listened until it rang
again.

"Ezra," she whispered, as she shook her sleeping husband.

"What's the matter?" asked Ezra, sleepily.

"Some one is ringing the door-bell."

"Who is it?" he yawned.

"How should I know? Get up and see."

Ezra crawled out of bed, lighted a lamp, put on his dressing-gown, and
started down-stairs. When he had gone Mrs. Tweedie got up, put on her
glasses, lighted a match, peered at the clock, and then muttered,
"Disgraceful!"

Ezra asked, "Who is it?" before opening the door, and when he recognized
the voice that replied nearly dropped the lamp so great was his
astonishment.

"Miss Wallace!" he gasped, as he opened the door.

"I am sorry that I had to disturb you, Mr. Tweedie," was all that
Barbara said as she hurried past him. Ezra closed and locked the door,
went up-stairs, looked at the clock and then at his wife.

"Where has she been?" he asked, as he blew out the light, and got into
bed.

"What does it matter where she has been?" replied Mrs. Tweedie. "Is it
not enough that she has been _out_ until four o'clock in the morning?"
Ezra certainly thought it strange, but did not venture to offer any
excuses. "And to think," continued Mrs. Tweedie, "after all that we have
done for her (and Barbara had paid for), that she should bring disgrace
to our home in this manner!"

"But, my dear," replied Mr. Tweedie, soothingly, "perhaps there is some
good reason."

"Impossible!" snapped his wife. Ezra gave it up and went to sleep, but
Mrs. Tweedie spent the remainder of the night thinking dreadful things,
and the most exasperating thought was that she did not know--she could
only imagine.

The explanation or true story of the events of that night (escapade it
was called afterward by many) was simple, though none the less important
to those most concerned. Barbara had been invited by Will Flint to go on
a sleigh-ride. She was ready at the appointed time, and, hearing him
drive up and stop, had gone out before he came to the door without
telling Mrs. Tweedie where she was going. Mrs. Tweedie considered this
omission a suspicious circumstance. She sat up until eleven o'clock, and
then, being determined to know at what time Barbara returned, locked the
door so that it could not be opened with a latch-key, and went to bed.

Will and Barbara chatted cheerfully as they drove away from the village
into the real country where they were alone with the black forest, the
fields of glistening snow, and the great white moon. Will was happy, and
Barbara--at first she had regretted her promise to go, but after an hour
had gone by a feeling of contentment and security stole over her, and
she too was happy.

They had turned toward home and were going down a hill at a rapid gait
when one of the runners of the sleigh slipped into an icy rut, and the
borrowed, dilapidated affair collapsed. Nothing was injured except the
sleigh, but they were ten miles from home, and not a house in sight.
After Will had crawled out of the wreck, and helped Barbara to
disentangle herself, he unhitched the horse and drew the remains of the
sleigh to the side of the road. There was nothing for them to do except
walk, so they started off with the horse led behind. The nearest house
was three miles, but Barbara and Will did not know when they passed it,
or the next, and would not have stopped if they had. Their thoughts were
of each other and the future, as they walked, hand in hand, along the
white road that gleamed in the moonlight, and stretched away into-- Only
Barbara and Will, and the tired old horse plodding along behind, knew
just what was said during that walk, but when they arrived at Mrs.
Tweedie's gate Barbara had a man's love in her keeping, and Will had the
promise of an answer when he had won it.

At breakfast that morning Barbara told that part of the story necessary
to explain the hour at which she had returned. Fanny thought it must
have been a great lark, and Mr. Tweedie and Tommy agreed with her, but
Mrs. Tweedie looked sour and incredulous.

Later in the day Mrs. Tweedie learned that Will Flint had left town
early that morning. Here was a mystery, she thought, and she did not
rest until the whole story, or all that she could gather and imagine of
it, was tucked away in her head with all the rest of her false ideas and
ideals. In collecting the details she had found it necessary to barter
news for news, and when she had finished her calls, all Manville knew
that Barbara Wallace and Will Flint had been on a sleigh-ride the night
before, and had not returned until four o'clock that morning.

Poor Barbara, she anticipated disagreeable talk, but thoughts of those
hours of the night before, and the earnest love of a strong man, soon
drove away her fears. He had gone, but for her sake, and when he
returned she knew what her answer would be.




Chapter XIV

More Talk


"ARE we all here?" asked Mrs. Tweedie, one afternoon as she glanced
about Miss Sawyer's parlour to see how many members of the play
committee were present.

"All except Miss Wallace," Miss Sawyer replied, when she had counted
noses.

"And she will not be here," said Mrs. Tweedie, quickly. "The schools
have been opened."

"Ain't it a relief to have the children in school again, Mis' Jones?"
asked Mrs. Stout.

"Indeed it is," replied Mrs. Jones.

"Why, Mrs. Stout, Mrs. Jones!" exclaimed Miss Sawyer. "Do you send your
children to school merely to relieve yourselves of responsibility? I
have thought always that children were sent to school to be educated."

"So they are," replied Mrs. Stout, "but if they can be educated, and at
the same time be kept away from home long enough ev'ry day to give their
mothers a chance to do the housework, why, I say that school is a twin
blessin'."

"That is just what I think," said Mrs. Jones, in an amen sort of way.
"And I'm sure that the children in Miss Wallace's school have an
excellent woman to instruct and care for them."

"As a teacher, yes," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "but--" she stopped abruptly,
and looked wise.

"Mother," said Fanny, reprovingly.

"Fanny, I am capable of managing such affairs without the interference
of girls," replied Mrs. Tweedie, sharply.

"Pardon me, but is it not time to begin our meeting?" Miss Sawyer asked,
timidly.

"Yes, it is!" replied Mrs. Stout. "The play committee's off the track
again."

"Well, let us get on to the track and go ahead," said Mrs. Tweedie,
sneeringly.

"What's this meetin' for, anyway?" asked Mrs. Stout.

The ladies looked inquiringly at Miss Sawyer, who had called them
together.

"There are many details," she began, "to be worked out in regard to our
entertainment: programmes, tickets, music, advertising--"

She was interrupted by Mrs. Stout who was suddenly overcome by a spasm
of laughter.

"Advertisin'!" she choked, "people for ten miles--" another burst of
laughter prevented her from continuing for a moment. "People for ten
miles 'round are talkin' about nothin' else. Don't spend a cent for
advertisin'."

"Quite true," added Mrs. Tweedie, "our club and entertainment are in the
mouths of everybody."

"And I'm 'fraid they've got a hard pill to swaller," said Mrs. Stout,
wiping her eyes.

"What do you mean?" Mrs. Tweedie quickly demanded.

"Oh, nothin' against anybody in pertic'ler, only it has struck me that
some of us old women in the show are goin' to be dreadful funny when we
ain't s'posed to be."

"The people know that we do not pretend to be more than amateurs,"
pleaded Miss Sawyer.

"I know that," replied Mrs. Stout, "but there are good and bad
amatoors."

"It is too bad of you to say such things, Mrs. Stout," said Mrs. Blake.
"I am sure that we shall do quite as well as we are expected to do."

"Of course," smiled Mrs. Stout, "but we're bound to make mistakes, and
we don't want to be any bigger fools than we can help."

"Fools indeed!" snapped Mrs. Tweedie, "I am sure that the ladies who are
to take part in our entertainment are of exceptional intelligence and
ability--with one or two exceptions."

"And I'm prob'ly the biggest exception," said Mrs. Stout.

"I mentioned no names," replied Mrs. Tweedie, haughtily.

"You don't have to," retorted Mrs. Stout.

Mrs. Tweedie's face was flushed with anger. The others looked
frightened, they feared that the open rupture between Mrs. Stout and
Mrs. Tweedie, which had been brewing since the first meeting of the
club, was about to take place. But Mrs. Tweedie's anger was too intense
for words, and after glaring at the cause of her wrath for a moment, she
sank back in her chair with the last word trembling on her
lips--unspoken.

To dictate, to be absolute, was Mrs. Tweedie's joy--her life; but her
power was waning, though she did not realize it. A mild spirit of
rebellion had crept into the minds of some of the members which promised
to bear fruit before the expiration of her term of office. Mrs. Stout,
the only outspoken rebel, caused Mrs. Tweedie more annoyance than any
other member because she would speak truths that were certain to hit
somebody, and Mrs. Tweedie always presented the most tempting mark.

"What have you learned concerning the orchestra, Mrs. Jones?" asked
Miss Sawyer when the temporary cessation of talk had cleared away the
clouds.

"Orchestra!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, without giving Mrs. Jones a chance to
reply. "An orchestra will cost too much. Can't we get somebody to play
the piano for nothing? We're tryin' to make money--anybody can spend
it."

Mrs. Tweedie had set her heart upon having an orchestra, and immediately
trained her guns on Mrs. Stout's economical proposition and opened fire.

"Money is not the only thing," she said, epigrammatically. "We must not
forget what we owe to art. To my mind orchestral music is an absolutely
essential adjunct to a Thespian production."

"Perhaps that's so," replied Mrs. Stout, doubtfully. "I ain't quite
pos'tive."

Mrs. Tweedie smiled. With her big words she had scored a bull's-eye.

"As for the money," Mrs. Stout continued, "maybe it ain't the 'only
thing,' but it comes precious near it."

"But, Mrs. Stout," said Fanny Tweedie, "we've just _got_ to make a
'hit' with our first entertainment."

"Fanny, we are not talking about baseball," remonstrated Mrs. Tweedie,
who had absorbed unconsciously some knowledge of the national game from
her son Thomas, and for the moment forgot the application to the stage
of the word in question.

"The word 'hit' means success on the stage," replied Fanny. "Does it
not, Miss Sawyer?"

"I have seen the word so used in the newspapers," answered Miss Sawyer.

"The newspapers," said Mrs. Tweedie, sharply, "are not written in the
best English."

"Perhaps they ain't," interposed Mrs. Stout, "but they're written the
way most of us talk and so that we can understand 'em."

"The word has little to do with the business before us," snapped Mrs.
Tweedie, dismissing the subject. "You mentioned programmes and tickets,
Miss Sawyer, what about them?"

"The expense will be only a trifle; I suppose Mr. Hunter will do the
printing," replied Miss Sawyer.

"Of course," said Mrs. Tweedie, in a positive way that the ladies did
not like, because Mr. Hunter was Mrs. Tweedie's cousin, a descendant of
the famous ancestor. "And now," she continued, "is there anything else
that has not been attended to?"

"Has the hall been hired?" asked Mrs. Jones.

"Really!" exclaimed Miss Sawyer, "I had wholly forgotten it!"

"You'd better get after it quick, or some of the men folks will get
ahead of us with some kind of a political meetin'," said Mrs. Stout.
"Then we'll have to 'stoop to conquer' all right."

"You will attend to the matter to-day, Miss Sawyer?" Mrs. Tweedie asked,
and upon receiving an affirmative nod continued, "And now, if there
is--"

"Oh," interrupted Mrs. Jones, "what shall we do about Mr. Flint? He is
so firmly opposed to our entertainment that--"

"He's our advertisin' agent," remarked Mrs. Stout, irreverently.

"What _can_ we do?" said Miss Sawyer.

"What can _he_ do?" asked Fanny.

"It grieves me," Mrs. Tweedie began, "to think that we are engaged upon
an enterprise to which our worthy pastor is so much opposed, but I do
not see my way clear to yield to his opposition. Surely the club cannot
give up the entertainment."

"All we can do," said Mrs. Stout, "is to go ahead with the show and pay
no attention to what he says."

"Mrs. Stout, our entertainment is not to be a 'show' in any sense,"
replied Mrs. Tweedie, indignantly.

"As I said once before to-day, it may be for some of us," retorted Mrs.
Stout.

"Well, I attend Mr. Flint's church," said Mrs. Jones, "and have the
greatest respect for him, but I must say that I cannot fully agree with
him in his ideas about the stage."

"Nor I," said Miss Sawyer.

"He's too stiff-backed for me," was Mrs. Stout's contribution.

"Me too," chirped Fanny, and her mother and Mrs. Blake silently agreed
with the others. For once they were of one mind. Mr. Flint could rave
until he was hoarse.

"For the land sakes!" suddenly exclaimed Mrs. Stout, as she sat up very
straight with her eyes fixed upon something on the other side of the
room. Then, as though controlled by some mysterious, irresistible force,
she got up and walked toward the mantel, and when near enough to be
sure that her eyes were not deceiving her, stopped. "If it ain't a
picture of Sam Billin's!"

Miss Sawyer blushed, and wondered how she could have been so careless.
Poor Lizzie, with her Sam was a sort of "forlorn hope," and everybody
knew it, but Mrs. Stout did not spare her.

"It's usually pretty serious when he gets 'round to givin' his picture,"
she said. "I wouldn't have believed it, Miss Sawyer, because Sam ain't
exactly your kind. To be sure he's got some good points, but he ain't
literary a mite."

"Mrs. Stout," said Mrs. Tweedie, angrily, "we came here this morning to
transact business connected with our entertainment, and _not_ to meddle
with the affairs of others."

"Well," replied Mrs. Stout, good-naturedly, "we seem to have done both
pretty well."

"I _must_ be going," said Mrs. Jones, as she jumped up and bustled about
getting her things and began putting them on. The others followed her
example and thus again was the rupture that seemed inevitable between
Mrs. Tweedie and Mrs. Stout postponed.

When they had gone Miss Sawyer took the photograph of Sam Billings from
the mantel, looked at it for a long time, and then, with a sigh which
could not be suppressed, she hid the picture in a drawer beneath a
package of photographs of forgotten friends.




Chapter XV

Two Letters


WILL--FRIEND:--Since my last letter much has happened in Manville of
interest to us both--more than I have time to tell now. The schools
opened last Monday, and the children really seemed glad to get
back--especially the dirty ones. I have discovered that work gives more
happiness than idleness and the gossip of the village.

Many versions of the story of our accident have been circulated the
length and breadth of the land. Since then Mrs. Tweedie has kept me at
arm's length, but Fanny has become a real friend, one whom I need and
appreciate.

Every spare moment we spend rehearsing the scene that we are to give at
the club entertainment.

The Morning Glories are blooming all the time, and the entertainment is
expected to be the event of the season.

I called on the Duncans yesterday. Rufe has reformed, temporarily, at
least, and Mrs. Duncan, poor creature, is happier than she has been for
many years.

They had found out who put the flowers on little Bessie's grave, and
were very grateful.

Good Mrs. Stout continues to keep people and things stirred up. I
imagine that her motto must be "The Truth, the whole Truth, and nothing
but the Truth." I never would have believed that the truth spoken at all
times, regardless of anybody and everything, could be so amusingly
disturbing.

What you have written about your work is very interesting--please tell
me more. Whenever I rehearse the part that I am to play there are
many--many lines that send my thoughts to you. The closing words are
best: "All angels guard and keep you."

                                                     BARBARA.

    _January seventeenth._


    Jan. 20, 18--.

MY DEAR BARBARA:--Until I went away and began to receive your letters I
never knew what a real letter was like. When I was at college, father
wrote me a weekly sermon, and mother sent pages of don'ts. They are
doing the same now, but you send me what I need--cheerfulness and
encouragement.

My work continues to be interesting, though hard, but hard work is what
I need, too. Until now, I never knew how satisfying it could be. I never
knew what it was to feel like a man until I began the struggle urged on
by love for a good woman.

From your letters I have received the impression that my native town is
being stirred up in a manner that must be a revelation to the
inhabitants who have been asleep for so many years. If the Morning
Glories never do anything else they will have accomplished a great deal.
I know that you will be splendid in your part, and hope to be able to
come down to see you, but cannot be sure until the last moment.

I have resumed my evening studies and take much pleasure in them.

Since I have been here I have attended church regularly--something that
I have not done since I was physically big enough to refuse--and please
don't laugh when I confess that I enjoy the service very much.

The sermons are different from any that I have ever heard before. The
clergyman seems to be talking to _me_, about clean thoughts and right
living. And when the service is over I feel stronger and better, and
that the world is a beautiful place. It is beautiful, Barbara, because
you are in it. Each day I long so much to see you. What is there that I
would not give for one moment in your presence? As it is, your letters
are my life.

                                                          WILL.




Chapter XVI

Advertising


"HOW d'y'," said Sam Billings, one morning as he sauntered into Stout's
Grocery, where the proprietor was busily engaged sorting a barrel of
apples.

"Mornin'," replied Peter.

"Nice kind of weather."

"Yes."

"How's things?"

"Nothin' to complain about."

"You're lucky."

"You mean I 'tend to business."

"What's that got to do with luck?"

"Most everything."

"What you gettin' for apples now?" Sam asked as he picked up one of the
largest and took a huge bite.

"Nothin'--for some," replied Peter, without looking up.

"Give 'em away?" munched Sam, innocently.

"Don't have to."

"You mean some folks pay, and some folks don't?"

"Somethin' like that."

"And them that do pay have to make up for them that don't," Sam
chuckled, wisely.

"That's about it," replied Peter, wearily, as he rolled the empty barrel
toward the rear of the store.

"Say, Peter," said Sam, following, "I want to borrer some big sheets of
wrappin' paper and your markin' ink and brush, if you don't mind."

"Goin' to write a letter?" grinned Peter.

"Now, Peter, quit your teasin'. I'll tell you all about it when it's
finished."

"All right, help yourself," said Peter, as he went behind the counter,
and turned an attentive ear, and a smiling what-will-you-have-this-morning
look on a customer who had just come in.

Sam took twenty-five or thirty of the largest sheets of wrapping-paper
he could find, and went into the back room where the oil, molasses,
vinegar, empty boxes, etc., were kept. After rummaging about for a few
minutes he found the marking ink and brush. Then he spread one of the
sheets of paper on a bench, dipped the brush in the ink, and eyed the
paper with a how-shall-I-begin look. Five minutes later Peter came out
to draw some oil and found him in the same attitude.

"Got somethin' on your mind, Sam?" he asked.

"Eh! Oh, yes," Sam replied, "I say, Peter, have you got any old
show-bills?"

"There's one in the window 'bout the firemen's 'play-out' over to Union
Corners."

"That won't do."

"Well, then there's some old circus bills pasted on the inside of the
barn door," said Peter, as he squatted in front of the kerosene barrel
and began filling a can.

"I dunno, guess I'll take a look at 'em anyway," replied Sam,
doubtfully, as he started out of the back door toward the barn.

Peter watched through the doorway, and wondered what Sam was up to until
he was called back to business by the kerosene which was running over
the top of the can.

Sam returned to the back room after an absence of ten minutes, took up his
brush and eagerly went to work. After half an hour's labour he had painted
something that resembled a homemade no-trespassing-beware-of-the-dog sign
upside down, which read:

           "BIG SHOW
    COME ONE COME ALL AND SEE
       THE MORNING GLORY
           CLUB in
         SHAKESPEARE.

      VETERANS HALL MANVILLE Wed. Evg. Feb. 17, 18--, at
      eight o'clock SHARP doors open at SEVEN tickets 25
      cents RESERVED seats and CHILDREN 15 cents EXTRA, no
      CHILDREN and dogs in ARMS not admitted."

Sam held up the sheet and read it again and again with pride. His only
regret was that he had no red or green paint to heighten the effect and
make the poster a work of real art.

"Peter," he called, when he was sure that his work could not be
improved, and when Peter appeared in the doorway, asked: "What do you
think of that?"

"Well," said Peter, slowly, after he had read the poster, "it shows up
some."

"I should say it did," replied Sam, proudly. "And it's jest what the
show needs. Ev'ry house and barn for ten miles 'round oughter be papered
with 'em inside and out."

"Your idea?" queried Peter.

"Ev'ry word."

"What you goin' to do with it?"

"Make a dozen more and stick 'em up 'round."

"Does the club women folks know?" asked Peter.

"Well,--er--I--I've talked it over with one of the officers," replied
Sam, hesitating suspiciously. "And she kinder thought that some
advertisin' ought to be done, though they didn't want to spend any money
doin' it. So I thought I'd help 'em out and s'prise 'em at the same
time."

"They'll be surprised all right," said Peter, grinning.

"Think so?"

"Sure."

"Guess they'll think my advertisin' scheme's all right."

"Hope so, for your sake," replied Peter, as he returned to his work.

Sam worked industriously during the remainder of the forenoon, and by
noontime had finished twelve more posters just like the first.

"Mind if I put one of these up on the outside of the store?" he asked,
as he emerged from the back room with one of the posters carefully held
up in front of himself.

"Go ahead," said Peter, who was busy and had been bothered enough for
one morning. Ten minutes later the poster was exposed on the front of
the store where the public--when it happened that way--could see it. Sam
was patiently waiting for the first passer-by when Alick Purbeck drove
up. Alick read the poster through, and then gave a long whistle.

"Well, what you got to say?" asked Sam, who had watched from the doorway
for the effect of the poster on Alick.

"Reads like a circus; some of your doin's, I'll bet," Alick replied.

"Yes, 'tis; you don't know a good thing when you see it."

"Perhaps not," retorted Alick, "but I know some folks in town that will
appreciate it. If you knew how much paint you'd got on your face, you'd
go and stick your head into a bucket of turpentine."

Sam sneered at Alick's remark, but, though he did have some misgivings
as to how his work would be received, was determined to carry out his
original plan. Without deigning to look or speak to Alick or Peter, he
went into the store, filled his mouth with tacks, put a hammer in his
pocket, took another poster, and went across the street to Mr. Flint's
church, where he tacked the poster on to the bulletin board over the
notice of an oyster party.

The opposition of Mr. Flint to the stage in general, and the club
entertainment in particular, did not occur to Sam. His only thought was
that the church was a good and conspicuous place for a poster.

Alick Purbeck watched from the doorway when Sam started across the road,
and when he saw what his object was called Peter.

"See what that blamed fool's doin'," he said.

"He'll get set on so hard some day that he'll know it," was Peter's
comment.

When the poster was secure in its place, Sam walked slowly backward
until he reached the middle of the road, where he stopped with his hands
in his pockets, his head cocked to one side, and viewed his work with a
critical eye. He had been there but a moment when Doctor Jones drove up,
and when he saw Sam's peculiar attitude stopped.

"Hello, Sam, what do you see that is so absorbing?" he asked, after
waiting a moment for Sam to move or speak. In reply Sam waved his hand
proudly toward the poster on the church.

The doctor looked and read.

"Some of your work?" he asked.

Sam nodded.

"So you are the club's advertising agent?"

"Nope," replied Sam, modestly. "I jest wanted to help 'em out a little."

"Very kind, I'm sure," said the doctor, as he drove away wondering who
had made the mistake.

When Sam returned to the store he found Alick Purbeck standing in the
doorway grinning.

"Do you expect to live long, Sam?" asked Alick.

Sam pushed by without replying, went to the back room, rolled up the
remaining posters, walked out of the store without looking to the right
or left, and marched off up the road.

By nightfall twelve more of Sam's posters were displayed in as many
conspicuous places, and before the last one had been tacked up the whole
town--except the members of the Morning Glory Club--was laughing.

Mrs. Tweedie was furious when Tommy asked if he could go to the "Big
Show," and poor Ezra, he would have thought it funny had not his wife
scolded the whole evening just as though he was to blame.

That night, after they were abed, Mrs. Stout told Peter, among other
things, that he didn't have the sense of a half-grown puppy to let that
fool of a Sam Billings do such a thing. When she had finished it was
time for Peter to get up--and he thought so, too.

The Reverend Elijah Flint was in a terrible rage (state of righteous
indignation). He went to the church as soon as he heard of the outrage,
tore the offending poster into fragments, and vehemently declared that
the perpetrator of the crime should be punished to the full extent of
the law.

And Miss Sawyer, poor Lizzie, she knew that it was her fault, and
bemoaned her indiscretion in mentioning advertising to Sam Billings. She
wept all night, and vowed that she would never speak to him again as
long as she lived.




Chapter XVII

More Advertising


THE next morning Mrs. Tweedie sent messages by her son Thomas to the
members of the play committee requesting them to meet at her home that
afternoon to consider a matter of "distressing importance." At two
o'clock all of the committee had complied with the request, excepting
Miss Sawyer, who sent word that she was "indisposed," and she might
truthfully have added "to come."

"Ladies," Mrs. Tweedie began, solemnly, "yesterday one of the _other
sex_, an unprincipled creature by the name of Billings, inflicted upon
our club an irreparable injury. You have seen or at least heard of the
hideous posters that some time yesterday were put up in a dozen or more
conspicuous places about town. Furthermore, the sensitive feelings of an
educated and highly respected citizen have been deeply wounded by this
act of wantonness--I refer to the Reverend Mr. Flint. One of the posters
was placed, and remained for several hours, upon the bulletin of his, I
might say our, church. We all know Mr. Flint's aversion to anything
pertaining to the stage, yet he has refrained from speaking of our
entertainment publicly out of regard for the members of his church who
are interested in the club. What his attitude from now on will be I dare
not conjecture. As for the miserable villain who is responsible for the
outrage--words fail to express my feelings."

"Quote Shakespeare," suggested Mrs. Stout.

"This is not the time for jesting, Mrs. Stout," replied Mrs. Tweedie, in
a tone that would have withered any one but Mrs. Stout.

"Nobody knows it better than I do," she retorted. "I've got reason to be
as mortified as anybody, because the outlandish work was begun in my
husband's store. Of course, he ain't to blame, but he ought to have told
the fool that what he was doin' would make trouble."

"No one attaches any blame upon you or your husband," Mrs. Tweedie
replied.

"I'm sure," said Mrs. Jones, "that I cannot see how Mr. Stout had
anything to do with it. It seems to me that it was not done maliciously,
any way, but more in the spirit of a practical joke."

"Practical meddlesomeness!" snapped Mrs. Stout; "and the man that did
it was set up to it, in my opinion, by a woman in this club!"

The ladies looked at Mrs. Stout, and then at each other in astonishment.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Tweedie. "If you are so positive pray tell us
about it."

"Well, I ain't exactly positive," Mrs. Stout began, slowly, "but I guess
at things sometimes, and come pretty near bein' right, 'specially when
two and two make four. I ain't a woman that'll hurt anybody's good name
unless it's been rightly damaged before by theirselves. In this case I
ain't sure, so I won't mention no names, only say what I think made Sam
Billin's do what he did." Poor Mrs. Stout, for the first time in her
life she failed to find the direct path to the point, and wallowed
helplessly about in a meaningless slough of words. "Well," she
continued, "I don't seem to be gettin' ahead very fast, but what I
wanted to say was this: You know that we talked some about advertisin'
at a meetin' of the committee awhile ago, and decided not to spend any
money on it, but after the meetin' was over that day one of the ladies
said to me as we was goin' home that _she_ thought that somethin' ought
to be done about advertisin'. Now, I think that she, or somebody else
that thought same as she did, must have talked with Sam Billin's, and
told him her opinion about advertisin', and he agreed with her, and went
off and done it."

The ladies were disappointed. The delicious bit of scandal that they had
anticipated was not forthcoming.

"What you have told us," said Mrs. Tweedie, "is very indefinite."

"It's about as definite as anything I hear at the club, only I didn't
mention no names--some folks ain't so careful," retorted Mrs. Stout, who
was angry with herself.

"I'm sure," said Mrs. Jones, "we are just as much in the dark as ever.
We know what has been done, and who did it, the question is--"

"What are we goin' to do about it?" interrupted Mrs. Stout.

"We owe Mr. Flint an apology," Mrs. Tweedie replied.

"That's easy," said Mrs. Stout, "and don't cost anything."

"The virtue of dutifulness has nothing to do with ease or cost," replied
Mrs. Tweedie, loftily. "I shall write the letter myself, and assume the
full responsibility. Now, in regard to the creature that committed the
crime, shall we take any legal steps?"

"Goodness, no!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, in alarm. "Legal steps cost ten
dollars apiece, and there's no tellin' where they'll lead to."

Everybody laughed at this remark, and apparently good nature was
restored.

"It would only mean more advertising," said Mrs. Blake, "and that is
just what we are objecting to now."

"That's so," replied Mrs. Stout; "we've been advertised worse'n a circus
or soap; let's hide our bright and shinin' light under a basket for
awhile."

After the ladies had gone Mrs. Tweedie had only time to scold Fanny,
give Dora some instructions about dinner, tell Ezra that "If you had a
woman's club on your hands you would have been insane weeks ago," which
Ezra thought very likely, when the Reverend Elijah Flint was announced.
Despite the trials of the previous twenty-four hours, Mrs. Tweedie
assumed a humble look as she entered the parlour and greeted her
solemn-visaged pastor.

"I have called, Mrs. Tweedie," he began, after declining to be seated,
"on a matter of grave importance to our church and myself. Perhaps it
will not be necessary for me to--"

"I understand, Mr. Flint," she said, with proper gravity.

"Do you fully realize the false position in which our church has been
placed?" asked the parson, impressively.

"I do, and sincerely regret the unfortunate circumstance."

"Unfortunate," he repeated, as though he did not think the word
adequate. "Mrs. Tweedie, our church has been defiled, desecrated, by a
wanton, worthless wretch, and I desire to know whether your club, or any
member of it, is responsible, even in the slightest degree, for the
outrage."

"Not to my knowledge," replied Mrs. Tweedie--but she had guessed, with
Mrs. Stout's assistance.

"I am profoundly relieved to hear you say so," said Mr. Flint, as he
started toward the door. "Of course, you know my convictions regarding
the stage?" Mrs. Tweedie bowed affirmatively. "I have refrained from
expressing myself publicly," he continued, as he stopped with his hand
on the door-knob, "but since the occurrence of yesterday, I feel that
it is my duty to announce from the pulpit next Sunday my position in
regard to the matter. Good afternoon."

As Mrs. Tweedie closed the door on the parson she groaned: "More
advertising."




Chapter XVIII

The Big Show


ON the February day appointed for the Morning Glory theatricals, the sun
shone brightly--all nature was the same, but in Manville the day seemed
different. Expectancy was in the air, and suppressed excitement in the
heads of those possessing a bit of yellow pasteboard that entitled them
to admission to the "Big Show." The men paused often at their work to
talk of the event, and the women, especially the members of the club,
forgot their families, their housework--everything except the
approaching event.

Early in the morning a half-dozen of the club-women were at the hall
superintending the unloading and disposition of a load of furniture
which had been collected from the homes of particularly enthusiastic
members. This unavoidable inconvenience, which usually accompanies other
preparations for amateur theatricals, was especially necessary in this
case in order that the barren stage might be properly dressed, and the
shabby scenery saved from loneliness. The whole club turned out in the
afternoon, and the hall and stage became a scene of bustling,
chattering confusion. As the crisis approached Miss Sawyer, as stage
directress, failed in her attempts to control the situation, and Mrs.
Tweedie, "the powerful," as she was now called by many, assumed command,
and became more dignified and dictatorial than ever.

At six o'clock the stage was set for the first scene, and some of the
ladies were nervously pacing the creaking boards, book in hand,
muttering their lines, and gesticulating ridiculously in a final
spasmodic effort. In a corner of the hall Miss Sawyer was murmuring to a
bunch of withered flowers; in an anteroom Mrs. Stout was being coached
by Mrs. Jones in the pronunciation of some difficult words, and in a
corridor Mrs. Thornton was trying to console Mrs. Darling, whose costume
had not arrived.

The doors were opened to the public at seven o'clock, with Ezra Tweedie
on guard to take tickets, and his son Tommy to distribute programmes.
Ezra was smilingly happy because it was the first time for years that he
had been permitted to do anything in public. He would have missed this
chance if Mrs. Tweedie could have arranged in any other way to keep in
touch with the box office. The public was ready when the doors were
opened, and charged unceremoniously upon Ezra, Tommy, and the lady
ushers, with pinks in their hair, all of whom had more than they could
properly do during the next hour. At eight o'clock the hall was filled
with the "best" people in Manville, and some of the worst--worst,
perhaps, only because they did not have the price of a seat in the front
rows. The last person to enter was Sam Billings, who acted as though he
did not care to have his presence known. Ezra scowled harmlessly as he
took his ticket. Sam peeked cautiously into the hall, then turned to
Ezra with a triumphant look and whispered: "Advertisin' pays, don't it?"

Twenty minutes after the time advertised for the performance to begin
the audience was suddenly hushed to a funereal stillness by Mrs.
Tweedie's two bells--she would have things shipshape, and succeeded,
barring the orchestra, which had been found to be too expensive. The
curtain was encouraged on its ascent by the strains of "My Old Kentucky
Home," played on the piano by a Miss Bean, a member of Mr. Flint's
church, who, in a spirit of fashionable recklessness in regard to her
pastor's opinion, had consented to play. Despite the music, perhaps
because of it, the curtain balked when half-way up, then stuck fast.
While the cause of the trouble was being investigated, accompanied by
the sound of hurrying footsteps and loud whispers from "behind the
scenes," Miss Bean continued to play "My Old Kentucky Home." When she
was approaching the end of the piece for the sixth time, the curtain was
yanked up sufficiently for the audience to get a two-thirds view of the
stage.

The curtain certainly acted badly, but it was a star in comparison with
the majority of the performers. It was fully three minutes after the
curtain was raised before Mrs. Stout, as the Duke in the trial scene
from the "Merchant of Venice," entered, followed by her "soot" in single
file. Ten minutes later everybody knew that those who had said that the
people of Manville would not, or could not, appreciate Shakespeare, did
not know what they were talking about.

The scene was a decided hit, and was talked about for years afterward as
the funniest thing that ever happened in Manville.

The balcony scene, from "Romeo and Juliet," which followed, performed by
Fanny Tweedie as Juliet, and Mrs. Darling, in a rainy-day skirt, as
Romeo, was more like real acting. It was enjoyed by the audience, but
not uproariously.

Then came the scene from the "Lady of Lyons" in which Pauline discovers
that she is the victim of a trick. Fanny and Mrs. Blake played well, but
Barbara's costume and her appearance caused a murmur of amazement. When
she spoke, however, the pathos of the conscience-stricken lover rang so
true that the gaping audience was instantly stilled. For the moment men
and women alike were fascinated, though not many really approved, and
for this there was little cause for wonder. Barbara's costume was new to
Manville, and a surprise even to the club-women. As Fanny Tweedie had
wished, it was "unexpected;" yet it was worn innocently and with pure
thought, although that was something difficult for the narrow-minded to
understand.

The closing feature of the entertainment was the production of Miss
Sawyer's original play, "Yellow Roses" ("First time on any stage"),
which withered and died a painless death.

The curtain fell--part way--at eleven-thirty, with the audience "all
present."

Despite the contrariness of the curtain, the lapses of memory, the long
waits, and the slowly taken cues, the people of Manville enjoyed the
"Big Show."

When the audience had gone, Mrs. Stout, with wrinkled forehead, sat at a
table counting the proceeds as best she could with some one asking every
moment, "How much did we make?" Many of the ladies looked grave and were
acting strangely. There was much whispering going on, but it ceased
suddenly when Barbara and Fanny came from the dressing-room ready to go
home.

"You're the star, Miss Wallace," called Mrs. Stout, when she saw them.
Barbara stopped before her and smiled. "And your costume," she
continued, "was just the sweetest I ever saw."

At that moment Mrs. Tweedie approached, her face showing intense anger.

"What are the receipts, Mrs. Stout?" she asked, sharply.

"I don't know yet," Mrs. Stout replied. "I was just tellin' Miss Wallace
how much I liked her costume. Did you ever see anything just like it?"

"Never!" thundered Mrs. Tweedie.

"Why, didn't you think it was pretty?" asked Mrs. Stout, in surprise.

"It was indecent!" hissed Mrs. Tweedie, as she glared at Barbara.

Everybody was looking and listening, but, excepting Fanny, too
astonished to speak.

"Mother, how can you!" she exclaimed, indignantly, but Mrs. Tweedie
walked quickly into the dressing-room, and slammed the door.

"Well, of all the tigeresses!" gasped Mrs. Stout.

Barbara was stunned. Fanny led her from the building, and on the way
home tried to make amends for her mother's anger. But Barbara
understood--the consciousness of her mistake had come like a blow in the
face. Oh, if Will were only here, she thought. He had written that he
could not come to the performance, but had sent all sorts of good wishes
for her success. She needed him now more than she had ever needed a
friend before.

The Tweedie family, excepting Tommy, argued long and late that night
concerning Barbara and her costume. Mrs. Tweedie was the minority, but
she won, and her decision was that Barbara must quit their roof the next
day.




Chapter XIX

The Day After


"DID you ever!" exclaimed Mrs. Darling, as she ran into Mrs. Thornton's
just after breakfast the next morning to finish what she did not have
time to say the night before.

"You mean Miss Wallace?"

"Yes; did you--"

"Never!"

"I wouldn't have thought she'd dared!" said Mrs. Darling, with a
sanctimonious look on her pretty face.

"Nor I."

"Wonder what Mrs. Tweedie thinks."

"She was in a rage last night."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes, she was awfully angry."

"_I_ wouldn't have dared to wear such a costume, would _you_?"

"Not for worlds."

"It _was_ pretty, though."

"And she looked terribly stunning."

"Yes, but I'm afraid that there'll be trouble over it in the club."

"Shouldn't wonder a mite."

"Well, I must be going; good-bye."

"Good-bye; if you hear anything--"

"I'll run in; good-bye."

This was a sample of the talk that was going on all over Manville the
morning after the "Big Show." Masters, mistresses, and maids, all were
talking; at front doors, back doors, in the parlours, in the kitchens,
on the corners--everywhere. Few praised--many censured. And poor
Barbara, it was her name that was on every lip. By night everybody in
Manville had taken sides for or against her, and, strange to relate,
more men than women were ready to defend her.

Stout's Grocery was the objective of many of the male population that
morning. Mr. Blake, the undertaker, was the first to arrive.

"A splendid show, Peter," he said.

"Fine."

"Manville ought to be proud."

"She had."

"Miss Wallace made a great hit, didn't she?"

"Say, wa'n't she great!" replied Peter, enthusiastically.

"She was, and her costume--" Mr. Blake continued, but Peter interrupted
him.

"Beat 'em all," he said.

"I suppose that some of the stiff-backs are offended," remarked Mr.
Blake, after a pause.

"What if they be?" asked Peter, indignantly. Just then Doctor Jones came
in. "Mornin', doctor."

"Good morning," the doctor cheerfully replied.

"Did you go to the show last night, doctor?" asked Mr. Blake.

"Yes, I got there just in time to see Miss Wallace."

"Like her?"

"Well," said the doctor, slowly, "I have always liked her, but now I
think she's immense. Send our order up early, will you, Peter?" And then
he hurried out of the store, bumping into Sam Billings, who was coming
in.

"Hello, Doc," said Sam, familiarly, "what you got to say about the
show?" The doctor, not caring to listen to a long argument, continued on
his way without replying.

"Didn't that show beat all creation?" was Sam's greeting as he entered
the store after his encounter with the doctor. "And did you notice the
crowd? They can say all they're a mind to 'gainst advertisin', but I say
it pays. That hall wouldn't have been half-full if I hadn't taken
hold."

Alick Purbeck came in from the back room in time to hear enough of what
Sam said to know what he was blowing about.

"Say, Sam, can't you tell us now who put you up to that advertisin'
scheme?" he asked.

"I dunno's that's any of your business," replied Sam, sulkily.

"No, it ain't," said Alick, "but I happen to know that it kicked up a
row in the church and the woman's club, and folks do say that it was
Miss Sawyer that put the idea into your head."

"Well," drawled Sam, "I won't deny that she _said_ somethin', but she
didn't _do_ nothin'. I'm the only one responsible."

"Just as I thought," said Alick, knowingly. "I knew you'd been hangin'
round her some this winter."

"Yes, you most always know everything that's goin' on," retorted Sam.
"Back doors can't keep their mouths shut."

Alick resented this remark, and the resentment was in the form of a
rotten apple which struck the offender full in the mouth.

"Quit that foolin'," growled Peter, in time to prevent trouble.

At that moment Ezra Tweedie slunk into the store, casting glances of
fear behind at every step as though some dreadful monster was on his
trail. He shut the door carefully, then went to the stove, held out his
hands to be warmed, shivered, and sighed. His face was drawn and white,
and the telltale circles beneath his eyes told of a sleepless night.

"Mornin', Ezra," said Peter, cordially.

"Good morning, gentlemen," replied Ezra, in a weak voice, as he glanced
furtively about.

"You're not feeling well, Mr. Tweedie?" inquired Mr. Blake,
sympathetically.

"No," replied Ezra, "I--I'm slightly indisposed, but nothing
serious--nothing serious."

"And how is Mrs. Tweedie after all the work she has done?" Mr. Blake
continued. Ezra shuddered and coughed.

"She is--a--somewhat nervous," he replied, hesitatingly.

"I don't wonder," blurted Sam, "but I guess she's kinder tickled over
the big hit the show made, ain't she?"

"Oh, yes, yes, but--"

Ezra was spared by the entrance of Deacon Walton, whose opinion at that
moment was more to be desired than anything that Ezra, in his sorry
condition, might say.

Urged by Mr. Flint, the deacon had advised his wife to resign from the
club, which she had done, but when the day of the performance came
neither the deacon nor his wife could resist the temptation to attend
and see what it was like. Their presence caused surprise, but they
seemed to enjoy themselves, and many thought that perhaps Mr. Flint had
weakened, and had taken that method of showing it. Those present at the
store that morning felt that an explanation was due, and Sam proceeded
to "pump."

"How'd you like the show, deacon?" he asked.

"Well," the deacon began, as he drew off his mittens and rubbed his
hands, "most of it was good, but there was one young woman--" the deacon
paused and pointed a long bony finger at Mr. Blake. Peter dropped his
work to listen. "One young woman," the deacon repeated, "who
was--er--indiscreet in her--er--what she wore."

There was silence for a moment, during which Ezra seemed to shrivel up
within his overcoat.

"You mean Miss Wallace, I suppose?" said Mr. Blake.

"I do. The morals of the people of Manville have been shocked," replied
the deacon, solemnly.

"You mean them that's got morals," corrected Sam.

"I mean," retorted the deacon, angrily, "those who are worth
considering."

Mr. Blake loved an argument, and being the only one present up to the
deacon's mental calibre, he naturally was the one to make reply.

"I think that you are mistaken there, deacon," he said, quietly. "Here's
Peter, he saw the performance, so did I, we were not shocked."

The deacon's face reddened.

"I--I meant--er--the--er--church people," he stammered.

"Yes, so I supposed," said Mr. Blake, "but there are people outside of
the churches who have morals--morals capable of being shocked, too."

"I'll say just this much," replied the deacon. "That young woman did a
dangerous thing. She has displeased many of our citizens--"

"And their wives," interposed Sam, but the deacon ignored the remark and
continued:

"We cannot have such performances. The young people will be corrupted,
the moral tone of our town will fall to the level of the dust. Such a
thing has never occurred before, and I sincerely trust never will again,
notwithstanding the approbation of a few men who seem to have nothing
else to talk about."

"There, deacon," said Mr. Blake, soothingly. "There's no use getting
angry about it. Miss Wallace's costume was the same as thousands of
other women have worn in public."

"That don't make it right," snapped the deacon.

"Nor wrong," retorted Mr. Blake.

"We'll see," said the deacon, as he drew on his mittens and started for
the door. "We'll see when the school committee meets to-night what
_they_ think about it." There was a triumphant gleam in the deacon's
eyes when he fired that shot, and while his audience was still in a
stunned condition from the effect of it he went out.

       *       *       *       *       *

The morning after, Mrs. Tweedie was still determined on her course, and
Fanny's continued pleading did not move her. Barbara must go, and the
angry, narrow-minded woman told her so and gave her reasons immediately
after breakfast. Barbara had expected to be insulted again, but to be
turned out on such short notice was incomprehensible.

"You must go to-day," were Mrs. Tweedie's parting words as Barbara
started for school. "To-day," Barbara repeated to herself as she went
down the steps. On her way she wondered if it was really as bad as Mrs.
Tweedie had said. What were others thinking and saying? Her duties that
day were performed mechanically. Her heart was not in the work, and she
was glad when school was over, though there was a perplexing task to be
accomplished before the day was done.

Fanny called for her late in the afternoon, and they started toward home
together.

"I've got all of your things together, Barbara," said Fanny, trying to
speak cheerfully. "I thought--mother, you know--" Poor Fanny! it was
impossible to explain, or smooth over her mother's conduct, and she
burst into tears. Barbara understood, and instead of being comforted
turned comforter herself.

"I know that you are my friend, Fanny," she said, as she linked arms
with the sobbing girl.

"I am, indeed I am," sobbed Fanny. "I don't care what they say, and I
want to help you." She did not tell Barbara that she had spent hours
that day in a fruitless search for a boarding-place for her.

"There," said Barbara, when they nearly had reached Mrs. Tweedie's,
"don't feel badly any longer. I'll send for my things as soon as I find
a place to stay. And don't worry, Fanny, about me, please, everything
will come right I know." Fanny kissed her, regardless of whoever might
be looking, and went home. Barbara hesitated a moment, and then walked
toward the home of Doctor Jones. When Mrs. Jones came to the door in
response to the bell she did not ask Barbara to come in.

"Really," she replied when Barbara made known her errand, "there's not a
spare room in the house."

Of course Barbara understood, and was very sorry. She next called on
Mrs. Blake, and received the same answer. Mrs. Thornton, Mrs. Darling,
and Mrs. Browning all refused. No, they did not refuse, they made
excuses--sugar-coated lies. Barbara was beginning to understand that
Mrs. Tweedie was not the only one who had turned against her. Darkness
had fallen without as well as within. Trying to realize her position,
Barbara walked slowly back toward the village. When near the parsonage
she stopped, and looked up wistfully at the house and the stream of
yellow light that shone down the path from a lamp in the parson's study.
Then she looked across the street toward the church so black and still
with the steeple rising toward the stars. Barbara hoped that in the
parsonage she would find a friend with a kind word. She longed to run
into the house and pour out the wretchedness in her aching heart to
_his_ mother; to talk of _him_, the one they both loved. Oh, how happy
she could be under the roof that had sheltered _him_! She went to the
door and knocked. Mrs. Flint came, but her answer was the same as the
others, except that there were tears in her eyes when she bade Barbara
good night. Mrs. Flint would have taken Barbara into her home and heart
if she had dared, but her husband had paced his study floor all day, and
was in a terrible mood. Once she had listened for a moment and heard him
mutter: "The disgrace," and "My son--my son cares for such a woman!" He
too had guessed Will's secret, and she knew that Barbara would not be
welcome.

When Barbara left the parsonage she walked aimlessly about the village
for an hour. The wind came up blustering and cold; she began to feel
faint, but could think of no other place to go. At last weariness
overcame her, and hardly knowing where she was, she stopped and leaned
against a gate-post to rest. Then a strange feeling came over her, she
tried to resist it and turned to walk on, but staggered for a moment,
and then fell.

After supper Mrs. Stout had gone into a neighbour's for a moment, and
when she came scurrying back with a shawl drawn tightly over her head
and shoulders, she tripped and almost fell over Barbara, who was lying
in her gateway.

"Goodness!" she exclaimed, as she recovered her balance, and then knelt
to see who it was. "If it ain't Miss Wallace!"

"Yes," Barbara murmured, as Mrs. Stout helped her to stand and led her
into the house.

"You poor child," said Mrs. Stout, as she bustled about making Barbara
comfortable on a couch before the sitting-room fire.

"I had walked a long way and was faint," murmured Barbara, trying to
explain.

"You ain't had any supper?" asked Mrs. Stout, in surprise. Barbara
smiled faintly, and shook her head. "Haven't you been to Mis' Tweedie's
since school?"

"I'm not staying there now," replied Barbara as she turned her face away
and shuddered.

"You don't mean it!" Mrs. Stout was beginning to grasp the situation,
and her surprise turned quickly to indignation. "She's put you out,
that's what she's done, the mean old--"

"No, no," said Barbara, quickly, fearing that Fanny would be included in
Mrs. Stout's wrath. "She told me this morning--I tried to find a
place--I had plenty of time, but--"

"Nobody'd take you in," interrupted Mrs. Stout. "They was afraid they'd
soil their goody-goody hands, I s'pose."

Barbara started to speak, then checked herself and covered her face with
her hands. "No, you needn't say a word," Mrs. Stout continued, "I know
what's been goin' on in this town to-day, and somebody besides you has
got to suffer for it. Now you just lie there and I'll get you somethin'
to eat." Mrs. Stout went to the kitchen, and, after an absence of a few
minutes, returned with a tempting lunch and a cup of hot tea. Barbara
tried to eat, but failed despite Mrs. Stout's kindly intended urging,
and dropped back wearily on the couch. When Mrs. Stout started to
remove the tray Barbara looked up at her appealingly.

"You'll let me stay to-night, won't you?" she said, in a choking voice.

"Stay, I guess you can if I have to make up a bed for Peter on the
floor. Stay just as long as you can stand us," replied Mrs. Stout,
earnestly. At that moment they heard Peter come in.

"Emmy," he called as he was taking off his coat in the hall.

"Yes," she replied.

"What do you s'pose that damned school committee done to-night?"

Barbara half-raised herself, her face was pale, and the tears glistened
on her eyelashes. Mrs. Stout hurried to head Peter off, but was too
late.

"They've discharged Miss Wallace, and--" he stopped abruptly when he
came into the room and saw Barbara.

"Discharged!" repeated Barbara as though bewildered, and then she
completely lost control of herself, and wept bitterly. Mrs. Stout knelt
by her side, and tried to reassure and comfort her, but it was past
midnight when Barbara ceased to moan, and asked if she could write a
letter.

Mrs. Stout led the trembling girl to a desk, and assured her that Peter
would mail the letter, if she wished him to, early the next morning.

Barbara wrote one line:

      "Will, I need you, come.
                          "BARBARA."




Chapter XX

A Sermon


ON the Sunday morning following the Morning Glory Club's entertainment,
the Rev. Elijah Flint arose after a restless night feeling physically
miserable; but thoughts of the mighty effort that he was to make that
day caused him soon to forget his bodily condition. Mrs. Flint had gone
out of town the day before to visit friends. The minister was alone in
the parsonage--alone with a narrow, stubborn idea. After a meagre
breakfast of his own getting, he started early for church, eager and
impatient for the service to begin.

A rumour had spread about town that Mr. Flint was to depart from his
usual custom on that day and preach an up-to-date sermon. Everybody knew
what that meant, and everybody--almost--went to church. When Mr. Flint
went into the pulpit, and turned the leaves of the large Bible in search
of the morning lesson, he glanced over the large congregation with the
keenest satisfaction. It never occurred to him that the addition to his
small flock was made up of victims of morbid curiosity. The idea crept
into his mind that his opposition to a recent "ungodly performance" had
brought favour to him and his church, which before had been denied them.
At last, he thought, after years of unrewarded, unappreciated labour,
the tide has turned. Poor fool; if "narrowness" and "curiosity" had been
painted all over his church in letters as tall as himself, God could not
have grieved more.

When Mr. Flint arose to deliver his sermon the stillness of a tomb fell
over devout and curious alike, and was preserved to the end. The sermon
was a general denunciation of the stage, professional and amateur, the
latter being especially stigmatized. And in reference to a recent local
performance, and the enormity of the sin of an unnamed young woman who
wore in public an undescribed costume, the preacher was unscathingly
bitter and quoted these words: "As a jewel of gold in a swine's snout,
so is a fair woman which is without discretion." Thus, for an hour, the
man raved like one insane, and during that time many of his hearers
became infected with the same malady. They believed every idea that was
hurled at them, swallowed words whole without tasting to discover
whether they were sweet or poison. The accuser's vehemence surprised
some and grieved others, but none of the curious were disappointed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Barbara sat at one of Mrs. Stout's front windows, thoughtful and silent,
as she watched the people going home from church. Without, the sun was
shining brightly; within, the leaden cloud still hung over her and grew
darker without her knowing it. The last cruel blow could not be
anticipated.

Mrs. Stout had been motherly kindness itself. She had tried in every way
to lessen the sting of the outrage--to make Barbara forget; but the
rough, good-hearted woman failed, though her efforts were gratefully
appreciated. She had urged Barbara to go home, well knowing that
Manville must be unbearable, but Barbara was waiting for Will. He had
telegraphed that he would come as soon as possible, but two days had
gone by since then. Oh, how she longed to see him! He was the only one
who could comfort and help, and though she did not know how that even he
could silence the mischievous and careless tongues, she had faith to
believe that he would.

Have I done wrong? She asked herself a thousand times, and each time the
answer was "no." Would Will think that she had sinned? The thought was
torture, but Love and Faith answered the question for her.

Late that afternoon Fanny Tweedie called, and a few minutes afterward
Mrs. Stout excused herself, and went out wearing a sterner and more
determined look than her usually jovial countenance was accustomed to.
Fanny and Barbara talked girl-fashion for an hour. There was some
laughter, and many tears, but both felt better for it, and the seal of
their friendship was made secure. Fanny had brought a verbal message
from her father that pleased Barbara, and cheered her greatly. Poor
Ezra, he had been fond of her always, and now that she was in such dire
need of friends he longed to help her, but Mrs. T. stood between him and
everything--a human, female barrier.

"Is he coming?" Fanny asked, after a long pause in the conversation.

"Will?"

"Yes, of course, there's no other _he_, is there?"

"I have written him to come," Barbara replied.

"Does he know what has--happened?" said Fanny. Barbara shook her head.
Will did not know exactly what had happened, but he was sure that
something had gone wrong, and at that moment was speeding toward her in
response to her tear-stained appeal. "Well," continued Fanny, "I'm
sorry for some folks when he does find out."

Mrs. Stout would not go to Mr. Flint's church out of curiosity, or for
any other reason, but she had heard a true report of that morning's
sermon, and was filled to the bursting point with anger. She thought it
best to keep the news from Barbara, however, and cautioned Fanny not to
mention it. But a vent for her feelings she must find, and it was for
that purpose that she had gone out. She had no definite plan in mind,
but almost unconsciously walked toward the parsonage. Upon reaching the
gate she stopped. The house was dark. How she hated it, and the man who
lived there. Sometime, possibly, she might forgive the women who had
refused to shelter Barbara, and perhaps the school committee, but the
minister who had denounced her in the house of God she could never
forgive. With such thoughts in her mind Mrs. Stout went up the path to
the door and rang the bell vigorously. It seemed a long time before the
door was finally opened by Mr. Flint, who held the lamp high in order
that he could better see his visitor. Mrs. Stout noticed that his face
was flushed, and that his eyes were unnaturally bright.

"Good evenin', Mr. Flint," she said, coldly.

"Oh, it is Mrs. Stout?" he replied when he heard her voice.

"Yes."

"Won't you come in?"

"No, thanks, I can say what I've got to right here."

Mr. Flint placed the lamp on a table. His hand trembled, and as he
turned he staggered, but caught and steadied himself by grasping the
door-knob.

"I've come," Mrs. Stout began, "to say somethin' that won't do any good,
prob'ly, but I want to be sure that you don't think that everybody in
Manville has got the same ideas as you about some things in pertic'ler."

"I have never entertained that idea," replied the parson.

"Perhaps not, but you might have." Mrs. Stout hesitated for a moment,
and then her anger broke forth. "Mr. Flint, you made a big mistake this
mornin'. You said everything that you could say to spoil the good name
of one of the best women that ever lived. She never did you, or anybody
else, any harm, but you and all the rest seem bound to drive her away
with as black a name as you can give her. The women folks wa'n't
satisfied with kickin' her out of their houses, they must get the school
committee to discharge her. And then you, a man that is s'posed to show
folks how to live right, and believe in God, spend a whole Sunday
mornin' runnin' her down." Mrs. Stout stopped because she was out of
breath.

"My dear Mrs. Stout," the parson replied, "it is not the woman that I am
opposed to, but the principles involved and violated, the morals
offended and endangered. Those susceptible to corruption who--"

"Corruption!" snapped Mrs. Stout. "Do you mean to say that she could
corrupt anybody in any costume?"

"Well--er--the--er--minds of the young--"

"The young, yes; but how about all those women, most of 'em belonged to
your church too, that wore such corruption clothes when they all had
bicycles, and the fever was at its worst?"

"Exercise, Mrs. Stout, excuses--"

"Exercise fiddlesticks! You've got the wrong idea, Mr. Flint, and for
that reason I s'pose you've done more'n anybody else to disgrace a good
woman--the one that your son cares more about than--"

"Stop!" cried the parson, feebly, as he raised his hand protestingly.

"I will stop, because I ain't sure about that. But I must say this much,
that I hope you'll live long enough to repent, though from what I've
heard, and know about you, you'll have to live to be a hundred. Good
night." Mrs. Stout turned as abruptly as she had spoken, walked down the
path and up the road toward the home of Mr. George, the chairman of the
school committee. Mr. Flint closed the door, returned to his study, and
sank wearily into a chair. Sick though he was, Mrs. Stout had made him
realize that there was another side to the question, and he asked
himself repeatedly, as Barbara had been doing, have I done wrong? And
the answer was the same. No; he had performed his duty as he saw it--man
can do no more than that and serve God. But the view-point, there is
always more than one, and then his mind wandered to the women on the
bicycles.

Mr. George was at home when Mrs. Stout called, and was delighted to see
her. He asked her to come in, and she accepted the invitation. She
afterward explained, when relating the story to Peter, that "I wouldn't
have gone in only I had so much to say, and Mr. George is so bald I
didn't want him to catch cold and die, and then be called a murderer by
his wife."

"Rather unusual to see you on a Sunday evening," said Mr. George,
cheerfully, when Mrs. Stout was comfortably seated.

"It's an unusual case," she replied, stiffly.

Mr. George raised his eyebrows, and then frowned.

"Indeed," he replied, a little perplexed.

"Don't you think that the school committee was in an awful big hurry
about dischargin' Miss Wallace?" asked Mrs. Stout, coming to the point
at once.

"Hem--er--I don't know--I--"

"Well, if you don't, who does?"

"Oh,--er--well, of course I understand the case, if that is what you
mean. I assure you that it was gone over very thoroughly."

"There ain't any doubt about that," replied Mrs. Stout, with sarcasm.
"It's been gone over too thoroughly by everybody. Now what I want to
know is, if Miss Wallace tried to get another place somewhere else
she'd have to tell where she'd been before, wouldn't she?"

"Yes."

"And they'd write to you, wouldn't they, about what kind of a woman she
was, and so forth?"

"It is customary."

"And you'd write back, and tell 'em exactly how she happened to leave
Manville, wouldn't you?"

"I should consider it my duty to state the truth." Mr. George was
getting uneasy.

"And she wouldn't get the place."

"Hem--probably not."

"Pretty hard for a woman that's got to earn a livin'. It ain't too late
for the school committee to take back what it's done, is it?" Mrs. Stout
continued earnestly.

"No; but--"

"You won't do it. _Now_ I'm comin' to what I've got to say. You
discharged Miss Wallace without any good reason. You--"

"Mrs. Stout, I protest," interrupted Mr. George. "There was a reason,
and you know it as well as I do. Her costume at your club's
entertainment was--"

"Be careful," warned Mrs. Stout.

"It is my custom," replied the committeeman, testily, "to speak with
caution of one woman to--another woman."

"If you'd be as considerate when talkin' to men about one woman in
pertic'ler there wouldn't have been any need of my comin' here
to-night."

"Yes--hem--well, as I was about to say, she was--er--indiscreet,"
stammered Mr. George.

"That's what they all say," said Mrs. Stout, scornfully. "I s'pose it
would have been all right if she'd worn a bathin'-suit. If Miss Wallace
was indiscreet, what would you call your two girls when they went in
bathin' down to Horse Shoe Beach last summer at the Sunday-school picnic
before half the folks in Manville? Miss Wallace's costume wa'n't half as
indiscreet as a wet bathin' suit is."

"Custom, Mrs. Stout, excuses many things," replied Mr. George, his face
very red.

"Custom is often a mean excuse for not doin' right," retorted Mrs.
Stout. "Because it's been the custom since the year one for men to get
drunk, and women's tongues to wag about other folkses business, does
that make it right?"

Mr. George was silenced--completely out of action, and sat staring at
his inquisitor, wondering what would come next.

"Mr. George," Mrs. Stout continued, "I'm goin' into politics next fall.
The law of this State only lets a woman vote for school committee, but
in this case that's enough. That's all I've got to say, I guess, just
now. If you should make up your mind to take Miss Wallace back I wish
you'd let me know." With a glance of contempt at the man before her,
Mrs. Stout left her chair, and started for the door. Mr. George
followed, mechanically opened the door, and when she had gone out,
closed it softly.

Mrs. Stout felt relieved, but not satisfied, after the two calls that
she had made, and as she walked slowly homeward, planned the campaig

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