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The Old Gray Homestead

by Frances Parkinson Keyes · English · Gutenberg #9748 · 392,281 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Old Gray Homestead

Author: Frances Parkinson Keyes


        
Release date: January 1, 2006 [eBook #9748]
                Most recently updated: January 2, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9748

Credits: Produced by Mary Meehan and PG Distributed Proofreaders


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD GRAY HOMESTEAD ***




Produced by Mary Meehan and PG Distributed Proofreaders










                         THE OLD GRAY HOMESTEAD

                       BY FRANCES PARKINSON KEYES

                                 1919




To the farmers, and their mothers, wives, and daughters, who have been
my nearest neighbors and my best friends for the last fifteen years, and
who have taught me to love the country and the people in it, this quiet
story of a farm is affectionately and gratefully dedicated.




THE OLD GRAY HOMESTEAD




CHAPTER I


"For Heaven's sake, Sally, don't say, 'Isn't it hot?' or, 'Did you ever
know such weather for April?' or, 'Doesn't it seem as if the mud was just
as bad as it used to be before we had the State Road?' again. It _is_
hot. I never did see such weather. The mud is _worse_ if anything. I've
said all this several times, and if you can't think of anything more
interesting to talk about, I wish you'd keep still."

Sally Gray pushed back the lock of crinkly brown hair that was always
getting in her eyes, puckered her lips a little, and glanced at her
brother Austin without replying, but with a slight ripple of concern
disturbing her usual calm. She was plain and plump and placid, as sweet
and wholesome as clover, and as nerveless as a cow, and she secretly
envied her brother's lean, dark handsomeness; but she was conscious of a
little pang of regret that the young, eager face beside her was already
becoming furrowed with lines of discontent and bitterness, and that the
expression of the fine mouth was rapidly growing more and more hard and
sullen. Austin had been all the way from Hamstead to White Water that
day, stopping on his way back at Wallacetown, to bring Sally, who taught
school there, home for over Sunday; his little old horse, never either
strong or swift, was tired and hot and muddy, and hung its unkempt head
dejectedly, apparently having lost all willingness to drag the
dilapidated top-buggy and its two occupants another step. Austin's
manner, Sally reflected, was not much more cheerful than that of his
horse; while his clothes were certainly as dirty, as shabby, and as
out-of-date as the rest of his equipage.

"It's a shame," she thought, "that Austin takes everything so hard. The
rest of us don't mind half so much. If he could only have a little bit of
encouragement and help--something that would make him really happy! If he
could earn some money--or find out that, after all, money isn't
everything--or fall in love with some nice girl--" She checked herself,
blushing and sighing. The blush was occasioned by her own quiet happiness
in that direction; but the sigh was because Austin, though he was well
known to have been "rather wild," never paid any "nice girl" the
slightest attention, and jeered cynically at the mere suggestion that he
should do so.

"How lovely the valley is!" she said aloud at last; "I don't believe
there's a prettier stretch of road in the whole world than this between
Wallacetown and Hamstead, especially in the spring, when the river is so
high, and everything is looking so fresh and green."

"Fortunate it is pretty; probably it's the only thing we'll have to look
at as long as we live--and certainly it's about all we've seen so far! If
there'd been only you and I, Sally, we could have gone off to school, and
maybe to college, too, but with eight of us to feed and clothe, it's no
wonder that father is dead sunk in debt! Certainly I shan't travel much,"
he added, laughing bitterly, "when he thinks we can't have even one hired
man in the future--and certainly you won't either, if you're fool enough
to marry Fred, and go straight from the frying-pan of one
poverty-stricken home to the fire of another!"

"Oh, Austin, it's wrong of you to talk so! I'm going to be ever so
happy!"

"Wrong! How else do you expect me to talk?--if I talk at all! Doesn't it
mean anything to you that the farm's mortgaged to the very last cent, and
that it doesn't begin to produce what it ought to because we can't beg,
borrow, or steal the money that ought to be put into it? Can you just
shut your eyes to the fact that the house--the finest in the county when
Grandfather Gray built it--is falling to pieces for want of necessary
repairs? And look at our barns and sheds--or don't look at them if you
can help it! Doesn't it gall you to dress as you do, because you have to
turn over most of what you can earn teaching to the family--of course,
you never can earn much, because you haven't had a good enough education
yourself to get a first-class position--so that the younger girls can go
to school at all, instead of going out as hired help? Can't you feel the
injustice of being poor, and dirty, and ignorant, when thousands of other
people are just _rotten_ with money?"

"I've heard of such people, but I've never met any of them around here,"
returned his sister quietly. "We're no worse off than lots of people,
better off than some. I think we've got a good deal to be thankful for,
living where we can see green things growing, and being well, and having
a mother like ours. I wish you could come to feel that way. Perhaps you
will some day."

"Why don't you marry Fred's cousin, instead of Fred?" asked her brother,
changing the subject abruptly. "You could get him just as easy as not--I
could see that when he was here last summer. Then you could go to Boston
to live, get something out of life yourself, and help your family, too."

"No one in the family but you would want help from me--at that price,"
returned Sally, still speaking quietly, but betraying by the slight
unevenness of her voice that her quiet spirit was at last disturbed more
than she cared to show. "Why, Austin, you know how I lo--care for Fred,
and that I gave him my word more than two years ago! Besides, I heard you
say yourself, before you knew he fancied me, that Hugh Elliott drank--and
did all sorts of other dreadful things--he wouldn't be considered
respectable in Hamstead."

Austin laughed again. "All right. I won't bring up the subject again. Ten
years from now you may be sorry you wouldn't put up with an occasional
spree, and sacrifice a silly little love-affair, for the sake of
everything else you'd get. But suit yourself. Cook and wash and iron and
scrub, lose your color and your figure and your disposition, and bring
half-a-dozen children into the world with no better heritage than that,
if it's your idea of bliss--and it seems to be!"

"I didn't mean to be cross, Sally," he said, after they had driven along
in heavy silence for some minutes. "I've been trying to do a little
business for father in White Water to-day, and met with my usual run of
luck--none at all. Here comes one of the livery-stable teams ploughing
towards us through the mud. Who's in it, do you suppose? Doesn't look
familiar, some way."

As the livery-stable in Hamstead boasted only four turn-outs, it was not
strange that Austin recognized one of them at sight, and as strangers
were few and far between, they were objects of considerable interest.

Sally leaned forward.

"No, she doesn't. She's all in black--and my! isn't she pretty? She seems
to be stopping and looking around--why don't you ask her if you could be
of any help?"

Austin nodded, and pulled in his reins. "I wonder if I could--" he began,
but stopped abruptly, realizing that the lady in the buggy coming towards
them had also stopped, and spoken the very same words. Inevitably they
all smiled, and the stranger began again.

"I wonder if you could tell me how to get to Mr. Howard Gray's house,"
she said. "I was told at the hotel to drive along this road as far as a
large white house--the first one I came to--and then turn to the right.
But I don't see any road."

"There isn't any, at this time of year," said Sally, laughing,--"nothing
but mud. You have to wallow through that field, and go up a hill, and
down a hill, and along a little farther, and then you come to the house.
Just follow us--we're going there. I'm Howard Gray's eldest daughter
Sally, and this is my brother Austin."

"Oh! then perhaps you can tell me--before I intrude--if it would be any
use--whether you think that possibly--whether under any circumstances
--well, if your mother would be good enough to let me come and live
at her house a little while?"

By this time Sally and Austin had both realized two things: first, that
the person with whom they were talking belonged to quite a different
world from their own--the fact was written large in her clothing, in her
manner, in the very tones of her voice; and, second, that in spite of her
pale face and widow's veil, she was even younger than they were, a girl
hardly out of her teens.

"I'm not very well," she went on rapidly, before they could answer, "and
my doctor told me to go away to some quiet place in the country until I
could get--get rested a little. I spent a summer here with my mother when
I was a little girl, and I remembered how lovely it was, and so I came
back. But the hotel has run down so that I don't think I can possibly
stay there; and yet I can't bear to go away from this beautiful, peaceful
river-valley--it's just what I've been longing to find. I happened to
overhear some one talking about Mrs. Gray, and saying that she might
consider taking me in. So I hired this buggy and started out to find her
and ask. Oh, don't you think she would?"

Sally and Austin exchanged glances. "Mother never has taken any boarders,
she's always been too busy," began the former; then, seeing the swift
look of disappointment on the sad little face, "but she might. It
wouldn't do any harm to ask, anyway. We'll drive ahead, and show you how
to get there."

The Gray family had been one of local prominence ever since Colonial
days, and James Gray, who built the dignified, spacious homestead now
occupied by his grandson's family, had been a man of some education and
wealth. His son Thomas inherited the house, but only a fourth of the
fortune, as he had three sisters. Thomas had but one child, Howard, whose
prospects for prosperity seemed excellent; but he grew up a dreamy,
irresolute, studious chap, a striking contrast to the sturdy yeoman type
from which he had sprung--one of those freaks of heredity that are hard
to explain. He went to Dartmouth College, travelled a little, showed a
disposition to read--and even to write--verses. As a teacher he probably
would have been successful; but his father was determined that he should
become a farmer, and Howard had neither the energy nor the disposition to
oppose him; he proved a complete failure. He married young, and, it was
generally considered, beneath him; for Mary Austin, with a heart of gold
and a disposition like sunshine, had little wealth or breeding and less
education to commend her; and she was herself too easy-going and
contented to prove the prod that Howard sadly needed in his wife.
Children came thick and fast; the eldest, James, had now gone South; the
second daughter, Ruth, was already married to a struggling storekeeper
living in White Water; Sally taught school; but the others were all still
at home, and all, except Austin, too young to be self-supporting--Thomas,
Molly, Katherine, and Edith. They had all caught their father's facility
for correct speech, rare in northern New England; most of them his love
of books, his formless and unfulfilled ambitions; more than one the
shiftlessness and incompetence that come partly from natural bent and
partly from hopelessness; while Sally and Thomas alone possessed the
sunny disposition and the ability to see the bright side of everything
and the good in everybody which was their mother's legacy to them.

The old house, set well back from the main road and near the river, with
elms and maples and clumps of lilac bushes about it, was almost bare of
the cheerful white paint that had once adorned it, and the green blinds
were faded and broken; the barns never had been painted, and were
huddled close to the house, hiding its fine Colonial lines, black,
ungainly, and half fallen to pieces; all kinds of farm implements, rusty
from age and neglect, were scattered about, and two dogs and several
cats lay on the kitchen porch amidst the general litter of milk-pails,
half-broken chairs, and rush mats. There was no one in sight as the two
muddy buggies pulled up at the little-used front door. Howard Gray and
Thomas were milking, both somewhat out-of-sorts because of the
non-appearance of Austin, for there were too many cows for them to
manage alone--a long row of dirty, lean animals of uncertain age and
breed. Molly was helping her mother to "get supper," and the red
tablecloth and heavy white china, never removed from the kitchen table
except to be washed, were beginning to be heaped with pickles,
doughnuts, pie, and cake, and there were potatoes and pork frying on the
stove. Katherine was studying, and Edith had gone to hastily "spread up"
the beds that had not been made that morning.

On the whole, however, the inside of the house was more tidy than the
outside, and the girl in black was aware of the homely comfort and good
cheer of the living-room into which she was ushered (since there was no
time to open up the cold "parlor") more than she was of its shabbiness.

"Come right in an' set down," said Mrs. Gray cheerfully, leading the
way; "awful tryin' weather we're havin', ain't it? An' the mud--my, it's
somethin' fierce! The men-folks track it in so, there's no keepin' it
swept up, an' there's so many of us here! But there's nothin' like a
large family for keepin' things hummin' just the same, now, is there?"
Mrs. Gray had had scant time to prepare her mind either for her
unexpected visitor or the object of her visit; but her mother-wit was
ready, for all that; one glance at the slight, black-robed little
figure, and the thin white face, with its tired, dark-ringed eyes, was
enough for her. Here was need of help; and therefore help of some sort
she must certainly give. "Now, then," she went on quickly, "you look
just plum tuckered out; set down an' rest a spell, an' tell me what I
can do for you."

"My name is Sylvia Cary--Mrs. Mortimer Cary, I mean." She shivered,
paused, and went on. "I live in New York--that is, I always have--I'm
never going to any more, if I can help it. My husband died two months
ago, my baby--just before that. I've felt so--so--tired ever since, I
just had to get away somewhere--away from the noise, and the hurry, and
the crowds of people I know. I was in Hamstead once, ten years ago, and I
remembered it, and came back. I want most dreadfully to stay--could you
possibly make room for me here?"

"Oh, you poor lamb! I'd do anything I could for you--but this ain't the
sort of home you've been used to--" began Mrs. Gray; but she was
interrupted.

"No, no, of course it isn't! Don't you understand--I can't bear what I've
been used to another minute! And I'll honestly try not to be a bit of
trouble if you'll only let me stay!"

Mrs. Gray twisted in her chair, fingering her apron. "Well, now, I
don't know! You've come so sudden-like--if I'd only had a little
notice! There's no place fit for a lady like you; but there are two
rooms we never use--the northeast parlor and the parlor-chamber off it.
You could have one of them--after I got it cleaned up a mite--an' try
it here for a while."

"Couldn't I have them both? I'd like a sitting-room as well as a
bedroom."

"Land! You ain't even seen 'em yet! maybe they won't suit you at all!
But, come, I'll show 'em to you an' if you want to stay, you shan't go
back to that filthy hotel. I'll get the bedroom so's you can sleep in it
to-night--just a lick an' a promise; an' to-morrow I'll house-clean 'em
both thorough, if 't is the Sabbath--the 'better the day, the better the
deed,' I've heard some say, an' I believe that's true, don't you, Mrs.
Cary?" She bustled ahead, pulling up the shades, and flinging open the
windows in the unused rooms. "My, but the dust is thick! Don't you touch
a thing--just see if you think they'll do."

Sylvia Cary glanced quickly about the two great square rooms, with their
white wainscotting, and shutters, their large, stopped-up fireplaces,
dingy wall-paper, and beautiful, neglected furniture. "Indeed they will!"
she exclaimed; "they'll be lovely when we get them fixed. And may I
truly stay--right now? I brought my hand-bag with me, you see, hoping
that I might, and my trunks are still at the station--wait, I'll give you
the checks, and perhaps your son will get them after supper."

She put the bag on a chair, and began to open it, hurriedly, as if
unwilling to wait a minute longer before making sure of remaining. Mrs.
Gray, who was standing near her, drew back with a gasp of surprise. The
bag was lined with heavy purple silk, and elaborately fitted with toilet
articles of shining gold. Mrs. Cary plunged her hands in and tossed out
an embroidered white satin negligee, a pair of white satin bed-slippers,
and a nightgown that was a mere wisp of sheer silk and lace; then drew
forth three trunk-checks, and a bundle an inch thick of crisp, new
bank-notes, and pulled one out, blushing and hesitating.

"I don't know how to thank you for taking me in to-night," she said;
"some day I'll tell you all about myself, and why it means so much to
me to have a--a refuge like this; but I'm afraid I can't until--I've
got rested a little. Soon we must talk about arrangements and terms and
all that--oh, I'm awfully businesslike! But just let me give you this
to-night, to show you how grateful I am, and pay for the first two
weeks or so."

And she folded the bill into a tiny square, and crushed it into Mrs.
Gray's reluctant hand.

Fifteen minutes later, when Howard Gray and Thomas came into the kitchen
for their supper, bringing the last full milk-pails with them, they
found the pork and potatoes burnt to a frazzle, the girls all talking at
once, and Austin bending over his mother, who sat in the big rocker with
the tears rolling down her cheeks, and a hundred-dollar bill spread out
on her lap.




CHAPTER II


For several weeks the Grays did not see much of Mrs. Cary. She appeared
at dinner and supper, eating little and saying less. She rose very late,
having a cup of coffee in bed about ten; the afternoons she spent
rambling through the fields and along the river-bank, but never going
near the highroad on her long walks. She generally read until nearly
midnight, and the book-hungry Grays pounced like tigers on the newspapers
and magazines with which she heaped her scrap-baskets, and longed for the
time to come when she would offer to lend them some of the books piled
high all around her rooms.

Some years before, when vacationists demanded less in the way of
amusement, Hamstead had flourished in a mild way as a summer-resort; but
its brief day of prosperity in this respect had passed, and the advent
of a wealthy and mysterious stranger, whose mail was larger than that of
all the rest of the population put together, but who never appeared in
public, or even spoke, apparently, in private, threw the entire village
into a ferment of excitement. Fred Elliott, who, in his rôle of
prospective son-in-law, might be expected to know much that was going on
at the Grays', was "pumped" in vain; he was obliged to confess his
entire ignorance concerning the history, occupations, and future
intentions of the young widow. Mrs. Gray had to "house-clean" her parlor
a month earlier than she had intended, because she had so many callers
who came hoping to catch a glimpse of Mrs. Cary, and hear all about her,
besides; but they did not see her at all, and Mrs. Gray could tell them
but little.

"She ain't a mite of trouble," the good woman declared to every one, "an'
the simplest, gentlest creature I ever see in my life. The girls are all
just crazy over her. No, she ain't told me yet anything about herself,
an' I don't like to press her none. Poor lamb, with her heart buried in
the grave, at her age! No, I don't know how long she means to stay,
neither, but 'twould be a good while, if I had my way."

To Mrs. Elliott, her best friend and Fred's mother, she was slightly more
communicative, though she disclosed no vital statistics.

"Edith helped her unpack an' she said she never even imagined anything
equal to what come out of them three great trunks; she said it made her
just long to be a widow. The dresses was all black, of course, but they
had an awful expensive look, some way, just the same. An' underclothes!
Edith said there was at least a dozen of everything, an' two dozen of
most, lace an' handwork an' silk, from one end of 'em to the other. She
has a leather box most as big as a suitcase heaped with jewelry--it was
open one morning when I went in with her breakfast, an' I give you my
word, Eliza, that just the little glimpse I got of it was worth walkin'
miles to see! An' yet she never wears so much as the simplest ring or
pin. She has enough flowers for an elegant funeral sent to her three
times a week by express, an' throws 'em away before they're
half-faded--says she likes the little wild ones that are beginnin' to
come up around here better, anyway. Yes, I don't deny she has some real
queer notions--for instance, she puts all them flowers in plain green
glass vases, an' wouldn't so much as look at the elegant cut-glass ones
they keep up to Wallacetown. She don't eat a particle of breakfast, an'
she streaks off for a long walk every day, rain or shine, an' wants the
old tin tub carried in so's she can have a hot bath every single night,
besides takin' what she calls a 'cold sponge' when she gets up in the
mornin'--which ain't till nearly noon."

"Well, now, ain't all that strange! An' wouldn't I admire to see all them
elegant things! What board did you say she paid?"

"Twenty-five dollars a week for board an' washin' an' mendin'--just think
of it, Eliza! I feel like a robber, but she wouldn't hear of a cent less.
Howard wants I should save every penny, so's at least one of the younger
children can have more of an education than James an' Sally an' Austin
an' Ruth. I don't look at it that way--seems to me it ain't fair to give
one child more than another. I want to spruce up this place a little, an'
lay by to raise the mortgage if we can."

"Which way 've you decided?"

"We've kinder compromised. The house is goin' to be painted outside, an'
the kitchen done over. I've had the piano tuned for Molly already--the
poor child is plum crazy over music, but it's a long time since I've seen
the three dollars that I could hand over to a strange man just for comin'
an' makin' a lot of screechin' noises on it all day; an' we're goin' to
have a new carry-all to go to meetin' in--the old one is fair fallin' to
pieces. The rest of the money we're goin' to lay by, an' if it keeps on
comin' in, Thomas can go to the State Agricultural College in, the fall,
for a spell, anyway. We've told Sally that she can keep all she earns for
her weddin' things, too, as long as Mrs. Cary stays."

"My, she's a reg'lar goose layin' a golden egg for you, ain't she? Well,
I must be goin'; I'll be over again as soon as spring-cleanin' eases up a
little, but I'm terrible druv just now. Maybe next time I can see her."

"You an' Joe an' Fred all come to dinner on Sunday--then you will."

Mrs. Elliott accepted with alacrity; but alas, for the eager
guests! when Sunday came, Mrs. Cary had a severe headache and
remained in bed all day.

She was so "simple and gentle," as Mrs. Gray said, that it came as a
distinct shock when it was discovered that little as she talked, she
observed a great deal. Austin was the first member of the family to find
this out. All the others had gone to church, and he was lounging on the
porch one Sunday morning, when she came out of the house, supposing that
she was quite alone. On finding him there, she hesitated for a minute,
and then sat quietly down on the steps, made one or two pleasant,
commonplace remarks, and lapsed into silence, her chin resting on her
hands, looking out towards the barns. Her expression was non-committal;
but Austin's antagonistic spirit was quick to judge it to be critical.

"I suppose you've travelled a good deal, besides living in New York," he
said, in the bitter tone that was fast becoming his usual one.

"Yes, to a certain extent. I've been around the world once, and to Europe
several times, and I spent part of last winter South."

"How miserable and shabby this poverty-stricken place must look to you!"

She raised her head and leaned back against a post, looking fixedly at
him for a minute. He was conscious, for the first time, that the pale
face was extremely lovely, that the great dark eyes were not gray, as he
had supposed, but a very deep blue, and that the slim throat and neck,
left bare by the V-cut dress, were the color of a white rose. A swift
current of feeling that he had never known before passed through him like
an electric shock, bringing him involuntarily to his feet, in time to
hear her say:

"It's shabby, but it isn't miserable. I don't believe any place is
that, where there's a family, and enough food to eat and wood to
burn--if the family is happy in itself. Besides, with two hours' work,
and without spending one cent, you could make it much less shabby than
it is; and by saving what you already have, you could stave off
spending in the future."

She pointed, as she spoke, to the cluttered yard before them, to the
unwashed wagons and rusty tools that had not been put away, to the
shed-door half off its hinges, and the unpiled wood tossed carelessly
inside the shed. He reddened, as much at the scorn in her gesture as at
the words themselves, and answered angrily, as many persons do when they
are ashamed:

"That's very true; but when you work just as hard as you can, anyway, you
haven't much spirit left over for the frills."

"Excuse me; I didn't realize they were frills. No business man would
have his office in an untidy condition, because it wouldn't pay; I
shouldn't think it would pay on a farm either. Just as it seems to
me--though, of course, I'm not in a position to judge--that if you sold
all those tubercular grade cows, and bought a few good cattle, and kept
them clean and fed them well, you'd get more milk, pay less for grain,
and not have to work so hard looking after more animals than you can
really handle well."

As she spoke, she began to unfasten her long, frilled, black sleeves, and
rose with a smile so winning that it entirely robbed her speech of
sharpness.

"Let's go to work," she said, "and see how much we could do in the way of
making things look better before the others get home from church. We'll
start here. Hand me that broom and I'll sweep while you stack up the
milk-pails--don't stop to reason with me about it--that'll only use up
time. If there's any hot water on the kitchen stove and you know where
the mop is, I'll wash this porch as well as sweep it; put on some more
water to heat if you take all there is."

When the Grays returned from church, their astonished eyes were met
with the spectacle of their boarder, her cheeks glowing, her hair half
down her back, and her silk dress irretrievably ruined, helping Austin
to wash and oil the one wagon which still stood in the yard. She fled
at their approach, leaving Austin to retail her conversation and
explain her conduct as best he could, and to ponder over both all the
afternoon himself.

"She's dead right about the cows," declared Thomas; "but what would be
the use of getting good stock and putting it in these barns? It would
sicken in no time. We need new buildings, with proper ventilation, and
concrete floors, and a silo."

"Why don't you say we need a million dollars, and be done with it? You
might just as well," retorted his brother.

"Because we don't--but we need about ten thousand; half of it for
buildings, and the rest for stock and utensils and fertilizers, and for
what it would cost to clean up our stumpy old pastures, and make them
worth something again."

At that moment Mrs. Cary entered the room for dinner, and the discussion
of unpossessed resources came to an abrupt end. Her color was still
high, and she ate her first hearty meal since her arrival; but her dress
and her hair were irreproachably demure again, and she talked even less
than usual.

That evening Molly begged off from doing her share with the dishes, and
went to play on her newly tuned piano. She loved music dearly, and had
genuine talent; but it seemed as if she had never realized half so keenly
before how little she knew about it, and how much she needed help and
instruction. A particularly unsuccessful struggle with a difficult
passage finally proved too much for her courage, and shutting the piano
with a bang, she leaned her head on it and burst out crying.

A moment later she sat up with a sudden jerk, realizing that the parlor
door had opened and closed, and tried to wipe away the tears before any
one saw them; then a hot blush of embarrassment and shame flooded her wet
cheeks, as she realized that the intruder was not one of her sisters, but
Mrs. Cary.

"What a good touch you have!" she said, sitting down by the piano, and
apparently quite unaware of the storm. "I love music dearly, and I
thought perhaps you'd let me come and listen to your playing for a little
while. The fingering of that 'Serenade' is awfully hard, isn't it? I
thought I should never get it, myself--never did, really well, in fact!
Do you like your teacher?"

"I never had a lesson in my life," replied Molly, the sobs rising in her
throat again; "there are two good ones in Wallacetown, but, you see, we
never could af--"

"Well, some teachers do more harm than good," interrupted her visitor,
"probably you've escaped a great deal. Play something else, won't you? Do
you mind this dim light? I like it so much."

So Molly opened the piano and began again, doing her very best. She chose
the simple things she knew by heart, and put all her will-power as well
as all her skill into playing them well. It was only when she stopped,
confessing that she knew no more, that Mrs. Gary stirred.

"I used to play a good deal myself," she said, speaking very low;
"perhaps I could take it up again. Do you think you could help me,
Molly?"

"_I_! help _you_! However in the world--"

"By letting _me_ be your teacher! I'm getting rested now, and I find I've
a lot of superfluous energy at my disposal--your brother had a dose of it
this morning! I want something to do--something to keep me
busy--something to keep me from thinking. I haven't half as much talent
as you, but I've had more chances to learn. Listen! This is the way that
'Serenade' ought to go"--and Mrs. Cary began to play. The dusk turned to
moonlight around them, and the Grays sat in the dining-room, hesitating
to intrude, and listening with all their ears; and still she sat,
talking, explaining, illustrating to Molly, and finally ended by playing,
one after another, the old familiar hymns which they all loved.

"It's settled, then--I'll give you your first real lesson to-morrow, and
send to New York at once for music. You'll have to do lots of scales and
finger-exercises, I warn you! Now come into _my_ parlor--there's
something else I wanted to talk to you about."

"Do you see that great trunk?" she went on, after she had drawn Molly in
after her and lighted the lamp; "I sent for it a week ago, but it only
got here yesterday. It's full of all my--all the clothes I had to stop
wearing a little while ago."

Molly's heart began to thump with excitement.

"You and Edith are little, like me," whispered Mrs. Cary. "If you would
take the dresses and use them, it would be--be such a _favor_ to me! Some
of them are brand-new! Some of them wouldn't be useful or suitable for
you, but there are firms in every big city that buy such things, so you
could sell those, if you care to; and, besides the made-up clothes there
are several dress-lengths--a piece of pink silk that would be sweet for
Sally, and some embroidered linens, and--and so on. I'm going to bed
now--I've had so much exercise to-day, and you've given me such a
pleasant evening that I shan't have to read myself to sleep to-night, and
when I've shut my bedroom door, if you truly would like the trunk, have
your brothers come in and carry it off, and promise me never--never to
speak about it again."

Monday and Tuesday passed by without further excitement; but Wednesday
morning, while Mr. Gray was planting his newly ploughed vegetable-garden,
Mrs. Cary sauntered out, and sat down beside the place where he was
working, apparently oblivious of the fact that damp ground is supposed
to be as detrimental to feminine wearing apparel as it is to feminine
constitutions.

"I've been watching you from the window as long as I could stand it," she
said, "now I've come to beg. I want a garden, too, a flower-garden. Do
you mind if I dig up your front yard?"

He laughed, supposing that she was joking. "Dig all you want to," he
said; "I don't believe you'll do much harm."

"Thanks. I'll try not to. Have I your full permission to try my
hand and see?"

"You certainly have."

"Is there some boy in the village I could hire to do the first heavy
work and the mowing, and pull up the weeds from time to time if they get
ahead of me?"

Howard Gray leaned on his hoe. "You don't need to hire a boy," he said
gravely; "we'll be only too glad to help you all you need."

"Thank you. But, you see, you've got too much to do already, and I can't
add to your burdens, or feel free to ask favors, unless you'll let me do
it in a business way."

Mr. Gray turned his hoe over, and began to hack at the ground. "I see how
you feel," he began, "but--"

"If Thomas could do it evenings, at whatever the rate is around here by
the hour, I should be very glad. If not, please find me a boy."

"She has a way of saying things," explained Howard Gray, who had
faltered along in a state of dreary indecision for nearly sixty years, in
telling his wife about it afterwards,--"as if they were all settled
already. What could I say, but 'Yes, Mrs. Cary'? And then she went on, as
cool as a cucumber, 'As long as you've got an extra stall, may I send for
one of my horses? The usual board around here is five dollars a week,
isn't it?' And what could I say again but 'Yes, Mrs. Cary'? though you
may believe I fairly itched to ask, 'Send _where_?' and, 'For the love of
Heaven, how _many_ horses have you?'"

"I could stand her actin' as if things was all settled," replied his
wife; "I like to see folks up an' comin', even if I ain't made that way
myself, an' it's a satisfaction to me to see the poor child kinder
pickin' up an' takin' notice again; but what beats me is, she acts as if
all these things were special favors to _her_! The garden an' the horse
is all very well, but what do you think she lit into me to-day for?
'You'll let me stay all summer, won't you, Mrs. Gray?' she said, comin'
into the kitchen, where I was ironin' away for dear life, liftin' a pile
of sheets off a chair, an' settlin' down, comfortable-like. 'Bless your
heart, you can stay forever, as far as I'm concerned,' says I. 'Well,
perhaps I will,' says she, leanin' back an' laughin'--she's got a
sweet-pretty laugh, hev you noticed, Howard?--'and so you won't think I'm
fault-findin' or discontented if I suggest a few little changes I'd like
to make around, will you? I know it's awfully bold, in another person's
house--an' such a _lovely_ house, too, but--'"

"Well?" demanded her husband, as she paused for breath.

"Well, Howard Gray, the first of them little changes is to be a great big
piazza, to go across the whole front of the house! 'The kitchen porch is
so small an' crowded,' says she, 'an' you can't see the river from there;
I want a place to sit out evenings. Can't I have the fireplaces in my
rooms unbricked,' she went on, 'an' the rooms re-papered an' painted?
An', oh,--I've never lived in a house where there wasn't a bathroom
before, an' I want to make that big closet with a window off my bedroom
into one. We'll have a door cut through it into the hall, too,' says she,
'an' isn't there a closet just like it overhead? If we can get a plumber
here--they're such slippery customers--he might as well put in two
bathrooms as one, while he's about it, an' you shan't do my great
washin's any more without some good set-tubs. An' Mrs. Gray, kerosene
lamps do heat up the rooms so in summer,--if there's an electrician
anywhere around here--' 'Mrs. Cary,' says I, 'you're an angel right out
of Heaven, but we can't accept all this from you. It means two thousand
dollars, straight.' 'About what I should pay in two months for my living
expenses anywhere else,' says she. 'Favors! It's you who are kind to let
me stay here, an' not mind my tearin' your house all to pieces. Thomas is
goin' to drive me up to Wallacetown this evenin' to see if we can find
some mechanics'; an' she got up, an' kissed me, an' strolled off."

"Thomas thinks she's the eighth wonder of the world," said his father;
"she can just wind him around her little finger."

"She's windin' us all," replied his wife, "an' we're standin'
grateful-like, waitin' to be wound."

"That's so--all except Austin. Austin's mad as a hatter at what she got
him to do Sunday morning; he doesn't like her, Mary."

"Humph!" said his wife.




CHAPTER III


"Good-bye, Mrs. Gray, I'm going for a ride."

"Good-bye, dearie; sure it ain't too hot?"

"Not a bit; it's rained so hard all this week that I haven't had a bit of
exercise, and I'm getting cross."

"Cross! I'd like to see you once! It still looks kinder thunderous to me
off in the West, so don't go far."

"I won't, I promise; I'll be back by supper-time. There's Austin, just up
from the hayfield--I'll get him to saddle for me." And Sylvia ran quickly
towards the barn.

"You don't mean to say you're going out this torrid day?" he demanded,
lifting his head from the tin bucket in which he had submerged it as she
voiced her request, and eyeing her black linen habit with disfavor.

"It's no hotter on the highroad than in the hayfield."

"Very true; but I have to go, and you don't. Being one of the favored few
of this earth, there's no reason why you shouldn't sit on a shady porch
all day, dressed in cool, pale-green muslin, and sipping iced drinks."

"Did you ever see me in a green muslin? I'll saddle Dolly myself, if you
don't feel like it."

She spoke very quietly, but the immediate consciousness of his stupid
break did not improve Austin's bad temper.

"Oh, I'll saddle for you, but the heat aside, I think you ought to
understand that it isn't best for a woman to ride about on these lonely
roads by herself. It was different a few years ago; but now, with all
these Italian and Portuguese laborers around, it's a different story. I
think you'd better stay at home."

The unwarranted and dictatorial tone of the last sentence spoiled the
speech, which might otherwise, in spite of the surly manner in which it
was uttered, have passed for an expression of solicitude. Sylvia, who was
as headstrong as she was amiable, gathered up her reins quickly.

"By what right do you consider yourself in a position to dictate to me?"
she demanded.

"By none at all; but it's only decent to tell you the risk you're
running; now if you come to grief, I certainly shan't feel sorry."

"From your usual behavior, I shouldn't have supposed you would, anyway.
Good-bye, Austin."

"Good-bye, Mrs. Cary."

"Why don't you call me Sylvia, as all the rest do?"

"It's not fitting."

"More dictation as to propriety! Well, as you please."

He watched her ride up the hill, almost with a feeling of satisfaction at
having antagonized and hurt her, then turned to unharness and water his
horses. He knew very well that his own behavior was the only blot on a
summer, which but for that would have been almost perfect for every other
member of the family, and yet he made no effort to alter it. In fact,
only a few days before, his sullen resentment of the manner in which
their long-prayed-for change of fortune had come had very nearly resulted
disastrously for them all, and the more he brooded over it, the more sore
and bitter he became.

       *       *       *       *       *

By the first of August, the "Gray Homestead" had regained the proud
distinction, which it had enjoyed in the days of its builder, of being
one of the finest in the county. The house, with its wide and hospitable
piazza, shone with white paint; the disorderly yard had become a smooth
lawn; a flower-garden, riotous with color, stretched out towards the
river, and the "back porch" was concealed with growing vines. Only the
barns, which afforded Sylvia no reasonable excuse for meddling, remained
as before, unsightly and dilapidated. Thomas, the practical farmer, had
lamented this as he and Austin sat smoking their pipes one sultry evening
after supper.

"Perhaps our credit has improved enough now so that we could borrow some
money at the Wallacetown Bank," he said earnestly, "and if you and father
weren't so averse to taking that good offer Weston made you last week for
the south meadow, we'd have almost enough to rebuild, anyway. It's all
very well to have this pride in 'keeping the whole farm just as
grandfather left it to us,' but if we could sell part and take care of
the rest properly, it would be a darned sight better business."

"Why don't you ask your precious Mrs. Cary for the money? She'd probably
give it to you outright, same as she has for the house, and save you all
that bother."

"Look here!" Thomas swung around sharply, laying a heavy hand on his
brother's arm; "when you talk about her, you won't use that tone, if
I know it."

Austin shrugged his shoulders. "Why shouldn't I? What do you know about
her that justifies you in resenting it? Nothing, absolutely nothing!
She's been here four months, and none of us have any idea to this day
where she comes from, or where all this money comes from. Ask her, if
you dare to."

He got no further, for Thomas, always the mildest of lads, struck him on
the mouth so violently that he tottered backwards, and in doing so, fell
straight under the feet of Sylvia, who stood in the doorway watching
them, as if rooted to the spot, her blue eyes full of tears, and her face
as white as when she had first come to them.

"Thomas, how _could_ you?" she cried. "Can't you understand Austin
at all, and make allowances? And, oh, Austin, how could _you_? Both
of you? please forgive me for overhearing--I couldn't help it!" And
she was gone.

Thomas was on his feet and after her in a second, but she was too quick
for him; her sitting-room door was locked before he reached it, and
repeated knocking and calling brought no answer. Mr. and Mrs. Gray, who
slept in the chamber opening from the dining-room, and back of Sylvia's,
reported the next morning that something must be troubling the "blessed
girl," for they had heard soft sobbing far into the night; but, after
all, that had happened before, and was to be expected from one "whose
heart was buried in the grave." Their sons made no comment, but both were
immeasurably relieved when, after an entire day spent in her room, during
which each, in his own way, had suffered intensely, she reappeared at
supper as if nothing had happened. It was a glorious night, and she
suggested, as she left the table, that Thomas might take her for a short
paddle, a canoe being among the many things which had been gradually
arriving for her all summer. Molly and Edith went with them, and Austin
smoked alone with his bitter reflections.

       *       *       *       *       *

The thunder was rumbling in good earnest when Howard Gray and Thomas came
clattering up with their last load of hay for the night, and the three
men pitched it hastily into place together, and hurried into the house.
Mrs. Gray was bustling about slamming windows, and the girls were
bringing in the red-cushioned hammocks and piazza, chairs, but the first
great drops began to fall before they had finished, and the wind, seldom
roused in the quiet valley, was blowing violently; Edith, stopping too
long for a last pillow and a precious book, was drenched to the skin in
an instant; the house was pitch dark before there was time to grope for
lights, but was almost immediately illumined by a brilliant flash of
lightning, followed by a loud report.

"My, but this storm is near! Usually, I don't mind 'em a bit, but, I
declare, this is a regular rip-snorter! Edith, bring me--"

But Mrs. Gray was interrupted by the elements, and for fifteen minutes
no one made any further effort to talk; the rain fell in sheets, the
wind gathered greater and greater force, the lightning became constant
and blinding, while each clap of thunder seemed nearer and more
terrific than the one before it, when finally a deafening roar brought
them all suddenly together, shouting frantically, "That certainly has
struck here!"

It was true; before they could even reach it, the great north barn was in
flames. There was no way of summoning outside help, even if any one could
have reached them in such a storm, and the wind was blowing the fire
straight in the direction of the house; in less than an hour, most of
the old and rotten outbuildings had burnt like tinder, and the rest had
collapsed under the fury of the sweeping gale; but by eight o'clock the
stricken Grays, almost too exhausted and overcome to speak, were
beginning to realize that though all their hay and most of their stock
were destroyed, a change of wind, combined with their own mighty efforts,
had saved the beloved old house; its window-panes were shattered, and its
blinds were torn off, and its fresh paint smoked and defaced with
wind-blown sand; but it was essentially unharmed. The hurricane changed
to a steady downpour, the lightning grew dimmer and more distant, and
vanished altogether; and Mrs. Gray, with a firm expression of
countenance, in spite of the tears rolling down her cheeks, set about to
finish the preparations for supper which the storm had so rudely
interrupted three hours earlier.

"Eat an' keep up your strength, an' that'll help to keep up your
courage," she said, patting her husband on the shoulder as she passed
him. "Here, Katherine, take them biscuits out of the oven; an' Molly, go
an' call the boys in; there ain't a mite of use in their stayin' out
there any longer."

Austin was the last to appear; he opened the kitchen door, and stood for
a moment leaning against the frame, a huge, gaunt figure, blackened with
dirt and smoke, and so wet that the water dropped in little pools all
about him. He glanced up and down the room, and gave a sharp exclamation.

"What's the matter, Austin?" asked his mother, stopping in the act of
pouring out a steaming cup of tea. "Come an' get some supper; you'll feel
better directly. It ain't so bad but what it might be a sight worse."

"_Come and get some supper_!" he cried, striding towards her, and once
more looking wildly around. "The thunderstorm has been over nearly two
hours, plenty of time for her to get home--she never minds rain--or to
telephone if she had taken shelter anywhere; and can any one tell
me--has any one even thought--I didn't, till five minutes ago--_where
is Sylvia_?"




CHAPTER IV


"Sylvia! Sylvia! Sylvia!"

The musical name echoed and reëchoed through the silent woods, but there
was no other answer. Austin lighted a match, shielded it from the rain
with his hand, and looked at his watch; it was just past midnight.

"Oh," he groaned, "where _can_ she be? What has happened to her? If I
only knew she was found, and unharmed, and safe at home again, I'd never
ask for anything else as long as I lived."

He had knocked his lantern against a tree some time before, and broken
it, and there was nothing to do but stumble blindly along in the
darkness, hoping against hope. Howard Gray had gone north, Thomas east,
and Austin south; before starting out, they had endeavored to telephone,
but the storm had destroyed the wires in every direction. After
travelling almost ten miles, Austin went home, thinking that by that time
either his father or his brother must have been successful in his search,
to be met only by the anxious despair of his mother and sisters.

"Don't you worry," he forced himself to say with a cheerfulness he was
very far from feeling; "she may have gone down that old wood-road that
leads out of the Elliotts' pasture. I heard her telling Thomas once that
she loved to explore, that they must walk down there some Sunday
afternoon; maybe she decided to go alone. I'll stop at the house, and see
if Fred happened to see her pass."

Fred had not; but Mrs. Elliott had; there was little that escaped her
eager eyes.

"My, yes, I see her go tearin' past before the storm so much as begun;
she's sure the queerest actin' widow-woman I ever heard of; Sally says
she goes swimmin' in a bathin'-suit just like a boy's, an' floats an'
dives like a fish--nice actions for a grievin' lady, if you ask me! Do
set a moment, Austin; set down an' tell me about the fire; I ain't had no
details at all, an' I'm feelin' real bad--" But the door had already
slammed behind Austin's hurrying figure.

"Sylvia, Sylvia, where are you?"

He ploughed along for what seemed like endless miles, calling as he went,
and hearing his own voice come back to him, over and over again, like a
mocking spirit. The wind, the rain, and the darkness conspired together
to make what was rough travelling in the daytime almost impassable;
strong as he was, Austin sank down more than once for a few minutes on
some fallen log over which he stumbled. At these times the vision of
Sylvia standing in the midst of the still-smoking ruins of the
buildings, which had been, in spite of their wretched condition, dear to
him because they were almost all he had in the world, seemed to rise
before him with horrible reality: Sylvia, dressed in her black, black
clothes, with her soft dark hair, and her deep-blue eyes, and her vivid
red lips which so seldom either drooped or smiled but lay tightly closed
together, a crimson line in her white face, which was no more sorrowful
than it was mask-like. The expression was as pure and as sad and as
gentle as that of a Mater Dolorosa he had chanced to see in a collection
of prints at the Wallacetown Library, and yet--and yet--Austin knew
instinctively that the dead husband, whoever he might have been, and his
own brother Thomas were not the only men besides himself who had found it
irresistibly alluring.

"I'm poorer than ever now," he groaned to himself, "and ignorant, and
mean, and dirty, and a beast in every sense of the word; I can't ever
atone for the way I've treated her--for the way I've--but if I could only
find her and _try_, oh, I've got to! Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia--"

The rain struck about by the wind, which had risen again, lashed against
the leaves of the trees, and the wet, swaying boughs struck against his
face as he started on again; but the storm and his own footsteps were the
only sounds he could hear.

It was growing rapidly colder, and he felt more than once in his pocket
to make sure that the little flask of brandy he had brought with him was
still safe, and tried to fasten his drenched coat more tightly about him.
His teeth chattered, and he shivered; but this, he realized, was more
with nervousness than with chill.

"If I'm cold, what must she be, in that linen habit? And she's so little
and frail--" He pulled himself together. "I must stop worrying like
this--of course, I'll find her,--alive and unharmed. Some things are too
dreadful--they just can't happen. I've got to have a chance to beg her
forgiveness for all I've said and done and thought; I've got to have
something to give me courage to start all over again, and make a man of
myself yet--to cleanse myself of ingratitude--and bitterness--and evil
passions. Sylvia--Sylvia--Sylvia!"

It seemed as if he had called it a thousand times; suddenly he stopped
short, listening, his heart beating like a hammer, then standing still in
his breast. It couldn't be--but, oh, it was, it was--

"Austin! Is that you?"

"Yes, yes, yes, where are you?"

"I don't know, I'm sure--what a question!" And instantly a feeling
of relief swept through him--she was _all right_--able to see
the absurdity of his question more than he could have done! "But
wherever I am, we can't be far apart; keep on calling, follow my
voice--Austin--Austin--Austin--"

"All right--coming--tell me--are you hurt?"

"No--that is, not much."

"How much?"

"Dolly was frightened by the storm, bolted, and threw me off; I must have
been stunned for a few minutes. I'm afraid I've sprained my ankle in
falling, for I can't walk; and, oh, Austin, I'm awfully cold--and
wet--and tired!"

"I know; it's--it's been just hellish for you. Keep on speaking to me,
I'm getting nearer."

"I'll put out my hands, and then, when you get here, you won't stumble
over me. I'm sure you're very near; your footsteps sound so."

"How long have you been here, should you think?"

"Oh, hours and hours. I was riding on the main road, when just what you
predicted happened. It served me right--I ought to have listened to you.
And so--oh, here you are--_I knew, all the time_, you'd come."

He grasped the little cold, outstretched hands, and sank down beside her,
chafing them in his own.

"Thank God, I've found you," he said huskily, and gulped hard, pressing
his lips together; then forcing himself to speak quietly, he went on,
"Sylvia--tell me exactly what happened--if you feel able; but first, you
must drink some brandy--I've got some for you--"

"I don't believe I can. I was all right until a moment ago--but now
everything seems to be going around--"

Austin put his arm around her, and forced the flask to her lips; then the
soft head sank on his shoulder, and he realized that she had fainted.
Very gently he laid her on the ground, and fumbled in the dark for the
fastenings of her habit; when it was loosened, he pulled off his coat and
flannel shirt, putting the coat over her, and the shirt under her head
for a pillow; then listening anxiously for her breathing, felt again for
her mouth, and poured more brandy between her lips. There were a few
moments of anxious waiting; then she sighed, moved restlessly, and tried
to sit up.

"Lie still, Sylvia; you fainted; you've got to keep very quiet for a
few minutes."

"How stupid of me! But I'm all right now."

"I said, lie still."

"All right, all right, I will; but you'll frighten me out of my wits if
you use that tone of voice."

"I didn't mean to frighten you; but you've got to keep quiet, for your
own sake, Sylvia."

"I thought you said you wouldn't call me Sylvia."

"I've said a good many foolish things in the course of my life, and
changed my mind about them afterwards."

"Or feel sorry if I came to grief--"

"And a good many untrue and wicked ones for which I have repented
afterwards."

"Well, I did come to grief--or pretty nearly. I met three Polish workmen
on the road. I think they were--intoxicated. Anyway, they tried to stop
me. I was lucky in managing to turn in here--so quickly they didn't
realize what I was going to do. If I hadn't been near the entrance to
this wood-road--Austin, what makes you grip my hand so? You hurt."

"Promise me you'll never ride alone again," he said, his voice shaking.

"I certainly never shall."

"And could you possibly promise me, too, that you'll forgive the
absolutely unforgivable way I've acted all summer, and give me a chance
to show that I can do better--_Sylvia_?"

"Oh, yes, _yes_! Please don't feel badly about that. I--I--never
misunderstood at all. I know you've had an awfully hard row to hoe, and
that's made you bitter, and--any man hates to have a woman
help--financially. Besides"--she hesitated, and went on with a humility
very different from her usual sweet imperiousness--"I've been pretty
unhappy myself, and it's made _me_ self-willed and obstinate and
dictatorial."

"You! You're--more like an angel than I ever dreamed any woman could be."

"Oh, I'm not, I'm not--please don't think so for a minute. Because, if
you do, we'll start out on a false basis, and not be real friends, the
way I hope we're going to be now--"

"Yes--"

"And, please, may I sit up now? And really, my hands are warm"--he
dropped them instantly--"and I would like to hear about the
storm--whether it has done much damage, if you know."

"It has destroyed every building we owned except the house itself."

"Austin! You're not in earnest!"

"I never was more so."

"Oh, I'm sorry--more sorry than I can tell you!" One of the little hands
that had been withdrawn a moment earlier groped for his in the darkness,
and pressed it gently; she did not speak for some minutes, but finally
she went on: "It seems a dreadful thing to say, but perhaps it may prove
a blessing in disguise. I believe Thomas is right in thinking that a
smaller farm, which you could manage easily and well without hiring help,
would be more profitable; and now it will seem the most natural thing in
the world to sell that great southern meadow to Mr. Weston."

"Yes, I suppose so; he offered us three thousand dollars for it; he
doesn't care to buy the little brick cottage that goes with it--which
isn't strange, for it has only five rooms, and is horribly out of repair.
Grandfather used it for his foreman; but, of course, we've never needed
it and never shall, so I wish he did want it."

"Oh, Austin--could _I_ buy it? I've been _dying_ for it ever since I
first saw it! It could be made perfectly charming, and it's plenty big
enough for me! I've sold my Fifth Avenue house, and I'm going to sell the
one on Long Island too--great, hideous, barnlike places! Your mother
won't want me forever, and I want a little place of my very own, and _I
love_ Hamstead--and the river--and the valley--I didn't dare suggest
this--you all, except Thomas, seemed so averse to disposing of any of the
property, but--'

"If we sell the meadow to Weston, I am sure you can have the cottage and
as much land as you want around it; but the trouble is--"

"You need a great deal more money; of course, I know that. Have you any
insurance?"

"Very little."

For some moments she sat turning things over in her mind, and was quiet
for so long that Austin began to fear that she was more badly hurt than
she had admitted, and found it an effort to talk.

"Is anything the matter?" he asked at last, anxiously. "Are you in pain?"

"No--only thinking. Austin--if you cannot secure a loan at some local
bank, would you be very averse to borrowing the money from me--whatever
the sum is that you need? I am investing all the time, and I will ask the
regular rates of interest. Are you offended with me for making such a
suggestion?"

"I am not. I was too much moved to answer for a minute, that is all. It
is beyond my comprehension how you could bring yourself to do it, after
overhearing what you heard me say the other evening."

"Then you'll accept?"

"If father and Thomas think best, I will; and thank you, too, for not
calling it a gift."

"Are you likely to be offended if I go on, and suggest something
further?"

"No; but I am likely to be so overwhelmed that I shall not be of much
practical use to you."

"Well, then, I'd like you to take a thousand dollars more than you need
for building, and spend it in travelling."

"In travelling!"

"Yes; Thomas is a born farmer, and the four years that he is going to
have at the State Agricultural College are going to be exactly what he
wants and needs. He isn't sensitive enough so that he'll mind being a
little older than most of the fellows in his class. But, of course, for
you, anything like that is entirely out of the question. How old are
you, anyway?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Well, if you could get away from here for a time, and see other people,
how they do things, how they make a little money go a long way, and a
little land go still farther, how they work hard, and fail many times,
and succeed in the end--not the science of farming that Thomas is going
to learn, but the accomplished fact--I believe it would be the making of
you. My Uncle Mat was one of the first importers of Holstein cattle in
this country, and I'd like to have you do just what he did when he got
through college. Of course, you can buy all the cows you want in the
United States now, of every kind, sort, and description, and just as
good as there are anywhere in the world; but I want you to go to Europe,
nevertheless. Start right off while Thomas is still at home to help your
father; take a steamer that goes direct to Holland; get into the
interior with an interpreter. Then cross over to the Channel Islands. By
that time you'll be in a position to decide whether you want to stock
your farm with Holsteins, which have the strongest constitutions and
give the most milk, or Jerseys, which give the richest. While you're
over there, go to Paris and London for a few days--and see something
besides cows. Come home by Liverpool. I know the United States Minister
to the Netherlands very well, and no end of people in Paris. I'll give
you some letters of introduction, and you'll have a good time besides
getting a practical education. The whole trip needn't take you more than
eight weeks. Then next spring visit a few of the big farms in New York
and the Middle West, and go to one of those big cattle auctions they
hold in Syracuse in July. Then--"

"For Heaven's sake, Sylvia! Where did you pick up all this information
about farming?"

"From Uncle Mat--but I'll tell you all about that some other time. The
question is now, 'Will you go?'"

"God bless you, _yes_!"

"That's settled, then," she cried happily. "I was fairly trembling with
fear that you'd refuse. Why _is_ it so hard for you to accept things?"

"I don't know. I've been bitter all my life because I've had to go
without so much, and this summer I've been equally bitter because things
were changing. It must be just natural cussedness--but I'm honestly going
to try to do better."

"We've got to stay here until morning, haven't we?"

"I'm afraid we have. You can't walk, and even if you could, the chances
are ten to one against our finding the highroad in this Egyptian
darkness! When the sun comes up, I can pick my own way along through the
underbrush all right, and carry you at the same time. You must weigh
about ninety pounds."

"I weigh one hundred and ten! The idea!--There's really no chance, then,
of our moving for several hours?"

"I'm sorry--but you must see there is not. Does it seem as if you
couldn't bear being so dreadfully uncomfortable that much longer?"

"Not in the least. I'm all right. But--"

"Do you mind being here--alone with me?"

"No, _no, no_! Why on earth should I? Let me finish my sentence. I was
only wondering if it might not help to pass the time if I told you a
story? It's not a very pleasant one, but I think it might help you over
some hard places yourself, if you heard it; and if you would tell part of
it--as much as you think best--to your family after we get home, I should
be very grateful. Some of it should, in all justice, have been told to
you all long ago, since you were so good as to receive me when you knew
nothing whatever about me, and the rest is--just for you."

"Is the telling going to be hard for you?"

"I don't think so--this way--in the dark--and alone. It has all
seemed too unspeakably dreadful to talk about until just lately; but
I've been growing so much happier--I think it may be a relief to tell
some one now."

"Then do, by all means. I feel--"

"Yes--"

"More honored than I can tell you by your--confidence."

"Austin--when it's _in_ you to say such nice things as you have several
times to-night, _why_ do you waste time saying disagreeable ones--the way
you usually do to everybody?"

"I've just told you, I don't know, but I'm going to do better."

"Well--there was once a girl, whose father had died when she was a baby
and who lived with her mother and a maid in a tiny flat in New York City.
It was a pretty little flat, and they had plenty to eat and to wear, and
a good many pleasant friends and acquaintances; but they didn't have much
money--that is, compared to the other people they knew. This girl went to
a school where all her mates had ten times as much spending money as she
did, who possessed hundreds of things which she coveted, and who were
constantly showering favors upon her which she had no way of returning.
So, from the earliest time that she could remember, she felt discontented
and dissatisfied, and regarded herself as having been picked out by
Providence for unusual misfortunes; and her mother agreed with her.

"I fancy it is never very pleasant to be poor. But if one can be frankly
poor, in calico and overalls, the way you've been, I don't believe it's
quite so hard as it is to be poor and try 'to keep up appearances'; as
the saying is. This girl learned very early the meaning of that
convenient phrase. She gave parties, and went without proper food for a
week afterwards; she had pretty dresses to wear to dances, and wore
shabby finery about the house; she bought theatre tickets and candy, but
never had a cent to give to charity; she usually stayed in the sweltering
city all summer, because there was not enough money to go away for the
summer, and still have some left for the next winter's season; and she
spent two years at miserable little second-rate 'pensions' in
Europe--that pet economy of fashionable Americans who would not for one
moment, in their own country, put up with the bad food, and the
unsanitary quarters, and the vulgar associates which they endure there.

"Before she was sixteen years old this girl began to be 'attractive to
men,' as another stock phrase goes. I may be mistaken, and I'll never
have a chance now to find out whether I am or not, but I believe if I had
a daughter like that, it would be my earnest wish to bring her up in some
quiet country place where she could dress simply, and spend much time
outdoors, and not see too many people until she was nineteen or twenty.
But the mother I have been talking about didn't feel that way. She
taught her daughter to make the most of her looks--her eyes and her
mouth, and her figure; she showed her how to arrange her dress in a way
which should seem simple--and really be alluring; she drilled her in the
art of being flippant without being pert, of appearing gentle when she
was only sly, of saying the right thing at the right time, and--what is
much more important--keeping still at the right time. The pupil was
docile because she was eager to learn and she was clever. She made very
few mistakes, and she never made the same one twice.

"Of course, all this education had one aim and end--a rich husband. 'I
hope I've brought you up too sensibly,' the mother used to say, 'for you
to even think of throwing yourself away on the first attractive boy that
proposes to you. Your type is just the kind to appeal to some big, heavy,
oversated millionaire. Keep your eyes open for him.' The daughter was as
obedient in listening to this counsel as she had been in regard to the
others, for it fell in exactly with her own wishes; she was tired of
being poor, of scrimping and saving and 'keeping up appearances.' The
innumerable young bank clerks and journalists and teachers and college
students who fluttered about her burnt their moth-wings to no avail. But
that _rara avis_, a really rich man, found her very kind to him.

"Well, you can guess the result. When she was not quite eighteen, a man
who was beyond question a millionaire proposed to her, and she accepted
him. He was nearly twenty years older than she was, and was certainly
big, heavy, and oversated. Her uncle--her father's brother--came to her
mother, and told her certain plain facts about this man, and his father
and grandfather before him, and charged her to tell the child what she
would be doing if she married him. Perhaps if the uncle had gone to the
girl herself, it might have done some good--perhaps it wouldn't have--you
see she was so tired of being poor that she thought nothing else
mattered. Anyway, he felt a woman could break these ugly facts to a young
girl better than a man, and he was right. Only, you see, the mother never
told at all; not that she really feared that her daughter would be
foolish and play false to her excellent training--but, still, it was just
as well to be on the safe side. The millionaire was quite mad about his
little fiancée; he was perfectly willing to pay--in advance--all the
expenses for a big, fashionable wedding, with twelve bridesmaids and a
wedding-breakfast at Sherry's; he was eager to load her with jewels, and
settle a large sum of money upon her, and take her around the world for
her honeymoon journey; he loved her little soft tricks of speech, the shy
way in which she dropped her eyes, the curve of the simple white dress
that fell away from her neck when she leaned towards him; and though she
saw him drink--and drank with him more than once before her marriage--he
took excellent care that it was not until several nights afterwards that
she found him--really drunk; and they must have been married two months
before she began to--really comprehend what she had done.

"There isn't much more to tell--that can be told. The woman who sells
herself--with or without a wedding ring--has probably always existed, and
probably always will; but I doubt whether any one of them ever has
told--or ever will--the full price which she pays in her turn. She
deserves all the censure she gets, and more--but, oh! she does deserve a
little pity with it! When this girl had been married nearly a year, she
heard her husband coming upstairs one night long after midnight, in a
condition she had learned to recognize--and fear. She locked her bedroom
door. When he discovered that, he was furiously angry; as I said before,
he was a big man, and he was very strong. He knocked out a panel, put his
hand through, and turned the key. When he reached her, he reminded her
that she had been perfectly willing to marry him--that she was his wife,
his property, anything you choose to call it; he struck her. The next
day she was very ill, and the child which should have been born three
months later came--and went--before evening. The next year she was not so
fortunate; her second baby was born at the right time--her husband was
away with another woman when it happened--a horrible, diseased little
creature with staring, sightless eyes. Thank God! it lived only two
weeks, and its mother, after a long period of suffering and agony during
which she felt like a leper, recovered again, in time to see her husband
die--after three nights, during which she got no sleep--of delirium
tremens, leaving her with over two million dollars to spend as she
chose--and the degradation of her body and the ruin of her soul to think
of all the rest of her life!"

"Sylvia!"--the cry with which Austin broke his long silence came from the
innermost depths of his being--"Sylvia, Sylvia, you shan't say such
things--they're not true. Don't throw yourself on the ground and cry that
way." He bent over her, vainly trying to keep his own voice from
trembling. "If I could have guessed what--telling this--this hideous
story would mean to you, I never should have let you do it. And it's all
my fault that you felt you ought to do it--partly because of those vile
speeches I made the other evening, partly because I've let you see how
wickedly discontented I've been myself, partly because you must have
heard me urging my own sister to make practically this same kind of a
marriage. Oh, if it's any comfort to you to know it, you haven't told me
in vain! Sylvia, do speak to me, and tell me that you believe me, and
that you forgive me!"

She managed to give him the assurance he sought, her desperate,
passionate voice grown gentle and quiet again. But she was too tired and
spent to be comforted. For a long time she lay so still that he became
alarmed, thinking she must have fainted again, and drew closer to her to
listen to her breathing; at first there was a little catch in it,
betraying sobs not yet wholly controlled, then gradually it grew calm and
even; she had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion.

Austin, sitting motionless beside her, found the night one of
purification and dedication. To men of Thomas's type, slow of wit, steady
and stolid and unemotional, the soil gives much of her own peaceful
wholesomeness. But those like Austin, with finer intellects, higher
ambitions, and stronger passions, often fare ill at her hands. Their
struggles towards education and the refinements of life are balked by
poverty and the utter fatigue which comes from overwork; while their
search for pleasure often ends in a knowledge and experience of vices so
crude and tawdry that men of greater wealth and more happy experience
would turn from them in disgust, not because they were more moral, but
because they could afford to be more fastidious. Between Broadway and the
"main street" of Wallacetown, and other places of its type--small
railroad or manufacturing centres, standing alone in an otherwise purely
agricultural community--the odds in favor of virtue, not to say decency,
are all in favor of Broadway; and Wallacetown, to the average youth of
Hamstead, represents the one opportunity for a "show," "something to
drink," and "life" in general. Sylvia had unlocked the door of material
opportunity for Austin; but she had done far more than this. She had
given him the vision of the higher things that lay beyond that, and the
desire to attain them. Further than that, neither she nor any other woman
could help him. The future, to make or mar, lay now within his own hands.
And in the same spirit of consecration with which the knights of old
prayed that they might attain true chivalry during the long vigil before
their accolade, Austin kept his watch that night, and made his vow that
the future, in spite of the discouragements and mistakes and failures
which it must inevitably contain, should be undaunted by obstacles, and
clean of lust and high of purpose.

The wind and rain ceased, the clouds grew less heavy, and at last, just
before dawn, a few stars shone faintly in the clearing sky; then the sun
rose in a blaze of glory. Sylvia had not moved, and lay with one arm
under her dark head, the undried tears still on her cheeks. Austin lifted
her gently, and started towards the highroad with her in his arms. She
stirred slightly, opened her eyes and smiled, then lifted her hands and
clasped them around his neck.

"It'll be easier to carry me that way," she murmured drowsily.
"Austin--you're awfully good to me."

Her eyes closed again. A sheet of white fire, like that of which he had
been conscious on the afternoon when they straightened out the yard
together, only a thousand times more powerful, seemed to envelop him
again. He looked down at the lovely, sleeping face, at the dark lashes
curling over the white cheeks and the red, sweet lips. If he kissed her,
what harm would be done--she would never even know--

Then he flung back his head. Sylvia was as far above him as those pale
stars of the early dawn. It was clear to him that no one must ever guess
how dearly he loved her; but he knew that it was far, far more essential
that he, in his unworthiness, should not profane his own ideal. She was
not for his touch, scarcely for his thoughts. The kiss which did not
reach her lips burned into his soul instead, and cleansed it with its
healing flame.




CHAPTER V


Sylvia's sprain, as Austin had suspected, proved much more serious than
she had admitted, but when the village doctor came about noon to dress
her ankle, she insisted that she was none the worse for her long
exposure, and that if she must lie still on a lounge for two weeks, the
least the family could do would be to humor her in everything, and spend
as much time as possible with her, or she would certainly die of
boredom. She passed the entire day in making and unfolding plans,
looking up the sailing dates of steamships, and writing letters of
introduction for Austin. By night she had the satisfaction of knowing
that Weston's offer for the south meadow had been accepted, that the
Wallacetown Bank and the insurance money would furnish part of the
needed funds, and that she was to be allowed to loan the rest, and that
the little brick cottage belonged to her. The fact that Austin had had a
long talk with his father and brother, and that his passage for Holland
had been engaged by telegraph, seemed scarcely less of an achievement to
her; but Mrs. Gray noticed, as she kissed her little benefactress after
seeing her comfortably settled for the night, that her usually pale
cheeks were very red and her eyes unnaturally bright, and worried over
her all night long.

The next morning there could be no doubt of the fact that Sylvia was
really ill, and two days later Dr. Wells shook his head with
dissatisfaction after using his thermometer and stethoscope. He was a
conscientious man who lacked self-confidence, and the look of things was
disquieting to him.

"I think you ought to get a nurse," he said in the hall to Mrs. Gray as
he went out, "and probably she would like to have her own doctor from the
city in consultation, and some member of her family come to her. It looks
to me very much as if we were in for bronchial pneumonia, and she's a
delicate little thing at best."

Sylvia was laughing when Mrs. Gray, bent on being both firm and tactful,
reentered her room. "Tell Dr. Wells he must make his stage-whispers
softer if he doesn't want me to overhear him," she said, "and don't think
of ordering the funeral flowers just yet. I'm not delicate--I'm strong as
an ox--if I weren't I shouldn't be alive at all. Get a nurse by all means
if it will make things easier for you--that's the only reason I need one.
They're usually more bother than they're worth, but I know of two or
three who might do fairly well, if any one of them is free. My doctor is
an old fogey, and I won't have him around. As for family, I'm not as
greatly blessed--numerically or otherwise--in that respect as the Grays,
but my Uncle Mat would love to come, I feel sure, as he's rather hurt at
my runaway conduct." She gave the necessary addresses, and still
persisting that they were making a great fuss about nothing, turned over
on her pillow in a violent fit of coughing.

Sylvia was right in one thing: she was much stronger than Dr. Wells
guessed, and though the next week proved an anxious one for every member
of the household except herself, it was not a dismal one. Even if she
were flat on her back, her spirit and her vitality remained contagious.
Thomas, whose state of mind was by this time quite apparent to the
family, though he imagined it to be a well-concealed secret, hung about
outside her door, positive that she was going to die, and brought
offerings in the shape of flowers, early apples, and pet animals which he
thought might distract her. Austin, who shared his room, insisted that he
could not sleep because Thomas groaned and sighed so all night; Molly
pertly asked him why he did not try rabbits, as kittens did not seem to
appeal to Sylvia, and his mother bantered him half-seriously for thinking
of "any one so far above him" whose heart, moreover, was buried "in the
grave." Austin's somewhat expurgated version of Sylvia's story put an end
to the latter part of the protest, but sent his hearers into a new
ferment of excitement and sympathy. Sally, who was all ready to start
for a "ball" in Wallacetown with Fred when she heard it, declared she
couldn't go one step, it made her feel "that low in her spirits," and
Fred replied, by gosh, he didn't blame her one mite; whereat they
wandered off and spent the evening at a very comfortable distance from
the house, but fairly close together, revelling in a wealth of gruesome
facts and suppositions. Katherine said she certainly never would marry at
all, men were such dreadful creatures, and Molly said, yes, indeed, but
what else _could_ a girl marry?--while Edith determined to devote the
rest of _her_ life to attending and adoring the lovely, sad, drooping
widow, whose existence was to be one long poem of beautiful seclusion;
and she was so pleased with her own ideas, and her manner of expressing
them, that she wept scalding tears into the broth she was making for
Sylvia as she stirred it over the stove.

The presence of "Uncle Mat," greatly dreaded beforehand, proved an
unexpected source of solace and delight. He was a quiet, shrewd little
man, not unlike Sylvia in many ways, but with a merry twinkle in his eye,
and a brisk manner of speech which she did not possess. He sized up the
Gray family quickly, and apparently with satisfaction, for he talked
quite freely of his niece to them, and they saw that they were not alone
in their estimate of her.

"It certainly was a great stroke of luck all round--for her as well as
for you--when she blew in here," he said, "but if you knew what an
awful hole we think she's left behind her in New York you'd think
yourselves doubly lucky to have her all to yourselves. There's more
than one young man, I can tell you"--with a sly look at
Thomas--"watching out for her return. You should have seen her at a
party I gave for her three years ago or more, dressed in a pink frock
looped up with roses, and with cheeks to match! She wasn't always this
pale little shadow, I can tell you. Well, the boys were around her that
night like bees round a honeysuckle bush--no denying there's something
almighty irresistible about these little, soft-looking girls, now, is
there? Ah! her roses didn't last long, poor child. Now you've given her
a good, healthful place to live in, and something to think about and
do--she'd have lost her reason without them, after all she's been
through. But when you're tired of her, I want her. I'm a poor, forlorn
lonely old bachelor, and I need her a great deal more than any of you.
What do you say to a little walk, Mr. Gray, before we turn in? I want
to have a look at your fine farm. I have a farm myself--no such grand
old place as this, of course, but a neat little toy not far from the
city, where I can run down Sundays. Sylvia used to be very fond of
going down with me. It's from my foreman, a queer, scientific
chap--Jenkins his name is--that she's picked up all these notions
she's been unloading on you. Pretty good, most of them, aren't they,
though? You must run down there some time, boys, and look things
over--it's well to go about a bit when one's thinking of building and
branching out--Sylvia's idea, exactly, isn't it?"

Mr. Gray and Thomas did "run down," seizing the opportunity while Austin
was still at home, and while there was practically no farm-work to be
done. Jenkins did the honors of Mr. Stevens's little place handsomely,
and they returned with magnificent plans, from the erection of silos and
the laying of concrete floors to the proper feeding of poultry. When
"Uncle Mat" was obliged to return to his business, after staying over two
weeks with the Grays, Austin went with him, for he suggested that he
would be glad to have the boy as his guest in New York for a few days
before he sailed.

"You better have a glimpse of the 'neat little toy,' too," he said,
"and perhaps see something of a rather neat little city, too! You'll
want to do a little shopping and so on, and I might be of assistance in
that way."

"I don't see how you can go," said Thomas to Austin the night before he
left, as they were undressing, "while Sylvia is still in bed, and won't
be around for another week at least. She's responsible for all your
tremendous good fortune, and you'll leave without even saying thank you
and good-bye. You're a darned queer ungrateful cuss, and always were."

"I know it," said Austin, "and such being the 'nature of the beast,'
don't bother trying to make me over. You can be grateful and devoted
enough for both of us. Now, do shut up and let me go to sleep--I sure
will be thankful to get a room to myself, if I'm not for anything else."

"I don't see how any one can help being crazy over her," continued
Thomas, thumping his pillow as if he would like to pummel any one who
disagreed with him.

"Don't you?" asked Austin.

The next night he was in New York with Mr. Stevens, trying hard to feel
natural in a tiny flat which was only one of fifty in the same great
house. A colored butler served an elaborate dinner at eight o'clock in
the evening, and brought black coffee, liqueurs, and cigars into the
living-room afterwards, and, worst of all, unpacked all his scanty
belongings and laid them about his room. Austin really suffered, and the
cold perspiration ran down his back, but he watched his host carefully
and waited from one moment to another to see what would be expected of
him next; he managed, too, before he went to bed, to ask a question which
had been on his mind for some time.

"Would you mind telling me, sir, where Sylvia's mother is?"

Uncle Mat shot one of his keen little glances in Austin's direction.
"Why, no, not at all, as nearly as I can," he said. "My brother,
Austin, made a most unfortunate match; his wife was a mean, mercenary,
greedy woman, as hard as nails, and as tough as leather--but handsome,
oh, very handsome, as a girl, and clever, I assure you. I have often
been almost glad that my brother did not live long enough to see her in
her real colors. She married, very soon after Sylvia herself, a
worthless Englishman--discharged from the army, I believe, who had
probably been her lover for some time. Cary gave her a check for a
hundred thousand to get rid of her the day after his wedding to Sylvia,
and the pair are probably living in great comfort on that at some
second-rate French resort."

"Thank you for telling me; but it's rather awful, isn't it, that any one
should have to think of her mother as Sylvia must? Why, my mother--" He
stopped, flushing as he thought of how commonplace, how homely and
ordinary, his mother had often seemed to him, how he had brooded over his
father's "unfortunate match." "My mother has worked her fingers to the
bone for all of us, and I believe she'd let herself be chopped in pieces
to help us gladly any day."

"Yes," assented Mr. Stevens, "I know she would. There are--several
different kinds of mothers in the world. It's a thousand pities Sylvia
did not have a fair show at a job of that sort. She would have been one
of the successful kind, I fancy."

"It would seem so," said Austin.




CHAPTER VI


New York City
August 25

DEAR MOTHER AND FATHER:

I'm going to lay in a stock of picture post-cards to send you, for if
things move at the same rate in Europe that they do in New York, I
certainly shan't have time to write many letters. But I'll send a good
long one to-night, anyhow. I always thought I'd like to live in the city,
as you know, but a few days of this has already given me a sort of
breathless feeling that I ought always to be on the move, whether there's
anything special to do or not. The noise never stops for one minute,
night or day, and the streets are perfect miracles of light and dirt and
_hurry_. This whole flat could be put right into our dining-room, and
we'd hardly notice it at that, and _hot!_ Mr. Stevens says in the winter
he nearly freezes to death, but I can't believe it.

All day Friday he kept me tearing from shop to shop, buying more clothes
than I can wear out in a lifetime, I believe, lots of them things I'd
never even seen or heard of before. Some of the suits had to be altered a
little, so in the afternoon we went back to the same places we'd been to
in the morning, and tried the blamed things on again. How women can like
that sort of thing is beyond me--I'd rather dig potatoes all day. By five
o'clock I was so tired that I was ready to lie right down on Fifth
Avenue, and let the passing crowds walk over me, if they liked. But Mr.
Stevens hustled me into a huge hotel called the Waldorf for a hair-cut
and "tea" (which isn't a good square meal, but a little something to
drink along with a piece of bread-and-butter as thick through as
tissue-paper) and then out again to see a few sights before we went home
to dress for "an early dinner" (_seven o'clock!_) and go to the theatre
in the evening. "Dressing" meant struggling into my new dress-suit. I
hoped it wouldn't arrive in time, but Mr. Stevens had had it marked
"rush," and it did. I felt like a fool when I got it on, and a pretty
hot, uncomfortable fool to boot. Mr. Stevens apologized for the show,
saying there was really nothing in town at this time of year, but you can
imagine what it seemed like to me! I'd be almost willing to wear pink
tights--same as a good many of the actresses did!--if it meant having
such a glorious time.

It was almost ten o'clock Saturday morning when I waked up, and of course
I felt like a fool again. But that is getting to be such a habitual state
with me, that I don't need to keep wasting paper by mentioning it. By the
time I was washed and shaved and dressed, Mr. Stevens had been to his
office, transacted all the business necessary for the day, and was ready
to see sights again. "It doesn't take long to do things when you get the
hang of hustling," he said, referring to his own transactions; "come
along. We've got a couple of hours before lunch, and then we'll take the
2.14 train down to my farm." So we shot downstairs about forty flights to
the second in the elevator, hailed a passing taxicab, jumped in, and were
tearing out Riverside Drive--much too fast to see anything--in no time.
We had "lunch" at a big restaurant called Delmonico's, a great deal to
eat and not half enough time to eat it in, then took another taxi and
made our train by catching on to the last car.

I don't need to tell you about the farm, because you know all about that
already. I never left Jenkins's heels one second, and he said I was much
more of a nuisance than Thomas, because Thomas caught on to things
naturally, and I asked questions all the time. I don't believe I'll see
anything in Europe to beat that place. When we get to milking our cows,
and separating our cream, and doing our cleaning by electricity, it'll be
something like, won't it?

We took a seven o'clock train back to New York this morning, so that Mr.
Stevens could get to his office by nine, and he had me go with him and
wait around until he was at leisure again. I certainly thought the
stenographers' fingers would fly off, and all the office boys moved with
a hop, skip, and jump; really, the slowest things in the rooms were the
electric fans whizzing around. By half-past eleven Mr. Stevens had
dictated about two hundred and fifty letters, sold several million
dollars' worth of property (he's a real-estate broker), and was all ready
to go out with me to buy more socks, neckties, handkerchiefs, etc.,
having decided that I didn't have enough. We had "lunch" at
Sherry's--another swell restaurant--and took a trip up the Hudson in the
afternoon, getting back at half-past ten--"Just in time," said Mr.
Stevens, "to look in at a roof-garden before we go to bed." So we
"looked," and it sure was worth a passing glance, and then some. It's one
o'clock in the morning now, and I sail at nine, so I'm writing at this
hour in desperation, or you won't get any letter at all.

Much love to everybody. I picture you all peacefully sleeping--except
Thomas, of course--with no such word as "hurry" in your minds.

AUSTIN

       *       *       *       *       *

S.S. Amsterdam
September 4

DEAR SALLY:

It doesn't seem possible that I'm going to land to-morrow! The first two
days out were pretty dreadful, and I'll leave them to your
imagination--there certainly wasn't much left of _me_ except
imagination! But by the third day I was beginning to sit up and take
notice again, and by the fourth I was enjoying myself more than I ever
did in all my life before.

There's a fellow on board named Arthur Brown, who has his sister Emily
with him; they're both unmarried, and well over thirty, teachers in a
small Western college, and are starting out on their "Sabbatical year."
Seeing them together has made me think a lot about you, and wish you were
along; they've very little money, and have never been to Europe before,
and almost every night they sit down and figure out how they're going to
get the most out of their trip, trying new plans and itineraries all the
time. They get into such gales of laughter over it that you'd think being
poor was the greatest fun in the world, and the tales they've told about
working their way through high school and college, and saving up to come
to Europe, would be pathetic if they weren't so screamingly funny. I
haven't been gone very long yet, I know, but it's been long enough for me
to decide that Sylvia sent me off, not primarily to buy cows and study
agriculture, but to learn a few things that will be a darned sight better
worth knowing than that even, and--_to have a good time_! In the hope, of
course, that I'll come home, not only less green, but less cussedly
disagreeable.

Mr. Stevens has crossed on this boat twice, and introduced me to both
the captain and the chief engineer before I started; they've both been
awfully kind to me, and I've seen the "inwards and outwards" of the ship
from garret to cellar, so to speak, and learned enough about navigation
and machinery to make me want to learn a lot more. But even without all
this, there would have been plenty to do. This isn't a "fashionable
line," so they say, but it's a good deal more fashionable than anything
we ever saw in Hamstead, Vermont! There's dancing every evening--not a
bit like what we have at home, and it really made me gasp a little at
first--you thought I was hard to shock, too, didn't you? Well, believe
me, I blushed the first time I discovered that I was expected to hold my
partner so tight that you couldn't get a sheet of paper between us.
However, I soon stopped blushing, and bent all my energies to the
agreeable task of learning instead, and the girls are all so friendly
and jolly, that I believe I'm getting the hang of the new ways pretty
well. There are no square dances at all and very few waltzes or
two-steps, but two newer ones, the one-step and fox-trot, hold the
floor, literally and figuratively! I wish I could describe the girls'
dresses to you, they're so, pretty, but I can't a bit, except to say
that they rather startled me at first, too; they appear to be made out
of about one yard of material, and none of that yard goes to sleeves,
and not much to waist. A very lively young lady sits next to me at the
table, and I worried incessantly at first as to what would happen if her
shoulder-straps should break: but apparently they are stronger than they
look. When they--the girls, I mean--feel a little chilly on deck, they
put on scarves of tulle--a gauzy stuff about half as thick as mosquito
netting. I don't quite see why they're not all dead of pneumonia, but
they seem to thrive.

I've also learned--or am trying to learn--to play a game of cards called
"bridge"; it's along the same lines as good old bid-whist, but
considerably dressed up. I like that, too, but feel pretty stupid at it,
as most of the players can remember every two-spot for six hands back,
and hold dreadful post-mortems of their opponents' mistakes at the end of
the game. I've brought along the old French grammar I had in high school,
as well as some new phrase-books that Mr. Stevens gave me, and take them
to bed with me to study every night, for he told me that you could get
along 'most anywhere if you knew French. There's a library aboard, too,
so I've read several novels, and I'm getting used to my clothes--I don't
believe I've got too many after all--and to taking a cold bath every
morning and shaving at least once a day.

Make Fred toe the mark while I'm not there to look after you, but
remember he's a good sort just the same; I was an awful fool ever to
advise you not to stick to him, he's worth a dozen of his cousin. Tell
Molly she'll have to do some practising to come up to the way some of the
girls on this ship play, but I believe she's got more talent than all of
them put together, if she'll only work hard enough to develop it. There's
going to be an _extra_ good time to-night, as it's the last one, and I'm
looking forward to dancing my heels off. Love to you all, especially
mother, and tell her I haven't seen a doughnut since I left home.

Affectionately your brother

AUSTIN

       *       *       *       *       *

Paris,
October 1

DEAR THOMAS:

I got here last night, and found the cable from father saying that
the cattle and Dutch Peter had reached New York all right, and that
he had met them there. I know you'll like Peter, and I hope we can
keep him indefinitely, though I only hired him to take the cows
over, and stay until those Holstein aristocrats were properly
acclimated to the Homestead. I'm glad they've got there. And, gosh!
I'm glad I've got _here!_ I realize I've been a pretty poor
correspondent, sending just picture post-cards, and now and then a
note to mother, but, you see, I've crowded every minute so darned
full, and then I've never had much practice. So before I start out to
"do" Paris, I'll practice a little on you.

I landed at Rotterdam, had twenty-four hours there with Emily and Arthur
Brown--that brother and sister I met on shipboard--then we separated,
they going to Antwerp, and I heading straight for The Hague to present
Sylvia's letter of introduction to Mr. Little, the American Minister,
shaking in my shoes, and cold perspiration running down my back, of
course. But I needn't "have shook and sweat," as our friend Mrs. Elliott
says, for he was expecting me and was kindness itself. He found an
interpreter to go through the farming district with me, and then he
invited me to come and stay at his house for a few days before I started
for the interior. He has a son about my age, who I imagine has suffered
from the same form of heart disease with which you are afflicted at
present, as he seemed to be somewhat affected every time Sylvia's name
was mentioned; and a daughter Flora, an awfully friendly, jolly,
pink-and-white creature. Fortunately she informed me promptly that she
was engaged to a fellow in Paris, or I might have got heart disease, too.
They kept me on the jump every minute--sight-seeing and parties, and
excursions of all sorts, and one night we went to see a play of
Shakespeare's, "The Two Gentlemen of Verona," given in Dutch. (I find
that all Continentals admire him immensely, and give frequent
performances of his works.) Get out our old copy and re-read it some
rainy day; you're probably rusty on it, same as I was, but it's an
interesting tale, and there's a song in it that can't help appealing to
you. Here's the first verse:

"Who is Sylvia? What is she
  That all the swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she,
  The heavens such grace did lend her
That she might admired be."

I advise you to invest in doublet, hose, plumed hat, and guitar, and try
the effect of a serenade under our Sylvia's--beg pardon, _your_ Sylvia's
window. The fellow in the play made a great hit, so there's no telling
what you might accomplish.

I hated leaving the Littles', for the good time I had there sure beat the
good time I had on shipboard "to a frazzle"; but I soon found out that
the business part of the trip was going to be a good deal more
interesting and absorbing than I had imagined it would be. My
interpreter, Hans Roorda, a fellow several years younger than I am, can
speak five languages, all equally well, and I kept him busy talking
French to me. We were in the country almost three weeks. The farmers
haven't half the mechanical conveniences that we considered absolutely
necessary even in our least prosperous days, but are marvels of order and
efficiency, for all that. I believe one of the greatest mistakes that we
New England farmers have been making is to assume that farming is a
mixture of three fourths muscle and one fourth brains--I'm beginning to
think it's the other way around. As you have already learned, I followed
Jenkins's advice, bought a dozen head of fine cattle, and hired Peter
Kuyp, the son of one of the farmers I visited, to take care of them. Of
course, this meant going back to Rotterdam to see them safely off, and I
managed to get a glimpse of some of the other Dutch cities as well. When
I got to Amsterdam I parted from Roorda with real regret, for I feel he's
one of the many good friends I've already made. I found my first American
mail in Amsterdam, among other letters one from you. The news from home
in it was all fine. I'm glad father has sold that old Blue Hill pasture.
It was too far off from the rest of our land to be of much real use to
us, and I also think he was dead right to use the money he got from it to
pay off old debts. Mr. Stevens writes me that he has sold Sylvia's Long
Island house for her, and that her horses, carriages, sleighs, and motor
are all going up to the Homestead. Now that the Holsteins are there, too,
why don't you sell the few old cows and the two horses that we rescued
from the fire, and use that money in paying off more debts? If the
mortgage were only out of the way, with all the other improvements you
speak of well started, I should think we were headed straight for
millionaires' row.

I also found a letter from Mr. Little in Amsterdam, saying that Mrs.
Little and Flora were about to start for Paris, and asking if I would
care to act as their escort, since neither he nor his son could leave The
Hague just then--simply a kind way of saying, "Here's another chance for
you," of course! You can imagine the answer I telegraphed him! We "broke"
the journey in Brussels and Antwerp, and I saw no end of new wonders, of
course, and in Brussels we went to the opera. I did wish Molly was there,
for she certainly would have thought she had struck Heaven, and I did,
pretty nearly! I'm getting used to my dress-suit, and it isn't quite such
an exquisite piece of torture to "do" my tie as it was at first, since
Flora did it for me one night, and gave me some little hints for the
future. She is really an awfully jolly girl.

We got to Paris late at night, and I never shall forget the long drive
from the station, through the bright streets to the Fessendens' house,
where the Littles were going to visit. Sylvia had given me a letter of
introduction to them, too, but I didn't need to use it, for, of course, I
got introduced to them then and there. There are three fellows--no
girls--in the family, besides Mr. and Mrs. I knew beforehand that Flora
was engaged to one of them, but I couldn't tell which, for they all fell
upon her and embraced her with about equal enthusiasm. Then they all
kissed Mrs. Little, and Mrs. Little and Mrs. Fessenden hugged each other,
and Mr. Fessenden hugged Flora. I began to think that perhaps I might be
included--by mistake--but all my hopes were in vain. I was invited to
come to dinner the next night, however, and then I took my leave, and
drove round for an hour--it seemed like an hour in Fairyland--before I
went back to my hotel.

You must be getting settled in college now--it must have been an awful
wrench to tear yourself away from the Homestead, I know, but you'll have
a great time after you get over the first pangs of separation, I'm sure,
and don't forget that "absence makes the heart grow fonder." I refer, of
course, to Sylvia's heart because you've made it sufficiently plain to
all of us that yours _can't._ Well, the best of luck go with you.

AUSTIN

       *       *       *       *       *

Southampton,
October 27

DEAR SYLVIA:

I had a feeling in my bones when I woke up this morning that something
extra pleasant was going to happen; and when I got down to breakfast, and
saw, on the top of my pile of mail, a letter postmarked Hamstead, but in
a strange handwriting, I knew that it _had_ happened.

You begin by scolding me because I haven't written mother oftener. I know
I deserve it, and I'll write her from now on, every Sunday, at least; but
then you go on by asking why I've never written you, except the little
note I sent back by the pilot, which you say is not a note at all, "but a
series of repetitions of unmerited thanks." I haven't written because I
didn't feel that I you wanted to be bothered with me. And how can I
write, and not say, "Thank you, thank you, thank you," with every line?
Why, I've learned more, enjoyed more, _lived_ more, in these two months
since I came to Europe, than I had in all the rest of my life before!
Sylvia--but I won't, if you don't like it!

Now, to answer your question, "What have I been doing all this time?" I
feel sure you've seen what I have written, so you know what a wonderful
trip I had from, The Hague to Paris. I'm glad I haven't got to try to
describe Paris to you, for of course you know it much better than I do;
but I hope some day, when my mind's a little calmer, I can describe it to
the rest of the family. Just now I'm not in any state yet to separate the
details from the wild, magnificent jumble of picture galleries and
churches, tombs and palaces, parks and gardens, wonderful broad, bright
streets, theatres, cafes, and dinner-parties. Of course, all your letters
were the main reason that every one was so nice to me. My first day of
sight-seeing ended with a perfectly uproarious dinner at the Fessendens';
I never in my life ran into such a jolly crowd. I finally discovered
which brother Flora belonged to--which had been puzzling me a good deal
before--because about ten o'clock the other two suggested that we should
go out and see if "we could have a little fun." I thought we were having
a good deal right there, but of course I agreed, so we went; and we did.

Then--during the next ten days--I went to mass at the Madeleine, and to
a ball at the American Embassy; I rode on the top of 'buses, and spun
around in motors. We took some all-day trips out into the country, and
saw not only the famous places, like Versailles and Fontainebleau, but
lots of big, beautiful private estates with farms attached. There's none
of the spotless shininess of Holland or the beautiful cattle there; but
agriculture is developed to the _n_th degree for all that. Those French
farmers wring more out of one acre than we do out of ten; but we're
going to do some wringing in Hamstead, Vermont, in the future, I can tell
you! The last night in Paris, I never went to bed at all. Twenty of us
had dinner at the Café de la Paix--went to the theatre--saw the girls and
fathers and mothers home--then went off with the other fellows to another
show which lasted until three A.M. I had barely time to rush back to the
hotel, collect my belongings, and catch my early train--for I'd made up
my mind to do that so that I could stop off for two hours at Rouen on my
way to Calais, and I was glad I did, though I must confess I yawned a
good deal, even while I was looking at the Cathedral and the relics of
Joan of Arc.

I had just a week in the Channel Islands, and though I didn't think
beforehand that I could possibly get as much out of them as I did out of
the country in Holland, of course, I found that I was mistaken. I bought
six head of cattle, brought them to Southampton with me, and saw them
safely embarked for America, as I cabled father. I suppose they've got
there by now. They're beauties, but I believe I'm going to like the
Holsteins better, just the same. They're larger and sturdier--less
nervous--and give more milk, though it's not nearly so rich.

The Browns met me there, and I was awfully glad to see them again. I
bought a knapsack, and, leaving all my good clothes behind me, started
out with them on a week's walking trip through the Isle of Wight, getting
back here only last night. We stopped overnight at any place we happened
to be near, usually a farmhouse, and the next morning pursued our way
again, with a lunch put up by our latest hostess in our pockets. Of
course, the Browns didn't take the same interest in farming that I did,
but they had a fine time, too. It's been a great thing for me to know
them, especially Emily. She's not a bit pretty, or the sort that a fellow
could get crazy over, or--well, I can't describe it, but you know what I
mean. Every man who meets her must realize what a fine wife she'd make
for somebody, and yet he wouldn't want her himself. But she's a wonderful
friend. Do you know, I never had a woman friend before, or realized that
there could be such a thing--for a man, I mean--unless there was some
sentiment mixed up with it. This isn't the least of the valuable lessons
I've learned.

After lunch to-day, we're going off again--not on foot this time, as it
would take too long to see what we want to that way, but on hired
bicycles. I'm sending my baggage ahead to London to "await arrival," but
if the mild, though rather rainy, weather we've had so far holds, I hope
to have two weeks more of _country_ England before I go there; we have no
definite plans, but expect to go to some of the cathedral towns, and to
Oxford and Warwick at least.

And now I've overstayed the time you first thought I should be gone,
already, and yet I'm going to close my letter by quoting the last lines
in yours, "If you need more money, cable for it. (I don't; I haven't
begun to spend all I had.) Don't hurry; see all you can comfortably and
thoroughly; and if you decide you want to go somewhere that we didn't
plan at first, or stay longer than you originally intended, please do.
The family is well, the building going along finely, and Peter, your
Dutch boy, most efficient--by the way, we all like him immensely. This is
your chance. Take it."

Well, I'm going to. After the Browns leave London, they're going to Italy
for the winter, and they want me to go with them, for a few weeks before
I start home. I'll sail from Naples, getting home for Christmas, and what
a Christmas it'll be! I know you'll tell me honestly if you think I ought
not to do this, and I'll start for Liverpool at once, and without a
regret; but if you cable "stay," I'll go towards Rome with an easy heart
and a thankful soul.

I must stop, because I don't dare write any more. The "thank-you's" would
surely begin to crop out.

Ever yours faithfully

AUSTIN GRAY




CHAPTER VII


The first of October found a very quiet household at the old Gray
Homestead. Austin was in Europe; Thomas had gone to college at
Burlington, Molly to the Conservatory of Music in Boston. Sally had
prudently decided to teach for another year before getting married, and
now that she could keep all her earnings, was happily saving them for her
modest trousseau; she "boarded" in Wallacetown, where she taught, coming
home only for Saturdays and Sundays, while Katherine and Edith were in
high school, and gone all day. Mrs. Gray declared that she hardly knew
what to do with herself, she had so much spare time on her hands with so
many "modern improvements," and such a small family in the house.

"Go with Mr. Gray on the 'fall excursion' to Boston," said Sylvia. "He
told me that you hadn't been off together since you took your wedding
trip. That will give you a chance to look in on Molly, too, and see how
she's behaving--and you'll have a nice little spree besides. I'll look
after the family, and Peter can look after the cows."

Sylvia had recovered rapidly from her illness, and her former shyness and
aversion to seeing people were rapidly leaving her. She no longer lay in
bed until noon, but was up with the rest of the family, insisting on
doing her share in the housework, and proving a very apt pupil in
learning that useful and wrongly despised art; when callers came she
always dropped in to chat with them a little while, and even the
mail-carrier of the "rural delivery, route number two," the errand-boy on
the wagon from Harrington's General Store, and all the agents for
flavoring extracts and celluloid toilet sets and Bibles for miles around,
were not infrequently found lingering on the "back porch" passing the
time of day with her, whether they had any excuse of mail or merchandise
or not. Not infrequently she went to spend the day with Mrs. Elliott or
with Ruth, and to church on Sunday with all the family; and although
perhaps she was not sorry at heart that her deep mourning gave her an
excuse for not attending the village "parties" and "socials," she never
said so. The Library, the Grange, and the Village Improvement Society all
found her ready and eager to help them in their struggles to raise money,
provide better quarters for themselves, or get up entertainments; and the
Methodist minister was the first person to meet with a flat refusal to
his demands upon her purse. He was far-famed as a successful "solicitor,"
and conceived the brilliant idea that Sylvia was probably sent by
Providence to provide the needed repairs upon the church and parsonage
and the increase in his own salary. He called upon her, and graciously
informed her of his plan.

 "The Lord has been pleased to make you the steward of great riches," he
 said unctuously, "and I feel sure there is no way you could spend them
 which would be more pleasing in his sight than that which I have just
 suggested."

"I agree with you perfectly that the church is in a disgraceful state of
disrepair," said Sylvia calmly, "and that your salary is quite inadequate
to live on properly. I have often wondered how your congregation could
worship reverently in such a place, or allow their pastor to be so poorly
housed. I believe the Bible commands us somewhere to do things decently
and in order."

"You are quite right, Mrs. Cary, quite right. Then may I understand--"

"Wait just a minute. I have also wondered at the lack of proper pride
your congregation seemed to show in such matters. It does not seem to me
that it would really help matters very much if I, a complete outsider,
not even a member of your communion, furnished all the necessary funds to
do what you wish. Your flock would sit back harder than ever, and wait
for some one else to turn up and do likewise when I have gone--and
probably that second millionaire would never materialize, and you would
be left worse off than before, even."

"My dear lady!" exclaimed the divine, amazed and distressed at the turn
the conversation had taken, "most of the members of my congregation are
in very moderate circumstances."

"I know--but they should do _their share_. And there are some, who,
for a small village, are rich, and just plain stingy--why don't you
go to them?"

"Unfortunately that would only result in the entire withdrawal of their
support, I fear."

"And those are the worthy, struggling Christians whom you wish me to
supply with everything to make their church beautiful and their minister
comfortable--you want me to put a premium on stinginess! I shan't give
you one cent under those conditions! Go to the three richest men in your
church, and say to them, 'Whatever sum you will give, Mrs. Cary will
double.' Appeal to your congregation as a whole, and tell it the same
thing. Ask those who you know have no cash to spare to give some of their
time, at whatever it is worth by the hour or the day. Set the children to
arranging for a concert--I suppose you wouldn't approve of a little
play--and see how the relatives and friends will flock to hear it. I'll
gladly drill them. When you've tried all this, and the response has been
generous and hearty, if still you haven't all you need, I'll gladly lend
you the remainder of the sum without interest, and you may take your own
time in discharging the debt."

"That is a young lady who gives a man much food for thought," remarked
the minister to Mr. Gray, as, somewhat abashed, but greatly impressed, he
was leaving the house a few minutes later.

"Very true--in more ways than one."

"Her person is not unpleasing and she seems to have an agile mind,"
continued Mr. Jessup.

Mr. Gray turned away to hide a smile. Later he teased Sylvia about her
new conquest. "I am afraid," he said, his mouth twitching, "that you
would flirt with a stone post."

"I didn't flirt with _him_" said Sylvia indignantly; "he ended the call
by dropping on his knees, right there in my sitting-room, and saying,
'Let us pray--for new hearts!' Well, I've had lots of calls end with a
prayer for a change of heart--"

"You little wretch! What did you do?"

"Do! I always strive to please! I knelt down beside him, of course, and
then he took my hand, so I--Honestly, I don't care much what men
_say_--if they only say it _right_--but I draw the line at being
_stroked_! If that's your idea of a flirtation, it isn't mine!"

"Look out, my dear," warned Howard; "he's a widower and a famous beggar."
And Sylvia laughed with him. During the first months she had never
laughed. "I am getting to love that child as if she were my own," he said
to his wife later. "Whatever shall we do when she goes away? It won't be
long now, you'll see."

"Mercy! Don't you even speak of it!" rejoined Mrs. Gray. But she, too,
was brooding over the possibility in secret. "Are you sure you're
quite contented here, Sylvia?" she asked anxiously the next time they
were alone.

Sylvia laid down the dish she was wiping, and came and laid her cheek,
now growing softly pink again, against Mrs. Gray's. "Contented," she
echoed; "why, I'm--I'm happy--I never was happy in my whole life before.
But I shall freeze to death here this winter, unless you'll let me put a
furnace in this great house; and I want to glass in part of the big
piazza, and have a tiny little conservatory for your plants built off the
dining-room. Do you mind if I tear up the place that much more--you've
been so patient about it so far."

Mrs. Gray could only throw up her hands.

The "spree" to Boston took place, and proved wonderfully delightful, and
then they all settled down quietly for the winter, looking forward to
Christmas as the time that was to bring the entire family together again.
For even James, the eldest son, had written that he was about to be
married, and should come home with his bride for the holidays for his
wedding trip; and as Sylvia still firmly refused to leave the farm, Mr.
Stevens asked for permission to join Austin when he landed, and be with
his niece over the great day. As the time drew near, the house was hung
with garlands, and every window proudly displayed a great laurel wreath
tied with a huge red bow. Sylvia moved all her belongings into her
parlor, and decorated her bedroom for the bride and groom, and went about
the house singing as she unpacked great boxes and trimmed a mammoth
Christmas tree.

Four days before Christmas, Mr. and Mrs. James Gray arrived, and Mrs.
James was promptly pronounced to be "all right" by her husband's family,
though the poor girl, of course, underwent tortures before she was sure
of their decision. Fred, who with his father and mother was to join in
the great feast, brought Sally home from Wallacetown that same night, and
took advantage of the mistletoe which Sylvia had hung up, right before
them all. Thomas and Molly, both wonderfully citified already, appeared
during the course of the next afternoon from opposite directions, and
Molly played, and Thomas expounded scientific farming, to the wonder of
them all. And finally Mr. Gray went to meet the midnight train from New
York at Wallacetown the night before Christmas Eve, and found himself
being squeezed half to pieces by the bear hugs of Austin and the hearty
handshakes of Mr. Stevens.

"Pile right into the sleigh," he managed to say at last when he was
partially released, but still gasping for breath; "we mustn't stand
fooling around here, with the thermometer at twenty below zero, and a
whole houseful waiting to treat you the same way you've treated me.
Austin, seems as if you were bigger than ever, and you've got a different
look, same as Thomas and Molly have, only yours is more different."

"There was more room for improvement in my case," his son laughed back,
throwing his arm around him again. "My, but it's good to see you! Talk
about changes! You look ten years younger, doesn't he, Mr. Stevens? How's
mother? And--and Thomas, and the girls? And--and Peter?"

"Yes, how is _Peter_?" said Mr. Stevens.

"Why, Peter's all right," returned Mr. Gray soberly; "what makes you ask?
That sort is never sick and he's as good and steady a boy as I ever saw."

"I'm so glad to hear it," murmured Mr. Stevens in an interested voice.

"And we had the biggest creamery check this month, Austin," went on his
father, "that we _ever_ had--with just those few cows you sent! Peter
tends them as if they were young girls being dressed up for their
sweethearts. The hens are laying well, too, right through this cold
weather--the poultry house is so clean and warm, they don't seem to know
that it's winter. We have enough eggs for our own use, and some to sell
besides--I guess there won't be any to sell _this_ week, will there?
You'll like James's wife, I'm sure, Austin, and you, too, Mr.
Stevens--she's a nice, healthy, jolly girl with good sense, I'm sure.
She's not as pretty as my girls, but, then, few are, of course, in my
eyes. It's plain to see they just set their eye-teeth by each
other--Sadie and James, I mean--and, of course, Fred is about most of
the time; so with two pairs of lovers, it keeps things lively, I can
tell you."

"Has Thomas recovered?" inquired Austin.

"Indeed, he hasn't! It's mean of us all to make fun of him--he's very
much in earnest."

"How does Sylvia take it?" asked Sylvia's uncle.

"I don't think she notices."

"Oh, don't you?" said Mr. Stevens, in the same interested tone he had
used before.

Mrs. Gray was standing in the door to receive them, even if it was
twenty below zero, and was laughing and crying with her great boy in her
arms before he was half out of the sleigh. The kissing that had taken
place at the Fessendens' was nothing to that which now occurred at the
Grays'; for when he had finished with his mother, Austin found all his
sisters waiting for him, clamoring for the same welcome, and he ended
with his new sister-in-law, and then began all over again. Meanwhile Mr.
Stevens stood looking vainly about, and finally interrupted with
"Where's _my_ girl?"

"Oh, _there_, Mr. Stevens!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray, wiping her eyes, and
settling her hair, "it was downright careless of me not to tell you right
away, but I was so excited over Austin that I forgot all about it for a
minute; of course, it's a dreadful disappointment to you, but it just
couldn't seem to be helped. Frank--my son-in-law, you know, that lives in
White Water--telephoned down this morning that the trained nurse had
left, an' little Elsie was ailin', an' the hired girl so green, an'
nothin' would do but that Sylvia must traipse up there to help Ruth
before I could say 'Jack Robinson.'"

"What do you mean?" thundered Uncle Mat and Austin in the same breath; so
Mrs. Gray tried again.

"Why, Ruth had a new baby a month ago, another little girl, an' the
dearest child! They're all comin' home to-morrow, sure's the world, an'
you'll see her then--they've named her Mary, for me, an' of course I'm
real pleased. But as I was sayin'--it did seem as if some one had got to
take hold an' help them get straightened out if they was goin' to put it
through, an' of course, there's no one like Sylvia for jobs like that.
Land! I don't know how we ever got along before she come! Anyway, she's
up there now. Rode up with Hiram on the Rural Free Delivery--he was
tickled most to death. She left her love, an' said maybe one of the boys
would take the pair an' her big double sleigh, an' start up to get 'em
all in real good season to-morrow mornin'."

"That means me, of course," said Thomas importantly.

"Of course," echoed both his brothers, quite unanimously.

Mr. Stevens said nothing, but calmly went up to bed, where he apparently
slept well, as he did not reappear until after nine o'clock the
following morning. He sought out Mrs. Gray in the sunny, shining
kitchen, but did not evince as much surprise as she had expected when
she told him, while she bustled about preparing fresh coffee and toast
for him, that when Thomas, at seven o'clock, had gone to the barn to
"hitch up" he had found that the double sleigh, the pair, and--Austin
had all mysteriously vanished.

"Austin always was a dreadful tease," she ended, "but I can't help sayin'
this is downright mean of him, when he knows how Thomas feels."

"My dear lady," said Mr. Stevens, cracking open the egg she had
set before him with great care, "where are your eyes? What about
Austin himself?"

Mrs. Gray set down the coffee-pot, looking at him in bewilderment.
"What do you mean?" she asked. "I hope Austin is grateful to her
now--an' that he'll _say_ so. At first he didn't like her at all, an'
he's never taken to her same as the rest of us have--seems to feel
she's bossy an' meddlesome. Howard an' I have spoken of it a thousand
times. He began by resenting everything she did, an' then got so he
didn't even mention her name."

"Exactly. I've noticed that myself. I don't pretend to be an infallible
judge of human nature, but mark my words, Austin has cared for my
Sylvia since the first moment he ever set eyes on her. No man likes to
feel that the woman he's in love with is doing everything for him and
his family, and that he can't--as he sees it--do anything in return.
That's why he seems to resent her kindness, which I really think the
rest of you have almost overestimated--if she's helped you in material
ways, you've been her salvation in greater ways still. But there's
still more to it than that: I think your son Austin has in him the
makings of one of the finest men I ever knew, but he doesn't consider
himself worthy of her. He'll try to conceal, and even to conquer, his
feelings--just as long as he possibly can. I suppose he believes
that'll be always. Of course, it won't. But naturally he can't bear to
talk about her. Thomas has fallen in love with her face--which is
pretty--and her manner--which is charming--after the manner of most
men. But Austin has fallen in love with her mind--which is
brilliant--and her soul--which, in spite of some little superficial
faults that I believe he himself will unconsciously teach her to
overcome, is beautiful--after the manner of very few men--and those men
love but once, deeply and forever. And so, my dear Mrs. Gray, tease
Thomas all you like, for Sylvia will refuse Thomas when he asks for
her, and he will be engaged to another girl within a year; but she will
run away from Austin before he brings himself to tell her how he
feels--and it will be many a long day before his heart is light again."




CHAPTER VIII


"I fairly dread to have Christmas come for one reason," had said Mrs.
Gray to her husband beforehand.

"Why? I thought you were counting the days!"

"So I am. But I hate to think of all the presents Sylvia's likely to load
us down with. Seems as if she'd done enough. I don't want to be beholden
to her for any more."

"Don't worry, Mary. Sylvia's got good sense, and delicate feelings as
well as an almighty generous little heart. She'll be the first to think
how we'd feel, herself."

Mr. Gray was right. When Christmas came there was a simple, inexpensive
trinket for each of the girls, and slightly costlier ones for the bride
and Mrs. Gray; little pocket calendars, all just alike, for the men; that
was all. Mr. Stevens had taken pleasure in bringing great baskets of
candy, adorned with elaborate bows of ribbon, and bunches of violets as
big as their heads, to all the "children," a fine plant to Mrs. Gray, and
books to Howard and his sons; and Austin's suit-case bulged with all
sorts of little treasures, which tumbled out from between his clothes in
the most unexpected places, as he unpacked it in the living-room, to the
great delight of them all.

"Here's a dress-length of gray silk from Venice for mother," he said,
tossing the shimmering bundle into her lap; "I want her to have it made
up to wear at Sally's wedding. And here's lace for Sadie and Sally
both--the bride and the bride-to-be. Nothing much for the rest of
you"--and out came strings of corals and beads, handkerchiefs and
photographs, silk stockings and filagree work, until the floor was
strewn with pretty things. After all the presents were distributed, it
was time to begin to get dinner, and to decorate the great table laid
for sixteen. There was a turkey, of course, and a huge chicken pie as
well, not to mention mince pies and squash pies and apple pies, a plum
pudding and vanilla ice-cream; angel cakes and fruit cakes and chocolate
cakes; coffee and cider and blackberry cordial; and after they had all
eaten until they could not hold another mouthful, and had "rested up" a
little, Sylvia played while they danced the Virginia Reel, Mr. Stevens
leading off with Mrs. Gray, and Mr. Gray with Sadie. And finally they
all gathered around the piano and sang the good old carols, until it was
time for the Elliotts to go home, and for Ruth to carry the sleepy
babies up to bed.

Since early fall it had been Sylvia's custom to sit with the family for a
time after the early supper was over, and the "dishes done up"; then she
went to her own parlor, lighted her open fire, and sat down by herself
to read or write letters. But she always left her door wide open, and it
was understood that any one who wished to come to her was welcome. Austin
was the last to start to bed on Christmas night, and seeing Sylvia still
at her desk as he passed her room, he stopped and asked:

"Is it too late, or are you too tired and busy to let me come in for a
few minutes?"

She glanced at the clock, smiling. "It isn't very late, I'm not a bit
tired, and in a minute I shan't be too busy; I've been working over some
stupid documents that I was bound to get through with to-night, but I'm
all done now. Throw that rubbish into the fire for me, will you?" she
continued, pointing to a pile of torn-up letters and printed matter, "and
draw up two chairs in front of the fire. I'll join you in a minute."

He obeyed, then stood watching her as she straightened out her silver
desk fixtures, gravely putting everything in perfect order before she
turned to him.

"What a beau cavalier you have become," she said, smiling again, as he
drew back to let her pass in front of him, and turned her chair to an
angle at which the fire could not scorch her face; "what's become of the
old Austin? I can't seem to find him at all!"

"Oh, I left him in the woods the night of the fire, I hope," returned
Austin, laughing, "while you were asleep. I'm sure neither you nor any
one else wants him back."

Sylvia settled herself comfortably, and smoothed out the folds of her
dull-black silk dress. "Wouldn't you like to smoke?" she asked; "it's
an awfully comfortable feeling--to watch a man smoking, in front of an
open fire!"

"I'd love to, if you're sure you don't mind. I don't want to make the air
in here heavy--for I suppose you've got to sleep here on this sofa,
having allowed yourself to be turned out of your good bed."

She laughed. "I'm so small that I can curl up and sleep on almost
anything, like a kitten," she said. "And it's fine to think of being able
to give my room to James and Sadie--they're so nice, and so happy
together. I can open the windows wide for a few minutes after you've
gone, and there won't be a trace of tobacco smoke left. If there were, I
shouldn't mind it. Now, what is it, Austin?"

"I want to talk. I haven't seen you a single minute alone. And though the
others are all interested, it isn't like telling things to a person who's
done all the wonderful things and seen all the wonderful places that I
just have. I've simply got to let loose on some one."

"Of course, you have. I thought that was it. Talk away, but not too
loud. We mustn't disturb the others, who are all trying to go to sleep by
this time. Tell me--which of the Italian cities did you like
best--Rome--or Florence--or Naples?"

"Will you think me awfully queer if I say none of them, but after Venice,
the little ones, like Assisi, Perugia, and Sienna. I'm so glad we took
the time for them. Oh, _Sylvia_--" And he was off. The little clock on
the mantel struck several times, unnoticed by either of them, and it was
after one, when, glancing inadvertently at it, Austin sprang to his feet,
apologizing for having kept her awake so long, and hastily bade her
good-night.

"May I come again some evening and talk more?" he asked, with his hand on
the door-handle, "or have I bored and tired you to death? You're a
wonderful listener."

"Come as often as you like--I've been learning things, too, that I want
to tell you about."

"For instance?"

"Oh, how to cook and sweep and sew--and how to be well and happy and at
peace," she added in a lower voice. Then, speaking lightly again, "We'll
try to keep up that French you've worked so hard at, together--I'm
dreadfully out of practice, myself--and read some of Browning's Italian
poems, if you would care to. Goodnight, and again, Merry Christmas."

He left her, almost in a daze of excitement and happiness; and mounted
the stairs, turning over everything that had been said and done during
the two hours since he entered her room. As he reached the top, a sudden
suspicion shot through him. He stopped short, almost breathlessly, then
stood for several moments as if uncertain what to do, the suspicion
gaining ground with every second; then suddenly, unable to bear the
suspense it had created, ran down the stairs again. Sylvia's door was
closed; he knocked.

"All right, just a minute," came the ready answer. A minute later the
door was thrown open, and Sylvia stood in it, wrapped in a white satin
dressing-gown edged with soft fur, her dark hair falling over her
shoulders, her neck and arms bare. She drew back, the quick red color
flooding her cheeks.

"_Austin!"_ she exclaimed; "I never thought of your coming back--I
supposed, of course, it was one of the girls. I can't--you mustn't--"
But Sylvia was too much mistress of herself and woman of the world to
remain embarrassed long in any situation. She recovered herself before
Austin did.

"What has happened?" she asked quickly; "is any one ill?"

"No--Sylvia--what were those papers you gave me to burn?"

"Waste--rubbish. Go to bed, Austin, and don't frighten me out of my wits
again by coming and asking me silly questions."

"What kind of waste paper? Please be a little more explicit."

"How did you happen to come back to ask me such a thing--what made you
think of it?"

"I don't know--I just did. Tell me instantly, please."

"Don't dictate to me--the last time you did you were sorry."

"Yes--and you were sorry that you didn't listen to me, weren't you?"

"No!" she cried, "I wasn't--not in the end. If I hadn't gone out to
ride that day, you never would have gone to Europe--and come back the
man you have!"

She turned away from him, her eyes full of tears, her voice shaking. He
was quite at a loss to understand her emotion, almost too excited himself
to notice it; but he could not help being conscious of the tensity of the
moment. He spoke more gently.

"Sylvia--don't think me presuming--I don't mean it that way; and you and
I mustn't quarrel again. But I believe I have a right to ask what that
document you gave me to burn up was. If you'll give me your word of honor
that I haven't--I can only beg your forgiveness for having intruded upon
you, and for my rudeness in speaking as I did."

She turned again slowly, and faced him. He wondered if it was the unshed
tears that made her eyes so soft.

"You have a right," she said, "and _I_ shouldn't have spoken as I did.
You were fair, and I wasn't, as usual. I'll tell you. And will you
promise me just to--to give this little slip of paper to your father--and
never refer to the matter again, or let him?"

"I promise."

"Well, then," she went on hurriedly, "about a month ago I bought the
mortgage on this farm. It seemed to me the only thing that stood in the
way of your prosperity now--it hung around your father's neck like a
millstone--just the thought that he couldn't feel that this wonderful
old place was wholly his, the last years of his life, and that he
couldn't leave it intact for you and Thomas and your children after you
when he died. So I made up my mind it should be destroyed to-day, as my
real Christmas present to you all. The transfer papers were all
properly made out and recorded--this little memorandum will show you
when and where. But Hiram Hutt's title to the property, and mine--and
all the correspondence about them--are in that fireplace. That burden
was too heavy for your father to carry--thank God, I've been the one to
help lift it!"

In the moment of electrified silence that followed, Sylvia
misinterpreted Austin's silence, just as he had failed to understand her
tears. She came nearer to him, holding out her hands.

"Please don't be angry," she whispered; "I'll never give any of you
anything again, if you don't want me to. I know you don't want--and you
don't need--charity; but you did need and want--some one to help just a
little--when things had been going badly with you for so long that it
seemed as if they never could go right again. You'd lost your grip
because there didn't seem to be anything to hang on to! It's meant new
courage and hope and _life_ to me to be able to stay here--I'd lost my
grip, too. I don't think I could have held on much longer--to my _reason_
even--if I hadn't had this respite. If I can accept all that from you,
can't you accept the clear title to a few acres from me? Austin--don't
stand there looking at me like that--tell me I haven't presumed too far."

"What made you think I was angry?" he said hoarsely. "Do men dare to be
angry with angels sent from Heaven?" He took the little slip of paper
which she still held in her extended hand. "I thought you had done
something like this--that was why you made me burn the papers myself--in
the name of my father--and of my children--God bless you." Without taking
his eyes off her face, he drew a tiny box from his pocket.
"Sylvia--would you take a present from _me_?"

"Why, yes. What--"

"It isn't really a present at all, of course, for it was bought with your
money, and perhaps you won't like it, for I've noticed you never wear any
jewelry. But I couldn't bear to come home without a single thing for
you--and this represents--what you've been to me."

As he spoke, he slipped into her hand a delicate chain of gold, on which
hung a tiny star; she turned it over two or three times without speaking,
and her eyes filled with tears again. Then she said:

"It _is_ a present, for this means you travelled third-class, and stayed
at cheap hotels, and went without your lunches--or you couldn't have
bought it. You had only enough money for the trip we originally planned,
without those six weeks in Italy. I'll wear _this_ piece of jewelry--and
it will represent what _you've_ been to _me_, in my mind. Will you put it
on yourself?"

She held it towards him, bending forward, her head down. It seemed to
Austin that her loveliness was like the fragrance of a flower.
Involuntarily, the hands which clasped the little chain around her white
throat, touching the warm, soft skin, fell to her shoulders, and drew
her closer.

The swift and terrible change that went over Sylvia's face sent a thrust
of horror through him. She shut her eyes, and shrank away, trembling all
over, her face grown ashy white. Instantly he realized that the gesture
must have replied to her some ghastly experience in the past; that
perhaps she had more than once been tricked into an embrace by a gift;
that a man's love had meant but one thing to her, and that she now
thought herself face to face with that thing again, from one whom she had
helped and trusted. For an instant the grief with which this realization
filled him, the fresh compassion for all she had suffered, the renewed
love for all her goodness, were too much for him. He tried to speak, to
take away his hands, to leave her. He seemed to be powerless. Then,
blessedly, the realization of what he should do came to him.

"Open your eyes, Sylvia," he commanded.

Too startled to disobey, she did so. He looked into them for a full
minute, smiling, and shook his head.

"You did not understand, dear lady," he said. And dropping on his knees
before her, he took her hands, laid them against his cheek for a minute,
touched them with his lips, and left her.




CHAPTER IX


Uncle Mat made a determined effort to persuade Sylvia to return to New
York with him; and though he was not successful, he was not altogether
discouraged by her reply.

"I _have_ been thinking of it," she said, "but I promised Mrs. Gray
I'd stay here through the winter, and she'd be hurt and disappointed
now if I didn't; besides, I don't feel quite ready for New York myself
yet. I realize that I've remained--nearly long enough--and as soon as
the warm weather comes, I'm going to have my own little house
remodelled and put in order, and move there for the summer. It'll be
such fun--just like doll's housekeeping! Then in the fall--I wont
promise--but perhaps if you still want me, I'll come to you, at least
until I decide what to do next."

"Come now for a visit, if you won't for the rest of the winter."

"Not yet; by spring I'm afraid I'll have to have some new clothes--I've
had nothing since I came here except a fur coat, which arrived by
parcel post! Sally wants to go away in the Easter vacation, and if you
can squeeze us both into your little guest-room, perhaps we'll come
together then."

"You're determined to have some sort of a bodyguard in the shape of your
new friends to protect you from your old ones?"

"Not quite that. I'll come alone if you prefer it," said Sylvia quickly.

"No, no, my dear; I should be glad to have Sally. How about Austin, too?
He could sleep on the living-room sofa, you know, and that would make
four of us to go about together, which is always a pleasant number.
Thomas would be home at that time, and Austin could probably leave more
easily than at any other."

"Ask him by all means. I think he would be glad to go."

Austin was accordingly invited, and accepted with enthusiasm. Uncle
Mat found him in the barn, where he was separating cream with the
new electric separator, but he nodded, with a smile which showed all
his white teeth, as his voice could not be heard above the noise of
the machine.

"Indeed, I will," he said heartily, when the current was switched off
again. "How unfortunate that Easter comes so late this year--but that
will give us all the longer to look forward to it in! I hate to have you
go back, Mr. Stevens, but I suppose the inevitable call of the siren city
is too much for your easily tempted nature!"

Mr. Stevens laughed, and assented. "How that boy has changed!" he said
to himself as he walked back to the house. "He fairly radiates
enthusiasm and wholesomeness. Well, I'm sorry for him. I wish Sylvia
would leave now instead of in the spring, in spite of her promises and
scruples and what-not. And I wish, darn it all, that she were as easy to
read as he is."

Austin's existence, just at that time, seemed even more rose-colored than
Uncle Mat could suspect. The day after Christmas he pondered for a long
time on the events of the night before, and gave some very anxious
thought to his future line of conduct. At first he decided that it would
be best to avoid Sylvia altogether, and thus show her that she had
nothing to dread from him, for her sudden fear had been very hard to
bear; but before night another and wiser course presented itself to
him--the idea of going on exactly as if nothing had happened that was in
the least extraordinary, and prove to her that he was to be trusted.
Accordingly, assuming a calmness which he was very far from feeling, he
stopped at her door again before going upstairs, saying cheerfully:

"Tell me to go away if you want to; if not, I've come for my first
French lesson."

Sylvia looked up with a smile from the book she was reading. "Entrez,
monsieur," she said gayly; "avez-vous apporté votre livre, votre cahier,
et votre plume? Comment va l'oncle de votre ami? Le chat de votre mère,
est-il noir?"

Austin burst out laughing at her mimicry of the typical conversation in a
beginner's grammar, and she joined him. The critical moment had passed.
He saw that he was welcome, that he had risen and not fallen in her
regard, though he was far from guessing how much, and opening his book,
drew another chair near the fire and sat down beside her.

"You must have some romances as well as this dry stuff," she said, when
he had pegged away at Chardenal for over an hour. "We'll read Dumas
together, beginning with the Valois romances, and going straight along in
the proper order. You'll learn a lot of history, as well as considerable
French. Some of it is rather indiscreet but--"

"Which of us do you think it is most likely to shock?" he asked, with
such an expression of mock-alarm that they both burst out laughing again;
and when they had sobered down, "Now may we have some Browning, please?"

So Sylvia reached for a volume from her shelf, and began to read aloud,
while Austin smoked; she read extremely well, and she loved it. She went
from "The Last Duchess" to "The Statue and the Bust," from "Fra Filippo
Lippi" to "Andrea del Sarto." And Austin sat before the fire, smoking and
listening, until the little clock again roused them to consciousness by
striking twelve.

"This will never do!" he exclaimed, jumping up. "I must have regular
hours, like any schoolboy. What do you say to Monday, Wednesday, and
Friday evenings, from seven-thirty to ten? The other nights I'll bend my
energies to preparing my lessons."

"A capital idea. Good-night, Austin."

"Good-night, Sylvia."

There were, however, no more French lessons that week. The next evening
twenty young people went off together in sleighs, got their supper at
White Water, danced there until midnight, and did not reach home until
three in the morning. The following night there was a "show" in
Wallacetown, and although they had all declared at their respective
breakfast-tables--for breakfast is served anywhere from five-thirty to
six-thirty in Hamstead, Vermont--that nothing would keep them out of bed
after supper _that_ night, off they all went again. A "ball" followed the
"show," and the memory of the first sleigh-ride proved so agreeable that
another was undertaken. And finally, on New Year's Eve the Grays
themselves gave a party, opening wide the doors of the fine old house for
the first time in many years. Sylvia played for the others to dance on
this occasion, as she had done at Christmas, but in the rest of the
merry-making she naturally could take no part. Austin, however, proved
the most enthusiastic reveller of all, put through his work like chain
lightning, and was out and off before the plodding Thomas had fairly
begun. Manlike, it did not occur to him to give up any of these
festivities because Sylvia could not join in them. For years he had
hungered and thirsted, as most boys do, for "a good time"--and done so in
vain. For years his work had seemed so endless and yet so futile--for
what was it all leading to?--that it had been heartlessly and hopelessly
done, and when it was finished, it had left him so weary that he had no
spirit for anything else much of the time. Now the old order had, indeed,
changed, yielding place to new. Good looks, good health, and a good mind
he had always possessed, but they had availed him little, as they have
many another person, until good courage and high ideals had been added to
them. He scarcely saw Sylvia for several days, and did not even realize
it, they seemed so full and so delightful; then coming out of the house
early one afternoon intending to go to the barn to do some little odd
jobs of cleaning up, he met her, coming towards him on snowshoes, her
cheeks glowing, and her eyes sparkling. She waved her hand and hurried
towards him.

"Oh, _Austin_! Are you awfully busy?"

"No, not at all. Why?"

"I've just been over to my house, for the first time--you know in the
fall, I couldn't walk, and then I lost the key, and--well, one thing
after another has kept me away--lately the deep snow. But these last few
days I got to thinking about it--you've all been gone so much I've been
alone, you see--so I decided to try getting there on snowshoes--just
think of having a house that's so quiet that there isn't even a _road_ to
it any more! It was quite a tramp, but I made it and went in, and, oh!
it's so _wonderful_--so exactly like what I hoped it was going to
be--that I hurried back to see if you wouldn't come and see it too, and
let me tell you everything I'm planning to do to it?"

She stopped, entirely out of breath. In a flash, Austin realized, first,
that she had been lonely and neglected in the midst of the good times
that all the others had been having; realized, too, that he had never
before seen her so full of vitality and enthusiasm; and then, that,
without being even conscious of it, she had come instinctively to him to
share her new-found joy, while he had almost forgotten her in his. He was
not sufficiently versed in the study of human nature to know that it has
always been thus with men and women, since Eve tried to share her apple
with Adam and only got blamed for her pains. Austin blamed himself,
bitterly and resentfully, and decided afresh that he was the most utterly
ungrateful and unworthy of men. His reflections made him slow in
answering.

"Don't you _want_ to come?"

"Of course I want to come! I was just thinking--wait a second, I'll get
my snowshoes."

"I'm going to tear down a partition," she went on excitedly as they
ploughed through the snow together, "and have one big living-room on the
left of the front door; on the right of it a big bedroom--I've always
_pined_ for a downstairs bedroom--I don't know why, but I never had one
till I came to your house--with a bathroom and dressing-room behind it;
the dining-room and kitchen will be in the ell. I'm sure I can make that
unfinished attic into three more bedrooms, and another bathroom, but I
want to see what you think. I'm going to have a great deep piazza all
around it, and a flower-garden--and--"

She could hardly wait to get there. Her enthusiasm was contagious. Austin
soon found himself making suggestions, helping her in her plans. They
went through every nook and corner of the tiny cottage; he had not
dreamed that it possessed the possibilities that Sylvia immediately found
in it. They stayed a long time, and walked home over fields of snow which
the sinking sun was turning rosy in its glowing light. That evening
Austin came for his lesson again.

By the second of January, the last of the visitors had gone, and the old
Gray place was restored to the order and quiet which had reigned before
the holidays began. Mrs. Gray was lonely, but her mind was at ease. She
had been watching Austin closely, and it seemed quite clear to her that
Uncle Mat was mistaken about him. The idea that her favorite son was
going to be made unhappy was quickly dismissed; and in her rejoicing over
the first payment on their debt at the bank, and in the new position of
importance and consequence which her husband was beginning to occupy in
the neighborhood, it was soon completely forgotten. The succeeding months
seemed to prove her right; and the all-absorbing interest in the family
was Mr. Gray's election to the Presidency of the Cooperative Creamery
Association of Hamstead, and his probable chances of being nominated as
First Selectman--in place of Silas Jones, recently deceased--at March
Town Meeting.




CHAPTER X


Wallacetown, the railroad centre which lay five miles south of Hamstead
across the Connecticut River, was generally regarded by the agricultural
community in its vicinity as a den of iniquity. This opinion was not
deserved. Wallacetown was progressive and prosperous; its high school
ranked with the best in the State, its shops were excellent, its
buildings, both public and private, neat and attractive. There were
several reasons, however, for the "slams" which its neighbors gave it.
Its population, instead of being composed largely of farmers, the sons,
grandsons, and great-grandsons of the "old families" who had first
settled the valley, was made up of railway employees and officials, and
of merchants who had come there at a later date. Close team-work between
them and the dwellers in Hamstead, White Water, and other villages near
at hand, would have worked out for the advantage of both. But
unfortunately they did not realize this. Wallacetown was also the only
town in the vicinity where a man "could raise a thirst" as Austin put it,
Vermont being "dry," and New Hampshire, at this time, "local option."
Probably, from the earliest era, young men have been thirsty, and their
parents have bemoaned the fact. It is not hard to imagine Eve wringing
her hands over Cain and Abel when they first sampled generously the
beverage they had made from the purple grapes which grew so plentifully
near the Garden of Eden. Wallacetown also offered "balls," not
occasionally, but two or three times a week. The Elks Hall, the Opera
House, and even the Parish House were constantly being thrown open, and a
local orchestra flourished. These "balls" were usually quite as innocent
as those that took place in larger cities, under more elegant and
exclusive surroundings; but the stricter Methodists and
Congregationalists of the countryside did not believe in dancing at all,
especially when there might be a "ginger-ale high-ball" or a glass of ale
connected with it. Besides, there were two poolrooms and a wide street
paved with asphalt, and brilliantly lighted down both sides. Trains
ran--and stopped--by night as well as by day, and Sundays as well as
week-days. In short, Wallacetown was up-to-date. That alone, in the eyes
of Hamstead, was enough to condemn it. And when an enterprising citizen
opened a Moving-Picture Palace, and promptly made an enormous success of
it, Mrs. Elliott could no longer restrain herself.

"It's something scandalous," she declared, "to see the boys an' girls who
would be goin' to Christian Endeavor or Epworth League if they'd ben
brought up right, crowdin' 'round the entrance doors lookin' at the
posters, an' payin' out good money that ought to go into the missionary
boxes for the heathen in the Sandwich Islands, to go an' see filums of
wimmen without half enough clothes on. We read in the _Wallacetown Bugle_
that there was goin' to be a picture called 'The Serpent of the Nile' an'
Joe an' I thought we could risk that, it sounded kinder geographical an'
instructive. Of course we went mostly to see the new buildin' an' who
else would be there, anyway. But land! the serpent was a girl dressed in
the main in beads an' a pleasant smile. She loafed around on hard-lookin'
sofas that was set right out in the open air, an' seemed to have more
beaux than wimmen-friends. I'm always suspicious of that kind of a woman.
I wanted to leave right away, as soon as I see what it was goin' to be
like, but Joe wouldn't. He wanted to set right there until it was over.
He seemed to feel afraid some one might see us comin' out, an' that maybe
we better stay until the very end, so's we wouldn't be noticed, slippin'
out with the crowd.--Have you took cold, Sylvia? You seem to have a real
bad cough."

Sylvia, who had been sewing peacefully beside the sunny kitchen window
filled with geraniums, rose hastily, and left Mrs. Gray alone with her
friend. Having gained the hall in safety, she sank down on the stairs,
and laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks. And here Austin,
coming in a moment later, found her.

"What on earth--?" he began, and then, without even pursuing his
question, sat down beside her and joined in her laugh. "What would you
do?" he said at last, when some semblance of order had been restored,
"without Mrs. Elliott? Considering the quiet life you lead, you must be
simply pining for amusement."

"I am," said Sylvia. "Austin--let's go to the movies in Wallacetown
to-morrow night."

Austin, suddenly grave, shook his head. "Shows" in Wallacetown were
associated in his mind with a period in his life when he had very nearly
broken his mother's heart, and which he had now put definitely behind
him. The idea of connecting Sylvia, even in the most remote way, with
that period, was abhorrent to him.

"Why not?" she asked defiantly.

"Well, for one thing, the roads are awful. This combination in March of
melting snow and mud is worse than anything I know of--ruts and holes and
slush. It would take us over an hour to get there."

"And three to get back, I suppose," said Sylvia pertly; "we could go in
my motor."

"I haven't taken out the new license for this year yet. Besides, though I
believe the movies are very good for a place the size of Wallacetown, of
course, they can't be equal to what you'll be seeing in New York pretty
soon. Wait and go there."

"I won't!" said Sylvia, springing up. "I'll get Thomas to take me. You
always have some excuse when I want you to do anything. Why don't you say
right out that you don't care to go?"

Sylvia expected denials and protestations. She was disappointed. Thomas
had arrived home for his long spring vacation a few days before, and had
promptly begun to follow Sylvia about like a shadow. Austin, who never
sought her out except for his French lessons, had endeavored to
remonstrate with his younger brother. The boy flared up, with such
unusual and unreasonable anger, that Austin had decided it was wiser not
to try to spare him any longer, but to let "him make a fool of himself
and have it over with." When Sylvia made her tart speech, it suddenly
flashed through his mind that a ten-mile ride, without possibility of
interruption, was an excellent opportunity for this. He therefore grinned
so cheerfully that Sylvia was more puzzled and piqued than ever.

"I'm sure Thomas would be tickled to death to take you," he said
enthusiastically; "I'll get the car registered the first thing in the
morning, and he can spend the afternoon washing and oiling it. It really
needs a pretty thorough going-over. It'll do my heart good to see him in
his old clothes for once. He seems to have entirely overlooked the fact
that he was to spend this vacation being pretty useful on the farm, and
not sighing at your heels dressed in the height of fashion as he
understands it. He's wearing out the mat in front of the bureau, he
stands there so much, and I've hardly had a chance for a shave or a tub
since he got here. He locks himself in the bathroom and spends hours
manicuring his nails and putting bay-rum on his hair. He--All right, I
won't if you say so! But, Sylvia, you ought to make a real spree of this,
and go in to the drug-store for an ice-cream soda after the show."

"Is that the usual thing?"

"It's the most usual thing that I should recommend to you. Of course,
there are others--

"Austin, you are really getting to be the limit. Go tell Thomas I
want him."

"With pleasure. I haven't," murmured Austin, "had a chance to tell him
that so far. He's never been far enough off--except when he was
getting ready to come. That's probably what he's doing now. I'll go
upstairs and see."

Austin had guessed right. Thomas stood in front of the mirror, shining
with cleanliness, knotting a red silk tie. He had reached that stage in a
young man's life when clothes were temporarily of supreme importance.
Gone was the shy and shabby ploughboy of a year before. This
self-assertive young gentleman was clad in a checked suit in which green
was a predominating color, a black-and-white striped shirt, and
chocolate-colored shoes. His hair, still dripping with moisture, was
brushed straight back from his forehead and the smell of perfumed soap
hung heavy about him.

"Hullo," he said, eyeing his brother's intrusion with disfavor, "how
dirty you are!"

Austin, whose khaki and corduroy garments made him look more than ever
like a splendid bronze statue, nodded cheerfully.

"I know. But some one's got to work. We can't have two lilies of the
field on the same farm.--Sylvia wants to speak to you."

"Do you know why?" asked Thomas, promptly displaying more dispatch.

"I think she intends to suggest that you should take her to the
moving-pictures in Wallacetown to-morrow night. She doesn't get much
amusement here, and now that she's feeling so much stronger again, I
think she rather craves it."

"Of course she does," said Thomas, "and if you weren't the most selfish,
pig-headed, blind bat that ever flew, you'd have seen that she got it,
long before this. Where is she?"

It seemed to the impatient Thomas that the next evening would never
arrive. All night, and all the next day, he planned for it exultantly. He
was to have the chance which the ungrateful Austin had seen fit to cast
away. He would show Sylvia how much he appreciated it. Through the long
afternoon, suddenly grown unseasonably warm, he toiled on the motor until
it was spick and span from top to bottom and from end to end. He was
careful to start his labors early enough to allow a full hour to dress
before supper, cautioned his mother a dozen times to be sure there was
enough hot water left in the boiler for a deep bath, and laid out fresh
and gorgeous garments on the bed before he began his ablutions. He was
amazed to find, when he came downstairs, that Sylvia, who had tramped
over to the brick cottage that afternoon, was still in the short muddy
skirt and woolly sweater that she had worn then, poking around in the
yard testing the earth for possibilities of early gardening.

"The frost has come out a good deal to-day," she said, wiping grimy
little hands on an equally grimy handkerchief; "I expect the mud will be
awful these next few weeks, but I can get in sweet peas and ever-bearing
strawberries pretty soon now."

"We'll have to start right after supper," said Thomas, by way of a
delicate hint. He did not feel that it was proper for him to suggest to
Sylvia that her present costume was scarcely suitable to wear if she
were to accompany him to a "show."

"Start?" Sylvia looked puzzled. Then she remembered that in a moment of
pique with Austin she had arranged to go to Wallacetown with Thomas. As
she thought it over, it appealed to her less and less. "You mean to
Wallacetown? I'm afraid I'd forgotten all about it, I've been so busy
to-day. I wonder if we'd better try it? The warmth to-day won't have
improved the roads any, and they were pretty bad before."

Thomas felt as if he should choke. That she should treat so casually the
evening towards which he had been counting the moments for twenty-four
hours seemed almost unbearable. He strove, however, to maintain his
dignified composure.

"Just as you say, of course," he replied with hurt coolness.

Sylvia glanced at him covertly, and the corners of her mouth twitched.

"I suppose we may as well try it," she said. "Do you suppose some of the
others would like to come with us? There's plenty of room for everybody."

Again Thomas choked. This was the last thing that he desired. How was he
to disclose to Sylvia the wonderful secret that he adored her with the
whole family sitting on the back seat?

"I don't believe they could get ready now," he said; "they didn't know
you expected them to go, you see, and there's really awfully little
time." He took out his watch.

Sylvia fled. Twenty minutes later she appeared at the supper-table, clad
in a soft black lace dress, slightly low in the neck, her arms only
partially concealed by transparent, flowing sleeves, her waving hair
coiled about her head like a crown. She had on no jewels--only the little
star that Austin had given her--and the gown was the sort of
demi-toilette which two years before she would have considered hardly
elaborate enough for dinner alone in her own house. To the Grays,
however, her costume represented the zenith of elegance, and Thomas began
vaguely to feel that there was something the matter with his own
appearance.

"Ought I to have put on my dress-suit?" he asked Austin in a
stage-whisper, as Sylvia left the room to get her wraps.

The mere thought of a dress-suit at the Wallacetown "movies" was comic to
the last degree, but the merciless Austin jumped at the suggestion.

"Why don't you? You won't be very late if you change quickly. You won't
need to take another bath, will you? I'll bring round the car."

He showed himself, indeed, all that was helpful and amiable. He not only
brought around the car, he went up and helped Thomas with stubborn studs
and a refractory tie. He stood respectfully aside to let his brother wrap
Sylvia's coat around her, and held open the door of the car.

"Have a good time!" he shouted after them, as they plunged out of sight,
somewhat jerkily, for Thomas, who had not driven a great deal, was not a
master of gear-shifting. His mother looked at him anxiously.

"I can't help feelin' you're up to some deviltry, Austin," she said
uneasily, "though I don't know just what 'tis. I'm kinder nervous about
this plan of them goin' off to Wallacetown."

"I'm not," said Austin with a wicked grin, and took out his French
dictionary.

The first part of the evening, however, seemed to indicate that Mrs.
Gray's fears were groundless. Sylvia and Thomas reached the
Moving-Picture Palace without mishap, though they had left the Homestead
so late owing to the latter's change of attire and the slow rate at which
the mud and his lack of skill had obliged them to ride, that the audience
was already assembled, and "The Terror of the Plains," a stirring tale of
an imaginary West, was in full progress before they were seated. Thomas's
dress-suit did not fail to attract immediate attention and equally
immediate remarks, and Sylvia, who hated to be conspicuous, felt her
cheeks beginning to burn. But--more sincerely than Mr. Elliott--she
decided that it was better to wait until the entertainment was over than
to attract further notice by going out at once. Thomas, less sensitive
than she, enjoyed himself thoroughly.

"We have splendid pictures in Burlington," he announced, "but this is
good for a place of this size, isn't it, Sylvia?"

"Yes. Don't talk so loudly."

"I can't talk any softer and have you hear unless I put my head up
closer. Can I?"

"Of course, you may not. Don't be so silly."

"I didn't mean to be fresh. You're not cross, are you, Sylvia?"

It seemed to her as if the "show" would never end. Chagrin and resentment
overcame her. What had possessed her to come to this hot, stuffy place
with Thomas, instead of reading French in her peaceful, pleasant
sitting-room with Austin? Why didn't Austin show more eagerness to be
with her, anyway? She liked to be with him--ever and ever so much--didn't
see half so much of him as she wanted to. There was no use beating about
the bush. It was perfectly true. She was growing fonder of him, and more
dependent on him, every day. And every other man she had ever known had
been grateful for her least favor, while he--Her hurt pride seemed to
stifle her. She was very close to tears. She was jerked back to composure
by the happy voice of Thomas.

"My, but that was a thriller! Come on over to the drug-store, Sylvia, and
have an ice-cream cone."

"I'm not hungry," said Sylvia, rising, "and it must be getting awfully
late. I'd rather go straight home."

Thomas, though disappointed, saw no choice. But once off the brilliantly
lighted "Main Street," and lumbering down the road towards Hamstead, he
decided not to put off the great moment, for which he had been waiting,
any longer. Wondering why his stomach seemed to be caving in so, he
tactfully began.

"Did you know I was going to be twenty-one next month, Sylvia?" he asked.

"No," said Sylvia absently; "that is, I had forgotten. You seem more like
eighteen to me."

This was a somewhat crushing beginning. But Thomas was not daunted.

"I suppose that is because I was older than most when I went to college,"
he said cheerfully, "but though you're a little bit older, I'm nearer
your age than any of the others--much nearer than Austin. Had you ever
thought of that?"

"No," said Sylvia again, still more absently. "Why should I? I feel about
a thousand."

"Well, you _look_ about sixteen! Honest, Sylvia, no one would guess
you're a day over that, you're so pretty. Has any one ever told you how
pretty you are?"

"Well, it has been mentioned," said Sylvia dryly, "but I have always
thought that it was one of those things that was greatly overestimated."

"Why, it couldn't be! You're perfectly lovely! There isn't a girl in
Burlington that can hold a candle to you. I've been going out, socially,
a lot all winter, and I know. I've been to hops and whist-parties and
church-suppers. The girls over there have made quite a little of me,
Sylvia, but I've never--"

There was a deafening report. Thomas, cursing inwardly, interrupted
himself.

"We must have had a blow-out," he said, bringing the car to a noisy stop.
"Wait a second, while I get out and see."

It was all too true. A large nail had passed straight through one of the
front tires. He stripped off his ulster, and the coat of his dress-suit,
and turned up his immaculate trousers.

"You'll have to get up for a minute, while I get the tools from under the
seat, Sylvia. I'm awfully sorry.--It's pretty dark, isn't it?--I never
changed a tire but once before. Austin's always done that."

"Austin's always done almost everything," snapped Sylvia. Then, peering
around to the back of the car, "Why don't _you do_ something? What _is_
the matter now?"

"The lock on the extra wheel's rusted--you see it hasn't been undone all
winter. I can't get it off."

"Well, _smash_ it, then! We can't stay here all night."

"I haven't got anything to smash it _with_. I must have forgotten to put
part of the tools back when I cleaned the car."

"Oh, Thomas, you are the most _inefficient_ boy about everything except
farming that I ever saw! Let me see if I can't help."

She jumped out, her feet, clad in silk stockings and satin slippers,
sinking into the mud as she did so. Together for fifteen minutes, rapidly
growing hot and angry, they wrestled with the refractory lock. At the end
of that time they were no nearer success than they had been in the
beginning.

"We'll have to crawl home on a flat tire," she said at last disgustedly;
"I hope we'll get there for breakfast."

Thomas had never seen her temper ruffled before. Her imperiousness was
always sweet, and it was Heaven to be dictated to by her. The fact that
he believed her to be comparing him in her mind to Austin did not help
matters. Austin, as he knew very well, would have managed some way to get
that tire changed. For some time they rode along in silence, the mud
churning up on either side of the guards with every rod that they
advanced. At last, realizing that his precious moments were slipping
rapidly away, and that though, in Sylvia's present mood, it was hardly a
favorable time to go on with his declaration, the morrow would be even
less so, Thomas summoned up his courage once more.

"Is your back tired?" he asked. "It's awfully jolty, going over these
ruts. I could steer all right with one hand, if you would let me put my
other arm around you."

"You're not steering any too well as it is," remarked Sylvia tartly.
"_Thomas_! What are you thinking of? Don't you touch me!--There, now
you've done it!"

Thomas certainly had "done it." Sylvia, at his first movement, had
slapped him in the face with no gentle tap. And Thomas, with only one
hand on the wheel, and too amazed to keep his wits about him, had allowed
the car to slide down the side of the road into the deep, muddy gutter,
straight in front of the Elliotts' house.

Late as it was, a light was snapped on in the entrance without delay.
Electricity had been installed here before any other place in the village
had been blessed with it, for the owners never missed a chance of seeing
anything, and Mrs. Elliott seemed to sleep with one eye and one ear open.
She appeared now in the doorway, dressed in a long, gray flannel
"wrapper," her hair securely fastened in metal clasps all about her head,
against the "crimps" for the next day.

"Who is it?" she cried sharply--"and what do you want?"

Of all persons in the world, this was the last one whom either Sylvia or
Thomas desired to see. Neither answered. Nothing dismayed, Mrs. Elliott
advanced down the walk. Her carpet-slippers flapped as she came.

"Come on, Joe," she called over her shoulder to her less intrepid spouse.
"Are you goin' to leave me alone to face these desperate drunkards,
lurchin' around in the dead of night, an' makin' the road unsafe for
doctors who might be out on some errand of mercy--they're the only
_respectable_ people who wouldn't be abed at this hour of the night. You
better get right to the telephone, an' notify Jack Weston. He ain't much
of a police officer, to be sure, but I guess he can deal with bums like
these--too stewed to answer me, even!" Then, as she drew nearer, she gave
a shriek that might well have been heard almost as far off as
Wallacetown, "Land of mercy! It's Sylvia an' Thomas!"

Thomas cowered. No other word could express it. But Sylvia got out,
slamming the door behind her.

"We've been to Wallacetown to a moving-picture show," she said with a
dignity which she was very far from feeling, "and we've been unfortunate
in having tire-trouble on the way home. And now we seem to be stuck in
the mud. I had no idea the roads were in such a condition, or of course I
shouldn't have gone. We can't possibly pry the motor up in this darkness,
so I think we may as well leave it where it is, first as last until
morning, and walk the rest of the way home. Come on, Thomas."

"I wouldn't ha' b'lieved," said Mrs. Elliott severely, "that you would
ha' done such a thing. Prayer-meetin' night, too! Well, it's fortunate no
one seen you but me an' Joe. If I was gossipy, like some, it would be all
over town in no time, but you know I never open my lips. But, land sakes!
here comes a _team_. Who can this be?"

Eagerly she peered out through the darkness. Then she turned again to the
unfortunate pair.

"It's Austin in the carryall," she cried excitedly; "now, ain't that a
piece of luck? You won't have to walk home, after all. Though what _he's_
out for, either, at this hour--"

Austin reined in his horse. "Because I knew Sylvia and Thomas must have
got into some difficulty," he said quietly. Considering the pitch at
which it had been uttered, it had not been hard to overhear Mrs.
Elliott's speech. "Pretty bad travelling, wasn't it? I'm sorry. Tires,
too? Well, that was hard luck. But we'll be home in no time now, and of
course the show was worth it. You didn't hurt your dress-suit any, did
you, Thomas? I worried a little about that. You drive--I'll get in on the
back seat with Sylvia, and make sure the robe's tucked around her all
right. It seems to be coming off cold again, doesn't it? Good-night, Mrs.
Elliott--thank you for your sympathy."

Conversation languished. Austin, unseen by the miserable Thomas on the
front seat, and unreproved by the weary and chilly Sylvia, "tucked the
robe around her" and then, apparently, forgot to take his arm away.
Moreover, he searched in the darkness for her small, cold fingers, and
gathered them into his free hand, which was warm and big and strong. As
they neared the house, he spoke to her.

"The next time you want to go to 'a show' I guess I'd better take you
myself, after all," he whispered. "You'll find a hot-water bag in your
bed, and hot lemonade in the thermos bottle on the little table beside
it. I put a small 'stick' in it--oh, just a twig! And I've kept the
kitchen fire up. The water in the tank's almost boiling, if you happen to
feel like a good tub--"

He helped her out, and held open the front door for her gravely. Then,
closing it behind her, he turned to Thomas.

"You'd better run along, too," he said, with a slight drawl; "I'll put
the horse up."

"Oh, go to hell!" sobbed Thomas.




CHAPTER XI


"So you refused Weston's offer of three hundred dollars for Frieda?"

"Yes, father. Do you think I was wrong?"

"Well, I don't know. That's a good deal of money, Austin."

"I know, but think what she cost to import, and the record she's making!
I told him he might have two of the brand-new bull calves at
seventy-five apiece."

"What did he say?"

"Jumped at the chance. He's coming _for_ the calves, and _with_ the cash
early to-morrow morning. I said he might have a look at Dorothy, too.
Peter thinks she isn't quite up to our standard, and I'm inclined to
agree with him, though I imagine his opinion is based partly on the fact
that she's a Jersey! If Weston will give three hundred for _her_, right
on the spot, I think we'd better let her go."

"Did you do any other special business in Wallacetown?"

"I took ten dozen more eggs to Hassan's Grocery, and he paid me for the
last two months. Thirty dollars. Pretty good, but we ought to do better
yet, though, of course, we eat a great many ourselves. How's the tax
assessing coming along? I suppose you've been out all day, too."

"Yes. I'm so green at it I find it rather hard work. It's hard luck that
both of the listers should be sick just now, though in New Hampshire the
selectmen always have to do the assessing. But I've had some funny
experiences to-day. I found one woman terribly distressed because her
husband wasn't at home. 'He waited 'round all yesterday afternoon for
you, thinkin' you'd probably be here,' she said, 'but he's gone to White
Water to-day.' 'Well,' I said, 'let's see if we can't get along just as
well without him. Have you a horse?' 'Yes, but he's over age--he can't be
taxed.' 'Any cows?' 'Just two heifers--they're too young.' 'Any money on
deposit?' 'Lord, no!' 'Then there's only the poll-tax?' I suggested.
'Bless you, he's seventy-six years old--there ain't no poll-tax!' she
rejoined. And the long and short of it was that they weren't taxable for
a single thing!"

Austin laughed. "How much longer are you going to be at this, father?" he
asked, as he turned to go away.

"All through April, I'm afraid. I'm sorry it makes things so much harder
for you on the farm, Austin, but it means three dollars a day. I'm so
glad Katherine and Edith could go on the high school trip to
Washington--your mother had her first letter this noon. You'll want to
read it--they're having a wonderful time. I'm trying to figure out
whether we can possibly let Katherine go to Wellesley next year. She's
got her heart just set on it, and Edith seems perfectly willing to stay
at home, so we shan't be put to any extra expense for her."

"I guess when the time comes we can find a way to help Katherine if she
helps herself as much as Thomas and Molly are doing. By the way, has it
occurred to you that there may be some reason for Edith's sudden turn
towards domesticity?"

"Why, no--what do you mean?"

"Peter."

"Peter!" echoed Mr. Gray, aghast; "why the child isn't seventeen yet, and
he can't be more than a couple of years older!"

"I know. But such things do sometimes happen."

"You don't consider Peter a suitable match for one of your sisters?" went
on the horrified father; "why, she's oceans above him."

"Any farther than Sylvia is above Thomas? You seem to be taking that
rather hard."

For Thomas, in spite of Austin's warnings, and his chastening experience
on the night of the expedition to the Moving-Picture Palace, had broken
bounds again and openly declared himself. Sylvia, who already reproached
herself for her ill-temper on that occasion, was very kind and very
sweet, and had the tact and wisdom not to treat the matter as a joke; but
she was as definite and firm in her "no" as she was considerate in the
way she put it. Thomas was as usual quite unable to conceal his feelings,
and his parents were grieving for him almost as much as he was for
himself, although they had never expected any other outcome to his first
love-affair, and were somewhat amazed at his presumption.

"You never thought of this yourself," went on the bewildered parent,
ignoring Austin's last remark, feeling that his children were treating
him most unfairly by indulging in so many affairs of the heart which
could not possibly have a fortunate outcome. "_I_ haven't noticed a
thing, and I'm sure your mother hasn't, or she would have spoken about it
to me. Why, Edith's hardly out of her cradle."

"It would take a pretty flexible cradle to hold Edith nowadays," returned
Austin dryly; "she's running around all over the countryside, and she has
more partners at a dance than all the other girls put together. She isn't
as nice as Molly, or half so interesting as Katherine, but she has a
little way with her that--well, I don't know just _what_ it is, but I see
the attraction myself. I thought I'd tell you so that if you didn't like
it, we could try to scrimp a little harder, and send her off for a year
or so, too--she never could get into college, but she might go to some
school of Domestic Science. No--I didn't notice Peter's state of mind
myself at first."

"Sylvia!" said his father sharply. "She didn't approve, of course."

"On the contrary, very highly. She says that the sooner a girl of Edith's
type is married--to the right sort of a man, of course--the better, and
I'm inclined to think that she's right. Then she pointed out that Peter
had gone doggedly to school all winter, struggling with a foreign
language, and enduring the gibes he gets from being in a class with boys
much younger than himself, with very good grace. She mentioned how
faithful and competent he was in his work, and how interested in it;
asked if I had noticed the excellency of his handwriting, his
accounts--and his manners! And finally she said that a boy who would
promise his mother to go to church once a fortnight at least, and keep
the promise, was doing pretty well."

"Speaking of church," said Mr. Gray uneasily, as if forced to agree with
all Austin said, yet anxious to change the subject, "Mr. Jessup is
calling. He comes pretty frequently."

"Yes--I had noticed _that_ for myself! I don't think Sylvia particularly
likes it."

"Then I imagine she can stop it without much outside help," said his
father, somewhat ruefully. "Well, we must get to work, and not sit here
talking all the rest of the afternoon--not that there's so very much
afternoon left! What are you going to do next, Austin?"

"Change my clothes, and then start burning the rubbish-pile--there's a
good moon, so I can finish it after the milking's done."

"That means you'll be up until midnight--and you were out in the barn at
five!" exclaimed Mr. Gray. "I don't see where you get all your energy."

"From ambition!" laughed Austin, starting away. "This is going to be the
finest farm in the county again, if I have anything to do about it." As
he entered the house, and went through the hall, he could hear voices in
Sylvia's parlor, and though the door was ajar, he went past it, contrary
to his custom. His father was right. If she did not like the minister's
visits, she was quite competent to stop them without outside help. Was it
possible--_could_ it be?--that she _did_ like them? He flung off his
business clothes and got into his overalls with a sort of savage
haste--after all, what difference ought it to make to him whether she
liked them or not? She was going away almost immediately, would
inevitably marry some one before very long, Mr. Jessup at least held a
dignified position and possessed a good education, and if she married
him, she would come back to Hamstead, they could see her once in a
while--Having tried to comfort himself with these cheering reflections,
he started down the stairs, inwardly cursing. Then he heard something
which made him stop short.

"Please go away," Sylvia was saying, in the low, penetrating voice he
knew so well, "and I think it would be better if you didn't come any
more. How dare you speak to me like that! And how can a clergyman so lose
his sense of dignity as to behave like any common fortune-hunter?"

Austin pushed open the door without stopping to knock, and walked in.

"Good-afternoon, Mr. Jessup," he said coolly, "my father told me we were
having the pleasure of a call from you. I'm just going out to milk--won't
you come with me, and see the cattle? They're really a fine sight, tied
up ready for the night."

Mr. Jessup picked up his hat, and Austin held the door open for him to
pass out, leaving Sylvia standing, an erect, scornful little black
figure, with very red cheeks, her angry eyes growing rapidly soft as she
looked straight past the minister at Austin.

The results of Mr. Jessup's visit were several. The most immediate one
was that Austin's work was so delayed by the interruption it received
that it was nearly nine o'clock before he was able to start his bonfire.
Thomas joined him, but after an hour declared he was too sleepy to work
another minute, and strolled off to bed. Austin's next visitor was his
father, who merely came to see how things were getting along and to say
good-night. And finally, when he had settled down to a period of
laborious solitude, he was amazed to see Sylvia open and shut the front
door very quietly, and come towards him in the moonlight, carrying a
white bundle so large that she could hardly manage it.

"For Heaven's sake!" he exclaimed, hurrying to help her, "you ought to
have been asleep hours ago! What have you got here?"

"Something to add to your bonfire," she said savagely, and as he took the
great package from her, the white wrapping fell open, showing the
contents to be inky black. "All the crepe I own! I won't wear it another
day! I've been respectful to death--even if I couldn't be to the
dead--and to convention long enough. I've swathed myself in that stuff
for nearly fifteen months! I won't be such a hypocrite as to wear it
another day! And if Thomas--and--and--Mr. Jessup and--and everybody--are
going to pester the life out of me, I might just as well be in New York
as here. I'm glad I'm going away."

"No one else is going to pester you," said Austin quietly, "and they
won't any more. But you'll have a good time in New York--I think it's
fine that you're going." He tossed the bundle into the very midst of the
burning pile, and tried to speak lightly, pretending not to notice the
excitement of her manner and the undried tears on her flushed cheeks. "I
think you're just right about that stuff, too. Will this mean all sorts
of fluffy pink and blue things, like what Flora Little wears? I should
think you would look great in them!"

"No--but it means lots and lots of pure white dresses and plain black
suits and hats, without any crepe. Then in the fall, lavender, and gray,
and so on."

"I see--a gradual improvement. Won't you sit down a few minutes? It's a
wonderful night."

"Thank you. Austin--you and Sally will have to help me shop when I get to
New York--Heaven knows what I can wear to travel down in."

Austin stopped raking, and flung himself down on the grass beside her.
"Sylvia," he said quickly, "I'm awfully sorry, but I can't go."

"Can't go! Why not?" she exclaimed, with so much disappointment in her
voice that he was amazed.

"Father's a selectman now, you know, and away all day just at this time
on town business. There's too much farmwork for Thomas and Peter to
manage alone. I didn't foresee this, of course, when I accepted your
uncle's invitation. I can't tell you how much it means to me to give it
up, but you must see that I've got to."

"Yes, I see," she said gravely, and sat silently for some minutes,
fingering the frill on her sleeve. Then she went on: "Uncle Mat wants me
to stay a month or six weeks with him, and I think I ought to, after.
deserting him for so long. When I come back, my own little house will be
ready for me, and it will be warm enough for me to move in there, so I
think these last few days will be 'good-bye.' Your family has let me stay
a year--the happiest year of all my life--and I know your mother loves
me--almost as much as I love her--and hates to have me go. But all
families are better off by themselves, and in one way I think I've stayed
too long already."

"You mean Thomas?"

She nodded, her eyes full of tears. "I ought to have gone before it
happened," she said penitently; "any woman with a grain of sense can
usually see that--that sort of thing coming, and ward it off beforehand.
But I didn't think he was quite so serious, or expect it quite so soon."

"The young donkey! To annoy you so!"

"_Annoy_ me! Surely you don't think _Thomas_ was thinking of the money?"

"Good Lord, no, it never entered his head! Neither did it enter his head
what an unpardonable piece of presumption it was on his part to ask you
to marry him. A great, ignorant, overgrown, farmer boy!"

"You are mistaken," said Sylvia quietly; "I do not love Thomas, but if I
did, the answer would have had to be 'no' just the same. The presumption
would be all on my part, if I allowed any clean, wholesome, honest boy,
in a moment of passion, to throw away his life on a woman like me. Thomas
must marry a girl, as fresh as he is himself--not a woman with a past
like mine behind her."

For nearly a year Austin had exercised a good deal of self-control for a
man little trained in that valuable quality. At Sylvia's speech it gave
way suddenly, and without warning. Entirely forgetting his resolution
never to touch her, he leaned forward, seizing her arm, and speaking
vehemently.

"I wish you would get rid of your false, gloomy thoughts about yourself
as easily as you have got rid of your false, gloomy clothing," he said,
passionately. "The mother and husband who made your life what it was are
both where they can never hurt you again. Your character they never did
touch, except in the most superficial way. When you told me your story,
that night in the woods, you tried to make me think that you did
voluntarily--what you did. You lied to me. I thought so then. I know it
now. You were flattered and bullied, cajoled and coerced--a girl scarcely
older than my sister Edith, whom we consider a child, whose father is
distressed to even think of her as marriageable. It is time to stop
feeling repentance for sins you never committed, and to look at yourself
sanely and happily--if you must be introspective at all. No braver,
lovelier, purer woman ever lived, or one more obviously intended to be a
wife and mother. The sooner you become both, the better."

There was a moment of tense silence. Sylvia made no effort to draw away
from him; at last she asked, in a voice which was almost pleading in
its quality:

"Is that what you think of me?"

Austin dropped his hand. "Good God, Sylvia!" he said hoarsely; "don't you
know by this time what I think of you?"

"Then you mean--that you want me to marry you?"

"No, no, no!" he cried. "Why are you so bound to misunderstand and
misjudge me? I beg you not to ride by yourself, and you tell me I am
'dictating.' I go for months without hearing from you for fear of
annoying you, and you accuse me of 'indifference.' I bring you a gift as
a vassal might have done to his liege lady--and you shrink away from me
in terror. I try to show you what manner of woman you really are, and you
believe that I am displaying the same presumption which I have just
condemned in my own brother. Are you so warped and embittered by one
experience--a horrible one, but, thank Heaven, quickly and safely over
with!--that you cannot believe me when I tell you that the best part of a
decent man's love is not passion, but reverence? His greatest desire, not
possession, but protection? His ultimate aim, not gratification, but
sacrifice?"

He bent over her. She was sitting quite motionless, her head bowed, her
face hidden in her hands; she was trembling from head to foot. He put his
arm around her.

"Don't!" he said, his voice breaking; "don't, Sylvia. I've been rough and
violent--lost my grip on myself--but it's all over now--I give you my
word of honor that it is. Please lift your head up, and tell me that you
forgive me!" He waited until it seemed as if his very reason would leave
him if she did not answer him; then at last she dropped her hands, and
raised her head. The moon shone full on her upturned face, and the look
that Austin saw there was not one of forgiveness, but of something so
much greater that he caught his breath before she moved or spoke to him.

"Are you blind?" she whispered. "Can't you see how I have felt--since
Christmas night, even if you couldn't long before that? Don't you know
why I just couldn't go away? But I thought you didn't care for me--that
you couldn't possibly have kept away from me so long if you did--that you
thought I wasn't good enough--Oh, my dear, my dear--" She laid both hands
on his shoulders.

The next instant she was in his arms, his lips against hers, all the
sorrow and bitterness of their lives lost forever in the glory of their
first kiss.




CHAPTER XII


When, two days later, Sylvia and Sally left for New York, none of the
Grays had been told, much less had they suspected, what had happened. A
certain new shyness, which Austin found very attractive, had come over
Sylvia, and she seemed to wish to keep their engagement a secret for a
time, and also to keep to her plan of going away, with the added reason
that she now "wanted a chance to think things over."

"To think whether you really love me?" asked Austin gravely.

"Haven't I convinced you that I don't need to think that over any more?"
she said, with a look and a blush that expressed so much that the
conversation was near to being abruptly ended.

Austin controlled himself, however, and merely said:

"I'm going down to our little cemetery this afternoon to put it in good
order for the spring; I know you've always said you didn't want to go
there, but perhaps you'll feel differently now. All the Grays are buried
there, and no one else, and in spite of all the other things we've
neglected, we've kept that as it should be kept; and it's so peaceful and
pretty--always shady in summer, when it's hot, and sheltered in winter,
when it's cold! I thought you could take a blanket and a book, and sit
and read while I worked. Afterwards we can walk over to your house if you
like--you may want to give me some final directions about the work that's
to be done there while you're gone."

"I'd love to go to the cemetery--or anywhere else, for that matter--with
you," said Sylvia, "and afterwards--to _our_ house. Perhaps you'll want
to give some directions yourself!"

The tiny graveyard lay in the hollow of one of the wooded slopes which
broke the great, undulating meadow which stretched from the Homestead to
the river, a wall made of the stones picked up on the place around it, a
plain granite shaft erected by the first Gray in the centre, and grouped
about the shaft the quaint tablets of the century before, with
old-fashioned names spelled in an old-fashioned manner, and with homely
rhymes and trite sayings underneath; farther off, the newer gravestones,
more ornate and less appealing. The elms were just beginning to bud, and
the cold April wind whistled through them, but the pines were as green
and sheltering as always, and Sylvia spread her blanket under one of
them, and worked away at the sewing she had brought instead of a book,
while Austin burned the grass and dug and pruned, whistling under his
breath all the time. He stopped once to call her attention to a robin,
the first they had seen that spring, and finally, when the sacred little
place was in perfect order, came with a handful of trailing arbutus for
her, and sat down beside her.

"I thought I remembered seeing some of this on the bank," he said; "it's
always grown there--will you take it for your 'bouquet des fiançailles,'
Sylvia? I remember how surprised we all were last year because you liked
the little wild flowers best, and went around searching for them, when
your rooms were full of carnations and hothouse roses. And because you
used to go out to walk, just to see the sunsets. Do you still love
sunsets, too?"

"Yes, more than ever. In the fall while you were gone, I used to go down
to the river nearly every afternoon, and watch the color spread over the
fields. There's something about a sunset in the late autumn that's unlike
those at any other time of year--have you ever noticed? It's not rosy,
but a deep, deep golden yellow--spreading over the dull, bare earth like
the glory from the diadem of a saint--one of those gray Fathers of early
Italy, for instance."

"I know what you mean--but they seem to me more like the glory that comes
into any dull, bare life," said Austin,--"the kind of glory you've been
to me. It worries me to hear you say you want to go away to 'think
things over.' What is there to think over--if you're sure you care?"

"There are lots of details to a thing of this sort."

"A thing of what sort?"

"Oh, Austin, how stupid you are! A--a marriage, of course."

"I thought all that was necessary were two willing victims, a license,
and a parson."

"Well, there's a good deal more to it than that. Besides, your family
would surely guess if I stayed here. I want to keep it just to ourselves
for a little while."

"I see. It's all right, dear. Take all the time you want."

"What would you tell them, anyway?" she went on lightly,--"that I
proposed to you, and that you accepted me? Or, to be more exact, that you
didn't accept me, but said, 'No, no, no!' most decidedly, and went on
repeating it, with variations, until I threw myself into your arms? It
was an awful blow to my pride--considering that heretofore I've certainly
had my fair share of attention, and even a little more than that--to have
to do _all_ the love-making, and I'm certainly not going to go brag about
it--' This time the conversation really did get interrupted, for Austin
would not for one instant submit to such a "garbling of statistics" and
took the quickest means in his power to put an end to it."

He had the wisdom, however, greater, perhaps, than might have been
expected, not to oppose any of her wishes just then, and it was Sylvia
herself who at the last minute felt her heart beginning to fail her, and
called him to the farther end of the station platform, on the pretext of
consulting him about some baggage.

"I don't see how I can say good-bye--in just an ordinary way," she
whispered, "and I'm beginning to miss you dreadfully already. If I can't
stand it, away from you, you must arrange to come down for at least a
day or two."

It was beginning to sprinkle, and, taking her umbrella, he opened it and
handed it to her, leaning forward and kissing her as soon as she was
hidden by it.

"I never meant to say good-bye 'in an ordinary way,'" he said cheerfully,
"whatever your intentions were! And, of course, I'll manage to come 

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