The CopyCat Other Stories.............................................................................................................................1

Mary E. Wilkins Freeman ........................................................................................................................1

THE COPYCAT ....................................................................................................................................1

THE COCK OF THE WALK ................................................................................................................15

JOHNNYINTHEWOODS..............................................................................................................23

DANIEL AND LITTLE DAN'L ............................................................................................................35

BIG SISTER SOLLY............................................................................................................................44

LITTLE LUCY ROSE ...........................................................................................................................58

NOBLESSE...........................................................................................................................................68

CORONATION.....................................................................................................................................75

THE AMETHYST COMB....................................................................................................................86

THE UMBRELLA MAN......................................................................................................................96

THE BALKING OF CHRISTOPHER................................................................................................107

DEAR ANNIE.....................................................................................................................................117

THAT affair of Jim Simmons's cats never became known. Two little boys and a little girl can keep a secret

that is, sometimes. The two little boys had the advantage of the little girl because they could talk over the

affair together, and the little girl, Lily Jennings, had no intimate girl friend to tempt her to confidence. She

had only little Amelia Wheeler, commonly called by the pupils of Madame's school "The CopyCat."

Amelia was an odd little girl that is, everybody called her odd. She was that rather unusual crea ture, a

child with a definite ideal; and that ideal was Lily Jennings. However, nobody knew that. If Amelia's mother,

who was a woman of strong charac ter, had suspected, she would have taken strenuous measures to prevent

such a peculiar state of affairs; the more so because she herself did not in the least approve of Lily Jennings.

Mrs. Diantha Wheeler (Amelia's father had died when she was a baby) often remarked to her own mother,

Mrs. Stark, and to her motherinlaw, Mrs. Samuel Wheeler, that she did not feel that Mrs. Jennings was

bringing up Lily exactly as she should. "That child thinks entirely too much of her looks," said Mrs. Diantha.

"When she walks past here she switches those ridiculous frilled frocks of hers as if she were entering a ball

room, and she tosses her head and looks about to see if anybody is watching her. If I were to see Amelia

"Lily Jennings is a very pretty child," said Motherinlaw Wheeler, with an undermeaning, and Mrs.

Diantha flushed. Amelia did not in the least resemble the Wheelers, who were a handsome set. She looked

remarkably like her mother, who was a plain woman, only little Amelia did not have a square chin. Her chin

was pretty and round, with a little dimple in it. In fact, Amelia's chin was the pretti est feature she had. Her

hair was phenomenally straight. It would not even yield to hot curling irons, which her grandmother

Wheeler had tried sur reptitiously several times when there was a little girls' party. "I never saw such hair as

that poor child has in all my life," she told the other grand mother, Mrs. Stark. "Have the Starks always had

Mrs. Stark stiffened her chin. Her own hair was very straight. "I don't know," said she, "that the Starks have

had any straighter hair than other people. If Amelia does not have anything worse to contend with than

straight hair I rather think she will get along in the world as well as most people."

"It's thin, too," said Grandmother Wheeler, with a sigh, "and it hasn't a mite of color. Oh, well, Amelia is a

good child, and beauty isn't everything." Grandmother Wheeler said that as if beauty were a great deal, and

Grandmother Stark arose and shook out her black silk skirts. She had money, and loved to dress in rich black

"It is very little, very little indeed," said she, and she eyed Grandmother Wheeler's lovely old face, like a

wrinkled old rose as to color, faultless as to feature, and swept about by the loveliest waves of shining silver

Then she went out of the room, and Grandmother Wheeler, left alone, smiled. She knew the worth of beauty

for those who possess it and those who do not. She had never been quite reconciled to her son's marrying

such a plain girl as Diantha Stark, although she had money. She considered beauty on the whole as a more

valuable asset than mere gold. She regretted always that poor little Amelia, her only grandchild, was so very

plainlooking. She always knew that Amelia was very plain, and yet sometimes the child puzzled her. She

seemed to see reflections of beauty, if not beauty itself, in the little colorless face, in the figure, with its

toolarge joints and utter absence of curves. She sometimes even wondered privately if some subtle

resemblance to the handsome Wheelers might not be in the child and yet appear. But she was mistaken. What

Little Amelia tried to stand like Lily Jennings; she tried to walk like her; she tried to smile like her; she made

endeavors, very often futile, to dress like her. Mrs. Wheeler did not in the least approve of furbelows for

children. Poor little Amelia went clad in severe simplicity; durable woolen frocks in winter, and washable,

unfadable, and nonsoilshow ing frocks in summer. She, although her mother had perhaps more money

wherewith to dress her than had any of the other mothers, was the plainestclad little girl in school. Amelia,

moreover, never tore a frock, and, as she did not grow rapidly, one lasted several seasons. Lily Jennings was

destructive, although dainty. Her pretty clothes were renewed every year. Amelia was helpless before that

problem. For a little girl burning with aspirations to be and look like another little girl who was beautiful and

wore beautiful clothes, to be obliged to set forth for Madame's on a lovely spring morning, when thin attire

was in evidence, dressed in darkblueand whitechecked gingham, which she had worn for three

summers, and with sleeves which, even to childish eyes, were anachronisms, was a trial. Then to see Lily

flutter in a frock like a perfectly new white flower was torture; not because of jealousy Amelia was not

jealous; but she so admired the other little girl, and so loved her, and so wanted to be like her.

As for Lily, she hardly ever noticed Amelia. She was not aware that she herself was an object of adoration;

for she was a little girl who searched for admiration in the eyes of little boys rather than little girls, although

very innocently. She always glanced slyly at Johnny Trumbull when she wore a pretty new frock, to see if he

noticed. He never did, and she was sharp enough to know it. She was also child enough not to care a bit, but

to take a queer pleasure in the sensation of scorn which she felt in consequence. She would eye Johnny from

head to foot, his boy's clothing somewhat spotted, his bulging pockets, his always dusty shoes, and when he

twisted uneasily, not understanding why, she had a thrill of purely feminine delight. It was on one such occa

It was a lovely warm morning in May, and Lily was a darling to behold in a big hat with a wreath of blue

flowers, her hair tied with enormous blue silk bows, her short skirts frilled with eyelet embroidery, her

slender silk legs, her little white sandals. Ma dame's maid had not yet struck the Japanese gong, and all the

pupils were out on the lawn, Amelia, in her clean, ugly gingham and her serviceable brown sailor hat,

hovering near Lily, as usual, like a common, very plain butterfly near a particularly resplendent blossom. Lily

really noticed her. She spoke to her confidentially; she recognized her fully as another of her own sex, and

"Ain't boys ugly, anyway?" inquired Lily of Amelia, and a wonderful change came over Amelia. Her sallow

cheeks bloomed; her eyes showed blue glitters; her little skinny figure became instinct with nervous life. She

"Oh yes, oh yes," she agreed, in a voice like a quick flute obbligato. "Boys are ugly."

Johnny had heard every word. Suddenly he arose to action and knocked down Lee Westminster, and sat on

Johnny had no quarrel whatever with Lee. He grinned, but he sat still. Lee, the satupon, was a sharp little

"Will you give me a writingpad I lost mine, and mother said I couldn't have another for a week if I did

Lee lay still, and Johnny continued to sit upon his prostrate form. Both were out of sight of Madame's

"Always fighting," said Lily, with a fine crescendo of scorn. She lifted her chin high, and also her nose.

"Always fighting," said Amelia, and also lifted her chin and nose. Amelia was a born mimic. She actually

Then Lily did a wonderful thing. She doubled her soft little arm into an inviting loop for Amelia's little claw

"Come along, Amelia Wheeler," said she. "We don't want to stay near horrid, fighting boys. We will go by

And they went. Madame had a headache that morning, and the Japanese gong did not ring for fifteen minutes

longer. During that time Lily and Amelia sat together on a little rustic bench under a twinkling poplar, and

they talked, and a sort of miniature sunandsatellite relation was established between them, although neither

was aware of it. Lily, being on the whole a very normal little girl, and not disposed to even a full estimate of

herself as compared with others of her own sex, did not dream of Amelia's adoration, and Amelia, being

rarely destitute of selfconsciousness, did not understand the whole scope of her own sentiments. It was quite

sufficient that she was seated close to this wonderful Lily, and agreeing with her to the verge of immo

"Of course," said Lily, "girls are pretty, and boys are just as ugly as they can be."

"But," said Lily, thoughtfully, "it is queer how Johnny Trumbull always comes out ahead in a fight, and he is

"Yes," said Amelia, but she realized a pang of jealousy. "Girls could fight, I suppose," said she.

"I shouldn't care," said Amelia. Then she added, with a little toss, "I almost know I could fight." The thought

even floated through her wicked little mind that fighting might be a method of wearing out obnoxious and

"Of course you couldn't, and if you could, what a sight you'd be. Of course it wouldn't hurt your clothes as

much as some, because your mother dresses you in strong things, but you'd be sure to get black and blue, and

"Then what is the use? We are a good deal prettier than boys, and cleaner, and have nicer manners, and we

"You are prettier," said Amelia, with a look of worshipful admiration at Lily's sweet little face.

"You are prettier," said Lily. Then she added, equivocally, "Even the very homeliest girl is prettier than a

Poor Amelia, it was a good deal for her to be called prettier than a very dusty boy in a fight. She fairly

dimpled with delight, and again she smiled charm ingly. Lily eyed her critically.

"You aren't so very homely, after all, Amelia," she said. "You needn't think you are."

"When you look like you do now you are real pretty," said Lily, not knowing or even suspecting the truth,

that she was regarding in the face of this little ardent soul her own, as in a mirror.

However, it was after that episode that Amelia Wheeler was called "CopyCat." The two little girls entered

Madame's select school arm in arm, when the musical gong sounded, and behind them came Lee Westminster

and Johnny Trumbull, sur reptitiously dusting their garments, and ever after the fact of Amelia's adoration

and imitation of Lily Jennings was evident to all. Even Madame became aware of it, and held conferences

"It is not at all healthy for one child to model herself so entirely upon the pattern of another," said Miss

"Why, that poor little Amelia Wheeler had the rudiments of a fairly good contralto. I had begun to wonder if

the poor child might not be able at least to sing a little, and so make up for other things; and now she tries

to sing high like Lily Jen nings, and I simply cannot prevent it. She has heard Lily play, too, and has lost her

"I might speak to her mother," said Madame, thoughtfully. Madame was American born, but she married a

French gentleman, long since deceased, and his name sounded well on her circulars. She and her two under

Miss Parmalee, who was a true lover of her pupils, gasped at Madame's proposition. "Whatever you do,

"I do not think it would be quite wise, if I may venture to express an opinion," said Miss Acton, who was a

"Her mother," said Miss Parmalee, "is a quite remarkable woman, with great strength of character, but she

"I must confess," said Madame, sipping her tea, "that I fail to understand it. Why any child not an absolute

idiot should so lose her own identity in an other's absolutely bewilders me. I never heard of such a case."

Miss Parmalee, who had a sense of humor, laughed a little. "It is bewildering," she admitted. "And now the

other children see how it is, and call her 'CopyCat' to her face, but she does not mind. I doubt if she

understands, and neither does Lily, for that matter. Lily Jennings is full of mischief, but she moves in straight

lines; she is not conceited or selfconscious, and she really likes Amelia, without knowing why."

"I fear Lily will lead Amelia into mischief," said Madame, "and Amelia has always been such a good child."

"If Lily goes, I cannot answer for Amelia's not following," admitted Miss Parmalee.

"I regret it all very much indeed," sighed Ma dame, "but it does seem to me still that Amelia's mother "

"Amelia's mother would not even believe it, in the first place," said Miss Parmalee.

"Well, there is something in that," admitted Ma dame. "I myself could not even imagine such a situation. I

"There is not the slightest use in telling Amelia not to imitate Lily, because she does not know that she is

imitating her," said Miss Parmalee. "If she were to be punished for it, she could never compre hend the

"That is true," said Miss Acton. "I realize that when the poor child squeaks instead of singing. All I could

think of this morning was a little mouse caught in a trap which she could not see. She does actually squeak!

and some of her low notes, al though, of course, she is only a child, and has never attempted much,

"She will have to squeak, for all I can see," said Miss Parmalee. "It looks to me like one of those situations

"I suppose you are right," said Madame, "but it is most unfortunate, and Mrs. Wheeler is such a superior

woman, and Amelia is her only child, and this is such a very subtle and regrettable affair. Well, we have to

"If," said Miss Parmalee, "she could only get angry when she is called 'CopyCat.'" Miss Parma lee

laughed, and so did Miss Acton. Then all the ladies had their cups refilled, and left Providence to look out for

poor little Amelia Wheeler, in her mad pursuit of her ideal in the shape of another little girl possessed of the

Meantime the little "CopyCat" had never been so happy. She began to improve in her looks also. Her

grandmother Wheeler noticed it first, and spoke of it to Grandmother Stark. "That child may not be so plain,

after all," said she. "I looked at her this morning when she started for school, and I thought for the first time

Grandmother Stark sniffed, but she looked grati fied. "I have been noticing it for some time," said she, "but

as for looking like the Wheelers, I thought this morning for a minute that I actually saw my poor dear

But even Mrs. Diantha began to notice the change for the better in Amelia. She, however, attributed it to an

increase of appetite and a system of deep breathing which she had herself taken up and en joined Amelia to

follow. Amelia was following Lily Jennings instead, but that her mother did not know. Still, she was gratified

to see Amelia's little sallow cheeks taking on pretty curves and a soft bloom, and she was more inclined to

listen when Grand mother Wheeler ventured to approach the subject of Amelia's attire.

"Amelia would not be so badlooking if she were better dressed, Diantha," said she.

Diantha lifted her chin, but she paid heed. "Why, does not Amelia dress perfectly well, mother?" she

"I do not approve of so many ribbons and ruffles," said Mrs. Diantha. "Amelia has perfectly neat, fresh black

"Ruffles are pretty," said Grandmother Wheeler, "and blue and pink are pretty colors. Now, that Jennings girl

But that last speech of Grandmother Wheeler's undid all the previous good. Mrs. Diantha had an

unacknowledged even to herself disapproval of Mrs. Jennings which dated far back in the past, for a

reason which was quite unworthy of her and of her strong mind. When she and Lily's mother had been girls,

she had seen Mrs. Jennings look like a picture, and had been perfectly well aware that she herself fell far

short of an artist's ideal. Perhaps if Mrs. Stark had believed in ruffles and ribbons, her daugh ter might have

As it was, Mrs. Diantha surveyed her small, pretty motherinlaw with dignified serenity, which savored

only delicately of a snub. "I do not myself approve of the way in which Mrs. Jennings dresses her daugh

ter," said she, "and I do not consider that the child presents to a practical observer as good an appear ance as

Grandmother Wheeler had a temper. It was a childish temper and soon over still, a temper. "Lord," said

she, "if you mean to say that you think your poor little snipe of a daughter, dressed like a little

maidofallwork, can compare with that lovely little Lily Jennings, who is dressed like a doll! "

"I do not wish that my daughter should be dressed like a doll," said Mrs. Diantha, coolly.

"Well, she certainly isn't," said Grandmother Wheeler. "Nobody would ever take her for a doll as far as looks

or dress are concerned. She may be GOOD enough. I don't deny that Amelia is a good little girl, but her looks

"They matter very much," said Grandmother Wheeler, pugnaciously, her blue eyes taking on a peculiar

opaque glint, as always when she lost her temper, "very much indeed. But looks can't be helped. If poor little

Amelia wasn't born with pretty looks, she wasn't. But she wasn't born with such ugly clothes. She might be

"I dress my daughter as I consider best," said Mrs. Diantha. Then she left the room.

Grandmother Wheeler sat for a few minutes, her blue eyes opaque, her little pink lips a straight line; then

suddenly her eyes lit, and she smiled. "Poor Diantha," said she, "I remember how Henry used to like Lily

Jennings's mother before he married Diantha. Sour grapes hang high." But Grand mother Wheeler's

beautiful old face was quite soft and gentle. From her heart she pitied the reacher after those highhanging

Then Grandmother Wheeler, who had a mild persistency not evident to a casual observer, began to make

plans and lay plots. She was resolved, Diantha or not, that her granddaughter, her son's child, should have

some fine feathers. The little conference had taken place in her own room, a large, sunny one, with a little

storeroom opening from it. Presently Grandmother Wheeler rose, entered the storeroom, and began

rummaging in some old trunks. Then followed days of secret work. Grandmother Wheeler had been noted as

a fine needlewoman, and her hand had not yet lost its cunning. She had one of Amelia's ugly little ginghams,

purloined from a closet, for size, and she worked two or three dainty wonders. She took Grandmother Stark

into her confidence. Sometimes the two ladies, by reason of their age, found it possible to combine with good

"Your daughter Diantha is one woman in a thou sand," said Grandmother Wheeler, diplomatically, one day,

"Diantha," returned Grandmother Stark, with a suspicious glance, "always realized that clothes were not the

"And, of course, she is right," said Grandmother Wheeler, piously. "Your Diantha is one woman in a

thousand. If she cared as much for fine clothes as some women, I don't know where we should all be. It

"Yes, it would," assented Grandmother Stark. "Nothing spoils a little girl more than always to be thinking

"Yes, I was looking at Amelia the other day, and thinking how much more sensible she appeared in her plain

gingham than Lily Jennings in all her ruffles and ribbons. Even if people were all notic ing Lily, and

praising her, thinks I to myself, 'How little difference such things really make. Even if our dear Amelia does

stand to one side, and nobody notices her, what real matter is it?'" Grandmother Wheeler was inwardly

Grandmother Stark was at once alert. "Do you mean to say that Amelia is really not taken so much notice of

"You don't mean that you don't know it, as ob servant as you are?" replied Grandmother Wheeler.

"Diantha ought not to let it go as far as that," said Grandmother Stark. Grandmother Wheeler looked at her

"Well, I did something I feared I ought not to have done. And I didn't know what to do, but your speaking so

Then Grandmother Wheeler went to her little storeroom and emerged bearing a box. She dis played the

"Yes, I did. I couldn't help it. I thought if the dear child never wore them, it would be some com fort to

Grandmother Wheeler laughed. She took her impe cuniosity easily. "I had to use what I had," said she.

"I will get a blue sash for that one," said Grand mother Stark, "and a pink sash for that, and a flow ered one

"Of course they will make all the difference," said Grandmother Wheeler. "Those beautiful sashes will really

"I will get them," said Grandmother Stark, with decision. "I will go right down to Mann Brothers' store now

"Then I will make the bows, and sew them on," replied Grandmother Wheeler, happily.

It thus happened that little Amelia Wheeler was possessed of three beautiful dresses, although she did not

For a long time neither of the two conspiring grandmothers dared divulge the secret. Mrs. Dian tha was a

very determined woman, and even her own mother stood somewhat in awe of her. There fore, little Amelia

went to school during the spring term soberly clad as ever, and even on the festive last day wore nothing

better than a new blue ging ham, made too long, to allow for shrinkage, and new blue hairribbons. The two

grandmothers almost wept in secret conclave over the lovely frocks which were not worn.

"I respect Diantha," said Grandmother Wheeler. "You know that. She is one woman in a thousand, but I do

hate to have that poor child go to school today with so many to look at her, and she dressed so unlike all the

"Diantha has got so much sense, it makes her blind and deaf," declared Grandmother Stark. "I call it a shame,

Grandmother Stark reddened. She did not like to own to awe of her daughter. "I VENTURE, if that is all,"

said she, tartly. "You don't suppose I am afraid of Diantha? but she would not let Amelia wear one of the

"Well, I will admit," replied Grandmother Wheel er, "if poor Amelia knew she had these beautiful dresses

and could not wear them she might feel worse about wearing that homely gingham."

"Gingham!" fairly snorted Grandmother Stark. "I cannot see why Diantha thinks so much of ging ham. It

Poor little Amelia did undoubtedly suffer on that last day, when she sat among the others gaily clad, and

looked down at her own common little skirts. She was very glad, however, that she had not been chosen to do

any of the special things which would have necessitated her appearance upon the little flowerdecorated

platform. She did not know of the conversation between Madame and her two as sistants.

"I would have Amelia recite a little verse or two," said Madame, "but how can I?" Madame adored dress, and

had a lovely new one of sheer dullblue stuff, with touches of silver, for the last day.

"Yes," agreed Miss Parmalee, "that poor child is sensitive, and for her to stand on the platform in one of those

"Then, too," said Miss Acton, "she would re cite her verses exactly like Lily Jennings. She can make her

voice exactly like Lily's now. Then every body would laugh, and Amelia would not know why. She would

If Amelia's mother could have heard that conver sation everything would have been different, al though it

It was the last of the summer vacation in early September, just before school began, that a climax came to

Amelia's idolatry and imitation of Lily. The Jenningses had not gone away that sum mer, so the two little

girls had been thrown together a good deal. Mrs. Diantha never went away during a summer. She considered

it her duty to remain at home, and she was quite pitiless to herself when it came to a matter of duty.

However, as a result she was quite ill during the last of August and the first of September. The sea son had

been unusually hot, and Mrs. Diantha had not spared herself from her duty on account of the heat. She would

have scorned herself if she had done so. But she could not, strongminded as she was, avert something like a

heat prostration after a long walk under a burning sun, nor weeks of confinement and idleness in her room

When September came, and a night or two of com parative coolness, she felt stronger; still she was

compelled by most unusual weakness to refrain from her energetic trot in her dutypath; and then it was that

One afternoon Lily fluttered over to Amelia's, and Amelia, ever on the watch, spied her.

"I declare," said Grandmother Stark to Grand mother Wheeler, "I was half a mind to tell that child to wait a

minute and slip on one of those pretty dresses. I hate to have her go on the street in that old gingham, with

Grandmother Stark looked at Grandmother Wheeler. Of the two she possessed a greater share of original sin

compared with the size of her soul. Moreover, she felt herself at liberty to circumvent her own daughter.

Whispering, she unfolded a dar ing scheme to the other grandmother, who stared at her aghast a second out

"I rather think I dare!" said Grandmother Stark. "Isn't Diantha Wheeler my own daughter?" Grand mother

Meantime Lily and Amelia walked down the street until they came to a certain vacant lot inter sected by a

footpath between tall, feathery grasses and goldenrod and asters and milkweed. They en tered the

footpath, and swarms of little butterflies rose around them, and once in a while a protesting bumblebee.

When the footpath ended, there was the river bank. The two little girls sat down under a clump of brook

willows and talked, while the river, full of green and blue and golden lights, slipped past them and never

Then Lily proceeded to unfold a plan, which was not philosophical, but naughtily ingenious. By this time

Lily knew very well that Amelia admired her, and imitated her as successfully as possible, consid ering the

When she had finished Amelia was quite pale. "I am afraid, I am afraid, Lily," said she.

"Well, then you haven't any reason to think it is," said Lily, triumphantly. "And how is your mother ever

"Isn't she ill in her room? And does she ever come to kiss you good night, the way my mother does, when she

"Grandmother Stark would think it was silly, like mother, and Grandmother Wheeler can't go up and down

"I can't see but you are perfectly safe. I am the only one that runs any risk at all. I run a great deal of risk, but

I am willing to take it," said Lily with a virtuous air. Lily had a small but rather involved scheme simply for

her own ends, which did not seem to call for much virtue, but rather the contrary.

Lily had overheard Arnold Carruth and Johnny Trumbull and Lee Westminster and another boy, Jim

Patterson, planning a most delightful affair, which even in the cases of the boys was fraught with danger,

secrecy, and doubtful rectitude. Not one of the four boys had had a vacation from the village that summer,

and their young minds had become charged, as it were, with the seeds of revolution and rebellion. Jim

Patterson, the son of the rector, and of them all the most venturesome, had planned to take he called it

"take"; he meant to pay for it, anyway, he said, as soon as he could shake enough money out of his nickel

savingsbank one of his father's Plymouth Rock chickens and have a chicken roast in the woods back of

Dr. Trumbull's. He had planned for Johnny to take some ears of corn suitable for roasting from his father's

garden; for Lee to take some cookies out of a stone jar in his mother's pantry; and for Arnold to take some

pota toes. Then they four would steal forth under cover of night, build a campfire, roast their spoils, and

Lily had resolved to be of the party. She resorted to no open methods; the stones of the fighting suf fragettes

were not for her, little honeysweet, curled, and ruffled darling; rather the timeworn, if not timesanctified,

weapons of her sex, little instruments of wiles, and tiny dodges, and tiny subterfuges, which would serve her

"You know," she said to Amelia, "you don't look like me. Of course you know that, and that can't be helped;

but you do walk like me, and talk like me, you know that, because they call you 'Copy Cat.'"

"I don't mind if they do call you 'CopyCat,'" said Lily, magnanimously. "I don't mind a bit. But, you see, my

mother always comes upstairs to kiss me good night after I have gone to bed, and to morrow night she has

a dinnerparty, and she will surely be a little late, and I can't manage unless you help me. I will get one of my

white dresses for you, and all you have to do is to climb out of your window into that cedartree you

know you can climb down that, because you are so afraid of burglars climbing up and you can slip on my

dress; you had better throw it out of the window and not try to climb in it, because my dresses tear awful

easy, and we might get caught that way. Then you just sneak down to our house, and I shall be outdoors; and

when you go upstairs, if the doors should be open, and any body should call, you can answer just like me;

and I have found that light curly wig Aunt Laura wore when she had her head shaved after she had a fever,

and you just put that on and go to bed, and mother will never know when she kisses you good night. Then

after the roast I will go to your house, and climb up that tree, and go to bed in your room. And I will have one

of your gingham dresses to wear, and very early in the morning I will get up, and you get up, and we both of

Amelia was almost weeping. It was her worshiped Lily's plan, but she was horribly scared. "I don't know,"

"Don't know! You've got to! You don't love me one single bit or you wouldn't stop to think about whether

you didn't know." It was the worldold argument which floors love. Amelia succumbed.

The next evening a frightened little girl clad in one of Lily Jennings's white embroidered frocks was racing to

the Jenningses' house, and another little girl, not at all frightened, but enjoying the stimulus of mischief and

unwontedness, was racing to the wood behind Dr. Trumbull's house, and that little girl was clad in one of

Lily waited, snuggled up behind an alderbush, and the boys came, one by one, and she heard this whispered,

although there was no necessity for whis pering, "Jim Patterson, where's that hen?"

"Couldn't get her. Grabbed her, and all her tail feathers came out in a bunch right in my hand, and she

squawked so, father heard. He was in his study writing his sermon, and he came out, and if I hadn't hid

behind the chickencoop and then run I couldn't have got here. But I can't see as you've got any corn, Johnny

"I couldn't bring any cookies, either," said Lee Westminster; "there weren't any cookies in the jar."

"And I couldn't bring the potatoes, because the outside cellar door was locked," said Arnold Car ruth. "I had

to go down the back stairs and out the south door, and the inside cellar door opens out of our diningroom,

"Then we might as well go home," said Johnny Trumbull. "If I had been you, Jim Patterson, I would have

brought that old hen if her tailfeathers had come out. Seems to me you scare awful easy."

"Guess if you had heard her squawk!" said Jim, resentfully. "If you want to try to lick me, come on, Johnny

Johnny eyed him standing there in the gloom. Jim was not large, but very wiry, and the ground was not suited

for combat. Johnny, although a victor, would probably go home considerably the worse in appearance; and he

"Shucks!" said Johnny Trumbull, of the fine old Trumbull family and Madame's exclusive school. "Shucks!

Lily stepped forth from the alderbush. "If," said she, "I were a boy, and had started to have a chickenroast,

But every boy, even the valiant Johnny Trum bull, was gone in a mad scutter. This sudden appari tion of a

girl was too much for their nerves. They never even knew who the girl was, although little Arnold Carruth

Lily Jennings made the best of her way out of the wood across lots to the road. She was not in a par ticularly

enviable case. Amelia Wheeler was pre sumably in her bed, and she saw nothing for it but to take the

Lily tore a great rent in the gingham going up the cedartree, but that was nothing to what followed. She

entered through Amelia's window, her prim little room, to find herself confronted by Amelia's mother in a

wrapper, and her two grandmothers. Grandmother Stark had over her arm a beautiful white embroidered

dress. The two old ladies had entered the room in order to lay the white dress on a chair and take away

Amelia's gingham, and there was no Amelia. Mrs. Diantha had heard the com motion, and had risen, thrown

"We don't know," said Grandmother Stark, "but you have probably driven her away from home by your

"Yes, cruelty. What right had you to make that poor child look like a fright, so people laughed at her? We

have made her some dresses that look decent, and had come here to leave them, and to take away those old

gingham things that look as if she lived in the almshouse, and leave these, so she would either have to wear

"Here she is now," shrieked Grandmother Stark. "Amelia, where " Then she stopped short.

Everybody stared at Lily's beautiful face suddenly gone white. For once Lily was frightened. She lost all

selfcontrol. She began to sob. She could scarce ly tell the absurd story for sobs, but she told, every word.

Then, with a sudden boldness, she too turned on Mrs. Diantha. "They call poor Amelia 'Copy Cat,'" said

she, "and I don't believe she would ever have tried so hard to look like me only my mother dresses me so I

look nice, and you send Amelia to school looking awfully." Then Lily sobbed again.

"My Amelia is at your house, as I understand?" said Mrs. Diantha, in an awful voice.

"Let me go," said Mrs. Diantha, violently, to Grandmother Stark, who tried to restrain her. Mrs. Diantha

dressed herself and marched down the street, dragging Lily after her. The little girl had to trot to keep up with

It was to Lily's mother's everlasting discredit, in Mrs. Diantha's opinion, but to Lily's wonderful re lief, that

when she heard the story, standing in the hall in her lovely dinner dress, with the strains of music floating

from the drawingroom, and cigar smoke floating from the diningroom, she laughed. When Lily said, "And

"If you think this is a laughing matter, Mrs. Jen nings, I do not," said Mrs. Diantha, and again her dislike

and sorrow at the sight of that sweet, mirth ful face was over her. It was a face to be loved, and hers was not.

"Why, I went upstairs and kissed the child good night, and never suspected," laughed Lily's mother.

"I got Aunt Laura's curly, light wig for her," ex plained Lily, and Mrs. Jennings laughed again.

It was not long before Amelia, in her gingham, went home, led by her mother her mother, who was

trembling with weakness now. Mrs. Diantha did not scold. She did not speak, but Amelia felt with wonder

When at last she was undressed and in bed, Mrs. Diantha, looking very pale, kissed her, and so did both

Amelia, being very young and very tired, went to sleep. She did not know that that night was to mark a sharp

turn in her whole life. Thereafter she went to school "dressed like the best," and her mother petted her as

It was not so very long afterward that Amelia, out of her own improvement in appearance, devel oped a

One day Lily wore a white frock with blue rib bons, and Amelia wore one with coral pink. It was a

"I told you I was going to wear blue ribbons," Lily whispered to Amelia. Amelia smiled lovingly back at her.

DOWN the road, kicking up the dust until he marched, soldierwise, in a cloud of it, that rose and grimed his

moist face and added to the heavy, brown powder upon the wayside weeds and flowers, whistling a queer,

tuneless thing, which yet contained definite sequences the whistle of a bird rather than a boy

approached Johnny Trumbull, aged ten, small of his age, but accounted by his mates mighty.

Johnny came of the best and oldest family in the village, but it was in some respects an undesirable family for

a boy. In it survived, as fossils survive in ancient nooks and crannies of the earth, old traits of race,

unchanged by time and environment. Liv ing in a house lighted by electricity, the mental con ception of it

was to the Trumbulls as the conception of candles; with telephones at hand, they uncon sciously still

conceived of messages delivered with the old saying, "Ride, ride," etc., and relays of posthorses. They

locked their doors, but still had latchstrings in mind. Johnny's father was a phy sician, adopting modern

methods of surgery and pre scription, yet his mind harked back to cupping and calomel, and now and then

he swerved aside from his path across the field of the present into the future and plunged headlong, as if for

Johnny's mother was a college graduate. She was the president of the woman's club. She read papers savoring

of such feminine leaps ahead that they were like gymnastics, but she walked homeward with the gait of her

greatgrandmother, and inwardly regarded her husband as her lord and master. She minced genteelly, lifting

her quite fashionable skirts high above very slender ankles, which were heredi tary. Not a woman of her

race had ever gone home on thick ankles, and they had all gone home. They had all been at home, even if

abroad at home in the truest sense. At the club, reading her inflam matory paper, Cora Trumbull's real

self remained at home intent upon her mending, her dusting, her house economics. It was something

As for her unmarried sister Janet, who was older and had graduated from a young ladies' seminary instead of

a college, whose early fancy had been guided into the ladylike ways of antimacassars and pincushions and

wax flowers under glass shades, she was a straighter proposition. No astral pre tensions had Janet. She

stayed, body and soul to gether, in the old ways, and did not even project her shadow out of them. There is

seldom room enough for one's shadow in one's earliest way of life, but there was plenty for Janet's. There had

been a Janet unmarried in every Trumbull family for generations. That in some subtle fashion ac counted for

her remaining single. There had also been an unmarried Jonathan Trumbull, and that accounted for Johnny's

old bachelor uncle Jonathan. Jonathan was a retired clergyman. He had retired before he had preached long,

because of doctrinal doubts, which were hereditary. He had a little, dark study in Johnny's father's house,

which was the old Trumbull homestead, and he passed much of his time there, debating within himself that

Presently Johnny, assiduously kicking up dust, met his uncle Jonathan, who passed without the slightest

notice. Johnny did not mind at all. He was used to it. Presently his own father appeared, driving along in his

buggy the bay mare at a steady jog, with the next professional call quite clearly upon her equine mind. And

Johnny's father did not see him. Johnny did not mind that, either. He expected nothing different.

Then Johnny saw his mother approaching. She was coming from the club meeting. She held up her silk skirts

high, as usual, and carried a nice little parcel of papers tied with ribbon. She also did not notice Johnny, who,

however, out of sweet respect for his mother's nice silk dress, stopped kicking up dust. Mrs. Trumbull on the

Johnny eyed his mother's faded but rather beau tiful face under the rosetrimmed bonnet with ad miration

and entire absence of resentment. Then he walked on and kicked up the dust again. He loved to kick up the

dust in summer, the fallen leaves in autumn, and the snow in winter. Johnny was not a typical Trumbull.

None of them had ever cared for simple amusements like that. Looking back for generations on his father's

and mother's side (both had been Trumbulls, but very distantly related), none could be discovered who in the

least resembled Johnny. No dim blue eye of retrospection and re flection had Johnny; no tendency to tall

slender ness which would later bow beneath the greater weight of the soul. Johnny was small, but wiry of

build, and looked able to bear any amount of men tal development without a lasting bend of his physi cal

shoulders. Johnny had, at the early age of ten, whopped nearly every boy in school, but that was a secret of

honor. It was well known in the school that, once the Trumbulls heard of it, Johnny could never whop again.

"You fellows know," Johnny had declared once, standing over his prostrate and whimpering foe, "that I don't

mind getting whopped at home, but they might send me away to another school, and then I could never whop

Johnny Trumbull kicking up the dust, himself dustcovered, his shoes, his little queerly fitting dun suit, his

cropped head, all thickly powdered, loved it. He sniffed in that dust like a grateful incense. He did not stop

dustkicking when he saw his aunt Janet coming, for, as he considered, her old black gown was not worth the

sacrifice. It was true that she might see him. She sometimes did, if she were not reading a book as she

walked. It had always been a habit with the Janet Trumbulls to read im proving books when they walked

abroad. Today Johnny saw, with a quick glance of those sharp, black eyes, so unlike the Trumbulls', that his

aunt Janet was reading. He therefore expected her to pass him without recognition, and marched on kick ing

up the dust. But suddenly, as he grew nearer the spry little figure, he was aware of a pair of gray eyes, before

which waved protectingly a hand clad in a black silk glove with dangling fingertips, be cause it was too

long, and it dawned swiftly upon him that Aunt Janet was trying to shield her face from the moving column

of brown motes. He stopped kicking, but it was too late. Aunt Janet had him by the collar and was vigorously

"You are a very naughty little boy," declared Aunt Janet. "You should know better than to walk along the

street raising so much dust. No well broughtup child ever does such things. Who are your parents, little

Johnny perceived that Aunt Janet did not recog nize him, which was easily explained. She wore her

readingspectacles and not her farseeing ones; besides, her reading spectacles were obscured by dust and

her nephew's face was nearly obliterated. Also as she shook him his face was not much in evi dence. Johnny

disliked, naturally, to tell his aunt Janet that her own sister and brotherinlaw were the parents of such a

wicked little boy. He there fore kept quiet and submitted to the shaking, mak ing himself as limp as a rag.

This, however, exas perated Aunt Janet, who found herself encumbered by a dead weight of a little boy to

be shaken, and suddenly Johnny Trumbull, the fighting champion of the town, the cock of the walk of the

school, found himself being ignominiously spanked. That was too much. Johnny's fighting blood was up. He

lost all consideration for circumstances, he for got that Aunt Janet was not a boy, that she was quite near

being an old lady. She had overstepped the bounds of privilege of age and sex, and an alarming state of

equality ensued. Quickly the tables were turned. The boy became far from limp. He stiff ened, then bounded

and rebounded like wire. He butted, he parried, he observed all his famous tac tics of battle, and poor Aunt

Janet sat down in the dust, black dress, bonnet, glasses (but the glasses were off and lost), little improving

book, black silk gloves, and all; and Johnny, hopeless, awful, irrev erent, sat upon his Aunt Janet's plunging

knees, which seemed the most lively part of her. He kept his face twisted away from her, but it was not from

cowardice. Johnny was afraid lest Aunt Janet should be too much overcome by the discovery of his identity.

He felt that it was his duty to spare her that. So he sat still, triumphant but inwardly aghast.

It was fast dawning upon him that his aunt was not a little boy. He was not afraid of any punish ment which

might be meted out to him, but he was simply horrified. He himself had violated all the honorable conditions

of warfare. He felt a little dizzy and ill, and he felt worse when he ventured a hurried glance at Aunt Janet's

face. She was very pale through the dust, and her eyes were closed. Johnny thought then that he had killed

He got up the nervous knees were no longer plunging; then he heard a voice, a littlegirl voice, always

shrill, but now high pitched to a squeak with terror. It was the voice of Lily Jennings. She stood near and yet

aloof, a lovely little flower of a girl, all whitescalloped frills and ribbons, with a big whitefrilled hat

shading a pale little face and. covering the top of a head decorated with wonder ful yellow curls. She stood

behind a big babycar riage with a pinklined muslin canopy and con taining a nest of pink and white, but

an empty nest. Lily's little brother's carriage had a spring broken, and she had been to borrow her aunt's

babycarriage, so that nurse could wheel little brother up and down the veranda. Nurse had a headache, and

the maids were busy, and Lily, who was a kind little soul and, moreover, imaginative, and who liked the idea

of pushing an empty babycarriage, had volunteered to go for it. All the way she had been dreaming of what

was not in the carriage. She had come directly out of a dream of doll twins when she chanced upon the

"What have you been doing now, Johnny Trum bull?" said she. She was tremulous, white with horror, but

she stood her ground. It was curious, but Johnny Trumbull, with all his bravery, was always cowed before

Lily. Once she had turned and stared at him when he had emerged triumphant but with bleeding nose from a

fight; then she had sniffed delicately and gone her way. It had only taken a second, but in that second the

He looked now at her pale, really scared face, and his own was as pale. He stood and kicked the dust until the

"That's right," said Lily; "stand and kick up dust all over me. WHAT have you been doing?"

"Have you killed your aunt?" demanded Lily. It was monstrous, but she had a very dramatic im agination,

"Guess she's just choked by dust," volunteered Johnny, hoarsely. He kicked the dust again.

"That's right," said Lily. "If she's choked to death by dust, stand there and choke her some more. You are a

murderer, Johnny Trumbull, and my mamma will never allow me to speak to you again, and Madame will

not allow you to come to school. AND I see your papa driving up the street, and there is the chief

policeman's buggy just behind." Lily acquiesced entirely in the extraordinary coincidence of the father and

the chief of police appearing upon the scene. The unlikely seemed to her the likely. "NOW," said she,

cheerfully, "you will be put in state prison and locked up, and then you will be put to death by a very strong

Johnny's father was leaning out of his buggy, look ing back at the chief of police in his, and the mare was

jogging very slowly in a perfect reek of dust. Lily, who was, in spite of her terrific imagination, human and a

girl, rose suddenly to heights of pity and succor. "They shall never take you, Johnny Trumbull," said she. "I

Johnny by this time was utterly forgetful of his high status as champion (behind her back) of Ma dame's

very select school for select children of a somewhat select village. He was forgetful of the fact that a

champion never cries. He cried; he blubbered; tears rolled over his dusty cheeks, mak ing furrows like

plowshares of grief. He feared lest he might have killed his aunt Janet. Women, and not very young women,

might presumably be un able to survive such rough usage as very tough and at the same time very limber

little boys, and he loved his poor aunt Janet. He grieved because of his aunt, his parents, his uncle, and rather

more particularly because of himself. He was quite sure that the policeman was coming for him. Logic had no

place in his frenzied conclusions. He did not consider how the tragedy had taken place entirely out of sight of

a house, that Lily Jennings was the only person who had any knowledge of it. He looked at the masterful,

For answer, Lily pointed to the empty babycar riage. "Get right in," she ordered.

"Yes, you can. It is extra large. Aunt Laura's baby was a twin when he first came; now he's just an ordinary

baby, but his carriage is big enough for two. There's plenty of room. Besides, you're a very small boy, very

small of your age, even if you do knock all the other boys down and have mur dered your aunt. Get in. In a

There was in reality no time to lose. Johnny did get in. In spite of the provisions for twins, there was none too

Lily covered him up with the fluffy pinkandlace things, and scowled. "You hump up awfully," she

muttered. Then she reached beneath him and snatched out the pillow on which he lay, the baby's little bed.

She gave it a swift toss over the fringe of wayside bushes into a field. "Aunt Laura's nice embroidered

Johnny obeyed, but he was obliged to double him self up like a jackknife. However, there was no sign of

him visible when the two buggies drew up. There stood a pale and frightened little girl, with a babycarriage

canopied with rose and lace and heaped up with rosy and lacy coverlets, presumably sheltering a sleeping

infant. Lily was a very keen little girl. She had sense enough not to run. The two men, at the sight of Aunt

Janet prostrate in the road, leaped out of their buggies. The doctor's horse stood still; the policeman's trotted

away, to Lily's great relief. She could not imagine Johnny's own father haling him away to state prison and

the stern Arm of Justice. She stood the fire of bewildered questions in the best and safest fashion. She wept

bitterly, and her tears were not assumed. Poor little Lily was all of a sudden crushed under the weight of facts.

There was Aunt Janet, she had no doubt, killed by her own nephew, and she was hiding the guilty murderer.

She had visions of state prison for herself. She watched fearfully while the two men bent over the prostrate

"What on earth is the matter, Janet?" inquired Dr. Trumbull, who was paler than his sisterin law. In fact,

"Ow!" sputtered Aunt Janet, coughing violently, "get me up out of this dust, John. Ow!"

"Nothing," replied Aunt Janet, to Lily's and Johnny's amazement. "What do you think has happened? I fell

"What did you eat for luncheon, Janet?" in quired Dr. Trumbull, as he assisted his sisterin law to her feet.

"What I was a fool to eat," replied Janet Trum bull, promptly. "Cucumber salad and lemon jelly with

"Enough to make anybody have indigestion," said Dr. Trumbull. "You have had one of these attacks before,

Janet nodded meekly. Then she coughed again. "Ow, this dust!" gasped she. "For goodness' sake, John, get

me home where I can get some water and take off these dusty clothes or I shall choke to death."

"Stomach is all right now, but I am just choking to death with the dust." Janet turned sharply tow ard the

policeman. "You have sense enough to keep still, I hope," said she. "I don't want the whole town ringing with

my being such an idiot as to eat cucumbers and cream together and being found this way." Janet looked like

He and Dr. Trumbull assisted Aunt Janet into the buggy, and they drove off. Then the chief of police

discovered that his own horse had gone. "Did you see which way he went, sis?" he inquired of Lily, and she

The policeman said something bad under his breath, then advised Lily to run home to her rna, and started

When he was out of sight, Lily drew back the pinkandwhite things from Johnny's face. "Well, you didn't

"How do I know? I suppose she was ashamed to tell how she had been fighting, maybe."

He was out of the carriage then, and Lily was readjusting the pillows and things. "Get that nice embroidered

pillow I threw over the bushes," she ordered, crossly. Johnny obeyed. When she had finished putting the

babycarriage to rights she turned upon poor little Johnny Trumbull, and her face wore the expression of a

queen of tragedy. "Well," said Lily Jennings, "I suppose I shall have to marry you when I am grown up, after

Johnny gasped. He thought Lily the most beau tiful girl he knew, but to be confronted with murder and

marriage within a few minutes was almost too much. He flushed a burning red. He laughed fool ishly. He

"It will be very hard on me," stated Lily, "to marry a boy who tried to murder his nice aunt."

Johnny revived a bit under this feminine disdain. "I didn't try to murder her," he said in a weak voice.

"You might have, throwing her down in all that awful dust, a nice, clean lady. Ladies are not like boys. It

"Why shouldn't a boy be spanked when he's naughty, just as well as a girl, I would like to know?"

Lily looked at Johnny Trumbull. The great fact did remain. He had been spanked, he had thrown his own aunt

down in the dust. He had taken ad vantage of her littlegirl protection, but he was a boy. Lily did not

understand his why at all, but she bowed before it. However, that she would not admit. She made a rapid

"If," said Lily, distinctly, "you are afraid to go home, if you think your aunt will tell, I will let you get into

Johnny would have liked at that moment to knock Lily down, as he had his aunt Janet. Lily looked at him

shrewdly. "Oh yes," said she, "you can knock me down in the dust there if you want to, and spoil my nice

A gleam of respect came into the little girl's wisely regarding blue eyes. She, with the swiftness of her sex,

recognized in forlorn little Johnny the making of a man. "Oh, well," said she, loftily, "I never was a telltale,

and, anyway, we are not grown up, and there will be my trousseau to get, and a lot of other things to do first. I

shall go to Europe before I am married, too, and I might meet a boy much nicer than you on the steamer."

Lily looked at Johnny Trumbull with more than respect with admiration but she kept guard over her

little tongue. "Well, you can leave that for the future," said she with a grownup air.

To his immense surprise, Lily curved her white embroidered sleeve over her face and began to weep.

Lily looked like nothing but a very frilly, sweet, white flower. Johnny could not see her face. There was

nothing to be seen except that delicate fluff of white, supported on dainty whitesocked, white slippered

"Say," said Johnny, "maybe if I don't see any other girl I like better I will marry you when I am grown up, but

Lily stopped immediately. She peeped at him, a blue peep from under the flopping, embroidered brim of her

hat. "Are you in earnest?" She smiled faintly. Her blue eyes, wet with tears, were lovely; so was her

"Yes, if you don't act silly," said Johnny. "Now you had better run home, or your mother will won der where

Lily walked away, smiling over her shoulder, the smile of the happily subjugated. "I won't tell any body,

"Don't care if you do," returned Johnny, looking at her with chin in the air and shoulders square, and Lily

But Johnny was not so brave and he did care. He knew that his best course was an immediate return home,

but he did not know what he might have to face. He could not in the least understand why his aunt Janet had

not told at once. He was sure that she knew. Then he thought of a possible reason for her silence; she might

have feared his arrest at the hands of the chief of police. Johnny quailed. He knew his aunt Janet to be rather a

brave sort of woman. If she had fears, she must have had reason for them. He might even now be arrested.

Suppose Lily did tell. He had a theory that girls usually told. He began to speculate concerning the horrors of

prison. Of course he would not be executed, since his aunt was obviously very far from being killed, but he

Johnny went home. He did not kick the dust any more. He walked very steadily and staidly. When he came in

sight of the old Colonial mansion, with its massive veranda pillars, he felt chilly. How ever, he went on. He

passed around to the south door and entered and smelled shortcake. It would have smelled delicious had he

not had so much on his mind. He looked through the hall, and had a glimpse of his uncle Jonathan in the

study, writing. At the right of the door was his father's office. The door of that was open, and Johnny saw his

father pouring things from bottles. He did not look at Johnny. His mother crossed the hall. She had on a long

white apron, which she wore when making her famous cream shortcakes. She saw Johnny, but merely

Johnny went upstairs. At the upper landing he found his aunt Janet waiting for him. "Come here," she

whispered, and Johnny followed her, trembling, into her own room. It was a large room, rather crowded with

heavy, oldfashioned furni ture. Aunt Janet had freed herself from dust and was arrayed in a purple silk

gown. Her hair was looped loosely on either side of her long face. She was a handsome woman, after a

"Stand here, Johnny," said she. She had closed the door, and Johnny was stationed before her. She did not

seem in the least injured nor the worse for her experience. On the contrary, there was a brightred flush on

her cheeks, and her eyes shone as Johnny had never seen them. She looked eagerly at Johnny.

"Tell me," said Aunt Janet. "No, you need not tell me, because if you did it might be my duty to inform your

parents. I know there is no need of your telling. You MUST be in the habit of fighting with the other boys."

To Johnny's wild astonishment, Aunt Janet seized him by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes with a

look of adoration and immense approval. "Thank goodness," said she, "at last there is going to be a fighter in

the Trumbull family. Your uncle would never fight, and your father would not. Your grandfather would.

Your uncle and your father are good men, though; you must try to be like them, Johnny."

"I think they would be called better men than your grandfather and my father," said Aunt Janet.

"I think it is time for you to have your grand father's watch," said Aunt Janet. "I think you are man enough

to take care of it." Aunt Janet had all the time been holding a black leather case. Now she opened it, and

Johnny saw the great gold watch which he had seen many times before and had always understood was to be

his some day, when he was a man. "Here," said Aunt Janet. "Take good care of it. You must try to be as good

as your uncle and father, but you must remember one thing you will wear a watch which belonged to a

"That's right. I thought you had forgotten your manners. Your grandfather never did."

"You need never say anything about that," his aunt returned, quickly. "I did not see who you were at first.

You are too old to be spanked by a woman, but you ought to be whipped by a man, and I wish your

"Yes, ma'am," said Johnny. He looked at her bravely. "He could if he wanted to," said he.

Aunt Janet smiled at him proudly. "Of course," said she, "a boy like you never gets the worst of it fighting

Aunt Janet smiled again. "Now run and wash your face and hands," said she; "you must not keep supper

waiting. Your mother has a paper to write for her club, and I have promised to help her."

"Yes, ma'am," said Johnny. He walked out, carrying the great gold timepiece, bewildered, em barrassed,

modest beneath his honors, but little cock of the walk, whether he would or no, for reasons entirely and

JOHNNY TRUMBULL, he who had demon strated his claim to be Cock of the Walk by a most impious

handtohand fight with his own aunt, Miss Janet Trumbull, in which he had been deci sively victorious,

and won his spurs, consisting of his late grandfather's immense, solemnly ticking watch, was to take a new

path of action. Johnny suddenly developed the prominent Trumbull trait, but in his case it was inverted.

Johnny, as became a boy of his race, took an excursion into the past, but instead of applying the present to the

past, as was the tendency of the other Trumbulls, he forcibly applied the past to the present. He fairly

plastered the past over the exigencies of his day and generation like a penetrating poultice of mustard, and the

Johnny, being bidden of a rainy day during the midsummer vacation to remain in the house, to keep quiet,

read a book, and be a good boy, obeyed, but his obedience was of a doubtful measure of wisdom.

Johnny got a book out of his uncle Jonathan Trum bull's dark little library while Jonathan was walking

sedately to the postoffice, holding his dripping umbrella at a wonderful slant of exactness, without regard to

the wind, thereby getting the soft drive of the rain full in his face, which became, as it were, bedewed with

Johnny probably got the only book of an anti orthodox trend in his uncle's library. He found tucked away in

a snug corner an ancient collection of Border Ballads, and he read therein of many unmoral romances and

pretty fancies, which, since he was a small boy, held little meaning for him, or charm, beyond a delight in the

swing of the rhythm, for Johnny had a feeling for music. It was when he read of Robin Hood, the bold Robin

Hood, with his dubious ethics but his certain and unquenchable interest, that Johnny Trumbull became intent.

He had the volume in his own room, being somewhat doubtful as to whether it might be of the sort included

in the goodboy role. He sat beside a rain washed window, which commanded a view of the wide field

between the Trumbull mansion and Jim Simmons's house, and he read about Robin Hood and his Greenwood

adventures, his forcible setting the wrong right; and for the first time his imagina tion awoke, and his

ambition. Johnny Trumbull, hitherto hero of nothing except little material fist fights, wished now to become

In fact, Johnny considered seriously the possi bility of reincarnating, in his own person, Robin Hood. He

eyed the wide green field dreamily through his rainblurred window. It was a pretty field, waving with

feathery grasses and starred with daisies and buttercups, and it was very fortunate that it happened to be so

wide. Jim Simmons's house was not a desirable feature of the landscape, and looked much better several

acres away. It was a neglected, squalid structure, and considered a dis grace to the whole village. Jim was

also a disgrace, and an unsolved problem. He owned that house, and somehow contrived to pay the taxes

thereon. He also lived and throve in bodily health in spite of evil ways, and his children were many. There

seemed no way to dispose finally of Jim Simmons and his house except by murder and arson, and the village

Presently Johnny, staring dreamily out of his window, saw approaching a rustyblack umbrella held at

precisely the wrong angle in respect of the storm, but held with the unvarying stiffness with which a soldier

might hold a bayonet, and knew it for his uncle Jonathan's umbrella. Soon he beheld also his uncle's serious,

raindrenched face and his long ambling body and legs. Jonathan was coming home from the postoffice,

whither he repaired every morning. He never got a letter, never anything except religious newspapers, but the

visit to the postoffice was part of his daily routine. Rain or shine, Jonathan Trumbull went for the morning

mail, and gained thereby a queer negative enjoy ment of a perfectly useless duty performed. Johnny

watched his uncle draw near to the house, and cruelly reflected how unlike Robin Hood he must be. He even

wondered if his uncle could possibly have read Robin Hood and still show absolutely no result in his own

personal appearance. He knew that he, Johnny, could not walk to the postoffice and back, even with the

drawback of a dripping old umbrella instead of a bow and arrow, without looking a bit like Robin Hood,

Then suddenly something distracted his thoughts from Uncle Jonathan. The long, feathery grass in the field

moved with a motion distinct from that caused by the wind and rain. Johnny saw a tiger striped back

emerge, covering long leaps of terror. Johnny knew the creature for a cat afraid of Uncle Jonathan. Then he

saw the grass move behind the first leaping, striped back, and he knew there were more cats afraid of Uncle

Jonathan. There were even motions caused by unseen things, and he reasoned, "Kittens afraid of Uncle

Jonathan." Then Johnny reflected with a great glow of indigna tion that the Simmonses kept an outrageous

num ber of halfstarved cats and kittens, besides a quota of children popularly supposed to be none too well

nourished, let alone properly clothed. Then it was that Johnny Trumbull's active, firm imagination slapped the

past of old romance like a most thorough mustard poultice over the present. There could be no Lincoln

Green, no following of brave outlaws (that is, in the strictest sense), no bows and arrows, no sojourning under

greenwood trees and the rest, but something he could, and would, do and be. That rainy day when Johnny

Trumbull was a good boy, and stayed in the house, and read a book, marked an epoch.

That night when Johnny went into his aunt Janet's room she looked curiously at his face, which seemed a

little strange to her. Johnny, since he had come into possession of his grandfather's watch, went every night,

on his way to bed, to his aunt's room for the purpose of winding up that ancient timepiece, Janet having a

firm impression that it might not be done properly unless under her super vision. Johnny stood before his

"No, ma'am," replied Johnny, and with perfect truth. He had not the slightest idea of the title of the book.

"Poetry In Uncle Jonathan's library?" said Janet, in a mystified way. She had a general impression of

Jonathan's library as of centuryold preserves, altogether dried up and quite indistinguishable one from the

other except by labels. Poetry she could not imagine as being there at all. Finally she thought of the early

Victorians, and Spenser and Chaucer. The library might include them, but she had an idea that Spenser and

Chaucer were not fit reading for a little boy. However, as she remem bered Spenser and Chaucer, she

doubted if Johnny could understand much of them. Probably he had gotten hold of an early Victorian, and she

"I don't think much of a boy like you reading poetry," said Janet. "Couldn't you find anything else to read?"

"No, ma'am." That also was truth. Johnny, before exploring his uncle's theological library, had peered at his

father's old medical books and his mother's bookcases, which contained quite terrify ing uniform editions of

"I don't suppose there ARE many books written for boys," said Aunt Janet, reflectively.

"No, ma'am," said Johnny. He finished winding the watch, and gave, as was the custom, the key to Aunt

"I will see if I cannot find some books of travels for you, John," said Janet. "I think travels would be good

"Good night. Aunt Janet," replied Johnny. His aunt never kissed him good night, which was one reason why

On his way to bed he had to pass his mother's room, whose door stood open. She was busy writing at her

Johnny entered the room and let his mother kiss his forehead, parting his curly hair to do so. He loved his

mother, but did not care at all to have her kiss him. He did not object, because he thought she liked to do it,

and she was a woman, and it was a very little thing in which he could oblige her.

Cora laughed. " Poetry is odd for a boy," said she. "You should have read a book of travels or history. Good

Then Johnny met his father, smelling strongly of medicines, coming up from his study. But his father did not

see him. And Johnny went to bed, having imbibed from that old tale of Robin Hood more of history and more

knowledge of excursions into realms of old romance than his elders had ever known during much longer lives

Johnny confided in nobody at first. His feeling nearly led him astray in the matter of Lily Jennings; he

thought of her, for one sentimental minute, as Robin Hood's Maid Marion. Then he dismissed the idea

peremptorily. Lily Jennings would simply laugh. He knew her. Moreover, she was a girl, and not to be

trusted. Johnny felt the need of another boy who would be a kindred spirit; he wished for more than one boy.

He wished for a following of heroic and lawless souls, even as Robin Hood's. But he could think of nobody,

after con siderable study, except one boy, younger than him self. He was a beautiful little boy, whose

mother had never allowed him to have his golden curls cut, although he had been in trousers for quite a while.

However, the trousers were foolish, being knickerbockers, and accompanied by low socks, which revealed

pretty, dimpled, babyish legs. The boy's name was Arnold Carruth, and that was against him, as being long,

and his mother firm about al lowing no nickname. Nicknames in any case were not allowed in the very

Arnold Carruth, in spite of his being such a beau tiful little boy, would have had no standing at all in the

school as far as popularity was concerned had it not been for a strain of mischief which tri umphed over

curls, socks, and pink cheeks and a muchkissed rosebud of a mouth. Arnold Carruth, as one of the teachers

permitted herself to state when relaxed in the bosom of her own family, was "as chokefull of mischief as a

pod of peas. And the worst of it all is," quoth the teacher, Miss Agnes Rector, who was a pretty young girl,

with a hidden sympathy for mischief herself "the worst of it is, that child looks so like a cherub on a rosy

cloud that even if he should be caught nobody would believe it. They would be much more likely to accuse

poor little Andrew Jackson Green, because he has a snub nose and is a bit crosseyed, and I never knew that

poor child to do anything except obey rules and learn his lessons. He is almost too good. And another worst

of it is, nobody can help loving that little imp of a Carruth boy, mischief and all. I believe the scamp knows it

It is quite possible that Arnold Carruth did profit unworthily by his beauty and engagingness, albeit without

calculation. He was so young, it was monstrous to believe him capable of calculation, of deliberate trading

upon his assets of birth and beauty and fascination. However, Johnny Trum bull, who was wide awake and a

year older, was alive to the situation. He told Arnold Carruth, and Arnold Carruth only, about Robin Hood

"You can help," said this wise Johnny; "you can be in it, because nobody thinks you can be in any thing, on

Arnold Carruth flushed and gave an angry tug at one golden curl which the wind blew over a shoulder. The

two boys were in a secluded corner of Madame's lawn, behind a clump of Japanese cedars, during an

"Mamma and Aunt Flora and grandmamma won't let me have these old curls cut off," said Arnold. "You

"Who said you did? And I know you don't like to wear those short stockings, either."

"Like to!" Arnold gave a spiteful kick, first of one halfbared, dimpled leg, then of the other.

"First thing you know I'll steal mamma's or Aunt Flora's stockings and throw these in the furnace I will.

Do you s'pose a feller wants to wear these baby things? I guess not. Women are awful queer, Johnny

Trumbull. My mamma and my aunt Flora are awful nice, but they are queer about some things."

"Most women are queer," agreed Johnny, "but my aunt Janet isn't as queer as some. Rather guess if she saw

"Wish she was my aunt," said Arnold Carruth with a sigh. "A feller needs a woman like that till he's grown

"I'm afraid she wouldn't think it was right unless your mother said she might. She has to be real careful about

Arnold Carruth grinned savagely, as if he endured pain. "Well, I s'pose I'll have to stand the curls and little

baby stockings awhile longer," said he. "What was it you were going to tell me, Johnny?"

"I am going to tell you because I know you aren't too good, if you do wear curls and little stockings."

"No, I ain't too good," declared Arnold Carruth, proudly; "I ain't HONEST, Johnny."

"That's why I'm going to tell you. But if you tell any of the other boys or girls "

Little Arnold, beautiful baby boy, straightened himself with a quick remembrance that he was born a man.

"Guess you wouldn't. Well, here it is " Johnny spoke in emphatic whispers, Arnold's curly head close to

his mouth: "There are a good many things in this town have got to be set right," said Johnny.

Little Arnold stared at him. Then fire shone in his lovely blue eyes under the golden shadow of his curls, a

fire which had shone in the eyes of some ancestors of his, for there was good fighting blood in the Carruth

family, as well as in the Trumbull, although this small descendant did go about curled and kissed and

"That was what I said, exactly. We've got to begin right there. It is an awful little beginning, but I can't think

"Of course we can't go around taking away money from rich people and giving it to poor folks. One reason is,

most of the poor folks in this town are lazy, and don't get money because they don't want to work for it. And

when they are not lazy, they drink. If we gave rich people's money to poor folks like that, we shouldn't do a

mite of good. The rich folks would be poor, and the poor folks wouldn't stay rich; they would be lazier, and

get more drink. I don't see any sense in doing things like that in this town. There are a few poor folks I have

"Well, there is poor old Mrs. Sam Little. She's awful poor. Folks help her, I know, but she can't be real

pleased being helped. She'd rather have the money herself. I have been wondering if we couldn't get some of

"Of course he wouldn't. But that is not the point. It is not what your father would like; it is what that poor old

"If you are going to be mean and stingy, we may as well stop before we begin," said Johnny.

Then Arnold Carruth recovered himself. "Old Mr. Webster Payne is awful poor," said he. "We might take

Johnny snorted, fairly snorted. "If," said he, "you think my father keeps his money where we can get it, you

are mistaken, Arnold Carruth. My father's money is all in papers that are not worth much now and that he has

"It's the way most rich people are mean enough to," said Johnny, severely. "I don't care if it's your father or

mine, it's mean. And that's why we've got to begin with Jim Simmons's cats and kittens."

Johnny sniffed. "Don't be silly," said he. "Though I do think a nice cat with a few kittens might cheer her up a

little, and we could steal enough milk, by getting up early and tagging after the milk man, to feed them. But

I wasn't thinking of giving her or old Mr. Payne cats and kittens. I wasn't thinking of folks; I was thinking of

all those poor cats and kittens that Mr. Jim Simmons has and doesn't half feed, and that have to go hunting

around folks' back doors in the rain, when cats hate water, too, and pick things up that must be bad for their

stomachs, when they ought to have their milk regularly in nice, clean saucers. No, Arnold Carruth, what we

have got to do is to steal Mr. Jim Simmons's cats and get them in nice homes where they can earn their living

"Yes, steal cats, in order to do right," said Johnny Trumbull, and his expression was heroic, even exalted.

"If," said the treble voice, "you are going to steal dear little kitty cats and get nice homes for them, I'm going

The voice belonged to Lily Jennings, who had stood on the other side of the Japanese cedars and heard every

Both boys started in righteous wrath, but Arnold Carruth was the angrier of the two. "Mean little cat yourself,

Johnny, remembering some things, was not so outspoken. "You hadn't any right to listen, Lily Jennings," he

"I didn't start to listen," said Lily. "I was look ing for cones on these trees. Miss Parmalee wanted us to bring

some object of nature into the class, and I wondered whether I could find a queer Japanese cone on one of

these trees, and then I heard you boys talking, and I couldn't help listening. You spoke very loud, and I

couldn't give up looking for that cone. I couldn't find any, and I heard all about the Simmonses' cats, and I

know lots of other cats that haven't got good homes, and I am going to be in it."

"You've got to have me. You had better have me, Johnny Trumbull," she added with meaning.

Johnny flinched. It was a species of blackmail, but what could he do? Suppose Lily told how she had hidden

him him, Johnny Trumbull, the cham pion of the school in that empty babycarriage! He would have

more to contend against than Arnold Carruth with socks and curls. He did not think Lily would tell.

Somehow Lily, although a little, be frilled girl, gave an impression of having a knowledge of a square deal

almost as much as a boy would; but what boy could tell with a certainty what such an uncertain creature as a

girl might or might not do? Moreover, Johnny had a weakness, a hidden, Spartanly hidden, weakness for

Lily. He rather wished to have her act as partner in his great enter prise. He therefore gruffly assented.

"All right," he said, "you can be in it. But just you look out. You'll see what happens if you tell."

Lily Jennings lifted her chin and surveyed him with queenly scorn. "And what are you?" said she. "A little

Arnold colored with shame and fury, and subsided. "Mind you don't tell," he said, taking Johnny's cue.

"I sha'n't tell," replied Lily, with majesty. "But you'll tell yourselves if you talk one side of trees without

There was then only a few moments before Madame's musical Japanese gong which announced the close of

intermission should sound, but three determined souls in conspiracy can accomplish much in a few moments.

The first move was planned in detail before that gong sounded, and the two boys raced to the house, and Lily

followed, carrying a toad stool, which she had hurriedly caught up from the lawn for her object of nature to

It was a poisonous toadstool, and Lily was quite a heroine in the class. That fact doubtless gave her a more

dauntless air when, after school, the two boys caught up with her walking gracefully down the road, flirting

her skirts and now and then giving her head a toss, which made her fluff of hair fly into a golden foam under

"At half past nine, between your house and the Simmonses'," replied Lily, without even looking at him. She

Lily's mother had guests at dinner that night, and the guests remarked sometimes, within the little girl's

"She never gives me a second's anxiety," Lily's mother whispered to a lady beside her. "You can not

"Now my Christina is a good child in the grain," said the lady, "but she is full of mischief. I never can tell

"Now only the other night, when I thought Christina was in bed, that absurd child got up and dressed and ran

over to see her aunt Bella. Tom came home with her, and of course there was nothing very bad about it.

Christina was very bright; she said, 'Mother, you never told me I must not get up and go to see Aunt Bella,'

If Lily had heard that last speech of her mother's, whom she dearly loved, she might have wavered. That

pathetic trust in herself might have caused her to justify it. But she had finished her dinner and had been

excused, and was undressing for bed, with the firm determination to rise betimes and dress and join Johnny

Trumbull and Arnold Carruth. Johnny had the easiest time of them all. He simply had to bid his aunt Janet

good night and have the watch wound, and take a fleeting glimpse of his mother at her desk and his father in

his office, and go whistling to his room, and sit in the summer darkness and wait until the time came.

Arnold Carruth had the hardest struggle. His mother had an old school friend visiting her, and Arnold, very

much dressed up, with his curls falling in a shining fleece upon a real lace collar, had to be shown off and

show off. He had to play one little piece which he had learned upon the piano. He had to recite a little poem.

He had to be asked how old he was, and if he liked to go to school, and how many teachers he had, and if he

loved them, and if he loved his little mates, and which of them he loved best; and he had to be asked if he

loved his aunt Dorothy, who was the school friend and not his aunt at all, and would he not like to come and

live with her, because she had not any dear little boy; and he was obliged to submit to having his curls twisted

around feminine fingers, and to being kissed and hugged, and a whole chapter of ordeals, before he was

finally in bed, with his mother's kiss moist upon his lips, and free to assert himself.

That night Arnold Carruth realized himself as having an actual horror of his helpless state of pam pered

childhood. The man stirred in the soul of the boy, and it was a little rebel with sulky pout of lips and frown of

childish brows who stole out of bed, got into some queer clothes, and crept down the back stairs. He heard his

aunt Dorothy, who was not his aunt, singing an Italian song in the parlor, he heard the clink of silver and

china from the butler's pantry, where the maids were washing the dinner dishes. He smelt his father's cigar,

and he gave a little leap of joy on the grass of the lawn. At last he was out at night alone, and he wore long

stockings! That noon he had secreted a pair of his mother's toward that end. When he came home to luncheon

he pulled them out of the darningbag, which he had spied through a closet door that had been left ajar. One

of the stockings was green silk, and the other was black, and both had holes in them, but all that mattered was

the length. Arnold wore also his father's ridingbreeches, which came over his shoes and which were

enormously large, and one of his father's silk shirts. He had resolved to dress consistently for such a great

occasion. His clothes hampered him, but he felt happy as he sped clumsily down the road.

However, both Johnny Trumbull and Lily Jen nings, who were waiting for him at the rendezvous, were

startled by his appearance. Both began to run, Johnny pulling Lily after him by the hand, but Arnold's

cautious hallo arrested them. Johnny and Lily returned slowly, peering through the dark ness.

"You looked," said Lily, "like a real fat old man. What HAVE you got on, Arnold Carruth?"

Arnold slouched before his companions, ridiculous but triumphant. He hitched up a leg of the riding

breeches and displayed a long, green silk stocking. Both Johnny and Lily doubled up with laughter.

"Oh, nothing at all," said Lily. "Only you do look like a scarecrow broken loose. Doesn't he, Johnny?"

"I am going home," stated Arnold with dignity. He turned, but Johnny caught him in his little iron grip.

"Oh, shucks, Arnold Carruth!" said he. "Don't be a baby. Come on." And Arnold Carruth with difficulty came

People in the village, as a rule, retired early. Many lights were out when the affair began, many went out

while it was in progress. All three of the band steered as clear of lighted houses as possible, and dodged

behind trees and hedges when shadowy figures appeared on the road or carriagewheels were heard in the

distance. At their special destination they were sure to be entirely safe. Old Mr. Peter Van Ness always retired

very early. To be sure, he did not go to sleep until late, and read in bed, but his room was in the rear of the

house on the second floor, and all the windows, besides, were dark. Mr. Peter Van Ness was a very wealthy

elderly gentleman, very benevolent. He had given the village a beautiful stone church with memorial

windows, a soldiers' monument, a park, and a home for aged couples, called "The Van Ness Home." Mr. Van

Ness lived alone with the exception of a housekeeper and a number of old, very welldisci plined servants.

The servants always retired early, and Mr. Van Ness required the house to be quiet for his late reading. He

To the Van Ness house, set back from the street in the midst of a wellkept lawn, the three repaired, but not

as noiselessly as they could have wished. In fact, a light flared in an upstairs window, which was wide open,

"I should think," said the first, "that the lawn was full of cats. Did you ever hear such a mewing, Jane?"

That was the housekeeper's voice. The three, each of whom carried a squirming burlap potatobag from the

Trumbull cellar, stood close to a clump of stately pines full of windy songs, and trem bled.

"It do sound like cats, ma'am," said another voice, which was Jane's, the maid, who had brought Mrs. Meeks,

the housekeeper, a cup of hot water and peppermint, because her dinner had disagreed with her.

Arnold Carruth snickered, and Johnny on one side, and Lily on the other, prodded him with an elbow. They

"Burglars is up to all sorts of queer tricks, ma'am," said Jane. "They may mew like cats to tell one another

"Jane, you talk like an idiot," said Mrs. Meeks. "Burglars talking like cats! Who ever heard of such a thing? It

sounds right under that window. Open my closet door and get those heavy old shoes and throw them out."

It was an awful moment. The three dared not move. The cats and kittens in the bags not so many, after all

seemed to have turned into multi plicationtables. They were positively alarming in their determination

to get out, their wrath with one another, and their vociferous discontent with the whole situation.

"Hush up, crybaby!" whispered Lily, fiercely, in spite of a clawing paw emerging from her own bag and

Then came the shoes. One struck Arnold squarely on the shoulder, nearly knocking him down and making

him lose hold of his bag. The other struck Lily's bag, and conditions became worse; but she held on despite a

Then Jane's voice sounded very near, as she leaned out of the window. "I guess they have went, ma'am," said

"Well, close that window, anyway, for I know I hear them, even if they have gone," said Mrs. Meeks. The

The light flashed out, and simultaneously Lily Jennings and Johnny Trumbull turned indignantly upon

Arnold rubbed his shoulder. "You would have let go if you had been hit right on the shoulder by a great

"Hush up!" said Lily. "I wouldn't have let my cats go if I had been killed by a shoe; so there."

But he spoke unadvisedly. Arnold Carruth was no match whatever for Johnny Trumbull, and had never been

allowed the honor of a combat with him; but surprise takes even a great champion at a dis advantage.

Arnold turned upon Johnny like a flash, out shot a little white fist, up struck a dimpled leg clad in cloth and

leather, and down sat Johnny Trumbull; and, worse, open flew his bag, and there was a yowling exodus.

"There go your cats, too, Johnny Trumbull," said Lily, in a perfectly calm whisper. At that mo ment both

boys, victor and vanquished, felt a simul taneous throb of masculine wrath at Lily. Who was she to gloat

over the misfortunes of men? But retri bution came swiftly to Lily. That viciously claw ing little paw shot

out farther, and there was a limit to Spartanism in a little girl born so far from that heroic land. Lily let go of

Lily looked at them, standing, a stately little figure in the darkness. "I am going home," said she. "My mother

Johnny rose, and so did Arnold, whimpering slightly. His shoulder ached considerably.

Even as he whimpered and as he suffered, Arnold felt a thrill of triumph. "Always knew I could if I had a

"Folks get knocked down when they ain't ex pecting it most of the time," declared Arnold, with more

"I don't think it makes much difference about the knocking down," said Lily. "All those poor cats and kittens

that we were going to give a good home, where they wouldn't be starved, have got away, and they will run

"If they haven't any more sense than to run back to a place where they don't get enough to eat and are kicked

"That's so," said Arnold. "I never did see what we were doing such a thing for, anyway stealing Mr.

It was the girl alone who stood by her guns of righteousness. "I saw and I see," she declared, with

dangerously loud emphasis. "It was only our duty to try to rescue poor helpless animals who don't know any

better than to stay where they are badly treated. And Mr. Van Ness has so much money he doesn't know what

to do with it; he would have been real pleased to give those cats a home and buy milk and liver for them. But

it's all spoiled now. I will never undertake to do good again, with a lot of boys in the way, as long as I live; so

Lily marched off, and in her wake went Johnny and Arnold, two poor little disillusioned wouldbe knights of

old romance in a wretchedly common place future, not far enough from their horizons for any glamour.

They went home, and of the three Johnny Trum bull was the only one who was discovered. For him his aunt

Janet lay in wait and forced a confession. She listened grimly, but her eyes twinkled.

"You have learned to fight, John Trumbull," said she, when he had finished. "Now the very next thing you

have to learn, and make yourself worthy of your grandfather Trumbull, is not to be a fool."

The next noon, when he came home from school, old Maria, who had been with the family ever since he

could remember and long before, called him into the kitchen. There, greedily lapping milk from a saucer,

"See those nice little tommycats," said Maria, beaming upon Johnny, whom she loved and whom she

sometimes fancied deprived of boyish joys. "Your aunt Janet sent me over to the Simmonses' for them this

morning. They are overrun with cats such poor, shiftless folks always be and you can have them. We

shall have to watch for a little while till they get wonted, so they won't run home."

Johnny gazed at the kittens, fast distending with the new milk, and felt presumably much as dear Robin Hood

"Pretty, ain't they?" said Maria. "They have drank up a whole saucer of milk. 'Most starved. I s'pose."

Johnny gathered up the two forlorn kittens and sat down in a kitchen chair, with one on each shoul der,

hard, boyish cheeks pressed against furry, pur ring sides, and the little fighting Cock of the Walk felt his

THE Wise homestead dated back more than a century, yet it had nothing imposing about it except its site. It

was a simple, glaringly white cot tage. There was a center front door with two win dows on each side;

there was a low slant of roof, pierced by unpicturesque dormers. On the left of the house was an ell, which

had formerly been used as a shoemaker's shop, but now served as a kitchen. In the low attic of the ell was

stored the shoemaker's bench, whereon David Wise's grandfather had sat for nearly eighty years of working

days; after him his eldest son, Daniel's father, had occupied the same hollow seat of patient toil. Daniel had

sat there for twentyodd years, then had suddenly realized both the lack of necessity and the lack of

customers, since the great shoeplant had been built down in the vil lage. Then Daniel had retired

although he did not use that expression. Daniel said to his friends and his niece Dora that he had "quit work."

After Daniel had retired, his one physiological peculiarity assumed enormous proportions. It had always been

with him, but steady work had held it, to a great extent, at bay. Daniel was a moral coward before physical

conditions. He was as one who suffers, not so much from agony of the flesh as from agony of the mind

induced thereby. Daniel was a coward before one of the simplest, most in evitable happenings of earthly

life. He was a coward before summer heat. All winter he dreaded summer. Summer poisoned the spring for

him. Only during the autumn did he experience anything of peace. Summer was then over, and between him

and another summer stretched the blessed perspective of winter. Then Daniel Wise drew a long breath and

looked about him, and spelled out the beauty of the earth in his simple primer of understanding. Daniel had in

his garden behind the house a prolific grapevine. He ate the grapes, full of the savor of the dead sum mer,

Possibly it was the vein of poetry in Daniel which made him a coward which made him so vulnerable.

During the autumn he reveled in the tints of the landscape which his sittingroom windows com manded.

There were many maples and oaks. Day by day the roofs of the houses in the village be came more evident,

as the maples shed their crimson and gold and purple rags of summer. The oaks re mained, great shaggy

masses of dark gold and burn ing russet; later they took on soft hues, making clearer the blue firmament

between the boughs. Daniel watched the autumn trees with pure delight. "He will go today," he said of a

flaming maple after a night of frost which had crisped the white arches of the grass in his dooryard. All day

he sat and watched the maple cast its glory, and did not bother much with his simple meals. The Wise house

was erected on three terraces. Always through the dry summer the grass was burned to an ugly negation of

color. Later, when rain came, the grass was a brilliant green, patched with rosy sorrel and golden stars of

arnica. Then later still came the diamond brilliance of the frost. So dry were the terraces in summertime that

no flowers would flourish. When Daniel's mother had come to the house as a bride she had planted under a

window a blushrose bush, but always the blushroses were few and covered with insects. It was not until

the autumn, when it was time for the flowers to die, that the sorrel blessing of waste lands flushed rosily and

the arnica showed its stars of slender threads of gold, and there might even be a slight glimpse of purple aster

and a dusty spray or two of goldenrod. Then Daniel did not shrink from the sight of the terraces. In

summertime the awful negative glare of them under the afternoon sun maddened him.

In winter he often visited his brother John in the village. He was very fond of John, and John's wife, and their

only daughter, Dora. When John died, and later his wife, he would have gone to live with Dora, but she

married. Then her husband also died, and Dora took up dressmaking, supporting herself and her delicate little

girlbaby. Daniel adored this child. She had been named for him, although her mother had been aghast before

"She is going to have what I own after I have done with it, anyway," declared Daniel, gazing with awe and

rapture at the tiny flannel bundle in his niece's arms. "That won't make any difference, but I do wish you

Dora Lee was softhearted. She named her girl baby Daniel, and called her Danny, which was not, after all,

so bad, and her old uncle loved the child as if she had been his own. Little Daniel he always called her

Daniel, or, rather, "Dan'l" was the only reason for his descending into the village on summer days when

the weather was hot. Daniel, when he visited the village in summertime, wore always a green leaf inside his

hat and carried an umbrella and a palmleaf fan. This caused the village boys to shout, "Hullo, grandma!"

after him. Daniel, being a little hard of hearing, was oblivious, but he would have been in any case. His whole

mind was con centrated in getting along that dusty glare of street, stopping at the store for a paper bag of

candy, and finally ending in Dora's little dark parlor, holding his beloved namesake on his knee, watching her

bliss fully suck a barley stick while he waved his palm leaf fan. Dora would be fitting gowns in the next

room. He would hear the hum of feminine chatter over strictly feminine topics. He felt very much aloof, even

while holding the little girl on his knee. Daniel had never married had never even h ad a sweet heart. The

marriageable women he had seen had not been of the type to attract a dreamer like Daniel Wise. Many of

Dora Lee, his niece, privately wondered if her uncle had his full allotment of understanding. He seemed much

more at home with her little daughter than with herself, and Dora considered herself a very good business

woman, with possibly an unusual endowment of common sense. She was such a good business woman that

when she died suddenly she left her child with quite a sum in the bank, besides the house. Daniel did not

hesitate for a moment. He engaged Miss Sarah Dean for a housekeeper, and took the little girl (hardly more

than a baby) to his own home. Dora had left a will, in which she appointed Daniel guardian in spite of her

doubt concerning his measure of understanding. There was much comment in the village when Daniel took

his little namesake to live in his lonely house on the terrace. "A man and an old maid to bring up that poor

child!" they said. But Daniel called Dr. Trumbull to his support. "It is much better for that delicate child to be

out of this village, which drains the south hill," Dr. Trumbull declared. "That child needs pure air. It is hot

enough in summer all around here, and hot enough at Daniel's, but the air is pure there."

There was no gossip about Daniel and Miss Sarah Dean. Gossip would have seemed about as foolish

concerning him and a dry blade of fieldgrass. Sarah Dean looked like that. She wore rusty black gowns, and

her grayblond hair was swept curtain wise over her ears on either side of her very thin, mildly severe

wedge of a face. Sarah was a notable housekeeper and a good cook. She could make an endless variety of

cakes and puddings and pies, and her biscuits were marvels. Daniel had long catered for himself, and a rasher

of bacon, with an egg, suited him much better for supper than hot biscuits, preserves, and five kinds of cake.

Still, he did not complain, and did not understand that Sarah's fare was not suitable for the child, until Dr.

"Don't you let that child live on that kind of food if you want her to live at all," said Dr. Trumbull. "Lord!

what are the women made of, and the men they feed, for that matter? Why, Daniel, there are many people in

this place, and hardworking people, too, who eat a quantity of food, yet don't get enough nourishment for a

"Do? You can cook a beefsteak yourself, can't you? Sarah Dean would fry one as hard as sole leather."

"I don't exactly hanker after quite so much sweet stuff," said Daniel. "I wonder if Sarah's feelings will be

"It is much better for feelings to be hurt than stomachs," declared Dr. Trumbull, "but Sarah's feelings will not

be hurt. I know her. She is a wiry woman. Give her a knock and she springs back into place. Don't worry

When Daniel went home that night he carried a juicy steak, and he cooked it, and he and little Dan'1 had a

square meal. Sarah refused the steak with a slight air of hauteur, but she behaved very well. When she set

away her untasted layercakes and pies and cookies, she eyed them somewhat anxiously. Her standard of

values seemed toppling before her mental vision. "They will starve to death if they live on such victuals as

beefsteak, instead of good nourishing hot biscuits and cake," she thought. After the supper dishes were

cleared away she went into the sittingroom where Daniel Wise sat beside a window, waiting in a sort of

stern patience for a whiff of air. It was a very close evening. The sun was red in the low west, but a heaving

Sarah sat down opposite Daniel. "Close, ain't it?" said she. She began knitting her lace edging.

"Pretty close," replied Daniel. He spoke with an effect of forced politeness. Although he had such a horror of

extreme heat, he was always chary of boldly expressing his mind concerning it, for he had a feeling that he

might be guilty of blasphemy, since he regarded the weather as being due to an Almighty mandate.

"It is awful upstairs in little Dan'l's room," said Sarah. "I have got all the windows open except the one that's

right on the bed, and I told her she needn't keep more than the sheet and one comfortable over her."

Daniel looked anxious. "Children ain't ever over come when they are in bed, in the house, are they?"

"Land, no! I never heard of such a thing. And, anyway, little Dan'l's so thin it ain't likely she feels the heat as

Daniel continued to sit hunched up on himself, gazing with a sort of mournful irritation out of the window

Sarah knitted. She could knit in the dark. After a while she rose and said she guessed she would go to bed, as

Presently a little pale figure stole to him through the dusk the child, in her straight white night gown,

"I didn't feel so very hot, Uncle Dan'l, but skeet ers were biting me, and a great big black thing just flew in

"A bat!" Little Dan'l shuddered. She began a little stifled wail. "I'm afeard of bats," she la mented.

Daniel gathered the tiny creature up. "You can jest set here with Uncle Dan'l," said he. "It is jest a little cooler

The little creature settled down contentedly in the old man's lap. Her fair, thin locks fell over his

shirtsleeved arm, her upturned profile was sweetly pure and clear even in the dusk. She was so deli cately

small that he might have been holding a fairy, from the slight roundness of the childish limbs and figure. Poor

little girl! Dan'1 was much too small and thin. Old man Daniel gazed down at her anxiously.

"Jest as soon as the nice fall weather comes," said he, "uncle is going to take you down to the village real

often, and you can get acquainted with some other nice little girls and play with them, and that will do uncle's

"I saw little Lucy Rose," piped the child, "and she looked at me real pleasant, and Lily Jennings wore a pretty

"I don't hear any sing," agreed little Dan'l in a weak voice. Very soon she was fast asleep. The old man sat

holding her, and loving her with a simple crystalline intensity which was fairly heavenly. He himself almost

disregarded the heat, being raised above it by sheer exaltation of spirit. All the love which had lain latent in

his heart leaped to life be fore the helplessness of this little child in his arms. He realized himself as much

greater and of more importance upon the face of the earth than he had ever been before. He became paternity

incarnate and superblessed. It was a long time before he car ried the little child back to her room and laid

her, still as inert with sleep as a lily, upon her bed. He bent over her with a curious waving motion of his old

shoulders as if they bore wings of love and pro tection; then he crept back downstairs.

On nights like that he did not go to bed. All the bedrooms were under the slant of the roof and were hot. He

preferred to sit until dawn beside his open window, and doze when he could, and wait with despairing

patience for the infrequent puffs of cool air breathing blessedly of wet swamp places, which, even when the

burning sun arose, would only show dewy eyes of cool reflection. Daniel Wise, as he sat there through the

sultry night, even prayed for courage, as a devout sentinel might have prayed at his post. The imagination of

the deserter was not in the man. He never even dreamed of appro priating to his own needs any portion of

his savings, and going for a brief respite to the deep shadows of mountainous places, or to a cool coast, where

the great waves broke in foam upon the sand, breathing out the mighty saving breath of the sea. It never

occurred to him that he could do anything but re main at his post and suffer in body and soul and mind, and

The next morning was terrible. The summer had been one of unusually fervid heat, but that one day was its

climax. David went panting upstairs to his room at dawn. He did not wish Sarah Dean to know that he had

sat up all night. He opened his bed, tidily, as was his wont. Through living alone he had acquired many of the

habits of an orderly housewife. He went downstairs, and Sarah was in the kitchen.

"It is a dreadful hot day," said she as Daniel approached the sink to wash his face and hands.

"It does seem a little warm," admitted Daniel, with his studied air of politeness with respect to the weather as

"Warm!" echoed Sarah Dean. Her thin face blazed a scarlet wedge between the sleek curtains of her dank

hair; perspiration stood on her triangle of forehead. "It is the hottest day I ever knew!" she said, defiantly, and

After breakfast, old Daniel announced his in tention of taking little Dan'l out for a walk.

At that Sarah Dean fairly exploded. "Be you gone clean daft, Dan'l?" said she. "Don't you know that it

actually ain't safe to take out such a delicate little thing as that on such a day?"

"Dr. Trumbull said to take her outdoors for a walk every day, rain or shine," returned Daniel, obstinately.

"But Dr. Trumbull didn't say to take her out if it rained fire and brimstone, I suppose," said Sarah Dean,

"It is as much as that child's life is worth to take her out such a day as this," declared Sarah, viciously.

"Dr. Trumbull said to take no account of the weather," said Daniel with stubborn patience, "and we will walk

on the shady side of the road, and go to Bradley's Brook. It's always a little cool there."

"If she faints away before you get there, you bring her right home," said Sarah. She was almost ferocious.

"Just because YOU don't feel the heat, to take out that little pindlin' girl such a day!" she exclaimed.

"Dr. Trumbull said to," persisted Daniel, al though he looked a little troubled. Sarah Dean did not dream

that, for himself, Daniel Wise would have preferred facing an army with banners to going out under that

terrible fusillade of sunrays. She did not dream of the actual heroism which actuated him when he set out

with little Dan'l, holding his big umbrella over her little sunbonneted head and waving in his other hand a

Little Dan'l danced with glee as she went out of the yard. The small, anemic creature did not feel the heat

except as a stimulant. Daniel had to keep charging her to walk slowly. "Don't go so fast, little Dan'l, or you'll

Little Dan'l's thin, pretty face peeped up at him from between the sides of her green sunbonnet. She pointed

one dainty finger at a cloud of pale yellow butterflies in the field beside which they were walk ing. "Want to

chase flutterbies," she chirped. Little Dan'l had a fascinating way of misplacing her consonants in long words.

"No; you'll get overhet. You just walk along slow with Uncle Dan'l, and pretty soon we'll come to the pretty

"Yes," said Daniel. He was conscious, as he spoke, of increasing waves of thready black floating before his

eyes. They had floated since dawn, but now they were increasing. Some of the time he could hardly see the

narrow sidewalk path between the dusty meadowsweet and hardhack bushes, since those floating black

threads wove together into a veritable veil before him. At such times he walked unsteadily, and little Dan'l

"Uncle Dan'l can't see jest straight, somehow," replied the old man; "guess it's because it's rather warm."

It was in truth a day of terror because of the heat. It was one of those days which break records, which live in

men's memories as great catastrophes, which furnish headlines for newspapers, and are alluded to with

shudders at past sufferings. It was one of those days which seem to forecast the Dreadful Day of Revelation

wherein no shelter may be found from the judgment of the fiery firmament. On that day men fell in their

tracks and died, or were rushed to hospitals to be succored as by a miracle. And on that day the poor old man

who had all his life feared and dreaded the heat as the most loathly happening of earth, walked afield for love

of the little child. As Daniel went on the heat seemed to become pal pable something which could

actually be seen. There was now a thin, gaseous horror over the blaz ing sky, which did not temper the heat,

but in creased it, giving it the added torment of steam. The clogging moisture seemed to brood over the

Daniel walked more and more unsteadily. Once he might have fallen had not the child thrown one little arm

around a bending knee. "You 'most tumbled down. Uncle Dan'l," said she. Her little voice had a surprised and

"Don't you be scared," gasped Daniel; "we have got 'most to the brook; then we'll be all right. Don't you be

The brook was near, and it was time. Daniel staggered under the trees beside which the little stream trickled

over its bed of stones. It was not much of a brook at best, and the drought had caused it to lose much of its

life. However, it was still there, and there were delicious little hollows of cool ness between the stones over

which it flowed, and large trees stood about with their feet rooted in the blessed damp. Then Daniel sank

down. He tried to reach a hand to the water, but could not. The black veil had woven a compact mass before

Little Dan'l stood looking at him, and her lip quivered. With a mighty effort Daniel cleared away the veil and

saw the piteous baby face. "Take Uncle Dan'l's hat and fetch him some water," he gasped. "Don't

The child obeyed. Daniel tried to take the drip ping hat, but failed. Little Dan'l was wise enough to pour the

water over the old man's head, but she commenced to weep, the pitiful, despairing wail of a child who sees

Daniel rallied again. The water on his head gave him momentary relief, but more than anything else his love

"Listen, little Dan'l," he said, and his voice sounded in his own ears like a small voice of a soul thousands of

miles away. "You take the um brella, and you take the fan, and you go real slow, so you don't get

Then old Daniel's tremendous nerve, that he had summoned for the sake of love, failed him, and he sank

back. He was quite unconscious his face, staring blindly up at the terrible sky between the trees, was to

little Dan'l like the face of a stranger. She gave one cry, more like the yelp of a trodden animal than a child's

voice. Then she took the open umbrella and sped away. The umbrella bobbed wildly nothing could be

seen of poor little Dan'l but her small, speeding feet. She wailed loudly all the way.

She was halfway home when, plodding along in a cloud of brown dust, a horse appeared in the road. The

horse wore a straw bonnet and advanced very slowly. He drew a buggy, and in the buggy were Dr. Trumbull

and Johnny, his son. He had called at Daniel's to see the little girl, and, on being told that they had gone to

walk, had said something under his breath and turned his horse's head down the road.

"When we meet them, you must get out, Johnny," he said, "and I will take in that poor old man and that baby.

Dr. Trumbull exclaimed when he saw the great bobbing black umbrella and heard the wails. The

strawbonneted horse stopped abruptly. Dr. Trum bull leaned out of the buggy. "Who are you?" he

Dr. Trumbull acted swiftly. He gave Johnny a push. "Get out," he said. "Take that baby into Jim Mann's

house there, and tell Mrs. Mann to keep her in the shade and look out for her, and you tell Jim, if he hasn't got

his horse in his farmwagon, to look lively and harness her in and put all the ice they've got in the house in

Johnny was over the wheel before his father had finished speaking, and Jim Mann just then drew up

"What's to pay?" he inquired, breathless. He was a thin, sinewy man, scantily clad in cotton trousers and a

shirt wide open at the breast. Green leaves protruded from under the brim of his tilted straw hat.

"Old Daniel Wise is overcome by the heat," an swered Dr. Trumbull. "Put all the ice you have in the house

in your wagon, and come along. I'll leave my horse and buggy here. Your horse is faster."

Presently the farmwagon clattered down the road, dusthidden behind a galloping horse. Mrs. Jim Mann,

who was a loving mother of children, was soothing little Dan'l. Johnny Trumbull watched at the gate. When

the wagon returned he ran out and hung on behind, while the strong, ungainly farmhorse galloped to the

When old Daniel revived he found himself in the best parlor, with ice all about him. Thunder was rolling

overhead and hail clattered on the windows. A sudden storm, the heatbreaker, had come up and the dreadful

day was vanquished. Daniel looked up and smiled a vague smile of astonishment at Dr. Trumbull and Sarah

"The child is all right," said Dr. Trumbull; "don't you worry, Daniel. Mrs. Jim Mann is tak ing care of her.

Don't you try to talk. You didn't exactly have a sunstroke, but the heat was too much for you."

But Daniel spoke, in spite of the doctor's man date. "The heat," said he, in a curiously clear voice," ain't

"Don't you talk, Daniel," repeated Dr. Trum bull. "You've always been nervous about the heat. Maybe you

won't be again, but keep still. When I told you to take that child out every day I didn't mean when the world

Sarah Dean stood beside the doctor. She looked pale and severe, but adequate. She did not even state that she

The weather that summer was an unexpected quantity. Instead of the day after the storm being cool, it was

hot. However, old Daniel, after his re covery, insisted on going out of doors with little Dan'l after breakfast.

The only concession which he would make to Sarah Dean, who was fairly fran tic with anxiety, was that he

would merely go down the road as far as the big elmtree, that he would sit down there, and let the child play

"You'll be brought home agin, sure as preachin'," said Sarah Dean, "and if you're brought home ag'in, you

Old Daniel laughed. "Now don't you worry, Sarah," said he. "I'll set down under that big ellum and keep

Old Daniel, at Sarah's earnest entreaties, took a palmleaf fan. But he did not use it. He sat peace fully

under the cool trail of the great elm all the forenoon, while little Dan'l played with her doll. The child was

rather languid after her shock of the day before, and not disposed to run about. Also, she had a great sense of

responsibility about the old man. Sarah Dean had privately charged her not to let Uncle Daniel get "overhet."

"No, little Dan'l, uncle ain't a mite overhet," the old man would assure her. Now and then little Dan'l left her

doll, climbed into the old man's lap, and waved the palmleaf fan before his face.

Old Daniel Wise loved her so that he seemed, to himself, fairly alight with happiness. He made up his mind

that he would find some little girl in the village to come now and then and play with little Dan'l. In the cool of

that evening he stole out of the back door, covertly, lest Sarah Dean discover him, and walked slowly to the

rector's house in the village. The rector's wife was sitting on her cool, vineshaded veranda. She was alone,

and Daniel was glad. He asked her if the little girl who had come to live with her, Content Adams, could not

come the next after noon and see little Dan'l. "Little Dan'l had ought to see other children once in a while,

The next afternoon Sally herself drove the rec tor's horse, and brought Content to pay a call on little Dan'l.

Sally and Sarah Dean visited in the sittingroom, and left the little girls alone in the parlor with a plate of

cookies, to get acquainted. They sat in solemn silence and stared at each other. Neither spoke. Neither ate a

cooky. When Sally took her leave, she asked little Dan'l if she had had a nice time with Content, and little

Sarah insisted upon Content's carrying the cookies home in the dish with a napkin over it.

"When can I go again to see that other little girl?" asked Content as she and Sally were jogging home.

"Oh, almost any time. I will drive you over because it is rather a lonesome walk for you. Did you like the

Also little Dan'l inquired of old Daniel when the other little girl was coming again, and nodded em

phatically when asked if she had had a nice time. Evidently both had enjoyed, after the inscrutable fashion of

childhood, their silent session with each other. Content came generally once a week, and old Daniel was

invited to take little Dan'l to the rector's. On that occasion Lucy Rose was present, and Lily Jennings. The

four little girls had tea to gether at a little table set on the porch, and only Lily Jennings talked. The rector

drove old Daniel and the child home, and after they had arrived the child's tongue was loosened and she

chattered. She had seen everything there was to be seen at the rec tor's. She told of it in her little silver pipe

"I never knew that child could talk so much," Sarah said to Daniel, after the little girl had gone upstairs.

The summer continued unusually hot, but Daniel never again succumbed. When autumn came, for the first

time in his old life old Daniel Wise was sorrowful. He dreaded the effect of the frost and the winter upon his

precious little Dan'l, whom he put before himself as fondly as any father could have done, and as the season

progressed his dread seemed justified. Poor little Dan'l had cold after cold. Content Adams and Lucy Rose

came to see her. The rector's wife and the doctor's sent dainties. But the child coughed and pined, and old

Daniel began to look forward to spring and summer the seasons which had been his bugaboos through life

as if they were angels. When the February thaw came, he told little Dan'l, "Jest look at the snow meltin'

Old Daniel watched for the first green light along the fences and the meadow hollows. When the trees began

to cast slightly blurred shadows, because of budding leaves, and the robins hopped over the terraces, and now

and then the air was cleft with blue wings, he became jubilant. "Spring is jest about here, and then uncle's

little Dan'l will stop coughin', and run out of doors and pick flowers," he told the child beside the window.

Spring came that year with a riotous rush. Blos soms, leaves, birds, and flowers all arrived pell mell,

fairly smothering the world with sweetness and music. In May, about the first of the month, there was an

intensely hot day. It was as hot as midsummer. Old Daniel with little Dan'l went afield. It was, to both, as if

they fairly saw the car nivalarrival of flowers, of green garlands upon tree branches, of birds and

butterflies. "Spring is right here!" said old Daniel. "Summer is right here! Pick them vilets in that holler, little

Dan'l." The old man sat on a stone in the meadowland, and watched the child in the bluegleaming hollow

gather up violets in her little hands as if they were jewels. The sun beat upon his head, the air was heavy with

fragrance, laden with moisture. Old Daniel wiped his forehead. He was heated, but so happy that he was not

aware of it. He saw wonderful new lights over everything. He had wielded love, the one in vincible weapon

of the whole earth, and had con quered his intangible and dreadful enemy. When, for the sake of that little

beloved life, his own life had become as nothing, old Daniel found himself superior to it. He sat there in the

tumultuous heat of the May day, watching the child picking violets and gathering strength with every breath

of the young air of the year, and he realized that the fear of his whole life was overcome for ever. He realized

that never again, though they might bring suffering, even death, would he dread the summers with their torrid

winds and their burning lights, since, through love, he had become underlord of all the conditions of his life

IT did seem strange that Sally Patterson, who, according to her own selfestimation, was the least adapted of

any woman in the village, should have been the one chosen by a theoretically selective providence to deal

It was conceded that little Content Adams was a psychological problem. She was the orphan child of very

distant relatives of the rector. When her par ents died she had been cared for by a widowed aunt on her

mother's side, and this aunt had also borne the reputation of being a creature apart. When the aunt died, in a

small village in the indefinite "Out West," the presiding clergyman had notified Edward Patterson of little

Content's lonely and helpless estate. The aunt had subsisted upon an annuity which had died with her. The

child had inherited nothing except personal property. The aunt's house had been bequeathed to the church

over which the clergyman presided, and after her aunt's death he took her to his own home until she could be

sent to her relatives, and he and his wife were exceedingly punctilious about every jot and tittle of the aunt's

personal belongings. They even purchased two extra trunks for them, which they charged to the rector.

Little Content, traveling in the care of a lady who had known her aunt and happened to be coming East, had

six large trunks, besides a hatbox and two suitcases and a nailedup wooden box containing odds and

ends. Content made quite a sensation when she arrived and her baggage was piled on the station platform.

Poor Sally Patterson unpacked little Content's trunks. She had sent the little girl to school within a few days

after her arrival. Lily Jennings and Amelia Wheeler called for her, and aided her down the street between

them, arms interlocked. Content, although Sally had done her best with a pretty readymade dress and a new

hat, was undeniably a peculiarlooking child. In the first place, she had an expression so old that it was fairly

"That child has downward curves beside her mouth already, and lines between her eyes, and what she will

look like a few years hence is beyond me," Sally told her husband after she had seen the little girl go out of

"She doesn't look like a happy child," agreed the rector. "Poor little thing! Her aunt Eudora must have been a

"She is certainly trained," said Sally, ruefully; "too much so. Content acts as if she were afraid to move or

She was in the storeroom, in the midst of Con tent's baggage. The rector sat on an old chair, smoking. He

had a conviction that it behooved him as a man to stand by his wife during what might prove an ordeal. He

had known Content's deceased aunt years before. He had also known the clergyman who had taken charge of

"Be prepared for finding almost anything. Sally," he observed. "Mr. Zenock Shanksbury, as I re member

him, was so conscientious that it amounted to mania. I am sure he has sent simply unspeakable things rather

than incur the reproach of that con science of his with regard to defrauding Content of one jot or tittle of that

Sally shook out a long, black silk dress, with jet dangling here and there. "Now here is this dress," said she. "I

suppose I really must keep this, but when that child is grown up the silk will probably be cracked and entirely

"You had better take the two trunks and pack them with such things, and take your chances."

"Oh, I suppose so. I suppose I must take chances with everything except furs and wools, which will collect

moths. Oh, goodness!" Sally held up an oldfashioned fitch fur tippet. Little vague winged things came from

it like dust. "Moths!" said she, tragically. "Moths now. It is full of them. Ed ward, you need not tell me that

clergyman's wife was conscientious. No conscientious woman would have sent an old fur tippet all eaten with

Sally took flying leaps across the storeroom. She flung open the window and tossed out the mangy tippet.

"This is simply awful!" she declared, as she returned. "Edward, don't you think we are justi fied in having

Thomas take all these things out in the back yard and making a bonfire of the whole lot?"

"But, Edward, nobody can tell what will come next. If Content's aunt had died of a contagious disease,

"Well, dear, you know that she died from the shock of a carriage accident, because she had a weak heart."

"I know it, and of course there is nothing con tagious about that." Sally took up an ancient bandbox and

opened it. She displayed its contents: a very frivolous bonnet dating back in style a half century, gay with

roses and lace and green strings, and another with a heavy crape veil dependent.

Sally summarily marched across the room and flung the gay bonnet and the mournful one out of the window.

Then she took out a bundle of very old underwear which had turned a saffron yellow with age. "People are

always coming to me for old linen in case of burns," she said, succinctly. "After these are washed I can

Poor Sally worked all that day and several days afterward. The rector deserted her, and she relied upon her

own good sense in the disposition of little Content's legacy. When all was over she told her husband.

"Well, Edward," said she, "there is exactly one trunk half full of things which the child may live to use, but it

is highly improbable. We have had six bonfires, and I have given away three suits of old clothes to Thomas's

"Must have belonged to Eudora's first husband. He was a stout man," said Edward.

"And I have given two small suits of men's clothes to the Aid Society for the next outWest barrel."

"And I gave the washerwoman enough old baking dishes to last her lifetime, and some cracked dishes. Most

of the dishes were broken, but a few were only cracked; and I have given Silas Thomas's wife ten old wool

dresses and a shawl and three old cloaks. All the other things which did not go into the bon fires went to the

Aid Society. They will go back out West." Sally laughed, a girlish peal, and her hus band joined. But

"I am terribly puzzled about one thing." The two were sitting in the study. Content had gone to bed. Nobody

could hear easily, but Sally Patterson lowered her voice, and her honest, clear blue eyes had a frightened

"You will think me very silly and cowardly, and I think I have never been cowardly, but this is really very

strange. Come with me. I am such a goose, I don't dare go alone to that storeroom."

The rector rose. Sally switched on the lights as they went upstairs to the storeroom.

The two tiptoed up the stairs and entered the storeroom. Sally approached one of the two new trunks which

had come with Content from out West. She opened it. She took out a parcel nicely folded in a large towel.

The rector stared as Sally shook out a dress a gay, uptodate dress, a young girl's dress, a very tall young

girl's, for the skirts trailed on the floor as Sally held it as high as she could. It was made of a fine white

muslin. There was white lace on the bodice, and there were knots of blue ribbon scattered over the whole,

knots of blue ribbon confining tiny bunches of rosebuds and daisies. These knots of blue ribbon and the little

flowers made it undeniably a young girl's costume. Even in the days of all ages wearing the costumes of all

ages, an older woman would have been abashed before those exceedingly youthful knots of blue ribbons and

The rector looked approvingly at it. "That is very pretty, it seems to me," he said. "That must be worth

"Worth keeping! Well, Edward Patterson, just wait. You are a man, and of course you cannot un derstand

"I want to know," said Sally, "if Content's aunt Eudora had any young relative besides Content. I mean had

"I don't know of anybody. There might have been some relative of Eudora's first husband. No, he was an only

"If she had," said Sally, firmly, "she would have kept this dress. You are sure there was nobody else living

"I suppose," said Edward Patterson, helpless be fore the feminine problem, "that Eudora got it in some

"In some way," repeated Sally. "That is always a man's way out of a mystery when there is a mys tery.

There is a mystery. There is a mystery which worries me. I have not told you all yet, Edward."

"I asked Content whose dress this was, and she said Oh, Edward, I do so despise mysteries."

"Her big sister Solly's dress. Edward, has Con tent ever had a sister? Has she a sister now?"

"No, she never had a sister, and she has none now," declared the rector, emphatically. "I knew all her family.

"She said her big sister Solly, Edward, and the very name is so inane. If she hasn't any big sister Solly, what

"But, Edward, I don't think she knows she lies. You may laugh, but I think she is quite sure that she has a big

sister Solly, and that this is her dress. I have not told you the whole. After she came home from school today

she went up to her room, and she left the door open, and pretty soon I heard her talking. At first I thought

perhaps Lily or Amelia was up there, although I had not seen either of them come in with Content. Then after

a while, when I had occasion to go upstairs, I looked in her room, and she was quite alone, although I had

heard her talking as I went upstairs. Then I said: 'Con tent, I thought somebody was in your room. I heard

"'Yes, ma'am,' she said. 'There isn't anybody here now, but my big sister Solly was here, and she is gone. You

heard me talking to my big sister Solly.' I felt faint, Edward, and you know it takes a good deal to overcome

me. I just sat down in Content's wicker rockingchair. I looked at her and she looked at me. Her eyes were

just as clear and blue, and her forehead looked like truth itself. She is not exactly a pretty child, and she has a

peculiar appearance, but she does certainly look truthful and good, and she looked so then. She had tried to

fluff her hair over her forehead a little as I had told her, and not pull it back so tight, and she wore her new

dress, and her face and hands were as clean, and she stood straight. You know she is a little inclined to stoop,

and I have talked to her about it. She stood straight, and looked at me with those blue eyes, and I did feel

"Well, after a bit I pulled myself together and I said: 'My dear little girl, what is this? What do you mean

about your big sister Sarah?' Edward, I could not bring myself to say that idiotic Solly. In fact, I did think I

must be mistaken and had not heard correctly. But Content just looked at me as if she thought me very stupid.

"Then Content looked at me and smiled, and it was quite a wonderful smile, Edward. She smiled as if she

"No, only by that smile which seemed to tell whole volumes about that awful Solly's whereabouts, only I was

"And then the child smiled at me again. Edward, what are we going to do? Is she untruthful, or has she too

much imagination? I have heard of such a thing as too much imagination, and children telling lies which were

"So have I," agreed the rector, dryly, "but I never believed in it." The rector started to leave the room.

"I am going to endeavor to discriminate between lies and imagination," replied the rector.

Sally plucked at his coatsleeve as they went downstairs. "My dear," she whispered, "I think she is asleep."

"But, my dear, she may be nervous. Would it not be better to wait until tomorrow?"

"I think not," said Edward Patterson. Usually an easygoing man, when he was aroused he was determined to

extremes. Into Content's room he marched, Sally following. Neither of them saw their small son Jim peeking

around his door. He had heard he could not help it the conversation earlier in the day between Content

and his mother. He had also heard other things. He now felt entirely justified in listening, although he had a

good code of honor. He considered himself in a way respon sible, knowing what he knew, for the peace of

mind of his parents. Therefore he listened, peeking around the doorway of his dark room.

The electric light flashed out from Content's room, and the little interior was revealed. It was charmingly

pretty. Sally had done her best to make this not altogether welcome little stranger's room attractive. There

were garlands of rosebuds swung from the top of the white satinpapered walls. There were dainty toilet

things, a little dressing table decked with ivory, a case of books, chairs cushioned with rosebud chintz,

In the little white bed, with a rosesprinkled cover lid over her, lay Content. She was not asleep. Directly,

when the light flashed out, she looked at the rector and his wife with her clear blue eyes. Her fair hair,

braided neatly and tied with pink ribbons, lay in two tails on either side of her small, certainly very good face.

Her forehead was beautiful, very white and full, giving her an expression of candor which was even noble.

Content, little lonely girl among strangers in a strange place, mutely beseech ing love and pity, from her

whole attitude toward life and the world, looked up at Edward Patterson and Sally, and the rector realized that

his determina tion was giving way. He began to believe in imagi nation, even to the extent of a sister Solly.

He had never had a daughter, and sometimes the thought of one had made his heart tender. His voice was

As for Content, she looked at the rector and said nothing. It was obvious that she did not know what he had

"My dear little girl," he said, "your aunt Sally" they had agreed upon the relationship of uncle and aunt to

Content "tells me that you have been telling her about your big sister Solly." The rector half gasped as

he said Solly. He seemed to himself to be on the driveling verge of idiocy before the pro nunciation of that

Content's responding voice came from the pink andwhite nest in which she was snuggled, like the fluting

"My dear child," said the rector, "you know perfectly well that you have no big sister Solly." Every time

Content smiled as Sally had described her smiling. She said nothing. The rector felt reproved and looked

down upon from enormous heights of inno cence and childhood and the wisdom thereof. How ever, he

"Content," he said, "what did you mean by telling your aunt Sally what you did?"

"I was talking with my big sister Solly," replied Content, with the calmness of one stating a funda mental

Content looked. Looking seemed to be the in stinctive action which distinguished her as an indi vidual.

"Have you a big sister Solly?" asked the rector. His face was stern, but his voice faltered.

"I have a big sister Solly," said Content. Now she spoke rather wearily, although still sweetly, as if puzzled

"Where has she been all the time, that we have known nothing about her?" demanded the rector.

Content smiled and was silent. The rector cast a helpless look at his wife. He now did not care if she did see

that he was completely at a loss. How could a great, robust man and a clergyman be harsh to a tender little

Sally pitied him. She spoke more harshly than her husband. "Content Adams," said she, "you know perfectly

well that you have no big sister Solly. Now tell me the truth. Tell me you have no big sister Solly."

"Come, Edward," said Sally. "There is no use in staying and talking to this obstinate little girl any longer."

Then she spoke to Content. "Before you go to sleep," said she, "you must say your prayers, if you have not

"I have said my prayers," replied Content, and her blue eyes were full of horrified astonishment at the

"Then," said Sally, "you had better say them over and add something. Pray that you may always tell the

The rector and his wife went out. Sally switched off the light with a snap as she passed. Out in the hall she

stopped and held her husband's arms hard. "Hush!" she whispered. They both listened. They heard this, in the

Sally dashed back into the rosebud room and switched on the light. She stared around. She opened a closet

"We will do the best we can," said Sally. "Don't worry, Edward, for you have to write your sermon

tomorrow. We will manage some way. I will admit that I rather wish Content had had some other distant

"You poor child!" said the rector. "It is hard on you, Sally, for she is no kith nor kin of yours."

"Indeed I don't mind," said Sally Patterson, "if only I can succeed in bringing her up."

Meantime Jim Patterson, upstairs, sitting over his next day's algebra lesson, was even more per plexed than

were his parents in the study. He paid little attention to his book. "I can manage little Lucy," he reflected, "but

Presently he rose and stole very softly through the hall to Content's door. She was timid, and always left it

open so she could see the hall light until she fell asleep. "Content," whispered Jim.

"Don't you," said Jim, in a theatrical whisper, "say another word at school to anybody about your big sister

The next day Jim cornered little Lucy Rose under a cedartree before school began. He paid no atten tion to

Bubby Harvey and Tom Simmons, who were openly sniggering at him. Little Lucy gazed up at Jim, and the

bluegreen shade of the cedar seemed to bring out only more clearly the whiterose softness of her dear little

"If my new cousin Content ever says anything to you again I heard her yesterday about her big sister

Solly, don't you ever say a word about it to anybody else. You will promise me, won't you, little Lucy?"

A troubled expression came into little Lucy's kind eyes. "But she told Lily, and Lily told Amelia, and Amelia

told her grandmother Wheeler, and her grandmother Wheeler told Miss Parmalee when she met her on the

street after school, and Miss Parma lee called on my aunt Martha and told her," said little Lucy.

"And my aunt Martha told my father that she thought perhaps she ought to ask for her when she called on

your mother. She said Arnold Carruth's aunt Flora was going to call, and his aunt Dorothy. I heard Miss

Acton tell Miss Parmalee that she thought they ought to ask for her when they called on your mother, too."

"Little Lucy," he said, and lowered his voice, "you must promise me never, as long as you live, to tell what I

"Now, you know if you break your promise and tell, you will be guilty of a dreadful lie and be very wicked."

"Yes, she does. She says she has a big sister Solly, and she hasn't got any big sister Solly. She never did have,

"Making believe is just a real mean way of lying. Now I made Content promise last night never to say one

word in school about her big sister Solly, and I am going to tell you this, so you can tell Lily and the others

and not lie. Of course, I don't want to lie myself, because my father is rector, and, besides, mother doesn't

approve of it; but if anybody is going to lie, I am the one. Now, you mind, little Lucy. Content's big sister

Solly has gone away, and she is never coming back. If you tell Lily and the others I said so, I can't see how

Little Lucy gazed at the boy. She looked like truth incarnate. "But," said she, in her adorable stupidity of

"Oh, of course she couldn't. But all you have to do is to say that you heard me say she had gone. Don't you

"I don't understand how Content's big sister Solly could possibly go away if she was never here."

"Little Lucy, I wouldn't ask you to tell a lie for the world, but if you were just to say that you heard me say

"I think it would be a lie," said little Lucy, "be cause how can I help knowing if she was never here she

"Oh, well, little Lucy," cried Jim, in despair, still with tenderness how could he be anything but tender

"Anyway, you can hold your tongue. You know it isn't wicked to hold your tongue."

Little Lucy absurdly stuck out the pointed tip of her little red tongue. Then she shook her head slowly.

This encounter with innocence and logic had left him worsted. Jim could see no way out of the fact that his

father, the rector, his mother, the rector's wife, and he, the rector's son, were disgraced by their relationship to

And yet he looked at the poor lonely little girl, who was trying very hard to learn her lessons, who sug

gested in her very pose and movement a little, scared rabbit ready to leap the road for some bush of hiding,

and while he was angry with her he pitied her. He had no doubts concerning Content's keeping her promise.

He was quite sure that he would now say nothing whatever about that big sister Solly to the others, but he

When he went home from school his heart stood still to see Miss Martha Rose, and Arnold Carruth's aunt

Flora, and his aunt who was not his aunt, Miss Dorothy Vernon, who was visiting her, all walking along in

state with their lacetrimmed parasols, their white gloves, and their nice cardcases. Jim jumped a fence and

raced across lots home, and gained on them. He burst in on his mother, sitting on the porch, which was

inclosed by wire netting overgrown with a budding vine. It was the first warm day of the season.

"Why, Arnold's aunt Flora and his aunt Dorothy and little Lucy's aunt Martha. They are coming to call."

Involuntarily Sally's hand went up to smooth her pretty hair. "Well, what of it, Jim?" said she.

"Mother, Content has been talking at school. A lot know. You will see they will ask for "

"Run right in and tell Content to stay in her room," whispered Sally, hastily, for the callers, their

Sally advanced, smiling. She put a brave face on the matter, but she realized that she, Sally Patterson, who

had never been a coward, was positively afraid before this absurdity. The callers sat with her on the pleasant

porch, with the young vineshadows making networks over their best gowns. Tea was served presently by

the maid, and, much to Sally's relief, before the maid appeared came the inquiry. Miss Martha Rose made it.

Flora Carruth echoed her. "I was so glad to hear another nice girl had come to the village," said she with

"I am sorry," replied Sally, with an effort, "but there is no Miss Solly Adams here now." She spoke the truth

as nearly as she could manage without unraveling the whole ridiculous affair. The callers sighed with regret,

tea was served with little cakes, and they fluttered down the walk, holding their card cases, and that ordeal

But Sally sought the rector in his study, and she was trembling. "Edward," she cried out, regardless of her

"Well, don't worry, dear," said the rector. "Of course we will do something, but we must think it over. Where

"She and Jim are out in the garden. I saw them pass the window just now. Jim is such a dear boy, he tries

Meantime Jim and Content Adams were out in the garden. Jim had gone to Content's door and tapped and

called out, rather rudely: "Content, I say, put on your hat and come along out in the garden. I've got

And Content came along. She was an obedient child, and she liked Jim, although she stood much in awe of

him. She followed him into the garden back of the rectory, and they sat down on the bench beneath the

"I want to know, honest Injun," said Jim, "what you are telling such awful whoppers about your old big sister

Content was silent. This time she did not smile, a tear trickled out of her right eye and ran over the pale

"Because you know," said Jim, observant of the tear, but ruthless, "that you haven't any big sister Solly, and

never did have. You are getting us all in an awful mess over it, and father is rector here, and mother is his

wife, and I am his son, and you are his niece, and it is downright mean. Why do you tell such whoppers? Out

"Well, what of that? Other folks have lived with their aunts and not told whoppers."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Content Adams, and you the rector's niece, talking that way about

"I don't mean to talk about poor Aunt Eudora," fairly sobbed Content. "Aunt Eudora was a real good aunt, but

she was grown up. She was a good deal more grown up than your mother; she really was, and when I first

went to live with her I was 'most a little baby; I couldn't speak plain, and I had to go to bed real early, and

"Well, go on," said Jim, but his voice was softer. It WAS hard lines for a little kid, especially if she was a

"And so," went on the little, plaintive voice, "I got to thinking how nice it would be if I only had a big sister,

and I used to cry and say to myself I couldn't speak plain, you know, I was so little 'Big sister would be

"She must have come," persisted the little girl, in a frightened whisper. "She must have. Oh, Jim, you don't

know. Big sister Solly must have come, or I would have died like my father and mother."

Jim's arm, which was near her, twitched convul sively, but he did not put it around her.

"Well, have it so," said Jim, suddenly. "No use going over that any longer. Have it she came, but she ain't

here now, anyway. Content Adams, you can't look me in the face and tell me that."

Content looked at Jim, and her little face was almost terrible, so full of bewilderment and fear it was. "Jim,"

whispered Content, "I can't have big sister Solly not be here. I can't send her away. What would she think?"

"I can't make her dead," sobbed Content. "She came when I wanted her, and now when I don't so much,

when I've got Uncle Edward and Aunt Sally and you, and don't feel so dreadful lonesome, I can't be so bad as

Jim whistled. Then his face brightened up. He looked at Content with a shrewd and cheerful grin. "See here,

Jim laughed merrily. "I say, Content," he cried, "let's have it she's married now, and gone?"

Jim put his arm around her very nicely and pro tectingly. "It's all right, then," said he, "as all right as it can

"You see," said Jim, thoughtfully, "I don't, as a rule, care much about girls, but if you could coast downhill

and skate, and do a few things like that, you would be almost as good as a boy."

Content surveyed him, and her pessimistic little face assumed upward curves. "I will," said she. "I will do

"I don't believe you could lick any of us fellers unless you get a good deal harder in the muscles," said Jim,

eying her thoughtfully; "but we'll play ball, and maybe by and by you can begin with Arnold Carruth."

But Jim's face sobered before her readiness. "Oh no, you mustn't go to fighting right away," said he. "It

"Then I won't," said Content; "but I COULD knock down that little boy with curls; I know I could."

"Well, you needn't. I'll like you just as well. You see, Content" Jim's voice faltered, for he was a boy, and

on the verge of sentiment before which he was shamed "you see, Content, now your big sister Solly is

married and gone out West, why, you can have me for your brother, and of course a brother is a good deal

"I am going," said Jim, "to marry Lucy Rose when I grow up, but I haven't got any sister, and I'd like you first

"Say, Content, that is an awful name, but I don't care. You're only a girl. You can call me any thing you

Presently they went into the house. Dr. Trum bull was there; he had been talking seriously to the rector and

"It is a perfect absurdity," he said, "but I made ten calls this morning, and everywhere I was asked about that

little Adams girl's big sister why you keep her hidden. They have a theory that she is either an idiot or

Dr. Trumbull listened. "I have known such cases," he said when Sally had finished.

"Nothing. Such cases have to be cured by time. Children get over these fancies when they grow up."

"Do you mean to say that we have to put up with big sister Solly until Content is grown up?" asked Sally, in a

Jim gave briefly, and with many omissions, an account of his conversation with Content.

"She said her aunt had meant it for that out West rector's daughter Alice to graduate in, but Content wanted

it for her big sister Solly, and told the rector's wife it was hers. Content says she knows she was a naughty

girl, but after she had said it she was afraid to say it wasn't so. Mother, I think that poor little thing is scared

"Nobody is going to hurt her," said Sally. "Goodness! that rector's wife was so conscientious that she even let

that dress go. Well, I can send it right back, and the girl will have it in time for her graduation, after all. Jim

dear, call the poor child down. Tell her nobody is going to scold her." Sally's voice was very tender.

Jim returned with Content. She had on a little ruffled pink gown which seemed to reflect color on her cheeks.

She wore an inscrutable expression, at once childlike and charming. She looked shy, fur tively amused, yet

happy. Sally realized that the pessimistic downward lines had disappeared, that Content was really a pretty

Sally put an arm around the small, pink figure. "So you and Jim have been talking, dear?" she said.

"Yes, ma'am," replied little Content. "Jim is my big brother " She just caught herself before she said Solly.

"Yes," said Content, with a long breath. "My sister Solly is married." Smiles broke all over her little face. She

hid it in Sally's skirts, and a little peal of laughter like a birdtrill came from the soft muslin folds.

BACK of the rectory there was a splendid, long hill. The ground receded until the rectory garden was

reached, and the hill was guarded on either flank by a thick growth of pines and cedars, and, being a part of

the land appertaining to the rectory, was never invaded by the village children. This was considered very

fortunate by Mrs. Patterson, Jim's mother, and for an odd reason. The rector's wife was very fond of coasting,

as she was of most outofdoor sports, but her dignified position pre vented her from enjoying them to the

utmost. In many localities the clergyman's wife might have played golf and tennis, have rode and swum and

coasted and skated, and nobody thought the worse of her; but in The Village it was different.

Sally had therefore rejoiced at the discovery of that splendid, isolated hill behind the house. It could not have

been improved upon for a long, per fectly glorious coast, winding up on the pool of ice in the garden and

bumping thrillingly between dry vegetables. Mrs. Patterson steered and Jim made the running pushes, and

slid flat on his chest behind his mother. Jim was very proud of his mother. He often wished that he felt at

liberty to tell of her feats. He had never been told not to tell, but real ized, being rather a sharp boy, that

silence was wiser. Jim's mother confided in him, and he re spected her confidence. "Oh, Jim dear," she

would often say, "there is a mothers' meeting this after noon, and I would so much rather go coasting with

you." Or, "There's a Guild meeting about a fair, and the ice in the garden is really quite smooth."

It was perhaps unbecoming a rector's wife, but Jim loved his mother better because she expressed a

preference for the sports he loved, and considered that no other boy had a mother who was quite equal to his.

Sally Patterson was small and wiry, with a bright face, and very thick, brown hair, which had a boyish crest

over her forehead, and she could run as fast as Jim. Jim's father was much older than his mother, and very

dignified, although he had a keen sense of humor. He used to laugh when his wife and son came in after their

Jim was perfectly satisfied and convinced that his mother was the very best and most beautiful per son in

the village, even in the whole world, until Mr. Cyril Rose came to fill a vacancy of cashier in the bank, and

his daughter, little Lucy Rose, as a matter of course, came with him. Little Lucy had no mother. Mr. Cyril's

cousin, Martha Rose, kept his house, and there was a colored maid with a bad temper, who was said,

Little Lucy attended Madame's school. She came the next Monday after Jim and his friends had planned to

have a chicken roast and failed. After Jim saw little Lucy he thought no more of the chicken roast. It seemed

to him that he thought no more of anything. He could not by any possi bility have learned his lessons had it

not been for the desire to appear a good scholar before little Lucy. Jim had never been a selfconscious boy,

but that day he was so keenly worried about her opinion of him that his usual easy swing broke into a strut

when he crossed the room. He need not have been so troubled, because little Lucy was not looking at him.

She was not looking at any boy or girl. She was only trying to learn her lesson. Little Lucy was that rather

rare creature, a very gentle, obedient child, with a single eye for her duty. She was so charming that it was sad

The minute Madame saw her a singular light came into her eyes the light of love of a childless woman for

a child. Similar lights were in the eyes of Miss Parmalee and Miss Acton. They looked at one another with a

sort of sweet confidence when they were drinking tea together after school in Ma dame's study.

"Did you ever see such a darling?" said Madame. Miss Parmalee said she never had, and Miss Acton echoed

"She worked so hard over her geography lesson," said Miss Parmalee, "and she got the Amazon River in New

England and the Connecticut in South America, after all; but she was so sweet about it, she made me want to

change the map of the world. Dear little soul, it did seem as if she ought to have rivers and everything else

"And she tried so hard to reach an octave, and her little finger is too short," said Miss Acton; "and she hasn't a

"I have seen prettier children," said Madame, "but never one quite such a darling."

Miss Parmalee and Miss Acton agreed with Ma dame, and so did everybody else. Lily Jennings's beauty

was quite eclipsed by little Lucy, but Lily did not care; she was herself one of little Lucy's most fervent

admirers. She was really Jim Patter son's most formidable rival in the school. "You don't care about great,

horrid boys, do you, dear?" Lily said to Lucy, entirely within hearing of Jim and Lee Westminster and Johnny

Trumbull and Arnold Carruth and Bubby Harvey and Frank Ellis, and a number of others who glowered at

Dear little Lucy hesitated. She did not wish to hurt the feelings of boys, and the question had been loudly put.

Finally she said she didn't know. Lack of definite knowledge was little Lucy's rock of refuge in time of need.

She would look adorable, and say in her timid little fluty voice, "I don't know." The last word came

always with a sort of gasp which was alluring. All the listening boys were convinced that little Lucy loved

Everybody was convinced of little Lucy's affec tion for everybody, which was one reason for her charm.

She flattered without knowing that she did so. It was impossible for her to look at any living thing except

with soft eyes of love. It was impos sible for her to speak without every tone conveying the sweetest

deference and admiration. The whole atmosphere of Madame's school changed with the advent of the little

girl. Everybody tried to live up to little Lucy's supposed ideal, but in reality she had no ideal. Lucy was the

simplest of little girls, only intent upon being good, doing as she was told, and winning her father's approval,

Martha Rose was quite elderly, although still goodlooking. She was not popular, because she was very

silent. She dressed becomingly, received calls and returned them, but hardly spoke a word. People rather

dreaded her coming. Miss Martha Rose would sit composedly in a proffered chair, her gloved hands crossed

over her nice, goldbound card case, her chin tilted at an angle which never varied, her mouth in a set smile

which never wavered, her slender feet in their best shoes toeing out precisely under the smooth sweep of her

gray silk skirt. Miss Martha Rose dressed always in gray, a fashion which the village people grudgingly

admired. It was undoubtedly becoming and distinguished, but savored ever so slightly of ostentation, as did

her custom of always dressing little Lucy in blue. There were different shades and fabrics, but blue it always

was. It was the best color for the child, as it re vealed the fact that her big, dark eyes were blue. Shaded as

they were by heavy, curly lashes, they would have been called black or brown, but the blue in them leaped to

vision above the blue of blue frocks. Little Lucy had the finest, most delicate features, a mist of soft, dark

hair, which curled slightly, as mist curls, over sweet, round temples. She was a small, daintily clad child, and

she spoke and moved daintily and softly; and when her blue eyes were fixed upon anybody's face, that person

straightway saw love and obedience and trust in them, and love met love halfway. Even Miss Martha Rose

looked another woman when little Lucy's innocent blue eyes were fixed upon her rather handsome but

colorless face between the folds of her silvery hair; Miss Martha's hair had turned prematurely gray. Light

would come into Martha Rose's face, light and animation, although she never talked much even to Lucy. She

never talked much to her cousin Cyril, but he was rather glad of it. He had a keen mind, but it was easily

diverted, and he was engrossed in his business, and concerned lest he be disturbed by such things as feminine

chatter, of which he certainly had none in his own home, if he kept aloof from Jenny, the colored maid. Hers

was the only female voice ever heard to the point of annoyance in the Rose house.

It was rather wonderful how a child like little Lucy and Miss Martha lived with so little conversa tion.

Martha talked no more at home than abroad; moreover, at home she had not the attitude of wait ing for

some one to talk to her, which people outside considered trying. Martha did not expect her cousin to talk to

her. She seldom asked a question. She almost never volunteered a perfectly useless obser vation. She made

no remarks upon selfevident topics. If the sun shone, she never mentioned it. If there was a heavy rain, she

never mentioned that. Miss Martha suited her cousin exactly, and for that reason, aside from the fact that he

had been devoted to little Lucy's mother, it never occurred to him to marry again. Little Lucy talked no more

than Miss Martha, and nobody dreamed that she sometimes wanted somebody to talk to her. Nobody

dreamed that the dear little girl, studying her lessons, learn ing needlework, trying very futilely to play the

piano, was lonely; but she was without knowing it herself. Martha was so kind and so still; and her father was

so kind and so still, engrossed in his papers or books, often sitting by himself in his own study. Little Lucy in

this peace and stillness was not hav ing her share of childhood. When other little girls came to play with her.

Miss Martha enjoined quiet, and even Lily Jennings's birdlike chattering be came subdued. It was only at

school that Lucy got her chance for the irresponsible delight which was the simple right of her childhood, and

there her zeal for her lessons prevented. She was happy at school, however, for there she lived in an atmos

phere of demonstrative affection. The teachers were given to seizing her in fond arms and caress ing her,

and so were her girl companions; while the boys, especially Jim Patterson, looked wistful ly on.

Jim Patterson was in love, a charming little poetical boylove; but it was love. Everything which he did in

those days was with the thought of little Lucy for incentive. He stood better in school than he had ever done

before, but it was all for the sake of little Lucy. Jim Patterson had one talent, rather rudimentary, still a talent.

He could play by ear. His father owned an old violin. He had been in clined to music in early youth, and Jim

got per mission to practise on it, and he went by himself in the hot attic and practised. Jim's mother did not

care for music, and her son's preliminary scra ping tortured her. Jim tucked the old fiddle under one round

boycheek and played in the hot attic, with wasps buzzing around him; and he spent his pennies for catgut,

and he learned to mend fiddle strings; and finally came a proud Wednesday after noon when there were

visitors in Madame's school, and he stood on the platform, with Miss Acton playing an accompaniment on

the baby grand piano, and he managed a feeble but true tune on his violin. It was all for little Lucy, but little

Lucy cared no more for music than his mother; and while Jim was playing she was rehearsing in the depths of

her mind the little poem which later she was to recite; for this adorable little Lucy was, as a matter of course,

to figure in the entertainment. It therefore happened that she heard not one note of Jim Patterson's pain fully

executed piece, for she was saying to herself in mental singsong a foolish little poem, beginning:

When she went forward, little darling blueclad figure, there was a murmur of admiration; and when she

for beginning, there was a roar of tender laughter and a clapping of tender, maternal hands, and every body

wanted to catch hold of little Lucy and kiss her. It was one of the irresistible charms of this child that people

loved her the more for her mistakes, and she made many, although she tried so very hard to avoid them. Little

Lucy was not in the least brilliant, but she held love like a precious vase, and it gave out perfume better than

Jim Patterson was so deeply in love with her when he went home that night that he confessed to his mother.

Mrs. Patterson had led up to the subject by alluding to little Lucy while at the dinnertable.

"Edward," she said to her husband both she and the rector had been present at Madame's school

entertainment and the teadrinking afterward "did you ever see in all your life such a darling little girl as

the new cashier's daughter? She quite makes up for Miss Martha, who sat here one solid hour, hold ing her

cardcase, waiting for me to talk to her. That child is simply delicious, and I was so glad she made mistakes."

"Yes, she is a charming child," assented the rector, "despite the fact that she is not a beauty, hardly even

Jim was quite pale while his father and mother were talking. He swallowed the hot soup so fast that it burnt

his tongue. Then he turned very red, but nobody noticed him. When his mother came upstairs to kiss him

Mrs. Patterson did not laugh; she did not even smile. She sat down beside Jim's bed and looked seriously at

his eager, rapt, shamed little boyface on the pillow. "Well?" said she, after a minute which seemed difficult

Jim coughed. Then he spoke with a blurt. "Mother," said Jim, "by and by, of course not quite yet, but by and

Even then Sally Patterson did not laugh or even smile. "Are you thinking of marrying her, Jim?" asked she,

"Yes, mother," replied Jim. Then he flung up his little arms in pink pajama sleeves, and Sally Patterson took

"She is a darling, and your choice does you credit, Jim," said she. "Of course you have said nothing to her

"I really think you are very wise, Jim," said his mother. "It is too soon to put such ideas into the poor child's

"I thought so. Well, you know, Jim, it would just wear her all out, as young as that, to be obliged to think

"Entirely right; and you, too, really ought to finish school, and take up a profession or a busi ness, before

you say anything definite. You would want a nice home for the dear little thing, you know that, Jim."

Jim stared at his mother out of his white pillow. "I thought I would stay with you, and she would stay with

her father until we were both very much older," said he. "She has a nice home now, you know, mother."

Sally Patterson's mouth twitched a little, but she spoke quite gravely and reasonably. "Yes, that is very true,"

When Sally Patterson had left Jim, she looked in on the rector in his study. "Our son is thinking seriously of

"He is very discreet. He has consulted me as to my approval of her as daughter and announced his intention

The rector laughed; then he wrinkled his forehead uneasily. "I don't like the little chap getting such ideas,"

"He has made a very wise choice. She is that perfect darling of a Rose girl who couldn't speak her piece, and

But she was mistaken. The very next day Jim proposed in due form to little Lucy. He could not help it. It was

during the morning intermission, and he came upon her seated all alone under a haw thorn hedge, studying

her arithmetic anxiously. She was in blue, as usual, and a very perky blue bow sat on her soft, dark hair, like a

"Do two and seven make eight or ten? If you please, will you tell me?" said she.

"You like me better than you like Arnold Carruth, don't you? He has curls and wears socks."

"I have been counting my fingers and I got it eleven, but I suppose I must have counted one finger twice,"

said little Lucy. She gazed reflectively at her little babyhands. A tiny ring with a blue stone shone on one

"All the way I can remember," said little Lucy, "is for you to pick just so many leaves off the hedge, and I

will tie them in my handkerchief, and just be fore I have to say my lesson I will count those leaves."

Jim obediently picked nine leaves from the haw thorn hedge, and little Lucy tied them into her

That night after dinner, just before Lucy went to bed, she spoke of her own accord to her father and Miss

Martha, a thing which she seldom did. "Jim Patterson asked me to marry him when I asked him what seven

and two made in my arithmetic lesson," said she. She looked with the loveliest round eyes of innocence first

at her father, then at Miss Martha. Cyril Rose gasped and laid down his newspaper.

"Jim Patterson asked me to marry him when I asked him to tell me how much seven and two made in my

"Arnold Carruth asked me, too, when a great big wasp flew on my arm and frightened me."

"And Johnny Trumbull asked me when I 'most fell down on the sidewalk; and Lee Westminster asked me

"You had better have the child go to bed now," said Cyril. "Good night, little Lucy. Always tell father

When Martha returned, her cousin looked at her severely. He was a fair, gentlelooking man, and severity

"Really, Martha," said he, "don't you think you had better have a little closer outlook over that baby?"

"You really must speak to Madame," said Cyril. "I cannot have such things put into the child's head."

Cyril grinned. "Do you think," said he, "that I am going to that elegant widow schoolma'am and say,

'Madame, my young daughter has had four proposals of marriage in one day, and I must beg you to put a stop

to such proceedings'? No, Martha; it is a woman's place to do such a thing as that. The whole thing is too

So it happened that Miss Martha Rose, the next day being Saturday, called on Madame, but, not being asked

any leading question, found herself abso lutely unable to deliver herself of her errand, and went away with it

"Well, I must say," said Madame to Miss Par malee, as Miss Martha tripped wearily down the front walk

"I must say, of all the educated women who have really been in the world, she is the strang est. You and I

have done nothing but ask inane questions, and she has sat waiting for them, and chirped back like a canary. I

But neither of them was so worn out as poor Miss Martha, anticipating her cousin's reproaches. However, her

wonted silence and reticence stood her in good stead, for he merely asked, after little Lucy had gone to bed:

The financial page was unusually thrilling that night, and Cyril Rose, who had come to think rather lightly of

the affair, remarked, absentmindedly; "Well, I hope it does not occur again. I cannot have such ridiculous

ideas put into the child's head. If it does, we get a governess for her and take her away from Madame's." Then

he resumed his reading, and Martha, guilty but relieved, went on with her knitting.

It was late spring then, and little Lucy had at tended Madame's school several months, and her popularity

had never waned. A picnic was planned to Dover's Grove, and the romantic little girls had insisted upon a

May queen, and Lucy was unani mously elected. The pupils of Madame's school went to the picnic in the

manner known as a "straw ride." Miss Parmalee sat with them, her feet uncomfortably tucked under her.

She was the youngest of the teachers, and could not evade the duty. Madame and Miss Acton headed the

pro cession, sitting comfortably in a victoria driven by the colored man Sam, who was employed about the

school. Dover's Grove was six miles from the vil lage, and a favorite spot for picnics. The victoria rolled on

ahead; Madame carried a black parasol, for the sun was on her side and the day very warm. Both ladies wore

The strawwagon, laden with children seated upon the golden trusses of straw, looked like a wagon load of

blossoms. Fair and dark heads, rosy faces looked forth in charming clusters. They sang, they chattered. It

made no difference to them that it was not the season for a strawride, that the trusses were musty. They

inhaled the fragrance of blooming boughs under which they rode, and were quite ob livious to all discomfort

and unpleasantness. Poor Miss Parmalee, with her feet going to sleep, sneezing from time to time from the

odor of the old straw, did not obtain the full beauty of the spring day. She had protested against the

"The children really ought to wait until the season for such things," she had told Madame, quite boldly; and

Madame had replied that she was well aware of it, but the children wanted something of the sort, and the hay

"It may not be so very musty," said Madame; "and you know, my dear, straw is clean, and I am sorry, but you

do seem to be the one to ride with the children on the straw, because" Madame dropped her voice "you

Poor Miss Parmalee could almost have dispensed with her few years of superior youth to have gotten rid of

that strawride. She had no parasol, and the sun beat upon her head, and the noise of the children got horribly

on her nerves. Little Lucy was her one alleviation. Little Lucy sat in the midst of the boisterous throng,

perfectly still, crowned with her garland of leaves and flowers, her sweet, pale little face calmly observant.

She was the high light of Madame's school, the effect which made the whole. All the others looked at little

Lucy, they talked to her, they talked at her; but she remained herself unmoved, as a high light should be.

"Dear little soul," Miss Parmalee thought. She also thought that it was a pity that little Lucy could not have

worn a white frock in her character as Queen of the May, but there she was mistaken. The blue was of a

peculiar shade, of a very soft material, and nothing could have been prettier. Jim Patterson did not often look

away from little Lucy; neither did Arnold Carruth; neither did Bubby Harvey; neither did Johnny Trumbull;

Amelia Wheeler, however, felt a little jealous as she watched Lily. She thought Lily ought to have been

queen; and she, while she did not dream of competing with incomparable little Lucy, wished Lily would not

always look at Lucy with such wor shipful admiration. Amelia was inconsistent. She knew that she herself

could not aspire to being an object of worship, but the state of being a nonentity for Lily was depressing.

"Wonder if I jumped out of this old wagon and got killed if she would mind one bit?" she thought, tragically.

But Amelia did not jump. She had tragic impulses, or rather im aginations of tragic impulses, but she never

carried them out. It was left for little Lucy, flowercrowned and calmly sweet and gentle under honors, to be

guilty of a tragedy of which she never dreamed. For that was the day when little Lucy was lost.

When the picnic was over, when the children were climbing into the strawwagon and Madame and Miss

Acton were genteelly disposed in the victoria, a lamentable cry arose. Sam drew his reins tight and rolled his

inquiring eyes around; Madame and Miss Acton leaned far out on either side of the vic toria.

"Oh, what is it?" said Madame. "My dear Miss Acton, do pray get out and see what the trouble is. I begin to

In fact, Madame got her cutglass smellingbottle out of her bag and began to sniff vigorously. Sam gazed

backward and paid no attention to her. Ma dame always felt faint when anything unexpected occurred, and

Miss Acton got out, lifting her nice skirts clear of the dusty wheel, and she scuttled back to the up roarious

strawwagon, showing her slender ankles and trimly shod feet. Miss Acton was a very wiry, dainty woman,

full of nervous energy. When she reached the strawwagon Miss Parmalee was climb ing out, assisted by

the driver. Miss Parmalee was very pale and visibly tremulous. The children were all shrieking in dissonance,

so it was quite impossible to tell what the burden of their tale of woe was; but obviously something of a tragic

"What is the matter?" asked Miss Acton, tee tering like a hummingbird with excitement.

Then the cry of the children for little Lucy Rose, although sadly wrangled, became intelligible. Ma dame

came, holding up her silk skirt and sniffing at her smellingbottle, and everybody asked ques tions of

everybody else, and nobody knew any satis factory answers. Johnny Trumbull was confident that he was the

last one to see little Lucy, and so were Lily Jennings and Amelia Wheeler, and so were Jim Patterson and

Bubby Harvey and Arnold Carruth and Lee Westminster and many others; but when pinned down to the

actual moment everybody disagreed, and only one thing was cer tain little Lucy Rose was missing.

"Of course, we shall find her before we say any thing," returned Miss Parmalee, who was sure to rise to an

emergency. Madame sank helpless be fore one. "You had better go and sit under that tree (Sam, take a

cushion out of the carriage for Madame) and keep quiet; then Sam must drive to the village and give the

alarm, and the straw wagon had better go, too; and the rest of us will hunt by threes, three always keeping

together. Re member, children, three of you keep together, and, whatever you do, be sure and do not

It seemed very sound advice. Madame, pale and frightened, sat on the cushion under the tree and sniffed at

her smellingbottle, and the rest scattered and searched the grove and surrounding underbrush thoroughly.

But it was sunset when the groups returned to Madame under her tree, and the straw wagon with excited

people was back, and the victoria with Lucy's father and the rector and his wife, and Dr. Trumbull in his

buggy, and other carriages fast arriving. Poor Miss Martha Rose had been out calling when she heard the

news, and she was walk ing to the scene of action. The victoria in which her cousin was seated left her in a

cloud of dust. Cyril Rose had not noticed the mincing figure with the cardcase and the parasol.

The village searched for little Lucy Rose, but it was Jim Patterson who found her, and in the most unlikely of

places. A forlorn pair with a multi plicity of forlorn children lived in a tumbledown house about half a mile

from the grove. The man's name was Silas Thomas, and his wife's was Sarah. Poor Sarah had lost a large part

of the small wit she had originally owned several years before, when her youngest daughter, aged four, died.

All the babies that had arrived since had not consoled her for the death of that little lamb, by name Viola

May, nor restored her full measure of underwit. Poor Sarah Thomas had spied adorable little Lucy separated

from her mates by chance for a few minutes, pick ing wild flowers, and had seized her in forcible but loving

arms and carried her home. Had Lucy not been such a silent, docile child, it could never have happened; but

she was a mere little limp thing in the grasp of the overloving, deprived mother who thought she had gotten

When Jim Patterson, bigeyed and pale, looked in at the Thomas door, there sat Sarah Thomas, a large,

unkempt, wildvisaged, but gentle creature, holding little Lucy and cuddling her, while Lucy, shrinking away

as far as she was able, kept her big, dark eyes of wonder and fear upon the woman's face. And all around

were clustered the Thomas children, unkempt as their mother, a gentle but degenerate brood, all of them

believing what their mother said. Viola May had come home again. Silas Thomas was not there; he was

trudging slowly homeward from a job of woodcutting. Jim saw only the mother, little Lucy, and that poor

little flock of children gazing in wonder and awe. Jim rushed in and faced Sarah Thomas. "Give me little

Lucy!" said he, as fiercely as any man. But he reckoned without the unreasoning love of a mother. Sarah only

held little Lucy faster, and the poor little girl rolled appealing eyes at him over that brawny, grasping arm of

Jim raced for help, and it was not long before it came. Little Lucy rode home in the victoria, seated in Sally

Patterson's lap. "Mother, you take her," Jim had pleaded; and Sally, in the face and eyes of Madame, had

gathered the little trembling crea ture into her arms. In her heart she had not much of an opinion of any

woman who had allowed such a darling little girl out of her sight for a moment. Madame accepted a seat in

another carriage and rode home, explaining and sniffing and inwardly resolving never again to have a

Jim stood on the step of the victoria all the way home. They passed poor Miss Martha Rose, still faring

toward the grove, and nobody noticed her, for the second time. She did not turn back until the strawwagon,

which formed the tail of the little procession, reached her. That she halted with mad waves of her parasol,

and, when told that little Lucy was found, refused a seat on the straw because she did not wish to rumple her

The rectory was reached before Cyril Rose's house, and Cyril yielded gratefully to Sally Patter son's

proposition that she take the little girl with her, give her dinner, see that she was washed and brushed and

freed from possible contamination from the Thomases, who were not a cleanly lot, and later brought home in

the rector's carriage. However, little Lucy stayed all night at the rectory. She had a bath; her lovely, misty hair

was brushed; she was fed and petted; and finally Sally Patterson telephoned for permission to keep her

overnight. By that time poor Martha had reached home and was busily brushing her best dress.

After dinner, little Lucy, very happy and quite restored, sat in Sally Patterson's lap on the veranda, while Jim

hovered near. His innocent boylove made him feel as if he had wings. But his wings only bore him to

failure, before an earlier and mightier force of love than his young heart could yet compass for even such a

darling as little Lucy. He sat on the veranda step and gazed eagerly and rapturously at little Lucy on his

mother's lap, and the desire to have her away from other loves came over him. He saw the fireflies dancing in

swarms on the lawn, and a favorite sport of the children of the village occurred to him.

Little Lucy looked up with big, dark eyes under her mist of hair, as she nestled against Sally Patter son's

Little Lucy nestled closer. "I would rather stay with you," said she in her meek flute of a voice, and she gazed

Sally kissed her and laughed. Then she reached down a fond hand and patted her boy's head. "Never mind,

MARGARET LEE encountered in her late middle age the rather singular strait of being entirely alone in the

world. She was unmarried, and as far as relatives were concerned, she had none except those connected with

Margaret had not married when her flesh had been comparative; later, when it had become superlative, she

had no opportunities to marry. Life would have been hard enough for Margaret under any circum stances,

but it was especially hard, living, as she did, with her father's stepdaughter and that daughter's husband.

Margaret's stepmother had been a child in spite of her two marriages, and a very silly, although pretty child.

The daughter, Camille, was like her, although not so pretty, and the man whom Camille had mar ried was

what Margaret had been taught to regard as "common." His business pursuits were irregular and partook of

mystery. He always smoked ciga rettes and chewed gum. He wore loud shirts and a diamond scarfpin

which had upon him the appear ance of stolen goods. The gem had belonged to Margaret's own mother, but

when Camille expressed a desire to present it to Jack Desmond, Margaret had yielded with no outward

hesitation, but after ward she wept miserably over its loss when alone in her room. The spirit had gone out

of Margaret, the little which she had possessed. She had always been a gentle, sensitive creature, and was

After all, it had been a long time since Margaret had been able to force the ring even upon her little finger,

but she had derived a small pleasure from the reflection that she owned it in its faded velvet box, hidden

under laces in her top bureau drawer. She did not like to see it blazing forth from the tie of this very ordinary

young man who had married Camille. Margaret had a gentle, highbred contempt for Jack Desmond, but at

the same time a vague fear of him. Jack had a measure of unscrupulous business shrewdness, which spared

Margaret owned the old Lee place, which had been magnificent, but of late years the expenditures had been

reduced and it had deteriorated. The conserva tories had been closed. There was only one horse in the

stable. Jack had bought him. He was a worn out trotter with legs carefully bandaged. Jack drove him at

reckless speed, not considering those slender, braceleted legs. Jack had a racinggig, and when in it, with

striped coat, cap on one side, cigarette in mouth, lines held taut, skimming along the roads in clouds of dust,

he thought himself the man and true sportsman which he was not. Some of the old Lee silver had paid for that

Camille adored Jack, and cared for no associations, no society, for which he was not suited. Before the trotter

was bought she told Margaret that the kind of dinners which she was able to give in Fairhill were awfully

slow. "If we could afford to have some men out from the city, some nice fellers that Jack knows, it would be

worth while," said she, "but we have grown so hard up we can't do a thing to make it worth their while. Those

men haven't got any use for a backnumber old place like this. We can't take them round in autos, nor give

them a chance at cards, for Jack couldn't pay if he lost, and Jack is awful honorable. We can't have the right

kind of folks here for any fun. I don't propose to ask the rector and his wife, and old Mr. Harvey, or people

"I don't care for good old families when they are so slow," retorted Camille. "The fellers we could have here,

if we were rich enough, come from fine families, but they are uptodate. It's no use hang ing on to old

silver dishes we never use and that I don't intend to spoil my hands shining. Poor Jack don't have much fun,

anyway. If he wants that trotter he says it's going dirt cheap I think it's mean he can't have it, instead of

Two generations ago there had been French blood in Camille's family. She put on her clothes beauti fully;

she had a dark, rather finefeatured, alert lit tle face, which gave a wrong impression, for she was

essentially vulgar. Sometimes poor Margaret Lee wished that Camille had been definitely vicious, if only she

might be possessed of more of the charac teristics of breeding. Camille so irritated Margaret in those

somewhat abstruse traits called sensibilities that she felt as if she were living with a sort of spiritual

nutmeggrater. Seldom did Camille speak that she did not jar Margaret, although uncon sciously. Camille

meant to be kind to the stout woman, whom she pitied as far as she was capable of pitying without

understanding. She realized that it must be horrible to be no longer young, and so stout that one was fairly

monstrous, but how horrible she could not with her mentality conceive. Jack also meant to be kind. He was

not of the brutal that is, intentionally brutal type, but he had a shrewd eye to the betterment of himself,

and no realization of the torture he inflicted upon those who opposed that betterment.

For a long time matters had been worse than usual financially in the Lee house. The sisters had been left in

charge of the sadly dwindled estate, and had depended upon the judgment, or lack of judgment, of Jack. He

approved of taking your chances and striking for larger income. The few good old grand father securities

had been sold, and wild ones from the very jungle of commerce had been substituted. Jack, like most of his

type, while shrewd, was as credulous as a child. He lied himself, and expected all men to tell him the truth.

Camille at his bidding mortgaged the old place, and Margaret dared not oppose. Taxes were not paid; interest

was not paid; credit was exhausted. Then the house was put up at public auction, and brought little more than

suffi cient to pay the creditors. Jack took the balance and staked it in a few games of chance, and of course

lost. The weary trotter stumbled one day and had to be shot. Jack became desperate. He frightened Camille.

He was suddenly morose. He bade Ca mille pack, and Margaret also, and they obeyed. Camille stowed

away her crumpled finery in the bulging old trunks, and Margaret folded daintily her few remnants of past

treasures. She had an old silk gown or two, which resisted with their rich honesty the inroads of time, and a

few pieces of old lace, which Camille understood no better than she under stood their owner.

Then Margaret and the Desmonds went to the city and lived in a horrible, tawdry little flat in a tawdry

locality. Jack roared with bitter mirth when he saw poor Margaret forced to enter her tiny room sidewise;

Camille laughed also, although she chided Jack gently. "Mean of you to make fun of poor Margaret, Jacky

For a few weeks Margaret's life in that flat was horrible; then it became still worse. Margaret near ly filled

with her weary, ridiculous bulk her little room, and she remained there most of the time, although it was

sunny and noisy, its one window giving on a courtyard strung with clotheslines and teeming with boisterous

life. Camille and Jack went trolleyriding, and made shift to entertain a little, merry but questionable people,

who gave them passes to vaudeville and entertained in their turn until the small hours. Unquestionably these

She always remembered one little dark man with keen eyes who had seen her disappearing through her door

of a Sunday night when all these gay, be draggled birds were at liberty and the fun ran high. "Great Scott!"

the man had said, and Margaret had heard him demand of Jack that she be recalled. She obeyed, and the man

was introduced, also the other members of the party. Margaret Lee stood in the midst of this throng and heard

their repressed titters of mirth at her appearance. Everybody there was in good humor with the exception of

Jack, who was still nursing his bad luck, and the little dark man, whom Jack owed. The eyes of Jack and the

little dark man made Margaret cold with a ter ror of something, she knew not what. Before that terror the

shame and mortification of her exhibition to that merry company was of no import.

She stood among them, silent, immense, clad in her dark purple silk gown spread over a great hoop skirt. A

real lace collar lay softly over her enormous, billowing shoulders; real lace ruffles lay over her great,

shapeless hands. Her face, the delicacy of whose features was veiled with flesh, flushed and paled. Not even

flesh could subdue the sad brill iancy of her darkblue eyes, fixed inward upon her own sad state,

unregardful of the company. She made an indefinite murmur of response to the saluta tions given her, and

then retreated. She heard the roar of laughter after she had squeezed through the door of her room. Then she

heard eager conversa tion, of which she did not catch the real import, but which terrified her with chance

expressions. She was quite sure that she was the subject of that eager discussion. She was quite sure that it

In a few days she knew the worst; and the worst was beyond her utmost imaginings. This was be fore the

days of movingpicture shows; it was the day of humiliating spectacles of deformities, when inventions of

amusements for the people had not progressed. It was the day of exhibitions of sad freaks of nature,

calculated to provoke tears rather than laughter in the healthyminded, and poor Mar garet Lee was a

chosen victim. Camille informed her in a few words of her fate. Camille was sorry for her, although not in the

least understanding why she was sorry. She realized dimly that Margaret would be distressed, but she was

"Jack has gone broke," stated Camille. "He owes Bill Stark a pile, and he can't pay a cent of it; and Jack's

sense of honor about a poker debt is about the biggest thing in his character. Jack has got to pay. And Bill has

a little circus, going to travel all summer, and he's offered big money for you. Jack can pay Bill what he owes

him, and we'll have enough to live on, and have lots of fun going around. You hadn't ought to make a fuss

Margaret, pale as death, stared at the girl, pertly slim, and common and pretty, who stared back laughingly,

"For a show, because you are so big," replied Camille. "You will make us all rich, Margaret. Ain't it nice?"

Then Camille screamed, the shrill raucous scream of the women of her type, for Margaret had fallen back in a

dead faint, her immense bulk inert in her chair. Jack came running in alarm. Margaret had suddenly gained

Finally Margaret raised her head, opened her miserable eyes, and regained her consciousness of herself and

what lay before her. There was no course open but submission. She knew that from the first. All three faced

destitution; she was the one financial asset, she and her poor flesh. She had to face it, and with what dignity

Margaret had great piety. She kept constantly before her mental vision the fact in which she be lieved, that

the world which she found so hard, and which put her to unspeakable torture, was not all.

A week elapsed before the wretched little show of which she was to be a member went on the road, and night

after night she prayed. She besieged her God for strength. She never prayed for respite. Her realization of the

situation and her lofty reso lution prevented that. The awful, ridiculous com bat was before her; there was

However, when the time came, it was all worse than she had imagined. How could a woman gently born and

bred conceive of the horrible ignominy of such a life? She was dragged hither and yon, to this and that little

town. She traveled through swelter ing heat on jolting trains; she slept in tents; she lived she, Margaret

Lee on terms of equality with the common and the vulgar. Daily her absurd unwieldiness was exhibited to

crowds screaming with laughter. Even her faith wavered. It seemed to her that there was nothing for

evermore beyond those staring, jeering faces of silly mirth and delight at sight of her, seated in two chairs,

clad in a pink spangled dress, her vast shoulders bare and sparkling with a tawdry necklace, her great, bare

arms covered with brass bracelets, her hands in cased in short, white kid gloves, over the fingers of which

Margaret became a horror to herself. At times it seemed to her that she was in the way of fairly losing her

own identity. It mattered little that Camille and Jack were very kind to her, that they showed her the nice

things which her terrible earn ings had enabled them to have. She sat in her two chairs the two chairs

proved a most successful advertisement with her two kidcushiony hands clenched in her pink spangled

lap, and she suffered agony of soul, which made her inner self stern and terrible, behind that great pink mask

of face. And nobody realized until one sultry day when the show opened at a village in a pocket of green hills

Margaret, who had schooled herself to look upon her audience as if they were not, suddenly compre hended

among them another soul who understood her own. She met the eyes of the man, and a won derful comfort,

as of a cool breeze blowing over the face of clear water, came to her. She knew that the man understood. She

knew that she had his fullest sympathy. She saw also a comrade in the toils of comic tragedy, for Sydney

Lord was in the same case. He was a mountain of flesh. As a matter of fact, had he not been known in

Greenhill and respected as a man of weight of character as well as of body, and of an old family, he would

have rivaled Mar garet. Beside him sat an elderly woman, sweet faced, slightly bent as to her slender

shoulders, as if with a chronic attitude of submission. She was Sydney's widowed sister, Ellen Waters. She

Sydney Lord and his sister remained when the rest of the audience had drifted out, after the privileged

handshakes with the queen of the show. Every time a coarse, rustic hand reached familiarly after Margaret's,

He motioned his sister to remain seated when he approached the stage. Jack Desmond, who had been

exploiting Margaret, gazed at him with admiring curiosity. Sydney waved him away with a commanding

gesture. "I wish to speak to her a moment. Pray leave the tent," he said, and Jack obeyed. People always

Sydney stood before Margaret, and he saw the clear crystal, which was herself, within all the flesh, clad in

He continued to gaze at her, and his eyes, large and brown, became blurred; at the same time his mouth

"How came you to be in such a place as this?" demanded Sydney. He spoke almost as if he were angry with

"It is an outrage," declared Sydney. He said it, however, rather absently. He was reflecting. "Where do you

"The house which my grandfather Lee owned, the old Lee mansionhouse, before we went to the city. It was

a very fine old Colonial house," ex plained Margaret, in her finely modulated voice.

"The southeast chamber had always been mine. It was very large, and the furniture was old Spanish

"Yes," said Margaret. She looked at him, and her serious blue eyes seemed to see past him. "It will not last,"

"I try to learn a lesson. I am a child in the school of God. My lesson is one that always ends in peace."

He motioned to his sister, and Ellen approached in a frightened fashion. Her brother could do no wrong, but

"This," said Sydney, "is my sister Ellen, Mrs. Waters. Ellen, I wish you to meet Miss Lee."

Ellen took into her own Margaret's hand, and said feebly that it was a beautiful day and she hoped Miss Lee

Sydney moved slowly out of the tent and found Jack Desmond. He was standing near with Camille, who

looked her best in a paleblue summer silk and a black hat trimmed with roses. Jack and Camille never really

knew how the great man had managed, but presently Margaret had gone away with him and his sister.

"I don't know. I couldn't say anything. That man has a tremendous way with him. Goodness!"

"He is all right here in the place, anyhow," said Jack. "They look up to him. He is a bigbug here. Comes of a

family like Margaret's, though he hasn't got much money. Some chaps were braggin' that they had a bigger

"He could not keep her without bein' arrested," declared Jack, but he looked uneasy. He had, how ever,

looked uneasy for some time. The fact was, Margaret had been very gradually losing weight. Moreover, she

was not well. That very night, after the show was over, Bill Stark, the little dark man, had a talk with the

"Truth is, before long, if you don't look out, you'll have to pad her," said Bill; "and giants don't amount to a

Camille looked worried and sulky. "She ain't very well, anyhow," said she. "I ain't going to kill Margaret."

"It's a good thing she's got a chance to have a night's rest in a house," said Bill Stark.

"The fat man has asked her to stay with him and his sister while the show is here," said Jack.

"The sister invited her," said Camille, with a little stiffness. She was common, but she had lived with Lees,

and her mother had married a Lee. She knew what was due Margaret, and also due herself.

"The truth is," said Camille, "this is an awful sort of life for a woman like Margaret. She and her folks were

"Why didn't you make your beauty husband hustle and take care of her and you, then?" de manded Bill,

"My husband has been unfortunate. He has done the best he could," responded Camille. "Come, Jack; no use

talking about it any longer. Guess Margaret will pick up. Come along. I'm tired out."

That night Margaret Lee slept in a sweet chamber with muslin curtains at the windows, in a massive old

mahogany bed, much like hers which had been sacrificed at an auction sale. The bedlinen was linen, and

smelled of lavender. Margaret was too happy to sleep. She lay in the cool, fragrant sheets and was happy, and

convinced of the presence of the God to whom she had prayed. All night Sydney Lord sat downstairs in his

bookwalled sanctum and studied over the situation. It was a crucial one. The great psychological moment of

Sydney Lord's life for knighterrantry had arrived. He studied the thing from every point of view. There was

no romance about it. These were hard, sordid, tragic, ludicrous facts with which he had to deal. He knew to a

nicety the agonies which Margaret suffered. He knew, because of his own capacity for sufferings of like

If Sydney had been rich enough, the matter would have been simple. He could have paid Jack and Camille

enough to quiet them, and Margaret could have lived with him and his sister and their two old servants. But

he was not rich; he was even poor. The price to be paid for Margaret's liberty was a bitter one, but it was that

or nothing. Sydney faced it. He looked about the room. To him the walls lined with the dull gleams of old

books were lovely. There was an oil portrait of his mother over the mantelshelf. The weather was warm

now, and there was no need for a hearth fire, but how ex quisitely homelike and dear that room could be

when the snow drove outside and there was the leap of flame on the hearth! Sydney was a scholar and a

gentleman. He had led a gentle and sequestered life. Here in his native village there were none to gibe and

sneer. The contrast of the traveling show would be as great for him as it had been for Margaret, but he was

the male of the species, and she the female. Chivalry, racial, harking back to the begin ning of nobility in the

human, to its earliest dawn, fired Sydney. The pale daylight invaded the study. Sydney, as truly as any knight

of old, had girded himself, and with no hope, no thought of reward, for the battle in the eternal service of the

There was only one way. Sydney Lord took it. His sister was spared the knowledge of the truth for a long

while. When she knew, she did not lament; since Sydney had taken the course, it must be right. As for

Margaret, not knowing the truth, she yielded. She was really on the verge of illness. Her spirit was of too fine

a strain to enable her body to endure long. When she was told that she was to remain with Sydney's sister

while Sydney went away on business, she made no objection. A wonderful sense of relief, as of wings of

healing being spread under her despair, was upon her. Camille came to bid her goodby.

"I hope you have a nice visit in this lovely house," said Camille, and kissed her. Camille was astute, and to be

trusted. She did not betray Sydney's confidence. Sydney used a disguise a dark wig over his partially bald

head and a little makeup and he traveled about with the show and sat on three chairs, and shook hands

with the gaping crowd, and was curiously happy. It was discomfort; it was ignominy; it was maddening to

support by the exhibition of his physical deformity a perfectly worthless young couple like Jack and Camille

Always as he sat on his three chairs, immense, grotesque the more grotesque for his splendid dig nity of

bearing there was in his soul of a gallant gentleman the consciousness of that other, whom he was

shielding from a similar ordeal. Compassion and generosity, so great that they comprehended love itself and

excelled its highest type, irradiated the whole being of the fat man exposed to the gaze of his inferiors.

Chivalry, which rendered him almost godlike, strengthened him for his task. Sydney thought always of

Margaret as distinct from her physical self, a sort of crystalline, angelic soul, with no encumbrance of earth.

He achieved a purely spiritual conception of her. And Margaret, living again her gentle lady life, was

likewise ennobled by a gratitude which transformed her. Always a clear and beautiful soul, she gave out new

lights of character like a jewel in the sun. And she also thought of Sydney as distinct from his physical self.

The consciousness of the two human beings, one of the other, was a consciousness as of two wonderful lines

of good and beauty, moving for ever parallel, separate, and inseparable in an eternal harmony of spirit.

JIM BENNET had never married. He had passed middle life, and possessed considerable property. Susan

Adkins kept house for him. She was a widow and a very distant relative. Jim had two nieces, his brother's

daughters. One, Alma Beecher, was married; the other, Amanda, was not. The nieces had naively grasping

views concerning their uncle and his property. They stated freely that they considered him unable to care for

it; that a guardian should be appointed and the property be theirs at once. They consulted Lawyer Thomas

Hopkinson with regard to it; they discoursed at length upon what they claimed to be an idiosyn crasy of

"He keeps a perfect slew of cats, and has a coal fire for them in the woodshed all winter," said Amanda.

"Why in thunder shouldn't he keep a fire in the woodshed if he wants to?" demanded Hopkinson. "I know of

no law against it. And there isn't a law in the country regulating the number of cats a man can keep." Thomas

Hopkinson, who was an old friend of Jim's, gave his prominent chin an up ward jerk as he sat in his office

"What in creation do you expect the poor man to do? He can't talk to Susan Adkins about a blessed thing

except tidies and pincushions. That woman hasn't a thought in her mind outside her soul's salvation and

fancywork. Jim has to talk once in a while to keep himself a man. What if he does talk to himself? I talk to

"He wasn't what I call even gentlemanly," she told Alma, when the two were on their way home.

"I suppose Tom Hopkinson thought you were setting your cap at him," retorted Alma. She rel ished the

dignity of her married state, and enjoyed giving her spinster sister little claws when occasion called.

"YOU needn't talk," said she. "You only took Joe Beecher when you had given up getting anybody better.

You wanted Tom Hopkinson yourself. I haven't forgotten that blue silk dress you got and wore to meeting.

You needn't talk. You know you got that dress just to make Tom look at you, and he didn't. You needn't talk."

"I wouldn't have married Tom Hopkinson if he had been the only man on the face of the earth," declared

Amanda sniffed. "Well, as near as I can find out Uncle Jim can go on talking to himself and keeping cats, and

When the two women were home, they told Alma's husband, Joe Beecher, about their lack of success. They

were quite heated with their walk and excite ment. "I call it a shame," said Alma. "Anybody knows that

"Of course," said Amanda. "What man that had a grain of horse sense would do such a crazy thing as to keep

Alma's husband, Joe Beecher, spoke timidly and undecidedly in the defense. "You know," he said, "that Mrs.

Adkins wouldn't have those cats in the house, and cats mostly like to sit round where it's warm."

His wife regarded him. Her nose wrinkled. "I suppose next thing YOU'LL be wanting to have a cat round

where it's warm, right under my feet, with all I have to do," said she. Her voice had an actual acidity of

Joe gasped. He was a large man with a constant expression of wondering inquiry. It was the expres sion of

his babyhood; he had never lost it, and it was an expression which revealed truly the state of his mind.

Always had Joe Beecher wondered, first of all at finding himself in the world at all, then at the various

happenings of existence. He probably wondered more about the fact of his marriage with Alma Bennet than

anything else, although he never betrayed his wonder. He was always painfully anxious to please his wife, of

whom he stood in awe. Now he hastened to reply: "Why, no, Alma; of course I won't."

"Because," said Alma, "I haven't come to my time of life, through all the trials I've had, to be taking any

chances of breaking my bones over any miserable, furry, fourfooted animal that wouldn't catch a mouse if

"I don't want any cat," repeated Joe, miserably. His fear and awe of the two women increased. When his

Joe repeated in a mumble that he didn't want any cats, and went out, closing the door softly after him, as he

had been taught. However, he was en tirely sure, in the depths of his subjugated masculine mind, that his

wife and her sister had no legal au thority whatever to interfere with their uncle's right to keep a hundred

coal fires in his woodshed, for a thousand cats. He always had an inner sense of glee when he heard the two

women talk over the matter. Once Amanda had declared that she did not believe that Tom Hopkinson knew

"It does not follow he knows law," persisted Amanda, "and it MAY follow that he likes cats. There was that

great Maltese tommy brushing round all the time we were in his office, but I didn't dare shoo him off for fear

it might be against the law." Amanda laughed, a very disagreeable little laugh. Joe said nothing, but inwardly

he chuckled. It was the cause of man with man. He realized a great, even affectionate, understanding of Jim.

The day after his nieces had visited the lawyer's office, Jim was preparing to call on his friend Edward

Hayward, the minister. Before leaving he looked carefully after the fire in the woodshed. The stove was large.

Jim piled on the coal, regardless out wardly that the housekeeper, Susan Adkins, had slammed the kitchen

door to indicate her contempt. Inwardly Jim felt hurt, but he had felt hurt so long from the same cause that the

sensation had become chronic, and was borne with a gentle patience. Moreover, there was something which

troubled him more and was the reason for his contemplated call on his friend. He evened the coals on the fire

with great care, and replenished from the pail in the ice box the cats' saucers. There was a circle of clean

white saucers around the stove. Jim owned many cats; counting the kittens, there were probably over twenty.

Jim often gave away cats when he was confident of securing good homes, but supply exceeded the demand.

Now and then tragedies took place in that woodshed. Susan Adkins came bravely to the front upon these

occasions. Quite convinced was Susan Adkins that she had a good home, and it behooved her to keep it, and

she did not in the least object to drowning, now and then, a few very young kittens. She did this with neatness

and despatch while Jim walked to the store on an errand and was supposed to know nothing about it. There

was simply not enough room in his woodshed for the accumulation of cats, although his heart could have

That day, as he poured out the milk, cats of all ages and sizes and colors purred in a softly padding multitude

around his feet, and he regarded them with love. There were tiger cats, Maltese cats, black andwhite cats,

black cats and white cats, tommies and females, and his heart leaped to meet the plead ing mews of all. The

saucers were surrounded. Little pink tongues lapped. "Pretty pussy! pretty pussy!" cooed Jim, addressing

them in general. He put on his overcoat and hat, which he kept on a peg behind the door. Jim had an

armchair in the wood shed. He always sat there when he smoked; Susan Adkins demurred at his smoking

in the house, which she kept so nice, and Jim did not dream of rebellion. He never questioned the right of a

woman to bar tobacco smoke from a house. Before leaving he refilled some of the saucers. He was not sure

that all of the cats were there; some might be afield, hunting, and he wished them to find refreshment when

they returned. He stroked the splendid striped back of a great tiger tommy which filled his arm chair. This

cat was his special pet. He fastened the outer shed door with a bit of rope in order that it might not blow

entirely open, and yet allow his feline friends to pass, should they choose. Then he went out.

The day was clear, with a sharp breath of frost. The fields gleamed with frost, offering to the eye a fine

shimmer as of diamonddust under the brilliant blue sky, overspread in places with a dapple of little white

"White frost and mackerel sky; going to be falling weather," Jim said, aloud, as he went out of the yard,

Susan Adkins at a window saw his lips moving. His talking to himself made her nervous, although it did not

render her distrustful of his sanity. It was fortunate that Susan had not told Jim that she disliked his habit. In

that case he would have deprived himself of that slight solace; he would not have dreamed of opposing

Susan's wishes. Jim had a great pity for the nervous whims, as he regarded them, of women a pity so

intense and tender that it verged on respect and veneration. He passed his nieces' house on the way to the

Jim went on, blissfully unconscious. He talked in a quiet monotone; only now and then his voice rose; only

now and then there were accompanying gestures. Jim had a straight mile down the broad village street to

Jim and the minister had been friends since boy hood. They were graduates and classmates of the same

college. Jim had had unusual educational ad vantages for a man coming from a simple family. The front

door of the parsonage flew open when Jim entered the gate, and the minister stood there smiling. He was a

tall, thin man with a wide mouth, which either smiled charmingly or was set with severity. He was as brown

and dry as a wayside weed which winter had subdued as to bloom but could not entirely prostrate with all its

icy storms and compelling blasts. Jim, advancing eagerly tow ard the warm welcome in the door, was a

small man, and bent at that, but he had a handsome old face, with the rose of youth on the cheeks and the

light of youth in the blue eyes, and the quick changes of youth, before emotions, about the mouth.

"Hullo, Jim!" cried Dr. Edward Hayward. Hay ward, for a doctor of divinity, was considered some what

lacking in dignity at times; still, he was Dr. Hayward, and the failing was condoned. More over, he was a

Hayward, and the Haywards had been, from the memory of the oldest inhabitant, the great people of the

village. Dr. Hayward's house was presided over by his widowed cousin, a lady of enough dignity to make up

for any lack of it in the minister. There were three servants, besides the old butler who had been Hayward's

attendant when he had been a young man in college. Village people were proud of their minister, with his

Hayward led, and Jim followed, to the least pre tentious room in the house not the study proper, which

was lofty, booklined, and leatherfurnished, curtained with broad sweeps of crimson damask, but a little

shabby place back of it, accessible by a nar row door. The little room was lined with shelves; they held few

books, but a collection of queer and dusty things strange weapons, minerals, odds and ends which the

"Louisa," Hayward had told his cousin when she entered upon her post, "do as you like with the whole house,

but let my little study alone. Let it look as if it had been stirred up with a gardenrake that little room is

my territory, and no disgrace to you, my dear, if the dust rises in clouds at every step."

Jim was as fond of the little room as his friend. He entered, and sighed a great sigh of satisfaction as he sank

into the shabby, dusty hollow of a large chair before the hearth fire. Immediately a black cat leaped into his

lap, gazed at him with green jewel eyes, worked her paws, purred, settled into a coil, and slept. Jim lit his

pipe and threw the match blissfully on the floor. Dr. Hayward set an electric coffeeurn at its work, for the

little room was a curious mixture of the comfortable old and the comfortable modern.

"Louisa will not mind," said Hayward. "She is precise, but she has a fine regard for the rights of the

individual, which is most commendable." He seated himself in a companion chair to Jim's, lit his own pipe,

and threw the match on the floor. Occasion ally, when the minister was out, Sam, without orders so to do,

Hayward smoked and regarded his friend, who looked troubled despite his comfort. "What is it, Jim?" asked

"I don't know how to do what is right for me to do," replied the little man, and his face, turned toward his

Hayward laughed. It was easily seen that his was the keener mind. In natural endowments there had never

been equality, although there was great similarity of tastes. Jim, despite his education, often lapsed into the

homely vernacular of which he heard so much. An involuntarily imitative man in externals was Jim, but

"You know, Edward, I have never been one to complain," he said, with an almost boyish note of apology.

"Well, I overheard something Mis' Adkins said to Mis' Amos Trimmer the other afternoon. Mis' Trimmer was

calling on Mis' Adkins. I couldn't help overhearing unless I went outdoors, and it was snowing and I had a

"Well, I couldn't help it unless I went outdoors. Mis' Adkins she was in the kitchen making light bread for

supper, and Mis' Trimmer had sat right down there with her. Mis' Adkins's kitchen is as clean as a parlor,

anyway. Mis' Adkins said to Mis' Trimmer, speaking of me because Mis' Trimmer had just asked where I

was and Mis' Adkins had said I was out in the woodshed sitting with the cats and smoking Mis' Adkins

said, 'He's just a door mat, that's what he is.' Then Mis' Trimmer says, 'The way he lets folks ride over him

beats me.' Then Mis' Adkins says again: 'He's nothing but a doormat. He lets everybody that wants to just

trample on him and grind their dust into him, and he acts real pleased and grateful.'"

Hayward's face flushed. "Did Mrs. Adkins men tion that she was one of the people who used you for a

Jim threw back his head and laughed like a child, with the sweetest sense of unresentful humor. "Lord bless

"And at that very minute you, with a hard cold, were sitting out in that draughty shed smoking because she

"Could you see to read your paper out there, with only that little shed window? And don't you like to read

"Oh yes," admitted Jim; "but my! I don't mind little things like that! Mis' Adkins is only a poor widow

woman, and keeping my house nice and not having it smell of tobacco is all she's got. They can talk about

women's rights I feel as if they ought to have them fast enough, if they want them, poor things; a woman

has a hard row to hoe, and will have, if she gets all the rights in creation. But I guess the rights they'd find it

hardest to give up would be the rights to have men look after them just a little more than they look after other

men, just because they are women. When I think of Annie Berry the girl I was going to marry, you know,

if she hadn't died I feel as if I couldn't do enough for another woman. Lord! I'm glad to sit out in the

Then the coffee boiled, and Hayward poured out some for Jim and himself. He had a little silver ser vice at

hand, and willowware cups and saucers. Presently Sam appeared, and Hayward gave orders concerning

"Tell Miss Louisa we are to have it served here," said he, "and mind, Sam, the chops are to be thick and

"It does seem rather a pity that you cannot have chutney at home with your chops, when you are so fond of

"Mis' Adkins says it will give me liver trouble, and she isn't strong enough to nurse."

"Well, she doesn't put seasoning in it," admitted Jim. "But Mis' Adkins doesn't like seasoning her self, and I

"Mis' Adkins likes her meat well done, and she can't get such thick chops well done. I suppose our chops are

"Beefsteak and chops, both cut thin, and fried up like soleleather. I know!" said Dr. Hayward, and he

"You ought to mind, when it is your own house, and you buy the food and pay your housekeeper. It is an

Dr. Hayward regarded Jim with a curious ex pression compounded of love, anger, and contempt. "Any more

"Yes, he ought; he ought to tell it all over town. He doesn't, but he ought. It is an outrage! Here you have

been all these years supporting your nieces, and they are working away like fieldmice, burrowing under

your generosity, trying to get a chance to take action and appropriate your property and have you put under a

The other man looked inquiringly at him, and, seeing a pitiful working of his friend's face, he jumped up and

got a little jar from a shelf. "We will drop the whole thing until we have had our chops and chutney," said he.

"You are right; it is not worth minding. Here is a new brand of tobacco I want you to try. I don't half like it,

Jim, with a pleased smile, reached out for the tobacco, and the two men smoked until Sam brought the

luncheon. It was well cooked and well served on an antique table. Jim was thoroughly happy. It was not until

the luncheon was over and another pipe smoked that the troubled, perplexed expression returned to his face.

"It is only the old affair about Alma and Amanda, but now it has taken on a sort of new aspect."

"It seems," said Jim, slowly, "as if they were making it so I couldn't do for them."

Hayward stamped his foot. "That does sound new," he said, dryly. "I never thought Alma Beecher or Amanda

"Well," said Jim, "perhaps they don't now, but they want me to do it in their own way. They don't want to feel

as if I was giving and they taking; they want it to seem the other way round. You see, if I were to deed over

my property to them, and then they allowance me, they would feel as if they were doing the giving."

"No, I wouldn't," replied Jim, simply. "They wouldn't know how to take care of it, and Mis' Adkins would be

left to shift for herself. Joe Beecher is real goodhearted, but he always lost every dollar he touched. No,

there wouldn't be any sense in that. I don't mean to give in, but I do feel pretty well worked up over it."

"Out with it, now. One thing you may be sure of: nothing that you can tell me will alter my opinion of your

two nieces for the worse. As for poor Joe Beecher, there is no opinion, one way or the other. What did they

Jim regarded his friend with a curiously sweet, faroff expression. "Edward," he said, "sometimes I believe

that the greatest thing a man's friends can do for him is to drive him into a corner with God; to be so unjust to

him that they make him under stand that God is all that mortal man is meant to have, and that is why he

finds out that most people, especially the ones he does for, don't care for him."

Hayward looked solemnly and tenderly at the other's almost rapt face. "You are right, I suppose, old man,"

Jim looked at his friend with dignity. "They were two women talking, and they went into little matters not

worth repeating," said he. "All is they seemed to blame me for everything I had ever done for them, and

for everything I had ever done, anyway. They seemed to blame me for being born and living, and, most of all,

"I can't seem to see anything plain about it," returned Jim, in a bewildered way. "I always sup posed a man

had to do something bad to be given a talking to; but it isn't so much that, and I don't bear any malice against

them. They are only two women, and they are nervous. What worries me is, they do need things, and they

can't get on and be comfortable unless I do for them; but if they are going to feel that way about it, it seems to

The other man stamped. "Jim Bennet," he said, "they have talked, and now I am going to."

"Yes, I am. It is entirely true what those two women, Susan Adkins and Mrs. Trimmer, said about you. You

ARE a doormat, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself for it. A man should be a man, and not a

doormat. It is the worst thing in the world for people to walk over him and trample him. It does them much

more harm than it does him. In the end the trampler is much worse off than the trampled upon. Jim Bennet,

your being a door mat may cost other people their souls' salvation. You are selfish in the grain to be a

Jim turned pale. His childlike face looked sud denly old with his mental effort to grasp the other's

meaning. In fact, he was a child one of the little ones of the world although he had lived the span of a

man's life. Now one of the hardest problems of the elders of the world was presented to him. "You mean "

"I mean, Jim, that for the sake of other people, if not for your own sake, you ought to stop being a doormat

"I want you to go straight to those nieces of yours and tell them the truth. You know what your wrongs are as

well as I do. You know what those two women are as well as I do. They keep the letter of the Ten

Commandments that is right. They attend my church that is right. They scour the outside of the platter

until it is bright enough to blind those people who don't understand them; but inwardly they are petty,

ravening wolves of greed and ingratitude. Go and tell them; they don't know themselves. Show them what

"Very well, their taxes are paid for this year; let them use that money. They will not suffer, ex cept in their

feelings, and that is where they ought to suffer. Man, you would spoil all the work of the Lord by your selfish

"Yes, I do now. If you don't go now you never will. Then, afterward, I want you to go home and sit in

"I don't care about Mrs. Adkins. She isn't as bad as the rest, but she needs her little lesson, too."

"Edward, the way that poor woman works to keep the house nice and she don't like the smell of tobacco

Jim stood up. There was a curious change in his rosy, childlike face. There was a species of quicken ing.

He looked at once older and more alert. His friend's words had charged him as with electricity. When he went

Amanda Bennet and Alma Beecher, sitting sewing at their street windows, made this mistake.

"That isn't Uncle Jim," said Amanda. "That man is a head taller, but he looks a little like him."

Jim entered. Nobody except himself, his nieces, and Joe Beecher ever knew exactly what happened, what was

the aspect of the doormat erected to human life, of the worm turned to menace. It must have savored of

horror, as do all meek and down trodden things when they gain, driven to bay, the strength to do battle. It

must have savored of the godlike, when the man who had borne with patience, dignity, and sorrow for them

the stings of lesser things because they were lesser things, at last arose and revealed himself superior, with a

When Jim stopped talking and went home, two pale, shocked faces of women gazed after him from the

windows. Joe Beecher was sobbing like a child. Finally his wife turned her frightened face upon him, glad to

"For goodness' sake, Joe Beecher, stop crying like a baby," said she, but she spoke in a queer whis per, for

"Going to get a job somewhere," replied Joe, and went. Soon the women saw him driving a neighbor's cart up

"Why don't you stop him?" cried her sister. "You can't have your husband driving a tipcart for John Leach.

Her sister gazed at her, and the same expression was on both faces, making them more than sisters of the

flesh. Both saw before them a stern boundary wall against which they might press in vain for the rest of their

Meantime Jim Bennet was seated in his best parlor and Susan Adkins was whispering to Mrs. Trimmer out in

"I don't know whether he's gone stark, staring mad or not," whispered Susan, "but he's in the parlor smoking

his worst old pipe, and that big tiger tommy is sitting in his lap, and he's let in all the other cats, and they're

nosing round, and I don't dare drive 'em out. I took up the broom, then I put it away again. I never knew Mr.

"No, he didn't say much of anything, but he said it in a way that made my flesh fairly creep. Says he, 'As long

as this is my house and my furniture and my cats, Mis' Adkins, I think I'll sit down in the parlor, where I can

see to read my paper and smoke at the same time.' Then he holds the kitchen door open, and he calls, 'Kitty,

kitty, kitty!' and that great tiger tommy comes in with his tail up, rubbing round his legs, and all the other cats

followed after. I shut the door before these last ones got into the parlor." Susan Adkins regarded malevolently

the three tortoiseshell cats of three generations and vari ous stages of growth, one Maltese settled in a

purring round of comfort with four kittens, and one perfectly black cat, which sat glaring at her with

"The old cat hid them away until they were too big. Then he wouldn't let me. What do you sup pose has

"Men do take queer streaks every now and then," said Mrs. Trimmer. "My husband used to, and he was as

good as they make 'em, poor man. He would eat sugar on his beefsteak, for one thing. The first time I saw

him do it I was scared. I thought he was plum crazy, but afterward I found out it was just because he was a

man, and his ma hadn't wanted him to eat sugar when he was a boy. Mr. Bennet will get over it."

"Oh yes, he will. Jim Bennet never stuck to anything but being Jim Bennet for very long in his life, and this

"Seems to me he's too good to 'most everybody. Think what he has done for Amanda and Alma, and how

"Yes, they are ungrateful and real mean to him; and I feel sometimes as if I would like to tell them just what I

think of them," said Susan Adkins. "Poor man, there he is, studying all the time what he can do for people,

Mrs. Trimmer arose to take leave. She had a long, sallow face, capable of a sarcastic smile. "Then," said she,

"if I were you I wouldn't begrudge him a chair in the parlor and a chance to read and smoke and hold a

"Who said I was begrudging it? I can air out the parlor when he's got over the notion."

"Well, he will, so you needn't worry," said Mrs. Trimmer. As she went down the street she could see Jim's

profile beside the parlor window, and she smiled her sarcastic smile, which was not altogether unpleasant.

"He's stopped smoking, and he ain't reading," she told herself. "It won't be very long before he's Jim Bennet

But it was longer than she anticipated, for Jim's will was propped by Edward Hayward's. Edward kept Jim to

his standpoint for weeks, until a few days before Christmas. Then came selfassertion, that selfassertion of

negation which was all that Jim possessed in such a crisis. He called upon Dr. Hayward; the two were

together in the little study for nearly an hour, and talk ran high, then Jim prevailed.

"It's no use, Edward," he said; "a man can't be made over when he's cut and dried in one fashion, the way I

am. Maybe I'm doing wrong, but to me it looks like doing right, and there's something in the Bible about

every man having his own right and wrong. If what you say is true, and I am hin dering the Lord Almighty

in His work, then it is for Him to stop me. He can do it. But meantime I've got to go on doing the way I

always have. Joe has been trying to drive that tipcart, and the horse ran away with him twice. Then he let the

cart fall on his foot and mash one of his toes, and he can hardly get round, and Amanda and Alma don't dare

touch that money in the bank for fear of not having enough to pay the taxes next year in case I don't help

them. They only had a little money on hand when I gave them that talking to, and Christmas is 'most here,

and they haven't got things they really need. Amanda's coat that she wore to meeting last Sunday didn't look

very warm to me, and poor Alma had her furs chewed up by the Leach dog, and she's going without any.

They need lots of things. And poor Mis' Adkins is 'most sick with tobacco smoke. I can see it, though she

doesn't say anything, and the nice parlor curtains are full of it, and cat hairs are all over things. I can't hold out

any longer, Edward. Maybe I am a doormat; and if I am, and it is wicked, may the Lord forgive me, for I've

Hayward sighed and lighted his pipe. However, he had given up and connived with Jim.

On Christmas eve the two men were in hiding behind a clump of cedars in the front yard of Jim's nieces'

house. They watched the expressman deliver a great load of boxes and packages. Jim drew a breath of joyous

Hayward looked down at the dim face of the man beside him, and something akin to fear entered his heart.

He saw the face of a lifelong friend, but he saw something in it which he had never recog nized before. He

saw the face of one of the children of heaven, giving only for the sake of the need of others, and glorifying

"I was afraid they wouldn't take them!" whis pered Jim, and his watching face was beautiful, although it was

only the face of a little, old man of a little village, with no great gift of intellect. There was a full moon riding

high; the ground was covered with a glistening snowlevel, over which wavered wonderful shadows, as of

wings. One great star pre vailed despite the silver might of the moon. To Hayward Jim's face seemed to

Jim crept noiselessly toward a window, Hayward at his heels. The two could see the lighted interior plainly.

"See poor Alma trying on her furs," whispered Jim, in a rapture. "See Amanda with her coat. They have

found the money. See Joe heft the tur key." Suddenly he caught Hayward's arm, and the two crept away.

Out on the road, Jim fairly sobbed with pure delight. "Oh, Edward," he said,"I am so thankful they took the

things! I was so afraid they wouldn't, and they needed them! Oh, Edward, I am so thankful!" Edward pressed

When they reached Jim's house a great tigercat leaped to Jim's shoulder with the silence and swift ness of a

shadow. "He's always watching for me," said Jim, proudly. "Pussy! Pussy!" The cat be gan to purr loudly,

"I suppose," said Hayward, with something of awe in his tone, "that you won't smoke in the parlor tonight?"

"Edward, I really can't. Poor woman, she's got it all aired and beautifully cleaned, and she's so happy over it.

There's a good fire in the shed, and I will sit there with the pussycats until I go to bed. Oh, Edward, I am so

Hayward watched the little man pass along the path to the shed door. Jim's back was slightly bent, but to his

friend it seemed bent beneath a holy burden of love and pity for all humanity, and the inheritance of the meek

seemed to crown that drooping old head. The doormat, again spread freely for the trampling feet of all who

got comfort thereby, became a blessed thing. The humble creature, despised and held in contempt like One

greater than he, giving for the sake of the needs of others, went along the narrow footpath through the snow.

The minister took off his hat and stood watching until the door was opened and closed and the little window

MISS JANE CAREW was at the railroad station waiting for the New York train. She was about to visit her

friend, Mrs. Viola Longstreet. With Miss Carew was her maid, Margaret, a middle aged New England

woman, attired in the stiffest and most correct of maiduniforms. She carried an old, large soleleather bag,

and also a rather large soleleather jewelcase. The jewelcase, carried openly, was rather an unusual sight

at a New Eng land railroad station, but few knew what it was. They concluded it to be Margaret's special

hand bag. Margaret was a very tall, thin woman, un bending as to carriage and expression. The one thing

out of absolute plumb about Margaret was her little black bonnet. That was askew. Time had bereft the

woman of so much hair that she could fasten no headgear with security, especially when the wind blew, and

that morning there was a stiff gale. Margaret's bonnet was cocked over one eye. Miss Carew noticed it.

Margaret straightened her bonnet, but immedi ately the bonnet veered again to the side, weighted by a stiff

jet aigrette. Miss Carew observed the careen of the bonnet, realized that it was inevitable, and did not mention

it again. Inwardly she resolved upon the removal of the jet aigrette later on. Miss Carew was slightly older

than Margaret, and dressed in a style somewhat beyond her age. Jane Carew had been alert upon the situation

of departing youth. She had eschewed gay colors and extreme cuts, and had her bonnets made to order,

because there were no longer anything but hats in the millinery shop. The milliner in Wheaton, where Miss

"A bonnet is too old for you. Miss Carew," she said. "Women much older than you wear hats."

"I trust that I know what is becoming to a woman of my years, thank you. Miss Waters," Jane had replied,

After Miss Carew had left, the milliner told her girls that she had never seen a woman so perfectly crazy to

look her age as Miss Carew. "And she a pretty woman, too," said the milliner; "as straight as an arrer, and

Miss Carew, with all her haste to assume years, remained a pretty woman, softly slim, with an abun dance

of dark hair, showing little gray. Sometimes Jane reflected, uneasily, that it ought at her time of life to be

entirely gray. She hoped nobody would suspect her of dyeing it. She wore it parted in the middle, folded back

smoothly, and braided in a compact mass on the top of her head. The style of her clothes was slightly behind

the fashion, just enough to suggest conservatism and age. She car ried a little silverbound bag in one nicely

gloved hand; with the other she held daintily out of the dust of the platform her dressskirt. A glimpse of a

silk frilled petticoat, of slender feet, and ankles delicately slim, was visible before the onslaught of the wind.

Jane Carew made no futile effort to keep her skirts down before the windgusts. She was so much of the

gentlewoman that she could be gravely oblivious to the exposure of her ankles. She looked as if she had

never heard of ankles when her black silk skirts lashed about them. She rose superbly above the situation. For

some abstruse reason Mar garet's skirts were not affected by the wind. They might have been weighted with

buckram, although it was no longer in general use. She stood, except for her veering bonnet, as stiffly

Miss Carew seldom left Wheaton. This visit to New York was an innovation. Quite a crowd gath ered about

Jane's soleleather trunk when it was dumped on the platform by the local expressman. "Miss Carew is going

to New York," one said to another, with much the same tone as if he had said, "The great elm on the common

When the train arrived, Miss Carew, followed by Margaret, stepped aboard with a majestic disregard of

ankles. She sat beside a window, and Margaret placed the bag on the floor and held the jewelcase in her lap.

The case contained the Carew jewels. They were not especially valuable, although they were rather

numerous. There were cameos in brooches and heavy gold bracelets; corals which Miss Carew had not worn

since her young girlhood. There were a set of garnets, some badly cut diamonds in earrings and rings, some

seedpearl ornaments, and a really beautiful set of amethysts. There were a necklace, two brooches a bar

and a circle ear rings, a ring, and a comb. Each piece was charm ing, set in filigree gold with

seedpearls, but perhaps of them all the comb was the best. It was a very large comb. There was one great

amethyst in the center of the top; on either side was an intricate pattern of plums in small amethysts, and

seedpearl grapes, with leaves and stems of gold. Margaret in charge of the jewelcase was imposing. When

they arrived in New York she confronted every body whom she met with a stony stare, which was almost

accusative and convictive of guilt, in spite of entire innocence on the part of the person stared at. It was

inconceivable that any mortal would have dared lay violent hands upon that jewelcase under that stare. It

When the two reached the uptown residence of Viola Longstreet, Viola gave a little scream at the sight of

"My dear Jane Carew, here you are with Mar garet carrying that jewelcase out in plain sight. How dare

Miss Carew smiled her gentle but almost stern smile the Carew smile, which consisted in a widen ing

"I do not think," said she, "that anybody would be apt to interfere with Margaret."

Viola Longstreet laughed, the ringing peal of a child, although she was as old as Miss Carew. "I think you are

right, Jane," said she. "I don't be lieve a crook in New York would dare face that maid of yours. He would

as soon encounter Ply mouth Rock. I am glad you have brought your de lightful old jewels, although you

"Now," stated Jane, with a little toss of pride, "I have Aunt Felicia's amethysts."

"Oh, sure enough! I remember you did write me last summer that she had died and you had the amethysts at

"She might have given you the amethysts before. You, of course, will wear them; and I am going to

"You do not object, do you, dear? I have a new dinnergown which clamors for corals, and my bank

Viola Longstreet shrieked with laughter. "Oh, I know. You think the corals too young for me. You have not

worn them since you left off dotted muslin. My dear, you insisted upon growing old I insisted upon

remaining young. I had two new dotted muslins last summer. As for corals, I would wear them in the face of

an opposing army! Do not judge me by yourself, dear. You laid hold of Age and held him, although you had

your com plexion and your shape and hair. As for me, I had my complexion and kept it. I also had my hair

and kept it. My shape has been a struggle, but it was worth while. I, my dear, have held Youth so tight that he

has almost choked to death, but held him I have. You cannot deny it. Look at me, Jane Carew, and tell me if,

judging by my looks, you can reasonably state that I have no longer the right to wear corals."

Jane Carew looked. She smiled the Carew smile. "You DO look very young, Viola," said Jane, "but you are

"Jane Carew," said Viola, "I am young. May I wear your corals at my dinner tomorrow night?"

"If I think them suitable. My dear, if there were on this earth ornaments more suitable to ex treme youth

than corals, I would borrow them if you owned them, but, failing that, the corals will answer. Wait until you

Jane waited. She visited with Viola, whom she loved, although they had little in common, partly because of

leading widely different lives, partly be cause of constitutional variations. She was dressed for dinner fully

an hour before it was necessary, and she sat in the library reading when Viola swept in.

Viola was really entrancing. It was a pity that Jane Carew had such an unswerving eye for the essential truth

that it could not be appeased by actual effect. Viola had doubtless, as she had said, struggled to keep her slim

shape, but she had kept it, and, what was more, kept it without evidence of struggle. If she was in the least

hampered by tight lacing and length of undergarment, she gave no evidence of it as she curled herself up in a

big chair and (Jane wondered how she could bring her self to do it) crossed her legs, revealing one delicate

foot and ankle, silkstockinged with taupe, and shod with a coral satin slipper with a silver heel and a great

silver buckle. On Viola's fair round neck the Carew corals lay bloomingly; her beautiful arms were clasped

with them; a great coral brooch with wonderful carving confined a graceful fold of the taupe over one hip, a

coral comb surmounted the shining waves of Viola's hair. Viola was an ash blonde, her complexion was as

roses, and the corals were ideal for her. As Jane regarded her friend's beauty, however, the fact that Viola was

"Well, Jane, don't you think I look well in the corals, after all?" asked Viola, and there was some thing

When a man or a woman holds fast to youth, even if successfully, there is something of the pitiful and the

tragic involved. It is the everlasting struggle of the soul to retain the joy of earth, whose fleeting distinguishes

it from heaven, and whose retention is not accomplished without an inner knowledge of its futility.

"I suppose you do, Viola," replied Jane Carew, with the inflexibility of fate, "but I really think that only very

Viola laughed, but the laugh had a minor cadence. "But I AM a young girl, Jane," she said. "I MUST be a

Viola had married, when very young, a man old enough to be her father, and her wedded life had been a sad

affair, to which, however, she seldom alluded. Viola had much pride with regard to the inevitable past.

"Yes," agreed Jane. Then she added, feeling that more might be expected, "Of course I suppose that marrying

"Yes," said Viola, "it does. In fact, it makes of one's girlhood an anticlimax, of which many dis pute the

Jane regarded the clear purple gleam of a stone on her arm. "Yes," she agreed, "Aunt Felicia's ame thysts

"Yes," said Jane. She colored a little, but Viola did not know why. At the last moment Jane had decided not

to wear the amethyst comb, because it seemed to her altogether too decorative for a woman of her age, and

she was afraid to mention it to Viola. She was sure that Viola would laugh at her and in sist upon her

"The earrings are lovely," said Viola. "My dear, I don't see how you ever consented to have your ears

The doorbell rang. Viola had been covertly lis tening for it all the time. Soon a very beautiful young man

came with a curious dancing step into the room. Harold Lind always gave the effect of dancing when he

walked. He always, moreover, gave the effect of extreme youth and of the utmost joy and mirth in life itself.

He regarded everything and everybody with a smile as of humorous appre ciation, and yet the appreciation

"Look at me I am absurd and happy; look at yourself, also absurd and happy; look at every body else

likewise; look at life a jest so delicious that it is quite worth one's while dying to be made acquainted with

it." That is what Harold Lind seemed to say. Viola Longstreet became even more youthful under his gaze;

even Jane Carew regretted that she had not worn her amethyst comb and be gan to doubt its unsuitability.

Viola very soon called the young man's attention to Jane's ame thysts, and Jane always wondered why she

did not then mention the comb. She removed a brooch and a bracelet for him to inspect.

"They are really wonderful," he declared. "I have never seen greater depth of color in amethysts."

"Mr. Lind is an authority on jewels," declared Viola. The young man shot a curious glance at her, which Jane

remembered long afterward. It was one of those glances which are as keystones to situations.

Harold looked at the purple stones with the ex pression of a child with a toy. There was much of the child in

the young man's whole appearance, but of a mischievous and beautiful child, of whom his mother might

observe, with adoration and ill concealed boastfulness, "I can never tell what that child will do next!"

Harold returned the bracelet and brooch to Jane, and smiled at her as if amethysts were a lovely purple joke

between her and himself, uniting them by a peculiar bond of fine understanding. "Exqui site, Miss Carew,"

he said. Then he looked at Viola. "Those corals suit you wonderfully, Mrs. Long street," he observed, "but

"Not with this gown," replied Viola, rather piti fully. There was something in the young man's gaze and tone

Harold certainly thought the corals were too young for Viola. Jane understood, and felt an unworthy triumph.

Harold, who was young enough in actual years to be Viola's son, and was younger still by reason of his

disposition, was amused by the sight of her in corals, although he did not intend to be tray his amusement.

He considered Viola in corals as too rude a jest to share with her. Had poor Viola once grasped Harold Lind's

estimation of her she would have as soon gazed upon herself in her cof fin. Harold's comprehension of the

essentials was beyond Jane Carew's. It was fairly ghastly, par taking of the nature of Xrays, but it never

disturbed Harold Lind. He went along his dancetrack undis turbed, his blue eyes never losing their high

lights of glee, his lips never losing their inscrutable smile at some happy understanding between life and

him self. Harold had fair hair, which was very smooth and glossy. His skin was like a girl's. He was so

beautiful that he showed cleverness in an affecta tion of carelessness in dress. He did not like to wear

evening clothes, because they had necessarily to be immaculate. That evening Jane regarded him with an

inward criticism that he was too handsome for a man. She told Viola so when the dinner was over and he and

"He is very handsome," she said, "but I never like to see a man quite so handsome."

"You will change your mind when you see him in tweeds," returned Viola. "He loathes evening clothes."

Jane regarded her anxiously. There was some thing in Viola's tone which disturbed and shocked her. It was

inconceivable that Viola should be in love with that youth, and yet "He looks very young," said Jane in a

"He IS young," admitted Viola; "still, not quite so young as he looks. Sometimes I tell him he will look like a

"Yes," said Viola, but she did not say how young. Viola herself, now that the excitement was over, did not

look so young as at the beginning of the evening. She removed the corals, and Jane con sidered that she

Margaret answered for herself by a tap on the door. She and Viola's maid, Louisa, had been sit ting on an

upper landing, out of sight, watching the guests downstairs. Margaret took the corals and placed them in

their nest in the jewelcase, also the amethysts, after Viola had gone. The jewelcase was a curious old affair

with many compartments. The amethysts required two. The comb was so large that it had one for itself. That

was the reason why Margaret did not discover that evening that it was gone. Nobody discovered it for three

days, when Viola had a little cardparty. There was a whisttable for Jane, who had never given up the

reserved and stately game. There were six tables in Viola's pretty livingroom, with a little conserva tory at

one end and a leaping hearth fire at the other. Jane's partner was a stout old gentleman whose wife was

shrieking with merriment at an auctionbridge table. The other whistplayers were a stupid, very small

young man who was aimlessly willing to play anything, and an amiable young woman who be lieved in

selfdenial. Jane played conscientiously. She returned trump leads, and played second hand low, and third

high, and it was not until the third rubber was over that she saw. It had been in full evidence from the first.

Jane would have seen it before the guests arrived, but Viola had not put it in her hair until the last moment.

Viola was wild with delight, yet shamefaced and a trifle uneasy. In a soft, white gown, with violets at her

waist, she was playing with Harold Lind, and in her ashblond hair was Jane Carew's amethyst comb. Jane

gasped and paled. The amiable young woman who was her opponent stared at her. Finally she spoke in a low

The men, in their turn, stared. The stout one rose fussily. "Let me get a glass of water," he said. The stupid

Then Jane Carew recovered her poise. It was seldom that she lost it. "I am quite well, thank you, Miss

They all settled again to the play, but the young lady and the two men continued glancing at Miss Carew. She

had recovered her dignity of manner, but not her color. Moreover, she had a bewildered expression.

Resolutely she abstained from glancing again at her amethyst comb in Viola Longstreet's ashblond hair, and

gradually, by a course of sub conscious reasoning as she carefully played her cards, she arrived at a

conclusion which caused her color to return and the bewildered expression to disappear. When refreshments

"You look quite yourself, now, dear Miss Carew, but at one time while we were playing I was really alarmed.

"I did not feel in the least ill," replied Jane Carew. She smiled her Carew smile at the young lady. Jane had

settled it with herself that of course Viola had borrowed that amethyst comb, appealing to Margaret. Viola

ought not to have done that; she should have asked her, Miss Carew; and Jane wondered, because Viola was

very well bred; but of course that was what had happened. Jane had come down before Viola, leaving

Margaret in her room, and Viola had asked her. Jane did not then remember that Viola had not even been told

that there was an amethyst comb in existence. She remembered when Margaret, whose face was as pale and

"I saw it, first thing. Miss Jane," said Margaret. "Louisa and I were on the landing, and I looked down and

"No, Miss Jane. I had not seen her. I went out right after you did. Louisa had finished Mrs. Longstreet, and

she and I went down to the mail box to post a letter, and then we sat on the landing, and I saw your

"It is not there. Miss Jane." Margaret spoke with a sort of solemn intoning. She recognized what the situation

implied, and she, who fitted squarely and entirely into her humble state, was aghast before a hitherto

unimagined occurrence. She could not, even with the evidence of her senses against a lady and her mistress's

old friend, believe in them. Had Jane told her firmly that she had not seen that comb in that ashblond hair

she might have been hypnotized into agreement. But Jane simply stared at her, and the Carew dignity was

Margaret brought the jewelcase, and everything was taken out; all the compartments were opened, but the

amethyst comb was not there. Jane could not sleep that night. At dawn she herself doubted the evidence of

her senses. The jewelcase was thor oughly overlooked again, and still Jane was incredu lous that she

would ever see her comb in Viola's hair again. But that evening, although there were no guests except Harold

Lind, who dined at the house, Viola appeared in a pinktinted gown, with a knot of violets at her waist, and

she wore the ame thyst comb. She said not one word concerning it; nobody did. Harold Lind was in wild

spirits. The conviction grew upon Jane that the irresponsible, beautiful youth was covertly amusing himself at

her, at Viola's, at everybody's expense. Perhaps he included himself. He talked incessantly, not in reality

brilliantly, but with an effect of sparkling effervescence which was fairly dazzling. Viola's servants restrained

with difficulty their laughter at his sallies. Viola regarded Harold with illconcealed tenderness and

admiration. She herself looked even younger than usual, as if the innate youth in her leaped to meet this

Jane felt sickened by it all. She could not under stand her friend. Not for one minute did she dream that

there could be any serious outcome of the situation; that Viola, would marry this mad youth, who, she knew,

was making such covert fun at her expense; but she was bewildered and indignant. She wished that she had

not come. That evening when she went to her room she directed Margaret to pack, as she intended to return

home the next day. Margaret began folding gowns with alacrity. She was as conservative as her mistress and

she severely disapproved of many things. However, the matter of the amethyst comb was uppermost in her

mind. She was wild with curiosity. She hardly dared inquire, but finally she did.

Poor Jane Carew had nobody in whom to confide. For once she spoke her mind to her maid. "She has not said

"But she did to me," said Margaret. "She asked had I seen Miss Viola's new comb, and then she laughed, and

Jane started violently. "Absolutely impossible!" she cried. "That, of course, is nonsense. There must be some

Mrs. Longstreet did not explain. She wondered and expostulated when Jane announced her firm

determination to leave, but she seemed utterly at a loss for the reason. She did not mention the comb.

When Jane Carew took leave of her old friend she was entirely sure in her own mind that she would never

Jane was unutterably thankful to be back in her own peaceful home, over which no shadow of absurd mystery

brooded; only a calm afternoon light of life, which disclosed gently but did not conceal or betray. Jane settled

back into her pleasant life, and the days passed, and the weeks, and the months, and the years. She heard

nothing whatever from or about Viola Longstreet for three years. Then, one day, Margaret returned from the

city, and she had met Viola's old maid Louisa in a department store, and she had news. Jane wished for

strength to refuse to listen, but she could not muster it. She listened while Margaret brushed her hair.

"Louisa has not been with Miss Viola for a long time," said Margaret. "She is living with some body else.

Miss Viola lost her money, and had to give up her house and her servants, and Louisa said she cried when she

Margaret answered the unfinished sentence. She was excited by gossip as by a stimulant. Her thin cheeks

burned, her eyes blazed. "Mr. Lind," said Margaret, "Louisa told me, had turned out to be real bad. He got

into some money trouble, and then" Margaret lowered her voice "he was ar rested for taking a lot of

money which didn't belong to him. Louisa said he had been in some business where he handled a lot of other

folks' money, and he cheated the men who were in the business with him, and he was tried, and Miss Viola,

Louisa thinks, hid away somewhere so they wouldn't call her to testify, and then he had to go to prison; but

"Louisa thinks he died about a year and a half ago. She heard the lady where she lives now talking about it.

The lady used to know Miss Viola, and she heard the lady say Mr. Lind had died in prison, that he couldn't

stand the hard life, and that Miss Viola had lost all her money through him, and then" Margaret hesitated

again, and her mistress prodded sharply "Louisa said that she heard the lady say that she had thought Miss

Viola would marry him, but she hadn't, and she had more sense than she had thought."

"Mrs. Longstreet would never for one moment have entertained the thought of marrying Mr. Lind; he was

It so happened that Jane went to New York that day week, and at a jewelry counter in one of the shops she

discovered the amethyst comb. There were on sale a number of bits of antique jewelry, the precious flotsam

and jetsam of old and wealthy families which had drifted, nobody knew before what currents of adversity,

into that harbor of sale for all the world to see. Jane made no inquiries; the saleswoman volunteered simply

the information that the comb was a real antique, and the stones were real amethysts and pearls, and the

setting was solid gold, and the price was thirty dollars; and Jane bought it. She carried her old amethyst comb

home, but she did not show it to anybody. She replaced it in its old compartment in her jewel case and

thought of it with wonder, with a hint of joy at regaining it, and with much sadness. She was still fond of

Viola Longstreet. Jane did not easily part with her loves. She did not know where Viola was. Margaret had

inquired of Louisa, who did not know. Poor Viola had probably drifted into some obscure harbor of life

"It is a very long time since I have seen you," said Jane with a reproachful accent, but her eyes were tenderly

"Yes," agreed Viola. Then she added, "I have seen nobody. Do you know what a change has come in my

"Yes, dear," replied Jane, gently. "My Margaret met Louisa once and she told her."

"Oh yes Louisa," said Viola. "I had to dis charge her. My money is about gone. I have only just enough

to keep the wolf from entering the door of a hall bedroom in a respectable boardinghouse. However, I often

hear him howl, but I do not mind at all. In fact, the howling has become company for me. I rather like it. It is

queer what things one can learn to like. There are a few left yet, like the awful heat in summer, and the food,

Viola's laugh was like a bird's song a part of her and nothing except death could silence it for long.

Viola laughed again. "My dear," she replied, "of course. It is all very simple. If I left New York, and paid

board anywhere, I would never have enough money to buy my return fare, and certainly not to keep that wolf

Then, for the first time in her life, Viola Longstreet saw Jane Carew's eyes blaze with anger. "You dare to call

When Jane saw the little room where Viola lived, she marveled, with the exceedingly great marveling of a

woman to whom love of a man has never come, at a woman who could give so much and with no return.

Little enough to pack had Viola. Jane under stood with a shudder of horror that it was almost destitution, not

"You shall have that northeast room which you always liked," she told Viola when they were on the train.

"The one with the oldfashioned peacock paper, and the pinetree growing close to one window?" said

Jane and Viola settled down to life together, and Viola, despite the tragedy which she had known, realized a

peace and happiness beyond her imagina tion. In reality, although she still looked so youth ful, she was old

enough to enjoy the pleasures of later life. Enjoy them she did to the utmost. She and Jane made calls

together, entertained friends at small and stately dinners, and gave little teas. They drove about in the old

Carew carriage. Viola had some new clothes. She played very well on Jane's old piano. She embroidered, she

gardened. She lived the sweet, placid life of an older lady in a little village, and loved it. She never mentioned

Not among the vicious of the earth was poor Har old Lind; rather among those of such beauty and charm

that the earth spoils them, making them, in their own estimation, free guests at all its tables of bounty.

Moreover, the young man had, deeply rooted in his character, the traits of a mischievous child, rejoicing in

his mischief more from a sense of humor so keen that it verged on cruelty than from any intention to harm

others. Over that affair of the amethyst comb, for instance, his irresponsible, selfish, childish soul had fairly

reveled in glee. He had not been fond of Viola, but he liked her fondness for himself. He had made sport of

her, but only for his own entertainment never for the entertain ment of others. He was a beautiful

creature, seeking out paths of pleasure and folly for himself alone, which ended as do all paths of earthly

pleasure and folly. Harold had admired Viola, but from the same point of view as Jane Carew's. Viola had,

when she looked her youngest and best, always seemed so old as to be venerable to him. He had at times

compunctions, as if he were making a jest of his grandmother. Viola never knew the truth about the amethyst

comb. He had considered that one of the best frolics of his life. He had simply purloined it and presented it to

Viola and Jane had lived together a month before the comb was mentioned. Then one day Viola was in Jane's

room and the jewelcase was out, and she began examining its contents. When she found the amethyst comb

she gave a little cry. Jane, who had been seated at her desk and had not seen what was going on, turned

Viola stood holding the comb, and her cheeks were burning. She fondled the trinket as if it had been a baby.

Jane watched her. She began to understand the bare facts of the mystery of the dis appearance of her

amethyst comb, but the subtlety of it was forever beyond her. Had the other woman explained what was in

her mind, in her heart how that reckless young man whom she had loved had given her the treasure

because he had heard her admire Jane's amethysts, and she, all unconscious of any wrongdoing, had ever

regarded it as the one evidence of his thoughtful tenderness, it being the one gift she had ever received from

him; how she parted with it, as she had parted with her other jewels, in order to obtain money to purchase

com forts for him while he was in prison Jane could not have understood. The fact of an older woman

being fond of a young man, almost a boy, was be yond her mental grasp. She had no imagination with

which to comprehend that innocent, pathetic, almost terrible love of one who has trodden the earth long for

one who has just set dancing feet upon it. It was noble of Jane Carew that, lacking all such imagination, she

acted as she did: that, al though she did not, could not, formulate it to herself, she would no more have

deprived the other woman and the dead man of that one little unscathed bond of tender goodness than she

Viola looked at her. "I cannot tell you all about it; you would laugh at me," she whispered; "but this was mine

IT was an insolent day. There are days which, to imaginative minds, at least, possess strangely human

qualities. Their atmospheres predispose peo ple to crime or virtue, to the calm of good will, to sneaking

vice, or fierce, unprovoked aggression. The day was of the last description. A beast, or a human being in

whose veins coursed undisciplined blood, might, as involuntarily as the boughs of trees lash before storms,

perform wild and wicked deeds after inhaling that hot air, evil with the sweat of sin evoked toil, with

nitrogen stored from festering sores of nature and the loathsome emanations of suffering life.

It had not rained for weeks, but the humidity was great. The clouds of dust which arose beneath the man's feet

had a horrible damp stickiness. His face and hands were grimy, as were his shoes, his cheap, readymade

suit, and his straw hat. However, the man felt a pride in his clothes, for they were at least the garb of freedom.

He had come out of prison the day before, and had scorned the suit proffered him by the officials. He had

given it away, and bought a new one with a goodly part of his small stock of money. This suit was of a

smallchecked pattern. Nobody could tell from it that the wearer had just left jail. He had been there for

several years for one of the minor offenses against the law. His term would probably have been shorter, but

the judge had been careless, and he had no friends. Stebbins had never been the sort to make many friends,

although he had never cherished animosity toward any human being. Even some injustice in his sen tence

During his stay in the prison he had not been really unhappy. He had accepted the inevitable the yoke of

the strong for the weak with a patience which brought almost a sense of enjoyment. But, now that he was

free, he had suddenly become alert, watchful of chances for his betterment. From being a mere kenneled

creature he had become as a hound on the scent, the keenest on earth that of selfinterest. He was

changed, while yet living, from a being outside the world to one with the world before him. He felt young,

although he was a middleaged, almost elderly man. He had in his pocket only a few dollars. He might have

had more had he not purchased the checked suit and had he not given much away. There was another man

whose term would be up in a week, and he had a sickly wife and several children. Stebbins, partly from

native kindness and generosity, partly from a senti ment which almost amounted to superstition, had given

him of his slender store. He had been de prived of his freedom because of money; he said to himself that his

return to it should be heralded by the music of it scattered abroad for the good of another.

Now and then as he walked Stebbins removed his new straw hat, wiped his forehead with a stiff new

handkerchief, looked with some concern at the grime left upon it, then felt anxiously of his short crop of

grizzled hair. He would be glad when it grew only a little, for it was at present a telltale to obser vant eyes.

Also now and then he took from another pocket a small mirror which he had just purchased, and scrutinized

his face. Every time he did so he rubbed his cheeks violently, then viewed with satis faction the hard glow

which replaced the yellow prison pallor. Every now and then, too, he remem bered to throw his shoulders

back, hold his chin high, and swing out his right leg more freely. At such times he almost swaggered, he

became fairly insolent with his new sense of freedom. He felt himself the equal if not the peer of all creation.

Whenever a carriage or a motorcar passed him on the country road he assumed, with the skill of an actor,

the air of a business man hastening to an important engagement. However, always his mind was work ing

over a hard problem. He knew that his store of money was scanty, that it would not last long even with the

strictest economy; he had no friends; a prison record is sure to leak out when a man seeks a job. He was

Although the day was so hot, it was late summer; soon would come the frost and the winter. He wished to

live to enjoy his freedom, and all he had for assets was that freedom; which was paradoxical, for it did not

signify the ability to obtain work, which was the power of life. Outside the stone wall of the prison he was

now inclosed by a subtle, intangible, yet infinitely more unyielding one the prejudice of his kind against

the released prisoner. He was to all intents and purposes a prisoner still, for all his spurts of swagger and the

youthful leap of his pulses, and while he did not admit that to himself, yet always, since he had the hard sense

of the land of his birth New England he pondered that problem of existence. He felt instinctively that it

would be a useless proceeding for him to approach any human being for employment. He knew that even the

freedom, which he realized through all his senses like an essential perfume, could not yet overpower the reek

of the prison. As he walked through the clogging dust he thought of one after another whom he had known

before he had gone out of the world of free men and had bent his back under the hand of the law. There were,

of course, people in his little native village, people who had been friends and neighbors, but there were none

who had ever loved him sufficiently for him to conquer his resolve to never ask aid of them. He had no

relatives except cousins more or less removed, and they would have nothing to do with him.

There had been a woman whom he had meant to marry, and he had been sure that she would marry him; but

after he had been a year in prison the news had come to him in a roundabout fashion that she had married

another suitor. Even had she re mained single he could not have approached her, least of all for aid. Then,

too, through all his term she had made no sign, there had been no letter, no message; and he had received at

first letters and flowers and messages from sentimental women. There had been nothing from her. He had

accepted nothing, with the curious patience, carrying an odd pleasure with it, which had come to him when

the prison door first closed upon him. He had not for gotten her, but he had not consciously mourned her.

His loss, his ruin, had been so tremendous that she had been swallowed up in it. When one's whole system

needs to be steeled to trouble and pain, single pricks lose importance. He thought of her that day without any

sense of sadness. He imagined her in a pretty, wellordered home with her husband and children. Perhaps she

had grown stout. She had been a slender woman. He tried idly to imagine how she would look stout, then by

the sequence of selfpreservation the imagination of stoutness in an other led to the problem of keeping the

covering of flesh and fatness upon his own bones. The ques tion now was not of the woman; she had passed

out of his life. The question was of the keeping that life itself, the life which involved everything else, in a

hard world, which would remorselessly as a steel trap grudge him life and snap upon him, now he was

He walked and walked, and it was high noon, and he was hungry. He had in his pocket a small loaf of bread

and two frankfurters, and he heard the splashing ripple of a brook. At that juncture the road was bordered by

thick woodland. He followed, pushing his way through the trees and undergrowth, the sound of the brook,

and sat down in a cool, green solitude with a sigh of relief. He bent over the clear run, made a cup of his

hand, and drank, then he fell to eating. Close beside him grew some wintergreen, and when he had finished

his bread and frankfurters he began plucking the glossy, aromatic leaves and chewing them automatically.

The savor reached his palate, and his memory awakened before it as before a pleasant tingling of a spur. As a

boy how he had loved this little green lowgrowing plant! It had been one of the luxuries of his youth. Now,

as he tasted it, joy and pathos stirred in his very soul. What a wonder youth had been, what a splendor, what

an immensity to be rejoiced over and regretted! The man lounging beside the brook, chewing wintergreen

leaves, seemed to realize anti podes. He lived for the moment in the past, and the immutable future, which

might contain the past in the revolution of time. He smiled, and his face fell into boyish, almost childish,

contours. He plucked another glossy leaf with his hard, veinous old hands. His hands would not change to

suit his mood, but his limbs relaxed like those of a boy. He stared at the brook gurgling past in brown ripples,

shot with dim prismatic lights, showing here clear green water lines, here inky depths, and he thought of the

Then suddenly out of a mass of green looked two girls, with wide, startled eyes, and rounded mouths of terror

which gave vent to screams. There was a scuttling, then silence. The man wondered why the girls were so

silly, why they ran. He did not dream of the possibility of their terror of him. He ate another wintergreen leaf,

and thought of the woman he had expected to marry when he was ar rested and imprisoned. She did not go

back to his childish memories. He had met her when first youth had passed, and yet, somehow, the savor of

the wintergreen leaves brought her face before him. It is strange how the excitement of one sense will some

times act as stimulant for the awakening of another. Now the sense of taste brought into full activity that of

sight. He saw the woman just as she had looked when he had last seen her. She had not been pretty, but she

was exceedingly dainty, and pos sessed of a certain elegance of carriage which at tracted. He saw quite

distinctly her small, irregu lar face and the satinsmooth coils of dark hair around her head; he saw her

slender, dusky hands with the wellcaredfor nails and the too prominent veins; he saw the gleam of the

diamond which he had given her. She had sent it to him just after his arrest, and he had returned it. He

wondered idly whether she still owned it and wore it, and what her husband thought of it. He speculated

childishly somehow imprisonment had encouraged the return of childish speculations as to whether the

woman's husband had given her a larger and costlier diamond than his, and he felt a pang of jealousy. He re

fused to see another diamond than his own upon that slender, dark hand. He saw her in a black silk gown

which had been her best. There had been some red about it, and a glitter of jet. He had thought it a

magnificent gown, and the woman in it like a princess. He could see her leaning back, in her long slim grace,

in a corner of a sofa, and the soft dark folds starry with jet sweeping over her knees and just allowing a

glimpse of one little foot. Her feet had been charming, very small and highly arched. Then he remembered

that that evening they had been to a concert in the town hall, and that afterward they had partaken of an oyster

stew in a little restaurant. Then back his mind traveled to the problem of his own existence, his food and

shelter and clothes. He dismissed the woman from his thought. He was concerned now with the primal

conditions of life itself. How was he to eat when his little stock of money was gone? He sat staring at the

brook; he chewed wintergreen leaves no longer. Instead he drew from his pocket an old pipe and a paper of

tobacco. He filled his pipe with care tobacco was precious; then he began to smoke, but his face now

looked old and brooding through the rank blue vapor. Winter was coming, and he had not a shelter. He had

not money enough to keep him long from starvation. He knew not how to obtain employment. He thought

vaguely of woodpiles, of cutting winter fuel for people. His mind traveled in a trite strain of reasoning.

Presently he finished his filled pipe, and arose with an air of decision. He went at a brisk pace out of the

wood and was upon the road again. He progressed like a man with definite business in view until he reached

a house. It was a large white farmhouse with many outbuildings. It looked most promising. He approached

the side door, and a dog sprang from around a corner and barked, but he spoke, and the dog's tail became

eloquent. He was patting the dog, when the door opened and a man stood looking at him. Immediately the

taint of the prison became evident. He had not cringed before the dog, but he did cringe before the man who

lived in that fine white house, and who had never known what it was to be deprived of liberty. He hung his

head, he mumbled. The houseowner, who was older than he, was slightly deaf. He looked him over curtly.

The end of it was he was ordered off the premises, and went; but the dog trailed, wagging at his heels, and

had to be roughly called back. The thought of the dog comforted Stebbins as he went on his way. He had

always liked animals. It was something, now he was past a handshake, to have the friendly wag of a dog's

The next house was an ornate little cottage with baywindows, through which could be seen the flower

patterns of lace draperies; the Virginia creeper which grew over the house walls was turning crim son in

places. Stebbins went around to the back door and knocked, but nobody came. He waited a long time, for he

had spied a great pile of uncut wood. Finally he slunk around to the front door. As he went he suddenly

reflected upon his state of mind in days gone by; if he could have known that the time would come when he,

Joseph Stebbins, would feel culpable at approaching any front door! He touched the electric bell and stood

close to the door, so that he might not be discovered from the windows. Presently the door opened the length

of a chain, and a fair girlish head appeared. She was one of the girls who had been terrified by him in the

woods, but that he did not know. Now again her eyes dilated and her pretty mouth rounded! She gave a little

cry and slammed the door in his face, and he heard excited voices. Then he saw two pale, pretty faces, the

faces of the two girls who had come upon him in the wood, peering at him around a corner of the lace in the

baywindow, and he under stood what it meant that he was an object of ter ror to them. Directly he

experienced such a sense of mortal insult as he had never known, not even when the law had taken hold of

him. He held his head high and went away, his very soul boiling with a sort of shamed rage. "Those two girls

are afraid of me," he kept saying to himself. His knees shook with the horror of it. This terror of him seemed

the hardest thing to bear in a hard life. He returned to his green nook beside the brook and sat down again. He

thought for the moment no more of wood piles, of his life. He thought about those two young girls who had

been afraid of him. He had never had an impulse to harm any living thing. A curious hatred toward these

living things who had accused him of such an impulse came over him. He laughed sardonically. He wished

that they would again come and peer at him through the bushes; he would make a threatening motion for the

After a while he put it all out of mind, and again returned to his problem. He lay beside the brook and

pondered, and finally fell asleep in the hot air, which increased in venom, until the rattle of thun der awoke

him. It was very dark a strange, livid darkness. "A thunderstorm," he muttered, and then he thought of

his new clothes what a mis fortune it would be to have them soaked. He arose and pushed through the

thicket around him into a cart path, and it was then that he saw the thing which proved to be the

steppingstone toward his humble fortunes. It was only a small silk umbrella with a handle tipped with pearl.

He seized upon it with joy, for it meant the salvation of his precious clothes. He opened it and held it over his

head, although the rain had not yet begun. One rib of the umbrella was broken, but it was still serviceable. He

hastened along the cart path; he did not know why, only the need for motion, to reach protection from the

storm, was upon him; and yet what pro tection could be ahead of him in that woodland path? Afterward he

He had not gone far, not more than half a mile, when he saw something unexpected a small un tenanted

house. He gave vent to a little cry of joy, which had in it something childlike and pathetic, and pushed open

the door and entered. It was nothing but a tiny, unfinished shack, with one room and a small one opening

from it. There was no ceiling; overhead was the tentlike slant of the roof, but it was tight. The dusty floor

was quite dry. There was one rickety chair. Stebbins, after looking into the other room to make sure that the

place was empty, sat down, and a wonderful wave of content and selfrespect came over him. The poor

human snail had found his shell; he had a habitation, a roof of shelter. The little dim place immediately

assumed an aspect of home. The rain came down in torrents, the thunder crashed, the place was filled with

blinding blue lights. Stebbins filled his pipe more lavishly this time, tilted his chair against the wall, smoked,

and gazed about him with pitiful content. It was really so little, but to him it was so much. He nodded with

He sat and smoked until the storm passed over. The rainfall had been very heavy, there had been hail, but the

poor little house had not failed of per fect shelter. A fairly cold wind from the northwest blew through the

door. The hail had brought about a change of atmosphere. The burning heat was gone. The night would be

Stebbins got up and examined the stove and the pipe. They were rusty, but appeared trustworthy. He went out

and presently returned with some fuel which he had found unwet in a thick growth of wood. He laid a fire

handily and lit it. The little stove burned well, with no smoke. Stebbins looked at it, and was perfectly happy.

He had found other treasures outside a small vegetablegarden in which were potatoes and some corn. A

man had squatted in this little shack for years, and had raised his own gardentruck. He had died only a few

weeks ago, and his furniture had been preempted with the ex ception of the stove, the chair, a tilting

lounge in the small room, and a few old iron pots and frying pans. Stebbins gathered corn, dug potatoes, and

put them on the stove to cook, then he hurried out to the village store and bought a few slices of bacon, half a

dozen eggs, a quarter of a pound of cheap tea, and some salt. When he reentered the house he looked as he

had not for years. He was beaming. "Come, this is a palace," he said to himself, and chuckled with pure joy.

He had come out of the awful empty spaces of homeless life into home. He was a man who had naturally

strong domestic in stincts. If he had spent the best years of his life in a home instead of a prison, the finest in

him would have been developed. As it was, this was not even now too late. When he had cooked his bacon

and eggs and brewed his tea, when the vegetables were done and he was seated upon the rickety chair, with

his supper spread before him on an old board propped on sticks, he was supremely happy. He ate with a relish

which seemed to reach his soul. He was at home, and eating, literally, at his own board. As he ate he glanced

from time to time at the two win dows, with broken panes of glass and curtainless. He was not afraid that

was nonsense; he had never been a cowardly man, but he felt the need of curtains or something before his

windows to shut out the broad vast face of nature, or perhaps prying human eyes. Somebody might espy the

light in the house and wonder. He had a candle stuck in an old bottle by way of illumination. Still, although

he would have preferred to have curtains before those windows full of the blank stare of night, he WAS

After he had finished his supper he looked long ingly at his pipe. He hesitated for a second, for he realized

the necessity of saving his precious tobacco; then he became reckless: such enormous good for tune as a

home must mean more to follow; it must be the first of a series of happy things. He filled his pipe and

smoked. Then he went to bed on the old couch in the other room, and slept like a child until the sun shone

through the trees in flickering lines. Then he rose, went out to the brook which ran near the house, splashed

himself with water, returned to the house, cooked the remnant of the eggs and bacon, and ate his breakfast

with the same exultant peace with which he had eaten his supper the night before. Then he sat down in the

doorway upon the sunken sill and fell again to considering his main problem. He did not smoke. His tobacco

was nearly exhausted and he was no longer reckless. His head was not turned now by the feeling that he was

at home. He considered soberly as to the probable owner of the house and whether he would be allowed to

remain its tenant. Very soon, how ever, his doubt concerning that was set at rest. He saw a disturbance of

the shadows cast by the thick boughs over the cart path by a long outreach of darker shadow which he knew

at once for that of a man. He sat upright, and his face at first assumed a defiant, then a pleading expression,

like that of a child who desires to retain possession of some dear thing. His heart beat hard as he watched the

ad vance of the shadow. It was slow, as if cast by an old man. The man was old and very stout, sup porting

one lopping side by a stick, who presently followed the herald of his shadow. He looked like a farmer.

The voice essayed a roughness, but only achieved a tentative friendliness. Stebbins hesitated for a second; a

suspicious look came into the farmer's misty blue eyes. Then Stebbins, mindful of his prison record and

fiercely covetous of his new home, gave another name. The name of his maternal grandfather seemed

suddenly to loom up in printed characters before his eyes, and he gave it glibly. "David Anderson," he said,

and he did not realize a lie. Suddenly the name seemed his own. Surely old David Anderson, who had been a

good man, would not grudge the gift of his unstained name to replace the stained one of his grandson. "David

"Where do ye hail from?" inquired the farmer; and the new David Anderson gave unhesitatingly the name of

the old David Anderson's birth and life and death place that of a little village in New Hampshire.

"What do you do for your living?" was the next question, and the new David Anderson had an in spiration.

"Umbrellas," he replied, laconically, and the other man nodded. Men with sheaves of umbrellas, mended or in

Then David assumed the initiative; possessed of an honorable business as well as home, he grew bold. "Any

"That's all I think about," said the farmer. "These woods is apt to catch fire jest when I'm about ready to cut.

The man that squatted here before he died about a month ago didn't smoke. He was careful, he was."

"I dun'no' as I have any objections to your stay ing, then," said the farmer. "Somebody has always squat

here. A man built this shack about twenty year ago, and he lived here till he died. Then t'other feller he came

along. Reckon he must have had a little money; didn't work at nothin'! Raised some gardentruck and kept a

few chickens. I took them home after he died. You can have them now if you want to take care of them. He

"Well, you can come over by and by and get 'em. There's nine hens and a rooster. They lay pretty well. I ain't

The farmer stared past him into the house. He spied the solitary umbrella. He grew facetious. "Guess the

umbrellas was all mended up where you come from if you've got down to one," said he.

"Well, our umbrella got turned last week," said the farmer. "I'll give you a job to start on. You can stay here

as long as you want if you're careful about your matches." Again he looked into the house. "Guess some boys

have been helpin' them selves to the furniture, most of it," he observed. "Guess my wife can spare ye

another chair, and there's an old table out in the cornhouse better than that one you've rigged up, and I guess

"I don't want any pay for things, and my wife won't; didn't mean that; was wonderin' whether ye had anything

"Reckon I can manage till I get some work," replied David, a trifle stiffly. He was a man who had never lived

"Don't want ye to be too short, that's all," said the other, a little apologetically.

"So there be, and one of them hens had better be eat. She don't lay. She'll need a good deal of b'ilin'. You can

have all the wood you want to pick up, but I don't want any cut. You mind that or there'll be trouble."

"Mind ye don't. Folks call me an easy mark, and I guess myself I am easy up to a certain point, and cuttin' my

wood is one of them points. Roof didn't leak in that shower last night, did it?"

"Didn't s'pose it would. The other feller was handy, and he kept tinkerin' all the time. Well, I'll be goin'; you

can stay here and welcome if you're careful about matches and don't cut my wood. Come over for them hens

The new David Anderson, the good old grand father revived in his unfortunate, perhaps graceless grandson,

reseated himself on the doorstep and watched the bulky, receding figure of his visitor through a pleasant

blur of tears, which made the broad, rounded shoulders and the halting columns of legs dance. This David

Anderson had almost for gotten that there was unpaid kindness in the whole world, and it seemed to him as

if he had seen angels walking up and down. He sat for a while doing nothing except realizing happiness of the

present and of the future. He gazed at the green spread of forest boughs, and saw in pleased anticipation their

red and gold tints of autumn; also in pleased anticipation their snowy and icy mail of winter, and himself, the

unmailed, defenseless human crea ture, housed and sheltered, sitting before his own fire. This last happy

outlook aroused him. If all this was to be, he must be up and doing. He got up, entered the house, and

examined the broken umbrella which was his sole stock in trade. David was a handy man. He at once knew

that he was capable of putting it in perfect repair. Strangely enough, for his sense of right and wrong was not

blunted, he had no compunction whatever in keeping this umbrella, although he was reasonably certain that it

belonged to one of the two young girls who had been so terrified by him. He had a con viction that this

monstrous terror of theirs, which had hurt him more than many apparently crueler things, made them quits.

After he had washed his dishes in the brook, and left them in the sun to dry, he went to the village store and

purchased a few simple things necessary for umbrellamending. Both on his way to the store and back he

kept his eyes open. He realized that his capital depended largely upon chance and good luck. He considered

that he had extraordinary good luck when he returned with three more umbrel las. He had discovered one

propped against the counter of the store, turned inside out. He had in quired to whom it belonged, and had

been answered to anybody who wanted it. David had seized upon it with secret glee. Then, unheardof good

fortune, he had found two more umbrellas on his way home; one was in an ashcan, the other blowing along

like a belated bat beside the trolley track. It began to seem to David as if the earth might be strewn with

abandoned umbrellas. Before he began his work he went to the farmer's and returned in triumph, driven in the

farmwagon, with his cackling hens and quite a load of household furniture, besides some bread and pies.

The farmer's wife was one of those who are able to give, and make receiving greater than giving. She had

looked at David, who was older than she, with the eyes of a mother, and his pride had melted away, and he

had held out his hands for her benefits, like a child who has no compunctions about receiving gifts because he

Henceforth David prospered in a humble way, it is true, still he prospered. He journeyed about the

country, umbrellas over his shoulder, little bag of tools in hand, and reaped an income more than sufficient

for his simple wants. His hair had grown, and also his beard. Nobody suspected his history. He met the young

girls whom he had terrified on the road often, and they did not know him. He did not, during the winter,

travel very far afield. Night always found him at home, warm, well fed, content, and at peace. Sometimes the

old farmer on whose land he lived dropped in of an evening and they had a game of checkers. The old man

was a checker expert. He played with unusual skill, but David made for himself a little code of honor. He

would never beat the old man, even if he were able, oftener than once out of three evenings. He made coffee

on these convivial occasions. He made very good coffee, and they sipped as they moved the men and kings,

But the next spring, when he began to realize that he had mended for a while all the umbrellas in the vicinity

and that his trade was flagging, he set his precious little home in order, barricaded door and windows, and set

forth for farther fields. He was lucky, as he had been from the start. He found plenty of employment, and

slept comfortably enough in barns, and now and then in the open. He had traveled by slow stages for several

weeks before he entered a village whose familiar look gave him a shock. It was not his native village, but

near it. In his younger life he had often journeyed there. It was a little shopping emporium, almost a city. He

recognized building after building. Now and then he thought he saw a face which he had once known, and he

was thankful that there was hardly any possibility of any one recognizing him. He had grown gaunt and thin

since those faroff days; he wore a beard, grizzled, as was his hair. In those days he had not been an umbrella

man. Sometimes the humor of the situation struck him. What would he have said, he the spruce, plump,

headintheair young man, if anybody had told him that it would come to pass that he would be an

umbrella man lurk ing humbly in search of a job around the back doors of houses? He would laugh softly to

himself as he trudged along, and the laugh would be without the slightest bitterness. His lot had been so

infinitely worse, and he had such a happy nature, yielding sweetly to the inevitable, that he saw now only

He had been in that vicinity about three weeks when one day he met the woman. He knew her at once,

although she was greatly changed. She had grown stout, although, poor soul! it seemed as if there had been

no reason for it. She was not unwieldy, but she was stout, and all the contours of earlier life had disappeared

beneath layers of flesh. Her hair was not gray, but the bright brown had faded, and she wore it tightly strained

back from her seamed forehead, although it was thin. One had only to look at her hair to realize that she was

a woman who had given up, who no longer cared. She was humbly clad in a bluecotton wrapper, she wore a

dingy black hat, and she carried a tin pail half full of raspberries. When the man and woman met they stopped

with a sort of shock, and each changed face grew like the other in its pallor. She recognized him and he her,

but along with that recognition was awakened a fierce desire to keep it secret. His prison record loomed up

before the man, the woman's past loomed up before her. She had possibly not been guilty of much, but her

life was nothing to waken pride in her. She felt shamed before this man whom she had loved, and who felt

shamed before her. However, after a second the silence was broken. The man recovered his self possession

David looked scrutinizingly at her pail. "I saw better berries real thick a piece back," said he.

The woman murmured something. In spite of herself, a tear trickled over her fat, weatherbeaten cheek.

David saw the tear, and something warm and glorious like sunlight seemed to waken within him. He felt such

tenderness and pity for this poor feminine thing who had not the strength to keep the tears back, and was so

pitiably shorn of youth and grace, that he himself expanded. He had heard in the town something of her

history. She had made a dreadful marriage, tragedy and suspicion had entered her life, and the direst poverty.

However, he had not known that she was in the vi cinity. Somebody had told him she was out West.

"Working for my board at a house back there," she muttered. She did not tell him that she had come as a

female "hobo" in a freightcar from the Western town where she had been finally stranded. "Mrs. White sent

me out for berries," she added. "She keeps boarders, and there were no berries in the market this morning."

"Come back with me and I will show you where I saw the berries real thick," said David.

He turned himself about, and she followed a little behind, the female failure in the dust cast by the male.

Neither spoke until David stopped and pointed to some bushes where the fruit hung thick on bending, slender

"Here," said David. Both fell to work. David picked handfuls of berries and cast them gaily into the pail.

"Jane Waters," she replied, readily. Her hus band's name had been Waters, or the man who had called

himself her husband, and her own middle name was Jane. The first was Sara. David remem bered at once.

"She is taking her own middle name and the name of the man she married," he thought. Then he asked,

She had married a man already provided with another wife, although she had not known it. The man was not

dead, but she spoke the entire miser able truth when she replied as she did. David as sumed that he was

dead. He felt a throb of relief, of which he was ashamed, but he could not down it. He did not know what it

was that was so alive and triumphant within him: love, or pity, or the natural instinct of the decent male to

"That's all right; I don't expect to get any," said she, and there was bitterness in her voice.

In spite of her stoutness she was not as strong as the man. She was not at all strong, and, moreover, the

constant presence of a sense of injury at the hands of life filled her very soul with a subtle poison, to her

weakening vitality. She was a child hurt and worried and bewildered, although she was to the average eye a

stout, ablebodied, middleaged wom an; but David had not the average eye, and he saw her as she really

was, not as she seemed. There had always been about her a little weakness and dependency which had

appealed to him. Now they seemed fairly to cry out to him like the despairing voices of the children whom he

had never had, and he knew he loved her as he had never loved her be fore, with a love which had budded

and flowered and fruited and survived absence and starvation. He spoke abruptly.

"I've about got my business done in these parts," said he. "I've got quite a little money, and I've got a little

house, not much, but mighty snug, back where I come from. There's a garden. It's in the woods. Not much

The woman was looking at him with incredulous, pitiful eyes like a dog's. "I hate much goin' on," she

"Suppose," said David, "you take those berries home and pack up your things. Got much?"

"Well, pack up; tell the madam where you live that you're sorry, but you're worn out "

"What do you mean?" cried the woman, and she hung upon his words like a drowning thing.

"Mean? Why, what I mean is this. You pack your bag and come to the parson's back there, that white house."

Suddenly the woman set her pail down and clutched him by both hands. "Say you are not married," she

"Yes, I do swear it," said David. "You are the only woman I ever asked to marry me. I can sup port you. We

sha'n't be rolling in riches, but we can be comfortable, and I rather guess I can make you happy."

The woman looked at him with a strange ex pression, the expression of one who loves and re spects, even

reveres, the isolation and secrecy of another soul. She understood, down to the depths of her being she

understood. She had lived a hard life, she had her faults, but she was fine enough to comprehend and hold

sacred another personality. She was very pale, but she smiled. Then she turned to go.

"All right. I will meet you in front of the par son's house in an hour. We will go back by train. I have money

"I'd just as soon walk." The woman spoke with the utmost humility of love and trust. She had not even asked

where the man lived. All her life she had followed him with her soul, and it would go hard if her poor feet

At half past four the couple, made man and wife, were on the train speeding toward the little home in the

woods. The woman had frizzled her thin hair pathetically and ridiculously over her temples; on her left hand

gleamed a white diamond. She had kept it hidden; she had almost starved rather than part with it. She gazed

out of the window at the flying landscape, and her thin lips were curved in a charming smile. The man sat

They lived together afterward in the little house in the woods, and were happy with a strange crys tallized

happiness at which they would have mocked in their youth, but which they now recognized as the essential of

all happiness upon earth. And always the woman knew what she knew about her husband, and the man knew

about his wife, and each recog nized the other as old lover and sweetheart come together at last, but always

each kept the knowledge from the other with an infinite tenderness of deli cacy which was as a perfumed

THE spring was early that year. It was only the last of March, but the trees were filmed with green and paling

with promise of bloom; the front yards were showing new grass pricking through the old. It was high time to

plow the south field and the garden, but Christopher sat in his rocking chair beside the kitchen window and

Myrtle Dodd, Christopher's wife, washed the breakfast dishes, and later kneaded the bread, all the time

glancing furtively at her husband. She had a most oldfashioned deference with regard to Christopher. She

was always a little afraid of him. Sometimes Christopher's mother, Mrs. Cyrus Dodd, and his sister Abby,

who had never married, re proached her for this attitude of mind. "You are entirely too much cowed down

Then Mrs. Cyrus Dodd and Abby would look at each other. "It is all your fault, mother," Abby would say.

"You know perfectly well, Abby, what I had to contend against," replied Mrs. Dodd, and Abby became

speechless. Cyrus Dodd, now deceased some twenty years, had never during his whole life yielded to

anything but birth and death. Before those two primary facts even his terrible will was powerless. He had

come into the world without his consent being obtained; he had passed in like manner from it. But during his

life he had ruled, a petty monarch, but a most thorough one. He had spoiled Christopher, and his wife,

"I could never go against your father, you know that," said Mrs. Dodd, following up her advantage.

"Then," said Abby, "you ought to have warned poor Myrtle. It was a shame to let her marry a man as spoiled

"I would have married him, anyway," declared Myrtle with sudden defiance; and her motherin law

"I don't know what you call a bad habit," re torted Abby. "I call having your own way in spite of the world,

the flesh, and the devil rather a bad habit. Christopher tramples on everything in his path, and he always has.

At that Myrtle laughed. "I don't think I look trampled on," said she; and she certainly did not. Pink and white

and plump was Myrtle, although she had, to a discerning eye, an expression which denoted extreme

This morning of spring, when her husband sat doing nothing, she wore this nervous expression. Her blue eyes

looked dark and keen; her forehead was wrinkled; her rosy mouth was set. Myrtle and Christopher were not

young people; they were a little past middle age, still far from old in look or ability.

Myrtle had kneaded the bread to rise for the last time before it was put into the oven, and had put on the meat

to boil for dinner, before she dared address that silent figure which had about it some thing tragic. Then she

"Jim Mason got over real early; I suppose he thought you'd want to get at the south field. He's been sitting

Then Christopher rose. Myrtle's anxious face lightened. But to her wonder her husband went into the front

entry and got his best hat. "He ain't going to wear his best hat to plow," thought Myrtle. For an awful moment

it occurred to her that something had suddenly gone wrong with her husband's mind. Christopher brushed the

hat care fully, adjusted it at the little lookingglass in the kitchen, and went out.

"I don't know you needn't worry if I'm not." Suddenly Christopher did an unusual thing for him. He and

Myrtle had lived together for years, and out ward manifestations of affection were rare between them. He

After he had gone, Myrtle watched him out of sight down the road; then she sat down and wept. Jim Mason

came slouching around from his station at the barn door. He surveyed Myrtle uneasily.

"Not that I know of," said Myrtle, in a weak quaver. She rose and, keeping her tearstained face aloof, lifted

Meantime Christopher Dodd went straight down the road to the minister's, the Rev. Stephen Wheaton. When

he came to the south field, which he was neglecting, he glanced at it turning emerald upon the gentle slopes.

He set his face harder. Christo pher Dodd's face was in any case hardset. Now it was tragic, to be pitied,

but warily, lest it turn fiercely upon the one who pitied. Christopher was a handsome man, and his face had an

almost classic turn of feature. His forehead was noble; his eyes full of keen light. He was only a farmer, but

in spite of his rude clothing he had the face of a man who followed one of the professions. He was in sore

trouble of spirit, and he was going to consult the minister and ask him for advice. Christopher had never done

this before. He had a sort of in credulity now that he was about to do it. He had always associated that sort

of thing with womankind, and not with men like himself. And, moreover, Stephen Wheaton was a younger

man than himself. He was unmarried, and had only been settled in the village for about a year. "He can't think

I'm com ing to set my cap at him, anyway," Christopher reflected, with a sort of grim humor, as he drew

near the parsonage. The minister was haunted by marriageable ladies of the village.

"Guess you are glad to see a man coming, instead of a woman who has doubts about some doctrine," was the

first thing Christopher said to the minister when he had been admitted to his study. The study was a small

room, lined with books, and only one picture hung over the fireplace, the portrait of the minister's mother

Stephen colored a little angrily at Christopher's remark he was a hottempered man, although a

Christopher sat down opposite the minister. "I oughtn't to have spoken so," he apologized, "but what I am

"That's all right," said Stephen. He was a short, athletic man, with an extraordinary width of shoul ders and

a strongfeatured and ugly face, still indica tive of goodness and a strange power of sympathy. Three little

mongrel dogs were sprawled about the study. One, small and alert, came and rested his head on Christopher's

knee. Animals all liked him. Christopher mechanically patted him. Patting an appealing animal was as

unconscious with the man as drawing his breath. But he did not even look at the little dog while he stroked it

after the fashion which pleased it best. He kept his large, keen, melancholy eyes fixed upon the minister; at

length he spoke. He did not speak with as much eagerness as he did with force, bringing the whole power of

his soul into his words, which were the words of a man in rebellion against the greatest odds on earth and in

Christopher spoke. "I am going back to the very beginning of things," said he, "and maybe you will think it

blasphemy, but I don't mean it for that. I mean it for the truth, and the truth which is too much for my

"Thank the Lord, you ain't so deep in your rut you can't see the stars!" said Christopher. "But I guess you see

them in a pretty black sky sometimes. In the beginning, why did I have to come into the world without any

"You must not ask a question of me which can only be answered by the Lord," said Stephen.

"I am asking the Lord," said Christopher, with his sad, forceful voice. "I am asking the Lord, and I ask why?"

"You have no right to expect your question to be answered in your time," said Stephen.

"But here am I," said Christopher, "and I was a question to the Lord from the first, and fifty years and more I

"Fifty years and more are nothing for the answer to such a question," said Stephen.

Christopher looked at him with mournful dissent; there was no anger about him. "There was time before

time," said he, "before the fifty years and more began. I don't mean to blaspheme, Mr. Wheaton, but it is the

truth. I came into the world whether I would or not; I was forced, and then I was told I was a free agent. I am

no free agent. For fifty years and more I have thought about it, and I have found out that, at least. I am a slave

"For that matter," said Stephen, looking curi ously at him, "so am I. So are we all."

"That makes it worse," agreed Christopher "a whole world of slaves. I know I ain't talking in exactly what

you might call an orthodox strain. I have got to a point when it seems to me I shall go mad if I don't talk to

somebody. I know there is that awful why, and you can't answer it; and no man living can. I'm willing to

admit that sometime, in another world, that why will get an answer, but meantime it's an awful thing to live in

this world without it if a man has had the kind of life I have. My life has been harder for me than a harder life

might be for another man who was different. That much I know. There is one thing I've got to be thankful for.

I haven't been the means of sending any more slaves into this world. I am glad my wife and I haven't any

"Now, I've begun at the beginning; I'm going on. I have never had what men call luck. My folks were poor;

father and mother were good, hard working people, but they had nothing but trouble, sickness, and death,

and losses by fire and flood. We lived near the river, and one spring our house went, and every stick we

owned, and much as ever we all got out alive. Then lightning struck father's new house, and the insurance

company had failed, and we never got a dollar of insurance. Then my oldest brother died, just when he was

getting started in business, and his widow and two little children came on father to support. Then father got

rheu matism, and was all twisted, and wasn't good for much afterward; and my sister Sarah, who had been

expecting to get married, had to give it up and take in sewing and stay at home and take care of the rest.

There was father and George's widow she was never good for much at work and mother and Abby.

She was my youngest sister. As for me, I had a liking for books and wanted to get an educa tion; might just

as well have wanted to get a seat on a throne. I went to work in the gristmill of the place where we used to

live when I was only a boy. Then, before I was twenty, I saw that Sarah wasn't going to hold out. She had

grieved a good deal, poor thing, and worked too hard, so we sold out and came here and bought my farm,

with the mort gage hitching it, and I went to work for dear life. Then Sarah died, and then father. Along

about then there was a girl I wanted to marry, but, Lord, how could I even ask her? My farm started in as a

failure, and it has kept it up ever since. When there wasn't a drought there was so much rain everything

mildewed; there was a hailstorm that cut every thing to pieces, and there was the caterpillar year. I just

managed to pay the interest on the mortgage; as for paying the principal, I might as well have tried to pay the

"Well, to go back to that girl. She is married and don't live here, and you ain't like ever to see her, but she was

a beauty and something more. I don't suppose she ever looked twice at me, but losing what you've never had

sometimes is worse than losing everything you've got. When she got married I guess I knew a little about

"Just after that George's widow got married again and went away to live. It took a burden off the rest of us,

but I had got attached to the children. The little girl, Ellen, seemed 'most like my own. Then poor Myrtle

came here to live. She did dressmaking and boarded with our folks, and I begun to see that she was one of the

nervous sort of women who are pretty bad off alone in the world, and I told her about the other girl, and she

said she didn't mind, and we got married. By that time mother's brother John he had never got married

died and left her a little money, so she and my sister Abby could screw along. They bought the little house

they live in and left the farm, for Abby was always hard to get along with, though she is a good woman.

Mother, though she is a smart woman, is one of the sort who don't feel called upon to inter fere much with

menfolks. I guess she didn't inter fere any too much for my good, or father's, either. Father was a set man. I

guess if mother had been a little harsh with me I might not have asked that awful 'why?' I guess I might have

taken my bitter pills and held my tongue, but I won't blame myself on poor mother.

"Myrtle and I get on well enough. She seems contented she has never said a word to make me think she

wasn't. She isn't one of the kind of women who want much besides decent treatment and a home. Myrtle is a

good woman. I am sorry for her that she got married to me, for she deserved somebody who could make her a

better husband. All the time, every waking minute, I've been growing more and more rebellious.

"You see, Mr. Wheaton, never in this world have I had what I wanted, and more than wanted needed, and

needed far more than happiness. I have never been able to think of work as anything but a way to get money,

and it wasn't right, not for a man like me, with the feelings I was born with. And everything has gone wrong

even about the work for the money. I have been hampered and hindered, I don't know whether by Providence

or the Evil One. I have saved just six hundred and forty dollars, and I have only paid the interest on the

mortgage. I knew I ought to have a little ahead in case Myrtle or I got sick, so I haven't tried to pay the

mortgage, but put a few dollars at a time in the savingsbank, which will come in handy now."

"I mean," replied Christopher, "to stop trying to do what I am hindered in doing, and do just once in my life

what I want to do. Myrtle asked me this morning if I wasn't going to plow the south field. Well, I ain't going

to plow the south field. I ain't going to make a garden. I ain't going to try for hay in the tenacre lot. I have

stopped. I have worked for nothing except just enough to keep soul and body together. I have had bad luck.

But that isn't the real reason why I have stopped. Look at here, Mr. Wheaton, spring is coming. I have never

in my life had a chance at the spring nor the summer. This year I'm going to have the spring and the sum

mer, and the fall, too, if I want it. My apples may fall and rot if they want to. I am going to get as much good

"Well, I will tell you. I ain't a man to make mystery if I am doing right, and I think I am. You know, I've got a

little shack up on Silver Mountain in the little sugarorchard I own there; never got enough sugar to say so,

but I put up the shack one year when I was fool enough to think I might get something. Well, I'm going up

there, and I'm going to live there awhile, and I'm going to sense the things I have had to hustle by for the sake

"She can have the money I've saved, all except enough to buy me a few provisions. I sha'n't need much. I

want a little corn meal, and I will have a few chickens, and there is a barrel of winter apples left over that she

can't use, and a few potatoes. There is a spring right near the shack, and there are troutpools, and by and by

there will be berries, and there's plenty of firewood, and there's an old bed and a stove and a few things in

the shack. Now, I'm going to the store and buy what I want, and I'm going to fix it so Myrtle can draw the

money when she wants it, and then I am going to the shack, and" Christopher's voice took on a solemn

tone "I will tell you in just a few words the gist of what I am going for. I have never in my life had enough

of the bread of life to keep my soul nourished. I have tried to do my duties, but I believe sometimes duties act

on the soul like weeds on a flower. They crowd it out. I am going up on Silver Mountain to get once, on this

"I want you to go and tell her," said Christopher, "and I've got my bankbook here; I'm going to write some

checks that she can get cashed when she needs money. I want you to tell her. Myrtle won't make a fuss. She

ain't the kind. Maybe she will be a little lonely, but if she is, she can go and visit somewhere." Christopher

rose. "Can you let me have a pen and ink?" said he, "and I will write those checks. You can tell Myrtle how

Stephen Wheaton, an hour later, sat in his study, the checks in his hand, striving to rally his courage.

Christopher had gone; he had seen him from his window, laden with parcels, starting upon the ascent of

Silver Mountain. Christopher had made out many checks for small amounts, and Stephen held the sheaf in his

hand, and gradually his courage to arise and go and tell Christopher's wife gained strength. At last he went.

Myrtle was looking out of the window, and she came quickly to the door. She looked at him, her round,

Then the two entered the house. Stephen found his task unexpectedly easy. Myrtle Dodd was an unusual

"It is all right for my husband to do as he pleases," she said with an odd dignity, as if she were defending him.

"Mr. Dodd is a strange man. He ought to have been educated and led a different life," Stephen said, lamely,

for he reflected that the words might be hard for the woman to hear, since she seemed obvi ously quite fitted

But Myrtle did not take it hardly, seemingly rather with pride. "Yes," said she, "Christopher ought to have

gone to college. He had the head for it. Instead of that he has just stayed round here and dogged round the

farm, and everything has gone wrong lately. He hasn't had any luck even with that." Then poor Myrtle Dodd

said an unexpectedly wise thing. "But maybe," said Myrtle, "his bad luck may turn out the best thing for him

"I sha'n't use any more of his savings than I can help," said Myrtle, and for the first time her voice quavered.

"He must have some clothes up there," said she. "There ain't bedcoverings, and it is cold nights, late as it is

in the spring. I wonder how I can get the bedclothes and other things to him. I can't drive, myself, and I don't

like to hire anybody; aside from its being an expense, it would make talk. Mother Dodd and Abby won't

"There ain't going to be any mystery. Christo pher has got a right to live awhile on Silver Mountain if he

"But I will take the things up there to him, if you will let me have a horse and wagon," said Stephen.

After the minister had gone she went into her own bedroom and cried a little and made the moan of a loving

woman sadly bewildered by the ways of man, but loyal as a soldier. Then she dried her tears and began to

The next morning early, before the dew was off the young grass, Stephen Wheaton started with the

wagonload, driving the great gray farmhorse up the side of Silver Mountain. The road was fairly good,

making many winds in order to avoid steep ascents, and Stephen drove slowly. The gray farm horse was

sagacious. He knew that an unaccustomed hand held the lines; he knew that of a right he should be treading

But as for the man driving, his face was radiant, his eyes of young manhood lit with the light of the morning.

He had not owned it, but he himself had sometimes chafed under the dull necessity of his life, but here was

excitement, here was exhilaration. He drew the sweet air into his lungs, and the deeper meaning of the spring

morning into his soul. Christo pher Dodd interested him to the point of enthusiasm. Not even the uneasy

consideration of the lonely, mystified woman in Dodd's deserted home could deprive him of admiration for

the man's flight into the spiritual open. He felt that these rights of the man were of the highest, and that other

It was not a long drive. When he reached the shack merely a oneroomed hut, with a stove pipe

chimney, two windows, and a door Christo pher stood at the entrance and seemed to illuminate it.

Stephen for a minute doubted his identity. Christopher had lost middle age in a day's time. He had the look of

a triumphant youth. Blue smoke was curling from the chimney. Stephen smelled bacon frying, and coffee.

Christopher greeted him with the joyousness of a child. "Lord!" said he, "did Myrtle send you up with all

those things? Well, she is a good woman. Guess I would have been cold last night if I hadn't been so happy.

Christopher nodded happily and lovingly. "She would. She can understand not understanding, and that is

more than most women can. It was mighty good of you to bring the things. You are in time for breakfast.

Lord! Mr. Wheaton, smell the trees, and there are blooms hidden somewhere that smell sweet. Think of

having the common food of man sweetened this way! First time I fully sensed I was something more than just

a man. Lord, I am paid already. It won't be so very long before I get my fill, at this rate, and then I can go

back. To think I needn't plow today! To think all I have to do is to have the spring! See the light under those

Christopher spoke like a man in ecstasy. He tied the gray horse to a tree and brought a pail of water for him

Then he said to Stephen: "Come right in. The bacon's done, and the coffee and the corncake and the eggs

The two men entered the shack. There was noth ing there except the little cookingstove, a few kitchen

utensils hung on pegs on the walls, an old table with a few dishes, two chairs, and a lounge over which was

Stephen sat down, and Christopher fried the eggs. Then he bade the minister draw up, and the two men

"You are a famous cook, Mr. Dodd," laughed Stephen. He was thoroughly enjoying himself, and the

"It ain't that," declared Christopher in his ex alted voice. "It ain't that, young man. It's be cause the food is

Stephen stayed all day on Silver Mountain. He and Christopher went fishing, and had fried trout for dinner.

Myrtle received them with a sort of state which defied the imputation of sadness. "Did he seem comfortable?"

"Comfortable, Mrs. Dodd? I believe it will mean a new lease of life to your husband. He is an un common

"You have everything you want? You were not timid last night alone?" asked the minister.

"Yes, I was timid. I heard queer noises," said Myrtle, "but I sha'n't be alone any more. Chris topher's niece

wrote me she was coming to make a visit. She has been teaching school, and she lost her school. I rather

guess Ellen is as uncommon for a girl as Christopher is for a man. Anyway, she's lost her school, and her

brother's married, and she don't want to go there. Besides, they live in Boston, and Ellen, she says she can't

bear the city in spring and summer. She wrote she'd saved a little, and she'd pay her board, but I sha'n't touch

a dollar of her little savings, and neither would Christopher want me to. He's always thought a sight of Ellen,

though he's never seen much of her. As for me, I was so glad when her letter came I didn't know what to do.

Christopher will be glad. I suppose you'll be going up there to see him off and on." Myrtle spoke a bit

"If you will just let me know when you are going, I will see that you have something to take to him some

"Yes, he had one rigged up. He will have plenty of eggs, and he carried up bacon and corn meal and tea and

"I am glad of that," said Myrtle. She spoke with a quiet dignity, but her face never lost its expression of

The next week Stephen Wheaton carried Myrtle's bread and pies to Christopher on his mountainside. He

drove Christopher's gray horse harnessed in his old buggy, and realized that he himself was getting much

pleasure out of the other man's idiosyncrasy. The morning was beautiful, and Stephen carried in his mind a

peculiar new beauty, besides. Ellen, Christopher's niece, had arrived the night before, and, early as it was, she

had been astir when he reached the Dodd house. She had opened the door for him, and she was a goodly

sight: a tall girl, shaped like a boy, with a fearless face of great beauty crowned with compact gold braids and

lit by un swerving blue eyes. Ellen had a square, determined chin and a brow of high resolve.

"Good morning," said she, and as she spoke she evidently rated Stephen and approved, for she smiled

"Aunt said you were to drive uncle's horse and take the buggy," said Ellen. "It is very kind of you. While you

Stephen, harnessing the gray horse, had a sense of shock; whether pleasant or otherwise, he could not

determine. He had never seen a girl in the least like Ellen. Girls had never impressed him. She did.

When he drove around to the kitchen door she and Myrtle were both there, and he drank a cup of coffee

before starting, and Myrtle introduced him. "Only think, Mr. Wheaton," said she, "Ellen says she knows a

great deal about farming, and we are going to hire Jim Mason and go right ahead." Myrtle looked adoringly at

Stephen spoke eagerly. "Don't hire anybody," he said. "I used to work on a farm to pay my way through

"You may do that," said Ellen, "on shares. Neither aunt nor I can think of letting you work without any

"Well, we will settle that," Stephen replied. When he drove away, his usually calm mind was in a tumult.

"Your niece has come," he told Christopher, when the two men were breakfasting together on Silver

"I am glad of that," said Christopher. "All that troubled me about being here was that Myrtle might wake up

"You aren't going to tap your sugarmaples?" said Stephen, looking up at the great symmetrical efflorescence

Christopher laughed. "No, bless 'em," said he, "the trees shall keep their sugar this season. This week is the

first time I've had a chance to get ac quainted with them and sort of enter into their feel ings. Good Lord!

I've seen how I can love those trees, Mr. Wheaton! See the pink on their young leaves! They know more than

Stephen did not tell Christopher how Ellen and Myrtle were to work the farm with his aid. The two women

had bade him not. Christopher seemed to have no care whatever about it. He was simply happy. When

Stephen left, he looked at him and said, with the smile of a child, "Do you think I am crazy?"

"Well, I ain't. I'm just getting fed. I was starv ing to death. Glad you don't think I'm crazy, be cause I

couldn't help matters by saying I wasn't. Myrtle don't think I am, I know. As for Ellen, I haven't seen her

since she was a little girl. I don't believe she can be much like Myrtle; but I guess if she is what she promised

to turn out she wouldn't think anybody ought to go just her way to have it the right way."

"I rather think she is like that, although I saw her for the first time this morning," said Stephen.

"I begin to feel that I may not need to stay here much longer," Christopher called after him. "I begin to feel

But it was the last day of July before he came. He chose the cool of the evening after a burning day, and

descended the mountain in the full light of the moon. He had gone up the mountain like an old man; he came

When he came at last in sight of his own home, he paused and stared. Across the grassland a heavily laden

wagon was moving toward his barn. Upon this wagon heaped with hay, full of silver lights from the moon,

sat a tall figure all in white, which seemed to shine above all things. Christopher did not see the man on the

other side of the wagon leading the horses; he saw only this wonderful white figure. He hurried forward and

Myrtle came down the road to meet him. She had been watch ing for him, as she had watched every night.

"Oh!" said Christopher. "She looked like an angel of the Lord, come to take up the burden I had dropped

"Be you feeling pretty well, Christopher?" asked Myrtle. She thought that what her husband had said was

Christopher put his arm around Myrtle. "I am better than I ever was in my whole life, Myrtle, and I've got

more courage to work now than I had when I was young. I had to go away and get rested, but I've got rested

"She is lucky. He is a man that can see with the eyes of other people," said Christopher.

It was after the hay had been unloaded and Chris topher had been shown the garden full of lusty vegetables,

and told of the great crop with no draw back, that he and the minister had a few minutes alone together at

"I want to tell you, Mr. Wheaton, that I am settled in my mind now. I shall never complain again, no matter

what happens. I have found that all the good things and all the bad things that come to a man who tries to do

right are just to prove to him that he is on the right path. They are just the flowers and sunbeams, and the

rocks and snakes, too, that mark the way. And I have found out more than that. I have found out the

"What is it?" asked Stephen, gazing at him curi ously from the wonderheight of his own special happiness.

"I have found out that the only way to heaven for the children of men is through the earth," said Christopher.

ANNIE HEMPSTEAD lived on a large family canvas, being the eldest of six children. There was only one

boy. The mother was long since dead. If one can imagine the Hempstead family, the head of which was the

Reverend Silas, pastor of the Orthodox Church in Lynn Corners, as being the subject of a mild study in

village history, the high light would probably fall upon Imogen, the youngest daughter. As for Annie, she

This afternoon in late July, Annie was out in the front yard of the parsonage, assisting her brother Benny to

rake hay. Benny had not cut it. Annie had hired a man, although the Hempsteads could not afford to hire a

man, but she had said to Benny, "Benny, you can rake the hay and get it into the barn if Jim Mullins cuts it,

can't you?" And Benny had smiled and nodded acquiescence. Benny Hemp stead always smiled and nodded

acquiescence, but there was in him the strange persistency of a willow bough, the persistency of pliability,

which is the most unconquerable of all. Benny swayed gracefully in response to all the wishes of others, but

Now he was raking to as little purpose as he could and rake at all. The clovertops, the timothy grass, and the

buttercups moved before his rake in a faint foam of gold and green and rose, but his sister Annie raised

whirlwinds with hers. The Hempstead yard was large and deep, and had two great squares given over to wild

growths on either side of the gravel walk, which was bordered with shrubs, flowering in their turn, like a

class of children at school saying their lessons. The spring shrubs had all spelled out their floral recitations, of

course, but great clumps of peonies were spreading wide skirts of gigantic bloom, like dancers courtesying

low on the stage of summer, and shafts of greenwhite Yucca lilies and Japan lilies and clovepinks still

Benny often stood still, wiped his forehead, leaned on his rake, and inhaled the bouquet of sweet scents, but

Annie raked with neverceasing energy. Annie was small and slender and wiry, and moved with angular

grace, her thin, peaked elbows showing be neath the sleeves of her pink gingham dress, her thin knees

outlining beneath the scanty folds of the skirt. Her neck was long, her shoulderblades troubled the back of

her blouse at every movement. She was a creature full of ostentatious joints, but the joints were delicate and

rhythmical and charming. Annie had a charming face, too. It was thin and sun burnt, but still charming, with

a sweet, eager, intent toplease outlook upon life. This last was the real attitude of Annie's mind; it was, in

fact, Annie. She was intent to please from her toes to the crown of her brown head. She radiated good will

It was very warm, and the northwest sky had a threatening mountain of clouds. Occasionally An nie glanced

at it and raked the faster, and thought complacently of the waterproof covers in the little barn. This hay was

Two of the front windows of the house were filled with girls' heads, and the regular swaying movement of

whiteclad arms sewing. The girls sat in the house because it was so sunny on the piazza in the afternoon.

There were four girls in the sitting room, all making finery for themselves. On the other side of the front

door one of the two windows was blank; in the other was visible a nodding gray head, that of Annie's father

Everything was still except the girls' tongues, an occasional burst of laughter, and the crackling shrill of

locusts. Nothing had passed on the dusty road since Benny and Annie had begun their work. Lynn Corners

was nothing more than a hamlet. It was even seldom that an automobile got astray there, being diverted from

the little city of Anderson, six miles away, by turning to the left instead of the right.

Benny stopped again and wiped his forehead, all pink and beaded with sweat. He was a pretty young man

as pretty as a girl, although large. He glanced furtively at Annie, then he went with a soft, padding glide, like

a big cat, to the piazza and settled down. He leaned his head against a post, closed his eyes, and inhaled the

sweetness of flowers alive and dying, of newmown hay. Annie glanced at him and an angelic look came

over her face. At that moment the sweetness of her nature seemed actually visible.

"He is tired, poor boy!" she thought. She also thought that probably Benny felt the heat more be cause he

was stout. Then she raked faster and faster. She fairly flew over the yard, raking the severed grass and

flowers into heaps. The air grew more sultry. The sun was not yet clouded, but the northwest was darker and

The girls in the sittingroom continued to chatter and sew. One of them might have come out to help this

little sister toiling alone, but Annie did not think of that. She raked with the uncomplaining sweet ness of an

angel until the storm burst. The rain came down in solid drops, and the sky was a sheet of clamoring flame.

Annie made one motion toward the barn, but there was no use. The hay was not half cocked. There was no

sense in running for covers. Benny was up and lumbering into the house, and her sisters were shutting

windows and crying out to her. Annie deserted her post and fled before the wind, her pink skirts lashing her

When she entered the sittingroom her sisters, Imogen, Eliza, Jane, and Susan, were all there; also her father,

Silas, tall and gaunt and gray. To the Hempsteads a thunderstorm partook of the nature of a religious

ceremony. The family gathered to gether, and it was understood that they were all offering prayer and

recognizing God as present on the wings of the tempest. In reality they were all very nervous in

thunderstorms, with the exception of Annie. She always sent up a little silent petition that her sisters and

brother and father, and the horse and dog and cat, might escape danger, although she had never been quite

sure that she was not wicked in including the dog and cat. She was surer about the horse because he was the

means by which her father made pastoral calls upon his distant sheep. Then afterward she just sat with the

others and waited until the storm was over and it was time to open windows and see if the roof had leaked.

To day, however, she was intent upon the hay. In a lull of the tempest she spoke.

"It is a pity," she said, "that I was not able to get the hay cocked and the covers on."

Then Imogen turned large, sarcastic blue eyes upon her. Imogen was considered a beauty, pink and white,

goldenhaired, and dimpled, with a curi ous calculating hardness of character and a sharp tongue, so at

"If," said Imogen, "you had only made Benny work instead of encouraging him to dawdle and finally to stop

altogether, and if you had gone out directly after dinner, the hay would have been all raked up and covered."

Nothing could have exceeded the calm and in structive superiority of Imogen's tone. A mass of soft white

fabric lay upon her lap, although she had removed scissors and needle and thimble to a safe distance. She

tilted her chin with a royal air. When the storm lulled she had stopped praying.

"Yes," said Jane, "if you had only started earlier, Annie. I told Eliza when you went out in the yard that it

"It was foolish to start so late," said Susan, with a calm air of wisdom only a shade less exasperating than

Then the Reverend Silas joined in. "You should have more sense of responsibility toward your broth er,

"And all you had to do was the dinnerdishes, and there were very few today," said Jane.

Then Annie turned with a quick, catlike motion. Her eyes blazed under her brown toss of hair. She

gesticulated with her little, nervous hands. Her voice was as sweet and intense as a reed, and withal piercing

"It was not half past one when I went out," said she, "and there was a whole sinkful of dishes."

"I am not! I was not! I washed the dishes, and swept the kitchen, and blacked the stove, and cleaned the

Annie's father gazed at her severely. "My dear," he said, "how long must I try to correct you of this habit of

"Dear Annie does not realize that they are false statements, father," said Jane. Jane was not pretty, but she

gave the effect of a long, sweet stanza of some fine poetess. She was very tall and slender and largeeyed,

and wore always a serious smile. She was attired in a purple muslin gown, cut Vshaped at the throat, and, as

always, a black velvet ribbon with a little gold locket attached. The locket con tained a coil of hair. Jane had

been engaged to a young minister, now dead three years, and he had given her the locket.

Jane no doubt had mourned for her lover, but she had a covert pleasure in the romance of her situation. She

was a year younger than Annie, and she had loved and lost, and so had achieved a sentimental distinction.

Imogen always had admirers. Eliza had been courted at intervals halfheartedly by a widower, and Susan had

had a few fleeting chances. But Jane was the only one who had been really defi nite in her heart affairs. As

for Annie, nobody ever thought of her in such a connection. It was supposed that Annie had no thought of

marriage, that she was foreordained to remain unwed and keep house for her father and Benny.

When Jane said that dear Annie did not realize that she made false statements, she voiced an opinion of the

family before which Annie was always abso lutely helpless. Defense meant counteraccusation. Annie

could not accuse her family. She glanced from one to the other. In her blue eyes were still sparks of wrath,

but she said nothing. She felt, as always, speechless, when affairs reached such a junc ture. She began, in

spite of her good sense, to feel guiltily responsible for everything for the spoiling of the hay, even for the

thunderstorm. What was more, she even wished to feel guiltily responsible. Anything was better than to be

sure her sisters were not speaking the truth, that her father was blaming her unjustly.

Benny, who sat hunched upon himself with the effect of one set of bones and muscles leaning upon others for

support, was the only one who spoke for her, and even he spoke to little purpose.

"One of you other girls," said he, in a thick, sweet voice, "might have come out and helped Annie; then she

"It is all very well for you to talk," said Imogen. "I saw you myself quit raking hay and sit down on the

"You have no sense of your responsibility, Ben jamin, and your sister Annie abets you in evading it," said

"Father is entirely right," said Eliza. "Benja min has no sense of responsibility, and it is mainly owing to

Benny got up lumberingly and left the room. He loved his sister Annie, but he hated the mild simmer of

feminine rancor to which even his father's pres ence failed to add a masculine flavor. Benny was always

Just after he left there was a tremendous peal of thunder and a blue flash, and they all prayed again, except

Annie; who was occupied with her own perplexities of life, and not at all afraid. She won dered, as she had

wondered many times before, if she could possibly be in the wrong, if she were spoil ing Benny, if she said

and did things without know ing that she did so, or the contrary. Then suddenly she tightened her mouth.

She knew. This sweet tempered, anxioustoplease Annie was entirely sane, she had unusual selfpoise.

She KNEW that she knew what she did and said, and what she did not do or say, and a strange

comprehension of her family over whelmed her. Her sisters were truthful; she would not admit anything

else, even to herself; but they confused desires and impulses with accomplishment. They had done so all their

lives, some of them from intense egotism, some possibly from slight twists in their mental organisms. As for

her father, he had simply rather a weak character, and was swayed by the majority. Annie, as she sat there

among the praying group, made the same excuse for her sisters that they made for her. "They don't realize it,"

When the storm finally ceased she hurried up stairs and opened the windows, letting in the rain fresh air.

Then she got supper, while her sisters resumed their needlework. A curious conviction seized her, as she was

hurrying about the kitchen, that in all probability some, if not all, of her sisters considered that they were

getting the supper. Pos sibly Jane had reflected that she ought to get supper, then she had taken another

stitch in her work and had not known fairly that her impulse of duty had not been carried out. Imogen,

presumably, was sew ing with the serene consciousness that, since she was herself, it followed as a matter

While Annie was making an omelet Benny came out into the kitchen and stood regarding her, hands in

pockets, making, as usual, one set of muscles rest upon another. His face was full of the utmost good nature,

"But say, Annie, you must know that they tell whoppers. You DID sweep the kitchen."

"Imogen always thinks she has done everything she ought to do, whether she has done it or not," said Benny,

"She does lie, even if she doesn't know it," said Benny; "and what is more, she ought to be made to know it.

Say, Annie, it strikes me that you are doing the same by the girls that they accuse you of doing by me. Aren't

Benny nodded. "I can't see any difference," he said. "There isn't a day but one of the girls thinks she has done

something you have done, or hasn't done something you ought to have done, and they blame you all the time,

when you don't deserve it, and you let them, and they don't know it, and I don't think myself that they know

they tell whop pers; but they ought to know. Strikes me you are just spoiling the whole lot, father thrown in,

Annie. You are a dear, just as they say, but you are too much of a dear to be good for them."

"You are letting that omelet burn," said Benny. "Say, Annie, I will go out and turn that hay in the morning. I

know I don't amount to much, but I ain't a girl, anyhow, and I haven't got a crosseyed soul. That's what ails a

lot of girls. They mean all right, but their souls have been crosseyed ever since they came into the world,

and it's just such girls as you who ought to get them straightened out. You know what has happened today.

Well, here's what happened yesterday. I don't tell tales, but you ought to know this, for I believe Tom Reed

has his eye on you, in spite of Imogen's being such a beauty, and Susan's having manners like silk, and Eliza's

giving everybody the impression that she is too good for this earth, and Jane's trying to make everybody think

she is a sweet martyr, with out a thought for mortal man, when that is only her way of trying to catch one.

Annie nodded. Her face turned scarlet, then pathetically pale. She bent over her omelet, care fully lifting it

"Well," Benny went on, "I know he came to see you, and Imogen went to the door and ushered him into the

parlor, and I was out on the piazza, and she didn't know it, but I heard her tell him that she thought you had

gone out. She hinted, too, that George Wells had taken you to the concert in the town hall. He did ask you,

"Well, Imogen spoke in this way." Benny lowered his voice and imitated Imogen to the life. "'Yes, we are all

well, thank you. Father is busy, of course; Jane has run over to Mrs. Jacobs's for a pattern; Eliza is writing

letters; and Susan is somewhere about the house. Annie well, Annie George Wells asked her to go to

the concert I rather ' Then," said Benny, in his natural voice, "Imogen stopped, and she could say

truthfully that she didn't lie, but anybody would have thought from what she said that you had gone to the

Annie laughed a little, although her face was still pale. She had folded the omelet and was carefully watching

"Then what right have the girls to tell so many people the nice things they hear you say about him?"

Annie removed the omelet skilfully from the pan to a hot plate, which she set on the range shelf, and turned

"That he is so handsome; that he has such a good position; that he is the very best young man in the place;

that you should think every girl would be head over heels in love with him; that every word he speaks is so

"You won't say you never did, because that would be putting your sisters in the wrong and admitting that they

tell lies. Annie, you are a dear, but I do think you are doing wrong and spoiling them as much as they say you

"Perhaps I am," said Annie. There was a strange, tragic expression on her keen, pretty little face. She looked

as if her mind was contemplating strenu ous action which was changing her very features. She had covered

"I wish you would see if everybody is in the house and ready, Benny," said she. "When this omelet is done

they must come right away, or nothing will be fit to eat. And, Benny dear, if you don't mind, please get the

butter and the creampitcher out of the icechest. I have everything else on the table."

"There is another thing," said Benny. "I don't go about telling tales, but I do think it is time you knew. The

girls tell everybody that you like to do the housework so much that they don't dare inter fere. And it isn't so.

They may have taught them selves to think it is so, but it isn't. You would like a little time for fancywork

"Please get the cream and butter, and see if they are all in the house," said Annie. She spoke as usual, but the

strange expression remained in her face. It was still there when the family were all gathered at the table and

They all gazed at her then, her father with some anxiety. "You don't look yourself," he said. "You are feeling

"It will be sopping wet out there after the shower," said Eliza. "Are you crazy, Annie?"

"I have on my black skirt, and I will wear rub bers," said Annie, quietly. "I want some fresh air."

"I should think you had enough fresh air. You were outdoors all the afternoon, while we were cooped up in

"Don't you feel well, Annie?" her father asked again, a golden bit of omelet poised on his fork, as she was

"I have always heard that people who cook don't need so much to eat," said Imogen. "They say the essence of

"Yes, she is, things that one cannot account for, but Annie is a dear," said Susan.

"Oh, she is well enough. Don't worry, father," said Imogen. "Dear Annie is always doing the unexpected. She

"I think she is thinner than I have ever seen her, and the rest of you look like stuffed geese," said Benny,

Imogen turned upon him in dignified wrath. "Benny, you insult your sisters," said she. "Father, you should

"You ought to bridle yours, every one of you," retorted Benny. "You girls nag poor Annie every single

There was a chorus of treble voices. "We nag dear Annie! We pick at dear Annie! We make her do

everything! Father, you should remonstrate with Benjamin. You know how we all love dear Annie!"

"Benjamin," began Silas Hempstead, but Benny, with a smothered exclamation, was up and out of the room.

Benny quite frankly disliked his sisters, with the exception of Annie. For his father he had a sort of respectful

tolerance. He could not see why he should have anything else. His father had never done anything for him

except to admonish him. His scanty revenue for his support and college expenses came from his maternal

grandmother, who had been a woman of parts and who had openly scorned her soninlaw.

Grandmother Loomis had left a will which occa sioned much comment. By its terms she had pro vided

sparsely but adequately for Benjamin's edu cation and living until he should graduate; and her house, with

all her personal property, and the bulk of the sum from which she had derived her own income, fell to her

granddaughter Annie. Annie had always been her grandmother's favorite. There had been covert dismay

when the contents of the will were made known, then one and all had congratulated the beneficiary, and said

abroad that they were glad dear Annie was so well provided for. It was inti mated by Imogen and Eliza that

probably dear Annie would not marry, and in that case Grand mother Loomis's bequest was so fortunate.

She had probably taken that into consideration. Grand mother Loomis had now been dead four years, and

Annie soon came back from the orchard, and after she had cleared away the suppertable and washed the

dishes she went up to her room, carefully re arranged her hair, and changed her dress. Then she sat down

beside a window and waited and watched, her pointed chin in a cup of one little thin hand, her soft muslin

skirts circling around her, and the scent of queer old sachet emanating from a flowered ribbon of her

grandmother's which she had tied around her waist. The ancient scent always clung to the rib bon,

suggesting faintly as a dream the musk and roses and violets of some old summertime.

Annie sat there and gazed out on the front yard, which was silvered over with moonlight. Annie's four sisters

all sat out there. They had spread a rug over the damp grass and brought out chairs. There were five chairs,

although there were only four girls. Annie gazed over the yard and down the street. She heard the chatter of

the girls, which was inconsequent and absent, as if their minds were on other things than their conversation.

Then sud denly she saw a small red gleam far down the street, evidently that of a cigar, and also a dark,

moving figure. Then there ensued a subdued wrangle in the yard. Imogen insisted that her sisters should go

into the house. They all resisted, Eliza the most vehemently. Imogen was arrogant and compelling. Finally

she drove them all into the house except Eliza, who wavered upon the threshold of yielding. Imogen was

obliged to speak very softly lest the ap proaching man hear, but Annie, in the window above her, heard

"You know he is coming to see me," said Imogen, passionately. "You know you know, Eliza, and yet

"He comes to see Annie, I believe," said Eliza, in her stubborn voice, which yet had indecision in it.

"He never has a chance. We all tell him, the minute he comes in, that she is out. But now I am going to stay,

"Stay if you want to. You are all a jealous lot. If you girls can't have a beau yourselves, you be grudge one

"I will stay," said Eliza, and this time her voice was wholly firm. "There is no use in my going, anyway, for

It was true. Back flitted Jane and Susan, and by that time Tom Reed had reached the gate, and his cigar was

going out in a shower of sparks on the gravel walk, and all four sisters were greeting him and urging upon his

acceptance the fifth chair. Annie, watching, saw that the young man seemed to hesi tate. Then her heart

leaped and she heard him speak quite plainly, with a note of defiance and irri tation, albeit with

Annie, at her window, made a sudden passionate motion, then she sat still and listened. She argued fiercely

that she was right in so doing. She felt that the time had come when she must know, for the sake of her own

individuality, just what she had to deal with in the natures of her own kith and kin. Dear Annie had turned in

her groove of sweetness and gentle yielding, as all must turn who have any strength of character underneath

At first she heard little that bore upon herself, for the conversation was desultory, about the weather and

general village topics. Then Annie heard her own name. She was "dear Annie," as usual. She listened, fairly

faint with amazement. What she heard from that quartette of treble voices down there in the moonlight

seemed almost like a fairytale. The sisters did not violently incriminate her. They were too astute for that.

They told halftruths. They told truths which were as shadows of the real facts, and yet not to be

contradicted. They built up between them a story marvelously consist ent, unless prearranged, and that

Annie did not think possible. George Wells figured in the tale, and there were various hints and pauses

concerning herself and her own character in daily life, and not one item could be flatly denied, even if the girl

could have gone down there and, standing in the midst of that moonlit group, given her sisters the lie.

Everything which they told, the whole structure of falsehood, had beams and rafters of truth. Annie felt

helpless before it all. To her fancy, her sisters and Tom Reed seemed actually sitting in a fairy building whose

substance was utter falsehood, and yet which could not be utterly denied. An awful sense of isolation

possessed her. So these were her own sisters, the sisters whom she had loved as a matter of the simplest

She made no allowance, since she herself was per fectly normal, for the motive which underlay it all. She

could not comprehend the strife of the women over the one man. Tom Reed was in reality the one desirable

match in the village. Annie knew, or thought she knew, that Tom Reed had it in mind to love her, and she

innocently had it in mind to love him. She thought of a home of her own and his with delight. She thought of

it as she thought of the roses coming into bloom in June, and she thought of it as she thought of the

everyday hap penings of life cooking, setting rooms in order, washing dishes. However, there was

something else to reckon with, and that Annie instinctively knew. She had been longsuffering, and her

long suffering was now regarded as endless. She had cast her pearls, and they had been trampled. She had

turned her other cheek, and it had been promptly slapped. It was entirely true that Annie's sisters were not

quite worthy of her, that they had taken advantage of her kindness and gentleness, and had mistaken them for

weakness, to be despised. She did not understand them, nor they her. They were, on the whole, better than she

thought, but with her there was a stern limit of endurance. Some thing whiter and hotter than mere wrath

was in the girl's soul as she sat there and listened to the build ing of that structure of essential falsehood

She waited until Tom Reed had gone. He did not stay long. Then she went downstairs with flying feet, and

stood among them in the moonlight. Her father had come out of the study, and Benny had just been entering

the gate as Tom Reed left. Then dear Annie spoke. She really spoke for the first time in her life, and there

was something dread ful about it all. A sweet nature is always rather dreadful when it turns and strikes, and

Annie struck with the whole force of a nature with a foundation of steel. She left nothing unsaid. She

defended herself and she accused her sisters as if before a judge. Then came her ultimatum.

"Tomorrow morning I am going over to Grand mother Loomis's house, and I am going to live there a

whole year," she declared, in a slow, steady voice. "As you know, I have enough to live on, and in order

that no word of mine can be garbled and twisted as it has been tonight, I speak not at all. Every thing

which I have to communicate shall be written in black and white, and signed with my own name, and black

"From what I have heard you all say tonight, whatever you make them," retorted Annie the Annie who

Jane gasped. Silas Hempstead stood staring, quite dumb before the sudden problem. Imogen alone seemed to

"May I inquire what the butcher and grocer are going to think, no matter what your own sisters think and say,

when you give your orders in writ ing?" she inquired, achieving a jolt from tragedy to the commonplace.

"That is my concern," replied Annie, yet she recognized the difficulty of that phase of the situa tion. It is just

such trifling matters which detract from the dignity of extreme attitudes toward ex istence. Annie had taken

an extreme attitude, yet here were the butcher and the grocer to reckon with. How could she communicate

with them in writing without appearing absurd to the verge of insanity? Yet even that difficulty had a

Annie thought it out after she had gone to bed that night. She had been imperturbable with her sisters, who

had finally come in a body to make entreaties, although not apologies or retractions. There was a stiffnecked

strain in the Hempstead family, and apologies and retractions were bitterer cuds for them to chew than for

most. She had been imperturbable with her father, who had quoted Scripture and prayed at her during family

worship. She had been imperturbable even with Benny, who had whispered to her: "Say, Annie, I don't blame

But she had had a struggle before her own vision of the butcher and the grocer, and their amazement when

she ceased to speak to them. Then she settled that with a sudden leap of inspiration. It sounded too apropos to

be life, but there was a little deafand dumb girl, a faraway relative of the Hempsteads, who lived with her

aunt Felicia in Anderson. She was a great trial to her aunt Felicia, who was a widow and welltodo, and

liked the elegancies and normalities of life. This unfortunate little Effie Hempstead could not be placed in a

charitable insti tution on account of the name she bore. Aunt Felicia considered it her worldly duty to care

Annie would take Effie off Aunt Felicia's hands, and no comment would be excited by a deafand dumb

girl carrying written messages to the trades men, since she obviously could not give them orally. The only

comment would be on Annie's conduct in holding herself aloof from her family and the village people

The next morning, when Annie went away, there was an excited conclave among the sisters.

Imogen's handsome face looked hard and set. "Let her, if she wants to," said she.

Imogen tossed her head. "I shall have some thing to say myself," she returned. "I shall say how much we all

regret that dear Annie has such a difficult disposition that she felt she could not live with her own family and

"Why, I am afraid people have the impression that dear Annie has " Jane hesitated.

"What?" asked Imogen, coldly. She looked very handsome that morning. Not a waved golden hair was out of

place on her carefully brushed head. She wore the neatest of blue linen skirts and blouses, with a linen collar

"I am afraid," said Jane, "that people have a sort of general impression that dear Annie has per haps as sweet

"Nobody says that dear Annie has not a sweet disposition," said Imogen, taking a careful stitch in her

embroidery. "But a sweet disposition is very often extremely difficult for other people. It con stantly puts

them in the wrong. I am well aware of the fact that dear Annie does a great deal for all of us, but it is

sometimes irritating. Of course it is quite certain that she must have a feeling of superiority because of it, and

Sometimes Eliza made illuminating speeches. "I suppose it follows, then," said she, with slight irony, "that

But Imogen was not in the least nonplussed. She finished her line of thought. "And with all her sweet

disposition," said she, "nobody can deny that dear Annie is peculiar, and peculiarity always makes people

difficult for other people. Of course it is horribly peculiar what she is proposing to do now. That in itself will

be enough to convince people that dear Annie must be difficult. Only a difficult person could do such a

"Who is going to get up and get breakfast in the morning, and wash the dishes?" inquired Jane, irrelevantly.

"All I ever want for breakfast is a bit of fruit, a roll, and an egg, besides my coffee," said Imogen, with her

"And also that she will justify herself by the theory that there is nothing to be done," said Eliza.

"Oh, well," said Jane, "I will get up and get breakfast, of course. I once contemplated the pros pect of doing

Eliza assented. "I can understand that it will not be so hard for you," she said, "and although I myself always

aspired to higher things than preparing breakfasts, still, you did not, and it is true that you would probably

have had it to do if poor Henry had lived, for he was not one to ever have a very large salary."

"There are better things than large salaries," said Jane, and her face looked sadly reminiscent. After all, the

distinction of being the only one who had been on the brink of preparing matrimonial breakfasts was much.

She felt that it would make early rising and early work endurable to her, although she was not an active

"I will get a dishmop and wash the dishes," said Eliza. "I can manage to have an instructive book propped

open on the kitchen table, and keep my mind upon higher things as I do such menial tasks."

Then Susan stood in the doorway, a tall figure gracefully swaying sidewise, longthroated and promi

nenteyed. She was the least attractivelooking of any of the sisters, but her manners were so charming, and

"I will dust," said Susan, in a lovely voice, and as she spoke she involuntarily bent and swirled her limp

muslins in such a way that she fairly suggested a moral duster. There was the making of an actress in Susan.

Nobody had ever been able to decide what her true individual self was. Quite unconsciously, like a

chameleon, she took upon herself the charac teristics of even inanimate things. Just now she was a duster,

"I am not strong enough to sweep. I am very sorry," said Susan, who remained a duster, and did not become a

"If we have system," said Eliza, vaguely, "the work ought not to be so very hard."

"Of course not," said Imogen. She had come in and seated herself. Her three sisters eyed her, but she

embroidered imperturbably. The same thought was in the minds of all. Obviously Imogen was the very one to

take the task of sweeping upon herself. That hard, compact, young body of hers suggested strenuous

But Imogen had no intention of sweeping. Indeed, the very imagining of such tasks in connection with herself

"I suppose," said Jane, "that we might be able to engage Mrs. Moss to come in once a week and do the

"I should think it might be managed, with sys tem, if you did not hire anybody," said Imogen, calmly.

"You talk of system as if it were a suction cleaner," said Eliza, with a dash of asperity. Sometimes she

"System is invaluable," said Imogen. She looked away from her embroidery to the white stretch of country

road, arched over with elms, and her beau tiful eyes had an expression as if they sighted sys tem, the

Meantime, Annie Hempstead was traveling to Anderson in the jolting trolleycar, and trying to settle her

emotions and her outlook upon life, which jolted worse than the car upon a strange new track. She had not the

slightest intention of giving up her plan, but she realized within herself the sensations of a revolutionist. Who

in her family, for generations and generations, had ever taken the course which she was taking? She was not

exactly frightened Annie had splendid courage when once her blood was up but she was conscious of a

She reached the end of the car line, then walked about half a mile to her Aunt Felicia Hempstead's house. It

was a handsome house, after the standard of nearly half a century ago. It had an opulent air, with its swelling

breasts of bay windows, through which showed fine lace curtains; its dormerwindows, each with its

carefully draped curtains; its black walnut front door, whose sidelights were screened with medallioned

lace. The house sat high on three terraces of velvetlike grass, and was surmounted by stone steps in three

Annie mounted the three tiers of steps between the stone lions and rang the frontdoor bell, which was

polished so brightly that it winked at her like a brazen eye. Almost directly the door was opened by an

immaculate, whitecapped and whiteaproned maid, and Annie was ushered into the parlor. When Annie had

been a little thing she had been enamoured of and impressed by the splendor of this parlor. Now she had

doubts of it, in spite of the long, magnificent sweep of lace curtains, the sheen of carefully kept upholstery,

the gleam of alabaster statuettes, and the even piles of giltedged books upon the polished tables.

Soon Mrs. Felicia Hempstead entered, a tall, well setup woman, with a handsome face and keen eyes. She

wore her usual morning costume a breakfast sacque of black silk profusely trimmed with lace, and a black

silk skirt. She kissed Annie, with a slight peck of closely set lips, for she liked her. Then she sat down

opposite her and regarded her with as much of a smile as her sternly set mouth could manage, and inquired

politely regarding her health and that of the family. When Annie broached the subject of her call, the set calm

"Of course," said Felicia Hempstead. "It is be cause they need a dose of bitter medicine, and you hope they

will be the better for it. I understand you, my dear. You have spirit enough, but you don't get it up often. That

is where they make their mis take. Often the meek are meek from choice, and they are the ones to beware

of. I don't blame you for trying it. And you can have Effie and welcome. I warn you that she is a little

wearing. Of course she can't help her affliction, poor child, but it is dreadful. I have had her taught. She can

read and write very well now, poor child, and she is not lacking, and I have kept her well dressed. I take her

out to drive with me every day, and am not ashamed to have her seen with me. If she had all her faculties she

would not be a badlooking little girl. Now, of course, she has something of a vacant expression. That comes,

I suppose, from her not being able to hear. She has learned to speak a few words, but I don't encourage her

doing that before people. It is too evident that there is something wrong. She never gets off one tone. But I

will let her speak to you. She will be glad to go with you. She likes you, and I dare say you can put up with

her. A woman when she is alone will make a com panion of a brazen image. You can manage all right for

"Well, you can try, but I am afraid you will need to have Mr. Freer come over once a week. It seems to me to

be quite a knack to teach the deaf and dumb. You can see. I will have Effie come in and tell her about the

plan. I wanted to go to Europe this summer, and did not know how to manage about Effie. It will be a

godsend to me, this ar rangement, and of course after the year is up she can come back."

With that Felicia touched a bell, the maid ap peared with automatic readiness, and presently a tall little girl

entered. She was very well dressed. Her linen frock was handembroidered, and her shoes were ultra. Her

pretty shock of fair hair was tied with French ribbon in a fetching bow, and she made a courtesy which would

have befitted a little prin cess. Poor Effie's courtesy was the one feature in which Felicia Hempstead took

pride. After making it the child always glanced at her for approval, and her face lighted up with pleasure at

the faint smile which her little performance evoked. Effie would have been a pretty little girl had it not been

for that vacant, bewildered expression of which Felicia had spoken. It was the expression of one shut up with

the darkest silence of life, that of her own self, and beauty was incompatible with it.

Felicia placed her stiff forefinger upon her own lips and nodded, and the child's face became trans figured.

She spoke in a level, awful voice, utterly devoid of inflection, and full of fright. Her voice was as the first

"Good morning," said she. "I hope you are well." Then she courtesied again. That little speech and one other,

"Thank you, I am very well," were all she had mastered. Effie's instruction had begun rather late, and her

When Annie's lips moved in response, Effie's face fairly glowed with delight and affection. The little girl

loved Annie. Then her questioning eyes sought Felicia, who beckoned, and drew from the pocket of her

rustling silk skirt a tiny pad and pencil. Effie crossed the room and stood at attention while Felicia wrote.

When she had read the words on the pad she gave one look at Annie, then another at Felicia, who nodded.

Effie courtesied before Annie like a fairy dancer. "Good morning. I hope you are well," she said. Then she

courtesied again and said, "Thank you, I am very well." Her pretty little face was quite eager with love and

pleasure, and yet there was an effect as of a veil before the happy emotion in it. The contrast between the

awful, level voice and the grace of motion and evident delight at once shocked and compelled pity. Annie put

Felicia Hempstead got speedily to work, and soon Effie's effects were packed and ready for transporta tion

upon the first express to Lynn Corners, and Annie and the little girl had boarded the trolley thither.

Annie Hempstead had the sensation of one who takes a cold plunge half pain and fright, half exhil

aration and triumph when she had fairly taken pos session of her grandmother's house. There was gen

uine girlish pleasure in looking over the stock of old china and linen and ancient mahoganies, in starting a fire

in the kitchen stove, and preparing a meal, the written order for which Effie had taken to the grocer and

butcher. There was genuine de light in sitting down with Effie at her very own table, spread with her

grandmother's old damask and pretty dishes, and eating, without hearing a word of unfavorable comment

upon the cookery. But there was a certain pain and terror in trampling upon that which it was difficult to

But that night after Effie had gone to bed, and the house was set to rights, and she in her cool muslin was

sitting on the frontdoor step, under the hooded trellis covered with wistaria, she was conscious of entire

"Tonight one of the others will really have to get the supper, and wash the dishes, and not be able to say she

did it and I didn't, when I did," Annie thought with unholy joy. She knew perfectly well that her viewpoint

was not sanctified, but she felt that she must allow her soul to have its little witch caper or she could not

answer for the consequences. There might result spiritual atrophy, which would be much more disastrous

than sin and repentance. It was either the continuance of her old life in her father's house, which was the

ignominious and harm ful one of the scapegoat, or this. She at last reveled in this. Here she was mistress.

Here what she did, she did, and what she did not do remained undone. Here her silence was her invincible

The soft summer night enveloped her. The air was sweet with flowers and the grass which lay still unraked in

her father's yard. A momentary feeling of impatience seized her; then she dismissed it, and peace came. What

had she to do with that hay? Her father would be obliged to buy hay if it were not raked over and dried, but

She heard voices and soft laughter. A dark shadow passed along the street. Her heart quick ened its beat.

The shadow turned in at her father's gate. There was a babel of welcoming voices, of which Annie could not

distinguish one articulate word. She sat leaning forward, her eyes intent upon the road. Then she heard the

click of her father's gate and the dark, shadowy figure reappeared in the road. Annie knew who it was; she

knew that Tom Reed was coming to see her. For a second, rapture seized her, then dismay. How well she

knew her sisters how very well! Not one of them would have given him the slightest inkling of the true

situation. They would have told him, by the sweetest of insinuations, rather than by straight statements, that

she had left her father's roof and come over here, but not one word would have been told him concerning her

vow of silence. They would leave that for him to dis cover, to his amazement and anger.

Annie rose and fled. She closed the door, turned the key softly, and ran upstairs in the dark. Kneel ing

before a window on the farther side from her old home, she watched with eager eyes the young man open the

gate and come up the path between the oldfashioned shrubs. The clovelike fragrance of the pinks in the

border came in her face. Annie watched Tom Reed disappear beneath the trellised hood of the door; then the

bell tinkled through the house. It seemed to Annie that she heard it as she had never heard anything before.

Every nerve in her body seemed urging her to rise and go downstairs and admit this young man whom she

loved. But her will, turned upon itself, kept her back. She could not rise and go down; something stronger

than her own wish restrained her. She suffered horribly, but she remained. The bell tinkled again. There was a

Annie leaned against the window, faint and trem bling. It was rather horrible to continue such a fight

between will and inclination, but she held out. She would not have been herself had she not done so. Then she

saw Tom Reed's figure emerge from under the shadow of the door, pass down the path between the

sweetflowering shrubs, seeming to stir up the odor of the pinks as he did so. He started to go down the road;

then Annie heard a loud, silvery call, with a harsh inflection, from her father's house. "Imogen is calling him

Annie was out of the room, and, slipping softly downstairs and out into the yard, crouched close to the fence

overgrown with sweetbrier, its founda tion hidden in the mallow, and there she listened. She wanted to

know what Imogen and her other sisters were about to say to Tom Reed, and she meant to know. She heard

every word. The dis tance was not great, and her sisters' voices carried far, in spite of their honeyed tones

and efforts tow ard secrecy. By the time Tom had reached the gate of the parsonage they had all crowded

down there, a fluttering assembly in their snowy summer muslins, like white doves. Annie heard Imogen

"No. Rang three times," replied Tom. He had a boyish voice, and his chagrin showed plainly in it. Annie

knew just how he looked, how dear and big and foolish, with his handsome, bewildered face, blurting out to

Then Annie heard Eliza speak in a small, sweet voice, which yet, to one who understood her, carried in it a

Jane spoke next. She echoed Eliza, but her voice was more emphatic and seemed multiple, as echoes do.

"Dear Annie is really very singular lately. It has distressed us all, especially father," said Susan, but

Then Imogen spoke, and to the point. "Annie must be in that house," said she. "She went in there, and she

"What in thunder do you all mean?" asked Tom Reed, and there was a bluntness, almost a brutality, in his

"I do not think such forcible language is becoming, especially at the parsonage," said Jane.

Annie distinctly heard Tom Reed snort. "Hang it if I care whether it is becoming or not," said he.

"Don't forget it for a blessed minute," returned Tom Reed. "Wish I could. You make it too evi dent that you

are ladies, with every word you speak, and all your beating about the bush. A man would blurt it out, and

then I would know where I am at. Hang it if I know now. You all say that your sister is singular and that she

distresses your father, and you" addressing Imogen "say that she must be in that house. You are the

only one who does make a dab at speaking out; I will say that much for you. Now, if she is in that house,

"I really cannot stay here and listen to such pro fane language," said Jane, and she flitted up the path to the

house like an enraged white moth. She had a fleecy white shawl over her head, and her pale outline was

"If she calls that profane, I pity her," said Tom Reed. He had known the girls since they were children, and

had never liked Jane. He continued, still addressing Imogen. "For Heaven's sake, if she is in that house, what

is the matter?" said he. "Doesn't the bell ring? Yes, it does ring, though it is as cracked as the devil. I heard it.

Has Annie gone deaf? Is she sick? Is she asleep? It is only eight o'clock. I don't believe she is asleep. Doesn't

she want to see me? Is that the trouble? What have I done? Is she angry with me?"

"What the dickens do you mean by singular? I have known Annie ever since she was that high. It never

struck me that she was any more singular than other girls, except she stood an awful lot of nagging without

making a kick. Here you all say she is singular, as if you meant she was" Tom hesitated a second

"crazy," said he. "Now, I know that Annie is saner than any girl around here, and that simply does not go

"Dear Annie may not be singular, but her actions are sometimes singular," said Susan. "We all feel badly

"You mean her going over to her grandmother's house to live? I don't know whether I think that is anything

but horsesense. I have eyes in my head, and I have used them. Annie has worked like a dog here; I suppose

"We all do our share of the work," said Eliza, calmly, "but we do it in a different way from dear Annie. She

makes very hard work of work. She has not as much system as we could wish. She tires herself

"Yes, that is quite true," assented Imogen. "Dear Annie gets very tired over the slightest tasks, whereas if she

went a little more slowly and used more system the work would be accomplished well and with no fatigue.

There was a silence. Tom Reed was bewildered. "But doesn't she want to see me?" he asked, finally.

"If she took a notion not to go to the door when she heard the bell ring, she simply wouldn't," said Imogen,

"Then you mean that you think she took a notion not to go to the door?" asked Tom, in a desperate tone.

"Dear Annie is very singular," said Eliza, with such softness and deliberation that it was like a minor chord of

"Do you know of anything she has against me?" asked Tom of Imogen; but Eliza answered for her.

"Dear Annie is not in the habit of making confi dantes of her sisters," said she, "but we do know that she

"Oh yes," assented Eliza, "which time generally cures. She can have no reason whatever for avoid ing you.

"I have always meant to," said Tom, so miserably and helplessly that Annie, listening, felt her heart go out to

"I have always asked for her, but I understood she was busy," said Tom, "and that was the reason why I saw

"If," supplemented Imogen, "there was system, there would be no need of any one of us being too busy to see

"Then she has not been busy? She has not wanted to see me?" said Tom. "I think I understand at last. I have

been a fool not to before. You girls have broken it to me as well as you could. Much obliged, I am sure. Good

Annie reflected rapidly how she herself had made that orange cake, and what queer coffee Susan would be

"No, thank you," said Tom Reed, briskly. "I will drop in another evening. Think I must go home now. I have

Annie made a soft rush to the gate, crouching low that her sisters might not see her. They flocked into the

house with irascible murmurings, like scold ing birds, while Annie stole across the grass, which had begun

to glisten with silver wheels of dew. She held her skirts closely wrapped around her, and stepped through a

gap in the shrubs beside the walk, then sped swiftly to the gate. She reached it just as Tom Reed was passing

He looked in her direction, but she stood close to a great snowballbush, and her dress was green muslin, and

he did not see her. Thinking that he had been mistaken, he started on, when she called again, and this time she

Tom stopped and came close to her. In the dim light she could see that his face was all aglow, like a child's,

"I have been here before, and I rang the bell three times. Then you were out, although your sisters thought

"Come into the house with me and I will tell you; at least I will tell you all I can."

Annie led the way and the young man followed. He stood in the dark entry while Annie lit the parlor lamp.

"Come in and sit down," said Annie. Then the young man stepped into a room which was pretty in spite of

itself. There was an old Brussels carpet with an enormous rose pattern. The haircloth fur niture gave out

gleams like black diamonds under the light of the lamp. In a corner stood a whatnot piled with branches of

white coral and shells. Annie's grandfather had been a seacaptain, and many of his spoils were in the house.

Possibly Annie's own occupation of it was due to an adventurous strain inherited from him. Perhaps the same

impulse which led him to voyage to foreign shores had led her to voyage across a green yard to the next

Tom Reed sat down on the sofa. Annie sat in a rockingchair near by. At her side was a Chinese teapoy, a

nest of lacquer tables, and on it stood a small, squat idol. Annie's grandmother had been taken to task by her

soninlaw, the Reverend Silas, for harboring a heathen idol, but she had only laughed,

"Guess as long as I don't keep heathen to bow down before him, he can't do much harm," she had said.

Now the grotesque face of the thing seemed to stare at the two Occidental lovers with the strange, calm

"Why didn't you come to the door if you heard the bell ring?" asked Tom Reed, gazing at Annie, slender as a

"Because I was not able to break my will then. I had to break it to go out in the yard and ask you to come in,

Annie laughed. "I don't wonder you ask," she said, "and the worst of it is I can't half answer you. I wonder

Tom Reed gazed at her with the eyes of a man who might love a woman and have infinite patience with her,

relegating his lack of understanding of her woman's nature to the background, as a thing of no consequence.

"Mighty little will do for me," he said, "mighty little, Annie dear, if you will only tell a fellow you love him."

Annie looked at him, and her thin, sweet face seemed to have a luminous quality, like a crescent moon. Her

"I haven't been so sure as you think," said Tom. "Suppose you come over here and sit beside me. You look

Annie laughed and blushed, but she obeyed. She sat beside Tom and let him put his arm around her. She sat

up straight, by force of her instinctive maidenliness, but she kissed him back when he kissed her.

"I haven't been so sure," repeated Tom. "Annie darling, why have I been unable to see more of you? I have

fairly haunted your house, and seen the whole lot of your sisters, especially Imogen, but somehow or other

you have been as slippery as an eel. I have always asked for you, but you were always out or busy."

"I have been very busy," said Annie, evasively. She loved this young man with all her heart, but she had an

Tom was very literal. "Say, Annie," he blurted out, "I begin to think you have had to do most of the work

Annie laughed sweetly. She was so happy that no sense of injury could possibly rankle within her. "Oh,

well," she said, lightly. "Perhaps. I don't know. I guess housekeeping comes rather easier to me than to the

others. I like it, you know, and work is always easier when one likes it. The other girls don't take to it so

naturally, and they get very tired, and it has seemed often that I was the one who could hurry the work

"I wonder if you will stick up for me the way you do for your sisters when you are my wife?" said Tom, with

a burst of love and admiration. Then he added: "Of course you are going to be my wife, Annie? You know

"You are the most wonderful girl that ever walked the earth," exclaimed Tom. "And as for talent, you have

the best talent in the whole world; you can love people who are not worthy to tie your shoe strings, and

think you are looking up when in reality you are looking down. That is what I call the best talent in the whole

Annie only laughed happily again. "Well, you will have to wait and find out," said she.

"I suppose," said Tom, "that you came over here because you were tired out, this hot weather. I think you

"That deafanddumb child? I should think this heathen god would be about as much company."

Tom eyed her shrewdly. "What did you mean when you said you had broken your will?" he in quired.

"I wondered how little I could say, and have you satisfied," Annie replied, sadly.

Tom tightened his arm around her. "You pre cious little soul," he said. "I am satisfied. I know you have

some good reason for not wanting to speak, but I am plaguey glad you spoke to me, for I should have been

"Yes; I have to go to California about that con founded Ames will case. And I don't know exactly where, on

the Pacific coast, the parties I have to interview may be, and I may have to be away weeks, possibly months.

Annie darling, it did seem to me a cruel state of things to have to go so far, and leave you here, living in such

a queer fashion, and not know how you felt. Lord! but I'm glad you had sense enough to call me, Annie."

"I did an awful mean thing: something I never was guilty of before. I listened."

"Well, I don't see what harm it did. You didn't hear much to your or your sisters' disadvantage, that I can

"Yes," said Annie, quickly. Again, such was her love and thankfulness that a great wave of love and

forgiveness for her sisters swept over her. Annie had a nature compounded of depths of sweetness; nobody

could be mistaken with regard to that. What they did mistake was the possibility of even sweetness be ing at

"Not for a year, if I can avoid it without making comment which might hurt father."

"That is what I cannot tell you," replied Annie, looking into his face with a troubled smile.

"Oh, well, dear," he said, "it is all right. I know perfectly well you would do nothing in which you were not

justified, and you have spoken to me, anyway, and that is the main thing. I think if I had been obliged to start

tomorrow without a word from you I shouldn't have cared a hang whether I ever came back or not. You are

"You are the only one," repeated Tom, "but it seems to me this minute as if you were a whole host, you dear

little soul. But I don't quite like to leave you here living alone, except for Effie."

Annie regarded him with a clear, innocent look. She had lived such a busy life that her mind was unfilmed by

"It can't be too soon for me. I want my wife and I want my home. What will you do while I am gone, dear?"

Annie laughed. "Oh, I shall do what I have seen other girls do get ready to be married."

"Girls are so funny," said Tom. "Now imagine a man sitting right down and sewing like mad on his collars

"Well, I suppose they do," said Tom, and he looked down at Annie from a tender height of mascu linity, and

at the same time seemed to look up from the valley of one who cannot understand the subtle and poetical

He did not stay long after that, for it was late. As he passed through the gate, after a tender fare well, Annie

watched him with shining eyes. She was now to be all alone, but two things she had, her freedom and her

The next morning Silas Hempstead, urged by his daughters, walked solemnly over to the next house, but he

derived little satisfaction. Annie did not absolutely refuse to speak. She had begun to realize that carrying out

her resolution to the extreme letter was impossible. But she said as little as she could.

"I have come over here to live for the present. I am of age, and have a right to consult my own wishes. My

decision is unalterable." Having said this much, Annie closed her mouth and said no more. Silas argued and

pleaded. Annie sat placidly sewing beside one front window of the sunny sitting room. Effie, with a bit of

fancywork, sat at another. Finally Silas went home defeated, with a last word, half condemnatory, half

placative. Silas was not the sort to stand firm against such feminine strength as his daughter Annie's.

After her father had gone, Annie sat taking even stitch after even stitch, but a few tears ran over her cheeks

and fell upon the soft mass of muslin. Effie watched with shrewd, speculative silence, like a pet cat. Then

suddenly she rose and went close to Annie, with her little arms around her neck, and the poor dumb mouth

repeating her little speeches: "Thank you, I am very well, thank you, I am very well," over and over.

Annie kissed her fondly, and was aware of a sense of comfort and of love for this poor little Effie. Still, after

being nearly two months with the child, she was relieved when Felicia Hempstead came, the first of

September, and wished to take Effie home with her. She had not gone to Europe, after all, but to the

Effie went willingly enough, but Annie discovered that she too missed her. Now loneliness had her fairly in

its grip. She had a telephone installed, and gave her orders over that. Sometimes the sound of a human voice

made her emotional to tears. Besides the voices over the telephone, Annie had nobody, for Benny returned to

college soon after Effie left. Benny had been in the habit of coming in to see Annie, and she had not had the

heart to check him. She talked to him very little, and knew that he was no telltale as far as she was concerned,

although he waxed most communicative with regard to the others. A few days before he left he came over

"I know the girls have nagged you till you are fairly worn out," he said. "I know they don't tell things straight,

but I don't believe they know it, and I don't see why you can't come home, and insist upon your rights, and

"Seems as if you could," said Benny. "I always thought a girl knew how to manage other girls. It is rather

awful the way things go now over there. Father must be uncomfortable enough trying to eat the stuff they set

"You advised me or it amounted to the same thing to take this stand," said Annie.

"I know I did, but I didn't know how bad it would be. Guess I didn't half appreciate you myself, Annie. Well,

you must do as you think best, but if you could look in over there your heart would ache."

Benny put an arm around her. "Poor girl!" he said. "It is a shame, but you are going to marry Tom. You ought

"Marriage isn't everything," said Annie, "and my heart does ache, but I can't go back there, unless I

can't make it clear to you, Benny, but it seems to me as if I couldn't go back there until the year is up, or I

shouldn't be myself, and it seems, too, as if I should not be doing right by the girls. There are things more

important even than doing work for others. I have got it through my head that I can be dreadfully selfish

Then he kissed Annie and went away, and the blackness of loneliness settled down upon her. She had

wondered at first that none of the village people came to see her, although she did not wish to talk to them;

then she no longer wondered. She heard, with out hearing, just what her sisters had said about her.

That was a long winter for Annie Hempstead. Letters did not come very regularly from Tom Reed, for it was

a season of heavy snowfalls and the mails were often delayed. The letters were all that she had for comfort

and company. She had bought a canarybird, adopted a stray kitten, and filled her sunny windows with

plants. She sat beside them and sewed, and tried to be happy and content, but all the time there was a frightful

uncertainty deep down within her heart as to whether or not she was doing right. She knew that her sisters

were un worthy, and yet her love and longing for them waxed greater and greater. As for her father, she

loved him as she had never loved him before. The struggle grew terrible. Many a time she dressed herself in

outdoor array and started to go home, but something always held her back. It was a strange conflict that

endured through the winter months, the conflict of a loving, selfeffacing heart with its own instincts.

Toward the last of February her father came over at dusk. Annie ran to the door, and he entered. He looked

unkempt and dejected. He did not say much, but sat down and looked about him with a halfangry,

halfdiscouraged air. Annie went out into the kitchen and broiled some beefsteak, and creamed some

potatoes, and made tea and toast. Then she called him into the sittingroom, and he ate like one famished.

"Your sister Susan does the best she can," he said, when he had finished, "and lately Jane has been try ing,

"You know when I am married you will have to get on without me," Annie said, in a low voice.

"Father," said Annie, "you know if I came home now it would be just the same as it was before. You know if

I give in and break my word with my self to stay away a year what they will think and do."

"I suppose they might take advantage," admitted Silas, heavily. "I fear you have always given in to them too

There came a peal of the cracked doorbell, and Silas started with a curious, guilty look. Annie regarded him

"Well, I heard Imogen say to Eliza that she thought it was very foolish for them all to stay over there and

"I think they did have a little idea that they might come here and make you a little visit "

Annie was at the front door with a bound. The key turned in the lock and a bolt shot into place. Then she

The bell pealed again. Annie stood still, her mouth quivering in a strange, rigid fashion. The curtains in the

diningroom windows were not drawn. Suddenly one window showed full of her sisters' faces. It was Susan

"Annie, you can't mean to lock us out?" Susan's face looked strange and wild, peering in out of the dark.

"We think it advisable to close our house and make you a visit," she said, quite distinctly through the glass.

Then Jane said, with an inaudible sob, "Dear Annie, you can't mean to keep us out!"

Annie looked at them and said not a word. Their halfcommanding, halfimploring voices continued a while.

Annie turned to her father. "God knows if I have done right," she said, "but I am doing what you have taken

"Yes, I know," said Silas. He sat for a while silent. Then he rose, kissed Annie something he had seldom

done and went home. After he had gone Annie sat down and cried. She did not go to bed that night. The

cat jumped up in her lap, and she was glad of that soft, purring comfort. It seemed to her as if she had

committed a great crime, and as if she had suffered martyrdom. She loved her father and her sisters with such

intensity that her heart groaned with the weight of pure love. For the time it seemed to her that she loved

them more than the man whom she was to marry. She sat there and held herself, as with chains of agony,

It was never quite so bad after that night, for Annie compromised. She baked bread and cake and pies, and

carried them over after nightfall and left them at her father's door. She even, later on, made a pot of coffee,

and hurried over with it in the dawnlight, always watching behind a corner of a curtain until she saw an arm

reached out for it. All this comforted Annie, and, moreover, the time was drawing near when she could go

Tom Reed had been delayed much longer than he expected. He would not be home before early fall. They

would not be married until November, and she would have several months at home first.

At last the day came. Out in Silas Hempstead's front yard the grass waved tall, dotted with disks of clover.

Benny was home, and he had been over to see Annie every day since his return. That morn ing when Annie

looked out of her window the first thing she saw was Benny waving a scythe in awkward sweep among the

grass and clover. An immense pity seized her at the sight. She realized that he was doing this for her,

"Dear, dear boy, he will cut himself," she thought. Then she conquered her own love and pity, even as her

brother was conquering his sloth. She under stood clearly that it was better for Benny to go on with his task

The grass was laid low when she went home, and Benny stood, a conqueror in a battlefield of summer,

Annie wanted to hug him. Instead she laughed. "It was time to cut it," she said. Her tone was cool, but her

Benny laid down his scythe, took her by the arm, and led her into the house. Silas and his other daugh ters

were in the sittingroom, and the room was so orderly it was painful. The ornaments on the man telshelf

stood as regularly as soldiers on parade, and it was the same with the chairs. Even the cush ions on the sofa

were arranged with one corner over lapping another. The curtains were drawn at ex actly the same height

Annie's first feeling was of worried astonishment; then her eye caught a glimpse of Susan's kitchen apron

tucked under a sofa pillow, and of layers of dust on the table, and she felt relieved. After all, what she had

done had not completely changed the sisters, whom she loved, faults and all. Annie realized how horrible it

would have been to find her loved ones completely changed, even for the better. They would have seemed

They all welcomed her with a slight stiffness, yet with cordiality. Then Silas made a little speech.

"Your father and your sisters are glad to welcome you home, dear Annie," he said, "and your sisters wish me

to say for them that they realize that pos sibly they may have underestimated your tasks and overestimated

Silas hesitated, and Benny finished. "What the girls want you to know, Annie, is that they have found out

"We fear we have been selfish without realizing it," said Jane, and she kissed Annie, as did Susan and Eliza.

Imogen, looking very handsome in her blue linen, with her embroidery in her hands, did not kiss her sister.

"We are all very glad to have dear Annie back, I am sure," said she, "and now that it is all over, we all feel

that it has been for the best, although it has seemed very singular, and made, I fear, con siderable talk. But,

of course, when one person in a family insists upon taking everything upon her self, it must result in making

Annie did not hear one word that Imogen said. She was crying on Susan's shoulder.

And they all stood gathered about her, rejoicing and fond of her, but she was the one lover among them all