A CHRISTMAS ACCIDENT

AND OTHER STORIES

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BYANNIE ELIOT TRUMBULL

A Christmas Accident

STORIES BY

ANNIE ELIOT TRUMBULL

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 A CHRISTMAS ACCIDENT AND OTHER STORIES. 16mo. Cloth $1. 00

 ROD'S SALVATION AND OTHER STORIES. 16mo. Cloth 1. 00

 A CAPE COD WEEK. 16mo. Cloth 1. 00

 MISTRESS CONTENT CRADOCK. Cloth. 16mo. 1. 00

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 A. S. BARNES & CO. , PUBLISHERS, _New York_. 

A Christmas Accident

_And Other Stories_

By

Annie Eliot Trumbull

Author of "White Birches, " "A Masque of Culture, " etc. 

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 New York A. S. Barnes and Company 1900

 _Copyright, 1897_, BY A. S. BARNES AND COMPANY. 

 =University Press:= JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. 

OF the stories included in this volume, the first originally appeared inthe _Hartford Courant_; "After--the Deluge, " in the _Atlantic Monthly_;"Mary A. Twining, " in the _Home Maker_; "A Postlude" and "Her Neighbor'sLandmark, " in the _Outlook_; "The 'Daily Morning Chronicle, '" in _TheNew England Magazine_; and "Hearts Unfortified, " in _McClure'sMagazine_. To the courtesy of the editors of these periodicals I amindebted for permission to reprint them. 

 A. E. T. 

Contents

 Page

 A CHRISTMAS ACCIDENT 1

 AFTER--THE DELUGE 32

 MEMOIR OF MARY TWINING 67

 A POSTLUDE 99

 THE "DAILY MORNING CHRONICLE" 139

 HEARTS UNFORTIFIED 177

 HER NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK 210

A Christmas Accident

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AT first the two yards were as much alike as the two houses, each housebeing the exact copy of the other. They were just two of those littlered brick dwellings that one is always seeing side by side in theoutskirts of a city, and looking as if the occupants must be alike too. But these two families were quite different. Mr. Gilton, who lived inone, was a pretty cross sort of man, and was quite well-to-do, as crosspeople sometimes are. He and his wife lived alone, and they did not havemuch going out and coming in, either. Mrs. Gilton would have liked moreof it, but she had given up thinking about it, for her husband had saidso many times that it was women's tomfoolery to want to have people, whom you weren't anything to and who weren't anything to you, ringingyour doorbell all the time and bothering around in yourdining-room, --which of course it was; and she would have believed it ifa woman ever did believe anything a man says a great many times. 

In the other house there were five children, and, as Mr. Gilton said, they made too large a family, and they ought to have gone somewhereelse. Possibly they would have gone had it not been for the fence; butwhen Mr. Gilton put it up and Mr. Bilton told him it was three inchestoo far on his land, and Mr. Gilton said he could go to law about it, expressing the idea forcibly, Mr. Bilton was foolish enough to take hisadvice. The decision went against him, and a good deal of his money wentwith it, for it was a long, teasing lawsuit, and instead of being threeinches of made ground it might have been three degrees of the ArcticCircle for the trouble there was in getting at it. So Mr. Bilton had tostay where he was. 

It was then that the yards began to take on those little differencesthat soon grew to be very marked. Neither family would plant any vinesbecause they would have been certain to heedlessly beautify the otherside, and consequently the fence, in all its primitive boldness, stoodout uncompromisingly, and the one or two little bits of trees grewcarefully on the farther side of the enclosure so as not to be mixed upin the trouble at all. But Mr. Gilton's grass was cut smoothly by theman who made the fires, while Mr. Bilton only found a chance to cut hishimself once in two weeks. Then, by and by, Mr. Gilton bought a redgarden bench and put it under the tree that was nearest to the fence. Noone ever went out and sat on it, to be sure, but to the Bilton childrenit represented the visible flush of prosperity. Particularly was CoraCordelia wont to peer through the fence and gaze upon that red bench, thinking it a charming place in which to play house, ignorant of thefact that much of the red paint would have come off on her back. CoraCordelia was the youngest of the five. All the rest had very simplenames, --John, Walter, Fanny, and Susan, --but when it came to CoraCordelia, luxuries were beginning to get very scarce in the Biltonfamily, and Mrs. Bilton felt that she must make up for it by beinglavish, in one direction or another. She had wished to name Fanny, Cora, and Susan, Cordelia, but she had yielded to her husband, and called oneafter his mother and one after herself, and then gave both her favoritenames to the youngest of all. Cora Cordelia was a pretty little girl, prettier even than both her names put together. 

After the red bench came a quicksilver ball, that was put in the middleof the yard and reflected all the glory of its owner, albeit in asomewhat distorted form. This effort of human ingenuity filled theBilton children with admiration bordering on awe; Cora Cordelia spenthours gazing at it, until called in and reproved by her mother foradmiring so much things she could not afford to have. After this, sheonly admired it covertly. 

Small distinctions like these barbed the arrows of contrast andcomparison and kept the disadvantages of neighborhood ever present. 

Then, it was a constant annoyance to have their surnames so much alike. Matters were made more unpleasant by mistakes of the butcher, thegrocer, and so on, --Gilton, 79 Holmes Avenue, was so much like Bilton, 77 Holmes Avenue. Gilton changed his butcher every time he sent hisdinner to Bilton; and though the mistakes were generally rectified, neither of the two families ever forgot the time the Biltons ate, positively ate, the Gilton dinner, under a misapprehension. Mrs. Biltonapologized, and Mrs. Gilton boldly told her husband that she was gladthey'd had it, and she hoped they'd enjoyed it, which only made mattersworse; and altogether it was a dark day, the only joy of it being thatfearful one snatched by John, Walter, Susan, Fanny, and Cora Cordeliafrom the undoubted excellence of the roast. 

Of course there was an assortment of minor difficulties. The smoke fromthe Biltons' kitchen blew in through the windows of the Giltons'sitting-room when the wind was in one direction, and, when it was in theother, many of the clothes from the Giltons' clothesline were blown intothe Biltons' yard, and Fanny, Susan, or Cora Cordelia had to be sent outto pick them up and drop them over the fence again, which Mrs. Biltonsaid was very wearing, as of course it must have been. Things like thiswere always happening, but matters reached a climax when it came to thedog. It wasn't a large dog, but it was a tiresome one. It got up earlyin the morning and barked. Now we all know that early rising is a goodthing and honorable among all men, but it is something that ought to bedone quietly, out of regard to the weaker vessels; and a dog that barksbetween five and seven in the morning, continuously, certainly ought tobe suppressed, even if it be necessary to use force. Everybody agreedwith the Biltons about that, --everybody except the Giltons themselves, who, by some one of nature's freaks, didn't mind it. Mrs. Bilton oftensaid she wished Mrs. Gilton could be a light sleeper for a week and seewhat it was like. So, too, everybody thought that Mr. Bilton had righton his side when he complained that this same dog came into his yard, being apparently indifferent to any coolness between the estate owners, and ran over a bed of geraniums and one thing and another, that was thesmall Bilton offset to the Gilton bench and ball. But when one morning, for the first time, that dog remained quiet and restful, and was foundcold and poisoned, and Mr. Gilton was loud in his accusations of theBilton boys and their father, public opinion wavered for a moment. Afterthat accident, no member of either family spoke to any member of theother. That was the way matters stood the day before Christmas. 

 * * * * *

It was snowing hard, and the afternoon grew dark rapidly, and thewhirling flakes pursued a blinding career. In spite of that, everybodywas out doing the last thing. Mrs. Gilton was not, to be sure. Of coursethey would have a big dinner, but even that was all arranged for, although the turkey hadn't come and her husband was going to stop andsee about it on his way home. She shuddered as the possibility of itshaving gone to the Biltons occurred to her. But she didn't believe ithad, --they hadn't the same butcher any longer. Meanwhile there was solittle to do. It was too dark to read or sew, and she sat idly at thewindow looking out at the passers and the driving snow. Everybody elsewas in a hurry. She wished she, too, had occasion to hasten down for alast purchase, or to light the lamp in order to finish a last bit ofdainty sewing, as she used to do when she was a girl. She seemed to haveso few friends now with whom she exchanged Christmas greetings. Was itthen only for children and youth, this Christmas cheer? And must shenecessarily have left it behind her with her girlhood? No, she knewbetter than that. She felt that there was a deeper significance in theChristmas-tide than can come home to the hearts of children andunthoughtfulness, and yet it had grown to be so painfully like otherdays, --an occasion for a little bigger dinner, that was about all. Withan unconscious sigh she looked across to the Bilton house. Plenty ofpeople over there to make merry. Five stockings to hang up. She wishedshe might have sent something in. To be sure, there was the dog, butthat was some time ago. Very likely the dog would have been dead now, anyhow. She felt, herself, that this logic was not irrefutable, but shewished she could have sent some paper parcels just the same. So stronghad this impulse been that she had said to her husband somewhat timidlythat morning, --

"There are a good many of those Bilton children to get presents for. "

"More fools they that get 'em presents, then, " he had pleasantlyreplied. 

"I don't suppose he has much to buy them with, " she continued. 

"He had enough to buy poison for my dog, " exclaimed her husband, givinghis newspaper an angry shake. 

"I'd almost like to send them in some cheap little toys. "

"Well, as long as you don't quite like to, it won't do any harm, " hesaid with some violence, laying down his newspaper, and looking at herin a manner not to be misunderstood. "But you see that the likingdoesn't get any farther. "

"It's Christmas, you know, " said his plucky wife. 

"Oh, no, I don't know it!" he replied gruffly. "I haven't fallen overforty children a minute in the street with their ridiculous parcels, andI haven't had women drop brown-paper bundles that come undone all overme when they crowd into the horse car, and I haven't found it impossibleto get to the shirt-collar counter on account of Christmas novelties!Oh, no, I didn't know it was Christmas!"

After that there was really not much to be said, for we all knowChristmas is dreadfully annoying, and the last thing a man in this sortof temper wants to hear about is peace and good will. 

Notwithstanding the fact that Mrs. Gilton looked over to her neighbors'with an envious feeling this dark afternoon, their Christmas cheer wasnot so abounding as it had been in more prosperous times. There was notvery much money to be spent this year, and they were obliged to give upsomething. Mr. And Mrs. Bilton had decided that it should be theChristmas dinner; they would have a simple luncheon, and let all themoney that could be spared go for the stockings. Each child had its ownsum to invest for others, and there was still a small amount for theolder members of the family. That it was a small amount Mrs. Bilton feltstrongly, as she went from shop to shop. But when she reached home againshe was somewhat encouraged; there was such an air of joyous expectationin the house, and her purchases looked larger now that they were awayfrom the glittering counters. Then each of the five children came to herseparately and confided to her the nothing less than wonderful resultsof judicious bargaining which had enabled them to buy useful andbeautiful presents for each of the others out of the sums intrusted totheir care, ranging in amount from the two dollars of John to the fiftycents of Cora Cordelia. She felt sure that there were further secretsyet; secrets attended by brown paper and string, which she had taken thegreatest care for the last two weeks not heedlessly to expose, --riddlesof which the solution lay perilously near her eyes, which would berevealed to her astonished gaze the next morning. 

She had reason to believe that even Cora Cordelia was making somethingfor her, and though it was difficult for her to ignore the fact that itwas a knit washcloth, she had hitherto avoided absolute certainty on thesubject. So that altogether it was a pretty cheerful afternoon at theBiltons'. 

Meanwhile, down in the main street of the city it was a confusing scene. It was darker there than where the streets were more open; and althoughthere were several daring spirits of that adventurous turn of mind whichleads people into byways of discovery, who asserted that the streetlamps were lighted, it was not generally believed. The snow was blowingdown and up and across, and getting more and more unmanageable under thefeet of foot passengers every moment. It was cold and windy and blindingand crowded, and a good many other disconcerting things, all of whichMr. Gilton felt the full force of as he stood on the corner where he hadjust bought his turkey. It was a fine turkey, and had been a goodbargain, and though he had to carry it home himself, there was nothingderogatory in that. If it had been anybody else he would have beenthrilled with a glow of satisfaction, but Mr. Gilton was long past glowsof satisfaction--it was years since he had permitted himself to havesuch things. 

"Jour--our--nal! fi-i-i-ve cents!" screamed an intermittent newsboy inhis ear. 

"Get out!" replied Mr. Gilton, the uncompromising nature of hislanguage being intensified by the fact that he jumped nearly two feetfrom the suddenness of the newsboy's attack. Even the newsboy, inured tothe short words of an unfriendly world, and usually quite indifferentthereto, was impressed by the asperity of the suggestion and movedsomewhat hastily on. Possibly his cold, wet little existence had beenrendered morbidly susceptible by the general good feeling of the hour, one lady having even spontaneously given him five cents. 

After this exchange of amenities Mr. Gilton stepped into his horse car. It was crowded, of course, as horse cars that are small and run once inhalf an hour are apt to be, and he had to stand up, and the turkey legsstuck out of the brown paper in a very conspicuous way. If Mr. Giltonhad been anybody else he would have been chaffed about his turkey, because to make up for the conveniences that the horse car line did notfurnish the public, the large-hearted public furnished the horse carline with an unusual amount of friendliness. There was almost alwayssomething going on in these horse cars. Their social privileges werequite a feature. To-night they were in unusual force on account of theseason. But nobody said anything to Mr. Gilton. Only when he jerked thebell and stepped off, one stout man with his overcoat collar turned upto his ears said, without turning his head:--

"I supposed of course he was going to give the turkey to the conductor. "

Everybody laughed in that end of the car except one small old lady inthe corner, who was a stranger and visiting, and who was left with theimpression that the gentleman who got off must be a very kind man. Itwas darker and blowier and snowier than when he had left the corner, andMr. Gilton floundered through the unbroken drifts up the little path tothe door with increasing grudges in his heart against the difficultiesof Christmas. The lock was off, and he went in slamming the door afterhim. There was no light in the hall, and he murmured loudly against theinconvenience. 

"Confound it!" he said, "why didn't they light the gas? I'm not one ofthose confounded Biltons; I can afford to pay for what I don't get;"and, without pausing to take off his hat and coat, he strode to thesitting-room door and flung it open. That was an awful moment. Thesudden change from the cold and darkness almost blinded him, andconfirmed the impression that he was the victim of an illusion. Thesound of many voices, and then the hush of sudden consternation, was inhis ears. There was a lamp and there was a fire, and there between themsat Mr. Bilton on one side and Mrs. Bilton on the other, and roundabout, in various unconventional attitudes, sat four Bilton children. And there in the very midst of them, in his heavy overcoat, with snowmelting on his hat, his beard, and his shoulders, stood Mr. Gilton. Theunexpected scene, the amazed faces gazing into his, rendered himspeechless; he wondered vaguely if he were losing his reason. Then, in aflush of enlightenment, he realized what had happened; thanks to thestorm outside, he had come into the wrong house. Naturally his firstimpulse was towards flight, but as his bewildered gaze slipped about theroom it fell upon five stockings hung against the mantelpiece, andstayed there fascinated. Five foolish, limp, expressionlessstockings, --it was long since he had seen such an unreasonablespectacle. Then he recollected himself and looked around him. Perhapseven then, if he had made a dash for the door, he might have escaped andmatters have been none the worse. But in that instant of hesitationcaused by the sudden sight of those five stockings something dreadfuloccurred. It must be premised that Cora Cordelia did not know Mr. Giltonvery well by sight, being in the first place small and not noticing, and in the second, filled with an unreasoning fear that caused her toflee whenever she had seen him approach. This is the only excuse forwhat she did; for while her mother was feebly murmuring, as if inextenuation, "We thought it was John coming in, " Cora Cordelia claspedher hands in delirious delight, and cried aloud, "It's Santa Claus! Oh, it's Santa Claus!" Could anything more awful happen to a cross man, avery cross man, than to be taken for Santa Claus!

Mr. Gilton looked at Cora Cordelia, and wondered why she had not beenslaughtered in her cradle. 

"And, " exclaimed Susan Bilton, with sudden communicative fervor, "he hascome and brought us a turkey for to-morrow's dinner!"

The truth was that Susan had been coming to the age that is scepticalabout Santa Claus, but she could not resist this sudden appearance. 

No one could appreciate the nonsense of the whole situation better thanMr. Gilton; and yet, strangely enough, together with his annoyance wasmingled a touch of the strange feeling that had dawned upon him firstwhen he saw the stockings. To be sure, it only added to his annoyance, but it was there. By this time--it was really a very short time--Mrs. Bilton had recovered herself and risen, and Mr. Bilton had risen too. 

"Hush, children; it is not Santa Claus, " she said, "it is Mr. Gilton. Weare glad to see you, Mr. Gilton;" and she held out her hand to him. "Won't you sit down?" She felt that he had come in the Christmas spirit, and she was anxious to meet him half-way. 

"Yes, " said her husband, coming forward, and instantly taking his cuefrom his wife, --for he was really a very nice man, --"we are very glad. "To be sure, in his manner there was a certain stiffness, for a mancannot always change completely in a moment, as a woman can; but Mr. Gilton was too perplexed to notice this. In the incomprehensible waythat one's mind has of clinging to unimportant things at great crises, while he was fuming with rage and bothered with this strange feelingwhich was not precisely rage, he was wondering how in the world he wasgoing to sit down with that ridiculous turkey, with its ridiculous legs, in his arms, and not look more absurd than he did now. In this moment ofabsentmindedness he had mechanically taken Mrs. Bilton's hand and shakenit, and after that of course there was nothing to do except to shake Mr. Bilton's. Then he began to know it was all up. He had not spoken yet, but now he made a frantic effort to save what might be left besideshonor. "I came--" he began, "I came--came to your house--" There hepaused a moment, and that unlucky child with that tendency to bepossessed by one idea, which is characteristic of small and trivialminds, and for which she should have been shaken, burst in with, "Anddid the reindeer bring you, and are they outside?"

He almost groaned, so overwhelmed was he by this new idiocy. Reindeer!If those overworked, struggling car-horses could have heard that! ThenMrs. Bilton, pitying his evident confusion, came to his assistance. 

"Don't mind the children, Mr. Gilton, " she said, her cheeks flushing, and looking very pretty with the excitement of the unusualcircumstances, "we are glad you came, however you made your way here. Ithink we may thank Christmas Eve for it. Now do take off your overcoatand sit down. "

Oh, mispraised woman's tact! What complications you may produce! Thatfinished it, of course. He sat down. In those few moments that strangefeeling had grown marvellously stronger. It seemed to be made up of themost diverse elements, --a mixture of green wreaths and his ownchildhood, and his mother, and a top he had not thought of for years, and the wide fireplace at home, and a stable with a child in it, and apicture, in a book he used to read, of a lot of angels in the sky, oneparticular one in the middle, and underneath it some words--what werethe words? He'd forgotten they had anything to do with Christmas, anyway. 

"But you _did_ bring us the turkey, didn't you?" said Cora Cordelia, helping her mother on. 

To do the child justice, --for even Cora Cordelia has a right to demandjustice, --her manners were corrupted by Christmas expectancy. 

"Cora Cordelia, I'm ashamed of you, " said Mrs. Bilton. 

"Yes, " said Mr. Gilton, the words wrung from his lips, while beads stoodon his forehead, --"yes, I brought you the turkey. "

"Did you really?" exclaimed Mrs. Bilton, who thought he had all thetime. "That was very kind of you. "

"Will you please take it--take it away?" he said, with that wish to havesomething over which we associate with the dentist. So Mrs. Bilton tookthe turkey and thanked him, and gave it to Fanny, who carried it out tothe kitchen, and Mr. Gilton gave one last look at its legs as it wentthrough the door, feeling that now he must wake up from this nightmare. But things only went farther and became more incredible and upsetting, only that, strangely enough, that feeling of horror began to wear off, and that singular strain of association with all sorts of Christmasthings to grow stronger. He himself could hardly believe that it was noworse, when he found himself seated by the littered table, with Mrs. Bilton near and Mr. Bilton over by the fire again, listening to firstone and then the other, and occasionally letting fall a word himself, his conversational powers seeming to thaw out along with the snow onhis greatcoat. These words themselves were a surprise to him. He wasquite sure that he started them with a creditable gruffness, but theChristmas air mellowed them in a highly unsatisfactory fashion, so thatthey fell on his own ears quite otherwise than as he had meant theyshould sound. Moreover the general tenor of the conversation wasexceedingly perplexing. It was all about how fine it was of him to comethis evening, and how they had often regretted the hard feeling, and howthings always did get exaggerated. Of course he would not have believeda word of it, if he had been able to get any grip on the situation, buthe wasn't, and he just went on assenting to it all as if it were true. There came a time when Mr. Bilton cleared his throat, hesitated amoment, and then said boldly, --

"I think I ought to tell you, Mr. Gilton, that I had nothing whatever todo with the death of your dog. " Mr. Gilton felt the ground slippingaway from under his very feet. That dog had been his piece ofresistance, as it were. "I wouldn't have poisoned him, " went on Mr. Bilton, "for a hundred dollars. But, " he added, with a queer littlesmile, "I wasn't going to tell you so, you know. "

"Of course you wasn't, " exclaimed Mr. Gilton, hurriedly, with a touch ofthat unholy excitement that a lapse from grammar imparts. 

"We wouldn't any of us, " asserted Walter. 

"No, " said Susan, Fanny, and Cora Cordelia. 

Then it came out that the whole family had rather admired the dog thanotherwise. It was here that John did really come in, his entrancesounding very much as had Mr. Gilton's. He nearly fell over when he sawthe visitor, but he had time to pull himself together, for Cora Cordeliahad snatched that moment for showing Mr. Gilton her gifts for thefamily, and he was bound hand and foot with helplessness. Then they allcame and showed him their gifts. While he examined them Mr. And Mrs. Bilton carefully averted their eyes and gazed hard at the opposite wall, while Cora Cordelia urged him, in stage whispers, not to let themsuspect. It was pitiable the state to which he was reduced. Of courseresisting this Christmas enthusiasm was out of the question. To be sureit came over him once with startling force, as she showed him a toywater-wheel, that went by sand, --which she had purchased for her fatherat a phenomenally low rate because the wheel could not be made togo, --that Cora Cordelia was the very child that he had fallen over asshe came hastening out of a toy-shop with a queerly shaped bundle, theday before, and so been further imbittered towards Christmas. Susan hadpurchased a cup and ball for her mother, and as she went out of the roomfor a moment, insisted upon Mr. Gilton's trying to do it and see whatfun it was. If Mr. Gilton lives to be a hundred he will never forget themingled feelings with which he awkwardly tried to get that senselessball into that idiotic cup. At last he stood up to go--it was after sixo'clock--and they went with him to the door, and wished him MerryChristmas, and sent Merry Christmas to Mrs. Gilton, and said good-nightseveral times, and he stumbled on through the snow, this time towardshis own door. It had stopped snowing as suddenly and quietly as it hadbegun, and the stars had come out. He gazed up at them, --something hevery rarely did. They seemed a part of Christmas. Just before he turnedin at his own gate, he looked back at the Bilton house and shook hisfist at it, but the expression on his face was such that the very samenewsboy who had accosted him earlier failed utterly to recognize him andwas emboldened to offer him a paper. He too was pushing his way homewith two papers left, in a somewhat dispirited way. 

"I'll take 'em both, " said this singular customer. "Here's aquarter--never mind the change. It's Christmas Eve, I believe--" andthis when he knew perfectly well that a copy of that very same journalwas waiting for him on his table. The boy looked at his quarter andlooked again at his customer, and recognized him, and made up his mindto buy a couple of hot sausages on the corner, and went on his wayfeeling that there was a new heaven and a new earth. Mrs. Gilton wasstanding at the parlor window, peering out anxiously as he came up thepath. She was in the hall as he entered. 

"Why, Reuben, " she said, "I was afraid something had happened. "

Goodness gracious! As if something hadn't happened! He turned away tohang up his overcoat and tried to speak crossly. 

"Well, " he said, "I've lost my turkey. That's happened. "

"Never mind, " said Mrs. Gilton, quickly; "the other one came later, thefirst one, you know--so--so the Biltons didn't get it this time. "

"They got the second one, though, " said Reuben, hanging up his hat. 

"Oh, dear, did they!" said Mrs. Gilton. Then she went on, "Well, I don'tcare if they did, so there! I guess they need it for their Christmasdinner. "

"No, they don't, " said Reuben, turning around and facing her, "becausethey are going to eat part of ours. They are coming in to-morrow to havedinner with us, --every one of them!" he asserted more loudly, on accountof the expression on his wife's face. "Bilton, and his wife, and all thefive children, down to Cora Cordelia! So we'll have to have somethingfor them to eat. "

If Mr. Gilton will never forget the cup and ball, Mrs. Gilton will neverforget that moment. She went all over it in her mind whether she couldmanage him herself to-night, or whether to send Bridget right away thenfor the doctor, and if she hadn't better say a policeman too, andwhether he could be kept for the future in a private house, or wouldhave to be confined in an asylum. She was inclining towards the asylumwhen he, who was going into the sitting-room before her, turned roundand laughed an odd little laugh. She began to think then that a privatehouse would do. 

The next day they all dined together, which proved that it was not all aChristmas Eve illusion. There is a report in the neighborhood that thefence between the houses is to be taken down to make room for a tenniscourt for the Bilton children, but of course this may not be true. Itwould have to be done in the summer, and if the effect of Christmascould be depended upon to last into the summer this would be a verydifferent sort of world. 

After--the Deluge

THE sombre tints of Grayhead were slightly suffused by a pink lightsifting from the west through the clear air. The yachts in the harborlay idly beneath the mellow influences of the passing of the summerday, --idly as only sailboats can lie, a bit of loose sail or cordage nowand then flapping inconsistently in a breath of wind, which seemed tocome out of the west for no other purpose, and to retire into the eastafterward, its whole duty done. On board, men were moving about, hanginglanterns, making taut here, setting free there, all with an air of utterpeace and repose such as is found only on placid waterways beneath asetting sun. Occasionally an oar dipped in the still water, a hint ofaction, modified, softened into repose. Along one of the quaint streetsof the irregular town, winding where it would, climbing where itclimbed, hurried an angular figure, --that of a woman of about fiftyyears, whose tense expression suggested an unrest at variance with thekeen calmness of that of the other faces about the streets and doorways. Not that it was feverish in its intensity; rather, it was an expressionof resolution, undeviating and persistent, but not sure of sympathy orsupport. 

"They've gone down yonder, t'other side of the wharf, Mis' Pember, " saida middle-aged sea captain, whose interest in his kind had not beenobliterated by the forced loneliness of northern voyages. 

The woman paused and glanced doubtfully down one of the byways that ledbetween small, weather-beaten houses and around disconcerting abutmentsto the water, and then forward, straight along the way she had beentravelling, which led out of the town. 

"I'd rather fixed on their going down Point-ways this evening, " shesaid. 

"Well, they ain't, " rejoined Captain Phippeny, with that absence of mererhetoric characteristic of people whose solid work is done otherwisethan by speech. 

Mrs. Pember nodded, at once in acknowledgment and farewell, and, turningabout, followed the path he had indicated, her gait acquiring a certainprecipitancy as she went down the rough, stony slope. At the foot of thedescent she paused again, and looked to the right and left. CaptainPhippeny was watching her from his vantage ground above. His figure wasone unmistakably of the seaboard. His trousers were of a singular cut, probably after a pattern evolved in all its originality by Mrs. Phippeny, her active imagination working towards practical effect. Inaddition, he wore a yellow flannel shirt ribbed with purple, which wouldhopelessly have jaundiced a rose-leaf complexion, but which, havingexhausted its malignancy without producing any particular effect, endedby gently harmonizing with the captain's sandy hair, reddish beard, andtanned skin. His mouth was like a badly made buttonhole, which gaped alittle when he smiled. He had a nose like a parrot's beak, and his eyeswere blue, kindly, and wise in their straightforwardness. When he wouldrender his costume absolutely _de rigueur_, he wore a leathern jacketwith manifold pockets, from one to another of which trailed a goldwatch-chain with a dangling horseshoe charm. 

"I wonder the old woman don't take a dog with her and trace 'em out, shespends so much time on the hunt, " he said to himself. "I declare for't, it's a sing'lar thing the way she everlastin' does get onto them'prentices; ain't old enough to talk about settin' sail by themselves. "

His quid of tobacco again resumed its claim to his undivided attention, and he leaned back against the fence and waited as idly as the droopingsails for a breath of something stirring. By and by it appeared in theshape of another old sailor, between whom and himself there was thelikeness of two peas, save for a slight discrepancy of feature usefulfor purposes of identification. 

"You told her where they'd gone, I reckon, " he remarked, with a slightchuckle, as he too leaned up against the fence and looked out over theharbor. 

"Yes, I did, " replied Captain Phippeny. "I didn't have no call to tellher a lie. "

"Kinder hard on the young uns, " observed the new-comer. 

"They ain't ever anythin' as hard on the young uns as on the old uns, "asserted Captain Phippeny, "because--well, because they're _young_, Iguess. That's Chivy's yacht that came in just at sundown, ain't it?"

"Yare. They say she's seen dirty weather since she was here last. "

"Has? Well, you can't stay in harbor allers, and git your livin' at thesame time. She's got toler'ble good men to handle her. "

There was a pause. The soft twilight was battening down the hatches ofthe day, to drop into the parlance of the locality. 

"Well, I do suppose old Pember warn't an easy shipmate, blow or noblow, " observed Captain Smart. He was a small, keen-eyed, quickly movingold man, seasoned with salt. 

"I reckon he warn't. And she thinks she can keep that girl of hers outof the same kind of discipline that she had to take, --that's the truthof it. "

"Cur'ous, ain't it?" ruminated Captain Smart. "A woman's bound to takeit one way or 'nother; there seems to be more sorts of belayin' pins toknock 'em over with than they, any on 'em, kinder cal'late on at first. "

"So there be, " assented Captain Phippeny. 

Near the water, with its fading, rose-colored reflections, not so farfrom the anchored vessels but they might, had they chosen, have spokenacross to those on board, the monotonous, austere, and yet vaguely softgray of the old town rising behind them against the melting sky, satMellony Pember and Ira Baldwin. 

"If you'd only make up your mind, Mellony, " urged the young man. 

"I can't, Ira; don't ask me. " The young girl's face, which was delicatein outline, was troubled, and the sensitive curves of her lips trembled. The faded blue of her dress harmonized with the soft tones of the scene;her hat lay beside her, an uncurled, articulated ostrich featherstanding up in it like an exclamation point of brilliant red. 

The young man pulled his hat over his eyes and looked over to thenearest boat. Mellony glanced at him timidly. 

"You see, I'm all she's got, " she said. 

"I ain't goin' to take you away from her, unless you want to go, " hereplied, without looking at her. 

"She thinks I'll be happier if I don't--if I don't marry. "

"Happier!"--he paused in scorn--"and she badgerin' you all the time ifyou take a walk with me, and watchin' us as if we were thieves! Youain't happy now, are you?"

"No. " Mellony's eyes filled, and a sigh caught and became almost a sob. 

"Well, I wish she'd give me a try at makin' you happy, that's all. " Hiswould-be sulkiness softened into a tender sense of injury. Mellonytwisted her hands together, and looked over beyond the vessels to thelong, narrow neck of land with its clustering houses, beyond whichagain, unseen, were booming the waves of the Atlantic. 

"Oh, if I only knew what to do!" she exclaimed, --"if I only knew what todo!"

"I'll tell you what to do, Mellony, " he began. 

"There's ma, now, " she interrupted. 

Ira turned quickly and looked over his shoulder. Across the unevenground, straight towards them, came the figure of Mrs. Pember. Thetenseness of her expression had further yielded to resolution, which hadin turn taken on a stolidity which declared itself unassailable. No oneof the three spoke as she seated herself on a bit of timber near them, and, folding her hands, waited with the immobility and the apparentimpartiality of Fate itself. At last Mellony spoke, for of the three shewas the most acutely sensitive to the situation, and the least capableof enduring it silently. 

"Which way did you come, ma?" she asked. 

"I come down Rosaly's Lane, " Mrs. Pember answered. "I met Cap'nPhippeny, and he told me you was down here. "

"I'm obligated to Cap'n Phippeny, " observed Ira, bitterly. 

"I dono as he's partickler to have you, " remarked Mrs. Pember, imperturbably. 

There was another silence. Mrs. Pember's voice had a marked sweetnesswhen she spoke to her daughter, which it lost entirely when sheaddressed her daughter's companion, but always it was penetrated by thetimbre of a certain inflexibility. 

The shadows grew deeper on the water, the glow-worms of lanternsglimmered more sharply, and the softness of the night grew morepalpable. 

"I guess I may as well go back, ma, " said Mellony, rising. 

"I was wonderin' when you cal'lated on going, " remarked her mother, asshe rose too, more slowly and stiffly, and straightened her decent blackbonnet. 

"I suppose you was afraid Mellony wouldn't get back safe without youcame after her, " broke out Ira. 

"I guess I can look after Mellony better than anybody else can, and Icount on doing it, and doing it right along, " she replied. 

"Come, ma, " said Mellony, impatiently; but she waited a moment and lether mother pass her, while she looked back at Ira, who stood, angry andhelpless, kicking at the rusted timbers. 

"Are you coming, too, Ira?" she asked in a low voice. 

"No, " he exclaimed, "I ain't coming! I don't want to go along back withyour mother and you, as if we weren't old enough to be out by ourselves. I might as well be handcuffed, and so might you! If you'll come roundwith me the way we came, and let her go the way she came, I'll go withyou fast enough. "

Mellony's eyes grew wet again, as she looked from him to her mother, andagain at him. Mrs. Pember had paused, also, and stood a little inadvance of them. Her stolidity showed no anxiety; she was too sure ofthe result. 

"No, "--Mellony's lips framed the words with an accustomed but grievouspatience, --"I can't to-night, Ira; I must go with ma. "

"It's to-night that'll be the last chance there'll be, maybe, " hemuttered, as he flung himself off in the other direction. 

The two women walked together up the rough ascent, and turned intoRosaly's Lane. Mellony walked wearily, her eyes down, the red feather, in its uncurled, unlovely assertiveness, looking more like the oriflammeof a forlorn hope than ever. But Mrs. Pember held herself erect, and asif she were obliged carefully to repress what might have been the signsof an ill-judged triumph. 

Ira prolonged his walk beyond the limits of the little gray town, goadedby the irritating pricks of resentment. He would bear it no longer, sohe told himself. Mellony could take him or leave him. He would be alaughing-stock not another week, not another day. If Mellony would notassert herself against her tyrannical old mother, he would go away andleave her! And then he paused, as he had paused so often in the flood ofhis anger, faced by the realization that this was just what Mrs. Pemberwanted, just what would satisfy her, what she had been waitingfor, --that he should go away and leave Mellony alone. It was anexasperating dilemma, his abdication and her triumph, or his uncertaintyand her anxiety. 

Mellony and her mother passed Captain Phippeny and Captain Smart, whostill stood talking in the summer evening, the fence continuing tosupply all the support their stalwart frames needed in this their hourof ease. Captain Smart nudged Captain Phippeny as the two figures turnedthe corner of Rosaly's Lane. 

"So you found 'em, Mis' Pember, " remarked Captain Phippeny. He spoke tothe mother, but he looked, not without sympathy at the daughter. 

"Yes, I found 'em. "

"You reckoned on fetchin' only one of 'em home, I take it, " said CaptainSmart. 

"I ain't responsible but for one of 'em, " replied Mrs. Pember with somegrimness, but with her eyes averted from Mellony's crimsoning face. 

"Come, ma, " said Mellony again, and they passed on. 

"Mis' Pember is likely enough lookin' woman herself, " observed CaptainSmart; "it's kind of cur'ous she should be so set agen marryin, ' just_as_ marryin'. "

"'Tis so, " assented Captain Phippeny, thoughtfully, looking after thetwo women. 

Without speaking, Mellony and her mother entered the little house wherethey lived, and the young girl sank down in the stiff, high-backedrocker, with its thin calico-covered cushion tied with red braid, thatstood by the window. Outside, the summer night buzzed and hummed, andbreathed sweet odors. Mrs. Pember moved about the room, slightlyaltering its arrangements, now and then looking at her daughter halffurtively, as if waiting for her to speak; but Mellony's head was notturned from the open window, and she was utterly silent. At last thisimmobility had a sympathetic effect upon the mother, and she seatedherself not far from the girl, her hands, with their prominent knucklesand shrunken flesh, folded in unaccustomed idleness, and waited, whilein the room dusk grew to dark. To Mellony the hour was filled withsuggestions that emphasized and defined her misery. In her not turbulentor passionate nature, the acme of its capacity for emotional sufferinghad been reached. Hitherto this suffering had been of the perplexed, patient, submissive kind; to-night, the beauty of the softly descendinggloom, the gentle freedom of the placid harbor, the revolt of herusually yielding lover, deepened it into something more acute. 

"Mellony, " said her mother, with a touch of that timidity which appearedonly in her speech with her daughter, "did you count on going over tothe Neck to-morrow, as you promised?"

"I'll never count on doing anything again, " said Mellony, in a voice shetried to make cold and even, but which vibrated notwithstanding, --"never, so long as I live. I'll never think, or plan, or--or speak, if I canhelp it--of what I mean to do. I'll never do anything but just work andshut my eyes and--and live, if I've got to!" Her voice broke, and sheturned her head away from the open window and looked straight before herinto the shadowed room. Her mother moved uneasily, and her knotted handsgrasped the arms of the stiff chair in which she sat. 

"Mellony, " she said again, "you've no call to talk so. "

"I've no call to talk at all. I've no place anywhere. I'm not anybody. Ihaven't any life of my own. " The keen brutality of the thoughtlessnessof youth, and its ignoring of all claims but those of its own happiness, came oddly from the lips of submissive Mellony. Mrs. Pember quiveredunder it. 

"You know you're my girl, Mellony, " she answered gently. "You're allI've got. "

"Yes, " the other answered indifferently, "that's all I am, --MellonyPember, Mrs. Pember's girl, --just that. "

"Ain't that enough? Ain't that something to be, --all I plan for and workfor? Ain't that enough for a girl to be?"

Mellony turned her eyes from emptiness, and fixed them upon her mother'sface, dimly outlined in the vagueness. 

"Is that all you've been, " she asked, "just somebody's daughter?"

It was as if a heavy weight fell from her lips and settled upon hermother's heart. There was a silence. Mellony's eyes, though she couldnot see them, seemed to Mrs. Pember to demand an answer in animperative fashion unlike their usual mildness. 

"It's because I've been, --it's because I'd save you from what I havebeen that I--do as I do. You know that, " she said. 

"I don't want to be saved, " returned the other, quickly and sharply. 

The older woman was faced by a situation she had never dreamed of, --ademand to be allowed to suffer! The guardian had not expected this fromher carefully shielded charge. 

"I want you to have a happy life, " she added. 

"A happy life!" flashed the girl. "And you're keeping me from any lifeat all! That's what I want, --life, my own life, not what anybody elsegives me of theirs. Why shouldn't I have what they have, even if it'sbad now and then? Don't save me in spite of myself! Nobody likes to besaved in spite of themselves. "

It was a long speech for Mellony. A large moon had risen, and from thelow horizon sent golden shafts of light almost into the room; it was asif the placidity of the night were suddenly penetrated by something moreglowing. Mellony stood looking down at her mother, like a judge. Mrs. Pember gazed at her steadily. 

"I'm going to save you, Mellony, " she said, her indomitable will makingher voice harsher than it had been, "whether you want to be saved ornot. I'm not going to have you marry, and be sworn at and cuffed. "Mellony moved to protest, but her strength was futility beside hermother's at a time like this. "I'm not going to have you slave and grub, and get blows for your pains. I'm going to follow you about and setwherever you be, whenever you go off with Ira Baldwin, if that'll stopit; and if that won't, I'll try some other way, --I know other ways. I'mnot going to have you marry! I'm going to have you stay along with me!"

With a slight gesture of despair, Mellony turned away. The flash hadburned itself out. The stronger nature had reasserted itself. Silently, feeling her helplessness, frightened at her own rebellion now that itwas over, she went out of the room to her own smaller one, and closedthe door. 

Mrs. Pember sat silent in her turn, reviewing her daughter's resentment, but the matter admitted no modifications in her mind; her duty wasclear, and her determination had been taken long ago. Neither did shefear anything like persistent opposition; she knew her daughter'ssubmissive nature well. 

Brought up in a country village, an earnest and somewhat apprehensivemember of the church, Mrs. Pember had married the captain early in life, under what she had since grown to consider a systematic illusionconceived and maintained by the Evil One, but which was, perhaps, morelogically due to the disconcerting good looks and decorously restrainedimpetuosity of Captain Pember himself. Possibly he had been the victimof an illusion too, not believing that austerity of principle couldexist with such bright eyes and red cheeks as charmed him in the countrygirl. At least, he never hesitated subsequently, not only to imply, butto state baldly, a sense of the existence of injury. Captain Phippenywas one of those sailors whom the change of scene, the wide knowledge ofmen and of things, the hardships and dangers of a sea life, broaden andrender tolerant and somewhat wise. Pember had been brutalized by thesesame things. 

The inhabitants of Grayhead were distinguished by the breadth andsuggestiveness of their profanity, and Captain Pember had been a pastmaster of the accomplishment. Praise from Sir Hubert Stanley could havebeen no more discriminating than the local acknowledgment of hisproficiency in this line. No wonder Mrs. Pember looked back at the tenyears of her married life with a shudder. With the rigid training ofher somewhat dogmatic communion still potent, she listened in ahorrified expectancy, rather actual than figurative, for the heavens tostrike or the earth to swallow up her nonchalant husband. Nor was thisall. The weakness for grog, unfortunately supposed to be inherent in anautical existence, was carried by Captain Pember to an extentinconsiderate even in the eyes of a seafaring public; and when, underits genial influence, he knocked his wife down and tormented Mellony, the opinion of this same public declared itself on the side of thevictims with a unanimity which is not always to be counted upon in suchcases. 

In fact, her married life had, as it were, formalized many hithertosomewhat vague details of Mrs. Pember's conception of the place offuture punishment; and when her husband died in an appropriate andindecorous fashion as the result of a brawl, he continued to mitigatethe relief of the event by leaving in his wife's heart a haunting fear, begotten of New England conscientiousness, that perhaps she ought not tobe so unmistakably glad of it. It was thus that, with Mellony's growthfrom childhood to womanhood, the burning regret for her former unmarriedstate, whose difficulties had been mainly theological, had become a noless burning resolve that her child should never suffer as she hadsuffered, but should be guarded from matrimony as from death. That shefailed to distinguish between individuals, that she failed to see thatyoung Baldwin was destitute of those traits which her sharpened visionwould now have detected in Pember's youth, was both the fault of herperceptive qualities and the fruit of her impregnable resolve. She hadbeen hurt by Mellony's rebellion, but not influenced by so much as ahair's-breadth. 

Early one morning, two or three days later, Mrs. Pember, lying awakewaiting for the light to grow brighter that she might begin her day, heard a slight sound outside, of a certain incisiveness out ofproportion to its volume. With an idleness that visited her only atearly day-break, she wondered what it was. It was repeated, and thistime, moved by an insistent curiosity blended with the recognition ofits probable cause, she rose and looked out of the window which wasclose to the head of her bed. A little pier was a stone's throw from thehouse on that side, at which were moored several boats belonging to thefishermen about. It was as she thought; a stooping figure, dim and hazyin the morning fog, which blurred the nearest outlines and veiled themore distant, was untying one of the boats, and had slipped the oarsinto the rowlocks. 

"Going fishing early, " she said to herself. "I wonder which of 'em itis. They are all alike in this light. "

Then she stood and looked out upon the morning world. It would soon besunrise. Meanwhile, the earth was silent, save for the soft rippling ofthe untired waves that scarcely rose and fell in this sheltered harbor;the land had been at rest through the short night, but they had climbedand lapsed again steadily through its hours; the paling stars would soonhave faded into the haze. The expectation of the creature waited for themanifestation. 

Softly the boat floated away from its moorings. It seemed propelledwithout effort, so quietly it slipped through the water. In the bottomlay the sail and the nets, a shadowy mass; the boat itself was littlemore than a shadow, as it glided on into the thicker fog which receivedand enveloped it, as into an unknown vague future which concealed andyet held promise and welcome. 

Mrs. Pember glanced at the clock. It was very early, but to go back tobed was hardly worth while. The sun was already beginning to glintthrough the fog. She dressed, and, passing softly the door of the roomwhere Mellony slept, --rather fitfully of late, --began to make the fire. 

The morning broadened and blazed into the day, and the whole town wasmaking ready for its breakfast. Mellony was later than usual, --hermother did not hear her moving about, even; but she was unwilling todisturb her; she would wait a while longer before calling her. At last, however, the conviction of the immorality of late rising could no longerbe ignored, and she turned the knob of Mellony's door and stepped intothe room. 

She had been mistaken in supposing that Mellony was asleep; the girlmust have risen early and slipped out, for the room was empty, and Mrs. Pember paused, surprised that she had not heard her go. It must havebeen while she was getting kindling-wood in the yard that Mellony hadleft by the street door. And what could she have wanted so early in thevillage?--for to the village she must have gone; she was nowhere aboutthe little place, whose flatness dropped, treeless, to the shore. Hermother went again to the kitchen, and glanced up and down the waterside. There was no one on the little wooden pier, and the boats swung gentlyby its side, their own among them, so Mellony had not gone out in that. Yes, she must have gone to the village, and Mrs. Pember opened the frontdoor and scanned the wandering little street. It was almost empty; theearly morning activity of the place was in other directions. 

With the vague uneasiness that unaccustomed and unexplained absencealways produces, but with no actual apprehension, Mrs. Pember went backto her work. Mellony had certain mild whims of her own, but it wassurprising that she should have left her room in disorder, the bedunmade; that was not like her studious neatness. With a certain grimnessMrs. Pember ate her breakfast alone. Of course no harm had come toMellony, but where was she? Unacknowledged, the shadow of Ira Baldwinfell across her wonder. Had Mellony cared so much for him that herdisappointment had driven her to something wild and fatal? She did notask the question, but her lips grew white and stiff at the faintestsuggestion of it. Several times she went to the door, meaning to go out, and up the street to look for her daughter, but each time somethingwithheld her. Instead, with that determination that distinguished her, she busied herself with trifling duties. It was quite nine o'clock whenshe saw Captain Phippeny coming up the street. She stood still andwatched him approach. His gait was more rolling than ever, as he cameslowly towards her, and he glanced furtively ahead at her house, andthen dropped his eyes and pretended not to have seen her. She grewimpatient to have him reach her, but she only pressed her lips togetherand stood the more rigidly still. At last he stood in front of herdoorstone, his hat in his hand. The yellow shirt and the leathern jacketwere more succinctly audacious than ever, but doubt and irresolution inevery turn of his blue eyes and line of his weather-beaten face hadtaken the place of the tolerant kindliness. 

"It's a warm mornin', Mis' Pember, " he observed, more disconcerted thanever by her unsmiling alertness. 

"You came a good ways to tell me that, Captain Phippeny. "

"Yes, I did. Leastways I didn't, " he responded. "I come to tell youabout--about Mellony. "

"What about Mellony, Captain Phippeny?" she demanded, pale, butuncompromising. "What have you got to tell me about Mellony Pember?" shereiterated as he paused. 

"Not Mellony Pember, " gasped the captain, a three-cornered smile tryingto make headway against his embarrassment as he recalled the ancienttale of breaking the news to the Widow Smith; "Mellony Baldwin. "

"Mellony Baldwin!" repeated Mrs. Pember, stonily, not yet fullycomprehending. 

The captain grew more and more nervous. 

"Yes, " he proceeded, with the haste of despair, "yes. Mis' Pember, yousee Mellony--Mellony's married. "

"Mellony married!" Strangely enough she had not thought of that. Shegrasped the doorpost for support. 

"Yes, she up and married him, " went on the captain more blithely. "Ihardly thought it of Mellony, " he added in not unpleasurable reflection, "nor yet of Ira. "

"Nor I either. " Mrs. Pember's lips moved with difficulty. Mellonymarried! The structure reared with tears and prayers, the structure ofMellony's happiness, seemed to crumble before her eyes. 

"And I was to give you this;" and from the lining of his hat thecaptain drew forth a folded paper. 

"Then you knew about it?" said Mrs. Pember, in a flash of cold wrath. 

"No, no, I didn't. My daughter's boy brought this to me, and I was totell you they was married. And why they set the job onto me the Lord heonly knows!" and Captain Phippeny wiped his heated forehead withfeeling; "but that's all _I_ know. "

Slowly, her fingers trembling, she unfolded the note. 

"I have married Ira, mother, " she read. "He took me away in a boat earlythis morning. It was the only way. I will come back when you want me. IfI am to be unhappy, I'd rather be unhappy this way. I can't be unhappyyour way any longer. I'm sorry to go against you, mother; but it's mylife, after all, not yours, MELLONY. "

As Mrs. Pember's hands fell to her side and the note slipped from herfingers, the daily tragedy of her married life seemed to pass beforeher eyes. She saw Captain Pember reel into the house, she shuddered athis blasphemy, she felt the sting of the first blow he had given her, she cowered as he roughly shook Mellony's little frame by her childisharm. 

"She'd better be dead!" she murmured. "I wish she was dead. "

Captain Phippeny pulled himself together. "No, she hadn't, --no, youdon't, Mis' Pember, " he declared stoutly. "You're making a mistake. Youdon't want to see Mellony dead any more'n I do. She's only got married, when all's said and done, and there's a sight of folks gets married andnone the worse for it. Ira Baldwin ain't any great shakes, --I dono as heis; he's kinder light complected and soft spoken, --but he ain't a bornfool, and that's a good deal, Mis' Pember. " He paused impressively, butshe did not speak. "And he ain't goin' to beat Mellony, either; he ain'tthat sort. I guess Mellony could tackle him, if it came to that, anyhow. I tell you, Mis' Pember, there's one thing you don't take noreckonin' on, --there's a difference in husbands, there's a ter'bledifference in 'em!" Mrs. Pember looked at him vaguely. Why did he go ontalking? Mellony was married. "Mellony's got one kind, and you--well, "he went on, with cautious delicacy, "somehow you got another. I tell youit's husbands as makes the difference to a woman when it comes tomarryin'. "

Mrs. Pember stooped, picked up the note, turned and walked into theliving-room and sat down. She looked about her with that sense ofunreality that visits us at times. There was the chair in which Mellonysat the night of her rebellious outbreak, --Mellony, her daughter, hermarried daughter. Other women talked about their "married daughters"easily enough, and she had pitied them; now she would have to talk so, too. She felt unutterably lonely. Her household, like her hope, wasshattered. She looked up and saw that Captain Phippeny had followed herin and was standing before her, turning his hat in his brown, tattooedhands. 

"Mis' Pember, " he said, "I thought, mebbe, now Mellony was married, you'd be thinkin' of matrimony yourself agen. " As Mrs. Pember gazed athim dumbly it seemed as if she must all at once have become anotherperson. Matrimony had suddenly become domesticated, as it were. Her eyestravelled over the horseshoe charm and the long gold chain, as shelistened, and from pocket to pocket. "And so I wanted to say that I'dlike to have you think of me, if you was making out the papers foranother v'yage. The first mate I sailed with, she says to me when shedied, 'You've been a good husband, Phippeny, ' says she. I wouldn't sayanythin' to you, I wouldn't take the resk, if she hadn't said that tome. Mis' Pember, and I'm tellin' it to you now because there's such adifference; and I feel kinder encouraged by it to ask you to try me. I'dlike to have you marry me, Mis' Pember. "

It was a long speech, and the captain was near to suffocation when itwas finished, but he watched her with anxious keenness as he waited forher to reply. The stern lines of her mouth relaxed slowly. A brilliantred geranium in the window glowed in the sunlight which had just reachedit. The world was not all dark. The room seemed less lonely with thecaptain in it, as she glanced around it a second time. She scanned hisface: the buttonhole of a mouth had a kindly twist; he did not look inthe least like handsome Dick Pember. Mellony had married, and her worldwas in fragments, and something must come after. 

"I never heard as you weren't a good husband to Mis' Phippeny, " she saidcalmly, "and I dono as anybody'll make any objection if I marry you, Captain Phippeny. "

Memoir of Mary Twining

THE other day I spent several hours in looking over a lot of dustyvolumes which had fallen to me in the way of inheritance. In thesomewhat heterogeneous collection I came upon a brief memoir which, after a glance within, I laid aside as worthy, at least, of perusal. Theother books were of little value of any sort--an orthodox commentary, anodd volume of a county history, one or two cook-books, a worn and brokenset of certain standard British authors, --the usual assortment to befound in a country farmhouse, whose occupants soon ceased to keep upwith the times. But this little book seemed to me unusual, --an opinionsubsequently confirmed by examination. I had long ago discovered thefallacy of that tradition of early youth that a memoir is, of necessity, dull, and I was in nowise unfavorably affected by the title, "Memoir ofMary Twining. " There proved to be something to me singularly quaint andcharming in this little sketch, something fresh and new in this voicefrom bygone years. The subject of the memoir attracted me powerfully, both from the simplicity and naturalness of her own words, and thefreedom and occasional depth of both thought and expression, in a daywhen freedom and thinking for one's self were less the fashion of NewEngland maidens than they have since become. Or, it may be that theEditor, notwithstanding an occasional stiffness and apparent want ofsympathy, has so well done his work, has understood so well what to giveus and what to keep from us, that the reader's interest is skilfullyfostered from the start. Be this as it may, I have not been able toresist the temptation to write, myself, a little of this memoir and itssubject, to make a little wider, if I may, the public who have been toldthe story of this life. Not that it was an exciting or an eventful one, though lived in stirring times, but as I have already said, it seems tohave a certain charm which should not be left forgotten in countrygarrets or unnoticed in second-hand bookstores. With no further apologyfor this review of it, I shall let the book, as far as possible, speakfor itself. 

Mary Twining was born in Middleport, Massachusetts, June 27, 1757. Herfather fought with Colonel Washington in the French and Indian War, andsubsequently under General Washington in a later disturbance. Her motherwas a granddaughter of one of the early colonial governors. Mary seemsto have come naturally enough by fine impulses and good breeding. 

"It is not, " says the conscientious biographer, "from any vainPartiality for high-sounding names, or any poor Pretense of good blood, which were most out of place in this our Republic, made so by the Geniusand enduring Fortitude of all classes of Men, that I claim for MaryTwining stately Lineage, but that when such Accidents fall in the livesof Human Beings, it is not a thing to make light of, but worthy of studyin its Results. Besides which is General Washington none the less a GoodSoldier in that he is a Gentleman. "

I suspect the traditions of a loyal Englishman had not been whollyeradicated from the mind of this biographer by a few years of plebeianinstitutions. With equal truth he goes on, however, to say that what was"of an Importance swallowing up the Lesser Matter of Lineage andStation, Richard Twining was an upright and a God-fearing man, and Mary, his wife, patterned in all things after the Behaviour of her godlyAncestor. " Either Richard or Mary, his wife, must have something"patterned" after a liberal and occasionally self-willed model, elsewhence came the spice of independence in the little Mary's character?She was an only child, and only children were probably in the middle ofthe eighteenth very much what they are in the close of the nineteenthcentury, --little beings allowed greater liberties, and burdened withheavier accountabilities, than where there are more to divide both. There are several incidents told of her childhood, not particularlyremarkable, perhaps, but showing that her mind and her imagination werealive. She was not by any means a precocious child; her mind was butlittle, if at all, in advance of her years. If one may judge fromdetached anecdotes and descriptions, she showed no more than thereceptivity and quickness natural to a bright and somewhat unusuallyclear intellect. Through all these anecdotes there runs a vein denotingwhat is less common in childhood than a certain precocity, --a keen senseof justice. She appears to have reasoned of many things, usually takenby childhood for granted, and assented to their results only if theyseemed to her childishness just. If after life showed her that theaffairs of this life can be but seldom regulated according to the ideasof finite justice, she never seems to have lost a certain fairness ofjudgment and opinion, which is rare in one of her sex and circumstances. When five years old, her mother, wishing her to give up a pet doll to alittle crippled friend, told her that sympathy should suggest her doingit; that it was a privilege to make another happy; that it wasselfishness to prefer her own pleasure of possession to that of another. But Mary listened unmoved to these arguments. Nevertheless the strugglewas not a long one. With a good grace, after a few moments of silence, she carried the doll to her unfortunate friend. "Mamma, " she saidsoberly, "she shall have it, for it is right that she should. I feel it. I shall have many things that she can never have. "

For the logic of five years it was no small thing to have settled thisquestion in this way. It would take too much time and too much space todwell on the anecdotes of her childhood. Indeed, the biographer does notlinger on them long himself. 

"It is meet, " he says, "to speak of these early Years, not from a desireto show that there was aught in the Childhood of Mary Twining remarkableor unnatural, that should be the Cause of Wonder or Admiration. But therather that there may be evinced the Presence, even in the Germ, ofcertain Qualities of Soundness of Judgment and of Thoughtfulness unusualin a Female, which grew with her Growth, and which were in later Years, developed into stronger Traits by no unnatural means. "

In 1773 she was sent away to a school in which she remained three years, varied by occasional visits at home. She made several friends here, andhere, for the first time, kept a methodical and somewhat extendeddiary. From this diary her biographer makes copious extracts. In fact, from this period the memoir is chiefly made up from her severaljournals, in whose continuity there are now and then large gaps, withoccasional notes. I shall make less copious extracts, principally thosebearing upon that matter of which we always, more or less consciously, seek traces in the lives of individuals, distinguished or obscure, thelove story. But first for her school life, into which few whispers ofsentiment penetrated. It was no fashionable boarding-school to which shewas sent, attended by young ladies whose dreams of what they will soonbe doing in society monopolize the hours nominally devoted to literatureand the sciences. An old friend of her mother opened her house to a fewrepresentatives of those families with whom she was acquainted, where, under the best teachers the country afforded, they were trained in suchacquirements as were prescribed by the canons of the day. On thefifteenth of September she says:--

"I have been something more than a week at the good School which my kindParents have chosen for me. There seems, after all, to be little doinghere. The few exercises in Mathematics, and the selections from theworks of the most Highly Endowed of the Authors of England appear to meto be the most Profitable. As for the matter of Embroidery, I workedwith Patience, ten years ago, a Sampler which was not considereddiscreditable, and it seems to me that of the multiplying of Stitchesthere is no end, and it were, perhaps, as well to go no farther. Mydaily Practice on the Spinet, may, perhaps, be the means of givingPleasure at some Future Time, but it is the Occasion of but littleBenefit in the Present, and of the Future can we be never certain. "

The question of profitableness of a good many of her employments wasoften in her mind during these three years. She cannot help feelingthat there are times when it is hard to contentedly fold the hands overeven the worsted marvels of a "not discreditable" sampler. A year later, she says again:--

"More Practice and more Embroidery this afternoon. There are those of myCompanions who ask nothing better than such unvarying Exercises. In themthey find room for the employing of their Imagination and their Spirit. I wonder if it be so great a Fault in me, that I find them wearying. Itis not that they are in themselves so distasteful, as it is that thereseemeth much work waiting to be done, which a woman's Hands might welldo, were it not reckoned somewhat unseemly. "

"Her's was a somewhat restless Soul, " says her biographer, "perplexingitself with Questions which it was not for her to answer. "

Yes, with questions with which many a restless woman's soul has sinceperplexed itself, and which are now only beginning to attain solution. It is pleasant to find, in these early times, when we fancy New Englandmaidens well content with their spinning and bread-making, hints thatthere were enterprising spirits who thought the prescribed round a toonarrow one. 

She finds some fault with one of her teachers for being too lenient withher. 

"I received no Reproof, " she says, "to-day when I most Richly deservedit. A Disturbance in the Hour for Study was entirely of my own making, but the Person who is Master at that Hour refused, with Persistence, tosee it. I made it most evident, but he remarked, with a frown for a lessOffender, that he should hold Mistress Twining excused. I shall findOccasion to address him on this Subject, for if I receive due Credit forthat which I do that is Well Done, I shall show no unwillingness to bearthe Brunt of my Superior's Displeasure for what is Ill Done. Moreover, Iwill not have it otherwise. "

"It were better, " is the brief comment, "it were better had MaryTwining shown more Regret for what she herself confesses was ill done, rather than that she should take upon herself to correct the Faults ofthose towards whom she was somewhat lacking in Reverence. " But it isdroll enough to fancy the scene--the pretty schoolgirl gravely rebukingher delinquent master for the too great partiality her own bright eyeshad won for her. Poor man! His was no sinecure. To hold rule over aparcel of unruly girls, with the graces of one so tugging at hisheartstrings! His path might at least have been spared the thorn ofhaving his fault denounced by the very voice that had done the mischief. 

During the last year of her stay she writes less. Did the objectlessnessof this education of hers pall upon the energy of her nature more andmore? Or was her woman's heart preparing the way for the answer to thisrestless questioning? It is only now and then that we catch a glimpse ofthis development, which was singularly mature and singularly free fromrestriction. 

"I have read many Tales, " she says, "how true, in my small Experience, Iknow not, of the aptitude of Women, particularly those young women whosecharacters are in a state of most Imperfect Development, to yield inmatters essential to their best Happiness to the Opposing Wishes ofParents and Guardians. I speak of those Matters, perhaps not the mostfitting for the Speculations of a but Partially-schooled Maiden--Love, and the Choosing of a Husband. While in these matters, as in all others, the Wishes of Wise and Fond Parents and Guardians are the only safeGuides for a young and Untrained Spirit, there are other Cases whereInjustice and a Desire to Rule are but slender Grounds for the exerciseof Authority. I know that my Boldness in this Opinion cannot pass evenmy own mind unchallenged, but when I read of Unwilling Maids forced tothe very Church Door or Languishing under unmerited sternness, andYielding up their own Happiness, and that of another (though he be aMan) into the Hands of an unwise Judge through inability to resist suchunloving Pressure, my Nature rebels against it. It would seem to mecause for a Glad and an Unfaltering Resistance. For a Husband is, afterall, a Matter for a Maid's own choosing. "

"The beaten path, " says the biographer, "had ever but little attractionfor Mary Twining. It had been well had she been less fain to seekOpportunity for a Lawful Resistance to Bonds. It seemeth ever to theYoung that such opportunities are not long in coming. "

It was not only from the consciences of the colonial fathers that thestirrings of independence went forth. Apparently there was a spiritabroad that breathed now and then from the lips of but partially-schooledmaidens. Still, it is not unruliness, this protest of a young andindependent spirit against the slavishness now and then upheld incertain forms of literature. There is little revolutionary, after all, in Mary's sentiment that "a Husband is a matter for a Maid's ownchoosing. "

But we must pass over the last few notes of her school life. At nineteenshe left school forever. 

"I am about to leave this little Life of School, " she writes, "for alarger Life of Home, and mayhap a Taste of that Life which is called ofthe World. And if I be not now, at the age of Nineteen years, equippedfor the change and able to comport myself with a becoming Discretion andDignity, then such equipment is not to be found within these Four Wallsor in daily Practice of Music and Mathematics. Which, though I be filledwith no over-weening Distrust of my own Capabilities, seemeth to my eyesof some Doubt and Difference of Opinion. "

"On a certain day of June, " her biographer goes on to state, "MistressMary Twining was placed in the Coach which should take her a Two Days'Journey to her Father's House. She was in Company with an old andReverend Gentleman of friendly Disposition, who was well known to herFather and held in excellent esteem of him. The Fairness of a Maid isbut a vain Toy, but, " declares this most staid biographer, with arefreshing candor, "as it is a matter which is not without its effect onthe Fortunes of many, it is not always to be passed over in the Silencewhich would befit a Sober Pen. Mary Twining's Hair was of a goldenColour and wound itself in small, and not always tidy, Rings about herNeck and Forehead. Her eyes were of a darker appearance than is common, and her Mouth, though not without a certain Winsomeness, gave Promise ofa Firmness of Opinion and an Independence which was perhaps but a Signof the Times, which her small and shrewdly-set Nose did not deny. "

I more than suspect that, disclaim it as he may, our discreet biographerwas in nowise loath to dwell a little on this vain toy of Mary'spersonal appearance. I even fancy that he was tempted to employ greaterlatitude of expression, which only his stern sense of hisresponsibilities led him to reject, in the description of thatuncompromising mouth, not to mention the spice of naughtiness involvedin that nose so "shrewdly set. "

Not an unattractive picture in the coach window, this June day, is thisof Mary Twining, in her big poke bonnet, white kerchief andshort-waisted gown. And who is this, who, coming at the last moment, springs into a vacant place at her side, under the very eyes of thereverend old gentleman, her father's friend? The three-cornered hatwhich he doffs with ceremonious courtesy to the fair vision before him, the powdered queue, the high boots with jingling spurs, the sword at hisside, are not unpicturesque items in our nineteenth-century eyes. Werethey likely to be so in the eyes of this nineteen-year-old maiden justout of boarding-school?

"As it happened, " says the biographer, "there went down the same day, and by the same Coach, one of the young Aids of our General. He was apersonable Youth, and the Arrangement of the many Fripperies of theCostume of a young Gallant did naught to take away from the Face andFigure which Providence had accorded him. It were better had he or MaryTwining chosen another Time for the Journey. "

Neither, probably, did a natural timidity of disposition do aught tolessen the impression which a personable young man has it in his powerin any century to make upon a fair and observing girl. Mary herselfsays:--

"There rode down with us a young gallant of most holiday Appearance, butnot ignorant withal of the working days of a Soldier. It was not longbefore he had entered into Conversation with Mr. Edwards, who hadknowledge of the young Man's Parents, from which Conversation I learnedsomething of himself, though most modestly told. He would fain haveopened the Way for me to join in my Guardian's Questioning, but I borein Mind the Unseemliness of an unwarranted Acquaintanceship, and soughtrather to avoid than to court the Glances which he was not over cautiousin sending in my Direction. "

"A Maid's avoidance, " observes the biographer, "of a Youth's Glances, isnot of that Nature that is the Cutting off of all Hope. "

And Fortune, too, was not of so perverse a disposition in this Juneweather as she is sometimes. For, on the second day, when probablyglances, so conscientiously evaded, had become but the accompaniment ofspoken words, there was an accident. The coach, as coaches are apt todo, was upset, and its occupants "made haste rather as they could thanas they would, " to leave it. In the confusion and tumbling about ofheavy boxes Mary might have been badly hurt, had not the young gallant, quickly springing to his feet, caught her as she was thrown forward by asecond lurch of the unwieldy thing, and, lifting her up, carried her outof the way of falling luggage and struggling horses to a place ofsafety. 

"He lifted me as though I had been but a Feather's weight, showing aStrength which is indeed Goodly in the Sons of Men, " says Mary demurely, "and which was most grateful in the Stress and Confusion, and in itsdisplay most Timely, though perhaps, " she adds, with deliciousfrankness, "he was not over ready to put me down that he might hastenback to be of further help. "

"My Bonnet was awry, " she continues, "my Hair in sad confusion, and myFace a Milkmaid Red, so that I said with but little Grace, 'Sir, I fearyou have found me a grievous Weight. ' Whereupon he answered me that solight was my weight, that his Heart was the Heavier for the Putting ofme down, which was a Conceit not reasonable but most kindly intended. Whereon I thanked him, and he vowed such a Burden would he gladly carryto the World's End had he but Leave given. "

Another picture not unpleasant to the mind's eye, the overturned coach, the esteemed guardian of the youthful beauty delaying a little in itsimmediate neighborhood, perhaps to secure the safety of some preciouspackage, the farm laborers in the green adjacent fields dropping theirtools and running forward to help, the outcry and confusion, and apart, in the summer sunshine, the handsome fellow with the flashing sword byhis side, listening with bent head and admiring eyes to the thanks whichMistress Mary, with her untidy hair and lifted eyes, was tendering with"but little Grace. "

"Such chance meeting of the Sexes, " says our astute commentator, "whereappear what is most commanding in the One and most dependent in theOther, are but ill advised. The Uttering of such vain proffers as thecarrying the Burden of Mary Twining to the World's End, and otherFoolishness, hath then a Savour of Reality which concealeth the vainDelusion. "

We have delayed too long over these extracts, and though I am tempted todelay yet longer, so quaint is the contrast between Mary Twining'syouthful and feminine pen and that of her critical biographer, I pass onto a time some months after her arrival home. Indeed, she writes littlein the interval. The coming into a new and wider circle, the adaptingherself to new conditions, leave her scant time for writing. There is arapid noting of events, for it was an eventful time, --the mention of afew distinguished names, and that is all. But in order to follow thethread of Mary Twining's romance, we must pause at the account of a ballgiven to one of General Washington's regiments at a time before therigor of war had quenched all thoughts of merry-making. It was not herfirst ball. She had mixed freely in society, and had measured herselfwith the men and women about her, --always an interesting experience tothe free, unprejudiced and thoughtful girl. 

"It was a joyous Scene enough, " she writes, "but I myself not quite inthe Humour for such Junketing. I had a gloomy Fancy that Reason wouldnot dismiss, that in these Troublous Times there were Things outside ofthe Ball room Door, striving to enter, which having done, they wouldhave proved of singular Inappositeness. None the less I danced withthose who solicited me in due Form, and gave Heed to little else thanthe manner of the Solicitation. Not that there was Lack of GoodlyPartners, but I was mindful of nothing beyond the Observance of theCourtesies of the Occasion. The only Annoyance of which I was sensiblewas the marked Attention of my Cousin Eustace Fleming, who is butrecently come into this our Part of the Country, and claimethRelationship. He is a most excellent Young Gentleman, but one who islikely to weary me with his over Appreciation of my own Qualities. It isbut a Sign of my Stubbornness and Unregeneracy of Heart that, in that heis most approved and commended of my Parents, he wearieth me the more. Iwas fain to tell him, when he asked me a third Time to join the Dance, that there were fairer Maidens in the Hall who would be less loth toaccord him the Favour, but as this would but have drawn from him alaboured compliment to my own Person, I prudently refrained. "

It was in the weariness of this very encounter that, looking up, she sawapproaching her the hero of her adventure in the coach, the impulsiveyouth whose former foolishness had won for him the semi-disapproval ofour commentator. It seems possible that the gloomy fancies of shadowythings outside lightened a little, and the war ceased to be a backgroundonly for shapes of evil. 

"It required not the space of a moment for me to recognize him, thoughhis Attire had changed with the Circumstance, but as my Father's Friend, Mr. Edwards, had not deemed it of sufficient Importance to mention ourformer Rencontre, it now seemed to me useless to publicly recall thatIncident. Particularly as being now duly presented to me in the Presenceof my Parents, and with due Vouchers of his Credit, our Acquaintancecould make such Progress as we should mutually consider profitable. "

Prudent Mistress Mary and delinquent Mr. Edwards!

"After the Cotillion for which he had asked the Honour of my Hand, heled me to my Seat, but by a somewhat indirect Route. Upon my remarkingupon which, he found Occasion to say that all Ways were short to him nowafter traversing the long and difficult one which he had followed thathe might gain Admission to my Presence. I, laughing, said that myPresence were hardly worth such effort in Gaining, and that it wasgenerally attained with more Ease, and he, replying with a Grace ofManner it were impossible not to remark, said hastily that he was wellaware that he had found it easier to enter than he should to againforsake it. "

"And so on with such Vanities, " says the biographer, "as pass Currentwith young Men and Maidens in their shortsighted Enjoyment of themoment, and with which Mary Twining was but too fain to dally. "

Yes, and so on, the old story. For there follow the frequent meetings, known and not unapproved of by the watchful parents, the halfconfessions, the vague wonderment, and at last the pledge given andreceived, and Mary Twining became the affianced wife of the handsomeyoung officer. All this we trace in her journal, with satiric comments, now and then, of the Editor; but it is all so familiar that we will notdwell on it, pretty as it is. Only one shadow seems to have fallen onthe lovers, --that of Mr. Eustace Fleming, the worthy cousin, whoseimportunities in the ball-room so tired the patience of Mistress Mary. The parentally favored candidate for Mary's hand, he finds it, evidently, too hard to give it up without a struggle. With a lack ofthat wisdom unfortunate lovers find it so hard to supply, he disturbedtheir interviews, forced himself on Mary's society, yet with noinsolence and no self-betrayal that could lead to an outbreak. He isapparently a self-contained, and not a bad man, who finds it impossibleto see that he is beaten. Of this period I make one or two extracts fromMary's journal, and then go on to the end. 

"If I once marvelled at the yielding of those weak Women who find iteasier to relinquish the Happiness that they find in the Love of Thosebound to them by mutual attraction, than to contest the matter with allDignity, Forbearance, Firmness and Patience, how much the more do Imarvel now at their Shortsightedness! Were he, whom I gladly call myBetrothed, to be the Victim of Oppression or of Malice, it would seem tome but the throwing down of the Glove--a challenge to Battle, ratherthan a demand for Submission. Methinks it were not as a Suppliant that Ishould stoop to pick it up. But why talk of fighting, who am a peacefulMaid, who would labour, were it but Honourable towards her dear Country, to remove the Sound of Battle far from her Lover. For indeed he is moreready to fight than am I to have him. He would see an Opportunity tostrike a Blow in my Cause where is none, so anxious is he to draw hisSword in my Behalf. Indeed so excellent an Opinion doth he entertain ofmy Person and my Mind and my Conditions, that he would not be long infinding one who should most justly contest the same. Heaven send that hemay hold to the Opinion and forget the Wish to make Proselytes!

"It would seem that some men were created but as a sort of Makeweight, who, without active Hindrance, make it more difficult to row one's Boatup the Stream of Life. Of such kind is my Cousin Eustace Fleming. Hismost mistaken Admiration of me (for that in him is a Mistake which inAnother is but a most fitting and a most reverenced Creed) serves but tomake a Let and Hindrance where my satisfaction is concerned. I wouldthat he could more easily learn the Lesson I have been at such Pains tomark out for him. "

"It were vain, " is the comment on the last passage, "to expect aRecognition of sober worth in the Day of Love and Ambition. AndMistress Twining, after the manner of her kind, pays but little Heed tolasting Affection before the Time comes when it shall be of Use to Her. "

The wedding day approaches. Mary Twining does not lose her independence, though, woman like, she seems to enjoy losing herself in the lovelavished upon her. Here and there are passages which show that in thewarmth of her romance she thinks and judges and acts for herself, as shedid in her school days. Mary Twining will never merge her individualityin that of another, however dear to her. 

The entries grow briefer and more infrequent, as the month fixed uponfor the marriage draws near. It is to be in June, --two years from thatJune when she rode down by coach, in the care of her father's friend. 

"The day is fixed for the twenty-seventh of June, " is the last entry buttwo in her journal. "Two years ago, Fate gave my Life into his Hands. At least, in giving it to him a second Time, Fate and I are at one. "

The next entry is a month later. It is simply the statement, --

"May 24th. I have done my Cousin Eustace wrong. " Then on--

"July 27th. And I am but twenty-one!"

And June comes and goes, and there is no word on her bridal day, nobreathings of her new happiness from her ready pen. Is the book closed?Yes, but her biographer has a word to say. 

"On the twenty-seventh of June, Mary A. Twining became the wife of herCousin Eustace Fleming. Their Betrothal was but a short one, but in theeyes of her judicious Parents, there was no unseemly Haste. It had longbeen a cherished wish of their Hearts, and Eustace Fleming was a youngman of Promise and of rare Discretion. "

There it ends. The record of Mary Twining is finished. With MaryFleming he has nothing to do. But where is the girl of ripenedunderstanding, of freedom of thought, of directness of purpose? We donot know, for our biographer does not tell us. Was there a tragedy, andwere the details too heart-breaking for even the stoical Editor tomaintain his critical attitude?

Where is the gallant cavalier with his picturesque devotion, and hisvain toys of pretty speech and gesture and his fiery and over-weeninglove and admiration for Mistress Mary Twining? He seemed to me a braveand loyal sort of young fellow enough. I cannot tell. Put the quaint oldbook back on the shelf, and let her romance rest again. Butnotwithstanding her husband of such promise and rare discretion, Icannot help sighing, "Poor Mary Twining!"

Fate and she had a difference, after all. And she was but twenty-one!

A Postlude

IT was almost time for the train to leave the station, and the seatswere filling rapidly. The Irishwoman, with four children so near of asize that they seemed to be distinguished only by the variety of eatableeach one was consuming, had entered the car and deposited her largenewspaper bundle just inside the door, and driven her flock all into thelittle end seat, where they were stowed uncomfortably, one on top ofanother, gazing stolidly about the car. The young girl from the countrywho had been spending Sunday in town, and who was, consequently, somewhat overdressed for Monday morning, was wandering elegantly up anddown the aisle, losing each possible place for a prospective better one, which became impossible before she reached it. The woman with a bag toolarge for her to carry, rested it on the arm of an occupied seat whileshe gazed vaguely about, indifferent to the fact that a crowd ofimpatient travellers of more concrete intentions were being delayed byher indecision. Meanwhile, among these disturbers of travel the man witha large bag passed rapidly along, found a place, put the bag in therack, seated himself, and took out his newspaper. There is something ina man's management of a large travelling-bag in a railway train thatleads the most unwilling to grudgingly yield him a certain superiorityof sex. 

An exchange of good-bys, low-voiced but with a decided note of hilarity, took place at the door, and two women entered the car, one looking backand nodding a final smiling farewell before she gave her mind to thematter in hand. They were attractive women, of late middle age, perhaps, not yet to be called old. One was large, with fine curves, gray bands ofhair under her autumnal bonnet, and a dignity of bearing which suitedher ample figure and melodious, rather deep voice; the other was paler, more fragile, her light hair only streaked with gray, and her blue eyesstill shaded with a half-wistful uncertainty of what might be beforeher, which the years had not been able to turn altogether intoself-confidence. 

"You go on, Lucy, " said the former, in her full, decided tones, pausingat the first vacant seat, "and see if there's a place for us to sittogether farther down. I'll hold this for one of us. You take up lessroom than I do, you know, and it's easier for you to slip about;" andshe laughed a little. There was a suggestion of laughter in the eyes andaround the mouth of each of them. It indicated a subdued exhilarationunusual in the setting forth of women of their years and dignity. Lucyhesitated a moment, and then moved on somewhat timidly; but she hadtaken only a step when the man near whom they stood rose, and, liftinghis hat, said: "Allow me, madam, to give you this seat for yourself andyour friend. I can easily find another. "

"Thank you; you are very good, " replied the larger of the two women, herkindly gray eyes meeting his with an expression that led him to pauseand put their umbrellas in the rack and depart, wondering what it wasabout some women that made a man always glad to do anything forthem, --and it didn't make any difference how old they were, either. 

"How nice people are!" said the one who had already spoken as theysettled themselves. "That man, now--there wasn't any need of his doingthat. "

"He seemed to really want to, " rejoined Lucy. "People always like to dothings for you, Mary Leonard, I believe, " she added, looking at hercompanion with affectionate admiration. 

"I like to hear you talk, " returned Mary Leonard, laughing. "If thereever was anybody that just went through the world having people dothings for 'em, it's you, Lucy Eastman, and you know it. "

"Oh, but I know so few people, " said the other, hastily. "I'm notungrateful--I'm sure I've no call to be; but I know so few people, andthey've known me all my life; it's not like strangers. "

"That hasn't anything to do with it, " affirmed Mary Leonard, stoutly;"if there were more, it would be the same way. But I will say, " she wenton, "that I never could see why a woman travelling alone should everhave any trouble--officials and everybody are so polite about tellingyou the same thing over. I don't know why it is, but I always seem toexpect the next one I ask to tell me something different about a train;and then everybody you meet seems just as pleasant as can be. "

"Yes, " assented Lucy Eastman, "like that baggageman. Did you notice howpolite the baggageman was?"

"Notice it! Why, of course I did. And our trunks _were_ late, and itwas my fault, and so I told him, and he just hurried to pull them aroundand check them, and I was so confused, you know, that I made him checkthe wrong ones twice. "

"Well, they were just like ours, " said Lucy Eastman, sympathetically. 

"Well, they were, weren't they? But of course I ought to have known. Andhe never swore at all. I was dreadfully afraid he'd swear, Lucy. "

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Lucy Eastman, distressed, "what would you havedone if he'd sworn?"

"I'm sure I don't know, " asserted Mary Leonard, with conviction, "butfortunately he didn't. "

"He got very warm, " said Lucy, reminiscently. "I saw him wiping his browas we came away. "

"I don't blame him the least in the world. I think he was a wonderfullynice baggageman, for men of that class are so apt to swear when they getvery warm, --at least, so I've heard. And did you hear--"

"Tickets, ma'am, " observed the conductor. 

"There, I didn't mean to keep you waiting a minute;" and Mary Leonardopened her pocketbook, "but I forgot all about the tickets. Oh, Lucy, Igave you the tickets, and I took the checks. "

"Yes, to be sure, " said Lucy, opening her pocketbook. 

"I'll put them in the seat for you, ladies, like this, " said theconductor, smiling, "and then you won't have any more trouble. "

"Oh, yes, thank you, " said Lucy Eastman. 

"What a nice conductor!" observed Mary Leonard. 

"Did I hear what, Mary?--you were telling me something. "

"Oh, about the baggageman. I heard him say to his assistant, 'Don't youever git mad with women, Bobby. It ain't no use. If it was always thesame woman and the same trunk, perhaps you could learn her sometime; butit ain't, and you've got to take 'em just as they come, and get rid of'em the best way you can--they don't bear instruction. '"

Mary Leonard and Lucy Eastman threw back their heads and laughed; it wasgenuine, low, fresh laughter, and a good thing to hear. After that therewas silence for a few moments as the train sped on its way. 

"I declare, " said Mary Leonard, at last, "I don't know when I've been inthe cars before. "

"I was just thinking I haven't been in the cars since Sister Eliza died, and we all went to the funeral, " said Lucy Eastman. 

"Why, that's--let me see--eight years ago, isn't it?"

"Eight and a half. "

"Well, I'm glad you'll have a pleasanter trip to look back on afterthis. "

"So am I; and I am enjoying this--every minute of it. Only there's somuch to see. Just look at the people looking out of the windows of thatmanufactory! Shouldn't you think they'd roast?"

"Yes, they must be hotter than a fritter such a day as this. "

"How long is it since you've been to Englefield, Mary?" asked LucyEastman, after another pause. 

"Why, that's what I meant to tell you. Do you know, after I saw you, andwe decided to go there for our holiday, I began to think it over, and Ihaven't been there since we went together the last time. "

"Why, Mary Leonard! I had an idea you'd been there time and again, though you said you hadn't seen the old place for a long time. "

"Well, I was surprised myself when I realized it. But the next year mycousins all moved away, and I've thought of it over and over, but Ihaven't _been_. I dare say if we'd lived in the same town we'd havegone together before this, but we haven't, and there it is. "

"That's thirty-five years ago, Mary, " said Lucy Eastman, thoughtfully. 

"Thirty-five years! I declare, it still makes me jump to hear aboutthirty-five years--just as if I hadn't known all about 'em!" and MaryLeonard laughed her comfortable laugh again. "You don't say it'sthirty-five years, Lucy! I guess you're right, though. "

There was a moment's pause, and the laugh died away into a little sigh. 

"We didn't think then--we didn't really _think_--we'd ever be talkingabout what happened thirty-five years ago, did we, Lucy? We didn't thinkwe'd have interest enough to care. "

"No, " said Lucy, soberly, "we didn't. "

"And I care just as much as I ever did about things, " went on the other, thoughtfully, "only there seem more doors for satisfaction to come in atnowadays. It isn't quite the same sort of satisfaction, perhaps, thatit used to be, not so pressed down and running over, but there's more ofit, after all, and it doesn't slip out so easily. "

"No, the bottom of things doesn't fall out at once, as it used to, andleave nothing in our empty hands. "

"That sounds almost sad. Don't you be melancholy, Lucy Eastman. "

"I'm not, Mary--I'm not a bit. I'm only remembering that I used to be. "

"We used to go to the well with a sieve instead of a pitcher; that'sreally the difference, " said Mary Leonard. "We've learned not to bewasteful, that's all. "

"What fun we used to have, " said Lucy, her eyes shining, "visiting yourcousins!"

"It _was_ fun!" said the other. "Do you remember the husking party atthe Kendals' barn?"

"Of course I do, and the red ears that that Chickering girl was alwaysfinding! I think she picked them out on purpose, so that Tom Endoverwould kiss her. It was just like those Chickerings!" There was a gentlevenom in Lucy Eastman's tones that made Mary Leonard laugh till thetears came into her eyes. 

"Minnie Chickering wasn't the only girl that Tom Endover kissed, if Iremember right, " she said, with covert intention. 

"Well, he put the red ear into my hands himself, and I just husked itwithout thinking anything about it, " retorted Lucy Eastman, with spirit. 

"Of course you did, of course you did, " asseverated Mary Leonard, whereupon the other laughed too, but with reservation. 

"And do you remember old Miss Pinsett's, where we used to go to actcharades?"

"Yes, indeed, in the old white house at the foot of the hill, with acupola. She seemed so old; I wonder how old she was?"

"Perhaps we shouldn't think her so old to-day. People used to wear capsearlier then than they do now. I think when they were disappointed inlove they put on caps! Miss Pinsett had been disappointed in love, sothey said. "

"They will have old maids disappointed in love, " said Lucy, with someasperity. "They will have me--some people--and I never was. "

"I know you weren't. But I don't think it's as usual as it was to saythat about old maids. It's more the fashion now to be disappointed inmarriage. "

There had been several stops at the stations along the road. The day waswearing on. Suddenly Lucy Eastman turned to her companion. 

"Mary, " she said, "let's play we were girls again, and going toEnglefield just as we used to go--thirty-five years ago. Let's pretendthat we're going to do the same things and see the same people and havethe same fun. We're off by ourselves, just you and I, and why shouldn'twe? We're the same girls, after all, " and she smiled apologetically. 

"Of course we are. We'll do it, " said Mary Leonard, decidedly; "let'spretend. "

But, having made the agreement, it was not so easy to begin. The streamof reminiscence had been checked, and a chasm of thirty-five years isnot instantly bridged, even in thought. 

"I hope they won't meet us at the station, " said Mary Leonard, after awhile, in a matter-of-fact voice. "We know the way so well there is noneed of it. "

"I hope not. I feel just like walking up myself, " answered Lucy. "We cansend our trunks by the man that comes from the hotel, just as usual, andit'll be cool walking toward evening. "

"I'm glad we put off coming till the fall. The country's beautiful, andthere isn't so much dust in case we"--she hesitated a moment--"in casewe go on a picnic. "

"Yes, " replied Lucy, readily; "to the old fort. I hope we'll have apicnic to the old fort. I guess all the girls will like to go. It's justthe time to take that drive over the hill. "

"If we go, " said Mary Leonard, slowly and impressively, "you'll have todrive with Samuel Hatt. "

"Oh, I went with him last time, " broke in Lucy, apprehensively. "It'syour turn. "

"But you know I just won't, " said Mary Leonard, her eyes sparkling, andthe dimples that, like Miss Jessie Brown, she had not left off, appearing and disappearing. "And somebody _has_ to go with him. "

"Perhaps they won't ask him. "

"Oh, but they will. They always do, on account of his horses. Itwouldn't be a picnic without Samuel Hatt. "

Just then the train drew up at a small station. Lucy Eastman started asshe read the name of the place as it passed before her eyes. 

"Mary, " said she, "this is where Mr. Hatt always used to get on thetrain. There are the Hatt Mills, and he goes up and down everyday, --don't you remember? And how we were--we are--always afraid we'llmeet him on the train. "

"Of course, " said Mary Leonard, leaning forward and scanning theplatform with its row of idlers and its few travellers. "Well, he isn'there now. We are going to escape him this time. But my heart was in mymouth! I don't want Samuel Hatt to be the first Englefield person wemeet. "

They looked up with careless curiosity at the people who entered thetrain. There was a little girl with a bunch of common garden flowersfollowing close behind a tired-looking woman, who had been, obviously, "spending the day;" a florid old gentleman with gold spectacles, whorevealed a bald head as he removed his hat and used it for a fan, --theyhad seen him hurrying to the platform just before the train moved out;a commercial traveller, and a schoolboy. 

"No, " said Mary Leonard, "he isn't here this time. "

The florid old gentleman took a seat in front of them and continued tofan himself. The conductor came through the car. 

"Warm spell we're having for October, Mr. Hatt, " he said, as he punchedthe commutation-ticket that was offered him. 

Mary Leonard and Lucy Eastman gazed spellbound at the back of Mr. Hatt'sbald head. They were too amazed to look away from it at each other. 

"It--it must be his father, " gasped Lucy Eastman. "He looks--alittle--like him. "

"Then it's his father come back!" returned Mary in an impatient whisper. "His father died before we ever went to Englefield; and, don't youremember, he was always fanning himself?"

Their fascinated gaze left the shiny pink surface of Samuel Hatt's head, and their eyes met. 

"I hope he won't see us, " giggled Lucy. 

"I hope not. Let's look the other way. "

In a few minutes Mr. Hatt rose slowly and portentously, and, turning, made a solemn but wavering way down the car to greet a man who sat justacross the aisle from Mary Leonard. Both the women avoided his eyes, blushing a little and with the fear of untimely mirth about their lips. 

As he talked with their neighbor, however, they ventured to look at him, and as he turned to go back his slow, deliberate glance fell upon them, rested a moment, and, without a flicker of recognition, passed on, andhe resumed his place. 

There was almost a shadow in the eyes that met again, as the womenturned towards one another. 

"I--I know it's funny, " said Lucy, a little tremulously, "but I don'tquite like it that we look to him just as he does to us. "

"We have hair on our heads, " said Mary Leonard. "But, " she added, lessaggressively, "we needn't have worried about his speaking to us. "

"Englefield, " shouted the brakeman, and the train rumbled into a coveredstation. Mary Leonard started to her feet, and then paused and lookeddown at her companion. This Englefield! This the quiet little placewhere the man from the hotel consented to look after their trunks whiletheir cousins drove them up in the wagon--this noisy station with two orthree hotel stages and shouting drivers of public carriages!

"Lucy, " said she, sitting down again in momentary despair, "we've goneback thirty-five years, but we forgot to take Englefield with us!"

It did not take long, however, to adapt themselves to the newconditions. They arranged to stay at the inn that was farthest from thecentre of things, and the drive out restored some of the former look ofthe place. It was near sunset; the road looked pink before them as theyleft the city. The boys had set fire to little piles of early fallenleaves along the sides of the streets, and a faint, pungent smoke hungabout and melted into the twilight, and the flame leaped forth vividlynow and then from the dusky heaps. As they left the paved city for theold inn which modern travel and enterprise had left on the outskirts, the sky showed lavender through a mistiness that was hardly palpableenough for haze. The browns and reds of the patches of woods in the neardistance seemed the paler, steadier reproduction of the flames behindthem. Low on the horizon the clouds lay in purple waves, deepening anddarkening into brown. 

"Mary, " said Lucy Eastman, in a low tone, laying her hand on hercompanion's arm, "it's just the way it looked when we came the firsttime of all; do you remember?"

"Remember? It's as if it were yesterday! Oh, Lucy, I don't know about anew heaven, but I'm glad, I'm glad it isn't a 'new earth' quite yet!"There was a mistiness in the eyes of the women that none of the changesthey had marked had brought there. They were moved by the sudden sweetrecognition that seemed sadder than any change. 

The next morning they left the house early, that they might have longhours in which to hunt up old haunts and renew former associations. Again the familiar look of things departed as they wandered about thewider, gayer streets. The house in which Mary Leonard's cousins hadlived had been long in other hands, and the occupants had cut down thefinest of the old trees to make room for an addition, and a woman whoseface seemed provokingly foreign to the scene came out with the air of aproprietor and entered her carriage as they passed. 

At another place which they used to visit on summer afternoons, andwhich had been approached by a little lane, making it seem isolated anddistant, the beautiful turf had been removed to prepare a bald andbarren tennis court, and they reached it by an electric car. Even thelittle candy-shop had become a hardware store. 

"Of course, when one thinks of the Gibraltars and Jackson balls, it doesnot seem such a revolution, " said Mary Leonard; but she spoke forlornly, and did not care much for her own joke. It looked almost as if theirholiday was to be turned into a day of mourning; there was depression inthe air of the busy, bustling active streets, through which thegray-haired women wandered, handsome, alert, attentive, but haunted bythe sense of familiarity that made things unfamiliar and the knowledgeof every turn and direction that yet was not knowledge, but ignorance. 

"Look here, Lucy Eastman, " said Mary Leonard at last, stoppingdecisively in front of what used to be the Baptist Church, but whichwas now a business block and a drug-store where you could get peachphosphate, "we can't stand this any longer. Let's get into a carriageright away and go to the old fort; that can't have changed much; it usedto be dismantled, and I don't believe they've had time, with all they'vedone here, to--to mantle it again. "

They moved towards a cab-stand--of course it was an added grievance thatthere was a cab-stand--but the wisdom of the prudent is to understandhis way. 

"Mary, " said Lucy Eastman, detaining her, "wait a minute. Do you thinkwe might--it's a lovely day--and--there's a grocer right there--anddinner is late at the hotel"--She checked her incoherence and lookedwistfully at Mary Leonard. 

"Lucy, I think we might do anything, if you don't lose your mind first. What is it, for pity's sake, that you want to do?"

"Take our luncheon; we always used to, you know. And we can have a hotdinner at the hotel when we come back. "

Without replying, Mary Leonard led the way to the grocer's, and theybought lavish supplies there and at the bakery opposite. Then theycalled the cab. 

"Do you remember, Lucy, we used to have to think twice about calling acab, when we used to travel together, on account of the expense, " saidMary Leonard, as they waited for it to draw up at the curbstone. 

"Yes, " answered Lucy; "we don't have to now. " And then they both sigheda little. 

But their smiles returned as they drove into the enclosure of the oldfort. There they lay in the peaceful sun--the gray stones, the fewcannon-balls, sunk in the caressing grass, with here and there a rustygun, like a once grim, sharp-tongued, cruel man who has fallen somehowinto an amiable senility. 

"I read an article in one of the magazines about our coast defences, "said Lucy Eastman, breathlessly; "how they ought to be strengthened andrepaired and all, and I was quite excited about it and wanted to give alittle money towards it, but I wouldn't for anything now, enemy or noenemy. "

"Nor I, either, " said Mary Leonard, after she had dismissed the driverwith orders to call for them later in the day. They walked on over thecrisp dry grass, and seated themselves on a bit of the fallen masonry. The reaches of the placid river lay before them, and the hum of thealert cricket was in their ears. Now and then a bird flewsurreptitiously from one bush to another, with the stealthy, swiftmotion of flight in autumn, so different from the heedless, fluttering, hither-and-yon vagaries of the spring and early summer. The time forfrivolity is over; the flashes of wings have a purpose now; thepossibility of cold is in the air, and what is to be done must be donequickly. 

"We almost always used to come in summer, " said Lucy Eastman, "but Ithink it's every bit as pretty in the fall. "

"So do I, " assented Mary Leonard, as she looked down into a hollow wherethe purple asters grew so thick that in the half-dusk of the shadow theylooked like magnified snowflakes powdered thickly on the sward. "And ithasn't changed an atom, " she went on, as her eyes roamed over theunevenness of this combination of man's and nature's handiwork. "It'sjust as quiet and disorderly and upset and peaceful as it was then. "

"Yes, look up there;" and Lucy Eastman pointed to the higher ramparts, on the edge of which the long grass wavered in the wind with theglancing uncertainty of a conflagration. "The last time I was here Iremember saying that that looked like a fire. "

After they had eaten their luncheon, which brought with it echoes ofthe laughter which had accompanied the picnic supper eaten in that verycorner years ago, they seated themselves in a sheltered spot to wait. Itreally seemed as if the old gray walls retained some of the spirit ofthose earlier days, so gentle, so mirth-inspiring was the sunshine thatwarmed them. 

"I'm so glad we came, " said Mary, --they had both said it before, --as thesunny peace penetrated their very souls. 

Four o'clock brought the cab, and they drove down the long hills, looking back often for a final glimpse of the waving grass and the graystones. As they turned a sharp corner and lost sight of the old fort, Mary Leonard glanced furtively at her companion. Her own eyes for thesecond time that day were not quite clear, and she was not sorry todetect an added wistfulness in Lucy Eastman's gaze. 

"Lucy, " said she, and her voice shook a little, "I'm tired. "

"So am I, " murmured Lucy. 

"And I don't ever remember to have been tired after a picnic at the oldfort before. "

"No more do I, " said Lucy; and it was a moment before their sadness, asusual, trembled into laughter. 

"Lucy Eastman, " said Mary Leonard, suddenly, "this is the street thatold Miss Pinsett used to live on--lives on, I mean. What do you say?Shall we stop and see Miss Pinsett?" The dimples had come back again, and her eyes danced. 

Lucy caught her breath. 

"Oh, Mary, if only she--" her sentence was left unfinished. 

"I'll find out, " said Mary Leonard, and put her head out of the window. "Driver, " she called out, "stop at Miss Pinsett's. "

The driver nodded and drove on, and she sank back pleased with her owntemerity. 

The cab stopped in front of the same square white house, with thecupola, and the same great trees in the front yard. Mary Leonard andLucy Eastman clasped each other's hands in silent delight as they walkedup the box-bordered path. 

"Tell Miss Pinsett that Lucy Eastman and--and Mary Greenleaf have cometo see her, " they said to the elderly respectable maid. Then they wentinto the dim shaded parlor and waited. There were the old piano and theJapanese vases, and the picture of Washington which they had alwayslaughed at because he looked as if he were on stilts and could stepright across the Delaware, and they could hear their hearts beat, forthere was a rustle outside the door--old Miss Pinsett's gowns alwaysrustled--and it opened. 

"Why, _girls_!" exclaimed old Miss Pinsett as she glided into the room. 

Mary Leonard and Lucy Eastman declared, then and afterward, that shewasn't a day older than when they said good-by to her thirty-five yearsago. She wore the same gray curls and the same kind of cap. Also, theyboth declared that this was the climax, and that they should have weptaloud if it had not been so evident that to Miss Pinsett there wasnothing in the meeting but happiness and good fortune, so they did not. 

"Why, girls, " said old Miss Pinsett again, clasping both their hands, "how glad I am to see you, and how well you are both looking!"

Then she insisted on their laying off their things, and they laid themoff because they always had when she asked them. 

"You've grown stout, Mary Greenleaf, " said old Miss Pinsett. 

"I know I have, " she answered, "and I'm not Mary Greenleaf, though Isent that name up to you--I'm Mary Leonard. "

"I wondered if neither of you were married. "

"I'm a widow, Miss Pinsett, " said Mary Leonard, soberly. "My husbandonly lived three years. "

"Poor girl, poor girl!" said Miss Pinsett, patting her hand, and thenshe looked at the other. 

"I'm Lucy Eastman still, " she said; "just the same Lucy Eastman. "

"And a very good thing to be, too, " said Miss Pinsett, nodding herdelicate old head kindly. "But, " and she scanned her face, "but, nowthat I look at you, not quite the same Lucy Eastman--not quite thesame. "

"Older and plainer, " she sighed. 

"Of all the nonsense!" exclaimed old Miss Pinsett. "You're not quite soshy, that's all, my dear. "

"I'm shy now, " asserted Lucy. 

"Very likely, but not quite so shy as you were, for all that. Don't tellme! I've a quick eye for changes, and so I can see changes in you twowhen it may be another wouldn't. "

Before the excitement of her welcome had been subdued into meregladness, there was a discreet tap at the door, and the respectablemaid came in with a tray of sherry-glasses and cake. Mary Leonard andLucy Eastman looked at each other brimming over with smiles. It was thesame kind of cake, and might have been cut off the same loaf. 

"Never any cake like yours, " said Mary Leonard. 

"I remember you like my cake, " said old Miss Pinsett, smiling; "take abigger piece, child. "

They wanted to know many things about the people and the town, all ofwhich Miss Pinsett could tell them. 

The shadows grew longer, the room dimmer, and Miss Pinsett had the maidthrow open the blinds to let in the western sunlight. A shaft ofillumination fell across one of the Japanese vases, and a dragonblinked, and the smooth round head of a mandarin gleamed. There was anold-fashioned trumpet-creeper outside the window. 

"But we must go, " exclaimed Mary Leonard at last, rising and taking upher bonnet. "Oh, no, thank you, we must not stay. Miss Pinsett; we aregoing to-morrow, and we are tired with all the pleasure of to-day, andwe have so much--so much to talk over. We shall talk all night, as weused to, I am afraid. "

"But before you go, girls, " said Miss Pinsett, laying a fragile, whiteslender hand on each, "you must sing for me some of the songs you usedto sing--you know some very pretty duets. "

Mary Leonard and Lucy Eastman paused, amazed, and looked into eachother's faces in dismay. Sing?--had they ever sung duets? They had notsung a note for years, except in church. 

"But I don't know any songs, Miss Pinsett, " stammered Mary Leonard. 

"I have forgotten all I ever knew, " echoed Lucy Eastman. 

"No excuses, now--no excuses! You were always great for excuses, butyou would always sing for me. I want 'County Guy, ' to begin with. "

By a common impulse the visitors moved slowly towards the piano; theywould try, at least, since Miss Pinsett wanted them to. Lucy seatedherself and struck a few uncertain chords. Possibly the once familiarroom, Mary Leonard at her side, Miss Pinsett listening in her ownhigh-backed chair, the scent of the mignonette in the bluebowl--possibly one or all of these things brought back the old tune. 

 "Ah, County Guy, The hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea. "

The sweet, slender voice floated through the room, and Mary Leonard'sdeeper contralto joined and strengthened it. 

"Now, I will have 'Flow Gently, Sweet Afton, '" said Miss Pinsett, quiteas if it were a matter of course. And they sang "Flow Gently, SweetAfton. " It was during the last verse that the parlor door openedsoftly, and a tall, fine-looking man, erect, with beautiful silvercurling hair, and firm lines about the handsome, clean-shaven mouth, appeared on the threshold and stood waiting. As the singing finished, Miss Pinsett shook her head at him. 

"You were always coming in and breaking up the singing, Tom Endover, "she said. 

The two women left the piano and came forward. 

"You used to know Mary Greenleaf, --she's Mrs. Leonard now, --and LucyEastman, Tom, " she went on. 

Apparently Mr. Endover was not heeding the introduction, but was comingtowards them with instant recognition and outstretched hand. They oftendiscussed afterward if he would have known them without Miss Pinsett. Mary Leonard thought he would, but Lucy Eastman did not always agreewith her. 

"You don't have to tell me who they are, " he said, grasping their handscordially. "Telling Tom Endover who Mary Greenleaf and Lucy Eastman are, indeed!" There was a mingling of courteous deference and frank, not tobe repressed, good comradeship in his manner which was delightful. MaryLeonard's dimples came and went, and delicate waves of color flowed andebbed in Lucy Eastman's soft cheeks. 

"I'm too old always to remember that there's no telling a United Statessenator anything, " retorted Miss Pinsett, with a keen glance from herdimmed but penetrating eyes. 

"As to that, I don't believe I'd ever have been a United States senatorif it wasn't for what you've told me, Miss Pinsett, " laughed Endover. "I'm always coming here to be taken down, Mary, " he went on; "she doesit just as she used to. "

Mary Leonard caught her breath a little at the sound of her Christianname, but "I didn't know there was any taking you down, Tom Endover, "she retorted before she thought; and they all laughed. 

They found many things to say in the few minutes longer that theystayed, before Mr. Endover took them out and put them in their cab. Heinsisted upon coming the next morning to take them to the station in hisown carriage, and regretted very much that his wife was out of town, sothat she could not have the pleasure of meeting his old friends. 

"He's just the same, isn't he?" exclaimed Mary Leonard, delightedly, asthey drove away. 

"Yes, " assented Lucy Eastman, slowly; "I think he is; and yet he'sdifferent. "

"Oh, yes, he's different, " replied Mary Leonard, readily. Both werequite unconscious of any discrepancy in their statements as theysilently thought over the impression he had made. He was the samehandsome, confident Tom Endover, but there was something gone, --and wasthere not something in its place? Had that gay courtesy, that debonairgood fellowship, changed into something more finished, but harder andmore conscious? Was there a suggestion that his old careless charm hadbecome a calculated and a clearly appreciated facility? Lucy Eastman didnot formulate the question, and it did not even vaguely present itselfto Mary Leonard, so it troubled the pleasure of neither. 

"What a day we have had!" they sighed in concert as they drove up againto the entrance of the inn. 

"Lucy, " called Mary Leonard, a little later, from one of theirconnecting rooms to the other, "I'm going to put on my best black net, because Tom Endover may call to-night. " Then she paused to catch LucyEastman's prompt reply. 

"And I shall put on my lavender lawn, but it'll be just our luck to haveit Samuel Hatt. "

The next morning Mr. Endover called for them, and they were driven tothe station in his brougham. 

He put them on the train, and bought the magazines for them, and wavedhis hand to the car window. 

"You know, Lucy, " said Mary Leonard, as the train pulled out, "TomEndover always used to come to see us off. "

"Of course he did, " said Lucy. 

"Do you know, I'm rather glad his wife was out of town, " went on MaryLeonard, after a pause. "I should like to have seen her well enough, butyou know she wasn't an Englefield girl. "

"What can she know about old Englefield!" said Lucy, with mild contempt. "I'm very glad she was out of town. "

As they left the city behind them, the early morning sun shone forthwith vivid brilliancy. Against the western sky the buildings stood outwith a peculiar distinctness, as if the yellow light shining upon themwas an illumination inherent in themselves, singling them out of thelandscape, and leaving untouched the cold gray behind them. The lines ofbrick and stone had the clearness and precision of a photograph, and yetwere idealized, so that in the yellow, mellow, transparent light a tall, smoke-begrimed chimney of a distant furnace looked airy and delicate asan Italian tower. 

The "Daily Morning Chronicle"

THE village lay still and silent under the observant sun. The villagestreet stretched in one direction down the hill to the two-miles-offrailway station, and in the other to the large white house with pillaredportico, from which there was a fine view of the sunset, and beyondwhich it still continued, purposeful but lonely, until it came suddenlyupon half a dozen houses which turned out to be another village. 

Not a man, woman, or child crossed from one house to another; not a dogor a cat wandered about in the sunshine. The white houses looked as ifno one lived in them; the white church, with its sloping approach, looked as if no one ever preached in it and no one ever came to it tolisten. It seemed to Lucyet Stevens, as she sat at the little window ofthe post-office, behind which her official face looked so much moreimportant than it ever did anywhere else, as if the village streetitself were listening for the arrival of the noon mail. For it wasnearly time for the daily period of almost feverish activity. By and byfrom the station would come Truman Hanks with the leather bag which, invillage and city alike, is the outward and visible sign of the fidelityof the government. It is probable that he will bring it up in a singlecarriage, for though sometimes he takes the two-seated one, in casethere should be a human arrival who would like to be driven up, thispossibility was so slight a one at this time of year that it was hardlyworth considering. Then the village will awake; the two little girls wholive down below the saw-mill will come up together, confiding on the waya secret or two, for which the past twenty-four hours would seem tohave afforded slender material. Then old John Thomas will come limpingacross from his small house back of the church, to see if there is aletter for "her, "--she being his wife, and in occasional communicationwith their daughter in the city. Then the good-looking, roughly cladyoung farmer who takes care of the fine place with the pillared porticoon the hill will saunter down to see if "the folks have sent any wordabout coming up for the summer. " Then Miss Granger, who lives almostnext door, will throw a shawl over her head and run in to see who hasletters and, incidentally, if she has any herself; and then one or twowagons will draw up in front of the little store, and the men will comein for their daily papers. 

As Lucyet came around to the daily papers she flushed and lookedimpatiently out of the door down the street. Not that the thought of thedaily paper had not been all the time in the background of her mind, but having allowed her fancy to wander towards the attitude of thevillage and its prospective disturbance, she returned to the imminenceof the daily paper again with a thrill of emotion. It was not one of themetropolitan journals which, as a body, the village subscribed for, norwas it one of the more widely known of those issued in smaller cities;it was an unpretentious sheet, neither very ably edited nor extensivelycirculated, --the chief spokesman of the nearest county town. But withall its limitations, its readers represented to Lucyet the great harsh, unknowing, and yet irresistibly attractive public. 

It was not the first time that she had thus watched for it with muteexcitement. Such episodes, though infrequent, had marked her otherwiseuneventful existence at irregular intervals for more than a year. Itwould be more correct to say that they had altered its entire course;that such episodes had given to her life a double character, --one sideof calmness, secrecy, indifference, and the other of delight, absorption, thrilled with a breathless excitement and uncertainty. Butthis time there was a greater than ordinary interest. The verses thatshe had sent last were more ambitious in conception; they haddescription in them, and mental analysis, and several other things whichvery likely she would not have called by their right names, though shefelt their presence: her other contributions had belonged rather to thepoetry of comment. She was sure, almost sure, that they had acceptedthese. 

Unsophisticated Lucyet never dreamed of enclosing postage for return, soshe could only breathlessly search the printed page to discover whetherher lines were there or in the waste-basket. Friday's edition of the"Daily Morning Chronicle" was more or less given over to the feebleclaims of general literature. To-day was Friday. Lucyet glanced throughher little window--the tastefully disposed corner of which wasdedicated to the postal service--at the tin of animal crackers, the jarof prunes, the suspended bacon, and the box of Spanish licorice, andpondered, half contemptuously, half pitifully, on what had been her lifebefore she had written poems and sent them to the "Daily MorningChronicle. " Then her outlook had seemed scarcely wider than that of theanimal crackers with their counterfeit vitality; now it seemed extendedto the horizon of all humanity. 

There was the sound of horses' feet coming over the hill. Was it themail wagon? No, it was a heavier vehicle; and the voice of the farmer, slow and lumbering as the animals it encouraged, sounded down thevillage street. Over the crest of the hill appeared the summit of a loadof hay going to the scales in front of the tavern to be weighed. Sosilent were the place and the hour, that it was like a commotion whenthe cart drew up, and the horses were unhitched and weighed, and thenthe load driven on, and the owner and the hotel-keeper exchangedobservations of a genial nature. Finally the horses and the wagoncreaked along the hot street down the road which led by the pillaredwhite house, and again the village was at peace. Lucyet glanced at theclock. Was the mail going to be late this morning? No. The creaking ofthe hay wagon had but just lost itself in the silence, when her quickear caught the rattle of the lighter carriage. Her first impulse was tostep to the door and wait for it there, but she did not yield to it; shewould do just as usual, neither more nor less. She would not for worldshave Truman Hanks suspect any special interest on her part. He might tryto find out its cause; and a hot blush enveloped Lucyet as shecontemplated the possibility of his assigning it to the true one. Onlyone person in all the village knew that Lucyet Stevens wrote poetry. 

"Most time for the mail to be gittin' heavy, " said Truman, as he handedover the limp receptacle; "the summer boarders'll be along now, beforelong. "

"Yes, I s'pose they will, " answered Lucyet, her fingers trembling asthey unlocked the bag. 

"It's a backward season, though, " he went on, watching her. 

"Yes, it is uncommon backward; the apple blossoms aren't but justbeginning to come out. "

It seemed to her that there was suspicion in his observation. He leanedlazily over the counter, while she took out the mail within the littleoffice with its front of letter-boxes. 

"This hot spell'll bring 'em out. It's the first _hot_ spell we'vehad. "

"Yes, " she assented, blushing again, "it will. "

She had spoken of the tardy apple blossoms in her poem, --it was entitled"Spring. " Two or three people, having seen the mail go by, dropped inand disposed themselves in various attitudes to wait for it to bedistributed. She hurried through the work, her fingers tingling to openeach copy of the newspaper as she laid it in its place. At last it wasdone; the little window which had been shut to produce officialseclusion was reopened; and the people came up, one by one, without muchhaste, and received the papers and now and then a letter. It did nottake long; and afterward they stood about and talked and traded alittle, their papers unopened in their hands. It was not likely that thenews from outside was going to affect any one of them very much; theycould wait for it; and reading matter was for careful attention at home, not for skimming over in public places. 

Lucyet found their indifference phenomenal; they did not know what mightbe waiting for them in the first column of the third page. Was itwaiting for them? The suspense was almost overwhelming; and yet she didnot like to open the copy which lay at her disposal until the store wasempty; she had a nervous feeling that they would all know what she waslooking for. Slowly the group melted away, till there was no one leftexcept the proprietor, who had gone into the back room to look aftersome seed corn, and Silas, the young farmer, who had thrown himself downinto a chair to read his paper at his leisure, and was not noticingLucyet. Eagerly she opened the printed sheet. She caught her breath inthe joy of assurance. There it was--"Spring. " It stood out as if it wereprinted all in capitals. After a furtive look out at the quiet street, where, in a rusty wagon, an old man was just picking up his reins andpreparing to jog away from the post-office door, and a side glance atSilas's broad back over by the farther window, Lucyet read over her ownlines. How different they looked from the copy in her own distinct, formal little handwriting! They had gained something, --but they hadlost something too. They seemed unabashed, almost declamatory, in theirsentiment. They had acquired a new and positive importance; it was as ifthe assertions they made had all at once become truths, had ceased to betentative. She read them over again. No, they did not tell it all, allthat she meant to say; but they brought back the day, and she was gladshe had written them, --glad with an agitated, inexpressible gladness. She would like to know what people said of them; for a moment it seemedto her that she would not mind if they knew that she wrote them. 

"Well, " said Silas, laying down his paper and standing up, "there isn'ta blamed thing in that paper!"

Lucyet looked up at him startled. Had she heard aright? Then the colorslowly receded from her face and left it pale. Silas was quiteunconscious of having made an unusual statement. 

"Well, Lucyet, " he went on, "going to the Christian Endeavor to-night?"

"I don't know, " she stammered. "No, " she added suddenly, "I am not. " Allendeavor was a mockery to her stunned soul. 

"I dunno as I will either, " he observed carelessly as he lounged out. 

It was nothing to her whether he went or not, though once it might havebeen. She sat still for some minutes after he had gone, looking blanklyat the paper. The page which a few minutes ago had seemed fairly to glowwith interest had become mere columns of print concerning trivialthings; for an instant she saw it with Silas's eyes. John Thomas camelimping for his mail. He had been detained on the way, he explained, andwas late. She handed him his paper through the window, dully, indifferently. She was suffering a measure of that disappointment whichcomes with what we have grown to believe attainment, and is so much morebitter than that of failure. But the revolt against this unnatural stateof mind came before long. The elasticity of her own enthusiasmreasserted itself. It could not be that there was nothing in her poem. She read the lines over again. Two or three were not quite what theyought to be, somehow; but the rest of them the world would lay holdof, --that big sympathetic world which knew so much more than SilasStevens. 

When the hour came to close the office at noon, she locked the drawerand passed out of the door to the footpath with a sense of triumph underthe habitual shyness of her manner. She still shrank from the publicityshe had achieved, but she was conscious of an undercurrent of desirethat her achievement, since it was real, should be recognized. 

When the old postmaster died, leaving Lucyet, his only child, alone inthe world, and interest in official quarters had procured for her theappointment in her father's place, a home had also been offered her atMiss Flood's; and it was thither that Lucyet now went for her noondaymeal. Miss Delia Flood was of most kindly disposition and literarytastes. That these tastes were somewhat prescribed in theirmanifestation was no witness against their genuineness. It must beconfessed that Miss Delia's preference was for the sentimental, --thoughshe would have modestly shrunk from hearing it thus baldly stated, --and, naturally, for poetry above prose. The modern respect for "strength" inliterature would have impressed her most painfully had she known of it. The mind turns aside from the contemplation of the effect that a storyor two of Kipling's would have produced upon her could she have graspedtheir vocabulary; she would probably have taken to her bed in sheerfright, as she did in a thunderstorm. Poetry of the heart and emotions, which never verged, even most distantly, upon what her traditions andher susceptibilities told her was the indecorous, satisfied her highestdemands, and the less said about nature, except by way of an occasionalwillow, or the sad, sweet scent of a jasmine flower, the better. MissDelia had fostered Lucyet's love for literature; and it was to MissDelia that Lucyet hastened with the great news of the publication of herpoem. It was for this acute pleasure that she had hitherto kept theknowledge of her attempt from her, --and, too, that her joy might befull, and that she would not have to suffer the alternating phases ofhope and fear through which Lucyet herself had passed. 

As she entered the room where dinner stood on the table and Miss Deliawaited to eat it with her, she suppressed the trembling excitement whichthreatened to make itself visible in her manner now that the words wereupon her very lips. They seated themselves at the table. Miss Delia wassmall and wiry and grave, and never spilled anything on the tableclothwhen helping. 

"Miss Delia, " said Lucyet, "I've written a poem. "

Her companion looked at her and smiled a shrewd little smile. "I'veguessed as much before now, " she said. 

"But, " said Lucyet, laying down her knife and fork, "it has beenprinted. "

"Printed, child!" exclaimed Miss Delia, almost dropping hers. At lastthe cup of satisfaction was at Lucyet's lips; at least she had notoverestimated the purport of the event to one human being. 

"Printed, " repeated Lucyet, smiling softly. "Here it is in the paper. "

Miss Delia pushed aside her plate, seized the paper, and, opening it, searched its columns. She had not to look long; there was but one poem. Lucyet watched with shining eyes. This is what it meant; this was therealization of her dreams--to see the reader pass over the rest of thepage as trivial, to be arrested with spellbound interest at the word"Spring, " to know that the words that held that absorbed attention wereher words--her own. 

As Miss Delia read, gradually her expression changed; from eagerness itfaded into perplexity. Lucyet watched her breathlessly, her handsclasped, her thin arms and somewhat angular elbows resting on the coarsetablecloth. From perplexity Miss Delia's look was chilled into what theobservant girl recognized, with a dull pain at her heart, asdisappointment. Lucyet averted her gaze to a dish of ill-shaped boiledpotatoes; there was no need of watching longer the face opposite. MissDelia read it all through again, dwelling on certain lines, which sheindicated by her forefinger, with special attention; then she looked uptimidly. She met Lucyet's unsmiling eyes for a moment; then she, too, looked away, hurriedly, helplessly, to the dish of boiled potatoes. 

"I'm sure it is very nice--very nice indeed, Lucyet, " she said. 

"But you don't like it, " said Lucyet. 

"Oh, yes, I do, " poor Miss Delia hastened to say. "I do like it; therhymes are in the right places, and all, and it looks so nice in thecolumn. " Mechanically she pulled her plate back again, and Lucyet didthe same. "I'm proud of you, Lucyet, " she went on with a forced littlesmile, "that you can write real poetry like that. "

"But what if it isn't real poetry?" said Lucyet. 

The doubt was wrung from her by the overwhelming bitterness of herdisappointment. A rush of tears was smarting behind her ratherinexpressive eyes; but she held them back. Miss Delia was thoroughlydistressed. She put aside her own serious misgivings. 

"But it must be, " she argued eagerly, "or they wouldn't have printedit. "

Lucyet shook her head as she forced herself to eat a morsel of bread. How unconvincing sounded the argument from another's lips! and yet sheknew now that secretly it had carried with it more weight than she hadrealized. Miss Delia glanced apprehensively at the folded paper as itlay on the table. She herself was disappointed, deeply disappointed; shehad expected much, and this, --why, this was, most of it, just what anyone could find out for herself. But she must say something more. Lucyet's patient silence as she went on with her dinner, never raisingthe eyes which had so shone when she first spoke, demanded speech fromher more urgently than louder claims. 

"I suppose I thought perhaps there would be more about--aboutmisfortune, and scattered leaves, and dells, "--poor Miss Delia smileddeprecatingly, while she felt wildly about for more tangiblereminiscences of her favorite poets, that she might respond to theunuttered questioning of Lucyet, --"and"--she dropped her eyes--"lovers. "

"I don't know anything about dells and lovers, " said Lucyet, simply;"how should I?"

Miss Delia started a little. It had never occurred to her that one mustknow about things personally in order to write poetry about them. If ithad, she would never have dreamed of mentioning lovers. 

"No, of course not, " she said hastily; "but writing about a thing isn'tlike knowing about it. "

Lucyet was not experienced enough to detect any fallacy in this, and shedumbly acquiesced. 

"You have in all the grass and trees and--and such things as you havein--very nicely, I'm sure, " went on Miss Delia; "only next time"--andshe smiled brightly--"next time you must put in what we don't see everyday--like islands and reefs and such things. I know you could write abeautiful poem about a reef--a coral reef. "

Lucyet tried to smile hopefully in return, but the attempt was afailure. She had finished her dinner, and she longed to get away; shewas so hurt that she must be alone to see how it was to be borne. Shehelped Miss Delia clear the table and wash the dishes, almost insilence. Two or three times they exchanged words on indifferentsubjects; Miss Delia asked who had had letters, and Lucyet told her, butit was hard work for both. When it was over, Lucyet paused in thedoorway, putting on her straw hat to go back to the post-office. 

Miss Delia stood a moment irresolute, and then stepped to her side. "Lucyet, " she said, her voice trembling, "I don't understand it exactly. It isn't like the poetry I've been used to. There are things in it thatI don't know what they mean. To be sure, that's so with all poetry thatwe do like, "--the tears were in her eyes; it is not an easy thing todisappoint one's best friend and to be conscious of it, --"but it isn'tlike what I thought it was going to be, just about what we see out ofthe window. But it's my fault, just as likely as not, "--she laid herhand on Lucyet's arm, --"that's what I want to say; you mustn't take itto heart--just 's likely 's not, it's my fault. "

Miss Delia did not believe a word of what she was saying, which made itdifficult for her to articulate; but she was making a brave effort inher sensitive loyalty. 

"I know, " said Lucyet, gently; "but I guess it isn't your fault;" andshe slipped out to the road on her way to the post-office. Miss Deliawent back, picked up the paper, and, seating herself at the window, sheread "Spring" all through again, word by word; then she laid it asideagain, shaking her head sadly. 

Lucyet went quietly behind her little window. Her disappointmentamounted to actual physical pain. She found no comfort, as a wiserperson might have done, in certain of Miss Delia's expressions; she onlyrealized that her best friend and her most generous critic could findnothing good in what she had done. Her duty this afternoon was only tomake up the mail for the down train; then her time was her own till thenext mail train came up at half-past five. At two o'clock she closed theoffice again and started on a long walk. She longed for the comfort ofthe solitary hillsides, where warm patches of sunlight lay at the footof ragged stone walls, and there were long stretches of plain and meadowto be looked over, and rolling hills to comfort the soul. As she climbeda hill just before the place where a weedy untravelled road turned offfrom the highway leading between closely growing underbrush and stonewalls, where now and then a shy bird rustled suddenly and invisiblyamong last year's dried leaves, she saw three countrymen standing by thewayside and talking with as near an approach to earnestness as evervisits the colloquies of the ordinary unemotional New Englander. One ofthem held a copy of the "Daily Chronicle, " gesturing with it somewhatjerkily as he spoke. 

For a moment the hope that it is hard to make away with revived inLucyet's breast. Were they talking of the poem, she wondered, with acertain weary interest. She dreaded a fresh disappointment so keenlythat it pained her to speculate much on the chance of it. It was notimpossible that they were saying such meaningless stuff ought never tohave been printed. As the pale girl drew near with the plodding, patientstep which so often proclaims that walking is not a pleasure, but anecessity, of country life, the men did not lower their voices, whichshe heard distinctly as she passed. 

"Wal, I tell you, 't was that, " said one of them. "He didn't live more'na little time after he took it. "

"Mebbe he wouldn't have lived anyhow. "

"Wal, mebbe he wouldn't. 'T ain't for me to say, " responded the firstspeaker, evincing a certain piety, which, however, was not to beconstrued as at variance with his first statement. 

"Wal, 't wa'n't this he took, was it?" demanded the man with the"Chronicle, " waving it wildly. 

"Wal, no, 't wa'n't, " responded the other, reasonably. The third memberof the party maintained an air of not being in a position to judge, andregarded Lucyet stolidly as she approached. 

"Do, Lucyet?" he observed, unnoticed of the other two. 

"I tell you this'll cure him. It'll cure anybody. Just read themtestimonies, "--and he pressed the paper into the other's meagre hand. "Read that one, 'Rheumatiz of thirty years' standin', --it'll interestye. "

Lucyet went on up the hill, and turned into the weedy road. She had nota keen sense of the ridiculous. It did not strike her as funny that theyshould have been discussing a patent medicine instead of the verses on"Spring;" but her shrinking sense of defeat was deepened, and she felt, with an unconscious resentment, that most people cared very little aboutpoetry. She wondered, without bitterness, and with a saddened distrustof her own power, if she could write an advertisement. Once within theprecincts of the tangled road, her disquieted soul rejoiced in thefreedom from observation. She felt as bruised and sore from theunsympathetic contact of her world as if it had been a larger one; andwith the depression had come a startled sense of the irrevocableness ofwhat she had done. Those printed words seemed so swift, so tangible. They would go so far, and afford such opportunity for the grasp ofindifference, of ridicule! If she could only have them again, spoken, perhaps, but unheard!

Yet here, at least, where the enterprising grass grew in the rugged carttrack, and the branches drooped impertinently before the face of thewayfarer, no one but herself need know that she was very near to tears. And as she came out of the shut-in portion of the road to a stretch ofopen country, where the warm light lay on the hillsides, and the air wassweetened by the breath of pines, her depression gave way to a keensense of elation. She turned aside and, crossing a bit of elastic, drygrass, climbed to the top of the stone wall and looked about her. Herheart throbbed with confidence, doubly grateful for the previousdistrust. Her own lines came back to her; it was this that somehow, imperfectly, but somehow, she had put into words. It was still spring, alate New England spring, though the unseasonable warmth of the day madeit seem summer. The landscape bore the coloring of autumn rather thanthat of the earlier year. The trees were red and brown and yellow intheir incipient leafage. Now and then, among the sere fields, there wasa streak of vivid green, or a mound of rich brown, freshly turned earth;but for the most part they were bare. Here and there was the crimson ofa new maple; in the distance were the reds and brown of new, not old, life. Only the birds sang as they never sing in autumn, a burst ofclear, joyous anticipation--the trill of the meadowlark, the "sweet, sweet, piercing sweet" of the flashing oriole, the call of the catbird, and the melody of the white-bosomed thrush. And here and there afountain of white bloom showed itself amid the sombreness of the fields, a pear or cherry tree decked from head to foot in bridal white, like abit of fleecy cloud dropped from the floating masses above to thediscouraged earth; along the wayside the white stars of the anemone, thewasteful profusion of the eyebright, and the sweet blue of the violet;and in solemn little clusters, the curled up fronds of the ferns, uttering a protest against longer imprisonment--let wind and sun lookout! they would uncurl to-morrow! All these things set the barelyblossomed branches, the barely clothed hillsides, at defiance. It wasthe beginning, not the end, the promise, not the regret--it was life, not death. Summer was afoot, not winter. 

It was worth a longer walk, that half hour on the hillside; for itrestored, in a measure, her sense of enjoyment, and substituted for theburden of defeat the exultation of expression, however faulty andhowever limited. But like other moods, this one was temporary; and asshe retraced her steps and turned into the village street, she feltagain the lassitude which follows the extinction of hope and theinexorable narrowing of the horizon which she had fancied extended. 

It was usual for her at this hour to stop at the tavern for the mailwhich might be ready there, and herself take it to the post-office. Inmidsummer this mail was quite an important item, but at this time ofyear it amounted to little; nevertheless, she followed what had becomethe custom. She found one of the daughters of the house in the throesof composition. 

"Oh, Lucyet, " she exclaimed, "you don't say that's you! I want this togo to-night the worst way. Ain't you early?"

"Yes, I guess I am, " said Lucyet, rather wearily. 

"If you'll set on the piazzer and wait, I'll finish up in just a minute. You see we had to get dinner for two gentlemen as came down to gofishin' to-morrer, and it sorter put me back. I wish you'd wait. "

"Well, I guess I can wait a few minutes, " said Lucyet, the line betweenher personal and her official capacity being sometimes a difficult oneto maintain rigidly. She seated herself on the piazza, not observingthat she was just outside of the window of the room within which the twofishermen were smoking and talking in a desultory fashion. Later theirvoices fell idly on her ear, speaking a language she only halfunderstood, blending with the few lazy sounds of the afternoon. Theconversation was really extremely desultory, being chiefly maintained bythe younger man of the two, who lounged on the sofa of unoriental luxurywith a thorough-going perversion of the maker's plan, --his head beingwhere his feet ought to have been and his feet hanging over the portionoriginally intended for the back of his head. The other man wore thefrown of absorption as, a pencil in his hand, he worried through somepages of manuscript. 

"Oh, I say, " observed the idler, "ain't you 'most through slaughteringthe innocents? I want to take that walk. "

"I told you half an hour ago that if I could have a few uninterruptedminutes I'd be with you, " answered the other man, without looking up. "They haven't fallen in my way yet. "

"It's pity that moves me to speech, " rejoined the first speaker, risingand sauntering to the window, --not that one outside of which Lucyet wassitting, --"pity for those young souls throbbing with the consciousnessof power who may have forgotten to enclose a stamp for return. I feelwhen I interrupt you as if I were holding back the remorseless wheel offate. "

His companion allowed this speculative remark to pass without reply. Theidler sauntered back to the table. 

"What'll you bet, now, before you go any further, that it'll go into thewaste-basket?"

"Stamped and addressed envelope enclosed, " observed the patient editor, absently. 

"Well, what odds will you give me of its being not necessarily devoid ofliterary merit, but unfitted for the special uses of your magazine?"

The other was still silent as he laid aside another page. 

"Half the time, " continued the idler, "to look at you, you wouldn'tbelieve that you speak the truth when you express your thanks for thepleasure of reading their manuscripts. It would seem that that, too, was simulated. "

The older man picked up a soft felt hat and threw it across the room athis companion, without taking his eyes from the page. 

"Oh, well, " went on the other, "I can read the newspaper. I can readwhat is printed, while you're reading what ought to be. Of course youand I know the things are never the same. "

Picking up the paper, he resumed, approximately, his former attitude, and applied himself to its columns for a few moments of silence. OutsideLucyet sat quietly, her head resting against the white wooden wall ofthe house; and the editor made a mark or two. 

"Now this is what the public want to know, " resumed the idler, with agratuitous air of having been pressed for his opinion. "You editors havea ridiculous way of talking about the public--"

"It strikes me that it is not I who have been making myself ridiculoustalking about anything. "

"The public! You just tell the great innocent public that you are givingthem the sort of thing they like, and half the time they believe you, and half the time they don't. Now this man"--and he tapped the"Chronicle"--"knows an editor's business. "

"Which is more than you do, " interpolated the goaded man. 

"'The frame for William Brown's new house is up. William may be trustedto finish as well as he has begun, '" read the idler, imperturbably. "'Miss Sophie Brown is visiting friends in Albany. The boys will be gladto see her back. ' 'Fruit of all kinds will be scarce, though berrieswill be abundant. '"

The older man stood up, his pencil in his mouth. "Confound you, Richards! Either you keep still or I go to my room and lock the door. "

"Oh, I'll keep still, " said Richards, as if it was the first time ithad been suggested. Again there was a silence. 

The letter must be to Ada's young man, who was doing a good business incash registers, it took so long to write it. It was within five minutesof the time Lucyet should be at the office. She moved to leave thepiazza, when a not loud exclamation from Richards fell on her ear withunusual distinctness. 

"By Jove! I say, just listen to this. "

The editor looked up threateningly, and went back to his work againwithout a word. 

"No, but really--it's quite in your line. Listen. "

Lucyet had moved forward a step or two, when she stood motionless. Thewords that floated through the window were her own. Richards had anunusually sweet voice, and he was reading in a way entirely differentfrom that in which he had rattled off the "personals. " There seemed anew sweetness in every syllable; the warmth of the hillside, theperfume of opening apple blossoms, breathed between the lines. He readslowly, and the words fell on the still air that seemed waitingbreathless to hear them. When he finished, Lucyet was leaning againstthe side of the house, her hand on her heart, her eyes shining, --and theeditor was looking at the reader. 

"There, " he concluded, "ain't there something of the 'blackbird's tuneand the beanflower's boon' in that?"

"Copied, of course?" inquired the editor, briefly. 

"No. 'Written for the Daily Chronicle, ' and signed 'L. ' Not bad, arethey? Of course I don't know, " Richards scoffed, "and the publicwouldn't know if it read them, but you know--"

"Read 'em again. "

A second time, with increased expression, half mischievous now in itsfervor, the lines on Spring fell in musical tones from Richards's lips. Still Lucyet stood breathless, her whole being thrilled with an impulseof exultant, inexpressible delight, listening as she had never listenedbefore. It was as if she stood in the midst of a shining mist. 

"She's got it in her, hasn't she?" Richards added, after a pause. 

"Yes, " said his companion, slowly. "She's got it in her fast enough;"and he returned to his page of manuscript. "Much good may it do her!" headded, with weary cynicism. 

Richards laughed, and pulled a pack of cards out of his pocket. "I'llplay solitaire, " he said. 

"Thank Heaven!" murmured the other, devoutly. 

Ada arrived breathless. "Here 'tis, " said she. "Did you think I wasnever comin'? You've got time enough; they ain't very prompt. Thereain't anythin' the matter, is there?" she asked. 

Lucyet took the letter mechanically. "No, " she said, "there isn'tanything the matter. "

As she went swiftly toward the little post-office the rhythm of thoselines was in her ears; the assured, incisive tones of that man's voicepulsed through her very soul. She was conscious of no hope for thefuture; she had no regret for the past; the present was a glory. In thatmoment Lucyet had taken a long, dizzying draught from the cup ofsuccess. 

Hearts Unfortified

THE observation train wound its way in clumsy writhings along the bankof the river, upon which the afternoon light fell in modified brilliancyas the west kindled towards the sunset. But if the sheen and sparkle ofthe earlier day had passed into something more subdued and lessexhilarating, the difference was made up in the shifting action andcolor that moved and glowed and flashed on, above and beside the softclearness of the stream. The sunlight caught the turn of the wet oarsand outlined the brown muscular backs of the young athletes who werepulling the narrow shells. The Yale blue spread itself in blocks andpatches along the train, and the Harvard crimson burned in vividstretches by its side, and all the blue and crimson seemed instinctwith animation as they floated, quivered, and waved in the thrilledinterest of hundreds of men and women who followed with eager eyes theknife-blades of boats cleaving the water in a quick, silent ripple offoam. The crowd of launches, tugs, yachts, and steamers pushed up theriver, keeping their distance with difficulty, and from them as well asfrom the banks sounded the fluctuating yet unbroken cheers ofencouragement and exhortation, rising and falling in rhythmic measure, guided by public-spirited enthusiasts, or breaking out in purelyindividual tribute to the grand chorus of partisanship. It had been aclose start, and the furor of excitement had spent itself, somewhat, during the first seconds, and now made itself felt more like the quickheart-beats of restrained emotion as the issue seemed to grow lessdoubtful, though reaching now and then climaxes of renewed expression. 

"Alas for advancing age!" sighed a woman into the ear of her neighbor, as their eyes followed the crews, but without that fevered intensitywhich marked some other glances. 

"By all means, " he answered. "But why, particularly, just now? I wasbeginning to fancy myself young under the stress of presentcircumstances. "

"Because even if one continues to keep one's emotionscreditably--effervescent--one loses early the single-minded glow ofcontest. "

"A single-minded glow is a thing that should be retained, even atconsiderable cost. "

"And what is worse yet, one grows critical about language, " shecontinued calmly, "and gives free rein to a naturally unpleasantdisposition under cover of a refined and sensitive taste. "

Ellis Arnold smiled tolerantly. 

"They are pretty sure to keep their lead now, " he said. "The other boatis more than a length behind, and losing. They are not pulling badly, either, " he added. "You were saying?"--and he turned towards her for thefirst time since the start. 

She was a handsome blonde-haired woman, perfectly dressed, with the sealof distinction set upon features, figure, and expression. 

"That was what I was saying, " she replied, "that the ones that arebehind are not pulling badly. "

"More sphinx-like than ever, " he murmured. "I perceive that you speak inparables. "

Miss Normaine laughed a little. The conversation was decidedlyintermittent. They dropped it entirely at times, and then took it up asif there had been no pause. It was after a brief silence that she wenton: "But you and I can see both boats--the success, and thedisappointment too. And we can't, for the life of us, help feeling thatit's hard on those who have put forth all their strength for defeat. "

"But it isn't so bad as if it were our boat that was behind, " he saidsensibly. 

"Oh, no; of course not. But I maintain that it injures the _fine fleur_of enjoyment to remember that there are two participants in a contest. "

"I suppose it is useless to expect you to be logical--"

"Quite. I know enough to be entirely sure I'd rather be picturesque. "

"But let me assure you, that in desiring that there should be but oneparticipant in a contest, you are striking at the very root of allsuccessful athletic exhibitions. "

She shrugged her shoulders a little. 

"Oh, well, if you like to air your powers of irony at the expense ofsuch painful literalness!"

"The exuberance of my style has been pruned down to literalness by therelentless shears of a cold world. With you, of course, "--but he wasinterrupted by the shouts of the crowd, as the winning boat neared thegoal. The former enthusiasm had been the soft breathings of approvalcompared to this outbreak of the victorious. Flags, hats, handkerchiefsrose in the air, and the university cheer echoed, re-echoed, and beganagain. 

Arnold cheered also, with an energy not to be deduced from his hithertocalm exterior, standing up on the seat and shouting with undividedattention; and Miss Normaine waved her silk handkerchief and laughed inresponse to the bursts of youthful joy from the seat in front of her. 

"Oh, well, " said Arnold, sitting down again, "sport is sport for bothsides, whoever wins--or else it isn't sport at all. "

"Ah, how many crimes have been committed in thy name!" murmured MissNormaine. 

"Katharine, I think you have turned sentimentalist. "

"No, it's age, I tell you. I'm thinking more now of the accessoriesthan I am of the race. That's a sure sign of age, to have time to noticethe accessories. "

Arnold nodded. 

"There's compensation in it, though. If we lose a little of the drama ofconflict on these occasions, we gain something in recognizing the styleof presentation. "

"Yes, " and she glanced down at her niece, whose pretty eyes were makingshort work of the sunburned, broad-shouldered, smooth-faced, handsomeboy, who was entirely willing to close the festivities of Commencementweek subjected to the ravages of a grand, even if a hopeless, passion. 

From her she looked out upon the now darkening river. There had beensome delay before the train could begin to move back, and the summertwilight had fallen; for the race had been at the last available moment. Though it was far from quiet, the relief from the tension of theprevious moments added to the placidity of the scene. The oppositebanks were dim and shadowy, and the water was growing vague; there werelights on some of the craft; a star came out, and then another; therewere no hard suggestions, no sordid reminders. It was a beautiful world, filled with happy people, united in a common healthy interest; theoutlines of separation were softened into ambiguity and the differencesveiled by good breeding. 

"It is only a mimic struggle, after all, " she said at last. "The stageis well set, and now that the curtain is down, there is no specialbitterness at the way the play ended. "

"There you exaggerate, as usual, " he replied, "and of course in anotherdirection from that in which you exaggerated last time. "

"The pursuit of literature has made you not only precise but didactic, "she observed. 

"There is a good deal, if not of bitterness, of very realdisappointment, and some depression. "

"Which will be all gone long before the curtain goes up for the nextperformance. "

"Ah, yes, to be sure; but nevertheless you underrate the disappointmentsof youth, --because they are not tragic you think they are notbitter, --you have always underrated them. "

She met his eyes calmly, though he had spoken with a certain emphasis. 

"We are talking in a circle, " she replied. "That was what I said in thefirst place--that as we grow older we have more sympathy with defeat. "

"You are incorrigible, " he said, smiling; "you will accept neitherconsolation nor reproof. "

"Life brings enough of both, " she answered; "it does not need to besupplemented by one's friends. "

The train was moving very slowly; people were laughing and talking gaylyall about them; more lights had come out on the water, and a gentlebreeze had suddenly sprung up. 

"Just what do you mean by that, I wonder?" he said slowly. 

"Not much, " she answered lightly. "But I do mean, " she added, as helooked away from her, "that, whether it be the consequence of thealtruism of the day, or of advancing age, as I said at first, it hasgrown to be provokingly difficult to ignore those who lose more seriousthings than a college championship. Verestchagin and such people havespoiled history for us. Who cares who won a great battle now?--it issuch a small thing to our consciousness compared to the number of peoplewho were killed--and on one side as well as the other. "

"Except, of course, where there is a great principle, not greatpossessions, at stake?"

"Yes, " she assented, but somewhat doubtfully, "yes, of course. "

"But it shows a terrible dearth of interest when we get down toprinciples. "

"Yes, " she said again, laughing. Meanwhile Miss Normaine's niece waspursuing her own ends with that directness which, though lacking theevasive subtlety of maturer years, is at once effective and commendable. 

"It was nothing but a box of chocolate peppermints, " she insisted. "I'dnever be so reckless as to wager anything more without thinking it over. I have an allowance, and I'm obliged to be careful what I spend. "

He looked her over with approval. 

"You spend it well, " he asserted. 

"I have to, " she returned, "or else boys like you would never look at metwice. "

"I don't know about that. " He spoke as one who, though convinced, is nota bigot. 

"It's fortunate that I do, " she replied decidedly. "I'm mortifyinglydependent on my clothes. There's my Aunt Katharine now, --she has an airin anything. "

"I like you better than your aunt, " he confessed. 

"Of course you do. I've taken pains to have you. But it was just as muchas ever that you looked at me twice last night. "

"I was afraid of making you too conspicuous. "

"A lot you were!" she retorted rudely. "Who was that girl you dancedwith?"

He smiled wearily. 

"Tommy Renwick's cousin from the West. "

"She is pretty. "

"Very good goods. "

"Is she as nice as Tommy?"

"No. There are not many girls as nearly right as Tommy. "

"Except me. "

"Well, perhaps, except you. "

"But then, I'm not many. "

"No, separate wrapper, only one in a box, " he admitted handsomely. 

Miss Normaine's niece had dark eyes, brown hair that curled in smallinadvertent rings, and a rich warm complexion through which the crimsonglowed in her round cheeks. She was so pretty that she ought to havebeen suppressed, and had a way of speaking that made her charming allover again. 

"It was not chocolate peppermints, and you know quite well it wasn't, "he said, with the finished boldness compatible with hair parted exactlyin the middle and a wide experience. Miss Normaine's niece opened hereyes wide. 

"What was it?"

"Nothing but your heart. "

She considered the matter seriously. 

"Was it really?"

"It was really. "

"And I've lost, " she pondered aloud. 

"And you've lost. "

She raised her eyes with a glance in which he could read perfect faith, glad acknowledgment, and entire surrender. 

"Do you want me to keep telling you?" she demanded with adorablepetulance. 

"There is Henry Donald!" exclaimed Miss Normaine. "I didn't see himbefore. He has grown stout, hasn't he?"

"Yes, and bald. "

"Isn't he young to be bald and stout too? Do tell me that he is, " urgedMiss Normaine with pathos. "He seems just out of college to me, and Idon't like to think that I've lost all sense of proportion. "

"Oh, no, you haven't, " said Arnold, consolingly. "It's only he that haslost his. He doesn't take exercise enough. He's coming this way to speakto you. You had better think of something more flattering to say. "

"I never thought Harry Donald would get stout and bald, " went on MissNormaine, to herself. "There was a period when I let my fancy playabout him, most of the time too, but I never thought of that. "

"Who's that man squeezing through the crowd to speak to Aunt Katharine?"asked Alice. 

"That? Oh, that's one of the old boys. "

"I can see that for myself. "

"He's a Judge Donald of Wisconsin. He's pretty well on, but he's aJim-dandy after-dinner speaker. Made a smooth speech at his classreunion. "

"They still like to come to the race and things, don't they?"

"Oh, yes, and they're right into it all while they're here too. "

Unhappily unconscious of the kindly feeling being extended to him fromthe bench in front, Judge Donald seated himself by Katharine, just asthey drew slowly into the station. 

"You haven't been on for some years, have you?" she asked him. 

"No, " he answered, "I've been busy. "

"Oh, we know you've been busy, " she interpolated, smiling. 

"You're the same Katharine Normaine, " he rejoined. "I thought you were, by the looks, and now I'm sure. You don't really know that I've ever hada case, but you make me feel that my name echoes through two worlds atthe very least. "

"And you are still Harry Donald, suspicious of the gifts that are tossedinto your lap, " and they both laughed. 

"This is the man of the class, " went on Judge Donald, turning to Ellis, who had taken a seat above them. "Your books have gotten out toWisconsin, and that's fame enough for any man. "

"Have they really?" said Arnold. "I supposed they only wrote notices ofthem in the papers. "

"Oh, yes, " murmured Miss Normaine. "Ellis has turned out clever, --onenever knows. "

"I guess they're good, too, " went on Donald; "I tell 'em I used to thinkyou wrote well in college. "

"I thought I did, too, " answered Arnold. "I don't believe we're eitherof us quite so sure I write well now. "

They had delayed their steps to keep out of the crowd, for the peoplewere leaving the train, some hurrying to catch other trains, somestopping to greet friends and acquaintances; there was a general rushingto and fro, the clamor of well-bred voices, the calling out of names insurprised accost, the frou-frou of gowns and the fragrance of flowers, in the bare and untidy station. 

At last the party of which Miss Normaine was one left the car, and withthe two men she made her way down the platform, through the midst of thehubbub, which waxed more insistent every moment. 

"It is with a somewhat fevered anxiety that I am keeping my eye onAlice, " she said. 

"She is with a young man, " said Judge Donald. 

"That statement has not the merit of affording information. She has beenwith a young man ever since we left home. "

"It isn't the same one, either, " supplemented Arnold. 

"It never is the same one, " said Miss Normaine, somewhat impatiently. "Iam under no obligation to look after or even differentiate the youngmen. I simply have to see that the child doesn't get lost with any oneof them. "

"She won't get lost with one, " said Arnold, reassuringly, as they wereseparated by a cross-current of determined humanity. "She has three now, and they are all shaking hands at a terrible rate. "

Judge Donald departed on a tour of investigation, and returned to saythat there was no chance just at present of their getting away. It was ascene of confusion which only patience and time could elucidate. Theomniscience of officials had given place to a less satisfactory if morehuman ignorance; last come was first served, and a seat in a trainseemed by no means to insure transportation. It was as well to wait fora while outside as in; so with many others they strolled up and down, until their car should be more easily accessible. 

"Alice is an example of the profound truths we have been enunciating, Ellis, " said Miss Normaine. "She has an ardent admirer on the defeatedcrew. At one time I did not know but his devotion might shake herlifelong allegiance to the other university; but now that victory hasfairly perched, you observe she has small thought for the bearers ofcaptured banners. We were saying, Mr. Arnold and I, " she explained toDonald, "that it is at our time of life that people begin to rememberthat when somebody beats, there is somebody else beaten. "

Donald grew grave, --as grave as a man can be with the feathers of anunconscious girl tickling one ear and a fleeting chorus of the latest"catchy" song penetrating the other. 

"Arnold and I can appreciate it better than you, I guess, " he said, "because there have been times when we thought it highly probable wemight get beaten ourselves. "

"Highly, " assented Arnold. 

"But you, Miss Normaine, you've never had any difficulty in getting inon the first floor, " went on the other. "You've quaffed the foam of thebeaker and eaten the peach from the sunniest side of the wall rightalong--I'm quite sure of it just to look at you. "

"The Scripture moveth us in sundry places, " said Katharine, with alightness that did not entirely veil something serious, "not to put toomuch faith in appearances. Even I am not above learning a lesson now andthen. "

He looked at her curiously. 

"I'd like to know by what right you haven't changed more, " he said. 

"Did you expect to find me in ruins, after--let me see, how many years?"she laughed. "The hand of Time is heavy, but not necessarilyobliterating. _What_ has become of Alice?"

"She can't have gone far, " said Arnold. "She was with us a moment ago. "

"There she is with some of the rest of your party--I caught a glimpse ofher just now, " added Donald. "She's quite safe. "

Alice stood talking with a girl of her own age and two or threeundergraduates, on the outskirts of the crowd. One of the youths wore inhis buttonhole the losing color, but he bore himself with a prouddignity that forbade casual condolences. Alice's eyes were bright, andher pretty laugh rippled forth with readily communicated mirth, whilethe very roses of her hat nodded with the spirit of unthinking gayety. 

"There's the car that belongs to our fellows, " said, half to himself, the person of sympathies alien to those of his present companions. "Theymust be about--yes, they're getting on, " he added, as a car which hadbeen propelled from a neighboring switch stopped at the farther end ofthe station. Alice's head turned with a swiftness of motion that set theroses vibrating as if a sudden breeze had ruffled their petals. 

"The crew?" she asked. 

"Yes, " assented the young man. 

She turned more definitely towards him, away from the rest of the group, whose attention was called in another direction. 

"Will you do something for me, Mr. Francis?"

"Why, of course. "

Alice had not anticipated refusal, and her directions were prompt andlucid. 

"Please go into that car and ask Mr. Herbert to come out to theplatform, at the other end, to speak to me. There isn't much time tolose, so please be quick. "

As he lifted his hat and moved away, she joined in the conversation ofthe others, which seemed to be largely metaphorical. 

"So he got it that time, " one of the young men was explaining, "whereKaty wore the beads. "

"Well, it served him quite right, " said Alice, with the generosity ofignorance. Her whole attention was apparently given to the matter inhand, but she was standing so that she could see the somewhat vaguevestibule of the brilliant but curtained car. 

"Oh, yes, but it wasn't on the tintype that the other fellow should havebeen there at all. "

"No, to be sure, but that made it all the better, " said Alice's friend, with sympathetic vision. 

"Why, there's Eugene Herbert!" exclaimed Alice. "I really must go andtell him that he pulled beautifully, if he didn't win, and comfortingthings like that! Don't go off without me. "

Before comment could be framed upon their lips, she had left hercompanions and was slipping quickly down the platform. 

"She knows him very well, " said the other girl; "she'll be back in aminute. "

"She must have sharp eyes, " said another of the group, as he lookedafter her. But too many people were about for fixed attention to bebestowed upon a single figure. There was but one light under the roof ofthat part of the station where a young man was standing, looking rathersulkily up and down. Alice was a little breathless with her rapid walkwhen she reached him. 

"I thought Francis was giving me a song and dance, " he said, as hegrasped the hand she held out. 

"No, I sent him, " she explained hurriedly. "And I wanted to say--" Shepaused an instant as she looked up at him. 

He was serious, and wore a look of fatigue, in spite of the superbphysical health of his whole appearance. The light fell across her faceunder the dark brim of her hat, and touched its beauty into somethingvividly apart from the shadows and sordidness of the place, yet palerthan its sunlit brilliancy. 

"I wanted to say, " she went on bravely, "that I've changed my mind. Atleast, I didn't really have any mind at all. And if you still want meto--" she paused again, but something in his eyes reassured her--"Iwill--I'd really _like_ to, you know, and _please_ be quiet, there isn'tbut a minute to say it in--and I'd never have told you--at least not foryears and _years_--if you had won the race. Now let go of my hand--thereare _hundreds_ of people all about--and you can come and see meto-morrow. "

It was all over in a moment. She had snatched her hand away, and wasspeeding back with a clear-eyed look of conscious rectitude, and he hadresponded to the exhortations of divers occupants of the car, backed bya disinterested brakeman, and stepped aboard. 

"Oh, well, there's another race next year, " he said to somebody whospoke to him as he sat down in the end seat. It was early for suchoptimism, and they thought Herbert had a disgustingly cheerfultemperament. 

Alice returned just as Miss Normaine and Arnold came up, and they allwent back together, collecting the rest of the party as they went totheir train. It was a vivacious progress along the homeward route. Pæansof victory and the flash of Roman candles filled the air. At one time, when some particular demonstration was absorbing the attention of themen, Miss Normaine found her niece at her side. 

"Aunt Katharine, you know I've always adored you, " she said, with arepose of manner that disguised a trifle of apprehension. 

"Yes, I know, Alice, but I really can't promise to take you anywhereto-morrow. I--"

"I don't want you to--I only want to confide in you. "

"Oh, dear, what have you been doing now?"

"I think, " replied Alice, while the chorus of sound about them swelledalmost to sublimity, "that I've been getting engaged--to Eugene Herbert, you know. "

"Only to Eugene Herbert, " breathed Miss Normaine. "I'm glad it occurredto you to mention it. But why didn't you say so before?"

"It didn't--it wasn't--before, " said Alice, faltering an instant underthe calmly judicial eye of her aunt. "You see, " she went on quickly, "itwas because they lost the race. It wouldn't have been at all--not anywayfor a long time, "--and again her mental glance swept the vista of theyears she had mentioned to Herbert himself, --"if it hadn't been forthat; but I couldn't let him go back without either the race or--orme, " she concluded ingenuously. 

Arnold had been talking with a man of his own age, and hearing thingsthat were very pleasant to hear about his latest work, and yet, as heleaned back in his chair and looked across at Katharine Normaine, whoseown expression was a little pensive, he sighed. It was a great deal--hetold himself it was nearly everything--to have what he had now in theline of effort which he loved and had chosen. It was not so good as thework itself, of course, but the recognition was grateful. And as hiseyes dwelt again upon the distinction of Miss Normaine's profile, withthe knot of blonde hair at the back of her well-held head, he sighedagain, as he rose and went over to her. She looked up at him, and hereyes were not quite so calm as usual. 

"I am sitting, " she said, "among the ruins. "

"Indeed?" he said. "Is there room upon a fallen column or a brokenplinth for me?"

"Oh, yes, " she answered, "but it is not for a successful man like you, whose name is upon the public lips, to gaze with me upon demolishedtheories. "

"I have taken my time in gazing upon them before now, " he observed. 

"Everybody is talking about your book, " she said. 

"Oh, no, only a very few people. But about your theories--which of themhas proved itself unable to bear the weight of experience?"

"You may remember I dwelt somewhat at length upon the indifference ofhappy youth to the stings of outrageous fortune when supported by someone else?"

"I remember. I regard it as the lesson for the day. "

"It's early to mention it, but I am obliged to give you the evidence ofmy error--honor demands it--and Alice will not mind, even if she seesfit to contradict it to-morrow;" and she told him what had just beentold her. 

He smiled as she concluded her statement, and she, meeting his glance inall seriousness, broke down into a moment's laughter. 

"'She does not know anything but that her side is beating, '" he quotedmeditatively. 

"I thought my generosity in confession might at least forestallsarcasm, " she said severely. 

"It ought to do so, " he admitted. 

There was a moment's pause. 

"Has youth itself changed with the times, I wonder?" he speculated. "Certainly you did not sympathize overmuch with defeat at Alice's age. "

She did not answer, and she was looking away from him through the glass, beyond which the darkness was pierced now and then by a shaft ofillumination. The pensiveness that had rested on her face, when he hadlooked across the car at her, had deepened almost into sadness. 

"And now, " he went on, "you have called me successful--which shuts meout from your more mature sympathy. "

Still she did not answer. He bent a little nearer to her. 

"Believe me, Katharine, " he said, "my success is not so veryintoxicating after all. I need sympathy of a certain kind as much as Idid twenty years ago. "

She glanced at him. 

"Is that all you want?" she asked with a swift smile. 

"No, " he returned boldly; and she looked away again, out into thedarkness through which they were rushing. 

"I had hoped, " he went on, "that my so-called success might be somethingto offer you after all this time--something you would care for--and nowI find that your ideals are all reversed. I have not won much, but Ihave won a little, and you tell me to-day that it is only extreme youththat cares for the winners. "

"And that I have found out that I was mistaken. " Her voice was low, butquite clear. "Have I not told you that, too?"

"And about experience of life making us care the more for those who failin everything?"--he waited a moment. "You have not mentioned that thatwas a mistake also. I wish you'd stop looking out of that confoundedwindow, " he added irritably, "and look at me. Heaven knows I've failedin some things!"

She laughed a little at his tone, but she did not follow his suggestion. 

"Oh, no, " she said, "you have succeeded. "

"And that means--what?"

"I told you I was sitting among the ruins of my theories, " she said, while a faint color, which he saw with sudden pleasure, rose in hercheek. 

"That adverse theory--has that gone too?"

"I have had enough of theories, " she declared softly. "What I reallycare for is success. "

Her Neighbors' Landmark

THE sun had not quite disappeared behind the horizon, though the days nolonger extended themselves into the long, murmurous twilight of summer;instead, the evening fell with a certain definiteness, precursor of thestill later year. 

On the step of the door that led directly into the living-room of hisrambling house sat Reuben Granger, an old man, bent with laboriousseasons, and not untouched by rheumatism. The wrinkles on his face weremany and curiously intertwined; his weather-beaten straw hat seemed tosupply any festal deficiency indicated by the shirt-sleeves; and his dimeyes blinked with shrewdness upon the dusty road, along which, atintervals, a belated wagon passed, clattering. His days of usefulnesswere not over, but he had reached the age when one is willing to spendmore time looking on. He had always been tired at this hour of the day, but it was only of late that fatigue had had a certain numbing effect, which disinclined him to think of the tasks of tomorrow. He came to thisperiod of repose rather earlier nowadays, and after less sturdylabor--somehow, a great deal of the sturdy labor got itself done withouthim; and there was an acquiescence in even this dispensation perceptiblein the fall of his knotted hands and the tranquil gaze of his fadedeyes. 

About a dozen yards beyond him, on the doorstep leading directly intothe living-room of a house which joined the other, midway between twowindows (the union marked by a third doorway unused and boarded up, around whose stone was the growth of decades), sat Stephen Granger. Hisweather-beaten straw hat shaded eyes dim also, but still keen; and anetwork of curious wrinkles wandered over his tanned and sun-driedskin. Upon his features, too, dwelt that look of patient tolerance thatis not indifference, that only the "wise years" can bring; and on hisface as well as his brother's certain lines about the puckered mouthwent far to contradict it. If one saw only one of the old men, there wasnothing grim in the spectacle--that of a weary farmer looking out uponthe highroad from the shelter of his own doorway; but the sight of themboth together took on suddenly a forbidding air, a suggestion ofsullenness, of dogged resolution; they were so precisely alike, and theysat so near one another on thresholds of the same long, low building, and they seemed so unconscious the one of the other. It was impossiblenot to believe the unconsciousness wilful and deliberate. A heavilyfreighted and loose-jointed wagon rattled noisily but slowly along theroad. 

"Howaryer?" called out one of its occupants. 

"'Are yer?" returned Stephen Granger. 

Reuben had opened his mouth to speak, but closed it in silence, while hegazed straight before him, unseeing, apparently, and unheeding. Theleisurely driver checked his horse, which responded instantly to thewelcome indication. Behind him in the wagon two calves looked somewhatperplexedly forth, their mild eyes, with but slightly accentuatedcuriosity, surveying the Grangers and the landscape from the durance ofthe cart. 

"Been tradin'?" asked Stephen. 

"Wal, yes, I have, " answered the other, with that lingering intonationthat seems to modify even the most unconditional assent. 

"Got a good bargain?"

"Wal, so-so. "

"Many folks down to the store this evenin'?"

"Wal, considerable. "

"Ain't any news?"

"Not any as I know on. "

Stephen nodded his acceptance of this state of things. The other nodded, too. There was a pause. 

"G'long, " said the trader, as if he would have said it before if he hadthought of it. But the horse had taken but a few steps when anothervoice greeted him. 

"Howaryer, Monroe?" said Reuben Granger. 

"Whoa, " said Monroe. "Howaryer?"

"Been down to the Centre?" asked Reuben. 

"Yare. "

"Got some calves in there, I see. "

"Wal, yes; been doin' some tradin'. "

Reuben nodded. "Ain't any news, I take it?"

"None in partickler. " Another exchange of nods followed. 

"G'long, " said Monroe, after a short silence, during which the calveslooked more bored than usual. But the shaky wheels had made but a fewrevolutions before the owner of the wagon reined in again. 

"Say, " he called back, twisting himself around and resting his hand onthe bar that confined the calves. "They've took down the shed back ofthe meetin'-house. Said 'twas fallin' to pieces. Might 'a' come down onthe heads of the hosses. Goin' to put up a new one. " Then, as his steedrecommenced its modest substitute for a trot, unseen of the Grangers hepermitted himself an undemonstrative chuckle. "They can sorter dividethat piece of news between 'em, " he said to his companion, who had beenthe silent auditor of the conversation. A moment of indecision on thepart of the Grangers had given him time to make this observation, but itwas not concluded when Reuben's cracked voice sang out cheerfully, "Yedon't say!" A slight contraction passed over Stephen's face. Much as hewould have liked to mark the bit of information for his own, now that ithad been appropriated by another, he gave no further sign. The noise ofthe wagon died along the road, and still Reuben and Stephen Granger satgazing straight before them at the hill which faced them from the otherside of the way, at the foot of which the darkness was falling fast. Byand by a lamp was lighted in one half of the house, and a moment laterthere was a flash through the window of the other, and slowly andstiffly the two old men rose and went inside, each closing his doorbehind him. 

"Them's the Granger twins, " had said the owner of the calves in answerto his companion's question as soon as they were out of hearing. "Yes, they be sort of odd. Don't have nothin' to say to one another, andthey've lived next door to each other ever since they haven't lived_with_ each other. It's goin' on thirty years since they've spoke. Yes, they do look alike--I don't see no partickler difference myself, and itwould make it kinder awk'ard if they expected folks to know which onehe's talkin' to. But they don't. They're kinder sensible about that. They're real sensible 'bout some things, " he added tolerantly. "Oh, theywas powerful fond of each other at first--twins, y' know. They wasalways together, and when each of 'em set up housekeepin', nothin' woulddo for it but they should jine their houses and live side by side--theyknew enough not to live together, seein' as how, though they was twins, their wives wasn't. So they took and added on to the old homestead, andeach of 'em took an end. Wal, I dunno how it began--no, it wasn't theirwives--it don't seem hardly human natur', but it wasn't their wives. "The speaker sighed a little. He was commonly supposed to have gainedmore experience than felicity through matrimony. "I've heard it saidthat it was hoss-reddish that begun it. You see, they used to eattogether, and Stephen he used to like a little hoss-reddish along withhis victuals in the spring, and Reuben, he said 't was a pizen weed. But there! you can never tell; they're both of 'em just as sot as--aserysipelas; and when that's so, somethin' or other is sure to come. Iknow for a fact that Reuben always wanted a taste of molasses in hisbeans, and Stephen couldn't abide anythin' but vinegar. So, bymeby, theytook to havin' their meals separate. You know it ain't in human natur'to see other folks puttin' things in their mouths that don't taste goodto yours, and keep still about it. "

His companion admitted the truth of this statement. 

"Sometimes I think, " went on Monroe, musingly, "that if they'd begun byeatin' separate they might have got along, 'cause it's only His saintsthat the Lord has made pleasant-tempered enough to stand bein' pesteredwith three meals a day, unless they're busy enough not to have time tothink about anythin' but swallerin'. Hayin'-time most men is kinderpleasant 'bout their food--so long 's it's ready. Wal, however it was, after they eat separate there was other things. There was the weather. They always read the weather signs different. And each of 'em had thatway of speakin' 'bout the weather as if it was a little contrivance ofhis own, and he was the only person who could give a hint how 'twas run, or had any natural means of findin' out if 'twas hot, or cold, ormiddlin', 'less he took hold and told 'em. It's a powerful tryin' sortof way, and finally it come so that, if Reuben said we was in for a wetspell, Stephen'd start right off and begin to mow his medder grass, andif Stephen 'lowed there was a sharp thunder-shower comin' up, inside often minutes, Reuben'd go and git his waterin'-pot and water every blamedthing he had in his garden. I dunno when it was they stopped speakin', but that was about all there was to it--little things like that. Theydidn't either of 'em have any children; sometimes I've thought if theyhad, the kids might sort of brought 'em together--they couldn't havekep' 'em apart without they moved away, and of course they wouldn'teither of 'em give in to the other enough to move away from the oldfarm. Then their wives died 'bout a year from each other. They kep' kindo' friendly to the last, but they couldn't stir their husbands no more'nif they was safes--it seems, sometimes, as if husbands and wives wassort o' too near one another, when it comes to movin', to git any kindof a purchase. When Reuben's wife died, folks said they'd have to gitreconciled now; and when Stephen's died, there didn't seem anythin' elsefor 'em to do; but folks didn't know 'em. Stephen went up country wherehis wife come from and brought home a little gal, that was her niece, tokeep house for him; and then what did Reuben do but go down to Zoar, where _his_ wife come from, and git her half-sister--both of 'em young, scart little things, and no kin to one another--and _they_ can't donothin' even if they wanted to. Bad-tempered? Wal, no. I wouldn't saythe Granger twins was bad-tempered;" and the biographer dexterouslyremoved a fly from his horse's patient back. "They're sot, of course, but they ain't what they used to be--I guess it's been a sort ofdiscipline to 'em--livin' next door and never takin' no kind of notice. They're pleasant folks to have dealin's with, and I've had both of 'emask me if I cal'lated it was goin' to rain, when I've been goin'by--different times, o' course--but it 'most knocked the wind out of mewhen they done it, 'stead of givin' me p'inters. Yes, you never canspeak to 'em both at once, 'cause the other one never hears if ye do;but there! it ain't much trouble to say a thing over twice--most of ussay it more'n that 'fore we can git it 'tended to; and, " he added, as heleaned forward and dropped the whip into its socket preparatory toturning into his own yard, "most of us hears it more'n once. "

"Monroe, " called a voice from the porch, "did you bring them calves?"

"Yare, " said Monroe. 

"I told you if you stopped to bring 'em, you wouldn't be home till afterdark. "

"Wal?"

"I told you 't would be dark and you'd be late to supper. "

"Wal?" and Monroe took down the end of the wagon, and persuaded out thecalves. 

The person who was Monroe's companion and the recipient of hisconfidences was a young woman who was an inmate of his house for thepresent month of September. 

Confident and somewhat audacious in her conduct of life, Cynthia Gardnerhad felt that this September existence lacked a motive for energy beforeit brought her into contact with the Granger twins. 

"They are so interesting, " she said to Monroe, a day or two later. 

"Wal, I guess they be, " answered Monroe, amiably. The quality of beinginteresting did not assume to his vision the proportions it presented toCynthia Gardner's, but he saw no reason to deny its existence. Cynthiacast a backward glance from the wagon as she spoke, and saw Reubenslowly and stiffly gathering up dry stalks in his garden, while Stephenpropped up the declining side of a water-butt in his adjoining domain, one man's back carefully turned to the other. 

She walked back from the Centre, and stopped to talk with the twins in acasual manner. But no careful inadvertence drew them, at this or anylater time when their social relations had become firmly established, into a triangular conversation. They greeted her with cordiality, responded to her advances, talked to her with the tolerant and humorousshrewdness that lurked in their dim eyes, but it was always one at atime. If, with disarming naïveté, she appealed to Stephen, Reuben turnedinto a graven image; and if she chaffed with Reuben, Stephen became asone who having eyes seeth not, and having ears heareth not. But shepersisted with a zeal which, if not according to knowledge, was theresult of a firm belief in the possibility of a final adjustment ofdifferences. She did not know, herself, what led her into suchearnestness, --a caprice, or the lingering pathos of two lonely, barrenlives. 

Monroe watched her proceedings with tolerant kindliness. It was not hisbusiness to discourage her. He knew what it was to be discouraged, andhe felt that there was quite enough discouragement going about in lifewithout his adding to it. 

"I tell you they would like to be reconciled, Mr. Monroe, " said Cynthia. "They don't know they would like it, but they would. "

"Wal, mebbe they would. They're gittin' to be old men. And when you gitalong as far as that, you don't, perhaps, worry so much about _bein'_reconciled, but neither does it seem as worth while _not_ to. There's agood deal that's sort of instructive about gittin' old, " he ruminated. 

"It's very lonely for them both, I think;" and Cynthia's voice fell intothe ready accents of youthful pity. 

"Their quarrel's been kinder comp'ny for 'em, " suggested Monroe. 

"It's overstayed its time, " asserted Cynthia. 

"Mebbe, " answered Monroe. 

The crisis--for Cynthia had been looking for a crisis--came, after all, unexpectedly. She had been for the mail, and as she drove the amenablehorse over the homeward road she strained her eyes to read the last pageof an unusually absorbing letter, for it was again sundown, and theGranger twins again sat in their doorways. There was a decided chill inthe air, this late afternoon. The old men, though they were sturdystill, had put on their coats, and from behind them the comfortable glowof two stove doors promised a later hour of warmth and comfort. Theiraspect was more melancholy than usual, whether it were that thebleakness of winter seemed pressing close upon the bleakness of lonelyage, or that there was an added weariness in the droop of the thinshoulders and the fixed eyes--it was certain that the picture had gaineda shadow of depression. 

For once, Cynthia was not thinking of them as she drew near. The reinswere loose in her hand, and as she bent to catch the waning light, anopen newspaper, which she had laid carelessly on the seat beside her, was lifted by a transient gust of wind and tossed almost over herhorse's head. No horse, of whatever serenity, can be thus treatedwithout resentment. He jerked the reins from her heedless hands, made asharp turn to avoid the white, wavering, inconsequent thing at his feet, a wheel caught in a neighboring boulder, and Cynthia was spilled outjust in front of the Granger house and midway between the twins. In acommon impulse of fright the two old men started to their feet. For aninstant they paused to judge of the situation, but it was no time forfine distinctions. The accident had, to all appearances, happened asnear one as the other, and meanwhile a young and pretty woman layunsuccored upon the ground. It became a point of honor to yield nothingto an ignored companion. As speedily as their years allowed, Stephen andReuben marched to the rescue. The horse, meanwhile, had dragged theoverturned wagon but a few yards, and had stopped of his own reasonableaccord. As Cynthia raised herself rather confusedly and quite convincedthat she was killed, her first impression was that the angels were olderthan she had fancied, and looked very much like the Granger twins. Butin a few seconds her balance of mind was restored, she realized thatwhile there was life there was hope, and that for the first time in herexperience the eyes of Reuben and Stephen were fixed solicitously upon acommon object, that each of them had stretched out to her a helpinghand, and that two voices with precisely the same anxious intonationwere saying, --

"Be ye hurt?"

It was a solemn moment, but Cynthia Gardner was of the stuff thatrecognizes opportunity. She laid a hand upon each rugged arm, andsteadied herself between them; she perceived that they trembled underher touch, and she felt that the instant in which they stood side byside was dramatic. 

"I declare, 'twas too bad, " said Reuben. 

"'Twas too bad, " said Stephen. 

"Is the horse all right?" asked Cynthia, feebly. 

"Yes, Johnny Allen got him, " said Stephen. 

"Johnny Allen came along, " said Reuben, as if Stephen had not spoken, "and he's got him. "

"I can walk, " she said, with not unconscious pathos, "if you will walkwith me, but I must go in and rest a moment;" and the three moved slowlystraight forward. 

A few steps brought them to the point at which they must turn aside toreach either entrance. Before them rose the old boarded-up, dismaldoorway, weather-beaten, stained, repellent as bitterness. There wasanother fateful pause. Cynthia felt the quiver that ran through theframes of the old men as for the first time in long years they stoodside by side before the doorway about which as children they had played, and through which as boys they had rushed together. In Cynthia'sdrooping head plans were rapidly forming themselves, but she had time tobe thankful that she did not know which was Reuben and which wasStephen--it saved her the anxiety of decision; instinctively she turnedto the right, a small brown hand clutching impartially either rough andshabby sleeve. 

The man on her right swerved in an impulse of desertion, but her graspdid not relax. 

"Is the judgment of Solomon to be pronounced!" she said to herself, halfhysterically, for her nerves were a little shaken. 

"Oh, I hope I sha'n't faint!" she exclaimed aloud. 

Beneath Reuben's rustic exterior beat the American heart that cannotdesert an elegant female in distress. He followed the inclination of theother two to Stephen's door, and in another never-to-be-forgotten momenthe stepped inside his brother's house. 

Stephen's deceased wife's niece was so overcome by the spectacle thatshe retained barely enough presence of mind to drag forward a woodenchair upon which Cynthia sank in a condition evidently bordering uponsyncope. It was a critical moment; she must not give the intruder anopportunity to escape. She knew the intruder by that impulse ofdesertion, and she clung the tighter to his arm when she murmuredpitifully, "If you could get me some water, Mr. Granger. "

Stephen hastened towards the kitchen pump--the sight of Reuben in hisside of the house, after thirty years, set old chords vibrating with asuddenness that threatened to snap some disused string, and hisperceptions were not as clear as usual. He seized the dipper, filled it, and looked about him. 

"Where's the tumbler, Jenny?" he called impatiently. 

"It's right there, " answered the girl, with the explicitness ofagitation. 

"Whar?" he demanded with asperity. 

"Settin' on the side--right back of the molasses jug. "

"Molasses jug!" he exclaimed. "Nice place for the molasses jug!"

"We was goin' to have baked beans for supper, " said the trembling Jenny, feeling that it was best to be tentative about even a trifling matterwithin the area of this convulsion, "and you always want it handy. "

It was a simple statement, but it laid a finger upon the past and uponthe future. Cynthia, through her half-closed eyes, saw one old man withdisturbed features, standing with his hand upon her chair, while anotherold man shuffled toward her with a glass of water, which spilled alittle in his shaking hand as he came across the humble kitchen. Mostinadequate dramatic elements, yet they held the tragedy of nearly alifetime, and the comedy, though more evident, was cast by it in theshade, and she neither laughed nor cried. 

Within a few moments more she was on her homeward way, a trifling breakin the harness tied up with twine, and Johnny Allen in the seat besideher as guard of honor. 

The next evening the people, driving home from the Centre, were savedfrom some active demonstration only by the repression of the New Englandtemperament. Some of them even, after driving past, invented an errandto drive back again, so as to make sure. For the Granger twins sat sideby side in front of the disused doorway, and their straw hats wereturned sociably towards one another, now and then, as they exchanged asyllable or two, and there was a mild luminousness of pleasure in therecesses of their pale-blue eyes. The evening darkened fast into night. The plaintive half-chirp, half-whistle of a tree-toad fell in monotonousrepetition upon the ear. 

"Hear them little fellers!" said Stephen, ruminantly. "I reckon theythink it's goin' to rain. "

"Yare, " said Reuben. "And, " he went on, pushing back his straw hat andlooking up into the sky, "I wouldn't wonder if they was right. "

"Mostly are, " said Stephen. 

_Miss Trumbull's New Story_

 * * * * *

Mistress Content Cradock

AN HISTORICAL TALE OF NEW ENGLAND LIFE IN THE TIME OF GOVERNOR WINTHROPAND ROGER WILLIAMS

By ANNIE ELIOT TRUMBULL

_Author of "A Cape Cod Week, " "Rod's Salvation, " "A Christmas Accident, "etc. _

_1 vol. 12mo. , cloth. Illustrated. Price, $1. 00. _

 * * * * *

 A charming colonial romance. --_The Congregationalist. _

 It is in a word a fascinating, strong, well-told story. --_The Church Review. _

 It is a delightful way to study history--one of the best of ways--to read a book written by one whose historical information is accurate. --_Boston Advertiser. _

 The thread of romance and love is rendered most attractive by the author's well-known bright and attractive style, her delicately fashioned descriptions, and her entertaining dialogue. --_N. Y. Times. _

 Winsome and captivating, Content pleases us of to-day as she did the lover who patiently waited to obtain the gift of her not too easily engaged heart, and the quiet story of her fortunes is well worth following. --_Literature. _

 * * * * *

_For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid, on receipt of price, bythe Publishers, _

 A. S. BARNES & CO. 156 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK

Rod's Salvation. 

BY

ANNIE ELIOT TRUMBULL. 

Illustrated by Charles Copeland. 12mo, cloth, 285 pages. $1. 00. 

 * * * * *

 The volume entitled "Rod's Salvation, " contains four short stories, some of which are long enough to be fairly called novelets. .. . "Rod's Salvation" is a good picture of 'longshore life, telling of the devotion of a sister to a scapegrace brother and well worthy a reading. --_Springfield Republican. _

 Miss Trumbull is blessed by a most delightful and unpretentious gift of story-telling. Her work suggests a twilight musician; she has a certain dainty humor in her touch. --_The Citizen. _

 "Rod's Salvation" appears to us the most interesting sketch of the four in the present volume. It proves a thorough comprehension of the noblest characteristics of the inhabitants of the typical New England fishing village. The author shows us diamonds in the rough, and with a most happy talent, suddenly reveals to us the gleaming beauties beneath their rude exterior. "Rod's Salvation" is an inspiring story, the pathos of which is accentuated by the delicate satire, exquisite humor, and touches of kindly human nature which lead one up to the unexpected climax. --_The Church Review. _

ACape Cod Week. 

BYANNIE ELIOT TRUMBULL. 

12mo, cloth, 170 pages. $1. 00. 

 * * * * *

 The keenness, quickness, and acuteness of the New England mind were, perhaps, never better illustrated than in her stories. Her conversations are at times almost supernaturally bright; such talk as one hears from witty, brilliant, and cultivated American women--talk notable for insight, subtle discriminations, unexpected and surprised terms and persuasive humor. 

 "A Cape Cod Week" contains an account of the adventures and achievements of three young women who sought the seclusion, silence, and scenery of Cape Cod, and who enlivened that remote and restful country by flashes of talk often brilliant, almost always entertaining. Miss Trumbull's work is delightful reading: the sameness of the commonplace and the obvious is so entirely absent from it. --_The Outlook. _

 Annie Eliot Trumbull delights in fine descriptions of nature as it exists. The book is capital reading and its merits can be appreciated the whole year round. --_New York Times. _

 A delightful, gossipy little sketch of a week's holiday on Cape Cod. It is full of bright things, imaginative to a degree, and yet based on facts as we have all seen them on the sands of the Cape. The book is beautifully printed and bound. --_Boston Globe. _

The "Annie Eliot" Stories

FIVE NEW BOOKS

BY ANNIE ELIOT TRUMBULL

 MISTRESS CONTENT CRADOCK. Illustrated by Chas. Copeland. 12mo, cloth, 306 pages. $1. 00. 

 A CHRISTMAS ACCIDENT AND OTHER STORIES. 12mo, cloth, 234 pages. $1. 00. 

 A CAPE COD WEEK, 12mo, cloth, 170 pages. $1. 00. 

 ROD'S SALVATION. Illustrated by Charles Copeland. 12mo, cloth, 285 pages. $1. 00. 

 AN HOUR'S PROMISE. _New Edition_. 12mo, cloth. $1. 00. 

 * * * * *

 The reader will enjoy the wit, the delicate satire, the happy bits of nature description. --_S. S. Times. _

 They are New England stories and exhibit a delicate comprehension of many types of New England character. They are delightfully readable, and the books ought to be favorites. --_The Congregationalist. _

 Miss Trumbull's claim to the attention of her readers is undisputed. Her short stories possess a freshness, a poignancy and underlying quick-witted penetration into human feelings, motives and experiences that give them a peculiar charm. Her choice of themes is such as appeals to a wide circle and her handling of the persons of her imagination is exquisite. --_Hartford Post. _

 * * * * *

_For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid, on receipt of price, bythe Publishers, _

 A. S. BARNES & CO. 156 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK

 * * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired. 

Page 108. "did'nt" changed to "didn't" (We didn't really think then)

Page 108, "appened" changed to "happened" (what happened thirty-five)

Page 135, "hey" changed to "they" (that they stayed)

Page 149, "aquired" changed to "acquired" (They had acquired a)

Page 156, "colyum" changed to "column" (so nice in the column)

Page 238, "CRADDOCK" changed to "CRADOCK" (CRADOCK. Illustrated)

Page 235, "Literature" was obscurred (worth following. --_Literature. _)