Transcriber's Note:The images for this text were scanned from the 1894 edition. 

Pembroke

Mary E. Wilkins

Harper & Brothers Publishers; New York: 1900

[Illustration: "'It's beautiful, ' Rose said"]

Introductory Sketch

_Pembroke_ was originally intended as a study of the human will inseveral New England characters, in different phases of disease andabnormal development, and to prove, especially in the most markedcase, the truth of a theory that its cure depended entirely upon thecapacity of the individual for a love which could rise above allconsiderations of self, as Barnabas Thayer's love for CharlotteBarnard finally did. 

While Barnabas Thayer is the most pronounced exemplification of thistheory, and while he, being drawn from life, originally suggested thescheme of the study, a number of the other characters, notablyDeborah Thayer, Richard Alger, and Cephas Barnard, are instances ofthe same spiritual disease. Barnabas to me was as much the victim ofdisease as a man with curvature of the spine; he was incapable ofstraightening himself to his former stature until he had laid handsupon a more purely unselfish love than he had ever known, through hisanxiety for Charlotte, and so raised himself to his own level. 

When I make use of the term abnormal, I do not mean unusual in anysense. I am far from any intention to speak disrespectfully ordisloyally of those stanch old soldiers of the faith who landed uponour inhospitable shores and laid the foundation, as on a very rock ofspirit, for the New England of to-day; but I am not sure, in spite oftheir godliness, and their noble adherence, in the face of obstacles, to the dictates of their consciences, that their wills were notdeveloped past the reasonable limit of nature. What wonder is it thattheir descendants inherit this peculiarity, though they may developit for much less worthy and more trivial causes than the exilingthemselves for a question of faith, even the carrying-out of personaland petty aims and quarrels?

There lived in a New England village, at no very remote time, a manwho objected to the painting of the kitchen floor, and who quarrelledfuriously with his wife concerning the same. When she persisted, inspite of his wishes to the contrary, and the floor was painted, herefused to cross it to his dying day, and always, to his greatinconvenience, but probably to his soul's satisfaction, walked aroundit. 

A character like this, holding to a veriest trifle with such adeathless cramp of the will, might naturally be regarded as a notableexception to a general rule; but his brethren who sit on church stepsduring services, who are dumb to those whom they should love, andwill not enter familiar doors because of quarrels over matters ofapparently no moment, are legion. _Pembroke_ is intended to portray atypical New England village of some sixty years ago, as many of thecharacters flourished at that time, but villages of a similardescription have existed in New England at a much later date, andthey exist to-day in a very considerable degree. There are at thepresent time many little towns in New England along whose pleasantelm or maple shaded streets are scattered characters as pronounced asany in Pembroke. A short time since a Boston woman recited in myhearing a list of seventy-five people in the very small Maine villagein which she was born and brought up, and every one of the characterswhich she mentioned had some almost incredibly marked physical ormental characteristic. 

However, this state of things--this survival of the more prominenttraits of the old stiff-necked ones, albeit their necks werestiffened by their resistance of the adversary--can necessarily beknown only to the initiated. The sojourner from cities for the summermonths cannot often penetrate in the least, though he may not beaware of it, the reserve and dignified aloofness of the dwellers inthe white cottages along the road over which he drives. He oftenlooks upon them from the superior height of a wise and keen studentof character; he knows what he thinks of them, but he never knowswhat they think of him or themselves. Unless he is a man of thebroadest and most democratic tendencies, to whom culture and thepolish of society is as nothing beside humanity, and unless hereturns, as faithfully as the village birds to their nests, to hissummer home year after year, he cannot see very far below thesurfaces of villages of which Pembroke is typical. Quite naturally, when the surfaces are broken by some unusual revelation of astrongly serrate individuality, and the tale thereof is toldat his dinner-table with an accompaniment of laughter andexclamation-points, he takes that case for an isolated and by nomeans typical one, when, if the truth were told, the village windowsare full of them as he passes by. 

However, this state of things must necessarily exist, and hasexisted, in villages which, like Pembroke, have not been brought muchin contact with outside influences, and have not been studied orobserved at all by people not of their kind by birth or longfamiliarity. In towns which have increased largely in population, andhave become more or less assimilated with a foreign element, thesecharacters do not exist in such a large measure, are more isolated inreality, and have, consequently, less claim to be considered types. But there have been, and are to-day in New England, hundreds ofvillages like Pembroke, where nearly every house contains one or morecharacters so marked as to be incredible, though a writer may beprevented, for obvious reasons, from mentioning names and provingfacts. 

There is often to a mind from the outside world an almost repulsivenarrowness and a pitiful sordidness which amounts to tragedy in thelives of such people as those portrayed in _Pembroke_, but quitegenerally the tragedy exists only in the comprehension of theobserver and not at all in that of the observed. The pitied wouldmeet pity with resentment; they would be full of wonder and wrath iftold that their lives were narrow, since they have never seen thelimit of the breadth of their current of daily life. A singing-schoolis as much to them as a symphony concert and grand opera to theircity brethren, and a sewing church sociable as an afternoon tea. Though the standard of taste of the simple villagers, and theircomplete satisfaction therewith, may reasonably be lamented, as alsotheir restricted view of life, they are not to be pitied, generallyspeaking, for their unhappiness in consequence. It may be that thelack of unhappiness constitutes the real tragedy. 

Chapter I

At half-past six o'clock on Sunday night Barnabas came out of hisbedroom. The Thayer house was only one story high, and there were nochambers. A number of little bedrooms were clustered around the threesquare rooms--the north and south parlors, and the great kitchen. 

Barnabas walked out of his bedroom straight into the kitchen wherethe other members of the family were. They sat before the hearth firein a semi-circle--Caleb Thayer, his wife Deborah, his son Ephraim, and his daughter Rebecca. It was May, but it was quite cold; therehad been talk of danger to the apple blossoms; there was a crispcoolness in the back of the great room in spite of the hearth fire. 

Caleb Thayer held a great leather-bound Bible on his knees, and wasreading aloud in a solemn voice. His wife sat straight in her chair, her large face tilted with a judicial and argumentative air, andRebecca's red cheeks bloomed out more brilliantly in the heat of thefire. She sat next her mother, and her smooth dark head with itscarven comb arose from her Sunday kerchief with a like carriage. Sheand her mother did not look alike, but their motions were curiouslysimilar, and perhaps gave evidence to a subtler resemblance incharacter and motive power. 

Ephraim, undersized for his age, in his hitching, home-made clothes, twisted himself about when Barnabas entered, and stared at him withslow regard. He eyed the smooth, scented hair, the black satin vestwith a pattern of blue flowers on it, the blue coat with brassbuttons, and the shining boots, then he whistled softly under hisbreath. 

"Ephraim!" said his mother, sharply. She had a heavy voice and aslight lisp, which seemed to make it more impressive and moredistinctively her own. Caleb read on ponderously. 

"Where ye goin', Barney?" Ephraim inquired, with a chuckle and agrin, over the back of his chair. 

"Ephraim!" repeated his mother. Her blue eyes frowned around hissister at him under their heavy sandy brows. 

Ephraim twisted himself back into position. "Jest wanted to knowwhere he was goin', " he muttered. 

Barnabas stood by the window brushing his fine bell hat with a whiteduck's wing. He was a handsome youth; his profile showed clear andfine in the light, between the sharp points of his dicky bound aboutby his high stock. His cheeks were as red as his sister's. 

When he put on his hat and opened the door, his mother herselfinterrupted Caleb's reading. 

"Don't you stay later than nine o'clock, Barnabas, " said she. 

The young man murmured something unintelligibly, but his tone wasresentful. 

"I ain't going to have you out as long as you were last Sabbathnight, " said his mother, in quick return. She jerked her chin downheavily as if it were made of iron. 

Barnabas went out quickly, and shut the door with a thud. 

[Illustration: "Barnabas went out quickly"]

"If he was a few years younger, I'd make him come back an' shut thatdoor over again, " said his mother. 

Caleb read on; he was reading now one of the imprecatory psalms. Deborah's blue eyes gleamed with warlike energy as she listened: sheconfused King David's enemies with those people who crossed her ownwill. 

Barnabas went out of the yard, which was wide and deep on the southside of the house. The bright young grass was all snowed over withcherry blossoms. Three great cherry-trees stood in a row through thecentre of the yard; they had been white with blossoms, but now theywere turning green; and the apple-trees were in flower. 

There were many apple-trees behind the stone-walls that bordered thewood. The soft blooming branches looked strangely incongruous in thekeen air. The western sky was clear and yellow, and there were a fewreefs of violet cloud along it. Barnabas looked up at the appleblossoms over his head, and wondered if there would be a frost. Fromtheir apple orchard came a large share of the Thayer income, andBarnabas was vitally interested in such matters now, for he was to bemarried the last of June to Charlotte Barnard. He often sat down witha pencil and slate, and calculated, with intricate sums, the amountsof his income and their probable expenses. He had made up his mindthat Charlotte should have one new silk gown every year, and two newbonnets--one for summer and one for winter. His mother had oftennoted, with scorn, that Charlotte Barnard wore her summer bonnet withanother ribbon on it winters, and, moreover, had not had a new bonnetfor three years. 

"She looks handsomer in it than any girl in town, if she hasn't, "Barnabas had retorted with quick resentment, but he nevertheless feltsensitive on the subject of Charlotte's bonnet, and resolved that sheshould have a white one trimmed with gauze ribbons for summer, andone of drawn silk, like Rebecca's, for winter, only the silk shouldbe blue instead of pink, because Charlotte was fair. 

Barnabas had even pondered with tender concern, before he bought hisfine flowered satin waistcoat, if he might not put the money it wouldcost into a bonnet for Charlotte, but he had not dared to propose it. Once he had bought a little blue-figured shawl for her, and herfather had bade her return it. 

"I ain't goin' to have any young sparks buyin' your clothes while youare under my roof, " he had said. 

Charlotte had given the shawl back to her lover. "Father don't feelas if I ought to take it, and I guess you'd better keep it now, Barney, " she said, with regretful tears in her eyes. 

Barnabas had the blue shawl nicely folded in the bottom of his littlehair-cloth trunk, which he always kept locked. 

After a quarter of a mile the stone-walls and the spray of appleblossoms ended; there was a short stretch of new fence, and a newcottage-house only partly done. The yard was full of lumber, and aladder slanted to the roof, which gleamed out with the fresh pinkyyellow of unpainted pine. 

Barnabas stood before the house a few minutes, staring at it. Then hewalked around it slowly, his face upturned. Then he went in the frontdoor, swinging himself up over the sill, for there were no steps, andbrushing the sawdust carefully from his clothes when he was inside. He went all over the house, climbing a ladder to the second story, and viewing with pride the two chambers under the slant of the newroof. He had repelled with scorn his father's suggestion that he havea one-story instead of a story-and-a-half house. Caleb had aninordinate horror and fear of wind, and his father, who had built thehouse in which he lived, had it before him. Deborah often descantedindignantly upon the folly of sleeping in little tucked-up bedroomsinstead of good chambers, because folks' fathers had been scared todeath of wind, and Barnabas agreed with her. If he had inherited anyof his father's and grandfather's terror of wind, he made nomanifestation of it. 

In the lower story of the new cottage were two square front roomslike those in his father's house, and behind them the great kitchenwith a bedroom out of it, and a roof of its own. 

Barnabas paused at last in the kitchen, and stood quite still, leaning against a window casement. The windows were not in, and thespaces let in the cool air and low light. Outside was a long reach offield sloping gently upward. In the distance, at the top of the hill, sharply outlined against the sky, was a black angle of roof and agreat chimney. A thin column of smoke rose out of it, straight anddark. That was where Charlotte Barnard lived. 

Barnabas looked out and saw the smoke rising from the chimney of theBarnard house. There was a little hollow in the field that was quiteblue with violets, and he noted that absently. A team passed on theroad outside; it was as if he saw and heard everything from theinnermost recesses of his own life, and everything seemed strange andfar off. 

He turned to go, but suddenly stood still in the middle of thekitchen, as if some one had stopped him. He looked at the newfireless hearth, through the open door into the bedroom which hewould occupy after he was married to Charlotte, and through othersinto the front rooms, which would be apartments of simple state, notso closely connected with every-day life. The kitchen windows wouldbe sunny. Charlotte would think it a pleasant room. 

"Her rocking-chair can set there, " said Barnabas aloud. The tearscame into his eyes; he stepped forward, laid his smooth boyish cheekagainst a partition wall of this new house, and kissed it. It was afervent demonstration, not towards Charlotte alone, nor the joy tocome to him within those walls, but to all life and love and nature, although he did not comprehend it. He half sobbed as he turned away;his thoughts seemed to dazzle his brain, and he could not feel hisfeet. He passed through the north front room, which would be thelittle-used parlor, to the door, and suddenly started at a long blackshadow on the floor. It vanished as he went on, and might have beendue to his excited fancy, which seemed substantial enough to castshadows. 

"I shall marry Charlotte, we shall live here together all our lives, and die here, " thought Barnabas, as he went up the hill. "I shall liein my coffin in the north room, and it will all be over, " but hisheart leaped with joy. He stepped out proudly like a soldier in abattalion, he threw back his shoulders in his Sunday coat. 

The yellow glow was paling in the west, the evening air was like acold breath in his face. He could see the firelight flickering uponthe kitchen wall of the Barnard house as he drew near. He came upinto the yard and caught a glimpse of a fair head in the ruddy glow. There was a knocker on the door; he raised it gingerly and let itfall. It made but a slight clatter, but a woman's shadow movedimmediately across the yard outside, and Barnabas heard the innerdoor open. He threw open the outer one himself, and Charlotte stoodthere smiling, and softly decorous. Neither of them spoke. Barnabasglanced at the inner door to see if it were closed, then he caughtCharlotte's hands and kissed her. 

"You shouldn't do so, Barnabas, " whispered Charlotte, turning herface away. She was as tall as Barnabas, and as handsome. 

"Yes, I should, " persisted Barnabas, all radiant, and his facepursued hers around her shoulder. 

"It's pretty cold out, ain't it?" said Charlotte, in a chiding voicewhich she could scarcely control. 

"I've been in to see our house. Give me one more kiss. Oh, Charlotte!"

"Charlotte!" cried a deep voice, and the lovers started apart. 

"I'm coming, father, " Charlotte cried out. She opened the door andwent soberly into the kitchen, with Barnabas at her heels. Herfather, mother, and Aunt Sylvia Crane sat there in the red gleam ofthe firelight and gathering twilight. Sylvia sat a little behind theothers, and her face in her white cap had the shadowy delicacy of oneof the flowering apple sprays outside. 

"How d'ye do?" said Barnabas in a brave tone which was slightlyaggressive. Charlotte's mother and aunt responded rather nervously. 

"How's your mother, Barnabas?" inquired Mrs. Barnard. 

"She's pretty well, thank you. "

Charlotte pulled forward a chair for her lover; he had just seatedhimself, when Cephas Barnard spoke in a voice as sudden and gruff asa dog's bark. Barnabas started, and his chair grated on the sandedfloor. 

"Light the candle, Charlotte, " said Cephas, and Charlotte obeyed. Shelighted the candle on the high shelf, then she sat down nextBarnabas. Cephas glanced around at them. He was a small man, with athin face in a pale film of white locks and beard, but his black eyesgleamed out of it with sharp fixedness. Barnabas looked back at himunflinchingly, and there was a curious likeness between the two pairsof black eyes. Indeed, there had been years ago a somewhat closerelationship between the Thayers and the Barnards, and it was notstrange if one common note was repeated generations hence. 

Cephas had been afraid lest Barnabas should, all unperceived in thedusk, hold his daughter's hand, or venture upon other loverlikefamiliarity. That was the reason why he had ordered the candlelighted when it was scarcely dark enough to warrant it. 

But Barnabas seemed scarcely to glance at his sweetheart as he satthere beside her, although in some subtle fashion, perhaps by somefiner spiritual vision, not a turn of her head, nor a fleetingexpression on her face, like a wind of the soul, escaped him. He sawalways Charlotte's beloved features high and pure, almost severe, butsoftened with youthful bloom, her head with fair hair plaited in asmooth circle, with one long curl behind each ear. Charlotte wouldscarcely have said he had noticed, but he knew well she had on a newgown of delaine in a mottled purple pattern, her worked-muslincollar, and her mother's gold beads which she had given her. 

Barnabas kept listening anxiously for the crackle of the hearth firein the best room; he hoped Charlotte had lighted the fire, and theyshould soon go in there by themselves. They usually did of a Sundaynight, but sometimes Cephas forbade his daughter to light the fireand prohibited any solitary communion between the lovers. 

"If Barnabas Thayer can't set here with the rest of us, he can gohome, " he proclaimed at times, and he had done so to-night. Charlottehad acquiesced forlornly; there was nothing else for her to do. Earlyin her childhood she had learned along with her primer her father'scharacter, and the obligations it imposed upon her. 

"You must be a good girl, and mind; it's your father's way, " hermother used to tell her. Mrs. Barnard herself had spelt out herhusband like a hard and seemingly cruel text in the Bible. Shemarvelled at its darkness in her light, but she believed in itreverently, and even pugnaciously. 

The large, loosely built woman, with her heavy, sliding step, waxedfairly decisive, and her soft, meek-lidded eyes gleamed hard andprominent when her elder sister, Hannah, dared inveigh againstCephas. 

"I tell you it is his way, " said Sarah Barnard. And she said it as if"his way" was the way of the King. 

"His way!" Hannah would sniff back. "His way! Keepin' you all on ryemeal one spell, an' not lettin' you eat a mite of Injun, an' thenkeepin' you on Injun without a mite of rye! Makin' you eat nothin'but greens an' garden stuff, an' jest turnin' you out to graze an'chew your cuds like horned animals one spell, an' then makin' youlive on meat! Lettin' you go abroad when he takes a notion, an' thenkeepin' you an' Charlotte in the house a year!"

"It's his way, an' I ain't goin' to have anything said against it, "Sarah Barnard would retort stanchly, and her sister would sniff backagain. Charlotte was as loyal as her mother; she did not like it ifeven her lover intimated anything in disfavor of her father. 

No matter how miserable she was in consequence of her acquiescencewith her father's will, she sternly persisted. 

To-night she knew that Barnabas was waiting impatiently for hersignal to leave the rest of the company and go with her into thefront room; there was also a tender involuntary impatience andlonging in every nerve of her body, but nobody would have suspectedit; she sat there as calmly as if Barnabas were old Squire Payne, whosometimes came in of a Sabbath evening, and seemed to be listeningintently to her mother and her Aunt Sylvia talking about the springcleaning. 

Cephas and Barnabas were grimly silent. The young man suspected thatCephas had prohibited the front room; he was indignant about that, and the way in which Charlotte had been summoned in from the entry, and he had no diplomacy. 

Charlotte, under her calm exterior, grew uneasy; she glanced at hermother, who glanced back. It was to both women as if they felt bysome subtle sense the brewing of a tempest. Charlotte unobtrusivelymoved her chair a little nearer her lover's; her purple delaine skirtswept his knee; both of them blushed and trembled with Cephas's blackeyes upon them. 

Charlotte never knew quite how it began, but her father suddenlyflung out a dangerous topic like a long-argued bone of contention, and he and Barnabas were upon it. Barnabas was a Democrat, and Cephaswas a Whig, and neither ever forgot it of the other. None of thewomen fairly understood the point at issue; it was as if they drewback their feminine skirts and listened amazed and trembling to thismale hubbub over something outside their province. Charlotte grewpaler and paler. She looked piteously at her mother. 

"Now, father, don't, " Sarah ventured once or twice, but it was like asparrow piping against the north wind. 

Charlotte laid her hand on her lover's arm and kept it there, but hedid not seem to heed her. "Don't, " she said; "don't, Barnabas. Ithink there's going to be a frost to-night; don't you?" But nobodyheard her. Sylvia Crane, in the background, clutched the arms of herrocking-chair with her thin hands. 

Suddenly both men began hurling insulting epithets at each other. Cephas sprang up, waving his right arm fiercely, and Barnabas shookoff Charlotte's hand and was on his feet. 

"Get out of here!" shouted Cephas, in a hoarse voice--"get out ofhere! Get out of this house, an' don't you ever darse darken thesedoors again while the Lord Almighty reigns!" The old man was almostinarticulate; he waved his arms, wagged his head, and stamped; helooked like a white blur with rage. 

"I never will, by the Lord Almighty!" returned Barnabas, in an awfulvoice; then the door slammed after him. Charlotte sprang up. 

"Set down!" shouted Cephas. Charlotte rushed forward. "You set down!"her father repeated; her mother caught hold of her dress. 

"Charlotte, do set down, " she whispered, glancing at her husband interror. But Charlotte pulled her dress away. 

"Don't you stop me, mother. I am not going to have him turned outthis way, " she said. Her father advanced threateningly, but she sether young, strong shoulders against him and pushed past out of thedoor. The door was slammed to after her and the bolt shot, but shedid not heed that. She ran across the yard, calling: "Barney! Barney!Barney! Come back!" Barnabas was already out in the road; he neverturned his head, and kept on. Charlotte hurried after him. "Barney, "she cried, her voice breaking with sobs--"Barney, do come back. Youaren't mad at me, are you?" Barney never turned his head; thedistance between them widened as Charlotte followed, calling. Shestopped suddenly, and stood watching her lover's dim retreating back, straining with his rapid strides. 

"Barney Thayer, " she called out, in an angry, imperious tone, "ifyou're ever coming back, you come now!"

But Barney kept on as if he did not hear. Charlotte gasped for breathas she watched him; she could scarcely help her feet running afterhim, but she would not follow him any farther. She did not call himagain; in a minute she turned around and went back to the house, holding her head high in the dim light. 

She did not try to open the door; she was sure it was locked, and shewas too proud. She sat down on the flat, cool door-stone, andremained there as dusky and motionless against the old gray panel ofthe door as the shadow of some inanimate object that had never moved. 

The wind began to rise, and at the same time the full moon, impelledsoftly upward by force as unseen as thought. Charlotte's fair headgleamed out abruptly in the moonlight like a pale flower, but thefolds of her mottled purple skirt were as vaguely dark as the foliageon the lilac-bush beside her. All at once the flowering branches on awide-spreading apple-tree cut the gloom like great silvery wings of abrooding bird. The grass in the yard was like a shaggy silver fleece. Charlotte paid no more attention to it all than to her own breath, ora clock tick which she would have to withdraw from herself to hear. 

A low voice, which was scarcely more than a whisper, called her, aslender figure twisted itself around the front corner of the houselike a vine. "Charlotte, you there?" Charlotte did not hear. Then thewhisper came again. "Charlotte!"

Charlotte looked around then. 

A slender white hand reached out in the gloom around the corner andbeckoned. "Charlotte, come; come quick. "

Charlotte did not stir. 

"Charlotte, do come. Your mother's dreadful afraid you'll catch cold. The front door is open. "

Charlotte sat quite rigid. The slender figure began moving towardsher stealthily, keeping close to the house, advancing with frequentpauses like a wary bird. When she got close to Charlotte she reacheddown and touched her shoulder timidly. "Oh, Charlotte, don't you feelbad? He'd ought to know your father by this time; he'll get over itand come back, " she whispered. 

"I don't want him to come back, " Charlotte whispered fiercely inreturn. 

Sylvia stared at her helplessly. Charlotte's face looked strange andhard in the moonlight. "Your mother's dreadful worried, " shewhispered again, presently. "She thinks you'll catch cold. I come outof the front door on purpose so you can go in that way. Your father'sasleep in his chair. He told your mother not to unbolt this doorto-night, and she didn't darse to. But we went past him real still tothe front one, an' you can slip in there and get up to your chamberwithout his seeing you. Oh, Charlotte, do come!"

Charlotte arose, and she and Sylvia went around to the front door. Sylvia crept close to the house as before, but Charlotte walkedboldly along in the moonlight. "Charlotte, I'm dreadful afraid he'llsee you, " Sylvia pleaded, but Charlotte would not change her course. 

Just as they reached the front door it was slammed with a quick puffof wind in their faces. They heard Mrs. Barnard's voice callingpiteously. "Oh, father, do let her in!" it implored. 

"Don't you worry, mother, " Charlotte called out. "I'll go home withAunt Sylvia. "

"Oh, Charlotte!" her mother's voice broke in sobs. 

"Don't you worry, mother, " Charlotte repeated, with an unrelentingtone in the comforting words. "I'll go right home with Aunt Sylvia. Come, " she said, imperatively to her aunt, "I am not going to standhere any longer, " and she went out into the road, and hastened downit, as Barnabas had done. 

"I'll take her right home with me, " Sylvia called to her sister in atrembling voice (nobody knew how afraid she was of Cephas); and shefollowed Charlotte. 

Sylvia lived on an old road that led from the main one a shortdistance beyond the new house, so the way led past it. Charlotte wenton at such a pace that Sylvia could scarcely keep up with her. Sheslid along in her wake, panting softly, and lifting her skirts out ofthe evening dew. She was trembling with sympathy for Charlotte, andshe had also a worry of her own. When they reached the new house shefairly sobbed outright, but Charlotte went past in her stately hastewithout a murmur. 

"Oh, Charlotte, don't feel so bad, " mourned her aunt. "I know it willall come right. " But Charlotte made no reply. Her dusky skirts sweptaround the bushes at the corner of the road, and Sylvia hurriedtremulously after her. 

Neither of them dreamed that Barnabas watched them, standing in oneof the front rooms of his new house. He had gone in there when hefled from Cephas Barnard's, and had not yet been home. He recognizedCharlotte's motions as quickly as her face, and knew Sylvia's voice, although he could not distinguish what she said. He watched them turnthe corner of the other road, and thought that Charlotte was going tospend the night with her aunt--he did not dream why. He had resolvedto stay where he was in his desolate new house, and not go homehimself. 

A great grief and resentment against the whole world and life itselfswelled high within him. It was as if he lost sight of individualantagonists, and burned to dash life itself in the face because heexisted. The state of happiness so exalted that it became almostholiness, in which he had been that very night, flung him to lowerdepths when it was retroverted. He had gone back to first causes inthe one and he did the same in the other; his joy had reached outinto eternity, and so did his misery. His natural religious bent, inherited from generations of Puritans, and kept in its channel byhis training from infancy, made it impossible for him to conceive ofsympathy or antagonism in its fullest sense apart from God. 

Sitting on a pile of shavings in a corner of the north room, hefairly hugged himself with fierce partisanship. "What have I done tobe treated in this way?" he demanded, setting his face ahead in thedarkness; and he did not see Cephas Barnard's threateningcountenance, but another, gigantic with its vague outlines, which hisfancy could not limit, confronting him with terrible negative powerlike a stone image. He struck out against it, and the blows fell backon his own heart. 

"What have I done?" he demanded over and over of this great immovableand silent consciousness which he realized before him. "Have I notkept all thy commandments from childhood? Have I ever failed topraise thee as the giver of my happiness, and ask thy blessing uponit? What have I done that it should be taken away? It was given to meonly to be taken away. Why was it given to me, then?--that I might bemocked? Oh, I am mocked, I am mocked!" he cried out, in a great rage, and he struck out in the darkness, and his heart leaped with futilepain. The possibility that his misery might not be final neveroccurred to him. It never occurred to him that he could enter CephasBarnard's house again, ask his pardon, and marry Charlotte. It seemedto him settled and inevitable; he could not grasp any choice in thematter. 

Barnabas finally threw himself back on the pile of shavings, and laythere sullenly. Great gusts of cold wind came in at the windows atintervals, a loose board somewhere in the house rattled, the treesoutside murmured heavily. 

"There won't be a frost, " Barnabas thought, his mind going apace onits old routine in spite of its turmoil. Then he thought with theforce of an oath that he did not care if there was a frost. All thetrees this spring had blossomed only for him and Charlotte; now therewas no longer any use in that; let the blossoms blast and fall!

Chapter II

Sylvia Crane's house was the one in which her grandmother had beenborn, and was the oldest house in the village. It was known as the"old Crane place. " It had never been painted, it was shedding itsflapping gray shingles like gray scales, the roof sagged in a mossyhollow before the chimney, the windows and doors were awry, and thewhole house was full of undulations and wavering lines, which gave ita curiously unreal look in broad daylight. In the moonlight it wasthe shadowy edifice built of a dream. 

As Sylvia and Charlotte came to the front door it seemed as if theymight fairly walk through it as through a gray shadow; but Sylviastooped, and her shoulders strained with seemingly incongruous force, as if she were spending it to roll away a shadow. On the flatdoorstep lay a large round stone, pushed close against the door. There were no locks and keys in the old Crane place; only bolts. Sylvia could not fasten the doors on the inside when she went away, so she adopted this expedient, which had been regarded with favor byher mother and grandmother before her, and illustrated natures fullof gentle fallacies which went far to make existence comfortable. 

Always on leaving the house alone the Crane women had bolted the sidedoor, which was the one in common use, gone out the front one, andlaboriously rolled this same round stone before it. Sylvia reasonedas her mother and grandmother before her, with the same simplicity:"When the stone's in front of the door, folks must know there ain'tanybody to home, because they couldn't put it there if they was. "

And when some neighbor had argued that the evil-disposed might rollaway the stone and enter at will, Sylvia had replied, with theinnocent conservatism with which she settled an argument, "Nobodyever did. "

To-night she rolled away the stone to the corner of the door-step, where it had lain through three generations when the Crane women wereat home, and sighed with regret that she had defended the door withit. "I wish I hadn't put the stone up, " she thought. "If I hadn't, mebbe he'd gone in an' waited. " She opened the door, and the gloom ofthe house, deeper than the gloom of the night, appeared. "You waithere a minute, " she said to Charlotte, "an' I'll go in an' light acandle. "

Charlotte waited, leaning against the door-post. There was a flickerof fire within. Then Sylvia held the flaring candle towards her. "Come in, " she said; "the candle's lit. "

There was a bed of coals on the hearth in the best room; Sylvia hadmade a fire there before going over to her sister's, but it hadburned low. The glow of the coals and the smoky flare of the candlelighted the room uncertainly, scattering and not dispelling theshadows. There was a primly festive air in the room. Theflag-bottomed chairs stood by twos, finely canted towards each other, against the wall; the one great hair-cloth rocker stoodostentatiously in advance of them, facing the hearth fire; the longlevel of the hair-cloth sofa gleamed out under stiff sweeps of thewhite fringed curtains at the window behind it. The books on theglossy card-table were set canting towards each other like thechairs, and with their gilt edges towards the light. And Sylvia hadset also on the table a burnished pitcher of a rosy copper-color fullof apple blossoms. 

She looked at it when she had set the candle on the shelf. It seemedto her that all the light in the room centred on it, and it shone inher eyes like a copper lamp. 

Charlotte also glanced at it. "Why, Richard must have come while youwere over to our house, " she said. 

"It don't make any odds if he did, " returned Sylvia, with a faintblush and a bridle. Sylvia was much younger than her sister. Standingthere in the dim light she did not look so much older than her niece. Her figure had the slim angularity and primness which are sometimesseen in elderly women who are not matrons, and she had donned alittle white lace cap at thirty, but her face had still a delicatebloom, and the wistful wonder of expression which belongs to youth. 

However, she never thought of Charlotte as anything but a child ascompared with herself. Sylvia felt very old, and the more so that shegrudged her years painfully. She stirred up the fire a little, holding back her shiny black silk skirt carefully. Charlotte stoodleaning against the shelf, looking moodily down at the fire. 

"I wouldn't feel bad if I was you, Charlotte, " Sylvia ventured, timidly. 

"I guess we'd better go to bed pretty soon, " returned Charlotte. "Itmust be late. "

"Had you rather sleep with me, Charlotte, or sleep in the sparechamber?"

"I guess I'll go in the spare chamber. "

"Well, I'll get you a night-gown. "

Both of their faces were sober, but perfectly staid. They bade eachother good-night without a quiver; but Charlotte, after she had saidher dutiful and unquestioning prayer, and lay folded in Sylvia'sruffled night-gown in the best bed, shook with great sobs. "PoorBarney!" she kept muttering. "Poor Barney! poor Barney!"

The doors were all open, and once she thought she heard a sob frombelow, then concluded she must be mistaken. But she was not, forSylvia Crane was lamenting as sorely as the younger maiden up-stairs. "Poor Richard!" she repeated, piteously. "Poor Richard! There hecame, and the stone was up, and he had to go away. "

The faces which were so clear to the hearts of both women, as if theywere before their eyes, had a certain similarity. Indeed, RichardAlger and Barnabas Thayer were distantly related on the mother'sside, and people said they looked enough alike to be brothers. Sylviasaw the same type of face as Charlotte, only Richard's face wasolder, for he was six years older than she. 

"If I hadn't put the stone up, " she moaned, "maybe he would havethought I didn't hear him knock, an' he'd come in an' waited. PoorRichard, I dunno what he thought! It's the first time it's happenedfor eighteen years. "

Sylvia, as she lay there, looked backward, and it seemed to her thatthe eighteen years were all made up of the Sunday nights on whichRichard Alger had come to see her, as if they were all that made themimmortal and redeemed them from the dead past. She had endured grief, but love alone made the past years stand out for her. Sylvia, inlooking back over eighteen years, forgot the father, mother, andsister who had died in that time; their funeral trains passed beforeher eyes like so many shadows. She forgot all their cares and herown; she forgot how she had nursed her bedridden mother for tenyears; she forgot everything but those blessed Sunday nights on whichRichard Alger had come. She called to mind every little circumstanceconnected with them--how she had adorned the best room by slowdegrees, saving a few cents at a time from her sparse income, becausehe sat in it every Sunday night; how she had had the bed which hermother and grandmother kept there removed because the fashion hadchanged, and the guilty audacity with which she had purchased ahair-cloth sofa to take its place. 

That adorning of the best room had come to be a religion with SylviaCrane. As faithfully as any worshipper of the Greek deity she laidher offerings, her hair-cloth sofa and rocker, her copper-giltpitcher of apple blossoms, upon the altar of love. 

Sylvia recalled, sobbing more piteously in the darkness, sundrydreams, which had never been realized, of herself and Richard sittingside by side and hand in hand, as confessed lovers, on that sofa. Richard Alger, during all those eighteen years, had never made loveto Sylvia, unless his constant attendance upon Sabbath evenings couldbe so construed, as it was in that rural neighborhood, and as Sylviawas fain to construe it in her innocent heart. 

It is doubtful if Sylvia, in her perfect decorum and long-fosteredmaiden reserve, fairly knew that Richard Alger had never made love toher. She scarcely expected her dreams of endearments to be realized;she regarded them, except in desperate moods, with shame. If her oldadmirer had, indeed, attempted to sit by her side upon thathair-cloth sofa and hold her hand, she would have arisen as ifpropelled by stiff springs of modest virtue. She did not fairly knowthat she was not made love to after the most honorable and orthodoxfashion without a word of endearment or a caress; for she had beentrained to regard love as one of the most secret of the laws ofnature, to be concealed, with shamefaced air, even from herself; butshe did know that Richard had never asked her to marry him, and forthat she was impatient without any self-reserve; she was evenconfidential with her sister, Charlotte's mother. 

"I don't want to say anything outside, " she once said, "but I dothink it would be a good deal better for him if we was settled down. He ain't half taken care of since his mother died. "

"He's got money enough, " returned Mrs. Barnard. 

"That can't buy everything. "

"Well, I don't pity him; I pity you, " said Mrs. Barnard. 

"I guess I shall get along a while longer, as far as that goes, "Sylvia had replied to her sister, with some pride. "I ain't worriedon my account. "

"Women don't worry much on their own accounts, but they've gotaccounts, " returned Mrs. Barnard, with more contempt for her sisterthan she had ever shown for herself. "You're gettin' older, Sylvy. "

"I know it, " Sylvia had replied, with a quick shrinking, as if from ablow. 

The passing years, as they passed for her, stung her like swarmingbees, with bitter humiliation; but never for herself, only forRichard. Nobody knew how painfully she counted the years, how shewould fain have held time back with her thin hands, how futilely andpitifully she set her loving heart against it, and not for herselfand her own vanity, but for the sake of her lover. She had come, inthe singleness of her heart, to regard herself in the light of aspecies of coin to be expended wholly for the happiness and interestof one man. Any depreciation in its value was of account only as itaffected him. 

Sylvia Crane, sitting in the meeting-house of a Sunday, used to watchthe young girls coming in, as radiant and flawless as new flowers, intheir Sunday bests, with a sort of admiring envy, which could do themno harm, but which tore her own heart. 

When she should have been contrasting the wickedness of her soul withthe grace of the Divine Model, she was contrasting her fading facewith the youthful bloom of the young girls. "He'd ought to marry oneof them, " she thought; "he'd ought to, by good rights. " It neveroccurred to Sylvia that Richard also was growing older, and that hewas, moreover, a few years older than she. She thought of him as animmortal youth; his face was the same to her as when she had firstseen it. 

When it came before a subtler vision than her bodily one, there inthe darkness and loneliness of this last Sunday night, it wore thebeauty and innocent freshness of a child. If Richard Alger could haveseen his own face as the woman who loved him saw it, he could neverhave doubted his own immortality. 

"There he came, an' the stone was up, an' he had to go away, " moanedSylvia, catching her breath softly. Many a time she had pitiedRichard because he had not the little womanly care which men need;she had worried lest his stockings were not darned, and his food notproperly cooked; but to-night she had another and strange anxiety. She worried lest she herself had hurt him and sent him home with aheavy heart. 

Sylvia had gone about for the last few days with her delicate face asirresponsibly calm as a sweet-pea; nobody had dreamed of the turmoilin her heart. On the Wednesday night before she had nearly reachedthe climax of her wishes. Richard had come, departing from his usualcustom--he had never called except on Sunday before--and remainedlater. It was ten o'clock before he went home. He had been verysilent all the evening, and had sat soberly in the great bestrocking-chair, which was, in a way, his throne of state, with Sylviaon the sofa on his right. Many a time she had dreamed that he cameover there and sat down beside her, and that night it had come topass. 

Just before ten o'clock he had arisen hesitatingly; she thought itwas to take leave, but she sat waiting and trembling. They had sat inthe twilight and young moonlight all the evening. Richard had checkedher when she attempted to light a candle. That had somehow made theevening seem strange, and freighted with consequences; and besidesthe white light of the moon, full of mystic influence, there wassomething subtler and more magnetic, which could sway more than thetides, even the passions of the human heart, present, and they bothfelt it. 

Neither had said much, and they had been sitting there nearly twohours, when Richard had arisen, and moved curiously, rather as if hewas drawn than walked of his own volition, over to the sofa. He sankdown upon it with a little cough. Sylvia moved away a little with aninvoluntary motion, which was pure maidenliness. 

"It's getting late, " remarked Richard, trying to make his voicecareless, but it fell in spite of him into deep cadences. 

"It ain't very late, I guess, " Sylvia had returned, tremblingly. 

"I ought to be going home. "

Then there was silence for a while. Sylvia glanced sidewise, timidlyand adoringly, at Richard's smoothly shaven face, pale as marble inthe moonlight, and waited, her heart throbbing. 

[Illustration: "Sylvia glanced timidly at Richard's smoothly-shavenface"]

"I've been coming here a good many years, " Richard observed finally, and his own voice had a solemn tremor. 

Sylvia made an almost inarticulate assent. 

"I've been thinking lately, " said Richard; then he paused. They couldhear the great clock out in the kitchen tick. Sylvia waited, her verysoul straining, although shrinking at the same time, to hear. 

"I've been thinking lately, " said Richard again, "that--maybe--itwould be wise for--us both to--make some different arrangement. "

Sylvia bent her head low. Richard paused for the second time. "I havealways meant--" he began again, but just then the clock in thekitchen struck the first stroke of ten. Richard caught his breath andarose quickly. Never in his long courtship had he remained as late asthat at Sylvia Crane's. It was as if a life-long habit struck as wellas the clock, and decided his times for him. 

"I must be going, " said he, speaking against the bell notes. Sylviaarose without a word of dissent, but Richard spoke as if she hadremonstrated. 

"I'll come again next Sunday night, " said he, apologetically. 

Sylvia followed him to the door. They bade each other good-nightdecorously, with never a parting kiss, as they had done for years. Richard went out of sight down the white gleaming road, and she wentin and to bed, with her heart in a great tumult of expectation andjoyful fear. 

She had tried to wait calmly for Sunday night. She had done her neathousehold tasks as usual, her face and outward demeanor were sweetlyunruffled, but her thoughts seemed shivering with rainbows thatconstantly dazzled her with sweet shocks when her eyes met them. Herfeet seemed constantly flying before her into the future, and shecould scarcely tell where she might really be, in the present or inher dreams, which had suddenly grown so real. 

On Sunday morning she had curled her soft fair hair, and arrangedwith trepidation one long light curl outside her bonnet on each sideof her face. Her bonnet was tied under her chin with a green ribbon, and she had a little feathery green wreath around her face inside therim. Her wide silk skirt was shot with green and blue, and rustled asshe walked up the aisle to her pew. People stared after her withoutknowing why. There was no tangible change in her appearance. She hadworn that same green shot silk many Sabbaths; her bonnet was threesummers old; the curls drooping on her cheeks were an innovation, butthe people did not recognize the change as due to them. Sylviaherself had looked with pleased wonder at her face in the glass; itwas as if all her youthful beauty had suddenly come up, like awithered rose which is dipped in a vase. 

"I sha'n't look so terrible old side of him when I go out bride, " shereflected, happily, smiling fondly at herself. All the way to meetingthat Sunday morning she saw her face as she had seen it in the glass, and it was as if she walked with something finer than herself. 

Richard Alger sat with the choir in a pew beside the pulpit, at rightangles with the others. He had a fine tenor voice, and had sung inthe choir ever since he was a boy. When Sylvia sat down in her place, which was in full range of his eyes, he glanced at her withoutturning his head; he meant to look away again directly, so as not tobe observed, but her face held him. A color slowly flamed out on hispale brown cheeks; his eyes became intense and abstracted. A sopranosinger nudged the girl at her side; they both glanced at him andtittered, but he did not notice it. 

Sylvia knew that he was looking at her, but she never looked at him. She sat soberly waving a little brown fan before her face; the lightcurls stirred softly. She wondered what he thought of them; if heconsidered them too young for her, and silly; but he did not see themat all. He had no eye for details. And neither did she even hear hisfine tenor, still sweet and powerful, leading all the other malevoices when the choir stood up to sing. She thought only of Richardhimself. 

After meeting, when she went down the aisle, several women had spokento her, inquired concerning her health, and told her, with wonderingeyes, that she looked well. Richard was far behind her, but she didnot look around. They very seldom accosted each other, unless it wasunavoidable, in any public place. Still, Sylvia, going out withgentle flounces of her green shot silk, knew well that Richard's eyesfollowed her, and his thought was close at her side. 

After she got home from meeting that Sunday, Sylvia Crane did notknow how to pass the time until the evening. She could not keepherself calm and composed as was her wont on the Sabbath day. Shechanged her silk for a common gown; she tried to sit down and readthe Bible quietly and with understanding, but she could not. Sheturned to Canticles, and read a page or two. She had always believedloyally and devoutly in the application to Christ and the Church; butsuddenly now, as she read, the restrained decorously chanting NewEngland love-song in her maiden heart had leaped into the fervidmeasures of the oriental King. She shut the Bible with a clap. "Iain't giving the right meaning to it, " she said, sternly, aloud. 

She put away the Bible, went into the pantry, and got out some breadand cheese for her luncheon, but she could eat nothing. She pickedthe apple blossoms and arranged them in the copper-gilt pitcher onthe best-room table. She even dusted off the hair-cloth sofa androcker, with many compunctions, because it was Sunday. "I know Ihadn't ought to do it to-day, " she murmured, apologetically, "butthey do get terrible dusty, and need dusting every day, and he isreal particular, and he'll have on his best clothes. "

Finally, just before twilight, Sylvia, unable to settle herself, hadgone over to her sister's for a little call. Richard never camebefore eight o'clock, except in winter, when it was dark earlier. There was a certain half-shamefaced reserve about his visits. He knewwell enough that people looked from their windows as he passed, andsaid, facetiously, "There goes Richard Alger to court Sylvy Crane. "He preferred slipping past in a half-light, in which he did not seemso plain to himself, and could think himself less plain to otherpeople. 

Sylvia, detained at her sister's by the quarrel between Cephas andBarnabas, had arisen many a time to take leave, all palpitating withimpatience, but her sister had begged her, in a distressed whisper, to remain. 

"I guess you can get along without Richard Alger one Sunday evening, "she had said finally, quite aloud, and quite harshly. "I guess yourown sister has just as much claim on you as he has. I dunno what'sgoing to be done. I don't believe Charlotte's father will let her inthe house to-night. "

Poor Sylvia had sunk back in her chair. To her sensitive consciencethe duty nearest at hand seemed always to bark the loudest, and theprecious moments had gone by until she knew that Richard had come, found the stone before the door, and gone away, and all her sweetturmoil of hope and anticipation had gone for naught. 

Sylvia, lying there awake that night, her mind carrying her back overall that had gone before, had no doubt that this was the end ofeverything. Not originally a subtle discerner of character, she hadcome insensibly to know Richard so well that certain results fromcertain combinations of circumstances in his life were as plain andinevitable to her as the outcome of a simple sum in mathematics. "He'd got 'most out of his track for once, " she groaned out softly, "but now he's pushed back in so hard he can't get out again if hewants to. I dunno how he's going to get along. "

Sylvia, with the roof settling over her head, with not so much uponher few sterile acres to feed her as to feed the honey-bees andbirds, with her heart in greater agony because its string of joy hadbeen strained so high and sweetly before it snapped, did not lamentover herself at all; neither did she over the other woman who layup-stairs suffering in a similar case. She lamented only over Richardliving alone and unministered to until he died. 

When daylight came she got up, dressed herself, and preparedbreakfast. Charlotte came down before it was ready. "Let me help getbreakfast, " she said, with an assumption of energy, standing in thekitchen doorway in her pretty mottled purple delaine. The purple wasthe shade of columbine, and very becoming to Charlotte. In spite ofher sleepless night, her fine firm tints had not faded; she was tooyoung and too strong and too full of involuntary resistance. She haddone up her fair hair compactly; her chin had its usual proud lift. 

Sylvia, shrinking as if before some unseen enemy as she moved about, her face all wan and weary, glanced at her half resentfully. "I guessshe 'ain't had any such night as I have, " she thought. "Girls don'tknow much about it. "

"No, I don't need any help, " she replied, aloud. "I 'ain't gotanything to do but to stir up an Injun cake. You've got your bestdress on. You'd better go and sit down. "

"It won't hurt my dress any. " Charlotte glanced down half scornfullyat her purple skirt. It had lost all its glory for her. She was noteven sure that Barney had seen it. 

"Set down. I've got breakfast 'most ready, " Sylvia said, again, moreperemptorily than she was wont, and Charlotte sat down in thehollow-backed cherry rocking-chair beside the kitchen window, leanedher head back, and looked out indifferently between the lilac-bushes. The bushes were full of pinkish-purple buds. Sylvia's front yardreached the road in a broad slope, and the ground was hard, and greenwith dampness under the shade of a great elm-tree. The grass wouldnever grow there over the roots of the elm, which were flung outbroadly like great recumbent limbs over the whole yard, and werebarely covered by the mould. 

Across the street, seen under the green sweep of the elm, was anorchard of old apple-trees which had blossomed out bravely thatspring. Charlotte looked at the white and rosy masses of bloom. 

"I guess there wasn't any frost last night, after all, " she remarked. 

"I dunno, " responded Sylvia, in a voice which made her niece lookaround at her. There was a curious impatient ring in it which wasutterly foreign to it. There was a frown between Sylvia's gentleeyes, and she moved with nervous jerks, setting down dishes hard, asif they were refractory children, and lashing out with spoons as ifthey were whips. The long, steady strain upon her patience had notaffected her temper, but this last had seemed to bring out a certainvicious and waspish element which nobody had suspected her topossess, and she herself least of all. She felt this morning disposedto go out of her way to sting, and as if some primal and evilinstinct had taken possession of her. She felt shocked at herself, but all the more defiant and disposed to keep on. 

"Breakfast is ready, " she announced, finally; "if you don't set rightup an' eat it, it will be gettin' cold. I wouldn't give a cent forcold Injun cake. "

Charlotte arose promptly and brought a chair to the table, whichSylvia always set punctiliously in the centre of the kitchen as iffor a large family. 

"Don't scrape your chair on the floor that way; it wears 'em allout, " cried Sylvia, sharply. 

Charlotte stared at her again, but she said nothing; she sat down andbegan to eat absently. Sylvia watched her angrily between her ownmouthfuls, which she swallowed down defiantly like medicine. 

"It ain't much use cookin' things if folks don't eat 'em, " said she. 

"I am eating, " returned Charlotte. 

"Eatin'? Swallowin' down Injun cake as if it was sawdust! I don'tcall that eatin'. You don't act as if you tasted a mite of it!"

"Aunt Sylvy, what has got into you?" said Charlotte. 

"Got into me? I should think you'd talk about anything gettin' intome, when you set there like a stick. I guess you 'ain't got all thereis to bear. "

"I never thought I had, " said Charlotte. 

"Well, I guess you 'ain't. "

They went on swallowing their food silently; the great clock tickedslowly, and the spring birds called outside; but they heard neither. The shadows of the young elm leaves played over the floor and thewhite table-cloth. It was much warmer that morning, and the shadowswere softer. 

Before they had finished breakfast, Charlotte's mother came, advancing ponderously, with soft thuds, across the yard to the sidedoor. She opened it and peered in. 

"Here you be, " said she, scanning both their faces with anxious anddeprecating inquiry. 

"Can't you come in, an' not stand there holdin' the door open?"inquired Sylvia. "I feel the wind on my back, and I've got a bad painenough in it now. "

Mrs. Barnard stepped in, and shut the door quickly, in an alarmedway. 

"Ain't you feelin' well this mornin', Sylvy?" said she. 

"Oh yes, I'm feelin' well enough. It ain't any matter how I feel, butit's a good deal how some other folks do. "

Sarah Barnard sank into the rocking-chair, and sat there looking atthem hesitatingly, as if she did not dare to open the conversation. 

Suddenly Sylvia arose and went out of the kitchen with a rush, carrying a plate of Indian cake to feed the hens. "I can't set hereall day; I've got to do something, " she announced as she went. 

When the door had closed after her, Mrs. Barnard turned to Charlotte. 

"What's the matter with her?" she asked, nodding towards the door. 

"I don't know. "

"She ain't sick, is she? I never see her act so. Sylvy's generallyjust like a lamb. You don't s'pose she's goin' to have a fever, doyou?"

"I don't know. "

Suddenly Charlotte, who was still sitting at the table, put up hertwo hands with a despairing gesture, and bent her head forward uponthem. 

"Now don't, you poor child, " said her mother, her eyes growingsuddenly red. "Didn't he even turn round when you called him backlast night?"

Charlotte shook her bowed head dumbly. 

"Don't you s'pose he'll ever come again?"

Charlotte shook her head. 

"Mebbe he will. I know he's terrible set. "

"Who's set?" demanded Sylvia, coming in with her empty plate. 

"Oh, I was jest sayin' that I thought Barney was kinder set, " repliedher sister, mildly. 

"He ain't no more set than Cephas, " returned Sylvia. 

"Cephas ain't set. It's jest his way. "

Sylvia sniffed. She looked scornfully at Charlotte, who had raisedher head when she came in, but whose eyes were red. "Folks had betterbeen created without ways, then, " she retorted. "They'd better havebeen created slaves; they'd been enough sight happier an' better off, an' so would other folks that they have to do with, than to have somany ways, an' not sense enough to manage 'em. I don't believe infree-will, for my part. "

"Sylvy Crane, you ain't goin' to deny one of the doctrines of theChurch at your time of life?" demanded a new voice. Sylvia's othersister, Hannah Berry, stood in the doorway. 

Sylvia ordinarily was meek before her, but now she faced her. "Yes, Ibe, " said she; "I don't approve of free-will, and I ain't afraid tosay it. "

Sylvia had always been considered very unlike Mrs. Hannah Berry inface and character. Now, as she stood before her, a curioussimilarity appeared; even her voice sounded like her sister's. 

"What on earth ails you, Sylvy?" asked Mrs. Berry, ignoring suddenlythe matter in hand. 

"Nothin' ails me that I know of. I don't think much of free-will, an'I ain't goin' to say I do when I don't. "

"Then all I've got to say is you'd ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why, I should think you was crazy, Sylvy Crane, settin' up yourselfagin' the doctrines of the Word. I'd like to know what you know aboutthem. "

"I know enough to see how they work, " returned Sylvia, undauntedly, "an' I ain't goin' to pretend I'm blind when I can see. "

Sylvia's serene arc of white forehead was shortened by a distressedfrown, her mild mouth dropped sourly at the corners, and the lipswere compressed. Her white cap was awry, and one of yesterday's curlshung lankly over her left cheek. 

"You look an' act like a crazy creature, " said Hannah Berry, eyingher with indignant amazement. She walked across the room to anotherrocking-chair, moving with unexpected heaviness. She was in realityas stout as her sister Sarah Barnard, but she had a long, thin, andrasped face, which misled people. 

"Now, " said she, looking around conclusively, "I ain't come over hereto argue about free-will. I want to know what all this is about?"

"All what?" returned Mrs. Barnard, feebly. She was distinctly afraidof her imperious sister, yet she was conscious of a quiver ofresentment. 

"All this fuss about Barney Thayer, " said Hannah Berry. 

"How did you hear about it?" Mrs. Barnard asked with a glance atCharlotte, who was sitting erect with her cheeks very red and hermouth tightly closed. 

"Never mind how I heard, " replied Hannah. "I did hear, an' that'senough. Now I want to know if you're really goin' to set down like anold hen an' give up, an' let this match between Charlotte an' a good, smart, likely young man like Barnabas Thayer be broken off on accountof Cephas Barnard's crazy freaks?"

Sarah stiffened her neck. "There ain't no call for you to speak thatway, Hannah. They got to talkin' over the 'lection. "

"The 'lection! I'd like to know what business they had talkin' aboutit Sabbath night anyway? I ain't blamin' Barnabas so much; he'syounger an' easier stirred up; but Cephas Barnard is an old man, an'he has been a church-member for forty year, an' he ought to knowenough to set a better example. I'd like to know what difference itmakes about the 'lection anyway? What odds does it make which one isPresident if he rules the country well? An' that they can't tell tillthey've tried him awhile anyway. I guess they don't think much aboutthe country; it's jest to have their own way about it. I'd like toknow what mortal difference it's goin' to make to Barney Thayer orCephas Barnard which man is President? He won't never hear of them, an' they won't neither of them make him rule any different after he'schose. It's jest like two little boys--one wants to play marbles'cause the other wants to play puss-in-the-corner, an' that's all thereason either one of 'em's got for standin' out. Men ain't got anytoo much sense anyhow, when you come right down to it. They don'tever get any too much grown up, the best of 'em. I'd like to knowwhat Cephas Barnard has got to say because he's drove a good, likelyyoung man like Barnabas Thayer off an' broke off his daughter'smatch? It ain't likely she'll ever get anybody now; young men likehim, with nice new houses put up to go right to housekeepin' in assoon as they are married, don't grow on every bush. They ain't quiteso thick as wild thimbleberries. An' Charlotte ain't got any moneyherself, an' her father ain't got any to build a house for her. I'dlike to know what he's got to say about it?"

Mrs. Barnard put up her apron and began to weep helplessly. 

"Don't, mother, " said Charlotte, in an undertone. But her motherbegan talking in a piteous wailing fashion. 

"You hadn't ought to talk so about Cephas, " she moaned. "He's myhusband. I guess you wouldn't like it if anybody talked so about yourhusband. Cephas ain't any worse than anybody else. It's jest his way. He wa'n't any more to blame than Barney; they both got to talkin'. Iknow Cephas is terrible upset about it this mornin'; he 'ain't reallysaid so in so many words, but I know by the way he acts. He said thismornin' that he didn't know but we were eatin' the wrong kind offood. Lately he's had an idea that mebbe we'd ought to eat more meat;he's thought it was more strengthenin', an' we'd ought to eat thingsas near like what we wanted to strengthen as could be. I've made agood deal of bone soup. But now he says he thinks mebbe he's beenmistaken, an' animal food kind of quickens the animal nature in us, an' that we'd better eat green things an' garden sass. "

"I guess garden sass will strengthen the other kind of sass thatCephas Barnard has got in him full as much as bone soup has, "interrupted Hannah Berry, with a sarcastic sniff. 

"I dunno but he's right, " said Mrs. Barnard. "Cephas thinks a gooddeal an' looks into things. I kind of wish he'd waited till thegarden had got started, though, for there ain't much we can eat nowbut potatoes an' turnips an' dandelion greens. "

"If you want to live on potatoes an' turnips an' dandelion greens, you can, " cried Hannah Berry; "What I want to know is if you're goin'to settle down an' say nothin', an' have Charlotte lose the bestchance she'll ever have in her life, if she lives to be a hundred--"

Charlotte spoke up suddenly; her blue eyes gleamed with steely light. She held her head high as she faced her aunt. 

"I don't want any more talk about it, Aunt Hannah, " said she. 

"Hey?"

"I don't want any more talk about it. "

"Well, I guess you'll have more talk about it; girls don't get jiltedwithout there is talk generally. I guess you'll have to make up yourmind to it, for all you put on such airs with your own aunt, who lefther washin' an' come over here to take your part. I guess when youstand out in the road half an hour an' call a young man to come back, an' he don't come, that folks are goin' to talk some. Who's thatcomin' now?"

"It's Cephas, " whispered Mrs. Barnard, with a scared glance atCharlotte. 

Cephas Barnard entered abruptly, and stood for a second looking atthe company, while they looked back at him. His eyes were stolidlydefiant, but he stood well back, and almost shrank against the door. There seemed to be impulses in Hannah's and Sylvia's facesconfronting his. 

He turned to his wife. "When you comin' home?" said he. 

"Oh, Cephas! I jest ran over here a minute. I--wanted tosee--if--Sylvy had any emptins. Do you want me an' Charlotte to comenow?"

Cephas turned on his heel. "I think it's about time for you both tobe home, " he grunted. 

Sarah Barnard arose and looked with piteous appeal at Charlotte. 

Charlotte hesitated a second, then she arose without a word, andfollowed her mother, who followed Cephas. They went in a processionof three, with Cephas marching ahead like a general, across the yard, and Sylvia and Hannah stood at a window watching them. 

"Well, " said Hannah Berry, "all I've got to say is I'm thankful I'ain't got a man like that, an' you ought to be mighty thankful you'ain't got any man at all, Sylvy Crane. "

Chapter III

When Cephas Barnard and his wife and daughter turned into the mainroad and came in sight of the new house, not one of them appeared toeven glance at it, yet they all saw at once that there were noworkmen about, and they also saw Barnabas himself ploughing with awhite horse far back in a field at the left of it. 

[Illustration: "They came in sight of the house"]

They all kept on silently. Charlotte paled a little when she caughtsight of Barney, but her face was quite steady. "Hold your dress up alittle higher; the grass is terrible wet, " her mother whispered once, and that was all that any of them said until they reached home. 

Charlotte went at once up-stairs to her own chamber, took off herpurple gown, and hung it up in her closet, and got out a common one. The purple gown was part of her wedding wardrobe, and she had worn itin advance with some misgivings. "I dunno but you might jest as wellwear it a few Sundays, " her mother had said; "you're goin' to haveyour silk dress to come out bride in. I dunno as there's any sense inyour goin' lookin' like a scarecrow all the spring because you'regoin' to get married. "

So Charlotte had put on the new purple dress the day before; now itlooked, as it hung in the closet, like an effigy of her happier self. 

When Charlotte went down-stairs she found her mother showing muchmore spirit than usual in an altercation with her father. SarahBarnard stood before her husband, her placid face all knitted withperplexed remonstrance. "Why, I can't, Cephas, " she said. "Pies can'tbe made that way. "

"I know they can, " said Cephas. 

"They can't, Cephas. There ain't no use tryin'. It would jest be awaste of the flour. "

"Why can't they, I'd like to know?"

"Folks don't ever make pies without lard, Cephas. "

"Why don't they?"

"Why, they wouldn't be nothin' more than-- You couldn't eat themnohow if they was made so, Cephas. I dunno how the sorrel pies wouldwork. I never heard of anybody makin' sorrel pies. Mebbe the Injunsdid; but I dunno as they ever made pies, anyway. Mebbe the sorrel, ifit had some molasses on it for juice, wouldn't taste very bad; Idunno; but anyway, if the sorrel did work, the other wouldn't. Ican't make pies fit to eat without any lard or any butter or anythingany way in the world, Cephas. "

"I know you can make 'em without, " said Cephas, and his black eyeslooked like flint. Mrs. Barnard appealed to her daughter. 

"Charlotte, " said she, "you tell your father that pies can't be madefit to eat without I put somethin' in 'em for short'nin'. "

"No, they can't, father, " said Charlotte. 

"He wants me to make sorrel pies, Charlotte, " Mrs. Barnard went on, in an injured and appealing tone which she seldom used againstCephas. "He's been out in the field, an' picked all that sorrel, " andshe pointed to a pan heaped up with little green leaves on the table, "an' I tell him I dunno how that will work, but he wants me to makethe pie-crust without a mite of short'nin', an' I can't do thatnohow, can I?"

"I don't see how you can, " assented Charlotte, coldly. 

Cephas went with a sudden stride towards the pantry. "I'll make 'emmyself, then, " he cried. 

Mrs. Barnard gasped, and looked piteously at her daughter. "What yougoin' to do, Cephas?" she asked, feebly. 

Cephas was in the pantry rattling the dishes with a fierce din. "I'ma-goin' to make them sorrel pies myself, " he shouted out, "if none ofyou women folks know enough to. "

"Oh, Cephas, you can't!"

Cephas came out, carrying the mixing-board and rolling-pin like ashield and a club; he clapped them heavily on to the table. 

Mrs. Barnard stood staring aghast at him; Charlotte sat down, tooksome lace edging from her pocket, and began knitting on it. Shelooked hard and indifferent. 

"Oh, Charlotte, ain't it dreadful?" her mother whispered, when Cephaswent into the pantry again. 

"I don't care if he makes pies out of burrs, " returned Charlotte, audibly, but her voice was quite even. 

"I don't b'lieve but what sorrel would do some better than burrs, "said her mother, "but he can't make pies without short'nin' nohow. "

Cephas came out of the pantry with a large bowl of flour and a spoon. "He 'ain't sifted it, " Mrs. Barnard whispered to Charlotte, as thoughCephas were not there; then she turned to him. "You sifted the flour, didn't you, Cephas?" said she. 

"You jest let me alone, " said Cephas, grimly. "I'm goin' to makethese pies, an' I don't need any help. I've picked the sorrel, an'I've got the brick oven all heated, an' I know what I want to do, an'I'm goin' to do it!"

"I've got some pumpkin that would make full as good pies as sorrel, Cephas. Mebbe the sorrel will be real good. I ain't sayin' it won't, though I never heard of sorrel pies; but you know pumpkin is good, Cephas. "

"I know pumpkin pies have milk in 'em, " said Cephas; "an' I tell youI ain't goin' to have anything of an animal nature in 'em. I've beenstudyin' into it, an' thinkin' of it, an' I've made up my mind thatI've made a mistake along back, an' we've ate too much animal food. We've ate a whole pig an' half a beef critter this winter, to saynothin' of eggs an' milk, that are jest as much animal as meat, accordin' to my way of thinkin'. I've reasoned it out all along thatas long as we were animals ourselves, an' wanted to strengthenanimal, that it was common-sense that we ought to eat animal. Itseemed to me that nature had so ordered it. I reasoned it out thatother animals besides man lived on animals, except cows, an' they, bein' ruminatin' animals, ain't to be compared to men--"

"I should think we'd be somethin' like 'em if we eat that, " said Mrs. Barnard, pointing at the sorrel, with piteous sarcasm. 

"It's the principle I'm thinkin' about, " said Cephas. He stirred somesalt into the flour very carefully, so not a dust fell over the brimof the bowl. 

"Horses don't eat meat, neither, an' they don't chew their cuds, "Mrs. Barnard argued further. She had never in her life argued withCephas; but sorrel pies, after the night before, made her wildlyreckless. 

Cephas got a gourdful of water from the pail in the sink, and carriedit carefully over to the table. "Horses are the exception, " hereturned, with dignified asperity. "There always are exceptions. WhatI was comin' at was--I'd been kind of wrong in my reasonin'. That is, I 'ain't reasoned far enough. I was right so far as I went. "

Cephas poured some water from the gourd into the bowl of flour andbegan stirring. 

Sarah caught her breath. "He's makin'--paste!" she gasped. "He's jestmakin' flour paste!"

"Jest so far as I went I was right, " Cephas resumed, pouring in alittle more water with a judicial air. "I said Man was animal, an' heis animal; an' if you don't take anything else into account, he'dought to live on animal food, jest the way I reasoned it out. Butyou've got to take something else into account. Man is animal, but heain't all animal. He's something else. He's spiritual. Man hascommand over all the other animals, an' all the beasts of the field;an' it ain't because he's any better an' stronger animal, because heain't. What's a man to a horse, if the horse only knew it? but thehorse don't know it, an' there's jest where Man gets the advantage. It's knowledge an' spirit that gives Man the rule over all the otheranimals. Now, what we want is to eat the kind of things that willstrengthen knowledge an' spirit an' self-control, because the firsttwo ain't any account without the last; but there ain't no kind offood that's known that can do that. If there is, I 'ain't never heardof it. "

Cephas dumped the whole mass of paste with a flop upon themixing-board, and plunged his fists into it. Sarah made aninvoluntary motion forward, then she stood back with a great sigh. 

"But what we can do, " Cephas proceeded, "is to eat the kind of thingsthat won't strengthen the animal nature at the expense of thespiritual. We know that animal food does that; we can see how itworks in tigers an' bears. Now, it's the spiritual part of us we wantto strengthen, because that is the biggest strength we can get, an'it's worth more. It's what gives us the rule over animals. It'sbetter for us to eat some other kind of food, if we get real weak andpindlin' on it, rather than eat animal food an' make the animal in usstronger than the spiritual, so we won't be any better than wildtigers an' bears, an' lose our rule over the other animals. "

Cephas took the rolling-pin and brought it heavily down upon thesticky mass on the board. Sarah shuddered and started as if it hadhit her. "Now, if we can't eat animal food, " said Cephas, "what otherkind of food can we eat? There ain't but one other kind that's knownto man, an' that's vegetable food, the product of the earth. An'that's of two sorts: one gets ripe an' fit to eat in the fall of theyear, an' the other comes earlier in the spring an' summer. Now, inorder to carry out the plans of nature, we'd ought to eat theseproducts of the earth jest as near as we can in the season of 'em. Some had ought to be eat in the fall an' winter, an' some in thespring an' summer. Accordin' to my reasonin', if we all lived thisway we should be a good deal better off; our spiritual natures wouldbe strengthened, an' we should have more power over other animals, an' better dispositions ourselves. "

"I've seen horses terribly ugly, an' they don't eat a mite of meat, "said Sarah, with tremulous boldness. Her right hand kept movingforward to clutch the rolling-pin, then she would draw it back. 

"'Ain't I told ye once horses were the exceptions?" said Cephas, severely. "There has to be exceptions. If there wa'n't any exceptionsthere couldn't be any rule, an' there bein' exceptions shows there isa rule. Women can't ever get hold of things straight. Their mindsslant off sideways, the way their arms do when they fling a stone. "

Cephas brought the rolling-pin down upon the paste again with fierceimpetus. "You'll break it, " Sarah murmured, feebly. Cephas brought itdown again, his mouth set hard; his face showed a red flush throughhis white beard, the veins on his high forehead were swollen and hisbrows scowling. The paste adhered to the rolling-pin; he raised itwith an effort; his hands were helplessly sticky. Sarah couldrestrain herself no longer. She went into the pantry and got a dishof flour, and spooned out some suddenly over the board and Cephas'shands. "You've got to have some more flour, " she said, in a desperatetone. 

Cephas's black eyes flashed at her. "I wish you would attend to yourown work, an' leave me alone, " said he. But at last he succeeded inmoving the rolling-pin over the dough as he had seen his wife moveit. 

"He ain't greasin' the pie-plates, " said Sarah, as Cephas brought apiece of dough with a dexterous jerk over a plate; "there ain't muchanimal in the little mite of lard it takes to grease a plate. "

Cephas spread handfuls of sorrel leaves over the dough; then hebrought the molasses-jug from the pantry, raised it, and pouredmolasses over the sorrel with an imperturbable air. 

Sarah watched him; then she turned to Charlotte. "To think of eatin'it!" she groaned, quite openly; "it looks like p'ison. "

Charlotte made no response; she knitted as one of the Fates mighthave spun. Sarah sank down on a chair, and looked away from Cephasand his cookery, as if she were overcome, and quite done with allremonstrance. 

Never before had she shown so much opposition towards one of herhusband's hobbies, but this galloped so ruthlessly over her ownfamiliar fields that she had plucked up boldness to try to veer itaway. 

Somebody passed the window swiftly, the door opened abruptly, andMrs. Deborah Thayer entered. "_Good_-mornin', " said she, and hervoice rang out like a herald's defiance. 

Sarah Barnard arose, and went forward quickly. "Good-mornin', " sheresponded, with nervous eagerness. "Good-mornin', Mis' Thayer. Comein an' set down, won't you?"

"I 'ain't come to set down, " responded Deborah's deep voice. 

She moved, a stately high-hipped figure, her severe face almostconcealed in a scooping green barège hood, to the centre of thefloor, and stood there with a pose that might have answered for astatue of Judgment. She turned her green-hooded head slowly towardsthem all in turn. Sarah watched her and waited, her eyes dilated. Cephas rolled out another pie, calmly. Charlotte knitted fast; herface was very pale. 

"I've come over here, " said Deborah Thayer, "to find out what my sonhas done. "

There was not a sound, except the thud of Cephas's rolling-pin. 

"Mr. Barnard!" said Deborah. Cephas did not seem to hear her. 

"Mr. Barnard!" she said, again. There was that tone of command in hervoice which only a woman can accomplish. It was full of that maternalsupremacy which awakens the first instinct of obedience in man, andhas more weight than the voice of a general in battle. Cephas did notturn his head, but he spoke. "What is it ye want?" he said, gruffly. 

"I want to know what my son has done, an' I want you to tell me in somany words. I ain't afraid to face it. What has my son done?"

Cephas grunted something inarticulate. 

"What?" said Deborah. "I can't hear what you say. I want to know whatmy son has done. I've heard how you turned him out of your house lastnight, and I want to know what it was for. I want to know what he hasdone. You're an old man, and a God-fearing one, if you have got yourown ideas about some things. Barnabas is young, and apt to beheadstrong. He ain't always been as mindful of obedience as he mightbe. I've tried to do my best by him, but he don't always carry out myteachin's. I ain't afraid to say this, if he is my son. I want toknow what he's done. If it's anything wrong, I shall be jest as hardon him as the Lord for it. I'm his mother, but I can see his faults, and be just. I want to know what he has done. "

Charlotte gave one great cry. "Oh, Mrs. Thayer, he hasn't doneanything wrong; Barney hasn't done anything wrong!"

But Deborah quite ignored her. She kept her eyes fixed upon Cephas. "What has my son done?" she demanded again. "If he's done anythingwrong I want to know it. I ain't afraid to deal with him. You orderedhim out of your house, and he didn't come home at all last night. Idon't know where he was. He won't speak a word this mornin' to tellme. I've been out in the field where he's to work ploughin', and Itried to make him tell me, but he wouldn't say a word. I sat up andwaited all night, but he didn't come home. Now I want to know wherehe was, and what he's done, and why you ordered him out of the house. If he's been swearin', or takin' anything that didn't belong to him, or drinkin', I want to know it, so I can deal with him as his motherhad ought to deal. "

"He hasn't been doing anything wrong!" Charlotte cried out again;"you ought to be ashamed of yourself talking so about him, whenyou're his mother!"

Deborah Thayer never glanced at Charlotte. She kept her eyes fixedupon Cephas. "What has he done?" she repeated. 

"I guess he didn't do much of anything, " Mrs. Barnard murmured, feebly; but Deborah did not seem to hear her. 

Cephas opened his mouth as if perforce. "Well, " he said, slowly, "wegot to talkin'--"

"Talkin' about what?"

"About the 'lection. I think, accordin' to my reasonin', that what weeat had a good deal to do with it. "

"What?"

"I think if you'd kept your family on less meat, and given 'em moregarden-stuff to eat Barney wouldn't have been so up an' comin'. It'swhat he's eat that's made him what he is. "

Deborah stared at Cephas in stern amazement. "You're tryin' to makeout, as near as I can tell, " said she, "that whatever my son has donewrong is due to what he's eat, and not to original sin. I knew youhad queer ideas, Cephas Barnard, but I didn't know you wa'n't soundin your faith. What I want to know is, what has he done?"

Suddenly Charlotte sprang up, and pushed herself in between herfather and Mrs. Thayer; she confronted Deborah, and compelled her tolook at her. 

"I'll tell you what he's done, " she said, fiercely. "I know what he'sdone; you listen to me. He has done nothing--nothing that you've gotto deal with him for. You needn't feel obliged to deal with him. Heand father got into a talk over the 'lection, and they had wordsabout it. He didn't talk any worse than father, not a mite. Fatherstarted it, anyway, and he knew better; he knew just how set Barneywas on his own side, and how set he was on his; he wanted to pick aquarrel. "

"Charlotte!" shouted Cephas. 

"You keep still, father, " returned Charlotte, with steady fierceness. "I've never set myself up against you in my whole life before; butnow I'm going to, because it's just and right. Father wanted to picka quarrel, " she repeated, turning to Deborah; "he's been kind ofgrouty to Barney for some time. I don't know why; he took a notionto, I suppose. When they got to having words about the 'lection, father begun it. I heard him. Barney answered back, and I didn'tblame him; I would, in his place. Then father ordered him out of thehouse, and he went. I don't see what else he could do. And I don'tblame him because he didn't go home if he didn't feel like it. "

"Didn't he go away from here before nine o'clock?" demanded Deborah, addressing Charlotte at last. 

"Yes, he did, some time before nine; he had plenty of time to go homeif he wanted to. "

"Where was he, then, I'd like to know?"

"I don't know, and I wouldn't lift my finger to find out. I am notafraid he was anywhere he hadn't ought to be, nor doin' anything hehadn't ought to. "

"Didn't you stand out in the road and call him back, and he wouldn'tcome, nor even turn his head to look at you?" asked Deborah. 

"Yes, I did, " returned Charlotte, unflinchingly. "And I don't blamehim for not coming back and not turning his head. I wouldn't if I'dbeen in his place. "

"You'll have to uphold him a long time, then; I can tell you that, "said Deborah. "He won't never come back if he's said he won't. I knowhim; he's got some of me in him. "

"I'll uphold him as long as I live, " said Charlotte. 

"I wonder you ain't ashamed to talk so. "

"I am not. "

Deborah looked at Charlotte as if she would crush her; then sheturned away. 

"You're a hard woman, Mrs. Thayer, and I pity Barney because he's gotyou for a mother, " Charlotte said, in undaunted response to Deborah'slook. 

"Well, you'll never have to pity yourself on that account, " retortedDeborah, without turning her head. 

The door opened softly, and a girl of about Charlotte's age slippedin. Nobody except Mrs. Barnard, who said, absently, "How do you do, Rose?" seemed to notice her. She sat down unobtrusively in a chairnear the door and waited. Her blue eyes upon the others were sointense with excitement that they seemed to blot out the rest of herface. She had her blue apron tightly rolled about both hands. 

Deborah Thayer, on her way to the door, looked at her as if she hadbeen a part of the wall, but suddenly she stopped and cast a glanceat Cephas. "What be you makin'?" she asked, with a kind of scorn athim, and scorn at her own curiosity. 

Cephas did not reply, but he looked ugly as he slapped another pieceof dough heavily upon a plate. 

Deborah, as if against her will, moved closer to the table and bentover the pan of sorrel. She smelled of it; then she took a leaf andtasted it, cautiously. She made a wry face. "It's sorrel, " said she. "You're makin' pies out of sorrel. A man makin' pies out of sorrel!"

She looked at Cephas like a condemning judge. He shot a fiery glanceat her, but said nothing. He sprinkled the sorrel leaves in the pie. 

"Well, " said Deborah, "I've got a sense of justice, and if my son, orany other man, has asked a girl to marry him, and she's got herweddin' clothes ready, I believe in his doin' his duty, if he can bemade to; but I must say if it wa'n't for that, I'd rather he'd goneinto a family that was more like other folks. I'm goin' to do thebest I can, whether you go half way or not. I'm goin' to try to makemy son do his duty. I don't expect he will, but I shall do all I can, tempers or no tempers, and sorrel pies or no sorrel pies. "

Deborah went out, and shut the door heavily after her. 

Chapter IV

After Deborah Thayer had shut the door, the young girl sitting besideit arose. "I didn't know she was in here, or I wouldn't have comein, " she said, nervously. 

"That don't make any odds, " replied Mrs. Barnard, who was tremblingall over, and had sunk helplessly into a rocking-chair, which sheswayed violently and unconsciously. 

Cephas opened the door of the brick oven, and put in a batch of hispies, and the click of the iron latch made her start as if it were apistol-shot. 

Charlotte got up and went out of the room with a backward glance anda slight beckoning motion of her head, and the girl slunk after herso secretly that it seemed as if she did not see herself. Cephaslooked sharply after them, but said nothing; he was like aphilosopher in such a fury of research and experiment that for thetime he heeded thoroughly nothing else. 

The young girl, who was Rose Berry, Charlotte's cousin, followed herpanting up the steep stairs to her chamber. She was a slender littlecreature, and was now overwrought with nervous excitement. She fairlygasped for breath when she sat down in the little wooden chair inCharlotte's room. Charlotte sat on the bed. The two girls looked ateach other--Rose with a certain wary alarm and questioning in hereyes, Charlotte with a dignified confidence of misery. 

"I didn't sleep here last night, " Charlotte said, at length. 

"You went over to Aunt Sylvy's, didn't you?" returned Rose, as ifthat were all the matter in hand. 

Charlotte nodded, then she looked moodily past her cousin's face outof the window. 

"You've heard about it, I suppose?" said Charlotte. 

"Something, " replied Rose, evasively. 

"I don't see how it got out, for my part. I don't believe he toldanybody. "

Rose flushed all over her little eager face and her thin neck. Sheopened her mouth as if to speak, then shut it with a catch of herbreath. 

"I can't imagine how it got out, " repeated Charlotte. 

Rose looked at Charlotte with a painful effort; she clutched herhands tightly into fists as she spoke. "I was coming up here 'crosslots last night, and I heard you out in the road calling Barney, " shesaid, as if she forced out the words. 

"Rose Berry, you didn't tell!"

"I went home and told mother, that's all. I didn't think that itwould do any harm, Charlotte. "

"It'll be all over town, that's all. It's bad enough, anyway. "

"I don't believe it'll get out; I told mother not to tell. "

"Mrs. Thayer knew. "

"Maybe Barney told her. "

"Rose Berry, you know better. You know Barney wouldn't do such athing. "

"No; I don't s'pose he would. "

"Don't suppose! Don't you know?"

"Yes, of course I do. I know Barney just as well as you do, Charlotte. Oh, Charlotte, don't feel bad. I wouldn't have told motherif I'd thought. I didn't mean to do any harm. I was all upset myselfby it. Don't cry, Charlotte. "

"I ain't going to cry, " said Charlotte, with spirit. "I've stoppedcryin'. " She wiped her eyes forcibly with her apron, and gave herhead a proud toss. "I know you didn't mean to do any harm, Rose, andI suppose it would have got out anyway. 'Most everything does get outbut good deeds. "

"I truly didn't mean to do any harm, Charlotte, " Rose repeated. 

"I know you didn't. We won't say any more about it. "

"I was just running over across lots last night, " Rose said. "Isupposed you'd be in the front room with Barney, but I thought I'dsee Aunt Sarah. I'd got terrible lonesome; mother had gone to sleepin her chair, and father had gone to bed. When I got out by thestone-wall next the wood I heard you; then I ran right back. Don'tyou--suppose he'll ever come again, Charlotte?"

"No, " said Charlotte. 

"Oh, Charlotte!" There was a curious quality in the girl's voice, asif some great hidden emotion in her heart tried to leap to thesurface and make a sound, although it was totally at variance withthe import of her cry. Charlotte started, without knowing why. It wasas if Rose's words and her tone had different meanings, andconflicted like the wrong lines with a tune. 

"I gave it up last night, " said Charlotte. "It's all over. I'm goin'to pack my wedding things away. "

"I don't see what makes you so sure. "

"I know him. "

"But I don't see what you've done, Charlotte; he didn't quarrel withyou. "

"That don't make any odds. He can't get married to me now without hebreaks his will, and he can't. He can't get outside himself enough tobreak it. I've studied it all out. It's like ciphering. It's allover. "

"Charlotte. "

"What is it?"

"Why--couldn't you go somewhere else to get married? What's the needof his comin' here, if he's been ordered out, and he's said hewouldn't?"

"That's just the letter of it, " returned Charlotte, scornfully. "Doyou suppose he could cheat himself that way, or I'd have him if hecould? When Barney Thayer went out of this house last night, and saidwhat he did, he meant that it was all over, that he was never goingto marry me, nor have anything more to do with us, and he's going tostand by it. I am not finding any fault with him. I've made up mymind that it's all over, and I'm going to pack away my weddin'things. "

"Oh, Charlotte, you take it so calm!"

"What do you want me to do?"

"If it was anybody else, I should think they didn't care. "

"Maybe I don't. "

"I couldn't bear it so, anyhow! I couldn't!" Rose cried out, withsudden passion. "I wouldn't bear it. I'd go down on my knees to himto come back!" Rose flung back her head and looked at Charlotte witha curious defiance; her face grew suddenly intense, and seemed toopen out into bloom and color like a flower. The pupils of her blueeyes dilated until they looked black; her thin lips looked full andred; her cheeks were flaming; her slender chest heaved. "I would, "said she; "I don't care, I would. "

Charlotte looked at her, and a quivering flush like a reflection wasleft on her fair, steady face. 

"I would, " said Rose again. 

"It wouldn't do any good. "

"It would if he cared anything about you. "

"It would if he could give up to the care. Barney Thayer has got aterrible will that won't always let him do what he wants to himself. "

"I don't believe he's enough of a fool to put his own eyes out. "

"You don't know him. "

"I'd try, anyway. "

"It wouldn't do any good. "

"I don't believe you care anything about him, Charlotte Barnard!"Rose cried out. "If you did, you couldn't give him up so easy forsuch a silly thing. You sit there just as calm. I don't believe butwhat you'll have another fellow on the string in a month. I know onethat's dying to get you. "

"Maybe I shall, " replied Charlotte. 

"Won't you, now?" Rose tried to speak archly, but her eyes werefiercely eager. 

"I can't tell till I get home from the grave, " said Charlotte. "Youmight wait till I did, Rose. " She got up and went to dusting herbureau and the little gilt-framed mirror behind it. Her lips wereshut tightly, and she never looked at her cousin. 

"Now don't get mad, Charlotte, " Rose said. "Maybe I ought not to havespoken so, but it did seem to me you couldn't care as _much_-- Itdoes seem to me I couldn't settle down and be so calm if I was inyour place, and all ready to be married to anybody. I should want todo something. "

"I should, if there was anything to do, " said Charlotte. She stoppeddusting and leaned against the wall, reflecting. "I wish it was areal mountain to move, " said she; "I'd do it. "

"I'd go right down in the field where he is ploughing, and I'd makehim say he'd come to see me to-night. "

"I called him back last night--you heard me, " said Charlotte, withslow bitterness. Her square delicate chin dipped into the muslinfolds of her neckerchief; she looked steadily at the floor and benther brow. 

"I'd call him again. "

"You would, would you?" cried Charlotte, straightening herself. "Youwould stand out in the road and keep on calling a man who wouldn'teven turn his head? You'd keep on calling, and let all the townhear?"

"Yes, I would. I would! I wouldn't be ashamed of anything if I wasgoing to marry him. I'd go on my knees before him in the face andeyes of the whole town. "

"Well, I wouldn't, " said Charlotte. 

"I would, if I was sure he thought as much of me as I did of him. "

Charlotte looked at her proudly. "I'm sure enough of that, " said she. 

Rose winced a little. "Then I wouldn't mind what I did, " shepersisted, stubbornly. 

"Well, I would, " said Charlotte; "but maybe I don't care. Maybe allthis isn't as hard for me as it would be for another girl. "Charlotte's voice broke, but she tossed her head back with a proudmotion; she took up the dusting-cloth and fell to work again. 

"Oh, Charlotte!" said Rose; "I didn't mean that. Of course I know youcare. It's awful. It was only because I didn't see how you could seemso calm; it ain't like me. Of course I know you feel bad enoughunderneath. Your wedding-clothes all done and everything. They arepretty near all done, ain't they, Charlotte?"

"Yes, " said Charlotte. "They're--pretty near--done. " She tried tospeak steadily, but her voice failed. Suddenly she threw herself onthe bed and hid her face, and her whole body heaved and twisted withgreat sobs. 

"Oh, poor Charlotte, don't!" Rose cried, wringing her own hands; herface quivered, but she did not weep. 

"Maybe I don't care, " sobbed Charlotte; "maybe--I don't care. "

"Oh, Charlotte!" Rose looked at Charlotte's piteous girlish shouldersshaken with sobs, and the fair prostrate girlish head. Charlotte alldrawn up in this little heap upon the bed looked very young andhelpless. All her womanly stateliness, which made her seem sosuperior to Rose, had vanished. Rose pulled her chair close to thebed, sat down, and laid her little thin hand on Charlotte's arm, andCharlotte directly felt it hot through her sleeve. "Don't, Charlotte, " Rose said; "I'm sorry I spoke so. "

"Maybe I don't care, " Charlotte sobbed out again. "Maybe I don't. "

"Oh, Charlotte, I'm sorry, " Rose said, trembling. "I do know youcare; don't you feel so bad because I said that. "

Rose tightened her grasp on Charlotte's arm; her voice changedsuddenly. "Look here, Charlotte, " said she, "I'll do anything in theworld I can to help you; I promise you that, and I mean it, honest. "

Charlotte reached around a hand, and clasped her cousin's. 

"I'm sorry I spoke so, " Rose said. 

"Never mind, " Charlotte responded, chokingly. She sobbed a littlelonger from pure inertia of grief; then she raised herself, shakingoff Rose's hand. "It's all right, " said she; "I needn't have minded;I know you didn't mean anything. It was just--the last straw, and--when you said that about my wedding-clothes--"

"Oh, Charlotte, you did speak about them yourself first, " Rose said, deprecatingly. 

"I did, so nobody else would, " returned Charlotte. She wiped hereyes, drooping her stained face away from her cousin with a kind ofhelpless shame; then she smoothed her hair with the palms of herhands. "I know you didn't mean any harm, Rose, " she added, presently. "I got my silk dress done last Wednesday; I wanted to tell you. "Charlotte tried to smile at Rose with her poor swollen lips and herreddened eyes. 

"I'm sorry I said anything, " Rose repeated; "I ought to have known itwould make you feel bad, Charlotte. "

"No, you hadn't. I was terrible silly. Don't you want to see mydress, Rose?"

"Oh, Charlotte! you don't want to show it to me?"

"Yes, I do. I want you to see it--before I pack it away. It's in thenorth chamber. "

Rose followed Charlotte out of the room across the passageway to thenorth chamber. Charlotte had had one brother, who had died some tenyears before, when he was twenty. The north chamber had been hisroom, the bureau drawers were packed with his clothes, and the silkhat which had been the pride of his early manhood hung on the nailwhere he had left it, and also his Sunday coat. His mother would nothave them removed, but kept them there, with frequent brushings, toguard against dust and moths. 

Always when Charlotte entered this small long room, which was full ofwavering lines from its uneven floor and walls and ceiling and thelong arabesques on its old blue-and-white paper, whose green papercurtains with fringed white dimity ones drooping over them werealways drawn, and in summertime when the windows were open undulatedin the wind, she had the sense of a presence, dim, but as positive asthe visions she had used to have of faces in the wandering design ofthe old wall-paper when she had studied it in her childhood. Eversince her brother's death she had had this sense of his presence inhis room; now she thought no more of it than of any familiar figure. All the grief at his death had vanished, but she never entered hisold room that the thought of him did not rise up before her and staywith her while she remained. 

Now, when she opened the door, and the opposite green and whitecurtains flew out in the draught towards her, they were no moreevident than this presence to which she now gave no thought, andpushed by her brother's memory without a glance. 

Rose followed her to the bed. A white linen sheet was laid over thechintz counterpane. Charlotte lifted the sheet. 

"I took the last stitch on it Wednesday night, " she said, in a hushedvoice. 

"Didn't he come that night?"

"I finished it before he came. "

"Did he see it?"

Charlotte nodded. The two girls stood looking solemnly at the silkdress. 

"You can't see it here; it's too dark, " said Charlotte, and sherolled up a window curtain. 

"Yes, I can see better, " said Rose, in a whisper. "It's beautiful, Charlotte. "

The dress was spread widely over the bed in crisp folds. It waspurple, plaided vaguely with cloudy lines of white and delicaterose-color. Over it lay a silvery lustre that was the very light ofthe silken fabric. 

Rose felt it reverently. "How thick it is!" said she. 

"Yes, it's a good piece, " Charlotte replied. 

"You thought you'd have purple?"

"Yes, he liked it. "

"Well, it's pretty, and it's becoming to you. "

Charlotte took up the skirt, and slipped it, loud with silkenwhispers, over her head. It swept out around her in a great circle;she looked like a gorgeous inverted bell-flower. 

"It's beautiful, " Rose said. 

Charlotte's face, gazing downward at the silken breadths, had quiteits natural expression. It was as if her mind in spite of herselfwould stop at old doors. 

"Try on the waist, " pleaded Rose. 

Charlotte slipped off her calico waist, and thrust her firm whitearms into the flaring silken sleeves of the wedding-gown. Her neckarose from it with a grand curve. She stood before the glass andstrained the buttons together, frowning importantly. 

"It fits you like a glove, " Rose murmured, admiringly, smoothingCharlotte's glossy back. 

"I've got a spencer-cape to wear over my neck to meeting, " Charlottesaid, and she opened the upper-most drawer in the chest and took outa worked muslin cape, and adjusted it carefully over her shoulders, pinning it across her bosom with a little brooch of her brother'shair in a rim of gold. 

"It's elegant, " said Rose. 

"I'll show you my bonnet, " said Charlotte. She went into a closet andemerged with a great green bandbox. 

Rose bent over, watching her breathlessly as she opened it. "Oh!" shecried. "Oh, Charlotte!"

Charlotte held up the bonnet of fine Dunstable straw, flaring infront, and trimmed under the brim with a delicate lace ruche and awreath of feathery white flowers. Bows of white gauze ribbon stood upfrom it stiffly. Long ribbon strings floated back over her arm as sheheld it up. 

"Try it on, " said Rose. 

Charlotte stepped before the glass and adjusted the bonnet to herhead. She tied the strings carefully under her chin in a great squarebow; then she turned towards Rose. The fine white wreath under thebrim encircled her face like a nimbus; she looked as she might havedone sitting a bride in the meeting-house. 

"It's beautiful, " Rose said, smiling, with grave eyes. "You look realhandsome in it, Charlotte. " Charlotte stood motionless a moment, withRose surveying her. 

"Oh, Charlotte, " Rose cried out, suddenly, "I don't believe but whatyou'll have him, after all!" Rose's eyes were sharp upon Charlotte'sface. It was as if the bridal robes, which were so evident, becamesuddenly proofs of something tangible and real, like a garment leftby a ghost. Rose felt a sudden conviction that the quarrel was but atemporary thing; that Charlotte would marry Barney, and that she knewit. 

A change came over Charlotte's face. She began untying the bonnetstrings. 

"Sha'n't you?" repeated Rose, breathlessly. 

"No, I sha'n't. "

Charlotte took the bonnet off and smoothed the creases carefully outof the strings. 

"If I were you, " Rose cried out, "I'd feel like tearing that bonnetto pieces!"

Charlotte replaced it in the bandbox, and began unfastening herdress. 

"I don't see how you can bear the sight of them. I don't believe Icould bear them in the house!" Rose cried out again. "I would putthat dress in the rag-bag if it was mine!" Her cheeks burned and hereyes were quite fierce upon the dress as Charlotte slipped it off andit fell to the floor in a rustling heap around her. 

"I don't see any sense in losing everything you have ever had becauseyou haven't got anything now, " Charlotte returned, in a stern voice. She laid the shining silk gown carefully on the bed, and put on hercotton one again. Her face was quite steady. 

Rose watched her with the same sharp question in her eyes. "You knowyou and Barney will make it up, " she said, at length. 

"No, I don't, " returned Charlotte. "Suppose we go down-stairs now. I've got some work I ought to do. "

Charlotte pulled down the green paper shades of the windows, and wentout of the room. Rose followed. Charlotte turned to go down-stairs, but Rose caught her arm. 

"Wait a minute, " said she. "Look here, Charlotte. "

"What is it?"

"Charlotte, " said Rose again; then she stopped. 

Charlotte turned and looked at her. Rose's eyes met hers, and herface had a noble expression. 

"You write a note to him, and I'll carry it, " said Rose. "I'll godown in the field where he is, on my way home. "

Tears sprang into Charlotte's eyes. "You're real good, Rose, " shesaid; "but I can't. "

"Hadn't you better?"

"No; I can't. Don't let's talk any more about it. "

Charlotte pushed past Rose's detaining hand, and the girls wentdown-stairs. Mrs. Barnard looked around dejectedly at them as theyentered the kitchen. Her eyes were red, and her mouth drooping; shewas clearing the débris of the pies from the table; there was a smellof baking, but Cephas had gone out. She tried to smile at Rose. "Areyou goin' now?" said she. 

"Yes; I've got to. I've got to sew on my muslin dress. When are youcoming over, Aunt Sarah? You haven't been over to our house for anage. "

"I don't care if I never go anywhere!" cried Sarah Barnard, withsudden desperation. "I'm discouraged. " She sank in a chair, and flungher apron over her face. 

"Don't, mother, " said Charlotte. 

"I can't help it, " sobbed her mother. "You're young and you've gotmore strength to bear it, but mine's all gone. I feel worse about youthan if it was myself, an' there's so much to put up with besides. Idon't feel as if I could put up with things much longer, nohow. "

"Uncle Cephas ought to be ashamed of himself!" Rose cried out. 

Sarah stood up. "Well, I don't s'pose I have so much to put up withas some folks, " she said, catching her breath as if it were herdignity. "Your Uncle Cephas means well. It did seem as if them sorrelpies were the last straw, but I hadn't ought to have minded it. "

"You haven't got to eat sorrel pies, have you?" Rose asked, in abewildered way. 

"I don't s'pose they'll be any worse than some other things we eat, "Sarah answered, scraping the pie-board again. 

"I don't see how you can. "

"I guess they won't hurt us any, " Sarah said, shortly, and Roselooked abashed. 

"Well, I must be going, " said she. 

As she went out, she looked hesitatingly at Charlotte. "Hadn't youbetter?" she whispered. Charlotte shook her head, and Rose went outinto the spring sunlight. She bent her head as she went down the roadbefore the sweet gusts of south wind; the white apple-trees seemed tosing, for she could not see the birds in them. 

Rose's face between the green sides of her bonnet had in it all thequickened bloom of youth in spring; her eyes had all the bluesurprise of violets; she panted softly between red swelling lips asshe walked; pulses beat in her crimson cheeks. Her slender figureyielded to the wind as to a lover. She passed Barney Thayer's newhouse; then she came opposite the field where he was at workploughing, driving a white horse, stooping to his work in his bluefrock. 

Rose stood still and looked at him; then she walked on a little way;then she paused again. Barney never looked around at her. There wasthe width of a field between them. 

Finally Rose went through the open bars into the first field. Shecrossed it slowly, holding up her skirts where there was a wet gleamthrough darker grass, and getting a little nosegay of violets with abusy air, as if that were what she had come for. She passed throughthe other bars into the second field, and Barney was only a littleway from her. He did not glance at her then. He was ploughing withthe look that Cadmus might have worn preparing the ground for thedragon's teeth. 

Rose held up her skirts, and went along the furrows behind him. "Hullo, Barney, " she said, in a trembling voice. 

"Hullo, " he returned, without looking around, and he kept on, withRose following. 

"Barney, " said she, timidly. 

"Well?" said Barney, half turning, with a slight show of courtesy. 

"Do you know if Rebecca is at home?"

"I don't know whether she is or not. "

Barney held stubbornly to his rocking plough, and Rose followed. 

"Barney, " said she, again. 

"Well?"

"Stop a minute, and look round here. "

"I can't stop to talk. "

"Yes, you can; just a minute. Look round here. "

Barney stopped, and turned a stern, miserable face over his shoulder. 

"I've been up to Charlotte's, " Rose said. 

"I don't know what that is to me. "

"Barney Thayer, ain't you ashamed of yourself?"

"I can't stop to talk. "

"Yes, you can. Look here. Charlotte feels awfully. "

Barney stood with his back to Rose; his very shoulders had a doggedlook. 

"Barney, why don't you make up with her?"

Barney stood still. 

"Barney, she feels awfully because you didn't come back when shecalled you last night. "

Barney made no reply. He and the white horse stood like statues. 

"Barney, why don't you make up with her? I wish you would. " Rose'svoice was full of tender inflections; it might have been that of anangel peace-making. 

Barney turned around between the handles of the plough, and looked ather steadily. "You don't know anything about it, Rose, " he said. 

Rose looked up in his face, and her own was full of fine pleading. "Oh, Barney, " she said, "poor Charlotte does feel so bad! I know thatanyhow. "

"You don't know how I am situated. I can't--"

"Do go and see her, Barney. "

"Do you think I'm going into Cephas Barnard's house after he'sordered me out?"

"Go up the road a little way, and she'll come and meet you. I'll runahead and tell her. "

Barney shook his head. "I can't; you don't know anything about it, Rose. " He looked into Rose's eyes. "You're real good, Rose, " he said, as if with a sudden recognition of her presence. 

Rose blushed softly, a new look came into her eyes, she smiled up athim, and her face was all pink and sweet and fully set towards him, like a rose for which he was a sun. 

"No, I ain't good, " she whispered. 

"Yes, you are; but I can't. You don't know anything about it. " Heswung about and grasped his plough-handles again. 

"Barney, do stop a minute, " Rose pleaded. 

"I can't stop any longer; there's no use talking, " Barney said; andhe went on remorselessly through the opening furrow. Just before heturned the corner Rose made a little run forward and caught his arm. 

"You don't think I've done anything out of the way speaking to youabout it, do you, Barney?" she said, and she was half crying. 

"I don't know why I should think you had; I suppose you meant allright, " Barney said. He pulled his arm away softly, and jerked theright rein to turn the horse. "G'lang!" he cried out, and strodeforward with a conclusive air. 

Rose stood looking after him a minute; then she struck off across thefield. Her knees trembled as she stepped over the soft plough-ridges. 

When she was out on the road again she went along quickly until shecame to the Thayer house. She was going past that when she heard someone calling her name, and turned to see who it was. 

Rebecca Thayer came hurrying out of the yard with a basket on herarm. "Wait a minute, " she called, "and I'll go along with you. "

Chapter V

Rebecca, walking beside Rose, looked like a woman of another race. She was much taller, and her full, luxuriant young figure lookedtropical beside Rose's slender one. Her body undulated as she walked, but Rose moved only with forward flings of delicate limbs. 

"I've got to carry these eggs down to the store and get some sugar, "said Rebecca. 

Rose assented, absently. She was full of the thought of her talk withBarney. 

"It's a pleasant day, ain't it?" said Rebecca. 

"Yes, it's real pleasant. Say, Rebecca, I'm awful afraid I madeBarney mad just now. "

"Why, what did you do?"

"I stopped in the field when I was going by. I'd been up to seeCharlotte, and I said something about it to him. "

"How much do you know about it?" Rebecca asked, abruptly. 

"Charlotte told me this mornin', and last night when I was going toher house across lots I saw Barney going, and heard her calling himback. I thought I'd see if I couldn't coax him to make up with her, but I couldn't. "

"Oh, he'll come round, " said Rebecca. 

"Then you think it'll be made up?" Rose asked, quickly. 

"Of course it will. We're having a terrible time about poor Barney. He didn't come home last night, and it's much as ever he's spokenthis morning. He wouldn't eat any breakfast. He just went into hisroom, and put on his other clothes, and then went out in the field towork. He wouldn't tell mother anything about it. I never saw her soworked up. She's terribly afraid he's done something wrong. "

"He hasn't done anything wrong, " returned Rose. "I think your motheris terrible hard on him. It's Uncle Cephas; he just picked thequarrel. He hasn't never more'n half liked Barney. So you thinkBarney will make up with Charlotte, and they'll get married, afterall?"

"Of course they will, " Rebecca replied, promptly. "I guess they won'tbe such fools as not to for such a silly reason as that, whenBarney's got his house 'most done, and Charlotte has got all herwedding-clothes ready. "

"Ain't Barney terrible set?"

"He's set enough, but I guess you'll find he won't be this time. "

"Well, I'm sure I hope he won't be, " Rose said, and she walked alongsilently, her face sober in the depths of her bonnet. 

They came to Richard Alger's house on the right-hand side of theroad, and Rebecca looked reflectively at the white cottage with itssteep peak of Gothic roof set upon a ploughed hill. "It's queer howhe's been going with your aunt Sylvy all these years, " she said. 

"Yes, 'tis, " assented Rose, and she too glanced up at the house. Asthey looked, a man came around the corner with a basket. He was aboutto plant potatoes in his hilly yard. 

"There he is now, " said Rose. 

They watched Richard Alger coming towards them, past a great treewhose new leaves were as red as flowers. 

"What do you suppose the reason is?" Rebecca said, in a low voice. 

"I don't know. I suppose he's got used to living this way. "

"I shouldn't think they'd be very happy, " Rebecca said; and sheblushed, and her voice had a shamefaced tone. 

"I don't suppose it makes so much difference when folks get older, "Rose returned. 

"Maybe it don't. Rose. "

"What is it?"

"I wish you'd go into the store with me. "

Rose laughed. "What for?"

"Nothing. Only I wish you would. "

"You afraid of William?" Rose peered around into Rebecca's bonnet. 

Rebecca blushed until tears came to her eyes. "I'd like to know whatI'd be afraid of William Berry for, " she replied. 

"Then what do you want me to go into the store with you for?"

"Nothing. "

"You're a great ninny, Rebecca Thayer, " Rose said, laughing, "butI'll go if you want me to. I know William won't like it. You run awayfrom him the whole time. There isn't another girl in Pembroke treatshim as badly as you do. "

"I don't treat him badly. "

"Yes, you do. And I don't believe but what you like him, RebeccaThayer; you wouldn't act so silly if you didn't. "

Rebecca was silent. Rose peered around in her face again. "I was onlyjoking. I think a sight more of you for not running after him, and sodoes William. You haven't any idea how some of the girls act chasingto the store. Mother and I have counted 'em some days, and then weplague William about it, but he won't own up they come to see him. Heacts more ashamed of it than the girls do. "

"That's one thing I never would do--run after any fellow, " saidRebecca. 

"I wouldn't either. "

Then the two girls had reached the tavern and the store. Rose'sfather, Silas Berry, had kept the tavern, but now it was closed, except to occasional special guests. He had gained a competency, andhis wife Hannah had rebelled against further toil. Then, too, therailroad had been built through East Pembroke instead of Pembroke, the old stage line had become a thing of the past, and the tavern wasscantily patronized. Still, Silas Berry had given it up with greatreluctance; he cherished a grudge against his wife because she hadinsisted upon it, and would never admit that business policy hadaught to do with it. 

The store adjoining the tavern, which he had owned for years, hestill retained, but his son William had charge of it. Silas Berry wasgrowing old, and the year before had had a slight shock of paralysis, which had made him halt and feeble, although his mind was as clear asever. However, although he took no active part in the duties of thestore, he was still there, and sharply watchful for his interests, the greater part of every day. 

The two girls went up the steps to the store piazza. Rose steppedforward and looked in the door. "Father's in there, and Tommy Ray, "she whispered. "You needn't be afraid to go in. " But she entered asshe spoke, and Rebecca followed her. 

There was one customer in the great country store, a stout old man, on the grocery side. His broad red face turned towards them a second, then squinted again at some packages on the counter. He was hagglingfor garden seeds. William Berry, who was waiting upon him, did notapparently look at his sister and Rebecca Thayer, but Rebecca hadentered his heart as well as the store, and he saw her face deep inhis own consciousness. 

Tommy Ray, the great white-headed boy who helped William in thestore, shuffled along behind the counter indeterminately, but thegirls did not seem to see him. Rose was talking fast to Rebecca. Helounged back against the shelves, stared out the door, and whistled. 

Out of the obscurity in the back of the store an old man's narrowbristling face peered, watchful as a cat, his body hunched up in around-backed arm-chair. 

"Mr. Nims will go in a minute, " Rose whispered, and presently the oldfarmer clamped past them out the door, counting his change from onehand to the other, his lips moving. 

William Berry replaced the seed packages which the customer hadrejected on the shelves as the girls approached him. 

"Rebecca's got some eggs to sell, " Rose announced. 

[Illustration: "'Rebecca's got some eggs to sell'"]

William Berry's thin, wide-shouldered figure towered up behind thecounter; he smiled, and the smile was only a deepening of thepleasant intensity of his beardless face, with its high pale foreheadand smooth crest of fair hair. The lines in his face scarcelychanged. 

"How d'ye do?" said he. 

"How d'ye do?" returned Rebecca, with fluttered dignity. Her facebloomed deeply pink in the green tunnel of her sun-bonnet, her blackeyes were as soft and wary as a baby's, her full red lips had agrave, innocent expression. 

"How many dozen eggs have you got, Rebecca?" Rose inquired, peeringinto the basket. 

"Two; mother couldn't spare any more to-day, " Rebecca replied, in atrembling voice. 

"How much sugar do you give for two dozen eggs, William?" asked Rose. 

William hesitated; he gave a scarcely perceptible glance towards thewatchful old man, whose eyes seemed to gleam out of the gloom in theback of the store. "Well, about two pounds and a half, " he replied, in a low voice. 

Rebecca set her basket of eggs on the counter. 

"How many pound did you tell her, William?" called the old man'shoarse voice. 

William compressed his lips. "About two and a half, father. "

"How many?"

"Two and a half. "

"How many dozen of eggs?"

"Two. "

"You ain't offerin' of her two pound of sugar for two dozen eggs?"

"I said two pounds and a half of sugar, father, " said William. Hebegan counting the eggs. 

"Be you gone crazy?"

"Never mind, " whispered Rebecca. "That's too much sugar for the eggs. Mother didn't expect so much. Don't say any more about it, William. "Her face was quite steady and self-possessed now, as she looked atWilliam, frowning heavily over the eggs. 

"Give Rebecca two pounds of sugar for the eggs, father, and call itsquare, " Rose called out. 

Silas Berry pulled himself up a joint at a time; then he came forwardat a stiff halt, his face pointing out in advance of his body. Heentered at the gap in the counter, and pressed close to his son'sside. Then he looked sharply across at Rebecca. "Sugar is fourteencents a pound now, " said he, "an' eggs ain't fetchin' more'n tencents a dozen. You tell your mother. "

"Father, I told her I'd giver her two and a half pounds for twodozen, " said William; he was quite pale. He began counting the eggsover again, and his hands trembled. 

"I'll take just what you're willing to give, " Rebecca said to Silas. 

"Sugar is fourteen cents a pound, an' eggs is fetchin' ten cents adozen, " said the old man; "you can have a pound and a half of sugarfor them eggs if you can give me a cent to boot. "

Rebecca colored. "I'm afraid I haven't got a cent with me, " said she;"I didn't fetch my purse. You'll have to give me a cent's worth lesssugar, Mr. Berry. "

"It's kinder hard to calkilate so close as that, " returned Silas, gravely; "you had better tell your mother about it, an' you come backwith the cent by-an'-by. "

"Why, father!" cried Rose. 

William shouldered his father aside with a sudden motion. "I'mtending to this, father, " he said, in a stern whisper; "you leave italone. "

"I ain't goin' to stan' by an' see you givin' twice as much for eggsas they're worth 'cause it's a gal you're tradin' with. That wa'n'tnever my way of doin' business, an' I ain't goin' to have it done inmy store. I shouldn't have laid up a cent if I'd managed any suchways, an' I ain't goin' to see my hard earnin's wasted by you. Yougive her a pound and a half of sugar for them eggs and a cent toboot. "

"You sha'n't lose anything by it, father, " said William, fiercely. "You leave me alone. "

The sugar-barrel stood quite near. William strode over to it, andplunged in the great scoop with a grating noise. He heaped itrecklessly on some paper, and laid it on the steelyards. 

"Don't give me more'n a pound and a half, " Rebecca said, softly. 

"Keep still, " Rose whispered in her ear. 

Silas pushed forward, and bent over the steelyards. "You've weighedout nigh three, " he began. Then his son's face suddenly confrontedhis, and he stopped talking and stood back. 

Almost involuntarily at times Silas Berry yielded to the combinationof mental and superior physical force in his son. While his own mindhad lost nothing of its vigor, his bodily weakness made himdistrustful of it sometimes, when his son towered over him in whatseemed the might of his own lost strength and youth, brandishing hisown old weapons. 

William tied up the sugar neatly; then he took the eggs fromRebecca's basket, and put the parcel in their place. Silas beganlifting the eggs from the box in which William had put them, andcounted them eagerly. 

"There ain't but twenty-three eggs here, " he called out, as Rebeccaand Rose turned away, and William was edging after them from behindthe counter. 

"I thought there were two dozen, " Rebecca responded, in a distressedvoice. 

"Of course there are two dozen, " said Rose, promptly. "You 'ain'tcounted 'em right, father. Go along, Rebecca; it's all right. "

"I tell ye it ain't, " said Silas. "There ain't but twenty-three. It'sbad enough to be payin' twice what they're wuth for eggs, withouthavin' of 'em come short. "

"I tell you I counted 'em twice over, and they're all right. You keepstill, father, " said William's voice at his ear, in a fierce whisper, and Silas subsided into sullen mutterings. 

William had meditated following Rebecca to the door; he had evenmeditated going farther; but now he stood back behind the counter, and began packing up some boxes with a busy air. 

"Ain't you going a piece with Rebecca, and carry her basket, William?" Rose called back, when the two girls reached the door. 

Rebecca clutched her arm. "Oh, don't, " she gasped, and Rose giggled. 

"Ain't you, William?" she said again. 

Rebecca hurried out the door, but she heard William reply coldly thathe couldn't, he was too busy. She was half crying when Rose caught upwith her. 

"William wanted to go bad enough, but he was too upset by what fathersaid. You mustn't mind father, " Rose said, peering around intoRebecca's bonnet. "Why, Rebecca, what is the matter?"

"I didn't go into that store a step to see William Berry. You know Ididn't, " Rebecca cried out, with sudden passion. Her voice was hoarsewith tears; her face was all hot and quivering with shame and anger. 

"Why, of course you didn't, " Rose returned, in a bewildered way. "Whosaid you did, Rebecca?"

"You know I didn't. I hated to go to the store this morning. I toldmother I didn't want to, but she didn't have a mite of sugar in thehouse, and there wasn't anybody else to send. Ephraim ain't verywell, and Doctor Whiting says he ought not to walk very far. I had tocome, but I didn't come to see William Berry, and nobody has any callto think I did. "

"I don't know who said you did. I don't know what you mean, Rebecca. "

"You acted as if you thought so. I don't want William Berry seeing mehome in broad daylight, when I've been to the store to trade, and youneedn't think that's what I came for, and he needn't. "

"Good land, Rebecca Thayer, he didn't, and I was just in fun. He'dhave come with you, but he was so mad at what father said that hebacked out. William's just about as easy upset as you are. I didn'tmean any harm. Say, Rebecca, come into the house a little while, can't you? I don't believe your mother is in any great hurry for thesugar. " Rose took hold of Rebecca's arm, but Rebecca jerked herselfaway with a sob, and went down the road almost on a run. 

"Well, I hope you're touchy enough, Rebecca Thayer, " Rose called out, as she stood looking after her. "Folks will begin to think you didcome to see William if you make such a fuss when nobody accuses youof it, if you don't look out. "

Rebecca hastened trembling down the road. She made no reply, but sheknew that Rose was quite right, and that she had attacked her withfutile reproaches in order to save herself from shame in her owneyes. Rebecca knew quite well that in spite of her hesitation andremonstrances, in spite of her maiden shrinking on the threshold ofthe store, she had come to see William Berry. She had been glad, although she had turned a hypocritical face towards her ownconsciousness, that Ephraim was not well enough and she was obligedto go. Her heart had leaped with joy when Rose had proposed William'swalking home with her, but when he refused she was crushed withshame. "He thought I came to see him, " she kept saying to herself asshe hurried along, and there was no falsehood that she would not havesworn to to shield her modesty from such a thought on his part. 

When she got home and entered the kitchen, she kept her face turnedaway from her mother. "Here's the sugar, " she said, and she took itout of the basket and placed it on the table. 

"How much did he give you?" asked Deborah Thayer; she was standingbeside the window beating eggs. Over in the field she could catch aglimpse of Barnabas now and then between the trees as he passed withhis plough. 

"About two pounds. "

"That was doin' pretty well. "

Rebecca said nothing. She turned to go out of the room. 

"Where are you going?" her mother asked, sharply. "Take off yourbonnet. I want you to beat up the butter and sugar; this cake oughtto be in the oven. "

Deborah's face, as she beat the eggs and made cake, looked as full ofstern desperation as a soldier's on the battle-field. Deborah neveryielded to any of the vicissitudes of life; she met them in fairfight like enemies, and vanquished them, not with trumpet and spear, but with daily duties. It was a village story how Deborah Thayercleaned all the windows in the house one afternoon when her firstchild had died in the morning. To-day she was in a tumult of wrathand misery over her son; her mouth was so full of the gall ofbitterness that no sweet on earth could overcome it; but she madesweet cake. 

Rebecca took off her sun-bonnet and hung it on a peg; she got a boxfrom the pantry, and emptied the sugar into in, still keeping herface turned away as best she could from her mother's eyes. 

Deborah looked approvingly at the sugar. "It's nigher three poundsthan anything else. I guess you were kind of favored, Rebecca. DidWilliam wait on you?"

"Yes, he did. "

"I guess you were kind of favored, " Deborah repeated, and ahalf-smile came over her grim face. 

Rebecca said nothing. She got some butter, and fell to work with awooden spoon, creaming the butter and sugar in a brown wooden bowlwith swift turns of her strong white wrist. Ephraim watched hersharply; he sat by a window stoning raisins. His mother had forbiddenhim to eat any, as she thought them injurious to him; but hecarefully calculated his chances, and deposited many in his mouthwhen she watched Barney; but his jaws were always gravely set whenshe turned his way. 

Ephraim's face had a curious bluish cast, as if his blood were thecolor of the juice of a grape. His chest heaved shortly and heavily. The village doctor had told is mother that he had heart-disease, which might prove fatal, although there was a chance of hisoutgrowing it, and Deborah had set her face against that. 

Ephraim's face, in spite of its sickly hue, had a perfect healthinessand naturalness of expression, which insensibly gave confidence tohis friends, although it aroused their irritation. A spirit of boyishrebellion and importance looked out of Ephraim's black eyes; hismouth was demure with mischief, his gawky figure perpetually uneasyand twisting, as if to find entrance into small forbidden places. There was something in Ephraim's face, when she looked suddenly athim, which continually led his mother to infer that he had beentransgressing. "What have you been doin', Ephraim?" she would callout, sharply, many a time, with no just grounds for suspicion, and beutterly routed by Ephraim's innocent, wondering grin in response. 

The boy was set about with restrictions which made his lifemiserable, but the labor of picking over plums for a cake was quiteto his taste. He dearly loved plums, although they were especiallyprohibited. He rolled one quietly under his tongue, and watchedRebecca with sharp eyes. She could scarcely keep her face turned awayfrom him and her mother too. 

"Say, mother, Rebecca's been cryin'!" Ephraim announced, suddenly. 

Deborah turned and looked at Rebecca's face bending lower over thewooden bowl; her black lashes rested on red circles, and her lipswere swollen. 

"I'd like to know what you've been cryin' about, " said Deborah. Itwas odd that she did not think that Rebecca's grief might be due tothe worry over Barney; but she did not for a minute. She directlyattributed it to some personal and strictly selfish considerationwhich should arouse her animosity. 

"Nothing, " said Rebecca, with sulky misery. 

"Yes, you've been cryin' about something, too. I want to know what'tis. "

"Nothing. I wish you wouldn't, mother. "

"Did you see William Berry over to the store?"

"I told you I did once. "

"Well, you needn't bite my head off. Did he say anything to you?"

"He weighed out the sugar. I know one thing: I'll never set my footinside that store again as long as I live!"

"I'd like to know what you mean, Rebecca Thayer. "

"I ain't going to have folks think I'm running after William Berry. "

"I'd like to know who thinks you are. If it's Hannah Berry, sheneedn't talk, after the way her daughter has chased over here. Mebbeit's all you Rose Berry has been to see, but I've had my doubts. Whatdid Hannah Berry say to you?"

"She didn't say anything. I haven't seen her. "

"What was it, then?"

But Rebecca would not tell her mother what the trouble had been; shecould not bring herself to reveal how William had been urged to walkhome with her and how coldly he had refused, and finally Deborah, inspite of baffled interest, turned upon her. "Well, I hope you didn'tdo anything unbecoming, " said she. 

"Mother, you know better. "

"Well, I hope you didn't. "

"Mother, I won't stand being talked to so!"

"I rather think I shall talk to you all I think I ought to for yourown good, " said Deborah, with fierce persistency. "I ain't goin' tohave any daughter of mine doin' anything bold and forward, if I knowit. "

Rebecca was weeping quite openly now. "Mother, you know you sent medown to the store yourself; there wasn't anybody else to go, " shesobbed out. 

"Your goin' to the store wa'n't anything. I guess you can go to thestore to trade off some eggs for sugar when I'm makin' cake withoutWilliam Berry thinkin' you're runnin' after him, or Hannah Berrythinkin' so either. But there wa'n't any need of your makin' anyspecial talk with him, or lookin' as if you was tickled to death tosee him. "

"I didn't. I wouldn't go across the room to see William Berry. Youhaven't any right to say such things to me, mother. "

"I guess I've got a right to talk to my own daughter. I should thinkthings had come to a pretty pass if I can't speak when I see youdoin' out of the way. I know one thing, you won't go to that storeagain. I'll go myself next time. Have you got that butter an' sugarmixed up?"

"I hope you will go, I'm sure. I don't want to, " returned Rebecca. She had stopped crying, but her face was burning; she hit the spoonwith dull thuds against the wooden bowl. 

"Don't you be saucy. That's done enough; give it here. "

Deborah finished the cake with a master hand. When she measured theraisins which Ephraim had stoned she cast a sharp glance at him, buthe was ready for it with beseechingly upturned sickly face. "Can't Ihave just one raisin, mother?" he pleaded. 

"Yes, you may, if you 'ain't eat any while you was pickin' of 'emover, " she answered. And he reached over a thumb and finger andselected a large fat plum, which he ate with ostentatious relish. Ephraim's stomach oppressed him, his breath came harder, but he had asense of triumph in his soul. This depriving him of the littlecreature comforts which he loved, and of the natural enjoyments ofboyhood, aroused in him a blind spirit of revolution which he feltvirtuous in exercising. Ephraim was absolutely conscienceless withrespect to all his stolen pleasures. 

Deborah had a cooking-stove. She had a progressive spirit, and whenstoves were first introduced had promptly done away with the brickoven, except on occasions when much baking-room was needed. After hernew stove was set up in her back kitchen, she often alluded to HannahBerry's conservative principles with scorn. Hannah's sister, Mrs. Barnard, had told her how a stove could be set up in the tavern anyminute; but Hannah despised new notions. "Hannah won't have one, nohow, " said Mrs. Barnard. "I dunno but I would, if Cephas couldafford it, and wa'n't set against it. It seems to me it might save asight of work. "

"Some folks are rooted so deep in old notions that they can't seetheir own ideas over them, " declared Deborah. Often when she cookedin her new stove she inveighed against Hannah Berry's foolishness. 

"If Hannah Berry wants to heat up a whole brick oven and work thewhole forenoon to bake a loaf of cake, she can, " said she, as she putthe pan of cake in the oven. "Now, you watch this, Rebecca Thayer, and don't you let it burn, and you get the potatoes ready fordinner. "

"Where are you going, mother?" asked Ephraim. 

"I'm just goin' to step out a little way. "

"Can't I go too?"

"No; you set still. You ain't fit to walk this mornin'. You know whatthe doctor told you. "

"It won't hurt me any, " whined Ephraim. There were times when thespirit of rebellion in him made illness and even his final demiseflash before his eyes like sweet overhanging fruit, since they wereso strenuously forbidden. 

"You set still, " repeated his mother. She tied on her own greensun-bonnet, stiffened with pasteboard, and went with it rattlingagainst her ears across the fields to the one where her son wasploughing. The grass was not wet, but she held her dress up high, showing her thick shoes and her blue yarn stockings, and took longstrides. Barney was guiding the plough past her when she came up. 

"You stop a minute, " she said, authoritatively. "I want to speak toyou. "

"Whoa!" said Barney, and pulled up the horse. "Well, what is it?" hesaid, gruffly, with his eyes upon the plough. 

"You go this minute and set the men to work on your house again. Youleave the horse here--I'll watch him--and go and tell Sam Plummer tocome and get the other men. "

"G'lang!" said Barney, and the horse pulled the plough forward with ajerk. 

Mrs. Thayer seized Barney's arm. "You stop!" said she. "Whoa, whoa!Now you look here, Barnabas Thayer. I don't know what you did to makeCephas Barnard order you out of the house, but I know it wassomething. I ain't goin' to believe it was all about the election. There was something back of that. I ain't goin' to shield you becauseyou're my son. I know jest how set you can be in your own ways, andhow you can hang on to your temper. I've known you ever since you wasa baby; you can't teach me anything new about yourself. I don't knowwhat you did to make Cephas mad, but I know what you've got to donow. You go and set the men to work on that house again, and then yougo over to Cephas Barnard's, and you tell him you're sorry for whatyou've done. I don't care anything about Cephas Barnard, and if I'dhad my way in the first place I wouldn't have had anything to do withhim or his folks either; but now you've got to do what's right ifyou've gone as far as this, and Charlotte's all ready to be married. You go right along, Barnabas Thayer!"

Barnabas stood immovable, his face set past his mother, asirresponsively unyielding as a rock. 

"Be you goin'?"

Barnabas did not reply. His mother moved, and brought her eyes on arange with his, and the two faces confronted each other in silence, while it was as if two wills clashed swords in advance of them. 

Then Mrs. Thayer moved away. "I ain't never goin' to say anythingmore to you about it, " she said; "but there's one thing--you needn'tcome home to dinner. You sha'n't ever sit down to a meal in yourfather's and mother's house whilst this goes on. "

"G'lang!" said Barnabas. The horse started, and he bent to theplough. His mother stepped homeward over the plough-ridges with sternunyielding steps, as if they were her enemies slain in battle. 

Just as she reached her own yard her husband drove in on a rattlingfarm cart. She beckoned to him, and he pulled the horse up short. 

"I've told him he needn't come home to dinner, " she said, standingclose to the wheel. 

Caleb looked down at her with a scared expression. "Well, I s'poseyou know what's best, Deborah, " he said. 

"If he can't do what's right he's got to suffer for it, " returnedDeborah. 

She went into the house, and Caleb drove clanking into the barn. 

Before dinner the old man stole off across lots, keeping well out ofsight of the kitchen windows lest his wife should see him, andpleaded with Barnabas, but all in vain. The young man was moreoutspoken with his father, but he was just as firm. 

"Your mother's terrible set about it, Barney. You'd better go over toCharlotte's and make up. "

"I can't; it's all over, " Barney said, in reply; and Caleb at lengthplodded soberly and clumsily home. 

After dinner he went out behind the barn, and Rebecca, going to feedthe hens, found him sitting under the wild-cherry tree, fairlysobbing in his old red handkerchief. 

She went near him, and stood looking at him with restrained sympathy. 

"Don't feel bad, father, " she said, finally. "Barney'll get over it, and come to supper. "

"No, he won't, " groaned the old man--"no, he won't. He's jest likeyour mother. "

Chapter VI

The weeks went on, and still Barnabas had not yielded. The story ofhis quarrel with Cephas Barnard and his broken engagement withCharlotte had become an old one in Pembroke, but it had not yet lostits interest. A genuine excitement was so rare in the little peacefulvillage that it had to be made to last, and rolled charily under thetongue like a sweet morsel. However, there seemed to be no lack now, for the one had set others in motion: everybody knew how BarnabasThayer no longer lived at home, and did not sit in his father's pewin church, but in the gallery, and how Richard Alger had stoppedgoing to see Sylvia Crane. 

There was not much walking in the village, except to and from churchon a Sabbath day; but now on pleasant Sabbath evenings an occasionalcouple, or an inquisitive old man with eyes sharp under white brows, and chin set ahead like a pointer's, strolled past Sylvia's house andthe Thayer house, Barney's new one and Cephas Barnard's. 

They looked sharply and furtively to see if Sylvia had a light in herbest room, and if Richard Alger's head was visible through thewindow, if Barney Thayer had gone home and yielded to his mother'scommands, if any more work had been done on the new house, and if heperchance had gone a-courting Charlotte again. 

But they never saw Richard Alger's face in poor Sylvia's best room, although her candle was always lit, they never saw Barney at his oldhome, the new house advanced not a step beyond its incompleteness, and Barney never was seen at Charlotte Barnard's on a Sabbath night. Once, indeed, there was a rumor to that effect. A man's smooth darkhead was visible at one of the front-room windows oppositeCharlotte's fair one, and everybody took it for Barney's. 

The next morning Barney's mother came to the door of the new house. "I want to know if it's true that you went over there last night, "she said; her voice was harsh, but her mouth was yielding. 

"No, I didn't, " said Barney, shortly, and Deborah went away with aharsh exclamation. Before long she knew and everybody else knew thatthe man who had been seen at Charlotte's window was not Barney, butThomas Payne. 

Presently Ephraim came slowly across to the garden-patch where Barneywas planting. He was breathing heavily, and grinning. When he reachedBarney he stood still watching him, and the grin deepened. "Say, Barney, " he panted at length. 

"Well, what is it?"

"You've lost your girl; did you know it, Barney?"

Barney muttered something unintelligible; it sounded like the growlof a dog, but Ephraim was not intimidated. He chuckled with delightand spoke again. "Say, Barney, Thomas Payne's got your girl; did youknow it, Barney?"

Barney turned threateningly, but he was helpless before his brother'ssickly face, and Ephraim knew it. That purple hue and that pantingbreath had gained an armistice for him on many a battle-field, and hehad a certain triumph in it. It was power of a lugubrious sort, certainly, but still it was power, and so to be enjoyed. 

"Thomas Payne's got your girl, " he repeated; "he was over therea-courtin' of her last night; a-settin' up along of her. "

Barney took a step forward, and Ephraim fell back a little, stillgrinning imperturbably. "You mind your own business, " Barney said, between his teeth; and right upon his words followed Ephraim's hoarsechuckle and his "Thomas Payne's got your girl. "

Barney turned about and went on with his planting. Ephraim, standinga little aloof, somewhat warily since his brother's threateningadvance, kept repeating his one remark, as mocking as the snarl of amosquito. "Thomas Payne's got your girl, Barney. Say, did you knowit? Thomas Payne's got your girl. "

Finally Ephraim stepped close to Barney and shouted it into his ear:"Say, Barney, Barney Thayer, be you deaf? Thomas Payne hasgot--your--_girl!"_ But Barney planted on; his nerves were quivering, the impetus to strike out was so strong in his arms that it seemed asif it must by sheer mental force affect his teasing brother, but hemade no sign, and said not another word. 

Ephraim, worsted at length by silence, beat a gradual retreat. Half-way across the field his panting voice called back, "Barney, Thomas Payne has got your girl, " and ended in a choking giggle. Barney planted, and made no response; but when Ephraim was well outof sight, he flung down his hoe with a groaning sigh, and wentstumbling across the soft loam of the garden-patch into a littlewoody thicket beside it. He penetrated deeply between the trees andunderbrush, and at last flung himself down on his face among the softyoung flowers and weeds. "Oh, Charlotte!" he groaned out. "Oh, Charlotte, Charlotte!" Barney began sobbing and crying like a childas he lay there; he moved his arms convulsively, and tore up handfulsof young grass and leaves, and flung them away in the unconsciousgesturing of grief. "Oh, I can't, I can't!" he groaned. "I--can't--Charlotte! I can't--let any other man have you! No otherman shall have you!" he cried out, fiercely, and flung up his head;"you are mine, mine! I'll kill any other man that touches you!"Barney got up, and his face was flaming; he started off with a greatstride, and then he stopped short and flung an arm around the slendertrunk of a white-birch tree, and pulled it against him and leanedagainst it as if it were Charlotte, and laid his cheek on the coolwhite bark and sobbed again like a girl. "Oh, Charlotte, Charlotte!"he moaned, and his voice was drowned out by the manifold rustling ofthe young birch leaves, as a human grief is overborne and carried outof sight by the soft, resistless progress of nature. 

Barney, although his faith in Charlotte had been as strong as anyman's should be in his promised wife, had now no doubt but this otherman had met with favor in her eyes. But he had no blame for her, noreven any surprise at her want of constancy. He blamed the Lord, forCharlotte as well as for himself. "If this hadn't happened she neverwould have looked at any one else, " he thought, and his thought hadthe force of a blow against fate. 

This Thomas Payne was the best match in the village; he was thesquire's son, good-looking, and college-educated. Barney had alwaysknown that he fancied Charlotte, and had felt a certain triumph thathe had won her in the face of it. "You might have somebody that's agood deal better off if you didn't have me, " he said to her once, andthey both knew whom he meant. "I don't want anybody else, " Charlottehad replied, with her shy stateliness. Now Barney thought that shehad changed her mind; and why should she not? A girl ought to marryif she could; he could not marry her himself, and should not expecther to remain single all her life for his sake. Of course Charlottewanted to be married, like other women. This probable desire ofCharlotte's for love and marriage in itself, apart from him, thrilledhis male fancy with a certain holy awe and respect, from his love forher and utter ignorance of the attitude of womankind. Then, too, hereflected that Thomas Payne would probably make her a good husband. "He can buy her everything she wants, " he thought, with a curiousmixture of gratulation for her and agony on his own account. Hethought of the little bonnets he had meant to buy for her himself, and these details pierced his heart like needles. He sobbed, and thebirch-tree quivered in a wind of human grief. He saw Charlotte goingto church in her bridal bonnet with Thomas Payne more plainly than hecould ever see her in life, for a torturing imagination reflects lifelike a magnifying-glass, and makes it clearer and larger thanreality. He saw Charlotte with Thomas Payne, blushing all over herproud, delicate face when he looked at her; he saw her with ThomasPayne's children. "O God!" he gasped, and he threw himself down onthe ground again, and lay there, face downward, motionless as if fatehad indeed seized him and shaken the life out of him and left himthere for dead; but it was his own will which was his fate. 

"Barney, " his father called, somewhere out in the field. "Barney, where be you?"

"I'm coming, " Barney called back, in a surly voice, and he pulledhimself up and pushed his way out of the thicket to the ploughedfield where his father stood. 

"Oh, there you be!" said Caleb. Barney grunted somethinginarticulate, and took up his hoe again. Caleb stood watching him, his eyes irresolute under anxiously frowning brows. "Barney, " hesaid, at length. 

"Well, what do you want?"

"I've jest heard--" the old man began; then he stopped with a jump. 

"I don't want to hear what you've heard. Keep it to yourself ifyou've heard anything!" Barney shouted. 

"I didn't know as you knew, " Caleb stammered, apologetically. "Ididn't know as you'd heard, Barney. "

Caleb went to the edge of the field, and sat down on a great stoneunder a wild-cherry tree. He was not feeling very well; his head wasdizzy, and his wife had given him a bowl of thoroughwort and orderedhim not to work. 

Caleb pushed his hat back and passed his hand across his forehead. Itwas hot, and his face was flushed. He watched his son following uphis work with dogged energy as if it were an enemy, and his mindseemed to turn stupid in the face of speculation, like a boy's over aproblem in arithmetic. 

There was no human being so strange and mysterious, such an unknownquantity, to Caleb Thayer as his own son. He had not one trait ofcharacter in common with him--at least, not one so translated intohis own vernacular that he could comprehend it. It was to Caleb as ifhe looked in a glass expecting to see his own face, and saw thereinthe face of a stranger. 

The wind was quite cool, and blew full on Caleb as he sat there. Barney kept glancing at him. At length he spoke. "You'll get cold ifyou sit there in that wind, father, " he sang out, and there was arude kindliness in his tone. 

Caleb jumped up with alacrity. "I dunno but I shall. I guess you'reright. I wa'n't goin' to set here but a minute, " he answered, eagerly. Then he went over to Barney again, and stood near watchinghim. Barney's hoe clinked on a stone, and he stooped and picked itout of the loam, and threw it away. "There's a good many stone inthis field, " said the old man. 

"There's some. "

"It was a heap of work clearin' of it in the first place. You wa'n'tmore'n two year old when I cleared it. My brother Simeon helped me. It was five year before he got the fever an' died. " Caleb looked athis son with anxious pleading which was out of proportion to hiswords, and seemed to apply to something behind them in his own mind. 

Barney worked on silently. 

"I don't believe but what--if you was--to go over there--you couldget her back again now, away from that Payne fellar, " Caleb blurtedout, suddenly; then he shrank back as if from an anticipated blow. 

Barney threw a hoeful of earth high in air and faced his father. 

"Once for all, father, " said he, "I don't want to hear another wordabout this. "

"I shouldn't have said nothin', Barney, but I kinder thought--"

"I don't care what you thought. Keep your thoughts to yourself. "

"I know she allers thought a good deal of you, an'--"

"I don't want another word out of your mouth about it, father. "

"Well, I ain't goin' to say nothin' about it if you don't want me to, Barney; but you know how mother feels, an'-- Well, I ain't goin' tosay no more. "

Caleb passed his hand across his forehead, and set off across thefield. Just before he was out of hearing, Barney hailed him. 

"Do you feel better'n you did, father?" said he. 

"What say, Barney?"

"Do you feel better'n you did this morning?"

"Yes, I feel some better, Barney--some considerable better. " Calebstarted to go back to Barney; then he paused and stood irresolute, smiling towards him. "I feel considerable better, " he called again;"my head ain't nigh so dizzy as 'twas. "

"You'd better go home, father, and lay down, and see if you can't geta nap, " called Barney. 

"Yes, I guess I will; I guess 'twould be a good plan, " returned theold man, in a pleased voice. And he went on, clambered clumsily overa stone-wall, disappeared behind some trees, reappeared in the open, then disappeared finally over the slope of the hilly field. 

It was just five o'clock in the afternoon. Presently a woman camehurrying across the field, with some needle-work gathered up in herarms. She had been spending the afternoon at a neighbor's with hersewing, and was now hastening home to get supper for her husband. Shewas a pretty woman, and she had not been married long. She nodded toBarney as she hurried past him, holding up her gay-flowered calicoskirt tidily. Her smooth fair hair shone like satin in the sun; shewore a little blue kerchief tied over her head, and it slipped backas she ran against the wind. She did not speak to Barney nor smile;he thought her handsome face looked severely at him. She had alwaysknown him, although she had not been one of his mates; she wassomewhat older. 

Barney felt a pang of misery as this fair, severe, and happy facepassed him by. He wondered if she had been up to Charlotte's, and ifCharlotte or her mother had been talking to her, and if she knewabout Thomas Payne. He watched her out of sight in a swirl of gayskirts, her blue and golden head bobbing with her dancing steps; thenhe glanced over his shoulder at his poor new house, with its firelesschimneys. If all had gone well, he and Charlotte would have beenmarried by this time, and she would have been bestirring herself toget supper for him--perhaps running home from a neighbor's with hersewing as this other woman was doing. All the sweet domestic comfortwhich he had missed seemed suddenly to toss above his eyes like theone desired fruit of his whole life; its wonderful unknown flavortantalized his soul. All at once he thought how Charlotte wouldprepare supper for another man, and the thought seemed to tear hisheart like a panther. "He sha'n't have her!" he cried out, quiteloudly and fiercely. His own voice seemed to quiet him, and he fellto work again with his mouth set hard. 

In half an hour he quitted work, and went up to his house with hishoe over his shoulder like a bayonet. The house was just as theworkmen had left it on the night before his quarrel with CephasBarnard. He had himself fitted some glass into the windows of thekitchen and bedroom, and boarded up the others--that was all. He hadpurchased a few simple bits of furniture, and set up his miserablebachelor house-keeping. Barney was no cook, and he could purchase nocooked food in Pembroke. He had subsisted mostly upon milk and eggsand a poor and lumpy quality of corn-meal mush, which he had madeshift to stir up after many futile efforts. 

The first thing which he saw on entering the room to-night was agenerous square of light Indian cake on the table. It was not in aplate, the edges were bent and crumbling, and the whole square lookedsomewhat flattened. Barney knew at once that his father had saved itfrom his own supper, had slipped it slyly into his pocket, and stolenacross the field with it. His mother had not given him a mouthfulsince she had forbidden him to come home to dinner, and his sisterhad not dared. 

Barney sat down and ate the Indian cake, a solitary householder athis solitary table, around which there would never be any faces butthose of his dead dreams. Afterwards he pulled a chair up to an openwindow, and sat there, resting his elbows on the sill, staring outvacantly. The sun set, and the dusk deepened; the air was loud withbirds; there were shouts of children in the distance; gradually thesedied away, and the stars came out. The wind was damp and sweet; overin the field pale shapes of mist wavered and changed like phantoms. Awoman came running noiselessly into the yard, and pressed against thedoor panting, and knocked. Barney saw the swirl of light skirtsaround the corner; then the knock came. 

[Illustration: "Barney sat staring at vacancy"]

He got up, trembling, and opened the door, and stood there looking atthe woman, who held her hooded head down. 

"It's me, Barney, " said Charlotte's voice. 

"Come in, " said Barney, and he moved aside. 

But Charlotte stood still. "I can say what I want to here, " shewhispered, panting. "Barney. "

"Well, what is it, Charlotte?"

"Barney. "

Barney waited. 

"I've come over here to-night, Barney, to see you, " said Charlotte, with solemn pauses between her words. "I don't know as I ought to; Idon't know but I ought to have more pride. I thought at first Inever--could--but afterwards I thought it was my duty. Barney, areyou going to let--anything like this--come between us--forever?"

"There's no use talking, Charlotte. "

Charlotte's hooded figure stood before him stiff and straight. Therewas resolution in her carriage, and her pleading tone was grave andsolemn. 

"Barney, " she said again; and Barney waited, his pale face standingaloof in the dark. 

"Barney, do you think it is right to let anything like this comebetween you and me, when we were almost husband and wife?"

"It's no use talking, Charlotte. "

"Do you think this is right, Barney?"

Barney was silent. 

"If you can't answer me I will go home, " said Charlotte, and sheturned, but Barney caught her in his arms. He held her close, breathing in great pants. He pulled her hood back with tremblingstrength, and kissed her over and over, roughly. 

"Charlotte, " he half sobbed. 

Charlotte's voice, full of a great womanly indignation, sounded inhis ear. "Barney, you let me go, " she said, and Barney obeyed. 

"When I came here alone this way I trusted you to treat me like agentleman, " said she. She pulled her hood over her face again andturned to go. "I shall never speak to you about this again, " saidshe. "You have chosen your own way, and you know best whether it'sright, or you're happy in it. "

"I hope you'll be happy, Charlotte, " Barney said, with a great sigh. 

"That doesn't make any difference to you, " said Charlotte, coldly. 

"Yes, it does; it does, Charlotte! When I heard about Thomas Payne, Ifelt as if--if it would make you happy. I--"

"What about Thomas Payne?" asked Charlotte, sharply. 

"I heard--how he was coming to see you--"

"Do you mean that you want me to marry Thomas Payne, Barney Thayer?"

"I want you to be happy, Charlotte. "

"Do you want me to marry Thomas Payne?"

Barney was silent. 

"Answer me, " cried Charlotte. 

"Yes, I do, " replied Barney, firmly, "if it would make you happy. "

"You want me to marry Thomas Payne?" repeated Charlotte. "You want meto be his wife instead of yours, and go to live with him instead ofyou? You want me to live with another man?"

"It ain't right for you not to get married, " Barney said, and hisvoice was hoarse and strange. 

"You want me to get married to another man? Do you know what itmeans?"

Barney gave a groan that was half a cry. 

"Do you?"

"Oh, Charlotte!" Barney groaned, as if imploring her for pity. 

"You want me to marry Thomas Payne, and live with him--"

"He'd--make you a good husband. He's--Charlotte--I can't. You've gotto be happy. It isn't right--I can't--"

"Well, " said Charlotte, "I will marry him. Good-night, BarneyThayer. " She went swiftly out of the yard. 

"Charlotte!" Barney called after her, as if against his will; but shenever turned her head. 

Chapter VII

On the north side of the old tavern was a great cherry orchard. Inyears back it had been a source of considerable revenue to SilasBerry, but for some seasons his returns from it had been very small. The cherries had rotted on the branches, or the robins had eatenthem, for Silas would not give them away. Rose and her mother wouldsmuggle a few small baskets of cherries to Sylvia Crane and Mrs. Barnard, but Silas's displeasure, had he found them out, would havebeen great. "I ain't a-goin' to give them cherries away to nobody, "he would proclaim. "If folks don't want 'em enough to pay for 'emthey can go without. "

Many a great cherry picnic had been held in Silas Berry's orchard. Parties had come in great rattling wagons from all the towns about, and picked cherries and ate their fill at a most overreaching andexorbitant price. 

There were no cherries like those in Silas Berry's orchard in all thecountry roundabout. There was no competition, and for many years hehad had it all his own way. The young people's appetite for cherriesand their zeal for pleasure had overcome their indignation at hisusury. But at last Silas's greed got the better of his financialshrewdness; he increased his price for cherries every season, and theyear after the tavern closed it became so preposterous that there wasa rebellion. It was headed by Thomas Payne, who, as the squire's sonand the richest and most freehanded young man in town, could incur nosuspicion of parsimony. Going one night to the old tavern to maketerms with Silas for the use of his cherry orchard, for a party whichincluded some of his college friends from Boston and his fineyoung-lady cousin from New York, and hearing the preposterous sumwhich Silas stated as final, he had turned on his heel with a strongword under his breath. "You can eat your cherries yourself and bedamned, " said Thomas Payne, and was out of the yard with the gayswagger which he had learned along with his Greek and Latin atcollege. The next day Silas saw the party in Squire Payne's bigwagon, with Thomas driving, and the cousin's pink cheeks and whiteplumed hat conspicuous in the midst, pass merrily on their way to acherryless picnic at a neighboring pond, and the young college menshouted out a doggerel couplet which the wit of the party had madeand set to a rough tune. 

"Who lives here?" the basses demanded in grim melody, and the tenorsresponded, "Old Silas Berry, who charges sixpence for a cherry. "

Silas heard the mocking refrain repeated over and over between shoutsof laughter long after they were out of sight. 

Rose, who had not been bidden to the picnic, heard it and wept as shepeered around her curtain at the gay party. William, who had also notbeen bidden, stormed at his father, and his mother joined him. 

"You're jest a-puttin' your own eyes out, Silas Berry, " said she;"you hadn't no business to ask such a price for them cherries; it'smore than they are worth; folks won't stand it. You asked too muchfor 'em last year. "

"I know what I'm about, " returned Silas, sitting in his arm-chair atthe window, with dogged chin on his breast. 

"You wait an' see, " said Hannah. "You've jest put your own eyes out. "

And after-events proved that Hannah was right. Silas Berry's cherryorchard was subjected to a species of ostracism in the village. Therewere no more picnics held there, people would buy none of hischerries, and he lost all the little income which he had derived fromthem. Hannah often twitted him with it. "You can see now that what Itold you was true, " said she; "you put your own eyes out. " Silaswould say nothing in reply; he would simply make an animal sound ofdefiance like a grunt in his throat, and frown. If Hannah kept on, hewould stump heavily out of the room, and swing the door back with abang. 

This season Hannah had taunted her husband more than usual with hisill-judged parsimony in the matter of the cherries. The trees werequite loaded with the small green fruit, and there promised to be avery large crop. One day Silas turned on her. "You wait, " said he;"mebbe I know what I'm about, more'n you think I do. "

Hannah scowled with sharp interrogation at her husband's shrewdlyleering face. "What be you agoin' to do?" she demanded. But she gotno more out of him. 

One morning about two weeks before the cherries were ripe Silas wenthalting in a casual way across the south yard towards his daughterRose, who was spreading out some linen to bleach. He picked up a fewstray sticks on the way, ostentatiously, as if that were his errand. 

Rose was spreading out the lengths of linen in a wide sunny spacejust outside the shade of the cherry-trees. Her father paused, tiltedhis head back, and eyed the trees with a look of innocent reflection. Rose glanced at him, then she went on with her work. 

"Guess there's goin' to be considerable many cherries this year, "remarked her father, in an affable and confidential tone. 

"I guess so, " replied Rose, shortly, and she flapped out an end ofthe wet linen. The cherries were a sore subject with her. 

"I guess there's goin' to be more than common, " said Silas, stillgazing up at the green boughs full of green fruit clusters. 

Rose made no reply; she was down on her knees in the grass stretchingthe linen straight. 

"I've been thinkin', " her father continued, slowly, "that--mebbeyou'd like to have a little--party, an' ask some of the young folks, an' eat some of 'em when they get ripe. You could have four trees topick off of. "

"I should think we'd had enough of cherry parties, " Rose cried out, bitterly. 

"I didn't say nothin' about havin' 'em pay anything, " said herfather. 

Rose straightened herself and looked at him incredulously. "Do youmean it, father?" said she. 

"'Ain't I jest said you might, if you wanted to?"

"Do you mean to have them come here and not pay, father?"

"There ain't no use tryin' to sell any of 'em, " replied Silas. "Youcan talk it over with your mother, an' do jest as you're a mind toabout it, that's all. If you want to have a few of the young folksover here when them cherries are ripe, you can have four of themtrees to pick off of. I ain't got no more to say about it. "

Silas turned in a peremptory and conclusive manner. Rose fairlygasped as she watched his stiff one-sided progress across the yard. The vague horror of the unusual stole over her. A new phase of herfather's character stood between her and all her old memories like asupernatural presence. She left the rest of the linen in the basketand sought her mother in the house. "Mother!" she called out, in acautious voice, as soon as she entered the kitchen. Mrs. Berry's facelooked inquiringly out of the pantry, and Rose motioned her back, went in herself, and shut the door. 

"What be you a-shuttin' the door for?" asked her mother, wonderingly. 

"I don't know what has come over father. "

"What do you mean, Rose Berry? He 'ain't had another shock?"

"I'm dreadful afraid he's going to! I'm dreadful afraid something'sgoing to happen to him!"

"I'd like to know what you mean?" Mrs. Berry was quite pale. 

"Father says I can have a cherry party, and they needn't payanything. "

Her mother stared at her. "He didn't!"

"Yes, he did. "

They looked in each other's eyes, with silent renewals of doubt andaffirmation. Finally Mrs. Berry laughed. "H'm! Don't you see whatyour father's up to?" she said. 

"No, I don't. I'm scared. "

"You needn't be. You ain't very cute. He's an old head. He thinks ifhe has this cherry party for nothin' folks will overlook that otheraffair, an' next year they'll buy the cherries again. Mebbe he thinksthey'll buy the other trees this year, after the party. How manytrees did he say you could have?"

"Four. Maybe that is it. "

"Of course 'tis. Your father's an old head. Well, you'd better ask'em. They won't see through it, and it'll make things pleasanter. I've felt bad enough about it. I guess Mis' Thayer won't look down onus quite so much if we ask a party here and let 'em eat cherries fornothin'. It's more'n she'd do, I'll warrant. "

"Maybe they won't any of them come, " said Rose. 

"H'm! Don't you worry about that. They'll come fast enough. I neversee any trouble yet about folks comin' to get anything good that theydidn't have to pay for. "

Rose and her mother calculated how many to invite to the party. Theydecided to include all the available young people in Pembroke. 

"We might jest as well while we're about it, " said Hannah, judiciously. "There are cherries enough, and the Lord only knows whenyour father 'll have another freak like this. I guess it's like aneclipse of the sun, an' won't come again very soon. "

Within a day or two all the young people had been bidden to thecherry party, and, as Mrs. Berry had foretold, accepted. Theirindignation was not proof against the prospect of pleasure; and, moreover, they all liked Rose and William, and would not have refusedon their account. 

The week before the party, when the cherries were beginning to turnred, and the robins had found them out, was an arduous one to littleEzra Ray, a young brother of Tommy Ray, who tended in Silas Berry'sstore. He was hired for twopence to sit all day in the cherry orchardand ring a cow-bell whenever the robins made excursions into thetrees. From earliest dawn when the birds were first astir, until theysought their little nests, did Ezra sit uncomfortably upon a hardpeaked rock in the midst of the orchard and jingle his bell. 

He was white-headed, and large of his age like his brother. His paleblue eyes were gravely vacant under his thick white thatch; his chindropped; his mouth gaped with stolid patience. There was nomitigation for his dull task; he was not allowed to keep his vigil ona comfortable branch of a tree with the mossy trunk for a support tohis back, lest he might be tempted to eat of the cherries, and turnpal of the robins instead of enemy. He dared not pull down any lowbough and have a surreptitious feast, for he understood well thatthere were likely to be sharp eyes at the rear windows of the house, that it was always probable that old Silas Berry, of whom he was inmortal fear, might be standing at his back, and, moreover, he shouldbe questioned, and had not falsehood for refuge, for he was a goodchild, and would be constrained to speak the truth. 

They would not let him have a gun instead of a bell, although hepleaded hard. Could he have sat there presenting a gun like a sentryon duty, the week, in spite of discomfort and deprivations, wouldhave been full of glory and excitement. As it was, the dulness andmonotony of the jingling of the cow-bell made even his stupidchildish mind dismal. All the pleasant exhilaration of youth seemedto have deserted the boy, and life to him became as inane and bovineas to the original ringer of that bell grazing all the season in herown shadow over the same pasture-ground. 

And more than all, that twopence for which Ezra toiled so miserablywas to go towards the weaving of a rag carpet which his mother wasmaking, and for which she was saving every penny. He could not lay itout in red-and-white sugar-sticks at the store. He sat there all theweek, and every time there was a whir of little brown wings and thedarting flash of a red breast among the cherry branches he rang infrantic haste the old cow-bell. All the solace he obtained was anoccasional robin-pecked cherry which he found in the grass, and thenMr. Berry questioned him severely when he saw stains around his mouthand on his fingers. 

He was on hand early in the morning on the day of the cherry picnic, trudging half awake, with the taste of breakfast in his mouth, through the acres of white dewy grass. He sat on his rock until thegrass was dry, and patiently jingled his cow-bell. It was to youngEzra Ray, although all unwittingly, as if he himself were assistingin the operations of nature. He watched so assiduously that it was asif he dried the dewy grass and ripened the cherries. 

When the cherry party began to arrive he still sat on his rock andjingled his bell; he did not know when to stop. But his eyes wereupon the assembling people rather than upon the robins. He watchedthe brave young men whose ignominy of boyhood was past, bearingladders and tossing up shining tin pails as they came. He watched thegirls swinging their little straw baskets daintily; his stupidlywondering eyes followed especially Rebecca Thayer. Rebecca, in herblack muslin, with her sweet throat fairly dazzling above thehalf-low bodice, and wound about twice with a slender gold chain, with her black silk apron embroidered with red roses, and beautifulface glowing with rich color between the black folds of her hair, held the instinctive attention of the boy. He stared at her as shestood talking to another girl with her back quite turned upon all theyoung men, until his own sister touched him upon the shoulder with asharp nudge of a bony little hand. 

Amelia Ray's face, blonde like her brother's, but sharp with thesharpness of the thin and dark, was thrust into his. "You must goright home now, " declared her high voice. "Mother said so. "

"I'm going to stay and help pick 'em, " said Ezra, in a voice whichwas not affirmative. 

"No, you ain't. "

"I can climb trees. "

"You've got to go right straight home. Mother wants you to wind ballsfor the rag carpet. "

And then Ezra Ray, with disconsolate gaping face over his shoulder, retreated with awkward lopes across the field, the cow-bellaccompanying his steps with doleful notes. 

There were about forty young people at the party when all wereassembled. They came mostly in couples, although now and then alittle group of girls advanced across the field, and young men camesingly. Barnabas Thayer came alone, and rather late; Rebecca had comesome time before with one of her girl mates who had stopped for her. Barnabas, slender and handsome in his best suit, advancing with astern and almost martial air, tried not to see Charlotte Barnard; butit was as if her face were the natural focus for his eyes, which theycould not escape. However, Charlotte was not talking to Thomas Payne;he was not even very near her. He was already in the top of acherry-tree picking busily. Barney saw his trim dark head and hisbright blue waistcoat among the branches, and his heart gave a guiltythrob of relief. But soon he noted that Charlotte had not her basket, and the conviction seized him that Thomas had it and was filling itwith the very choicest cherries from the topmost branches, as wasindeed the case. 

Charlotte never looked at Barney, although she knew well when hecame. She stood smiling beside another girl, her smooth fair hairgleaming in the sun, her neck showing pink through her embroideredlace kerchief, and her gleaming head and her neck seemed to surveyBarney as consciously as her face. Suddenly the fierceness of theinstinct of possession seized him; he said to himself that it was hiswife's neck; no one else should see it. He felt like tearing off hisown coat and covering her with rude force. It made no difference tohim that nearly every other girl there, his sister among the rest, wore her neck uncovered by even a kerchief; he felt that Charlotteshould not have done so. The other young men were swarming up thetrees with the girls' baskets, but he stood aloof with his foreheadknitted; it was as if all his reason had deserted him. All at oncethere was a rustle at his side, and Rose Berry touched him on thearm; he started, and looked down into her softly glowing little face. 

[Illustration: "Charlotte stood beside another girl"]

"Oh, here you are!" said she, and her voice had adoring cadences. 

Barney nodded. 

"I was afraid you weren't coming, " said she, and she panted softlythrough her red parted lips. 

Rose's crisp pink muslin gown flared scalloping around her like thepink petals of a hollyhock; her slender white arms showed through thethin sleeves. Barney could not look away from her wide-open, unfaltering blue eyes, which suddenly displayed to him strangedepths. Charlotte, during all his courtship, had never looked up inhis face like that. He could not himself have told why; but Charlottehad never for one moment lost sight of the individual, and therespect due him, in her lover. Rose, in the heart of New England, bred after the precepts of orthodoxy, was a pagan, and she worshippedLove himself. Barney was simply the statue that represented thedivinity; another might have done as well had the sculpture been asfine. 

"I told you I was coming, " Barney said, slowly, and his voice soundedodd to himself. 

"I know you did, but I was afraid you wouldn't. "

Rose still held her basket. Barney reached out for it. "Let me getsome cherries for you, " he said. 

"Oh, I guess you hadn't better, " Rose returned, holding the basketfirmly. 

"Why not?"

"I'm--afraid Charlotte won't like it, " Rose said. Her face, upturnedto Barney, was full of pitiful seriousness, like a child's. 

"Give me the basket, " demanded Barney, and she yielded. She stoodwatching him as he climbed the nearest tree; then she turned and metCharlotte's stern eyes full upon her. Rose went under the treeherself, pulled down a low branch, and began to eat; several othergirls were doing the same. Thomas Payne passed the tree, bearingcarefully Charlotte's little basket heaped with the finest cherries. Rose tossed her head defiantly. "She needn't say anything, " shethought. 

The morning advanced, the sun stood high, and there was a light wind, which now and then caused the cherry-leaves to smite the faces of thepickers. There were no robins in the trees that morning; there wereonly swift whirs of little wings in the distance, and sweet flurriedcalls which were scarcely noted in the merry clamor of the young menand girls. 

Silas Berry stood a little aloof, leaning on a stout cane, looking onwith an inscrutable expression on his dry old face. He notedeverything; he saw Rose talking to Barney; he saw his son Williameating cherries with Rebecca Thayer out of one basket; but hisexpression never changed. The predominant trait in his wholecharacter had seemed to mould his face to itself unchangeably, as theface of a hunting-dog is moulded to his speed and watchfulness. 

"Don't Mr. Berry look just like an old miser?" a girl whispered toRebecca Thayer; then she started and blushed confusedly, for sheremembered suddenly that William Berry was said to be waiting uponRebecca, and she also remembered that Charlotte Barnard, who waswithin hearing distance, was his niece. 

Rebecca blushed, too. "I never thought of it, " she said, in aconstrained voice. 

"Well, I don't know as he does, " apologized the girl. "I suppose Ithought of it because he's thin. I always had an idea that a miserwas thin. " Then she slipped away, and presently whispered to anothergirl what a mistaken speech she had made, and they put their headstogether with soft, averted giggles. 

The girls had brought packages of luncheon in their baskets, whichthey had removed to make space for the cherries, and left with Mrs. Berry in the tavern. At noon they sent the young men for them, andprepared to have dinner at a little distance from the trees wherethey had been picking, where the ground was clean. William and Rosealso went up to the tavern, and Rose beckoned to Barney as she passedhim. "Don't you want to come?" she whispered, as he followedhesitatingly; "there's something to carry. "

When the party returned, Mrs. Berry was with them, and she and Rosebore between them a small tub of freshly-fried hot doughnuts. Mrs. Berry had utterly refused to trust it to the young men. "I knowbetter than to let you have it, " she said, laughing. "You'd eat allthe way there, and there wouldn't be enough left to go round. Me andRose will carry it; it ain't very heavy. " William and Barney eachbore two great jugs of molasses-and-water spiced with ginger. 

Silas pulled himself up stiffly when he saw them coming; he had beensitting upon the peaked rock whereon Ezra Ray had kept vigil with thecow-bell. Full of anxiety had he been all day lest they should pickfrom any except the four trees which he had set apart for them, andhis anxiety was greater since he knew that the best cherries were noton those four trees. Silas sidled painfully towards his wife anddaughter; he peered over into the tub, but they swung itremorselessly past him, even knocking his shin with its iron-boundside. 

"What you got there?" he demanded, huskily. 

"Don't you say one word, " returned his wife, with a fierce shake ofher head at him. 

"What's in them jugs?"

"It's nothing but sweetened water. Don't, father, " pleaded Rose underher breath, her pretty face flaming. 

Her mother scowled indomitably at Silas tagging threateningly at herelbow. "Don't you say one word, " she whispered again. 

"You ain't goin' to--give 'em--"

"Don't you speak, " she returned, hissing out the "s. "

Silas said no more. He followed on, and watched the doughnuts beingdistributed to the merry party seated in a great ring like a verygarland of youth under his trees; he saw them drink his sweetenedwater. 

"Don't you want some?" asked his wife's defiantly pleasant voice inhis ear. 

"No, I don't want none, " he returned. 

Finally, long before they had finished eating, he went home to thetavern. There was no one in the house. He stole cautiously into thepantry, and there was a reserve of doughnuts in a large milk-pansitting before the window. Silas crooked his old arm around the pan, carried it painfully across the great kitchen and the entry into thebest room, and pushed it far under the bureau. Then he returned, andconcealed the molasses-jug in the brick oven. He stood for a minutein the middle of the kitchen floor, chuckling and nodding as if tothe familiar and confidential spirit of his own greed; then he wentout, and a short way down the road to the cottage house where oldHiram Baxter lived and kept a little shoemaker's shop in the L. Heentered, and sat down in the little leather-reeking place with Hiram, and was safe and removed from inquiry when Mrs. Berry returned to thetavern for the remaining doughnuts and to mix more sweetened water. The doughnuts could not be found, but she carried a pail across tothe store, got more molasses from the barrel, and so in one pointoutwitted her husband. 

Mrs. Berry was famous for her rich doughnuts, and the first supplyhad been quite exhausted. William went up to her at once when shereturned to the party. "Where's the rest of the doughnuts?" hewhispered. 

"Your father's hid 'em, " she whispered back. "Hush, don't sayanything. "

William scowled and made an exclamation. "The old--"

"Hush!" whispered his mother again; "go up to the house and get thesweetened water. I've mixed another jug. "

"Where is he?" demanded William. 

"I dunno. He ain't to the store. "

William strode off across the field, and he searched through thehouse with an angry stamping and banging of doors, but he could notfind his father or the doughnuts. "Father!" he called, in an angryshout, standing in the doorway, "Father!" But there was no reply, andhe went back to the others with the jug of sweetened water. Rebeccawatched him with furtive, anxious eyes, but he avoided looking ather. When he passed her a tumbler of sweetened water she took it andthanked him fervently, but he did not seem to heed her at all. 

After dinner they played romping games under the trees--hunt theslipper, and button, and Copenhagen. Mrs. Barnard and two other womenhad come over to see the festivity, and they sat at a little distancewith Mrs. Berry, awkwardly disposed against the trunks of trees, withtheir feet tucked under their skirts to keep them from the dampground. 

Copenhagen was the favorite game of the young people, and they playedon and on while the afternoon deepened. Clinging to the rope theyformed a struggling ring, looping this way and that way as thepursuers neared them. Their laughter and gay cries formed charmingdiscords; their radiant faces had the likeness of one family offlowers, through their one expression. The wind blew harder; thegirls' muslin skirts clung to their limbs as they moved against it, and flew out around their heels in fluttering ruffles. The cherryboughs tossed over their heads full of crisp whispers among theirdark leaves and red fruit clusters. Over across the field, under thelow-swaying boughs, showed the old red wall of the tavern, andagainst it a great mass of blooming phlox, all vague with distancelike purple smoke. Over on the left, fence rails glistened purple inthe sun and wind--a bluebird sat on a crumbling post and sang. Butthe young men and girls playing Copenhagen saw and heard nothing ofthese things. 

They heard only that one note of love which all unwittingly, andwhether they would or not, they sang to each other through all themerry game. Charlotte heard it whether she would or not, and so didBarney, and it produced in them as in the others a recklessexhilaration in spite of their sadness. William Berry forgot all hismortification and annoyance as he caught Rebecca's warm fingers onthe rope and bent over her red, averted cheek. Barney, when he hadgrasped Rose's hands, which had fairly swung the rope his way, kissedher with an ardor which had in it a curious, fierce joy, because atthat moment he caught a glimpse of Thomas Payne's handsome, audaciousface meeting Charlotte's. 

Barney had not wished to play, but he played with zeal, only he neverseemed to see Charlotte's fingers on the rope, and Charlotte neversaw his. The girls' cheeks flushed deeper, their smooth locks becameroughened. The laughter waxed louder and longer; the matrons lookingon doubled their broad backs with responsive merriment. It becamelike a little bacchanalian rout in a New England field on a summerafternoon, but they did not know it in their simple hearts. 

At six o'clock the mist began to rise, the sunlight streamed throughthe trees in slanting golden shafts, long drawn out like organchords. The young people gathered up their pails and baskets and wenthome, flocking down the road together, calling back farewells to Roseand William and their mother, who stood in front of the tavernwatching them out of sight. 

They were not quite out of sight when they came to Hiram Baxter'slittle house, and Silas Berry emerged from the shop door. "Hullo!" hecried out, and they all stopped, smiling at him with a cordialitywhich had in it a savor of apology. Indeed, Thomas Payne had justremarked, with a hearty chorus of assents, that he guessed the oldman wasn't so bad after all. 

Silas advanced towards them; he also was smiling. He fumbled in hiswaistcoat pocket, and drew out a roll of paper which he shook outwith trembling fingers. He stepped close to Thomas Payne and extendedit. 

"What is it?" asked the young man. 

Silas smiled up in his face with the ingenuous smile of a child. 

"What is it?" Thomas Payne asked again. 

The others crowded around. 

"It's nothin' but the bill, " replied Silas, in a wheedling whisper. His dry old face turned red, his smile deepened. 

"The bill for what?" demanded Thomas Payne, and he seized the paper. 

"For the cherries you eat, " replied Silas. "I've always been in thehabit of chargin' more, but I've took off a leetle this time. " Hisvoice had a ring of challenge, his eyes were sharp, while his mouthsmiled. 

Thomas Payne scowled over the bill. The other young men peered at itover his shoulder, and repeated the amount with whistles andhalf-laughs of scorn and anger. The girls ejaculated to each other inwhispers. Silas stood impervious, waiting. 

The young men whipped out their purses without a word, but Thomasmotioned them back. "I'll pay, and we'll settle afterwards. We can'tdivide up here, " he said, and he crammed some money hard in Silas'seagerly outstretched hand. "Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Berry, " said Thomas Payne, his face all flaming and his eyesflashing, but his voice quite steady. "I hope you'll have as goodluck selling your cherries next year. "

There was a little exulting titter over the sarcasm among the girls, in which Rebecca did not join; then the party kept on. The indignantclamor waxed loud in a moment; they scarcely waited for the old man'sback to be turned on his return to the tavern. 

But the young people, crying out all together against this lastunparalleled meanness, had not reached the foot of the hill, wheresome of them separated, when they heard the quick pound of runningfeet behind them and a hoarse voice calling on Thomas Payne to stop. They all turned, and William came up, pale and breathing hard. "Whatdid you pay him?" he asked of Thomas Payne. 

"See here, William, we all know you had nothing to do with it, "Thomas cried out. 

"What did you pay him?" William repeated, in a stern gasp. 

"It's all right. "

"You tell me what you paid him. "

Thomas Payne blushed all over his handsome boyish face. He halfwhispered the amount to William, although the others knew it as wellas he. 

William pulled out his purse, and counted out some money withtrembling fingers. "Take it, for God's sake!" said he, and ThomasPayne took it. "We all know that you knew nothing about it, " he saidagain. The others chimed in with eager assent, but William gave hishead a shake, as if he shook off water, and broke away from them all, and pelted up the hill with his heart so bitterly sore that it seemedas if he trod on it at every step. 

A voice was crying out behind him, but he never heeded. There werelight, hurrying steps after him, and a soft flutter of girlishskirts, but he never looked away from his own self until Rebeccatouched his arm. Then he looked around with a start and a greatblush, and jerked his arm away. 

But Rebecca followed him up quite boldly, and caught his arm again, and looked up in his face. "Don't you feel bad, " said she; "don't youfeel bad. You aren't to blame. "

"Isn't he my father?"

"You aren't to blame for that. "

"Disgrace comes without blame, " said William, and he moved on. 

Rebecca kept close to his side, clinging to his arm. "It's yourfather's way, " said she. "He's honest, anyway. Nobody can say heisn't honest. "

"It depends upon what you call honest, " William said, bitterly. "You'd better run back, Rebecca. You don't want them to think you'regoing with me, and they will. I'm disgraced, and so is Rose. You'dbetter run back. "

Rebecca stopped, and he did also. She looked up in his face; hermouth was quivering with a kind of helpless shame, but her eyes werefull of womanly courage and steadfastness. "William, " said she, "Iran away in the face and eyes of them all to comfort you. They sawme, and they can see me now, but I don't care. And I don't care ifyou see me; I always have cared, but I don't now. I have always beenterribly afraid lest you should think I was running after you, but Iain't afraid now. Don't you feel bad, William. That's all I careabout. Don't you feel bad; nobody is going to think any less of you. I don't; I think more. "

William looked down at her; there was a hesitating appeal in hisface, as in that of a hurt child. Suddenly Rebecca raised both herarms and put them around his neck; he leaned his cheek down againsther soft hair. "Poor William, " she whispered, as if he had been herchild instead of her lover. 

A girl in the merry party speeding along at the foot of the hillglanced around just then; she turned again, blushing hotly, andtouched a girl near her, who also glanced around. Then their twoblushing faces confronted each other with significant half-shamedsmiles of innocent young girlhood. 

They locked arms, and whispered as they went on. "Did you see?""Yes. " "His head?" "Yes. " "Her arms?" "Yes. " Neither had ever had alover. 

But the two lovers at the top of the hill paid no heed. The partywere all out of sight when they went slowly down in the gatheringtwilight. William left Rebecca when they came opposite her house. 

Chapter VIII

When Rebecca entered the house, her mother was standing over thestove, making milk-toast for supper. The boiling milk steamed upfiercely in her face. "What makes you so long behind the others?" shedemanded, without turning, stirring the milk as she spoke. 

"I guess I ain't much, am I?" Rebecca said, evasively. She tried tomake her voice sound as it usually did, but she could not. It brokeand took on faltering cadences, as if she were intoxicated with somesubtle wine of the spirit. 

Her mother looked around at her. Rebecca's face was full of a strangeradiance which she could not subdue before her mother's hard, inquiring gaze. Her cheeks burned with splendid color, her lipstrembled into smiles in spite of herself, her eyes were like darkfires, shifting before her mother's, but not paling. 

"Ephraim see 'em all go by half an hour ago, " said her mother. 

Rebecca made no reply. 

"If, " said her mother, "you stayed behind to see William Berry, I cantell you one thing, once for all: you needn't do it again. "

"I had to see him about something, " Rebecca faltered. 

"Well, you needn't see him again about anything. You might jest aswell understand it first as last: if you've got any idea of havin'William Berry, you've got to give it up. "

"Mother, I'd like to know what you mean!" Rebecca cried out, blushing. 

"Look 'round here at me!" her mother ordered, suddenly. 

"Don't, mother. "

"Look at me!"

Rebecca lifted her face perforce, and her mother eyed her pitilessly. "You ain't been tellin' of him you'd have him, now?" said she. "Whydon't you speak?"

"Not--just. "

"Then you needn't. "

"Mother!"

"You needn't talk. You can jest make up your mind to it. You ain'tgoin' to marry William Berry. Your brother has had enough to do withthat family. "

"Mother, you won't stop my marrying William because Barney won'tmarry his cousin Charlotte? There ain't any sense in that. "

"I've got my reasons, an' that's enough for you, " said Deborah. "Youain't goin' to marry William Berry. "

"I am, if you haven't got any better reason than that. I won't standit, mother; it ain't right!" Rebecca cried out. 

"Then, " said Deborah, and as she spoke she began spooning out thetoast gravy into a bowl with a curious stiff turn of her wrist and asuperfluous vigor of muscle, as if it were molten lead instead ofmilk; and, indeed, she might, from the look in her face, have beenone of her female ancestors in the times of the French and Indianwars, casting bullets with the yells of savages in her ears--"then, "said she, "I sha'n't have any child but Ephraim left, that's all!"

"Mother, don't!" gasped Rebecca. 

"There's another thing: if you marry William Berry against yourparents' wishes, you know what you have to expect. You remember youraunt Rebecca. "

Rebecca twisted her whole body about with the despairing motion withwhich she would have wrung her hands, flung open the door, and ranout of the room. 

Deborah went on spooning up the toast. Ephraim had come in just asshe spoke last to Rebecca, and he stood staring, grinning with gapingmouth. 

"What's Rebecca done, mother?" he asked, pleadingly, catching hold ofhis mother's dress. 

"Nothin' for you to know. Go an' wash your face an' hands, an' comein to supper. "

"Mother, what's she done?" Ephraim's pleading voice lengthened into awhine. He took more liberties with his mother than any one elsedared; he even jerked her dress now by way of enforcing an answer. But she grasped his arm so vigorously that he cried out. "Go out tothe pump, an' wash your face an' hands, " she repeated, and Ephraimmade a little involuntary run to the door. 

As he went out he rolled his eyes over his shoulder at his motherwith tragic surprise and reproach, but she paid no attention. When hecame in she ignored the great painful sigh which he heaved and thepodgy hand clapped ostentatiously over his left side. "Draw yourchair up, " said she. 

"I dunno as I want any supper. I've got a pain. Oh dear!" Ephraimwrithed, with attentive eyes upon his mother; he was like anexecutioner turning an emotional thumbscrew on her. But DeborahThayer's emotions sometimes presented steel surfaces. "You can have apain, then, " said she. "I ain't goin' to let you go to ruin becauseyou ain't well, not if I know it. You've got to mind, sick or well, an' you might jest as well know it. I'll have one child obey me, whether or no. Set up to the table. "

Ephraim drew up his chair, whimpering; but he fell to on themilk-toast with ardor, and his hand dropped from his side. He hadeaten half a plateful when his father came in. Caleb had beenmilking; the cows had been refractory as he drove them from pasture, and he was late. 

"Supper's been ready half an hour, " his wife said, when he entered. 

"The heifer run down the old road when I was a-drivin' of her home, an' I had to chase her, " Caleb returned, meekly, settling down in hisarm-chair at the table. 

"I guess that heifer wouldn't cut up so every night if I had thedrivin' of her, " remarked Deborah. She filled a plate with toast andpassed it over to Caleb. 

Caleb set it before him, but he did not begin to eat. He looked atRebecca's empty place, then at his wife's face, long and pale andfull of stern rancor, behind the sugar-bowl and the cream-pitcher. 

"Rebecca got home?" he ventured, with wary eyes upon her. 

"Yes, she's got home. "

Caleb winked, meekly. "Ain't she comin' to supper?"

"I dunno whether she is or not. "

"Does she know it's ready?" Deborah vouchsafed no reply. She pouredout the tea. 

Caleb grated his chair suddenly. "I'll jest speak to her, " heproclaimed, courageously. 

"She knows it's ready. You set still, " said Deborah. And Caleb drewhis chair close again, and loaded his knife with toast, bringing itaround to his mouth with a dexterous sidewise motion. 

"She ain't sick, is she?" he said, presently, with a casual air. 

"No, I guess she ain't sick. "

"I s'pose she eat so many cherries she didn't want any supper, " Calebsaid, chuckling anxiously. His wife made no reply. Ephraim reachedover slyly for the toast-spoon, and she pushed his hand back. 

"You can't have any more, " said she. 

"Can't I have jest a little more, mother?"

"No, you can't. "

"I feel faint at my stomach, mother. "

"You can keep on feelin' faint. "

"Can't I have a piece of pie, mother?"

"You can't have another mouthful of anything to eat to-night. "

Ephraim clapped his hand to his side again and sighed, but his mothertook no notice. 

"Have you got a pain, sonny?" asked Caleb. 

"Yes, dreadful. Oh!"

"Hadn't he ought to have somethin' on it?" Caleb inquired, lookingappealingly at Deborah. 

"He can have some of his doctor's medicine if he don't feel better, "she replied, in a hard voice. "Set your chair back now, Ephraim, andget out your catechism. "

"I don't feel fit to, mother, " groaned Ephraim. 

"You do jest as I tell you, " said his mother. 

And Ephraim, heaving with sighs, muttering angrily far under hisbreath lest his mother should hear, pulled his chair back to thewindow, and got his catechism out of the top drawer of his father'sdesk, and began droning out in his weak, sulky voice the firstquestion therein: "What is the chief end of man?"

"Now shut the book and answer it, " said his mother, and Ephraimobeyed. 

Ephraim was quite conversant with the first three questions and theiranswers, after that his memory began to weaken; either he was anaturally dull scholar, or his native indolence made him appear so. He had been drilled nightly upon the "Assembly's Catechism" for thepast five years, and had had many a hard bout with it before that inhis very infancy, when his general health admitted--and sometimes, itseemed to Ephraim, when it had not admitted. 

Many a time had the boy panted for breath when he rehearsed thosegrandly decisive, stately replies to those questions of all ages, buthis mother had been obdurate. He could not understand why, but inreality Deborah held her youngest son, who was threatened with deathin his youth, to the "Assembly's Catechism" as a means of filling hismind with spiritual wisdom, and fitting him for that higher state towhich he might soon be called. Ephraim had been strictly forbidden toattend school--beyond reading he had no education; but his motherresolved that spiritual education he should have, whether he would ornot, and whether the doctor would or not. So Ephraim laboriously readthe Bible through, a chapter at a time, and he went, step by step, through the wisdom of the Divines of Westminster. No matter how muchhe groaned over it, his mother was pitiless. Sometimes Caleb pluckedup courage and interceded. "I don't believe he feels quite ekal tolearnin' of his stint to-night, " he would say, and then his eyeswould fall before the terrible stern pathos in Deborah's, as shewould reply in her deep voice: "If he can't learn nothin' aboutbooks, he's got to learn about his own soul. He's got to, whether ithurts him or not. I shouldn't think, knowin' what you know, you'd sayanything, Caleb Thayer. "

And Caleb's old face would quiver suddenly like a child's; he wouldrub the back of his hand across his eyes, huddle himself into hisarm-chair, and say no more; and Deborah would sharply order Ephraim, spying anxiously over his catechism, to go on with the next question. 

It was nearly dark to-night when Ephraim finished his stint; he wasslower than usual, his progress being somewhat hindered by thesurreptitious eating of a hard red apple, which he had stowed away inhis jacket-pocket. Hard apples were strictly forbidden to Ephraim asarticles of diet, and to eat many during the season requireddiplomacy. 

The boy's jaws worked with furious zeal over the apple during hismother's temporary absences from the room on household tasks, and onher return were mumbling solemnly and innocently the precepts of thecatechism, after a spasmodic swallowing. His father was nodding inhis chair and saw nothing, and had he seen would not have betrayedhim. After a little inefficient remonstrance on his own account, Caleb always subsided, and watched anxiously lest Deborah shoulddiscover the misdemeanor and descend upon Ephraim. 

To-night, after the task was finished, Deborah sent Ephraim stumblingout of the room to bed, muttering remonstrances, his eyes as wild andrestless as a cat's, his ears full of the nocturnal shouts of hisplay-fellows that came through the open windows. 

"Mother, can't I go out an' play ball a little while?" sounded in along wail from the dusk outside the door. 

"You go to bed, " answered his mother. Then the slamming of a doorshook the house. 

"If he wa'n't sick, I'd whip him, " said Deborah, between tight lips;the spiritual whip which Ephraim held by right of his illness overher seemed to sing past her ears. She shook Caleb with the force withwhich she might have shaken Ephraim. "You'd better get up an' go tobed now, instead of sleepin' in your chair, " she said, imperatively;and Caleb obeyed, staggering, half-dazed, across the floor into thebedroom. Deborah was only a few years younger than her husband, butshe had retained her youthful vigor in much greater degree. She neverfelt the drowsiness of age stealing over her at nightfall. Indeed, oftentimes her senses seemed to gain in alertness as the day wore on, and many a night she was up and at work long after all the othermembers of her family were in bed. There came at such times toDeborah Thayer a certain peace and triumphant security, when all theother wills over which her own held contested sway were lulled tosleep, and she could concentrate all her energies upon her work. Manya long task of needle-work had she done in the silence of the night, by her dim oil lamp; in years past she had spun and woven, and therewas in a clothes-press up-stairs a wonderful coverlid in an intricatepattern of blue and white, and not a thread of it woven by the lightof the sun. 

[Illustration: "Many a long task of needle-work had she done"]

None of the neighbors knew why Deborah Thayer worked so much atnight; they attributed it to her tireless industry. "The days wa'n'tnever long enough for Deborah Thayer, " they said--and she did notknow why herself. 

There was deep in her heart a plan for the final disposition of thesenightly achievements, but she confided it to no one, not even toRebecca. The blue-and-white coverlid, many a daintily stitched linengarment and lace-edged pillow-slip she destined for Rebecca when sheshould be wed, although she frowned on Rebecca's lover and spokeharshly to her of marriage. To-night, while Rebecca lay sobbing inher little bedroom, the mother knitted assiduously until nearlymidnight upon a wide linen lace with which to trim dimity curtainsfor the daughter's bridal bedstead. 

Deborah needed no lamplight for this knitting-work; she was sofamiliar with it, having knitted yards with her thoughts elsewhere, that she could knit without seeing her needles. 

So she sat in the deepening dusk and knitted, and heard the laughterand shouts of the boys at play a little way down the road with adeeper pang than Ephraim had ever felt over his own deprivation. 

She was glad when the gay hubbub ceased and the boys were haled intobed. Shortly afterwards she heard out in the road a quick, manlytread and a merry whistle. She did not know the tune, but only oneyoung man in Pembroke could whistle like that. "It's Thomas Paynegoin' up to see Charlotte Barnard, " she said to herself, with abitter purse of her lips in the dark. That merry whistler, passingher poor cast-out son in his lonely, half-furnished house, whosedark, shadowy walls she could see across the field, smote her assorely as he smote him. It seemed to her that she could hear thatflute-like melody even as far as Charlotte's door. In spite of herstern resolution to be just, a great gust of wrath shook her. "Lettin' of him come courtin' her when it ain't six weeks sinceBarney went, " she said, quite out loud, and knitted fiercely. 

But poor Thomas Payne, striding with his harmless swagger up thehill, whistling as loud as might be one of his college airs, neednot, although she knew it not and he knew it not himself, havedisturbed her peace of mind. 

Charlotte, at the cherry party, had asked him, with a certaindignified shyness, if he could come up to her house that evening, andhe had responded with alacrity. "Why, of course I can, " he cried, blushing joyfully all over his handsome face--"of course I can, Charlotte!" And he tried to catch one of her hands hanging in thefolds of her purple dress, but she drew it away. 

"I want to see you a few minutes about something, " she said, soberly;and then she pressed forward to speak to another girl, and he couldnot get another word with her about it. 

Charlotte, after she got home from the party, had changed her prettynew gown for her every-day one of mottled brown calico set with alittle green sprig, and had helped her mother get supper. 

Cephas, however, was late, and did not come home until just beforeThomas Payne arrived. Sarah had begun to worry. "I don't see whereyour father is, " she kept saying to Charlotte. When she heard hisshuffling step on the door-stone she started as if he had been herlover. When he came in she scrutinized him anxiously, to see if helooked ill or disturbed. Sarah Barnard, during all absences of herfamily, dug busily at imaginary pitfalls for them; had they allexisted the town would have been honey-combed. 

"There ain't nothin' happened, has there, Cephas?" she said. 

"I dunno of anythin' that's happened. "

"I got kind of worried. I didn't know where you was. " Sarah had anair of apologizing for her worry. Cephas made no reply; he did notsay where he had been, nor account for his tardiness; he did not lookat his wife, standing before him with her pathetically inquiringface. He pulled a chair up to the table and sat down, and Charlotteset his supper before him. It was a plate of greens, cold boileddock, and some rye-and-Indian bread. Cephas still adhered to hisvegetarian diet, although he pined on it, and the longing for theflesh-pots was great in his soul. However, he said no more aboutsorrel pies, for the hardness and the flavor of those which he hadprepared had overcome even his zeal of invention. He ate of themmanfully twice; then he ate no more, and he did not inquire how Sarahdisposed of them after they had vainly appeared on the table a week. She, with no pig nor hens to eat them, was forced, with manymisgivings as to the waste, to deposit them in the fireplace. 

"They actually made good kindlin' wood, " she told her sister Sylvia. "Poor Cephas, he didn't have no more idea than a baby about makin'pies. " All Sarah's ire had died away; to-night she set a large plumpapple-pie slyly on the table--an apple-pie with ample allowance oflard in the crust thereof; and she felt not the slightest exultation, only honest pleasure, when she saw, without seeming to, Cephas cutoff a goodly wedge, after disposing of his dock greens. 

"Poor father, I'm real glad he's tastin' of the pie, " she whisperedto Charlotte in the pantry; "greens ain't very fillin'. "

Charlotte smiled, absently. Presently she slipped into the best roomand lighted the candles. "You expectin' of anybody to-night?" hermother asked, when she came out. 

"I didn't know but somebody might come, " Charlotte replied, evasively. She blushed a little before her mother's significantlysmiling face, but there was none of the shamed delight which shouldhave accompanied the blush. She looked very sober--almost stern. 

"Hadn't you better put on your other dress again, then?" asked hermother. "

"No, I guess this 'll do. "

Cephas ate his pie in silence--he had helped himself to anotherpiece--but he heard every word. After he had finished, he fumbled inhis pocket for his old leather purse, and counted over a little storeof money on his knee. 

Charlotte was setting away the dishes in the pantry when her fathercame up behind her and crammed something into her hand. She started. "What is it?" said she. 

"Look and see, " said Cephas. 

Charlotte opened her hand, and saw a great silver dollar. "I thoughtmebbe you'd like to buy somethin' with it, " said Cephas. He clearedhis throat, and went out through the kitchen into the shed. Charlottewas too amazed to thank him; her mother came into the pantry. "Whatdid he give you?" she whispered. 

Charlotte held up the money. "Poor father, " said Sarah Barnard, "he'sdoin' of it to make up. He was dreadful sorry about that other, an'he's tickled 'most to death now he thinks you've got somebody else, and are contented. Poor father, he ain't got much money, either. "

"I don't want it, " Charlotte said, her steady mouth quiveringdownward at the corners. 

"You keep it. He'd feel all upset if you didn't. You'll find it comehandy. I know you've got a good many things now, but you had ought tohave a new cape come fall; you can't come out bride in a muslin onewhen snow flies. " Sarah cast a half-timid, half-shrewd glance atCharlotte, who put the dollar in her pocket. 

"A green satin cape, lined and wadded, would be handsome, " pursuedher mother. 

"I sha'n't ever come out bride, " said Charlotte. 

"How you talk. There, he's comin' now!"

And, indeed, at that the clang of the knocker sounded through thehouse. Charlotte took off her apron and started to answer it, but hermother caught her and pinned up a stray lock of hair. "I 'most wishyou had put on your other dress again, " she whispered. 

Sarah listened with her ear close to the crack of the kitchen doorwhen her daughter opened the outside one. She heard Thomas Payne'shearty greeting and Charlotte's decorous reply. The door of the frontroom shut, then she set the kitchen door ajar softly, but she couldhear nothing but a vague hum of voices across the entry; she couldnot distinguish a word. However, it was as well that she could not, for her heart would have sunk, as did poor Thomas Payne's. 

Thomas, with his thick hair brushed into a shining roll above hisfair high forehead, in his best flowered waistcoat and blue coat withbrass buttons, sat opposite Charlotte, his two nicely booted feettoeing out squarely on the floor, his two hands on his knees, andlistened to what she had to say, while his boyish face changed andwhitened. Thomas was older than Charlotte, but he looked younger. It seemed, too, as if he looked younger when with her than at othertimes, although he was always anxiously steady and respectful, andlost much of that youthful dash which made him questioningly admiredby the young people of Pembroke. 

Charlotte began at once after they were seated. Her fair, grave facecolored, her voice had in it a solemn embarrassment. "I don't knowbut you thought I was doing a strange thing to ask you to come hereto-night, " she said. 

"No, I didn't; I didn't think so, Charlotte, " Thomas declared, warmly. 

"I felt as if I ought to. I felt as if it was my duty to, " said she. She cast her eyes down. Thomas waited, looking at her with vaguealarm. Somehow some college scrapes of his flashed into his head, andhe had a bewildered idea the she had found them out and that hersweet rigid innocence was shocked, and she was about to call him toaccount. 

But Charlotte continued, raising her eyes, and meeting his gravelyand fairly:

"You've been coming here three Sabbath evenings running, now, " saidshe. 

"Yes, I know I have, Charlotte. "

"And you mean to keep on coming, if I don't say anything to hinderit?"

"You know I do, Charlotte, " replied Thomas, with ardent eyes upon herface. 

"Then, " said Charlotte, "I feel as if it was my duty to say this toyou, Thomas. If you come in any other way than as a friend, if youcome on any other errand than friendship, you must not come here anymore. It isn't right for me to encourage you, and let you come hereand get your feelings enlisted. If you come here occasionally as afriend in friendship I shall be happy to have you, but you must notcome here with any other hopes or feelings. "

Charlotte's solemnly stilted words, and earnest, severe face chilledthe young man opposite. His face sobered. "You mean that you can'tever think of me in any other way than as a friend, " he said. 

Charlotte nodded. "You know it is not because there's one thingagainst you, Thomas. "

"Then it is Barney, after all. "

"I was all ready to marry him a few weeks ago, " Charlotte said, witha kind of dignified reproach. 

Thomas colored. "I know it, Charlotte; I ought not to haveexpected--I suppose you couldn't get over it so soon. I couldn't if Ihad been in your place, and been ready to marry anybody. But I didn'tknow about girls; I didn't know but they were different; I alwaysheard they got over things quicker. I ought not to have thought--But, oh, Charlotte, if I wait, if you have a little more time, don'tyou think you will feel different about it?"

Charlotte shook her head. 

"But he is such a good-for-nothing dog to treat you the way he does, Charlotte!" Thomas cried out, in a great burst of wrath and jealouslove. 

"I don't want to hear another word like that, Thomas Payne, "Charlotte said, sternly, and the young man drooped before her. 

"I beg your pardon, Charlotte, " said he. "I suppose I ought not tohave spoken so, if you-- Oh, Charlotte, then you don't think you evercan get over this and think a little bit of me?"

"No, " replied Charlotte, in a steady voice, "I don't think I evercan, Thomas. "

"I don't mean that I am trying to get you away from any other fellow, Charlotte--I wouldn't do anything like that; but if he won't-- Oh, Charlotte, are you sure?"

"I don't think I ever can, " repeated Charlotte, monotonously, lookingat the wall past Thomas. 

"I've always thought so much of you, Charlotte, though I never toldyou so. "

"You'd better not now. "

"Yes, I'm going to, now. I've got to. Then I'll never say anotherword--I'll go away, and never say another word. " Thomas got up, andbrought his chair close to Charlotte's. "Don't move away, " hepleaded; "let me sit here near you once--I never shall again. I'mgoing to tell you, Charlotte. I used to look across at you sittingin the meeting-house, Sabbath days, when I was a boy, and think youwere the handsomest girl I ever saw. Then I did try to go with youonce before I went to college; perhaps you didn't know that I meantanything, but I did. Barney was in the way then a little, but Ididn't think much of it. I didn't know that he really meant to gowith you. You let me go home with you two or three times--perhaps youremember. "

Charlotte nodded. 

"I never forgot, " said Thomas Payne. "Well, father found it out, andhe had a talk with me. He made me promise to wait till I got throughcollege before I said anything to you; he was doing a good deal forme, you know. So I waited, and the first thing I knew, when I camehome, they said Barney Thayer was waiting on you, and I thought itwas all settled and there was nothing more to be done. I made up mymind to bear it like a man and make the best of it, and I did. Butthis spring when I was through college, and that happened betwixt youand Barney, when he--didn't come back to you, and you didn't seem tomind so much, I couldn't help having a little hope. I waited andkept thinking he'd make up with you, but he didn't, and I knew howdetermined he was. Then finally I began to make a few advances, but--well, it's all over now, Charlotte. There's only one thing I'dlike to ask: if I hadn't waited, as I promised father, would it havemade any difference? Did you always like Barney Thayer?"

"Yes; it wouldn't have made any difference, " Charlotte said. Therewere tears in her eyes. 

Thomas Payne arose. "Then that is all, " said he. "I never had anychance, if I had only known. I've got nothing more to say. I want tothank you for asking me to come here to-night and telling me. It wasa good deal kinder than to let me keep on coming. That would havebeen rather hard on a fellow. " Thomas Payne fairly laughed, althoughhis handsome face was white. "I hope it will all come right betwixtyou and Barney, Charlotte, " he said, "and don't you worry about me, Ishall get on. I'll own this seems a little harder than it was before, but I shall get on. " Thomas brushed his bell hat carefully with hiscambric handkerchief, and stowed it under his arm. "Good-bye, Charlotte, " said he, in his old gay voice; "when you ask me, I'llcome and dance at your wedding. "

Charlotte got up, trembling. Thomas reached out his hand and touchedher smooth fair head softly. "I never touched you nor kissed you, except in games like that Copenhagen to-day, " said he; "but I'vethought of it a good many times. "

Charlotte drew back. "I can't, Thomas, " she faltered. She could notherself have defined her reason for refusing her cast-off lover thisone comfort, but it was not so much loyalty as the fear of disloyaltywhich led her to do so. In spite of herself, she saw Barney for aninstant beside Thomas to his disadvantage, and her love could notcover him, extend it as she would. The conviction was strong upon herthat Thomas was the better man of the two, although she did not lovehim. 

"All right, " said Thomas, "I ought not to have asked it of you, Charlotte. Good-bye. "

As soon as Thomas Payne got out in the dark night air, and the doorhad shut behind him, he set up his merry whistle. Charlotte stood atthe front window, and heard it from far down the hill. 

Chapter IX

One Sunday evening, about four months after the cherry party, Barnabas Thayer came out of his house and strolled slowly across theroad. Then he paused, and leaned up against some pasture bars andlooked around him. There was nobody in sight on the road in eitherdirection, and everything was very still, except for the vibratingcalls of the hidden insects that come to their flood-tide of life inearly autumn. 

Barnabas listened to those calls, which had in them a certain elementof mystery, as have all things which reach only one sense. They werein their humble way the voices of the unseen, and as he listened theyseemed to take on a rhythmic cadence. Presently the drone ofmultifold vibrations sounded in his ears with even rise and fall, like the mighty breathing of Nature herself. The sun was low, and thesky was full of violet clouds. Barney could see outlined faintlyagainst them the gray sweep of the roof that covered Charlotte'sdaily life. 

Soon the bell for the evening meeting began to ring, and Barneystarted. People might soon appear on their way to meeting, and hedid not want to see them. Barney avoided everybody now; he had beennowhere since the cherry party, not even to meeting. He led the lifeof a hermit, and seldom met his kind at all, except at the store, where he went to buy the simple materials for his solitary meals. 

Barney turned aside from the main road into the old untravelled oneleading past Sylvia Crane's house. It appeared scarcely more than alane; the old wheel-ruts were hidden between green weedy ridges, thebordering stone-walls looked like long green barrows, being overgrownwith poison-ivy vines and rank shrubs. For a long way there was nohouse except Sylvia Crane's. There was one cellar where a house hadstood before Barney could remember. There were a few old blackenedchimney-bricks still there, the step-stone worn by dead and forgottenfeet, and the old lilac-bushes that had grown against the frontwindows. Two poplar-trees, too, stood where the front yard had metthe road, casting long shadows like men. Sylvia Crane's house wasjust beyond, and Barney passed it with a furtive anxious glance, because Charlotte's aunt lived there. He saw nobody at the windows, but the guardian-stone was quite rolled away from the door, so Sylviawas at home. 

Barney walked a little way beyond; then he sat down on thestone-wall, and remained there, motionless. He heard the meeting-bellfarther away, then it ceased. The wind was quite crisp and cool, andit smote his back from the northwest. He could smell wild-grapes andthe pungent odor of decaying leaves. The autumn was beginning, andover his thoughts, raised like a ghost from the ashes of the summer, stole a vague vision of the winter. He saw for a second the drivingslant of the snow-storm over the old drifting road, he saw the whiteslant of Sylvia's house-roof through it. And at the same time acurious, pleasant desire, which might be primitive and coeval withthe provident passion of the squirrels and honey-bees, thrilled him. Then he dismissed it bitterly. What need of winter-stores andprovisions for sweet home-comfort in the hearts of freezing stormswas there for him? What did he care whether or not he laid in storesof hearth-wood, of garden produce, of apples, just for himself in hismiserable solitude? The inborn desire of Northern races at theapproach of the sterile winters, containing, as do all desires toinsure their fulfilment, the elements of human pleasure, failedsuddenly to move him when he remembered that his human life, in onesense, was over. 

[Illustration: "He remained there motionless"]

Opposite him across the road, in an old orchard, was a tree full ofapples. The low sun struck them, and they showed spheres of rosyorange, as brilliant as Atalanta's apples of gold, against thebackground of dark violet clouds. Barney looked at this tree, whichwas glorified for the time almost out of its common meaning as atree, as he might have looked at a gorgeous procession passing beforehim, while his mind was engrossed with his own misery, seeming toproject before his eyes like a veil. 

Presently it grew dusky, and the glowing apples faded; the town-clockstruck eight. Barney counted the strokes; then he arose and wentslowly back. He had not gone far when he saw at a distance down theroad a man and woman strolling slowly towards him. They disappearedsuddenly, and he thought they had turned into a lane which openedupon the road just there. He thought to himself, and with no concern, that it might have been his sister Rebecca--something about thewoman's gait suggested her--and William Berry. He knew that Williamwas not allowed in his mother's house, and that he and Rebecca metoutside. He looked up the dusky lane when he came to it, but he sawnobody. 

When he reached Sylvia Crane's house he noticed that the front doorwas open, and a woman stood there in a dim shaft of candle-lightwhich streamed from the room beyond. He started, for he thought itmight be Charlotte; then he saw that it was Sylvia Crane leaning outtowards him, shading her eyes with her hand. 

He said "Good-evening" vaguely, and passed on. Then he heard a cry ofindistinct words behind him, and turned. "What is it?" he called. Butstill he could not understand what she said, her voice was so broken, and he went back. 

When he got quite close to the gate he understood. "You ain't goin'past, Richard? You ain't goin' past, Richard?" Sylvia was wailingover and over, clinging to the old gate-post. 

Barney stood before her, hesitating. Sylvia reached out a handtowards him, clutching piteously with pale fingers through the gloom. Barney drew back from the poor hand. "I rather think--you've--made amistake, " he faltered out. 

"You ain't goin' past, Richard?" Sylvia wailed out again. She flungout her lean arm farther towards him. Then she wavered. Barneythought she was going to fall, and he stepped forward and caughthold of her elbow. "I guess you don't feel well, do you, Miss Crane?"he said. "I guess you had better go into the house, hadn't you?"

"I feel--kind of--bad--I--thought you was goin'--past, " gaspedSylvia. Barney supported her awkwardly into the house. At times sheleaned her whole trembling weight upon him, and then withdrewherself, all unnerved as she was, with the inborn maiden reticencewhich so many years had strengthened; once she pushed him from her, then drooped upon his arm again, and all the time she kept moaning, "I thought you was goin' right past, Richard, I thought you was goin'right past. "

And Barney kept repeating, "I guess you've made a mistake, MissCrane"; but she did not heed him. 

When they were inside the parlor he shifted her weight gently on tothe sofa, and would have drawn off; but she clung to his arm, and itseemed to him that he was forced to sit down beside her or be roughwith her. "I thought you was goin' right past, Richard, " she saidagain. 

"I ain't Richard, " said Barney; but she did not seem to hear him. Shelooked straight in his face with a strange boldness, her bodyinclined towards him, her head thrown back. Her thin, faded cheekswere burning, her blue eyes eager, her lips twitching with pitifulsmiles. The room was dim with candle-light, but everything in it wasdistinct, and Sylvia Crane, looking straight at Barney Thayer's face, saw the face of Richard Alger. 

Suddenly Barney himself had a curious impression. The features ofRichard Alger instead of his own seemed to look back at him from hisown thoughts. He dashed his hand across his face with an impatient, bewildered motion, as if he brushed away unseen cobwebs, and stoodup. "You have made--" he began again; but Sylvia interrupted him witha weak cry. "Set down here, set down here, jest a minute, if youdon't want to kill me!" she wailed out, and she clutched at hissleeve and pulled him down, and before he knew what she was doing hadshrunk close to him, and laid her head on his shoulder. She went ontalking desperately in her weak voice--strained shrill octaves aboveher ordinary tone. 

"I've had this--sofa ten years, " she said--"ten years, Richard--an'you never set with me on it before, an'--you'd been comin'--here along while before that came betwixt us last spring, Richard. Ain'tyou forgiven me yet?"

Barney made no reply. 

"Can't you put your arm around me jest once, Richard?" she went on. "You ain't never, an' you've been comin' here a long while. I've hadthis sofa ten years. "

Barney put his arm around her, seemingly with no volition of his own. 

"It's six months to-day sence you came last, " Sylvia said--"it's sixwhole months; an' when I see you goin' past to-night, it didn't seemas if I could bear it--it didn't seem as if I could bear it, Richard. " Sylvia turned her pale profile closer to Barney's breastand sobbed faintly. "I've watched so long for you, " she sighed out;"all these months I've sat there at the window, strainin' my eyesinto the dark. Oh, you don't know, Richard, you won't never know!"

Barney trembled with Sylvia's sobs. He sat with a seriousshamefacedness, his arm around the poor bony waist, staring over thefaded fair head, which had never lain on any lover's breast except indreams. For the moment he could not stir; he had a feeling of horror, as if he saw his own double. There was a subtle resemblance whichlay deeper than the features between him and Richard Alger. Sylviasaw it, and he saw his own self reflected as Richard Alger in thatstraining mental vision of hers which exceeded the spiritual one. 

"Can't you forgive me, an'--come again the way--you used to?" Sylviapanted out. "I couldn't get home before, that night, nohow. Icouldn't, Richard--'twas the night Charlotte an' Barney fell out. They had a dreadful time. I had to stay there. It wa'n't my fault. If Barney had come back, I could have got here in season; but poorCharlotte was settin' out there all alone on the doorstep, an' herfather wouldn't let her in, an' Sarah took on so I had to stay. Ithought I should die when I got back an' found out you'd been herean' gone. Ain't you goin' to forgive me, Richard?"

Barney suddenly removed his arm from Sylvia's waist, pushed herclinging hands away, and stood up again. "Now, Miss Crane, " he said, "I've got to tell you. You've got to listen, and take it in. I amnot Richard Alger; I am Barney Thayer. "

"What?" Sylvia said, feebly, looking up at him. "I don't know whatyou say, Richard; I wish you'd say it again. "

"I ain't Richard Alger; I am Barney Thayer, " repeated Barney, in aloud, distinct voice. Sylvia's straining, questioning eyes did notleave his face. "You made a mistake, " said Barney. 

Sylvia turned her eyes away; she laid her head down on the arm of thehair-cloth sofa, and gasped faintly. Barney bent over her. "Now don'tfeel bad, Miss Crane, " said he; "I sha'n't ever say a word about thisto anybody. "

Sylvia made no reply; she lay there half gasping for breath, and herface looked deathly to Barney. 

"Miss Crane, are you sick?" he cried out in alarm. When she did notanswer, he even laid hold of her shoulder, and shook her gently, andrepeated the question. He did not know if she were faint or dying; hehad never seen anybody faint or die. He wished instinctively that hismother were there; he thought for a second of running for her inspite of everything. 

"I'll go and get some water for you, Miss Crane, " he said, desperately, and seized the candle, and went with it, flaring andleaving a wake of smoke, out into the kitchen. He presently came backwith a dipper of water, and held it dripping over Sylvia. "Hadn't youbetter drink a little?" he urged. But Sylvia suddenly motioned himaway and sat up. "No, I don't want any water; I don't want anythingafter this, " she said, in a quick, desperate tone. "I can never lookanybody in the face again. I can never go to meetin' again. "

"Don't you feel so about it, Miss Crane, " Barney pleaded, his ownvoice uncertain and embarrassed. "The room ain't very light, and it'sdark outside; maybe I do look like him a little. It ain't any wonderyou made the mistake. "

"It wa'n't that, " returned Sylvia. "I dunno what the reason was; itdon't make any difference. I can't never go to meetin' again. "

"I sha'n't tell anybody, " said Barney; "I sha'n't ever speak of it toany human being. "

Sylvia turned on him with sudden fierceness. "You had better not, "said she, "when you're doin' jest the same as Richard Alger yourself, an' you're makin' Charlotte sit an' watch an' suffer for nothin' atall, jest as he makes me. You had better not tell of it, BarneyThayer, when it was all due to your awful will that won't let yougive in to anybody, in the first place, an' when you are so much likeRichard Alger yourself that it's no wonder that anybody that knowshim body and soul, as I do, took you for him. You had better nottell. "

Again Barney seemed to see before his eyes that image of himself asRichard Alger, and he could no more change it than he could changehis own image in the looking-glass. He said not another word, butcarried the dipper of water back to the kitchen, returned with thecandle, setting it gingerly on the white mantel-shelf between a vaseof dried flowers and a mottle-backed shell, and went out of thehouse. Sylvia did not speak again; but he heard her moan as he closedthe door, and it seemed to him that he heard her as he went down theroad, although he knew that he could not. 

It was quite dark now; all the light came from a pale wild sky. Themoon was young, and feebly intermittent with the clouds. 

Barney, hastening along, was all trembling and unnerved. He tried topersuade himself that the woman whom he had just left was ill, andlaboring under some sudden aberration of mind; yet, in spite ofhimself, he realized a terrible rationality in it. Little as he hadbeen among the village people of late, and little as he had heard ofthe village gossip, he knew the story of Richard Alger's desertionof Sylvia Crane. Was he not like Richard Alger in his own desertionof Charlotte Barnard? and had not Sylvia been as little at faultin taking one for the other as if they had been twin brothers?Might there not be a closer likeness between characters thanfeatures--perhaps by a repetition of sins and deformities? and mightnot one now and then be able to see it?

Then the question came, was Charlotte like Sylvia? Was Charlotte evennow sitting watching for him with that awful eagerness which comesfrom a hunger of the heart? He had seen one woman's wounded heart, and, like most men, was disposed to generalize, and think he had seenthe wounded hearts of all women. 

When he had reached the turn of the road, and had come out on themain one where his house was, and where Charlotte lived, he stoodstill, looking in her direction. He seemed to see her, a quarter of amile away in the darkness, sitting in her window watching for him, asSylvia had watched for Richard. 

He set his mouth hard and crossed the road. He had just reached hisown yard when there was the pale flutter of a skirt out of thedarkness before him, and a little shadowy figure met him with a softshock. The was a smothered nervous titter from the figure. Barney didnot know who it was; he muttered an apology, and was about to passinto his yard when Rose Berry's voice arrested him. It was quitetrembling and uncertain; all the laughter had gone out of it. 

"Oh, it's you, " said she; "you frightened me. I didn't know who itwas. "

Barney felt suddenly annoyed without knowing why. "Oh, is it you, Rose?" he returned, stiffly. "It's a pleasant evening;" then heturned. 

"Barney!" Rose said, and her voice sounded as if she were weeping. 

Barney stopped and waited. 

"I want to know if--you're mad with me, Barney. "

"No, of course I ain't; why?"

"I thought you'd acted kind of queer to me lately. "

Barney stood still, frowning in the darkness. "I don't know what youmean, " he said at length. "I don't know how I've treated you anydifferent from any of the girls. "

"You haven't been to see me, and--you've hardly spoken to me sincethe cherry party. "

"I haven't been to see anybody, " said Barney, shortly; and he turnedaway again, but Rose caught his arm. "Then you are sure you aren'tmad with me?" she whispered. 

"Of course I'm sure, " Barney returned, impatiently. 

"It would kill me if you were, " Rose whispered. She pressed close tohim; he could feel her softly panting against his side, her head sunkon his shoulder. "I've been worrying about it all these months, " shesaid in his ear. Her soft curly hair brushed his cheek, but herlittle transient influence over him was all gone. He felt angry andashamed. 

"I haven't thought anything about it, " he said, brusquely. 

Rose sobbed faintly, but she did not move away from him. Suddenlythat cruel repulsion which seizes mankind towards reptiles andunsought love seized Barney. He unclasped her clinging hands, andfairly pushed her away from him. "Good-night, Rose, " he said, shortly, and turned, and went up the path to his own door withdetermined strides. 

"Barney!" Rose called after him; but he paid no attention. She evenran up the path after him; but the door shut, and she turned back. She was trembling from head to foot, there was a great rushing in herears; but she heard a quick light step behind her when she got out onthe road, and she hurried on before it with a vague dread. 

She almost ran at length; but the footsteps gained on her. A darkskirt brushed her light-colored one, and Charlotte's voice, full ofcontempt and indignation, said in her ear: "Oh, I thought it wasyou. "

"I--was coming up--to your--house, " Rose faltered; she could hardlyget her breath to speak. 

"Why didn't you come, then?" demanded Charlotte. "What made you go toBarney Thayer's?"

"I didn't, " said Rose, in feeble self-defence. "He was out in theroad--I--just stopped to--speak to him--"

"You were coming out of his yard, " Charlotte said, pitilessly. "Youfollowed him in there--I saw you. Shame on you!"

"Oh, Charlotte, I haven't done anything out of the way, " pleadedRose, weakly. 

"You have tried your best to get Barney Thayer all the time you havebeen pretending to be such a good friend to me. I don't know what youcall out of the way. "

"Charlotte, don't--I haven't. "

"Yes, you have. I am going to tell you, once for all, what I think ofyou. You've been a false friend to me; and now when Barney don'tnotice you, you follow him up as no girl that thought anything ofherself would. And you don't even care anything for him; you haven'teven that for an excuse. "

"You don't know but what I do!" Rose cried out, desperately. 

"Yes, I do know. If anybody else came along, you'd care for him justthe same. "

"I shouldn't--Charlotte, I should never have thought of Barney ifhe--hadn't left you, you know I shouldn't. "

"That's no excuse, " said Charlotte, sternly. 

"You said yourself he would never come back to you, " said Rose. 

"Would you have liked me to have done so by you, if you had been inmy place?"

Rose twitched herself about. "You can't expect him never to marryanybody because he isn't going to marry you, " she said, defiantly. 

"I don't--I am not quite so selfish as that. But he won't ever marryanybody he don't like because she follows him up, and I don't see howthat alters what you've done. "

Rose began to walk away. Charlotte stood still, but she raised hervoice. "I am not very happy, " said she, "and I sha'n't be happy mywhole life, but I wouldn't change places with you. You've loweredyourself, and that's worse than any unhappiness. "

Rose fled away in the darkness without another word, and Charlottecrossed the road to go to her Aunt Sylvia's. 

Rose, as she went on, felt as if all her dreams were dying withinher; a dull vision of the next morning when she should awake withoutthem weighed upon her. She had a childish sense of shame and remorse, and a conviction of the truth of Charlotte's words. And yet she hadan injured and bewildered feeling, as if somewhere in this terriblenature, at whose mercy she was, there was some excuse for her. 

Rose was nearly home when she began to meet the people coming frommeeting. She kept close to the wall, and scudded along swiftly thatno one might recognize her. All at once a young man whom she hadpassed turned and walked along by her side, making a shy clutch ather arm. 

"Oh, it's you, " she said, wearily. 

"Yes; do you care if I walk along with you?"

"No, " said Rose, "not if you want to. "

An old pang of gratitude came over her. It was only the honest, overgrown boy, Tommy Ray, of the store. She had known he worshippedher afar off; she had laughed at him and half despised him, but nowshe felt suddenly humble and grateful for even this devotion. Shemoved her arm that he might hold it more closely. 

"It's too dark for you to be out alone, " he said, in his embarrassed, tender voice. 

"Yes, it's pretty dark, " said Rose. Her voice shook. They had passedthe last group of returning people. Suddenly Rose, in spite ofherself, began to cry. She sobbed wildly, and the boy, full of alarmand sympathy, walked on by her side. 

"There ain't anything--scared you, has there?" he stammered out, awkwardly, at length. 

"No, " sobbed Rose. 

"You ain't sick?"

"No, it isn't anything. "

The boy held her arm closer; he trembled and almost sobbed himselfwith sympathy. Before they reached the old tavern Rose had stoppedcrying--she even tried to laugh and turn it off with a jest. "I don'tknow what got into me, " she said; "I guess I was nervous. "

"I didn't know but something had scared you, " said the boy. 

They stood on the door-steps; the house was dark. Rose's parents hadgone to bed, and William was out. The boy still held Rose's arm. Hehad adored her secretly ever since he was a child, and he had neverdared as much as that before. He had thought of Rose like a queen ora princess, and the thought had ennobled his boyish ignorance andcommonness. 

"No, I wasn't scared, " said Rose, and something in her voice gavesudden boldness to her young lover. 

He released her arm, and put both his arms around her. "I'm sorry youfeel so bad, " he whispered, panting. 

"It isn't anything, " returned Rose, but she half sobbed again; theboy's round cheek pressed against her wet, burning one. He wasseveral years younger than she. She had half scorned him, but she hadone of those natures that crave love for its own sweetness as palatescrave sugar. 

She wept a little on his shoulder; and the boy, half beside himselfwith joy and terror, stood holding her fast in his arms. 

"Don't feel bad, " he kept whispering. Finally Rose raised herself. "Imust go in, " she whispered; "good-night. "

The boy's pleading face, his innocent, passionate lips approachedhers, and they kissed each other. 

"Don't you--like me a little?" gasped the boy. 

"Maybe I will, " Rose whispered back. His face came closer, and shekissed him again. Then, with a murmured "good-night, " she fled intothe house, and the boy went down the hill with sweeter dreams in hisheart than those which she had lost. 

Chapter X

On the Sunday following the one of Barnabas Thayer's call SylviaCrane appeared at meeting in a black lace veil like a Spanishseñorita. The heavily wrought black lace fell over her face, andpeople could get only shifting glimpses of her delicate featuresbehind it. 

Richard Alger glanced furtively at the pale face shrinking austerelybehind the net-work of black silk leaves and flowers, and wondered atsome change which he felt but could not fathom. He scarcely knew thatshe had never worn the veil before. And Richard Alger, had he known, could never have fathomed the purely feminine motive compounded ofpride and shame which led his old sweetheart to unearth from thedepths of a bandbox her mother's worked-lace veil, and tie its narrowblack drawing-string with trembling fingers over her own bonnet. 

"I'd like to know what in creation you've got that veil on for?"whispered her sister, Hannah Berry, as they went down the aisle aftermeeting. 

"I thought I would, " responded Sylvia's muffled voice behind theveil. 

"You've got the flowers right over your eyes. I shouldn't think youcould see to walk. You ain't never worn a veil in your life. I can'tsee what has got into you, " persisted Hannah. 

Sylvia edged away from her as soon as she could, and glided down theroad towards her own house swiftly, although her knees trembled. Sylvia's knees always trembled when she came out of church, after shehad sat an hour and a half opposite Richard Alger. To-day they feltweaker than ever, after her encounter with Hannah. Nobody knew theterror Sylvia had of her sister's discovering how she had called inBarnabas Thayer, and in a manner unveiled her maiden heart to him. When Charlotte had come in that night after Barnabas had gone, anddiscovered her crying on the sofa, she had jumped up and confrontedher with a fierce instinct of concealment. 

"There ain't nothin' new the matter, " she said, in response toCharlotte's question; "I was thinkin' about mother; I'm apt to whenit comes dusk. " It was the first deliberate lie that Sylvia Crane hadever told in her life. She reflected upon it after Charlotte hadgone, and reflected also with fierce hardihood that she would lieagain were it necessary. Should she hesitate at a lie if it wouldcover the maiden reserve that she had cherished so long?

However, Charlotte had suspected more than her aunt knew of the truecause of her agitation. A similar motive for grief made her acute. Sylvia, mourning alone of a Sabbath night upon her hair-cloth sofa, struck an old chord of her own heart. Charlotte dared not say aword to comfort her directly. She condoled with her for thefifteen-years-old loss of her mother, and did not allude to RichardAlger; but going home she said to herself, with a miserable qualm ofpity, that poor Aunt Sylvia was breaking her heart because Richardhad stopped coming. 

"It's harder for Aunt Sylvia because she's older, " thought Charlotte, on her way home that night. But then she thought also, with a sorerqualm of self-pity, that Sylvia had not quite so long a life beforeher, to live alone. Charlotte had nearly reached her own home thatnight when two figures suddenly slunk across the road before her. Sheat once recognized Rebecca Thayer as one of them, and called out"Good-evening, Rebecca!" to her. 

Rebecca made only a muttered sound in response, and they bothdisappeared in the darkness. There was a look of secrecy and flightabout it which somehow startled Charlotte, engrossed as she was withher own troubles and her late encounter with Rose. 

When she got into the house she spoke of it to her mother. Cephas hadgone to bed, and Sarah was sitting up waiting for her. 

"I met Rebecca and William out here, " said she, untying her hat, "andI thought they acted real queer. " Sarah cast a glance at the bedroomdoor, which was ajar, and motioned Charlotte to close it. Charlottetiptoed across the room and shut the door softly, lest she shouldawaken her father; then her mother beckoned her to come close, andwhispered something in her ear. 

Charlotte started, and a great blush flamed out all over her face andneck. She looked at her mother with angry shame. "I don't believe aword of it, " said she; "not a word of it. "

"I walked home from meetin' with Mrs. Allen this evenin', " said hermother, "an' she says it's all over town. She says Rebecca's beenstealin' out, an' goin' to walk with him unbeknownst to her motherall summer. You know her mother wouldn't let him come to the house. "

"I don't believe one word of it, " repeated Charlotte. 

"Mis' Allen says it's so, " said Sarah. "She says Mis' Thayer has hadto stay home from evenin' meetin' on account of Ephraim--she don'tlike to leave him alone, he ain't been quite so well lately--an'Rebecca has made believe go to meetin' when she's been off withWilliam. Mis' Thayer went to meetin' to-night. "

"Wasn't Mr. Thayer there?"

"Yes, he was there, but he wouldn't know what was goin' on. 'Tain'tvery hard to pull the wool over Caleb Thayer's eyes. "

"I don't believe one word of it, " Charlotte said, again. When shewent up-stairs to bed that whisper of her mother's seemed to soundthrough and above all her own trouble. It was to her like a note ofdespair and shame, quite outside her own gamut of life. She could notbelieve that she heard it at all. Rebecca's face as she had alwaysknown her came up before her. "I don't believe one word of it, " shesaid again to herself. 

But that whisper which had shocked her ear had already begun to berepeated all over the village--by furtive matrons, behind theirhands, when the children had been sent out of the room; by girls, blushing beneath each other's eyes as they whispered; by the loungingmen in the village store; it was sent like an evil strain through theconsciousness of the village, until everybody except Rebecca's ownfamily had heard it. 

Barnabas saw little of other people, and nobody dared repeat thewhisper to him, and they had too much mercy or too little courage torepeat it to Caleb or Deborah. Indeed, it is doubtful if any woman inthe village, even Hannah Berry, would have ventured to face DeborahThayer with this rumor concerning her daughter. 

Deborah had of late felt anxious about Rebecca, who did not seem likeherself. Her face was strangely changed; all the old meaning had goneout of it, and given place to another, which her mother could notinterpret. Sometimes Rebecca looked like a stranger to her as shemoved about the house. She said to many that Rebecca was miserable, and was incensed that she got so little sympathy in response. Oncewhen Rebecca fainted in meeting, and had to be carried out, she feltin the midst of her alarm a certain triumph. "I guess folks will seenow that I ain't been fussin' over her for nothin', " she thought. When Rebecca revived under a sprinkle of water, out in the vestibule, she said impatiently to the other women bending their grave, concerned faces over her, "She's been miserable for some time. Iain't surprised at this at all myself. "

Deborah watched over Rebecca with a fierce, pecking tenderness like abird. She brewed great bowls of domestic medicines from nuts andherbs, and made her drink whether she would or not. She sent her tobed early, and debarred her from the night air. She never had asuspicion of the figure slipping softly as a shadow across the northparlor and out the front door night after night. 

She never exchanged a word with Rebecca about William Berry. Shetried to persuade herself that Rebecca no longer thought much abouthim; she drove from her mind the fear lest Rebecca's illness might bedue to grief at parting from him. She looked at Thomas Payne with aspeculative eye; she thought that he would make a good husband forRebecca; she dreamed of him, and built bridal castles for him and herdaughter, as she knitted those yards of lace at night, when Rebeccahad gone to bed in her little room off the north parlor. When ThomasPayne went west a month after Charlotte Barnard had refused him, shetransferred her dreams to some fine stranger who should come to thevillage and at once be smitten with Rebecca. She never thought itpossible that Rebecca could be persisting in her engagement toWilliam Berry against her express command. Her own obstinacy wasincredible to her in her daughter; she had not the slightestsuspicion of it, and Rebecca had less to guard against. 

As the fall advanced Rebecca showed less and less inclination to goin the village society. Her mother fairly drove her out at times. Once Rebecca, utterly overcome, sank down in a chair and wept whenher mother urged her to go to a husking-party in the neighborhood. 

"You've got to spunk up an' go, if you don't feel like it, " said hermother. "You'll feel better for it afterwards. There ain't no use ingivin' up so. I'm goin' to get you a new crimson woollen dress, an'I'm goin' to have you go out more'n you've done lately. "

"I--don't want a new dress, " returned Rebecca, with wild sobs. 

"Well, I'm goin' to get you one to-morrow, " said her mother. "Now goan' wash your face an' do up your hair, an' get ready. You can wearyour brown dress, with the cherry ribbon in your hair, to-night. "

"I don't--feel fit to, mother, " moaned Rebecca, piteously. 

But Deborah would not listen to her. She made her get ready for thehusking-party, and looked at her with pride when she stood alldressed to go, in the kitchen. 

"You look better than you've done for some time, " said she, "an' thatbrown dress don't look bad, either, if you have had it three winters. I'm goin' to get you a nice new crimson woollen this winter. I've hadmy mind made up to for some time. "

After Rebecca had gone and Ephraim had said his catechism and gone tobed, Deborah sat and knitted, and planned to get the crimson dressfor Rebecca the next day. 

She looked over at Caleb, who sat dozing by the fire. "I'll goto-morrow, if he ain't got to spend all that last interest-money forthe parish taxes an' cuttin' that wood, " said she. "I dunno how muchthat wood-cuttin' come to, an' he won't know to-night if I wake himup. I can't get it through his head. But I'll buy it to-morrow ifthere's money enough left. "

But Deborah was forced to wait a few weeks, since it took all theinterest-money for the parish taxes and to pay for the wood-cutting. She had to wait until Caleb had sold some of the wood, and that tooksome time, since seller and purchasers were slow-motioned. 

At last, one afternoon, she drove herself over to Bolton in thechaise to buy the dress. She went to Bolton, because she would not goherself to Silas Berry's store and trade with William. She could sendCaleb there for household goods, but this dress she would trust noone but herself to purchase. 

She had planned that Rebecca should go with her, but the girl lookedso utterly wan and despairing that day that she forbore to insistupon it. Caleb would have accompanied her, but she would not let him. "I never did think much of men-folks standin' round in stores gawpin'while women-folks was tradin', " said she. She would not allow Ephraimto go, although he pleaded hard. It was quite a cold day, and she wasafraid of the sharp air for his laboring breath. 

A little after noon she set forth, all alone in the chaise, slappingthe reins energetically over the white horse's back, a thick greenveil tied over her bonnet under her chin, and the thin, sharp wedgeof face visible between the folds crimsoning in the frosty wind. 

While she was gone Rebecca sat beside the window and sewed, Calebshelled corn in the chimney-corner, and Ephraim made a pretence ofhelping him. "You set down an' help your father shell corn while I amgone, " his mother had sternly ordered. 

Occasionally Ephraim addressed whining remonstrances to his father, and begged to be allowed to go out-of-doors, and Caleb would quiethim with one effectual rejoinder: "You know she won't like it if youdo, sonny. You know what she said. "

Caleb, as he shelled the corn with the pottering patience of old ageand constitutional slowness, glanced now and then at his daughter inthe window. He thought she looked very badly, and he had all the timelately the bewildered feeling of a child who sees in a familiar facethe marks of emotions unknown to it. 

"Don't you feel as well as common to-day, Rebecca?" he asked once, and cleared his throat. 

"I don't feel sick, as I know of, any day, " replied Rebecca, shortly, and her face reddened. 

As she sewed she looked out now and then at the wild December day, the trees reeling in the wind, and the sky driving with the leadenclouds. It was too cold and too windy to snow all the afternoon, buttowards night it moderated, and the wind died down. When Mrs. Thayercame home it was snowing quite hard, and her green veil was whitewhen she entered the kitchen. She took it off and shook it, sputtering moisture in the fireplace. 

"There's goin' to be a hard storm; it's lucky I went to-day, " saidshe. "I kept the dress under the buffalo-robe, an' that ain't hurtany. "

Deborah waxed quite angry, when she proudly shook out the softgleaming crimson lengths of thibet, because Rebecca showed so littleinterest in it. "You don't deserve to have a new dress; you act likea stick of wood, " she said. 

Rebecca made no reply. Presently, when she had gone out of the roomfor something, Caleb said, anxiously, "I guess she don't feel quiteso well as common to-night. "

"I'm gettin' most out of patience; I dunno what ails her. I'm goin'to have the doctor if this keeps on, " returned Deborah. 

Ephraim, sucking a stick of candy brought to him from Bolton, cast astrange glance at his mother--a glance compounded of shrewdness andterror; but she did not see it. 

It snowed hard all night; in the morning the snow was quite deep, andthere was no appearance of clearing. As soon as the breakfast disheswere put away, Deborah got out the crimson thibet. She had learnedthe tailoring and dressmaking trade in her youth, and she always cutand fitted the garments for the family. 

She worked assiduously; by the middle of the forenoon the dress wasready to be tried on. Ephraim and his father were out in the barn, she and Rebecca were alone in the house. 

She made Rebecca stand up in the middle of the kitchen floor, and shebegan fitting the crimson gown to her. Rebecca stood droopingheavily, her eyes cast down. Suddenly her mother gave a great start, pushed the girl violently from her, and stood aloof. She did notspeak for a few minutes; the clock ticked in the dreadful silence. Rebecca cast one glance at her mother, whose eyes seemed to light theinnermost recesses of her being to her own vision; then she wouldhave looked away, but her mother's voice arrested her. 

"Look at me, " said Deborah. And Rebecca looked; it was likeuncovering a disfigurement or a sore. 

"What--ails you?" said her mother, in a terrible voice. 

Then Rebecca turned her head; her mother's eyes could not hold herany longer. It was as if her very soul shrank. 

"Go out of this house, " said her mother, after a minute. 

Rebecca did not make a sound. She went, bending as if there were awind at her back impelling her, across the kitchen in her quiltedpetticoat and her crimson thibet waist, her white arms hanging bare. She opened the door that led towards her own bedroom, and passed out. 

Presently Deborah, still standing where Rebecca had left her, heardthe front door of the house shut. After a few minutes she took thebroom from its peg in the corner, went through the icy north parlor, past Rebecca's room, to the front door. The snow heaped on the outerthreshold had fallen in when Rebecca opened it, and there was aquantity on the entry floor. 

Deborah opened the door again, and swept out the snow carefully; sheeven swept the snow off the steps outside, but she never cast aglance up or down the road. Then she beat the snow off the broom, andwent in and locked the door behind her. 

On her way back to the kitchen she paused at Rebecca's littlebedroom. The waist of the new gown lay on the bad. She took it outinto the kitchen, and folded it carefully with the skirt and thepieces; then she carried it up to the garret and laid it away in achest. 

When Caleb and Ephraim came in from the barn they found Deborahsitting at the window knitting a stocking. She did not look up whenthey entered. 

The corn was not yet shelled, and Caleb arranged his baskets in thechimney-corner, and fell to again. Ephraim began teasing his motherto let him crack some nuts, but she silenced him peremptorily. "Setdown an' help your father shell that corn, " said she. And Ephraimpulled a grating chair up to his father, muttering cautiously. 

Caleb kept looking at Deborah anxiously. He glanced at the doorfrequently. 

"Where's Rebecca?" he asked at last. 

"I dunno, " replied Deborah. 

"Has she laid down?"

"No, she ain't. "

"She ain't gone out in the snow, has she?" Caleb said, with deploringanxiety. 

Deborah answered not a word. She pursed her lips and knitted. 

"She ain't, has she, mother?"

"Keep on with your corn, " said Deborah; and that was all she wouldsay. 

Presently she arose and prepared dinner in the same dogged silence. Caleb, and even Ephraim, watched her furtively, with alarmed eyes. 

When Rebecca did not appear at the dinner-table Caleb did not sayanything about it, but his old face was quite pale. He ate his dinnerfrom the force of habit of over seventy years, during which time hehad always eaten his dinner, but he did not taste it consciously. 

He made up his mind that as soon as he got up from the table he wouldgo over to Barney's and consult him. After he pushed his chair awayhe was slipping out shyly, but Deborah stopped him. 

"Set down an' finish that corn. I don't want it clutterin' up thekitchen any longer, " said she. 

"I thought I'd jest slip out a minute, mother. "

Deborah motioned him towards the chimney-corner and the baskets ofcorn with a stern gesture, and Caleb obeyed. Ephraim, too, settleddown beside his father, and fell to shelling corn without being told. He was quite cowed and intimidated by this strange mood of hismother's, and involuntarily shrank closer to his father when shepassed near him. 

Caleb and Ephraim both watched Deborah with furtive terror, as shemoved about, washing and putting away the dinner-dishes and sweepingthe kitchen. 

They looked at each other, when, after the after-dinner housework wasall done, she took her shawl and hood from the peg, and drew some oldwool socks of Caleb's over her shoes. She went out without saying aword. Ephraim waited a few minutes after the door shut behind her;then he ran to the window. 

"She's gone to Barney's, " he announced, rolling great eyes over hisshoulder at his father; and the old man also went over to the windowand watched Deborah plodding through the snow up the street. 

It was not snowing so hard now, and the clouds were breaking, but abitter wind was blowing from the northwest. It drove Deborah alongbefore it, lashing her skirts around her gaunt limbs; but she leanedback upon it, and did not bend. 

The road was not broken out, and the snow was quite deep, but shewent along with no break in her gait. She went into Barney's yard andknocked at his door. She set her mouth harder when she heard himcoming. 

Barney opened the door and started when he saw who was there. "Is ityou, mother?" he said, involuntarily; then his face hardened likehers, and he waited. The mother and son confronted each other lookedmore alike than ever. 

Deborah opened her mouth to speak twice before she made a sound. Shestood upright and unyielding, but her face was ghastly, and she drewher breath in long, husky gasps. Finally she spoke, and Barneystarted again at her voice. 

"I want you to go after William Berry and make him marry Rebecca, "she said. 

"Mother, what do you mean?"

"I want you to go after William Berry and make him marry Rebecca. "

"Mother!"

"Rebecca is gone. I turned her out of the house this mornin'. I don'tknow where she is. Go and find her, and make William Berry marryher. "

"Mother, before the Lord, I don't know what you mean!" Barney criedout. "You didn't turn Rebecca out of the house in all this storm!What did you turn her out for? Where is she?"

"I don't know where she is. I turned her out because I wouldn't haveher in the house. You brought it all on us; if you hadn't acted so Ishouldn't have felt as I did about her marryin'. Now you can go an'find her, and get William Berry an' make him marry her. I ain't gotanything more to do with it. "

Deborah turned, and went out of the yard. 

"Mother!" Barney called after her, but she kept on. He stood for asecond looking after her retreating figure, struggling sternly withthe snow-drifts, meeting the buffets of the wind with her head up;then he went in, and put on his boots and his overcoat. 

Barney had heard not one word of the village gossip, and therevelation in his mother's words had come to him with a great shock. As he went up the hill to the old tavern he could hardly believe thathe had understood her rightly. Once he paused and turned, and washalf inclined to go back. He was as pure-minded as a girl, and almostas ignorant; he could not believe that he knew what she meant. 

Barney hesitated again before the store; then he opened the greatclanging door and went in. A farmer, in a blue frock stiff with snow, had just completed his purchases and was going out. William, who hadbeen waiting upon him, was quite near the door behind the counter. Atthe farther end of the store could be seen the red glow of a stoveand Tommy Ray's glistening fair had. Some one else, who had shrunkout of sight when Barney entered, was also there. 

Barney saw no one but William. He looked at him, and all hisbewilderment gathered itself into a point. He felt a sudden fierceimpulse to spring at him. 

William looked at Barney, and his faced changed in a minute. He tookup his hat, and came around the counter. "Did you want to see me?" hesaid, hoarsely. 

"Come outside, " said Barney. And the two men went out, and stood inthe snow before the store. 

"Where is Rebecca?" said Barney. He looked at William, and again thesavage impulse seized him. William did not shrink before it. 

[Illustration: "'Where is Rebecca?' said Barney"]

"What do you mean?" he returned. His lips were quite stiff and white, but he looked back at Barney. 

"Don't you know where she is?"

"Before God I don't, Barney. What do you mean?"

"She left home this morning. Mother turned her out. "

"Turned her out!" repeated William. 

"Come with me and find her and marry her, or I'll kill you, " saidBarney, and he lashed out suddenly with his fist in William's face. 

"You won't need to, for I'll kill myself if I don't, " William gaspedout. Then he turned and ran. 

"Where are you going?" Barney shouted, rushing after him, in a fury. 

"To put the horse in the cutter, " William called back. And, indeed, he was headed towards the barn. Barney followed him, and the two menput the horse between the shafts. Once William asked, hoarsely, "Anyidea which way?" and Barney shook his head. 

"What time did she go?"

"Some time this forenoon. "

William groaned. 

The horse was nearly harnessed when Tommy Ray came running out fromthe store, and beckoned to Barney. "Rose says she see her going upthe turnpike this morning, " he said, in a low voice. "She was up inher chamber that looks over the turnpike, and she see somebody goin'up the turnpike. She thought it looked like Rebecca, but she supposedit must be Mis' Jim Sloane. It must have been Rebecca. "

"What time was it?" William asked, thrusting his white face betweenthem. The boy turned aside with a gesture of contempt and dislike. "About half-past ten, " he answered, shortly. Then he turned on hisheel and went back to the store. Rose was peering around thehalf-open door with a white, shocked face. Somehow she had fathomedthe cause of the excitement. 

"We'll go up the turnpike, then, " said Barney. William nodded. Thetwo men sprang into the cutter, and the snow flew in their faces fromthe horse's hoofs as they went out the barn door. 

The old tavern stood facing the old turnpike road to Boston, but thestore and barn faced on the new road at its back, and peoplegenerally approached the tavern by that way. 

William and Barney had to drive down the hill; then turn the corner, and up the hill again on the old turnpike. 

There was not a house on that road for a full mile. William urged thehorse as fast as he could through the fresh snow. Both men kept asharp lookout at the sides of the road. The sun was out now, and thesnow was blinding white; the north wind drove a glittering spray assharp and stinging as diamond-dust in their faces. 

Once William cried out, with a dry sob, "My God, she'll freeze inthis wind, if she's out in it!"

And Barney answered, "Maybe it would be better for her if she did. "

William looked at him for the first time since they started. "Seehere, Barney, " he said, "God knows it's not to shield myself--I'mpast that; but I've begged her all summer to be married. I've beendown on my knees to her to be married before it came to this. "

"Why wouldn't she?"

"I don't know, oh, I don't know! The poor girl was near distracted. Her mother forbade her to marry me, and held up her Aunt Rebecca, whomarried against her parents' wishes and hung herself, before her, allthe time. Your trouble with Charlotte Barnard brought it all about. Her mother never opposed it before. I begged her to marry me, but shewas afraid, or something, I don't know what. "

"Can't you drive faster?" said Barney. 

William had been urging the horse while he spoke, but now he shookthe whip over him again. 

Mrs. Jim Sloane's house was a long, unpainted cottage quite near theroad. The woman who lived alone there was under a kind of indefiniteban in the village. Her husband, who had died several years before, had been disreputable and drunken, and the mantle of his disgrace hadseemed to fall upon his wife, if indeed she was not already providedwith such a mantle of her own. Everybody spoke slightingly of Mrs. Jim Sloane. The men laughed meaningly when they saw her pass, wrappedin an old plaid shawl, which she wore summer and winter, and whichseemed almost like a uniform. Stories were told of her dirt andshiftlessness, of the hens which roosted in her kitchen. Poor Mrs. Jim Sloane, in her blue plaid shawl, tramping frequently from hersolitary house through the village, was a byword and a mocking to allthe people. 

When William and Barney came abreast of her house they saw the blueflutter of Mrs. Jim Sloane's shawl out before, above the blue dazzleof the snow. 

"Hullo!" she was crying out in her shrill voice, and waving her handto them to stop. 

William pulled the horse up short, and the woman came plungingthrough the snow close to his side. 

"She's in here, " she said, with a knowing smile. The faded fair hairblew over her eyes; she pushed it back with a coquettish gesture;there was a battered prettiness about her thin pink-and-white face, turning blue in the sharp wind. 

"When did she get here?" asked Barney. 

"This forenoon. She fell down out here, couldn't get no farther. Icame out an' got her into the house. Didn't know but she was done to;but I fixed her up some hot drink an' made her lay down. I s'posedyou'd be along. " She smiled again. 

William jumped out of the cutter, and tied the horse to an oldfence-post. Then he and Barney followed the woman into the house. Barney looked at the old blue plaid shawl with utter disgust andrevulsion. He had always felt a loathing for the woman, and her beinga distant relative on his father's side intensified it. 

Mrs. Sloane threw open the door, and bade them enter, as if to afestival. "Walk right in, " said she. 

There was a wild flutter of hens as they entered. Mrs. Sloane drovethem before her. "The hen-house roof fell in, an' I have to keep 'emin here, " she said, and shooed them and shook her shawl at them, until they alighted all croaking with terror upon the bed in thecorner. 

Then she looked inquiringly around the room. "Why, " she cried, "she'sgone; she was settin' here in this rockin'-chair when I went out. Shemust have run when she see you comin'!"

Mrs. Sloane hustled through a door, the tattered fringes of her shawlflying, and then her voice, shrilly expostulating, was heard in thenext room. 

The two men waited, standing side by side near the door in a shamedsilence. They did not look at each other. 

Presently Mrs. Sloane returned without her shawl. Her old cotton gownshowed tattered and patched, and there were glimpses of her sharpwhite elbows at the sleeves. "She won't come out a step, " sheannounced. "I can't make her. She's takin' on terribly. "

William made a stride forward. "I'll go in and see her, " he said, hoarsely; but Mrs. Jim Sloane stood suddenly in his way, her slenderback against the door. 

"No, you ain't goin' in, " said she, "I told her I wouldn't let you goin. "

William looked at her. 

"She's dreadful set against either one of you comin' in, an' I toldher you shouldn't, " she said, firmly. She smoothed her wild locksdown tightly over her ears as she spoke. All the coquettish look wasgone. 

William turned around, and looked helplessly at Barney, and Barneylooked back at him. Then Barney put on his hat, and shrugged himselfmore closely into his great-coat. 

"I'll go and get the minister, " he said. 

Mrs. Sloane thrust her chin out alertly. "Goin' to get her marriedright off?" she asked, with a confidential smile. 

Barney ignored her. "I guess it's the best way to do, " he said, sternly, to William; and William nodded. 

"Well, I guess 'tis the best way, " Mrs. Sloane said, with cheerfulassent. "I don't b'lieve you could hire her to come out of that rooman' go to the minister's, nohow. She's terrible upset, poor thing. "

As Barney went out of the door he cast a look full of involuntarysuspicion back at William, and hesitated a second on the threshold. Mrs. Sloane intercepted the look. "I'll look out he don't run awaywhile you're gone, " she said; then she laughed. 

William's white face flamed up suddenly, but he made no reply. WhenBarney had gone he drew a chair up close to the hearth, and satthere, bent over, with his elbows on his knees. Mrs. Sloane sat downon the foot of the bed, close to the door of the other room, as ifshe were mounting guard over it. She kept looking at William, andsmiling, and opening her mouth to speak, then checking herself. 

"It's a pretty cold day, " she said, finally. 

William grunted assent without looking up. Then he motioned with hisshoulder towards the door of the other room. "Ain't it cold inthere?" he half whispered. 

"I rolled her all up in my shawl; I guess she won't ketch cold; it'sthick, " responded the woman, effusively, and William said no more. Hesat with his chin in his hands and his eyes fixed absently. The firewas smoking over a low, red glow of coals, the chimney-place yawnedblack before him, the hearth was all strewn with pots and kettles, and the shelf above it was piled high with a vague household litter. It had leaked around the chimney, and there was a great discoloredblotch on the wall above the shelf, and the ceiling. Two or threehens came pecking around the kettles at William's feet. 

To this young man, brought up in the extreme thrift and neatness of atypical New England household, this strange untidiness, as he viewedit through his strained mental state, seemed to have a deepersignificance, and reveal the very shame and squalor of the soulitself, and its own existence and thoughts, by material images. 

He might from his own sensations, as he sat there, have been actuallytranslated into a veritable hell, from the utter strangeness of theatmosphere which his thoughts seemed to gasp in. William had nevercome fully into the atmosphere of his own sin before, but now he had, and somehow the untidy pots and kettles on the hearth made it morereal. He was conscious as he sat there of very little pity for thegirl in the other room, of very little love for her, and also of verylittle love or pity for himself; he felt nothing but a kind ofhorror. He saw suddenly the alien side of life, and the alien side ofhis own self, which he would always have kept faced out towardsspace, away from all eyes, like the other side of the moon, and thatwas for the time all he could grasp. 

Once or twice Mrs. Sloane volunteered a remark, but he scarcelyresponded, and once he heard absently her voice and Rebecca's in theother room. Otherwise he sat in utter silence, except for the lowchuckle of the hens and the taps of their beaks against the ironpots, until Barney came with the minister and the minister's wife. 

Barney had taken the minister aside, and asked him, stammeringly, ifhe thought his wife would come. He could not bear the thought of theSloane woman's being a witness at his sister's wedding. The ministerand his wife were both very young, and had not lived long inPembroke. They looked much alike: the minister's small, pale, peakedface peered with anxious solicitude between the folds of the greatgreen scarf which he tied over his cap, and his wife looked like himout of her great wadded green silk hood, when they got into thesleigh with Barney. 

The minister had had a whispered conference with his wife, and nowshe never once let her eyes rest on either of the two men as theyslid swiftly along over the new snow. Her heart beat loudly in herears, her little thin hands were cold in her great muff. She hadmarried very young, out of a godly New England minister's home. Shehad never known anything like this before, and a sort of generalshame of femininity seemed to be upon her. 

When she followed her husband into Mrs. Sloane's house she feltherself as burdened with shame--as if she stood in Rebecca's place. Her little face, all blue with the sharp cold, shrank, shocked andsober, into the depths of her great hood. She stood behind herhusband, her narrow girlish shoulders bending under her thickmantilla, and never looked at the face of anybody in the room. 

She did not see William at all. He stood up before them as theyentered; they all nodded gravely. Nobody spoke but Mrs. Sloane, vibrating nervously in the midst of her clamorous hens, and Barneysilenced her. 

"We'll go right in, " he said, in a stern, peremptory tone; then heturned to William. "Are you ready?" he asked. 

William nodded, with his eyes cast down. The party made a motiontowards the other room, but Mrs. Sloane unexpectedly stood before thedoor. 

"I told her there shouldn't nobody come in, " said she, "an' I ain'tgoin' to have you all bustin' in on her without she knows it. She'sterrible upset. You wait a minute. "

Mrs. Sloane's blue eyes glared defiantly at the company. Theminister's wife bent her hooded head lower. She had heard about Mrs. Sloane, and felt as if she were confronted by a woman from Revelationand there was a flash of scarlet in the room. 

"Go in and tell her we are coming, " said Barney. And Mrs. Sloaneslipped out of the room cautiously, opening the door only a littleway. Her voice was heard, and suddenly Rebecca's rang out shrill inresponse, although they could not distinguish the words. Mrs. Sloanelooked out. "She says she won't be married, " she whispered. 

"You let me see her, " said Barney, and he took a stride forward, butMrs. Sloane held the door against him. 

"You can't, " she whispered again. "I'll talk to her some more. I cantalk her over, if anybody can. "

Barney fell back, and again the door was shut and the voices wereheard. This time Rebecca's arose into a wail, and they heard her cryout, "I won't, I won't! Go away, and stop talking to me! I won't! Goaway!"

William turned around, and hid his face against the corner of themantel-shelf. Barney went up and clapped him roughly on the shoulder. "Can't you go in there and make her listen to reason?" he said. 

But just then Mrs. Sloane opened the door again. "You can walk rightin now, " she announced, smiling, her thin mouth sending the lines ofher whole face into smirking upward curves. 

The whole company edged forward solemnly. Mrs. Sloane was following, but Barney stood in her way. "I guess you'd better not come in, " hesaid, abruptly. 

Mrs. Sloane's face flushed a burning red. "I guess, " she began, in aloud voice, but Barney shut the door in her face. She ran noisily, stamping her feet like an angry child, to the fireplace, caught up aheavy kettle, and threw it down on the hearth. The hens flew up witha great clamor and whir of wings; Mrs. Sloane's shrill, mocking laugharose above it. She began talking in a high-pitched voice, flingingout vituperations which would seem to patter against the closed doorlike bullets. Suddenly she stopped, as if her ire had failed her, andlistened intently to a low murmur from the other room. She nodded herhead when it ceased. 

The door opened soon, and all except Rebecca came out. They stoodconsulting together in low voices, and Mrs. Sloane listened. Theywere deciding where to take Rebecca. 

All at once Mrs. Sloane spoke. Her voice was still high-pitched withanger. 

"If you want to know where to take her to, I can tell you, " said she. "I'd keep her here an' welcome, but I s'pose you think I ain't goodenough, you're all such mighty particular folks, an' ain't never hadno disgrace in your own families. William Berry can't take her to hishome to-night, for his mother wouldn't leave a whole skin on eitherof 'em. Her own mother has turned her out, an' Barney can't take herin. She's got to go somewhere where there's a woman; she's terribleupset. There ain't no other way but for you an' Mis' Barnes to takeher home to-night, an' keep her till William gets a place fixed toput her in. " Mrs. Sloane turned to the minister and his wife, regarding them with a mixture of defiance, sarcasm, and appeal. 

They looked at each other hesitatingly. The minister's wife paledwithin her hood, and her eyes reddened with tears. 

"I shouldn't s'pose you'd need any time to think on it, such goodfolks as you be, " said Mrs. Sloane. "There ain't no other way. She'sgot to be where there's a woman. "

Mrs. Barnes turned her head towards her husband. "She can come, ifyou think she ought to, " she said, in a trembling voice. 

The sun was setting when the party started. William led Rebecca outthrough the kitchen--a muffled, hesitating figure, whose veryidentity seemed to be lost, for she wore Mrs. Sloane's blue plaidshawl pinned closely over her head and face--and lifted her into hiscutter with the minister and his wife. Then he and Barney walkedalong, plodding through the deep snow behind the cutter. The sun wassetting, and it was bitterly cold; the snow creaked and the treesswung with a stiff rattle of bare limbs in the wind. 

The two men never spoke to each other. The minister drove slowly, andthey could always see Mrs. Jim Sloane's blue plaid shawl ahead. 

When they reached the Caleb Thayer house, Barney stopped and Williamfollowed on alone after the sleigh. 

Barney turned into the yard, and his father was standing in the barndoor, looking out. 

"Tell mother she's married, " Barney sang out, hoarsely. Then he wentback to the road, and home to his own house. 

Chapter XI

Barney went to see Rebecca the next day, but the minister's wife cameto the door and would not admit him. She puckered her lips painfully, and a blush shot over her face and little thin throat as she stoodthere before him. "I guess you had better not come in, " said she, nervously. "I guess you had better wait until Mrs. Berry gets settledin her house. Mr. Berry is going to hire the old Bennett place. Iguess it would be pleasanter. "

Barney turned away, blushing also as he stammered an assent. Alwayskeenly alive to the shame of the matter, it seemed as if his sense ofit were for the moment intensified. The minister's wife's wholenature seemed turned into a broadside of mirrors towards Rebecca'sshame and misery, and it was as if the reflection was multiplied inBarney as he looked at her. 

Still, he could not take the shame to his own nature as she could, being a woman. He looked back furtively at the house as he went downthe road, thinking he might catch a glimpse of poor Rebecca at thewindow. 

But Rebecca kept herself well hid. After William had hired the oldBennet house and established her there, she lived with curtains downand doors bolted. Never a neighbor saw her face at door or window, although all the women who lived near did their housework with eyesthat way. She would not go to the door if anybody knocked. The callerwould hear her scurrying away. Nobody could gain admittance ifWilliam were not at home. 

Barney went to the door once, and her voice sounded unexpectedly loudand piteously shrill in response to his knock. 

"You can't come in! go away!" cried Rebecca. 

"I don't want to say anything hard to you, " said Barney. 

"Go away, go away!" repeated Rebecca, and then he heard her sob. 

"Don't cry, " pleaded Barney, futilely, through the door. But he heardhis sister's retreating steps and her sobs dying away in thedistance. 

He went away, and did not try to see her again. 

Rose went to see Rebecca, stealing out of a back door and scuddingacross snowy fields lest her mother should espy her and stop her. ButRebecca had not come to the door, although Rose had stood there along time in a bitter wind. 

"She wouldn't let me in, " she whispered to her brother in the store, when she returned. She was friendly to him in a shamefaced, evasivesort of way, and she alone of his family. His father and motherscarcely noticed him. 

"Much as ever as she'll let me in, poor girl, " responded William, looking miserably aside from his sister's eyes and weighing out somemeal. 

"She wouldn't let mother in if she went there, " said Rose. She felt alittle piqued at Rebecca's refusing her admittance. It was as if allher pity and generous sympathy had been thrust back upon her, and herpride in it swamped. 

"There's no danger of her going there, " William returned, bitterly. 

And there was not. Hannah Berry would have set herself up in apillory as soon as she would have visited her son's wife. Shescarcely went into a neighbor's lest she should hear some allusion toit. 

Rebecca's father often walked past her house with furtive, wistfuleyes towards the windows. Once or twice when nobody was looking heknocked timidly, but he never got any response. He always took acircuitous route home, that his wife might not know where he hadbeen. Deborah never spoke of Rebecca; neither Caleb nor Ephraim daredmention her name in her hearing. 

Although Deborah never asked a question, and although people were shyof alluding to Rebecca, she yet seemed to know, in some occult andinstinctive fashion, all about her. 

When a funeral procession passed the Thayer house one afternoonDeborah knew quite well whose little coffin was in the hearse, although she could scarcely have said that anybody had told her. 

Caleb came to her after dinner, with a strange, defiant air. "I wanta clean dicky, mother; I'm agoin', " said he. And Deborah got out theold man's Sunday clothes for him without a word. She even brushed hishair with hard, careful strokes, and helped him on with hisgreat-coat; but she never said a word about Rebecca and her baby'sfuneral. 

"They had some white posies on it, " Caleb volunteered, tremblingly, when he got home. 

Deborah made no reply. 

"There was quite a lot there, " added Caleb. 

"Go an' bring me in some kindlin' wood, " said Deborah. 

Ephraim stood by, staring alternately at his father and mother. Hehad watched the funeral procession pass with furtive interest. 

"It won't hurt you none to make a few lamp-lighters, " said hismother. "You set right down here, an' I'll get you some paper. "

Ephraim clapped his hand to his side, and rolled his eyes agonizinglytowards his mother, but she took no notice. She got some paper out ofthe cupboard, and Ephraim sat down and began quirling it into longspirals with a wretched sulky air. 

Since his sister's marriage Ephraim had had a sterner experience thanhad ever fallen to his lot before. His mother redoubled herdiscipline over him. It was as if she had resolved, since all hervigorous training had failed in the case of his sister, that shewould intensify it to such purpose that it should not fail with him. 

So strait and narrow was the path in which Ephraim was forced totread those wintry days, so bound and fettered was he by precept andadmonition, that it seemed as if his very soul could do no more thanshuffle along where his mother pointed. 

A scanty and simple diet had Ephraim, and it seemed to him not somuch from a solicitude for his health as from a desire to mortify hisflesh for the good of his spirit. Ephraim obeyed perforce; he wassincerely afraid of his mother, but he had within him a dogged andgrowing resentment against those attempts to improve his spirit. 

Not a bit of cake was he allowed to taste. When the door of a certaincloset in which pound-cake for possible guests was always kept in ajar, and had been ever since Ephraim could remember, was opened, theboy's eyes would fairly glare with desire. "Jest gimme a littlescrap, mother, " he would whine. He had formerly, on rare occasions, been allowed a small modicum of cake, but now his mother wasunyielding. He got not a crumb; he could only sniff hungrily at therich, spicy, and fruity aroma which came forth from the closet, andswallow at it vainly and unsatisfactorily with straining palate. 

Ephraim was not allowed a soft-stoned plum from a piece of mince-pie;the pie had always been tabooed. He was not even allowed to pick overthe plums for the pies, unless under the steady watch of his mother'seyes. Once she seemed to see him approach a plum to his mouth whenher back was towards him. 

"What are you doing, Ephraim?" she said, and her voice sounded to theboy like one from the Old Testament. He put the plum promptly intothe bowl instead of his mouth. 

"I ain't doin' nothin', mother, " said he; but his eyes rolledalarmedly after his mother as she went across the kitchen. Thatfrightened Ephraim. He was a practical boy and not easily imposedupon, but it really seemed to him that his mother had seen him, aftersome occult and uncanny fashion, from the back of her head. A vagueand preposterous fancy actually passed through his bewildered boyishbrain that the little, tightly twisted knob of hair on the back of afeminine head might have some strange visual power of its own. 

He never dared taste another plum, even if the knob of hair directlyfaced him. 

Every day Ephraim had a double task to learn in his catechism, forDeborah held that no labor, however arduous, which savored of theWord and the Spirit could work him bodily ill. If Ephraim had beenenterprising and daring enough, he would have fairly cursed theWestminster divines, as he sat hour after hour, crooking his boyishback painfully over their consolidated wisdom, driving the letter oftheir dogmas into his boyish brain, while the sense of them utterlyescaped him. 

There was one whole day during which Ephraim toiled, laboriouslyconning over the majestic sentences in loud whispers, and receivedthereby only a vague impression and maudlin hope that he himselfmight be one of the elect of which they treated, because he was sostrenuously deprived of plums in this life, and might thereforereasonably expect his share of them in the life to come. 

That day poor Ephraim--glancing between whiles at some boys outcoasting over in a field, down a fine icy slope, hearing now and thentheir shouts of glee--had a certain sense of superiority andcomplacency along with the piteous and wistful longing which alwaysabode in his heart. 

"Maybe, " thought Ephraim, half unconsciously, not framing the thoughtin words to his mind--"maybe if I am a good boy, and don't have anyplums, nor go out coasting like them, I shall go to heaven, and maybethey won't. " Ephraim's poor purple face at the window-pane took on astrange, serious expression as he evolved his childish tenet oftheology. His mother came in from another room. "Have you got thatlearned?" said she, and Ephraim bent over his task again. 

Ephraim had not been quite as well as usual this winter, and hismother had been more than usually anxious about him. She called thedoctor in finally, and followed him out into the cold entry when heleft. "He's worse than he has been, ain't he?" she said, abruptly. 

The doctor hesitated. He was an old man with a moderate manner. Hebuttoned his old great-coat, redolent of drugs, closer, his breathsteamed out in the frosty entry. "I guess you had better be a littlecareful about getting him excited, " he said at last, evasively. "Youhad better get along as easy as you can with him. " The doctor'smanner implied more than his words; he had his own opinion of DeborahThayer's sternness of rule, and he had sympathy with Rebecca. 

Deborah seemed to have an intuition of it, for she looked at him, andraised her voice after a manner which would have become the Deborahof the scriptures. 

"What would you have me do?" she demanded. "Would you have me let himhave his own way if it were for the injury of his soul?" It wascurious that Deborah, as she spoke, seemed to look only at thespiritual side of the matter. The idea that her discipline wasactually necessary for her son's bodily weal did not occur to her, and she did not urge it as an argument. 

"I guess you had better be a little careful and get along as easy asyou can, " repeated the doctor, opening the door. 

"That ain't all that's to be thought of, " said Deborah, with sternand tragic emphasis, as the doctor went out. 

"What did the doctor say, mother?" Ephraim inquired, when she wentinto the room again. He looked half scared, half important, as he satin the great rocking-chair by the fire. He breathed short, and hiswords were disconnected as he spoke. 

His mother, for answer, took the catechism from the shelf, andextended it towards him with a decisive thrust of her arm. 

"It is time you studied some more, " said she. 

Ephraim jerked himself away from the proffered book. "I don't want tostudy any more now, mother, " he whined. 

"Take it, " said Deborah. 

Caleb was paring apples for pies on the other side of the hearth. Ephraim looked across at him desperately. "I want to play holly-gullwith father, " he said. 

"Ephraim!"

"Can't I play holly-gull with father jest a little while?"

"You take this book and study your lesson, " said Deborah, betweennearly closed lips. 

Ephraim began to weep; he took the book with a vicious snatch and anangry sob. "Won't never let me do anythin' I want to, " he cried, convulsively. 

"Not another word, " said Deborah. Ephraim bent over his catechismwith half-suppressed sobs. He dared not weep aloud. Deborah went intothe pantry with the medicine-bottle which the doctor had left; shewanted a spoon. Caleb caught hold of her dress as she was passinghim. 

"What is it?" said she. 

"Look here, jest a minute, mother. "

"I can't stop, father; Ephraim has got to have his medicine. "

"Jest look here a minute, mother. "

Deborah bent her head impatiently, and Caleb whispered. "No, hecan't; I told him he couldn't, " she said aloud, and passed on intothe pantry. 

Caleb looked over at Ephraim with piteous and helpless sympathy. "Never you mind, sonny, " he said, cautiously. 

"She--makes--" began Ephraim with a responsive plaint; but his mothercame out of the pantry, and he stopped short. Caleb dropped a paredapple noisily into the pan. 

"You'll dent that pan, father, if you fling the apples in that way, "said Deborah. She had a thick silver spoon, and she measured out adose of the medicine for Ephraim. She approached him, extending thespoon carefully. "Open your mouth, " commanded she. 

"Oh, mother, I don't want to take it!"

"Open your mouth!"

"Oh, mother--I don't--want to--ta-ke it!"

"Now, sonny, I wouldn't mind takin' of it. It's real good medicinethat the doctor left you, an' father's payin' consid'able for it. Thedoctor thinks it's goin' to make you well, " said Caleb, who waslooking on anxiously. 

"Open your mouth and _take_ it!" said Deborah, sternly. She presentedthe spoon at Ephraim as if it were a bayonet and there were death atthe point. 

"Oh, mother, " whimpered Ephraim. 

"Mebbe mother will let you have a little taste of lasses arter it, ifyou take it real good, " ventured Caleb. 

"No, he won't have any lasses after it, " said Deborah. "I'm a-tendin'to him, father. Now, Ephraim, you take this medicine this minute, orI shall give you somethin' worse than medicine. Open your mouth!" AndEphraim opened his mouth as if his mother's will were a veritablewedge between his teeth, swallowed the medicine with a miserablegulp, and made a grotesque face of wrath and disgust. Caleb, watching, swallowed and grimaced at the same instant that his sondid. There were tears in his old eyes as he took up another apple topare. 

Deborah set the bottle on the shelf and laid the spoon beside it. "You've got to take this every hour for a spell, " said she, "an' Iain't goin' to have any such work, if you be sick; you can make upyour mind to it. "

And make up his mind to this unwelcome dose Ephraim did. Once an hourhis mother stood over him with the spoon, and the fierce odor of themedicine came to his nostrils; he screwed his eyes tight, opened hismouth, and swallowed without a word. There were limits to hismother's patience which Ephraim dared not pass. He had only vagueideas of what might happen if he did, but he preferred to be on thesafe side. So he took the medicine, and did not lift his voiceagainst it, although he had his thoughts. 

It did seem as if the medicine benefited him. He breathed more easilyafter a while, and his color was more natural. Deborah feltencouraged; she even went down upon her stiff knees after her familywere in bed, and thanked the Lord from the depths of her sorelychastened but proud heart. She did not foresee what was to come ofit; for that very night Ephraim, induced thereto by the salutaryeffect of the medicine, which removed somewhat the restriction of hislaboring heart upon his boyish spirits, perpetrated the crowning actof revolt and rebellion of his short life. 

The moon was bright that night. The snow was frozen hard. The longhills where the boys coasted looked like slopes of silver. Ephraimhad to go to bed at eight. He lay, well propped up on pillows, in hislittle bedroom, and he could hear the shouts of the coasting boys. Now that he could breathe more easily the superiority of his enforceddeprivation of such joys no longer comforted him as much as it haddone. His curtain was up, and the moonlight lay on his bed. Themystic influence of that strange white orb which moves the soul ofthe lover to dream of love and yearnings after it, which saddens withsweet wounds the soul who has lost it forever, which increases theterrible freedom of the maniac, and perhaps moves the tides, apparently increased the longing in the heart of one poor boy for allthe innocent hilarity of his youth which he had missed. 

Ephraim lay there in the moonlight, and longed as he had never longedbefore to go forth and run and play and halloo, to career down thosewonderful shining slants of snow, to be free and equal with thoseother boys, whose hearts told off their healthy lives after theCreator's plan. 

The clock in the kitchen struck nine, then ten. Caleb and Deborahwent to bed, and Ephraim could hear his father's snores and hismother's heavy breathing from a distant room. Ephraim could not go tosleep. He lay there and longed for the frosty night air, the sled, and the swift flight down the white hill as never lover longed forhis mistress. 

At half-past ten o'clock Ephraim rose up. He dressed himself in themoonlight--all except his shoes; those he carried in his hand--andstole out in his stocking-feet to the entryway, where his warm coatand cap, which he so seldom wore, hung. Ephraim pulled the cap overhis ears, put on the coat, cautiously unbolted the door, and steppedforth like a captive from prison. 

He sat down on the doorstep and put on his shoes, tying them withtrembling, fumbling fingers. He expected every minute to hear hismother's voice. 

Then he ran down the yard to the wood shed. It was so intensely coldthat the snow did not yield to his tread, but gave out quick sibilantsounds. It seemed to him like a whispering multitude called up by hisfootsteps, and as if his mother must hear. 

He knew where Barney's old sled hung in the woodshed, and thewoodshed door was unlocked. 

Presently a boyish figure fled swiftly out of the Thayer yard with abobbing sled in his wake. He expected every minute to hear the dooror window open; but he cleared the yard and dashed up the road, andnobody arrested him. 

[Illustration: "A boyish figure fled swiftly out of the Thayer yard"]

Ephraim knew well the way to the coasting-hill, which was consideredthe best in the village, although he had never coasted there himself, except twice or thrice, surreptitiously, on another boy's sled, andnot once this winter. He heard no more shouts; the frosty air wasvery still. He thought to himself that the other boys had gone home, but he did not care. 

However, when he reached the top of the hill there was another boywith his sled. He had been all ready to coast down, but had seenEphraim coming, and waited. 

"Hullo!" he called. 

"Hullo!" returned Ephraim, panting. 

Then the boy stared. "It ain't you, Ephraim Thayer!" he demanded. 

"Why ain't it me?" returned Ephraim, with a manful air, swaggeringback his shoulders at the other boy, who was Ezra Ray. 

"Why, I didn't know your mother ever let you out, " said Ezra, in abewildered fashion. In fact, the vision of Ephraim Thayer out with asled, coasting, at eleven o'clock at night, was startling. Ezraremembered dazedly how he had heard his mother say that veryafternoon that Ephraim was worse, that the doctor had been there lastSaturday, and she didn't believe he would live long. He looked atEphraim standing there in the moonlight almost as if he were aspirit. 

"She ain't let me for some time; I've been sick, " admitted Ephraim, yet with defiance. 

"I heard you was awful sick, " said Ezra. 

"I was; but the doctor give me some medicine that cured me. "

Ephraim placed his sled in position and got on stiffly. The other boystill watched. "She know you're out to-night?" he inquired, abruptly. 

Ephraim looked up at him. "S'pose you think you'll go an' tell her, if she don't, " said he. 

"No, I won't, honest. "

"Hope to die if you do?"

"Yes. "

"Well, then, I run out of the side door. "

"Both on 'em asleep?"

Ephraim nodded. 

Ezra Ray whistled. "You'll get a whippin' when your mother finds itout. "

"No, I sha'n't. Mother can't whip me, because the doctor says itain't good for me. You goin' down?"

"Can't go down but once. I've got to go home, or mother 'll give itto me. "

"Does she ever whip you?"

"Sometimes. "

"Mine don't, " said Ephraim, and he felt a superiority over Ezra Ray. He thought, too, that his sled was a better one. It was not painted, nor was it as new as Ezra's, but it had a reputation. Barney had wonmany coasting laurels with it in his boyhood, and his little brother, who had never used it himself, had always looked upon it withunbounded faith and admiration. 

He gathered up his sled-rope, spurred himself into a start with hisheels, and went swiftly down the long hill, gathering speed as hewent. Poor Ephraim had an instinct for steering; he did not swervefrom the track. The frosty wind smote his face, his breath nearlyfailed him, but half-way down he gave a triumphant whoop. When hereached the foot of the hill he had barely wind enough to get off hissled and drag it to one side, for Ezra Ray was coming down. 

Ezra did not slide as far as Ephraim had done. Ephraim watchedanxiously lest he should. "That sled of yours ain't no good, " hepanted, when Ezra had stopped several yards from where he stood. 

"Guess it ain't quite so fast as yours, " admitted Ezra. "That's yourbrother's, ain't it?"

"Yes. "

"Well, that sled can't be beat in town. Mine's 'bout as good as any, 'cept that. I've always heard my brother say that your brother's sledwas the best one he ever see. "

Ephraim stood looking at his brother's old battered but distinguishedsled as if it had been a blood-horse. "Guess it can't be beat, " hechuckled. 

"No sir, it can't, " said Ezra. He started off past Ephraim down theroad, with his sled trailing at his heels. 

"Hullo!" called Ephraim, "ain't you goin' up again?"

"Can't, got to go home. "

"Less try it jest once more, an' see if you can't go further. "

"No, I can't, nohow. Mother won't like it as 'tis. "

"Whip you?"

"'Spect so; don't mind it if she does. " Ezra brought a great show ofcourage to balance the other's immunity from danger. "Don't mindnothin' 'bout a little whippin', " he added, with a brave andcontemptuous air. He whistled as he went on. 

Ephraim stood watching him. He had enough brave blood in his veins tofeel that this contempt of a whipping was a greater thing than notbeing whipped. He felt an envious admiration of Ezra Ray, but thatdid not prevent his calling after him:

"Ezra!"

"What say?"

"You ain't goin' to tell my mother?"

"Didn't I say I wasn't? I don't tell fibs. Hope to die if I do. "

Ezra's brave whistle, as cheerfully defiant of his mother'sprospective wrath as the note of a bugler advancing to the charge, died away in the distance. For Ephraim now began the one unrestrainedhilarity of his whole life. All by himself in the white moonlight andthe keen night air he climbed the long hill, and slid down over andover. He ignored his feeble and laboring breath of life. He trodupon, he outspeeded all infirmities of the flesh in his wild triumphof the spirit. He shouted and hallooed as he shot down the hill. Hismother could not have recognized his voice had she heard it, for itwas the first time that the boy had ever given full cry to thenatural voice of youth and his heart. A few stolen races, and sortiesup apple-trees, a few stolen slides had poor Ephraim Thayer had; theyhad been snatched in odd minutes, at the imminent danger ofdiscovery; but now he had the wide night before him; he had brokenover all his trammels, and he was free. 

Up and down the hill went Ephraim Thayer, having the one playtime ofhis life, speeding on his brother's famous sled against bondage anddeprivation and death. It was after midnight when he went home; allthe village lights were out; the white road stretched before him, asstill and deserted as a road through solitude itself. Ephraim hadnever been out-of-doors so late before, he had never been so alone inhis life, but he was not afraid. He was not afraid of anything in thelonely night, and he was not afraid of his mother at home. He thoughtto himself exultantly that Ezra Ray had been no more courageous thanhe, although, to be sure, he had not a whipping to fear like Ezra. His heart was full of joyful triumph that he was not wholly guilty, since it was the outcome of an innocent desire. 

As he walked along he tipped up his face and stared with his stupidboyish eyes at the stars paling in the full moonlight, and the greatmoon herself overriding the clouds and the stars. It made him thinkof the catechism and the Commandments, and then a little pang ofterror shot through him, but even that did not daunt him. He did notlook up at the stars again, but bent his head and trudged on, withthe sled-rope pulling at his weak chest. 

When he reached his own yard he stepped as carefully as he could;still he was not afraid. He put the sled back in the shed; then hestole into the house. He took off his shoes in the entry, and gotsafely into his own room. He was in his night-gown and all ready forbed when another daring thought struck him. 

Ephraim padded softly on his bare feet out through the kitchen to thepantry. Every third step or so he stopped and listened to the heavydouble breathing from the bedroom beyond. So long as that continuedhe was safe. He listened, and then slid on a pace or two as noiselessas a shadow in the moonlight. 

Ephraim knew well where the mince-pies were kept. There was a longrow of them covered with towels on an upper shelf. 

Ephraim hoisted himself painfully upon a meal-bucket, and clawed apie over the edge of the shelf. He could scarcely reach, and therewas quite a loud grating noise. He stood trembling on the bucket andlistened, but the double breathing continued. Deborah had beenunusually tired that night; she had gone to bed earlier, and sleptmore soundly. 

Ephraim broke a great jagged half from the mince-pie; then replacedit with another grating slide. Again he listened, but his mother hadnot been awakened. 

Ephraim crept back to his bedroom. There he sat on the edge of hisbed and devoured his pie. The rich spicy compound and the fat plumsmelted on his tongue, and the savor thereof delighted his very soul. Then Ephraim got into bed and pulled the quilts over him. For thefirst and only occasion in his life he had had a good time. 

The next morning Ephraim felt very ill, but he kept it from hismother. He took his medicine of his own accord several times, andturned his head from her, that she might not notice his laboringbreath. 

In the middle of the forenoon Deborah went out. She had to drive overto Bolton to get some sugar and tea. She would not buy anything nowat Berry's store. Caleb had gone down to the lot to cut a littlewood; he had harnessed the horse for her before he went. It was acold day, and she wrapped herself up well in two shawls and a thickveil over her hood. When she was all ready she gave Ephraim hisparting instructions, rearing over him with stern gestures, like aveiled justice. 

"Now, " said she, "you listen to what I tell you. When your fathercomes in you tell him I want him to set right down and finish parin'them apples. They are spoilin', an' I'm goin' to make 'em into sauce. You tell him to set right down and go to work on 'em; he can get 'emdone by the time I get home, an' I can make the sauce this afternoon. You set here an' take your medicine an' learn your catechism. You canstudy over the Commandments, too; you ain't got 'em any too well. Doyou hear?"

"Yes, ma'am, " said Ephraim. He looked away from his mother as hespoke, and his panting breath clouded the clear space on the frostywindow-pane. He sat beside the window in the rocking-chair. 

"Mind you tell your father about them apples, " repeated his mother asshe went out. 

"Yes, ma'am, " said Ephraim. He watched his mother drive out of theyard, guiding the horse carefully through the frozen ridges of thedrive. Presently he took another spoonful of his medicine. He felt alittle easier, but still very ill. His father came a few minutesafter his mother had gone. He heard him stamping in through the backdoor; then his frost-reddened old face looked in on Ephraim. 

"Mother gone?" said he. 

"She's jest gone, " replied Ephraim. His father came in. He looked atthe boy with a childish and anxious sweetness. "Don't you feel quiteas well as you did?" he inquired. 

"Dunno as I do. "

"Took your medicine reg'lar?"

Ephraim nodded. 

"I guess it's good medicine, " said Caleb; "it come real high; I guessthe doctor thought consid'ble of it. I'd take it reg'lar if I wasyou. I thought you looked as if you didn't feel quite so well ascommon when I come in. "

Caleb took off his boots and tended the fire. Ephraim began to feel alittle better; his heart did not beat quite so laboriously. 

He did not say a word to his father about paring the apples. Calebwent into the pantry and came back eating a slice of mince-pie. 

"I found there was a pie cut, and I thought mother wouldn't mind if Itook a leetle piece, " he remarked, apologetically. He would neverhave dared take the pie without permission had his wife been at home. "She ain't goin' to be home till arter dinner-time, an' I began tofeel kinder gone, " added Caleb. He stood by the fire, and munched thepie with a relish slightly lessened by remorse. "Don't you wantnothin'" he asked of Ephraim. "Mebbe a little piece of pie wouldn'thurt you none. "

Caleb's ideas of hygienic food were primitive. He believed, asinnocently as if he had lived in Eden before the Prohibition, thatall food which he liked was good for him, and he applied his theoryto all mankind. He had deferred to Deborah's imperious will, but hehad never been able to understand why she would not allow Ephraim toeat mince-pie or anything else which his soul loved and craved. 

"No, guess I don't, " Ephraim replied. He gazed moodily out of thewindow. "Father, " said he, suddenly. 

"What say, sonny?"

"I eat some of that pie last night. "

"Mother give it to you?"

"No; I clim up on the meal-bucket, an' got it in the night. "

"You might have fell, an' then I dunno what mother'd ha' said toyou, " said Caleb. 

"An' I did somethin' else. "

"What else did you do?"

"I went out a-coastin' after you an' her was asleep. "

"You didn't, now?"

"Yes, I did. "

"An' we didn't neither on us wake up?"

"You was a-snorin' the whole time. "

"I don't s'pose you'd oughter have done it, Ephraim, " said Caleb, andhe tried to make his tone severe. 

"I never went a-coastin' in my whole life before, " said Ephraim; "itain't fair. "

"I dunno what mother 'd say if she was to find out about it, " saidCaleb, and he shook his head. 

"Ezra Ray was the only one that was out there, an' he said hewouldn't tell. "

"Well, mebbe he won't, mebbe he won't. I guess you most hadn'toughter gone unbeknownst to your mother, sonny. "

"Barney's sled jest beat Ezra's all holler. "

"It did, hey? That allers was a good sled, " returned the old man, chuckling. 

Caleb went into the pantry again, and returned rattling a handful ofcorn. "Want a game of holly-gull?" he asked. "I've got a leetle timeto spare now while mother's gone. "

"Guess so, " replied Ephraim. He dragged his chair forward to thehearth; he and his father sat opposite each other and played the oldchildish game of holly-gull. Ephraim was very fond of the game, andwould have played it happily hour after hour had not Deborah esteemedit a sinful waste of time. When Caleb held up his old fist, whereinhe had securely stowed a certain number of kernels of corn, anddemanded, "Holly-gull, hand full, passel how many?" Ephraim's spiritwas thrilled with a fine stimulation, of which he had known little inhis life. If he guessed the number of kernels right and confiscatedthe contents of his father's hand, he felt the gratified ambition ofa successful financier; if he lost, his heart sank, only to boundhigher with new hope for the next chance. A veritable gambling gamewas holly-gull, but they gambled for innocent Indian-corn instead ofthe coin of the realm, and nobody suspected it. The lack of value ofthe stakes made the game quite harmless and unquestioned in publicopinion. 

The waste of time was all Deborah's objection to the game. Caleb andEphraim said not a word about it to each other, but both kept ananxious ear towards Deborah's returning sleigh-bells. 

At last they both heard the loud, brazen jingle entering the yard, and Caleb gathered all the corn together and stowed it away in hispocket. Then he stood on the hearth, looking like a guilty child. Ephraim went slowly over to the window; he did not feel quite so wellagain. 

Deborah's harsh "Whoa!" sounded before the door; presently she camein, her garments radiating cold air, her arms full of bundles. 

"What you standin' there for, father?" she demanded of Caleb. "Whydidn't you come out an' take some of these bundles? Why ain't yougoin' out an' puttin' the horse up instead of standin' therestarin'?"

"I'm goin' right off, mother, " Caleb answered, apologetically; and heturned his old back towards her and scuffled out in haste. 

"Put on your cap!" Deborah called after him. 

She laid off her many wraps, her hood and veil, and mufflers andshawls, folded them carefully, and carried them into her bedroom, tobe laid in her bureau drawers. Deborah was very orderly andmethodical. 

"Did you take your medicine?" she asked Ephraim as she went out ofthe room. 

"Yes, ma'am, " said he. He did not feel nearly as well; he kept hisface turned from his mother. Ephraim was accustomed to complainfreely, but now the coasting and the mince-pie had made him patient. He was quite sure that his bad feelings were due to that, and supposehis mother should suspect and ask him what he had been doing! He wasalso terrified by the thought of the holly-gull and her unfulfilledorder about the apple-paring. He sat very still; his heart shook hiswhole body, which had grown thin lately. He looked very small, inspite of his sturdy build. 

Deborah was gone quite a while; she had left some work unfinished inher bedroom that morning. Caleb returned before she did, and pulledup a chair close to the fire. He was holding his reddened fingers outtowards the blaze to warm them when Deborah came in. 

She looked at him, then around the room, inquiringly. 

"Where did you put the apples?" said she to Caleb. 

Caleb stared around at her. "What apples, mother?" he asked, feebly. 

"The apples I left for you to pare. I want to put 'em on before I getdinner. "

"I ain't heard nothin' about apples, mother. "

"Ain't you pared any apples this forenoon?"

"I didn't know as you wanted any pared, mother. "

Deborah turned fiercely on Ephraim. 

"Ephraim Thayer, look here!" said she. Ephraim turned his poor blueface slowly; his breath came shortly between his parted lips; heclapped one hand to his side. "Didn't you tell your father to parethem apples, the way I told you to?" she demanded. 

Ephraim dropped his chin lower. 

"Answer me!"

"No, ma'am. "

"What have you been a-doin' of?"

"Playin'. "

"Playin' what?"

"Holly-gull. "

Deborah stood quite still for a moment. Her mouth tightened; she grewquite pale. Ephraim and Caleb watched her. Deborah strode across theroom, out into the shed. 

"I guess she won't say much; don't you be scared, Ephraim, " whisperedCaleb. 

But Ephraim, curious to say, did not feel scared. Suddenly his motherseemed to have lost all her terrifying influence over him. He feltvery strange, and as if he were sinking away from it all through deepabysses. 

His mother came back, and she held a stout stick in her right hand. Caleb gasped when he saw it. "Mother, you ain't goin' to whip him?"he cried out. 

"Father, you keep still!" commanded Deborah. "Ephraim, you come withme!"

She led the way into Ephraim's little bedroom, and he stumbled up andfollowed her. He saw the stick before him in his mother's hand; heknew she was going to whip him, but he did not feel in the leastdisturbed or afraid. Ezra Ray could not have faced a whipping anymore courageously than Ephraim. But he staggered as he went, and hisfeet met the floor with strange shocks, since he had prepared hissteps for those deep abysses. 

He and his mother stood together in his little bedroom. She, when shefaced him, saw how ill he looked, but she steeled herself againstthat. She had seen him look as badly before; she was not to bedaunted by that from her high purpose. For it was a high purpose toDeborah Thayer. She did not realize the part which her own human willhad in it. 

She lifted up her voice and spoke solemnly. Caleb, listening, alltrembling, at the kitchen door, heard her. 

"Ephraim, " said his mother, "I have spared the rod with you all mylife because you were sick. Your brother and your sister have bothrebelled against the Lord and against me. You are all the child I'vegot left. You've got to mind me and do right. I ain't goin' to spareyou any longer because you ain't well. It is better you should besick than be well and wicked and disobedient. It is better that yourbody should suffer than your immortal soul. Stand still. "

Deborah raised her stick, and brought it down. She raised it again, but suddenly Ephraim made a strange noise and sunk away before it, down in a heap on the floor. 

Caleb heard him fall, and came quickly. 

"Oh, mother, " he sobbed, "is he dead? What ails him?"

"He's got a bad spell, " said Deborah. "Help me lay him on the bed. "Her face was ghastly. She spoke with hoarse pulls for breath, but shedid not flinch. She and Caleb laid Ephraim on his bed; then sheworked over him for a few minutes with mustard and hot-water--all thesimple remedies in which she was skilled. She tried to pour a littleof the doctor's medicine into his mouth, but he did not swallow, andshe wiped it away. 

"Go an' get Barney to run for the doctor, quick!" she told Caleb atlast. Caleb fled, sobbing aloud like a child, out of the house. Deborah closed the boy's eyes, and straightened him a little in thebed. Then she stood over him there, and began to pray aloud. It was astrange prayer, full of remorse, of awful agony, of self-defense ofher own act, and her own position as the vicar of God upon earth forher child. "I couldn't let him go astray too!" she shrieked out. "Icouldn't, I couldn't! O Lord, thou knowest that I couldn't! Iwould--have lain him upon--the altar, as Abraham laid Isaac! Oh, Ephraim, my son, my son, my son!"

Deborah prayed on and on. The doctor and a throng of pale women camein; the yard was full of shocked and staring people. Deborah heedednothing; she prayed on. 

Some of the women got her into her own room. She stayed there, with asort of rigid settling into the spot where she was placed and shepleaded with the Lord for upholding and justification until thedaylight faded, and all night. The women, Mrs. Ray and the doctor'swife, who watched with poor Ephraim, heard her praying all nightlong. They sat in grave silence, and their eyes kept meeting withshocked significance as they listened to her. Now and then they wetthe cloth on Ephraim's face. About two o'clock Mrs. Ray tiptoed intothe pantry, and brought forth a mince-pie. "I found one that had beencut on the top shelf, " she whispered. She and the doctor's wife atethe remainder of poor Ephraim's pie. 

The two women stayed next day and assisted in preparations for thefuneral. Deborah seemed to have no thought for any of her householdduties. She stayed in her bedroom most of the time, and her prayingvoice could be heard at intervals. 

Some other women came in, and they went about with silent efficiency, performing their services to the dead and setting the house in order;but they said very little to Deborah. When she came out of her roomthey eyed her with a certain grim furtiveness, and they never said aword to her about Ephraim. 

It was already known all over the village that she had been whippingEphraim when he died. Poor old Caleb, when the neighbors had comeflocking in, had kept repeating with childish sobs, "Mother hadn'tought to have whipped him! mother hadn't ought to have whipped him!"

"Did Mrs. Thayer whip that boy?" the doctor had questioned, sharply, before all the women, and Caleb had sobbed back, hoarsely, "She wasjest a-whippin' of him; I told her she hadn't ought to. "

That had been enough. "She whipped him, " the women repeated to eachother in shocked pantomime. They all knew how corporal punishment hadbeen tabooed for Ephraim. 

The Thayer house was crowded the afternoon of the funeral. The decentblack-clad village people, with reddening eyes and mouths droopingwith melancholy, came in throngs into the snowy yard. The men intheir Sunday gear tiptoed creaking across the floors; the women, feeling for their pocket-handkerchiefs, padded softly and heavilyafter them, folded in their black shawls like mourning birds. 

[Illustration: "The Thayer house was crowded the afternoon of thefuneral"]

Caleb and Deborah and Barney sat in the north parlor, where Ephraimlay. Deborah's hoarse laments, which were not like the ordinaryhysterical demonstrations of feminine grief, being rather a sternuprising and clamor of herself against her own heart, filled thehouse. 

The minister had to pray and speak against it; scarcely any onebeyond the mourners' room could hear his voice. It was a hard taskthat the poor young minister had. He was quite aware of the feelingagainst Deborah, and it required finesse to avoid jarring that, andyet display the proper amount of Christian sympathy for theafflicted. Then there were other difficulties. The minister hadprayed in his closet for a small share of the wisdom of Solomonbefore setting forth. 

The people in the other rooms leaned forward and strained their ears. The minister's wife sat beside her husband with bright spots of colorin her cheeks, her little figure nervously contracted in her chair. They had had a discussion concerning the advisability of hismentioning the sister and daughter in his prayer, and she had pleadedwith him strenuously that he should not. 

When the minister prayed for the afflicted "sister and daughter, whowas now languishing upon a bed of sickness, " his wife's mouthtightened, her feet and hands grew cold. It seemed to her that herown tongue pronounced every word that her husband spoke. And therewas, moreover, a little nervous thrill through the audience. Oddlyenough, everybody seemed to hear that portion of the minister'sprayer quite distinctly. Even one old deaf man in the farthest cornerof the kitchen looked meaningly at his neighbor. 

The service was a long one. The village hearse and the line of blackcovered wagons waited in front of the Thayer house over an hour. There had been another fall of snow the night before, and now thenorth wind blew it over the country. Outside ghostly spirals of snowraised from the new drifts heaped along the road-sides like graves, disappeared over the fields, and moved on the borders of distantwoods, while in-doors the minister held forth, and the choir sangfuneral hymns with a sweet uneven drone of grief and consolation. 

When at last the funeral was over and the people came out, they benttheir heads before this wild storm which came from the earth insteadof the sky. 

The cemetery was a mile out of the village; when the procession camedriving rapidly home it was nearly sunset, and the thoughts of thepeople turned from poor Ephraim to their suppers. It is only for aminute that death can blur life for the living. Still, when theevening smoke hung over the roofs the people talked untiringly ofEphraim and his mother. 

As time went on the dark gossip in the village swelled louder. It wassaid quite openly that Deborah Thayer had killed her son Ephraim. Theneighbors did not darken her doors. The minister and his wife calledonce. The minister offered prayer and spoke formal words ofconsolation as if he were reading from invisible notes. His wife satby in stiff, scared silence. Deborah nodded in response; she saidvery little. 

Indeed, Deborah had become very silent. She scarcely spoke to Caleb. For hours after he had gone to bed the poor bewildered old man couldhear his wife wrestling in prayer with the terrible angel of the Lordwhom she had evoked by the stern magic of grief and remorse. He couldhear her harsh, solemn voice in self-justification and agonizedappeal. After a while he learned to sleep with it still ringing inhis ears, and his heavy breathing kept pace with Deborah's prayer. 

Deborah had not the least doubt that she had killed her son Ephraim. 

There was some talk of the church's dealing with her, some womendeclared that they would not go to meeting if she did; but nostringent measures were taken, and she went to church every Sundayall the rest of the winter and during the spring. 

It was an afternoon in June when the doctor's wife and Mrs. Ray wentinto Deborah Thayer's yard. They paused hesitatingly before the door. 

"I think you're the one that ought to tell her, " said Mrs. Ray. 

"I think it's your place to, seeing as 'twas your Ezra that knewabout it, " returned the doctor's wife. Her voice sounded like the humof a bee, being full of husky vibrations; her double chin sank intoher broad heaving bosom, folded over with white plaided muslin. 

"Seems to me it belongs to you, as long as you're the doctor's wife, "said Mrs. Ray. She was very small and lean beside the soft bulk ofthe other woman, but there was a sort of mental uplifting about herwhich made her unconscious of it. Mrs. Ray had never consideredherself a small woman; she seemed always to see the tops of otherwomen's heads. 

The doctor's wife looked at her dubiously, panting softly all overher great body. It was a warm afternoon. The low red and whiterose-bushes sprayed all around the step-stone, and they were full ofroses. The doctor's wife raised the brass knocker. "Well, I'd just aslieves, " said she, resignedly. "She'd ought to be told, anyway; thedoctor said so. " The knocker fell with a clang of brass. 

Deborah opened the door at once. "Good-afternoon, " said she. 

"We thought we'd come over a few minutes, it's so pleasant thisafternoon, " said the doctor's wife. 

"Walk in, " said Deborah. She aided them in through the kitchen to thenorth parlor. She always entertained guests there on warm afternoons. 

The north parlor was very cool and dark; the curtains were down, andundulated softly like sails. Deborah placed the big hairclothrocking-chair for the doctor's wife, and Mrs. Ray sat down on thesofa. 

There was a silence. The doctor's wife flushed red. Mrs. Ray's sharpface was imperturbable. Deborah, sitting erect in one of her bestflag-bottomed chairs, looked as if she were alone in the room. 

The doctor's wife cleared her throat. "Mis' Thayer, " she began. 

Deborah looked at her with calm expectation. 

"Mis' Thayer, " said the doctor's wife, "Mis' Ray and I thought weought to come over here this afternoon. Mis' Ray heard something lastnight, an' she came over an' told the doctor, an' he said you oughtto know--"

The doctor's wife paused, panting. Then the door opened and Calebpeered in. He bowed stiffly to the two guests; then, withapprehensive glances at his wife, slid into a chair near the door. 

"Mis' Ray's Ezra told her last night, " proceeded the doctor's wife, "that the night before your son died he run away unbeknown to you, an' went slidin' down hill. The doctor says mebbe that was whatkilled him. He said you'd ought to know. "

Deborah leaned forward; her face worked like the breaking up of anicy river. "Be you sure?" said she. 

"Ezra told me last night, " interposed Mrs. Ray. "I had a hard timegettin' it out of him; he promised Ephraim he wouldn't tell. Butsomethin' he said made me suspect, an' I got it out of him. He saidEphraim told him he run away, an' he left him there slidin' when hecame home. 'Twas as much as 'leven o'clock then; I remember I giveEzra a whippin' next mornin' for stayin' out so late. But then, ofcourse, whippin' Ezra wa'n't nothin' like whippin' Ephraim. "

"The doctor says most likely that was what killed him, after all, an'you'd ought to know, " said the doctor's wife. 

"Be you sure?" said Deborah again. 

"Ephraim wa'n't to blame. He never had no show; he never wenta-slidin' like the other little fellers, " said Caleb, suddenly, outof his corner; and he snivelled as he spoke. 

Deborah turned on him sharply. "Did you know anything about it?" saidshe. 

"He told me on 't that mornin', " said Caleb; "he told me how he'dbeen a-slidin', an' how he eat some mince-pie. "

"Eat--some--mince-pie!" gasped Deborah, and there was a great lightof hope in her face. 

"Well, " said the doctor's wife, "if that boy eat mince-pie, an' sliddown hill, too, I guess you ain't much call to worry about anythingyou've done, Mis' Thayer. I know what the doctor has said rightalong. "

The doctor's wife arose with a certain mild impressiveness, as ifsome mantle of her husband's authority had fallen upon her. She shookout her ample skirts as if they were redolent of rhubarb and mint. "Well, I guess we had better be going, " said she, and her inflectionswere like the doctor's. 

Mrs. Ray rose also. "Well, we thought you'd ought to know, " said she. 

"I'm much obliged to you, " said Deborah. 

She went through the kitchen with them. When the door was shut behindthem she turned to Caleb, who had shuffled along at her heels. "Oh, father, why didn't you tell me if you knew, why didn't you tell me?"she gasped out. 

Caleb stared at her. "Why, mother?" he returned. 

"Didn't you know I thought I'd killed him, father? didn't you know Ithought I'd killed my son? An' now maybe I haven't! maybe I haven't!O Lord, I thank thee for letting me know before I die! Maybe Ihaven't killed him, after all!"

"I didn't s'pose it would make any difference, " said Caleb, helplessly. 

Suddenly, to the old man's great terror, his wife caught hold of himand clung to him. He staggered a little; his arms hung straight athis sides. "Why, what ails you, mother?" he stammered out. "I didn'ttell you, 'cause I thought you'd be blamin' him for 't. Mother, don'tyou take on so; now don't!"

"I--wish--you'd go an' get Rebecca an' Barney, father, " said Deborah, faintly. She suddenly wavered so that her old husband wavered withher, and they reeled back and forth like two old trees in a wind. 

"Why, what ails you, mother, what ails you?" Caleb gasped out. Hecaught Deborah's arm, and clutched out at something to save himself. Then they sank to the floor together. 

Barney had just come up from the field, and was at his own door whenhis father came panting into the yard. "What is it? what's thematter?" he cried out. 

"Mother's fell!" gasped Caleb. 

"Fell! has she hurt her?"

"Dunno--she can't get up; come quick!"

As Barney rushed out of the yard he cast a glance up the hill towardsCharlotte's house; in every crisis of his life his mind turnedinvoluntarily to her, as if she were another self, to be madeacquainted with all its exigencies. But when he came out on the roadhe met Charlotte herself face to face; she had been over to her AuntSylvia's. 

"Something is wrong with mother, " Barney said, with a strange appeal. Then he went on, and Charlotte was at his side, running as fast ashe. Caleb hurried after them, panting, the tears running down his oldcheeks. 

"Father says she's fell!" Barney said, as they sped along. 

"Maybe she's only fainted, " responded Charlotte's steady, faithfulvoice. 

But Deborah Thayer had more than fainted. It might have been thatEphraim had inherited from her the heart-taint that had afflicted andshortened his life, and it might have been that her terribleexperiences of the last few months would have strained her heart toits undoing, had its valves been made of steel. 

Barney carried his mother into the bedroom, and laid her on the bed. He and Charlotte worked over her, but she never spoke nor movedagain. At last Charlotte laid her hand on Barney's arm. "Come outnow, " said she, and Barney followed her out. 

When they were out in the kitchen Barney looked in her face. "It's nouse, she's gone!" he said, hoarsely. Charlotte nodded. Suddenly sheput her arms up around his neck, and drew his head down to her bosom, and held it there, stroking his cheek. 

"Oh, Charlotte, " Barney sobbed. Charlotte bent over him, whisperingsoftly, smoothing his hair and cheek with her tender hand. 

Caleb had gone for the doctor and Rebecca while they tried to restoreDeborah, and had given the alarm on the way. Some women came hurryingin with white faces, staring curiously even then at Barney andCharlotte; but she never heeded them, except to answer in theaffirmative when they asked, in shocked voices, if Deborah was dead. She went on soothing Barney, as if he had been her child, with nomore shame in it, until he raised his white face from her breast ofhis own accord. 

"Oh, Charlotte, you will stay to-night, won't you?" he pleaded. 

"Yes, I'll stay, " said Charlotte. Young as Charlotte was, she hadwatched with the sick and sat up with the dead many a time. So sheand the doctor's wife watched with Deborah Thayer that night. Rebeccacame, but she was not strong enough to stay. The next day Charlotteassisted in the funeral preparations. It made a great deal of talk inthe village. People wondered if Barney would marry her now, and ifshe would sit with the mourners at the funeral. But she sat with herfather and mother in the south room, and time went on after Deborahdied, and Barney did not marry her. 

Chapter XII

A few days after Deborah's funeral Charlotte had an errand at thestore after supper. When she went down the hill the sun had quiteset, but there was a clear green light. The sky gave it out, andthere seemed to be also a green glow from the earth. Charlotte wentdown the hill with the evening air fresh and damp in her face. Lilacswere in blossom all about, and their fragrance was so vital andintense that it seemed almost like a wide presence in the greentwilight. 

She reached Barney's house, and passed it; then she came to theThayer house. Before that lay the garden. The ranks of pease andbeans were in white blossom, and there was a pale shimmer as of acobweb veil over it. 

Charlotte had passed the garden when she heard a voice behind her:

"Charlotte!"

She stopped, and Barney came up. 

"Good-evening, " said he. 

"Good-evening, " said Charlotte. 

"I saw you going by, " said Barney. Then he paused again, andCharlotte waited. 

"I saw you going by, " he repeated, "and--I thought I'd like to speakto you. I wanted to thank you for what you did--about mother. "

"You're very welcome, " replied Charlotte. 

Barney ground a stone beneath his heel. "I sha'n't ever forget it, and--father won't, either, " he said. His voice trembled, and yetthere was a certain doggedness in it. 

Charlotte stood waiting. Barney turned slowly away. "Good-night, " hesaid. 

"Good-night, " returned Charlotte, quickly, and she fairly sprang awayfrom him and down the road. Her limbs trembled, but she held her headup proudly. She understood it all perfectly. Barney had meant toinform her that his behavior towards her on the day his mother diedhad been due to a momentary weakness; that she was to expect nothingfurther. She went on to the store and did her errand, then went home. As she entered the kitchen her mother came through from the frontroom. She had been sitting at a window watching for Charlotte toreturn; she thought Barney might be with her. 

"Well, you've got home, " said she, and it sounded like a question. 

"Yes, " said Charlotte. She laid her parcels on the table. "I guessI'll go to bed, " she added. 

"Why, it's dreadful early to go to bed, ain't it?"

"Well, I'm tired; I guess I'll go. "

The candle-light was dim in the room, but Sarah eyed her daughtersharply. She thought she looked pale. 

"Did you meet anybody?" she asked. 

"I don't know; there wasn't many folks out. "

"You didn't see Barney, did you?"

"Yes, I met him. "

Charlotte lighted another candle, and opened the door. 

"Look here, " said her mother. 

"Well?" replied Charlotte, with a sort of despairing patience. 

"What did he say to you? I want to know. "

"He didn't say much of anything. He thanked me for what I did abouthis mother. "

"Didn't he say anything about anything else?"

"No, he didn't. " Charlotte went out, shielding her candle. 

"You don't mean that he didn't say anything, after the way he actedthat day his mother died?"

"I didn't expect him to say anything. "

"He's treated you mean, Charlotte, " her mother cried out, with a halfsob. "He'd ought to be strung up after he acted so, huggin' an'kissin' you right before folk's face and eyes. "

"It was more my fault than 'twas his, " returned Charlotte; and sheshut the door. 

"Then I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself, " Sarah calledafter her, but Charlotte did not seem to hear. 

"I never see such work, for my part, " Sarah wailed out to herself. 

"Mother, you come in here a minute, " Cephas called out of thebedroom. He had gone to bed soon after supper. 

"Anythin' new about Barney?" he asked, when his wife stood besidehim. 

"Barney ain't no more notion of comin' back than he had before, inspite of all the talk. I never see such work, " replied Sarah, in avoice strained high with tears. 

"I call it pretty doin's, " assented Cephas. His pale face, with itsvenerable beard, was closely set about with his white nightcap. Helay staring straight before him with a solemnly reflective air. 

"I wish you hadn't brought up 'lection that time, father, " venturedSarah, with a piteous sniff. 

"If the Democratic party had only lived different, an' hadn't eat somuch meat, there wouldn't have been any trouble, " returned Cephas, magisterially. "If you go far enough, you'll always get back to that. A man is what he puts into his mouth. Meat victuals is at the bottomof democracy. If there wa'n't any meat eat there wouldn't be anyDemocratic party, an' there wouldn't be any wranglin' in the state. There'd be one party, jest as there'd ought to be. "

"I wish you hadn't brought it up, father, " Sarah lamented again;"it's most killin' me. "

"If we hadn't both of us been eatin' so much animal food therewouldn't have been any trouble, " repeated Cephas. 

"Well, I dunno much about animal food, but I know I'm aboutdiscouraged, " said Sarah. And she went back to the kitchen, and satdown in the rocking-chair and cried a long time, with her apron overher face. Her heartache was nearly as sore as her daughter'sup-stairs. 

Charlotte did not speak to Barney again all summer--indeed, shescarcely ever saw him. She had an occasional half-averted glimpse ofhis figure across the fields, and that was all. Barney had gone backto the old house to live with his father, and remained there throughthe summer and fall; but Caleb died in November. He had never beenthe same since Deborah's death; whether, like an old tree whose rootsare no longer so firm in the earth that they can withstand every windof affliction, the shock itself had shaken him to his fall, or thelack of that strange wontedness which takes the place of early loveand passion had enfeebled him, no one could tell. He had seemed tosimply stare at life from a sunny place on a stone-wall or adoor-step all summer. 

When the autumn set in he sat in his old chair by the fire. Caleb hadalways felt cold since Deborah died. When the bell tolled off hisyears, one morning in November, nobody felt surprised. People hadsaid to each other for some time that Caleb Thayer was failing. 

Barney, after his father died, went back to his own forlorn new houseto live, and his sister Rebecca and her husband came to live in theold one. Rebecca went to meeting now every Sunday, wearing hermother's black shawl and a black ribbon on her bonnet, and sitting inher mother's place in the Thayer pew. She never went anywhere else, her rosy color had gone, and she looked old and haggard. 

Barney went into his sister's now and then of a Sunday night, and satwith her and William an hour or so. He and William would sometimeswarm into quite an animated discussion over politics or theology, while Rebecca sat silently by. Barney went nowhere else, not even tomeeting. Sundays he used to watch furtively for Charlotte to go pastwith her father and mother. Quite often Sylvia Crane used to appearfrom her road and join them, and walk along with Charlotte. Barneyused to look at her moving down the road at Charlotte's side, as atthe merest supernumerary on his own tragic stage. But every tragedyhas its multiplying glass to infinity, and every actor has his owntragedy. Sylvia Crane that winter, all secretly and silently, wasacting her own principal rôle in hers. She had quite come to the endof her small resources, and nobody, except the selectmen of Pembroke, knew it. They were three saturnine, phlegmatic, elderly men, oldSquire Payne being the chairman, and they kept her secret well. Sylvia waylaid them in by-places, she stole around to the back doorof Squire Payne's house by night, she conducted herself as if it werea guilty intrigue, and all to keep her poverty hid as long as may be. 

Old Squire Payne was a widower, a grave old man of few words. Headvanced poor Sylvia meagre moneys on her little lands, and he toldnobody. There came a day when he gave her the last dollar upon herNew England soil, full of old plough-ridges and dried weeds andstones. 

Sylvia went home with it in the pocket of her quilted petticoat underher dress skirt. She kept feeling of it to see if it were safe as shewalked along. The snow was quite deep, the road was not well brokenout, and she plodded forward with bent head, her black skirtgathering a crusty border of snow. 

She had to pass Richard Alger's house, but she never looked up. Itwas six o'clock, and quite dark; it had been dark when she set out atfive. The housewives were preparing supper; there was a smell ofburning pine-wood in the air, and now and then a savory scent offrying meat. Sylvia had smelled brewing tea and baking bread inSquire Payne's house, and she had heard old Margaret, the Scotchwoman who had lived with the squire's family ever since she couldremember, stepping around in another room. Old Margaret was almostthe only servant, the only regular and permanent servant, inPembroke, and she enjoyed a curious sort of menial distinction: shedressed well, wore a handsome cashmere shawl which had come fromScotland, and held her head high in the squire's pew. People salutedher with respect, and her isolation of inequality gave her a reverseddignity. 

Sylvia had hoped Margaret would not come in while she sat with thesquire. She was afraid of her eyes, which flashed keen like a man'sunder shaggy brows. She did not want her to see the squire countingout the money from his leather purse, although she knew that Margaretwould keep her own counsel. 

She had been glad enough to escape and not see her appear behind thebulk of the squire in the doorway. Squire Payne was full of laboriouscourtesy, and always himself aided Sylvia to the door when she camefor money, and that always alarmed her. She would drop a meekcourtesy on trembling knees and hurry away. 

Sylvia had almost reached the old road leading to her own house, whenshe saw a figure advancing towards her through the dusk. She saw itwas a woman by the wide swing of the skirts, and trembled. She felt apresentiment as to who it was. She held her head down and well to oneside, she bent over and tried to hurry past, but the figure stopped. 

"Is that you, Sylvy Crane?" said her sister, Hannah Berry. 

Sylvia did not stop. "Yes, it's me, " she stammered. "Good-evenin', Hannah. "

She tried to pass, but Hannah stood in her way. "What you hurryin' sofor?" she asked, sharply; "where you been?"

"Where _you_ been?" returned Sylvia, trembling. 

"Up to Sarah's. Charlotte, she's gone down to Rebecca's. She'sterrible thick with Rebecca. Well, I've been to see Rebecca; an'Rose, she's been, an' I ain't nothin' to say. William has got her fora wife, an' we've got to hold up our heads before folks; an' when itcomes right down to it, there's a good many folks can't say much. IfCharlotte Barnard wants to be thick with Rebecca, she can. Her motherwon't say nothin'. She always was as easy as old Tilly; an' as forCephas, he's either eatin' grass, or he ain't eatin' grass, an'that's all he cares about, unless he gets stirred up about politics, the way he did with Barney Thayer. I dunno but Charlotte thinksshe'll get him back again goin' to see Rebecca. I miss my guess butwhat she sees him there sometimes. I wouldn't have a daughter of minechasin' a fellar that had give her the mitten; but Charlotte ain'tgot no pride, nor her mother, neither. Where did you say you'd been, trapesin' through the snow?"

"Has Rose got her things most done?" asked Sylvia, desperately. Distress was awakening duplicity in her simple, straightforwardheart. All Hannah Berry's thought slid, as it were, in well-greasedgrooves; only give one a starting push and it went on indefinitelyand left all others behind, and her sister Sylvia knew it. 

"Well, she's got 'em pretty near done, " replied Hannah Berry. "Herunderclothes are all done, an' the quilts; the weddin'-dress ain'tbought yet, an' she's got to have a mantilla. Do you know Charlotteain't never wore that handsome mantilla she had when she wasexpectin' to marry Barney?"

"Ain't she?"

"No, she ain't, nor her silk gown neither. I said all I darsed to. Ithought mebbe she or Sarah would offer; they both of 'em know howhard it is to get anything out of Silas; but they didn't, an' Iwa'n't goin' to ask, nohow. I shall get a new silk an' a mantilla forRose, an' not be beholden to nobody, if I have to sell the spoons Ihad when I was married. "

"I don't s'pose they have much to do with, " said Sylvia. She began togradually edge past her sister. 

"Of course they haven't; I know that jest as well as you do. But ifCharlotte ain't goin' to get married she don't want any weddin'-gownan' mantilla, an' she won't ever get married. She let Thomas Payneslip, an' there ain't nobody else I can think of for her. If sheain't goin' to want weddin'-clothes, I don't see why she an' hermother would be any poorer for givin' hers away. 'Twouldn't cost 'emany more than to let 'em lay in the chest. Well, I've got to go home;it's supper-time. Where did you say you'd been, Sylvy?"

Sylvia was well past her sister; she pretended not to hear. "Youain't been over for quite a spell, " she called back, faintly. 

"I know I ain't, " returned Hannah. "I've been tellin' Rose we'd comeover to tea some afternoon before she was married. "

"Do, " said Sylvia, but the cordiality in her voice seemed tooverweigh it. 

"Well, mebbe we'll come over to-morrow, " said Hannah. "We've got somepillow-slips to trim, an' we can bring them. You'd better ask Sarahan' Charlotte, if she can stay away from Rebecca Thayer's longenough. "

"Yes, I will, " said Sylvia, feebly, over her shoulder. 

"We'll come early, " said Hannah. Then the sisters sped apart throughthe early winter darkness. Poor Sylvia fairly groaned out loud whenher sister was out of hearing and she had turned the corner of theold road. 

"What shall I do? what shall I do?" she muttered. 

Her sisters to tea meant hot biscuits and plum sauce and pie andpound-cake and tea. Sylvia had yet a little damson sauce at thebottom of a jar, although she had not preserved last year, for lackof sugar; but hot biscuits and pie, the pound-cake and tea would haveto be provided. 

She felt again of the little money-store in her pocket; that was allthat stood between her and the poor-house; every penny was a barrierand had its carefully calculated value. This outlay would reduceterribly her little period of respite and independence; yet shehesitated as little as Fouquet planning the splendid entertainment, which would ruin him, for Louis XIII. 

Her sisters and nieces must come to tea; and all the food, which wasthe village fashion and as absolute in its way as court etiquette, must be provided. 

"They'll suspect if I don't, " said Sylvia Crane. 

She rolled away the stone from the door and entered her solitaryhouse. She lighted her candle and prepared for bed. She did not getany supper. She said to herself with a sudden fierceness, which cameover her at times--a mild impulse of rebellion which indicatedperhaps some strain from far-off, untempered ancestors, which hadsurvived New England generations--that she did not care if she neverate supper again. 

"They're all comin' troopin' in here to-morrow, an' it's goin' totake about all the little I've got left to get victuals for 'em, an'I've got to go without to-night if I starve!" she cried out quiteloud and defiantly, as if her hard providence lurked within hearingin some dark recess of the room. 

She raked ashes over the coals in the fireplace. "I'll go to bed an'save the fire, too, " she said; "it'll take about all the wood I'vegot left to-morrow. I've got to heat the oven. Might as well go tobed, an' lay there forever, anyway. If I stayed up till doomsdaynobody'd come. "

Sylvia set the shovel back with a vicious clatter; then she struckout--like a wilful child who hurts itself because of its rage andimpotent helplessness to hurt aught else--her thin, red hand againstthe bricks of the chimney. She looked at the bruises on it withbitter exultation, as if she saw in them some evidence of her ownfreedom and power, even to her own hurt. 

When she went to bed she stowed away her money under the feather-bed. She could not go to sleep. Some time in the night a shutter inanother room up-stairs banged. She got up, lighted the candle, andtrod over the icy floors to the room relentlessly with her bare feet. There was a pane of glass broken behind the shutter, and the wind hadloosened the fastening. Sylvia forced the shutter back; in a strangerage she heard another pane of glass crack. "I don't care if everypane of glass in the window is broken, " she muttered, as she hookedthe fastening with angry, trembling fingers. 

Her thin body in its cotton night-gown, cramped with long rigors ofcold, her delicate face reddened as if before a fire, her jaws feltalmost locked as she went through the deadly cold of the lonely houseback to bed; but that strange rage in her heart enabled her to defyit, and awakened within her something like blasphemy against life andall the conditions thereof, but never against Richard Alger. Shenever felt one throb of resentment against him. She even wondered, when she was back in bed, if he had bedclothing enough, if the quiltsand bed-puffs that his mother had left were not worn out; her ownwere very thin. 

The next day Sylvia heated her brick oven; she went to the store andbought materials, and made pound-cake and pies. While they werebaking she ran over and invited Charlotte and her mother. She did notsee Cephas; he had gone to draw some wood. 

"I'd like to have him come, too, " she said, as she went out; "but Idunno as he'd eat anything I've got for tea. "

"Land! he eats anything when he goes out anywhere to tea, " repliedMrs. Barnard. "He was over to Hannah's a while ago, an' he eateverything. He eats pie-crust with shortenin' now, anyway. He got sohe couldn't stan' it without. I guess he'd like to come. He'll haveto draw wood some this afternoon, but he can come in time for tea. I'll lay out his clothes on the bed for him. "

"Well, have him come, then, " said Sylvia. Sylvia was nearly out ofthe yard when Charlotte called after her: "Don't you want me to comeover and help you, Aunt Sylvia?" she called out. She stood in thedoor with her apron flying out in the wind like a blue flag. 

"No, I guess not, " replied Sylvia; "I don't need any help. I ain'tgot much to do. "

"I think Aunt Sylvia looks sick, " Charlotte said to her mother whenshe went in. 

"I thought she looked kind of peaked, " said Sarah. But neither ofthem dreamed of the true state of affairs: how poor Sylvia Crane, half-starved and half-frozen in heart and stomach, was on the vergeof bankruptcy of all her little worldly possessions. 

Sylvia's sisters, practical enough in other respects, were singularlyignorant and incompetent concerning any property except the fewdollars and cents in their own purses. 

They had always supposed Sylvia had enough to live on, as long as shelived at all. They had a comfortable sense of generosity andself-sacrifice, since they had let her have all the old homesteadafter her mother's death without a word, and even against covertremonstrances on the parts of their husbands. 

Silas Berry had once said out quite openly to his wife and SarahBarnard: "That will had ought to be broke, accordin' to my way ofthinkin', " and Hannah had returned with spirit: "It won't ever bebroke unless it's against my will, Silas Berry. I know it seemsconsiderable for Sylvy to have it all, but she's took care of motherall those years, an' I don't begrutch it to her, an' she's a-goin' tohave it. I don't much believe Richard Alger will ever have her nowshe's got so old, an' she'd ought to have enough to live on the restof her life an' keep her comfortable. "

Therefore Sylvia's sisters had a conviction that she was comfortablyprovided with worldly gear. Mrs. Berry was even speculating upon theprobability of her giving Rose something wherewith to beginhouse-keeping when her marriage with Tommy Ray took place. 

The two sisters, with their daughters, came early that afternoon. Mrs. Berry and Rose sewed knitted lace on pillow-slips; Mrs. Barnardand Charlotte were making new shirts for Cephas; Charlotte sat by thewindow and set beautiful stitches in her father's linen shirt-bosoms, while her aunt Hannah's tongue pricked her ceaselessly as with smallgoading thorns. 

"I s'pose this seems kind of natural to you, don't it, Charlotte, gettin' pillow-slips ready?" said Mrs. Berry. 

"I don't know but it does, " answered Charlotte, never raising hereyes from her work. Her mother flushed angrily. She opened her mouthas if to speak, then she shut it again hard. 

"Let me see, how many did you make?" asked Mrs. Berry. 

"She made two dozen pair, " Charlotte's mother answered for her. 

"An' you've got 'em all laid away, yellowin'?"

"I guess they ain't yellowed much, " said Sarah Barnard. 

"I don't see when you're ever goin' to use 'em. "

"Mebbe there'd be chances enough to use 'em if some folks was ascrazy to take up with 'em as some other folks, " returned SarahBarnard. 

"I'd like to know what you mean?"

"Oh, nothin'. If folks want chances to make pillow-slips bad enoughthere's generally poor tools enough layin' 'round, that's all. "

"I'd like to know what you mean, Sarah Barnard. "

"Oh, I don't mean nothin', " answered Sarah Barnard. She glanced ather daughter Charlotte and smiled slyly, but Charlotte never returnedthe glance and smile. She sewed steadily. Rose colored, but she saidnothing. She looked very pretty and happy, as she sat there, sewingknitted lace on her wedding-pillows; and she really was happy. Herpassionate heart had really satisfied itself with the boyish loverwhom she would have despised except for lack of a better. She was andwould be happy enough; it was only a question of deterioration ofcharacter, and the nobility of applying to the need of love the rulesof ordinary hunger and thirst, and eating contentedly the crust whenone could not get the pie, of drinking the water when one could notget the wine. Contentment may be sometimes a degradation; but she washappier than she had ever been in her life, although she had a littlesense of humiliation when she reflected that Tommy Ray, younger thanherself, tending store under her brother, was not exactly a brilliantmatch for her, and that everybody in the village would think so. Soshe colored angrily when her aunt Sarah spoke as she did, althoughshe said nothing. But her mother, although she had rebelled inprivate bitterly against her daughter's choice, was ready enough totake up the cudgels for her in public. 

"Well, " said Hannah Berry, "two old maids in the family is aboutenough, accordin' to my way of thinkin'. "

"It's better to be an old maid than to marry somebody you don't want, jest for the sake of bein' married, " retorted Sarah Barnard, fiercely. 

The two sisters clashed like two thorny bushes of one family in agale the whole afternoon. The two daughters sewed silently, andSylvia knitted a stocking with scarcely a word until she arose to gettea. 

Cephas and Silas both came to tea, which was served in state, with afine linen table-cloth, and Sylvia's mother's green and whitesprigged china. Nobody suspected, as they tasted the damson saucewith the thin silver spoons, as they tilted the green and whiteteacups to their lips, and ate the rich pound-cake and pie, what avery feast of renunciation and tragedy this was to poor Sylvia Crane. Cephas and Silas, indeed, knew that money had been advanced her bythe town upon her estate, but they were far from suspecting, and, indeed, were unwilling to suspect, how nearly it was exhausted andthe property lived out. It was only a meagre estimate that the townof Pembroke had made of the Crane ancestral acres. If Silas andCephas had ever known what it was, they had dismissed it from theirminds, they were interested in not knowing. Suppose their wivesshould want to give her a home and support. 

The women knew nothing whatever. 

When they went home, an hour after tea, Hannah Berry turned to Sylviain the doorway. "I suppose you know the weddin' is comin' off prettysoon now, " said she. 

"Yes, I s'posed 'twas, " answered Sylvia, trying to smile. 

"Well, I thought I'd jest mention it, so you could get your presentready, " said Hannah. She nudged Rose violently as she spoke. 

"I don't care; I meant to give her a hint, " she said, chuckling, whenthey were outside. "She can give you something jest as well as not;she might give you some silver teaspoons, or a table, or sofa. There!she bought that handsome sofa for herself a few years ago, an' shedidn't need it more'n nothin' at all. I suppose she thought RichardAlger was comin' steady, but now he's stopped. "

Rose was married in a few weeks. The morning of the wedding-daySylvia went into Berry's store and called William aside. 

"If you can, I wish you'd come 'round by-an'-by with your horse an'your wood-sled, " said she. 

"Yes, guess I can; what is it you want?" asked William, eying hercuriously. She was very pale; there were red circles around her eyes, and her mouth trembled. 

"Oh, it ain't anything, only a little present I wanted to send toRose, " replied Sylvia. 

"Well, " said William, "I'll be along by-an'-by. " He looked after herin a perplexed way as she went out. 

Silas was in the back of the store, and presently he came forward. "What she want you to do?" he inquired of his son. 

William told him. The old man chuckled. "Hannah give her a hint'tother day, an' I guess she took it, " he said. 

"I thought she looked pretty poorly, " said William--"looked as ifshe'd been crying or something. How do you suppose that propertyholds out, father? I heard the town was allowing her on it. "

"Oh, I guess it'll last her as long as she lives, " replied Silas, gruffly. "Your mother had ought to had her thirds in it. "

"I don't know about that, " said William. "Aunt Sylvy had a hard timetakin' care of grandmother. "

"She was paid for 't, " returned Silas. 

"Richard Alger treated her mean. "

"Guess he sat out considerable firewood an' candle-grease, " assentedthe old man. 

A customer came in then, and Ezra Ray sprang forward. He was allexcited over his brother's wedding, and was tending store in hisplace that day. His mother was making him a new suit to wear to thewedding, and he felt as if the whole affair hung, as it were, uponthe buttons of his new jacket and the straps of his new trousers. 

"Guess I might as well go over to Aunt Sylvy's now as any time, " saidWilliam. 

"Don't see what she wanted you to fetch the horse an' sled for, "ruminated Silas. "Mother thought most likely she'd give some silverteaspoons if she give anything. "

William went out to the barn, put the horse in the sled, and drovedown the hill towards Sylvia's. When he returned the old thin silverteaspoons of the Crane family were in his coat-pocket, and Sylvia'sdearly beloved and fondly cherished hair-cloth sofa was on the sledbehind him. 

"What in creation did she send them old teaspoons and that old sofafor?" his mother asked, disgustedly. 

"I don't know, " replied William, soberly; "but I do know one thing: Ihated to take them bad enough. She acted all upset over it. I thinkshe'd better have kept her sofa and teaspoons as long as she lived. "

"Course she was upset givin' away anything, " scolded his mother. "Itwas jest like her, givin' away a passel of old truck ruther thanspend any money. Well, I s'pose you may as well set that sofa in theparlor. It ain't hurt much, anyway. "

Rose and her husband were to live with her parents for the present. She was married that evening. She wore a blue silk dress, and somerose-geranium blossoms and leaves in her hair. Tommy Ray sat by herside on Sylvia's sofa until the company and the minister were allthere. Then they stood up and were married. 

Sylvia came to the wedding in her best silk gown; she had trembledlest Richard Alger should be there, but he had not been invited. Hannah Berry cherished a deep resentment against him. 

"I ain't goin' to have any man that's treated one of my folks as meanas he has set foot in my house to a weddin', not if I know it, " shetold Rose. 

After the marriage-cake and cider were passed around, the old peoplesat solemnly around the borders of the rooms, and the young peopleplayed games. William and his wife were not there. Hannah had notdared to slight them, but William could not prevail upon Rebecca togo. 

Barney, also, had not been invited to the wedding. Mrs. Berry had anopen grudge against him on her niece's account, and a covert one onher daughter's. Hannah Berry had a species of loyalty in her nature, inasmuch as she would tolerate ill-treatment of her kin from nobodybut her own self. 

Charlotte Barnard came with her father and mother, and sat quietlywith them all the evening. She was beginning insensibly to ratherhold herself aloof from the young people, and avoid joining in theirgames. She felt older. People had wondered if she would not wear thedress she had had made for her own wedding, but she did not. She woreher old purple silk, which had been made over from one of hermother's, and a freshly-starched muslin collar. The air was full ofthe rich sweetness of cake; there was a loud discord of laughter andhigh shrill voices, through which yet ran a subtle harmony of mirth. Laughing faces nodded and uplifted like flowers in the merry rompingthrongs in the middle of the room, while the sober ones against thewalls watched with grave, elderly, retrospective eyes. 

As soon as she could, Sylvia Crane stole into her sister's bedroom, where the women's outside garments were heaped high on the bed, gother own, opened the side door softly, and went home. The next day shewas going to the poor-house, and nobody but the three selectmen ofPembroke knew it. She had begged them, almost on her knees, to tellnobody until she was there. 

That night she rolled away the guardian stone from before the doorwith the feeling that it was for the last time. All that night sheworked. She could not go to bed, she could not sleep, and she hadgone beyond any frenzy of sorrow and tears. All her blind andhelpless rage against life and the obdurately beneficent force, whichhad been her conception of Providence, was gone. When the battle isover there is no more need for the fury of combat. Sylvia felt herbattle was over, and she felt the peace of defeat. 

She was to take a few necessaries to the poor-house with her; she hadthem to pack, and she also had some cleaning to do. 

She had a vague idea that the town, which seemed to loom over herlike some dreadful shadowy giant of a child's story, would sell thehouse, and it must be left in neat order for the inspection of sellerand buyer. "I ain't goin' to have the town lookin' over the house an'sayin' it ain't kept decent, " she said. So she worked hard all night, and her candle lit up first one window, then another, moving all overthe house like a will-o'-the-wisp. 

The man who had charge of the poor-house came for her the nextmorning at ten o'clock. Sylvia was all ready. At quarter past ten hedrove out of the old road where the Crane house stood and down thevillage street. The man's name was Jonathan Leavitt. He was quite oldbut hearty, with a stubbly fringe of white beard around a ruddy face. He had come on a wood-sled for the greater convenience of bringingSylvia's goods. There were a feather-bed, bolster, and pillows, tiedup in an old homespun blanket, on the rear of the sled; there wasalso a red chest, and a great bundle of bedclothing. Sylvia sat inher best rocking-chair just behind Jonathan Leavitt, who drovestanding. 

"It's a pleasant day for this time of year, " he observed to Sylviawhen they started. Sylvia nodded assent. 

Jonathan Leavitt had had a fear lest Sylvia might make a disturbanceabout going. Many a time had it taken hours for him to induce a poorwoman to leave her own door-stone; and when at length they had setforth, it was to an accompaniment of shrill, piteous lamentations, sostrained and persistent that they seemed scarcely human, and morelike the cries of a scared cat being hauled away from her home. Everybody on the road had turned to look after the sled, and JonathanLeavitt had driven on, looking straight ahead, his face screwed hard, lashing now and then his old horse, with a gruff shout. Now he feltrelieved and grateful to Sylvia for going so quietly. He was disposedto be very friendly to her. 

"You'd better keep your rockin'-chair kind of stiddy, " he said, whenthey turned the corner into the new road, and the chair oscillatedlike an uneasy berth at sea. 

Sylvia sat up straight in the chair. She had on her best bonnet andshawl, and her worked lace veil over her face. Her poor blue eyesstared out between the black silk leaves and roses. If she had been adead woman and riding to her grave, and it had been possible for herto see as she was borne along the familiar road, she would haveregarded everything in much the same fashion that she did now. Shelooked at everything--every tree, every house and wall--with a pangof parting forever. She felt as if she should never see them again intheir old light. 

The poor-house was three miles out of the village; the road lay pastRichard Alger's house. When they drew near it Sylvia bent her headlow and averted her face; she shut her eyes behind the black roses. She did not want to know when she passed the house. An awful shamethat Richard should see her riding past to the poor-house seized uponher. 

The wood-sled went grating on, a chain rattled; she calculated thatthey were nearly past when there was a jerk, and Jonathan Leavittcried "Hullo!"

"Where are you going?" shouted another voice. Sylvia knew it. Herheart pounded. She turned her face farther to one side, and did notopen her eyes. 

Richard Alger came plunging down out of his yard. His handsome facewas quite pale under a slight grizzle of beard, he was in hisshirt-sleeves, he had on no dicky or stock, and his sinewy throatshowed. 

"Where you goin'?" he gasped out again, as he came up to the sled. 

"I'm a takin' Sylvy home. Why?" inquired Jonathan Leavitt, with adazed look. 

"Home? What are you headed this way for? What are all those things onthe sled?"

"She's lived out her place, an' the town's jest took it; guess youdidn't know, Richard, " said Jonathan Leavitt. His eyes upon the otherman were half shrewdly inquiring, half bewildered. 

Sylvia never turned her head. She sat with her eyes closed behind herveil. 

[Illustration: "Sylvia never turned her head"]

"Just turn that sled 'round, " said Richard Alger. 

"Turn the sled 'round?"

"Yes, turn it 'round!" Richard himself grasped the bay horse by thebit as he spoke. "Back, back!" he shouted. 

"What are you doin' on, Richard?" cried the old man; but he pulledhis right rein mechanically, and the sled slewed slowly and safelyaround. 

Richard jumped on and stood just beside Sylvia, holding to a stake. "Where d'ye want to go?" asked the old man. 

"Back. "

"But the town--"

"I'll take care of the town. "

Jonathan Leavitt drove back. Sylvia opened her eyes a little way, andsaw Richard's back. "You'll catch cold without your coat, " she halfgasped. 

"No, I sha'n't, " returned Richard, but he did not turn his head. 

Sylvia did not say any more. She was trembling so that her verythoughts seemed to waver. They turned the corner of the old road, anddrove up to her old house. Richard stepped off the sled, and held outhis hands to Sylvia. "Come, get off, " said he. 

"I dunno about this, " said Jonathan Leavitt. "I'm willin' as far asI'm concerned, Richard, but I've had my instructions. "

"I tell you I'll take care of it, " said Richard Alger. "I'll settleall the damages with the town. Come, Sylvia, get off. "

And Sylvia Crane stepped weakly off the wood-sled, and Richard Algerhelped her into the house. "Why, you can't hardly walk, " said he, andSylvia had never heard anything like the tenderness in his tone. Hebent down and rolled away the stone. Sylvia had rolled it in front ofthe door herself, when she went out, as she supposed, for the lasttime. Then he opened the door, and took hold of her slender shawledarm, and half lifted her in. 

"Go in an' sit down, " said he, "while we get the things in. "

Sylvia went mechanically into her clean, fireless parlor; it was theroom where she had always received Richard. She sat down in aflag-bottomed chair and waited. 

Richard and Jonathan Leavitt came into the house tugging thefeather-bed between them. "We'll put it in the kitchen, " she heardRichard say. They brought in the chest and the bundle of bedding. Then Richard came into the parlor carrying the rocking-chair beforehim. "You want this in here, don't you?" he said. 

"It belongs here, " said Sylvia, faintly. Jonathan Leavitt gathered uphis reins and drove out of the yard. 

Richard set down the chair; then he went and stood before Sylvia. 

"Look here, Sylvia, " said he. Then he stopped and put his hands overhis face. His whole frame shook. Sylvia stood up. "Don't, Richard, "she said. 

"I never had any idea of this, " said Richard Alger, with a greatgroaning sob. 

"Don't you feel so bad, Richard, " said Sylvia. 

Suddenly Richard put is arm around Sylvia, and pulled her close tohim. "I'll look out and do better by you the rest of your life, anyhow, " he said. He took hold of Sylvia's veil and pulled it back. Her pale face drooped before him. 

"You look--half--starved, " he groaned. Sylvia looked up and saw tearson his rough cheeks. 

"Don't you feel bad, Richard, " she said again. 

"I'd ought to feel bad, " said Richard, fiercely. 

"I couldn't help it, that night you come an' found me gone. It wasthat night Charlotte had the trouble with Barney. Sarah, she wouldn'tlet me come home any sooner. I was dreadful upset about it. "

"I've been meaner than sin, an' I don't know as it makes it anybetter, because I couldn't seem to help it, " said Richard Alger. "Ididn't forget you a single minute, Sylvia, an' I was awful sorry foryou, an' there wasn't a Sabbath night that I didn't want to come morethan I wanted to go to Heaven! But I couldn't, I couldn't nohow. I'vealways had to travel in tracks, an' no man livin' knows how deep atrack he's in till he gets jolted out of it an' can't get back. ButI've got into a track now, an' I'll die before I get out of it. Thereain't any use in your lookin' at me, Sylvia, but if you can make upyour mind to have me, I'll try my best, an' do all I can to make itall up to you in the time that's left. "

"I'm afraid you've had a dreadful hard time, livin' alone so long, an' tryin' to do for yourself, " said Sylvia, pitifully. 

"I'm glad I have, " replied Richard, grimly. 

He clasped Sylvia closer; her best bonnet was all crushed against hisbreast. He looked around over her head, as if searching forsomething. 

"Where's the sofa gone?" he asked. 

"I gave it to Rose for a weddin' present. I thought I shouldn't everneed it, " Sylvia murmured. 

"Well, I've got one, it ain't any matter, " said Richard. 

He moved towards the rocking-chair, drawing Sylvia gently along withhim. 

"Sit down, Sylvia, " said he, softly. 

"No, you sit down in the rocking-chair, Richard, " said Sylvia. Shereached out and pulled a flag-bottomed chair close and sat downherself. Richard sat in the rocking-chair. 

Sylvia untied her bonnet, took it off, and straightened it. Richardwatched her. "I want you to have a white bonnet, " said he. 

"I'm too old, Richard, " Sylvia replied, blushing. 

"No, you ain't, " he said, defiantly; "you've got to have a whitebonnet. "

Sylvia looked in his face--and indeed hers looked young enough for awhite bonnet; it flushed and lit up, like an old flower revived in anew spring. 

Richard leaned over towards her, and the two old lovers kissed eachother. Richard moved his chair close to hers, and Sylvia felt his armcoming around her waist. She sat still. "Put your head down on myshoulder, " whispered Richard. 

And Sylvia laid her head on Richard's shoulder. She felt as if shewere dreaming of a dream. 

Chapter XIII

When Richard Alger went home he wore an old brown shawl of Sylvia'sover his shoulders. He had demurred a little. "I can't go down thestreet with your shawl on, Sylvia, " he had pleaded, but Sylviainsisted. 

"You'll catch your death of cold, goin' home in your shirt-sleeves, "she said. "They won't know it's my shawl. Men wear shawls. "

"You've worn this ever since I've known you, Sylvia, an' I ain'tgiven to catchin' cold easy, " said Richard almost pitifully. But hestood still and let Sylvia pin the shawl around his neck. Sylviaseemed to have suddenly acquired a curious maternal authority overhim, and he submitted to it as if it were merely natural that heshould. 

Richard Alger went meekly down the road, wearing the old brown shawlthat had often draped Sylvia Crane's slender feminine shoulders whenshe walked abroad, since she was a young girl. Sylvia had always wornit corner-wise, but she had folded it square for him as making itmore of a masculine garment. Two corners waved out stiffly from hissquare shoulders. He tried to swing his arms unconcernedly under it;once the fringe hit his hand and he jumped. 

He was shame-faced when he struck out into the main road, but he didnot dream of taking off the shawl. A very passion of obedience andloyalty to Sylvia had taken possession of him. With every submissionafter long persistency, there is a strong reverse action, as from thesudden cessation of any motion. Richard now yielded in more markedmeasure than he had opposed. He had borne with his whimsical willagainst all his sweetheart's dearest wishes during the better part ofher life; now he would wear any insignia of bondage if she bade him. 

He had gone a short distance on the main road when he met HannahBerry. She was hurrying along, her face was quite red, and he couldhear her pant as she drew near. She looked at him sharply, she fairlynarrowed her eyes over the shawl. "Good-mornin', " said she. 

Richard said "Good-morning, " gruffly. The shawl blew out againstHannah's shoulder as she passed him. She turned about and staredafter him, and he knew it. He went on with dogged chin in the foldsof the shawl. 

Hannah Berry hurried along to Sylvia Crane's. When she opened thedoor Sylvia was just coming out of the parlor, and the two sistersmet in the entry with a kind of shock. 

"Oh, it's you, " murmured Sylvia. Sylvia cast down her eyes before hersister. She tried not to smile. Her hair was tumbled and there werered spots on her cheeks. 

"Has he been here all this time?" demanded Hannah. 

"He's just gone. "

"I met him out here. What in creation did you rig him up in your oldshawl for, Sylvy Crane?"

"He was in his shirt-sleeves, an' I wasn't goin' to have him catchhis death of cold, " replied Sylvia with dignity. 

"In his shirt-sleeves!"

"Yes, he run out just as he was. "

"Land sakes!" said Hannah. The two women looked at each other. Suddenly Hannah threw out her arms from under her shawl, and claspedSylvia. "Oh, Sylvy, " she sobbed out, "to think you was settin' outfor the poor-house this mornin', an' we havin' a weddin' last night, an' never knowin' it! Why didn't you say anythin' about it, whydidn't you, Sylvy?"

"I knew you couldn't do anything, Hannah. "

"Knew I couldn't do anything! Do you suppose me or Sarah would havelet all the sister we've got go to the poor-house whilst we had aroof over our heads? We'd took you right in, either one of us. "

"I was afraid Silas an' Cephas wouldn't be willin'. "

"I guess they'd had to be willin'. I told Silas just now that ifRichard Alger didn't come forward like a man, you was comin' to myhouse, an' have the best we've got as long as you lived. Silas, hesaid he thought you'd ought to earn your own livin', an' I told himthere wa'n't any chance for a woman like you to earn your livin' inPembroke, that you could earn your livin' enough livin' at your ownsister's. Oh, Sylvy, I can't stand it, when I think of your startin'out that way, an' never sayin' a word. " Hannah sobbed convulsively onher sister's shoulder. There were tears in Sylvia's eyes, but herface above her sister's head was radiant. "Don't, Hannah, " she said. "It's all over now, you know. "

"Is he--goin' to have you now--Sylvy?"

"I guess so, maybe, " said Sylvia. 

"I suppose you'll go to his house, this is so run down. "

"He's goin' to fix this one up. "

"You think you'd rather live here, then? Well, I s'pose I should. Is'pose he's goin' to buy it. The town hadn't ought to ask much. SylvyCrane, I can't get it through my head, nohow. "

"What?" said Sylvia. 

"How you run out this nice place so quick. I thought an' Sarahthought you'd got enough to last you jest as long as you lived, an'have some left to leave then. "

Hannah stood back and looked at her sister sharply. 

"I've always been as savin' as I knew how, " said Sylvia. 

"Well, I dunno but you have. You got that sofa, that costconsiderable. I shouldn't have thought you'd got that, if you'd knownhow things were, Sylvy. "

"I kinder felt as if I needed it. "

"Well, I guess you might have got along without that, anyhow. Richard's got one, ain't he?"

"Yes, he says he has. "

"I thought I remembered his mother's buyin' one just before hisfather died. Well, you'll have his sofa, then; if I remember right, it's a better one than yours that you give Rose. Now, Sylvy Crane, you jest put on your hood an' shawl, an' come home with me, an' havesome dinner. Have you got anything in the house to eat?"

"I've got a few things, " replied Sylvia, evasively. 

"What?"

"Some potatoes an' apples. "

"Potatoes an' apples!" Hannah began to sob again. "To think of yourcomin' to this, " she wailed. "My own sister not havin' anything inthe house to eat, an' settin' out for the poor-house, an' everybodyin town knowin' it. "

"Don't feel bad about it, Hannah; it's all over now, " said Sylvia. 

"Don't feel bad about it! I guess you'd feel bad about it if you wasin my place, " returned Hannah. "I s'pose you think now you've gotRichard Alger that there's nothin' else makes any odds. I guess I'vegot some feelin's. Get your hood and shawl, now do; dinner was allready when I come away. "

"I guess I'd better not, Hannah, " said Sylvia. It seemed to her thatshe never would want anything to eat again. She wanted to be alone inher old house, and hug her happiness to her heart, whose starvationhad caused her more agony than any other. Now that was appeased shecared for nothing else. 

"You come right along, " said Hannah. "I've got a nice roast spare-riban' turnip an' squash, an' you're goin' to come an' have some of it. "

When Hannah and Sylvia got out on the main road, they heard SarahBarnard's voice calling them. She was hurrying down the hill. Cephashad just come home with the news. Jonathan Leavitt had spread it overthe village from the nucleus of the store where he had stopped on hisway home. 

Sarah Barnard sat down on the snowy stone-wall among the last year'sblackberry vines, and cried as if her heart would break. FinallyHannah, after joining with her awhile, turned to and comforted her. 

"Land sake, don't take on so, Sarah Barnard!" said she; "it's allover now. Sylvy's goin' to marry Richard Alger, an' there ain't a manin Pembroke any better off, unless it's Squire Payne. She's goin' tohave him right off, an' he's goin' to buy the house an' fix it up, an' she's goin' to have all his mother's nice things, an' she'scomin' home with me now, an' have some nice roast spare-rib an'turnip. There ain't nothin' to take on about. "

Hannah fairly pulled Sarah off the stone-wall. "Sylvy an' me have gotto go, " said she. "You come down this afternoon, an' we'll all goover to her house, an' talk it over. I s'pose Richard will cometo-night. I hope he'll shave first, an' put on his coat. I never seesuch a lookin' sight as he was when I met him jest now. "

"I didn't see as he looked very bad, " said Sylvia, with dignity. 

"It seems as if it would kill me jest to think of it, " sobbed SarahBarnard, turning tremulously away. 

"Don't you feel bad about it any longer, Sarah, " Sylvia said, halfabsently. Her hair blew out wildly from under her hood over herflushed cheeks; she smiled as if at something visible, past hersister, and past everything around her. 

"I tell you there ain't nothin' to be killed about!" Hannah calledafter Sarah; she caught hold of Sylvia's arm. "Sarah always was kindof hystericky, " said she. "That spare-rib will be all dried up, an' Iwouldn't give a cent for it, if you don't come along. "

Richard Alger and Sylvia Crane were married very soon. There was nowedding, and people were disappointed about that. Hannah Berry triedto persuade Sylvia to have one. "I'm willin' to make the cake, " saidshe. "I've jest been through one weddin', but I'll do it. If I'd beengoin' with a feller as long as you have with him, I wouldn't getcheated out of a weddin', anyhow. I'd have a weddin' an' I'd havecake, an' I'd ask folks, especially after what's happened. I'd let'em see I wa'n't quite so far gone, if I had set out for thepoor-house once. I'd have a weddin'. Richard's got money enough. Ihad real good-luck with Rose's cake, an' I ain't afraid to try yours. I guess I should make it a little mite stiffer than I did hers. "

But Sylvia was obdurate. She did not say much, but she went her ownway. She had gained a certain quiet decision and dignity whichbewildered everybody. Her sisters had dimly realized that there wassomething about her out of plumb, as it were. Her nature had beenwarped to one side by one concentrated and unsatisfied desire. "Seemsto me, sometimes, as if Sylvy was kind of queer, " Hannah Berry oftensaid. "I dunno but she's kinder turned on Richard Alger, " Sarah wouldrespond. Now she seemed suddenly to have regained her equilibrium, and no longer slanted doubtfully across her sisters' mental horizons. 

She and Richard went to the minister's house early one Sabbathmorning, and were married. Then they went to meeting, Sylvia onRichard's arm. They sat side by side in the Alger pew; it was on theopposite side of the meeting-house from Sylvia's old pew. It seemedto her as if she would see her old self sitting there alone, as ofold, if she looked across. She fixed her eyes straight ahead, andnever glanced at Richard by her side. She held her white-bonnetedhead up like some gentle flower which had sprung back to itself aftera hard wind. She had a new white bridal bonnet, as Richard hadwished; it was trimmed with white plumes and ribbons, and she wore along white-worked veil over her face. The wrought net-work, asdelicate as frost, softened all the hard lines and fixed tints, andgave to her face an illusion of girlhood. She wore the two curls overher cheeks. Richard had asked her why she didn't curl her hair as sheused to do. 

All the people saw Sylvia's white bonnet; it seemed to turn theireyes like a brilliant white spot, which reflected all the light inthe meeting-house. But there were a few women who eyed more sharplySylvia's wedding-gown and mantilla, for she wore the very ones whichpoor Charlotte Barnard had made ready for her own bridal. Sylvia wasjust about her niece's height; the gown had needed a little taking into fit her thinner form, and that was all. 

Charlotte's mother had brought them over to Sylvia's one night, allnicely folded in white linen towels. 

"Charlotte wants you to have 'em; she says she won't ever need 'em, poor child!" she said, in response to Sylvia's remonstrances. Mrs. Barnard's eyes were red, as if she had been crying. It had apparentlybeen harder for her to give up the poor slighted wedding-clothes thanfor her daughter. Charlotte had not shed a tear when she took themout of the chest and shook off the sprigs of lavender which she hadlaid over them; but it seemed to her that she could smell that faintelusive breath of lavender across the meeting-house when Sylvia camein, and the rustle of her bridal-gown was as loud in her ears as ifshe herself wore it. 

"Somebody might just as well have them, and have some good of them, "she had told her mother, and she spoke as if they were the garmentsof some one who was dead. 

"Seems to me, as much as they cost, you'd ought to wear 'emyourself, " said her mother. 

"I never shall, " Charlotte said, firmly; "and they might just as welldo somebody some good. " Charlotte's New England thrift and practicalsense stretched her sentiment on the rack, and she never made asound. 

Barney, watching out from his window that Sunday, caught a flash ofgreen and purple from Sylvia's silken skirt as she turned the cornerof the old road with Richard. "She's got on Charlotte'swedding-dress. She's--given it to her, " he said, with a gasp. He hadnever forgotten it since the day Charlotte had shown it to him. Hehad pictured her in it, hundreds of times, to his own delight andtorment. He had a fierce impulse to rush out and strip hisCharlotte's wedding-clothes from this other bride's back. 

"She's gone and given it away, and she hasn't got a good silk dressherself; she's wearing her old cloak to meeting, " he half sobbed tohimself. He wondered piteously, thinking of his savings and of hisproperty since his father's death, if he might not, at least, buyCharlotte a new silk dress and a mantilla. "I don't believe she'd bemad, " he said; "but I'm afraid her father wouldn't let her wear it. "

The more he thought of it the more it seemed as if he could not bearit, unless he could buy Charlotte the silk dress. "Her clothes ain'tas good as mine, " he said, and he thought of his best blue broadclothsuit, and his flowered vest and silk hat. It seemed to him that withall the terrible injury he was doing Charlotte, he also injured herby having better clothes than she, and that that was something whichmight be set right. 

As Barney sat by his window that Sunday afternoon he saw a man comingdown the hill. He watched him idly, then his heart leaped and heleaned forward. The man advanced with a careless, stately swing, hishead was thrown back, his mulberry-colored coat had a sheen like aleaf in the sun. The man was Thomas Payne. Barney turned white as hewatched him. He had not known he was in town, and his jealous heartat once whispered that he had come to see Charlotte. Thomas Paynecame opposite the house, then passed out of sight. Barney sat withstaring eyes full of miserable questioning upon the road. Had he beento see Charlotte? he speculated. He had come from that direction; butBarney remembered, with a sigh of hope, that Squire Payne had asister, an old maiden lady, who lived a half-mile beyond Charlotte. Perhaps Thomas Payne had been to see his aunt. 

[Illustration: "Thomas Payne advanced with a careless, statelyswing"]

All the rest of the day Barney was in an agony of doubt and unrestover the unsettled question. He had been living lately in a sort ofwretched peace of remorse and misery; now it was rudely shaken. Hewalked the floor; at night he could not sleep. He seemed to be in avery torture-chamber of his own making, and the tortures were worsethan any enemies could have devised. Suppose Thomas Payne was sittingup with Charlotte this Sunday night. Once he thought, wildly, ofgoing up the hill to see if there was a light in her parlor, but itseemed to him as if the doubt was more endurable than the certaintymight be. Suppose Thomas Payne was sitting up with Charlotte; hecalled to mind all her sweet ways. Suppose she was looking andspeaking to Thomas Payne in this way or that way; his imaginationthrew out pictures before him upon which he could not close his eyes. He saw Thomas Payne's face all glowing with triumph, he sawCharlotte's with the old look that she had worn for him. Charlotte'scaresses had been few and maidenly; they all came into his mind likestings. He knew just how she would put her tender arm around thisother man's neck, how she would lift grave, willing lips to his. Hewished that they had never been for him, for all they seemed worth tohim now was this bitter knowledge. His fancy led him on and on to hisown torment. There was a bridal mist around Charlotte. He followedthe old courses of his own dreams, after his memories were passed, and they caused him worse agony. 

The next morning Barney went to the store. It was absolutelynecessary for him to go, but he shunned everybody. He had a horriblefear lest somebody should say, "Hallo, Barney, know Thomas Payne'sgoin' to marry your old girl?" He had planned the very words, and theleer of sly exultation that would accompany it. 

But he made his purchase and went out, and nobody spoke to him. Hehad not seen Thomas Payne in the back part of the store behind thestove. Presently Thomas got up and lounged leisurely out through thestore, exchanging a word with one and another on his way. When he gotout Barney was going down the road quite a way ahead of him. ThomasPayne kept on in his tracks. There was another man coming towardshim, and presently he stood aside to let him pass. "Good-day, Royal, "said Thomas Payne. 

"Good-day, Thomas, " returned the other. "When d'ye get home?"

"Day before yesterday. How are you this winter, Royal?"

"Well, I'm pretty fair to middlin'. " The man's face, sunken in hisfeeble chest far below the level of Thomas's eyes, looked up at himwith a sort of whimsical patience. His back was bent like a bow; hehad had curvature of the spine for years, from a fall when a youngman. 

"Glad to hear that, " returned Thomas. The man passed him, walking asif he were vainly trying to straighten himself at every step. He heldhis knees stiff and threw his elbows back, but his back still curvedpitifully, although it seemed as if he were half cheating himselfinto the belief that he was walking as straight as other men. 

Thomas walked on rapidly, lessening the distance between himself andBarney. As he went on he began to have a curious fancy, which hecould hardly persuade himself was a fancy. It seemed to him thatBarney Thayer was walking like the man whom he had just met, that hisback had that same terrible curve. 

Thomas Payne stared in strange bewilderment at Barney's back. "Itcan't be that he has spine disease, that he has got hurt in any way, "he thought to himself. The purpose with which he had started outrather paled in his mind. He walked more rapidly. It certainly seemedto him that Barney's back was bent. He got within hailing distanceand called out. 

"Hallo!" cried Thomas Payne. 

Barney turned around, and it seemed as if he turned with the feeble, crooked motion of the other man. He saw Thomas Payne, and his facewas ghastly white, but he stood still and waited. 

"How are you?" Thomas said, gruffly, as he came up. 

"How are you, Thomas?" returned Barney. He looked at Thomas with adogged expectancy. He thought he was going to tell him that he was tomarry Charlotte. 

But Thomas was surveying him still in that strange bewilderment. "Look here, Barney, " said he, bluntly, "have you been sick? I haven'theard of it. "

"No, I haven't, " replied Barney, wonderingly. 

Thomas's eyes were fixed upon his back. "I didn't know but you hadgot hurt or something, " said he. 

Barney shook his head. Thomas thought to himself that his back wascertainly curved. "I guess I'll walk along with you a little way, "said he; "I've got something I wanted to say. For God's sake, Barney, you are sick!"

"No, I ain't sick. "

"You are white as death. "

"There's nothing the matter with me, " Barney half gasped. He turnedand walked on, and his back still bent like a bow to Thomas Payne'seyes. 

Thomas went on silently until they had passed a house just beyond. Then he stopped again. "Look here, Barney, " said he. 

"Well, " said Barney. He stopped, but he did not turn or face Thomas. He only presented to him that curved, or semblance of a curved, back. 

"I want to speak to you about Charlotte Barnard, " said Thomas Payne, abruptly. Barney waited without a word. 

"I suppose you'll think it's none of my business, and in one way itisn't, " said Thomas, "but I am going to say it for her sake; I havemade up my mind to. It seems to me it's time, if anybody caresanything about her. What are you treating Charlotte Barnard so for, Barnabas Thayer? It's time you gave an account to somebody, and youcan give it to me. "

Barney did not answer. 

"Speak, you miserable coward!" shouted Thomas Payne, with a suddenthreatening motion of his right arm. 

Then Barney turned, and Thomas started back at the sight of his face. "I can't help it, " he said. 

"Can't help it, you--"

"I can't, before God, Thomas. "

"Why not?"

Barney raised his right hand and pointed past Thomas. "You--met--Royal Bennet just--now, " he gasped, hoarsely. 

Thomas nodded. 

"You--saw--his--back?"

"Yes. "

"Well, something like that ails me. I--can't help it--before God. "

"You don't mean--" Thomas said, and stopped, looking at Barney'sback. 

"I mean that's why I can't--help it. "

"Have you hurt your back?" Thomas asked, in a subdued tone. 

"I've hurt my soul, " said Barney. "It happened that Sunday nightyears ago. I--can't get over it. I am bent like his back. "

"I should think you'd better get over it, then, if that's all, "Thomas Payne said, roughly. 

"I--can't, any more than he can. "

"Do you mean your back's hurt? For God's sake talk sense, Barney!"Thomas cried out, in bewilderment. 

"It's more than my back; it's me. "

Thomas stared at Barney; a horror as of something uncanny andabnormal stole over him. Was the man's back curved, or had he by somesubtle vision a perception of some terrible spiritual deformity, onlysymbolized by a curved spine? In a minute he gave an impatient stamp, and tried to shake himself free from the vague pity and horror whichthe other had aroused. 

"Do you know that you are ruining the life of the best woman thatever lived?" he demanded, fiercely. 

Barney looked at him, and suddenly there was a flash as of somethingnoble in his face. 

"Look here, Thomas, " he said, brokenly, in hoarse gasps. "Last nightI--went mad, almost, because--I thought--maybe you'd been tosee--her. I--saw you coming down the hill. I thought--I'd diethinking of--you--with her. I can't tell you--what I've been through, what I've suffered, and--what I suffer right along. I know I ain't tobe pitied. I know--there ain't any pity--anywhere for anything--likethis. I don't pity--myself. But it's awful. If you could get a sightof it, you'd know. "

Again to Thomas Payne, looking at the other, it was as if he saw apale agonized face staring up at him from the midst of a curved massof deformity. He shuddered. 

"I don't know what to make of you, Barney Thayer, " he said, lookingaway. 

"There's one thing--I want to say, " Barney went on. "I think there'senough of a man left in me--I--think I've got strength enough to sayit. She--ought to be happy. I don't want her--wasting her wholelife--God knows--I don't--no matter what it does--to me. I--wish--See here, Thomas. I know you--like her. Maybe she'll--turn to you. Itseems as if she must. I hope you will--oh, for God's sake, be--goodto her, Thomas!"

Thomas Payne's face was as white as Barney's. He turned to go. "There's no use talking this way. You know Charlotte Barnard as wellas I do, " he said. "You know she's one of the women that never loveany man but one. I don't want another man's wife, if she'd have me. "Suddenly he faced Barney again. "For God's sake, Barney, " he criedout, "be a man and go back to her, and marry her!"

Barney shook his head; with a kind of a sob he turned around and wenthis way without another word. Thomas Payne said no more; he staredafter Barney's retreating figure, and again the look of bewildermentand horror was in his face. 

That afternoon he asked his father, with a casual air, if he hadheard anything about Barney Thayer getting his back injured in anyway. 

"Why, no, I can't say as I have, " returned the squire. 

"I saw him this morning, and I thought his back looked as if it wasgrowing like Royal Bennet's. I dare say I imagined it, " said Thomas. Then he went out of the room whistling. 

But, during his few weeks' stay in Pembroke, he put the same questionto one and another, with varying results. Some said at once, with asudden look of vague horror, that it was so. That Barney Thayer wasindeed growing deformed; that they had noticed it. Others scouted theidea. "Saw him this morning, and he's as straight as he ever was, "they said. 

Whether Barney Thayer's back was, indeed, bowed into that terriblespinal curve or not, Thomas Payne could not tell by any agreement ofwitnesses. If some, gifted with acute spiritual insight, reallyperceived that dreadful warping of a diseased will, and clothed itwith a material image for their own grosser senses; or if Barney, through dwelling upon his own real but hidden infirmity, had actuallycome unconsciously to give it a physical expression, and walked attimes through the village with his back bent like his spirit, although not diseased, Thomas Payne could only speculate. He finallybegan to adopt the latter belief, as he himself, sometimes on meetingBarney, thought that he walked as erect as he ever had. 

Thomas Payne stayed several weeks in Pembroke, and he did not go tosee Charlotte. Once he met her in the street, and stopped and shookhands with gay heartiness. 

"He's got over caring about me, " Charlotte thought to herself with astrange pang, which shocked and shamed her. "Most likely he's gotsomebody out West, where he is, " she said to herself firmly; that sheought to be glad if he had, and that she was; and yet she was not, although she never owned it to herself, and was stanchly loyal to herold love. 

Charlotte herself often fancied uneasily that Barney's back wasgrowing like Royal Bennet's. She watched him furtively when shecould. Then she would say to herself, another time, that she musthave imagined it. 

Thomas Payne went away the first of May. That evening Charlotte saton the door-step in the soft spring twilight. Her mother had justcome home from her sister Hannah Berry's. "Thomas Payne went thisafternoon, " her mother said, standing before her. 

"Did he?" said Charlotte. 

"You might have had him if you hadn't stuck to a poor stick thatain't fit to tie your shoes up!" Sarah cried out, with suddenbitterness. Her voice sounded like Hannah Berry's. Charlotte knewthat was just what her aunt Hannah had said about it. 

"I don't ask him to tie my shoes up, " returned Charlotte. 

"You can stan' up for him all you want to, " said her mother. "Youknow he's a poor tool, an' he's treatin' you mean. You know he can'tbegin to come up to a young man like Thomas Payne. "

"Thomas Payne don't want me, and I don't want him; don't talk anymore about it, mother. "

"I think somebody ought to talk about it, " said her mother, and shepushed roughly past Charlotte into the house. 

Charlotte sat on the door-step a long while. "If Thomas Payne has gotanybody out West, I guess she'll be glad to see him, " she thought. The fancy pained her, and yet she seemed to see Thomas Payne andBarney side by side, the one like a young prince--handsome andstately, full of generous bravery--the other vaguely crouchingbeneath some awful deformity, pitiful yet despicable in the eyes ofmen, and her whole soul cleaved to her old lover. "What we've got isours, " she said to herself. 

As she sat there a band of children went past, with a shrill, sweetclamor of voices. They were out hanging May-baskets and bunches ofanemones. That was the favorite sport of the village children duringthe month of May. The woods were full of soft, innocent, seekingfaces, bending over the delicate bells nodding in the midst of whorlsof dark leaves. Every evening, after sundown, there were mysteriousbursts of laughter and tiny scamperings around doors, and great ballsof bloom swinging from the latchets when they were opened; but noperson in sight, only soft gurgles of mirth and delight soundedaround a corner of darkness. 

After Charlotte went to bed that night she thought she heard somebodyat the south door. "It is the children with some may-flowers, " shethought. But presently she reflected that it was very late for thechildren to be out. 

After a little while she got up, and stole down-stairs to the door, feeling her way through the dark house. 

She opened the south door cautiously, and put her hand out. Therewere no flowers swinging from the latch as she half expected. Herbare feet touched something on the door-step; she stooped, and therewas a great package. 

Charlotte took it up, and went noiselessly back to her room with it. She lighted a candle, and unfastened the paper wrappings. She gave alittle cry. There were yards of beautiful silk shimmering with lilacand silver and rose-color, and there was also a fine lace mantle. 

Charlotte looked at them; she was quite pale and trembling. Shefolded the silk and lace again carefully, and put them in a chest outof sight. Then she went back to bed, and lay there crying wildly. 

"Poor Barney! poor Barney!" she sobbed to herself. 

The next evening, after Cephas and Sarah had gone to bed, Charlottecrept out of the house with the package under her shawl. It was stillearly. She ran nearly all the way to Barney Thayer's house; she wasafraid of meeting somebody, but she did not. 

She knocked softly on Barney's door, and heard him coming to open itat once. When he saw her standing there he gave a great start, anddid not say anything. Charlotte thought he did not recognize her inthe dusk. 

"It's me, Barney, " she said. 

"I know you, " said Barney. She held out the package to him. "I'vebrought this back, " said she. 

Barney made no motion to take it from her. 

"I can't take it, " she said, firmly. 

Suddenly Barney threw up his hands over his face. "Can't you takejust that much from me, Charlotte? Can't you let me do as much asthat for you?" he groaned out. 

"No, I can't, " said Charlotte. "You must take it back, Barney. "

"Oh, Charlotte, can't you--take that much from me?"

"I can take nothing from you as things are, " Charlotte replied. 

"I wanted you to have a dress. I saw you had given the other away. Ididn't think--there was any harm in buying it for you, Charlotte. "

"It isn't your place to buy dresses for me as things are, " saidCharlotte. She extended the package, and he took it, as if by force. She heard him sob. 

"You must never try to do anything like this again, " she said. "Iwant you to understand it, Barney. "

Then she went away, and left him standing there holding his discardedgift. 

Chapter XIV

After a while the village people ceased to have the affairs of BarneyThayer and Charlotte Barnard particularly upon their minds. As timewent on, and nothing new developed in the case, they no longer dweltupon it. Circumstances, like people, soon show familiar faces, andare no longer stared after and remarked. The people all becameaccustomed to Barney living alone in his half-furnished house seasonafter season, and to Charlotte walking her solitary maiden path. Theyseldom spoke of it among themselves; sometimes, when a stranger cameto town, they pointed out Barney and Charlotte as they would have anypoint of local interest. 

"Do you see that house?" a woman bent on hospitable entertainmentsaid as she drove a matronly cousin from another village down thestreet; "the one with the front windows boarded up, without any stepto the front door? Well, Barney Thayer lives there all alone. He'sold Caleb Thayer's son, all the son that's left; the other one died. There was some talk of his mother's whippin' him to death. She diedright after, but they said afterwards that she didn't, that he runaway one night, an' went slidin' downhill, an' that was what killedhim; he'd always had heart trouble. I dunno; I always thought DeborahThayer was a pretty good woman, but she was pretty set. I guessBarney takes after her. He was goin' with Charlotte Barnard yearsago--I guess 'twas as much as nine or ten years ago, now--an' theywere goin' to be married. She was all ready--weddin'-dress an' bonnetan' everything--an' this house was 'most done an' ready for them tomove into; but one Sunday night Barney he went up to see Charlotte, an' he got into a dispute with her father about the 'lection, an' theold man he ordered Barney out of the house, an' Barney he went out, an' he never went in again--couldn't nobody make him. His mother shetalked; it 'most killed her; an' I guess Charlotte said all shecould, but he wouldn't stir a peg. 

"He went right to livin' in his new house, an' he lives there now; heain't married, an' Charlotte ain't. She's had chances, too. SquirePayne's son, he wanted her bad. "

The visiting cousin's mild, interrogative face peered out around theblack panel of the covered wagon at Barney's poor house; herspectacles glittered at it in the sun. "I want to know!" said she, with the expression of strained, entertained amiability which shewore through her visit. 

When they passed the Barnard house the Pembroke woman partly drewrein again; the old horse meandered in a zigzag curve, with his headlopping. "That's where Charlotte Barnard lives, " she said. Suddenlyshe lowered her voice. "There she is now, out in the yard, " shewhispered. 

Again the visiting cousin peered out. "She's good-lookin', ain'tshe?" she remarked, cautiously viewing Charlotte's straight figureand fair face as she came towards them out of the yard. 

"She ain't so good-lookin' as she used to be, " rejoined the otherwoman. "I guess she's goin' down to her aunt Sylvy's--Sylvy Crane aswas. She married Richard Alger a while ago, after she'd been goin'with him over twenty year. He's fixed up the old Crane place. It gotdreadful run down, an' Sylvy she actually set out for the poor-house, an' Richard he stopped Jonathan Leavitt, he was carryin' of her overthere, an' he brought her home, an' married her right off. Thatbrought him to the point. Sylvy lives on the old road; we can driveround that way when we go home, an' I'll show you the place. "

When they presently drove down the green length of the old road, thevisiting cousin spied interestedly at Sylvia's house and Sylvia's owndelicate profile frilled about with lace, drooping like the raceme ofsome white flower in one of the windows. 

"That's her at the window, " whispered the Pembroke woman, "an'there's Richard out there in the bean-poles. " Just then Richardpeered out at them from the green ranks of the beans at the sound oftheir wheels, and the Pembroke woman nodded, with a cough. 

They drove slowly out of the old road into the main-travelled one, and presently passed the old Thayer house. A woman's figure fledhurriedly up the yard into the house as they approached. There was acurious shrinking look about her as she fled, her very clothes, hermuslin skirts, her light barège shawl, her green bonnet, seemed toslant away before the eyes of the two women who were watching her. 

The Pembroke woman leaned close to her cousin's ear, and whisperedwith a sharp hiss of breath. The cousin started and colored red allover her matronly face and neck. She stared with a furtive shamed airat poor Rebecca hastening into her house. The door closed after herwith a quick slam. 

It was always to Rebecca, years beyond her transgression, admittedostensibly to her old standing in the village, as if an odor ofdisgrace and isolation still clung to her, shaken out from her everymotion from the very folds of her garments. It came in her ownnostrils wherever she went, like a miserable emanation of her ownpersonality. She always shrank back lest others noticed it, and shealways would. She particularly shunned strangers. The sight of astrange woman clothed about with utter respectability and strictestvirtue intimidated her beyond her power of self-control, for shealways wondered if she had been told about her, and realized that, ifshe had, her old disgrace had assumed in this new mind a hideousfreshness. 

After the door had slammed behind Rebecca the two women drove home, and the guest was presently feasted on company-fare for supper, andall these strange tragedies and histories to which she had listenedhad less of a savor in her memory, than the fine green tea and thesweet cake on her tongue. The hostess, too, did not have them in mindany longer; she pressed the plum-cake and hot biscuits and honey onher cousin, in lieu of gossip, for entertainment. The stories wereold to her, except as she found a new listener to them, and they hadnever had any vital interest for her. They had simply made herimagination twang pleasantly, and now they could hardly stir the oldvibrations. 

It seemed sometimes as if their hard story must finally grow old, andlose its bitter savor to Charlotte and Barney themselves. SometimesCharlotte's mother looked at her inquiringly and said to herself, "Idon't believe she ever thinks about it now. " She told Cephas so, andthe old man nodded. "She's a fool if she does, " he returned, gruffly. 

Cephas had never told anybody how he had gone once to Barney Thayer'sdoor, and there stood long and delivered himself of a strangeharangue, wherein the penitence and desire for peace had been thinlyveiled by a half-wild and eccentric philosophy; but the gist of whichhad been the humble craving for pardon of an old man, and hisbeseeching that his daughter's lover, separated from her by his ownfault, should forget it and come back to her. 

"I haven't got anything to say about it, " Barney had replied, and theold man had seemed to experience a sudden shock and rebound, as fromthe unexpected face of a rock in his path. 

However, he still hoped that Barney would relent and come. The nextSunday evening he had himself laid the parlor fire all ready forlighting, and hinted that Charlotte should change her dress. Whennobody came he looked more crestfallen than his daughter; shesuspected, although he never knew it. 

Charlotte had never learned any trade, but she had a reputation forgreat natural skill with her needle. Gradually, as she grew older, she settled into the patient single-woman position as assister atfeasts, instead of participator. When a village girl of a youngergeneration than herself was to be married, she was in great demandfor the preparation of the bridal outfit and the finest needle-work. She would go day after day to the house of the bride-elect, and sewfrom early morning until late night upon the elaborate quilts, thedainty linen, and the fine new wedding-gowns. 

She bore herself always with a steady cheerfulness; nobody dreamedthat this preparing others for the happiness which she herself hadlost was any trial to her. Nobody dreamed that every stitch which sheset in wedding-garments took painfully in a piece of her own heart, and that not from envy. Her faithful needle, as she sewed, seemed tokeep her old wounds open like a harrow, but she never shrank. She sawthe sweet, foolish smiles and blushes of happy girls whose very witswere half astray under the dazzle of love; she felt them half trembleunder her hands as she fitted the bridal-gowns to their whiteshoulders, as if under the touch of their lovers. 

They walked before her and met her like doppelgängers, wearing theself-same old joy of her own face, but she looked at themunswervingly. It is harder to look at the likeness of one's joy thanat one's old sorrow, for the one was dearer. If Charlotte's taskwhereby she earned her few shillings had been the consoling andstrengthening of poor forsaken, jilted girls, instead of the arrayingof brides, it would have been a happier and an easier one. 

But she sat sewing fine, even stitches by the light of the eveningcandle, hearing the soft murmur of voices from the best rooms, wherethe fond couples sat, smiling like a soldier over her work. Shepinned on bridal veils and flowers, and nobody knew that her own faceinstead of the bride's seemed to smile mockingly at her through theveil. 

She was much happier, although she would have sternly denied it toherself, when she was watching with the sick and putting herwonderful needle-work into shrouds, for it was in request for thatalso. 

Except for an increase in staidness and dignity, and a certaindecorous change in her garments, Charlotte Barnard did not seem togrow old at all. Her girlish bloom never faded under her soberbonnet, although ten years had gone by since her own marriage hadbeen broken off. 

Barney used to watch furtively Charlotte going past. He knew quitewell when she was helping such and such a girl get ready to bemarried. He saw her going home, a swift shadowy figure, after dark, with her few poor shillings in her pocket. That she should go out towork filled him with a fierce resentment. With a childish andmasculine disregard for all except bare actualities, he could not seewhy she need to, why she could not let him help her. He knew thatCephas Barnard's income was very meagre, that Charlotte needed herlittle earnings for the barest necessaries; but why could she not lethim give them to her?

Barney was laying up money. He had made his will, whereby he lefteverything to Charlotte, and to her children after her if shemarried. He worked very hard. In summer he tilled his great farm, inwinter he cut wood. 

The winter of the tenth year after his quarrel with Charlotte was avery severe one--full of snow-storms and fierce winds, and bitterlycold. All winter long the swamps were frozen up, and men could getinto them to cut wood. Barney went day after day and cut the wood ina great swamp a mile behind his house. He stood from morning untilnight hewing down the trees, which had gotten their lusty growth fromthe graves of their own kind. Their roots were sunken deep among andtwined about the very bones of their fathers which helped make up therich frozen soil of the great swamp. The crusty snow was three feetdeep; the tall blackberry vines were hooped with snow, set fast ateither end like snares: it was hard work making one's way throughthem. The snow was over the heads of those dried weeds which did notblow away in the autumn, but stayed on their stalks with thatpersistency of life that outlives death; but all the sturdy bushes, which were almost trees, the swamp-pinks and the wild-roses, waxedgigantic, lost their own outlines, and stretched out farther undertheir loads of snow. 

Barney hewed wood in the midst of this white tangle of trees andbushes and vines, which were like a wild, dumb multitude ofdeath-things pressing ever against him, trying to crowd him away. When he hit them as he passed, they swung back in his face with asemblance of life. If a squirrel chattered and leaped between somewhite boughs, he started as if some dead thing had come to life, forit seemed like the voice and motion of death rather than of life. 

Half a mile away at the right other wood-cutters were at work. Whenthe wind was the right way he could now and then hear the strokes oftheir axes and a shout. Often as he worked alone, swinging his axesteadily with his breath in a white cloud before his face, he amusedhimself miserably--as one might with a bitter sweetmeat--with his olddreams. 

He had no dreams in the present; they all belonged to the past, andhe dreamed them over as one sings over old songs. Sometimes it seemedquite possible that they still belonged to his life, and might stillcome true. 

Then he would hear a hoarse shout through the still air from theother side of the swamp, and he would know suddenly that Charlottewould never wait in his home yonder, while he worked, and welcome himhome at night. 

The other wood-cutters had families. They had to pass his lot ontheir way out to the open road. Barney would either retreat fartheramong the snowy thickets, or else work with such fury that he couldseem not to see them as they filed past. 

Often he did not go home at noon, and ate nothing from morn untilnight. He cut wood many days that winter when the other men thoughtthe weather too severe and sat huddled over their fires in theirhomes, shoving their chairs this and that way at their wives'commands, or else formed chewing and gossiping rings within theglowing radius of the red-hot store stove. 

"See Barney Thayer goin' cross lots with his axe as I come by, " onesaid to another, rolling the tobacco well back into his grizzledcheek. 

"Works as if he was possessed, " was the reply, in ahalf-inarticulate, gruff murmur. 

"Well, he can if he wants to, " said still another. "I ain't goin' towork out-doors in any such weather as this for nobody, not if I knowit, an' I've got a wife an' eight children, an' he ain't got nobody. "And the man cast defiant eyes at the great store-windows, dim withthick blue sheaves of frost. 

On a day like that Barney seemed to be hewing asunder not only thesturdy fibres of oak and hemlock, but the terrible sinews of frostand winter, and many a tree seemed to rear itself over himthreatening stiffly like an old man of death. Only by fierce contest, as it were, could he keep himself alive, but he had a certain delightin working in the swamp during those awful arctic days. The sensethat he could still fight and conquer something, were it only thesimple destructive force of nature, aroused in him new self-respect. 

Through snow-storms Barney plunged forth to the swamp, and worked allday in the thick white slant of the storm, with the snow heapingitself upon his bowed shoulders. 

People prophesied that he would kill himself; but he kept on dayafter day, and had not even a cold until February. Then there came asouth rain and a thaw, and Barney went to the swamp and worked twodays knee-deep in melting snow. Then there was a morning when heawoke as if on a bed of sharp knives, and lay alone all day and allthat night, and all the next day and that night, not being able tostir without making the knives cut into his vitals. 

Barney lay there all that time, and his soul became fairly bound intopassiveness with awful fetters of fiery bone and muscle; sometimes hegroaned, but nobody heard him. The last night he felt as if his wholephysical nature was knitting about him and stifling him with awfulcoils of pain. The tears rolled over his cheeks. He prayed withhoarse gasps, and he could not tell if anybody heard him. A dim lightfrom a window in the Barnard house on the hill lay into the kitchenopposite his bedroom door. He thought of Charlotte, as if he had beena child and she his mother. The maternal and protecting element inher love was all that appealed to him then, and all that he missed orwanted. "Charlotte, Charlotte, " he mumbled to himself with hisparched, quivering lips. 

At noon the next day Cephas Barnard came home from the store; he hadbeen down to buy some molasses. When he entered his kitchen he setthe jug down on the table with a hard clap, then stood still in hiswet boots. 

Sarah and Charlotte were getting dinner, both standing over thestove. Sarah glanced at Cephas furtively, then at Charlotte; Cephasnever stirred. A pool of water collected around his boots, his browsbent moodily under his cap. 

"Why don't you set down, Cephas, an' take off your boots?" Sarahventured at length, timidly. 

"Folks are fools, " grunted Cephas. 

"I dunno what you mean, Cephas. "

Cephas got the boot-jack out of the corner, sat down, and beganjerking off the wet boots with sympathetic screws of his face. 

Sarah stood with a wooden spoon uplifted, eying him anxiously. Charlotte went into the pantry. 

"There 'ain't anythin' happened, has there, Cephas?" said Sarah, presently. 

Cephas pulled off the second boot, and sat holding his blue yarnstocking-feet well up from the wet floor. "There ain't no need ofhavin' the rheumatiz, accordin' to my way of thinkin', " said he. 

"Who's got the rheumatiz, Cephas?"

"If folks lived right they wouldn't have it. "

"You 'ain't got it, have you, Cephas?"

"I 'ain't never had a tech of it in my life except once, an' then'twas due to my not drinkin' enough. "

"Not drinkin' enough?"

"Yes, I didn't drink enough water. Folks with rheumatiz had ought todrink all the water they can swaller. They had ought to drink more'nthey eat. "

"I dunno what you mean, Cephas. "

"It stands to reason. I've worked it all out in my mind. Rheumatizcomes on in wet weather, because there's too much water an' damp'round. Now, if there's too much water outside, you can kind of evenit up by takin' more water inside. The reason for any sicknessis--the balance ain't right. The weight gets shifted, an' folks beginto topple, then they're sick. If it goes clean over, they die. Thebalance has got to be kept even if you want to be well. When theswamps are fillin' up with water, an' there's too much moisture inthe outside air, an' too much pressure of it on your bones an'joints, if you swallow enough water inside it keeps things even. IfBarney Thayer had drunk a gallon of water a day, he might have workedin the wet swamp till doomsday an' he wouldn't have got therheumatiz. "

"Has Barney Thayer got the rheumatiz, Cephas?"

Charlotte's pale face appeared in the pantry door. 

"Yes, he has got it bad. 'Ain't stirred out of his bed since nightbefore last; been all alone; nobody knew it till William Berry wentin this forenoon. Guess he'd died there if he'd been left muchlonger. "

"Who's with him now?" asked Charlotte, in a quick, strained voice. 

"The Ray boy is sittin' with him, whilst William is gone to the NorthVillage to see if he can get somebody to come. There's a widow womanover there that goes out nussin', Silas said, an' they hope they canget her. The doctor says he's got to have somebody. "

"Rebecca can't do anything, of course, " said Sarah, meditatively; "he'ain't got any of his own folks to come, poor feller. "

Charlotte crossed the kitchen floor with a resolute air. 

"What are you goin' to do, Charlotte?" her mother asked in atrembling voice. 

Charlotte turned around and faced her father and mother. "I shouldn'tthink you'd ask me, " said she. 

"You ain't--goin'--over--?"

"Of course I am going over there. Do you suppose I am going to lethim lie there and suffer all alone, with nobody to take care of him?"

"There's--the woman--comin'. "

"She can't come. I know who the woman is. They tried to get her whenSquire Payne's sister died last week. Aunt Sylvy told me about it. She was engaged 'way ahead. "

"Oh, Charlotte! I'm afraid you hadn't ought to go, " her mother said, half crying. 

"I've got to go, mother, " Charlotte said, quietly. She opened thedoor. 

"You come back here!" Cephas called after her in a great voice. 

Charlotte turned around. "I am going, father, " said she. 

"You ain't goin' a step. "

"Yes, I am. "

"Oh, Charlotte! I'll go over, " sobbed her mother. 

"You haven't gone a step out-doors for a month with your own lameknee. I am the one to go, and I am going. "

"You ain't goin' a step. "

"Oh, Charlotte! I'm afraid you hadn't better, " wailed Sarah. 

Charlotte stood before them both. "Look here, father and mother, "said she. "I've never gone against your wishes in my life, but nowI'm going to. It's my duty to. I was going to marry him once. "

"You didn't marry him, " said Cephas. 

"I was willing to marry him, and that amounts to the same thing forany woman, " said Charlotte. "It is just as much my duty to go to himwhen he's sick; I am going. There's no use talking, I am going. "

"You needn't come home again, then, " said her father. 

"Oh, Cephas!" Sarah cried out. "Charlotte, don't go against yourfather's wishes! Charlotte!"

But Charlotte shut the door and hurried up-stairs to her room. Hermother followed her, trembling. Cephas sat still, dangling hisstocking-feet clear of the floor. He had an ugly look on his face. Presently he heard the two women coming down-stairs, and his wife'ssobbing, pleading voice; then he heard the parlor door shut;Charlotte had gone through the house, and out the front door. 

Sarah came in, sniffing piteously. "Oh, Cephas! don't you be hard onthe poor child; she felt as if she had got to go, " she said, chokingly. 

Cephas got up, went padding softly and cautiously in hisstocking-feet across the floor to the sink, and took a long drinkwith loud gulps out of the gourd in the water-pail. 

"I don't want to have no more talk about it; I've said my say, " saidhe, with a hard breath, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Charlotte, with a little bundle under her arm, hastened down thehill. When she reached Barney's house she went around and knocked atthe side door. As she went into the yard she could see dimly awhite-capped woman's head in a south window of the Thayer housefarther down the road, and she knew that Rebecca's nurse was watchingher. Rebecca's second baby was a week old, so she could do nothingfor her brother. 

Charlotte knocked softly and waited. She heard a loud clamping stepacross the floor inside, and a whistle. A boy opened the door andstood staring at her, half abashed, half impudently important, hismouth still puckered with the whistle. 

"Is there anybody here but you, Ezra?" asked Charlotte. 

The boy shook his head. 

"I have come to take care of Mr. Thayer now, " said Charlotte. 

She entered, and Ezra Ray stood aside, rolling his eyes after her asshe went through the kitchen. He whistled again half involuntarily, asudden jocular pipe on the brink of motion, like a bird. Charlotteturned and shook her head at him, and he stopped short. He sat downon a chair near the door, and dangled his feet irresolutely. 

Charlotte went into the bedroom where Barney lay, a rigidly twisted, groaning heap under a mass of bed-clothing, which Ezra Ray had keptover him with energy. She bent over him. "I've come to take care ofyou, Barney, " said she. His eyes, half dazed in his burning face, looked up at her with scarcely any surprise. 

[Illustration: "'I've come to take care of you'"]

Charlotte laid back some of the bedclothes whose weight was atorture, and straightened the others. She worked about the housenoiselessly and swiftly. She was skilful in the care of the sick; shehad had considerable experience. Soon everything was clean and inorder; there was a pleasant smell of steeping herbs through thehouse. Charlotte had set an old remedy of her mother's steeping overthe fire--a harmless old-wives' decoction, with which to supplementthe doctor's remedies, and give new courage to the patient's mind. 

Barney came to think that this remedy which Charlotte prepared was ofmore efficacy than any which the doctor mixed in his gallipots. Thatis, when he could think at all, and his mind and soul was able toreassert itself over his body. He had a hard illness, and after hewas out of bed he could only sit bent miserably over in aquilt-covered rocking-chair beside the fire. He could not straightenhimself up without agonizing pain. People thought that he neverwould, and he thought so himself. His grandfather, his mother'sfather, had been in a similar condition for years before his death. People called that to mind, and so did Barney. "He's goin' to be theway his grandfather Emmons was, " the men said in the store. Barneycould dimly remember that old figure bent over almost on all-fourslike a dog; its wretched, grizzled face turned towards the earth witha brooding sternness of contemplation. He wondered miserably wherehis grandfather's old cane was, when he should be strong enough inhis pain-locked muscles to leave his rocking-chair and crawl about inthe spring sunshine. It used to be in the garret of the old house. Hethought that he would ask Rebecca or William to look for it some day. He hesitated to speak about it. He half dreaded to think that thetime was coming when he would be strong enough to move about, forthen he was afraid Charlotte would leave him and go home. He had beenafraid that she would when he left his bed. He had a childishlyguilty feeling that he had perhaps stayed there a little longer thanwas necessary on that account. One Sunday the doctor had said quitedecisively to Charlotte, "It won't hurt him any to be got up a littlewhile to-morrow. It will be better for him. You can get William tocome in and help. " Charlotte had come back from the door and reportedto Barney, and he had turned his face away with a quivering sigh. 

"Why, what is the matter? Don't you want to be got up?" askedCharlotte. 

"Yes, " said Barney, miserably. 

"What is the matter?" Charlotte said, bending over him. "Don't youfeel well enough?"

Barney gave her a pitiful, shamed look like a child. "You'll go, then, " he half sobbed. 

Charlotte turned away quickly. "I shall not go as long as you needme, Barney, " she said, with a patient dignity. 

Barney did not dream against what odds Charlotte had stayed with him. Her mother had come repeatedly, and expostulated with her out in theentry when she went away. 

"It ain't fit for you to stay here, as if you was married to him, when you ain't, and ain't ever goin' to be, as near as I can makeout, " she said. "William can get that woman over to the North Villagenow, or I can come, or your aunt Hannah would come for a while, tillRebecca gets well enough to see to him a little. She was sayin'yesterday that it wa'n't fit for you to stay here. "

"I'm here, and I'm going to stay here till he's better than he isnow, " said Charlotte. 

"Folks will talk. "

"I can't help it if they do. I'm doing what I think is right. "

"It ain't fit for an unmarried woman like you to be takin' care ofhim, " said her mother, and a sudden blush flamed over her old face. 

Charlotte did not blush at all. "William comes in every day, " shesaid, simply. 

"I think he could get along a while now with what William does an'what we could cook an' bring in, " pleaded her mother. "I'd come overevery day an' set a while; I'd jest as lieves as not. If you'd onlycome home, Charlotte. Your father didn't mean anythin' when he saidyou shouldn't. He asked me jest this mornin' when you was comin'. "

"I ain't coming till he's well enough so he don't need me, " saidCharlotte. "There's no use talking, mother. I must go back now; he'llwonder what we're talking about;" and she shut the door gently uponher mother, still talking. 

Her aunt Hannah came, and her aunt Sylvia, quaking with gentle fears. She even had to listen to remonstrances from William Berry, honestlygrateful as he was for her care of his brother-in-law. 

"I ain't quite sure that it's right for you to stay here, Charlotte, "he said, looking away from her uncomfortably. "Rebecca says--'Hadn'tyou better let me go for that woman again?'"

"I think I had better stay for the present, " Charlotte replied. 

"Of course--I know you do better for him--than anybody else could, but--"

"How is Rebecca?" asked Charlotte. 

"She is getting along pretty well, but it's slow. She's kind ofworried about you, you know. She's had considerable herself to bear. It's hard to have folks--" William stopped short, his face burning. 

"I am not afraid, if I know I am doing what is right, " saidCharlotte. "You tell Rebecca I am coming in to see her as soon as Ican get a chance. "

One contingency had never occurred to Barney in his helpless clingingto Charlotte. He had never once dreamed that people might talkdisparagingly about her in consequence. He had, partly from hisisolated life, partly from natural bent, a curious innocence andignorance in his conception of human estimates of conduct. He had notthe same vantage-points with many other people, and indeed in manycases seemed to hold the identical ones which he had chosen when achild and first observed anything. 

If now and then he overheard a word of expostulation, he neverinterpreted it rightly. He thought that people considered it wrongfor Charlotte to do so much for him, and weary herself, when he hadtreated her so badly. And he agreed with them. 

He thought that he should never stand upright again. He went alwaysbefore his own mental vision bent over like his grandfather, his faceinclined ever downward towards his miserable future. 

Still, as he sat after William had gotten him up in the morning, bowed over pitifully in his chair, there was at times a strange lookin his eyes as he watched Charlotte moving about, which seemedsomehow to give the lie to his bent back. Often Charlotte would startas she met this look, and think involuntarily that he was quitestraight; then she would come to her old vision with a shock, and seehim sitting there as he was. 

At last there came a day when the minister and one of the deacons ofthe church called and asked to see Charlotte privately. Barney lookedat them, startled and quite white. They sat with him quite a longwhile, when, after many coercive glances between the deacon and theminister, the latter had finally arisen and made the request, in atrembling, embarrassed voice. 

Charlotte led them at once into the unfinished front parlor, with itsboarded-up windows. Barney heard her open the front door to give themlight and air. He sat still and waited, breathing hard. A terribledread and curiosity came over him. It seemed as if his souloverreached his body into that other room. Without overhearing aword, suddenly a knowledge quite foreign to his own imaginationseemed to come to him. 

Presently he heard the front door shut, then Charlotte came in alone. She was very pale, but she had a sweet, exalted look as her eyes metBarney's. 

"Have they gone?" he asked, hoarsely. 

Charlotte nodded. 

"What--did they want?"

"Never mind, " said Charlotte. 

"I want to know. "

"It is nothing for you to worry about. "

"I know, " said Barney. 

"You didn't hear anything?" Charlotte cried out in a startled voice. 

"No, I didn't hear, but I know. The church--don't--think you oughtto--stay here. They are--going to--take it--up. I never--thought ofthat, Charlotte. I never thought of that. "

"Don't you worry anything about it. " Charlotte had never touched him, except to minister to his illness, since she had been there. Now shewent close, and smoothed his hair with her tender hands. "Don't youworry, " she said again. 

Barney looked up in her face. "Charlotte. "

"What is it?"

"I--want you--to go--home. "

Charlotte started. "I shall not go home as long as you need me, " shesaid. "You need not think I mind what they say. "

"I--want you to go home. "

"Barney!"

"I mean what--I say. I--want you to go--now. "

"Not now?"

"Yes, now. "

Charlotte drew back; her lips wore a white line. She went out intothe front south room, where she had slept. She did not come back. Barney listened until he heard the front door shut after her. Then hewaited fifteen minutes, with his eyes upon the clock. Then he got upout of his chair. He moved his body as if it were some piece ofmachinery outside himself, as if his will were full of dominantmuscles. He got his hat off the peg, where it had hung for weeks; hewent out of the house and out of the yard. 

His sister Rebecca was moving feebly up the road with her little babyin her arms. She was taking her first walk out in the springsunshine. The nurse had gone away the week before. Her face was clearand pale. All her sweet color was gone, but her eyes were radiant, and she held up her head in the old way. This new love was liftingher above her old memories. 

She stared wonderingly over the baby's little downy head at herbrother. "It can't be Barney, " she said out loud to herself. Shestood still in the road, staring after him with parted lips. The babywailed softly, and she hushed it mechanically, her great, happy, startled eyes fixed upon her brother. 

Barnabas went on up the hill to Charlotte Barnard's. The spring wasadvancing. All the trees were full of that green nebula of life whichcomes before the blossom. Little wings, bearing birds and songs, cutthe air. A bluebird shone on a glistening fence-rail, like a jewel ona turned hand. Over across the fields red oxen were moving downplough-ridges, the green grass was springing, the air was full ofthat strange fragrance which is more than fragrance, since it strikesthe thoughts, which comes in the spring alone, being the very odorthrown off by the growing motion of life and the resurrection. 

Barney Thayer went slowly up the hill with a curious gait and strangegestures, as if his own angel were wrestling with himself, castinghim off with strong motions as of wings. 

He fought, as it were, his way step by step. He reached the top ofthe hill, and went into the yard of the Barnard house. Sarah Barnardsaw him coming, and shrieked out, "There's Barney, there's BarneyThayer comin'! He's walkin', he's walkin' straight as anybody!"

When Barney reached the door, they all stood there--Cephas and Sarahand Charlotte. Barney stood before them all with that noble bearingwhich comes from humility itself when it has fairly triumphed. 

Charlotte came forward, and he put his arm around her. Then he lookedover her head at her father. "I've come back, " said he. 

"Come in, " said Cephas. 

And Barney entered the house with his old sweetheart and his oldself. 

THE END