A White Heron: And Other Stories

Google

This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project

to make the world's books discoverable online.

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books

are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover.

Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the

publisher to a library and finally to you.

Usage guidelines

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.
We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for
personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it.

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe.

About Google Book Search

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web

at |http: //books .google .com/I

Sooiut iip fRJbifi Sfetoett

A WHITE HERON, and Other Stories. x6mo, ^1.25.
A MARSH ISLAND. A Novel. z6mo, ^z.25.
A COUNTRY DOCTOR. A Novel. z6mo, I1.35.
THE MATE OF THE DAYLIGHT, and Fribnos

Ashore. x8mo, gilt top, $1.25*
COUNTRY BY-WAYS. i8mo, gilt top, ^1.25.
DEEPHAVEN. xSmo, gilt top, ^z.35.
OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. i8mo, gilt top, ^z.35.
PLAY DAYS. Stories for Children. Square z6mo,

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.

Publishers^

Boston and New York.

J

(bV

A WHITE HERON

AND OTHER STORIES

SARAH ORNE JEWETT

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY

Copyright, 1886,
Bt SARAH ORNE JEWETT.

All rights reserved.

T7u Riverside PreUf Cambridge :
Electrotyped and Printed by H. 0. Houghton & Oo.

To
MY DEAR SISTEB MART.

One of these stories, ** Fanner Finch," is reprinted
from ** Harper's Magazine ; " two are new, and the
rest were puhlished in the << Atlantic Monthly " and
other periodicals.

CONTENTS.

♦—

PAOB

A Whitb: Hbrok j

Thb Gray Man

Fabmsb Ftnoh .

^^>1absh) Rosemabt .

The DuiiHAM Ladies

A BuBunsss Man .

Mabt and Mabtha .

The Nbws fboh Pbtebsham

The Two Bbownb .

23
36
86
124
151
180
198
211

«(«jO

A WHITE HEEOS".

I.

The woods were already filled with shadows
one June evening, just before eight o'clock,
though a bright sunset stiU glimmered faintly
among the trunks of the trees. A little girl
was driving home her cow, a plodding, dila-
tory, provoking creature in her behavior, but
a valued companion for all that. They were
going away from whatever Kght there was, and
striking deep into the woods, but their feet
were familiar with the path, and it was no
matter whether their eyes could see it or not.

There was hardly a night the summer
through^ when the old cow could be found
waiting at the pasture bars ; on the contrary, it
was her greatest pleasure to hide herself away
among the huckleberry bushes, and though
she wore a loud bell she had made the discov-
ery that if one stood perfectly still it would
not ring. So Sylvia had to hunt for her until

Li

2 A WHITE HERON,

she found her, and call Co' ! Co' ! with never
an answering Moo, nntU her chUdish patience
was quite spent. If the creature had not given
good milk and plenty of it, the case would
have seemed very different to her owners.
Besides, Sylvia had all the time there was,
and very little use to make of it. Sometimes
in pleasant weather it was a consolation to
look upon the cow's pranks as an intelligent
attempt to play hide and seek, and as the child
had no playmates she lent herself to this
amusement with a good deal of zest. Though
this chase had been so long that the wary ani-
mal herself had given an unusual signal of her
whereabouts, Sylvia had only laughed when
she came upon Mistress MooUy at the swamp-
side, and iirged her affectionately homeward
with a twig of birch leaves. The old cow was
not inclined to wander farther, she even turned
in the right direction for once as they left the
pasture, and stepped along the road at a good
pace. She was quite ready to be milked now,
and seldom stopped to browse. Sylvia won-
dered what her grandmother would say because
they were so late. It was a great while since
she had left home at half -past five o'clock, but

II

A WHITE HERON, 8

evecybody knew the difficulty of making this
errand a short one. Mrs. Tilley had chased
the horned torment too many summer even-
ings herself to blame any one else for linger-
ing, and was only thankful as she waited that
she had Sylvia, nowadays, to give such valua-
ble assistance. The good woman suspected
that Sylvia loitered occasionally on her own
account ; there never was such a child for
straying about out-of-doors since the world
was made I Everybody said tjiat it was a
good change for a little maid who had tried to
grow for eight years in a crowded manufactur-
ing town, but, as for Sylvia herself, it seemed
as if she never had been alive at all before she
came to live at the farm. She thought often
with wistful compassion of a wretched gera-
nium that belonged to a town neighbor.

" ' Afraid of folks,' " old Mrs. Tilley said to
herself, with a smile, after she had made the
unlikely choice of Sylvia from her daughter's
houseful of children, and was returning to the
farm. " * Afraid of folks,' they said I I guess
she won't be troubled no great with 'em up to
the old place ! " When they reached the door
of the lonely house and stopped to unlock it,

4 A WHITE HERON.

and the cat came to purr loudly, and rub
against them, a deserted pussy, indeed, but
fat with young robins, Sylvia whispered that
this was a beautiful place to live in, and she
never should wish to go home.

The companions followed the shady woodr
road, the cow taking slow steps and the child
very fast ones. The cow stopped long at the
brook to drink, as if the pasture were not half
a swamp, and Sylvia stood still and waited,
letting her bare feet cool themselves in the
shoal water, while the great twilight moths
struck softly against her. She waded on
through the bi^ok as the cow moved away, and
listened to the thrushes with a heart that beat
fast with pleasure. There was a stirring in
the great boughs overhead. They were full of
little birds and beasts that seemed to be wide
awake, and going about their world, or else
saying good-night to each other in sleepy twit-
ters. Sylvia herself felt sleepy as she walked
along. However, it was not much farther to the
house, and the air was soft and sweet. She was
not often in the woods so late as this, and it
made her feel as if she were a part of the gray

A WHITE HERON. 5

shadows and the moving leaves. She was just
thinking how long it seemed since she first
came to the farm a year ago, and wondering if
everything went on in the noisy town just the
same as when she was there ; the thought of
the great red-faced boy who used to chase and
frighten her made her hurry along the path
to escape from the shadow of the trees.

Suddenly this little woods-girl is horror-
stricken to hear a clear whistle not very far
away. Not a birdVwhistle, which would have
a sort of friendliness, but a boy's whistle, de-
termined, and somewhat aggressive. Sylvia
left the cow to whatever sad fate might await
her, and stepped discreetly aside into the
brushes, but she was just too late. The enemy
had discovered her, and called out in a very
cheerful and persuasive tone, ^^ Halloa, little
girl, how far is it to the road ? " and trem-
bling Sylvia answered almost inaudibly, ^'A
good ways."

She did not dare to look boldly at the tall
young man, who carried a gun over his shoul-
der, but she came out of her bush and again
followed the cow, while he walked alongside.

^ I have been hunting for some birds," the

6 A WHITE HERON.

stranger said kindly, "and I have lost my
way, and need a friend very much. Don't be
afraid," he added gallantly. " Speak up and
tell me what your name is, and whether you
think I can spend the night at your house, and
go out gunning early in the morning."

Sylvia was more alarmed than before.
Would not her grandmother consider her much
to blame ? But who could have foreseen such
an accident as this ? It did not seem to be her
fault, and she hung her head as if the stem
of it were broken, but managed to answer
" Sylvy," with much effort when her compan-
ion again asked her name.

Mrs. Tilley was standing in the doorway
when the trio came into view. The cow gave
a loud moo by way of explanation.

" Yes, you 'd better speak up for yourself,
you old trial! Where 'd she tucked herself
away this time, Sylvy?" But Sylvia kept
an awed silence ; she knew by instinct that
her grandmother did not comprehend the grav-
ity of the situation. She must be mistaking
the stranger for one of the farmer-lads of the
region.

The young man stood his gun beside the

i

A WHITE HERON. 7

doori and dropped a lumpy game-bag beside
it; then he bade Mrs. Tilley good -evening,
and repeated his wayfarer's story, and asked
if he could have a night's lodging.

" Put me anywhere you like," he said. " I
must be ofiE early in the morning, before day ;
but I am very hungry, indeed. You can give
me some milk at any rate, that 's plain."

'' Dear sakes, yes," responded the hostess,
whose long slumbering hospitality seemed to
be easily awakened. ^^ You might fare better
li you went out to the main road a mile or so,
but you 're welcome to what we 've got. I '11
milk right off, and you make yourself at home.
You can sleep on husks or feathers," she prof-
fered graciously. '^ I raised them all myself.
There 's good pasturing for geese just below
here towards the ma'sh. Now step round and
set a plate for the gentleman, Sylvy I " And
Sylvia promptly stepped. She was glad to have
something to do, and she was hungry herself.

It was a surprise to find so clean and com-
fortable a little dwelling in this New England
wilderness. The young man had known the
horrors of its most primitive housekeeping, and
the dreary squalor of that level of society

8 A WHITE HERON.

which does not rebel at the companionship of
hens. This was the best thrift of an old-fash-
ioned farmstead, though on such a small scale
that it seemed like a hermitajge. He listened
eagerly to the old woman's quaint talk, he
watched Sylvia's pale face and shinins: eray
eyes with ever ^wing entiiusiasm, ,^d in-
sisted that this was the best supper he had
eaten for a month, and afterward the new-
made friends sat down in the door-way to-
gether while the moon came up.

Soon it would be berry-time, and Sylvia was
a great help at picking. The cow was a good
milker, though a plaguy thing to keep track
of, the hostess gossiped frankly, adding pres-
ently that she had buried four children, so
Sylvia's mother, and a son (who might be
dead) in California were all the children she
had left. '^ Dan, my boy, was a great hand to
go gunning," she explained sadly. " I never
wanted for pa'tridges or gray squer'ls while
he was to home. He 's been a great wand'rer,
I expect, and he 's no hand to write letters.
There, I don't blame him, I 'd ha' seen the
world myself if it had been so I could."

" Sylvy takes after him," the grandmother

A WHITE HERON. 9

continued affectionately, after a minute's pause.
" Hiere ain't a foot o' ground she don't know
her way over, and the wild creaturs counts her
one o' themselves. Squer'ls she '11 tame to
come an' feed right out o' her hands, and all
sorts o' birds. Last winter she got the jay-
birds to bangeing here, and I believe she 'd 'a'
scanted herself of her own meals to have
plenty to throw out amongst 'em, if I had n't
kep' watch. Anything but crows, I tell her,
I 'm willin' to help support — though Dan he
had a tamed one o' them that did seem to have
reason same as folks. It was round here a good
spell after he went away. Dan an' his father
they did n't hitch, — but he never held up his
head ag'in after Dan had dared him an' gone
off."

The guest did not notice this hint of family
sorrows in his eager interest in something else.

" So Sylvy knows all about birds, does she ? "
he exclaimed, as he looked round at the little
girl who sat, very demure but increasingly
sleepy, in the moonlight. ^'I am making a
collection of birds myself. I have been at it
ever since I was a boy." (Mrs. Tilley smiled.)
** There are two or three very rare ones I have

j

10 A WHITE HERON,

been hunting for these five years. I mean to
get them on my own ground if they can be
found."

" Do you cage *em up ? " asked Mrs. Tilley
doubtfully, in response to this enthusiastic an-
nouncement.

" Oh no, they *re stuffed and preserved,
dozens and dozens of them," said the ornithol-
ogist, " and I have shot or snared every one
myself. I caught a glimpse of a white heron
a few miles from here on Saturday, and I have
followed it in this direction. They have never
been found in this district at all. The little
white heron, it is," and he turned again to
look at Sylvia with the hope of discovering that
the rare bird was one of her acquaintances.

But Sylvia was watching a hop-toad in the
narrow footpath.

*' You would know the heron if you saw it,"
the stranger continued eagerly. *' A queer tall
white bird with soft feathers and long thin
legs. And it would have a nest perhaps in
the top of a high tree, made of sticks, some-
thing like a hawk's nest."

Sylvia's heart gave a wild beat ; she knew
that strange white bird, and had once stolen

A WHITE HERON. 11

softly near where it stood in some bright green
swamp grass, away over at the other side of
the woods. There was an open phice where
the sunshine always seemed strangely yellow
and hot, where tall, nodding rashes grew, and
her grandmother had warned her that she
might sink in the soft black mud underneath
and never be heard of more. Not far beyond
were the salt marshes just this side the sea
itself, which Sylvia wondered and dreamed
much about, but never had seen, whose great
voice could sometimes be heard above the noise
of the woods on stormy nights.

'' I can't think of anything I should like so
much as to find that heron's nest," the hand-
some stranger was saying. '^ I would give ten
dollars to anybody who could show it to me,"
he added desperately, ^^ and I mean to spend
my whole vacation hunting for it if need be.
Perhaps it was only migrating, or had been
chased out of its own region by some bird of
prey."

Mrs. Tilley gave amazed attention to all this,
but Sylvia still watched the toad, not divining,
as she might have done at some calmer time,
that the creature wished to get to its hole un-

1.1

12 A WHITE HERON.

der the door-step, aud was much hindered by
the unusual spectators at that hour of the even-
ing. No amount of thought, that night, could
decide how many wished-for treasures the ten
dollars, so lightly spoken of, would buy.

The next day the young sportsman hovered
about the woods, and Sylvia kept him company,
having lost her first fear of the friendly lad,
who proved to be most kind and sympathetic.
He told her many things about the birds and
what they knew and where they lived and what
they did with themselves. And he gave her a
jack-knife, which she thought as great a treas-
ure as if she were a desert-islander. All day
long he did not once make her troubled or
afraid except when he brought down some un-
suspecting singing creature from its bough.
Sylvia would have liked him vastly better with-
out his gun ; she could not understand why
he killed the very birds he seemed to like so
much. But as the day waned, Sylvia still
watched the young man with loving admiration.
She had never seen anybody so charming and
delightful ; the woman's heart, asleep in the
child, was vaguely thrilled by a dream of love.

A WHITE HERON. 13

Some premonition of that great power stirred
and swayed these young creatures who trav-
ersed jthe solemn woodlands with soft-footed
silent care. They stopped to listen to a bird's
song; they pressed forward again eagerly,
parting the branches — speaking to each other
rarely and in whispers ; the young man going
first and Sylvia following, fascinated, a few
steps behind, with her gray eyes dark with ex-
citement.

She grieved because the longed-for white
heron was elusive, but she did not lead the
guest, she only followed, and there was no
such thing as speaking first. The sound of
her own unquestioned voice would have terri-
fied her — it was hard enough to answer yes
or no when there was need of that. At last
evening began to fall, and they drove the cow
home together, and Sylvia smiled with pleasure
when they came to the place where she heard
the whistle and was afraid only the night
before.

14 A WHITE HERON.

n.

Half a mile from home, at the farther edge
of the woods, where the land was highest, a
great pine-tree stood, the last of its generation.
Whether it was left for a boundary mark, or
for what reason, no one could say ; the wood-
choppers who had felled its mates were dead
and gone long ago, and a whole forest of
sturdy trees, pines and oaks and maples, had
grown again. But the stately head of this, old
pine towered above them all and made a land-
mark for sea and shore miles and miles away.
Sylvia knew it well. She had always believed
that whoever climbed to the top of it could see
the ocean ; and the little girl had often laid her
hand on the great rough trunk and looked up
wistfully at those dark boughs that the wind
always stirred, no matter how hot and still the
air might be below. Now she thought of the
tree with a new excitement, for why, if one
climbed it at break of day could not one see all
the world, and easily discover from whence the
white heron flew, and mark the place, and find
the hidden nest ?

i

A WHITE HERON. 16

What a spirit of adventure^ what wild am-
bition! What fancied triumph and delight
and glory for the later morning when she
cotdd make known the secret ! It was almost
too real and too great for the childish heart
to bear.

All night the door of the little house stood
open and the whippoorwills came and idang
npon the very step. The young sportsman
and his old hostess were sound asleep, but
Sylvia's great design kept her broad awake
and watching. She forgot to think of sleep.
The short summer night seemed as long as the
winter darkness, and at last when the whip-
poorwills ceased, and she was afraid the morn-
ing would after all come too soon, she stole out
of the house and followed the pasture path
through the woods, hastening toward the open
ground beyond, listening with a sense of com-
fort and companionship to the drowsy twitter
of a half-awakened bird, whose perch she had .
jarred in passing. Alas, if the great wave of ■
human interest which flooded for the first time / ^
this dull little life should sweep away the satis-
factions of an existence heart to heart with
nature and the dumb life of the forest I

16 A WHITE HERON.

There was the huge tree asleep yet in the
paling moonlight, and small and silly Sylvia
began with utmost bravery to moimt to the top
of it, with tingling, eager blood coursing tiie
channels of her whole frame, with her bare
feet and fingers, that pinched and held like
bird's claws to the monstrous ladder reaching
up. Up, almost to the sky itself. First she must
mount the white oak tree that grew alongside,
where she was almost lost among the dark
branches and the green leaves heavy afid wet
with dew ; a bird fluttered off its nest, and a red
squirrel ran to and fro and scolded pettishly at
the harmless housebreaker. Sylvia felt her way
easily. She had often climbed there, and knew
that higher still one of the oak's upper branches
chafed against the pine trunk, just where its
lower boughs were set close together. There,
when she made the dangerous pass from one
tree to the other, the great enterprise would
really begin.

She crept out along the swaying oak limb
at last, and took the daring step across into
the old pine-tree. The way was harder than
she thought ; she must reach far and hold fast,
the sharp dry twigs caught and held her and

A WRITE HERON. 17

Bcratclied her like angry talons, the pitdh made
her thin little fingers clumsy and stiff as she
went ronnd and round the tree's great stem,
Iiigher and higher upward. The sparrows .and
robins in the woods below were beginning to
wake and twitter to the dawn, yet it seemed
much lighter there aloft in the pine-tree, and
the child knew she must hurry if her project
were to be of any use.

The tree seemed to lengthen itself out as she
went up, and to reach farther and farther up-
ward. It was like a great main-mast to the
voyaging earth; it must truly have been
amazed that morning through all its ponder-
ous frame as it felt this determined spark of
human spirit wending its way from higher
branch to branch. Who knows how steadily
the least twigs held themselves to advantage
this light, weak creature on her way ! The old
pine must have loved his new dependent. More
than all the hawks, and bats, and moths, and
even the sweet voiced thrushes, was the brave,
beating heart of the solitary gray-eyed child.
And the tree stood still and frowned away the
winds that June morning while the dawn grew
bright in the east.

18 A WHITE HERON

Sylvia's face was like a pale star, if one had
seen it from the ground, when the last thorny
bough was past, and she stood trembling and
tired but wholly triumphant, high in the tree-
top. Yes, there was the sea with the dawning
sun making a golden dazzle over it, and to-
ward that glorious east flew two hawks with
slow-moving pinions. How low they looked in
the air from that height when one had only
seen them before far up, and dark against the
blue sky. Tji©ii?->gTay f ea tiiers w ere as 50ft as
moth^ they seemed onlya little way from the
tree, and Sylvia felt as if she too could go
flying away among the clouds. Westward, the
woodlands and farms reached miles and miles
into the distance ; here and there were church
steeples, and white villages, truly it was a vast
and awesome world I

The birds sang louder and louder. At last
the sun came up bewilderingly bright. Sylvia
could see the white sails of ships out at sea,
and the clouds that were purple and rose-col-
ored and yellow at first began to fade away.
Where was the white heron's nest in the sea
of green branches, and was this wonderful
sight and pageant of the world the only re-

A WHITE HERON. 19

ward for having climbed to such a ^ddj
height ? Now look down again, Sylvia, where
the green marsh is set among the shining
hirches and dark hemlocks ; there where you
saw the white heron once you wiU see him
again ; look, look I a white spot of him like a
single floating feather comes up from the dead
hemlock and grows larger, and rises, and comes
close at last, and goes by the landmark pine
with steady sweep of wing and outstretched
slender neck and crested head. And wait!
wait ! do not move a foot or a finger, little
girl, do not send an arrow of light and con-
sciousness from your two eager eyes, for the
heron has perched on a pine bough not far be-
yond yours, and cries back to his mate on the
nest and plumes his feathers for the new day !
/ The child gives a long sigh a minute later
when a company of shouting cat-hirds comes
also to the tree, and vexed by their fluttering
and lawlessness the solemn heron goes away.
She knows his secret now, the wUd, Ught, slen-
der bird that floats and wavers, and goes back
like an arrow presently to his home in the
green world beneath. Then Sylvia, well satis?
fied, makes her perilous way down again, not

20 A WHITE HERON.

•

daring to look far below the branch she stands
on, ready to cry sometimes because her fingers
ache and her Isuned feet slip. Wondering over
and over again what the straager would say to
her, and what he would think when she told
him how to find his way straight to the heron's
nest*

" Sylvy, Sylvy ! " called the busy old grand-
mother again and again, but nobody answered,
and the small husk bed was empty and Sylvia
had disappeared.

The guest waked from a dream, and remem-
bering his day's pleasure hurried to dress him-
self that might it sooner begin. He was sure
from the way the shy little girl looked once or
twice yesterday that she had at least seen the
white heron, and now she must really be mad e
to tel l. Here she comes now, paler than ever,
and her worn old frock is torn and tattered,
and smeared with pine pitch. The grand-
mother and the sportsman stand in the door
together and question her, and the splendid
moment has come to speak of the dead hem-
lock-tree by the green marsh.

But Sylvia does not speak after all, though

A WHITE HERON. 21

the old grandmother fretfully rebukes her, and
the young man's kind, appealing eyes are look-
ing straight in her own. He can make them
rich with money; he has promised it, and they
are poor now. He is so well worth, making
happy, and he waits to hear the story she can
tell.

No, she must keep silence I What is it that
suddenly forbids her and lyakes her dumb?
Has she been nine years growing and now,
when the great world for the £rst time puts out
a hand to her, must she thrust it aside for a
bird's sake ? The murmur of the pine's green
branches is in her ears, she remembers how the
white heron came flying through the golden
air and how they watched the sea and the
morning together, and Sylvia cannot speak ;
she cannot tell the heron's secret and give ita^
life away.

Dear loyalty, that suffered a sharp pang
as the guest went away disappointed later
in the day, that could have served and fol-
lowed him and loved him as a dog loves !
Many a night Sylvia heard the echo of his
whistle haunting the pasture path as she came

22 A WHITE HERON.

home witib the loitering cow. She forgot even
her sorrow at tbie sharp report of his gun and
the sight of thrashes and sparrows dropping
silent to the ground, their songs hushed and
their pj^tty feathers stained and wet with
blood. Were the birds better friends than
their hunter might have been, — who can tell ?
Whatever treasures were lost to her, wood-
lands and summer-time, remember I Bring
your gifts and graces and tell your secrets to
this lonely country child I

THE GRAY MAN.

High on the southern slope of Agamentieus
there may still be seen the remnant of an old
iaxm. Frost-shaken stone walls surround a
fast-narrowing expanse of smooth turf which
the forest is overgrowing on every side. The
cellar is nearly filled up, never having been
either wide or deep, and the fruit of a few
mossy apple-trees drops ungathered to the
ground. Along one side of the forsaken gar-
den is a thicket of seedling cherry-trees to
which the shouting robins come year after year
in busy flights ; the caterpillars' nests are un-
assailed and populous in this untended hedge.
At night, perhaps, when summer twilights are
late in drawing their brown curtain of dusk
over the great rural scene, — at night an owl
may sit in the hemlocks near by and hoot and
shriek until the far echoes answer back again.
As for the few men and women who pass this
deserted spot, most will be repulsed by such

24 THE GRAY MAN,

loneliness, wiU even grow impatient with those
mistaken fellow -beings who choose to live
in solitude, away from neighbors and from
schools, — yes, even from gossip and petty
care of self or knowledge of the trivial fash-
ions of a narrow life.

Now and then one looks out from this eyrie,
across the wide-spread country, who turns to
look at the sea or toward the shining foreheads
of the mountains that guard the inland hori-
zon, who will remember the place long after-
ward. A peaceful vision will come, full of
rest and benediction into busy and troubled
hours, to those who understand why some one
came to live in this place so near the sky, so
silent, so full of sweet air and woodland fra-
grance; so beaten and buffeted by winter
storms and garlanded with summer greenery;
where the birds are nearest neighbors and a
clear spring the only wine-cellar, and trees of
the forest a choir of singers who rejoice and
sing aloud by day and night as the winds
sweep over. Under the cherry thicket or at
the edge of the woods you may find a stray-
away blossom, some half-savage, slender grand-
child of the old flower-plots, that you gather

THE GRAY MAN. 25

gladly to take away, and every year in June a
red rose blooms toward which the wild pink
roses and the pale sweet briars turn wonder-
ing faces as if a queen had shown her noble
face suddenly at a peasant's festival.

There is everywhere a token of remem-
brance, of silence and secrecy. Some stronger
nature once ruled these neglected trees and
this fallow ground. They will wait the re-
turn of their master as long as roots can creep
through mould, and the mould make way for
them. The stories of strange lives have been
whispered to the earth, their thoughts have
burned themselves into the cold rocks. As
one looks from the lower country toward the
long slope of the great hillside, this old abid-
ing-place marks the dark covering of trees like
a scar. There is nothing to hide either the
sunrise or the sunset. The low lands reach out
of sight into the west and the sea fills all the
east.

The first o^erof the farm was a seafaring
man who had through freak or fancy come
ashore and cast himself upon the bounty of
nature for support in his later years, though
tradition keeps a suspicion of buried treasure

26 THE GRAY MAN.

and of a dark history. He cleared his land
and built his house, but save the fact that he
was a Scotsman no one knew to whom he be-
longed, and when he died the state inherited
the unclaimed property. The only piece of
woodland that was worth anything was sold and
added to another farm, and the dwelling-place
was left to the sunshine and the rain, to the
birds that built their nests in the chimney or
under the eaves. Sometimes a strolling com-
pany of country boys would find themselves
near the house on a holiday afternoon, but the
more dilapidated the small structure became,
the more they believed that some uncanny ex-
istj(ence possessed the lonely place, and the path
that led toward the clearing at last became
almost impassable.

Once a number of officers and men in the em-
ploy of the Coast Survey were encamped at the
top of the mountain, and they smoothed the
rough track that led down to the spring that
bubbled from under a sheltering edge. One
day a laughing fellow, not content with peering
in at the small windows of the house, put his
shoulder against the rain-blackened door and
broke the simple fastening. He hardly knew

TBE GRAY MAN, 27

that he was afraid as he first stood within the
single spacious room, so complete a curiosity
took possession of him. The place was clean
and bare, the empty cupboard doors stood open,
and yet the sound of his companions' voices out-
side seemed far away, and an awful sense that
some unseen inhabitant followed his footsteps
made him hurry out again pale and breathless
to the fresh air and sunshine. Was this really
a dwelling-place of spirits, as had been already
hinted? The story grew more fearful, and
spread quickly like a mist of terror among the
lowland farms. For years the tale of the coast-
surveyor's adventure in the haunted house was
slowly magnified and told to strangers or to
wide-eyed children by the dim firelight. The
former owner was supposed to linger still
about his old home, and was held accountable
for deep offense in choosing for the scene of his
unsuccessful husbandry a place that escaped
the proprieties and restraints of lifd upon
lower levels. His grave was concealed by the
new growth of oaks and beeches, and many a
lad and full-grown man beside has taken to
his heels at the flicker of light from across a
swamp or under a decaying tree in that neigh-

28 THE GRAY MAN.

borhood. As the world in some respects grew
wiser, the good people near the mountain im-
derstood less and less the causes of these sim-
ple effects, and as they became familiar with
the visible world, grew more shy of the unseen
and more sensitive to unexplained foreboding.

One day a stranger was noticed in the town,
as a stranger is sure to be who goes his way
with quick, furtive steps straight through a
small village or along a country road. This
man was tall and had just passed middle age.
He was well made and vigorous, but there was
an unusual pallor in his face, a grayish look,
as if he had been startled by bad news. His
clothes were somewhat peculiar, as if they had
been made in another country, yet they suited
the chilly weather, being homespun of undyed
wools, just the color of his hair, and only a
little darker than his face or hands. Some one
observed in one brief glance as he and this
gray man met and passed each other, that his
eyes had a strange faded look ; they might,
however, flash and be coal-black in a moment
of rage. Two or three persons stepped for-
ward to watch the wayfarer as he went along

THE GRAY MAN, 29

the road with long, even strides, like one tak-
ing a journey on foot, but he quickly reached
a turn of the way and was out of sight. They
wondered who he was ; one recalled some re-
cent advertisement of an escaped criminal, and
another the appearance of a native of the town
who was supposed to be long ago lost at sea,
but one surmiser knew as little as the next.
If they had followed fast enough they might
have tracked the mysterious man straight
across the country, threading the by-ways,
the shorter paths that led across the fields
where the road was roundabout and hinder-
ing. At last he disappeared in the leafless,
trackless woods that skirted the mountain.

That night there was for the first time in
many years a twinkling light in the window of
the haunted house, high on the hill's great
shoulder ; one farmer's wife and another looked
up curiously, while they wondered what dar-
ing human being had chosen that awesome
spot of all others for his home or for even a
transient shelter. The sky was already heavy
with snow ; he might be a fugitive from jus-
tice, and the startled people looked to the fast-
ening of their doors unwontedly that night,
and waked often from a troubled sleep.

80 THE GRAY MAN,

An instinctiye curiosity and alarm possessed
the country men and women for a while, but
soon faded out and disappeared. The new-
comer was by no means a hermit ; he tried to
be friendly, and inclined toward a certain
kindliness and familiarity. He bought a com-
fortable store of winter provisions from his
new acquaintances, giving every one his price,
and spoke more at length, as time went on,
of current events, of poUtics and the weather,
and the town's own news and concerns. There
was a sober cheerfulness about the man, as if
he had known trouble and perplexity, and was
fulfilling some mission that gave him pain;
yet he saw some gain and reward beyond ;
therefore he could be contented with his life
and such strange surroundings. He was more
and more eager to form brotherly relations
with the farmers near his home. There was al-
most a pleading look in his kind face at times,
as if he feared the later prejudice of his asso-
ciates. Surely this was no common or uned-
ucated person, for in every way he left the
stamp of his character and influence upon
men and things. His reasonable words of ad-
vice and warning are current as sterling coins

THE GRAY MAN. 31

in that region yet ; to one man he taught a
new rotation of crops, to another he gave some
prioeless cures for devastating diseases of cat-
tle. The lonely women of those remote coun-
try homes learned of him how to achieve their
household toil with less labor and drudgery,
and here and there he singled out promis-
ing children and kept watch of their growth,
giving freely a most affectionate companion-
ship, and a fair start in the journey of life.
He taught those who were guardians of such
children to recognize and further the true
directions and purposes of existence ; and the
easily warped natures grew strong and well-
established under his thoughtful care. No
wonder that some people were filled with
amazement, and thought his wisdom supernat-
ural, from so many proofs that his horizon was
wider lOian their own.

Perhaps some envious soul, or one aggrieved
by being caught in treachery or deception, was
the first to find fault with the stranger. The
prejudice against his dwelling-place, and the
superstition which had become linked to him
in consequence, may have led back to the first
suspicions attitude of the community. The

32 THE GRAY MAN.

wliisper of distrust soon started on an evil
way. If he were not a criminal, his past was
surely a hidden one, and shocking to his re-
membrance, but the true f oimdation of all dis-
like was tiie fact that the gray man who went
to and fro, living his simple, harmless life
among them, ne/ver was seen to smile. Per-
sons who remember him speak of this with a
shudder, for nothing is more evident than that
his peculiarity became at length intolerable to
those whose minds lent themselves readily to
suspicion. At first, blinded by the gentle
good f eUowship of the stranger, the change-
less expression of his face was scarcely ob-
served, but as the winter wore away he was
watched with renewed disbelief and dismay.

After the first few attempts at gayeiy no-
body tried to teU a merry story in his pres-
ence. The most conspicuous of a joker's au-
dience does a deep-rankling injustice if he sits
with unconscious, unamused face at the receipt
of raillery. What a chiUing moment when
the gray man softly opened the door of a
farmhouse kitchen, and seated himself like a
skeleton at the feast of walnuts and roasted
apples beside the glowing fire ! The children

THE GRAY MAN. 88

whom he treated so lovingly, to whom he ever
gave his best, though they were won at first
by his gentleness, when they began to prattle
and play with him would raise their innocent
eyes to his face and hush their voices and
creep away out of his sight. Once only he
was bidden to a wedding, but never afterward,
for a gloom was quickly spread through the
boisterous company ; the man who never smiled
had no place at such a festival. The wedding
euests looked over their shoulders as^ain and
!gain in strange foreboding, whUe hfwas in
the house, and were burdened with a sense of
coming woe for the newly-married pair. As
one caught sight of his, among the faces of
the rural folk, the gray man was like a som-
bre mask, and at last the bridegroom flung
open the door with a meaning gesture, and the
stranger went out like a hunted creature, into
the bitter coldness and silence of the winter
night.

Through the long days of the next summer
the outcast of the wedding, forbidden, at
length, all the once-proffered hospitality, was
hardly seen from one week's end to another's.
He cultivated his poor estate with patient

84 THE GRAY MAN.

oare, and tho successive crops of his small
garden, the fruits and berries of the wilder-
ness, were food enough. He seemed unchange-
able, and was always ready when he even
guessed at a chance to be of use. If he were
repulsed, he only turned away and went back
to his solitary home. Those persons who by
chance visited him there tell wonderful tales
of the wild birds which had been tamed to
come at his call and cluster about him, of the
orderliness and delicacy of his simple life.
The once-neglected house was covered with
vines that he had brought from the woods,
and planted about the splintering, decaying
walls. There were three or four books in
worn bindings on a shelf above tiie fire-place ;
one longs to know what volumes this mysteri-
ous exile had chosen to keep him company I

There may have been a deeper reason for
the withdrawal of friendliness ; there are vague
rumors of the gray man's possession of strange
powers. Some say that he was gifted with
amazing strength, and once when some belated
hunters found shelter at his fireside, they told
eager listeners afterward that he did not sleep
but sat by the fire reading gravely while they

THE GRAY MAN 86

slumbered uneasily on Ids own bed of boughs.
And in the dead of night an empty chair
glided silently toward him across the floor as
he softly turned. his pages in the flickering
light.

But such stories are too vague, and in that
neighborhood too common to weigh against the
true dignity and bravery of the man. At the
beginning of the war of the rebellion he seemed
strangely troubled and disturbed, and pres-
ently disappeared, leaving his house key with
a neighbor as if for a few days' absence. He
was last seen striding rapidly through the vil-
lage a few miles away, going bach along the
road by which he had come a year or two be-
fore. No, not last seen either ; for in one of
the first battles of the war, as the smoke sud-
denly lifted, a farmer's boy, reared in the
shadow of the mountain, opened his languid
pain-duUed eyes as he lay among the wounded,
and saw the gray man riding by on a tall
horse. At that moment the poor lad thought
in his faintness and fear that Death himself
rode by in the gray man's likeness ; unsmiling
Death who tries to teach and serve mankind
so that he may at the last win welcome as a
faithful friend I

FARMER FINCH.

It was as bleak and sad a day as one could
well imagine. The time of ye^ was early in
December, and the daylight was already fad-
ing, though it was only a little past the middle
of the afternoon. John Finch was driving to-
ward his farm, which he had left early in the
morning to go to town ; but to judge from his
face one might have been sure that his busi-
ness had not been successful. He looked
pinched and discouraged with something besides
the cold, and he hardly noticed the faithful
red horse which carefully made its way over
the frozen ruts of the familiar road.

There had lately been a few days of mild
weather, when the ground had had time to
thaw, but with a sudden blast of cold this deep
mud had become like iron, rough aud ragged,
and jarring the people and horses cruelly who
tried to travel over it. The road lay through
the bleak coimtry side of the salt-marshes

FARMER FINCH. 87

which stretclied themselves away toward the
sea, dotted here and there with hay-cocks, and
crossed in wavering lines by the inlets and
ditehes, Med now U grajdsh ice. that was
smkins: ^^^ crachinsf as the tide ran out. The

it looked as soft and brown as fur ; the wind
had free course over it, and it looked like a
deserted bit of the world ; the battered and
dinsnr flat-bottomed boats were fastened se-
ZSy in their tiny harhors, or puUed far
ashore as if their usefulness was over, not only
for that season but for all time. In some late
autumn weather one feels as if summer were
over with forever, and as if no resurrection
could follow such unmistakable and hopeless
death.

Where the land was higher it looked rocky
and rough, and behind the marshes there were
some low hills looking as if they were solid
stone to their cores, and sparingly overgrown
with black and rigid cedars. These stood erect
from the least to the greatest, a most unbend-
mg and heartless family, which meant to give
neither shade in summer nor shelter in winter.
No wind could overturn them, for their roots

88 FARMER FINCH,

went down like wires into the ledges, and no
drought could dry away the inmost channels of
vigorous though scanty sap that ran soberly
through their tough, unfruitful branches.

In one place the hills formed an amphithe-
atre open on the side toward the sea, and here
on this bleak day it seemed as if some dismal
ceremony were going forward. As one caught
sight of the solemn audience of black and
gloomy cedars that seemed to have come to-
gether to stand on the curving hillsides, one
instinctively looked down at the level arena of
marsh-land below, half fearing to see some
awful sacrificial rite or silent combat. It
might be an angry company of hamadryads
who had taken the shape of cedar-trees on this
day of revenge and terror. It was difficult to
believe that one would ever see them again,
and that the summer and winter days alike
would find them looking down at the grave
business which was invisible to the rest of the
world. The little trees stood beside their
elders in families, solemn and stem, and some
miserable men may have heard the secret as
they stumbled through the snow prajring for
shelter, lost and frozen on a winter night.

^v

FARMER FINCH. 89

If you Ke down along the rough grass in the
slender shadow of a cedar and look off to sea,
in a summer afternoon, you only hear a whis-
per like ^' Hush I hush I " as the wind comes
through the stiff branches. The boughs reach
straight upward; you cannot lie underneath
and look through them at the sky ; the tree all
reaches away from the ground as if it had a
horror of it, and shrank from even the breeze
and the sunshine.

On this December day, as the blasts of wind
struck them, they gave one stiff, unwilling
bend, and then stood erect again. The road
wound along between the sea-meadows and the
hills, and poor John Finch seemed to be the
only traveler. He was lost in thought, and the
horse still went plodding on. The worn buf-
falo-robe was dragging from one side of the
wagon, and had slipped down off the driver's
knees. He hardly knew that he held the reins.
He was in no hurry to get home, cold as it was,
for he had only bad news to tell.

Polly Finch, his only daughter, was coming
toward home from the opposite direction, and
with her also things had gone wrong. She was
a bright, good-natured girl of about twenty.

40 FARMER FINCH.

but she looked old and care-worn that day.
She was dressed in her best clothes, as if she
had been away on some important affair, per-
haps to a funeral, and she was shivering and
wholly chilled in spite of the shawl which her
mother had insisted upon her carrying. It had
been a not uncomfortable morning for that
time of year, and she had flouted the extra
wrap at first, but now she hu^ed it close, and
half buried her face in its folds. The sky was
gray and heavy, except in the west, where it
was a clear, cold shade of yellow. All the leaf-
less bushes and fluffy brown tops of the dead
asters and golden-rods stood out in exqui-
sitely delicate silhouettes against the sky on
the high road-sides, while some tattered bits of
blackberry vine held still a dull glow of color.
As Polly passed a barberry bush that grew
above her she was forced to stop, for, gray and
winterish as it had been on her approach, when
she looked at it from the other side it seemed
to be glowing with rubies. The sun was shin-
ing out pleasantly now that it had sunk below
the douds, and in these late golden rays the
barberry bush had taken on a great splendor.
*^It gave Folly a start, and it cheered her not a

FARMER FINCH. 41

little, this sudden transformation, and she even
went back along the road a little way to see it
again as she had at first in its look of misery.
The berries that still clung to its thorny
branches looked dry and spoiled, but a few
steps forward again made them shine out, and
take on a beauty that neither summer nor
autumn had given them, and Polly gave her
head a little shake. '^ There are two ways of
looking at more things than barberry bushes,"
she said, aloud, and went off with brisker steps
down the road.

At home in the farm-house Mrs. Finch had
been waiting for her husband and daughter to
come, until she had grown tired and hungry
and almost frightened. Perhaps the day had
been longer and harder to her than to any one
else. She had thought of so many cautions
and suggestions that she might have given
them both, and though the father's errand was
a much more important one, still she had built
much hope on the possibility of Polly's en-
counter with the school committee proving suc-
cessful. Things had been growing very dark
in Mr. Finch's business affairs, and they had
all looked with great eagerness toward her

42 FARMER FINCH.

securing a situation as teacher of one of the
town schools. It was at no great distance, so
that Polly could easily board at home, and
many things seemed to depend upon it, even
if the bank business turned out better than
was feared. Our heroine had in her childhood
been much praised for her good scholarship,
and stood at the head of the district school,
and it had been urged upon her father and
mother by her teachers, and by other friends
more or less wise, that she should have what
they called an education. It had been a hard
thing both for her father to find the money,
and for her mother to get on without her help
in the house-work, but they had both managed
to get along, and Polly had acquitted herself
nobly in the ranks of a neighboring academy,
and for the last year had been a pupil in the
normal school. She had been very happy in
her school life, and very popular both with
scholars and teachers. She was friendly and
social by nature, and it had been very pleasant
to her to be among so many young people.
The routine and petty ceremony of her years
of study did not fret her, for she was too
strong and good-natured even to be worn upon

FARMER FINCH. 43

or much tired with the unwholesome life she
lived. It was easy enough for her to get her
lessons, and so she went through with flying
colors, and cried a little when the last day ar-
rived ; but she felt less regret than most of
the girls who were turned out then upon the
world, some of them claiming truthfully that
they had finished their education, since they
had not wit enough to learn anything more,
either with school-books in their hands or
without them.

It came to Polly's mind as she stood in a
row with the rest of the girls, while the old
minister who was chief of the trustees gave
them their diplomas, and some very good ad-
vice besides : " I wonder why we all made up
our minds to be teachers? I wonder if we
are going to be good ones, and if I should n't
have liked something else a great deal bet-
ter?"

Certainly she had met with a disappoint-
ment at the beginning of her own career, for
she had seen that it was necessary for her to
be within reach of home, and it seemed as if
every school of the better class had been pro-
vided with a teacher. She had been so confi-

44 FARMER FINCH,

dent of her powers and mindful of her high
standing at the normal school that it seemed
at first that a fine position ought to be hers
for the asking. But one after another her
plans had fallen to the ground, until this last
one, which had just been decided against her
also. It had never occurred to her at first as
a possible thing that she should apply for the
small town school in her own district ; to tell
the truth, it was a great downfall of pride to
the family, but they had said to each other
that it would be well for PoUy to have the
winter at home, and in spring she could suit
herself exactly. But everybody had felt the
impossibility of her remaining idle, and no
wonder her heart sank as she went toward
home, knowing that she must tell them that
another had been chosen to fill the place.

Mrs. Finch looked at the fire, and looked
out of the window down the road, and took up
the stocking she wa« knitting and tried to
work at it ; but every half -hour that went by
doubled her uneasiness, and she looked out of
the window altogether at last, until the fire
was almost burned out, and the knitting lay
untouched in her lap. She was a tall, fine-

FARMER FINCH. 46

looking woman, with a worn, well-featured
face, and thinnish hair that had once been
light brown, but was much faded and not a
little gray in these later years. It had been
thought a pity that she married John Finch,
who had not half so much force as she, and
with all her wisdom and affection and econ<^
omy, every year had seemed to take away
something from them, leaving few gifts and
gains in exchange. At first her pride and
ambition, which were reasonable enough, al-
ways clung to her husband's plans and pur-
poses ; but as she saw year after year that he
stayed exactly in the same place, making little
headway either in farming or anything else,
she began to live more and more in her daugh-
ter's life, and looked eagerly to see her win
her way and gain an honorable place, first in
her school life, and afterward as a teacher.
She had never dreamed beforehand of the dif-
ficulties that had assailed Polly since she came
home the head of her class in June. She had
supposed that it would be an easy thing for
her now to find a good situation in a high or
private school, with a capital salary. She
hated to think there was nothing for her but

46 FARMER FINCH.

to hold sway over the few scholars in the little
unpainted school-house half a mile down the
road, even though the girl, who was the very-
delight of her heart, should be with her so
much more than they had expected at first.
She was a hind, simple-hearted, good woman,
this elder Mary Finch, and she had borne her
failing fortunes with perfect bravery ; she had
been the sunshine and inspiration of the some-
what melancholy house for many years.

At last she saw her husband coming along
the road, and even that far-away first glimpse
of him told her that she would hear no good
news. He pulled up the fallen buffalo-robe
over his lap, and sat erect, and tried to look
unconcerned as he drove into the yard, but it
was some time before he came into the house.
He unharnessed the horse with stiff and shak-
ing hands, and gave him his supper, and turned
the old wagon and backed it into its place be-
fore he came in. Polly had come home also
by that time, and was sitting by the window,
and did not turn to speak to him. His wife
looked old, and her face was grayish, and the
lines of it were hard and drawn in strange
angles.

FARMER FINCH. 47

" You had better sit right down by the fire,
John," she told him, " and I 'U get you and
Polly a good hot supper right away. I think,
like 's not, you did n't get a mouthful of din-
ner."

"I've no need to tell you I've got bad
news," he said. "The bank's failed, and
they won't pay more 'n ten cents on a dollar,
if they make out to do that. It 's worse than
we ever thought it could be. The cashier got
speculating, and he's made 'way with about
everything."

It seemed to him as if he had known this
for years, it was such an old, sad story al-
ready, and he almost wondered at the surprise
and anger that his wife and Polly showed at
once. It made him a little impatient that
they would ask him so many eager questions.
This was the worst piece of misfortune that
had ever come to him. Although they had
heard the day before that the bank would pass
its dividend, and had been much concerned
and troubled, and had listened incredulously
to worse stories of the condition of the bank's
finances, they had looked for nothing like this.

There was little to be said, but everything

48 FARMER FINCH.

to be thouglit and feared. They had put en-
tire confidence in this bank's security, and the
money which had belonged to John Finch's
father had always been left there to draw a
good yearly interest. The farm was not very
productive, and they had depended upon this
dividend for a large part of their ready money.
Much of their other property had dwindled
away. If ever there had been a prospect of
making much off the farm, something had in-
terfered. One year a piece of woodland had
been cleared at considerable expense, and on
the day before its unlucky owner was to begin
to haul the great stacks of fire-wood down to
the little wharf in the marshes, from whence
they could be carried away to market by
schooners, the fire got in, and the flames of
the fallen pines made a torch that lighted all
that part of the country for more nights than
one. There was no insurance and no remedy,
and, as an old neighbor told the unhappy
owner, " the woods would not grow again in
his time." John Finch was a cheerful man
naturally, and very sure .of the success of his
plans ; it was rare to see him so entirely down-
hearted and discouragedpbut lately he had

FARMER FINCH, 49

seemed to Ids wife somebody to be protected
and looked after even more than Polly. She
sometimes felt the weight of the years she had
lived, and as if she must be already very old,
but he was the same boyish person to her as
when she had married him; it often seemed
possible that he should have his life still be-
fore him. She could not believe until very
lately that it was too late for him to start out
on any enterprise. Time had, indeed, touched
him more lightly than it had herself, though
he had the face and something of the manner
and faults of an elderly and unsuccessful man.
They sat together in the kitchen, which had
suddenly grown dark. Mary Finch was as
cold as either of her companions, and was an-
gry with herself for her shivering and want of
dburage. She was almost afraid to speak at
last for fear of crying ; she felt strangely un-
strung and weak. The two women had told
John of Polly's disappointment, that the agent
for the district had given the school to his own
niece, a young girl from Salem, who was to
board at his house, and help his wife as much
as she could with the house-work out of school-
hours. " It 's all of a piece to-day," groaned
the farmer. " I 'm sorry for ye, Polly."

50 FARMER FINCH.

" She may hear of something yet," said Mrs.
Finch, making a great effort to speak cheer-
fully, ^' You know they have her name at the
normal school ; people are always sending there
for teachers, and oftentimes one fails at the last
minute through sickness, and I should n't won-
der if Polly found a good place yet in that way."

" I declare I don't know how we shall get
along," moaned Polly's father, to whom his
daughter's trouble seemed only a small part of
the general misfortunes. "Here 's winter com-
ing, and I 'm likely to be laid up any day with
my rheumatics, and I don't see how we can
afford even to take a boy to work for his board
and clothes. I 've got a few trees I can cut,
and one cow I can sell; but there are the
taxes to pay, and the minister, and money to
lay out on fences, come spring. The farm ran
behind last year, too."

Polly rose impatiently and took down a
lamp from the high chimney-shelf, knocking
down the match-box as she did so, which was,
after all, a good deal of relief. She put the
light on the floor while she picked up the
scattered matches, and her mother took a good
look at her, and was somehow made to feel
stronger at the sight of Polly's face.

FARMER FINCH, 51

" I guess we 'd all befcter have some supper,"
said the girl. " I never should feel so dis-
couraged if I was n't hungry. And now I 'm
going to tell you what I mean to do. I 'm
going to put right to and go to work out-doors
and in, and I 'm going to help father same as
if I were a boy. I believe I should like farm-
ing now twice as well as teaching, and make a
good deal more money at it. I have n't a gift
for teaching, and I know it, but I don't mean
that what I learned shall be thrown away.
Now we 've got hay for the stock, plenty of it,
and we 've got potatoes and apples and turnips
and cider in the cellar, and a good pig to kiU,
and so there 's no danger that we shall starve.
I 'm just as strong as I can be, and I am going
right to work, at any rate until I get a school
with a first-rate salary that '11 be worth more
than my help will here."

" I 'm sure I don't want you to throw away
such a good education as you 've had, for us,"
said Mrs. Finch, sorrowfully. " I want you to
be somebody, Polly, and take your right place
in the world."

But Polly answered stoutly that she was n't
sure it was a good education until she saw

t-^

52 FARMER FINCH.

whether it was any use to her. There were
too many second-rate teachers already, and she
had n't any reason to suppose she would be a
first-rate one. She believed that people had
better learn to do the things they were sure to
have to do. She would ratfier be a boy, and
farm it, than teach any school she ever saw,
and for this year, at any rate, she was going to
see whether her book-learning was n't going to
be some help at home. ^' I did the best I could
at school," she said, ^' and it was easy enough
to get my lessons, but now I Ve come against
a dead-wall. I don't see but you both need
me, and I 'm well and strong as anybody alive.
I 'd a good deal rather work at home a while
than be penned up with a lot of children, and
none of us more than half know what we 're
about. I want to think a good deal more
about teaching school before I begin to try in
earnest."

" I shall be glad to have you help your
mother," said John Finch, disconsolately,
" and we '11 manage to get along somehow."

" Don't be afraid, father," responded Polly,
in really cheerful tones, as if she assumed her
new situation formally at that moment. She

FARMER FINCH, 58-

went slowly down cellar with the lamp, leav-
ing her parents in darkness ; but by this time
the tea-kettle had begun to sing, and a great
glow of coals showed through the front slide
of the stove.

Mr. Finch lifted himself out of his chair,
and stumbled about to get the lantern and
light it, and then went out to feed the cattle.
He still looked chilled, and as if all happiness
had forsaken him. It was some little time be-
fore he returned, and the table was already set,
and supper was nearly cooked and ready to be
eaten. Polly had made a pot of coffee, and
drank her first cup with great satisfaction, and
almost without taking breath ; but her father
tasted his and did not seem to care for it, eat-
ing only a little food with evident effort.

" Now I thought you would relish a good
cup of coffee," said his wife, with much con-
cern; but the man answered sadly that he
could n't eat ; he felt all broken down.

" It was a perishing day for you to take that
long ride. It 's the bleakest road round here,
that marsh road is, and you hardly ate a
mouthful of breakfast. I wish you had got
something to warm you up before you started

•%?•

54 FARMER FINCH,

to come back/' said his wife, looking at him
anxiously. " I believe I '11 get you something
now," and she went to find a treasured bottle,
long stored away to be used in case of chill or
illness, for John Finch was a temperate man.

" I declare I forgot to milk," he said, hope-
lessly. " I don't know 's such a thing ever
happened to me before. I thought there was
something else when I was out to the barn,
and I sat down on the grin'-stone frame and
tried to think what it was, but I could n't."

"I'll milk," said Polly; and she whisked
up-stairs and replaced her best dress, which had
been already turned up and well aproned, by
a worn old frock which she had used on days
of cleaning, or washing, or other rough work,
when she had lent a hand to help her mother.
It was nothing new for her, a farmer's
daughter bom and bred, to imdertake this
work, but she made a distinct change of di-
rection that night, and as she sat milking in
the cold bam by the dull light of the lantern
a certain pleasure stole over her. She was
not without her ambitions, but they had never
flown with free wings up an imaginary career
of school-teaching. " I do believe mother and

FARMER FINCH. 66

I can earn money enough to take care of us,"
ahe said to herself, '^ and next spring I 'm going
to set out as much land as father will let me
have with strawberries." Her thoughts never
were busier than that night. The two cows
looked round at her with surprise, and seemed
to value her good-natured words and hurried
pats as she left them. She disturbed a sleepy
row of hens perched on the rail of the hay
cart, and thought it was a pity there was not a
better place for them, and that they should be
straying about. '^ I 'm going to read up some
of the old numbers of the Agriculturist^^^ she
said, ^^and see what I can do about having
eggs to sell." It more was evident that Polly
was fired with a great enthusiasm, but she re-
membered suddenly another new great interest
which was a secret as yet even from her mother.
This remembrance gave her a little uneasiness.
It was still early when the supper table had
been cleared away, and the milk strained and
set aside in the pantiy. John Finch had
drawn his chair close to the stove, and when
his wife and daughter sat down also, ready
to begin the evening which showed so little
promise of hilarity, they saw that he was
crying.

56 FARMER FINCH.

"Why, father!" Polly exclaimed, half
frightened, for this was something she did not
remember ever seeing since she was a child.
And his wife said nothing, but came and stood
beside him and watched him as if the vague
sense of coming trouble which had haunted her
all day was going to explain itself by some
terrible crisis.

" I 'm all broken down," the poor man
sobbed. " I used to think I was going to be
somebody, and get ahead, and nothing has
gone as I wanted it to. I 'm in debt more
than you think, and I don't know which way
to look. The farm don't yield me as it used
to, and I don't grudge what we 've done for
the girl, but it 's been aJl we could carry, and
here she 's failed of getting a place to teach.
Everything seems to go against us."

This was really most sad and death-like ; it
truly seemed as if the wheels of existence had
stopped ; there seemed to be nothing to fol-
low this unhappy day but disgrace and de-
spair. But Polly was the first to speak, and
her cheeks grew very red : " Father, I don't
think you have any right to speak so. If we
can't make our living one way, we will another.

FARMER FINCH. 57

Losing that money in the bank is n't the worst
thing that could have happened to us, and now
I am going to take hold with you right here
at home, as I said before supper. You think
there is n't much that a woman can do, but
we '11 see. How much do you owe ? "

But John Finch shook his head sadly, and
at first refused to tell. " It would have been
nothing if I had had my bonds to help me
out," he finally confessed, " but now I don't
see how I ever can pay three hundred dollars."

In a little while he rose wearily, though it
was only a little past six, and said that he
must go to bed, and his wife followed him to
his room as if he were a child. This break-
ing down was truly a most painful and fright-
ful thing, and Polly was not surprised to be
wakened from her uneasy sleep a few hours
later, for she had worried and lain awake in a
way that rarely happened, fearing that her fa-
ther would be ill, and wondering what plans it
would be best to make for his assistance in the
coming year. She believed that they could do
much better with the farm, and she made up
her mind to be son and daughter both.

Later Mrs. Finch called her, hurriedly com-

58 FARMER FINCH.

ing half-way up the staircase with a light.
"Your father is sick," she said, anxiously.
" I don't know whether it is more than a chill,
but he 's in great pain, and I wish we could
get the doctor. Can't you wrap up warm and
go over to Minton's and see if they can't send
somebody ? "

" There 's nobody there," said Polly ; " the
boys are both away. I '11 go myself, and get
back before you begin to miss me ; " and she
was already dressing as fast as she could. . In
that quiet neighborhood she had no thought of
fear ; it was not like Polly to be afraid, at any
rate ; and after a few words to her father, and
making a bright fire in the little fire-place of the
bed-room, she put on her warm old hood and
mittens, and her mother's great plaid shawl,
and scurried away up the road. It was a mile
and a half to the doctor's house, and with every
step she grew more eager to reach it. The
clouds had broken away somewhat, and the
stars' bright rays came darting like glistening
needles at one's eyes, so keen and piercing they
were. The wind had gone down, and a heavy
coldness had fallen upon the earth, as if the
air, like water, had frozen and become denser.

FARMER FINCH. 59

It seemed another world altogether, and the
old dog, that had left his snug corner behind
the kitchen stove to follow PoUy, kept close at
her side, as if he lacked his nsual courage. On
the ridges the cedar-trees stood up thinner and
blacker than ever ; the northern lights were
making the sky white and strange with their
mysterious light. Polly ran and walked by
turns, feeling warmed and quickened by the
exercise. She was not averse to the long walk
at that time of night ; she had a comfortable
sense of the strong young life that was hers to
use and command.

Suddenly she heard the sound of other* foot-
steps besides her own on the frozen ground,
and stopped, feeling for the first time anything
like fear. Her jRrst impulse was to hide, but
the road was wide and unsheltered, and there
was nothing to do but to go on. She thought
next that it might be somebody whom she could
send the rest of the way, and in another min-
ute she heard a familiar whistle, and called
out, not without relief, " Is that you, Jerry ? "

The figure stopped, and answered nothing,
and Polly hurried nearer, and spoke again.

" For Heaven's sake, what sends you out this

60 FARMER FINCH.

time o' night ? " asked the young man, almost
impatiently ; and Polly in her turn became a
little angry with him, she could not have told
why.

" I 'm not out for pleasure," she answered,
with some spirit. ^^ Father is taken very sick ;
we are afraid it is pneumonia ; and I 'm going
for the doctor. There was nobody to send."

" I was coming up from Portsmouth to-day,"
said the young man, ^^ and I lost the last train,
so I came on a freight train with some fellows
I know, and I thought I 'd foot it over from
the depot. We were delayed a good while or
it would n't have been so late. There was a
car ofiP the track at Beverly."

He had turned, and was walking beside
Polly, who wondered that he had not sense
enough to offer to call the doctor for her. She
did not like his gallantry, and was in no mood
for friendliness. She noticed that he had been
drinking, but he seemed perfectly sober; it
was between Jerry Minton and herself that
something almost like love-making had showed
itself not long before, but somehow any ten-
derness she had suspected herself of cherishing
for him had suddenly vanished from her heart
and mind.

FARMER FINCH, 61

^^ I was all knocked of a heap in Salem this
morning to hear that the bank had failed. Our
folks will lose something, bat I suppose it '11
about ruin your father. Seems to affect him a
good deal, don't it ? "

"It hasn't quite ruined us," said Polly,
angrily, and walked faster and faster.

" I 've been turning it over in my mind to-
day a good deal," said Jerry, " I hope you
will call on me for anything I can do, 'specially
now your father 's going to be laid up."

" Thank you," said Polly, stiffly ; and pres-
ently she stopped in the road, and turned and
looked at him in a sharp and not very admir-
iug way.

" You might as well go home," she told him,
not unkindly. " I 've got to the village now,
and I shall ride home with the doctor ; there 's
no need for you to come back out of your
way." And Jerry, after a feeble remonstrance,
obeyed.

The doctor was used to being summoned at
such hours, and when he found it was Polly
Finch he dressed hurriedly, and came down^
brimful of kindness and sympathy, to let her
in.

62 FARMER FINCH,

He listened almost in silence to what Polly
had to say of the case, and then, taking a
bottle here and there from his stores in the lit-
tle room that served him as his office, he fast-
ened his great-coat, and pulled down the fur
cap that had been a valiant helmet against the
blows of many winter storms, and they went
out together to the stable. The doctor was an
elderly man and lame, and he was delighted
with the brisk way in which his young com-
panion stepped forward and helped him. The
lantern that hung in the warm little stable was
not very bright, but she quickly found her way
about, and the horse was soon harnessed. She
found that the harness needed tightening, the
doctor having used it that day for another car-
riage, and as he saw her try it and rebuckle it,
he felt a warm glow of admiration, and said to
himself that not one woman in a hundred
would have done such a thing. They wrapped
' themselves in the heavy blankets and buffalo-
skins, and set forth, the doctor saying that
they could not go much faster than a walk.

He was still a little sleepy, and Polly did
not have much to say at first, except in answer
to one or two questions which he asked about

FARMER FINCH. 63

her father's condition ; but at last she told him
of her own accord of the troubles that had
fallen upon them that day. It already seemed
a week to her since the morning ; she felt as if
she had grown years older instead of hours.

" Your father has a bad trouble about the
heart," said the doctor, hesitatingly. "^ I think
it is just as well you should know it, and if this
is pneumonia, it may go very hard with him.
And if he pulls through, as I hope he will if
we catch him in time, you must see to it that
he is very careful all the rest of the winter, and
doesn't expose himself in bad weather. He
must n't go into the woods chopping, or any-
thing of that sort."

"' I 'm much obliged to you for telling me,"
said Polly, bravely. " I have made up my
mind to stay right at home. I was in hopes to
get a school, but I could n't do it, and now I
can see it was meant that I shouldn't, for
mother could n't get along without me if fa-
ther 's going to be sick. I keep wishing I had
been a boy," — and she gave a shaky little
laugh that had a very sad tone in it, — " for it
seems as if father needed my help on the farm
more than mother does in the house, and I

64 FARMER FINCH,

don't see why he should n't have it," she con-
fessed, filled with the courage of her new opin-
ion. ^^ I believe that it is the only thing for
me to do. I always had a great knack at mak-
ing things grow, and I never should be so
happy anywhere as working out-doors and
handling a piece of land. I 'd rather work
with a hoe than a ferule any day," and she
gave the queer little laugh again. Nobody
would have suspected she foimd it so hard to
bear the doctor's bad news.

" But what is it you mean to do ? " asked
the doctor, in a most respectful tone, though
he was inwardly much amused.

Polly hesitated. " I have been thinking that
we might raise a good many more early vegeta-
bles, and ever so much more poultry. Some of
our land is so sheltered that it is very early,
you know, and it 's first-rate light loam. We
always get peas and potatoes and beans long
before the Mintons and the rest of the people
down our way, and there 's no trouble about a
market."

" But you 'U have to hire help," the doctor
suggested.

And Polly answered that she had thought

FARMER FINCH. 65

of that, but she knew she could manage some-
how. " It 's a new thmg, you see, doctor," she
said, much encouraged by his evident interest,
"but I mean to work my way through it.
Father has sold wood and sold hay, and if we
had too much butter or too many eggs, and
more early potatoes than we wanted, he would
sell those; but it seemed as if the farm was
there only to feed us, and now I believe I can
make it feed a good many other people be-
sides ; and we must get money somehow.
People let girls younger than I get married,
an^ nobody thinks it is any risk to let them
try housekeeping. I 'm going to try farm-
keeping."

The old doctor laughed. "You've got a
wise head for such a young one," he said,
" and now I 'U help you every way I can. I 'm
not a rich man, but I 'm comfortably off for a
country doctor, and I 've got more money put
away than I am likely to use ; so, if you fall
short at any time, you just come and tell me,
and nobody shall know anything about it, and
you can take your own time to pay it back. I
know more about doctoring than I do about
farming, or I 'd give you plenty of advice.
But you go ahead, Polly."

66 FARMER FINCH.

Polly nestled down into the buffaloes, feel-
ing already that she had become a business
woman. The old wagon bumped and shook
as they went along, and in the dim light Polly
caught sight of the barberry bush — only a
darker shadow on the high bank at the side of
the road — and she thought of it affectionately
as if it were a friend. Young Minton, whom
they overtook at last, called out loudly some
good wish that they might find Mr. Finch bet-
ter, and the doctor asked sharply who he was,
as they drove by. Polly told him, not without
a feeling of embarrassment, which was very
provoking to her.

^^ I must say I never liked that tribe," said
the doctor, hastily. ^^I always hate to have
them send for me."

When they reached the farm, Polly urged
the doctor to go into the house at once. There
was a bright light in the kitchen aod in the
bedroom that opened out of it, and the girl
was almost afraid to go in after she had led
the horse into the bam and covered him with
the blanket. The old sorrel was within easy
reach of the overhanging edge of the haymow,
and she left him munching comfortably. As

FARMER FINCH, 67

she opened the inner door of the kitchen she
heard her father's voice, weak and sharp, and
the doctor speaking in assuring tones with
hearty strength, but the contrast of the two
voices sounded very sad to Polly, It seemed
to her as if she had been gone a great whUe,
and she feared to look at her father lest he
might have changed sadly. As she came to
the bedroom door, the sight of her rosy-cheeked
and eager, sorry face seemed to please him, and
his own face brightened.

" You 're a good girl, Polly," said he. " I 'm
sorry you had such a bad time." He looked
very ill already, and Polly could not say any-
thing in answer. She rebuilt the fire, and
then went to stand by the table, as she used
when she was a little child, to see the doctor
take out his doses of medicine.

Very early in the morning Jerry Minton's
mother came knocking at the door, which Polly
had locked after the doctor had gone away in
the night. She had pushed the bolt with im-
wonted care, as if she wished to bar the en-
trance to any further trouble that might be ly-
ing in wait for them outside. Mrs. Minton
was ready with her expressions of sympathy,

68 FARMER FINCH,

but somehow Polly wished she would go away.
She took a look at the sick man, who was
sleeping after the suffering and wakefulness
of the night, and shook her head ominously,
for which Polly could have struck her. She
was an unpleasant, croaking sort of woman,
and carried in her whole manner a conscious-
ness of the altered fortunes of the Finches;
and she even condoled with Polly on her dis-
appointment about the schooL

" Jerry spoke about meeting you going for
the doctor," she said in conclusion. " I told
him I didn't know what you would think
about catching him out so late at night ; but
he was to Portsmouth, and mistook the time
of the train. I 've been joking him for some
time past. I 've about made up my mind
there 's some attraction to Portsmouth. He
was terrible took with that Miss Hallett who
was stopping to the minister's in the summer."

This was more than Polly could bear, for it
was only a short time since Mrs. Minton had
been paying her great attention, and wishing
that she and Jerry would make a match of it,
as the farms joined, and the farm-work was
growing too heavy for her as she became older.

FARMER FINCH, 69

" If you mean Mary Hallett, she was mar-
ried in September to a young man in Boston,
partner in a commission firm," said Polly ; and
Mrs. Minton, for that time at any rate, was
routed horse and foot.

'* I hate that woman I " she said, angrily, as
she shut the door, not very gently, after her.

It was a long, hard illness that followed, and
the younger and the elder Mary Finch were
both tired and worn out before it ended in a
slow convalescence that in its dangers and
troubles was almost as bad as the illness itself.
The doctor was most kind and helpful in other
ways than with his medicines. It was a most
cheerful and kindly presence, and more than
once Polly di'ove back to the village with him,
or went with her own horse to bring him to
the farm, and they became fast friends. The
girl knew without being told that it would be
a long time before her father would grow
strong again, if that time ever came at all.
They had got on very well without help, she
and her mother. Some of the neighbors had
offered their services in-doors and out, but
these latter offers were only occasionally ac-
cepted.

70 FARMER FINCH.

The oxen had been hired by a man who was
hauling salt hay to town, and Polly had taken
care of the liorse and the two cows. She had
split the firewood and brought it in, and had
done what little rough work had to be attended
to in these weeks in spite of her mother's un-
willingness. To tell the truth, she enjoyed it
after the heat and stillness of the house, and
when she could take the time to run out for
a little while, it was always to take a look at
some part of the farm, and though many of
her projects proved to be castles in the air, she
found almost her only pleasure in these sad
winter days in building them smd thinking
them over.

Before her father's illness she would have
turned most naturally to Jerry Minton for
help and sympathy, for he had made himself
very kind and pleasant to her then. Polly had
been thought a good match, since she was an
only child, and it was everywhere known that
John Finch and his wife had both inherited
money. Besides, it gave the more dignity to
her position that she had been so long away
at school, and such good accounts of her stand-
ing there had reached her native place ; and

•»»

\
\

FARMER FINCH. 71

Polly was uncommonly good-looking, if tbe
truth must be told, which Jerry Minton's eyes
had been quick to notice. Though it was
known at once through the town what a plight
the Finches' affairs were in, Jerry had come
at first, apparently unconscious of his mother's
withdrawal of his attentions, with great show
of sympathy and friendliness, to offer to watch
with the sick man by night, or to be of any use
by day, and he had been much mortified and
surprised at Polly's unmistakable repulse. Her
quick instinct had detected an assumption of
condescension and patronage on his part as
weU as his mother's, and the growing fondness
which she had felt earlier in that season turned
to a dislike that grew much faster in the win-
ter days. Her mother noticed the change in
her manner, and one night as they sat together
in the kitchen Mrs. Finch whispered a gentle
warning to her daughter. ^^I thought one v
time that there might be something between
you and Jerry," she said. " I hope you won't
let your duty to your father and me stand in
the way of your settling yourself comfortably.
I should n't like to think we were going to
leave you alone. A woman 's better to have
a home^f her own."

72 FARMER FINCH.

PoUy turned so red that her mother could
see the color even in the dim light by which
they watched.

** Don't you worry about me," said the girl,
^^ This is my home, and I would n't marry
Jerry Minton if he were the President."

That was a black and snowless winter until
late in January. There, near the sea, such
seasons are not so uncommon as they are far-
ther inland ; but the desolation of the land-
scape struck Polly Finch all the more forcibly
since it was anawered to by the anxiety and
trouble that had fallen into her life. She had
not been at home in midwinter for several
years before, and in those earlier days she had
never noticed the outward world as she had
learned to do as she grew older. The farm
was a pleasant group of fields in summer, ly-
ing among the low hills that kept away both
the winds from the sea and the still keener
and bitterer northwest wind. Yet the plain,
warm, story-and-a-half house, with its square
front yard, with lilac and rose bushes, and the
open side yard with its close green turf, and
the bams and outbuildings beyond, was only a
little way from the marshes. From Polly's

FARMER FINCH. 73

own upper window there was an outlook that
way over a low slope of one of the pasture
hills, and sometimes when she felt tired and
dreary, and looked out there, it seemed to her
as if the half-dozen black cedars were stand-
ing there watching the house, and waiting for
a still greater sorrow and evil fortune to go in
at the door. . Our heroine*s life was not a lit-
tle lonely, and it would have been much worse
if she had not been so busy and so f idl of care.
She missed the girls who had been her com-
panions at school, and from having her duties
marked out for her by her teachers, and noth-
ing to do but to follow set tasks, and do certain
things at certain hours, it was a great change
to being her own mistress, charged with not
only her own but other people's welfare.

The women from the few neighboring houses
who came in to pay friendly visits, or to help
with the housework, said very good things
about Polly afterward. It had been expected
that she would put on at least a few fine airs,
but she was so dutiful, and worked so hard and
so sensibly, and with si^ph manifest willing-
ness and interest, that no one could help prais-
ing her. A very old neighbor, who was still

74 FARMER FINCH.

mindful of the proprieties of life, though she
had become too feeble to be of much practical
use in the event of a friend's illness, came one
afternoon to pay a visit. She was terribly
fatigued after the walk which had been so long
for her, and Polly waited upon her kindly, and
brought her some refreshments, all in the
middle of one of her busiest afternoons. Poor
old Mrs. Wall ! she made her little call upon
the sick man, who was almost too weak to even
show his gratitude that she had made so great
an effort to keep up the friendly custom, and
after saying sadly that she used to be a great
hand to tend the sick, but her day was over,
she returned to the kitchen, when Polly drew
the big rocking-chair to the warmest comer,
and entertained her to the best of her power.
The old woman's eye fell upon a great pile of
newspapers.

" I suppose you are a great hand to read,
after all your schooling ? " and Polly answered
that she did like to read very much, and
added : " Those are old numbers of the Agri-
culturist Father has taken it a good many
years, and I Ve taken to studying farming."

Mrs. Wall noticed the little blush that f ol-

FARMER FINCH, 75

lowed this announcement, and did not question
its seriousness and truthfulness.

^' I 'm going to help father carry on the
farm," said Polly, suddenly, fearing that her
guest might think she meant to marry, and
only take the in-door part of the farm's busi-
ness.

*'*' Well, two heads are better than one," said
the old lady, after a minute's reflection ; ^^ only
an old horse and a young one don't always
pull well together. But I can see, if my eyes
are n't what they used to be, that you are a
good smart girl, with some snap to ye. I guess
you 've got power enough to turn 'most any kind
of a mill. There was my own first cousin Se-
rena Allen, her husband was killed in the last
war, and she was left with two children when
she was n't a great deal older than you be, and
she run the farm, and lived well, and laid up a
handsome property. She was some years older
than I, but she has n't been dead a great many
years. She 'd plow a piece of ground as well
as a man. They used to call her Farmer Al-
len. She was as nice a woman as T ever knew."

Polly laughed more heartily than she had
for a good while, and it did her father good to

76 FARMER FINCH.

hear her ; but later, when the visitor had gone,
in spite of Polly's offer to drive her home a
little later when another neighbor returned
the horse, our friend watched her go away with
feeble steps, a bent, decrepit figure, almost
worn out with spending so many years in a
world of hard work. She might have stood
for a picture of old age, and Polly felt it as
she «tood at the window. It had never come
home to her thoroughly before, the inevitable-
ness of growing old, and of the limitation of
this present life ; how soon the body loses its
power, and the strength of the mind wanes
with it. All that old Mrs. Wall could do in
this world was done, and her account was vir-
tually closed. ^^ Here I am just starting out,"
said unlucky John Finch's only daughter. " I
did think I might be going to have a great
career sometimes when I was at school, and
here I am settling down just like everybody
else, and only one wave, after all, instead of
being a whole tide. And it is n't going to be
a gi*eat while before I have as hard work to
get up that little hill as old Mrs. Wall. But
I 'm going to beat even her cousin Serena
Allen. I am going to be renowned as Farmer
Finch."

FARMER FINCH. 77

Polly found it very hard to wait until it
should be time to make her garden and plant
it, and every day made her more impatient,
while she plied her father with questions, and
asked his opinion so many times as to the
merits of different crops, that he was tired of
the subject altogether. Through many seasons
he had tried these same experiments, with not
very great success, and he could not imagine
the keen interest and enthusiasm with which
Polly's soul was fired. She had never known
such a late spring, and the scurries of snow
in March and early April filled her with dis-
may, as if each had blighted aiid frost-bitten
her whole harvest. The day the garden was
plowed was warm and spring-like, and John
Finch crept out slowly, with his stick held fast
in a pale and withered-looking hand, to see the
work go on. He groaned when he saw what a
great piece of ground was marked out by the
long first furrows, and felt a new sense of
his defeated and weak condition. He began
to protest angrily at what he believed to be his
daughter's imprudent nonsense, but the thought
struck him that Polly might know what she
was about better than he did, and he fell back

78 FARMER FINCH.

contentedly upon bis confidence in her, and
leaned on the fence in the sun, feeling veiy
grateful that somebody else had taken things
in charge, he was so dull and unequal to mak-
ing any effort. "Polly 's got power," he told
himself several times that day, with great
pride and satisfaction.

As the sumftier went on, and early potatoes
from the Finch farm were first in the mar-
ket, though everybody who saw them planted
had believed they would freeze and never
grow, and the other crops had sometimes
failed, but for the most part flourished fa-
mously, PoUy began to attract a good deal
of attention, for she manifested uncommon
shrewdness and business talent, and her enter-
prise, held in check by her father's experience,
wrought wonders in the garden and fields.
Over and over John Finch said, admiringly,
to his wife, " How PoUy does take hold of
things I " and while he was quick to see the
objections to her plans, and had failed in his
own ^e affairs because he was afraid to take
risk, he was easily persuaded into thinking it
was worth while to do the old work in new
ways. It was lucky that Polly had a grand

FARMER FINCH, 79

capital of strength to live upon, for she gave
herself little rest all summer long ; she was up
early every morning and hard at work, and
only wished that the days were twice as long.
She minded neither heat nor rain, and having
seen her way clear to employ a strong country
boy whom the doctor had met in his rounds and
recommended, she took care of the great gar-
den with Hs help ; and when she had occasion
to do battle with the market-men who came
foraging that way, she came off victorious in
the matter of fair prices.

Now that so much has been said about the
days and the thoughts that led to the carrying
out of so bold a scheme, it is a pity there is not
time enough to give a history of the struggles
and successes of that first summer. There never
was a yoimg man just " out of his time " and re-
joicing in his freedom, who went to work more
diligently and eagerly than Polly Finch, and
few have set their wits at work on a New
England farm half so intelligently. She
managed a great flock of poultry with admir-
able skill. Her geese walked in a stately pro-
cession all that summer to and from their
pleasure-ground at the edge of the marsh, and

80 FARMER FINCH.

not a hen that stole her nest but was tracked
to earth like a fox and cooped triumphantly.
She tinkered the rickety bee-hives that stood
in a long and unremunerative row in the gar-
den until the bees became good housekeepers
and excellent providers for very shame. She
gathered more than one of the swarms herself
without a sting, and by infinite diligence she
waged war successfully on the currant worms,
with the result that she had a great crop of
currants when everybody else's came to grief.
She wondered why the butter that she and her
mother made brought only a third-rate price,
and bought a pound of the very best for a
pattern, and afterward was sparing of salt,
and careful to chum while the cream was
sweet and fresh. She sold the oxen, and
bought another horse instead for the lighter
team, which would serve her purpose better,
and every morning, after the crops began to
yield, a wagon-load of something or other
went from the farm to market.

She was as happy as a queen, and as well
and strong as girls ought to be ; and though
some people laughed a good deal, and thought
she ought to be ashamed to work on the farm

FARMER FINCH, 81

like a man, they were forced to like her all the
better when they saw her ; and when she came
into chnrch on Sunday, nobody could have said
that she had become unwomanly and rough.
Her hands grew to need a larger pair of gloves
than she was used to wearing, but that did not
trouble her ; and she liked a story-book, or a
book with more lessons in it still, better than
ever she had. Two girls who had been her
best friends at school came in the course of the
summer to visit her, and were asked out into
the garden, after the early breakfast, because
she must weed the beets, and after sitting still
for a while on a garden bench, they began to
help her, and both got headaches ; but at the
end of the week, having caught the spirit and
something of the enjoyment of her life, they
would have been glad to spend the rest of the
summer with her. There is something delight-
ful in keeping so close to growing things, and
one gets a great sympathy with the life that is
in nature, with the flourishing of some plants
and the hindered life of others, with the fruit-
fuhiess and the ripening and the gathering-in
that may be watched an tended and counted
on one small piece of ground.

82 FARMER FINCH.

Everything seemed to grow that she touched,
and it was as if the strength of her own nature
was like a brook that made everything green
where it went. She had her failures and disap-
pointments, and she reaped little in some places
where she had looked for great harvests. The
hay was partly spoiled by some wet weather,
but there was still enough for their own stock,
and they sold the poultry for double the usual
money. The old doctor was Polly's firm friend,
and he grew as fond of her as if she were his
own daughter, and could hardly force himself
to take the money she brought back in pay-
ment of a loan she had been forced to ask of
him, unknown even to her mother, once when
things went hard against her enterprise late in
the spring.

John Finch gained strength slowly all that
summer, but his heart grew lighter day by day,
and he and Polly made enthusiastic plans in
the summer evenings for increased sheep-rais-
ing on their wide-spread pasture-land, and for
a great poultry-yard, which was to bring them
not a little wealth. And on Thanksgiving-day,
when our farmer counted up her gains finally,
she was out of debt, and more than satisfied

FARMER FINCH. 88

and contented. She said over and over again
that she never should be happier than she had
been that summer. But more than one short-
sighted towns-woman wondered that she should
make nothing of herself when she had had a
good education, and many spoke as if Polly
would have been more admirable and respect-
able if she had succeeded in getting the little
town school teachership. She said herself that
she was thankful for everything she had
learned at school that had helped her about
her farming and gardening, but she was not
meant for a teacher. ^^ Unless folks take a
lesson from your example," said the doctor.
^^ I 've seen a good deal of human nature in
my day, and I have found that people who
look at things as they are, and not as they
wish them to be, are the ones who suicceed.
And when you see that a thing ought to be
done, dither do it yourself or be sure you get it
done. ^ Here I 've no school to teach, and fa-
ther has lost his money and his health. We 've
got the farm ; but I 'm only a girl. The land
won't support us if we let it on the halves.
That 's what you might have said, and sat
down and cried. But I liked the way you un-

84 FARMER FINCH.

dertook things. The farm was going to be
worked and made to pay; you were going
to do it; and you did do it. I saw you
mending up a bit of fence here and there, and
I saw you busy when other folks were lazy.
You 're a good girl, Polly Finch, and I wish
there were more like you," the doctor con-
cluded. ^^You take hold of life in the right
way. There 's plenty of luck for you in the
world. And now I 'm going to let you have
some capital this next spring, at a fair inter-
est, or none, and you can put yourself in a
way to make something handsome."

This is only a story of a girl whom fate and
fortune seemed to baffle ; a glimpse of the way
in which she made the best of things, and con-
quered circumstances, instead of being what
cowards call the victim of circumstances.
Whether she will live and die as Farmer
Finch, nobody can say, but it is not very
likely. One thing is certain : her own charac-
ter had made as good a summer's growth as
anything on her farm, and she was ashamed
to remember that she had ever thought seri-
ously of loving Jerry Minton. It will be a
much better man than he whom she falls in

FARMER FINCH. 86

love with next. And whatever may fall to her
lot later, she will always be glad to think that
in that sad emergency she had been able to
save her father and mother from anxiety and
despair, and that she had turned so eagerly and
readily to the work that was useful and possi-
ble when her own plans had proved impossible,
and her father's strength had failed.

All that is left to be said of this chapter of
her story is that one day when she was walking
to the village on one of her rare and happy
holidays she discovered that, in widening a bit
of the highway, her friend the little barberry
bush was to be uprooted and killed. And she
took a spade that was lying idle, the workmen
having gone down the road a short distance,
and dug carefully around the roots, and put
her treasure in a safe place by the wall.
When she returned, later in the day, she
shouldered it, thorns and all, and carried it
home, and planted it in an excellent situation
by the orchard fence ; and there it still grows
and flourishes. I suppose she will say to her-
self as long as she lives, when things look ugly
and troublesome, " I 'U see if the other side is
any better, like my barberry bush."

k .

MARSH ROSEMARY.
I.

One hot afternoon in August, a single mov-
ing figure might have been seen following a
straight road that crossed the salt marshes of
Walpole. Everybody else had either stayed
at home or crept into such shade as could be
found near at hand. The thermometer marked
at least ninety degrees. There was hardly
a fishing -boat to be seen on the glistening
sea, only far away on the hazy horizon two
or three coasting schooners looked like ghostly
flying Dutchmen, becalmed for once and mo-
tionless.

Ashore, the flaring light of the sun brought
out the fine, clear colors of the level landscape.
The marsh grasses were a more vivid green
than usual, the brown tops of those that were
beginning to go to seed looked almost red, and
the soil at the edges of the tide inlets seemed
to be melting into a black, pitchy substance

MARSH ROSEMARY. 87

like the dark pigments on a painter's palette/
Where the land was higher the hot air flick-
ered above it dizzily. This was not an after-
noon that one would naturally choose for a long
walk, yet Mr. Jerry Lane stepped briskly for-
ward, and appeared to have more than usual
energy. His big boots trod down the soft car-
pet of pussy-clover that bordered the dusty,
whitish road. He struck at the stationary pro-
cession of thistles with a little stick as he went
by. Flight after flight of yellow butterflies
fluttered up as he passed, and then settled
down again to their thistle flowers, while on the
shiny cambric back of Jerry's Sunday waist-
coat basked at least eight large green-headed
flies in complete security.

It was difficult to decide why the Sunday
waistcoat should have been put on that Satur-
day afternoon. Jerry had not thought it im-
portant to wear his best boots or best trousers,
and had left his coat at home altogether. He
smiled as he walked along, and once when he
took off his hat, as a light breeze came that
way, he waved it triumphantly before he put
it on again. Evidently this was no common
errand that led him due west, and made him

88 MARSH ROSEMARY,

forget the hot weather, and caused him to
shade his eyes with his hand, as he looked ea-
gerly at a clump of trees and the chimney of a
small house a little way beyond the boundary of
the marshes, where the higher ground began.

Miss Ann Floyd sat by her favorite window,
sewing, twitching her thread less decidedly
than usual, and casting a wistful glance now
and then down the road or at the bees in
her gay little garden outside. There was a
grim expression overshadowing her firmly^t,
angular face, and the frown that always ap-
peared on her forehead when she sewed or read
the newspaper was deeper and straighter than
usual. She did not look as if she were con-
scious of the heat, though she had dressed her-
self inim old-fashioned sldrt of sprigged lawn
and a loose jacket of thin white dimity with
out-of-date flowing sleeves. Her sandy hair
was smoothly brushed; one lock betrayed a
slight crinkle at its edg^, but it owed nothing
to any encouragement of Nancy Floyd's. A
hard, honest, kindly face this was, of a woman
whom everybody trusted, who might be ex-
pected to give of whatever she had to give,

MARSH ROSEMARY. 89

good measure, pressed down and running over.
She was a lonely soul ; she had no near rela-
tives in the world. It seemed always as if
nature had been mistaken in not planting her
somewhere in a large and busy household.

The little square room, kitchen in winter
and sitting-room in simimer, was as clean and
bare and thrifty as one would expect the dwell-
ing-place of such a woman to be. She sat in a
straight-backed, splint-bottomed kitchen chair,
and always put back her spool with a click on
the very same spot on the window-sill. You
would think she had done with youth and with,
love affairs, yet you might as well expect the
ancient cherry-tree in the corner of her yard
to cease adventuring its white blossoms when
the May sun shone ! No woman in Walpole
had more bravely and patiently borne the bur-
den of loneliness and lack of love. Even now
her outward behavior gave no hint of the new
excitement and delight that filled her heart.

^' Land sakes alive I " she says to herself
presently, " there comes Jerry Lane. I expect,
if he sees me settin' to the winder, he '11 come
in an' dawdle round till supper time I " But

90 MARSH ROSEMARY.

good Nancy Floyd smooths her hair hastily as
she rises and drops her work, and steps back
toward the middle of the room, watching the
gate anxiously all the time. Now, Jerry, with
a crestfallen look at the vacant window, makes
believe that he is going by, and takes a loiter-
ing step or two onward, and then stops short ;
with a somewhat sheepish smile he leans over
the neat picket fence and examines the blue
and white and pink larkspur that covers most
of the space in the little garden. He takes off
his hat again to cool his forehead, and replaces
it, without a grand gesture this time, and looks
again at the window hopefully.

There is a^ pause. The woman knows that
the man is sure she is there ; a little blush col-
ors her thin cheeks as she comes boldly to the
wide-open front door.

" What do you think of this kind of weath-
er ? " asks Jerry Lane, complacently, as he
leans over the fence, and surrounds himself
with an air of self-sacrifice.

" I call it hot," responds the Juliet from her
balcony, with deliberate assurance, ''but the
corn needs sun, everybody says. I should n't
have wanted to toil up from the shore under

MARSH ROSEMARY. 91

such a glare, if I liad been you. Better come
in and set a wliile, and cool off," she added,
without any apparent enthusiasm. Jerry was
sure to come, any way. She would rather
make the suggestion than have him.

Mr. Lane sauntered in, and seated himself
opposite his hostess, beside the other small win-
dow, and watched her admiringly as she took
up her sewing and worked at it with great
spirit and purpose. He clasped his hands to-
gether and leaned forward a little. The shaded
kitchen was very comfortable, after the glaring
light outside, and the clean orderliness of the
few chairs and the braided rugs and the table
under the clock, with some larkspur and aspar-
agus in a china vase for decoration, seemed to
please him unexpectedly. " Now just see what
ways you women folks have of fixing things up
smart I " he ventured gallantly.

Nancy's countenance did not forbid further
compliment ; she looked at the flowers herself,
quickly, and explained that she had gathered
them a while ago to send to the minister's
sister, who kept house for him. " I saw him
going by, and expected he 'd be back this same
road. Mis' Elton 's be'n havin' another o' her

92 MARSH ROSEMARY.

dyin' spells this noon, and the deacon went by
after him hot foot. I 'd souse her well with
stone-cold water. She never sent for me to set
up with her; she knows better. Poor man,
't was likely he was right into the middle of to-
morrow's sermon. 'T ain't considerate of the
deacon, and when he knows he 's got a fool for
a wife, he need n't go round persuading other
folks she 's so suffering as she makes out.
They ain't got no larkspur this year to the
parsonage, and I was going to let the minister
take this over to Amandy ; but I see his wagon
over on the other road, going towards the vil-
lage, about an hour after he went by here."

It seemed to be a relief to tell somebody
all these things after such a season of forced
repression, and Jerry listened with gratifying
interest. " How you do see through folks I "
he exclaimed in a mild voice. Jerry could
be very soft spoken if he thought best.
" Mis' Elton 's a die-away lookin' creatur'. I
heard of her saying last Sunday, comin' out o'
meetin', that she made an effort to git there
once more, but she expected 't would be the
last time. Looks as if she eat well, don't
she ? " he concluded, in a meditative tone.

MARSH ROSEMARY, 93

" Eat ! " exclaimed the hostess, with snap-
ping eyes. " There ain't no woman in town,
sick or well, can lay aside the food that she
does. 'T ain't to the table afore folks, but she
goes seeking round in the cupboards half a
dozen times a day. An' I 've heard her re-
mark 't was the last time she ever expected to
visit the sanctuary as much as a dozen times
within five years."

" Some places I 've sailed to they 'd have hit
her over the head with a club long ago," said
Jerry, with an utter lack of sympathy that was
startling. "Well, I must be gettin' back
again. Talkin' of eatin' makes us think o'
supper time. Must be past five, ain't it? I
thought I 'd just step up to see if there wa'n't
anything I could lend a hand about, this hot
day."

Sensible Ann Floyd folded her hands over
her . sewing, as it lay in her lap, and looked
straight before her without seeing the pleading
face of the guest. This moment was a great
crisis in her life. She was conscious of it, and
knew well enough that upon her next words
would depend the course of future events.
The man who waited to hear what she had

94 MARSH ROSEMARY.

to say was indeed many years younger than
she, was shiftless and vacillating. He had
drifted to Walpole from nobody knew where,
and possessed many qualities which she had
openly rebuked and despised in other men.
True enough, he was good-looking, but that
did not atone for the lacks of his character
and reputation. Yet she knew herself to be
the better man of the two, and since she had
surmounted many obstacles already she was
confident that, with a push here and a pull
there to steady him, she could keep him in
good trim. The winters were so long and
lonely ; her life was in many ways hungry and
desolate in spite of its thrift and conformity.
She had laughed scornfully when he stopped,
one day in the spring, and offered to help her
weed her garden ; she had even joked with one
of the neighbors about it. Jerry had been
growing more and more friendly and pleasant
ever since. His ease-loving careless nature
was like a comfortable cushion for hers, with
its angles, its melancholy anticipations and self-
questionings. But Jerry liked her, and if she
liked him and married him, and took him
home, it was nobody's business ; and in that

MARSH ROSEMARY. 96

moment of surrender to Jerry's cause she ar-
rayed herself at his right hand against the rest
of the world, ready for warfare with any and
all of its opinions.

She was suddenly aware of the sunburnt
face and light, curling hair of her undeclared
lover, at the other end of the painted table
with its folded leaf. She smiled at him va-
cantly across the larkspur ; then she gave a
little start, and was afraid that her thoughts
had wandered longer than was seemly. The
kitchen clock was ticking faster than usual, as
if it were trying to attract attention.

" I guess I '11 be getting home," repeated
the visitor ruefully, and rose from his chair,
but hesitated again at an unfamiliar expres-
sion upon his companion's face.

" I don't know as I 've got anything extra
for supper, but you stop," she said, " an' take
what there is. I would n't go back across
them marshes right in this heat."

Jerry Lane had a lively sense of humor,
and a queer feeling of merriment stole over
him now, as he watched the mistress of the
house. She had risen, too ; she looked so
simple and so frankly sentimental, there was

96 MARSH ROSEMARY.

such an incongruous coyness added to her
usually straightforward, angular appearance,
that his instinctive laughter nearly got the
better of him, and might have lost him the
prize for which he had been waiting these
many months. But Jerry behaved like a man :
he stepped forward and kissed Ann Floyd ; he
held her fast with one arm as he stood beside
her, and kissed her agam and again. She was
a dear good woman. She had a fresh young
heart, in spite of the straight wrinkle in her
forehead and her work-worn hands. She had
waited all her days for this joy of having a
lover.

II.

Even Mrs. Elton revived for a day or two
under the tonic of such a piece of news. That
was what Jerry Lane had hung round for all
summer, everybody knew at last. Now he
would strike work and live at his ease, the
men grumbled to each other ; but all the
women of Walpole deplored most the weak-
ness and foolishness of die elderly bride. Ann
Floyd was comfortably off, and had something

MARSH ROSEMARY. 97

laid by for a rainy day ; she would have done
vastly better to deny herself such an expen-
sive and utterly worthless luxury as the kind
of husband Jerry Lane would make. He had
idled away his life. He earned a little money
now and then in seafaring pursuits, but was
too lazy, in the shore parlance, to tend lobster-
pots. What was energetic Ann Floyd going
to do with him? She was always at work,
always equal to emergencies, and entirely op-
posed to dullness and idleness and even pla-
cidity. She Uked people who had some snap
to them, she often avowed scornfully, and now
she had chosen for a husband the laziest man
in Walpole. *'*' Dear sakes," one woman said
to another, as they heard the news, ** there's
no fool like an old fool ! "

The days went quickly by, while Miss Ann
made her plain wedding clothes. If people
expected her to put on airs of youth they were
disappointed. Her wedding bonnet was the
same sort of bonnet she had. worn for a dozen
years, and one disappointed critic deplored the
fact that she had spruced up so little, and kept
on dressing old enough to look like Jerry
Lane's mother. As her acquaintances met

98 MARSH ROSEMARY.

her they looked at her with close scrutiny,
expecting to see some outward trace of such
a silly, uncharacteristic departure from good
sense and discretion. But Miss Floyd, while
she was still Miss Floyd, displayed no silliness
and behaved with dignity, while on the Sun-
day after a quiet marriage at the parsonage
she and Jerry Lane walked up the side aisle to
their pew, the picture of middle-aged sobriety
and respectability. Their fellow parishoners,
having recovered from their first astonishment
and amusement, settled down to the belief that
the newly married pair understood their own
business best, and that if anybody could make
the best of Jerry and get any work out of him,
it was his capable wife.

"And if she undertakes to drive him too
hard he can slip off to sea, and they '11 be rid
of each other," conunented one of Jerry's
'longshore companions, as if it were only rea-
sonable that some refuge should be afforded
to those who make mistakes in matrimony.

There did not seem to be any mistake at
first, or for a good many months afterward.
The husband liked the comfort that came from

MARSH ROSEMARY, 99

such good housekeeping, and enjoyed a deep
sense of having made a good anchorage in a
well-sheltered harbor, after many years of
thriftless improvidence and drifting to and
fro. There were some hindrances to perfect
happiness: he had to forego long seasons of
gossip with his particular friends, and the out-
door work which was expected of him, though
by no means heavy for a person of his strength,
fettered his freedom not a little. To chop
wood, and take care of a cow, and bring a paU
of water now and then, did not weary him so
much as it made him practically understand
the truth of weakly Sister Elton's remark that
life was a constant chore. And when poor
Jerry, for lack of other interest, fancied that
his health was giving way mysteriously, and
brought home a bottle of strong liquor to be
used in case of sickness, and placed it conve-
niently in the shed, Mrs. Lane locked it up in
the small chimney cupboard where she kept
her camphor bottle and her opodeldoc and the
other family medicines. She was not harsh
with her husband. She cherished him ten-
derly, and worked diligently at her trade of
tailoress, singing her hymns gayly in summer

100 MARSH ROSEMARY.

weather ; for -she never had been so happy as
now, when there was somebody to please be-
side herself, to cook for and sew for, and to
live with and love. But Jerry complained
more and more in his inmost heart that his
wife expected too much of him. Presently he
resumed an old habit of resorting to the least
respected of the two country stores of that
neighborhood, and sat in the row of loafers on
the outer steps. ^^ Sakes aUve," said a shrewd
observer one day, ^' the fools set there and talk
and talk about what they went through when
they foUered the sea, till when the women-
folks comes tradin' they are obleeged to dimb
right over 'em."

But things grew worse and worse, until one
day Jerry Lane came home a little late to din-
ner, and found hia wife unusuaJly grim-faced
and impatient. He took his seat with an ami-
able smile, and showed in every way his de-
termination not to lose his temper because
somebody else had. It was one of the days
when he looked almost boyish and entirely ir-
responsible. His hair was handsome and curly
f«>m the dampness of the east wind, and his
wife was forced to remember how, in the days

MARSH ROSEMARY. 101

of their courtship, she used to wish that she
could pull one of the curling locks straight, for
the pleasure of seeing it fly back. She felt
old and tired, and was hurt in her very soul by
the contrast between herself and her husband.
" No wonder I am aging, having to lug every-
thing on my shoulders," she thought. Jerry
had forgotten to do whatever she had asked
him for a day or two. He had started out
that morning to go lobstering, but he had re-
turned from the direction of the village.

^^ Nancy," he said pleasantly, after he had
begun his dinner, a silent and solitary meal,
while his wife stitched busily by the window,
and refused to look at him, — " Nancy, I 've
been thinking a good deal about a project."

'^ I hope it ain't going to cost so much and
bring in so little as your other notions have,
then," she responded, quickly; though some-
how a memory of the hot day when Jerry came
and stood outside the fence, and kissed her
when it was settled he should stay to supper,
— a memory of that day would keep fading
and brightening in her mind.

" Yes," said Jerry, humbly, " I ain't done
right, Nancy. I ain't done my part for our

102 MARSH ROSEMARY.

Kvin'. I 've let it sag right on to you, most
ever since we was married. There was that
spell when I was kind of weakly, and had a
pain- acrost me. I tell you what it is : I never
was good for nothin' ashore, but now I 've got
my strength up I 'm going to show ye what I
can do. I 'm promised to ship with Cap'n
Low's brother. Skipper Nathan, that sails
out o' Eastport in the coasting trade, lumber
and so on. I shall get good wages, and you
shall keep the whole on 't 'cept what I need
for clothes."

" You need n't be so plaintive," said Ann,
in a sharp voice. " You can go if you want
to. I have always been able to take care of
myself, but when it comes to maintainin' two,
't ain't so easy. When be you goin' ? "

" I expected you would be sorry," mourned
Jerry, his face falling at this outbreak.
" Nancy, you need n't be so quick. 'T ain't as
if I had n't always set everything by ye, if I
be wuthless."

Nancy's eyes flashed fire as she turned hastily
away. Hardly knowing where she went, she
passed through the open doorway, and crossed
the clean green turf of the narrow side yard.

MARSH ROSEMARY. 108

and leaned over the garden fence. The yoimg
cabbages and cucumbers were nearly buried
in weeds, and the currant bushes were fast be-
ing turned into skeletons by the ravaging
worms. Jerry had forgotten to sprinkle them
with hellebore, after all, though she had put
the watering-pot into his very hand the even-
ing before. She did not like to have the whole
town laugh at her for hiring a man to do his
work ; she was busy from early morning until
late night, but she could not do everything
herself. She had been a fool to marry this
man, she told herself at last, and a sullen dis-
content and rage that had been of slow but
certain growth made her long to free herself
from this unprofitable hindrance for a time, at
any rate. Go to sea ? Yes, that was the best
thing that could happen. Perhaps when he
had worked hard a while on schooner fare, he
would come home and be good for something I
Jerry finished his dinner in the course of
time, and then sought his wife. It was not
like her to go away in this silent fashion. Of
late her gift of speech had been proved suffi-
ciently formidable, and yet she had never
looked so resolutely angry as to-day.

104 MARSH ROSEMARY.

" Nancy," he began, — " Nancy, girl ! I
ain't goin' off to leave you, if your heart 's set
against it. I '11 spudge up and take right
holt."

But the wife turned slowly from the fence
and faced him. Her eyes looked as if she had
been crying. " You need n't stay on my ac-
count," she said. ^' I '11 go right to work an'
fit ye out. I 'm sick of your meechin' talk,
and I don't want to hear no more of it. Ef /
was a man " —

Jerry Lane looked crestfallen for a minute
or twoT but when his stem partner in life had
disappeared within the house, he slunk away
among the apple-trees of the little orchard, and
sat down on the grass in a shady spot. It was
getting to be warm weather, but he would go
round and hoe the old girl's garden stuff by '
and by. There would be something goin' on
aboard the schooner, and with delicious antici-
pation of future pleasure this delinquent Jerry
struck his knee with his hand, as if he werb
clapping: a crony on the shoulder. He also
wi^ed several iLes at the same fancied com-
panion. Then, with a comfortable chuckle, he
laid himself down, and pulled his old hat over

n

MARSH ROSEMARY. 106

his eyes, and went to sleep, while the weeds
grew at their own sweet will, and the currant
worms went looping and devourmg from twig
to twig.

in.

Summer went by, and winter began, and
Mr. Jerry Lane did not reappear. He had
promised to return in September, when he
parted from his wife early in June, for Nancy
had relented a little at the last, and sorrowed
at the prospect of so long a separation. She
had already learned the vacillations and un-
certainties of her husband's character ; but
though she accepted the truth that her mar-
riage had been in every way a piece of foolish-
ness, she still clung affectionately to his as-
sumed fondness for her. She could not believe
that his marriage was only one of his make-
shifte, andTtrs soon as he grew tired of the
constraint he was ready to throw the benefits
of respectable home life to the four winds. A
Uttle sentimental speech-making and a few
kisses the morning he went away, and the
gratitude he might weU hare shown for her

106 MARSH ROSEMARY.

generous care-taking and provision for his voy-
age won her soft heart back again, and made
poor, elderly, simple-hearted Nancy watch him
cross the marshes with tears and foreboding.
If she could have called him back that day, she
would have done so and been thankful. And
all summer and winter, whenever the wind
blew and thrashed the drooping elm boughs
against the low roof over her head, she was as
full of fears and anxieties as if Jerry were her
only son and making his first voyage at sea.
The neighbors pitied her for her disappoint-
ment. They liked Nancy ; but they could not
help saying, " I told you so." It would have
been impossible not to respect the brave way
in which she met the world's eye, and carried
herself with innocent unconsciousness of hav-
ing committed so laughable and unrewarding
a folly. The loafers on the store steps had
been unwontedly diverted one day, when Jerry,
who was their chief wit and spokesman, rose
slowly from his place, and said in pious tones,
^^ Boys, I must go this minute. Grandma will
keep dinner waiting." Mrs. Aun Lane did
not show in her aging face how young her
heart was, and after the schooner Susan Barnes

MARSH ROSEMARY. 107

had departed she seemed to pass swiftly from
middle life and an almost youthful vigor to
early age and a look of spent strength and dis-
satisfaction. ^' I suppose he did find it dull,"
she assured herself, with wistful yearning for
his rough words of praise, when she sat down
alone to her dinner, ^or looked up sadly from
her work, and missed the amusing though un-
edifying conversation he was wont to offer occa-
sionally on stormy winter nights. How much
of his adventuring was true she never cared to
ask. He had come and gone, and she forgave
him his shortcomings, and longed for his so-
ciety wiih a heavy h!aU.

One spring day there was news in the Bos-
ton paper of the loss of the schooner Susan
Barnes with all on board, and Nancy Lane's
best friends shook their sage heads, and de-
clared that as far as regarded Jerry Lane, that
idle vagabond, it was all for the best. Nobody
was interested in any other member of the
crew, so the misfortune of the Susan Barnes
seemed of but slight consequence in Walpole,
she having passed out of her former owners'
hands the autiunn before. Jerry had stuck by
the ship ; at least, so he had sent word then to

108 MARSH ROSEMARY.

bis wife by Skipper Natban Low. Tbe Susan
Barnes was to sail regularly between Sbediac
and Newfoundland, and Jerry sent five dollars
to Nancy, and promised to pay ber a visit soon.
" Tell ber I 'm layin' up sometbin' bandsome,"
be told tbe skipper witb a grin, " and I 've got
some folks in Newfoundland I '11 visit witb on
tbis voyage, and tben I '11 come asbore for good
and farm it."

Mrs. Lane took tbe five dollars from tbe
skipper as proudly as if Jerry bad done tbe
same tbing so many times before tbat sbe
bardly noticed it. Tbe skipper gave tbe mes-
sages from Jerry, and felt tbat be bad done
tbe proper tbing. Wben tbe news came long
afterward tbat tbe scbooner was lost, tbat was
tbe next tbing tbat Nancy knew about ber
wandering mate ; and after tbe minister bad
come solemnly to inform ber of ber bereave-
ment, and bad gone away again, and sbe sat
down and looked ber widowbood in tbe face,
tbere was not a sadder nor a lonelier woman
in tbe town of Walpole.

All tbe neigbbors came to condole witb our
beroine, and, tbougb nobody was aware of it,
from tbat time sbe was really bappier and bet-

MARSH ROSEMARY, 109

ter satisfied with life than she had ever been
before. Now she had an ideal Jerry Lane to
mourn over and think about, to eherish and
admire ; she was day by day slowly forgetting
the trouble he had been and the bitter shame
of him, and exalting his menfory to something
near saintliness. ^^ He meant well," she told
herself again and again. She thought nobody
could tell so good a story ; she felt that with
her own bustling, capable ways he had no
chance to do much that he might have done.
She had been too quick with him, and alas,
alas I how much better she would know how
to treat him if she only could see him again I
A sense of relief at his absence made her con-
tinually assure herself of her great loss, and,
false even to herself, she mourned her some-
time lover diligently, and tried to think her-
self a broken-hearted woman. It was thought
among those who knew Nancy Lane best that
she would recover her spirits in time, but
Jerry's wildest anticipations of a proper re-
spect to his memory were more than realized
in the first two years after the schooner Susan
Barnes went to the bottom of the sea. She
mourned for the man he ought to have been,

110 MARSH ROSEMARY.

not for the real Jerry, but she had loved him
in the beginning enough to make her own love
a precious possession for all time to come. It
did not matter much, after all, what manner of
/man he was ; she had found in him something
yon which to spend her hoarded affection.

IV.

Nancy Lane was a peaceable woman and a
good neighbor, but she never had been able to
get on with one fellow townswoman, and thalt
was Mrs. Deacon Elton. They managed to
keep each other provoked and teased from one
year's end to the other, and each good soul felt
herself under a moral microscope, and under-
stood that she was judged by a not very lenient
criticism and discussion. Mrs. Lane clad her-
self in simple black after the news came of her
husband's timely death, and Mrs. Elton made
one of her farewell pilgrimages to church to
see the new-made widow walk up the aisle.

'' She need n't tell me she lays that affliction
so much to heart," the deacon's wife sniffed
faintly, after her exhaustion had been met by

MARSH ROSEMARY. Ill

proper treatment of camplior and a glass of
currant wine, at the parsonage, where she
rested a while after service. " Nancy Floyd
knows she 's well over with such a piece of
nonsense. If I had had my health, I should
have spoken with her and urged her not to
take the step in the first place. She has n't
spoken six beholden words to me since that
vagabond come to Walpole. I dare say she
may have heard something I said at the time
she married. I declare for 't, I never was so
outdone as I was when the deacon came home
and told me Nancy Floyd was going to be mar-
ried. She let herself d^wn too low to ever
hold the place again that she used to have in
folks' minds.* And it 's my opinion," said the
sharp-eyed little woman, "she ain't got through
with her pay yet."

But Mrs. Elton did not know with what un-
conscious prophecy her words were freighted.

The months passed by : summer and winter
came and went, and even those few persons
who were misled by Nancy Lane's stern visage
and forbidding exterior into forgetting her
kind heart were at last won over to friendli-

112 MARSH ROSEMARY.

ness by her renewed devotion to the sick and
old people of the rural community. She was
so tender to little children that they all loved
her dearly. She was ready to go to any house-
hold that needed help, and in spite of her
ceaseless industry with her needle she found
many a chance to do good, and help her neigh-
bors to lift and carry the burdens of their lives.
She blossomed out suddenly into a lovely,
painstaking eagerness to be of use ; it seemed
as if her affectionate heart, once made gener-
ous, must go on spending its wealth wherever
it could find an excuse. Even Mrs. Elton her-
self was touched by her old enemy's evident
wish to be friends, and said nothing more about
poor Nancy's looking as savage as a hawk.
The only thing to admit was the truth that her
affliction had proved a blessing to her. And
it was in a truly kind and compassionate spirit
that, after hearing an awful piece of news, the
deacon's hysterical wife forbore to spread it far
and wide through the town first, and went
down to the Widow Lane's one September
afternoon. Nancy was stitching busily upon
the deacon's new coat, and looked up with a
friendly smile as her guest came in, in spite of

MARSH ROSEMARY, 113

an instinctive shrug as she had seen her com-
ing up the yard. The dislike of the poor souls
for each other was deeper than their philoso-
phy could reach.

Mrs. f^lton spent some minutes in the un-
necessary endeavor to regain her breath, and
to her surprise found she must make a real
effort before she could tell her unwelcome
news. She had been so full of it all the way
from home that she had rehearsed the whole
interview ; now she hardly knew how to begm.
Nancy looked serener than usual, but there
was something wistful about her face as she
glanced across the room, presently, as if to
understand the reason of the long pause. The
clock ticked loudly; the kitten clattered a
spool against the table-leg, and had begun to
snarl the thread around her busy paws, and
Nancy looked down and saw her ; then the in-
stant consciousness of there being some un-
happy reason for Mrs. Elton's call made her
forget the creature's mischief, and anxiously
lay down her work to listen.

" Skipper Nathan Low was to our house to
dinner," the guest began. " He 's bargaining
with the deacon about some hay. He 's got a

114 MARSH ROSEMARY.

new schooner, Skipper Nathan has, and is go-
ing to build up a regular business of freight-
ing hay to Boston by sea. There 's no market
to speak of about here, unless you haul it way
over to Downer, and you can't make but one
turn a day."

" 'T would be a good thing," replied Nancy,
trying to think that this was all, and perhaps
the deacon wanted to hire her own field an-
other year. He had underpaid her once, and
they had not been on particularly good terms
ever since. She would make her own bargains
with Skipper Nathan, she thanked him and his
wife!

" He 's been down to the provinces these
two or three years back, you know," the whin-
ing voice went on, and straightforward Ann
Lane felt the old animosity rising within her.
" At dinner time I was n't able to eat much
of anything, and so I was talking with Cap'n
Nathan, and asking him some questions about
them parts ; and I spoke something about the
mercy 't was his life should ha' been spared
when that schooner, the Susan Barnes, was lost
so quick after he sold out his part of her. And
I put in a word, bein' 's we were neighbors,

MARSH ROSEMARY, 116

about how edifyin' your course had be'n under
afiBiction. I noticed then he 'd looked sort
o' queer whilst I was talkin', but there was all
the folks to the table, and you know he«'s a
very cautious man, so he spoke of somethin'
else. 'Twa'n't half an hour after dinner, I
was comin' in with some plates and cups, try-
in' to help what my stren'th would let me, and
says he, ' Step out a little ways into the piece
with me, Mis' Elton. I want to have a word
with ye.' I went, too, spite o' my neuralgy,
for I saw he'd got somethin' on his mind.
*Look here,' says he, 'I gathered from the
way you spoke that Jerry Lane's wife expects
he 's dead.' Certain, says I, his name was in
the list o' the Susan Barnes's crew, and we
read it in the paper. * No,' says he to me, * he
ran away the day they sailed; he wasn't
aboard, id he's W with an;ther woman
down to Shediac' Them was his very words."
Nancy Lane sank back in her chair, and
covered her horror-stricken eyes with her
hands. ^^ 'T ain't pleasant news to have to
tell," Sister Elton went on mildly, yet with ev-
ident relish and full command of the occasion.
^' He said he seen Jerry the morning he came

116 MARSH ROSEMARY.

away. I thought you ought to kuow it. I 'U
tell you one thing, Nancy : I told the skipper
to keep still about it, and now I 've told you,
I wen't spread it no further to set folks a-talk-
ing. I 'U keep it secret till you say the word.
There ain't much trafficking betwixt here and
there, and he 's dead to you, certain, as much
as if he laid up hew in the burying-ground."

Nancy had bowed her head upon the table :
the iJ sandy hair wa« st^S with gray.
She did not answer one word; this was the
hardest blow of alL

"I'm much obliged to you for being so
friendly," she said after a few minutes, look-
ing stright before her now in a da«d sort of
way, and lifting the new coat from the floor,
where it had fallen. " Yes, he 's dead to me,
— worse than dead, a good deal," and her lip
quivered. " I can't seem to bring my thoughts
to bear. I 've got so used to thinkin' — No,
don't you say nothin' to the folks, yet. I 'd do
as much for you." And Mrs. Elton knew that
the smitten fellow-creature before her spoke
the truth, and f orebore.

Two or three days came and went, and with

MARSH ROSEMARY, 117

every hour the quiet, simple - hearted woman
felt more grieved and unsteady in^ mind and
body. Such a shattering thunderbolt of news
rarely falls into a human life. She could not
sleep ; she wandered to and fro in the little
house, and cried until she could cry no longer.
Then a great rage spurred and excited her.
She would go to Shediac, and call Jerry Lane
to account. She would accuse him face to
face ; and the woman whom he was deceiving,
as perhaps he had deceived her, should know
the baseness and cowardice of this miserable
man. So, dressed in her respectable Sunday
clothes, in the gray bonnet and shawl that
never had known any journeys except to meet-
ing, or to a country funeral or quiet holiday-
making, Nancy Lane trusted herself for the
first time to the bewildering railway, to the
temptations and dangers of the wide world
outside the bounds of Walpole.

Two or three days later still, the quaint, thin
figure familiar in Walpole highways flitted
down the street of a provincial town. In the
most primitive region of China this woman
could hardly have felt a greater sense of for-
eign life and strangeness^ At another time

118 MARSH ROSEMARY.

her native good sense and shrewd observation
would hav^ delighted in the experiences of thfs
first week of travel, but she was too sternly
angry and aggrieved, too deeply plunged in a
survey of her own calamity, to take much no-
tice of what was going on about her. Later
she condemned the unworthy folly of the whole
errand, but in these days the impulse to seek
the culprit and confront him was ijresistible.

The innkeeper's wife, a kindly creature, had
urged this puLiBg guest to wit and rest and
eat some supper, but Nancy refused, and with-
out asking her way left the brightly lighted,
flaring little public room, where curious eyes
already offended her, and went out into the
damp twilight. The voices of the street boys
sounded outlandish, and she felt more and
more lonely. She longed for Jerry to appear
for protection's sake ; she forgot why she sought
him, and was eager to shelter herself behind
the flimsy bulwark of his manhood. She re-
buked herself presently with terrible bitterness
for a womanish wonder whether he would say,
" Why, Nancy, girl ! " and be glad to see her.
Poor woman, it was a work-laden, serious girl-
hood that had been hers, at any rate. The

MARSH ROSEMARY, 119

power of giving her whole self in unselfish, en-
thusiastic, patient devotion had not belonged to
her youth only ; it had sprung fresh and blos-
soming in her heart as every new year came
and went.

One might have seen her stealing through the
shadows, skirting the edge of a lumber-yard,
stepping among the refuse of the harbor side,
asking a question timidly now and then of
some passer-by. Yes, they knew Jerry Lane,
— his house was only a little way off ; and one
curious and compassionate Scotchman, divin-
ing by some inner sense the exciting nature of
the errand, turned back, and offered fruitlessly
to go with the stranger. "You know the
man ? " he asked. " He is his own enemy,
but doing better now that he is married. He
minds his work, I know that well ; but he 's
taken a good wife." Nancy's heart beat faster
with honest pride for a moment, until the
shadow of the ugly truth and reality made it
sink back to heaviness, and the fire of her
smouldering rage wa^ again kindled. She
would speak to Jerry face to face before she
slept, and a horrible contempt and scorn were
leady for him, as with a glance either way

120 MARSH ROSEMARY.

along the road she entered the narrow yard,
and went noiselessly toward the window of a
low, poor-looking house, from whence a bright
light was shining out into the night.

Yes, there was Jerry, and it seemed as if
she must faint and fall at the sight of him.
How young he looked still! The thought
smote her like a blow. They never were
mates for each other, Jerry and she. Her
own life was waning ; she was an old woman.

He never had been so thrifty and respect-
able before ; the other woman ought to know
the savage truth about him, for all that I But
at that moment the other woman stooped be-
side the supper table, and lifted a baby from
its cradle, and put the dear, live little thing
into its father's arms. The baby ..as wide
awake, and laughed at Jerry, who laughed
back again, and it reached up to catch at a
handful of the curly hair which had been poor
Nancy's delight.

The other woman stood there looking at
them, f idl of pride and love. She was young,
and trig, and neat. She looked a brisk, effi-
cient little creature. Perhaps Jerry would
make something of himself now; he always

MARSH ROSEMARY. 121

had it in him. The tears were running down
Nancy's cheeks ; the rain, too, had begun to
f alL She stood there watching the little house-
hold sit down to supper, and noticed with
eager envy how well cooked the food was, and
how hungrily the master of the house ate what
was put before him. All thoughts of ending
the new wife's sin and folly vanished away.
She could not enter in and break another
heart ; hers was broken already, and it would
not matter. And Nancy Lane, a widow in-
deed, crept away again, as silently as she had
come, to think what v;ras best to be done, to
find alternate woe and comfort in the memory
of the sight she had seen.

The little house at the edge of the Walpole
marshes seemed full of blessed shelter and
comfort the evening that its forsaken mistress
came back to it. Her strength was spent ; she
felt much more desolate now that she had seen
with her own eyes that Jerry Lane was alive
than when he was counted among the dead.
An uncharacteristic disregard of the laws of
the land filled this good woman's mind. Jerry
had his life to live, and she wished him no

122 MARSH ROSEMARY.

harm. She wondered often how the baby
grew. She fancied sometimes the changes
and conditions of the far - away household.
Alas I she knew only too well the weakness
of the man, and once, in a grim outburst of
impatience, she exclaimed, ''■ I 'd rather she
should have to cope with him than me I "

But that evening, when she came back from
Shediac, and sat in the dark for a long time,
lest Mrs. Elton should see the light and risk
her life in the evening air to bring unwelcome
sympathy, — that evening, I say, came the
hardest moment of all, when the Ann Floyd,
tailoress, of so many virtuous, self-respecting
years, whose idol had turned to clay, who was
shamed, disgraced, and wronged, sat down
alone to supper in the little kitchen.

She had put one cup and saucer on the ta-
ble ; she looked at them through bitter tears.
Somehow a consciousness of her solitary age,
her xmcompanioned future, rushed through her
mind; this failure of her best earthly hope
was enough to break a stronger woman's
heart.

Who can laugh at my Marsh Sosemary, or \
who can cry, for that matter ? The gray prim-

MARSH ROSEMARY. 123

ness of the plant is made up of a hundred col-
ors, if you look close enough to find them.
This same Marsh Rosemary stands in her own
place, and holds her dry leaves and tiny blos-
soms steadily toward the same sun that the
pink lotus blooms for, and the white rose.

THE DULHAM LADIES.

To be leaders of society in the town of Dul-
liam was as satisfactory to Miss Dobin and
Miss Lucinda Dobin as if Dulham were Lon-
don itself. Of late years, though they would
not allow themselves to suspect such treason,
the most ill-bred of the younger people in the
village made fun of them behind their backs,
and laughed at their treasured summer man-
tillas, their mincing steps, and the shape of
their parasols.

They were always conscious of the fact that
they were the daughters of a once eminent
Dulham minister ; but beside this unanswer-
able claim to the respect of the First Parish,
they were aware that their mother's social po-
sition was one of superior altitude. Madam
Dobin's grandmother was a Greenaple, of Bos-
ton. In her younger days she had often vis-
ited her relatives, the Greenaples and High-
trees, and in seasons of festivity she could

THE DULHAM LADIES, 125

relate to a select and properly excited audience
Her delightful experiences of town life. Noth-
ing could be finer than her account of having
taken tea at Governor Clovenfoot's on Beacon
Street in company with an English lord, who
was indulging himself in a brief vacation from
his arduous duties at the Court of St. James.

^^ He exclaimed that he had seldom seen in
England so beautiful and intelligent a com-
pany of ladies," Madam Dobin would always
say in conclusion. "He was decorated with
the blue ribbon of the IGiights of the Garter."
Miss Dobin and Miss Lucinda thought foir^
many years that this famous blue ribbon was 1
tied about the noble gentleman's leg. One
day they even discussed the question openly ;
Miss Dobin placing the decoration at his knee,
and Miss Lucinda locating it much lower
down, according to the length of the short
gray socks with which she was familiar.

" You have no imagination, Lucinda," the
elder sister replied impatiently. " Of course,
those were the days of small-clothes and long
silk stockings ! " — whereat Miss Lucinda was
rebuked, but not persuaded.

" I wish that my dear girls could have the

126 THE DULHAM LADIES.

outlook upon society which fell to my por-
tion," Madam Dobin sighed, after she had set
these ignorant minds to rights, and enriched
them by communicating the final truth about
the blue ribbon. " I must not chide you for
the absence of opportunities, but if our cousin
Harriet Greenaple were only living you would
not lack enjoyment or social education."

Madam Dobin had now been dead a great
many years. She seemed an elderly woman
to her daughters some time before she left
them ; later they thought that she had really
died comparatively young, since their own
years had come to equal the record of hers.
When they visited her tall white tombstone in
the orderly Dulham burying-ground, it was a
strange thought to both the daughters that
they were older women than their mother had
been when she died. To be sure, it was the
fashion to appear older in her day, — they
could remember the sober effect of really
youthful married persons in cap and frisette ;
but, whether they owed it to the changed times
or to their own qualities, they felt no older
themselves than ever they had. Beside up-

THE DULHAM LADIES, 127

holding the ministerial dignity of their father,
they were obliged to give a lenient sanction to
the ways of the world for their mother's sake ;
and they combined the two duties with rever-
ence and impartiaUty.

Madam Dobin was, in her prime, a walking
example of refinements and courtesies. If she
erred in any way, it was by keeping too strict
watch and rule over her small kingdom. She
acted with great dignity in all matters of so-
cial administration and etiqu^te, but, while it
must be owned that the parishioners felt a
sense of freedom for a time after her death,
in their later years they praised and valued
her more and more, and often lamented her
generously and sincerely.

Several of her distinguished relatives at-
tended Madam Dobin's funeral, which was
long considered the most dignified and elegant
pageant of that sort which had ever taken
place in Dulham. It seemed to mark the
close of a famous epoch in Dulham history,
and it was increasingly difficult forever after-
ward to keep the tone of society up to the old
standard. Somehow, the distinguished relar
tives had one by one disappeared, though they

128 THE DULHAM LADIES.

all bad excellent reasons for tHe discontinu-
ance of their visits. A few had left this world
altogether, and the family circle of the Green-
aples and Hightrees was greatly reduced in
circumference. Sometimes, in sunmier, a stray
connection drifted Dulham-ward, and was dis-
played to the townspeople (not to say pa-
raded) by the gratified hostesses. It was a
disappointment if the guest could not be per-
suaded to remain over Sunday and appear at
church. When household antiquities became
fashionable, the ladies remarked a surprising
interest in their comer cupboard and best
chairs, and some distant relatives revived their
almost forgotten custom of paying a summer
visit to Dulham. They were Aot long in find-
ing out with what desperate affection Miss
Dobin and Miss Lucinda clung to their moth-
er's wedding china and other inheritances, and
were allowed to depart without a single tea-
cup. One graceless descendant of the High-
trees prowled from garret to cellar, and ad-
mired the household belongings diligently, but
she was not asked to accept even the dislo-
cated cheny-wood footstool that she had dis-
covered in the far comer of the parsonage
pew.

THE DULHAM LADIES. 129

Some of the Dulham friends had long sus-
pected that Madam Dobin made a social mis-
step when she chose the Reverend Edward
Dobin for her husband. She was no longer
young when she married, and though she had
gone through the wood and picked up a
crooked stick at last, it made a great differ-
ence that her stick possessed an ecclesiastical
bark. The Reverend Edward was, moreover,
a respectable graduate of Harvard College,
and to a woman of her standards a clergyman
was by no means insignificant. It was impos-
sible not to respect his office, at any rate, and
she must have treated him with proper vener-
ation for the sake of that, if for no other rea-
son, though his early advantages had been in-
sufficient, and he was quite insensible to the
claims of the Greenaple pedigree, and pre-
ferred an Indian pudding to pie crust that
was, without exaggeration, half a quarter high.
The delicacy of Madam Dobin's touch and
preference in everything, from hymns to cook-
ery, was quite lost upon this respected
preacher, yet he was not without pride or
complete confidence in his own decisions.

Tlie Reverend Mr. Dobin was never very

130 THE DULHAM LADIES.

enliglitening in his discourses, and was proT-
identially stopped short by a stroke of paraly-
sis in the middle of his clerical career. He
lived on and on through many dreary years,
but his children never accepted the fact that
he was a tyrant, and served him humbly and
patiently. He fell at last into a condition of
great incapacity and chronic trembling, but
was able for nearly a quarter of a century to
be carried to the meeting-house from time to
time to pronounce farewell discourses. On
high days of the church he was jalways placed
in the pulpit, and held up his shaking hands
when the benediction was pronounced, as if
the divine gift were exclusively his own, and
the other minister did but say empty words.
Afterward, he was usually tired and displeased
and hard to cope with, but there was always a
proper notice taken of these too often recur-
ring events. For old times' and for pity's
sake and from natural goodness of heart, the
elder parishioners rallied manfully about the
Keverend Mr. Dobin ; and whoever his suc-
cessor or colleague might be, the Dobins were
always called the minister's folks, while the
active laborer in that vineyard was only Mr.

THE DULHAM LADIES. 131

Smith or Mr. Jones, as the case might be. At
last the poor old man died, to everybody's re-
lief and astonishment ; and after he was prop-
erly preached about and lamented, his daugh-
ters, Miss Dobin and Miss Lucinda, took a
good look at life from a new standpoint, and
decided that now they were no longer con-
strained by home duties they must make them-
selves a great deal more used to the town.

Sometimes there is such a household as this
(which has been perhaps too minutely de-
scribed), where the parents linger until their
children are far past middle age, and always
keep them in a too childish and unworthy state
of subjection. The Misses Dobin's characters
were much influenced by such an unnatural
prolongation of the filial relationship, and they
were amazingly slow to suspect that they were
not so young as they used to be. There was
nothing to measure themselves by but Dulham
people and things. The elm-trees were grow-
ing yet, and many of the ladies of the First
Parish were older than they, and called them,
with pleasant familiarity, the Dobin girls.
These elderly persons seemed really to be
growing old, and Miss Lucinda frequently la-

132 THE DULHAM LADIES.

mented the change in society ; she thought it
a freak of nature and too sudden blighting of
earthly hopes that several charming old friends
of her mother's were no longer living. They
were advanced in age when Miss Lucinda was
a young girl, though time and space are but
relative, after all.

Their influence upon society would have
made a great difference in many ways. Cer-
tainly, the new parishioners, who had often
enough been instructed to pronounce their
pastor's name as if it were spelled with one
" b," would not have boldly returned again
and again to their obnoxious habit of saying
Dobbin. Miss Lucinda might carefully speak
to the neighbor and new-comers of " my sister,
Miss Do-bin ; " only the select company of in-
timates followed her lead, and at last there was
something humiliating about it, even though
many persons spoke of them only as ^^the
ladies."

" The name was originally D'Aubigne^ we
think," Miss Lucinda would say coldly and
patiently, as if she had already explained this
foolish mistake a thousand times too often.
It was like the sorrows in many a provincial

THE DULHAM LADIES, 188

cliS.teau in the Keign of Terror. The ladies
looked on with increasing dismay at the retro-
gression in society. They felt as if they were
a feeble garrison, to whose lot it had fallen to
repulse a noisy, irreverent mob, an increasing
band of marauders who would overthrow all
land-marks of the past, all etiquette and social
rank. The new minister himself was a round-
faced, unspiritual-looking young man, whom
they would have instinctively ignored if he had
not been a minister. The new people who
came to Dulham were not like the older resi-
dents, and they had no desire to be taught bet-
ter. Little they cared about the Greenaples
or the Hightrees ; and once, when Miss Dobin
essayed to speak of some detail of her mother's
brilliant opportunities in Boston high life, she
was interrupted, and the new-comer who sat
next her at the parish sewing society began to
talk about something else. We cannot believe
that it could have been the tearparty at Gov-
ernor Clovenfoot's which the rude creature so
disrespectfully ignored, but some persons are
capable of showing any lack of good taste.
. The ladies had an unusual and most painful
sense of failure, as they went home together

134 THE DULHAM LADIES.

that evening. '^ I have always made it my ob-
ject to improve and interest the people at such
times ; it would seem so possible to ~ elevate
their thoughts and direct them into higher
channels," said Miss Dobin sadly. '^ But as
'or that Woolden woman, there is no use in
casting peark before swine ! »

Miss Lucinda murmured an indignant as-
sent. She had a secret suspicion that the
Woolden woman had heard the story in ques-
tion oftener than had pleased her. She was
but an ignorant creature ; though she had lived
in Dulham twelve or thirteen years, she was no
better than when she came. The mistake was
in treating sister Harriet as if she were on a
level with the rest of the company. Miss Lu-
cinda had observed more than once, lately, that
her sister sometimes repeated herself, uncon-
sciously, a little oftener than was agreeable.
Perhaps they were getting a trifle dull ; toward
spring it might be well to pass a few days with
some of their friends, and have a change.

" If I have tried to do anything," said Miss
Dobin in an icy tone, ^^ it has been to stand
firm in my lot and place, and to hold the stan-
dard of cultivated mind and elegant manners

THE DULHAM LADIES. 185

as high as possible. You would think it had
been a hundred years since our mother's death,
so completely has the effect of her good breed-
ing and exquisite hospitality been lost sight of,
here in Dulham. I could wish that our father
had chosen to settle in a larger and more ap-
preciative place. They would like to put us
on the shelf, too. I can see that plainly."

*'*' I am sure we have our friends," said Miss
Lucinda anxiously, but with a choking voice.
^^ We must not let them think we do not mean
to keep up with the times, as we always have.
I do feel as if perhaps — our hair " —

And the sad secret was out at last. Each
of the sisters drew a long breath of relief at
this beginning of a confession.

It was certain that they must take some steps
to retrieve their lost ascendency. Public at-
tention had that evening been called to their
fast-disappearing locks, poor ladies ; and Miss
Lucinda felt the discomfort most, for she had
been the inheritor of the Hightree hair, long
and curly, and chestnut in color. There used
to be a waviness about it, and sometimes pretty
escaping curls, but these were gone long ago.
Miss Dobin resembled her father, and her hair

136 THE DULHAM LADIES.

had not been luxuriant, so that she was less
changed by its absence than one might sup-
pose. The straightness and thinness had in-
creased so gradually that neither sister had
quite accepted the thought that other persons
would particularly notice their altered appear-
ance.

They had shrunk, with the reticence bom of
close family association, from speaking of the
cause even to each other, when they made
themselves pretty little lace and dotted muslin
caps. Breakfast caps, they called them, and
explained that these were universally worn in
town ; the young Princess of Wales originated
them, or at any rate adopted them. The ladies
offered no apology for keeping the breakfast
caps on until bedtime, and in spite of them a
forward child had just spoken, loud and shrill,
an untimely question in the ears of the for
once silent sewing society. "Do Miss Dob-
bmses wear them great caps because their bare
heads is cold ? " the little beast had said ; and
everybody was startled and dismayed.

Miss Dobin had never shown better her good
breeding and valor, the younger sister thought.

" No, little girl," replied the stately Harriet,

THE DULHAM LADIES, 187

with a chilly smile. ^^ I believe that our head-
dresses are quite in the fashion for ladies of
all ages. And you must remember that it is
never polite to make such personal remarks."
It was after this that Miss Dobin had been re-
minded of Madam Somebody's unusual head-
gear at the evening entertainment in Boston.
Nobody but the Woolden woman could have
interrupted her under such trying circum-
stances.

Miss Lucinda, however, was certain that the
time had come for making some effort to re-
place her lost adornment. The child had told
an unwelcome truth, but had paved the way
for further action, and now was the time to
suggest something that had slowly been taking
shape in Miss Lucinda's mind. A young
grand-nephew of their mother and his bride
had passed a few days with them, two or three
Biunmers before, and the sisters had been quite
shocked to find that the pretty young woman
wore a row of frizzes, not originally her own,
over her smooth forehead. At the time, Miss
Dobin and Miss Lucinda had spoken severely
with each other of such bad taste, but now it
made a great difference that the wearer of the

188 THE DULHAM LADIES,

frizzes was not only a relative by marriage and
used to good society, but also that she came
from town, and might be supposed to know
what was proper in the way of toilet.

'^ I really think, sister, that we had better
see about having some — arrangements, next
time we go anywhere," Mig(s Dobin said unex-
pectedly, with a slight tremble in her voice,
just as they reached their own door. " There
seems to be quite a fashion for them nowadays.
For the parish's sake we ought to recognize "
— and Miss Lucinda responded with instant
satisfaction. She did not like to complain,
but she had been troubled with neuralgic pains
in her forehead on suddenly meeting the cold
air. The sisters felt a new bond of sympathy
in keeping this secret with and for each other ;
they took pains to say to several acquaintances
that they were thinking of going to the next
large town to do a few errands for Christmas.

A bright, sunny morning seemed to wish the
ladies good-fortune. Old Hetty Downs, their
faithful maid-servant and protector, looked
after them in affectionate foreboding. ^^ Dear
sakes, what devil's wiles may be played on
them blessed innocents afore they 're safe

;.

>

THE DULHAM LADIES. 189

home again ! " she murmured, as they van-
ished round the comer of the street that led to
the railway station.

Miss Dobin and Miss Lueinda paced dis-
creetly side by side down the main street of
Westbury. It was nothing like Boston, of
course, but the noise was slightly confusing,
and the passers-by sometimes roughly pushed
against them. Westbury was a consequential
mjanuf acturing town, but a great convenience
at times like this. The trifling Christmas
gifts for their old neighbors and Sunday-school
scholars were purchased and stowed away in
their neat Fayal basket before the serious com-
mission of the day was attended to. Here and
there, in the shops, disreputable frizzes were
displayed in unblushing effrontery, but no such
vulgar shopkeeper merited the patronage of
the Misses Dobin. They pretended not to
observe the unattractive goods, and went their
way to a low, one-storied building on a side
street, where an old tradesman lived. He had
been useful to the minister while he still re-
mained upon the earth and had need of a wig,
sandy in hue and increasingly sprinkled with
gray, as if it kept pace with other changes of

(

140 THE DULHAM LADIES.

existence. But old Paley's shutters were up,
and a bar of rough wood was nailed firmly
across the one that had lost its fastening and
would rack its feeble hinges in the wind. Old
Paley had always been polite and bland ; they
really had looked forward to a little chat with
him ; they had heard a year or two before of
his wife's death, and meant to offer sympathy.
His business of hair-dressing had been carried
on with that of parasol and umbrella mending,
and the condemned umbrella which was his
sign cracked and swung in the rising wind, a
tattered skeleton before the closed door. The
ladies sighed and turned away ; they were be-
ginning to feel tired; the day wa« long, and
they had not met with any pleasures yet. '^ We
might walk up the street a little farther," sug-
gested Miss Lucinda ; '^ that is, if you are not
tired," as they stood hesitating on the comer
after they had finished a short discussion of
Mr. Paley's disappearance. Happily it was
only a few minutes before they came to a stop
together in front of a new, shining shop, where
smirking waxen heads all in a row were decked
with the latest fashions of wigs and frizzes.
One smiling fragment of a gentleman stared

THE DULHAM LADIES. 141

so straight at Miss Lucinda with his black eyes
that she felt quite coy and embarrassed, and
was obliged to feign not to be conscious of his
admiration. But Miss Dobin, after a brief
delay, boldly opened the door and entered ; it
was better to be sheltered in the shop than ex-
posed to public remark as they gazed in at the
windows. Miss Lucinda felt her heart beat
and her courage give out; she, coward like,
left the transaction of their business to her
sister, and turned to contemplate the back of
the handsome model. It was a slight shock to
find that he was not so attractive from this
point of view. The wig he wore was well
made all round, but his shoulders were roughly
finished in a substance that looked like plain
plaster of Paris.

" What can I have ze pleasure of showing
you, young ladeed ? " asked a person who ad-
vanced ; and Miss Lucinda faced about to dis-
cover a smiling, middle-aged Frenchman, who
rubbed his hands together and looked at his
customers, first one and then the other, with
delightful deference. He seemed a very civil,
nice person, the young ladies thought.

^ My sister and I were thinking of buying

142 THE DULHAM LADIES.

some little arrangements to wear above the
forehead." Miss Dobin explained, with par
thetic dignity ; but the Frenchman spared her
any farther words. He looked with eager in-
terest at the bonnets, as if no lack had attracted
his notice before. " Ah, yes. Je comprends ;
ze high foreheads are not now ze mode. Je
prefer them, moi, yes, yes, but ze ladies must
accept ze fashion ; zay must now cover ze fore-
head with ze frizzes, ze bangs, you say. As
you wis', as you wis' I " and the tactful little
man, with many shrugs and merry gestures at
such girlish fancies, pulled down one box af-
ter another.

It was a great relief to find that this was no
worse, to say the least, than any other shop-
ping, though the solemnity and secrecy of
the occasion were infringed upon by the great
supply of ** arrangements " and the loud dis-
cussion of the color of some crimps a noisy girl
was buying from a young saleswoman the other
side of the shop.

Miss Dobin waved aside the wares which
were being displayed for her approvaL
"Something — more simple, if you please,"
— she did not like to say " older."

THE DULHAM LADIES, 148

"But these are tr^s simple^'* protested the
Frenchman. " We have nothing younger ; "
and Miss Dobin and Miss Lueinda blushed,
and said no more. The Frenchman had his
own way ; he persuaded them that nothing was
so suitable as some conspicuous forelocks that
matched their hair as it used to be. They
would have given anything rather than leave
their breakfast caps at home, if they had
known that their proper winter bonnets must
come off. They hardly listened to the wig
merchant's glib voice as Miss Dobin stood re-
vealed before the merciless mirror at the back
of the shop.

He made everything as easy as possible, the
friendly creature, and the ladies were grateful
to him. Beside, now that the bonnet was on
again there was a great improvement in Miss
Dobin's appearance. She turned to Miss
Lueinda, and saw a gleam of delight in her
eager countenance. " It really is very becom-
ing. I like the way it parts over your fore-
head," said the younger sister, " but if it were
long enough to go behind the ears " — " Non^
non^'* entreated the Frenchman. " To make
her the old woman at once would be cruelty ! "

144 THE DULHAM LADIES.

And Lucinda who was wondering how well
she would look in her turn, succumbed
promptly to such protestations. Yes, there
was no use in being old before their time.
Dulham was not quite keeping pace with the
rest of the world in these days, but they need
not drag behind everybody else, just because
they lived there.

The price of the little arrangements was
much less than the sisters expected, and the
imcomfortable expense of their reverend fa-
ther's wigs had been, it was proved, a thing
of the past. Miss Dobin treated her polite
Frenchman with great courtesy ; indeed, Miss
Lucinda had more than once whispered to her
to talk French, and as they were bowed out of
the shop the gracious Bong-8ure of the elder
lady seemed to act like the string of a shower-
bath, and bring down an awesome torrent of
foreign words upon the two guileless heads.
It was impossible to reply ; the ladies bowed
again, however, and Miss Lucinda caught a
last smile from the handsome wax countenance
in the window. He appeared to regard her
with fresh approval, and she departed down
the street with mincing steps.

THE DULHAM LADIES. 145

** I feel as if anybody might look at me now,
sister," said gentle Miss Lucinda. ^^ I confess,
I baye really suffered sometimes, since I knew
I looked so distressed."

*' Yours is lighter than I thought it was in
the shop," remarked Miss Dobin, doubtfully,
but she quickly added that perhaps it would
change a little. She was so perfectly satisfied
with her own appearance that she could not
bear to dim the pleasure of any one else. The
truth remained that she never would have let
Lucinda choose that particular arrangement if
she had seen it first in a good light. And
Lucinda was thinking exactly the same of her
companion.

'' I am sure we shall have no more neural-
gia," said Miss Dobin. " I am sorry we waited
so long, dear," and they tripped down the main
street of Westbury, confident that nobody
would suspect them of being over thirty. In-
deed, they felt quite girlish, and unconsciously,
looked sideways as they went along, to see their
satisfying reflections in the windows. The
great panes made excellent mirrors, with not
too clear or lasting pictures of these comforted
passers-by.

146 THE DULHAM LADIES.

The Frenchman in the shop was making
merry with his assistants. The two great fris-
ettes had long been out of fashion ; he had been
lying in wait with them for two unsuspecting
coimtry ladies, who could be cajoled into such
a purchase.

*^ Sister," Miss Lucinda was saying, ''you
know there is still an hour to wait before our
train goes. Suppose we take a little longer
walk down the other side of the way ; " and
they strolled slowly back again. In fact,
they nearly miased the train, naughty girls I
Hetty would have been so worried, they as-
sured each other, but they reached the station
just in time.

"Lutie," said Miss Dobin, "put up your
hand and part it from your forehead ; it seems
to be getting out of place a little ; " and Miss
Lucinda, who had just got breath enough to
speak, returned the information that Miss
Dobin's was almost covering her eyebrows.
They might have to trim them a little shorter;
of course it could be done. The darkness was
falling ; they had taken an early dinner before
they started, and now they were tired and hun-
gry after the exertion of the afternoon, but the

THE DULHAM LADIES, 147

spirit of youth flamed afresh in their hearts,
and they were very happy. If one's heart re-
mains yotmg, it is a sore trial to have the out-
ward appearance entirely at variance. It was
the ladies' nature to be girlish, and they found
it impossible not to be grateful to the flimsy,
ineffectual disguise which seemed to set them
right with the world. The old conductor, who
had known them for many years, looked hard
at them as he took their tickets, and, being a
man of humor and compassion, affected not to
notice anything remarkable in their appear-
ance. " You ladies never mean t© grow old,
like the rest of us," he said gallantly, and the
sisters fairly quaked with joy.

" Bless us ! " the obnoxious Mrs. Woolden
was saying, at the other end of the car.
" There 's the old maid Dobbinses, and they
've bought 'em some bangs. I expect they
wanted to get thatched in a little before real
cold weather ; but don't they look just like a
pair o' poodle dogs."

The little ladies descended wearily from the
train. Somehow they did not enjoy a day's
shopping as much as they used. They were
certainly much obliged to Hetty for sending

148 THE DULHAM LADIES.

her niece's boy to meet them, with a lantern ;
also for having a good warm supper ready
when they came in. Hetty took a quick look
at her mistresses, and returned to the kitchen.
" I knew somebody would be foolin* of 'em,"
she assured herself angrily, but she had to
laugh. Their dear, kind faces were wrinkled
and pale, and the great frizzes had lost their
pretty curliness, and were hanging down, al-
most straight and very ugly, into the ladies'
eyes. They could not tuck them up under their
caps, as they were sure might be done.

Then came a succession of rainy days, and
nobody visited the rejuvenated household. The
frisettes looked very bright chestnut by the
light of day, and it must be confessed that
Miss Dobin took the scissors and shortened
Miss Lucinda's half an inch, and Miss Lucinda
returned the compliment quite secretly, be-
cause each thought her sister's forehead lower
than her own. Their dear gray eyebrows were
honestly displayed, as if it were the fashion
not to have them match with wigs. Hetty at
last spoke out, and begged her mistresses, as
they sat at breakfast, to let her take the frizzes
back and change them. Her sister's daugh-

THE DULHAM LADIES. 149

ter worked in that very shop, and, though in
the work-room, would be able to oblige them,
Hetty was sure.

But the ladies looked at each other in pleased
assurance, and then turned together to look at
Hetty, who stood already a little apprehensive
near the table, where she had just put down
a plateful of smoking drop-cakes. The good
creature really began to look old.

" They are worn very much in town," said
Miss Dobin. " We think it was quite fortu-
nate that the fashion came in just as our hair
was growing a trifle thin. I dare say we may
choose those that are a shade duller in color
when these are a little past. Oh, we shall not
want tea this evening, you remember, Hetty.
I am glad there is likely to be such a good
night for the sewing circle." And Miss Dobin
and Miss Lucinda nodded and smiled.

" Oh, my sakes alive I " the troubled hand-
maiden groaned. " Going to the circle, be
they, to be snickered at ! Well, the Dobbin
girls they was born, and the Dobbin girls they
will remain till they die ; but if they ain't in-
nocent Christian babes to those that knows 'em
well, mark me down for an idjit myself I They

160 THE DULHAM LADIES,

, believe them front-pieces has set the clock back
forty year or more, but if they 're pleased to
think so, let 'em ! "

Away paced the Dolham ladies, late in the
afternoon, to grace the parish occasion, and
face the amused scrutiny of their neighbors.
^^ I think we owe it to society to observe the
fashions of the day," said Miss Lucinda. ^^A_
lady cannot a«fford to be unattractive. I feel /
now as if we were prepared for anything ! " /

A BUSINESS MAN.
I.

If a man chooses a profession it is, or ought
to be, with other desires than that of growing
rich. He may wish to be skillful and learned
as a means of self-development and helping
his fellow-men, and if he is successful nobody
has a right to sneer at him because he does not
make a fortune. But when most men enter
a mercantile life it is with the acknowledged
purpose of making money. The world has a
right, too, to look on with interest to find
what they do with tiieir money afterward.
Dollars are of primary consideration to the
standing of a business man, and are only sec-
ondary to a clergyman or a doctor — that is,
when one judges by pubKc rather than private
conditions and indications of success. Yet the
money-getter may win great wealth, and fail
completely of reaching his highest value, and
reward, and satisfaction as a human being.

.\

I

162 A BUSINESS MAN.

i y , y People often said that there was something
y ^ ^ /^ ^^ blood of the Cravens (their true name
^ ^ i \ /shall be a secret) which hungered for posse^-
^ « ' sion and was always seeking to gratify its love

of acquisition. John Craven, the proud inher-
itor of a name already well known in business
circles, certainly loved the thought of his
thousands and hundred thousands. He felt a
vast pleasure in letting his eyes glance down
the columns of figures in his private account-
book — a gratified sense of security and abun-
dance which none of the fruits of his wealth
had power to bestow. The fine house in which
he lived, his handsome young children, all
failed to be so completely rewarding to his eye
and heart as the special page or two where
the chief items of his property were repre-
sented by straight-stenmied fours and ones
and delicately-curved threes and sixes and
nines. He was a man who never directly
wronged any one, but who was determined to
succeed and to make money. He thought lit-
tle of his personal relation to society, and still
less of his relation to the next world. All his
mind was bent upon making a splendid finan-
cial success, and though early in life this end

A BUSINESS MAN. 153

was gained, he still went on planning great
gains and glories, and looked upon himself as
one of the younger business men of his city,
until long after he was a grandfather.

Then the tide of satisfaction seemed at last
to turn. One thing after another forced him
to waver and to hesitate in these great manip-
ulations of his capitaL Mr. Craven was keen
and quick to grasp his business opportunities,
but little things annoyed him, and he became
sensitive where once he had been indifferent.
He was just transferring his chief office and
warehouse to a noble nfw building, when for
the first time in his life he became seriously
ill, and from necessity his eldest son was pro-
moted temporarily to the head of the business.

It was a strange surprise when the family
physician told him that he could no longer bear
what he could once ; that a man of his years
must favor himself ; and finally advised that
a few months in Europe would do him the
much needed good. John Craven was start-
led and angry at first ; he had always looked
forward to such a holiday, and had already
enjoyed foreign sights by proxy, since his fam-
ily had crossed the ocean repeatedly, like other

154 A BUSINESS MAN.

families of their social station. But this
seemed to mean only that the girls wished to
go again, and at first he emphatically refused
to be made the victim of such a conspiracy.

When he visited his place of business, how-
ever, after his illness, he was made somewhat
low spirited. The new warehouse was occu-''
pied now, and it was fatiguingly large and
noisy. Young John was getting on very well ;
he mis^ht be all the more use by and by if he
had the chance of trying hi« hLd now. He
could not do much mischief, the elder man
thought, as he sank into his great cushioned
chair with a little sigh. He had meant to
give orders that his familiar desk and wooden
armchair should be brought from the old
counting-room, but it was too late now, and to
be sure they would be quite out of place in all
this magnificence of plate glass and mahogany.
Yes,XS was right ; thif new office wTin
keeping with the position of the firm, and the
senior partner looked into his new safe with
pride and approval, and complimented his son
upon the way he had managed things. The
old grandfather who had trained him used to
sit on a high stool, and wear a green baize

A BUSINESS MAN, 165

jacket, in the first dingy counting-room. " He
started us — he started us," said John Craven
to himself ; then he felt a little shaky and sat
down again, saying that he would not go
through the house until next day, perhaps.
He had hardly got back his strength, but Jack
might bring the statements. There were a
number of new clerks even in the inner ofiKce,
and one had a crafty, small face. ^' I don't
like that fellow's looks," he muttered. ^^ Who
got him here, I should like to know I " But
Jack responded, with wounded pride, that this
was the smartest book-keeper in New York ;
he had been trying to get him into their em-
ploy for a year.

Somehow, for the first time John Craven
was conscious that he was getting to be old.
He grumbled something about the boys pull-
ing and hauling him and his affairs, and wish,
ing him out of their way. The pomp of the
new counting-room, the self-sufficiency of Jack,
dazzled and angered him not a little. He had
thought it indispensable to the welfare of this
great business that he should not miss a day
at his desk, all through the busiest times of
the year. But here was the establishment

156 A BUSINESS MAN.

running along on its manifold and ponderous
track, just as well as if he had been at the
post of guidance. Well, not every man had
given his affairs such a good momentum ; he
had only followed out the founder's principles,
too, and he thought again of the sturdy grand-
father in the baize jacket. After all, it was
good for the son and successor; he would
stand well in the row of John Cravens. Jack
was married and settled. He had as hand-
some a house as his father's, a block higher up
the avenue. The rascal had even grown a
little patronizing of late, but John Craven,
the elder, had no intention of being called an
old man yet.

There were some questions to ask about the
real estate investments that day, but Jack
could not answer for these. Walter had been
looking after that part of the property, and
Walter was out of town. " So they had di-
vided the responsibility between them, had
they ? " the father grumbled ; but Jack brought
a great handftd of cheques and papers to be
signed, and the two men lunched and joked
together. The firm was already larger than
the senior partner approved. It was no use

A business' MAN, 167

to talk about adding another member. But
Jack took advantage of his father's smiles to
suggest the admission of a brother-in-law, the
husband of the youngest daughter. " I '11
think it over," replied the chief, turning to
look for his penholder. "No, his capital is
no inducement. We 're carrying sail enough
for the present, unless times change for the
better."

Jack went back to his own desk a little an-
noyed. He did not like to give up his author-
ity. Was it only a month since the old gentle-
man had been away ? It seemed like a year.

II.

John Graven took the doctor's advice, after
all, and went to Europe. He had felt strangely
weak and unequal to much effort ever since his
illness, and he grasped at the promised re-
newal of his health. There was great satisfac-
tion at meeting some of his old correspondents
on the other side ; he wholly enjoyed his jour-
neyings, and was satisfied with the careful re-
ports from home. He was proud, too, of some

(.

158 A BUSINESS MAN,

new outlooks and connections which he suc-
ceeded in forming. " In a business way," he
was fond of saying to his wife, '^ the time had
been well spent." But Mrs. Craven lost no
chance of urging her husband to give up the
business to the boys. He had overworked him-
self, she pleaded over and over again, it was
no use to break down his health altogether. He
knew very well now that he could not bear what
he could once. The truth was, the ways of do-
ing business were changing — these submarine
telegraphs were doing as much harm as good,
llie time had gone by when a man could get
private advices of a rise in values, and quickly
increase his stock to control the market. Now,
what one knew the rest knew, and it was simply
a question of who could sell cheapest. John
Craven talked it^OTer agaiH and again with
idling merchants like himself.

Not long after their return the great sorrow
of his life came to him in his wife's death. It
was harder to bear the loss then than it ever
could have been before. They had loved each
other with a sober, undemonstrative affection,
which was as permanent and unquestioned as
the air they breathed. In the earlier years.

A BUSINESS MAN, 159

while he was immersed, as he often said, in
business cares, and the good woman was careful
and troubled about many things, — her grow-
ing children, her household, and her social rela-
tions, — they had gone their separate ways
without much reference to each other, satisfied
with a mutual confidence and inspiration. For
the first time in these later months they had
sometimes spent all the hours of the days to-
gether, and had been more lover-like and affec-
tionate than ever before. They sometimes
talked in the long twilights of the English
lakes or the soft sunshine of Italy about what
they would do together when they reached
home ; and John Craven felt less annoyance at
the thought of his boys' business capacity. He
would have more time at home than ever be-
fore; he even grew interested in his wife's
small charitable enterprises, and lent a willing
ear to her confidences, and knew at last what
good his generous cheques had done in pub-
lic and private needs. He had never found
time to think much of these things. But alas,
good Mrs. Craven died after a short illness,
within a week or two of their arrival home,
and the great house with its unpacked treas-

160 ' A BUSINESS MAN.

^r^ which they had chosen together, was left

(desolate.

It was harder than ever for this business
man to assure himself that a man need not be
old at his age ; but somehow he had let go his
active oversight of affairs, while he could sum-
mon no interest to fill the place of that to which
he had given all his time and thought. He
cared nothing for books or for art, or, saddest
of all, his fashionable daughter thought, for
society* He had given away much money be-
cause others ,£isi2£U2tad. it,- JbaJLbe .had., never
pivenvhims elf with his dol lars. He was some-
times angry with the boys, and sometimes
thankful to give up his responsibility, but he
wished such relinquishment to be voluntary ;
it should not be taken for granted. His daugh-
ters were eager to have their share of his favor ;
they came to him with stories of the boys' as-
sumption of authority and precedence. They
were all dependent upon him in one way or an-
other, and John Craven told himself more than
once that he should like to see one of the crowd
who had made his own way in the world. They
were all respectful and affectionate. The girls
told him again and again that they were so

A BUSINESS MAN. J61

glad that their husbands were able to relieve
him of care, and were men he could trust. Yes,
he surely had a great deal to be thankful for ;
it seemed to be nobody's fault that he was laid
on the shelf. Jack w^s sometimes overbearing
and self-confident about the business. It was
amazing that he himself, who had been counted
one of the most daring, far-sighted, and enter-
prising men of his day, shoidd be constantly
made to feel that he was an old fogy and fast
drifting astern of the times. Who should un-
derstand the times if not a man of his experi-
ence ? As the long months went by, the days
when he did not go to his ofiKce were of more
and more frequent occurrence. The chief value
of his presence seemed to be for the subscrip-
tion Usts, which by no means passed him by,
and one day there was a vehement outbreak of
anger against young Jack, who had ventured
to suggest the propriety of a smaller sum than
his father had seen fit to bestow. ^^ You may
be making money, but whose money are you
making it with," the old man demanded, while
Jack spoke soothingly and glanced round at
the other desks. He did not look as if he
would like to knock his father down, as he

16? A BUSINESS MAN.

used in case of differences when they both were
younger, and the senior partner was injured by
this slighting of their present equality. ^^ You
treat me as if I were an old woman," he said,
and went away. Jack was such an insufferable
prig, and there was Jack's boy, who ought to
be at a desk, already parading about the park
with his dog cart and saddle-horses — a good-
f or-nothing dandy. Times had changed in-
deed!

m.

When Mr. Craven did not go down town in
the morning he sometimes took his stick and
walked eastward along the street that made a
right angle with the avenue nearest his house.
He did not like to meet his acquaintances,
even ladies, in business hours, but he found it
amusing to^watch the progress of some build-
ings not a great distance away. The contrast
between this district and the region of his ovm
home was very striking, though he found him-
self by no means in the most squalid portion
of his native city. On the contrary, there was
even a sort of thrif tiness. John Craven had

A BUSINESS MAN. 163

more than once complimented the good land-
lord, whoever he might be, of one long row of
small brick houses. The occupants were evi-
dently people of small means, but most re-
spectable and orderly, and at the end of the
block was a shop or two — a druggist's, and a
gay little place which held out inducements to
womankind, of thread and needles, neckties,
and even letter-paper amd calico prints. ^^ Good
thing, good thing," the rich ex-merchant would
say approvingly, " if only the women don't
waste their time, and travel way down to Stew-
art's for every spool of cotton,"

It happened that John Craven walked slowly
by one morning just as the owner of this place
of business was opening his shutters. He was
a bright-faced young man of two or three and
twenty, and the elderly gentleman hesitated,
then stopped and said good-morning.

The young man looked around cheerfully.
" Good-day, sir," he answered ; " can I do any-
thing for you in my line ? " And Mr. Craven
smiled benignantly, without committing him-
self to any definite reply. " You are on time,
I see," he said presently, tapping the pave-
ment with his cane as the proprietor fastened

164 A BUSINESS MAN.

the shutter back with a sufficient snap. Theie
was only one window to the little store, but its
contents were most alluringly arranged. " Yes,
sir, time 's money," answered the admiring
owner of the trifling wares. " I should be glad
to have you step inside," and with a glance
along the street toward the avenue, Mr. Craven
accepted the invitation. It was still early in
the morning, he had not been sleeping well of
late, and his luxurious household was hardly
astir. His eldest daughter had come home
with her family to keep the house for him after
her mother*s death. Her husband was the least
prosperous of the sons or sons-in-law, and to
tell the truth John Craven was not at all fond
of him, and never had been.

There was something delightfully cordial
and sincere in the younger merchant's hospi-
tality. At any rate it was stronger than his
guest's reasons for not accepting it, and Mr.
Craven bowed gravely and went in at the door.
He took no notice of anything in particular.
The cheap goods did not invite his attention
in detail, but he seated himself on one of the
two light stools which were provided for the
comfort of possible customers, and asked, look-

A BUSINESS MAN. 165

ing about Urn in an interested way, how long
the business had been established.

" Only a month or two," answered the young
man, and a boyish color spread quickly over
his face. " I hope there 's a good chance here 1
I don't see why I shouldn't do well. I seem
to have the good-will of the neighborhood, so
far. There are some dressmakers near by
who do a pile of work: one of them does
stitching and finishing for Madame Blanc, and
has all she can carry. I ^ any orders, you
know, for goods I don't carry in stock. I hope
I shall do well here, and I don't mind saying
I shall sell out the business when it gets to be
worth anything, and strike for something bet-
ter. I wish I was a little nearer the avenue.
I know a fellow who keeps a first-rate class of
goods up in Thirtieth Street that 's getting
rich. You see the seamstresses m some of the
big houses give Hm all their trade, and about
keep him going."

Mr. Craven returned the hopeful smile of
his entertainer, and slowly unfastened his over-
coat. He felt a little tired and lonely that
morning, and did not wear the look of a pros-
perous man. The coat itself was a comfort-

166 A BUSINESS MAN.

able old one he bad insisted upon keeping
wben bis daughter had suggested the presenta-
tion of it to a deserving German mother to
make over for her children. Somehow Mr.
Craven liked to wear it in these morning walks
away from the avenue. The buttons were
loose, and one of them actually came off at this
moment and rolled behind some boxes that
were piled at the end of the counter. William
Chellis the shopkeeper looked after it, but
some instinct that he could hardly explain led
him to ignore the trivial accident. The old
gentleman looked as if he had seen better days.
The button-holes of the coat were frayed, and
a bit of the lining was hanging. Chellis had
often seen the old fellow go by about this time
in the morning, stopping once in a whUe to
speak to some children, or to exchange greet-
ings with the bricklayers who were tending
the great mortar-box in front of the new block.
They talked together for a few minutes in a
friendly way. Chellis was arranging his wares,
and when the visitor rose to go he darted for-
ward to open the door for him. " I should be
pleased to have you drop in any time, sir," he
said, with pleasant deference. '' I hope you '11

A BUSINESS MAN. 167

remember to mention the store if you have
any ladies at home. My goods are mostly in
their line."

" Do you keep pins? " asked Mr. Craven,
turning back with evident pleasure, to make
an investment in four papei*s. He could find
somebody to give them to, and there was a
satisfaction in putting the little package in his
pocket. He was used to writing cheques for
his purchases, and was a little uncertain, as he
took some change from his waistcoat pocket,
about the state of his present finances.

*' There never is much doing this time in the
morning," explained the proprietor. " My cus-
tomers either come toward night, or run over
here at noon time. I ought to have somebody
to help me, for I shut up now when I go down
town to fill my orders. I want to get on as
cheap as I can, though, for the present. All
great things must have a beginning," he added
as he opened the door the second time. There
was something delightfully fresh and energetic
about the young man. John Craven sighed to
remember that there was a time when his own
future lay all before him. The winter wind
had risen and was whirling the dust and bits

168 A BUSINESS MAN,

of paper along the bare payement, and as he
went away toward the avenue, he had to stop
more than once and turn his back to the un-
wholesome gale. He happened to be just op-
posite a window at one time, where a sweet-
faced young girl sat sewing busily. There were
some half-finished garments on the table beside
her ; a very pretty girl she was, and she looked
frankly up at the elderly man, and even gave
him a bright smile of unconscious sympathy
and friendliness.

The whole day afterward, while the wind
blew and the weather was cold, and a few flakes
of snow clicked against the windows, John
Craven sat by the library fire trying to read
newspapers and dozing and meditating by
turns. He tried once or twice to allure his
younger grandchildren down to keep him com-
pany, but they were needed up-stairs to prac-
tice for a famous fancy baU in aid of some chil-
dren's hospital. They were to have fine cos-
tumes and be prominent in the dances, and
could only chatter to him of these things if
they stayed* Their mother had rebuked him
for staying out of doors so long on a chilly
morning. He was late to breakfast, and she

A BUSINESS MAN. 169

reproached him for making her uneasy. He
might have a fall any day, or be knocked over
by the passing carts.

" I should like to have my liberty," the old
man answered, with more severity than was
usual with him. He did not feel so old as
other people seemed to consider him — life was
not very amusing of late. But certainly he
was much interested in his new acquaintance
of the side street. '^ I '11 watch that lad," Mr.
Craven assured himseK, ''and by and by, if
he does well, I '11 let him have some capital."
While, with rare sentiment, he also wondered
if the nice girl who sewed by the window and
the brisk young merchant were aware of each
other's existence.

The question was answered no later than
the next morning but one. Between the two
interviews a serious trial came to our hero.
He had been vastly punctual at the fortnightly
meetings of a certain notable company, of
which he had been chief originator, and had
clung more and more of late to this one of the
last of his active business duties. He felt un-
usually clear and capable as he entered the
directors' room, but being early he was adroit- .

170 A BUSINESS MAN,

ly tendered a suggestion that he should resign
his place on the board in favor of his son Jack.
He could find no fault with the delicate man-
ner in which this suggestion was made. There
was a troublesome, decrepit old fellow, who
had been in the way for half a dozen years,
and it was proposed that the two senior direc-
tors should be put on a sort of retired list. The
friend who spoke alluded to the annoyance
Mr. Craven must receive from his feeling of
obligation to attend the meetings now that he
had shaken off so entirely the cares of business.
He held so large an interest in the property
that it would not have done to remove him
from a part in its active control, except
through his own agency, and John Craven,
who was a proud man, told himself with a flash
of anger that this was some of Jack's doings,
and quietly acquiesced. '^ They knock the old
folks on the head in the South Sea Islands,"
he grumbled next day, when he saw a too
prompt series of resolutions on his retirement
included in the financial report of his com-
pany. He wondered if his wife knew how
lonely he was, and counted up with surprise
the months since she had been taken away
from him.

A BUSINESS MAN, 171

The morning afterward was clear and spring,
like, and lie went out earlier than usual. The
pleasant weather was in itself a comfort, and
he found himself taking quicker steps than
usual toward the little store. It was already
open, and there was a customer who turned a
not unfamiliar face toward the door as Mr.
Craven opened it. The two young people
were talking eagerly, and both blushed a little
in a pretty, conscious way, and said good-
morning, as if the new-comer were an old
friend. *' This is a pleasanter day than when
I had to come to a halt next your window,"
said the old gentleman, gallantly. He had
bfcen hurrjring, and was glad to accept the seat
which the younger man pushed toward him.

" There were a few little things I thought
they could make use of at the house," said Mr.
Craven presently, to explain his appearance —
but he did not look about for the necessary
goods. " How are you getting on ? " he asked,
in a benevolent and paternal fashion, and they
turned to acquaint this friendly stranger with
an assurance of their excellent prospects.
Evidently the young people had a very partic-
ular interest in each other, and Mr. Craven

172 A BUSINESS MAN,

became sure that their marriage depended
upon youDg Chellis's future income. There
was a debt of a few hundred dollars on the
stock ; it had been a tremendous venture for
the feUow, and the wise old business man
shook his head, as he was made to understand
the position of affairs. '* If you could only-
pay off those accounts now/' he said soberly,
'^ so that you could be handling for yourself
the money that is coming in." And young
Chellis looked wistful and determined as he
nodded his head in assent.

There was a painful silence of a moment or
two which Chellis himself broke. ^^ You lost
a button off your coat when you were in da^
before yesterday morning, sir. I found it after-
ward and laid it by. Miss Brooks has got a
needle with her now, I dare say, and she 'U
sew it on for you if you will let her ; " and
John Craven looked from one face to the other
with pleased surprise. He would have been
amused if he had known that they had talked
about him several times, and had made up
their minds that he was a bachelor who boarded
somewhere in that region — a man who had
seen better days, and was now poor and friend-

A BUSINESS MAN. 178

less. Miss Brooks had ventured to wish that
he might have a little money which he would
like to put into such a thriving and rising busi-
ness venture as her lover's. But the lover had
replied with deeper wisdom that the elderly
stranger did not wear the look of a prosper-
ous man. Poor John Craven, with his houses
and lands, his blocks of buildings, and his in-
terest in a line of steamers, his manufactories,
and his mortgages, and bank stocks, and rail-
road stocks, and his luxurious children, whom
he had housed in palaces! He felt poorer,
after all, than these young creatures, who still
had their fortunes to make, and whose best
capital was their love for each other.

But in the last few dragging years nothing
had given him such a hearty pleasure as his
new interest in this little enterprise of the fancy
goods store on East Number Street. His cau-
tious business instinct made him very careful
to know his ground. Then one day, to young
Chellis's great delight, when he was beginning
to fear his creditors and look older and more
troubled than usual, the kindly guest counted
out a sum of money as if it were all he had in
the world, and begged to go into partnership,

174 A BUSINESS MAN.

waiving all formalities. The two men sat
down together as if they were alike twenly-two,
and embarked upon courageous plans for future
gains. Sometimes of late, Mr. Craven — who
let himself be called Mr. Brown, though his
honest heart revolted from the deception —
postponed his visit until after the late break-
fast and spent as much of the day as he chose
with his new friend. What sagacity of advice
the old merchant imparted to the new one time
would fail for describing. Chellis had long
ago made up his mind that his benefactor
must have had an unusual business career and
been wrecked in some great financial crisis.

The situation was not without its dangers.
Even the walk along East Number Street was
beset with fears, and John Craven varied his
line of approach from day to day. Once he
beheld with dismay the entrance of one of his
own housemaids upon his new place of busi-
ness, as he stood behind the high desk casting
up a column of figures. Luckily there was an
inner room, to which he stealthily retreated
with beating heart, and listened there to the
loud, unmannerly tones of the woman who was
at home a most soft-spoken and servile crea-
ture. But this accident did not happen again.

A BUSINESS MAN. 175

and he felt more and more secure in the com-
panionship of his young partner. It was sur-
prising how his youtMul zest and ambition
seemed, for a time, to return ; how pleased he
was when an uncommonly good day's trade
was reported. He shook his head when the
young folks asked him to come to their wed-
ding, but he slipped as large a biU as he dared
into the bride's work-roughened little hand
and stole away toward his own house. It had
made him desolate to see the rooms the lov-
ers were to live in. They had asked their ben-
efactor to visit their new home in such a way
that he could not refuse, and they told him
they never could have got on so well without
his help. Little Miss Brooks was not going
to give up her sewing at present. She would
take care of their tiny housekeeping and earn
all she could in the spare time, just as she had
always done. They did not seem like city
people at all; they had the simple ways of
country folks. And John Craven thought of
them with deep affection as he sat at the head
of his glittering dinner-table that night, and
lifted a glass of his best wine in a shaking
hand to drink secretly Mr. and Mrs. William
Chellis's health and prosperity.

176 A BUSINESS MAN.

At last there came a time, late one spring,
when the old business man seemed much fee-
bler than he had ever before. He hardly ever
w^nt down to the great office now, and was
even glad when the rare expedition was safely
over with. Once or twice he took his seat at
some assembly, but he was an inefficient figure-
head, and was more annoyed than otherwise
with the empty show of deference from his in-
feriors in office. Every day when it was pos-
sible, however, he paid an early visit to his
young friends in East Number Street, and on
many a morning when there were few custom-
ers coming in, he gave the ambitious proprie-
tor warnings and suggestions. There was a
young boy added to the force of this mercan-
tile experiment, a lad from Vermont, whose
bright face seemed to please the old gentle-
man, and on one of the last visits Chellis sent
him home with Mr. Craven. It caused a good
deal of curiosity and interest when the adven-
ture was recounted, for he had helped the infirm
guest up the high steps of one of the best ave-
nue houses. But the morning calls were nearly
done. Mr. Craven only appeared once more,
and then when the owner of the little shop had

■»-r"

A BUSINESS MAN. 177

gone down town. He and liis young wife
talked a great deal that night about their ben-
efactor. ** He 's been the making of me," said
Chellis to himself, sadly, as the days went by
after that and his friend did not come again.

For a long time Mr. Craven's daughter had
said proudly that her father was able to take
an hour or two's walk early every morning ; in
these late spring days she had compkined frei.
fully that he used up all his strength in doing
so much, and that he was fit for nothing all the
rest of the day. At length John Craven was
taken away to his country place, and before the
summer was over he died. The poor rich man
had almost ceased to care anything for even
the dolls' shopkeeping, as he had often fondly
called it, though he was still grateful for the
pleasure that came to him as he dreamed of
and planned for the future fortune of the hap-
py young people in East Number Street.

His wi/1 was made some months before, and
was as just to his own family and to public needs
as all his dealings had been. There was one
codicil which surprised his family entirely, — he
left five thousand dollars to one William Chel-
lis, in East Number Street, and among the

\

178 A BUSINESS MAN.

latest of his private papers was a note to this
legatee written in a trembling hand, which con*
trasted strangely with his former clear signa-
tures.

^ I have left something for you as a remem-
brance," Mr. Craven said. ^* I have no doubt
that you will make your way in the world by
its help and your own exertions, and I owe you
something for your kindness and respect to an
old man. Remember that getting money may
make you poor as it has me, and can leave you
at last a beggar for a little friendliness, and
sympathy, and occupation. There are other
things which a man needs beside wealth to
. make him happy. I am your grateful friend,

"John Craven."

The young man's eyes were strangely dimmed
as he read. " Grood heavens ! " he said, awed
and astonished. " I used to think Ipmetimes
that he was n't the broken-down old fellow we
took him for at first ; but there he was all the
time, one of the richest men in the city ! How
pleased he used to be some days to help be-
hind the counter when two or three customers

A BUSINESS MAN. 179

came in together. So that was old John
Craven ! "

'^ Perhaps our place made him think of old
times, when he was just beginning, himself,"
hopefully answered the little wife. " I remem-
ber the first time I saw him, one windy morn-
ing when the dust blew in his face and he turned
round and looked right in at the window. He
made me feel real bad, he looked so lonesome
and wishful. I never thought he was going to
give us such a lot of money."

^^ He 's given me something better than that,
too," said young Chellis, solemnly ; and when
the woman beside him looked up to ask what
he meant, he only kissed her and went away.
There were truly many gains to be had in the
/ world beside money, even if one's heart was
(_ set upon being, first of all, A Business Man.

MAEY AND MAETHA.

The two sisters — the old Miss Deans, as
people had begun to call them — had always
lived together, and what had happened to one
happened to the other. They often said that
what one knew the other knew ; and since they
had spent their years very quietly, the things
that each sister thought best worth saying had
been said many times over. For all this, they
were as different as they could be. Mary
was MaryJike — a little too easy and loving-
hearted ; and Martha was Martharlike — a lit-
tle too impatient with foolish folks, and for-
getting to be affectionate while she tried to be
what she called just. Sometimes she thought
her younger sister visionary and sentimental ;
for Martha was, before all things, practical
and straightforward, and there lurked a little
pride in her heart because she did not see how
Mary could get on without her own forethought
and provision for their needs.

MARY AND MARTHA. 181

The two sisters were very much respected in
the village where they lived. They sewed for
their living; they were tailoresses by trade,
and though they did not make so many suits
of clothes since their neighbors found the
ready-made clothing shops so cheap and con-
venient, they made little boys' first suits and
stray jackets and trousers whenever they could.
They mended them, too, for one or two busy
neighbors who could afford to pay them. You
might hear it said twenty times a year, '' How
should we ever get along without Mary and
Martha Dean I " And more than once it had
been questioned who could take their places if
anything happened to the good women. Mar-
tha was usually strong and vigorous, short and
thick-set in appearance, and a little given to
bustling if anything particular were going on.
She was an excellent hand to make over a
carpet ; she was an extremely judicious and
seqpible person. It was Martha who had been
called upon to go and keep house for her
townspeople when they went away. But more
than one neighbor had dearly liked to have
Mary Dean in the sick-room, she was so gentle
and quiet, and did not insist upon doing some-

182 MARY AND MARTHA.

thing when there was nothing to do, as her
good, anxious, willing sister did once in a while.
Yet everybody called Martha a splendid nurse ;
she was so capable, they said ; and most people
liked to hear her talk to the sick, and tell them
they were nervous and notional, and there
was n't anything great the matter with them,
and she had seen folks twice as bad off. There
was no gainsaying the fact that this treatment
occasionally did good; for one thing, many
friends had as much confidence in Martha Dean
as in the doctor, and it was good for them that
she rallied their hopes ; ^^ where there 's a will
there 's a way " being as often true about get-
ting well as it is about getting rich. But when
taU, thin Mary, with her pleased, absentr
minded look, stole into a bedroom on a dreary
day and said nothing but " How do you do ? "
or " I thought perhaps you 'd like to have com-
pany," and laid on the coimterpane a very
small tea-rose which was known to ^ve
bloomed on a little bush that had been tended
like a baby, and brought through the winter
only by the greatest care — when Mary Dean
did this, it might be thought that she was too
wistful and unreviving for a sick-room. Yet

MARY AND MARTHA. 183

many a patient wished more than ever to get
weU again, if only to do something for this
kind nurse in return. They were both useful
in their way. It must be confessed that Mar-
tha made a great deal the best gruel ; but some-
times you wanted one and sometimes the other,
and meant no disrespect to the slighted sister.
They lived together on a hilltop just outside
the village. The faded yellow story-and-a-half
house looked as if it had strayed away a little
to be by itself. Perhaps somebody was in-
fluenced to build it there so that it would be
all ready for Mary Dean, who loved quiet more
and more as she grew older. Martha often
fretted, and wished that she were in the vil-
lage. She thought the half a mile a longish
walk in bad weatiier, and was sure they would
get more to do if they were right among folks.
You would do twenty-five cents' worth your-
self many a time rather than rig all up in a
rau^torm to lug it up a long hill ! If there
haabeen more land with the little house, Mar-
tha was sure they could sell it to advantage ;
but whenever she talked about that, as she
would sometimes, in a most fierce way, her sis-
ter provoked her a little by not consenting to

184 MARY AND MARTHA.

see the advantage. Mary would only say,
" Perliaps you know best," or, " Do you think
we oould find just the right house ? " but she
always looked utterly miserable, and bright-
ened up when, after a season of gloomy silence,
her more energetic sister would speak about
something else. Mary loved every blade of
grass on their fifth part of an acre ; she loved
even the great ledge that took up part of their
small domain, and made the rest scorched and
dry in midsummer. It seemed to her, if she
had to leave the house, that she must give up,
not only seeing the sunsets, but the memory of
all the sunsets she could remember. The good
women were growing old. Martha was rheu-
matic in cold weather, and it was Martha who
went oftenest to the village and upon whom
most of the inconvenience came. '^ I expect to
live and die here," she said, one day, to a new
customer, who asked them if they had always
lived in the old house ; ^^ that is, provi)^|d I
don't die on the road goin' and oomin'." ^

One day, about the middle of November, the
sisters were both at home, and sat each by her
chosen window, stitching busUy. Sometimes
Mary would stop for a minute or two, and look

MARY AND 'MARTHA. 185

out across the country, as if she really took
pleasure in seeing the leafless trees against the
gray sky, and the band of pale yellow in the
southwest, the soft pale brown of the fields
and pastures, and a bronzed oak here and
there against the blackish-green pine woods.
Martha thought it a very bleak, miserable sort
of day; her window overlooked the road to
the village, and hardly anybody had gone by
all the afternoon.

" I believe the only thing that would make
it worth while to live 'way out here," she said,
energetically, " would be a sewing-machine. I
could take regular work then from Torby's
shop, as some of the folks are goin' to do, and
then we could have something to depend upon.
You ain't able to go out all weathers, and never
was, and 't was all I could do to get through
last winter. One time — don't you rec'lect ? —
we was shut up here four days, and could n't
h^pf got to the village, to save us, in that big
storm. It makes a great difference about the
passing since they cut that new cross-road.
And I should like to live where I could be rea-
sonably certain of meetin' privileges ; it did
seem good to go to Friday evenin' meetin' last

186 MARY AND MARTHA.

week when I was to the Ellis's. I caa't feel
right to go away and leave you alone, and folks
ain't likely to want us both to once, as they
used to a good deaL"

Mary sighed a little. She knew all these

arguments well; she knew that what they

wanted was steady work at home in winter.

They had only a little money in the bank, for,

thrifty as they were, they were unfortunate

too, and had lost by a nulroad failure a few

years ago almost all .their lifetime's savings.

They could not go out to work much longer,

Mary knew that well. Martha need not say it

over so many times ; and she looked up at

Martha, and was surprised, as if it were the

first time she had ever noticed it, to see that

she was almost an old woman. Never quite

that I The brisk, red • cheeked girl who had

been her childish pride and admiration could

< ^ jiever be anything else, in spite of the disguises

'^ and changes with which time had masked ^er

^•vy faded countenance. Martha had a lover, too,

.N- A ' in the days of the red cheeks; sometimes

' Mary wondered at her bravery in being so

cheerful and happy ; for the elder sister had

taken her life as it came, vrith sUch resigna-

MARY AND MARTHA. 187

tion and uncomplainingness. Perhaps Mary
felt the loss of the lover more than Martha
herself, who had suffered at first, but the grief
had grown vague years ago. They had not
been engaged very long, and she had hardly
grown used to her new relationship before his
sudden death came. She had often told herself
that it was all for the best, and in spite of that
liked to have people know that she was not ex-
actly like other unmarried women who never
had been urged to change their situation. But
when Martha had been sitting in silence, lost
in thought, and Mary's tender sympathies had
woven many happy dreams for her, she was
apt to shatter the dreams at last by some very
unsentimental remark about the jacket they
w«re making, or the price of tea. No doubt
she often had her own sad thoughts, for all
that.

There was just such a silence in this No^
ve^iber afternoon, and Mary, as usual, humbly
wondered if her sister were lonely and troubled,
and if she herself were half so good and ten-
der as she ought to be to one so dear and kind.
At last Martha said, in a business-like way :
^' Next week we shall be getting ready for

188 MARY AND MARTHA.

Thanksgiving. I don't expect we shall do so
much as usual ; I don't see where the money 's
eomin' from. We had better get along with-
out a chicken, anyways ; they 're goin' to bring
a high price, and ours must pay for the wood
as far as they '11 go."

^^ I 'm thankful as I can be every day," said
Mary, softly. ^^ I don't know what I should
do without you, sister. I hope the Lord
won't part us ; " and her lip quivered as she
spoke. ^^ You thought we never should pull
through this year," she resumed, in a more
commonplace tone ; ^^ but here we are, after
all, and we 've done well, and been fed, and
kept warm."

^^The next year we ought to shingle the
house and set the fences into some kind^of
shape. I wish we could sew up things out-
doors well 's we can in ; " and Martha smiled
grimly.

" We do, don't we ? " and the younger sis-
ter laughed outright. ^^ I wish we did have a
sewing-machine. I dare say by and by they '11
get cheaper. I declare it does n't seem five
years since the war was over."

" There 's John Whitefield," said Martha,

MARY AND MARTHA. 189

angrily; and Mary looked frightened. She
was always so sorry when this topic was
started. " He never gives a thought to what
our folks did for him. I should n't know him
if I was to see him, and we are all the own
cousins he 's got on his father's side. It does
seem as if he might take some interest in us
now we ?re all growing old together. He must
have read our names in the list of those that
lost in the railroad, and have known 't was all
we 'd got."

" Perhaps he thinks we don't take any in-
terest in him," ventured Mary, timidly. " I
have sometimes thought about him, and won-
dered if he supposed we were set against him.
There was so much hard feelin' between the
families when we were all young, and we would
n't speak to him when we were girls. A yotmg
man would be cut by that as much as any-
thing"—

" I would n't speak to him now, either," and
Martha's voice and her linen thread snapped
together. " Everybody said they treated our
folks outrageously. You needn't expect me
to go meechin' after such thankless and un-
principled creaturs."

190 MARY AND MARTHA.

Mary hardly knew what gave her such oonr-
age. " I don't want to vex you, I 'm sure,"
she said, simply. ^^ If he did n't answer or
did n't treat us well any way, I should think aa
you do ; but I shouldiike to ask him to come
and spend Thanksgiving Day with us, and
show him a forgivin' spirit. He ain't so well
off that he need think we 've got low motives ;
and " — taking courage — " you know this 'U
be the first Thanksgiving since his wife died
— if 't was his wife we saw mentioned in the
paper."

^^I must say you are consistent with our
havin' nothin' for dinner," smUed Miss Mar-
tha, grimly, elicketing together her big needle
and her steel thimble without any top. ^*I
won't lend myself to any such notions, and
there 's an end to it."

She rose and disappeared angrily into the
pantry, and began to assail the pots and pans
as if she had to begin the preparations for
ThanksgiAring at that very moment. But Miss
Mary Dean, whom everybody thought a little
flighty and unpractical, went on sewing as long
as the pale daylight lasted. She did not know
why she was so disappointed about not inviting

MARY AND MARTHA. 191

their unknown cousin. She had not thought
of him very often ; but she had always been
a little ashamed and sorry about the family
quarrel that had made everybody so bitter and
unforgiving when she w^^ a girl. Her father
thought that this cousin's father cheated him
of his rights in the old home farm.

At least three days afterward Sister Martha
was discovered to be very silent and unreason-
able; and, in spite of previous experiences,
Miss Mary was entirely surprised to be told
late in the evening, just as they were going to
bed, that a letter had been sent that day to
Cousin John asking him to come to spend
Thanksgiving with them on the hilltop.
*' You 'd never have been satisfied without it,
I suppose," the good woman said, grudgingly,
as she went hurrying about the room ; and
gentle Mary was filled with fear. She knew
that it would be a trouble to her sister, and an
unwelcome one ; but at last she felt very glad,
and was aggravatingly grateful as she thanked
the head of the family for this generous deed.
" I don't know why my heart was so set on it,"
she announced later, with great humility, and

192 MARY AND MARTHA.

m

Martha sniffed unmistakably from under the
patchwork coimterpane. ^'I hope he won't
stop long," she observed, quite cheerfully.
And so peace was restored, and Miss Martha
Dean thought about the dinner and talked over
her frugal plans, while Mary listened with
pleased content, and looked out through the
little bedroom window from her pillow to see
the white, twinkling, winter-like stars.

^^ Goodness me! " exclaimed Martha on
Thanksgiving morning ; ^^ there he comes, and
he looks as old as Methusaleh I " The sisters
stood together and watched their guest climb-
ing the long hill, and made characteristic com-
ments. ^' H& does look real lonesome," said
Mary, but Martha bustled off to look at the
chicken which had just been put into the oven.
" He looks as if he were hungry," she growled
on the way, and took a complacent look into
the kettles after she had seen that the oven
continued to be in a proper state of warmth.
There was enough for her to do to look after
the dinner. Mary could attend to the com-
pany ; but, after all, it was good to have com-
pany, especially some one who seemed to be
glad to be with them. He had grown to look

MARY AND MARTHA. 193

like her own dear, honest-hearted father ix\
these latter years ; he could not be a bad man,
and it seemed a great while since they had seen
one of their own folks at the table.

So Martha put her whole heart into making
her little dinner just as good as it could be.
She sat down in the front room once or twice
and tried to talk over old times, but she was
not very successful ; they were constantly run-
ning against unpleasant subjects; it seemed
as if the mistaken household that had been
divided against itself had no traditions of any-
thing but warfare.

But the guest was pathetically glad to come ;
he could talk to his cousin Mary about the
pleasure Martha's note had given him. He
did not say that it was not very affectionate,
but he told the truth about having often
wished since he had grown older that they
could talk over the old times and have a kinder
feeling toward each other. ^' And I was so
broken up this year," he added, plaintively.
" I miss my wife worse and worse. She was
some years younger than I, and always seemed
BO pleasant and sprightly — well, if one of you
girls is left without the other, you 'II know

194 MARY AND MARTHA.

someihing about it, that 's all I can say,*' and
a sudden pang shot through the listener's heart.
And Mary Dean looked so sorry and so kind
that she had to listen to a great many things
about the wife who had died. Cousin John
Whitefield moved her sympathy more and
more, and by the time dinner was ready they
were warm friends. Then there was the din-
ner, and the two elderly women and their guest
enjoyed it very much. Miss Martha had put
on the best table-cloth and the best dishes.
She had done all she could to make the little
festival a success, and presently even she was
filled with the spirit of the day, and did not let
the least shadow of disapproval show itself in
her face when Mary said : " Sister, I 'm sure we
ought to be very thankful to-day for all these
good things and fot Cousin John's company.
I don't feel as if we ever should make out to be
enemies again ; " and the cousin shook his head
more than once, while something like a jear
glistened in the eyes that were turned toward
Mary Dean. They talked of old times ; tiiey
said to each other that they would let bygones
be bygones. Some of the sisters' friends had
been very kind ; one had given them a present

MARY AND MARTHA. 195

of cranberries, which Martha liked very much,
but had denied herself, since they were so dear
tibat year.

Cousin John had evidently dressed himself
with great care, but he looked untended, and
the sisters' shrewd eyes saw where a stitch or
two was needed and a button had been lost.
It seemed more friendly than ever when he
stood before Martha to have his coat mended ;
it only took a minute. And her eyes were the
best, Mary said, proudly.

" Girls," said the old man, suddenly ; " girls,
I want to know if, with all your sewing trade,
you have n't got any sewing-machine ? " And
the girls looked at each other wistfully, and
answered No.

" Now, I know what I '11 do for you," and
the withered face brightened. ^' I 'm going
to send you over Maria's. She set everything
by it ; 't was one her brother gave her — Jo-
siah, that's so well off in New York. She
says 't was one of the best ; and there it has
stood. I 've been thinking I should have to
sell it. I '11 send it over right away." And
he looked from one delighted face to the
other. ^^ You won't refuse, now ? " he asked ;

196 . MARY AND MARTHA.

as if there bad been any danger of tbat ! And
the sisters confessed how puzzled they had
been about their winter's work ; they had not
acknowledged so fully even to each other that
some of their old customers had died, that it
hardly paid to do hand-sewing, and hardly any-
body needed tailors' work, somehow ; and they
were not able to be out in all weather, or to be
of as much service to their neighbors as they
used. But they were sure to do well now if
they h9d a machine. Mr. Torby, at the shop,
paid excellent prices for the best work.

Cousin John stayed until the next day, and
they watched him go down the hill with many
feelings of gratitude and respect. '' It takes
two to make a quarrel, but only one to end
it," said Martha, turning suddenly to Mary.
They both felt younger than they had for a
great while, and they pitied their cousin's aged
looks and slow steps. "'Twas all owing to
you," she went on, in a tone that was not
usual with her. "Mary, I believe you've
chosen the better part, and you 've listened to
the Lord's words while I've been cumbered
with much serving.'* But Mary would have
it that only Martha could have made Cousin

MARY AND MARTHA. 197

John so comfortable, and got him the good
Thanksgiving dinner.

" The dinner 's the least part of it," said
Martha, this time in her every-day, short fash-
ion of speech. " There ! it 's beginning to
snow. I wish, if there 's a good fall of it, we
could just put this house on runners and slide
down hill ! " But she looked very good-na-
tured, and Mary laughed softly.

" You say that every year, don't you, Mar-
tha ? " said she. " Just think how long we Ve
been wishing for a sewing-machine, and now
we're really going to have one. I suppose
you '11 know just how to use it before it has
been here a day."

THE NEWS FROM PETERSHAM,

Mrs. Peak had been to Petersham herself,
to spend Thanksgiving with her niece, and
brought the first account of old Mr. Johnson's
illness. Mrs. Jesse Johnson, his daughter-in-
law, had come in for a few minutes Thursday
afternoon, and had said it was the first time
since she could remember that the old gentle-
man had not been in his seat in church on
Thanksgiving Day. And they all felt as if it
were a great break.

'^ He would insist upon setting at the ta-
ble," said Mrs. Jesse, " but he looked too fee-
ble to be out of his bed. These bad colds take
hold of a man of his years."

After the visitor had gone Mrs. Peak and
her niece Martha talked a good deal about the
changes in the family which would be sure to
come when Mr. Johnson died.

^^I know that Jesse's folks are depending
upon getting a lift," said Martha. ^^Mis'

THE NEWS FROM PETERSHAM. 199

Jesse has hinted as much to me more than
once, for she says Jesse's got more than he
can carry in his business, and everything
would be easy if he only had a little more cap-
ital. Truth is, I have an idea that he 's teased
a good share away from his father now, and
the old gentleman is n't so ready as he used to
be to further his projects. And there 's Wil-
liam, his other son, I know it to be a fact that
he is intending to go out West when his fa-
ther 's taken away. He has had a notion of it
for a good while ; his wife's sister's folks are
all out there and doing well."

" They '11 be very much missed as a family,"
said Mrs. Peak ; '^ how Petersham has changed
from what it was when I was a girl ! "

When she went home the next day she was
quite downhearted, and told Asa Fales, who
happened to be at the depot when the t^ain
came in and offered to carry her home, that
old Mr. Daniel Johnson was breaking up —
at least, so his family seemed to think. Asa
Fales was deeply concerned ; the two villages
were only a few miles apart, and he had been
a Petersham boy. It was old Mr. Johnson to
whom he owed his rise in the world, and he

200 THE NEWS FROM PETERSHAM.

remembered that he mi&:ht never have owned
his flourishing country%tore if it had not
been for this kind friend's assistance. Be-
sides, he had been confident of Mr. Johnson's
support if he should make up his mind to
buy a large tract of woodland which would
pay well for being cleared that very next win-
ter. He was abeady indebted to him, how-
ever, and it would be a very different thing if
he were the debtor of the eager heirs. So
with all this in his mind he questioned Mrs.
Peak anxiously, and they concluded that Mr.
Johnson's end was not far distant.

^^ Of course he made a great effort to get to
the table on account of its being Thanksgiv-
ing," said Asa, sorrowfully, ^^ but I 'm afraid
he '11 give right up now. I 'd ride right over
to see him to-morrow, but I can't get away.
It 's right in my busy time ; I 'm buying up a
great deal of wood this f aU, and some of 'em
aie bringing it in now on wheels instead of
waiting for snow."

^^The snow does keep off late. this year,"
said Mrs. Peak. ^^ Here it 's the first o' De-
cember, and there 's only been one flurry that
was hardly more than a hoar-frost."

THE NEWS FROM PETERSHAM, 201

They reached the little gray house behind
the lilac-bushes, where Mrs. Peak lived alone,
and as she unlocked its side-door and went in,
it seemed strangely cold and lonely. ^^ I must
look about for a likely kitten," she said to her-
self ; ^^ they 're a sight of company, and what
trouble it gave would be no harm. I declare
it makes me feel lonesome; all the folks I
have always been used to knowing are Brdying
off. I always set a good deal by Daniel
Johnson."

Two neighbors looked up the road a little
later than this from their kitchen windows,
and seeing a light in Mrs. Peak's kitchen also,
said to themselves that she might be lonely
that evening without anybody to speak to, and
they would step over and hear the news. They
met at the door, each with a shawl over her
head and her knitting-work in her hands,—
and were welcomed most heartily. Mrs. West,
who was very fond of talking, began at once to
describe her experiences Thanksgiving mom-
ing, when she found that the cats had stolen
into the pantry during the night, and mangled
the turkey so that it was only fit to be thrown
away. It was too late to get another, except a

202 THE NEWS FROM PETERSHAM.

rack of bones fit only for a lantern, that had
been left at Fales's store.

^^I did n't know what in the world I should
do. There was all the folks coming ; his sis-
ter and all the child'n, and my brother and
his wife, and we three at home are middlin'
hearty — but there; we made out with the
ohicken-pie and a spare-rib I put right in. It
so happened I had one that was thawed. An'
I took those cats and soused 'em well in a tub
o' water, after I 'd give 'em as good a beating
as I knew how. And after a while they stole
in half froze, and set by the stove meek as
^ Moses with their paws tucked underneath 'em,
and when I 'd look at 'em they 'd mew at me
both together 'thout making a soimd. For all
I was so worked up, I had to laugh."

They all laughed again at the cats, while
Mrs. Peak acknowledged that she had just
been thinking of getting a kitten, but such ac-
counts as this were discouraging, — and Mrs.
West promptly offered her own virtuous pus-
sies, which amused the Utile company very
much.

" You have n't told us yet whether you
heard anything over at Petersham," said Mrs.

THE NEWS FROM PETERSHAM. 208

Bogers, the other guest, at which Mrs. Peak's
face grew long.

*^ I had a beautiful visit with Martha," she
answered, "but I 've been feeling anxious to
hear again from old Mr. Daniel Johnson.
Jesse's wife came in and said he seemed very
feeble. He did n't make no effort to get out
to meetin' Thanksgivin' Day, and Martha said
she 'd noticed he looked pale and kind o' wiz-
ened up two or three weeks ago."

" I suppose the cold weather pinched him," I
suggested Mrs. West " Well, he 'U be a great '
loss." »

"I heard from him direct this morning," *
continued Mrs. Peak, mournfully. ^^ I called
to Jesse's oldest boy as he went by, and he
said his grand'ther was n't any better. I
asked if he was abed, and he said, ^No.' He 's
got a sight o' resolution ; I should n't wonder
if he did n't take his bed at all."

" I don't see how they '11 pay their minis-
ter the salary they give him now, when they
lose Mr. Johnson," said Mrs. Rogers. " He 's
always ready to give, and he does what he
can for his folks. I should n't wonder if he
had n't but a little property left, after all he 's

204 THE NEWS FROM PETERSHAM.

had to do, and being out o' business for some
years now."

" He 's kept his money a-movin," observed
Mrs. West. " There ain't no such business
man about here, but there's been plenty o'
hands reached out to take what they could get.
Well, 't is all over now ; he won't last a great
while if he 's as feeble as you say. His father
went just the same way, only kept the house a
week, and his bed the last day."

" I should have gone right over to see him
myself yesterday," said the hostess, ^^but it
kept raining steady all day, same as it did here,
I suppose."

" They '11 be likely to have his funeral from
the meeting-house, won't they?" asked Mrs.
Rogers, solemnly; but nobody could answer
her question.

Next day being Sunday, and most of the
congregation coming from the scattered farms,
there was the usual exchange of greetings and
inquiries for news. And in this way the sad
story of Mr. Johnson's last illness was spread
far and wide before night. And in passing
from one to another, the report became every
hour more serious. At last some one ventured

THE NEWS FROM PETERSHAM, 206

to say that, judging from what she had just
heard, the poor man could not now be living.
And the listener felt justified in announcing
that Mrs. Smith thought there was no doubt
that he was dead.

Late on Sunday night Mrs. West brought
the news to Mrs. Peak.

^^ He heard it from some one who stopped at
Asa Fales's, but there was n't no particulars ; "
and Mrs. Peak said nobody had any idea Mr.
Johnson would go so soon. It was a great
shock to her; as much as if she had not known
of his illness.

*^ Death is always sudden at the last/' said
Mrs. West. " I suppose you will go over to
the funeral ? — it seems a pity you diould have
come home Saturday, don't it ? "

" I shall get ready to go by the first train,"
answered the old lady, crying a little. " I de-
clare I wish I 'd gone to the house before I
come away. It ain't that I think of the ex-
pense of going to Petersham twice, for that 's
nothing at such a time as this, but I can't feel
reconciled to not seeing him again. He was
a most amiable Christian man, — • there won't
be many dry eyes in Petersham the day he 's

206 THE NEWS FROM PETERSHAM,

buried. I Ve known him ever since I Ve
known anybody."

So by the earliest train next day Mrs. Peak
went back to Petersham. Her countenance
wore a solemn expression. She felt herself to
be one of the chief mourners, though her place
in the procession would probably be not far
from the least afflicted end. As she stepped
down from the car, she pulled a very long face,
and was surprised to see no signs of Uie ca-
lamity which had befallen the village. She
meditated upon the way the world moves on
though its best men die, and took her way,
to save time, through the back streets to her
niece Martha's.

" Well, Martha," she said, sadly, " I 'm sure
I did n't think I should be back again so soon
when I left you. When do they bury ? "

^^ Who ? " asked Martha, much amazed.
She was busy washing, and was not in the
least prepared for her aunt's appearance. She
was used to making careful arrangements
when she expected guests — being, as her
friends said, very set in her ways — and if
there was anything she disliked it was a lack
of ceremony, even from her nearest relatives.

THE NEWS FROM PETERSHAM, 207

^^I haven't heard of any death," she as-
sured her aunt, who was apparently much per-
plexed.

^^ Somebody told the Wests last night that
Mr. Dau'el Johnson had passed away, and
Mis' West came right out to tell me," Mrs,
Peak explained at last.

Martha began to laugh. ^^He was out to
meeting last night as sure as the world," she
said. "He's had a bad cold, — you know
he 's always been subject to fall colds, — but
he 's about again. I heard Jesse's wife f ussin'
at him about doin' up his throat when we were
comin' out o' the meetin'-house last night."

" She was dreadful down-hearted about him,
I 'm sure, when she come in Thanksgivmg
night," ventured Mrs. Peak in self^efense.

" Now, Aunt Peak," said Martha, " have n't
you seen enough of Lydia Johnson by this
time to know that she always thinks every-
thmg and everybody is going to rack aad
ruin ? She was cheerful about the old gentle-
man to what she is sometimes. To be sure
we all know he 's getting along in years."

" Seems to me I do reelect she is apt to
look on the dark side," reflected Mrs. Peak.

208 THE NEWS FROM PETERSHAM

^^ But now, Marthy, don't speak to any one of
what my errand was in coming over. I've
got a little shopping any way that I forgot
last week, and folks \nll think we 're dreadful
hungry for news over our way."

^^It does look like it," chuckled Martha.
^'But do stop to dinner, aunt, now you're
over ; it 's coming winter and you may not get
started again. 'Tis a pity there ain't some-
thing else for you to go to. I s'pose you 've
heard that story about the old ladies that set
out for a funeral and found they 'd missed the
day, and asked the folks if they did n't know
of a funeral they covld go to ? "

^* Marthy," said her Aunt Peak, ^^ I should
think you had no feelin's. It was n't my faidt
as I know of that the story got about. I did
speak of it to one or two that his son's wife
appeared concerned, and when word come that
he was gone I only thought she had good rea-
son to be anxious ; and he was an old friend,
and a leader in church interests, and I thought,
natural enough, I 'd come right over.''

*^ Don't take it hard of me, joking with
you," said Martha, '^ but it is kind of amusing
when you come to look at it and see how sto-

THE NEWS FROM PETERSHAM. 209

ries get made up and set going out of nothing.
Every one of 'em thinks they tell the truth,
and first thing you know there 's a lie travel-
ing about fast as lightning," and she turned to
her neglected washing, as if no time must be
lost.

" I can't get back before two. I 'm sorry I
happened to trouble you on an inconvenient
day, I'm sure," said Mrs. Peak, humbly.
^^ I '11 step down the street for a while and do
a few errands, and you must n't let me put you
out. Just a cup of tea and a taste of bread
and butter '11 be all I ask for," and Martha
nodded and told her aunt not to worry, and to
have as good a time as she could.

The old lady's pride had met with a sad
downfall — she did not know how to face the
people at home. But luckily she was saved
the first acknowledgment, as Asa Fales had
reached Petersham before her and had found
Mr. Daniel Johnson briskly at work by the
garden trellis covering his grape-vines.

He had prudently avoided any reference to
the next world, and, indeed, had learned the
falseness of the story from a Petersham man
whom he had met on the road. So he entered

210 THE NEWS FROM PETERSHAM.

at once upon the project of buying the pine
woods between Gaytown and Hollis, and found
to bis great satisfaction that his old friend
would be glad to join him if the affair could
be well arranged.

Mrs. Peak herself met Mr. Johnson, and
could hardly look him in the face when she
asked for his health. And when the neigh-
bors came in one after another that evening
after she was again comfortably established at
home, she said, " You may laugh at me all
you have a mind to, but I don't mean to
need another lesson like this. I think it 's a
good deal better to mind what we 've got to do
instead of livin' on what folks have got to say ;
but it 's hard to teach an old dog new tricks,
and I suppose I shall always like to hear what
news there is a-goin'."

V

THE TWO BEOWNS.

I.

Brown left his chair by the fire somewhat
impatiently, and dropped his newspaper on the
rug; he crossed the dining-room to the bay-
window, and stood with his back to his wife,
looking out at the weather. Women were such
persiTEent geese ! He had a vague idea that
she might take some notice of the disagreeable
sleet and wind, and relent a little about hint-
ing that he had better be at his office. She
had already asked him to renew her subscrip-
tion to the church newspaper (he would have
to leave the stage and walk a block and a
half), and had said that he must look in at her
brother Bob's counting-room some time during
the day to ask for his wife's health. She had
furthermore given him two letters to post, and
had reminded him three times that he must not
forget them.

212 THE TWO BROWNS.

" I believe that I will not go to the office
to-day," Brown announced presently, with con-
siderable dignity and even sternness, as if he
would not brook the idea of being contradicted
in any shape. His wife said nothing to this,
which was a great disappointment ; and after
growing more and more disturbed for a minute
or two he turned and offered his explanations.
Mrs. Brown was devoting herself to the baby,
while the nursery-maid was busy up-stairs in
the baby's luxurious quarters. Brown was
usually neither too proud nor too much occu-
pied to devote himself to his daughter, also,
but now he walked stiffly back to the big
chair by the fire, and took no notice of the
little hands that were put out to him. The
baby's mother flushed suddenly with some-
thing like anger, very unusual in her gentle
face.

^^ It is such an abominable day," said Brown.
" I don't feel very energetic. There won't be a
soul inside the office door, unless it 's a book
agent. I am going to make myself comfort-
able at home, and see something of you and —
yes, you little pink ! "

He had come so near to neglecting the baby

THE TWO BROWNS. 218

that his better nature could submit no longer,
and he caught the smiling child, and went
prancing round the breakfast table until she
shrieked* with delight, and family harmony
was restored. Mrs. Brown smiled, too, — they
were a happy household ; but she looked seri-
ous again directly, and returned to the charge.

" Ben, dear," she said, " I don't like to have
you neglect your profession."

Brown stopped his capering, and the cups
and plates gave a final jingle. "When you
know perfectly well how it neglects me ! " he
responded solemnly, with a twinkling eye.

Even in the presence of the baby Mrs. Brown
did not like to have such confessions made, and
she looked up reproachfully. She kept up with
great care the fiction of her husband's having
already a fair law practice for a young man of
his age, and a very promising outlook. Brown
had no imagination ; he made no complaint ;
he knew plenty of fellows in the same box,
and was not going to shoulder the whole shame
of paying rent for a clientless office. He had
begun to get tired of spending his days there
altogether, even with the resource of taking
all the time he liked for an elaborate and social

214 THE TWO BROWNS.

luneheon. His wife had been growing a trifle
anxious lately because it was so difficult to
tempt his appetite at dinner-time, and Gales,
the wit of the luncheon club, had said in his
affected little drawling voice only the day be-
fore, ^^ Shall have to cut this sort of thing,
you know ; getting too stout, and always hated
eating my dinner in the middle of the day.
Could do it with one client, but to-morrow I 'm
expecting another." Brown suddenly remem-
bered this, and smiled, because he had a quick,
amusing fear lest the bad weather might keep
Gales's client at home. Then he gave a sigh,
and gently deposited the baby in her mother's
lap. " I will go, you hard-hearted monsters,"
he said, kissing them both, *' but why I ever
let myself be coaxed into studying law is the
puzzle of my life. If I had something to do
I would work like a beaver. I 've got^ it in
me, fast enough, but I hate this make-believe
business. So would you."

" I do feel sorry about it ; you know I do,"
answered Lucy, with great tenderness and sym-
pathy. " I should be perfectly unhappy. But
you have your studies, Ben, dear."

" I begin to hate those old yellow books,"

THE TWO BROWNS. 215

said Ben. ^^Now, if my father had let me
study engineering, as I wished, I should have
been in the middle of things by this time."

" You never would have broken the chain ? "
asked Lucy, with unfeigned anxiety roused
by such treason. She had been so proud of
Brown's being the fourth lawyer of his line
and of his precocious scholarship. He was
only twenty-eight years and two months old at
that moment, beside, and it was much too soon
to lose all hope about his future.

Brown went manfully out into the sleet a
few minutes later, and his wife and the baby
watehed him from flxe window. He was a
handsome, good-natured young man, and it was
impossible not to be proud of him, or to feel
sorry at his temporary discomfort as he slipped
and plodded along the incumbered sidewalk.
When he had paused for a moment at the
comer to throw a last kiss to the baby and
wave his hand, old Mr. Grandison, who stood
at his own window opposite, nodded his head
in sage approval. " Good fellow," he grum-
bled, with his cHn plunged deep in his old-
fashioned black silk stock. ^^ Comes of a good
family, and is sharp after his business." The

216 THE TWO BROWNS.

damp air blew in at the window, and the spec
tator of Brown's departure was obliged to
turn away and seek his fireside again. He
would have been perfectly thankful to change
places with the young man, and go down town
to do a stiff day's work, as he used twenty
years ago.

Lucy Brown had turned aside from her
window, aJso, and begun an eager morning's
work. She had been dreadfully afraid that
Ben would insist upon staying at home, and
she felt hard-hearted in very truth. But when
she had waked up that morning to find it
snowing, she had resolved to have the books
in the library thoroughly cleaned. Nobody
would come in, and she would muster the
household force, and of course attend to Ben's
private desk and papers herself. She was still
excited by her narrow escape from complete
disappointment, but she hoped she had not
seemed anything but kind and affectionate in
urging her husband that day of aU others to
go to his office.

Mr. John Benedict Brown had an uneventful
journey to his place of business. He liked the

THE TWO BROWNS. 217

bad weather, on the whole, — he had so few
things ordinarily to match his youthful energy
against, — and he met two or three companions
in misery, if one had any right to call these
briefless barristers by such a hard name. Each
carried his green bag, but Brown's friend Gales
unconsciously held his in such a way that the
shape of a box of cigars was displayed un-
mistakably as its only contents. Grales's office
was farther down the street, and Brown re-
membered his promise about the subscription
just in time not to pass the office of the paper.
He would have sent a note to the publisher,
to do his errand, but Lucy was very strenuous
upon his settling the matter in person. She
had paid for a year in advance, and the bill
had been rendered again. She was most de-
pendent upon this particular publication, and
seemed absurdly anxious to stand well in the
publisher's estimation. There was only one
other man in the office beside the clerk, when
Brown entered. This other man stood with
his back to the door, looking over a file of
newspapers, and until the small matter was set-
tled, in a general and impersonal fashion that
would have wounded Mrs. Brown, he gave no
sign of consciousness of Brown's presence.

218 THE TWO BROWNS.

Then he laid down the newspapers and ap-
proached our friend. ^^ Snooks, old boy, how
are you ? " he inquired affectionately, and a
little timidly, too, as if not quite certain of his
reception.

The very name of Snooks was sufficient ; it
had been Brown's nickname at the school
where he had fitted for college. Anybody who
called him Snooks had a right to favor after
the space of at least a dozen years since those
happy days when he had heard it often. This
schoolmate had not followed the class to college,
but he had been a good crony in his day, and a
lad of some cleverness and an erratic habit of
mind. Only a few days before. Gales, who had
also been at the school, had asked our hero what
had become of Checkley. Old Shekels they
used to call him, for the inconsequent reason
that he never had two cents in his pocket. He
was kept at his studies by some kind and char-
itable Mend, who forgot to an aggravating
extent to supply the minor comforts of life.
Checkley had developed an amazing gift for
maintaining himself by an ingenious system of
barter, like those savages who have not got so
far in civilization as any sort of exchequer or
strictly financial arrangements.

THE TWO BROWNS. 219

' The old brotherliness of the past quickly
filled Brown's heart. Checkley looked hirngry,
as usual, but he would take him to the office
and make him a welcome companion that dull
morning, and by and by they would have a
bit of luncheon together. After all, the day
promised weU; he had feared a very special
lack of entertainment.

" Come round to my office," said Brown,
warmly. *'I've nothing in the world to do
this morning. Tell me what you have been
about all this time. I '11 send for Gales pres-
ently ; he was asking for you a day or two ago.
We 're both in the law ; lots of time to call
our own, too," he added, with a cheerful hon-
esty which his wife would have inwardly la-
mented and tried to explain.

Checkley was out that day protected by a
melancholy fall overcoat and no mnbrella, but
he took Brown's umbrella, and carried it over
both their heads with careful impartiality, as
if it were his own. He looked as if he were
growing old, which seemed premature in a
man of thirty. Brown could not help a sus-
picion that Checkley had made himself up for
some secret purpose. He always used to say

220 THE TWO BROWNS.

that he meant to be a detective, and had been
considered immensely clever in some boyish
plays and pantomimes. However, another
stolen glance made Brown feel certain that this
appearance was Checkley as Himself, An Un-
successful ^an, and that the gray hairs which
sprinkled his thin, straight, brownish hair were
quite genuine. The thinness and lankness of
his boyhood had never fulfilled their promise
of a robust frame, but appeared to have suf-
fered from exposure and neglect, like,, an un-
finished building which has had time to let its
timbers get rain-blackened and look poor.

But the same spirit and shrewd determina-
tion twinkled from Checkley^s eyes, and he
kept step manfully with his well-clothed and
well-fed acquaintance. This was a most for-
tunate meeting. Nothing had ever played
better into his hands. Snooks Brown was al-
ways a good fellow, and luck was sure to turn.

*' You are n't in the ' Parishioner's War-Cry '
office as a permanent thing, I imagine ? " asked
Brown, with friendly desire to keep up the con-
versation, just as they stepped into the eleva-
tor. " Odd that we should have happened to
find each other there. I never was inside that
^place^ b^fQre."

THE TWO BROWNS. 221

« « No," said Checkley. " Truth is, it looked
quiet and secluded, and I put into harbor there
to dry off a little and get my wits together.
Temporary asylum. I was paying that clerk
the compliment of looking over his newspa-
pers, but I think he was just begimfing to sus-
pect that I held them upside down. I had a
kind of revenge on him when you came in. It
looked as if we had an appointment, you know,
and you were always so thundering respecta-
ble."

Brown laughed with unaffected pleasure.
He was not so far from boyhood as a stranger
might imagine. There was something delight-
ful about Checkley's turning up that wet Feb-
ruary morning, and teUing the most mortify-
ing facts about himself with honest sincerity.
He took the wet, thin overcoat and put it away
with his own, and would have insisted upon his
guest's occupying the best chair in the office, if
he had not promptly taken it without any in-
vitation. There was an open wood fire, and
Checkley stretched out a pair of very shabby
shoes to dry with an air of comfort and satis-
faction. He was a schemer, a dreamer, a curi-
ous plotter of insignificant things, but he never

222 THE TWO BROWNS.

had been a toady or a beggar, and there was i^
golden thread of good humor and unselfishness
through his unprofitable character.

Brown had taken up a not very ponderous
mail that la^ on his desk, — two or three bills,
as manyffllnilars, and an invitation to make
further subscription to the Art Club. He
gravely looked these over, and put them in an
orderly heap at the further edge of the blotter.
Old Shekels's shoes were beginning to steam at
the toes, and his host noticed that they looked
about the size of his own shoes. At any rate,
there was an extra pair of arctics in the office
closet that could be offered before they went
out to luncheon. Brown felt a glow of kind-
heartedness spread itself over him, as he re-
solved to dress Checkley in comfortable fash-
ion before they parted again. ^' You look just
as you did when we used to stay up after hours,
and sit before the fire and tell stories," he said,
jovially, to his guest. " I dare say you could
spin as good a midnight yam as ever."

** You rich fellows see the world from a dif-
ferent angle," responded Checkley, who grew
more luxurious every moment. ** Now it really
makes no difference how long you have to wait

THE TWO BROWNS. 223

for practice ; it 's sure to come, if only when
you begin to settle up the family estates,
there are half a dozen good round ones ; and
they never would like to choose any one else,
aU those good old aunties of yours. If you
had been out of school when your father died,
you would have gone on with at least a third
of his business, and that was enough for you
to handle. It is only a question of time, and
you 're rich any way. I don't like to see all
your first-rate abilities rusting out, neverthe-
less. I always said there was more good stuff
in you tlian in any of the fellows, — more hold
on and push too, if you had anything to push,
and got your energy well roused. I should
just like to see you in a Western railroad of-
fice, making things spin. Now a poor dog like
me, thrown out neck and heels into the water
to get to land as best I can by myself, — why,
it 's a good thing to meet a floating plank to
rest a paw on now and then ; " and he turned
to look Brown full in the eyes with a plaintive,
doglike appeal, as if he unconsciously identi-
fied himself with his figure of speech.

" What have you been doing, old boy ?
Can't I lend you a hand, somehow ? " asked

224 THE TWO BROWNS,

the sympathetic host. He began to feel that
the minus Shekels was driving at something
definite, and he did not believe that he should
make a fool of himself ; but this was the first
time that one of his boyhood friends had turned
up looking as if the world had used him badly.
There ought to be something done about it.

^^ Look here," said Checkley, with an air of
secrecy; and he held out a sheaf of papers,
which were produced from his breast-pocket
as if the hand well knew its way to them. ^'I
dare say," the owner remarked proudly, ^^ that
you wouldn't believe that there is an enor-
mous fortune in that small space ? "

Brown tried to look interested, but his
doubtfulness showed through.

^^ It is the surest thing alive," continued
Checkley. ^^ Have you got ten thousand dol-
lars you could put your hand on ? "

The listener nodded slowly; to tell the
truth, he had a little more than that lying idle
in the bank, because he really did not know
how to reinvest it. The bulk of his property
was in the hands of trustees to whom his
father had consigned it, but this was some
money that had been left him by an old rela-

THE TWO BROWNS. 226

tive, long ago, in his own right. He had a
vague idea of putting it into a country-place,
some day or other. He had a sentiment
about keeping it by itself, and he wanted a
nice old-fashioned farm by and by. For the
present he and his wife spent their summers
with Lucy's mother, who would else have been
alone in her gi*eat house at Newport. He
could say neither yes nor no to such a ques-
tion, or rather such a questioner, as this ; yet
a curiosity took possession of him to hear
more, and Checkley saw his advantage.

"Now, my boy," he said, pulling his big
chair close to Brown's side at the desk, " I
helped work this out, and I twisted things
round so that I have the right in my own
hands. I simply have n't a cent, and I don't
know where I can get it, unless you give it to
me, to carry out the thing one step more. I
need capital," he ended persuasively, and gave
another doglike look at Brown.

The situation was growing commonplace.
Brown felt for the first time a little bored,
and began to wonder how he should get out
of it. He also noticed that Old Shekels had
singed those confounded old shoes of his. It

226 THE TWO BROWNS.

was becoming doubtful if the arctic overshoes
and the luncheon even would be considered
a handsome conclusion to their renewed ac-
quaintance.

^'Now look here," said Shekels, with a
cheerful smile. ^' You are thinking how you
can ever get rid of me, and that you have
heard this sort of story before. I 'U tell you
the rest of it in fifteen minutes, and then you
can say that your business claims your time,
and I '11 disappear like the juggler's rabbit in
the hat."

^' In the shoes," Brown mentally corrected
him, and tried to look resigned, and even
pleased; but he played impatiently witti his
paper-knife. He felt provokingly young and
helpless in Checkley's hands.

Brown's legal ancestry and the traditions of
his education had not prevented the love of
his profession from being largely an acquired
taste. He was equal to being a good lawyer
by and by, but his head was naturally fitted
for affairs ; and if there was one thing that he
understood more easily than another, it was
mechanical intricacies. Checkley did not use
his whole fifteen minutes in making sure of
this ally.

THE TWO BROWNS, 227

^* I do see it. Do you take me for a blind
man ? " exclaimed the listener, springing to his
feet, and marching across to the window, where
he stood with his back to Checkley, just as he
had looked out at the storm once before that
day. ^'It is a great temptation, but I can't
throw up my law prospects. My career is cut
out for me already. But I 'U give you a lift.
Old Shekels, — hang me if I don't ! "

Checkley grew calm as his friend became
excited. " Nonsense," said he. " I don't want
much of your time ; it 's your money I 'm after.
You can keep your law business going, — all
the better for you. We are likely to have
suits, but nobody can touch us. I don't ask
you to decide now. Think it over, and think
me over. I 've no security to give you but my
plan itself."

" Do you smoke ? " inquired Brown, amica-
bly, and Checkley answered that he did.

As the story of this day cannot be suffered
to grow any longer, the reader must be content
to know that these former schoolmates passed
a most agreeable morning, that they had a cap-
ital luncheon together, — early, lest Checkley
might not have breakfasted well, — and that

228 THE TWO BROWNS,

Checkley accepted the overshoes and all other
favors with generous lack of protest or false
shame.

II.

A year from the time when he met his old
playfellow, Brown was inclined to repent his
whole indulgence in affectionate civilities to a
roving schemer. He assured himself that it
had been an expensive lesson, but one that he
probably needed. A year later Brown was
triumphant, and began to flatter himself that
he knew a man and likewise a promising en-
terprise when he saw them. He was doing
very well in his law business. The family rep-
utation for clearness of legal vision and sue-
cessful pleading was gaming new laurels, and
young J. Benedict Brown was everywhere
spoken of as the most promising man of his
age at the New York bar. Detractors hinted
that there were dozens of brighter men, but
that nobody could help picking up some
crumbs of business with such a father and
grandfathers behind him. IVIrs. Brown led
the company of her husband's admirers, and
already indulged in dreams of his appearance

THE TWO BROWNS. 229

in the gloomy but noble garb of a chief jus-
tice. He was very busy in these days ; long
ago he had been obliged to take his breakfast
at eight o'clock instead of half-past nine, and
he was rarely at home until after six o'clock at
night, while it was not uncommon that their
seven o'clock dinner was considerably delayed.
Lucy watched him with increasing anxiety, for
fear that he would break himself down with
overwork, but he never had seemed in such
good health and spirits. The year before he
had been so gloomy and despondent for a few
weeks that she was always fearing a return,
but at present there was no sign of any. To
outward view the Benedict Browns were the
most prosperous young people in the city.
Fortune, position, everything that the social
heart desired, seemed to be heaped upon them.
A few croaking voices had begun to figure
Brown's probable expenses, and to insinuate
that he must be living a good way beyond his
income. Brown did not look like a debtor,
however; he had an older and more deter-
mined appearance, as if he had weighty afiEairs
on his mind and a high principle of conduct in
regard to them.

230 THE TWO BROWNS.

One morning early in March the hero of
this tale hurried away from his breakfast ta-
ble, with a quick kiss on the top of his three-
year-old daughter's curly warm little head.
They had been breakfasting alone together in
a delightfully social way, and before Brown
put on his overcoat he ran up-stairs, two steps
at a time, to give another kiss to his wife and
a young son some three weeks of age. Mrs.
Brown already spoke of the unconscious mor-
sel of humanity with proud respect as Bene-
dict, but Brown himself was provokingly fond
of calling him Johnny. He appeared to have
a secret satisfaction and deep sense of pride
and amusement in denying his son the family
name. Who knew whether this might not be
the most illustrious of all the five Benedict
Browns ? At present he was a very impor-
tant and welcome person indeed in his own
family.

^' I am in an uncommon hurry this morn-
ing," said the father, turning back for one
word more as he went out. " I have a busi-
ness meeting to go to at nine."

Lucy was one of those delightful women
who rarely demand particular explanations

THE TWO BROWNS. 231

and are contented with general assurances,
and she kindly advised Brown not to get too
tired, and to be sure to come home by half-
past five if he could ; she missed him so much
more now that she was not busy herself and
had to spend the whole day up-stairs. She
had a vague desire to know about her hus-
band's business, — it seemed to interest him
so much ; but she did not like to expose her
total ignorance of affairs, and had a theory,
besides, that it was better for Ben to shake off
his cares when he was at home.

As Ben went down-stairs again, he was at-
tacked by a sense of guilt more uncomfortable
than usual, and said to himself that he must
really teU Lucy all about the Planter Com-
pany. There was no fear of any catastrophe,
it was far beyond the realm of experiments,
and she was sure to hear of it from somebody
else, and to feel hurt at his silence. The won-
der was that he had hidden his head in the
sand of his first name so long.

The ofGice of J. Benedict Brown, counselor
at law, was unvisited, except by its faithful
derk and copyist, until some three hours later

282 THE TWO BROWNS,

in the day. When the yonng lawyer reached
a certain point on Broadway, he turned
quickly to the right and went down a side
street, as if he were well accustomed to such a
course, and knew the shortest cut toward a
dingy brick building which bore a clamorous
sort of sign, '* The Farmer's Bight - Hand
Man: The Electric Automatic Potato Planter.
Brown & Checkley, Manufacturers." The
doorway was blockaded with large packing-
cases, and, early as it still was for the busi-
ness world, there were several men in the
counting-room, toward which Brown went at
once. The workmen near by gave our friend
a cheerful morning greeting, and Mr. Check-
ley, who sat behind his desk, rose soberly, and
presented the new-comer to the counting-room
audience as '' Our head of the firm, gentlemen,
Mr. John B. Brown ; and now we will proceed
to business at once." Brown established him-
self at another desk, well stocked with papers,
and began to hunt for something in a lower
drawer, the key of which he had taken from
his own pocket. This was evidently not an
occasional thing, this business interview; he
took on, even to the most indifferent observer's
eye, an air of relationship to the place.

THE TWO BROWNS. 238

*• The only thing that seems to be imperative
this morning, Mr. Brown," said Checkley, plac-
idly, in a voice directed to the other listeners,
" is a decision on our part in regard to the in-
crease of our circular, almanac, and agent de-
partments. We came to no conclusion yester-
day. You have the figures before you on that
sheet of blue paper. I think the least increase
that we can manage is to quadruple the num-
ber of circulars and almanacs over that of last
year."

Checkley was in the habit of trying to give
casual strangers as large an idea as possible
of the magnitude of the Planter Company's
business, so Brown listened respectfully, and
waited for further information.

" These gentlemen," continued Mr. Check-
ley, " are ready with an offer to make an ex-
tensive additional contract for the wood-work
of the machines, and we will listen to them.
In our liability to meet extraordinary orders
at short notice, we are of course obliged to
defend ourselves against any possible inability
of theirs to furnish supplies. We find that
the business grows with such rapidity that it
is most difficult to make provision against sur-

284 THE TWO BROWNS.

prise. You can easily understand " (address-
ing the small audience) ^' that an article like
ours is invaluable to every man who cultivates
over three acres of land. Indispensable, I
11^7 ^7) since it saves the hiring of labor,
saves time, and saves strength. Such an ar-
ticle is one no farmer will be without when he
once sees it work.''

Checkley was unusually fluent of speech this
morning, and the interview went on prosper-
ously. Somehow, the familiar place and fa-
miliar arguments struck Brown with a fresh
vividness and air of realiiy. His thoughts
wandered away to his law business for a few
minutes, and then he found himself sgain lis-
tening to another account of the electric auto-
matic potato planter which Checkley was giv-
ing to a new-comer, a Western man, who was
evidently a large dealer in agricultural sup-
plies. There was a row of clerks behind a
screen, and their pens were scratching dili-
gently. Brown could see the high stacks of
almanacs through the dusty glass walls that
fenced the counting-room, — bright red al-
manacs, which combined a good selection of
family reading with meteorological statistics

THE TWO BROWNS, 235

and the praises of the potato planter judi«
ciously arranged on every page. It looked as
if there were almanacs enough already for
every man, woman, and child in America, but
Checkley knew what he was about. Brown
had thought that almanacs were a step too
low ; he was conscious of a shameful wish now
and then that he had embarked on any sort
of business rather than a patent potato planter.
The pride of the J. Benedict Browns, judges
and famous pleaders at the bar, had revolted
more than once in the beginning against such a
sordid enterprise. But as for John B. Brown,
this enterprising manufacturer and distributer
of an article that no farmer could do with-
out, he felt an increasing pride in his success.
He had merely made use of a little capital
that was lying idle, and his own superfluous
and unemployed energy. He believed that
his legal affairs had been helped rather than
hindered by this side issue of his, and he and
Checkley had fought some amazing fights with
the world in the course of their short but suc-
cessful alliance. Brown lazily opened a di-
rectory near at hand, and looked among the
B's, It was a new copy, and he nearly laughed

286 THE TWO BROWNS.

aloud at the discovery that he figured twice
on the page : Brown, J. Benedict lawyer,
Broadway ; h. 88th St., and Brown, John B.,
B. & Checkley machinists, 9th Ave ; h. Jersey
City. Here was a general masquerade ! Check-
ley lived in Jersey City, and one of the clerks
must have given wrong information, or else
the directory agent had confused what was
told him. Nobody knew where he lived, very
likely. They called him The Boss, in the es-
tablishment, because he dressed well and had
a less brotherly and companionable manner
than Checkley. It was surprising, the way a
man could hide himself in such a huge city as
this. Yes, he must certainly tell Lucy that
very night. They would have a capital laugh
over it, and he could tease her about making
Johnny a partner instead of the fifth at the
bar. Lucy was very fond of a joke, and she
had no idea how rich they were going to be if
affairs went on at this pace. Brown had felt
very dishonest for a long time whenever he
saw their advertisements in the papers, and
had been nearly ready to confess and be for-
given once the summer before, when he and
Lucy took a little journey together up the Con-

THE TWO BROWNS. 287

necticut River, and Lucy had writhed in con-
temptuous agony over Checkley's desecration
of natural scenery. "Use Brown & Check-
ley's Electric Automatic Potato Planter, and
Save Ten Years of Life," was displayed on
rocks and fences everywhere. Checkley him-
self had used his short summer holiday in
leading a gang of letterers into the rural dis-
tricts, and this was the result. Could a man
of ordinary courage confess at such a moment
that the name of Brown was in reality her
own property, and that she was unconsciously
responsible for such vandalism ?

Checkley was rushing things this morning ;
he eagerly assured his guest that they had
made the planter pay her own bills after the
first six months, and had advertised only as
fast as they gained the means. It was the
first application of electricity to farming.
" Brown and I had little capital to start with,
but we knew we had hold of a sure thing. I
am not sure that there is anything that cor-
responds to it in the world of inventions,"
Checkley continued proudly. "I have been
an inventor all my life. Here you have a
light-wheeled vehicle that one horse can drag

288 THE TWO BROWNS.

all day and an intelligent child can controL
You only need to plow and harrow and ma-
nure your ground : then the planter is driven
to and fro ; it stops itself at proper distances,
a revolving harrow loosens the ground within
a space twelve inches in diameter, this har-
row is drawn up, the shovel throws the earth
out at one side, the hopper lets fall sufficient
seed, a second shovel arrangement covers it in,
and a weight falls twice and banks it down,
the horse steps on between the furrows. My
dear sir, in the time I have consumed in tell-
ing you, four hills of potatoes are planted as
well as if you had done each one separately
with your own hoe ; the average time is only
three fifths of a minute. A horse soon learns
the trick, for the brake is self-acting and stops
him in the proper place. The only thing that
troubled us in the beginning was the complaint
of patrons that the horses gave trouble, and
the hills went zigzagging all over the field.
This new improvement makes a field as reg-
ular as a checker-board. With the brake that
stops the planter instantly, the horse learns to
anticipate, and makes his four steps forward
and stops of his own accord. It is less fatigu-

THE TWO BROWNS. 289

ing for the horse than a plow or harrow, and a
treadmill is barbarous beside it. Then think
of the heat of planting time and the waste of
human energy 1 We are now perfecting a re-
hoer and digger, but our present enterprise is
more than we can handle with ease. You have,
no doubt, read our testimonials. Hear this : a
ten-acre field planted in half a day, with some
help from a neighbor, — read for yourself, sir I
" You need to be very careful of the gauges
and setting your brakes properly," Checkley
confided honestly. "Electricity is a terrible
force ; there has been one bad accident through
such carelessness. The shovel arrangement
was not set as it should be, and the machine
went on digging straight down, and would
have carried the horse with it, if the harness
had n't been so old that he freed himself, and
scrambled out of the pit. My dear sir, this
will show you the power of that machine ; it
went down forty feet, right through gravel,
rotten rock, and everything, until it struck a
solid ledge, and that stopped it at last. The
whole neighborhood collected, and they got
alarmed, — thought she might be boring for
a volcano or something ; and they rolled a big

240 THE TWO BROWNS.

bowlder out of a pasture near by, and let it
drop right down on the planter ; but that only
damag^ the wood-work and partly disabled
the running-work, for she kept tossing up
splinters for a day or two. The man had n't
a word to say, for it was a springy field, and
the planter had struck water somewhere and
made him a first-rate welL He had been in-
tending to dig one thereabouts for a good
while."

" I want to know ! " exclaimed the wide-
eyed listener. Brown heard this flow of Check-
ley's eloquence, and was amused at the re-
sponse. It seemed that the listener, a worthy,
well-to-do Connecticut farmer, had an idea of
introducing the automatic potato planter to
his neighborhood, and was trying to obtain one
on trial at reduced price, with a promise of
wide influence in its behalf and cordial recom-
mendation. Checkley believed in favoring the
farmers, and the affair was presently con-
cluded. Brown was amazed to hear his com-
panion say that he. Brown, had beeu thinking
that he should like to pay a visit to that neigh-
borhood at county-fair time, and speak to the
folks on agricultural topics. Checkley liked

THE TWO BROWNS. 241

his jokes, and Brown smiled, but he turned a
little cold, and wondered if they were not
going a trifle too fast. There might not be
enough of him for two Browns, at this rate I
But it was something to find himself a busy,
prosperous man instead of an idle, overgrown
boy, and among the new firms of its class
none stood better than Brown & Checkley.

There was little time left for serious busi-
ness conference, but Checkley had great ex-
ecutive ability, and so had Mr. John B. Brown
of Jersey City, for that matter. Checkley
was thin yet and not very well dressed, but he
had a buoyant, confident air. ^^ How well he
knows human nature, and what a good fel-
low he is I " thought Brown as they parted.
^^ Snooks is more of a man than the dandy I
met in that newspaper office," reflected Check-
ley. " I never have lost a cent for him, either,
but hang me if we have n't had some narrow
escapes. I got him in pretty deep once, when
he had the worst doubts of me he ever had.
Snooks looked solemn, but he never flung at
me, or did anything but shoulder half the
blame and the worry, like a man."

In the neighborhood of the company's office

242 THE TWO BROWNS.

Brown met several business acquaintances, who
gave him a friendly good-morning. He had
gathered a whole new circle of associates, in
his character of senior partner of Brown &
Checldey. He had indulged in bad lunches
with these friends, and already figured largely
in the agricultural-implement world ; he would
have been deeply gratified if he had heard
somebody say, as he went by, " That 's Brown,
of the Planter Company. Those fellows are
sweeping everyfliing before tiiem tiiis spring.
They 've got hold of as big a thing as the Mc-
Cormick reaper."

It was ten or fifteen minutes* walk between
the two offices, and when J. Benedict Brown,
Esq., seated himself at his desk he* was still
thinking about his other business, which he
usually insisted upon putting out of his mind.
He never had looked at it so entirely from the
outside. He was at heart a most conservative
person. He was more fettered than he knew
by his family pride and traditions, and he had
become persuaded of his ability to follow the
law in a way that he never used to expect.
He felt it in him to make his influence rec-
ognized at the bar, and to handle heavy pieces

THE TWO BROWNS, 243

of business. Now that Checkley was so well
established he could slip out, and hold only a
silent partnership, if he pleased. Yet an op-
posing judgment in his own mind at the mo-
ment prevented Hm from cordially axjcepting
such an idea. There were some things, and
he knew it, that Checkley could not have
planned nor have carried without him, and the
concern might easily fall to pieces even now.
There was his own boy, however, who must
inherit as fair a name from him as he had
from his father. There had never yet been a
dishonored man of his name. Checkley had
counted upon the value of the family repu-
tation at first; he insisted that they were
throwing away a great advantage by not add-
ing the prefix of J. Benedict to the plain
Brown & Checkley. J. Benedict Brown was a
name of historical renown. Checkley did not
begin to understand yet that John B. Brown
was as utterly unknown to the friends of the
J. Benedict Browns as if he and his potato
planter had never existed. He simply knew
that Snooks was old-maidishly easier to keep
his two occupations apart, and thft only f ro^
half-past eight to ten and from three o'clock

244 THE TWO BROWNS,

until dinner-time he was the steady shaft-horse
of Brown & Checkley.

Brown sat in the Broadway office, busy at
his work, having finished his reflections with-
out coming to any new decisions. He was
working up a law case that he took great
pride in. All his inherited cleverness and a
new love for such a puzzle delighted him ; he
never had felt a keener sense of his own power,
and the planter was utterly forgotten.

Some one entered the office, and gave a
chair one aggressive pull across the polished
wood floor. It sounded as if the caster had left
a damaging scratch, and Brown looked round
with not a little annoyance. He felt a strange
suspicion that one of his Planter Company as-
sociates had at last hunted him down. There
was an inner room for purposes of private con-
sultation, and Brown signified, after a proper
interval, that the stranger might go there. It
was a darkish place, where he had once tried
to have his own desk ; but it was much too
gloomy, especially in the days when there was
nothing to do. Except when he was at court,
or at his other business, he was very faithful to
his post, and the stranger need not have been so
unreasonably glad to find him at his office.

THE TWO BROWNS. 245

"I see that you 're your father's own son,"
the client began, in an asthmatic voice. He
looked like a cross old fellow, and Brown had
an instant sense of relief because the first
words had not been suggestive of the other
place of business. " I knew your father and
grandfather before you," said Mr. Grandison,
" and I 've been out of lawyers' hands these
twenty years, more or less ; but I 've got some
fight left, and when I got my blood up yester-
day about some infringements, I thought over
to whom I could give the case, and I decided
that I would come round and look you over,
to see if I could trust you with such a piece
of work. I don't know whether you're not
too young now, but it 'U be a feather for you
if you can handle it. I 'm ready to pay what
the work 's worth, — I '11 tell you that to begin
with."

The word " infringements " had an un-
pleasant sound, but Brown waited patiently.
He had some knowledge of thij man, for whom
his father had gained a famous case. Grandi-
son was an inventor. On the whole, he could
recall the case perfectly ; he had tried to make
himself familiar with it, for future use ; but

246 THE TWO BROWNS.

there was no possibility of those questions be-
ing reopened.

"My factories go on like clock-work,
and have these thirty years," said the old
man. Brown began to feel a personal disUke.
" I thought I had disposed of all opponents
and rivals long ago. Jenks and Rowley are
our regular lawyers, but now they 're getting
old, and they don't own me, any way. You
see there are a couple of jackasses, over on
Ninth Avenue, who have started up an electric
potato planter, — a capital good thing it is,
too, — that runs so close to that cog-wheel ar-
rangement in the steam harrow we make that
I 'm going to stop them short, if I can ; or, if
I can't do that, I '11 buy 'em out, if it costs a
million to do it. You can't afford to let such
a business as mine scatter itself, and I mean
to hold it together as long as I am here to
do it."

Brown felt a dampness gather on his fore-
head ; then his manhood arose triumphant, and
his courage declared itself equal to this emer-
gency. He was not caught stealing, neither
had he done anything dishonorable. There
was no real incongruity in a Benedict Brown's

THE TWO BROWNS. 2A1

being interested in a potato planter; it had
all been a fair, above-board business. He was
ready to stand up for it.

" I Ve been living in Thirty-Eighth Street,"
said the client, ^^ and I have often watched you
come and go. I like to see a lad diligent and
right after his business, as you are, and ready
to go down town an hour or two earlier in the
morning than the fashion is. I 've had my eye
on you for a year or two. I started in life a
poor boy, and never had the backing up that
was ready for you ; but I keep the run of my
affairs, I can tell you. I don't get down town
every day, by any means, but a thing like this
that I want to consult you about fires me aU
up."

" Will you give me an idea of the case, Mr.
Grandison ? " asked Brown, politely. He was
afraid he might be taking an unfair advantage,
but the words were out, and the old manufac-
turer, with much detail, laid the grievance be-
fore him.

" They 're smart young men," he ended. *' I
don't know their match. I hear they had a
small capital, and laid it out mostly in adver-
tising. One of them got hold of a half-worked-

248 THE TWO DROWNS.

out notion and completed it, and bought out
the owner's right ; and there was a small man-
ufactory over in Jersey that had been swamped,
and they got that for a song, too ; and the min-
ute the machine was on the market it went
like wildfire. In spite of constant extensions,
they have been able to meet their obligations
right along. I don't want to harm 'em if
they 'U treat me fairly. I 'U give 'em a hand-
some sum down to sell out quietly, or I '11 fight
*em all to pieces."

*'*' Perhaps they can stand a fight, and can
prove that their machine is no infringement
on anybody's," suggested the lawyer, with a
good deal of spirit.

Mr. Grandison gave him a shrewd glance.
" This Brown is no relation to you, I hope ? "
he said, doubtfully; but Brown flushed
quickly, and made a little joke about the
name's not being at all uncommon. The cli-
ent thought he was not pleased at being as-
sociated with a firm of machinists, and was
sorry he had spoken. The boy felt older than
he looked, no doubt.

When the interview was ended. Brown, who
had been very inexpressive of his opinions all

THE TWO BROWNS. 249

the way through, assured his visitor that there
were some reasons why he would not give any
answer then about undertaking the case, and
would ask his leave to defer a direct reply
until the next day. " I shall be very glad to
stop as I go up town in the afternoon," said
our friend. The elder man thanked him, and
said he should count it a great favor, if the
weather were no better than at present, and
went limping away. Poor old soul! it was
late for him to be taking pleasure in quarrels
with his fellow-men.

Checkley was going over to the works that
afternoon, and there was no hope of seeing
him until the next morning, so Brown gave
all his mind that he possibly could to being J.
Benedict, the rising lawyer. He had some per-
plexing business upon which he tried hard to
fix his attention, but the affairs of John B.
Brown and the potato planter kept rising be-
fore him in an uneasy, ghostlike way that was
most disagreeable. He had put more of his
thoughts into those side interests than he had
been aware. The two years had gone by like
a dreaoi, but they had left a good many per-
manent evidences of their presence. There

260 THE TWO BROWNS.

was one of the teamsters, who had broken his
leg early in the winter, and whom Brown had
visited in the hospital, besides looking after
the patient's family. He had built up his own
business reputation, and had grown ambitious
about the success of the firm. He had deter-
mined at first to say nothing, even to his wife,
until he knew whether he had made a fool of
himself or not, but he was perfectly aware now
that he had not made a fool of himself. He
was evolving plans for giving all their work-
men some share in the business, and was in-
creasingly glad that he had a chance to work
out some experiments in the puzzling social
questions of the day. He was ready now to
be something of a statesman. He was willing
to believe that he had got hold of the right
thread of the snarled skein that linked labor
with capitaL His wife knew that he had some
business interests apart from his law reports
and his practice, and none of his friends would
be surprised that he had been speculating a
little. Grales would have got at the whole
story, and told it, too ; but he had gone
abroad months before, and reMnquisbed his
profession altogether, for the time being. Per-

THE TWO BROWNS. 251

haps the time had come to choose between
the two Browns ; it would be hard to play
both characters, if the cares of either should
double, for instance, and he was, perhaps,
fated to be J. Benedict, after all. This was
a melancholy thought, and the old wish re-
turned that his other enterprise had concerned
anything but an automatic potato planter. It
might give him a nickname, and he never
would be able to live the silly story down.
Checkley was sure to project something new,
and yet he was truly proud of the firm of
Brown & Checkley, and would not see it
cheated.

Next day, Checkley happened to be alone in
the office, and his partner beckoned him out
into an empty comer of their place of busi-
ness, where they were well removed from the
clerks and their scratching pens. Checkley
laughed and shouted, and was at first unable
to give any answer. " Wants you to bring a
suit of infringement against yourself, does
he ? " he gasped at length. " Go ahead, my
boy ; nobody '11 know the difference. It will
advertise us enormously. I have told you a
dozen times that nothing would do us so much

i

262 THE TWO BROWNS.

good as a rousing lawsuit. Now don't put on
your best J. Benedict manners, but listen to
me. I' m not going to work myself to death.
We have laid by something handsome already ;
if the old fellow will add to it, I am perfectly
willing to sell out, if you are, just to make his
last days happy. I Ve got my head full of new
electric notions, and I want to go to France
and experiment. You tell him the whole
story ; he will be glad to get hold of the
planter, and I shall be glad to let it go. I
meant to go roving tiiis summer. I 'U let it
all drop. We have had a run of luck, and
luck is apt to turn. We 're young yet, you
know, J. Benedict Brown, so I put this busi-
ness into your hands. You 're lawyer for the
firm."

Brown turned away mournfully ; he was
convinced more entirely than ever before of
the erratic nature of his partner: yesterday
with his whole soul bent on furthering the
success of the planter ; to-day ready to throw
it aside, and to wander away and spend all
the money he had earned. Brown mentally
resolved that it really was not safe to risk his
good name any longer in such keeping, but

THE TWO BROWNS. 253

that he should insist upon being made trustee
of a share of his partner's funds, so that Check-
ley might never come to the ground again.

Checkley called him back in great excite-
ment, when he was leaving the office, a little
later. " Look here," said he. " I was going
to put this picture into our next almanac as
your portrait. I was in the patent-medicine
business once, and this was old Dr. Parkins,
who made the Spring Bitters. I was going to
start him again as John B. Brown, the Penn-
sylvania farmer and inventor."

" I think it would have been beneath our
dignity," responded Brown, severely. " What
became of your patent-medicine business? I
never heard of that."

" Because it fell through," said Old Shekels,
cheerfully. "This was the only thing that
never did. You 're spoiling a first-class busi-
ness man for a doubtful lawyer." But Brown
laughed, and straightened himself proudly as
he went toward Broadway and his other office,
which bore the shining brass door-plate with
his honored name of J. Benedict Brown.

That evening he confessed all to his wife.
It was a great shock, but she bore it bravely.

264 THE TWO BROWNS.

She knew little about business, but she believed
with all her heart in respecting the traditions
of one's family. Though, after all, one Brown
had kindly made money for the other.

UNIV. OF MICHIGAN,

JUN 9 191S

Cl^e )Hi))ei:0lDe ij^Ut ^ejneis.

A collection of volumes for Home and Travel, by
Favorite Authors.

1. Deephaven. By Sarah Orne Jewett.

2. Exile. ("Little Classics.")

3. Adirondack Stories. By P. Deming.

4. A Qentleman of Leisure. By Edgar Faw-

CETT.

5. The Snow-Image, and other Twice-Told

Tales. By Nathaniel Hawthorne.

6. Watch and Ward. By Henry James.

7. In the Wilderness. By Charles Dudley

Warner.

8. A Study of Hawthorne. By George P. La-

throp.

9. Detmold. By William Henry Bishop.
10. The Story of a Mine. By Bret Harte.

Each volume, tastefully bound, i6mo, 50 cents.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.

boston and new YORK.

€]^e EiberjSiDe aiDine ^em0.

Choice Books of American Literature printed and
bound in a style which aims to preserve the tra-
ditions of Aldus and Pickering.

1. Marjorie Daw, and Other Stories. By T.

B. Aldrich.

2. My Summer in a Garden. By Charles

Dudley Warner.

3. Fireside Travels. By James Russell Low-

ell.

4. The Luck of Roaring Camp, and Other

Stories. By Bret Harte.

5. 6. Venetian Lifa By William D. Howells.

In two volumes.

7. Wake-Bobin. By John Burroughs.

8, 9. The Biglow Papers. By J. R. Lowell.

In two volumes.

10. Backlog Studies. By Charles Dudley
Warner.

Other numbers will be announced later.

Each volume, uniform, i6mo, $1.00.

A limited supply of the " First Edition " of the
above volumes (with the exception of No. i) may
also be had, in red cloth, uncut edges, with paper
label, each $1.50.

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.

BOSTON AND NEW YORK.

Issues for the Summer of i88^.

But Yet a Woman. By Arthur S. Hardy.
Missy. By Miriam Coles Harris, author of

" Rutledge."
The Stillwater Tragedy. By Thomas Bailey

Aldrich.
Elsie Venner. By Oliver Wendell Holmes.
An Earnest Trifler. By Mary A. Sprague.
The Lamplighter. By Maria S. Cummins.
Their Wedding Journey. By William D.

Howells.
Married for Fun. A Story by an Anon)rmous

Author.
An Old Maid's Paradise. By Elizabeth Stuart

Phelps.
The House of a Merchant Prinoe. By Wil-
liam Henry Bishop.
An Ambitious Woman. By Edgar Fawcett.
Marjorie's Quest. By Jeanie T. Gould (Mrs.

Lincoln).
Hammersmith. By Mark Sibley Severance.

Each volume, attractively bound in paper covers,
z6nio, 50 cents.

%* For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by mail^ post-^
faid^ on receipt of price by the Publishers^

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.,

boston and new YORK.

Issues for the Summer of 1886.

These volumes, by the best American authors,
combine excellence of typography and attractive-
ness of appearance with small cost

Burglars in Paradise. By Elizabeth Stuart
Phelps.

A Perfect Adonis. By Miriam Coles Harris^
author of ** Rutledge."

Stories and Romances. By H. £. Scudder.

A Summer in Leslie Gk>ldthwaite's Life.
By Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney. Illustrated.

The Man who waa Quilty. 'By Flora Haines

LOUGHEAD.

The Guardian Angel. By O. W. Holmes.

The Cruise of the Alabam£k By P. D. Hay-
wood.

Prudence Palfrey. By T. B. Aldrich.

Pilot Fortune. By Marian C. L. Reeves and

Emily Read.
Not in the Prospectus. By Parke Danforth.

Choy Susan, and Other Stories. By W. H.
Bishop.

Sam Lawson's Fireside Stories. By Mrs. H.
B. Stowe.

A Chance Acquaintance. By W. D. Howells.
Illustrated.

Each volume, i6mo, paper covers, 50 cents.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. '^

boston and new YORK.

!Stl)e¥jSU>e Cla0!a;ic0.

Choice Works in ^Prose and Poetry. With engrav-
ings and ornamental head-pieces by the best
artists. Square i6mo, each, $i.oo.

The Vicar of Wakefield. By Oliver Gold-
smith. Illustrated.

Picciola. By J. X. B. Saintine. Illustrated.

Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures. By Douglas
Jerrold. Illustrated.

Paradise Lost. By John Milton. With Ex-
planatory Notes.

Lalla Bookh. By Thomas Moore. Illustrated,
and with Appendix and Notes.

Paul and Virginia. By J. H. Bernardin de St.
Pierre. Illustrated.

The Lady of the Lake. By Sir Walter Scott.

Illustrated.
'The Clockmaker; or, The Sayings and Doings
of Samuel Slick, of Slickville. By Thomas
Chandler Haliburton. Illustrated.

Undine, and other Tales. By Baron de la
MoTTE FouQU^. Containing Undine, The Two
Captains, Aslauga's Knight, and Sintram and his
Companions. Illustrated.

%* For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by mail^ post-paid^ on
receipt of price by the Publishers ^

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.,

boston and new YORK.

0t\B t^blicatton^.

The Wind of Desl^y.

A Novel. By Arthur Sherburne Hardy, author
of " But Yet a Woman," etc. i6mo, $1.25.

In the Clouds.

A Novel. By Charles Egbert Craddock, author
of " In the Tennessee Mountains," etc. i6mo,
$1.25. (In Press^

Old Salem.
By Eleanor Putnam. i6mo, $1.00.

A White Heron, and Other Stories.

By Sarah Orne Jewett, author of " Deephaven,"
etc. i6mo, $1.25. {In Press.)

A Step Aside.

A Novel. By Charlotte Dunning. i6mo, $1.25.
(Jh Press.)

Signs and Seasons.

By John Burroughs, author of "Wake Robin,"
"Fresh Fields," etc. i6mo, gilt top, $1.50.

Poverty Grass.

Short Stories. By Mrs. Lillie Chace Wyman.
i6mo, $1.25. {In Press.)

%* For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by mail^pos^
faid, on receipt of price by the Publishers^

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.

BOSTON AND NEW YORK.