A Special Limited Edition

IN CONNECTION WITH THE De WILLOUGHBY CLAIM

by

FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT

Author of"A Lady of Quality, " "Little Lord Fauntleroy, " Etc. 

The People's LibraryIssued MonthlyBy _The American News Company_

New YorkThe American News CompanyPublishers' Agents39-41 Chambers Street

Copyright, 1899by Charles Scribner's SonsAll rights reserved

The owners of the copyright of this volume sanction the issue ofthis edition as a paper-covered book, to be sold at fifty cents;but, while not wishing to interfere with any purchaser binding hisown copy, they do not sanction placing on the market any volumes ofthis edition bound in any other form. 

In Connection withThe De Willoughby Claim

CHAPTER I

High noon at Talbot's Cross-roads, with the mercury standing atninety-eight in the shade--though there was not much shade worthmentioning in the immediate vicinity of the Cross-roads post-office, about which, upon the occasion referred to, the few human beings withinsight and sound were congregated. There were trees enough a few hundredyards away, but the post-office stood boldly and unflinchingly in theblazing sun. The roads crossing each other stretched themselves as far asthe eye could follow them, the red clay transformed into red dust whicheven an ordinarily lively imagination might have fancied was red hot. Theshrill, rattling cry of the grasshoppers, hidden in the long yellowsedge-grass and drouth-smitten corn, pierced the stillness now and thenwith a suddenness startling each time it broke forth, because theinterval between each of the pipings was given by the hearers todrowsiness or heated unconscious naps. 

In such napping and drowsiness the present occupants of the post-officewere indulging. Upon two empty goods boxes two men in copperas-colouredjean garments reclined in easy attitudes, their hats tilted over theireyes, while several others balanced their split-seated chairs against thehouse or the post-porch and dozed. 

Inside the store the postmaster and proprietor tilted his chair againstthe counter and dozed also, though fitfully, and with occasional restlesschanges of position and smothered maledictions against the heat. He wasscarcely the build of man to sleep comfortably at high noon in midsummer. His huge, heavy body was rather too much for him at any time, but duringthe hot weather he succumbed beneath the weight of his own flesh. HamlinCounty knew him as "Big Tom D'Willerby, " and, indeed, rather prideditself upon him as a creditable possession. It noted any increase in hisweight, repeated his jokes, and bore itself patiently under his satire. His indolence it regarded with leniency not entirely untinged with secretexultation. 

"_The_ derndest, laziest critter, " his acquaintances would remark to eachother; "the _derndest_ I do reckon that ever the Lord made. Nigh untothree hundred he weighs, and never done a lick o' work in his life. Notone! Lord, no! Tom D'Willerby work? I guess not. He gits on fine withoutany o' that in his'n. Work ain't his kind. It's a pleasin' sight to seehim lyin' round thar to the post-office an' the boys a-waitin' on to him, doin' his tradin' for him, an' sortin' the mail when it comes in. They'reready enough to do it jest to hear him gas. "

And so they were. About eight years before the time the present storycommences, he had appeared upon the scene apparently having no object inview but to make himself as comfortable as possible. He took up hisquarters at one of the farm-houses among the mountains, paid his hostessregularly for the simple accommodations she could afford him, and, beforethree months passed, had established his reputation and, without makingthe slightest apparent effort, had gathered about him a large circle offriends and admirers. 

"His name's D'Willerby, " Mrs. Pike would drawl when questioned about him, "an' he's kin to them D'Willerbys that's sich big bugs down toD'Lileville. I guess they ain't much friendly, though. He don't seem tolike to have nothin' much to say about 'em. Seems like he has moneya-plenty to carry him along, an' he talks some o' settin' up a storesomewhars. "

In the course of a month or so he carried out the plan, selectingTalbot's Cross-roads as the site for the store in question. He engagedhands to erect a frame building, collected by the assistance of somemysterious agency a heterogeneous stock consisting of calicoes, tinware, coffee, sugar, tobacco, and various waif and stray commodities, and, having done so, took his seat on the porch one morning and announced theestablishment open. 

Upon the whole, the enterprise was a success. Barnesville was fifteenmiles distant, and the farmers, their wives and daughters, were gladenough to stop at the Cross-roads for their calico dresses andstore-coffee. By doing so they were saved a long ride and gained superiorconversational advantages. "D'Willerby's mighty easy to trade with, " itwas said. 

There was always a goodly number of "critters" tied to the fence-corners, and consequently to business was added the zest of society and theinterchanging of gossip. "D'Willerby's" became a centre of interest andattraction, and D'Willerby himself a county institution. 

Big Tom, however, studiously avoided taking a too active part in theduties of the establishment. Having with great forethought providedhimself with a stout chair which could be moved from behind the counterto the door, and from the door to the store as the weather demanded, hedevoted himself almost exclusively to sitting in it and encouraging afriendly and accommodating spirit in his visitors and admirers. The moreyouthful of those admirers he found useful in the extreme. 

"Boys, " he would say, "a man can't do more than a thousand things atonce. A man can't talk a steady stream and do himself justice, and settlethe heftiest kind of questions, and say the kind of things these ladiesought to have said to 'em, and then measure out molasses and weigh coffeeand slash off calico dresses and trade for eggs. Some of you've got toroust out and do some clerking, or I've got to quit. I've not got theconstitution to stand it. Jim, you 'tend to Mis' Pike, and Bill, you waiton Mis' Jones. Lord! Lord! half a dozen of you here, and not one doing athing--not a derned thing! Do you want me to get up and leave MissMirandy and do things myself? We've got to settle about the colour ofthis gown. How'd you feel now, if it wasn't becoming to her complexion?Just help yourself to that plug of tobacco, Hance, and lay your ten centsin the cash drawer, and then you can weigh out that butter of Mis'Simpson's. "

When there was a prospect of a post-office at the Cross-roads, there wasonly one opinion as to who was the man best calculated to adorn theposition of postmaster. 

"The store's right yere, Tom, " said his patrons, "an' you're right yere. Ye can write and spell off things 'thout any trouble, an' I reckon yewouldn't mind the extry two dollars comin' in ev'ry month. "

"Lord! Lord!" groaned Tom, who was stretched full length on the floor ofthe porch when the subject was first broached. "Do you want a man to killhimself out an' out, boys? Work himself into eternal kingdom come? Who'ddo the extra work, I'd like to know--empty out the mail-bag and hand outthe mail, and do the extra cussin'? That would be worth ten dollars amonth. And, like as not, the money would be paid in cheques, and who'sgoin' to sign 'em? Lord! I believe you think a man's immortal soul couldbe bought for fifty cents a day. You don't allow for the wear and tear ona fellow's constitution, boys. "

But he allowed himself to be placed in receipt of the official salary inquestion, and the matter of extra labour settled itself. Twice a week aboy on horseback brought the mail-bag from Barnesville, and when thisyouth drew rein before the porch Big Tom greeted him from indoors withhis habitual cordiality. 

"'Light, sonny, 'light!" he would call out in languidly sonorous tones;"come in and let these fellows hear the news. Just throw that mail-bag onthe counter and let's hear from you. Plenty of good water down at thespring. Might as well take that bucket and fill it if you want a drink. I've been waiting for just such a man as you to do it. These fellowswould sit here all day and let a man die. I can't get anything out of'em. I've about half a mind to quit sometimes and leave them to engineerthe thing themselves. Look here now, is any fellow going to attend tothat mail, or is it going to lie there till I have to get up and attendto it myself? I reckon that's what you want. I reckon that'd just suityou. Jehoshaphat! I guess you'd like me to take charge of the eternaluniverse. "

It was for the mail he waited with his usual complement of friends andassistants on the afternoon referred to at the opening of this chapter. The boy was behind time, and, under the influence of the heat, conversation had at first flagged and then subsided. Big Tom himself hadtaken the initiative of dropping into a doze, and his companions had oneby one followed his example, or at least made an effort at doing so. Theonly one of the number who remained unmistakably awake was a little manwho sat on the floor of the end of the porch, his small legs, encased inlarge blue jean pantaloons, dangling over the side. This little man, whowas gently and continuously ruminating, with brief "asides" ofexpectoration, kept his eyes fixed watchfully upon the Barnesville Road, and he it was who at last roused the dozers. 

"Thar's some un a-comin', " he announced in a meek voice. "'Tain't him. "

Big Tom opened his eyes, stretched himself, and gradually rose in hismight, proving a very tight fit for the establishment, especially thedoorway, towards which he lounged, supporting himself against its side. 

"Who is it, Ezra?" he asked, almost extinguishing the latter cognomenwith a yawn. 

"It's thet thar feller!"

All the other men awakened in a body. Whomsoever the individual might be, he had the power to rouse them to a lively exhibition of interest. Oneand all braced themselves to look at the horseman approaching along theBarnesville Road. 

"He's a kinder curi's-lookin' feller, " observed one philosopher. 

"Well, at a distance of half a mile, perhaps he is, " said Tom. "In acloud of dust and the sun blazin' down on him like thunderation, I don'tknow but you're right, Nath. "

"Git out!" replied Nath, placidly. "He's a curi's-actin' feller, anyway. Don't go nowhar nor hev nothin' to say to nobody. Jest sets right down inthat thar holler with his wife, as if b'ars an' painters wus all a man orwoman wanted round 'em. "

"She's a doggoned purty critter, " said the little man in large trousers, placidly. He had not appeared to listen to the conversation, but, as thispertinent remark proved, it had not been lost on him. 

His observation was greeted with a general laugh, which seemed to implythat the speaker had a character which his speech sustained. 

"Whar did ye see her, Stamps?" was asked. 

The little man remained unmoved, still dangling his legs over the porchside, still ruminating, still gazing with pale, blinking eyes up theroad. 

"Went over the mountain to 'tend court to Bakersville, an' took it on myroad to go by thar. She was settin' in the door, an' I see her afore sheseen me. When she hearn the sound of my mule's feet, she got up an' wentinto the house. It was a powerful hot mornin', 'n' I wus mighty dry, 'n'I stopped fur a cool drink. She didn't come out when fust I hollered, 'n'when she did come, she looked kinder skeered 'n' wouldn't talk none. Kep'her sunbonnet over her face, like she didn't want to be seen overmuch. "

"What does she look like, Ezry?" asked one of the younger men. 

Mr. Stamps meditated a few seconds. 

"Don't look like none o' the women folk about yere, " he replied, finally. "She ain't their kind. "

"What d'ye mean by that?"

"Dunno eggsactly. She's mighty white 'n' young-lookin' 'n' delicate--butthat ain't all. "

Tom made a restless movement. 

"Look here, boys, " he broke in, suddenly, "here's a nice business--a lotof fellows asking questions about a woman an' gossiping as if therewasn't a thing better to do. Leave 'em alone, if they want to be leftalone--leave 'em alone. "

Mr. Stamps expectorated in an entirely unbiased manner. He seemed aswilling to leave his story alone as he had been to begin it. 

"He's comin' yere, " he said, softly, after a pause. "Thet's whar he'scomin'. "

The rest of the company straightened themselves in their seats and madean effort to assume the appearance of slightly interested spectators. Itbecame evident that Mr. Stamps was right, and that the rider was about todismount. 

He was a man about thirty years of age, thin, narrow-chested, andstooping. His coarse clothes seemed specially ill-suited to his slenderfigure, his black hair was long, and his beard neglected; his broad hatwas pulled low over his eyes and partially concealed his face. 

"He don't look none too sociable when he's nigher than half a mile, "remarked Nath in an undertone. 

He glanced neither to the right nor to the left as he strode past thegroup into the store. Strange to relate, Tom had lounged behind thecounter and stood ready to attend him. He asked for a few necessaryhousehold trifles in a low tone, and, as Tom collected and made them intoa clumsy package, he stood and looked on with his back turned towards thedoor. 

Those gathered upon the porch listened eagerly for the sound ofconversation, but none reached their ears. Tom moved heavily to and frofor a few minutes, and then the parcel was handed across the counter. 

"Hot weather, " said the stranger, without raising his eyes. 

"Yes, " said Tom, "hot weather, sir. "

"Good-day, " said the stranger. 

"Good-day, " answered Tom. 

And his customer took his departure. He passed out as he had passed in;but while he was indoors little Mr. Stamps had changed his position. Henow sat near the wooden steps, his legs dangling as before, his smallcountenance as noncommittal as ever. As the stranger neared him, heraised his pale little eyes, blinked them, indulged in a slight jerk ofthe head, and uttered a single word of greeting. 

"Howdy?"

The stranger started, glanced down at him, and walked on. He made noanswer, untied his horse, mounted it, and rode back over the BarnesvilleRoad towards the mountain. 

Mr. Stamps remained seated near the steps and blinked after him silentlyuntil he was out of sight. 

"Ye didn't seem to talk none, D'Willerby, " said one of the outsiders whenTom reappeared. 

Tom sank into his chair, thrust his hands into his pockets, and stretchedhis limbs out to their fullest capacity. 

"Let a man rest, boys, " he said, "let a man rest!"

He was silent for some time afterwards, and even on the arrival of themail was less discursive than usual. It was Mr. Stamps who finallyaroused him from his reverie. 

Having obtained his mail--one letter in a legal-looking envelope--andmade all other preparations to return to the bosom of his family, Stampssidled up to the counter, and, leaning over it, spoke in an insinuatinglylow tone:

"She was bar'foot, " he said, mildly, "'n' she hadn't been raised toit--that was one thing. Her feet wus as soft 'n' tender as a baby's; 'n'fur another thing, her hands wus as white as her face, 'n' whiter. Thetain't the way we raise 'em in Hamlin County--that's all. "

And, having said it, he slipped out of the store, mounted his mule, andjogged homeward on the Barnesville Road also. 

CHAPTER II

Before the war there were no people better known or more prominent intheir portion of the State than the De Willoughbys of Delisle County, Tennessee. To have been born a De Willoughby was, in general opinion, tohave been born with a silver spoon in one's mouth. It was indeed to havebeen born to social dignity, fortune, courage, and more than the usualallowance of good looks. And though the fortune was lavishly spent, thecourage sometimes betrayed into a rather theatrical dare-deviltry, andthe good looks prone to deteriorate in style, there was always the socialposition left, and this was a matter of the deepest importance inDelisleville. The sentiments of Delisleville were purely patrician. Itwas the county town, and contained six thousand inhabitants, two hotels, and a court-house. It had also two or three business streets and half adozen churches, all very much at odds with each other and each seriouslyinclined to disbelieve in the probable salvation of the rest. The "firstfamilies" (of which there were eight or ten, with numerous branches)attended the Episcopal Church, the second best the Presbyterian, whilethe inferior classes, who could scarcely be counted at all, since theyhad not been born in Delisleville, drifted to the Methodists. 

The De Willoughbys attended the Episcopal Church, and, being generallyendowed with voices, two or three of them sang in the choir, which wascomposed entirely of members of the attending families and executed mostdifficult music in a manner which was the cause after each service ofmuch divided opinion. Opinion was divided because the choir wasdivided--separated, in fact, into several small, select cliques, eachengaged in deadly and bitter feud with the rest. When the moon-eyedsoprano arose, with a gentle flutter, and opened her charming mouth insolo, her friends settled themselves in their pews with a general rustleof satisfaction, while the friends of the contralto exchanged civillysignificant glances; and on the way home the solo in question wasdisposed of in a manner at once thorough and final. The same thingoccurred when the contralto was prominent, or the tenor, or the baritone, or the basso, each of whom it was confidently asserted by competentDelisleville judges might have rendered him or herself and Delislevilleimmortal upon the lyric stage if social position had not placed thefollowing of such a profession entirely out of the question. There hadindeed been some slight trouble in one or two of the best families, occasioned by the musical fervour of youthful scions who were in dangerof being led into indiscretions by their enthusiasm. 

The De Willoughbys occupied one of the most prominent pews in the sacrededifice referred to. Judge De Willoughby, a large, commanding figure, with a fine sweep of long hair, mustache and aquiline profile; Mrs. DeWilloughby (who had been a Miss Vanuxem of South Carolina), slender, willowy, with faded brunette complexion and still handsome brunette eyes, and three or four little De Willoughbys, all more or less pretty andpicturesque. These nearly filled the pew. The grown-up Misses DeWilloughby sang with two of their brothers in the choir. There were threesons, Romaine, De Courcy, and Thomas. But Thomas did not sing in thechoir. Thomas, alas! did not sing at all. Thomas, it was universallyconceded by every De Willoughby of the clan, was a dismal failure. Evenfrom his earliest boyhood, when he had been a huge, overgrown fellow, whose only redeeming qualities were his imperturbable good-humor and hisponderous wit, his family had regarded him with a sense of despair. Inthe first place, he was too big. His brothers were tall, lithe-limbedyouths, who were graceful, dark-eyed, dark-haired, and had a general airof brilliancy. They figured well at college and in their world; they sangand danced in a manner which, combining itself with the name of DeWilloughby, gave them quite an ennobled sort of distinction, a touch ofpatrician bravado added to their picturesqueness in the eyes of theadmiring; and their little indiscretions were of a nature to be ignoredor treated with gentle consideration as the natural result of theiryouth, spirit, and Southern blood. But at nineteen Thomas had attained aheight of six feet five, with a proportionate breadth and ponderousness. His hands and feet were a disgrace to a De Willoughby, and his voice wasa roar when he was influenced by anything like emotion. Displays ofemotion, however, were but rare occurrences with him. He was too lazy tobe roused to anger or any other violent feeling. He spent his leisurehours in lying upon sofas or chairs and getting very much in everybody'sway. He lounged through school and college without the slightest _éclat_attending his progress. 

It became the pastime of the household to make rather a butt of him, andfor the most part he bore himself under the difficulties of his positionpeaceably enough, though there had been times when his weighty retortshad caused some sharp wincing. 

"You're an ill-natured devil, Tom, " his brother De Courcy said to him, ashe stood fingering the ornaments on the mantel after one such encounter. "You're an ill-natured devil. "

Tom was stretched on a sofa, with his big hands under his head, and didnot condescend to look around. 

"I'm not such a thundering fool as you take me for, that's all, " heanswered. "I've got my eyes open. Keep to your side of the street, and Iwill keep to mine. "

It was true that he had his eyes open and had more wit and feeling thanthey gave him credit for. No one understood him, not even his mother, whohad deplored him from the first hour of his overweighted babyhood, whenshe had given him over to the care of his negro nurse in despair. 

In the midst of a large family occupied with all the small gaietiesattendant upon popularity and social distinction in a provincial town, helived a lonely life, and one not without its pathetic side if it had beenso looked upon. But even he himself had never regarded the matter from asentimental point of view. He endeavoured to resign himself to his fateand meet it philosophically. 

"I wasn't cut out for this sort of thing, boys, " he had said to hisfriends at college, where he had been rather popular. "I wasn't cut outfor it. Go ahead and leave me behind. I'm not a bad sort of fellow, butthere is too much of me in one way and too little in another. What theLord made such a man as me for after six thousand years' experience, Ihaven't found out yet. A man may as well make up his mind about himselffirst as last. I've made up mine and nobody differs from me so far asI've gone. "

When he left college his brothers had already chosen their vocations. Delisle County knew them as promising young lawyers, each havingdistinguished himself with much fiery eloquence in an occasional case. The cases had not always been gained, but the fervour and poetry of theappeals to the rather muddled and startled agriculturists who formed thejuries were remembered with admiration and as being worthy ofDelisleville, and were commented upon in the Delisleville _Oriflamme_ asthe "fit echoings of an eloquence long known in our midst as thebirthright of those bearing one of our proudest names, an eloquencespurred to its eagle flights by the warm, chivalric blood of a noblerace. "

But the "warm, chivalric blood" of the race in question seemed to movebut slowly in veins of its most substantial representative. The inertnessof his youngest son roused that fine old Southern gentleman andwell-known legal dignitary, Judge De Willoughby, to occasional outburstsof the fiery eloquence before referred to which might well have beenproductive of remarkable results. 

"Good God, sir!" he would trumpet forth, "good God, sir! have we led theState for generation after generation to be disgraced and degraded anddragged in the dust by one of our own stock at last? The De Willoughbyshave been gentlemen, sir, distinguished at the bar, in politics, and inthe highest social circles of the South; and here we have a De Willoughbywhose tastes would be no credit to--to his overseer, a De Willoughby whohas apparently neither the ambition nor the qualification to shine in thesphere in which he was born! Blow your damned brains out, if you haveany; blow your damned brains out, and let's have an end of the wholedisgraceful business. "

This referred specially to Tom's unwillingness to enter upon the study ofmedicine, which had been chosen for him. 

"I should make a better farmer, " he said, bitterly, after a prolongeddiscussion. "I'm not the build for women's bedrooms and children'sbedsides. De Courcy would have suited you better. "

"De Courcy is a gentleman--a gentleman, sir! He was born one and wouldshine in any profession a gentleman may adorn. As for you, this is theonly thing left for you, and you shall try it, by G----!"

"Oh, " said Tom, "I'll try it. I can only fail, and I've done thatbefore. "

He did try it forthwith, applying himself to his studies with apersistence quite creditable. He read lying upon sofas and lounging inthe piazzas, and in course of time was sent to attend lectures inPhiladelphia. 

Whether he could have gained his diploma or not was never decided. Thoseof the professors who commented on him at all, spoke of him as slow butpersevering, and regarded him rather as a huge receiving machine oforderly habits. The Judge began to congratulate himself upon hisdetermination, and his mother thought it "a good thing poor Tom wasdisposed of. "

But one terrible morning just before the first course of lectures wascompleted, he suddenly returned, walking into the Judge's office withoutany previous intimation of his intention. 

When he turned in his seat and confronted him, the Judge lost his breath. 

"You!" he cried; "you!"

"Yes, " said Tom, "I've come back. " He was rather pale and nervous, butthere was a dogged, resigned look in his eyes. "I've made up my mind, " headded, "that I cannot stand it. Turn me loose on one of your plantationsto--to boss niggers. You said once I was fit for an overseer. Perhaps youweren't wrong. Say the word and I'll start to-morrow. "

The Judge's aquiline countenance turned gray with fury. His fine mustacheseemed to curl itself anew. 

"You--you accursed scoundrel!" he gasped. "You accursed, underbred hound!Tell me what this means, or I'll strangle you. "

"You'll say I'm a fool, " said Tom, "and I suppose it's true, and--and----" with a tremour in his voice, "I've no need to be particularabout the names you call me. I ought to be used to them by this time. "

"Speak out, " thundered the Judge, "and tell me the whole disgracefultruth!"

"It won't take long, " said Tom; "I told it when I said I'd made up mymind I couldn't stand it. I've been walking the hospitals and attendingthe clinics for the last three months, and I've had a chance to see whatmy life would be if I went through. I've seen things to make a mantremble when they came back to him in the dead of night--agony andhorror--women and children! Good Lord! I can't tell you. De Courcy could, but I can't. I'd rather be in hell than live such a life day after day. Itried to stand up against it at first. I thought I might get used to it, but I haven't the nerve--or something was wrong. It got worse and worse, until I used to start up out of my sleep in a cold sweat, hearing screamsand groans and prayers. That was the worst of all--their prayers to us tohelp them and not to hurt them. Four days ago a child was brought in--achild four or five years old. There was an operation to be performed, andI was the man chosen to hold it still. Its mother was sent out of theroom. My God! how it screamed when it saw her go and knew it was to beleft to us. They told me to hold it because I was the strongest, and--andI put my hands on it. I'm a big fellow to look at, and I suppose it knewthere was no help for it when I came near. It turned as white as deathand looked up at me with the tears streaming down its face. Before theoperation was half over it hadn't the strength left to scream orstruggle, and it lay and looked at me and moaned. I should have given upthe job, but somehow I couldn't make up my mind to--to leave it. When itwas all done, I gave it back to its mother and went to my rooms. I turnedsick on the way and had to sit down to rest. I swore then I'd let thething drop, and I bought my ticket and came back. I'm not the man for thework. Better men may do it--perhaps it takes better men. I'm not up toit. " And his shaken voice broke as he hung his great head. 

A deadly calm settled upon the Judge. He pointed to the door. 

"Go home to your mother, sir, " he said, "I've done with you. Go and staywith the women. That's the place for you. "

"He's a coward as well as a fool, " he said afterwards in the bosom of hisfamily; "a white-livered fool who hasn't the nerve to look at a sickchild. "

It was a terrible day for the household, but at last it was over. Tomwent to his room in an apathy. He had been buffeted and scorned and heldup to bitter derision until he had ceased to feel anything but anegative, helpless misery. 

About a week later Delia Vanuxem appeared upon the scene. Delia Vanuxemwas a young cousin of Mrs. De Willoughby's, and had come to pay herrelatives a visit. It was the hospitable custom of Delisleville tocultivate its kinsfolk--more especially its kinswomen. There were alwaysin two or three of the principal families young lady guests who wereduring their stay in the town the sensation of the hour. Noveltyestablished them as temporary belles; they were petted by theirhostesses, attended by small cohorts of admirers, and formed the centrefor a round of festivities specially arranged to enliven their visits. 

Delia Vanuxem bore away the palm from all such visitors past or to come. She was a true Southern beauty, with the largest dark eyes, the prettiestyielding manner, and the very smallest foot Delisleville had ever fallenprostrate before, it being well known among her admirers that one of hernumerous male cousins had once measured her little slipper with acigar--a story in which Delisleville delighted. And she was not only apretty, but also a lovable and tender-hearted young creature. Her softeyes end soft voice did not belie her. She was gentle and kindly to allaround her. Mrs. De Willoughby and the two older girls fell in love withher at once, and the Judge himself was aroused to an eloquence ofcompliment and a courtly grandeur of demeanour which rose even beyond hisusual efforts in a line in which he had always shone. The very negroesadored her and vied with each other to do her service. 

It was quite natural that a nature so sweet and sympathetic should beawakened to pity for the one member of the gay household who seemed cutoff from the rest, and who certainly at the time existed under a darkercloud than usual. 

From the first she was more considerate of poor Tom than anyone who hadever been before, and more than once, as he sat silent and gloomy at thetable, he looked up to find her lovely eyes resting upon his big framewith a questioning, pitying glance. 

"He is so much too big, Aunt Jule, " she wrote home once. "And he seemssomehow to feel as if he was always in the way, and, indeed, he is alittle sometimes, poor fellow! and everyone appears to think he is only ajoke or a mistake; but I have made up my mind never to laugh at him atall as the other girls do. It seems so unkind, and surely he must feelit. "

She never did laugh at him, and sometimes even tried to talk to him, andonce drew him out so far in an artful, innocent way, that he told hersomething of his medical failure and the reasons for it, manifestlyashamed of the story as he related it, and yet telling it so well in afew clumsy, rather disconnected sentences, that when he had finished hereyelashes were wet and she broke into a little shuddering sigh. 

"Oh!" she said, "I don't think you are to blame, really. I have oftenthought that I could never, never bear to do such things, though, ofcourse, if there was no one to do them it would be dreadful; but----"

"Yes, " said Tom, "there it is. Someone must do it, and I know I'm aconfounded coward and ninny, but--but I couldn't. " And he lookedoverwhelmed with humiliation. 

"But after all, " she said, in the soft voice which had always the soundof appeal in it, "after all, I'm sure it was because you have a kindheart, and a kind heart is worth a great deal. You will do somethingelse. "

"There is nothing else for me to do, " he said, mournfully; "nothing thatwon't disgrace the rest, they tell me. "

It was small wonder that this was his final undoing, though neither wasto blame. Certainly no fault could be attached to the young creature whomeant to be kind to him, as it was her nature to be to all surroundingher; and surely Tom's great and final blunder arose from no presumptionon his part. He had never thought of aspiring to the proud position withregard to her which Romaine and De Courcy seemed to occupy by naturalright. It was only now and then, when they were unavoidably engaged, thathe had the courage to offer his services as messenger or escort, but eventhose rare pleasures were a little too much for him. He was so unused tosuch privileges that they intoxicated him and set his mind in a whirlwhich prevented his thinking clearly, or, indeed, ever thinking at allsometimes. 

Even when it was all over, he scarcely knew how he had been betrayed intothe weakness he was guilty of. It was not like him to lose sight of hismanifold imperfections; but for once they were swept out of his mind by amomentary madness. 

It was on the occasion of a ball at the Delisle House. The Delisle Housewas the principal hotel, and all important festivities were held in itslong dining-hall disguised as a ballroom. The ball was given by a gallantDelisleville Club in honour of Miss Delia Vanuxem, and it was a verymagnificent affair indeed. The disguise of the dining-room was complete. It was draped with flags and decorated with wreaths of cedar and paperroses. A band of coloured gentlemen, whose ardour concealed any slightmusical discrepancies, assisted the festivities, which--to quote the_Oriflamme_ of the next morning--"the wealth, beauty, and chivalry ofDelisleville combined to render unequalled in their gaiety and elegance, making the evening one of the most successful of the piquant occasions

 When youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet. "

Usually Tom's part in such festivities was to sit uncomfortably in dullcorners, taking up as little room as possible, or piloting his waycarefully through the crowd to the supper-table with an elderly lady or awall-flower clinging timidly to his huge arm. But during this one eveninghe lost his equilibrium. Delia had been more than usually kind to him, perhaps because she saw his unhappy awkwardness as he towered aboveeveryone else and tried to avoid treading upon his neighbours. She gavehim such a pretty smile across the room that he obeyed the impulse to goto her and stand at her side; then, when she left him to dance with DeCourcy, she gave him her fan and bouquet and fleecy white wrap to hold, and somehow it seemed not unnatural that De Courcy should bring her backto him as to a sentinel when the dance was over. Thus it was as she sat, flushed a little and smiling, her face uplifted to his, while she thankedhim for taking care of her possessions, that the wild thought which sobetrayed him rushed into his brain. 

"Delia, " he faltered, "will you dance once with me?"

It was so startling a request, that, though she was quick enough toconceal her surprise, she hesitated a second before recovering her breathto give him her answer. 

"Yes, Tom, if you like, " she said, and glanced down at her programme. "The next is a waltz, and I can let you have it because Dr. Ballentinehas been called away. Do you waltz?"

"I have learned, " he answered, rather huskily and tremulously. "I do itbadly, of course, but I know the steps well enough. "

He was so helpless with nervousness that he could scarcely speak, and hishands trembled when they stood up together and he laid his arm reverentlyabout her waist. 

She saw his timidity and looked up at him with a kind smile. 

"I must be very little, " she said, "I never knew before that I was solittle. "

He had thought he should recover himself when the music and motion began, but he did not. He looked down at the delicate head which reached barelyto his beating heart, and a blur came before his sight; the light and thecrowd of dancers dazzled and confused him. The whirling movement made himdizzy, and he had not expected to be dizzy. He began suddenly to beconscious of his own immensity, the unusualness of his position, and ofthe fact that here and there he saw a meaning smile; his heart beatfaster still, and he knew he had been led into a mistake. He swung roundand round too quickly for the music, missed a step, tried to recoverhimself, became entangled in his partner's dress, trod on her poor littlefeet, and fell headlong on the floor, dragging her with him and strikingagainst a passing couple. 

It was his brother De Courcy with whom he had come in such violentcontact, and it was De Courcy who sprang to Delia's rescue, assisting herto her feet with all possible grace, and covering her innocent confusionwith a brilliant speech, but not, however, before he had directed aterrible scowl at the prostrate culprit and sworn furiously at him underhis breath. But Delia was very good to him and did not desert him in thehour of his need, giving him only kind looks and managing to arrange thathe should lead her to her seat as if he had not been in disgrace at all. 

But the shame and pain of his downfall were sharper pangs than he hadever borne, and before the night was half over he slipped away from thedangers and rushed home to his own room, where he lay awake through thelong hours, cursing himself for his folly, and tossing in a fever ofhumiliation and grief. 

In the morning when he came down to the breakfast table, the family werealready assembled, and the Judge had heard the story from De Courcy, whotold it all the more forcibly in the absence of Miss Vanuxem, who hadspent the night at the house of another relative. 

When Tom entered, his paternal parent was ready to receive him. 

"Trod on Miss Vanuxem's dress and tore it off her back in the ballroom, did you?" he burst forth. "Made a fool of yourself and a bear-garden ofthe Delisle House ballroom! What were you trying to dance for? Leave thatto men who can manage their limbs, and don't inflict yourself on womenwho are too high-bred to refuse to dance with a man who ought to be agentleman. Stay at home, sir! Stay at home, and don't make a disgracefulspectacle of yourself in public, particularly when there are lovely womenpresent to witness your humiliation. "

It was the figurative last straw. Tom's mind had been dark and gloomyenough to begin with, but when during his father's harangue he glanced upand saw De Courcy bending his aquiline face over his paper with aslightly sardonic smile, he could stand no more. 

To the utter dumfounding of his mother and sisters, and even the irateJudge himself, he pushed his chair back and sprang to his feet with anactual roar of rage and pain. His great body seemed to swell until itssize overwhelmed them; his eyes blazed, he shook his tremendous fist. 

"Leave me alone!" he shouted, "leave me alone! Yes, I did make a fool ofmyself! Yes, I did knock a woman down and tear her dress and look like anass and set the whole room laughing at me, women and all--the best-bredand sweetest of them! It's all true, every word of it, and more too--moretoo! And that's not enough, but my own father serves it up again, and youfellows sit there and grin over it to make it worse. That's right, pitchin, all of you, and drive me mad and put an end to it. "

He upset his chair and a small negro boy with a plate of waffles, and, striding over the scattered ruins, dashed out of the room with tears offury in his eyes. 

It was the turning-point of his existence. He made his bitter resolve ashe walked out of the house down the street. Early as it was, he wentstraight to Delia, and when he found himself alone with her, poured forthall the misery of his sore heart. 

"If I had been born a clod-hopper it would have been better for me, " hesaid. "I have no place here among men with decently shaped bodies andclear heads. I'm a great clumsy fool, and there's no help for it. If I'dhad more brain, I might have managed the rest; but I'm a dullard too. They may well sneer at me. I think I will go away and bury myselfsomewhere among the people I ought to have lived among by rights. In somesimple country place I might find those who know less than I do, andforget the rest; and perhaps be content enough in time. I shall nevermarry. I--I suppose you know that, Delia. " And he took her little handand laid it on his own open palm and sat silent a moment looking at it, and at last suddenly a great drop fell upon it which made them bothstart. He did not look up at her, but took out his big white handkerchiefand wiped the drop gently away and then stooped and kissed the spot whereit had fallen. Her own lashes were wet when their eyes met afterwards, and she spoke in a subdued voice. 

"I have always liked you very much, Cousin Tom, " she said; "you mustn'ttalk of going away. We should miss you much more than you think. I know Ishould be very sorry. "

"You won't be here to miss me, Delia, " he answered, sadly. 

The hand on his palm trembled slightly and her eyes faltered under hisgaze. 

"I--think it--is possible I shall live in Delisleville, " she whispered. 

His heart bounded as if it would burst his side. He knew what she meantin an instant, though he had never suspected it before. 

"Oh! Oh!" he groaned. "Oh, Delia! which--which of them is it? It's DeCourcy, I could swear. It's De Courcy!"

"Yes, " she faltered, "it is De Courcy. "

He drew his hand away and covered his face with it. 

"I knew it was De Courcy, " he cried. "He was always the kind of fellow towin. I suppose he deserves it. The Lord knows I hope he does, for yoursake. Of course it's De Courcy. Who else?"

He did not stay long after this, and when he went away he wrung her handin his in a desperate farewell. 

"This is another reason for my going now, " he said; "I couldn't stay. This--is--good-bye, Delia. "

He went home and had a prolonged interview with his father. It was not anagreeable interview to recur to mentally in after time, but in the endTom gained his point, and a portion of his future patrimony was handedover to him. 

"I shall be no further trouble to you, " he said. "You mayn't ever hear ofme again. This is the end of me as far as you are concerned. "

That night, with a valise in his hand, he took his place in the stagerunning towards the mountain regions of North Carolina, and from that dayforward the place knew him no more. It was as he had known it would be:no one was very sorry to be rid of him, and even Delia's sadness was atlength toned down by the excitement of preparation for and thefestivities attendant upon her triumphant union with the most dashing DeWilloughby of the flock. 

When this event occurred, Tom's wanderings had ended temporarily in thefarm-house referred to in the first chapter, and his appearance in thisremote and usually undisturbed portion of his country had created somesensation. The news of the arrival of a stranger had spread itself abroadand aroused a slow-growing excitement. 

They were a kindly, simple people who surrounded him--hospitable, ignorant, and curious beyond measure concerning the ways of the outsideworld of which they knew so little. 

In the course of time, as the first keenness of his misery wore away, Tombegan to discover the advantages of the change he had made. He no longerneed contrast himself unfavourably with his neighbours. He knew more thanthey, and they found nothing in him to condemn or jeer at. To them he wasa mine of worldly knowledge. He amused them and won their hearts. Hisnatural indolence and lack of active ambition helped the healing of hiswounds, perhaps; and then he began to appreciate the humourous side ofhis position and his old tendency to ponderous joking came back, andassisted him to win a greater popularity than any mere practical qualitycould have done. 

The novelty of his _rôle_ was its chief attraction. He began to enjoyand give himself up to it, and make the most of his few gifts. Life wasno longer without zest. His natural indolence increased with the size ofhis great body as the years passed, and his slow whimsical humour becamehis strongest characteristic. He felt it a fine point in the sarcasm ofhis destiny that he should at last have become a hero and be regardedwith admiration for his conversational abilities, but he bore his honoursdiscreetly, and found both moral and physical comfort in them. 

He insensibly adopted the habits of his neighbours; he dressed with theirprimitive regard for ease; he dropped now and then into their slurringspeech, and adopted one by one their arcadian customs. 

Whether the change was the better or the worse for him might easily be amatter of opinion, and depend entirely on the standpoint from which itwas viewed. At least he lived harmlessly and had no enemy. 

And so existence stood with him when the second great change in his lifetook place. 

CHAPTER III

Scarcely a month before the events described in the opening chapter tookplace, the stranger and a young woman, who was his companion, hadappeared in the community. There was little that seemed mysterious aboutthem at the outset. A long, uninhabited cabin, a score or so of yardsfrom the mountain road, had been roughly patched up and taken possessionof by them. There was nothing unusual in the circumstance except thatthey had appeared suddenly and entirely unheralded; but this in itselfwould have awakened no special comment. The mystery developed itself fromtheir after reserve and seclusion. They guarded themselves from alladvances by keeping out of sight when anyone approached their cabin. Theyoung woman was rarely, if ever, seen. The man never called at thepost-office for mail, and upon the few occasions on which a stray humanbeing crossed his path, his manner was such as by no means encouraged thecurious. Mr. Stamps was the only individual who had seen the woman faceto face. There was an unmoved pertinacity in the character of Mr. Stampswhich stood him in good stead upon all occasions. He was not easilyabashed or rebuffed, the more especially when he held in view somepractical object. Possibly he held some such object in view when he rodeup to the tumbled down gateway and asked for the draught of water nowoman of the region could refuse without some reasonable excuse. 

"'Tain't airs they're puttin' on, Cindy, " he said to the partner of hisjoys and sorrows the evening after his ride over the mountain. "Oh, no, 'tain't airs, it's somethin' more curi's than that!" And he bent over thefire in a comfortable lounging way, rubbing his hands a little, andblinked at the back log thoughtfully. 

They were a friendly and sociable people, these mountaineers, all themore so because the opportunities for meeting sociably were limited. Themen had their work and the women their always large families to attendto, and with a mile or so of rough road between themselves and theirneighbours, there was not much chance for enjoyable gossip. When goodfortune threw them together they usually made the best of their time. Consequently, the mystery of two human beings, who had shut themselvesoff with apparent intent from all intercourse with their kind, was adifficulty not readily disposed of. It was, perhaps, little to bewondered at that Mr. Stamps thought it over and gathered carefullytogether all the points presenting themselves to his notice. The subjecthad been frequently discussed at the Cross-roads post-office. Thedisposition to seclusion was generally spoken of as "curi'sness, " andvarious theories had been advanced with a view to explaining the"curi'sness" in question. "Airs" had been suggested as a solution of thedifficulty, but as time progressed, the theory of "airs" had beenabandoned. 

"Fur, " said Uncle Jake Wooten, who was a patriarch and an authority, "when a man's a-gwine to put on airs, he kinder slicks up more. A manthat's airy, he ain't a-gwine to shut hisself up and not show out more. Like as not he'd wear store-clothes an' hang round 'n' kinder blow; 'n'this feller don't do nary one. 'N' as to the woman, Lord! I should thinkall you'unses knows how womenfolks does that's airy. Ef this yere one wusthat way, she'd be a-dressin' in starched calikers 'n' sunbonnets 'n'bress-pins, 'n' mebbe rings 'n' congrist-gaiters. She'd be to the meetin'every time there was meetin' a-showin' out 'n' lettin' on like she didn'tknow the rest on 'em wus seein'. It don't sound to reason that either on'em is airy. "

It had been suggested by a bold spirit capable of more extended flightsof the imagination than the rest, that they were "Northerners" who forsome unworthy object had taken up their abode within the bound ofcivilisation; but this idea was frowned down as being of a wild natureand not to be encouraged. 

Finally the general interest in the subject had subsided somewhat, thoughit was ready to revive at any new comment or incident, which will explainthe bodily awakening of the sleepers on the post-office porch when Mr. Stamps made his announcement of the approach of "thet thar feller. "

Up to the moment when the impulse seized him which led him to take hisplace behind the counter as the stranger entered the store, Tom DeWilloughby had taken little or no part in numerous discussions heldaround him. He had listened with impartiality to all sides of thequestion, his portion of the entertainment being to make comments of aninspiriting nature which should express in a marked manner his sarcasticapproval of any special weakness in a line of argument. 

Among the many agreeable things said of him in his past, it had neverbeen said that he was curious; he was too indolent to be curious, and itmay be simply asserted that he had felt little curiosity concerning thepopular mystery. But when he found himself face to face with hiscustomer, a new feeling suddenly took possession of him. The change camewhen, for one instant, the man, as if in momentary forgetfulness, lookedup and met his eyes in speaking. Each moved involuntarily, and Tom turnedaside, ostensibly, to pick up a sheet of wrapping paper. The only wordsexchanged were those relating to the courtesies and the brief remarksheard by the loungers outside. After this the stranger rode away and Tomlounged back to his chair. He made no reply to Stamps's explanatoryaside, and no comment upon the remarks of the company whose curiosity hadnaturally received a new impetus which spurred them on to gossip a littlein the usual vague manner. He gave himself up to speculation. The meretone of a man's voice had set his mind to work. His past life had givenhim experience in which those about him were lacking, and at the instanthe heard the stranger speak this experience revealed to him as by a flashof light, a thing which had never yet been even remotely guessed at. 

"A gentleman, by thunder!" he said to himself. "That's it! A gentleman!"

He knew he could not be mistaken. Low and purposely muffled as the voicehad been, he recognised in it that which marked it as the voice of a mantrained to modulated speech. And even this was not all, though it had ledhim to look again, and more closely, at the face shadowed by the broadhat. It was not a handsome face, but it was one not likely to be readilyforgotten. It was worn and haggard, the features strongly aquiline, theeyes somewhat sunken; it was the face of a man who had lived the life ofan ascetic and who, with a capacity for sharp suffering, had suffered andwas suffering still. 

"But a gentleman and not a Southerner, " Tom persisted to himself. "AYankee, as I'm a sinner; and what is a Yankee doing hiding himself herefor?"

It was such a startling thing under the circumstances, that he could notrid himself of the thought of it. It haunted him through the rest of theday, and when night came and the store being closed, he retired as usualto the back part of the house, he was brooding over it still. 

He lived in a simple and primitive style. Three rooms built on to thestore were quite enough for him. One was his sitting- and bedroom, another his dining-room and kitchen, the third the private apartment ofhis household goddess, a stout old mulatto woman who kept his house inorder and prepared his meals. 

When he opened the door to-night the little boarded rooms wereilluminated with two tallow candles and made fragrant with the odour offried chicken and hoe-cakes, to which Aunt Mornin was devoting all herenergies, and for the first time perhaps in his life, he failed to greetthese attractions with his usual air of good cheer. 

He threw his hat into a chair, and, stretching himself out upon thebedstead, lay there, his hands clasped above his head and his eyes fixedupon the glow of the fire in the adjoining room, where Aunt Mornin was atwork. 

"A gentleman!" he said, half aloud. "That's it, by Jupiter, a gentleman!"

He remembered it afterwards as a curious coincidence that he should havebusied his mind so actively with his subject in a manner so unusual withhim. 

His imagination not being sufficiently vivid to help him out of hisdifficulty to his own satisfaction, he laboured with it patiently, recurring to it again and again, and turning it over until it assumed agreater interest than at first. He only relinquished it with an effortwhen, going to bed later than usual, he made up his mind to composehimself to sleep. 

"Good Lord!" he said, turning on his side and addressing some unseenpresence representing the vexed question. "Don't keep a man awake: settleit yourself. " And finally sank into unconsciousness in the midst of hismental struggle. 

 * * * * *

About the middle of the night he awakened. He felt that something hadstartled him from his sleep, but could not tell what it was. A fewseconds he lay without moving, listening, and as he listened there cameto his ear the sound of a horse's feet, treading the earth restlesslyoutside the door, the animal itself breathing heavily as if it had beenridden hard; and almost as soon as he aroused to recognition of thisfact, there came a sharp tap on the door and a man's voice crying"Hallo!"

He knew the voice at once, and unexpected as the summons was, felt he wasnot altogether unprepared for it, though he could not have offered eventhe weakest explanation for the feeling. 

"He's in trouble, " he said, as he sat up quickly in bed. "Something'sgone wrong. " He rose and in a few seconds opened the door. 

He had guessed rightly; it was the stranger. The moonlight fell full uponthe side of the house and the road, and the panting horse stood revealedin a bright light which gave the man's face a ghostly look added to hisnatural pallor. As he leaned forward, Tom saw that he was as muchexhausted as was the animal he had ridden. 

"I want to find a doctor, or a woman who can give help to another, " hesaid. 

"There ain't a doctor within fifteen miles from here, " began Tom. Hestopped short. What he saw in the man's face checked him. 

"Look here, " he said, "is it your wife?"

The man made a sharp gesture of despair. 

"She's dying, I think, " he said, hoarsely, "and there's not a human beingnear her. "

"Good Lord!" cried Tom, "Good Lord!" The sweat started out on hisforehead. He remembered what Stamps had said of her youth and her paleface, and he thought of Delia Vanuxem, and from this thought sprang asudden recollection of the deserted medical career in which he had beenregarded as so ignominious a failure. He had never mentioned it since hehad cut himself off from the old life, and the women for whose childrenhe had prescribed with some success now and then had considered the endsachieved only the natural results of his multitudinous gifts. But thethought of the desolate young creature lying there alone struck deep. Helistened one moment, then made his resolve. 

"Go to the stable, " he said, "and throw a saddle over the horse you willfind there. I know something of such matters myself, and I shall bebetter than nothing, with a woman's help. I have a woman here who willfollow us. "

He went into the back room and awakened Aunt Mornin. 

"Get up, " he said, "and saddle the mule and follow me as soon as you canto the cabin in Blair's Hollow. The wife of a man who lives there needs awoman with her. Come quickly. "

When he returned to the door his horse stood there saddled, the strangersitting on his own and holding the bridle. 

Tom mounted in silence, but once finally seated, he turned to hiscompanion. 

"Now strike out, " he said. 

There were four miles of road before them, but they scarcely slackenedrein until they were within sight of the Hollow, and the few words theyexchanged were the barest questions and answers. 

The cabin was built away from the road on the side of the hill, andleaving their horses tethered at the foot of the slope, they climbed ittogether. 

When they reached the door, the stranger stopped and turned to Tom. 

"There is no sound inside, " he faltered; "I dare not go in. "

Tom strode by him and pushed the door open. 

In one corner of the room was a roughly made bedstead, and upon it lay agirl, her deathly pale face turned sideways upon the pillow. It was as ifshe lay prostrated by some wave of agony which had just passed over her;her breath was faint and rapid, and great drops of sweat stood out uponher young drawn face. 

Tom drew a chair forward and sat down beside her. He lifted one of herhands, touching it gently, but save for a slight quiver of the eyelidsshe did not stir. A sense of awe fell upon him. 

"It's Death, " he said to himself. He had experience enough to teach himthat. He turned to the man. 

"You had better go out of the room; I will do my best. "

 * * * * *

In a little over an hour Aunt Mornin dismounted from her mule andtethered it to a sapling at the side of the road below. She looked up atthe light gleaming faintly through the pines on the hillside. 

"I cum 's fas' 's I could, " she said, "but I reckon I'd orter been hereafore. De Lord knows dis is a curi's 'casion. "

When she crossed the threshold of the cabin, her master pointed to asmall faintly moving bundle lying at the foot of the bed over which hewas bending. 

"Take it into the other room and tell the man to come here, " he said. "There's no time to lose. "

He still held the weak hand; but the girl's eyes were no longer closed;they were open and fixed on his face. The great fellow was trembling likea leaf. The past hour had been almost more than he could bear. He wasentirely unstrung. 

"I wasn't cut out for this kind of thing, " he had groaned more than once, and for the first time in his life thanked Fate for making him a failure. 

As he looked down at his patient, a mist rose before his eyes, blurringhis sight, and he hurriedly brushed it away. 

She was perhaps nineteen years old, and had the very young look a simpletrusting nature and innocent untried life bring. She was small, fragile, and fair, with the pure fairness born of a cold climate. Her largeblue-gray eyes had in them the piteous appeal sometimes to be seen in theeyes of a timid child. 

Tom had laid his big hand on her forehead and stroked it, scarcelyknowing what he did. 

"Don't be frightened, " he said, with a tremor in his voice. "Close youreyes and try to be quiet for a few moments, and then----"

He stooped to bend his ear to her lips which were moving faintly. 

"He'll come directly, " he answered, though he did not hear her;"--directly. It's all right. "

And then he stroked her hair again because he knew not what else to do, seeing, as he did, that the end was so very near, and that no earthlypower, however far beyond his own poor efforts, could ward it off. 

Just at that moment the door opened and the man came in. 

That he too read the awful truth at his first glance, Tom saw. Allattempts at disguise had dropped away. His thin, scholarly face was ascolourless as the fairer one on the pillow, his brows were knit intorigid lines and his lips were working. He approached the bed, and for afew moments stood looking down as if trying to give himself time to gainself-control. Tom saw the girl's soft eyes fixed in anguished entreaty;there was a struggle, and from the slowly moving lips came a few faintand broken words. 

"Death!--They--never know. "

The man flung himself upon his knees and burst into an agony of suchweeping that, seeing it, Tom turned away shuddering. 

"No, " he said, "they will never know, they who loved you--who lovedyou--will never know! God forgive me if I have done wrong. I have beenfalse that they might be spared. God forgive me for the sin!"

The poor child shivered; she had become still paler, and the breath camein sharp little puffs through her nostrils. 

"God--God!--God!" she panted. But the man did not seem to hear her. Hewas praying aloud, a struggling, disjointed prayer. 

"O God of sinners, " he cried, "Thou who forgivest, Thou who hast died, forgive--forgive in this hour of death!"

Tom heard no more. He could only listen to the soft, panting breathsinking lower and lower. 

Suddenly the piteous eyes turned towards him--the stranger--as if ingreat dread: perhaps they saw in the mere human pity of his face what metsome sharp last need. 

He went to his old place as if in answer to the look, and took the poorlittle hand once more, closing the warmth of his own over its coldness. He was weeping like a child. 

"Don't be afraid, " he said; "--not afraid. It's--it's all right. "

And almost as he said it, with her eyes still fixed upon his own, andwith her hand in his, she gave a low sob--and died. 

Tom touched the kneeling man upon the shoulder. 

"There's no need of that now, " he said; "it's over. "

CHAPTER IV

When a few minutes later he went into the back room, he found Aunt Morninsitting before the big fireplace in which burned a few logs of wood. Thelight the snapping sticks gave fell full upon her black face, and uponthe small bundle upon her spacious knee. 

As he entered she turned sharply towards him. 

"Don't nobody keer nothin' for this yere?" she said, "ain't nobody comin'nigh? Whar's he? Don't he take no int'rus' in the pore little lonesomechild? I 'spect yo'll haf to take it ye'self, Mars' De Willerby, while Igoes in dar. "

Tom stopped short, stricken with a pang of remorse. He looked down at thesmall face helplessly. 

"Yes, " he said, "you'll have to go in there; you're needed. "

The woman looked at him in startled questioning. 

"Mars De Willerby, " she said, "does dat ar mean she's cl'ar gone?"

"Yes, " answered Tom. "She's gone, Mornin. "

With the emotional readiness of her race, the comfortable creature burstinto weeping, clasping the child to her broad bosom. 

"Pore chile!" she said, "an' poor chile lef behin'! De Lord help 'embofe. "

With manifest fear Tom stooped and took the little red flannel bundlefrom her arms. 

"Never mind crying, " he said. "Go into the room and do what's to bedone. "

When left alone with his charge, he sat down and held it balancedcarefully in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. He was used tocarrying his customers' children, a great part of his popularity beingbased upon his jovial fondness for them. But he had never held so small acreature as this in his arms before. He regarded it with a respectfultimidity. 

"It wasn't thought of, " he said, reflectively. "Even she--poor thing, poor thing--" he ended, hurriedly, "there was no time. "

He was still holding his small burden with awkward kindliness when thedoor opened and the man he had left in the room beyond came in. Heapproached the hearth and stood for a few seconds staring at the fire ina stupefied, abstracted way. He did not seem to see the child. At last hespoke. 

"Where shall I lay her?" he asked. "Where is the nearest churchyard?"

"Fifteen miles away, " Tom answered. "Most of the people like to havetheir dead near them and lay them on the hillsides. "

The man turned to him with a touch of horror in his face. 

"In unconsecrated ground?" he said. 

"It doesn't trouble them, " said Tom. "They sleep well enough. "

The man turned to the fire again--he had not looked at the child yet--andmade a despairing gesture with his hands. 

"That she--" he said, "that she should lie so far from them, and inunconsecrated ground!"

"There is the place I told you of, " said Tom. 

"I cannot go there, " with the gesture again. "There is no time. I must goaway. "

He made no pretence at concealing that he had a secret to hide. He seemedto have given up the effort. 

Tom looked up at him. 

"What are you going to do with this?" he asked. 

Then for the first time he seemed to become conscious of the child'spresence. He turned and gave it a startled sidelong glance, as if he hadsuddenly been struck with a new fear. 

"I--do not know, " he stammered. "I--no! I do not know. What have I beendoing?"

He sank into a chair and buried his face in his trembling hands. 

"God's curse is upon it, " he cried. "There is no place for it on earth. "

Tom rose with a sudden movement and began to pace the floor with hischarge in his arms. 

"It's a little chap to lay a curse on, " he said. "And helpless enough, byGad!"

He looked down at the diminutive face, and as he did so, a wild thoughtflashed through his mind. It had the suddenness and force of arevelation. His big body trembled with some feeling it would have gonehard with him to express, and his heart warmed within him as he felt thelight weight lying against it. 

"No place for it!" he cried. "By God, there is! There is a place_here_--and a man to stand by and see fair-play!"

"Give her to me, " he said, "give her to me, and if there is no place forher, I'll find one. "

"What do you mean?" faltered the man. 

"I mean what I say, " said Tom. "I'll take her and stand by her as long asthere is breath in me; and if the day should ever come in spite of mewhen wrong befalls her, as it befell her mother, some man shall die, sohelp me God!"

The warm Southern blood which gave to his brothers' love-songs the graceof passion, and which made them renowned for their picturesque eloquenceof speech, fired him to greater fluency than was usual with him, when hethought of the helplessness of the tiny being he held. 

"I never betrayed a woman yet, or did one a wrong, " he went on. "I'm notone of the lucky fellows who win their hearts, " with a great gulp in histhroat. "Perhaps if there's no one to come between us, she may--may befond of me. "

The man gave him a long look, as if he was asking himself a question. 

"Yes, " he said at last, "she will be fond of you. You will be worthy ofit. There is no one to lay claim to her. Her mother lies dead amongstrangers, and her father----"

For a few moments he seemed to be falling into a reverie, but suddenly atremour seized him and he struck one clenched hand against the other. 

"If a man vowed to the service of God may make an oath, " he said, "Iswear that if the day ever dawns when we stand face to face, knowing eachother, I will not spare him!"

The child stirred in Tom's arms and uttered its first sharp little cry, and as if in answer to the summons, Aunt Mornin opened the door. 

"It's all done, " she said. "Gib me de chile, Mars De Willerby, and go inan' look at her. "

 * * * * *

When he entered the little square living room, Tom paused at the foot ofthe bed. All was straight and neat and cold. Among the few articles inthe one small trunk, the woman had found a simple white dress and had putit on the dead girl. It was such a garment as almost every girl countsamong her possessions. Tom remembered that his sisters had often wornsuch things. 

"She looks very pretty, " he said. "I dare say her mother made it and shewore it at home. O Lord! O Lord!" And with this helpless exclamation, half sigh, half groan, he turned away and walked out of the front doorinto the open air. 

It was early morning by this time, and he passed into the dew andsunlight not knowing where he was going; but once outside, the sight ofhis horse tethered to a tree at the roadside brought to his mind thenecessity of the occasion. 

"I'll ride in and see Steven, " he said. "It's got to be done, and it's nowork for _him_!"

When he reached the Cross-roads there were already two or three earlyarrivals lounging on the store-porch and wondering why the doors were notopened. 

The first man who saw him, opened upon him the usual course ofelephantine witticisms. 

"Look a yere, Tom, " he drawled, "this ain't a-gwine to do. You a-gittin'up 'fore daybreak like the rest of us folks and ridin' off Goddlemightyknows whar. It ain't a-gwine to do now. Whar air ye from?"

But as he rode up and dismounted at the porch, each saw that somethingunusual had happened. He tied his horse and came up the steps in silence. 

"Boys, " he said, when he stood among them, "I want Steven. I've been outto the Hollow, and there's a job for him there. The--the woman's dead. "

"Dead!" they echoed, drawing nearer to him in their excitement. "When, Tom?"

"Last night. Mornin's out there. There's a child. "

"Thunder 'n' molasses!" ejaculated the only family man of the group, reflectively. "Thunder 'n' molasses!" And then he began to edge away, still with a reflective air, towards his mule. 

"Boys, " he explained, "there'd ought to be some women folks around. I'mgwine for Minty, and she'll start the rest on 'em. Women folks is what'sneeded. They kin kinder organize things whar thar's trouble. "

"Well, " said Tom, "perhaps you're right; but don't send too many of 'em, and let your wife tell 'em to talk as little as possible and leave theman alone. He's got enough to stand up under. "

Before the day was over there were women enough in the hillside cabin. Half a dozen faded black calico riding-skirts hung over the saddles ofhalf a dozen horses tethered in the wood round the house, while insidehalf a dozen excellent souls disposed themselves in sympathetic couplesabout the two rooms. 

Three sat in the front room, their sunbonnets drawn well down over theirfaces in the true mourner's spirit, one at the head of the bed slowlymoving a fan to and fro over the handkerchief-covered face upon thepillow. A dead silence pervaded the place, except when it was broken byoccasional brief remarks made in a whisper. 

"She was a mighty purty-lookin' young critter, " they said. "A sightyounger-lookin' than her man. "

"What's the child?"

"Gal. "

"Gal? That's a pity. Gals ain't much chance of bein' raised right wharthey're left. "

"Hain't they any folks, neither on 'em?"

"Nobody don't know. Nobody hain't heerd nothin' about 'em. They wuskinder curi's about keepin' to themselves. "

"If either on 'em had any folks--even if they wus only sort o' kin--theymight take the chile. "

"Mebbe they will. Seems to reason they must have some kin--even if theyain't nigh. "

Then the silence reigned again and the woman at the bed's head gave herundivided attention to the slow, regular motion of her palm-leaf fan. 

In the room beyond a small fire burned in spite of the warmth of the day, and divers small tin cups and pipkins simmered before and upon thecinders of it, Aunt Mornin varying her other duties by moving them ashade nearer to the heat or farther from it, and stirring and tasting atintervals. 

Upon a low rocking-chair before the hearth sat the wife of the family manbefore referred to. She was a tall, angular creature, the mother offifteen, comprising in their number three sets of twins. She held hersnuff-stick between her teeth and the child on her lap, with an easyprofessional air. 

"I hain't never had to raise none o' mine by hand since Martin Luther, "she remarked. "I've been mighty glad on it, for he was a sight o'trouble. Kinder colicky and weakly. Never done no good till we got himoff the bottle. He'd one cow's milk, too, all the time. I was powerfulpartickerler 'bout that. I'd never have raised him if I hadn't bin. 'N'to this day Martin Luther hain't what 'Poleon and Orlando is. "

"Dis yere chile ain't gwine to be no trouble to nobody, " put in AuntMornin. "She's a powerful good chile to begin with, 'n' she's a chilethat's gwine to thrive. She hain't done no cryin' uv no consequence yit, 'n' whar a chile starts out dat dar way it speaks well for her. If Morninhad de raisin' o' dat chile, dar wouldn't be no trouble 't all. Bile dermilk well 'n' d'lute down right, 'n' a chile like dat ain't gwine to haveno colick. My young Mistis Mars D'Willerby bought me from, I've raisedthree o' hern, an' I'm used to bilin' it right and d'lutin' it downright. Dar's a heap in de d'lutin'. Dis yere bottle's ready now, Mis'Doty, ef ye want it. "

"It's the very bottle I raised Martin Luther on, " said Mrs. Doty. "Itbrings back ole times to see it. She takes it purty well, don't she?Massy sakes! How f'erce she looks for sich a little thing!"

Later in the day there arose the question of how she should be disposedof for the night, and it was in the midst of this discussion that Tom DeWilloughby entered. 

"Thar ain't but one room; I s'pose he'll sleep in that, " said Mrs. Doty, "'n' the Lord knows he don't look the kind o' critter to know what to dowith a chile. We hain't none o' us seen him since this mornin'. I guesshe's kinder wanderin' round. Does any of you know whar he is? We might axwhat he 'lows to do. "

Tom bent down over the child as it lay in the woman's lap. No one couldsee his face. 

"I know what he's going to do, " he said. "He's going away to-morrow afterthe funeral. "

"'N' take the child?" in a chorus. 

"No, " said Tom, professing to be deeply interested in the unclosing ofthe small red fist. "I'm going to take the child. "

There were four sharp exclamations, and for a second or so all four womengazed at him with open mouths. It was Mrs. Doty who first recoveredherself sufficiently to speak. She gave him a lively dig with her elbow. 

"Now, Tom D'Willerby, " she said, "none of your foolin'. This yere ain'tno time for it. "

"Mars D'Willerby, " said Aunt Mornin, "dis chile's mother's a-lyin' deadin the nex' room. "

Tom stooped a trifle lower. He put out both his hands and took the babyin them. 

"I'm not foolin', " he said, rather uncertainly. "I'm in earnest, ladies. The mother is dead and the man's going away. There's nobody else to claimher, he tells me, and so I'll claim her. There's enough of me to takecare of her, and I mean to do it. "

It was so extraordinary a sensation, that for a few moments there wasanother silence, broken as before by Mrs. Doty. 

"Waal, " she remarked, removing her snuff-stick and expectorating into thefire. "Ye've allus been kinder fond o' chillun, Tom, and mebbe she ain'tas colicky by natur' as Martin Luther was, but I mus' say it's thecuri'sest thing I ever heern--him a-gwine away an' givin' her cl'ar up asef he hadn't no sort o' nat'ral feelin's--I do say it's curi's. "

"He's a queer fellow, " said Tom, "a queer fellow! There's no denyingthat. "

That this was true was proven by his conduct during the time in which itwas liable to public comment. Until night he was not seen, and then hecame in at a late hour and, walking in silence through the roomful ofwatchers, shut himself up in an inner chamber and remained there alone. 

"He's takin' it mighty hard, " they said. "Seems like it's kinderonsettled his mind. He hain't never looked at the child once. "

He did not appear at all the next day until all was ready and Tom DeWilloughby went to him. 

He found him lying on the bed, his haggard face turned towards thewindow. He did not move until Tom touched him on the shoulder. 

"If you want to see her----" he said. 

He started and shuddered. 

"What, so soon?" he said. "So soon?"

"Now, " Tom answered. "Get up and come with me. "

He obeyed, following him mechanically, but when they reached the door, Tom stopped him. 

"I've told them a story that suits well enough, " he said. "I've told themthat you're poor and have no friends, and can't care for the child, andI've a fancy for keeping it. The mother is to lie out here on thehillside until you can afford to find a better place for her--perhaps atyour own home. I've told the tale my own way. I'm not much of a hand atthat kind of thing, but it'll do. I've asked you no questions. "

"No, " said the man, drearily. "You've asked me no questions. "

Then they went together into the other room. There were twenty or thirtypeople in it, or standing about the door. It was like all mountainfunerals, but for an air of desolateness even deeper than usual. Theslender pine coffin was supported upon two chairs in the middle of theroom, and the women stood or sat about, the more easily moved weeping alittle under the shadow of their calico sunbonnets. The men leanedagainst the door-posts, or sat on the wooden steps, bare-headed, silent, and rather restless. 

When Tom led his charge into the apartment, there was a slight stir andmoving back of chairs to make way for him. He made his way straight tothe coffin. When he reached it and looked down, he started. Perhaps thesight of the white dress with its simple girlish frills and homelikeprettiness brought back to him some memory of happier days when he hadseen it worn before. 

The pure, childlike face had settled into utter calm, and across thebreast and in the hands were long, slender branches of the thicklyflowering wild white clematis. Half an hour before Tom had gone into thewoods and returned with these branches, which he gave to one of theyounger women. 

"Put them on her, " he said, awkwardly; "there ought to be some flowersabout her. "

For a few moments there reigned in the room a dead silence. All eyes werefixed upon the man who stood at the coffin side. He simply looked down atthe fair dead face. He bestowed no caresses upon it, and shed no tears, though now and then there was to be seen a muscular contraction of histhroat. 

At length he turned towards those surrounding him and raised his hand, speaking in a low voice. 

"Let us pray. "

It was the manner of a man trained to rigid religious observances, andwhen the words were uttered, something like an electric shock passedthrough his hearers. The circuit-riders who stopped once or twice a monthat the log churches on the roadside were seldom within reach on such anoccasion as this, and at such times it was their custom to depend on anygood soul who was considered to have the gift of prayer. Perhaps some ofthem had been wondering who would speak the last words now, as there wasno such person on the spot; but the trained manner and gesture, evenwhile it startled them by its unexpectedness, set their minds at rest. 

They settled themselves in the conventional posture, the women retiringinto their bonnets, the men hanging their heads, and the prayer began. 

It was a strange appeal--one which only one man among them could graspthe meaning of, though all regarded its outpouring words with wonder andadmiration. It was an outcry full of passion, dread, and anguish whichwas like despair. It was a prayer for mercy--mercy for those whosuffered, for the innocent who might suffer--for loving hearts too tenderto bear the bitter blows of life. 

"The loving hearts, O God!" he cried, "the loving hearts whowait--who----"

More than one woman looked up from under her bonnet; his body began totremble--he staggered and fell into a chair, hiding his face, shakingfrom head to foot in an agony of weeping. Tom made his way to him andbent over him. 

"Come with me, " he said, his great voice broken. "Come with me into theair, it will quiet you, and we can wait until--until they come. "

He put his arm under his and supported him out of the house. 

Two or three women began to rock themselves to and fro and weep aloudhysterically. It was only the stronger ones who could control themselves. He was standing at Tom's side then; when they came out a short timeafterwards, walking slowly and carrying the light burden, which theylowered into its resting-place beneath the pines. 

He was quite calm again, and made no sound or movement until all wasover. Then he spoke to Tom. 

"Tell them, " he said, "that I thank them. I can do no more. "

He walked back to the desolate house, and in a little while the peoplewent their ways, each of them looking back a little wistfully at thecabin as he or she rode out of sight. 

When the last one was lost to view, Tom, who had loitered about, wentinto the cabin. 

The man was sitting in the empty room, his gaze fixed upon the two chairsleft standing in the middle of it a few paces from each other. 

Tom moved them away and then approached him. 

"The child has been taken to my house, " he said. "You don't want to seeit?"

"No. "

"Is there anything else I can do?"

"No, nothing else, " monotonously. 

"Are you going away?"

"Yes--to-night. "

Tom glanced around him at the desolation of the poor, bare little place, at the empty bed, and the small trunk at the foot of it. 

"You are not going to stay here alone, man?" he said. 

"Yes, " he was answered. "I have something to do; I must be alone. "

Tom hesitated a moment. 

"Well, " he said, at length, "I suppose I've done, then. Good-bye. "

"Good-bye, " he was answered. "The Lord--the Lord will reward you. "

And then Tom crossed the room slowly and reluctantly, passed out, andclosed the door after him. 

 * * * * *

When he opened his own door, he struck his foot against something andstumbled over it. It was a primitive wooden cradle--somewhat like a boxon rockers--a quilt of patchwork covered it, and upon the small pillowrested the round black head of his new possession. He stopped short toregard it. Aunt Mornin had left it there while she occupied herself withpreparing supper in the kitchen. It really looked quite comfortable. Gradually a smile established itself upon Tom's countenance. 

"By thunder!" he said, "here you are, youngster, ain't you? You've cometo stay--that's what you've come for. "

And, being answered by a slight stirring of the patchwork quilt, he puthis foot out with much cautiousness, touched the rocker, and, finding tohis great astonishment that he had accomplished this much safely, he drewup a chair, and, sitting down, devoted himself with laudable enthusiasmto engineering the small ark with a serious and domestic air. 

CHAPTER V

In two days' time the whole country had heard the news. The mystery ofBlair's Hollow was revived and became a greater mystery than ever. Thewoman was dead, the man had disappeared. The cabin stood deserted, savefor the few household goods which had been left just as they were on theday of the funeral. Not an article had been moved, though the woman towhom Tom De Willoughby, as the person most concerned, handed over thediscarded property, did not find the little trunk, and noticed thatarticles had been burned in the fireplace in the front room. 

"Thar wus a big pile o' ashes on the ha'th, " she said to her friends, "sorter like as if he'd been burnin' a heap a little things o' one sortor 'nother. It kinder give me cold chills, it looked so lonesome when Ishut the door arter the truck was gone. I left the ashes a-lyin' thar. Ikinder had a curi's feelin' about touchin' on 'em. Nothing wouldn't hireme to live thar. D'Willerby said he reckoned I could hev moved right inef I wanted to, but, Lawsy! I wouldn't have done it fer nothin'. "

But that which roused the greatest excitement in the community was Tom DeWilloughby's course. 

At first Mrs. Doty's story of Big Tom's adoption of the child wasscarcely accepted as being a possibility. The first man who heard itreceived it with a grin of disbelief. This individual was naturally Mr. Doty himself. 

"Minty, " he said, "don't ye let him fool ye. Don't ye know Tom D'Willerbyby this time? Ye'd orter. It's jest some o' his gas. Don't ye s'pose hehain't got no more sense? What'd he do with it?"

"Ye can believe it or not, " replied Mrs. Doty, sharply, "but he's gwineto raise that young'n, as shore as your name's Job. Mornin's got her thisminute. "

Mr. Doty indulged in a subdued chuckle. 

"A nice-lookin' feller he is to raise a infant babe!" he remarked. "Lorda massy! if thet thar ain't jest like one o' his doggoned tales! He isthe derndest critter, " with reflective delight, "the derndest! Thar ain'tnothin' in Hamlin to come up to him. "

But the next day even Mr. Doty was convinced. After his customary visitto the Cross-roads, he returned to his family wearing a bewilderedexpression. It became a sheepish expression when his wife confronted himon the doorstep. 

"Wal, Job Doty, " she remarked, "I guess you've found out by this timewhether I was right or wrong. "

"Wal, " answered Mr. Doty, throwing his saddle down on the porch, "Ireckon I hev. She's thar shore enough, 'n' it seems like he's gwine tokeep her; but I wouldn't hev believed it ef I hadn't seen it, doggoned efI would! But, Lord, it's like him, arter all. " And he brightened up andchuckled again. 

"I reckon he don't scarcely know what he's tuk in hand, " said Mrs. Doty. 

"Him!" answered Mr. Doty. "Tom! Lord! 'tain't a-gwine to trouble Tom. He'll get along, Tom will. Tom'd jus' as lief as she wus twins as not, mebbe liefer. It'd be a bigger thing for him to engineer 'n' gas about efshe wus. Ef you'd seen him bring her into the store to the boys 'n' bragon her 'n' spread hisself, I reckon ye wouldn't hev minded 'bout Tom. Why, he's set on her, Minty, a'reddy, as set as he kin be. "

The Cross-roads post-office had indeed been the scene of a sort ofinformal _levée_ held by the newcomer, who had been thus presented toher fellow-citizens. One man after another had dropped in to hear thetruth of the story related, and each one had been dumfounded at theoutset by Tom's simple statement of fact. 

"Yes, I'm going to keep her, boys, " he said. "She's in the back part ofthe house now. According to my calculations, she's drunk about threequarts of milk since morning, and seems to stand it pretty well, so Isuppose she's all right. "

There were a great many jokes made at first, and a general spirit ofhilariousness reigned, but it was observed by one of the keener wittedones that, despite his jocular tone, there was an underlying seriousnessin Tom's air which might argue that he felt the weight of hisresponsibility. When the women began to come in, as they did later in theday, he received them with much cordiality, rising from his chair toshake hands with each matron as she appeared. 

"Come in to see her, have you?" he said. "That's right. She's in the backroom. Walk right in. Mis' Simpson and Mis' Lyle, I'd like some of youladies to have a look at her. I'll go with you myself and hear what youhave to say. "

He made the journey each time with a slight air of anxiety, leading theway to the wooden cradle, and standing over it like a Herculean guardianangel, listening attentively to all the comments made and all the advicegiven. 

"She seems to be getting on pretty well, doesn't she?" he enquired. 

"Lor', yes!" said one matron; "jest keep her kivered up 'n' don't let noair strike her, 'n' ye won't hev no trouble with her, I reckon. "

"No air?" enquired Tom, in some trepidation; "none at all?"

"Wal, thet's my way, " was the answer. "Some folks does diff'rent, but Ididn't never expose 'em none till they was more'n amonth old. New-bornbabies is tender things!"

"Yes, " said Tom. "Good Lord, yes!"

His visitor started at him perplexedly for a moment. 

"Wal, " she said. "My man allus used to say they kinder skeered him 'longat the first--he kinder felt as if they'd mebbe come apart, or sumthin'. They allus sorter 'minded me o' young mice. Wal, you jest tell Mornin togiv' her es much milk as she calls fer, an' don't let it bile too long, 'n' she'll come on fine. "

The next visitor that entered uttered an exclamation of dismay. 

"Ye're gwine ter kill her!" she said. "Thar ain't a breath o' air in theroom, 'n' thar ain't nothin' a new-born baby wants more 'n plenty o' air. They're tender critters, 'n' they cayn't stand to be smothered up. Ye'llhev her in spasms afore the day's over. "

Tom flung the doors and windows open in great alarm. 

"It is hot, " he said. "It's hot enough out of doors, but Mis' Simpsontold me to keep her shut up, and I thought she'd had experience enough toknow. "

"Jane Simpson!" with ill-concealed scorn. "She'd orter! She's had six todie in their second summer. I reckon she told ye to give her half-b'iledmilk as often as she wanted it?"

Tom reflected in manifest trepidation. 

"She did tell me not to boil it too much, and to give it to her when shecalled for it, " he said, slowly. 

"Wal, if ye don't want ter kill her, take my advice an' bile it a goodhalf hour, 'n' don't give it to her oftener than once in three hours. She'll cry fur it, but ye needn't mind. Ye'll get used ter it. I don'tbelieve in lettin' young uns hev nuthin' out o' their reg'lar time. "

The next caller found Tom somewhat discouraged. He preceded her into thereception-chamber with less alacrity than he had shown in his previousvisits. 

She was a younger woman than the rest, and when she reached the cradle'sside, she bent down and rearranged the cover with a soft touch. 

"She's gwine to be a purty little thing, " she said; "she'll be sorterdark-complected, but she's gwine to hev purty hair 'n' eyes. Ye'll beright proud of her, Tom, when she's grown, 'n' I guess she'll be a heapo' company to you. Lord!" with a motherly sigh, "it seems sorter curi'sher bein' left to a man; but you'll do well by her, Tom, you'll do wellby her. I hain't no doubt o' that. You was always mighty clever withchildren. "

"I'll do all I can for her, " said Tom, "though I suppose that isn'tmuch. "

The young woman--she had left her own baby in the store with herhusband--patted the little pillow lightly into shape. 

"Ye'll larn a heap by watchin' her, " she said. "Jest watch her close 'n'she'll teach you herself. What do you do about her milk?" anxiously. 

"I've been told to do several things, " said Tom. "I've been told to boilit half an hour and not to boil it at all, and to give her all she wantedand not to give her all she wanted. I'm a little mixed about it. "

"Wal, I hain't had but five, but I've allus let it come to a bile an'then kinder used my reason about givin' it. Seems like the mejumer ye airwith children, the better. But, Lordy! I guess Mornin knows. She raisedher young mistress's. "

She kissed the child before she left it, and when she reentered thestore, hurriedly took her own struggling offspring from its father'sarms, settled its pink dress and sunbonnet with a nervous, caressingmotion, and, carrying it to the door, stood with it pressed against herbreast while she seemed to be looking out at the distant mountains. Shedid not move until her husband had completed his purchases and came toher. And when she followed him out to take her place in the waggon, hereyes were bright and moist. 

"Don't ye take the Blair's Holler road, Dave, " she said, as he touched uphis horses. "Go round by Jones's. "

"What's yer notion, Louizy?" he asked. 

"'Tain't nothin' but a notion, I reckon, " she answered; "but I don't--Idon't want to hev to pass by that thar grave jest to-day. Take the otherroad. "

And being an easy-going, kindly fellow, he humoured her and went theother way. 

In the store itself the spirit of hilariousness increased as the dayadvanced. By mail-time the porch was crowded and Tom had some slightdifficulty in maintaining order. 

"Say, boys, " he said, "there's got to be quiet here. If we can't carry onthe establishment without disturbing the head of the household at presentasleep in the back room, this post-office has to close and you can get anew postmaster. That'd suit you, I daresay. Some fellow, now, thatwouldn't half'tend to his business, not more than half, and that hadn'tlegislative ability enough to carry on a precinct, let alone a county. You want a man of that kind, I suppose. That's what you're working for. "

"Tom, " said one of the younger ones, "bring her out 'n' let's see her. You've been braggin' on her all day, but ye hain't let us see her. "

Half a dozen others joined in the cry. 

"Yes, " they said, "bring her out, Tom. "

Tom did not rise from his seat. He tilted his chair back and balancedhimself on his heels, his hands thrust into his pockets. 

"Boys, " he said, "I'll bring her out on one condition, and that is thatthere shall be no shines. I wouldn't have her scared or upset for a gooddeal. There's a joke in this sort of thing, I daresay; but it ain't alljoke. If I bring her out and show her, there's to be no crowding and norow. "

It was agreed that there should be none, and he left his chair and wentto the inner room again. When he returned, the men who had been loungingin the porch had come in, though perhaps not one among them understoodhis own unusual interest in the affair. Babies were not rarities inHamlin County, every cabin and farm-house in the region being filled tooverflowing with white-headed, sunburnt youngsters. And yet when Tomappeared there was a moment of silence. The child was asleep, its tinyblack head resting peacefully against the huge chest of its bearer. Therewas no trace of confusion or awkwardness in his face, he seemed wellcontent with his burden, and perhaps it was the quiet of his manner asmuch as anything else which caused the slight hush to fall upon thosearound him. 

At last a middle-aged farmer stepped forward. He gave the child a longand rather curious look. 

"Gal, ain't it?" he enquired. 

"Yes, " Tom answered. 

"Wal, 'tain't a bad thing fer her she's got some un to stan' by her; galsneeds it. "

Tom gave her a long look too. She was sleeping very quietly; it mighthave been her mother's breast she was lying against. 

"Well, " he said, "here's a man to stand by her, " and then he raised hishead and looked at the rest of them. 

"Boys, " he said, "that's a promise. Remember it. "

And he carried her back. 

CHAPTER VI

The rooms at the back had never seemed so quiet before as when, at theclose of the day, he went into them. They seemed all the quieter bycontrast with the excitement of the past hours. In the kitchen Mornin wasgiving the final touches to the supper, and in the room which was at oncesitting-room and bedroom, the wooden cradle had fitted itself in a cornernear the fireplace and wore an air of permanent establishment remarkableto contemplate when one considered how unlooked-for an incident it was. 

On the threshold of this apartment Tom paused a moment. Such silencereigned that he could hear the soft, faint breathing of the child as itlay asleep. He stopped a second or so to listen to it. Then he stoopeddown, and began to loosen his shoes gently. As he was doing it, Mornincaught sight of him in passing the open door. 

"Mars Tom, " she said, "what's ye a-gwine fer to do?"

"I'm going to take them off, " he answered, seriously. "They'll make toomuch noise. "

The good soul in the kitchen chuckled. 

"Now, " she said, "now, Mars Tom, dar ye go right now a-settin' out toruinate a good chile, 'stead o' ustin' it ter things--a-settin' out terruinate it. Don't never tip aroun' fer no chile. Don't ye never do it, 'n' ye won't never haf ter. Tippin' roun' jest spiles 'em. Tell ye, Mornin never tipped roun' when she had em' ter raise. Mornin started outright from de fust. "

Tom looked at the cradle. 

"She'll rest easier, " he said. "And so shall I. I must get a pair ofslippers. " And he slipped out of his shoes and stood ready to spend theevening in his stocking-feet. A solitary tallow candle stood upon thetable, shedding its yellow light upon all surrounding objects to the bestof its ability, and, seeing that its flickering brightness fell upon thesmall sleeper's face, he placed it at the farther end of the high mantel. 

"She'll be more comfortable, " he said. And then sat down feeling at easewith his conscience. 

Mornin went back to her supper shaking her head. 

"By de time she's a year old, dar won't be no managin' her, " she said. "Da's allus de way wid de men folks, allus too hard or too soft; betterleav' her to Mornin 'n' ust'n her to things right at de start. "

There seemed little chance that she would be so "ustened. " Havingfinished his supper, Tom carried his pipe and newspaper into the kitchen. 

"I'll sit here awhile, " he said. "The smoke might be too much for her, and the paper rustles so. We'd better let her have her sleep out. "

But when the pipe was out and the last page of the paper read, he wentback to his own room. The small ark stranded in his chimney corner wasattractive enough to draw him there. It was a stronger attraction than itwould have been to most men. He had always been fond of children andcurious concerning them. There was not a child in the surrounding regionwho had not some remembrance of his rather too lavish good-nature. Avisit to the Cross-roads was often held out as a reward for circumspectbehaviour, and the being denied the treat was considered punishment heavyenough for most juvenile crimes. 

"Ef ye'd had young uns of yer own, Tom, ye'd hev ruined them, shore, " thesecretly delighted matrons frequently remarked. "You'd let 'em run rightover ye. I reckon ye keep that candy thar right a-purpose to feed 'em onnow, don't yer?"

His numerous admirers, whose affection for him was founded on theirenjoyment of his ponderous witticisms and the humour which was the littleleavening of their unexciting lives, had once or twice during the pastfew days found themselves unprepared for, and so somewhat bewildered by, the new mood which had now and then revealed itself. 

"It's kinder outer Tom's way to take things like he takes this; it looksonnat'ral, " they said. 

If they had seen him as he drew up to the cradle's side, they would havediscovered that they were confronting a side of the man of which theyknew nothing. It was the man whose youth had been sore-hearted anddesolate, while he had been too humble to realise that it was so, andwith reason. If he had known lonely hours in the past eight years, onlythe four walls of the little back room had seen them. He had alwaysenacted his _rôle_ well outside; but it was only natural that the threesilent rooms must have seemed too empty now and again. As he bent overthe cradle, he remembered such times, and somehow felt as if they werealtogether things of the past and not to trouble him again. 

"She'll be life in the place, " he said. "When she sleeps less and is oldenough to make more noise, it will be quite cheerful. "

He spoke with the self-congratulating innocence of inexperience. Aspeculative smile settled upon his countenance. 

"When she begins to crawl around and--and needs looking after, it will belively enough, " he reflected. "She'll keep us busy, I daresay. "

It was a circumstance perhaps worthy of mention that he never spoke ofthe little creature as "it. "

"She'll need a good deal of looking after, " he went on. "It won't do tolet her tumble around and take care of herself, as a boy might. We mustbe tender of her. "

He bent forward and drew the cover cautiously over the red flannelsleeve. 

"They think it a good joke, those fellows, " he said; "but it isn't a jokewith us, is it, young woman? We've a pretty big job to engineer betweenus, but I daresay we shall come out all right. We shall be good friendsin the end, and that's a pretty nice thing for a lonely fellow to lookforward to. "

Then he arose stealthily and returned to the kitchen. 

"I want you to tell me, " he said to Mornin, "what she needs. I supposeshe needs something or other. "

"She needs mos' ev'rything, Mars Tom, " was the answer; "seems like shehain't bin pervided fer 't all, no more 'n ef she was a-gwine ter be ayoun' tukky dat de Lord hisself hed fitted out at de start. "

"Well, " said Tom, "I'll go to Barnesville to-morrow and talk to JudgeRutherford's wife about it. She'll know what she ought to have. "

And, after a few moments given to apparently agreeable reflection, hewent back to the room he had left. 

He had barely seated himself, however, when he was disturbed by alow-sounding tap on the side door, which stood so far open as to allow ofany stray evening breeze entering without reaching the corner of thechimney. 

"Come in!" said Tom, not in a friendly roar, as usual, but in adiscreetly guarded voice. 

The door was pushed gently open and the visitor stood revealed, blinkingwith an impartial air at the light within. 

"Don't push it wide open, " said Tom; "come in if you are going to, andleave it as it was. "

Mr. Stamps obeyed without making any noise whatever. It was one of hisamiable peculiarities that he never made any noise, but appeared anddisappeared without giving any warning, making himself very agreeablethereby at inopportune moments. He slipped in without a sound, deftlyleft the door in its previous position, and at once slipped into a chair, or rather took possession of one, by balancing himself on the extremeedge of it, arranging his legs on the lower bar with some dexterity. 

"Howdy?" he said, meekly, having accomplished this. 

Tom's manner was not cordial. He stretched himself, put his hands in hispockets, and made no response to the greeting which was, upon the whole, a rather unnecessary one, as Mr. Stamps had been hanging about thepost-office through the whole day, and had only wended his way homeward afew hours before. 

"Want anything?" he enquired. 

Mr. Stamps turned his hat around in his hands hurriedly. 

"No, I don't want nothin', Tom, " he said. Then, after a pause, he added, very softly:

"I jest thought I'd step in. "

"Where are you going?" asked Tom. 

The hat was turned round again. 

"Whar wus I a-gwine?" deprecatingly. "Whar? Oh! I--I was a-gwine--I wasa-gwine to Marthy's, I guess. "

"You're pretty late, " remarked Tom; "better lose no time; it's a prettybad road between here and there. "

"So 'tis, " replied Mr. Stamps, apparently struck with the originality ofthe suggestion. "So 'tis!" He appeared to reflect deeply for a fewseconds, but suddenly his eyes began to wander across the room and restedfinally upon the corner in which the cradle stood. He jerked his headtowards it. 

"It's thar, is it?" he enquired. 

"Yes, she's thar, " Tom answered, rather crustily. "What of it?"

"Oh! nothin', nothin', Tom, only it's kinder curi's--kinder curi's. "

"Well, " said Tom, "I've not begun to look at it in that light yetmyself. "

"Hain't ye, now?" softly. "Hain't ye, Tom?"

Then a faint little chuckle broke from him--not an intrusive chuckle, quite the contrary; a deprecatory and inadvertent sort of chuckle. 

"That ain't me, " he ventured, inoffensively. "I've been a-thinkin' it wascuri's all along. "

"That ain't going to hurt anybody, " responded Tom. 

"Lord, no!" quite in a hurry. "Lord, no! 'tain't likely; but it kinderint'rusted me--int'rusted me, findin' out what I did. "

And he ended with a gently suggestive cough. 

Tom thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and covered as large an areaof floor with his legs as was possible without upsetting Mr. Stamps'schair and at the same time that stealthy little man himself. 

"Oh! found out!" he replied, "Found out h----"

He checked himself with much suddenness, glancing at the cradle as he didso. 

"What did you find out?" he demanded, unceremoniously, and with manifestcontempt. "Let's hear. "

Mr. Stamps coughed again. 

"'Twan't much, mebbe, " he replied, cautiously, "'n' then again, mebbe'twas. It was kinder int'rusting, though. That--that thar was a goodprayer o' his'n, warn't it?"

"Yes, " admitted Tom, rather blusteringly. "I daresay it was; I supposeyou are a better judge of prayers than I am. "

"I'm a purty good judge on 'em, " modestly. "I'd orter be, bein' aclass-leader 'n' uster kinder critykisin'. I don't never do it much inpublic myself, but I've allus critikised them as did. Thet sounded moreprofessionaller then they air mostly--unless comin' frum them, as has binraised to it. "

"Did it?" said Tom. 

"Yes, it was more professionaller. "

Then he turned his hat again, setting it more carefully on his knee. Healso fixed his eyes on Tom with a harmless smile. 

"They wus North'ners. "

Tom started, but managed to recover himself. 

"You might have mentioned that before, " he remarked, with sarcasm. 

"I did, " said Mr. Stamps, "along at the start, Tom; but ye wouldn't noneon ye believe me. "

Tom remembered that this was true, it having been Mr. Stamps whosuggested the Northern theory which had been so unitedly scouted by hishearers at the time of its propounding. 

"I h'ain't stayed as stiddy in North Car'lina as the rest on 'em, "repeated Mr. Stamps. "When I was younger, I kinder launched out wunct. Ithought I could make money faster ef I wus in a more money-makin'erplace, 'n' I launched out. I went North a spell 'n' was thar a rightsmart while. I sorter stedded the folks' ways 'n' I got to knowin' 'emwhen I seed 'em 'n' heerd 'em talk. I know'd her for one the minit I seteyes on her 'n' heern her speak. I didn't say nuthin' much to the rest onye, 'cause I know's ye'd make light on it; but I know'd it wus jest thatar way with the Northerners. "

"Well, " said Tom, "it's valuable information, I suppose. "

Mr. Stamps coughed. He turned his hat over and looked into its greasy andbattered crown modestly. 

"It mout be, " he replied, "'n' then again it moughtent. It moughtent beif thar' wus nuthin' else to go 'long with it. They wus hidin' sumthin', ye know, 'n' they sot a heap on keepin' it hid. Ef a body know'd thewhole thing from the start, thet'd be int'rustin', 'n' it 'ud bevallyable too. "

"Valuable be d----" Tom began, but he checked himself once more onglancing at the cradle. 

But Mr. Stamps was so far interested that he did not read the warning hemight have read in the suddenly repressed outbreak. As he neared his goalhe became a little excited and incautious. He leaned forward, blinkingrapidly. 

"They wasn't no man 'n' wife, " he said. "Lord, no! 'N' ef the two asknowed most on 'em 'n' was kinder quickest at readin' signs 'd kinder gopartners 'n' heve confydence in one another, 'n' sorter lay to 'n' workit out 'n' foller it up, it ud be vallybler than stores, or post-offices, or farms to both on 'em. " And he leaned so far forward and blinked sofast that he lost his balance and almost fell off his chair. 

It was Tom who saved him from his fall, but not from that tenderconsideration for his physical security which such an act would argue. Tom gathered up his legs and strode across to him almost before he hadfinished speaking. For the time being he had apparently forgotten thecradle and its occupant. He seized the little man by the back of hiscollar and lifted him bodily out of his chair and shook him as a hugemastiff might have shaken a rat, agitating the little legs in the largetrousers with a force which gave them, for a few seconds, the most activeemployment. 

"You confounded, sneaking, underhanded little thief!" he thundered. "Youdamned little scoundrel! You--you----"

And he bore him out of doors, set him struggling astride his mule whichwas cropping the grass, and struck that sagacious animal a blow upon herquarters which sent her galloping along the Barnesville Road at a pacewhich caused her rider to cling to her neck and body with arms and legs, in which inconvenient posture he remained, unable to recover himself, fora distance of at least half a mile. 

Tom returned to the back room in some excitement. As he crossed thethreshold, he was greeted by a shrill cry from the cradle. He ruefullyregarded the patchwork quilt which seemed to be struggling violently withsome unseen agency. 

"Doggone him!" he said, innocently, "he's wakened her--wakened her, bythunder!"

And he sat down, breathing heavily from his bodily exertion, and began torock the cradle with a vigour and gravity which might have been expectedto achieve great results, if Mornin had not appeared and taken his chargeinto her own hands. 

CHAPTER VII

The next day Tom went to Barnesville. He left the Cross-roads onhorseback early in the morning, and reached his journey's end at noon. Hefound on arriving at the town that the story of his undertaking hadpreceded him. 

When he drew rein before Judge Rutherford's house and having dismountedand tied his horse to the fence, entered the gate, the Judge's wife cameout upon the porch to meet him with her baby in her arms. 

She greeted him with a smile. 

"Well, " she said, "I must say I am glad to see you. The Judge brought usa nice story from the country yesterday. What have you been doing at theCross-roads? I told the Judge I didn't believe a word of it. There, sitdown in this chair and tell me right away. "

"Well, " answered Tom in a business-like manner, "it's true or I shouldn'tbe here to-day. I've come to ask your advice about--well, about things ingeneral. "

Mrs. Rutherford uttered a little cry of delighted curiosity and surprise. 

"Gracious!" she exclaimed, "I never heard such a thing! Mother!" turningher head to call to someone in the room beyond, "it's all true about thebaby. Do come and hear Mr. De Willoughby tell about it. "

She sat down on the steps of the porch laughing and yet regarding Tomwith a half sympathetic, half curious look. It was not the first time shehad found him unexpectedly mysterious. 

"Where's the father?" she said. "Didn't he care for the poor little thingat all? The Judge heard that he was so poor that he couldn't take care ofit. Hadn't he any friends? It has a kind of heartless sound to me--hisgoing away that way. "

"He was poor, " said Tom, quietly. "And he had no relatives who could takethe child. He didn't know what to do with it. I--I think he had a chanceof making a living out West and--the blow seemed to have stunned him. "

"And you took the baby?" put in Mrs. Rutherford. 

"Yes, " Tom answered, "I took the baby. "

"Is it a pretty baby?"

"Yes, " said Tom, "I think it is. "

Just then the Judge's mother came out and he was called upon to tell thestory again, when it was received with interest even more excited andwondering than before. The older Mrs. Rutherford exclaimed and lookeddubious alternately. 

"Are you sure you know what to do with it?" she asked. 

"Well, no, " said Tom, "I'm not. I suppose I shall have to educate myselfup to it gradually. There'll be a good deal to learn, I suppose. "

But he did not appear at all discouraged, and presently broached theobject of his visit, displaying such modest readiness to accept adviceand avail himself of all opportunities for acquiring valuableinformation, that his young hostess was aroused to the deepestadmiration, and when he proceeded to produce quite a large memorandumbook with a view to taking an immediate list of all required articles, and established rules, she could scarcely contain her delight. 

"I want to do it all up in the proper way, " he said. 

Thereupon he was borne into the house and a consultation of the mostserious practical nature was held. Piles of the last baby's prettygarments being produced to illustrate any obscure point. The sight ofthose garments with their embroidery and many frills fired Tom with newenthusiasm. He could not resist the temptation to pick up one afteranother of the prettiest and most elaborate and hold them out at arm'slength, his fingers stuck through the sleeves the better to survey anddisplay them to advantage. 

"Yes, " he kept saying, "that's the kind of thing she wants--pretty andwith plenty of frills. "

He seemed to set his heart especially upon this abundance of frills andkept it in view throughout the entire arrangements. Little Mrs. Rutherford was to take charge of the matter, purchasing all necessariesand superintending the work of placing it in competent hands. 

"Why, " she said, laughing at him delightedly, "she'll be the best dressedbaby in the county. "

"I'd like her to be among the best, " said Tom, with a grave face, "amongthe best. "

Whereupon Mrs. Rutherford laughed a little again, and then quite suddenlystopped and regarded him for a moment with some thoughtfulness. 

"He has some curious notions about that baby, mother, " she saidafterwards. "I can see it in all he says. Everyone mightn't understandit. I'm not sure I do myself, but he has a big, kind heart, that Tom deWilloughby, a big, kind heart. "

She understood more clearly the workings of the big, kind heart before heleft them the next morning. 

At night after she had put her child to sleep, she joined him on thefront porch, where he sat in the moonlight, and there he spoke more fullyto her. 

He had seated himself upon the steps of the porch and wore a deeperreflective air, as he played with a spray of honeysuckle he had brokenfrom its vine. 

She drew up her rocking-chair and sat down near him. 

"I actually believe you are thinking of that baby now, " she said, with alaugh. "You really look as if you were. "

"Well, " he admitted, "the fact is that's just what I was doing--thinkingof her. "

"Well, and what were you thinking?"

"I was thinking--" holding his spray of honeysuckle between his thumb andforefinger and looking at it in an interested way, "I was thinking aboutwhat name I should give her. "

"Oh!" she said, "she hasn't any name?"

"No, " Tom answered, without removing his eyes from his honeysuckle, "shehasn't any name yet. "

"Well, " she exclaimed, "they were queer people. "

There was a moment's silence which she spent in looking curiously both athim and his honeysuckle. 

"What was her mother's name?" she asked at last. 

"I don't know. "

Mrs. Rutherford sat up in her chair. 

"You don't know!"

"She was dying when I saw her first, and I never thought of asking. "

"But her father?"

"I didn't think of asking that either, and nobody knew anything of them. I suppose he was not in the frame of mind to think of such thingshimself. It was all over and done with so soon. He went away as soon asshe was buried. "

Mrs. Rutherford sank back into her chair. 

"It's the strangest story I ever heard of in my life, " she commented, with a sigh of amazement. "The man must have been crazed with grief. Isuppose he was very fond of his wife?"

"I suppose so, " said Tom. 

There was another pause of a few moments, and from the thoughts withwhich they occupied it Mrs. Rutherford roused herself with a visibleeffort. 

"Well, " she said, cheerily, "let it be a pretty name. "

"Yes, " answered Tom, "it must be a pretty one. "

He turned the bit of honeysuckle so that the moonlight fell on itsfaintly tinted flower. It really seemed as if he felt he should get onbetter for having it to look at and refer to. 

"I want it to be a pretty name, " he went on, "and I've thought of a goodmany that sounded well enough, but none of them seemed exactly to hit myfancy in the right way until I thought of one that came into my mind afew moments ago as I sat here. It has a pleasant meaning--I don't knowthat there's anything in that, of course; but I've got a sort of whimabout it. I suppose it's a whim. What do you think--" looking very hardat the honeysuckle, "of Felicia?"

"I think, " said his companion, "that it is likely to be the best name youcould give her, for if she isn't a happy creature it won't be yourfault. "

"Well, " said Tom, "I've set out to do my best and I'd like to give her afair start in every way, even in her name, though there mayn't beanything in it, but I'd like to do it. I suppose it's time I should behaving some object in life. I've never had one before, and I've been auseless fellow. Well, I've got one now by chance, and I'm bound to holdon to it and do what I can. I want her to have what chances I can giveher on her side, and it came into my mind that Felicia----"

He stopped to consult the honeysuckle, as it were, and Jenny Rutherfordbroke in:

"Yes, " she said, "Felicia is the name for her, and it's a beautifulthought----"

"Oh!" interrupted Tom, bestirring himself uneasily, "it's a naturalthought. She needs all she can get to balance the trouble she began lifewith. Most other little chaps begin it in a livelier way--in a way that'smore natural, born into a home, and all that. It's a desolate businessthat she should have no one but a clumsy fellow like me to pick her up, and that there should be a shadow of--of trouble and pain and death overher from the first. Good Lord!" with a sudden movement of his big arm, "let's sweep it away if we can. "

The thought so stirred him, that he turned quite around as he sat. 

"Look here, " he said, "that's what I was aiming at when I set my mind onhaving her things frilled up and ornamented. I want them to be what theymight have been if she had been born of a woman who was happy and wellcared for and--and loved--as if she had been thought of and lookedforward to and provided for in a--in a tender way--as they say youngmothers do such things: you know how that is; I don't, perhaps, I've onlythought of it sometimes----" his voice suddenly dropping. 

But he had thought of it often, in his lonely back room one winter a fewyears ago, when it had drifted to him that his brother De Courcy was thefather of a son. 

Mrs. Rutherford leaned forward in her seat, tears rose in her eyes, andshe put her hand impulsively on his shoulder. 

"Oh!" she cried, "you are a good man. You're a good man, and if shelives, she will tell you so and love you with all her heart. I will seeto the little clothes just as if they were Nellie's own" (Nellie beingthe baby, or more properly speaking, the last baby, as there were othersin the household). "And if there is anything I can ever do for the littlething, let me do it for her poor young mother's sake. "

Tom thanked her gratefully. 

"I shall be glad to come to you often enough, I reckon, " he said. "Iguess she'll have her little sick spells, as they all do, and it'll helpwonderfully to have someone to call on. There's her teeth now, "anxiously, "they'll be coming through in a few months, and then there'llbe the deuce to pay. "

He was so overweighted by this reflection, that he was silent for someminutes afterwards and was only roused by a question requiring a reply. 

Later the Judge came in and engaged him in political conversation, allthe Judge's conversation being of a political nature and generallytending to vigorous denunciations of some candidate for election whobelonged to the opposite party. In Barnesville political feeling ranhigh, never running low, even when there was no one to be elected ordefeated, which was very seldom the case, for between such elections anddefeat there was always what had been done or what ought to have beendone at Washington to discuss, it being strongly felt that without theassistance of Barnesville, Washington would be in a sorry plight indeed. 

To-day the Judge had been engaged in a livelier discussion than usual ashe rode homeward with a select party of legal brethren from court atBrownsboro, and consequently made his appearance blustering and joyous. He bestowed upon his wife a sounding kiss, and, with one arm around herwaist, shook hands with Tom in a gust of hospitality, speaking to both atonce. 

"Howdy, Jenny? Howdy, Tom? It's a coon's age since we've seen you, Tom. Time you showed yourself. How are the children, Jenny--and what's TomScott been doing? What's this we hear about that stray young one? Nicetale that is to tell on a fellow. Fowler heard it at Brownsboro and liketo have killed himself. Lord! how hot it's been! I'm ready for supper, Jenny. Sit down, Tom. As soon as I get through supper, we'll have a realold-fashioned talk. I've been suffering for one for three months. Jenny, tell Sophronia to spread herself on her waffles, for I've been gettingsome mighty poor stuff for the last few days. What do you think ofThatcher running for the Legislature? Lord! Lord! what a fool that fellowis! Most unpopular man in the county, and about the meanest too. Mean?Lord! mean ain't the name for it! He'll be beat so that any other manwouldn't want to show his head, and it won't make a mark on him. Nellie'sasleep, ain't she, Jenny? I've got to go and look at her and the rest ofthem. Don't you want to come along, Tom? You're a family man yourselfnow, and you ought to take an interest!"

He led the way into the family-room at the back and, taking the candlefrom the high mantel, moved it triumphantly over the beds in which thechildren slept. 

"Here's Tom Scott!" he announced. "Tom Scott's got to have a crib tohimself. Look at him now. What do you think of that for a boy? He's fiveyears old next month, and he about runs Barnesville. The boys round hereare just ruining him with making much of him and setting him up totricks. He just lives round at the stores and the post-office. And whatTom Scott don't know ain't worth knowing. Came home with six jack-knivesin his pockets the first day Jenny turned him out in pantaloons. The boystried themselves to see who could do best by him. You could hear themshouting and laughing all over the town at the things they got him tosay. I tell you he's a case, Tom is. Last election he was as stirred upas any of us. Hollered ''Rah for Collins' until he was hoarse and hismother brought him home and gave him syrup of squills because she thoughthe had the croup. What do you think he did, now? Went into Barton's storeand ordered a bushel of chestnuts to be sent down to my account andbrought 'em out and set on the horse-block and gave a treat for Collins. I was coming up home and saw the crowd and heard the hollering andlaughing, and there was Tom in the middle baling out his chestnuts andhollering at the top of his voice: 'Come on, boys, all you Collins men, here's a treat for Collins!' I thought Collins would have died when heheard it. He laughed until he choked, and the next day he came to see Tomand gave him a gold eagle and a colt. He says he is going to give him alittle nigger to look after it, and he'll do it. Oh, Tom Scott's the boy!He'll be in the White House forty years from now. He's making a bee-linefor it right now. "

And he bent and kissed the little fellow's sunburnt rosy cheek. 

"His mother and his grandmother can't do a thing with him, " he said, rapturously, "and it's as much as I can do to manage him. Oh, he's acase, is Tom Scott!"

And with this tribute to his character, he left him to his slumbers, withhis sturdy little legs occupying an extensive area of crib and his faceresting on his small brown arm. 

After this, the Judge went to his supper and consumed a large quantity offried chicken, waffles, and coffee, afterwards joining Tom on the porch, smoking his pipe and stigmatising Thatcher in a loud and jovial voice asthe meanest man in Hamlin. 

But for this resonant jovialness of voice, his denunciation of theDemocratic Party, which was not his party, might have appeared ratherstartling. 

"There isn't an honest man among them, " he announced. "Not a durned one!They're all the same. Cut each other's throats for a dime, the wholecaboodle. Oh! damn a Democrat anyhow, Tom, 'tain't in the nature ofthings that they should be anything but thieves and rascals. Just look atthe whole thing. It's founded on lies and corruption and scoundrelism. That's their foundation. They start out on it, and it ain't reasonable toexpect anything better of them. Good Lord! If I thought Tom Scott wouldjoin the Democrats, I believe I'd blow his brains out in his crib thisminute. "

Tom's part in this discussion was that of a large-minded and strictlyimpartial listener. This was the position he invariably assumed whensurrounded by political argument. He was not a politician. His commentsupon political subjects being usually of a sarcastic nature, and likelyto prove embarrassing to both parties. 

"Yes, " he said in reply to the Judge's outpourings, "you're right. Thereain't a chance for them, not an eternal chance. You can't expect it, andit ain't all their fault either. Where are they to get their decent menfrom, unless some of you fellows go over? Here you are without a liar ora fool among you--not a durned one--made a clean sweep of all theintellect and honesty and incorruptible worth in the country and hold onto it too, and then let out on these fellows because there isn't any leftfor 'em. I'm a lazy man myself and not much on argument, but I must saythat's a weak place in your logic. You don't give 'em a show at thestart--that's their misfortune. "

"Oh, go to thunder!" roared the Judge, amiably. "You don't know the firstthing about it and never did. That's where you fail--in politics. Thecountry would be in a mighty poor fix if we had many fellows like you--ina mighty poor fix. You're a good citizen, Tom, but you ain't apolitician. "

"That's so, " said Tom. "I ain't good enough for your party or bad enoughfor the other, when a man's got to be either a seraphim or a Democrat, there isn't much chance for an ordinary fellow to spread himself. "

Whereupon the Judge in an altogether friendly manner consigned him tothunder again and, evidently enjoying himself immensely, proceeded to themost frightful denunciations of Thatcher and his party, the mere list ofwhose crimes and mental incapacities should have condemned them toperdition and the lunatic asylum upon the spot without further delay. 

While he was in the midst of this genial loud-voiced harangue, his wife, who had been in the back room with the baby, came out and, on seeing her, he seemed suddenly to forget his animosities and the depraved politicalcondition of the country altogether, becoming a placable, easily pleased, domesticated creature at once. 

"Got Nellie to sleep again, have you?" he said, putting his hand on hershoulder. "Well, let's go in and have some music. Come and sing 'The LastRose of Summer. ' That's my favourite; it beats all the new-fangled operathings all to pieces. "

He led the way into the parlour, which was a large square room, regardedby Barnesville as the most sumptuous of reception chambers, inasmuch asits floor was covered by a Brussels carpet adorned with exotics ofmultifarious colours, its walls ornamented with massively framedphotographs, and its corners fitted up with whatnots and shininghair-cloth seats known in Hamlin County as "tater-tates, " and in thatimpressive character admired beyond expression. Its crowning glory, however, was the piano, which had belonged to Jenny Rutherford in herboarding-school days, and was the delight of the Judge's heart. Itfurnished him with his most cherished recreation in his hours of reposefrom political conflict and argument, inasmuch as he regarded his wife'sperformance seldom to be equalled and never surpassed, and the soft, pleasant voice with which she sang "The Last Rose of Summer" and othersimple and sentimental melodies as that of a cantatrice whose renownmight have been world-wide if she had chosen to turn her attention to itsdevelopment. 

"Lord!" he said, throwing himself into one of the shining arm-chairs. "There's nothing like music, nothing under the shining sun. 'Music hathcharms to soothe the savage breast. '"

This in his most sonorous quotation tones: "Let a man get tired or out ofsorts, or infernal mad at a pack of cursed fools, and music's the thingthat'll set him straight every time, if he's any sort of a fellow. A manthat ain't fond of music ain't of any account on God's green earth. Iwouldn't trust him beyond a broom-straw. There's a mean streak in a manthat don't care for music, sure. Why, the time the Democrats electedPeyton, the only thing that saved me from bursting a blood-vessel wasJenny's playing 'My Lodging's on the Cold Ground' with variations. Iguess she played it for two hours hand-running, because when I found itwas sort of soothing me, I didn't want her to break in on the effect bybeginning another. Play it for Tom, Jenny, after you've sung awhile. There's one thing I've made up my mind to--if I had fifty girls, I'd have'em all learn music if they didn't know anything--not the operatic kind, you know, but enough to teach them to sing to a man like Jenny does. Goon, Jenny. "

The sustaining and cheering effects of Sophronia's fried chicken andwaffles probably added to his comfortable enjoyment, which was withoutlimit. He leaned back in his armchair as far as the stiffly ornamentedback would admit of his so doing and kept time with his head or his feet, occasionally joining in on a chorus with startling suddenness in anevidently subdued roar, which, though subdued, was still roaring enough, and, despite the excellence of its intention, quite out of tune enough tocause the wax flowers in their wax basket on the table (both done byJenny at boarding-school) to shake under the glass shade until theytapped against its side with a delicate tinkle. 

It was while this was going on that Tom, sitting near a side table, picked up a book and almost unconsciously opened it and read its title. Having read its title, an expression of interest showed itself on hiscountenance and he turned over a leaf or so, and as he turned them overdipped into them here and there. 

He had the book in his hand when Jenny Rutherford ended her last chorusand came towards him. 

"Do you go much by this?" he asked. 

She took it from him and glanced at it. 

"I brought Tom Scott up on it, " she said. "Mother wasn't with me then, and I was such a child I did not know what to do with him. "

"Seems to be a good sort of book, " said Tom, and he turned over theleaves again. 

"It is, " she answered, smiling at him. "There are lots of things in itevery doctor don't know. It was written by a woman. "

"That's the reason, I reckon, " said Tom. 

He laid the book down and seemed to forget it, but about an hour afterwhen his bedroom candle was brought and he was on the point of retiringfor the night, he turned upon the threshold of the sitting-room and spoketo his hostess in the tone of one suddenly recollecting himself. 

"Where did you say you got that book?" he inquired, snuffing his candlewith his thumb and forefinger. 

"I didn't say at all, " answered Jenny. "I got it from Brough & Bros. , Baltimore. "

"Oh, there!" he remarked. "Good-night. "

When he reached his room and shut himself in, he set his candlestick on atable and proceeded to draw from his pocket the memorandum-book, alsoproducing the stump of a lead pencil. 

Then he made as he stood up before the looking-glass and in theflickering light of the candle, an entry which was as follows: "Advice toYoung Mothers, Brough & Bros. " He made it with a grave countenance and abusiness-like manner, and somehow, owing it may be to the small size ofthe room, its low ceilings and many shadows, or the flickering of thecandle, his colossal height and breadth of body and tremendous look ofstrength had never seemed so marked nor appeared so to overpower theobjects surrounding him. 

Having completed the entry, he shut up the book and returned it to hispocket with a relieved air. 

"If a man ain't a young mother, " he remarked, "I guess he can get thegood of it, if he gives himself time. And what she wants"--ratherhurriedly--"is to get as good a start as if she had a young mother. "

And he sat down and pulled off his right boot in so absorbed a frame ofmind, that he aroused presently with a start to find that he was holdingit as if it had been made of much less tough material and requiredhandling tenderly. 

CHAPTER VIII

He was on his way homeward early the next morning, and by noon his horsehad climbed the rising ground from which he could look down on theCross-roads and the post-office baking itself brown in the sun. Catchingsight of the latter edifice, he smiled a little and shook the bridleagainst his steed's warm neck. 

"Get along, Jake, " he said. "I'm in a little more of a hurry to get homethan usual--seems that way anyhow. "

The eagerness he felt was a new experience with him and stirred his senseof humour even while it warmed his always easily moved heart. It had beenhis wont during the last eight years to return from any absence readilybut never eagerly or with any touch of excited pleasure. Even at theirbrightest aspect, with the added glow of fire and warmth and good cheer, and contrast to winter's cold and appetite sharpened by it, the backrooms had always suffered from the disadvantage of offering no prospectof companionship or human interest to him. After the supper had beendisposed of and the newspapers read and the pipe smoked, there had onlybeen the fire to watch, and it was quite natural to brood as its blazedied down and its logs changed to a bed of glowing cinders. Under suchcircumstances it was easy to fall into a habit of brooding too much andthinking of things which had better been forgotten. When there was nofire, it had been lonelier still, and he had found the time hang heavily, on his hands. 

"But now, " he said, shaking his bridle again, "there she is, and it'squite queer, by thunder, how much she seems to give a man to think of andwhat will it be when she begins to talk. " And his smile ended in a joviallaugh which rather startled Jake, who was not expecting it, and causedhim to shy promptly. 

She was not asleep when he entered her presence, which was so unusual astate of affairs that he found it a little alarming. 

"Hello!" he exclaimed, "there's nothing wrong, I hope. "

"Wid dat chile?" chuckled Mornin, delightedly. "I sh'd think not, Mars'D'Willerby! Dat ar chile's a-thrivin' an' a-comin' 'long jes' like she'dorter. Dar ain't a-gwine to be nothin' wrong wid dat chile. "

"That's a good thing, " said Tom. 

He sat down by the cradle's side and regarded its occupant with aninterest as fresh as if she had just appeared for the first time upon hishorizon. She had been imbibing a large quantity of milk, and the effectof this nourishment had been to at once compose her spirits and slightlyenliven them. So she employed the passing moments by looking at Tom withsteadfast and solemn eyes--not, perhaps, very intelligently, but stillwith a vacant air of interest in him in his character of an object. 

"Why, " he said, "she's grown; she's grown in thirty-six hours, and she'simproved too. Oh, yes! she's coming along nicely. "

He touched her very carefully with his large forefinger, a liberty whichshe did not resent or even notice, unless the fact that she winked botheyes might be regarded as a token of recognition. 

"We'll have a box full of things here for her in a couple of weeks, " hesaid. "And then she can start out in life--start out in life. "

The last four words seemed to please him; as he repeated them he touchedher cheek again, carefully as before. 

"And start out fair, too!" he added. "Fair and square--as fair and squareas any of them. "

He remained a little longer in his seat by the cradle, talking to Mornin, asking her questions and delivering messages laden with advice fromlittle Mrs. Rutherford, which instructions Aunt Mornin plainly regardedas superfluous. 

"Now, Mars' D'Willerby, " she giggled in amiable scorn, "didn't I raisefo' o' my young Mistes's? Mornin ain't no spring chicken. Dar ain'tnuffin 'bout chillun Mornin h'aint heerd. Leeve dis yere chile toMornin. "

"She ain't going to be left to anyone, " said Tom, cheerfully, "not to thebest woman in Hamlin County. We've got to make up to her for two or threethings, and we're going to do it. "

Having relieved himself of which sentiment, he went to his place at thetable and ate a mighty dinner, during his enjoyment of which meal he didnot lose interest in his small silent partner at all, but cast proudglances and jocular sallies at her every few mouthfuls, partaking of her, as it were, with his mountain trout, and finding her add flavour and zestto his hot corn-bread and fried ham. 

When he had ended his repast with an astonishing draught of buttermilk, and was ready to go into the store, she had dozed off cosily again andwas making the best of her opportunities, so he only paused for a momentto give her a farewell glance. 

"Yes, " he said, "Felicia--that'll do. When you come to the meaning of it, I don't know of anything else that'd seem to start her out asfair--Felicia!"

And though he said the word in a whisper it seemed to reach her ear insome mysterious way, for she stirred slightly, though not as through anysense of disturbance, opened her eyes upon his big figure and, closingthem the next instant, sank into soft sleep again with the faintest dawnor ghost of a baby smile upon her face. 

So, nestling under the patchwork quilt and sleeping the hours away in thesmall ark stranded in the chimney corner, she began life. 

 * * * * *

Felicia was received by Talbot's Cross-roads with some difference ofopinion. 

"I'd rather had Mirandy or Lucretia, " said Mrs. Doty. "Flishyer ain'tnigh as showy as a heap o' other names, 'n' like as not, folks'll becallin' her F'lish. Now thar's Vangerline 'n' Clementine 'n' Everlynethat'd ha' bin showier then Flishyer. "

"Tom, " put in Mr. Doty, with his usual enjoyment of his friend's weaknessand strength, "Tom he'd a notion 'bout it. He said it meant som'n 'bouther a'bein' happy, 'n' he 'lowed it'd kinder give her a start in theright direction. It's jes' like Tom. He's full o' notions when he gitsstarted. I'll back him agin any man in Hamlin fur notions when he gitsstarted. Lord! it's jes' Tom all over!"

Through a disposition to take even names easily and avoid in all casesany unnecessary exertion, Mrs. Doty's pronunciation was adopted at once, which was perhaps the principal reason for a fanciful change being madenot long afterwards. 

Against "F'lishyer" Tom rebelled loudly and without ceasing, but withouteffect. 

The fanciful change came about and was adopted in this wise. In thecourse of a couple of weeks the box of little garments arrived fromBarnesville, accompanied by a warm-hearted note from Jenny Rutherford. 

The unpacking of the box--which was not a large one, though it seemed tocontain an astonishing number of things, most of them of great length andelaborateness--was to Tom a singularly exciting event, so exciting thathe found himself wondering and not at all sure that he understood it. 

When he opened the box--Mornin standing at his side, her charge in herarms--he did it with tremulous fingers, and when, having laid one articleafter another in a snowy drift upon the bed, he drew back to look atthem, he found it necessary after a few moments' inspection to turn aboutand pace the floor, not uneasily, but to work off steam as it were, whileMornin uttered her ejaculations of rapture. 

"I never seen nuthin' like 'em afore, Mars' D'Willerby, " she said withmany excitable giggles. "Dis yer chile's a-gwine to take the flo' shoreas yo' bawn! Sich a settin' out as dat is! She'll git ter puttin' on airsafore she's a year ole. We'll hev ter give her a settin' down wunce 'n awhile to keep her straight. Mis' Rutherford, she wus boun' to do it up instyle, she wus!"

Tom took one hand out of his pocket and ruffled his hair with it, andthen put it back again. 

"Your young mistresses now, " he suggested, "I suppose they are about suchthings as their mothers made for them. "

"Lordy, dey's a heap finer, Mars' D'Willerby--a heap finer! Dey wus richfolks' chillun, but dey never hed sich a settin' out as dis yere--not oneon 'em. "

"They didn't?" said Tom, with secretly repressed exultation. "Well, ifthey didn't, I guess she'll do. They are rather nice, I reckon--and Imeant they should be. Say, Mornin, suppose you dress her up and let meshow her to the boys. "

He himself picked out the sumptuous long-skirted garments she was to wearand watched with the deepest interest the rather slow process of herattiring. He was particularly pleased with a wonderfully embroideredwhite cloak and lace cap, which latter article he abstractedly tied onhis great fist and found much too small for it. His triumph, when she wasgiven to his arms, he did not attempt to conceal, but carried her intothe store with the manner of a large victor bearing his spoils. 

"Now look here, boys, " he announced, being greeted with the usuallaughter and jocular remarks. "This ain't the style of thing we want. Hand a man a chair. "

His customary support being produced, he seated himself in it, keepinghis charge balanced with a dexterity and ease quite wonderful to behold. 

"What we want, " he proceeded, "is a more respectful tone. Something inthe elaborate chivalric style, and we're going to have it. What we wantis to come into this establishment feeling that there's no risk of ourbeing scared or upset by any durned fool startling us and setting ourdelicate machinery wrong. We've come here to stay, and we expect to bemore familiar with things as we grow older, and the thing for us is tostart out right without any disagreeable impressions. We don't want tosay when we're brought in here--'Why, here's the place where that foolgave me such a start last week. I wonder if he's here again?' What wewant is to feel that here's a place that's home, and a place that aperson's likely to look forward to coming to with the view to ah--Ishould say to a high old time of an agreeable description. "

"She's a-goin' to be a doggoned purty critter, " said a lounger who sat ona barrel near by. 

"She ain't nuthin' like her mother, " said another; "though she wus apurty critter when I seed her. "

He had only seen her in her coffin. 

"She ain't like her father, " put in another. 

Tom moved in his chair uneasily. 

"She won't be like either of them, " he said. "Let that go. "

There was a tone in his voice which more than one among them had now andagain noticed with some slow bewilderment during the last few weeks--atone new to them, but which in time they grew used to, though they neverunderstood its meaning. 

"Kinder, " they used to say, "as ef he wus mad or--ruffed up, though itwarn't that exactly, either. "

"Black eyes, h'ain't she?" inquired the man on the barrel. 

"Yes. "

"An har. That's my kind er women, black eyes an' har, and kinder spirity. They've more devil to 'em 'n' is better able to take care of 'emselves. "

"She's got some one to take care of her, " answered Tom. "That's mybusiness. "

"You've got her mightily fixed up, Tom, " remarked Mr. Doty, who had justentered. "You'll hev all the women in the country flocking up. She sortermakes me think o' the Queen o' Sheby. Sheby, she wus great on fixin'. "

Every man who entered, seeing her as she lay in state in Tom's lap, wasdrawn towards her to stand and wonder at her vaguely. There developed atendency to form small and rather silent groups about her. Infancy was nonovelty in this region of numerous progenies, but the fine softness ofraiment and delicate sumptuousness of infancy were. More than one man, having looked at her and wandered away, was unable to resist thetemptation to wander back again and finally to settle in some seat or boxupon a barrel, that he might the better indulge his curiosity andinterest. 

"Ye must hev spent a heap on her, Tom, " was said respectfully again andagain. 

The fact that "a heap had been spent on her" inspired the audience with asense of her importance, which amounted to reverence. That sherepresented an apparently unaccountable expenditure, was considered toreflect credit upon her, however vaguely, and to give her a value not tobe lightly regarded. To Mr. Doty the idea of the "Queen of Sheby"appeared to recur persistently, all his imaginings of the poetic, thedramatic, and luxurious being drawn from Scriptural sources. 

"I can't think o' nuthin' else but Sheby when I look at her, " he remarkedseveral times. "She 'minds me more o' Sheby then anything else 'nScripter. Minty'll jest hev to come ter see her. "

This boldness of imagery struck a chord in the breast of his hearerswhich responded at once. It was discovered that more than one of them hadbeen reminded in some indefinite manner of the same distinguishedpersonage. 

"When she was consider'ble younger then in Solomon's time, " said onegentleman with much solemnity. 

Tom himself was caught by the fancy and when his charge was referred tooccasionally in a most friendly spirit as "Sheby thar, " he made noprotest against it. 

"It's a thunderation sight better than 'Flishyer, '" he said, "and if itcomes easier to you fellows, I've no objection. Sheba ain't bad. There'sa kind of swing to it, and you can't get it very far wrong. The other's agood name spoiled, and it's a name I've a fancy for saving for her. Igave it to her--I'll save it for her, and it shall be a thing between ustwo. Call her Sheba if you like. "

So it fell out that Mr. Doty's Oriental imaginings sealed her fate andgradually, by a natural process, Felicia was abandoned for Sheba, evenTom using it upon all ordinary occasions. 

Having in this manner begun life, a day rarely passed in which she didnot spend an hour or so in the post-office. Each afternoon during thefirst few months of her existence Tom brought her forth attired in allher broidery, and it was not long before the day came when he began tocherish the fancy that she knew when the time for her visit was near, andenjoyed it when it came. 

"She looks as if she did, " he said to Mornin. "She wouldn't go to sleepyesterday after I came into the room, and I'll swear I saw her eyesfollowing me as I walked about; and when I carried her in after she wasdressed, she turned her head over her shoulder to look round her andsmiled when she had done it and found nothing was missing. Oh! she knowswell enough when she gets in there. "

The fancy was a wonderfully pleasant one to him, and when, as time wenton, she developed a bright baby habit of noticing all about her, andexpressing her pleasure in divers soft little sounds, he was a happierman than he had ever thought to be. His greatest pleasure was the certainknowledge that she had first noticed himself--that her first greeting hadbeen given to him, that her first conscious caress had been his. She wasa loving little creature, showing her affection earlier than mostchildren do. Before she could sit upright, she recognised his in-comingsand out-goings, and when he took her in his arms to walk to and fro withher, as was his habit at night, she dropped her tiny head upon hisshoulders with a soft yielding to his tenderness which never failed toquicken the beatings of his heart. 

"There's something in her face, " he used to say to himself, "somethingthat's not in every child's face. It's a look about her eyes and mouththat seems to tell a man that she understands him--whether his spiritsare up or down. "

But his spirits were not often down in those days. The rooms at the backno longer wore an air of loneliness, and the evenings never hung heavilyon his hands. In the course of a few months he sent to Brownsboro for ahigh chair and tried the experiment of propping his small companion up init at his side when he ate his supper. It was an experiment whichsucceeded very well and filled him with triumph. From her place in thekitchen Mornin could hear during every meal the sound of conversation ofthe most animated description. Tom's big, kind voice rambling cheerilyand replied to by the soft and unformed murmuring of the child. He wasnever tired of her, never willing to give her up. 

"What I might have given to others if they'd cared for it, " was histhought, "I give to her and she knows it. "

It seemed too that she did know it, that from her first gleaming ofconsciousness she had turned to him as her friend, her protector, and herbest beloved. When she heard his footsteps, she turned in Mornin's arms, or in her cradle, to look for him, and when she saw his face her wholelittle body yearned towards him. 

One afternoon when she was about eight months old, he left her at theusual time. Mornin, who was working, had spread a big red shawl upon thefloor and seated her upon it, and when Tom went out of the room, she satstill playing in the quiet way peculiar to her, with the gay fringe. Shegave him a long earnest look as he crossed the threshold, a look which heremembered afterwards as having been more thoughtful than usual and whichmust have represented a large amount of serious speculation mingled withdesire. 

Tom went into the store, and proceeded to the performance of his usualduty of entertaining his customers. He was in a jovial mood, and, havinga larger number of visitors than ordinarily, was kept actively employedin settling the political problems of the day and disposing of all publicdifficulties. 

"What's most wanted at the head of things, " he proclaimed, "is a manthat's capable of exerting himself (Mis' Doty, if you choose that calico, Job can cut it off for you!) a man who ain't afraid of work. (Helpyourself, Jim!) Lord! where'd this post-office be if some men had toengineer it--a man who would stand at things and loaf instead of takingright hold. (For Heaven's sake, Bill, don't hurry! Jake'll give you thetea as soon as he's cut off his wife's dress!) That's the kind of men wewant in office now--in every kind of office--in every kind of office. Ifthere's one thing I've no use for on God's green earth, it's a man withno energy. (Nicholson, just kick that box over here so I can get my feeton it!)"

He was sitting near the door which connected the back part of theestablishment with the front, and it was just at this juncture that therefell upon his ear a familiar sound as of something being dragged over thefloor. The next moment he felt his foot touched and then pressed upon bysome soft unsteady weight. 

He looked down with a start and saw first a small round face upturned, its dark eyes tired but rejoicing and faithful, and then a short whitedress much soiled and dusted by being dragged over the bare boards of thetwo storerooms. 

His heart gave a leap and all the laughter died out of his face. 

"My God, boys!" he said, as he bent down, "she's followed me! She'sfollowed me!"

It was quite true. She had never crawled far beyond the limits of theshawl before, but this morning her longing had given her courage andstrength, and she had set out upon her journey in search of him. 

Those about him burst into loud, admiring laughter, but Tom did not laughat all. He lifted the child to his knee and held her encircled by onearm. She was weary with her exertion and settled at once into an easysitting posture, her head resting against him while she gazed quietlyfrom under her upcurled lashes at the faces grouped about her. Theirlaughter did not disturb her now that she had reached her haven ofsafety. 

"To think of her a-followin' him!" said Mis' Doty, "'n' her never sot offnowhars afore. The purty little critter! Lord! Tom, she's a-gwine ter bea sight when she's grown--with them eyes and har! An' ter think of hera-slippin' off from Mornin an' makin' up her little mind to follow ye. I've never had a young 'un to try it that early in all I've raised. "

"Lordy!" said Mr. Doty, "she's as sot on Tom 's he's on her, 'n' ef evera man wus a doggoned fool about a young 'un, he is about that'n; 'n' furbein' a doggoned fool"--triumphantly--"when he sets out ter be, I'll backTom agin any man in Hamlin. "

Tom said but little. He made no more jokes. He kept the child with himthrough the rest of the day, holding her upon his knee or carrying herout upon the porch. 

When at supper-time he carried her back to the room, she was asleep andhe laid her in her cradle himself. He moved about very quietly afterwardsand ate his supper alone with frequent glances at the sleeper. 

"Don't take her away, " he said to Mornin when she came in; "leave herhere. "

"'N' hev her a-wakin' 'n' disturbin' uv ye, Mars' Tom!" she responded. 

"Leave her here, " he said, laying his hand on the head of the cradle. "She'll not disturb me. We shall get along finely together. "

She was left, Mornin taking her departure with manifest disbelief in thepracticability of the plan. And then, having drawn the cradle to hisbedside, Tom put out the light and retired himself. 

But he did not sleep for some time; having flung his mighty body upon thecouch, he lay with his arms thrown above his head gazing at the darknessand listening to the soft breathing at his side. He was thinking over theone event of the day. 

What might have seemed a slight thing to many men had struck deep intohis great heart. 

"My God!" he said, a touch of reverential tone in his whisper, "to thinkof her following me!"

And he stretched out his hand in the darkness and laid it upon the sideof the cradle lightly, and afterwards fell asleep. 

CHAPTER IX

Just at this time, which was the year before the Civil War, thatfashionable summer resort, the White Briar Springs, was at its gayest. Rarely before had the hotel been filled with so brilliant a company. Afew extra cases of yellow fever had been the cause of an unusual exodusfrom the fever districts, and in consequence the various summer resortsflourished and grew strong. The "White Briar" especially exerted andarrayed itself in its most festive garments. The great dining-room wasfilled to overflowing, the waiters were driven to desperation by thedemands made upon them as they flew from table to table and endeavouredwith laudable zeal to commit to memory fifty orders at once and at thesame time to answer "Comin', sah" to the same number of snapped fingers. There were belles from Louisiana, beauties from Mississippi, andenslavers from Virginia, accompanied by their mothers, their fathers, their troops of younger brothers and sisters, and their black servants. There were nurses and valets and maids of all shades from ebony tocream-colour, and of all varieties of picturesqueness. All day theimmense piazzas were crowded with promenaders, sitters, talkers, fancy-workers, servants attired in rainbow hues and apparently enjoyingtheir idleness or their pretence at work to the utmost. Every morningparties played ten-pins, rode, strolled, gossipped; every afternoon thedaring few who did not doze away the heated hours in the shaded rooms, flirted in couples under trees on the lawn, or in the woods, or by thecreek. Every evening there was to be found ardent youth to dance in theballroom, and twice a week at least did this same youth, arrayed in robessuited to honour the occasion, disport itself joyfully and withtranscendent delight in the presence of its elders assembled in roomsaround the walls of the same glittering apartment with the intention ofbestowing distinction upon what was known as "the hop. "

Sometimes, in dull seasons, there was a scarcity of partners upon suchoccasions; but this year such was not the case. Aside from the brothers ofthe belles and beauties before referred to, who mustered in full force, there was a reserved corps of cavaliers who, though past the early andcrude bloom of their first youth, were still malleable material. Who coulddesire a more gallant attendant than the agile though elderly MajorBeaufort, who, with a large party of nieces, daughters, and granddaughters, made the tour of the watering-places each succeeding year, pervading theatmosphere of each with the subtle essence of his gallantry andhilariousness?

"I should be a miserable man, sir, " proclaimed the Major, chivalrouslyupon each succeeding Thursday--"I should be a miserable man in seeingbefore me such grace and youth and beauty, feeling that I am no longeryoung, if I did not possess a heart which will throb for Woman as long asit beats with life. "

Having distinguished himself by which poetic remark, he usually called upa waiter with champagne and glasses, in which beverage he gallantly drankthe health of the admiring circle which partook of it with him. 

Attached to the Beaufort party were various lesser luminaries, each ofwhom, it must be confessed, might well, under ordinary circumstances, have formed the centre of a circle himself; legal luminaries, socialluminaries, political luminaries, each playing ten-pins and whist, eachriding, each showing in all small gallantries, and adding by theirpresence to the exhilaration of the hour. 

There was one gentleman, however, who, though he was not of the Beaufortparty, could still not be considered among the lesser luminaries. He wasa planet with an orbit of his own. This gentleman had ridden up to thehotel one afternoon on a fine horse, accompanied by a handsome, gloomyboy on another animal as fine, and followed by a well-dressed young negrocarrying various necessary trappings, and himself mounted in a mannerwhich did no discredit to his owner. The air of the party was such as tooccasion some sensation on the front gallery, where the greater number ofthe guests were congregated. 

"Oh, " cried one of the Beauforts, "what a distinguished-looking man. Oh, what a handsome boy! and what splendid horses. "

At that moment one of the other ladies--a dark, quiet, clever matron fromSouth Carolina--uttered an exclamation. 

"Is it possible, " she said. "There is Colonel De Willoughby. "

The new arrival recognised her at once and made his way towards her withthe most graceful air of ease and pleasure, notwithstanding that it wasnecessary that he should wind his way dexterously round numerous groupsin and out among a dozen chairs. 

He was a strikingly handsome man, dark, aquiline, tall and lithe offigure; his clothes fitted him marvellously well at the waist, hisslender arched foot was incased in a marvel of a boot, his black hair wasrather long, and his superb eyes gained a mysterious depth and mellownessfrom the length and darkness of their lashes; altogether, it was quitenatural that for the moment the Beauforts and their satellites shouldpale somewhat by comparison. 

When he bowed over Mrs. Marvin's hand, a thrill of pleasure made itselfmanifest in those surrounding them. He spoke in the most melodious ofvoices. 

"The greatest of pleasures, " he was heard to say. "I did not expectthis. " And then, in response to some question: "My health since--since myloss has been very poor. I hope to recover strength and spirits, " with anair of delicate and gentle melancholy. "May I present my boy--Rupert?"

In response to the summons the boy came forward--not awkwardly, or withany embarrassment, but with a bearing not at all likely to create apleasant impression. The guests could see that he was even a handsomerboy than he had seemed at a greater distance. He was very like his fatherin the matter of aquiline features, clear pale-olive skin and superb darkeyes: his face had even a fineness the older man's lacked, but thestraight marks of a fixed frown were upon his forehead, and his mouthwore a look which accorded well with the lines. 

He approached and bared his head, making his boyish bow in a manner whichdid credit to his training, but though he blushed slightly on beingaddressed, his manner was by no means a responsive one, and he moved awayas soon as an opportunity presented itself, leaving his father makinghimself very fascinating in a gently chivalric way, and establishinghimself as a planet by the mere manner of his address towards a woman whowas neither pretty, young, nor enthusiastic. 

There was no woman in the hotel so little prone to enthusiasm as thisone. She was old enough and clever enough to have few illusions. It wasthought singular that though she admitted she had known the Colonel fromhis youth, she showed very little partiality for his society, and, indeed, treated him with marked reserve. She never joined in the chorusesof praise which were chanted daily around her. 

"I know the De Willoughbys very well, " she said. "Oh, yes, very wellindeed--in a way. We hear a good deal of them. De Courcy's wife was afriend of mine. This one is De Courcy, the other is Romaine, and therewas one who was considered a sort of black sheep and broke with thefamily altogether. They don't know where he is and don't care to know, Isuppose. They have their own views of the matter. Oh, yes; I know themvery well, in a way. "

When questioned by enthusiasts, she was obliged to confess that the heroof the hour was bountifully supplied with all outward gifts of nature, was to be envied his charm of manner and the air of romance surroundinghim, though, in admitting this, she added a little comment not generallyapproved of. 

"It's a little of the Troubadour order, " she said; "but I dare say nowoman would deny that it is rather taking. I don't deny it, it istaking--if you don't go below the surface. "

Never was a man so popular as the Colonel, and never a man so missed ashe on the days of his indisposition. He had such days when he did notleave his room and his negro was kept busy attending to his wants. Thenature of his attacks was not definitely understood, but after them healways appeared wearing an interesting air of languor and melancholy, andwas more admired than ever. 

"The boy seems to feel it very much, " the lady remarked. "He always looksso uneasy and anxious, and never goes away from the house at all. Isuppose they are very fond of each other. "

"I dare say he does feel it very much, " said Mrs. Marvin with herreserved little smile. "He is De Willoughby enough for that. "

It was not agreed to that he inherited his father's grace of mannerhowever. He was a definitely unamiable boy, if one might judge fromappearances. He always wore a dark little scowl, as if he were either onthe point of falling into a secret rage or making his way out of one;instead of allowing himself to be admired and made a pet of, he showed anunnatural preference for prowling around the grounds and galleries alone, sometimes sitting in corners and professing to read, but generallyappearing to be meditating resentfully upon his wrongs in a manner whichin a less handsome boy would have been decidedly unpleasant. Even Mrs. Marvin's advances did not meet with any show of cordiality, though it wasallowed that he appeared less averse to her society than to that of anyother woman, including the half dozen belles and beauties who would haveenjoyed his boyish admiration greatly. 

"I knew your mother, " said Mrs. Marvin to him one day as he sat near herupon the gallery. 

"Did you?" he answered, in a rather encouraging way. "When did you knowher?"

"When she was young. We were girls together. She was a beauty and Iwasn't, but we were very fond of each other. "

He gave his closed book a sullen look. 

"What makes women break so?" he asked. "I don't see why they break so. She had pretty eyes when she died, but, ----"

He drew his handsome black brows down and scowled; and, seeing that hewas angry at himself for having spoken, Mrs. Marvin made another remark. 

"You miss her very much?" she said, gravely. 

He turned his face away. 

"She's better off where she is, I suppose, " he said. "That's what theyalways say of dead people. "

And then still frowning he got up and walked away. 

The negro servants about the hotel were all fond of him, though hismanner towards them was that of a fiery and enthusiastic young potentate, brooking no delay or interference. His beauty and his high-handed wayimpressed them as being the belongings of one favoured by fortune andworthy of admiration and respect. 

"He's a D'Willoughby out and out, " said his father's negro, Tip. "Ain'tno mistake 'bout dat. He's a young devil when his spirit's up, 'n it'seasy raised. But he's a powerful gen'lman sort o' boy--powerful. Throw'syou a quarter soon's look at ye, 'n he's got the right kind o' highways--dough der ain't no sayin' he ain't a young devil; de Kurnel hisselfcayn't outcuss him when his spirit's up. "

The Colonel and his son had been at the springs a month, when thefancy-dress ball took place which was the occasion of a very unpleasantepisode in the annals of this summer. 

For several days before the greatest excitement had prevailed at thehotel. A pleasant air of mystery had prevailed over the preparations thatwere being made. The rural proprietors of the two stores in which theneighbourhood rejoiced were driven to distraction by constant demandsmade upon them for articles and materials of which they had never beforeheard, and which were not procurable within a hundred miles of the place. Bedrooms were overflowing with dresses in process of alteration fromordinary social aspects to marvellous combinations of imagination andingenuity, while an amiable borrowing and exchanging went on through allthe corridors. 

On the day before the ball the Colonel's popularity reached its height. As it was the time of a certain local election, there was held upon thegrounds a political meeting, giving such individuals as chose to availthemselves of it the opportunity of expressing their opinions to theassembled guests and the thirty or forty mountaineers who had suddenlyand without any warning of previous existence appeared upon the scene. 

The Colonel had been one of the first called upon, and, to the delight ofhis admirers, he responded at once with the utmost grace to the call. 

When he ascended the little platform with the slow, light step which wasnumbered among his chief attractions and stood before his audience for amoment looking down at them gently and reflectively from under hisbeautiful lashes, a throb of expectation was felt in every tender bosom. 

His speech fell short of no desire, being decided to be simpleperfection. His soft voice, his quiet ease of movement, his eloquence, were all that could be hoped for from mortal man. He mentioned withhigh-bred depreciation the fact that he could not fairly call himself apolitician unless as any son of the fair South must be one at least atheart, however devoid of the gifts which have made her greatest heardfrom continent to continent. He was only one of the many who had at staketheir cherished institutions, the homes they loved, the beloved whobrightened those homes, and their own happiness as it was centred inthose homes, and irrevocably bound in that of the fairest land upon whichthe fair sun shone. 

The applause at this juncture was so great as to oblige him to pause fora few moments; but it was to be regretted that nine out of ten of themountaineers remained entirely unresponsive, crossing their jean-coveredlegs and rubbing their lean and grizzled jaws in a soulless manner. Theydisplayed this apathetic indifference to the most graceful flight ofrhetoric, to the most musical appeals to the hearts of all men lovingfreedom, to the announcement that matters had reached a sad andsignificant crisis, that the peculiar institutions left as a legacy bytheir forefathers were threatened by the Northern fanatics, and that inthe near future the blood of patriots might be poured forth as a libationupon the soil they loved; to eloquent denunciations of the hirelings andwould-be violators of our rights under the constitution. To all thesethey listened, evidently devoting all their slow energies to thecomprehension of it, but they were less moved than might have beenexpected of men little used to oratory. 

But it was the termination of the speech that stirred all hearts. With adexterity only to be compared to its easy grace, the orator left thesterner side of the question for a tenderer one to which he had alreadyreferred in passing, and which was the side of all political questionswhich presented themselves to such men as he. Every man, it was to behoped, knew the meaning of home and love and tenderness in some form, however poor and humble and unpatriotic; to every man was given a man'sprivilege of defending the rights and sacredness of this home, this love, with his strength, with his might, with the blood of his beating heart ifneed be. To a Southern man, as to all men, his right to be first in hisown land in ruling, in choosing rulers, in carrying out the laws, meanthis right to defend this home and that which was precious to him withinit. There were a few before him upon this summer's day, alas, alas! thatFate should will it so, who had not somewhere a grave whose grass movedin the softness of the wind over dead loves and hopes cherished even inthis hour as naught else was cherished. "And these graves----"

He faltered and paused, glancing towards the doorway with a singularexpression. For a few seconds he could not go on. He was obliged to raiseto his lips the glass of water which had been provided for him. 

"Oh!" was sighed softly through the room, "his emotion has overpoweredhim. Poor fellow! how sad he looks. "

Mrs. Marvin simply followed the direction his eyes had taken. She was apractical person. The object her eye met was the figure of the boy whohad come in a few minutes before. He was leaning against the doorpost, attired in a cool suit of white linen, his hands in his pockets, theexpression of his handsome darkling young face a most curious one. He wasstaring at his father steadily, his fine eyes wide open holding a sparkof inward rage, his nostrils dilated and quivering. He seemed bent uponmaking the orator meet his glance, but the orator showed no desire to doso. He gave his sole attention to his glass of water. To this clever, elderly Southern matron it was an interesting scene. 

"If he sprang up in two minutes and threw something deadly and murderousat him, " she said to herself, "I should not be in the least surprised;and I should not be the first to blame him. "

But the rest of the audience was intent upon the Colonel, who, recoveringhimself, finished his harangue with an appeal that the land made sacredby those loves, those homes, those graves, might be left solely in thehands of the men who loved it best, who knew its needs, who yearned forits highest development, and who, when the needful hour arrived, wouldlay down their lives to save its honour. 

When he concluded, and was on the point of seating himself very quietly, without any appearance of being conscious of the great sensation he hadcreated, and still wearing an admirable touch of melancholy upon his finecountenance, Major Beaufort rushed towards him, almost upsetting a chairin his eagerness, and grasped his hand and shook it with a congratulatoryardour so impressive and enthusiastic as to be a sensation in itself. 

There were other speeches afterwards. Fired by the example of his friend, Major Beaufort distinguished himself by an harangue overflowing withgallantry and adorned throughout with amiable allusions to the greatestpower of all, the power of Youth, Beauty, and Womanhood. The politicalperspicuity of the address was perhaps somewhat obscured by its beingchivalrously pointed towards those fair beings who brighten our existenceand lengthen our griefs. Without the Ladies, the speaker found, we may bepoliticians, but we cannot be gentlemen. He discovered (upon the spot, and with a delicate suggestion of pathos) that by a curious coincidence, the Ladies were the men's mothers, their wives, their sisters, theirdaughters. This being greatly applauded, he added that over thesehusbands, these fathers, these brothers--and might be added "theselovers"--the Ladies wielded a mighty influence. The position of Woman, even in the darkest ages, had been the position of one whose delicatehand worked the lever of the world; but to-day, in these more enlightenedtimes, in the age of advancement and discovery, before what great andsublime power did the nobleman, the inventor, the literary man, thewarrior, bow, as he bowed before the shrine of the Ladies?

But it was the Colonel who bore away the palm and was the hero of thehour. When the audience rose he was surrounded at once by groups ofenthusiasts, who shook hands with him, who poured forth libations ofpraise, who hung upon his every word with rapture. 

"How proud of you he must be, " said one of the fairest in the group ofworshippers; "boys of his age feel things so strongly. I wonder why hedoesn't come forward and say something to you? He is too shy, I suppose. "

"I dare say, " said the Colonel with his most fascinating gentle smile. "One must not expect enthusiasm of boys. I have no doubt he thought it agreat bore and wondered what I was aiming at. "

"Impossible, " exclaimed the fair enslaver. "Don't do him an injustice, Colonel de Willoughby. "

But as she glanced towards the doorway her voice died down and theexpression of her face changed somewhat. The boy--still with his hands inhis pockets--was looking on with an air which was as insolent as it wasremarkable, an air of youthful scorn and malignant derision whichstaggered even the enthusiast. 

She turned uneasily to the Colonel, who faintly smiled. 

"He is a handsome fellow, " he said, "and I must own to being a vainparent, but he has a demon of a temper and he has been spoiled. He'll getover it when he is older. "

It was a great blow to his admirers when it became known the next morningthat the Colonel was suffering from one of his attacks, and even a worseone than usual. Neb was shut up in his room with him all day, and it wasrumoured that the boy would not come down, but wandered up and down thecorridors restlessly, looking miserable enough to have touched thestoniest heart. 

During the morning quite a gloom pervaded the atmosphere; only theexcitement of preparations for the evening could have proved an antidoteto the general depression. 

It was to be a brilliant occasion. The county had been scoured forguests, some of whom were to travel in their carriages from otherwatering-places for twenty or thirty miles. The ballroom had beendecorated by a committee of ladies; the costumes, it was anticipated, would be dazzling beyond measure. No disappointment was felt when thefestal hour arrived, but the very keen emotion attendant upon the absenceof the interesting invalid. 

"If he had only been well enough to be here, " it was said, "how he wouldhave enjoyed it. "

Major Beaufort, attired as a Sultan and appropriately surrounded by hisharem in sarsenet trousers and spangled veils, gave universalsatisfaction. Minnehaha in feathers and moccasins, and Hiawatha inmoccasins and feathers, gave a touch of mild poetry to the evening. Sisters of Charity in white cambric caps told their beads through themazes of the lancers. Night and Morning, attired respectively in blackand white tarletan, and both profusely adorned with silver paper stars, combined their forces to add romance and vividness to the festive scene. 

There had been dancing and flirtation, upon which those of the guests whodid not join gazed for an hour or so as they sat in the chairs arrangedaround the walls, doubtless enjoying themselves intensely, and the gaietywas at its height, when some commotion became manifest at one of thedoors. Those grouped about it appeared to be startled at findingsomething or somebody behind them, and almost immediately it was seenthat this something or somebody was bent upon crowding past them. A loud, insane-sounding laugh was heard. The dancers stopped and turned towardsit with one accord, their alarm and astonishment depicted on their faces. The spectators bent forward in their seats. 

"What is it?" was the general exclamation. "Oh! Oh!"

This last interjection took the form of a chorus as two of the group atthe doorway were pushed headlong into the room, and a tall, unsteady, half-dressed figure made its violent entrance. 

At the first glance it was not easy to recognize it; it was simply thefigure of a very tall man in an ungirt costume, composed of shirt andpantaloons. He was crushed and dishevelled. His hair hung over hisforehead. He strode into the middle of the quadrille, and stood with hishands in his pockets, swaying to and fro, with a stare at once maliciousand vacant. 

"Oh, " he remarked, sardonically, as he took in his surroundings, and theneveryone recognized at once that it was Colonel De Willoughby, and thatColonel De Willoughby was mad drunk. 

He caught sight of Major Beaufort, and staggered towards him with anotherfrantic laugh. 

"Good God, Major, " he cried; "how becomin' 'tis, how damned becomin'. Harem an' all. Only trouble is you're too fat--too fat; if you weren't sofat wouldn't look such a damned fool. "

It was to be regretted there was no longer an air of refinement about hisintoxication, no suggestion of melancholy grace, no ghost of his usualhigh-bred suavity; with his laugh and stare and unsteady legs he wassimply a more drunken lunatic than one generally sees. 

There was a rush at him from all sides--Major Beaufort, in his Turkishtrousers, being the first to fall upon him and have his turban stampedupon in the encounter. He was borne across the room, shouting andstruggling and indulging in profanity of the most frightful kind. Just asthey got him to the door his black boy Neb appeared, looking ashen withfright. 

"De Lord o' massey, " he cried. "I ain't lef' him more'n a minit. He sentme down hisself. One o' his cunnin' ways to get rid o' me when he's at dewust. Opium 'n whiskey, dats what gets him dis way. Bof togedder a-gwineter kill him some dese days, 'n de opium am de wustest. For de Lord'ssake some o' you gen'men cum 'n hep me till I git him quieted down. "

It was all over in a few moments, but the effort made to return tohilariousness was a failure; the shock to the majority of the gay thronghad been great. Mrs. Marvin, sitting in her special corner, was besiegedwith questions, and at length was prevailed upon through the force ofcircumstances to speak the truth as she knew it. 

"Has he ever done it before?" she said. "Yes, he has done it before--hehas done it a dozen times since he has been here, only to-night he wasmadder than usual and got away from his servant. What is it? It is opiumwhen it isn't whiskey, and whiskey when it isn't opium, and oftenest itis both together. He is the worst of a bad lot, and if you haven'tunderstood that miserable angry boy before you may understand him now. His mother died of a broken heart when he was twelve years old, and hewatched her die of it and knew what killed her, and is proud enough tofeel the shame that rests upon him. That's as much as I care to say, andyet it isn't the half. "

When those bearing the Colonel to his room turned into the corridorleading to it they encountered his son, who met them with a white-lippedrage, startling to every man of them in its incongruous contrast to theboyish face and figure. 

"What?" he said, panting. "You've got him, have you?"

"Yes, " responded the Colonel hilariously; "'ve got me safe 'nuff; pick meup ad' car' me. If man won't go out, tote 'm out. "

They carried him into his rooms and laid him down, and more than oneamong them turned curiously to the boy as he stood near the bed lookingdown at the dishevelled, incoherent, gibbering object upon it. 

"Damn him, " he said in a sudden outburst; "damn him. "

"Hello, youngster, " said one of the party, "that's not the thingexactly. "

"Go to the devil, " roared the lad, livid with wrath and shame. "Do youthink I'll not say what I please? A nice one he is for a fellow to havefor a father--to be tied to and dragged about by--drinking himself madand disgracing himself after his palaver and sentiment and playing thegentleman. He ought to be a gentleman--he's got a gentleman's name, and"--choking a little--"all the rest of it. I hate him! He makes mesick. I wish he was dead. He's a liar and a bully and a fool. I'd killhim if he wasn't my father. I should like to kill him for _being_ myfather!"

Suddenly his voice faltered and his face turned white. He walked to theother side of the room, turning his back to them all, and, flinginghimself into a chair, dropped his curly head on his arm on thewindow-sill and sobbed aloud with a weakness and broken-down fury pitifulto see. 

The Colonel burst into a frantic shriek of laughter. 

"Queer little devil, " he said. "Prou' lit'l devil! Like's moth'--don'like it. Moth' used er cry. _She_ didn't like it. "

CHAPTER X

As the Cross-roads had regarded Tom as a piece of personal property to beproud of, so it fell into the habit of regarding his _protégée_. Theromance of her history was considered to confer distinction upon thevicinity, and Tom's affection for her was approved of as a sentimentworthy of the largeness of the Cross-roads nature. 

"They kinder set one anuther off, " it was frequently remarked, "hera-bein' so little and him so big, an' both of 'em stickin' to each otherso clost. Lordy! 'tain't no use a-tryin' to part 'em. Sheby, she ain'ta-goin' nowhar 'thout Tom, an' Tom, he h'aint a-goin' nowhars 'thoutSheby!"

When the child was five years old the changes which had taken place inthe store were followed by still greater changes in the house. Up to herfifth birthday the experiences had balanced themselves between the storeand the three back rooms with their bare floors and rough walls. She hadhad her corner, her small chair behind the counter or near the stove, andthere she had amused herself with her playthings through long or shortdays, and in the evening Tom had taken her upon his shoulder and carriedher back to the house, as it was called, leaving his careless, roysteringgaiety behind him locked up in the store, ready to be resumed for theedification of his customers the next morning. 

"He don't hev no pore folkses ways wid dat chile, " said Mornin once toMrs. Doty; "he don't never speak to her no other then gen'leman way. He'sa-raisin' her to be fitten fur de highes'. He's mighty keerful ob her wayob speakin' an' settin' to de table. Mornin's got to stand 'hind hercheer an' wait on her hersel'; an' sence she was big 'nuff to set dar, she's had a silver fork an' spoon an' napkin-ring same's de Presidenthimself. Ah; he's a-raisin' her keerful, is Mars D'Willerby. "

"Waal, " said Mrs. Doty, "ef 'twarn't Tom D'Willerby, I shed say it was aputtin' on airs; but thar ain't no airs 'bout Tom D'Willerby. "

From the first Mr. Stamps's interest in Tom's _protégée_ had beenunfailing though quiet. When he came into the store, which he did somethree times a week, it was his habit to fix his small, pale eyes upon herand follow her movements stealthily but with unflagging watchfulness. Occasionally this occupation so absorbed him that when she moved to hersmall corner behind the counter, vaguely oppressed by his surveillance, he sauntered across the room and took his seat upon the counter itself, persisting in his mild, furtive gaze, until it became too much for herand she sought refuge at Tom's knee. 

"He looks at me, " she burst out distressedly on one such day. "Don't lethim look at me. "

Tom gave a start and turned round, and Mr. Stamps gave a start also, atonce mildly recovering himself. 

"Leave her alone, " said Tom, "what are you lookin' at her for?"

Mr. Stamps smiled. 

"Thar's no law agin it, Tom, " he replied. "An' she's wuth a lookin' at. She's that kind, an' it'll grow on her. Ten year from now thar ain't nolaw es 'ed keep 'em from lookin' at her, 'thout it was made an' passed inCongrist. She'll hev to git reckonciled to a-bein' looked at. "

"Leave her alone, " repeated Tom, quite fiercely. "I'll not have hertroubled. "

"I didn't go to trouble her, Tom, " said Mr. Stamps, softly; and heslipped down from the counter and sidled out of the store and went home. 

With Mr. Stamps Sheba always connected her first knowledge of the factthat her protector's temper could be disturbed. She had never seen himangry until she saw Mr. Stamps rouse him to wrath on the eventful fifthbirthday, from which the first exciting events of her life datedthemselves. Up to that time she had seen only in his great strength andbroad build a power to protect and shield her own fragility and smallnessfrom harm or fear. When he took her in his huge arms and held her at whatseemed to be an incredible height from the ordinary platform ofexistence, she had only felt the cautious tenderness of his touch andrecognised her own safety, and it had never occurred to her that histremendous voice, which was so strong and deep by nature, that it mighthave been a terrible one if he had chosen to make it so, could expressany other feeling than kindliness in its cheery roar. 

But on this fifth birthday Tom presented himself to her childish mind ina new light. 

She had awakened early to find him standing at her small bedside and anew doll lying in her arms. It was a bigger doll than she had ever ownedbefore, and so gaily dressed, that in her first rapture her breath quiteforsook her. When she recovered it, she scrambled up, holding her newpossession in one arm and clung with the other around Tom's neck. 

"Oh, the lovely, lovely doll!" she cried, and then hid her face on hisshoulder. 

"Hallo, " said Tom, hugging her, "what is she hiding her eyes for?"

She nestled closer to him with a little sob of loving delight. 

"Because--because of the doll, " she answered, bewildered by her ownlittle demonstration and yet perfect in her confidence that he wouldunderstand her. 

"Well, " said Tom, cheerfully, "that's a queer thing, ain't it? Look here, did you know it was your birthday? Five years old to-day--think of that. "

He sat down and settled her in her usual place on his knee, her doll inher arms. 

"To think, " he said, "of her setting up a birthday on purpose to be fiveyears old and have a doll given her. That's a nice business, ain't it?"

After they had breakfasted together in state, the doll was carried intothe store to be played with there. It was a wet day, and, the air beingchilled by a heavy mountain rain, a small fire was burning in the stove, and by this fire the two settled themselves to enjoy the morningtogether, the weather precluding the possibility of their being disturbedby many customers. But in the height of their quiet enjoyment they werebroken in upon by the sound of horse's hoofs splashing in the mud outsideand Mr. Stamps's hat appeared above the window-sill. 

It was Sheba who saw it first, and in the strength of her desire to avoidthe wearer, she formed a desperate plan. She rose so quietly that Tom, who was reading a paper, did not hear her, and, having risen, drew hersmall chair behind the counter in the hope that, finding her placevacant, the visitor would not suspect her presence. 

In this she was not disappointed. Having brushed the mud from his feet onthe porch, Mr. Stamps appeared at the doorway, and, after his usualprecautionary glance about him, made his way to the stove. His manner wasat once propitiatory and friendly. He drew up a chair and put his wetfeet on the stove, where they kept up a comfortable hissing sound as theydried. 

"Howdy, Tom, " he said, "howdy?" And from her hiding-place Sheba saw himrubbing his legs from the knee downwards as he said it, with an air ofsolid enjoyment which suggested that he was congratulating himself uponsomething he had in his mind. 

"Morning, " responded Tom. 

Mr. Stamps rubbed his legs again quite luxuriously. 

"You're a lookin' well, Tom, " he remarked. "Lord, yes, ye're a lookin'powerful well. "

Tom laid his paper down and folded it on his knee. 

"Lookin' well, am I?" he answered. "Well, I'm a delicate weakly sort offellow in general, I am, and it's encouraging to hear that I'm lookingwell. "

Mr. Stamps laughed rather spasmodically. 

"I wouldn't be agin bein' the same kind o' weakly myself, " he said, "northe same kind o' delycate. You're a powerfle hansum man, Tom. "

"Yes, " replied Tom, drily, "I'm a handsome man. That's what carried mealong this far. It's what I've always had to rely on--that and aknock-down intellect. "

Mr. Stamps rubbed his legs with his air of luxury again. 

"Folks is fond o' sayin' beauty ain't but skin deep, " he said; "but Iwouldn't hev it no deeper myself--bein' so that it kivers. An', talkin'o' beauty, she's one--Lord, yes. She's one. "

"Look here, " said Tom, "leave her alone. "

"'Tain't a gwine to harm her, Tom, " replied Mr. Stamps, "'tain't a gwineto harm her none. What made me think of it was it a bein' jest five yearssince she was born--a makin' it her birthday an' her jest five yearsold. "

"What, " cried Tom, "you've been counting it up, have you?"

"No, " replied Mr. Stamps, with true modesty of demeanour, "I ain't ben acountin' of it up, Tom. " And he drew a dirty memorandum book softly fromhis pocket. "I set it down at the time es it happened. "

He laid the dirty book on his knee and turned over its pages carefully asif looking for some note. 

"I ain't much on readin' an' writin', " he said, "an' 'rithmetick it goeskinder hard with me now an' agin, but a man's got to know suthin' on 'emif he 'lows to keep anyways even. I 'low to keep even, sorter, an' I'vegive a good deal o' time to steddyin' of 'em. I never went to no school, but I've sot things down es I want to remember, an' I kin count outmoney. I never was imposed on none I rekin, an' I never lost nothin'. Yere's whar I sot it down about her a-bein' born an' the woman a-dyin'an' him a-gwine away. Ye cayn't read it, mebbe. " He bent forward, pointing to the open page and looking up at Tom as if he expected him tobe interested. "Thar it is, " he added in his thin, piping, little voice, "even to the time o' day. Mornin, she told me that. 'Bout three o'clockin the mornin' in thet thar little front room. Ef anyone shed ever wantto know particular, thar it is. "

The look in Tom's face was far from being a calm one. He fidgetted in hischair and finally rolled his paper into a hard wad and threw it at thecounter as if it had been a missile. 

"See here, " he exclaimed, "take my advice and let that alone. "

Mr. Stamps regarded his dirty book affectionately. 

"'Tain't a-gwine to hurt nothin' to hev it down, " he replied, with an airof simplicity. 

He shut it up, returned it to his pocket, and clasped his hands about hisknees, while he fixed his eyes on the glimmer of red showing itselfthrough a crack in a stove-plate. 

"It's kinder curi's I should hev happened along by thar this mornin', " heremarked, reflectively. 

"By where?" demanded Tom. 

Mr. Stamps hugged his knees as if he enjoyed their companionship. 

"By thar, " he responded, cheerfully, "the Holler, Tom. An' it 'peared tome it 'ed be kinder int'restin' to take a look through, bein' as this wasthe day as the thing kinder started. So I hitched my mule an' went in. "He paused a moment as if to enjoy his knees again. 

"Well, " said Tom. 

Mr. Stamps looked up at him harmlessly. "Eh?" he enquired. 

"I said 'well, '" answered Tom, "that's what I said. "

"Oh, " replied Mr. Stamps. "Waal, thar wasn't nothin' thar, Tom. "

For the moment Tom's expression was one of relief. But he said nothing. 

"Thar wasn't nothin' thar, " Mr. Stamps continued. Then occurred anotherpause. "Nothin', " he added after it, "nothin' particular. "

The tenderness with which he embraced his knees at this juncture hadsomething like fascination in it. 

Tom found himself fixing a serious gaze upon his clasping arms. 

"I kinder looked round, " he proceeded, "an' if there'd ben anythin' tharI 'low I'd hev seed it. But thar wasn't nothin', nothin' but the emptyrooms an' a dead leaf or so es hed blowed in through a broken winder, an'the pile o' ashes in the fireplace beat down with the rain as hed felldown the chimney. Mighty lonesome an' still them ashes looked; an' tharwasn't nothin' but them an' the leaves, ----an' a bit of a' envelope. "

Tom moved his chair back. Sheba thought he was going to get up suddenly. But he remained seated, perhaps because Mr. Stamps began again. 

"Thar wasn't nothin' but them an' the bit of a' envelope, " he remarked. "It was a-sticken in a crack o' the house, low down, like it hed ben swep'or blowed thar an' overlooked. I shouldn't hev seed it"--modestly--"ef Ihedn't ben a-goin' round on my hands an' knees. "

Then Tom rose very suddenly indeed, so suddenly that he knocked his chairover and amazed Sheba by kicking it violently across the store. For themoment he so far forgot himself as to be possessed with some idea offalling upon Mr. Stamps with the intent to do him bodily injury. Heseized him by the shoulders and turned him about so that he had anexcellent view of his unprepossessing back. What Mr. Stamps thought itwould have been difficult to discover. Sheba fancied that when he openedhis mouth he was going to utter a cry of terror. But he did not. Heturned his neck about as well as he could under the circumstances, andlooking up into Tom's face meekly smiled. 

"Tom, " he said, "ye ain't a-gwine ter do a thing to me, not a dernthing. "

"Yes, I am, " cried Tom, furiously, "I'm goin' to kick----"

"Ef ye was jest haaf to let drive at me, ye'd break my neck, " said Mr. Stamps, "an ye ain't a-gwine ter do it. Ef ye was, Tom, ye'd be a biggerfool than I took ye fer. Lemme go. "

He looked so diminutive and weak-eyed, as he made these remarks, that itwas no wonder Tom released him helplessly, though he was obliged tothrust his hands deep into his pockets and keep them under control. 

"I thought I'd given you one lesson, " he burst forth; "I thought----"

Mr. Stamps interrupted him, continuing to argue his side of the question, evidently feeling it well worth his while to dispose of it on the spot. 

"Ye weigh three hundred, Tom, " he said, "ef ye weigh a pound, an' I don'tweigh but ninety, 'n ye couldn't handle me keerful enuf not to leave mein a fix as wouldn't be no credit to ye when ye was done; 'n it 'ed lookkinder bad for ye to meddle with me, anyhow. An' the madder ye get, themore particular ye'll be not to. Thar's whar ye are, Tom; an' I ain'tsich a fool as not to know it. "

His perfect confidence in the strength of his position, and in Tom'shelplessness against it, was a thing to be remembered. Tom remembered itlong afterwards, though at the moment it only roused him to greater heat. 

"Now then, " he demanded, "let's hear what you're driving at. What I wantto know is what you're driving at. Let's hear. "

Mr. Stamps's pale eyes fixed themselves with interest on his angry face. He had seated himself in his chair again, and he watched Tom closely ashe rambled on in his simple, uncomplaining way. 

"Ye're fond o' laughin' at me round yere at the store, Tom, " he remarked, "an' I ain't agin it. A man don't make nothin' much by bein' laughed at, I rekin, but he don't lose nothin' nuther, an' that's what I _am_ agin. Irekin ye laugh 'cos I kinder look like a fool--an' I hain't nothin' aginthet, nuther, Lord! not by a heap. A man ain't a-gwine to lose nothin' bylookin' like a fool. I hain't never, not a cent, Tom. But I ain't es biga fool es I look, an' I don't 'low ye air, uther. Thar's whar I argyfrom. Ye ain't es big a fool as ye look, an' ye'd be in a bad fix ef yewas. "

"Go on, " ordered Tom, "and leave me out. "

"I cayn't leave ye out, Tom, " said Mr. Stamps, "fer ye're in. Ye'd be asbig a fool as ye look ef ye was doin' all this yere fer nothin'. "

"All what?" demanded Tom. 

"Gals, " suggested Mr. Stamps, "is plenty. An' ef ye take to raisin' 'emas this un's ben raised, ye ain't makin' much; an' ef thar ain't nothin'to be made, Tom, what's yer aim?"

He put it as if it was a conundrum without an answer. 

"What's yer aim, Tom?" he repeated, pleasantly, "ef thar ain't nothin' tobe made?"

Tom's honest face flamed into red which was almost purple, the veinsswelled on his forehead, his indignation almost deprived him of hisbreath. He fell into a chair with a concussion which shook the building. 

"Good--good Lord!" he exclaimed; "how I wish you weighed five hundredpounds. "

It is quite certain that if Stamps had, he would have demolished himutterly upon the spot, leaving him in such a condition that his remainswould hardly have been a source of consolation to his friends. He pointedto the door. 

"If you want to get out, " he said, "start. This is getting the better ofme--and if it does----"

Mr. Stamps rose. 

"Ye wouldn't do a dern thing, Tom, " he said, peaceably, "not a dernthing. "

He sidled towards the door, and reaching it, paused to reflect, shakinghis head. 

"Ef thar ain't nothin' to be made, " he said, "ye'v got ter hev a aim, an'what is it?"

Observing that Tom made a move in his chair, he slipped through the doorwayrather hurriedly. Sheba thought he was gone, but a moment later the doorre-opened and he thrust his head in and spoke, not intrusively--simply asif offering a suggestion which might prove of interest. 

"It begun with a 'L, '" he said; "thar was a name on it, and it begun witha 'L'. "

CHAPTER XI

It was upon the evening after this interview with Mr. Stamps that Tombroached to his young companion a plan which had lain half developed inhis mind for some time. 

They had gone into the back room and eaten together the supper Mornin hadprepared with some extra elaboration to do honour to the day, and thenSheba had played with her doll Lucinda while Tom looked on, somewhatneglecting his newspaper and pipe in his interest in her small pretenceof maternity. 

At last, when she had put Lucinda to sleep in the wooden cradle which hadbeen her own, he called her to him. 

"Come here, " he said, "I want to ask you a question. "

She came readily and stood at his knee, laying her hands upon it andlooking up at him, as she had had a habit of doing ever since she firststood alone. 

"How would you like some new rooms?" he said, suggestively. 

"Like these?" she answered, a pretty wonder in her eyes. 

"No, " said Tom, "not like these--bigger and brighter and prettier. Withflowers on the walls and flowers on the carpets, and all the rest tomatch. "

He had mentioned this bold idea to Molly Hollister the day before, andshe had shown such pleasure in it, that he had been quite elated. 

"It's not that I need anything different, " he had said, "but theroughness and bareness don't seem to suit her. I've thought it often whenI've seen her running about. "

"Seems like thar ain't nothin' you don't think of, Tom, " said Molly, admiringly. 

"Well, " he admitted, "I think about her a good deal, that's a fact. Sheseems to have given me a kind of imagination. I used to think I hadn'tany. "

He had imagination enough to recognise at the present moment in thechild's uplifted face some wistful thought she did not know how toexpress, and he responded to it by speaking again. 

"They'll be prettier rooms than these, " he said. "What do you say?"

Her glance wandered across the hearth to where the cradle stood in thecorner with Lucinda in it. Then she looked up at him again. 

"Prettier than this, " she repeated, "with flowers. But don't take thisaway. " The feeling which stirred her flushed her childish cheek and madeher breath come and go faster. She drew still nearer to him. 

"Don't take this away, " she repeated, and laid her hand on his. 

"Why?" asked Tom, giving her a curious look. 

She met the look helplessly. She could not have put her vague thoughtinto words. 

"Don't--don't take it away, " she said again, and suddenly laid her faceupon his great open palm. 

For a minute or two there was silence. Tom sat very still and looked atthe fire. 

"No, " he said at length, "we won't take it away. "

In a few days, however, it was well known for at least fifteen milesaround the Cross-roads that Tom D'Willerby was going to build a newhouse, and that it was going to be fitted up with great splendour withfurniture purchased at Brownsboro. 

"Store carpetin' on every floor an' paper on every wall, " said DaveHollister to Molly when he went home after hearing the news. "An' Sheby'sa-goin' with him to choose 'em. He says he'll bet fifty dollars she hasher notions about things, an' he's a-goin to hev 'em carried out, ferit's all fer her, an' she's the one to be pleased. "

It was not many weeks before the rooms were so near completion that thejourney to Brownsboro was made, and it was upon this day of her firstjourneying out into the world that Sheba met with her first adventure. She remembered long afterwards the fresh brightness of the early morningwhen she was lifted into the buggy which stood before the door, whileMornin ran to and fro in the agreeable bustle attendant upon forgettingimportant articles and being reminded of them by shocks. When Tom climbedinto his seat and they drove away, the store-porch seemed quite crowdedwith those who watched their triumphant departure. Sheba looked back andsaw Mornin showing her teeth and panting for breath, while MollyHollister waved the last baby's sunbonnet, holding its denuded owner inher arms. The drive was a long one, but the travellers enjoyed it fromfirst to last. Tom found his companion's conversation quite sufficiententertainment to while away the time, and when at intervals she refreshedherself from Mornin's basket and fell asleep, he enjoyed driving alongquietly while he held her small, peacefully relaxed body on his knee, quite as much as another man might have enjoyed a much more excitingoccupation. 

"There's an amount of comfort in it, " he said, reflectively, as the horseplodded along on the shady side of the road, "an amount of comfort that'sastonishing. I don't know, but I'd like to have her come to a standstilljust about now and never grow any older or bigger. But I thought the samething three years ago, that's a fact. And when she gets to blooming outand enjoying her bits of girl finery there'll be pleasure in that too, plenty of it. "

She awakened from one of these light sleeps just as they were enteringBrownsboro, and her delight and awe at the dimensions and business aspectof the place pleased Tom greatly, and was the cause of his appearing aperfect mine of reliable information on the subject of large towns andthe habits of persons residing in them. 

Brownsboro contained at least six or seven hundred inhabitants, and, asCourt was being held, there were a good many horses to be seen tied tothe hitching-posts; groups of men were sitting before the stores and onthe sidewalks, while something which might almost have been called acrowd was gathered before the Court-house itself. 

Sheba turned her attention to the tavern they were approaching with aview to spending the night, and her first glance alighted upon an objectof interest. 

"There's a big boy, " she said. "He looks tired. "

He was not such a very big boy, though he was perhaps fourteen years oldand tall of his age. He stood upon the plank-walk which ran at the frontof the house, and leaned against the porch with his hands in his pockets. He was a slender, lithe boy, well dressed in a suit of fine white linen. He had a dark, spirited face, and long-lashed dark eyes, but, notwithstanding these advantages, he looked far from amiable as he stoodlounging discontentedly and knitting his brows in the sun. 

But Sheba admired him greatly and bent forward that she might see himbetter, regarding him with deep interest. 

"He's a pretty boy, " she said, softly, "I--I like him. "

Tom scarcely heard her. He was looking at the boy himself, and his facewore a troubled and bewildered expression. His gaze was so steady that atlength the object of it felt its magnetic influence and lifted his eyes. That his general air of discontent did not belie him, and that he was byno means an amiable boy, was at once proved. He did not bear the scrutinypatiently, his face darkened still more, and he scowled without anypretence of concealing the fact. 

Tom turned away uneasily. 

"He'd be a handsome fellow if he hadn't such an evil look, " he said. "Imust have seen him before; I wonder who he is?"

There were many strangers in the house, principally attenders upon theCourt being held. Court week was a busy time for Brownsboro, which uponsuch occasions assumed a bustling and festive air, securing its friendsfrom less important quarters, engaging in animated discussions of thecases in hand, and exhibiting an astonishing amount of legal knowledge, using the most mystical terms in ordinary conversation, and secretlyfeeling its importance a good deal. 

"Sparkses" was the name of the establishment at which the travellers putup, and, being the better of the two taverns in which the town rejoiced, Sparkses presented indeed an enlivening spectacle. It was a large framehouse with the usual long verandah at the front, upon which verandahthere were always to be seen customers in rocking-chairs, their bootsupon the balustrade, their hands clasped easily on the tops of theirheads. During Court week these customers with their rocking-chairs andboots seemed to multiply themselves indefinitely, and, becomingexhilarated by the legal business transacted around them, bestirredthemselves to jocularity and argument, thus adding to the liveliness ofthe occasion. 

At such periods Mr. Sparkes was a prominent feature. Attired in an easycostume seemingly composed principally of suspenders, and bearing a pipein his hand, he permeated the atmosphere with a business-like air whichhad long stamped him in the minds of his rural guests as a person ofadministrative abilities rarely equalled and not at all to be surpassed. 

"He's everywhar on the place, is Sparkes, " had been said of him. "He's atdinner, 'n supper, 'n breakfast, 'n out on the porch, 'n in the bar, an'kinder sashiatin' through the whole thing. Thet thar tavern wouldn't benothin' ef he wasn't thar. "

It was not to be disputed that he appeared at dinner and breakfast andsupper, and that on each appearance he disposed of a meal of suchproportions as caused his countenance to deepen in colour and assume aswelled aspect, which was, no doubt, extremely desirable under thecircumstances, and very good for the business, though it could scarcelybe said to lighten the labour of Mrs. Sparkes and her daughters, whoapparently existed without any more substantial sustenance than thepleasure of pouring out cups of coffee and tea and glasses of milk, andcutting slices of pie, of which they possibly partook through someprocess of absorption. 

To the care of Mrs. Sparkes Tom confided his charge when, a short timeafter their arrival, he made his first pilgrimage for business purposes. 

"She's been on the road all day, " he said, "and I won't take her out tillto-morrow; so if you don't mind, I'll leave her with you until I comeback. She'll be all right and happy, won't you, Sheba?"

Secretly Sheba felt some slight doubt of this; but in her desire to dohim credit, she summed up all her courage and heroically answered thatshe would, and so was borne off to the dining-room, where two girls werecutting bread and slicing ham for supper. They were Mrs. Sparkes'sdaughters, and when they saw the child, dropped their knives and made agood-natured rush at her, for which she was not at all prepared. 

"Now, mother, " they cried, "whar's she from, 'n who does she b'long to?"

Mrs. Sparkes cast a glance at her charge, which Sheba caught and waspuzzled by. It was a mysterious glance, with something of cautious pityin it. 

"Set her up in a cheer, Luce, " she said, "'n give her a piece of cake. Don't ye want some, honey?"

Sheba regarded her with uplifted eyes as she replied. The glance hadsuggested to her mind that Mrs. Sparkes was sorry for her, and she wasanxious to know why. 

"No, " she answered, "no, thank you, I don't want any. "

She sat quite still when they put her into a chair, but she did notremove her eyes from Mrs. Sparkes. 

"Who does she b'long to, anyhow?" asked Luce. 

Mrs. Sparkes lowered her voice as she answered:

"She don't b'long to nobody, gals, " she said. "It's thet little critterbig Tom D'Willerby from Talbot's Cross-roads took to raise. "

"Ye don't say. Pore little thing, " exclaimed the girls. And while one ofthem stooped to kiss her cheek, the other hurriedly produced a large redapple, which she laid on the long table before her. 

But Sheba did not touch it. To hear that she belonged to nobody was amysterious shock to her. There had never seemed any doubt before that shebelonged to her Uncle Tom, but Mrs. Sparkes had quite separated her fromhim in her statement. Suddenly she began to feel a little tired, and notquite so happy as she had been. But she sat still and listened, renderedrather tremulous by the fact that the speakers seemed so sure they hadreason to pity her. 

"Ef ever thar was a mystery, " Mrs. Sparkes proceeded, "thet thar was one;though Molly Hollister says D'Willerby don't like it talked over. Nobodyknowed 'em, not even their names, an' nobody knowed whar they come from. She died, 'n he went away--nobody knowed whar; 'n the child wasn't twodays old when he done it. Ye cayn't tell me thar ain't a heap at the backo' that. They say D'Willerby's jest give himself up to her ever since, an' 'tain't no wonder, nuther, for she's a' out 'n out beauty, ain't she, now? Just look at her eyes. Why don't ye eat yer apple, honey?"

Sheba turned towards the window and looked out on the porch. Abewildering sense of desolation had fallen upon her. 

"I don't want it, " she said; and her small voice had a strange sound evenin her own ears. "I want Uncle Tom. Let me go out on the porch and see ifhe's coming. "

She saw them exchange rapid glances and was troubled afresh by it. 

"D'ye reckin she understands?" the younger daughter said, cautiously. 

"Lordy, no!" answered the mother; "we ain't said nothin'. Ye kin go ef yewant to, Sheba, " she added, cheerfully. "Thar's a little rocking-cheerthat ye kin set in. Help her down, Luce. "

But she had already slipped down and found her way to the door openingout on to the street. The porch was deserted for a wonder, the reasonbeing that an unusually interesting case was being argued in theCourt-house across the street, where groups of men were hanging about thedoors. The rocking-chair stood in a corner, but Sheba did not sit down init. She went to the steps and stood there, looking out with a sense ofpain and loneliness still hanging over her; and at last, without knowingwhy, only feeling that they had a dreary sound and contained a mysterywhich somehow troubled her, she began to say over softly the words thewoman had used. 

"She died and he went away, nobody knows where. She died and he wentaway, nobody knows where. "

Why those words should have clung to her and made her feel for the momentdesolate and helpless, it would be difficult to say, but as she repeatedthem half unconsciously, the figures of the woman who had died and theman who had wandered so far away alone, that he seemed to have wanderedout of life itself, cast heavy shadows on her childish heart. 

"I am glad, " she whispered, "that it was not Uncle Tom that went away. "And she looked up the street with an anxious sigh. 

Just at this moment she became conscious that she was not alone. Inbending forward that she might see the better, she caught sight ofsomeone leaning against the balustrades which had before concealedhim--the boy, in short, who was standing just as he had stood when theydrove up, and who looked as handsome in a darkling way as human boy couldlook. 

For a few seconds the child regarded him with bated breath. The boys shehad been accustomed to seeing were not of this type, and were moreremarkable for gifts less ornamental than beauty. This boy with hisgraceful limbs and haughtily carried head, filled her with awe andadmiration. She admired him so much, that, though her first impulse wasto run away, she did not obey it, and almost immediately he glanced upand saw her. When this occurred, she was greatly relieved to find thathis gloom did not lead him to treat her unkindly, indeed, he was amiableenough to address her with an air of one relenting and condescendingsomewhat to her youth. 

"Didn't you know I was here?" he asked. 

"No, " Sheba answered, timidly. 

"Whom are you looking for?"

"For my Uncle Tom. "

He glanced across the street, still keeping his hands in his pockets andpreserving his easy attitude. 

"Perhaps he is over there, " he suggested. 

"Perhaps he is, " she replied, and added, shyly, "Are you waiting foranyone?"

He frowned so darkly at first, that she was quite alarmed and wished thatshe had run away as she had at first intended; but he answered, after apause:

"No--yes;" he said, "yes--I'm waiting for my father. "

He did not even speak as the boys at the Cross-roads spoke. His voice hada clear, soft ring, and his mode of pronunciation was one Tom had spentmuch time in endeavouring to impress upon herself as being more desirablethan that she had heard most commonly used around her. Up to this timeshe had frequently wondered why she must speak differently from Morninand Molly Hollister, but now she suddenly began to appreciate the wisdomof his course. It was very much nicer to speak as the boy spoke. 

"I haven't any father, " she ventured, "or any mother. That's queer, isn'tit?" And as she said it, Mrs. Sparkes's words rushed into her mind again, and she looked up the street towards the sunset and fell into a momentaryreverie, whispering them to herself. 

"What's that you are saying?" asked the boy. 

She looked at him with a rather uncertain and troubled expression. 

"It was only what they said in there, " she replied, pointing towards thedining-room. 

"What did they say?"

She repeated the words slowly, regarding him fixedly, because shewondered if they would have any effect upon him. 

"She died and he went away, nobody knows where. What does it mean?"

"I don't know, " he admitted, staring at her with his handsome, long-lashed eyes. "Lots of people die and go away. " Then, after a pause, in which he dropped his eyes, he added:

"My mother died two years ago. "

"Did she?" answered Sheba, wondering why he looked so gloomy again all atonce. "I don't think I ever had any mother, but I have Uncle Tom. "

He stared at her again, and there was silence for a few minutes. This hebroke by asking a question. 

"What is your name?" he demanded. 

"De Willoughby, " she replied, "but I'm called Sheba. "

"Why, that's my name, " he said, surprisedly. "My name is De Willoughby. I--Hallo, Neb----"

This last in a tone of proprietorship to a negro servant, who wasadvancing towards them from a side-door and who hurried up with rather afrightened manner. 

"Ye'd best get ready ter start right away, Mars Ralph, " he said. "He'swake at las', an' der's de debbil to pay, a-cussin' an' roarin' an'wantin' opium; an' he wants to know whar ye bin an' what ye mean, an' sesde hosses mus' be at de do' in ten minits. Oh, de cunnel he's in dewustest kin' o' humour, dar's no doin' nuffin right fer him. "

"Tell him to go to h----" burst forth the lad, flying into a rage andlooking so wickedly passionate in a boyish way that Sheba was frightenedagain. "Tell him I won't go until I'm ready; I've been dragged round tillI'm sick of it, and----"

In the midst of his tempest he checked himself, turned about and walkedsuddenly into the house, the negro following him in evident trepidation. 

His departure was so sudden that Sheba fancied he would return and saysomething more to her. Angry as he looked, she wished very much that hewould, and so stood waiting wistfully. 

But she was doomed to disappointment. In a few minutes the negro broughtto the front three horses, and almost immediately there appeared at thedoor a tall, handsome man, who made his way to the finest horse andmounted it with a dashing vault into the saddle. 

He had a dark aquiline face like the boy's, and wore a great sweepingmustache which hid his mouth. The boy followed, looking wonderfully likehim, as he sprang into his own saddle with the same dare-devil vault. 

No one spoke a word, and he did not even look at Sheba, though shewatched him with admiring and longing eyes. As soon as they were fairlyin their seats the horses, which were fine creatures, needing neitherwhip nor spur, sprang forward with a light, easy movement, and socantered down the street towards the high road which stretched itselfover a low hill about a quarter of a mile away. 

Sheba laid her cheek against the wooden pillar and looked after them witha return of the sense of loneliness she had felt before. 

"He went away, " she whispered, "nobody knows where--nobody knows where. "

She felt Tom's hand laid on her shoulder as she said the words, andturned her face upward with a consciousness of relief, knowing she wouldnot be lonely any longer. 

"Have I been gone long?" he asked. "Where's Mrs. Sparkes?"

"She's in there, " Sheba answered, eagerly, "and I've been talking to theboy. "

"To the boy?" he repeated. "What boy?"

"To the one we saw, " she replied, holding his hand and feeling her cheeksflush with the excitement of relating her adventure. "The nice boy. Hisname is like mine--and his mother died. He said it was De Willoughby, andit is like mine. He has gone away with his father. See them riding. "

He dropped her hand and, taking a step forward, stood watching thereceding travellers. He watched them until they reached the risingground. The boy had fallen a few yards behind. Presently the otherspassed the top of the hill, and, as they did so, he turned in his saddleas if he had suddenly remembered something, and glanced back at thetavern porch. 

"He is looking for me, " cried Sheba, and ran out into the brightness ofthe setting sun, happy because he had not quite forgotten her. 

He saw her, waved his hand with a careless, boyish gesture anddisappeared over the brow of the hill. 

Tom sat down suddenly on the porch-step. When Sheba turned to him he waspale and his forehead was damp with sweat. He spoke aloud, but tohimself, not to her. 

"Good Lord, " he said, "it's De Courcy and--and the boy. That was why Iknew his face. "

 * * * * *

When they went in to supper later on, there was a great deal of laughingand talking going on down the long table. Mr. Sparkes was finishing astory as they entered, and he was finishing it in a loud voice. 

"They're pretty well known, " he said; "an' the Colonel's the worst o' thelot. The nigger told me thar'd been a reg'lar flare-up at the Springs. Thar was a ball an' he got on a tear an' got away from 'em an' bust rightinto the ballroom an' played Hail Columby. He's a pop'lar man among theladies, is the Colonel, but a mixtry of whiskey an' opium is apt to spilehis manners. Nigger says he's the drunkest man when he is drunk that theLord ever let live. Ye cayn't do nothin' with him. The boy was thar, an'they say 'twas a sight ter see him. He's his daddy's son, an' a biggeryoung devil never lived, they tell me. He's not got to the whiskey an'opium yet, an' he jes' takes his'n out in pride an' temper. Nigger saidhe jest raved an' tore that night--went into the Colonel's room an'cussed an' dashed round like he was gone mad. Kinder shamed, I reckin. But Lord, he'll be at it himself in ten years from now. It's in theblood. "

"Who's that you're talking of?" asked Tom from his end of the table. Hehad not recovered his colour yet and looked pale as he put the question. 

"Colonel De Willoughby of Delisleville, " answered Mr. Sparkes. "Any kino' your'n? Name's sorter like. He jest left here this evenin' with hisboy an' nigger. They've ben to Whitebriar, an' they're on their wayhome. "

"I saw them ride over the hill, " said Tom. "I thought I wasn't mistakenin the man. I've seen him before. "

But he made a very poor supper, and a shadow seemed to have fallen uponhis cheery mood of the morning. Sheba recognised this and knew, too, thather new friend and his father were in some vague way responsible for it, and the knowledge oppressed her so that when they sat out upon the porchtogether after the meal was over, she in her accustomed place on hisknee, she grew sad under it herself and, instead of talking as usual, leaned her small head against his coat and watched the few stars whosebrightness the moon had not shut out. 

She went to bed early, but did not sleep well, dreaming dreary dreams ofwatching the travellers riding away towards the sunset, and of hearingthe woman talk again. One of the talkers seemed at last to waken her withher voice, and she sat up in bed suddenly and found that it was Tom, whohad roused her by speaking to himself in a low tone as he stood in aflood of moonlight before the window. 

"She died, " he was saying; "she died. "

Sheba burst into a little sob, stretching out her hands to him withoutcomprehending her own emotion. 

"And he went away, " she cried, "nobody knows where--nobody knows where--"And even when he came to her hurriedly and sat down on the bedside, soothing her and taking her in his arms to sink back into slumber, shesobbed drearily two or three times, though, once in his clasp, she felt, as she had always done, the full sense of comfort, safety, and rest. 

CHAPTER XII

The New England town of Willowfield was a place of great importance. Itsimportance--religious, intellectual, and social--was its strong point. Ittook the liberty of asserting this with unflinching dignity. Other townsmight endeavour to struggle to the front, and, indeed, did so endeavour, but Willowfield calmly held its place and remained unmoved. Its placealways had been at the front from the first, and there it took its stand. It had, perhaps, been hinted that its sole title to this position lay inits own stately assumption: but this, it may be argued, was sheer envyand entirely unworthy of notice. 

"Willowfield is not very large or very rich, " its leading old lady said, "but it is important and has always been considered so. "

There was society in Willowfield, society which had taken up itsabiding-place in three or four streets and confined itself to developingits importance in half a dozen families--old families. They were alwaysspoken of as the "old families, " and, to be a member of one of them, evena second or third cousin of weak mind and feeble understanding, was to beenclosed within the magic circle outside of which was darkness, wailing, and gnashing of teeth. There were the Stornaways, who had owned thebutton factory for nearly a generation and a half--which was a long time;the Downings, who had kept the feed-store for quite thirty years, and theBurtons, who had been doctors for almost as long, not to mention theLarkins, who had actually founded the Willowfield _Times_, and kept itgoing, which had scarcely been expected of them at the outset. 

Their moral, mental, and social gifts notwithstanding, there was nothingconnected with the Stornaways, the Downings, the Burtons, and the Larkinsof such importance as their antiquity. The uninformed outsider, onhearing it descanted upon, might naturally have been betrayed into themomentary weakness of expecting to see Mr. Downing moulder away, andlittle old Doctor Burton crumble into dust. 

"They belong, " it was said, with the temperateness of true dignity, "toour old families, and that is something, you know, even in America. "

"It has struck me, " an observing male visitor once remarked, "that thereare a good many women in Willowfield, and that altogether it has afeminine tone. "

It was certainly true that among the Stornaways, the Downings, theBurtons, and the Larkins, the prevailing tone was feminine; and as theStornaways, the Downings, the Burtons, and the Larkins comprisedWillowfield society, and without its society Willowfield lost itssignificance, the observing male visitor may not have been far wrong. Ifmistakes were made in Willowfield society, they were always made by themasculine members of it. It was Mr. Stornaway who had at one time beenbetrayed into the blunder of inviting to a dinner-party at his house arather clever young book-keeper in his employ, and it was Doctor Burtonwho had wandered still more glaringly from the path of rectitude bytaking a weak, if amiable, interest in a little music teacher with asweet, tender voice, even going so far as to request his family to callupon her and ask her to take tea with them. It was Mr. Downing, who, whenthis last incident occurred and created some sensation, had had thetemerity to intimate that he thought the Doctor was entirely in theright; though, to be sure, he had afterwards been led to falter in thisopinion and subside into craven silence, being a little gentleman oftimorous and yielding nature, and rather overborne by a large andpowerful feminine majority in his own household. Mr. Larkin was, it is tobe regretted, the worst of the recreant party, being younger and moreunmanageable, having not only introduced to public notice certaininsignificant though somewhat talented persons in the shape of young menand women who talked well, or sang well, or wielded lively pens, but hadgone to the length of standing by them unflinchingly, demanding civilityfor them at the hands of his own family of women in such a manner asstruck a deadly blow at the very foundations of the social structure. ButMr. Larkin--he was known as Jack Larkin to an astonishing number ofpeople--was a bold man by nature and given to deeds of daring, from thefatal consequences of which nothing but the fact that he was a member ofone of the "old families" could have saved him. As he was a part--andquite a large part--of one of these venerable households, and, moreover, knew not the fear of man--or woman--his failings could be referred to as"eccentricities. "

"Mr. Larkin, " Mrs. Stornaway frequently observed, with long-sufferingpatience, "is talented but eccentric. You are never quite sure what hewill do next. "

Mrs. Stornaway was the head and front of all Willowfield's socialefforts, and represented the button factory with a lofty grace andunbending dignity of demeanour which were the admiration and envy of allaspirants to social fame. It was said that Mrs. Stornaway had been abeauty in her youth, and there were those who placed confidence in therumour. Mrs. Stornaway did so herself, and it had been intimated that itwas this excellent lady who had vouched for the truth of the statement inthe first instance; but this report having been traced to a pert youngrelative who detested and derided her, might have had its origin inyouthful disrespect and malice. 

At present Mrs. Stornaway was a large blonde woman whose blondness wasnot fairness, and whose size was not roundness. She was the leader of allreligious and charitable movements, presiding with great vigour overchurch matters, fairs, concerts, and sewing societies. The minister ofher church submitted himself to her advice and guidance. All the modestmembers of the choir quailed and quavered before her, while even the boldones, meeting her eye when engaged in worldly conversation between theirmusical efforts, momentarily lost their interest and involuntarilystraightened themselves. 

Towards her family Mrs. Stornaway performed her duty with unflinchingvirtue. She had married her six daughters in a manner at once creditableto herself, themselves, and Willowfield. Five of them had been ratherordinary, depressed-looking girls, who, perhaps, were not sorry to obtaintheir freedom. The sixth had narrowly escaped being dowered with all thecharms said to have adorned Mrs. Stornaway's own youth. 

"Agnes is very like what I was at her age, " said her mother, withdignity; and perhaps she was, though no one had been able to trace anyresemblance which had defied the ravages of time. 

Agnes had made a marriage which in some points was better than those ofher sisters. She had married a brilliant man, while the other five hadbeen obliged to make the best of things as far as brilliancy wasconcerned. People always said of John Baird that he was a brilliant manand that a great career lay before him. He was rather remarkable for acurious subtle distinction of physical good looks. He was not of thecommon, straight-featured, personable type. It had been said by theartistic analyst of form and line that his aspect did not belong to hisperiod, that indeed his emotional, spirited face, with its look ofsensitiveness and race, was of the type once connected with fine oldsteel engravings of young poets not quite beyond the days of powderedhair and frilled shirt-bosoms. 

"It is absurd that he should have been born in America and in thesedays, " a brilliant person had declared. "He always brings to my mind theportraits in delightful old annuals, 'So-and-so--at twenty-five. '"

His supple ease of movement and graceful length of limb gave him an air ofyouth. He was one of the creatures to whom the passage of years would meanbut little, but added charm and adaptability. His eyes were singularlyliving things--the eyes that almost unconsciously entreat and whoseentreaty touches one; the fine, irregular outline of his profile was theabsolute expression of the emotional at war with itself, the passionate, the tender, the sensitive, and complex. The effect of these things wasalmost the effect of peculiar physical beauty, and with this he combinedthe allurements of a compelling voice and an enviable sense of the fitnessof things. He never lost a thought through the inability to utter it. Whenhe had left college, he had left burdened with honours and had borne withhim the enthusiastic admiration of his fellow-students. He had earned andworn his laurels with an ease and grace which would be remembered throughyears to come. 

"It's something, " it was once said, "to have known a fellow to whomthings came so easily. "

When he had entered the ministry, there had been some wonder expressedamong the men who had known him best, but when he preached his firstsermon at Willowfield, where there was a very desirable church indeed, with whose minister Mrs. Stornaway had become dissatisfied, and who inconsequence was to be civilly removed, the golden apple fell at once intohis hand. 

Before he had arrived he had been spoken of rather slightingly as "theyoung man, " but when he rose in the pulpit on the eventful Sundaymorning, such a thrill ran through the congregation as had not stirred itat its devotions for many a summer day. Mrs. Stornaway mentally decidedfor him upon the spot. 

"He is of one of our oldest families, " she said. "This is whatWillowfield wants. "

He dined with the Stornaways that day, and when he entered the parlourthe first figure his eyes fell upon was that of Agnes Stornaway, dressedin white muslin, with white roses in her belt. She was a tall girl, witha willowy figure and a colourless fairness of skin, but when her mothercalled her to her side and Baird touched her hand, she blushed in such amanner that Mrs. Stornaway was a little astonished. Scarcely a yearafterward she became Mrs. Baird, and people said she was a very fortunategirl, which was possibly true. 

Her husband did not share the fate of most ministers who had presidedover Mrs. Stornaway's church. His power over his congregation increasedevery year. His name began to be known in the world of literature; he wascalled upon to deliver in important places the lectures he had deliveredto his Willowfield audiences, and the result was one startling triumphafter another. There was every indication of the fact that a career wasalready marked out for him. 

Willowfield looked forward with trepidation to the time when the greatworld which stood ready to give him fame would absorb him altogether, butin the meantime it exerted all its power of fascination, and was so farsuccessful that the Reverend John Baird felt that his lines had indeedfallen in pleasant places. 

But after the birth of her little daughter his wife was not strong, andwas so long in regaining vitality that in the child's second year she wasordered abroad by the physician. At this time Baird's engagements weresuch that he could not accompany her, and accordingly he remained inAmerica. The career was just opening up its charmed vistas to him; hisliterary efforts were winning laurels; he was called upon to lecture inBoston and New York, and he never rose before an audience without at onceawakening an enthusiasm. 

Mrs. Baird went to the south of France with her child and nurse and aparty of friends, and remained there for a year. At the termination ofthat time, just as she thought of returning home, she was taken seriouslyill. Her husband was sent for and went at once to join her. In a fewmonths she had died of rapid decline. She had been a delicate girl, and afar-off taint of consumption in her family blood had reasserted itself. But though Mrs. Stornaway bewailed her with diffuse and loud pathos andfor a year swathed her opulence of form in deepest folds and draperies ofcrape, the quiet fairness and slightness which for some five and twentyyears had been known as Agnes Stornaway, had been a personality notlikely to be a marked and long-lingering memory. 

The child was placed with a motherly friend in Paris. For a month afterhis wife's death Baird had been feverishly, miserably eager to return toAmerica. Those about him felt that the blow which had fallen upon himmight affect his health seriously. He seemed possessed by a desperate, morbid desire to leave the scene of the calamity behind him. He wasrestless and feverish in his anxiety, and scarcely able to endure thedelay which the arrangement of his affairs made necessary. He had notbeen well when he had left Willowfield, and during his watching by hiswife's bedside he had grown thin and restless-eyed. 

"I want to get home. I must get home, " he would exclaim, as ifinvoluntarily. His entire physical and mental condition were strained andunnatural. His wife's doctor, who had become his own doctor as his healthdeteriorated, was not surprised, on arriving one day, to find himprostrated with nervous fever. He was ill for months, and he rose fromhis sick-bed a depressed shadow of his former self and quite unable tothink of returning to his charge, even if his old desire had not utterlyleft him with his fever. He was absent from Willowfield for two years, and when at length he turned his face homeward, it was with no eagerness. He had passed through one of those phases which change a man's life andbeing. If he had been a rich man he would have remained away and wouldhave lived in London, seeing much of the chief continental cities. As itwas, he must at least temporarily return to Willowfield and take with himhis little girl. 

On the day distinguished by his return to his people, much subduedexcitement prevailed in Willowfield. During the whole of the previousweek Mrs. Stornaway's carriage had paid daily visits to the down-townstores. There was a flourishing New England thrift among the Stornaways, the Larkins, the Downings, and the Burtons, which did not allow of theirdelegating the ordering of their households to assistants. Most of themwere rigorous housewives, keen at a bargain and sharp of tongue when needbe, and there was rarely any danger of their getting less than theirmoney's worth. 

To celebrate his arrival, Mrs. Stornaway was to give an evening partywhich was to combine congratulatory welcome with a touch of condolencefor the past and assurance for the future. 

"We must let him see, " said Mrs. Stornaway, "that Willowfield has itsattractions. "

Its attractions did not present themselves as vividly to John Baird asmight have been hoped, when he descended from the train at the depot. Hehad spent two or three days in Boston with a view to taking his changegradually, but he found himself not as fully prepared for Willowfield ashe could have wished. He was not entirely prepared for Mrs. Stornaway, who hurried towards them with exultation on her large, stupid face, and, after effusive embraces, bustled with them towards an elderly woman whohad evidently accompanied her. 

"See, here's Miss Amory Starkweather!" she exclaimed. "She came with meto meet you. Just see how Annie's grown, Miss Amory. "

Miss Amory was a thin woman with a strong-featured countenance anddeep-set, observing eyes. They were eyes whose expression suggested thatthey had made many painful discoveries in the course of their owner'slife. 

John Baird rather lighted up for a moment when he caught sight of her. 

"I am glad to see you, Miss Amory, " he said. 

"Thank you, " she answered. "I hope you are as well as you look. "

"We're so delighted, " Mrs. Stornaway announced, as if to the bystanders. "Everybody in Willowfield is so delighted to have you back again. Thechurch has not seemed the same place. The man who took your place--Mr. Jeramy, you know--you haven't any idea how unpopular----"

"Excuse me, " said Baird, "I must speak to Latimer. Where is Latimer, Annie?"

"Who is Latimer?" asked Mrs. Stornaway. 

"Excuse me, " said Baird again, and turning back towards the platform, hedisappeared among the crowd with Annie, who had clung to his hand. 

"Why, he's gone!" proclaimed Mrs. Stornaway. "But where's he gone? Whydidn't he stay? Who's Latimer?"

"Latimer!" Miss Amory echoed, "you ought to know him. His family lives inWillowfield. He is the man who was coming home to take charge of thelittle church at Janway's Mills. He has evidently crossed the Atlanticwith them. "

"Well, now, I declare, " proclaimed Mrs. Stornaway. "It must be the manwho took his sister to Europe. It was a kind of absurd thing. She diedaway--the girl did, and people wondered why he did not come back and howhe lived. Why, yes, that must be the man. " And she turned to look aboutfor him. 

Miss Amory Starkweather made a slight movement. 

"Don't look, " she said. "He might not like to be stared at. "

"They're quite common people, " commented Mrs. Stornaway, still staring. "They live in a little house in a side street. They had very silly ideasabout the girl. They thought she was a genius and sent her to the Schoolof Art in Boston, but it wasn't long before her health failed her. Ah! Iguess that must be the man talking to Mr. Baird and Annie. He looks as ifhe would go off in a consumption. "

He was a tall, hollow-chested man, with a dark, sallow face and anungainly figure. There were suggestions of both ill-health andwretchedness in his appearance, and his manner was awkward andembarrassed. Two human beings more utterly unlike each other than himselfand the man who held his hand could not possibly have been found. It wasBaird who held his hand, not he Baird's, and it was Baird who seemed tospeak while he listened, while with his free hand he touched the hair ofthe child Annie. 

"Well, " remarked Mrs. Stornaway, "Mr. Baird seems to have taken a fancyto him. I don't think he's attractive myself. Are they going to talk tohim all day?"

"No, " said Miss Amory, "he is going now. "

He was going. Baird had released his hand and he was looking in a gloomy, awkward way at Annie, as if he did not know how to make his adieux. ButAnnie, who was a simple child creature, solved the difficulty for himwith happy readiness. She flung both her small arms about his ungainlybody and held up her face. 

"Kiss me three times, " she said; "three times. "

Latimer started and flushed. He looked down at her and then glancedrather timidly at Baird. 

"Kiss her, " said Baird, "it will please her--and it will please me. "

Latimer bent himself to the child's height and kissed her. The act waswithout grace, and when he stood upright he was more awkward andembarrassed than ever. But the caress was not a cold or rough one, andwhen he turned and strode away the flush was still on his sallow cheek. 

CHAPTER XIII

The Stornaway parlours were very brilliant that evening in a Willowfieldsense. Not a Burton, a Larkin, or a Downing was missing, even Miss AmoryStarkweather being present. Miss Amory Starkweather was greatly respectedby the Stornaways, the Downings, the Larkins, and the Burtons, theStarkweathers having landed upon Plymouth Rock so early and with such adistinguished sense of their own importance as to lead to the impressionin weak minds that they had not only founded that monumental corner-stoneof ancestry, but were personally responsible for the Mayflower. Thisgentlewoman represented to the humorous something more of the element ofcomedy than she represented to herself. She had been born into a worldtoo narrow and provincial for the development of the powers born withher. She had been an ugly girl and an ugly woman, marked by the hopelessugliness of a long, ill-proportioned face, small eyes, and a nose toolarge and high--that ugliness which even love's eyes can scarcelyameliorate into good drawing. 

The temperament attached to these painful disabilities had been warm andstrongly womanly. Born a century or so earlier, in a French Court, or anygreat world vivid with picturesque living, she would in all probabilityhave been a remarkable personage, her ugliness a sort of distinction; butshe had been born in Willowfield, and had lived its life and been bound byits limits. She had been comfortably well off--she had a large squarehouse with a garden, an income sufficient to provide for extremelyrespectable existence in Willowfield, but not large enough to allow ofexperiments with the outside world. She had never met a man whom she couldhave loved, who would have loved her, and she was essentially--thoughWillowfield would never have dreamed it--a woman who should have loved andmated. A lifetime of narrow, unstimulating years and thwarted instinctshad made age treat her ill. She was a thin woman with burning eyes, and apersonality people were afraid of. 

She had always found an interest in John Baird. When he had come toWillowfield she had seen in him that element which her whole long lifehad lacked. His emotional potentialities had wakened her imagination. Ifshe had been a young woman she knew that she might have fallen tragicallyand hopelessly in love with him; as an old woman she found it well worthher while to watch him and speculate upon him. When he had become engagedto Agnes Stornaway, she had watched him and secretly wondered how theengagement would end; when it had ended in marriage she had not wondered, but she had seen many things other people did not see. "He is not in lovewith her, " had been her mental decision, "but he is emotional, and he isin love with her being in love with him. There is no foretelling whatwill come of it. "

Baird had found himself attracted by Miss Amory. He did not know that ifshe had been young she would, despite her ugliness, have had a powerfulfeminine effect on him. He used to go and talk to her, and he was notconscious that he went when he was made restless by a lack of somethingin the mental atmosphere about him. He could talk to her as he could nottalk to the rest of Willowfield. She read and thought and argued withherself, and as a product of a provincial dogmatic New England town was acurious development. 

"Were you once a brilliant, wicked, feminine mover of things in some oldFrench court?" he said to her once. 

They had been plunging deep into the solving of unsolvable problems, andshe turned her burning old eyes on him as she answered. 

"God knows what I was, " she said, "but it was nothing like this--nothinglike this--and I was not wicked. "

"No, " Baird replied, "you were not wicked; but you broke laws. "

"Yes, I broke laws, " she agreed; "but they were hideous laws--betterbroken than kept. "

She had been puzzled by the fact that after his wife left him he had hada restless period and had seemed to pass through a miserable phase, suchas a man suffering from love and longing might endure. 

"Has he fallen in love with her because she has gone away?" she wondered;"men are capable of it at times. "

But later she decided mentally that this was not his special case. Shesaw, however, that he was passing through some mental crisis which was adangerous struggle. He was restless and often away from Willowfield fortwo or three days at a time. 

"To provide the place with orthodox doctrine once a week is more than hecan bear, and to be bored to extinction into the bargain makes him feelmorbid, " she said to herself. "I hope he won't begin to be lured bythings which might produce catastrophe. "

Once he came and spent a long, hot summer evening with her, and when hewent away she had arrived at another decision, and it made her wretched. 

"He is lured, " she thought. "I cannot help him, and God knows Willowfieldcould not. After this--perhaps the Deluge. "

She saw but little of him for two months, and then he was called acrossthe Atlantic by his wife's illness and left the place. 

"Write to me now and then, " he said, when he came to bid her good-bye. 

"What can I write about from Willowfield to a man in Paris?" she asked. 

"About Willowfield, " he answered, holding her hand and laughing a littlegruesomely. "There will be a thrill in it when one is three thousandmiles away. Tell me about the church--about the people--who comes, whogoes--your own points of view will make it all worth while. Will you?"almost as if a shade anxiously. 

She felt the implied flattery just enough to be vaguely pleased by it. 

"Yes, I will, " she answered. 

She kept her word, and the letters were worth reading. It was, as he hadsaid, her points of view which gave interest to the facts that unexcitingpeople had died, married, or been born. Her sketch of the trying positionof the unpopular man who filled his pulpit and was unfavourably comparedwith him every Sunday morning was full of astute analysis and wit; herlittle picture of the gloomy young theological student, Latimer, hisefforts for his sister, and her innocent, pathetic death in a foreignland had a wonderful realism of touch. She had by pure accident made thechild's acquaintance and had been strongly touched and moved. She did notwrite often, but he read her letters many times over. 

Upon this evening of his home-coming she thought he had sometimes thelook of a man who felt that he walked in a dream. More than once she sawhim involuntarily pass his hand with a swift movement over his eyes as ifhis own touch might waken him. It was true he did not greatly enjoy thefestivities. His occasional views of Mrs. Stornaway as she rambled amongher guests, talking to them about him in audible tones, were trying. Shedispensed him with her hospitalities, as it were, and was diffuse uponthe extent of his travels and the attention paid him, to each member ofthe company in turn. He knew when she was speaking of himself and when ofher daughter, and the alternate decorous sentiment and triumphantpleasure marked on her broad face rasped him to the extent of making himfear lest he might lose his temper. 

"She is a stupid woman, " he found himself saying half aloud once; "themost stupid woman I think I ever met. "

Towards the end of the evening, as he entered the room, he found himselfobliged to pass her. She stood near the door, engaged in animatedconversation with Mrs. Downing. She had hit upon a new and absorbingtopic, which had the additional charge of savouring of local gossip. 

"Why, " he heard her say, "I mean to ask him. He can tell us, I guess. Ihaven't a doubt but he heard the whole story. You know he has a way ofdrawing people out. He's so much tact and sympathy. I used to tell Agneshe was all tact and sympathy. "

Feeling quite sure that it was himself who was "all tact and sympathy, "Baird endeavoured to move by unobserved, but she caught sight of him andchecked his progress. 

"Mr. Baird, " she said, "we're just talking about you. "

"Don't talk about me, " he said, lightly; "I am not half so culpable as Ilook. "

He often found small change of this order could be made useful with Mrs. Stornaway, and he bestowed this upon her with an easy air which she feltto be very delightful. 

"He's so ready, " she observed, enraptured; "I often used to say toAgnes----"

But Mrs. Downing was not to be defrauded. 

"We were talking about those people on Bank Street, " she said, "theLatimers. Mrs. Stornaway says you crossed the Atlantic with the son, whohas just come back. Do tell us something about him. "

"I am afraid I cannot make him as interesting to you as he was to me, "answered Baird, with his light air again. 

"He does not look very interesting, " said Mrs. Stornaway. "I never sawanyone so sallow; I can't understand Annie liking him. "

"He is interesting, " responded Baird. "Annie took one of her fancies tohim, and I took something more than a fancy. We shall be good friends, Ithink. "

"Well, I'm sure it's very kind of you to take such an interest, "proclaimed Mrs. Stornaway. "You are always finding something good inpeople. "

"I wish people were always finding something good in me, " said JohnBaird. "It was not difficult to find good in this man. He is of the stuffthey made saints and martyrs of in the olden times. "

"What did the girl die of?" asked Mrs. Downing. 

"What?" repeated Baird. "The girl? I don't know. "

"And where did she die?" added Mrs. Downing. 

"I was just saying, " put in Mrs. Stornaway, "that you had such asympathetic way of drawing people out that I was sure he had told you thewhole story. "

"There was not much story, " Baird answered, "and it was too sad to talkover. The poor child went abroad and died in some little place inItaly--of consumption, I think. "

"I suppose she was sick when they went, " commented Mrs. Downing. "I heardso. It was a queer thing for them to go to Europe, as inexperienced asthey were and everything. But the father and mother were moreinexperienced still, I guess. They were perfectly foolish about thegirl--and so was the brother. She went to some studio in Boston to studyart, and they had an idea her bits of pictures were wonderful. "

"I never saw her myself, " said Mrs. Stornaway. "No one seems to have seenanything of her but Miss Amory Starkweather. "

"Miss Starkweather!" exclaimed Baird. "Oh, yes--in her letters shementioned having met her. "

"Well, it was a queer thing, " said Mrs. Downing, "but it was like MissAmory. They say the girl fainted in the street as Miss Amory was drivingby, and she stopped her carriage and took her in and carried her home. She took quite a fancy to her and saw her every day or so until she wentaway. "

It was not unnatural that at this juncture John Baird's eyes shouldwander across the room to where Miss Amory Starkweather sat, but it was acoincidence that as his eye fell upon her she should meet it with agesture which called him to her side. 

"It seems that Miss Amory wishes to speak to me, " he said to hiscompanions. 

"He'll make himself just as interesting to her as he has made himself tous, " said Mrs. Stornaway, with heavy sprightliness, as he left them. "Henever spares himself trouble. "

He went across the room to Miss Amory. 

"Can you sit down by me?" she said. "I want to talk to you about LucienLatimer. "

"What is there in the atmosphere which suggests Latimer?" he inquired. "We have been talking about him at the other side of the room. Do youknow him?"

"I never saw him, " she replied, "but I knew her. "

"Her!" he repeated. 

"The little sister. " She leaned forward a little. "What were the detailsof her death?" she asked. "I want to know--I want to know. "

Somehow the words sounded nervously eager. 

"I did not ask him, " he answered; "I thought he preferred to be silent. He is a silent man. "

She sat upright again, and for a moment seemed to forget herself. Shesaid something two or three times softly to herself. Baird thought it was"Poor child! Poor child!"

"She was young to die, " he said, in a low voice. "Poor child, indeed. "

Miss Amory came back to him, as it were. 

"The younger, the better, " she said. "Look at me!" Her burning eyes weretroubling and suggestive. Baird found himself trying to gather himselftogether. He assumed the natural air of kindly remonstrance. 

"Oh, come, " he said. "Don't take that tone. It is unfair to all of us. "

Her reply was certainly rather a startling one. 

"Very well then, " she responded. "Look at yourself. If you had died asyoung as she did----"

He looked at her, conscious of a little coldness creeping over his body. She was usually lighter when they were not entirely alone. Just now, inthe midst of this commonplace, exceedingly middle-class evening party, with the Larkins, the Downings, and the Burtons chattering, warm, diffuse, and elate, about him, she stirred him with a little horror--nothorror of herself, but of something in her mood. 

"Do you think I am such a bad fellow?" he said. 

"No, " she answered. "Worse, poor thing. It is not the bad fellows whoproduce the crudest results. But I did not call you here to tell you thatyou were bad or good. I called you to speak about Lucien Latimer. Whenyou go to him--you are going to him?"

"To-morrow. "

"Then tell him to come and see me. "

"I will tell him anything you wish, " said Baird. "Is there anythingelse?"

"Tell him I knew her, " she answered, "Margery--Margery!"

"Margery, " Baird said slowly, as if the sound touched him. "What apretty, simple name!"

"She was a pretty, simple creature, " said Miss Amory. 

"Tell me--" he said, "tell me something more about her. "

"There is nothing more to tell, " she replied. "She was dying when I mether. I saw it--in her eyes. She could not have lived. She went away anddied. She--I----"

John Baird heard a slight sharp choking sound in her throat. 

"There!" she said presently, "I don't like to talk about it. I am tooemotional for my years. Go to Mrs. Stornaway. She is looking for you. "

He got up and turned and left her without speaking, and a few minuteslater, when Mrs. Stornaway wanted him to give an account of his interviewwith the Pope, she was surprised to see him approaching her from the dooras if he had been out of the room. 

His story of the interview with the Pope was very interesting, and he wasmore "brilliant" than ever during the remainder of the evening, but whenthe last guest had departed, followed by Mrs. Stornaway to the threshold, that lady, on her return to the parlour, found him standing by the mantellooking at the fire with so profoundly wearied an air, that she utteredan exclamation. 

"Why, " she said, "you look tired, I must say. But everything went offsplendidly and I never saw you so brilliant. "

"Thank you, " he answered. 

"I've just been saying, " with renewed spirit of admiration, "that yourcrossing with that Latimer has quite brought him into notice. It will bea good thing for him. I heard several people speak of him to-night andsay how kind it was of you to take him up. "

Baird stirred uneasily. 

"I should not like to have that tone taken, " he said. "Why should Ipatronise him? We shall be friends--if he will allow it. " He spoke withso much heat and impatience that Mrs. Stornaway listened with adiscomfited stare. 

"But nobody knows anything about them, " she said. "They're quite ordinarypeople. They live in Bank Street. "

"That may settle the matter for Willowfield, " said Baird, "but it doesnot settle it for me. We are to be friends, and Willowfield mustunderstand that. "

And such was the decision of his tone that Mrs. Stornaway did not recoverherself and was still staring after him in a bewildered fashion when hewent upstairs. 

"But it's just like him, " she remarked, rather weakly to the room'semptiness. "That's always the way with people of genius and--and--_mind_. They're always humble. "

CHAPTER XIV

She had renewed opportunity for remarking upon the generous humility thenext morning when he left the house with the intention of paying hisvisit to Bank Street. 

"He's actually going, " she said. "Well, I must say again it's just likehim. There are very few men in his position who would think it worthwhile, but he treats everybody with just as much consideration as if--asif he was nobody. "

The house on Bank Street was just what he had expected to find it--small, unornamental, painted white, and modestly putting forth a few vines as ifwith a desire to clothe itself, which had not been encouraged by Nature. The vines had not flourished and they, as well as the few flowers in theyard, were dropping their scant foliage, which turned brown and rustledin the autumn wind. 

Before ringing the bell, Baird stood for a few moments upon thethreshold. As he looked up and down the street, he was pale and feltchilly, so chilly that he buttoned his light overcoat over his breast andhis hands even shook slightly as he did it. Then he turned and rang thebell. 

It was answered by a little woman with a girlish figure and gray hair. For a moment John Baird paused before speaking to her, as he had pausedbefore ringing the bell, and in the pause, during which he found himselflooking into her soft, childishly blue eyes, he felt even chillier thanat first. 

"Mrs. Latimer. I think, " he said, baring his head. 

"Yes, " she answered, "and you are Mr. Baird and have come to see Lucien, I'm sure. "

She gave him her small hand with a smile. 

"I am very glad to see you, " she said, "and Lucien will be glad, too. Come in, please. "

She led the way into the little parlour, talking in a voice as soft andkindly as her eyes. Lucien had been out, but had just come in, shefancied, and was probably upstairs. She would go and tell him. 

So, having taken him into the room, she went, leaving him alone. When shewas gone, Baird stood for a moment listening to her footsteps upon thestairs. Then he crossed the room and stood before the hearth looking upat a picture which hung over the mantel. 

 * * * * *

He was still standing before it when she returned with her son. He turnedslowly to confront them, holding out his hand to Latimer with somethingless of alert and sympathetic readiness than was usual with him. Therewas in his manner an element which corresponded with the lack of colourand warmth in his face. 

"I've been looking at this portrait of your--of----" he began. 

"Of Margery, " put in the little mother. "Everyone looks at Margery whenthey come in. It seems as if the child somehow filled the room. " Andthough her soft voice had a sigh in it, she did not speak in entiresadness. 

John Baird looked at the picture again. It was the portrait of a slightsmall girl with wistful eyes and an innocent face. 

"I felt sure that it was she, " he said in a lowered voice, "and you arequite right in saying that she seems to fill the room. "

The mother put her hand upon her son's arm. He had turned his facetowards the window. It seemed to Baird that her light touch was at oncean appeal and a consolation. 

"She filled the whole house when she was here, " she said; "and yet shewas only a quiet little thing. She had a bright way with her quietnessand was so happy and busy. It is my comfort now to remember that she wasalways happy--happy to the last, Lucien tells me. "

She looked up at her son's averted face as if expecting him to speak, andhe responded at once, though in his usual mechanical way. 

"To the last, " he said; "she had no fear and suffered no pain. "

The little woman watched him with tender, wistful eyes; two large tearswelled up and slipped down her cheeks, but she smiled softly as theyfell. 

"She had so wanted to go to Italy, " she said; "and was so happy to bethere. And at the last it was such a lovely day, and she enjoyed it soand was propped up on a sofa near the window, and looked out at the bluesky and the mountains, and made a little sketch. Tell him, Lucien, " andshe touched his arm again. 

"I shall be glad to hear, " said Baird, "but you must not tire yourself bystanding, " and he took her hand gently and led her to a chair and satdown beside her, still holding her hand. 

But Latimer remained standing, resting his elbow upon the mantel andlooking down at the floor as he spoke. 

"She was not well in England, " the little mother put in, "but in Italy hethought she was better even to the very last. "

"She was weak, " Latimer went on, without raising his eyes, "but she wasalways bright and--and happy. She used to lie on the sofa by the windowand look out and try to make sketches. She could see the Apennines, andit was the chestnut harvest and the peasants used to pass along the roadon their way to the forests, and she liked to watch them. She used to tryto sketch them too, but she was too weak; and when I wrote home for her, she made me describe them----"

"In her bright way!" said his mother. "I read the letters over and overagain and they seemed like pictures--like her little pictures. Itscarcely seems as if Lucien could have written them at all. "

"The last day, " said Latimer, "I had written home to say that she wasbetter. She was so well in the morning that she talked of trying to takea drive, but in the afternoon she was a little tired----"

"But only a little, " interrupted the mother eagerly, "and quite happy. "

"Only a little--and quite happy, " said Latimer. "There was a beautifulsunset and I drew her sofa to the windows and she lay and looked atit--and talked; and just as the sun went down----"

"All in a lovely golden glory, as if the gates of heaven were open, " thegentle voice added. 

Latimer paused for an instant. His sallow face had become paler. He drewout his handkerchief and touched his forehead with it and his lips. 

"All in a glow of gold, " he went on a little more hoarsely, "just as itwent down, she turned on her pillow and began to speak to me. She said'How beautiful it all is, and how glad--, ' and her voice died away. Ithought she was looking at the sky again. She had lifted her eyes to itand was smiling: the smile was on her face when I--bent over her--a fewmoments after--and found that all was over. "

"It was not like death at all, " said his mother with a soft breathlessness. "She never even knew. " And though tears streamed down her cheeks, shesmiled. 

Baird rose suddenly and went to Latimer's side. He wore the pale andbewildered face of a man walking in a dream. He laid his hand on hisshoulder. 

"No, it was not like death, " he said; "try and remember that. "

"I do remember it, " was the answer. 

"She escaped both death and life, " said John Baird, "both death andlife. "

The little mother sat wiping her eyes gently. 

"It was all so bright to her, " she said. "I can scarcely think of it as agrief that we have lost her--for a little while. Her little room upstairsnever seems empty. I could fancy that she might come in at any momentsmiling as she used to. If she had ever suffered or been sad in it, Imight feel as if the pain and sadness were left there; but when I openthe door it seems as if her pretty smile met me, or the sound of hervoice singing as she used to when she painted. "

She rose and went to her son's side again, laying her hand on his armwith a world of tenderness in her touch. 

"Try to think of that, Lucien, dear, " she said; "try to think that herface was never any sadder or older than we see it in her pretty picturethere. She might have lived to be tired of living, and she was saved fromit. "

"Try to help him, " she said, turning to Baird, "perhaps you can. He hasnot learned to bear it yet. They were very near to each other, andperhaps he is too young to think of it as we do. Grief is always heavierto young people, I think. Try to help him. "

She went out of the room quietly, leaving them together. 

When she was gone, John Baird found himself trying, with a helplessfeeling of desperation, to spur himself up to saying something; butneither words nor thoughts would come. For the moment his mind seemed aperfect blank, and the silence of the room was terrible. 

It was Latimer who spoke first, stiffly, and as if with difficulty. 

"I should be more resigned, " he said, "I should be resigned. But it hasbeen a heavy blow. "

Baird moistened his dry lips but found no words. 

"She had a bright nature, " the lagging voice went on, "a brightnature--and gifts--which I had not. God gave me no gifts, and it isnatural to me to see that life is dark and that I can only do poorly thework which falls to me. I was a gloomy, unhappy boy when she was born. Ihad learned to know the lack in myself early, and I saw in her what Ilonged for. I know the feeling is a sin against God and that His judgmentwill fall upon me--but I have no power against it. "

"It is a very natural feeling, " said Baird, hoarsely. "We cannot resignourselves at once under a great sorrow. "

"A just God who punishes rebellion demands it of His servants. "

"Don't say that!" Baird interrupted, with a shudder; "we need a God ofMercy, not a God who condemns. "

"Need!" the dark face almost livid in its pallor, "_We_ need! It is notHe who was made for our needs, but we for His. For His servants there isonly submission to the anguish chosen for us. "

"That is a harsh creed, " said Baird, "and a dark one. Try a brighter one, man!"

"There is no brighter one for me, " was the answer. "She had a brighterone, poor child--and mine was a heavy trouble to her. Why should wedeceive ourselves? What are we in His sight--in the sight of Immutable, Eternal God? We can only do His will and await the end. We have reasonwhich we may not use; we can only believe and suffer. There is agony onevery side of us which, if it were His will, He might relieve, but doesnot. It is His will, and what is the impotent rebellion of Nature againstthat? What help have we against Him?"

His harsh voice had risen until it was almost a cry, the lank locks whichfell over his sallow forehead were damp with sweat. He put them back witha desperate gesture. 

"Such words of themselves are sin, " he said, "and it is my curse andpunishment that I should bear in my breast every hour the crime of suchrebellion. What is there left for me? Is there any labour or any pangborne for others that will wipe out the stain from my soul?"

John Baird looked at him as he had looked before. His usual ready flow ofspeech, his rapidity of thought, his knowledge of men and theirnecessities seemed all to have deserted him. 

"I--" he stammered, "I am not--fit--not fit----"

He had not known what he was going to say when he began, and he did notknow how he intended to end. He heard with a passionate sense of reliefthat the door behind them opened, and turned to find that Mrs. Latimerstood upon the threshold as if in hesitancy. 

"Lucien, " she said, "it is that poor girl from Janway's Mills. The oneMargery was so sorry for--Susan Chapman. She wants to see you. I thinkthe poor child wants to ask about Margery. "

Latimer made a movement forward, but checked himself. 

"Tell her to come in, " he said. 

Mrs. Latimer went to the front door, and in a few seconds returned. Thegirl was with her and entered the room slowly. She was very pale and hereyes were dilated and she breathed fast as if frightened. She glanced atJohn Baird and stopped. 

"I didn't know anyone else was here, " she said. 

"I will go away, if you wish it, " said Baird, the sympathetic tonereturning to his voice. 

"No, " said Latimer, "you can do her more good than I can. Thisgentleman, " he added to the girl, "is my friend, and a Minister of God aswell as myself. He is the Rev. John Baird. "

There was in his eyes, as he addressed her, a look which was like anexpression of dread--as if he saw in her young yet faded face and figuresomething which repelled him almost beyond self-control. 

Perhaps the girl saw, while she did not comprehend it. She regarded himhelplessly. 

"I--I don't know--hardly--why I came, " she faltered, twisting the cornerof her shawl. 

She had been rather pretty, but the colour and freshness were gone fromher face and there were premature lines of pain and misery marking ithere and there. 

Baird moved a chair near her. 

"Sit down, " he said. "Have you walked all the way from Janway's Mills?"

She started a little and gave him a look, half wonder, half relief, andthen fell to twisting the fringe of her poor shawl again. 

"Yes, I walked, " she answered; "but I can't set down. I h'ain't but aminute to stay. "

Her clothes, which had been shabby at their best, were at their worstnow, and, altogether, she was a figure neither attractive norpicturesque. 

But Baird saw pathos in her. It was said that one of his most charmingqualities was his readiness to discover the pathetic under any guise. 

"You came to ask Mr. Latimer some questions, perhaps?" he said. 

She suddenly burst into tears. 

"Yes, " she answered, "I--I couldn't help it. "

She checked herself and wiped her tears away with the shawl corner almostimmediately. 

"I wanted to know something about _her_, " she said. "Nobody seemed toknow nothin', only that she was dead. When they said you'd come home, itseemed like I couldn't rest until I'd heard something. "

"What do you want to hear?" said Latimer. 

It struck Baird that the girl's manner was a curious one. It was a mannerwhich seemed to conceal beneath its shamefaced awkwardness some secretfear or anxiety. She gave Latimer a hurried, stealthy look, and then hereyes fell. It was as if she would have read in his gloomy face what shedid not dare to ask. 

"I'd be afraid to die myself, " she stammered. "I can't bear to think ofit. I'm afraid. Was she?"

"No, " Latimer answered. 

The girl gave him another dull, stealthy look. 

"I'm glad of that, " she said; "she can't have minded so much if shewasn't afraid. I'd like to think she didn't mind it so much--or suffer. "

"She did not suffer, " said Latimer. 

"I never saw nothin' of her after the last day she came to Janway'sMills, " the girl began. 

Latimer lifted his eyes suddenly. 

"She went to the Mills?" he exclaimed. 

"Yes, " she answered, her voice shaking. "I guess she never told. Afterthat first night she stood by me. No one else did. Seemed like otherfolks thought I'd poison 'em. She'd come an' see me an'--help me. She wassick the last day she came, and when she was going home she fainted inthe street, I heard folks say, I never saw her after that. "

She brushed a tear from her face with the shawl again. 

"So as she didn't mind much, or suffer, " she said, "t'ain't so bad tothink of. She wasn't one to be able to stand up against things. She'dhave died if she'd been me. I'd be glad enough to die myself, if I wasn'tafraid. She'd cry over me when I wasn't crying over myself. I've beenbeat about till I don't mind, like I used. They're a hard lot down at theMills. "

"And you, " said Latimer, "what sort of a life have you been leading?"

His voice was harsh and his manner repellant only because Nature hadserved him the cruel turn of making them so. He was bitterly conscious ashe spoke of having chosen the wrong words and uttered them with anappearance of relentless rigour which he would have made any effort tosoften. 

Baird made a quick movement towards the girl. 

"Have you any work?" he asked. "Do you need help? Don't mind telling us. My friend is to take charge of your church at the Mills. "

The girl interrupted him. She had turned miserably pale under Latimer'squestion. 

"'Tain't no church of mine!" she said, passionately; "I h'ain't nothin'to do with it. I never belonged to no church anyhow, an' I'm leadin' thekind o' life any girl'd lead that hadn't nothin' nor nobody. I don'tmean, " with a strangled sob, "to even myself with _her_; but what'ud sheha' done if she'd ha' slipped like I did--an' then had nothin' nor--nornobody?"

"Don't speak of her!" cried Latimer, almost fiercely. 

"'Twon't hurt her, " said the girl, struggling with a sob again; "she'spast bein' hurt even by such as me--an' I'm glad of it. She's well out ofit all!"

She turned as if she would have gone away, but Baird checked her. 

"Wait a moment, " he said; "perhaps I can be of some service to you. "

"You can't do nothin', " she interrupted. "Nobody can't!"

"Let me try, " he said; "take a note to Miss Starkweather from me and waitat the house for a few minutes. Come, that isn't much, is it? You'll dothat much, I'm sure. "

She looked down at the floor a few seconds and then up at him. It hadalways been considered one of his recommendations that he was sounprofessional in his appearance. 

"Yes, " she said, slowly, "I can do that, I suppose. "

He drew a note-book from his breast-pocket and, having written a fewwords on a leaf of it, tore it out and handed it to her. 

"Take that to Miss Starkweather's house and say I sent you with it. "

When she was gone, he turned to Latimer again. 

"Before I go, " he said, "I want to say a few words to you--to ask you tomake me a promise. "

"What is the promise?" said Latimer. 

"It is that we shall be friends--friends. "

Baird laid his hand on the man's gaunt shoulder with a nervous grasp ashe spoke, and his voice was unsteady. 

"I have never had a friend, " answered Latimer, monotonously; "I shouldscarcely know what to do with one. "

"Then it is time you had one, " Baird replied. "And I may have somethingto offer you. There may be something in--in my feeling which may be worthyour having. "

He held out his hand. 

Latimer looked at it for a second, then at him, his sallow face flushingdarkly. 

"You are offering me a good deal, " he said, "I scarcely knowwhy--myself. "

"But you don't take my hand, Latimer, " Baird said; and the words werespoken with a faint loss of colour. 

Latimer took it, flushing more darkly still. 

"What have I to offer in return?" he said. "I have nothing. You hadbetter think again. I should only be a kind of shadow on your life. "

"I want nothing in return--nothing, " Baird said. "I don't even askfeeling from you. Be a shadow on my life, if you will. Why should I haveno shadows? Why should all go smoothly with me, while others----" Hepaused, checking his vehemence as if he had suddenly recognised it. "Letus be friends, " he said. 

CHAPTER XV

The respectable portion of the population of Janway's Mills believed inchurch-going and on Sunday-school attendance--in fact, the most entirelyrespectable believed that such persons as neglected these duties werepreparing themselves for damnation. They were a quiet, simple, andunintellectual people. Such of them as occasionally read books knewnothing of any literature which was not religious. The stories they hadfollowed through certain inexpensive periodicals were of the order whichdescribes the gradual elevation of the worldly-minded or depraved to theplane of church-going and Sunday-school. Their few novels made it their_motif_ to prove that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye ofa needle than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. Anyhero or heroine of wealth who found peace of mind and married happily, only attained these objects through the assistance of some noble thoughhumble unsecular person whose example and instruction led them to adoptunsecular views. The point of view of Janway's Mills was narrow and farfrom charitable when it was respectable; its point of view, when it wasnot respectable, was desperate. Even sinners, at Janway's Mills, wereprimitive and limited in outlook. They did not excuse themselves withspecious argument for their crimes of neglecting church-going, using badlanguage, hanging about bar-rooms, and loose living. They were notbrilliant wrongdoers and made no attempt at defending themselves orpretending that they did not know they were going to perdition. The NewEngland mind is not broad or versatile, and, having begun life in aPuritan atmosphere, it is not quick to escape its influence. Society atthe Mills recognised no social distinction which was not founded upon therespectability of church-going and the observance of social laws made bychurch-goers; it recognised none because it absolutely _knew_ of none. The great world was not far from Janway's Mills, but they did not toucheach other. Willowfield was near, Boston and New York themselves were notfar distant, but the curious fact being that millions of human minds maywork and grow and struggle as if they were the minds of dwellers uponanother planet, though less than a hundred miles may separate them, theactual lives, principles, and significances of the larger places did notseem to touch the smaller one. The smaller one was a village of a fewstreets of small houses which had grown up about the Mills themselves. The Mills gave employment to a village full of hands, so the villagegradually evolved itself. It was populated by the uneducated labouringclass; some were respectable, some were dissolute and lived low and grosslives, but all were uneducated in any sense which implies more than thepower to read, write, and make a few necessary calculations. Most of themtook some newspaper. They read of the multi-millionaires who lived in NewYork and Chicago and California, they read of the politicians inWashington, they found described to them the great entertainments givenby millionaires' wives and daughters, the marvellous dresses they wore, the multifarious ways in which they amused themselves, but what they readseemed so totally unlike anything they had ever seen, so far apart fromtheir own lives, that though they were not aware of the fact, the truthwas that they believed in them with about the same degree of realisationwith which they believed in what they heard in the pulpit of the gloriesof the New Jerusalem. No human being exists without an ambition, and theambition of Janway's Millers of the high-class was to possess a neatframe-house with clean Nottingham lace curtains at the windows, freshoilcloth on the floor of the front hall, furniture covered with green orred reps in the parlour, a tapestry Brussels carpet, and a fewlithographs upon the walls. It was also the desire of the owners of suchpossessions that everyone should know that they attended one of thechurches, that their house-cleaning was done regularly, that no member ofthe family frequented bar-rooms, and that they were respectable people. It was an ambition which was according to their lights, and could bedespised by no honest human being, however dull it might appear to him. It resulted oftener than not in the making of excellent narrow liveswhich brought harm to no one. The lives which went wrong on thestreet-corners and in the bar-rooms often did harm. They produceddiscomfort, unhappiness, and disorder; but as it is also quite certainthat no human being produces these things without working out his ownpunishment for himself while he lives on earth, the ends of justice weredoubtless attained. 

If a female creature at the Mills broke the great social law, there wasno leaning towards the weakness of pity for her, Janway's was notsufficiently developed, mentally, to deal with gradations or analysis ofcauses and impelling powers. The girl who brought forth a child withoutthe pale of orthodox marriage was an outcast and a disgraced creature, and nobody flinched from pronouncing her both. 

"It's disgustin', that's what I call it, " it was the custom forrespectable wives and mothers to say. "It's disgustin'! A nice thingshe's done for herself. I h'ain't no patience with girls like her, withno fear o' God or religion in them an' no modesty and decency. Shedeserves whatever comes to her!"

Usually every tragedy befell her which could befall a woman. If her childlived, it lived the life of wretchedness and was an outcast also. Theoutcome of its existence was determined by the order of woman its motherchanced to be. If the maternal instinct was warm and strong within herand she loved it, there were a few chances that it might fight throughits early years of struggle and expand into a human being who counted as_one_ at least among the world's millions. Usually the mother died in thegutter or the hospital, but there had been women who survived, and whenthey did so it was often because they made a battle for their children. Sometimes it was because they were made of the material which is noteasily beaten, and then they learned as the years went by that the humansoul and will may be even stronger than that which may seem at the outsetoverwhelming fate. 

When the girl Susan Chapman fell into misfortune and disgrace, her pathwas not made easy for her. There were a few months when the young millhand who brought disaster upon her, made love to her, and hung about hersmall home, sometimes leaning upon the rickety gate to talk and laughwith her, sometimes loitering with her in the streets or taking her tocheap picnics or on rather rowdy excursions. She wore the excited andhighly pleased air seen in young women of her class when the masculinecreature is paying court. She spent her wages in personal decoration, shebought cheap feathers and artificial flowers and remnants on "bargaindays, " and decked herself with them. Her cheap, good looks reached theirhighest point because she felt the glow of a promotive triumph and herspirits were exhilarated. She was nearer happiness than she had ever beenbefore. The other girls, who were mill hands like herself, were full ofthe usual rather envious jokes about her possible marriage. To be marriedwas to achieve a desirable distinction and to work at home instead of atthe Mills. The young man was not an absolute villain, he was merely anignorant, foolish young animal. At first he had had inchoate beliefs in adomestic future with the girl. But the time came when equally inchoateideas of his own manhood led him to grow cool. The New England atmospherewhich had not influenced him in all points, influenced him in the matterof feeling that the woman a man married must have kept herselfrespectable. The fact that he himself had caused her fall from the planeof decency was of comparatively small moment. 

A man who married a woman who had not managed to keep straight, puthimself into a sort of ridiculous position. He lost masculinedistinction. This one ceased to lean on the gate and talk at night, andwent to fewer picnics. He was in less high spirits, and so was the girl. She often looked pale and as if she had been crying. Then Jack Williamsgave up his place at the Mill and left the village. He did not tell hissweetheart. The morning after he left, Susan came to her work and foundthe girls about her wearing a mysterious and interested air. 

"What are you whispering about?" she asked. "What's the secret?"

"'Tain't no secret, " was the answer. "Most everybody's heard it, and Iguess it ain't no secret to you. I guess he told you when he made up hismind to go. "

"Who?" she asked. 

"Jack Williams. He's gone out to Chicago to work somewhere there. He keptit pretty dark from us, but when he went off on the late train lastnight, Joe Evans saw him, and he said he'd had the offer of a first-ratejob and was going to it. How you stare, Sue! Your eyes look as if they'dpop out o' yer head. "

She was staring and her skin had turned blue-white. She broke into ashort hysteric laugh and fell down. Then she was very sick and faintedand had to be taken home trembling so that she could scarcely crawl asshe walked, with great tears dropping down her cold face. Janway's Millsknew well enough after this that Jack Williams had deserted her, and hadno hesitation in suggesting a reason for his defection. 

The months which followed were filled with the torments of a squalidInferno. Girls who had regarded her with envy, began to refuse to speakto her or to be seen in her company. Jack Williams's companions wereeither impudent or disdainful, the married women stared at her andcommented on her as she passed; there were no more picnics or excursionsfor her; her feathers became draggled and hung broken in her hat. She hadno relatives in the village, having come from a country place. She wasthankful that she had not a family of aunts on the spot, because she knewthey would have despised her and talked her over more than the rest. Shelived in a bare little room which she rented from a poor couple, and sheused to sit alone in it, huddled up in a heap by the window, crying forhours in the evening as she watched the other girls go by laughing andjoking with their sweethearts. 

One night when there was a sociable in the little frame Methodist churchopposite, and she saw it lighted up and the people going in dressed intheir best clothes and excited at meeting each other, the girls gigglingat the sight of their favourite young men--just as she had giggled sixmonths before--her slow tears began to drip faster and the sobs came oneupon another until she was choked by them and she began to make a noise. She sobbed and cried more convulsively, until she began to scream andwent into something like hysterics. She dropped down on her face androlled over and over, clutching at her breast and her sides and throwingout her arms. The people of the house had gone to the sociable and shewas alone, so no one heard or came near her. She shrieked and sobbed androlled over and over, clutching at her flesh, trying to gasp out wordsthat choked her. 

"O, Lord!" she gasped, wild with the insensate agony of a poor, hysteriatorn, untaught, uncontrolled thing, "I don't know what I've done! Idon't! 'Tain't fair! I didn't go to! I can't bear it! He h'ain't gotnothin' to bear, he ain't! O, Lord God, look down on me!"

She was the poor, helpless outcome of the commonest phase of life, buther garret saw a ghastly tragedy as she choked through her hysterics. Whois to blame for and who to prevent such tragedies, let deep thinkersstrive to tell. 

The day after this was the one on which little Margery Latimer came intoher life. It was in the early spring, just before the child had gone toBoston to begin her art lessons. She had come to Janway's Mills to see apoor woman who had worked for her mother. The woman lived in the house inwhich Susan had her bare room. She began to talk about the girl halffretfully, half contemptuously. 

"She's the one Jack Williams got into trouble and then left to get out ofit by herself as well as she could, " she said. "She might ha' known it. Gals is fools. She can't work at the Mills any more, an' last night whenwe was all at the Sosherble, she seems to've had a spasm o' some kind;she can't get out o' bed this mornin' and lies there lookin' like deathan' moanin'. I can't 'tend to her, I've got work o' my own to do. Lansy!how she was moanin' when I passed her door! Seemed like she'd killherself!"

"Oh, poor thing!" cried Margery; "let me go up to her. "

She was a sensitive creature, and the colour had ebbed out of her prettyface. 

"Lor, no!" the woman cried; "she ain't the kind o' gal you'd oughter bedoing things for, she was allus right down common, an' she's sunk down'bout as low as a gal can. "

But Margery went up to the room where the moaning was going on. She stoodoutside the door on the landing for a few moments, her heart trembling inher side before she went in. Her life had been a simple, happy, brightone up to this time. She had not seen the monster life close at hand. Shehad large, childish eyes which were the colour of harebells andexquisitely sympathetic and sweet. There were tears in them when shegently opened the door and stood timidly on the threshold. 

"Let me, please let me come in, " she said. "Don't say I mayn't. "

The moaning and low choking sobs went on, and in a very few moments theyso wrought upon her, that she pushed the door farther open and enteredthe room. What she saw was a barren, common little place, and on the beda girl lying utterly prostrated by an hysteric tempest which had lastedhours. Her face was white and swollen and covered with red marks, as ifshe had clutched and torn it with her fingers, her dress was torn open atthe bosom, and her hair tumbled, torn, and loose about the pillow; therewas a discoloured place upon her forehead which was settling into abruise. Her eyes were puffed with crying until they were almost closed. Her breast rose with short, exhausted, but still convulsive sobs. Margeryfelt as if she was drawn into a vortex of agony. She could not resist it. She went to the bed, stood still a second, trembling, and then sank uponher knees and put her face down upon the wretched hand nearest and kissedit with piteous impulsive sympathy. 

"Oh! don't cry like that, " she said, crying herself. "Oh, don't! Oh, don't! I'm so sorry for you--I'm _so_ sorry for you. "

She did not know the girl at all, she had never even heard of her before, but she kissed her hand and cried over it and fondled it against herbreast. She was one of those human things created by Nature to sufferwith others, and for them, and through them. 

She did not know how long it was before the girl became sufficiently, articulate to speak to her. She herself was scarcely articulate for sometime. She could only try to find words to meet a need so far beyond herken. She had never come in contact with a woman in this strait before. 

But at last Susan was lying in the bed instead of on its tossed andtumbled outside. Margery had done the nearest, simple things for her. Shehad helped her to bathe her face with cold water, to undress and put onher nightgown; she had prepared her narrow bed for her decently, andsmoothed and wound up her hair. Then she had gone downstairs, got her acup of tea, and sat by her and made her drink it. Then she set the roomin order and opened the window to air it. 

"There is a bruise on your forehead, " she had said, as she was arrangingthe torn hair. "You must have struck it against something when you wereill last night. "

"I struck it against the wall, " Susan answered, in a monotonous voice. "Idid it on purpose. I banged my head against the wall until I fell downand was sick. "

Margery's face quivered again. 

"Don't think about it, " she said. "You ought not to have been alone. Some--some friend ought to have been with you. "

"I haven't got any friends, " Susan answered. "I don't know why you cameup to me. I don't guess you know what's the matter with me. "

"Yes, I do, " said Margery. "You are in great trouble. "

"It's the worst kind o' trouble a woman can get into, " said Susan, themuscles of her face beginning to be drawn again. "I don't see why--whyJack Williams can skip off to Chicago to a new, big job that's a strokeo' luck--an' me left lie here to bear everything--an' be picked at, an'made fun of, an' druv mad with the way I'm kicked in the gutter. I don'tsee no _right_ in it. There _ain't_ no right in it; I don't believethere's no God anyhow; I won't never believe it again. No one can't makeme. If I've done what gives folks a right to cast me off, so's JackWilliams. "

"You haven't pretended to love a person and then run away and left themto--to suffer, " said little Margery, on the verge of sobs again. 

"No, I haven't!" said the girl, her tears beginning to stream anew. "I'mnot your kind. I'm not educated. I'm only a common mill hand, but I didlove Jack Williams all I knew how. He had such a nice way with him--kindof affectionate, an'--an' he was real good-lookin' too when he was fixedup. If I'd been married to him, no one would have said nothin', an'--an''tain't nothin' but a minister readin' somethin' anyhow--marryin' ain't. "

CHAPTER XVI

This was before Margery went to Boston to try to develop her gift formaking pretty sketches. Her father and mother and her brother strainedevery nerve to earn and save the money to cover her expenses. She wentaway full of innocent, joyous hope in the month of May. She boarded in aplain, quiet house, and had two rooms. One was her workroom and studio. She worked under a good-natured artist, who thought her a rather giftedlittle creature and used to take her to look at any pictures that were onexhibition. Taking into consideration her youth and limited advantages, she made such progress as led him to say that she had a future beforeher. 

She had never deserted Sue Chapman after that first morning in which shehad gone to her rescue. Janway's Mills was bewildered when it found thatthe Reverend Lucien Latimer's sister went to see Jack Williams' desertedsweetheart, and did not disdain to befriend her in her disgrace. Thechurch-going element, with the Nottingham lace curtains in its parlourwindows, would have been shocked, but that it was admitted that "theLatimers has always been a well-thought-of family, an' all of 'em ismembers in good standin'. They're greatly respected in Willowfield; eventhe old fam'lies speak to 'em when they meet 'em in the street or atChurch. 

"Not that I'd be willin' for my Elma Ann to 'sociate with a girl that'sgone wrong. Maybe it's sorter different with a minister's sister. Ministers' families has to 'sociate out o' charity an' religion; go topray with 'em, an' that, an' read the Scripture to make 'em sense theirsinfulness an' the danger they're in. "

But Margery did not pray with Susan Chapman, or read the Bible to her. The girl held obstinately to her statement of unbelief in a God, andMargery did not feel that her mood was one to which reading the Gospelwould appeal. If she could have explained to her the justice of thedifference between Jack Williams' lot and her own, she felt they mighthave advanced perhaps, but she could not. She used to go to see her andtry to alleviate her physical discomfort and miserable poverty. She savedher from hunger and cold when she could no longer work at all, and shetaught her to feel that she was not utterly without a friend. 

"What I'd have done without you, God knows--or what ought to be God, " Suesaid. "He didn't care, but you did. If there _is_ one, He's got a lot tolearn from some of the people He's made Himself. 'After His own imagecreated He them'--that's what the Bible says; but I don't believe it. IfHe was as good and kind-hearted as the best of us, He wouldn't sit uponHis throne with angels singing round an' playin' on harps, an' Him toomuch interested to see how everything sufferin' down below. What did Hemake us for, if He couldn't look after us? I wouldn't make a thing Iwouldn't do my best by--an' I ain't nothin' but a factory girl. This--this poor thing that's goin' to be born an' hain't no right to, I'll do my level best by it--I will. It sha'n't suffer, if I can helpit"--her lips jerking. 

Sometimes Margery would talk to her a little about Jack Williams--or, rather, she would listen while Susan talked. Then Susan would cry, large, slow-rolling tears slipping down her cheeks. 

"I don't know how--how it happened like this, " she would say. "It seemslike a kind o' awful dream. I don't know nothin'. He was common--justlike I am--an' he didn't know much; but it didn't seem like he was a badfeller--an' I do b'lieve he liked me. _Seemed_ like he did, anyways. Theysay he's got a splendid job in Chicago. He won't never know nothin' aboutwhat happens. "

Margery did not leave her unprovided for when she went to Boston. It costvery little to keep her for a few months in her small room. The people ofthe house promised to be decently kind to her. Margery had only been awayfrom home two weeks when the child was born. The hysterical paroxysms andviolent outbreaks of grief its mother had passed through, her convulsivewrithings and clutchings and beating of her head against the walls haddistorted and exhausted the little creature. The women who were with hersaid its body looked as if it were bruised in spots all over, and therewas a purple mark on its temple. It breathed a few times and died. 

"Good thing, too!" said the women. "There's too many in the world that'sgot a right here. It'd hev' had to go to ruin. "

"Good thing for _it_, " said Susan, weakly but sullenly, from her bed;"but if it's God as makes 'em, how did He come to go to the trouble ofmaking this one an' sendin' it out, if it hadn't no right to come? He_does_ make 'em all, doesn't he? You wouldn't darst to say Hedidn't--you, Mrs. Hopp, that's a church member!" And her white faceactually drew itself into a ghastly, dreary grin. "Lawsy! He's keptpretty busy!"

When she was able to stand on her feet she went back to the mill. She wasa good worker, and hands were needed. The girls and women fought shy ofher, and she had no chance of enjoying any young pleasures or comforts, even if she had not been too much broken on the rack of the misery of thelast year to have energy to desire them. No young man wanted to be seentalking to her, no young woman cared to walk with her in the streets. Shealways went home to her room alone, and sat alone, and thought of whathad happened to her, trying to explain to herself how it had happened andwhy it had turned out that she was worse than any other girl. She hadnever felt like a bad girl. No one had ever called her one before thislast year. 

Three months after the child was born and died, Margery came back toWillowfield to spend a week at home. She came to see Susan, and they sattogether in the tragic little bare room and talked. Though the girl hadbeen so delicately pretty before she left home, Susan saw that she hadbecome much prettier. She was dressed in light, softly tinted summerstuffs, and there was something about her which was curiouslyflower-like. Her long-lashed, harebell blue eyes seemed to have widenedand grown lovelier in their innocent look. A more subtle mind than SusanChapman's might have said that she seemed to be looking farther intoLife's spaces, and that she was trembling upon the verge of somethingunknown and beautiful. 

She talked about Boston and the happiness of her life there, and of herwork and her guileless girlish hopes and ambitions. 

"I am doing my very best, " she said, a spot of pink flickering on hercheek; "I work as hard as I can, but you see I am so ignorant. I couldnot have learned anything about art in Willowfield. But people are sogood to me--people who know a great deal. There is one gentleman whocomes sometimes to see Mr. Barnard at the studio. He is so wonderful, itseems to me. He has travelled, and knows all about the great galleriesand the pictures in them. He talks so beautifully that everyone listenswhen he comes in. Nobody can bear to go on with work for fear of missingsomething. You would think he would not notice a plain little Willowfieldgirl, but he has been _lovely_ to me, Susan. He has even looked at mywork and criticised it for me, and talked to me. He nearly always talksto me a little when he comes in, and once I met him in the Gardens, andhe stopped and talked there, and walked about looking at the flowers withme. They had been planting out the spring things, and it was like beingin fairyland to walk about among them and hear the things he said aboutpictures. It taught me so much. "

She referred to this friend two or three times, and once mentioned hisname, but Susan forgot it. She was such a beautiful, happy little thing, and seemed so exquisite an expression of spring-like, radiant youth andits innocent joy in living that the desolate and stranded creature shehad befriended could think of nothing but her own awkward worship and thefascination of the flower-like charm. She used to sit and stare at her. 

"Seems so queer to see anyone as happy an' pretty as you, " she broke outonce. "Oh, Lawsy, I hope nothing won't ever come to spoil it. It hadn'tought to be spoiled. "

A month or so later Margery paid a visit to her home again. She stayed alonger time, but Susan only saw her once. She had come home from Bostonwith a cold and had been put to bed for a day or two. 

One morning Susan was in Willowfield and met her walking in a quietstreet. She was walking slowly and looking down as she went, as if somethought was abstracting her. When Susan stopped before her, she looked upwith a start. It was a start which revealed that she had been broughtback suddenly from a distance, as it were a great distance. 

"Oh, Susan!" she said. "Oh, Susan!"

She held out her hand in her pretty, affectionate way, but she wasactually a little out of breath. 

"I'm sorry I came on you so sudden, " Susan said, "I startled you. "

"Yes, " she answered, "I was--I was thinking of things that seem so faroff. When I'm in Willowfield it seems as if--as if they can't be true. Does anything ever seem like that to you, Susan?"

"Yes, " said Susan. One of her hopeless looks leaped into her eyes. Shedid not say what the things were, but she stared at Margery in ahelpless, vacant way for a moment. 

"Are you well, Susan, and have you got work?" asked Margery. "I am comingto see you to-morrow. "

They spoke of common things for a few minutes, and then went theirseparate ways. 

Why it was that when she paid the promised visit the next day and theysat together in their old way and talked, Susan felt a kind of miserycreeping slowly upon her, she could not in the least have explained. Shewas not sufficiently developed mentally to have been capable of saying toherself that there was a difference between this visit and the last, between this Margery and the one who had sat with her before. Her dullthoughts were too slow to travel to a point so definite in so short alength of time as one afternoon afforded. 

"Your cold was a pretty bad one, wasn't it?" she asked, vaguely, once. 

"Yes, " was the answer. "It made me feel weak. But it has gone now. I amquite well again. "

After that Susan saw her but once again. As time went on she heard avague rumour that the Latimers were anxious about Margery's health. Justat that time the mill hands gossiped a good deal about Willowfield, because the Reverend John Baird was said to be going to Europe. That ledto talk on the subject of other Willowfield people, and the Latimersamong them. In the rare, brief letters Margery wrote to her _protégée_, she did not say she was ill. Once she said her brother Lucien had quitesuddenly come to Boston to see how she was, because her mother imaginedshe must have taken cold. 

She had been in Boston about a year then. One afternoon Susan was in herroom, standing by her bed forlornly, and, in a vacant, reasonless mood, turning over the few coarse little garments she had been able to preparefor her child--a few common little shirts and nightgowns and grayflannels--no more. She heard someone at the door. The handle turned andthe door opened as if the person who came in had forgotten the ceremonyof knocking. Susan laid down on the bed the ugly little night-dress shehad been looking at; it lay there stiff with its coarseness, its shortarms stretched out. She turned about and faced Margery Latimer, who hadcrossed the threshold and stood before her. 

Susan uttered a low, frightened cry before she could speak a word. 

The girl looked like a ghost. It was a ghost Susan thought of this time, and not a flower. The pure little face was white and drawn, the featureswere sharpened, the harebell-coloured eyes had almost a look of wildness;it was as if they had been looking at something frightening for a longtime, until they could not lose the habit of expressing fear. 

"Susan, " she said, in a strange, uncertain voice, "you didn't expect tosee me. "

Susan ran to her. 

"No, no, " she said, "I didn't know you was here. I thought you was inBoston. What's the matter? Oh, Lawsy, Margery, what's happened to makeyou look like this?"

"Nobody knows, " answered Margery. "They say it's the cold. They arefrightened about me. I'm come to say good-bye to you, Susan. "

She sank into a chair and sat there, panting a little. 

"Lucien's going to take me to Europe, " she said, her voice all at onceseeming to sound monotonous, as if she was reciting a lessonmechanically. "I always wanted to go there--to visit the picturegalleries and study. They think the climate will be good for me. I'vebeen coughing in the mornings--and I can't eat. "

"Do they think you might be going into--a consumption?" Susan faltered. 

"Mother's frightened, " said Margery. "She and the doctor don't know whatto think. Lucien's going to take me to Europe. It's expensive, but--buthe has managed to get the money. He sold a little farm he owned. "

"He's a good brother, " said Susan. 

Suddenly Margery began to cry as if she could not help it. 

"Oh, " she exclaimed. "No one knows what a good brother he is--nobody butmyself. He is willing to give up everything to--to save me--and to savepoor mother from awful trouble. Sometimes I think he is something likeChrist--even like Christ! He is willing to suffer for other people--fortheir pain--and weakness--and sin. "

It was so evident that the change which had taken place in her was awoeful one. Her bright loveliness was gone--her simple, lovablehappiness. Her nerves seemed all unstrung. But it was the piteous, strained look in her childlike eyes which stirred poor Susan's breast totumult. 

"Margery, " she said, almost trembling, "if--if--if you was to go in aconsumption and die--you're not like me--you needn't be afraid. "

The next moment she was sorry she had said the crude thing. Margery burstinto a passion of weeping. Susan flew to her and caught her in her arms, kneeling down by her. 

"I oughtn't to have said it, " she cried. "You're too ill to be made tothink of such things. I was a fool not to see--Margery, Margery, don't!"

But Margery was too weak to be able to control her sobbing. 

"They say that--that God forgives people, " she wept. "I've prayed andprayed to be forgiven for--for my sins. I've never meant to be wicked. Idon't know--I don't know how----"

"Hush!" said Susan, soothing and patting her trembling shoulder. "Hush, hush! If there _is_ a God, Margery, He's a heap sight better than we giveHim credit for. He don't make people a' purpose, so they can't helpthings somehow--an' don't know--an' then send 'em to burning hell for_bein'_ the way He made 'em. _We_ wouldn't do it, an' He won't. Youhain't no reason to be afraid of dyin'. "

Margery stayed with her about half an hour. There was a curious elementin their conversation. They spoke as if their interview was a final one. Neither of them actually expressed the thought in words, but a listenerwould have felt vaguely that they never expected to meet each other againon earth. They made no references to the future; it was as if no futurecould be counted upon. Afterwards, when she was alone, Susan realisedthat she had never once said "when you come back from Europe. "

As she was leaving the room, Margery passed the bed on which the small, coarse garments lay. The little nightgown, with its short sleeves stifflyoutstretched, seemed to arrest her attention specially. She caught atSusan's dress as if she was unaware that she made the movement or of thesharp shudder which followed it. 

"Those--are its things, aren't they, Susan?" she said. 

"Yes, " Susan answered, her sullen look of pain coming back to her face. 

"I--don't know--how people _bear_ it!" exclaimed Margery. It was anexclamation, and her hand went quickly up to her mouth almost as if topress it back. 

"They don't _bear_ it, " said Susan, stonily. "They have to go throughit--that's all. If you was standin' on the gallows with the rope roundyour neck and the trap-door under your feet, you wouldn't be bearin' it, but the trap-door would drop all the same, an' down you'd plunge--intothe blackness. "

It was on this morning, on her way through the streets, that Margerydropped in a dead faint upon the pavement, and Miss Amory Starkweather, passing in her carriage, picked her up and carried her home. 

Susan Chapman never saw her again. Some months afterwards came the rumourthat she had died of consumption in Italy. 

CHAPTER XVII

When, in accordance with Baird's instructions, Susan Chapman took thenote to Miss Starkweather, she walked through the tree-shaded streets, feeling as if she had suddenly found herself in a foreign country. To theinhabitants of Janway's Mills, certain parts of Willowfield stood forwealth, luxury, and decorous splendour. The Mills, which lived withinitself, was easily impressed. Its--occasionally resentful--respect forWillowfield was enormous. It did not behold it as a simple provincialtown, whose business establishments were primitive, and whose framehouses, even when surrounded by square gardens with flower-beds adorningthem, were merely comfortable middle-class abodes of domesticity. It wasawed by the Willowfield _Times_, it revered the button factory, andbitterly envied the carriages driven and the occasional festivities heldby the families of the representatives of these monopolies. The carriageswere sober and middle-aged, and so were the parties, but to Janway'sMills they illustrated wealth and gaiety. People drove about in thevehicles and wore fine clothes and ate cakes and ice-cream at theparties--neither of which things had ever been possible or ever wouldbecome possible to Janway's. 

And Susan, who had been a Pariah and an outcast at the Mills, was walkingthrough the best streets, carrying a note from the popular minister tothe rich Miss Starkweather, who had an entire square white frame houseand garden, which were her own property. 

The girl felt a little sullen and a little frightened. She did not knowwhat would happen to her; she did not know how she would be expected tocarry herself in a house so representative of wealth and accustomednessto the good things of life. Perhaps if she had not been desperate, andalso, if she had not known that Miss Starkweather had been fond ofMargery, she would have evaded going to her. 

"I wonder what she'll say to me, " she thought. "They say she's queer. "

She still felt uncertain and resentful when she stood upon the thresholdand rang the bell. She presented a stolid countenance to the maid servantwho opened the door and received her message. When she was at last takento Miss Amory, she went with an unresponding bearing, and, being led intoa cheerful room where the old woman sat, stood before her waiting, as ifshe had really nothing to do with the situation. 

Miss Amory looked rather like some alert old hawk, less predatory byinstinct than those of his species usually are. 

"You are Susan Chapman, and come from Mr. Baird, " she said. 

Susan nodded. 

"He says he met you at Mr. Latimer's. "

"Yes. I went there to ask something. I couldn't bear not to know--no morethan I did. "

"About----?" asked Miss Amory. 

"About Margery, " her voice lowering unconsciously. 

"How much did you know?" Miss Amory asked again. 

"Nothin', " rather sullenly, "but that she was ill--an' went away an'died. "

"In Italy, they say, " put in Miss Amory--"lying on a sofa before an openwindow--on a lovely day, when the sun was setting. "

Susan Chapman started a little, and her face changed. The unresponsivenessmelted away. There was something like a glow of relief in her look. Shebecame human and lost sight of Miss Amory's supposed grandeur. 

"Was it like that?" she exclaimed. "Was it? I'm thankful to you fortelling me. Somehow I couldn't ask properly when I was face to face withher brother. You can't talk to him. I never knew where--or how--it was. Iwanted to find out if--if it was all right with her. I wanted to know shehadn't suffered. "

"So did I, " Miss Amory answered. "And that was what they told me. "

She passed her withered hand across her face. 

"I was fond of her, " she said. 

"I'd _reason_ to be, " returned Susan. "She was only a delicate littleyoung thing--but she came an' stayed by me when I was in hell an' no oneelse would give me a drop of water to cool my tongue. "

"I know something about that, " said Miss Amory; "I have heard it talkedof. Where's your child?"

Susan did not redden, but the hard look came back to her face for amoment. 

"It didn't live but a few minutes, " she answered. 

"What are you doing for your living?"

A faint red showed itself on the girl's haggard cheeks, and she stared ather with indifferent blankness. 

"I worked in the mill till my health broke down for a spell, an' I had togive up. I'm better now, but I've not got a cent to live on, an' my placewas filled up right away. "

"Where's the man?" Miss Amory demanded. 

"I don't know. I've never heard a word of him since he slid off toChicago. "

"Humph!" said Miss Amory. 

For a moment or so she sat silent, thinking. She held her chin in herhand and pinched it. Presently she looked up. 

"Could you come and live with me for a month?" she enquired. "I believewe might try the experiment. I daresay you would rub me when I wantrubbing, and go errands and help me up and down stairs and carry thingsfor me. It just happens that my old Jane has been obliged to leave mebecause she's beginning to be as rheumatic as I am myself, and herdaughter offers her a good home. Would you like to try? I don't promiseto do more than make the experiment. "

The girl flushed hot this time, as she looked down on the floor. 

"You may guess whether I'm likely to say 'yes' or not, " she said. "Iain't had a crust to-day. I believe I could _learn_ to suit you. But Inever expected anything as good as this to happen to me. Thank you, ma'am. May I--when must I come?"

"Take off your bonnet and go and have your dinner, and stay now, "answered Miss Amory. 

When John Baird called later in the day, Miss Amory was walking in thesun in her garden and Susan was with her, supporting her stiff steps. Shehad been fed, her dress had been changed for a neat print, and thedragged lines of her face seemed already to have relaxed. She no longerwore the look of a creature who is hungry and does not know how long herhunger may last and how much worse it may become. 

"I am much obliged to you, Miss Amory, " Baird said when he joined her, and he said it almost impetuously. To-day he was in the state of mindwhen even vicarious good deeds are a support and a consolation. To havebeen a means of doing a good turn even to this stray creature was acomfort. 

Miss Amory removed her hand from Susan's arm and allowed Baird to placeit on his own. The girl went away in obedience to a gesture. 

"She will do, " said Miss Amory, "and it is a home for her. She's notstupid. If she fulfils the promise of her first day I may end byinteresting myself in developing her brains. She has brains. The graymatter is there, but it has never moved much so far. It will beinteresting to set it astir. But it was not that I thought of when I tookher. "

"You took her out of the kindness of your heart, " said Baird. 

"I took her for that poor, dead child's sake, " returned Miss Amory. 

"For----" Baird began. 

"For Margery's sake, " put in Miss Amory. "Margery Latimer. When Susan wasin trouble the child was a tender little angel to her. Lord! what a purelittle heart it was!"

"As pure as young Eve's in the Garden of Eden--as pure as young Eve's, "murmured Baird. 

"Just that!" said Miss Amory, rather sharply. "How do you know it?" Andshe turned and looked at him. "You have heard her brother say a good dealof her. "

"Yes, yes, " Baird answered. "She seems to have been the life of him. "

"Well, well!" with emotional abruptness. "I took this girl for her sake. Her short life was not wasted if another's is built upon it. That's oneof my fantastic fancies, I suppose. Stop a minute. "

The old woman paused a few moments on the garden walk and turned her faceupward to look at the blue height and expanse of sky. There was a shadeof desperate appeal or question on her uplifted, rugged countenance. 

"When the world gets too much for me, " she said, "and I lose my patiencewith the senselessness of the tragedy of it, I get a sort of courage fromlooking up like this--into the height and the still, clear blueness. Itsends no answer back to me--that my human brain can understand--but itmakes me feel that perhaps there is no earth at all. I get out of it andaway. "

"I know--I know--though I am not like you, " Baird said, slowly. 

Miss Amory came back to earth with a curious look in her eyes. 

"Yes, " she answered, "I should think that perhaps you are one of thosewho know. But one has to have been desperate before one turns to it as aresource. It's a last one--and the unmerciful powers only know why weshould feel it a resource at all. As I said, it does not answer back. Andwe want answers--answers. "

Then they went on walking. 

"That poor thing has been a woman at least, " said Miss Amory. "I havebeen a sort of feminine automaton. I have been respectable and she hasnot. All good women are not respectable and all respectable women are notgood. That's a truism so absolute that it is a platitude, and yet therestill exist people to whom it would appear a novel statement. That poorcreature has loved and had her heart broken. She has suffered the wholegamut of things. She has been a wife without a name, a mother without achild. She is full of crude tragedy. And I have found out already thatshe is good--good. "

"What is goodness?" asked Baird. 

Miss Amory gave him another of her sharp looks. 

"You are drawing me out, " she said. "I'm not really worth it. Goodness isquite different from respectability. Respectability is a strict keepingof the laws men have made to oblige other men to do or not to do thethings they want done or left undone. The large meaning of the law ispunishment. No law, no punishment; no punishment, no law. And man madeboth for man. If you keep man's law you will be respectable, but you maynot be good. Jesus Christ was not respectable--no one will deny that. Goodness, after all, means doing all kindness to all creatures, and, above all, doing no wrong to any. That's all. Are you good?"

"No, " he answered, "I am not. "

"You would probably find it more difficult to be so than I should, " sheresponded. "And I find it hard enough--without being handicapped bybeauty and the pleasure-loving temperament. You were started well on theroad to the devil when you were born. Your very charms and virtues wereready to turn out vices in disguise. But when such things happen----" andshe shrugged her lean shoulders. "As we have no one else to dare toblame, we can only blame ourselves. In a scheme so vague every man mustbe his own brake. "

Baird drew a sharp breath. "If one only knew that early enough, " heexclaimed. 

Miss Amory laughed harshly. 

"Yes, " she said, "part of the vagueness of the scheme--if it _is_ ascheme--is that it takes half a lifetime to find it out. Before that, weare always either telling ourselves that we are not going to do any harm, or that we are under the guidance of a merciful Providence. "

"That we are not going to do any harm, " Baird repeated, "that we are notgoing to do any harm. And suddenly it's done. "

"And can't be undone, " Miss Amory added. "That's it. "

The girl, Susan Chapman, was watching them from a window as they walkedand talked. She bit her lips anxiously as she stood behind the curtain. She was trying to imagine what they might be saying to each other. Suppose it was something which told against her. And why should it not beso? What good could be said? Janway's Mills had borne in upon her thecomplete sense of her outcast state. While professing a republicanindependence of New England spirit, the place figuratively touched itsforehead to the earth before Miss Starkweather. She lived on an incomeinherited from people who had owned mills instead of working them; whoemployed--and discharged--hands. She would have been regarded as anauthority on any subject, social or moral. And yet it was she who hadspoken the first lenient word to a transgressor of the unpardonable type. Susan had been dumfounded at first, and then she had begun to be afraidthat the leniency arose from some mistake Miss Amory would presentlydiscover. 

"Perhaps he's heard and he's telling her now, " she said, breathlessly, asshe looked into the garden. "Maybe she'll come in and order me out. " Shelooked down at her clean dress, and a sob rose in her throat at therealisation of the mere physical comfort she had felt during the lasthour or two--the comfort of being fed and clothed and enclosed withinfour walls. If she was to be cast back into outer darkness again it wouldbe better to know at once. 

When Baird had gone away and Miss Amory was sitting by her window, Susanappeared before her again with an ashen complexion and a set look. Shestood a moment, hesitating, her hands clasping her elbows behind herback. 

"You want to say something to me?" said Miss Amory. 

"Yes, " the girl answered. "Yes, I do--an' I don't know how. Are you sure, ma'am, are you sure you know quite how bad I have been?"

"No, " said Miss Amory; "sit down and tell me, Susan. "

She said it with an impartiality so serenely free from condemnation thatSusan's obedient sitting down was almost entirely the result of not beingable to stand up. She, so to speak, fell into a chair and leaned forward, covering her face with her hands. 

"I don't believe you know, " she whispered. 

"By experience I know next to nothing, " Miss Amory answered, "but myimagination and my reason tell me a great deal. You were not married andyou had a child. You lost your health and your work----"

"I would have worked, " said the girl from behind her hands, sobbingly, but without tears. "Oh, I would have worked till I dropped--I did worktill I dropped. I kept fainting--Oh! I would have been glad and thankfuland grateful----"

"Yes, " said Miss Amory, "life got worse and worse--they all treated youas if you were a dog. Those common virtuous people are like the torturersof the Inquisition. You were hungry and cold--cold and hungry----"

"You don't know what it's like, " Susan moaned. "You don't know. When youget sick and hollow and cramped, and stagger about in your bare room--andcall out to yourself to ask what made you and where is it. And the wind'slike ice--and you huddle in a heap----"

"And there are lights in the streets, " said Miss Amory, "and it seems asif there must be something there to be given to you by somebody--somebody. And you go out. "

Susan got up, panting, and stared at her. 

"You do know, " she cried, almost with passion. "Somehow you've found outwhat it's like. I wanted you to know. I don't want you--not to understandand then of a sudden to send me away. I'm so _afraid_ of you sending meaway. "

"I shall not send you away for anything you have done in the past, " saidMiss Amory. 

"I don't know what I should have done in the future, if you hadn't takenme in, " Susan said. "Perhaps I should have thrown myself under a train. But, oh!" with starting dampness in her skin, which she wiped off with asick gesture, "I did _hate_ to let myself think of it. It wasn't thebeing killed--that's nothing--but feeling yourself crushed and torn andtwisted--I used to stand and shake all over thinking of it. And Icouldn't have gone on. I hated myself--I hated everything--most of all Ihated the Thing that made me. What right had it? I hadn't done nothing toit before I was born. Seemed like it had made me just for the fun ofpushing me under them wheels and seeing them tear and grind me. Oh! how Ihated it!"

"So have I, " said Miss Amory, her steady eyes looking more like a hawk'sthan ever. 

Susan stared more than before. "I suppose I ought to have hated JackWilliams, " she went on, her throat evidently filling, "but I never did. Iloved him. Seemed like I was just his wife, that it did. I believe italways will. That's the way girls get into trouble. Some man that's gotan affectionate way makes 'em believe they're as good as married. An'then they find out it's all a lie. "

"Perhaps some day you may see Jack Williams again, " said Miss Amory. 

"He wouldn't look at me, " answered Susan. 

"Perhaps you wouldn't look at him, " Miss Amory remarked, with speculativeslowness. 

"Yes, I would, " said Susan, "yes I would. I couldn't trust him same as Idid before--'cause he's proved he ain't to be trusted. But if he wantedme to marry him I couldn't hold out, Miss Starkweather. "

"Couldn't you?" Miss Amory said, still speculative. "No--perhaps youcouldn't. "

The girl wiped her eyes and added, slowly, almost as if she was thinkingaloud:

"I'm not one of the strong ones--I'm not one of the strong ones--no morethan little Margery was. "

She said the last words with a kind of unconscious consciousness. Whileshe uttered them her mind had evidently turned back to other times--nother own, but little Margery's. 

Miss Amory drew a deep breath. She took up her knitting. She asked aquestion. 

"You knew her very well--Margery?"

Susan drew her chair closer and looked in the old face with uncertaineyes. 

"Miss Starkweather, " she said, "do you think that a girl's being--likeme--would make her evil-minded? Would it make her suspicion things, andbe afraid of them--when there wasn't nothin'? I should think that itwould, " quite wistfully. 

"It might, " answered Miss Amory, her knitting-needles flying; "but forGod's sake don't call yourself evil-minded. You'd be evil-minded if youwere _glad_ to suspect--not if you were sorry and afraid. "

"Glad!" with a groan. "Oh, Lord, I guess not. But I might be all wrongall the same, mightn't I?"

"Yes, you might. "

"I loved her--oh, Lord, I did love her! I'd reason to, " the girl went on, and her manner had the effect of frightened haste. "I've suffered awfulsometimes--thinkin' in the night and prayin' there wasn't nothin'. Shewas such a delicate, innocent little thing. It would have killed her. "

"What were you afraid of?"

"Oh, I don't know, " Susan answered, hysterically. "I don't. I only knewshe couldn't bear nothin' like--like lyin' awake nights gaspin' an'fightin' with awful fear. She couldn't--she couldn't. "

"But there are girls--women, who have to bear it, " said Miss Amory. "GoodGod, who _have_ to!"

"Yes--yes--yes, " cried Susan. She drew her hand across her brow as ifsuddenly it felt damp, and for a moment her eyes looked wild with amemory of some awful thing. "I told her so, " she said. 

Miss Amory Starkweather turned in her chair with something like a start. 

"You told her so, " she exclaimed. 

Susan stared out of the window and her voice fell. 

"I didn't go to, " she answered. "It was like this. That last time shecame to see me--to tell me how ill she was and how Lucien was going totake her away--I'd been lookin' at the little clothes I'd got readyfor--it. " The tears began to roll fast down her cheeks. "Oh, MissStarkweather! they was lyin' on the bed--an' she saw 'em an' turned aswhite as a sheet. "

"Ugh!" the sound broke from Miss Amory like a short, involuntary groan. 

"She said she didn't know how people could _bear_ it, " Susan hurried on, "an' I said--just like you did--that they _had_ to bear it. "

She suddenly hid her face in her arms. 

"You were thinking of yourself, " said Miss Amory. She felt and looked alittle sick. 

"Yes, " said Susan, "I was thinkin' of how it is when a girl's goin' tohave a child an' can't get away from it--can't--can't. She's got to gothrough with it--an' no one can't save her. But I suppose it made herthink of her death that was comin'--her death that I b'lieve she knowedshe was struck for. When I'd said it she looked like some little huntedanimal dogs was after--that had run till its breath was gone an' its eyeswas startin' from its head. Her little chest went up an' down withpantin'. I didn't wonder when I heard after that she'd dropped in thestreet in a dead faint. "

"Was that the day I picked her up as she lay on the pavement?" Miss Amoryasked. 

Susan nodded, her face still hidden. 

Old Miss Starkweather put out her hand and laid it on the girl'sshoulder. 

"She has had time to forget, " she said, rather as if she was out ofbreath--"forget and grow quiet. She is dust by now--peaceful dust. Letus--my good girl--let us remember that happy story of how she died. "

"Yes, " answered Susan, "in Italy--lying before the open window--with thesunset all rosy in the sky. "

But her head rested on her folded arms upon her knee, and she sobbed alow, deep sob. 

CHAPTER XVIII

Just before the breaking out of the Civil War, Delisleville had beenprovided with a sensation in a piece of singularly unexpected goodfortune which befell one of its most prominent citizens. It was indeedgood fortune, wearing somewhat the proportions of a fairy tale, and thatsuch things could happen in Delisleville and to a citizen who possessedits entire approval was considered vaguely to the credit of the town. 

One of the facts which had always been counted as an added dignity to theDe Willoughbys had been their well-known possession of property in land. "Land" was always felt to be dignified, and somehow it seemedadditionally so when it gained a luxuriously superfluous character bymerely lying in huge, uncultivated tracts, and representing nothing butwide areas and taxes. 

"Them big D'Willerbys of D'lisleville owns thousands of acres as neverbrings 'em a cent, " Mr. Stamps had said to his friends at the Cross-roadsat the time Big Tom had first appeared among them. It was Mr. Stamps whohad astutely suggested that the stranger was possibly "kin" to theDelisleville family, and in his discreet pursuit of knowledge he had madedivers discoveries. 

"'Twarn't Jedge D'Willerby bought the land, " he went on to explain, "'n'it seems like he would hev bin a fool to hev done it, bein' as 'tain'tworked an' brings in nothin'. But ye never know how things may turn out. 'Twas the Jedge's gran'father, old Isham D'Willerby bought it fer akinder joke. Some said he was blind drunk when he done it, but he warn'tso drunk but what he got a cl'ar title, an' he got it mighty cheap too. Folks ses as he use ter laugh an' say he war goin' to find gold on it, but he never dug fer none--nor fer crops nuther, an' thar it lies to-dayin the mountains, an' no one goin' nigh it. "

In truth, Judge De Willoughby merely paid his taxes upon it from a senseof patriarchal pride. 

"My ancestor bought it, " he would say. "I will hand it to my sons. InEngland it would be an estate for an earldom, here it means merelytax-paying. Still, I shall not sell it. "

Nobody, in fact, would have been inclined to buy it in those days. Butthere came a time when its value increased hour by hour in the publicmind, until it was almost beyond computation. 

A chance visitor from the outside world made an interesting discovery. Onthis wild tract of hill and forest was a vein of coal so valuable that, to the practical mind of the discoverer, the Judge's unconsciousness ofits existence was amazing. He himself was a practical, driving, businessschemer from New York. He knew the value of what he saw, and theavailability of the material in consequence of a certain position inwhich the mines lay. Before he left Delisleville he had explained thiswith such a presenting of facts that the Judge had awakened to anenthusiasm as Southern as his previous indifference had been. He had noknowledge of business methods; he had practised his profession in amagnificent _dilettante_ sort of way which had worn an imposing air andimpressed his clients, and, as he was by inheritance a comparatively richman, he had not been driven by necessity to alter his methods. The suddenprospect of becoming a multimillionaire excited him. He made Napoleonicplans, and was dignified and eloquent. 

"Why should I form a company?" he said. "If I am willing to make thefirst ventures myself, the inevitable returns of profit will do the rest, and there will be no complications. The De Willoughby Mine will be the DeWilloughby Mine alone. I prefer that it should be so. "

The idea of being sole ruler in the scheme made him feel rather like aking, and he privately enjoyed the sensation. He turned into money allthe property he could avail himself of; his library table was loaded withbooks on mining; he invested in tons of machinery, which were continuallyarriving from the North, or stopping on the way when it should have beenarriving. He sent for engineers from various parts of the country andamazed them with the unprofessional boldness of his methods. He reallyindulged in a few months of dignified riot, of what he imagined to be asplendidly executive nature. The plans were completed, the machineryplaced, the engineers and cohorts of workmen engaged in tremendousefforts, the Judge was beginning to reflect on the management of hisfuture millions, when--the first gun was fired on Fort Sumter. 

That was the beginning, and apparently the end. Suddenly the storm of warbroke forth, and its tempest, surging through the land, swept all beforeit. The country was inundated with catastrophes, capitalists foundered, schemes were swamped, the armies surged to and fro. The De Willoughbyland was marched and fought over; scores of hasty, shallow graves weredug in it and filled; buildings and machinery were destroyed as if atornado had passed by. The Judge was a ruined man; his realisableproperty he had allowed to pass from his hands, his coal remained in thebowels of the earth, the huge income he was to have drawn from it hadmelted into nothingness. 

Nothing could have altered the aspect of this tragedy; but there was asingular fact which added to its intensity and bitterness. In such ahot-bed of secession as was Delisleville, the fact in question was indeednot easily explainable, except upon the grounds either of a Quixoticpatriotism or upon those of a general disposition to contradictoriness. ASouthern man, the head of a Southern family, the Judge opposed therebellion and openly sided with the Government. That he had been a mangiven to argument and contradiction, and always priding himself uponrefusing to be led by the majority was not to be denied. 

"He is fancying himself a Spartan hero, and looking forward to laurelsand history, " one of his neighbours remarked. "It is like De Willoughbyafter all. He would have been a Secessionist if he had lived in Boston. "

"The Union General George Washington fought for and handed down to us _I_will protect, " the Judge said loftily himself. 

But there was no modifying the outburst of wonder and condemnation whichoverwhelmed him. To side with the Union--in an aristocratic Southerntown--was to lose social caste and friends, to be held a renegade and anopen, degraded traitor to home and country. At that period, to theSoutherner the only country was the South--in the North reigned outerdarkness. Had the Judge been a poor white, there would have been talk oftar and feathers. As a man who had been a leader among the aristocraticclasses, he was ostracized. In the midst of his financial disasters hewas treated as an outlaw. He had been left a widower a few years before, during the war his son De Courcy died of fever, Romaine fell in battle, and his sole surviving daughter lost her life through diphtheriacontracted in a soldiers' hospital. The family had sunk into actualpoverty; the shock of sorrows and disappointment broke the old man'sspirit. On the day that peace was finally declared he died in his room inthe old house which had once been so full of young life and laughter andspirit. 

The only creature with him at the time was his grandson, young Rupert DeWilloughby, who was De Courcy's son. The sun was rising, and its firstbeams shone in at the open window rosily. The old Judge lay rubbing hishands slowly together, perhaps because they were cold. 

"Only you left, Rupert, " he said, "and there were so many of us. IfTom--if Tom had not been such a failure--don't know whether he'salive--or dead. If Tom----"

His hands slowly ceased moving and his voice trailed off into silence. Ten minutes later all was over, and Rupert stood in the world entirelyalone. 

 * * * * *

For the next two years the life the last De Willoughby lived in the oldhouse, though distinctly unique, was not favourable to the development ofyouth. Having been prepared for the practice of the law, after thetime-honoured De Willoughby custom, and having also for some monthsoccupied a corner in the small, unbusiness-like, tree-shaded, brickbuilding known as the Judge's "office, " Rupert sat now at hisgrandfather's desk and earned a scant living by endeavouring to holdtogether the old man's long-diminished practice. The profession at thetime offered nothing in such places as Delisleville, even to older andmore experienced men. No one had any money to go to law with, few had anyproperty worth going to law about. 

Both armies having swept through it, Delisleville wore in those days anaspect differing greatly from its old air of hospitable well-being andinconsequent good spirits and good cheer. Its broad verandahed houses hadseen hard usage, its pavements were worn and broken, and in many streetstufted with weeds; its fences were dilapidated, its rich families hadlost their possessions, and those who had not been driven away by theirnecessities were gazing aghast at a future to which it seemed impossibleto adjust their ease-loving, slave-attended, luxurious habits of thepast. Houses built of wood, after the Southern fashion, do not wellwithstand neglect and ill-fortune. Porticos and pillars and trellis-workwhich had been picturesque and imposing when they had been well caredfor, and gleamed white among creepers and trees, lost their charmdrearily when paint peeled off, trees were cut down, and vines weredragged away and died. Over the whole of the once gay little place therehad fallen an air of discouragement, desolation, and decay. Financialdisaster had crippled the boldest even in centres much more energeticthan small, unbusiness-like Southern towns; the country lay, as it were, prostrate to recover strength, and all was at a standstill. 

Finding himself penniless, Rupert De Willoughby lived in a corner of thehouse he had been brought up in. Such furniture as had survived the havocof war and the entire dilapidation of old age, he had gathered togetherin three or four rooms, which he occupied with the one servant goodfortune brought to his door at a time when the forlornness of his changedposition was continually accentuated by the untidy irregularity of hislife and surroundings. He was only able to afford to engage the shiftlessservices of a slatternly negro girl, rendered insubordinate by her newlyacquired freedom, and he had begun to feel that he should never againfind himself encompassed by the decorous system of a well-managedhousehold. 

It was at this juncture that Uncle Matthew arrived and presented hiscurious petition, which was that he should be accepted as generalservant, with wages or without them. 

He had not belonged to Judge De Willoughby, but to a distant relative, and, as he was an obstinate and conservative old person, he actually feltthat to be "a free nigger" was rather to drop in the social scale. 

"Whar's a man stand, sah, if he ain't got no fambly?" he said to Rupertwhen he came to offer his services to him. "He stan' nowhar, that's warhe stan'; I've got to own up to it, Marse Rupert, I'se a 'ristycrat bawnan' bred, an' I 'low to stay one, long's my head's hot. Ef my old mars'sfambly hadn't er gone fo'th en' bin scattered to de fo' win's of deuniversity, I'd a helt on, but when de las' of 'um went to dat Europe, dey couldn't 'ford to take me, an' I had ter stay. An' when I heerd asall yo' kin was gone an' you was gwine to live erlone like dis yere, Icome to ax yer to take me to wait on yer--as a favier, Marse Rupert--as a_favier_. 'Tain't pay I wants, sah; it's a fambly name an' a famblycircle. "

"It's not much of a circle, Uncle Matt, " said Rupert, looking round atthe bareness of the big room he sat in. 

"'Tain't much fer you, suh, " answered Uncle Matthew, "but it's a pow'fledeal fer me in dese yere days. Ef yer don't take me, fust thing I knowsI'll be drivin' or waitin' on some Mr. Nobody from New York or Boston, an' seems like I shouldn't know how to stand it. 'Scuse me a-recommendin'myself, sah--I _look_ ole, but I ain't as ole as I look; I'se l'arnt tocook, sah, from three womens what I was married to, an' I knows my placean' how to keep house like it orter be kep'. Will you try me a mont', Marse De Willoughby--will you try me a week?"

Rupert tried him and never regretted the venture. In fact, Uncle Matt'saccomplishments were varied for practical reasons. He had been in histime first house servant, then coachman; he had married at twenty a womanof forty, who had been a sort of female mulatto Vatel. When she had died, having overheated herself and caught cold on the occasion of a series ofgreat dinners given at a triumphant political crisis, he had taken forhis second wife the woman whose ambition it had been to rival her in herculinary arts. His third marriage had been even more distinguished. Hiswife had been owned by some extravagantly rich Creoles in New Orleans, and had even lived with them during a year spent in France, therebygaining unheard-of culinary accomplishments. Matthew had always declaredthat he loved her the best of the three. Those matrimonial ventures hadbeen a liberal education to him. He had learned to cook almost as well ashis first, and from his second and third he had inherited methods andrecipes which were invaluable. He seemed to have learned to doeverything. He dismissed the slatternly negro girl and took upon himselfthe duties of both man and woman servant. The house gradually wore a newaspect--dust disappeared, windows were bright, the scant furniture wasarranged to the best possible advantage, the scant meals were marvels ofperfect cookery and neat serving. Having prepared a repast, Uncle Mattdonned an ancient but respectable coat and stood behind his youngmaster's chair with dignity. The dramatic nature of his race was stronglyappealed to by the situation in which he found himself. A negro of hiskind is perfectly capable of building a romance out of much smallermaterials. The amiable vanity which gave such exalted value to all thebelongings of their masters in their days of slavery, and which sodelighted in all picturesqueness of surrounding, is the best offoundations for romances. From generation to generation certaincircumstances and qualities had conferred a sort of distinction upontheir humbleness; to be owned by an aristocrat, to live in a great house, to wait upon young masters who were handsome and accomplished and youngmistresses who were beautiful and surrounded by worshippers, to beindispensable to "de Jedge" or "de Cun'l, " or to travel as attendantbecause some brilliant young son or lovely young daughter could find noone who would wait on them as "Uncle Matt" or "Aunt Prissy" could--thesethings made life to be desired and filled it with excitement andimportance. 

To the halcyon days in which such delights were possible Uncle Mattbelonged. He was too old to look forward; he wanted his past again; andto find himself the sole faithful retainer in a once brilliant household, with the chance of making himself indispensable to the one remainingscion of an old name, assisted him to feel that he was a relic ofdeparted grandeur. 

His contrivances were numberless. In a corner of what he called the "backgyarden" he constructed an enclosure for chickens. He bought two or threeyoung fowls, and by marvels of management founded a family with them. Thefamily once founded, he made exchanges with friendly coloured matrons ofthe vicinity, with such results in breeding that "Uncle Matt's" chickensbecame celebrated fowls. He displayed the same gifts in the management ofthe garden. In a few months after his arrival, Rupert began to findhimself sitting down before the kind of meal he had not expected tocontemplate again. 

"Uncle Matt, " he said, "where do I get fried chicken and vegetables likethese--and honey and fresh butter and cream? I don't pay for them. "

"Yes, you do, sah. Yo' property pays for 'em. Dat 'ar gyarden, sah, isblack with richness--jest black. It's a forchen for a pusson what kincontrive an' make fren's, an' trade, an' kin flourish a spade. Dar'sfruit-trees an' grape-vines dar--an' room enuf to plant anything--an'richness enuf to make peas an' taters an' beets an' cabbages jest jumpout o' de yarth. I've took de liberty of makin' a truck patch, an' I'vegot me a chicken coop, an' I've had mighty good luck with my aigs an' mytruck--an' I've got things to trade with the women folks for what I_ain't_ got. De ladies likes tradin', an' dey's mighty neighbourly aboutyeah, 'memberin' yo' fambly, sah. "

Rupert leaned back in his chair and broke into a hearty, boyish laugh, which it was very good both to see and hear. He very seldom laughed. 

"I wish I was a genius like you, Matt, " he said. "What luck I'm in tohave you. Raising chickens and vegetables, and negotiating with your ladyfriends for me! I feel like a caliph with a grand vizier. I never tastedsuch chicken or such waffles in my life!"

"I'm settin' some tukkey-eggs now--under de yaller hen, " said Matt, witha slyly exultant grin. "She's a good mother, the yaller hen; an' de waydem fruit-trees is gwine ter be loaded is a sight. Aunt Mary Field, she'stradin' with me a'ready agin fruit puttin'-up time. "

Rupert got up from his chair. He caught old Matt's dusky, yellow-palmedpaw in his hand and shook it hard. His gloomy young face had changed itsaspect, his eyes suddenly looked like his mother's--and Delia Vanuxem hadbeen said to have the loveliest soft eyes in all the South. 

"Matt, " he said, "I couldn't do without you. It isn't only _that_, " witha gesture towards the table, "you--it's almost as if you had come to saveme. "

"Ole nigger man like me, Marse Rupert, " said Uncle Matt, "savin' of afine young gentleman like what you is! How's I gwine ter do it?" But hiswrinkled face looked tremulous with emotion. "Times is gwine ter changefor you, they is, an' Matt's gwine ter stay by yer till dat come to pass. Marse Rupert, " looking at him curiously, "I 'clar to Gawd you look likeyo' young mammy did. Yo' ain't always, but jes' dish yer minnit yo'does--an' yer did jes' now when yer laf'. "

"Do I look like her?" said Rupert. "I'm glad of it. I want to be likeher. Say, Uncle Matt, whenever I look or speak or act like her, you tellme. "

When in the course of neighbourly conversation Matt mentioned this to hisfriend Aunt Mary Fields, she put a new colour upon it. 

"He worshipped his maw, an' she jest 'dored down on him, " she said; "but'tain't only he want look like her, he _doan_' want look like his paw. Ev'one know what Cun'l de Courcy was--an' dat chile jest 'spise him. Hewas allus a mons'ous proud chile, and when de Cun'l broke loose an' wenton one o' his t'ars, it mos' 'stroyed dat boy wid de disgracefulness. Dar's chil'en as doan' keer or notice--but dat boy, it 'most 'stroyedhim. "

The big, empty-sounding house was kept orderly and spotless, the backgarden exhibited such vegetables as no one else owned, the fruit-treesand grape-vines throve, in time the flower-beds began to bloombrilliantly, the rose-bushes and shrubs were trimmed, the paths swept, and people began to apply to Uncle Matt for slips and seeds. He himselfbecame quite young again, so inspired was he by his importance andpopularity. When he went into the town upon errands, people stopped totalk to him; the young business or professional men called him into theiroffices to have a chat with him. He was such a respectable relic of thetimes which had been "better days" to all of them, that there were thosewho were almost confidential with him. Uncle Matt would always understandtheir sentiments and doctrines, and he was always to be relied on for anysmall service. Such a cocktail or julep no one else could prepare, andthere were numerous subtle accomplishments in the matter of mixing liquidrefreshments which would have earned a reputation for any man. 

There was no more familiar figure than his in the market or businessstreets of the hot, sunshine-flooded little town, which the passingarmies had left so battered and deserted. 

Uncle Matt knew all the stories in Delisleville. He knew how one housewas falling to pieces for lack of repairs; he heard of the horses thathad been sold or had died of old age and left their owners without abeast to draw their rickety buggies or carriages; he was deeplyinterested in the failing fortunes of what had once been the mostimportant "store" in the town, and whose owner had been an aristocraticmagnate, having no more undignified connection with the place than thatof provider of capital. 

As he walked up Main Street on his way to market, with his basket on hisarm, he saw who had been able to "lay in new stock" and who had not. Hesaw the new sign-boards hung outside small houses which had been turnedinto offices. He knew what young scion of a respectable family had begun"doctoring" or "set up as a lawyer. " Sometimes he even dropped in andmade brief visits of respectful congratulation. 

"But, " he said privately to his young master, "de air ob de atmosphere, it's jest full of dem young lawyers an' doctors. Dar don't seem to benothin' else for a gen'leman's sons to do but to kyore people or go tolaw for 'em. Of cose dey oughtn't ter hab ter work, gen'lemen oughtn'ter. Dey didn't usen to heb ter, but now dey is gotter. Lawdy, Marse Rupert, you'll hatter 'scuse me, but de young lawyers, an' de young doctors, deyis scattered about dish yer D'lisleville!"

There were certain new sign-boards which excited him to great interest. There was one he never passed without pausing to examine and reflect uponit. 

When he came within range of it on his way up the street, his pace wouldslacken, and when he reached it he would stop at the edge of the pavementand stand with his basket on his arm, gazing at the lettering with anabsorbed air of interest and curiosity. It read, "Milton January, ClaimAgent. " He could not read, but he had heard comments made upon theprofession of the owner of this sign-board which had filled him withspeculative thought. He shared the jealousy of strangers who came from"the North" to Delisleville and set up offices, which much moreintelligent persons than himself burned with. He resented them asintruders, and felt that their well-dressed air and alert, business-likemanner was an insult to departed fortunes. 

"What they come fer?" he used to grumble. "Takin' away trade an' businesswhen they ain't none left for de proper people nohow. How's we gwine terlive if all New York City an' Bos'n an' Philadelphy pours in?"

"They are not pouring in very fast, Uncle Matt, " Rupert answered himonce. "Perhaps it would be better for us if they did. They bring _some_money, at any rate. There are only one or two of them, and one is a claimagent. "

"Dat's jest what I wants ter know, " said Matt. "What's dey layin' claimto? What right dey got ter claim anythin'? Gawd knows dar ain't much terclaim. "

Rupert laughed and gave him a friendly, boyish slap on the back. 

"They are not claiming things _from_ people, but _for_ them. They look upclaims against the Government and try to get indemnity for them. Theyprove claims to back pay, and for damages and losses, and try to make theGovernment refund. "

Uncle Matt rubbed his head a minute, then he looked up eagerly. 

"Cun'l De Willoughby, now, " he said; "doan' you s'pose dar's some backpay owin' to him for de damage dat yaller fever done him wot he donecotch from de army?"

Rupert laughed a little bitterly. 

"No, " he said, "I'm afraid not. "

"What dey gwine to refun', den?" said Matt. "Dat's what I'd like ter fin'out. Dis hyer idee of refun'in' please me mightily. I'd be pow'fle gladto come bang up agin' some refun'in' myself. "

From that time his interest in Milton January, Claim Agent, increasedweek by week. He used to loiter about talking groups if he caught thesound of his name, in the hope of gathering information. He was quiteshrewd enough to realise his own entire ignorance of many subjects, andhe had the pride which prevented his being willing to commit himself. 

"I ain't nothin' but a ole nigger, " he used to say. "I ain't had noeddication like some er dese yere smarties what kin read an' cipher an'do de double shuffle in de copy-book. Matt ain't never rub his back 'ginno college wall. Bes' thing he knows is dat he doan' know nothin'. Dat'sa pow'fle useful piece o' l'arnin' to help a man, black or white, frommakin' a fool er hesself bigger dan what de good Lawd 'tended him fer terbe. Matt he gradyuated in dat 'ar knowledge an' got he stiffikit. When degood Lawd turn a man out a fool, he got ter _be_ a fool, but he needn'ter be a bigger fool den what he _gotter_. "

So he listened in the market, where he went every morning to bargain forhis bit of beefsteak, or fish, or butter, and where the men and women whokept the stalls knew him as well as they knew each other. They all likedhim and welcomed him as he approached in his clean old clothes, hismarket basket on his arm, his hat set rather knowingly upon his grizzledwool. He was, in fact, rather a flirtatious old party, and was counted agreat wit, and was full of a shrewd humour as well as of grandiloquentcompliment. 

"I has a jocalder way er talkin', I ain't gwine ter deny, " he would saywhen complimented upon his popularity with the fair sex, "an' dey ain'tnothin' de ladies likes mo' dan a man what's jocalder. Dey loves jokin'an' dey loves to laff. It's de way er de sect. A man what cayn't bejocalder with 'em, he hain't no show. "

"What dis hyer claim agentin' I's hearin' so much talk about?" heenquired of a group one morning. "What _I_ wants is ter get inter deinnards of de t'ing, an' den I'se gwine to claim sump'n fer myse'f. Ifdar's claimin' gwine on, I'se a gen'leman what's gwine to be on decamp-meetin' groun', an' fo'most 'mong de shouters. "

"What did ye lose by the war, Uncle Matt?" said a countryman, who wasleaning against his market waggon of "produce" and chewing tobacco. "Ifye kin hunt up suthin' ye lost, ye kin put in a claim fer the vally ofit, an' mebbe get Government to give ye indemnity. Mebbe ye kin an' mebbeye cayn't. They ain't keen to do it, but mebbe ye could work it through asmart agent like January. They say he's as smart as they make 'em. "

It was a broiling July morning; only the people who were obliged to leavetheir houses for some special reason were to be seen in the streets; themarket waggons which had come in from the country laden with vegetablesand chickens and butter were drawn up under the shadow of the markethouse, that their forlorn horses or mules might escape the glaring hotsun. The liveliest business hour had passed, and about the waggons agroup of market men and women and two or three loiterers were idling inthe shade, waiting for chance-belated customers. There was a generaldrawing near when Uncle Matt began his conversation. They always wantedto hear what he had to say, and always responded with loud, sympatheticguffaws to his "jocalder" remarks. 

"He's sech a case, Uncle Matt is, " the women would say, "I never seensich a case. "

When the countryman spoke, Uncle Matt put on an expression of dignifiedthoughtfulness. It was an expression his audience were entirely familiarwith and invariably greeted with delight. 

"Endurin' of de war, " he said, "I los' severial things. Fust thing Imemberize of losin' was a pa'r of boots. Dar was a riggiment passin' atde time, an' de membiers of dat riggiment had been footin' it long enoughto have wo' out a good deal er shoe-leather. They was thusty an' hungry, an' come to de halt near my cabin to require if dar warn't no vittleslyin' roun' loose for de good er de country. When dey was gone, my newboots was gone, what I'd jest brung home from de cobbler. "

His audience broke into a shout of enjoyment. 

"Dat 'ar incerdent stirred up my paketriotit feelin's consider'ble at demoment. I couldn't seem to see it in de light what p'raps I oughter seenit in. I rared roun' a good deal, an' fer a moment er two, I didn't seemtar mind which side beat de oder. Jest dat 'casion. I doan' say desentiment continnered on, but jest dat 'casion seemed ter me like dar wasa Yank somewhars es I wouldn't hev ben agin seein' takin' a whuppin' fromsome'un, Secesh or no Secesh. "

"What else did ye lose, Unc' Matt?" someone said when the laugh dieddown. 

"Well, I lose a wife--kinder cook dat dar ain't no 'demnity kin make upfer when de Lawd's removed 'em. An' 'pears to me right dar, dat if Iwusn't a chu'ch member, I shed be led on ter say dat, considerin' what askaseness er good cooks dar is, seems like de good Lawd's almost wastefulan' stravagant, de way he lets 'em die off. Three uv 'em he 'moved fromme to a better worl'. Not as I'm a man what'd wanter be sackerligious;but 'pears to me dar was mo' wuk fur 'em to do in dis hyer dark worl' ersin dan in de realms er glory. I may be wrong, but dat's how it seem to apore nigger like me. "

"The Government won't pay for yer wife, Matt, " said the owner of themarket waggon. 

"Dat dey won't, en dat dey cayn't, " said Matt. "Dat las' woman's gumbosoup warn't a thing to be 'demnified fer, dat it warn't. But what I'm aaimin' at is to fin' out what dey _will_ pay fer, en how much. Dar wasone mawnin' I sot at my do' reflectin' on de Gawsp'l, an' de Yanks comejest a tarin' down de road, licketty switch, licketty switch, yellin'like de debil let loose, en firin' of dere pistols, an' I gotter 'fess Ilos' a heap a courage dat time--an' I los' a heap o' breath runnin' 'wayfrom 'em en outer sight. Now I know de Gov'ment not gwine ter pay me ferlosin' dem things, but what _is_ dey gwine pay for losin'?"

"Property, they say--crops 'n' houses, 'n' barns, 'n' truck wuth money. "

Uncle Matt removed his hat, and looked into the crown of it as if forinstruction before he wiped his forehead and put it on again. 

"Aye-yi! Dey is, is dey?" he said. "Property--en houses, en barns, entruck wuth money? Dey'll hev a plenty to pay, ef dey begins dat game, won't dey? Dey'll hev ter dig down inter de Gov'ment breeches pocketpretty deep, dat dey will. Doan' see how de Pres'dent gwine ter do itout'n what dey 'lows him, less'n dey 'lows him mighty big pocket money. "

"'Tain't the President, Matt, " said one of the crowd. "It's the Nation. "

"Oh, it's de Nation!" said Matt. "De Nation. Well, Mr. Nation gwine fin'he got plenty ter do--early _en_ late. "

This was not the last time he led the talk in the direction of Governmentclaims, and in the course of his marketings and droppings into variousstores and young lawyers' offices, he gathered a good deal ofinformation. Claims upon the Government had not been so far exploited inthose days as they were a little later, and knowledge of such businessand its processes was not as easily obtainable by unbusiness-likepersons. 

One morning, as he stood at the street corner nearest the Claim Agent'soffice, a little man came out of the place, and by chance stopped to coolhimself for a few moments under the shade of the very maple tree UncleMatt had chosen. 

He was a very small man, wearing very large pantaloons, and he had alittle countenance whose expression was a curious combination of rusticvacancy and incongruous slyness. He was evidently from the country, andUncle Matt's respectable, in fact, rather aristocratic air, apparentlyattracted his attention. 

"'Scuse me, sah, " said Matt, "'scuse me addressin' of you, but dem arClaim Agents----?"

"Hev ye got a claim?" said the little man in words that were slow, butwith an air that was sharp. "I mean, has anyone ye work fur got one?"

"Well, sah, " answered Matt, "I ain't sartain, but----"

"Ye'd better make sartain, " said the little man. "Bein' es the thing'sstarted the way it hes, anyone es might hev a claim an' lets it lie, is aderned fool. I come from over the mountain. My name's Stamps, and _I've_got one. "

Uncle Matt regarded him with interest--not exactly with respect, but withinterest. 

Stamps took off his battered broad-brimmed hat, wiped his moist foreheadand expectorated, leaning against the tree. 

"Thar's people in this town as is derned fools, " he remarked, sententiously. "Thar's people in most every town in the Union as isderned fools. Most everybody's got a claim to suthin', if they'd only gotthe common horse sense ter look it up. Why, look at that yoke o' oxen o'mine--the finest yoke o' steers in Hamlin County. Would hev took fustticket at any Agricultural Fair in the United States. I ain't goin' tosacceryfist them steers to no Stars an' Stripes as ever floated. TheGuv'ment's _got_ to pay me the wuth of 'em down to the last cent. "

He gave Matt a sharp look with a hint of inquiry in it, as if he wasasking either his hearer or himself a question, and was not entirelycertain of the answer. 

"Now thar's D'Willerby, " he went on. "Big Tom--Tom D'Willerby lostenough, the Lord knows. Fust one army, 'n' then another layin' holt onhis stock as it come over the road from one place an' another, a-eatin'of it up 'n' a-wearin' his goods made up into shirts 'n' the like-'n' himleft a'most cleaned out o' everythin'. Why, Tom D'Willerby----"

"'Scuse me, sah, " interrupted Matt, "but did you say De Willoughby?"

"I said D'Willerby, " answered Mr. Stamps. "That's what he's called at theCross-roads. "

There he stopped and stared at Matt a moment. 

"My young master's name's De Willoughby, sah, " Matt said; "'n' de namessoun's mighty simulious when dey's spoke quick. My young Marse, Rupert DeWilloughby, he de gran'son er Jedge De Willoughby, an' de son an' heir erCun'l De Courcy De Willoughby what died er yaller fever at Nashville. "

"Well, I'm doggoned, " the little man remarked, "I'd orter thought erthet. This yere's Delisleville, 'n' I reckerlect hearin' when fust hecome to Hamlin thet he was some kin to some big bugs down terD'lisleville, 'n' his father was a Jedge--doggoned ef I didn't!"

CHAPTER XIX

Rupert De Willoughby was lying upon the grass in the garden under theshade of a tree. The "office" had been stifling hot, and there had beeneven less to suggest any hope of possible professional business than theblankness of most days held. There never was any business, but at rareintervals someone dropped in and asked him a question or so, his answersto which, by the exercise of imagination, might be regarded as comingunder the head of "advice. " His clients had no money, however--nobody hadany money; and his affairs were assuming a rather desperate aspect. 

He had come home through the hot streets with his straw hat pushed back, the moist rings of his black hair lying on a forehead lined with a ratherdark frown. He went into the garden and threw himself on the grass in theshade. He could be physically at ease there, at least. The old garden hadalways been a pleasure to him, and on a hot summer day it was full ofsweet scents and sounds he was fond of. At this time there were tanglesof honeysuckle and bushes heavy with mock-orange; an arbour near him wascovered by a multiflora rose, weighted with masses of its small, delicateblossoms; within a few feet of it a bed of mignonette grew, and thesun-warmed breathing of all these fragrant things was a luxuriousaccompaniment to the booming of the bees, blundering and buzzing in andout of their flowers, and the summer languid notes of the stray birdswhich lit on the branches and called to each other among the thickleaves. 

At twenty-three a man may be very young. Rupert was both young and old. His silent resentment of the shadow which he felt had always rested uponhim, had become a morbid thing. It had led him to seclude himself fromthe gay little Delisleville world and cut himself off from youngfriendships. After his mother--who had understood his temperament and hisresentment--had died, nobody cared very much for him. The youth ofDelisleville was picturesque, pleasure-loving, and inconsequent. It hadlittle parties at which it danced; it had little clubs which were vaguelymusical or literary; and it had an ingenuous belief in the talents andgraces displayed at these gatherings. The feminine members of thesesocieties were sometimes wonderfully lovely. They were very young, andhad soft eyes and soft Southern voices, and were the owners of thetiniest arched feet and the slenderest little, supple waists in theworld. Until they were married--which usually happened very early--theywere always being made love to and knew that this was what God had madethem for--that they should dance a great deal, that they should have manyflowers and bonbons laid at their small feet, that beautiful youths withsentimental tenor voices should serenade them with guitars on moonlightnights, which last charming thing led them to congratulate themselves onhaving been born in the South, as such romantic incidents were not afeature of life in New York and Boston. The masculine members wereusually lithe and slim, and often of graceful height; they frequentlypossessed their share of good looks, danced and rode well, and could singlove songs. As it was the portion of their fair companions to be madelove to, it was theirs to make love. They often wrote verses, and theyalso were given to arched insteps and eyes with very perceptible fringes. For some singular reason, it seems that Southern blood tends to expressitself in fine eyes and lashes. 

But with this simply emotional and happy youth young De Willoughby hadnot amalgamated. Once he had gone to a dance, and his father the Colonelhad appeared upon the scene as a spectator in a state of exaggeratedlygraceful intoxication. He was in the condition when he was extremelygallant and paid flowery compliments to each pair of bright eyes hechanced to find himself near. 

When he first caught sight of him, Rupert was waltzing with a lovelylittle creature who was a Vanuxem and was not unlike the Delia Tom DeWilloughby had fallen hopelessly in love with. When he saw his father aflash of scarlet shot over the boy's face, and, passing, left him lookingvery black and white. His brow drew down into its frown, and he began todance with less spirit. When the waltz was at an end, he led his partnerto her seat and stood a moment silently before her, glancing under hisblack lashes at the Colonel, who had begun to quote Thomas Moore and wasdeclaiming "The Young May Moon" to a pretty creature with a ratheralarmed look in her uplifted eyes. It was the first dance at which shehad appeared since she had left school. 

Suddenly Rupert turned to his partner. He made her a bow; he was agraceful young fellow. 

"Thank you, Miss Vanuxem. Thank you for the dance. Good-night. I am goinghome. "

"Are you?" exclaimed little Miss Vanuxem. "But it is so early, Mr. DeWilloughby. "

"I have stayed just ten minutes too long now, " said Rupert. "Thank youagain, Miss Vanuxem. Good-night. "

He walked across the room to Colonel De Willoughby. 

"I am going home, " he said, in a low, fierce voice; "you had better comewith me. "

"No sush thing, " answered the Colonel, gaily. "On'y just come. Don't goto roosh with shickens. Just quoting Tom Moore to Miss Baxter. 

 Bes' of all ways to lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear. "

The little beauty, who had turned with relieved delight to take the armof a new partner, looked at her poetic admirer apologetically. 

"Mr. Gaines has come for me, Colonel De Willoughby, " she said; "I amengaged to him for this dance. " And she slipped away clinging almosttenderly to the arm of her enraptured escort, who felt himself suddenlytransformed into something like a hero. 

"Colonel De Willoughby is so flattering, " she said; "and he has such aqueer way of paying compliments. I'm almost frightened of him. "

"I will see that he does not speak to you again, " said her partner, withan air of magnificent courage. "He should not have been allowed to comein. You, of course, could not understand, but--the men who are here willprotect the ladies who are their guests. "

Rupert gave his father a long look and turned on his heel. He went home, and the next time the Terpsichorean Society invited him to a dance hedeclined to go. 

"Nice fellow I am to go to such places, " he said to himself. "Liable tobring a drunken lunatic down upon them at any minute. No, the devil takeit all, I'm going to stay at home!"

He stayed at home, and gradually dropped out of the young, glowing, innocently frivolous and happy world altogether, and it carried on itsfestivities perfectly well without him. The selfishness of lovely youthis a guileless, joyous thing, and pathetic inasmuch as maturity realisesthe undue retribution which befalls it as it learns of life. 

When poverty and loneliness fell upon him, the boy had no youthfulameliorations, even though he was so touchingly young. Occasionally someold friend of his grandfather's encountered him somewhere and gave himrather florid good advice; some kindly matron, perhaps, asked him to comeand see her; but there was no one in the place who could do anythingpractical. Delisleville had never been a practical place, and now its dayseemed utterly over. Its gentlemanly pretence at business had receivedblows too heavy to recover from until times had lapsed; in some of thestreets tiny tufts of grass began to show themselves between the stones. 

As he had walked back in the heat, Rupert had observed these tiny tuftsof green with a new sense of their meaning. He was thinking of them as helay upon the grass, the warm scent of the mock-orange blossoms and roses, mingled with honeysuckle in the air, the booming of the bees among themultiflora blooms was in his ears. 

"What can I do?" he said to himself. "There is nothing to be done here. There never was much, and now there is nothing. I can't loaf about andstarve. I won't beg from people, and if I would, I haven't a relationleft who isn't a beggar himself--and there are few enough of them left. "

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a well-worn greenback. Hestraightened out its creases cautiously and looked at it. 

"I've got two dollars, " he said, "and no prospect of getting any more. Even Matt can't make two dollars last long. "

The latch of the side gate clicked and the gate opened. Presently UncleMatt appeared round the rose-bushes. He had his market basket on his armand wore a thoughtful countenance. 

"Uncle Matt!" Rupert called out to him. "I wish you would come here. "

Notwithstanding his darkling moods, he was in a subtle way singularlylike Delia Vanuxem. He needed love and tenderness, and he was boy enoughyet to be unhappy and desolate through lack of them, though without quiteknowing why. He knew Uncle Matt loved him, and the affectionate care theold man surrounded him with was like a warm robe wrapped about a creaturesuffering from chill. He had not analyzed his feeling himself; he onlyknew that he liked to hear his footsteps as he pottered about the house, and when he was at his dreariest, he was glad to see him come in, and totalk a little to him. 

Uncle Matt came towards him briskly. He set his basket down and took offhis hat. 

"Marse Rupert, " he said, "dis hyer's a pow'fle scorcher of a mawnin'. Demyoung lawyers as shets up dey office an' comes home to lie in de grass inde shade, dey is follerin' up dey perfession in de profitablestway--what'll be likely to bring 'em de mos' clients, 'cause, sho's yo'bawn, dere's sunstroke an' 'cussion or de brain just lopin' roun' distown--en a little hot brick office ain't no place for a young man whatgot any dispect fur his next birfday. Dat's so. "

"I haven't much respect for mine, " said Rupert; "I've had twenty-two toomany--just twenty-two. "

"'Scusin' me sayin' it, sah, but dat ain't no way ter talk. A man boun'to have some dispect for his birfday--he _boun'_ to! Birfdays gotter betook keer on. Whar's a man when he runs out of 'em?"

"He'd better run out of them before he runs out of everything else, " saidRupert. "Matt, I've just made two dollars this month. "

He looked at the old man with a restless appeal in his big, deer-likeeyes. 

"I'm very sorry, Matt, " he said, "I'm terribly sorry, but you know--wecan't go on. "

Uncle Matthew looked down at the grass with a reflective air. 

"Marse Rupert, did you never heah nothin' 'bout your Uncle Marse ThomasDe Willoughby?"

Rupert was silent a moment before he answered, but it was not because herequired time to search his memory. 

"Yes, " he said, and then was silent again. He had heard of poor Tom ofthe big heart from his mother, and there had been that in her soft speechof him which had made the great, tender creature very real. Even in hischildhood his mother had been his passion, as he had been hers. Neitherof them had had others to share their affection, and they were by naturecreatures born to love. His first memory had been of looking up into thesoft darkness of the tender eyes which were always brooding over him. Hehad been little more than a baby when he had somehow known that they werevery sorrowful, and had realised that he loved them more because of theirsorrow. He had been little older when he found out the reason of theirsadness, and from that time he had fallen into the habit of watchingthem, and knowing their every look. He always remembered the look theywore when she spoke of Tom De Willoughby, and it had been a very touchingone. 

"Yes, " he said to Uncle Matt, "I have heard of him. "

"Dar was a time, a long way back, Marse Rupert--'fore you wasborned--when I seemed to year a good deal 'bout Marse Thomas. Dat waswhen he went away in dat curi's fashion. Nobody knowed _whar_ he went, an' nobody knowed quite _why_. It wus jes' afore ye' maw an' paw wusmarried. Some said him an' de Jedge qua'lled 'cause Marse Thomas he saidhe warn't gwine ter be no medical student, an' _some_ said he was in lovewith some young lady dat wouldn't 'cept of him. "

"Did they?" said Rupert. 

"Dat dey did, " Matt said; "an' a lot moah. But ev'rybody think it mightystrange him a-gwine, an' no one never huntin' him up afterwards. Seemedmost like dey didn't keer nothin' 'bout him. "

"They didn't, damn them!" said Rupert, with sudden passion. "And he wasworth the whole lot. "

"Dat what make I say what I gwine ter, " said Matt, with some eagerness. "What I heerd about Marse Thomas make me think he must be er mighty finegen'leman, an' one what'd be a good fren' to anyone. An' dishyer ve'ymawnin' I heerd sump'n mo' about him. "

Rupert raised himself upon his elbow. 

"About Uncle Tom!" he exclaimed. "You have heard something about UncleTom to-day?"

"I foun' out whar he went, Marse Rupert, " said Matt, much roused. "Ifoun' out whar he _is_ dishyer ve'y instep. He's in Hamlin County, keepin' sto' an' post-office at Talbot's Cross-roads; an', frum what Iheah, Marse Tom De Willoughby de mos' pop'larist gen'leman an' mos'looked up ter in de county. "

"Who--who did you hear it from?" demanded Rupert. 

Uncle Matt put his foot upon a rustic seat near and leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee and making impressive gestures with hisyellow-palmed old hand. 

"It was dishyer claimin' dat brung it about, " he said; "dishyer claimin'an' 'demnification what's been a-settin' pow'fle heavy on my min' furlong 'nuff. Soon's I yeerd tell on it, Marse Rupert, it set me tersteddyin'. I been a-watchin' out an' axin' questions fur weeks, an' whenI fin' out----"

"But what has that to do with Uncle Tom?" cried Rupert. 

"A heap, Marse Rupert. Him an' you de onliest heirs to de De Willoughbyestate; an' ef a little hoosier what's los' a yoke er oxen kin come downon de Guv'ment for 'demnification, why can't de heirs of a gen'leman datlos' what wus gwine ter be de biggest fortune in de South'n States. What's come er dem gold mines, Marse Rupert, dat wus gwine ter make yo'grandpa a millionaire--whar is dey? What de Yankees done with dem gol'mines?"

"They weren't gold mines, Uncle Matt, " said Rupert; "they were coalmines; and the Yankees didn't carry them away. They only smashed up themachinery and ruined things generally. "

But he laid back upon the grass again with his hands clasped behind hishead and his brow drawn down thoughtfully. 

"Coal mines _er_ gol' mines, " said Uncle Matt. "Guv'ment gotter 'demnifyef things er managed right; en dat what make me think er Marse Thomas DeWilloughby when dat little Stamps feller said somep'n dat soun' like hisname. 'Now dar's D'Willerby, ' he ses, 'big Tom D'Willerby, ' en I jestjumped on him. 'Did you say De Willoughby, sah?' I ses, an' from dat Ifoun' out de rest. "

"I should like to see him, " said Rupert; "I always thought I should liketo know where he was--if he was alive. "

"Why doan' you go an' see him, den?" said Matt. "Jest take yo' foot inyo' han' an' start out. Hamlin County ain't fur, Marse Rupert, an' deCross-roads Pos'-office mighty easy to fin'; and when you fin' it an' yo'uncle settin' in de do', you jest talk ter him 'bout dem gol' mines an'dat claimin' business an' ax his devise 'bout 'em. An' ef yer doan' fin'yo'se'f marchin' on ter Wash'n'ton city an' a-talkin' to de Pres'dent an'de Senators, de whole kit an' bilin' of 'em, Marse Thomas ain't debuz'ness gen'l'man what I believe he is. "

Rupert lay still and looked straight before him, apparently at a bluebirdbalanced on a twig, but it was not the bird he was thinking of. 

"You'se young, Marse Rupert, an' it 'ud be purty dang'rous for aonexperienced young gen'l'man ter lan' down in de midst er all demonprinciple' Yankees with a claim to hundreds of thousan's of dollars. Marse Thomas, he's a settled, stiddy gen'l'man, en, frum what I hears, Iguess he's got a mighty 'stablished-lookin' 'pearance. "

"I should like to see him, " Rupert reflected aloud. "I should like to seehim. "

CHAPTER XX

The years had passed for the child Sheba so sweetly, and had been so fullof simple joys and pleasures, that they seemed a panorama of lovelychanging seasons, each a thing of delight. There was the spring, when shetrotted by Tom's side into the garden and he showed her the little, pale-green points of the crocuses, hyacinths, and tulips pushing theirway up through the moist brown earth, and when he carried her in his bigarms into the woods on the hillsides, and they saw the dogwood coveredwith big white flowers and the wild plum-trees snowed over with delicateblooms, and found the blue violets thick among the wet grass and leaves, and the frail white wind-flowers quivering on their stems. As they wentabout in this new fairyland, which came every year, and which stillseemed always a surprise, it was their habit to talk to each other agreat deal. The confidences they had exchanged when the child had notbeen able to speak, and which Tom had nevertheless understood, wereenchanting things when she became older and they strayed about togetheror sat by the fire. Her child thoughts and fancies might have been thoseof some little faun or dryad She grew up among green things, with leaveswaving above and around her, the sun shining upon her, and the mountainsseeming to stand on guard, looking down at her from day to day, from yearto year. From behind one mountain the sun rose every morning, and shealways saw it; and behind another it sank at night. After the spring camethe summer, when the days were golden and drowsy and hot, and there wereroses and other flowers everywhere; wild roses in the woods and by thewaysides, heavy-headed beauties in their own garden, and all the beds andvines a fine riot of colour. After these there were blackberries thick ontheir long brambles, and wild grapes in the woods, and presently adelicious snap of cold in the clear air night and morning, and the treeswere dropping golden, amber, and scarlet leaves, while under the paleyellow ones which rustled beneath the chestnut-trees, there were brown, glossy nuts, which fell one by one with a delightful suddenness of soundat irregular intervals. There were big chestnut-trees in the woods neartheir house, and Tom and Sheba used to go before breakfast to look forthe nuts which had fallen in the night. Hamlin County always rose atsunrise, or before it, and to go out in the heavenly fresh morning airand walk through the rustling, thickly fallen yellow leaves under thetrees, making little darts of joy at the brown, glossy things burstingthrough their big burrs, was a delicious, exciting thing. Mornin's hotbreakfast held keen delights when they returned to it. 

When the big wood-fires were lighted and there was snow and rain outside, and yams and chestnuts to roast in the ashes, and stories to be told andtalked over in the glow of the red birch-log and snapping, flaminghickory sticks, the child used to feel as if she and Uncle Tom were evennearer together and more comfortable than at any other time. 

"Uncle Tom, " she said to him, as she was standing in the circle of hisarm on one such night, when she was about ten years old. "Uncle Tom, wedo love each other in the winter, don't we?"

"Yes, we do, Sheba, " answered Tom. "And we're pretty partial to eachother even in the summer. "

"We love each other at all the times, " she said. "And every morning thatI get up I love you more than I did when I went to bed--_every_ morning, Uncle Tom. "

Tom kissed her. He remembered what he had said one morning in the cabinin Blair's Hollow ten years before. 

"Perhaps, if there's no one to come between us, she may be fond of me. "

She was fond of him. He was her very little life itself. No one had evercome between--nothing ever could. 

She had by that time shot up into a tall, slender slip of a girl-child. She was passing, even with a kind of distinction, through the stage ofbeing all long, slim legs and big eyes. The slim legs were delicatelymodelled and the big eyes were like pools of gold-brown water, fringedwith rushes. 

"I never seen a young 'un at thet thar young colty age es was es han'somees thet child o' Big Tom's, " Mis' Doty often remarked. 

By the frequenters of the Cross-roads Post-office she was considered, aswas her protector, a county institution. When she had reached three yearsold, she had been measured against the wall, and each year her increaseof inches was recorded amid lively demonstrations of interest. Thesmallness of her feet had also been registered, and the thickness andgrowth of her curling hair ranked as a subject of discussion only secondin interest to the development of crops. 

But this affection notwithstanding, a curious respect for her existed. She had played among them in the store in her little dusty pinafore; oneand all of them had given her rustic offerings, bringing her specialgifts of yellow popcorn ears, or abnormal yams unexpectedly developed intheir own gardens, or bags of hickory nuts; but somehow they did notthink or speak of her as they did of each other's children. 

Tom had built a comfortable white house, over whose verandah honeysucklesand roses soon clambered and hung. In time the ground enclosed about ithad a curious likeness to the bowery unrestraint of the garden he hadplayed in during his childhood. It was a pleasure to him to lay it out onthe old plan and to plant japonicas, flowering almonds, and syringabushes, as they had grown in the days when he had played under them as achild, or lounged on the grass near them as a boy. He and Sheba plantedeverything themselves--or, rather, Sheba walked about with him or stoodby his side and talked while he worked. In time she knew almost as wellas he did the far-away garden he took as his model. She learned to knowthe place by heart. 

"Were you a little boy then, Uncle Tom?" she would say, "when there was amock-orange and a crape myrtle next to the big yellow rose-bush?"

There were even times when he found her memory was better than his own, and she could correct him. 

"Ah! no, Uncle Tom, " she would say; "the pansies were not in the littleheart-shaped bed; they were all round the one with the pink harp-flowerin the middle. "

When she was six years old he sent for some books and began seriously towork with a view to refreshing his memory on subjects almost forgotten. 

"I'm preparing myself for a nursery governess, Sheba, " he said. "What wewant is a nursery governess, and I don't know where to find one. Ishouldn't know how to manage her if I did find her, so I've got to postup for the position myself. "

The child was so happy with him in all circumstances, that it was easy toteach her anything. She had learned to read and write before shediscovered that the process she went through to acquire theseaccomplishments was not an agreeable pastime specially invented by Tomfor her amusement. At eleven years old she had become so interested inher work that she was quite an excited little student. By the time shewas twelve Tom began to shake his head at her. 

"If you go on like this, " he said, "I sha'n't be able to keep up withyou, and what I've got to do is to keep ahead. If I can't, I shall haveto send you to the Academy at Ralston; and how should we stand that?"

She came and sat upon his big knee--a slim little thing, as light as abird. 

"We couldn't stand it, Uncle Tom, " she said. "We _have_ to be together. We always have been, haven't we?" And she rubbed her ruffled head againsthis huge breast. 

"Yes, we always have been, " answered Tom; "and it would go pretty hardwith us to make a change, Sheba. "

She was not sent to Ralston. The war broke out and altered the aspect ofthings even at the Cross-roads. The bank in which Tom's modest savingswere deposited was swept away by misfortune; the primitive resources ofHamlin County were depleted, as the resources of all the land were. Butfor the existence of the white, vine-embowered house and the garden fullof scents and bloom, Tom's position at the close of the rebellion was farless fortunate than it had been at the time the mystery of Blair's Hollowhad occurred. In those old, happy-go-lucky days the three rooms behindthe store and the three meals Mornin cooked for him had been quitesufficient for free and easy peace. He had been able to ensure himselfthese primitive comforts with so little expenditure that money hadscarcely seemed an object. He had taken eggs in exchange for sugar, baconin exchange for tea, and butter in exchange for everything. Now he had nomeans of resource but the store, and the people were poorer than they hadbeen. Farms had gone to temporary ruin through unavoidable neglect duringthe absence of their masters. More than one honest fellow had marchedaway and never returned, and their widows were left to struggle with theland and their children. The Cross-roads store, which had thriven sowonderfully for a year or two before the breaking out of the war, beganto wear a less cheerful aspect. As far as he himself was concerned, Tomknew that life was a simple enough thing, but by his side there wasgrowing up a young goddess. She was not aware that she was a younggoddess. There was no one in the vicinity of the Cross-roads who couldhave informed her that she presented somewhat of that aspect, and thatshe was youth and happiness and Nature's self at once. 

Tom continually indulged in deep reflection on his charge after she wastwelve years old. She shot up into the tall suppleness of a lovely youngbirch, and she was a sweetly glowing thing. A baby had been a differentmatter; the baby had not been so difficult to manage; but when he foundhimself day by day confronting the sweetness of child-womanhood in theeyes that were gold-brown pools, and the softening grace of the fairyoung body, he began to be conscious of something like alarm. He was notat all sure what he ought to do at this crisis, and whether lifeconfining its experiences entirely to Talbot's Cross-roads was all thatwas required. 

"I don't know whether it's right, by thunder, " he said. "I don't knowwhether it's right; and that's what a man who's taken the place of ayoung mother ought to know. "

There came a Sunday when one of the occasional "preachings" was to beheld at the log-cabin church a few miles distant, and they were goingtogether, as they always did. 

It was a heavenly, warm spring morning, and Sheba, having made herselfready, wandered into the garden to wait among the flowers. The rapturousfirst scents of the year were there, drawn by the sun and blown byvagrant puffs of wind from hyacinths and jonquils, white narcissus andblue violets. Sheba walked among the beds, every few minutes kneelingdown upon the grass to bury her face in pink and yellow and whiteclusters, inhaling the breath of flowers and the pungent freshness of thesweet brown earth at the same time. She had lived among leaves andgrowing things until she felt herself in some unexplainable way a part ofthe world they belonged to. The world beyond the mountains she knewnothing of; but this world, which was the brown earth springing forthinto green blades and leaves and little streaked buds, warming into bloomand sun-drenched fragrance, setting the birds singing and nest-building, giving fruits and grain, and yellow and scarlet leaves, and foldingitself later in snow and winter sleep--this world she knew as well as sheknew herself. The birds were singing and nest-building this morning, and, as she hung over a bed of purple and white hyacinths, kneeling on thegrass and getting as close to them as she could, their perfume mounted toher brain and she began to kiss them. 

"I love you, " she said, dwelling on their sweet coolness with her lips;"I love and love you!" And suddenly she made a little swoop and kissedthe brown earth itself. "And, oh! I love you, too!" she said. "I loveyou, too!"

She looked like young spring's self when she stood up as Tom came towardsher. Her smile was so radiant a thing that he felt his heart quake withno other reason than this sight of her happy youth. 

"What are you thinking of, Sheba?" he asked. 

"I am thinking, " she said, as she glanced all about her, the smilegrowing more entrancing, "I am thinking how happy I am, and how happy theworld is, and how I love you, and, " with a pretty laugh, "the flowers, and the sun, and the earth--and everything in the world!"

"Yes, " said Tom, looking at her tenderly. "It's the spring, Sheba. "

She caught his arm and clung to it, laughing again. 

"Yes, " she answered; "and when it isn't the spring, it is the summer; andwhen it isn't the summer, it is the autumn; and when it isn't the autumn, it is the winter; and we sit by the fire and know the spring is makingits way back every day. Everything is beautiful--everything is happy, Uncle Tom. "

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Tom. 

"Why do you say that?" Sheba asked. "Why do you look so--so puzzled, Uncle Tom?"

"Well, " said Tom, holding her out at arm's length before him, "the truthis, I've suddenly realised something. I'd like to know what I'm to dowith _this_!"

"This?" laughed Sheba. "Am I 'this'? You look at me as if I was 'this'. "

"You are, " Tom answered, ruefully. "Here you suddenly change to a youngwoman on a man's hands. Now, what am I to do with a grown-up young woman?I'm used to babies, and teething, and swallowing kangaroos out of Noah'sarks--and I know something of measles and letting tucks out of frocks;but when it comes to a beautiful young woman, there you have me!"

He shook his head as he ended, and, though his face wore theaffectionate, humorous smile which had never failed her, there was a newelement in its kindness which, it must be confessed, bordered onbewilderment. 

"A beautiful, grown-up young woman, " he said, glancing reflectively overher soft, swaying slimness, her white frock with its purple ribbon andgolden jonquils, and up to her tender cheek. 

Sheba blushed with sweet delight. 

"Am I beautiful, Uncle Tom?" she inquired, with a lovely anxiousness inher eyes. 

"Yes, you are, " admitted Tom; "and it isn't a drawback to you, Sheba, butit's likely to make trouble for me. "

"But why?" she said. 

"In novels, and poetry, and sometimes in real life, beautiful young womenare fallen in love with, and then trouble is liable to begin, " explainedTom with amiable gravity. 

"There is no one to fall in love with me at the Cross-roads, " said Sheba, sweetly. "I wish there was. "

"Good Lord, " exclaimed Tom, devoutly. "Come along to church, Sheba, andlet's go in for fasting and prayer. "

He took her to the "preaching" in the log cabin and noticed the effect ofher entry on the congregation as they went in. There were a number ofmore or less awkward and raw-boned young male creatures whose lives werespent chiefly in cornfields and potato patches. They were uncomely hewersof wood and drawers of water, but they turned their heads to look at her, and their eyes followed her as she went to her seat. When she had satdown, those who could catch glimpses of her involuntarily craned theirnecks and sat in discomfort until the sermon was over. Tom recognisedthis fact, and in secret reflected upon it in all its bearings. 

"Yes, " he found himself saying, mentally; "I'd like to know how I'm goingto do my duty by _this_. I don't believe there's a derned thing about itin 'Advice to Young Mothers. '"

The day wore on to its lovely end, and lost itself in one of the sunsetswhich seem to flood the sky with a tide of ripples of melted gold, hereand there tipped with flame. When this was over, a clear, fair moon hunglighted in the heavens, and, flooding with silver what had been floodedwith gold, changed the flame-tips to pearl. 

Sheba strayed in the garden among the flowers. Tom, sitting under thevines of the porch, watched her white figure straying in and out amongthe shrubbery. At last he saw her standing on the grass in the fullradiance of the moonlight, her hands hanging clasped behind her and herface turned upward to the sky. As she had wandered about, she had done afanciful thing. She had made a wreath of white narcissus and laid it onher hair, and she had twisted together a sort of long garland of the sameblossoms and cast it loosely round her waist. 

"She never did that before, " Tom said, as he watched her. "Good Lord!what a picture she is, standing there with her face lifted. I wonder whatshe's thinking of. "

"Uncle Tom, " she said, when she sauntered back to him, "does themoonlight make you feel sad without being unhappy at all? That is what itdoes to me. "

"It's the spring, Sheba, " he said, as he had said it in the morning;"it's the spring. "

She saw that he was looking at her flower garlands, and she broke into ashy little laugh. 

"You see what you have done to me, Uncle Tom, " she said; "now you havetold me I am a beautiful young woman, I shall always be doing thingsto--to make myself look prettier. "

She came on to the verandah to him, and he held out his hand to her. 

"That's the spring, too, Sheba, " he said. 

She yielded as happily and naturally to the enfolding of his big arm inthese days as she had done when she was a baby. No one but themselvesknew what they were to each other. 

They had always talked things over together--their affection, theirpleasures, their simple anxieties and responsibilities. They haddiscussed her playthings in the first years of their friendship and herlessons when she had been a little girl. To-night the subject which beganto occupy them had some seriousness of aspect. The changes time and thetide of war had made were bringing Tom face to face with a difficulty hishopeful, easy-going nature had never contemplated with any realisingsense--the want of money, even the moderate amount the requirements oftheir simple lives made necessary. 

"It's the taxes that a man can't stand up against, " Tom said. "You maycut off all you like, and wear your old clothes, but there's a livelinessabout taxes that takes the sand out of you. Talk about the green bay-treeflourishing and increasing, all a tax wants is to be let alone a fewyears. It'll come to its full growth without any sunning or watering. Mine have had to be left alone for a while, and--well, here weare--another year, and----"

"Will the house be taken?" Sheba asked. 

"If I can't pay up, it'll all go--house and store and all, " Tom answered. "Then _we_ shall have to go too. "

He turned and looked ruefully at the face beneath the wreath of whitenarcissus. 

"I wish it hadn't come on us just now, " he said. "There's no particularseason that trouble adds a charm to; but it seems to me that it's notentitled to the spring. "

When she went upstairs she did not go to bed. The moonlight lured her outinto the night again. Outside her window there was a little balcony. Itwas only of painted wood, as the rest of the house was, but a multiflorarose had climbed over it and hung it with a wonderful drapery, and, asshe stood upon it, she unconsciously made herself part of a picturealmost strange in its dramatic quality. 

She looked out over the sleeping land to the mountains standing guard. 

"Where should we go?" she said. "The world is on the other side. "

She was not in the mood to observe sound, or she would have heard theclear stroke of a horse's hoofs on the road. She did not even hear theopening of the garden gate. She was lost in the silver beauty of thenight, and a vague dreaming which had fallen upon her. On the other sideof the purple of the mountains was the world. It had always been thereand she had always been here. Presently she found herself sighing aloud, though she could not have told why. 

"Ah!" she said as softly as young Juliet. "Ah, me!"

As she could not have told why she sighed, so there was no explanation ofthe fact that, having done so, she looked downward to the garden path, asif something had drawn her eyes there. It is possible that someattraction had so drawn them, for she found herself looking into a young, upturned face--the dark, rather beautiful face of a youth who stood andlooked upward as if he had stopped involuntarily at sight of her. 

She drew back with a little start and then bent her Narcissus-crownedhead forward. 

"Who--who is it?" she exclaimed. 

He started himself at the sound of her voice. She had indeed lookedscarcely a real creature a few moments ago. He took off his hat andanswered:

"I am Rupert De Willoughby, " he said. "I beg pardon for disturbing you. It startled me to see you standing there. I came to see Mr. Thomas DeWilloughby. "

It was a singular situation. Perhaps the moonlight had something to dowith it; perhaps the spring. They stood and looked at each other quitesimply, as if they did not know that they were strangers. A young dryadand faun meeting on a hilltop or in a forest's depths by moonlight mighthave looked at each other with just such clear, unstartled eyes, and withjust such pleasure in each other's beauty. For, of a truth, each one wasthinking the same thing, innocently and with a sudden gladness. 

As he had come up the garden-path, Rupert had seen a vision and hadstopped unconsciously that instant. And Sheba, looking down, had seen avision too--a beautiful face as young as her own, and with eyes thatglowed. 

"You don't know what you looked like standing there, " said Rupert, assimply as the young faun might have spoken. "It was as if you were aspirit. The flowers in your hair looked like great white stars. "

"Did they?" she said, and stood and softly gazed at him. 

How the boy looked up at her young loveliness! He had never so looked atany woman before. And then a thought detached itself from the mists ofmemory and he seemed to remember. 

"Are you Sheba?" he asked. 

"Yes, I am Sheba, " she answered, rather slowly. "And I remember you, too. You are the boy. "

He drew nearer to the balcony, laying his hand upon the multiflora rosecreeper. 

"Yes, yes, " he said, almost tremulous with eagerness. "You bring it allback. You were a little child, and I----"

"You rode away, " she said, "over the hill. "

"Will you come down to me?" he said. 

"Yes, " she answered, and that moment disappeared. 

He stood in the moonlight, his head bared, his straw hat in his hand. Hefelt as if he was in a dream. His face had lost its gloom and yearning, and his eyes looked like his mother's. 

When he heard a light foot nearing him, he went forward, and they metwith strange young smiles and took each other's hands. Nearer than thebalcony, she was even a sweeter thing, and the scent of her white flowersfloated about her. 

As they stood so, smiling, Tom came and joined them. Sheba had called himas she passed his door. 

Rupert turned round and spoke, vaguely conscious, as he did so, that hiswords sounded somewhat like words uttered in a dream and were not such ashe had planned. 

"Uncle Tom, " he said, "I--Delia Vanuxem was my mother. "

CHAPTER XXI

The moment ceased to be so fanciful and curiously exalted when his handwas grasped and a big, kind palm laid on his shoulder, though Tom's facewas full of emotion. 

"I think I should have known it, " he said. "Welcome to you. Yes, " lookingat him with an affection touched with something like reverence. "Yes, indeed--Delia Vanuxem!"

"I've come to you, " the young fellow said, with fine simplicity, "becauseI am the only De Willoughby left except yourself. I am young and I'mlonely--and my mother always said you had the kindest heart she everknew. I want you to advise me. "

"Come in to the porch, " said Tom, "and let us sit down and talk it over. "

He put his arm about Sheba and kept his hand on Rupert's shoulder, andwalked so, with one on either side, to the house. Between their youthfulslimness he moved like a protecting giant. 

"Where did you come from?" he asked when they sat down. 

"From Delisleville, " Rupert answered. "I did not think of coming here solate to-night, but it seems I must have missed my road. I was going toask for lodgings at a place called Willet's Farm. I suppose I took thewrong turning; and when I saw this house before me, I knew it must beyours from what I had heard of it. It seemed as if Fate had brought mehere. And when I came up the path I saw Sheba. She was standing on thelittle verandah in the moonlight with the roses all around her; and shelooked so white that I stopped to look up at her. "

"Uncle Tom, " said Sheba, "we--we knew each other. "

"Did you?" said Tom. "That's right. "

His middle-aged heart surprised him by giving one quick, soft beat. Hesmiled to himself after he had felt it. 

"The first moment or so I only stood and looked, " Rupert said; "I wasstartled. "

"And so was I, " said Sheba. 

"But when she leaned forward and looked down on me, " he went on, "Iremembered something----"

"So did I, " said Sheba. "I leaned forward like that and looked down atyou from the porch at the tavern--all those years ago, when I was alittle child. "

"And I looked up at you--and afterwards I asked about you, " said Rupert. "It all came back when you spoke to-night, and I knew you must be Sheba. "

"You knew my name, but I did not know yours, " said Sheba. "But, afterall, " rather as if consoling herself, "Sheba is not my real name. I haveanother one. "

"What is it?" asked the young fellow, quite eagerly. His eyes hadscarcely left her face an instant. She was standing by Tom's chair andher hands were on his shoulders. 

"It is Felicia, " she said. "Uncle Tom gave it to me--because he wanted meto be happy. " And she curved a slim arm round Tom's neck and kissed him. 

It was the simplest, prettiest thing a man could have seen. Her life hadleft her nature as pure and translucent as the clearest brook. She hadhad no one to compare herself with or to be made ashamed or timid by. Sheknew only her own heart and Tom's love, and she smiled as radiantly intothe lighting face before her as she would have smiled at a rose, or at ayoung deer she had met in the woods. No one had ever looked at her inthis way before, but being herself a thing which had grown like a flower, she felt no shyness, and was only glad. Eve might have smiled at Adam soin their first hours. 

Big Tom, sitting between them, saw it all. A man cannot live a score ofyears and more, utterly cut off from the life of the world, withouthaving many a long hour for thought in which he will inevitably findhimself turning over the problems which fill the life he has missed. TomDe Willoughby had had many of them. He had had no one to talk to whosemind could have worked with his own. On winter nights, when Sheba hadbeen asleep, he had found himself gazing into the red embers of his woodfire and pondering on the existence he might have led if fate had beengood to him. 

"There must be happiness on the earth somewhere, " he would say. "Somewhere there ought to have been a woman I belonged to, and whobelonged to me. It ought all to have been as much nature as the rainfalling and the corn ripening in the sun. If we had met when we wereyoung things--on the very brink of it all--and smiled into each other'seyes and taken each other's hands, and kissed each other's lips, we mighthave ripened together like the corn. What is it that's gone wrong?" Allthe warm normal affections of manhood, which might have remainedundeveloped and been cast away, had been lavished on the child Sheba. Shehad represented his domestic circle. 

"You mayn't know it, Sheba, " he had said once to her, "but you're apretty numerous young person. You're a man's wife and family, and motherand sisters, and at least half a dozen boys and girls. "

All his thoughts had concentrated themselves upon her--all hispsychological problems had held her as their centre, all his ethicalreasonings had applied themselves to her. 

"She's got to be happy, " he said to himself, "and she's got to be strongenough to stand up under unhappiness, if--if I should be taken away fromher. When the great thing that's--that's the meaning of it all--and thereason of it--comes into her life, it ought to come as naturally assummer does. If her poor child of a mother--Good Lord! Good Lord!"

And here he sat in the moonlight, and Delia Vanuxem's son was looking ather with ardent, awakened young eyes. 

How she listened as Rupert told his story, and how sweetly she was movedby the pathos of it. Once or twice she made an involuntary movementforward, as if she was drawn towards him, and uttered a lovely lowexclamation which was a little like the broken coo of a dove. Rupert didnot know that there was pathos in his relation. He made only a simplepicture of things, but as he went on Tom saw all the effect of the hotlittle town left ruined and apathetic after the struggle of war, thedesolateness of the big house empty but for its three rooms, its barefloors echoing to the sound of the lonely pair of feet, the garden growninto a neglected jungle, the slatternly negro girl in the kitchen singingwild camp-meeting hymns as she went about her careless work. 

"It sounds so lonely, " Sheba said, with tender mournfulness. 

"That was what it was--lonely, " Rupert answered. "It's been a differentplace since Matt came, but it has always been lonely. Uncle Tom, " puttinghis hand on the big knee near him, as impulsively as a child, "I lovethat old Matt--I love him!"

"Ah, so do I!" burst forth Sheba. "Don't you, Uncle Tom?" And she put herhand on the other knee. 

Rupert looked down at the hand. It was so fair and soft and full of theexpression of sympathy--such an adorably womanly little hand, that one'sfirst impulse was to lay one's own upon it. He made a movement and thenremembered, and looked up, and their eyes met and rested on each othergently. 

When the subject of the claim was broached, Sheba thought it like a fairytale. She listened almost with bated breath. As Rupert had not realisedthat he was pathetic in the relation of the first part of his story, sohe did not know that he was picturesque in this. But his material hadstrong colour. The old man on the brink of splendid fortune, the strange, unforeseen national disaster sweeping all before it and leaving onlypoverty and ruin, the untouched wealth of the mines lying beneath theearth on which battles had been fought--all the possibilities the futuremight hold for one penniless boy--these things were full of suggestionand excitement. 

"You would be rich, " said Sheba. 

"So would Uncle Tom, " Rupert answered, smiling; "and you, too. "

Tom had been listening with a reflective look on his face. He tilted hischair back and ran his hand through his hair. 

"At all events, we couldn't _lose_ money if we didn't gain any, " he said. "That's where we're safe. When a man's got to the place where he hasn'tanything to lose, he can afford to take chances. Perhaps it's worththinking over. Let's go to bed, children. It's midnight. "

When they said good-night to each other, the two young hands clungtogether kindly and Sheba looked up with sympathetic eyes. 

"Would you like to be very rich?" she asked. 

"To-night I am rich, " he answered. "That is because you and Uncle Tomhave made me feel as if I belonged to someone. It is so long since I haveseemed to belong to anyone. "

"But now you belong to us, " said Sheba. 

He stood silently looking down at her a moment. 

"Your eyes look just as they did when you were a little child, " he said. He lifted her hand and pressed his warm young lips to it. 

CHAPTER XXII

He awoke the next morning with a glow in his heart which should not benew to youth, but was new to him. He remembered feeling something ratherlike it years before when he had been a little boy and had wakened on themorning of his birthday and found his mother kissing him and his bedstrewn with gifts. 

He went downstairs and, strolling on to the porch, saw Sheba in thegarden. As he went to join her, he found himself in the midst of familiarpaths and growths. 

"Why, " he exclaimed, stopping before her, "it is the old garden!"

"Yes, " Sheba answered; "Uncle Tom made it like this because he loved theother one. You and I have played in the same garden. Good-morning, "laughing. 

"Good-morning, " he said. "It is a good-morning. I--somehow I have beenthinking that when I woke I felt as I used to do when I was a child andwoke on my birthday. "

That morning she showed him her domain. To the imaginative boy she ledwith her, she seemed like a strange young princess, to whom all the landbelonged. She loved it so and knew so well all it yielded. She showed himthe cool woods where she always found the first spring flowers, thechestnut and walnut trees where she and Tom gathered their winter supplyof nuts, the places where the wild grapes grew thickest, and those wherethe ground was purple-carpeted with violets. 

They wandered on together until they reached a hollow in the road, on oneside of which a pine wood sloped up a hillside, looking dark and cool. 

"I come here very often, " she said, quite simply. "My mother is here. "

Then he saw that a little distance above the road a deserted log cabinstood, and not far from it two or three pine trees had been cut down sothat the sun could shine on a mound over and about which flowers grew. Itwas like a little garden in the midst of the silent wildness. 

He followed her to the pretty spot, and she knelt down by it and removeda leaf or a dead flower here and there. The little mound was a snowy massof white blossoms standing thick together, and for a yard or so about theearth was starred with the same flowers. 

"You see, " she said, "Uncle Tom and I plant new flowers for every month. Everything is always white. Sometimes it is all lilies of the valley orwhite hyacinths, and then it is white roses, and in the autumn whitechrysanthemums. Uncle Tom thought of it when I was a little child, and wehave done it together ever since. We think she knows. "

She stopped, and, still kneeling, looked at him as if suddenlyremembering something. 

"You have not heard, " she said; "she died when I was born, and we do noteven know her name. "

"Not her name!" Rupert said; but the truth was that he had heard more ofthe story than she had. 

"My father was so stunned with grief, that Uncle Tom said he seemed tothink of nothing but that he could not bear to stay. He went away thevery night they laid her here. I suppose, " she said slowly, and lookingat the mass of white narcissus instead of at him, "I suppose when peoplelove each other, and one dies, the other cannot--cannot----"

Rupert saw that she was unconsciously trying to explain something toherself, and he interposed between her and her thoughts with a hurriedeffort. 

"Yes, yes, " he said; "it must be so. When they love each other and one istaken, how _can_ the other bear it?"

Then she lifted her eyes from the flowers to his again, and they lookedvery large and bright. 

"You see, " she said, in an unsteady little voice, "I had only been alivea few hours when he went away. "

Suddenly the brightness in her eyes welled up and fell in two largecrystal drops, though a smile quivered on her lips. 

"Don't tell Uncle Tom, " she said; "I never let him know that it--it hurtsmy feelings when I think I had only been alive such a few hours--andthere was nobody to care. I must have been so little. If--if there hadbeen no Uncle Tom----"

He knelt down by her side and took her hand in his. 

"But there was, " he said; "there was!"

"Yes, " she answered, her sweet face trembling with emotion; "and, oh! Ilove him so! I love him so!"

She put her free hand on the earth among the white flowers on the mound. 

"And I love her, too, " she said; "somehow I know she would not haveforgotten me. "

"No, no, she would not!" Rupert cried; and they knelt together, hand inhand, looking into each other's eyes as tenderly as children. 

"I have been lonelier than you, " he said; "I have had nobody. "

"Your mother died, too, when you were very young?"

"Yes, Sheba, " hesitating a moment. "I will tell you something. "

"Yes?"

"Uncle Tom loved her. He left his home partly because he could not stayand see her marry a man who--did not deserve her. "

"Did she marry someone like that?" she asked. 

His forehead flushed. 

"She married my father, " he said, "and he was a drunken maniac and brokeher heart. I saw it break. When I first remember her, she was a lovelyyoung girl with eyes like a gazelle's--and she cried all their beautyaway, and grew tired and old and haggard before I was twelve. He is dead, but I hate him!"

"Oh!" she said; "you have been lonely!"

"I have been something worse than that!" he answered, and the gloom cameback to his face. "I have been afraid. "

"Afraid!" said Sheba. "Of what?"

"That I might end like him. How do I know? It is in my blood. "

"Oh, no!" she cried. 

"We have nearly all been like that, " he said. "He was the maddest of themall, but he was only like many of the others. We grow tall, we DeWilloughbys, we have black eyes, we drink and we make ourselves insanewith morphine. It's a ghastly thing to think of, " he shuddered. "When Iam lonely, I think of it night and day. "

"You must not, " she said. "I--I will help you to forget it. "

"I have often wondered if there was anyone who could, " he answered. "Ithink perhaps you might. "

When they returned to the Cross-roads there were several customersloitering on the post-office porch, awaiting their arrival, andendeavouring to wear an air of concealing no object whatever. Theuneventful lives they led year after year made men and women alike avidfor anything of the nature of news or incident. In some mysterious waythe air itself seemed to communicate to them anything of interest whichmight be impending. Big Tom had not felt inclined to be diffuse on thesubject of the arrival of his nephew, but each customer who brought in apail of butter or eggs, a roll of jeans or a pair of chickens, seemed tobecome enlightened at once as to the position of affairs. 

"Ye see, " Tom heard Doty confiding to a friend as they sat togetheroutside a window of the store; "ye see, it's this way--the D'Willerbyswas born 'ristycrats. I dunno as ye'd think it to look at Tom. Thar's aheap _to_ Tom, but he ain't _my_ idee of a 'ristycrat. My idee is thetmebbe he let out from D'lisleville kase he warn't 'ristycratic enough fur'em. Thar wus a heap of property in the family, 'pears like. An' now thehull lot of 'em's dead 'cept this yere boy that come last night. Stampshes seen him in D'lisleville, an' he says he's a-stavin' lookin' youngfeller, an' thet thar's somethin' about a claim on the Guv'ment thet efTom an' him don't foller up, they're blamed fools. Now Tom, he ain't noblamed fool. Fur _not_ bein' a blamed fool, I'll back Tom agin any man inHamlin. "

So, when the two young figures were seen sauntering along the roadtowards the store, there were lookers-on enough to regard them withinterest. 

"Now _he's_ my idee of a 'ristycrat, " remarked Mr. Doty, with the mannerof a connoisseur. "Kinder tall an' slim, an' high-sperrity lookin';Sheby's a gal, but she's got it too--thet thar sorter racehorse look. Now, hain't she?"

"I want you to see the store and the people in it, " Sheba was saying. "It's my home, you know. Uncle Tom took me there the day after I wasborn. I used to play on the floor behind the counter and near the stove, and all those men are my friends. "

Rupert had never before liked anything so much as he liked the simplelovingness of this life of hers. As she knew the mountains, the flowers, and the trees, she knew and seemed known by the very cows and horses andpeople she saw. 

"That's John Hutton's old gray horse, " she had said as she caught sightof one rider in the distance. "That is Billy Neil's yoke of oxen, " atanother time. "Good-morning, Mrs. Stebbins, " she called out, with theprettiest possible cheer, to a woman in an orange cotton skirt as shepassed on the road. "It seems to me sometimes, " she said to Rupert, "asif I belonged to a family that was scattered over miles and lived inscores of houses. They all used to tell Uncle Tom what would disagreewith me when I was cutting my teeth. "

They mounted the steps of the porch, laughing the light, easy laugh ofyouth, and the loiterers regarded them with undisguised interest andadmiration. In her pink cotton frock, and blooming like a rose in theshade of her frilled pink sunbonnet, Sheba was fair to see. Rupertpresented an aspect which was admirably contrasting. His cool pallor anddense darkness of eyes and hair seemed a delightful background to heryoung tints of bloom. 

"Thet thar white linen suit o' his'n, " Mr. Doty said, "might hev been puton a-purpose to kinder set off her looks as well as his'n. "

It was to Mr. Doty Sheba went first. 

"Jake, " she said, "this is my cousin Mr. Rupert De Willoughby fromDelisleville. "

"Mighty glad to be made 'quainted, sir, " said Jake. "Tom's mightily sotup at yer comin'. "

They all crowded about him and went through the same ceremony. It couldscarcely be called a ceremony, it was such a simple and actuallyaffectionate performance. It was so plain that his young good looks andfriendly grace of manner reached their hearts at once, and that they wereglad that he had come. 

"They _are_ glad you have come, " Sheba said afterwards. "You are from theworld over there, you know, " waving her hand towards the blue of themountains. "We are all glad when we see anything from the outside. "

"Would you like to go there?" Rupert asked. 

"Yes, " she answered, with a little nod of her head. "If Uncle Tom willgo--and you. "

They spent almost an hour in the store holding a sort of _levée_. Everynewcomer bade the young fellow welcome and seemed to accept him as a sortof boon. 

"He's a mighty good-lookin' young feller, " they all said, and the womenadded: "Them black eyes o' his'n an' the way his hair kinks is mightypurty. "

"Their feelings will be hurt if you don't stay a little, " said Sheba. "They want to look at you. You don't mind it, do you?"

"No, " he answered, laughing; "it delights me. No one ever wanted to lookat me before. But I should hardly think they would want to look at mewhen they might look at you instead. "

"They have looked at me for eighteen years, " she answered. "They lookedat me when I had the measles, and saw me turn purple when I had thewhooping-cough. "

As they were going away, they passed a little man who had just arrivedand was hitching to the horse-rail a raw-boned "clay-bank" mare. Helooked up as they neared him and smiled peacefully. 

"Howdy?" he said to Rupert. "Ye hain't seen me afore, but I seen you whenI was to Delisleville. It wuz me as told yer nigger ye'd be a fool if yedidn't get Tom ter help yer to look up thet thar claim. Ye showed horsesense by comin'. Wish ye luck. "

"Uncle Tom, " said Sheba, as they sat at their dinner and Mornin walkedbackwards and forwards from the kitchen stove to the dining-room withchicken fried in cream, hot biscuits, and baked yams, "we saw Mr. Stampsand he wished us luck. "

"He has a claim himself, hasn't he?" said Rupert. "He told Matt it wasfor a yoke of oxen. "

Tom broke into a melodious roar of laughter. 

"Well, " he said, "if we can do as well by ours as Stamps will do by his, we shall be in luck. That yoke of oxen has grown from a small beginning. If it thrives as it goes on, the Government's in for a big thing. "

"It has grown from a calf, " said Sheba, "and it wasn't six weeks old. "

"A Government mule kicked it and broke its leg, " said Tom. "Stamps madeveal of it, and in two months it was 'Thet heifer o' mine'--in six monthsit was a young steer----"

"Now it's a yoke of oxen, " said Rupert; "and they were the pride of thecounty. "

"Lord! Lord!" said Tom, "the United States has got something toengineer. "

CHAPTER XXIII

It was doubtless Stamps who explained the value of the De Willoughbyclaim to the Cross-roads. Excited interest in it mounted to fever heat ina few days. The hitching rail was put to such active use that the horsesshouldered each other and occasionally bit and kicked and enlivened theair with squeals. No one who had an opportunity neglected to appear atthe post-office, that he or she might hear the news. Judge DeWilloughby's wealth and possessions increased each time they werementioned. The old De Willoughby place became a sort of princely domain, the good looks of the Judge's sons and daughters and the splendour oftheir gifts were spoken of almost with bated breath. The coal minesbecame gold mines, the money invested in them something scarcely to becalculated. The Government at Washington, it was even inferred, had notmoney enough in its treasury to refund what had been lost and indemnifyfor the injury done. 

"And to think o' Tom settin' gassin' yere with us fellers, " they said, admiringly, "jest same es if he warn't nothin'. A-settin' in his shirtsleeves an' tradin' fer eggs an' butter. Why, ef he puts thet thar claimthrough, he kin buy up Hamlin. "

"I'd like ter see the way he'd fix up Sheby, " said Mis' Doty. "He'd hevher dressed in silks an' satins--an' diamond earrings soon as look. "

"Ye'll hev to go ter Washin'ton City sure enough, Tom, " was the remarkmade oftenest. "When do ye 'low to start?"

But Tom was not as intoxicated by the prospect as the rest of them. Hisdemeanour was thoughtful and unexhilarated. 

"Whar do ye 'low to build yer house when ye come into yer money, Tom?" hewas asked, gravely. "Shall ye hev a cupoly? Whar'll ye buy yer land?"

The instinct of Hamlin County tended towards expressing any sense ofopulence by increasing the size of the house it lived in, or by buildinga new one, and invariably by purchasing land. Nobody had ever become richin the neighbourhood, but no imagination would have found it possible toextend its efforts beyond a certain distance from the Cross-roads. Thepoint of view was wholly primitive and patriarchal. 

Big Tom was conscious that he had become primitive and patriarchal also, though the truth was that he had always been primitive. 

As he sat on the embowered porch of his house in the evening and thoughtthings over, while the two young voices murmured near him, hisreflections were not greatly joyful. The years he had spent closed in bythe mountains and surrounded by his simple neighbours had been full ofpeace. Since Sheba had belonged to him they had even held more thanpeace. The end had been that the lonely unhappiness of his youth hadseemed a thing so far away that it was rather like a dream. Only DeliaVanuxem was not quite like a dream. Her pitying girlish face and theliquid darkness of her uplifted eyes always came back to him clearly whenhe called them up in thought. He called them up often during these daysin which he was pondering as to what it was best to decide to do. 

"It's the boy who brings her back so, " he told himself. "Good Lord, hownear she seems! The grass has been growing over her for many a year, andI'm an old fellow, but she looks just as she did then. "

The world beyond the mountains did not allure him. It was easier to sitand see the sun rise and set within the purple boundary than to face lifewhere it was less simple, and perhaps less kindly. It was from a muchless advanced and concentrated civilisation he had fled in his youth, andthe years which had passed had not made him more fitted to combat withwhat was more complex. 

"Trading for butter and eggs over the counter of a country store, anddiscussing Doty's corn crop and Hayworth's pigs hasn't done anythingparticular towards fitting me to shine in society, " he said. "It suits_me_ well enough, but it's not what's wanted at a ball or a cabinetminister's reception. " And he shook his head. "I'd rather stay where Iam--a darned sight. "

But the murmuring voices went on near him, and little bursts of laughterrang out, or two figures wandered about the garden, and his thoughtsalways came back to one point--a point where the sun seemed to shine onthings and surround them with a dazzling radiance. 

"Yes, it's all very well for _me_, " he concluded more than once. "It'swell enough for _me_ to sit down and spend the rest of my life looking atthe mountains and watching summer change into winter; but they are onlybeginning it all--just beginning. "

So one night he left his chair and went out and walked between them inthe moonlight, a hand resting on a shoulder of each. 

"See, " he said, "I want you two to help me to make up my mind. "

"About going away?" asked Rupert, looking round at him quickly. 

"Yes. Do you know we may have a pretty hard time? We've no money. Weshould have to live scant enough, and, unless we had luck, we might comeback here worse off than we left. "

"But we should have tried, and we should have been on the other side ofthe mountains, " said Sheba. 

"So we should, " said Tom, reflectively. "And there's a good deal inseeing the other side of the mountains when people are young. "

Sheba put her hand on his and looked at him with a glowing face. 

"Uncle Tom, " she said, "oh, let us go!"

"Uncle Tom, " said Rupert, "I _must_ go!"

The line showed itself between his black brows again, though it was not afrown. He put his hand in his pocket and held it out, open, with asolitary twenty-dollar bill lying in it. 

"That's all I've got, " he said, "and that's borrowed. If the claim isworth nothing, I must earn enough to pay it back. All right. We'll allthree go, " said Tom. 

The next day he began to develop the plans he had been allowing to formvaguely as a background to his thoughts. They were not easy to carry outin the existing condition of general poverty. But at Lucasville, someforty miles distant, he was able to raise a mortgage on his land. 

"If the worst comes to the worst, " he said to Sheba, "after we have seenthe other side of the mountains, do you think you could stand it to comeback and live with me in the rooms behind the store?"

Sheba sat down upon his knee and put her arms round his neck, as she haddone when she was ten years old. 

"I could live with you anywhere, " she said. "The only thing I couldn'tstand would be to have to live away from you. "

Tom laughed and kissed her. He laughed that he might smother a sigh. Rupert was standing near and looking at her with the eyes that were solike Delia Vanuxem's. 

CHAPTER XXIV

For an imaginative or an untravelled person to approach the city ofWashington at sunrise on a radiant morning, is a thing far from unlikelyto be remembered, since a white and majestic dome, rising about a whitestructure set high and supported by stately colonnades, the wholegleaming fair against a background of blue sky, forms a picture whichdoes not easily melt away. 

Those who reared this great temple of white stone and set it on a hilltopto rule and watch over the land, builded better than they knew. To thesimple and ardent idealist its white stateliness must always suggestsomething symbolic, and, after all, it is the ardent and simple idealistwhose dreams and symbols paint to prosaic human minds the beautifulimpossibilities whose unattainable loveliness so allures as to force eventhe unexalted world into the endeavour to create such reproductions oftheir forms as crude living will allow. 

Tom leaned against the side of the car window and watched the great domewith an air of curious reflection. Sheba and Rupert leaned forward andgazed at it with dreaming eyes. 

"It looks as the capitol of a great republic ought to look, " Rupert said. "Spotless and majestic, and as if it dominated all it looks down uponwith pure laws and dignity and justice. "

"Just so, " said Tom. 

In the various crises of political excitement in Hamlin County he hadtaken the part of an unbiassed but humorous observer, and in thatcharacter had gained much experience of a primitive kind. What he hadbeen led chiefly to remark in connection with the "great republic" wasthat the majesty and spotlessness of its intentions were not invariablyrealised by mere human units. 

"Well, " he said, as he took down his valise from the rack, "we're comingin here pretty well fixed for leaving the place millionaires. If we hadonly fifteen cents in our pockets, it would be a dead sure thing, according to all the biographers _I_ ever read. The only thing against usis that we have a little more--but it's not enough to spoil our luck, that I'll swear. "

He was not without reason in the statement. Few voyagers on the ocean ofchance could have dared the journey with less than they had in theirpossession. 

"What we've got to do, " he had said to Rupert, "is to take care of Sheba. We two can rough it. "

They walked through the awakening city, finding it strange and bare withits broad avenues and streets ill-paved, bearing traces everywhere of thetragedy of war through which it had passed. The public buildings alonehad dignity; for the rest, it wore a singularly provincial anduncompleted aspect; its plan was simple and splendid in its vistas andnoble spaces, but the houses were irregular and without beauty of form;negro shanties huddled against some of the most respectable, and therewere few whose windows or doors did not announce that board and lodgingmight be obtained within. There was no look of well-being or wealthanywhere; the few equipages in the streets had seen hard service; thepeople who walked were either plainly dressed or shabby genteel; aboutthe doors of the principal hotels there were groups of men who wore, mostof them, dispirited or anxious faces. Ten years later the whole aspect ofthe place was changing, but at this time it was passing through a periodof natural fatigue and poverty, and was not an inspiring spectacle topenniless new-comers. 

"It reminds me a little of Delisleville, after all, " said Rupert. 

Beyond the more frequented quarters of the town, they found broad, unkempt, and as yet unlevelled avenues and streets, where modest housesstraggled, perched on high banks with an air of having found themselvesthere quite by accident. The banks were usually grass-covered, and thewhite picket fences enclosed bits of ground where scant fruit-trees anddisorderly bushes grew; almost every house possessed a porch, and almostevery porch was scrambled over by an untidy honeysuckle or climbing rosewhich did its best to clothe with some grace the dilapidated woodwork andthe peeled and blistered paint. 

Before one of these houses Tom stopped to look at a lopsided sign in thelittle garden, which announced that rooms were to be rented within. 

"Perhaps we can find something here, " he said, "that may suit the firstventures of millionaires. It's the sort of thing that will appeal to thenewspaper man who writes the thing up; 'First home of the De Willoughbyswhen they arrived in Washington to look up their claim. ' It'll make agood woodcut to contrast with 'The great De Willoughby mansion in FifthAvenue. Cost five hundred thousand!'"

They mounted the wooden steps built into the bank and knocked at thedoor. Rupert and Sheba exchanged glances with a little thrill. They wereyoung enough to feel a sort of excitement even in taking this firstmodest step. 

A lady with a gentle, sallow face and a faded black cotton gown, openedthe door. Her hair hung in depressed but genteel ringlets on each side ofher countenance; at the back it formed a scant coil upheld by a comb. Tomthought he observed a gleam of hope in her eye when she saw them. Shespoke with the accent of Virginia. 

"Yes, suh, we have rooms disengaged. Won't you come in?" she said. 

She led them into a neat but rather painful little parlour. The wallswere decorated with photographs of deceased relatives in oval frames, andencased in glass there was a floral wreath made of hair of differentshades and one of white, waxen-looking flowers, with a vaguely mortuarysuggestion in their arrangement. There was a basket of wax fruit under ashade on the centre table, a silver ice-water pitcher on a salver, andtwo photograph albums whose binding had become loosened by much handling. There was also a book with a red and gold cover, bearing in ornateletters the title "Life of General Robert Lee. "

"The rooms are not lawge, " the lady said, "but they are furnished withthe things I brought from my fawther's house in Virginia. My fawther wasJudge Burford, of the Burford family of England. There's a Lord Burfordin England, we always heard. It is a very old family. "

She looked as if she found a vague comfort in the statement, and Tom didnot begrudge it to her. She looked very worn and anxious, and he felt italmost possible that during the last few months she might not always havehad quite enough to eat. 

"I never thawt in the days when I was Judge Burford's dawtah ofBurfordsville, " she explained, "that I should come to Washington to takeboarders. There was a time when it was thawt in Virginia that JudgeBurford might reach the White House if he would allow himself to benominated. It's a great change of circumstances. Did you want board withthe rooms?"

"Well----" began Tom. 

She interrupted him in some little hurry. 

"I'm afraid it wouldn't be convenient for me to board anyone, " she said;"I've not been accustomed to providing for boarders, and I'm notconveniently situated. If--if you preferred to economize----"

"We do, " said Tom. "We have come to look up a claim, and people on thatbusiness are pretty safe to have to economize, I've been told!"

"Ah, a claim!" she ejaculated, with combined interest and reverence. "Indeed, you are quite right about its being necessary to economize. Might I enqu'ah if it is a large one?"

"I believe it is, " Tom answered; "and it's not likely to be put throughin a month, and we have not money enough to keep us in luxury for muchmore. Probably we shall be able to make it last longer if we take roomsand buy our own food. "

"I'm sure you would, suh, " she answered, with a little eager flush on hercheek. "When people provide for themselves, they can sometimes dowithout--things. " She added the last word hurriedly and gave a littlecough which sounded nervous. 

It was finally agreed that they should take three little rooms she showedthem, in one of which there was a tiny stove, upon which they couldprepare such simple food as they could provide themselves with. Thearrangement was not a luxurious one, but it proved to be peculiarlysuitable to the owners of the great De Willoughby claim. 

As they had not broken fast, Tom went out to explore the neighbourhood insearch of food. He thought he remembered having seen in a side street alittle store. When he returned, after some wanderings, a wood fire wascrackling in the stove and Sheba had taken off her hat and put on a whiteapron. 

"Hello!" exclaimed Tom. 

"I borrowed it from Miss Burford, " she said. "I went down to see her. Shelet us have the wood, too. Rupert made the fire. "

She took the paper bags from Tom's hands and stood on tiptoe to kiss him, smiling sweetly at his rather troubled face. 

"All my life you have been doing things for me. Now it is my turn, " shesaid. "I have watched Mornin ever since I was born. I am going to be yourservant. "

In an hour from the time they had taken possession of their quarters, they were sitting at a little table before an open window, making abreakfast of coffee and eggs. Sheba was presiding, and both men werelooking at her flushed cheeks adoringly. 

"Is the coffee good, Uncle Tom?" she said. "Just tell me it is good. "

"Well, " said Tom, "for the first effort of a millionairess, I should sayit was. "

CHAPTER XXV

The year before this Judge Rutherford had been sent to Congress by theRepublican Party of Hamlin County. His election had been a wildlyexciting and triumphant one. Such fiery eloquence as his supportersdisplayed had rarely, if ever, been poured forth before. It was proved byeach orator that the return of the Democratic candidate would plunge thewhole country into the renewal of bloodshed and war. This catastrophehaving been avoided by the Judge's election, the nation--as representedby Hamlin County--had settled down with prospects of peace, prosperity, and the righting of all old grievances. The Judge bought a new andshining valise, a new and shining suit of broadcloth, and a silk hatequally shining and new, and went triumphantly to Washington, the soledrawback to his exultation being that he was obliged to leave Jennybehind him with the piano, the parlour furniture, and the children. 

"But he'll hev ye thar in the White House, ef ye give him time, " said anardent constituent who called to congratulate. 

There seemed no end to a political career begun under such auspices butthe executive mansion itself. The confidence of the rural communities intheir representatives was great and respectful. It was believed that upontheir arrival at the capital, business in both Houses was temporarilypostponed until it had been supported by their expression of opinion andapproval. It was believed also that the luxury and splendour of aCongressman's life was such as ancient Rome itself might have paledbefore and envied. 

"A man in Washin'ton city with a Congristman's wages has got to be apurty level-headed feller not to get into high-falutin' ways of livin'an' throwin' money about. He's got to keep in his mind that this yere's arepublic an' not a 'ristycratic, despotic monarchy. "

This was a sentiment often expressed, and Tom De Willoughby himself hadhad vaguely respectful views of the circumstances and possiblesurroundings of a representative of his country. 

But when he made his first visit to Judge Rutherford, he did not find himinstalled in a palatial hotel and surrounded by pampered menials. He wassitting in a back room in a boarding-house--a room which contained afolding bedstead and a stove. He sat in a chair which was tilted on itshind legs, and his feet rested on the stove's ornamental iron top. He hadjust finished reading a newspaper which lay on the floor beside him, andhis hands were thrust into his pockets. He looked somewhat depressed inspirits. 

When Tom was ushered into the room, the Judge looked round at him, uttered a shout of joy, and sprang to his feet. 

"Tom, " he cried out, falling upon him and shaking his hand rather as ifhe would not object to shaking it off and retaining it as an agreeableobject forever. "Tom! Old Tom! Jupiter, Tom! I don't know how you gothere or where you came from, but--Jupiter! I'm glad to see you. "

He went on shaking his hand as he dragged him across the room and pushedhim into a dingy armchair by the window; and when he had got him there, he stood over him grasping his shoulder, shaking his hand still. Tom sawthat his chin was actually twitching in a curious way which made hisgoatee move unsteadily. 

"The legislation of your country hasn't made you forget home folks, hasit?" said Tom. 

"Forget 'em!" exclaimed the Judge, throwing himself into a seat oppositeand leaning forward excitedly with his hands on his knees. "I neverremembered anything in my life as I remember them. They're never out ofmy mind, night or day. I've got into a way of dreaming I'm back toBarnesville, talking to the boys at the post-office, or listening toJenny playing 'Home, Sweet Home' or 'The Maiden's Prayer. ' I was a bitdown yesterday and couldn't eat, and in the night there I was in thelittle dining-room, putting away fried chicken and hot biscuits as fastas the nigger girl could bring the dishes on the table. Good Lord! howgood they were! There's nothing like them in Washington city, " he added, and he heaved a big sigh. 

"Why, man, " said Tom, "you're homesick!"

The Judge heaved another sigh, thrusting his hands deeper into hispockets and looking out of the window. 

"Yes, by Jingo!" he said; "that's what I am. "

He withdrew his gaze from the world outside the window and returned toTom. 

"You see, " he said, "I've lived different. When a man has been born andbrought up among the mountains and lived a country life among folks thatare all neighbours and have neighbourly ways, city life strikes him hard. Politics look different here; they _are_ different. They're not of theneighbourly kind. Politicians ain't joking each other and having a goodtime. They don't know anything about the other man, and they don't care adamn. What's Hamlin County to them? Why, they don't know anything _about_Hamlin County, and, as far as I've got, they don't want to. They've gottheir own precincts to attend to, and they're going to do it. When a newman comes in, if he ain't a pretty big fellow that knows how to engineerthings and say things to make them listen to him, he's only anothergreenhorn. Now, I'm not a big fellow, Tom; I've found that out! and thefirst two months after I came, blamed if I wasn't so homesick anddiscouraged that if it hadn't been for seeming to go back on the boys, durned if I don't believe I should have gone home. "

Big Tom sat and regarded his honest face thoughtfully. 

"Perhaps you're a bigger man than you know, " he said. "Perhaps you'llfind that out in time, and perhaps other people will. "

The Judge shook his head. 

"I've not got education enough, " he said. "And I'm not an orator. Allthere is to _me_ is that I'm not going back on the boys and Hamlin. Icame here to do the square thing by them and the United States, andblamed if I ain't going to do it as well as I know how. "

"Now, look here, " said Big Tom, "that's pretty good politics to startwith. If every man that came here came to stand by his party--_and_ theUnited States--and do the square thing by them, the republic would bepretty safe, if they couldn't do another durned thing. "

The Judge rubbed his already rather rough head and seemed to cheer up alittle. 

"Do you think so?" he said. 

Big Tom stood up and gave him a slap on his shoulder. 

"Think so?" he exclaimed, in his great, cheerful voice. "I'm a greenhornmyself, but, good Lord! I _know_ it. Making laws for a few million peopleis a pretty big scheme, and it's the fellows who intend to do the squarething who are going to put it through. This isn't ancient Greece, orSparta, but it's my impression that the men who planned and wrote theConstitution, and did the thinking and orating in those days, had a sortof idea of building up a thing just as ornamental and good to writehistory about as either one; and, what's more, they counted on just suchfellows as you to go on carrying the stones and laying them plumb, longafter they were gone. "

"Jupiter, Tom!" the Judge said, with something actually like elation inhis voice, "it's good to hear you. It brings old Hamlin back and gives aman sand. You're an orator, yourself. "

"Am I?" said Tom. "No one ever called my attention to it before. If it'strue, perhaps it'll come in useful. "

"Now, just think of me sitting here gassing, " exclaimed the Judge, "andnever asking what you are here for. What's your errand, Tom?"

"Perhaps I'm here to defraud the Government, " Tom answered, sitting downagain; "or perhaps I've got a fair claim against it. That's what I'vecome to Washington to find out--with the other claimant. "

"A claim!" cried the Judge. "And you've left the Cross-roads--and Sheba?"

"Sheba and the other claimant are in some little rooms we've taken outnear Dupont Circle. The other claimant is the only De Willoughby leftbeside myself, and he is a youngster of twenty-three. He's my brother DeCourcy's son. "

The Judge glowed with interest. He heard the whole story, and hisexcitement grew as he listened. The elements of the picturesque in thesituation appealed to him greatly. The curiously composite mind of theAmerican contains a strong element of the romantic. In its mostmercantile forms it is attracted by the dramatic; when it hails from thewilds, it is drawn by it as a child is drawn by colour and light. 

"It's a big thing, " the Judge ejaculated at intervals. "When I see yousitting there, Tom, just as you used to sit in your chair on thestore-porch, it seems as if it could hardly be you that's talking. Why, man, it'll mean a million!"

"If I get money enough to set the mines at work, " said Tom, "it may meanmore millions than one. "

The dingy square room, with its worn carpet, its turned-up bedstead, shabby chairs, and iron stove, temporarily assumed a new aspect. That itswalls should contain this fairy tale of possible wealth and power andmagnificence made it seem quite soberly respectable, and that Big Tom, sitting in the second-hand looking armchair, which creaked beneath hisweight, should, in matter-of-fact tones, be relating such a story, madeJudge Rutherford regard him with a kind of reverent trouble. 

"Sheba, now, " he said, "Sheba may be one of the biggest heiresses in theStates. Lord! what luck it was for her that fellow left her behind!"

"It was luck for me, " said Tom. And a faint, contemplative grin showeditself on his countenance. He was thinking, as he often did, of theafternoon when he returned from Blair's Hollow and opened the door of theroom behind the store to find the wooden cradle stranded like a small arkin the corner. 

CHAPTER XXVI

Naturally Judge Rutherford gravitated towards the little house nearDupont Circle. The first night he mounted the stairs and found himself inthe small room confronting the primitive supper he had been invited toshare with big Tom and his family, his honest countenance assumed acheerfulness long a stranger to it. 

The room looked such a simple, homely place, with its Virginia madecarpet, its neat, scant furnishing, and its table set with the plainlittle meal. The Judge's homesick heart expanded within him. 

He shook hands with Tom with fervour. Rupert he greeted with friendlyaffection. Sheba--on her entering the room with a plate of hot biscuitswhich she had been baking in Miss Burford's stove--he almost kissed. 

"Now this is something like, " he said. "I didn't know there was anythingso like Barnesville in all Washington city. And there wasn't till youpeople brought it. I don't know what it is, but, by thunder, it does aman's heart good. "

He sat down with the unconventional air of ease he wore in Barnesvillewhen he established himself in one of Jenny's parlour chairs for theevening. 

"Lord, Lord!" he said; "you're home folks, and you've got home ways, that's what it is. A month in one of these fashionable hotels would justabout kill me. Having to order things written out on a card and eat 'emwith a hundred folks looking on--there's no comfort in it. Give me aplace where you can all sit up together round the table and smell thegood hot coffee and biscuit cooking and the ham and chicken being friedin the kitchen. "

Sheba had cooked the supper in Miss Burford's kitchen. Her hot biscuitsand coffee were made after Mornin's most respected recipes, and herhousewifely air was tenderly anxious. 

"If it is not very good, Judge Rutherford, " she said, standing shyly atthe head of the table before she took her place, "it is because I am onlylearning. "

"You have learned, Sheba, " said the Judge, looking at the plate of lightgolden brown and cream white biscuit with the sensitive eye of aconnoisseur. "That plate of biscuit is Barnesville and Sophrony allover. "

Sheba blushed with joy. 

"Oh, Uncle Tom, " she said; "do you think it is? I should so like toremind him of Barnesville. "

"Good Lord!" said the Judge. "Fact is, you've made me feel already as ifTom Scott might break out yelling in the back yard any minute. "

After the supper was over and the table clear the party of four sat downto talk business and make plans. The entire inexperience of the claimantswas an obstacle in their path, but Judge Rutherford, though not greatlywiser than themselves, had means of gaining information which would be ofvalue. As he looked over the papers and learned the details of the story, the good fellow's interest mounted to excitement. He rubbed his head andgrew flushed and bright of eye. 

"By Jupiter, Tom!" he exclaimed, "I believe I can be of some use toyou--I swear I believe I can. I haven't had much experience, but I'veseen something of this claim business, and if I set my wits to work I canfind out from other fellows who know more. I'll--" After a moment'sreflection. "I'll have a talk with Farquhar to-morrow. That's what I'lldo. Great Scott!" in a beaming outburst, "if I could push it through foryou, how pleased Jenny would be. "

When he went away Tom accompanied him downstairs. Sheba and Rupertfollowed them, and all three found themselves lured out into the moonlitnight to saunter with him a few yards down the light avenue, talkingstill about their fairy story. The Judge himself was as fascinated by itas if he had been a child. 

"Why, it's such a good story to tell, " he expatiated; "and there must bea great deal in that. I never heard a better story for gainingsympathy--that fine old Southern aristocrat standing by the Union in ared-hot secessionist town--actually persecuted on account of it. He _was_persecuted, wasn't he?" he enquired of Rupert. 

"Well, " Rupert answered, "everybody was furious at him, of course--allhis friends. People who had known him all his life passed him in thestreet without speaking. He'd been very popular, and he felt it terribly. He never was the same man after it began. He was old, and his spirit gaveway. "

"Just so!" exclaimed the Judge, stopping upon the pavement, elated evento oratory by the picture presented. "Fine old Southern aristocrat--onthe brink of magnificent fortune--property turned into money that he mayrealise it--war breaks out, ruins him--Spartan patriotism--one patriot ina town of rebels hated and condemned by everybody--but faithful to hiscountry. Friends--_old_ friends--refuse to recognise him. Fortunegone--friends lost--heart broken. " He snatched Tom's big hand and shookit enthusiastically. "Tom!" he said; "I'd like to make a speech to theHouse about it myself. I believe they would listen to me. How set upJenny would be--how set up she'd be. "

He left them all in a glow of enthusiasm; they could see himgesticulating a little to himself as he walked down the avenue in themoonlight. 

"That's just like him, " said Tom; "he'd rather please Jenny than set theHouse of Representatives on fire. And he'd undertake the wholething--work to give a man a fortune for mere neighbourliness. We were aneighbourly lot in Hamlin, after all. "

The Judge went home to his boarding-house and sat late in his shabbyarmchair, his legs stretched out, his hands clasped on the top of hisrough head. He was thinking the thing out, and as he thought it out hisexcitement grew. Sometimes he unclasped his hands and rubbed his hairwith restless sigh; more than once he unconsciously sprang to his feet, walked across the floor two or three times, and then sat down again. Hewas not a sharp schemer, he had not even reached the stage ofsophistication which would have suggested to him that sharp schemingmight be a necessary adjunct in the engineering of such matters asGovernment claims. From any power or tendency to diplomatise he was asfree as the illustrative bull in a china shop. His bucolic trust in thesimple justice and honest disinterestedness of the politicalrepresentatives of his native land (it being granted they were of theRepublican party) might have appeared a touching thing to a more astuteand experienced person who had realised it to its limits. When he rubbedhis hair excitedly or sprang up to walk about, these manifestations wereindications, not of doubt or distrust, but of elated motion. It was theemotional aspect of the situation which delighted and disturbed him, thedramatic picturesqueness of it. Here was Tom--good old Tom--all Hamlinknew Tom and his virtues and witticisms--Lord! there wasn't a man in thecounty who didn't love him--yes, _love_ him. And here was Sheba that Tomhad been a father to. And what a handsome little creature she'd growninto--and, but for Tom, the Lord knew what would have become of her. Andthere was that story of the De Willoughbys of Delisleville--handsome, aristocratic lot, among the biggest bugs in the State--the fine old Judgewith his thousands of acres lying uncultivated, and he paying his taxeson them through sheer patriarchal pleasure in being a big landowner. Foryears the Government had benefited by his tax-paying, while he had gainednothing. And then there was the accidental discovery of the splendidwealth hidden in the bowels of the earth--and the old aristocrat's energyand enterprise. Why, if the war had not brought ruin to him and he hadcarried out his plans, the whole State would have been the richer for hismines. Capital would have been drawn in, labour would have been indemand--things would have developed--outsiders would have boughtland--new discoveries would have been made--the wealth of the country'sresources would have opened up--the Government itself would havebenefited by the thing. And then the war had ruined all. And yet the oldJudge, overwhelmed with disaster as he was, had stood by the Governmentand had been scorned and deserted, and had died broken-hearted at theend, and here were his sole descendants--good old Tom and his littlebeauty of a protégée--(no, Sheba wasn't a descendant, but somehow shecounted), and this fine young De Willoughby--all of them penniless. Why, the justice of the thing stared a man in the face; a claim like that_must_ go through. 

At this juncture of his thought Judge Rutherford was standing upright inthe middle of his room. His hair was in high disorder and his countenanceflushed. He struck his right fist hard against the palm of his left hand. 

"Why, the whole thing's as straight as a string, " he said. "It's got togo through. I'll go and see Farquhar to-morrow. "

 * * * * *

Farquhar was a cleverer man than the representative from Hamlin County. He had been returned several times by his constituents, and his life hadbeen spent in localities more allied to effete civilization than wasBarnesville. He knew his Washington and had an astute interest in themethods and characteristics of new members of Congress, particularlyperhaps such as the rural districts loomed up behind as a background. Judge Rutherford he had observed at the outset of his brief career, inthe days when he had first appeared in the House of Representatives inhis new broadcloth with its new creases, and with the uneasy butconscientious expression in his eye. 

"There's a good fellow, I should say, " he had remarked to the member atthe desk next to him. "Doesn't know what to do, exactly--isn't quite surewhat he has come for--but means to accomplish it, whatsoever it may turnout to be, to the best of his ability. He'd be glad to make friends. He'sused to neighbours and unceremonious intimacies. "

He made friends with him himself and found the acquaintance of interestat times. The faithfully reproduced atmosphere of Barnesville had almosta literary colour. Occasionally, though not frequently, he encourageddelineation of Jenny and Tom Scott and Thacker and "the boys. " He hadeven inhaled at a distance vague whiffs of Sophronia's waffles. 

On the morning after the evening spent at Dupont Circle Judge Rutherfordfrankly buttonholed him in the lobby. 

"Farquhar, " he said, "I'm chock full of a story. It kept me awake halfthe night. I want to ask your advice about it. It's about a claim. "

"You shouldn't have let it keep you awake, " replied Farquhar. "Claims arenot novel enough. It's my opinion that Washington is more than halfpopulated just now with people who have come to present claims. "

Judge Rutherford's countenance fell a little as the countenance of anenthusiast readily falls beneath the breath of non-enthusiasm. 

"Well, " he said, "I guess there are plenty of them--but there are notmany like this. You never heard such a story. It would be worth listeningto, even if you were in the humour to walk ten miles to kick a claim. "

Farquhar laughed. 

"I have been in them, Guv'nor, " he said. "The atmosphere is heavy withcarpet-baggers who all have a reason for being paid for something by theGovernment. There's one of them now--that little Hoosier hanging aboutthe doorway. He's from North Carolina, and wants pay for a herd ofcattle. "

In the hall outside the lobby a little man stood gazing with pale smalleyes intent upon the enchanted space within. He wore a suit of blue jeansevidently made in the domestic circle. He scanned each member of Congresswho went in or out, and his expression was a combination of furtiveeagerness and tentative appeal. 

"I believe I've seen him before, " remarked Judge Rutherford, "but I don'tknow him. "

"He's been hanging about the place for weeks, " said Farquhar. "He'salways in the strangers' gallery when claims come up for discussion. Helooks as if he'd be likely to get what he has come for, Hoosier as heis. "

"I want to talk to you about the De Willoughbys, " said Rutherford. "Ican't rest until I've told someone about it. I want you to advise me whatto do. "

Farquhar allowed himself to be led away into a more secluded spot. He wasnot, it must be confessed, greatly interested, but he was well disposedtowards the member from Hamlin and would listen. They sat down togetherin one of the rooms where such talk might be carried on, and the Judgeforthwith plunged into his story. 

It was, as his own instincts had told him, a good story. He was at oncesimple and ornate in the telling--simple in his broad directness, andornate in his dramatic and emotional touches. He began with the pictureof the De Willoughbys of Delisleville--the autocratic and aristocraticJudge, the two picturesque sons, and the big, unpicturesque one whodisappeared from his native town to reappear in the mountains of NorthCarolina and live his primitive life there as the object of generaladulation. He unconsciously made Big Tom the most picturesque figure ofthe lot. Long before he had finished sketching him, Farquhar--who hadbeen looking out of the window--turned his face towards him. He began tofeel himself repaid for his amiable if somewhat casual attention. He didnot look out of the window again. The history of big Tom De Willoughbyalone was worth hearing. Farquhar did not find it necessary to call JudgeRutherford's attention to the fact that Sheba and the mystery of Blair'sHollow were not to be regarded as evidence. He realised that they adornedthe situation and seemed to prove things whether it was strictly truethat they did so or not. The discovery of the coal, the fortunes anddisasters of Judge de Willoughby, the obstinate loyalty abhorred andcondemned of his neighbours, his loneliness and poverty and death--hiswasted estates, the big, bare, empty house in which his sole known heirlived alone, were material to hold any man's attention, and, enlargedupon by the member from Hamlin, were effective indeed. 

"Now, " said the Judge, wiping his forehead when he had finished, "what doyou think of that? Don't you think these people have a pretty strongclaim?"

"That story sounds as if they had, " answered Farquhar; "but theGovernment isn't eager to settle claims--and you never know what will beunearthed. If Judge De Willoughby had not been such a blatantly open oldopposer of his neighbour's political opinions these people wouldn't havea shadow of a chance. "

"By Jupiter!" exclaimed Rutherford, delightedly; "he was persecuted--persecuted. "

"It was a good thing for his relatives, " said Farquhar. "Did you say thepeople had come to Washington?"

"All three of them, " answered the Judge, and this time his tone wasexultant; "Tom, and Sheba, and Rupert. They've rented some little roomsout near Dupont Circle. "

"I should like to be taken to see them, " said Farquhar, reflectively. "Ishould like to have a look at Big Tom De Willoughby. "

"Would you?" cried the Judge. "Why, nothing would suit me better--or themeither, for that matter. I'll take you any day you say--any day. "

"It ain't the easiest thing in the world to put a claim through, " saidFarquhar. "It means plenty of hard knocks and hard work and anxiety. Doyou know that?"

"I don't know anything about it, " answered the Judge. "But I'm going toget this one through if there's a way of doing it. "

"You'll be misunderstood and called names and slandered, " said Farquhar, regarding his rugged, ingenuous face with some curiosity. "There may bepeople--even in Hamlin County--who won't believe you are not up to somebig deal. What are you doing it for?"

"Why, for Tom and Sheba and Rupert, " said the Judge, in an outburst ofneighbourliness. "That's folks enough to do it for, ain't it? There'sthree of 'em--and I'd do it for ary one--as we say in Barnesville, " indiscreet correction of the colloquialism. 

Farquhar laughed a little, and put a hand on his shoulder as they movedaway together. "I believe you would, " he said; "perhaps that sort ofthing is commoner in Barnesville than in Washington. I believe you would. Take me to see the claimants to-morrow. "

CHAPTER XXVII

When Judge Rutherford piloted him up the broad, unpaved avenue towardsthe small house near Dupont Circle, the first objects which caughtFarquhar's gaze were two young people standing among the unkempt rose andsyringa bushes in the little front garden. The slim grace and bloom oftheir youth would have caught any eye. They were laughing happily, andthe girl held a branch of rosy blossoms in her hand. 

"Are they the claimants?" Farquhar enquired. 

"One of them is, " answered Rutherford. "But Sheba--Sheba counts somehow. "

Sheba looked at the stranger with the soft gaze of deer-like eyes when hewas presented to her. There was no shyness in her woodland smile. 

"Judge Rutherford, " she said, "Uncle Matt has come--Rupert's Matt, youknow. We can't help laughing about it, but we can't help being happy. "

The boyish Southern face at her side laughed and glowed. Matt representedto Rupert the Lares and Penates his emotional nature required and hadbeen denied. 

"If he were not such a practical creature, " he said, "I might not knowwhat to do with him. But he worked his way here by engaging himself forthe journey as a sort of nurse to an invalid young man who wanted to joinhis family in Washington and was too weak to travel alone. "

The further from romance the world drifts, the fairer it becomes in itsfagged eyes. So few stories unfold themselves sweetly from beginning toend that a first chapter is always more or less alluring, and as hemarked the youth and beauty of those two and saw how their young eyes andsmiles met in question and response at every thought, to Farquhar, whostill retained the fragments of an imagination not wholly blighted by theHouse of Representatives, it seemed rather as if he had wandered into aworld where young Cupid and Psyche still moved and breathed in humanguise. As central figures of a government claim, the pair wereexquisitely incongruous. Their youth was so radiant and untried, theirbright good looks so bloomed, that the man looking at them felt--with arealising sense of humour as well as fanciful sentiment--as if a springwind wafted through a wood close grown with wild daffodils had swept intoa heated manufactory where machinery whirred and ill-clad workers bentover their toil. 

"Uncle Tom will be very glad to see you, " said Sheba, as they went intothe house. "Judge Rutherford says you will tell us what to do. "

An interesting feature of the situation to Farquhar was the entirefrankness and simplicity of those concerned in it. It was so clear thatthey knew nothing of the complications they might be called upon to face, that their ignorance was of the order of charm. If he had been somesharper claimant come to fleece them, their visitor knew this youngdryad's eyes would have smiled at him just as gratefully. 

As they mounted the stairs, a huge laugh broke forth above, and when theyentered the small sitting-room Uncle Matt stood before Big Tom, holdingforth gravely, his gray wool bared, his decently shabby hat in his hand. 

"I'd er come as lady's maid, Marse Thomas De Willoughby, " he was saying, "ef I couldn't er got here no other way. Seemed like I jest got to honin'atter Marse Rupert, an' I couldn't er stayed nohow. I gotter be whar datboy is--I jest _gotter_. "

Big Tom, rising to his full height to shake hands with his visitor, appeared physically to cast such disparagement on the size of the room aswas almost embarrassing. Farquhar saw all his values as he met hishonest, humourous eye. 

"I've been talking to my nephew's body-guard, " he said. "All right, UncleMatt. You just go to Miss Burford and ask her to find you a shake-down. There's always a place to be found for a fellow like you. "

"Marse Thomas De Willoughby, " said Matt, "dish yer niggah man's not gwineto be in no one's way. I come yere to work--dat's what I come yere for. An' work's a thing dat kin be hunted down--en a man ain't needin' no gunto hunt it neder--an' he needn't be no mighty Nimrod. " And he made hisbest bow to both men and shuffled out of the room. 

To Farquhar his visit was an interesting experience and a novel one. Formonths he had been feeling that he lived in the whirl of a maelstrom ofschemes and jobberies, the inevitable result of the policy of aGovernment which had promised to recoup those it had involuntarilywronged during a national convulsion. Upon every side there had sprung upclaimants--many an honest one, and hordes of those not honest. There wereobvious thieves and specious ones, brilliant tricksters and dull ones. Newspaper literature had been incited by the number and variety ofclaims, and claims--to a jocularity which spread over all the land. Farquhar had seen most of the types--the greenhorn, the astute planner, the man who had a wrong burning in his breast, the man who knew how toapproach his subject and the man who did not, the man who buttonholedeverybody and was diffuse and hopeful, and the man who was helplessbefore the task he had undertaken. He had never, however, seen anythinglike the De Willoughby claimants--big Tom telling his straightforwardstory with his unsanguine air, the attractive youngster adding detailwith simple directness, and the girl, Sheba, her roe's eyes dilated witheager interest hanging upon their every word. 

"It is one of the best stories I've heard, " he said to Rutherford, ontheir way back. "But it's a big claim--it's a huge claim, and theGovernment is beginning to get restive. "

"But don't you think they'll get it through?" exclaimed Judge Rutherford. "Ain't they _bound_ to get it? It's the Lord's truth--every word theyspeak--the Lord's truth!"

"Yes, " answered Farquhar, "that's how it struck me; but, as a rule, itisn't the Lord's truth that carries a big claim through. "

He broke into a short laugh, as if at an inward realisation of the aspectof the situation. 

"They are as straightforward as a lot of children, " he said. "They havenothing to hide, and they wouldn't know how to hide it if they had. Itwould be rather a joke if----" And he laughed again. 

"If what?" asked Rutherford. 

"Ah, well! if that very fact was the thing which carried them through, "his laugh ending in a shrewd smile. 

This carried the ingenuous mind of his companion beyond its depth. 

"I don't see where the joke would come in, " he said, rather ruefully. "Ishould have thought nothing else would do it for them. "

Farquhar slapped him on the shoulder. 

"So you would, " he said. "That's why you are the best advocate they couldhave. You are all woven out of the same cloth. You stand by them--and sowill I. "

Judge Rutherford seized his hand and shook it with affectionately ardentpumpings. 

"That's what I wanted to make sure of, " he said. "I'm going to work atthis thing, and I want a man to help me who knows the ropes. Lord, how Ishould like to go back to Hamlin and tell Jenny and the boys that I'd putTom through. "

And as they walked up the enclosed road to the Capitol he devoted himselfto describing anew Big Tom's virtue, popularity, and witticisms. 

 * * * * *

For weeks Talbot's Cross-roads found itself provided with a conversationaltopic of absorbing interest. Ethan Cronan, who had temporarily "taken on"the post-office and store, had no cause to fear that the old headquarterswas in danger of losing popularity. The truth was that big Tom had so longpresided over the daily gatherings that the new occupant of the premiseswas regarded merely as a sort of friendly representative. Being an amiableand unambitious soul, Ethan in fact regarded himself in the same light, and felt supported and indeed elevated by the fact that he stood in theshoes of a public character so universally popular and admired. 

"I ain't Tom, an' I cayn't never come a-nigh him, " he said; "but I kin domy best not to cast no disgrace on his place, an' allus tradin' as fairas I know how. It's a kinder honor to set in his chairs an' weigh sugarout in the scales he used--an' it drors trade too. "

During the passage of the first few weeks, horses, waggons, and ox-teamscrowded about the hitching-posts, while excitement ran high at mail-time. The general opinion was that any post might bring the news that Congresswas "sitting on" the great De Willoughby claim, and that Washingtonwaited breathless for its decision. That all other national businessshould be suspended seemed inevitable. That any mail should come and gowithout bringing some news was not contemplated. The riders of the horsesand owners of the waggons sat upon the stone porch and discussedprobabilities. They told each other stories they had gathered of thebygone glories of the De Willoughbys, of the obstinate loyalty of the oldJudge and the bitter indignation of his neighbours, and enlarged upon thestrength of the claim this gave him to the consideration of theGovernment. 

"Tom won't have no trouble with his claim, " was the general opinion. "He'll just waltz it through. Thar won't be a hitch. "

But after the first letter in which he announced his safe arrival in theCapital City, Tom wrote no more for a week or so, which caused adisappointment only ameliorated by the belief that he was engaged in"waltzing" the claim through. Each man felt it necessary to visit theCross-roads every day to talk over the possible methods employed, and tomake valuable suggestions. Interest never flagged, but it was greatlyadded to when it was known that Judge Rutherford had ranged himself onTom's side. 

"He's the pop-larest man in Hamlin County, " it was said, "an' he's boundto be a pop'lar man in Congress, an' have a pull. "

But when the summer had passed, and a touch of frost in the night airloosened the chestnuts in their burrs, and a stray morning breeze shookthem in showers down upon the carpet of rustling yellowed leaves, Tom'sletters had become few and far between, and none of them had containedany account of the intentions of the legislative body with regard to theclaim. 

"There's nothing to tell, boys, " he wrote. "As far as I've gone, it seemsa man gets a claim through Congress by waiting about Washington andtelling his story to different people until he wears them out--or theywear him out. "

For some time after this they did not hear from him at all. The winterset in, and the habitués of the Cross-roads Post-office gathered aboutthe glowing stove. Under the influence of cold gray skies, biting air, leafless trees, and bare land, the claim seemed somehow to have recededinto the distance. The sanguine confidence of the community had notsubsided into doubt so much as into helpless mystification. Months hadpassed and nothing whatsoever had happened. 

"Seems somehow, " said Jabe Doty one night, as he tilted his chair forwardand stared at the fire in the stove, "seems somehow as if Tom was a rightsmart ways off--es ef he got furder as the winter closed in--a'most likeWashin'ton city hed moved a thousand miles or so out West somewhars, an'took him with it. "

CHAPTER XXVIII

To Tom himself it seemed that it was the old, easy-going mountain lifewhich had receded. The days when he had sat upon the stone porch andwatched the sun rise from behind one mountain and set behind anotherseemed to belong to a life lived centuries ago. But that he knew littleof occult beliefs and mysteries, he would have said to himself that allthese things must have happened in a long past incarnation. 

The matter of the De Willoughby claim was brought before the House. JudgeRutherford opened the subject one day with a good deal of nervousexcitement. He had supplied himself with many notes, and found somelittle difficulty in managing them, being new to the work, and he grewhot and uncertain because he could not secure an audience. Claims hadalready become old and tiresome stories, and members who were unoccupiedpursued their conversation unmovedly, giving the speaker only anoccasional detached glance. The two representatives of their countrysitting nearest to him were, not at all furtively, eating apples andcasting their cores and parings into their particular waste-paperbaskets. This was discouraging and baffling. To quote the Judge himself, no one knew anything about Hamlin County, and certainly no one wasdisturbed by any desire to be told about it. 

That night Rutherford went to the house near Dupont Circle. Big Tom wassitting in the porch with Rupert and Sheba. Uncle Matt was digging aboutthe roots of a rose-bush, and the Judge caught a glimpse of Miss Burfordlooking out from behind the parlour curtains. 

The Judge wore a wearied and vaguely bewildered look as he sat down andwiped his forehead with a large, clean white handkerchief. 

"It's all different from what I thought--it's all different, " he said. 

"Things often are, " remarked Tom, "oftener than not. "

Rupert and Sheba glanced at each other questioningly and listened withanxious eyes. 

"And it's different in a different way from what I expected, " the Judgewent on. "They might have said and done a dozen things I should have beensort of ready for, but they didn't. Somehow it seemed as if--as if thewhole thing didn't matter. "

Tom got up and began to walk about. 

"That's not the way things begin that are going to rush through, " hesaid. 

Sheba followed him and slipped her hand through his arm. 

"Do you think, " she faltered, "that perhaps we shall not get the money atall, Uncle Tom?"

Tom folded her hand in his--which was easily done. 

"I'm afraid that if we do get it, " he answered, "it will not come to usbefore we want it pretty badly--the Lord knows how badly. "

For every day counts in the expenditure of a limited sum, and on days ofdiscouragement Tom's calculation of their resources left him a troubledman. 

When Judge Rutherford had gone Rupert sat with Sheba in the scentedsummer darkness. He drew his chair opposite to hers and took one of herhands in both of his own. 

"Suppose I have done a wrong thing, " he said. "Suppose I have dragged youand Uncle Tom into trouble?"

"I am glad you came, " in a quick, soft voice. "I am glad you came. " Andthe slight, warm fingers closed round his. 

He lifted them to his lips and kissed them over and over again. "Are youglad I came?" he murmured. "Oh, Sheba! Sheba!"

"Why do you say 'Oh, Sheba'?" she asked. 

"Because I love you so--and I am so young--and I don't know what to do. You know I love you, don't you?"

She leaned forward so that he saw her lovely gazelle eyes lifted and mostinnocently tender. "I want you to love me, " she said; "I could not bearyou not to love me. "

He hesitated a second, and then suddenly pressed his glowing face uponher palm. 

"But I don't love you as Uncle Tom loves you, Sheba, " he said. "I loveyou--young as I am--I love you--differently. "

Her swaying nearer to him was a sweetly unconscious and involuntarything. Their young eyes drowned themselves in each other. 

"I want you, " she said, the note of a young ring-dove answering her matemurmuring in her voice, "I want you to love me--as you love me. I loveyour way of loving me. "

"Darling!" broke from him, his boy's heart beating fast and high. Andtheir soft young lips were, through some mystery of power, drawn so nearto each other that they met like flowers moved to touching by the summerwind. 

Later Rupert went to Tom, who sat by an open window in his room andlooked out on the moonlit stretch of avenue. The boy's heart was stillbeating fast, and, as the white light struck his face, it showed his eyesmore like Delia Vanuxem's than they had ever been. Their darkness heldjust the look Tom remembered, but could never have described or explainedto himself. 

"Uncle Tom, " he began, in an unsteady voice, "I couldn't go to bedwithout telling you. "

Tom glanced up at him and learned a great deal. He put a big hand on hisshoulder. 

"Sit down, boy, " he said, his kind eyes warming. Rupert sat down. 

"Perhaps I ought not to have done it, " he broke forth. "I did not know Iwas going to do it. I suppose I am too young. I did not mean to--but Icould not help it. "

"Sheba?" Tom inquired, simply. 

"Her eyes were so lovely, " poured forth the boy. "She looked at me solike an angel. Whenever she is near me, it seems as if something weredrawing us together. "

"Yes, " was Tom's quiet answer. 

"I want to tell you all about it, " impetuously. "I have been so lonely, Uncle Tom, since my mother died. You don't know how I loved her--howclose we were to each other. She was so sweet and wonderful--and I hadnothing else. "

Tom nodded gently. 

"I remember, " he said. "I never forgot. "

He put the big hand on the boy's knee this time. "I loved her too, " hesaid, "and _I_ had nothing else. "

"Then you know--you know!" cried Rupert. "You remember what it was to sitquite near her and see her look at you in that innocent way--how youlonged to cry out and take her in your arms. "

Tom stirred in his seat. Time rolled back twenty-five years. 

"Oh, my God, yes--I remember!" he answered. 

"It was like that to-night, " the young lover went on. "And I could notstop myself. I told her I loved her--and she said she wanted me to loveher--and we kissed each other. "

Big Tom got up and stood before the open window. His hands were thrustdeep into his pockets and he stared out at the beauty of the night. 

"Good Lord!" he said. "That's what _ought_ to come to every man thatlives--but it doesn't. "

Rupert poured forth his confession, restrained no more. 

"From that first night when I rode through the mountains over the whiteroad and stopped at your gate--since I looked up and saw her standing onthe balcony with the narcissus in her hair it has always been the samething. It began that very moment--it was there when she leaned forwardand spoke to me. I had never thought of a woman before--I was too poorand sad and lonely and young. And there she was--all white--and it seemedas if she was _mine_. "

Tom nodded his head as if to a white rose-bush in the small garden. 

"I am as poor as ever I was, " said Rupert. "I am a beggar if we lose ourclaim; but I am not sad, and I am not lonely--I can't be--I can't be! Iam happy--everything's happy--because she knows--and I have kissed her. "

"What did you think I would say when you told me?" Tom asked. 

"I don't know, " impetuously; "but I knew I must come to you. It seems amillion years ago since that hot morning in the old garden atDelisleville--when I had never seen her. "

"One of the things I have thought about a good deal, " said Tom, withquite a practical manner, "has been love. I had lots of time to thinkover things at the Cross-roads, and I used to work them out as far as mymind would carry me. Love's as much an element as the rest of them. There's earth, air, fire, water--and love. It has to be calculated for. What I've reasoned out is that it has not been calculated for enough. It's going to _come_ to all of us--and it will either come and stay, andmake the old earth bloom with flowers--or it will come and go, and leaveit like a plain swept by fire. It's not a trivial thing that only boysand girls play with; it's better--and worse. It ought to be prepared forand treated well. It's not often treated well. People have got into theway of expecting trouble and tragedy to come out of it. We are alwayshearing of its unhappiness in books. Poets write about it that way. "

"I suppose it is often unhappy, " said Rupert; "but just now it seems asif it _could_ not be. "

"What _I've_ been wanting to see, " said Tom, "is young love come up likea flower and be given its dew and sun and rain--and bloom and bloom itsbest. "

He drew a big sigh. 

"That poor child who lies on the hillside under the pines, " he went on, "Sheba's mother--hers was young love--and it brought tragedy and death. Delia, " his voice was unsteady, "your mother's was young love, and herheart was broken. No, it's not often well treated. And when you and Shebacame to me that night with your boy and girl eyes shining with gladnessjust because you had met each other, I said to myself, 'By the Lord, hereis what it springs from. Perhaps it may come to them; I wonder if itwill?'"

"You thought it might, even then, " Rupert cried. 

"Yes, I did, " was Tom's answer. "You were young--you were drawntogether--it seemed natural. I used to watch you, and think it over, making a kind of picture to myself of how it would be if two young thingscould meet each other and join hands and wander on among roses until theyreached the gate of life--and it swung open for them and they passedthrough and found another paradise. "

He stopped a second and turned to look at Rupert's dreamy face with asmile not all humorous. "I'm a sentimental chap for my size, " he added. "That's what I wanted for Sheba and you--that's what I want. That sort ofthing was left out of my life; but I should like to see it before I'mdone with. Good God! why can't people be _happy_? I want people to be_happy_. "

The boy was trembling. 

"Uncle Tom, " he said, "Sheba and I are happy to-night. "

"Then God have mercy on the soul of the man who would spoil it for you, "said Big Tom, with actual solemnity. "I'm not that man. You two just goon being happy; try and make up for what your two mothers had to bear. "

Rupert got up from his chair and caught the big hand in his. It was aboy's action, and he looked particularly like a boy as he did it. "It isjust like you, " he broke forth. "I did not know what you would say when Itold you--but I ought to have known you would say something like this. It's--it's as big as you are, Uncle Tom, " ingenuously. 

That was his good-night. When he went away Big Tom settled into his chairagain and looked out for some time longer at the bright night. He wasgoing back to two other nights which lay in the years behind. One was thenight he turned his back on Delisleville and rode towards the mountainwith a weight on his kindly heart which he had grimly told himself seemedto weigh a ton; the other was the night he had been wakened from hissleep by the knock on the door of the bedroom behind the Cross-roadsPost-office and had ridden out under the whiteness of the moon to find inthe bare cabin at Blair's Hollow the little fair girl who had sobbed anddied as she clung to his warm hand. 

CHAPTER XXIX

The world had heard and talked much of the Reverend John Baird in theyears which followed his return to Willowfield. During the first fewmonths after his reappearance among them, his flock had passed through aphase of restless uncertainty with regard to him. Certain elder membersof his congregation had privately discussed questions of doctrine withanxiousness. Had not Nature already arraigned herself upon the man's sideby bestowing upon him a powerful individuality, heads might have beenshaken, and the matter discussed openly instead of in consideratelyconfidential conclave. It was, however, less easy to enter into argumentwith such a man than with one slow and uncertain of tongue, and one whosefortunes rested in the hands of the questioners. Besides, it was not tobe denied that even the elderly and argumentative found themselveslistening to his discourses. The young and emotional often thrilled andquaked before them. In his hour he was the pioneer of what to-day we callthe modern, and seemed to speak his message not to a heterogeneous mentalmass, but to each individual man and woman who sat before him withupturned face. He was daringly human for the time in which he lived, itbeing the hour when humanity was overpowered by deity, and to be humanwas to be iconoclastic. His was not the doctrine of the future--of futurerepentance for the wrongs done to-day, of future reward for the goodto-day achieves, all deeds being balanced on a mercantile account ofprofit and loss. His was a cry almost fierce, demanding, in the name ofhuman woe, that to-day shall hold no cruelty, no evil done, even to thesmallest and most unregarded thing. 

By some chance--though he alone realised the truth of the fact--thesubjects of his most realistic and intense appeals to his hearers had thehabit of developing themselves in his close talks with Latimer. Among thefriends of the man on whom all things seemed to smile, the man on whomthe sun had never shone, and who faithfully worshipped him, was known ashis Shadow. It was not an unfitting figure of speech. Dark, gloomy, andinarticulate, he was a strange contrast to the man he loved; but, fromthe hour he had stood by Latimer's side, leaning against the rail of thereturning steamer, listening to the monotonously related story of theman's bereavement, John Baird had felt that Fate herself had knit theirlives together. He had walked the deck alone long hours that night, andwhen the light of the moon had broken fitfully through the stormilydrifting clouds, it had struck upon a pallid face. 

"Poor fellow!" he had said between his teeth; "poor darkling, tragicfellow! I must try--try--oh, my God! I must try----"

Then their lives had joined currents at Willowfield, and the friendshipBaird had asked for had built itself on a foundation of stone. 

There was nothing requiring explanation in the fact that to the lessfortunate man Baird's every gift of wit and ease was a pleasure andcomfort. His mere physical attractions were a sort of joy. When Latimercaught sight of his own lank, ill-carried figure and his harshly ruggedsallow face, he never failed to shrink from them and avert his eyes. Tobe the companion of a man whose every movement suggested strength andgrace, whose skin was clear and healthful, his features well balanced andadmirable in line--to be the friend of a human being built by nature asall human beings should be built if justice were done to them, wasnourishment to his own starved needs. 

When he assumed his charge at the squalid little town of Janway's Mills, his flock looked askance at him. He was not harsh of soul, but he wasgloomy and had not the power to convey encouragement or comfort, thoughhe laboured with strenuous conscientiousness. Among the sordid commonnessof the every-day life of the mill hands and their families he lived andmoved as Savonarola had moved and lived in the midst of the picturesquewickedness and splendidly coloured fanaticism of Italy in dim, richcenturies past; but his was the asceticism and stern self-denial ofSavonarola without the uplifting power of passionate eloquence and firewhich, through their tempest, awakened and shook human souls. He had nogifts of compelling fervor; he could not arouse or warm his hearers; henever touched them. He preached to them, he visited them at their homes, he prayed beside their dying and their dead, he gave such aid in theirnecessities as the narrowness of his means would allow, but none of themloved him or did more than stoically accept him and his services. 

"Look at us as we stand together, " he said to Baird on an evening whenthey stood side by side within range of an old-fashioned mirror. "Thosethings your reflection represents show me the things I was born without. I might make my life a daily crucifixion of self-denial and duty done atall costs, but I could not wear your smile or speak with your voice. I ama man, too, " with smothered passion; "I am a man, too! And yet--whatwoman looks smilingly at _me_--what child draws near unafraid?"

"You are of the severe monastic temperament, " answered Baird. "It is alla matter of temperament. Mine is facile and a slave to its emotions. Saints and martyrs are made of men like you--never of men such as I am. "

"Are you sure of the value to the world of saints and martyrs?" saidLatimer. "I am not. That is the worst of it. "

"Ah! the world, " Baird reflected. "If we dare to come back to theworld--to count it as a factor----"

"It is only the world we know, " Latimer said, his harsh voice unsteady;"the world's sorrow--the world's pain--the world's power to hurt anddegrade itself. That is what seems to concern us--if we dare to sayso--we, who were thrust into it against our wills, and forced to sufferand see others suffer. The man who was burned at the stake, or torn inthe arena by wild beasts, believed he won a crown for himself--but it wasfor _himself_. "

"What doth it profit a man, " quoted Baird, vaguely, but as if following athought of his own, "if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?"

Latimer flung back his shock of uneven black locks. His hollow eyesflashed daringly. 

"What doth it profit a man, " he cried, "if he save his own soul and losethe whole world, caring nothing for its agony, making no struggle to helpit in its woe and grieving? A Man once gave His life for the world. Hasany man ever given his soul?"

"You go far--you go far!" exclaimed Baird, drawing a short, sharp breath. 

Latimer's deep eyes dwelt upon him woefully. "Have you known what it wasto bear a heavy sin on your soul?" he asked. 

"My dear fellow, " said John Baird, a little bitterly, "it is such men asI, whose temperaments--the combination of forces you say you lack--leadthem to the deeds the world calls 'heavy sins'--and into the torment ofregret which follows. You can bear no such burden--you have no suchregret. "

Latimer, whose elbow rested on the mantel, leaned a haggard forehead onhis hand. 

"I have sinned, " he said. "It was that others might be spared; but I haveput my soul in peril. Perhaps it is lost--lost!"

Baird laid a hand on his shoulder and shook him. It was a singularmovement with passion in it. 

"No! No!" he cried. "Rouse, man, and let your reason speak. In peril?Lost--for some poor rigid law broken to spare others? Great God! No!"

"Reason!" said Latimer. "What you and I must preach each week of ourlives is that it is not reason a man must be ruled by, but blind, wilfulfaith. "

"I do not preach it, " Baird interposed. "There are things I dare to leaveunsaid. "

"I have spoken falsely, " Latimer went on, heavily. "I have lived a lie--alie--but it was to save pure hearts from breaking. They would have brokenbeneath the weight of what I have borne for them. If I must bearpunishment for that, I--Let me bear it. "

The rigid submission of generations of the Calvinistic conscience whichpresumed to ask no justice from its God and gave praise as for mercyshown for all things which were not damnation, and which againstdamnation's self dared not lift its voice in rebellion, had so farinfluenced the very building of his being that the revolt of reason inhis brain filled him with gloomy terror. There was the appeal of despairon his face as he looked at Baird. 

"Your life, your temperament have given you a wider horizon than mine, "he said. "I have never been in touch with human beings. I have only readreligious books--stern, pitiless things. Since my boyhood I have lived interror of the just God--the just God--who visits the sins of the fathersupon the children even to the third and fourth generation. I--Baird--"his voice dropping, his face pallid, "I have _hated_ Him. I keep Hislaws, it is my fate to preach His word--and I cower before Him as a slavebefore a tyrant, with hatred in my heart. "

"Good God!" Baird broke forth, involuntarily. The force of the man'sdesperate feeling, his horror of himself, his tragic truthfulness, werestrange things to stand face to face with. He had never confronted such athing before, and it shook him. 

Latimer's face relaxed into a singular, rather pathetic smile. 

"Good God!" he repeated; "we all say that--I say it myself. It seemsthe natural human cry. I wonder what it means? It surely meanssomething--something. "

John Baird looked at him desperately. 

"You are a more exalted creature than I could ever be, " he said. "I am apoor thing by comparison; but life struck the wrong note for you. It wastoo harsh. You have lived among the hideous cruelties of old doctrinesuntil they have wrought evil in your brain. "

He stood up and threw out his arms with an involuntary gesture, as if hewere flinging off chains. 

"Ah, they are not true! They are not true!" he exclaimed. "They belong tothe dark ages. They are relics of the days when the upholders of onereligion believed that they saved souls by the stake and the rack andthumbscrew. There were men and women who did believe it with rigidhonesty. There were men and women who, believing in other forms, died intorture for their belief. There _is_ no God Who would ask such demoniacsacrifice. We have come to clearer days. Somewhere--somewhere there islight. "

"You were born with the temperament to see its far-off glimmer even inyour darkest hour, " Latimer said. "It is for such as you to point it outto such as I am. Show it to me--show it to me every moment if you can!"

Baird put his hand on the man's shoulder again. 

"The world is surging away from it--the chained mind, the cruelty, thegroping in the dark, " he said, "as it surged away from the revengefulIsraelitish creed of 'eye for eye and tooth for tooth' when Christ came. It has taken centuries to reach, even thus far; but, as each centurypassed, each human creature who yearned over and suffered with his fellowhas been creeping on dragging, bleeding knees towards the light. But thecentury will never come which will surge away from the Man who died inman's agony for men. In thought of Him one may use reason and needs nofaith. "

The germ of one of the most moving and frequently quoted of Baird'smuch-discussed discourses sprang--he told his friends afterwards--fromone such conversation, and was the outcome of speech of the dead girlMargery. On a black and wet December day he came into his study, on hisreturn from some parish visits, to find Latimer sitting before the fire, staring miserably at something he held in his hand. It was a littledaguerrotype of Margery at fifteen. 

"I found it in an old desk of mine, " he said, holding it out to Baird, who took it and slightly turned away to lean against the mantel, as heexamined it. 

The child's large eyes seemed to light up the ugly shadows of theold-fashioned mushroom hat she wore, the soft bow of her mouth was like alittle Love's, she bloomed with an angelic innocence, and in her straightsweet look was the unconscious question of a child-woman creature at thedawn of life. 

John Baird stood looking down at the heavenly, tender little face. 

There was a rather long silence. During its passing he was far away. Hewas still far away when at length an exclamation left his lips. He didnot hear his words himself--he did not remember Latimer, or notice hisquick movement of surprise. 

"How sweet she was!" he broke forth. "How sweet she was! How sweet!"

He put his hand up and touched his forehead with the action of a man in adream. 

"Sometimes, " he said, low and passionately, "sometimes I am sick withlonging for her--_sick_!"

"You!" Latimer exclaimed. "_You_ are heart-sick for her!"

Baird came back. The startled sound in the voice awoke him. He felthimself, as it were, dragged back from another world, breathless, as by agiant's hand. He looked up, dazed, the hand holding the daguerrotypedropping helplessly by his side. 

"It is not so strange that it should come to that, " he said. "I seem toknow her so well. I think, " there was a look of sharp pain on hisface--"I think I know the pitiful childlike suffering her dying eyesheld. " And the man actually shuddered a little. 

"I know it--I know it!" Latimer cried, and he let his forehead drop uponhis hands and sat staring at the carpet. 

"I have heard and thought of her until she has become a living creature, "John Baird said. "I hear of her from others than yourself. MissStarkweather--that poor girl from the mills, Susan Chapman--youyourself--keep her before me, alive. I seem to know the very deeps of herlovingness--and understand her. Oh, that she should have _died_!" Heturned his face away and spoke his next words slowly and in a loweredvoice. "If I had found her when I came back free--if I had found herhere, living--we two might have been brothers. "

"No, no!" Latimer cried, rising. "You--it could not----"

He drew his hand across his forehead and eyes. 

"What are we saying?" he exclaimed, stammeringly. "What are we thinkingof? For a moment it seemed as if she were alive again. Poor littleMargery, with her eyes like blue flowers, she has been dead years andyears and years. "

 * * * * *

It was not long after this that the Reverend John Baird startled a Bostonaudience one night by his lecture, "Repentance. " In it he unfolded a newpassionate creed which produced the effect of an electric shock. Newspapers reported it, editorials discussed it, articles were writtenupon it in monthly magazines. "Repentance is too late, " was the note hisdeepest fervour struck with virile, almost terrible, intensity. "Repentbefore your wrong is done. "

"Repentance comes too late, " he cried. "We say a man saves his soul byit--_his_ soul! We are a base, cowardly lot. Our own souls aresaved--yes! And we hug ourselves and are comforted. But what of the thingwe have hurt--for no man ever lost his soul unless he lost it by thewound he gave another--by inflicting in some other an agony? What of theone who has suffered--who has wept blood? I repent and save _myself_; butrepentance cannot undo. The torture has been endured--the tears of bloodshed. It is not to God I must kneel and pray for pardon, but to that onewhose helplessness I slew, and, though he grant it me, he still has beenslain. "

The people who sat before him stirred in their seats; some leanedforward, breathing quickly. There were those who turned pale; here andthere a man bent his head and a woman choked back a sob, or satmotionless with streaming eyes. "Repentance is too late--except for himwho buys hope and peace with it. A lifetime of it cannot _undo_. " The oldcomfortable convention seemed to cease to be supporting. It seemed tocease to be true that one may wound and crush and kill, and then beadmirable in escaping by smug repentance. It seemed to cease to be truethat humanity need count only with an abstract, far-off Deity Who caneasily afford to pardon--that one of his poor myriads has been done todeath. It was all new--strange--direct--and each word fell like a blowfrom a hammer, because a strong, dramatic, reasoning creature spoke fromthe depths of his own life and soul. In him Humanity rose up an awfulreality, which must itself be counted with--not because it could punishand revenge, but because the laws of nature cried aloud as a murderedman's blood cries from the ground. 

As Baird crossed the pavement to reach his cab, the first night hedelivered this lecture, a man he knew but slightly stepped to his sideand spoke to him. 

"Mr. Baird, " he said, "will you drive me to the station?"

Baird turned and looked at him in some surprise. There were cabs enoughwithin hailing distance. The man was well known as a journalist, rathercelebrated for his good looks and masculine charm. He was of thesquare-shouldered, easy-moving, rich-coloured type; just now his handsomeeye looked perturbed. 

"I am going away suddenly, " he said, in answer to Baird's questioningexpression. "I want to catch the next train. I want you to see meoff--_you_. "

"Let us get in, " was Baird's brief reply. He had an instant revelationthat the circumstance was not trivial or accidental. 

As the door closed and the cab rolled away his companion leaned back, folding his arms. 

"I had an hour to pass before keeping an appointment, " he said. "And Idropped in to hear you. You put things before a man in a new way. You areappallingly vivid. I am not going to keep my appointment. It is not easy_not_ to keep it! I shall take the train to New York and catchto-morrow's steamer to Liverpool. Don't leave me until you have seen meoff. I want to put the Atlantic Ocean and a year of time between myselfand----"

"Temptation, " said Baird, though he scarcely realised that he spoke. 

"Oh, the devil!" exclaimed the other man savagely. "Call her that if youlike--call me that--call the whole thing that! She does not realise wherewe are drifting. She's a lovely dreamer and has not realised that we arehuman. I did not allow myself to realise it until the passion of yourwords brought me face to face with myself. I am repenting in time. Don'tleave me! I can't carry it through to-night alone. "

John Baird leaned back in the corner of the carriage and folded his armsalso. His heart was leaping beneath them. 

"Great God!" he said, out of the darkness. "I wish someone had said suchwords to me--years ago--and not left me afterwards! Years ago!"

"I thought so, " his companion answered, briefly. "You could not havepainted it with such flaming power--otherwise. "

They did not speak again during the drive. They scarcely exchanged adozen words before they parted. The train was in the station when theyentered it. 

Five minutes later John Baird stood upon the platform, looking after thecarriages as they rolled out noisily behind trailing puffs of smoke andsteam. 

He had asked no questions, and, so far as his own knowledge wasconcerned, this was the beginning, the middle, and the end of the story. But he knew that there had been a story, and there might have been atragedy. It seemed that the intensity of his own cry for justice andmercy had arrested at least one of the actors in it before the curtainfell. 

A few nights later, as they sat together, Baird and Latimer spoke of thisincident and of the lecture it had followed upon. 

"Repentance! Repentance!" Latimer said. "What led _you_ to dwell uponrepentance?"

"Thirty years of life, " was Baird's answer. "Forty of them. " He wasleaning forward gazing into the red-hot coals. "And after our talk, " headded, deliberately. "Margery. "

Latimer turned and gazed at him. 

Baird nodded. 

"Yes, " he said. "Her picture. Her innocent face and the soft, helplessyouth of it. Such young ignorance is helpless--helpless! If in any hourof ruthlessness--or madness--a man had done such tenderness a wrong, whatrepentance--_what_ repentance could undo?"

"None, " said Latimer, and the words were a groan. "None--through alleternity. "

It was not a long silence which followed, but it seemed long to both ofthem. A dead stillness fell upon the room. Baird felt as if he werewaiting for something. He knew he was waiting for something, though hecould not have explained to himself the sensation. Latimer seemed waitingtoo--awaiting the power and steadiness to reach some resolve. But atlength he reached it. He sat upright and clutched the arms of his chair. It was for support. 

"Why not now?" he cried; "why not now? I trust you! I trust you! Let meunburden my soul. I will try. "

It was Baird's involuntary habit to sink into easy attitudes; the long, supple form of his limbs and body lent themselves to grace and ease. Buthe sat upright also, his hands unconsciously taking hold upon the arms ofhis chair as his companion did. 

For a moment the two gazed into each other's eyes, and the contrastbetween their types was a strange one--the one man's face dark, sallow, harsh, the other fine, sensitive, and suddenly awake with emotion. 

"I trust you, " said Latimer again. "I would not have confessed the truthto any other living creature--upon the rack. "

His forehead looked damp under his black locks. 

"You would not have confessed the _truth_, " Baird asked, in a hushedvoice, "about what?"

"Margery, " answered Latimer. "Margery. "

He saw Baird make a slight forward movement, and he went on monotonously. 

"She did not die in Italy, " he said. "She did not die lying smiling inthe evening sun. "

"She--did not?" Baird's low cry was a thing of horror. 

"She died, " Latimer continued, in dull confession, "in a log cabin in themountains of North Carolina. She died in anguish--the mother of anhour-old child. "

"My God! My God! My God!"

Three times the cry broke from Baird. 

He got up and walked across the room and back. 

"Wait--wait a moment!" he exclaimed. "For a moment don't go on. "

As the years had passed, more than once he had been haunted by a dreadthat some day he might come upon some tragic truth long hidden. Here hewas face to face with it. But what imagination could have painted it likethis?

"You think my lie--a damnable thing, " said Latimer. 

"No, no!" answered the other man, harshly. "No, no!"

He moved to and fro, and Latimer went on. 

"I never understood, " he said. "She was a pure creature, and a loving, innocent one. "

"Yes, " Baird groaned; "loving and innocent. Go on--go on! It breaks myheart--it breaks my heart!"

Remembering that he had said "You might have been my brother, " Latimercaught his breath in a groan too. He understood. He had forgotten--forgotten. But now he must go on. 

"At home she had been always a bright, happy, tender thing. She loved usand we loved her. She was full of delicate gifts. We are poor people; wedenied ourselves that we might send her to Boston to develop her talent. She went away, radiant and full of innocent gratitude. For some time shewas very happy. I was making every effort to save money to take herabroad that she might work in the studios there. She had always been adelicate little creature--and when it seemed that her health began tofail, we feared the old terrible New England scourge of consumption. Italways took such bright things as she was. When she came home for a visither brightness seemed gone. She drooped and could not eat or sleep. Wecould not bear to realise it. I thought that if I could take her toFrance or Italy she might be saved. I thought of her day and night--dayand night. "

He paused, and the great knot in his throat worked convulsively in thebondage of his shabby collar. He began again when he recovered his voice. 

"I thought too much, " he said. "I don't know how it was. But just at thattime there was a miserable story going on at the mills--I used to see thepoor girl day by day--and hear the women talk. You know how that class ofwoman talks and gives you details and enlarges on them? The girl wasabout Margery's age. I don't know how it was; but one day, as I wasstanding listening to a gossipping married woman in one of their squalid, respectable parlours, and she was declaiming and denouncing and pouringforth anecdotes, suddenly--quite suddenly--I felt as if something hadstruck me. I turned sick and white and had to sit down. Oh, God! what anafternoon that was! and how long it seemed before I got back home. "

He stopped again. This time he wiped sweat from his forehead before hecontinued, hoarsely:

"I cannot go over it--I cannot describe the steps by which I was ledto--horrid fear. For two weeks I did not sleep a single night. I thoughtI was going mad. I laid awake making desperate plans--to resort to incase--in case----!"

His forehead was wet again, and he stopped to touch it with hishandkerchief. 

"One day I told my mother I was going to Boston to see Margery--to talkover the possibility of our going abroad together with the money I hadworked for and saved. I had done newspaper work--I had written religiousessays--I had taught. I went to her. "

It was Baird who broke the thread of his speech now. He had been standingbefore a window, his back to the room. He turned about. 

"You found?" he exclaimed, low and unsteady. "You found----?"

"It was true, " answered Latimer. "The worst. "

Baird stood stock still; if Latimer had been awake to externals he wouldhave seen that it was because he could not move--or speak. He was like aman stunned. 

Latimer continued:

"She was sitting in her little room alone when I entered it. She lookedas if she had been passing through hours of convulsive sobbing. She satwith her poor little hands clutching each other on her knees. Hystericshudders were shaking her every few seconds, and her eyes were blindedwith weeping. A child who had been beaten brutally might have sat so. Shewas too simple and weak to bear the awful terror and woe. She was notstrong enough to conceal what there was to hide. She did not even get upto greet me, but sat trembling like an aspen leaf. "

"What did you say to her?" Baird cried out. 

"I only remember as one remembers a nightmare, " the other man answered, passing his hand over his brow. "It was a black nightmare. I saw before Ispoke, and I began to shake as she was shaking. I sat down before her andtook both her hands. I seemed to hear myself saying, 'Margery--Margery, don't be frightened--don't be afraid of Lucian. I will help you, Margery;I have come to talk to you--just to talk to you. ' That was all. And shefell upon the floor and lay with her face on my feet, her hands clutchingthem. "

For almost five minutes there was no other word spoken, but the breathingof each man could be heard. 

Then Latimer's voice broke the stillness, lower and more monotonous. 

"I had but one resolve. It was to save her and to save my mother. All thesoul of our home and love was bound up in the child. Among the desperateplans I had made in the long nights of lying awake there had been onestranger than the rest. I had heard constantly of Americans encounteringeach other by chance when they went abroad. When one has a secret to keepone is afraid of every chance, however remote. Perhaps my plan was mad, but it accomplished what I wanted. Years before I had travelled throughthe mountain districts of North Carolina. One day, in riding through thecountry roads, I had realised their strange remoteness from the world, and the fancy had crossed my mind that a criminal who dressed and livedas the rudely scattered population did, and who chose a lonely spot inthe woods, might be safer there than with the ocean rolling between himand his secret. I spent hours in telling her the part she was to play. Itwas to be supposed that we had gone upon the journey originally planned. We were to be hidden--apparently man and wife--in some log cabin off theroad until all was over. I studied the details as a detective studies hiscase. I am not a brilliant man, and it was intricate work; but I wasdesperate. I read guide-books and wrote letters from different points, and arranged that they should be sent to our mother at certain dates forthe next few months. 

"My stronghold was that she was quite ignorant of travel and would thinkof nothing but that the letters came from me and were about Margery. Imade Margery write two or three. Then I knew I could explain that she wasnot strong enough to write herself. I was afraid she might break downbefore we could leave home; but she did not. I got her away. Byroundabout ways we travelled to the North Carolina mountains. We found adeserted cabin in the woods, some distance from the road. We dressedourselves in the rough homespun of the country. She went barefooted, asmost of the women did. We so secluded ourselves that it was some timebefore it was known that our cabin was inhabited. The women have a habitof wearing deep sunbonnets when about their work. Margery always wore oneand kept within doors. We were thought to be only an unsociable marriedpair. Only once she found herself facing curious eyes. A sharp-facedlittle hoosier stopped one day to ask for a drink of water when I wasaway. He stared at her so intently that she was frightened; but he nevercame again. The child was born. She died. "

"When it was born, " Baird asked, "who cared for her?"

"We were alone, " answered Latimer. "I did not know whom to call. I readmedical books--for hours each day I read them. I thought that perhaps Imight be able to do--what was necessary. But on the night she was takenill--I was stricken with terror. She was so young and childlike--she hadlived through months of torture--the agony seemed so unnatural to me, that I knew I must go for help--that I was not mentally calm enough to gothrough the ordeal. A strange chance took me to a man who had yearsbefore studied medicine as a profession. He was a singular being, totallyunlike his fellows. He came to her. She died with her hand in his. "

"Did the child die too?" Baird asked, after a pause. 

"No; it lived. After she was laid in the earth on the hillside, I cameaway. It was the next day, and I was not sane. I had forgotten the childexisted, and had made no plans for it. The man I spoke of--he wasunmarried and lonely, and a strange, huge creature of a splendidhumaneness--he had stood by me through all--a mountain of strength--theman came to my rescue there and took the child. It would be safe withhim. I know nothing more. "

"Do you not know his name?" Baird asked. 

"Yes; he was called Dwillerby by the country people. I think he had beenborn a gentleman, though he lived as the mountaineers did. "

"Afterwards, " said Baird, "you went abroad as you had planned?"

"Yes. I invented the story of her death. I wrote the details carefully. Ilearned them as a lesson. It has been my mother's comfort--that story ofthe last day--the open window--the passing peasants--the setting sun--Ican see it all myself. That is my lie. Did you suspect it when I toldit?"

"No, God knows!" Baird answered. "I did not. "

"Never?" inquired Latimer. 

"What I have thought was that you had suffered much more than you wishedyour mother to know; that--perhaps--your sister had suffered more thanyou would reveal; and that you dreaded with all your being the telling ofthe story. But never such tragedy as this--never--never!"

"The man--the man who wrought that tragedy, " began Latimer, staringdarkly before him, "somewhere he stands to-night--unless his day is done. Somewhere he stands--as real a man as _you_. "

"With all his load upon him, " said Baird; "and he may have loved herpassionately. "

"It should be a heavy load, " said Latimer, with bitter gloom;"heavy--heavy. "

"You have not once uttered his name, " said Baird, the thought coming tohim suddenly. 

"No, " said Latimer; "I never knew it. She prayed so piteously that Iwould let her hide it. She knelt and sobbed upon my knee, praying that Iwould spare her that one woe. I could spare her no other, so I gave way. She thanked me, clinging to me and kissing my hand. Ah, her young, youngheart wrung with sobs and tears!"

He flung himself forward against the table, hiding his face upon hisarms, and wept aloud. Baird went and stood by him. He did not speak aword or lay his hand upon the shaking shoulders. He stood and gazed, hisown chest heaving and awful tears in his eyes. 

CHAPTER XXX

In later years, one at least of the two men never glanced back upon themonths which followed without a shudder. And yet outwardly no change tookplace in their relations, unless they seemed drawn closer. Such a secretbeing shared between two people must either separate or bind themtogether. In this case it became a bond. They spoke of it but little, yeteach was well aware that the other remembered often. Sometimes, when theysat together, Latimer recognised in Baird's eyes a look of brooding andfelt that he knew what his thought was; sometimes Baird, glancing at hisfriend, found his face darkened by reverie, and understood. Once, whenthis was the case, he said, suddenly:

"What is your feeling about--the man? Do you wish to kill him?"

"It is too late, " Latimer answered. "It would undo nothing. If by doingit I could bring her back as she was before she had seen his face--if Icould see her again, the pretty, happy child, with eyes like blueconvolvulus, and laughing lips--I would kill him and gladly hang for it. "

"So would I, " said Baird, grimly. 

"To crucify him would not _undo_ it, " said Latimer, looking sickly pale. "She was crucified--she lived through terror and shame; she died--afraidthat God would not forgive her. "

"That God would not----!" Baird gasped. 

Latimer's bony hands were twisted together. 

"We were brought up to believe things like that, " he said. "I was afraid, too. That was the damnable part of it. I could not help her. I havechanged since then--I have changed through knowing you. As children wehad always been threatened with the just God! The most successfulpreachers gained their power by painting pictures of the torments ofhell. That was the fashion then, " smiling horribly. 

"It is a wonderful thing that even the fashion in Gods changes. When wewere shut up together in the cabin on the hillside, she used to beoverwhelmed by paroxysms of fear. She read the Bible a greatdeal--because sinners who wanted to repent always read it--and sometimesshe would come upon threats and curses, and cry out and turn white andbegin to shiver. Then she would beg me to pray and pray with her. And wewould kneel down on the bare floor and pray together. My prayers wereworse than useless. What could I say? I was a black sinner, too--a manwho was perjuring his soul with lies--and they were told and acted forher sake, and she knew it. She used to cling about my neck and beg me tobetray her--to whiten my soul by confession--not to allow her wickednessto destroy me--because she loved me--loved me. 'Go back to them and tellthem, Lucien, ' she would cry, 'I will go with you if I ought--I have beenwicked--not you--I have been shameful; I must bear it--I must bear it. 'But she could not bear it. She died. "

"Were you never able to give her any comfort?" said Baird. His eyes werewet, and he spoke as in bitter appeal. "This had been a child in herteens entrapped into bearing the curse of the world with all its resultsof mental horror and physical agony. "

"What comfort could I give?" was the answer. "My religion and my socialcreed had taught me that she was a vile sinner--the worst and mostshameful of sinners--and that I was a criminal for striving to save herfrom the consequences of her sin. I was defying the law of the just God, who would have punished her with heart-break and open shame. He would nothave spared her, and He would not spare me since I so strove against Him. The night she died--through the long hours of horrible, unnaturalconvulsions of pain--when cold sweat stood in drops on her deathlychildish face, she would clutch my hands and cry out: 'Eternal torments!For ever and ever and ever--could it be like this, Lucien--for ever andever and ever?' Then she would sob out, 'God! God! God!' in terrible, helpless prayer. She had not strength for other words. "

Baird sprang to his feet and thrust out his hand, averting his pallidface. 

"Don't tell me any more, " he said. "I cannot--I cannot bear it. "

"_She_ bore it, " said Latimer, "until death ended it. "

"Was there no one--to save her?" Baird cried. "Was she terrified likethat when she died?"

"The man who afterwards took her child--the man D'Willerby, " Latimeranswered, "was a kindly soul. At the last moment he took her poor littlehand and patted it, and told her not to be frightened. She turned to himas if for refuge. He had a big, mellow voice, and a tender, protectingway. He said: 'Don't be frightened. It's all right, ' and his were thelast words she heard. "

"God bless the fellow, wheresoever he is!" Baird exclaimed. "I shouldlike to grasp his hand. "

 * * * * *

The Reverend John Baird delivered his lectures in many cities that year. The discussion they gave rise to had the natural result of awakening akeen interest in them. There were excellent souls who misinterpreted anddeplored them, there were excellent souls who condemned; there were evenministers of the gospel who preached against the man as an iconoclast anda pagan, and forbade their congregations to join his audiences. But hislecture-halls were always crowded, and the hundreds of faces upturned tohim when he arose upon his platform were the faces of eager, breathless, yearning creatures. He was a man speaking to men, not an echo of oldcreeds. He uttered no threats, he painted no hells, he called aloud tothat God in man which is his soul. 

"That God which is in you--in me, " he proclaimed, "has lain dormantbecause undeveloped man, having made for himself in the dark ages gods ofwood and stone, demanding awful sacrifice, called forth for himself latera deity as material, though embodied in no physical form--a God ofvengeance and everlasting punishments. This is the man-created deity, andin his name man has so clamoured that the God which is man's soul hasbeen silenced. Let this God rise, and He will so demand justice and noblemercy from all creatures to their fellows that temptation and sufferingwill cease. What! can we do no good deed without the promise of paradiseas reward? Can we refrain from no evil unless we are driven to it by thethreat of hell? Are we such base traffickers that we make merchandise ofour souls and bargain for them across a counter? Let us awake! I say toyou from the deepest depths of my aching soul--if there were no God tobargain with, then all the more awful need that each man constitutehimself a god--of justice, pity, and mercy--until the world's wounds arehealed and each human thing can stand erect and claim the joy of lifewhich is his own. "

On the morning of the day he said these words to the crowd which hadflocked to hear him, he had talked long with Latimer. For some weeks hehad not been strong. The passion of intensity which ruled him when hespoke to his audiences was too strong an emotion to leave no physicaltrace. After a lecture or sermon he was often pallid and shaken. 

"I have things to say, " he exclaimed feverishly to Latimer. "There arethings which must be said. The spoken word lives--for good or evil. It isa sound sent echoing through all the ages to come. Some men have awakenedechoes which have thrilled throughout the world. To speak one'sthought--to use mere words--it seems such a small thing--and yet it is myconviction that nothing which is said is really ever forgotten. "

And his face was white, his eyes burning, when at night he leaned forwardto fling forth to his hearers his final arraignment. 

"I say to you, were there no God to bargain with, then all the more awfulneed that each man constitute himself a god of justice, pity, andmercy--until the world's wounds are healed and each human thing can standerect and claim the joy of life which is his own. "

The people went away after the lecture, murmuring among themselves. Someof them carried away awakening in their eyes. They all spoke of the manhimself; of his compelling power, the fire of meaning in his face, andthe musical, far-reaching voice, which carried to the remotest corner ofthe most crowded buildings. 

"It is not only his words one is reached by, " it was said. "It is theman's self. Truly, he cries out from the depths of his soul. "

This was true. It was the man himself. Nature had armed him well--withstrength, with magnetic force, with a tragic sense of the anguish ofthings, and with that brain which labours far in advance of the thoughtof the hour. Men with such brains--brains which work fiercely andunceasingly even in their own despite--reach conclusions not yet arrivedat by their world, and are called iconoclasts. Some are madlyoverpraised, some have been made martyrs, but their spoken word passesonward, and if not in their own day, in that to-morrow which is theto-day of other men, the truth of their harvest is garnered and boundinto sheaves. 

At the closing of his lectures, men and women crowded about him to speakto him, to grasp his hand. When they were hysterical in their laudations, his grace and readiness controlled them; when they were direct andearnest, he found words to say which they could draw aid from later. 

"Am I developing--or degenerating--into a popular preacher?" he saidonce, with a half restless laugh, to his shadow. 

"You are not popular, " was Latimer's answer. "Popular is not the word. You are proclaiming too new and bold a creed. "

"That is true, " said Baird. "The pioneer is not popular. When he forceshis way into new countries he encounters the natives. Sometimes they eathim--sometimes they drive him back with poisoned arrows. The country istheir own; they have their own gods, their own language. Why should astranger enter in?"

"But there is no record yet of a pioneer who lived--or died--in vain, "said Latimer. "Some day--some day----"

He stopped and gazed at his friend, brooding. His love for him was astrong and deep thing. It grew with each hour they spent together, witheach word he heard him speak. Baird was his mental nourishment andsolace. When they were apart he found his mind dwelling on him as a sortof habit. But for this one man he would have lived a squalid life amonghis people at Janney's Mills--squalid because he had not the elasticityto rise above its narrow, uneducated dullness. The squalor so far as hehimself was concerned was not physical. His own small, plain home was asneat as it was simple, but he had not the temperament which makes a manfriends. Baird possessed this temperament, and his home was a centre ofall that was most living. It was not the ordinary Willowfield household. The larger outer world came and went. When Latimer went to it he wasswept on by new currents and felt himself warmed and fed. 

There had been scarcely any day during years in which the two men had notmet. They had made journeys together; they had read the same books andencountered the same minds. Each man clung to the intimacy. 

"I want this thing, " Baird had said more than once; "if you want it, Iwant it more. Nothing must rob us of it. "

"The time has come--it came long ago--" his Shadow said, "when I couldnot live without it. My life has grown to yours. "

It was Latimer's pleasure that he found he could be an aid to the man whocounted for so much to him. Affairs which pressed upon Baird he wouldtake in hand; he was able to transact business for him, to help him inthe development of his plans, save him frequently both time and fatigue. It fell about that when the lectures were delivered at distant points thetwo men journeyed together. 

Latimer entered Baird's library on one occasion just as a sharp-faced, rather theatrical-looking man left it. 

"You'll let me know your decision, sir, as soon as possible, " thestranger departed, saying. "These things ought always to be developedjust at the right moment. This is your right moment. Everybody is talkingyou over, one way or another. " When the stranger was gone, Bairdexplained his presence. 

"That is an agent, " he said; "he proposes that I shall lecture throughthe States. I--don't know, " as if pondering the thing. 

"The things you say should be said to many, " remarked Latimer. 

"The more the better, " said Baird, reflectively; "I know that--the morethe better. "

They sat and talked the matter over at length. The objections to it wereneither numerous nor serious. 

"And I want to say these things, " said Baird, a little feverishly. "Iwant to say them again and again. "

Before they parted for the night it was decided that he should accede tothe proposal, and that Latimer should arrange to be his companion. 

"It is the lecture 'Repentance, ' he tells me, is most in demand, " Bairdsaid, as he walked to the door, with a hand in Latimer's. 

CHAPTER XXXI

Frequenters of the Capitol--whether loungers or politicians--had soonbecome familiar with the figure of one of the De Willoughby claimants. Itwas too large a figure not to be quickly marked and unavoidablyremembered. Big Tom slowly mounting the marble steps or standing on thecorridors was an object to attract attention, and inquiries beinganswered by the information that he was a party to one of the largestclaims yet made, he not unnaturally was discussed with interest. 

"He's from the depths of the mountains of North Carolina, " it wasexplained; "he keeps a cross-roads store and post-office, but he has someof the best blood of the South in his veins, and his claim is enormous. "

"Will he gain it?"

"Who knows? He has mortgaged all he owns to make the effort. The claim isinherited from his father, Judge De Willoughby, who died at the close ofthe war. As he lived and died within the Confederacy, the Governmentholds that he was disloyal and means to make the most of it. Theclaimants hold that they can prove him loyal. They'll have to prove itthoroughly. The Government is growing restive over the claims ofSoutherners, and there is bitter opposition to be overcome. "

"Yes. Lyman nearly lost his last election because he had favoured aSouthern claim in his previous term. His constituents are countrypatriots, and they said they weren't sending a man to Congress to votefor Rebs. "

"That's the trouble. When men's votes are endangered by a course ofaction they grow ultra-conservative. A vote's a vote. "

That was the difficulty, as Tom found. A vote was a vote. The bitternessof war had not yet receded far enough into the past to allow ofunprejudiced judgment. Members of political parties were still enemies, wrongs still rankled, graves were yet new, wounds still ached and burned. Men who had found it to their interest to keep at fever heat the fiercespirit of the past four years of struggle and bloodshed, were not willingto relinquish the tactics which had brought fortunes to them. Thehigher-minded were determined that where justice was done it should bedone where it was justice alone, clearly proved to be so. There had beentoo many false and idle claims brought forward to admit of the true onesbeing accepted without investigation and delay. In the days when oldJudge De Willoughby had walked through the streets of Delisleville, ostracized and almost hooted as he passed among those who had once beenhis friends, it would not have been difficult to prove that he was loyalto the detested Government, but in these later times, when the old manlay quiet in what his few remaining contemporaries still chose toconsider a dishonoured grave, undeniable proof of a loyalty which nowwould tend to the honour and advantage of those who were of his blood wasnot easy to produce. 

"The man lived and died in the Confederacy, " was said by those who werein power in Washington. 

"He was constructively a rebel. We want proof--proof. "

Most of those who might have furnished it if they would, were eitherscattered as to the four winds of the earth, or were determined to giveno aid in the matter. 

"A Southerner who deserted the South in its desperate struggle for lifeneed not come to Southern gentlemen to ask them to help him to claim theprice of his infamy. " That was the Delisleville point of view, and it wasdifficult to cope with. If Tom had been a rich man and could havejourneyed between Delisleville and the Capital, or wheresoever thedemands of his case called him, to see and argue with this man or that, the situation would have simplified itself somewhat, though there wouldstill have remained obstacles to be overcome. 

"But a man who has hard work to look his room rent in the face, and knowshe can't do that for more than a few months, is in a tight place, " saidTom. "Evidence that will satisfy the Government isn't easily collected inDupont Circle. These fellows have heard men talk before. They've heardtoo many men talk. There's Stamps, now--they've heard Stamps talk. Stampsis way ahead of me where lobbying is concerned. He knows the law, and hedoesn't mind having doors shut in his face or being kicked into thestreet, so long as he sees a chance of getting indemnified for his 'herdsof cattle. ' I'm not a business man, and I mind a lot of things that don'ttrouble him. I'm not a good hand at asking favours and sitting down totalk steadily for a solid hour to a man who doesn't want to hear me andhasn't five minutes to spare. " But for Rupert and Sheba he would havegiven up the claim in a week and gone back to Talbot's Cross-roadscontent to end his days as he began them when he opened the store--livingin the little back rooms on beans and bacon and friend chicken andhominy. 

"That suited me well enough, " he used to say to himself, when he thoughtthe thing over. "There were times when I found it a bit lonely--but, goodLord! loneliness is a small thing for a man to complain of in a worldlike this. It isn't fits or starvation. When a man's outlived the habitof expecting happiness, it doesn't take much to keep him going. "

But at his side was eager youth which had outlived nothing, whichbelieved in a future full of satisfied yearnings and radiant joys. 

"I am not alone now, " said Rupert; "I must make a place and a home forSheba. I must not be only a boy in love with her; I must be a man who canprotect her from everything--from everything. She is so sweet--she is sosweet. She makes me feel that I am a man. "

She was sweet. To big Tom they were both sweet in their youth and radiantfaith and capabilities for happiness. They seemed like children, and thetender bud of their lovely young passion was a thing to be cherished. Hehad seen such buds before, but he had never seen the flower. 

"I'd like to see the flower, " he used to say to himself. "To see it wouldpay a man for a good deal he'd missed himself. The pair of them could setup a pretty fair garden of Eden--serpents and apple-trees beingexcluded. "

They were happy. Even when disappointments befell them and prospects wereunpromising they were happy. They could look into each other's eyes andtake comfort. Rupert's dark moods had melted away. He sometimes forgotthey had ever ruled him. His old boyish craving for love and home wasfed. The bare little rooms in the poor little house were home. Sheba andTom were love and affection. When they sat at the table and calculatedhow much longer their diminishing store would last, even as it grewsmaller and smaller, they could laugh over the sums they worked out onslips of paper. So long as the weather was warm enough they strolledabout together in the fragrant darkness or sat in the creeper-hung porch, in the light of summer moons; when the cold nights came they sat aboutthe stove or the table and talked, while Sheba sewed buttons on or workedassiduously at the repairing of her small wardrobe. Whatsoever she did, the two men sat and admired, and there was love and laughter. 

The strenuous life which went on in the busier part of the town--thepolitics, the struggles, the plots and schemes, the worldlypleasures--seemed entirely apart from them. 

Sometimes, after a day in which Judge Rutherford had been encouraged orTom had had a talk with a friendly member who had listened to the storyof the claim with signs of interest, they felt their star of hope rising;it never sinks far below the horizon when one's teens are scarcely of thepast--and Sheba and Rupert spent a wonderful evening making plans for afuture of ease and fortune. 

At Judge Rutherford's suggestion, Tom had long sought an interview with acertain member of the Senate whose good word would be a carrying weightin any question under debate. He was a shrewd, honest, business-like man, and a personal friend of the President's. He was much pursued by honestand dishonest alike, and, as a result of experience, had become difficultto reach. On the day Tom was admitted to see him, he had been more thanusually badgered. Just as Tom approached his door a little man opened itcautiously and slid out, with the air of one leaving within the apartmentthings not exhilarating on retrospect. He was an undersized country man, the cut of whose jeans wore a familiar air to Tom's eye even at adistance and before he lifted the countenance which revealed him as Mr. Stamps. 

"We ain't a-gwine to do your job no good to-day, Tom, " he said, benignly. "He'd 'a' kicked me out ef I hadn't 'a' bin small--jest same es you wasgwine ter that time I come to talk to ye about Sheby. He's a smarter manthan you be, an' he seed the argyment I hed to p'int out to you. Ye won'thelp your job none to-day!"

"I haven't got a 'job' in hand, " Tom answered; "your herds of stock andthe Judge's coal mines and cotton fields are different matters. "

He passed on and saw that when his name was announced the Senator lookedup from his work with a fretted movement of the head. 

"Mr. De Willoughby of Talbot's Cross-roads?" he said. Tom bowed. Hebecame conscious of appearing to occupy too much space in the room of abusy man who had plainly been irritated. 

"I was told by Judge Rutherford that you had kindly consented to see me, "he said. 

The Senator tapped the table nervously with his pencil and pushed somepapers aside. 

"Well, I find I have no time to spare this morning, " was his brutallyfrank response. "I have just been forced to give the time which mighthave been yours to a little hoosier who made his way in, heaven knowshow, and refused to be ordered out. He had a claim, too, and came fromyour county and said he was an old friend of yours. "

"He is not an old enemy, " answered Tom. "There is that much foundation inthe statement. "

"Well, he has occupied the time I had meant to give you, " said theSenator, "and I was not prepossessed either by himself or his claim. "

"I think he's a man to gain a claim, " said Tom; "I'm afraid I'm not. "

"It is fair to warn you that I am not friendly to claims made by thefamilies of men who lived in a hot-bed of secession, " said the Senator. He had been badgered too much this morning, and this big, ratherconvincing looking applicant worried him. "I have an appointment at theWhite House in ten minutes. "

"Then this is no place for me, " said Tom. "No man is likely to befriendly to a thing he has no time to talk of. I will bid yougood-morning. "

"Good-morning, " returned the Senator, brusquely. 

Tom went away feeling that he was a blunderer. The fact was that he was aneophyte and, it was true, did not possess the qualities which make asuccessful lobbyist. Mr. Stamps had wheedled or forced his way into thegreat man's apartment and had persisted in remaining to press his claimuntil he was figuratively turned out by the shoulders. Big Tom had usedonly such means to obtain the interview as a gentleman might; he hadwaited until he was called to take his turn, and so had lost his chance. When he had found the Senator hurried and unwilling to spend time on himhe had withdrawn at once, not feeling Mr. Stamps's method to be possible. 

"I suppose I ought to have stayed and buttonholed him in spite ofhimself, " he thought, ruefully. "I'm a greenhorn; I suppose a man in myplace ought to stand his ground whether it's decent or indecent, and makepeople listen to what he has to say, and be quite willing to be kickeddownstairs after he has said it. I'm a disgrace to my species--and Idon't think much of the species. "

As he was walking through one of the corridors he saw before him two menwho were evidently visitors to the place. He gathered this from theirleisurely movements and the interest with which they regarded the objectsabout them. They looked at pictures and remarked upon decorations. Onewas a man who was unusually well-built. He was tall and moved well andhad lightly silvered hair; his companion was tall also, but badly hungtogether, and walked with a stoop of the shoulders. 

Tom walked behind them for some yards before his attention was reallyarrested, but suddenly a movement of one man's head seemed to recall somememory of the past. He did not know what the memory was, but he knewvaguely that it was a memory. He followed a few yards further, wonderingidly what had been recalled and why he should be reminded of the mountainsand the pine-trees. Yes, it was the mountains and pine-trees--HamlinCounty, but not the Hamlin County of to-day. Why not the Hamlin County ofto-day? why something which seemed more remote? Confound the fellow; hehad made that movement again. Tom wished he would turn his face that hemight see it, and he hurried his footsteps somewhat that he might comewithin nearer range. The two men paused with their backs towards him, andTom paused also. They were looking at a picture, and the taller of the twomade a gesture with his hand. It was a long, bony hand, and as he extendedit Tom slightly started. It all came back to him--the memory which hadbeen recalled. He smelt the scent of the pines on the hillside; he saw thelittle crowd of mourners about the cabin door; inside, women sat with bentheads, upon two wooden chairs rested the ends of a slender coffin, and byit stood a man who lifted his hand and said to those about him: "Let uspray. "

The years swept back as he stood there. He was face to face again withthe tragic mystery which had seemed to end in utter silence. The manturned his face so that it was plainly to be seen--sallow, rugged, harshin line. The same face, though older, and perhaps less tragic--the faceof the man he had left alone in the awful, desolate stillness of theempty room. 

The next moment he turned away again. He and his companion passed round acorner and were gone. Tom made no attempt to follow them. 

"There is no reason why I should, " was his thought, "either for Sheba'ssake or his own. She is happy, and he feels his secret safe--whatsoeverit may have been. Perhaps he has had time to outlive the misery of it, and it would all be brought to life again. "

But the incident had been a shock. There was nothing to fear from it, heknew; but it had been a shock nevertheless. He did not know the man'sname; he had never asked it. He was plainly one of the many strangerswho, in passing through the Capital, went to visit the public buildings. The merest chance might have brought him to the place; the most ordinarycourse of events might take him away. Tom went back to Dupont Circle in athoughtful mood. He forgot the claim and the Senator who had had noleisure to hear the statement of his case. 

Rupert and Sheba were waiting for his return. Rupert had spent theafternoon searching for employment. He had spent many a long day in thesame way and with the same result. 

"They don't want me, " he had said when he came home. "They don't want meanywhere, it seems--either in lawyers' offices or dry-goods stores. Ihave not been particular. "

They had sat down and gazed at each other. 

"I sometimes wonder, " said Sheba, "what we shall do when all our money isgone--every penny of it. It cannot last long now. We cannot stay here andwe cannot pay our way back to the mountains. What shall we do?"

"I shall go out every day till I find something to do, " said Rupert, withthe undiscouraged fervour of youth. "I am not looking for employment fora gentleman, in these days; I am looking for work--just as Uncle Mattis. "

"He chopped some wood yesterday and brought home two dollars, " Shebasaid. "He made me take it. He said he wanted to pay his 'bode. '"

She laughed a little, but her eyes were wet and shining. 

Rupert took her face between his hands and looked into it adoringly. 

"Don't be frightened, Sheba, " he said; "don't be unhappy. Lovely darling, I will take care of you. "

She pressed her soft cheek against his hand. 

"I know you will, " she said, "and of Uncle Tom, too. I couldn't beunhappy--we all three love each other so. I do not believe we shall beunhappy, even if we are poor enough to be hungry. "

So their moment of dismay ended in smiles. They were passing through aphase of life in which it is not easy to be unhappy. Somehow thingsalways brightened when they drew near each other. His observation of thistruth was one of Tom's pleasures. He knew the year of waiting had managedto fill itself with sweetness for them. Their hopes had been alternatelyraised and dashed to earth; one day it seemed not improbable that theywere to be millionaires, the next that beggary awaited them after thedwindling of their small stock of money; but they had shared theiremotions and borne their vicissitudes together. 

When Tom entered the room they rose and met him with questioning faces. 

"Was it good fortune?" they cried. "Did you see him, Uncle Tom? What didhe say?"

He told his story as lightly as possible, but it could not betransformed, by any lightness of touch, into an encouraging episode. Hemade a picture of Stamps sidling through the barely opened door, and wasterse and witty at the expense of his own discomfiture and consciousnessof incompetence. He laughed at himself and made them laugh, but when hesat down in his accustomed seat there was a shade upon his face. 

The children exchanged glances, the eyes of each prompting the other. They must be at their brightest. They knew the sight of their happinesswarmed and lightened his heart always. 

"He is tired and hungry, " Sheba said. "We must give him a beautiful hotsupper. Rupert, we must set the table. "

They had grown used to waiting upon themselves, and their domesticservices wore more or less the air of festivities. Sheba ran downstairsto Miss Burford's kitchen, where Uncle Matt had prepared the evening mealin his best manner. As the repasts grew more and more simple, Matt seemedto display greater accomplishments. 

"It's all very well, Miss Sheba, " he had said once, when she praised theskill with which he employed his scant resources. "It's mighty easy to bea good cook when you'se got everythin' right to han'. The giftness is togit up a fine table when you ain't got nuffin'. Dat's whar dish yerniggah likes to show out. De Lard knows I'se got too much yere dis ve'yminnit--to be a-doin' credit to my 'sperience--too much, Miss Sheba. "

He was frying hoe-cake and talking to Miss Burford when Sheba came intothe kitchen. He was a great comfort and aid to Miss Burford, and in agenteel way the old lady found him a resource in the matters ofcompanionship and conversation. Her life was too pinched and narrow toallow her even the simpler pleasure of social intercourse, and Matt'sjourneys into the world, and his small adventures, and his comments uponpolitics and social events were a solace and a source of entertainment toher. 

Just now he was describing to her the stories he had heard of acelebrated lecturer who had just arrived in the city. 

"Whether he's a 'vivalist or jes' a plain preacher what folks is runnin'after, I cayn't quite make out, ma'am, " he was saying. "I ain't quitethinkin' he's a 'vivalist, but de peoples is a-runnin' after himshore--an' seems like dey doin' it in ev'y city he goes to. Ev'ybody wantto heah him--ev'ybody--rich en pore--young en ole. De Rev'end JohnBaird's his name, an' he's got a fren' travellin' with him as they say islike Jonathan was to David in dese yere ole Bible times. An' I heern tellev when he rise in de pulpit de people's jest gets so worked up at whathe preach to 'em--dey jest cries an' rocks de benches. Dat's what make methink he might be a 'vivalist--cos we all knows dat cryin' an' rockin'an' clappin' hands is what makes a 'vival. " He was full of anecdotesconcerning the new arrival whose reputation had plainly preceded him. 

"He gwine ter preach nex' Sat'day on ''Pentance, '" he said to Sheba, witha chuckle. "Dat's his big lecture ev'ybody want to hear. De hall shore tobe pack full. What I'm a-hopin' is dat it'll be pack full er Senators an'members er Congrest, an' he'll set some of 'em a-'pentin', dey ain't'tend to dere business an' git people's claims through. Ef I know'd degen'leman, I'd ax him to menshun dat special an' pertickler. "

As they sat at supper, Sheba repeated his stories and comments. All thecomments were worthy of repetition, and most of the anecdotes weresuggestively interesting, illustrating, as they did, the power of asingle man over many. 

"I should like to go and hear him myself, " she said. "Uncle Tom, have youanything to repent? Rupert, have you? Uncle Tom, you have not forgottenthe Senator. You look at me as if you were thinking of something that wasnot happy. "

"The Senator was not particularly happy, " remarked Tom. "He had just hadan interview with Stamps, and he certainly was not happy at the sight ofme. He thought he had another on his hands. He's in better spirits bythis time. "

Sheba got up and went to his side of the table. She put her arms roundhis neck and pressed her cheek against his. 

"Forget about him, " she said. 

"I am not remembering him particularly, " said Tom, the shade passing fromhis eyes; "I am remembering you--as you were nineteen years ago. "

"Nineteen years ago!" said Sheba. "I was a baby!"

"Yes, " answered Tom, folding a big arm round her, and speaking slowly. "Isaw a man to-day who reminded me of the day you were born. Are you gladyou were born, Sheba? that's what I want to be sure of. "

The two pairs of young eyes met glowing. Tom knew they had met, by thewarmth of the soft cheek touching him. 

"Yes, I am glad--I am glad--I am glad!" with grateful sweetness. 

"And I--and I, " cried Rupert. He sprung up and held out an impetuousboyish hand to Tom. "You know how glad, Uncle Tom--look at her--look atme--see how glad we both are; and it is you--you who have made it so. "

"It's a pretty big thing, " said Tom, "that two people should be glad theyare alive. " And he grasped the ardent hand as affectionately as it wasoffered. 

CHAPTER XXXII

The Reverend John Baird and his friend the Reverend Lucien Latimer werelodged in a quiet house in a quiet street. The lecturing tour had beenfatiguing, and Baird was glad of such repose as he could secure. Intruth, the excitement and strain of his work, the journeying from placeto place, the hospitalities from which he could not escape, had worn uponhim. He had grown thinner, and often did not sleep well at night. He usedto find himself lying awake repeating to himself mechanically words fromhis own lecture. "Repentance is too late, " his voice would whisper to thedarkness. "Repentance cannot undo. "

His audiences found him an irresistible force. He had become more thanthe fashion of the hour; he was its passion. People liked to look at aswell as to hear him. He was besieged by lion-hunters, overwhelmed withattentions in each town or city he visited. Reporters followed him, interviewers besought appointments, agreeable people invited him to theirhouses, intrusive people dogged him. Latimer stood between him and asmany fatigues as he could. He transacted business for him, andinterviewed interviewers; and he went to tiring functions. 

"When I enter a room without you, and make your excuses, they must makethe most of my black face; and they make the most of it, but they don'tlove me, " he said. "Still it is a thing to be borne if it saves you whenyou need all your forces. What does it matter? I have never expected tobe smiled at for my own sake as they smile at me for yours. "

In these days of close companionship each found in each new qualitiesincreasing the tie between them. Latimer felt himself fed by the publicaffection surrounding the man who was his friend. He was thrilled by theapplause which thundered forth at his words; he was moved by the meresense of his success, and the power he saw him unknowingly exercisethrough mere physical charm. 

"I am nearer being a happy, or at least a peaceful, man than I had everthought to be, " he said to Baird; "your life seems to fill mine, and I amless lonely. " Which was indeed a truth. 

On the evening of the day on which big Tom had caught his glimpse of thetwo strangers in the corridor of the Capitol, Baird dined at the house ofthe Senator, whose adverse mood had promised such small encouragement tothe De Willoughby claim. And in the course of the meal the host spoke ofboth claim and claimants. 

"The man is a sort of Colossus, " he said, "and he looked all the heavierand bigger because my last visitor had been the smallest and mostinsignificant of the hoosier type. "

"Is this man a hoosier?" was asked. 

"No. He has lived among the most primitive, and Rutherford tells me is asort of county institution; but he is not a hoosier. He has a large, humane, humorous face, and a big, humorous, mellow voice. I should ratherhave liked the fellow, confound him, if I hadn't lost my patience beforehe came into the room. "

"Did he tell you the story of the claim?" enquired his married daughter. 

"No, I didn't let him. I was feeling pretty sick of claims, and I had notime. "

"Oh, father, I wish you had let him tell it, " exclaimed the pretty youngwoman. "The truth is, I am beginning to be interested in that claimmyself. I am in love with Judge Rutherford and his stories of Jenny andTom Scott. His whole soul is bound up in 'pushing this thingthrough'--that's what he calls it. He is the most delightful lobbyist Iever met. He is like a bull in a china shop--though I don't believeanyone ever saw a bull in a china shop. "

"He does not know enough to give his friends a rest, " said the Senator. "If he was not such a good fellow he would bore a man to death. He boresmany a man as it is, and people in office won't stand being bored. He'stoo ingenuous. The shrewd ones say his ingenuousness is too good to betrue. He can't keep De Willoughby's virtues out of his stories ofhim--and a man's virtues have nothing much to do with his claim. "

"I met him in one of the squares yesterday, " said Mrs. Meredith, "and healmost cried when he spoke of the claim. He told me that everything wasgoing wrong--that it was being pushed aside by all sorts of things, andhe had lost heart. His eyes and nose got quite red, and he had to winkhard to keep back the tears. "

"The fellow believes in it, at any rate, " said the Senator; "he has thatto support him. "

"He believes in everything, " said Mrs. Meredith, "and it would havetouched your heart to hear him talk about the claimants. There is a youngnephew and a beautiful girl creature, who is big Mr. De Willoughby'sadopted daughter. She is not a claimant, it is true, but they all adoreeach other, and the nephew is in love with her; and if the claim goesthrough they will be happy forever afterwards. I saw the nephew once, andhe was a beautiful boy with Southern eyes and a charming expression. Uponthe whole, I think I am in love with the young couple, too. Their storysounded like a pastoral poem when Judge Rutherford told it. "

"Suppose you tell it to us, Marion, " said the Senator, with a laugh, anda glance round the table. "It may appeal to our feelings and advance theinterests of the claim. "

"Pray, tell it, Mrs. Meredith, " Baird put in; "the mere mention of it hasappealed to my emotions. Perhaps Senator Harburton and Mr. Lewis will bemoved also, and that will be two votes to the good--perhaps more. "

"The charm of it is that it is a story without a plot, " Mrs. Meredithsaid. "There is nothing in it but youth and love and innocence andbeauty. It is Romeo and Juliet without the tragedy. Romeo appeared on amoonlight night in a garden, and Juliet stood upon a balcony amongroses--and their young souls cried out to each other. It is all so youngand innocent--they only want to spend their lives together, like flowersgrowing side by side. They want nothing but each other. "

"And the claim, " added the Senator. 

"They cannot have each other if the claim fails. They will have to starveto death in each other's arms like the 'Babes in the Wood'; I am sure therobins will come and cover them with leaves. "

"But the big uncle, " her father asked. 

"Poor fellow, " Mrs. Meredith said. "Judge Rutherford is finest when heenlarges on him. He says, over and over again, as if it were a kind ofargument, 'Tom, now--Tom, he wants those two young ones to be happy. Hesays nature fixed it all for them, so that they could be happy--and hedoesn't want to see it spoiled. He says love ain't treated fair, as arule, and he wants to see it given a show--a real show. '"

At least one pair of deeply interested listener's eyes were fixed uponher. They were the Reverend John Baird's. 

"It might be a beautiful thing to see, " he said. "One does not see it. There seems a fate against it. The wrong people meet, or the right onesdo not until it is too late. "

"I should like to see it myself, " said the host, "but I am afraid thatthe argument--as an argument--would not support a claim on theGovernment. "

"I am going to see the claimants and hear all the arguments they canbring forward, " was Mrs. Meredith's conclusion. "I want to see Romeo andJuliet together. "

"May I go with you?" asked Baird. 

Latimer had not come in when he returned to their lodgings. He also hadbeen out to spend the evening. But it was not many minutes before Bairdheard his latch-key and the opening of the front door. He came upstairsrather slowly. 

"You are either ill, " Baird said, when he entered, "or you have met withsome shock. "

"Yes; it was a shock, " was the answer. "I have been dragged back into theblack pit of twenty years ago. "

"Twenty years?" said Baird. 

"I have seen the man who--was with us in the hillside cabin, through thatnight she died. He passed me in the street. "

Baird stood still and looked at him without speaking. What was there tobe said?

"He is such a noticeable looking fellow, " Latimer went on, "that I feltsure I could find out who he was. In the mountains they called him 'BigTom D'Willerby. ' His real name is De Willoughby, and he has been here forsome months in pursuit of a claim, which is a great deal talked about. "

"The great De Willoughby claim?" said Baird. "They talked of it to-nightat dinner. "

Latimer tapped the table nervously with the fingers of an unsteady hand. 

"He may be living within a hundred yards of us--within a hundred yards, "he said. "We may cross each other's path at any moment. I can at leastknow--since fate has brought us together again--I should never havesought him out--but one can know whether--whether _it_ lived or died. "

"He has with him, " said Baird, "a girl of nineteen who is his adopteddaughter. I heard it to-night. She is said to be a lovely girl who is inlove with a lovely boy who is De Willoughby's nephew. She is happy. "

"She is happy, " murmured Latimer, biting his livid lips. He could notbring himself back to the hour he was living in. He could only see againthe bare little room--he could hear the cries of terrified anguish. "Itseems strange, " he murmured, "that Margery's child should be happy. "

CHAPTER XXXIII

It was not difficult to discover the abiding place of the De Willoughbyclaimants. The time had come when there were few who did not know whooccupied the upper floor of Miss Burford's house near the Circle. MissBurford herself had gradually become rather proud of her boarders, and, as the interest in the case increased, felt herself becoming a prominentperson. 

"If the claim goes through, the De Willoughby family will be verywealthy, " she said, genteelly. "They will return to their Southern home, no doubt, and restore it to its fawmah magnificence. Mr. Rupert DeWilloughby will be lawd of the mannah. "

She spent many hours--which she felt to be very aristocratic--inlistening to Uncle Matt's stories of the "old De Willoughby place, " therice-fields in "South Ca'llina, " and the "thousands of acres of gol'mines" in the mountains. There was a rich consolation in mereconversation on the subject of glories which had once had veritablesubstance, and whose magnitude might absolutely increase if fortune waskind. But it was not through inquiry that Latimer discovered thewhereabouts of the man who shared his secret. In two days' time they metface to face on the steps of the Capitol. 

Latimer was going down them; big Tom was coming up. The latter was lostin thought on his affairs, and was not looking at such of his fellow-menas passed him. Suddenly he found himself one or two steps below someonewho held out a hand and spoke in a low voice. 

"De Willoughby!" the stranger exclaimed, and Tom lifted his eyes andlooked straight into those of the man he had seen last nineteen yearsbefore in the cabin at Blair's Hollow. 

"Do you know me again?" the man asked. "It's a good many years since wemet, and I am not as easy to recognise as you. "

"Yes, I know you, " answered big Tom, grasping the outstretched handkindly. "I saw you a few days ago and knew you. "

"I did not see you, " said Latimer. "And you did not speak to me?"

"No, " answered Tom, slowly; "I thought it over while I walked behind you, and I made up my mind that it might do you no good--and to hold backwould do none of us any harm. "

"None of us?" questioned Latimer. 

Big Tom put a hand on his shoulder. 

"Since you spoke to me of your own free will, " he said, "let's go andhave a talk. There are plenty of quiet corners in this place. "

There were seats which were secluded enough, though people passed andrepassed within sight of them. People often chose such spots to sit andtalk together. One saw pairs of lovers, pairs of politicians, couples ofsightseers. 

They found such a seat and sat down. Latimer could not well control theexpression his face wore. 

"None of us?" he said again. 

Tom still kept a friendly hand on his shoulder. 

"She is a beautiful young woman, though she will always seem more or lessof a child to me, " he said. "I have kept her safe and I've made herhappy. That was what I meant to do. I don't believe she has had a sadhour in her life. What I'm sick of is seeing people unhappy. I've keptunhappiness from her. We've loved each other--that's what we've done. She's known nothing but having people about who were fond of her. Theywere a simple, ignorant lot of mountain hoosiers, but, Lord! they lovedher and she loved them. She's enjoyed the spring, and she's enjoyed thesummer, and she's enjoyed the autumn and the winter. The rainy dayshaven't made her feel dull, and the cold ones haven't made her shiver. That's the way she has grown up--just like a pretty fawn or a foresttree. Now her young mate has come, and the pair of them fell deep in loveat sight. They met at the right time and they were the right pair. It wasall so natural that she didn't know she was in love at first. She onlyknew she was happier every day. I knew what was the matter, and it mademe happy just to look on. Good lord! _how_ they love each other--thosechildren. How they look at each other every minute without knowing theyare doing it; and how they smile when their eyes meet--without knowingwhy. I know why. It's because they are in paradise--and God knows if it'sto be done I'm going to keep them there. "

"My God!" broke from Latimer. "What a heart you have, man!" He turned hisface to look at him almost as if in reverent awe. "Margery's child!Margery's child!" he repeated to himself. "Is she like her mother?" heasked. 

"I never saw her mother--when she was happy, " Tom answered. "She istaller than her mother and has eyes like a summer morning sky. It's awonderful face. I sometimes think she must be like--the other. "

"I want to see her, " said Latimer. "She need know nothing about me. Iwant to see her. May I?"

"Yes. We are staying here to push our claim, and we are living nearDupont Circle, and doing it as cheaply as we can. We haven't a cent tospare, but that hasn't hurt us so far. If we win our claim we shall bebloated bondholders; if we lose it, we shall have to tramp back to themountains and build a log hut, and live on nuts and berries until we canraise a crop. The two young ones will set up a nest of their own and livelike Adam and Eve--and I swear they won't mind it. They'd be happy rich, but they'll be happy poor. When would you like to come and see her?"

"May I come to-morrow?" asked Latimer. "And may I bring a friend with me?He is the human being who is nearest to me on earth. He is the onlyliving soul who knows--what we know. He is the Reverend John Baird. "

"What!" said Tom. "The man who is setting the world on fire with hislectures--the 'Repentance' man?"

"Yes. "

"She'll like to see him. No one better. We shall all like to see him. Wehave heard a great deal of him. "

They did not part for half an hour. When they did Latimer knew a greatdeal of the past. He knew the story of the child's up-growing, with thesun rising from behind one mountain and setting behind another; he seemedto know the people who had loved and been familiar with her throughouther childish and girlish years; he knew of the fanciful name given her ininfancy, and of the more fanciful one her primitive friends and playmateshad adopted. He knew the story of Rupert, and guessed vaguely at the farpast in which Delia Vanuxem had lived and died. 

"Thank God I saw you that day!" he said. "Thank God I went to you thatnight!" And they grasped hands again and went their separate ways. 

 * * * * *

Latimer went home and told Baird of the meeting and of the appointmentfor the following day. 

"I felt that you would like to see the man, " he said. "He is the finest, simple being in the world. Soul and body are on a like scale. "

"You were right in thinking I should like to see him, " answered Baird. "Ihave thought of him often. " He regarded his friend with some anxiety. 

"To meet her face to face will be a strange thing, " he added. "Do youthink you can hide what you must feel? It will not be easy--even for me. "

"It will not be easy for either of us--if she looks at us with Margery'seyes. You will know them. Margery was happy, too, when the picture youhave seen was made. "

That--to see her stand before them in her youth and beauty, allunknowing--would be a strange thing, was the thought in the mind of eachas they walked through the streets together, the next evening. The flareof an occasional street-lamp falling on Latimer's face revealed all itsstory to his companion, though it might not have so revealed itself toanother. Baird himself was wondering how they should each bear themselvesthroughout the meeting. She would be so wholly unconscious--this girl whohad always been happy and knew nothing of the past. To her they would bebut a middle-aged popular lecturer and his unattractive-lookingfriend--while each to himself was a man concealing from her a secret. They must eliminate it from their looks, their voices, their air. Theymust be frank and courteous and conventional. Baird turned it all over inhis mind. When they reached the house the second-story windows werelighted as if to welcome them. Matt opened the door for them, attired inhis best and bowing low. To receive such guests he felt to be animportant social event, which seemed to increase the chances of the claimand point to a future when distinguished visitors would throng to a muchmore imposing front door. He announced, with an air of state, that hismaster and young mistress were "receivin', " and took ceremonious chargeof the callers. He had brushed his threadbare coat and polished eachbrass button singly until it shone. An African imagination aided him tofeel the dignity of hospitality. 

The sound of a girl's voice reached them as they went upstairs. Theyglanced at each other involuntarily, and Latimer's breath was sharplydrawn. It was not the best preparation for calmness. 

A glowing small fire was burning in the stove, and, plain and bare as theroom was, it was filled with the effect of brightness. Two beautifulyoung people were laughing together over a book, and both rose and turnedeager faces towards the door. Big Tom rose, too, and, advancing to meetthe visitors, brought the girl with him. 

She was built on long and supple lines, and had happy eyes and lovelybloom. The happy eyes were Margery's, though they were brown instead ofharebell blue, and looked out from a face which was not quite Margery's, though its smile was hers. Latimer asked himself if it was possible thathis manner wore the aspect of ordinary calm as he stood before her. 

Sheba wondered at the coldness of his hand as she took it. She was notattracted by his anxious face, and it must be confessed that hispersonality produced on her the effect it frequently produced on thosemeeting him for the first time. It was not he who was the great man, butshe felt timid before him when he spoke to her. 

No one was shy of Baird. He produced his inevitable effect also. In a fewminutes he had become the centre of the small company. He had madefriends with Rupert, and launched Tom in conversation. Sheba waslistening to him with a brightness of look charming to behold. 

They sat about the table and talked, and he led them all back to themountains which had been seeming so far away. He wanted to hear of theatmosphere, the life, the people; and yet, as they answered his queriesand related anecdotes, he was learning from each one something bearing onthe story of the claim. When Tom spoke of Barnesville and JudgeRutherford, or Rupert of Delisleville and Matt, their conversation wasguided in such manner that business details of the claim were part ofwhat was said. It was Tom who realised this first and spoke of it. 

"We are talking of our own business as if it was the one subject onearth, " he said. "That's the worst of people with a claim. I've seen agood many of them since I've been in Washington--and we are all alike. "

"I have been asking questions because the subject interests me, too, "said Baird. "More people than yourselves discuss it. It formed a chieftopic of conversation when I dined with Senator Milner, two nights ago. "

"Milner!" said Tom. "He was the man who had not time to hear me in themorning. "

"His daughter, Mrs. Meredith, was inquiring about you. She wanted to hearthe story. I shall tell it to her. "

"Ah!" exclaimed Tom; "if _you_ tell it, it will have a chance. "

"Perhaps, " Baird laughed. "I may be able to help you. A man who is usedto audiences might be of some practical value. "

He met Sheba's eyes by accident. A warm light leaped into them. 

"They care a great deal more than they will admit to me, " she said tohim, when chance left them together a few minutes later, as Tom andRupert were showing Latimer some books. "They are afraid of making meunhappy by letting me know how serious it will be if everything is lost. They care too much for me--but I care for them, and if I could doanything--or go to anyone----"

He looked into her eyes through a curious moment of silence. 

"It was not all jest, " he said after it, "what I said just now. I am aman who has words, and words sometimes are of use. I am going to give youmy words--for what they are worth. "

"We shall feel very rich, " she answered, and her simple directness mighthave been addressed to a friend of years' standing. It was a great charm, this sweet acceptance of any kindness. "But I thought you were going awayin a few days?"

"Yes. But I shall come back, and I shall try to set the ball rollingbefore I go. "

She glanced at Latimer across the room. 

"Mr. Latimer--" she hesitated; "do you think he does not mind that--thatthe claim means so much for us? I was afraid. He looked at me soseriously----"

"He looked at you a great deal, " interposed Baird, quickly. "He could nothelp it. I am glad to have this opportunity to tell you--something. Youare very like--_very_ like--someone he loved deeply--someone who diedyears ago. You must forgive him. It was almost a shock to him to comeface to face with you. "

"Ah!" softly. "Someone who died years ago!" She lifted Margery's eyes andlet them rest upon Baird's face. "It must be very strange--it must bealmost awful--to find yourself near a person very like someone you haveloved--who died years ago. "

"Yes, " he answered. "Yes--awful. That is the word. "

When the two men walked home together through the streets, the samethought was expressed again, and it was Latimer who expressed it. 

"And when she looked at me, " he said, "I almost cried out to her, 'Margery, Margery!' The cry leaped up from the depths of me. I don't knowhow I stopped it. Margery was smaller and more childlike--her eyes aredarker, her face is her own, not Margery's--but she looks at one asMargery did. It is the simple clearness of her look, the sweet belief, which does not know life holds a creature who could betray it. "

"Yes, yes, " broke from Baird. The exclamation seemed involuntary. 

"Yet there was one who could betray it, " Latimer said. 

"You _cannot_ forget, " said Baird. "No wonder. "

Latimer shook his head. 

"The passing of years, " he said, "almost inevitably wipes out or dims allthings; but sometimes--not often, thank Fate--there comes a phase ofsuffering in some man or woman's life which will not go. I once knew awoman--she was the kind of woman people envy, and whose life seemsbrilliant and full; it was full of the things most people want, but thethings she wanted were not for her, and there was a black wound in hersoul. She had had a child who had come near to healing her, and suddenlyhe was torn out of her being by death. She said afterwards that she knewshe had been mad for months after it happened, though no one suspectedher. In the years that followed she dared not allow herself to speak orthink of that time of death. 'I must not let myself--I must not. ' Shesaid this to me, and shuddered, clenching her hands when she spoke. 'Never, never, never, will it be better. If a thousand years had passedit would always be the same. One thought or word of it drags me back--andplunges me deep into the old, awful woe. Old--it is not old--it never canbe old. It is as if it had happened yesterday--as if it were happeningto-day. ' I know this is not often so. But it is so with me when a thingdrags Margery back to me--drags me back to Margery. To-night, Baird;think what it is to-night!"

He put a shaking hand on Baird's hand, hurrying him by the unconsciousrapidity of his own pace. 

"Think what it is to-night, " he repeated. "She seems part of my being. Icannot free myself. I can see her as she was when she last looked at me, as her child looked at me to-night--with joyful bright eyes and lips. Itwas one day when I went to see her at Boston. She was doing a littlepicture, and it had been praised at the studio. She was so happy--sohappy. That was the last time. "

"Don't, don't, " cried Baird; "you must not call it back. "

"I am not calling it back. It comes, it comes! You must let me go on. Youcan't stop me. That was the last time. The next time I saw her she hadchanged. I scarcely knew how--it was so little. The brightness wasblurred. Then--then comes all the rest. Her growing illness--theanxiousness--the long days--the girl at the mills--the talk of thosewomen--the first ghastly, damnable fear--the nights--the lying awake!"His breath came short and fast. He could not stop himself, it was plain. His words tumbled over each other as if he were a man telling a story indelirium. 

"I can see her, " he said. "I can see her--as I went into her room. I cansee her shaking hands and lips and childish, terrified eyes. I can feelher convulsive little fingers clutching my feet, and her face--herface--lying upon them when she fell down. "

"I cannot bear it, " cried Baird; "I cannot bear it. " He had uttered thesame cry once before. He had received the same answer. 

"She bore it, " said Latimer, fiercely. "That last night--in the cabin onthe hillside--her cries--they were not human--no, they did not soundhuman----"

He was checked. It was Baird's hand which clutched his arm now--it seemedas if for support. The man was swaying a little, and in the light of astreet-lamp near them he looked up in a ghastly appeal. 

"Latimer, " he said. "Don't go on; you see I can't bear it. I am not sostrong as I was--before I began this work. I have lost my nerve. Youbring it before me as it is brought before yourself. I am living thething. I can't bear it. "

Latimer came back from the past. He made an effort to understand andcontrol himself. 

"Yes, " he said, quite dull; "that was what the woman I spoke of toldme--that she lived the thing again. It is not sane to let one's self goback. I beg your pardon, Baird. "

CHAPTER XXXIV

"It's a curious job, that De Willoughby claim, " was said in acommittee-room of the House, one day. "It's beginning to attractattention because it has such an innocent air. The sharp ones say thatmay be the worst feature of it, because ingenuousness is more dangerousthan anything else if a job is thoroughly rotten. The claimants are themost straightforward pair the place has ever seen--a big, humourous, well-mannered country man, and a boy of twenty-three. Rutherford, ofHamlin County, who is a monument of simplicity in himself, is heart andsoul in the thing--and Farquhar feels convinced by it. Farquhar is one ofthe men who are not mixed up with jobs. Milner himself is beginning togive the matter a glance now and then, though he has not committedhimself; and now the Reverend John Baird, the hero of the platform, istaking it up. "

Baird had proved his incidental offer of aid to have been by no means anidle one. He had been obliged to absent himself from Washington for aperiod, but he had returned when his lecture tour had ended, and hadshown himself able in a new way. He was the kind of man whoseconversation people wish to hear. He chose the right people and talked tothem about the De Willoughby claim. He was interesting and picturesque inconnection with it, and lent the topic attractions. Tom had been shrewdlyright in saying that his talk of it would give it a chance. 

He went often to the house near the Circle. Latimer did not go with him, and had himself explained his reasons to big Tom. 

"I have seen her, " he said. "It is better that I should not see heroften. She is too much like her mother. "

But Baird seemed to become by degrees one of the household. Gradually--andit did not take long--Tom and he were familiar friends. They had longtalks together, they walked side by side through the streets, they went incompany to see the men it was necessary to hold interviews with. Theiracquaintance became an intimacy which established itself with curiousnaturalness. It was as if they had been men of the same blood, who, havingspent their lives apart, on meeting, found pleasure in the discovery oftheir relationship. The truth was that for the first time in his life bigTom enjoyed a friendship with a man who was educated and, in a measure, ofthe world into which he himself had been born. Baird's world had been thatof New England, his own, the world of the South; but they could comprehendeach other's parallels and precedents, and argue from somewhat similarplanes. In the Delisleville days Tom had formed no intimacies, and hadbeen a sort of Colossus set apart; in the mountains of North Carolina hehad consorted with the primitive and uneducated in good-humoured, evengrateful, friendliness; but he had mentally lived like a hermit. To havetalked to Jabe Doty or Nath Hayes on any other subjects than those ofcrops and mountain politics or sermons would have been to bewilder themhopelessly. To find himself in mental contact with a man who had lived andthought through all the years during which he himself had vegetated at theCross-roads, was a wonderful thing to him. He realised that he had longago given up expecting anything approaching such companionship, and thatto indulge in it was to live in a new world. Baird's voice, his choice ofwords, his readiness and tact, the very carriage of his fine, silveringhead, produced on him the effect of belonging to a new species of humanbeing. 

"You are all the things I have been missing for half a lifetime, " hesaid. "I didn't know what it was I was making up my mind to goingwithout--but it was such men as you. "

On his own part, Baird felt he had made a rich discovery also. The largehumour and sweetness, the straightforward unworldliness which was stilllevel-headed and observing, the broad kindliness and belief in humanitywhich were so far from unintelligent or injudicious, were more attractiveto him than any collected characteristics he had met before. They seemedto meet some strained needs in him. To leave his own rooms, and find hisway to the house whose atmosphere was of such curious, homely brightness, to be greeted by Sheba's welcoming eyes, to sit and chat with Tom in thetwilight or to saunter out with him with an arm through his, were thingshe soon began to look forward to. He began also to realise that this lifeof home and the affections was a thing he had lived without. During hisbrief and wholly unemotional married life he had known nothing like it. His years of widowerhood had been presided over by Mrs. Stornaway, whohad assumed the supervision of his child as a duty. Annie had been aproperly behaved, rather uninteresting and unresponsive little person. She had neat features and a realisation of the importance ofrespectability and the proprieties which was a credit to Willowfield andher training. She was never gay or inconsequent or young. She had gone toschool, she had had her frocks lengthened and been introduced attea-parties, exactly as had been planned for her. She never committed abreach of discretion and she never formed in any degree an element ofspecial interest. She greatly respected her father's position as asuccessful man, and left it to be vaguely due to the approbation ofWillowfield. 

Big Tom De Willoughby, in two wooden rooms behind a cross-roads store, ina small frame house kept in order by a negro woman, and in the genteelpoverty of Miss Burford's second floor, had surrounded himself with thecomforts and pleasures of the affections. It was not possible to enterthe place without feeling their warmth, and Baird found himself nourishedby it. He saw that Rupert, too, was nourished by it. His young good looksand manhood were developing under its influence day by day. He seemed togrow taller and stronger. Baird had made friends with him, too, and waswith them the night he came in to announce that at last he had got workto do. 

"It is to sell things from behind a counter, " he said, and he went toSheba and lifted her hand to his lips, kissing it before them all. "Weknow a better man who has done it. "

"You know a bigger man who has done it, " said Tom. "He did it because hewas cut out for a failure. You are doing it because you are cut out for asuccess. It will be a good story for the reporters when the claim goesthrough, my boy. "

Baird perceived at once that it was a good story, even at this particularperiod--a story which might be likely to arouse curiosity and interest ata time when the awakening of such emotions was of the greatest value. Hetold it at the house of a magnate of the Supreme Court, the next night. He had a varied and useful audience of important politicians and theirwives and daughters, the latter specially fitted to act as mediums oftransmission to other audiences. He told the anecdote well. It was a goodpicture, that of the room on Miss Burford's upper floor, the largeclaimant smiling like a benign Jove, and the handsome youngster bendinghis head to kiss the girlish hand as if he were doing homage to a queen. 

"I think his feeling was that his failure to get a better thing was akind of indignity done her, " Baird explained. "He comes of a race of menwho have worshipped women and beauty in a romantic, troubadour fashion;only the higher professions, and those treated in a patrician, amateurstyle, were possible to them as work. And yet, as he said, a better manthan himself had done this same thing. What moves one is that he has goneout to find work as if he had been born a bricklayer. He tells me theyare reaching the end of all they depend on. "

"I'll tell you what it is, " said Senator Milner to his daughter, a fewdays afterwards; "this is going to be a feminine claim. There was a timewhen I swore I wouldn't touch it, but I foresee what is going to happen. I'm going to give in, and the other opposers are going to give in, and inthe end the Government will give in. And it will be principally because aforce of wives and daughters has marshalled itself to march to therescue. No one ever realises what a power the American woman is, and howmuch she is equal to accomplishing. If she took as much interest inpolitics as English women do, she would elect every president and controlevery party. We are a good-natured lot, and we are fond of our womenkindand believe in them much more than other nations do. They're prettyclever and straight, you know, as well as being attractive, and we can'thelp realising that they are often worth listening to. So we listen, andwhen they drive a truth home we are willing to believe in it. If thefeminine halves of the two Houses decide that the De Willoughby claim isall right, they'll prove it to us, and there you are. "

"I believe we can prove it to you, " answered Mrs. Meredith. "I went tosee the people, and you could prove anything straightforward by merelyshowing them to the Houses in session. They could not conceal adisingenuous thought among them--the delightful giant, the boy with theeyelashes, the radiant girl, and the old black man put together. "

In the meantime Judge Rutherford did his honest best. He had been toosanguine not to do it with some ruefulness after the first few months. During the passage of these few months many of his ingenuous ideals hadbeen overthrown. It had been borne in upon him that honest virtue was notso powerful a factor as he had believed. The obstacles continuallyarising in his pathway were not such as honest virtue could remove. Thefacts that the claim was "as straight as a string, " and that big Tom DeWilloughby was the best fellow in Hamlin were bewilderingly ineffective. When prospects seemed to shine they might be suddenly overshadowed by thefact that a man whose influence was needed, required it to use forhimself in other quarters; when all promised well some apparentlyunexplainable obstacle brought things to a standstill. 

"Now you see it and now you don't, " said Tom, resignedly. "That's theposition. This sort of thing might go on for twenty years. "

He was not aware that he spoke prophetically; yet claims resting on assolid a basis as his own passed through the same dragging processes forthirty years before they were finally settled. But such did not possessthe elements of unprofessional picturesqueness this particular onepresented told to its upholders and opposers. 

Uncle Matt himself was to be counted among these elements. He had madehimself as familiar and popular a figure in the public places of theCapital as he had been in Delisleville. He made friends in themarket-house and on the steps of the Capitol and the Treasury and thePension Office; he hung about official buildings and obtained odd jobs ofwork, his grey wool, his polished air of respectfulness, his readinessand amiability attracted attention and pleased those who came in contactwith him. People talked to him and asked him friendly questions, and whenthey did so the reason for his presence in Washington and the importanceof the matter which had brought his young master to the seat ofgovernment were fully explained. 

"I belongs to de gen'elmen dat's here tendin' to de De Willoughby claim, sah, " he would say. "Co'se, sah, you've heern 'bout it up to de Capitol. I'se yere waitin' on Marse Rupert De Willoughby, but co'se he don' liveyere--till ye gets his claim through--like he do in de ole family mansh'nat Delisleville--an' my time hangs heavy on my han's, cos I got so muchledger--so I comes out like dish yer--an' takes a odd job now an' agen. "

It was not long before he was known as the De Willoughby claimant, andloiterers were fond of drawing him out on the subject of the "gol'mines. " He gathered a large amount of information on the subjects ofclaims and the rapid methods of working them. He used to come to Tomsometimes, hot and excited with his struggles to comprehend detail. "Whatall dish yer 'bout Marse Rupert's granpa'n' bein' destructively disloyal?Dar warn't no disloyal 'bout it. Ef dar was a fault to be foun' with theold Judge it was dat he was mos' too loyal. He couldn' hol' in, an' hequ'ol with mos' ev'y gen'elman he talk to. He pass shots with one or twohe had a disagreement with. He pass shots with 'em. How's de Guv'mentgwine call a gen'elman 'destructively disloyal' when he ready any minitto pass shots with his bes' fren's, ef dey don' 'gree with hispol'tics--an' his pol'tics is on de side er Marse Ab'am Lincoln an' deYankees?"

The phrase "constructively disloyal" rankled in his soul. He argued aboutit upon every possible occasion, and felt that if the accusation could bedisproved the De Willoughby case would be triumphantly concluded, whichwas in a large measure true. 

"I steddies 'bout dat thing day an' night, " he said to Sheba. "Seems likedar oughter be someone to tes'ify. Ef I had de money to travel back toDelisleville, I'd go an' try to hunt someone up. "

He was seated upon the steps of a Government building one afternoon, discussing his favourite subject with some of his coloured friends. Hehad been unusually eloquent, and had worked himself up to a peroration, when he suddenly ceased speaking and stared straight across the street tothe opposite side of the pavement, in such absorption that he forgot toclose his mouth. 

He was gazing at an elderly gentleman with a hook nose and the dashinghat of the broad brim, which was regarded as being almost as much aninsignia of the South as the bonnie blue flag itself. 

Uncle Matt got up and shuffled across the street. He had becomeunconsciously apish with excitement. His old black face worked and hishands twitched. 

He was so far out of breath when he reached the stranger's side that hecould scarcely make himself heard, as, pulling his hat off, he cried, agitatedly:

"Doctah! Doctah Atkinson, sah! Doctah Williams Atkinson!"

The stranger did not hear him distinctly, and waved him off, evidentlytaking him for a beggar. 

"I've nothing for you, uncle, " he said, with condescending good-nature. 

Uncle Matt found some of his breath, though not enough to steady hisvoice. But his strenuousness was almost passionate. "Doctah WilliamsAtkinson, " he said, "I ain't beggin', Doctah Atkinson, sah; on'y axin' ifI might speak a few words to you, sah!" His shrewd insistance on the namewas effective. 

The elderly gentleman turned and looked at him in surprised questioning. 

"How do you know me?" he said. "This is the first time I have been inWashington--and I've not been here an hour. "

"I knowed you, Doctah Atkinson, sah, in Delisleville, Delisle County. Ev'ybody knowed you, Doctah! I was dar endurin' er de war. I was dar detime you--you an' Judge De Willoughby passed shots 'bout dat Confed'ateflag. "

"What do you want?" said Dr. Atkinson, somewhat unsmilingly. These weredays when stories of the Confederate flag were generally avoided. Northerners called it the rebel flag. 

Matt had had the discretion to avoid this mistake. He was wild withanxious excitement. Suddenly here had appeared a man who could give allthe evidence desired, if he would do so. He had left Delislevilleimmediately on the close of the war and had not been heard of. He might, like so many, be passing on to some unknown point, and remain in the cityonly between trains. There was no time to find any better qualifiedperson than himself to attend to this matter. It must be attended to uponthe spot and at this moment. Uncle Matt knew all the incongruities of thesituation. No one could have known them better. But a sort of hystericcourage grew out of his desperation. 

"Doctah Williams Atkinson, sah!" he said. "May I take de liberty ofwalking jes' behin' you an' axin' you a question. I mustn't keep youstandin'. I beg you to 'scuse me, sah. I kin talk an' walk at de sametime. "

Dr. Williams Atkinson was an amenable person, and Matt's imploring olddarky countenance was not without its pathos. He was so evidently rackedby his emotions. 

"What is it all about?" he enquired. 

Matt stood uncovered and spoke fast. The hand holding his hat wasshaking, as also was his voice. 

"I'm nothin' but a ole niggah man, Doctah Atkinson, sah, " he said. "Itain't for myself I'se intrudin' on ye; it's cos dar wasn't time to go ferMarse De Willoughby that could talk it like it oughter be. I jes' had topush my ole niggah self in, fear you'd be gone an' we'd nevah set eyes onyou agin. "

"Walk along by me, " said the Doctor. "What about the De Willoughbys; Ithought they were all dead. "

"All but Marse Thomas and Marse Rupert. Dey's yere 'tendin' to de claim. Has you done heern 'bout de claim, Doctah Atkinson?"

"No, " the Doctor answered. "I have been in too far out West. "

Whereupon Matt plunged into the story of the "gol' mines, " and thedifficulties which had presented themselves in the pathway of theclaimant, and the necessity for the production of testimony which woulddisprove the charge of disloyalty. The detail was not very clear, but ithad the effect of carrying Dr. Williams Atkinson back to certain good olddays in Delisleville, before his beloved South had been laid low and hehad been driven far afield to live among strangers, an alien. For thatreason he found himself moved by the recital and listened to it to itsend. 

"But what has this to do with me?" he asked. "What do you want of me?"

"When I seed you, sah, " Uncle Matt explained, "it all come back to me ina minnit, how you an' de Judge pass shots 'bout dat flag; how you axedhim to a dinner-party, an' dar was a Confed'ate officer dar--an' aConfed'ate flag hung up over de table, an' de Judge when he seed it he'fused p'int blank to set down to de table, an' it ended in you goin' outin de gyardin' an' changin' shots. "

"Yes, damn it all, " cried Dr. Atkinson, but melted the next moment. "Thepoor old fellow is dead, " he said, "an' he died in disgrace and withoutfriends. "

"Yes, " Uncle Matt protested, eagerly; "without a single friend, an' all'lone 'ceptin' of Marse Rupert--all 'lone. An' it was 'cos he was sostrong for de Union--an' now de Guv'ment won't let his fambly have hismoney 'cos dey's tryin' to prove him destructively disloyal--when hechanged shots with his bes' friend 'cos he wouldn't set under deConfed'ate flag. "

A grim smile wakened in Dr. Atkinson's face. 

"What!" he said; "do you want me to explain to the Government that theold scamp would have blown my brains out if he could?"

"Doctah Atkinson, sah, " said Uncle Matt, with shrewd gravity, "things isdiff'rent dese days, an' de Guv'ment don't call dem gen'elmen scamps aswas called dat in de Souf. "

He looked up under the broad brim of his companion's hat with impassionedappealing. 

"I jes' 'member one thing, sah, " he said; "dat you was a Southerngen'elman, and when a enemy's dead a Southern gen'elman don't cherish noharm agin him, an' you straight from Delisleville, an' you deed an' heerdit all, an' de Guv'ment ken see plain enough you's no carpet-bag jobber, an' ef a gen'elman like you tes'ify, an' say you was enemies--an' you didpass shots count er dat flag, how's dey gwine talk any more about disdestructive disloyal business? How dey gwine ter do it?"

"And I am to be the means of enriching his family--the family of anobstinate old fool, who abused me like a pickpocket and spoiled adress-coat for me when dress-coats were scarce. "

"He's dead, Doctah Williams Atkinson, sah, he's dead, " said Matt. "It wasmighty lonesome the way he died, too, in dat big house, dat was strippedby de soldiers, an' ev'ybody dead belonging to him--Miss De Willoughby, an' de young ladies, an' Marse Romaine, an' Marse De Courcy--no one lefbut dat boy. It was mighty lonesome, sah. "

"Yes, that's so, " said Dr. Atkinson, reflectively. After a few moments'silence, he added, "Whom do you want me to tell this to? It may be verylittle use, but it may serve as evidence. "

Uncle Matt stopped upon the pavement. 

"Would you let me 'scort you to Senator Milner, sah?" he said, inabsolute terror at his own daring. "Would you 'low me to 'tend you toSenator Grove? I knows what a favior I'se axin'. I knows it doun to degroun'. I scarcely dars't to ax it, but if I loses you, sah, Marse ThomasDe Willoughby an' Marse Rupert may lose de claim. Ef I lose you, sah, seems mos' like I gwine to lose my mind. "

 * * * * *

There were a thousand chances to one that Senator Milner might not bewhere Uncle Matt hoped to find him; there were ten thousand chances toone that he might be absorbingly engaged; there were uncountable chancesagainst them obtaining an interview with either man, and yet it sohappened they had the curious good luck to come upon Senator Milnerabsolutely without searching for him. It was rather he who came upon themat one of the entrances of the Capitol itself, before which stood hisdaughter's carriage. Mrs. Meredith had spent the morning in the Senate, being interested in the subject under debate. She was going to take herfather home to lunch, and as she was about to enter her carriage herglance fell upon the approaching figures of Uncle Matt and his companion. 

"Father, " she said, "there is the faithful retainer of the De Willoughbyclaimants, and there is not a shadow of a doubt that he is in search ofyou. I am convinced that he wishes to present that tall Southerner underthe big hat. "

In a moment's space Uncle Matt was before them. The deprecatory respectimplied by his genuflections could scarcely be computed. 

"Senator Milner, sah, " he said, "Doctah Williams Atkinson of Delislevillehas had de kindness to say he do me de favior to come yeah, sah, totes'ify, sah----"

The large hat was removed by its owner with a fine sweep. "The old fellowthinks I can do his people a service, Senator, " explained Dr. Atkinson. "He is the servant of the De Willoughby claimants, and it seems there hasbeen some question of Judge De Willoughby's loyalty. During the war, sir, he was called disloyal by his neighbours, and was a much hated man. "

Uncle Matt's lips were trembling. He broke forth, forgetting the carefultraining of his youth. 

"Dar wasn't a gen'elman in de county, " he cried, "dar wasn't a gen'elmanin de State, mo' hated an' 'spised an' mo' looked down on. "

The lean Southerner nodded acquiescently. "That's true, " he said. "It'squite true. He was a copperhead and a firebrand. We detested him. Heinsulted me at my own table by refusing to sit down under the Southernflag, and the matter ended with pistols. "

"This is interesting, by Jove, " said the Senator, and he looked fromUncle Matt to his capture. "I should like to hear more of it. "

"Will you confer a pleasure on me by coming home to lunch with us?" saidMrs. Meredith, who had begun to look radiant. "I am interested in the DeWilloughby claim; I would give a great deal to see my father entirelyconvinced. He has been on the verge of conviction for some time. I wanthim to hear the story with all the details. I beg you will let us takeyou home with us, Dr. Atkinson. "

"Madame, " replied Dr. Williams Atkinson, with an eighteenth centuryobeisance, "Judge De Willoughby and I lived in open feud, but I ambecoming interested in the De Willoughby claim also. I accept yourinvitation with pleasure. " And they drove away together. 

CHAPTER XXXV

"There is a man who seems to have begun to haunt my pathway, " Baird saidto Tom; "or perhaps it is Latimer's pathway, for it is when Latimer iswith me that I meet him. He is small and sharp-featured and unwholesome. "

"It sounds like Stamps, " laughed big Tom. 

He related the story of Stamps and his herds. The herds had not gainedthe congressional ear as Mr. Stamps had hoped. He had described theirvalue and the gravity of his loss to everyone who would listen to hiseloquence, but the result had been painfully discouraging. Hisboarding-house had become a cheaper one week by week, and his blue jeanshad grown shabbier. He had fallen into the habit of hanging about theentrances of public buildings and the street corners in the hope offinding hearers and sympathisers. His sharp little face had becomehaggard and more weasel-like than before. Baird recognised big Tom'sdescription of him at once. 

"Yes, it must be Stamps, " he said. "What is the meaning of his interestin us? Does he think we can provide evidence to prove the value of theherds? What are you thinking of, De Willoughby?"

In fact, there had suddenly recurred to Tom's mind a recollection ofSheba's fifth birthday and the visit Mr. Stamps had made him. Withsomething of a shock he recalled the shrewd meekness of his voice as hemade his exit. 

"It begins with a 'L, ' Tom; it begins with a 'L. '"

The need of money was merely the natural expression of Mr. Stamps'snature. He had needed money when he was born, and had laid infant schemesto secure cents from his relatives and their neighbours before he wasfour years old. But he had never needed it as he did now. The claim forgovernmental restitution of the value of the daily increasing herds hadbecome the centre of his being. His belief in their existence anddestruction was in these days profound; his belief that he should finallybe remunerated in the name and by the hand of national justice was thebreath of life to him. He had at last found a claim agent whosecharacteristics were similar to his own, and, so long as he was able tosupply small sums with regularity, this gentleman was willing toencourage him and direct him to fresh effort. Mr. Abner Linthicum, ofVermont, had enjoyed several successes in connection with two or threesingular claims which he had "put through" with the aid of geniuscombined with a peculiar order of executive ability. They had not beenlarge claims, but he had "put them through" when other agents haddeclined to touch them. In fact, each one had been a claim which had beenfought shy of, and one whose final settlement had been commented uponwith open derision or raised eyebrows. 

"Yours is the kind of claim I like to take up, " he had said to his clientin their first interview; "but it's the kind that's got to be engineeredcarefully, and money is needed to grease the wheels. But it'll pay togrease them. "

It had needed money. Stamps had no large sums to give, but he could bebled by drops. He had changed his cheap boarding-place for a cheaper one, that he might be able to save a few dollars a week; he had left thecheaper one for one cheaper still for the same reason, and had at lastcamped in a bare room over a store, and lived on shreds of food costing afew cents a day, that he might still grease the wheels. Abner Linthicumwas hard upon him, and was not in the least touched by seeing his meagrelittle face grow sharper and his garments hang looser upon his smallframe. 

"You'll fat on the herds, " he would say, with practical jocularity, andMr. Stamps grinned feebly, his thin lips stretching themselves overhungry teeth. 

The little man burned with the fever of his chase. He sat in his bareroom on the edge of his mattress--having neither bedstead nor chairs nortables--and his fingers clutched each other as he worked out plans andinvented arguments likely to be convincing to an ungrateful Government. He used to grow hot and cold over them. 

"Ef Tom 'd hev gone in with me an' helped me to work out that thar thingabout Sheby, we mought hev made suthin' as would hev carried me throughthis, " he said to himself more than once. He owed Tom a bitter grudge ina mild way. His bitterness was the bitterness of a little rat baulked ofcheese. 

He had kept safely what he had found in the deserted cabin, but, as theyears passed, he lost something of the hopes he had at first cherished. When he had seen Sheba growing into a tall beauty he had calculated thather market value was increasing. A handsome young woman who might marrywell, might be willing to pay something to keep a secret quiet--if anypractical person knew the secret and it was unpleasant. Well-to-dohusbands did not want to hear their wives talked about. When Rupert DeWilloughby had arrived, Mr. Stamps had had a moment of discouragement. 

"He's gwine to fall in love with her, " he said, "but he'd oughter binwealthier. Ef the De Willoughbys was what they'd usedter be he'd be thevery feller as 'ud pay for things to be kept quiet. The De Willoughbyswas allers proud an' 'ristycratic, an' mighty high-falutin' 'bout theirwomen folk. "

When the subject of the De Willoughby claim was broached he fell intofeverish excitement. The De Willoughbys had a chance in a hundred ofbecoming richer than they had ever been. He took his treasure from itshiding-place--sat turning it over, gnawing his finger-nails and breathingfast. But treasure though he counted it, he gained no clue from it butthe one he had spoken of to Tom when he had cast his farewell remark tohim as he closed the door. 

"Ef there'd hev been more, " he said. "A name ain't much when there ain'tnothin' to tack on to it. It was curi's enough, but it'd hev to befollered up an' found out. Ef he was only what he 'lowed to be--'tain'tnothin' to hide that a man's wife dies an' leaves a child. I don'tb'lieve thar wasn't nothin' to hide--but it'd hev to be _proved_--an'proved plain. It's mighty aggravatin'. "

One night, seeing a crowd pouring into a hall where a lecture was to bedelivered, he had lingered about the entrance until the carriagecontaining the lecturer drove up. Here was something to be had fornothing, at all events--he could have a look at the man who was makingsuch a name for himself. There must be something in a man who coulddemand so much a night for talking to people. He managed to get a placewell to the front of the loitering crowd on the pavement. 

The carriage-door was opened and a man got out. 

"That ain't him, " said a bystander. "That's Latimer. He's always withhim. "

The lecturer descended immediately after his companion, but Stamps, whowas pushing past a man who had got in front of him, was displaying thiseagerness, not that he might see the hero of the hour, but that he mightlook squarely at the friend who had slightly turned his face. 

"Gosh!" ejaculated the little hoosier, a minute later. "I'd most swear tohim. "

He was exasperatedly conscious that he could not quite have sworn to him. The man he had seen nineteen years before had been dressed in clumsilymade homespun; he had worn his black hair long and his beard had beenunshaven. Nineteen years were nineteen years, and the garb and bearing ofcivilisation would make a baffling change in any man previously seenattired in homespun, and carrying himself as an unsociable hoosier. 

"But I'd most sw'ar to him--most. " Stamps went through the streetsmuttering, "I'd most _swar_!"

It was but a few days later that Latimer saw him standing on a streetcorner staring at him as he himself approached. It was his curiousintentness which attracted Latimer. He did not recognise his face. He hadnot seen him more than once in the days so long gone by, and had thencast a mere abstracted glance at him. He did not know him again--thoughhis garments vaguely recalled months when he had only seen men clothed injeans of blue, or copperas brown. He saw him again the next day, andagain the next, and after that he seemed to chance upon him so often thathe could not help observing and reflecting upon the eager scrutiny in hiswrinkled countenance. 

"Do you see that man?" he remarked to Baird. "I come upon him everywhere. Do you know him?"

"No. I thought it possible you did--or that he recognised one of us--orwanted to ask some question. "

After his conversation with big Tom De Willoughby, Latimer heard fromBaird the story of the herds and their indefatigable claimant. 

"He comes from the Cross-roads?" said Latimer. "I don't remember hisface. "

"Do you think, " said Baird, rather slowly, "that he thinks he remembersyours?"

A week passed before Latimer encountered him again. On this occasion hewas alone. Baird had gone South to Delisleville in the interests of theclaim. He had unexpectedly heard rumours of some valuable evidence whichmight be gathered in a special quarter at this particular moment, and hadset out upon the journey at a few hours' notice. 

Stamps had passed two days and nights in torment. He had learned from Mr. Linthicum that his claim had reached one of the critical points allclaims must pass. More money was needed to grease the wheels that theymight carry it past the crisis safely. Stamps had been starving himselffor days and had gone without fire for weeks, but the wheels had refusedto budge for the sum he managed to produce. He was weak, and so feverishwith anxiety and hunger that his lips were cracked and his tongue dry torasping. 

"It's all I kin scrape, Linthicum, " he said to that gentleman. "I kin geta few dollars more if Minty kin sell her crop o' corn an' send me themoney--but this is every cent I kin give ye now. Won't it do _nothin_'?"

"No, it won't, " answered the claim agent, with a final sort of shrug. "We're dealing with a business that's got to be handled well or it'll allend in smoke. _I_ can't work on the driblets you've been bringingme--and, what's more, I should be a fool to try. "

"But ye wouldn't give it up!" cried Stamps, in a panic. "Ye couldn'tthrow me over, Linthicum!"

"There's no throwing over about it, " Linthicum said. "I shall have togive the thing up if I can't keep it going. Money's _got_ to be used overa claim like this. I have had to ask men for a thousand dollars at atime--and the thing they were working was easier to be done than thisis. "

"A thousand dollars!" cried Stamps. He grew livid and a lump worked inhis throat, as if he was going to cry. "A thousand dollars 'ud buy me andsell me twice over, Mr. Linthicum. "

"I'm not asking you for a thousand dollars yet, " said Linthicum. "I mayhave to ask you for five hundred before long--but I'm not doing it now. "

"Five hundred!" gasped Stamps, and he sat down in a heap and dropped hisdamp forehead on his hands. 

That night, as Latimer entered the house of an acquaintance with whom hewas going to spend the evening, he caught sight of the, by this time, familiar figure on the opposite side of the street. 

The night was cold and damp, and rain was falling when the door closedbehind him. He heard it descending steadily throughout the evening, andmore than once the continuance of the downpour was commented upon by somemember of the company. When the guests separated for the night andLatimer turned into the street again, he had scarcely walked five yardsbefore hearing a cough; he cast a glance over his shoulder and saw thesmall man in blue jeans. The jeans were wet and water was dropping fromthe brim of the old felt hat. The idea which at once possessed his mindwas that for some mysterious reason best known to himself the wearer hadbeen waiting for and was following him. What was it for? He turned aboutsuddenly and faced the person who seemed so unduly interested in hisactions. 

"Do you want to speak to me?" he demanded. 

This movement, being abrupt, rather upset Mr. Stamps's calculations. Hecame to a standstill, looking surprised and nervous. 

"Thar ain't no harm done, " he said. "I aimed to find out whar ye lived. "

"Have you been waiting for me to come out of the house?" asked Latimer, feeling some curiosity. 

Stamps admitted that he had, the admission being somewhat reluctant, asif he felt it might commit him to something. Having so far betrayedhimself, however, he drew something nearer, with a suggestion ofstealthiness. 

"Ye're mighty like a man I once knowed, " he said. "Yer powerful like him. I never seed two men more liker each other. "

"Where did he live when you knew him?" Latimer enquired, the wretched, dank little figure suddenly assuming the haunting air of something hiseye must have rested on before. 

"I seen him in North Ca'llina. He did not live thar--in the way otherfolks did. He was jest stayin'. I won't keep ye standin' in the rain, "insinuatingly. "I'll jest walk along by ye. "

Latimer walked on. This dragged him back again, as other things had doneonce or twice. He did not speak, but strode on almost too rapidly forStamps's short legs. The short legs began to trot, and their owner tocontinue his explanations rather breathlessly. 

"He warn't livin' thar same as other folks, " he said. "Thar was suthin'curi's about him. Nobody knowed nothin' about him, an' nobody knewnothin' about his wife. Now I come to think of it, nobody ever knowed hisname--but me. "

"Did he tell it to you?" said Latimer, rigidly. 

"No, " with something verging on a chuckle, discreetly strangled at itsbirth. "Neither him nor his wife was tellin' things just then. They waslayin' mighty low. She died when her child was borned, an' he lit outright away an' ain't never been heern tell of since. "

Latimer said nothing. The rain began to fall more heavily, and Mr. Stampstrotted on. 

"'Lowin' for store clothes an' agein', " he continued, "I never seen twofellers favour each other as you two do. An' his name bein' the same asyourn, makes it curi'ser still. "

"You are getting very wet, " was Latimer's sole comment. 

"I got wet to the skin long afore you come out that house where ye was, "said Mr. Stamps; "but I 'low to find out whar ye live. "

"I live about a quarter of a mile from here, " said Latimer. "The brickhouse with the bay windows, opposite the square. Number 89. "

"I'd rather see ye in, " replied Stamps, cautiously. 

"I might go into a house I do not live in, " returned Latimer. 

"Ye won't. It's too late. Ain't ye gwine to say nothin', Mr. Latimer?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"Sheby's good-lookin' gal, " Stamps said. "Tom's done well by her. Ef theyget their claim through they'll be powerful rich. Young D'Willerby he'smightily in love with her--an' he wouldn't want no talk. "

"There is the house I live in at present, " said Latimer, pointing withhis umbrella. "We shall be there directly. "

"Ministers don't want no talk neither, " proceeded Stamps. "Ef a ministerhad made a slip an' tried hard to hide it an' then hed it proved on himhe wouldn't like it--an' his church members wouldn't like it--an' hishigh class friends. There'd be a heap er trouble. "

"Number 89, " said Latimer. "You see I was speaking the truth. This is thegate; I am going in. "

His tone and method were so unsatisfactory and unmoved that--rememberingAbner Linthicum--Stamps became desperate. He clutched Latimer's arm andheld it. 

"It'd be worth money fur him to git safe hold of them letters. Thar wastwo on 'em. I didn't let on to Tom. I wasn't gwine to let on to him tillI found out he'd go in with me. Them as knowed the man they was writ by'ud be able to see a heap in 'em. They'd give him away. Ye'd better gethold of 'em. They're worth five hundred. They're yourn--ye wrote 'emyourself. Ye ain't jest like him--ye're _him_--I'll sw'ar to ye!"

Latimer suddenly saw his mother's mild New England countenance, with itsfaded blue eyes. He remembered the hours he had spent telling her thedetails of the sunny days in Italy, where Margery had lain smiling in thesunset. He looked down the long wet street, the lamps gleaming on itsshining surface. He thought of Baird, who would not return until the dayon which he was to deliver a farewell lecture before leaving Washington. He recalled his promptness of resource and readiness for action. If Bairdwere but in the room above in which the light burned he would tell him!His mind seemed to vault over all else at this instant--to realise thething which it had not reached at the first shock. He turned on Stamps. 

"You say there were letters?" he exclaimed, forgetting his previousunresponsiveness. 

"Two. Not long 'uns, an' wrote keerful--without no name. But they say aheap. They was wrote when he had to leave her. "

Latimer's heart seemed physically to turn over in his side. He had neverknown she had had a line of handwriting in her possession. This must besome scrap of paper, some last, last words she clung to with such anguishof desperation that she could not tear herself from them, and so had diedleaving them in their secret hiding-place. The thought was a shock. Theeffort it cost him to regain his self-control was gigantic. But herecovered his outward calm. 

"You had better go home and change your clothing, " he said, as coldly ashe had spoken before. "You are not a young man or a strong one, and youmay kill yourself. You are making a mistake about me; but if you willgive me your address I will see you again. "

"I thort ye would--mebbe, " said Stamps. "I thort mebbe ye would. They'reworth it. "

And he scribbled a few words on a scrap of paper with a stump of apencil--producing both rapidly from his pocket--and thrusting it intoLatimer's hand, trotted away contentedly down the long wet street. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

As he entered his rooms, Latimer glanced round at Baird's empty chair andwished he had found him sitting in it. He walked over to it and sat downhimself--simply because it was Baird's chair and suggested his presence. Latimer knew how he would have turned to look at him as he came in, andthat he would at once have known by instinct that the old abyss had beenre-opened. 

"If he were here, " he thought, "he would tell me what to do. "

But he knew what he was going to do. He must buy the little hoosier'ssilence if it was to be bought. He should see the letters. Through allthose months she had hidden them. He could imagine with what terror. Shecould not bear to destroy them, and yet he knew there must have beenweeks she did not dare to go near their hiding-place. They must have beenconcealed in some cranny of the cabin. How she must have shuddered withdread when he had accidentally approached the spot where they layconcealed. He recalled now that several times he had been wakened fromhis sleep in the middle of the night by hearing her moving about her roomand sobbing. She had perhaps crept out of her bed in the darkness to findthese scraps of paper, to hold them in her hands, to crush them againsther heart, to cover them with piteous kisses, salt with scalding tears. 

On one such night he had risen, and, going to the closed door, had spokento her through it, asking her if she was ill. 

"No, no, Lucien, " she had cried out, "but--but I am so lonely--solonely. "

She had told him the next day that the sound of the wind soughing in thepines had kept her from sleep, and she had got up because she could notbear to be still and listen. 

He had known well what she meant by her desolate little answer to him. She had been a beloved thing always. As a child her playmates had lovedher, as a school-girl she had won the hearts of companions and teachersalike. Nature had endowed her with the brightness and sweetness which winaffection. The smile in her eyes wakened an answer even in the look ofpassing strangers. Suddenly all had changed. She was hidden in thedarkness, crushed and shamed, an outcast and a pariah--a thing only to bekept out of sight. Sometimes, after she had been sitting lost in thought, Latimer had seen her look up bewildered, glance at her little, deformedbody, and sit white and trembling. 

"Everything is different, " she panted out once. "It is as if all theworld was black. It is--because--because I am black!"

Latimer had made no effort to wring from her the name she had prayed tobe allowed to hide; yet he had often wondered that in some hystericmoment it had not escaped her--that mere helpless anguish did not betrayher into uttering some word or phrase which might have served as a clue. But this she had never done, and between them there had been built astone wall of silence. Yet, in spite of it, he had known that her youngheart was broken with love for this nameless traitor--a love which wouldnot die. He had seen it in the woe of her eyes, in the childlike longingof her look when she sat and gazed out over the wild beauty of the land, thinking she was unobserved. In his own soul there had been black, bitterhate, but in hers only loneliness and pain. 

There came back to him--and he sprang up and ground his teeth, pacing thefloor as he remembered it--a night when she had wandered out alone in thestarlight, and at last he had followed her and found her--though she didnot know he was near--standing where the roof of pine-trees made adarkness, and as he stood within four feet of her he had heard her cry tothe desolate stillness:

"If I could see you once! If I could see you once--if I could touchyou--if I could hear you speak--just once--just once!"

And she had wailed it low--but as a starving child might cry for bread. And he had turned and gone away, sick of soul, leaving her. 

He had told this to Baird, and had seen the muscles of his face twitchand his eyes suddenly fill with tears. He had left his seat and crossedthe room to conceal his emotion, and Latimer had known that he did notspeak because he could not. 

The letters were written with caution, Stamps had said, and the mentionof names had been avoided in them; and, though he ground his teeth againas he thought of this, he realised that the knowledge brought by a namewould be of no value to him. Long ago he had said to big Tom in the cabinon the hillside: "If ever we meet face to face knowing each other, Iswear I will not spare him. " Spare him? Spare him what? What vengeancecould he work which would wipe out one hour of that past woe? None. Hehad grown sick to death in dwelling with the memories he could not bury. He had been born cursed by the temperament which cannot outlive. Thereare such. And it was the temperament to which vengeance brings no relief. No; if they two met face to face, what words could be said--what deedscould be done? His forehead and hands grew damp with cold sweat as heconfronted the despair of it. 

"Better that I should not know his name, " he cried. "Better that weshould never meet. Pray God that he is dead; pray God the earth does nothold him. "

The man who had followed him had plainly but one purpose, which was theobtaining of money. He looked as if he needed it directly. He would go tohim and pay him what he asked and get the papers. They must be in noother hands than his own. When he had them, Baird and himself woulddestroy them together, and that would be the end. 

He encountered no difficulties when he went in search of the addressStamps had given him. The room he had directed him to was over a smallstore on the south side of Pennsylvania Avenue. When he entered it he sawat once that the man whose circumstances reduced him to living in it mustbe one whose need of money was great indeed. It was entirely unfurnished, except for a mattress lying on the floor, and Stamps was stretched uponit, coughing and feverish. 

"Come in, " he said. "I knowed ye'd be here purty soon. Thar ain't nochair to ax ye to set down in. "

"I do not want to sit, " said Latimer. "You are ill. You caught cold lastnight. "

"I s'pose I did, durn it, " answered Stamps. "I got drenched to the skin, an' I hadn't nothin' dry to put on when I got home. But I'd seen ye--an'told ye what I'd 'lowed to tell ye. "

"Where are the papers you spoke of?" Latimer asked. 

Stamps's feverish lips stretched themselves in an agreeable smile. 

"They ain't yere, " he answered; "an' they won't be yere till I've got thepay fur 'em. Ef thar was names in 'em they'd cost ye a heap more thanfive hundred dollars--an' they'd cost ye more anyhow ef I hadn't a usefor that five hundred jest this particular time. "

"Where are they?" enquired Latimer. He meant to waste no words. 

"They're in North Ca'lliny, " answered the little mountaineer, cheerfully. "An' I've got a woman thar es'll send 'em when I want 'em. "

"She may send them when you wish. "

Stamps fell into a paroxysm of coughing, clutching his side. 

"Will ye give five hundred?" he panted when it was over. 

"Yes. "

"Ye want 'em pretty bad, do ye?" said Stamps, looking at him with acuriosity not untinged with dubiousness. He was sharp enough to realisethat, upon the whole, his case was not a strong one. 

"I don't want them for the reason you think I want them for, " Latimerreplied; his voice was cold and hard, and his manner unpromisingly freefrom emotion or eagerness. "I want them for a reason of my own. As foryour pretence of recognising me as a man you have seen before, go outinto the street corners and say what you choose. My friends know how andwhere my life has been spent, and you are shrewd enough to know how faryour word will stand against mine. If you need the money now, you hadbetter produce what you have to sell. "

"I could get ye mightily talked about, " said Stamps, restlessly. 

"Try it, " answered Latimer, and turned as if to walk out of the room. Heknew what he was dealing with, and saw the fevered cupidity and fear inthe little, shifting eyes. 

Stamps struggled up into a sitting posture on his mattress and brokeforth into coughs again. 

"Come back yere, " he cried between gasps; "ye needn't ter go. "

Latimer paused where he stood and waited until the fit of coughing wasover; and Stamps threw himself back exhausted. His shifty eyes burneduncannily, his physical and mental fever were too much for him. Linthicumhad just left him before Latimer arrived, and upon the production of fivehundred dollars rested the fate of the claim for the herds. 

"Ef ye'll bring the money--cash down--next Saturday, " he said, "I'll giveye the papers. I'll hev 'em yere by then. When ye've got 'em, " with theagreeable grin again, "ye kin go to yer friend's far'well lecture easy inye mind. Ye wouldn't be likely to go to many of 'em ef he knowed what Icould tell him. He's powerful thick with Tom D'Willerby and Sheby. Theythink a heap of him. Tom must hev guessed what I've guessed, but he don'twant no talk on accounts o' Sheby. Tom knows which side his bread'sbuttered--he ain't nigh as big a fool as he looks. "

Latimer stood still. 

"Next Saturday?" was his sole response. "In the meantime, I should adviseyou to send for the doctor. "

He left him coughing and catching at his side. 

CHAPTER XXXVII

During this week Judge Rutherford's every hour was filled with action andexcitement. He had not a friend or acquaintance in either House whom hedid not seek out and labour with. He was to be seen in the lobby, in thecorridors, in committee-rooms, arguing and explaining, with sheafs ofpapers in his hands and bundles of documents bulging out of his pockets. He walked down the avenue holding the arm of his latest capture, histrustworthy countenance heated by his interest and anxiety, his hatthrust on the back of his head. "There's got to be justice done, " hewould protest. "You see, justice has got to be done. There's no other wayout of it. And I'd swear there ain't a man among you who doesn't own upthat it is justice, now all this evidence has been brought together. Thecountry couldn't be responsible for throwing the thing over--even tillanother session. Everything's in black and white and sworn to andproved--and the papers Baird has sent in clinch the whole thing. Now justlook here--" And he would repeat his story and refer to his documents, until even the indifferent succumbed through exhaustion, if notconviction. 

He appeared at Dupont Circle two or three times a day, always feveredwith delighted hope, always with some anecdote to relate whichprognosticated ultimate triumph. If he could not find anyone else to talkto he seized upon Miss Burford or Uncle Matt and poured forth his news tothem. He wrote exultant letters to Jenny, the contents of which, beinggiven to Barnesville, travelled at once to Talbot's Cross-roads andwakened it to exhilarated joyfulness, drawing crowds to the Post-officeand perceptibly increasing the traffic on the roads from the mountains tothat centre of civilised social intercourse. 

"Tom's a-gwine to win his claim, " it was said. "Judge Rutherford'swalkin' it right through for him. Tom'll be way ahead of the richest manin Hamlin. Sheby'll be a hairest. Lordy! what a sight it'll be to see 'emcome back. Wonder whar they'll build!"

In Washington it had begun to be admitted even by the reluctant that thefortunes of the De Willoughby claim seemed to have taken a turn. Membersof substantial position discussed it among themselves. It was a largeclaim, and therefore a serious one, but it had finally presented itselfupon an apparently solid foundation. 

"And it is the member from the mountain districts, and the old negro, andthe popular minister who will have carried it through if it passes, " saidSenator Milner to his daughter. "It is a monumental thing at this crisisof affairs--a huge, unpopular claim on a resenting government carriedthrough by persons impelled solely by the most purely primitive anddisinterested of motives. An ingenuous county politician, fresh from hisnative wilds, works for it through sheer prehistoric affection andneighbourliness; an old black man--out of a story-book--forges a powerfullink of evidence for mere faithful love's sake; a man who is a ministerof the gospel, a gentleman and above reproach, gives to its service allhis interest, solely because he cherishes an affectionate admiration forthe claimants. Nobody has laboured with any desire for return. Nobody hasbargained for anything. Nobody would accept anything if it was offered tothem. The whole affair has been Arcadian. "

"Will it be decided for the De Willoughbys--will it?" said Mrs. Meredith. 

"Yes, " answered the Senator; "I think it will. And I confess I shall notadvance any objections. "

Meeting big Tom on the avenue, Ezra Stamps stopped him. 

"Tom, " he wheezed, hoarsely, "I heern tell you was likely ter git yerclaim through. "

"There are times when you can hear that about almost any claim, " answeredTom. "What I'm waiting for is to hear that I've got it through. "

Stamps gnawed his finger-nails restlessly. 

"Ye're lucky, " he said; "ye allus was lucky. "

"How about the herds?" said Tom. 

Stamps gave him an agonised look. 

"Hev ye ever said anything agen me, Tom--to any man with inflooence? Hevye, now? 'Twouldn't be neighbourly of ye if ye hed--an' we both come fromthe Cross-roads--an' I allus give ye my custom. Ye won't never go agenme, will ye, Tom?"

"I've never been asked any questions about you, " Tom said. "Look here, you had better go to some hospital and ask to be taken in. What are youwalking about the street for in that fix? You can scarcely breathe. "

"I'm a-gwine to walk about until Saturday, " answered Stamps, with a grin. "I'm lookin' arter my own claim--an' Abner Linthicum. Arter Saturday I'lllie up for a spell. "

"You'd better do it before Saturday, " Tom remarked as he left him. 

Stamps stood and watched him walk away, and then turned into a drug-storeand bought a cheap bottle of cough mixture. He was passing through theearly stages of pneumonia, and was almost too weak to walk, but he hadgone from place to place that morning like a machine. Linthicum haddriven him. So long as he was employed in badgering other men he was nothanging about the agent's office. Linthicum was not anxious that heshould be seen there too frequently. After the payment of the fivehundred dollars there would be no more to be wrung from him, and he couldbe dropped. He could be told that it was useless to push the claimfurther. Until the five hundred was secured, however, he must be keptbusy. Consequently, he went from one man to the other until he could walkno more. Then he crawled back to his room and sent a note to Latimer. 

"I cayn't git the papers tel Saturday afternoon. Ef ye bring the moneyabout seven ye ken hev them. 'Tain't no use comin' no earlier. "

Latimer found the communication when he returned to his rooms in theevening. He had been out on business connected with Baird's finallecture. It was to be a special event, and was delivered in response to ageneral request. A building of larger dimensions than the hall previouslyused had been engaged. The demand for seats had been continuouslyincreasing. The newspaper and social discussion of the prospects of theDe Willoughby claim had added to the interest in Baird. This brilliantand popular man, this charming and gifted fellow, had felt such agenerous desire to assist the claimants that he had gone South in theinterest of their fortunes. He had been detained in Delisleville andcould barely return in time to appear before his audience. 

The enthusiasm and eagerness were immense. Every man who had not heardhim felt he must hear him now; everyone who had heard him was moved bythe wish to be of his audience again. Latimer had been besieged on allsides, and, after a hard day, had come home fagged and worn. But he wasnot worn only by business interviews, newspaper people, and applicantsfor seats which could not be obtained. He was worn by his thoughts of thepast days, by his lack of Baird's presence and his desire for his return. His influence was always a controlling and supporting one. Latimer feltless morbid and more sane when they were together. 

This same night Senator Milner and Judge Rutherford called in company atthe house near the Circle. When Uncle Matt opened the door for them JudgeRutherford seized his hand and shook it vigorously. The Judge was in themood to shake hands with everybody. 

"Uncle Matt, " he said, "we're going to get it through, and in a week'stime you'll be a rich man's servant. "

Matt fled back to Miss Burford trembling with joy and excitement. 

"Do ye think we is gwine t'rough, ma'am?" he said. "D'ye think we is?Seems like we was the Isrilites a-crossin' the Red Sea, an' the fust ofus is jest steppin' on de sho'. Lordy, Miss Burford, ma'am, I don't knowhow I'se gwine to stan' dat great day when we _is_ th'ough, shore enuff. Wash'n'ton city ain't gwine be big enuff to hol' me. "

"It will be a great day, Uncle Matthew, " replied Miss Burford, withelated decorum of manner. "The De Willoughby mansion restored to itsformer elegance. Mr. Thomas De Willoughby the possessor of wealth, andthe two young people--" She bridled a little, gently, and touched hereyes with her handkerchief with a slight cough. 

"When Marse De Courcy an' Miss Delia Vanuxem was married, dar was peoplefrom fo' counties at de infar, " said Matt. "De fust woman what I wasmarried to, she done de cookin'. "

Senator Milner was shaking hands with big Tom upstairs. He regarded himwith interest, remembering the morning he had evaded an interview withhim. The little room was interesting; the two beautiful young peoplesuggested the atmosphere of a fairy story. 

"You are on the verge of huge good fortune, I think, Mr. De Willoughby, "he said. "I felt that I should like to come with Rutherford to tell youthat all is going very well with your claim. Members favour it whoseexpression of opinion is an enormous weight in the balance. JudgeRutherford is going to speak for you--and so am I. "

Judge Rutherford shook Tom's hand rather more vigorously than he hadshaken Matt's. "I wish to the Lord I was an orator, Tom, " he said. "If Ican't make them listen to me this time I believe I shall blow my brainsout. But, what with Williams, Atkinson, and Baird, we've got things thatare pretty convincing, and somehow I swear the claim has begun to bepopular. "

When the two men had gone the little room was for a few moments verystill. Each person in it was under the influence of curiously strongemotion. Anxious waiting cannot find itself upon the brink of greatfortune and remain unmoved. Some papers with calculations worked out inthem lay upon the table, and big Tom sat looking at them silently. Shebastood a few feet away from him, her cheeks flushed, light breaths comingquickly through her parted lips. Rupert looked at her as youth and lovemust look at love and youth. 

"Uncle Tom, " he said, at last, "are you thinking of what we shall do ifwe find ourselves millionaires?"

"No, " answered Tom. 

His eyes rested on the boy in thoughtful questioning. 

"No; I'll own I'm not thinking of that. "

"Neither am I, " said Rupert. He drew nearer to Sheba. "It would be astrange thing to waken and find ourselves owners of a fortune, " he said. "We may waken to find it so--in a few days. But there is always a chancethat things may fail one. I was thinking of what we should do if--we loseeverything. "

Sheba put out her slim hand. She smiled with trembling lips. 

"We have been across the mountain, " she said. "We came together--and wewill go back together. Will you go back with us, Rupert?"

He took her in his strong young arms and kissed her, while Tom looked on. 

"That is what I was thinking, " he cried; "that it does not matter whetherwe win the claim or lose it. The house is gone and the store is gone, butwe can add a room to the cabin in Blair's Hollow--we can do itourselves--and I will learn to plough. "

He dropped on one knee like a young knight and kissed her little, warm, soft palm. 

"If I can take care of you and Uncle Tom, Sheba, " he said, "will youmarry me?"

"Yes, I will marry you, " she answered. "We three can be happytogether--and there will always be the spring and the summer and thewinter. "

"May she marry me, Uncle Tom, " Rupert asked, "even though we begin lifelike Adam and Eve?"

"She shall marry you the day we go back to the mountains, " said Tom. "Ialways thought Adam and Eve would have had a pretty fair show--if theyhad not left the Garden of Eden behind them when they began the world forthemselves. You won't have left it behind you. You'll find it in theimmediate vicinity of Talbot's Cross-roads. "

CHAPTER XXXVIII

The facts in detail which the Reverend John Baird had journeyed toDelisle County in the hope of being able to gather, he had beensuccessful in gaining practical possession of. Having personal charm, grace in stating a case, and many resources both of ability and manner, he had the power to attract even the prejudiced, and finally to win theirinterest and sympathies. He had seen and conversed with people who couldhave been reached in no ordinary way, and having met them had beencapable of managing even their prejudices and bitterness of spirit. Theresult had been the accumulation of useful and convincing evidence infavour of the De Willoughbys, though he had in more than one instancegained it from persons who had been firm in their intention to give noevidence at all. This evidence had been forwarded to Washington as it hadbeen collected, and when Baird returned to the Capital it was with theknowledge that his efforts had more than probably put the final touchesto the work which would gain the day for the claimants. 

His train was rather late, and as it drew up before the platform heglanced at his watch in some anxiety. His audience for the lecture mustalready have begun to turn their faces toward the hall in which theevening's entertainment was to be held. He had hoped to reach hisjourney's end half an hour earlier. He had wanted a few minutes withLatimer, whose presence near him had become so much a part of hisexistence, that after an absence he felt he had lacked him. He took acarriage at the depot and drove quickly to their rooms. They were toleave them in a day or two and return to Willowfield. Already some oftheir possessions had been packed up. The sitting-room struck him aslooking a little bare as he entered it. 

"Is Mr. Latimer out, " he asked the mulatto who brought up his valise. 

"Yes, sir. He was called out by a message. He left a note for you on thedesk. "

Baird went to the desk and found it. It contained only a few lines. 

"Everything is prepared for you. The audience will be the best you havehad at any time. I have been sent for by the man Stamps. He is ill ofpneumonia and wishes to deliver some letters to me. I will be with youbefore you go on the platform. "

Since he had left Washington, Baird had heard from Latimer but once andthen but briefly. He had felt that his dark mood was upon him, and thisreference to letters recalled the fact. 

"Stamps is the little man with the cattle claim, " he commented tohimself. "He comes from the neighbourhood of the Cross-roads. Whatletters could he have to hand over?"

And he began to dress, wondering vaguely. 

 * * * * *

Stamps had spent a sleepless night. He could not sleep because his lastinterview with Linthicum had driven him hard, even though he had beenable to promise him the required five hundred dollars; he also could notsleep because the air of the city had been full of talk about thepromising outlook of the De Willoughby claim. Over the reports he hadheard, he had raged almost with tears. 

"The Dwillerbys is ristycrats, " he had said. "They're ristycrats, an' itgives 'em a pull even if they was rebels an' Southerners. A pore man ezworks hard an' ain't nothin' but a honest farmer, an' a sound Union manain't got no show. Ef I'd been a ristycrat I could hev got inflooence ezhed hev pulled wires fur me. But I hain't nothin' but my loyal Unionprinciples. I ain't no ristycrat, an' I never aimed to be none. "

The bitterness of his nervous envy would have kept him awake if he hadhad no other reason for being disturbed, but most of all he wassleepless, because he was desperately ill and in danger he knew nothingof. Cold and weeks of semi-starvation, anxiety, excitement, and drenchedgarments had done the little man to death, and he lay raging with feverand stabbed with pain at each indrawn breath, tossing and gasping andburning, but thinking only of Linthicum and the herds and the scraps ofpaper which were to bring him five hundred dollars. He was physicallywretched, but even while he was racked with agonised fits of coughing andprostrated with pain it did not occur to him to think that he was indanger. He was too wholly absorbed in other thoughts. The only danger herecognised was the danger that there might be some failure in hisplans--that Linthicum might give him up--that the parson might back outof his bargain, realising that after all letters unsigned save by a man'sChristian name were not substantial evidence. Perhaps he would not comeat all; perhaps he would leave the city; perhaps if he came he wouldrefuse to give more than half or quarter the sum asked. Then Linthicumwould throw him over--he knew Linthicum would throw him over. He uttereda small cry like a tortured cat. 

"I know he'll do it, " he said. "I seen it in his eye yesterday, when helet out on me an' said he was a-gettin' sick of the business. I shed hevkept my mouth shut. I'd said too much an' it made him mad. He'll throw meover Monday mornin' ef I don't take him the money on Sunday. "

He ate nothing all through the day but lay waiting for the passing of thehours. He had calculated as to which post would bring the letter fromMinty. He had written to tell her of the hiding-place in which he hadkept the bits of paper safe and dry through all the years. She was toenclose them in a stout envelope and send them to him. 

Through the long, dragging day he lay alone burning, gasping, fightingfor his breath in the attacks of coughing which seemed to tear his lungsasunder. There was a clock in a room below whose striking he could heareach hour. Between each time it struck he felt as if weeks elapsed. Sometimes it was months. He had begun to be light-headed and to thinkqueer things. Once or twice he heard a man talking in a croaking wail, and after a few minutes realised that it was himself, and that he did notknow what he had said, though he knew he had been arguing with Linthicum, who was proving to him that his claim was too rotten to have a ghost of achance. By the time the afternoon post arrived he was semi-delirious anddid not know how it happened that he at last found himself holdingMinty's letter in his hand. He laughed hysterically when he opened it. Itwas all right. There were the two yellowed sheets of paper--small sheets, written close, and in a peculiar hand. He had often studied thehandwriting, and believed if he had seen it again he should know it. Itwas small but strong and characteristic, though that was not what he hadcalled it. 

"Ef I'd hed more time an' could hev worked it out more--an' got him towrite suthin' down--I could hev hed more of a hold, " he said, plaintively, "but Linthicum wouldn't give me no time. "

The post arrived earlier than he had expected it, and this gave him timeto lie and fret and listen again for the striking of the clock in theroom downstairs. The waiting became too long, and as his fever increasedhe became insanely impatient and could not restrain himself. To lie andlisten for his visitor's footsteps upon the stairs--to lie until seveno'clock--if he did not come till then, would be more than he couldendure. That would give him too long to think over what Linthicum woulddo if the whole sum were not forthcoming--to think of the reasons why theparson might make up his mind to treat the letters as if they wereworthless. He lay and gnawed his finger-nails anew. 

"I wouldn't give nothin' for 'em ef I was in his place, " he muttered. "Efthar'd been anythin' in 'em that proved anythin' I should hev used 'emlong sence. But then I'm a business man an' he's a parson, an' doesn'tknow nothin' about the laws. But he might go to some man--say a man likeLinthicum--who could put him up to things. Good Lord!" in a new panic, "he mayn't come at all. He might jest stay away. "

He became so overwrought by this agonising possibility that instead oflistening for the striking of the clock, he began to listen for the soundof some passing footstep--the footstep of someone passing by chance whomight be sent to the parson with a note. With intolerable effort andsuffering he managed to drag himself up and get hold of a piece of paperand a pencil to write the following lines:

"The letters hes come. You'd as well come an' get 'em. Others will payfor 'em ef ye don't want 'em yerself. "

His writing of the last sentence cheered his spirits. It was a support tohis small, ignorant cunning. "He'll think someone else is biddin' agenhim, " he said. "Ef there was two of 'em biddin', I could get mostanythin' I axed. "

After he had put the communication in an envelope he dragged himself tothe door almost bent double by the stabbing pain in his side. Once therehe sat down on the floor to listen for footsteps. 

"It's hard work this yere, " he panted, shivering with cold in spite ofhis fever, "but it's better than a-lyin' thar doin' nothin'. "

At length he heard steps. They were the running, stamping feet of a boywho whistled as he came. 

Stamps opened the door and whistled himself--a whistle of summons andappeal. The boy, who was on his way with a message to another room, hesitated a minute and then came forward, staring at the sight of thelittle, undressed, shivering man with his head thrust into the passage. 

"Hallo!" he said, "what d'yer want?"

"Want ye to carry this yere letter to a man, " Stamps got out hoarsely. "I'll give ye a quarter. Will ye do it?"

"Yes. " And he took both note and money, still staring at the abnormalobject before him. 

When the messenger arrived Latimer was reading the letters which hadarrived by the last delivery. One of them was from Baird, announcing thehour of his return to the city. Latimer held it in his hand when Stamps'scommunication was brought to him. 

"Tell the messenger that I will come, " he said. 

 * * * * *

It was not long before Stamps heard his slow approach sounding upon thebare wooden stairs. He mounted the steps deliberately because he wasthinking. He was thinking as he had thought on his way through thestreets. In a few minutes he should be holding in his hand letterswritten by the man who had been Margery's murderer--the letters she hadhidden and clung to and sobbed over in the blackness of her nights. Andthey had been written twenty years ago, and Margery had changed to duston the hillside under the pines. And nothing could be undone and nothingsoftened. But for the sake of the little old woman ending her daysquietly in Willowfield--and for the sake of Margery's memory--yes, hewanted to save the child's memory--but for these things there would be nouse in making any effort to secure the papers. Yet he was conscious of adread of the moment when he should take them into his hand. 

Stamps turned eager, miserable eyes upon him as he came in. 

"I thought mebbe ye'd made up yer mind to let the other feller hev them, "he said. "Hev ye brought the money in bills?"

Latimer stood and looked down at him. "Do you know how ill you are?" hesaid. 

"Wal, I guess I kin feel a right smart--but I don't keer so's thingscomes my way. Hev ye got the money with ye?"

"Yes. Where are the papers?"

"Whar's the money?"

Latimer took out a pocket-book and opened it that he might see. 

Stamps's countenance relaxed. The tension was relieved. 

"Thet's far an' squar, " he said. "D'ye wanter know whar I found 'em? TomDwillerby never knowed I hed more than a envelope--an' I tuk care not totell him the name that was writ on it. Ye was mighty smart never to letno one know yer name; I don't know how you done it, 'ceptin' that ye keptso much to yerselves. "

Latimer remained silent, merely standing and letting him talk, as heseemed to have a feverish, half-delirious tendency to do. He lay pluckingat the scanty bed-covering and chuckling. 

"'Twas five years arter the child was born, " he went on. "I was ridin'through Blair's Holler an' it come to me sudden to go in an' hev a lookround keerful. I looked keerful--mighty keerful--an' at last I went on myhands an' knees an' crawled round, an' there was a hole between the logs, an' I seen a bit of white--I couldn't hev seen it ef I hadn't beencrawlin' an' looked up. An' I dug it out. It hed been hid mighty secret. "He put his hand under his wretched pillow. "Give me the money, " hewheezed. "When ye lay it in my hand I'll pass the envelope over to ye. Count it out first. "

Latimer counted the bills. This was the moment. Twenty years gone by--andnothing could be changed. He put the money on the bed. 

Stamps withdrew his hand from under the pillow. A stout, ill-directedenvelope was in its grasp and he passed it over to Latimer. He wasshivering and beginning to choke a little, but he grinned. 

"I reckin' it's all right, " he said. "D'ye want to read 'em now?"

"No, " Latimer answered, and putting them in his breast-pocket walked outof the room. 

He passed down the stairs and into the avenue where the lamps werelighted and which wore its usual somewhat deserted evening air. He walkedalong quietly for some minutes. He did not quite know where he was going. Having left a line for Baird explaining his absence, he had time tospare. If he wished to be alone, he could be so until the hour of thebeginning of the lecture. For certain reasons it would be necessary thathe should see Baird before he went upon the platform. Yes, he must bealone. His mood required it. He would go somewhere and look at the twoyellowed letters written twenty years ago. He did not know why it wasthat he felt he must look at them, but he knew he must. They wouldsatisfy no curiosity if he felt it, and he had none. Perhaps it was theold tragic tender feeling for Margery which impelled him. Perhaps heunconsciously longed to read that this man had loved her--that she hadnot given her life for nothing--that the story had not been one of commoncaprice and common treachery. As he walked his varied thoughts surgedthrough his brain disconnectedly. Every now and then he involuntarily puthis hand to his breast-pocket to feel the envelope. Once there crossedhis mind a memory of the woman whose boy had died and who dare not letherself recall him, and so be swept back into the black maelstrom of woe. To-night, with these things on his breast, it was not twenty years sincehe had heard Margery's dying cries--it was last night--last night--andthe odour of the pine-trees was in his nostrils--the sough of theirboughs in his ears. 

He stopped near the entrance to the grounds of the Smithsonian Institute. They were as secluded as a private park at this time, but here and therewas a seat and a light. He turned in and found his way to the mostretired part where he could find these things--a bench to sit down on, alight to aid him to read. He heard his own breathing as he sat down; hefelt the heavy, rapid pulsations of his heart, as he took the papers fromhis breast his hand was shaking, he could not hold it still. He took outmore papers than the envelope Stamps had given him. He drew forth withthis the letter which had arrived from Baird, and which he had beenreading when the messenger arrived. He had abstractedly put it in hispocket. It fell from his shaking hand upon the ground at his feet, and helet it lie there, forgetful of its existence. 

Then he withdrew the two letters from the large envelope and opened oneof them. 

 * * * * *

He read them through once--twice--three times--four. Then he began again. He had read them a dozen times before he closed them. He had read themword by word, poring over each character, each turn of phrase, as a manmight pore over an enigma or a document written in a foreign language ofwhich he only knew stray words. If his hands had shaken at first, he hadnot turned a page before his whole body was shaking and his palms, hisforehead, his hair were damp with cold dew. He had uttered one sharp, convulsed exclamation like a suffocated cry--then he went onreading--reading--reading--and shuddering as he read. They were not longletters, but after he had read them once he understood them, and eachtime he read them again he understood them better. Yes, he couldtranslate them. They were the farewells of a man tossed by a whirlwind ofpassionate remorseful grief. The child had been loved--her very purityhad been loved while she had been destroyed and deceived. The writerpoured forth heart-sick longing and heart-sick remorse. He had not atfirst meant to conceal from her that he was not a free man--then he hadlost control over his very being--and he had lost his soul. When she haddiscovered the truth and had not even reproached him but had stoodsilent--without a word--and gazed at him with her childish, agonised, blue-flower eyes--he had known that if men had souls his was damned. There was no pardon--he could ask none--pardon would not undo--deathitself would not undo what he had done. "Margery! Margery! Oh! child--Godhear me if there is God to hear--I loved you--I love you--Death will notundo that either. "

He was going abroad to join his wife. He spoke of the ship he sailed on. Latimer knew its name and who had sailed in it. In the second letter hebesought her to let him see and speak one word to her--but knew she wouldnot grant his prayer. He had seen her in the street, and had not dared toapproach. "I did not fear what a man might fear from other women, " hewrote. "I felt that it might kill you, suddenly to see me near when youcould not escape. "

And after he had read it a third time Latimer realised a ghastly truth. The man who wrote had gone away unknowing of the blackness of the tragedyhe had left behind. He plainly had not known the secret Death itself hadhelped to hide. Perhaps when he had gone Margery herself had not knownthe worst. 

Latimer, having finished his reading, rested his head on his hand for adull moment and stared down at the letter lying upon the ground at hisfeet--the letter he had dropped as he took out the others. He felt as ifhe had not strength or inclination to pick it up--he had passed through ablack storm which had swept away from him the power to feel more than adull, heavy, physical prostration. 

But after a few minutes he stooped and picked the letter up. He laid iton his knee by the other two and sat gazing again. 

"He did not know, " he said, in a colourless voice. "I told him. He heardit first from me when I told him how she died. "

The handwriting of the letters was Baird's--every character and word andphrase were his--Baird was the man who had written them. 

CHAPTER XXXIX

The street in which the lecture hall stood began to wear the air of beinga centre of interest some time before the doors of the building wereopened. People who had not been able to obtain reserved seats wished toarrive early. The lectures which had begun by being popular had ended bybeing fashionable. At the outset an audience of sober, religioustendencies had attended them, but after the first one had been deliveredother elements had presented themselves. There had been a sprinkling ofserious scientific men, a prominent politician or so, some society womenwhose faces and toilettes were well-known and lavishly described in thenewspapers. On this last night the audience was largely of thefashionable political world. Carriages drove up one after another anddeposited well-dressed persons who might have been expected that night toappear at certain brilliant social functions, and who had come to hear"Repentance" instead. 

"He has always had good audiences, " said a member of the Committee ofArrangement, "but he has never had one like this--in Washington at least. There is the Secretary of State with his wife and daughter. I believe thePresident is to be here. He has awakened an enormous interest. The housewill be literally crammed. They are filling the aisle with seatsalready. "

Baird was in the small retiring-room which had been arranged for hisconvenience. His journey had somewhat fatigued him, and he was in thephysical and mental condition to feel glad that this lecture was to bethe last of the series. He was going back to Willowfield, though he wasnot to remain there. He had received a call from an important church inNew York and had accepted it. He was endeavouring to make arrangementsthat Latimer could be near him. On his return this evening he had found aletter he had been expecting. It referred to Latimer, and he was anxiousto talk it over with him. He wished he would come in, and felt a littlerestless over his delay, though he knew they would have time to say butfew words to each other before it was time for the lecture to begin. Hewalked up and down the room looking down at the green carpet andthinking, his thoughts wandering vaguely to the little pursuant of theherd claim and the letters he had wanted to deliver. He smiled faintly, remembering the small frame in the over-large clothes and the bucoliccountenance with its over-sharpness of expression. 

The member of the committee looked into the room. 

"They are beginning to turn people away from the doors, " he said. "Halfthe Cabinet is here--I never saw such an audience. "

As he went away smiling, someone passed him in entering the room. Baird, who was smiling also, changed his expression of courteous appreciation toa smile of greeting, for the man who had entered was Latimer. 

He advanced, holding out his hand. 

"I am glad you have come, " he began to say. "I wanted at least a wordwith you before I went on. "

Then his smile died out, leaving blank amazement which a breath's spacelater was alarmed questioning. He recalled later how for a second hestood and stared. Latimer's face was white and damp with sweat. Its lineswere drawn and sunken deep. His eyes were fixed on the man before himwith something which had a ghastly resemblance to an unsteady smile whichwas not a smile at all. He looked as if illness--or death--or madness hadstruck him. He did not seem a sane man, and yet a stillness so deadly wasexpressed by his whole being that it seemed to fill the small, neat, business-like green-room. 

Baird strode towards him and seized him by the shoulder. 

"What is it? What is it? What is it?" he cried out. 

Latimer's face did not alter in a line. He fumbled stiffly in hisbreast-pocket and held out some pieces of yellowed letter-paper--thisbeing done stiffly, too. He spoke in a hoarse whisper. It seemed tosearch every corner of the room and echo there. 

"See!" he said. "These are two letters. A man wrote them to a poor, half-mad child twenty years ago. "

The door opened, and the member of the committee looked in again, radiantwith exultation. 

"The audience waiting in such breathless silence that you might hear apin drop. Two thousand of them, if there's one. Ten minutes to eight. "

"Thank you, " answered Baird. 

The door closed again and he stood looking at Latimer's rigid hand andthe papers. 

"They were written to Margery, " went on Latimer. "Stamps found them in achink in the logs. She had hidden them there that she might take them outand sob over and kiss them. I used to hear her in the middle of thenight. "

Baird snatched them from his hand. He fell into a chair near the tableand dropped his face upon the yellowed fragments, pressing them againsthis lips with awful sobbing sounds, as if he would wrest from them thekisses the long-dead girl had left there. 

"I, too!" he cried. "I, too! Oh! my God! Margery!"

"Don't say 'God!'" said Latimer. "When she was dying, in an agony offear, she said it. Not that word! Another!"

He said no other--and Latimer drew nearer to him. 

"You wrote them, " he said. "They are written in your hand--in yourwords--I should know them anywhere. You may deny it. I could provenothing. I do not want to prove anything. Deny it if you will. "

Baird rose unsteadily. The papers were clutched in his hand. His face wasmarred by the unnaturalness of a man's tears. 

"Do you think I shall deny it?" he answered. "It is true. I have sat andlistened to your talk of her and thought I should go quite mad. You havetold me of her tortures, and I have listened. I did not know--surely shedid not know herself--of the child--when I went away. It is no use sayingto you--how should it be?--that I loved her--that I was frenzied by mylove of her innocent sweetness!"

"No, there is no use, " answered Latimer, in a voice actually void ofemotion, "but I daresay it is true. "

"There is no use in calling myself by any of the names invented for themen who bring about such tragedies. They are true of some men perhaps, but they were not true of me. I don't know what was true of me. Somethingworse than has ever been put into words perhaps, for I loved her and Ihave loved her for twenty years. I would have given up my career--mylife, anything she had asked!"

"But when she found you had acted a lie to her----"

"It seemed to fill her with the frantic terror of a child. I dare notapproach her. I think she thought she would be struck dead by Heaven. Great God! how I understood your story of her prayers. And it was I--itwas I!"

He turned on Latimer with a kind of ferocity. 

"You have crucified me!" he cried out. "Let that comfort you. You havecrucified me by her side, that I might see her die--that I might hear herlow little piteous voice--that I might see her throes and terrors. And Ilove her--and remember every look of her loving child's eyes--every curveand quiver of her mouth. Through all the years I have been crucified, knowing I had earned all that I felt. "

Latimer moved across the room, putting the table between them. He wentand stood by the mantel. A murmur of impatient applause from the audiencecame through the door. 

"You loved her, " he said, standing with his hand holding something in hisbreast. "And I loved you. She was the one brightness of my life when Iwas a boy and you were its one brightness when I was a man. You gave me areason for living. I am not the kind of man to be my own reason. Ineedn't tell you what you have been to me. You were the one man on earthI dared to confess to. I knew you would understand and that you knew whatpity was. "

Baird groaned aloud. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with hishandkerchief as he listened. 

"I knew you were the one man I could trust. I could _trust_ you. I couldconfide in you, and talk to you about Margery. One day you said to methat you had learned to love her and that we might have been brothers. "

"When I was left free I had but one thought, " Baird said, "to return toher--to atone, so far as atonement could be--to pray of her upon myknees. But she was dead--she was dead!"

"Yes, she was dead, and I had no one left to talk to about her. You weremy one comfort and support and friend. "

He drew his hand out of his breast. Baird started and then stood quitequiet. The hand held a pistol. 

"Are you going to kill me?" he said. "You know I asked you that oncebefore. "

"No, " said Latimer, "I am not going to kill you. I am going to kill theman who loved you, and found you his reason for living. It's all donewith!"

"No! no!" shrieked Baird, and he hurled himself across the table like amadman. "No! You are not! No, Latimer! No! God! No!"

They were struggling together--Baird hung to his arm and tried to dragthe pistol from his grasp. But it was no use; Latimer's long, ill-hunglimbs were the stronger. His fixed face did not change, but he wrenchedhimself free and flung Baird across the room. He set the pistol againsthis heart and pulled the trigger. He gave something like a leap and felldown. 

The door opened for the returning member of the committee and theimpatient applause of the audience came through it almost a roar. 

Baird was struggling to rise as if his fall had stunned him. Latimer wasstretched at full length, quite dead. 

CHAPTER XL

Tom walked up the staircase pondering deeply. The De Willoughby claim wasbefore the House. Judge Rutherford was making his great speech, and thechief claimant might have been expected to be sitting breathless in oneof the galleries. But he was not. He was going to Baird, who had sent forhim, and Baird was sitting in the room in which Latimer lay dead with abullet in his heart. He had been sitting there for hours, and when Tomhad arrived at the house he had been told that Baird had asked that heshould be taken to him in the death-chamber. He was sitting on a chair bythe bed on which Latimer was stretched, rigid with a still face, whichlooked like a mask of yellow wax, appearing above the exceeding freshnessof the turned-down linen sheet. Baird did not move as Tom entered, butcontinued to gaze at the dread thing with dull, drooping eyes. Tom wentto him and laid his hand on his shoulder. He saw the man was stupefied. 

"There's nothing to say, Baird, " he said after a silence, "when it comesto this. "

"There is something for me to say, " Baird answered, very quietly. "I wantto say it before him, while he lies there. I wonder if he will hear?"

"He may. "

"It would not do any good to anyone if he did, " Baird said. "Theblackness of it all lies in that--that he would not be helped, she wouldnot be helped--I should not. "

"She?" said Tom. 

Baird got up at once, stiffly and unsteadily. He stood upright, thelithe-limbed slender form, which was so much admired upon the platform, held rigidly. His face looked lined and haggard. 

"No other man shall feel an affection for me--I think you are beginningto feel an affection for me--under a false impression. That man loved mefor long years, and I loved him. I think I helped him to something thatwas as near happiness as his nature would allow him to feel. God knows Iowed it to him. I was one of those who repented too late. That is why Ihave preached of repentance. I have done it with a secret, frenziedhope. "

"Did he know your reason?" asked Tom. 

"Not until last night. When he knew it, he killed himself. "

"Because--?" began Tom. 

"Because he had loved and trusted me for half a lifetime--because I wasthe one human creature to whom he had confided the tragedy of hislife--knowing he would be sure of comprehension and sympathy. It was tome he poured forth the story of that poor child. You saw her die. She washis sister. And I----"

Tom turned and looked at the face of the dead man and then, slowly, tothe face of the living one, who stood before him. 

"You--were the man?" he said. 

"Yes. "

Tom turned to the dead man again. He put his big, warm hand with acuriously suggestive movement--a movement somehow suggestingprotection--upon the stiff, clasped fingers. 

"No, poor fellow!" he said, as if speaking to him. "You--no, no, therewas nothing but this--for you. God have mercy on us. "

"No, " said Baird, "there was nothing else for him. I know that. Everything was whirled away. I had hours last night thinking there isnothing else for me. Perhaps there is not. But first I shall take hisbody back to his mother. I must tell her lies. This is the result of anaccident. That is what I shall tell her. She is a little old woman whowill not live long. I must take care of her--and let her talk to me abouther son who loved me--and her daughter. "

He began to walk up and down the room. 

"A man does not live--for fifteen years--side by side with another--thatother loving him wholly--and see the blackness of his own deed laidbare--and hear again and again of the woe he has wrought--he does notlive so in peace. "

"No, " answered Tom. 

"I tell you--" wildly--"I tell you there have been hours--as he hastalked to me of her--when the cold sweat has stood upon my flesh. "

He came back to Tom. He was frantic with agonised restlessness. 

"In all the cruelty of it, " he cried, "there seems to have been one humanpitying soul. It was yours. You were tender to her in those last hours. You were merciful--you held her hand when she died. "

"Yes, " said Tom, in a somewhat husky voice, since he remembered it sowell, "she was frightened. Her little hand was cold. I took it in mineand told her not to be afraid. "

Baird flung out his own hand with a movement of passionate feeling--thenlet it fall at his side. 

"We shall not meet again, " he said, "you will not want to see me. "

Big Tom gave him a long, steady look. 

"Good Lord, man!" he said, after it, "am I the man to judge another?_I_'ve made nothing of life. "

"You have done no creature a wrong, " Baird said. "And you have helpedsome to happiness. "

"Well, " admitted Big Tom, "perhaps that's true. But I've been a lumberingfailure myself. I've just judgment enough now to know that there'snothing a man can say about a thing like this--nothing--and just senseenough not to try to say it. "

"If you go back to North Carolina, " asked Baird, "may I come to seeyou--and to see her? She need never know. "

"I shouldn't want her to know, " Tom answered, "but you may come. We shallgo back, and I intend to let those two young ones set up a Garden of Edenof their own. It will be a good thing to look on at. Yes, you may come. "

"That is mercifulness, " said Baird, and this time when he put out hishand he did not withdraw it, and Tom gave it a strong, sober clasp whichexpressed more than one emotion. 

 * * * * *

When Tom returned to the little house near Dupont Circle, Uncle Matt worea rigidly repressed air as he opened the door, and Miss Burford stood inthe hall as if waiting for something. Her ringlets were shaken by a lighttremor. 

"We have either won the claim this afternoon or lost it, " Tom said tohimself, having glanced at both of them and exchanged the usual greeting. 

They had won it. 

Judge Rutherford was striding up and down the sitting-room, but it wasSheba who was deputed to tell the news. 

She did it in a little scene which reminded him of her childhood. Shedrew him to a chair and sat down on his knee, clasping both slim, tenderarms round his neck, tears suddenly rushing into her eyes. 

"You and Rupert are rich men, Uncle Tom, darling, " she said. "The claimhas passed. You are rich. You need never be troubled about mortgagesagain. "

He was conscious of a tremendous shock of relief. He folded her in hisarms as if she had been a baby. 

"Thank the Lord!" he said. "I didn't know I should be so glad of it. "

CHAPTER XLI

The unobtrusive funeral cortége had turned the corner of Bank Street anddisappeared from view almost an hour ago. In the front room of the housein which had lived the man just carried to his grave, the gentle oldwoman who had been his mother sat and looked with pathetic patience atMiss Amory Starkweather as the rough winds of the New England earlyspring rushed up the empty thoroughfare and whirled through the yetunleafed trees. Miss Amory had remained after the other people had goneaway, and she was listening to the wind, too. 

"We are both old women, " she had said. "We have both lived long enough tohave passed through afternoons like this more than once before. Howsoeverbad other hours may be, it seems to me that these are always the worst. "

"Just after--everything--has been taken away, " Mrs. Latimer said now;"the house seems so empty. Faith, " tremulously, "even Faith can't helpyou not to feel that everything has gone--such a long, long way off. "

She did not wipe away the tear that fell on her cheek. She looked verysmall and meek in her deep mourning. She presented to Miss Amory'simagination the figure of a lovable child grown old without having lostits child temperament. 

"But I must not complain, " she went on, with an effort to smile at MissAmory's ugly old intelligently sympathetic countenance. "It must havebeen all over in a second, and he could have felt no pain at all. Deathby accident is always an awful shock to those left behind; but it mustscarcely be like death to--those who go. He was quite well; he had justbought the pistol and took it out to show to Mr. Baird. Mr. Baird himselfdid not understand how it happened. "

"It is nearly always so--that no one quite sees how it is done, " MissAmory answered. "Do not let yourself think of it. "

She was sitting quite near to Mrs. Latimer, and she leaned forward andput her hand over the cold, little, shrivelled one lying on the lap ofthe mourning-dress. 

"Though it was so sudden, " she said, "it was an end not unlikeMargery's--the slipping out of life without realising that the last hourhad come. "

"Yes; I have thought that, too. "

She looked up at the portrait on the wall--the portrait of the brightgirl-face. Her own face lighted into a smile. 

"It is so strange to think that they are together again, " she said. "Theywill have so much to tell each other. "

"Yes, " said Miss Amory; "yes. "

She got up herself and went and stood before the picture. Mrs. Latimerrose and came and stood beside her. 

"Mr. Baird has been with me every day, " she said. "He has been like a sonto me. "

A carriage drew up before the house, and, as the occupant got out, bothwomen turned to look. 

Mrs. Latimer turned a shade paler. 

"They have got back from the funeral, " she said. "It is Mr. Baird. "

Then came the ring at the front door, the footsteps in the passage, andBaird came into the room. He was haggard and looked broken and old, buthis manner was very gentle when he went to the little old woman and tookher hands. 

"I think he scarcely knew he had so many friends at Janney's Mills, " hesaid. "A great many of them came. When I turned away the earth wascovered with flowers. "

He drew her to a chair and sat by her. She put her white head on his armand cried. 

"He was always so sad, " she said. "He thought people never cared for him. But he was good--he was good. I felt sure they must love him a little. Itwill be better for him--_now_. "

Miss Amory spoke from her place before the fire, where she stood rigidly, with a baffled look on her face. Her voice was low and hoarse. 

"Yes, " she said, with eager pitifulness. "It will be better now. "

The little mother lifted her wet face, still clinging to Baird's arm asshe looked up at him. 

"And I have it to remember, " she sobbed, "that you--_you_ were hisfriend, and that for years you made him happier than he had ever been. Hesaid you gave him a reason for living. "

Baird was ashen pale. She stooped and softly kissed the back of his hand. 

"Somehow, " she said, "you seemed even to comfort him for Margery. Heseemed to bear it better after he knew you. I shall not feel as if theywere quite gone away from me while I can talk to you about them. You willspare an hour now and then to come and sit with me?" She looked round theplain, respectable little room with a quiet finality. "I am too old andtired to live long, " she added. 

It was Baird who kissed her hand now, with a fervour almost passion. MissAmory started at sight of his action, and at the sound of the voice inwhich he spoke. 

"Talk to me as you would have talked to him, " he said. "Think of me asyou would have thought of him. Let me--in God's name, let me do whatthere is left me!"

 * * * * *

Miss Amory's carriage had waited before the gate, and when she went outto it Baird went with her. 

After he had put her into it he stood a moment on the pavement and lookedat her. 

"I want to come with you, " he said. "May I?"

"Yes, " she answered, and made room for him at her side. 

But he took the seat opposite to her and leaned back, shutting his eyeswhile Miss Amory's rested upon him. The life and beauty which had beensuch ever-present characteristics of his personality seemed to have lefthim never to return. Miss Amory's old nerves were strung taut. She hadpassed through many phases of feeling with regard to him as the years hadgone by. During those years she had believed that she knew a hidden thingof him known by no other person. She had felt herself a sort of silentdetective in the form of an astute old New England gentlewoman. She hadabhorred and horribly pitied him. She had the clear judicial mind whichmust inevitably see the tragic pitifulness of things. She had thought toomuch to be able to indulge in the primitive luxury of unqualifiedcondemnation. As she watched him to-day during their drive through thestreets, she realised that she beheld a kind of suffering not comingunder the head of any ordinary classification. It was a hopeless, ghastlything, a breaking up of life, a tearing loose of all the cords to which aman might anchor his existence. 

When they reached the house and entered the parlour, she went to herchair and sat down--and waited. She knew she was waiting, and believedshe knew what for. In a vague way she had always felt that an hour likethis would come to them. They were somehow curiously akin. Baird began towalk to and fro. His lips were trembling. Presently he turned towards therigid figure in the chair and stood still. 

"It was not an accident, " he said. "He killed himself. "

"That I felt sure of, " Miss Amory answered. "Tell me why he did it. "

Baird began to tremble a little himself. 

"Yes, I will, " he said. "I must. I suppose--there is a sort of hystericluxury in--confession. He did it because there was nothing else left. Thefoundations of his world had been torn from under his feet. Everythingwas gone. " His voice broke into a savage cry. "Oh! in one shortlifetime--the black misery a man can bring about!"

"Yes, " said Miss Amory. 

He threw himself into a chair near her. 

"For years--years, " he said, "he hid a secret. " Miss Amory bent forward. She felt she must help him a little--for pity's sake. 

"Was it the secret of Margery?" she half whispered. 

"Did you know it?"

"When a woman has spent a long life alone, thinking--thinking, " sheanswered, "she has had time to learn to observe and to work at problems. The day she fainted in the street and I took her home in my carriage, Ibegan to fear--to guess. She was not only a girl who was ill--she was achild who was being _killed_ with some horror; she was heart-breaking. Iused to go and see her. In the end I knew. "

"I--did not, " he said, looking at her with haggard eyes. 

There was a long pause. She knew he had told her all in the onesentence--all she had guessed. 

"She did not know I knew, " she went on, presently. "She believed no oneknew. Oh, I tell you again, she was heart-breaking! She did not know thatthere were wild moments when she dropped words that could be linked intofacts and formed into a chain. "

"Had you formed it, " he asked, "when you wrote and told me she had died?"

"Yes. It had led me to you--to nothing more. I felt death had saved herfrom what would have been worse. It seemed as if--the blackestdevil--would be glad to know. "

"I am the blackest devil, perhaps, " he said, with stony helplessness, "but when I received your letter I was grovelling on my knees prayingthat I might get back to her--and atone--as far as a black devil could. "

"And she was _dead_, " said Miss Amory, wringing her hands together on herlap; "dead--dead. "

She stopped suddenly and turned on him. "He killed himself, " she cried, "because he found out that it was _you_!"

"Yes. I was the one man he loved--he had told his secret to me--to_me!_--the black devil. Now--now I must go to his mother, day after day, and be her son--because I was his friend--and knew his love forMargery--and of her sweetness--and her happy, peaceful death. He used totalk to me for hours; she--poor, tender soul--will talk to me again--ofMargery--Margery--Margery--and of Lucien, whose one happiness I was. "

"It will--almost--be--enough, " said Miss Amory, slowly. 

"Yes, " he answered; "it will almost be enough--even for a black devil. "

And he turned on his chair and laid his face on his folded arms andsobbed like a woman. 

CHAPTER XLII

The springtime sunshine had been smiling upon Talbot's Cross-roads allthe day. It was not hot, but warm, and its beauty was added to by thelittle soft winds which passed through the branches of the blossomingapple and pear trees and shook the fragrance from them. The brown earthwas sweet and odorous, as it had been on the Sunday morning Sheba hadknelt and kissed it, and the garden had covered itself, as then, withhyacinths and daffodils and white narcissus. 

During the last weeks the Cross-roads had existed in something like astate of delirium. People rode in from the mountains and returned totheir homes after hours of conversation, semi-stupefied with enjoyment. Tom D'Willerby had won his claims. After months of mystifieddiscouragement, in which the Cross-roads seemed to have lost him in avague and distant darkness, life had seemed to begin again. Nobody wassufficiently analytical of mind to realise in what measure big TomD'Willerby had been the centre of the community, which was scattered overmiles of mountain road and wood and clearing. But when he had disappearedmany things seemed to melt away with him. In fact, a large, shrewdhumanity was missing. 

"I'll be doggered, " had been a remark of Mr. Doty's in the autumn, "efcrops hes done es well sence he went. "

There had been endless talk of the villanous tendencies of Governmentofficials, and of the tricks played whose end was to defraud honest andlong-suffering claimants of their rights. There had even been dark hourswhen it had seemed possible that the vitiating effect of Washington lifemight cause deterioration in the character of even the most upright. Could Tom himself stand it, and what would be its effect on Sheba?

But when the outlook was the most inauspicious, Fortune's wheel had sweptround once and all was changed. 

A letter brought the news--a simple enough letter from Tom himself. Theclaim was won. They were coming back to Hamlin County, he and Sheba andRupert De Willoughby. Sheba and Rupert were to be married and spend thefirst weeks of their honeymoon on the side of the mountain which hadenclosed the world the child Sheba had first known. 

On this particular day every man and woman who had known and played withher appeared at the Cross-roads. There had not been a large number ofthem perhaps, but gathered together at and about the Post-office andabout the house and garden, they formed a crowd, as crowds are counted inscattered communities. They embodied excitement enough to haveexhilarated a much larger body of people. Half a dozen women had beenhelping Aunt Mornin for days. The house wore a gala air, and the cellarwas stored with offerings of cake and home-made luxuries. The garden wasa mass of radiant scented bloom of spring. Mis' Doty sat at the openwindow of the kitchen and, looking out on nodding daffodils, apple-blossom, and pink peach-flower warmed in the sun, actually chuckledas she joyfully sniffled the air. 

"The way them things smells, " she said, "an' the hummin' o' them beesgoin' about as ef the world hadn't nothin' but flowers an' honey in it, seems like it was all jest got up for them two young uns. Lordy, I dodeclar', it's a plum sight. "

"That bin a heap got up for 'em, seems like, " said Molly Hollister, smiling at the nearest apple-tree as if it were a particular friend. "Fust off, they're dead in love with each other, an' we uns all knows howthat makes people feel--even in the dead o' winter, an' when they ain't apenny in their pockets; they're as good-hearted as they kin be--an' eshansum'--an' they're rich, an' they was married this mornin', an' they'recomin' home with Tom D'Willerby to a place an' folks that loves 'em--an'the very country an' the things that grows seems as if they was dressedout for a weddin'. An' it's Sheba as Tom took me to look at lyin' in herlittle old wooden cradle in the room behind the store. "

She laughed, as she said it, a little hysteric laugh, with suddenly moisteyes. She was an emotional creature. 

The road had been watched steadily for many hours before any arrival couldhave been legitimately expected. It gave restless interest--something todo. At noon one of Molly Hollister's boys came running breathlessly up theroad, waving his hat. 

"They're a-comin'!" he shouted. "They're a-comin'! They're in a finecarriage. "

"Let Tom D'Willerby alone for havin' the finest team in Hamlin, " said Mr. Doty, with a neighbourly grin. 

Almost immediately the carriage was to be seen. The horses lifted theirfeet high, and stepped at a pace which was felt worthy of the occasion. Uncle Matt drove. Rupert and Sheba sat side by side. They looked veryyoung and beautiful, and rather shy. They had only been married a fewhours, and were bewildered by the new radiance of things. Big Tomhumanely endeavoured not to look at them, but found it difficult to averthis eyes for any length of time. There was that about them which drew hisgaze back in spite of himself. 

"That's old Tom!" he heard familiar voices proclaim, as they drew nearthe Post-office. "Howdy, Tom! Howdy, Sheby! Wish ye much joy! Wish yemuch joy!"

Then the horses stopped, and the crowd of long-known faces surged nearand were all about the carriage. The clamour of the greeting voices, thegrasping of one hand after another seemed to Sheba and Rupert likesomething happening in a dream. They were too far away from earth to feelit real just now, though it was part of the happiness of things--like thesunshine and the soft wind and the look in Tom's eyes, when, amidhand-shakes and congratulations, and welcoming laughter, he himselflaughed back in his old way. 

"Ye look jest like ye used ter, Tom--jest like ye used ter, " cried JakeDoty. "Ye hain't changed a durned bit!"

 * * * * *

How did the day pass? Who knows? What does it matter? It was full ofstrange beauty, and strange happiness, and strange life for two youngsouls at least. People came and went, congratulating, wondering, rejoicing. Talbot's Cross-roads felt that it had vicariously come intothe possession of wealth and dignity of position. Among the manyvisitors, Mrs. Stamps rode up on a clay-bank mare. She was attired in theblack calico riding-skirt and sunbonnet which represented the mourninggarb of the mountain relict. 

"I'm a widder, " she said to big Tom, in a tone not unresigned. "Ye gotyer claim through, but Stamps hadn't no influence, an' he was took off bypneumony. Ketched cold runnin' to Linthicum, I guess. His landlady was ahonest enough critter. She found a roll o' five hundred dollars hid inhis bed when she went to lay him out, an' she sent it back to me. Lordknows whar he got it from--I don't. But it come in mighty handy. "

By sunset the welcoming crowd had broken up and melted away into themountains. Horses and ox-waggons had been mounted and ridden or drivenhomeward. The Post-office was closed; no one was to be seen in the porch. No one was to be seen anywhere except in the garden among the blossomswhere Rupert and Sheba walked under the fragrance of the trees, talkingto each other in low, softly broken words. 

Tom sat in the porch and watched the moon rise in a sea of silver. Thescents the wind wafted to him, the occasional sound of a far-offnight-bird, the rustle of the leaves brought things back to him--thingshe had felt in his youth. There had been nights like this in the dayswhen he had been a big, clumsy young fellow, wild with hopeless love forDelia Vanuxem. On such nights the air had been full of this night breathof flowers, the birds had stirred in their nests with just such sounds, the moon had mounted, as it did to-night, higher and higher in a sky itthrilled a man's soul to lift his face to. 

"Yes, it was all like this, " he said, leaning back and clasping his bighands behind his head. "Just like this! And those two out there areliving it over again, only they've been fairly treated, and they aretrembling with the joy of it. They're pretty safe, " he ended. "They'repretty safe. They've had a fair show. "

Rupert and Sheba walked slowly side by side. They saw and felteverything. If a bird stirred with a sleepy sound, they stopped to listenand smiled tremulously at each other. More than once Sheba knelt down andhid her face among the flowers, kissing them. Her arms were full of whiteblossoms. She and Rupert had made white garlands for her hair and waist, such as she had worn the night he had first seen her standing on herlittle balcony. When Rupert held her to his side, the scent from theircrushed petals filled the air they breathed. The early night was at itsstillest and fairest, and the moonlight seemed to flood all the world, when Sheba stopped and looked up, speaking softly:

"Shall we go now?" she said. "The moon will be shining down between thepines. It will be so quiet. "

"Yes, " he answered. "Let us go now. "

They had planned weeks ago the things they were going to do. They weregoing to say good-night to the small mound at Blair's Hollow. 

When they left their horses at the foot of the hill even the pines couldnot look darkly under the fair light. The balmy air passing through theirbranches made a sound as if it was hushing a child to sleep. 

The little mound lay in the soft brightness of clear moonbeams. Shebaknelt beside it and began to lay her bridal blossoms on the grass-coveredearth. Rupert stood and watched her. His heart beat with a reverent, rapturous tremor. She looked like a young angel. 

She bent down and laid her cheek upon the grass; her arm was thrown outas if she clasped something to her girl's breast. She spoke in awhisper--thrilled with love. "I am happy, " she said. "I am happy. Oh, doyou hear? Do you hear?"