ACROSS THE YEARS

BY

ELEANOR H. PORTER

Contents

WHEN FATHER AND MOTHER REBELLEDJUPITER ANNTHE AXMINSTER PATHPHINEAS AND THE MOTOR CARTHE MOST WONDERFUL WOMANTHE PRICE OF A PAIR OF SHOESTHE LONG ROADA COUPLE OF CAPITALISTSIN THE FOOTSTEPS OF KATYTHE BRIDGE ACROSS THE YEARSFOR JIMMYA SUMMONS HOMETHE BLACK SILK GOWNSA BELATED HONEYMOONWHEN AUNT ABBY WAKED UPWRISTERS FOR THREETHE GIVING THANKS OF CYRUS AND HULDAHA NEW ENGLAND IDOL

The stories in this volume are here reprinted by the courteouspermission of the publishers of the periodicals in which they firstappeared, --The Ladies' Home Journal, Ainslee's Magazine, The ScrapBook, The New England Magazine, The Pictorial Review, The Housewife, The Pacific Monthly, The Arena, Lippincott's Magazine, Harper's Bazar, The Century Magazine, Woman, Holland's Magazine, The Designer. 

When Father and Mother Rebelled

"'Tain't more 'n a month ter Christmas, Lyddy Ann; did ye know it?" saidthe old man, settling back in his chair with a curiously resigned sigh. 

"Yes, I know, Samuel, " returned his wife, sending a swift glance overthe top of her glasses. 

If Samuel Bertram noticed the glance he made no sign. "Hm!" he murmured. "I've got ten neckerchiefs now. How many crocheted bed-slippers yougot?--eh?"

"Oh, Samuel!" remonstrated Lydia Ann feebly. 

"I don't care, " asserted Samuel with sudden vehemence, sitting erect inhis chair. "Seems as if we might get somethin' for Christmas 'sidesslippers an' neckerchiefs. Jest 'cause we ain't so young as we once wasain't no sign that we've lost all our faculty for enj'yment!"

"But, Samuel, they're good an' kind, an' want ter give us somethin', "faltered Lydia Ann; "and--"

"Yes, I know they're good an' kind, " cut in Samuel wrathfully. "We'vegot three children, an' each one brings us a Christmas present ev'ryyear. They've got so they do it reg'lar now, jest the same as they--theygo ter bed ev'ry night, " he finished, groping a little for his simile. "An' they put jest about as much thought into it, too, " he added grimly. 

"My grief an' conscience, Samuel, --how can you talk so!" gasped thelittle woman opposite. 

"Well, they do, " persisted Samuel. "They buy a pair o' slippers an' aneckerchief, an' tuck 'em into their bag for us--an' that's done; an'next year they do the same--an' it's done again. Oh, I know I'mongrateful, an' all that, " acknowledged Samuel testily, "but I can'thelp it. I've been jest ready to bile over ever since last Christmas, an' now I have biled over. Look a-here, Lyddy Ann, we ain't so awfulold. You're seventy-three an' I'm seventy-six, an' we're pert assparrers, both of us. Don't we live here by ourselves, an' do most allthe work inside an' outside the house?"

"Yes, " nodded Lydia Ann timidly. 

"Well, ain't there somethin' you can think of sides slippers you'd likefor Christmas--'specially as you never wear crocheted bed-slippers?"

Lydia Ann stirred uneasily. "Why, of course, Samuel, " she beganhesitatingly, "bed-slippers are very nice, an'--"

"So's codfish!" interrupted Samuel in open scorn. "Come, " he coaxed, "jest supposin' we was youngsters again, a-tellin' Santa Claus what wewanted. What would you ask for?"

Lydia Ann laughed. Her cheeks grew pink, and the lost spirit of heryouth sent a sudden sparkle to her eyes. "You'd laugh, dearie. I ain'ta-goin' ter tell. "

"I won't--'pon honor!"

"But it's so silly, " faltered Lydia Ann, her cheeks a deeper pink. "Me--an old woman!"

"Of course, " agreed Samuel promptly. "It's bound ter be silly, ye know, if we want anythin' but slippers an' neckerchiefs, " he added with achuckle. "Come--out with it, Lyddy Ann. "

"It's--it's a tree. "

"Dampers and doughnuts!" ejaculated Samuel, his jaw dropping. "A tree!"

"There, I knew you'd laugh, " quavered Lydia Ann, catching up herknitting. 

"Laugh? Not a bit of it!" averred Samuel stoutly. "I--I want a treemyself!"

"Ye see, it's just this, " apologized Lydia Ann feverishly. "They give usthings, of course, but they never make anythin' of doin' it, not eventer tyin' 'em up with a piece of red ribbon. They just slip into ourbedroom an' leave 'em all done up in brown paper an' we find 'em afterthey're gone. They mean it all kind, but I'm so tired of gray worstedand sensible things. Of course I can't have a tree, an' I don't supposeI really want it; but I'd like somethin' all pretty an' sparkly an'--an'silly, you know. An' there's another thing I want--ice cream. An' I wantto make myself sick eatin' it, too, --if I want to; an' I want littlepink-an'-white sugar pep'mints hung in bags. Samuel, can't you see howpretty a bag o' pink pep'mints 'd be on that green tree? An'--dearieme!" broke off the little old woman breathlessly, falling back in herchair. "How I'm runnin' on! I reckon I am in my dotage. "

For a moment Samuel did not reply. His brow was puckered into aprodigious frown, and his right hand had sought the back of his head--aswas always the case when in deep thought. Suddenly his face cleared. 

"Ye ain't in yer dotage--by gum, ye ain't!" he cried excitedly. "An' Iain't, neither. An' what's more, you're a-goin' ter have that tree--icecream, pink pep'mints, an' all!"

"Oh, my grief an' conscience--Samuel!" quavered Lydia Ann. 

"Well, ye be. We can do it easy, too. We'll have it the night 'foreChristmas. The children don't get here until Christmas day, ever, yeknow, so 't won't interfere a mite with their visit, an' 'twill be allover 'fore they get here. An' we'll make a party of it, too, " went onSamuel gleefully. "There's the Hopkinses an' old Mis' Newcomb, an' UncleTim, an' Grandpa Gowin'--they'll all come an' be glad to. "

"Samuel, could we?" cried Lydia Ann, incredulous but joyous. "Could we, really?"

"I'll get the tree myself, " murmured Samuel, aloud, "an' we can buy someo' that shiny stuff up ter the store ter trim it. "

"An' I'll get some of that pink-an'-white tarl'tan for bags, " chimed inLydia Ann happily: "the pink for the white pep'mints, an' the white forthe pink. Samuel, won't it be fun?" And to hear her one would havethought her seventeen instead of seventy-three. 

 * * * * *

A week before Christmas Samuel Bertram's only daughter, Ella, wrote thisletter to each of her brothers:

It has occurred to me that it might be an excellent idea if we wouldplan to spend a little more time this year with Father and Mother whenwe go for our usual Christmas visit; and what kind of a scheme do youthink it would be for us to take the children, and make a real familyreunion of it?

I figure that we could all get there by four o'clock the day beforeChristmas, if we planned for it; and by staying perhaps two days afterChristmas we could make quite a visit. What do you say? You see Fatherand Mother are getting old, and we can't have them with us many moreyears, anyway; and I'm sure this would please them--only we must bevery careful not to make it too exciting for them. 

The letters were dispatched with haste, and almost by return mail camethe answers; an emphatic approval, and a promise of hearty cooperationsigned "Frank" and "Ned. " What is every one's business is apt to be noone's business, however, and no one notified Mr. And Mrs. Samuel Bertramof the change of plan, each thinking that one of the others would attendto it. 

"As for presents, " mused Ella, as she hurried downtown two days beforeChristmas, "I never can think what to give them; but, after all, there'snothing better than bed-slippers for Mother, and a warm neckerchief forFather's throat. Those are always good. "

The day before Christmas dawned clear and cold. It had been expectedthat Ella, her husband, and her twin boys would arrive at the littlevillage station a full hour before the train from the north bringingNed, Mrs. Ned, and little Mabel, together with Frank and his wife andson; but Ella's train was late--so late that it came in a scant fiveminutes ahead of the other one, and thus brought about a joyous greetingbetween the reunited families on the station platform itself. 

"Why, it's not so bad we were late, after all, " cried Ella. "This isfine--now we can all go together!"

"Jove! but we're a cheery sight!" exclaimed Ned, as he counted off onhis fingers the blooming faces of those about him. "There are ten ofus!"

"Only fancy what they'll say at the house when they catch their firstglimpse of us!" chuckled Frank. "The dear old souls! How Father's eyeswill shine and Mother's cap-strings bob! By the way, of course they knowwe're coming to-day?"

There was a moment's silence; then Ella flushed. "Why! didn't--didn'tyou tell them?" she stammered. 

"I? Why, of course not!" cried Frank. "I supposed you were going to. Butmaybe Ned-" He paused and turned questioning eyes on his brother. 

Ned shook his head. "Not I, " he said. 

"Why, then--then they don't know, " cried Ella, aghast. "They don't knowa thing!"

"Never mind, come on, " laughed Ned. "What difference does it make?"

"'What difference does it make'!" retorted Ella indignantly. "NedBertram, do you suppose I'd take the risk of ten of us pouncing down onthose two poor dears like this by surprise? Certainly not!"

"But, Ella, they're expecting six of us tomorrow, " remonstrated Frank. 

"Very true. But that's not ten of us today. "

"I know; but so far as the work is concerned, you girls always do themost of that, " cut in Ned. 

"Work! It isn't the work, " almost groaned Ella. "Don't you see, boys?It's the excitement--'twouldn't do for them at all. We must fix it someway. Come, let's go into the waiting-room and talk it up. "

It was not until after considerable discussion that their plans werefinally made and their line of march decided upon. To advance in theopen and take the house by storm was clearly out of the question, thoughNed remarked that in all probability the dear old creatures would bedozing before the fire, and would not discover their approach. Still, itwould be wiser to be on the safe side; and it was unanimously voted thatFrank should go ahead alone and reconnoiter, preparing the way for therest, who could wait, meanwhile, at the little hotel not far from thehouse. 

The short winter day had drawn almost to a close when Frank turned in atthe familiar gate of the Bertram homestead. His hand had not reached thewhite knob of the bell, however, when the eager expectancy of his facegave way to incredulous amazement; from within, clear and distinct, hadcome the sound of a violin. 

"Why, what--" he cried under his breath, and softly pushed open thedoor. 

The hall was almost dark, but the room beyond was a blaze of light, withthe curtains drawn, and apparently every lamp the house containedtrimmed and burning. He himself stood in the shadow, and his entrancehad been unnoticed, though almost the entire expanse of the room beforehim was visible through the half-open doorway. 

In the farther corner of the room a large evergreen tree, sparkling withcandles and tinsel stars, was hung with bags of pink and white tarletanand festoons of puffy popcorn. Near it sat an old man playing theviolin; and his whole wiry self seemed to quiver with joy to the tune ofhis merry "Money Musk. " In the center of the room two gray-haired menwere dancing an old-time jig, bobbing, bowing, and twisting about in agleeful attempt to outdo each other. Watching them were three old womenand another old man, eating ice cream and contentedly munchingpeppermints. And here, there, and everywhere was the mistress of thehouse, Lydia Ann herself, cheeks flushed and cap-strings flying, butplainly in her element and joyously content. 

For a time the man by the hall door watched in silent amazement; thenwith a low ejaculation he softly let himself out of the house, andhurried back to the hotel. 

"Well?" greeted half a dozen voices; and one added: "What did they say?"

Frank shook his head and dropped into the nearest chair. "I--I didn'ttell them, " he stammered faintly. 

"Didn't tell them!" exclaimed Ella. "Why, Frank, what was the trouble?Were they sick? Surely, they were not upset by just seeing you!"Frank's eyes twinkled "Well, hardly!" he retorted. "They--they're havinga party. "

"A party!" shrieked half a dozen voices. 

"Yes; and a tree, and a dance, and ice cream, and pink peppermints, "Frank enumerated in one breath. 

There was a chorus of expostulation; then Ella's voice rose dominant. "Frank Bertram, what on earth do you mean?" she demanded. "Who is havingall this?"

"Father and Mother, " returned Frank, his lips twitching a little. "Andthey've got old Uncle Tim and half a dozen others for guests. "

"But, Frank, how can they be having all this?" faltered Ella. "Why, Father's not so very far from eighty years old, and--Mabel, Mabel, mydear!" she broke off in sudden reproof to her young niece, who had comeunder her glance at that moment. "Those are presents for Grandpa andGrandma. I wouldn't play with them. "

Mabel hesitated, plainly rebellious. In each hand was a gray worstedbed-slipper; atop of her yellow curls was a brown neckerchief, capfashion. 

There were exclamations from two men, and Ned came forward hurriedly. "Oh, I say, Ella, " he remonstrated, "you didn't get those for presents, did you?"

"But I did. Why not?" questioned Ella. 

"Why, I got slippers, you see. I never can think of anything else. Besides, they're always good, anyhow. But I should think you, awoman, could think of something--"

"Never mind, " interrupted Ella airily. "Mother's a dear, and she won'tcare if she does get two pairs. "

"But she won't want three pairs, " groaned Frank; "and I got slipperstoo!"

There was a moment of dismayed silence, then everybody laughed. 

Ella was the first to speak. "It's too bad, of course, but never mind. Mother'll see the joke of it just as we do. You know she never seems tocare what we give her. Old people don't have many wants, I fancy. "

Frank stirred suddenly and walked the length of the room. Then hewheeled about. 

"Do you know, " he said, a little unsteadily, "I believe that's amistake?"

"A mistake? What's a mistake?"

"The notion that old people don't have any--wants. See here. They'rehaving a party down there--a party, and they must have got it upthemselves. Such being the case, of course they had what they wanted forentertainment--and they aren't drinking tea or knitting socks. They'redancing jigs and eating pink peppermints and ice cream! Their eyes arelike stars, and Mother's cheeks are like a girl's; and if you think I'mgoing to offer those spry young things a brown neckerchief and a pair ofbed-slippers you're much mistaken--because I'm not!"

"But what--can--we do?" stammered Ella. 

"We can buy something else here--to-night--in the village, " declaredFrank; "and to-morrow morning we can go and give it to them. "

"But--buy what?"

"I haven't the least idea, " retorted Frank, with an airy wave of hishands. "Maybe 'twill be a diamond tiara and a polo pony. Anyway, I knowwhat 'twon't be--'twon't be slippers or a neckerchief!"

 * * * * *

It was later than usual that Christmas morning when Mr. And Mrs. SamuelBertram arose. If the old stomachs had rebelled a little at the pinkpeppermints and ice cream, and if the old feet had charged toll fortheir unaccustomed activity of the night before, neither Samuel norLydia Ann would acknowledge it. 

"Well, we had it--that tree!" chuckled Samuel, as he somewhat stifflythrust himself into his clothes. 

"We did, Samuel, --we did, " quavered Lydia Ann joyfully, "an' wa'n't itnice? Mis' Hopkins said she never had such a good time in all her lifebefore. "

"An' Uncle Tim an' Grandpa Gowin'--they was as spry as crickets, an'they made old Pete tune up that 'Money Musk' three times 'fore they'dquit"

"Yes; an'--my grief an' conscience, Samuel! 'tis late, ain't it?" brokeoff Lydia Ann, anxiously peering at the clock. "Come, come, dear, you'llhave ter hurry 'bout gettin' that tree out of the front room 'forethe children get here. I wouldn't have 'em know for the world how sillywe've been--not for the world!"

Samuel bridled, but his movements showed a perceptible increase ofspeed. 

"Well, I do' know, " he chuckled. 

"'T wa'n't anythin' so awful, after all. But, say, " he calledtriumphantly a moment later, as he stooped and picked up a small objectfrom the floor, "they will find out if you don't hide these 'erepep'mints!"

The tree and the peppermints had scarcely disappeared from the "frontroom" when Frank arrived. 

"Oh, they're all coming in a minute, " he laughed gayly in response tothe surprised questions that greeted him. "And we've brought thechildren, too. You'll have a houseful, all right!"

A houseful it certainly proved to be, and a lively one, too. In thekitchen "the girls" as usual reigned supreme, and bundled off the littlemother to "visit with the boys and the children" during the process ofdinner-getting, and after dinner they all gathered around the fireplacefor games and stories. 

"And now, " said Frank when darkness came and the lamps were lighted, "I've got a new game, but it's a very mysterious game, and you, Fatherand Mother, must not know a thing about it until it's all ready. " Andforthwith he conducted the little old man and the little old woman outinto the kitchen with great ceremony. 

"Say, Samuel, seems as if this was 'most as good as the party, "whispered Lydia Ann excitedly, as they waited in the dark. "I know it;an' they hain't asked us once if we was gettin' too tired! Did yenotice, Lyddy Ann?"

"Yes, an' they didn't make us take naps, either. Ain't it nice? Why, Samuel, I--I shan't mind even the bed-slippers now, " she laughed. 

"Ready!" called Frank, and the dining-room door was thrown wide open. 

The old eyes blinked a little at the sudden light, then widened inamazement. Before the fireplace was a low sewing-table with a chair ateach end. The table itself was covered with a white cloth which lay infascinating little ridges and hillocks indicating concealed treasuresbeneath. About the table were grouped the four eager-eyed grandchildrenand their no less eager-eyed parents. With still another ceremonious bowFrank escorted the little old man and the little old woman to thewaiting chairs, and with a merry "One, two, three!" whisked off thecloth. 

For one amazed instant there was absolute silence; then Lydia Ann drew along breath. 

"Samuel, Samuel, they're presents--an' for us!" she quavered joyously. "It's the bed-slippers and the neckerchiefs, an' they did 'em all up inwhite paper an' red ribbons just for us. "

At the corner of the mantelpiece a woman choked suddenly and felt forher handkerchief. Behind her two men turned sharply and walked towardthe window; but the little old man and the little old woman did notnotice it. They had forgotten everything but the enchanting array ofmysteries before them. 

Trembling old hands hovered over the many-sized, many-shaped packages, and gently patted the perky red bows; but not until the grandchildrenimpatiently demanded, "Why don't you look at 'em?" did they venture tountie a single ribbon. Then the old eyes shone, indeed, at sight of thewonderful things disclosed; a fine lace tie and a bottle of perfume; areading-glass and a basket of figs; some dates, raisins, nuts, andcandies, and a little electric pocket lantern which would, at thepressure of a thumb, bring to light all the secrets of the darkest ofrooms. There were books, too, such as Ella and Frank themselves liked toread; and there was a handsome little clock for the mantel--but therewas not anywhere a pair of bed-slippers or a neckerchief. 

At last they were all opened, and there remained not one little red bowto untie. On the table, in all their pristine glory, lay the presents, and half-buried in bits of paper and red ribbon sat the amazed, butblissfully happy, little old man and little old woman. Lydia Ann's lipsparted, but the trembling words of thanks froze on her tongue--her eyeshad fallen on a small pink peppermint on the floor. 

"No, no, we can't take 'em, " she cried agitatedly. "We hadn't ought to. We was wicked and ongrateful, and last night we--we--" She pausedhelplessly, her eyes on her husband's face. "Samuel, you--you tell, " shefaltered. 

Samuel cleared his throat. 

"Well, ye see, we--yes, last night, we--we--" He could say no more. 

"We--we had a party to--to make up for things, " blurted out Lydia Ann. "And so ye see we--we hadn't ought ter take these--all these!"

Frank winced. His face grew a little white as he threw a quick glanceinto his sister's eyes; but his voice, when he spoke, was clear andstrong from sheer force of will. 

"A party? Good! I'm glad of it. Did you enjoy it?" he asked. 

Samuel's jaw dropped. Lydia Ann stared speechlessly. This cordialapproval of their folly was more incomprehensible than had been thefailure to relegate them to naps and knitting earlier in the afternoon. 

"And you've got another party to-night, too; haven't you?" went on Franksmoothly. "As for those things there"--he waved his hand toward thetable--"of course you'll take them. Why, we picked them out on purposefor you, --every single one of them, --and only think how we'd feel if youdidn't take them! Don't you--like them?"

"'Like them'!" cried Lydia Ann, and at the stifled sob in her voicethree men and three women caught their breath sharply and tried toswallow the lumps in their throats. "We--we just love them!"

No one spoke. The grandchildren stared silently, a little awed. Ella, Frank, and Ned stirred restlessly and looked anywhere but at each other. 

Lydia Ann flushed, then paled. "Of course, if--if you picked 'emout 'specially for us--" she began hesitatingly, her eyes anxiouslyscanning the perturbed faces of her children. 

"We did--especially, " came the prompt reply. 

Lydia Ann's gaze drifted to the table and lingered upon the clock, thetie, and the bottle of perfume. "'Specially for us, " she murmuredsoftly. Then her face suddenly cleared. "Why, then we'll have to takethem, won't we?" she cried, her voice tremulous with ecstasy. "We'lljust have to--whether we ought to or not!"

"You certainly will!" declared Frank. And this time he did not even tryto hide the shake in his voice. 

"Oh!" breathed Lydia Ann blissfully. "Samuel, I--I think I'll take afig, please!"

Jupiter Ann

It was only after serious consideration that Miss Prue had bought thelittle horse, Jupiter, and then she changed the name at once. For arespectable spinster to drive any sort of horse was bad enough in MissPrue's opinion; but to drive a heathen one! To replace "Jupiter" sheconsidered "Ann" a sensible, dignified, and proper name, and "Ann" shenamed him, regardless of age, sex, or "previous condition of servitude. "The villagers accepted the change--though with modifications; the horsewas known thereafter as "Miss Prue's Jupiter Ann. "

Miss Prue had said that she wanted a safe, steady horse; one that wouldnot run, balk, or kick. She would not have bought any horse, indeed, hadit not been that the way to the post office, the store, the church, andeverywhere else, had grown so unaccountably long--Miss Prue wasapproaching her sixtieth birthday. The horse had been hers now a month, and thus far it had been everything that a dignified, somewhat timidspinster could wish it to be. Fortunately--or unfortunately, as one maychoose to look at it--Miss Prue did not know that in the dim recesses ofJupiter's memory there lurked the smell of the turf, the feel of thejockey's coaxing touch, and the sound of a triumphant multitude shoutinghis name; in Miss Prue's estimation the next deadly sin to treason andmurder was horse racing. 

There was no one in the town, perhaps, who did not know of Miss Prue'sabhorrence of horse racing. On all occasions she freed her mindconcerning it; and there was a report that the only lover of her youthhad lost his suit through his passion for driving fast horses. Even thecounty fair Miss Prue had refused all her life to attend--there was thehorse racing. It was because of all this that she had been so loath tobuy a horse, if only the way to everywhere had not grown so long!

For four weeks--indeed, for five--the new horse, Ann, was a treasure;then, one day, Jupiter remembered. 

Miss Prue was driving home from the post office. The wide, smooth roadled straight ahead under an arch of flaming gold and scarlet. TheOctober air was crisp and bracing, and unconsciously Miss Prue liftedher chin and drew a long breath. Almost at once, however, she frowned. From behind her had come the sound of a horse's hoofs, and reluctantlyMiss Prue pulled the right-hand rein. 

Jupiter Ann quickened his gait perceptibly, and lifted his head. Hisears came erect. 

"Whoa, Ann, whoa!" stammered Miss Prue nervously. 

The hoof beats were almost abreast now, and hurriedly Miss Prue turnedher head. At once she gave the reins an angry jerk; in the other lightcarriage sat Rupert Joyce, the young man who for weeks had beenunsuccessfully trying to find favor in her eyes because he had alreadyfound it in the eyes of her ward and niece, Mary Belle. 

"Good-morning, Miss Prue, " called a boyish voice. 

"Good-morning, " snapped the woman, and jerked the reins again. 

Miss Prue awoke then to the sudden realization that if the other's speedhad accelerated, so, too, had her own. 

"Ann, Ann, whoa!" she commanded. Then she turned angry eyes on the youngman. "Go by--go by! Why don't you go by?" she called sharply. 

In obedience, young Joyce touched the whip to his gray mare: but he didnot go by. With a curious little shake, as if casting off years of dullpropriety, Jupiter Ann thrust forward his nose and got down to business. 

Miss Prue grew white, then red. Her hands shook on the reins. 

"Ann, Ann, whoa! You mustn't--you can't! Ann, please whoa!" shesupplicated wildly. She might as well have besought the wind not toblow. 

On and on, neck and neck, the horses raced. Miss Prue's bonnet slippedand hung rakishly above one ear. Her hair loosened and fell instraggling wisps of gray to her shoulders. Her eyeglasses dropped fromher nose and swayed dizzily on their slender chain. Her gloves splitacross the back and showed the white, tense knuckles. Her breath came ingasps, and only a moaning "whoa--whoa" fell in jerky rhythm from herwhite lips. Ashamed, frightened, and dismayed, Miss Prue clung to thereins and kept her straining eyes on the road ahead. 

On and on down the long straight road flew Jupiter Ann and the littlegray mare. At door and window of the scudding houses appeared men andwomen with startled faces and upraised hands. Miss Prue knew that theywere there, and shuddered. The shame of it--she, in a horse-race, andwith Rupert Joyce! Hurriedly she threw a look at the young man's face tocatch its expression; and then she saw something else: the little graymare was a full half-head in the lead of Jupiter Ann!

It was then that a strange something awoke in Miss Prue--a fierce newsomething that she had never felt before. Her lips set hard, and hereyes flashed a sudden fire. Her moaning "whoa--whoa" fell silent, andher hands loosened instinctively on the reins. She was leaning forwardnow, eagerly, anxiously, her eyes on the head of the other horse. Suddenly her tense muscles relaxed, and a look that was perilously nearto triumphant joy crossed her face--Jupiter Ann was ahead once more!

By the time the wide sweep of the driveway leading to Miss Prue's homewas reached, there was no question of the result, and well in the leadof the little gray mare Jupiter Ann trotted proudly up the driveway andcame to a panting stop. 

Flushed, disheveled, and palpitating, Miss Prue picked her way to theground. Behind her Rupert Joyce was just driving into the yard. He, too, was flushed and palpitating--though not for the same reason. 

"I--I just thought I'd drive out and see Mary Belle, " he blurted outairily, assuming a bold front to meet the wrath which he felt was sureto come. At once, however, his jaw dropped in amazement. 

"Mary Belle? I left her down in the orchard gathering apples, " Miss Pruewas saying cheerfully. "You might look for her there. " And she smiled--the gracious smile of the victor for the vanquished. 

Incredulously the youth stared; then, emboldened, he plunged onrecklessly:

"I say, you know, Miss Prue, that little horse of yours can run!"

Miss Prue stiffened. With a jerk she straightened her bonnet and thrusther glasses on her nose. 

"Ann has been bad--very bad, " she said severely. "We'll not talk of it, if you please. I am ashamed of her!" And he turned haughtily away. 

And yet--

In the barn two minutes later, Miss Prue patted Jupiter Ann on the neck--a thing she had never done before. 

"We beat 'em, anyhow, Ann, " she whispered. "And, after all, he's apleasant-spoken chap, and if Mary Belle wants him--why--let's let herhave him!"

The Axminster Path

"There, dear, here we are, all dressed for the day!" said the girlgayly, as she led the frail little woman along the strip of Axminstercarpet that led to the big chair. 

"And Kathie?" asked the woman, turning her head with the gropinguncertainty of the blind. 

"Here, mother, " answered a cheery voice. "I'm right here by the window. "

"Oh!" And the woman smiled happily. "Painting, I suppose, as usual. "

"Oh, I'm working, as usual, " returned the same cheery voice, its ownerchanging the position of the garment in her lap and reaching for a spoolof silk. 

"There!" breathed the blind woman, as she sank into the great chair. "Now I am all ready for my breakfast. Tell cook, please, Margaret, thatI will have tea this morning, and just a roll besides my orange. " Andshe smoothed the folds of her black silk gown and picked daintily at thelace in her sleeves. 

"Very well, dearie, " returned her daughter. "You shall have it rightaway, " she added over her shoulder as she left the room. 

In the tiny kitchen beyond the sitting-room Margaret Whitmore lightedthe gas-stove and set the water on to boil. Then she arranged a smalltray with a bit of worn damask and the only cup and saucer of delicatechina that the shelves contained. Some minutes later she went back toher mother, tray in hand. 

"'Most starved to death?" she demanded merrily, as she set the tray uponthe table Katherine had made ready before the blind woman. "You haveyour roll, your tea, your orange, as you ordered, dear, and just a bitof currant jelly besides. "

"Currant jelly? Well, I don't know, --perhaps it will taste good. 'T wasso like Nora to send it up; she's always trying to tempt my appetite, you know. Dear me, girls, I wonder if you realize what a treasure wehave in that cook!"

"Yes, dear, I know, " murmured Margaret hastily. "And now the tea, Mother--it's getting colder every minute. Will you have the orangefirst?"

The slender hands of the blind woman hovered for a moment over thetable, then dropped slowly and found by touch the position of spoons, plates, and the cup of tea. 

"Yes, I have everything. I don't need you any longer, Meg. I don't liketo take so much of your time, dear--you should let Betty do for me. "

"But I want to do it, " laughed Margaret. "Don't you want me?"

"Want you! That isn't the question, dear, " objected Mrs. Whitmoregently. "Of course, a maid's service can't be compared for an instantwith a daughter's love and care; but I don't want to be selfish--and youand Kathie never let Betty do a thing for me. There, there! I won'tscold any more. What are you going to do to-day, Meg?"

Margaret hesitated. She was sitting by the window now, in a low chairnear her sister's. In her hands was a garment similar to that upon whichKatherine was still at work. 

"Why, I thought, " she began slowly, "I'd stay here with you andKatherine a while. "

Mrs. Whitmore set down her empty cup and turned a troubled face towardthe sound of her daughter's voice. 

"Meg, dear, " she remonstrated, "is it that fancy-work?"

"Well, isn't fancy-work all right?" The girl's voice shook a little. 

Mrs. Whitmore stirred uneasily. 

"No, it--it isn't--in this case, " she protested. "Meg, Kathie, I don'tlike it. You are young; you should go out more--both of you. Iunderstand, of course; it's your unselfishness. You stay with me lest Iget lonely; and you play at painting and fancy-work for an excuse. Now, dearies, there must be a change. You must go out. You must take yourplace in society. I will not have you waste your young lives. "

"Mother!" Margaret was on her feet, and Katherine had dropped her work. "Mother!" they cried again. 

"I--I shan't even listen, " faltered Margaret. "I shall go and leave youright away, " she finished tremulously, picking up the tray and hurryingfrom the room. 

It was hours later, after the little woman had trailed once more alongthe Axminster path to the bed in the room beyond and had dropped asleep, that Margaret Whitmore faced her sister with despairing eyes. 

"Katherine, what shall we do? This thing is killing me!"

The elder girl's lips tightened. For an instant she paused in her work--but for only an instant. 

"I know, " she said feverishly; "but we mustn't give up--we mustn't!"

"But how can we help it? It grows worse and worse. She wants us to goout--to sing, dance, and make merry as we used to. "

"Then we'll go out and--tell her we dance. "

"But there's the work. "

"We'll take it with us. We can't both leave at once, of course, but oldMrs. Austin, downstairs, will be glad to have one or the other of us sitwith her an occasional afternoon or evening. "

Margaret sprang to her feet and walked twice the length of the room. 

"But I've--lied so much already!" she moaned, pausing before her sister. "It's all a lie--my whole life!"

"Yes, yes, I know, " murmured the other, with a hurried glance toward thebedroom door. "But, Meg, we mustn't give up--'twould kill her to knownow. And, after all, it's only a little while!--such a little while!"

Her voice broke with a half-stifled sob. The younger girl shivered, butdid not speak. She walked again the length of the room and back; thenshe sat down to her work, her lips a tense line of determination, andher thoughts delving into the few past years for a strength that mighthelp her to bear the burden of the days to come. 

 * * * * *

Ten years before, and one week after James Whitmore's death, Mrs. JamesWhitmore had been thrown from her carriage, striking on her head andback. 

When she came to consciousness, hours afterward, she opened her eyes onmidnight darkness, though the room was flooded with sunlight. The opticnerve had been injured, the doctor said. It was doubtful if she wouldever be able to see again. 

Nor was this all. There were breaks and bruises, and a bad injury to thespine. It was doubtful if she would ever walk again. To the little womanlying back on the pillow it seemed a living death--this thing that hadcome to her. 

It was then that Margaret and Katherine constituted themselves averitable wall of defense between their mother and the world. Nothingthat was not inspected and approved by one or the other was allowed topass Mrs. Whitmore's chamber door. 

For young women only seventeen and nineteen, whose greatestresponsibility hitherto had been the selection of a gown or a ribbon, this was a new experience. 

At first the question of expense did not enter into consideration. Accustomed all their lives to luxury, they unhesitatingly demanded itnow; and doctors, nurses, wines, fruits, flowers, and delicacies weresummoned as a matter of course. 

Then came the crash. The estate of the supposedly rich James Whitmorewas found to be deeply involved, and in the end there was only apittance for the widow and her two daughters. 

Mrs. Whitmore was not told of this at once. She was so ill and helplessthat a more convenient season was awaited. That was nearly ten yearsago--and she had not been told yet. 

Concealment had not been difficult at first. The girls had, indeed, drifted into the deception almost unconsciously, as it certainly was notnecessary to burden the ears of the already sorely afflicted woman withthe petty details of the economy and retrenchment on the other side ofher door. 

If her own luxuries grew fewer, the change was so gradual that theinvalid did not notice it, and always her blindness made easy thedeception of those about her. 

Even the move to another home was accomplished without her realizing it--she was taken to the hospital for a month's treatment, and when themonth was ended she was tenderly carried home and laid on her own bed;and she did not know that "home" now was a cheap little flat in Harleminstead of the luxurious house on the avenue where her children wereborn. 

She was too ill to receive visitors, and was therefore all the moredependent on her daughters for entertainment. 

She pitied them openly for the grief and care she had brought upon them, and in the next breath congratulated them and herself that at least theyhad all that money could do to smooth the difficult way. In the face ofthis, it naturally did not grow any easier for the girls to tell thetruth--and they kept silent. 

For six years Mrs. Whitmore did not step; then her limbs and back grewstronger, and she began to sit up, and to stand for a moment on herfeet. Her daughters now bought the strip of Axminster carpet and laid apath across the bedroom, and another one from the bedroom door to thegreat chair in the sitting-room, so that her feet might not note thestraw matting on the floor and question its being there. 

In her own sitting-room at home--which had opened, like this, out of herbedroom--the rugs were soft and the chairs sumptuous with springs andsatin damask. One such chair had been saved from the wreck--the one atthe end of the strip of carpet. 

Day by day and month by month the years passed. The frail little womanwalked the Axminster path and sat in the tufted chair. For her therewere a china cup and plate, and a cook and maids below to serve. For herthe endless sewing over which Katherine and Margaret bent their backs toeke out their scanty income was a picture or a bit of embriodery, designed to while away the time. 

As Margaret thought of it it seemed incredible--this tissue offabrications that enmeshed them; but even as she wondered she knew thatthe very years that marked its gradual growth made now its strength. 

And in a little while would come the end--a very little while, thedoctor said. 

Margaret tightened her lips and echoed her sister's words: "We mustn'tgive up--we mustn't!"

Two days later the doctor called. He was a bit out of the old life. 

His home, too, had been--and was now, for that matter--on the avenue. Helived with his aunt, whose heir he was, and he was the only one outsideof the Whitmore family that knew the house of illusions in which Mrs. Whitmore lived. 

His visits to the little Harlem flat had long ceased to have more than asemblance of being professional, and it was an open secret that hewished to make Margaret his wife. Margaret said no, though with aheightened color and a quickened breath--which told at least herself howeasily the "no" might have been a "yes. "

Dr. Littlejohn was young and poor, and he had only his profession, forall he was heir to one of the richest women on the avenue; and Margaretrefused to burden him with what she knew it would mean to marry her. Inspite of argument, therefore, and a pair of earnest brown eyes thatpleaded even more powerfully, she held to her convictions and continuedto say no. 

All this, however, did not prevent Dr. Littlejohn from making frequentvisits to the Whitmore home, and always his coming meant joy to threeweary, troubled hearts. To-day he brought a great handful of pinkcarnations and dropped them into the lap of the blind woman. 

"Sweets to the sweet!" he cried gayly, as he patted the slim hand on thearm of the chair. 

"Doctor Ned--you dear boy! Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed Mrs. Whitmore, burying her face in the fragrant flowers. "And, doctor, I want to speakto you, " she broke off earnestly. "I want you to talk to Meg and Kathie. Perhaps they will listen to you. I want them to go out more. Tell them, please, that I don't need them all the time now. "

"Dear me, how independent we are going to be!" laughed the doctor. "Andso we don't need any more attention now, eh?"

"Betty will do. "

"Betty?" It was hard, sometimes, for the doctor to remember. 

"The maid, " explained Mrs. Whitmore; "though, for that matter, theremight as well be no maid--the girls never let her do a thing for me. "

"No?" returned the doctor easily, sure now of where he stood. "But youdon't expect me to interfere in this housekeeping business!"

"Somebody must, " urged Mrs. Whitmore. "The girls must leave me more. Itisn't as if we were poor and couldn't hire nurses and maids. I shoulddie if it were like that, and I were such a burden. "

"Mother, dearest!" broke in Margaret feverishly, with animploring glance toward her sister and the doctor. 

"Oh, by the way, " interposed the doctor airily, "it has occurred to methat the very object of my visit to-day is right along the lines of whatyou ask. I want Miss Margaret to go driving with me. I have a call tomake out Washington Heights way. "

"Oh, but--" began Margaret, and paused at a gesture from her mother. 

"There aren't any 'buts' about it, " declared Mrs. Whitmore. "Meg shallgo. "

"Of course she'll go!" echoed Katherine. And with three against her, Margaret's protests were in vain. 

 * * * * *

Mrs. Whitmore was nervous that night. She could not sleep. 

It seemed to her that if she could get up and walk, back and forth, backand forth, she could rest afterward. She had not stepped alone yet, tobe sure, since the accident, but, after all, the girls did little morethan guide her feet, and she was sure that she could walk alone if shetried. 

The more she thought of it the more she longed to test her strength. Just a few steps back and forth, back and forth--then sleep. She wassure she could sleep then. Very quietly, that she might not disturb thesleepers in the bedroom beyond, the blind woman sat up in bed andslipped her feet to the floor. 

Within reach were her knit slippers and the heavy shawl always kept atthe head of her bed. With trembling hands she put them on and roseupright. 

At last she was on her feet, and alone. To a woman who for ten years haddepended on others for almost everything but the mere act of breathing, it was joy unspeakable. She stepped once, twice, and again along theside of her bed; then she stopped with a puzzled frown--under her feetwas the unyielding, unfamiliar straw matting. She took four more steps, hesitatingly, and with her arms outstretched at full length before her. The next instant she recoiled and caught her breath sharply; her handshad encountered a wall and a window--and there should have been nowall or windows there!

The joy was gone now. 

Shaking with fear and weakness, the little woman crept along the walland felt for something that would tell her that she was still at home. Her feet made no sound, and only her hurried breathing broke thesilence. 

Through the open door to the sitting-room, and down the wall to theright-on and on she crept. 

Here and there a familiar chair or stand met her groping hands and heldthem hesitatingly for a moment, only to release them to the terror of anunfamiliar corner or window-sill. 

The blind woman herself had long since lost all realization of what shewas doing. There was only the frenzied longing to find her own. She didnot hesitate even at the outer door of the apartment, but turned the keywith shaking hands and stepped fearlessly into the hall. The next momentthere came a scream and a heavy fall. The Whitmore apartment was just atthe head of the stairs, and almost the first step of the blind woman hadbeen off into space. 

 * * * * *

When Mrs. Whitmore regained consciousness she was alone in her own bed. 

Out in the sitting-room, Margaret, Katherine, and the doctor talkedtogether in low tones. At last the girls hurried into the kitchen, andthe doctor turned and entered the bedroom. With a low ejaculation hehurried forward. 

Mrs. Whitmore flung out her arm and clutched his hand; then she lay backon the pillow and closed her eyes. 

"Doctor, " she whispered, "where am I?"

"At home, in your own bed. "

"Where is this place?"

Dr. Littlejohn paled. He sent an anxious glance toward the sitting-roomdoor, though he knew very well that Margaret and Katherine were in thekitchen and could not hear. 

"Where is this place?" begged the woman again. 

"Why, it--it--is--" The man paused helplessly. 

Five thin fingers tightened their clasp on his hand, and the low voiceagain broke the silence. 

"Doctor, did you ever know--did you ever hear that a fall could giveback--sight?"

Dr. Littlejohn started and peered into the wan face lying back on thepillow. Its impassiveness reassured him. 

"Why, perhaps--once or twice, " he returned slowly, falling back into hisold position, "though rarely--very rarely. "

"But it has happened?"

"Yes, it has happened. There was a case recently in England. The shockand blow released the pressure on the optic nerve; but--"

Something in the face he was watching brought him suddenly forward inhis chair. "My dear woman, you don't mean--you can't--"

He did not finish his sentence. Mrs. Whitmore opened her eyes and methis gaze unflinchingly. Then she turned her head. 

"Doctor, " she said, "that picture on the wall there at the foot of thebed--it doesn't hang quite straight. "

"Mrs. Whitmore!" breathed the man incredulously, half rising from hischair. 

"Hush! Not yet!" The woman's insistent hand had pulled him back. "Why amI here? Where is this place?"

There was no answer. 

"Doctor, you must tell me. I must know. "

Again the man hesitated. He noted the flushed cheeks and shaking handsof the woman before him. It was true, she must know; and perhaps, afterall, it was best she should know through him. He drew a long breath andplunged straight into the heart of the story. 

Five minutes later a glad voice came from the doorway. 

"Mother, dearest--then you're awake!" The doctor was conscious of a low-breathed "Hush, don't tell her!" in his ears; then, to his amazement, hesaw the woman on the bed turn her head and hold out her hand with theold groping uncertainty of the blind. 

"Margaret! It is Margaret, isn't it?"

Days afterward, when the weary, painracked body of the little mother wasforever at rest, Margaret lifted her head from her lover's shoulder, where she had been sobbing out her grief. 

"Ned, I can't be thankful enough, " she cried, "that we kept it fromMother to the end. It's my only comfort. She didn't know. "

"And I'm sure she would wish that thought to be a comfort to you, dear, "said the doctor gently. "I am sure she would. "

Phineas and the Motor Car

Phineas used to wonder, sometimes, just when it was that he began tocourt Diantha Bowman, the rosy-cheeked, golden-haired idol of hisboyhood. Diantha's cheeks were not rosy now, and her hair was moresilver than gold, but she was not yet his wife. 

And he had tried so hard to win her! Year after year the rosiest applesfrom his orchard and the choicest honey from his apiary had found theirway to Diantha's table; and year after year the county fair and thevillage picnic had found him at Diantha's door with his old mare and hisbuggy, ready to be her devoted slave for the day. Nor was Dianthaunmindful of all these attentions. She ate the apples and the honey, andspent long contented hours in the buggy; but she still answered hispleadings with her gentle: "I hain't no call to marry yet, Phineas, " andnothing he could do seemed to hasten her decision in the least. It wasthe mare and the buggy, however, that proved to be responsible for whatwas the beginning of the end. 

They were on their way home from the county fair. The mare, headhanging, was plodding through the dust when around the curve of the roadahead shot the one automobile that the town boasted. The next moment thewhizzing thing had passed, and left a superannuated old mare loomingthrough a cloud of dust and dancing on two wabbly hind legs. 

"Plague take them autymobiles!" snarled Phineas through set teeth, as hesawed at the reins. "I ax yer pardon, I'm sure, Dianthy, " he addedshamefacedly, when the mare had dropped to a position more nearlynormal; "but I hain't no use fur them 'ere contraptions!"

Diantha frowned. She was frightened--and because she was frightened shewas angry. She said the first thing that came into her head--and neverhad she spoken to Phineas so sharply. 

"If you did have some use for 'em, Phineas Hopkins, you wouldn't becrawlin' along in a shiftless old rig like this; you'd have one yourselfan' be somebody! For my part, I like 'em, an' I'm jest achin' ter ridein 'em, too!"

Phineas almost dropped the reins in his amazement. "Achin' ter ride in'em, " she had said--and all that he could give her was this "shiftlessold rig" that she so scorned. He remembered something else, too, and hisface flamed suddenly red. It was Colonel Smith who owned and drove thatautomobile, and Colonel Smith, too, was a bachelor. What if--Instantlyin Phineas's soul rose a fierce jealousy. 

"I like a hoss, myself, " he said then, with some dignity. "I wantsomethin' that's alive!"

Diantha laughed slyly. The danger was past, and she could afford to bemerry. 

"Well, it strikes me that you come pretty near havin' somethin' thatwa'n't alive jest 'cause you had somethin' that was!" sheretorted. "Really, Phineas, I didn't s'pose Dolly could move so fast!"

Phineas bridled. 

"Dolly knew how ter move--once, " he rejoined grimly. "'Course nobodypretends ter say she's young now, any more 'n we be, " he finished withsome defiance. But he drooped visibly at Diantha's next words. 

"Why, I don't feel old, Phineas, an' I ain't old, either. Look atColonel Smith; he's jest my age, an' he's got a autymobile. Mebbe I'llhave one some day. "

To Phineas it seemed that a cold hand clutched his heart. 

"Dianthy, you wouldn't really--ride in one!" he faltered. 

Until that moment Diantha had not been sure that she would, but thequaver in Phineas's voice decided her. 

"Wouldn't I? You jest wait an' see!"

And Phineas did wait--and he did see. He saw Diantha, not a week later, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, sitting by the side of Colonel Smith inthat hated automobile. Nor did he stop to consider that Diantha was onlyone of a dozen upon whom Colonel Smith, in the enthusiasm of his newpossession, was pleased to bestow that attention. To Phineas it couldmean but one thing; and he did not change his opinion when he heardDiantha's account of the ride. 

"It was perfectly lovely, " she breathed. "Oh, Phineas, it was jest likeflyin'!"

"'Flyin'!'" Phineas could say no more. He felt as if he were choking, --choking with the dust raised by Dolly's plodding hoofs. 

"An' the trees an' the houses swept by like ghosts, " continued Diantha. "Why, Phineas, I could 'a' rode on an' on furever!"

Before the ecstatic rapture in Diantha's face Phineas went down indefeat. Without one word he turned away--but in his heart he registereda solemn vow: he, too, would have an automobile; he, too, would makeDiantha wish to ride on and on forever!

Arduous days came then to Phineas. Phineas was not a rich man. He hadenough for his modest wants, but until now those wants had not includedan automobile--until now he had not known that Diantha wished to fly. All through the autumn and winter Phineas pinched and economized untilhe had lopped off all of the luxuries and most of the pleasures ofliving. Even then it is doubtful if he would have accomplished hispurpose had he not, in the spring, fallen heir to a modest legacy of afew thousand dollars. The news of his good fortune was not two hours oldwhen he sought Diantha. 

"I cal'late mebbe I'll be gettin' me one o' them 'ere autymobiles thisspring, " he said, as if casually filling a pause in the conversation. 

"Phineas!"

At the awed joy in Diantha's voice the man's heart glowed within him. This one moment of triumph was worth all the long miserable winter withits butterless bread and tobaccoless pipes. But he carefully hid his joywhen he spoke. 

"Yes, " he said nonchalantly. "I'm goin' ter Boston next week ter pickone out. I cal'late on gettin' a purty good one. "

"Oh, Phineas! But how--how you goin' ter run it?"

Phineas's chin came up. 

"Run it!" he scoffed. "Well, I hain't had no trouble yet steerin' ahoss, an' I cal'late I won't have any more steerin' a mess o' senselessmetal what hain't got no eyes ter be seein' things an' gittin' scared! Idon't worry none 'bout runnin' it. "

"But, Phineas, it ain't all steerin', " ventured Diantha, timidly. "There's lots of little handles and things ter turn, an' there's somethings you do with your feet. Colonel Smith did. "

The name Smith to Phineas was like a match to gunpowder. He flamedinstantly into wrath. 

"Well, I cal'late what Colonel Smith does, I can, " he snapped. "Besides"--airily--"mebbe I shan't git the feet kind, anyhow; I want thebest. There's as much as four or five kinds, Jim Blair says, an' Ical'late ter try 'em all. "

"Oh-h!" breathed Diantha, falling back in her chair with an ecstaticsigh. "Oh, Phineas, won't it be grand!" And Phineas, seeing the joyouslight in her eyes, gazed straight down a vista of happiness that led towedding bells and bliss. 

Phineas was gone some time on his Boston trip. When he returned helooked thin and worried. He started nervously at trivial noises, and hiseyes showed a furtive restlessness that quickly caused remark. 

"Why, Phineas, you don't look well!" Diantha exclaimed when she saw him. 

"Well? Oh, I'm well. "

"An' did you buy it--that autymobile?"

"I did. " Phineas's voice was triumphant. Diantha's eyes sparkled. 

"Where is it?" she demanded. 

"Comin'--next week. "

"An' did you try 'em all, as you said you would?"

Phineas stirred; then he sighed. 

"Well, I dunno, " he acknowledged. "I hain't done nothin' but ride in 'emsince I went down--I know that. But there's such a powerful lot of 'em, Dianthy; an' when they found out I wanted one, they all took hold an'showed off their best p'ints--'demonstatin', ' they called it. They racedme up hill an' down hill, an' scooted me round corners till I didn'tknow where I was. I didn't have a minute ter myself. An' they went fast, Dianthy-powerful fast. I ain't real sure yet that I'm breathin'natural. "

"But it must have been grand, Phineas! I should have loved it!"

"Oh, it was, 'course!" assured Phineas, hastily. 

"An' you'll take me ter ride, right away?" If Phineas hesitated it wasfor only a moment. 

"'Course, " he promised. "Er--there's a man, he's comin' with it, an'he's goin' ter stay a little, jest ter--ter make sure everything's allright. After he goes I'll come. An' ye want ter be ready--I'll show ye athing or two!" he finished with a swagger that was meant to hide theshake in his voice. 

In due time the man and the automobile arrived, but Diantha did not haveher ride at once. It must have taken some time to make sure that"everything was all right, " for the man stayed many days, and while hewas there, of course Phineas was occupied with him. Colonel Smith wasunkind enough to observe that he hoped it was taking Phineas Hopkinslong enough to learn to run the thing; but his remark did not reachDiantha's ears. She knew only that Phineas, together with the man andthe automobile, started off early every morning for some unfrequentedroad, and did not return until night. 

There came a day, however, when the man left town, and not twenty-fourhours later, Phineas, with a gleaming thing of paint and polish, stoodat Diantha's door. 

"Now ain't that pretty, " quavered Diantha excitedly. "Ain't that awfulpretty!"

Phineas beamed. 

"Purty slick, I think myself, " he acknowledged. 

"An' green is so much nicer than red, " cooed Diantha. 

Phineas quite glowed with joy--Colonel Smith's car was red. "Oh, green'sthe thing, " he retorted airily; "an' see!" he added; and forthwith heburst into a paean of praise, in which tires, horns, lamps, pumps, baskets, brakes, and mud-guards were the dominant notes. It almostseemed, indeed, that he had bought the gorgeous thing before him to lookat and talk about rather than to use, so loath was he to stop talkingand set the wheels to moving. Not until Diantha had twice reminded himthat she was longing to ride in it did he help her into the car and makeready to start. 

It was not an entire success--that start. There were several false moveson Phineas's part, and Diantha could not repress a slight scream and anervous jump at sundry unexpected puffs and snorts and snaps from thethrobbing thing beneath her. She gave a louder scream when Phineas, inhis nervousness, sounded the siren, and a wail like a cry from thespirit world shrieked in her ears. 

"Phineas, what was that?" she shivered, when the voice had moaned intosilence. 

Phineas's lips were dry, and his hands and knees were shaking; but hispride marched boldly to the front. 

"Why, that's the siren whistle, 'course, " he chattered. "Ain't it great?I thought you'd like it!" And to hear him one would suppose that tosound the siren was always a necessary preliminary to starting thewheels. 

They were off at last. There was a slight indecision, to be sure, whether they would go backward or forward, and there was some hesitationas to whether Diantha's geranium bed or the driveway would make the bestthoroughfare. But these little matters having been settled to theapparent satisfaction of all concerned, the automobile rolled down thedriveway and out on to the main highway. 

"Oh, ain't this grand!" murmured Diantha, drawing a long but somewhattremulous breath. 

Phineas did not answer. His lips were tense, and his eyes were fixed onthe road ahead. For days now he had run the car himself, and he had beengiven official assurance that he was quite capable of handling it; yethere he was on his first ride with Diantha almost making a failure ofthe whole thing at the start. Was he to be beaten--beaten by a senselessmotor car and Colonel Smith? At the thought Phineas lifted his chin andput on more power. 

"Oh, my! How f-fast we're goin'!" cried Diantha, close to his ear. 

Phineas nodded. 

"Who wants ter crawl?" he shouted; and the car leaped again at the touchof his hand. 

They were out of the town now, on a wide road that had few turns. Occasionally they met a carriage or a wagon, but the frightened horsesand the no less frightened drivers gave the automobile a wide berth--which was well; for the parallel tracks behind Phineas showed that thecar still had its moments of indecision as to the course to pursue. 

The town was four miles behind them when Diantha, who had been for sometime vainly clutching at the flying ends of her veil, called to Phineasto stop. 

The request took Phineas by surprise. For one awful moment his mind wasa blank--he had forgotten how to stop! In frantic haste he turned andtwisted and shoved and pulled, ending with so sudden an application ofthe brakes that Diantha nearly shot head first out of the car as itstopped. 

"Why, why--Phineas!" she cried a little sharply. 

Phineas swallowed the lump in his throat and steadied himself in hisseat. 

"Ye see I--I can stop her real quick if I want to, " he explainedjauntily. "Ye can do 'most anythin' with these 'ere things if ye onlyknow how, Dianthy. Didn't we come slick?"

"Yes, indeed, " stammered Diantha, hastily smoothing out the frown on herface and summoning a smile to her lips--not for her best black silk gownwould she have had Phineas know that she was wishing herself safe athome and the automobile back where it came from. 

"We'll go home through the Holler, " said Phineas, after she had retiedher veil and they were ready to start. "It's the long way round, yeknow. I ain't goin' ter give ye no snippy little two-mile run, Dianthy, like Colonel Smith did, " he finished gleefully. 

"No, of course not, " murmured Diantha, smothering a sigh as theautomobile started with a jerk. 

An hour later, tired, frightened, a little breathless, but valiantlydeclaring that she had had a "beautiful time, " Diantha was set down ather own door. 

That was but the first of many such trips. Ever sounding in PhineasHopkins's ears and spurring him to fresh endeavor, were Diantha's words, "I could 'a' rode on an' on furever"; and deep in his heart was thedetermination that if it was automobile rides that she wanted, it wasautomobile rides that she should have! His small farm on the edge of thetown--once the pride of his heart--began to look forlorn and deserted;for Phineas, when not actually driving his automobile, was usually to befound hanging over it with wrench and polishing cloth. He bought littlefood and less clothing, but always--gasolene. And he talked to any onewho would listen about automobiles in general and his own in particular, learnedly dropping in frequent references to cylinders, speed, horsepower, vibrators, carburetors, and spark plugs. 

As for Diantha--she went to bed every night with thankfulness that shepossessed her complement of limbs and senses, and she rose every morningwith a fear that the coming night would find some of them missing. ToPhineas and the town in general she appeared to be devoted to thisbreathless whizzing over the country roads; and wild horses could nothave dragged from her the truth: that she was longing with anoverwhelming longing for the old days of Dolly, dawdling, and peace. 

Just where it all would have ended it is difficult to say had not theautomobile itself taken a hand in the game--as automobiles willsometimes--and played trumps. 

It was the first day of the county fair again, and Phineas and Dianthawere on their way home. Straight ahead the road ran between clumps ofgreen, then unwound in a white ribbon of dust across wide fields andopen meadows. 

"Tain't much like last year, is it, Dianthy?" crowed Phineas, shrilly, in her ear--then something went wrong. 

Phineas knew it instantly. The quivering thing beneath them leaped intonew life--but a life of its own. It was no longer a slave, but a master. Phineas's face grew white. Thus far he had been able to keep to theroad, but just ahead there was a sharp curve, and he knew he could notmake the turn--something was the matter with the steering-gear. 

"Look out--she's got the bits in her teeth!" he shouted. "She's bolted!"

There came a scream, a sharp report, and a grinding crash--then silence. 

 * * * * *

From away off in the dim distance Phineas heard a voice. 

"Phineas! Phineas!"

Something snapped, and he seemed to be floating up, up, up, out of theblack oblivion of nothingness. He tried to speak, but he knew that hemade no sound. 

"Phineas! Phineas!"

The voice was nearer now, so near that it seemed just above him. Itsounded like--With a mighty effort he opened his eyes; then fullconsciousness came. He was on the ground, his head in Diantha's lap. Diantha, bonnet crushed, neck-bow askew, and coat torn, was bending overhim, calling him frantically by name. Ten feet away the wreckedautomobile, tip-tilted against a large maple tree, completed thepicture. 

With a groan Phineas closed his eyes and turned away his head. 

"She's all stove up--an' now you won't ever say yes, " he moaned. "Youwanted ter ride on an' on furever!"

"But I will--I don't--I didn't mean it, " sobbed Diantha incoherently. "I'd rather have Dolly twice over. I like ter crawl. Oh, Phineas, I hate that thing--I've always hated it! I'll say yes next week--to-morrow--to-day if you'll only open your eyes and tell me you ain'ta-dyin'!"

Phineas was not dying, and he proved it promptly and effectually, evento the doubting Diantha's blushing content. And there their rescuersfound them a long half-hour later--a blissful old man and a happy oldwoman sitting hand in hand by the wrecked automobile. 

"I cal'lated somebody'd be along purty soon, " said Phineas, risingstiffly. "Ye see, we've each got a foot that don't go, so we couldn'tgit help; but we hain't minded the wait--not a mite!"

The Most Wonderful Woman

And a Great Man who proves himself truly great

It was Old Home Week in the little village, and this was to be thebiggest day. From a distant city was to come the town's one really GreatMan, to speak in the huge tent erected on the Common for just thatpurpose. From end to end the village was aflame with bunting and astirwith excitement, so that even I, merely a weary sojourner in the place, felt the thrill and tingled pleasantly. 

When the Honorable Jonas Whitermore entered the tent at two o'clock thatafternoon I had a good view of him, for my seat was next the broadaisle. Behind him on the arm of an usher came a small, frightened-looking little woman in a plain brown suit and a plainer brown bonnetset askew above thin gray hair. The materials of both suit and bonnetwere manifestly good, but all distinction of line and cut was hopelesslylost in the wearing. Who she was I did not know; but I soon learned, forone of the two young women in front of me said a low something to whichthe other gave back a swift retort, woefully audible: "His wife?That little dowdy thing in brown? Oh, what a pity! Such an ordinarywoman!"

My cheeks grew hot in sympathy with the painful red that swept to theroots of the thin gray hair under the tip-tilted bonnet. Then I glancedat the man. 

Had he heard? I was not quite sure. His chin, I fancied, was a triflehigher. I could not see his eyes, but I did see his right hand; and itwas clenched so tightly that the knuckles were white with the strain. Ithought I knew then. He had heard. The next minute he had passed on upthe aisle and the usher was seating the more-frightened-than-ever littlewife in the roped-off section reserved for important guests. 

It was then that I became aware that the man on my right was sayingsomething. 

"I beg your pardon, but-did you speak--to me?" I asked, turning to himhesitatingly. 

The old man met my eyes with an abashed smile. 

"I guess I'm the party what had ought to be askin' pardon, stranger, " heapologized. "I talk to myself so much I kinder furgit sometimes, and doit when folks is round. I was only sayin' that I wondered why 'twas thegood Lord give folks tongues and forgot to give 'em brains to run 'emwith. But maybe you didn't hear what she said, " he hazarded, with a jerkof his thumb toward the young woman in front. 

"About Mrs. Whitermore? Yes, I heard. "

His face darkened. 

"Then you know. And she heard, too! 'Ordinary woman, ' indeed! Humph! Tothink that Betty Tillington should ever live to hear herself called an'ordinary woman'! You see, I knew her when she was BettyTillington. "

"Did you?" I smiled encouragingly. I was getting interested, and I hopedhe would keep on talking. On the platform the guest of honor was holdinga miniature reception. He was the picture of polite attention andpunctilious responsiveness; but I thought I detected a quick glance nowand then toward the roped-off section where sat his wife and I wonderedagain--had he heard that thoughtless comment?

From somewhere had come the rumor that the man who was to introduce theHonorable Jonas Whitermore had been delayed by a washout "down theroad, " but was now speeding toward us by automobile. For my part, I fearI wished the absentee a punctured tire so that I might hear more of theheart-history of the faded little woman with the bonnet askew. 

"Yes, I knew her, " nodded my neighbor, "and she didn't look much thenlike she does now. She was as pretty as a picture and there wa'n't achap within sight of her what wa'n't head over heels in love with her. But there wa'n't never a chance for but two of us and we knew it: JoeWhitermore and a chap named Fred Farrell. So, after a time, we just sortof stood off and watched the race--as pretty a race as ever you see. Farrell had the money and the good looks, while Whitermore was poor as achurch mouse, and he was homely, too. But Whitermore must have hadsomethin'--maybe somethin' we didn't see, for she took him. 

"Well, they married and settled down happy as two twitterin' birds, butpoor as Job's turkey. For a year or so she was as pretty and gay as evershe was and into every good time goin'; then the babies came, one afteranother, some of 'em livin' and some dyin' soon after they came. 

"Of course, things was different then. What with the babies and thehousework, Betty couldn't get out much, and we didn't see much of her. When we did see her, though, she'd smile and toss her head in the oldway and say how happy she was and didn't we think her babies was theprettiest things ever, and all that. And we did, of course, and told herso. 

"But we couldn't help seein' that she was gettin' thin and white andthat no matter how she tossed her head, there wa'n't any curls there tobob like they used to, 'cause her hair was pulled straight back andtwisted up into a little hard knot just like as if she had done it upwhen some one was callin' her to come quick. "

"Yes, I can imagine it, " I nodded. 

"Well, that's the way things went at the first, while he was gettin' hisstart, and I guess they was happy then. You see, they was pullin' eventhem days and runnin' neck and neck. Even when Fred Farrell, her oldbeau, married a girl she knew and built a fine house all piazzas andbow-winders right in sight of their shabby little rented cottage, Idon't think she minded it; even if Mis' Farrell didn't have anythin' todo from mornin' till night only set in a white dress on her piazza, androck, and give parties, Betty didn't seem to mind. She had her Joe. 

"But by and by she didn't have her Joe. Other folks had him and hisbusiness had him. I mean, he'd got up where the big folks in town begunto take notice of him; and when he wa'n't tendin' to business, he washobnobbin' with them, so's to bring more business. And--of courseshe, with her babies and housework, didn't have no time for that. 

"Well, next they moved away. When they went they took my oldest girl, Mary, to help Betty; and so we still kept track of 'em. Mary said it wasworse than ever in the new place. It was quite a big city and justlivin' cost a lot. Mr. Whitermore, of course, had to look decent, outamong folks as he was, so he had to be 'tended to first. Then what wasleft of money and time went to the children. It wa'n't long, too, beforethe big folks there begun to take notice, and Mr. Whitermorewould come home all excited and tell about what was said to him and whatfine things he was bein' asked to do. He said 'twas goin' to meaneverythin' to his career. 

"Then come the folks to call, ladies in fine carriages with dressed-upmen to hold the door open and all that; but always, after they'd gone, Mary'd find Betty cryin' somewhere, or else tryin' to fix a bit of oldlace or ribbon on to some old dress. Mary said Betty's clo's were awful, then. You see, there wa'n't never any money left for her things. But all this didn't last long, for very soon the fine ladies stoppedcomin' and Betty just settled down to the children and didn't try to fixher clo's any more. 

"But by and by, of course, the money begun to come in--lots of it--andthat meant more changes, naturally. They moved into a bigger house, andgot two more hired girls and a man, besides Mary. Mr. Whitermore said hedidn't want his wife to work so hard now, and that, besides, hisposition demanded it. He was always talkin' about his position thosedays, tryin' to get his wife to go callin' and go to parties and takeher place as his wife, as he put it. 

"And Mary said Betty did try, and try hard. Of course she had nice clo'snow, lots of 'em; but somehow they never seemed to look just right. Andwhen she did go to parties, she never knew what to talk about, she toldMary. She didn't know a thing about the books and pictures and the playsand quantities of other things that everybody else seemed to know about;and so she just had to sit still and say nothin'. 

"Mary said she could see it plagued her and she wa'n't surprised when, after a time, Betty begun to have headaches and be sick party nights, and beg Mr. Whitermore to go alone--and then cry because he did goalone. You see, she'd got it into her head then that her husband wasashamed of her. "

"And was--he?" demanded I. 

"I don't know. Mary said she couldn't tell exactly. He seemed worried, sometimes, and quite put out at the way his wife acted about goin' toplaces. Then, other times, he didn't seem to notice or care if he didhave to go alone. It wa'n't that he was unkind to her. It was just thathe was so busy lookin' after himself that he forgot all about her. ButBetty took it all as bein' ashamed of her, no matter what he did; andfor a while she just seemed to pine away under it. They'd moved toWashington by that time and, of course, with him in the President'sCabinet, it was pretty hard for her. 

"Then, all of a sudden, she took a new turn and begun to study and totry to learn things--everything: how to talk and dress and act, besidesstuff that was just book-learnin'. She's been doin' that for quite aspell and Mary says she thinks she'd do pretty well now, in lots ofways, if only she had half a chance--somethin' to encourage her, youknow. But her husband don't seem to take no notice, now, just as if he'sgot tired expectin' anythin' of her and that's made her so scared anddiscouraged she's too nervous to act as if she did know anythin'. An' there 't is. 

"Well, maybe she is just an ordinary woman, " sighed the old man, alittle sternly, "if bein' 'ordinary' means she's like lots of others. For I suspect, stranger, that, if the truth was told, lots of other bigmen have got wives just like her--women what have been workin' so tarnalhard to help their husbands get ahead that they hain't had time to seewhere they themselves was goin'. And by and by they wake up to the factthat they hain't got nowhere. They've just stayed still, 'way behind. 

"Mary says she don't believe Betty would mind even that, if her husbandonly seemed to care--to--to understand, you know, how it had been withher and how--Crickey! I guess they've come, " broke off the old mansuddenly, craning his neck for a better view of the door. 

From outside had sounded the honk of an automobile horn and the wildcheering of men and boys. A few minutes later the long-delayed programmebegan. 

It was the usual thing. Before the Speaker of the Day came otherspeakers, and each of them, no matter what his subject, failed not torefer to "our illustrious fellow townsman" in terms of highest eulogy. One told of his humble birth, his poverty-driven boyhood, his strenuousyouth. Another drew a vivid picture of his rise to fame. A third dilatedupon the extraordinary qualities of brain and body which had made suchachievement possible and which would one day land him in the White Houseitself. 

Meanwhile, close to the speaker's stand sat the Honorable JonasWhitermore himself, for the most part grim and motionless, though Ithought I detected once or twice a repetition of the half-troubled, half-questioning glances directed toward his wife that I had seenbefore. Perhaps it was because I was watching him so closely that I sawthe sudden change come to his face. The lips lost their perfunctorysmile and settled into determined lines. The eyes, under their shaggybrows, glowed with sudden fire. The entire pose and air of the manbecame curiously alert, as if with the eager impatience of one who hasdetermined upon a certain course of action and is anxious only to be upand doing. Very soon after that he was introduced, and, amid deafeningcheers, rose to his feet. Then, very quietly, he began to speak. 

We had heard he was an orator. Doubtless many of us were familiar withhis famous nickname "Silver-tongued Joe. " We had expected great thingsof him--a brilliant discourse on the tariff, perhaps, or on our foreignrelations, or yet on the Hague Tribunal. But we got none of these. Wegot first a few quiet words of thanks and appreciation for the welcomeextended him; then we got the picture of an everyday home just likeours, with all its petty cares and joys so vividly drawn that we thoughtwe were seeing it, not hearing about it. He told us it was a little homeof forty years ago, and we began to realize, some way, that he wasspeaking of himself. 

"I may, you know, here, " he said, "for I am among my own people. I am athome. "

Even then I didn't see what he was coming to. Like the rest I satslightly confused, wondering what it all meant. Then, suddenly, into hisvoice there crept a tense something that made me sit more erect in myseat. 

"My indomitable will-power? My superb courage? Mystupendous strength of character? My undaunted persistence andmarvelous capacity for hard work?" he was saying. "Do you think it's tothat I owe what I am? Never! Come back with me to that little home offorty years ago and I'll show you to what and to whom I do owe it. Firstand foremost I owe it to a woman--no ordinary woman, I want you tounderstand--but to the most wonderful woman in the world. "

I knew then. So did my neighbor, the old man at my side. He jogged myelbow frantically and whispered:--

"He's goin' to--he's goin' to! He's goin' to show her he doescare and understand! He did hear that girl. Crickey! But ain't hethe cute one to pay her back like that, for what she said?"

The little wife down front did not know--yet, however. I realized that, the minute I looked at her and saw her drawn face and her frightened, staring eyes fixed on her husband up there on the platform--her husband, who was going to tell all these people about some wonderful woman whomeven she had never heard of before, but who had been the making of him, it seemed. 

"My will-power?" the Honorable Jonas Whitermore was saying then. "Not mine, but the will-power of a woman who did not know the meaning ofthe word 'fail. ' Not my superb courage, but the courage of one who, dayin and day out, could work for a victory whose crown was to go, not toherself, but to another. Not my stupendous strength of character, butthat of a beautiful young girl who could see youth and beauty andopportunity nod farewell, and yet smile as she saw them go. Not myundaunted persistence, but the persistence of one to whom the goal isalways just ahead, but never reached. And last, not my marvelouscapacity for hard work, but that of the wife and mother who bends herback each morning to a multitude of tasks and cares that she knows nightwill only interrupt--not finish. "

My eyes were still on the little brown-clad woman down in front, so Isaw the change come to her face as her husband talked. I saw the terrorgive way to puzzled questioning, and that, in turn, become surprise, incredulity, then overwhelming joy as the full meaning came to her thatshe herself was that most wonderful woman in the world who had been themaking of him. I looked then for just a touch of the old frightened, self-consciousness at finding herself thus so conspicuous; but it didnot come. The little woman plainly had forgotten us. She was no longerMrs. Jonas Whitermore among a crowd of strangers listening to a greatman's Old-Home-Day speech. She was just a loving, heart-hungry, tired, all-but-discouraged wife hearing for the first time from the lips of herhusband that he knew and cared and understood. 

"Through storm and sunshine, she was always there at her post, aiding, encouraging, that I might be helped, " the Honorable Jonas Whitermore wassaying. "Week in and week out she fought poverty, sickness, anddisappointments, and all without a murmur, lest her complaints distractme for one precious moment from my work. Even the nights brought her norest, for while I slept, she stole from cot to cradle and from cradle tocrib, covering outflung little legs and arms, cooling parched littlethroats with water, quieting fretful whimpers and hushing threateningoutcries with a low 'Hush, darling, mother's here. Don't cry! You'llwake father--and father must have his sleep. ' And father had it--thatsleep, just as he had the best of everything else in the house: food, clothing, care, attention--everything. 

"What mattered it if her hands did grow rough and toil-worn? Mine wereleft white and smooth--for my work. What mattered it if her back and herhead and her feet did ache? Mine were left strong and painless--for mywork. What mattered her wakefulness if I slept? What mattered herweariness if I was rested? What mattered her disappointments if my aimswere accomplished? Nothing!"

The Honorable Jonas Whitermore paused for breath, and I caught mine andheld it. It seemed, for a minute, as if everybody all over the house wasdoing the same thing, too, so absolutely still was it, after that oneword--"nothing. " They were beginning to understand--a little. I couldtell that. They were beginning to see this big thing that was takingplace right before their eyes. I glanced at the little woman down infront. The tender glow on her face had grown and deepened and broadeneduntil her whole little brown-clad self seemed transfigured. My own eyesdimmed as I looked. Then, suddenly I became aware that the HonorableJonas Whitermore was speaking again. 

"And not for one year only, nor two, nor ten, has this quintessence ofdevotion been mine, " he was saying, "but for twice ten and then a scoremore--for forty years. For forty years! Did you ever stop to think howlong forty years could be--forty years of striving and straining, ofpinching and economizing, of serving and sacrificing? Forty years ofjust loving somebody else better than yourself, and doing this everyday, and every hour of the day for the whole of those long forty years?It isn't easy to love somebody else always better than yourself, you know! It means the giving up of lots of things that you want. You might do it for a day, for a month, for a year even--but for fortyyears! Yet she has done it--that most wonderful woman. Do you wonderthat I say it is to her, and to her alone, under God, that I owe allthat I am, all that I hope to be?"

Once more he paused. Then, in a voice that shook a little at the first, but that rang out clear and strong and powerful at the end, he said:

"Ladies, gentlemen, I understand this will close your programme. It willgive me great pleasure, therefore, if at the adjournment of this meetingyou will allow me to present you to the most wonderful woman in theworld--my wife. "

I wish I could tell you what happened then. The words--oh, yes, I couldtell you in words what happened. For that matter, the reporters at thelittle stand down in front told it in words, and the press of the wholecountry blazoned it forth on the front page the next morning. But reallyto know what happened, you should have heard it and seen it, and feltthe tremendous power of it deep in your soul, as we did who did see it. 

There was a moment's breathless hush, then to the canvas roof there rosea mighty cheer and a thunderous clapping of hands as by common impulsethe entire audience leaped to its feet. 

For one moment only did I catch a glimpse of Mrs. Jonas Whitermore, blushing, laughing, and wiping teary eyes in which the wondrous glowstill lingered; then the eager crowd swept down the aisle toward her. 

"Crickey!" breathed the red-faced old man at my side. "Well, stranger, even if it does seem sometimes as if the good Lord give some folkstongues and forgot to give 'em brains to run 'em with, I guess maybe Hekinder makes up for it, once in a while, by givin' other folks thebrains to use their tongues so powerful well!"

I nodded dumbly. I could not speak just then--but the young woman infront of me could. Very distinctly as I passed her I heard her say:

"Well, now, ain't that the limit, Sue? And her such an ordinary woman, too!"

The Price of a Pair of Shoes

For fifty years the meadow lot had been mowed and the side hill ploughedat the nod of Jeremiah's head; and for the same fifty years the plumshad been preserved and the mince-meat chopped at the nod of his wife's--and now the whole farm from the meadowlot to the mince-meat was to passinto the hands of William, the only son, and William's wife, SarahEllen. 

"It'll be so much nicer, mother, --no care for you!" Sarah Ellen haddeclared. 

"And so much easier for you, father, too, " William had added. "It's timeyou rested. As for money--of course you'll have plenty in the savings-bank for clothes and such things. You won't need much, anyhow, " hefinished, "for you'll get your living off the farm just as you alwayshave. "

So the matter was settled, and the papers were made out. There was noone to be considered, after all, but themselves, for William was theonly living son, and there had been no daughters. 

For a time it was delightful. Jeremiah and Hester Whipple were likechildren let out of school. They told themselves that they were peopleof leisure now, and they forced themselves to lie abed half an hourlater than usual each day. They spent long hours in the attic lookingover old treasures, and they loitered about the garden and the barn withno fear that it might be time to get dinner or to feed the stock. 

Gradually, however, there came a change. A new restlessness enteredtheir lives, a restlessness that speedily became the worst kind ofhomesickness--the homesickness of one who is already at home. 

The extra half-hour was spent in bed as before--but now Hester lay withone ear listening to make sure that Sarah Ellen did let the catin for her early breakfast; and Jeremiah lay with his ear listening forthe squeak of the barn door which would tell him whether William wasearly or, late that morning. There were the same long hours in the atticand the garden, too--but in the attic Hester discovered her treasuredwax wreath (late of the parlor wall); and in the garden Jeremiah foundmore weeds than he had ever allowed to grow there, he was sure. 

The farm had been in the hands of William and Sarah Ellen just sixmonths when the Huntersville Savings Bank closed its doors. It was theold story of dishonesty and disaster, and when the smoke of TreasurerHilton's revolver cleared away there was found to be practically nothingfor the depositors. Perhaps on no one did the blow fall with morestaggering force than on Jeremiah Whipple. 

"Why, Hester, " he moaned, when he found himself alone with his wife, "here I'm seventy-eight years old--an' no money! What am I goin' terdo?"

"I know, dear, " soothed Hester; "but 't ain't as bad for us as 'tis forsome. We've got the farm, you know; an'--"

"We hain't got the farm, " cut in her husband sharply. "William an' SarahEllen's got it. "

"Yes, I know, but they--why, they're us, Jeremiah, " remindedHester, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice. 

"Mebbe, Hester, mebbe, " conceded Jeremiah; but he turned and looked outof the window with gloomy eyes. 

There came a letter to the farmhouse soon after this from Nathan Banks, a favorite nephew, suggesting that "uncle and aunt" pay them a littlevisit. 

"Just the thing, father!" cried William. "Go--it'll do you both good!"And after some little talk it was decided that the invitation should beaccepted. 

Nathan Banks lived thirty miles away, but not until the night before theWhipples were to start did it suddenly occur to Jeremiah that he had nowno money for railroad tickets. With a heightened color on his old cheekshe mentioned the fact to William. 

"Ye see, I--I s'pose I'll have ter come ter you, " he apologized. "Themwon't take us!" And he looked ruefully at a few coins he had pulled fromhis pocket. "They're all the cash I've got left. "

William frowned a little and stroked his beard. 

"Sure enough!" he muttered. "I forgot the tickets, too, father. 'T isawkward--that bank blowing up; isn't it? Oh, I'll let you have it allright, of course, and glad to, only it so happens that just now I--er, how much is it, anyway?" he broke off abruptly. 

"Why, I reckon a couple of dollars'll take us down, an' more, mebbe, "stammered the old man, "only, of course, there's comin' back, and--"

"Oh, we don't have to reckon on that part now, " interrupted Williamimpatiently, as he thrust his hands into his pockets and brought out abill and some change. "I can send you down some more when that timecomes. There, here's a two; if it doesn't take it all, what's left cango toward bringing you back. "

And he handed out the bill, and dropped the change into his pocket. 

"Thank you, William, " stammered the old man. "I--I'm sorry--"

"Oh, that's all right, " cut in William cheerfully, with a wave of histwo hands. "Glad to do it, father; glad to do it!"

Mr. And Mrs. Whipple stayed some weeks with their nephew. But, much asthey enjoyed their visit, there came a day when home--regardless ofweeds that were present and wax wreaths that were absent--seemed to themthe one place in the world; and they would have gone there at once hadit not been for the railroad fares. 

William had not sent down any more money, though his letters had beenkind, and had always spoken of the warm welcome that awaited them anytime they wished to come home. 

Toward the end of the fifth week a bright idea came to Jeremiah. 

"We'll go to Cousin Abby's, " he announced gleefully to his wife. "Nathansaid last night he'd drive us over there any time. We'll go to-morrow, an' we won't come back here at all--it'll be ten miles nearer homethere, an' it won't cost us a cent ter get there, " he finishedtriumphantly. And to Cousin Abby's they went. 

So elated was Jeremiah with the result of his scheming that he set hiswits to work in good earnest, and in less than a week he had formulatedan itinerary that embraced the homes of two other cousins, an aunt ofSarah Ellen's, and the niece of a brother-in-law, the latter being onlythree miles from 'his own farmhouse--or rather William's farmhouse, ashe corrected himself bitterly. Before another month had passed, theround of visits was accomplished, and the little old man and the littleold woman--having been carried to their destination in each case bytheir latest host--finally arrived at the farmhouse door. They wereweary, penniless, and half-sick from being feasted and fêted at everyturn, but they were blissfully conscious that of no one had they beenobliged to beg the price of their journey home. 

"We didn't write we were comin', " apologized Jeremiah faintly, as hestumbled across the threshold and dropped into the nearest chair. "Wewere goin' ter write from Keziah's, but we were so tired we hurriedright up an' come home. 'Tis nice ter get here; ain't it, Hester?" hefinished, settling back in his chair. 

"'Nice'!" cried Hester tremulously, tugging at her bonnet strings. "'Nice' ain't no name for it, Jeremiah. Why, Sarah Ellen, seems if Idon't want to do nothin' for a whole month but set in my own room an'jest look 'round all day!"

"You poor dear--and that's all you shall do!" soothed Sarah Ellen; andHester sighed, content. For so many, many weeks now she had sat uponstrange chairs and looked out upon an unfamiliar world!

 * * * * *

It was midwinter when Jeremiah's last pair of shoes gave out. "An' thereain't a cent ter get any new ones, Hester, " he exclaimed, ruefully eyingthe ominously thin place in the sole. 

"I know, Jeremiah, but there's William, " murmured Hester. "I'm sure he--"

"Oh, of course, he'd give it to me, " cried Jeremiah quickly; "but--I--Isort of hate to ask. "

"Pooh! I wouldn't think of that, " declared Hester stoutly, but even asshe spoke, she tucked her own feet farther under her chair. "We gavethem the farm, and they understood they was to take care of us, ofcourse. "

"Hm-m, yes, I know, I know. I'll ask him, " murmured Jeremiah--but he didnot ask him until the ominously thin place in the sole had become ahole, large, round, and unmistakable. 

"Well, William, " he began jocosely, trying to steady his shaking voice, "guess them won't stand for it much longer!" And he held up the shoe, sole uppermost. 

"Well, I should say not!" laughed William; then his face changed. "Oh, and you'll have to have the money for some new ones, of course. ByGeorge! It does beat all how I keep forgetting about that bank!"

"I know, William, I'm sorry, " stammered the old man miserably. 

"Oh, I can let you have it all right, father, and glad to, " assuredWilliam, still frowning. "It's only that just at this time I'm a littleshort, and--" He stopped abruptly and thrust his hands into his pockets. "Hm-m, " he vouchsafed after a minute. "Well, I'll tell you what--Ihaven't got any now, but in a day or two I'll take you over to thevillage and see what Skinner's got that will fit you. Oh, we'll havesome shoes, father, never fear!" he laughed. "You don't suppose I'mgoing to let my father go barefoot!--eh?" And he laughed again. 

Things wore out that winter in the most unaccountable fashion--at leastthose belonging to Jeremiah and Hester did, especially undergarments. One by one they came to mending, and one by one Hester mended them, patch upon patch, until sometimes there was left scarcely a thread ofthe original garment. Once she asked William for money to buy new ones, but it happened that William was again short, and though the money shehad asked for came later, Hester did not make that same request again. 

There were two things that Hester could not patch very successfully--hershoes. She fried to patch them to be sure, but the coarse thread knottedin her shaking old hands, and the bits of leather--cut from still oldershoes--slipped about and left her poor old thumb exposed to the sharpprick of the needle, so that she finally gave it up in despair. Shetucked her feet still farther under her chair these days when Jeremiahwas near, and she pieced down two of her dress skirts so that they mighttouch the floor all round. In spite of all this, however, Jeremiah saw, one day--and understood. 

"Hester, " he cried sharply, "put out your foot. "

Hester did not hear--apparently. She lowered the paper she was readingand laughed a little hysterically. 

"Such a good joke, Jeremiah!" she quavered. "Just let me read it. A man--"

"Hester, be them the best shoes you've got?" demanded Jeremiah. 

And Hester, with a wisdom born of fifty years' experience of thatparticular tone of voice, dropped her paper and her subterfuge, and saidgently: "Yes, Jeremiah. "

There was a moment's pause; then Jeremiah sprang to his feet, thrust hishands into his pockets, and paced the tiny bedroom from end to end. 

"Hester, this thing's a-killin' me!" he blurted out at last. "Here I'mseventy-eight years old--an' I hain't got money enough ter buy my wife apair of shoes!"

"But the farm, Jeremiah--"

"I tell ye the farm ain't mine, " cut in Jeremiah savagely. "Look a-here, Hester, how do you s'pose it feels to a man who's paid his own way sincehe was a boy, bought a farm with his own money an' run it, brought uphis boys an' edyercated 'em--how do ye s'pose it feels fur that man tergo ter his own son an' say: 'Please, sir, can't I have a nickel ter buyme a pair o' shoestrings?' How do ye s'pose it feels? I tell ye, Hester, I can't stand it--I jest can't! I'm goin' ter work. "

"Jere-mi-ah!"

"Well, I am, " repeated the old man doggedly. "You're goin' ter have someshoes, an' I'm goin' ter earn 'em. See if I don't!" And he squared hisshoulders, and straightened his bent back as if already he felt theweight of a welcome burden. 

Spring came, and with it long sunny days and the smell of green thingsgrowing. Jeremiah began to be absent day after day from the farmhouse. The few tasks that he performed each morning were soon finished, andafter that he disappeared, not to return until night. William wondered alittle, but said nothing. Other and more important matters filled hismind. 

Only Hester noticed that the old man's step grew more languid and hiseye more dull; and only Hester knew that at night he was sometimes tootired to sleep--that he could not "seem ter hit the bed, " as heexpressed it. 

It was at about this time that Hester began to make frequent visits tothe half-dozen farmhouses in the settlement about them. She began to bewonderfully busy these days, too, knitting socks and mittens, or piecingup quilts. Sarah Ellen asked her sometimes what she was doing, butHester's answers were always so cheery and bright that Sarah Ellen didnot realize that the point was always evaded and the subject changed. 

It was in May that the inevitable happened. William came home one day tofind an excited, weeping wife who hurried him into the seclusion oftheir own room. 

"William, William, " she moaned, "what shall we do? It's father andmother; they've--oh, William, how can I tell you!" and she covered herface with her hands. 

William paled under his coat of tan. He gripped his wife's arm withfingers that hurt. 

"What is it--what's happened?" he asked hoarsely. "They aren't hurt or--dead?"

"No, no, " choked Sarah Ellen. "I didn't mean to frighten you. They'reall right that way. They--they've gone to work! William, whatshall we do?"

Again William Whipple gripped his wife's arm with fingers that hurt. 

"Sarah Ellen, quit that crying, for Heaven's sake! What does this mean?What are you talking about?" he demanded. 

Sarah Ellen sopped her eyes with her handkerchief and lifted her head. 

"It was this morning. I was over to Maria Weston's, " she explainedbrokenly. "Maria dropped something about a quilt mother was piecing forher, and when I asked her what in the world she meant, she looked queer, and said she supposed I knew. Then she tried to change the subject; butI wouldn't let her, and finally I got the whole story out of her. "

"Yes, yes, go on, " urged William impatiently, as Sarah Ellen paused forbreath. 

"It seems mother came to her a while ago, and--and she went to others, too. She asked if there wasn't some knitting or patchwork she could dofor them. She said she--she wanted to earn some money. " Sarah Ellen'svoice broke over the last word, and William muttered something under hisbreath. "She said they'd lost all they had in the bank, " went on SarahEllen hurriedly, "and that they didn't like to ask you for money. "

"Why, I always let them have--" began William defensively; then hestopped short, a slow red staining his face. 

"Yes, I know you have, " interposed Sarah Ellen eagerly; "and I said soto Maria. But mother had already told her that, it seems. She said thatmother said you were always glad to give it to them when they asked forit, but that it hurt father's pride to beg, so he'd gone to work to earnsome of his own. "

"Father!" exclaimed William. "But I thought you said 'twas mother. Surely father isn't knitting socks and mittens, is he?"

"No, no, " cried Sarah Ellen. "I'm coming to that as fast as I can. Yousee, 'twas father who went to work first. He's been doing all sorts oflittle odd jobs, even to staying with the Snow children while theirfolks went to town, and spading up Nancy Howe's flower beds for her. Butit's been wearing on him, and he was getting all tired out. Only thinkof it, William--working out--father and mother! I just can't everhold up my head again! What shall we do?"

"Do? Why, we'll stop it, of course, " declared William savagely. "I guessI can support my own father and mother without their working for aliving!"

"But it's money, William, that they want. Don't you see?"

"Well, we'll give them money, then. I always have, anyway, --when theyasked for it, " finished William in an aggrieved voice. 

Sarah Ellen shook her head. 

"It won't do, " she sighed. "It might have done once--but not now. They've got to the point where they just can't accept money doled out tothem like that. Why, just think, 't was all theirs once!"

"Well, 'tis now--in a way. "

"I know--but we haven't acted as if it were. I can see that now, whenit's too late. "

"We'll give it back, then, " cried William, his face clearing; "the wholeblamed farm!"

Sarah Ellen frowned. She shook her head slowly, then paused, a dawningquestion in her eyes. 

"You don't suppose--William, could we?" she cried with sudden eagerness. 

"Well, we can try mighty hard, " retorted the man grimly. "But we've gotto go easy, Sarah Ellen, --no bungling. We've got to spin some sort of ayarn that won't break, nor have any weak places; and of course, as faras the real work of the farm is concerned, we'll still do the most ofit. But the place'll be theirs. See?--theirs! Working out--goodHeavens!"

It must have been a week later that Jeremiah burst into his wife's room. Hester sat by the window, bending over numberless scraps of blue, red, and pink calico. 

"Put it up, put it up, Hester, " he panted joyously. "Ye hain't got tosew no more, an' I hain't neither. The farm is ours!"

"Why, Jeremiah, what--how--"

"I don't know, Hester, no more than you do, " laughed Jeremiah happily;"only William says he's tired of runnin' things all alone, an' he wantsme to take hold again. They're goin' ter make out the papers right away;an' say, Hester, "--the bent shoulders drew themselves erect with an airof pride, --"I thought mebbe this afternoon we'd drive over terHuntersville an' get some shoes for you. Ye know you're always needin'shoes!"

The Long Road

"Jane!"

"Yes, father. "

"Is the house locked up?"

"Yes. "

"Are ye sure, now?"

"Why, yes, dear; I just did it. "

"Well, won't ye see?"

"But I have seen, father. " Jane did not often make so many words aboutthis little matter, but she was particularly tired to-night. 

The old man fell back wearily. 

"Seems ter me, Jane, ye might jest see, " he fretted. "'T ain't much I'maskin' of ye, an' ye know them spoons--"

"Yes, yes, dear, I'll go, " interrupted the woman hurriedly. 

"And, Jane!"

"Yes. " The woman turned and waited. She knew quite well what was coming, but it was the very exquisiteness of her patient care that allowed herto give no sign that she had waited in that same spot to hear those samewords every night for long years past. 

"An' ye might count 'em--them spoons, " said the old man. 

"Yes. "

"An' the forks. "

"Yes. "

"An' them photygraph pictures in the parlor. "

"All right, father. " The woman turned away. Her step was slow, butconfident--the last word had been said. 

To Jane Pendergast her father had gone with the going of his keen, clearmind, twenty years before. This fretful, childish, exacting old man thatpottered about the house all day was but the shell that had held thekernel--the casket that had held the jewel. But because of what it hadheld, Jane guarded it tenderly, laying at its feet her life as a willingsacrifice. 

There had been four children: Edgar, the eldest; Jane, Mary, and Fred. Edgar had left home early, and was a successful business man in Boston. Mary had married a wealthy lawyer of the same city; and Fred had openeda real estate office in a thriving Southern town. 

Jane had stayed at home. There had been a time, it is true, when she hadplanned to go away to school; but the death of Mrs. Pendergast left noone at home to care for Mary and Fred, so Jane had abandoned the idea. Later, after Mary had married and Fred had gone away, there was stillher father to be cared for, though at this time he was well and strong. 

Jane had passed her thirty-fifth birthday, when she became palpitatinglyaware of a pair of blue-gray eyes, and a determined, smooth-shaven chinbelonging to the recently arrived principal of the village school. Inspite of her stern admonition to herself to remember her years and notquite lose her head, she was fast drifting into a rosy dream of romancethat was all the more enthralling because so belated, when the summonsof a small boy brought her sharply back to the realities. 

"It's yer father, miss. They want ye ter come, " he panted. "Somethin'has took him. He's in Mackey's drug store, talkin' awful queer. He ain'this self, ye know. They thought maybe you could--do somethin'. "

Jane went at once--but she could do nothing except to lead gently homethe chattering, shifting-eyed thing that had once been her father. Oneafter another the village physicians shook their heads--they could donothing. Skilled alienists from the city--they, too, could do nothing. There was nothing that could be done, they said, except to care for himas one would for a child. He would live years, probably. Hisconstitution was wonderfully good. He would not be violent--just foolishand childish, with perhaps a growing irritability as the years passedand his physical strength failed. 

Mary and Edgar had come home at once. Mary had stayed two days and Edgarfive hours. They were shocked and dismayed at their father's condition. So overwhelmed with grief were they, indeed, that they fled from theroom almost immediately upon seeing him, and Edgar took the first trainout of town. 

Mary, shiveringly, crept from room to room, trying to find a place wherethe cackling laugh and the fretful voice would not reach her. But theold man, like a child with a new toy, was pleased at his daughter'sarrival, and followed her about the house with unfailing persistence. 

"But, Mary, he won't hurt you. Why do you run?" remonstrated Jane. 

Mary shuddered and covered her face with her hands. 

"Jane, Jane, how can you take it so calmly!" she moaned. "How can youbear it?"

There was a moment's pause. A curious expression had come to Jane'sface. 

"Some one--has to, " she said at last, quietly. 

Jane went down to the village the next afternoon, leaving her sister incharge at home. When she returned, an hour later, Mary met her at thegate, crying and wringing her hands. 

"Jane, Jane, I thought you would never come! I can't do a thing withhim. He insists that he isn't at home, and that he wants to go there. Itold him, over and over again, that he was at home already, butit didn't do a bit of good. I've had a perfectly awful time. "

"Yes, I know. Where is he?"

"In the kitchen. I--I tied him. He just would go, and I couldn't holdhim. "

"Oh, Mary!" And Jane fairly flew up the walk to the kitchen door. A minute later she appeared, leading an old man, who was whimperingpitifully. 

"Home, Jane. I want ter go home. "

"Yes, dear, I know. We'll go. " And Mary watched with wondering eyeswhile the two walked down the path, through the gate and across thestreet to the next corner, then slowly crossed again and came backthrough the familiar doorway. 

"Home!" chuckled the old man gleefully. 

"We've come home!"

Mary went back to Boston the next day. She said it was fortunate, indeed, that Jane's nerves were so strong. For her part, she could nothave stood it another day. 

The days slipped into weeks, and the weeks into months. Jane took theentire care of her father, except that she hired a woman to come in foran hour or two once or twice a week, when she herself was obliged toleave the house. 

The owner of the blue-gray eyes did not belie the determination of hischin, but made a valiant effort to establish himself on the basis of theold intimacy; but Miss Pendergast held herself sternly aloof, andrefused to listen to him. In a year he had left town--but it was not hisfault that he was obliged to go away alone, as Jane Pendergast wellknew. 

One by one the years passed. Twenty had gone by now since the small boycame with his fateful summons that June day. Jane was fifty-five now, athin-faced, stoop-shouldered, tired woman--but a woman to whom releasefrom this constant care was soon to come, for she was not yet fifty-sixwhen her father died. 

All the children and some of the grandchildren came to the funeral. Inthe evening the family, with the exception of Jane, gathered in thesitting-room and discussed the future, while upstairs the woman whosefate was most concerned laid herself wearily in bed with almost a pangthat she need not now first be doubly sure that doors were locked andspoons were counted. 

In the sitting-room below, discussion waxed warm. 

"But what shall we do with her?" demanded Mary. "I had meant to give hermy share of the property, " she added with an air of great generosity, "but it seems there's nothing to give. "

"No, there's nothing to give, " returned Edgar. "The house had to bemortgaged long ago to pay their living expenses, and it will have to besold. "

"But she's got to live somewhere!" Mary's voice was fretful, questioning. 

For a moment there was silence; then Edgar stirrad in his chair. 

"Well, why can't she go to you, Mary?" he asked. 

"Me!" Mary almost screamed the word. 

"Why, Edgar!--when you know how much I have on my hands with my greathouse and all my social duties, to say nothing of Belle's engagement!"

"Well, maybe Jane could help. "

"Help! How. Pray?--to entertain my guests?" And even Edgar smiled as hethought of Jane, in her five-year-old bonnet and her ten-year-old blackgown, standing in the receiving line at an exclusive Commonwealth Avenuereception. 

"Well, but--" Edgar paused impotently. 

"Why don't you take her?" It was Mary who made the suggestion. 

"I? Oh, but I--" Edgar stopped and glanced uneasily at his wife. 

"Why, of course, if it's necessary, " murmured Mrs. Edgar, with aresigned air. "I should certainly never wish it said that I refused ahome to any of my husband's poor relations. "

"Oh, good Heavens! Let her come to us, " cut in Fred sharply. "I reckonwe can take care of our 'poor relations' for a spell yet; eh, Sally?"

"Why, sure we can, " retorted. Fred's wife, in her soft Southern drawl. "We'll be right glad to take her, I reckon. " And there the matterended. 

 * * * * *

Jane Pendergast had been South two months, when one day Edgar received aletter from his brother Fred. 

Jane's going North [wrote Fred]. Sally says she can't have her in thehouse another week. 'Course, we don't want to tell Jane exactly that--but we've fixed it so she's going to leave. 

I'm sorry if this move causes you folks any trouble, but there justwasn't any other way out of it. You see, Sally is Southern and easy-going, and I suppose not over-particular in the eyes of you stiffNortherners. I don't mind things, either, and I suppose I'm easy, too. 

Well, great Scott!--Jane hadn't been down here five minutes before shebegan to "slick up, " as she called it--and she's been "slickin' up" eversince. Sally always left things round handy, and so've the children; butsince Jane came, we haven't been able to find a thing when we wanted it. All our boots and shoes are put away, turned toes out, and all our hatsand coats are snatched up and hung on pegs the minute we toss them off. 

Maybe this don't seem much to you, but it's lots to us. Anyhow, Jane'sgoing North. She says she's going to visit Edgar a little while, and Itold her I'd write and tell you she's coming. She'll be there about the2Oth. Will wire you what train. 

Your affectionate brother

FRED

As gently as possible Edgar broke to his wife the news of theprospective guest. Julia Pendergast was a good woman. At least she oftensaid that she was, adding, at the same time, that she never knowinglyrefused to do her duty. She said the same thing now to her husband, andshe immediately made some very elaborate and very apparent changes inher home and in her plans, all with an eye to the expected guest. Atfour o'clock Wednesday afternoon Edgar met his sister at the station. 

"Well, I don't see as you've changed much, " he said kindly. 

"Haven't I? Why, seems as if I must look changed a lot, " chirruped Jane. "I'm so rested, and Fred and Sally were so good to me! Why, they triednot to have me do a thing--and I didn't do much, only a little putteringaround just to help out with the work. "

"Hm-m, " murmured Edgar. "Well, I'm glad to see you're--rested. "

Julia met them in the hall of the beautiful Brookline residence. Linedup with her were the four younger children, who lived at home. They madean imposing array, and Jane was visibly affected. 

"Oh, it's so good of you--to meet me--like this!" she faltered. 

"Why, we wished to, I'm sure, " returned Mrs. Pendergast, with a half-stifled sigh. "I hope I understand my duty to my guest and my sister-in-law sufficiently to know what is her due. I did not allow anything--noteven my committee meeting to-day--to interfere with this call for dutyat home. "

Jane fell back. All the glow fled from her face. 

"Oh, then you did stay at home--and for me! I'm so sorry, " shestammered. 

But Mrs. Pendergast raised a deprecatory hand. 

"Say no more. It was nothing. Now come, let me show you to your room. I've given you Ella's room, and put Ella in Tom's, and Tom in Bert's, and moved Bert upstairs to the little room over--"

"Oh, don't!" interrupted Jane, in quick distress. "I don't want to putpeople out so! Let me go upstairs. " Mrs. Pendergast frowned and sighed. She had the air of one whose kindest efforts are misunderstood. 

"My dear Jane, I am sorry, but I shall have to ask you to be assatisfied as you can be with the arrangements I am able to make for you. You see, even though this house is large, I am, in a way, cramped forroom. I always have to keep three guest-rooms ready for immediateoccupancy. I am a member of four clubs and six charitable and religiousorganizations, besides the church, and there are always ministers anddelegates whom I feel it my duty to entertain. "

"But that is all the more reason why I should go upstairs, and not putall those children out of their rooms, " begged Jane. 

Mrs. Pendergast shook her head. 

"It does them good, " she said decidely, "to learn to be self-sacrificing. That is a virtue we all must learn to practice. "

Jane flushed again; then she turned abruptly. "Julia, did you want meto--to come to see you?" she asked. 

"Why, certainly; what a question!" returned Mrs. Pendergast, in aproperly shocked tone of voice. "As if I could do otherwise than to wantmy husband's sister to come to us. "

Jane smiled faintly, but her eyes were troubled. 

"Thank you; I'm glad you feel--that way. You see, at Fred's--I wouldn'thave them know it for the world, they were so good to me--but Ithought, lately, that maybe they didn't want--But it wasn't so, ofcourse. It couldn't have been. I--I ought not even to think it. "

"Hm-m; no, " returned Mrs. Pendergast, with noncommittal briefness. 

Not six weeks later Mary, in her beautiful Commonwealth Avenue home, received a call from a little, thin-faced woman, who curtsied to thebutler and asked him to please tell her sister that she wished to speakto her. 

Mary looked worried and not over-cordial when she rustled into the room. 

"Why, Jane, did you find your way here all alone?" she cried. 

"Yes--no--well, I asked a man at the last; but, you know, I've been heretwice before with the others. "

"Yes, I know, " said Mary. 

There was a pause; then Jane cleared her throat timidly. 

"Mary, I--I've been thinking. You see, just as soon as I'm strongenough, I--I'm going to take care of myself, and then I won't be aburden to--to anybody. " Jane was talking very fast now. Her words cametremulously between short, broken breaths. "But until I get well enoughto earn money, I can't, you see. And I've been thinking;--would you bewilling to take me until--until I can? I'm lots better, already, andgetting stronger every day. It wouldn't be for--long. "

"Why, of course, Jane!" Mary spoke cheerfully, and in a tone a littlehigher than her ordinary voice. "I should have asked you to come herebefore, only I feared you wouldn't be happy here--such a different lifefor you, and so much noise and confusion with Belle's wedding coming on, and all!"

Jane gave her a grateful glance. 

"I know, of course, --you'd think that, --and it isn't that I'm findingfault with Julia and Edgar. I couldn't do that--they're so good to me. But, you see, I put them out so. Now, there's my room, for one thing. 'Twas Ella's, and Ella has to keep running in for things she's left, andshe says it's the same with the others. You see, I've got Ella's room, and Ella's got Tom's, and Tom's got Bert's. It's a regular 'house thatJack built'--and I'm the'Jack'!"

"I see, " laughed Mary constrainedly. "And you want to come here? Well, you shall. You--you may come a week from Saturday, " she added, after apause. "I have a reception and a dinner here the first of the week, and--you'd better stay away until after that. "

"Oh, thank you, " sighed Jane. "You are so good. I shall tell Julia thatI'm invited here, so she won't think I'm dissatisfied. They're so goodto me--I wouldn't want to hurt their feelings!"

"Of course not, " murmured Mary. 

 * * * * *

The big, fat tire of the touring-car popped like a pistol shot directlyin front of the large white house with the green blinds. 

"This is the time we're in luck, Belle, " laughed the good-natured youngfellow who had been driving the car. "Do you see that big piazza justaching for you to come and sit on it?"

"Are we really stalled, Will?" asked the girl. 

"Looks like it--for a while. I'll have to telephone Peters to bringdown a tire. Of course, to-day is the day we didn't take it!"

Some minutes later the girl found herself on the cool piazza, in chargeof a wonderfully hospitable old lady, while down the road the good-looking young fellow was making long strides toward the next house and atelephone. 

"We are staying at the Lindsays', in North Belton, " explained the girl, when he was gone, "and we came out for a little spin before dinner. Isn't this Belton? I have an aunt who used to live here somewhere--AuntJane Pendergast"

The old lady sat suddenly erect in her chair. 

"My dear, " she cried, "you don't mean to say that you're JanePendergast's niece! Now, that is queer! Why, this was her very house--webought it when the old gentleman died last year. But, come, we'll goinside. You'll want to see everything, of course!"

It was some time before the young man came back from telephoning, and itwas longer still before Peters came with the new tire, and helped getthe touring-car ready for the road. The girl was very quiet when theyfinally left the house, and there was a troubled look deep in her eyes. 

"Why, Belle, what's the matter?" asked the young fellow concernedly, ashe slackened speed in the cool twilight of the woods, some minuteslater. "What's troubling you, dear?"

"Will"--the girl's voice shook--"Will, that was Aunt Jane's house. Thatold lady--told me. "

"Aunt Jane?"

"Yes, yes--the little gray-haired woman that came to live with us twomonths ago. You know her. "

"Why, y-yes; I think I've--seen her. "

The girl winced, as from a blow. 

"Will, don't! I can't bear it, " she choked. "It only shows how we'vetreated her--how little we've made of her, when we ought to have doneeverything--everything to make her happy. Instead of that, we werebrutes--all of us!"

"Belle!"--the tone was an indignant protest. 

"But we were--listen! She lived in that house all her life till lastyear. She never went anywhere or did anything. For twenty years shelived with an old man who had lost his mind, and she tended him like ababy--only a baby grows older all the time and more interesting, whilehe--oh, Will, it was awful! That old lady--told me. "

"By Jove!" exclaimed the young fellow, under his breath. 

"And there were other things, " hurried on the girl, tremulously. "Someway, I never thought of Aunt Jane only as old and timid; but she wasyoung like us, once. She wanted to go away to school--but she couldn'tgo; and there was some one who--loved her--once--later, and she senthim--away. That was after--after grandfather lost his mind. Mother andUncle Edgar and Uncle Fred--they all went away and lived their ownlives, but she stayed on. Then last year grandfather died. "

The girl paused and moistened her lips. The man did not speak. His eyeswere on the road ahead of the slow-moving car. 

"I heard to-day--how--how proud and happy Aunt Jane was that Uncle Fredhad asked her to come and live with him, " resumed the girl, after aminute. "That old lady told me how Aunt Jane talked and talked about itbefore she went away, and how she said that all her life she had takencare of others, and it would be so good to feel that now some one wasgoing to look out for her, though, of course, she should do everythingshe could to help, and she hoped she could still be of some use. "

"Well, she has been, hasn't she?"

The girl shook her head. 

"That's the worst of it. We haven't made her think she was. She stayedat Uncle Fred's for a while, and then he sent her to Uncle Edgar's. Something must have been wrong there, for she asked mother two monthsago if she might come to us. "

"Well, I'm sure you've been--good to her. "

"But we haven't!" cried the girl. "Mother meant all right, I know, butshe didn't think. And I've been--horrid. Aunt Jane tried to show herinterest in my wedding plans, but I only laughed at her and said shewouldn't understand. We've pushed her aside, always, --we've never madeher one of us; and--we've always made her feel her dependence. "

"But you'll do differently now, dear, --now that you understand. "

Again the girl shook her head. 

"We can't, " she moaned. "It's too late. I had a letter from mother lastnight. Aunt Jane's sick--awfully sick. Mother said I might expect to--tohear of the end any day. "

"But there's some time left--a little!"--his voice broke and choked intosilence. Suddenly he made a quick movement, and the car beneath themleaped forward like a charger that feels the prick of the spur. 

The girl gave a frightened cry, then a tremulous little sob of joy. Theman had cried in her ear, in response to her questioning eyes:

"We're--going--to--Aunt Jane!"

And to them both, at the moment, there seemed to be waiting at the endof the road a little bent old woman, into whose wistful eyes they wereto bring the light of joy and peace. 

A Couple of Capitalists

On the top of the hill stood the big brick house--a mansion, compared tothe other houses of the New England village. At the foot of the hillnestled the tiny brown farmhouse, half buried in lilacs, climbing roses, and hollyhocks. 

Years ago, when Reuben had first brought Emily to that little browncottage, he had said to her, ruefully: "Sweetheart, 'tain't much of aplace, I know, but we'll save and save, every cent we can get, an' byan' by we'll go up to live in the big house on the hill!" And he kissedso tenderly the pretty little woman he had married only that morningthat she smiled brightly and declared that the small brown house was thevery nicest place in the world. 

But, as time passed, the "big house" came to be the Mecca of all theirhopes, and penny by penny the savings grew. It was slow work, though, and to hearts less courageous the thing would have seemed animpossibility. No luxuries--and scarcely the bare necessities of life--came to the little house under the hill, but every month a tiny sumfound its way into the savings bank. Fortunately, air and sunshine werecheap, and, if inside the house there was lack of beauty and cheer, outside there was a riotous wealth of color and bloom--the flowers underEmily's loving care flourished and multiplied. 

The few gowns in the modest trousseau had been turned inside out andupside down, only to be dyed and turned and twisted all over again. Butwhat was a dyed gown, when one had all that money in the bank and thebig house on the hill in prospect! Reuben's best suit grew rusty andseedy, but the man patiently, even gleefully, wore it as long as itwould hang together; and when the time came that new garments must bebought for both husband and wife, only the cheapest and flimsiest ofmaterial was purchased--but the money in the bank grew. 

Reuben never smoked. While other men used the fragrant weed to calmtheir weary brains and bodies, Reuben--ate peanuts. It had been acurious passion of his, from the time when as a boy he was firstpresented with a penny for his very own, to spend all his spare cash onthis peculiar luxury; and the slow munching of this plebeian delicacyhad the same soothing effect on him that a good cigar or an old claypipe had upon his brother-man. But from the day of his marriage allthis was changed; the dimes and the nickels bought no more peanuts, butwent to swell the common fund. 

It is doubtful if even this heroic economy would have accomplished thedesired end had not a certain railroad company cast envious eyes uponthe level valley and forthwith sent long arms of steel bearing a puffingengine up through the quiet village. A large tract of waste landbelonging to Reuben Gray suddenly became surprisingly valuable, and asum that trebled twice over the scanty savings of years grew all in anight. 

One crisp October day, Mr. And Mrs. Reuben Gray awoke to the fact thatthey were a little under sixty years of age, and in possession of morethan the big sum of money necessary to enable them to carry out thedreams of their youth. They began joyous preparations at once. 

The big brick house at the top of the hill had changed hands twiceduring the last forty years, and the present owner expressed himself asnothing loath to part, not only with the house itself, but with many ofits furnishings; and before the winter snow fell the little browncottage was sold to a thrifty young couple from the neighboring village, and the Grays took up their abode in their new home. 

"Well, Em'ly, this is livin', now, ain't it?" said Reuben, as hecarefully let himself down into the depths of a velvet-covered chair inthe great parlor. "My! ain't this nice!"

"Just perfectly lovely, " quavered the thin voice of his wife, as shethrew a surreptitious glance at Reuben's shoes to see if they were quiteclean enough for such sacred precincts. 

It was their first evening in their new abode, and they were a littleweary, for they had spent the entire day in exploring every room, peering into every closet, and trying every chair that the establishmentcontained. It was still quite early when they trudged anxiously aboutthe house, intent on fastening the numerous doors and windows. 

"Dear me!" exclaimed the little woman nervously, "I'm 'most afraid to goto bed, Reuben, for fear some one will break in an' steal all these nicethings. "

"Well, you can sit up if you want to, " replied her husband dryly, "but Ishall go to bed. Most of these things have been here nigh on to twentyyears, an' I guess they'll last the night through. " And he marchedsolemnly upstairs to the big east chamber, meekly followed by his wife. 

It was the next morning when Mrs. Gray was washing the breakfast dishesthat her husband came in at the kitchen door and stood lookingthoughtfully at her. 

"Say, Emily, " said he, "you'd oughter have a hired girl. 'T ain't yourplace to be doin' work like this now. "

Mrs. Gray gasped--half terrified, half pleased--and shook her head; buther husband was not to be silenced. 

"Well, you had--an' you've got to, too. An' you must buy some newclothes--lots of 'em! Why, Em'ly, we've got heaps of money now, an' wehadn't oughter wear such lookin' things. "

Emily nodded; she had thought of this before. And the hired-girl hintmust have found a warm spot in her heart in which to grow, for that veryafternoon she sallied forth, intent on a visit to her counselor on alloccasions--the doctor's wife. 

"Well, Mis' Steele, I don't know what to do. Reuben says I ought to havea hired girl; but I hain't no more idea where to get one than anything, an' I don't know's I want one, if I did. "

And Mrs. Gray sat back in her chair and rocked violently to and fro, eying her hostess with the evident consciousness of having presented aposer. That resourceful woman, however, was far from being nonplussed;she beamed upon her visitor with a joyful smile. 

"Just the thing, my dear Mrs. Gray! You know I am to go South with Mayfor the winter. The house will be closed and the doctor at the hotel. Ihad just been wondering what to do with Nancy, for I want her again inthe spring. Now, you can have her until then, and by that time you willknow how you like the idea of keeping a girl. She is a perfect treasure, capable of carrying along the entire work of the household, only"--andMrs. Steele paused long enough to look doubtfully at her friend--"she isa little independent, and won't stand much interference. "

Fifteen minutes later Mrs. Gray departed, well pleased though withal alittle frightened. She spent the rest of the afternoon in trying todecide between a black alpaca and a green cashmere dress. 

That night Reuben brought home a large bag of peanuts and put them downin triumph on the kitchen table. 

"There!" he announced in high glee, "I'm goin' to have a bang-up goodtime!"

"Why, Reuben, " remonstrated his wife gently, "you can't eat them things--you hain't got no teeth to chew 'em with!"

The man's lower jaw dropped. 

"Well, I'm a-goin' to try it, anyhow, " he insisted. And try he did; butthe way his poor old stomach rebelled against the half-masticated thingseffectually prevented a repetition of the feast. 

Early on Monday morning Nancy appeared. Mrs. Gray assumed a braveaspect, but she quaked in her shoes as she showed the big strapping girlto her room. Five minutes later Nancy came into the kitchen to find Mrs. Gray bending over an obstinate coal fire in the range--with neither coalnor range was the little woman in the least familiar. 

"There, now, " said Nancy briskly, "I'll fix that. You just tell me whatyou want for dinner, and I can find the things myself. " And she attackedthe stove with such a clatter and din that Mrs. Gray retreated interror, murmuring "ham and eggs, if you please, " as she fled through thedoor. Once in the parlor, she seated herself in the middle of the roomand thought how nice it was not to get dinner; but she jumped nervouslyat every sound from the kitchen. 

On Tuesday she had mastered her fear sufficiently to go into the kitchenand make a cottage cheese. She did not notice the unfavorable glances ofher maid-of-all-work. Wednesday morning she spent happily puttering over"doing up" some handkerchiefs, and she wondered why Nancy kept bangingthe oven door so often. Thursday she made a special kind of pie thatReuben liked, and remarked pointedly to Nancy that she herself neverwashed dishes without wearing an extra apron; furthermore, she alwaysplaced the pans the other way in the sink. Friday she rearranged thetins on the pantry shelves, that Nancy had so unaccountably mussed up. On Saturday the inevitable explosion came:

"If you please, mum, I'm willin' to do your work, but seems to me itdon't make no difference to you whether I wear one apron or six, orwhether I hang my dish-towels on a string or on the bars, or whether Iwash goblets or kittles first; and I ain't in the habit of havin' folksspyin' round on me. If you want me to go, I'll go; but if I stay, I wantto be let alone!"

Poor little Mrs. Gray fled to her seat in the parlor, and for the restof that winter she did not dare to call her soul her own; but her tablewas beautifully set and served, and her house was as neat as wax. 

The weeks passed and Reuben began to be restless. One day he came infrom the postoffice fairly bubbling over with excitement. 

"Say, Em'ly, when folks have money they travel. Let's go somewhere!"

"Why, Reuben--where?" quavered his wife, dropping into the nearestchair. 

"Oh, I dunno, " with cheerful vagueness; then, suddenly animated, "Let'sgo to Boston and see the sights!"

"But, Reuben, we don't know no one there, " ventured his wife doubtfully. 

"Pooh! What if we don't? Hain't we got money? Can't we stay at a hotel?Well, I guess we can!"

And his overwhelming courage put some semblance of confidence into themore timid heart of his wife, until by the end of the week she was aseager as he. 

Nancy was tremblingly requested to take a two weeks' vacation, and greatwas the rejoicing when she graciously acquiesced. 

On a bright February morning the journey began. It was not a long one--four hours only--and the time flew by as on wings of the wind. Reubenassumed an air of worldly wisdom, quite awe-inspiring to his wife. Hehad visited Boston as a boy, and so had a dim idea of what to expect;moreover, he had sold stock and produce in the large towns near hishome, and on the whole felt quite self-sufficient. 

As the long train drew into the station, and they alighted and followedthe crowd, Mrs. Gray looked with round eyes of wonder at the people--shehad not realized that there were so many in the world, and she clungcloser and closer to Reuben, who was marching along with a fine show ofindifference. 

"There, " said he, as he deposited his wife and his bags in a seat in thehuge waiting-room; "now you stay right here, an' don't you move. I'mgoin' to find out about hotels and things. "

He was gone so long that she was nearly fainting from fright before shespied his dear form coming toward her. His thin, plain face lookedwonderfully beautiful to her, and she almost hugged him right before allthose people. 

"Well, I've got a hotel all right; but I hain't been here for so longI've kinder forgot about the streets, so the man said we'd better have ateam to take us there. " And he picked up the bags and trudged off, closely followed by Emily. 

His shrewd Yankee wit carried him safely through a bargain with thedriver, and they were soon jolting and rumbling along to theirdestination. He had asked the man behind the news-stand about a hotel, casually mentioning that he had money--plenty of it--and wanted a "bang-up good place. " The spirit of mischief had entered the heart of thenews-man, and he had given Reuben the name of one of the very highest-priced, most luxurious hotels in the city. 

As the carriage stopped, Reuben marched boldly up the broad steps andentered the palatial office, with Emily close at his heels. Two bell-boys sprang forward--the one to take the bags, the other to offer toshow Mrs. Gray to the reception-room. 

"No, thank you, I ain't particular, " said she sweetly; "I'll wait forReuben here. " And she dropped into the nearest chair, while her husbandadvanced toward the desk. She noticed that men were looking curiously ather, and she felt relieved when Reuben and the pretty boy came back andsaid they would go up to their room. 

She stood the elevator pretty well, though she gave a little gasp (whichshe tried to choke into a cough) as it started. Reuben turned to theboy. 

"Where can I get somethin' to eat?"

"Luncheon is being served in the main dining-room on the first floor, sir. "

Visions of a lunch as he knew it in Emily's pantry came to him, and helooked a little dubious. 

"Well, I'm pretty hungry; but if that's all I can get I suppose it willhave to do. "

Ten minutes later an officious head waiter, whom Emily looked upon withtimid awe, was seating them in a superbly appointed dining-room. Reubenlooked at the menu doubtfully, while an attentive, soft-voiced man athis elbow bent low to catch his order. Few of the strange-looking wordsconveyed any sort of meaning to the poor hungry man. At length spying"chicken" halfway down the card, he pointed to it in relief. 

"I guess I'll take some of that, " he said, briefly; then he added, "Idon't know how much it costs--you hain't got no price after it. "

The waiter comprehended at once. 

"The luncheon is served in courses, sir; you pay for the whole--whetheryou eat it or not, " he added shrewdly. "If you will let me serve youaccording to my judgment, sir, I think I can please you. "

And there the forlorn little couple sat, amazed and hungry, through sixcourses, each one of which seemed to their uneducated palate one degreeworse than the last. 

Two hours later they started for a long walk down the wonderful, fascinating street. Each marvelous window display came in for its fullshare of attention, but they stood longest before bakeries andrestaurants. Finally, upon coming to one of the latter, where anenticing sign announced "Boiled Dinner To-day, Served Hot at AllHours, " Reuben could endure it no longer. 

"By Jinks, Em'ly, I've just got to have some of that. That stodged-upmess I ate at the hotel didn't go to the spot at all. Come on, let'shave a good square meal. "

The hotel knew them just one night. The next morning before breakfastReuben manfully paid his--to him astounding--bill and departed for morecongenial quarters, which they soon found on a neighboring side street. 

The rest of the visit was, of course, delightful, only the streets werepretty crowded and noisy, and they couldn't sleep very well at night;moreover, Reuben lost his pocketbook with a small sum of money in it;so, on the whole, they concluded to go home a little before the twoweeks ended. 

When spring came Nancy returned to her former mistress, and her vacantthrone remained unoccupied. Little by little the dust gathered on thebig velvet chairs in the parlor, and the room was opened less and less. When the first green things commenced to send tender shoots up throughthe wet, brown earth, Reuben's restlessness was very noticeable. By andby he began to go off very early in the morning, returning at noon for ahasty dinner, then away again till night. To his wife's repeatedquestioning he would reply, sheepishly, "Oh, just loafin', that's all. "

And Emily was nervous, too. Of late she had taken a great fancy to adaily walk, and it always led in one direction--down past the littlebrown house. Of course, she glanced over the fence at the roses andlilacs, and she couldn't help seeing that they all looked sadlyneglected. By and by the weeds came, grew, and multiplied; and everytime she passed the gate her throat fairly choked in sympathy with herold pets. 

Evenings, she and Reuben spent very happily on the back stoop, talkingof their great good fortune in being able to live in such a fine largehouse. Somehow they said more than usual about it this spring, andReuben often mentioned how glad he was that his wife didn't have to digin the garden any more; and Emily would reply that she, too, was gladthat he was having so easy a time. Then they would look down at thelittle brown farmhouse and wonder how they ever managed to get along inso tiny a place. 

One day, in passing this same little house, Emily stopped a moment andleaned over the gate, that she might gain a better view of her favoriterosebush. 

She evinced the same interest the next two mornings, and on the thirdshe timidly opened the gate and walked up the old path to the door. Abuxom woman with a big baby in her arms, and a bigger one hanging to herskirts, answered her knock. 

"How do you do, Mis' Gray. Won't you come in?" said she civilly, lookingmildly surprised. 

"No, thank you--yes--I mean--I came to see you, " stammered Emilyconfusedly. 

"You're very good, " murmured the woman, still standing in the doorway. 

"Your flowers are so pretty, " ventured Mrs. Gray, unable to keep thewistfulness out of her voice. 

"Do you think so?" carelessly; "I s'pose they need weedin'. What with mybabies an' all, I don't get much time for posies. "

"Oh, please, --would it be too much trouble to let me come an' putteraround in the beds?" queried the little woman eagerly. "Oh, I would likeit so much!"

The other laughed heartily. 

"Well, I really don't see how it's goin' to trouble me to have youweedin' my flowers; in fact, I should think the shoe would be on theother foot. " Then the red showed in her face a little. "You're welcometo do whatever you want, Mis' Gray. "

"Oh, thank you!" exclaimed Emily, as she quickly pulled up an enormousweed at her feet. 

It took but a few hours' work to bring about a wonderfully happy changein that forlorn garden, and then Mrs. Gray found that she had a big pileof weeds to dispose of. Filling her apron with a portion of them, shestarted to go behind the house in search of a garbage heap. Around thecorner she came face to face with her husband, hoe in hand. 

"Why, Reuben Gray! Whatever in the world are you doing?"

For a moment the man was crushed with the enormity of his crime; then hecaught sight of his wife's dirt-stained fingers. 

"Well, I guess I ain't doin' no worse than you be!" And he turned hisback and began to hoe vigorously. 

Emily dropped the weeds where she stood, turned about, and walkedthrough the garden and up the hill, pondering many things. 

Supper was strangely quiet that night. Mrs. Gray had asked a singlequestion: "Reuben, do you want the little house back?"

A glad light leaped into the old man's eyes. 

"Em'ly--would you be willin' to?"

After the supper dishes were put away, Mrs. Gray, with a light shawlover her head, came to her husband on the back stoop. 

"Come, dear; I think we'd better go down to-night. "

A few minutes later they sat stiffly in the best room of the farmhouse, while the buxom woman and her husband looked wonderingly at them. 

"You wan't thinkin' of sellin', was ye?" began Reuben insinuatingly. 

The younger man's eyelid quivered a little. "Well, no, --I can't hardlysay that I was. I hain't but just bought. "

Reuben hitched his chair a bit and glanced at Emily. 

"Well, me and my wife have concluded that we're too old to transplant--we don't seem to take root very easy--and we've been thinkin'--would youswap even, now?"

 * * * * *

It must have been a month later that Reuben Gray and his wife werecontentedly sitting in the old familiar kitchen of the little brownhouse. 

"I've been wondering, Reuben, " said his wife--"I've been wondering if'twouldn't have been just as well if we'd taken some of the good thingswhile they was goin'--before we got too old to enjoy 'em. "

"Yes--peanuts, for instance, " acquiesced her husband ruefully. 

In the Footsteps of Katy

Only Alma had lived--Alma, the last born. The other five, one afteranother, had slipped from loving, clinging arms into the great Silence, leaving worse than a silence behind them; and neither Nathan Kelsey norhis wife Mary could have told you which hurt the more, --the saying of alast good-bye to a stalwart, grown lad of twenty, or the folding oftiny, waxen hands over a heart that had not counted a year of beating. Yet both had fallen to their lot. 

As for Alma--Alma carried in her dainty self all the love, hopes, tenderness, ambitions, and prayers that otherwise would have beenbestowed upon six. And Alma was coming home. 

"Mary, " said Nathan one June evening, as he and his wife sat on the backporch, "I saw Jim Hopkins ter-day. Katy's got home. "

"Hm-m, "--the low rocker swayed gently to and fro, --"Katy's been tercollege, same as Alma, ye know. "

"Yes; an'--an' that's what Jim was talkin' 'bout He was feelin' bad-powerful bad. "

"Bad!"--the rocker stopped abruptly. "Why, Nathan!"

"Yes; he--" There was a pause, then the words came with the rush ofdesperation. "He said home wan't like home no more. That Katy was asgood as gold, an' they was proud of her; but she was turrible upsettin'. Jim has ter rig up nights now ter eat supper--put on his coat an' ab'iled collar; an' he says he's got so he don't dast ter open his head. They're all so, too--Mis' Hopkins, an' Sue, an' Aunt Jane--don't none of'em dast ter speak. "

"Why, Nathan!--why not?" "'Cause of--Katy. Jim says there don't nothin'they say suit Katy--'bout its wordin', I mean. She changes it an' tells'em what they'd orter said. "

"Why, the saucy little baggage!"--the rocker resumed its swaying, andMary Kelsey's foot came down on the porch floor with decided, rhythmicpats. 

The man stirred restlessly. 

"But she ain't sassy, Mary, " he demurred. "Jim says Katy's that sweetan' pleasant about it that ye can't do nothin'. She tells 'em she'skerrectin' 'em fur their own good, an' that they need culturin'. An' Jimsays she spends all o' meal-time tellin' 'bout the things on the table, --salt, an' where folks git it, an' pepper, an' tumblers, an' how folksmake 'em. He says at first 'twas kind o' nice an' he liked ter hear it;but now, seems as if he hain't got no appetite left ev'ry time he setsdown ter the table. He don't relish eatin' such big words an' queernames. 

"An' that ain't all, " resumed Nathan, after a pause for breath. "Jimcan't go hoein' nor diggin' but she'll foller him an' tell 'bout thebugs an' worms he turns up, --how many legs they've got, an' all that. An' the moon ain't jest a moon no more, an' the stars ain't stars. They're sp'eres an' planets with heathenish names an' rings an' orbits. Jim feels bad--powerful bad--'bout it, an' he says he can't see no wayout of it. He knows they hain't had much schooling any of 'em, onlyKaty, an' he says that sometimes he 'most wishes that--that she hadn't, neither. "

Nathan Kelsey's voice had sunk almost to a whisper, and with the lastwords his eyes sent a furtive glance toward the stoop-shouldered littlefigure in the low rocker. The chair was motionless now, and its occupantsat picking at a loose thread in the gingham apron. 

"I--I wouldn't 'a' spoke of it, " stammered the man, with painfulhesitation, "only--well, ye see, I--you-" he stopped helplessly. 

"I know, " faltered the little woman. "You was thinkin' of--Alma. "

"She wouldn't do it--Alma wouldn't!" retorted the man sharply, almostbefore his wife had ceased speaking. 

"No, no, of course not; but--Nahtan, ye don't think Alma'd everbe--ashamed of us, do ye?"

"'Course not!" asserted Nathan, but his voice shook. "Don't ye worry, Mary, " he comforted. "Alma ain't a-goin' ter do no kerrectin' of us. "

"Nathan, I--I think that's 'co-rectin', '" suggested the woman, a littlebreathlessly. 

The man turned and gazed at his wife without speaking. Then his jawfell. 

"Well, by sugar, Mary! You ain't a-goin' ter begin it, be ye?" hedemanded. 

"Why, no, 'course not!" she laughed confusedly. "An'--an' Almawouldn't. "

"'Course Alma wouldn't, " echoed her husband. "Come, it's time ter shutup the house. "

The date of Alma's expected arrival was yet a week ahead. 

As the days passed, there came a curious restlessness to the movementsof both Nathan and his wife. It was on the last night of that week ofwaiting that Mrs. Kelsey spoke. 

"Nathan, " she began, with forced courage, "I've been over to Mis'Hopkins's--an' asked her what special things 'twas that Katy set suchstore by. I thought mebbe if we knew 'em beforehand, an' could do 'em, an'--"

"That's jest what I asked Jim ter-day, Mary, " cut in Nathan excitedly. 

"Nathan, you didn't, now! Oh, I'm so glad! An' we'll do 'em, won't we?--jest ter please her?"

"'Course we will!"

"Ye see it's four years since she was here, Nathan, what with herteachin' summers. "

"Sugar, now! Is it? It hain't seemed so long. "

"Nathan, " interposed Mrs. Kelsey, anxiously, "I think that 'hain't'ain't--I mean aren't right. I think you'd orter say, 'It haven'tseemed so long. '"

The man frowned, and made an impatient gesture. 

"Yes, yes, I know, " soothed his wife; "but, --well, we might jest as wellbegin now an' git used to it. Mis' Hopkins said that them two words, 'hain't an' 'ain't, was what Katy hated most of anythin'. "

"Yes; Jim mentioned 'em, too, " acknowledged Nathan gloomily. "But hesaid that even them wan't half so bad as his riggin' up nights. He saidthat Katy said that after the 'toil of the day' they must 'don freshgarments an' come ter the evenin' meal with minds an' bodiesrefreshed. '"

"Yes; an', Nathan, ain't my black silk--"

"Ahem! I'm a-thinkin' it wa'n't me that said 'ain't' that time, "interposed Nathan. 

"Dear, dear, Nathan!--did I? Oh, dear, what will Alma say?"

"It don't make no diff'rence what Alma says, Mary. Don't ye fret, "returned the man with sudden sharpness, as he rose to his feet. "I guessAlma'll have ter take us 'bout as we be--'bout as we be. "

Yet it was Nathan who asked, just as his wife was dropping off to sleepthat night:--

"Mary, is it three o' them collars I've got, or four?--b'iled ones, Imean. "

At five o'clock the next afternoon Mrs. Kelsey put on the treasuredblack silk dress, sacred for a dozen years to church, weddings, andfunerals. Nathan, warm and uncomfortable in his Sunday suit and stiffcollar, had long since driven to the station for Alma. The house, brushed and scrubbed into a state of speckless order, was thrown wideopen to welcome the returning daughter. At a quarter before six shecame. 

"Mother, you darling!" cried a voice, and Mrs. Kelsey found herself inthe clasp of strong young arms, and gazing into a flushed, eager face. "Don't you look good! And doesn't everything look good!" finished thegirl. 

"Does it--I mean, do it?" quavered the little woman excitedly. "Oh, Alma, I am glad ter see ye!"

Behind Alma's back Nathan flicked a bit of dust from his coat. The nextinstant he raised a furtive hand and gave his collar and neckband asavage pull. 

At the supper-table that night ten minutes of eager questioning on thepart of Alma had gone by before Mrs. Kelsey realized that thus far theirconversation had been of nothing more important than Nathan'srheumatism, her own health, and the welfare of Rover, Tabby, and themare Topsy. Commensurate with the happiness that had been hers duringthose ten minutes came now her remorse. She hastened to make amends. 

"There, there, Alma, I beg yer pardon, I'm sure. I hain't--er--Ihaven't meant ter keep ye talkin' on such triflin' things, dear. Now talk ter us yer self. Tell us about things--anythin'--anythin' onthe table or in the room, " she finished feverishly. 

For a moment the merry-faced girl stared in frank amazement at hermother; then she laughed gleefully. 

"On the table? In the room?" she retorted. "Well, it's the dearest roomever, and looks so good to me! As for the table--the rolls are feathers, the coffee is nectar, and the strawberries--well, the strawberries arejust strawberries--they couldn't be nicer. "

"Oh, Alma, but I didn't mean----"

"Tut, tut, tut!" interrupted Alma laughingly. "Just as if the cookdidn't like her handiwork praised! Why, when I draw a picture--oh, and Ihaven't told you!" she broke off excitedly. The next instant she was onher feet. "Alma Mead Kelsey, Illustrator; at your service, " sheannounced with a low bow. Then she dropped into her seat again and wenton speaking. 

"You see, I've been doing this sort of thing for some time, " sheexplained, "and have had some success in selling. My teacher has alwaysencouraged me, and, acting on his advice, I stayed over in New York aweek with a friend, and took some of my work to the big publishinghouses. That's why I didn't get here as soon as Kate Hopkins did. Ihated to put off my coming; but now I'm so glad I did. Only think! Isold every single thing, and I have orders and orders ahead. "

"Well, by sugar!" ejaculated the man at the head of the table. 

"Oh-h-h!" breathed the little woman opposite. "Oh, Alma, I'm so glad!"

In spite of Mrs. Kelsey's protests that night after supper, Alma trippedabout the kitchen and pantry wiping the dishes and putting them away. Atdusk father, mother, and daughter seated themselves on the back porch. 

"There!" sighed Alma. "Isn't this restful? And isn't that moonglorious?"

Mrs. Kelsey shot a quick look at her husband; then she cleared herthroat nervously. 

"Er--yes, " she assented. "I--I s'pose you know what it's made of, an'how big 'tis, an'--an' what there is on it, don't ye, Alma?"

Alma raised her eyebrows. 

"Hm-m; well, there are still a few points that I and the astronomershaven't quite settled, " she returned, with a whimsical smile. 

"An' the stars, they've got names, I s'pose--every one of 'em, "proceeded Mrs. Kelsey, so intent on her own part that Alma's replypassed unnoticed. 

Alma laughed; then she assumed an attitude of mock rapture, and quoted:

 "'Scintillate, scintillate, globule vivific, Fain would I fathom thy nature specific; Loftily poised in ether capacious, Strongly resembling the gem carbonaceous. '"

There was a long silence. Alma's eyes were on the flying clouds. 

"Would--would you mind saying that again, Alma?" asked Mrs. Kelsey atlast timidly. 

Alma turned with a start. 

"Saying what, dearie?--oh, that nonsensical verse? Of course not! That'sonly another way of saying 'twinkle, twinkle, little star. ' Means justthe same, only uses up a few more letters to make the words. Listen. "And she repeated the two, line for line. 

"Oh!" said her mother faintly. "Er--thank you. "

"I--I guess I'll go to bed, " announced Nathan Kelsey suddenly. 

The next morning Alma's pleadings were in vain. Mrs. Kelsey insistedthat Alma should go about her sketching, leaving the housework for herown hands to perform. With a laughing protest and a playful pout, Almatucked her sketchbook under her arm and left the house to go down by theriver. In the field she came upon her father. 

"Hard at work, dad?" she called affectionately. "Old Mother Earth won'tyield her increase without just so much labor, will she?"

"That she won't, " laughed the man. Then he flushed a quick red and set alight foot on a crawling thing of many legs which had emerged frombeneath an overturned stone. 

"Oh!" cried Alma. "Your foot, father--your're crushing something!"

The flush grew deeper. 

"Oh, I guess not, " rejoined the man, lifting his foot, and giving acuriously resigned sigh as he sent an apprehensive glance into thegirl's face. 

"Dear, dear! isn't he funny?" murmured the girl, bending low and givinga gentle poke with the pencil in her hand. "Only fancy, " she added, straightening herself, "only fancy if we had so many feet. Just picturethe size of our shoe bill!" And she laughed and turned away. 

"Well, by gum!" ejaculated the man, looking after her. Then he fell towork, and his whistle, as he worked, carried something of the song of abird set free from a cage. 

A week passed. 

The days were spent by Alma in roaming the woods and fields, pencil andpaper in hand; they were spent by her mother in the hot kitchen over ahotter stove. To Alma's protests and pleadings Mrs. Kelsey was deaf. Alma's place was not there, her work was not housework, declared Alma'smother. 

On Mrs. Kelsey the strain was beginning to tell. It was not the workalone--though that was no light matter, owing to her anxiety that Alma'spleasure and comfort should find nothing wanting--it was more than thework. 

Every night at six the anxious little woman, flushed from biscuit-bakingand chicken-broiling and almost sick with fatigue, got out the blacksilk gown and the white lace collar and put them on with tremblinghands. Thus robed in state she descended to the supper-table, there toconfront her husband still more miserable in the stiff collar and blackcoat. 

Nor yet was this all. Neither the work nor the black silk dresscontained for Mrs. Kelsey quite the possibilities of soul torture thatwere to be found in the words that fell from her lips. As the dayspassed, the task the little woman had set for herself became more andmore hopeless, until she scarcely could bring herself to speak at all, so stumbling and halting were her sentences. 

At the end of the eighth day came the culmination of it all. Alma, hernose sniffing the air, ran into the kitchen that night to find no one inthe room, and the biscuits burning in the oven. She removed thebiscuits, threw wide the doors and windows, then hurried upstairs to hermother's room. 

"Why, mother!"

Mrs. Kelsey stood before the glass, a deep flush on her cheeks and tearsrolling down her face. Two trembling hands struggled with the lace ather throat until the sharp point of a pin found her thumb and left atiny crimson stain on the spotlessness of the collar. It was then thatMrs. Kelsey covered her face with her hands and sank into the low chairby the bed. 

"Why, mother!" cried Alma again, hurrying across the room and droppingon her knees at her mother's side. 

"I can't, Alma, I can't!" moaned the woman. "I've tried an' tried; butI've got ter give up, I've got ter give up. "

"Can't what, dearie?--give up what?" demanded Alma. 

Mrs. Kelsey shook her head. Then she dropped her hands and lookedfearfully into her daughter's face. 

"An' yer father, too, Alma--he's tried, an' he can't, " she choked. 

"Tried what? What do you mean?"

With her eyes on Alma's troubled, amazed face, Mrs. Kelsey made one lasteffort to gain her lost position. She raised her shaking hands to herthroat and fumbled for the pin and the collar. 

"There, there, dear, don't fret, " she stammered. "I didn't think what Iwas sayin'. It ain't nothin'--I mean, it aren't nothin'--itam not--oh-h!" she sobbed; "there, ye see, Alma, I can't, Ican't. It ain't no more use ter try!" Down went the gray head on Alma'sstrong young shoulder. 

"There, there, dear, cry away, " comforted Alma, with loving pats. "Itwill do you good; then we'll hear what this is all about, from the verybeginning. "

And Mrs. Kelsey told her--and from the very beginning. When the tellingwas over, and the little woman, a bit breathless and frightened, satawaiting what Alma would say, there came a long silence. 

Alma's lips were close shut. Alma was not quite sure, if she openedthem, whether there would come a laugh or a sob. The laugh was uppermostand almost parted the firm-set lips, when a side glance at the quiveringface of the little woman in the big chair turned the laugh into a half-stifled sob. Then Alma spoke. 

"Mother, dear, listen. Do you think a silk dress and a stiff collar canmake you and father any dearer to me? Do you think an 'ain't' or a'hain't' can make me love either of you any less? Do you suppose Iexpect you, after fifty years' service for others, to be as careful inyour ways and words as if you'd spent those fifty years in trainingyourself instead of in training six children? Why, mother, dear, do yousuppose that I don't know that for twenty of those years you have had nothoughts, no prayers, save for me?--that I have been the very apple ofyour eye? Well, it's my turn, now, and you are the apple of my eye--youand father. Why, dearie, you have no idea of the plans I have for you. There's a good strong woman coming next week for the kitchen work. Oh, it's all right, " assured Alma, quickly, in response to the look on hermother's face. "Why, I'm rich! Only think of those orders! And then youshall dress in silk or velvet, or calico--anything you like, so long asit doesn't scratch nor prick, " she added merrily, bending forward andfastening the lace collar. "And you shall----"

"Ma-ry?" It was Nathan at the foot of the back stairway. 

"Yes, Nathan. "

"Ain't it 'most supper-time?"

"Bless my soul!" cried Mrs. Kelsey, springing to her feet. 

"An', Mary----"

"Yes. "

"Hain't I got a collar--a b'iled one, on the bureau up there?"

"No, " called Alma, snatching up the collar and throwing it on the bed. "There isn't a sign of one there. Suppose you let it go to-night, dad?"

"Well, if you don't mind!" And a very audible sigh of relief floated upthe back stairway. 

The Bridge Across the Years

John was expected on the five o'clock stage. Mrs. John had been therethree days now, and John's father and mother were almost packed up--soMrs. John said. The auction would be to-morrow at nine o'clock, and withJohn there to see that things "hustled"--which last was reallyunnecessary to mention, for John's very presence meant "hustle"--withJohn there, then, the whole thing ought to be over by one o'clock, andthey off in season to 'catch the afternoon express. 

And what a time it had been--those three days!

Mrs. John, resting in the big chair on the front porch, thought of thosedays with complacency--that they were over. Grandpa and Grandma Burton, hovering over old treasures in the attic, thought of them with terrifieddismay--that they had ever begun. 

I am coming up on Tuesday [Mrs. John had written]. We have been thinkingfor some time that you and father ought not to be left alone up there onthe farm any longer. Now don't worry about the packing. I shall bringMarie, and you won't have to lift your finger. John will come Thursdaynight, and be there for the auction on Friday. By that time we shallhave picked out what is worth saving, and everything will be ready forhim to take matters in hand. I think he has already written to theauctioneer, so tell father to give himself no uneasiness on that score. 

John says he thinks we can have you back here with us by Friday night, or Saturday at the latest. You know John's way, so you may be sure therewill be no tiresome delay. Your rooms here will be all ready before Ileave, so that part will be all right. 

This may seem a bit sudden to you, but you know we have always told youthat the time was surely coming when you couldn't live alone any longer. John thinks it has come now; and, as I said before, you know John, so, after all, you won't be surprised at his going right ahead with things. We shall do everything possible to make you comfortable, and I am sureyou will be very happy here. 

Good-bye, then, until Tuesday. With love to both of you. 

EDITH. 

That had been the beginning. To Grandpa and Grandma Burton it had comelike a thunderclap on a clear day. They had known, to be sure, that sonJohn frowned a little at their lonely life; but that there should comethis sudden transplanting, this ruthless twisting and tearing up ofroots that for sixty years had been burrowing deeper and deeper--it wasalmost beyond one's comprehension. 

And there was the auction!

"We shan't need that, anyway, " Grandma Burton had said at once. "Whatfew things we don't want to keep I shall give away. An auction, indeed!Pray, what have we to sell?"

"Hm-m! To be sure, to be sure, " her husband had murmured; but his facewas troubled, and later he had said, apologetically: "You see, Hannah, there's the farm things. We don't need them. "

On Tuesday night Mrs. John and the somewhat awesome Maria--to whomGrandpa and Grandma Burton never could learn not to curtsy--arrived; andalmost at once Grandma Burton discovered that not only "farm things, "but such precious treasures as the hair wreath and the parlor--set wereauctionable. In fact, everything the house contained, except theirclothing and a few crayon portraits, seemed to be in the same category. 

"But, mother, dear, " Mrs. John had returned, with a laugh, in responseto Grandma Burton's horrified remonstrances, "just wait until you seeyour rooms, and how full they are of beautiful things, and then you'llunderstand. "

"But they won't be--these, " the old voice had quavered. 

And Mrs. John had laughed again, and had patted her mother-in-law'scheek, and had echoed-but with a different shade of meaning--"No, theycertainly won't be these!"

In the attic now, on a worn black trunk, sat the little old man, anddown on the floor before an antiquated cradle knelt his wife. 

"They was all rocked in it, Seth, " she was saying, --"John and the twinsand my two little girls; and now there ain't any one left only John--andthe cradle. "

"I know, Hannah, but you ain't usin' that nowadays, so you don'treally need it, " comforted the old man. "But there's my big chair now--seems as though we jest oughter take that. Why, there ain't a day goesby that I don't set in it!"

"But John's wife says there's better ones there, Seth, " soothed the oldwoman in her turn, "as much as four or five of 'em right in our rooms. "

"So she did, so she did!" murmured the man. "I'm an ongrateful thing; soI be. " There was a long pause. The old man drummed with his fingers onthe trunk and watched a cloud sail across the skylight. The woman gentlyswung the cradle to and fro. "If only they wan't goin' ter be--sold!"she choked, after a time. "I like ter know that they're where I can lookat 'em, an' feel of 'em, an'--an' remember things. Now there's themquilts with all my dress pieces in 'em--a piece of most every dress I'vehad since I was a girl; an' there's that hair wreath--seems as if I jestcouldn't let that go, Seth. Why, there's your hair, an' John's, an' someof the twins', an'--"

"There, there, dear; now I jest wouldn't fret, " cut in the old manquickly. "Like enough when you get used ter them other things on thewall you'll like 'em even better than the hair wreath. John's wife saysshe's taken lots of pains an' fixed 'em up with pictures an' curtainsan' everythin' nice, " went on Seth, talking very fast. "Why, Hannah, it's you that's bein' ongrateful now, dear!"

"So 'tis, so 'tis, Seth, an' it ain't right an' I know it. I ain't a-goin' ter do so no more; now see!" And she bravely turned her back onthe cradle and walked, head erect, toward the attic stairs. 

John came at five o'clock. He engulfed the little old man and the littleold woman in a bearlike hug, and breezily demanded what they had beendoing to themselves to make them look so forlorn. In the very nextbreath, however, he answered his own question, and declared it wasbecause they had been living all cooped up alone so long--so it was; andthat it was high time it was stopped, and that he had come to do it!Whereupon the old man and the old woman smiled bravely and told eachother what a good, good son they had, to be sure!

Friday dawned clear, and not too warm--an ideal auction-day. Long beforenine o'clock the yard was full of teams and the house of people. Amongthem all, however, there was no sign of the bent old man and the erectlittle old woman, the owners of the property to be sold. John and Mrs. John were not a little disturbed--they had lost their father and mother. 

Nine o'clock came, and with it began the strident call of theauctioneer. Men laughed and joked over their bids, and women looked onand gossiped, adding a bid of their own now and then. Everywhere was theson of the house, and things went through with a rush. Upstairs, in thedarkest corner of the attic--which had been cleared of goods--sat, handin hand on an old packing-box, a little old man and a little old womanwho winced and shrank together every time the "Going, going, gone!"floated up to them from the yard below. 

At half-past one the last wagon rumbled out of the yard, and fiveminutes later Mrs. John gave a relieved cry. 

"Oh, there you are! Why, mother, father, where have you been?"

There was no reply. The old man choked back a cough and bent to flick abit of dust from his coat. The old woman turned and crept away, hererect little figure looking suddenly bent and old. 

"Why, what--" began John, as his father, too, turned away. "Why, Edith, you don't suppose--" He stopped with a helpless frown. 

"Perfectly natural, my dear, perfectly natural, " returned Mrs. Johnlightly. "We'll get them away immediately. It'll be all right when oncethey are started. "

Some hours later a very tired old man and a still more tired old womancrept into a pair of sumptuous, canopy-topped twin beds. There was onlyone remark. 

"Why, Seth, mine ain't feathers a mite! Is yours?"

There was no reply. Tired nature had triumphed--Seth was asleep. 

They made a brave fight, those two. They told themselves that the chairswere easier, the carpets softer, and the pictures prettier than thosethat had gone under the hammer that day as they sat hand in hand in theattic. They assured each other that the unaccustomed richness of windowand bed hangings and the profusion of strange vases and statuettes didnot make them afraid to stir lest they soil or break something. Theyinsisted to each other that they were not homesick, and that they wereperfectly satisfied as they were. And yet--

When no one was looking Grandpa Burton tried chair after chair, andwondered why there was only one particular chair in the whole world thatjust exactly "fitted;" and when the twilight hour came Grandma Burtonwondered what she would give to be able just to sit by the old cradleand talk with the past. 

 * * * * *

The newspapers said it was a most marvelous escape for the whole family. They gave a detailed account of how the beautiful residence of theHonorable John Burton, with all its costly furnishings, had burned tothe ground, and of how the entire family was saved, making specialmention of the honorable gentleman's aged father and mother. No one wasinjured, fortunately, and the family had taken up a temporary residencein the nearest hotel. It was understood that Mr. Burton would beginrebuilding at once. 

The newspapers were right--Mr. Burton did begin rebuilding at once; infact, the ashes of the Burton mansion were not cold before John Burtonbegan to interview architects and contractors. 

"It'll be 'way ahead of the old one, " he confided to his wifeenthusiastically. 

Mrs. John sighed. 

"I know, dear, " she began plaintively; "but, don't you see? it won't bethe same--it can't be. Why, some of those things we've had ever since wewere married. They seemed a part of me, John. I was used to them. I hadgrown up with some of them--those candlesticks of mamma's, for instance, that she had when I was a bit of a baby. Do you think money can buyanother pair that--that were hers?" And Mrs. John burst intotears. 

"Come, come, dear, " protested her husband, with a hasty caress and anervous glance at the clock--he was due at the bank in ten minutes. "Don't fret about what can't be helped; besides"-and he laughedwhimsically--"you must look out or you'll be getting as bad as motherover her hair wreath!" And with another hasty pat on her shoulder he wasgone. 

Mrs. John suddenly stopped her crying. She lowered her handkerchief andstared fixedly at an old print on the wall opposite. The hotel--thoughstrictly modern in cuisine and management--was an old one, and prideditself on the quaintness of its old-time furnishings. Just what theprint represented Mrs. John could not have told, though her eyes did notswerve from its face for five long minutes. What she did see was asilent, dismantled farmhouse, and a little old man and a little oldwoman with drawn faces and dumb lips. 

Was it possible? Had she, indeed, been so blind?

Mrs. John rose to her feet, bathed her eyes, straightened her neck-bow, and crossed the hall to Grandma Burton's room. 

"Well, mother, and how are you getting along?" she asked cheerily. 

"Jest as nice as can be, daughter, --and ain't this room pretty?"returned the little old woman eagerly. "Do you know, it seems kind ofnatural like; mebbe it's because of that chair there. Seth says it'salmost like his at home. "

It was a good beginning, and Mrs. John made the most of it. Under herskillful guidance Grandma Burton, in less than five minutes, had gonefrom the chair to the old clock which her father used to wind, and fromthe clock to the bureau where she kept the dead twins' little whiteshoes and bonnets. She told, too, of the cherished parlor chairs andmarble-topped table, and of how she and father had saved and saved foryears to buy them; and even now, as she talked, her voice rang withpride of possession--though only for a moment; it shook then with theremembrance of loss. 

There was no complaint, it is true, no audible longing for losttreasures. There was only the unwonted joy of pouring into sympatheticears the story of things loved and lost--things the very mention ofwhich brought sweet faint echoes of voices long since silent. 

"There, there, " broke off the little old woman at last, "how I amrunnin' on! But, somehow, somethin' set me to talkin' ter-day. Mebbe'twas that chair that's like yer father's, " she hazarded. 

"Maybe it was, " agreed Mrs. John quietly, as she rose to her feet. 

The new house came on apace. In a wonderfully short time John Burtonbegan to urge his wife to see about rugs and hangings. It was then thatMrs. John called him to one side and said a few hurried but very earnestwords--words that made the Honorable John open wide his eyes. 

"But, Edith, " he remonstrated, "are you crazy? It simply couldn't bedone! The things are scattered over half a dozen townships; besides, Ihaven't the least idea where the auctioneer's list is--if I saved it atall. "

"Never mind, dear; I may try, surely, " begged Mrs. John. And her husbandlaughed and reached for his check-book. 

"Try? Of course you may try! And here's this by way of wishing you goodluck, " he finished, as he handed her an oblong bit of paper that wouldgo far toward smoothing the most difficult of ways. 

"You dear!" cried Mrs. John. "And now I'm going to work. "

It was at about this time that Mrs. John went away. The children were atcollege and boarding-school; John was absorbed in business and house-building, and Grandpa and Grandma Burton were contented and well caredfor. There really seemed to be no reason why Mrs. John should not goaway, if she wished--and she apparently did wish. It was at about thistime, too, that certain Vermont villages--one of which was the HonorableJohn Burton's birthplace--were stirred to sudden interest and action. Apersistent, smiling-faced woman had dropped into their midst--a womanwho drove from house to house, and who, in every case, left behind her asworn ally and friend, pledged to serve her cause. 

Little by little, in an unused room in the village hotel there began toaccumulate a motley collection--a clock, a marble-topped table, acradle, a patchwork quilt, a bureau, a hair wreath, a chair worn withage and use. And as this collection grew in size and fame, only thatfamily which could not add to it counted itself abused and unfortunate, so great was the spell that the persistent, smiling-faced woman had castabout her. 

Just before the Burton house was finished Mrs. John came back to town. She had to hurry a little about the last of the decorations andfurnishings to make up for lost time; but there came a day when theplace was pronounced ready for occupancy. 

It was then that Mrs. John hurried into Grandpa and Grandma Burton'srooms at the hotel. 

"Come, dears, " she said gayly. "The house is all ready, and we're goinghome. "

"Done? So soon?" faltered Grandma Burton, who had not been told verymuch concerning the new home's progress. "Why, how quick they have builtit!"

There was a note of regret in the tremulous old voice, but Mrs. John didnot seem to notice. The old man, too, rose from his chair with a longsigh--and again Mrs. John did not seem to notice. 

 * * * * *

"Yes, dearie, yes, it's all very nice and fine, " said Grandma Burtonwearily, half an hour later as she trudged through the sumptuous parlorsand halls of the new house; "but, if you don't mind, I guess I'll go tomy room, daughter. I'm tired--turrible tired. "

Up the stairs and along the hall trailed the little procession--Mrs. John, John, the bent old man, and the little old woman. At the end ofthe hall Mrs. John paused a moment, then flung the door wide open. 

There was a gasp and a quick step forward; then came the suddenillumination of two wrinkled old faces. 

"John! Edith!"--it was a cry of mingled joy and wonder. 

There was no reply. Mrs. John had closed the door and left them therewith their treasures. 

For Jimmy

Uncle Zeke's pipe had gone out--sure sign that Uncle Zeke's mind was notat rest. For five minutes the old man had occupied in frowning silencethe other of my veranda rocking-chairs. As I expected, however, I hadnot long to wait. 

"I met old Sam Hadley an' his wife in the cemetery just now, " heobserved. 

"Yes?" I was careful to express just enough, and not too much, interest:one had to be circumspect with Uncle Zeke. 

"Hm-m; I was thinkin'--" Uncle Zeke paused, shifted his position, andbegan again. This time I had the whole story. 

"I was thinkin'--I don't say that Jimmy did right, an' I don't say thatJimmy did wrong. Maybe you can tell. 'Twas like this:

"In a way we all claimed Jimmy Hadley. As a little fellow, he was one ofthem big-eyed, curly-haired chaps that gets inside your heart no matterhow tough't is. An' we was really fond of him, too, --so fond of him thatwe didn't do nothin' but jine in when his pa an' ma talked as if he wasthe only boy that ever was born, or ever would be--an' you know we musthave been purty daft ter stood that, us bein' fathers ourselves!

"Well, as was natural, perhaps, the Hadleys jest lived fer Jimmy. They'dlost three, an' he was all there was left. They wasn't very well-to-do, but nothin' was too grand fer Jimmy, and when the boy begun ter drawthem little pictures of his all over the shed an' the barn door, theywas plumb crazy. There wan't no doubt of it--Jimmy was goin' ter befamous, they said. He was goin' ter be one o' them painter fellows, an'make big money. 

"An' Jimmy did work, even then. He stood well in his studies, an' workedoutside, earnin' money so's he could take drawin' lessons when he gotbigger. An' by and by he did get bigger, an' he did take lessons downter the Junction twice a week. 

"There wan't no livin' with Mis' Hadley then, she was that proud; an'when he brought home his first picture, they say she never went ter bedat all that night, but jest set gloatin' over it till the sun came inan' made her kerosene lamp look as silly as she did when she saw 'twasmornin'. There was one thing that plagued her, though: 'twan't painted--that picture. Jimmy called it a 'black an' white, ' an' said 'twan'tpaintin' that he wanted ter do, but 'lustratin'--fer books andmagazines, you know. She felt hurt, an' all put out at first: but Jimmytold her 'twas all right, an' that there was big money in it; so she got'round contented again. She couldn't help it, anyhow, with Jimmy, he wasthat lovin' an' nice with her. He was the kind that's always bringin'footstools and shawls, an' makin' folks comfortable. Everybody lovedJimmy. Even the cats an' dogs rubbed up against him an' wagged theirtails at sight of him, an' the kids--goodness, Jimmy couldn't cross thestreet without a dozen kids makin' a grand rush fer him. 

"Well, time went on, an' Jimmy grew tall an' good lookin'. Then came thegirl--an' she was a girl, too. 'Course, Jimmy, bein' as how he'dhad all the frostin' there was goin' on everythin' so fur, carried outthe same idea in girls, an' picked out the purtiest one he could find--rich old Townsend's daughter, Bessie. 

"To the Hadleys this seemed all right--Jimmy was merely gettin' thebest, as usual; but the rest of us, includin' old man Townsend, begunter sit up an' take notice. The old man was mad clean through. He hadother plans fer Bessie, an' he said so purty plain. "

"But it seems there didn't any of us--only Jimmy, maybe--take the girlherself into consideration. For a time she was a little skittish, an'led Jimmy a purty chase with her dancin' nearer an' nearer, an' thenflyin' off out of reach. But at last she came out fair an' square furJimmy, an' they was as lively a pair of lovers as ye'd wish ter see. Itlooked, too, as if she'd even wheedle the old man 'round ter her side ofthinkin'. "

"The next thing we knew Jimmy had gone ter New York. He was ter study, an' at the same time pick up what work he could, ter turn an honestpenny, the Hadleys said. We liked that in him. He was goin' ter makesomethin' of himself, so's he'd be worthy of Bessie Townsend or anyother girl. "

"But't was hard on the Hadleys. Jimmy's lessons cost a lot, an' so didjust livin' there in New York, an' 'course Jimmy couldn't pay fer itall, though I guess he worked nights an' Sundays ter piece out. Backhome here the Hadleys scrimped an' scrimped till they didn't have halfenough ter eat, an' hardly enough ter cover their nakedness. But theydidn't mind--'t was fer Jimmy. He wrote often, an' told how he wasworkin', an' the girl got letters, too; at least, Mis' Hadley said shedid. An' once in a while he'd tell of some picture he'd finished, orwhat the teacher said. 

"But by an' by the letters didn't come so often. Sam told me about it atfirst, an' he said it plagued his wife a lot. He said she thought maybeJimmy was gettin' discouraged, specially as he didn't seem ter say muchof anything about his work now. Sam owned up that the letters wan't sofree talkin'; an' that worried him. He was afraid the boy was keepin'back somethin'. He asked me, kind of sheepish-like, if I s'posed such athing could be as that Jimmy had gone wrong, somehow. He knew cities wasawful wicked an' temptin', he said. 

"I laughed him out of that notion quick, an' I was honest in it, too. I'd have as soon suspected myself of goin' ter the bad as Jimmy, an' Itold him so. Things didn't look right, though. The letters got skurseran' skurser, an' I began ter think myself maybe somethin' was up. Thencome the newspaper. 

"It was me that took it over to the Hadleys. It was a little notice inmy weekly, an' I spied it 'way down in the corner just as I thought Ihad the paper all read. 'Twan't so much, but to us 'twas a powerful lot;jest a little notice that they was glad ter see that the first prize hadgone ter the talented young illustrator, James Hadley, an' that hedeserved it, an' they wished him luck. 

"The Hadleys were purty pleased, you'd better believe. They hadn't seenit, 'course, as they wan't wastin' no money on weeklies them days. Samset right down an' wrote, an' so did Mis' Hadley, right out of thefullness of their hearts. Mis' Hadley give me her letter ter read, shewas that proud an' excited; an' 't was a good letter, all brimmin' overwith love an' pride an' joy in his success. I could see just how Jimmy'dcolor up an' choke when he read it, specially where she owned up howshe'd been gettin' purty near discouraged 'cause they didn't hear muchfrom him, an' how she'd rather die than have her Jimmy fail. 

"Well, they sent off the letters, an' by an' by come the answer. It waskind of shy and stiff-like, an' I think it sort of disappointed 'em; butthey tried ter throw it off an' say that Jimmy was so modest he didn'tlike ter take praise. 

"'Course the whole town was interested, an' proud, too, ter think hebelonged ter us; an' we couldn't hear half enough about him. But as timewent on we got worried. Things didn't look right. The Hadleys was stillscrimpin', still sendin' money when they could, an' they owned up thatJimmy's letters wan't real satisfyin' an' that they didn't come often, though they always told how hard he was workin'. 

"What was queerer still, every now an' then I'd see his name in myweekly. I looked fer it, I'll own. I run across it once in the'Personals, ' an' after that I hunted the paper all through every week. He went ter parties an' theaters, an' seemed ter be one of a gay crowdthat was always havin' good times. I didn't say nothin' ter the Hadleysabout all this, 'course, but it bothered me lots. What with all thesefine doin's, an' his not sendin' any money home, it looked as if the oldfolks didn't count much now, an' that his head had got turned sure. 

"As time passed, things got worse an' worse. Sam lost two cows, an' Mis'Hadley grew thinner an' whiter, an' finally got down sick in her bed. Then I wrote. I told Jimmy purty plain how things was an' what I thoughtof him. I told him that there wouldn't be any more money comin' fromthis direction (an' I meant ter see that there wan't, too!), an' Ihinted that if that 'ere prize brought anythin' but honor, I shouldthink 't would be a mighty good plan ter share it with the folks thathelped him ter win it. 

"It was a sharp letter, an' when it was gone I felt 'most sorry I'd sentit; an' when the answer come, I was sorry. Jimmy was all brokeup, an' he showed it. He begged me ter tell him jest how his ma was; an'if they needed anythin', ter get it and call on him. He said he wishedthe prize had brought him lots of money, but it hadn't. He enclosedtwenty-five dollars, however, and said he should write the folks not tersend him any more money, as he was goin' ter send it ter them nowinstead. 

"Of course I took the letter an' the money right over ter Sam, an' afterthey'd got over frettin' 'cause I'd written at all, they took the money, an' I could see it made 'em look ten years younger. After that youcouldn't come near either of 'em that you didn't hear how good Jimmy wasan' how he was sendin' home money every week. 

"Well, it wan't four months before I had ter write Jimmy again. Samasked me too, this time. Mis' Hadley was sick again, an' Sam wasworried. He thought Jimmy ought ter come home, but he didn't like tersay so himself. He wondered if I wouldn't drop him a hint. So I wrote, an' Jimmy wrote right away that he'd come. 

"We was all of a twitter, 'course, then--the whole town. He'd gotanother prize--so the paper said--an' there was a paragraph praisin' upsome pictures of his in the magazine. He was our Jimmy, an' we was proudof him, yet we couldn't help wonderin' how he'd act. We wan't used tercelebrities--not near to!

"Well, he came. He was taller an' thinner than when he went away, an'there was a tired look in his eyes that went straight ter my heart. 'Most the whole town was out ter meet him, an' that seemed ter botherhim. He was cordial enough, in a way, but he seemed ter try ter avoidfolks, an' he asked me right off ter get him 'out of it. ' I could see hewan't hankerin' ter be made a lion of, so we got away soon's we couldan' went ter his home. 

"You should have seen Mis' Hadley's eyes when she saw him, tall an'straight in the doorway. And Sam--Sam cried like a baby, he was so proudof that boy. As fer Jimmy, his eyes jest shone, an' the tired look wasall gone from them when he strode across the room an' dropped on hisknees at his mother's bedside with a kind of choking cry. I come awaythen, and left them. 

"We was kind of divided about Jimmy, after that. We liked him, 'most allof us, but we didn't like his ways. He was too stand-offish, an' queer, an' we was all mad at the way he treated the girl. 

"'Twas given out that the engagement was broken, but we didn't believe't was her done it, 'cause up ter the last minute she'd been runnin'down ter the house with posies and goodies. Then he came, an' shestopped. He didn't go there, neither, an', so far as we knew, theyhadn't seen each other once. The whole town was put out. We didn'trelish seein' her thrown off like an old glove, jest 'cause he wassomebody out in the world now, an' could have his pick of girls withcity airs and furbelows. But we couldn't do nothin', 'cause he hewas good ter his folks, an' no mistake, an' we did like that. 

"Mis' Hadley got better in a couple of weeks, an' he begun ter talk ofgoin' back. We wanted ter give him a banquet an' speeches and aserenade, but he wouldn't hear a word of it. He wouldn't let us tell himhow pleased we was at his success, either. The one thing he wouldn'ttalk about was his work, an' some got most mad, he was so modest. 

"He hardly ever left the house except fer long walks, and it was on oneof them that the accident happened. It was in the road right in front ofthe field where I was ploughing, so I saw it all. Bessie Townsend, onher little gray mare, came tearin' down the Townsend Hill like mad. 

"Jimmy had stopped ter speak ter me, at the fence, but the next minutehe was off like a shot up the road. He ran an' made a flyin' leap, an' Isaw the mare rear and plunge. Then beast and man came down together, andI saw Bessie slide to the ground, landin' on her feet. 

"When I got there Bessie Townsend was sittin' on the ground, withJimmy's head in her arms, which I thought uncommon good of her, seein'the mortification he'd caused her. But when I saw the look in her eyes, an' in his as he opened them an' gazed up at her, I reckoned there mightbe more ter that love-story than most folks knew. What he said ter herthen I don't know, but ter me he said jest four words, 'Don't--tell--the--folks, ' an' I didn't rightly understand jest then what he meant, for surely an accident like that couldn't be kept unbeknownst. The nextminute he fell back unconscious. 

"It was a bad business all around, an' from the very first there wan'tno hope. In a week 'twas over, an' we laid poor Jimmy away. Two daysafter the funeral Sam come ter me with a letter. It was addressed terJimmy, an' the old man couldn't bring himself ter open it. He wanted, too, that I should go on ter New York an' get Jimmy's things; an' afterI had opened the letter I said right off that I'd go. I was mad overthat letter. It was a bill fer a suit of clothes, an' it asked him purtysharplike ter pay it. 

"I had some trouble in New York findin' Jimmy's boardin'-place. Therehad been a fire the night before, an' his landlady had had ter move; butat last I found her an' asked anxiously fer Jimmy's things, an' if hispictures had been hurt. 

"Jimmy's landlady was fat an' greasy an' foreign-lookin', an' she didn'tseem ter understand what I was talkin' about till I repeated a bitsharply:--

"'Yes, his pictures. I've come fer 'em. '

"Then she shook her head. 

"'Meester Hadley did not have any pictures. '

"'But he must have had 'em, ' says I, 'fer them papers an' magazines heworked for. He made 'em!'

"She shook her head again; then she gave a queer hitch to her shoulders, and a little flourish with her hands. 

"'Oh--ze pictures! He did do them--once--a leetle: months ago. '

"'But the prize, ' says I. 'The prize ter James Hadley!'

"Then she laughed as if she suddenly understood. 

"Oh, but it is ze grand mistake you are makin', ' she cried, in hersilly, outlandish way of talkin'. 'There is a Meester James Hadley, an'he does make pictures--beautiful pictures--but it is not this one. ThisMeester Hadley did try, long ago, but he failed to succeed, so my sonsaid; an' he had to--to cease. For long time he has worked for me, forthe grocer, for any one who would pay--till a leetle while ago. Then heleft. In ze new clothes he had bought, he went away. Ze old ones--burned. He had nothing else. '

"She said more, but I didn't even listen. I was back with Jimmy by theroadside, and his 'Don't--tell--the--folks' was ringin' in my ears. Iunderstood it then, the whole thing from the beginnin'; an' I felt dazedan' shocked, as if some one had struck me a blow in the face. I wan'tbrought up ter think lyin' an' deceivin' was right. 

"I got up by an' by an' left the house. I paid poor Jimmy's bill ferclothes--the clothes that I knew he wore when he stood tall an' straightin the doorway ter meet his mother's adorin' eyes. Then I went home. 

"I told Sam that Jimmy's things got burned up in the fire--which was thetruth. I stopped there. Then I went to see the girl--an' right there Igot the surprise of my life. She knew. He had told her the whole thinglong before he come home, an' insisted on givin' her up. Jest what hemeant ter do in the end, an' how he meant ter do it, she didn't know;an' she said with a great sob in her voice, that she didn't believe heknew either. All he did know, apparently, was that he didn't mean his mashould find out an' grieve over it--how he had failed. But whatever hewas goin' ter do, it was taken quite out of his hands at the last. 

"As fer Bessie, now, --it seems as if she can't do enough fer Sam an'Mis' Hadley, she's that good ter 'em; an' they set the world by her. She's got a sad, proud look to her eyes, but Jimmy's secret is safe. 

"As I said, I saw old Sam an' his wife in the cemetery to-night. Theystopped me as usual, an' told me all over again what a good boy Jimmywas, an' how smart he was, an' what a lot he'd made of himself in thelittle time he'd lived. The Hadleys are old an' feeble an' broken, an'it's their one comfort--Jimmy's success. "

Uncle Zeke paused, and drew a long breath. Then he eyed me almostdefiantly. 

"I ain't sayin' that Jimmy did right, of course; but I ain't sayin'--that Jimmy did wrong, " he finished. 

A Summons Home

Mrs. Thaddeus Clayton came softly into the room and looked withapprehensive eyes upon the little old man in the rocking-chair. 

"How be ye, dearie? Yer hain't wanted fer nothin', now, have ye?" sheasked. 

"Not a thing, Harriet, " he returned cheerily. "I'm feelin' real pert, too. Was there lots there? An' did Parson Drew say a heap o' finethings?"

Mrs. Clayton dropped into a chair and pulled listlessly at the blackstrings of her bonnet. 

"'T was a beautiful fun'ral, Thaddeus--a beautiful fun'ral. I--I 'mostwished it was mine. "

"Harriet!"

She gave a shamed-faced laugh. 

"Well, I did--then Jehiel and Hannah Jane would 'a' come, an' I could'a' seen 'em. "

The horrified look on the old man's face gave way to a broad smile. 

"Oh, Harriet--Harriet!" he chuckled, "how could ye seen 'em if you wasdead?"

"Huh? Well, I--Thaddeus, "--her voice rose sharply in the silent room, --"every single one of them Perkins boys was there, and Annabel, too. Onlythink what poor Mis' Perkins would 'a' given ter seen 'em 'fore shewent! But they waited--waited, Thaddeus, jest as everybody does, till their folks is dead. "

"But, Harriet, " demurred the old man, "surely you'd 'a' had them boyscome ter their own mother's fun'ral!"

"Come! I'd 'a' had 'em come before, while Ella Perkins could 'a' feastedher eyes on 'em. Thaddeus, "--Mrs. Clayton rose to her feet and stretchedout two gaunt hands longingly, --"Thaddeus, I get so hungry sometimes forJehiel and Hannah Jane, seems as though I jest couldn't stand it!"

"I know--I know, dearie, " quavered the old man, vigorously polishing hisglasses. 

"Fifty years ago my first baby came, " resumed the woman in tremuloustones; "then another came, and another, till I'd had six. I loved 'em, an' tended 'em, an' cared fer 'em, an' didn't have a thought but was ferthem babies. Four died, "--her voice broke, then went on with renewedstrength, --"but I've got Jehiel and Hannah Jane left; at least, I've gottwo bits of paper that comes mebbe once a month, an' one of 'em's signed'your dutiful son, Jehiel, ' an' the other, 'from your loving daughter, Hannah Jane. '"

"Well, Harriet, they--they're pretty good ter write letters, " venturedMr. Clayton. 

"Letters!" wailed his wife. "I can't hug an' kiss letters, though I tryto, sometimes. I want warm flesh an' blood in my arms, Thaddeus; I wantter look down into Jehiel's blue eyes an' hear him call me 'dear oldmumsey!' as he used to. I wouldn't ask 'em ter stay--I ain'tunreasonable, Thaddeus. I know they can't do that. "

"Well, well, wife, mebbe they'll come--mebbe they'll come this summer;who knows?"

She shook her head dismally. 

"You've said that ev'ry year for the last fifteen summers, an' theyhain't come yet. Jehiel went West more than twenty years ago, an' he'snever been home since. Why, Thaddeus, we've got a grandson 'mosteighteen, that we hain't even seen! Hannah Jane's been home jest oncesince she was married, but that was nigh on ter sixteen years ago. She'salways writin' of her Tommy and Nellie, but--I want ter see 'em, Thaddeus; I want ter see 'em!"

"Yes, yes; well, we'll ask 'em, Harriet, again--we'll ask 'em realurgent--like, an' mebbe that'll fetch 'em, " comforted the old man. "We'll ask 'em ter be here the Fourth; that's eight weeks off yet, an' Ishall be real smart by then. "

Two letters that were certainly "urgent-like" left the New Englandfarmhouse the next morning. One was addressed to a thriving Westerncity, the other to Chattanooga, Tennessee. 

In course of time the answers came. Hannah Jane's appeared first, andwas opened with shaking fingers. 

Dear Mother [read Mrs. Clayton aloud]: Your letter came two orthree days ago, and I have hurried round to answer it, for you seemed tobe so anxious to hear. I'm real sorry, but I don't see how we can getaway this summer. Nathan is real busy at the store; and, some way, Ican't seem to get up energy enough to even think of fixing up thechildren to take them so far. Thank you for the invitation, though, andwe should enjoy the visit very much; but I guess we can't go just yet. Of course if anything serious should come up that made it necessary--why, that would be different: but I know you are sensible, and willunderstand how it is with us. 

Nathan is well, but business has been pretty brisk, and he is in thestore early and late. As long as he's making money, he don't mind; but Itell him I think he might rest a little sometimes, and let some one elsedo the things he does. 

Tom is a big boy now, smart in his studies and with a good head forfigures. Nellie loves her books, too; and, for a little girl of eleven, does pretty well, we think. 

I must close now. We all send love, and hope you are getting along allright. Was glad to hear father was gaining so fast. 

Your loving daughter

HANNAH JANE

The letter dropped from Mrs. Clayton's fingers and lay unheeded on thefloor. The woman covered her face with her hands and rocked her bodyback and forth. 

"There, there, dearie, " soothed the old man huskily; "mebbe Jehiel'swill be diff'rent. I shouldn't wonder, now, if Jehiel would come. There, there! don't take on so, Harriet! don't! I jest know Jehiel'll come. "

A week later Mrs. Clayton found another letter in the rural deliverybox. She clutched it nervously, peered at the writing with her dim oldeyes, and hurried into the house for her glasses. 

Yes, it was from Jehiel. 

She drew a long breath. Her eager thumb was almost under the flap of theenvelope when she hesitated, eyed the letter uncertainly, and thrust itinto the pocket of her calico gown. All day it lay there, save at times--which, indeed, were of frequent occurrence--when she took it from itshiding-place, pressed it to her cheek, or gloried in every curve of theboldly written address. 

At night, after the lamp was lighted, she said to her husband in tonesso low he could scarcely hear:

"Thaddeus, I--I had a letter from Jehiel to-day. "

"You did--and never told me? Why, Harriet, what--" He paused helplessly. 

"I--I haven't read it, Thaddeus, " she stammered. "I couldn't bear to, someway. I don't know why, but I couldn't. You read it!" She held outthe letter with shaking hands. 

He took it, giving her a sharp glance from anxious eyes. As he began toread aloud she checked him. 

"No; ter yerself, Thaddeus--ter yerself! Then--tell me. "

As he read she watched his face. The light died from her eyes and herchin quivered as she saw the stern lines deepen around his mouth. Aminute more, and he had finished the letter and laid it down without aword. 

"Thaddeus, ye don't mean--he didn't say--"

"Read it--I--I can't, " choked the old man. 

She reached slowly for the sheet of paper and spread it on the tablebefore her. 

Dear Mother [Jehiel had written]: Just a word to tell you we areall O. K. And doing finely. Your letter reminded me that it was abouttime I was writing home to the old folks. I don't mean to let so manyweeks go by without a letter from me, but somehow the time just getsaway from me before I know it. 

Minnie is well and deep in spring sewing and house-cleaning. I know--because dressmaker's bills are beginning to come in, and every time I gohome I find a carpet up in a new place!

Our boy Fred is eighteen to-morrow. You'd be proud of him, I know, ifyou could see him. Business is rushing. Glad to hear you're all rightand that father's rheumatism is on the gain. 

As ever, your affectionate and dutiful son, JEHIEL

Oh, by the way--about that visit East. I reckon we'll have to call itoff this year. Too bad; but can't seem to see my way clear. 

Bye-bye, J. 

Harriet Clayton did not cry this time. She stared at the letter longminutes with wide-open, tearless eyes, then she slowly folded it and putit back in its envelope. 

"Harriet, mebbe-" began the old man timidly. 

"Don't, Thaddeus--please don't!" she interrupted. "I--I don't want tertalk. " And she rose unsteadily to her feet and moved toward the kitchendoor. 

For a time Mrs. Clayton went about her work in a silence quite unusual, while her husband watched her with troubled eyes. His heart grieved overthe bowed head and drooping shoulders, and over the blurred eyes thatwere so often surreptitiously wiped on a corner of the gingham apron. But at the end of a week the little old woman accosted him with a facefull of aggressive yet anxious determination. 

"Thaddeus, I want ter speak ter you about somethin'. I've been thinkin'it all out, an' I've decided that I've got ter kill one of us off. "

"Harriet!"

"Well, I have. A fun'ral is the only thing that will fetch Jehiel and--"

"Harriet, are ye gone crazy? Have ye gone clean mad?"

She looked at him appealingly. 

"Now, Thaddeus, don't try ter hender me, please. You see it's the onlyway. A fun'ral is the--"

"A 'fun'ral'--it's murder!" he shuddered. 

"Oh, not ter make believe, as I shall, " she protested eagerly. "It's--"

"Make believe!"

"Why, yes, of course. You'll have ter be the one ter do it, 'cause I'm goin' ter be the dead one, an'--"

"Harriet!"

"There, there, please, Thaddeus! I've jest got ter see Jehiel andHannah Jane 'fore I die!"

"But--they--they'll come if--"

"No, they won't come. We've tried it over an' over again; you know wehave. Hannah Jane herself said that if anythin' 'serious' came up itwould be diff'rent. Well, I'm goin' ter have somethin' 'serious' comeup!"

"But, Harriet--"

"Now, Thaddeus, " begged the woman, almost crying, "you must help me, dear. I've thought it all out, an' it's easy as can be. I shan't tellany lies, of course. I cut my finger to-day, didn't I?"

"Why--yes--I believe so, " he acknowledged dazedly; "but what has that todo--"

"That's the 'accident, ' Thaddeus. You're ter send two telegrams at once--one ter Jehiel, an' one ter Hannah Jane. The telegrams will say:'Accident to your mother. Funeral Saturday afternoon. Come at once. 'That's jest ten words. "

The old man gasped. He could not speak. 

"Now, that's all true, ain't it?" she asked anxiously. "The 'accident'is this cut. The 'fun'ral' is old Mis' Wentworth's. I heard ter-day thatthey couldn't have it until Saturday, so that'll give us plenty of timeter get the folks here. I needn't say whose fun'ral it is that's goin'ter be on Saturday, Thaddeus! I want yer ter hitch up an' drive over terHopkinsville ter send the telegrams. The man's new over there, an' won'tknow yer. You couldn't send 'em from here, of course. "

Thaddeus Clayton never knew just how he allowed himself to be persuadedto take his part in this "crazy scheme, " as he termed it, but persuadedhe certainly was. 

It was a miserable time for Thaddeus then. First there was that hurrieddrive to Hopkinsville. Though the day was warm he fairly shivered as hehanded those two fateful telegrams to the man behind the counter. Thenthere was the homeward trip, during which, like the guilty thing he was, he cast furtive glances from side to side. 

Even home itself came to be a misery, for the sweeping and the dustingand the baking and the brewing which he encountered there left him noplace to call his own, so that he lost his patience at last and moaned:

"Seems ter me, Harriet, you're a pretty lively corpse!"

His wife smiled, and flushed a little. 

"There, there, dear! don't fret. Jest think how glad we'll be ter see'em!" she exclaimed. 

Harriet was blissfully happy. Both the children had promptly respondedto the telegrams, and were now on their way. Hannah Jane, with herhusband and two children, were expected on Friday evening; but Jehieland his wife and boy could not possibly get in until early on thefollowing morning. 

All this brought scant joy to Thaddeus. There was always hanging overhim the dread horror of what he had done, and the fearful questioning asto how it was all going to end. 

Friday came, but a telegram at the last moment told of trains delayedand connections missed. Hannah Jane would not reach home until nine-forty the next morning. So it was with a four-seated carryall thatThaddeus Clayton started for the station on Saturday morning to meetboth of his children and their families. 

The ride home was a silent one; but once inside the house, Jehiel andHannah Jane, amid a storm of sobs and cries, besieged their father withquestions. 

The family were all in the darkened sitting-room--all, indeed, saveHarriet, who sat in solitary state in the chamber above, her face paleand her heart beating almost to suffocation. It had been arranged thatshe was not to be seen until some sort of explanation had been given. 

"Father, what was it?" sobbed Hannah Jane. "How did it happen?"

"It must have been so sudden, " faltered Jehiel. "It cut me upcompletely. "

"I can't ever forgive myself, " moaned Hannah Jane hysterically. "Shewanted us to come East, and I wouldn't. 'Twas my selfishness--'twaseasier to stay where I was; and now--now--"

"We've been brutes, father, " cut in Jehiel, with a shake in his voice;"all of us. I never thought--I never dreamed-father, can--can we see--her?"

In the chamber above a woman sprang to her feet. Harriet had quiteforgotten the stove-pipe hole to the room below, and every sob and moanand wailing cry had been woefully distinct to her ears. With streamingeyes and quivering lips she hurried down the stairs and threw open thesitting-room door. 

"Jehiel! Hannah Jane! I'm here, right here--alive!" she cried. "An' I'vebeen a wicked, wicked woman! I never thought how bad 'twas goin' termake you feel. I truly never, never did. 'Twas only myself--Iwanted yer so. Oh, children, children, I've been so wicked--so awfulwicked!"

Jehiel and Hannah Jane were steady of head and strong of heartland joy, it is said, never kills; otherwise, the results of that suddenapparition in the sitting-room doorway might have been disastrous. 

As it was, a wonderfully happy family party gathered around the table anhour later; and as Jehiel led a tremulous, gray-haired woman to the seatof honor, he looked into her shining eyes and whispered:

"Dear old mumsey, now that we've found the way home again, I reckonwe'll be coming every year--don't you?"

The Black Silk Gowns

The Heath twins, Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia, rose early thatmorning, and the world looked very beautiful to them--one does not buya black silk gown every day; at least, Miss Priscilla and Miss Ameliadid not. They had waited, indeed, quite forty years to buy this one. 

The women of the Heath family had always possessed a black silk gown. Itwas a sort of outward symbol of inward respectability--an unfailingindicator of their proud position as members of one of the old families. It might be donned at any time after one's twenty-first birthday, and itshould be donned always for funerals, church, and calls after one hadturned thirty. Such had been the code of the Heath family forgenerations, as Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia well knew; and it wasthis that had made all the harder their own fate--that their twenty-first birthday was now forty years behind them, and not yet had eitherof them attained this cachet of respectability. 

To-day, however, there was to come a change. No longer need thecarefully sponged and darned black alpaca gowns flaunt their wearers'poverty to the world, and no longer would they force these same wearersto seek dark corners and sunless rooms, lest the full extent of thatpoverty become known. It had taken forty years of the most rigid economyto save the necessary money; but it was saved now, and the dresses wereto be bought. Long ago there had been enough for one, but neither of thewomen had so much as thought of the possibility of buying one silk gown. It was sometimes said in the town that if one of the Heath twinsstrained her eyes, the other one was obliged at once to put on glasses;and it is not to be supposed that two sisters whose sympathies were sodelicately attuned would consent to appear clad one in new silk and theother in old alpaca. 

In spite of their early rising that morning, it was quite ten o'clockbefore Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia had brought the house into thestate of speckless nicety that would not shame the lustrous things thatwere so soon to be sheltered beneath its roof. Not that either of theladies expressed this sentiment in words, or even in their thoughts;they merely went about their work that morning with the reverent joythat a devoted priestess might feel in making ready a shrine for itsidol. They had to hurry a little to get themselves ready for the eleveno'clock stage that passed their door; and they were still a littlebreathless when they boarded the train at the home station for the citytwenty miles away--the city where were countless yards of shimmeringsilk waiting to be bought. 

In the city that night at least six clerks went home with an unusualweariness in their arms, which came from lifting down and displayingalmost their entire stock of black silk. But with all the weariness, there was no irritation; there was only in their nostrils a curiousperfume as of lavender and old lace, and in their hearts a strangeexaltation as if they had that day been allowed a glad part in a sacredrite. As for Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia, they went home awed, yettriumphant: when one has waited forty years to make a purchase one doesnot make that purchase lightly. 

"To-morrow we will go over to Mis' Snow's and see about having them madeup, " said Miss Priscilla with a sigh of content, as the stage lumberedthrough the dusty home streets. 

"Yes; we want them rich, but plain, " supplemented Miss Amelia, rapturously. "Dear me, Priscilla, but I am tired!"

In spite of their weariness the sisters did not get to bed very earlythat night. They could not decide whether the top drawer of the spare-room bureau or the long box in the parlor closet would be the saferrefuge for their treasure. And when the matter was decided, and thesisters had gone to bed, Miss Priscilla, after a prolonged discussion, got up and moved the silk to the other place, only to slip out of bedlater, after a much longer discussion, and put it back. Even then theydid not sleep well: for the first time in their lives they knew theresponsibility that comes with possessions; they feared--burglars. 

With the morning sun, however, came peace and joy. No moth nor rust northief had appeared, and the lustrous lengths of shimmering silk defiedthe sun itself to find spot or blemish. 

"It looks even nicer than it did in the store, don't it?" murmured MissPriscilla, ecstatically, as she hovered over the glistening folds thatshe had draped in riotous luxury across the chair-back. 

"Yes, --oh, yes!" breathed Miss Amelia. "Now let's hurry with the work sowe can go right down to Mis' Snow's. "

"Black silk-black silk!" ticked the clock to MissPriscilla washing dishes at the kitchen sink. 

"You've got a black silk! You've got a black silk!"chirped the robins to Miss Amelia looking for weeds in the garden. 

At ten o'clock the sisters left the house, each with a long brown parcelcarefully borne in her arms. At noon--at noon the sisters were backagain, still carrying the parcels. Their faces wore a look of mingledtriumph and defeat. 

"As if we could have that beautiful silk put into aplaited skirt!" quavered Miss Priscilla, thrusting the key intothe lock with a trembling hand. "Why, Amelia, plaits always crack!"

"Of course they do!" almost sobbed Miss Amelia. "Only think of it, Priscilla, our silk--cracked!"

"We will just wait until the styles change, " said Miss Priscilla, withan air of finality. "They won't always wear plaits!"

"And we know all the time that we've really got the dresses, only theyaren't made up!" finished Miss Amelia, in tearful triumph. 

So the silk was laid away in two big rolls, and for another year the oldblack alpaca gowns trailed across the town's thresholds and down theaisle of the church on Sunday. Their owners no longer sought shadowedcorners and sunless rooms, however; it was not as if one wereobliged to wear sponged and darned alpacas!

Plaits were "out" next year, and the Heath sisters were among the firstto read it in the fashion notes. Once more on a bright spring morningMiss Priscilla and Miss Amelia left the house tenderly bearing in theirarms the brown-paper parcels--and once more they returned, the brownparcels still in their arms. There was an air of indecision about themthis time. 

"You see, Amelia, it seemed foolish--almost wicked, " Miss Priscilla wassaying, "to put such a lot of that expensive silk into just sleeves. "

"I know it, " sighed her sister. 

"Of course I want the dresses just as much as you do, " went on MissPriscilla, more confidently; "but when I thought of allowing Mis' Snowto slash into that beautiful silk and just waste it on those greatballoon sleeves, I--I simply couldn't give my consent!--and 'tisn't asthough we hadn't got the dresses!"

"No, indeed!" agreed Miss Amelia, lifting her chin. And so once more therolls of black silk were laid away in the great box that had alreadyheld them a year; and for another twelve months the black alpacas, nowgrown shabby indeed, were worn with all the pride of one whose garmentsare beyond reproach. 

When for the third time Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia returned to theirhome with the oblong brown parcels there was no indecision about them;there was only righteous scorn. 

"And do you really think that Mis' Snow expected us to allow thatsilk to be cut up into those skimpy little skin-tight bags she calledskirts?" demanded Miss Priscilla, in a shaking voice. "Why, Amelia, wecouldn't ever make them over!"

"Of course we couldn't! And when skirts got bigger, what could we do?"cried Miss Amelia. "Why, I'd rather never have a black silk dress thanto have one like that--that just couldn't be changed! We'll go onwearing the gowns we have. It isn't as if everybody didn't know we hadthese black silk dresses!"

When the fourth spring came the rolls of silk were not even taken fromtheir box except to be examined with tender care and replaced in theenveloping paper. Miss Priscilla was not well. For weeks she had spentmost of her waking hours on the sitting-room couch, growing thiner, weaker, and more hollow-eyed. 

"You see, dear, I--I am not well enough now to wear it, " she saidfaintly to her sister one day when they had been talking about the blacksilk gowns; "but you--" Miss Amelia had stopped her with a shockedgesture of the hand. 

"Priscilla--as if I could!" she sobbed. And there the matter had ended. 

 * * * * *

The townspeople were grieved, but not surprised, when they learned thatMiss Amelia was fast following her sister into a decline. It was whatthey had expected of the Heath twins, they said, and they reminded oneanother of the story of the strained eyes and the glasses. Then came theday when the little dressmaker's rooms were littered from end to endwith black silk scraps. 

"It's for Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia, '" said Mrs. Snow, with tearsin her eyes, in answer to the questions that were asked. 

"It's their black silk gowns, you know. "

"But I thought they were ill--almost dying!" gasped the questioner. 

The little dressmaker nodded her head. Then she smiled, even while shebrushed her eyes with her fingers. 

"They are--but they're happy. They're even happy in this!" touching thedress in her lap. "They've been forty years buying it, and four makingit up. Never until now could they decide to use it; never until nowcould they be sure they wouldn't want to--to make it--over. " The littledressmaker's voice broke, then went on tremulously: "There are folkslike that, you know--that never enjoy a thing for what it is, lestsometime they might want it--different. Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelianever took the good that was goin'; they've always saved it forsometime--later. "

A Belated Honeymoon

The haze of a warm September day hung low over the house, the garden, and the dust-white road. On the side veranda a gray-haired, erect littlefigure sat knitting. After a time the needles began to move more andmore slowly until at last they lay idle in the motionless, witheredfingers. 

"Well, well, Abby, takin' a nap?" demanded a thin-chested, wiry old mancoming around the corner of the house and seating himself on the verandasteps. 

The little old woman gave a guilty start and began to knit vigorously. 

"Dear me, no, Hezekiah. I was thinkin'. " She hesitated a moment, thenadded, a little feverishly: "--it's ever so much cooler here than up terthe fair grounds now, ain't it, Hezekiah?"

The old man threw a sharp look at her face. "Hm-m, yes, " he said. "Mebbe't is. "

From far down the road came the clang of a bell. As by common consentthe old man and his wife got to their feet and hurried to the front ofthe house where they could best see the trolley-car as it rounded acurve and crossed the road at right angles. 

"Goes slick, don't it?" murmured the man. 

There was no answer. The woman's eyes were hungrily devouring the lastglimpse of paint and polish. 

"An' we hain't been on 'em 't all yet, have we, Abby?" he continued. 

She drew a long breath. 

"Well, ye see, I--I hain't had time, Hezekiah, " she rejoinedapologetically. 

"Humph!" muttered the old man as they turned and walked back to theirseats. 

For a time neither spoke, then Hezekiah Warden cleared his throatdeterminedly and faced his wife. 

"Look a' here, Abby, " he began, "I'm agoin' ter say somethin' that hasbeen 'most tumblin' off'n the end of my tongue fer mor'n a year. Jenniean' Frank are good an' kind an' they mean well, but they think 'causeour hair's white an' our feet ain't quite so lively as they once was, that we're jest as good as buried already, an' that we don't needanythin' more excitin' than a nap in the sun. Now, Abby, didn'tye want ter go ter that fair with the folks ter-day? Didn't ye?"

A swift flush came into the woman's cheek. 

"Why, Hezekiah, it's ever so much cooler here, an'--" she pausedhelplessly. 

"Humph!" retorted the man, "I thought as much. It's always 'nice an'cool' here in summer an' 'nice an' warm' here in winter when Jennie goessomewheres that you want ter go an' don't take ye. An' when 't ain'tthat, you say you 'hain't had time. ' I know ye! You'd talk any way terhide their selfishness. Look a' here, Abby, did ye ever ride in them'lectric-cars? I mean anywheres?"

"Well, I hain't neither, an', by ginger, I'm agoin' to!"

"Oh, Hezekiah, Hezekiah, don't--swear!"

"I tell ye, Abby, I will swear. It's a swearin' matter. Ever since Iheard of 'em I wanted ter try 'em. An' here they are now 'most ter myown door an' I hain't even been in 'em once. Look a' here, Abby, jestbecause we're 'most eighty ain't no sign we've lost int'rest in things. I'm spry as a cricket, an' so be you, yet Frank an' Jennie expect us terstay cooped up here as if we was old--really old, ninety or a hundred, ye know--an' 't ain't fair. Why, we will be old one of thesedays!"

"I know it, Hezekiah. "

"We couldn't go much when we was younger, " he resumed. "Even our weddin'trip was chopped right off short 'fore it even begun. "

A tender light came into the dim old eyes opposite. 

"I know, dear, an' what plans we had!" cried Abigail; "Boston, an'Bunker Hill, an' Faneuil Hall. "

The old man suddenly squared his shoulders and threw back his head. 

"Abby, look a' here! Do ye remember that money I've been savin' off an'on when I could git a dollar here an' there that was extra? Well, there's as much as ten of 'em now, an' I'm agoin' ter spend 'em--all of'em mebbe. I'm agoin' ter ride in them 'lectric-cars, an' so beyou. An' I ain't goin' ter no old country fair, neither, an' no more beyou. Look a' here, Abby, the folks are goin' again ter-morrer ter thefair, ain't they?"

Abigail nodded mutely. Her eyes were beginning to shine. 

"Well, " resumed Hezekiah, "when they go we'll be settin' in the sunwhere they say we'd oughter be. But we ain't agoin' ter stay there, Abby. We're goin' down the road an' git on them 'lectric-cars, an' whenwe git ter the Junction we're agoin' ter take the steam cars fer Boston. What if 'tis thirty miles! I calc'late we're equal to 'em. We'll haveone good time, an' we won't come home until in the evenin'. We'll seeFaneuil Hall an' Bunker Hill, an' you shall buy a new cap, an' ride inthe subway. If there's a preachin' service we'll go ter that. They have'em sometimes weekdays, ye know. "

"Oh, Hezekiah, we--couldn't!" gasped the little old woman. 

"Pooh! 'Course we could. Listen!" And Hezekiah proceeded to unfold hisplans more in detail. 

It was very early the next morning when the household awoke. By seveno'clock a two-seated carryall was drawn up to the side-door, and by aquarter past the carryall, bearing Jennie, Frank, the boys, and thelunch baskets, rumbled out of the yard and on to the high-way. 

"Now, keep quiet and don't get heated, mother, " cautioned Jennie, looking back at the little gray-haired woman standing all alone on theside veranda. 

"Find a good cool spot to smoke your pipe in, father, " called Frank, asan old man appeared in the doorway. 

There followed a shout, a clatter, and a cloud of dust--then silence. Fifteen minutes later, hand in hand, a little old man and a little oldwoman walked down the white road together. 

To most of the passengers on the trolley-car that day the trip wasmerely a necessary means to an end; to the old couple on the front seatit was something to be remembered and lived over all their lives. Evenat the Junction the spell of unreality was so potent that the man forgotthings so trivial as tickets, and marched into the car with head erectand eyes fixed straight ahead. 

It was after Hezekiah had taken out the roll of bills--all ones--to paythe fares to the conductor that a young man in a tall hat sauntered downthe aisle and dropped into the seat in front. 

"Going to Boston, I take it, " said the young man genially. 

"Yes, sir, " replied Hezehiah, no less genially. "Ye guessed right thefirst time. "

Abigail lifted a cautious hand to her hair and her bonnet. So handsomeand well-dressed a man would notice the slightest thing awry, shethought. 

"Hm-m, " smiled the stranger. "I was so successful that time, suppose Itry my luck again. --You don't go every day, I fancy, eh?"

"Sugar! How'd he know that, now?" chuckled Hezekiah, turning to his wifein open glee. "So we don't, stranger, so we don't, " he added, turningback to the man. "Ye hit it plumb right. "

"Hm-m! great place, Boston, " observed the stranger. "I'm glad you'regoing. I think you'll enjoy it. "

The two wrinkled old faces before him fairly beamed. 

"I thank ye, sir, " said Hezekiah heartily. "I call that mighty kind ofye, specially as there are them that thinks we're too old ter beenj'yin' of anythin'. "

"Old? Of course you're not too old! Why, you're just in the prime toenjoy things, " cried the handsome man, and in the sunshine of hisdazzling smile the hearts of the little old man and woman quite meltedwithin them. 

"Thank ye, sir, thank ye sir, " nodded Abigail, while Hezekiah offeredhis hand. 

"Shake, stranger, shake! An' I ain't too old, an' I'm agoin' ter proveit. I've got money, sir, heaps of it, an' I'm goin' ter spend it--mebbeI'll spend it all. We're agoin' ter see Bunker Hill an' Faneuil Hall, an' we're agoin' ter ride in the subway. Now, don't tell me we don'tknow how ter enj'y ourselves!"

It was a very simple matter after that. On the one hand were infinitetact and skill; on the other, innocence, ignorance, and an overwhelminggratitude for this sympathetic companionship. 

Long before Boston was reached Mr. And Mrs. Warden and "Mr. Livingstone"were on the best of terms, and when they separated at the foot of thecar-steps, to the old man and woman it seemed that half their joy andall their courage went with the smiling man who lifted his hat infarewell before being lost to sight in the crowd. 

"There, Abby, we're here!" announced Hezekiah with an exultation thatwas a little forced. "Gorry! There must be somethin' goin' on ter-day, "he added, as he followed the long line of people down the narrow passagebetween the cars. 

There was no reply. Abigail's cheeks were pink and her bonnet-stringsuntied. Her eyes, wide opened and frightened, were fixed on the swaying, bobbing crowds ahead. In the great waiting-room she caught her husband'sarm. 

"Hezekiah, we can't, we mustn't ter-day, " she whispered. "There's such acrowd. Let's go home an' come when it's quieter. "

"But, Abby, we--here, let's set down, " Hezekiah finished helplessly. 

Near one of the outer doors Mr. Livingstone--better known to his friendsand the police as "Slick Bill"--smiled behind his hand. Not once sincehe had left them had Mr. And Mrs. Hezekiah Warden been out of his sight. 

"What's up, Bill? Need assistance?" demanded a voice at his elbow. 

"Jim, by all that's lucky!" cried Livingstone, turning to greet a dapperlittle man in gray. "Sure I need you! It's a peach, though I doubt if weget much but fun, but there'll be enough of that to make up. Oh, he'sgot money--'heaps of it, ' he says, " laughed Livingstone, "and I saw aroll of bills myself. But I advise you not to count too much on that, though it'll be easy enough to get what there is, all right. As for thefun, Jim, look over by that post near the parcel window. "

"Great Scott! Where'd you pick 'em?" chuckled the younger man. 

"Never mind, " returned the other with a shrug. "Meet me at Clyde's inhalf an hour. We'll be there, never fear. "

Over by the parcel-room an old man looked about him with anxious eyes. 

"But, Abby, don't ye see?" he urged. "We've come so fer, seems as thoughwe oughter do the rest all right. Now, you jest set here an' let me goan' find out how ter git there. We'll try fer Bunker Hill first, 'causewe want ter see the munurmunt sure. "

He rose to his feet only to be pulled back by his wife. 

"Hezekiah Warden!" she almost sobbed. "If you dare ter stir ten feetaway from me I'll never furgive ye as long as I live. We'd never findeach other ag'in!"

"Well, well, Abby, " soothed the man with grim humor, "if we never foundeach other ag'in, I don't see as 'twould make much diff'rence whether yefurgived me or not!"

For another long minute they silently watched the crowd. Then Hezekiahsquared his shoulders. 

"Come, come, Abby, " he said, "this ain't no way ter do. Only think howwe wanted ter git here an' now we're here an' don't dare ter stir. Thereain't any less folks than there was--growin' worse, if anythin'--but I'mgittin' used ter 'em now, an' I'm goin' ter make a break. Come, whatwould Mr. Livin'stone say if he could see us now? Where'd he think ourboastin' was about our bein' able ter enj'y ourselves? Come!" And oncemore he rose to his feet. 

This time he was not held back. The little woman at his side adjustedher bonnet, tilted up her chin, and in her turn rose to her feet. 

"Sure enough!" she quavered bravely. "Come, Hezekiah, we'll ask the wayter Bunker Hill. " And, holding fast to her husband's coat sleeve, shetripped across the floor to one of the outer doors. 

On the sidewalk Mr. And Mrs. Hezekiah Warden came once more to a halt. Before them swept an endless stream of cars, carriages, and people. Above thundered the elevated railway cars. 

"Oh-h, " shuddered Abigail and tightened her grasp on her husband's coat. 

It was some minutes before Hezekiah's dry tongue and lips could framehis question, and then his words were so low-spoken and indistinct thatthe first two men he asked did not hear. The third man frowned andpointed to a policeman. The fourth snapped: "Take the elevated forCharlestown or the trolley-cars, either;" all of which served but topuzzle Hezekiah the more. 

Little by little the dazed old man and his wife fell back before thejostling crowds. They were quite against the side of the building whenLivingstone spoke to them. 

"Well, well, if here aren't my friends again!" he exclaimed cordially. 

There was something of the fierceness of a drowning man in the wayHezekiah took hold of that hand. 

"Mr. Livin'stone!" he cried; then he recollected himself. "We wasjest goin' ter Bunker Hill, " he said jauntily. 

"Yes?" smiled Livingstone. "But your luncheon--aren't you hungry? Comewith me; I was just going to get mine. "

"But you--I--" Hezekiah paused and looked doubtingly at his wife. 

"Indeed, my dear Mrs. Warden, you'll say 'Yes, ' I know, " urgedLivingstone suavely. "Only think how good a nice cup of tea would tastenow. "

"I know, but--" She glanced at her husband. 

"Nonsense! Of course you'll come, " insisted Livingstone, laying a gentlycompelling hand on the arm of each. 

Fifteen minutes later Hezekiah stood looking about him with wonderingeyes. 

"Well, well, Abby, ain't this slick?" he cried. 

His wife did not reply. The mirrors, the lights, the gleaming silver andglass had filled her with a delight too great for words. She was vaguelyconscious of her husband, of Mr. Livingstone, and of a smooth-shavenlittle man in gray who was presented as "Mr. Harding. " Then she foundherself seated at that wonderful table, while beside her chair stood anawesome being who laid a printed card before her. With a little ecstaticsigh she gave Hezekiah her customary signal for the blessing and bowedher head. 

"There!" exulted Livingstone aloud. "Here we--" He stopped short. Fromhis left came a deep-toned, reverent voice invoking the divine blessingupon the place, the food, and the new friends who were so kind tostrangers in a strange land. 

"By Jove!" muttered Livingstone under his breath, as his eyes met thoseof Jim across the table. The waiter coughed and turned his back. Then, the blessing concluded, Hezekiah raised his head and smiled. 

"Well, well, Abby, why don't ye say somethin'?" he asked, breaking thesilence. "Ye hain't said a word. Mr. Livin'stone'll be thinkin' ye don'tlike it. "

Mrs. Warden drew a long breath of delight. 

"I can't say anythin', Hezekiah, " she faltered. "It's all so beautiful. "

Livingstone waited until the dazed old eyes had become in a measureaccustomed to the surroundings, then he turned a smiling face onHezekiah. 

"And now, my friend, what do you propose to do after luncheon?" heasked. 

"Well, we cal'late ter take in Bunker Hill an' Faneuil Hall sure, "returned the old man with a confidence that told of new courage imbibedwith his tea. "Then we thought mebbe we'd ride in the subway an' hearone of the big preachers if they happened ter be holdin' meetin'sanywheres this week. Mebbe you can tell us, eh?"

Across the table the man called Harding choked over his food andLivingstone frowned. 

"Well, " began Livingstone slowly. 

"I think, " interrupted Harding, taking a newspaper from his pocket, "Ithink there are services there, " he finished gravely, pointing to theglaring advertisement of a ten-cent show, as he handed the paper acrossto Livingstone. 

"But what time do the exercises begin?" demanded Hezekiah in a troubledvoice. "Ye see, there's Bunker Hill an'--sugar! Abby, ain't thatpretty?" he broke off delightedly. Before him stood a slender glass intowhich the waiter was pouring something red and sparkling. 

The old lady opposite grew white, then pink. "Of course that ain't wine, Mr. Livingstone?" she asked anxiously. 

"Give yourself no uneasiness, my dear Mrs. Warden, " interposed Harding. "It's lemonade--pink lemonade. "

"Oh, " she returned with a relieved sigh. "I ask yer pardon, I'm sure. You wouldn't have it, 'course, no more'n I would. But, ye see, bein'pledged so, I didn't want ter make a mistake. "

There was an awkward silence, then Harding raised his glass. 

"Here's to your health, Mrs. Warden!" he cried gayly. "May your trip----"

"Wait!" she interrupted excitedly, her old eyes alight and her cheeksflushed. "Let me tell ye first what this trip is ter us, then ye'll havea right ter wish us good luck. "

Harding lowered his glass and turned upon her a gravely attentive face. 

"'Most fifty years ago we was married, Hezekiah an' me, " she begansoftly. "We'd saved, both of us, an' we'd planned a honeymoon trip. Wewas comin' ter Boston. They didn't have any 'lectric-cars then nor anysteam-cars only half-way. But we was comin' an' we was plannin' onBunker Hill an' Faneuil Hall, an' I don't know what all. "

The little lady paused for breath and Harding stirred uneasily in hischair. Livingstone did not move. His eyes were fixed on a mirror acrossthe room. Over at the sideboard the waiter vigorously wiped a bottle. 

"Well, we was married, " continued the tremulous voice, "an' not half anhour later mother fell down the cellar stairs an' broke her hip. Ofcourse that stopped things right short. I took off my weddin' gown an'put on my old red caliker an' went ter work. Hezekiah came right therean' run the farm an' I nursed mother an' did the work. 'T was more'n ayear 'fore she was up 'round, an' after that, what with the babies an'all, there didn't never seem a chance when Hezekiah an' me could takethis trip. 

"If we went anywhere we couldn't seem ter manage ter go tergether, an'we never stayed fer no sight-seein'. Late years my Jennie an' herhusband seemed ter think we didn't need nothin' but naps an' knittin', an' somehow we got so we jest couldn't stand it. We wanted ter gosomewhere an' see somethin', so. "

Mrs. Warden paused, drew a long breath, and resumed. Her voice now had aring of triumph. 

"Well, last month they got the 'lectric-cars finished down our way. Wehadn't been on 'em, neither of us. Jennie an' Frank didn't seem ter wantus to. They said they was shaky an' noisy an' would tire us all out. Butyesterday, when the folks was gone, Hezekiah an' me got ter talkin' an'thinkin' how all these years we hadn't never had that honeymoon trip, an' how by an' by we'd be old--real old, I mean, so's we couldn't takeit--an' all of a sudden we said we'd take it now, right now. An' we did. We left a note fer the children, an'--an' we're here!"

There was a long silence. Over at the side-board the waiter stillpolished his bottle. Livingstone did not even turn his head. FinallyHarding raised his glass. 

"We'll drink to honeymoon trips in general and to this one inparticular, " he cried, a little constrainedly. 

Mrs. Warden flushed, smiled, and reached for her glass. The pinklemonade was almost at her lips when Livingstone's arm shot out. Thencame the tinkle of shattered glass and a crimson stain where the winetrailed across the damask. 

"I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Livingstone, while the other men loweredtheir glasses in surprise. "That was an awkward slip of mine, Mrs. Warden. I must have hit your arm. "

"But, Bill, " muttered Harding under his breath, "you don't mean--"

"But I do, " corrected Livingstone quietly, looking straight intoHarding's amazed eyes. 

"Mr. And Mrs. Warden are my guests. They are going to drive to BunkerHill with me by and by. "

When the six o'clock accommodation train pulled out from Boston thatnight it bore a little old man and a little old woman, gray-haired, weary, but blissfully content. 

"We've seen 'em all, Hezekiah, ev'ry single one of 'em, " Abigail wassaying. "An' wan't Mr. Livingstone good, a-gittin' that carriage an'takin' us ev'rywhere; an' it bein' open so all 'round the sides, wedidn't miss seein' a single thing!"

"He was, Abby, he was, an' he wouldn't let me pay one cent!" criedHezekiah, taking out his roll of bills and patting it lovingly. "But, Abby, did ye notice? 'Twas kind o' queer we never got one taste of thatpink lemonade. The waiter-man took it away. "

When Aunt Abby Waked Up

The room was very still. The gaunt figure on the bed lay motionless savefor a slight lifting of the chest at long intervals. The face was turnedtoward the wall, leaving a trail of thin gray hair-wisps across thepillow. Just outside the door two physicians talked together in lowtones, with an occasional troubled glance toward the silent figure onthe bed. 

"If there could be something that would rouse her, " murmured one;"something that would prick her will-power and goad it into action! Butthis lethargy--this wholesale giving up!" he finished with a gesture ofdespair. 

"I know, " frowned the other; "and I've tried--day after day I've tried. But there's nothing. I've exhausted every means in my power. I didn'tknow but you--" He paused questioningly. 

The younger man shook his head. 

"No, " he said. "If you can't, I can't. You've been her physician foryears. If anyone knows how to reach her, you should know. I supposeyou've thought of--her son?"

"Oh, yes. Jed was sent for long ago, but he had gone somewhere into theinterior on a prospecting trip, and was very hard to reach. It isdoubtful if word gets to him at all until--too late. As you know, perhaps, it is rather an unfortunate case. He has not been home foryears, anyway, and the Nortons--James is Mrs. Darling's nephew--havebeen making all the capital they can out of it, and have beenprejudicing her against him--quite unjustly, in my opinion, for I thinkit's nothing more nor less than thoughtlessness on the boy's part. "

"Hm-m; too bad, too bad!" murmured the other, as he turned and led theway to the street door. 

Back in the sick-room the old woman still lay motionless on the bed. Shewas wondering--as she had wondered so often before--why it took so longto die. For days now she had been trying to die, decently and in order. There was really no particular use in living, so far as she could see. Ella and Jim were very kind; but, after all, they were not Jed, and Jedwas away--hopelessly away. He did not even want to come back, so Ellaand Jim said. 

There was the money, too. She did not like to think of the money. Itseemed to her that every nickel and dime and quarter that she hadpainfully wrested from the cost of keeping soul and body together allthese past years lay now on her breast with a weight that crushed likelead. She had meant that money for Jed. Ella and Jim were kind, ofcourse, and she was willing they should have it; yet Jed--but Jed wasaway. 

And she was so tired. She had ceased to rouse herself, either for themedicine or for the watery broths they forced through her lips. It wasso hopelessly dragged out--this dying; yet it must be over soon. She hadheard them tell the neighbors only yesterday that she was unconsciousand that she did not know a thing of what was passing around her; andshe had smiled--but only in her mind. Her lips, she knew, had not moved. 

They were talking now--Ella and Jim--out in the other room. Theirvoices, even their words, were quite distinct, and dreamily, indifferently, she listened. 

"You see, " said Jim, "as long as I've got ter go ter town ter-morrer, anyhow, it seems a pity not ter do it all up at once. I could order thecoffin an' the undertaker--it's only a question of a few hours, anyway, an' it seems such a pity ter make another trip--jest fer that!"

In the bedroom the old woman stirred suddenly. Somewhere, away backbehind the consciousness of things, something snapped, and sent theblood tingling from toes to fingertips. A fierce anger sprang instantlyinto life and brushed the cobwebs of lethargy and indifference from herbrain. She turned and opened her eyes, fixing them upon the oblong patchof light that marked the doorway leading to the room beyond where satElla and Jim. 

"Jest fer that, " Jim had said, and "that" was her death. It was notworth, it seemed, even an extra trip to town! And she had done so much--so much for those two out there!

"Let's see; ter-day's Monday, " Jim went on. "We might fix the fun'ralfor Saturday, I guess, an' I'll tell the folks at the store ter spreadit. Puttin' it on Sat'day'll give us a leetle extry time if sheshouldn't happen ter go soon's we expect--though there ain't much fearo' that now, I guess, she's so low. An' it'll save me 'most half a dayter do it all up this trip. I ain't--what's that?" he broke off sharply. 

From the inner room had seemed to come a choking, inarticulate cry. 

With a smothered ejaculation Jim picked up the lamp, hurried into thesick-room, and tiptoed to the bed. The gaunt figure lay motionless, faceto the wall, leaving a trail of thin gray hair-wisps across the pillow. 

"Gosh!" muttered the man as he turned away. 

"There's nothin' doin'-but it did give me a start!"

On the bed the woman smiled grimly--but the man did not see it. 

It was snowing hard when Jim got back from town Tuesday night. He cameblustering into the kitchen with stamping feet and wide-flung arms, scattering the powdery whiteness in all directions. 

"Whew! It's a reg'lar blizzard, " he began, but he stopped short at theexpression on his wife's face. "Why, Ella!" he cried. 

"Jim--Aunt Abby sat up ten minutes in bed ter-day. She called fer toastan' tea. "

Jim dropped into a chair. His jaw fell open. 

"S-sat up!" he stammered. 

"Yes. "

"But she--hang it all, Herrick's comin' ter-morrer with the coffin!"

"Oh, Jim!"

"Well, I can't help it! You know how she was this mornin', " retorted Jimsharply. "I thought she was dead once. Why, I 'most had Herrickcome back with me ter-night, I was so sure. "

"I know it, " shivered Ella, "but you hadn't been gone an hour 'fore shebegan to stir an' notice things. I found her lookin' at me first, an' itgive me such a turn I 'most dropped the medicine bottle in my hand. Iwas clearin' off the little table by her bed, an' she was followin' mearound with them big gray eyes. 'Slickin' up?' she asks after a minute;an' I could 'a' dropped right there an' then, 'cause I wasslickin' up, fer her fun'ral. 'Where's Jim?' she asks then. 'Gone tertown, ' says I, kind o' faint-like. 'Umph!' she says, an' snaps her lipstight shet. After a minute she opens 'em again. 'I think I'll have sometea and toast, ' she says, casual-like, jest as if she'd been callin' fervictuals ev'ry day fer a month past. An' when I brought it, if shedidn't drag herself up in bed an' call fer a piller to her back, so'sshe could set up. An' there she stayed, pantin' an' gaspin', butsettin' up--an' she stayed there till the toast an' tea wasgone. "

"Gosh!" groaned Jim. "Who'd 'a' thought it? 'Course 't ain't that I grudgethe old lady's livin', " he added hurriedly, "but jest now it's so--unhandy, things bein' as they be. We can't very well--" He stopped, aswift change coming to his face. "Say, Ella, " he cried, "mebbe it's jesta spurt 'fore--'fore the last. Don't it happen some-times that way--whenfolks is dyin'?"

"I don't know, " shuddered Ella. "Sh-h! I thought I heard her. " And shehurried across the hall to the sitting-room and the bedroom beyond. 

It did not snow much through the night, but in the early morning itbegan again with increased severity. The wind rose, too, and by the timeHerrick, the undertaker, drove into the yard, the storm had become ablizzard. 

"I calc'lated if I didn't git this 'ere coffin here purty quick therewouldn't be no gettin' it here yet awhile, " called Herrick cheerfully, as Jim came to the door. 

Jim flushed and raised a warning hand. 

"Sh-h! Herrick, look out!" he whispered hoarsely. "She ain't dead yet. You'll have ter go back. "

"Go back!" snorted Herrick. "Why, man alive, 'twas as much as my life'sworth to get here. There won't be no goin' back yet awhile fer me nor noone else, I calc'late. An' the quicker you get this 'ere coffin in outof the snow, the better't will be, " he went on authoritatively as heleaped to the ground. 

It was not without talk and a great deal of commotion that the untimelyaddition to James Norton's household effects was finally deposited inthe darkened parlor; neither was it accomplished without some echo ofthe confusion reaching the sick-room, despite all efforts ofconcealment. Jim, perspiring, redfaced, and palpably nervous, waspassing on tiptoe through the sitting-room when a quavering voice fromthe bedroom brought him to a halt. 

"Jim, is that you?"

"Yes, Aunt Abby. "

"Who's come?"

Jim's face grew white, then red. 

"C-ome?" he stammered. 

"Yes, I heard a sleigh and voices. Who is it?"

"Why, jest-jest a man on--on business, " he flung over his shoulder, ashe fled through the hall. 

Not half an hour later came Ella's turn. In accordance with the sickwoman's orders she had prepared tea, toast, and a boiled egg; but shehad not set the tray on the bed when the old woman turned upon her twokeen eyes. 

"Who's in the kitchen, Ella, with Jim?"

Ella started guiltily. 

"Why, jest a--a man. "

"Who is it?"

Ella hesitated; then, knowing that deceit was useless, she stammered outthe truth. 

"Why, er--only Mr. Herrick. "

"Not William Herrick, the undertaker!" There was apparently only pleasedsurprise in the old woman's voice. 

"Yes, " nodded Ella feverishly, "he had business out this way, and--andgot snowed up, " she explained with some haste. 

"Ye don't say, " murmured the old woman. "Well, ask him in; I'd like tersee him. "

"Aunt Abby!"--Ella's teeth fairly chattered with dismay. 

"Yes, I'd like ter see him, " repeated the old woman with cordialinterest. "Call him in. "

And Ella could do nothing but obey. 

Herrick, however, did not stay long in the sick-room. The situation wasuncommon for him, and not without its difficulties. As soon as possiblehe fled to the kitchen, telling Jim that it gave him "the creeps" tohave her ask him where he'd started for, and if business was good. 

All that day it snowed and all that night; nor did the dawn of Fridaybring clear skies. For hours the wind had swept the snow from roofs andhilltops, piling it into great drifts that grew moment by moment deeperand more impassable. 

In the farmhouse Herrick was still a prisoner. 

The sick woman was better. Even Jim knew now that it was no momentaryflare of the candle before it went out. Mrs. Darling was undeniablyimproving in health. She had sat up several times in bed, and had begunto talk of wrappers and slippers. She ate toast, eggs, and jellies, andhinted at chicken and beefsteak. She was weak, to be sure, but behindher, supporting and encouraging, there seemed to be a curious strength--a strength that sent a determined gleam to her eyes, and a grimtenseness to her lips. 

At noon the sun came out, and the wind died into fitful gusts. The twomen attacked the drifts with a will, and made a path to the gate. Theyeven attempted to break out the road, and Herrick harnessed his horseand started for home; but he had not gone ten rods before he was forcedto turn back. 

"'T ain't no use, " he grumbled. "I calc'late I'm booked here till thecrack o' doom!"

"An' ter-morrer's the fun'ral, " groaned Jim. "An' I can't git nowhere--nowhere ter tell 'em not ter come!"

"Well, it don't look now as if anybody'd come--or go, " snapped theundertaker. 

Saturday dawned fair and cold. Early in the morning the casket was movedfrom the parlor to the attic. 

There had been sharp words at the breakfast table, Herrick declaringthat he had made a sale, and refusing to take the casket back to town;hence the move to the attic; but in spite of their caution, the sickwoman heard the commotion. 

"What ye been cartin' upstairs?" she asked in a mildly curious voice. 

Ella was ready for her. 

"A chair, " she explained smoothly; "the one that was broke in the frontroom, ye know. " And she did not think it was necessary to add that thechair was not all that had been moved. She winced and changed color, however, when her aunt observed:

"Humph! Must be you're expectin' company, Ella. "

It was almost two o'clock when loud voices and the crunch of heavy teamstold that the road-breakers had come. All morning the Nortons had beenhoping against hope that the fateful hour would pass, and the road bestill left in unbroken whiteness. Someone, however, had known his dutytoo well--and had done it. 

"I set ter work first thing on this road, " said the man triumphantly toElla as he stood, shovel in hand, at the door. "The parson's rightbehind, an' there's a lot more behind him. Gorry! I was afraid Iwouldn't git here in time, but the fun'ral wan't till two, was it?"

Ella's dry lips refused to move. She shook her head. 

"There's a mistake, " she said faintly. "There ain't no fun'ral. AuntAbby's better. "

The man stared, then he whistled softly. 

"Gorry!" he muttered, as he turned away. 

If Jim and Ella had supposed that they could keep their aunt fromattending her own "funeral"--as Herrick persisted in calling it--theysoon found their mistake. Mrs. Darling heard the bells of the firstarrival. 

"I guess mebbe I'll git up an' set up a spell, " she announced calmly toElla. "I'll have my wrapper an' my slippers, an' I'll set in the bigchair out in the settin'-room. That's Parson Gerry's voice, an' I wantter see him. "

"But, Aunt Abby--" began Ella, feverishly. 

"Well, I declare, if there ain't another sleigh drivin' in, " cried theold woman excitedly, sitting up in bed and peering through the littlewindow. "Must be they're givin' us a s'prise party. Now hurry, Ella, an'git them slippers. I ain't a-goin' to lose none o' the fun!" And Ella, nervous, perplexed, and thoroughly frightened, did as she was bid. 

In state, in the big rocking-chair, the old woman received her guests. She said little, it is true, but she was there; and if she noticed thatno guest entered the room without a few whispered words from Ella in thehall, she made no sign. Neither did she apparently consider it strangethat ten women and six men should have braved the cold to spend fifteenrather embarrassed minutes in her sitting-room--and for this last bothElla and Jim were devoutly grateful. They could not help wondering aboutit, however, after she had gone to bed, and the house was still. 

"What do ye s'pose she thought?" whispered Jim. 

"I don't know, " shivered Ella, "but, Jim, wan't it awful?--Mis' Blairbrought a white wreath--everlastin's!"

One by one the days passed, and Jim and Ella ceased to tremble everytime the old woman opened her lips. There was still that fearsome thingin the attic, but the chance of discovery was small now. 

"If she should find out, " Ella had said, "'twould be the end ofthe money--fer us. "

"But she ain't a-goin' ter find out, " Jim had retorted. "She can't lastlong, 'course, an' I guess she won't change the will now--unless someone tells her; an' I'll be plaguy careful there don't no one do that!"

The "funeral" was a week old when Mrs. Darling came into the sitting-room one day, fully dressed. 

"I put on all my clo's, " she said smilingly, in answer to Ella's shockedexclamation. "I got restless, somehow, an' sick o' wrappers. Besides, Iwanted to walk around the house a little. I git kind o' tired o' jestone room. " And she limped across the floor to the hall door. 

"But, Aunt Abby, where ye goin' now?" faltered Ella. 

"Jest up in the attic. I wanted ter see--" She stopped in apparentsurprise. Ella and Jim had sprung to their feet. 

"The attic!" they gasped. 

"Yes, I--"

"But you mustn't!--you ain't strong enough!--you'll fall!--there'snothin' there!" they exclaimed wildly, talking both together andhurrying forward. 

"Oh, I guess 't won't kill me, " said the old woman; and something in thetone of her voice made them fall back. They were still staring into eachother's eyes when the hall door closed sharply behind her. 

"It's all--up!" breathed Jim. 

Fully fifteen minutes passed before the old woman came back. She enteredthe room quietly, and limped across the floor to the chair by thewindow. 

"It's real pretty, " she said. "I allers did like gray. "

"Gray?" stammered Ella. 

"Yes!--fer coffins, ye know. " Jim made a sudden movement, and started tospeak; but the old woman raised her hand. "You don't need ter sayanythin', " she interposed cheerfully. "I jest wanted ter make sure where'twas, so I went up. You see, Jed's comin' home, an' I thought he mightfeel--queer if he run on to it, casual-like. "

"Jed--comin' home!"

The old woman smiled oddly. 

"Oh, I didn't tell ye, did I? The doctor had this telegram yesterday, an' brought it over to me. Ye know he was here last night. Read it. " Andshe pulled from her pocket a crumpled slip of paper. And Jim read:

Shall be there the 8th. For God's sake don't let me be too late. 

J. D. DARLING

Wristers for Three

The great chair, sumptuous with satin-damask and soft with springs, almost engulfed the tiny figure of the little old lady. To the old ladyherself it suddenly seemed the very embodiment of the luxurious easeagainst which she was so impotently battling. With a spasmodic movementshe jerked herself to her feet, and stood there motionless save for thewistful sweep of her eyes about the room. 

A level ray from the setting sun shot through the window, gilding thesilver of her hair and deepening the faint pink of her cheek; on theopposite wall it threw a sharp silhouette of the alert little figure--that figure which even the passage of years had been able to bend sovery little to its will. For a moment the lace kerchief folded acrossthe black gown rose and fell tumultuously; then its wearer crossed theroom and seated herself with uncompromising discomfort in the onlystraight-backed chair the room contained. This done, Mrs. NancyWetherby, for the twentieth time, went over in her mind the wholematter. 

For two weeks, now, she had been a member of her son John's family--twovain, unprofitable weeks. When before that had the sunset found hernight after night with hands limp from a long day of idleness? Whenbefore that had the sunrise found her morning after morning with a minddestitute of worthy aim or helpful plan for the coming twelve hours?When, indeed?

Not in her girlhood, not even in her childhood, had there been days ofsuch utter uselessness--rag dolls and mud pies need some care! Asfor her married life, there were Eben, the babies, the house, thechurch--and how absolutely necessary she had been to each one!

The babies had quickly grown to stalwart men and sweet-faced women whohad as quickly left the home nest and built new nests of their own. Ebenhad died; and the church--strange how long and longer still the walk tothe church had grown each time she had walked it this last year! Afterall, perhaps it did not matter; there were new faces at the church, andyoung, strong hands that did not falter and tremble over these new waysof doing things. For a time there had been only the house that neededher--but how great that need had been! There were the rooms to care for, there was the linen to air, there were the dear treasures of picture andtoy to cry and laugh over; and outside there were the roses to train andthe pansies to pick. 

Now, even the house was not left. It was October, and son John had toldher that winter was coming on and she must not remain alone. He hadbrought her to his own great house and placed her in these beautifulrooms--indeed, son John was most kind to her! If only she could makesome return, do something, be of some use!

Her heart failed her as she thought of the grave-faced, preoccupied manwho came each morning into the room with the question, "Well, mother, isthere anything you need to-day?" What possible service could sherender him? Her heart failed her again as she thought of John'spretty, new wife, and of the two big boys, men grown, sons of dear deadMolly. There was the baby, to be sure; but the baby was always attendedby one, and maybe two, white-capped, white-aproned young women. MadamWetherby never felt quite sure of herself when with those young women. There were other young women, too, in whose presence she felt equallyill at ease; young women in still prettier white aprons and stilldaintier white caps; young women who moved noiselessly in and out of thehalls and parlors and who waited at table each day. 

Was there not some spot, some creature, some thing, in all that placethat needed the touch of her hand, the glance of her eye? Surely the dayhad not quite come when she could be of no use, no service to her kind!Her work must be waiting; she had only to find it. She would seek itout--and that at once. No more of this slothful waiting for the work tocome to her! "Indeed, no!" she finished aloud, her dim eyes alight, herbreath coming short and quick, and her whole frail self quivering withcourage and excitement. 

It was scarcely nine o'clock the next morning when a quaint littlefigure in a huge gingham apron (slyly abstracted from the bottom of atrunk) slipped out of the rooms given over to the use of John Wetherby'smother. The little figure tripped softly, almost stealthily, along thehall and down the wide main staircase. There was some hesitation andthere were a few false moves before the rear stairway leading to thekitchen was gained; and there was a gasp, half triumphant, halfdismayed, when the kitchen was reached. 

The cook stared, open-mouthed, as though confronted with an apparition. A maid, hurrying across the room with a loaded tray, almost dropped herburden to the floor. There was a dazed moment of silence, then MadamWetherby took a faltering step forward and spoke. 

"Good-morning! I--I've come to help you. "

"Ma'am!" gasped the cook. 

"To help--to help!" nodded the little old lady briskly, with a suddenoverwhelming joy at the near prospect of the realization of her hopes. "Pare apples, beat eggs, or--anything!"

"Indeed, ma'am, I--you--" The cook stopped helplessly, and eyed withfrightened fascination the little old lady as she crossed to the tableand picked up a pan of potatoes. 

"Now a knife, please, --oh, here's one, " continued Madam Wetherbyhappily. "Go right about something else. I'll sit over there in thatchair, and I'll have these peeled very soon. "

When John Wetherby visited his mother's rooms that morning he found noone there to greet him. A few sharp inquiries disclosed the littlelady's whereabouts and sent Margaret Wetherby with flaming cheeks andtightening lips into the kitchen. 

"Mother!" she cried; and at the word the knife dropped from thetrembling, withered old fingers and clattered to the floor. "Why, mother!"

"I--I was helping, " quavered a deprecatory voice. 

Something in the appealing eyes sent a softer curve to MargaretWetherby's lips. 

"Yes, mother; that was very kind of you, " said John's wife gently. "Butsuch work is quite too hard for you, and there's no need of your doingit. Nora will finish these, " she added, lifting the pan of potatoes tothe table, "and you and I will go upstairs to your room. Perhaps we'llgo driving by and by. Who knows?"

In thinking it over afterwards Nancy Wetherby could find no fault withher daughter-in-law. Margaret had been goodness itself, insisting onlythat such work was not for a moment to be thought of. John's wife wasindeed kind, acknowledged Madam Wetherby to herself, yet two big tearswelled to her eyes and were still moist on her cheeks after she hadfallen asleep. 

It was perhaps three days later that John Wetherby's mother climbed thelong flight of stairs near her sitting-room door, and somewhat timidlyentered one of the airy, sunlit rooms devoted to Master Philip Wetherby. The young woman in attendance respectfully acknowledged her greeting, and Madam Wetherby advanced with some show of courage to the middle ofthe room. 

"The baby, I--I heard him cry, " she faltered. 

"Yes, madam, " smiled the nurse. "It is Master Philip's nap hour. "

Louder and louder swelled the wails from the inner room, yet the nursedid not stir save to reach for her thread. 

"But he's crying--yet!" gasped Madam Wetherby. 

The girl's lips twitched and an expression came to her face which thelittle old lady did not in the least understand. 

"Can't you--do something?" demanded baby's grandmother, her voiceshaking. 

"No, madam. I--" began the girl, but she did not finish. The littlefigure before her drew itself to the full extent of its diminutiveheight. 

"Well, I can, " said Madam Wetherby crisply. Then she turned and hurriedinto the inner room. 

The nurse sat mute and motionless until a crooning lullaby and theunmistakable tapping of rockers on a bare floor brought her to her feetin dismay. With an angry frown she strode across the room, but shestopped short at the sight that met her eyes. 

In a low chair, her face aglow with the accumulated love of years ofbaby-brooding, sat the little old lady, one knotted, wrinkled fingertightly elapsed within a dimpled fist. The cries had dropped to sobbingbreaths, and the lullaby, feeble and quavering though it was, rose andswelled triumphant. The anger fled from the girl's face, and a queerchoking came to her throat so that her words were faint and broken. 

"Madam--I beg pardon--I'm sorry, but I must put Master Philip back onhis bed. "

"But he isn't asleep yet, " demurred Madam Wetherby softly, her eyesmutinous. 

"But you must--I can't--that is, Master Philip cannot be rocked, "faltered the girl. 

"Nonsense, my dear!" she said; "babies can always be rocked!" And againthe lullaby rose on the air. 

"But, madam, " persisted the girl--she was almost crying now--"don't yousee? I must put Master Philip back. It is Mrs. Wetherby's orders. They--they don't rock babies so much now. "

For an instant fierce rebellion spoke through flashing eyes, stern-setlips, and tightly clutched fingers; then all the light died from thethin old face and the tense muscles relaxed. 

"You may put the baby back, " said Madam Wetherby tremulously, yet with asudden dignity that set the maid to curtsying. "I--I should not want tocross my daughter's wishes. "

Nancy Wetherby never rocked her grandson again, but for days she hauntedthe nursery, happy if she could but tie the baby's moccasins or hold hisbrush or powder-puff; yet a week had scarcely passed when John's wifesaid to her:

"Mother, dear, I wouldn't tire myself so trotting upstairs each day tothe nursery. There isn't a bit of need--Mary and Betty can manage quitewell. You fatigue yourself too much!" And to the old lady's denialsJohn's wife returned, with a tinge of sharpness: "But, really, mother, I'd rather you didn't. It frets the nurses and--forgive me-but you knowyou will forget and talk to him in 'baby-talk'!"

The days came and the days went, and Nancy Wetherby stayed more and moreclosely to her rooms. She begged one day for the mending-basket, but herdaughter-in-law laughed and kissed her. 

"Tut, tut, mother, dear!" she remonstrated. "As if I'd have you wearingyour eyes and fingers out mending a paltry pair of socks!"

"Then I--I'll knit new ones!" cried the old lady, with suddeninspiration. 

"Knit new ones--stockings!" laughed Margaret Wetherby. "Why, dearie, they never in this world would wear them--and if they would, I couldn'tlet you do it, " she added gently, as she noted the swift clouding of theeager face. "Such tiresome work!"

Again the old eyes filled with tears; and yet--John's wife was kind, sovery kind!

It was a cheerless, gray December morning that John Wetherby came intohis mother's room and found a sob-shaken little figure in the depths ofthe sumptuous, satin-damask chair. "Mother, mother, --why, mother!"There were amazement and real distress in John Wetherby's voice. 

"There, there, John, I--I didn't mean to--truly I didn't!" quavered thelittle old lady. 

John dropped on one knee and caught the fluttering fingers. "Mother, what is it?"

"It--it isn't anything; truly it isn't, " urged the tremulous voice. 

"Is any one unkind to you?" John's eyes grew stern. "The boys, or--Margaret?"

The indignant red mounted to the faded cheek. "John! How can you ask?Every one is kind, kind, so very kind to me!"

"Well, then, what is it?"

There was only a sob in reply. "Come, come, " he coaxed gently. 

For a moment Nancy Wetherby's breath was held suspended, then it came ina burst with a rush of words. 

"Oh, John, John, I'm so useless, so useless, so dreadfully useless!Don't you see? Not a thing, not a person needs me. The kitchen has thecook and the maids. The baby has two or three nurses. Not even this roomneeds me--there's a girl to dust it each day. Once I slipped out of bedand did it first--I did, John; but she came in, and when I told her, shejust curtsied and smiled and kept right on, and--she didn't even skipone chair! John, dear John, sometimes it seems as though even myown self doesn't need me. I--I don't even put on my clothes alone;there's always some one to help me!"

"There, there, dear, " soothed the man huskily. "I need you, indeed I do, mother. " And he pressed his lips to one, then the other, of thewrinkled, soft-skinned hands. 

"You don't--you don't!" choked the woman. "There's not one thing I cando for you! Why, John, only think, I sit with idle hands all day, andthere was so much once for them to do. There was Eben, and the children, and the house, and the missionary meetings, and--"

On and on went the sweet old voice, but the man scarcely heard. Only onephrase rang over and over in his ears, "There's not one thing I can dofor you!" All the interests of now--stocks, bonds, railroads--fell fromhis mind and left it blank save for the past. He was a boy again at hismother's knee. And what had she done for him then? Surely among all themyriad things there must be one that he might single out and ask her todo for him now! And yet, as he thought, his heart misgave him. 

There were pies baked, clothes made, bumped foreheads bathed, lostpencils found; there were--a sudden vision came to him of something warmand red and very soft--something over which his boyish heart hadexulted. The next moment his face lighted with joy very like that of theyears long ago. 

"Mother!" he cried. "I know what you can do for me. I want a pair ofwristers--red ones, just like those you used to knit!"

 * * * * *

It must have been a month later that John Wetherby, with his two eldersons, turned the first corner that carried him out of sight of hishouse. Very slowly, and with gentle fingers, he pulled off two brightred wristers. He folded them, patted them, then tucked them away in aninner pocket. 

"Bless her dear heart!" he said softly. "You should have seen her eyesshine when I put them on this morning!"

"I can imagine it, " said one of his sons in a curiously tender voice. The other one smiled, and said whimsically, "I can hardly wait formine!" Yet even as he spoke his eyes grew dim with a sudden moisture. 

Back at the house John's mother was saying to John's wife: "Did you seethem on him, Margaret?--John's wristers? They did look so bright andpretty! And I'm to make more, too; did you know? Frank and Edward wantsome; John said so. He told them about his, and they wanted some rightaway. Only think, Margaret, " she finished, lifting with both hands theball of red worsted and pressing it close to her cheek, "I've got twowhole pairs to make now!"

The Giving Thanks of Cyrus and Huldah

For two months Cyrus Gregg and his wife Huldah had not spoken to eachother, yet all the while they had lived under the same roof, driven tochurch side by side, and attended various festivities and church prayer-meetings together. 

The cause of the quarrel had been an insignificant something thatspeedily lost itself in the torrent of angry words that burst from thelips of the irate husband and wife, until by night it would have beendifficult for either the man or the woman to tell exactly what had beenthe first point of difference. By that time, however, the quarrel hadassumed such proportions that it loomed in their lives larger thananything else; and each had vowed never to speak to the other until thatother had made the advance. 

On both sides they came of a stubborn race, and from the first it was abattle royally fought. The night of the quarrel Cyrus betook himself insolitary state to the "spare-room" over the parlor. After that he slepton a makeshift bed that he had prepared for himself in the shed-chamber, hitherto sacred to trunks, dried corn, and cobwebs. 

For a month the two sat opposite to each other and partook of Huldah'sexcellent cooking; then one day the woman found at her plate a piece--ofbrown paper on which had been scrawled:

If I ain't worth speakin' to I ain't worth cookin' for. Hereafter I'lltake care of myself. 

A day later came the retort. Cyrus found it tucked under the shed-chamber door. 

Huldah's note showed her "schooling. " It was well written, carefullyspelled, and enclosed in a square white envelope. 

Sir [it ran stiffly]: I shall be obliged if you do not chop anymore wood for me. Hereafter I shall use the oil stove. HULDAH PENDLETONGREGG. 

Cyrus choked, and peered at the name with suddenly blurred eyes: the"Huldah Pendleton" was fiercely black and distinct; the "Gregg" was sofaint it could scarcely be discerned. 

"Why, it's 'most like a d'vorce!" he shivered. 

If it had not been so pitiful, it would have been ludicrous--whatfollowed. Day after day, in one corner of the kitchen, an old man boiledhis potatoes and fried his unappetizing eggs over a dusty, unblackedstove; in the other corner an old woman baked and brewed over a shiningidol of brass and black enamel--and always the baking and brewingcarried to the nostrils of the hungry man across the room the aroma ofsome dainty that was a particular favorite of his own. 

The man whistled, and the woman hummed--at times; but they did not talk, except when some neighbor came in; and then they both talked very loudand very fast--to the neighbor. On this one point were Cyrus Gregg andhis wife Huldah agreed; under no circumstances whatever must anygossiping outsider know. 

One by one the weeks had passed. It was November now, and very cold. Outdoors a dull gray sky and a dull brown earth combined into a dismalhopelessness. Indoors the dull monotony of a two-months-old quarrel anda growing heartache made a combination that carried even less of cheer. 

Huldah never hummed now, and Cyrus seldom whistled; yet neither was onewhit nearer speaking. Each saw this, and, curiously enough, was pleased. In fact, it was just here that, in spite of the heartache, each found anodd satisfaction. 

"By sugar--but she's a spunky one!" Cyrus would chuckle admiringly, ashe discovered some new evidence of his wife's shrewdness in obtainingwhat she wanted with yet no spoken word. 

"There isn't another man in town who could do it--and stick to it!"exulted Huldah proudly, her eyes on her husband's form, bent over hisegg-frying at the other side of the room. 

Not only the cause of the quarrel, but almost the quarrel itself, hadnow long since been forgotten; in fact, to both Cyrus and his wife ithad come to be a sort of game in which each player watched the other'sprogress with fully as much interest as he did his own. And yet, with itall there was the heartache; for the question came to them at times withsickening force--just when and how could it possibly end?

It was at about this time that each began to worry about the other. Huldah shuddered at the changeless fried eggs and boiled potatoes; andCyrus ordered a heavy storm window for the room where Huldah sleptalone. Huldah slyly left a new apple pie almost under her husband's noseone day, and Cyrus slipped a five-dollar bill beneath his wife's napkinring. When both pie and greenback remained untouched, Huldah cried, andCyrus said, "Gosh darn it!" three times in succession behind the woodsheddoor. 

A week before Thanksgiving a letter came from the married daughter, andanother from the married son. They were good letters, kind and loving;and each closed with a suggestion that all go home at Thanksgiving for afamily reunion. 

Huldah read the letters eagerly, but at their close she frowned andlooked anxious. In a moment she had passed them to Cyrus with a toss ofher head. Five minutes later Cyrus had flung them back with these wordstrailing across one of the envelopes:

 Write um. Tell um we are sick--dead--gone away--anything! Only don't let um come. A if we wanted to Thanksgive!

Huldah answered the letters that night. She, too, wrote kindly andlovingly; but at the end she said that much as she and father would liketo see them, it did not seem wise to undertake to entertain such afamily gathering just now. It would be better to postpone it. 

Both Huldah and Cyrus hoped that this would end the subject ofThanksgiving; but it did not. The very next day Cyrus encounteredneighbor Wiley in the village store. Wiley's round red face shone likethe full moon. 

"Well, well, Cy, what ye doin' down your way Thanksgivin'--eh?" hequeried. 

Cyrus stiffened; but before he could answer he discovered that Wiley hadasked the question, not for information, but as a mere introduction to arecital of his own plans. 

"We're doin' great things, " announced the man. "Sam an' Jennie an' thehull kit on 'em's comin' home an' bring all the chicks. Tell ye what, Cy, we be a-Thanksgivin' this year! Ain't nothin' like a good oldfam'ly reunion, when ye come right down to it. "

"Yes, I know, " said Cyrus gloomily. "But we--we ain't doin' much thisyear. "

A day later came Huldah's turn. She had taken some calf's-foot jelly toMrs. Taylor in the little house at the foot of the hill. The WidowTaylor was crying. 

"You see, it's Thanksgiving!" she sobbed, in answer to Huldah's dismayedquestions. 

"Thanksgiving!"

"Yes. And last year I had--him!"

Huldah sighed, and murmured something comforting, appropriate; butalmost at once she stopped, for the woman had turned searching eyes uponher. 

"Huldah Gregg, do you appreciate Cyrus?"

Huldah bridled angrily, but there was no time for a reply, for the womananswered her own question, and hurried on wildly. 

"No. Did I appreciate my husband? No. Does Sally Clark appreciate herhusband? No. And there don't none of us do it till he's gone--gone--gone!"

As soon as possible Huldah went home. She was not a little disconcerted. The "gone--gone--gone" rang unpleasantly in her ears, and before hereyes rose a hateful vision of unappetizing fried eggs and boiledpotatoes. As to her not appreciating Cyrus--that was all nonsense; shehad always appreciated him, and that, too, far beyond his just deserts, she told herself angrily. 

There was no escaping Thanksgiving after that for either Huldah orCyrus. It looked from every eager eye, and dropped from every joyouslip, until, of all the world Huldah and Cyrus came to regard themselvesas the most forlorn, and the most abused. 

It was then that to Huldah came her great idea; she would cook for Cyrusthe best Thanksgiving dinner he had ever eaten. Just because he wasobstinate was no reason why he should starve, she told herself; and verygayly she set about carrying out her plans. First the oil stove, withthe help of a jobman, was removed to the unfinished room over thekitchen, for the chief charm of the dinner was to be its secretpreparation. Then, with the treasured butter-and-egg money the turkey, cranberries, nuts, and raisins were bought and smuggled into the houseand upstairs to the chamber of mystery. 

Two days before Thanksgiving Cyrus came home to find a silent and almostempty kitchen. His heart skipped a beat and his jaw fell open infrightened amazement; then a step on the floor above sent the blood backto his face and a new bitterness to his heart. 

"So I ain't even good enough ter stay with!" he muttered. "Fool!--fool!"he snarled, glaring at the oblong brown paper in his arms. "As if she'dcare for this--now!" he finished, flinging the parcel into the farthestcorner of the room. 

Unhappy Cyrus! To him, also, had come a great idea. Thanksgiving was notChristmas, to be sure, but if he chose to give presents on that day, surely it was no one's business but his own, he argued. In the brownpaper parcel at that moment lay the soft, shimmering folds of yards uponyards of black silk--and Huldah had been longing for a new black silkgown. Yet it was almost dark when Cyrus stumbled over to the corner, picked up the parcel, and carried it ruefully away to the shed-chamber. 

Thanksgiving dawned clear and unusually warm. The sun shone, and the airfelt like spring. The sparrows twittered in the treetops as if thebranches were green with leaves. 

To Cyrus, however, it was a world of gloom. Upstairs Huldah was singing--singing!--and it was Thanksgiving. He could hear her feet patter, patter on the floor above, and the sound had a cheery self-reliance thatwas maddening. Huldah was happy, evidently--and it was Thanksgiving!Twice he had walked resolutely to the back stairs with a brown-paperparcel in his arms; and twice a quavering song of triumph from the roomabove had sent him back in defeat. As if she could care for a present ofhis!

Suddenly, now, Cyrus sprang forward in his chair, sniffing the airhungrily. Turkey! Huldah was roasting turkey, while he--

The old man dropped back in his seat and turned his eyes disconsolatelyon the ill-kept stove--fried eggs and boiled potatoes are not the mosttoothsome prospect for a Thanksgiving dinner, particularly when one hasthe smell of a New England housewife's turkey in one's nostrils. 

For a time Cyrus sat motionless; then he rose to his feet, shuffled outof the house, and across the road to the barn. 

In the room above the kitchen, at that moment, something happened. Perhaps the old hands slipped in their eagerness, or perhaps the oldeyes judged a distance wrongly. Whatever it was, there came a puff ofsmoke, a sputter, and a flare of light; then red-yellow flames leaped tothe flimsy shade at the window, and swept on to the century-seasonedtimbers above. 

With a choking cry, Huldah turned and stumbled across the room to thestairway. Out at the barn door Cyrus, too, saw the flare of light at thewindow, and he, too, turned with a choking cry. 

They met at the foot of the stairway. 

"Huldah!"

"Cyrus!"

It was as if one voice had spoken, so exactly were the wordssimultaneous. Then Cyrus cried:

"You ain't hurt?"

"No, no! Quick--the things--we must get them out!"

Obediently Cyrus turned and began to work; and the first thing that hisarms tenderly bore to safety was an oblong brown-paper parcel. 

From all directions then came the neighbors running. The farmingsettlement was miles from a town or a fire-engine. The house was small, and stood quite by itself; and there was little, after all, that couldbe done, except to save the household goods and gods. This was soonaccomplished, and there was nothing to do but to watch the old houseburn. 

Cyrus and Huldah sat hand in hand on an old stone wall, quite apart fromtheir sympathetic neighbors, and--talked. And about them was a curiousair of elation, a buoyancy as if long-pent forces had suddenly found ajoyous escape. 

"'T ain't as if our things wan't all out, " cried Cyrus; his voice wasactually exultant. 

"Or as if we hadn't wanted to build a new one for years, " chirruped hiswife. 

"Now you can have that 'ere closet under the front stairs, Huldah!"

"And you can have the room for your tools where it'll be warm in thewinter!"

"An' there'll be the bow-winder out of the settin' room, Huldah!"

"Yes, and a real bathroom, with water coming right out of the wall, sameas the Wileys have!"

"An' a tub, Huldah--one o' them pretty white chiny ones!"

"Oh, Cyrus, ain't it almost too good to be true!" sighed Huldah: thenher face changed. "Why, Cyrus, it's gone, " she cried with suddensharpness. 

"What's gone?"

"Your dinner--I was cooking such a beautiful turkey and all the fixingsfor you. "

A dull red came into the man's face. 

"For--me?" stammered Cyrus. 

"Y-yes, " faltered Huldah; then her chin came up defiantly. 

The man laughed; and there was a boyish ring to his voice. 

"Well, Huldah, I didn't have any turkey, but I did have a tidy littlepiece o' black silk for yer gown, an' I saved it, too. Mebbe we couldeat that!--eh?"

It was not until just as they were falling asleep that night in DeaconClark's spare bedroom that Mr. And Mrs. Gregg so much as hinted thatthere ever had been a quarrel. 

Then, under cover of the dark, Cyrus stammered:

"Huldah, did ye sense it? Them 'ere words we said at the foot of thestairs was spoke--exactly--together!"

"Yes, I know, dear, " murmured Huldah, with a little break in her voice. Then:

"Cyrus, ain't it wonderful--this Thanksgiving, for us?"

Downstairs the Clarks were talking of poor old Mr. And Mrs. Gregg andtheir "sad loss;" but the Clarks did not--know. 

A New England Idol

The Hapgood twins were born in the great square house that set back fromthe road just on the outskirts of Fairtown. Their baby eyes had openedupon a world of faded portraits and somber haircloth furniture, andtheir baby hands had eagerly clutched at crystal pendants on brasscandlesticks gleaming out of the sacred darkness that enveloped theparlor mantel. 

When older grown they had played dolls in the wonderful attic, and mademud pies in the wilderness of a back yard. The garden had been afairyland of delight to their toddling feet, and the apple trees afragrant shelter for their first attempts at housekeeping. 

From babyhood to girlhood the charm of the old place grew upon them, somuch so that the thought of leaving it for homes of their own becamedistasteful to them, and they looked with scant favor upon theoccasional village youths who sauntered up the path presumably oncourtship bent. 

The Reverend John Hapgood--a man who ruled himself and all about himwith the iron rod of a rigid old-school orthodoxy--died when the twinswere twenty; and the frail little woman who, as his wife, had for thirtyyears lived and moved solely because he expected breath and motion ofher, followed soon in his footsteps. And then the twins were left alonein the great square house on the hill. 

Miss Tabitha and Miss Rachel were not the only children of the family. There had been a son--the first born, and four years their senior. Theheadstrong boy and the iron rule had clashed, and the boy, when sixteenyears old, had fled, leaving no trace behind him. 

If the Reverend John Hapgood grieved for his wayward son the members ofhis household knew it not, save as they might place their ownconstructions on the added sternness to his eyes and the deepening linesabout his mouth. "Paul, " when it designated the graceless runaway, was aforbidden word in the family, and even the Epistles in the sacred Book, bearing the prohibited name, came to be avoided by the head of the housein the daily readings. It was still music in the hearts of the women, however, though it never passed their lips; and when the little motherlay dying she remembered and spoke of her boy. The habit of years stillfettered her tongue and kept it from uttering the name. 

"If--he--comes--you know--if he comes, be kind--be good, " she murmured, her breath short and labored. "Don't--punish, " she whispered--he wasyet a lad in her disordered vision. "Don't punish--forgive!"

Years had passed since then--years of peaceful mornings and placidafternoons, and Paul had never appeared. Each purpling of the lilacs inthe spring and reddening of the apples in the fall took on new shades ofloveliness in the fond eyes of the twins, and every blade of grass andtiny shrub became sacred to them. 

On the 10th of June, their thirty-fifth birthday, the place never hadlooked so lovely. A small table laid with spotless linen and gleamingsilver stood beneath the largest apple-tree, a mute witness that theladies were about to celebrate their birthday--the 10th of June beingthe only day that the solemn dignity of the dining-room was deserted forthe frivolous freedom of the lawn. 

Rachel came out of the house and sniffed the air joyfully. 

"Delicious!" she murmured. "Somehow, the 10th of June is specially fineevery year. "

In careful, uplifted hands she bore a round frosted cake, always thechief treasure of the birthday feast. The cake was covered with the tinycolored candies so dear to the heart of a child. Miss Rachel alwaysbought those candies at the village store, with the apology:--

"I want them for Tabitha's birthday cake, you know. She thinks so muchof pretty things. "

Tabitha invariably made the cake and iced it, and as she dropped thebits of colored sugar into place, she would explain to Huldy, whooccasionally "helped" in the kitchen:--

"I wouldn't miss the candy for the world--my sister thinks so much ofit!"

So each deceived herself with this pleasant bit of fiction, and yet hadwhat she herself most wanted. 

Rachel carefully placed the cake in the center of the table, feasted hereyes on its toothsome loveliness, then turned and hurried back to thehouse. The door had scarcely shut behind her when a small, ragged urchindarted in at the street gate, snatched the cake, and, at a sudden soundfrom the house, dashed out of sight behind a shrub close by. 

The sound that had frightened the boy was the tapping of the heels ofMiss Tabitha's shoes along the back porch. The lady descended the steps, crossed the lawn and placed a saucer of pickles and a plate of daintysandwiches on the table. 

"Why, I thought Rachel brought the cake, " she said aloud. "It must be inthe house; there's other things to get, anyway. I'll go back. "

Again the click of the door brought the small boy close to the table. Filling both hands with sandwiches, he slipped behind the shrub just asthe ladies came out of the house together. Rachel carried a small trayladen with sauce and tarts; Tabitha, one with water and steaming tea. Asthey neared the table each almost dropped her burden. 

"Why, where's my cake?"

"And my sandwiches?"

"There's the plate it was on!" Rachel's voice was growing in terror. 

"And mine, too!" cried Tabitha, with distended eyes fastened on somebits of bread and meat--all that the small brown hands had left. 

"It's burglars--robbers!" Rachel looked furtively over her shoulder. 

"And all your lovely cake!" almost sobbed Tabitha. 

"It--it was yours, too, " said the other with a catch in her voice. "Oh, dear! What can have happened to it? I never heard of such a thing--rightin broad daylight!" The sisters had long ago set their trays upon theground and were now wringing their hands helplessly. Suddenly a smallfigure appeared before them holding out four sadly crushed sandwichesand half of a crumbling cake. 

"I'm sorry--awful sorry! I didn't think--I was so hungry. I'm afraidthere ain't very much left, " he added, with rueful eyes on thesandwiches. 

"No, I should say not!" vouchsafed Rachel, her voice firm now that thesize of the "burglar" was declared. Tabitha only gasped. 

The small boy placed the food upon the empty plates, and Rachel's lipstwitched as she saw that he clumsily tried to arrange it in an orderlyfashion. 

"There, ma'am, --that looks pretty good!" he finally announced with somepride. 

Tabitha made an involuntary gesture of aversion. Rachel laughedoutright; then her face grew suddenly stern. 

"Boy, what do you mean by such actions?" she demanded. 

His eyes fell, and his cheeks showed red through the tan. 

"I was hungry. "

"But didn't you know it was stealing?" she asked, her face softening. 

"I didn't stop to think--it looked so good I couldn't help takin' it. "He dug his bare toes in the grass for a moment in silence, then heraised his head with a jerk and stood squarely on both feet. "I hain'tgot any money, but I'll work to pay for it--bringin' wood in, orsomethin'. "

"The dear child!" murmured two voices softly. 

"I've got to find my folks, sometime, but I'll do the work first. Mebbean hour'll pay for it--'most!"--He looked hopefully into Miss Rachel'sface. 

"Who are your folks?" she asked huskily. 

By way of answer he handed out a soiled, crumpled envelope for herinspection on which was written, "Reverend John Hapgood. "

"Why--it's father!"

"What!" exclaimed Tabitha. 

Her sister tore the note open with shaking fingers. 

"It's from--Paul!" she breathed, hesitating a conscientious moment overthe name. Then she turned her startled eyes on the boy, who wasregarding her with lively interest. 

"Do I belong to you?" he asked anxiously. 

"I--I don't know. Who are you--what's your name?"

"Ralph Hapgood. "

Tabitha had caught up the note and was devouring it with swift-movingeyes. 

"It's Paul's boy, Rachel, " she broke in, "only think of it--Paul's boy!"and she dropped the bit of paper and enveloped the lad in a fond buttearful embrace. 

He squirmed uneasily. 

"I'm sorry I eat up my own folks's things. I'll go to work any time, "he suggested, trying to draw away, and wiping a tear splash from theback of his hand on his trousers. 

But it was long hours before Ralph Hapgood was allowed to "go to work. "Tears, kisses, embraces, questions, a bath, and clean clothes followedeach other in quick succession--the clothes being some of his ownfather's boyhood garments. 

His story was quickly told. His mother was long since dead, and hisfather had written on his dying bed the letter that commended the boy--so soon to be orphaned--to the pity and care of his grandparents. Thesisters trembled and changed color at the story of the boy's hardshipson the way to Fairtown; and they plied him with questions and sandwichesin about equal proportions after he told of the frequent dinnerless daysand supperless nights of the journey. 

That evening when the boy was safe in bed--clean, full-stomached, andsleepily content the sisters talked it over. The Reverend John Hapgood, in his will, had cut off his recreant son with the proverbial shilling, so, by law, there was little coming to Ralph. This, however, the sistersoverlooked in calm disdain. 

"We must keep him, anyhow, " said Rachel with decision. 

"Yes, indeed, --the dear child!"

"He's twelve, for all he's so small, but he hasn't had much schooling. We must see to that--we want him well educated, " continued Rachel, apink spot showing in either cheek. 

"Indeed we do--we'll send him to college! I wonder, now, wouldn't helike to be a doctor?"

"Perhaps, " admitted the other cautiously, "or a minister. "

"Sure enough--he might like that better; I'm going to ask him!" and shesprang to her feet and tripped across the room to the parlor-bedroomdoor. "Ralph, " she called softly, after turning the knob, "are youasleep?"

"Huh? N-no, ma'am. " The voice nearly gave the lie to the words. 

"Well, dear, we were wondering--would you rather be a minister or adoctor?" she asked, much as though she were offering for choice a peachand a pear. 

"A doctor!" came emphatically from out of the dark--there was no sleepin the voice now. "I've always wanted to be a doctor. "

"You shall, oh, you shall!" promised the woman ecstatically, going backto her sister; and from that time all their lives were ordered with thatone end in view. 

The Hapgood twins were far from wealthy. They owned the homestead, buttheir income was small, and the added mouth to fill--and that a hungryone--counted. As the years passed, Huldy came less and less frequentlyto help in the kitchen, and the sisters' gowns grew more and more rustyand darned. 

Ralph, boylike, noticed nothing--indeed, half the year he was away atschool; but as the time drew near for the college course and itsattendant expenses, the sisters were sadly troubled. 

"We might sell, " suggested Tabitha, a little choke in her voice. 

Rachel started. 

"Why, sister!--sell? Oh, no, we couldn't do that!" she shuddered. 

"But what can we do?"

"Do?--why lots of things!" Rachel's lips came together with a snap. "It's coming berry time, and there's our chickens, and the garden didbeautifully last year. Then there's your lace work and my knitting--they bring something. Sell? Oh--we couldn't do that!" And she abruptlyleft the room and went out into the yard. There she lovingly trained awayward vine with new shoots going wrong, and gloated over therosebushes heavy with crimson buds. 

But as the days and weeks flew by and September drew the nearer, Rachel's courage failed her. Berries had been scarce, the chickens haddied, the garden had suffered from drought, and but for their lace andknitting work, their income would have dwindled to a pitiful sumindeed. Ralph had been gone all summer; he had asked to go camping andfishing with some of his school friends. He was expected home a weekbefore the college opened, however. 

Tabitha grew more and more restless every day. Finally she spoke. 

"Rachel, we'll have to sell--there isn't any other way. It would bring alot, " she continued hurriedly, before her sister could speak, "and wecould find some pretty rooms somewhere. It wouldn't be so verydreadful!"

"Don't, Tabitha! Seems as though I couldn't bear even to speak of it. Sell?--oh, Tabitha!" Then her voice changed from a piteous appeal to oneof forced conviction. 

"We couldn't get anywhere near what it's worth, Tabitha, anyway. No onehere wants it or can afford to buy it for what it ought to bring. It isreally absurd to think of it. Of course, if I had an offer--a good bigone--that would be quite another thing; but there's no hope of that. "

Rachel's lips said "hope, " but her heart said "danger, " and the latterwas what she really meant. She did not know that but two hours before, astranger had said to a Fairtown lawyer:

"I want a summer home in this locality. You don't happen to know of agood old treasure of a homestead for sale, do you?"

"I do not, " replied the lawyer. "There's a place on the edge of thevillage that would be just the ticket, but I don't suppose it could bebought for love nor money. "

"Where is it?" asked the man eagerly. "You never know what money can do--to say nothing of love--till you try. "

The lawyer chuckled softly. 

"It's the Hapgood place. I'll drive you over to-morrow. It's owned bytwo old maids, and they worship every stick and stone and blade of grassthat belongs to it. However, I happen to know that cash is rather scarcewith them--and there's ample chance for love, if the money fails, " headded, with a twitching of his lips. 

When the two men drove into the yard that August morning, the Hapgoodtwins were picking nasturtiums, and the flaming yellows and scarletslighted up their somber gowns, and made patches of brilliant coloragainst the gray of the house. 

"By Jove, it's a picture!" exclaimed the would-be purchaser. 

The lawyer smiled and sprang to the ground. Introductions swiftlyfollowed, then he cleared his throat in some embarrassment. 

"Ahem! I've brought Mr. Hazelton up here, ladies, because he wasinterested in your beautiful place. "

Miss Rachel smiled--the smile of proud possession; then something withinher seemed to tighten, and she caught her breath sharply. 

"It is fine!" murmured Hazelton; "and the view is grand!" he continued, his eyes on the distant hills. Then he turned abruptly. "Ladies, Ibelieve in coming straight to the point. I want a summer home, and--Iwant this one. Can I tempt you to part with it?"

"Indeed, no!" began Rachel almost fiercely. Then her voice sank to awhisper; "I--I don't think you could. "

"But, sister, " interposed Tabitha, her face alight, "you know you said--that is, there are circumstances--perhaps he would--p-pay enough--" Hervoice stumbled over the hated word, then stopped, while her face burnedscarlet. 

"Pay!--no human mortal could pay for this house!" flashed Rachelindignantly. Then she turned to Hazelton, her slight form drawn to itsgreatest height, and her hands crushing the flowers, she held till thebrittle stems snapped, releasing a fluttering shower of scarlet andgold. "Mr. Hazelton, to carry out certain wishes very near to ourhearts, we need money. We will show you the place, and--and we willconsider your offer, " she finished faintly. It was a dreary journey thesisters took that morning, though the garden never had seemed lovelier, nor the rooms more sacredly beautiful. In the end, Hazelton's offer wasso fabulously enormous to their unwilling ears that their conscienceforbade them to refuse it. 

"I'll have the necessary papers ready to sign in a few days, " said thelawyer as the two gentlemen turned to go. And Hazelton added: "If at anytime before that you change your minds and find you cannot give it up--just let me know and it will be all right. Just think it over tillthen, " he said kindly, the dumb woe in their eyes appealing to him asthe loudest lamentations could not have done. "But if you don't mind, I'd like to have an architect, who is in town just now, come up and lookit over with me, " he finished. 

"Certainly, sir, certainly, " said Rachel, longing for the man to go. Butwhen he was gone, she wished him back--anything would be better thanthis aimless wandering from room to room, and from yard to garden andback again. 

"I suppose he will sit here, " murmured Tabitha, dropping wearilyon to the settee under the apple-trees. 

"I suppose so, " her sister assented. "I wonder if she knows howto grow roses; they'll certainly die if she doesn't!" And Rachel crusheda worm under her foot with unnecessary vigor. 

"Oh, I hope they'll tend to the vines on the summerhouse, Rachel, andthe pansies--you don't think they'll let them run to seed, do you? Oh, dear!" And Tabitha sprang nervously to her feet and started backyto thehouse. 

Mr. Hazelton appeared the next morning with two men--an architect and alandscape gardener. Rachel was in the summerhouse, and the first sheknew of their presence was the sound of talking outside. 

"You'll want to grade it down there, " she heard a strange voice say, "and fill in that little hollow; clear away all those rubbishy posies, and mass your flowering shrubs in the background. Those roses are noparticular good, I fancy; we'll move such as are worth anything, andmake a rose-bed on the south side--we'll talk over the varieties youwant, later. Of course these apple-trees and those lilacs will be cutdown, and this summerhouse will be out of the way. You'll be surprised--a few changes will do wonders, and--"

He stopped abruptly. A woman, tall, flushed, and angry-eyed, stoodbefore him in the path. She opened her lips, but no sound came--Mr. Hazelton was lifting his hat. The flush faded, and her eyes closed asthough to shut out some painful sight; then she bowed her head with aproud gesture, and sped along the way to the house. 

Once inside, she threw herself, sobbing, upon the bed. Tabitha found herthere an hour later. 

"You poor dear--they've gone now, " she comforted. 

Rachel raised her head. 

"They're going to cut down everything--every single thing!" she gasped. 

"I know it, " choked Tabitha, "and they're going to tear out lots ofdoors inside, and build in windows and things. Oh, Rachel, --what shallwe do?"

"I don't know, oh, I don't know!" moaned the woman on the bed, divinginto the pillows and hugging them close to her head. 

"We--we might give up selling--he said we could if we wanted to. "

"But there's Ralph!"

"I know it. Oh, dear--what can we do?"

Rachel suddenly sat upright. 

"Do? Why, we'll stand it, of course. We just mustn't mind if he turnsthe house into a hotel and the yard into a--a pasture!" she saidhysterically. "We must just think of Ralph and of his being a doctor. Come, let's go to the village and see if we can rent that tenement ofold Mrs. Goddard's. "

With a long sigh and a smothered sob, Tabitha went to get her hat. 

Mrs. Goddard greeted the sisters effusively, and displayed her bits ofrooms and the tiny square of yard with the plainly expressed wish thatthe place might be their home. 

The twins said little, but their eyes were troubled. They left with thepromise to think it over and let Mrs. Goddard know. 

"I didn't suppose rooms could be so little, " whispered Tabitha, as theyclosed the gate behind them. 

"We couldn't grow as much as a sunflower in that yard, " faltered Rachel. 

"Well, anyhow, we could have some houseplants!"--Tabitha tried to speakcheerfully. 

"Indeed we could!" agreed Rachel, rising promptly to her sister'sheight; "and, after all, little rooms are lots cheaper to heat than bigones. " And there the matter ended for the time being. 

Mr. Hazelton and the lawyer with the necessary papers appeared a fewdays later. As the lawyer took off his hat he handed a letter to MissRachel. 

"I stepped into the office and got your mail, " he said genially. 

"Thank you, " replied the lady, trying to smile. "It's from Ralph, "--handing it over for her sister to read. 

Both the ladies were in somber black; a ribbon or a brooch seemed out ofplace to them that day. Tabitha broke the seal of the letter, andretired to the light of the window to read it. 

The papers were spread on the table, and the pen was in Rachel's handwhen a scream from Tabitha shattered the oppressive silence of the room. 

"Stop--stop--oh, stop!" she cried, rushing to her sister and snatchingthe pen from her fingers. "We don't have to--see--read!"--pointing tothe postscript written in a round, boyish hand. 

Oh, I say, I've got a surprise for you. You think I've been fishing andloafing all summer, but I've been working for the hotels here the wholetime. I've got a fine start on my money for college, and I've got achance to work for my board all this year by helping Professor Heaton. Imet him here this summer, and he's the right sort--every time. I'veintended all along to help myself a bit when it came to the collegeracket, but I didn't mean to tell you until I knew I could do it. Butit's a sure thing now. 

Bye-bye; I'll be home next Saturday. 

Your aff. Nephew, Ralph. 

Rachel had read this aloud, but her voice ended in a sob instead of inthe boy's name. Hazelton brushed the back of his hand across his eyes, and the lawyer looked intently out the window. For a moment there was asilence that could be felt, then Hazelton stepped to the table andfumbled noisily with the papers. 

"Ladies, I withdraw my offer, " he announced. "I can't afford to buy thishouse--I can't possibly afford it--it's too expensive. " And withoutanother word he left the room, motioning the lawyer to follow. 

The sisters looked into each other's eyes and drew a long, sobbingbreath. 

"Rachel, is it true?"

"Oh, Tabitha! Let's--let's go out under the apple-trees and--just knowthat they are there!"

And hand in hand they went. 

The End