ANNIE KILBURN

a Novel

BY

W. D. HOWELLS

Author of

"Indian Summer""The Rise of Silas Lapham""April Hopes" etc. 

I. 

After the death of Judge Kilburn his daughter came back to America. Theyhad been eleven winters in Rome, always meaning to return, but staying onfrom year to year, as people do who have nothing definite to call themhome. Toward the last Miss Kilburn tacitly gave up the expectation ofgetting her father away, though they both continued to say that they weregoing to take passage as soon as the weather was settled in the spring. At the date they had talked of for sailing he was lying in the Protestantcemetery, and she was trying to gather herself together, and adjust herlife to his loss. This would have been easier with a younger person, forshe had been her father's pet so long, and then had taken care of hishelplessness with a devotion which was finally so motherly, that it waslike losing at once a parent and a child when he died, and she remainedwith the habit of giving herself when there was no longer any one toreceive the sacrifice. He had married late, and in her thirty-first year hewas seventy-eight; but the disparity of their ages, increasing toward theend through his infirmities, had not loosened for her the ties of customand affection that bound them; she had seen him grow more and more fitfullycognisant of what they had been to each other since her mother's death, while she grew the more tender and fond with him. People who came tocondole with her seemed not to understand this, or else they thought itwould help her to bear up if they treated her bereavement as a relief fromhopeless anxiety. They were all surprised when she told them she stillmeant to go home. 

"Why, my dear, " said one old lady, who had been away from America twentyyears, "_this_ is home! You've lived in this apartment longer nowthan the oldest inhabitant has lived in most American towns. What are youtalking about? Do you mean that you are going back to Washington?"

"Oh no. We were merely staying on in Washington from force of habit, afterfather gave up practice. I think we shall go back to the old homestead, where we used to spend our summers, ever since I can remember. "

"And where is that?" the old lady asked, with the sharpness which peoplebelieve must somehow be good for a broken spirit. 

"It's in the interior of Massachusetts--you wouldn't know it: a placecalled Hatboro'. "

"No, I certainly shouldn't, " said the old lady, with superiority. "WhyHatboro', of all the ridiculous reasons?"

"It was one of the first places where they began to make straw hats; it wasa nickname at first, and then they adopted it. The old name was DorchesterFarms. Father fought the change, but it was of no use; the people wouldn'thave it Farms after the place began to grow; and by that time they had gotused to Hatboro'. Besides, I don't see how it's any worse than Hatfield, inEngland. "

"It's very American. "

"Oh, it's American. We have Boxboro' too, you know, in Massachusetts. "

"And you are going from Rome to Hatboro', Mass. , " said the old lady, tryingto present the idea in the strongest light by abbreviating the name of theState. 

"Yes, " said Miss Kilburn. "It will be a change, but not so much of a changeas you would think. It was father's wish to go back. "

"Ah, my _dear_!" cried the old lady. "You're letting that weigh withyou, I see. Don't do it! If it wasn't wise, don't you suppose that the lastthing he could wish you to do would be to sacrifice yourself to a sick whimof his?"

The kindness expressed in the words touched Annie Kilburn. She had acertain beauty of feature; she was near-sighted; but her eyes were brownand soft, her lips red and full; her dark hair grew low, and played inlittle wisps and rings on her temples, where her complexion was clearest;the bold contour of her face, with its decided chin and the rather largesalient nose, was like her father's; it was this, probably, that gave animpression of strength, with a wistful qualification. She was at that timerather thin, and it could have been seen that she would be handsomer whenher frame had rounded out in fulfilment of its generous design. She openedher lips to speak, but shut them again in an effort at self-control beforeshe said--

"But I really wish to do it. At this moment I would rather be in Hatboro'than in Rome. "

"Oh, very well, " said the old lady, gathering herself up as one does fromthrowing away one's sympathy upon an unworthy object; "if you really_wish_ it--"

"I know that it must seem preposterous and--and almost ungrateful that Ishould think of going back, when I might just as well stay. Why, I've agreat many more friends here than I have there; I suppose I shall be almosta stranger when I get there, and there's no comparison in congeniality; andyet I feel that I must go back. I can't tell you why. But I have a longing;I feel that I must try to be of some use in the world--try to do somegood--and in Hatboro' I think I shall know how. " She put on her glasses, and looked at the old lady as if she might attempt an explanation, but, asif a clearer vision of the veteran worldling discouraged her, she did notmake the effort. 

"_Oh_!" said the old lady. "If you want to be of use, and do good--"She stopped, as if then there were no more to be said by a sensible person. "And shall you be going soon?" she asked. The idea seemed to suggest herown departure, and she rose after speaking. 

"Just as soon as possible, " answered Miss Kilburn. Words take on a colourof something more than their explicit meaning from the mood in which theyare spoken: Miss Kilburn had a sense of hurrying her visitor away, and theold lady had a sense of being turned out-of-doors, that the preparationsfor the homeward voyage might begin instantly. 

II. 

Many times after the preparations began, and many times after they wereended, Miss Kilburn faltered in doubt of her decision; and if there hadbeen any will stronger than her own to oppose it, she might have reversedit, and stayed in Rome. All the way home there was a strain of misgivingin her satisfaction at doing what she believed to be for the best, and thefirst sight of her native land gave her a shock of emotion which was notunmixed joy. She felt forlorn among people who were coming home with allsorts of high expectations, while she only had high intentions. 

These dated back a good many years; in fact, they dated back to the timewhen the first flush of her unthinking girlhood was over, and she beganto question herself as to the life she was living. It was a very pleasantlife, ostensibly. Her father had been elected from the bench to Congress, and had kept his title and his repute as a lawyer through several termsin the House before he settled down to the practice of his professionin the courts at Washington, where he made a good deal of money. Theypassed from boarding to house-keeping, in the easy Washington way, aftertheir impermanent Congressional years, and divided their time betweena comfortable little place in Nevada Circle and the old homestead inHatboro'. He was fond of Washington, and robustly content with the worldas he found it there and elsewhere. If his daughter's compunctions came toher through him, it must have been from some remoter ancestry; he was notapparently characterised by their transmission, and probably she derivedthem from her mother, who died when she was a little girl, and of whom shehad no recollection. Till he began to break, after they went abroad, hehad his own way in everything; but as men grow old or infirm they fallinto subjection to their womenkind; their rude wills yield in the supplerinsistence of the feminine purpose; they take the colour of the femininemoods and emotions; the cycle of life completes itself where it began, inhelpless dependence upon the sex; and Rufus Kilburn did not escape thecommon lot. He was often complaining and unlovely, as aged and ailing menmust be; perhaps he was usually so; but he had moments when he recognisedthe beauty of his daughter's aspiration with a spiritual sympathy, whichshowed that he must always have had an intellectual perception of it. He expressed with rhetorical largeness and looseness the longing whichwas not very definite in her own heart, and mingled with it a strain ofhomesickness poignantly simple and direct for the places, the scenes, thepersons, the things, of his early days. As he failed more and more, hishomesickness was for natural aspects which had wholly ceased to existthrough modern changes and improvements, and for people long since dead, whom he could find only in an illusion of that environment in some otherworld. In the pathos of this situation it was easy for his daughter to keephim ignorant of the passionate rebellion against her own ideals in whichshe sometimes surprised herself. When he died, all counter-currents werelost in the tidal revulsion of feeling which swept her to the fulfilmentof what she hoped was deepest and strongest in her nature, with shame forwhat she hoped was shallowest, till that moment of repulsion in which shesaw the thickly roofed and many towered hills of Boston grow up out of thewestern waves. 

She had always regarded her soul as the battlefield of two oppositeprinciples, the good and the bad, the high and the low. God made her, shethought, and He alone; He made everything that she was; but she would nothave said that He made the evil in her. Yet her belief did not admit theexistence of Creative Evil; and so she said to herself that she herselfwas that evil, and she must struggle against herself; she must questionwhatever she strongly wished because she strongly wished it. It was notlogical; she did not push her postulates to their obvious conclusions; andthere was apt to be the same kind of break between her conclusions and heractions as between her reasons and her conclusions. She acted impulsively, and from a force which she could not analyse. She indulged reveries sovivid that they seemed to weaken and exhaust her for the grapple withrealities; the recollection of them abashed her in the presence of facts. 

With all this, it must not be supposed that she was morbidly introspective. Her life had been apparently a life of cheerful acquiescence in worldlyconditions; it had been, in some measure, a life of fashion, or at leastof society. It had not been without the interests of other girls' lives, by any means; she had sometimes had fancies, flirtations, but she did notthink she had been really in love, and she had refused some offers ofmarriage for that reason. 

III. 

The industry of making straw hats began at Hatboro', as many otherindustries have begun in New England, with no great local advantages, butsimply because its founder happened to live there, and to believe that itwould pay. There was a railroad, and labour of the sort he wanted was cheapand abundant in the village and the outlying farms. In time the work cameto be done more and more by machinery, and to be gathered into large shops. The buildings increased in size and number; the single line of the railroadwas multiplied into four, and in the region of the tracks several large, ugly, windowy wooden bulks grew up for shoe shops; a stocking factoryfollowed; yet this business activity did not warp the old village from itspicturesqueness or quiet. The railroad tracks crossed its main street; butthe shops were all on one side of them, with the work-people's cottagesand boarding-houses, and on the other were the simple, square, roomy oldmansions, with their white paint and their green blinds, varied by themodern colour and carpentry of French-roofed villas. The old houses stoodquite close to the street, with a strip of narrow door-yard before them;the new ones affected a certain depth of lawn, over which their ownerspersonally pushed a clucking hand-mower in the summer evenings after tea. The fences had been taken away from the new houses, in the taste of someof the Boston suburbs; they generally remained before the old ones, whoseinmates resented the ragged effect that their absence gave the street. Theirregularity had hitherto been of an orderly and harmonious kind, such asnaturally follows the growth of a country road into a village thoroughfare. The dwellings were placed nearer or further from the sidewalk as theirbuilders fancied, and the elms that met in a low arch above the street hadan illusive symmetry in the perspective; they were really set at unevenintervals, and in a line that wavered capriciously in and out. The streetitself lounged and curved along, widening and contracting like a river, and then suddenly lost itself over the brow of an upland which formed anatural boundary of the village. Beyond this was South Hatboro', a group ofcottages built by city people who had lately come in--idlers and invalids, the former for the cool summer, and the latter for the dry winter. Atchance intervals in the old village new side streets branched from thethoroughfare to the right and the left, and here and there a Queen Annecottage showed its chimneys and gables on them. The roadway under theelms that kept it dark and cool with their hovering shade, and swept thewagon-tops with their pendulous boughs at places, was unpaved; but thesidewalks were asphalted to the last dwelling in every direction, and theywere promptly broken out in winter by the public snow-plough. 

Miss Kilburn saw them in the spring, when their usefulness was leastapparent, and she did not know whether to praise the spirit of progresswhich showed itself in them as well as in other things at Hatboro'. Shehad come prepared to have misgivings, but she had promised herself to bejust; she thought she could bear the old ugliness, if not the new. Someof the new things, however, were not so ugly; the young station-masterwas handsome in his railroad uniform, and pleasanter to the eye than theveteran baggage-master, incongruous in his stiff silk cap and his shirtsleeves and spectacles. The station itself, one of Richardson's, massiveand low, with red-tiled, spreading veranda roofs, impressed her withits fitness, and strengthened her for her encounter with the businessarchitecture of Hatboro', which was of the florid, ambitious New York type, prevalent with every American town in the early stages of its prosperity. The buildings were of pink brick, faced with granite, and supported in thefirst story by columns of painted iron; flat-roofed blocks looked down overthe low-wooden structures of earlier Hatboro', and a large hotel had pushedback the old-time tavern, and planted itself flush upon the sidewalk. Butthe stores seemed very good, as she glanced at them from her carriage, and their show-windows were tastefully arranged; the apothecary's had aninterior of glittering neatness unsurpassed by an Italian apothecary's; andthe provision-man's, besides its symmetrical array of pendent sides andquarters indoors, had banks of fruit and vegetables without, and a largeaquarium with a spraying fountain in its window. 

Bolton, the farmer who had always taken care of the Kilburn place, cameto meet her at the station and drive her home. Miss Kilburn had biddenhim drive slowly, so that she could see all the changes, and she noticedthe new town-hall, with which she could find no fault; the Baptist andMethodist churches were the same as of old; the Unitarian church seemed tohave shrunk as if the architecture had sympathised with its dwindling bodyof worshippers; just beyond it was the village green, with the soldiers'monument, and the tall white-painted flag-pole, and the four small brasscannon threatening the points of the compass at its base. 

"Stop a moment, Mr. Bolton, " said Miss Kilburn; and she put her head quiteout of the carriage, and stared at the figure on the monument. 

It was strange that the first misgiving she could really make sure ofconcerning Hatboro' should relate to this figure, which she herself wasmainly responsible for placing there. When the money was subscribed andvoted for the statue, the committee wrote out to her at Rome as one whowould naturally feel an interest in getting something fit and economicalfor them. She accepted the trust with zeal and pleasure; but she overruledtheir simple notion of an American volunteer at rest, with his hands foldedon the muzzle of his gun, as intolerably hackneyed and commonplace. Herconscience, she said, would not let her add another recruit to the regimentof stone soldiers standing about in that posture on the tops of pedestalsall over the country; and so, instead of going to an Italian statuary withher fellow-townsmen's letter, and getting him to make the figure theywanted, she doubled the money and gave the commission to a young girlfrom Kansas, who had come out to develop at Rome the genius recognisedat Topeka. They decided together that it would be best to have somethingideal, and the sculptor promptly imagined and rapidly executed a designfor a winged Victory, poising on the summit of a white marble shaft, andclasping its hands under its chin, in expression of the grief that mingledwith the popular exultation. Miss Kilburn had her doubts while the workwent on, but she silenced them with the theory that when the figure was inposition it would be all right. 

Now that she saw it in position she wished to ask Mr. Bolton what wasthought of it, but she could not nerve herself to the question. He remainedsilent, and she felt that he was sorry for her. "Oh, may I be very humble;may I be helped to be very humble!" she prayed under her breath. Itseemed as if she could not take her eyes from the figure; it was such amodern, such an American shape, so youthfully inadequate, so simple, sosophisticated, so like a young lady in society indecorously exposed fora _tableau vivant_. She wondered if the people in Hatboro' felt allthis about it; if they realised how its involuntary frivolity insulted thesolemn memory of the slain. 

"Drive on, please, " she said gently. 

Bolton pulled the reins, and as the horses started he pointed with his whipto a church at the other side of the green. "That's the new Orthodoxchurch, " he explained. 

"Oh, is it?" asked Miss Kilburn. "It's very handsome, I'm sure. " She wasnot sensible of admiring the large Romanesque pile very much, though itwas certainly not bad, but she remembered that Bolton was a member of theOrthodox church, and she was grateful to him for not saying anything aboutthe soldiers' monument. 

"We sold the old buildin' to the Catholics, and they moved it down ont' theside street. "

Miss Kilburn caught the glimmer of a cross where he beckoned, through theflutter of the foliage. 

"They had to razee the steeple some to git their cross on, " he added;and then he showed her the high-school building as they passed, and theEpiscopal chapel, of blameless church-warden's Gothic, half hidden by itsJapanese ivy, under a branching elm, on another side street. 

"Yes, " she said, "that was built before we went abroad. "

"I disremember, " he said absently. He let the horses walk on the soft, darkly shaded road, where the wheels made a pleasant grinding sound, andset himself sidewise on his front seat, so as to talk to Miss Kilburn moreat his ease. 

"I d'know, " he began, after clearing his throat, with a conscious air, "asyou know we'd got a new minister to our church. "

"No, I hadn't heard of it, " said Miss Kilburn, with her mind full of themonument still. "But I might have heard and forgotten it, " she added. "Iwas very much taken up toward the last before I left Rome. "

"Well, come to think, " said Bolton; "I don't know's you'd had time toheard. He hain't been here a great while. "

"Is he--satisfactory?" asked Miss Kilburn, feeling how far fromsatisfactory the Victory was, and formulating an explanatory apology to thecommittee in her mind. 

"Oh yes, he's satisfactory enough, as far forth as that goes. He'stalented, and he's right up with the times. Yes, he's progressive. I guessthey got pretty tired of Mr. Rogers, even before he died; and they kept thesupply a-goin' till--all was blue, before they could settle on anybody. Infact they couldn't seem to agree on anybody till Mr. Peck come. "

Miss Kilburn had got as far, in her tacit interview with the committee, asto have offered to replace at her own expense the Victory with a Volunteer, and she seemed to be listening to Bolton with rapt attention. 

"Well, it's like this, " continued the farmer. "He's progressive in hisidees, 'n' at the same time he's spiritual-minded; and so I guess he suitspretty well all round. Of course you can't suit everybody. There's alwaysgot to be a dog in the manger, it don't matter where you go. But if anybodywas to ask me, I should say Mr. Peck suited. Yes, I don't know but what Ishould. "

Miss Kilburn instantaneously closed her transaction with the committee, removed the Victory, and had the Volunteer unveiled with appropriateceremonies, opened with prayer by the Rev. Mr. Peck. 

"Peck?" she said. "Did you tell me his name was Peck?"

"Yes, ma'am; Rev. Julius W. Peck. He's from down Penobscotport way, inMaine. I guess he's all right. "

Miss Kilburn did not reply. Her mind had been taken off the monument forthe moment by her dislike for the name of the new minister, and the Victoryhad seized the opportunity to get back. 

Bolton sighed deeply, and continued in a strain whose diffusiveness at lastbecame perceptible to Miss Kilburn through her own humiliation. "There'ssome in every community that's bound to complain, I don't care what you doto accommodate 'em; and what I done, I done as much to stop their clack asanything, and give him the right sort of a start off, an' I guess I did. But Mis' Bolton she didn't know but what you'd look at it in the light of alibbutty, and I didn't know but what you _would_ think I no businessto done it. "

He seemed to be addressing a question to her, but she only replied with adazed frown, and Bolton was obliged to go on. 

"I didn't let him room in your part of the house; that is to say, not sleepthere; but I thought, as you was comin' home, and I better be airin' it upsome, anyway, I might as well let him set in the old Judge's room. If youthink it was more than I had a right to do, I'm willin' to pay for it. Gitup!" Bolton turned fully round toward his horses, to hide the workings ofemotion in his face, and shook the reins like a desperate man. 

"What _are_ you talking about, Mr. Bolton?" cried Miss Kilburn. "_Whom_ are you talking about?"

Bolton answered, with a kind of violence, "Mr. Peck; I took him to board, first off. "

"You took him to board?"

"Yes. I know it wa'n't just accordin' to the letter o' the law, and the oldJudge was always pootty p'tic'lah. But I've took care of the place goin'on twenty years now, and I hain't never had a chick nor a child in itbefore. The child, " he continued, partly turning his face round again, andbeginning to look Miss Kilburn in the eye, "wa'n't one to touch anything, anyway, and we kep' her in our part all the while; Mis' Bolton she couldn'tseem to let her out of her sight, she got so fond of her, and she used tofollow me round among the hosses like a kitten. I declare, I _miss_her. "

Bolton's face, the colour of one of the lean ploughed fields of Hatboro', and deeply furrowed, lighted up with real feeling, which he tried to makego as far in the work of reconciling Miss Kilburn as if it had beenfactitious. 

"But I don't understand, " she said. "What child are you talking about?"

"Mr. Peck's. "

"Was he married?" she asked, with displeasure, she did not know why. 

"Well, yes, he _had_ been, " answered Bolton. "But she'd be'n in theasylum ever since the child was born. "

"Oh, " said Miss Kilburn, with relief; and she fell back upon the seat fromwhich she had started forward. 

Bolton might easily have taken her tone for that of disgust. He faced roundupon her once more. "It was kind of queer, his havin' the child with him, an' takin' most the care of her himself; and so, as I _say_, Mis'Bolton and me we took him in, as much to stop folks' mouths as anything, till they got kinder used to it. But we didn't take him into your part, asI _say_; and as _I_ say, I'm willin' to pay you whatever you sayfor the use of the old Judge's study. I presume that part of it _was_a libbutty. "

"It was all perfectly right, Mr. Bolton, " said Miss Kilburn. 

"His wife died anyway, more than a year ago, " said Bolton, as if the factcompleted his atonement to Miss Kilburn, "_Git_ ep! I told him from, the start that it had got to be a temporary thing, an' 't I only took himtill he could git settled somehow. I guess he means to go to house-keepin', if he can git the right kind of a house-keeper; he wants an old one. If itwas a young one, I guess he wouldn't have any great trouble, if he wentabout it the right way. " Bolton's sarcasm was merely a race sarcasm. He wasa very mild man, and his thick-growing eyelashes softened and shadowed hisgrey eyes, and gave his lean face pathos. 

"You could have let him stay till he had found a suitable place, " said MissKilburn. 

"Oh, I wa'n't goin' to do _that_, " said Bolton. "But I'm 'bliged toyou just the same. "

They came up in sight of the old square house, standing back a gooddistance from the road, with a broad sweep of grass sloping down before itinto a little valley, and rising again to the wall fencing the grounds fromthe street. The wall was overhung there by a company of magnificent elms, which turned and formed one side of the avenue leading to the house. Theirtops met and mixed somewhat incongruously with those of the stiff darkmaples which more densely shaded the other side of the lane. 

Bolton drove into their gloom, and then out into the wide sunny space atthe side of the house where Miss Kilburn had alighted so often with herfather. Bolton's dog, grown now so very old as to be weak-minded, barkedcrazily at his master, and then, recognising him, broke into an imbecilewhimper, and went back and coiled his rheumatism up in the sun on a warmstone before the door. Mrs. Bolton had to step over him as she came out, formally supporting her right elbow with her left hand as she offered theother in greeting to Miss Kilburn, with a look of question at her husband. 

Miss Kilburn intercepted the look, and began to laugh. 

All was unchanged, and all so strange; it seemed as if her father must bothget down with her from the carriage and come to meet her from the house. Her glance involuntarily took in the familiar masses and details; thepatches of short tough grass mixed with decaying chips and small weedsunderfoot, and the spacious June sky overhead; the fine network andblisters of the cracking and warping white paint on the clapboarding, andthe hills beyond the bulks of the village houses and trees; the woodshedstretching with its low board arches to the barn, and the milk-pans tiltedto sun against the underpinning of the L, and Mrs. Bolton's pot plants inthe kitchen window. 

"Did you think I could be hard about such a thing as that? It was perfectlyright. O Mrs. Bolton!" She stopped laughing and began to cry; she put awayMrs. Bolton's carefully offered hand, she threw herself upon the bonystructure of her bosom, and buried her face sobbing in the leathery foldsof her neck. 

Mrs. Bolton suffered her embrace above the old dog, who fled with a cry ofrheumatic apprehension from the sweep of Miss Kilburn's skirts, and thencame back and snuffed at them in a vain effort to recall her. 

"Well, go in and lay down by the stove, " said Mrs. Bolton, with a dividedinterest, while she beat Miss Kilburn's back with her bony palm in sign ofsympathy. But the dog went off up the lane, and stood there by the pasturebars, barking abstractedly at intervals. 

IV. 

Miss Kilburn found that the house had been well aired for her coming, butan old earthy and mouldy smell, which it took days and nights of open doorsand windows to drive out, stole back again with the first turn of rainyweather. She had fires built on the hearths and in the stoves, and afteropening her trunks and scattering her dresses on beds and chairs, she spentmost of the first week outside of the house, wandering about the fields andorchards to adjust herself anew to the estranged features of the place. The house she found lower-ceiled and smaller than she remembered it. TheBoltons had kept it up very well, and in spite of the earthy and mouldysmell, it was conscientiously clean. There was not a speck of dustanywhere; the old yellowish-white paint was spotless; the windows shone. But there was a sort of frigidity in the perfect order and repair whichrepelled her, and she left her things tossed about, as if to break the iceof this propriety. In several places, within and without, she found marksof the faithful hand of Bolton in economical patches of the woodwork; butshe was not sure that they had not been there eleven years before; andthere were darnings in the carpets and curtains, which affected her withthe same mixture of novelty and familiarity. Certain stale smells about theplace (minor smells as compared with the prevalent odour) confused her; shecould not decide whether she remembered them of old, or was reminded of theodours she used to catch in passing the pantry on the steamer. 

Her father had never been sure that he would not return any next year ormonth, and the house had always been ready to receive them. In his studyeverything was as he left it. His daughter looked for signs of Mr. Peck'soccupation, but there were none; Mrs. Bolton explained that she had puthim in a table from her own sitting-room to write at. The Judge's desk wasuntouched, and his heavy wooden arm-chair stood pulled up to it as if hewere in it. The ranks of law-books, in their yellow sheepskin, with theirred titles above and their black titles below, were in the order he hadtaught Mrs. Bolton to replace them in after dusting; the stuffed owl on ashelf above the mantel looked down with a clear solemnity in its gum-copaleyes, and Mrs. Bolton took it from its perch to show Miss Kilburn thatthere was not a moth on it, nor the sign of a moth. 

Miss Kilburn experienced here that refusal of the old associations to takethe form of welcome which she had already felt in the earth and sky and airoutside; in everything there was a sense of impassable separation. Her deadfather was no nearer in his wonted place than the trees of the orchard, orthe outline of the well-known hills, or the pink of the familiar sunsets. In her rummaging about the house she pulled open a chest of drawers whichused to stand in the room where she slept when a child. It was full of herown childish clothing, a little girl's linen and muslin; and she thoughtwith a throe of despair that she could as well hope to get hack into theseoutgrown garments, which the helpless piety of Mrs. Bolton had kept fromthe rag-bag, as to think of re-entering the relations of the life so longleft off. 

It surprised her to find how cold the Boltons were; she had remembered themas always very kind and willing; but she was so used now to the ways ofthe Italians and their showy affection, it was hard for her to realisethat people could be both kind and cold. The Boltons seemed ashamed oftheir feelings, and hid them; it was the same in some degree with all thevillagers when she began to meet them, and the fact slowly worked back intoher consciousness, wounding its way in. People did not come to see her atonce. They waited, as they told her, till she got settled, before theycalled, and then they did not appear very glad to have her back. 

But this was not altogether the effect of their temperament. The Kilburnshad made a long summer always in Hatboro', and they had always talked of itas home; but they had never passed a whole year there since Judge Kilburnfirst went to Congress, and they were not regarded as full neighboursor permanent citizens. Miss Kilburn, however, kept up her childhoodfriendships, and she and some of the ladies called one another by theirChristian names, but they believed that she met people in Washington whomshe liked better; the winters she spent there certainly weakened the tiesbetween them, and when it came to those eleven years in Rome, the lettersthey exchanged grew rarer and rarer, till they stopped altogether. Some ofthe girls went away; some died; others became dead and absent to her intheir marriages and household cares. 

After waiting for one another, three of them came together to see her oneday. They all kissed her, after a questioning glance at her face and dress, as if they wanted to see whether she had grown proud or too fashionable. But they were themselves apparently much better dressed, and certainly morerichly dressed. In a place like Hatboro', where there is no dinner-giving, and evening parties are few, the best dress is a street costume, whichmay be worn for calls and shopping, and for church and all publicentertainments. The well-to-do ladies make an effect of outdoor fashion, inwhich the poorest shop hand has her part; and in their turn they share herindoor simplicity. These old friends of Annie's wore bonnets and frocks ofthe latest style and costly material. 

They let her make the advances, receiving them with blank passivity, or repelling them with irony, according to the several needs of theirself-respect, and talking to one another across her. One of them asked herwhen her hair had begun to turn, and they each told her how thin she was, but promised her that Hatboro' air would bring her up. At the same timethey feigned humility in regard to everything about Hatboro' but the air;they laughed when she said she intended now to make it her home the wholeyear round, and said they guessed she would be tired of it long beforefall; there were plenty of summer folks that passed the winter as long asthe June weather lasted. As they grew more secure of themselves, or lessafraid of one another in her presence, their voices rose; they laughedloudly at nothing, and they yelled in a nervous chorus at times, eachtrying to make herself heard above the others. 

She asked them about the social life in the village, and they told her thata good many new people had really settled there, but they did not knowwhether she would like them; they were not the old Hatboro' style. Annieshowed them some of the things she had brought home, especially Romanviews, and they said now she ought to give an evening in the church parlourwith them. 

"You'll have to come to our church, Annie, " said Mrs. Putney. "TheUnitarian doesn't have preaching once in a month, and Mr. Peck is veryliberal. "

"He's 'most _too_ liberal for some, " said Emmeline Gerrish. Of thethree she had grown the stoutest, and from being a slight, light-mindedgirl, she had become a heavy matron, habitually censorious in her speech. She did not mean any more by it, however, than she did by her girlishfrivolity, and if she was not supported in her severity, she was apt tobreak down and disown it with a giggle, as she now did. 

"Well, I don't know about his being _too_ liberal, " said Mrs. Wilmington, a large red-haired blonde, with a lazy laugh. "He makes youfeel that you're a pretty miserable sinner. " She made a grimace of humorousdisgust. 

"Mr. Gerrish says that's just the trouble, " Mrs. Gerrish broke in. "Mr. Peck don't put stress enough on the promises. That's what Mr. Gerrish says. You must have been surprised, Annie, " she added, "to find that he'd beenstaying in your house. "

"I was glad Mrs. Bolton invited him, " answered Annie sincerely, but notinstantly. 

The ladies waited, with an exchange of glances, for her reply, as if theyhad talked the matter over beforehand, and had agreed to find out just howAnnie Kilburn felt about it. 

"Oh, I guess he paid his board, " said Mrs. Wilmington, jocosely rejectingthe implication that he had been the guest of the Boltons. 

"I don't see what he expects to do with that little girl of his, withoutany mother, that way, " said Mrs. Gerrish. "He ought to get married. "

"Perhaps he will, when he's waited a proper time, " suggested Mrs. Putneydemurely. 

"Well, his wife's been the same as dead ever since the child was born. Idon't know what you call a proper time, Ellen, " argued Mrs. Gerrish. 

"I presume a minister feels differently about such things, " Mrs. Wilmingtonremarked indolently. 

"I don't see why a minister should feel any different from anybody else, "said Mrs. Gerrish. "It's his duty to do it on his child's account. I don'tsee why he don't have the remains brought to Hatboro', anyway. "

They debated this point at some length, and they seemed to forget Annie. She listened with more interest than her concern in the last resting-placeof the minister's dead wife really inspired. These old friends of hersseemed to have lost the sensitiveness of their girlhood without havinggained tenderness in its place. They treated the affair with a nakednessthat shocked her. In the country and in small towns people come faceto face with life, especially women. It means marrying, child-bearing, household cares and burdens, neighbourhood gossip, sickness, death, burial, and whether the corpse appeared natural. But ever so much kindness goeswith their disillusion; they are blunted, but not embittered. 

They ended by recalling Annie to mind, and Mrs. Putney said: "I suppose youhaven't been to the cemetery yet? I They've got it all fixed up since youwent away--drives laid out, and paths cut through, and everything. A goodmany have put up family tombs, and they've taken away the old iron fencesround the lots, and put granite curbing. They mow the grass all the time. It's a perfect garden. " Mrs. Putney was a small woman, already beginningto wrinkle. She had married a man whom Annie remembered as a mischievouslittle boy, with a sharp tongue and a nervous temperament; her father hadalways liked him when he came about the house, but Annie had lost sight ofhim in the years that make small boys and girls large ones, and he was atcollege when she went abroad. She had an impression of something unhappy inher friend's marriage. 

"I think it's _too_ much fixed up myself, " said Mrs. Gerrish. Sheturned suddenly to Annie: "You going to have your father fetched home?"

The other ladies started a little at the question and looked at Annie; itwas not that they were shocked, but they wanted to see whether she wouldnot be so. 

"No, " she said briefly. She added, helplessly, "It wasn't his wish. "

"I should have thought he would have liked to be buried alongside of yourmother, " said Mrs. Gerrish. "But the Judge always _was_ a littlepeculiar. I presume you can have the name and the date put on the monumentjust the same. "

Annie flushed at this intimate comment and suggestion from a woman whom asa girl she had never admitted to familiarity with her, but had toleratedher because she was such a harmless simpleton, and hung upon other girlswhom she liked better. The word monument cowed her, however. She was afraidthey might begin to talk about the soldiers' monument. She answeredhastily, and began to ask them about their families. 

Mrs. Wilmington, who had no children, and Mrs. Putney, who had one, spokeof Mrs. Gerrish's large family. She had four children, and she refused thepraises of her friends for them, though she celebrated them herself. "Youought to have seen the two little girls that Ellen lost, Annie, " she said. "Ellen Putney, I don't see how you ever got over that. Those two lovely, healthy children gone, and poor little Winthrop left! I always did say itwas too hard. "

She had married a clerk in the principal dry-goods store, who had prosperedrapidly, and was now one of the first business men of the place, and had anambition to be a leading citizen. She believed in his fitness to deal withthe questions of religion and education which he took part in, and wasalways quoting Mr. Gerrish. She called him Mr. Gerrish so much that otherpeople began to call him so too. But Mrs. Putney's husband held out againstit, and had the habit of returning the little man's ceremonious salutationswith an easy, "Hello, Billy, " "Good morning, Billy. " It was his theory thatthis was good for Gerrish, who might otherwise have forgotten wheneverybody called him Billy. He was one of the old Putneys; and he was alawyer by profession. 

Mrs. Wilmington's husband had come to Hatboro' since Annie's long absencebegan; he had capital, and he had started a stocking-mill in Hatboro'. He was much older than his wife, whom he had married after a protractedwidowerhood. She had one of the best houses and the most richly furnishedin Hatboro'. She and Mrs. Putney saw Mrs. Gerrish at rare intervals, and inobservance of some notable fact of their girlish friendship like thepresent. 

In pursuance of the subject of children, Mrs. Gerrish said that shesometimes had a notion to offer to take Mr. Peck's little girl herself tillhe could get fixed somehow, but Mr. Gerrish would not let her. Mr. Gerrishsaid Mr. Peck had better get married himself if he wanted a step-mother forhis little girl. Mr. Gerrish was peculiar about keeping a family to itself. 

"Well, you'll think _we've_ come to board with you _too_, " saidMrs. Putney, in reference to Mr. Peck. 

The ladies all rose, and having got upon their feet, began to shout andlaugh again--like girls, they implied. 

They stayed and talked a long time after rising, with the same note ofunsparing personality in their talk. Where there are few public interestsand few events, as in such places, there can be no small-talk, nothing ofthe careless touch-and-go of larger societies. Every one knows all theothers, and knows the worst of them. People are not unkind; they aremutually and freely helpful; but they have only themselves to occupy theirminds. Annie's friends had also to distinguish themselves to her from therest of the villagers, and it was easiest to do this by an attitude ofcriticism mingled with large allowance. They ended a dissection of thecommunity by saying that they believed there was no place like Hatboro', after all. 

In the contagion of their perfunctory gaiety Annie began to scream andlaugh too, as she followed them to the door, and stood talking to themwhile they got into Mrs. Wilmington's extension-top carry-all. She answeredwith deafening promises, when they put their bonnets out of the carry-alland called back to her to be sure to come soon to see them soon. 

V. 

Mrs. Bolton made no advances with Annie toward the discussion of herfriends; but when Annie asked about their families, she answered with theincisive directness of a country-bred woman. She delivered her judgments asshe went about her work, the morning after the ladies' visit, while Anniesat before the breakfast-table, which she had given her leave to clear. Asshe passed in and out from the dining-room to the kitchen she kept talking;she raised her voice in the further room, and lowered it when she drew nearagain. She wore a dismal calico wrapper, which made no compromise with thegauntness of her figure; her reddish-brown hair, which grew in a fringebelow her crown, was plaited into small tags or tails, pulled up and tiedacross the top of her head, the bare surfaces of which were curiouslymottled with the dye which she sometimes put on her hair. Behind, thiswas gathered up into a small knob pierced with a single hair-pin; thearrangement left Mrs. Bolton's visage to the unrestricted expression ofcharacter. She did not let it express toward Annie any expectation of theconfidential relations that are supposed to exist between people who havebeen a long time master and servant. She had never recognised her relationswith the Kilburns in these terms. She was a mature Yankee single woman, of confirmed self-respect, when she first came as house-keeper to JudgeKilburn, twenty years ago, and she had not changed her nature in changingher condition by her marriage with Oliver Bolton; she was childless, unlesshis comparative youth conferred a sort of adoptive maternity upon her. 

Annie went into her father's study, where she had lit the fire in theFranklin-stove on her way to breakfast. It had come on to rain during thenight, after the fine yesterday which Mrs. Gerrish had denounced to itsface as a weather-breeder. At first it rained silently, stealthily; buttoward morning Annie heard the wind rising, and when she looked out of herwindow after daylight she found a fierce north-easterly storm drenchingand chilling the landscape. Now across the flattened and tangled grass ofthe lawn the elms were writhing in the gale, and swinging their long leanboughs to and fro; from another window she saw the cuffed and hustledmaples ruffling their stiff masses of foliage, and shuddering in thestorm. She turned away, with a sigh of the luxurious melancholy which anortheaster inspires in people safely sheltered from it, and sat downbefore her fire. She recalled the three women who had visited her the daybefore, in the better-remembered figures of their childhood and younggirlhood; and their present character did not seem a broken promise. Nothing was really disappointed in it but the animal joy, the hopeful riotof their young blood, which must fade and die with the happiest fate. Sheperceived that what they had come to was not unjust to what they had been;and as our own fate always appears to us unaccomplished, a thing for thedistant future to fulfil, she began to ask herself what was to be thenatural sequence of such a temperament, such mental and moral traits, ashers. Had her life been so noble in anything but vague aspirations that shecould ever reasonably expect the destiny of grand usefulness which she hadalways unreasonably expected? The question came home to her with such pain, in the light of what her old playmates had become, that she suddenly ceasedto enjoy the misery of the storm out-of-doors, or the purring content ofthe fire on the hearth of the stove at her feet; the book she had takendown to read fell unopened into her lap, and she gave herself up to ahalf-hour of such piercing self-question as only a high-minded woman canendure when the flattering promises of youth have grown vague and few. 

There is no condition of life that is wholly acceptable, but none that isnot tolerable when once it establishes itself; and while Annie Kilburnhad never consented to be an old maid, she had become one without greatsuffering. At thirty-one she could not call herself anything else; sheoften called herself an old maid, with the mental reservation that she wasnot one. She was merely unmarried; she might marry any time. Now, when sheassured herself of this, as she had done many times before, she suddenlywondered if she should ever marry; she wondered if she had seemed to herfriends yesterday like a person who would never marry. Did one carry sucha thing in one's looks? Perhaps they, idealised her; they had not seen hersince she was twenty, and perhaps they still thought of her as a younggirl. It now seemed to her as if she had left her youth in Rome, as in Romeit had seemed to her that she should find it again in Hatboro'. A pang ofaimless, unlocalised homesickness passed through her; she realised that shewas alone in the world. She rose to escape the pang, and went to the windowof the parlour which looked toward the street, where she saw the figure ofa young man draped in a long indiarubber gossamer coat fluttering in thewind that pushed him along as he tacked on a southerly course; he bowedand twisted his head to escape the lash of the rain. She watched him tillhe turned into the lane leading to the house, and then, at a discreeterdistance, she watched him through the window at the other corner, makinghis way up to the front door in the teeth of the gale. He seemed to have abundle under his arm, and as he stepped into the shelter of the portico, and freed his arm to ring, she discovered that it was a bundle of books. Whether Mrs. Bolton did not hear the bell, or whether she heard it anddecided that it would be absurd to leave her work for it, when MissKilburn, who was so much nearer, could answer it, she did not come, even ata second ring, and Annie was forced to go to the door herself, or leave thepoor man dripping in the cold wind outside. 

She had made up her mind, at sight of the books, that he was a canvasserfor some subscription book, such as used to come in her father's time, butwhen she opened to him he took off his hat with a great deal of manner, andsaid "Miss Kilburn?" with so much insinuation of gentle disinterestedness, that it flashed upon her that it might be Mr. Peck. 

"Yes, " she said, with confusion, while the flash of conjecture faded away. 

"Mr. Brandreth, " said her visitor, whom she now saw to be much younger thanMr. Peck could be. He looked not much more than twenty-two or twenty-three;his damp hair waved and curled upon his temples and forehead, and his blueeyes lightened from a beardless and freshly shaven face. "I called thismorning because I felt sure of finding you at home. "

He smiled at his reference to the weather, and Annie smiled too as sheagain answered, "Yes?" She did not want his books, but she liked somethingthat was cheerful and enthusiastic in him; she added, "Won't you step intothe study?"

"Thanks, yes, " said the young man, flinging off his gossamer, and hangingit up to drip into the pan of the hat rack. He gathered up his books fromthe chair where he had laid them, and held them at his waist with bothhands, while he bowed her precedence beside the study door. 

"I don't know, " he began, "but I ought to apologise for coming on a daylike this, when you were not expecting to be interrupted. "

"Oh no; I'm not at all busy. But you must have had courage to brave a stormlike this. "

"No. The truth is, Miss Kilburn, I was very anxious to see you about amatter I have at heart--that I desire your help with. "

"He wants me, " Annie thought, "to give him the use of my name as asubscriber to his book"--there seemed really to be a half-dozen books inhis bundle--"and he's come to me first. "

"I had expected to come with Mrs. Munger--she's a great friend of mine;you haven't met her yet, but you'll like her; she's the leading spiritin South Hatboro'--and we were coming together this morning; but she wasunexpectedly called away yesterday, and so I ventured to call alone. "

"I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Brandreth, " Annie said. "Then Mrs. Mungerhas subscribed already, and I'm only second fiddle, after all, " shethought. 

"The truth is, " said Mr. Brandreth, "I'm the factotum, or teetotum, of theSouth Hatboro' ladies' book club, and I've been deputed to come and see ifyou wouldn't like to join it. "

"Oh!" said Annie, and with a thrill of dismay she asked herself how muchshe had let her manner betray that she had supposed he was a book agent. "Ishall be very glad indeed, Mr. Brandreth. "

"Mrs. Munger was sure you would, " said Mr. Brandreth joyously. "I'vebrought some of the books with me--the last, " he said; and Annie had timeto get into a new social attitude toward him during their discussion of thebooks. She chose one, and Mr. Brandreth took her subscription, and wroteher name in the club book. 

"One of the reasons, " he said, "why I would have preferred to come withMrs. Munger is that she is so heart and soul with mo in my little scheme. She could have put it before you in so much better light than I can. Butshe was called away so suddenly. "

"I hope for no serious cause, " said Annie. 

"Oh no! It's just to Cambridge. Her son is one of the Freshman Nine, andhe's been hit by a ball. "

"Oh!" said Annie. 

"Yes; it's a great pity for Mrs. Munger. But I come to you for advice aswell as co-operation, Miss Kilburn. You must have met a great many Englishpeople in Rome, and heard some of them talk about it. We're thinking, someof the young people here, about getting up some outdoor theatricals, likeLady Archibald Campbell's, don't you know. You know about them?" he added, at the blankness in her face. 

"I read accounts of them in the English papers. They must have beenvery--original. But do you think that in a community like Hatboro'--Arethere enough who could--enter into the spirit?"

"Oh yes, indeed!" cried Mr. Brandreth ardently. "You've no idea what aplace Hatboro' has got to be. You've not been about much yet, MissKilburn?"

"No, " said Annie; "I haven't really been off our own place since I came. I've seen nobody but two or three old friends, and we naturally talked moreabout old times than anything else. But I hear that there are greatchanges. "

"Yes, " said Mr. Brandreth. "The social growth has been even greater thanthe business growth. You've no idea! People have come in for the winteras well as the summer. South Hatboro', where we live--you must see SouthHatboro', Miss Kilburn!--is quite a famous health resort. A great manyBoston doctors send their patients to us now, instead of Colorado or theAdirondacks. In fact, that's what brought _us_ to Hatboro'. My mothercouldn't have lived, if she had tried to stay in Melrose. One lung allgone, and the other seriously affected. And people have found out whata charming place it is for the summer. It's cool; and it's so near, youknow; the gentlemen can run out every night--only an hour and a quarterfrom town, and expresses both ways. All very agreeable people, too; andcultivated. Mr. Fellows, the painter, makes a long summer; he bought an oldfarm-house, and built a studio; Miss Jennings, the flower-painter, has alittle box there, too; Mr. Chapley, the publisher, of New York, has built;the Misses Clevinger, and Mrs. Valence, are all near us. There's one familyfrom Chicago--quite nice--New England by birth, you know; and Mrs. Munger, of course; so that there's a very pleasant variety. "

"I certainly had no idea of it, " said Annie. 

"I knew you couldn't have, " said Mr. Brandreth, "or you wouldn't have feltany doubt about our having the material for the theatricals. You see, I want to interest all the nice people in it, and make it a whole-townaffair. I think it's a great pity for some of the old village families andthe summer folks, as they call us, not to mingle more than they do, andMrs. Munger thinks so too; and we've been talking you over, Miss Kilburn, and we've decided that you could do more than anybody else to help on ascheme that's meant to bring them together. "

"Because I'm neither summer folks nor old village families?" asked Annie. 

"Because you're both, " retorted Mr. Brandreth. 

"I don't see that, " said Annie; "but we'll suppose the case, for the sakeof argument. What do you expect me to do in theatricals, in-doors or out?I never took part in anything of the kind; I can't see an inch beyond theend of my nose without glasses; I never could learn the simplest thing byheart; I'm clumsy and awkward; I get confused. "

"Oh, my dear Miss Kilburn, spare yourself! We don't expect you to take partin the play. I don't admit that you're what you say at all; but we onlywant you to lend us your countenance. "

"Oh, is that all? And what do you expect to do with my countenance?" Anniesaid, with a laugh of misgiving. 

"Everything. We know how much influence your name has--one of the oldHatboro' names--in the community, and all that; and we do want to interestthe whole community in our scheme. We want to establish a Social Union forthe work-people, don't you know, and we think it would be much nicer if itseemed to originate with the old village people. "

Annie could not resist an impression in favour of the scheme. It gavedefinition to the vague intentions with which she had returned to Hatboro';it might afford her a chance to make reparation for the figure on thesoldiers' monument. 

"I'm not sure, " she began. "If I knew just what a Social Union is--"

"Well, at first, " Mr. Brandreth interposed, "it will only be areading-room, supplied with the magazines and papers, and well lighted andheated, where the work-people--those who have no families especially--couldspend their evenings. Afterward we should hope to have a kitchen, andsupply tea and coffee--and oysters, perhaps--at a nominal cost; andice-cream in the summer. "

"But what have your outdoor theatricals to do--But of course. You intendto give the proceeds--"

"Exactly. And we want the proceeds to be as large as possible. We proposeto give our time and money to getting the thing up in the best shape, andthen we want all the villagers to give their half-dollars and make it asuccess every way. "

"I see, " said Annie. 

"We want it to be successful, and we want it to be distinguished; wewant to make it unique. Mrs. Munger is going to give her grounds and thedecorations, and there will be a supper afterward, and a little dance. "

"Such things are a great deal of trouble, " said Annie, with a smile, fromthe vantage-ground of her larger experience. "What do you propose todo--what play?"

"Well, we've about decided upon some scenes from _Romeo and Juliet_. They would be very easy to set, outdoors, don't you know, and everybodyknows them, and they wouldn't be hard to do. The ballroom in the house ofthe Capulets could be made to open on a kind of garden terrace--Mrs. Mungerhas a lovely terrace in her grounds for lawn-tennis--and then we could havea minuet on the grass. You know Miss Mather introduces a minuet in thatscene, and makes a great deal of it. Or, I forgot. She's come up since youwent away. "

"Yes; I hadn't heard of her. Isn't a minuet at Verona in the time of theScaligeri rather--"

"Well, yes, it is, rather. But you've no idea how pretty it is. And then, you know, we could have the whole of the balcony scene, and other bitsthat we choose to work in--perhaps parts of other acts that would suit thescene. "

"Yes, it would be charming; I can see how very charming it could be made. "

"Then we may count upon you?" he asked. 

"Yes, yes, " she said; "but I don't really know what I'm to do. "

Mr. Brandreth had risen; but he sat down again, as if glad to afford herany light he could throw upon the subject. 

"How am I to 'influence people, ' as you say?" she continued. "I'm quite astranger in Hatboro'; I hardly know anybody. "

"But a great many people know _you_, Miss Kilburn. Your name isassociated with the history of the place, and you could do everything forus. You _won't_ refuse!" cried Mr. Brandreth winningly. "For instance, you know Mrs. Wilmington. "

"Oh yes; she's an old girl-friend of mine. "

"Then you know how enormously clever she is. She can do anything. We wanther to take an active part--the part of the Nurse. She's delightfullyfunny. But you know her peculiar temperament--how she hates initiative ofall kinds; and we want somebody to bring Mr. Wilmington round. If we couldget them committed to the scheme, and a man like Mr. Putney--he'd makea capital Mercutio--it would go like wildfire. We want to interest thechurches, too. The object is so worthy, and the theatricals will be soentirely unobjectionable in every respect. We have the Unitarians andUniversalists, of course. The Baptists and Methodists will be hard tomanage; but the Orthodox are of so many different shades; and I understandthe new minister, Mr. Peck, is very liberal. He was here in your house, Ibelieve. "

"Yes; but I never saw him, " said Annie. "He boarded with the farmer. I'm aUnitarian myself. "

"Of course. It would be a great point gained if we could interest him. Every care will be taken to have the affair unobjectionable. You see, thedesign is to let everybody come to the theatricals, and only those remainto the supper and dance whom we invite. That will keep out the sociallyobjectionable element--the shoe-shop hands and the straw-shop girls. "

"Oh, " said Annie. "But isn't the--the Social Union for just that class?"

"Yes, it's _expressly_ for them, and we intend to organise a system ofentertainments--lectures, concerts, readings--for the winter, and keep theminterested the whole year round in it. The object is to show them that thebest people in the community have their interests at heart, and wish to geton common ground with them. "

"Yes, " said Annie, "the object is certainly very good. "

Mr. Brandreth rose again, and put out his hand. "Then you will help us?"

"Oh, I don't know about that yet. "

"At least you won't hinder us?"

"Certainly not. "

"Then I consider you in a very hopeful condition, Miss Kilburn, and I feelthat I can safely leave you to Mrs. Munger. She is coming to see you assoon as she gets back. "

Annie found herself sadder when he was gone, and she threw herself upon theold feather-cushioned lounge to enjoy a reverie in keeping with the drearystorm outside. Was it for this that she had left Rome? She had felt, asevery American of conscience feels abroad, the drawings of a duty, obscureand indefinable, toward her country, the duty to come home and do somethingfor it, be something in it. This is the impulse of no common patriotism; itis perhaps a sense of the opportunity which America supremely affords forthe race to help itself, and for each member of it to help all the rest. 

But from the moment Annie arrived in Hatboro' the difficulty of beinghelpful to anything or any one had increased upon her with every new factthat she had learned about it and the people in it. To her they seemedterribly self-sufficing. They seemed occupied and prosperous, from herfront parlour window; she did not see anybody going by who appeared to bein need of her; and she shrank from a more thorough exploration of theplace. She found she had fancied necessity coming to her and taking awayher good works, as it were, in a basket; but till Mr. Brandreth appearedwith his scheme, nothing had applied for her help She had always hatedtheatricals; they bored her; and yet the Social Union was a good object, and if this scheme would bring her acquainted in Hatboro' it might bethe stepping-stone to something better, something really or more ideallyuseful. She wondered what South Hatboro' was like; she would get Mrs. Bolton's opinion, which, if severe, would be just. She would ask Mrs. Bolton about Mrs. Munger, too. She would tell Mrs. Bolton to tell Mr. Peckto call to dine. Would it be thought patronising to Mr. Peck?

The fire from the Franklin-stove diffused a drowsy comfort through theroom, the rain lashed the window-panes, and the wind shrilled in the gable. Annie fell off to sleep. When she woke up she heard Mrs. Bolton laying thetable for her one o'clock dinner, and she knew it was half-past twelve, because Mrs. Bolton always laid the table just half an hour beforehand. Shewent out to speak to Mrs. Bolton. 

There was no want of distinctness in Mrs. Bolton's opinion, but Annie feltthat there was a want of perspective and proportion in it, arising from thenarrowness of Mrs. Bolton's experience and her ignorance of the world; shewas farm-bred, and she had always lived upon the outskirts of Hatboro', even when it was a much smaller place than now. But Mrs. Bolton had hercriterions, and she believed in them firmly; in a time when agnosticismextends among cultivated people to every region of conjecture, the socialconvictions of Mrs. Bolton were untainted by misgiving. In the first place, she despised laziness, and as South Hatboro' was the summer home of openand avowed disoccupation, of an idleness so entire that it had to seekrefuge from itself in all manner of pastimes, she held its population ina contempt to which her meagre phrase did imperfect justice. From time totime she had to stop altogether, and vent it in "Wells!" of varying accentsand inflections, but all expressive of aversion, and in snorts and sniffsstill more intense in purport. 

Then she held that people who had nothing else to do ought at least to beexemplary in their lives, and she was merciless to the goings-on in SouthHatboro', which had penetrated on the breath of scandal to the eldervillage. When Annie came to find out what these were, she did not thinkthem dreadful; they were small flirtations and harmless intimacies betweenthe members of the summer community, which in the imagination of thevillage blackened into guilty intrigue. On the tongues of some, SouthHatboro' was another Gomorrah; Mrs. Bolton believed the worst, especiallyof the women. 

"I hear, " said Mrs. Bolton, "that them women come up here for _rest_. I don't know what they want to rest _from_; but if it's from doin'nothin' all winter long, I guess they go back to the city poot' near'stired's they come. "

Perhaps Annie felt that it was useless to try to enlighten her in regardto the fatigues from which the summer sojourner in the country escapesso eagerly; the cares of giving and going to lunches and dinners; thelabour of afternoon teas; the late hours and the heavy suppers of eveningreceptions; the drain of charity-doing and play-going; the slavery ofamateur art study, and parlour readings, and musicales; the writing ofinvitations and acceptances and refusals; the trying on of dresses; thecalls made and received. She let her talk on, and tried to figure, as wellas she could from her talk, the form and magnitude of the task laid uponher by Mr. Brandreth, of reconciling Old Hatboro' to South Hatboro', anduniting them in a common enterprise. 

"Mrs. Bolton, " she said, abruptly leaving the subject at last, "I've beenthinking whether I oughtn't to do something about Mr. Peck. I don't wanthim to feel that he was unwelcome to me in my house; I should like him tofeel that I approved of his having been here. "

As this was not a question, Mrs. Bolton, after the fashion of countrypeople, held her peace, and Annie went on--

"Does he never come to see you?"

"Well, he was here last night, " said Mrs. Bolton. 

"Last _night_!" cried Annie. "Why in the world didn't you let meknow?"

"I didn't know as you wanted to know, " began Mrs. Bolton, with a sullendefiance mixed with pleasure in Annie's reproach. "He was out there in mysettin'-room with his little girl. "

"But don't you see that if you didn't let me know he was here it would lookto him as if I didn't wish to meet him--as if I had told you that you werenot to introduce him?"

Probably Mrs. Bolton believed too that a man's mind was agile enough forthese conjectures; but she said she did not suppose he would take it inthat way; she added that he stayed longer than she expected, because thelittle girl seemed to like it so much; she always cried when she had to goaway. 

"Do you mean that she's attached to the place?" demanded Annie. 

"Well, yes, she is, " Mrs. Bolton admitted. "And the cat. "

Annie had a great desire to tell Mrs. Bolton that she had behaved verystupidly. But she knew Mrs. Bolton would not stand that, and she had tocontent herself with saying, severely, "The next time he comes, let me knowwithout fail, please. What is the child like?" she asked. 

"Well, I guess it must favour the mother, if anything. It don't seem totake after him any. "

"Why don't you have it here often, then, " asked Annie, "if it's so muchattached to the place?"

"Well I didn't know as you wanted to have it round, " replied Mrs. Boltonbluntly. 

Annie made a "Tchk!" of impatience with her obtuseness, and asked, "Whereis Mr. Peck staying?"

"Well, he's staying at Mis' Warner's till he can get settled. "

"Is it far from here?"

"It's down in the north part of the village--Over the Track. "

"Is Mr. Bolton at home?"

"Yes, he is, " said Mrs. Bolton, with the effect of not intending to denyit. 

"Then I want him to hitch up--now--at once--right away--and go and get thechild and bring her here to dinner with me. " Annie got so far with herseverity, feeling that it was needed to mask a proceeding so romantic, perhaps so silly. She added timidly, "Can he do it?"

"I d'know but what he can, " said Mrs. Bolton, dryly, and whatever herfeeling really was in regard to the matter, her manner gave no hint of it. Annie did not know whether Bolton was going on her errand or not, from Mrs. Bolton, but in ten or twelve minutes she saw him emerge from the avenueinto the street, in the carry-all, tightly curtained against the storm. Half an hour later he returned, and his wife set down in the library ashabbily dressed little girl, with her cheeks bright and her hair curlingfrom the weather, and staring at Annie, and rather disposed to cry. Shesaid hastily, "Bring in the cat, Mrs. Bolton; we're going to have the catto dinner with us. "

This inspiration seemed to decide the little girl against crying. The catwas equipped with a doily, and actually provided with dinner at a smalltable apart; the child did not look at it as Annie had expected she would, but remained with her eyes fastened on Annie herself: She did not stir fromthe spot where Mrs. Bolton had put her down, but she let Annie take herup and arrange her in a chair, with large books graduated to the desiredheight under her, and made no sign of satisfaction or disapproval. Once shelooked round, when Mrs. Bolton finally went out after bringing in the lastdish for dinner, and then fastened her eyes on Annie again, twisting herhead shyly round to follow her in every gesture and expression as Anniefitted on a napkin under her chin, cut up her meat, poured her milk, andbuttered her bread. She answered nothing to the chatter which Annie triedto make lively and entertaining, and made no sound but that of a broken andsuppressed breathing. Annie had forgotten to ask her name of Mrs. Bolton, and she asked it in vain of the child herself, with a great variety ofcircumlocution; she was so unused to children that she was ashamed toinvent any pet name for her; she called her, in what she felt to be a stiffand school-mistressly fashion, "Little Girl, " and talked on at her, growingmore and more nervous herself without perceiving that the child's conditionwas approaching a climax. She had taken off her glasses, from the notionthat they embarrassed her guest, and she did not see the pretty lipsbeginning to curl, nor the searching eyes clouding with tears; the storm ofsobs that suddenly burst upon her astounded her. 

"Mrs. Bolton! Mrs. Bolton!" she screamed, in hysterical helplessness. Mrs. Bolton rushed in, and with an instant perception of the situation, caughtthe child to her bony breast, and fled with it to her own room, where Annieheard its wails die gradually away amid murmurs of comfort and reassurancefrom Mrs. Bolton. 

She felt like a great criminal and a great fool; at the same time she wasvexed with the stupid child which she had meant so well by, and indignantwith Mrs. Bolton, whose flight with it had somehow implied a reproach ofher behaviour. When she could govern herself, she went out to Mrs. Bolton'sroom, where she found the little one quiet enough, and Mrs. Bolton tying onthe long apron in which she cleared up the dinner and washed the dishes. 

"I guess she'll get along now, " she said, without the critical tone whichAnnie was prepared to resent. "She was scared some, and she felt kind ofstrange, I presume. "

"Yes, and I behaved like a simpleton, dressing up the cat, I suppose, "answered Annie. "But I thought it would amuse her. "

"You can't tell how children will take a thing. I don't believe they likeanything that's out of the common--well, not a great deal. "

There was a leniency in Mrs. Bolton's manner which encouraged Annie to goon and accuse herself more and more, and then an unresponsive blanknessthat silenced her. She went back to her own rooms; and to get away from hershame, she began to write a letter. 

It was to a friend in Rome, and from the sense we all have that a letterwhich is to go such a great distance ought to be a long letter, and fromfinding that she had really a good deal to say, she let it grow so thatshe began apologising for its length half a dozen pages before the end. It took her nearly the whole afternoon, and she regained a little of herself-respect by ridiculing the people she had met. 

VI. 

Toward five o'clock Annie was interrupted by a knock at her door, whichought to have prepared her for something unusual, for it was Mrs. Bolton'shabit to come and go without knocking. But she called "Come in!" withoutrising from her letter, and Mrs. Bolton entered with a stranger. The littlegirl clung to his forefinger, pressing her head against his leg, andglancing shyly up at Annie. She sprang up, and, "This is Mr. Peck, MissKilburn, " said Mrs. Bolton. 

"How do you do?" said Mr. Peck, taking the hand she gave him. 

He was gaunt, without being tall, and his clothes hung loosely about him, as if he had fallen away in them since they were made. His face was almostthe face of the caricature American: deep, slightly curved vertical linesenclosed his mouth in their parenthesis; a thin, dust-coloured beard fellfrom his cheeks and chin; his upper lip was shaven. But instead of theslight frown of challenge and self-assertion which marks this face in thetype, his large blue eyes, set near together, gazed sadly from under asmooth forehead, extending itself well up toward the crown, where his dryhair dropped over it. 

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Peck, " said Annie; "I've wanted to tell youhow pleased I am that you found shelter in my old home when you first cameto Hatboro'. "

Mr. Peck's trousers were short and badly kneed, and his long coat hungformlessly from his shoulders; she involuntarily took a patronising tonetoward him which was not habitual with her. 

"Thank you, " he said, with the dry, serious voice which seemed the fitvocal expression of his presence; "I have been afraid that it seemed likean intrusion to you. "

"Oh, not the least, " retorted Annie. "You were very welcome. I hope you'recomfortably placed where you are now?"

"Quite so, " said the minister. 

"I'd heard so much of your little girl from Mrs. Bolton, and her attachmentto the house, that I ventured to send for her to-day. But I believe I gaveher rather a bad quarter of an hour, and that she liked the place betterunder Mrs. Bolton's _régime_. "

She expected some deprecatory expression of gratitude from him, which wouldrelieve her of the lingering shame she felt for having managed so badly, but he made none. 

"It was my fault. I'm not used to children, and I hadn't taken theprecaution to ask her name--"

"Her name is Idella, " said the minister. 

Annie thought it very ugly, but, with the intention of saying somethingkind, she said, "What a quaint name!"

"It was her mother's choice, " returned the minister. "Her own name wasElla, and my mother's name was Ida; she combined the two. "

"Oh!" said Annie. She abhorred those made-up names in which the New Englandcountry people sometimes indulge their fancy, and Idella struck her as aparticularly repulsive invention; but she felt that she must not visit thefault upon the little creature. "Don't you think you could give me anothertrial some time, Idella?" She stooped down and took the child's unoccupiedhand, which she let her keep, only twisting her face away to hide it in herfather's pantaloon leg. "Come now, won't you give me a forgiving littlekiss?" Idella looked round, and Annie made bold to gather her up. 

Idella broke into a laugh, and took Annie's cheeks between her hands. 

"Well, I declare!" said Mrs. Bolton. "You never can tell what that childwill do next. "

"I never can tell what I will do next myself, " said Annie. She liked thefeeling of the little, warm, soft body in her arms, against her breast, and it was flattering to have triumphed where she had seemed to fail sodesperately. They had all been standing, and she now said, "Won't you sitdown, Mr. Peck?" She added, by an impulse which she instantly thoughtill-advised, "There is something I would like to speak to you about. "

"Thank you, " said Mr. Peck, seating himself beyond the stove. "We must begetting home before a great while. It is nearly tea-time. "

"I won't detain you unduly, " said Annie. 

Mrs. Bolton left them at her hint of something special to say to theminister. Annie could not have had the face to speak of Mr. Brandreth'stheatricals in that grim presence; and as it was, she resolved to putforward their serious object. She began abruptly: "Mr. Peck, I've beenasked to interest myself for a Social Union which the ladies of SouthHatboro' are trying to establish for the operatives. I suppose you haven'theard anything of the scheme?"

"No, I hadn't, " said Mr. Peck. 

He was one of those people who sit very high, and he now seemed taller andmore impressive than when he stood. 

"It is certainly a-very good object, " Annie resumed; and she went on toexplain it at second-hand from Mr. Brandreth as well as she could. Thelittle girl was standing in her lap, and got between her and Mr. Peck, sothat she had to look first around one side of her and then another to seehow he was taking it. 

He nodded his head, and said gravely, "Yes, " and "Yes, " and "Yes, " at eachsignificant point of her statement. At the end he asked: "And are the meansforthcoming? Have they raised the money for renting and furnishing therooms?"

"Well, no, they haven't yet, or not quite, as I understand. "

"Have they tried to interest the working people themselves in it? If theyare to value its benefits, it ought to cost them something--self-denial, privation even. "

"Yes, I know, " Annie began. 

"I'm not satisfied, " the minister pursued, "that it is wise to providepeople with even harmless amusements that take them much away fromtheir homes. These things are invented by well-to-do people who have nooccupation, and think that others want pastimes as much as themselves. But what working people want is rest, and what they need are decent homeswhere they can take it. Besides, unless they help to support this union outof their own means, the better sort among them will feel wounded by itsexistence, as a sort of superfluous charity. "

"Yes, I see, " said Annie. She saw this side of the affair with surprise. The minister seemed to have thought more about such matters than she had, and she insensibly receded from her first hasty generalisation of him, and paused to reapproach him on another level. The little girl began toplay with her glasses, and accidentally knocked them from her nose. Theminister's face and figure became a blur, and in the purblindness to whichshe was reduced she had a moment of clouded volition in which she wastempted to renounce, and even oppose, the scheme for a Social Union, inspite of her promise to Mr. Brandreth. But she remembered that she wasa consistent and faithful person, and she said: "The ladies have a planfor raising the money, and they've applied to me to second it--to use myinfluence somehow among the villagers to get them interested; and theworking people can help too if they choose. But I'm quite a strangeramongst those I'm expected to influence, and I don't at all know how theywill take it. " The minister listened, neither prompting nor interrupting. "The ladies' plan is to have an entertainment at one of the cottages, andcharge an admission, and devote the proceeds to the union. " She paused. Mr. Peck still remained silent, but she knew he was attentive. She pushedon. "They intend to have a--a representation, in the open air, of one ofShakespeare's plays, or scenes from one--"

"Do you wish me, " interrupted the minister, "to promote the establishmentof this union? Is that why you speak to me of it?"

"Why, I don't know _why_ I speak to you of it, " she replied with alaugh of embarrassment, to which he was cold, apparently. "I certainlycouldn't ask you to take part in an affair that you didn't approve. "

"I don't know that I disapprove of it. Properly managed, it might be a goodthing. "

"Yes, of course. But I understand why you might not sympathise with thatpart of it, and that is why I told you of it, " said Annie. 

"What part?"

"The--the--theatricals. "

"Why not?" asked the minister. 

"I know--Mrs. Bolton told me you were very liberal, " Annie faltered on;"but I didn't expect you as a--But of course--"

"I read Shakespeare a great deal, " said Mr. Peck. "I have never been in thetheatre; but I should like to see one of his plays represented where itcould cause no one to offend. "

"Yes, " said Annie, "and this would be by amateurs, and there could be no_possible_ 'offence in it. ' I wished to know how the general ideawould strike you. Of course the ladies would be only too glad of youradvice and co-operation. Their plan is to sell tickets to every one for thetheatricals, and to a certain number of invited persons for a supper, and alittle dance afterward on the lawn. "

"I don't know if I understand exactly, " said the minister. 

Annie repeated her statement more definitely, and explained, from Mr. Brandreth, as before, that the invitations were to be given so as toeliminate the shop-hand element from the supper and dance. 

Mr. Peck listened quietly. "That would prevent my taking part in theaffair, " he said, as quietly as he had listened. 

"Of course--dancing, " Annie began. 

"It is not that. Many people who hold strictly to the old opinions nowallow their children to learn dancing. But I could not join at all withthose who were willing to lay the foundations of a Social Union in a socialdisunion--in the exclusion of its beneficiaries from the society of theirbenefactors. "

He was not sarcastic, but the grotesqueness of the situation as he hadsketched it was apparent. She remembered now that she had felt somethingincongruous in it when Mr. Brandreth exposed it, but not deeply. 

The minister continued gently: "The ladies who are trying to get up thisSocial Union proceed upon the assumption that working people can neithersee nor feel a slight; but it is a great mistake to do so. "

Annie had the obtuseness about those she fancied below her which is one ofthe consequences of being brought up in a superior station. She believedthat there was something to say on the other side, and she attempted to sayit. 

"I don't know that you could call it a slight exactly. People can ask thosethey prefer to a social entertainment. "

"Yes--if it is for their own pleasure. "

"But even in a public affair like this the work-people would feeluncomfortable and out of place, wouldn't they, if they stayed to the supperand the dance? They might be exposed to greater suffering among those whosemanners and breeding were different, and it might be very embarrassing allround. Isn't there that side to be regarded?"

"You beg the question, " said the minister, as unsparingly as if she werea man. "The point is whether a Social Union beginning in social exclusioncould ever do any good. What part do these ladies expect to take inmaintaining it? Do they intend to spend their evenings there, to associateon equal terms with the shoe-shop and straw-shop hands?"

"I don't suppose they do, but I don't know, " said Annie dryly; and shereplied by helplessly quoting Mr. Brandreth: "They intend to organise asystem of lectures, concerts, and readings. They wish to get on commonground with them. "

"They can never get on common ground with them in that way, " said theminister. "No doubt they think they want to do them good; but good is fromthe heart, and there is no heart in what they propose. The working peoplewould know that at once. "

"Then you mean to say, " Annie asked, half alarmed and half amused, "thatthere can be no friendly intercourse with the poor and the well-to-dounless it is based upon social equality?"

"I will answer your question by asking another. Suppose you were one of thepoor, and the well-to-do offered to be friendly with you on such terms asyou have mentioned, how should you feel toward them?"

"If you make it a personal question--"

"It makes itself a personal question, " said the minister dispassionately. 

"Well, then, I trust I should have the good sense to see that socialequality between people who were better dressed, better taught, and betterbred than myself was impossible, and that for me to force myself into theircompany was not only bad taste, but it was foolish, I have often heard myfather say that the great superiority of the American practice of democracyover the French ideal was that it didn't involve any assumption of socialequality. He said that equality before the law and in politics was sacred, but that the principle could never govern society, and that Americans allinstinctively recognised it. And I believe that to try to mix the differentclasses would be un-American. "

Mr. Peck smiled, and this was the first break in his seriousness. "We don'tknow what is or will be American yet. But we will suppose you are quiteright. The question is, how would you feel toward the people whose companyyou wouldn't force yourself into?"

"Why, of course, " Annie was surprised into saying, "I suppose I shouldn'tfeel very kindly toward them. "

"Even if you knew that they felt kindly toward you?"

"I'm afraid that would only make the matter worse, " she said, with anuneasy laugh. 

The minister was silent on his side of the stove. 

"But do I understand you to say, " she demanded, "that there can be no loveat all, no kindness, between the rich and the poor? God tells us all tolove one another. "

"Surely, " said the minister. "Would you suffer such a slight as yourfriends propose, to be offered to any one you loved?"

She did not answer, and he continued, thoughtfully: "I suppose that ifa poor person could do a rich person a kindness which cost him somesacrifice, he might love him. In that case there could be love betweenthe rich and the poor. "

"And there could be no love if a rich man did the same?"

"Oh yes, " the minister said--"upon the same ground. Only, the rich manwould have to make a sacrifice first that he would really feel. "

"Then you mean to say that people can't do any good at all with theirmoney?" Annie asked. 

"Money is a palliative, but it can't cure. It can sometimes create a bondof gratitude perhaps, but it can't create sympathy between rich and poor. "

"But _why_ can't it?"

"Because sympathy--common feeling--the sense of fraternity--can spring onlyfrom like experiences, like hopes, like fears. And money cannot buy these. "

He rose, and looked a moment about him, as if trying to recall something. Then, with a stiff obeisance, he said, "Good evening, " and went out, while she remained daunted and bewildered, with the child in her arms, asunconscious of having kept it as he of having left it with her. 

Mrs. Bolton must have reminded him of his oversight, for after being goneso long as it would have taken him to walk to her parlour and back, hereturned, and said simply, "I forgot Idella. "

He put out his hands to take her, but she turned perversely from him, andhid her face in Annie's neck, pushing his hands away with a backward reachof her little arm. 

"Come, Idella!" he said. Idella only snuggled the closer. 

Mrs. Bolton came in with the little girl's wraps; they were very commonand poor, and the thought of getting her something prettier went throughAnnie's mind. 

At sight of Mrs. Bolton the child turned from Annie to her older friend. 

"I'm afraid you have a woman-child for your daughter, Mr. Peck, " saidAnnie, remotely hurt at the little one's fickleness. 

Neither Mr. Peck nor Mrs. Bolton smiled, and with some vague intentionof showing him that she could meet the poor on common ground by sharingtheir labours, she knelt down and helped Mrs. Bolton tie on and button onIdella's things. 

VII. 

Next morning the day broke clear after the long storm, and Annie woke inrevolt against the sort of subjection in which she had parted from Mr. Peck. She felt the need of showing Mrs. Bolton that, although she had beencivil to him, she had no sympathy with his ideas; but she could not thinkof any way to formulate her opposition, and all she could say in offencewas, "Does Mr. Peck usually forget his child when he starts home?"

"I don't know as he does, " answered Mrs. Bolton simply. "He's rather of anabsent-minded man, and I suppose he's like other men when he gets talking. "

"The child's clothes were disgracefully shabby!" said Annie, vexed that herattack could come to no more than this. 

"I presume, " said Mrs. Bolton, "that if he kept more of his money forhimself, he could dress her better. "

"Oh, that's the way with these philanthropists, " said Annie, thinking ofHollingsworth, in _The Blithedale Romance_, the only philanthropistwhom she had really ever known, "They are always ready to sacrifice thehappiness and comfort of any one to the general good. "

Mrs. Bolton stood a moment, and then went out without replying; but shelooked as offended as Annie could have wished. About ten o'clock the bellrang, and she came gloomily into the study, and announced that Mrs. Mungerwas in the parlour. 

Annie had already heard an authoritative rustling of skirts, and she wasinstinctively prepared for the large, vigorous woman who turned upon herfrom the picture she had been looking at on the wall, and came toward herwith the confident air of one sure they must be friends. Mrs. Munger wasdressed in a dark, firm woollen stuff, which communicated its colour, if not its material, to the matter-of-fact bonnet which she wore on herplainly dressed hair. In one of her hands, which were cased in drivinggloves of somewhat insistent evidence, she carried a robust black silksun-umbrella, and the effect of her dress otherwise might be summarised inthe statement that where other women would have worn lace, she seemed towear leather. She had not only leather gloves, and a broad leather belt ather waist, but a leather collar; her watch was secured by a leather cord, passing round her neck, and the stubby tassel of her umbrella stick wasleather: she might be said to be in harness. She had a large, handsomeface, no longer fresh, but with an effect of exemplary cleanness, and apair of large grey eyes that suggested the notion of being newly washed, and that now looked at Annie with the assumption of fully understandingher. 

"Ah, Miss Kilburn!" she said, without any of the wonted preliminaries ofintroduction and greeting. "I should have come long ago to see you, butI've been dispersed over the four quarters of the globe ever since youcame, my dear. I got home last night on the nine o'clock train, in the lastagonies of that howling tempest. Did you ever know anything like it? I seeyour trees have escaped. I wonder they weren't torn to shreds. "

Annie took her on her own ground of ignoring their past non-acquaintance. "Yes, it was awful. And your son--how did you leave him? Mr. Brandreth--"

"Oh yes, poor little man! I found him waiting for me at home last night, and he told me he had been here. He was blowing about in the storm all day. Such a spirit! There was nothing serious the matter; the bridge of the nosewas all right; merely the cartilage pushed aside by the ball. "

She had passed so lightly from Mr. Brandreth's heroic spirit to her son'snose that Annie, woman as she was, and born to these bold bounds oversequence, was not sure where they had arrived, till Mrs. Munger added:"Jim's used to these things. I'm thankful it wasn't a finger, or an eye. What is _that_?" She jumped from her chair, and swooped upon theSpanish-Roman water-colour Annie had stood against some books on the table, pending its final disposition. 

"It's only a Guerra, " said Annie. "My things are all scattered about still;I have scarcely tried to get into shape yet. "

Mrs. Munger would not let her interpose any idea of there being a pastbetween them. She merely said: "You knew the Herricks at Rome, of course. I'm in hopes I shall get them here when they come back. I want you to helpme colonise Hatboro' with the right sort of people: it's so easy to get thewrong sort! But, so far, I think we've succeeded beyond our wildest dreams. It's easy enough to get nice people together at the seaside; but inland!No; it's only a very few nice people who will come into the country for thesummer; and we propose to make Hatboro' a winter colony too; that gives usagreeable invalids, you know; it gave us the Brandreths. He told you of ourprojected theatricals, I suppose?"

"Yes, " said Annie non-committally, "he did. "

"I know just how you feel about it, my dear, " said Mrs. Munger. "'Beenthere myself, ' as Jim says. But it grows upon you. I'm glad you didn'trefuse outright;" and Mrs. Munger looked at her with eyes of largeexpectance. 

"No, I didn't, " said Annie, obliged by this expectance to say something. "But to tell you the truth, Mrs. Munger, I don't see how I'm to be of anyuse to you or to Mr. Brandreth. "

"Oh, take a cab and go about, like Boots and Brewer, you know, for theVeneerings. " She said this as if she knew about the humour rather than feltit. "We are placing all our hopes of bringing round the Old Hatborians inyou. "

"I'm afraid you're mistaken about my influence, " said Annie. "Mr. Brandrethspoke of it, and I had an opportunity of trying it last night, and seeingjust what it amounted to. "

"Yes?" Mrs. Munger prompted, with an increase of expectance in her largeclear eyes, and of impartiality in her whole face. 

"Mr. Peck was here, " said Annie reluctantly, "and I tried it on him. "

"Yes?" repeated Mrs. Munger, as immutably as if she were sitting for herphotograph and keeping the expression. 

Annie broke from her reluctance with a sort of violence which carriedher further than she would have gone otherwise. She ridiculed Mr. Peck'sappearance and manner, and laughed at his ideas to Mrs. Munger. She had nota good conscience in it, but the perverse impulse persisted in her. Thereseemed no other way in which she could assert herself against him. 

Mrs. Munger listened judicially, but she seemed to take in only what Mr. Peck had thought of the dance and supper; at the end she said, rathervacantly, "What nonsense!"

"Yes; but I'm afraid he thinks it's wisdom, and for all practical purposesit amounts to that. You see what my 'influence' has done at the outset, Mrs. Munger. He'll never give way on such a point. "

"Oh, very well, then, " said Mrs. Munger, with the utmost lightness andindifference, "we'll drop the idea of the invited supper and dance. "

"Do you think that would be well?" asked Annie. 

"Yes; why not? It's only an idea. I don't think you've made at all a badbeginning. It was very well to try the idea on some one who would be frankabout it, and wouldn't go away and talk against it, " said Mrs. Munger, rising. "I want you to come with me, my dear. "

"To see Mr. Peck? Excuse me. I don't think I could, " said Annie. 

"No; to see some of his parishioners, " said Mrs. Munger. "His deacons, tobegin with, or his deacons' wives. "

This seemed so much less than calling on Mr. Peck that Annie looked out atMrs. Munger's basket-phaeton at her gate, and knew that she would go withvery little more urgence. 

"After all, you know, you're not one of his congregation; he may yield tothem, " said Mrs. Munger. "We must _have_ him--if only because he'shard to get. It'll give us an idea of what we've got to contend with. "

It had a very practical sound; it was really like meeting the difficultieson their own ground, and it overcame the question of taste which wasrising in Annie's mind. She demurred a little more upon the theory of heruselessness; but Mrs. Munger insisted, and carried her off down the villagestreet. 

The air sparkled full of sun, and a breeze from the south-west frolickedwith the twinkling leaves of the overarching elms, and made their shadowsdance on the crisp roadway, packed hard by the rain, and faced with cleansand, which crackled pleasantly under Mrs. Munger's phaeton wheels. Shetalked incessantly. "I think we'll go first to Mrs. Gerrish's, and then toMrs. Wilmington's. You know them?"

"Oh yes; they were old girl friends. "

"Then you know why I go to Mrs. Gerrish's first. She'll care a great deal, and Mrs. Wilmington won't care at all. She's a delicious creature, Mrs. Wilmington--don't you think? That large, indolent nature; Mr. Brandrethsays she makes him think of 'the land in which it seemed alwaysafternoon. '"

Annie remembered Lyra Goodman as a long, lazy, red-haired girl who laughedeasily; and she could not readily realise her in the character of aTitian-esque beauty with a gift for humorous dramatics, which she hadfilled out into during the years of her absence from Hatboro'; but she said"Oh yes, " in the necessity of polite acquiescence, and Mrs. Munger went ontalking--

"She's the only one of the Old Hatboro' people, so far as I know them, whohas any breadth of view. Whoa!" She pulled up suddenly beside a stout, short lady in a fashionable walking dress, who was pushing an elegantperambulator with one hand, and shielding her complexion with a crimsonsun-umbrella in the other. 

"Mrs. Gerrish!" Mrs. Munger called; and Mrs. Gerrish, who had alreadylooked around at the approaching phaeton, and then looked away, so as notto have seemed to look, stopped abruptly, and after some exploration of thevicinity, discovered where the voice came from. 

"Oh, Mrs. Munger!" she called back, bridling with pleasure at being greetedin that way by the chief lady of South Hatboro', and struggling to keep upa dignified indifference at the same time. "Why, Annie!" she added. 

"Good morning, Emmeline, " said Annie; she annexed some irrelevancies aboutthe weather, which Mrs. Munger swept away with business-like robustness. 

"We were driving down to your house to find you. I want to see theprincipal ladies of your church, and talk with them about our Social Union. You've heard about it?"

"Well, nothing very particular, " said Mrs. Gerrish; she had probably heardnothing at all. After a moment she asked, "Have you seen Mrs. Wilmingtonyet?"

"No, I haven't, " cried Mrs. Munger. "The fact is, I wanted to talk it overwith you and Mr. Gerrish first. "

"Oh!" said Mrs. Gerrish, brightening. "Well, I was just going right there. I guess he's in. "

"Well, we shall meet there, then. Sorry I can't offer you a _seat_. But there's nothing but the rumble, and that wouldn't hold you _all_. "

Mrs. Munger called this back after starting her pony. Mrs. Gerrish did notunderstand, and screamed, "_What_?"

Mrs. Munger repeated her joke at the top of her voice. 

"Oh, I can walk!" Mrs. Gerrish yelled at the top of hers. Both the ladieslaughed at their repartee. 

"She's as jealous of Mrs. Wilmington as a cat, " Mrs. Munger confided toAnnie as they drove away; "and she's just as pleased as Punch that I'vespoken to her first. Mrs. Wilmington won't mind. She's so delightfullyindifferent, it really renders her almost superior; you might forget thatshe was a village person. But this has been an immense stroke. I don'tknow, " she mused, "whether I'd better let her get there first and prepareher husband, or do it myself. No; I'll let _her_. I'll stop here atGates's. "

She stopped at the pavement in front of a provision store, and a pale, stout man, in the long over-shirt of his business, came out to receive herorders. He stood, passing his hand through the top of a barrel of beans, and listened to Mrs. Munger with a humorous, patient smile. 

"Mr. Gates, I want you to send me up a leg of lamb for dinner--a largeone. "

"Last year's, then, " suggested Gates. 

"No; _this_ year's, " insisted Mrs. Munger; and Gates gave way with theair of pacifying a wilful child, which would get, after all, only what hechose to allow it. 

"All right, ma'am; a large leg of this year's lamb--grown to order. Anypeas, spinnage, cucumbers, sparrowgrass?"

"Southern, I suppose?" said Mrs. Munger. 

"Well, not if you want to call 'em native, " said Gates. 

"Yes, I'll take two bunches of asparagus, and some peas. "

"Any strawberries?--natives?" suggested Gates. 

"Nonsense!"

"Same thing; natives of Norfolk. "

"You had better be honest with _me_, Mr. Gates, " said Mrs. Munger. "Yes, I'll take a couple of boxes. "

"All right! Want 'em nice, and the biggest ones at the bottom of the box?"

"Yes, I do. "

"That's what I thought. Some customers wants the big ones on top; but Itell 'em it's all foolishness; just vanity. " Gates laughed a dry, hackinglittle laugh at his drollery, and kept his eyes on Annie. She smiled atlast, with permissive recognition, and Gates came forward. "Used to knowyour father pretty well; but I can't keep up with the young folks anymore. " He was really not many years older than Annie; he rubbed his righthand on the inside of his long shirt, and gave it her to shake. "Well, youhaven't been about much for the last nine or ten years, that's a fact. "

"Eleven, " said Annie, trying to be gay with the hand-shaking, and wonderingif this were meeting the lower classes on common ground, and what Mr. Peckwould think of it. 

"That so?" queried Gates. "Well, I declare! No wonder you've grown!" Hehacked out another laugh, and stood on the curb-stone looking at Annie amoment. Then he asked, "Anything else, Mrs. Munger?"

"No; that's all. Tell me, Mr. Gates, how _do_ Mr. Peck and Mr. Gerrishget on?" asked Mrs. Munger in a lower tone. 

"Well, " said Gates, "he's workin' round--the deacon's workin' roundgradually, I guess. I guess if Mr. Peck was to put in a little morebrimstone, the deacon'd be all right. He's a great hand for brimstone, you know, the deacon is. "

Mrs. Munger laughed again, and then she said, with a proselyting sigh, "It's a pity you couldn't all find your way into the Church. "

"Well, may be it _would_ be a good thing, " said Gates, as Mrs. Mungergathered up her reins and chirped to her pony. 

"He isn't a member of Mr. Peck's church, " she explained to Annie; "buthe's one of the society, and his wife's very devout Orthodox. He's a greatcharacter, we think, and he'll treat you very well, if you keep on theright side of him. They say he cheats awfully in the weight, though. "

VIII. 

Mrs. Munger drove across the street, and drew up before a large, handsomelyugly brick dry-goods store, whose showy windows had caught Annie's eye theday she arrived in Hatboro'. 

"I see Mrs. Gerrish has got here first, " Mrs. Munger said, indicating theperambulator at the door, and she dismounted and fastened her pony with aweight, which she took from the front of the phaeton. On either door jambof the store was a curved plate of polished metal, with the name GERRISHcut into it in black letters; the sills of the wide windows were of metal, and bore the same legend. At the threshold a very prim, ceremonious littleman, spare and straight, met Mrs. Munger with a ceremonious bow, and asolemn "How do you do, ma'am I how do you do? I hope I see you well, " andhe put a small dry hand into the ample clasp of Mrs. Munger's gauntlet. 

"Very well indeed, Mr. Gerrish. Isn't it a lovely morning? You know MissKilburn, Mr. Gerrish. "

He took Annie's hand into his right and covered it with his left, liftinghis eyes to look her in the, face with an old-merchant-like cordiality. 

"Why, yes, indeed! Delighted to see her. Her father was one of my bestfriends. I may say that I owe everything that I am to Squire Kilburn; headvised me to stick to commerce when I once thought of studying law. Gladto welcome you back to Hatboro', Miss Kilburn. You see changes on thesurface, no doubt, but you'll find the genuine old feeling here. Walk rightback, ladies, " he continued, releasing Annie's hand to waft them beforehim toward the rear of the store. "You'll find Mrs. Gerrish in my roomthere--my Growlery, as I call it. " He seemed to think he had invented thename. "And Mrs. Gerrish tells me that you've really come back, " he said, leaning decorously toward Annie as they walked, "with the intention oftaking up your residence permanently among us. You will find very fewplaces like Hatboro'. "

As he spoke, walking with his hands clasped behind him, he glanced toright and left at the shop-girls on foot behind the counter, who droppedtheir eyes under their different bangs as they caught his glance, andbridled nervously. He denied them the use of chewing-gum; he permitted noconversation, as he called it, among them; and he addressed no jokes oridle speeches to them himself. A system of grooves overhead brought to hiscounting-room the cash from the clerks in wooden balls, and he returned thechange, and kept the accounts, with a pitiless eye for errors. The womenwere afraid of him, and hated him with bitterness, which exploded at crisesin excesses of hysterical impudence. 

His store was an example of variety, punctuality, and quality. Upon thetheory, for which he deserved the credit, of giving to a country placethe advantages of one of the great city establishments, he was graduallygathering, in their fashion, the small commerce into his hands. He hadalready opened his bazaar through into the adjoining store, which he hadbought out, and he kept every sort of thing desired or needed in a countrytown, with a tempting stock of articles before unknown to the shopkeepersof Hatboro'. Everything was of the very quality represented; the priceswere low, but inflexible, and cash payments, except in the case of somerich customers of unimpeachable credit, were invariably exacted; at thesame time every reasonable facility for the exchange or return of goods wasafforded. Nothing could exceed the justice and fidelity of his dealing withthe public. He had even some effects of generosity in his dealing with hisdependants; he furnished them free seats in the churches of their differentpersuasions, and he closed every night at six o'clock, except Saturday, when the shop hands were paid off, and made their purchases for the comingweek. 

He stepped lightly before Annie and Mrs. Munger, and pushed open theground-glass door of his office for them. It was like a bank parlour, except for Mrs. Gerrish sitting in her husband's leather-cushioned swivelchair, with her last-born in her lap; she greeted the others noisily, without trying to rise. 

"You see we are quite at home here, " said Mr. Gerrish. 

"Yes, and very snug you are, too, " said Mrs. Munger, taking one half of theleather lounge, and leaving the other half to Annie. "I don't wonder Mrs. Gerrish likes to visit you here. "

Mr. Gerrish laughed, and said to his wife, who moved provisionally in herchair, seeing he had none, "Sit still, my dear; I prefer my usual perch. "He took a high stool beside a desk, and gathered a ruler in his hand. 

"Well, I may as well begin at the beginning, " said Mrs. Munger, "and I'lltry to be short, for I know that these are business hours. "

"Take all the time you want, Mrs. Munger, " said Mr. Gerrish affably. "It'smy idea that a good business man's business can go on without him, whennecessary. "

"Of course!" Mrs. Munger sighed. "If everybody had your _system_, Mr. Gerrish!" She went on and succinctly expounded the scheme of the SocialUnion. "I suppose I can't deny that the idea occurred to _me_, " sheconcluded, "but we can't hope to develop it without the co-operation of theladies of Old Hatboro', and I've come, first of all, to Mrs. Gerrish. "

Mr. Gerrish bowed his acknowledgments of the honour done his wife, with agravity which she misinterpreted. 

"I think, " she began, with her censorious manner and accent, "that thesepeople have too much done for them _now_. They're perfectly spoiled. Don't you, Annie?"

Mr. Gerrish did not give Annie time to answer. "I differ with you, mydear, " he cut in. "It is my opinion--Or I don't know but you wish toconfine this matter entirely to the ladies?" he suggested to Mrs. Munger. 

"Oh, I'm only too proud and glad that you feel interested in the matter!"cried Mrs. Munger. "Without the gentlemen's practical views, we ladies aresuch feeble folk--mere conies in the rocks. "

"I am as much opposed as Mrs. Gerrish--or any one--to acceding to unjustdemands on the part of my clerks or other employees, " Mr. Gerrish began. 

"Yes, that's what I mean, " said his wife, and broke down with a giggle. 

He went on, without regarding her: "I have always made it a rule, as far asbusiness went, to keep my own affairs entirely in my own hands. I fix thehours, and I fix the wages, and I fix all the other conditions, and I sayplainly, 'If you don't like them, 'don't come, ' or 'don't stay, ' and Inever have any difficulty. "

"I'm sure, " said Mrs. Munger, "that if all the employers in the countrywould take such a stand, there would soon be an end of labour troubles. Ithink we're too concessive. "

"And I do too, Mrs. Munger!" cried Mrs. Gerrish, glad of the occasion to becensorious and of the finer lady's opinion at the same time. "That's what Imeant. Don't you, Annie?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand exactly, " Annie replied. 

Mr. Gerrish kept his eye on Mrs. Munger's face, now arranged for indefinitephotography, as he went on. "That is exactly what I say to them. That iswhat I said to Mr. Marvin one year ago, when he had that trouble in hisshoe shop. I said, 'You're too concessive. ' I said, 'Mr. Marvin, if yougive those fellows an inch, they'll take an ell. Mr. Marvin, ' said I, 'you've got to begin by being your own master, if you want to be master ofanybody else. You've got to put your foot down, as Mr. Lincoln said; and as_I_ say, you've got to _keep_ it down. '"

Mrs. Gerrish looked at the other ladies for admiration, and Mrs. Mungersaid, rapidly, without disarranging her face--

"Oh yes. And how much _misery_ could be saved in such cases by alittle firmness at the outset!"

"Mr. Marvin differed with me, " said Mr. Gerrish sorrowfully. "He agreedwith me on the main point, but he said that too many of his hands hadbeen in his regiment, and he couldn't lock them out. He submitted toarbitration. And what is arbitration?" asked Mr. Gerrish, levelling hisruler at Mrs. Munger. "It is postponing the evil day. "

"Exactly, " said Mrs. Munger, without winking. 

"Mr. Marvin, " Mr. Gerrish proceeded, "may be running very smoothly now, and sailing before the wind all--all--nicely; but I tell _you_ hishouse is built upon the _sand_, " He put his ruler by on the desk verysoftly, and resumed with impressive quiet: "I never had any trouble butonce. I had a porter in this store who wanted his pay raised. I simplysaid that I made it a rule to propose all advances of salary myself, and Ishould submit to no dictation from any one. He told me to go to--a placethat I will not repeat, and I told him to walk out of my store. He wasunder the influence of liquor at the time, I suppose. I understand that heis drinking very hard. He does nothing to support his family whatever, andfrom all that I can gather, he bids fair to fill a drunkard's grave insideof six months. "

Mrs. Munger seized her opportunity. "Yes; and it is just such cases as thisthat the Social Union is designed to meet. If this man had some such placeto spend his evenings--and bring his family if he chose--where he could geta cup of good coffee for the same price as a glass of rum--Don't you see?"

She looked round at the different faces, and Mr. Gerrish slightly frowned, as if the vision of the Social Union interposing between his late porterand a drunkard's grave, with a cup of good coffee, were not to his tastealtogether; but he said: "Precisely so! And I was about to make the remarkthat while I am very strict--and obliged to be--with those under me inbusiness, _no_ one is more disposed to promote such objects as this ofyours. "

"I was _sure_ you would approve of it, " said Mrs. Munger. "That iswhy I came to you--to you and Mrs. Gerrish--first, " said Mrs. Munger. "Iwas sure you would see it in the right light. " She looked round at Anniefor corroboration, and Annie was in the social necessity of making aconfirmatory murmur. 

Mr. Gerrish ignored them both in the more interesting work of celebratinghimself. "I may say that there is not an institution in this town which Ihave not contributed my humble efforts to--to--establish, from the drinkingfountain in front of this store, to the soldiers' monument on the villagegreen. "

Annie turned red; Mrs. Munger said shamelessly, "That beautiful monument!"and looked at Annie with eyes full of gratitude to Mr. Gerrish. 

"The schools, the sidewalks, the water-works, the free library, theintroduction of electricity, the projected system of drainage, and_all_ the various religious enterprises at various times, I amproud--I am humbly proud--that I have been allowed to be the means ofdoing--sustaining--"

He lost himself in the labyrinths of his sentence, and Mrs. Munger came tohis rescue: "I fancy Hatboro' wouldn't be Hatboro' without _you_, Mr. Gerrish! And you _don't_ think that Mr. Peck's objection will beseriously felt by other leading citizens?"

"_What_ is Mr. Peck's objection?" demanded Mr. Gerrish, perceptiblybristling up at the name of his pastor. 

"Why, he talked it over with Miss Kilburn last night, and he objectedto an entertainment which wouldn't be open to all--to the shop hands andeverybody. " Mrs. Munger explained the point fully. She repeated some thingsthat Annie had said in ridicule of Mr. Peck's position regarding it. "Ifyou _do_ think that part would be bad or impolitic, " Mrs. Mungerconcluded, "we could drop the invited supper and the dance, and simply havethe theatricals. "

She bent upon Mr. Gerrish a face of candid deference that filled him withself-importance almost to bursting. 

"No!" he said, shaking his head, and "No!" closing his lips abruptly, andopening them again to emit a final "No!" with an explosive force whichalone seemed to save him. "Not at all, Mrs. Munger; not on any account! Iam surprised at Mr. Peck, or rather I am _not_ surprised. He is not apractical man--not a man of the world; and I should have much preferred tohear that he objected to the dancing and the play; I could have understoodthat; I could have gone with him in that to a certain extent, though I cansee no harm in such things when properly conducted. I have a great respectfor Mr. Peck; I was largely instrumental in getting him here; but he isaltogether wrong in this matter. We are not obliged to go out into thehighways and the hedges until the bidden guests have--er--declined. "

"Exactly, " said Mrs. Munger. "I never thought of that. "

Mrs. Gerrish shifted her baby to another knee, and followed her husbandwith her eyes, as he dismounted from his stool and began to pace the room. 

"I came into this town a poor boy, without a penny in my pocket, and Ihave made my own way, every inch of it, unaided and alone. I am a thoroughbeliever in giving every one an equal chance to rise and to--get along; Iwould not throw an obstacle in anybody's way; but I do not believe--I do_not_ believe--in pampering those who have not risen, or have made noeffort to rise. "

"It's their wastefulness, in nine cases out of ten, that keeps them down, "said Mrs. Gerrish. 

"I don't care _what_ it is, I don't _ask_ what it is, that keepsthem down. I don't expect to invite my clerks or Mrs. Gerrish's servantsinto my parlour. I will meet them at the polls, or the communion table, or on any proper occasion; but a man's home is _sacred_. I will notallow my wife or my children to associate with those whose--whose--whoseidleness, or vice, or whatever, has kept them down in a countrywhere--where everybody stands on an equality; and what I will not domyself, I will not ask others to do. I make it a rule to do unto others asI would have them do unto me. It is all nonsense to attempt to introducethose one-ideaed notions into--put them in practice. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Munger, with deep conviction, "that is my own feeling, Mr. Gerrish, and I'm glad to have it corroborated by your experience. Then you_wouldn't_ drop the little invited dance and supper?"

"I will tell you how I feel about it, Mrs. Munger, " said Mr. Gerrish, pausing in his walk, and putting on a fine, patronising, gentleman-of-the-old-school smile. "You may put me down for any number oftickets--five, ten, fifteen--and you may command me in anything I can do tofurther the objects of your enterprise, if you will _keep_ the invitedsupper and dance. But I should not be prepared to do anything if they aredropped. "

"What a comfort it is to meet a person who knows his own mind!" exclaimedMrs. Munger. 

"Got company, Billy?" asked a voice at the door; and it added, "Glad to see_you_ here, Mrs. Gerrish. "

"Ah, Mr. Putney! Come in. Hope I see you well, sir!" cried Mr. Gerrish. "Come in!" he repeated, with jovial frankness. "Nobody but friends here. "

"I don't know about that, " said Mr. Putney, with whimsical perversity, holding the door ajar. "I see that arch-conspirator from South Hatboro', "he said, looking at Mrs. Munger. 

He showed himself, as he stood holding the door ajar, a lank little figure, dressed with reckless slovenliness in a suit of old-fashioned black; aloose neck-cloth fell stringing down his shirt front, which his unbuttonedwaistcoat exposed, with its stains from the tobacco upon which his thinlittle jaws worked mechanically, as he stared into the room with flamy blueeyes; his silk hat was pushed back from a high, clear forehead; he hadyesterday's stubble on his beardless cheeks; a heavy moustache and imperialgave dash to a cast of countenance that might otherwise have seemed slightand effeminate. 

"Yes; but I'm in charge of Miss Kilburn, and you needn't be afraid of me. Come in. We wish to consult you, " cried Mrs. Munger. Mrs. Gerrish cackledsome applausive incoherencies. 

Putney advanced into the room, and dropped his burlesque air as heapproached Annie. 

"Miss Kilburn, I must apologise for not having called with Mrs. Putney topay my respects. I have been away; when I got back I found she had stolena march on me. But I'm going to make Ellen bring me at once. I don't thinkI've been in your house since the old Judge's time. Well, he was an ableman, and a good man; I was awfully fond of the old Judge, in a boy's way. "

"Thank you, " said Annie, touched by something gentle and honest in hiswords. 

"He was a Christian gentleman, " said Mr. Gerrish. With authority. 

Putney said, without noticing Mr. Gerrish, "Well, I'm glad you've come backto the old place, Miss Kilburn--I almost said Annie. "

"I shouldn't have minded, Ralph, " she retorted. 

"Shouldn't you? Well, that's right. " Putney continued, ignoring thelaugh of the others at Annie's sally: "You'll find Hatboro' prettyexciting, after Rome, for a while, I suppose. But you'll get used toit. It's got more of the modern improvements, I'm told, and it's morepublic-spirited--more snap to it. I'm told that there's more enterprise inHatboro', more real _crowd_ in South Hatboro' alone, than there is inthe Quirinal and the Vatican put together. "

"You had better come and live at South Hatboro', Mr. Putney; that would bejust the atmosphere for you, " said Mrs. Munger, with aimless hospitality. She said this to every one. 

"Is it about coming to South Hatboro' you want to consult me?" askedPutney. 

"Well, it is, and it isn't, " she began. 

"Better be honest, Mrs. Munger, " said Putney. "You can't do anything fora client who won't be honest with his attorney. That's what I have tocontinually impress upon the reprobates who come to me. I say, 'It don'tmatter what you've done; if you expect me to get you off, you've got tomake a clean breast of it. ' They generally do; they see the sense of it. "

They all laughed, and Mr. Gerrish said, "Mr. Putney is one of Hatboro'sprivileged characters, Miss Kilburn. "

"Thank you, Billy, " returned the lawyer, with mock-tenderness. "Now, Mrs. Munger, out with it!"

"You'll have to tell him sooner or later, Mrs. Munger!" said Mrs. Gerrish, with overweening pleasure in her acquaintance with both of these superiorpeople. "He'll get it out of you anyway. " Her husband looked at her, andshe fell silent. 

Mrs. Munger swept her with a tolerant smile as she looked up at Putney. "Why, it's really Miss Kilburn's affair, " she began; and she laid the casebefore the lawyer with a fulness that made Annie wince. 

Putney took a piece of tobacco from his pocket, and tore off a morsel withhis teeth. "Excuse me, Annie! It's a beastly habit. But it's saved me fromsomething worse. _You_ don't know what I've been; but anybody inHatboro' can tell you. I made my shame so public that it's no use tryingto blink the past. You don't have to be a hypocrite in a place whereeverybody's seen you in the gutter; that's the only advantage I've got overmy fellow-citizens, and of course I abuse it; that's nature, you know. WhenI began to pull up I found that tobacco helped me; I smoked and chewedboth; now I only chew. Well, " he said, dropping the pathetic simplicitywith which he had spoken, and turning with a fierce jocularity from theshocked and pitying look in Annie's face to Mrs. Munger, "what do youpropose to do? Brother Peck's head seems to be pretty level, in theabstract. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Munger, willing to put the case impartially; "and I shouldbe perfectly willing to drop the invited dance and supper, if it wasthought best, though I must say I don't at all agree with Mr. Peck inprinciple. I don't see what would become of society. "

"You ought to be in politics, Mrs. Munger, " said Putney. "Your readiness tosacrifice principle to expediency shows what a reform will be wrought whenyou ladies get the suffrage. What does Brother Gerrish think?"

"No, no, " said Mrs. Munger. "We want an impartial opinion. "

"I always think as Brother Gerrish thinks, " said Putney. "I guess youbetter give up the fandango; hey, Billy?"

"No, sir; no, Mr. Putney, " answered the merchant nervously. "I can't agreewith you. And I will tell you why, sir. "

He gave his reasons, with some abatement of pomp and detail, and with thetremulous eagerness of a solemn man who expects a sarcastic rejoinder. "Itwould be a bad precedent. This town is full now of a class of persons whoare using every opportunity to--to abuse their privileges. And this wouldbe simply adding fuel to the flame. "

"Do you really think so, Billy ?" asked the lawyer, with cool derision. "Well, we all abuse our privileges at every opportunity, of course; I wasjust saying that I abused mine; and I suppose those fellows would abusetheirs if you happened to hurt their wives' and daughters' feelings. Andhow are you going to manage? Aren't you afraid that they will hang around, after the show, indefinitely, unless you ask all those who have notreceived invitations to the dance and supper to clear the grounds, as theydo in the circus when the minstrels are going to give a performance notincluded in the price of admission? Mind, I don't care anything about yourSocial Union. "

"Oh, but _surely_!" cried Mrs. Munger, "you _must_ allow thatit's a good object. "

"Well, perhaps it is, if it will keep the men away from the rum-holes. Yes, I guess it is. You won't sell liquor?"

"We expect to furnish coffee at cost price, " said Mrs. Munger, smiling atPutney's joke. 

"And good navy-plug too, I hope. But you see it would be rather awkward, don't you? You see, Annie?"

"Yes, I see, " said Annie. "I hadn't thought of that part before. "

"And you didn't agree with Brother Peck on general principles? There wesee the effect of residence abroad, " said Putney. "The uncorrupted--orI will say the uninterrupted--Hatborian has none of those aristocraticpredilections of yours, Annie. He grows up in a community where there isneither poverty nor richness, and where political economy can show by thefigures that the profligate shop hands get nine-tenths of the profits, andstarve on 'em, while the good little company rolls in luxury on the othertenth. But you've got used to something different over there, and of courseBrother Peck's ideas startled you. Well, I suppose I should have been justso myself. "

"Mr. Putney has never felt just right about the working-men since he lostthe boycotters' case, " said Mr. Gerrish, with a snicker. 

"Oh, come now, Billy, why did you give me away?" said Putney, with mocksuffering. "Well, I suppose I might as well own up, Mrs. Munger; it's nouse trying to keep it from _you_; you know it already. Yes, Annie, Idefended some poor devils here for combining to injure a non-union man--fordoing once just what the big manufacturing Trusts do every day of the yearwith impunity; and I lost the case. I expected to. I told 'em they werewrong, but I did my best for 'em. 'Why, you fools, ' said I--that's the wayI talk to 'em, Annie; I call 'em pet names; they like it; they're used to'em; they get 'em every day in the newspapers--'you fools, ' said I, 'whatdo you want to boycott for, when you can _vote_? What do you want tobreak the laws for, when you can _make_ 'em? You idiots, you, ' said I, 'what do you putter round for, persecuting non-union men, that have as gooda right to earn their bread as you, when you might make the whole UnitedStates of America a Labour Union?' Of course I didn't say that in court. "

"Oh, how delicious you are, Mr. Putney!" said Mrs. Munger. 

"Glad you like me, Mrs. Munger, " Putney replied. 

"Yes, you're delightful, " said the lady, recovering from the effects ofthe drollery which they had all pretended to enjoy, Mr. Gerrish, and Mrs. Gerrish by his leave, even more than the others. "But you're not candid. All this doesn't help us to a conclusion. Would you give up the inviteddance and supper, or wouldn't you? That's the question. "

"And no shirking, hey?" asked Putney. 

"No shirking. "

Putney glanced through a little transparent space in the ground-glasswindows framing the room, which Mr. Gerrish used for keeping an eye on hissales-ladies to see that they did not sit down. 

"Hello!" he exclaimed. "There's Dr. Morrell. Let's put the case to him. " Heopened the door and called down the store, "Come in here, Doc!"

"What?" called back an amused voice; and after a moment steps approached, and Dr. Morrell hesitated at the open door. He was a tall man, with aslight stoop; well dressed; full bearded; with kind, boyish blue eyes thattwinkled in fascinating friendliness upon the group. "Nobody sick here, Ihope?"

"Walk right in, sir! come in, Dr. Morrell, " said Mr. Gerrish. "Mrs. Mungerand Mrs. Gerrish you know. Present you to Miss Kilburn, who has come tomake her home among us after a prolonged residence abroad. Dr. Morrell, Miss Kilburn. "

"No, there's nobody sick here, in one sense, " said Putney, when the doctorhad greeted the ladies. "But. We want your advice all the same. Mrs. Mungeris in a pretty bad way morally, Doc. "

"Don't you mind Mr. Putney, doctor!" screamed Mrs. Gerrish. 

Putney said, with respectful recognition of the poor woman's attempt to bearch, "I'll try to keep within the bounds of truth in stating the case, Mrs. Gerrish. "

He went on to state it, with so much gravity and scrupulosity, and withso many appeals to Mrs. Munger to correct him if he were wrong, that thedoctor was shaking with laughter when Putney came to an end with unbrokenseriousness. At each repetition of the facts, Annie's relation to them grewmore intolerable; and she suspected Putney of an intention to punish her. "Well, what do you say?" he demanded of the doctor. 

"Ha, ha, ha! ah, ha, ha. " laughed the doctor, shutting his eyes andthrowing back his head. 

"Seems to consider it a _laughing_ matter, " said Putney to Mrs. Munger. 

"Yes; and that is all your fault, " said Mrs. Munger, trying, with theineffectiveness of a large woman, to pout. 

"No, no, I'm not laughing. " began the doctor. 

"Smiling, perhaps, " suggested Putney. 

The doctor went off again. Then, "I beg--I _beg_ your pardon, Mrs. Munger, " he resumed. "But it isn't a professional question, you know; andI--I really couldn't judge--have any opinion on such a matter. "

"No shirking, " said Putney. "That's what Mrs. Munger said to me. "

"Of course not, " gurgled the doctor. "You ladies will know what to do. I'msure _I_ shouldn't, " he added. 

"Well, I must be going, " said Putney. "Sorry to leave you in this fix, Doc. " He flashed out of the door, and suddenly came back to offer Annie hishand. "I beg your pardon, Annie. I'm going to make Ellen bring me round. Good morning. " He bowed cursorily to the rest. 

"Wait--I'll go with you, Putney, " said the doctor. 

Mrs. Munger rose, and Annie with her. "We must go too, " she said. "We'vetaken up Mr. Gerrish's time most unconscionably, " and now Mr. Gerrish didnot urge her to remain. 

"Well, good-bye, " said Mrs. Gerrish, with a genteel prolongation of thelast syllable. 

Mr. Gerrish followed his guests down the store, and even out upon thesidewalk, where he presided with unheeded hospitality over the superfluouspoliteness of Putney and Dr. Morrell in putting Mrs. Munger and Annie intothe phaeton. Mrs. Munger attempted to drive away without having taken upher hitching weight. 

"I suppose that there isn't a post in this town that my wife hasn't triedto pull up in that way, " said Putney gravely. 

The doctor doubled himself down with another fit of laughing. 

Annie wanted to laugh too, but she did not like his laughing. Shequestioned if it were not undignified. She felt that it might bedisrespectful. Then she asked herself why he should respect her. 

IX. 

"That was a great success, " said Mrs. Munger, as they drove away. Anniesaid nothing, and she added, "Don't you think so?"

"Well, I confess, " said Annie, "I don't see how, exactly. Do you mean withregard to Mr. Gerrish?"

"Oh no; I don't care anything about him, " said Mrs. Munger, touching herpony with the tip of her whip-lash. "He's an odious little creature, and Iknew that he would go for the dance and supper because Mr. Peck was opposedto them. He's one of the anti-Peck party in his church, and that is thereason I spoke to him. But I meant the other gentlemen. You saw how theytook it. "

"I saw that they both made fun of it, " said Annie. 

"Yes; that's just the point. It's so fortunate they were frank about it. Itthrows a new light on it; and if that's the way nice people are going tolook at it, why, we must give up the idea. I'm quite prepared to do so. ButI want to see Mrs. Wilmington first. "

"Mrs. Munger, " said Annie uneasily, "I would rather not see Mrs. Wilmingtonwith you on this subject; I should be of no use. "

"My dear, you would be of the _greatest_ use, " persisted Munger, andshe laid her arm across Annie's lap, as if to prevent her jumping out ofthe phaeton. "As Mrs. Wilmington's old friend, you will have the greatestinfluence with her. "

"But I don't know that I wish to influence her in favour of the supper anddance; I don't know that I believe in them, " said Annie, cowed and troubledby the affair. 

"That doesn't make the slightest difference, " said Mrs. Munger impartially. "All you will have to do is to keep still. I will put the case to her. "

She checked the pony before the bar which the flagman at the railroadcrossing had let down, while a long freight train clattered deafeninglyby, and then drove bumping and jouncing across the tracks. "I suppose youremember what 'Over the Track' means in Hatboro'?"

"Oh yes, " said Annie, with a smile. "Social perdition at the least. Youdon't mean that Mrs. Wilmington lives 'Over the Track'?"

"Yes. It isn't so bad as it used to be, socially. Mr. Wilmington has builta very fine house on this side, and there are several pretty Queen Annecottages going up. "

They drove along under the elms which here stood somewhat at random aboutthe wide, grassless street, between the high, windowy bulks of the shoeshops and hat shops. The dust gradually freed itself from the cindersabout the tracks, and it hardened into a handsome, newly made road beyondthe houses of the shop hands. They passed some open lots, and then, on apleasant rise of ground, they came to a stately residence, lifted stillhigher on its underpinning of granite blocks. It was built in a Bostonsuburban taste of twenty years ago, with a lofty mansard-roof, and it waspainted the stone-grey colour which was once esteemed for being so quiet. The lawn before it sloped down to the road, where it ended smoothly at thebrink of a neat stone wall. A black asphalt path curved from the steps bywhich you mounted from the street to the steps by which you mounted to theheavy portico before the massive black walnut doors. 

The ladies were shown into the music-room, from which the notes of a pianowere sounding when they rang, and Mrs. Wilmington rose from the instrumentto meet them. A young man who had been standing beside her turned away. Mrs. Wilmington was dressed in a light morning dress with a Watteau fall, whose delicate russets and faded reds and yellows heightened the richnessof her complexion and hair. 

"Why, Annie, " she said, "how glad I am to see you! And you too, Mrs. Munger. How _vurry_ nice!" Her words took value from the thickmellow tones of her voice, and passed for much more than they were worthintrinsically. She moved lazily about and got them into chairs, and was notresentful when Mrs. Munger broke out with "How hot you have it!" "Have we?We had the furnace lighted yesterday, and we've been in all the morning, and so we hadn't noticed. Jack, won't you shut the register?" she drawledover her shoulder. "This is my nephew, Mr. Jack Wilmington, Miss Kilburn. Mr. Wilmington and Mrs. Munger are old friends. "

The young fellow bowed silently, and Annie instantly took a dislike to him, his heavy jaw, long eyes, and low forehead almost hidden under a thickbang. He sat down cornerwise on a chair, and listened, with a scornfulthrust of his thick lips, to their talk. 

Mrs. Munger was not abashed by him. She opened her budget with all herrobust authority, and once more put Annie to shame. When she came to thequestion of the invited supper and dance, and having previously committedMrs. Wilmington in favour of the general scheme, asked her what she thoughtof that part, Mr. Jack Wilmington answered for her--

"I should think you had a right to do what you please about it. It's noneof the hands' business if you don't choose to ask them. "

"Yes, that's what any one would think--in the abstract, " said Mrs. Munger. 

"Now, little boy, " said Mrs. Wilmington, with indolent amusement, puttingout a silencing hand in the direction of the young man, "don't you be sofast. You let your aunty speak for herself. I don't know about not lettingthe hands stay to the dance and supper, Mrs. Munger. You know I might feel'put upon. ' I used to be one of the hands myself. Yes, Annie, there was atime after you went away, and after father died, when I actually fell solow as to work for an honest living. "

"I think I heard, Lyra, " said Annie; "but I had forgotten. " The fact, inconnection with what had been said, made her still more uncomfortable. 

"Well, I didn't work very hard, and I didn't have to work long. But I wasa hand, and there's no use trying to deny it. As Mr. Putney says, he and Ihave our record, and we don't have to make any pretences. And the questionis, whether I ought to go back on my fellow-hands. "

"Oh, but Mrs. _Wilmington_!" said Mrs. Munger, with intensedeprecation, "that's such a very different thing. You were not brought upto it; it was just temporary; and besides--"

"And besides, there was Mr. Wilmington, I know. He was very opportune. Imight have been a hand at this moment if Mr. Wilmington had not come alongand invited me to be a head--the head of his house. But I don't know, Annie, whether I oughtn't to remember my low beginnings. "

"I suppose we all like to be consistent, " answered Annie aimlessly, uneasily. 

"Yes, " Mrs. Munger broke in; "but they were not your beginnings, Mrs. Wilmington; they were your incidents--your accidents. "

"It's very pretty of you to say so, Mrs. Munger, " drawled Mrs. Wilmington. "But I guess I must oppose the little invited dance and supper, onprinciple. We all like to be consistent, as Annie says--even if we'reinconsistent in the attempt, " she added, with a laugh. 

"Very well, then, " exclaimed Mrs. Munger, "we'll _drop_ them. As Isaid to Miss Kilburn on our way here, 'if Mrs. Wilmington is opposed tothem, we'll drop them. '"

"Oh, am I such an influential person?" said Mrs. Wilmington, with a shrug. "It's rather awful--isn't it, Annie?"

"Not at all!" Mrs. Munger answered for Annie. "We've just been talking thematter over with Mr. Putney and Dr. Morrell, and they're both opposed. You're merely the straw that breaks the camel's back, Mrs. Wilmington. "

"Oh, _thank_ you! That's a great relief. "

"Well--and now the question is, will you take the part of the Nurse or notin the dramatics?" asked Mrs. Munger, returning to business. 

"Well, I must think about that, and I must ask Mr. Wilmington. Jack, " shecalled over her shoulder to the young man at the window, "do you think youruncle would approve of me as Juliet's Nurse?"

"You'd better ask him, " growled the young fellow. 

"Well, " said Mrs. Wilmington, with another laugh, "I'll think it over, Mrs. Munger. "

"Thank you, " said Mrs. Munger. "And now we must really be going, " sheadded, pulling out her watch by its leathern guard. 

"Not till you've had lunch, " said Mrs. Wilmington, rising with the ladies. "You must stay. Annie, I shall not excuse you. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Munger, complying without regard to Annie, "all thisdiplomacy is certainly very exhausting. "

"Lunch will be on the table in one moment, " returned Mrs. Wilmington, asthe ladies sat down again provisionally. "Will you join us, Jack?"

"No; I'm going to the office, " said the nephew, bowing himself out of theroom. 

"Jack's learning to be superintendent, " said Mrs. Wilmington, lifting herteasing voice to make him hear her in the hall, "and he's been spending thewhole morning here. "

In the richly appointed dining-room--a glitter of china and glass and amass of carven oak--the table was laid for two. 

"Put another plate, Norah, " said Mrs. Wilmington carelessly. 

There was bouillon in teacups, chicken cutlets in white sauce, and lusciousstrawberries. 

"_What_ a cook!" cried Mrs. Munger, over the cutlets. 

"Yes, she's a treasure; I don't deny it, " said Mrs. Wilmington. 

X. 

By the end of May most of the summer folk had come to their cottages inSouth Hatboro'. One after another the ladies called upon Annie. They alltalked to her of the Social Union, and it seemed to be agreed that it wasfully in train, though what was really in train was the entertainment tobe given at Mrs. Munger's for the benefit of the Union; the Union alwaysdropped out of the talk as soon as the theatricals were mentioned. 

When Annie went to return these visits she scarcely recognised eventhe shape of the country, once so familiar to her, of which the summersettlement had possessed itself. She found herself in a strange world--aworld of colonial and Queen Anne architecture, where conscious lines andinsistent colours contributed to an effect of posing which she had neverseen off the stage. But it was not a very large world, and after the youngtrees and hedges should have grown up and helped to hide it, she felt surethat it would be a better world. In detail it was not so bad now, butthe whole was a violent effect of porches, gables, chimneys, galleries, loggias, balconies, and jalousies, which nature had not yet had time topalliate. 

Mrs. Munger was at home, and wanted her to spend the day, to drive out withher, to stay to lunch. When Annie would not do any of these things, sheinvited herself to go with her to call at the Brandreths'. But first sheordered her to go out with her to see the place where they intended to havethe theatricals: a pretty bit of natural boscage--white birches, pines, andoaks--faced by a stretch of smooth turf, where a young man in a flannelblazer was painting a tennis-court in the grass. Mrs. Munger introduced himas her Jim, and the young fellow paused from his work long enough to bow toher: his nose now seemed in perfect repair. 

Mr. Brandreth met them at the door of his mother's cottage. It was a verysmall cottage on the outside, with a good deal of stained glass _enévidence_ in leaded sashes; where the sashes were not leaded and theglass not stained, the panes were cut up into very large ones, with littleones round them. Everything was very old-fashioned inside. The door openeddirectly into a wainscoted square hall, which had a large fireplace withgleaming brass andirons, and a carved mantel carried to the ceiling. It wasboth baronial and colonial in its decoration; there was part of a suit ofimitation armour under a pair of moose antlers on one wall, and at one sideof the fireplace there was a spinning-wheel, with a tuft of flax ready tobe spun. There were Japanese swords on the lowest mantel-shelf, togetherwith fans and vases; a long old flint-lock musket stretched across thepanel above. Mr. Brandreth began to show things to Annie, and to tell howlittle they cost, as soon as the ladies entered. His mother's voice calledfrom above, "Now, Percy, you stop till _I_ get there!" and in a momentor two she appeared from behind a _portière_ in one corner. Before sheshook hands with the ladies, or allowed any kind of greeting, she pulledthe _portière_ aside, and made Annie admire the snug concealment ofthe staircase. Then she made her go upstairs and see the chambers, and thesecond-hand colonial bedsteads, and the andirons everywhere, and the oldchests of drawers and their brasses; and she told her some story abouteach, and how Percy picked it up and had it repaired. When they came down, the son took Annie in hand again and walked her over the ground-floor, ending with the kitchen, which was in the taste of an old New Englandkitchen, with hard-seated high-backed chairs, and a kitchen table withcuriously turned legs, which he had picked up in the hen-house of aneighbouring farmer for a song. There was an authentic crane in thedining-room fireplace, which he had found in a heap of scrap-iron at ablacksmith's shop, and had got for next to nothing. The sideboard he hadgot at an old second-hand shop in the North End; and he believed it wasan heirloom from the house of one of the old ministers of the North EndChurch. Everything, nearly, in the Brandreth cottage was an heirloom, though Annie could not remember afterward any object that had been anheirloom in the Brandreth family. 

When she went back with Mr. Brandreth to the hall, which seemed to be alsothe drawing-room, she found that Mrs. Brandreth had lighted the fire onthe hearth, though it was rather a warm day without, for the sake of theeffect. She was sitting in the chimney-seat, and shielding her face fromthe blaze with an old-fashioned feather hand-screen. 

"Now don't you think we have a lovely little home?" she demanded. 

Mrs. Munger began to break out in its praise, but she shook the screensilencingly at her. 

"No, no! I want Miss Kilburn's unbiassed opinion. Don't you speak, Mrs. Munger! Now haven't we?"

Mrs. Brandreth made Annie assent to the superiority of her cottage indetail. She recapitulated the different facts of the architecture andfurnishing, from each of which she seemed to acquire personal merit, andshe insisted that Percy should show some of them again. "We think it's alittle picture, " she concluded, and once more Annie felt obliged to murmurher acquiescence. 

At last Mrs. Munger said that she must go to lunch, and was going to takeAnnie with her; Annie said she must lunch at home; and then Mrs. Brandrethpressed them both to stay to lunch with her. "You shall have a cup of teaout of a piece of real Satsuma, " she said; but they resisted. "I don'tbelieve, " she added, apparently relieved by their persistence, and losing alittle anxiety of manner, "that Percy's had any chance to consult you on avery important point about your theatricals, Miss Kilburn. "

"Oh, that will do some other time, mother, " said Mr. Brandreth. 

"No, no! Now! And you can have Mrs. Munger's opinion too. You know Miss SueNorthwick is going to be Juliet?"

"No!" shouted Mrs. Munger. "I thought she had refused positively. When didshe change her mind?"

"She's just sent Percy a note. We were talking it over when you came, andPercy was going over to tell you. "

"Then it is _sure_ to be a success, " said Mrs. Munger, with asolemnity of triumph. 

"Yes, but Percy feels that it complicates one point more than ever--"

"It's a question that always comes up in amateur dramatics, " said Mr. Brandreth, with reluctance, "and it always will; and of course it'sparticularly embarrassing in _Romeo and Juliet_. If they don't showany affection--it's very awkward and stiff; and if--"

"I never approved of those liberties on the stage, " said Mrs. Brandreth. "I tell Percy that it's my principal objection to it. I can't make itseem nice. But he says that it's essential to the effect. Now _I_say that they might just incline their heads toward each other without_actually_, you know. But Percy is afraid that it won't do, especiallyin the parting scene on the balcony--so passionate, you know--it won't dosimply to--They must _act_ like lovers. And it's such a great point toget Miss Sue Northwick to take the part, that he mustn't risk losing her byanything that might seem--"

"Yes, " said Mrs. Munger, with deep concern. 

Mr. Brandreth looked very unhappy. "It's an embarrassing point. We can'tchange the play, and so the difficulty must be met and disposed of atonce. "

He did not look at either of the ladies, but Mrs. Munger referred thematter to Annie with a glance of impartiality. His mother also turned hereyes upon Annie. "Percy thought that you must have seen so much of amateurdramatics in Europe that you could tell him just how to do. "

"Perhaps you could consult Miss Northwick herself, " said Annie dryly, aftera moment of indignation, and another of amusement. 

"I thought of that, " said Mrs. Brandreth; "but as Percy's to be Romeo--Yousee he wishes the play to be a success artistically; but if it's to succeedsocially, he must have Miss Northwick, and she might resign at the firstsuggestion of--"

"Bessie Chapley would certainly have been better. She's so outspoken youcould have put the case right to her, " said Mrs. Munger. 

"Yes, " said Mr. Brandreth gloomily. 

"But we shall find out a way. Why, you can settle it at rehearsal!"

"Perhaps at rehearsal, " said Mr. Brandreth, with a pensive absence of mind. 

Mrs. Munger crushed his hand and his mother's in her leathern grasp, andtook Annie away with her. "It isn't lunch-time yet, " she explained, whenthey were out of earshot, "but I saw she was simply killing you, and so Imade the excuse. She has no mercy. There's time enough for you to make yourcalls before lunch, and then you can come home with me. "

Annie suggested that this would not do after refusing Mrs. Brandreth. 

"Why, it would never have done to _accept_!" Mrs. Munger cried. "Theydidn't dream of it!" At the next place she said: "This is the Clevingers'. _They're_ some of our all-the-year-round people too. " She opened thedoor without ringing, and let herself noisily in. "This is the way we runin, without ceremony, everywhere. It's quite one family. That's the charmof the place. We expect to take each other as we find them. "

Her freedom did not find the ladies off their guard anywhere. At all thehouses there was a skurrying of feet and a flashing of skirts out of theroom or up the stairs, and there was an interval for a thorough study ofthe features of the room before the hostess came in, with the effect ofcoming in just as she was. She had naturally always made some change inher dress, and Annie felt that she had not really liked being run in upon. Everywhere they talked to her about the theatricals; and they talked acrossher to Mrs. Munger, about one another, pretty freely. 

"Well, that's all there is of us at present, " said Mrs. Munger, coming downthe main road with her from the last place, "and you see just what we are. It's a neighbourhood where everybody's just adapted to everybody else. It's not a mere mush of concession, as Emerson says; people are perfectlyoutspoken; but there's the greatest good feeling, and no vulgar display, orlavish expenditure, or--anything. "

Annie walked slowly homeward. She was tired, and she was now aware ofhaving been extremely bored by the South Hatboro' people. She was verycensorious of them, as we are of other people when we have reason to bediscontented with ourselves. They were making a pretence of simplicityand unconventionality; but they had brought each her full complement ofservants with her, and each was apparently giving herself in the summerto the unrealities that occupied her during the winter. Everywhere Anniehad found the affectation of intellectual interests, and the assumptionthat these were the highest interests of life: there could be no doubtthat culture was the ideal of South Hatboro', and several of the ladiescomplained that in the summer they got behind with their reading, or theirart, or their music. They said it was even more trouble to keep house inthe country than it was in town; sometimes your servants would not comewith you; or, if they did, they were always discontented, and you did notknow what moment they would leave you. 

Annie asked herself how her own life was in any wise different from that ofthese people. It had received a little more light into it, but as yet ithad not conformed itself to any ideal of duty. She too was idle and vapid, like the society of which her whole past had made her a part, and she ownedto herself, groaning in spirit, that it was no easier to escape from hertradition at Hatboro' than it was at Rome. 

When she reached her own house again, Mrs. Bolton called to her from thekitchen threshold as she was passing the corner on her way to the frontdoor: "Mis' Putney's b'en here. I guess you'll find a note from her on theparlour table. "

Annie fired in resentment of the uncouthness. It was Mrs. Bolton's businessto come into the parlour and give her the note, with a respectful statementof the facts. But she did not tell her so; it would have been useless. 

Mrs. Putney's note was an invitation to a family tea for the next evening. 

XI. 

Putney met Annie at the door, and led her into the parlour beside the hall. He had a little crippled boy on his right arm, and he gave her his lefthand. In the parlour he set his burden down in a chair, and the child drewup under his thin arms a pair of crutches that stood beside it. His whiteface had the eager purity and the waxen translucence which we see insufferers from hip-disease. 

"This is our Winthrop, " said his father, beginning to talk at once. "Wereceive the company and do the honours while mother's looking after thetea. We only keep one undersized girl, " he explained more directly toAnnie, "and Ellen has to be chief cook and bottlewasher herself. She'llbe in directly. Just lay off your bonnet anywhere. "

She was taking in the humility of the house and its belongings while shereceived the impression of an unimagined simplicity in its life from hiseasy explanations. The furniture was in green terry, the carpet a harsh, brilliant tapestry; on the marble-topped centre table was a big clasp Bibleand a basket with a stereoscope and views; the marbleised iron shelf abovethe stove-pipe hole supported two glass vases and a French clock under aglass bell; through the open door, across the oil-cloth of the hallway, shesaw the white-painted pine balusters of the steep, cramped stairs. It wasclear that neither Putney nor his wife had been touched by the aestheticcraze; the parlour was in the tastelessness of fifteen years before; butafter the decoration of South Hatboro', she found a delicious repose init. Her eyes dwelt with relief on the wall-paper of French grey, spriggedwith small gilt flowers, and broken by a few cold engravings and framedphotographs. 

Putney himself was as little decorated as the parlour. He had put on aclean shirt, but the bulging bosom had broken away from its single button, and showed two serrated edges of ragged linen; his collar lost itself fromtime to time under the rise of his plastron scarf band, which kept escapingfrom the stud that ought to have held it down behind. His hair was brushedsmoothly across a forehead which looked as innocent and gentle as thelittle boy's. 

"We don't often give these festivities, " he went on, "but you don't comehome once in twelve years every day, Annie. I can't tell you how glad I amto see you in our house; and Ellen's just as excited as the rest of us; shewas sorry to miss you when she called. "

"You're very kind, Ralph. I can't tell _you_ what a pleasure it was tocome, and I'm not going to let the trouble I'm giving spoil my pleasure. "

"Well, that's right, " said Putney. "_We_ sha'n't either. " He took outa cigar and put it into his mouth. "It's only a dry smoke. Ellen makesme let up on my chewing when we have company, and I must have somethingin my mouth, so I get a cigar. It's a sort of compromise. I'm a terriblynervous man, Annie; you can't imagine. If it wasn't for the grace of God, I think I should fly to pieces sometimes. But I guess that's what holds metogether--that and Winthy here. I dropped him on the stairs out there, whenI was drunk, one night. I saw you looking at them; I suppose you've beentold; it's all right. I presume the Almighty knows what He's about; butsometimes He appears to save at the spigot and waste at the bung-hole, likethe rest of us. He let me cripple my boy to reform me. "

"Don't, Ralph!" said Annie, with a voice of low entreaty. She turned andspoke to the child, and asked him if he would not come to see her. 

"What?" he asked, breaking with a sort of absent-minded start from hisintentness upon his father's words. 

She repeated her invitation. 

"Thanks!" he said, in the prompt, clear little pipe which startles byits distinctness and decision on the lips of crippled children. "I guessfather'll bring me some day. Don't you want I should go out and tell mothershe's here?" he asked his father. 

"Well, if you want to, Winthrop, " said his father. 

The boy swung himself lightly out of the room on his crutches, and hisfather turned to her. "Well, how does Hatboro' strike you, anyway, Annie?You needn't mind being honest with me, you know. "

He did not give her a chance to say, and she was willing to let him talkon, and tell her what he thought of Hatboro' himself. "Well, it's likeevery other place in the world, at every moment of history--it's in atransition state. The theory is, you know, that most places are at astandstill the greatest part of the time; they haven't begun to move, orthey've stopped moving; but I guess that's a mistake; they're moving allthe while. I suppose Rome itself was in a transition state when you left?"

"Oh, very decidedly. It had ceased to be old and was becoming new. "

"Well, that's just the way with Hatboro'. There is no old Hatboro' anymore; and there never was, as your father and mine could tell us if theywere here. They lived in a painfully transitional period, poor old fellows!But, for all that, there is a difference. They lived in what was really aNew England village, and we live now in a sprawling American town; and byAmerican of course I mean a town where at least one-third of the peopleare raw foreigners or rawly extracted natives. The old New England idealcharacterises them all, up to a certain point, socially; it puts a decentoutside on most of 'em; it makes 'em keep Sunday, and drink on the sly. We got in the Irish long ago, and now they're part of the conservativeelement. We got in the French Canadians, and some of them are our bestmechanics and citizens. We're getting in the Italians, and as soon as theywant something better than bread and vinegar to eat, they'll begin going toCongress and boycotting and striking and forming pools and trusts just likeany other class of law-abiding Americans. There used to be some talk of theChinese, but I guess they've pretty much blown over. We've got Ah Lee andSam Lung here, just as they have everywhere, but their laundries don't seemto increase. The Irish are spreading out into the country and scooping inthe farms that are not picturesque enough for the summer folks. You can buya farm anywhere round Hatboro' for less than the buildings on it cost. I'drather the Irish would have the land than the summer folks. They make anhonest living off it, and the other fellows that come out to roost herefrom June till October simply keep somebody else from making a livingoff it, and corrupt all the poor people in sight by their idleness andluxury. That's what I tell 'em at South Hatboro'. They don't like it, butI guess they believe it; anyhow they have to hear it. They'll tell you inself-defence that J. Milton Northwick is a practical farmer, and sells hisbutter for a dollar a pound. He's done more than anybody else to improvethe breeds of cattle and horses; and he spends fifteen thousand a year onhis place. It can't return him five; and that's the reason he's a curse anda fraud. "

"Who _is_ Mr. Northwick, Ralph?" Annie interposed. "Everybody at SouthHatboro' asked me if I'd met the Northwicks. "

"He's a very great and good man, " said Putney. "He's worth a million, andhe runs a big manufacturing company at Ponkwasset Falls, and he owns afancy farm just beyond South Hatboro'. He lives in Boston, but he comes outhere early enough to dodge his tax there, and let poorer people pay it. He's got miles of cut stone wall round his place, and conservatories andgardens and villas and drives inside of it, and he keeps up the town roadsoutside at his own expense. Yes, we feel it such an honour and advantage tohave J. Milton in Hatboro' that our assessors practically allow him to fixthe amount of tax here himself. People who can pay only a little at thehighest valuation are assessed to the last dollar of their property andincome; but the assessors know that this wouldn't do with Mr. Northwick. They make a guess at his income, and he always pays their bills withoutasking for abatement; they think themselves wise and public-spirited menfor doing it, and most of their fellow-citizens think so too. You see it'snot only difficult for a rich man to get into the kingdom of heaven, Annie, but he makes it hard for other people. 

"Well, as I was saying, socially, the old New England element is at the topof the heap here. That's so everywhere. The people that are on the groundfirst, it don't matter much who they are, have to manage pretty badly notto leave their descendants in social ascendency over all newer comers forever. Why, I can see it in my own case. I can see that I was a sort offetich to the bedevilled fancy of the people here when I was seen drunk inthe streets every day, just because I was one of the old Hatboro' Putneys;and when I began to hold up, there wasn't a man in the community thatwasn't proud and flattered to help me. Curious, isn't it? It made me sickof myself and ashamed of them, and I just made up my mind, as soon as I gotstraight again, I'd give all my help to the men that hadn't a tradition. That's what I've done, Annie. There isn't any low, friendless rapscallionin this town that hasn't got me for his friend--and Ellen. We've been inall the strikes with the men, and all their fool boycottings and kickingover the traces generally. Anybody else would have been turned out ofrespectable society for one-half that I've done, but it tolerates mebecause I'm one of the old Hatboro' Putneys. You're one of the old Hatboro'Kilburns, and if you want to have a mind of your own and a heart of yourown, all you've got to do is to have it. They'll like it; they'll thinkit's original. That's the reason South Hatboro' got after you with thatSocial Union scheme. They were right in thinking you would have a greatdeal of influence. I was sorry you had to throw it against Brother Peck. "

Annie felt herself jump at this climax, as if she had been touched onan exposed nerve. She grew red, and tried to be angry, but she was onlyashamed and tempted to lie out of the part she had taken. "Mrs. Munger, "she said, "gave that a very unfair turn. I didn't mean to ridicule Mr. Peck. I think he was perfectly sincere. The scheme of the invited dance andsupper has been entirely given up. And I don't care for the project of theSocial Union at all. "

"Well, I'm glad to hear it, " said Putney, indifferently, and he resumed hisanalysis of Hatboro'--

"We've got all the modern improvements here, Annie. I suppose you'dfind the modern improvements, most of 'em, in Sheol: electric light, Bell telephone, asphalt sidewalks, and city water--though I don't knowabout the water; and I presume they haven't got a public library or anopera-house--perhaps they _have_ got an opera-house in Sheol: you seeI use the Revised Version, it don't sound so much like swearing. But, asI was saying--"

Mrs. Putney came in, and he stopped with the laugh of a man who knows thathis wife will find it necessary to account for him and apologise for him. 

The ladies kissed each other. Mrs. Putney was dressed in the black silk ofa woman who has one silk; she was red from the kitchen, but all was neatand orderly in the hasty toilet which she must have made since leaving thecook-stove. A faint, mixed perfume of violet sachet and fricasseed chickenattended her. 

"Well, as you were saying, Ralph?" she suggested. 

"Oh, I was just tracing a little parallel between Hatboro' and Sheol, "replied her husband. 

Mrs. Putney made a _tchk_ of humorous patience, and laughed towardAnnie for sympathy. "Well, then, I guess you needn't go on. Tea's ready. Shall we wait for the doctor?"

"No; doctors are too uncertain. We'll wait for him while we're eating. That's what fetches him the soonest. I'm hungry. Ain't you, Win?"

"Not so very, " said the boy, with his queer promptness. He stood restinghimself on his crutches at the door, and he now wheeled about, and led theway out to the living-room, swinging himself actively forward. It seemedthat his haste was to get to the dumb-waiter in the little china closetopening off the dining-room, which was like the papered inside of a squarebox. He called to the girl below, and helped pull it up, as Annie couldtell by the creaking of the rope, and the light jar of the finally arrivingcrockery. A half-grown girl then appeared, and put the dishes on at theplaces indicated with nods and looks by Mrs. Putney, who had taken herplace at the table. There was a platter of stewed fowl, and a plate ofhigh-piled waffles, sweltering in successive courses of butter and sugar. In cut-glass dishes, one at each end of the table, there were cannedcherries and pine-apple. There was a square of old-fashioned soda biscuit, not broken apart, which sent up a pleasant smell; in the centre of thetable was a shallow vase of strawberries. 

It was all very good and appetising; but to Annie it was patheticallyold-fashioned, and helped her to realise how wholly out of the world wasthe life which her friends led. 

"Winthrop, " said Putney, and the father and mother bowed their heads. 

The boy dropped his over his folded hands, and piped up clearly: "OurFather, which art in heaven, help us to remember those who have nothing toeat. Amen!"

"That's a grace that Win got up himself, " his father explained, beginningto heap a plate with chicken and mashed potato, which he then handed toAnnie, passing her the biscuit and the butter. "We think it suits theAlmighty about as well as anything. "

"I suppose you know Ralph of old, Annie?" said Mrs. Putney. "The only wayhe keeps within bounds at all is by letting himself perfectly loose. "

Putney laughed out his acquiescence, and they began to talk together aboutold times. Mrs. Putney and Annie recalled the childish plays and adventuresthey had together, and one dreadful quarrel. Putney told of the first timehe saw Annie, when his father took him one day for a call on the old judge, and how the old judge put him through his paces in American history, andwould not admit the theory that the battle of Bunker's Hill could have beenfought on Breed's Hill. Putney said that it was years before it occurred tohim that the judge must have been joking: he had always thought he wassimply ignorant. 

"I used to set a good deal by the battle of Bunker's Hill, " he continued. "I thought the whole Revolution and subsequent history revolved round it, and that it gave us all liberty, equality, and fraternity at a clip. Butthe Lord always finds some odd jobs to look after next day, and I guess Hedidn't clear 'em all up at Bunker's Hill. "

Putney's irony and piety were very much of a piece apparently, and Anniewas not quite sure which this conclusion was. She glanced at his wife, whoseemed satisfied with it in either case. She was waiting patiently forhim to wake up to the fact that he had not yet given her anything to eat;after helping Annie and the boy, he helped himself, and pending his wife'spre-occupation with the tea, he forgot her. 

"Why didn't you throw something at me, " he roared, in grief andself-reproach. "There wouldn't have been a loose piece of crockery on thisside of the table if I hadn't got my tea in time. "

"Oh, I was listening to Annie's share in the conversation, " said Mrs. Putney; and her husband was about to say something in retort of her thrustwhen a tap on the front door was heard. 

"Come in, come in, Doc!" he shouted. "Mrs. Putney's just been helped, andthe tea is going to begin. "

Dr. Morrell's chuckle made answer for him, and after time enough to putdown his hat, he came in, rubbing his hands and smiling, and making shortnods round the table. "How d'ye do, Mrs. Putney? How d'ye do, Miss Kilburn?Winthrop?" He passed his hand over the boy's smooth hair and slipped intothe chair beside him. 

"You see, the reason why we always wait for the doctor in this formal way, "said Putney, "is that he isn't in here more than seven nights of the week, and he rather stands on his dignity. Hand round the doctor's plate, myson, " he added to the boy, and he took it from Annie, to whom the boy gaveit, and began to heap it from the various dishes. "Think you can lift thatmuch back to the doctor, Win?"

"I guess so, " said the boy coolly. 

"What is flooring Win at present, " said his father, "and getting him downand rolling him over, is that problem of the robin that eats half a pint ofgrasshoppers and then doesn't weigh a bit more than he did before. "

"When he gets a little older, " said the doctor, shaking over his plateful, "he'll be interested to trace the processes of his father's thought from aguest and half a peck of stewed chicken, to a robin and half a pint of--"

"Don't, doctor!" pleaded Mrs. Putney. "He won't have the least trouble ifhe'll keep to the surface. "

Putney laughed impartially, and said: "Well, we'll take the doctor out andweigh him when he gets done. We expected Brother Peck here this evening, "he explained to Dr. Morrell. "You're our sober second thought--Well, "he broke off, looking across the table at his wife with mock anxiety. "Anything wrong about that, Ellen?"

"Not as far as I'm concerned, Mrs. Putney, " interposed the doctor. "I'mglad to be here on any terms. Go on, Putney. "

"Oh, there isn't anything more. You know how Miss Kilburn here has beenround throwing ridicule on Brother Peck, because he wants the shop-handstreated with common decency, and my idea was to get the two together andsee how she would feel. "

Dr. Morrell laughed at this with what Annie thought was unnecessary malice;but he stopped suddenly, after a glance at her, and Putney went on--

"Brother Peck pleaded another engagement. Said he had to go off intothe country to see a sick woman that wasn't expected to live. You don'tremember the Merrifields, do you, Annie? Well, it doesn't matter. One of'em married West, and her husband left her, and she came home here andgot a divorce; I got it for her. She's the one. As a consumptive, she hadsuperior attractions for Brother Peck. It isn't a case that admits ofjealousy exactly, but it wouldn't matter to Brother Peck anyway. If he sawa chance to do a good action, he'd wade through blood. "

"Now look here, Ralph, " said Mrs. Putney, "there's such a thing as lettingyourself _too_ loose. "

"Well, _gore_, then, " said Putney, buttering himself a biscuit. 

The boy, who had kept quiet till now, seemed reached by this last touch, and broke into a high, crowing laugh, in which they all joined except hisfather. 

"Gore suits Winthy, anyway, " he said, beginning to eat his biscuit. "I metone of the deacons from Brother Peck's last parish, in Boston, yesterday. He asked me if we considered Brother Peck anyways peculiar in Hatboro', andwhen I said we thought he was a little too luxurious, the deacon came outwith a lot of things. The way Brother Peck behaved toward the needy in thatlast parish of his made it simply uninhabitable to the standard Christian. They had to get rid of him somehow--send him away or kill him. Of coursethe deacon said they didn't want to _kill_ him. "

"Where was his last parish?" asked the doctor. 

"Down on the Maine coast somewhere. Penobscotport, I believe. "

"And was he indigenous there?"

"No, I believe not; he's from Massachusetts. Farm-boy and then mill-hand, I understand. Self-helped to an education; divinity student with summerintervals of waiting at table in the mountain hotels probably. Drifted downMaine way on his first call and stuck; but I guess he won't stick herevery long. Annie's friend Mr. Gerrish is going to look after Brother Peckbefore a great while. " He laughed, to see her blush, and went on. "You see, Brother Gerrish has got a high ideal of what a Christian minister ought tobe; he hasn't said much about it, but I can see that Brother Peck doesn'tcome up to it. Well, Brother Gerrish has got a good many ideals. He likesto get anybody he can by the throat, and squeeze the difference of opinionout of 'em. "

"There, now, Ralph, " his wife interposed, "you let Mr. Gerrish alone. _You_ don't like people to differ with you, either. Is your cup out, doctor?"

"Thank you, " said the doctor, handing it up to her. "And you mean Mr. Gerrish doesn't like Mr. Peck's doctrine?" he asked of Putney. 

"Oh, I don't know that he objects to his doctrine; he can't very well; it's'between the leds of the Bible, ' as the Hard-shell Baptist said. But heobjects to Brother Peck's walk and conversation. He thinks he walks toomuch with the poor, and converses too much with the lowly. He says hethinks that the pew-owners in Mr. Peck's church and the people who pay hissalary have some rights to his company that he's bound to respect. "

The doctor relished the irony, but he asked, "Isn't there something to sayon that side?"

"Oh yes, a good deal. There's always something to say on both sides, evenwhen one's a wrong side. That's what makes it all so tiresome--makes youwish you were dead. " He looked up, and caught his boy's eye fixed withmelancholy intensity upon him. "I hope you'll never look at both sides whenyou grow up, Win. It's mighty uncomfortable. You take the right side, andstick to that. Brother Gerrish, " he resumed, to the doctor, "goes roundtaking the credit of Brother Peck's call here; but the fact is he opposedit. He didn't like his being so indifferent about the salary. BrotherGerrish held that the labourer was worthy of his hire, and if he didn'tinquire what his wages were going to be, it was a pretty good sign that hewasn't going to earn them. "

"Well, there was some logic in that, " said the doctor, smiling as before. 

"Plenty. And now it worries Brother Gerrish to see Brother Peck going roundin the same old suit of clothes he came here in, and dressing his childlike a shabby little Irish girl. He says that he who provideth not forthose of his own household is worse than a heathen. That's perfectly true. And he would like to know what Brother Peck does with his money, anyway. Hewould like to insinuate that he loses it at poker, I guess; at any rate, hecan't find out whom he gives it to, and he certainly doesn't spend it onhimself. "

"From your account of Mr. Peck. " said the doctor, "I should think BrotherGerrish might safely object to him as a certain kind of sentimentalist. "

"Well, yes, he might, looking at him from the outside. But when you cometo talk with Brother Peck, you find yourself sort of frozen out with amost unexpected, hard-headed cold-bloodedness. Brother Peck is plaincommon-sense itself. He seems to be a man without an illusion, without anemotion. "

"Oh, not so bad as that!" laughed the doctor. 

"Ask Miss Kilburn. She's talked with him, and she hates him. "

"No, I don't, Ralph, " Annie began. 

"Oh, well, then, perhaps he only made you hate yourself, " said Putney. There was something charming in his mockery, like the teasing of a brotherwith a sister; and Annie did not find the atonement to which he brought heraltogether painful. It seemed to her really that she was getting off prettyeasily, and she laughed with hearty consent at last. 

Winthrop asked solemnly, "How did he do that?"

"Oh, I can't tell exactly, Winthrop, " she said, touched by the boy's simpleinterest in this abstruse point. "He made me feel that I had been rathermean and cruel when I thought I had only been practical. I can't explain;but it wasn't a comfortable feeling, my dear. "

"I guess that's the trouble with Brother Peck, " said Putney. "He doesn'tmake you feel comfortable. He doesn't flatter you up worth a cent. There was Annie expecting him to take the most fervent interest in hertheatricals, and her Social Union, and coo round, and tell her what a noblewoman she was, and beg her to consider her health, and not overwork herselfin doing good; but instead of that he simply showed her that she was amoral Cave-Dweller, and that she was living in a Stone Age of socialbrutalities; and of course she hated him. "

"Yes, that was the way, Winthrop, " said Annie; and they all laughed withher. 

"Now you take them into the parlour, Ralph, " said his wife, rising, "andtell them how he made _you_ hate him. "

"I shouldn't like anything better, " replied Putney. He lifted the largeugly kerosene lamp that had been set on the table when it grew dark duringtea, and carried it into the parlour with him. His wife remained to speakwith her little helper, but she sent Annie with the gentlemen. 

"Why, there isn't a great deal of it--more spirit than letter, so tospeak, " said Putney, when he put down the lamp in the parlour. "You knowhow I like to go on about other people's sins, and the world's wickednessgenerally; but one day Brother Peck, in that cool, impersonal way of his, suggested that it was not a wholly meritorious thing to hate evil. He wentso far as to say that perhaps we could not love them that despitefully usedus if we hated their evil so furiously. He said it was a good deal moredesirable to understand evil than to hate it, for then we could begin tocure it. Yes, Brother Peck let in a good deal of light on me. He ratherinsinuated that I must be possessed by the very evils I hated, and that wasthe reason I was so violent about them. I had always supposed that I hatedother people's cruelty because I was merciful, and their meanness becauseI was magnanimous, and their intolerance because I was generous, andtheir conceit because I was modest, and their selfishness because I wasdisinterested; but after listening to Brother Peck a while I came to theconclusion that I hated these things in others because I was cruel myself, and mean, and bigoted, and conceited, and piggish; and that's why I'vehated Brother Peck ever since--just like you, Annie. But he didn't reformme, I'm thankful to say, any more than he did you. I've gone on justthe same, and I suppose I hate more infernal scoundrels and loathe moreinfernal idiots to-day than ever; but I perceive that I'm no part of thepower that makes for righteousness as long as I work that racket; and nowI sin with light and knowledge, anyway. No, Annie, " he went on, "I canunderstand why Brother Peck is not the success with women, and femininetemperaments like me, that his virtues entitle him to be. What we femininetemperaments want is a prophet, and Brother Peck doesn't prophesy wortha cent. He doesn't pretend to be authorised in any sort of way; he has asneaking style of being no better than you are, and of being rather stumpedby some of the truths he finds out. No, women like a good prophet aboutas well as they do a good doctor. Now if you, if you could unite the twofunctions, Doc--"

"Sort of medicine-man?" suggested Morrell. 

"Exactly! The aborigines understood the thing. Why, I suppose that a reallive medicine-man could go through a community like this and not leave asinful soul nor a sore body in it among the ladies--perfect faith cure. "

"But what did you say to Mr. Peck, Ralph?" asked Annie. "Didn't you attemptany defence?"

"No, " said Putney. "He had the advantage of me. You can't talk back at aman in the pulpit. "

"Oh, it was a sermon?"

"I suppose the other people thought so. But I knew it was a privateconversation that he was publicly holding with me. "

Putney and the doctor began to talk of the nature and origin of evil, andAnnie and the boy listened. Putney took high ground, and attributed it toAdam. "You know, Annie, " he explained, "I don't believe this; but I like toget a scientific man that won't quite deny Scripture or the good old Biblepremises, and see him suffer. Hello! you up yet, Winthrop? I guess I'll gothrough the form of carrying you to bed, my son. "

When Mrs. Putney rejoined them, Annie said she must go, and Mrs. Putneywent upstairs with her, apparently to help her put on her things, butreally to have that talk before parting which guest and hostess value abovethe whole evening's pleasure. She showed Annie the pictures of the littlegirls that had died, and talked a great deal about their sickness and theirloveliness in death. Then they spoke of others, and Mrs. Putney asked Annieif she had seen Lyra Wilmington lately. Annie told of her call with Mrs. Munger, and Mrs. Putney said: "I _like_ Lyra, and I always did. Ipresume she isn't very happily married; he's too old; there couldn't havebeen any love on her part. But she would be a better woman than she is ifshe had children. Ralph says, " added Mrs. Putney, smiling, "that he knowsshe would be a good mother, she's such a good aunt. "

Annie put her two hands impressively on the hands of her friend folded ather waist. "Ellen, what _does_ it mean?"

"Nothing more than what you saw, Annie. She must have--or she _will_have--some one to amuse her; to be at her beck and call; and it's best tohave it all in the family, Ralph says. "

"But isn't it--doesn't he think it's--odd?"

"It makes talk. "

They moved a little toward the door, holding each other's hands. "Ellen, I've had a _lovely_ time!"

"And so have I, Annie. I thought you'd like to meet Dr. Morrell. "

"Oh yes, indeed!"

"And I can't tell you what a night this has been for Ralph. He likes you somuch, and it isn't often that he has a chance to talk to two such people asyou and Dr. Morrell. "

"How brilliant he is!" Annie sighed. 

"Yes, he's a very able man. It's very fortunate for Hatboro' to have sucha doctor. He and Ralph are great cronies. I never feel uneasy now whenRalph's out late--I know he's been up at the doctor's office, talking. I--"

Annie broke in with a laugh. "I've no doubt Dr. Morrell is all you say, Ellen, but I meant Ralph when I spoke of brilliancy. He has a great future, I'm sure. "

Mrs. Putney was silent for a moment. "I'm satisfied with the present, solong as Ralph--" The tears suddenly gushed out of her eyes, and ran downover the fine wrinkles of her plump little cheeks. 

"Not quite so much loud talking, please, " piped a thin, high voice from aroom across the stairs landing. 

"Why, dear little soul!" cried Annie. "I forgot he'd gone to bed. "

"Would you like to see him?" asked his mother. 

She led the way into the room where the boy lay in a low bed near a largerone. His crutches lay beside it. "Win sleeps in our room yet. He can takecare of himself quite well. But when he wakes in the night he likes toreach out and touch his father's hand. "

The child looked mortified. 

"I wish I could reach out and touch _my_ father's hand when I wake inthe night, " said Annie. 

The cloud left the boy's face. "I can't remember whether I said my prayers, mother, I've been thinking so. "

"Well, say them over again, to me. "

The men's voices sounded in the hall below, and the ladies found themthere. Dr. Morrell had his hat in his hand. 

"Look here, Annie, " said Putney, "_I_ expected to walk home with you, but Doc Morrell says he's going to cut me out. It looks like a put-up job. I don't know whether you're in it or not, but there's no doubt aboutMorrell. "

Mrs. Putney gave a sort of gasp, and then they all shouted with laughter, and Annie and the doctor went out into the night. In the imperfect lightwhich the electrics of the main street flung afar into the little avenuewhere Putney lived, and the moon sent through the sidewalk trees, theystruck against each other as they walked, and the doctor said, "Hadn't youbetter take my arm, Miss Kilburn, till we get used to the dark?"

"Yes, I think I had, decidedly, " she answered; and she hurried to add: "Dr. Morrell, there is something I want to ask you. You're their physician, aren't you?"

"The Putneys? Yes. "

"Well, then, you can tell me--"

"Oh no, I can't, if you ask me as their physician, " he interrupted. 

"Well, then, as their friend. Mrs. Putney said something to me that makesme very unhappy. I thought Mr. Putney was out of all danger ofhis--trouble. Hasn't he perfectly reformed? Does he ever--"

She stopped, and Dr. Morrell did not answer at once. Then he saidseriously: "It's a continual fight with a man of Putney's temperament, andsometimes he gets beaten. Yes, I guess you'd better know it. "

"Poor Ellen!"

"They don't allow themselves to be discouraged. As soon as he's on his feetthey begin the fight again. But of course it prevents his success in hisprofession, and he'll always be a second-rate country lawyer. "

"Poor Ralph! And so brilliant as he is! He could be anything. "

"We must be glad if he can be something, as it is. "

"Yes, and how happy they seem together, all three of them! That childworships his father; and how tender Ralph is of him! How good he is to hiswife; and how proud she is of him! And that awful shadow over them all thetime! I don't see how they live!"

The doctor was silent for a moment, and finally said: "They have the peacethat seems to come to people from the presence of a common peril, and theyhave the comfort of people who never blink the facts. "

"I think Ralph is terrible. I wish he'd let other people blink the facts alittle. "

"Of course, " said the doctor, "it's become a habit with him now, or amania. He seems to speak of his trouble as if mentioning it were a sort ofconjuration to prevent it. I wouldn't venture to check him in his way oftalking. He may find strength in it. "

"It's all terrible!"

"But it isn't by any means hopeless. "

"I'm so glad to hear you say so. You see a great deal of them, I believe?"

"Yes, " said the doctor, getting back from their seriousness, with apparentrelief. "Pretty nearly every day. Putney and I consider the ways of God toman a good deal together. You can imagine that in a place like Hatboro' onewould make the most of such a friend. In fact, anywhere. "

"Yes, of course, " Annie assented. "Dr. Morrell, " she added, in that effectof continuing the subject with which one breaks away from it, "do you knowmuch about South Hatboro'?"

"I have some patients there. "

"I was there this morning--"

"I heard of you. They all take a great interest in your theatricals. "

"In _my_ theatricals? Really this is too much! Who has made them mytheatricals, I should like to know? Everybody at South Hatboro' talked asif I had got them up. "

"And haven't you?"

"No. I've had nothing to do with them. Mr. Brandreth spoke to me aboutthem a week ago, and I was foolish enough to go round with Mrs. Mungerto collect public opinion about her invited dance and supper; and now itappears that I have invented the whole affair. "

"I certainly got that impression, " said the doctor, with a laugh lurkingunder his gravity. 

"Well, it's simply atrocious, " said Annie. "I've nothing at all to do witheither. I don't even know that I approve of their object. "

"Their object?"

"Yes. The Social Union. "

"Oh! Oh yes. I had forgot about the object, " and now the doctor laughedoutright. 

"It seems to have dropped into the background with everybody, " said Annie, laughing too. 

"You like the unconventionality of South Hatboro'?" suggested the doctor, after a little silence. 

"Oh, very much, " said Annie. "I was used to the same thing abroad. It mightbe an American colony anywhere on the Continent. "

"I suppose, " said the doctor musingly, "that the same conditions of sojournand disoccupation _would_ produce the same social effects anywhere. Then you must feel quite at home in South Hatboro'!"

"Quite! It's what I came back to avoid. I was sick of the life over there, and I wanted to be of some use here, instead of wasting all my days. "

She stopped, resolved not to go on if he took this lightly, but the doctoranswered her with sufficient gravity: "Well?"

"It seemed to me that if I could be of any use in the world anywhere, Icould in the place where I was born, and where my whole childhood wasspent. I've been at home a month now, the most useless person in Hatboro'. I did catch at the first thing that offered--at Mr. Brandreth and hisridiculous Social Union and theatricals, and brought all this trouble onmyself. I talked to Mr. Peck about them. You know what his views are?"

"Only from Putney's talk, " said the doctor. 

"He didn't merely disapprove of the dance and supper, but he had some verypeculiar notions about the relations of the different classes in general, "said Annie; and this was the point she had meant circuitously to lead upto when she began to speak of South Hatboro', though she theoreticallydespised all sorts of feminine indirectness. 

"Yes?" said the doctor. "What notions?"

"Well, he thinks that if you have money, you _can't_ do good with it. "

"That's rather odd, " said Dr. Morrell. 

"I don't state it quite fairly. He meant that you can't make any kindnesswith it between yourself and the--the poor. "

"That's odd too. "

"Yes, " said Annie anxiously. "You can impose an obligation, he says, butyou can't create sympathy. Of course Ralph exaggerates what I said abouthim in connection with the invited dance and supper, though I don't justifywhat I did say; and if I'd known then, as I do now, what his history hadbeen, I should have been more careful in my talk with him. I should be verysorry to have hurt his feelings, and I suppose people who've come up inthat way are sensitive?"

She suggested this, and it was not the reassurance she was seeking to haveDr. Morrell say, "Naturally. "

She continued with an effort: "I'm afraid I didn't respect his sincerity, and I ought to have done that, though I don't at all agree with him on theother points. It seems to me that what he said was shocking, andperfectly--impossible. "

"Why, what was it?" asked the doctor. 

"He said there could be no real kindness between the rich and poor, becauseall their experiences of life were different. It amounted to saying thatthere ought not to _be_ any wealth. Don't you think so?"

"Really, I've never thought about it, " returned Dr. Morrell. After a momenthe asked, "Isn't it rather an abstraction?"

"Don't say that!" said Annie nervously. "It's the _most_ concretething in the world!"

The doctor laughed with enjoyment of her convulsive emphasis; but she wenton: "I don't think life's worth living if you're to be shut up all yourdays to the intelligence merely of your own class. "

"Who said you were?"

"Mr. Peck. "

"And what was your inference from the fact? That there oughtn't to be anyclasses?"

"Of course it won't do to say that. There _must_ be socialdifferences. Don't you think so?"

"I don't know, " said Dr. Morrell. "I never thought of it in that lightbefore. It's a very curious question. " He asked, brightening gaily after amoment of sober pause, "Is that the whole trouble?"

"Isn't it enough?"

"No; I don't think it is. Why didn't you tell him that you didn't want anygratitude?". 

"Not _want_ any?" she demanded. 

"Oh!" said Dr. Morrell, "I didn't know but you thought it was enough to_give. "_

Annie believed that he was making fun of her, and she tried to make herresentful silence dignified; but she only answered sadly: "No; it isn'tenough for me. Besides, he made me see that you can't give sympathy whereyou can't receive it. "

"Well, that _is_ bad, " said the doctor, and he laughed again. "Excuseme, " he added. "I see the point. But why don't you forget it?"

"Forget it!"

"Yes. If you can't help it, why need you worry about it?"

She gave a kind of gasp of astonishment. "Do you really think that would beright?" She edged a little away from Dr. Morrell, as if with distrust. 

"Well, no; I can't say that I do, " he returned thoughtfully, withoutseeming to have noticed her withdrawal. "I don't suppose I was looking atthe moral side. It's rather out of my way to do that. If a physician lethimself get into the habit of doing that, he might regard nine-tenths ofthe diseases he has to treat as just penalties, and decline to interfere. "

She fancied that he was amused again, rather than deeply concerned, and shedetermined to make him own his personal complicity in the matter if shecould. "Then you _do_ feel sympathy with your patients? You find itnecessary to do so?"

The doctor thought a moment. "I take an interest in their diseases. "

"But you want them to get well?"

"Oh, certainly. I'm bound to do all I can for them as a physician. "

"Nothing more?"

"Yes; I'm sorry for them--for their families, if it seems to be going badlywith them. "

"And--and as--as--Don't you care at all for your work as a part of whatevery one ought to do for others--as humanity, philan--" She stopped theoffensive word. 

"Well, I can't say that I've looked at it in that light exactly, " heanswered. "I suspect I'm not very good at generalising my own relations toothers, though I like well enough to speculate in the abstract. But don'tyou think Mr. Peck has overlooked one important fact in his theory? Whatabout the people who have grown rich from being poor, as most Americanshave? They have the same experiences, and why can't they sympathise withthose who have remained poor?"

"I never thought of that. Why didn't I ask him that?" She lamented sosincerely that the doctor laughed again. "I think that Mr. Peck--"

"Oh no! oh no!" said the doctor, in an entreating, coaxing tone, expressiveof a satiety with the subject that he might very well have felt; and heended with another laugh, in which, after a moment of indignantself-question, she joined him. 

"Isn't that delicious?" he exclaimed; and she involuntarily slowed her pacewith his. 

The spicy scent of sweet-currant blossoms hung in the dewy air that wrappedone of the darkened village houses. From a syringa bush before another, asthey moved on, a denser perfume stole out with the wild song of a cat-birdhidden in it; the music and the odour seemed braided together. The shadowsof the trees cast by the electrics on the walks were so thick and blackthat they looked palpable; it seemed as if she could stoop down and liftthem from the ground. A broad bath of moonlight washed one of the housefronts, and the white-painted clapboards looked wet with it. 

They talked of these things, of themselves, and of their own traits andpeculiarities; and at her door they ended far from Mr. Peck and all theperplexities he had suggested. 

She had told Dr. Morrell of some things she had brought home with her, and had said she hoped he would find time to come and see them. It wouldhave been stiff not to do it, and she believed she had done it in a veryoff-hand, business-like way. But she continued to question whether she had. 

XII. 

Miss Northwick called upon Annie during the week, with excuses for herdelay and for coming alone. She seemed to have intentions of being polite;but she constantly betrayed her want of interest in Annie, and disappointedan expectation of refinement which her physical delicacy awakened. Sheasked her how she ever came to take up the Social Union, and answered forher that of course it had the attraction of the theatricals, and went onto talk of her sister's part in them. The relation of the Northwick familyto the coming entertainment, and an impression of frail mottled wrists andhigh thin cheeks, and an absence of modelling under affluent drapery, wasthe main effect of Miss Northwick's visit. 

When Annie returned it, she met the younger sister, whom she found a greatbeauty. She seemed very cold, and of a _hauteur_ which she subduedwith difficulty; but she was more consecutively polite than her sister, and Annie watched with fascination her turns of the head, her movements ofleopard swiftness and elasticity, the changing lights of her complexion, the curves of her fine lips, the fluttering of her thin nostrils. 

A very new basket phaeton stood glittering at Annie's door when she gothome, and Mrs. Wilmington put her head out of the open parlour window. 

"How d'ye do, Annie?" she drawled, in her tender voice. "Won't you come in?You see I'm in possession. I've just got my new phaeton, and I drove up atonce to crush you with it. Isn't it a beauty?"

"You're too late, Lyra, " said Annie. "I've just come from the Northwicks, and another crushing beauty has got in ahead of your phaeton. "

"Oh, _poor_ Annie!" Lyra began to laugh with agreeable intelligence. "_Do_ come in and tell me about it!"

"Why is that girl going to take part in the theatricals? She doesn't careto please any one, does she?"

"I didn't know that people took part in theatricals for that, Annie. Ithought they wanted to please themselves and mortify others. _I_ do. But then I may be different. Perhaps Miss Northwick wants to please Mr. Brandreth. "

"Do you mean it, Lyra?" demanded Annie, arrested on her threshold by thecharm of this improbability. 

"Well, I don't know; they're opposites. But, upon second thoughts, youneedn't come in, Annie. I want you to take a drive with me, and try my newphaeton, " said Lyra, coming out. 

Annie now looked at it with that irresolution of hers, and Lyra commanded:"Get right in. We'll go down to the Works. You've never met my husband yet;have you, Annie?"

"No, I haven't, Lyra. I've always just missed him somehow. He seems to havebeen perpetually just gone to town, or not got back. "

"Well, he's really at home now. And I don't mean at the house, which isn'thome to him, but the Works. You've never seen the Works either, have you?"

"No, I haven't. "

"Well, then, we'll just go round there, and kill two birds with one stone. I ought to show off my new phaeton to Mr. Wilmington first of all; he gaveit to me. It would be kind of conjugal, or filial, or something. You knowMr. Wilmington and I are not exactly contemporaries, Annie?"

"I heard he was somewhat your senior, " said Annie reluctantly. 

Lyra laughed. "Well, I always say we were born in the same century, _any_way. "

They came round into the region of the shops, and Lyra checked her pony infront of her husband's factory. It was not imposingly large, but, as Mrs. Wilmington caused Annie to observe, it was as big as the hat shops and asugly as the shoe shops. 

The structure trembled with the operation of its industry, and as theymounted the wooden steps to the open outside door, an inner door swung ajarfor a moment, and let out a roar mingled of the hum and whirl and clash ofmachinery and fragments of voice, borne to them on a whiff of warm, greasyair. "Of course it doesn't smell very nice, " said Lyra. 

She pushed open the door of the office, and finding its first apartmentempty, led the way with Annie to the inner room, where her husband satwriting at a table. 

"George, I want to introduce you to Miss Kilburn. "

"Oh yes, yes, yes, " said her husband, scrambling to his feet, and cominground to greet Annie. He was a small man, very bald, with a serious andwrinkled forehead, and rather austere brows; but his mouth had a furtivecurl at one corner, which, with the habit he had of touching it there withthe tip of his tongue, made Annie think of a cat that had been at thecream. "I've been hoping to call with Mrs. Wilmington to pay my respects;but I've been away a great deal this season, and--and--We're all very happyto have you home again, Miss Kilburn. I've often heard my wife speak ofyour old days together at Hatboro'. "

They fenced with some polite feints of interest in each other, the old manstanding beside his writing-table, and staying himself with a shaking handupon it. 

Lyra interrupted them. "Well, I think now that Annie is here, we'd betternot let her get away without showing her the Works. "

"Oh--oh--decidedly! I'll go with you, with great pleasure. Ah!" He bustledabout, putting the things together on his table, and then reaching forthe Panama hat on a hook behind it. There was something pathetic in hiseagerness to do what Lyra bade him, and Annie fancied in him the uneasyconsciousness which an elderly husband might feel in the presence of thosewho met him for the first time with his young wife. At the outer officedoor they encountered Jack Wilmington. 

"I'll show them through, " he said to his uncle; and the old man assentedwith, "Well, perhaps you'd better, Jack, " and went back to his room. 

The Wilmington Stocking-Mills spun their own threads, and the first roomwas like what Annie had seen before in cotton factories, with a faintsmell of oil from the machinery, and a fine snow of fluff in the air, andcatching to the white-washed walls and the foul window sashes. The tirelessmachines marched back and forth across the floor, and the men who watchedthem with suicidal intensity ran after them barefooted when they madeoff with a broken thread, spliced it, and then escaped from them totheir stations again. In other rooms, where there was a stunning whir ofspindles, girls and women were at work; they looked after Lyra and hernephew from under cotton-frowsed bangs; they all seemed to know her, andreturned her easy, kindly greetings with an effect of liking. From time totime, at Lyra's bidding, the young fellow explained to Annie some curiousfeature of the processes; in the room where the stockings were knitted shetried to understand the machinery that wrought and seemed to live beforeher eyes. But her mind wandered to the men and women who were operating it, and who seemed no more a voluntary part of it than all the rest, exceptwhen Jack Wilmington curtly ordered them to do this or that in illustrationof some point he was explaining. She wearied herself, as people do in suchplaces, in expressing her wonder at the ingenuity of the machinery; it wasa relief to get away from it all into the room, cool and quiet, where halfa dozen neat girls were counting and stamping the stockings with differentnumbers. "Here's where _I_ used to work, " said Lyra, "and here'swhere I first met Mr. Wilmington. The place is _full_ of romanticassociations. The stockings are all one _size_, Annie; but people liketo wear different numbers, and so we try to gratify them. Which number do_you_ wear? Or don't you wear the Wilmington machine-knit? _I_don't. Well, they're not _dreams_ exactly, Annie, when all's said anddone for them. "

When they left the mill she asked Annie to come home to tea with her, saying, as if from a perception of her dislike for the young fellow, thatJack was going to Boston. 

They had a long evening together, after Mr. Wilmington took himself offafter tea to his study, as he called it, and remained shut in there. Anniewas uneasily aware of him from time to time, but Lyra had apparently nomore disturbance from his absence than from his presence, which she hadmanaged with a frank acceptance of everything it suggested. She talkedfreely of her marriage, not as if it were like others, but for what it was. She showed Annie over the house, and she ended with a display of the richdresses which he was always buying her, and which she never wore, becauseshe never went anywhere. 

Annie said she thought she would at least like to go to the seasidesomewhere during the summer, but "No, " Lyra said; "it would be too muchtrouble, and you know, Annie, I always did hate _trouble_. I don'twant the care of a cottage, and I don't want to be poked into a hotel, soI stay in Hatboro'. " She said that she had always been a village girl, anddid not miss the interests of a larger life, as she caught glimpses of themin South Hatboro', or want the bother of them. She said she studied music alittle, and confessed that she read a good deal, novels mostly, though thelibrary was handsomely equipped with well-bound general literature. 

At moments it all seemed no harm; at others, the luxury in which this lifewas so contentedly sunk oppressed Annie like a thick, close air. Yet sheknew that Lyra was kind to many of the poor people about her, and dida great deal of good, as the phrase is, with the superfluity which itinvolved no self-denial to give from. But Mr. Peck had given her a pointof view, and though she believed she did not agree with him, she could notescape from it. 

Lyra told her much about people in Hatboro', and characterised them all sohumorously, and she seemed so good-natured, in her ridicule which sparednobody. 

She shrieked with laughter about Mr. Brandreth when Annie told her of hismother's doubt whether his love-making with Miss Northwick ought to betacit or explicit in the kissing and embracing between Romeo and Juliet. 

"Don't you think, Annie, we'd better refer him to Mr. Peck? I _should_like to hear Mr. Brandreth and Mr. Peek discussing it. I must tell Jackabout it. I might get him to ask Sue Northwick, and get her ideas. "

"Has Mr. Wilmington known the Northwicks long?" Annie asked. 

"He used to go to their Boston house when he was at Harvard. "

"Oh, then, " said Annie, "perhaps _he_ accounts for her playing Juliet;though, as Tybalt, I don't see exactly how he--"

"Oh, it's at the rehearsals, you know, that the fun is, and then it don'tmatter what part you have. "

Annie lay awake a long time that night. She was sure that she ought not tolike Lyra if she did not approve of her, and that she ought not to havegone home to tea with her and spent the evening with her unless she fullyrespected her. But she had to own to herself that she did like her, andenjoyed hearing her soft drawl. She tried to think how Jack Wilmington'shaving gone to Boston for the evening made it somehow less censurable forher to spend it with Lyra, even if she did not approve of her. As shedrowsed, this became perfectly clear. 

XIII. 

In the process of that expansion from a New England village to an Americantown of which Putney spoke, Hatboro' had suffered one kind of deteriorationwhich Annie could not help noticing. She remembered a distinctlyintellectual life, which might still exist in its elements, but whichcertainly no longer had as definite expression. There used to be houses inwhich people, maiden aunts and hale grandmothers, took a keen interest inliterature, and read the new books and discussed them, some time after theyhad ceased to be new in the publishing centres, but whilst they were stillnot old. But now the grandmothers had died out, and the maiden aunts hadfaded in, and she could not find just such houses anywhere in Hatboro'. The decay of the Unitarians as a sect perhaps had something to do withthe literary lapse of the place: their highly intellectualised belief hadfavoured taste in a direction where the more ritualistic and emotionalreligions did not promote it: and it is certain that they were no longerthe leading people. 

It would have been hard to say just who these leading people were. The oldpolitical and juristic pre-eminence which the lawyers had once enjoyed wasa tradition; the learned professions yielded in distinction to the growingwealth and plutocratic influence of the prosperous manufacturers; thesituation might be summed up in the fact that Colonel Marvin of the shoeinterest and Mr. Wilmington now filled the place once held by Judge Kilburnand Squire Putney. The social life in private houses had undoubtedlyshrunk; but it had expanded in the direction of church sociables, and ithad become much more ecclesiastical in every way, without becoming morereligious. As formerly, some people were acceptable, and some were not;but it was, as everywhere else, more a question of money; there was anaristocracy and a commonalty, but there was a confusion and a more readyconvertibility in the materials of each. 

The social authority of such a person as Mrs. Gerrish was not the onlychange that bewildered Annie, and the effort to extend her relations withthe village people was one from which she shrank till her consciousness hadmore perfectly adjusted itself to the new conditions. Meanwhile Dr. Morrellcame to call the night after their tea at the Putneys', and he fell intothe habit of coming several nights in the week, and staying late. Sometimeshe was sent for at her house by sick people, and he must have left word athis office where he was to be found. 

He had spent part of his student life in Europe, and he looked back to histravel there with a fondness that the Old World inspires less and less inAmericans. This, with his derivation from one of the unliterary Bostonsuburbs, and his unambitious residence in a place like Hatboro', gave hera sense of provinciality in him. On his part, he apparently found it drollthat a woman of her acquaintance with a larger life should be willingto live in Hatboro' at all, and he seemed incredulous about her stayingafter summer was over. She felt that she mystified him, and sometimes shefelt the pursuit of a curiosity which was a little too like a psychicaldiagnosis. He had a way of sitting beside her table and playing with herpaper-cutter, while he submitted with a quizzical smile to her endeavoursto turn him to account. She did not mind his laughing at her eagerness (awoman is willing enough to join a man in making fun of her femininity ifshe believes that he respects her), and she tried to make him talk aboutHatboro', and tell her how she could be of use among the working people. She would have liked very much to know whether he gave his medical servicegratis among them, and whether he found it a pleasure and a privilege to doso. There was one moment when she would have liked to ask him to let her beat the charges of his more indigent patients, but with the words behind herlips she perceived that it would not do. At the best, it would be takinghis opportunity from him and making it hers. She began to see that oneought to have a conscience about doing good. 

She let the chance of proposing this impossibility go by; and after alittle silence Dr. Morrell seemed to revert, in her interest, to theeconomical situation in Hatboro'. 

"You know that most of the hands in the hat-shops are from the farmsaround; and some of them own property here in the village. I know the ownerof three small houses who's always worked in the shops. You couldn't verywell offer help to a landed proprietor like that?"

"No, " said Annie, abashed in view of him. 

"I suppose you ought to go to a factory town like Fall River, if you reallywanted to deal with overwork and squalor. "

"I'm beginning to think there's no such thing anywhere, " she saiddesperately. 

The doctor's eyes twinkled sympathetically. "I don't know whether Bensonearned his three houses altogether in the hat-shops. He 'likes a goodhorse, ' as he says; and he likes to trade it for a better; I know that fromexperience. But he's a great friend of mine. Well, then, there are morewomen than men in the shops, and they earn more. I suppose that's ratherdisappointing too. "

"It is, rather. "

"But, on the other hand, the work only lasts eight months of the year, andthat cuts wages down to an average of a dollar a day. "

"Ah!" cried Annie. "There's some hope in _that_! What do they do whenthe work stops?"

"Oh, they go back to their country-seats. "

"All?"

"Perhaps not all. "

"I _thought_ so!"

"Well, you'd better look round among those that stay. "

Even among these she looked in vain for destitution; she could find that insatisfactory degree only in straggling veterans of the great army of trampswhich once overran country places in the summer. 

She would have preferred not to see or know the objects of her charity, andbecause she preferred this she forced herself to face their distastefulmisery. Mrs. Bolton had orders to send no one from the door who asked forfood or work, but to call Annie and let her judge the case. She knew thatit was folly, and she was afraid it was worse, but she could not send thehomeless creatures away as hungry or poor as they came. They filled hergentlewoman's soul with loathing; but if she kept beyond the range of thepowerful corporeal odour that enveloped them, she could experience theluxury of pity for them. The filthy rags that caricatured them, their sickor sodden faces, always frowsed with a week's beard, represented typicalpoverty to her, and accused her comfortable state with a poignant contrast;and she consoled herself as far as she could with the superstition that inmeeting them she was fulfilling a duty sacred in proportion to the disgustshe felt in the encounter. 

The work at the hat-shops fell off after the spring orders, and did notrevive till the beginning of August. If there was less money among thehands and their families who remained than there was in time of full work, the weather made less demand upon their resources. The children livedmostly out-of-doors, and seemed to have always what they wanted of theseason's fruit and vegetables. They got these too late from the decayinglots at the provision stores, and too early from the nearest orchards; andDr. Morrell admitted that there was a good deal of sickness, especiallyamong the little ones, from this diet. Annie wondered whether she ought notto offer herself as a nurse among them; she asked him whether she could notbe of use in that way, and had to confess that she knew nothing about theprevailing disease. 

"Then, I don't think you'd better undertake it, " he said. "There are toomany nurses there already, such as they are. It's the dull time in most ofthe shops, you know, and the women have plenty of leisure. There are aboutfive volunteer nurses for every patient, not counting the grandmothers onboth sides. I think they would resent any outside aid. "

"Ah, I'm always on the outside! But can't I send--I mean carry--themanything nourishing, any little dishes--"

"Arrowroot is about all the convalescents can manage. " She made a note ofit. "But jelly and chicken broth are always relished by their friends. "

"Dr. Morrell, I must ask you not to turn me into ridicule, if you please. Icannot permit it. "

"I beg your pardon--I do indeed, Miss Kilburn. I didn't mean to ridiculeyou. I began seriously, but I was led astray by remembering what becomes ofmost of the good things sent to sick people. "

"I know, " she said, breaking into a laugh. "I have eaten lots of them formy father. And is arrowroot the only thing?"

The doctor reflected gravely. "Why, no. There's a poor little life now andthen that might be saved by the sea-air. Yes, if you care to send some ofmy patients, with a mother and a grandmother apiece, to the seaside--"

"Don't say another word, doctor, " cried Annie. "You make me _so_happy! I will--I will send their whole families. And you won't, you_won't_ let a case escape, will you, doctor?" It was a break in theiron wall of uselessness which had closed her in; she behaved like a younggirl with an invitation to a ball. 

When the first patient came back well from the seaside her rejoicingoverflowed in exultation before the friends to whom she confessed heragency in the affair. Putney pretended that he could not see what pleasureshe could reasonably take in restoring the child to the sort of life it hadbeen born to; but that was a matter she would not consider, theoreticallyor practically. 

She began to go outside of Dr. Morrell's authority; she looked up two casesherself, and, upon advising with their grandmothers, sent them to theseaside, and she was at the station when the train came in with the youngmother and the still younger aunt of one of the sick children. She didnot see the baby, and the mother passed her with a stare of impassionedreproach, and fell sobbing on the neck of her husband, waiting for her onthe platform. Annie felt the blood drop back upon her heart. She caught atthe girlish aunt, who was looking about her with a sense of the interestwhich attached to herself as a party to the spectacle. 

"Oh, Rebecca, where is the child?"

"Well, there, Miss Kilburn, I'm _ril_ sorry to tell you, but I guessthe sea-air didn't do it a great deal of good, if any. I tell Maria she'llsee it in the right light after a while, but of course she can't, firstoff. Well, there! _Somebody's_ got to look after it. You'll excuse_me_, Miss Kilburn. "

Annie saw her run off to the baggage-car, from which the baggage-man washanding out a narrow box. The ground reeled under her feet; she got thepublic depot carriage and drove home. 

She sent for Dr. Morrell, and poured out the confession of her error uponhim before he could speak. "I am a murderess, " she ended hysterically. "Don't deny it!"

"I think you can be got off on the ground of insanity, Miss Kilburn, if yougo on in this way, " he answered. 

Her desperation broke in tears. "Oh, what shall I do--what shall I do? I'vekilled the child!"

"Oh no, you haven't, " he retorted. "I know the case. The only hope for itwas the sea-air; I was going to ask you to send it--"

She took down her handkerchief and gave him a piercing look. "Dr. Morrell, if you are lying to me--"

"I'm not lying, Miss Kilburn, " he answered. "You've done a veryunwarrantable thing in both of the cases that you sent to the seaside onyour own responsibility. One of them I certainly shouldn't have advisedsending, but it's turned out well. You've no more credit for it, though, than for this that died; and you won't think I'm lying, perhaps, when I sayyou're equally to blame in both instances. "

"I--I beg your pardon, " she faltered, with dawning comfort in his severity. "I didn't mean--I didn't intend to say--"

"I know it, " said Dr. Morrell, allowing himself to smile. "Just rememberthat you blundered into doing the only thing left to be done for Mrs. Savor's child; and--don't try it again. That's all. "

He smiled once more, and at some permissive light in her face, he beganeven to laugh. 

"You--you're horrible!"

"Oh no, I'm not, " he gasped. "All the tears in the world wouldn't help; andmy laughing hurts nobody. I'm sorry for you, and I'm sorry for the mother;but I've told you the truth--I have indeed; and you _must_ believeme. "

The child's father came to see her the next night. "Rebecca she seemed tothink that you felt kind of bad, may be, because Maria wouldn't speak toyou when she first got off the cars yesterday, and I don't say she doneexactly right, myself. The way I look at it, and the way I tell Maria_she'd_ ought to, is like this: You done what you done for the best, and we wa'n't _obliged_ to take your advice anyway. But of courseMaria she'd kind of set her heart on savin' it, and she can't seem to getover it right away. " He talked on much longer to the same effect, tiltedback in his chair, and looking down, while he covered and uncovered one ofhis knees with his straw hat. He had the usual rustic difficulty in gettingaway, but Annie was glad to keep him, in her gratitude for his kindness. Besides, she could not let him go without satisfying a suspicion she had. 

"And Dr. Morrell--have you seen him for Mrs. Savor--have you--" Shestopped, for shame of her hypocrisy. 

"No, 'm. We hain't seen him _sence_. I guess she'll get along. "

It needed this stroke to complete her humiliation before the single-heartedfellow. 

"I--I suppose, " she stammered out, "that you--your wife, wouldn't like meto come to the--I can understand that; but oh! if there is anything I cando for you--flowers--or my carriage--or helping anyway--"

Mr. Savor stood up. "I'm much obliged to _you_, Miss Kilburn; but wethought we hadn't better wait, well not a great while, and--the funeral wasthis afternoon. Well, I wish you good evening. "

She met the mother, a few days after, in the street; with an impulse tocross over to the other side she advanced straight upon her. 

"Mrs. Savor! What can I say to you?"

"Oh, I don't presume but what you meant for the best, Miss Kilburn. But Iguess I shall know what to do next time. I kind of felt the whole whilethat it was a resk. But it's all right now. "

Annie realised, in her resentment of the poor thing's uncouth sorrow, thatshe had spoken to her with the hope of getting, not giving, comfort. 

"Yes, yes, " she confessed. "I was to blame. " The bereaved mother did notgainsay her, and she felt that, whatever was the justice of the case, shehad met her present deserts. 

She had to bear the discredit into which the seaside fell with the mothersof all the other sick children. She tried to bring Dr. Morrell once to theconsideration of her culpability in the case of those who might have livedif the case of Mrs. Savor's baby had not frightened their mothers fromsending them to the seaside; but he refused to grapple with the problem. She was obliged to believe him when he said he should not have advisedsending any of the recent cases there; that the disease was changing itscharacter, and such a course could have done no good. 

"Look here, Miss Kilburn, " he said, after scanning her face sharply, "I'mgoing to leave you a little tonic. I think you're rather run down. "

"Well, " she said passively. 

XIV. 

It was in her revulsion from the direct beneficence which had proved sodangerous that Annie was able to give herself to the more general interestsof the Social Union. She had not the courage to test her influence forit among the workpeople whom it was to entertain and elevate, and whoseco-operation Mr. Peck had thought important; but she went about among theother classes, and found a degree of favour and deference which surprisedher, and an ignorance of what lay so heavy on her heart which was stillmore comforting. She was nowhere treated as the guilty wretch she calledherself; some who knew of the facts had got them wrong; and she discoveredwhat must always astonish the inquirer below the pretentious surface ofour democracy--an indifference and an incredulity concerning the feelingsof people of lower station which could not be surpassed in anothercivilisation. Her concern for Mrs. Savor was treated as a great trial forMiss Kilburn; but the mother's bereavement was regarded as something thosepeople were used to, and got over more easily than one could imagine. 

Annie's mission took her to the ministers of the various denominations, andshe was able to overcome any scruples they might have about the theatricalsby urging the excellence of their object. As a Unitarian, she was notprepared for the liberality with which the matter was considered; theEpiscopalians of course were with her; but the Universalist ministerhimself was not more friendly than the young Methodist preacher, whovolunteered to call with her on the pastor of the Baptist church, andhelp present the affair in the right light; she had expected a degree ofnarrow-mindedness, of bigotry, which her sect learned to attribute toothers in the militant period before they had imbibed so much of its owntolerance. 

But the recollection of what had passed with Mr. Peck remained a reproachin her mind, and nothing that she accomplished for the Social Union withthe other ministers was important. In her vivid reveries she often met him, and combated his peculiar ideas, while she admitted a wrong in her ownposition, and made every expression of regret, and parted from him on thebest terms, esteemed and complimented in high degree; in reality she sawhim seldom, and still more rarely spoke to him, and then with a distanceand consciousness altogether different from the effects dramatised in herfancy. Sometimes during the period of her interest in the sick children ofthe hands, she saw him in their houses, or coming and going outside; butshe had no chance to speak with him, or else said to herself that she hadnone, because she was ashamed before him. She thought he avoided her;but this was probably only a phase of the impersonality which seemedcharacteristic of him in everything. At these times she felt a strangepathos in the lonely man whom she knew to be at odds with many of his ownpeople, and she longed to interpret herself more sympathetically to him, but actually confronted with him she was sensible of something cold andeven hard in the nimbus her compassion cast about him. Yet even this addedto the mystery that piqued her, and that loosed her fancy to play, as soonas they parted, in conjecture about his past life, his marriage, and themad wife who had left him with the child he seemed so ill-fitted to carefor. Then, the next time they met she was abashed with the recollection ofhaving unwarrantably romanced the plain, simple, homely little man, and sheadded an embarrassment of her own to that shyness of his which kept themapart. 

Except for what she had heard Putney say, and what she learned casuallyfrom the people themselves, she could not have believed he ever didanything for them. He came and went so elusively, as far as Annie wasconcerned, that she knew of his presence in the houses of sickness anddeath usually by his little girl, whom she found playing about in thestreet before the door with the children of the hands. She seemed to holdher own among the others in their plays and their squabbles; if she triedto make up to her, Idella smiled, but she would not be approached, andAnnie's heart went out to the little mischief in as helpless goodwill astoward the minister himself. 

She used to hear his voice through the summer-open windows when he calledupon the Boltons, and wondered if some accident would not bring themtogether, but she had to send for Mrs. Bolton at last, and bid her tell Mr. Peck that she would like to see him before he went away, one night. Hecame, and then she began a parrying parley of preliminary nothings beforeshe could say that she supposed he knew the ladies were going on with theirscheme for the establishment of the Social Union; he admitted vaguely thathe had heard something to that effect, and she added that the invited danceand supper had been given up. 

He remained apparently indifferent to the fact, and she hurried on: "And Iought to say, Mr. Peck, that nearly every one--every one whose opinion youwould value--agreed with you that it would have been extremely ill-advised, and--and shocking. And I'm quite ashamed that I should not have seen itfrom the beginning; and I hope--I hope you will forgive me if I said thingsin my--my excitement that must have--I mean not only what I said to you, but what I said to others; and I assure you that I regret them, and--"

She went on and repeated herself at length, and he listened patiently, butas if the matter had not really concerned either of them personally. Shehad to conclude that what she had said of him had not reached him, and sheended by confessing that she had clung to the Social Union project becauseit seemed the only thing in which her attempts to do good were notmischievous. 

Mr. Peck's thin face kindled with a friendlier interest than it had shownwhile the question at all related to himself, and a light of something thatshe took for humorous compassion came into his large, pale blue eyes. Atleast it was intelligence; and perhaps the woman nature craves this as muchas it is supposed to crave sympathy; perhaps the two are finally one. 

"I want to tell you something, Mr. Peck--an experience of mine, " she saidabruptly, and without trying to connect it obviously with what had gonebefore, she told him the story of her ill-fated beneficence to the Savors. He listened intently, and at the end he said: "I understand. But that issorrow you have caused, not evil; and what we intend in goodwill must notrest a burden on the conscience, no matter how it turns out. Otherwise themoral world is no better than a crazy dream, without plan or sequence. Youmight as well rejoice in an evil deed because good happened to come of it. "

"Oh, I _thank_ you!" she gasped. "You don't know what a load you havelifted from me!"

Her words feebly expressed the sense of deliverance which overflowed herheart. Her strength failed her like that of a person suddenly relieved fromsome great physical stress or peril; but she felt that he had given her thetruth, and she held fast by it while she went on. 

"If you knew, or if any one knew, how difficult it, is, what aresponsibility, to do the least thing for others! And once it seemed sosimple! And it seems all the more difficult, the more means you have fordoing good. The poor people seem to help one another without doing anyharm, but if _I_ try it--"

"Yes, " said the minister, "it is difficult to help others when we ceaseto need help ourselves. A" man begins poor, or his father or grandfatherbefore him--it doesn't matter how far back he begins--and then he is inaccord and full understanding with all the other poor in the world; but ashe prospers he withdraws from them and loses their point of view. Then whenhe offers help, it is not as a brother of those who need it, but a patron, an agent of the false state of things in which want is possible; and hishelp is not an impulse of the love that ought to bind us all together, buta compromise proposed by iniquitous social conditions, a peace-offering tohis own guilty consciousness of his share in the wrong. "

"Yes, " said Annie, too grateful for the comfort he had given her toquestion words whose full purport had not perhaps reached her. "And Iassure you, Mr. Peck, I feel very differently about these things since Ifirst talked with you. And I wish to tell you, in justice to myself, thatI had no idea then that--that--you were speaking from your own experiencewhen you--you said how working people looked at things. I didn't know thatyou had been--that is, that--"

"Yes, " said the minister, coming to her relief, "I once worked in acotton-mill. Then, " he continued, dismissing the personal concern, "itseems to me that I saw things in their right light, as I have never beenable to see them since--"

"And how brutal, " she broke in, "how cruel and vulgar, what I said musthave seemed to you!"

"I fancied, " he continued evasively, "that I had authority to set myselfapart from my fellow-workmen, to be a teacher and guide to the true life. But it was a great error. The true life was the life of work, and no oneever had authority to turn from it. Christ Himself came as a labouringman. "

"That is true, " said Annie; and his words transfigured the man who spokethem, so that her heart turned reverently toward him. "But if you had beenmeant to work in a mill all your life, " she pursued, "would you have beengiven the powers you have, and that you have just used to save me fromdespair?"

The minister rose, and said, with a sigh: "No one was meant to work in amill all his life. Good night. "

She would have liked to keep him longer, but she could not think how, at once. As he turned to go out through the Boltons' part of the house, "Won't you go out through my door?" she asked, with a helpless effort athospitality. 

"Oh, if you wish, " he answered submissively. 

When she had closed the door upon him she went to speak with Mrs. Bolton. She was in the kitchen mixing flour to make bread, and Annie tracedher by following the lamp-light through the open door. It discoveredBolton sitting in the outer doorway, his back against one jamb and hisstocking-feet resting against the base of the other. 

"Mrs. Bolton, " Annie began at once, making herself free of one of the hardkitchen chairs, "how is Mr. Peck getting on in Hatboro'?"

"I d'know as I know just what you mean, Miss Kilburn, " said Mrs. Bolton, onthe defensive. 

"I mean, is there a party against him in his church? Is he unpopular?"

Mrs. Bolton took some flour and sprinkled it on her bread-board; then shelifted the mass of dough out of the trough before her, and let it sinksoftly upon the board. 

"I d'know as you can say he's unpoplah. He ain't poplah with some. Yes, there's a party--the Gerrish party. "

"Is it a strong one?"

"It's pretty strong. "

"Do you think it will prevail?"

"Well, most o' folks don't know _what_ they want; and if there's somefolks that know what they _don't_ want, they can generally keep fromhavin' it. "

Bolton made a soft husky prefatory noise of protest in his throat, whichseemed to stimulate his wife to a more definite assertion, and she cut inbefore he could speak--

"_I_ should say that unless them that stood Mr. Peck's friends firstoff, and got him here, done something to keep him, his enemies wa'n't goin'to take up his cause. "

Annie divined a personal reproach for Bolton in the apparent abstraction. 

"Oh, now, you'll see it'll all come out right in the end, Pauliny, " hemildly opposed. "There ain't any such great feelin' about Mr. Peck; nothin'but what'll work itself off perfec'ly natural, give it time. It's goin' tocome out all right. "

"Yes, at the day o' jedgment, " Mrs. Bolton assented, plunging her fistsinto the dough, and beginning to work a contempt for her husband's optimisminto it. 

"Yes, an' a good deal before, " he returned. "There's always somethin' toobjec' to every minister; we ain't any of us perfect, and Mr. Peck's gothis failin's; he hain't built up the church quite so much as some on 'emexpected but what he would; and there's some that don't like his prayers;and some of 'em thinks he ain't doctrinal enough. But I guess, take it allround, he suits pretty well. It'll come out all right, Pauliny. You'llsee. "

A pause ensued, of which Annie felt the awfulness. It seemed to her thatMrs. Bolton's impatience with this intolerable hopefulness must burstviolently. She hastened to interpose. "I think the trouble is that peopledon't fully understand Mr. Peck at first. But they do finally. "

"Yes; take time, " said Bolton. 

"Take eternity, I guess, for some, " retorted his wife. "If you thinkWilliam B. Gerrish is goin' to work round with time--" She stopped for wantof some sufficiently rejectional phrase, and did not go on. 

"The way I look at it, " said Bolton, with incorrigible courage, "is likethis: When it comes to anything like askin' Mr. Peck to resign, it'lldevelop his strength. You can't tell how strong he is without you try togit red of him. I 'most wish it would come, once, fair and square. "

"I'm sure you're right, Mr. Bolton, " said Annie. "I don't believe that yourchurch would let such a man go when it really came to it. Don't they allfeel that he has great ability?"

"Oh, I guess they appreciate him as far forth as ability goes. Some on 'emcomplains that he's a little _too_ intellectial, if anything. But Itell 'em it's a good fault; it's a thing that can be got over in time. "

Mrs. Bolton had ceased to take part in the discussion. She finishedkneading her dough, and having fitted it into two baking-pans and dusted itwith flour, she laid a clean towel over both. But when Annie rose she tookthe lamp from the mantel-shelf, where it stood, and held it up for her tofind her way back to her own door. 

Annie went to bed with a spirit lightened as well as chastened, andkept saying over the words of Mr. Peck, so as to keep fast hold of theconsolation they had given her. They humbled her with, a sense of hiswisdom and insight; the thought of them kept her awake. She remembered thetonic that Dr. Morrell had left with her, and after questioning whether shereally needed it now, she made sure by getting up and taking it. 

XV. 

The spring had filled and flushed into summer. Bolton had gone over thegrass on the slope before the house, and it was growing thick again, darkgreen above the yellow of its stubble, and the young generation of robinswas foraging in it for the callow grasshoppers. Some boughs of the mapleswere beginning to lose the elastic upward lift of their prime, and to hanglooser and limper with the burden of their foliage. The elms drooped lowertoward the grass, and swept the straggling tops left standing in theirshade. 

The early part of September had been fixed for the theatricals. Annierefused to have anything to do with them, and the preparations remainedaltogether with Brandreth. "The minuet, " he said to her one afternoon, whenhe had come to report to her as a co-ordinate authority, "is going to besomething exquisite, I assure you. A good many of the ladies studied it inthe Continental times, you know, when we had all those Martha Washingtonparties--or, I forgot you were out of the country--and it will be doneperfectly. We're going to have the ball-room scene on the tennis-court justin front of the evergreens, don't you know, and then the balcony scenein the same place. We have to cut some of the business between Romeoand Juliet, because it's too long, you know, and some of it's too--toopassionate; we couldn't do it properly, and we've decided to leave it out. But we sketch along through the play, and we have Friar Laurence comingwith Juliet out of his cell onto the tennis-court and meeting Romeo; sothat tells the story of the marriage. You can't imagine what a Mercutio Mr. Putney makes; he throws himself into it heart and soul, especially wherehe fights with Tybalt and gets killed. I give him lines there out of otherscenes too; the tennis-court sets that part admirably; they come out of astreet at the side. I think the scenery will surprise you, Miss Kilburn. Well, and then we have the Nurse and Juliet, and the poison scene--we putit into the garden, on the tennis-court, and we condense the different actsso as to give an idea of all that's happened, with Romeo banished, and allthat. Then he comes back from Mantua, and we have the tomb scene set atone side of the tennis-court just opposite the street scene; and he fightswith Paris; and then we have Juliet come to the door of the tomb--it's aliberty, of course; but we couldn't arrange the light inside--and she stabsherself and falls on Romeo's body, and that ends the play. You see, itgives a notion of the whole action, and tells the story pretty well. Ithink you'll be pleased. "

"I've no doubt I shall, " said Annie. "Did you make the adaptation yourself, Mr. Brandreth?"

"Well, yes, I did, " Mr. Brandreth modestly admitted. "It's been a good dealof work, but it's been a pleasure too. You know how that is, Miss Kilburn, in your charities. "

"_Don't_ speak of my charities, Mr. Brandreth. I'm not a charitableperson. "

"You won't get people to believe _that_" said Mr. Brandreth. "Everybody knows how much good you do. But, as I was saying, my idea was togive a notion of the whole play in a series of passages or tableaux. Someof my friends think I've succeeded so well in telling the story, don't youknow, without a change of scene, that they're urging me to publish myarrangement for the use of out-of-door theatricals. "

"I should think it would be a very good idea, " said Annie. "I suppose Mr. Chapley would do it?"

"Well, I don't know--I don't know, " Mr. Brandreth answered, with a note oftrouble in his voice. "I'm afraid not, " he added sadly. "Miss Kilburn, I'vebeen put in a very unfair position by Miss Northwick's changing her mindabout Juliet, after the part had been offered to Miss Chapley. I've beenmade the means of a seeming slight to Miss Chapley, when, if it hadn't beenfor the cause, I'd rather have thrown up the whole affair. She gave up thepart instantly when she heard that Miss Northwick wished to change hermind, but all the same I know--. "

He stopped, and Annie said encouragingly: "Yes, I see. But perhaps shedoesn't really care. "

"That's what she said, " returned Mr. Brandreth ruefully. "But I don't know. I have never spoken of it with her since I went to tell her about it, afterI got Miss Northwick's note. "

"Well, Mr. Brandreth, I think you've really been victimised; and I don'tbelieve the Social Union will ever be worth what it's costing. "

"I was sure you would appreciate--would understand;" and Mr. Brandrethpressed her hand gratefully in leave-taking. 

She heard him talking with some one at the gate, whose sharp, "All right, my son!" identified Putney. 

She ran to the door to welcome him. 

"Oh, you're _both_ here!" she rejoiced, at sight of Mrs. Putney too. 

"I can send Ellen home, " suggested Putney. 

"Oh _no_, indeed!" said Annie, with single-mindedness at which shelaughed with Mrs. Putney. "Only it seemed too good to have you both, " sheexplained, kissing Mrs. Putney. "I'm _so_ glad to see you!"

"Well, what's the reason?" Putney dropped into a chair and began to rocknervously. "Don't be ashamed: we're _all_ selfish. Has Brandreth beenputting up any more jobs on you?"

"No, no! Only giving me a hint of his troubles and sorrows with thosewretched Social Union theatricals. Poor young fellow! I'm sorry for him. Heis really very sweet and unselfish. I like him. "

"Yes, Brandreth is one of the most lady-like fellows I ever saw, " saidPutney. "That Juliet business has pretty near been the death of him. I toldhim to offer Miss Chapley some other part--Rosaline, the part of the younglady who was dropped; but he couldn't seem to see it. Well, and how come onthe good works, Annie?"

"The good works! Ralph, tell me: _do_ people think me a charitableperson? Do they suppose I've done or can do any good whatever?" She lookedfrom Putney to his wife, and back again with comic entreaty. 

"Why, aren't you a charitable person? Don't you do any good?" he asked. 

"No!" she shouted. "Not the least in the world!"

"It is pretty rough, " said Putney, taking out a cigar for a dry smoke; "andnobody will believe me when I report what you say, Annie. Mrs. Munger istelling round that she don't see how you can live through the summer at therate you're going. She's got it down pretty cold about your taking BrotherPeck's idea of the invited dance and supper, and joining hands with him tosave the vanity of the self-respecting poor. She says that your suppressionof that one unpopular feature has done more than anything else to promotethe success of the Social Union. You ought to be glad Brother Peck iscoming to the show. "

"To the theatricals?"

Putney nodded his head. "That's what he says. I believe Brother Peck iscoming to see how the upper classes amuse themselves when they really tryto benefit the lower classes. "

Annie would not laugh at his joke. "Ralph, " she asked, "is it true that Mr. Peck is so unpopular in his church? Is he really going to be turnedout--dismissed?"

"Oh, I don't know about that. But they'll bounce him if they can. "

"And can nothing be done? Can't his friends unite?"

"Oh, they're united enough now; what they're afraid of is that they're notnumerous enough. Why don't you buy in, Annie, and help control the stock?That old Unitarian concern of yours isn't ever going to get into runningorder again, and if you owned a pew in Ellen's church you could have a votein church meeting, after a while, and you could lend Brother Peck yourmoral support now. "

"I never liked that sort of thing, Ralph. I shouldn't believe with yourpeople. "

"Ellen's people, please. _I_ don't believe with them either. But Ialways vote right. Now you think it over. "

"No, I shall not think it over. I don't approve of it. If I should takea pew in your church it would be simply to hear Mr. Peck preach, andcontribute toward his--"

"Salary? Yes, that's the way to look at it in the beginning. I knew you'dwork round. Why, Annie, in a year's time you'll be trying to _buy_votes for Brother Peck. "

"I should _never_ vote, " she retorted. "And I shall keep myself out ofall temptation by not going to your church. "

"Ellen's church, " Putney corrected. 

She went the next Sunday to hear Mr. Peck preach, and Putney, who seemed tosee her the moment she entered the church, rose, as the sexton was showingher up the aisle, and opened the door of his pew for her with ironicalwelcome. 

"You can always have a seat with us, Annie, " he mocked, on their way out ofthe church together. 

"Thank you, Ralph, " she answered boldly. "I'm going to speak to the sextonfor a pew. "

XVI. 

A wire had been carried from the village to the scene of the play at SouthHatboro', and electric globes fizzed and hissed overhead, flooding the opentennis-court with the radiance of sharper moonlight, and stamping the thickvelvety shadows of the shrubbery and tree-tops deep into the raw green ofthe grass along its borders. 

The spectators were seated on the verandas and terraced turf at the rear ofthe house, and they crowded the sides of the court up to a certain point, where a cord stretched across it kept them from encroaching upon the spaceintended for the action. Another rope enclosed an area all round them, where chairs and benches were placed for those who had tickets. After therejection of the exclusive feature of the original plan, Mrs. Munger hadliberalised more and more: she caused it to be known that all who could getinto her grounds would be welcome on the outside of that rope, even thoughthey did not pay anything; but a large number of tickets had been sold tothe hands, as well as to the other villagers, and the area within the ropewas closely packed. Some of the boys climbed the neighbouring trees, wherefrom time to time the town authorities threatened them, but did not reallydislodge them. 

Annie, with other friends of Mrs. Munger, gained a reserved seat on theveranda through the drawing-room windows; but once there, she found herselfin the midst of a sufficiently mixed company. 

"How do, Miss Kilburn? That you? Well, I declare!" said a voice that sheseemed to know, in a key of nervous excitement. Mrs. Savor's husbandleaned across his wife's lap and shook hands with Annie. "William thoughtI better come, " Mrs. Savor seemed called upon to explain. "I got to do_something_. Ain't it just too cute for anything the way they got themscreens worked into the shrubbery down they-ar? It's like the cycloraymy toBoston; you can't tell where the ground ends and the paintin' commences. Oh, I do want 'em to _begin_!"

Mr. Savor laughed at his wife's impatience, and she said playfully: "Whatyou laughin' at? I guess you're full as excited as what I be, when all'ssaid and done. "

There were other acquaintances of Annie's from Over the Track, in the groupabout her, and upon the example of the Savors they all greeted her. Thewives and sweethearts tittered with self-derisive expectation; the men weregravely jocose, like all Americans in unwonted circumstances, but they wererespectful to the coming performance, perhaps as a tribute to Annie. Shewondered how some of them came to have those seats, which were reserved atan extra price; she did not allow for that self-respect which causes theAmerican workman to supply himself with the best his money can buy whilehis money lasts. 

She turned to see who was on her other hand. A row of three small childrenstretched from her to Mrs. Gerrish, whom she did not recognise at first. "Oh, Emmeline!" she said; and then, for want of something else, she added, "Where is Mr. Gerrish? Isn't he coming?"

"He was detained at the store, " said Mrs. Gerrish, with cold importance;"but he will be here. May I ask, Annie, " she pursued solemnly, "how you gothere?"

"How did I get here? Why, through the windows. Didn't you?"

"May I ask who had charge of the arrangements?"

"I don't know, I'm sure, " said Annie. "I suppose Mrs. Munger. "

A burst of music came from the dense shadow into which the group ofevergreens at the bottom of the tennis-court deepened away from the glisterof the electrics. There was a deeper hush; then a slight jarring andscraping of a chair beyond Mrs. Gerrish, who leaned across her children andsaid, "He's come, Annie--right through the parlour window!" Her voice waslifted to carry above the music, and all the people near were able to sharethe fact that righted Mrs. Gerrish in her own esteem. 

From the covert of the low pines in the middle of the scene Miss Northwickand Mr. Brandreth appeared hand in hand, and then the place filled withfigures from other apertures of the little grove and through the artificialwings at the sides, and walked the minuet. Mr. Fellows, the painter, hadhelped with the costumes, supplying some from his own artistic properties, and mediævalising others; the Boston costumers had been drawn upon by themen; and they all moved through the stately figures with a security whichdiscipline had given them. The broad solid colours which they wore took thelight and shadow with picturesque effectiveness; the masks contributed asense of mystery novel in Hatboro', and kept the friends of the dancersin exciting doubt of their identity; the strangeness of the audience toall spectacles of the sort held its judgment in suspense. The minuetwas encored, and had to be given again, and it was some time before theapplause of the repetition allowed the characters to be heard when thepartners of the minuet began to move about arm in arm, and the dramaproperly began. When the applause died away it was still not easy to hear;a boy in one of the trees called, "Louder!" and made some of the peoplelaugh, but for the rest they were very orderly throughout. 

Toward the end of the fourth act Annie was startled by a child dashingitself against her knees, and breaking into a gurgle of shy laughter aschildren do. 

"Why, you little witch!" she said to the uplifted face of Idella Peck. "Where is your father?"

"Oh, somewhere, " said the child, with entire ease of mind. 

"And your hat?" said Annie, putting her hand on the curly barehead--"where's your hat?"

"On the ground. "

"On the ground--where?"

"Oh, I don't know, " said Idella lightly, as if the pursuit bored her. 

Annie pulled her up on her lap. "Well, now, you stay here with me, if youplease, till your papa or your hat comes after you. "

"My--hat--can't--come--after--me!" said the child, turning back her head, so as to laugh her sense of the joke in Annie's face. 

"No matter; your papa can, and I'm going to keep you. "

Idella let her head fall back against Annie's breast, and began to fingerthe rings on the hand which Annie laid across her lap to keep her. 

"For goodness gracious!" said Mrs. Savor, "who you got there, MissKilburn?"

"Mr. Peck's little girl. "

"Where'd she spring from?"

Mrs. Gerrish leaned forward and spoke across the six legs of her children, who were all three standing up in their chairs: "You don't mean to saythat's Idella Peck? Where's her father?"

"Somewhere, she says, " said Annie, willing to answer Mrs. Gerrish with thechild's nonchalance. 

"Well, that's great!" said Mrs. Gerrish. "I should think he better belooking after her--or some one. "

The music ceased, and the last act of the play began. Before it ended, Idella had fallen asleep, and Annie sat still with her after the crowdaround her began to break up. Mrs. Savor kept her seat beside Annie. Shesaid, "Don't you want I should spell you a little while, Miss Kilburn?" Sheleaned over the face of the sleeping child. "Why, she ain't much more thana baby! William, you go and see if you can't find Mr. Peck. I'm goin' tostay here with Miss Kilburn. " Her husband humoured her whim, and made hisway through the knots and clumps of people toward the rope enclosing thetennis-court. "Won't you let me hold her, Miss Kilburn?" she pleaded again. 

"No, no; she isn't heavy; I like to hold her, " replied Annie. Thensomething occurred to her, and she started in amazement at herself. 

"Or yes, Mrs. Savor, you _may_ take her a while;" and she put thechild into the arms of the bereaved creature, who had fallen desolatelyback in her chair. She hugged Idella up to her breast, and hungrily mumbledher with kisses, and moaned out over her, "Oh dear! Oh my! Oh my!"

XVII. 

The people beyond the rope had nearly all gone away, and Mr. Savor wascoming back across the court with Mr. Peck. The players appeared from thegrove at the other end of the court in their vivid costumes, chatting andlaughing with their friends, who went down from the piazzas and terraces tocongratulate them. Mrs. Munger hurried about among them, saying somethingto each group. She caught sight of Mr. Peck and Mr. Savor, and she ranafter them, arriving with them where Annie sat. 

"I hope you were not anxious about Idella, " Annie said, laughing. 

"No; I didn't miss her at once, " said the minister simply; "and then Ithought she had merely gone off with some of the other children who wereplaying about. "

"You shall talk all that over later, " said Mrs. Munger. "Now, Miss Kilburn, I want you and Mr. Peck and Mr. And Mrs. Savor to stay for a cup of coffeethat I'm going to give our friends out there. Don't you think they deserveit? Wasn't it a wonderful success? They must be frightfully exhausted. Justgo right out to them. I'll be with you in one moment. Oh yes, the child!Well, bring her into the house, Mrs. Savor; I'll find a place for her, andthen you can go out with me. "

"I guess you won't get Maria away from her very easy, " said Mr. Savor, laughing. His wife stood with the child's cheek pressed tight against hers. 

"Oh, I'll manage that, " said Mrs. Munger. "I'm counting on Mrs. Savor. "She added in a hurried undertone to Annie: "I've asked a number of theworkpeople to stay--representative workpeople, the foremen in the differentshops and their families--and you'll find your friends of all classestogether. It's a great day for the Social Union!" she said aloud. "I'm sure_you_ must feel that, Mr. Peck. Miss Kilburn and I have to thank youfor saving us from a great mistake at the outset, and now your staying, "she continued, "will give it just the appearance we want. I'm going to keepyour little girl as a hostage, and you shall not go till I let you. Come, Mrs. Savor!" She bustled away with Mrs. Savor, and Mr. Peck reluctantlyaccompanied Annie down over the lawn. 

He was silent, but Mr. Savor was hilarious. "Well, Mr. Putney, " he said, when he joined the group of which Putney was the centre, "you done that inapple-pie order. I never see anything much better than the way you carriedon with Mrs. Wilmington. "

"Thank you, Mr. Savor, " said Putney; "I'm glad you liked it. You couldn'tsay I was trying to flatter her up much, anyway. "

"No, no!" Mr. Savor assented, with delight in the joke. 

"Well, Annie, " said Putney. He shook hands with her, and Mrs. Putney, whowas there with Dr. Morrell, asked her where she had sat. 

"We kept looking all round for you. "

"Yes, " said Putney, with his hand on his boy's shoulder, "we wanted to knowhow you liked the Mercutio. "

"Ralph, it was incomparable!"

"Well, that will do for a beginning. It's a little cold, but it's in theright spirit. You mean that the Mercutio wasn't comparable to the Nurse. "

"Oh, Lyra was wonderful!" said Annie. "Don't you think so, Ellen?"

"She was Lyra, " said Mrs. Putney definitely. 

"No; she wasn't Lyra at all!" retorted Annie. "That was the marvel of it. She was Juliet's nurse. "

"Perhaps she was a little of both, " suggested Putney. "What did you thinkof the performance, Mr. Peck? I don't want a personal tribute, but if youoffer it, I shall not be ungrateful. "

"I have been very much interested, " said the minister. "It was all very newto me. I realised for the first time in my life the great power that thetheatre must be. I felt how much the drama could do--how much good. "

"Well, that's what we're after, " said Putney. "We had no personal motive;good, right straight along, was our motto. Nobody wanted to outshineanybody else. I kept my Mercutio down all through, so's not to get aheadof Romeo or Tybalt in the public esteem. Did our friends outside the ropecatch on to my idea?" Mr. Peck smiled at the banter, but he seemed not toknow just what to say, and Putney went on: "That's why I made it so bad. Ididn't want anybody to go home feeling sorry that Mercutio was killed. Idon't suppose Winthrop could have slept. "

"You won't sleep yourself to-night, I'm afraid, " said his wife. 

"Oh, Mrs. Munger has promised me a particularly weak cup of coffee. She hasgot us all in, it seems, for a sort of supper, in spite of everything. Iunderstand it includes representatives of all the stations and conditionspresent except the outcasts beyond the rope. I don't see what you're doinghere, Mr. Peck. "

"Was Mr. Peck really outside the rope?" Annie asked Dr. Morrell, as theydropped apart from the others a little. 

"I believe he gave his chair to one of the women from the outside, " saidthe doctor. 

Annie moved with him toward Lyra, who was joking with some of the hands. 

With all her good-nature, she had the effect of patronising them, as shestood talking about the play with them in her drawl, which she had gotback to again. They were admiring her, in her dress of the querulous oldnurse, and told her how they never would have known her. But there was aninsincerity in the effusion of some of the more nervous women, and in thereticence of the others, who were holding back out of self-respect. 

She met Annie and Morrell with eager relief. "Well, Annie?"

"Perfect!"

"Well, now, that's very nice; you can't go beyond perfect, you know. I_did_ do it pretty well, didn't I? Poor Mr. Brandreth! Have you seenhim? You must say something comforting to him. He's really been sacrificedin this business. You know he wanted Miss Chapley. She would have made alovely Juliet. Of course she blames him for it. She thinks he wanted tomake up to Miss Northwick, when Miss Northwick was just flinging herself atJack. Look at her!"

Jack Wilmington and Miss Sue Northwick were standing together near herfather and a party of her friends, and she was smiling and talking athim. Eyes, lips, gestures, attitude expressed in the proud girl a fawningeagerness to please the man, who received her homage rather as if it boredhim. His indifferent manner may have been one secret of his power over her, and perhaps she was not capable of all the suffering she was capable ofinflicting. 

Lyra turned to walk toward the house, deflecting a little in the directionof her nephew and Miss Northwick. "Jack!" she drawled over the shouldernext them as she passed, "I wish you'd bring your aunty's wrap to her onthe piazza. "

"Why, stay here!" Putney called after her. "They're going to fetch therefreshments out here. "

"Yes, but I'm tired, Ralph, and I can't sit on the grass, at my age. "

She moved on, with her sweeping, lounging pace, and Jack Wilmington, aftera moment's hesitation, bowed to Miss Northwick and went after her. 

The girl remained apart from her friends, as if expecting his return. 

Silhouetted against the bright windows, Lyra waited till Jack Wilmingtonreappeared with a shawl and laid it on her shoulders. Then she sank intoa chair. The young man stood beside her talking down upon her. Somethingrestive and insistent expressed itself in their respective attitudes. Hesat down at her side. 

Miss Northwick joined her friends carelessly. 

"Ah, Miss Kilburn, " said Mr. Brandreth's voice at Annie's ear, "I'm gladto find you. I've just run home with mother--she feels the night air--andI was afraid you would slip through our fingers before I got back. Thislittle business of the refreshments was an afterthought of Mrs. Munger's, and we meant it for a surprise--we knew you'd approve of it in the form ittook. " He looked round at the straggling workpeople, who represented theharmonisation of classes, keeping to themselves as if they had been therealone. 

"Yes, " Annie was obliged to say; "it's very pleasant. " She added: "You mustall be rather hungry, Mr. Brandreth. If the Social Union ever gets on itsfeet, it will have _you_ to thank more than any one. "

"Oh, don't speak of me, Miss Kilburn! Do you know, we've netted about twohundred dollars. Isn't that pretty good, doctor?"

"Very, " said the doctor. "Hadn't we better follow Mrs. Wilmington'sexample, and get up under the piazza roof? I'm afraid you'll be the worsefor the night air, Miss Kilburn. Putney, " he called to his friend, "we'regoing up to the house. "

"All right. I guess that's a good idea. "

The doctor called to the different knots and groups, telling them to comeup to the house. Some of the workpeople slipped away through the groundsand did not come. The Northwicks and their friends moved toward the house. 

Mrs. Munger came down the lawn to meet her guests. "Ah, that's right. It'smuch better indoors. I was just coming for you. " She addressed herself moreparticularly to the Northwicks. "Coffee will be ready in a few moments. We've met with a little delay. "

"I'm afraid we must say good night at once, " said Mr. Northwick. "We hadarranged to have our friends and some other guests with us at home. Andwe're quite late now. "

Mrs. Munger protested. "Take our Juliet from us! Oh, Miss Northwick, howcan I thank you enough? The whole play turned upon you!"

"It's just as well, " she said to Annie, as the Northwicks and their friendswalked across the lawn to the gate, where they had carriages waiting. "They'd have been difficult to manage, and everybody else will feel alittle more at home without them. Poor Mr. Brandreth, I'm sure _you_will! I did pity you so, with such a Juliet on your hands!"

In-doors the representatives of the lower classes were less at ease thanthey were without. Some of the ministers mingled with them, and tried toform a bond between them and the other villagers. Mr. Peck took no part inthis work; he stood holding his elbows with his hands, and talking with aperfunctory air to an old lady of his congregation. 

The young ladies of South Hatboro', as Mrs. Munger's assistants, went aboutimpartially to high and low with trays of refreshments. Annie saw Putney, where he stood with his wife and boy, refuse coffee, and she watched himanxiously when the claret-cup came. He waved his hand over it, and said, "No; I'll take some of the lemonade. " As he lifted a glass of it toward hislips he stopped and made as if to put it down again, and his hand shook sothat he spilled some of it. Then he dashed it off, and reached for anotherglass. "I want some more, " he said, with a laugh; "I'm thirsty. " He drank asecond glass, and when he saw a tray coming toward Annie, where Dr. Morrellhad joined her, he came over and exchanged his empty glass for a full one. 

"Not much to brag of as lemonade, " he said, "but first-rate rum punch. "

"Look here, Putney, " whispered the doctor, laying his hand on his arm, "don't you take any more of that. Give me that glass!"

"Oh, all right!" laughed Putney, dashing it off. "You're welcome to thetumbler, if you want it, Doc. "

XVIII. 

Mrs. Munger's guests kept on talking and laughing. With the coffee and thepunch there began to be a little more freedom. Some prohibitionists amongthe working people went away when they found that the lemonade was punch;but Mrs. Munger did not know it, and she saw the ideal of a Social Unionfiguratively accomplished in her own house. She stirred about among herguests till she produced a fleeting, empty good-fellowship among them. Oneof the shoe-shop hands, with an inextinguishable scent of leather and thecharacter of a droll, seconded her efforts with noisy jokes. He proposedgames, and would not be snubbed by the refusal of his boss to countenancehim, he had the applause of so many others. Mrs. Munger approved of theidea. 

"Don't you think it would be great fun, Mrs. Gerrish?" she asked. 

"Well, now, if Squire Putney would lead off, " said the joker, lookinground. 

Putney could not be found, nor Dr. Morrell. 

"They're off somewhere for a smoke, " said Mrs. Munger. "Well, that's right. I want everybody to feel that my house is their own to-night, and to comeand go just as they like. Do you suppose Mr. Peck is offended?" she asked, under her breath, as she passed Annie. "He _couldn't_ feel that thisis the same thing; but I can't see him anywhere. He wouldn't go withouttaking leave, you don't suppose?"

Annie joined Mrs. Putney. They talked at first with those who came to askwhere Putney and the doctor were; but finally they withdrew into a littlealcove from the parlour, where Mrs. Munger approved of their being when shediscovered them; they must be very tired, and ought to rest on the loungethere. Her theory of the exhaustion of those who had taken part in the playembraced their families. 

The time wore on toward midnight, and her guests got themselves away withmore or less difficulty as they attempted the formality of leave-takingor not. Some of the hands who thought this necessary found it a seriousaffair; but most of them slipped off without saying good night to Mrs. Munger or expressing that rapture with the whole evening from beginningto end which the ladies of South Hatboro' professed. The ladies of SouthHatboro' and Old Hatboro' had met in a general intimacy not approachedbefore, and they parted with a flow of mutual esteem. The Gerrish childrenhad dropped asleep in nooks and corners, from which Mr. Gerrish hunted themup and put them together for departure, while his wife remained with Mrs. Munger, unable to stop talking, and no longer amenable to the looks withwhich he governed her in public. 

Lyra came downstairs, hooded and wrapped for departure, with JackWilmington by her side. "Why, _Ellen_!" she said, looking into thelittle alcove from the hall. "Are you here yet? And Annie! Where in theworld is Ralph?" At the pleading look with which Mrs. Putney replied, sheexclaimed: "Oh, it's what I was afraid of! I don't see what the woman couldhave been about! But of course she didn't think of poor Ralph. Ellen, letme take you and Winthrop home! Dr. Morrell will be sure to bring Ralph. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Putney passively, but without rising. 

"Annie can come too. There's plenty of room. Jack can walk. "

Jack Wilmington joined Lyra in urging Annie to take his place. He said toher, apart, "Young Munger has been telling me that Putney got at thesideboard and carried off the rum. I'll stay and help look after him. "

A crazy laugh came into the parlour from the piazza outside, and the groupin the alcove started forward. Putney stood at a window, resting one armon the bar of the long lower sash, which was raised to its full height, and looking ironically in upon Mrs. Munger and her remaining guests. Hewas still in his Mercutio dress, but he had lost his plumed cap, and wasbareheaded. A pace or two behind him stood Mr. Peck, regarding the effectof this apparition upon the company with the same dreamy, indrawn presencehe had in the pulpit. 

"Well, Mrs. Munger, I'm glad I got back in time to tell you how much I'veenjoyed it. Brother Peck wanted me to go home, but I told him, Not tillI've thanked Mrs. Munger, Brother Peck; not till I've drunk her health inher own old particular Jamaica. " He put to his lips the black bottle whichhe had been holding in his right hand behind him; then he took it away, looked at it, and flung it rolling-along the piazza floor. "Didn't get holdof the inexhaustible bottle that time; never do. But it's a good article;a better article than you used to sell on the sly, Bill Gerrish. You'llexcuse my helping myself, Mrs. Munger; I knew you'd want me to. Well, it'sbeen a great occasion, Mrs. Munger. " He winked at the hostess. "You'vehad your little invited supper, after all. You're a manager, Mrs. Munger. You've made even the wrath of Brother Peck to praise you. "

The ladies involuntarily shrank backward as Putney suddenly entered throughthe window and gained the corner of the piano at a dash. He stayed himselfagainst it, slightly swaying, and turned his flaming eyes from one toanother, as if questioning whom he should attack next. 

Except for the wild look in them, which was not so much wilder than theywore in all times of excitement, and an occasional halt at a difficultword, he gave no sign of being drunk. The liquor had as yet merelyintensified him. 

Mrs. Munger had the inspiration to treat him as one caresses a dangerouslunatic. "I'm sure you're very kind, Mr. Putney, to come back. Do sitdown!"

"Why?" demanded Putney. "Everybody else standing. "

"That's true, " said Mrs. Munger. "I'm sure I don't know why--"

"Oh yes, you do, Mrs. Munger. It's because they want to have a good view ofa man who's made a fool of himself--"

"Oh, now, Mr. _Putney_!" said Mrs. Munger, with hospitabledeprecation. "I'm sure no one wants to do anything of the kind. " She lookedround at the company for corroboration, but no one cared to attractPutney's attention by any sound or sign. 

"But I'll tell you what, " said Putney, with a savage burst, "that a womanwho puts hell-fire before a poor devil who can't keep out of it when hesees it, is better worth looking at. "

"Mr. Putney, I assure you, " said Mrs. Munger, "that it was the_mildest_ punch! And I really didn't think--I didn't remember--"

She turned toward Mrs. Putney with her explanation, but Putney seemed tohave forgotten her, and he turned upon Mr. Gerrish, "How's that drunkard'sgrave getting along that you've dug for your porter?" Gerrish remainedprudently silent. "I know you, Billy. You're all right. You've got the pullon your conscience; we all have, one way or another. Here's Annie Kilburn, come back from Rome, where she couldn't seem to fix it up with hers to suither, and she's trying to get round it in Hatboro' with good works. Why, there isn't any occasion for good works in Hatboro'. I could have told youthat before you came, " he said, addressing Annie directly. "What we want isfaith, and lots of it. The church is going to pieces because we haven't gotany faith. "

His hand slipped from the piano, and he dropped heavily back upon a chairthat stood near. The concussion seemed to complete in his brain thetransition from his normal dispositions to their opposite, which hadalready begun. "Bill Gerrish has done more for Hatboro' than any other manin the place. He's the only man that holds the church together, because heknows the value of _faith_. " He said this without a trace of irony, glaring at Annie with fierce defiance. "You come back here, and try to setup for a saint in a town where William B. Gerrish has done--has done moreto establish the dry-goods business on a metro-me-tro-politan basis thanany other man out of New York or Boston. "

He stopped and looked round, mystified, as if this were not the point whichhe had been aiming at. 

Lyra broke into a spluttering laugh, and suddenly checked herself. Putneysmiled slightly. "Pretty good, eh? Say, where was I?" he asked slyly. Lyrahid her face behind Annie's shoulder. "What's that dress you got on? What'sall this about, anyway? Oh yes, I know. _Romeo and Juliet_--SocialUnion. Well, " he resumed, with a frown, "there's too much _Romeo andJuliet_, too much Social Union, in this town already. " He stopped, andseemed preparing to launch some deadly phrase at Mrs. Wilmington, but heonly said, "You're all right, Lyra. "

"Mrs. Munger, " said Mr. Gerrish, "we must be going. Good night, ma'am. Mrs. Gerrish, it's time the children were at home. "

"Of course it is, " said Putney, watching the Gerrishes getting theirchildren together. He waved his hand after them, and called out, "WilliamGerrish, you're a man; I honour you. "

He laid hold of the piano and pulled himself to his feet, and seemed tobecome aware, for the first time, of his wife, where she stood with theirboy beside her. 

"What you doing here with that child at this time of night?" he shouted ather, all that was left of the man in his eyes changing into the glare of apitiless brute. "Why don't you go home? You want to show people what I didto him? You want to publish my shame, do you? Is that it? Look here!"

He began to work himself along toward her by help of the piano. A step washeard on the piazza without, and Dr. Morrell entered through the openwindow. 

"Come now, Putney, " he said gently. The other men closed round them. 

Putney stopped. "What's this? Interfering in family matters? You bettergo home and look after your own wives, if you got any. Get out the way, 'n' you mind your own business, Doc. Morrell. You meddle too much. "His speech was thickening and breaking. "You think science going doeverything--evolution! Talk me about evolution! What's evolution donefor Hatboro'? 'Volved Gerrish's store. One day of Christianity--realChristianity--Where's that boy? If I get hold of him--"

He lunged forward, and Jack Wilmington and young Munger stepped before him. 

Mrs. Putney had not moved, nor lost the look of sad, passive vigilancewhich she had worn since her husband reappeared. 

She pushed the men aside. 

"Ralph, behave yourself! _Here's_ Winthrop, and we want you to take ushome. Come now!" She passed her arm through his, and the boy took his otherhand. The action, so full of fearless custom and wonted affection from themboth, seemed with her words to operate another total change in his mood. 

"All right; I'm going, Ellen. Got to say good night Mrs. Munger, that'sall. " He managed to get to her, with his wife on his arm and his boy at hisside. "Want to thank you for a pleasant evening, Mrs. Munger--want to thankyou--"

"And _I_ want to thank you _too_, Mrs. Munger, " said Mrs. Putney, with an intensity of bitterness no repetition of the words could give, "It's been a pleasant evening for _me_!"

Putney wished to stop and explain, but his wife pulled him away. 

Dr. Morrell and Annie followed to get them safely into the carriage; hewent with them, and when she came back Mrs. Munger was saying: "I willleave it to Mr. Wilmington, or any one, if I'm to blame. It had quite goneout of my head about Mr. Putney. There was plenty of coffee, besides, andif everything that could harm particular persons had to be kept out of theway, society couldn't go on. We ought to consider the greatest good of thegreatest number. " She looked round from one to another for support. No onesaid anything, and Mrs. Munger, trembling on the verge of a collapse, madea direct appeal: "Don't you think so, Mr. Peck?"

The minister broke his silence with reluctance. "It's sometimes best tohave the effect of error unmistakable. Then we are sure it's error. "

Mrs. Munger gave a sob of relief into her handkerchief. "Yes, that's justwhat I say. "

Lyra bent her face on her arm, and Jack Wilmington put his head out of thewindow where he stood. 

Mr. Peck remained staring at Mrs. Munger, as if doubtful what to do. Thenhe said: "You seem not to have understood me, ma'am. I should be to blameif I left you in doubt. You have been guilty of forgetting your brother'sweakness, and if the consequence has promptly followed in his shame, it isfor you to realise it. I wish you a good evening. "

He went out with a dignity that thrilled Annie. Lyra leaned toward her andsaid, choking with laughter, "He's left Idella asleep upstairs. We haven't_any_ of us got _perfect_ memories, have we?"

"Run after him!" Annie said to Jack Wilmington, in undertone, "and get himinto my carriage. I'll get the little girl. Lyra, _don't_ speak ofit. "

"Never!" said Mrs. Wilmington, with delight. "I'm solid for Mr. Peck everytime. "

XIX. 

Annie made up a bed for Idella on a wide, old-fashioned lounge in her room, and put her away in it, swathed in a night-gown which she found amongthe survivals of her own childish clothing in that old chest of drawers. When she woke in the morning she looked across at the little creature, with a tender sense of possession and protection suffusing her troubledrecollections of the night before. Idella stirred, stretched herself witha long sigh, and then sat up and stared round the strange place as if shewere still in a dream. 

"Would you like to come in here with me?" Annie suggested from her bed. 

The child pushed back her hair with her little hands, and after waiting torealise the situation to the limit of her small experience, she said, witha smile that showed her pretty teeth, "Yes. "

"Then come. "

Idella tumbled out of bed, pulling up the nightgown, which was too long forher, and softly thumped across the carpet. Annie leaned over and lifted herup, and pressed the little face to her own, and felt the play of the quick, light breath over her cheek. 

"Would you like to stay with me--live with me--Idella?" she asked. 

The child turned her face away, and hid a roguish smile in the pillow. "Idon't know. "

"Would you like to be my little girl?"

"No. "

"No? Why not?"

"Because--because"--she seemed to search her mind--"because yournight-gowns are too long. "

"Oh, is that all? That's no reason. Think of something else. "

Idella rubbed her face hard on the pillow. "You dress up cats. "

She lifted her face, and looked with eyes of laughing malice into Annie's, and Annie pushed her face against Idella's neck and cried, "You're arogue!"

The little one screamed with laughter and gurgled: "Oh, you tickle! Youtickle!"

They had a childish romp, prolonged through the details of Idella's washingand dressing, and Annie tried to lose, in her frolic with the child, theanxieties that had beset her waking; she succeeded in confusing them withone another in one dull, indefinite pain. 

She wondered when Mr. Peck would come for Idella, but they were still attheir belated breakfast when Mrs. Bolton came in to say that Bolton had metthe minister on his way up, and had asked him if Idella might not stay theweek out with them. 

"I don' know but he done more'n he'd ought. 

"But she can be with us the rest part, when you've got done with her. "

"I haven't begun to get done with her, " said Annie. "I'm glad Mr. Boltonasked. "

After breakfast Bolton himself appeared, to ask if Idella might go up tothe orchard with him. Idella ran out of the room and came back with her haton, and tugging to get into her shabby little sack. Annie helped her withit, and Idella tucked her hand into Bolton's loose, hard fist, and gave ita pull toward the door. 

"Well, I don't see but what she's goin', " he said. 

"Yes; you'd better ask her the next time if _I_ can go, " said Annie. 

"Well, why don't you?" asked Bolton, humouring the joke. "I guess you'denjoy it about as well as any. We're just goin' for a basket of wind-fallsfor pies. I guess we ain't a-goin' to be gone a great while. "

Annie watched them up the lane from the library window with a queer grudgeat heart; Bolton stiffly lumbering forward at an angle of forty-fivedegrees, the child whirling and dancing at his side, and now before and nowafter him. 

At the sound of wheels on the gravel before the front door, Annie turnedaway with such an imperative need of its being Dr. Morrell's buggy that itwas almost an intolerable disappointment to find it Mrs. Munger's phaeton. 

Mrs. Munger burst in upon her in an excitement which somehow had an effectof premeditation. 

"Miss Kilburn, I wish to know what you think of Mr. And Mrs. Putney'sbehaviour to me, and Mr. Peck's, in my own house, last night. They arefriends of yours, and I wish to know if you approve of it. I come toyou _as_ their friend, and I am sure you will feel as I do that myhospitality has been abused. It was an outrage for Mr. Putney to getintoxicated in my house; and for Mr. Peck to attack me as he did beforeeverybody, because Mr. Putney had taken advantage of his privileges, wasabominable. I am not a member of his church; and even if I were, he wouldhave had no right to speak so to me. "

Annie felt the blood fly to her head, and she waited a moment to regain hercoolness. "I wonder you came to ask me, Mrs. Munger, if you were so surethat I agreed with you. I'm certainly Mr. And Mrs. Putney's friend, andso far as admiring Mr. Peck's sincerity and goodness is concerned, I'm_his_ friend. But I'm obliged to say that you're mistaken about therest. "

She folded her hands at her waist, and stood up very straight, lookingfirmly at Mrs. Munger, who made a show of taking a new grip of her sensesas she sank unbidden into a chair. 

"Why, what do you mean, Miss Kilburn?"

"It seems to me that I needn't say. "

"Why, but you must! You _must_, you know. I can't be _left_ so! Imust know where I _stand_! I must be sure of my _ground_! I can'tgo on without understanding just how much you mean by my being mistaken. "

She looked Annie in the face with eyes superficially expressive ofindignant surprise, and Annie perceived that she wished to restore herselfin her own esteem by browbeating some one else into the affirmation of herinnocence. 

"Well, if you must know, Mrs. Munger, I mean that you ought to haveremembered Mr. Putney's infirmity, and that it was cruel to put temptationin his way. Everybody knows that he can't resist it, and that he is makingsuch a hard fight to keep out of it. And then, if you press me for anopinion, I must say that you were not justifiable in asking Mr. Peck totake part in a social entertainment when we had explicitly dropped thatpart of the affair. "

Mrs. Munger had not pressed Annie for an opinion on this point at all; butin their interest in it they both ignored the fact. Mrs. Munger tacitlyadmitted her position in retorting, "He needn't have stayed. "

"You made him stay--you remember how--and he couldn't have got away withoutbeing rude. "

"And you think he wasn't rude to scold me before my guests?"

"He told you the truth. He didn't wish to say anything, but you forced himto speak, just as you have forced me. "

"Forced _you_? Miss Kilburn!"

"Yes. I don't at all agree with Mr. Peck in many things, but he is a goodman, and last night he spoke the truth. I shouldn't be speaking it if Ididn't tell you I thought so. "

"Very well, then, " said Mrs. Munger, rising. 

"After this you can't expect me to have anything to do with the SocialUnion; you couldn't _wish_ me to, if that's your opinion of mycharacter. "

"I haven't expressed any opinion of your character, Mrs. Munger, if you'llremember, please; and as for the Social Union, I shall have nothing furtherto do with it myself. "

Annie drew herself up a little higher, and silently waited for her visitorto go. 

But Mrs. Munger remained. 

"I don't believe Mrs. Putney herself would say what you have said, " sheremarked, after an embarrassing moment. "If it were really so I should bewilling to make any reparation--to acknowledge it. Will you go with me toMrs. Putney's? I have my phaeton here, and--"

"I shouldn't dream of going to Mrs. Putney's with you. "

Mrs. Munger urged, with the effect of invincible argument: "I've been downin the village, and I've talked to a good many about it--some of themhadn't heard of it before--and I must say, Miss Kilburn, that peoplegenerally take a very different view of it from what you do. They thinkthat my hospitality has been shamefully abused. Mr. Gates said he shouldthink I would have Mr. Putney arrested. But I don't care for all that. WhatI wish is to prove to you that I am right; and if I can go with you to callon Mrs. Putney, I shall not care what any one else says. Will you come?"

"Certainly not, " cried Annie. 

They both stood a moment, and in this moment Dr. Morrell drove up, anddropped his hitching-weight beyond Mrs. Munger's phaeton. 

As he entered she said: "We will let Dr. Morrell decide. I've been askingMiss Kilburn to go with me to Mrs. Putney's. I think it would be a gracefuland proper thing for me to do, to express my sympathy and interest, and tohear what Mrs. Putney really has to say. Don't _you_ think I ought togo to see her, doctor?"

The doctor laughed. "I can't prescribe in matters of social duty. But whatdo you want to see Mrs. Putney for?"

"What for? Why, doctor, on account of Mr. Putney--what took place lastnight. "

"Yes? What was that?"

"What was _that_? Why, his strange behaviour--his--his intoxication. "

"Was he intoxicated? Did you think so?"

"Why, you were there, doctor. Didn't you think so?"

Annie looked at him with as much astonishment as Mrs. Munger. 

The doctor laughed again. "You can't always tell when Putney's joking; he'sa great joker. Perhaps he was hoaxing. "

"Oh doctor, do you think he _could_ have been?" said Mrs. Munger, withclasped hands. "It would make me the happiest woman in the world! I'dforgive him all he's made me suffer. But _you're_ joking _now_, doctor?"

"You can't tell when people are joking. If I'm not, does it follow that I'mreally intoxicated?"

"Oh, but that's nonsense, Dr. Morrell. That's mere--what do you callit?--chop logic. But I don't mind it. I grasp at a straw. " Mrs. Mungergrasped at a straw of the mind, to show how. "But what _do_ you mean?"

"Well, Mrs. Putney wasn't intoxicated last night, but she's not well thismorning. I'm afraid she couldn't see you. "

"Just as you _say_, doctor, " cried Mrs. Munger, with mountingcheerfulness. "I _wish_ I knew just how much you meant, and howlittle. " She moved closer to the doctor, and bent a look of candid fondnessupon him. "But I know you're trying to mystify me. "

She pursued him with questions which he easily parried, smiling andlaughing. At the end she left him to Annie, with adieux that were almostradiant. "Anyhow, I shall take the benefit of the doubt, and if Mr. Putneywas hoaxing, I shall not give myself away. _Do_ find out what hemeans, Miss Kilburn, won't you?" She took hold of Annie's unoffered hand, and pressed it in a double leathern grasp, and ran out of the room with alightness of spirit which her physical bulk imperfectly expressed. 

XX. 

"Well?" said Annie, to the change which came over Morrell's face when Mrs. Munger was gone. 

"Oh, it's a miserable business! He must go on now to the end of hisdebauch. He's got past doing any mischief, I'm thankful to say. But I hadhoped to tide him over a while longer, and now that fool has spoiledeverything. Well!"

Annie's heart warmed to his vexation, and she postponed another emotion. "Yes, she _is_ a fool. I wish you had qualified the term, doctor. "

They looked at each other solemnly, and then laughed. "It won't do for aphysician to swear, " said Morrell. "I wish you'd give me a cup of coffee. I've been up all night. "

"With Ralph?"

"With Putney. "

"You shall have it instantly; that is, as instantly as Mrs. Bolton cankindle up a fire and make it. " She went out to the kitchen, and gave theorder with an imperiousness which she softened in Dr. Morrell's interest byexplaining rather fully to Mrs. Bolton. 

When she came back she wanted to talk seriously, tragically, about Putney. But the doctor would not. He said that it paid to sit up with Putney, drunkor sober, and hear him go on. He repeated some things Putney said about Mr. Peck, about Gerrish, about Mrs. Munger. 

"But why did you try to put her off in that way--to make her believe hewasn't intoxicated?" asked Annie, venting her postponed emotion, which wasof disapproval. 

"I don't know. It came into my head. But she knows better. "

"It was rather cruel; not that she deserves any mercy. She caught so at theidea. "

"Oh yes, I saw that. She'll humbug herself with it, and you'll see thatbefore night there'll be two theories of Putney's escapade. I think thelast will be the popular one. It will jump with the general opinion ofPutney's ability to carry anything out. And Mrs. Munger will do all she canto support it. "

Mrs. Bolton brought in the coffee-pot, and Annie hesitated a moment, withher hand on it, before pouring out a cup. 

"I don't like it, " she said. 

"I know you don't. But you can say that it wasn't Putney who hoaxed Mrs. Munger, but Dr. Morrell. "

"Oh, you didn't either of you hoax her. "

"Well, then, there's no harm done. "

"I'm not so sure. "

"And you won't give me any coffee?"

"Oh yes, I'll give you some _coffee_, " said Annie, with a sigh ofbaffled scrupulosity that made them both laugh. 

He broke out again after he had begun to drink his coffee. 

"Well?" she demanded, from her own lapse into silence. 

"Oh, nothing! Only Putney. He wants Brother Peck, as he calls him, to uniteall the religious elements of Hatboro' in a church of his own, and sendout missionaries to the heathen of South Hatboro' to preach a practicalChristianity. He makes South Hatboro' stand for all that's worldly anddepraved. "

"Poor Ralph! Is that the way he talks?"

"Oh, not all the time. He talks a great many other ways. "

"I wonder you can laugh. "

"He's been very severe on Brother Peck for neglecting the discipline ofhis child. He says he ought to remember his duty to others, and save thecommunity from having the child grow up into a capricious, wilful woman. Putney was very hard upon your sex, Miss Kilburn. He attributed nearly allthe trouble in the world to women's wilfulness and caprice. "

He looked across the table at her with his merry eyes, whose sweetnessshe felt even in her sudden preoccupation with the notion which she nowlaunched upon him, leaning forward and pushing some books and magazinesaside, as if she wished to have nothing between her need and his response. 

"Dr. Morrell, what should you think of my asking Mr. Peck to give me hislittle girl?"

"To give you his--"

"Yes. Let me take Idella--keep her--adopt her! I've nothing to do, as youknow very well, and she'd be an occupation; and it would be far betterfor her. What Ralph says is true. She's growing up without any sort oftraining; and I think if she keeps on she will be mischievous to herselfand every one else. "

"Really?" asked the doctor. "Is it so bad as that?"

"Of course not. And of course I don't want Mr. Peck to renounce all claimto his child; but to let me have her for the present, or indefinitely, andget her some decent clothes, and trim her hair properly, and give her somesort of instruction--"

"May I come in?" drawled Mrs. Wilmington's mellow voice, and Annie turnedand saw Lyra peering round the edge of the half-opened library door. "I'vebeen discreetly hemming and scraping and hammering on the wood-work so asnot to overhear, and I'd have gone away if I hadn't been afraid of beingoverheard. "

"Oh, come in, Lyra, " said Annie; and she hoped that she had kept the spiritof resignation with which she spoke out of her voice. 

Dr. Morrell jumped up with an apparent desire to escape that wounded andexasperated her. She put out her hand quite haughtily to him and asked, "Oh, must you go?"

"Yes. How do you do, Mrs. Wilmington? You'd better get Miss Kilburn to giveyou a cup of her coffee. "

"Oh, I will, " said Lyra. She forbore any reference, even by a look, to theintimate little situation she had disturbed. 

Morrell added to Annie: "I like your plan. It 'a the best thing you coulddo. "

She found she had been keeping his hand, and in the revulsion from wrath tojoy she violently wrung it. 

"I'm _so_ glad!" She could not help following him to the door, in thehope that he would say something more, but he did not, and she could onlyrepeat her rapturous gratitude in several forms of incoherency. 

She ran back to Mrs. Wilmington. "Lyra, what do you think of my taking Mr. Peck's little girl?"

Mrs. Wilmington never allowed herself to seem surprised at anything; shewas, in fact, surprised at very few things. She had got into the easiestchair in the room, and she answered from it, with a luxurious interest inthe affair, "Well, you know what people will say, Annie. "

"No, I don't. _What_ will they say?"

"That you're after Mr. Peck pretty openly. "

Annie turned scarlet. "And when they find I'm _not_?" she demandedwith severity, that had no effect upon Lyra. 

"Then they'll say you couldn't get him. "

"They may say what they please. What do you think of the plan?"

"I think it would be the greatest blessing for the poor little thing, " saidLyra, with a nearer approach to seriousness than she usually made. "And thegreatest care for you, " she added, after a moment. 

"I shall not care for the care. I shall be glad of it--thankful for it, "cried Annie fervidly. 

"If you can get it, " Lyra suggested. 

"I believe I can get it. I believe I can make Mr. Peck see that it's aduty. I shall ask him to regard it as a charity to me--as a mercy. "

"Well, that's a good way to work upon Mr. Peck's feelings, " said Lyrademurely. "Was that the plan that Dr. Morrell approved of so highly?"

"Yes. "

"I didn't know but it was some course of treatment. You pressed his handso affectionately. I said to myself, Well, Annie's either an enthusiasticpatient, or else--"

"What?" demanded Annie, at the little stop Lyra made. 

"Well, you know what people do _say_, Annie. "

"What?"

"Why, that you're very much out of health, or--" Lyra made another of hertantalising stops. 

"Or what?"

"Or Dr. Morrell is very much in love. "

"Lyra, I can't allow you to say such things to me. "

"No; that's what I've kept saying to myself all the time. But you wouldhave it _out_ of me. _I_ didn't want to say it. "

It was impossible to resist Lyra's pretended deprecation. Annie laughed. "Isuppose I can't help people's talking, and I ought to be too old to care. "

"You ought, but you're not, " said Lyra flatteringly. "Well, Annie, what doyou think of our little evening at Mrs. Munger's in the dim retrospect?Poor Ralph! What did the doctor say about him?" She listened with so keena relish for the report of Putney's sayings that Annie felt as if she hadbeen turning the affair into comedy for Lyra's amusement. "Oh dear, I wishI could hear him! I thought I should have died last night when he cameback, and began to scare everybody blue with his highly personal remarks. I wish he'd had time to get round to the Northwicks. "

"Lyra, " said Annie, nerving herself to the office; "don't you think it waswicked to treat that poor girl as you did?"

"Well, I suppose that's the way some people might look at it, " said Lyradispassionately. 

"Then how--_how_ could you do it?"

"Oh, it's easy enough to behave wickedly, Annie, when you feel like it, "said Lyra, much amused by Annie's fervour, apparently. "Besides, I don'tknow that it was so _very_ wicked. What makes you think it was?"

"Oh, it wasn't that merely. Lyra, may I--_may_ I speak to you plainly, frankly--like a sister?" Annie's heart filled with tenderness for Lyra, with the wish to help her, to save a person who charmed her so much. 

"Well, like a _step_-sister, you may, " said Lyra demurely. 

"It wasn't for her sake alone that I hated to see it. It was for yoursake--for _his_ sake. "

"Well, that's very kind of you, Annie, " said Lyra, without the leastresentment. "And I know what you mean. But it really doesn't hurteither Jack or me. I'm not very goody-goody, Annie; I don't pretend tobe; but I'm not very baddy-baddy either. I assure you"--Lyra laughedmischievously--"I'm one of the very few persons in Hatboro' who are betterthan they should be. "

"I know it, Lyra--I know it. But you have no right to keep him from takinga fancy to some young girl--and marrying her; to keep him to yourself; tomake people talk. "

"There's something in that, " Lyra assented, with impartiality. "But I don'tthink it would be well for Jack to marry yet; and if I see him taking afancy to any real nice girl, I sha'n't interfere with him. But I shall bevery _particular_, Annie. "

She looked at Annie with such a droll mock earnest, and shook her head withsuch a burlesque of grandmotherly solicitude, that Annie laughed in spiteof herself. "Oh, Lyra, Lyra!"

"And as for me, " Lyra went on, "I assure you I don't care for the littlebit of harm it does me. "

"But you ought--you ought!" cried Annie. "You ought to respect yourselfenough to care. You ought to respect other women enough. "

"Oh, I guess I'd let the balance of the sex slide, Annie, " said Lyra. 

"No, you mustn't; you can't. We are all bound together; we owe everythingto each other. "

"Isn't that rather Peckish?" Lyra suggested. 

"I don't know. But it's true, Lyra. And I shouldn't be ashamed of gettingit from Mr. Peck. "

"Oh, I didn't say you would be. "

"And I hope you won't be hurt with me. I know that it's a mostunwarrantable thing to speak to you about such a matter; but you know whyI do it. "

"Yes, I suppose it's because you like me; and I appreciate that, I assureyou, Annie. "

Lyra was soberer than she had yet been, and Annie felt that she was reallygaining ground. "And your husband; you ought to respect _him_--"

Lyra laughed out with great relish. "Oh, now, Annie, you _are_ joking!Why in the _world_ should I respect Mr. Wilmington? An old man likehim marrying a young girl like me!" She jumped up and laughed at the lookin Annie's face. "Will you go round with me to the Putneys? thought Ellenmight like to see us. "

"No, no. I can't go, " said Annie, finding it impossible to recover at oncefrom the quite unanswerable blow her sense of decorum--she thought it hermoral sense--had received. 

"Well, you'll be glad to have _me_ go, anyway, " said Lyra. She sawAnnie shrinking from her, and she took hold of her, and pulled her up andkissed her. "You dear old thing! I wouldn't hurt your feelings for theworld. And whichever it is, Annie, the parson or the doctor, I wish himjoy. "

That afternoon, as Annie was walking to the village, the doctor drove up tothe sidewalk, and stopped near her. "Miss Kilburn, I've got a letter fromhome. They write me about my mother in a way that makes me rather anxious, and I shall run down to Chelsea this evening. "

"Oh, I'm sorry for your bad news. I hope it's nothing serious. "

"She's old; that's the only cause for anxiety. But of course I must go. "

"Oh yes, indeed. I do hope you'll find all right with her. "

"Thank you very much. I'm sorry that I must leave Putney at such a time. But I leave him with Mr. Peck, who's promised to be with him. I thoughtyou'd like to know. "

"Yes, I do; it's very kind of you--very kind indeed. "

"Thank you, " said the doctor. It was not the phrase exactly, but it servedthe purpose of the cordial interest in which they parted as well asanother. 

XXI. 

During the days that Mr. Peck had consented to leave Idella with her Annietook the whole charge of the child, and grew into an intimacy with herthat was very sweet. It was not necessary to this that Idella should bealways tractable and docile, which she was not, but only that she shouldbe affectionate and dependent; Annie found that she even liked her to bea little baddish; it gave her something to forgive; and she experienced aperverse pleasure in discovering that the child of a man so self-forgetfulas Mr. Peck was rather more covetous than most children. It also amused herthat when some of Idella's shabby playmates from Over the Track casuallyfound their way to the woods past Annie's house, and tried to tempt Idellato go with them, the child disowned them, and ran into the house fromthem; so soon was she alienated from her former life by her present socialadvantages. She apparently distinguished between Annie and the Boltons, orif not quite this, she showed a distinct preference for her company, andfor her part of the house. She hung about Annie with a flattering curiosityand interest in all she did. She lost every trace of shyness with her, butdeveloped an intense admiration for her in every way--for her dresses, herrings, her laces, for the elegancies that marked her a gentlewoman. Shepronounced them prettier than Mrs. Warner's things, and the house prettierand larger. 

"Should you like to live with me?" Annie asked. 

The child seemed to reflect. Then she said, with the indirection of her ageand sex, pushing against Annie's knee, "I don't know what your name is. "

"Have you never heard my name? It's Annie. How do you like it?"

"It's--it's too short, " said the child, from her readiness always to answersomething that charmed Annie. 

"Well, then you can make it longer. You can call me Aunt Annie. I thinkthat will be better for a little girl; don't you?"

"Mothers can whip, but aunts can't, " said Idella, bringing a practicalknowledge, acquired from her observation of life Over the Track, to aconsideration of the proposed relation. 

"I know _one_ aunt who won't, " said Annie, touched by the reply. 

Saturday evening Idella's father came for her; and with a preamble whichseemed to have been unnecessary when he understood it, Annie asked him tolet her keep the child, at least till he had settled himself in a house ofhis own, or, she hinted, in some way more comfortable for Idella than hewas now living. In her anxiety to make him believe that she was not takingtoo great a burden on her hands, she became slowly aware that no fear ofthis had apparently troubled him, and that he was looking at the wholematter from a point outside of questions of polite ceremonial, even ofpersonal feeling. 

She was vexed a little with his insensibility to the favour she meant thechild, and she could not help trying to make him realise it. "I don'tpromise always to be the best guide, philosopher, and friend that Idellacould have"--she took this light tone because she found herself afraid ofhim--"but I think I shall be a little improvement on some of her friendsOver the Track. At least, if she wants my cat, she shall have it withoutfighting for it. "

Mr. Peck looked up with question, and she went on to tell him of a strugglewhich she had seen one day between Idella and a small Irish boy for akitten; it really belonged to the boy, but Idella carried it off. 

The minister listened attentively. At the end: "Yes, " he said, "that lustof possession is something all but impossible, even with constant care, to root out of children. I have tried to teach Idella that nothing isrightfully hers except while she can use it; but it is hard to make herunderstand, and when she is with other children she forgets. "

Annie could not believe at first that he was serious, and then she wasdisposed to laugh. "Really, Mr. Peck, " she began, "I can't think it's soimportant that a little thing like Idella should be kept from covetinga kitten as that she should be kept from using naughty words and fromscratching and biting. "

"I know, " Mr. Peck consented. "That is the usual way of looking at suchthings. "

"It seems to me, " said Annie, "that it's the common-sense way. "

"Perhaps. But upon the whole, I don't agree with you. It is bad for thechild to use naughty words and to scratch and bite; that's part of thewarfare in which we all live; but it's worse for her to covet, and to wishto keep others from having. "

"I don't wonder you find it hard to make her understand that. "

"Yes, it's hard with all of us. But if it is ever to be easier we mustbegin with the children. "

He was silent, and Annie did not say anything. She was afraid that she hadnot helped her cause. "At least, " she finally ventured, "you can't objectto giving Idella a little rest from the fray. Perhaps if she finds that shecan get things without fighting for them, she'll not covet them so much. "

"Yes, " he said, with a dim smile that left him sad again, "there is sometruth in that. But I'm not sure that I have the right to give heradvantages of any kind, to lift her above the lot, the chance, of the leastfortunate--"

"Surely, we are bound to provide for those of our own household, " saidAnnie. 

"Who are those of our own household?" asked the minister. "All mankind arethose of our own household. These are my mother and my brother and mysister. "

"Yes, I know, " said Annie, somewhat eagerly quitting this difficult ground. "But you can leave her with me at least till you get settled, " shefaltered, "if you don't wish it to be for longer. "

"Perhaps it may not be for long, " he answered, "if you mean my settlementin Hatboro'. I doubt, " he continued, lifting his eyes to the question inhers, "whether I shall remain here. "

"Oh, I hope you will, " cried Annie. She thought she must make a pretence ofmisunderstanding him. "I supposed you were very much satisfied with yourwork here. "

"I am not satisfied with myself in my work, " replied the minister; "and Iknow that I am far from acceptable to many others in it. "

"You are acceptable to those who are best able to appreciate you, Mr. Peck, " she protested, "and to people of every kind. I'm sure it's only aquestion of time when you will be thoroughly acceptable to all. I wantyou to understand, Mr. Peck, " she added, "that I was shocked and ashamedthe other night at your being tricked into countenancing a part of theentertainment you were promised should be dropped. I had nothing to dowith it. "

"It was very unimportant, after all, " the minister said, "as far as I wasconcerned. In fact, I was interested to see the experiment of bringing thedifferent grades of society together. "

"It seems to me it was an utter failure, " suggested Annie. 

"Quite. But it was what I expected. "

There appeared an uncandour in this which Annie could not let pass even ifit imperilled her present object to bring up the matter of past contention. "But when we first talked of the Social Union you opposed it because itwouldn't bring the different classes together. "

"Did you understand that? Then I failed to make myself clear. I wishedmerely to argue that the well-meaning ladies who suggested it were notintending a social union at all. In fact, such a union in our presentcondition of things, with its division of classes, is impossible--as Mrs. Munger's experiment showed--with the best will on both sides. But, as Isaid, the experiment was interesting, though unimportant, except as itresulted in heart-burning and offence. "

They were on the same ground, but they had reached it from starting-pointsso opposite that Annie felt it very unsafe. In her fear of getting intosome controversy with Mr. Peck that might interfere with her designsregarding Idella, she had a little insincerity in saying: "Mrs. Munger'sbad faith in that was certainly unimportant compared with her part in poorMr. Putney's misfortune. That was the worst thing; that's what I_can't_ forgive. "

Mr. Peck said nothing to this, and Annie, somewhat daunted by his silence, proceeded. "I've had the satisfaction of telling her what I thought on bothpoints. But Ralph--Mr. Putney--I hear, has escaped this time with less thanhis usual--"

She did not know what lady-like word to use for spree, and so she stopped. 

Mr. Peck merely said, "He has shown great self-control;" and she perceivedthat he was not going to say more. He listened patiently to the reasons shegave for not having offered Mrs. Putney anything more than passive sympathyat a time when help could only have cumbered and kindness wounded her, buthe made no sign of thinking them either necessary or sufficient. In themeantime he had not formally consented to Idella's remaining with her, andAnnie prepared to lead back to that affair as artfully as she could. 

"I really want you to believe, Mr. Peck, that I think very differently on_some_ points from what I did when we first talked about the SocialUnion, and I have you to thank for seeing things in a new light. And youneedn't, " she added lightly, "be afraid of my contaminating Idella's mindwith any wicked ideas. I'll do my best to keep her from coveting kittensor property of any kind; though I've always heard my father say thatcivilisation was founded upon the instinct of ownership, and that it wasthe only thing that had advanced the world. And if you dread the dangerof giving her advantages, as you say, or bettering her worldly lot, " shecontinued, with a smile for his quixotic scruples, "why, I'll do my best toreduce her blessings to a minimum; though I don't see why the poor littlething shouldn't get some good from the inequalities that there always mustbe in the world. "

"I am not sure there always must be inequalities in the world, " answeredthe minister. 

"There always have been, " cried Annie. 

"There always had been slavery, up to a certain time, " he replied. 

"Oh, but surely you don't compare the two!" Annie pleaded with what shereally regarded as a kind of lunacy in the good man. "In the freestsociety, I've heard my father say, there is naturally an upward anddownward tendency; a perfect level is impossible. Some must rise, and somemust sink. "

"But what do you mean by rising? If you mean in material things, in wealthand the power over others that it gives--"

"I don't mean that altogether. But there are other ways--in cultivation, refinement, higher tastes and aims than the great mass of people can have. You have risen yourself, Mr. Peck. "

"I have risen, as you call it, " he said, with a meek sufferance of theapplication of the point to himself. "Those who rise above the necessity ofwork for daily bread are in great danger of losing their right relation toother men, as I said when we talked of this before. "

A point had remained in Annie's mind from her first talk with Dr. Morrell. "Yes; and you said once that there could be no sympathy between the richand the poor--no real love--because they had not had the same experience oflife. But how is it about the poor who become rich? They have had the sameexperience. "

"Too often they make haste to forget that they were poor; they become hardmasters to those they have left behind them. They are eager to identifythemselves with those who have been rich longer than they. Some working-menwho now see this clearly have the courage to refuse to rise. Miss Kilburn, why should I let you take my child out of the conditions of self-denial andself-help to which she was born?"

"I don't know, " said Annie rather blankly. Then she added impetuously:"Because I love her and want her. I don't--I _won't_--pretend thatit's for her sake. It's for _my_ sake, though I can take better careof her than you can. But I'm all alone in the world; I've neither kith norkin; nothing but my miserable money. I've set my heart on the child; I musthave her. At least let me keep her a while. I will be honest with you, Mr. Peck. If I find I'm doing her harm and not good, I'll give her up. I shouldwish you to feel that she is yours as much as ever, and if you _will_feel so, and come often to see her--I--I shall--be very glad, and--" shestopped, and Mr. Peck rose. 

"Where is the child?" he asked, with a troubled air; and she silently ledthe way to the kitchen, and left him at the door to Idella and the Boltons. When she ventured back later he was gone, but the child remained. 

Half exultant and half ashamed, she promised herself that she really wouldbe true as far as possible to the odd notions of the minister in hertreatment of his child. When she undressed Idella for bed she noticed againthe shabbiness of her poor little clothes. She went through the bureau thatheld her own childish things once more, but found them all too large forIdella, and too hopelessly antiquated. She said to herself that on thispoint at least she must be a law to herself. 

She went down to see Mrs. Bolton. "Isn't there some place in the villagewhere they have children's ready-made clothes for sale?" she asked. 

"Mr. Gerrish's, " said Mrs. Bolton briefly. 

Annie shook her head, drawing in her breath. "I shouldn't want to go there. Is there nowhere else?"

"There's a Jew place. They say he cheats. "

"I dare say he doesn't cheat more than most Christians, " said Annie, jumping from her chair. "I'll try the Jew place. I want you to come withme, Mrs. Bolton. "

They went together, and found a dress that they both decided would fitIdella, and a hat that matched it. 

"I don't know as he'd like to have anything quite so nice, " said Mrs. Bolton coldly. 

"I don't know as he has anything to say about it, " said Annie, mimickingMrs. Bolton's accent and syntax. 

They both meant Mr. Peck. Mrs. Bolton turned away to hide her pleasure inAnnie's audacity and extravagance. 

"Want I should carry 'em?" she asked, when they were out of the store. 

"No, I can carry them, " said Annie. 

She put them where Idella must see them as soon as she woke. 

It was late before she slept, and Idella's voice broke upon her dreams. Thechild was sitting up in her bed, gloating upon the dress and hat hung andperched upon the chair-back in the middle of the room. "Oh, whose is it?Whose is it? Whose is it?" she screamed; and as Annie lifted herself on herelbow, and looked over at her: "Is it mine? Is it mine?"

Annie had thought of playing some joke; of pretending not to understand; ofdelaying the child's pleasure; playing with it; teasing. But in the face ofthis rapturous longing, she could only answer, "Yes. "

"Mine? My very own? To have? To keep always?"

"Yes. "

Idella sprang from her bed, and flew upon the things with a primitive, greedy transport in their possession. She could scarcely be held longenough to be washed before the dress could be put on. 

"Be careful--be careful not to get it soiled now, " said Annie. 

"No; I won't spoil it. " She went quietly downstairs, and when Anniefollowed, she found her posing before the long pier-glass in the parlour, and twisting and turning for this effect and that. All the morning shemoved about prim and anxious; the wild-wood flower was like a hot-houseblossom wired for a bouquet. At the church door she asked Idella, "Wouldyou rather sit with Mrs. Bolton?"

"No, no, " gasped the child intensely; "with _you_!" and she pushed herhand into Annie's, and held fast to it. 

Annie's question had been suggested by a belated reluctance to appearbefore so much of Hatboro' in charge of the minister's child. But now shecould not retreat, and with Idella's hand in hers she advanced blushing upthe aisle to her pew. 

XXII. 

The farmers' carry-alls filled the long shed beside the church, and theirleathern faces looked up, with their wives' and children's, at Mr. Peckwhere he sat high behind the pulpit; a patient expectance suggested itselfin the men's bald or grizzled crowns, and in the fantastic hats and bonnetsof their women folks. The village ladies were all in the perfection oftheir street costumes, and they compared well with three or four of theladies from South Hatboro', but the men with them spoiled all by theinadequacy of their fashion. Mrs. Gates, the second of her name, was verystylish, but the provision-man had honestly the effect of having got forthe day only into the black coat which he had bought ready-made for hisfirst wife's funeral. Mr. Wilmington, who appeared much shorter than hiswife as he sat beside her, was as much inferior to her in dress; he wore, with the carelessness of a rich man who could afford simplicity, a loosealpaca coat and a cambric neckcloth, over which he twisted his shrivelledneck to catch sight of Annie, as she rustled up the aisle. Mrs. Gerrish--somuch as could be seen of her--was a mound of bugled velvet, topped by asmall bonnet, which seemed to have gone much to a fat black pompon; she satfar within her pew, and their children stretched in a row from her side tothat of Mr. Gerrish, next the door. He did not look round at Annie, butkept an attitude of fixed self-concentration, in harmony with the severeold-school respectability of his dress; his wife leaned well forward tosee, and let all her censure appear in her eyes. 

Colonel Marvin, of the largest shoe-shop, showed the side of his largeflorid face, with the kindly smile that seemed to hang loosely upon it; andthere was a good number of the hat-shop and shoe-shop hands of differentages and sexes scattered about. The gallery, commonly empty or almost so, showed groups and single figures dropped about here and there on its seats. 

The Putneys were in their pew, the little lame boy between the father andmother, as their custom was. They each looked up at her as she passed, andsmiled in the slight measure of recognition which people permit themselvesin church. Putney was sitting with his head hanging forward in patheticdejection; his face, when he first lifted it to look at Annie in passing, was haggard, but otherwise there was no consciousness in it of what hadpassed since they had sat there the Sunday before. When his glance took inIdella too, in her sudden finery, a light of friendly mocking came into it, and seemed to comment the relation Annie had assumed to the child. 

Annie's pew was just in front of Lyra's, and Lyra pursed her mouth inburlesque surprise as Annie got into it with Idella and turned round tolift the child to the seat. While Mr. Peck was giving out the hymn, Lyraleaned forward and whispered--

"Don't imagine that this turnout is _all_ on your account, Annie. He'sgoing to preach against the Social Union and the social glass. "

The banter echoed a mechanical expectation in Annie's heart, which wasprobably present in many others there. It was some time before she couldcast it out, even after he had taken his text, "I am the Resurrection andthe Life, " and she followed him with a mechanical disappointment at hisfailure to meet it. 

He began by saying that he wished to dissociate his text in his hearers'minds from the scent of the upturned earth, and the fall of clods uponthe coffin lid, and he asked them to join him in attempting to find in itanother meaning beside that which it usually carried. He believed thatthose words of Christ ought to speak to us of this world as well as thenext, and enjoin upon us the example which we might all find in Him, aswell as promise us immortality with Him. As the minister went on, Anniefollowed him with the interest which her belief that she heard between thewords inspired, and occasionally in a discontent with what seemed amystical, almost a fantastical, quality of his thought. 

"There is an evolution, " he continued, "in the moral as well as in thematerial world, and good unfolds in greater good; that which was oncebest ceases to be in that which is better. In the political world we havestriven forward to liberty as to the final good, but with this achieved wefind that liberty is only a means and not an end, and that we shall abuseit as a means if we do not use it, even sacrifice it, to promote equality;or in other words, equality is the perfect work, the evolution of liberty. Patriotism has been the virtue which has secured an image of brotherhood, rude and imperfect, to large numbers of men within certain limits, butnationality must perish before the universal ideal of fraternity isrealised. Charity is the holiest of the agencies which have hithertowrought to redeem the race from savagery and despair; but there issomething holier yet than charity, something higher, something purer andfurther from selfishness, something into which charity shall willingly growand cease, and that is _justice_. Not the justice of our Christlesscodes, with their penalties, but the instinct of righteous shame which, however dumbly, however obscurely, stirs in every honest man's heart whenhis superfluity is confronted with another's destitution, and which isdestined to increase in power till it becomes the social as well as theindividual conscience. Then, in the truly Christian state, there shall beno more asking and no more giving, no more gratitude and no more merit, nomore charity, but only and evermore justice; all shall share alike, andwant and luxury and killing toil and heartless indolence shall all ceasetogether. 

"It is in the spirit of this justice that I believe Christ shall come tojudge the world; not to condemn and punish so much as to reconcile and toright. We live in an age of seeming preparation for indefinite war. Thelines are drawn harder and faster between the rich and the poor, and oneither side the forces are embattled. The working-men are combined in vastorganisations to withstand the strength of the capitalists, and these aretaking the lesson and uniting in trusts. The smaller industries are gone, and the smaller commerce is being devoured by the larger. Where many littleshops existed one huge factory assembles manufacture; one large store, inwhich many different branches of trade are united, swallows up the smalldealers. Yet in the labour organisations, which have their bad side, theirweak side, through which the forces of hell enter, I see evidence of thefact that the poor have at last had pity on the poor, and will no morebetray and underbid and desert one another, but will stand and falltogether as brothers; and the monopolies, though they are founded uponruin, though they know no pity and no relenting, have a final significancewhich we must not lose sight of. They prophesy the end of competition;_they eliminate_ one element of strife, of rivalry, of warfare. Butwoe to them through whose evil this good comes, to any man who prospers onto ease and fortune, forgetful or ignorant of the ruin on which his successis built. For that death the resurrection and the life seem not to be. Whatever his creed or his religious profession, his state is more pitiablethan that of the sceptic, whose words perhaps deny Christ, but whose worksaffirm Him. There has been much anxiety in the Church for the future ofthe world abandoned to the godlessness of science, but I cannot share it. If God is, nothing exists but from Him. He directs the very reason thatquestions Him, and Christ rises anew in the doubt of him that the sins ofChristendom inspire. So far from dreading such misgiving as comes fromcontemplating the disparity between the Church's profession and herperformance, I welcome it as another resurrection and a new life. "

The minister paused and seemed about to resume, when a scuffling andknocking noise drew all eyes toward the pew of the Gerrish family. Mr. Gerrish had risen and flung open the door so sharply that it struck againstthe frame-work of the pew, and he stood pulling his children, whom Mrs. Gerrish urged from behind, one after another, into the aisle beside him. One of them had been asleep, and he now gave way to the alarm which seizesa small boy suddenly awakened. His mother tried to still him, stooping overhim and twitching him by the hand, with repeated "Sh! 'sh's!" as mothersdo, till her husband got her before him, and marched his family down theaisle and out of the door. The noise of their feet over the floor of thevestibule died away upon the stone steps outside. The minister allowed thepause he had made to prolong itself painfully. He wavered, after clearinghis throat, as if to go on with his sermon, and then he said sadly, "Let uspray!"

XXIII. 

Putney stopped with his wife and boy and waited for Annie at the cornerof the street where their ways parted. She had eluded Lyra Wilmington incoming down the aisle, and she had hurried to escape the sensation whichbroke into eager talk among the people before they got out of church, andwhich began with question whether one of the Gerrish children was sick, andended in the more satisfactory conviction that Mr. Gerrish was offended atsomething in the sermon. 

"Well, Annie, " said Putney, with a satirical smile. 

"Oh, Ralph--Ellen--what does it mean?"

"It means that Brother Gerrish thought Mr. Peck was hitting at him inthat talk about the large commerce, and it means business, " said Putney. "Brother Gerrish has made a beginning, and I guess it's the beginning ofthe end, unless we're all ready to take hold against him. What are yougoing to do?"

"Do? Anything! Everything! It was abominable! It was atrocious!" sheshuddered out with disgust. "How could he imagine that Mr. Peck would dosuch a thing?"

"Well, he's imagined it. But he doesn't mean to stay out of church; hemeans to put Brother Peck out. "

"We mustn't let him. That would be outrageous. "

"That's the way Ellen and I feel about it, " said Putney; "but we don't knowhow much of a party there is with us. "

"But everybody--everybody must feel the same way about Mr. Gerrish'sbehaviour? I don't see how you can be so quiet about it--you and Ellen!"

Annie looked from one to another indignantly, and Putney laughed. 

"We're not _feeling_ quietly about it, " said Mrs. Putney. 

Putney took out a piece of tobacco, and bit off a large corner, and beganto chew vehemently upon it. "Hello, Idella!" he said to the little girl, holding by Annie's hand and looking up intently at him, with childishinterest in what he was eating. "What a pretty dress you've got on!"

"It's mine, " said the child. To keep. "

"Is that so? Well, it's a beauty. "

"I'm going to wear it all the time. "

"Is that so? Well, now, you and Winthrop step on ahead a little; I want tosee how you look in it. Splendid!" he said, as she took the boy's hand andlooked back over her shoulder for Putney's applause. "Lyra tells us you'veadopted her for the time being, Annie. I guess you'll have your hands full. But, as I was going to say, about feeling differently, my experience isthat there's always a good-sized party for the perverse, simply becauseit seems to answer a need in human nature. There's a fascination in it;a man feels as if there must be something in it besides the perversity, and because it's so obviously wrong it must be right. Don't you believebut what a good half of the people in church to-day are pretty sure thatGerrish had a good reason for behaving indecently. The very fact that hedid so carries conviction to some minds, and those are the minds we havegot to deal with. When he gets up in the next Society meeting there's amighty great danger that he'll have a strong party to back him. "

"I can't believe it, " Annie broke out, but she was greatly troubled. "Whatdo you think, Ellen; that there's any danger of his carrying the dayagainst Mr. Peck?"

"There's a great deal of dissatisfaction with Mr. Peck already, you know, and I guess Ralph's right about the rest of it. "

"Well, I'm glad I've taken a pew. I'm with you for Mr. Peck, Ralph, heartand soul. "

"As Brother Brandreth says about the Social Union. Well, that's right. Ishall count upon you. And speaking of the Social Union, I haven't seen you, Annie, since that night at Mrs. Munger's. I suppose you don't expect me tosay anything in self-defence?"

"No, Ralph, and you needn't; _I've_ defended yousufficiently--justified you. "

"That won't do, " said Putney. "Ellen and I have thought that all out, andwe find that I--or something that stood for me--was to blame, whoever elsewas to blame, too; we won't mention the hospitable Mrs. Munger. When Dr. Morrell had to go away Brother Peck took hold with me, and he suggestedgood resolutions. I told him I'd tried 'em, and they never did me the leastgood; but his sort really seemed to work. I don't know whether they wouldwork again; Ellen thinks they would. _I_think we sha'n't ever needanything again; but that's what I always think when I come out of it--likea man with chills and fever. "

"It was Dr. Morrell who asked Mr. Peck to come, " said Mrs. Putney; "and itturned out for the best. Ralph got well quicker than he ever did before. Ofcourse, Annie, " she explained, "it must seem strange to you hearing us talkof it as if it were a disease; but that's just like what it is--a ragingdisease; and I can't feel differently about anything that happens in it, though I do blame people for it. " Annie followed with tender interest theloving pride that exonerated and idealised Putney in the words of thewoman who had suffered so much with him, and must suffer. "I couldn't helpspeaking as I did to Mrs. Munger. "

"She deserved it every word, " said Annie. "I wonder you didn't say more. "

"Oh, hold on!" Putney interposed. "We'll allow that the local influenceswere malarial, but I guess we can't excuse the invalid altogether. That'sBrother Peck's view; and I must say I found it decidedly tonic; it helpedto brace me up. "

"I think he was too severe with you altogether, " said his wife. 

Putney laughed. "It was all I could do to keep Ellen from getting up andgoing out of church too, when Brother Gerrish set the example. She's aGerrishite at heart. "

"Well, remember, Ralph, " said Annie, "that I'm with you in whatever youdo to defeat that man. It's a good cause--a righteous cause--the cause ofjustice; and we must do everything for it, " she said fervently. 

"Yes, any enormity is justifiable against injustice, " he suggested, "or theunjust; it's the same thing. "

"You know I don't mean that. I can trust you. "

"I shall keep within the law, at any rate, " said Putney. 

"Well, Mrs. Bolton!" Annie called out, when she entered her house, and shepushed on into the kitchen; she had not the patience to wait for her tobring in the dinner before speaking about the exciting event at church. ButMrs. Bolton would not be led up to the subject by a tacit invitation, andafter a suspense in which her zeal for Mr. Peck began to take a colour ofresentment toward Mrs. Bolton, Annie demanded, "What do you think of Mr. Gerrish's scandalous behaviour?"

Mrs. Bolton gave herself time to put a stick of wood into the stove, and topunch it with the stove-lid handle before answering. "I don't know as it'sanything more than I expected. "

Annie went on: "It was shameful! Do you suppose he really thought Mr. Peckwas referring to him in his sermon?"

"I presume he felt the cap fit. But if it hadn't b'en one thing, 'twouldb'en another. Mr. Peck was bound to roil the brook for Mr. Gerrish'sdrinkin', wherever he stood, up stream or down. "

"Yes. He _is_ a wolf! A wolf in sheep's clothing, " said Annieexcitedly. 

"I d'know as you can call him a _wolf_, exactly, " returned Mrs. Boltondryly. "He's got his good points, I presume. "

Annie was astounded. "Why, Mrs. Bolton, you're surely not going to justifyhim?"

Mrs. Bolton erected herself from cutting a loaf of her best bread intoslices, and stood with the knife in her hand, like a figure of Justice. "Well, I _guess_ you no need to ask me a question like that, MissKilburn. I hain't obliged to make up to Mr. Peck, though, for what I donein the beginnin' by condemnin' everybuddy else without mercy now. " Mrs. Bolton's eyes did not flash fire, but they sent out an icy gleam that wentas sharply to Annie's heart. 

Bolton came in from feeding the horse and cow in the barn, with a mealy tinpan in his hand, from which came a mild, subdued radiance like that of hiscountenance. He was not sensible of arriving upon a dramatic moment, and hesaid, without noticing the attitude of either lady: "I see you walkin' homewith Mr. Putney, Miss Kilburn. What'd _he_ say?"

"You mean about Mr. Gerrish? He thinks as we all do; that it was achallenge to Mr. Peck's friends, and that we must take it up. "

A light of melancholy satisfaction shone from Bolton's deeply shaded eyes. "Well, he ain't one to lose time, not a great deal. I presume he's goin' towork?"

"At once, " said Annie. "He says Mr. Gerrish will be sure to bring hisgrievance up at the next Society meeting, and we must be ready to meethim, and out-talk him and out-vote him. " She reported these phrases fromPutney's lips. 

"Well, I guess if it was out-talkin', Mr. Putney wouldn't have much troubleabout it. And as far forth as votin' goes, I don't believe but what we cancarry the day. "

"We couldn't, " said Mrs. Bolton from the pantry, where she had gone toput the bread away in its stone jar, "if it was left to the church. "She accented the last word with the click of the jar lid, and came out. 

"Well, it ain't a church question. It's a Society question. "

Mrs. Bolton replied, on her passage to the dining-room with the plate ofsliced bread: "I can't make it seem right to have the minister a Societyquestion. Seems to me that the church members'd ought have the say. "

"Well, you can't make the discipline over to suit everybody, " said Bolton. "I presume it was ordered for a wise purpose. "

"Why, land alive, Oliver Bolton, " his wife shouted back from the remotenessto which his words had followed her, "the statute provisions and rules ofthe Society wa'n't ordered by Providence. "

"Well, not directly, as you may say, " said Bolton, beginning high, andlowering his voice as she rejoined them, "but I presume the hearts of themthat made them was moved. "

Mrs. Bolton could not combat a position of such unimpregnable piety inwords, but she permitted herself a contemptuous sniff, and went on gettingthe things into the dining-room. 

"And I guess it's all goin' to work together for good. I ain't afraidany but what it's goin' to come out all right. But we got to be up anddoin', as they say about 'lection times. The Lord helps them that helpsthemselves, " said Bolton, and then, as if he felt the weakness of thisposition as compared with that of entire trust in Providence, he winked hismild eyes, and added, "if they're on the right side, and put their faith inHis promises. "

"Well, your dinner's ready now, " Mrs. Bolton said to Annie. 

Idella had clung fast to Annie's hand; as Annie started toward thedining-room she got before her, and whispered vehemently. 

"What?" asked Annie, bending down; she laughed, in lifting her head, "Ipromised Idella you'd let us have some preserves to-day, Mrs. Bolton. "

Mrs. Bolton smiled with grim pleasure. "I see all the while her mind wasset on something. She ain't one to let you forget _your_ promises. Well, I guess if Mr. Peck had a little more of _her_ disposition therewouldn't be much doubt about the way it would all come out. "

"Well, you don't often see pairents take after their children, " saidBolton, venturing a small joke. 

"No, nor husbands after their wives, either, " said Mrs. Bolton sharply. "The more's the pity. "

XXIV. 

Dr. Morrell came to see Annie late the next Wednesday evening. 

"I didn't know you'd come back, " she said. She returned to therocking-chair, from which she came forward to greet him, and he droppedinto an easy seat near the table piled with books and sewing. 

"I didn't know it myself half an hour ago. "

"Really? And is this your first visit? I must be a very interesting case. "

"You are--always. How have you been?"

"I? I hardly know whether I've been at all, " she answered, in mechanicalparody of his own reply. "So many other things have been of so much moreimportance. "

She let her eyes rest full upon his, with a sense of returning comfort andsafety in his presence, and after a deep breath of satisfaction, she asked, "How did you leave your mother?"

"Very much better--entirely out of danger. "

"It's so odd to think of any one's having a family. To me it seems thenormal condition not to have any relatives. "

"Well, we can't very well dispense with mothers, " said the doctor. "We haveto begin with them, at any rate. "

"Oh, I don't object to them. I only wonder at them. "

They fell into a cosy and mutually interesting talk about their separatepast, and he gave her glimpses of the life, simple and studious, he hadled before he went abroad. She confessed to two mistakes in which she hadmechanically persisted concerning him; one that he came from Charlestowninstead of Chelsea, and the other that his first name was Joseph insteadof James. She did not own that she had always thought it odd he shouldbe willing to remain in a place like Hatboro', and that it must argue astrangely unambitious temperament in a man of his ability. She diverted theimpulse to a general satire of village life, and ended by saying that shewas getting to be a perfect villager herself. 

He laughed, and then, "How has Hatboro' been getting along?" he asked. 

"Simply seething with excitement, " she answered. "But I should hardly knowwhere to begin if I tried to tell you, " she added. "It seems such an agesince I saw you. "

"Thank you, " said the doctor. 

"I didn't mean to be _quite_ so flattering; but you have certainlymarked an epoch. Really, I _don't_ know where to begin. I wish you'dseen somebody else first--Ralph and Ellen, or Mrs. Wilmington. "

"I might go and see them now. "

"No; stay, now you're here, though I know I shall not do justice to thesituation. " But she was able to possess him of it with impartiality, evenwith a little humour, all the more because she was at heart intenselypartisan and serious. "No one knows what Mr. Gerrish intends to do next. He has kept quietly about his business; and he told some of the ladies whotried to interview him that he was not prepared to talk about the coursehe had taken. He doesn't seem to be ashamed of his behaviour; and Ralphthinks that he's either satisfied with it, and intends to let it stand asa protest, or else he's going to strike another blow on the next businessmeeting. But he's even kept Mrs. Gerrish quiet, and all we can do is tounite Mr. Peck's friends provisionally. Ralph's devoted himself to that, and he says he has talked forty-eight hours to the day ever since. "

Is he--"

"Yes; perfectly! I could hardly believe it when I saw him at church onSunday. It was like seeing one risen from the dead. What he must havegone through, and Ellen! She told me how Mr. Peck had helped him in thestruggle. She attributes everything to him. But of course you think he hadnothing to do with it. "

"What makes you think that?" he asked. 

"Oh, I don't know. Wouldn't that naturally be the attitude of Science?"

"Toward religion? Perhaps. But I'm not Science--with a large S. May bethat's the reason why I left the case with Mr. Peck, " said the doctor, smiling. "Putney didn't leave off my medicine, did he?"

"He never got well so soon before. They both say that. I didn't think youcould be so narrow-minded, Dr. Morrell. But of course your scientificbigotry couldn't admit the effect of the moral influence. It would be toomuch like a miracle; you would have to allow for a mystery. "

"I have to allow for a good many, " said the doctor. "The world is full ofmysteries for me, if you mean things that science hasn't explored yet. ButI hope that they'll all yield to the light, and that somewhere there'll belight enough to clear up even the spiritual mysteries. "

"Do you really?" she demanded eagerly. "Then you believe in a lifehereafter? You believe in a moral government of the--"

He retreated, laughing, from her ardent pursuit. "Oh, I'm not going tocommit myself. But I'll go so far as to say that I like to hear Mr. Peckpreach, and that I want him to stay. I don't say he had nothing to do withPutney's straightening up. Putney had a great deal to do with it himself. What does he think Mr. Peck's chances are?"

"If Mr. Gerrish tries to get him dismissed? He doesn't know; he's quitein the dark. He says the party of the perverse--the people who think Mr. Gerrish must have had some good reason for his behaviour, simply becausethey can't see any--is unexpectedly large; and it doesn't help matters withthe more respectable people that the most respectable, like Mr. Wilmingtonand Colonel Marvin, are Mr. Peck's friends. They think there must besomething wrong if such good men are opposed to Mr. Gerrish. "

"And I suspect, " said Dr. Morrell soberly, "that Putney's championshipisn't altogether an advantage. The people all concede his brilliancy, andthey are prouder of him on account of his infirmity; but I guess they liketo feel their superiority to him in practical matters. They admire him, butthey don't want to follow him. "

"Oh, I suppose so, " said Annie disconsolately. "And I imagine that Mr. Wilmington's course is attributed to Lyra, and that doesn't help Mr. Peckmuch with the husbands of the ladies who don't approve of her. "

The doctor tacitly declined to touch this delicate point. He asked, after apause, "You'll be at the meeting?"

"I couldn't keep away. But I've no vote, that's the worst. I can onlysuffer in the cause. " The doctor smiled. "You must go, too, " she addedeagerly. 

"Oh, I shall go; I couldn't keep away either. Besides, I can vote. How areyou getting on with your little _protégée_?

"Idella? Well, it isn't such a simple matter as I supposed, quite. Did youever hear anything about her mother?"

"Nothing more than what every one has. Why?" asked the doctor, withscientific curiosity. "Do you find traits that the father doesn't accountfor?"

"Yes. She is very vain and greedy and quick-tempered. "

"Are those traits uncommon in children?"

"In such a degree I should think they were. But she's very affectionate, too, and you can do anything with her through her love of praise. Shepuzzles me a good deal. I wish I knew something about her mother. But Mr. Peck himself is a puzzle. With all my respect for him and regard andadmiration, I can't help seeing that he's a very imperfect character. "

Doctor Morrell laughed. "There's a great deal of human nature in man. "

"There isn't enough in Mr. Peck, " Annie retorted. "From the very firsthe has said things that have stirred me up and put me in a fever; but healways seems to be cold and passive himself. "

"Perhaps he _is_ cold, " said the doctor. 

"But has he any _right_ to be so?" retorted Annie, with certainly nocoldness of her own. 

"Well, I don't know. I never thought of the right or wrong of a man's beingwhat he was born. Perhaps we might justly blame his ancestors. "

Annie broke into a laugh at herself: "Of course. But don't you think thata man who is able to put things as he does--who can make you see, forexample, the stupidity and cruelty of things that always seemed right andproper before--don't you think that he's guilty of a kind of hypocrisy ifhe doesn't _feel_ as well as see?"

"No, I can't say that I do, " said the doctor, with pleasure in the feminineexcess of her demand. "And there are so many ways of feeling. We're apt tothink that our own way is the only way, of course; but I suppose that mostphilanthropists--men who have done the most to better conditions--have beenpeople of cold temperaments; and yet you can't say they are unfeeling. "

"No, certainly. Do you think Mr. Peck is a real philanthropist?"

"How you do get back to the personal always!" said Dr. Morrell. "What makesyou ask?"

"Because I can't understand his indifference to his child. It seems to methat real philanthropy would begin at home. But twice he has distinctlyforgotten her existence, and he always seems bored with it. Or not thatquite; but she seems no more to him than any other child. "

"There's something very curious about all that, " said the doctor. "In mostthings the greater includes the less, but in philanthropy it seems toexclude it. If a man's heart is open to the whole world, to all men, it'sshut sometimes against the individual, even the nearest and dearest. Yousee I'm willing to admit all you can say against a rival practitioner. "

"Oh, I understand, " said Annie. "But I'm not going to gratify your spite. "At the same time she tacitly consented to the slight for Mr. Peck whichtheir joking about him involved. In such cases we excuse our disloyalty asmerely temporary, and intend to turn serious again and make full amends forit. "He made very short work, " she continued, "of that notion of yours thatthere could be any good feeling between the poor and the rich who had oncebeen poor themselves. "

"Did I have any such notion as that?"

She recalled the time and place of its expression to him, and he said, "Ohyes! Well?"

"He says that rich people like that are apt to be the hardest masters, andare eager to forget they ever were poor, and are only anxious to identifythemselves with the rich. "

Dr. Morrell seemed to enjoy this immensely. "That does rather settle it, "he said recreantly. 

She tried to be severe with him, but she only kept on laughing and joking;she was aware that he was luring her away from her seriousness. 

Mrs. Bolton brought in the lamp, and set it on the library table, showingher gaunt outline a moment against it before she left it to throw itssoftened light into the parlour where they sat. The autumn moonshine, almost as mellow, fell in through the open windows, which let in theshrilling of the crickets and grasshoppers, and wafts of the warm nightwind. 

"Does life, " Annie was asking, at the end of half an hour, "seem moresimple or more complicated as you live on? That sounds awfully abstruse, doesn't it? And I don't know why I'm always asking you abstruse things, butI am. "

"Oh, I don't mind it, " said the doctor. "Perhaps I haven't lived on longenough to answer this particular question; I'm only thirty-six, you know. "

"_Only_? I'm thirty-one, and I feel a hundred!" she broke in. 

"You don't look it. But I believe I rather like abstruse questions. Youknow Putney and I have discussed a great many. But just what do you mean bythis particular abstraction?"

He took from the table a large ivory paper-knife which he was in the habitof playing with in his visits, and laid first one side and then the otherside of its smooth cool blade in the palm of his left hand, as he leanedforward, with his elbows on his knees, and bent his smiling eyes keenlyupon her. 

She stopped rocking herself, and said imperatively, "Will you please putthat back, Dr. Morrell?"

"This paper-knife?"

"Yes. And not look at me just in that way? When you get that knife and thatlook, I feel a little too much as if you were diagnosing me. "

"Diagnosticating, " suggested the doctor. 

"Is it? I always supposed it was diagnosing. But it doesn't matter. Itwasn't the name I was objecting to. "

He put the knife back and changed his posture, with a smile that leftnothing of professional scrutiny in his look. "Very well, then; you shalldiagnose yourself. "

"Diagnosticate, please. "

"Oh, I thought you preferred the other. "

"No, it sounds undignified, now that I know there's a larger word. Wherewas I?"

"The personal bearing of the question whether life isn't more and morecomplicated?"

"How did you know it had a personal bearing?"

"I suspected as much. "

"Yes, it has. I mean that within the last four or five months--since I'vebeen in Hatboro'--I seem to have lost my old point of view; or, rather, Idon't find it satisfactory any more. I'm ashamed to think of the simpleplans, or dreams, that I came home with. I hardly remember what they were;but I must have expected to be a sort of Lady Bountiful here; and now Ithink a Lady Bountiful one of the most mischievous persons that couldinfest any community. "

"You don't mean that charity is played out?" asked the doctor. 

"In the old-fashioned way, yes. "

"But they say poverty is on the increase. What is to be done?"

"Justice, " said Annie. "Those who do most of the work in the world ought toshare in its comforts as a right, and not be put off with what we idlershave a mind to give them from our superfluity as a grace. "

"Yes, that's all very true. But what till justice _is_ done?"

"Oh, we must continue to do charity, " cried Annie, with self-contempt thatamused him. "But don't you see how much more complicated it is? That's whatI meant by life not being simple any more. It was easy enough to do charitywhen it used to seem the right and proper remedy for suffering; but now, when I can't make it appear a finality, but only something provisional, temporary--Don't you see?"

"Yes, I see. But I don't see how you're going to help it At the same time, I'll allow that it makes life more difficult. "

For a moment they were both serious and silent. Then she said: "Sometimes Ithink the fault is all in myself, and that if I were not so sophisticatedand--and--selfish, I should find the old way of doing good just aseffective and natural as ever. Then again, I think the conditions are allwrong, and that we ought to be fairer to people, and then we needn't be sogood to them. I should prefer that. I hate being good to people I don'tlike, and I can't like people who don't interest me. I think I must be veryhard-hearted. "

The doctor laughed at this. 

"Oh, I know, " said Annie, "I know the fraudulent reputation I've got forgood works. "

"Your charity to tramps is the opprobrium of Hatboro', " the doctorconsented. 

"Oh, I don't mind that. It's easy when people ask you for food or money, but the horrible thing is when they ask you for work. Think of me, whonever did anything to earn a cent in my life, being humbly asked by afellow-creature to let him work for something to eat and drink! It'shideous! It's abominable! At first I used to be flattered by it, and tryto conjure up something for them to do, and to believe that I was helpingthe deserving poor. Now I give all of them money, and tell them that theyneedn't even pretend to work for it. _I_ don't work for my money, andI don't see why they should. "

"They'd find that an unanswerable argument if you put it to them, " said thedoctor. He reached out his hand for the paper-cutter, and then withdrew itin a way that made her laugh. 

"But the worst of it is, " she resumed, "that I don't love any of the peoplethat I help, or hurt, whichever it is. I did feel remorseful toward Mrs. Savor for a while, but I didn't love her, and I knew that I only pitiedmyself through her. Don't you see?"

"No, I don't, " said the doctor. 

"You don't, because you're too polite. The only kind of creature that I canhave any sympathy with is some little wretch like Idella, who is perfectlyselfish and naughty every way, but seems to want me to like her, and areprobate like Lyra, or some broken creature like poor Ralph. I thinkthere's something in the air, the atmosphere, that won't allow you to livein the old way if you've got a grain of conscience or humanity. I don'tmean that _I_ have. But it seems to me as if the world couldn't go onas it has been doing. Even here in America, where I used to think we hadthe millennium because slavery was abolished, people have more liberty, butthey seem just as far off as ever from justice. That is what paralyses meand mocks me and laughs in my face when I remember how I used to dream ofdoing good after I came home. I had better stayed at Rome. "

The doctor said vaguely, "I'm glad you didn't, " and he let his eyes dwellon her with a return of the professional interest which she was too lost inher self reproach to be able to resent. 

"I blame myself for trying to excuse my own failure on the plea that thingsgenerally have gone wrong. At times it seems to me that I'm responsible forhaving lost my faith in what I used to think was the right thing to do; andthen again it seems as if the world were all so bad that no real good couldbe done in the old way, and that my faith is gone because there's nothingfor it to rest on any longer. I feel that something must be done; but Idon't know what. "

"It would be hard to say, " said the doctor. 

She perceived that her exaltation amused him, but she was too much inearnest to care. "Then we are guilty--all guilty--till we find out andbegin to do it. If the world has come to such a pass that you can't doanything but harm in it--"

"Oh, is it so bad as that?" he protested. 

"It's _quite_ as bad, " she insisted. "Just see what mischief I've donesince I came back to Hatboro'. I took hold of that miserable Social Unionbecause I was outside of all the life about me, and it seemed my onlychance of getting into it; and I've done more harm by it in one summer thanI could undo in a lifetime. Just think of poor Mr. Brandreth's love affairwith Miss Chapley broken off, and Lyra's lamentable triumph over MissNorthwick, and Mrs. Munger's duplicity, and Ralph's escapade--all because Iwanted to do good!"

A note of exaggeration had begun to prevail in her self-upbraiding, whichwas real enough, and the time came for him to suggest, "I think you're alittle morbid, Miss Kilburn. "

"Morbid! Of course I am! But that doesn't alter the fact that everything iswrong, does it?"

"Everything!"

"Why, you don't pretend yourself, do you, that everything is right?"

"A true American ought to do so, oughtn't he?" teased the doctor. "Onemustn't be a bad citizen. "

"But if you _were_ a bad citizen?" she persisted. 

"Oh, then I might agree with you on some points. But I shouldn't say suchthings to my patients, Miss Kilburn. "

"It would be a great comfort to them if you did, " she sighed. 

The doctor broke out in a laugh of delight at her perfervid concentration. "Oh, no, no! They're mostly nervous women, and it would be the death ofthem--if they understood me. In fact, what's the use of brooding upon suchideas? We can't hurry any change, but we can make ourselves uncomfortable. "

"Why should I be comfortable?" she asked, with a solemnity that made himlaugh again. 

"Why shouldn't you be?"

"Yes, that's what I often ask myself. But I can't be, " she said sadly. 

They had risen, and he looked at her with his professional interest nowopenly dominant, as he stood holding her hand. "I'm going to send you alittle more of that tonic, Miss Kilburn. "

She pulled her hand away. "No, I shall not take any more medicine. Youthink everything is physical. Why don't you ask at once to see my tongue?"

He went out laughing, and she stood looking wistfully at the door he hadpassed through. 

XXV. 

The bell on the orthodox church called the members of Mr. Peck's societytogether for the business meeting with the same plangent, lacerant notethat summoned them to worship on Sundays. Among those who crowded the housewere many who had not been there before, and seldom in any place of thekind. There were admirers of Putney: workmen of rebellious repute and ofadvanced opinions on social and religious questions; nonsuited plaintiffsand defendants of shady record, for whom he had at one time or another donewhat he could. A good number of the summer folk from South Hatboro' werepresent, with the expectation of something dramatic, which every one felt, and every one hid with the discipline that subdues the outside of life in aNew England town to a decorous passivity. 

At the appointed time Mr. Peck rose to open the meeting with prayer; then, as if nothing unusual were likely to come before it, he declared it readyto proceed to business. Some people who had been gathering in the vestibuleduring his prayer came in; and the electric globes, which had been recentlyhung above the pulpit and on the front of the gallery in substitution ofthe old gas chandelier, shed their moony glare upon a house in which fewplaces were vacant. Mr. Gerrish, sitting erect and solemn beside his wifein their pew, shared with the minister and Putney the tacit interest of theaudience. 

He permitted the transaction of several minor affairs, and Mr. Peck, asModerator, conducted the business with his habitual exactness and effectof far-off impersonality. The people waited with exemplary patience, and Putney, who lounged in one corner of his pew, gave no more sign ofexcitement, with his chin sunk in his rumpled shirt-front, than hissad-faced wife at the other end of the seat. 

Mr. Gerrish rose, with the air of rising in his own good time, and said, with dry pomp, "Mr. Moderator, I have prepared a resolution, which I willask you to read to this meeting. "

He held up a paper as he spoke, and then passed it to the minister, whoopened and read it--

"_Whereas_, It is indispensable to the prosperity and well-being ofany and every organisation, and especially of a Christian church, that theteachings of its minister be in accord with the convictions of a majorityof its members upon vital questions of eternal interest, with the end andaim of securing the greatest efficiency of that body in the community, asan example and a shining light before men to guide their steps in thestrait and narrow path; therefore

"_Resolved_, That a committee of this society be appointed to inquireif such is the case in the instance of the Rev. Julius W. Peck, and beinstructed to report upon the same. "

A satisfied expectation expressed itself in the silence that followedthe reading of the paper, whatever pain and shame were mixed with thesatisfaction. If the contempt of kindly usage shown in offering such aresolution without warning or private notice to the minister shocked manyby its brutality, still it was satisfactory to find that Mr. Gerrish hadintended to seize the first chance of airing his grievance, as everybodyhad said he would do. 

Mr. Peck looked up from the paper and across the intervening pews at Mr. Gerrish. "Do I understand that you move the adoption of this resolution?"

"Why, certainly, sir, " said Mr. Gerrish, with an accent of supercilioussurprise. 

"You did not say so, " said the minister gently. "Does any one secondBrother Gerrish's motion?"

A murmur of amusement followed Mr. Peck's reminder to Mr. Gerrish, and anironical voice called out--

"Mr. Moderator!"

"Mr. Putney. "

"I think it important that the sense of the meeting should be taken onthe question the resolution raises. I therefore second the motion for itsadoption. "

Putney sat down, and the murmur now broadened into something like a generallaugh, hushed as with a sudden sense of the impropriety. 

Mr. Gerrish had gradually sunk into his seat, but now he rose again, andwhen the minister formally announced the motion before the meeting, hecalled, sharply, "Mr. Moderator!"

"Brother Gerrish, " responded the minister, in recognition. 

"I wish to offer a few remarks in support of the resolution which I havehad the honour--the duty, I _would_ say--of laying before thismeeting. " He jerked his head forward at the last word, and slid the fingersof his right hand into the breast of his coat like an orator, and stoodvery straight. "I have no desire, sir, to make this the occasion of apersonal question between myself and my pastor. But, sir, the question hasbeen forced upon me against my will and my--my consent; and I was obligedon the last ensuing Sabbath, when I sat in this place, to enter my publicprotest against it. 

"Sir, I came into this community a poor boy, without a penny in my pocket, and unaided and alone and by my own exertions I have built up one of thebusiness interests of the place. I will not stoop to boast of the part Ihave taken in the prosperity of this place; but I will say that no publicobject has been wanting--that my support has not been wanting--fromthe first proposition to concrete the sidewalks of this village to theintroduction of city waterworks and an improved system of drainage, and--er--electric lighting. So much for my standing in a public capacity!As for my business capacity, I would gladly let that speak for itself, if that capacity had not been turned in the sanctuary itself against thepersonal reputation which every man holds dearer than life itself, andwhich has had a deadly blow aimed at it through that--that very capacity. Sir, I have established in this town a business which I may humbly say thatin no other place of the same numerical size throughout the commonwealthwill you find another establishment so nearly corresponding to the wantsand the--er--facilities of a great city. In no other establishment in aplace of the same importance will you find the interests and the demandsand the necessities of the whole community so carefully considered. In noother--"

Putney got upon his feet and called out, "Mr. Moderator, will BrotherGerrish allow me to ask him a single question?"

Mr. Peck put the request, and Mr. Gerrish involuntarily made a pause, inwhich Putney pursued--

"My question is simply this: doesn't Brother Gerrish think it would helpus to get at the business in hand sooner if he would print the rest of hisadvertisement in the Hatboro' _Register_?"

A laugh broke out all over the house as Putney dropped back into his seat. Mr. Gerrish stood apparently undaunted. 

"I will attend to you presently, sir, " he said, with a schoolmasterlyauthority which made an impression in his favour with some. "And I thankthe gentleman, " he continued, turning again to address the minister, "forrecalling me from a side issue. As he acknowledges in the suggestion whichhe intended to wound my feelings, but I can assure him that my self-respectis beyond the reach of slurs and innuendoes; I care little for them; Icare not what quarter they originate from, or have their--their origin;and still less when they spring from a source notoriously incompetent andunworthy to command the respect of this community, which has abused all itsprivileges and trampled the forbearance of its fellow-citizens under foot, until it has become a--a byword in this place, sir. "

Putney sprang up again with, "Mr. Moderator--" "No, sir! no, sir!" pursuedGerrish; "I will not submit to your interruptions. I have the floor, and Iintend to keep it. I intend to challenge a full and fearless scrutiny ofmy motives in this matter, and I intend to probe those motives in others. Why do we find, sir, on the one side of this question as its most activeexponent a man outside of the church in organising a force within thissociety to antagonise the most cherished convictions of that church? Wedo not asperse his motives; but we ask if these motives coincide withthe relations which a Christian minister should sustain to his flock asexpressed in the resolution which I have had the privilege to offer, morein sorrow than in anger. "

Putney made some starts to rise, but quelled himself, and finally sank backwith an air of ironical patience. Gerrish's personalities had turned publicsentiment in his favour. Colonel Marvin came over to Putney's pew and shookhands with him before sitting down by his side. He began to talk with himin whisper while Gerrish went on--

"But on the other hand, sir, what do we see? I will not allude to myselfin this connection, but I am well aware, sir, that I represent a large andgrowing majority of this church in the stand I have taken. We are tired, sir--and I say it to you openly, sir, what has been bruited about in secretlong enough--of having what I may call a one-sided gospel preached in thischurch and from this pulpit. We enter our protest against the neglect ofvery essential elements of Christianity--not to say the essential--therepresentation of Christ as--a--a spirit as well as a life. Understand me, sir, we do not object, neither I nor any of those who agree with me, to thepreaching of Christ as a life. That is all very well in its place, and itis the wish of every true Christian to conform and adapt his own life asfar as--as circumstances will permit of. But when I come to this sanctuary, and _they_ come, Sabbath after Sabbath, and hear nothing said of myRedeemer as a--means of salvation, and nothing of Him crucified; and when Ifind the precious promises of the gospel ignored and neglected continuallyand--and all the time, and each discourse from yonder pulpit filled up withgeneralities--glittering generalities, as has been well said by another--inrelation to and connection with mere conduct, I am disappointed, sir, anddissatisfied, and I feel to protest against that line of--of preaching. During the last six months, Sabbath after Sabbath, I have listened invain for the ministrations of the plain gospel and the tenets underwhich we have been blessed as a church and as--a--people. Instead ofthis I have heard, as I have said--and I repeat it without fear ofcontradiction--nothing but one-idea appeals and mere moralisings upon dutyto others, which a child and the veriest tyro could not fail therein; and Ihave culminated--or rather it has been culminated to me--in a covert attackupon my private affairs and my way of conducting my private business in amanner which I could not overlook. For that reason, and for the reasonswhich I have recapitulated--and I challenge the closest scrutiny--I feltit my duty to enter my public protest and to leave this sanctuary, where Ihave worshipped ever since it was erected, with my family. And I now urgethe adoption of the foregoing resolution because I believe that yourusefulness has come to an end to the vast majority of the constituentmembers of this church; and--and that is all. "

Mr. Gerrish stopped so abruptly that Putney, who was engaged in talk withColonel Marvin, looked up with a startled air, too late to secure thefloor. Mr. Peck recognised Mr. Gates, who stood with his wrists caught ineither hand across his middle, and looked round with a quizzical glancebefore he began to speak. Putney lifted his hand in playful threateningtoward Colonel Marvin, who got away from him with a face of noiselesslaughter, and went and joined Mr. Wilmington where he sat with his wife, who entered into the talk between the men. 

"Mr. Moderator, " said Gates, "I don't know as I expected to take part inthis debate; but you can't always tell what's going to happen to you, evenif you're only a member of the church by marriage, as you might say. Ipresume, though, that I have a right to speak in a meeting like this, because I _am_ a member of the society in my own right, and I've gotits interests at heart as much as any one. I don't know but what I got theinterests of Hatboro' at heart too, but I can't be certain; sometimes youcan't; sometimes you think you've got the common good in view, and youcome to look a little closer and you find it's the uncommon good; that isto say, it's not so much the public weal you're after as what it is theprivate weal. But that's neither here nor there. I haven't got anything tosay against identifying yourself with things in general; I don't know butwhat it's a good way; all is, it's apt to make you think you're personallyattacked when nobody is meant in particular. _I_ think that's what'spartly the matter with Brother Gerrish here. I heard that sermon, and Ididn't suppose there was anything in it to hurt any one especially; and Iwas consid'ably surprised to see that Mr. Gerrish seemed to take it tohimself, somehow, and worry over it; but I didn't really know just what thetrouble was till he explained here tonight. All I was thinking was when itcome to that about large commerce devouring the small--sort of lean and fatkine--I wished Jordan and Marsh could hear that, or Stewart's in New York, or Wanamaker's in Philadelphia. I never _thought_ of Brother Gerrishonce; and I don't presume one out of a hundred did either. I--" Theelectric light immediately over Gates's head began to hiss and sputter, and to suffer the sort of syncope which overtakes electric lights at suchtimes, and to leave the house in darkness. Gates waited, standing, till itrevived, and then added: "I guess I hain't got anything more to say, Mr. Moderator. If I had it's gone from me now. I'm more used to speaking bykerosene, and I always lose my breath when an electric light begins thatway. "

Putney was on his legs in good time now, and secured recognition before Mr. Wilmington, who made an effort to catch the moderator's eye. Gates had putthe meeting in good-humoured expectation of what they might now have fromPutney. They liked Gates's points very well, but they hoped from Putneysomething more cruel and unsparing, and the greater part of those presentmust have shared his impatience with Mr. Wilmington's request that he wouldgive way to him for a moment. Yet they all probably felt the same curiosityabout what was going forward, for it was plain that Mr. Wilmington andColonel Marvin were conniving at the same point. Marvin had now gone toMr. Gerrish, and had slipped into the pew beside him with the same sort ofhand-shake he had given Putney. 

"Will my friend Mr. Putney give way to me for a moment?" asked Mr. Wilmington. 

"I don't see why I should do that, " said Putney. 

"I assure him that I will not abuse his courtesy, and that I will yield thefloor to him at any moment. "

Putney hesitated a moment, and then, with the contented laugh of one whosecurely bides his time, said, "Go ahead. "

"It is simply this, " said Mr. Wilmington, with a certain formal neatness ofspeech: "The point has been touched by the last speaker, which I thinksuggested itself to all who heard the remarks of Brother Gerrish in supportof his resolution, and the point is simply this--whether he has notmisapplied the words of the discourse by which he felt himself aggrieved, and whether he has not given them a particular bearing foreign to theintention of their author. If, as I believe, this is the case, the wholematter can be easily settled by a private conference between the parties, and we can be saved the public appearance of disagreement in our society. And I would now ask Brother Gerrish, in behalf of many who take this viewwith me, whether he will not consent to reconsider the matter, and whether, in order to arrive at the end proposed, he will not, for the present atleast, withdraw the resolution he has offered?"

Mr. Wilmington sat down amidst a general sensation, which was heightenedby Putney's failure to anticipate any action on Gerrish's part. Gerrishrapidly finished something he was saying to Colonel Marvin, and then halfrose, and said, "Mr. Moderator, I withdraw my resolution--for the timebeing, and--for the present, sir, " and sat down again. 

"Mr. Moderator, " Putney called sharply, from his place, "this is altogetherunparliamentary. That resolution is properly before the meeting. Itsadoption has been moved and seconded, and it cannot be withdrawn withoutleave granted by a vote of the meeting. I wish to discuss the resolutionin all its bearings, and I think there are a great many present who sharewith me a desire to know how far it represents the sense of this society. I don't mean as to the supposed personal reflections which it was intendedto punish; that is a very small matter, and as compared with the otherquestions involved, of no consequence whatever. " Putney tossed his headwith insolent pleasure in his contempt of Gerrish. His nostrils swelled, and he closed his little jaws with a firmness that made his heavy blackmoustache hang down below the corners of his chin. He went on with a wickedtwinkle in his eye, and a look all round to see that people were waiting totake his next point. "I judge my old friend Brother Gerrish by myself. Myold friend Gerrish cares no more really about personal allusions than I do. What he really had at heart in offering his resolution was not any supposedattack upon himself or his shop from the pulpit of this church. He cared nomore for that than I should care for a reference to my notorious habits. These are things that we feel may be safely left to the judgment, thecharitable judgment, of the community, which will be equally merciful tothe man who devours widows' houses and to the man who 'puts an enemy in hismouth to steal away his brains. '"

"Mr. Moderator, " said Colonel Marvin, getting upon his feet. 

"No, sir!" shouted Putney fiercely; "I can't allow you to speak. Wait tillI get done!" He stopped, and then said gently "Excuse me, Colonel; I reallymust go on. I'm speaking now in behalf of Brother Gerrish, and he doesn'tlike to have the speaking on his side interrupted. "

"Oh, all right, " said Colonel Marvin amiably; "go on. "

"What my old friend William Gerrish really designed in offering thatresolution was to bring into question the kind of Christianity which hasbeen preached in this place by our pastor--the one-sided gospel, as heaptly called it--and what he and I want to get at is the opinion of thesociety on that question. Has the gospel preached to us here been one-sidedor hasn't it? Brother Gerrish says it has, and Brother Gerrish, as Iunderstand, doesn't change his mind on that point, if he does on any, inasking to withdraw his resolution. He doesn't expect Mr. Peck to convincehim in a private conference that he has been preaching an all-round gospel. I don't contend that he has; but I suppose I'm not a very competent judge. I don't propose to give you the opinion of one very fallible and erringman, and I don't set myself up in judgment of others; but I think it'simportant for all parties concerned to know what the majority of thissociety think on a question involving its future. That importance mustexcuse--if anything can excuse--the apparent want of taste, of humanity, of decency, in proposing the inquiry at a meeting over which the personchiefly concerned would naturally preside, unless he were warned to absenthimself. Nobody cares for the contemptible point, the wholly insignificantquestion, whether allusion to Mr. Gerrish's variety store was intendedor not. What we are all anxious to know is whether he represents anyconsiderable portion of this society in his general attack upon its pastor. I want a vote on that, and I move the previous question. "

No one stopped to inquire whether this was parliamentary or not. Putney satdown, and Colonel Marvin rose to say that if a vote was to be taken, itwas only right and just that Mr. Peck should somehow be heard in his ownbehalf, and half a dozen voices from all parts of the church supported himMr. Peck, after a moment, said, "I think I have nothing to say;" and headded, "Shall I put the question?"

"Question!" "Question!" came from different quarters. 

"It is moved and seconded that the resolution before the meeting beadopted, " said the minister formally. "All those in favour will say ay. " Hewaited for a distinct space, but there was no response; Mr. Gerrish himselfdid not vote. The minister proceeded, "Those opposed will say no. "

The word burst forth everywhere, and it was followed by laughter andinarticulate expressions of triumph and mocking. "Order! order!" called theminister gravely, and he announced, "The noes have it. "

The electric light began to suffer another syncope. When it recovered, withthe usual fizzing and sputtering, Mr. Peck was on his feet, asking to berelieved from his duties as moderator, so that he might make a statement tothe meeting. Colonel Marvin was voted into the chair, but refused formallyto take possession of it. He stood up and said, "There is no place where wewould rather hear you than in that pulpit, Mr. Peck. "

"I thank you, " said the minister, making himself heard through theapproving murmur; "but I stand in this place only to ask to be allowed toleave it. The friendly feeling which has been expressed toward me in thevote upon the resolution you have just rejected is all that reconcilesme to its defeat. Its adoption might have spared me a duty which I findpainful. But perhaps it is best that I should discharge it. As to thesermon which called forth that resolution it is only just to say that Iintended no personalities in it, and I humbly entreat any one who felthimself aggrieved to believe me. " Every one looked at Gerrish to see howhe took this; he must have felt it the part of self-respect not to changecountenance. "My desire in that discourse was, as always, to present thetruth as I had seen it, and try to make it a help to all. But I am byno means sure that the author of the resolution was wrong in arraigningme before you for neglecting a very vital part of Christianity in myministrations here. I think with him, that those who have made an openprofession of Christ have a claim to the consolation of His promises, and to the support which good men have found in the mysteries of faith;and I ask his patience and that of others who feel that I have not laidsufficient stress upon these. My shortcoming is something that I would nothave you overlook in any survey of my ministry among you; and I am not herenow to defend that ministry in any point of view. As I look back over it, by the light of the one ineffable ideal, it seems only a record of failureand defeat. " He stopped, and a sympathetic dissent ran through the meeting. "There have been times when I was ready to think that the fault was not inme, but in my office, in the church, in religion. We all have these momentsof clouded vision, in which we ourselves loom up in illusory grandeur abovethe work we have failed to do. But it is in no such error that I standbefore you now. Day after day it has been borne in upon me that I hadmistaken my work here, and that I ought, if there was any truth in me, toturn from it for reasons which I will give at length should I be sparedto preach in this place next Sabbath. I should have willingly acquiescedif our parting had come in the form of my dismissal at your hands. Yet Icannot wholly regret that it has not taken that form, and that in offeringmy resignation, as I shall formally do to those empowered by the rules ofour society to receive it, I can make it a means of restoring concord amongyou. It would be affectation in me to pretend that I did not know of thedissension which has had my ministry for its object if not its cause; and Iearnestly hope that with my withdrawal that dissension may cease, and thatthis church may become a symbol before the world of the peace of Christ. Iconjure such of my friends as have been active in my behalf to unite withtheir brethren in a cause which can alone merit their devotion. Above allthings I beseech you to be at peace one with another. Forbear, forgive, submit, remembering that strife for the better part can only make it theworse, and that for Christians there can be no rivalry but in concessionand self-sacrifice. "

Colonel Marvin forgot his office and all parliamentary proprieties in thetide of emotion that swept over the meeting when the minister sat down. "Iam glad, " he said, "that no sort of action need be taken now upon Mr. Peck's proposed resignation, which I for one cannot believe this societywill ever agree to accept. "

Others echoed his sentiment; they spoke out, sitting and standing, andaddressed themselves to no one, till Putney moved an adjournment, whichColonel Marvin sufficiently recollected himself to put to a vote, anddeclare carried. 

Annie walked home with the Putneys and Dr. Morrell. She was aware ofsomething unwholesome in the excitement which ran so wholly in Mr. Peck'sfavour, but abandoned herself to it with feverish helplessness. 

"Ah-h-h!" cried Putney, when they were free of the crowd which pressedupon him with questions and conjectures and comments. "What a slump!--whata slump! That blessed, short-legged little seraph has spoilt the bestsport that ever was. Why, he's sent that fool of a Gerrish home with theconviction that he was right in the part of his attack that was the mostvilely hypocritical, and he's given that heartless scoundrel the pleasureof feeling like an honest man. I should like to rap Mr. Peck's head upagainst the back of his pulpit, and I should like to knock the skulls ofColonel Marvin and Mr. Wilmington together and see which was the thickest. Why, I had Gerrish fairly by the throat at last, and I was just reachingfor the balm of Gilead with my other hand to give him a dose that wouldhave done him for one while! Ah, it's too bad, too bad! Well! well!But--haw! haw! haw!--didn't Gerrish tangle himself up beautifully in hisrhetoric? I guess we shall fix Brother Gerrish yet, and I don't think weshall let Brother Peck off without a tussle. I'm going to try print onBrother Gerrish. I'm going to ask him in the Hatboro' _Register_--hedoesn't advertise, and the editor's as independent as a lion where a mandon't advertise--"

"Indeed he's not going to do anything of the kind, Annie, " said Mrs. Putney. "I shall not let him. I shall make him drop the whole affair now, and let it die out, and let us be at peace again, as Mr. Peck says. "

"There seemed to be a good deal of sense in that part of it, " said Dr. Morrell. "I don't know but he was right to propose himself as apeace-offering; perhaps there's no other way out. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Putney, "whether he goes or stays, I think we owe himthat much. Don't you, Annie?"

"Oh yes!" sighed Annie, from the exaltation to which the events of theevening had borne her. "And we mustn't let him go. It would be a loss thatevery one would feel; that--"

"I'm tired of this fighting, " Mrs. Putney broke in, "and I think it'sruining Ralph every way. He hasn't slept the last two nights, and he'sbeen all in a quiver for the last fortnight. For my part I don't care whathappens now, I'm not going to have Ralph mixed up in it any more. I thinkwe ought all to forgive and forget. I'm willing to overlook everything, andI believe others are the same. "

"You'd better ask Mrs. Gerrish the next time she calls, " Putney interposed. 

Mrs. Putney stopped, and took her hand from her husband's arm. "Well, afterwhat Mr. Gerrish said to-night about you, I _don't_ think Emmeline hadbetter call _very_ soon!"

"Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!" shrieked Putney, and his laugh flapped back atthem in derisive echo from the house-front they were passing. "I guessBrother Peck had better stay and help fight it out. It won't be _all_brotherly love after he goes--or sisterly either. "

XXVI. 

Annie knew from the light in the kitchen window that Mrs. Bolton, who hadnot gone to the meeting, was there, and she inferred from the silence ofthe house that Bolton had not yet come home. She went up to her room, andafter a glance at Idella asleep in her crib, she began to lay off herthings. Then she sat down provisionally by the open window, and looked outinto the still autumnal night. The air was soft and humid, with a scent ofsmoke in it from remote forest fires. The village lights showed themselvesdimmed by the haze that thickened the moonless dark. 

She heard steps on the gravel of the lane, and then two men talking, oneof whom she knew to be Bolton. In a little while the back entry door wasopened and shut, and after a brief murmur of voices in the library Mrs. Bolton knocked on the door-jamb of the room where Annie sat. 

"What is it, Mrs. Bolton?"

"You in bed yet?"

"No; I'm here by the window. What is it?"

"Well, I don't know but what you'll think it's pretty late for callers, butMr. Peck is down in the library. I guess he wants to speak with you aboutIdella. I told him he better see _you_. "

"I will come right down. "

She followed Mrs. Bolton to the foot of the stairs, where she kept on tothe kitchen, while Annie turned into the library. Mr. Peck stood beside herfather's desk, resting one hand on it and holding his hat in the other. 

"Won't you be seated, Mr. Peck?"

"I thank you. It's only for a moment. I am going away to-morrow, and I wishto speak with you about Idella. "

"Yes, certainly. But surely you are not going to leave Hatboro', Mr. Peck!I hoped--we all did--that after what you had seen of the strong feeling inyour favour to-night you would reconsider your determination and stay withus!" She went on impetuously. "You must know--you must understand now--howmuch good you can do here--more than any one else--more than you could doanywhere else. I don't believe that you realise how much depends upon yourstaying here. You can't stop the dissensions by going away; it will onlymake them worse. You saw how Colonel Marvin and Mr. Wilmington were withyou; and Mr. Gates--all classes. I oughtn't to speak--to attempt to teachyou your duty; I'm not of your church; and I can only tell you how it seemsto me: that you never can find another place where your principles--yourviews--"

He waited for her to go on; but she really had nothing more to say, and hebegan: "I am not hoping for another charge elsewhere, at least not for thepresent; but I am satisfied that my usefulness here is at an end, and I donot think that my going away will make matters worse. Whether I go or stay, the dissensions will continue. At any rate, I believe that there are thosewho need help more, and whom I can help more, in another field--"

"Yes, " she broke in, with a woman's relevancy to the immediate point, "there is nothing to do here. "

He went on as if she had not spoken: "I am going to Fall River to-morrow, where I have heard that there is work for me--"

"In the mills!" she exclaimed, recurring in thought to what he had oncesaid of his work in them. "Surely you don't mean that!" The sight, thesmell, the tumult of the work she had seen that day in the mill with Lyracame upon her with all their offence. "To throw away all that you havelearnt, all that you have become to others!"

"I am less and less confident that I have become anything useful to othersin turning aside from the life of toil and presuming to attempt theguidance of those who remained in it. But I don't mean work in the mills, "he continued, "or not at first, or not unless it seems necessary to my workwith those who work in them. I have a plan--or if it hardly deserves thatname, a design--of being useful to them in such ways as my own experienceof their life in the past shall show me in the light of what I shall seeamong them now. I needn't trouble you with it. "

"Oh yes!" she interposed. 

"I do not expect to preach at once, but only to teach in one of the publicschools, where I have heard of a vacancy, and--and--perhaps otherwise. Withthose whose lives are made up of hard work there must be room for willingand peaceful service. And if it should be necessary that I should work inthe mills in order to render this, then I will do so; but at present Ihave another way in view--a social way that shall bring me into immediaterelations with the people. " She still tried to argue with him, to prove himwrong in going away, but they both ended where they began. He would not orcould not explain himself further. At last he said: "But I did not come tourge this matter. I have no wish to impose my will, my theory, upon anyone, even my own child. "

"Oh yes--Idella!" Annie broke in anxiously. "You will leave her with me, Mr. Peck, won't you? You don't know how much I'm attached to her. I see herfaults, and I shall not spoil her. Leave her with me at least till you seeyour way clear to having her with you, and then I will send her to you. "

A trouble showed itself in his face, ordinarily so impassive, and he seemedat a loss how to answer her; but he said: "I--appreciate your kindness toher, but I shall not ask you to be at the inconvenience longer than tillto-morrow. I have arranged with another to take her until I am settled, andthen bring her to me. "

Annie sat intensely searching his face, with her lips parted to speak. "_Another!_" she said, and the wounded feeling, the resentment of hisinsensibility to her good-will, that mingled in her heart, must have madeitself felt in her voice, for he went on reluctantly--

"It is a family in which she will be brought up to work and to be helpfulto herself. They will join me with her. You know the mother--she has losther own child--Mrs. Savor. "

At the name, Annie's spirit fell; the tears started from her eyes. "Yes, she must have her. It is just--it is the only expiation. Don't you rememberthat it was I who sent Mrs. Savor's baby to the sea-shore, where it died?"

"No; I had forgotten, " said the minister, aghast. "I am sorry--"

"It doesn't matter, " said Annie lifelessly; "it had to be. " After a pause, she asked quietly, "If Mrs. Savor is going to work in the mills, how canshe make a home for the child?"

"She is not going into the mills, " he answered. "She will keep house forus all, and we hope to have others who are without homes of their own joinus in paying the expenses and doing the work, so that all may share itscomfort without gain to any one upon their necessity of food and shelter. "

She did not heed his explanation, but suddenly entreated: "Let me go withyou. I will not be a trouble to you, and I will help as well as I can. Ican't give the child up! Why--why"--the thought, crazy as it would haveonce seemed, was now such a happy solution of the trouble that she smiledhopefully--"why shouldn't I go with Mr. And Mrs. Savor, and help to make ahome for Idella there? You will need money to begin your work; I will giveyou mine. I will give it up--I will give it all up. I will give it to anygood object that you approve; or you may have it, to do what you think bestwith; and I will go with Idella and I will work in the mills there--oranything. "

He shook his head, and for the first time in their acquaintance he seemedto feel compassion for her. "It isn't possible. I couldn't take your money;I shouldn't know what to do with it. "

"You know what to do with your own, " she broke in. "You do good with that!"

"I'm afraid I do harm with it too, " he returned. "It's only a little, butlittle as it has been, I can no longer meet the responsibility it brings. "

"But if you took my money, " she urged, "you could devote your life topreaching the truth, to writing and publishing books, and all that; and socould others: don't you see?"

He shook his head. "Perhaps others; but I have done with preaching for thepresent. Later I may have something to say. Now I feel sure of nothing, noteven of what I've been saying here. "

"Will you send for Idella? When she goes with the Savors I will come too!"

He looked at her sorrowfully. "I think you are a good woman, and you meanwhat you say. But I am sorry you say it, if any words of mine have causedyou to say it, for I know you cannot do it. Even for me it is hard to goback to those associations, and for you they would be impossible. "

"You will see, " she returned, with exaltation. "I will take Idella to theSavors' to-morrow--or no; I'll have them come here!"

He stood looking at her in perplexity. At last he asked, "Could I see thechild?"

"Certainly!" said Annie, with the lofty passion that possessed her, and sheled him up into the chamber where Idella lay sleeping in Annie's own crib. 

He stood beside it, gazing long at the little one, from whose eyes heshaded the lamp. Then he said, "I thank you, " and turned away. 

She followed him down-stairs, and at the door she said: "You think I willnot come; but I will come. Don't you believe that?"

He turned sadly from her. "You might come, but you couldn't stay. You don'tknow what it is; you can't imagine it, and you couldn't bear it. "

"I will come, and I will stay, " she answered; and when he was gone shefell into one of those intense reveries of hers--a rapture in which sheprefigured what should happen in that new life before her. At its endMr. Peck stood beside her grave, reading the lesson of her work to themultitude of grateful and loving poor who thronged to pay the last tributeto her memory. Putney was there with his wife, and Lyra regretful of herlightness, and Mrs. Munger repentant of her mendacities. They talkedtogether in awe-stricken murmurs of the noble career just ended. She heardtheir voices, and then she began to ask herself what they would really sayof her proposing to go to Fall River with the Savors and be a mill-hand. 

XXVII. 

Annie did not sleep. After lying a long time awake she took some of thetonic that Dr. Morrell had left her, upon the chance that it might quiether; but it did no good. She dressed herself, and sat by the window tillmorning. 

The breaking day showed her purposes grotesque and monstrous. The revulsionthat must come, came with a tide that swept before it all prepossessions, all affections. It seemed as if the child, still asleep in her crib, hadheard what she said, and would help to hold her to her word. 

She choked down a crust of bread with the coffee she drank at breakfast, and instead of romping with Idella at her bath, she dressed the little onesilently, and sent her out to Mrs. Bolton. Then she sat down again in thesort of daze in which she had spent the night, and as the day passed, herrevolt from what she had pledged herself to do mounted and mounted. It waslike the sort of woman she was, not to think of any withdrawal from herpledges; they were all the more sacred with her because they had beenpurely voluntary, insistent; the fact that they had been refused made themthe more obligatory. 

She thought some one would come to break in upon the heavy monotony of thetime; she expected Ralph or Ellen, or at least Lyra; but she only saw Mrs. Bolton, and heard her about her work. Sometimes the child stole back fromthe kitchen or the barn, and peeped in upon her with a roguish expectancewhich her gloomy stare defeated, and then it ran off again. 

She lay down in the afternoon and tried to sleep; but her brain wasinexorably alert, and she lay making inventory of all the pleasant thingsshe was to leave for that ugly fate she had insisted on. A swarm of fanciesgave every detail of the parting dramatic intensity. Amidst the poignancyof her regrets, her shame for her recreancy was sharper still. 

By night she could bear it no longer. It was Dr. Morrell's custom to comenearly every night; but she was afraid, because he had walked home with herfrom the meeting the night before, he might not come now, and she sent forhim. It was in quality of medicine-man, as well as physician, that shewished to see him; she meant to tell him all that had passed with Mr. Peck;and this was perfectly easy in the interview she forecast; but at the soundof his buggy wheels in the lane a thought came that seemed to forbid hereven to speak of Mr. Peck to him. For the first time it occurred to herthat the minister might have inferred a meaning from her eagerness andpersistence infinitely more preposterous than even the preposterous letterof her words. A number of little proofs of the conjecture flashed upon her:his anxiety to get away from her, his refusal to let her believe in her ownconstancy of purpose, his moments of bewilderment and dismay. It needednothing but this to add the touch of intolerable absurdity to the horrorof the whole affair, and to snatch the last hope of help from her. 

She let Mrs. Bolton go to the door, and she did not rise to meet thedoctor; she saw from his smile that he knew he had a moral rather than aphysical trouble to deal with, but she did not relax the severity of herglare in sympathy, as she was tempted from some infinite remoteness to do. 

When he said, "You're not well, " she whispered solemnly back, "Not at all. "

He did not pursue his inquiry into her condition, but said, with anirrelevant cheerfulness that piqued her, "I was coming here this eveningat any rate, and I got your message on the way up from my office. "

"You are very kind, " she said, a little more audibly. 

"I wanted to tell you, " he went on, "of what a time Putney and I have hadto-day working up public sentiment for Mr. Peck, so as to keep him here. "

Annie did not change her position, but the expression of her glancechanged. 

"We've been round in the enemy's camp, everywhere; and I've committedGerrish himself to an armed neutrality. That wasn't difficult. Thedifficulty was in another quarter--with Mr. Peck himself. He's more opposedthan any one else to his stay in Hatboro'. You know he intended going awaythis morning?"

"Did he?" Annie asked dishonestly. The question obliged her to saysomething. 

"Yes. He came to Putney before breakfast to thank him and take leave ofhim, and to tell him of the plan he had for--Imagine what!"

"I don't know, " said Annie, hoarsely, after an effort, as if the untruthwould not come easily. "I am worse than Mrs. Munger, " she thought. 

"For going to Fall River to teach school among the mill-hands' children!And to open a night-school for the hands themselves. "

The doctor waited for her sensation, and in its absence he looked sodisappointed that she was forced to say, "To teach school?"

Then he went on briskly again. "Yes. Putney laboured with him on his knees, so to speak, and got him to postpone his going till to-morrow morning; andthen he came to me for help. We enlisted Mrs. Wilmington in the cause, andwe've spent the day working up the Peck sentiment to a fever-heat. It'sbeen a very queer campaign; three Gentiles toiling for a saint againstthe elect, and bringing them all over at last. We've got a paper, signedby a large majority of the members of the church--the church, not thesociety--asking Mr. Peck to remain; and Putney's gone to him with thepaper, and he's coming round here to report Mr. Peck's decision. We allagreed that it wouldn't do to say anything about his plan for the future, and I fancy some of his people signed our petition under the impressionthat they were keeping a valuable man out of another pulpit. "

Annie accompanied the doctor's words, which she took in to the lastsyllable, with a symphony of conjecture as to how the change in Mr. Peck'splans, if they prevailed with him, would affect her, and the doctor hadnot ceased to speak before she perceived that it would be deliveranceperfect and complete, however inglorious. But the tacit drama so vividlypreoccupied her with its minor questions of how to descend to this escapewith dignity that still she did not speak, and he took up the word again. 

"I confess I've had my misgivings about Mr. Peck, and about his finalusefulness in a community like this. In spite of all that Putney can say ofhis hard-headedness, I'm afraid that he's a good deal of a dreamer. But Igave way to Putney, and I hope you'll appreciate what I've done for yourfavourite. "

"You are very good, " she said, in mechanical acknowledgment: her mind wasset so strenuously to break from her dishonest reticence that she did notknow really what she was saying. "Why--why do you call him a dreamer?" Shecast about in that direction at random. 

"Why? Well, for one thing, the reason he gave Putney for giving up hisluxuries here: that as long as there was hardship and overwork for underpayin the world, he must share them. It seems to me that I might as wellsay that as long as there were dyspepsia and rheumatism in the world, Imust share them. Then he has a queer notion that he can go back and findinstruction in the working-men--that they alone have the light and thetruth, and know the meaning of life. I don't say anything against them. Myobservation and my experience is that if others were as good as they are inthe ratio of their advantages, Mr. Peck needn't go to them for his ideal. But their conditions warp and dull them; they see things askew, and theydon't see them clearly. I might as well expose myself to the small-pox inhopes of treating my fellow-sufferers more intelligently. "

She could not perceive where his analogies rang false; they onlyoverwhelmed her with a deeper sense of her own folly. 

"But I don't know, " he went on, "that a dreamer is such a desperatecharacter, if you can only keep him from trying to realise his dreams; andif Mr. Peck consents to stay in Hatboro', perhaps we can manage it. " Hedrew his chair a little toward the lounge where she reclined, and asked, with the kindliness that was both personal and professional, "What seems tobe the matter?"

She started up. "There is nothing--nothing that medicine can help. Why doyou call him my favourite?" she demanded violently. "But you have wastedyour time. If he had made up his mind to what you say, he would never giveit up--never in the world!" she added hysterically. "If you've interferedbetween any one and his duty in this world, where it seems as if hardlyany one had any duty, you've done a very unwarrantable thing. " She wasaware from his stare that her words were incoherent, if not from the wordsthemselves, but she hurried on: "I am going with him. He was here lastnight, and I told him I would. I will go with the Savors, and we will keepthe child together; and if they will take me, I shall go to work in themills; and I shall not care what people think, if it's right--"

She stopped and weakly dropped back on the lounge, and hid her face in thepillow. 

"I really don't understand. " The doctor began, with a physician'scarefulness, to unwind the coil she had flung down to him. "Are the Savorsgoing, and the child?"

"He will give her the child for the one they lost--you know how! And theywill take it with them. "

"But you--what have you--"

"I must have the child too! I can't give it up, and I shall go with them. There's no other way. You don't know. I've given him my word, and there isno hope!"

"He asked you, " said the doctor, to make sure he had heard aright--"heasked you--advised you--to go to work in a cotton-mill?"

"No;" she lifted her face to confront him. "He told me _not_ to go;but I said I would. "

They sat staring at each other in a silence which neither of them broke, and which promised to last indefinitely. They were still in their daze whenPutney's voice came through the open hall door. 

"Hello! hello! hello! Hello, Central! _Can't_ I make you hear, anyone?" His steps advanced into the hall, and he put his head in at thelibrary doorway. "Thought you'd be here, " he said, nodding at the doctor. "Well, doctor, Brother Peck's beaten us again. He's going. "

"Going?" the doctor echoed. 

"Yes. It's no use. I put the whole case before him, and I argued it with aforce of logic that would have fetched the twelfth man with eleven stubbornfellows against him on a jury; but it didn't fetch Brother Peck. He wasvery appreciative and grateful, but he believes he's got a call to give upthe ministry, for the present at least. Well, there's some consolation insupposing he may know best, after all. It seemed to us that he had a greatopportunity in Hatboro', but if he turns his back on it, perhaps it's asign he wasn't equal to it. The doctor told you what we've been up to, Annie?"

"Yes, " she answered faintly, from the depths of the labyrinth in which shewas plunged again. 

"I'm sorry for your news about him, " said the doctor. "I hoped he wasgoing to stay. It's always a pity when such a man lets his sympathies usehim instead of using them. But we must always judge that kind of crankleniently, if he doesn't involve other people in his erase. "

She knew that he was shielding and trying to spare her, and she feltinexpressibly degraded by the terms of his forbearance. She could notaccept, and she had not the strength to refuse it; and Putney said: "I'venot seen anything to make me doubt his sanity; but I must say the presentracket shakes my faith in his common-sense, and I rather held by that, youknow. But I suppose no man, except the kind of a man that a woman would beif she were a man--excuse me, Annie--is ever absolutely right. I supposethe truth is a constitutional thing, and you can't separate it fromthe personal consciousness, and so you get it coloured and heated bypersonality when you get it fresh. That is, we can see what the absolutetruth was, but never what it is. "

Putney amused himself in speculating on these lines with more or lessreference to Mr. Peck, and did not notice that the doctor and Annie gavehim only a silent assent. "As to misleading any one else, Mr. Peck'sfollowing in his new religion seems to be confined to the Savors, asI understand. They are going with him to help him set up a sort ofcooperative boarding-house. Well, I don't know where we shall get a hottergospeller than Brother Peck. Poor old fellow! I hope he'll get along betterin Fall River. It is something to be out of reach of Gerrish. "

The doctor asked, "When is he going?"

"Why, he's gone by this time, I suppose, " said Putney. "I tried to get himto think about it overnight, but he wouldn't. He's anxious to go and getback, so as to preach his last sermon here Sunday, and he's taken the 9. 10, if he hasn't changed his mind. " Putney looked at his watch. 

"Let's hope he hasn't, " said Dr. Morrell. 

"Which?" asked Putney. 

"Changed his mind. I'm sorry he's coming back. "

Annie knew that he was talking at her, though he spoke to Putney; but shewas powerless to protest. 

XXVIII. 

They went away together, leaving her to her despair, which had passed intoa sort of torpor by the following night, when Dr. Morrell came again, outof what she knew must be mere humanity; he could not respect her anylonger. He told her, as if for her comfort, that Putney had gone to thedepot to meet Mr. Peck, who was expected back in the eight-o'clock train, and was to labour with him all night long if necessary to get him tochange, or at least postpone, his purpose. The feeling in his favour wasgrowing. Putney hoped to put it so strongly to him as a proof of duty thathe could not resist it. 

Annie listened comfortlessly. Whatever happened, nothing could take awaythe shame of her weakness now. She even wished, feebly, vaguely, that shemight be forced to keep her word. 

A sound of running on the gravel-walk outside and a sharp pull at thedoor-bell seemed to jerk them both to their feet. 

Some one stepped into the hall panting, and the face of William Savorshowed itself at the door of the room where they stood. "Doc--DoctorMorrell, come--come quick! There's been an accident--at--the depot. Mr. --Peck--" He panted out the story, and Annie saw rather than heard howthe minister tried to cross the track from his train, where it had haltedshort of the station, and the flying express from the other quarter caughthim from his feet, and dropped the bleeding fragment that still held hislife beside the rail a hundred yards away, and then kept on in bruteignorance into the night. 

"Where is he? Where have you got him?" the doctor demanded of Savor. 

"At my house. "

The doctor ran out of the house, and she heard his buggy whirl away, followed by the fainter sound of Savor's feet as he followed running, afterhe had stopped to repeat his story to the Boltons. Annie turned to thefarmer. "Mr. Bolton, get the carry-all. I must go. "

"And me too, " said his wife. 

"Why, no, Pauliny; I guess you better stay. I guess it'll come out allright in the end, " Bolton began. "_I_ guess William has exaggeratedsome may be. Anyrate, who's goin' to look after the little girl if youcome?"

"_I_ am, " Mrs. Bolton snapped back. "She's goin' with me. "

"Of course she is. Be quick, Mr. Bolton!" Annie called from the stairs, which she had already mounted half-way. 

She caught up the child, limp with sleep, from its crib, and began to dressit. Idella cried, and fought away the hands that tormented her, and madeherself now very stiff and now very lax; but Annie and Mrs. Bolton togetherprevailed against her, and she was dressed, and had fallen asleep againin her clothes while the women were putting on their hats and sacks, andBolton was driving up to the door with the carry-all. 

"Why, I can see, " he said, when he got out to help them in, "just howWilliam's got his idee about it. His wife's an excitable kind of a woman, and she's sent him off lickety-split after the doctor without looking tosee what the matter was. There hain't never been anybody hurt at our depot, and it don't stand to reason--"

"Oliver Bolton, _will_ you hush that noise?" shrieked his wife. "Ifthe world was burnin' up you'd say it was nothing but a chimbley on firesom'er's. "

"Well, well, Pauliny, have it your own way, have it your own way, " saidBolton. "I ain't sayin' but what there's _some_thin' in William'sstory; but you'll see't he's exaggerated. Git up!"

"Well, do hurry, and _do_ be still!" said his wife. 

"Yes, yes. It's all right, Pauliny; all right. Soon's I'm out the lane, you'll see't I'll drive _fast_ enough. "

Mrs. Bolton kept a grim silence, against which her husband's babble ofoptimism played like heat-lightning on a night sky. 

Idella woke with the rush of cold air, and in the dark and strangenessbegan to cry, and wailed heart-breakingly between her fits of loudersobbing, and then fell asleep again before they reached the house whereher father lay dying. 

They had put him in the best bed in Mrs. Savor's little guest-room, andwhen Annie entered, the minister was apologising to her for spoiling it. 

"Now don't you say one word, Mr. Peck, " she answered him. "It's all right. I ruthah see you layin' there just's you be than plenty of folks that--"She stopped for want of an apt comparison, and at sight of Annie she said, as if he were a child whose mind was wandering: "Well, I declare, if hereain't Miss Kilburn come to see you, Mr. Peck! And Mis' Bolton! Well, theland!"

Mrs. Savor came and shook hands with them, and in her character of hostessurged them forward from the door, where they had halted. "Want to see Mr. Peck? Well, he's real comf'table now; ain't he, Dr. Morrell? We got him allfixed up nicely, and he ain't in a bit o' pain. It's his spine that's hurt, so't he don't feel nothin'; but he's just as clear in his mind as what youor I be. _Ain't_ he, doctor?"

"He's not suffering, " said Dr. Morrell, to whom Annie's eye wandered fromMrs. Savor, and there was something in his manner that made her think theminister was not badly hurt. She went forward with Mr. And Mrs. Bolton, andafter they had both taken the limp hand that lay outside the covering, shetouched it too. It returned no pressure, but his large, wan eyes looked ather with such gentle dignity and intelligence that she began to frame inher mind an excuse for what seemed almost an intrusion. 

"We were afraid you were hurt badly, and we thought--we thought you mightlike to see Idella--and so--we came. She is in the next room. "

"Thank you, " said the minister. "I presume that I am dying; the doctortells me that I have but a few hours to live. "

Mrs. Savor protested, "Oh, I guess you ain't a-goin' to die _this_time, Mr. Peck. " Annie looked from Dr. Morrell to Putney, who stood withhim on the other side of the bed, and experienced a shock from theirgravity without yet being able to accept the fact it implied. "There'splenty of folks, " continued Mrs. Savor, "hurt worse'n what you be that'salive to-day and as well as ever they was. "

Bolton seized his chance. "It's just what I said to Pauliny, comin' along. 'You'll see, ' said I, 'Mr. Peck'll be out as spry as any of us before agreat while. ' That's the way I felt about it from the start. "

"All you got to do is to keep up courage, " said Mrs. Savor. 

"That's so; that's half the battle, " said Bolton. 

There were numbers of people in the room and at the door of the next. Anniesaw Colonel Marvin and Jack Wilmington. She heard afterward that he wasgoing to take the same train to Boston with Mr. Peck, and had helped tobring him to the Savors' house. The stationmaster was there, and some otherrailroad employes. 

The doctor leaned across the bed and lifted slightly the arm that laythere, taking the wrist between his thumb and finger. "I think we hadbetter let Mr. Peck rest a while, " he said to the company generally, "We'redoing him no good. "

The people began to go; some of them said, "Well, good night!" as if theywould meet again in the morning. They all made the pretence that it was aslight matter, and treated the wounded man as if he were a child. He didnot humour the pretence, but said "Good-bye" in return for their "Goodnight" with a quiet patience. 

Mrs. Savor hastened after her retreating guests. "I ain't a-goin' to letyou go without a sup of coffee, " she said. "I want you should all stay andgit some, and I don't believe but what a little of it would do Mr. Peckgood. "

The surface of her lugubrious nature was broken up, and whatever was kindlyand cheerful in its depths floated to the top; she was almost gay in thedemand which the calamity made upon her. Annie knew that she must have seenand helped to soothe the horror of mutilation which she could not even lether fancy figure, and she followed her foolish bustle and chatter withrespectful awe. 

"Rebecca'll have it right off the stove in half a minute now, " Mrs. Savorconcluded; and from a further room came the cheerful click of cups, andthen a wandering whiff of the coffee; life in its vulgar kindliness touchedand made friends with death, claiming it a part of nature too. 

The night at Mrs. Munger's came back to Annie from the immeasurableremoteness into which all the past had lapsed. She looked up at Dr. Morrellacross the bed. 

"Would you like to speak with Mr. Peck?" he asked officially. "Better do itnow, " he said, with one of his short nods. 

Putney came and set her a chair. She would have liked to fall on her kneesbeside the bed; but she took the chair, and drew the minister's hand intohers, stretching her arm above his head on the pillow. He lay like somepoor little wounded boy, like Putney's Winthrop; the mother that is inevery woman's heart gushed out of hers in pity upon him, mixed with filialreverence. She had thought that she should confess her baseness to him, andask his forgiveness, and offer to fulfil with the people he had chosen forthe guardians of his child that interrupted purpose of his. But in thepresence of death, so august, so simple, all the concerns of life seemedtrivial, and she found herself without words. She sobbed over the poor handshe held. He turned his eyes upon her and tried to speak, but his lips onlylet out a moaning, shuddering sound, inarticulate of all that she hoped orfeared he might prophesy to shape her future. 

Life alone has any message for life, but from the beginning of time it hasput its ear to the cold lips that must for ever remain dumb. 

XXIX. 

The evening after the funeral Annie took Idella, with the child's clothesand toys in a bundle, and Bolton drove them down Over the Track to theSavors'. She had thought it all out, and she perceived that whatever theminister's final intention might have been, she was bound by the purposehe had expressed to her, and must give up the child. For fear she might beacting from the false conscientiousness of which she was beginning to havesome notion in herself, she put the case to Mrs. Bolton. She knew what shemust do in any event, but it was a comfort to be stayed so firmly in herduty by Mrs. Bolton, who did not spare some doubts of Mrs. Savor's fitnessfor the charge, and reflected a subdued censure even upon the judgment ofMr. Peck himself, as she bustled about and helped Annie get Idella and herbelongings ready. The child watched the preparations with suspicion. At theend, when she was dressed, and Annie tried to lift her into the carriage, she broke out in sudden rebellion; she cried, she shrieked, she fought; thetwo good women who were obeying the dead minister's behest were obliged todescend to the foolish lies of the nursery; they told her she was going ona visit to the Savors, who would take her on the cars with them, and thenbring her back to Aunt Annie's house. Before they could reconcile her tothis fabled prospect they had to give it verisimilitude by taking off hereveryday clothes and putting on her best dress. 

She did not like Mrs. Savor's house when she came to it, nor Mrs. Savor, who stopped, all blowzed and work-deranged from trying to put it in orderafter the death in it, and gave Idella a motherly welcome. Annie fancied acertain surprise in her manner, and her own ideal of duty was put to proofby Mrs. Savor's owning that she had not expected Annie to bring Idella toher right away. 

"If I had not done it at once, I never could have done it, " Annieexplained. 

"Well, I presume it's a cross, " said Mrs. Savor, "and I don't feel right totake her. If it wa'n't for what her father--"

"'Sh!" Annie said, with a significant glance. 

"It's an ugly house!" screamed the child. "I want to go back to my AuntAnnie's house. I want to go on the cars. "

"Yes, yes, " answered Mrs. Savor, blindly groping to share in whatever cheathad been practised on the child, "just as soon as the cars starts. Here, William, you take her out and show her the pretty coop you be'n makin' thepigeons, to keep the cats out. "

They got rid of her with Savor's connivance for the moment, and Anniehastened to escape. 

"We had to tell her she was going a journey, or we never could have got herinto the carriage, " she explained, feeling like a thief. 

"Yes, yes. It's all right, " said Mrs. Savor. "I see you'd be'n putting upsome kind of job on her the minute she mentioned the cars. Don't you fretany, Miss Kilburn. Rebecca and me'll get along with her, you needn't beafraid. "

Annie could not look at the empty crib where it stood in its alcove whenshe went to bed; and she cried upon her own pillow with heart-sickness forthe child, and with a humiliating doubt of her own part in hurrying togive it up without thought of Mrs. Savor's convenience. What had seemed sonoble, so exemplary, began to wear another colour; and she drowsed, wornout at last by the swarming fears, shames, and despairs, which resolvedthemselves into a fantastic medley of dream images. There was a cattrying to get at the pigeons in the coop which Mr. Savor had carriedIdella to see. It clawed and miauled at the lattice-work of lath, and itscaterwauling became like the cry of a child, so like that it woke Anniefrom her sleep, and still kept on. She lay shuddering a moment; it seemedas if the dead minister's ghost flitted from the room, while the cryingdefined and located itself more and more, till she knew it a child's wailat the door of her house. Then she heard, "Aunt Annie! Aunt Annie!" andsoft, faint thumps as of a little fist upon the door panels. 

She had no experience of more than one motion from her bed to the door, which the same impulse flung open and let her crush to her breast thelittle tumult of sobs and moans from the threshold. 

"Oh, wicked, selfish, heartless wretch!" she stormed out over the child. "But now I will never, never, never give you up! Oh, my poor little baby!my darling! God has sent you back to me, and I will keep you, I don't carewhat happens! What a cruel wretch I have been--oh, what a cruel wretch, mypretty!--to tear you from your home! But now you shall never leave it; noone shall take you away. " She gripped it in a succession of fierce hugs, and mumbled it--face and neck, and little cold wet hands and feet--with herkisses; and all the time she did not know the child was in its night-dresslike herself, or that her own feet were bare, and her drapery as scanty asIdella's. 

A sense of the fact evanescently gleamed upon her with the appearanceof Mrs. Bolton, lamp in hand, and the instantaneous appearance anddisappearance of her husband at the back door through which she emerged. The two women spent the first moments of the lamp-light in making certainthat Idella was sound and whole in every part, and then in making uncertainfor ever how she came to be there. Whether she had wandered out in hersleep, and found her way home with dream-led feet, or whether she hadwatched till the house was quiet, and then stolen away, was what she couldnot tell them, and must always remain a mystery. 

"I don't believe but what Mr. Bolton had better go and wake up the Savors. You got to keep her for the night, I presume, but they'd ought to knowwhere she is, and you can take her over there agin, come daylight. "

"_Mrs_. Bolton!" shouted Annie, in a voice so deep and hoarse thatit shook the heart of a woman who had never known fear of man. "If yousay such a thing to me--if you ever say such a thing again--I--I--I will_hit_ you! Send Mr. Bolton for Idella's things--right away!"

 * * * * *

"Land!" said Mrs. Savor, when Bolton, after a long conciliatory preamble, explained that he did not believe Miss Kilburn felt a great deal likegiving the child up again. "_I_ don't want it without it's satisfiedto stay. I see last night it was just breakin' its heart for her, and Itold William when we first missed her this mornin', and he was in such apucker about her, I bet anything he was a mind to that the child had goneback to Miss Kilburn's. That's just the words I used; didn't I, Rebecca?I couldn't stand it to have no child _grievin'_ around. "

Beyond this sentimental reluctance, Mrs. Savor later confessed to Annieherself that she was really accepting the charge of Idella in the samespirit of self-sacrifice as that in which Annie was surrendering it, andthat she felt, when Mr. Peck first suggested it, that the child was betteroff with Miss Kilburn; only she hated to say so. Her husband seemed tothink it would make up to her for the one they lost, but nothing couldreally do that. 

XXX. 

In a reverie of rare vividness following her recovery of the minister'schild, Annie Kilburn dramatised an escape from all the failures andhumiliations of her life in Hatboro'. She took Idella with her and wentback to Rome, accomplishing the whole affair so smoothly and rapidly thatshe wondered at herself for not having thought of such a simple solution ofher difficulties before. She even began to put some little things togetherfor her flight, while she explained to old friends in the American colonythat Idella was the orphan child of a country minister, which she hadadopted. That old lady who had found her motives in returning to Hatboro'insufficient questioned her sharply _why_ she had adopted theminister's child, and did not find her answers satisfactory. They were suchas also failed to pacify inquiry in Hatboro', where Annie remained, inspite of her reverie; but people accepted the fact, and accounted for it intheir own way, and approved it, even though they could not quite approveher. 

The dramatic impressiveness of the minister's death won him undisputedfavour, yet it failed to establish unity in his society. Supply aftersupply filled his pulpit, but the people found them all unsatisfactory whenthey remembered his preaching, and could not make up their minds to anyone of them. They were more divided than ever, except upon the point ofregretting Mr. Peck. But they distinguished, in honouring his memory. Theyrevered his goodness and his wisdom, but they regarded his conduct of lifeas unpractical. They said there never was a more inspired teacher, but itwas impossible to follow him, and he could not himself have kept the coursehe had marked out. They said, now that he was beyond recall, no one elsecould have built up the church in Hatboro' as he could, if he could onlyhave let impracticable theories alone. Mr. Gerrish called many people towitness that this was what he had always said. He contended that it was thespirit of the gospel which you were to follow. He said that if Mr. Peck hadgone to teaching among the mill hands, he would have been sick of it insideof six weeks; but he was a good Christian man, and no one wished less thanMr. Gerrish to reproach him for what was, after all, more an error of thehead than the heart. His critics had it their own way in this, for he hadnot lived to offer that full exposition of his theory and justification ofhis purpose which he had been expected to give on the Sunday after he waskilled; and his death was in no wise exegetic. It said no more to hispeople than it had said to Annie; it was a mere casualty; and his pastlife, broken and unfulfilled, with only its intimations and intentions ofperformance, alone remained. 

When people learned, as they could hardly help doing from Mrs. Savor'svolubility, what his plan with regard to Idella had been, they instancedthat in proof of the injuriousness of his idealism as applied to reallife; and they held that she had been remanded in that strange way to MissKilburn's charge for some purpose which she must not attempt to cross. Asthe minister had been thwarted in another intent by death, it was a signthat he was wrong in this too, and that she could do better by the childthan he had proposed. 

This was the sum of popular opinion; and it was further the opinion of Mrs. Gerrish, who gave more attention to the case than many others, that Anniehad first taken the child because she hoped to get Mr. Peck, when she foundshe could not get Dr. Morrell; and that she would have been very glad to berid of it if she had known how, but that she would have to keep it now forshame's sake. 

For shame's sake certainly, Annie would have done several other things, andchief of these would have been never to see Dr. Morrell again. She believedthat he not only knew the folly she had confessed to him, but that he haddivined the cowardice and meanness in which she had repented it, and shefelt intolerably disgraced before the thought of him. She had imaginedmainly because of him that escape to Rome which never has yet beeneffected, though it might have been attempted if Idella had not wakenedill from the sleep she sobbed herself into when she found herself safe inAnnie's crib again. 

She had taken a heavy cold, and she moped lifelessly about during the day, and drowsed early again in the troubled cough-broken slumber. 

"That child ought to have the doctor, " said Mrs. Bolton, with the grimimpartiality in which she masked her interference. 

"Well, " said Annie helplessly. 

At the end of the lung fever which followed, "It was a narrow chance, " saidthe doctor one morning; "but now I needn't come any more unless you sendfor me. "

Annie stood at the door, where he spoke with his hand on the dash-board ofhis buggy before getting into it. 

She answered with one of those impulses that come from something deeperthan intention. "I will send for you, then--to tell you how generous youare, " and in the look with which she spoke she uttered the full meaningthat her words withheld. 

He flushed for pleasure of conscious desert, but he had to laugh and turnit off lightly. "I don't think I could come for that. But I'll look in tosee Idella unprofessionally. "

He drove away, and she remained at her door looking up at the summer bluesky that held a few soft white clouds, such as might have overhung the sameplace at the same hour thousands of years before, and such as would lazilydrift over it in a thousand years to come. The morning had an immeasurablevastness, through which some crows flying across the pasture above thehouse sent their voices on the spacious stillness. A perception of theunity of all things under the sun flashed and faded upon her, as suchglimpses do. Of her high intentions, nothing had resulted. An inexorablecentrifugality had thrown her off at every point where she tried to cling. Nothing of what was established and regulated had desired her intervention;a few accidents and irregularities had alone accepted it. But now she feltthat nothing withal had been lost; a magnitude, a serenity, a tolerance, intimated itself in the universal frame of things, where her failure, herrecreancy, her folly, seemed for the moment to come into true perspective, and to show venial and unimportant, to be limited to itself, and to be evengood in its effect of humbling her to patience with all imperfection andshortcoming, even her own. She was aware of the cessation of a strugglethat has never since renewed itself with the old intensity; her wishes, herpropensities, ceased in that degree to represent evil in conflict with theportion of good in her; they seemed so mixed and interwoven with the goodthat they could no longer be antagonised; for the moment they seemed intheir way even wiser and better, and ever after to be the nature out ofwhich good as well as evil might come. 

As she remained standing there, Mr. Brandreth came round the corner of thehouse, looking very bright and happy. 

"Miss Kilburn, " he said abruptly, "I want you to congratulate me. I'mengaged to Miss Chapley. "

"Are you indeed, Mr. Brandreth? I do congratulate you with all my heart. She is a lovely girl. "

"Yes, it's all right now, " said Mr. Brandreth. "I've come to tell you thefirst one, because you seemed to take an interest in it when I told you ofthe trouble about the Juliet. We hadn't come to any understanding beforethat, but that seemed to bring us both to the point, and--and we'reengaged. Mother and I are going to New York for the winter; we think shecan risk it; and at any rate she won't be separated from me; and we shallbe back in our little home next May. You know that I'm to be with Mr. Chapley in his business?"

"Why, no! This is _great_ news, Mr. Brandreth! I don't know what tosay. "

"You're very kind, " said the young man, and for the third or fourth time hewrung her hand. "It isn't a partnership, of course; but he thinks I can beof use to him. "

"I know you can!" Annie adventured. 

"We are very busy getting ready--nearly everybody else is gone--and mothersent her kindest regards--you know she don't make calls--and I just ran upto tell you. Well, _good_-bye!"

"_Good_-bye! Give my love to your mother, and to your-to MissChapley. "

"I will. " He hurried off, and then came running back. "Oh, I forgot! Aboutthe Social Union fund. You know we've got about two hundred dollars fromthe theatricals, but the matter seems to have stopped there, and some of usthink there'd better be some other disposition of the money. Have you anysuggestion to make?"

"No, none. "

"Then I'll tell you. It's proposed to devote the money to beautifying thegrounds around the soldiers' monument. They ought to be fenced and plantedwith flowers--turned into a little public garden. Everybody appreciates theinterest you took in the Union, and we hoped you'd be pleased with thatdisposition of the money. "

"It is very kind, " said Annie, with a meek submission that must have madehim believe she was deeply touched. 

"As I'm not to be here this winter, " he continued, "we thought we hadbetter leave the whole matter in your hands, and the money has beendeposited in the bank subject to your order. It was Mrs. Munger's idea. Idon't think she's ever felt just right about that evening of the dramatics, don't you know. _Good_-bye!"

He ran off to escape her thanks for this proof of confidence in her tasteand judgment, and he was gone beyond her protest before she emerged fromher daze into a full sense of the absurdity of the situation. 

"Well, it's a very simple matter to let the money lie in the bank, " saidDr. Morrell, who came that evening to make his first unprofessional visit, and received with pure amusement the account of the affair, which she gavehim with a strong infusion of vexation. 

"The way I was involved in this odious Social Union business from thefirst, and now have it left on my hands in the end, is maddening. Why, Ican't get rid of it!" she replied. 

"Then, perhaps, " he comfortably suggested, "it's a sign you're not intendedto get rid of it. "

"What _do_ you mean?"

"Why don't you go on, " he irresponsibly adventured further, "and establisha Social Union?"

"Do you _mean_ it?"

"What was that notion of his"--they usually spoke of the ministerpronominally--"about getting the Savors going in a co-operativeboarding-house at Fall River? Putney said something about it. "

Annie explained, as she had heard it from him, and from the Savors sincehis death, the minister's scheme for a club, in which the members shouldcontribute the labour and the provisions, and should live cheaply andwholesomely under the management of the Savors at first, and afterwardshould continue them in charge, or not, as they chose. "He seemed tohave thought it out very carefully. But I supposed, of course, it wasunpractical. "

"Was that why you were going in for it?" asked the doctor; and then hespared her confusion in adding: "I don't see why it was unpractical. Itseems to me a very good notion for a Social Union. Why not try it here?There isn't the same pressing necessity that there is in a big factorytown; but you have the money, and you have the Savors to make a beginning. "

His tone was still half bantering; but it had become more and more serious, so that she could say in earnest: "But the money is one of the drawbacks. It was Mr. Peck's idea that the working people ought to do it allthemselves. "

"Well, I should say that two-thirds of that money in the bank had come fromthem. They turned out in great force to Mr. Brandreth's theatricals. Andwouldn't it be rather high-handed to use their money for anything but theUnion?"

"You don't suppose, " said Annie hotly, "that I would spend a cent of iton the grounds of that idiotic monument? I would pay for having it blownup with dynamite! No, I can't have anything more to do with the wretchedaffair. My touch is fatal. " The doctor laughed, and she added: "Besides, Ibelieve most heartily with Mr. Peck that no person of means and leisure canmeet working people except in the odious character of a patron, and if Ididn't respect them, I respect myself too much for that. If I were ready togo in with them and start the Social Union on his basis, by helping dohouse-work--_scullion_-work--for it, and eating and living with them, I might try; but I know from experience I'm not. I haven't the need, and topretend that I have, to forego my comforts and luxuries in a make-believethat I haven't them, would be too ghastly a farce, and I won't. "

"Well, then, don't, " said the doctor, bent more perhaps on carrying hispoint in argument than on promoting the actual establishment of the SocialUnion. "But my idea is this: Take two-thirds or one-half of that money, and go to Savor, and say: 'Here! This is what Mr. Brandreth's theatricalsswindled the shop-hands out of. It's honestly theirs, at least to control;and if you want to try that experiment of Mr. Peck's here in Hatboro', it'syours. We people of leisure, or comparative leisure, have really nothingin common with you people who work with your hands for a living; and as wereally can't be friends with you, we won't patronise you. We won't adviseyou, and we won't help you; but here's the money. If you fail, you fail;and if you succeed, you won't succeed by our aid and comfort. '"

The plan that Annie and Doctor Morrell talked over half in joke took a moreand more serious character in her sense of duty to the minister's memoryand the wish to be of use, which was not extinct in her, however she mockedand defied it. It was part of the irony of her fate that the people whowere best able to counsel with her in regard to it were Lyra, whom shecould not approve, and Jack Wilmington, whom she had always disliked. Hewas able to contribute some facts about the working of the Thayer Clubat the Harvard Memorial Hall in Cambridge, and Lyra because she had beenherself a hand, and would not forget it, was of use in bringing the schemeinto favour with the hands. They felt easy with her, as they did withPutney, and for much the same reason: it is one of the pleasing facts ofour conditions that people who are socially inferior like best those abovethem who are morally anomalous. It was really through Lyra that Annie gotat the working people, and when it came to a formal conference, therewas no one who could command their confidence like Putney, whom they sawmad-drunk two or three times a year, but always pulling up and fightingback to sanity against the enemy whose power some of them had felt too. 

No theory is so perfect as not to be subject to exceptions in theexperiment, and in spite of her conviction of the truth of Mr. Peck'ssocial philosophy, Annie is aware, through her simple and frank relationswith the hands in a business matter, of mutual kindness which it doesnot account for. But perhaps the philosophy and the experiment were notcontradictory; perhaps it was intended to cover only the cases in whichthey had no common interest. At anyrate, when the Peck Social Union, as itsmembers voted to call it, at the suggestion of one of their own number, gotin working order, she was as cordially welcomed to the charge of its fundsand accounts as if she had been a hat-shop hand or a shoe-binder. She isreally of use, for its working is by no means ideal, and with her widerknowledge she has suggested improvements and expedients for making bothends meet which were sometimes so reluctant to meet. She has kept aconscience against subsidising the Union from her own means; and she evenaccepts for her services a small salary, which its members think theyought to pay her. She owns this ridiculous, like all the make-believe workof rich people; a travesty which has no reality except the little sum itadded to the greater sum of her superabundance. She is aware that she isa pensioner upon the real members of the Social Union for a chance to beuseful, and that the work they let her do is the right of some one whoneeds it. She has thought of doing the work and giving the pay to another;but she sees that this would be pauperising and degrading another. So shedwells in a vicious circle, and waits, and mostly forgets, and is mostlyhappy. 

The Social Union itself, though not a brilliant success in all points, isstill not a failure; and the promise of its future is in the fact that itcontinues to have a present. The people of Hatboro' are rather proud ofit, and strangers visit it as one of the possible solutions of one of thesocial problems. It is predicted that it cannot go on; that it must eitherdo better or do worse; but it goes on the same. 

Putney studies its existence in the light of his own infirmity, to which hestill yields from time to time, as he has always done. He professes to findthere a law which would account for a great many facts of human experienceotherwise inexplicable. He does not attempt to define this occultpreservative principle, but he offers himself and the Social Union asproofs of its existence; and he argues that if they can only last longenough they will finally be established in a virtue and prosperity as greatas those of Mr. Gerrish and his store. 

Annie sometimes feels that nothing else can explain the maintenance of LyraWilmington's peculiar domestic relations at the point which perpetuallyinvites comment and never justifies scandal. The situation seems to her aslamentable as ever. She grieves over Lyra, and likes her, and laughs withher; she no longer detests Jack Wilmington so much since he showed himselfso willing and helpful about the Social Union; she thinks there must be agreat deal of good in him, and sometimes she is sorry for him, and longs tospeak again to Lyra about the wrong she is doing him. One of the dangersof having a very definite point of view is the temptation of abusing it toread the whole riddle of the painful earth. Annie has permitted herself tothink of Lyra's position as one which would be impossible in a state ofthings where there was neither poverty nor riches, and there was neitherluxury on one hand to allure, nor the fear of want to constrain on theother. 

When her recoil from the fulfilment of her volunteer pledge to Mr. Peckbrought her face to face with her own weakness, there were two ways backto self-respect, either of which she might take. She might revert to herfirst opinion of him, and fortify herself in that contempt and rejection ofhis ideas, or she might abandon herself to them, with a vague intention ofreparation to him, and accept them to the last insinuation of their logic. This was what she did, and while her life remained the same outwardly, itwas inwardly all changed. She never could tell by what steps she reachedher agreement with the minister's philosophy; perhaps, as a woman, itwas not possible she should; but she had a faith concerning it to whichshe bore unswerving allegiance, and it was Putney's delight to witnessits revolutionary effect on an old Hatboro' Kilburn, the daughter of ashrewd lawyer and canny politician like her father, and the heir of anaristocratic tradition, a gentlewoman born and bred. He declared himselfa reactionary in comparison with her, and had the habit of taking theconservative side against her. She was in the joke of this; but it was areal trouble to her for a time that Dr. Morrell, after admitting the forceof her reasons, should be content to rest in a comfortable inconclusionas to his conduct, till one day she reflected that this was what she washerself doing, and that she differed from him only in the openness withwhich she proclaimed her opinions. Being a woman, her opinions were treatedby the magnates of Hatboro' as a good joke, the harmless fantasies of anold maid, which she would get rid of if she could get anybody to marry her;being a lady, and very well off, they were received with deference, andshe was left to their uninterrupted enjoyment. Putney amused himself bysaying that she was the fiercest apostle of labour that never did a strokeof work; but no one cared half so much for all that as for the questionwhether her affair with Dr. Morrell was a friendship or a courtship. Theysaw an activity of attention on his part which would justify the mostdevout belief in the latter, and yet they were confronted with the factthat it so long remained eventless. The two theories, one that she wasamusing herself with him, and the other that he was just playing with her, divided public opinion, but they did not molest either of the parties tothe mystery; and the village, after a season of acute conjecture, quiescedinto that sarcastic sufferance of the anomaly into which it may have beennoticed that small communities are apt to subside from such occasions. Except for some such irreconcilable as Mrs. Gerrish, it was a good jokethat if you could not find Dr. Morrell in his office after tea, you couldalways find him at Miss Kilburn's. Perhaps it might have helped solve themystery if it had been known that she could not accept the situation, whatever it really was, without satisfying herself upon two points, whichresolved themselves into one in the process of the inquiry. 

She asked, apparently as preliminary to answering a question of his, "Haveyou heard that gossip about my--being in--caring for the poor man?"

"Yes. "

"And did you--what did you think?"

"That it wasn't true. I knew if there were anything in it, you couldn'thave talked him over with me. "

She was silent. Then she said, in a low voice: "No, there couldn't havebeen. But not for that reason alone, though it's very delicate and generousof you to think of it, very large-minded; but because it _couldn't_have been. I could have worshipped him, but I couldn't have loved him--anymore, " she added, with an implication that entirely satisfied him, "than Icould have worshipped _you_. "

THE END.