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diff --git a/old/64608-0.txt b/old/64608-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index cd1fac7..0000000 --- a/old/64608-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6954 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of From the Land of the Snow-Pearls, by Ella -Higginson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: From the Land of the Snow-Pearls - Tales from Puget Sound - -Author: Ella Higginson - -Release Date: February 21, 2021 [eBook #64608] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Charlene Taylor, Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The Internet - Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FROM THE LAND OF THE -SNOW-PEARLS *** - - - - - -FROM THE LAND OF THE SNOW-PEARLS - -[Illustration] - - - - - FROM THE LAND OF - THE SNOW-PEARLS - - TALES FROM PUGET SOUND - - By ELLA HIGGINSON. - - NEW YORK - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD. - 1902 - - Copyright, 1896, by - THE CALVERT COMPANY - - Copyright, 1897, by - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - - - - -TO RUSSELL CARDEN HIGGINSON - - -Some of the stories in this book appeared originally in _McClure’s_, -_Lippincott’s_, _Leslie’s Weekly_, _Short Stories_, _The Black Cat_ and -_The New Peterson_. I am indebted to the publishers of those periodicals -for the kind permission to reprint them. - - E. H. - -This book was first published under the title of “The Flower that Grew in -the Sand.” To the present edition, two stories have been added. - - _The Publishers._ - -Puget Sound lies in its emerald setting like a great blue sapphire, which -at sunset, draws to its breast all the marvelous and splendid coloring -of the fire-opal. Around it, shining through their rose-colored mists -like pearls upon the soft blue or green of the sky, are linked the great -snow-mountains, so beautiful and so dear, that those who love this land -with a proud and passionate love, have come to think of it, fondly and -poetically, as “the land of the snow-pearls.” - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - THE FLOWER THAT GREW IN THE SAND 1 - - ESTHER’S “FOURTH” 21 - - THE BLOW-OUT AT JENKINS’S GROCERY 31 - - THE TAKIN’ IN OF OLD MIS’ LANE 41 - - THE MANEUVERING OF MRS. SYBERT 67 - - A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN 79 - - THE CUTTIN’-OUT OF BART WINN 141 - - ZARELDA 183 - - IN THE BITTER ROOT MOUNTAINS 207 - - PATIENCE APPLEBY’S CONFESSING-UP 217 - - THE MOTHER OF “PILLS” 243 - - MRS. RISLEY’S CHRISTMAS DINNER 263 - - - - -THE FLOWER THAT GREW IN THE SAND - - - - -THE FLOWER THAT GREW IN THE SAND - - -Demaris opened the gate and walked up the narrow path. There was a low -hedge of pink and purple candytuft on each side. Inside the hedges were -little beds of homely flowers in the shapes of hearts, diamonds and -Maltese crosses. - -Mrs. Eaton was stooping over a rosebush, but she arose when she heard the -click of the gate. She stood looking at Demaris, with her arms hanging -stiffly at her sides. - -“Oh,” she said, with a grim smile; “you, is it?” - -“Yes,” said the girl, blushing and looking embarrassed. “Ain’t it a nice -evenin’?” - -“It is that; awful nice. I’m tyin’ up my rosebushes. Won’t you come in -an’ set down a while?” - -“Oh, my, no!” said Demaris. Her eyes went wistfully to the pink rosebush. -“I can’t stay.” - -“Come fer kindlin’ wood?” - -“No.” She laughed a little at the worn-out joke. “I come to see ’f you -had two or three pink roses to spare.” - -“Why, to be sure, a dozen if you want. Just come an’ help yourself. My -hands ain’t fit to tech ’em after diggin’ so.” - -She stood watching the girl while she carefully selected some half-open -roses. There was a look of good-natured curiosity on her face. - -“Anything goin’ on at the church to-night?” - -“No; at least not that I know of.” - -“It must be a party then.” - -“No—not a party, either.” She laughed merrily. Her face was hidden as she -bent over the roses, but her ears were pink under the heavy brown hair -that fell, curling, over them. - -“Well, then, somebody’s comin’ to see you.” - -“No; I’ll have to tell you.” She lifted a glad, shy face. “I’m goin’ on -the moonlight excursion.” - -“Oh, now! Sure? Well, I’m reel glad.” - -“So’m I. I never wanted to go anywheres so much in my life. I’ve been -’most holdin’ my breath for fear ma’d get sick.” - -“How is your ma?” - -“Well, she ain’t very well; she never is, you know.” - -“What ails her?” - -“I do’ know,” said Demaris, slowly. “We’ll get home by midnight. So ’f -she has a spell come on, pa can set up with her till I get home, and -then I can till mornin’.” - -“Should think you’d be all wore out a-settin’ up two or three nights a -week that way.” - -Demaris sighed. The radiance had gone out of her face and a look of care -was upon it. - -“Well,” she said, after a moment, “I’ll have a good time to-night, -anyhow. We’re goin’ to have the band along. They’re gettin’ so’s they -play reel well. They play ‘Annie Laurie’ an’ ‘Rocked ’n the Cradle o’ the -Deep,’ now.” - -The gate clicked. A child came running up the path. - -“Oh, sister, sister! Come home quick!” - -“What for?” said Demaris. There was a look of dread on her face. - -“Ma’s goin’ right into a spell. She wants you quick. She thinks she’s -took worse ’n usual.” - -There was a second’s hesitation. The girl’s face whitened. Her lips -trembled. - -“I guess I won’t want the roses after gettin’ ’em,” she said. “I’m just -as much obliged, though, Mis’ Eaton.” - -She followed the child to the gate. - -“Well, if that don’t beat all!” ejaculated Mrs. Eaton, looking after her -with genuine sympathy. “It just seems as if she had a spell to order -ev’ry time that girl wants to go anywheres. It’s nothin’ but hysterics, -anyway. I’d like to doctor her for a while. I’d souze a bucket o’ cold -water over her! I reckon that ’u’d fetch her to ’n a hurry.” - -She laughed with a kind of stern mirth and resumed her work. - -Demaris hurried home. The child ran at her side. Once she took her hand -and gave her an upward look of sympathy. - -She passed through the kitchen, laying her roses on the table. Then she -went into her mother’s room. - -Mrs. Ferguson lay on a couch. A white cloth was banded around her head, -coming well down over one eye. She was moaning bitterly. - -Demaris looked at her without speaking. - -“Where on earth you been?” She gave the girl a look of fierce reproach. -“A body might die, fer all the help you’d be to ’em. Here I’ve been -a-feelin’ a spell a-comin’ on all day, an’ yet you go a-gaddin’ ’round to -the neighbors, leavin’ me to get along the best way I know how. I believe -this is my last spell. I’ve got that awful pain over my right eye ag’in, -till I’m nearly crazy. My liver’s all out o’ order.” - -Demaris was silent. When one has heard the cry of “wolf” a hundred times, -one is inclined to be incredulous. Her apathetic look angered her mother. - -“What makes you stand there a-starin’ like a dunce? Can’t you help a -body? Get the camfire bottle an’ the tincture lobelia an’ the box o’ -goose grease! You know’s well’s me what I need when I git a spell. I’m so -nervous I feel’s if I c’u’d fly. I got a horrible feelin’ that this’ll be -my last spell—an’ yet you stand there a-starin’ ’s if you didn’t care a -particle!” - -Demaris moved about the room stiffly, as if every muscle in her body were -in rebellion. She took from a closet filled with drugs the big camphor -bottle with its cutglass stopper, the little bottle labeled “tinc. -lobelia,” and the box of goose grease. - -She placed a chair at the side of the couch to hold the bottle. “Oh, take -that old split-bottom cheer away!” exclaimed her mother. “Everything -upsets on it so! Get one from the kitchen—the one that’s got cherries -painted on the back of it. What makes you ac’ so? You know what cheer I -want. You’d tantalize the soul out of a saint!” - -The chair was brought. The bottles were placed upon it. Demaris stood -waiting. - -“Now rub my head with the camfire, or I’ll go ravin’ crazy. I can’t think -where ’t comes from!” - -The child stood twitching her thin fingers around a chair. She watched -her mother in a matter-of-course way. Demaris leaned over the couch in an -uncomfortable position and commenced the slow, gentle massage that must -continue all night. She did not lift her eyes. They were full of tears. - -For a long time there was silence in the room. Mrs. Ferguson lay with -closed eyes. Her face wore a look of mingled injury and reproach. - -“Nellie,” said Demaris, after a while, “could you make a fire in the -kitchen stove? Or would you rather try to do this while I build it?” - -“Hunh-unh,” said the child, shaking her head with emphasis. “I’d ruther -build fires any time.” - -“All right. Put two dippers o’ water ’n the tea-kettle. Be sure you get -your dampers right. An’ I guess you might wash some potatoes an’ put ’em -in to bake. They’ll be done by time pa comes, an’ he can stay with ma -while I warm up the rest o’ the things. Ma, what could you eat?” - -“Oh, I do’ know”—in a slightly mollified tone. “A piece o’ toast, -mebbe—’f you don’t get it too all-fired hard.” - -“Well, I’ll try not.” - -Nellie went out, and there was silence in the room. The wind came in -through the open window, shaking little ripples of perfume into the room. -The sun was setting and a broad band of reddish gold sunk down the wall. - -Demaris watched it sinking lower, and thought how slowly the sun was -settling behind the straight pines on the crests of the blue mountains. - -“Oh,” said Mrs. Ferguson, “what a wretched creature I am! Just -a-sufferin’ day an’ night, year in an’ year out, an’ a burden on them -that I’ve slaved fer all my life. Many’s the night I’ve walked with you -’n my arms till mornin’, Demaris, an’ never knowed what it was to git -sleepy or tired. An’ now you git mad the minute I go into a spell.” - -Demaris stood upright with a tortured look. - -“Oh, ma,” she exclaimed. Her voice was harsh with pain. “I ain’t mad. -Don’t think I’m mad. I can’t cry out o’ pity ev’ry time you have a spell, -or I’d be cryin’ all the time. An’ besides, to-night I’m so—disappointed.” - -“What you disappointed about?” - -“Why, you know.” Her lips trembled. “The excursion.” - -Mrs. Ferguson opened her eyes. - -“Oh, I’d clean fergot that.” - -She looked as if she were thinking she would really have postponed the -spell, if she had remembered. “That’s too bad, Demaris. That’s always -the way.” She began to cry helplessly. “I’m always in the way. Always -mis’rable myself, an’ always makin’ somebody else mis’rable. I don’t see -what I was born fer.” - -“Never you mind.” Demaris leaned over suddenly and put her arms around -her mother. “Don’t you think I’m mad. I’m just disappointed. Now don’t -cry. You’ll go and make yourself worse. An’ there comes pa; I hear him -cleanin’ his boots on the scraper.” - -Mr. Ferguson stumbled as he came up the steps to the kitchen. He was very -tired. He was not more than fifty, but his thin frame had a pitiable -stoop. The look of one who has struggled long and failed was on his brown -and wrinkled face. His hair and beard were prematurely gray. His dim blue -eyes had a hopeless expression that was almost hidden by a deeper one of -patience. He wore a coarse flannel shirt, moist with perspiration, and -faded blue overalls. His boots were wrinkled and hard; the soil of the -fields clung to them. “Sick ag’in, ma?” he said. - -“Sick ag’in! Mis’rable creature that I am! I’ve got that awful pain over -my right eye ag’in. I can’t think where it comes from. I’m nearly crazy -with it.” - -“Well, I guess you’ll feel a little better after you git some tea. I’ll -go an’ wash, an’ then rub your head, while Demaris gits a bite to eat. -I’ve plowed ever since sun-up, an’ I’m tired an’ hungry.” - -He returned in a few minutes, and took Demaris’s place. He sighed deeply, -but silently, as he sat down. - -Demaris set the table and spread upon it the simple meal which she had -prepared. “I’ll stay with ma while you an’ pa eat,” said Nellie, with a -sudden burst of unselfishness. - -“Well,” said Demaris, wearily. - -Mr. Ferguson sat down at the table and leaned his head on his hand. “I’m -too tired to eat,” he said; “hungry’s I am.” He looked at the untempting -meal of cold boiled meat, baked potatoes and apple sauce. - -Demaris did not lift her eyes as she sat down. She felt that she ought -to say something cheerful, but her heart was too full of her own -disappointment. She despised her selfishness even while yielding to it. - -“It does beat all about your ma,” said her father. “I can’t see where she -gits that pain from. It ain’t nothin’ danger’s or it ’u’d a-killed her -long ago. It almost seems ’s if she jests gits tired o’ bein’ well, an’ -begins to git scared fer fear that pain’s a-comin’ on—an’ then it comes -right on. I’ve heard her say lots o’ times that she’d been well a whole -week now, but that she w’u’dn’t brag or that pain ’u’d come on—an’ inside -of an hour it ’ud up an’ come on. It’s awful discouragin’.” - -“I wish I was dead!” said Demaris. - -Her father did not speak. His silence reproached her more than any words -could have done. - -When she went into the bedroom again she found her mother crying -childishly. - -“Demaris, did I hear you say you wished you was dead?” - -“I guess so. I said it.” - -“Well, God Almighty knows I wish I was! You don’t stop to think what -’u’d become o’ me ’f it wa’n’t fer you. Your pa c’u’dn’t hire anybody, -an’ he’s gittin’ too old to set up o’ nights after workin’ hard all day. -You’d like to see ’t all come on your little sister, I reckon.” - -Demaris thought of those slim, weak wrists, and shivered. Her mother -commenced to sob—and that aggravated the pain. - -Demaris stooped and put her arms around her and kissed her. - -“I’m sorry I said it,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean it. I’m just tired -an’ cross. You know I didn’t mean it.” - -Her father came in heavily. - -“Demaris,” he said, “Frank Vickers is comin’ ’round to the front door. -I’ll take keer o’ your ma while you go in an’ see him.” - -It was a radiant-faced young fellow that walked into Demaris’s little -parlor. He took her hand with a tenderness that brought the color beating -into her cheeks. - -“What?” he said. “An’ you ain’t ready? Why, the boat leaves in an hour, -an’ it’s a good, long walk to the wharf. You’ll have to hurry up, -Demaris.” - -“I can’t go.” - -“You can’t go? Why can’t you?” - -She lifted her eyes bravely. Then tears swelled into them very slowly -until they were full. Not one fell. She looked at him through them. He -felt her hand trembling against the palm of his own. - -“Why can’t you, Demaris?” - -“My mother’s sick—just hear her moanin’ clear in here.” - -Young Vickers’s face was a study. - -“Why, she was sick last time I wanted to take you som’ers—to a dance, -wasn’t it?” - -“Yes—I know.” - -“An’ time before that, when I wanted you to go to a church sociable up’n -String Town.” - -“Yes.” - -“Why, she must be sick near onto all the time, accordin’ to that.” - -“She is—pretty near.” She withdrew her hand. There was a stiff-looking -lounge in one corner of the room. It was covered with Brussels carpet, -and had an uncomfortable back, but it was dear to Demaris’s heart. She -had gathered and sold strawberries two whole summers to pay for it. She -sat down on it now and laid her hands together on her knees. - -The young man followed and sat down beside her. - -“Why, my dear,” he said, very quietly, “you can’t stand this sort of -thing—it’s wearin’ you out. You never did look light an’ happy like other -girls o’ your age; an’ lately you’re gettin’ a real pinched look. I feel -as if ’t was time for me to interfere.” He took her hand again. - -It was dim twilight in the room now. Demaris turned her head aside. The -tears brimmed over and fell fast and silently. - -“Interferin’ won’t do no good,” she said, resolutely. “There’s just two -things about it. My mother’s sick all the time, an’ I have to wait on -her. There’s nobody else to do it.” - -“Well, as long ’s you stay at home it’ll all come on you. You ain’t able -to carry sech a load.” - -“I’ll have to.” - -“Demaris, you’ll just have to leave.” - -“What!” said the girl. She turned to look at him in a startled way. -“Leave home? I couldn’t think of doin’ that.” - -He leaned toward her and put his arm around her, trembling strongly. “Not -even to come to my home, Demaris? I want you, dear; an’ I won’t let you -kill yourself workin’, either. I ain’t rich, but I’m well enough off to -give you a comfortable home an’ some one to do your work for you.” - -There was a deep silence. Each felt the full beating of the other’s -heart. There was a rosebush under the window, an old-fashioned one. Its -blooms were not beautiful, but they were very sweet. It had flung a slim, -white spray of them into the room. Demaris never smelled their fragrance -afterward without a keen, exquisite thrill of passion, as brief as it was -delicious. - -“I can’t, Frank.” Her tone was low and uncertain. “I can’t leave my -mother. She’s sick an’ gettin’ old. I can’t.” - -“Oh, Demaris! That’s rank foolishness!” - -“Well, I guess it’s the right kind of foolishness.” She drew away and sat -looking at him. Her hands were pressed together in her lap. - -“Why, it ain’t expected that a girl ’ad ought to stay an’ take care o’ -her mother forever, is it? It ain’t expected that she ought to turn -herself into a hospital nurse, is it?” - -Her face grew stern. - -“Don’t talk that way, Frank. That ain’t respectful to my mother. She’s -had a hard life an’ so’s my father. You know I want to come, but I can’t. -It’s my place to stay an’ take care o’ her. I’m goin’ to do it—hard ’s -it is. My leavin’ ’em ’u’d just take the heart out of both of ’em. An’ -there’s Nellie, too.” - -“Demaris—” he spoke slowly; his face was pale—“I’m goin’ to say somethin’ -to you I never thought I’d say to any girl alive. But the fact is, I -didn’t know till right now how much I think o’ you. You marry me, an’ -we’ll all live together?” - -Her face softened. She leaned a little toward him with uncontrollable -tenderness. But as he made a quick movement, she drew back. - -“No, Frank. I can’t—I can’t! It won’t do. Such things is what breaks -women’s hearts!” - -“What things, dear?” - -“Folks livin’ together that way. There’s no good ever comes of it. I’d -have to set up with mother just the same, an’ you’d be worryin’ all the -time for fear it ’u’d make me sick, an’ you’d be wantin’ to set up with -’er yourself.” - -“Of course,” he said, stoutly. “I’d expect to. That’s what I mean. I’d -take some o’ your load off o’ you.” - -Demaris smiled mournfully. “You don’t know what it is, Frank. It’s all -very well to talk about it, but when it comes to doin’ it you’d be tired -out ’n a month. You’d wish you hadn’t married me—an’ that ’u’d kill me!” - -“I wouldn’t. Oh, Demaris, just you try me. I’ll be good to all your -folks—just as good’s can be, dear. I swear it.” - -She leaned toward him again with a sob. He took her in his arms. He felt -the delicious warmth of her body. Their lips trembled together. - -After a while she drew away slowly and looked at him earnestly in the -faint light. - -“If I thought you wouldn’t change,” she faltered. “I know you mean it -now, but oh—” - -“Sister,” called a thin, troubled voice from the hall; “can’t you come -here just a minute?” - -Demaris went at once, closing the door behind her. - -The child threw her slim arms around her sister’s waist, sobbing. - -“Oh, sister, I forgot to get the kindlin’ wood, an’ now it’s so dark down -cellar. I’m afraid. Can’t you come with me?” - -“Wait a few minutes, dear, an’ I will. Frank won’t stay long to-night.” - -“Oh, won’t he? I’m so glad.” Her voice sunk to a whisper. “I hate to -have him here, sister. He takes you away from us so much, an’ ev’rything -goes wrong when you ain’t here. Ma’s offul bad to-night, an’ pa looks so -tired! Don’t let him stay long, sister. He don’t need you as bad ’s we -do.” - -She tiptoed into the kitchen. Demaris stood still in the hall. The moon -was coming, large and silver, over the hill. Its soft light brought her -slender figure out of the dark, and set a halo above her head bending on -its fair neck, like a flower on its stem. Her lips moved, but the prayer -remained voiceless in her heart. - -A moan came from her mother’s room. - -“Oh, paw, you hurt my head! Your hand’s terrable rough! Is that girl -goin’ to stay in there forever?” - -Demaris lifted her head and walked steadily into the poor little parlor. -“I’ll have to ask you to go now, Frank; my mother needs me.” - -“Well, dear.” He reached his strong young arms to her. She stood back, -moving her head from side to side. - -“No, Frank. I can’t marry you, now or ever. My mother comes first.” - -“But you ain’t taken time to make up your mind, Demaris. I’ll wait fer ’n -answer.” - -“It’s no use. I made up my mind out ’n the hall. You might as well go. -When I make up my mind it’s no use in tryin’ to get me to change it. I -hadn’t made it up before.” - -He went to her and took her hands. - -“Demaris,” he said, and all his heart-break was in his voice, “do you -mean it? Oh, my dear, I’ll go if you send me; but I’ll never come back -again; never.” - -She hesitated but a second. Then she said very gently, without -emotion—“Yes, go. You’ve been good to me; but it’s all over. Good-bye.” - -He dropped her hands without a word, and went. - -She did not look after him, or listen to his footsteps. She went to the -cellar with Nellie, to get the kindling wood, which she arranged in the -stove, ready for the match in the morning. - -Then she went into her mother’s room. She looked pale in the flickering -light of the candle. - -“I’ll take care of ma, now, pa,” she said. “You get to bed an’ rest. I -know you’re all tired out—plowin’ ever since sun-up! An’ don’t you get up -till I call you. I ain’t a bit sleepy. I couldn’t sleep if I went to bed.” - -She moistened her fingers with camphor and commenced bathing her mother’s -brow. - - - - -ESTHER’S “FOURTH” - - - - -ESTHER’S “FOURTH” - - -It was the fourth day of July, and the fourth hour of the day. Long, -beryl ribbons of color were streaming through the lovely Grand Ronde -valley when the little girl awoke—so suddenly and so completely that it -seemed as if she had not been asleep at all. - -“Sister!” she cried in a thin, eager voice. “Ain’t it time to get up? -It’s just struck four.” - -“Not yet,” said the older girl drowsily. “There’s lots o’ time, Pet.” - -She put one arm under the child affectionately and fell asleep again. -The little girl lay motionless, waiting. There was a large cherry tree -outside, close to the tiny window above her bed, and she could hear the -soft turning of the leaves, one against the other, and the fluttering of -the robins that were already stealing the cherries. Innocent thieves that -they were, they continually betrayed themselves by their shrill cries of -triumph. - -Not far from the tiny log-cabin the river went singing by on its way -through the green valley; hearing it, Esther thought of the soft glooms -under the noble balm trees, where the grouse drummed and butterflies -drifted in long level flight. Esther always breathed softly while she -watched the butterflies—she had a kind of reverence for them—and she -thought there could be nothing sweeter, even in heaven, than the scents -that the wind shook out of the balms. - -She lay patiently waiting with wide eyes until the round clock in the -kitchen told her that another hour had gone by. “Sister,” she said then, -“oh, it must be time to get up! I just _can’t_ wait any longer.” - -The older girl, with a sleepy but sympathetic smile, slipped out of -bed and commenced dressing. The child sprang after her. “Sister,” she -cried, running to the splint-bottomed chair on which lay the cheap but -exquisitely white undergarments. “I can’t hardly wait. Ain’t it good of -Mr. Hoover to take me to town? Oh, I feel as if I had hearts all over me, -an’ every one of ’em beating so!” - -“Don’t be so excited, Pet.” The older sister smiled gently at the child. -“Things never are quite as nice as you expect them to be,” she added, -with that wisdom that comes so soon to starved country hearts. - -“Well, this can’t help bein’ nice,” said the child, with a beautiful -faith. She sat on the strip of rag carpeting that partially covered the -rough floor, and drew on her stockings and her copper-toed shoes. “Oh, -sister, my fingers shake so I can’t get the strings through the eyelets! -Do you think Mr. Hoover might oversleep hisself? It can’t help bein’ -nice—nicer’n I expect. Of course,” she added, with a momentary regret, “I -wish I had some other dress besides that buff calico, but I ain’t, an’ -so—it’s reel pretty, anyways, sister, ain’t it?” - -“Yes, Pet,” said the girl gently. There was a bitter pity for the child -in her heart. - -“To think o’ ridin’ in the Libraty Car!” continued Esther, struggling -with the shoe strings. “Course they’ll let me, Paw knows the -store-keeper, and Mr. Hoover kin tell ’em who I am. An’ the horses, an’ -the ribbons, an’ the music—an’ all the little girls my age! Sister, it’s -awful never to have any little girls to play with! I guess maw don’t know -how I’ve wanted ’em, or she’d of took me to town sometimes. I ain’t never -been anywheres—except to Mis’ Bunnels’s fun’ral, when the minister prayed -so long,” she added, with a pious after-thought. - -It was a happy child that was lifted to the back of the most trustworthy -of the plow-horses to be escorted to the celebration by “Mr. Hoover,” the -hired man. The face under the cheap straw hat, with its wreath of pink -and green artificial flowers, was almost pathetically radiant. To that -poor little heart so hungry for pleasure, there could be no bliss so -supreme as a ride in the village “Libraty Car”—to be one of the states, -preferably “Oregon!” To hear the music and hold a flag, and sit close to -little girls of her own age who would smile kindly at her and, perhaps, -even ask her name shyly, and take her home with them to see their dolls. - -“Oh,” she cried, grasping the reins in her thin hands, “I’m all of a -tremble! Just like maw on wash days! Only I ain’t tired—I’m just glad.” - -There were shifting groups of children in front of the school house. -Everything—even the white houses with their green blinds and neat -door-yards—seemed strange and over-powering to Esther. The buoyancy with -which she had surveyed the world from the back of a tall horse gave way -to sudden timidity and self-consciousness. - -Mr. Hoover put her down in the midst of the children. “There, now,” he -said cheerfully, “play around with the little girls like a nice body -while I put up the horses.” - -A terrible loneliness came upon Esther as she watched him leading away -the horses. All those merry children chattering and shouting, and not one -speaking to her or taking the slightest notice of her. She realized with -a suddenness that dazed her and blurred everything before her country -eyes that she was very, very different from them—why, every one of the -little girls was dressed in pure, soft white, with a beautiful sash and -bows; all wore pretty slippers. There was not one copper-toed shoe among -them! - -Her heart came up into her thin, little throat and beat and beat there. -She wished that she might sit down and hide her shoes, but then the dress -was just as bad. _That_ couldn’t be hidden. So she stood awkwardly in -their midst, stiff and motionless, with a look in her eyes that ought to -have touched somebody’s heart. - -Then the “Liberty Car” came, drawn by six noble white horses decorated -with flags, ribbons and rosettes, and stepping out oh, so proudly in -perfect time with the village band. Esther forgot her buff calico dress -and her copper-toed shoes in the exquisite delight of that moment. - -The little girls were placed in the car. Each carried a banner on which -was painted the name of a state. What graceful, dancing little bodies -they were, and how their feet twinkled and could not be quiet! When -“Oregon” went proudly by, Esther’s heart sank. She wondered which state -they would give to her. - -The band stopped playing. All the girls were seated; somehow there seemed -to be no place left for another. Esther went forward bravely and set one -copper-toed shoe on the step of the car. The ladies in charge looked at -her; then, at each other. - -“Hello, Country!” cried a boy’s shrill voice behind her suddenly. “My -stars! She thinks she’s goin’ in the car. What a jay!” - -Esther stood as if petrified with her foot still on the step. She felt -that they were all looking at her. What terrible things human eyes can -be! A kind of terror took hold of her. She trembled. There seemed to be a -great stillness about her. - -“Can’t I go?” she said to one of the ladies. Her heart was beating so -hard and so fast in her throat that her voice sounded far away to her. -“My paw knows Mr. Mallory, the store-keeper. We live down by the river -on the Nesley place. We’re poor, but my paw alwus pays his debts. I come -with Mr. Hoover; he’s gone to put up the horses.” - -It was spoken—the poor little speech, at once passionate and despairing -as any prayer to God. Then it was that Esther learned that there are -silences which are harder to bear than the wildest tumult. - -But presently one of the ladies said, very kindly—“Why, I am so sorry, -little girl, but you see—er—all the little girls who ride in the car -must—er—be dressed in white.” - -Esther removed her foot heavily from the step and stood back. - -“Oh, look!” cried “Oregon”, leaning from the car. “She wanted to ride -_in here_! In a yellow calico dress and copper-toed shoes!” - -Then the band played, the horses pranced and tossed their heads, the -flags and banners floated on the breeze, and the beautiful car moved away. - -Esther stood looking after it until she heard Mr. Hoover’s voice at her -side. “W’y, what a funny little girl! There the car’s gone, an’ she -didn’t go an’ git in it, after all! Did anybody ever see sech a funny -little girl? After gittin’ up so airly, an’ hurryin’ everybody so for -fear she’d be late, an’ a-talkin’ about ridin’ in the Libraty Car for -months—an’ then to go an’ not git in it after all!” - -Esther turned with a bursting heart. She threw herself passionately into -his arms and hid her face on his breast. - -“I want to go home,” she sobbed. “Oh, I want to go home!” - - - - -THE BLOW-OUT AT JENKINS’S GROCERY - - - - -THE BLOW-OUT AT JENKINS’S GROCERY - - -The hands of the big, round clock in Mr. Jenkins’s grocery store pointed -to eleven. Mr. Jenkins was tying a string around a paper bag containing a -dollar’s worth of sugar. He held one end of the string between his teeth. -His three clerks were going around the store with little stiff prances -of deference to the customers they were serving. It was the night before -Christmas. They were all so worn out that their attempts at smiles were -only painful contortions. - -Mr. Jenkins looked at the clock. Then his eyes went in a hurried glance -of pity to a woman sitting on a high stool close to the window. Her feet -were drawn up on the top rung, and her thin shoulders stooped over her -chest. She had sunken cheeks and hollow eyes; her cheek-bones stood out -sharply. - -For two hours she had sat there almost motionless. Three times she had -lifted her head and fixed a strained gaze upon Mr. Jenkins and asked, -“D’yuh want to shet up?” Each time, receiving an answer in the negative, -she had sunk back into the same attitude of brute-like waiting. - -It was a wild night. The rain drove its long, slanting lances down the -window-panes. The wind howled around corners, banged loose shutters, -creaked swinging sign-boards to and fro, and vexed the telephone wires -to shrill, continuous screaming. Fierce gusts swept in when the door was -opened. - -Christmas shoppers came and went. The woman saw nothing inside the store. -Her eyes were set on the doors of a brightly lighted saloon across the -street. - -It was a small, new “boom” town on Puget Sound. There was a saloon on -every corner, and a brass band in every saloon. The “establishment” -opposite was having its “opening” that night. “At home” cards in square -envelopes had been sent out to desirable patrons during the previous -week. That day, during an hour’s sunshine, a yellow chariot, drawn by six -cream-colored horses with snow-white manes and tails, had gone slowly -through the streets, bearing the members of the band clad in white and -gold. It was followed by three open carriages, gay with the actresses who -were to dance and sing that night on the stage in the rear of the saloon. -All had yellow hair and were dressed in yellow with white silk sashes, -and white ostrich plumes falling to their shoulders. It was a gorgeous -procession, and it “drew.” - -The woman lived out in the Grand View addition. The addition consisted -mainly of cabins built of “shakes” and charred stumps. The grand view was -to come some ten or twenty years later on, when the forests surrounding -the addition had taken their departure. It was a full mile from the store. - -She had walked in with her husband through the rain and slush after -putting six small children to bed. They were very poor. Her husband was -shiftless. It was whispered of them by their neighbors that they couldn’t -get credit for “two bits” except at the saloons. - -A relative had sent the woman ten dollars for a Christmas gift. She had -gone wild with joy. Ten dollars! It was wealth. For once the children -should have a real Christmas—a good dinner, toys, candy! Of all things, -there should be a wax doll for the little girl who had cried for one -every Christmas, and never even had one in her arms. Just for this one -time they should be happy—like other children; and she should be happy in -their happiness—like other mothers. What did it matter that she had only -two calico dresses and one pair of shoes, half-soled at that, and capped -across the toes? - -Her husband had entered into her childish joy. He was kind and -affectionate—when he was sober. That was why she had never had the heart -to leave him. He was one of those men who are always needing, pleading -for—and, alas receiving—forgiveness; one of those men whom their women -love passionately and cling to forever. - -He promised her solemnly that he would not drink a drop that Christmas—so -solemnly that she believed him. He had helped her to wash the dishes and -put the children to bed. And he had kissed her. - -Her face had been radiant when they came into Mr. Jenkins’s store. That -poor, gray face with its sunken cheeks and eyes! They bought a turkey—and -with what anxious care she had selected it, testing its tenderness, -balancing it on her bony hands, examining the scales with keen, narrowed -eyes when it was weighed; and a quart of cranberries, a can of mince meat -and a can of plum pudding, a head of celery, a pint of Olympia oysters, -candy, nuts—and then the toys! She trembled with eagerness. Her husband -stood watching her, smiling good-humoredly, his hands in his pockets. Mr. -Jenkins indulged in some serious speculation as to where the money was -coming from to pay for all this “blow-out”. He set his lips together and -resolved that the “blow-out” should not leave the store, under any amount -of promises, until the cash paying for it was in his cash-drawer. - -Suddenly the band began to play across the street. The man threw up his -head like an old war-horse at the sound of a bugle note. A fire came -into his eyes; into his face a flush of excitement. He walked down to -the window and stood looking out, jingling some keys in his pocket. He -breathed quickly. - -After a few moments he went back to his wife. Mr. Jenkins had stepped -away to speak to another customer. - -“Say, Molly, old girl,” he said affectionately, without looking at her, -“yuh can spare me enough out o’ that tenner to git a plug o’ tobaccer for -Christmas, can’t yuh?” - -“W’y—I guess so,” said she slowly. The first cloud fell on her happy face. - -“Well, jest let me have it, an’ I’ll run out an’ be back before yuh’re -ready to pay for these here things. I’ll only git two bits’ worth.” - -She turned very pale. - -“Can’t yuh git it here, Mart?” - -“No,” he said in a whisper; “his’n ain’t fit to chew. I’ll be right back, -Molly—honest.” - -She stood motionless, her eyes cast down, thinking. If she refused, he -would be angry and remain away from home all the next day to pay her -for the insult. If she gave it to him—well, she would have to take the -chances. But oh, her hand shook as she drew the small gold piece from her -shabby purse and reached it to him. His big, warm hand closed over it. - -She looked up at him. Her eyes spoke the passionate prayer that her lips -could not utter. - -“Don’t stay long, Mart,” she whispered, not daring to say more. - -“I won’t, Molly,” he whispered back. “I’ll hurry up. Git anything yuh -want.” - -She finished her poor shopping. Mr. Jenkins wrapped everything up neatly. -Then he rubbed his hands together and looked at her, and said: “Well, -there now, Mis’ Dupen.” - -“I—jest lay ’em all together there on the counter,” she said -hesitatingly. “I’ll have to wait till Mart comes back before I can pay -yuh.” - -“I see him go into the saloon over there,” piped out the errand boy -shrilly. - -At the end of half an hour she climbed upon the high stool and fixed her -eyes upon the saloon opposite and sat there. - -She saw nothing but the glare of those windows and the light streaming -out when the doors opened. She heard nothing but the torturing blare of -the music. After awhile something commenced beating painfully in her -throat and temples. Her limbs grew stiff—she was scarcely conscious that -they ached. Once she shuddered strongly, as dogs do when they lie in the -cold, waiting. - -At twelve o’clock Mr. Jenkins touched her kindly on the arm. She looked -up with a start. Her face was gray and old; her eyes were almost wild in -their strained despair. - -“I guess I’ll have to shet up now, Mis’ Dupen,” he said apologetically. -“I’m sorry—” - -She got down from the stool at once. “I can’t take them things,” she -said, almost whispering. “I hate to of put yuh to all that trouble of -doin’ ’em up. I thought—but I can’t take ’em. I hope yuh won’t mind—very -much.” Her bony fingers twisted together under her thin shawl. - -“Oh, that’s all right,” said Mr. Jenkins in an embarrassed way. She moved -stiffly to the door. He put out the lights and followed her. He felt -mean, somehow. For one second he hesitated, then he locked the door, and -gave it a shake to make sure that it was all right. - -“Well,” he said, “good night. I wish you a mer—” - -“Good night,” said the woman. She was turning away when the doors of the -saloon opened for two or three men to enter. The music, which had ceased -for a few minutes, struck up another air—a familiar air. - -She burst suddenly into wild and terrible laughter. “Oh, my Lord,” she -cried out, “they’re a-playin’ ‘Home, Sweet Home!’ _In there!_ Oh, my -Lord! _Wouldn’t that kill yuh!_” - - - - -THE TAKIN’ IN OF OLD MIS’ LANE - - - - -THE TAKIN’ IN OF OLD MIS’ LANE - - -“Huhy! Huhy! Pleg take that muley cow! Huhy!” - -“What she doin’, maw?” - -“Why, she’s just a-holdin’ her head over the bars, an’ a-bawlin’! Tryin’ -to get into the little correll where her ca’f is! I wish paw ’d of done -as I told him an’ put her into the up meadow. If there’s anything on -earth I abominate it’s to hear a cow bawl.” - -Mrs. Bridges gathered up several sticks of wood from the box in the -corner by the stove, and going out into the yard, threw them with -powerful movements of her bare arm in the direction of the bars. The -cow lowered her hornless head and shook it defiantly at her, but held -her ground. Isaphene stood in the open door, laughing. She was making a -cake. She beat the mixture with a long-handled tin spoon while watching -the fruitless attack. She had reddish brown hair that swept away from -her brow and temples in waves so deep you could have lost your finger in -any one of them; and good, honest gray eyes, and a mouth that was worth -kissing. She wore a blue cotton gown that looked as if it had just left -the ironing-table. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows. - -“It don’t do any good, maw,” she said, as her mother returned with a -defeated air. “She just bawls an’ shakes her head right in your face. -Look at her!” - -“Oh, I don’t want to look at her. It seems to me your paw might of drove -her to the up meadow, seein’s he was goin’ right up by there. It ain’t -like as if he’d of had to go out o’ his way. It aggravates me offul.” - -She threw the last stick of wood into the box, and brushed the tiny -splinters off her arm and sleeves. - -“Well, I guess I might as well string them beans for dinner before I -clean up.” - -She took a large milkpan, filled with beans, from the table and sat down -near the window. - -“Isaphene,” she said, presently, “what do you say to an organ, an’ a -horse an’ buggy? A horse with some style about him, that you could ride -or drive, an’ that ’u’d always be up when you wanted to go to town!” - -“What do I say?” The girl turned and looked at her mother as if she -feared one of them had lost her senses; then she returned to her -cake-beating with an air of good-natured disdain. - -“Oh, you can smile an’ turn your head on one side, but you’ll whistle -another tune before long—or I’ll miss my guess. Isaphene, I’ve been -savin’ up chicken an’ butter money ever since we come to Puget Sound; -then I’ve always got the money for the strawberry crop, an’ for the geese -an’ turkeys, an’ the calves, an’ so on. Your paw’s been real good about -such things.” - -“I don’t call it bein’ good,” said Isaphene. “Why shouldn’t he let you -have the money? You planted, an’ weeded, an’ picked the strawberries; an’ -you fed an’ set the chickens, an’ gethered the eggs; an’ you’ve had all -the tendin’ of the geese an’ turkeys an’ calves—to say nothin’ of the -cows bawlin’ over the bars,” she added, with a sly laugh. “I’d say you -only had your rights when you get the money for such things.” - -“Oh, yes, that’s fine talk.” Mrs. Bridges nodded her head with an air of -experience. “But it ain’t all men-folks that gives you your rights; so -when one does, I say he deserves credit.” - -“Well, I wouldn’t claim anybody’d been good to me just because he give me -what I’d worked for an’ earned. Now, if he’d give you all the money from -the potato patch every year, or the hay meadow, or anything he’d done -all the workin’ with himself—I’d call that good in him. He never done -anything like that, did he?” - -“No, he never,” replied Mrs. Bridges, testily. “An’ what’s more, he ain’t -likely to—nor any other man I know of! If you get a man that gives you -all you work for an’ earn, you’ll be lucky—with all your airs!” - -“Well, I guess I’ll manage to get my rights, somehow,” said Isaphene, -beginning to butter the cake-pan. - -“Somebody’s comin’!” exclaimed her mother, lowering her voice to a -mysterious whisper. - -“Who is it?” Isaphene stood up straight, with that little quick beating -of mingled pleasure and dismay that the cry of company brings to country -hearts. - -“I can’t see. I don’t want to be caught peepin’. I can see it’s a woman, -though; she’s just passin’ the row of hollyhocks. Can’t you stoop down -an’ peep? She won’t see you ’way over there by the table.” - -Isaphene stooped and peered cautiously through the wild cucumber vines -that rioted over the kitchen window. - -“Oh, it’s Mis’ Hanna!” - -“My goodness! An’ the way this house looks! You’ll have to bring her out -here ’n the kitchen, too. I s’pose she’s come to spend the day—she’s got -her bag with her, ain’t she?” - -“Yes. What’ll we have for dinner? I ain’t goin’ to cut this cake for her. -I want this for Sund’y.” - -“Why, we’ve got corn beef to boil, an’ a head o’ cabbage; an’ these here -beans; an’, of course, potatoes; an’ watermelon perserves. An’ you can -make a custerd pie. I guess that’s a good enough dinner for her. There! -She’s knockin’. Open the door, can’t you? Well, if I ever! Look at that -grease-spot on the floor!” - -“Well, I didn’t spill it.” - -“Who did, then, missy?” - -“Well, _I_ never.” - -Isaphene went to the front door, returning presently with a tall, thin -lady. - -“Here’s Mis’ Hanna, maw,” she said, with the air of having made a -pleasant discovery. Mrs. Bridges got up, greatly surprised, and shook -hands with her visitor with exaggerated delight. - -“Well, I’ll declare! It’s really you, is it? At last! Well, set right -down an’ take off your things. Isaphene, take Mis’ Hanna’s things. My! -ain’t it warm, walkin’?” - -“It is so.” The visitor gave her bonnet to Isaphene, dropping her black -mitts into it after rolling them carefully together. “But it’s always -nice an’ cool in your kitchen.” Her eyes wandered about with a look of -unabashed curiosity that took in everything. “I brought my crochet with -me.” - -“I’m glad you did. You’ll have to excuse the looks o’ things. Any news?” - -“None perticular.” Mrs. Hanna began to crochet, holding the work close -to her face. “Ain’t it too bad about poor, old Mis’ Lane?” - -“What about her?” Mrs. Bridges snapped a bean-pod into three pieces, and -looked at her visitor with a kind of pleased expectancy—as if almost any -news, however dreadful, would be welcome as a relief to the monotony of -existence. “Is she dead?” - -“No, she ain’t dead; but the poor, old creature ’d better be. She’s got -to go to the poor-farm, after all.” - -There was silence in the big kitchen, save for the rasp of the crochet -needle through the wool and the snapping of the beans. A soft wind came -in the window and drummed with the lightest of touches on Mrs. Bridges’s -temples. It brought all the sweets of the old-fashioned flower-garden -with it—the mingled breaths of mignonette, stock, sweet lavender, sweet -peas and clove pinks. The whole kitchen was filled with the fragrance. -And what a big, cheerful kitchen it was! Mrs. Bridges contrasted it -unconsciously with the poor-farm kitchen, and almost shivered, warm -though the day was. - -“What’s her childern about?” she asked, sharply. - -“Oh, her childern!” replied Mrs. Hanna, with a contemptuous air. “What -does her childern amount to, I’d like to know.” - -“Her son’s got a good, comf’table house an’ farm.” - -“Well, what if he has? He got it with his wife, didn’t he? An’ M’lissy -won’t let his poor, old mother set foot inside the house! I don’t say she -is a pleasant body to have about—she’s cross an’ sick most all the time, -an’ childish. But that ain’t sayin’ her childern oughtn’t to put up with -her disagreeableness.” - -“She’s got a married daughter, ain’t she?” - -“Yes, she’s got a married daughter.” Mrs. Hanna closed her lips tightly -together and looked as if she might say something, if she chose, that -would create a sensation. - -“Well, ain’t she got a good enough home to keep her mother in?” - -“Yes, she has. But she got _her_ home along with her husband, an’ he -won’t have the old soul any more ’n M’lissy would.” - -There was another silence. Isaphene had put the cake in the oven. She -knelt on the floor and opened the door very softly now and then, to see -that it was not browning too fast. The heat of the oven had crimsoned her -face and arms. - -“Guess you’d best put a piece o’ paper on top o’ that cake,” said her -mother. “It smells kind o’ burny like.” - -“It’s all right, maw.” - -Mrs. Bridges looked out the window. - -“Ain’t my flowers doin’ well, though, Mis’ Hanna?” - -“They are that. When I come up the walk I couldn’t help thinkin’ of poor, -old Mis’ Lane.” - -“What’s that got to do with her?” Resentment bristled in Mrs. Bridges’s -tone and look. - -Mrs. Hanna stopped crocheting, but held her hands stationary, almost -level with her eyes, and looked over them in surprise at her questioner. - -“Why, she ust to live here, you know.” - -“She did! In this house?” - -“Why, yes. Didn’t you know that? Oh, they ust to be right well off in -her husband’s time. I visited here consid’rable. My! the good things she -always had to eat. I can taste ’em yet.” - -“Hunh! I’m sorry I can’t give you as good as she did,” said Mrs. Bridges, -stiffly. - -“Well, as if you didn’t! You set a beautiful table, Mis’ Bridges, an’, -what’s more, that’s your reputation all over. Everybody says that about -you.” - -Mrs. Bridges smiled deprecatingly, with a slight blush of pleasure. - -“They do, Mis’ Bridges. I just told you about Mis’ Lane because you’d -never think it now of the poor, old creature. An’ such flowers as she -ust to have on both sides that walk! Lark-spurs, an’ sweet-williams, an’ -bach’lor’s-buttons, an’ mournin’-widows, an’ pumgranates, an’ all kinds. -Guess you didn’t know she set out that pink cabbage-rose at the north end -o’ the front porch, did you? An’ that hop-vine that you’ve got trained -over your parlor window—set that out, too. An’ that row o’ young alders -between here an’ the barn—she set ’em all out with her own hands; dug the -holes herself, an’ all. It’s funny she never told you she lived here.” - -“Yes, it is,” said Mrs. Bridges, slowly and thoughtfully. - -“It’s a wonder to me she never broke down an’ cried when she was visitin’ -here. She can’t so much as mention the place without cryin’.” - -A dull red came into Mrs. Bridges’s face. - -“She never visited here.” - -“Never visited here!” Mrs. Hanna laid her crochet and her hands in her -lap, and stared. “Why, she visited ev’rywhere. That’s how she managed -to keep out o’ the poor-house so long. Ev’rybody was reel consid’rate -about invitin’ her. But I expect she didn’t like to come here because she -thought so much o’ the place.” - -Isaphene looked over her shoulder at her mother, but the look was not -returned. The beans were sputtering nervously into the pan. - -“Ain’t you got about enough, maw?” she said. “That pan seems to be -gettin’ hefty.” - -“Yes, I guess.” She got up, brushing the strings off her apron, and set -the pan on the table. “I’ll watch the cake now, Isaphene. You put the -beans on in the pot to boil. Put a piece o’ that salt pork in with ’em. -Better get ’em on right away. It’s pretty near eleven. Ain’t this oven -too hot with the door shet?” - -Then the pleasant preparations for dinner went on. The beans soon -commenced to boil, and an appetizing odor floated through the kitchen. -The potatoes were pared—big, white fellows, smooth and long—with a sharp, -thin knife, round and round and round, each without a break until the -whole paring had curled itself about Isaphene’s pretty arm almost to the -elbow. The cabbage was chopped finely for the cold-slaw, and the vinegar -and butter set on the stove in a saucepan to heat. Then Mrs. Bridges -“set” the table, covering it first with a red cloth having a white border -and fringe. In the middle of the table she placed an uncommonly large, -six-bottled caster. - -“I guess you’ll excuse a red tablecloth, Mis’ Hanna. The men-folks get -their shirt-sleeves so dirty out in the fields that you can’t keep a -white one clean no time.” - -“I use red ones myself most of the time,” replied Mrs. Hanna, crocheting -industriously. “It saves washin’. I guess poor Mis’ Lane’ll have to see -the old place after all these years, whether she wants or not. They’ll -take her right past here to the poor-farm.” - -Mrs. Bridges set on the table a white plate holding a big square of -yellow butter, and stood looking through the open door, down the path -with its tall hollyhocks and scarlet poppies on both sides. Between the -house and the barn some wild mustard had grown, thick and tall, and was -now drifting, like a golden cloud, against the pale blue sky. Butterflies -were throbbing through the air, and grasshoppers were crackling -everywhere. It was all very pleasant and peaceful; while the comfortable -house and barns, the wide fields stretching away to the forest, and -the cattle feeding on the hillside added an appearance of prosperity. -Mrs. Bridges wondered how she herself would feel—after having loved the -place—riding by to the poor-farm. Then she pulled herself together and -said, sharply: - -“I’m afraid you feel a draught, Mis’ Hanna, a-settin’ so clost to the -door.” - -“Oh, my, no; I like it. I like lots o’ fresh air. Can’t get it any too -fresh for me. If I didn’t have six childern an’ my own mother to keep, -I’d take her myself.” - -“Take who?” Mrs. Bridges’s voice rasped as she asked the question. -Isaphene paused on her way to the pantry, and looked at Mrs. Hanna with -deeply thoughtful eyes. - -“Why, Mis’ Lane—who else?—before I’d let her go to the poor-farm.” - -“Well, I think her childern ought to be _made_ to take care of her!” Mrs. -Bridges went on setting the table with brisk, angry movements. “That’s -what I think about it. The law ought to take holt of it.” - -“Well, you see the law _has_ took holt of it,” said Mrs. Hanna, with -a grim smile. “It seems a shame that there ain’t somebody in the -neighborhood that ’u’d take her in. She ain’t much expense, but a good -deal o’ trouble. She’s sick, in an’ out o’ bed, nigh onto all the time. -My opinion is she’s been soured by all her troubles; an’ that if somebody -’u’d only take her in an’ be kind to her, her temper’ment ’u’d emprove -up wonderful. She’s always mighty grateful for ev’ry little chore you do -her. It just makes my heart ache to think o’ her a-havin’ to go to the -poor-house!” - -Mrs. Bridges lifted her head; all the softness and irresolution went out -of her face. - -“Well, I’m sorry for her,” she said, with an air of dismissing a -disagreeable subject; “but the world’s full o’ troubles, an’ if you -cried over all o’ them you’d be a-cryin’ all the time. Isaphene, you -go out an’ blow that dinner-horn. I see the men-folks ’av’ got the -horses about foddered. What did you do?” she cried out, sharply. “Drop a -smoothin’-iron on your hand? Well, my goodness! Why don’t you keep your -eyes about you? You’ll go an’ get a cancer yet!” - -“I’m thinkin’ about buyin’ a horse an’ buggy,” she announced, with stern -triumph, when the girl had gone out. “An’ an organ. Isaphene’s been -wantin’ one most offul. I’ve give up her paw’s ever gettin’ her one. -First a new harrow, an’ then a paten’ rake, an’ then a seed-drill—an’ -then my mercy”—imitating a masculine voice—“he ain’t got any money left -for silliness! But I’ve got some laid by. I’d like to see his eyes when -he comes home an’ finds a bran new buggy with a top an’ all, an’ a horse -that he can’t hetch to a plow, no matter how bad he wants to! I ain’t -sure but I’ll get a phaeton.” - -“They ain’t so strong, but they’re handy to get in an’ out of—’specially -for old, trembly knees.” - -“I ain’t so old that I’m trembly!” - -“Oh, my—no,” said Mrs. Hanna, with a little start. “I was just thinkin’ -mebbe sometimes you’d go out to the poor-farm an’ take poor, old Mis’ -Lane for a little ride. It ain’t more’n five miles from here, is it? She -ust to have a horse an’ buggy o’ her own. Somehow, I can’t get her off -o’ my mind at all to-day. I just heard about her as I was a-startin’ for -your house.” - -The men came to the house. They paused on the back porch to clean their -boots on the scraper and wash their hands and faces with water dipped -from the rain-barrel. Their faces shone like brown marble when they came -in. - - * * * * * - -It was five o’clock when Mrs. Hanna, with a sigh, began rolling the lace -she had crocheted around the spool, preparatory to taking her departure. - -“Well,” she said, “I must go. I had no idy it was so late. How the -time does go, a-talkin’. I’ve had a right nice time. Just see how well -I’ve done—crocheted full a yard since dinner-time! My! how pretty that -hop-vine looks. It makes awful nice shade, too. I guess when Mis’ Lane -planted it she thought she’d be settin’ under it herself to-day—she took -such pleasure in it.” - -The ladies were sitting on the front porch. It was cool and fragrant -out there. The shadow of the house reached almost to the gate now. The -bees had been drinking too many sweets—greedy fellows!—and were lying in -the red poppies, droning stupidly. A soft wind was blowing from Puget -Sound and turning over the clover leaves, making here a billow of dark -green and there one of light green; it was setting loose the perfume of -the blossoms, too, and sifting silken thistle-needles through the air. -Along the fence was a hedge, eight feet high, of the beautiful ferns -that grow luxuriantly in western Washington. The pasture across the lane -was a tangle of royal color, being massed in with golden-rod, fire-weed, -steeple-bush, yarrow, and large field-daisies; the cotton-woods that -lined the creek at the side of the house were snowing. Here and there the -sweet twin-sister of the steeple-bush lifted her pale and fluffy plumes; -and there was one lovely, lavender company of wild asters. - -Mrs. Bridges arose and followed her guest into the spare bedroom. - -“When they goin’ to take her to the poor-farm?” she asked, abruptly. - -“Day after to-morrow. Ain’t it awful? It just makes me sick. I couldn’t -of eat a bite o’ dinner if I’d stayed at home, just for thinkin’ about -it. They say the poor, old creature ain’t done nothin’ but cry an’ moan -ever since she knowed she’d got to go.” - -“Here’s your bag,” said Mrs. Bridges. “Do you want I should tie your -veil?” - -“No, thanks; I guess I won’t put it on. If I didn’t have such a big -fam’ly an’ my own mother to keep, I’d take her in myself before I’d see -her go to the poor-house. If I had a small fam’ly an’ plenty o’ room, I -declare my conscience wouldn’t let me sleep nights.” - -A deep red glow spread over Mrs. Bridges’s face. - -“Well, I guess you needn’t to keep a-hintin’ for me to take her,” she -said, sharply. - -“_You!_” Mrs. Hanna uttered the word in a tone that was an unintentional -insult; in fact, Mrs. Bridges affirmed afterward that her look of -astonishment, and, for that matter, her whole air of dazed incredulity -were insulting. “I never once thought o’ _you_,” she said, with an -earnestness that could not be doubted. - -“Why not o’ me?” demanded Mrs. Bridges, showing something of her -resentment. “What you been talkin’ an’ harpin’ about her all day for, if -you wasn’t hintin’ for me to take her in?” - -“I never thought o’ such a thing,” repeated her visitor, still looking -rather helplessly dazed. “I talked about it because it was on my mind, -heavy, too; an’, I guess, because I wanted to talk my conscience down.” - -Mrs. Bridges cooled off a little and folded her hands over the bedpost. - -“Well, if you wasn’t hintin’,” she said, in a conciliatory tone, “it’s -all right. You kep’ harpin’ on the same string till I thought you was; -an’ it riles me offul to be hinted at. I’ll take anything right out to -my face, so’s I can answer it, but I won’t be hinted at. But why”—having -rid herself of the grievance she at once swung around to the insult—“why -_didn’t_ you think o’ me?” - -Mrs. Hanna cleared her throat and began to unroll her mitts. - -“Well, I don’t know just why,” she replied, helplessly. She drew the -mitts on, smoothing them well up over her thin wrists. “I don’t know why, -I’m sure. I’d thought o’ most ev’rybody in the neighborhood—but you never -come into my head _onct_. I was as innocent o’ hintin’ as a babe unborn.” - -Mrs. Bridges drew a long breath noiselessly. - -“Well,” she said, absent-mindedly, “come again, Mis’ Hanna. An’ be sure -you always fetch your work an’ stay the afternoon.” - -“Well, I will. But it’s your turn to come now. Where’s Isaphene?” - -“I guess she’s makin’ a fire ’n the cook-stove to get supper by.” - -“Well, tell her to come over an’ stay all night with Julia some night.” - -“Well—I will.” - -Mrs. Bridges went into the kitchen and sat down, rather heavily, in a -chair. Her face wore a puzzled expression. - -“Isaphene, did you hear what we was a-sayin’ in the bedroom?” - -“Yes, most of it, I guess.” - -“Well, what do you s’pose was the reason she never thought o’ me -a-takin’ Mis’ Lane in? Says she’d thought o’ ev’rybody else.” - -“Why, you never thought o’ takin’ her in yourself, did you?” said -Isaphene, turning down the damper of the stove with a clatter. “I don’t -see how anybody else ’u’d think of it when you didn’t yourself.” - -“Well, don’t you think it was offul impadent in her to say that, anyhow?” - -“No, I don’t. She told the truth.” - -“Why ought they to think o’ ev’rybody takin’ her exceptin’ me, I’d like -to know.” - -“Because ev’rybody else, I s’pose, has thought of it theirselves. The -neighbors have all been chippin’ in to help her for years. You never done -nothin’ for her, did you? You never invited her to visit here, did you?” - -“No, I never. But that ain’t no sayin’ I wouldn’t take her as quick ’s -the rest of ’em. They ain’t none of ’em takin’ her in very fast, be they?” - -“No, they ain’t,” said Isaphene, facing her mother with a steady look. -“They ain’t a one of ’em but ’s got their hands full—no spare room, an’ -lots o’ childern or their folks to take care of.” - -“Hunh!” said Mrs. Bridges. She began chopping cold boiled beef for hash. - -“I don’t believe I’ll sleep to-night for thinkin’ about it,” she said, -after a while. - -“I won’t neither, maw. I wish she wasn’t goin’ right by here.” - -“So do I.” - -After a long silence Mrs. Bridges said—“I don’t suppose your paw’d hear -to us a-takin’ her in.” - -“I guess he’d hear to ’t if we would,” said Isaphene, dryly. - -“Well, we can’t do’t; that’s all there is about it,” announced Mrs. -Bridges, with a great air of having made up her mind. Isaphene did not -reply. She was slicing potatoes to fry, and she seemed to agree silently -with her mother’s decision. Presently, however, Mrs. Bridges said, in a -less determined tone—“There’s no place to put her in, exceptin’ the spare -room—an’ we can’t get along without that, noways.” - -“No,” said Isaphene, in a non-committal tone. - -Mrs. Bridges stopped chopping and looked thoughtfully out of the door. - -“There’s this room openin’ out o’ the kitchen,” she said, slowly. “It’s -nice an’ big an’ sunny. It ’u’d be handy ’n winter, bein’ right off o’ -the kitchen. But it ain’t furnished up.” - -“No,” said Isaphene, “it ain’t.” - -“An’ I know your paw’d never furnish it.” - -Isaphene laughed. “No, I guess not,” she said. - -“Well, there’s no use a-thinkin’ about it, Isaphene; we just can’t take -her. Better get them potatoes on; I see the men-folks comin’ up to the -barn.” - -The next morning after breakfast Isaphene said suddenly, as she stood -washing dishes—“Maw, I guess you’d better take the organ money an’ -furnish up that room.” - -Mrs. Bridges turned so sharply she dropped the turkey-wing with which she -was polishing the stove. - -“You don’t never mean it,” she gasped. - -“Yes, I do. I know we’d both feel better to take her in than to take in -an organ”—they both laughed rather foolishly at the poor joke. “You can -furnish the room real comf’table with what it ’u’d take to buy an organ; -an’ we can get the horse an’ buggy, too.” - -“Oh, Isaphene, I’ve never meant but what you should have an organ. I know -you’d learn fast. You’d soon get so’s you could play ‘Lilly Dale’ an’ -‘Hazel Dell;’ an’ you might get so’s you could play ‘General Persifer F. -Smith’s Grand March.’ No, I won’t never spend that money for nothin’ but -an organ—so you can just shet up about it.” - -“I want a horse an’ buggy worse, maw,” said Isaphene, after a brief but -fierce struggle with the dearest desire of her heart. “We can get a horse -that I can ride, too. An’ we’ll get a phaeton, so’s we can take Mis’ -Lane to church an’ around.” Then she added, with a regular masterpiece of -diplomacy—“We’ll show the neighbors that when we do take people in, we -take ’em in all over!” - -“Oh, Isaphene,” said her mother, weakly, “wouldn’t it just astonish ’em!” - - * * * * * - -It was ten o’clock of the following morning when Isaphene ran in and -announced that she heard wheels coming up the lane. Mrs. Bridges paled a -little and breathed quickly as she put on her bonnet and went out to the -gate. - -A red spring-wagon was coming slowly toward her, drawn by a single, bony -horse. The driver was half asleep on the front seat. Behind, in a low -chair, sat old Mrs. Lane; she was stooping over, her elbows on her knees, -her gray head bowed. - -Mrs. Bridges held up her hand, and the driver pulled in the unreluctant -horse. - -“How d’you do, Mis’ Lane? I want that you should come in an’ visit me a -while.” - -The old creature lifted her trembling head and looked at Mrs. Bridges; -then she saw the old house, half hidden by vines and flowers, and her dim -eyes filled with bitter tears. - -“We ain’t got time to stop, ma’am,” said the driver, politely. “I’m a -takin’ her to the county,” he added, in a lower tone, but not so low that -the old woman did not hear. - -“You’ll have to make time,” said Mrs. Bridges, bluntly. “You get down an’ -help her out. You don’t have to wait. When I’m ready for her to go to the -county, I’ll take her myself.” - -Not understanding in the least, but realizing, as he said afterwards, -that she “meant business” and wasn’t the kind to be fooled with, the man -obeyed with alacrity. - -“Now, you lean all your heft on me,” said Mrs. Bridges, kindly. She put -her arm around the old woman and led her up the hollyhock path, and -through the house into the pleasant kitchen. - -“Isaphene, you pull that big chair over here where it’s cool. Now, Mis’ -Lane, you set right down an’ rest.” - -Mrs. Lane wiped the tears from her face with an old cotton handkerchief. -She tried to speak, but the sobs had to be swallowed down too fast. At -last she said, in a choked voice—“It’s awful good in you—to let me see -the old place—once more. The Lord bless you—for it. But I’m most sorry I -stopped—seems now as if I—just _couldn’t_ go on.” - -“Well, you ain’t goin’ on,” said Mrs. Bridges, while Isaphene went to -the door and stood looking toward the hill with drowned eyes. “This is -our little joke—Isaphene’s an’ mine. This’ll be your home as long as -it’s our’n. An’ you’re goin’ to have this nice big room right off o’ the -kitchen, as soon ’s we can furnish it up. An’ we’re goin’ to get a horse -an’ buggy—a _low_ buggy, so’s you can get in an’ out easy like—an’ take -you to church an’ all around.” - - * * * * * - -That night, after Mrs. Bridges had put Mrs. Lane to bed and said -good-night to her, she went out on the front porch and sat down; but -presently, remembering that she had not put a candle in the room, she -went back, opening the door noiselessly, not to disturb her. Then she -stood perfectly still. The old creature had got out of bed and was -kneeling beside it, her face buried in her hands. - -“Oh, Lord God,” she was saying aloud, “bless these kind people—bless ’em, -oh, Lord God! Hear a poor, old mis’rable soul’s prayer, an’ bless ’em! -An’ if they’ve ever done a sinful thing, oh, Lord God, forgive ’em for -it, because they’ve kep’ me out o’ the poor-house—” - -Mrs. Bridges closed the door, and stood sobbing as if her heart must -break. - -“What’s the matter, maw?” said Isaphene, coming up suddenly. - -“Never you mind what’s the matter,” said her mother, sharply, to conceal -her emotion. “You get to bed, an’ don’t bother your head about what’s the -matter of me.” - -Then she went down the hall and entered her own room; and Isaphene heard -the key turned in the lock. - - - - -THE MANEUVERING OF MRS. SYBERT - - - - -THE MANEUVERING OF MRS. SYBERT - - -“Why, mother, where are you a-goin’, all dressed up so?” - -Mr. Sybert stood in the bedroom door and stared at his wife’s ample back. -There was a look of surprise in his blue eyes. Mrs. Sybert stooped before -the bureau, and opened the middle drawer, taking hold of both handles and -watching it carefully as she drew it toward her. Sometimes it came out -crookedly; and every one knows that a drawer that opens crookedly, will, -in time, strain and rub the best bureau ever made. From a red pasteboard -box that had the picture of a pretty actress on the cover, Mrs. Sybert -took a linen handkerchief that had been ironed until it shone like -satin. After smoothing an imaginary wrinkle out of it, she put it into -her pocket, set her bonnet a little further over her forehead, pushing -a stray lock sternly where it belonged, adjusted her bonnet-strings, -which were so wide and so stiff that they pressed her ears away from her -head, giving her a bristling appearance, and buttoned her gloves with a -hair-pin; then, having gained time and decided upon a reply, she said, -cheerfully, “What’s that, father?” - -“Well, it took you a right smart spell to answer, didn’t it? I say, where -are you a-goin’, all dressed up so?” - -Mrs. Sybert took her black silk bag with round spots brocaded upon it, -and put its ribbons leisurely over her arm. “I’m a-goin’ to see Mis’ -Nesley,” she said. - -Her husband’s face reddened. “What’s that you say, mother? You’re a-goin’ -to do _what_? I reckon I’m a-goin’ a little deef.” - -“I’m a-goin’ to see Mis’ Nesley.” Mrs. Sybert spoke calmly. No one would -have suspected that she was reproaching herself for not getting out of -the house ten minutes sooner. “He never’d ’a’ heard a thing about it,” -she was thinking; but she looked straight into his eyes. Her eyelids did -not quiver. - -The red in Mr. Sybert’s face deepened. He stood in the door, so she could -not pass. Indeed, she did not try. Mrs. Sybert had not studied signs for -nothing during the thirty years she had been a wife. “I reckon you’re -a-foolin’, mother,” he said. “Just up to some o’ your devilment!” - -“No, I ain’t up to no devilment, father,” she said, still calmly. “You’d -best let me by, now, so’s I can go; it’s half after two.” - -“D’ you mean to say that you’re a-ne’rnest? A-talkin’ about goin’ to see -that _hussy_ of a Mis’ Nesley?” - -“Yes, I’m a-ne’rnest,” said Mrs. Sybert, firmly. “She ain’t a hussy, as I -know of. What you got agin ’er, I’d like to know?” - -“_I_ ain’t got anything agin ’er. Now, what’s the sense o’ you’re -a-pretendin’ you don’t know the talk about ’er, mother?” Mr. Sybert’s -tone had changed slightly. He did not like the poise of his wife’s body; -it bespoke determination—a fight to the finish if necessary. “You know -she’s be’n the town talk fer five years. Your own tawngue hez run on -about ’er like’s if ’t was split in the middle an’ loose at both en’s. -There wa’n’t a woman in town that spoke to ’er”—— - -“There was men, though, that did,” said Mrs. Sybert, calmly. “I rec’lect -bein’ in at Mis’ Carney’s one day, an’ seein’ you meet ’er opposite an’ -take off your hat to ’er—bowin’ an’ scrapin’ right scrumptious like.” - -Mr. Sybert changed his position uneasily, and cleared his throat. “Well, -that’s diff’rent,” he said. “I ust to know ’er before ’er husband died”—— - -“Well, I ust to know ’er, then, too,” said Mrs. Sybert, quietly. - -“Well, you hed to stop speakin’ to ’er after she got to actin’ up so, but -it wa’n’t so easy fer me to stop biddin’ ’er the time o’ day.” - -“Why not?” said Mrs. Sybert, stolidly. - -“Why not!” repeated her husband, loudly; he was losing his temper. -“What’s the sense o’ your actin’ the fool so, mother? Why, if I’d ’a’ set -myself up as bein’ too virtjus to speak to ’er ev’ry man in town ’u’d ’a’ -be’n blagg’ardin’ me about bein’ so mighty good!” - -“Why _sh’u’dn’t_ you be so mighty good, father? You expect me to be, I -notice.” - -Mr. Sybert choked two or three times. His face was growing purplish. - -“Oh, _damn_!” he burst out. Then he looked frightened. “Now, see here, -mother! You’re aggravatin’ me awful. You know as well as me that men -ain’t expected to be as good all their lives as women”—— - -“Why ain’t they expected to?” Mrs. Sybert’s tone and look were stern. - -“I don’t know why they ain’t, mother, but I know they _ain’t_ expected -to—an’ I know they ain’t as _good_, ’ither.” This last was a fine bit of -diplomacy. But it was wasted. - -“They ain’t as good, aigh? Well, the reason they ain’t as good is just -because they ain’t expected to be! That’s just the reason. You can’t get -around that, can you, father?” - -Evidently he could not. - -“An’ now,” continued Mrs. Sybert, “that she’s up an’ married Mr. Nesley -an’ wants to live a right life, I’m a-goin’ to see her.” - -“How d’you know she wants to live a right life?” - -“I don’t know it, father. I just _reckon_ she does. When you wanted I -sh’u’d marry you, my father shook his head, an’ says—‘Lucindy, I do’ know -what to say. John’s be’n a mighty fast young fello’ to give a good girl -to fer the askin’,’ but I says—‘Well, father, I reckon he wants to start -in an’ live a right life now.’ An’ so I reckon that about Mis’ Nesley.” - -“God A’mighty, mother!” exclaimed Mr. Sybert, violently. “That’s -diff’rent. Them things ain’t counted the same in men. Most all men -nowadays sow their wild oats an’ then settle down, an’ ain’t none the -worse for it. It just helps ’em to appreciate good women, an’ to make -good husbands.” - -“Well, I reckon Mis’ Nesley knows how to appreciate a good man by this -time,” said Mrs. Sybert, with unintentional irony. “I reckon she’s got -all her wild oats sowed, an’ is ready to settle down an’ make a good -wife. So I’m goin’ to see ’er. Let me by, father. I’ve fooled a ha’f an -hour away now, when I’d ort to ’a’ be’n on the road there.” - -“Now, see here, mother. You ain’t goin’ a step. The whole town’s excited -over a nice man like Mr. Nesley a-throwin’ hisself away on a no-account -woman like her, an’ you sha’n’t be seen a-goin’ there an’ upholdin’ her.” - -Mrs. Sybert looked long and steadily into her husband’s eyes. It was -her policy to fight until she began to lose ground, and then to quietly -turn her forces to maneuvering. “I reckon,” she was now reflecting; “it’s -about time to begin maneuv’rin’.” - -“Well, father,” she said, mildly; “I’ve made up my mind to go an’ see -Mis’ Nesley an’ encourage her same’s I w’u’d any man that wanted to live -better. An’ I’m a-goin’.” - -“You _ain’t_ a-goin’!” thundered Mr. Sybert. “I forbid you to budge a -step! You sha’n’t disgrace yourself, Mrs. Sybert, if you do want to, -while you’re my wife!” - -Mrs. Sybert untied her bonnet strings, and laid her bag on the foot of -the bed. “All right, father,” she said, “I won’t go till you tell me I -can. I always hev tried to do just as you wanted I sh’u’d.” - -She went into another room to take off her best dress. Mr. Sybert stood -staring after her, speechless. He had the dazed look of a cat that -falls from a great height and alights, uninjured, upon its feet. The -maneuvering had commenced. - -Mr. Sybert spent the afternoon at the postoffice grocery store. It was -a pleasant place to sit. There was always a cheerful fire in the rusty -box-stove in the back room, and there were barrels and odds and ends -of chairs scattered around, whereon men who had an hour to squander -might sit and talk over the latest scandal. Men, as it is well known, -are above the petty gossip as to servants and best gowns which women -enjoy; but, without scruple or conscience, they will talk away a woman’s -character, even when they see her struggling to live down a misfortune or -sin and begin a new life. There are many characters talked away in the -back rooms of grocery stores. - -It was six o’clock when he went home. As he went along the narrow plank -walk, he thought of the good supper that would be awaiting him, and his -heart softened to “mother.” - -“I reckon I was too set,” he reflected. “There ain’t many women as good -an’ faithful as mother. I don’t see what got it into her head to go to -see that Mis’ Nesley—an’ to talk up so to me. She never done that afore.” - -The door was locked. In surprise he fumbled about in the dark for the -seventh flower-pot in the third row, where mother always hid the key. -Yes, it was there. But his knees shook a little as he entered the house. -He could not remember that he had ever found her absent at supper time -since the children were married. Some of the neighbors must be sick. In -that case she would have left a note; and he lighted the kitchen candle, -and searched for it. It was pinned to a cushion on the bureau in the -bedroom. The house was cold, but he did not wait to kindle a fire. He -sat down by the bureau, and with fingers somewhat clumsier than usual, -adjusted his spectacles over his high, thin nose. Then, leaning close to -the candle, he read the letter, the composition of which must have given -“mother” some anxious hours. It was written with painful precision. - - “DEAR FATHER: You will find the coald meat in the safe out on - the back porch in the stun crock covered up with a pie pan. The - apple butter is in the big peory jar down in the seller with - a plate and napkeen tied over it. Put them back on when you - get some out so the ants wont get into. There’s a punkin pie - on the bottom shelf of the pantree to the right side of the - door as you go in, and some coffy in the mill all ground. I’m - offul sorry I hadent time to fix supper. I hev gone to Johns - and Marias to stay tell you come after me and I don’t want that - you shud come tell you change your mind bout Mis Nesley, if it - takes till dumesday to change it. I aint never gone against you - in anythin before, but I haf to this time. Im goin to stay at - Johns and Marias tell you come of yourself and get me. You dont - haf to say nothin before John and Maria except just well mother - Ive come after you. Then I’ll know you meen I can go and see - Mis Nesley. - - “Well father I reckon youll be surprised but Ive been thinkin - bout that poor woman and us not givin her a chanse after what - Christ said bout castin the first stun. He didnt make no - difrence between mens and womens sins and I dont perpose to. - There aint a woman alive thats worse than haff the men are when - they conclud to settle down and live right and if you give men - a chanse youve got to give women a chanse too. They both got - soles an I reckon thats what Gods thinkin bout. I married you - and give you a chanse and I reckon youd best do as much fer Mis - Nesley. - - “If you dont come fer me Ill live at Johns and Marias and I - want that you shud keep all the things but the hit and miss rag - carpet. I dont think I cud get along without that. Marias are - all wove in stripes and look so comon. And my cloze and one - fether bed and pillow. Well thats all. - - “MOTHER.” - - “I laid out your clean undercloze on the foot of the bed and - your sox with them.” - -One fine afternoon the following week Mrs. Sybert, looking through the -geraniums in Maria’s kitchen window, saw her husband drive up to the -gate. She did not look surprised. - -“Here’s father come to get me, Maria,” she said, lifting her voice. - -Maria came out of the pantry with flour on her hands and arms and stood -waiting. Mr. Sybert came in, stamping, and holding his head high and -stiffly. He had a lofty and condescending air. - -“Well, mother,” he said, “I’ve come after you.” - -“Well,” said Mrs. Sybert, “set down till I get on my things. I’ve had -a right nice vis’t, but I’m glad to get home. Did you find the apple -butter?” - -On the road home Mrs. Sybert talked cheerfully about John and Maria and -their domestic affairs. Mr. Sybert listened silently. He held his body -erect, looking neither to the right nor to the left. He did not speak -until they approached Mr. Nesley’s gate. Then he said, with firmness and -dignity: - -“Mother, I’ve b’en thinkin’ that you’d best go an’ see Mis’ Nesley, after -all. I changed my mind down at the postoffice groc’ry store that same -afternoon an’ went home, meanin’ to tell you I wanted you sh’u’d go an’ -see ’er—but you was gone to John’s an’ Maria’s. I reckon you’d best stop -right now an’ have it over.” - -“Well,” said Mrs. Sybert. - -She descended meekly over the front wheel. There was not the slightest -air of triumph about her until she got inside the gate. Then a smile went -slowly across her face. But her husband did not see it. He was looking -out of the corners of his eyes at the house across the road. Mrs. Deacon, -the druggist’s wife, and all her children had their faces flattened -against the window. - -Mr. Sybert’s determination kept his head high, but not his spirit. - -“God A’mighty!” he groaned. “The whole town’ll know it to-morrow. I’d -rather die than face that groc’ry store—after the way I’ve went on about -people upholdin’ of her!” - - - - -A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN - - - - -A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN - -IN THREE PARTS - - -PART I - -Emarine went along the narrow hall and passed through the open door. -There was something in her carriage that suggested stubbornness. Her -small body had a natural backward sway, and the decision with which she -set her heels upon the floor had long ago caused the readers of character -in the village to aver that “Emarine Endey was contrairier than any mule.” - -She wore a brown dress, a gray shawl folded primly around her shoulders, -and a hat that tried in vain to make her small face plain. There was a -frill of white, cheap lace at her slender throat, fastened in front with -a cherry ribbon. Heavy gold earrings with long, shining pendants reached -almost to her shoulders. They quivered and glittered with every movement. - -Emarine was pretty, in spite of many freckles and the tightness with -which she brushed her hair from her face and coiled it in a sleek knot at -the back of her head. “Now, be sure you get it just so slick, Emarine,” -her mother would say, watching her steadily while she combed and brushed -and twisted her long tresses. - -As Emarine reached the door her mother followed her down the hall from -the kitchen. The house was old, and two or three loose pieces in the -flooring creaked as she stepped heavily upon them. - -“Oh, say, Emarine!” - -“Well?” - -“You get an’ bring home a dollar’s worth o’ granylated sugar, will you?” - -“Well.” - -“An’ a box o’ ball bluin’. Mercy, child! Your dress-skirt sags awful in -the back. Why don’t you run a tuck in it?” - -Emarine turned her head over her shoulder with a birdlike movement, and -bent backward, trying to see the offensive sag. - -“Can’t you pin it up, maw?” - -“Yes, I guess. Have you got a pin? Why, Emarine Endey! If ever I see in -all my born days! What are you a-doin’ with a red ribbon on you—an’ your -Uncle Herndon not cold in his grave yet! A fine spectickle you’d make o’ -yourself, a-goin’ the length an’ the breadth o’ the town with that thing -a-flarin’ on you. You’ll disgrace this whole fambly yet! I have to keep -watch o’ you like a two-year-old baby. Now, you get an’ take it right -off o’ you; an’ don’t you let me ketch you a-puttin’ it on again till a -respectful time after he’s be’n dead. I never hear tell o’ such a thing.” - -“I don’t see what a red ribbon’s got to do with Uncle Herndon’s bein’ -dead,” said Emarine. - -“Oh, you don’t, aigh? Well, _I_ see. You act as if you didn’t have no -feelin’.” - -“Well, goin’ without a red ribbon won’t make me feel any worse, will it, -maw?” - -“No, it won’t. Emarine, what does get into you to act so tantalizin’? I -guess it’ll look a little better. I guess the neighbors won’t talk quite -so much. You can see fer yourself how they talk about Mis’ Henspeter -because she wore a rose to church before her husband had be’n dead a -year. All she had to say fer herself was that she liked flowers, an’ -didn’t sense it ’u’d be any disrespect to her husband to wear it—seein’s -he’d always liked ’em, too. They all showed her ’n a hurry what they -thought about it. She’s got narrow borders on all her han’kachers, too, -a’ready.” - -“Why don’t you stay away from such people?” said Emarine. “Old gossips! -You know I don’t care what the neighbors say—or think, either.” - -“Well, _I_ do. The land knows they talk a plenty even without givin’ ’em -anything to talk about. You get an’ take that red ribbon off o’ you.” - -“Oh, I’ll take it off if you want I sh’u’d.” She unfastened it -deliberately and laid it on a little table. She had an exasperating air -of being unconvinced and of complying merely for the sake of peace. - -She gathered her shawl about her shoulders and crossed the porch. - -“Emarine!” - -“Well?” - -“Who’s that a-comin’ over the hill path? I can’t make out the dress. It -looks some like Mis’ Grandy, don’t it?” - -Emarine turned her head. Her eyelids quivered closer together in an -effort to concentrate her vision on the approaching guest. - -“Well, I never!” exclaimed her mother, in a subdued but irascible tone. -“There you go—a-lookin’ right square at her, when I didn’t want that she -sh’u’d know we saw her! It does seem to me sometimes, Emarine, that you -ain’t got good sense.” - -“I’d just as soon she knew we saw her,” said Emarine, unmoved. “It’s Miss -Presly, maw.” - -“Oh, land o’ goodness! That old sticktight? She’ll stay all day if she -stays a minute. Set an’ set! An’ there I’ve just got the washin’ all out -on the line, an’ she’ll tell the whole town we wear underclo’s made out -o’ unbleached muslin! Are you sure it’s her? It don’t look overly like -her shawl.” - -“Yes, it’s her.” - -“Well, go on an’ stop an’ talk to her, so ’s to give me a chance to red -up some. Don’t ferget the ball bluin’, Emarine.” - -Emarine went down the path and met the visitor just between the two tall -lilac trees, whose buds were beginning to swell. - -“Good mornin’, Miss Presly.” - -“Why, good mornin’, Emarine. Z’ your maw to home?” - -“Yes ’m.” - -“I thought I’d run down an’ set a spell with her, an’ pass the news.” - -Emarine smiled faintly and was silent. - -“Ain’t you goin’ up town pretty early fer washday?” - -“Yes ’m.” - -“I see you hed a beau home from church las’ night.” - -Emarine’s face flushed; even her ears grew rosy. - -“Well, I guess he’s a reel nice young man, anyways, Emarine. You needn’t -to blush so. Mis’ Grandy was a-sayin’ she thought you’d done offul well -to git him. He owns the house an’ lot they live in, an’ he’s got five -hunderd dollars in the bank. I reckon he’ll have to live with the ol’ -lady, though, when he gits married. They do say she’s turrable hard to -suit.” - -Emarine lifted her chin. The gold pendants glittered like diamonds. - -“It don’t make any difference to me whuther she’s hard to suit or easy,” -she said. “I’ll have to be goin’ on now. Just knock at the front door, -Miss Presly.” - -“Oh, I can go right around to the back, just as well, an’ save your maw -the trouble o’ comin’ to the door. If she’s got her washin’ out, I can -stoop right under the clo’s line.” - -“Well, we like to have our comp’ny come to the front door,” said Emarine, -dryly. - -It was a beautiful morning in early spring. The alders and the maples -along the hill were wrapped in reddish mist. The saps were mounting -through delicate veins. Presently the mist would quicken to a pale -green as the young leaves unfolded, but as yet everything seemed to be -waiting. The brown earth had a fresh, woody smell that caused the heart -to thrill with a vague sense of ecstasy—of some delight deep hidden and -inexplicable. Pale lavender “spring beauties” stood shyly in groups or -alone, in sheltered places along the path. There was even, here and -there, a trillium—or white lily, as the children called it—shivering on -its slender stem. There were old stumps, too, hollowed out by long-spent -flames into rustic urns, now heaped to their ragged rims with velvet -moss. On a fence near a meadow-lark was pouring out its few, but full and -beautiful, notes of passion and desire. Emarine paused to listen. Her -heart vibrated with exquisite pain to the ravishment of regret in those -liquid tones. - -“Sounds as if he was sayin’—‘_Sweet—oh—Sweet—my heart is breaking!_’” she -said; and then with a kind of shame of the sentiment in such a fancy, she -went on briskly over the hill. Her heels clicked sharply on the hard road. - -Before she reached the long wooden stairs which led from the high plateau -down to the one street of Oregon City, Emarine passed through a beautiful -grove of firs and cedars. Already the firs were taking on their little -plushy tufts of pale green, and exuding a spicy fragrance. Occasionally -a last year’s cone drew itself loose and sunk noiselessly into a bed of -its own brown needles. A little way from the path a woodpecker clung to -a tree, hammering into the tough bark with its long beak. As Emarine -approached, it flew heavily away, the undersides of its wings flashing a -scarlet streak along the air. - -As her eyes ceased following its flight, she became aware that some one -was standing in the path, waiting. A deep, self-conscious blush swept -over her face and throat. “Emarine never does anything up by halves,” -her mother was wont to declare. “When she blushes, she _blushes_!” - -She stepped slowly toward him with a sudden stiff awkwardness. - -“Oh—you, is it, Mr. Parmer?” she said, with an admirable attempt—but an -attempt only—at indifference. - -“Yes, it’s me,” said the young fellow, with an embarrassed laugh. With a -clumsy shuffle he took step with her. Both faces were flaming. Emarine -could not lift her eyes from their contemplation of the dead leaves in -her path—yet she passed a whole company of “spring beauties” playing -hide-and-seek around a stump, without seeing them. Her pulses seemed -full of little hammers, beating away mercilessly. Her fingers fumbled -nervously with the fringes on her shawl. - -“Don’t choo want I sh’u’d pack your umberell fer yuh?” asked the young -man, solemnly. - -“Why—yes, if you want.” - -It was a faded thing she held toward him, done up rather baggily, too; -but he received it as reverently as if it had been a twenty-dollar silk -one with a gold handle. - -“Does your mother know I kep’ yuh comp’ny home from church last night?” - -“Unh-hunh.” - -“What ’id she say?” - -“She didn’t say much.” - -“Well, what?” - -“Oh, not much.” Emarine was rapidly recovering her self-possession. “I -went right in an’ up an’ told her.” - -“Well, why can’t choo tell me what she said? Emarine, yuh can be the -contrairiest girl when yuh want.” - -“Can I?” She flashed a coquettish glance at him. She was quite at her -ease by this time, although the color was still burning deep in her -cheeks. “I sh’u’dn’t think you’d waste so much time on contrairy people, -Mr. Parmer.” - -“Oh, Emarine, go on an’ tell me!” - -“Well”—Emarine laughed mirthfully—“she put the backs of her hands on -her hips—this way!” She faced him suddenly, setting her arms akimbo, -the shawl’s fringes quivering over her elbows; her eyes fairly danced -into his. “An’ she looked at me a long time; then she says—‘Hunh! -_You—leetle—heifer!_ You think you’re some pun’kins, don’t you? A-havin’ -a beau home from meetin’.” - -Both laughed hilariously. - -“Well, what else ’id she say?” - -“I don’t believe you want to know. Do you—sure?” - -“I cross my heart.” - -“Well—she said it c’u’dn’t happen more’n ev’ry once ’n so often.” - -“Pshaw!” - -“She did.” - -The young man paused abruptly. A narrow, unfrequented path led through -deeper woods to the right. - -“Emarine, let’s take this catecornered cut through here.” - -“Oh, I’m afraid it’s longer—an’ it’s washday, you know,” said Emarine, -with feeble resistance. - -“We’ll walk right fast. Come on. George! But it’s nice and sweet in here, -though!” - -They entered the path. It was narrow and the great trees bent over and -touched above them. - -There was a kind of soft lavender twilight falling upon them. It was very -still, save for the fluttering of invisible wings and the occasional -shrill scream of a blue-jay. - -“It _is_ sweet in here,” said Emarine. - -The young man turned quickly, and with a deep, asking look into her -lifted eyes, put his arms about her and drew her to him. “Emarine,” he -said, with passionate tenderness. And then he was silent, and just stood -holding her crushed against him, and looking down on her with his very -soul in his eyes. Oh, but a man who refrains from much speech in such an -hour has wisdom straight from the gods themselves! - -After a long silence Emarine lifted her head and smiled trustfully into -his eyes. “It’s washday,” she said, with a flash of humor. - -“So it is,” he answered her, heartily. “An’ I promised yuh we’d hurry -up—an’ I alwus keep my promises. But first—Emarine—” - -“Well?” - -“Yuh must say somethin’ first.” - -“Say what, Mr. Parmer?” - -“‘_Mr. Parmer!_’” His tone and his look were reproachful. “Can’t choo say -Orville?” - -“Oh, I can—if you want I sh’u’d.” - -“Well, I do want choo sh’u’d, Emarine. Now, yuh know what else it is I -want choo sh’u’d say before we go on.” - -“Why, no, I don’t—hunh-unh.” She shook her head, coquettishly. - -“Emarine”—the young fellow’s face took on a sudden seriousness—“I want -choo to say yuh’ll marry me.” - -“Oh, my, no!” cried Emarine. She turned her head on one side, like a -bird, and looked at him with lifted brows and surprised eyes. One would -have imagined that such a thought had never entered that pretty head -before. - -“What, Emarine! Yuh won’t?” There was consternation in his voice. - -“Oh, my, no!” Both glance and movement were full of coquettishness. The -very fringes of the demure gray shawl seemed to have taken on new life -and vivacity. - -Orville Palmer’s face turned pale and stern. He drew a long breath -silently, not once removing that searching look from her face. - -“Well, then,” he said, calmly, “I want to know what choo mean by up an’ -lettin’ me kiss yuh—if yuh don’t mean to marry me.” - -This was an instant quietus to the girl’s coquetry. She gave him a -startled glance. A splash of scarlet came into each cheek. For a moment -there was utter silence. Then she made a soft feint of withdrawing from -his arms. To her evident amazement, he made no attempt to detain her. -This placed her in an awkward dilemma, and she stood irresolutely, with -her eyes cast down. - -Young Palmer’s arms fell at his sides with a movement of despair. -Sometimes they were ungainly arms, but now absence of self-consciousness -lent them a manly grace. - -“Well, Emarine,” he said, kindly, “I’ll go back the way I come. Goodby.” - -With a quick, spontaneous burst of passion—against which she had been -struggling, and which was girlish and innocent enough to carry a man’s -soul with it into heaven—Emarine cast herself upon his breast and flung -her shawl-entangled arms about his shoulders. Her eyes were earnest and -pleading, and there were tears of repentance in them. With a modesty -that was enchanting she set her warm, sweet lips tremblingly to his, of -her own free will. - -“I didn’t mean it,” she whispered. “I was only a—a-foolin’.” - - * * * * * - -The year was older by a month when one morning Mrs. Endey went to the -front door and stood with her body swaying backward, and one rough hand -roofing the rich light from her eyes. - -“Emarine ’ad ought to ’a’ got to the hill path by this time,” she said, -in a grumbling tone. “It beats me what keeps her so! I reckon she’s -a-standin’ like a bump on a lawg, watchin’ a red ant or a tumble-bug, or -some fool thing! She’d leave her dish-washin’ any time an’ stand at the -door a-ketchin’ cold in her bare arms, with the suds a-drippin’ all over -her apron an’ the floor—a-listenin’ to one o’ them silly meadow-larks -hollerin’ the same noise over ’n over. Her paw’s women-folks are all just -such fools.” - -She started guiltily and lowered her eyes to the gate which had clicked -sharply. - -“Oh!” she said. “That you, Emarine?” She laughed rather foolishly. “I was -lookin’ right over you—lookin’ _fer_ you, too. Miss Presly’s be’n here, -an’ of all the strings she had to tell! Why, fer pity’s sake! Is that a -dollar’s worth o’ coffee?” - -“Yes, it is; an’ I guess it’s full weight, too, from the way my arm -feels! It’s just about broke.” - -“Well, give it to me, an’ come on out in the kitching. I’ve got somethin’ -to tell you.” - -Emarine followed slowly, pinning a spray of lilac bloom in her bosom as -she went. - -“Emarine, where’s that spring balance at? I’m goin’ to weigh this coffee. -If it’s one grain short, I’ll send it back a-flyin’. I’ll show ’em they -can’t cheat this old hen!” - -She slipped the hook under the string and lifted the coffee cautiously -until the balance was level with her eyes. Then standing well back on her -heels and drawing funny little wrinkles up around her mouth and eyes, she -studied the figures earnestly, counting the pounds and the half-pounds -down from the top. Finally she lowered it with a disappointed air. -“Well,” she said, reluctantly, “it’s just it—just to a ’t.’ They’d ought -to make it a leetle over, though, to allow fer the paper bag. Get the -coffee-canister, Emarine.” - -When the coffee had all been jiggled through a tin funnel into the -canister, Mrs. Endey sat down stiffly and began polishing the funnel -with a cloth. From time to time she glanced at Emarine with a kind of -deprecatory mystery. At last she said—“Miss Presly spent the day down’t -Mis’ Parmer’s yesterday.” - -“Did she?” said Emarine, coldly; but the color came into her cheeks. -“Shall I go on with the puddin’?” - -“Why, you can if you want. She told me some things I don’t like.” - -Emarine shattered an egg-shell on the side of a bowl and released the -gold heart within. - -“Miss Presly says once Mis’ Parmer had to go out an’ gether the eggs an’ -shet up the chickens, so Miss Presly didn’t think there’d be any harm in -just lookin’ into the drawers an’ things to see what she had. She says -she’s awful short on table cloths—only got three to her name! An’ only -six napkeens, an’ them coarse ’s anything! When Mis’ Parmer come back in, -Miss Presly talked around a little, then she says—‘I s’pose you’re one o’ -them spic an’ span kind, Mis’ Parmer, that alwus has a lot o’ extry table -cloths put away in lavender.’” - -Emarine set the egg-beater into the bowl and began turning it slowly. - -“Mis’ Parmer got mighty red all of a sudden; but she says right out—‘No, -I’m a-gettin’ reel short on table cloths an’ things, Miss Presly, but -I ain’t goin’ to replenish. Orville’s thinkin’ o’ gettin’ married this -year, an’ I guess Emarine’ll have a lot o’ extry things.’ An’ then she -ups an’ laughs an’ says—‘I’ll let her stock up the house, seein’s she’s -so anxious to get into it.’” - -Emarine had turned pale. The egg-beater fairly flew round and round. A -little of the golden foam slipped over the edge of the bowl and slid down -to the white table. - -“Miss Presly thinks a good deal o’ you, Emarine, so that got her spunk -up; an’ she just told Mis’ Parmer she didn’t believe you was dyin’ to go -there an’ stock up her drawers fer her. Says she—‘I don’t think young -people ’ad ought to live with mother-in-laws, any way.’ Said she thought -she’d let Mis’ Parmer put that in her pipe an’ smoke it when she got -time.” - -There was a pulse in each side of Emarine’s throat beating hard and full. -Little blue, throbbing cords stood out in her temples. She went on mixing -the pudding mechanically. - -“Then Mis’ Parmer just up an’ said with a tantalizin’ laugh that if -you didn’t like the a-commodations at her house, you needn’t to come -there. Said she never did like you, anyways, ner anybody else that set -their heels down the way you set your’n. Said she’d had it all out -with Orville, an’ he’d promised her faithful that if there was any -knucklin’-down to be done, you’d be the one to do it, an’ not her!” - -Emarine turned and looked at her mother. Her face was white with -controlled passion. Her eyes burned. But her voice was quiet when she -spoke. - -“I guess you’d best move your chair,” she said, “so ’s I can get to the -oven. This puddin’ ’s all ready to go in.” - -When she had put the pudding in the oven she moved about briskly, -clearing the things off the table and washing them. She held her chin -high. There was no doubt now about the click of her heels; it was ominous. - -“I won’t marry him!” she cried at last, flinging the words out. “He can -have his mother an’ his wore-out table cloths!” Her voice shook. The -muscles around her mouth were twitching. - -“My mercy!” cried her mother. She had a frightened look. “Who cares what -his mother says? I w’u’dn’t go to bitin’ off my nose to spite my face, if -I was you!” - -“Well, I care what he says. I’ll see myself knucklin’-down to a -mother-in-law!” - -“Well, now, don’t go an’ let loose of your temper, or you’ll be sorry fer -it. You’re alwus mighty ready a-tellin’ me not to mind what folks say, -an’ to keep away from the old gossips.” - -“Well, you told me yourself, didn’t you? I can’t keep away from my own -mother very well, can I?” - -“Well, now, don’t flare up so! You’re worse ’n karosene with a match set -to it.” - -“What ’id you tell me for, if you didn’t want I sh’u’d flare up?” - -“Why, I thought it ’u’d just put you on your mettle an’ show her she -c’u’dn’t come it over you.” Then she added, diplomatically changing her -tone as well as the subject—“Oh, say, Emarine, I wish you’d go up in the -antic an’ bring down a bunch o’ pennyrile. I’ll watch the puddin’.” - -She laughed with dry humor when the girl was gone. “I got into a pickle -that time. Who ever ’d ’a’ thought she’d get stirred up so? I’ll have to -manage to get her cooled down before Orville comes to-night. They ain’t -many matches like him, if his mother _is_ such an old scarecrow. He ain’t -so well off, but he’ll humor Emarine up. He’d lay down an’ let her walk -on him, I guess. There’s Mis’ Grisley b’en a-tryin’ fer months to get -him to go with her Lily—_Lily_, with a complexion like sole-leather!—an’ -a-askin’ him up there all the time to dinner, an’ a-flatterin’ him up to -the skies. I’d like to know what they always name dark-complected babies -Lily fer! Oh, did you get the pennyrile, Emarine? I was laughin’ to -myself, a-wond’rin’ what Mis’ Grisley’s Lily’ll say when she hears you’re -goin’ to marry Orville.” - -Emarine hung a spotless dish-cloth on two nails behind the stove, but did -not speak. - -Mrs. Endey turned her back to the girl and smiled humorously. - -“That didn’t work,” she thought. “I’ll have to try somethin’ else.” - -“I’ve made up my mind to get you a second-day dress, too, Emarine. You -can have it any color you want—dove-color ’d be awful nice. There’s a -hat down at Mis’ Norton’s milliner’ store that ’u’d go beautiful with -dove-color.” - -Emarine took some flat-irons off the stove, wiped them carefully with a -soft cloth and set them evenly on a shelf. Still she did not speak. Mrs. -Endey’s face took on an anxious look. - -“There’s some beautiful artaficial orange flowers at Mis’ Norton’s, -Emarine. You can be married in ’em, if you want. They’re so reel they -almost smell sweet.” - -She waited a moment, but receiving no reply, she added with a kind of -desperation—“An’ a veil, Emarine—a long, white one a-flowin’ down all -over you to your feet—one that ’u’d just make Mis’ Grisley’s Lily’s mouth -water. What do you say to that? You can have that, too, if you want.” - -“Well, I don’t want!” said Emarine, fiercely. “Didn’t I say I wa’n’t -goin’ to marry him? I’ll give him his walking-chalk when he comes -to-night. I don’t need any help about it, either.” - -She went out, closing the door as an exclamation point. - -Oregon City kept early hours. The curfew ringing at nine o’clock on -summer evenings gathered the tender-aged of both sexes off the street. - -It was barely seven o’clock when Orville Palmer came to take Emarine out -for a drive. He had a high top-buggy, rather the worse for wear, and -drove a sad-eyed, sorrel horse. - -She was usually ready to come tripping down the path, to save his tying -the horse. To-night she did not come. He waited a while. Then he whistled -and called—“Oh, Emarine!” - -He pushed his hat back and leaned one elbow on his knee, flicking his -whip up and down, and looking steadily at the open door. But she did not -come. Finally he got out and, tying his horse, went up the path slowly. -Through the door he could see Emarine sitting quietly sewing. He observed -at once that she was pale. - -“Sick, Emarine?” he said, going in. - -“No,” she answered, “I ain’t sick.” - -“Then why under the sun didn’t choo come when I hollowed?” - -“I didn’t want to.” Her tone was icy. - -He stared at her a full minute. Then he burst out laughing. “Oh, say, -Emarine, yuh can be the contrariest girl I ever see! Yuh do love to tease -a fellow so. Yuh’ll have to kiss me fer that.” - -He went toward her. She pushed her chair back and gave him a look that -made him pause. - -“How’s your mother?” she asked. - -“My mother?” A cold chill went up and down his spine. “Why—oh, she’s all -right. Why?” - -She took a small gold ring set with a circle of garnets from her finger -and held it toward him with a steady hand. - -“You can take an’ show her this ring, an’ tell her I ain’t so awful -anxious to stock her up on table cloths an’ napkeens as she thinks I am. -Tell her yuh’ll get some other girl to do her knucklin’-down fer her. I -ain’t that kind.” - -The young man’s face grew scarlet and then paled off rapidly. He looked -like a man accused of a crime. “Why, Emarine,” he said, feebly. - -He did not receive the ring, and she threw it on the floor at his feet. -A whole month she had slept with that ring against her lips—the bond of -her love and his! Now, it was only the emblem of her “knuckling-down” to -another woman. - -“You needn’t to stand there a-pretendin’ you don’t know what I mean.” - -“Well, I don’t, Emarine.” - -“Yes, you do, too. Didn’t you promise your mother that if there was any -knucklin’-down to be did, I’d be the one to do it, an’ not her?” - -“Why—er—Emarine—” - -She laughed scornfully. - -“Don’t go to tryin’ to get out of it. You know you did. Well, you can -take your ring, an’ your mother, an’ all her old duds. I don’t want any -o’ you.” - -“Emarine,” said the young man, looking guilty and honest at the same -time, “the talk I had with my mother didn’t amount to a pinch o’ snuff. -It wa’n’t anything to make yuh act this way. She don’t like yuh just -because I’m goin’ to marry yuh”— - -“Oh, but you ain’t,” interrupted Emarine, with an aggravating laugh. - -“Yes, I am, too. She kep’ naggin’ at me day an’ night fer fear yuh’d be -sassy to her an’ she’d have to take a back seat.” - -“I’ll tell you what’s the matter with her!” interrupted Emarine. “She’s -got the big-head. She thinks ev’ry body wants to rush into her old house, -an’ marry her son, an’ use her old things! She wants to make ev’rybody -toe _her_ mark.” - -“Emarine! She’s my mother.” - -“I don’t care if she is. I w’u’dn’t tech her with a ten-foot pole.” - -“She’ll be all right after we’re married, Emarine, an’ she finds out -how—how nice yuh are.” - -His own words appealed to his sense of the ridiculous. He smiled. Emarine -divined the cause of his reluctant amusement and was instantly furious. -Her face turned very white. Her eyes burned out of it like two fires. - -“You think I ain’t actin’ very nice now, don’t you? I don’t care what you -think, Orville Parmer, good or bad.” - -The young man stood thinking seriously. - -“Emarine,” he said, at last, very quietly, “I love yuh an’ yuh know -it. An’ yuh love me. I’ll alwus be good to yuh an’ see that choo ain’t -emposed upon, Emarine. An’ I think the world an’ all of yuh. That’s all -I got to say. I can’t see what ails yuh, Emarine.... When I think o’ -that day when I asked yuh to marry me.... An’ that night I give yuh the -ring”—the girl’s eyelids quivered suddenly and fell. “An’ that moonlight -walk we took along by the falls.... Why, it seems as if this can’t be the -same girl.” - -There was such a long silence that Mrs. Endey, cramping her back with -one ear pressed to the keyhole of the door, decided that he had won and -smiled dryly. - -At last Emarine lifted her head. She looked at him steadily. “Did you, or -didn’t you, tell your mother I’d have to do the knucklin’-down?” - -He shuffled his feet about a little. - -“Well, I guess I did, Emarine, but I didn’t mean anything. I just did it -to get a little peace.” - -The poor fellow had floundered upon an unfortunate excuse. - -“Oh!” said the girl, contemptuously. Her lip curled. “An’ so you come an’ -tell me the same thing for the same reason—just to get a little peace! A -pretty time you’d have a-gettin’ any peace at all, between the two of us! -You’re chickenish—an’ I hate chickenish people.” - -“Emarine!” - -“Oh, I wish you’d go.” There was an almost desperate weariness in her -voice. - -He picked up the ring with its shining garnet stars, and went. - -Mrs. Endey tiptoed into the kitchen. - -“My back’s about broke.” She laughed noiselessly. “I swan I’m proud o’ -that girl. She’s got more o’ me in her ’n I give her credit fer. The -idee o’ her a-callin’ him chickenish right out to his face! That done me -good. Well, I don’t care such an awful lot if she don’t marry him. A girl -with that much spunk deserves a _gov’nor_! An’ that mother o’ his’n ’s a -case. I guess her an’ me ’d ’a’ fit like cats an’ dogs, anyhow.” Her lips -unclosed with reluctant mirth. - - * * * * * - -The next morning Emarine arose and went about her work as usual. She had -not slept. But there were no signs of relenting, or of regret, in her -face. After the first surreptitious look at her, Mrs. Endey concluded -that it was all settled unchangeably. Her aspiring mind climbed from a -governor to a United States senator. There was nothing impossible to a -girl who could break her own heart at night and go about the next morning -setting her heels down the way Emarine was setting hers. - -Mrs. Endey’s heart swelled with triumph. - -Emarine washed the dishes and swept the kitchen. Then she went out -to sweep the porch. Suddenly she paused. A storm of lyric passion -had burst upon her ear; and running through it she heard the -words—“_Sweet—oh—Sweet—my heart is breaking!_” - -The girl trembled. Something stung her eyes sharply. - -Then she pulled herself together stubbornly. Her face hardened. She went -on sweeping with more determined care than usual. - -“Well, I reckon,” she said, with a kind of fierce philosophy, “it ’u’d -’a’ been breaking a good sight worse if I’d ’a’ married him an’ that -mother o’ his’n. That’s some comfort.” - -But when she went in she closed the door carefully, shutting out that -impassioned voice. - - -PART II - -It was eight o’clock of a June morning. It had rained during the night. -Now the air was sweet with the sunshine on the wet leaves and flowers. - -Mrs. Endey was ironing. The table stood across the open window, up which -a wild honey-suckle climbed, flinging out slender, green shoots, each -topped with a cluster of scarlet spikes. The splendor of the year was at -its height. The flowers were marching by in pomp and magnificence. - -Mrs. Endey spread a checked gingham apron on the ironing cloth. It was -trimmed at the bottom with a ruffle, which she pulled and smoothed with -careful fingers. - -She selected an iron on the stove, set the wooden handle into it with a -sharp, little click, and polished it on a piece of scorched newspaper. -Then she moved it evenly across the starched apron. A shining path -followed it. - -At that moment some one opened the gate. Mrs. Endey stooped to peer -through the vines. - -“Well, ’f I ever ’n all my natcherl life!” she said, solemnly. She set -the iron on its stand and lifted her figure erect. She placed one hand on -her hip, and with the other rubbed her chin in perplexed thought. “If -it ain’t Orville Parmer, you may shoot me! That beats me! I wonder ’f he -thinks Emarine’s a-dyin’ o’ love fer him!” - -Then a thought came that made her feel faint. She fell into a chair, -weakly. “Oh, my land!” she said. “I wonder ’f that _ain’t_ what’s the -matter of her! I never’d thought o’ that. I’d thought o’ ev’rything _but_ -that. I wonder! There she’s lied flat o’ her back ever sence she fell out -with him a month ago. Oh, my mercy! I wonder ’f that is it. Here I’ve -b’en rackin’ my brains to find out what ails ’er.” - -She got up stiffly and went to the door. The young man standing there had -a pale, anxious face. - -“Good-mornin’, Mis’ Endey,” he said. He looked with a kind of entreaty -into her grim face. “I come to see Emarine.” - -“Emarine’s sick.” She spoke coldly. - -“I know she is, Mis’ Endey.” His voice shook, “If it wa’n’t fer her bein’ -sick, I w’u’dn’t be here. I s’pose, after the way she sent me off, I -ain’t got any spunk or I w’u’dn’t ’a’ come anyway; but I heard—” - -He hesitated and looked away. - -“What ’id you hear?” - -“I heard she wa’n’t a-goin’ to—get well.” - -There was a long silence. - -“Is she?” he asked, then. His voice was low and broken. - -Mrs. Endey sat down. “I do’ know,” she said, after another silence. “I’m -offul worried about her, Orville. I can’t make out what ails ’er. She -won’t eat a thing; even floatin’ island turns agi’n ’er—an’ she al’ays -loved that.” - -“Oh, Mis’ Endey, can’t I see ’er?” - -“I don’t see ’s it ’u’d be any use. Emarine’s turrable set. ’F you hadn’t -went an’ told your mother that if there was any knucklin’-down to be -did between her an’ Emarine, Emarine ’u’d have to do it, you an’ her’d -’a’ b’en married by this time. I’d bought most ha’f her weddin’ things -a’ready.” - -The young man gave a sigh that was almost a groan. He looked like one -whose sin has found him out. He dropped into a chair, and putting his -elbows on his knees, sunk his face into his brown hands. - -“Good God, Mis’ Endey!” he said, with passionate bitterness. “Can’t -choo ever stop harpin’ on that? Ain’t I cursed myself day an’ night -ever sence? Oh, I wish yuh’d help me!” He lifted a wretched face. “I -didn’t mean anything by tellin’ my mother that; she’s a-gettin’ kind o’ -childish, an’ she was afraid Emarine ’u’d run over ’er. But if she’ll -only take me back, she’ll have ev’rything her own way.” - -A little gleam of triumph came into Mrs. Endey’s face. Evidently the -young man was rapidly becoming reduced to a frame of mind desirable in a -son-in-law. - -“Will you promise that, solemn, Orville Parmer?” She looked at him -sternly. - -“Yes, Mis’ Endey, I will—solemn.” His tone was at once wretched and -hopeful. “I’ll promise anything under the sun, ’f she’ll only fergive me. -I can’t _live_ without ’er—an’ that’s all there is about it. Won’t choo -ask her to see me, Mis’ Endey?” - -“Well, I do’ know,” said Mrs. Endey, doubtfully. She cleared her throat, -and sat looking at the floor, as if lost in thought. He should never -have it to say that she had snapped him up too readily. “I don’t feel -much like meddlin’. I must say I side with Emarine. I do think”—her tone -became regretful—“a girl o’ her spir’t deserves a gov’nor.” - -“I know she does,” said the young man, miserably. “I alwus knew _I_ -wa’n’t ha’f good enough fer ’er. But Mis’ Endey, I know she loves me. -Won’t choo—” - -“Well!” Mrs. Endey gave a sigh of resignation. She got up very slowly, -as if still undecided. “I’ll see what she says to ’t. But I’ll tell you -right out I sha’n’t advise ’er, Orville.” - -She closed the door behind her with deliberate care. She laughed dryly -as she went up stairs, holding her head high. “There’s nothin’ like -makin’ your own terms,” she said, shrewdly. - -She was gone a long time. When Orville heard her coming lumbering back -down the stairs and along the hall, his heart stopped beating. - -Her coming meant—everything to him; and it was so slow and so heavy it -seemed ominous. For a moment he could not speak, and her face told him -nothing. Then he faltered out—“Will she? Oh, don’t choo say she won’t!” - -“Well,” said Mrs. Endey, with a sepulchral sigh, “she’ll see you, but I -don’t know ’s anything ’ll come of it. Don’t you go to bracin’ up on that -idee, Orville Parmer. She’s set like a strip o’ calico washed in alum -water.” - -The gleam of hope that her first words had brought to his face was -transitory. “You can come on,” said Mrs. Endey, lifting her chin solemnly. - -Orville followed her in silence. - -The little room in which Emarine lay ill was small and white, like -a nun’s chamber. The ceiling slanted on two sides. There was white -matting on the floor; there was an oval blue rug of braided rags at the -side of the bed, and another in front of the bureau. There was a small -cane-seated and cane-backed rocker. By the side of the bed was a high, -stiff wooden chair, painted very black and trimmed with very blue roses. - -There were two or three pictures on the walls. The long curtains of snowy -butter-cloth were looped high. - -The narrow white bed had been wheeled across the open window, so -Emarine could lie and look down over the miles of green valley, with -the mellifluous Willamette winding through it like a broad silver-blue -ribbon. By turning her head a little she could see the falls; the great -bulk of water sliding over the precipice like glass, to be crushed into -powdered foam and flung high into the sunlight, and then to go seething -on down to the sea. - -At sunrise and at sunset the mist blown up in long veils from the falls -quickened of a sudden to rose and gold and purple, shifting and blending -into a spectral glow of thrilling beauty. It was sweeter than guests to -Emarine. - -The robins were company, too, in the large cherry tree outside of her -window; and sometimes a flight of wild canaries drifted past like a -yellow, singing cloud. When they sank, swiftly and musically, she knew -that it was to rest upon a spot golden with dandelions. - -Outside the door of this room Mrs. Endey paused. “I don’t see ’s it ’u’d -be proper to let you go in to see ’er alone,” she said, sternly. - -Orville’s eyes were eloquent with entreaty. “Lord knows there w’u’dn’t be -any harm in ’t,” he said, humbly but fervently. “I feel jest as if I was -goin’ in to see an angel.” - -Mrs. Endey’s face softened; but at once a smile came upon it—one of -those smiles of reluctant, uncontrollable humor that take us unawares -sometimes, even in the most tragic moments. “She’s got too much spunk fer -an angel,” she said. - -“Don’t choo go to runnin’ of her down!” breathed Orville, with fierce and -reckless defiance. - -“I wa’n’t a-runnin’ of her down,” retorted Mrs. Endey, coldly. “You don’t -ketch me a-runnin’ of my own kin down, Orville Parmer!” She glowered at -him under drawn brows. “An’ I won’t stand anybody else’s a-runnin’ of -’em down or a-walkin’ over ’em, either! There ain’t no call fer _you_ to -tell me not to run ’em down.” Her look grew blacker. “I reckon we’d best -settle all about your mother before we go in there, Orville Parmer.” - -“What about ’er?” His tone was miserable; his defiance was short-lived. - -“Why, there’s no use ’n your goin’ in there unless you’re ready to -promise that you’ll give Emarine the whip-hand over your mother. You best -make up your mind.” - -“It’s _made_ up,” said the young fellow, desperately. “Lord Almighty, -Mis’ Endey, it’s made up.” - -“Well.” She turned the door-knob. “I know it ain’t the thing, an’ I’d -die if Miss Presley sh’u’d come an’ find out—the town w’u’dn’t hold her, -she’d talk so! Well! Now, don’t stay too long. ’F I see anybody a-comin’ -I’ll cough at the foot o’ the stairs.” - -She opened the door and when he had passed in, closed it with a bitter -reluctance. “It ain’t the proper thing,” she repeated; and she stood for -some moments with her ear bent to the keyhole. A sudden vision of Miss -Presley coming up the stairs to see Emarine sent her down to the kitchen -with long, cautious strides, to keep guard. - -Emarine was propped up with pillows. Her mother had dressed her in a -white sacque, considering it a degree more proper than a night-dress. -There was a wide ruffle at the throat, trimmed with serpentine edging. -Emarine was famous for the rapidity with which she crocheted, as well as -for the number and variety of her patterns. - -Orville went with clumsy noiselessness to the white bed. He was holding -his breath. His hungry eyes had a look of rising tears that are held -back. They took in everything—the girl’s paleness and her thinness; -the beautiful dark hair, loose upon the pillow; the blue veins in her -temples; the dark lines under her languid eyes. - -He could not speak. He fell upon his knees, and threw one arm over her -with compelling passion, but carefully, too, as one would touch a flower, -and laid his brow against her hand. His shoulders swelled. A great sob -struggled from his breast. “Oh, Emarine, Emarine!” he groaned. Then there -was utter silence between them. - -After a while, without lifting his head, he pushed her sleeve back a -very little and pressed trembling, reverent lips upon the pulse beating -irregularly in her slim wrist. - -“Oh, Emarine!” he said, still without lifting his head. “I love yuh—I -love yuh! I’ve suffered—oh, to think o’ you layin’ here sick, night after -night fer a whole month, an’ me not here to do things fer yuh. I’ve -laid awake imaginin’ that yuh wanted a fresh drink an’ c’u’dn’t make -anybody hear; or that yuh wanted a cool cloth on your forrid, or a little -jell-water, or somethin’. I’ve got up ’n the middle o’ the night an’ come -an’ stood out at your gate tell I’d see a shado’ on the curt’n an’ know -yuh wa’n’t alone.... Oh, Emarine, Emarine!” - -She moved her hand; it touched his throat and curved itself there, -diffidently. He threw up his head and looked at her. A rush of -passionate, startled joy stung through him like needles, filling his -throat. He trembled strongly. Then his arms were about her and he had -gathered her up against his breast; their lips were shaking together, -after their long separation, in those kisses but one of which is worth a -lifetime of all other kisses. - -Presently he laid her back very gently upon her pillow, and still knelt -looking at her with his hand on her brow. “I’ve tired yuh,” he said, with -earnest self-reproach. “I won’t do ’t ag’in, Emarine—I promise. When I -looked ’n your eyes an’ see that yuh’d fergive me; when I felt your hand -slip ’round my neck, like it ust to, an’ like I’ve b’en _starvin’_ to -feel it fer a month, Emarine—I c’u’dn’t help it, nohow; but I won’t do ’t -ag’in. Oh, to think that I’ve got choo back ag’in!” - -He laid his head down, still keeping his arm thrown, lightly and tenderly -as a mother’s, over her. - -The sick girl looked at him. Her face settled into a look of -stubbornness; the exaltation that had transfigured it a moment before -was gone. “You’ll have to promise me,” she said, “about your mother, you -know. I’ll have to be first.” - -“Yuh shall be, Emarine.” - -“You’ll have to promise that if there’s any knucklin’-down, she’ll do ’t, -an’ not me.” - -He moved uneasily. “Oh, don’t choo worry, Emarine. It’ll be all right.” - -“Well, I want it settled now. You’ll have to promise solemn that you’ll -stand by ev’rything I do, an’ let me have things my way. If you don’t, -you can go back the way you come. But I know you’ll keep your word if you -promise.” - -“Yes,” he said, “I will.” - -But he kept his head down and did not promise. - -“Well?” she said, and faint as she was, her voice was like steel. - -But still he did not promise. - -After a moment she lifted her hand and curved it about his throat again. -He started to draw away, but almost instantly shuddered closer to her and -fell to kissing the white lace around her neck. - -“Well,” she said, coldly, “hurry an’ make your choice. I hear mother -a-comin’.” - -“Oh, Emarine!” he burst out, passionately. “I promise—I promise yuh -ev’rything. My mother’s gittin’ old an’ childish, an’ it ain’t right, but -I can’t give you up ag’in—I _can’t_! I promise—I swear!” - -Her face took on a tenderness worthy a nobler victory. She slipped her -weak, bare arm up around him and drew his lips down to hers. - -An hour later he walked away from the house, the happiest man in Oregon -City—or in all Oregon, for that matter. Mrs. Endey watched him through -the vines. “Well, he’s a-walkin’ knee-deep in _promises_,” she reflected, -with a comfortable laugh, as she sent a hot iron hissing over a newly -sprinkled towel. “I guess that mother o’ his’n’ll learn a thing er two if -she tries any o’ her back-sass with Emarine.” - -Emarine gained strength rapidly. Orville urged an immediate marriage, -but Mrs Endey objected. “I won’t hear to ’t tell Emarine gits her spunk -back,” she declared. “When she gits to settin’ her heels down the way she -ust to before she got sick, she can git married. I’ll know then she’s got -her spunk back.” - -Toward the last of July Emarine commenced setting her heels down in the -manner approved by her mother; so, on the first of August they were -married and went to live with Mrs. Palmer. At the last moment Mrs. Endey -whispered grimly—“Now, you mind you hold your head high.” - -“Hunh!” said Emarine. She lifted her chin so high and so suddenly that -her long earrings sent out flashes in all directions. - - * * * * * - -They had been married a full month when Mrs. Endey went to spend a day at -the Palmer’s. She had a shrewd suspicion that all was not so tranquil -there as it might be. She walked in unbidden and unannounced. - -It was ten o’clock. The sun shown softly through the languid purple haze -that brooded upon the valley. Crickets and grasshoppers crackled through -the grasses and ferns. The noble mountains glimmered mistily in the -distance. - -Mrs. Palmer was sewing a patch on a tablecloth. Emarine was polishing -silverware. “Oh!” she said, with a start. “You, is ’t?” - -“Yes,” said Mrs. Endey, sitting down, “me. I come to spen’ the day.” - -“I didn’t hear yuh knock,” said Mrs. Palmer, dryly. She was tall and -stoop-shouldered. She had a thin, sour face and white hair. One knew, -only to look at her, that life had given her all its bitters and but few -of its sweets. - -“I reckon not,” said Mrs. Endey, “seein’ I didn’t knock. I don’t knock -at my own daughter’s door. Well, forever! Do you patch table-cloths, -Mis’ Parmer? I never hear tell! I have see darnt ones, but I never see a -patched one.” She laughed aggravatingly. - -“Oh, that’s nothin’,” said Emarine, over her shoulder, “we have ’em made -out o’ flour sacks here, fer breakfas’.” - -Then Mrs. Palmer laughed—a thin, bitter laugh. Her face was crimson. -“Yaas,” she said, “I use patched table-cloths, an’ table-cloths made out -o’ flour sacks; but I never did wear underclo’s made out o’ unbleached -muslin in _my_ life.” - -Then there was a silence. Emarine gave her mother a look, as much as to -say—“What do you think of that?” Mrs. Endey smiled. “Thank mercy!” she -said. “Dog-days’ll soon be over. The smoke’s liftin’ a leetle. I guess -you an’ Orville’ll git your house painted afore the fall rain comes on, -Emarine? It needs it turrable bad.” - -“They ain’t got the paintin’ of it,” said Mrs. Palmer, cutting a thread -with her teeth. “It don’t happen to be their house.” - -“Well, it’s all the same. It’ll git painted if Emarine wants it sh’u’d. -Oh, Emarine! Where’d you git them funny teaspoons at?” - -“They’re Orville’s mother’s.” Emarine gave a mirthful titter. - -“I want to know! Ain’t them funny? Thin’s no name fer ’m. You’d ought to -see the ones my mother left me, Mis’ Parmer—thick, my! One ’u’d make the -whole dozen o’ you’rn. I’ll have ’em out an’ ask you over to tea.” - -“I’ve heerd about ’em,” said Mrs. Palmer, with the placidity of a -momentary triumph. “The people your mother worked out fer give ’em to -her, didn’t they? My mother got her’n from her gran’mother. She never -worked out. She never lived in much style, but she al’ays had a plenty.” - -“My-_O_!” said Mrs. Endey, scornfully. - -“I guess I’d best git the dinner on,” said Emarine. She pushed the silver -to one side with a clatter. She brought some green corn from the porch -and commenced tearing off the pale emerald husks. - -“D’you want I sh’u’d help shuck it?” said her mother. - -“No; I’m ust to doin’ ’t alone.” - -A silence fell upon all three. The fire made a cheerful noise; the kettle -steamed sociably; some soup-meat, boiling, gave out a savory odor. Mrs. -Endey leaned back comfortably in her rocking-chair. There was a challenge -in the very fold of her hands in her lap. - -Mrs. Palmer sat erect, stiff and thin. The side of her face was toward -Mrs. Endey. She never moved the fraction of an inch, but watched her -hostilely out of the corner of her eye, like a hen on the defensive. - -It was Mrs. Endey who finally renewed hostilities. “Emarine,” she said, -sternly, “what are you a-doin’? Shortenin’ your biscuits with _lard_?” - -“Yes.” - -Mrs. Endey sniffed contemptuously. “They won’t be fit to eat! You -feathered your nest, didn’t you? Fer mercy’s sake! Can’t you buy butter -to shorten your biscuits with? You’ll be makin’ patata soup next!” - -Then Mrs. Palmer stood up. There was a red spot on each cheek. - -“Mis’ Endey,” she said, “if yuh don’t like the ’comadations in this -house, won’t you be so good ’s to go where they’re better? I must say I -never wear underclo’s made out o’ unbleached muslin in _my_ life! The -hull town’s see ’em on your clo’s line, an’ tee-hee about it behind your -back. I notice your daughter was mighty ready to git in here an’ shorten -biscuits with lard, an’ use patched table-cloths, an’—” - -“_Oh, mother!_” - -It was her son’s voice. He stood in the door. His face was white and -anxious. He looked at the two women; then his eyes turned with a -terrified entreaty to Emarine’s face. It was hard as flint. - -“It’s time you come,” she said, briefly. “Your mother just ordered my -mother out o’ doors. Whose house is this?” - -He was silent. - -“Say, Orville Parmer! whose house is this?” - -“Oh, Emarine!” - -“Don’t you ‘oh, Emarine’ me! You answer up!” - -“Oh, Emarine, don’t let’s quar’l. We’ve only b’en married a month. Let -them quar’l, if they want—” - -“You answer up. Whose house is this?” - -“It’s mine,” he said in his throat. - -“You’rn! Your mother calls it her’n.” - -“Well, it is,” he said, with a desperation that rendered the situation -tragic. “Oh, Emarine, what’s mine’s her’n. Father left it to me, but o’ -course he knew it ’u’d be her’n, too. She likes to call it her’n.” - -“Well, she can’t turn my mother out o’ doors. I’m your wife an’ this is -my house, if it’s you’rn. I guess it ain’t hardly big enough fer your -mother an’ me, too. I reckon one o’ us had best git out. I don’t care -much which, only I don’t knuckle-down to nobody. I won’t be set upon by -nobody.” - -“Oh, Emarine!” There was terror in his face and voice. He huddled into a -chair and covered his eyes with both hands. Mrs. Palmer, also, sat down, -as if her limbs had suddenly refused to support her. Mrs. Endey ceased -rocking and sat with folded hands, grimly awaiting developments. - -Emarine stood with the backs of her hands on her hips. She had washed the -flour off after putting the biscuits in the oven, and the palms were pink -and full of soft curves like rose leaves; her thumbs were turned out at -right angles. Her cheeks were crimson, and her eyes were like diamonds. - -“One o’ us’ll have to git out,” she said again. “It’s fer you to say -which ’n, Orville Parmer. I’d just as soon. I won’t upbraid you, ’f you -say me.” - -“Well, I won’t upbraid choo, if yuh say me,” spoke up his mother. Her -face was gray. Her chin quivered, but her voice was firm. “Yuh speak up, -Orville.” - -Orville groaned—“Oh, mother! Oh, Emarine!” His head sunk lower; his -breast swelled with great sobs—the dry, tearing sobs that in a man are -so terrible. “To think that you two women sh’u’d both love me, an’ then -torcher me this way! Oh, God, what can I do er say?” - -Suddenly Emarine uttered a cry, and ran to him. She tore his hands -from his face and cast herself upon his breast, and with her delicate -arms locked tight about his throat, set her warm, throbbing lips -upon his eyes, his brow, his mouth, in deep, compelling kisses. “I’m -your wife! I’m your wife! I’m your wife!” she panted. “You promised -ev’rything to get me to marry you! Can you turn me out now, an’ make me -a laughin’-stawk fer the town? Can you give _me_ up? You love me, an’ I -love you! Let me show you how I love you—” - -She felt his arms close around her convulsively. - -Then his mother arose and came to them, and laid her wrinkled, shaking -hand on his shoulder. “My son,” she said, “let _me_ show yuh how _I_ love -yuh. I’m your mother. I’ve worked fer yuh, an’ done fer yuh all your -life, but the time’s come fer me to take a back seat. Its be’n hard—it’s -be’n offul hard—an’ I guess I’ve be’n mean an’ hateful to Emarine—but -it’s be’n hard. Yuh keep Emarine, an’ I’ll go. Yuh want her an’ I want -choo to be happy. Don’t choo worry about me—I’ll git along all right. Yuh -won’t have to decide—I’ll go of myself. That’s the way _mothers_ love, my -son!” - -She walked steadily out of the kitchen; and though her head was shaking, -it was carried high. - - -PART III - -It was the day before Christmas—an Oregon Christmas. It had rained -mistily at dawn; but at ten o’clock the clouds had parted and moved away -reluctantly. There was a blue and dazzling sky overhead. The rain-drops -still sparkled on the windows and on the green grass, and the last roses -and chrysanthemums hung their beautiful heads heavily beneath them; but -there was to be no more rain. Oregon City’s mighty barometer—the Falls of -the Willamette—was declaring to her people by her softened roar that the -morrow was to be fair. - -Mrs. Orville Palmer was in the large kitchen making preparations for the -Christmas dinner. She was a picture of dainty loveliness in a lavender -gingham dress, made with a full skirt and a shirred waist and big -leg-o’-mutton sleeves. A white apron was tied neatly around her waist. - -Her husband came in, and paused to put his arm around her and kiss her. -She was stirring something on the stove, holding her dress aside with one -hand. - -“It’s goin’ to be a fine Christmas, Emarine,” he said, and sighed -unconsciously. There was a wistful and careworn look on his face. - -“Beautiful!” said Emarine, vivaciously. “Goin’ down-town, Orville?” - -“Yes. Want anything?” - -“Why, the cranberries ain’t come yet. I’m so uneasy about ’em. They’d -ought to ’a’ b’en stooed long ago. I like ’em cooked down an’ strained to -a jell. I don’t see what ails them groc’rymen! Sh’u’d think they c’u’d -get around some time before doomsday! Then, I want—here, you’d best set -it down.” She took a pencil and a slip of paper from a shelf over the -table and gave them to him. “Now, let me see.” She commenced stirring -again, with two little wrinkles between her brows. “A ha’f a pound o’ -citron; a ha’f a pound o’ candied peel; two pounds o’ cur’nts; two -pounds o’ raisins—git ’em stunned, Orville; a pound o’ sooet—make ’em -give you some that ain’t all strings! A box o’ Norther’ Spy apples; a -ha’f a dozen lemons; four-bits’ worth o’ walnuts or a’monds, whichever’s -freshest; a pint o’ Puget Sound oysters fer the dressin’, an’ a bunch o’ -cel’ry. You stop by an’ see about the turkey, Orville; an’ I wish you’d -run in ’s you go by mother’s an’ tell her to come up as soon as she can. -She’d ought to be here now.” - -Her husband smiled as he finished the list. “You’re a wonderful -housekeeper, Emarine,” he said. - -Then his face grew grave. “Got a present fer your mother yet, Emarine?” - -“Oh, yes, long ago. I got ’er a black shawl down t’ Charman’s. She’s b’en -wantin’ one.” - -He shuffled his feet about a little. “Unh-hunh. Yuh—that is—I reckon yuh -ain’t picked out any present fer—fer my mother, have yuh, Emarine?” - -“No,” she replied, with cold distinctness. “I ain’t.” - -There was a silence. Emarine stirred briskly. The lines grew deeper -between her brows. Two red spots came into her cheeks. “I hope the rain -ain’t spoilt the chrysyanthums,” she said then, with an air of ridding -herself of a disagreeable subject. - -Orville made no answer. He moved his feet again uneasily. Presently he -said: “I expect my mother needs a black shawl, too. Seemed to me her’n -looked kind o’ rusty at church Sunday. Notice it, Emarine?” - -“No,” said Emarine. - -“Seemed to me she was gittin’ to look offul old. Emarine”—his voice -broke; he came a step nearer—“it’ll be the first Christmas dinner I ever -eat without my mother.” - -She drew back and looked at him. He knew the look that flashed into her -eyes, and shrank from it. - -“You don’t have to eat this ’n’ without ’er, Orville Parmer! You go an’ -eat your dinner with your mother, ’f you want! I can get along alone. Are -you goin’ to order them things? If you ain’t, just say so, an’ I’ll go -an’ do ’t myself!” - -He put on his hat and went without a word. - -Mrs. Palmer took the saucepan from the stove and set it on the hearth. -Then she sat down and leaned her cheek in the palm of her hand, and -looked steadily out of the window. Her eyelids trembled closer together. -Her eyes held a far-sighted look. She saw a picture; but it was not the -picture of the blue reaches of sky, and the green valley cleft by its -silver-blue river. She saw a kitchen, shabby, compared to her own, -scantily furnished, and in it an old, white-haired woman sitting down to -eat her Christmas dinner alone. - -After a while she arose with an impatient sigh. “Well, I can’t help it!” -she exclaimed. “If I knuckled-down to her this time, I’d have to do ’t -ag’in. She might just as well get ust to ’t, first as last. I wish she -hadn’t got to lookin’ so old an’ pitiful, though, a-settin’ there in -front o’ us in church Sunday after Sunday. The cords stand out in her -neck like well-rope, an’ her chin keeps a-quiv’rin’ so I can see Orville -a-watchin’ her——” - -The door opened suddenly and her mother entered. She was bristling with -curiosity. “Say, Emarine!” She lowered her voice, although there was no -one to hear. “Where d’ you s’pose the undertaker’s a-goin’ up by here? -Have you hear of anybody——” - -“No,” said Emarine. “Did Orville stop by an’ tell you to hurry up?” - -“Yes. What’s the matter of him? Is he sick?” - -“Not as I know of. Why?” - -“He looks so. Oh, I wonder if it’s one o’ the Peterson childern where the -undertaker’s a-goin’! They’ve all got the quinsy sore throat.” - -“How does he look? I don’t see ’s he looks so turrable.” - -“Why, Emarine Parmer! Ev’rybody in town says he looks _so_! I only hope -they don’t know what ails him!” - -“What _does_ ail him?” cried out Emarine, fiercely. “What are you hintin’ -at?” - -“Well, if you don’t know what ails him, you’d ort to; so I’ll tell you. -He’s dyin’ by inches ever sence you turned his mother out o’ doors.” - -Emarine turned white. Sheet lightning played in her eyes. - -“Oh, you’d ought to talk about my turnin’ her out!” she burst out, -furiously. “After you a-settin’ here a-quar’l’n’ with her in this very -kitchen, an’ eggin’ me on! Wa’n’t she goin’ to turn you out o’ your own -daughter’s home? Wa’n’t that what I turned her out fer? I didn’t turn her -out, anyhow! I only told Orville this house wa’n’t big enough fer his -mother an’ me, an’ that neither o’ us ’u’d knuckle-down, so he’d best -take his choice. You’d ought to talk!” - -“Well, if I egged you on, I’m sorry fer ’t,” said Mrs. Endey, solemnly. -“Ever sence that fit o’ sickness I had a month ago, I’ve feel kind o’ old -an’ no account myself, as if I’d like to let all holts go, an’ just rest. -I don’t spunk up like I ust to. No, he didn’t go to Peterson’s—he’s gawn -right on. My land! I wonder ’f it ain’t old gran’ma Eliot; she had a bad -spell—no, he didn’t turn that corner. I can’t think where he’s goin’ to!” - -She sat down with a sigh of defeat. - -A smile glimmered palely across Emarine’s face and was gone. “Maybe if -you’d go up in the antic you could see better,” she suggested, dryly. - -“Oh, Emarine, here comes old gran’ma Eliot herself! Run an’ open the door -fer ’er. She’s limpin’ worse ’n usual.” - -Emarine flew to the door. Grandma Eliot was one of the few people she -loved. She was large and motherly. She wore a black dress and shawl and a -funny bonnet, with a frill of white lace around her brow. - -Emarine’s face softened when she kissed her. “I’m so glad to see you,” -she said, and her voice was tender. - -Even Mrs. Endey’s face underwent a change. Usually it wore a look of -doubt, if not of positive suspicion, but now it fairly beamed. She shook -hands cordially with the guest and led her to a comfortable chair. - -“I know your rheumatiz is worse,” she said, cheerfully, “because you’re -limpin’ so. Oh, did you see the undertaker go up by here? We can’t think -where he’s goin’ to. D’ you happen to know?” - -“No, I don’t; an’ I don’t want to, neither.” Mrs. Eliot laughed -comfortably. “Mis’ Endey, you don’t ketch me foolin’ with undertakers -till I have to.” She sat down and removed her black cotton gloves. “I’m -gettin’ to that age when I don’t care much where undertakers go to so -long ’s they let _me_ alone. Fixin’ fer Christmas dinner, Emarine dear?” - -“Yes, ma’am,” said Emarine in her very gentlest tone. Her mother had -never said “dear” to her, and the sound of it on this old lady’s lips was -sweet. “Won’t you come an’ take dinner with us?” - -The old lady laughed merrily. “Oh, dearie me, dearie me! You don’t guess -my son’s folks could spare me now, do you? I spend ev’ry Christmas there. -They most carry me on two chips. My son’s wife, Sidonie, she nearly runs -her feet off waitin’ on me. She can’t do enough fer me. My, Mrs. Endey, -you don’t know what a comfort a daughter-in-law is when you get old an’ -feeble!” - -Emarine’s face turned red. She went to the table and stood with her back -to the older woman; but her mother’s sharp eyes observed that her ears -grew scarlet. - -“An’ I never will,” said Mrs. Endey, grimly. - -“You’ve got a son-in-law, though, who’s worth a whole townful of most -son-in-laws. He was such a good son, too; jest worshipped his mother; -couldn’t bear her out o’ his sight. He humored her high an’ low. That’s -jest the way Sidonie does with me. I’m gettin’ cranky ’s I get older, an’ -sometimes I’m reel cross an’ sassy to her; but she jest laffs at me, an’ -then comes an’ kisses me, an’ I’m all right ag’in. It’s a blessin’ right -from God to have a daughter-in-law like that.” - -The knife in Emarine’s hand slipped, and she uttered a little cry. - -“Hurt you?” demanded her mother, sternly. - -Emarine was silent, and did not turn. - -“Cut you, Emarine? Why don’t you answer me? Aigh?” - -“A little,” said Emarine. She went into the pantry, and presently -returned with a narrow strip of muslin which she wound around her finger. - -“Well, I never see! You never will learn any gumption! Why don’t you look -what you’re about? Now, go around Christmas with your finger all tied up!” - -“Oh, that’ll be all right by to-morrow,” said Mrs. Eliot, cheerfully. -“Won’t it, Emarine? Never cry over spilt milk, Mrs. Endey; it makes a -body get wrinkles too fast. O’ course Orville’s mother’s comin’ to take -dinner’ with you, Emarine.” - -“Dear me!” exclaimed Emarine, in a sudden flutter. “I don’t see why them -cranberries don’t come! I told Orville to hurry ’em up. I’d best make -the floatin’ island while I wait.” - -“I stopped at Orville’s mother’s as I came along.” - -“How?” Emarine turned in a startled way from the table. - -“I say, I stopped at Orville’s mother’s as I come along, Emarine.” - -“Oh!” - -“She well?” asked Mrs. Endey. - -“No, she ain’t; shakin’ like she had the Saint Vitus dance. She’s failed -harrable lately. She’d b’en cryin’; her eyes was all swelled up.” - -There was quite a silence. Then Mrs. Endey said—“What she b’en cryin’ -about?” - -“Why, when I asked her she jest laffed kind o’ pitiful, an’ said: ‘Oh, -only my tomfoolishness, o’ course.’ Said she always got to thinkin’ about -other Christmases. But I cheered her up. I told her what a good time I -always had at my son’s, and how Sidonie jest couldn’t do enough fer me. -An’ I told her to think what a nice time she’d have here ’t Emarine’s -to-morrow.” - -Mrs. Endey smiled. “What she say to that?” - -“She didn’t say much. I could see she was thankful, though, she had a -son’s to go to. She said she pitied all poor wretches that had to set -out their Christmas alone. Poor old lady! she ain’t got much spunk left. -She’s all broke down. But I cheered her up some. Sech a _wishful_ look -took holt o’ her when I pictchered her dinner over here at Emarine’s. I -can’t seem to forget it. Goodness! I must go. I’m on my way to Sidonie’s, -an’ she’ll be comin’ after me if I ain’t on time.” - -When Mrs. Eliot had gone limping down the path, Mrs. Endey said: “You got -your front room red up, Emarine?” - -“No; I ain’t had time to red up anything.” - -“Well, I’ll do it. Where’s your duster at?” - -“Behind the org’n. You can get out the wax cross again. Mis’ Dillon was -here with all her childern, an’ I had to hide up ev’rything. I never see -childern like her’n. She lets ’em handle things so!” - -Mrs. Endey went into the “front room” and began to dust the organ. -She was something of a diplomat, and she wished to be alone for a few -minutes. “You have to manage Emarine by contrairies,” she reflected. It -did not occur to her that this was a family trait. “I’m offul sorry I -ever egged her on to turnin’ Orville’s mother out o’ doors, but who’d -’a’ thought it ’u’d break her down so? She ain’t told a soul either. I -reckoned she’d talk somethin’ offul about us, but she ain’t told a soul. -She’s kep’ a stiff upper lip an’ told folks she al’ays expected to live -alone when Orville got married. Emarine’s all worked up. I believe the -Lord hisself must ’a’ sent gran’ma Eliot here to talk like an angel -unawares. I bet she’d go an’ ask Mis’ Parmer over here to dinner if she -wa’n’t afraid I’d laff at her fer knucklin’-down. I’ll have to aggravate -her.” - -She finished dusting, and returned to the kitchen. “I wonder what gran’ma -Eliot ’u’d say if she knew you’d turned Orville’s mother out, Emarine?” - -There was no reply. Emarine was at the table mixing the plum pudding. Her -back was to her mother. - -“I didn’t mean what I said about bein’ sorry I egged you on, Emarine. I’m -glad you turned her out. She’d _ort_ to be turned out.” - -Emarine put a handful of floured raisins into the mixture and stirred it -all together briskly. - -“Gran’ma Eliot can go talkin’ about her daughter-in-law Sidonie all she -wants, Emarine. You keep a stiff upper lip.” - -“I can ’tend to my own affairs,” said Emarine, fiercely. - -“Well, don’t flare up so. Here comes Orville. Land, but he does look -peakid!” - - * * * * * - -After supper, when her mother had gone home for the night, Emarine put on -her hat and shawl. - -Her husband was sitting by the fireplace, looking thoughtfully at the bed -of coals. - -“I’m goin’ out,” she said, briefly. “You keep the fire up.” - -“Why, Emarine, its dark. Don’t choo want I sh’u’d go along?” - -“No; you keep the fire up.” - -He looked at her anxiously, but he knew from the way she set her heels -down that remonstrance would be useless. - -“Don’t stay long,” he said, in a tone of habitual tenderness. He loved -her passionately, in spite of the lasting hurt she had given him when she -parted him from his mother. It was a hurt that had sunk deeper than even -he realized. It lay heavy on his heart day and night. It took the blue -out of the sky, and the green out of the grass, and the gold out of the -sunlight; it took the exaltation and the rapture out of his tenderest -moments of love. - -He never reproached her, he never really blamed her; certainly he never -pitied himself. But he carried a heavy heart around with him, and his few -smiles were joyless things. - -For the trouble he blamed only himself. He had promised Emarine solemnly -before he married her that if there were any “knuckling-down” to be -done, his mother should be the one to do it. He had made the promise -deliberately, and he could no more have broken it than he could have -changed the color of his eyes. When bitter feeling arises between two -relatives by marriage, it is the one who stands between them—the one who -is bound by the tenderest ties to both—who has the real suffering to -bear, who is torn and tortured until life holds nothing worth the having. - -Orville Palmer was the one who stood between. He had built his own cross, -and he took it up and bore it without a word. - -Emarine hurried through the early winter dark until she came to the -small and poor house where her husband’s mother lived. It was off the -main-traveled street. - -There was a dim light in the kitchen; the curtain had not been drawn. -Emarine paused and looked in. The sash was lifted six inches, for the -night was warm, and the sound of voices came to her at once. Mrs. Palmer -had company. - -“It’s Miss Presly,” said Emarine, resentfully, under her breath. “Old -gossip!” - -“—goin’ to have a fine dinner, I hear,” Miss Presly was saying. “Turkey -with oyster dressin’, an’ cranberries, an’ mince an’ pun’kin pie, an’ -reel plum puddin’ with brandy poured over ’t an’ set afire, an’ wine dip, -an’ nuts, an’ raisins, an’ wine itself to wind up on. Emarine’s a fine -cook. She knows how to get up a dinner that makes your mouth water to -think about. You goin’ to have a spread, Mis’ Parmer?” - -“Not much of a one,” said Orville’s mother. “I expected to, but I -c’u’dn’t get them fall patatas sold off. I’ll have to keep ’em till -spring to git any kind o’ price. I don’t care much about Christmas, -though”—her chin was trembling, but she lifted it high. “It’s silly for -anybody but childern to build so much on Christmas.” - -Emarine opened the door and walked in. Mrs. Palmer arose slowly, grasping -the back of her chair. “Orville’s dead?” she said, solemnly. - -Emarine laughed, but there was the tenderness of near tears in her voice. -“Oh, my, no!” she said, sitting down. “I run over to ask you to come to -Christmas dinner. I was too busy all day to come sooner. I’m goin’ to -have a great dinner, an’ I’ve cooked ev’ry single thing of it myself! I -want to show you what a fine Christmas dinner your daughter-’n-law can -get up. Dinner’s at two, an’ I want you to come at eleven. Will you?” - -Mrs. Palmer had sat down, weakly. Trembling was not the word to describe -the feeling that had taken possession of her. She was shivering. She -wanted to fall down on her knees and put her arms around her son’s wife, -and sob out all her loneliness and heartache. But life is a stage; and -Miss Presly was an audience not to be ignored. So Mrs. Palmer said: -“Well, I’ll be reel glad to come, Emarine. It’s offul kind o’ yuh to -think of ’t. It ’u’d ’a’ be’n lonesome eatin’ here all by myself, I -expect.” - -Emarine stood up. Her heart was like a thistle-down. Her eyes were -shining. “All right,” she said; “an’ I want that you sh’u’d come just at -eleven. I must run right back now. Good-night.” - -“Well, I declare!” said Miss Presly. “That girl gits prettier ev’ry day -o’ her life. Why, she just looked full o’ _glame_ to-night!” - - * * * * * - -Orville was not at home when his mother arrived in her rusty best dress -and shawl. Mrs. Endey saw her coming. She gasped out, “Why, good grieve! -Here’s Mis’ Parmer, Emarine!” - -“Yes, I know,” said Emarine, calmly. “I ast her to dinner.” - -She opened the door, and shook hands with her mother-in-law, giving her -mother a look of defiance that almost upset that lady’s gravity. - -“You set right down, Mother Parmer, an’ let me take your things. Orville -don’t know you’re comin’, an’ I just want to see his face when he comes -in. Here’s a new black shawl fer your Christmas. I got mother one just -like it. See what nice long fringe it’s got. Oh, my, don’t go to cryin’! -Here comes Orville.” - -She stepped aside quickly. When her husband entered his eyes fell -instantly on his mother, weeping childishly over the new shawl. She was -in the old splint rocking-chair with the high back. “_Mother!_” he cried; -then he gave a frightened, tortured glance at his wife. Emarine smiled at -him, but it was through tears. - -“Emarine ast me, Orville—she ast me to dinner o’ herself! An’ she give me -this shawl. I’m—cryin’—fer—joy——” - -“I ast her to dinner,” said Emarine, “but she ain’t ever goin’ back -again. She’s goin’ to _stay_. I expect we’ve both had enough of a lesson -to do us.” - -Orville did not speak. He fell on his knees and laid his head, like a -boy, in his mother’s lap, and reached one strong but trembling arm up to -his wife’s waist, drawing her down to him. - -Mrs. Endey got up and went to rattling things around on the table -vigorously. “Well, I never see sech a pack o’ loonatics!” she exclaimed. -“Go an’ burn all your Christmas dinner up, if I don’t look after -it! Turncoats! I expect they’ll both be fallin’ over theirselves to -knuckle-down to each other from now on! I never see!” - -But there was something in her eyes, too, that made them beautiful. - - - - -THE CUTTIN’-OUT OF BART WINN - - - - -THE CUTTIN’-OUT OF BART WINN - - -“Lavin-ee!” - -“Well?” - -Mrs. Vaiden came to the foot of the stairs. - -“You up there?” she said. - -“Yes, maw. What you want?” - -“Somebody’s comin’,” said Mrs. Vaiden, lowering her voice to a tone of -important mystery. - -“I guess not here,” said Lavinia, lightly. She sat down on the top step -and smiled at her mother. - -“Yes, it is here, too,” retorted Mrs. Vaiden, with some irritation. “If -you couldn’t conterdict a body ’t wouldn’t be you! You’re just like your -paw!” She paused, and then added: “It’s a man a-foot. He’s comin’ up the -path slow, a-stoppin’ to look at the flowers.” - -“Maybe it’s the minister,” said the girl, still regarding her mother with -a good-natured, teasing smile. - -“No, it ain’t the minister, either. As if I didn’t know the minister when -I see him! You do aggravate me so! It’s a young fello’, an’ he’s all -dressed up. You’ll have to go to the door.” - -“Oh, maw!” cried Lavinia, reproachfully. “I just can’t! In this short -dress?” - -She stood up, with a look of dismay, and began pulling nervously at her -fresh gingham skirt. It was short, showing very prettily-arched insteps -and delicate ankles. - -“Well, you just can, an’ haf to,” said Mrs. Vaiden, shortly. “I’ve told -you often enough to put a ruffle on the bottom o’ that dress, an’ I’m -glad you’re caught. Mebbe you’ll do’s I tell you after this—” - -She started guiltily as a loud rap sounded upon the door behind her, -and began to tiptoe heavily down the hall toward the kitchen. The girl -looked after her in mingled amusement and chagrin. Then she leaned -forward slightly, drawing the skirt back closely on both sides, and -looked at her feet, with her head turned on one side like a bird. When -the cessation of her mother’s labored breathing announced silently that -she had reached the kitchen in safety, Lavinia shrugged her beautiful -shoulders—which no gown could conceal—and opened the door. A young man in -a light traveling-suit stood before her. In his hand was a bunch of her -own sweet-peas. - -At sight of her he whisked off his hat in a way that brought a lovely -color to her face and throat. For a little while it seemed as if he were -not going to say or do anything but just look at her. She was well worth -looking at. She had the rare beauty of velvet eyes of a reddish-brown -color, hair wavy and brown, with red glints in it, and a clear -complexion, unfreckled and of exquisite coloring. - -Lavinia’s eyes went to the sweet-peas, and then, with a deeper blush -under them, to his face. - -“Won’t you come in?” she said. - -“Why, yes, if you’ll let me.” The young man smiled, and Lavinia found -her lips and eyes responding, in all the lightness of youth and a clear -conscience. - -“I couldn’t help taking some of your sweet-peas,” he said, following -her into the parlor. It was a large, solemn-looking room. The blinds -were lowered over the windows, but the girl raised one slightly, letting -a splash of pale autumnal sunshine flicker across the hit-and-miss -rag carpet. There was an organ in one corner and a hair-cloth sofa in -another. Eight slender-legged hair-cloth chairs were placed at severely -equal distances around the room, their backs resting firmly against the -walls. All tipped forward slightly, their front legs being somewhat -shorter than the others. On the back of each was a small, square -crocheted tidy. There were some family portraits on the walls, in oval -gilt frames; and there was a large picture of George Washington and -family, on their stateliest behavior; another, named in large letters -“The Journey of Life,” of an uncommonly roomy row-boat containing at -least a dozen persons, who were supposed to represent all ages from the -cradle to the grave; in the wide, white margin beneath this picture were -two verses of beautiful, descriptive poetry, and in one corner appeared, -with apparent irrelevancy, the name of an illustrated newspaper. There -was also a chromo of a scantily-attired woman clinging to a cross which -was set in the midst of dashing sea-waves; and there was a cheerful -photograph, in a black cloth frame, of flowers—made into harps, crosses, -anchors and hearts—which had been sent at some time of bereavement by -sympathetic but misguided friends. A marble-topped centre-table held a -large plush album, a scrap book, a book of autographs, a lamp with a -pale-green shade, and a glass case containing a feather-wreath. - -“Oh, we’ve got lots of sweet-peas,” said Lavinia, adjusting the blind -carefully. Then she looked at him. - -“May I see Mrs. Vaiden?” he asked, easily. - -“She’s—busy,” said Lavinia, with a look of embarrassment. “But I’ll see—” - -“Oh, don’t,” interrupted the young man lightly. “They told me at the -postoffice she took boarders sometimes, and I came to see if there was a -chance for me.” He handed a card to the girl with an air of not knowing -that he was doing it. Her very eyelids seemed to blush as she looked at -it and read the name—Mr. C. Daun Diller. “I am writing up the Puget Sound -country for a New York paper, and I should like to make my headquarters -here at Whatcom, but I can’t stand the hotels in your new towns. It’s the -most amazing thing!” he went on, smiling at her as she stood twisting -the card in her fingers, not knowing exactly what to do with it. “You -go to sleep at night in a Puget Sound village with the fronts of the -stores painted green, blue and red, spasmodic patches of sidewalk here -and there, dust ankle deep, and no street-lights—and you wake in the -morning in a _city_! A city with fine stone blocks and residences, stone -pavements, electric lights and railways, gas, splendid water-works,”—he -was checking off now, excitedly, on his fingers,—“sewerage, big mills, -factories, canneries, public schools that would make the East stare, -churches, libraries”—he stopped abruptly, and, dropping his arms limply -to his sides, added—“and not a hotel! Not a comfortable bed or a good -meal to be had for love or money!” - -“Yes, that’s so,” said Lavinia, reluctantly. “But you can’t expect us -to get everything all at onct. Why, Whatcom’s boom only started in six -months ago.” - -Mr. C. Daun Diller looked amused. “Oh, if it were this town only,” he -said, sitting down on one of the hair-cloth chairs and feeling himself -slide gently forward, “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. But the truth is, -there are only three decent hotels in the whole Puget Sound country. But -I know”—here he smiled at her again—“that it’s not safe to breathe a word -against Puget Sound to a Puget-Sounder.” - -“No, it ain’t,” said the girl, responding to the smile and the -respectfully bantering tone. Then she moved to the door. “Well, I’ll see -what maw says to it,” she said, and vanished. - -Mr. C. Daun Diller stood up and pushed his hands down into his pockets, -whistling softly. He walked over to the organ and looked at the music. -There were three large books: “The Home Circle,” “The Golden Chord,” and -“The Family Treasure;” a “simplified” copy of “The Maiden’s Prayer,” and -a book of “Gospel Songs.” - -The young man smiled. - -“All the same,” he said, as if in answer to a disparaging remark made by -some one else, “she’s about the handsomest girl I ever saw. I’m getting -right down anxious to see myself what ‘maw’ will ‘say to it.’” - -After a long while Mrs. Vaiden appeared in a crisply-starched gingham -dress and a company manner—both of which had been freshly put on for the -occasion. Mr. Diller found her rather painfully polite, and he began to -wonder, after paying his first week’s board, whether he could endure two -or three months of her; but he was quite, quite sure that he could endure -a full year of the daughter. - -A couple of evenings later he was sitting by the window in his quaint but -exquisitely neat room, writing, when a light rap came upon his door. Upon -opening it he found Lavinia standing, bashfully, a few steps away. There -was a picturesque, broad-brimmed hat set coquettishly on her splendid -hair. - -“Maw wanted I sh’u’d ask you if you’d like to see an Indian canoe-race,” -she said. - -“_Would_ I?” he ejaculated, getting into a great excitement at once. -“Well, I should say so! Awfully good of your mother to think—but where is -it—when is it? How can I see it?” - -“It’s down by the viaduck—right now,” said Lavinia. Then she added, -shyly, pretending to be deeply engrossed with her glove: “I’m just goin’.” - -“Oh, are you?” said Diller, seizing his hat and stick and coming eagerly -out to her. “And may I go with you? Will you take me in hand? I haven’t -the ghost of an idea where the viaduct is.” - -“Oh, yes, I’ll show you,” she said, with a glad little laugh, and they -went swiftly down the stairs and out into the sweet evening. - -“You know,” she said, as he opened the gate for her with a deference to -which she was not accustomed, and which gave her a thrill of innocent -exultation, “the Alaska Indians are just comin’ back from hop-pickin’ -down around Puyallup an’ Yakima an’ Seattle, an’ they alwus stop here an’ -have races with the Lummies an’ the Nooksacks.” - -Mr. Diller drew a deep breath. - -“Do you know,” he said, “I wouldn’t have missed this for anything—not -for anything I can think of. And yet I should if it hadn’t been for”—he -hesitated, and then added—“your mother.” They looked into each other’s -eyes and laughed, very foolishly and happily. - -The sun was setting—moving slowly, scarlet and of dazzling brilliancy, -down the western sky, which shaded rapidly from pale blue to salmon, and -from salmon to palest pea-green. Beneath, superbly motionless, at full -tide, the sound stretched mile on mile away to Lummi peninsula, whose -hills the sun now touched—every fir-tree on those noble crests standing -out against that burnished background. A broad, unbroken path of gold -stretched from shore to shore. Some sea-gulls were circling in endless, -silvery rings through the amethystine haze between sea and sky. The -old, rotten pier running a mile out to sea shone like a strip of gold -above the deep blue water. It was crowded with people, indifferent to -danger in their eagerness to see the races. Indeed, there seemed to be -people everywhere; on the high banks, the piers, and the mills scattered -over the tide-flats, and out in row boats. Two brass bands were playing -stirring strains alternately. There was much excitement—much shouting, -hurrying, running. The crowd kept swaying from the viaduct over to the -pier, and from the pier back to the viaduct. Nobody seemed to be quite -sure where the start would be; even the three judges, when asked, yelled -back, as they clambered down to their row-boat: “We don’t know. Wait and -see!” - -“What accommodating persons,” said Mr. Diller, cheerfully. “Shall we go -over to the pier? The tide seems to be running that way.” - -“Oh, the tide’s not running now,” said Lavinia. “It’s full.” - -Diller looked amused. “I meant the people,” he said. - -The girl laughed and looked around on the pushing crowd. “I guess we’d -best stop right here on the viaduck; here’s just where they started last -year an’ the year before. Oh, see, here’s the Alaskas camped pretty near -under us!” - -As she lifted her voice a little Diller saw a young man standing near -start and turn toward her with a glad look of recognition; but at once -his glance rested on Diller, and his expression changed to a kind of -puzzled bewilderment. The girl was leaning over the railing and did not -see him, but he never took his eyes away from her and Diller. - -There was a long wait, but the crowd did not lose its patience or its -good humor. There was considerable betting going on, and there was the -same exciting uncertainty about the start. The sun went down and a bank -of apricot-colored clouds piled low over the snow crest of Mount Baker -in the East. The pier darkened and the path of gold faded, but splashes -of scarlet still lingered on the blue water. A chill, sweet wind started -up suddenly, and some of the girl’s bronze curls got loose about her -white temples. Diller put her wrap around her carefully, and she smiled -up at him deliciously. Then she cried out, “Oh, they’re gettin’ into the -boat! They’re goin’ to start. Oh, I’m so glad!” and struck her two hands -together gleefully, like a child. - -The long, narrow, richly-painted and carven canoe slid down gracefully -into the water. Eleven tall, supple Alaskan Indians, bare to the waist, -leaped lightly to their places. They sat erect, close to the sides of -the boat, holding their short paddles perpendicularly. At a signal the -paddles shot straight down into the water, and, with a swift, magnificent -straining and swelling of muscles in the powerful bronze arms and -bodies, were pushed backward and withdrawn in lightning strokes. The -canoe flashed under the viaduct and appeared on the other side, and -a great shout belched from thousands of throats. From camping-places -farther up the shore the other boats darted out into the water and headed -for the viaduct. - -“Oh, good! good!” cried Lavinia in a very ecstasy of excitement. “They’re -goin’ to start right under us. We’re just in _the_ place!” - -“Twenty dollars on the Nooksacks!” yelled a blear-eyed man in a carriage. -“Twenty! Twenty ag’inst ten on the Nooksacks!” - -The band burst into “Hail, Columbia!” with beautiful irrelevancy. The -crowd came surging back from the pier. Diller was excited, too. His face -was flushed and he was breathing heavily. “Who’ll you bet on?” he asked, -laughing, and thinking, even at that moment, how ravishingly lovely she -was with that glow on her face and the loose curls blowing about her face -and throat. - -“Oh, the _Alaskas_!” cried the girl, striking little blows of impatience -on the railing with her soft fists. “They’re so tall an’ fine-lookin’! -They’re so strong an’ grand! Look at their muscles—just like ropes! Oh, -I’ll bet on the Alaskas! I _love_ tall men!” - -“Do you?” said Diller. “I’m tall.” - -They looked into each other’s eyes again and laughed. Then a voice spoke -over their shoulders—a kind, patient voice. “Oh, Laviny,” it said; “I -wouldn’t bet if I was you.” - -Lavinia gave a little scream. Both turned instantly. The young man who -had been watching them stood close to them. He wore working-clothes—a -flannel shirt and cheap-faded trousers and coat. He had a good, strong, -honest face, and there was a tenderness in the look he bent on the girl -that struck Diller as being almost pathetic. - -The glow in Lavinia’s face turned to the scarlet of the sunset. - -“_Oh!_” she said, embarrassedly. “That you, Bart? I didn’t know you was -back.” - -“I just got back,” he replied, briefly. “I got to go back again in the -mornin’. I was just on my way up to your house. I guess I’ll go on. I’m -tired, an’ I’ve seen lots o’ c’noe races.” He looked at her wistfully. - -“Well,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “You go on up, then. Maw -an’ paw’s at home, an’ I’ll come as soon ’s the race ’s over.” - -“All right,” he said, with a little drop in his voice, and walked away. - -“Oh, _dear_!” cried Lavinia. “We’re missin’ the start, ain’t we?” - -The canoes were lying side by side, waiting for the signal. Every Indian -was bent forward, holding his paddle suspended above the water in both -hands. There was what might be termed a rigid suppleness in the attitude. -The dark outlines of the paddles showed clearly in the water, which had -turned yellow as brass. Suddenly the band ceased playing and the signal -rang across the sunset. Thirty-three paddles shot into the water, working -with the swift regularity of piston-rods in powerful engines. The crowds -cheered and yelled. The canoes did not flash or glide now, but literally -plowed and plunged through the water, which boiled and seethed behind -them in white, bubbled foam that at times completely hid the bronze -figures from sight. There was no shouting now, but tense, breathless -excitement. People clung motionless, in dangerous places and stared with -straining eyes, under bent brows, after the leaping canoes. The betting -had been high. The fierce, rhythmic strokes of the paddles made a noise -that was like the rapid pumping of a great ram. To Diller, who stood, -pale, with compressed lips, it sounded like the frantic heart-beat of a -nation in passionate riot. Mingled with it was a noise that, once heard, -cannot be forgotten—a weird, guttural chanting on one tone, that yet -seemed to hold a windy, musical note; a sound, regular, and rhythmic as -the paddle-strokes, that came from deep in the breasts of the rigidly -swaying Indians and found utterance through locked teeth. - -A mile out a railroad crossed the tide-lands, and this was the turning -point. The Nooksacks made it first, closely followed by the Alaskans, and -then, amid wild cheering, the three canoes headed for the viaduct. Faster -and faster worked those powerful arms; the paddles whizzed more fiercely -through the air; the water spurted in white sheets behind; the canoes -bounded, length on length, out of the water; and louder and faster the -guttural chant beat time. The Alaskans and the Nooksacks were coming in -together, carven prow to carven prow, and the excitement was terrific. -Nearer and nearer, neither gaining, they came. Then, suddenly, there -burst a mad yell of triumph, and the Alaskan boat arose from the water -and leaped almost its full length ahead of the Nooksack’s; and amidst -waving hats and handkerchiefs, and almost frantic cheering—the race was -won. - -“By the eternal!” said Diller, beginning to breathe again and wiping the -perspiration from his brow. “If that isn’t worth crossing the plains -to see, I don’t know what is!” But his companion did not hear. She was -alternately waving her kerchief to the victors and pounding her small -fists on the railing in an ecstasy of triumph. - -“Lavin-_ee_!” - -“Well?” - -“You come right down hyeer an’ help me em’ty this renchin’-water. I’d -like to know what’s got into you! A-stayin’ upstairs half your time, an’ -just a-mopin’ around when you are down. You ain’t b’en worth your salt -lately!” - -The girl came into the kitchen slowly. “What you jawin’ about now, maw?” -she said, smiling. - -“I’ll show you what I’m a-jawin’ about, as you call it. Take holt o’ this -tub an’ help me em’ty this renchin’-water.” - -“Well, don’t holler so; Mr. Diller’ll hear you.” - -“I don’t care ’f he _does_ hear me. I can give him his come-up’ans if he -goes to foolin’ around, listenin’. I don’t care ’f he does write for a -paper in New York! You’ve got to take holt o’ the work more’n you’ve b’en -lately. A-traipsin’ around all over the country with him, a-showin’ him -things to write about an’ make fun of! I sh’u’d think Bart Winn had just -about got enough of it.” - -“I wish you’d keep still about Bart Winn,” said Lavinia, impatiently. - -“Well, I ain’t a-goin’ to keep still about him.” Mrs. Vaiden poured the -dish-water into the sink and passed the dish-cloth round and round the -pan, inside and outside with mechanical care, before she opened the -back door and hung it out on the side of the house. “I guess I don’t haf -to ask _you_ when I want to talk. There you was—gone all day yeste’day -a-huntin’ star-fish, an’ that renchin’-water a-settin’ there a-ruinin’ -that tub because I couldn’t em’ty it all myself. Just as if he never saw -star-fish where he come from. An’ then to-day—b’en gone all the mornin’ -a-ketchin’ crabs! How many crabs ’d you ketch, I’d like to know!” - -“We didn’t ketch many,” said Lavinia, with a soft, aggravating laugh. -“The water wa’n’t clear enough to see ’em.” - -“No, I guess the water _wa’n’t_ clear enough to see ’em!” The -rinsing-water had been emptied, and Mrs. Vaiden was industriously wiping -the tub. “I’ve got all the star-fishin’ an’ the crab-ketchin’ I want, an’ -I’m a-goin’ to tell that young man that he can go some’ers else for his -board. He’s b’en here a month, an’ he’s just about made a fool o’ you. -Pret’ soon you’ll be a-thinkin’ you’re too good for Bart Winn.” - -“Oh, no,” said Bart Winn’s honest voice in the doorway; “I guess Laviny -won’t never be a-thinkin’ that.” - -“Mercy!” cried Mrs. Vaiden, starting and coloring guiltily. “That you? -How you scairt me! I’m all of a-trimble.” - -Bart advanced to Lavinia and kissed her with much tenderness; but -instead of blushing, she paled. - -“When ’d you come?” she asked, briefly, drawing away, while her mother, -muttering something about the sour cream and the spring-house, went out -discreetly. - -“This mornin’,” said Bart. “I’m a-goin’ to stay home now.” - -The girl sat down, taking a pan of potatoes on her lap. “I wonder where -the case-knife is,” she said, helplessly. - -“I’ll get it,” said Bart, running into the pantry and returning with the -knife. “I love to wait on you, Laviny,” he added, with shining eyes. “I -guess I’ll get to wait on you a sight, now. I see your paw ’s I come up -an’ he said as how I could board hyeer. I’ll do the shores for you—an’ -glad to. An’, oh, Laviny! I ’most forgot. I spoke for a buggy ’s I come -up, so’s I can take you a-ridin’ to-night.” - -“I guess I can’t go,” said Lavinia, holding her head down and paring -potatoes as if her life depended upon getting the skins off. - -“You can’t? Why can’t you?” - -“I—why, I’m goin’ a salmon-spearin’ up at Squalicum Creek, I guess. -Salmon’s a-runnin’ like everything now. ’Most half the town goes there -soon ’s it gets dark.” - -“That a fact?” said Bart, shifting from one foot to the other and -looking interested. “I want to know! Well”—his face brightened—“I’ll -go down an’ tell ’em I’ll take the rig to-morro’ night, an’ I’ll go -a-spearin’ with you. Right down in front o’ Eldridge’s?” - -“Yes.” A pulse began thumping violently in the girl’s throat. Her eyelids -got so heavy she could not lift them. “I guess—that is, I—why, you see, -Bart, I got comp’ny.” - -“Well, I guess the girls won’t object to my goin’ along o’ you.” - -“It ain’t girls,” said Lavinia, desperately. “It’s—a—it’s Mr. Diller; the -gentleman that boards here.” - -“Oh,” said Bart, slowly. Then there was a most trying silence, during -which the ticking of the clock and the beating of her own heart were the -only sounds Lavinia heard. At last she said, feebly: “You see he writes -for a New York newspaper—one o’ the big ones. He’s a-writin’ up the -whole Puget Sound country. An’ he don’t know just what he’d ort to see, -nor just how to see it, unless somebody shows him about—an’ I’ve b’en -a-showin’ him.” - -“Oh!” said Bart again, but quite in another tone, quite cheerfully. -“That’s it, is ’t, Laviny? Well, that’s all right. But I’ll be -hanged if you didn’t take my breath away for a minute. I thought you -meant—Laviny!”—a sudden seriousness came into his tone and look—“I guess -you don’t know how much I think o’ you. My heart’s just _set_ on you, -my girl—my whole life’s wrapped up in you.” He paused, but Lavinia did -not speak or look at him, and he added, very slowly and thoughtfully—“I -reckon it ’u’d just about kill me, ’f anything happened to you.” - -“I guess nothin’ ’s a-goin’ to happen.” She dropped one potato into a pan -of cold water and took up another. - -“No, I guess not.” He took on a lighter tone. “But I’ll tell you what, -Laviny! If that’s all, he ain’t comp’ny at all; so you can just tell him -I’m a-goin’, too.” He came closer and laid a large but very gentle hand -on her shoulder. “You might even tell him I’ve got a right to go, Laviny.” - -The girl shrank, and glanced nervously at the door. - -“I wouldn’t like to do that, Bart. After his arrangin’ to go, an’ -a-hirin’ the skiff hisself. _I_ don’t know but what he’s got somebody -else to go along of us.” - -“Why, does he ever?” - -“Well, I don’t recollect that he ever has; but then he might of, this -time, I say, for all I know.” - -There was another silence. Then the big hand patted the girl’s shoulder -affectionately and the honest eyes bent on her the look of patient -tenderness that Diller had considered pathetic. - -“All right, Laviny; you go along of him, just by yourself, an’ I’ll stop -home with your paw an’ your maw. I want you to know, my girl, that I -trust you, an’ believe every word you say to me. I ain’t even thought -o’ much else besides you ever sence I saw you first time at the liberry -sociable, an’ I won’t ever think o’ much else, I don’t care what happens. -Bein’ afraid to trust a body ’s a poor way to show how much you think -about ’em, is my religion; so you go an’ have a good time, an’ don’t -you worry about me.” He tucked one of her runaway curls behind her ear -awkwardly. “I’ll slip down to the liv’ry stable now, an’ tell ’em about -the rig.” - -“All right,” said Lavinia. - -Her mother came in one door, after a precautionary scraping of her feet -and an alarming paroxysm of coughing, and looked rather disappointed to -see Bart going out at the other, and to realize that her modest warnings -had been thrown away. “Well, ’f I _ever_!” she exclaimed. “Laviny Vaiden, -whatever makes you _look_ so? You look just ’s if you’d seen a spook! -You’re a kind o’ yellow-gray—just like you had the ja’ndice! What _ails_ -you?” - -“I got a headache,” said the girl; and then, somehow, the pan slid down -off her lap, and the potatoes and the parings went rolling and sprawling -all over the floor; Lavinia’s head went down suddenly on the table, and -she was sobbing bitterly. - -Her mother looked at her keenly, without speaking, for a moment; then she -said dryly, “Why, I guess you must have an awful headache. Come on kind -o’ sudden like, didn’t it? I guess you’d best go up and lay down, an’ -I’ll bring a mustard plaster up an’ put on your head. Ain’t nothin’ like -a plaster for a headache—’specially that kind of a headache.” - -Bart Winn walked into the livery stable with an air of indifference put -on so stiffly that it deceived no one. It was not that he did not feel -perfectly satisfied with Lavinia’s explanation, but he was a trifle -uneasy lest others should not see the thing with his eyes. - -“I guess I won’t want that rig to-night, Billy,” he said, pulling a head -of timothy out of a bale of hay that stood near. “I’ll take it to-morro’ -night.” - -“All right,” said the young fellow, with a smile that Bart did not like. -“Girl sick, aigh?” - -“No,” said Bart, softly stripping the fuzz off the timothy. - -“Well, I guess I understan’,” said Billy, winking one eye, cheerfully. -“I’ve b’en there myself. Girls is as much alike ’s peas—_sweet_-peas”—he -interjected with a hearty laugh—“in a pod, the world over. It ain’t -never safe for a fellow to come home, after bein’ away a good spell, an’ -engage a buggy before findin’ out if the girl ain’t engaged to some other -fello’—it ain’t noways _safe_. I smiled in my sleeve when you walked in -so big an’ ordered your’n.” - -Bart Winn was slow to anger, but now a dull red came upon his face and -neck, and settled there as if burnt into the flesh. His eyes looked -dangerous, but he spoke quietly. “I guess you don’t know what you’re -talkin’ about, Billy. I guess you hadn’t best go any furder.” - -Billy came slowly toward him, nettled by his tone—by its very -calm, in fact. “D’ you mean to say that Laviny Vaiden ain’t goin’ -a-salmon-spearin’ to-night with that dandy from New York?” - -Bart swallowed once or twice. - -“I don’t mean to say anything that’s none o’ your business,” he said. - -“Well, she’s been a-spearin’ with him ev’ry night sence the salmon’s b’en -a-runnin’, anyway.” - -The strong, powerful trembling of a man who is trying to control himself -now seized Bart Winn. - -“If you’re goin’ to put on airs with me,” continued Billy, obtusely, -“I’ll just tell you a few _fax_! They don’t burn any torch in their boat, -an’ they don’t spear any salmon! That’s just a blind. They go off by -theirselves—clear away from the spearers, an’ they don’t come back till -they see the torches a-goin’ out an’ know that we all’s a-goin’ home. -It’s the town talk. Not that they say anything wrong, for we’ve all -knowed Laviny sence she was a baby; but it’s as plain as the nose on a -man’s face that you ain’t in it there since that dood come.” - -A panorama of colors flamed over Bart’s face; his hands clenched till the -nails cut into the flesh and the blood spurted; who has seen the look in -the eyes of the lion that cowers and obeys under the terrible lash of the -trainer will know the look that was in the man’s eyes while the lash of -his own will conquered him; his broad chest swelled and sunk. At last he -spoke, in a deep, shaking voice. “Billy,” he said, “you’re a liar—a liar! -_Damn you!_” He struggled a moment longer with himself, and then turned -and hurried away as if possessed of the devil. - -But Billy followed him to the door and called after him—“Oh, damn me, -aigh? Now, I don’t want I sh’u’d have a fight with you, Bart. I was -tryin’ to do you a favor. If you think I’m a liar, it’s a mighty easy -thing for you to go down there to-night an’ see for yourself. That’s all -_I_ ask.” - -Bart went on in a passion of contending emotions. “He’s a liar! He’s a -liar!” he kept saying, deep in his throat; but all the time he had the -odd feeling that somebody, or something, was contradicting him. A warm -wind had arisen, and it beat against his temples so persistently that -they felt numb by the time he reached the Vaiden’s. He cleaned his boots -on the neat mat of gunny-sacking laid at the door for that purpose, and -entered the kitchen. “Where’s Laviny?” he asked. - -“She’s upstairs with a headache,” replied Mrs. Vaiden, promptly. - -“It must ’a’ come on sudden.” - -“Yes, I guess it must.” Mrs. Vaiden spoke cautiously. She was sure there -had been a quarrel, and she was afraid her own remark, overheard by Bart, -had brought it on. - -“Well, I want to see her.” - -“Right away?” - -“Yes,” said Bart, after a little hesitation, “right away, I reckon.” - -Mrs. Vaiden went upstairs, and returned presently, followed by Lavinia. -The girl looked pale; a white kerchief bound about her brow increased her -pallor; her eyes were red. She sat down weakly in a splint-bottom chair -and crossed her hands in her lap. - -At sight of the girl’s suffering, Bart knew instantly that he had been -doubting her without realizing it, because his faith in her came back -with such a strong rush of tenderness. - -“Sick, Laviny?” he asked, in a tone that was a caress of itself—it was so -very gentle a thing to come from so powerful a man. - -“I got a headache,” said Lavinia, looking at the floor. “It came on right -after you left. It aches awful.” - -Bart went to her and laid his hand on her shoulder. It was a strong hand -to be shaking so. - -“Laviny, I’m a brute to get you up out o’ bed; but I’m more of a brute -to ’a’ believed”—He stopped, and she lifted her eyes, fearfully, to his -face. “I’ve been listenin’ to things about you.” - -“What things?” She looked at the floor again. - -“Well, I ain’t goin’ to so much as ask you ’f it’s so; but I’m goin’ to -tell you how _mean_ I’ve b’en to listen to ’t an’ to keep a-wonderin’ if -it c’u’d be so,—an’ then see if you can forgive me. I’ve b’en hearin’ -that you don’t light no torch nor ketch no salmon when you go a-spearin’, -but that you an’ him go off by yourselves an’ stay—an’ that he—he”—the -words seemed to stick in his throat—“he’s cut me out.” - -After a little Lavinia said—“Is that all?” - -“All! Yes. Ain’t that enough?” - -“Yes, it’s enough—plenty for you to ’a’ believed about me. I wouldn’t -’a’ believed that much about you.” The humor of this remark seemed to -appeal to her, for she smiled a little. Then she got up. “But it’s all -right, Bart. I ain’t mad. If that’s all, I guess I’ll go back to bed. You -tell maw I couldn’t put them roastin’-ears on—my head feels so.” - -He caught her to his breast and kissed her several times, with something -like a prayer in his eyes, and with a strong, but sternly controlled -passion that left him trembling and staggering like a drunken man when -she was gone. - - * * * * * - -After Lavinia and Diller were gone that night Bart sat out on the kitchen -steps, smoking his pipe. He stooped forward, his elbows resting on his -knees. His right hand held the pipe, and the left supported his right -arm. His eyes looked straight before him into the purple twilight. The -wind had gone down, but now and then a little gust of perfume came around -the corner from the wild clover, still in delicate pink blossom on the -north side of the house. The stars came out, one by one, in the deep blue -spaces above, and shrill mournful outcries came from winged things in the -green depths of the ferns. Already the torches of the salmon-spearers -were beginning to flare out from the shadow of the cliffs across the bay. -Mr. Vaiden was not at home, but Mrs. Vaiden was walking about heavily in -the kitchen, finishing the evening work. - -Mrs. Vaiden was not quite easy in her mind. She really liked Bart Winn, -but, to be unnecessarily and disagreeably truthful, she liked even better -his noble donation claim, which he was now selling off in town lots. Time -and time again during the past month she had cautioned Lavinia to not “go -galivantin’ ’round with that Diller so much;” and on numerous occasions -she had affirmed that “she’d _bet_ Laviny would fool along till she let -Bart Winn slip through her fingers, after all.” Still, it had been an -unconfessed satisfaction to her to observe Mr. Diller’s frank admiration -for her daughter—to feel that Lavinia could “have her pick o’ the best -any day.” She knew how this rankled in some of the neighbors’ breasts. -She wished now that she had been more strict. She said to herself, as she -went out to the spring-house: “I wish I’d ’a’ set my foot right down on -his goin’ a step with her. An’ there I started it myself, a-sendin’ her -off to that c’noe race with him, just to tantalize Mis’ Bentley an’ her -troop o’ girls. But land knows I never dreamt o’ its goin’ on this way. -What’s a newspaper fello’ compared to a donation claim, _I’d_ like to -know?” - -At nine o’clock she went to the door and said, in that tone of -conciliatory tenderness which comes from a remorseful conscience: “Well, -Bart, I guess I’ll go to bed. I’m tired. You goin’ to set up for Laviny?” - -“Yes,” said Bart; “good-night.” - -“Well, good-night, Bart.” She stood holding a lighted candle in one hand, -protecting its flame from the night air with the other. “I reckon they’ll -be home by ten.” - -“I reckon so.” - -At the top of the stairs Mrs. Vaiden remembered that the parlor windows -were open, and she went back to close them. The wind was rising again, -and as she opened the parlor door it puffed through the open windows and -sent the curtains streaming out into the room; then it went whistling on -through the house, banging the doors. - -After a while quiet came upon the house. Bart sat smoking silently. The -Vaidens lived on a hill above the town, and usually he liked to watch the -chains of electric lights curving around the bay; but to-night he watched -the torches only. Suddenly he flung his pipe down with a passionate -movement and stood up, reaching inside the door for his hat. But he sat -down again as suddenly, shaking himself like a dog, as if to fling off -something that was upon him. “No; I’m damned if I will!” he said in his -throat. “I _won’t_ watch her! She said it wa’n’t so, an’ I believe her.” -But he did not smoke again, and he breathed more heavily as the moments -ticked by and she did not come. At half-past ten Mrs. Vaiden came down in -a calico wrapper and a worsted shawl. - -“Why, ain’t she come _yet_?” she asked, holding the candle high and -peering under it at the back of the silent figure outside. - -“No,” said Bart quietly; “she ain’t.” - -“Why, it’s half-after ten! She never’s b’en out this a-way before. D’you -think anything c’u’d ’a’ hapened?” - -“No,” said Bart, slowly; “I guess they’ll be along.” - -“Well, I don’t want that she sh’u’d stay out till this time o’ night with -anybody but you. She’s old enough to know better. It don’t look well.” - -“It looks all right, as fur as that goes,” said Bart. - -“Oh, if _you_ think so.” - -Mrs. Vaiden lowered the candle huffily. - -Bart arose and came inside. He was pale but he spoke calmly, and he -looked her straight in the eyes. - -“It’s all right as fur as she goes; I’d trust her anywheres. But how -about him? What kind of a man is he?” - -“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Vaiden, weakly. “How d’ you expect me -to know what kind of a _man_ he is? He’s a nice-appearin’, polite sort -of a fello’, an’ he writes for a newspaper ’n New York—one o’ them big -ones. But he don’t seem to me to have much backbone or stand-upness about -him. I sh’u’d think he’s one o’ them that never _intends_ to do anything -wrong, but does it just because it’s pleasant for the time bein’, and -then feels sorry for ’t afte’ards.” - -Bart’s brows bent together blackly. - -“But I must say”—Mrs. Vaiden’s tone gathered firmness—“you might pattern -after him a little in politeness, Bart. I think Laviny likes it. He’s -alwus openin’ gates for her, an’ runnin’ to set chairs for her when -she comes into a room, an’ takin’ off his hat to her, an’ carryin’ her -umberella, an’ fetchin’ her flow’rs; an’ I b’lieve he’d most die before -he’d walk on the inside o’ the sidewalk or go over a crossin’ ahead o’ -her. An’ I can see Laviny likes them things.” - -She put the candle on the table and huddled down into a chair. - -The look of anger on the man’s face gave place to one of keen dismay. - -“I didn’t know she liked such things. I never thought about ’em. I wa’n’t -brought up to such foolishness.” - -“Well, she likes ’em, anyhow. I guess most women do.” Mrs. Vaiden sighed -unconsciously. “Why, Bart, it’s a quarter of, an’ she ain’t here yet. D’ -you want I sh’u’d go after her?” - -“No, I don’t want you sh’u’d go after her. I want you sh’u’d let her -alone, an’ show her we got confidence in her. She’s just the same as my -wife, an’ I don’t want her own mother sh’u’d think she’d do anything she -hadn’t ort to.” - -Mrs. Vaiden’s feelings were sensitive and easily hurt; and she sat now in -icy silence, looking at the clock. But when it struck eleven she thawed, -being now thoroughly frightened. - -“Oh, Bart, I do think we’d best look in her room. She might ’a’ got in -someway without our hearin’ her—an’ us settin’ hyeer like a couple o’ -bumps on a lawg.” - -“She might ’a’,” said Bart, as if struck by the suggestion. “You get -me a candle an’ I’ll go up and see. You stay here,” he added, over his -shoulder, as he took the candle and started. - -“Look out!” she cried, sharply, as the blue flame plowed a gutter down -one side of the candle. “Don’t hold it so crooked! You’ll spill the sperm -onto the stair-carpet!” - -It was with a feeling of awe that Bart went into the dainty little room. -There were rosebuds on the creamy wall-paper, and the ceiling, slanting -down on one side, was pale, pale blue, spangled with silver stars; the -windows were closed, and thin, soft curtains fell in straight folds over -them; the rag carpet was woven in pink-and-cream stripes; there was a -dressing-table prettily draped in pink. For a moment the man’s love was -stronger than his anxiety; the prayer came back to his eyes as he looked -at the narrow, snowy bed. - -Then he went to the dressing-table and saw a folded slip of paper with -his name upon it. - - * * * * * - -After a while he became conscious that he had read the letter a dozen -times, and still had not grasped its meaning. He stooped closer to the -candle and read it again, his lips moving mechanically: - - “DEAR BART:—I’m goin’ away. I’m goin’ with him. I told you what - wa’n’t so this mornin’. I do like him the best. I couldn’t - have you after knowin’ him. I feel awful bad to treat you this - a-way, but I haf to. - - “LAVINY.” - - “P. S.—I want that you sh’u’d marry somebody else as soon as - you can, an’ be happy.” - -A querulous call came from the hall below. He took the candle in one -hand and the letter in the other and went down, stumbling clumsily on -the stairs. A great many noises seemed to be ringing in his head, and -the sober paper with which the walls of the hall were covered to have -suddenly taken on great scarlet spots. He felt helpless and uncertain in -his movements, as if he had no will to guide him. He must have carried -the candle very crookedly, for Mrs. Vaiden, who was watching him from -below, cried out, petulantly: “There, you _are_ spillin’ the sperm! Just -look at you!” But she stopped abruptly when she saw his face. - -“Why, whatever on this earth!” she exclaimed, solemnly. “What you got -there? A letter?” - -“Yes.” He set the candle on the table and held the letter toward her. -“It’s from Laviny.” - -“From Laviny! Why, what on earth did she write to you about?” - -He burst into wild, terrible laughter. “She wants I sh’u’d marry somebody -else as soon as I can, an’ be happy.” These words, at least, seemed to -have written themselves on his brain. He groped about blindly for his -hat, and went out into the shrill, whistling night. The last torch had -burnt itself out, and everything was black save the electric lights, -winking in the wind, and one strip of whitening sky above Mount Baker, -where presently the moon would rise, silver and cool. - - * * * * * - -It was seven o’clock in the morning when he came back. He washed his -hands and face at the sink on the porch, and combed his hair before a -tiny mirror, in which a dozen reflections of himself danced. Mrs. Vaiden -was frying ham. At sight of him she began to cry, weakly and noiselessly. -“Where you been?” she sniffled. “You look forty year old. I set up till -one o’clock, a-waitin’ for you.” - -“Mrs. Vaiden,” said Bart, quietly, “I’m in great trouble. I’ve walked -all night, tryin’ to make up my mind to ’t. I’ve done it at last; but I -cu’dn’t ’a’ come back tell I did. I’m sorry you waited up.” - -“Oh, I don’t mind that as long as you’re gettin’ reconciled to ’t, Bart.” -Mrs. Vaiden spoke more hopefully. “You set right down an’ have a bite to -eat.” - -“I don’t want anything,” he replied; but he sat down and took a cup -of coffee. It must have been very hot, for suddenly great tears came -into his eyes and stood there. Mrs. Vaiden sat down opposite to him and -leaned her elbow on the table and her head on her hand. “Bart,” she said, -solemnly, “I don’t want you sh’u’d think I ever winked at this. It never -entered my head. My heart’s just broke. To see a likely girl, that c’u’d -’a’ had her pick anywheres, up an’ run away with a no-account newspaper -fello’—when she c’u’d ’a’ had you!” The man’s face contracted. “Whatever -on earth the neighbors’ll say I don’t know.” - -“Who cares what neighbors say?” - -“Oh, that’s all very well for you to say; you ain’t her mother.” - -“No,” said Bart, with a look that made her quail; “I ain’t. I wish to God -I was! Mebbe ’twouldn’t _hurt_ so!” - -“Well, it ’ad ort to hurt more!” retorted the lady, with spirit. “Just ’s -if you felt any worse ’n I do!” He laid his head on his hand and groaned. -“Oh, I know it’s gone deep, Bart”—her tone softened—“but ’s I say, you -ain’t her mother. You’ll get over it an’ marry again—like Laviny wanted -that you sh’u’d. It was good o’ her to think o’ that. I will say that -much for her.” - -“Yes,” said Bart; “it was good of her.” Then there came a little silence, -broken finally by Mrs. Vaiden. Her voice held a note of peevish regret. -“There’s that fine house o’ your’n ’most finished—two story an’ a ell! -An’ that liberry across the front hall from the parlor! When I think how -vain Laviny was o’ that liberry! What’ll you do with the house, now, -Bart?” - -“Sell it!” he answered, between his teeth. - -“An’ there’s all that fine furnitur’ that Laviny an’ you picked out. She -fairly danced when she told me about it. All covered with satin—robin-egg -green, wa’n’t it?” - -“Blue.” The word dropped mechanically from his white lips. - -“Well, blue, then. What’ll you do with it?” - -“I guess they’ll take it back by my losin’ my first payment,” he -answered, with a kind of ghastly humor. - -“Well, there’s your new buggy—all paid for. They won’t take that back.” - -“I’ll give that to you,” he said, with a bitter smile. - -“Oh, you!” exclaimed Mrs. Vaiden, throwing out her large hand at him in a -gesture of mingled embarrassment and delight. “As if I’d take it, after -Laviny’s actin’ up this a-way!” - -He did not reply, and presently she broke out, angrily, with: - -“The huzzy! The ungrateful, deceitful jade! To treat a body so. How do we -know whether he’s got anything to keep a wife on? I’ll admit, though, he -was alwus genteel-dressed. I do think, Bart, you might ’a’ took pattern -’n that. ’Twa’n’t like as if you wa’n’t able to wear good clo’es—an’ -Laviny liked such things.” - -“I wish you’d ’a’ told me a good spell ago what she liked, Mrs. Vaiden.” - -“Well, that’s so. There ain’t much use ’n lockin’ the stable door after -the horse ’s gone. Oh, that makes me think about your offerin’ me that -buggy—’s if I w’u’d!” - -“I guess you’ll have to. I’m goin’ to leave on the train, an’ I’ll order -it sent to you.” - -“Oh, you! Why, where you goin’, Bart?” - -“I’m goin’ to follow _him_!” he thundered, bringing his fist down on -the table in a way that made every dish leap out of its place. “I ain’t -goin’ to hurt him—unless talk hurts—but I’m goin’ to say some _things_ -to him. I ain’t had a thought for three year that that girl ain’t b’en -in! I ain’t made a plan that she ain’t b’en in. I’ve laid awake night -after night just too happy to sleep. An’ now to have a—a _thing_ like him -take her from me in one month. But that ain’t the worst!” he burst out, -passionately. “We don’t know how he’ll treat her, an’ she’ll be too proud -to complain—” - -“I can’t see why you care how he treats her,” said Mrs. Vaiden, “after -the way she’s treated you.” - -“No,” he answered, with a look that ought to have crushed her, “I didn’t -s’pose you c’u’d see. I didn’t expect you to see that, or anything else -but your own feelin’s—the way the thing affex you. But that’s what I’m -goin’ to follow him for, Mrs. Vaiden. An’ when I find him—I’m goin’ -to tell him”—there was an awful calm in his tone now—“that if he ever -misuses her, now that he’s married her, I’ll kill him. I’ll shoot him -down like a dawg!” - -“My Lord!” broke in Mrs. Vaiden, with a new thought. “What if he ain’t -married her! She never said so ’n her letter. Oh, Bart!” beginning to -weep hysterically. “Mebbe you c’u’d get her back.” - -He leaped to his feet panting like an animal; his great breast swelled in -and out swiftly, his hands clenched, his eyes burned at her. - -“What!” he said. “Do you _dare_? _Her mother!_ Oh, you—you—God! but I -wish you was a man!” - -The whistle of a coming train broke across the morning stillness. He -turned, seized his hat and crushed it on his head. Then he came back and -took up the chair in which he had been sitting. - -“Mrs. Vaiden,” he said, quietly, “d’ you see this chair? Well, if he -ain’t married her—” - -With two or three movements of his powerful wrists he wrenched the chair -into as many pieces and dropped them on the floor. - - * * * * * - -After a while Mrs. Vaiden emerged from the stupefaction into which his -last words had thrown her, and resumed her breakfast. - -“Well,” she said, stirring her coffee until it swam round and round -in a smooth eddy in the cup, “if I ever see his beat! Whoever’d ’a’ -thought he’d take his cuttin’-out that a-way? I never ’d ’a’ thought it. -Worryin’ about her, after the way she’s up and used him! A body ’d think -he’d be glad if she was treated shameful, and hatto lead a mis’rable life -a-realizin’ what she’d threw away. But not him. Well, they say still -water runs deep. Mebbe it’s ungrateful to think it after his givin’ me -that fine buggy—(How Mis’ Bentley will stare when I drive roun’ to see -her!” she interjected with a smile of anticipation.) “But after seein’ -how he showed up his temper just now I ain’t sure but Laviny’s head was -level when she took the other ’n. ’F _only_ he had a donation claim!” - - - - -ZARELDA - - - - -ZARELDA - - -“’Reldy! Say, ’Reldy Za-_rel_-dy!” - -The girl was walking rapidly, but she stopped at once and turned. She -wore a cheap woolen dress of a dingy brown color. The sleeves were -soiled at the wrists, but the narrow, inexpensive ruffle at the neck was -white and fresh. Her thick brown hair was well brushed and clean. It was -woven into a heavy, glistening braid which was looped up and tied with a -rose-colored ribbon. Her shoes were worn out of shape and “run down” at -the heels, and there were no gloves on the roughened hands clasped over -the handle of her dinner-bucket. - -“Oh, you?” she said, smiling. - -“Yes, me,” said the other girl, with a high color, as she joined Zarelda. -They walked along briskly together. “I’ve been tryin’ to ketch up with -you for three blocks. Ain’t you early?” - -“No; late. Heard the whistle blow ’fore I left home. Didn’t you hear it? -Now own up, Em Brackett.” - -“No, I didn’t—honest,” said the other girl, laughing. “I set the clock -back las’ night an’ forgot to turn it ahead ag’in this mornin’.” - -This young woman’s dress and manner differed from her companion’s. Her -dress was cheap, but of flimsy, figured goods that under close inspection -revealed many and large grease spots; the sleeves were fashionably -puffed; and there were ruffles and frills and plaitings all over it. At -the throat was a bit of satin ruffling that had once been pale blue. -Half her hair had been cut off, making what she called her “bangs,” and -this was tightly frizzed over her head as far back as her ears. Her back -hair—coarse and broken from many crimpings—was braided and looped up -like Zarelda’s, and tied with a soiled blue ribbon. She wore much cheap -jewelry, especially amethysts in gaudy settings. She carried herself with -an air and was popularly supposed by the young people of factory society -to be very much of a belle and a coquette. - -Zarelda turned and looked at her with sudden interest. - -“What in the name o’ mercy did you turn the clock back for?” - -Em tossed her head, laughing and blushing. - -“Never you mind what for, ’Reldy Winser. It ain’t any o’ your funeral, I -guess, if I did turn it back. I had occasion to—that’s all. You wasn’t at -the dance up at Canemah las’ night, was you?” she added suddenly. - -“No, I wasn’t. I didn’t have anybody to go with. You didn’t go, either, -did you?” - -“Unh-hunh; I did.” - -Em nodded her head, looking up the river to the great Falls, with dreamy, -remembering eyes. “We had a splendid time, an’ the walk home along the -river was just fine.” - -“Well, I could of gone with you if I’d of knew you was goin’. Couldn’t I? -Maw was reel well las’ night, too.” - -She waited for a reply, but receiving none, repeated rather -wistfully—“Couldn’t I?” - -Em took her eyes with some reluctance away from the river and looked -straight before her. - -“Why, I guess,” she said, slowly and with slight condescension. “At -least, I wouldn’t of cared if my comp’ny wouldn’t; an’ I guess”—with a -beautiful burst of generosity—“he wouldn’t of minded much.” - -“Oh,” said Zarelda, “you had comp’ny, did you?” - -“W’y, of course. You didn’t s’pose I went up there all alone of myself, -did you?” - -“You an’ me ust to go alone places, without any fellow, I mean,” said -Zarelda. A little color came slowly into her face. She felt vaguely hurt -by the other’s tone. “I thought mebbe you went with some o’ the other -girls.” - -“I don’t go around that way any more.” Em lifted her chin an inch higher. -“When I can’t have an—escort”—she uttered the word with some hesitation, -fearing Zarelda might laugh at it—“I’ll stay home.” - -Then she added abruptly in a reminiscent tone—“Maw acted up awful over -my goin’ with him. Thought for a spell I wouldn’t get to go. But at last -I flared all up an’ told her if I couldn’t go I’d just up an’ leave for -good. That brought her around to the whipple-trees double quick, I can -tell you. I guess she won’t say much agen my goin’ with him another time.” - -“Goin’ with who?” said Zarelda. Em looked at her, smiling. - -“For the land o’ love! D’ you mean to say you don’t know? I thought you’d -of guessed. W’y, that’s what made maw so mad—she was just hoppin’, I tell -you. That’s what made her act up so. Said all the neighbors ’u’d say I -was tryin’ to get him away from you.” - -In an instant the blood had flamed all over Zarelda’s face and neck. - -“Get who away from me, Em Brackett?” - -“As if there was so many to get!” said Em, laughing. - -“Who are you a-talkin’ about?” said Zarelda, sternly. Her face was paling -now. “What of I got to do with you an’ your comp’ny an’ your maw’s -actin’-ups, I’d like to know. Who _was_ your comp’ny?” - -“Jim Sheppard; he”— - -“Jim Sheppard!” cried Zarelda, furiously. She turned a white face to her -companion, but her eyes were blazing. “What do I care for Jim Sheppard? -Aigh? What do I care who he takes to dances up at Canemah? Aigh? You -tell your maw, Em Brackett, that she needn’t to trouble to act up on my -account. She can save her actin’-ups for somebody that needs ’em! You -tell her that, will you?” - -“Well, I will,” said Em, unmoved. “I’m glad you don’t mind, ’Reldy. I -felt some uneasy myself, seein’ ’s how stiddy he’d been goin’ with you.” - -“Well, that don’t hender his goin’ with somebody else, does it? I ain’t -very likely to keep him from pleasin’ hisself, am I?” - -“Don’t go to workin’ yourself up so, ’Reldy. If you don’t care, there’s -no use in flarin’ up so. My! Just look at this em’rald ring in at -Shindy’s. Ain’t that a beaut’?” - -“I ain’t got time.” Zarelda walked on with her head up. “Don’t you see -we’re late a’ready? The machin’ry’s all a-goin’, long ago.” - -The two girls pushed through the swinging gate and ran up the half-dozen -steps to the entrance of the big, brick woolen mills. A young man in a -flannel shirt and brown overalls was passing through the outer hall. He -was twirling a full, crimson rose in his hand. - -As the girls hurried in, he paused and stood awkwardly waiting for them, -with a red face. - -“Good mornin’,” he said, looking first at Em and then, somewhat -shamefacedly, at Zarelda. - -“Good mornin’, Jim,” said Zarelda, coolly. She was still pale, but she -smiled as she pressed on into the weaving-room. The many-tongued roar -of the machinery burst through the open door to greet her. Em lingered -behind a moment; and when she passed Zarelda’s loom there was a crimson -rose in her girdle and two more in her cheeks. - -Five hours of monotonous work followed. Zarelda stood patiently by her -loom, unmindful of the toilers around her and the deafening noise; she -did not lift her eyes from her work. She was the youngest weaver in the -factory and one of the most careful and conscientious. - -The marking-room was in the basement, and in its quietest corner was -a large stove whereon the factory-girls were permitted to warm their -lunches. When the whistle sounded at noon they ceased work instantly, -seized their lunch baskets, and sped—pushing, laughing, jostling—down the -stairs to the basement. There was a small, rickety elevator at the rear -of the factory, and some of the more reckless ones leaped upon it and let -themselves down with the rope. - -Zarelda was timid about the elevator; but that noon she sprang upon -it and giving the rope a jerk went spinning down to the ground. As -she entered the marking-room one of the overseers saw her. “What!” he -exclaimed, “Did you come down that elevator, ’Reldy? I thought you had -more sense ’n some o’ the other girls. Why, it ain’t safe! You’re liable -to get killed on it.” - -“I don’t care,” said Zarelda, with a short, contemptuous laugh. “I’d just -as soon go over the falls in an Indian dug-out.” - -“You must want to shuffle off mighty bad,” said the overseer. Then he -added kindly, for he and all the other overseers liked her—“What’s got -into you, ’Reldy? Anything ail you?” - -“No,” said the girl; “nothin’ ails me.” But his kind tone had brought -sudden, stinging tears to her eyes. - -She went on silently to the stove and set her bucket upon it. It -contained thick vegetable soup, which, with soda crackers, constituted -her dinner. She sat down to watch it, stirring it occasionally with a tin -spoon. Twenty other girls were crowding around the stove. Em was among -them. Zarelda saw the big red rose lolling in her girdle. She turned her -eyes resolutely away from it, only to find them going back again and -again. - -“Hey! Where ’d you get your rose at, Em Brackett?” cried one of the -girls. - -“Jim Sheppard gave it to her,” trebled another, before Em could reply. “I -see him have it pinned onto his flannel shirt before the whistle blew.” - -“_Jim Sheppard!_ Oh, my!” - -There was a subdued titter behind Zarelda’s back. She stirred the soup -without lifting her eyes. “She went livid, though, an’ then she went -white!” one of the girls who read yellow novels declared afterward, -tragically. - -“Well,” said Matt Wilson, sitting down on a bench and commencing to eat a -great slice of bread thinly covered with butter, “who went to the dance -up at Stringtown las’ night?” - -All the girls but two flung unclean hands above their heads. There was a -merry outcry of “I did! I did!” - -“Well, I didn’t,” said Matt. “My little lame sister coaxed me to wheel -her down town, an’ then it was too late.” - -“Why wasn’t you there, Zarelda Winser?” cried Belle Church, opening her -dinner-bucket and examining the contents with the air of an epicurean. - -For a second or two Zarelda wished honestly that she had a lame sister or -an invalid mother. Then she said, quite calmly—“I didn’t have any body to -go with. That’s why.” She turned and faced them all as she spoke. - -With a fine delicacy which was certainly not acquired by education, -every girl except Matt looked away from Zarelda’s face. Matt, not having -been to the dance, was not in the secret. - -But Zarelda did not change countenance. She sat calmly eating her soup -from the bucket with the tin spoon. She took it noisily from the point of -the spoon; it was so thick that it was like eating a vegetable dinner. - -“Didn’t have anybody to go with?” repeated Matt, laughing loudly. “I -call that good. A girl that’s had steady comp’ny for a year! Comp’ny -that’s tagged her closer ’n her shadder! An’ I did hear”—she shattered -the shell of a hard-boiled egg by hammering it on the bench, and began -picking off the pieces—“that your maw was makin’ you up a whole trunkful -o’ new underclo’s—all trimmed up with tattin’ an’ crochet an’ serpentine -braid—with insertin’ two inches wide on ’em, too. You didn’t have anybody -to go with, aigh? What’s the matter with Jim Sheppard?” - -Zarelda set her eyes on the red rose, as if that gave her courage. - -“He took Em Brackett.” - -“Not much!” said Matt, turning sharply. “Honest? Well, then, he only took -her because you couldn’t go an’ ast him to take her instid.” - -“Why, the idee!” exclaimed Em, coloring angrily and fluttering until the -rose almost fell out of her girdle. “Zarelda Winser, you tell her that -ain’t so!” - -“No, it ain’t so,” said Zarelda, composedly, finishing her soup and -beginning on a soda cracker. “He didn’t ask me at all. He asked Em -hisself.” - -“My!” said Net Carter, who had not been giving attention to the -conversation. “What larrapin’ good lunches you do have, Em Brackett. -Chicken sandwich, an’ spiced cur’nts, an’ cake! My!” - -Em Brackett looked out of the cobwebbed window at a small dwelling -between the factory and the river. “I wonder why Mis’ Allen don’t hide -up that ugly porch o’ her’n with vines,” she said, frostily. In factory -society “larrapin” was not considered a polite word and a snub invariably -awaited the unfortunate young woman who used it. The line must be drawn. - -When the whistle blew the girls started leisurely for the stairs. There -would be fifteen minutes during which they might stand around the halls -and talk to the young men. Zarelda fell back, permitting all to precede -her. Em looked back once or twice to see where she was. - -“Well, if that ’Reldy Winser ain’t grit!” whispered Nell Curry to Min -Aster. “Just as good as acknowledgin’ he’s threw off on her, an’ her -a-holdin’ up her head that way. There ain’t another girl in the factory -c’u’d do that—without flinchin’, too.” - -When Zarelda reached the first hall she looked about her deliberately -for Jim Sheppard. It had been his custom to meet her at the head of the -stairs and going with her to one of the windows overlooking the Falls, to -talk until the second whistle sent them to their looms. With a resolute -air she joined Em Brackett, who was looking unusually pretty with a flush -of excitement on her face and a defiant sparkle in her eyes. - -In a moment Jim Sheppard came in. He hesitated when he saw the two girls -together. A dull red went over his face. Then he crossed the hall and -deliberately ignoring Zarelda, smiled into Em’s boldly inviting eyes and -said, distinctly—“Em, don’t you want to take a little walk? There’s just -time.” - -“Why, yes,” said Em, with a flash of poorly concealed triumph. “’Reldy, -if you’re a-goin’ on upstairs, would you just as lieve pack my bucket up?” - -“I’d just as lieve.” Zarelda took the bucket, and the young couple walked -away airily. - -This was the way the factory young men had of disclosing their -preferences. It was considered quite proper for a young man and a young -woman to “go together” for months, or even years, and for one to “throw -off” on the other, when attracted by a fresher face, with no explanation -or apology. - -“Well,” whispered Belle Church, “I guess there ain’t one of us but’s -been threw off on some time or other, so we know how it feels. But this -is worse. He’s been goin’ with her more’n a year—an then to stop off so -sudden!” - -“It’s better to stop off sudden than slow,” said Matt Wilson, with an air -of grim wisdom. “It hurts worse, but it don’t hurt so long. Well, if I -ever! Just look at that!” - -Out of sheer pity Frank Haddon had sidled out of a group of young men and -made his way hesitatingly to Zarelda. “’Reldy,” he said, “don’t you want -to—want to—take a walk, too?” - -The girl’s eyes flamed at him. She knew that he was pitying her, and she -was not of a nature to accept pity meekly. “No!” she flashed out, with -scorn. “I don’t want to—want to”—mimicking his tone—“take a walk, too. If -I did, I guess I know the road.” - -She went upstairs, holding her head high. - -When Zarelda went home that evening she found the family already at the -supper table. The Winsers were not very particular about their home -manners. - -“We don’t wait on each other here,” Mrs. Winser explained, frequently, -with pride, to her neighbors. “When a meal’s done, on the table it goes -in a jiffy, an’ such of us as is here, eat. I just put the things back in -the oven an’ keep ’em hot for them that ain’t on hand.” - -Zarelda was compelled to pass through the kitchen to reach the stairs. - -“Well, ’Reldy,” said her mother, “you’re here at last, be you? Hurry up -an’ wash yourself. Your supper’s in the oven, but I guess the fire’s -about out. It does beat all how quick it goes out. Paw, I do wish you’d -hump yourself an’ git some dry wood. It ’u’d try the soul of a saint to -cook with that green stuff. Sap fairly _oozes_ out of it!” - -“I don’t want any supper, maw,” said Zarelda. - -“You don’t want any supper! What ails you? Aigh?” - -“I don’t feel hungry. I got a headache.” - -She passed the table without a glance and went upstairs. Her mother -arose, pushing back her chair with decision and followed her. When she -reached Zarelda’s room, the girl was on her knees before her trunk. She -had taken out a small writing-desk and was fitting a tiny key in the -lock. Her hat was still on her head, but pushed back. - -She started when the door opened, and looked over her shoulder, flushing -with embarrassment and annoyance. Then, without haste or nervousness, -she replaced the desk and closing the trunk, stood up calmly and faced -her mother. - -“Why don’t you want any supper?” Mrs. Winser took in the trunk, the desk, -and the blush at one glance. “Be you sick?” - -“I got a headache.” Zarelda took off her hat and commenced drawing the -pins out of her hair. She untied the red ribbon and rolled it tightly -around three fingers to smooth out the creases. - -“Well, you wasn’t puttin’ your headache ’n your writin’-desk, was you?” - -“No, I wasn’t.” - -“Now, see here, ’Reldy,” said Mrs. Winser, very kindly, coming closer and -resting one large hand on the bureau; “there’s somethin’ ails you besides -a headache, an’ you ain’t a-goin’ to pull any wool over my eyes. You’ve -hed lots an’ lots o’ headaches an’ et your supper just the same. What -ails you?” - -“Nothin’ ails me, maw.” - -“There does, too, somethin’ ail you. I guess I know. Now, what is it? You -might just as well spit it right out an’ be done with it.” - -Zarelda was silent. She began brushing her hair with a dingy brush from -which tufts of bristles had been worn in several places. Her mother -watched her patiently for a few moments, then she said—“Well, ’Reldy, be -you goin’ to tell me what ails you?” - -Still there was no reply. - -“You ain’t turned off in the fact’ry, be you?” - -Zarelda shook her head. - -“Well, then,” said Mrs. Winser slowly, as if reluctantly admitting a -thought that she had been repelling, “it’s somethin’ about Jim Sheppard.” - -The girl paled and brushed her hair over her face to screen it from her -mother’s searching gaze. - -“Have you fell out with him?” - -“No, I ain’t fell out with him. Hadn’t you best eat your supper before it -gets cold, maw?” - -“No, I hadn’t best. I ain’t a-goin’ to budge a blessed step out o’ this -here room tell I know what ails you. Not if I have to stay here tell -daylight.” After a brief reflection she added—“Now, don’t you tell me -he’s been cuttin’ up any! I always said he was a fine young man, an’ I -say so still.” - -“He ain’t been cuttin’ up any,” said Zarelda. “At least, not as I know -of.” - -She laid down the brush and pushing her hair all back with both hands, -fronted her mother suddenly, pale but resolute. - -“If you want to know so bad,” she said, “I’ll tell you. He’s threw off on -me.” - -Mrs. Winser sunk helplessly into a chair. “Threw off on you!” she gasped. - -“Yes, threw off on me.” Zarelda kept her dry, burning eyes on her -mother’s face. “D’ you feel any better for makin’ me tell it?” - -Certainly her revenge for the persecution was all that heart could -desire. Her mother sat limp and motionless, save for the slow, mechanical -sliding back and forth of one thumb on the arm of her chair. - -After a while Zarelda resumed the hair-brushing, calmly. Then her mother -revived. - -“Who—who in the name of all that’s merciful has he took up with now?” she -asked, weakly. - -“Em Brackett.” - -“What!” Mrs. Winser almost screamed. “That onery hussy! ’Reldy Winser, be -you a-tellin’ me the truth?” - -“Yes, maw. He took her to the dance up at Canemah las’ night, an’ she -told me about it this mornin’!” - -“The deceitful jade. Smiled sweet as honey at me when she went by. You’d -of thought sugar wouldn’t melt in her mouth. I answered her ’s short as -lard pie-crust—I’m glad of it now. Has he took her any place else?” - -“He took her walkin’ at noontime. Stepped right up when she was standin’ -alongside o’ me an’ never looked at me, an’ ast her—right out loud so’s -all of ’em could hear, too.” - -“Well, he’d ought to be ashamed of hisself! After bein’ your stiddy -comp’ny for more’n a year—well onto two years—an’ a-lettin’ all of us -think he was serious!” - -“He never said he was, maw.” - -“He never said he was, aigh? ’Reldy Winser, you ain’t got enough spunk to -keep a chicken alive, let alone a woman! ‘He never said he was,’ aigh? -Well, ain’t he been a-comin’ here three nights a week nigh onto two year, -an’ a-takin’ you every place, an’ never a-lookin’ at any other girl? An’ -didn’t he give you an amyfist ring las’ Christmas, an’ a reel garnet pin -on your birthday? An’ didn’t he come here one evenin’, a-laffin’ an’ -a-actin’ up foolish in a great way an’ holler out—‘Hello, maw Winser?’ -Now, don’t you go a-tellin’ me he never meant anything serious.” - -“Well, he never said so,” said the girl, stubbornly. - -“I don’t care if he _never_ said so. He acted so. Why, for pity’s -sake! You’ve got a grease-spot on your dress. I never see you with a -grease-spot before—you’re so tidy. How’d you get it on?” - -“Oh, I don’t know.” - -“Benzine’ll take it out. Well—I’m a-goin’ to give him a piece o’ my mind!” - -Zarelda lifted her body suddenly. She looked tall. Her eyes flamed out -their proud fire. - -“Now, see here, maw,” she said, “you don’t say a word to him—not a word. -This ain’t your affair; it’s mine. It’s the fashion in fact’ry society -for a girl an’ a fellow to go together, an’ give each other things, -without bein’ real engaged; an’ she has to take her chances o’ some other -girl gettin’ him away from her. If he wants to throw off on her, all he’s -got to do ’s to take some other girl to a dance or out walkin’. An’ then, -if he’s give her a ring or anything, it’s etiquette for her to send it -back to him, an’ he’ll most likely give it to the other girl. I don’t -think it’s right, an’ I don’t say but what it’s hard—” her voice trembled -and broke, but she conquered her emotion stubbornly and went on—“but it’s -the way in fact’ry society. There ain’t a girl in the fact’ry but what’s -had to stand it some time or other, an’ I guess I can. You don’t want me -to be a laffin’-stawk, do you?” - -“No, I don’t.” Her mother looked at her in a kind of admiring despair. -“But I never hear tell of such fashions an’ such doin’s in all my born -days. It’s shameful. Your paw an’ me ’d set our minds on your a-marryin’ -him an’ gettin’ a home o’ your own. It’s been a burden off o’ our minds -for a year past—” - -“Oh, maw!” - -“Just to feel that you’d be fixed so’s you could take care o’ your little -sisters in case we dropped off. An’ there I’ve went an’ made up all them -underclo’s!” She leaned her head upon her hand and sat looking at the -floor with a forlornly reminiscent expression. “An’ put tattin’ on three -sets, an’ crochet lace on three, an’ serpentine edgin’ on three. An’ -inserting on all of ’em! That ain’t the worst of it. I’ve _worked his -initial in button-hole stitch_ on every blessed thing!” - -“Oh, maw, you never did that, did you?” - -“Yes, I did. An’ what’s more, I showed ’em all to old Miss Bradley, too.” - -“You might just as well of showed ’em to the whole town!” said poor -Zarelda, bitterly. - -“They looked so nice I had to show ’em to somebody.” - -“Sister,” piped a little voice at the foot of the stairs, “Mis’ Riley’s -boy’s come to find out how soon you’re a-comin’ over to set up with the -sick baby.” - -“Oh, I’d clear forgot.” Zarelda braided her hair rapidly. “Tell him I’ll -be over ’n a few minutes.” - -“Now, see here, ’Reldy,” said her mother, getting up and laying her hand -affectionately on the girl’s arm, “you ain’t a-goin’ to budge a single -step over there to-night. You just get to bed an’ put an arnicky plaster -on your forehead—” - -Zarelda laughed in a kind of miserable mirth. - -“Oh, you can laff, but it’ll help lots. I’ll go over an’ set up with that -baby myself.” - -“No, you won’t, maw.” She slipped the last pin in her hair and set her -hat firmly on the glistening braids. “I said I’d set up with the baby, -an’ I will. I ain’t goin’ to shirk just because I’m in trouble.” - -She went out into the cool autumn twilight. Her mother followed her and -stood looking after her with sympathetic eyes. At last she turned and -went slowly into the poor and gloomy house; as she closed the door she -put all her bitterness and disappointment into one heavy sigh. - -The roar of the Falls came loudly to Zarelda as she walked along -rapidly. The dog-fennel was still in blossom, and its greenish snow -was drifted high on both sides of her path. Still higher were billows -of everlasting flowers, undulating in the soft wind. The fallen leaves -rustled mournfully as she walked through them. Some cows were feeding on -the commons near by; she heard their deep breathing on the grass before -they tore and crushed it with their strong teeth; she smelled their warm, -fragrant breaths. - -She came to a narrow bridge under the cotton-woods where she saw the -Willamette, silver and beautiful, moving slowly and noiselessly between -its emerald walls. The slender, yellow sickle of the new moon quivered -upon its bosom. - -Zarelda stood still. The noble beauty of the night—all its tenderness, -all its beating passion—shook her to the soul. Her life stretched out -before her, hard and narrow as the little path running through the -dog-fennel—a life of toil and duty, of clamor and unrest, of hurried -breakfasts, cold lunches and half-warm suppers, of longing for knowledge -that would never be hers—the hard and bitter treadmill of the factory -life. - -A sob came up into her dry throat, but it did not reach her lips. - -“I won’t!” she said, setting her teeth together hard. “I hate people who -whine after what they can’t have, instead o’ makin’ the best o’ what -they’ve got.” - -She lifted her head and went on. Her face was beautiful; something -sweeter than moonlight shone upon it. She walked proudly and the dry -leaves whirled behind her. - - - - -IN THE BITTER ROOT MOUNTAINS - - - - -IN THE BITTER ROOT MOUNTAINS - - -“Go slow, boys, for God’s sake! If we miss this landing, we are lost. The -rapids begin just around that bend.” - -Four men stood upon a rude raft, and with roughly-made oars and long -fir poles were trying to guide it out of the current of the swollen -Clearwater River into a small sheltered inlet. - -Both shores of the river rose abruptly to steep and terrible mountains. -Not far above was the snow-line. - -The men’s faces were white and haggard, their eyes anxious, half -desperate. Huddled upon a stretcher at one end of the raft was a young -man, little more than a boy, whose pallid, emaciated face was turned -slightly to one side. His eyes were closed; the long black lashes -lay like heavy shadows upon his cheeks. The weak November sunshine, -struggling over the fierce mountains, shone through his thin nostrils, -turning them pink, and giving an unearthly look to the face. A collie -crouched close beside him, shivering with fear, yet ever and anon licking -the cold hand lying outside the gray blanket; occasionally he lifted his -head and uttered a long, mournful howl. Each time the four men shuddered -and exchanged looks of despair,—so humanly appealing was it, and so -deeply did it voice the terrible dread in their own hearts. - -It was now two months since they had left Seattle on a hunting expedition -in the Bitter Root Mountains in Idaho. For six weeks they had been lost -in those awful snow fastnesses. Their hunting dogs had been killed by -wild beasts. Their twelve pack-ponies had been left to starve to death -when, finding further progress on land impossible on account of the snow, -they constructed a raft and started on their perilous journey down the -Clearwater. - -The cook had been sick almost the entire time, and their progress had -been necessarily slow and discouraging. They had now reached a point -where the river was so full of boulders and so swift that they could -proceed no farther on the raft. - -For several days the cook had been unconscious, lying in a speechless -stupor; but when they had, with much danger and excitement, landed and -made him comfortable in a protected nook, he suddenly spoke,—faintly but -distinctly. - -“Polly,” he said, with deep tenderness, “lay your hand on my head. I -guess it won’t ache so, then.” - -The four men, looking at him, grew whiter. They could not look at each -other. The dog, having already taken his place beside him, lifted his -head and looked at him with pitiable eagerness. - -“Oh, Polly!”—there was a heart-break in the voice,—“you don’t know what -I’ve suffered! The cold, and then the fever! The pain has been awful. -Oh, I’ve wanted you so, Polly—I’ve wanted you so!... But it’s all right, -now that I’m home again.... Where’s the baby, Polly? Oh, the nights that -I’ve laid, freezing and suffering in the snow, just kept alive by the -thought o’ you an’ the little man! I knew it ’u’d kill you ’f I died—so I -_w’u’dn’t_ give up! An’ now I’m here ’t home again. Polly——” - -“We must fix some supper, boys,” said Darnell, roughly, turning away to -hide his emotion. “Let’s get the fire started.” - -“We’ve just got enough for one more good meal,” said Roberts, in a -tremulous voice. “There’s no game around here, either. Guide, you must -try to find a way out of this before dark, so we can start early in the -morning.” - -Without speaking, the guide obeyed. It was dark when he returned. The men -were sitting by the camp-fire, eating their supper. The dog still lay by -his master, from whom even hunger could not tempt him. - -The three men looked at the guide. He sat down and took his cup of -coffee in silence. “Well,” said Darnell, at last, “can we go on?” - -“Yes,” said the guide, slowly; “we can. In some places there’ll be only -a few inches’ foothold; an’ we’ll hev to hang on to bushes up above us, -with the river in some places hundreds o’ feet below; but we can do it, -’f we don’t get rattled an’ lose our heads.” - -There was a deep and significant silence. Then Brotherton said, with -white lips, “Do you mean that we can’t take _him_?” - -“That’s what I mean.” The guide spoke deliberately. He could not lift his -eyes. Some of the coffee spilled as he lifted the cup to his lips. “We -can’t take a thing, ’cept our hands and feet,—not even a blanket. It’ll -be life an’ death to do it, then.” - -There was another silence. At last Darnell said: “Then it is for us to -decide whether we shall leave him to die alone while we save ourselves, -or stay and die with him?” - -“Yes,” said the guide. - -“There is positively not the faintest chance of getting him out with us?” - -“By God, no!” burst forth the guide, passionately. “It seems like puttin’ -the responsibility on me, but you want the truth, an’ that’s it. He can’t -be got out. It’s leave him an’ save ourselves, or stay with him an’ -starve.” - -After a long while Roberts said, in a low voice: “He’s unconscious. He -wouldn’t know we had gone.” - -“He cannot possibly live three days, under any circumstances,” said -Brotherton. “Mortification has already begun in his legs.” - -“Good God!” exclaimed Darnell, jumping up and beginning to walk rapidly -forth and back, before the fire. “I must go home, boys! My wife—when I -think of her, I am afraid of losing my reason! When I think what she is -suffering——” - -Brotherton looked at him. Then he sunk his face into both his hands. He, -too, had a wife. The guide put down his coffee; large tears came into his -honest eyes. He had no wife, but there was one—— - -Roberts got up suddenly. He had the look of a tortured animal in his -eyes. “Boys,” he said, “my wife is dead. My life doesn’t matter so much, -but—I’ve three little girls! I _must_ get back, somehow!” - -The sick man spoke. They all started guiltily, and looked toward him. -“Yes, yes, Polly,” he said, soothingly, “I know how you worried about -me. I know how you set strainin’ your eyes out the window day an’ night, -watchin’ fer me. But now I’m home again, an’ it’s all right. I guess you -prayed, Polly; an’ I guess God heard you.... There’s a boy fer you! He -knows me, too.” - -The silence that fell upon them was long and terrible. The guide arose at -last, and, without speaking, made some broth from the last of the canned -beef, and forced it between the sick man’s lips. When he came back to the -fire, Darnell took a silver dollar out of his pocket. - -“Boys,” he said, brokenly, “I don’t want to be the one to settle this, -and I guess none of you do. It is an awful thing to decide. I shall throw -this dollar high into the air. If it falls heads up, we go; tails—we -stay.” - -The men had lifted their heads and were watching him. They were all very -white; they were all trembling. - -“Are you willing to decide it in this way?” - -Each answered, “Yes.” - -“I swear,” said Darnell, slowly and solemnly, “that I will abide by this -decision. Do you all swear the same?” - -Each, in turn, took the oath. Trembling now perceptibly, Darnell lifted -his hand slowly and cast the piece of silver into the air. Their eyes -followed its shining course. For a second it disappeared; then it came -singing to the earth. - -Like drunken men they staggered to the spot where it had fallen, and fell -upon their knees, staring with straining eyes and bloodless lips. - -“It is heads,” said Darnell. He wiped the cold perspiration from his brow. - -At that moment the dog lifted his head and sent a long, mournful howl to -die in faint echoes in the mountains across the river. - - * * * * * - -At daylight they were ready to start. Snow lay on the ground to a depth -of six inches. But a terrible surprise awaited them. At the last moment -they discovered that the cook was conscious. - -“You’re not going—to leave me?” he said, in a whisper. His eyes seemed to -be leaping out of their hollow sockets with terror. - -“Only for a few hours,” said Brotherton, huskily. “Only to find a way out -of this,—to make a path over which we can carry you.” - -“Oh,” he said, faintly; “I thought—— but you wouldn’t. In the name o’ -God, don’t leave me to die alone!” - -They assured him that they would soon return. Then, making him as -comfortable as possible, they went,—without hesitation, without one -backward look. There was no noise. The snow fell softly and silently -through the firs; the river flowed swiftly through its wild banks. The -sick man lay with closed eyes, trustfully. But the dog knew. For the -first time he left his master. He ran after them, and threw himself -before them, moaning. His lifted eyes had a soul in them. He leaped -before them, and upon them, licking their hands and clothing; he cast -himself prone upon their feet, like one praying. No human being ever -entreated for his life so passionately, so pathetically, as that dog -pleaded for his master’s. - -At last, half desperate as they were, they kicked him savagely and flung -him off. With a look in his eyes that haunted them as long as they lived, -he retreated then to his master’s side, and lay down in a heavy huddle of -despair, still watching them. As they disappeared, he lifted his head, -and for the last time they heard that long, heart-breaking howl. - -It was answered by a coyote in the canyon above. - - * * * * * - -A week later the Associated Press sent out the following dispatch: - - “The Darnell party, who were supposed to have perished in the - Bitter Root Mountains, returned last night. Their hardships and - sufferings were terrible. There is great rejoicing over their - safe return. They were compelled to leave the cook, who had - been sick the entire time, to die in the mountains. But for - their determined efforts to bring him out alive, they would - certainly have returned a month earlier.” - -The world read the dispatch and rejoiced with those rejoicing. But one -woman, reading it, fell, as one dead, beside her laughing boy. - - - - -PATIENCE APPLEBY’S CONFESSING-UP - - - - -PATIENCE APPLEBY’S CONFESSING-UP - - -“It must be goin’ to rain! My arm aches me so I can hardly hold my -knitting needles.” - -“Hunh!” said Mrs. Wincoop. She twisted her thread around her fingers two -or three times to make a knot; then she held her needle up to the light -and threaded it, closing one eye entirely and the other partially, and -pursing her mouth until her chin was flattened and full of tiny wrinkles. -She lowered her head and looking at Mrs. Willis over her spectacles with -a kind of good-natured scorn, said—“Is that a sign o’ rain?” - -“It never fails.” Mrs. Willis rocked back and forth comfortably. “Like as -not it begins to ache me a whole week before it rains.” - -“I never hear tell o’ such a thing in all my days,” said Mrs. Wincoop, -with unmistakable signs of firmness, as she bent over the canton flannel -night-shirt she was making for Mr. Wincoop. - -“Well, mebbe you never. Mebbe you never had the rheumatiz. I’ve had it -twenty year. I can’t get red of it, anyways. I’ve tried the Century -liniment—the one that has the man riding over snakes an’ things—and the -arnicky, and ev’ry kind the drug-store keeps. I’ve wore salt in my shoes -tell they turned white all over; and I kep’ a buckeye in my pocket tell -it wore a hole and fell out. But I never get red o’ the rheumatiz.” - -Mrs. Wincoop took two or three stitches in silence; then she -said—“Patience, now, she _can_ talk o’ having rheumatiz. She’s most bent -in two with it when she has it—and that’s near all the time.” - -The rocking ceased abruptly. Mrs. Willis’s brows met, giving a look of -sternness to her face. - -“That’s a good piece o’ cotton flannel,” she said. “Hefty! Fer pity’s -sake! D’ you put ruffles on the bottom o’ Mr. Wincoop’s night-shirt? -Whatever d’you do that fer?” - -“Because he likes ’em that way,” responded Mrs. Wincoop, tartly. “There’s -no call fer remarks as I see, Mis’ Willis. You put a pocket ’n Mr. -Willis’s, and paw never’d have that—never!” firmly. - -“Well, I never see ruffles on a man’s night-shirt before,” said Mrs. -Willis, laughing rather aggravatingly. “But they do look reel pretty, -anyways.” - -“The longer you live the more you learn.” Mrs. Wincoop spoke -condescendingly. “But talking about Patience—have you see her lately?” - -“No, I ain’t.” Mrs. Willis got up suddenly and commenced rummaging about -on the table; there were two red spots on her thin face. “I’d most fergot -to show you my new winter underclo’s. Ain’t them nice and warm, though? -They feel so good to my rheumatiz. I keep thinking about them that can’t -get any. My, such hard times! All the banks broke, and no more prospect -of good times than of a hen’s being hatched with teeth! It puts me all of -a trimble to think o’ the winter here and ev’rybody so hard up. It’s a -pretty pass we’ve come to.” - -“I should say so. I don’t see what Patience is a-going to live on this -winter. She ain’t fit to do anything; her rheumatiz is awful. She ain’t -got any fine wool underclo’s.” - -Mrs. Willis sat down again, but she did not rock; she sat upright, -holding her back stiff and her thin shoulders high and level. - -“I guess this tight spell’ll learn folks to lay by money when they got -it,” she said, sternly. “I notice we ain’t got any mortgage on our place, -and I notice we got five thousand dollars invested. We got some cattle -besides. We ain’t frittered ev’rything we made away on foolishness, like -some that I know of. We have things good and comf’terble, but we don’t -put on any style. Look at that Mis’ Abernathy! I caught her teeheeing -behind my back when I was buying red checked table clo’s. Her husband a -bookkeeper! And her a-putting on airs over me that could buy her up any -day in the week! Now, he’s lost his place, and I reckon she’ll come down -a peg or two.” - -“She’s been reel good to Patience, anyways,” said Mrs. Wincoop. - -Mrs. Willis knitted so fast her needles fairly rasped together. - -“She takes her in jell and perserves right frequent. You mind Patience -always liked sweet things even when her ’n’ Lizy was girls together, -Eunice.” - -It was so unusual for one of these two women to speak the other’s name -that they now exchanged quick looks of surprise. Indeed, Mrs. Wincoop -seemed the more surprised of the two. But the hard, matter-of-fact -expression returned at once to each face. If possible, Mrs. Willis looked -more grim and sour than before the unwonted address had startled her out -of her composure. - -“Well,” she said, scarcely unclosing her thin lips, “I reckon she had all -the sweet things she was a-hankering after when she was a girl. I reckon -she had a plenty and to spare, and I expect they got to tasting pretty -bitter a good spell ago. Too much sweet always leaves a bit’rish taste -in the mouth. My religion is—do what’s right, and don’t wink at them that -does wrong. I’ve stuck to my religion, I reckon you can’t get anybody -to stand up and put their finger on anything wrong I’ve done—nor any of -my fambly, either.” Mrs. Wincoop put her hand on her chest and coughed -mournfully. “Let them that’s _sinned_,” went on Mrs. Willis, lifting her -pale, cold eyes and setting them full on her visitor, “make allowance fer -sinners, say I. Mis’ Abernathy, or Mis’ Anybody Else, can pack all the -clo’s and all the sweet things they’ve got a mind to over to Patience -Appleby; mebbe they’ve sinned, too—_I_ don’t know! But I do know that I -ain’t, and so I don’t pack things over to her, even if she is all doubled -up with the rheumatiz,” unconsciously imitating Mrs. Wincoop’s tone. “And -I don’t make no allowance for her sins, either, Mis’ Wincoop.” - -A faint color came slowly, as if after careful consideration, to Mrs. -Wincoop’s face. - -“There wa’n’t no call fer you a-telling that,” she said, with a great -calmness. “The whole town knows you wouldn’t fergive a sin, if your -fergiving it ’u’d save the sinner hisself from being lost! The whole town -knows what your religion is, Mis’ Willis. You set yourself up and call -yourself perfeck, and wrap yourself up in yourself—” - -“There come the men—sh!” said Mrs. Willis. Her face relaxed, but with -evident reluctance. She began to knit industriously. But the temptation -to have the last word was strong. - -“It ain’t my religion, either,” she said, her voice losing none of its -determination because it was lowered. “I’d of fergive her if she’d -a-confessed up. We all tried to get her to. I tried more ’n anybody. I -told her”—in a tone of conviction—“that nobody but a brazen thing ’u’d -do what she’d done and not confess up to ’t—and it never fazed her. She -_wouldn’t_ confess up.” - -The men were scraping their feet noisily now on the porch, and Mrs. -Willis leaned back with a satisfied expression, expecting no reply. But -Mrs. Wincoop surprised her. She was sewing the last pearl button on Mr. -Wincoop’s night-shirt, and as she drew the thread through and fastened -it with scrupulous care, she said, without looking up—“I don’t take -much stock in confessings myself, Mis’ Willis. I don’t see just how -confessings is good for the soul when they hurt so many innocent ones as -well as the guilty ones. Ev’ry confessing affex somebody else; and so I -say if you repent and want to atone you can do ’t without confessing and -bringing disgrace on others. It’s nothing but curiosity that makes people -holler out—‘Confess-up now! Confess-up now.’ It ain’t anybody’s business -but God’s—and I reckon _He_ knows when a body’s sorry he’s sinned and -wants to do better, and I reckon He helps him just as much as if he got -up on a church tower and kep’ a-hollering out—‘Oh, good grieve, I’ve -sinned! I’ve sinned!’—so’s the whole town could run and gap’ at him! Mis’ -Willis, if some confessing-ups was done in this town that I know of, -some people ’u’d be affected that ’u’d surprise you.” Then she lifted up -her voice cheerfully—“That you, father? Well, d’ you bring the lantern? -I reckon we’d best go right home; it’s getting latish, and Mis’ Willis -thinks, from the way her arm aches her, that it’s going to rain.” - -Mrs. Willis sat knitting long after Mr. Willis had gone to bed. Her face -was more stern even than usual. She sat uncomfortably erect and did not -rock. When the clock told ten, she arose stiffly and rolled the half -finished stocking around the ball of yarn, fastening it there with the -needles. Then she laid it on the table and stood looking at it intently, -without seeing it. “I wonder,” she said, at last, drawing a deep breath, -“what she was a-driving at! I’d give a pretty to know.” - - * * * * * - -“Mother, where’s my Sund’y pulse-warmers at?” - -“_I_ don’t know where your Sund’y pulse-warmers are at. Father, you’d -aggravate a body into her grave! You don’t half look up anything—and then -begin asking me where it’s at. What’s under that bunch o’ collars in your -drawer? Looks some like your Sund’y pulse-warmers, don’t it? This ain’t -Sund’y, anyways. Wa’n’t your ev’ryday ones good enough to wear just to a -church meeting?” - -Mr. Willis had never been known to utter an oath; but sometimes he looked -as if his heart were full of them. - -“I reckon you don’t even know where your han’ke’cher’s at, father.” - -“Yes, I do, mother. I guess you might stop talking, an’ come on now—I’m -all ready.” - -He preceded his wife, leaving the front door open for her to close and -lock. He walked stiffly, holding his head straight, lest his collar -should cramp his neck or prick his chin. He had a conscious, dressed-up -air. He carried in one hand a lantern, in the other an umbrella. It -was seven o’clock of a Thursday evening and the bell was ringing for -prayer-meeting. There was to be a church meeting afterward, at which the -name of Patience Appleby was to be brought up for membership. Mrs. Willis -breathed hard and deep as she thought of it. - -She walked behind her husband to receive the full light of the lantern, -holding her skirts up high above her gaiter-tops which were so large and -so worn as to elastic, that they fairly ruffled around her spare, flat -ankles. Her shadow danced in piece-meal on the picket fence. After a -while she said— - -“Father, I wish you wouldn’t keep swinging that lantern so! A body can’t -see where to put their feet down. Who’s that ahead o’ us?” - -“I can’t make out yet.” - -“No wonder—you keep swinging that lantern so! Father, what does _possess_ -you to be so aggravating? If I’d of asked you to swing it, you couldn’t -of b’en _drug_ to do it!” - -Mrs. Willis was guiltless of personal vanity, but she did realize the -importance of her position in village society, and something of this -importance was imparted to her carriage as she followed Mr. Willis up the -church aisle. She felt that every eye was regarding her with respect, and -held her shoulders so high that her comfortable shawl fell therefrom in -fuller folds than usual. She sat squarely in the pew, looking steadily -and unwinkingly at the wonderful red velvet cross that hung over the -spindle-legged pulpit, her hands folded firmly in her lap. She had never -been able to understand how Sister Wirth who sat in the pew in front -of the Willises, could always have her head a-lolling over to one side -like a giddy, sixteen-year-old. Mrs. Willis abominated such actions in a -respectable, married woman of family. - -Mr. Willis crouched down uneasily in the corner of the seat and sat -motionless, with a self-conscious blush across his weak eyes. His -umbrella, banded so loosely that it bulged like a soiled-clothes bag, -stood up against the back of the next pew. - -At the close of prayer-meeting no one stirred from his seat. An ominous -silence fell upon the two dozen people assembled there. The clock ticked -loudly, and old lady Scranton, who suffered of asthma, wheezed with every -breath and whispered to her neighbor that she was getting so phthisicy -she wished to mercy they’d hurry up or she’d have to go home without -voting. At last one of the deacons arose and said with great solemnity -that he understood sister Wincoop had a name to propose for membership. - -When Mrs. Wincoop stood up she looked pale but determined. Mrs. Willis -would not turn to look at her, but she caught every word spoken. - -“Yes,” said Mrs. Wincoop, “I want to bring up the name of Patience -Appleby. I reckon you all know Patience Appleby. She was born here, -and she’s always lived here. There’s them that says she done wrong -onct, but I guess she’s about atoned up for that—if any mortal living -has. I’ve know her fifteen year, and I don’t know any better behaving -woman anywheres. She never talks about anybody”—her eyes went to Mrs. -Willis’s rigid back—“and she never complains. She’s alone and poor, and -all crippled up with the rheumatiz. She wants to join church and live a -Christian life, and I, fer one, am in favor o’ us a-holding out our hand -to her and helping her up.” - -“Amen!” shrilled out the minister on one of his upper notes. There was -a general rustle of commendation—whispers back and forth, noddings of -heads, and many encouraging glances directed toward sister Wincoop. - -But of a sudden silence fell upon the small assembly. Mrs. Willis had -arisen. Her expression was grim and uncompromising. At that moment sister -Shidler’s baby choked in its sleep, and cried so loudly and so gaspingly -that every one turned to look at it. - -In the momentary confusion Mr. Willis caught hold of his wife’s dress and -tried to pull her down; but the unfortunate man only succeeded in ripping -a handful of gathers from the band. Mrs. Willis looked down at him from -her thin height. - -“You let my gethers be,” she said, fiercely. “You might of knew you’d -tear ’em, a-taking holt of ’em that way!” - -Then quiet was restored and the wandering eyes came back to Mrs. Willis. -“Brothers and sisters,” she said, “it ain’t becoming in me to remind you -all what Mr. Willis and me have done fer this church. It ain’t becoming -in me to remind you about the organ, and the new bell, and the carpet fer -the aisles—let alone our paying twenty dollars more a year than any other -member. I say it ain’t becoming in me, and I never ’d mention it if it -wa’n’t that I don’t feel like having Patience Appleby in this church. If -she does come in, _I_ go out.” - -A tremor passed through the meeting. The minister turned pale and stroked -his meagre whiskers nervously. He was a worthy man, and he believed in -saving souls. He had prayed and plead with Patience to persuade her to -unite with the church, but he had not felt the faintest presentiment that -he was quarreling with his own bread and butter in so doing. One soul -scarcely balances a consideration of that kind—especially when a minister -has six children and a wife with a chronic disinclination to do anything -but look pretty and read papers at clubs and things. It was small wonder -that he turned pale. - -“I want that you all should know just how I feel about it,” continued -Mrs. Willis. “I believe in doing what’s right yourself and not excusing -them that does wrong. I don’t believe in having people like Patience -Appleby in this church; and she don’t come in while _I’m_ in, neither. -That’s all I got to say. I want that you all should understand plain that -her coming in means my going out.” - -Mrs. Willis sat down, well satisfied. She saw that she had produced a -profound sensation. Every eye turned to the minister with a look that -said, plainly—“What have you to say to _that_?” - -But the miserable man had not a word to say to it. He sat helplessly -stroking his whiskers, trying to avoid the eyes of both Mrs. Wincoop and -Mrs. Willis. At last Deacon Berry said—“Why, sister Willis, I think if -a body repents and wants to do better, the church ’ad ort to help ’em. -That’s what churches are for.” - -Mrs. Willis cleared her throat. - -“I don’t consider that a body’s repented, Deacon Berry, tell he -confesses-up. Patience Appleby’s never done that to this day. When she -does, I’m willing to take her into this church.” - -“Brothers and sisters,” said Mrs. Wincoop, in a voice that held a kind -of cautious triumph, “I fergot to state that Patience Appleby reckoned -mebbe somebody ’u’d think she’d ort to confess before she come into the -church; and she wanted I should ask the meeting to a’point Mis’ Willis a -committee o’ one fer her to confess up to. Patience reckoned if she could -satisfy Mis’ Willis, ev’rybody else ’u’d be satisfied.” - -“Why—yes,” cried the minister, with cheerful eagerness. “That’s all -right—bless the Lord!” he added, in that jaunty tone with which so many -ministers daily insult our God. “I know Mrs. Willis and Patience will be -able to smooth over all difficulties. I think we may now adjourn.” - -“Whatever did she do that fer?” said Mrs. Willis, following the lantern -homeward. “She’s got something in her mind, _I_ know, or she’d never want -me a’p’inted. Father, what made you pull my gethers out? D’you think you -could make me set down when I’d once made up my mind to stand up? You’d -ought to know me better by this time. This is my secon’-best dress, and -I’ve only wore it two winters—and now look at all these gethers tore -right out!” - -“You hadn’t ought to get up and make a fool o’ yourself, mother. You’d -best leave Patience Appleby be.” - -“You’d ort to talk about anybody a-making a fool o’ hisself! After you -a-pulling my gethers clean out o’ the band—right in meeting! You’d ort -to tell me I’d best leave Patience Appleby be! I don’t mean to leave her -be. I mean to let her know she can’t ac’ scandalous, and then set herself -up as being as good’s church folks and Christians. _I’ll_ give her her -come-uppings!” - -For probably the first time in his married life Mr. Willis yielded to -his feelings. “God-a’mighty, mother,” he said; “sometimes you don’t seem -to have common sense! I reckon you’d best leave Patience Appleby be, if -you know when you’re well off.” Then, frightened at what he had said, he -walked on, hurriedly, swinging the lantern harder than ever. - -Mrs. Willis walked behind him, dumb. - - * * * * * - -The day was cold and gray. Mrs. Willis opened with difficulty the -broken-down gate that shut in Patience Appleby’s house. “And no wonder,” -she thought, “it swags down so!” - -There was a foot of snow on the ground. The path to the old, shabby house -was trackless. Not a soul had been there since the snow fell—and that was -two days ago! Mrs. Willis shivered under her warm shawl. - -Patience opened the door. Her slow, heavy steps on the bare floor of the -long hall affected Mrs. Willis strangely. - -Patience was very tall and thin. She stooped, and her chest was sunken. -She wore a dingy gray dress, mended in many places. There was a small, -checked shawl folded in a “three-cornered” way about her shoulders. She -coughed before she could greet her visitor. - -“How d’you do, Mis’ Willis,” she said, at last. “Come in, won’t you?” - -“How are you, Patience?” Mrs. Willis said, and, to her own amazement, her -voice did not sound as stern as she had intended it should. - -She had been practicing as she came along, and this voice bore no -resemblance whatever to the one she had been having in her mind. Nor, as -she preceded Patience down the bare, draughty hall to the sitting-room, -did she bear herself with that degree of frigid dignity which she had -always considered most fitting to her position, both socially and morally. - -Somehow, the evidences of poverty on every side chilled her blood. The -sitting-room was worse, even, than the hall. A big, empty room with a -small fireplace in one corner, wherein a few coals were turning gray; a -threadbare carpet, a couple of chairs, a little table with the Bible on -it, ragged wall-paper, and a shelf in one corner filled with liniment -bottles. - -Mrs. Willis sat down in one of the rickety chairs, and Patience, after -stirring up the coals, drew the other to the hearth. - -“I’m afraid the room feels kind o’ coolish,” she said. “I’ve got the last -o’ the coal on.” - -“D’you mean,” said Mrs. Willis—and again her voice surprised her—“that -you’re all out o’ coal?” - -“All out.” She drew the tiny shawl closer to her throat with trembling, -bony fingers. “But Mis’ Abernathy said she’d send me a scuttleful over -to-day. I hate to take it from her, too; her husband’s lost his position -and they ain’t overly well off. But sence my rheumatiz has been so bad I -can’t earn a thing.” - -Mrs. Willis stared hard at the coals. For the life of her she could think -of nothing but her own basement filled to the ceiling with coal. - -“I reckon,” said Patience, “you’ve come to hear my confessing-up?” - -“Why—yes.” Mrs. Willis started guiltily. - -“What’s the charges agen me, Mis’ Willis?” - -Mrs. Willis’s eyelids fell heavily. - -“Why, I reckon you know, Patience. You done wrong onct when you was a -girl, and I don’t think we’d ort to take you into the church tell you own -up to it.” - -There was a little silence. Then Patience said, drawing her breath -in heavily—“Mebbe I did do wrong onct when I was a little girl—only -fourteen, say. But that’s thirty year ago, and that’s a long time, Mis’ -Willis. I don’t think I’d ort to own up to it.” - -“_I_ think you’d ort.” - -“Mis’ Willis,”—Patience spoke solemnly. “D’you think I’d ort to own up if -it ’u’d affec’ somebody else thet ain’t never b’en talked about?” - -“Yes, I do,” said Mrs. Willis, firmly. “If they deserve to be talked -about, they’d _ort_ to be talked about.” - -“Even if it was about the best folks in town?” - -“Yes.” Mrs. Willis thought of the minister. - -“Even if it was about the best-off folks? Folks that hold their head the -highest, and give most to churches and missionary; and thet ev’rybody -looks up to?” - -“Ye-es,” said Mrs. Willis. That did not describe the minister, certainly. -She could not have told you why her heart began to beat so violently. -Somehow, she had been surprised out of the attitude she had meant to -assume. Instead of walking in boldly and haughtily, and giving Patience -her “come-uppings,” she was finding it difficult to conquer a feeling of -pity for the enemy because she was so poor and so cold. She must harden -her heart. - -“Even”—Patience lowered her eyes to the worn carpet—“if it was folks thet -had b’en loudest condemin’ other folks’s sins, and that had bragged high -and low thet there wa’n’t no disgrace in their fambly, and never had b’en -none, and who’d just be about killed by my confessing-up?” - -“Yes,” said Mrs. Willis, sternly. But she paled to the lips. - -“I don’t think so,” said Patience, slowly. “I think a body’d ort to have -a chance if they want to live better, without havin’ anybody a-pryin’ -into their effairs exceptin’ God. But if you don’t agree with me, I’m -ready to confess-up all _I’ve_ done bad. I guess you recollect, Mis’ -Willis, thet your ’Lizy and me was just of an age, to a day?” - -Mrs. Willis’s lips moved, but the words stuck in her throat. - -“And how we ust to play together and stay nights with each other. We -_loved_ each other, Mis’ Willis. You ust to give us big slices o’ -salt-risin’ bread, spread thick with cream and sprinkled with brown -sugar—I can just see you now, a-goin’ out to the spring-house to get the -cream. And I can just taste it, too, when I get good and hungry.” - -“What’s all this got to do with your a-owning up?” demanded Mrs. Willis, -fiercely. “What’s my ’Lizy got to do with your going away that time? -Where was you at, Patience Appleby?” - -“I’m comin’ to that,” said Patience, calmly; but a deep flush came upon -her face. “I’ve attoned-up fer that time, if any mortal bein’ ever did, -Mis’ Willis. I’ve had a hard life, but I’ve never complained, because I -thought the Lord was a-punishin’ me. But I have suffered.... Thirty year, -Mis’ Willis, of prayin’ to be fergive fer one sin! But I ain’t ever see -the day I could confess-up to ’t—and I couldn’t now, except to ’Lizy’s -mother.” - -An awful trembling shook Mrs. Willis’s heart. She looked at Patience with -straining eyes. “Go on,” she said, hoarsely. - -“’Lizy and me was fourteen on the same day. She was goin’ to Four Corners -to visit her a’nt, but I had to stay at home and work. I was cryin’ about -it when, all of a sudden, ’Lizy says—“Patience, let’s up and have a good -time on our birthday!” - -“Well, let’s,” I says, “but how?” - -“I’ll start fer Four Corners and then you run away, and I’ll meet you, -and we’ll go to Springville to the circus and learn to ride bareback”— - -Mrs. Willis leaned forward in her chair. Her face was very white; her -thin hands were clenched so hard the knuckles stood out half an inch. - -“Patience Appleby,” she said, “you’re a wicked, sinful liar! May the Lord -A’mighty fergive you—_I_ won’t.” - -“I ain’t askin’ you to take my word; you can ask Mr. Willis hisself. He -didn’t go to Springville to buy him a horse, like he told you he did. -’Lizy and me had been at the circus two days when she tuk sick, and I -sent fer Mr. Willis unbeknownst to anybody. He come and tuk her home -and fixed it all up with her a’nt at Four Corners, and give out thet -she’d been a-visitin’ there. But I had to sneak home alone and live an -outcast’s life ever sense, and see her set up above me—just because Mr. -Willis got down to beg me on his knees never to tell she was with me. -And I never did tell a soul, Mis’ Willis, tell last winter I was sick -with a fever and told Mis’ Wincoop when I was out o’ my head. But she’s -never told anybody, either, and neither of us ever will. Mr. Willis has -helped me as much as he could without your a-findin’ it out, but I know -how it feels to be hungry and cold, and I know how it feels to see ’Lizy -set up over me, and marry rich, and have nice children; and ride by me ’n -her kerriage without so much as lookin’ at me—and me a-chokin’ with the -dust off o’ her kerriage wheels. But I never complained none, and I ain’t -a-complainin’ now, Mis’ Willis; puttin ’Lizy down wouldn’t help me any. -But I do think it’s hard if I can’t be let into the church.” - -Her thin voice died away and there was silence. Patience sat staring at -the coals with the dullness of despair on her face. Mrs. Willis’s spare -frame had suddenly taken on an old, pathetic stoop. What her haughty -soul had suffered during that recital, for which she had been so totally -unprepared, Patience would never realize. The world seemed to be slipping -from under the old woman’s trembling feet. She had been so strong in -her condemnation of sinners because she had felt so sure she should -never have any trading with sin herself. And lo! all these years her -own daughter—her one beloved child, dearer than life itself—had been as -guilty as this poor outcast from whom she had always drawn her skirts -aside, as from a leper. Ay, her daughter had been the guiltier of the -two. She was not spared that bitterness, even. Her harsh sense of justice -forced her to acknowledge, even in that first hour, that this woman had -borne herself nobly, while her daughter had been a despicable coward. - -It had been an erect, middle-aged woman who had come to give Patience -Appleby her “come-uppings;” it was an old, broken-spirited one who went -stumbling home in the early, cold twilight of the winter day. The fierce -splendor of the sunset had blazed itself out; the world was a monotone in -milky blue—save for one high line of dull crimson clouds strung along the -horizon. - -A shower of snow-birds sunk in Mrs. Willis’s path, but she did not see -them. She went up the path and entered her comfortable home; and she fell -down upon her stiff knees beside the first chair she came to—and prayed -as she had never prayed before in all her hard and selfish life. - - * * * * * - -When Mr. Willis came home to supper he found his wife setting the table -as usual. He started for the bedroom, but she stopped him. - -“We’re a-going to use the front bedroom after this, father,” she said. - -“Why, what are we going to do that fer, mother?” - -“I’m a-going to give our’n to Patience Appleby.” - -“You’re a-going to—_what_, mother?” - -“I’m a-going to give our’n to Patience Appleby, I say. I’m a-going to -bring her here to live, and she’s got to have the warmest room in the -house, because her rheumatiz is worse ’n mine. I’m a-going after her -myself to-morrow in the kerriage.” She turned and faced her husband -sternly. “She’s confessed-up ev’rything. I was dead set she should, and -she has. I know where she was at that time, and I know who was with her. -I reckon I’d best be attoning up as well as Patience Appleby; and I’m -going to begin by making her comf’terble and taking her into the church.” - -“Why, mother,” said the old man, weakly. His wife repressed him with one -look. - -“Now, don’t go to talking back, father,” she said, sternly. “I reckon you -kep’ it from me fer the best, but it’s turrable hard on me now. You get -and wash yourself. I want that you should hold this candle while I fry -the apple-fritters.” - - - - -THE MOTHER OF “PILLS” - - - - -THE MOTHER OF “PILLS” - - -“Pills! Oh, Pills! You Pillsy!” - -The girl turned from the door of the drug-store, and looked back under -bent brows at her mother, who was wiping graduated glasses with a stained -towel, at the end of the prescription counter. - -“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” she said; her tone was impatient but -not disrespectful. - -Her mother laughed. She was a big, good-natured looking woman, with -light-blue eyes and sandy eyebrows and hair. She wore a black dress that -had a cheap, white cord-ruche at the neck. There were spots down the -front of her dress where acids had been spilled and had taken out the -color. - -“How particular we are gettin’,” she said, turning the measuring glass -round and round on the towel which had been wadded into it. “You didn’t -use to mind if I called you ‘Pills,’ just for fun.” - -“Well, I mind now.” - -The girl took a clean towel from a cupboard and began to polish the -show-cases, breathing upon them now and then. She was a good-looking -girl. She had strong, handsome features, and heavy brown hair, which she -wore in a long braid down her back. A deep red rose was tucked in the -girdle of her cotton gown and its head lolled to and fro as she worked. -Her hands were not prettily shaped, but sensitive, and the ends of the -fingers were square. - -“Well, Mariella, then,” said Mrs. Mansfield, still looking amused; “I was -goin’ to ask you if you knew the Indians had all come in on their way -home from hop pickin’.” - -Mariella straightened up and looked at her mother. - -“Have they, honest, ma?” - -“Yes, they have; they’re all camped down on the beach.” - -“Oh, I wonder where!” - -“Why, the Nooksacks are clear down at the coal-bunkers, an’ the Lummies -close to Timberline’s Row; an’ the Alaskas are all on the other side of -the viaduct.” - -“Are they goin’ to have the canoe race?” - -“Yes, I guess so. I guess it’ll be about sundown to-night. There, you -forgot to dust that milk-shake. An’ you ain’t touched that shelf o’ -patent medicines!” - -She set down the last graduate and hung the damp towel on a nail. Then -she came out into the main part of the store and sat down comfortably -behind the counter. - -Long before Mariella was born her father had opened a drug-store in -the tiny town of Sehome, on Puget Sound. There was a coal mine under -the town. A tunnel led down into it, and the men working among the -black diamonds, with their families, made up the town. But there was -some trouble, and the mine was abandoned and flooded with salt water. -The men went away, and for many years Sehome was little more than a -name. A mail boat wheezed up from Seattle once a week; and two or three -storekeepers—Mr. Mansfield among them—clung to the ragged edge of hope -and waited for the boom. Before it came, Mr. Mansfield was bumped over -the terrible road to the graveyard and laid down among the stones and -ferns. Then Mrs. Mansfield “run” the store. The question “Can you fill -perscriptions?” was often put to her fearfully by timid customers, but -she was equal to the occasion. - -“Well, I guess I can,” she would say, squaring about and looking her -questioner unwaveringly in the eye. “I guess I’d ought to. I’ve been -in the store with my husband, that’s dead, for twenty years. I’m not a -regular, but I’m a practical—an’ that’s better than a regular any day.” - -“It’s not so much what you know in a drug-store as what you _look_ like -you know,” she sometimes confided to admiring friends. - -It is true Mrs. Mansfield was often perplexed over the peculiar curdled -appearance of some mixture—being as untaught in the mysterious ways of -emulsions as a babe—but such trifles were dismissed with a philosophical -sigh, and the prescriptions were handed over the counter with a -complaisance that commanded confidence. The doctor hinted, with extreme -delicacy, at times, that his emulsions did not turn out as smooth as he -had expected; or that it would be agreeable to find some of his aqueous -mixtures tinged with cochineal; or that it was possible to make pills in -such a way that they would not—so to speak—melt in the patient’s mouth -before he could swallow them. But Mrs. Mansfield invariably laughed at -him in a kind of motherly way, and reminded him that he ought to be glad -to have even a “practical” in a place like Sehome. And really this was so -true that it was unanswerable. - -So Mrs. Mansfield held the fort; and as her medicines, although -abominable to swallow, never killed any one, she was looked upon with -awe and respect by the villagers and the men in the neighboring -logging-camps. - -Mariella was brought up in the drug-store. She had the benefit of -her mother’s experience, and, besides that, she had studied the -“dispensatory”—a word, by the way, which Mrs. Mansfield began with a -capital letter because of the many pitfalls from which it had rescued her. - -“Mariella is such a good girl,” her mother frequently declared; “she got -a real good education over at the Whatcom schools, an’ she’s such a help -in the drug-store. She does make a beautiful pill.” - -Indeed, the girl’s pill-making accomplishment was so appreciated by Mrs. -Mansfield that she had nick-named her “Pills”—a name that had been the -cause of much mirth between them. - -Mariella was now sixteen, and the long-deferred “boom” was upon them. -Mrs. Mansfield and her daughter contemplated it from the store door -daily with increasing admiration. The wild clover no longer velveted the -middle of the street. New buildings, with red, green or blue fronts and -nondescript backs, leaped up on every corner and in between corners. The -hammers and saws made music sweeter than any brass band to Sehome ears. -Day and night the forests blazed backward from the town. When there were -no customers in the store Mariella stood in the door, twisting the -rope of the awning around her wrist, and watched the flames leaping -from limb to limb up the tall, straight fir-trees. When Sehome hill -was burning at night, it was a magnificent spectacle; like hundreds of -torches dipped into a very hell of fire and lifted to heaven by invisible -hands—while in the East the noble, white dome of Mount Baker burst out -of the darkness against the lurid sky. The old steamer _Idaho_ came down -from Seattle three times a week now. When she landed, Mrs. Mansfield -and Mariella, and such customers as chanced to be in the store, hurried -breathlessly back to the little sitting-room, which overlooked the bay, -to count the passengers. The old colony wharf, running a mile out across -the tide-lands to deep water, would be “fairly alive with ’em,” Mrs. -Mansfield declared daily, in an ecstasy of anticipation of the good times -their coming foretold. She counted never less than a hundred and fifty; -and so many walked three and four abreast that it was not possible to -count all. - -Really, that summer everything seemed to be going Mrs. Mansfield’s way. -Mariella was a comfort to her mother and an attraction to the store; -business was excellent; her property was worth five times more than it -had ever been before; and, besides—when her thoughts reached this point -Mrs. Mansfield smiled consciously and blushed—there was Mr. Grover! Mr. -Grover kept the dry-goods store next door. He had come at the very -beginning of the boom. He was slim and dark and forty. Mrs. Mansfield was -forty and large and fair. Both were “well off.” Mr. Grover was lonely -and “dropped into” Mrs. Mansfield’s little sitting-room every night. She -invited him to supper frequently, and he told her that her fried chicken -and “cream” potatoes were better than anything he had eaten since his -mother died. Of late his intentions were not to be misunderstood, and -Mrs. Mansfield was already putting by a cozy sum for a wedding outfit. -Only that morning she had looked at herself in the glass more attentively -than usual while combing her hair. Some thought made her blush and smile. - -“You ought to be ashamed!” she said, shaking her head at herself in the -glass as at a gay, young thing. “To be thinkin’ about gettin’ married! -With a big girl like Pills too. One good thing: He really seems to think -as much of Pills as you do yourself, Mrs. Mansfield. That’s what makes me -so—happy, I guess. I believe it’s the first time I ever was real happy -before.” She sighed unconsciously as she glanced back over her years of -married life. “An’ I don’t know what makes me so awful happy now. But -sometimes when I get up of a mornin’ I just feel as if I could go out on -the hill an’ sing—foolish as any of them larks holler’n’ for joy. - -“Mariella,” she said, watching the duster in the girl’s hands, “what made -you flare up so when I called you ‘Pills?’ You never done that before, -an’ I don’t see what ails you all of a sudden.” - -“I didn’t mean to flare up,” said Mariella. She opened the cigar-case and -arranged the boxes carefully. Then she closed it with a snap and looked -at her mother. “But I wish you’d stop it, ma. Mr. Grover said——” - -“Well, what ’id he say?” - -“He said it wasn’t a nice name to call a girl by.” Mariella’s face -reddened, but she was stooping behind the counter. - -Mrs. Mansfield drummed on the show-case with broad fingers and looked -thoughtful. - -“Well,” she said with significance, after a pause, “if he don’t like it, -I won’t do it. We’ve had lots o’ fun over it, Pills, ain’t we—I mean -Mariella—but I guess he has a right to say what you’ll be called, Pi—— my -dear.” - -“Oh, ma,” said Mariella. Her face was like a poppy. - -“Well, I guess you won’t object, will you? I’ve been wond’rin’ how you -felt about it.” - -“Oh, ma,” faltered the girl; “do you think, honest, he—— he——” - -“Yes, I do,” replied her mother, laughing comfortably and blushing -faintly. “I’m sure of it. An’ I’m happier ’n I ever was in my life over -it. I don’t think I could give you a better stepfather, or one that would -think more of you.” - -Mariella stood up slowly behind the counter and looked—stared—across the -room at her mother, in a dazed, uncomprehending way. The color ebbed -slowly out of her face. She did not speak, but she felt the muscles about -her mouth jerking. She pressed her lips more tightly together. - -“I hope you don’t think I oughtn’t to marry again,” said her mother, -returning her look without understanding it in the least. “Your pa’s -been dead ten years”—this in an injured tone. “There ain’t many women—— -Oh, good mornin’, Mr. Lester? Mariella, ’ll you wait on Mr. Lester? -Well”—beaming good naturedly on her customer—“how’s real estate this -mornin’? Any new sales afoot?” - -“_Are_ there?” repeated that gentleman, leaning on the show-case and -lighting his cigar, innocent of intentional discourtesy. “Well, I should -_smile_—and smile broadly too, Mrs. Mansfield. There’s a Minneapolis chap -here that’s buyin’ right an’ left; just _slashin’_ things! He’s bought a -lot o’ water-front property, too; an’ let me tell _you_, right now, that -Jim Hill’s behind him; an’ Jim Hill’s the biggest railroad man in the U. -S. to-day, an’ the Great Northern’s behind _him_!” - -“Well, I hope so.” Mrs. Mansfield drew a long breath of delight. Mr. -Lester smiled, shrugged his shoulders, spread out his hands, and -sauntered out with the air of a man who has the ear of railroad kings. - -“Are you goin’ to the canoe races to-night, Mariella?” began her mother, -in a conciliatory tone. - -“I don’t know. Might as well, I guess.” - -The girl was wiping the shelf bottles now; her face was pale, but her -back was to her mother. - -“Well, we will have an early supper, so you can get off. Mercy, child! -Did you break one o’ them glass labels? How often ’v’ I told you not to -press on ’em so hard? What one is it? The tincture cantharides! Well, tie -a string around it, so we’ll know what it is. There ain’t no label on the -aconite bottle, nor the Jamaica ginger either—an’ them settin’ side by -side, too. I hate guessin’ at things in a drug-store—specially when one’s -a poison. Have you scoured up them spatulas?” - -“Yes’m.” - -“Well, I’ll go in an’ do up the dishes, an’ leave you to ’tend store. -Don’t forget to make Mr. Benson’s pills.” - -But Mr. Benson’s pills were not made right away. When her mother was -gone, Mariella got down from the step-ladder and leaned one elbow on the -show-case and rested her chin in her hand. Her throat swelled in and out -fitfully, and the blue veins showed, large and full, on her temples. For -a long time she stood thus, twisting the towel in her hand and looking -at the fires on the hill without seeing them. Some of their dry burning -seemed to get into her own eyes. - -Mr. Grover, passing, glanced in. - -“Mariella,” he said, putting one foot across the threshold, “are you -goin’ to the canoe races?” - -The girl had darted erect instantly, and put on a look of coquettish -indifference. - -“Yes, I am.” Her eyes flashed at him over her shoulder from the corners -of their lids as she started back to the prescription-case. “I’m goin’ -with Charlie Walton!” - -When Mariella had gone to the races that night, and customers were -few and far between, Mr. Grover walked with a determined air through -Mrs. Mansfield’s store and, pushing aside the crimson canton-flannel -portieres, entered her cheerful sitting-room. On the floor was a Brussels -carpet, large-flowered and vivid. A sewing-machine stood in one corner -and Mariella’s organ in another. The two narrow windows overlooking the -sound were gay with blooming geraniums and white curtains tied with -red ribbons. There was a trunk deceptively stuffed and cretonned into -the semblance of a settee; and there was a wicker-chair that was full -of rasping, aggravating noises when you rocked in it. It had red ribbon -twisted through its back and arms. Mrs. Mansfield was sitting in it now, -reading a novel, and the chair was complaining unceasingly. - -Mr. Grover sat down on the trunk. - -“Mrs. Mansfield,” he said, looking squarely at her, “I’ve got somethin’ -to ask of you, an’ I’m goin’ to do it while Mariella’s away.” - -“That so?” said Mrs. Mansfield. - -The color in her cheek deepened almost to a purple. She put one hand up -to her face, and with the other nervously wrinkled the corners of the -leaves of her novel. She lowered her lids resolutely to hide the sudden -joy in her eyes. - -“I guess you know what I’ve been comin’ here so much for. I couldn’t help -thinkin’, too, that you liked the idea an’ was sort of encouragin’ me.” - -Mrs. Mansfield threw one hand out toward him in a gesture at once -deprecating, coquettish and helpful. - -“Oh, you!” she exclaimed, laughing and coloring more deeply. There was -decided encouragement in her honest blue eyes under their sandy lashes. - -“Well, didn’t you, now?” Mr. Grover leaned toward her. - -She hesitated, fingering the leaves of her book. She turned her head to -one side; the leaves swished softly as they swept past her broad thumb; -the corners of her mouth curled in a tremulous smile; the fingers of her -other hand moved in an unconscious caress across her warm cheek; she -remembered afterward that the band across the bay on the long pier, where -the races were, was playing “Annie Laurie,” and that the odor of wild -musk, growing outside her window in a box, was borne in, sweet and heavy, -by the sea winds. It was the one perfect moment of Mrs. Mansfield’s -life—in which there had been no moments that even approached perfection; -in which there had been no hint of poetry—only dullest, everyday prose. -She had married because she had been taught that women should marry; and -Mr. Mansfield had been a good husband. She always said that; and she did -not even know that she always sighed after saying it. Her regard for Mr. -Grover was the poetry—the wine—of her hard, frontier life. Never before -that summer had she stood and listened to the message of the meadow-lark -with a feeling of exaltation that brought tears to her eyes; or gone out -to gather wild pink clover with the dew on it; or turned her broad foot -aside to spare a worm. Not that Mr. Grover ever did any of these things; -but that love had lifted the woman’s soul and given her the new gift of -seeing the beauty of common things. No one had guessed that there was a -change in her heart, not even Mariella. - -It was well that Mrs. Mansfield prolonged that perfect moment. When she -did lift her eyes there was a kind of appealing tenderness in them. - -“I guess I did,” she said. - -“Well, then,”—Mr. Grover drew a breath of relief—“you might’s well say I -can have her. I want it all understood before she gets home. I want to -stop her runnin’ with that Walton. Once or twice I’ve been afraid you’d -just as leave she’d marry him as me. I don’t like to see girls gallivant -with two or three fellows.” - -Mrs. Mansfield sat motionless, looking at him. Her eyes did not falter; -the smile did not wholly vanish from her face. Only the blood throbbed -slowly away, leaving it paler than Mariella’s had been that morning. She -understood her mistake almost before his first sentence. While he was -speaking her thoughts were busy. She felt the blood coming back when she -remembered what she had said to Mariella. If _only_ she had not spoken! - -“Well,” she said, calmly, “have you said anything to Mariella?” - -“Yes, I have; lots o’ times. An’ I know she likes me; but she’s some -flirtish, and that’s what I want to put a stop to. So, with your -permission, I’ll have a talk with her to-night.” - -“I’d like to talk to her first myself.” Mrs. Mansfield looked almost -stern. “But I guess it’ll be all right, Mr. Grover. If you’d just as soon -wait till to-morrow, I’d like to be alone and make up my mind what to say -to her.” - -Mr. Grover got up and shook hands with her awkwardly. - -“I’ll make her a good husband,” he said, earnestly. - -“I don’t doubt that,” replied Mrs. Mansfield. - -Then he went out and the crimson curtain fell behind him. - - * * * * * - -When Mariella came home her mother was sitting, rocking, by the window. -The lamp was lighted. - -“Pills,” she said, “I want you to stop goin’ with that fello’.” - -The girl looked at her in silence. Then she took off her turban and stuck -the long black pins back into it. - -“I thought you liked him,” she said, slowly. - -“I do, but Mr. Grover wants you—an’ I like him better.” - -“Wants _me_!” Mariella drew up her shoulders proudly. - -“Yes, you,” replied Mrs. Mansfield, laughing. The humor of the situation -was beginning to appeal to her. “He says he’d told you. You must of -laughed after I told you he wanted me.” - -“Oh, ma, does he want me, honest?” - -“Yes, he does.” She was still laughing. - -“An’ don’t you mind, ma?” - -“Not a mite,” said the widow, cheerfully. “I’d rather he’d marry you than -me; only, I thought he was too nice a man to be lost to the fam’ly.” - -“Oh, ma!” - -“Well, get to bed now. He’s comin’ in the mornin’ to see you.” - -She took up the lamp and stood holding it irresolutely. - -“Pills,” she said, looking embarrassed, “You won’t ever tell him that I—— -that I——” - -“Never, ma!” exclaimed the girl, earnestly; “as long as I live.” - -“All right, then. Look out! You’re droppin’ tallo’ from your candle! -Don’t hold it so crooked, child! I wouldn’t like him to laugh about it. -Good-night.” - -As she passed through the kitchen she called out: “Oh, Pills! Mr. Jordan -brought in a mess of trout. We’ll have ’em fried for breakfast.” - -The girl came running after her mother, and threw her arms around her. - -“Oh, ma, are you sure you don’t care a bit?” - -“Not a bit,” said Mrs. Mansfield, kissing her heartily. “I just thought -he ought to be in the family. I’m glad it’s turned out this way. Now, you -go to bed, an’ don’t forget to roll up your bangs.” - -She went into her room and shut the door. - - - - -MRS. RISLEY’S CHRISTMAS DINNER - - - - -MRS. RISLEY’S CHRISTMAS DINNER - - -She was an old, old woman. She was crippled with rheumatism and bent -with toil. Her hair was gray,—not that lovely white that softens and -beautifies the face, but harsh, grizzled gray. Her shoulders were round, -her chest was sunken, her face had many deep wrinkles. Her feet were -large and knotty; her hands were large, too, with great hollows running -down their backs. And how painfully the cords stood out in her old, -withered neck! - -For the twentieth time she limped to the window and flattened her face -against the pane. It was Christmas day. A violet sky sparkled coldly over -the frozen village. The ground was covered with snow; the roofs were -white with it. The chimneys looked redder than usual as they emerged from -its pure drifts and sent slender curls of electric-blue smoke into the -air. - -The wind was rising. Now and then it came sweeping down the hill, pushing -a great sheet of snow, powdered like dust, before it. The window-sashes -did not fit tightly, and some of it sifted into the room and climbed -into little cones on the floor. Snow-birds drifted past, like soft, dark -shadows; and high overhead wild geese went sculling through the yellow -air, their mournful “hawnk-e-hawnk-hawnks” sinking downward like human -cries. - -As the old woman stood with her face against the window and her weak eyes -strained down the street, a neighbor came to the door. - -“Has your daughter an’ her fambly come yet, Mis’ Risley?” she asked, -entering sociably. - -“Not yet,” replied Mrs. Risley, with a good attempt at cheerfulness; but -her knees suddenly began shaking, and she sat down. - -“Why, she’d ought to ’a’ come on the last train, hadn’t she?” - -“Oh, I do’ know. There’s a plenty o’ time. Dinner won’t be ready tell two -past.” - -“She ain’t b’en to see you fer five year, has she?” said the neighbor. “I -reckon you’ll have a right scrumptious set-out fer ’em?” - -“I will so,” said Mrs. Risley, ignoring the other question. “Her -husband’s comin’.” - -“I want to know! Why, he just thinks he’s some punkins, I hear.” - -“Well, he’s rich enough to think hisself anything he wants to,” Mrs. -Risley’s voice took on a tone of pride. - -“I sh’u’d think you’d want to go an’ live with ’em. It’s offul hard fer -you to live here all alone, with your rheumatiz.” - -Mrs. Risley stooped to lay a stick of wood on the fire. - -“I’ve worked nigh onto two weeks over this dinner,” she said, “a-seed’n’ -raisins an’ cur’nts, an’ things. I’ve hed to skimp harrable, Mis’ -Tomlinson, to get it; but it’s just—_perfec’_. Roast goose an’ cranberry -sass, an’ cel’ry soup, an’ mince an’ punkin pie,—to say nothin’ o’ -plum-puddin’! An’ cookies an’ cur’nt-jell tarts fer the children. I’ll -hev to wear my old underclo’s all winter to pay fer ’t; but I don’t care.” - -“I sh’u’d think your daughter’d keep you more comf’terble, seein’ her -husband’s so rich.” - -There was a silence. Mrs. Risley’s face grew stern. The gold-colored cat -came and arched her back for a caress. “My bread riz beautiful,” Mrs. -Risley said then. “I worried so over ’t. An’ my fruit-cake smells that -good when I open the stun crock! I put a hull cup o’ brandy in it. Well, -I guess you’ll hev to excuse me. I’ve got to set the table.” - -When Mrs. Tomlinson was gone, the strained look came back to the old -woman’s eyes. She went on setting the table, but at the sound of a wheel, -or a step even, she began to tremble and put her hand behind her ear to -listen. - -“It’s funny they _didn’t_ come on that last train,” she said. “I w’u’dn’t -tell her, though. But they’d ort to be here by this time.” - -She opened the oven door. The hot, delicious odor of its precious -contents gushed out. Did ever goose brown so perfectly before? And -how large the liver was! It lay in the gravy in one corner of the -big dripping-pan, just beginning to curl at the edges. She tested it -carefully with a little three-tined iron fork. - -The mince-pie was on the table, waiting to be warmed, and the pumpkin-pie -was out on the back porch,—from which the cat had been excluded for the -present. The cranberry sauce, the celery in its high, old-fashioned -glass, the little bee-hive of hard sauce for the pudding and the thick -cream for the coffee, bore the pumpkin-pie company. The currant jelly in -the tarts glowed like great red rubies set in circles of old gold; the -mashed potatoes were light and white as foam. - -For one moment, as she stood there in the savory kitchen, she thought of -the thin, worn flannels, and how much better her rheumatism would be with -the warm ones which could have been bought with the money spent for this -dinner. Then she flushed with self-shame. - -“I must be gittin’ childish,” she exclaimed, indignantly; “to begredge -a Chris’mas dinner to ’Lizy. ’S if I hedn’t put up with old underclo’s -afore now! But I will say there ain’t many women o’ my age thet c’u’d git -up a dinner like this ’n’,—rheumatiz an’ all.” - -A long, shrill whistle announced the last train from the city. Mrs. -Risley started and turned pale. A violent trembling seized her. She could -scarcely get to the window, she stumbled so. On the way she stopped at -the old walnut bureau to put a lace cap on her white hair and to look -anxiously into the mirror. - -“Five year!” she whispered. “It’s an offul spell to go without seein’ -your only daughter! Everything’ll seem mighty poor an’ shabby to her, I -reckon,—her old mother worst o’ all. I never sensed how I’d changed tell -now. My! how no-account I’m a gittin’! I’m all of a trimble!” - -Then she stumbled on to the window and pressed her cheek against the pane. - -“They’d ort to be in sight now,” she said. But the minutes went by, and -they did not come. - -“Mebbe they’ve stopped to talk, meetin’ folks,” site said, again. “But -they’d ort to be in sight now.” She trembled so she had to get a chair -and sit down. But still she wrinkled her cheek upon the cold pane and -strained her dim eyes down the street. - -After a while a boy came whistling down from the corner. There was a -letter in his hand. He stopped and rapped, and when she opened the door -with a kind of frightened haste, he gave her the letter and went away, -whistling again. - -A letter! Why should a letter come? Her heart was beating in her throat -now,—that poor old heart that had beaten under so many sorrows! She -searched in a dazed way for her glasses. Then she fell helplessly into a -chair and read it: - - “DEAR MOTHER,—I am so sorry we cannot come, after all. We - just got word that Robert’s aunt has been expecting us all - the time, because we’ve spent every Christmas there. We feel - as if we _must_ go there, because she always goes to so much - trouble to get up a fine dinner; and we knew you wouldn’t do - that. Besides, she is so rich; and one has to think of one’s - children, you know. We’ll come, _sure_, next year. With a - merry, merry Christmas from all, - - “ELIZA.” - -It was hard work reading it, she had to spell out so many of the words. -After she had finished, she sat for a long, long time motionless, looking -at the letter. Finally the cat came and rubbed against her, “myowing” -for her dinner. Then she saw that the fire had burned down to a gray, -desolate ash. - -She no longer trembled, although the room was cold. The wind was blowing -steadily now. It was snowing, too. The bleak Christmas afternoon and -the long Christmas night stretched before her. Her eyes rested upon the -little fir-tree on a table in one corner, with its gilt balls and strings -of popcorn and colored candles. She could not bear the sight of it. She -got up stiffly. - -“Well, kitten,” she said, trying to speak cheerfully, but with a pitiful -break in her voice, “let’s go out an’ eat our Christmas dinner.” - - - - -BOOKS ON NATURE - - -=BADENOCH= (L. N.).—=The Romance of the Insect World.= By L. N. BADENOCH. -With Illustrations by Margaret J. D. Badenoch and others. _Second -Edition._ Gilt top, $1.25. - - “The volume is fascinating from beginning to end, and there are - many hints to be found in the wisdom and thrift shown by the - smallest animal creatures.”—_Boston Times._ - - “A splendid book to be put in the hands of any youth who may - need an incentive to interest in out-door life or the history - of things around him.”—_Chicago Times._ - -=BRIGHTWEN.=—=Inmates of My House and Garden.= By Mrs. BRIGHTWEN. -Illustrated. 12mo, $1.25. - - “One of the most charming books of the season, both as to form - and substance.”—_The Outlook._ - - “The book fills a delightful place not occupied by any other - book that we have ever seen.”—_Boston Home Journal._ - -=GAYE.=—=The Great World’s Farm.= Some Account of Nature’s Crops and How -They are Grown. By SELINA GAYE. With a Preface by G. S. Boulger, F.L.S., -and numerous Illustrations. 12mo, $1.50. - - _The University of California_ expressly commends this to its - affiliated secondary schools for supplementary reading. - - “It is a thoroughly well-written and well-illustrated book, - divested as much as possible of technicalities, and is - admirably adapted to giving young people, for whom it was - prepared, a readable account of plants and how they live and - grow.”—_Public Opinion._ - - “One of the most delightful semi-scientific books, which - everyone enjoys reading and at once wishes to own. Such works - present science in the most fascinating and enticing way, and - from a cursory glance at paragraphs the reader is insensibly - led on to chapters and thence to a thorough reading from cover - to cover.... 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By ERNEST INGERSOLL. -Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth. _In Press._ - -=JAPP= (A. H.).—=Hours in My Garden=, and Other Nature-Sketches. With 138 -Illustrations, $1.75. - - “It is not a book to be described, but to be read in the spirit - in which it is written—carefully and lovingly.”—_Mail and - Express._ - - “It is a book to be read and enjoyed by both young and - old.”—_Public Opinion._ - -=POTTS= (W.).—=From a New England Hillside.= Notes from Underledge. By -WILLIAM POTTS. _Macmillan’s Miniature Series._ 18mo, 75 cents. - - “But the attraction of Mr. Potts’ book is not merely in its - record of the natural year. He has been building a house, and - we have the humors and the satisfactions, and hopes deferred, - that usually attend that business. He has been digging a well, - and the truth which he has found at the bottom of that he has - duly set forth.... Then, too, his village is Farmington, Conn., - and there Miss Porter has her famous schools, and her young - ladies flit across his page and lend their brightness to the - scene. And, moreover, he sometimes comes back to the city, and - he writes pleasantly of his New York club, the Century. Last, - but not least, there are lucubrations on a great many personal - and social topics, in which the touch is light and graceful and - the philosophy is sound and sweet.”—_Brooklyn Standard-Union._ - -=WEED.=—=Life Histories of American Insects.= By Prof. CLARENCE M. -WEED, New Hampshire College of Agriculture and Mechanical Arts. Fully -Illustrated. Cloth. _In Press._ - - -“_AN IDEAL BOOK ON NATURE STUDY._” - -CITIZEN BIRD - -Scenes from Bird Life in Plain English for Beginners. By MABEL OSGOOD -WRIGHT and ELLIOTT COUES. 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