Mary E. Wilkins .......................................................................................................................................1

A LOW stone wall bordered the lane on either side. There were clumps of tansy and yarrow with straggling

bushes of meadowsweet and hardback clustering closely around the loosely piled rocks. Plenty of poison

ivy vines clambered over them too. The lane was narrow and grassy; even the deep wheelruts through the

center were overgrown with grass. And everything was dusty; there had been a little drought lately; the leaves

It was a hot day in August, and about four o'clock in the afternoon. Midway of the lane stood an old twisted

apple tree. Underneath it was a little circle of shade. An old man sat beneath the tree, with his back against

the shaggy, mossy trunk. He was so motionless that a passer through the lane, happening accidentally to

glance his way, would have taken in the fact of the proximity of a second animated being with a strange

He looked as much a part of inanimate nature as the stones in the wall. The sudden conviction of the

possibility of motion in him was enough to send a startled thrill through one. If his eyes had been closed in

sleep, it might have been different; but they were wide open, staring peacefully straight ahead at the

flowering bushes opposite. They were of a light blue color, large and clear, and did not look filmy with age,

His white hair, as fine and thick as wool, stood out on either side of his placid face. He wore no beard. His

mouth was wide and curved slightly, not so much into a smile as into an expression of pleasant serenity. His

rusty, black clothes were loose and baggy; an old valise lay on the grass near him, and a stout stick that had

He staid there motionless for a half hour or so. No one came through the lane to disturb him. The bees and the

butterflies whirred by unceasingly, and the dusty sunbeams, which penetrated the appleboughs here and

there, slanted a little more. Then he arose, took his valise on his arm, and moved slowly up the lane, leaning

A few rods farther on, the lane inclined slightly to the right, and then a small storyandahalf white house,

which marked its terminus, appeared. The lane merged imperceptibly into the grassy door yard. There was a

green curved trellis, which looked like a hood, over the door, and a prairie rose tree clung to it, but the roses

The sun had moved so far toward the west that a cool shadow lay over the front of the house and the yard.

There were two windows on each side of the front door. The blinds of one of them were flung wide open, and

a light haired head of a woman and an arm and hand moving with the regular motion of sewing were

The woman rose quietly and came to the door, when she looked out and saw the old man.

She was a slim, roundshouldered woman. Her light hair was strained back tightly from a full, blueveined

"Yes, it's me; I'm on my summer travels ag'in. How's all your folks, Miss Hatton?"

"Well, Mary Anne ain't very smart. I've been wishin' for some time that you'd come along. She's been takin'

some doctor's stuff, but it ain't seemed to do her much good, and I thought mebby some of your yerbs would

give her a start. Come right in. 'Lijah's out in the field to work, but he'll be real glad to see you. He's said

several times lately that it seemed 's if 'twas 'bout time for you to be comin'."

The old man followed her into the cool, sparselyfurnished sittingroom, and seated himself in the large

"Mary Anne!" she called then, standing in the door, "come, come down stairs; there's somebody here wants to

Mary Anne, a slender girl, who looked like her mother, except that she was younger and sweeter, came down

presently. She walked weakly, there was a bright flush on her soft cheeks, and her blue eyes had an eager,

After a little while, her mother beckoned Dr. Ware furtively out of the room, and they had a whispered

conference out in the kitchen. Mary Anne crept wearily up stairs and laid down on her bed again. Her mother

"There she goes to lay down again," said she; "she don't seem to hev no ambition nor interest in anythin'. Her

father an' me hev tried an' tried, but we can't rouse her a bit. Here's the water for the yerbs, if you've got 'em

Soon a peculiar, pungent steam from the simmering juices of certain medicinal plants floated through the

"There ain't anythin' like this to give anybody an appetite, an' strengthen' of 'em up," he said complacently, as

Many such bowls did poor, ailing Mary Anne empty through the following days. She patiently took

The itinerant vender of herbs, who might have been ranked as a physician after an innocent, primitive

fashion, having a gentle craft in the use of healing plants, staid on. He always stopped awhile with the

A good many people welcomed him gladly to their homes, for that matter. They liked to dose their families

with his herb teas once a year. Then there was a religious sympathy between them too. Most of them

hereabouts were devout Methodists, and he was an ardent member of that denomination.

But Mary Anne, in spite of her long draughts of these bitterish, pungent, aromatic teas, grew no better. Doctor

Ware kept up a scrutiny of her that was shrewd from its very simplicity and singleness.

"There ain't much use in givin' medicine to Mary Anne," he told her mother one day; "thar's troubles that nary

a yerb that grows on this airth's goin' to cure. Mebbe thar's some in the green fields King David sung about."

"You're mistaken about that, Doctor Ware," she said; "I know you are. Mary Anne can't hev nothin' on her

mind; she ain't never hed a thing to fret her. Her father an' me hev allers looked out for her, as ef she'd been a

cossetlamb. She ain't never hed to work hard, an' we've bought her everything we could afford."

That afternoon the old man went into one of the neighboring houses. A large, handsome woman, who was a

"It'll take more than your herbs to cure her, Doctor Ware," said the woman, with a laugh that was not

illnatured, though unpleasantly knowing. "Medicines for the body don't help the mind, I s'pose you know.

You needn't say anythin' about it; her mother'd never forgive me; but the long an' short of the whole business

is, Mary Anne Hatton's lost her beau. That's everythin' that ails her. She's goin' into a decline over it."

"That young Adams feller who lives 'bout a mile below here; you know him. He went with her real stidy last

The old man asked her a few more questions and then took leave. He walked straight down the road to the

Adams farm. Just as he approached it, a young man came out of the yard, leading a horse.

"No, thanky; guess I can't stop. I'll stan' here an' talk a minute. I'm a stoppin' up to 'Lijah Hatton's, mebbe you

"Say of course she ain't I know she ain't. But you don't s'pose she's you don't s'pose it's possible

"It acts more like that than anythin' else, ef I was to say what I really thought."

The young fellow's fair face was all burning with blushes. He looked at the old man, then away again.

"Look here," he stammered, "you ain't heard anything said, have you? You don't suppose it is anything to do

"Well, I've heard a leetle. Look a'here, Henry, mebbe you think it ain't any of my business, an' it ain't reely;

but I'm agoin' to tell you just what I think. You ain't been showin' out yourself to be the kind of young man I

The young man groaned out, "Oh dear!" and hid his face for a minute against his horse's neck.

"Look here," said he, raising his head presently. "I ain't meant to do anything mean. Hang it! I ain't that kind

of a fellow, you know. But I'm young, and I'd been going with Mary Anne pretty steady, and I didn't have

much to get married on, and I reckon I got kind of scared, you know. Then mother she talked some; she

hadn't a thing against her, but she thought I might wait and do a little better. So I thought maybe I'd better

"I never heard a word till this minute about her being sick," he continued. "I've been awful busy and I've been

away. If I had heard, I guess I don't see why mother didn't tell me. She must have known. Well, that's all

there is to it. I ain't been any too happy myself lately. Look here, I'll be up there tonight. Poor little thing! I

"Well, don't you go to feelin' too bad. I dassay you didn't mean no harm, an' if you act like a man about it

That night the old man watched eagerly. He kept sauntering out to the head of the lane and looking, but

Presently the candlelight behind Mary Anne's little curtain went out, and he gave up the watch with

"He's a mean feller after all," he muttered, plodding heavily through the dewy grass back to the house.

Early the next morning, he set out for the Adams place. As he approached the house, he peered about the yard

sharply, but he could see nothing of the delinquent young man. He knocked on the side door, and presently a

She was tall and large, and her blue eyes stared out of her heavy face with a sort of reflective uncertainty,

"Oh, yes, I couldn't think for a minute who you was. It's quite a spell since you've been round. Fine weather

She had a large earthen bowl under her arm, and she was beating eggs in it with a heavy iron spoon as she

talked. She beat energetically, and the spoon made a din against the sides of the bowl.

"No, thanky, Miss Adams, I guess I can't stop. I'm a stayin' up to Hatton's, an' I'm goin' to help him a leetle

"No, not very far. Well, he's been thinkin' of goin' over to his uncle's in Dover for some time."

Mrs. Adams screwed up her mouth moodily between her answers, and beat the eggs fiercely.

"Didn't Henry say nothin' 'bout comin' up to our house last evenin'?" he asked finally.

The woman's eyes flashed suddenly under their drooping lids. The iron spoon jumped in her nervous hand.

"Look ahere, Miss Adams, I'm agoin' to speak to you 'bout it. You're his mother, an' you'd orter hev some

influence over him an' coax him to do what's right, ef he ain't inclined to himself. Mebbe you know somethin'

"Well, she got real kind of interested in him, as near as I can make out, an' he ain't been there lately, an' she's

"You don't want to see that poor child frettin' herself to death before your face and eyes an' not do anythin' to

"I don't want to say another word about it, an' I ain't goin' to! Henry's got to manage his own affairs."

"Guess 'twas Mr. Jackson over there with his oxen. He hollers like all possessed at 'em sometimes.

That morning, out in the hay field, he asked Mr. Hatton, after a long spell of work and reflection:

Mary Anne's father turned around and faced the old man fiercely. His dark, leathery face with heavy seams

about the mouth and eyes worked. He was a slow, taciturn man, and he had never before mentioned this

"I wish the Lord," he said, "I had my hands on that feller sometimes. That's what ails Mary Anne. Come jest

long enough to git her to thinkin' consider'ble of him an' then She ain't tough like some girls, an' she takes

everythin' to heart dreadful. An' there's some things mother an' me can't do for her. We've allers tried to do

everythin'. Seems as there ain't no need of it, an' there ain't. Henry Adams ain't the only feller in the world.

But that don't make no difference to her. There ain't no use scoldin' her. She's failin' every day."

Mary Anne's poor father bore down upon the sweet, dying clover and grasses with his angry foot, and raked

That evening Doctor Ware went down to the Adams house again. As he drew near, he heard a voice singing

to a melodeon accompaniment. When he knocked the music ceased a minute, and Mrs. Adams put her head

The music began again directly. Mrs. Adams had a sweet voice. She had sung in the choir when she was a

girl, and had an enduring love for music, which age and prosaicness could not affect. Her melodeon was her

dear household god. Her voice rang out sweet and shrill in a psalm tune after Doctor Ware, as he plodded up

The next day he went to Dover, a town about six miles distant. Part of the way he rode, begging lifts from

In Dover, he found Henry's uncle's house easily enough, but not Henry. He was not there; had not been there

It was late in the afternoon when the old man reached home. He was stiff and tired, but he did not eat or rest.

He went straight to the Adams' again. He knocked. No one came to the door, but he heard, like an echo to the

knock, the cry that he had heard the other day. The echo was a double and triple one too; it came again and

The poor young fellow, who was hardly more than a boy, was evidently terribly shaken. The words ended in

The old man knelt down on the ground and put his ear close to a tiny grated cellar window. The voice seemed

to come from that direction, though from a long distance; it was almost smothered.

"I'm down here in the cellar in a little room we store things in. Get the key off the kitchen shelf. Oh!"

The house door was not locked. Doctor Ware hastened into the kitchen. There was a bunch of keys on the

corner of the high, drabpainted shelf. He caught them up and opened doors till he found the cellar stairs.

The storeroom, which had served as a dungeon, was a small apartment staunchly petitioned off in a corner

of the cellar. The stone cellar walls formed two of its sides; stout posts and planks the others. The door was

"The little, nasty key!" Henry cried, when he heard his deliverer working at the lock.

"What on airth does all this mean?" asked the old man, when the door was open and the young fellow came

The prisoner's face was white, and his blue eyes looked out of it wild and scared. He sank down on the cellar

"I told her I was goin' over to see Mary Anne. She kinder tried to git me off the notion, and didn't act as ef she

cared much. But when I stuck to it I was goin', she got real upset. I didn't think she minded so much either.

She wanted me to come down here an' bring her up some pork before I started, and she asked me pleasant

enough. She must have come down after me like a cat; I didn't hear her. I was just getting the pork out of the

barrel, when I heard the door bang to and the key turn. I'd left it in the lock. I hollered, but she wouldn't say a

word. I kept screaming about all night and next day, but she wouldn't let me out, and I couldn't raise anybody

else. I'd 'bout given it up when I heard you knock just now. See anything of mother when you come in?"

"No; she left enough for me to eat. There were mince pies stored away there, and a lot of fruit cake. She knew

I wouldn't starve. If I'd had a hatchet or something, I could have broken the door down, but I didn't have so

"I can't help it. Seems as if I should go crazy to think of mother doing such a thing!"

But he arose and went up the stairs inanely, with Doctor Ware following. They had been standing talking in

"That's mother," whispered Henry, and pulled his companion into the sittingroom. They stood there

listening. They heard the door open and the sound of the steps across the kitchen floor. The cellar stairs

There was a cry from below, and the steps returned rapidly. Mrs. Adams walked into the sittingroom

Through all his life, Henry Adams had never seen fear in his mother's face. He saw it now.

"Mother," he said sternly, "I should like to have you tell me what you mean by such actions."

She looked at him with abashed, pleading eyes. His boyish face seemed strange to her. Mrs. Adams was a

keen, shrewd woman; but one of the simplest of the facts in her daily life, which stood out before her

glaringly, she had not noted: her son was no longer her property, but his own. She looked up at him,

"Oh, Henry, I was jest acomin' down to let you out, Henry, I was! I'd been over to the neighborhood meetin',

an' they got to talkin' 'bout her, 'bout Mary Anne, you know. I come right home to let you out. I didn't mean

no harm no how. Only you're all I've got, and her folks ain't very forehanded, an' she's been petted, an' she

"But I've been thinkin' of it over this afternoon," she continued, "an' I thought I wouldn't say anythin' more

'bout it. You could do jest as you was a mind to, an' I'd make the best of it. I was comin' right home to let you

"I'll give you a bottle of my blackberry wine to carry over to her when you go tonight. It'll do her good."

That night when it was dusk, after tea, Mary Anne and her mother were in the sittingroom by the window.

Pretty soon the full moon rose. Doctor Ware came down from his chamber and found Mrs. Hatton by the

window, leaning out cautiously, her face toward the front door. She drew her head in when he entered.

"Mary Anne's got company," she whispered, her lips trembling into smiles. "Henry Adams."

"I know it. I think she seems consider'ble better. Well, I guess I'll say goodbye, Miss Hatton."

"Well, yes; I orter be movin'. I've staid here 'bout long enough. I'm agoin' to Mr. Thomas' tonight an' on to

Somerset tomorrer. I see Thomas this arternoon. I thought 'twould be cooler goin' tonight. You kin tell

"Yes, I'll tell him. Well, goodbye, Doctor Ware, if you feel as if you must go. I hope you'll feel free to come

Before he had left the room, she was peeping from the window again, and straining to listen to the low

murmur of voices on the doorstep. Her face was alive with the tenderest and sweetest curiosity.

The old herbman, coming around the house from a side door, glanced at the young couple seated together

under the green trellis. They must have seen him as he turned off down the lane, but they never spoke a word.

The old man plodded on through the crisp dewwhite grass, between the wet bushes, which were bushes of

THE three old sisters, Rachel and Nancy and Camilla, lived in the house in which they had been born. They

were very old in years the youngest was nearly seventy but they were, after all, the most youthful

maidens in the village. Not a child dragging her dollcarriage past their windows, not a young girl strolling

by in the twilight on her lover's arm, was as young as they, for the youth in them had actually triumphed over

Did not Camilla and Nancy, the two younger, really play at gracehoops sometimes of an evening? The

fantastic old shadows, with stiff rheumatic gestures, apeing the free motions of youth, and the flying hoops,

had been plainly seen on the window curtains after the candles were lighted. The hoops themselves, wound

with faded ribbons, the relics of a graceful sport of their graceful girlhood, hung conspicuously over the

In this same front hall, large and square, hung with old greenish landscape paper, with a spiral stair winding

slowly upward from its midst, the three old sisters were wont to sit in the cool of summer afternoons. At five

o'clock the front door, topped with bull'seyes of dull green glass, was thrown open, and the three appeared,

sitting in state with their embroiderywork. They still embroidered, bending their spectacled eyes painfully

over scallops and sprigs and eyeletholes. They had never outgrown the occupations of their youth, as they

had scarcely outgrown its amusements. It did not seem impossible that Camilla, the youngest, sometimes

However, the strongest evidence of the youth which still survived in their hearts, and answered to their

conceptions of themselves and one another, was in their costumes. The three old sisters, Rachel, Nancy, and

Camilla, sat in their front hall arrayed in bygone silks and muslins, made after the fashions of their girlhood

Scanty ruffled skirts clinging to their wasted limbs the three wore, and low bodices and elbow sleeves,

displaying pitilessly their withered necks and arms, from which all the sweet curves of youth had departed.

Their gray and scanty locks were arranged in ringlets, and garnished with shell combs, and sometimes a

It was inconceivable how one, surveying the others, as they sat there in their gay array, could not have seen in

their faces, if not in her lookingglass, the loss of her youth; but if she did, she made no sign. Not one of

them seemed to have a suspicion that these old costumes did not become them as fairly as ever, and nobody

knew if their illusions ever failed them at the sight of one another's parchment skins, and the hollows between

Always on a pleasant summer afternoon, as they sat there in their front hall, the old Beau came stepping

across the way from his old house, half hidden behind a little grove of pine trees. He was as old as the eldest

sister, but not at all feeble. He carried his handsome white head proudly above his oldfashioned high stock,

The old Beau, while looking, in his morning attire, not so very different from the modern man, clung always

to his old costumes of state. When he crossed the road to the sisters of an afternoon he wore always his silk

bell hat and blue swallowtail coat, with bright brass buttons, and swung, with a fine courtly flourish of the

past, an ancient ivoryheaded cane. No one knew which of the sisters possessed the warmest affection of his

faithful old heart. He had stepped across the road to visit them ever since people could remember. He had

One and then another of the sisters had been supposed to devote her virgin heart to him, and been pining over

his long courtship. Nancy, the middle sister, was the one popularly considered to have especially favored

him. There were vague whispers of more particular attentions paid her in years gone by. Moreover, she had

been the beauty of the family. Tall and willowy in figure, with long brown curls drooping over roseleaf

It seemed probable that she had crept the closest to the heart of the old Beau, but no one really knew. He was

a close man, and quite a student; he lived in his old library, walled in with musty books, and wrote with his

quill pen pages of fine crabbed letters, which no one ever read, nor knew what their subject was. His one

Then, seated, in summertime, in a carved armchair in their front hall, and in the winter in their parlor, with

a damask napkin over his thin knees, he partook of tea in a blue china cup, and poundcake in a blue china

plate. The sisters' maidservant always passed around a teatray in the afternoon an old and genteel custom

Nancy, the middle sister, died first of old age, the town record said, although that seemed impossible, and

the other sisters insisted that it was of a cold upon the lungs. "Consumption is in our mother's family, and

Nancy was always delicate. I never expected she would live to be old," Rachel told the minister when he

After Nancy's death the old Beau drank tea with the other sisters for another summer, then Rachel died, and

there was only Camilla left. He did not make his call every afternoon after that. It was understood that she

had doubts about the strict propriety of such solitary visits, and had prohibited them.

Then it was that the old Beau manifested symptoms of uneasiness. At the hour when he had been accustomed

to call upon his friends he strolled aimlessly about the roads, switching the wayside weeds with his cane.

About three months after Rachel's death, one midsummer Sunday, the old Beau and Camilla walked down the

road together to meeting, and it was said that they had gone to the minister's that morning and been married.

The Bridegroom wore his old dress costume of bell hat and blue swallowtail coat, and held up his handsome

white head like a prince in his high stock, and the Bride minced gently at his side in an ample bridal array of

a longpast fashion and cut. A white bridebonnet, whiteveiled and crowned with white plumes, adorned

the old Bride, and she wore a lustrous white satin gown with a low bodice, a white Canton crape shawl, and

white satin shoes. That bridal costume had, beyond doubt, been prepared years and years gone by for one of

the sisters, in anticipation of youthful love and wedded bliss; but for which? No one ever knew. Some,

indeed, fancied that the white satin breadths were overlong for Camilla, and would better have suited

Nancy, who had been taller, but who could say with certainty, since Camilla stooped with age, and must have

The old Bride passed up the aisle with her old Bridegroom, and a smile of youth that triumphed over age and

memory shone on her old face through her white veil, and no one ever knew whether she wore her own or her

There was a sudden dropping and enlarging of the lower part of the old man's face, as if some heavy weight

had settled therein; he shut his mouth tight, and went on harnessing the great bay mare. He hustled the collar

"Look here, father, I want to know what them men are diggin' over in the field for, an' I'm goin' to know."

"I wish you'd go into the house, mother, an' 'tend to your own affairs," the old man said then. He ran his

But the woman understood; it was her most native tongue. "I ain't goin' into the house till you tell me what

Then she stood waiting. She was a small woman, short and straightwaisted like a child in her brown cotton

gown. Her forehead was mild and benevolent between the smooth curves of gray hair; there were meek

downward lines about her nose and mouth; but her eyes, fixed upon the old man, looked as if the meekness

They were in the barn, standing before the wide open doors. The spring air, full of the smell of growing grass

and unseen blossoms, came in their faces. The deep yard in front was littered with farm wagons and piles of

wood; on the edges, close to the fence and the house, the grass was a vivid green, and there were some

The old man glanced doggedly at his wife as he tightened the last buckles on the harness. She looked as

immovable to him as one of the rocks in his pastureland, bound to the earth with generations of blackberry

"A barn? You ain't goin' to build a barn over there where we was goin' to have a house, father?"

The old man said not another word. He hurried the horse into the farm wagon, and clattered out of the yard,

The woman stood a moment looking after him, then she went out of the barn across a corner of the yard to the

house. The house, standing at right angles with the great barn and a long reach of sheds and outbuildings,

was infinitesimal compared with them. It was scarcely as commodious for people as the little boxes under the

A pretty girl's face, pink and delicate as a flower, was looking out of one of the house windows. She was

watching three men who were digging over in the field which bounded the yard near the road line. She turned

A boy stood before the kitchen glass combing his hair. He combed slowly and painstakingly, arranging his

brown hair in a smooth hillock over his forehead. He did not seem to pay any attention to the conversation.

He turned, and showed a face like his father's under his smooth crest of hair. "Yes, I s'pose I did," he said,

"I don't see what father wants another barn for," said the girl, in her sweet slow voice. She turned again to the

window, and stared out at the digging men in the field. Her tender sweet face was full of a gentle distress. Her

forehead was as bald and innocent as a baby's, with the light hair strained back from it in a row of

curlpapers. She was quite large, but her soft curves did not look as if they covered muscles.

His mother said nothing more. She went into the pantry, and there was a clatter of dishes. The boy got his cap

from a nail behind the door, took an old arithmetic from the shelf, and started for school. He was lightly built,

but clumsy. He went out of the yard with a curious spring in the hips, that made his loose homemade jacket

The girl went to the sink, and began to wash the dishes that were piled up there. Her mother came promptly

out of the pantry, and shoved her aside. "You wipe 'em," said she; "I'll wash. There's a good many this

The mother plunged her hands vigorously into the water, the girl wiped the plates slowly and dreamily.

"Mother," said she, "don't you think it's too bad father's goin' to build that new barn, much as we need a

Her mother scrubbed a dish fiercely. "You 'ain't found out yet we're womenfolks, Nanny Penn," said she.

"You 'ain't seen enough of menfolks yet to. One of these days you'll find it out, an' then you'll know that we

know only what menfolks think we do, so far as any use of it goes, an' how we'd ought to reckon menfolks

in with Providence an' not complain of what they do any more than we do of the weather."

"I don't care; I don't believe George is anything like that, anyhow," said Nanny. Her delicate face flushed

"You wait an' see. I guess George Eastman ain't no better than other men. You hadn't ought to judge father,

though. He can't help it, 'cause he don't look at things jest the way we do. An' we've been pretty comfortable

here, after all. The roof don't leak 'ain't never but once that's one thing. Father kept it shingled right

"I guess it won't hurt George Eastman any to come to see you in a nice clean kitchen. I guess a good many

"Well, I don't think you'd better, a good father an' a good home as you've got. S'pose your father made you go

out an' work for your livin'? Lots of girls have to that ain't no stronger an' better able to than you be."

Sarah Penn washed the fryingpan with a conclusive air. She scrubbed the outside of it as faithfully as the

inside. She was a masterly keeper of her box of a house. Her one livingroom never seemed to have in it any

of the dust which the friction of life with inanimate matter produces. She swept, and there seemed to be no

dirt to go before the broom; she cleaned, and one could see no difference. She was like an artist so perfect

that he has apparently no art. Today she got out a mixing bowl and a board, and rolled some pies, and there

was no more flour upon her than upon her daughter who was doing finer work. Nanny was to be married in

the fall, and she was sewing on some white cambric and embroidery. She sewed industriously while her

mother cooked, her soft milkwhite hands and wrists showed whiter than her delicate work.

"We must have the stove moved out in the shed before long," said Mrs. Penn. "Talk about not havin' things,

it's been a real blessin' to be able to put a stove up in that shed in hot weather. Father did one good thing when

Sarah Penn's face as she rolled her pies had that expression of meek vigor which might have characterized

one of the New Testament saints. She was making mincepies. Her husband, Adoniram Penn, liked them

better than any other kind. She baked twice a week. Adoniram often liked a piece of pie between meals. She

hurried this morning. It had been later than usual when she began, and she wanted to have a pie baked for

dinner. However deep a resentment she might be forced to hold against her husband, she would never fail in

Nobility of character manifests itself at loopholes when it is not provided with large doors. Sarah Penn's

showed itself today in flaky dishes of pastry. So she made the pies faithfully, while across the table she could

see, when she glanced up from her work, the sight that rankled in her patient and steadfast soul the

digging of the cellar of the new barn in the place where Adoniram forty years ago had promised her their new

The pies were done for dinner. Adoniram and Sammy were home a few minutes after twelve o'clock. The

dinner was eaten with serious haste. There was never much conversation at the table in the Penn family.

Adoniram asked a blessing, and they ate promptly, then rose up and went about their work.

Sammy went back to school, taking soft sly lopes out of the yard like a rabbit. He wanted a game of marbles

before school, and feared his father would give him some chores to do. Adoniram hastened to the door and

"I don't see what you let him go for, mother," said he. "I wanted him to help me unload that wood."

Adoniram went to work out in the yard unloading wood from the wagon. Sarah put away the dinner dishes,

while Nanny took down her curlpapers and changed her dress. She was going down to the store to buy some

"I can't leave this wood nohow. I've got to git it unloaded an' go for a load of gravel afore two o'clock.

Sammy had ought to helped me. You hadn't ought to let him go to school so early."

"Father, you come here." Sarah Penn stood in the door like a queen; she held her head as if it bore a crown;

there was that patience which makes authority royal in her voice. Adoniram went.

Mrs. Penn led the way into the kitchen, and pointed to a chair. "Sit down, father," said she; "I've got

He sat down heavily; his face was quite stolid, but he looked at her with restive eyes. "Well, what is it,

"I tell ye I 'ain't got nothin' to say about it, mother; an' I ain't goin' to say nothin'."

"I know you be, as well as I want to. Now, father, look here" Sarah Penn had not sat down; she stood

before her husband in the humble fashion of a Scripture woman "I'm goin' to talk real plain to you: I never

have sence I married you, but I'm goin' to now. I 'ain't never complained, an' I ain't goin' to complain now, but

I'm goin' to talk plain. You see this room here, father; you look at it well. You see there ain't no carpet on the

floor, an' you see the paper is all dirty, an' droppin' off the walls. We 'ain't had no new paper on it for ten year,

an' then I put it on myself, an' it didn't cost but ninepence a roll. You see this room, father; it's all the one

I've had to work in an' eat in an' sit in sence we was married. There ain't another woman in the whole town

whose husband 'ain't got half the means you have but what's got better. It's all the room Nanny's got to have

her company in; an' there ain't one of her mates but what's got better, an' their fathers not so able as hers is.

It's all the room she'll have to be married in. What would you have thought, father, if we had had our weddin'

in a room no better than this? I was married in my mother's parlor, with a carpet on the floor, an' stuffed

furniture, an' a mahogany cardtable. An' this is all the room my daughter will have to be married in. Look

Sarah Penn went across the room as though it were a tragic stage. She flung open a door and disclosed a tiny

bedroom, only large enough for a bed and bureau, with a path between. "There, father," said she "there's

all the room I've had to sleep in for forty year. All my children were born there the two that died, an' the

She stepped to another door and opened it. It led into the small, illlighted pantry. "Here," said she, "is all the

buttery I've got every place I've got for my dishes to set away my victuals in, an' to keep my milkpans in.

Father, I've been takin' care of the milk of six cows in this place, an' now you're goin' to build a new barn, an'

She threw open another door. A narrow crooked flight of stairs wound upward from it. "There, father!" said

she; "I want you to look at the stairs that go up to them two unfinished chambers that are all the places our

son an' daughter have had to sleep in all their lives. There ain't a prettier girl in town nor a more ladylike one

than Nanny, an' that's the place she has to sleep in. It ain't so good as your horse's stall; it ain't so warm an'

Sarah Penn went back and stood before her husband. "Now, father," said she, "I want to know if you think

you're doin' right an' accordin' to what you profess. Here, when we was married, forty year ago, you promised

me faithful that we should have a new house built in that lot over in the field before the year was out. You

said you had money enough, an' you wouldn't ask me to live in no such place as this. It is forty year now, an'

you've been makin' more money, an' I've been savin' of it for you ever since, an' you 'ain't built no house yet.

You've built sheds, an' cowhouses an' one new barn, an' now you're goin' to build another. Father, I want to

know if you think it's right. You're lodgin' your dumb beasts better than you are your own flesh an' blood. I

"You can't say nothin' without ownin' it ain't right, father. An' there's another thing I ain't complained; I've

got along forty year, an' I s'pose I should forty more, if it wa'n't for that if we don't have another house,

Nanny she can't live with us after she's married. She'll have to go somewheres else to live away from us, an' it

don't seem as if I could have it so, noways, father. She wa'n't ever strong. She's got considerable color, but

there wa'n't never any backbone to her. I've always took the heft of everything off her, an' she ain't fit to keep

house an' do everything herself. She'll be all worn out inside of a year. Think of her doin' all the washin' an'

ironin' an' bakin' with them soft white hands an' arms, an' sweepin'! I can't have it so, noways, father."

Mrs. Penn's face was burning; her mild eyes gleamed. She had pleaded her little cause like a Webster; she

had ranged from severity to pathos; but her opponent employed that obstinate silence which makes eloquence

"I've got to go off after that load of gravel. I can't stan' here talkin' all day."

"Father, won't you think it over, an' have a house built there instead of a barn?"

Adoniram shuffled out. Mrs. Penn went into her bedroom. When she came out, her eyes were red. She had a

roll of unbleached cotton cloth. She spread it out on the kitchen table, and began cutting out some shirts for

her husband. The men over in the field had a team to help them this afternoon; she could hear their halloos.

Nanny came home with her embroidery, and sat down with her needlework. She had taken down her

curlpapers, and there was a soft roll of fair hair like an aureole over her forehead; her face was as delicately

fine and clear as porcelain. Suddenly she looked up, and the tender red flamed all over her face and neck.

"I've been thinkin' I don't see how we're goin' to have any weddin' in this room. I'd be ashamed to have

"Mebbe we can have some new paper before then; I can put it on. I guess you won't have no call to be

"We might have the weddin' in the new barn," said Nanny, with gentle pettishness. "Why, mother, what

Mrs. Penn had started, and was staring at her with a curious expression. She turned again to her work, and

Presently Adoniram clattered out of the yard in his twowheeled dump cart, standing as proudly upright as a

Roman charioteer. Mrs. Penn opened the door and stood there a minute looking out; the halloos of the men

It seemed to her all through the spring months that she heard nothing but the halloos and the noises of saws

and hammers. The new barn grew fast. It was a fine edifice for this little village. Men came on pleasant

Sundays, in their meeting suits and clean shirt bosoms, and stood around it admiringly. Mrs. Penn did not

speak of it, and Adoniram did not mention it to her, although sometimes, upon a return from inspecting it, he

"It's a strange thing how your mother feels about the new barn," he said, confidentially, to Sammy one day.

Sammy only grunted after an odd fashion for a boy: he had learned it from his father.

The barn was all completed ready for use by the third week in July. Adoniram had planned to move his stock

in on Wednesday; on Tuesday he received a letter which changed his plans. He came in with it early in the

morning. "Sammy's been to the postoffice," said he, "an' I've got a letter from Hiram." Hiram was Mrs.

"I guess they're all right. He says he thinks if I come up country right off there's a chance to buy jest the kind

Mrs. Penn was making pies. She went on clapping the rollingpin into the crust, although she was very pale,

"I dunno' but what I'd better go," said Adoniram. "I hate to go off jest now, right in the midst of hayin', but

the tenacre lot's cut, an' I guess Rufus an' the others can git along without me three or four days. I can't get a

horse round here to suit me, nohow, an' I've got to have another for all that woodhaulin' in the fall. I told

Hiram to watch out, an' if he got wind of a good horse to let me know. I guess I'd better go."

She laid out Adoniram's Sunday suit and his clean clothes on the bed in the little bedroom. She got his

shaving water and razor ready. At last she buttoned on his collar and fastened his black cravat.

Adoniram never wore his collar and cravat except on extra occasions. He held his head high, with a rasped

dignity. When he was all ready, with his coat and hat brushed, and a lunch of pie and cheese in a paper bag,

he hesitated on the threshold of the door. He looked at his wife, and his manner was defiantly apologetic. "If

them cows come today, Sammy can drive 'em into the new barn," said he; "an' when they bring the hay up,

Adoniram set his shaven face ahead and started. When he had cleared the doorstep, he turned and looked

back with a kind of nervous solemnity. "I shall be back by Saturday if nothin' happens," said he.

She stood in the door with Nanny at her elbow and watched him out of sight. Her eyes had a strange, doubtful

expression in them; her peaceful forehead was contracted. She went in, and about her baking again. Nanny

sat sewing. Her wedding day was drawing nearer, and she was getting pale and thin with her steady sewing.

Mrs. Penn's face, as she worked, changed, her perplexed forehead smoothed, her eyes were steady, her lips

firmly set. She formed a maxim for herself, although incoherently with her unlettered thoughts. "Unsolicited

opportunities are the guideposts of the Lord to the new roads of life," she repeated in effect, and she made up

"S'posin' I had wrote to Hiram," she muttered once, when she was in the pantry "s'posin' I had wrote, an'

asked him if he knew of any horse? But I didn't, an' father's goin' wa'n't none of my doin'. It looks like a

Mrs. Penn hurried her baking; at eleven o'clock it was all done. The load of hay from the west field came

slowly down the cart track, and drew up at the new barn. Mrs. Penn ran out. "Stop!" she screamed "stop!"

The men stopped and looked; Sammy upreared from the top of the load, and stared at his mother.

"Stop!" she cried out again. "Don't you put the hay in that barn; put it in the old one."

"Why, he said to put it in here," returned one of the haymakers, wonderingly. He was a young man, a

"Don't you put the hay in the new barn; there's room enough in the old one, ain't there?" said Mrs. Penn.

"Room enough," returned the hired man, in his thick, rustic tones. "Didn't need the new barn, nohow, far as

room's concerned. Well, I s'pose he changed his mind." He took hold of the horses' bridles.

Mrs. Penn went back to the house. Soon the kitchen windows were darkened, and a fragrance like warm

Nanny laid down her work. "I thought father wanted them to put the hay into the new barn?" she said,

"I ain't goin' to get a regular dinner today, as long as father's gone," said his mother. "I've let the fire go out.

You can have some bread an' milk an' pie. I thought we could get along." She set out some bowls of milk,

some bread, and a pie on the kitchen table. "You'd better eat your dinner now," said she. "You might jest as

Nanny and Sammy stared at each other. There was something strange in their mother's manner. Mrs. Penn did

not eat anything herself. She went into the pantry, and they heard her moving dishes while they ate. Presently

she came out with a pile of plates. She got the clothesbasket out of the shed, and packed them in it. Nanny

and Sammy watched. She brought out cups and saucers, and put them in with the plates.

"What you goin' to do, mother?" inquired Nanny, in a timid voice. A sense of something unusual made her

"You'll see what I'm goin' to do," replied Mrs. Penn. "If you're through, Nanny, I want you to go up stairs an'

pack up your things; an' I want you, Sammy, to help me take down the bed in the bedroom."

During the next few hours a feat was performed by this simple, pious New England mother which was equal

in its way to Wolfe's storming of the Heights of Abraham. It took no more genius and audacity of bravery for

Wolfe to cheer his wondering soldiers up those steep precipices, under the sleeping eyes of the enemy, than

for Sarah Penn, at the head of her children, to move all her little household goods into the new barn while her

Nanny and Sammy followed their mother's instructions without a murmur; indeed, they were overawed.

There is a certain uncanny and superhuman quality about all such purely original undertakings as their

mother's was to them. Nanny went back and forth with her light loads, and Sammy tugged with sober energy.

At five o'clock in the afternoon the little house in which the Penns had lived for forty years had emptied itself

Every builder builds somewhat for unknown purposes, and is in a measure a prophet. The architect of

Adoniram Penn's barn, while he designed it for the comfort of fourfooted animals, had planned better than

he knew for the comfort of humans. Sarah Penn saw at a glance its possibilities. Those great boxstalls, with

quilts hung before them, would make better bedrooms than the one she had occupied for forty years, and

there was a tight carriageroom. The harnessroom, with its chimney and shelves, would make a kitchen of

her dreams. The great middle space would make a parlor, byandby, fit for a palace. Up stairs there was as

much room as down. With partitions and windows, what a house would there be! Sarah looked at the row of

stanchions before the allotted space for cows, and reflected that she would have her front entry there.

At six o'clock the stove was up in the harnessroom, the kettle was boiling, and the table set for tea. It looked

almost as homelike as the abandoned house across the yard had ever done. The young hired man milked,

and Sarah directed him calmly to bring the milk to the new barn. He came gaping, dropping little blots of

foam from the brimming pails on the grass. Before the next morning he had spread the story of Adoniram

Penn's wife moving into the new barn all over the little village. Men assembled in the store and talked it over,

women with shawls over their heads scuttled into each other's houses before their work was done. Any

deviation from the ordinary course of life in this quiet town was enough to stop all progress in it. Everybody

paused to look at the staid, independent figure on the side track. There was a difference of opinion with

regard to her. Some held her to be insane; some, of a lawless and rebellious spirit.

Friday the minister went to see her. It was in the forenoon, and she was at the barn door shelling pease for

dinner. She looked up and returned his salutation with dignity, then she went on with her work. She did not

invite him in. The saintly expression of her face remained fixed, but there was an angry flush over it.

The minister stood awkwardly before her and talked. She handled the pease as if they were bullets. At last she

looked up, and her eyes showed the spirit that her meek front had covered for a lifetime.

"There ain't no use talkin', Mr. Hersey," said she. "I've thought it all over an' over, an' I believe I'm doin'

what's right. I've made it the subject of prayer, an' it's betwixt me an' the Lord an' Adoniram. There ain't no

"Well, of course if you have brought it to the Lord in prayer, and feel satisfied that you are doing right, Mrs.

Penn," said the minister, helplessly. His thin graybearded face was pathetic. He was a sickly man; his

youthful confidence had cooled; he had to scourge himself up to some of his pastoral duties as relentlessly as

"I think it's right jest as much as I think it was right for our forefathers to come over from the old country

'cause they didn't have what belonged to 'em," said Mrs. Penn. She arose. The barn threshold might have been

Plymouth Rock from her bearing. "I don't doubt you mean well, Mr. Hersey," said she, "but there are things

people hadn't ought to interfere with. I've been a member of the church for over forty year. I've got my own

mind an' my own feet, an' I'm goin' to think my own thoughts an' go my own ways, an' nobody but the Lord is

goin' to dictate to me unless I've a mind to have him. Won't you come in an' set down? How is Mis' Hersey?"

"She is well, I thank you," replied the minister. He added some more perplexed apologetic remarks; then he

He could expound the intricacies of every character study in the Scriptures, he was competent to grasp the

Pilgrim Fathers and all historical innovators, but Sarah Penn was beyond him. He could deal with primal

cases, but parallel ones worsted him. But, after all, although it was aside from his province, he wondered

more how Adoniram Penn would deal with his wife than how the Lord would. Everybody shared the wonder.

When Adoniram's four new cows arrived, Sarah ordered three to be put in the old barn, the other in the house

shed where the cookingstove had stood. That added to the excitement. It was whispered that all four cows

Toward sunset on Saturday, when Adoniram was expected home, there was a knot of men in the road near the

new barn. The hired man had milked, but he still hung around the premises. Sarah Penn had supper all ready.

There were brownbread and baked beans and a custard pie; it was the supper that Adoniram loved on a

Saturday night. She had on a clean calico, and she bore herself imperturbably. Nanny and Sammy kept close

at her heels. Their eyes were large, and Nanny was full of nervous tremors. Still there was to them more

pleasant excitement than anything else. An inborn confidence in their mother over their father asserted itself.

Sammy looked out of the harnessroom window. "There he is," he announced, in an awed whisper. He and

Nanny peeped around the casing. Mrs. Penn kept on about her work. The children watched Adoniram leave

the new horse standing in the drive while he went to the house door. It was fastened. Then he went around to

the shed. That door was seldom locked, even when the family was away. The thought how her father would

be confronted by the cow flashed upon Nanny. There was a hysterical sob in her throat. Adoniram emerged

from the shed and stood looking about in a dazed fashion. His lips moved; he was saying something, but they

could not hear what it was. The hired man was peeping around a corner of the old barn, but nobody saw him.

Adoniram took the new horse by the bridle and led him across the yard to the new barn. Nanny and Sammy

slunk close to their mother. The barn doors rolled back, and there stood Adoniram, with the long mild face of

Nanny kept behind her mother, but Sammy stepped suddenly forward, and stood in front of her.

Adoniram stared at the group. "What on airth you all down here for?" said he. "What's the matter over to the

"We've come here to live, father," said Sammy. His shrill voice quavered out bravely.

"What" Adoniram sniffed "what is it smells like cookin'?" said he. He stepped forward and looked in

the open door of the harnessroom. Then he turned to his wife. His old bristling face was pale and frightened.

"You come in here, father," said Sarah. She led the way into the harnessroom and shut the door. "Now,

father," said she, "you needn't be scared. I ain't crazy. There ain't nothin' to be upset over. But we've come

here to live, an' we're goin' to live here. We've got jest as good a right here as new horses an' cows. The house

wa'n't fit for us to live in any longer, an' I made up my mind I wa'n't goin' to stay there. I've done my duty by

you forty year, an' I'm goin' to do it now; but I'm goin' to live here. You've got to put in some windows and

"You'd better take your coat off an' get washed there's the washbasin an' then we'll have supper."

Sammy went past the window, leading the new horse to the old barn. The old man saw him, and shook his

head speechlessly. He tried to take off his coat, but his arms seemed to lack the power. His wife helped him.

She poured some water into the tin basin, and put in a piece of soap. She got the comb and brush, and

smoothed his thin gray hair after he had washed. Then she put the beans, hot bread, and tea on the table.

Sammy came in, and the family drew up. Adoniram sat looking dazedly at his plate, and they waited.

All through the meal he stopped eating at intervals, and stared furtively at his wife; but he ate well. The home

food tasted good to him, and his old frame was too sturdily healthy to be affected by his mind. But after

supper he went out and sat down on the step of the smaller door at the right of the barn, through which he had

meant his Jerseys to pass in stately file, but which Sarah designed for her front house door, and he leaned his

After the supper dishes were cleared away and the milkpans washed, Sarah came out to him. The twilight

was deepening. There was a clear green glow in the sky. Before them stretched the smooth level of field; in

the distance was a cluster of haystacks like the huts of a village; the air was very cool and calm and sweet.

Sarah bent over and touched her husband on one of his thin, sinewy shoulders. "Father!"

Adoniram was like a fortress whose walls had no active resistance, and went down the instant the right

besieging tools were used. "Why, mother," he said, hoarsely, "I hadn't no idee you was so set on't as all this

A STRONG soft south wind had been blowing the day before, and the trees had dropped nearly all their

leaves. There were left only a few brownishgolden ones dangling on the elms, and hardly any at all on the

maples. There were many trees on the street, and the fallen leaves were heaped high. Mrs. Wilson Torry's

little door yard was ankle deep with them. The air was full of their odor, which could affect the spirit like a

The minister had been calling on Mrs. Torry that afternoon, and now he stood facing her on the porch, taking

leave. He was very young, and this was his first parish. He was small and light and mildlooking; still he had

considerable nervous volubility. The simple village women never found him hard to entertain.

Now, all at once, he made an exclamation, and fumbled in his pocket for a folded paper. "There," said he, "I

nearly forgot this. Mr. Plainfield requested me to hand this to you, Mrs. Torry. It is a problem which he has

been working over; he gave it to me to try, and wanted me to propose, when I called, that you should see

She seized it eagerly. "Well, I'll see what I can do; but you an' he mustn't make no great calculations on me.

You know I don't know anything about the 'rithmetic books an' the rules they hev nowadays; but I'm willin' to

"Oh, you'll have it done while Mr. Plainfield and I are thinking of it, Mrs. Torry."

"He had not at last accounts, and I have not," replied the young man, laughing, but coloring a little.

The old lady's eyes gleamed as she looked at him, then at the paper. "I dare say I can't make head nor tail of

She had something of a childish air as she stood there. She was slender, and so short that she was almost

dwarfed; her shoulders were curved a little by spinal disease. She had a small round face, and a mouth which

widened out innocently into smiles as she talked. Her eyes looked out directly at one, like a child's; over them

"You have always been very fond of mathematics, haven't you, Mrs. Torry?" said the minister, in his slow

"Arithmetic is a very fascinating study, I think," remarked the minister, trying to slide easily off the subject

"'Tis to me. An' there's somethin' I was thinkin' about this very forenoon seein' all them leaves on the

ground made me, I s'pose. It's always been a sight of comfort to me to count. When I was a little girl I'd 'most

rather count than play. I used to sit down an' count by the hour together. I remember a little pewter porringer I

had, that I used to fill up with beans an' count 'em. Well, it come into my head this forenoon what a blessed

privilege it would be to count up all the beautiful things in this creation. Just think of countin' all them red an'

goldcolored leaves, an' all the grapes an' apples in the fall; an' when it come to the winter, all the flakes of

snow, an' the sparkles of frost; an' when it come to the spring, all the flowers, and blades of grass, an' the little

new light green leaves. I don' know but you'll think it ain't exactly reverent, but it does seem to me that I'd

rather do that than sing in the other world. Mebbe somebody does have to do the countin'; mebbe it's singin'

She stared up into the warm blue air, in which the bare branches of the trees glistened, with a sweet, solemn

The minister in a bewildered way pondered all the old woman had said, as he rustled down the street. Later,

Mr. Plainfield (the young highschool teacher) and he would have discussion over it. They often talked over

After her caller had gone, the old woman entered the house. On the left of the little entry was the best room,

where she had been entertaining the minister; on the right, the kitchen. A young girl was in there eating an

"A few minutes ago. School's just out. I came in the back door, and heard him talking, so I kept still."

"Nothin' but a sum the minister brought me to do. He an' Mr. Plainfield have been workin' over it."

"Let me see. He didn't get it out of any of our books, I know. We never had anything like this."

"I s'pose it's one he come across somewhere. I guess I'll sit down and look at it two or three minutes."

An old bureau stood against the wall; on it were arranged four religious newspapers in the exact order of their

issues, the latest on top, Farmers' Almanacs for the last four years filed in the same way, and a slate

surmounted by an old arithmetic. The pile of newspapers was in the middle; the slate and almanacs were on

Letty, soberly eating her apple, watched her grandmother getting out the arithmetic and slate. She was a

pretty young girl; her small innocent face, in spite of its youthful roundness and fairness, reminded people of

"I don't think much of Mr. Plainfield, anyhow," said she, as the click of her grandmother's pencil on the slate

began; "and he knows I don't. He overheard me telling Lizzie Bascom so today. He came right up behind us

"I don't see what you've got agin him," remarked Mrs. Torry, absently, as she dotted down figures.

"I haven't much of anything that I know of against him, only I don't think he's much of a teacher. He can't to

examples as quickly as you, I know, and I don't think a man has any business to be schoolteaching if he

Mrs. Torry stopped her work, and fixed her round unwinking eyes full on the girl's face.

"Letty Torry, there's some things you don't understand. You never will understand 'em, if you live to be as old

as Methuseleh, as far as that's concerned. But you'll get so you know the things air. Sometimes it don't make

any difference if anybody's ignorant, an' 'ain't got any booklearnin'; air old, an' had a hardworkin' life.

There'll be somethin' in 'em that everybody else 'ain't got; somethin' that growed, an' didn't have to be learned.

I've got this faculty; I can cipher. It ain't nothin' agin Mr. Plainfield if he 'ain't got it; it's a gift."

Her voice took on a solemn tone and trembled. Letty looked at her with childish wonder. "Well," said she,

with a subdued manner, "he has no right to teach, anyhow, without it. I guess I'll have another apple. I was

So Letty ate another apple silently while her grandmother worked at the problem again.

She did not solve it as easily as usual. She worked till midnight, her little lamp drawn close to her on the

"It ain't goin' to do for me to set up any longer," said she, forlornly, as she replaced the slate on the bureau. "I

shall be sick if I do. But I declare I don't see what's got into me. I hope I ain't losin' my faculty."

She could not sleep much. The next morning, as soon as their simple breakfast was eaten and Letty had gone

When Letty came home at noon she found her grandmother still at work, and no dinner ready.

"I do declare!" cried the old woman. "You don't mean to say you're home, Letty! It ain't twelve o'clock, is it?"

"I 'ain't got one mite of dinner ready, then. I've been so took up with the sum I hadn't no idea how the time

"Oh, I'll get some bread and milk, grandma; just as soon have it as anything else. Got the problem done?"

"No, I 'ain't. I feel real bad about your dinner. I'll kindle up a fire now an' fry you an egg there be time

After Letty had gone to school for the afternoon, and Mrs. Torry had been working fruitlessly for an hour

Tears stood in her eyes. "I won't give up that I am, anyhow," said she, and took the pencil again.

When Letty returned in the latter part of the afternoon, she scarcely knew it, with the full meaning of the

word. She saw her, but her true consciousness was so full of figures that Letty's fair face could only look in at

Letty ran in hastily; a young girl was waiting for her outside. "Oh, grandma," cried Letty, "Lizzie's going to

Ellsworth to do an errand for her mother; she's coming back on the last train. Can't I go with her?"

"Goodby," said she, looking back at the intend old figure; but she got no answer.

"Grandma's so taken up with an example she's got that she doesn't know anything," she told her friend when

she was outside. "She didn't answer when I said goodby; she forgot to get dinner today too."

Mrs. Torry worked on and on. She never looked up nor thought of anything else until it grew so dark that she

could not see her figures. "I'll have to light the lamp," said she, with a sigh.

After it was lit she went to work again. She never thought of wanting any supper, though she had eaten

The kitchen clock struck seven Letty should have been home then eight, and nine, but she never

noticed it. A few minutes afterward some one knocked on the door. She ciphered on. Then the knocks were

"Somebody's knockin', I guess," she muttered, and opened the door. Mr. Plainfield stood there. He was a

handsome young man with rosy cheeks; he was always smiling. He looked past her into the room inquiringly.

"Why, yes, I guess she has." Mrs. Torry opened the door at the foot of the stairs. "Letty! Letty!"

"I guess she must be asleep," said she, turning to the young man, who had stepped into the kitchen. "Want me

The old woman climbed the steep, uncarpeted stairs, feebly, with a long pat on every step. She came down

faster, reckless of her trembling uncertainty. "She ain't there! Letty's gone! Where is she?"

"Lizzie just told me that she missed her in the depot. She left her there for a minute while she went back for

something she had forgotten. When she came back she was gone. The train was all ready, and Lizzie thought

she must be on it, so she got on herself. She did not see her in the depot here, and has been crying about it,

and afraid to tell till just now. I came right over as soon as I knew about it."

"Oh, Letty! Letty! Where's Letty? Oh, Mr. Plainfield, you go an' find her! Go right off! You will, won't you?

"I always liked Letty," said the young man, brokenly. "I'll find her don't you worry."

"Oh, Letty, Letty! Where is she? What shall I do? That little bit of a thing and she was always one of the

frightened kind out all alone; an' it's night! She never went to Ellsworth alone in her hull life. She didn't

know nothin' about the town, an' she didn't have a cent of money in her pocket."

"I'll send Mrs. Bascom over to stay with you," Mr. Plainfield called back as he hurried off.

Soon Mrs. Bascom came, poking her white, nervous face in the door inquiringly. "She 'ain't come?"

"Oh, Mis' Torry, I do feel so bad about it I don't know what to do. If Lizzie had only told before! but there she

was upstairs crying, and afraid to tell. I've been scolding her, but she felt so bad I had to stop. She called me,

an' told me finally; an' I guess 'twa'n't long before Mr. Plainfield started off, to find out if she was home. It

was lucky he was boarding with us. He'll find her if anybody can; he's as quick as lightning. He turned

"Now, don't give up so, Mis' Torry. He'll find her. She can't be very far off. You'll see her walking in here

first thing you know. He's got a real fast team, an' he's started for Ellsworth now. He went past me like a

streak when I was coming up the road. He'll have her back safe and sound before morning."

"Oh, Letty! Letty! Oh, what shall I do? It's my own fault, every mite of it's my own fault. 'Tis; you don't

know nothin' about it. The minister brought me a sum, he an' Mr. Plainfield had been workin' on, to do,

yesterday afternoon, an' I jest sat an' ciphered half the night, an' all day. I didn't know no more what Letty

asked me, when she came in from school, than nothin' at all. I didn't more'n half know when she come. I

"I guess I shouldn't let her gone, all alone with your Lizzie, to come home after dark in the last train, little

delicate thing as she was. I guess I shouldn't; an' I guess I should have started up an' done something, if I'd

known, when she wasn't here at train time. I didn't get the sum done, an' I'm glad of it; it seems to me jest as

"I guess there ain't much bein' calm. I tell you what 'tis, Mis' Bascom. I've been a wicked woman. I've been

thinkin' so much of this faculty I've had for cipherin' that I've set it afore everything I hev. Only yesterday

that poor child didn't hev any dinner but crackers an' milk, 'cause I was so took up with the sum that I forgot

it. An' she was jest as patient as a lamb about it; said she'd rather hev crackers an' milk than anything else.

"I can't help it. It don't make no difference what folks are born with a faculty for whether it's cipherin', or

singin', or writin' poetry the love that's betwixt human beings an' the help that's betwixt 'em ought to come

first. I've known it all the time, but I've gone agin it, an' now I've got my pay. What shall I do?"

Mrs. Bascom remained with her all night, but she could not pacify her in the least. She was nearly distracted

The next day people flocked to the house to inquire if there was any news from Letty, and to comfort her

grandmother. Sympathy seemed fairly dripping like fragrant oil from these simple, honest hearts; but the poor

old woman got no refreshing influence from it. She kept on her old strain in their ears. She had lost Letty, and

it was all her own fault, and what should she do? Mr. Plainfield did not come home. The minister took his

place in school. Nothing was heard until noon; then a telegram from the teacher came. He thought he was on

Next day there was a second message: Letty was safe; coming home as soon as possible. The following day

passed then, and not another word came. The old grandmother's faith and hope seemed to have deserted her.

She knew Letty was not found; she never would be found. She and Mr. Plainfield were both lost now.

"The worst of it is," she told Mrs. Bascom one afternoon, with a fierce indignation at herself, "I can't help

thinkin' about that awful sum now after all that's happened. Them figgers keep troopin' into my head right in

the midst of my thinkin' about Letty. It's all I can do to let that slate alone, an' not take it off the bureau. But I

won't I won't if it kills me not to. An' all the time I jest despise myself for it; alettin' my faculty for

cipherin' get ahead of things that's higher an' sacreder. I do think I've lost my faculty now, an' I 'most hope I

hev. But it won't make no difference 'bout Letty now. Oh dear! dear! What shall I do?"

On the fourth day after Letty's disappearance, between six and seven o'clock in the evening, Mrs. Torry was

sitting alone in her kitchen. The last sympathizer had gone home to eat her supper.

The distressed old woman had drank* a cup of tea; that was all she would touch. The pot was still on the

stove. There was a soft yellow light from the lamp over the room. The warm air was full of the fragrance of

Mrs. Torry sat looking over at the bureau. She would have looked the same way if she had been starving and

"Oh," she whispered, "if I could only work on that sum a little while, it does seem as if 'twould

comfort me more'n anything. Oh Lord! I wonder if I was to blame? 'Twas the way I was made, an' I couldn't

help that. P'rhaps I should hev let Letty gone, an' she'd been lost, anyway. I wonder if I hev lost my faculty?"

She sat there looking over at the slate. At last she rose and started to cross the room. Midway she stopped.

"Oh, what am I doin'? Letty's lost, an' I'm goin' to cipherin'! S'pose she should come in an' ketch me? She'd be

so hurt she'd never get over it. She wouldn't think I cared anything about her."

She stood looking at the slate and thinking for a moment. Then her face settled into a hard calm.

"Letty won't come back she won't never come back. I might as well cipher as anything else."

She went across the room, got the slate and pencil, and returned to her seat. She had been ciphering for a

minute or so when a sound outside caused her to start and stop. She sat with mouth open and chin trembling,

listening. The sound came nearer; it was at the door. Of all the sweet sounds which had smote that old

woman's ears since her birth songs of birds, choral hymns, Sabbath bells there had been none so sweet

as this. It was Letty's thin girlish treble which she heard just outside the door.

For a second, as she sat listening, her face was rapt, angelic; in spite of its sallowness and wrinkles it might

have figured in an altarpiece. Then it changed. The slate was in her lap. What would Letty think?

It was all passing swiftly; the doorlatch rattled; she slipped the slate under her gingham apron, and sat still.

"Oh, poor grandma!" cried Letty, running in; "you've been frightened 'most to death about me, haven't you?"

"I have; but I did have the dreadfulest time. I got carried 'way out West on an express train. Just think of it! I

got on the wrong train while I was waiting for Lizzie. I was frightened almost to death. But Mr. Plainfield

telegraphed ahead. He found out where I was going, and they took me to a hotel; and then he came for me.

The young man was standing smiling behind Letty. She looked astonished when her grandmother did not rise

When Mr. Plainfield left, in a few moments, Letty gave a halfdefiant, halfashamed glance at her

When she returned, Mrs. Torry was standing by the table pouring out a cup of tea for her. The slate was in its

"Grandma," said Letty, blushing innocently, "I thought I ought to say something to Mr. Plainfield, you know.

I hadn't, and I knew he heard what I said to Lizzie that day. I thought I ought to ask his pardon, when he'd

done so much for me. I've made up my mind that I do like him. There's other things besides doing arithmetic

"I guess there is, child. Them things is all second. I think I'd rather have a man who hadn't got any special

"Ain't you going too, grandma?" asked she, turning around, lamp in hand, at the foot of the stairs.

"Pretty soon, child; pretty soon. I've got a little somethin' I want to do first."

The grandmother sat up till nearly morning working over the problem. Once in a while she would lay down

her slate and climb upstairs and peep into Letty's little peaceful girlchamber to see if she was safe.

"If I have got that dear child, and 'ain't lost my faculty, it's more'n I deserve," muttered she, as she took her

The next evening the minister came over. "So Letty's come," he said, when Mrs. Torry opened the door.

"Oh, you get used to it. After you'd lived here forty year, an' seen ev'rythin' slantendicular in the wind the

whole 'durin' time, you'd get so you wouldn't think much about it. You'd feel slantendicular yourself."

"I do b'lieve you have grown kind of sideways, Lucy Ann. Don't you think she has, Emmeline?"

Mrs. Elkins asked the question of her sister, Mrs. Emmeline Cares. Mrs. Cares kept her fair, large face intent

upon her sewing. "I've said she had, time an' time again; but you ain't paid no attention to it," she replied,

"Well, I dunno but you have," Mrs. Elkins said apologetically; "but I ain't realized it till just now. Can't you

Mrs. Sands stood at the kitchen table rolling out biscuits for tea. She smiled the shrewdly reflective smile of a

philosopher. "Well, mebbe I hadn't ought to," said she; "but I dunno as it makes much difference. I ain't so

young as I was once, an' mebbe if I don't lay out any extry strength in holdin' of myself up straight I'll last the

"I should think you'd have a little more regard for your own looks," said Mrs. Cares in a calm, indignant

"Land! I dunno as I'd know myself if I met myself out awalkin' on the bluff," returned Mrs. Sands; "I don't

"If you jest tried to think of it, an' stood up straight, an' didn't allow yourself to lean over so, it wouldn't take

"If folks won't listen to what folks say, an' don't have no regard to how they look, there ain't no use talkin'. I'll

Mrs. Sands said no more; she put the pans of biscuit into the oven with a sober air. Her two sisters sat sewing

with their nice, voluminous black skirts gathered carefully up from contact with the kitchen floor. They had

followed Mrs. Sands into the kitchen when she went out to prepare tea. They came from a town ten miles

inland, and were spending the day with her. Their horse and buggy were out in the shed behind the house.

The two visiting sisters were trussed up tightly in their fine black gowns, there were gleams of jet upon their

high bosoms, there were nice ruffles in their necks and sleeves, their faded light hair was arranged in snugly

Mrs. Sands, beside them, showed plainly the marks of the sea upon her; since she had been exposed to the

buffetings of its strong salt winds she had changed as much as the coast. Her complexion had been similar to

her sisters', fair, although not blonde; now all the fresh tints were gone out of it, and it could well assimilate

with the grays and browns of the rocks and seaweeds down on the shore. She was tall and lean, and leaned

sideways, as her sister claimed; she wore a loose, limp, brown dress, and her hair had a rough stringiness over

After she had put the biscuits into the stove oven she sat down for a minute. She could not fry the fish until

Emmy returned; she had gone down to the store after some saltpork. The kitchen had a small, dark interior;

it was plastered, and the plaster and unpainted woodwork were brown with smoke. All the color in the room

was in a row of tomatoes ripening on the windowsill. The one window looked upon a stretch of windswept

yard. The edge of the bluff and the sea were upon the other side of the house. The wind was from landward: it

beat upon the house in great gusts; now and then a window rattled. The visiting sisters sewed: Mrs. Elkins

was using red worsted in some fancy work; Mrs. Cares took nice stitches in some fine white cloth and

embroidery. Her daughter was getting ready to be married, and she was doing some needlework for her.

Mrs. Sands kept her eyes fixed upon the work of her sister Mrs. Cares; finally she spoke. "I s'pose you an'

"I guess we have," Mrs. Cares assented; "all we can spring to. Susy's about wore out."

"It's a good deal of a strain on a girl, gettin' ready to be married. I dunno how Emmy'd stand it." Mrs. Sands

fixed her sober eyes upon the wild sky visible through the window, the corners of her thin mouth curved in a

Mrs. Cares shook out her work, and took a dainty stitch with a jerk. "I ruther guess it's a strain."

"It ain't the sewin' alone, neither. She's up pretty late two nights a week, too, an' that tells on her."

"Yes; I dunno of anythin' that tells on anybody's looks quicker than bein' up late nights. Emmy's been up

"Yes, it is real handsome. How much do you get for Susy's skirts, Emmeline? I s'pose I've got to buy some

"Well, that's about what I thought. Emmy's got to have some new skirts, I s'pose, by an' by."

"It's one of the handsomest dresses for a bride to come out in that I ever see," Mrs. Elkins chimed in

Mrs. Sands took her eyes from the window. She turned them towards her sisters, a dark blush crept over her

"Well, I must say I never thought Emmy'd get anybody," said Mrs. Cares. "Not that she ain't a real good girl,

but she ain't never seemed to me like one that would get married. Who is it, Lucy Ann?"

"He's a real likely young man. He owns a boat; got in yesterday. I s'pose he'll be up tonight."

"I shouldn't wonder if he had. He's done pretty well, they say, an' he's stiddy as a clock."

"What's his name?" Mrs. Cares asked the question with a frown between her eyes. Mrs. Elkins bent forward,

"Yes; the others are dead, you know. He's all the one left of the family. He sold the house last year; now he

Mrs. Sands's face twitched a little. "Well, I dunno," she said. "I dunno as they've got quite so fur as that yet."

Mrs. Cares's eyes, fastened upon her sister's, grew sharper. "How long has he been comin' here?"

"Well, I dunno. He's been away a spell now. He come here awhile before he went."

"Well, he must have been comin' a month if he's been courtin' at all if he meant anythin' serious."

"Well, I dunno but 'twas about a month in all; he's been comin' an' goin' with his boat. It's kinder hard to

"Well," said Mrs. Cares, "you take my advice, Lucy Ann, an' don't you be too sure. You can't tell about these

young fellers. They're more 'n likely not to mean anythin', an' Emmy's a real good girl; but she ain't one of the

The door opened then, and Emmy entered. She had a brown paper parcel, and she handed it at once to her

Emmy was not as tall as her mother; she was very thin, and there was a little stoop in her slight shoulders.

Her young face looked darkly and gravely from under her windbeaten hat; a draggled plume trailed over the

"It's all blown to pieces in this wind," remarked Mrs. Sands. She was slicing the pork.

Emmy removed her hat soberly, and straightened the plume and the ribbon. She had a complexion like her

mother's, and the winds had beaten all the brightness out of it. Her blue eyes looked as strange in her sallow

face as blue violets would have looked in sand. She had tried to curl her front hair, but the wind had taken out

all the curls, and the straight locks hung over her temples. She wore a cheap, blue gingham dress; she and her

mother had tried to fashion it after the style of some of the cottagers' costumes. There were plaitings and

Emmy's aunts surveyed her sharply; finally Mrs. Elkins spoke with a titter: "Well, Emmy, is he comin' up

Emmy gave a great start. She looked scared and pitiful, but she answered rather shortly, "I don't know of

anybody that's comin'." Then she went quickly into the sittingroom. Presently her mother followed, and

Mrs. Sands walked around, and looked at her with a kind of sharp tenderness. "What is it?" she asked; "what's

"Yes, there is, too. You needn't tell me. I saw the minute you come in somethin' had come across you. What

"Did you see anything of him?" Mrs. Sands's voice dropped to a whisper. Emmy nodded as if she were forced

Mrs. Sands stood looking at Emmy. "He'd ought to be ashamed of himself," said she. "Don't you mind nothin'

Emmy strained back her straggling front hair and pinned it tightly; her full forehead showed, and her face, no

"I don't know why he ain't worth it," said she. "I don't know why he'd ought to be ashamed of himself goin' to

"He ain't been here long. He ain't never asked me to have him. He ain't beholden to go with me if he don't

"The pork's burnin'," said she, "an' I guess you'll have to turn it over, Lucy Ann; I'm afraid of its spatterin' on

"Nothin'," answered Mrs. Sands; and she went out and turned the pork and fried the fish. Emmy set the table;

Pretty soon her father came, a large man lumbering wearily across the yard with a wheelbarrow load of

potatoes. He was a small farmer. He had a nervous face although it was so fleshy, and he looked at his wife

and Emmy with an anxious frown between his eyes. He did not say much to his sistersinlaw: he had been

As soon as he could he beckoned his wife into the sittingroom. "Come in here a minute, Lucy Ann," said he.

When he had shut the door he looked at her impressively. "What do ye think I see?" he whispered

Mrs. Sands held the knife with which she turned the fish. "I know it," said she, impatiently. "Emmy see 'em."

"Yes; she met 'em when she was comin' home from the store. I've got to go an' turn the fish; I can smell 'em

"I couldn't see as she did. She acted kind of touchy. I can't stan' here, or them fish will be burnt to a cinder.

You'd better get you out a clean pockethandkerchief before you come to the table."

Supper, with its companyfare of fried fish, hot biscuits, and a frosted cake, was quite late. The guests had to

take their leave directly afterward, as they had a long drive. Mr. Sands brought the horse and buggy around,

and Mrs. Sands got out her sisters' bonnets and wraps. She watched them as they put on their little

flowertopped bonnets and adjusted their lace veils over their crimps. She had not had a bonnet so fine for

years, but she felt no envy. She seldom looked in the glass, and never except to see if she were tidy. The sea

had seemed to cultivate a certain objectiveness in her since she had lived near it. It was as if the relative

When the sisters were in the buggy they walked the horse across the yard to the road, and Mrs. Sands walked

at the side, talking. When she reached the road Mrs. Cares, who was driving, reined in the horse. A young

Mrs. Cares tightened the reins. "Well," said she, "I guess you'll find out there's somethin' in what I told you,

Lucy Ann. It ain't best to be too sure. Well, mebbe she'll find somebody else, now that the ice is broke.

Mrs. Sands stood beside a great wild rose bush and watched her sisters drive down the wood. The twilight

was coming fast, but the full moon was rising, and it would be light in spite of the clouds, so there would be

Mrs. Sands returned to the house, the sweep of the wind strong at her back. Emmy was washing the dishes.

Emmy said nothing more. She kept on washing and wiping the teathings. The corners of her mouth dropped,

but nerve and resolution were in the motion of her elbows. After the dishes were put away she sat down with

some sewing. Her mother sat opposite with her knittingwork. Mrs. Sands knitted fast, pursing her lips

tightly and wrinkling her forehead. She and Emmy scarcely spoke during the evening. At nine o'clock there

was a step at the door, and a sudden red flamed over Emmy's face; her mother started. "There, I told you to

change your dress," she whispered. But the door opened and it was only Isaac Sands. He stepped in

Mrs. Sands shook her head. Pretty soon Emmy laid aside her work and went upstairs to bed in her plain little

room. After she was in bed she lay listening to the murmur of her parents' voices in the room below. She

knew they were talking about her. She felt intense shame that they should be discussing her love matters. It

seemed sometimes to this little soul, setting forth for the first time out of her harbor of youth, as if the

friendly watchers on the pier caused her more discomfort than the roughness of the voyage. It seemed to

When she went down in the morning her mother looked sharply at her. "You don't look as if you'd slept a

That morning she went about as usual helping her mother; she was always very quiet. When her father came

home at noon he had the news that Jim Parsons was going to stay in town a week. Whether Emmy watched or

not, her father and mother watched every day for her recreant lover to come, but he did not. He was seen

walking and riding with the other girl. Isaac kept a sharp watch upon him, then came home and reported to

his wife. They said little about it to Emmy. Emmy, meek and small and quiet, had little dignity about her, but

there was a certain reserve which produced the same effect. Her parents were somewhat shy of imposing

In the mean time Jim Parsons, a young fellow with eyes as blue and bold as the sea, with a rough, hard grace

in his sinewy figure, and a rude, merry way, had troubled himself about Emmy more than people knew. Once

or twice he had met her on the bluff, his brown face had blushed darkly, and he had stammered forth some

greeting. But Emmy had looked quite soberly and calmly at him and returned his greeting, and he had said to

himself that she did not care. If he had been charged with offense he would have believed in his own freedom

from guilt; left to himself he was not quite sure, and disliked to meet Emmy on the bluff. He was a strange

person to have thought twice of Emmy Sands, but she had had her attraction for him, and she had it now.

Many a night Jim Parsons was upon the verge of forsaking his new love and returning to his old, but the

beauty and the imperious ways of the new one held him. If Flora Marsh had not been in the village within

sight and hearing, Emmy would at any time have regained her lover. Simple and uncritical as she was, she

"It's because Flora came in his way, and she's pretty; if he were only away from her he wouldn't think so

much more of her," she used to think to herself when she sat sewing so busily and nobody could tell that she

was thinking at all. Emmy had even discovered how Jim's first deflection came about. When he came in from

his cruise Flora and some other girls had been down at the landing. There had been joking, and she had as

good as asked him in her way, whose prettiness disguised its boldness, to take her to ride. Thus it had gone

Jim was to leave on a Thursday, sailing over to Rockland for some stores and a part of his crew, then off the

next morning on his fishing cruise. The night before Emmy said to herself, "This is the last night she'll have

On Thursday all the sky was red at sunset, the northeast wind blew, and the sea looked beaten flat beneath it;

outside the surf it had a metallic calmness. Gulls were flying over a long rock that jutted out into the water a

little distance down the coast. Isaac Sands, out early bringing a pail of water over the bluff from a neighbor's

"Guess we're goin' to have a gale," he remarked when he entered the house. Emmy, helping her mother get

breakfast, thought to herself that Jim was going out that afternoon. All that morning she watched the sky.

There was a strange, wild glow in it, and the wind increased. There were patches of ghastly green light, like

rafts on the sea. At noon when Isaac came home to dinner he had the weather gossip from the store where he

"They say down to Capen's," he reported, "that there's goin' to be the biggest blow of the season. Old Cap'n

Lawrence says he ain't never see it look much worse in this part of the world. If he was in the West Indies, he

says, he'd be certain there'd be a hurricane. They say Jim Parsons's goin' over to Rockland this afternoon

anyhow, an' they think he's crazy to do it. He ain't got no sense to start out a day like this, nor his crew

neither. They're all young fellers as careless as he is. Three on 'em's over to Rockland anyhow. I guess if the

"Well, I don't want nobody to get drownded," said Mrs. Sands, "but I must say I wouldn't care if Jim Parsons

"I guess there ain't much scare in him; he's a crazyheaded young feller," responded Isaac, grimly.

Emmy said nothing. She did not eat much dinner. Afterward she watched the sky again. Her mother kept

watching her with a severe and impatient air. "Emmy Sands, what ails you this afternoon?" she said once,

About five o'clock her father came in. "Jim Parsons ain't gone yet, an' if he goes tonight he an' his crew will

go to the bottom before they ever get to Rockland," said he. "'Tain't far there, but it's one of the roughest little

cruises on the coast. He'd ought to have gone in the daytime if he was goin' at all. He's gone to carry that

Marsh girl out to ride, and he ain't got home yet. It'll be dark as a pocket before he gets started. Old Cap'n

Lawrence says he's been out in about as rough water as anybody, but he'd be hanged if he'd sail that boat over

to Rockland tonight. An' there won't none of them other fellers say nothin'; they're hangin' round waitin', an'

they look as uneasy as fish out of water, but they ain't goin' to hang back. Young Blake he's the oldest on 'em,

an' he ain't over twentyfive. I guess if they had any folks here they wouldn't start out; but they ain't."

"If Jim Parsons don't know no better than to start out tonight he'd ought to be taken up," said Mrs. Sands. "If

he wants to go get drownded himself I dunno as anybody'd care much, but when it comes to drowndin' other

"They're all a crazy set," said Isaac. He was not working that afternoon, he was too nervous with the

approaching storm. He went back and forth between the house and the store on ostensible errands, but in

reality for the gratification of his restless spirit. Pretty soon he arose again. "Well, I s'pose I've got to go down

to Capen's again," said he. "I forgot to ask him if he wanted any of them turnips."

After her father had gone Emmy went too, slipping out the front way; her mother was in the kitchen. She

pulled her hat down over her ears to keep it on, and went down the little footpath over the crest of the bluff.

She had not put on any shawl or sack; her meager little figure, wavering in the blast, stood out darkly against

the wild sky. Everything on the bluff looked gigantic in the wind, which seemed to widen and lengthen

everything. The fringe of coarse grass on the edge of the bluff looked like a weedy forest. Emmy passed by

the row of summer cottages all shut up and deserted now; and the great festoons of spiders' webs on the

piazza, oscillating in the wind, held spiders which looked like tropical ones. Emmy went on. There were

some sails in the harbor. There was one in the west which she eyed intently. anchored opposite it lay a dory;

there were some men on the beach near it. Jim was not among them. Emmy, swaying in the wind, stood on

the bluff behind them and made sure of that. She turned and ran back along the bluff. She passed her own

house and went on to the store. The rough weather had driven the row of lounging men inside. There was

scarcely a clear space between the visitors perched upon boxes and barrels and propped against counters and

walls. Emmy's father was sitting on a barrel. She pushed up to him. "Is he goin' tonight, father?" she

Nobody had overheard Emmy's and her father's whispered conversation, but one of the men took it up. It was

"I wouldn't give that for his chances," he exclaimed. "That boat will go to the bottom with all on board afore

Emmy hurried out of the store without another word. Her father called after her, but she did not hear him. She

ran along the bluff again. The sun was low in a red glare of sky and ragged violet and orange clouds. The sky

and clouds appeared as close to the sea as the coast; it was as if the sun was passing to some infernal shore.

Emmy went nearly to her own house, then she struck across lots to the highway. She hurried down the road

until she came to the house where Flora Marsh lived. It was a fine house for this little coast village. It had

green blinds, and a bay window at one side. Emmy knocked at the front door, and Flora opened it.

"Why, hullo, Emmy!" said she. Then she stood staring at her. There was a soft pink glow all over Flora's

delicate blonde face that showed she had just been out in the wind. She was prettily dressed.

"I don't know what you mean, Emmy Sands." Flora's manner was at once pert and confused.

"Yes; can't you? They say it's awful dangerous. There's a terrible gale comin'. He'll be drowned."

"It ain't. They all say it ain't. He's terrible careless. He'll be drowned. Can't you stop him?"

Flora looked at her; her sweet, full brows contracted. The wind blew so that the girls could hardly stand

against it; their very words seemed to be tossed about passing from one to the other. "Come in a minute," said

"It won't take any longer in the house than it will here. Somebody'll hear us if we talk here, we have to holler

Emmy followed Flora into the house, into the parlor. Flora shut the door. "I wish you'd tell me now what you

Flora hesitated. She fingered a tidy on the back of a chair. "To tell the truth," said she, "I've told him once I

didn't think he ought to go; but it didn't do any good. You can't keep him back an inch if you tell him it ain't

safe. He ain't afraid of anything. If I ask him to stay because it's dangerous to go it'll just make him all the

Flora looked at Emmy. She drew a long breath. "I don't know what to make of you, Emmy Sands."

"Emmy Sands, how you act! I ain't engaged to him. I can't make him stay any more 'n you can."

There came an odd look into Flora's face. "Look here," said she; "do you know what you're doing? I ain't

engaged to him. Jim Parsons is an awful flirt. He's going off to be gone quite awhile. Maybe when he comes

back he'll come to see you again. I've bid him goodby, and we ain't engaged. It would be a good deal safer

for you if you let him go. There, I like him well enough, but I'm going to tell you the truth about it, anyhow.

It would be a good deal safer for you if he didn't come to see me again before he goes. You know what I

Emmy threw her head back; her voice rang out sharply. "What do you suppose I care about that?" said she.

"Do you suppose I'm comin' here because I want to marry him? Do you suppose, if he wants you and you

want him, I'd lift my finger to get him back? Get him back there ain't any gettin' him back; THE CREST

he ain't never said he thought of marryin' me. Marryin'! What's marryin'? It ain't marryin'; it's life an' death

that's to be thought of! What difference do you suppose it makes to me who he marries, if he ain't drowned in

that awful sea tonight? Why don't you go if you care anythin' about him? What are you stoppin' for? He'll be

She went out into the entry and put on her hat and jacket. Emmy opened the outer door and stood waiting. "I

The two girls hurried across to the bluff. Emmy kept looking at Flora. "Tuck up your hair a little under your

"Well, I'll do the best I can. If I get him, I'll come up the other steps and go by your house. You watch."

Flora sank from sight directly, going down some steps over the face of the bluff, and Emmy went home. It

was time to get supper, but she stole upstairs to her own room and sat down at the window that overlooked

the sea. The breakers gleamed out in the dusk like white fire. It was not long before two figures, a man and a

woman, passed below her window. The woman uplifted her face and looked at the house.

Mrs. Sands called at the foot of the stairs: "Emmy, where be you? Supper's all ready."

"I'm comin'," answered Emmy. She went down into the lamplighted room, and her father and mother looked

at her, then at each other. She appeared almost pretty. There was quite a red flush on her sallow cheeks, and

After supper Isaac Sands went down to the store again. Emmy and her mother sat by the kitchen fire and

sewed. The gale increased; they could hear the breakers on this side of the house with all the windows closed.

"I ruther guess Jim Parsons will wish he'd staid on shore," remarked Mrs. Sands. "Well, if folks will be so

headstrong and foolhardy, they've got to take the consequences." There was a grim satisfaction in her tone.

When Isaac came home he was dripping with rain. "It's an awful night," he burst forth when he opened the

"No. Young Blake was down to Capen's; he said Jim backed out. The Marsh girl come down an' talked to

him, an' he guessed she persuaded him not to go. Guessed it would have been his last cruise if he had."

That night the gale was terrific; the rain, driven before it, rattled upon the windows like bullets. The house

rocked like a tree. Nobody could sleep much. In the morning it rained still, the spray from the ocean dashed

over the footpath on the bluff, the front windows were obscured by a salt mist. Jim Parsons with all his

recklessness could not put out to sea that day. It was three days before he could go. Then the sun shone, the

sea was calmer, although still laboring with the old swell of the storm, and he went out in the afternoon,

The day after he went Emmy met Flora Marsh on the bluff. She was going by with only a greeting, but Flora

Flora stood before her as if wanting to say something. She blushed and looked confused. Emmy made a

"I guess he'd run considerable risk if he had gone that night," Flora remarked flutteringly.

"He'd been lost if he had," returned Emmy. Then she passed on. Flora stood aside for her. Suddenly Emmy

Then the two girls went their ways. It was not long before the news of Flora Marsh's engagement to Jim

Emmy's father and mother heard it, but they said nothing about it to her; they wondered if she knew. It was

If Emmy knew it, it did not apparently affect her at all. She kept faithfully on in her homely little course. She

was interested in all that she had been; there was no indication that any sharp, unsatisfied, new taste had

dulled the old ones. Her mother felt quite easy about her, although her pride and indignation rallied whenever

she thought of Jim Parsons. When he returned from his cruise, and the wedding was appointed the week after,

she was unable not to speak of it to Emmy. The day but one before the wedding she began suddenly in a

Emmy faced her mother. "Mother, once for all, he didn't treat me bad. I guess I know more about it than you

"Well, if you want to stick up for him, you can. I'm sure it ain't nothin' to me who he marries, if it ain't to you.

It was just after dinner. Emmy went to the door to shake the tablecloth and saw her aunts driving into the

yard. They had come to make a visit; they were going to spend the night, and drive home the next morning.

The aunts had not been seated very long before the subject of the wedding was opened. Flora Marsh had been

to their town to buy her wedding clothes, the dressmaker there had made her dress, and they had seen it. They

knew all about the matter, how it was to be only a family wedding, and how Jim and Flora were going to

Boston. Emmy sat and listened quite calmly. Once, when she had gone out of the room for a minute, Mrs.

"I forgot he used to go with her once," she whispered. "She don't mind hearin' it, does she?"

"Land, no," replied Mrs. Sands. "She didn't care nothin' about him. Emmy ain't one of the kind to set her heart

much on any feller. I'm thankful enough she didn't have him. He ain't got no stability, an' never will have. He

The morning of the wedding the Sands family arose early. The aunts wished to start for home in good season.

The sun was only a little way above the horizon when Emmy opened her window and looked out. It was a

beautiful morning. Over in the east the sun stood; behind him lay what looked like a golden land of glory.

The sea was calm, the ripples in the forward path of the sun shone like sapphires and rubies and emeralds.

Emmy's small, plain face looked upon it all from her window. Her cheeks were dull and blue with the chilly

air; there was no reflection of the splendid morning in her face. But beneath it, in the heart of this simple,

humble young woman of the seaboard, with a monotone of life behind her and one stretching before, was

IN Acton there were two churches, an Orthodox and a Baptist. They stood on opposite sides of the road, and

the Baptist edifice was a little farther down than the other. On Sunday morning both bells were ringing. The

Baptist bell was much larger, and followed quickly on the soft peal of the Orthodox with a heavy brazen

clang which vibrated a good while. The people went flocking through the street to the irregular jangle of the

bells. It was a very hot day, and the sun beat down heavily; parasols were bobbing over all the ladies' heads.

More people went into the Baptist church, whose society was much the larger of the two. It had been for the

last ten years ever since the Orthodox had settled a new minister. His advent had divided the church, and a

good third of the congregation had gone over to the Baptist brethren, with whom they still remained.

It is probable that many of them passed their old sanctuary today with the original stubborn animosity as

active as ever in their hearts, and led their families up the Baptist steps with the same strong spiritual pull of

One old lady, who had made herself prominent on the opposition, trotted by this morning with the identical

wiry vehemence which she had manifested ten years ago. She wore a full black silk skirt, which she held up

Some of the stanch Orthodox people glanced at her amusedly. One fleshy, fairfaced girl in blue muslin said

to her companion, with a laugh: "See that old lady trailing her best black silk by to the Baptist. Ain't it

ridiculous how she holds on showing out? I heard some one talking about it yesterday."

The girl colored up confusedly. "Oh dear!" she thought to herself. The lady with her had an unpleasant

history connected with this old church quarrel. She was a small, bony woman in a shiny purple silk, which

was strained very tightly across her sharp shoulderblades. Her bonnet was quite elaborate with flowers and

plumes, as was also her companion's. In fact, she was the village milliner, and the girl was her apprentice.

When the two went up the church steps, they passed a man of about fifty, who was sitting thereon well to one

side. He had a singular face a mild forehead, a gently curving mouth, and a terrible chin, with a look of

strength in it that might have abashed mountains. He held his straw hat in his hand, and the sun was shining

The milliner half stopped, and gave an anxious glance at him; then passed on. In the vestibule she stopped

Margy entered the audienceroom then, as if fairly brushed in by the imperious wave of a little knotty hand,

and Esther Barney stood waiting until the rush of entering people was over. Then she stepped swiftly back to

the side of the man seated on the steps. She spread her large black parasol deliberately, and extended the

"If you're determined on setting out in this broiling sun, Marcus Woodman, you jest take this parasol of mine

She threw all the force there was in her intense, nervous nature in her tone and look, but she failed in her

attempt, because of the utter difference in quality between her own will and that with which she had to deal.

They were on so different planes that hers slid by his with its own momentum; there could be no contact even

of antagonism between them. He sat there rigid, every line of his face stiffened into an icy obstinacy. She

"I've been athinking I ain't drove jest now that maybe I'd come over an' see her some day this week."

He rose politely then. "Wish you would, Esther. Mother'd be real pleased, I know."

"Well, I'll see Wednesday, p'rhaps, if I ain't too busy. I must go in now; they're 'most through singing."

"About the parasol thank you jest the same if I don't take it. Of course you know I can't set out here

holding a parasol; folks would laugh. But I'm obliged to you all the same. Hope I didn't say anything to hurt

"Oh no; why, no, Marcus. Of course I don't want to make you take it if you don't want it. I don't know but it

would look kinder queer, come to think of it. Oh dear! they are through singing."

"Say, Esther, I don't know but I might as well take that parasol, if you'd jest as soon. The sun is pretty hot, an'

"I might have known better than to have gone at him the way I did," thought Esther to herself, when she was

seated at last in the cool church beside Margy. "Seems as if I might have got used to Marcus Woodman by

She did not see him when she came out of church; but a little boy in the vestibule handed her the parasol,

She and Margy passed down the street toward home. Going by the Baptist church, they noticed a young man

She began to laugh after they had passed him. "Did you see that fellow stare?" said she. "Hope he'll know me

"That's George Elliot; he's that old lady's son you was speaking about this morning."

She did, and speedily, too. That glimpse of Margy Wilson's pretty, new face for she was a stranger in the

town had been too much for George Elliot. He obtained an introduction, and soon was a steady visitor at

Esther Barney's house. Margy fell in love with him easily. She had never had much attention from the young

men, and he was an engaging young fellow, small and brighteyed, though with a nervous persistency like

"I'm going to have it an understood thing," Margy told Esther, after her lover had become constant in his

attentions, "that I'm going with George, and I ain't going with his mother. I can't bear that old woman."

But poor Margy found that it was not so easy to thrust determined old age off the stage, even when young

Love was flying about so fast on his butterfly wings that he seemed to multiply himself, and there was no

room for anything else, because the air was so full of Loves. That old mother with her trailing black skirt and

her wiry obstinacy, trotted as unwaveringly through the sweet stir as a ghost through a door.

One Monday morning Margy could not eat any breakfast, and there were red stains around her blue eyes.

"Why, what's the matter, Margy?" asked Esther, eying her across the little kitchen table.

"Nothing's the matter. I ain't hungry any to speak of, that's all. I guess I'll go right to work on Mis' Fuller's

"I'd try an' eat something if I was you. Be sure you cut that velvet straight, if you go to work on it."

When the two were sitting together at their work in the little room back of the shop, Margy suddenly threw

her scissors down. "There!" said she, "I've done it; I knew I should. I've cut this velvet bias. I knew I should

There was a droll pucker on her mouth; then it began to quiver. She hid her face in her hands and sobbed.

"George and I had a talk last night. We've broke the engagement, an' it's killing me. An' now I've cut this

"For the land's sake, don't mind anything about the velvet. What's come betwixt you an' George?"

"His mother horrid old thing! He said she'd got to live with us, and I said she shouldn't. Then he said he

wouldn't marry any girl that wasn't willing to live with his mother, and I said he wouldn't ever marry me,

then. If George Elliot thinks more of his mother than he does of me, he can have her. I don't care. I'll show

"Well, I don't know, Margy. I'm real sorry about it. George Elliot's a good, likely young man; but if you didn't

want to live with his mother, it was better to say so right in the beginning. And I don't know as I blame you

Margy dried her eyes defiantly, and took up the velvet again. "I've spoilt this velvet. I don't see why being

There was a whimsical element in Margy which seemed to roll uppermost along with her grief.

Esther looked a little puzzled. "Never mind the velvet, child: it ain't much, anyway." She began tossing over

some ribbons to cover her departure from her usual reticence. "I'm real sorry about it, Margy. Such things are

hard to bear, but they can be lived through. I know something about it myself. You knew I'd had some of this

"Yes, about Marcus Woodman. I'll tell you what 'tis, Margy Wilson, you've got one thing to be thankful for,

and that is that there ain't anything ridickerlous about this affair of yourn. That makes it the hardest of

anything, according to my mind when you know that everybody's laughing, and you can hardly help

"No, he ain't crazy; he's got too much will for his commonsense, that's all, and he will teeter the sense a little

too far into the air. I see all through it from the beginning. I could read Marcus Woodman jest like a book."

"Well, I s'pose love's the strongest when there ain't any good reason for it. They say it is. I can't say as I ever

really admired Marcus Woodman much. I always see right through him; but that didn't hinder my thinking so

much of him that I never felt as if I could marry any other man. And I've had chances, though I shouldn't

"Course I did. Do you s'pose I was going to marry a man who made a laughingstock of himself that way?"

"I don't see how he ever come to do it. It's the funniest thing I ever heard of."

"I know it. It seems so silly nobody 'd believe it. Well, all there is about it, Marcus Woodman's got so much

mulishness in him it makes him almost miraculous. You see, he got up an' spoke in that church meeting when

they had such a row about Mr. Morton's being settled here Marcus was awful set again' him. I never could

see any reason why, and I don't think he could. He said Mr. Morton wa'n't doctrinal; that was what they all

said; but I don't believe half of 'em knew what doctrinal was. I never could see why Mr. Morton wa'n't as

good as most ministers enough sight better than them that treated him so, anyway. I always felt that they

was really setting him in a pulpit high over their heads by using him the way they did, though they didn't

"Well, Marcus spoke in that church meeting, an' he kept getting more and more set every word he said. He

always had a way of saying things over and over, as if he was making steps out of 'em, an' raising of himself

up on 'em, till there was no moving him at all. And he did that night. Finally, when he was up real high, he

said, as for him, if Mr. Morton was settled over that church, he'd never go inside the door himself as long as

he lived. Somebody spoke out then I never quite knew who 'twas, though I suspected an' says, 'You'll

"Everybody laughed at that but Marcus. He didn't see nothing to laugh at. He spoke out awful set, kinder

gritting his teeth. 'I will set on the steps fifty years before I'll go into this house if that man's settled here.'

"I couldn't believe he'd really do it. We were going to be married that spring, an' it did seem as if he might

listen to me; but he wouldn't. The Sunday Mr. Morton begun to preach, he begun to set on them steps, an' he's

set there ever since, in all kinds of weather. It's a wonder it 'ain't killed him; but I guess it's made him tough."

"Feel bad? Of course he did. He took on terribly. But it didn't make any difference; he wouldn't give in a

hair's breadth. I declare it did seem as if I should die. His mother felt awfully too she's a real good woman.

I don't know what Marcus would have done without her. He wants a sight of tending and waiting on; he's

"Well, it's all over now, as far as I'm concerned. I've got over it a good deal, though sometimes 't makes me

jest as mad as ever to see him setting there. But I try to be reconciled, and I get along jest as well, mebbe, as

if I'd had him I don't know. I fretted more at first than there was any sense in, and I hope you won't."

"I ain't going to fret at all, Miss Barney. I may cut bias for a while, but I sha'n't do anything worse."

A good deal of it was talk with Margy; she had not as much courage as her words proclaimed. She was

capable of a strong temporary resolution, but of no enduring one. She gradually weakened as the days without

her lover went on, and one Saturday night she succumbed entirely. There was quite a rush of business, but

through it all she caught some conversation between some customers two pretty young girls.

The next Sunday night, coming out of meeting with Miss Barney, she left her suddenly. George Elliot was

one of a waiting line of young men in the vestibule. She went straight up to him. He looked at her in

"Good evening," she whispered, and stood looking up at him piteously. She was white and trembling.

At last he stepped forward and offered her his arm suddenly. In spite of his resentment, he could not put her

to open shame before all his mates, who were staring curiously. When they were out in the dark, cool street,

"Oh, George, let her live with us, please. I want her to. I know I can get along with her if I try. I'll do

"Don't cry, Margy. There's nobody's looking give us a kiss. It's been a long time; 'ain't it, dear? So you've

"Well, I don't believe she ever will, Margy. She's about made up her mind to go and live with my brother

Edward, whether or no. So you won't be troubled with her. I dare say she might have been a little of a trial as

"I'm mighty glad you did. I tell you what it is, dear, I don't know how you've felt, but I've been pretty

They passed Esther Barney's house, and strolled along half a mile further. When they returned, and Margy

stole softly into the house and upstairs, it was quite late, and Esther had gone to bed. Margy saw the light was

not out in her room, so she peeped in. She could not wait till morning to tell her.

"No; I guess not. She's going to live with Edward. But I told him I was willing she should. I've about made up

my mind it's a woman's place to give in mostly. I s'pose you think I'm an awful fool."

"No, I don't; no, I don't, Margy. I'm real glad it's all right betwixt you an' George. I've seen you weren't very

They talked a little longer; then Margy said "Goodnight," going over to Esther and kissing her. Being so

rich in love made her generous with it. She looked down into the older woman's thin, redcheeked face

sweetly. "I wish you were as happy as I," said she. "I wish you and Mr. Woodman could make up too."

"That's an entirely different matter. I couldn't give in in such a thing as that."

Margy looked at her; she was not subtle, but she had just come out triumphant through innocent love and

"Don't you believe," said she, "if you was to give in the way I did, that he would?"

Esther started up with an astonished air. That had never occurred to her before. "Oh, I don't believe he would.

You don't know him; he's awful set. Besides, I don't know but I'm better off the way it is."

In spite of herself, however, she could not help thinking of Margy's suggestion. Would he give in? She was

hardly disposed to run the risk. With her peculiar cast of mind, her feeling for the ludicrous so keen that it

almost amounted to a special sense, and her sensitiveness to ridicule, it would have been easier for her to

have married a man under the shadow of a crime than one who was the deserving target of gibes and jests.

Besides, she told herself, it was possible that he had changed his mind, that he no longer cared for her. How

could she make the first overtures? She had not Margy's impulsiveness and innocence of youth to excuse her.

Also, she was partly influenced by the reason which she had given Margy: she was not so very sure that it

would be best for her to take any such step. She was more fixed in the peace and pride of her old maidenhood

than she had been in her young, and more shy of disturbing it. Her comfortable meals, her tidy housekeeping,

and her prosperous work had become such sources of satisfaction to her that she was almost wedded to them,

So it is doubtful if there would have been any change in the state of affairs if Marcus Woodman's mother had

"I don't see what Marcus is going to do," she told Margy. "He ain't any fitter to take care of himself than a

One evening, after Marcus's mother had been dead about three weeks, Esther went over there. Margy had

gone out to walk with George, so nobody knew. When she reached the house a white cottage on a hill

"He's there," said she. She knocked on the door softly. Marcus shuffled over to it he was in his stocking

"I hadn't anything special to do this evening, so I thought I'd look in a minute and see how you was getting

When she was seated opposite him by the kitchen fire, she surveyed him and his surroundings pityingly.

Everything had an abject air of forlornness; there was neither tidiness nor comfort. After a few words she rose

energetically. "See here, Marcus," said she, "you jest fill up that teakettle, and I'm going to slick up here a

"Don't you say nothing. Here's the teakettle. I might jest as well be doing that as setting still."

He watched her, as she flew about putting things to rights, in a way that made her nervous; but she said to

herself that this was easier than sitting still and gradually leading up to the object for which she had come.

She kept wondering if she ever could accomplish it. When the room was in order, finally, she sat down again,

"Marcus," said she, "I might as well begin. There was something I wanted to say to you tonight."

"I've been thinking some lately about how matters used to be betwixt you an' me, and it's jest possible I

don't know but I might have been a little more patient than I was. I don't know as I'd feel the same way

"I ain't going to tell you, Marcus Woodman, if you can't find out. I've said full enough; more'n I ever thought

He was an awkward man, but he rose and threw himself on his knees at her feet with all the grace of complete

unconsciousness of action. "Oh, Esther, you don't mean, do you? you don't mean that you'd be willing to

"You ain't thinking I can't give up what we had the trouble about any more now than I could then."

"Do, for mercy sake, stop. Somebody'll be coming in. 'Tain't as if we was a young couple."

"I ain't going to till I've told you about it, Esther. You ain't never really understood. In the first of it, we was

both mad; but we ain't now, and we can talk it over. Oh, Esther, I've had such an awful life! I've looked at

"I won't. Esther, look here it's the gospel truth: I 'ain't a thing again' Mr. Morton now."

"Do you s'pose I've took any comfort sitting there on them steps in the winter snows an' the summer suns? Do

you s'pose I've took any comfort not marrying you? Don't you s'pose I'd given all I was worth any time the

last ten year to have got up an' walked into the church with the rest of the folks?"

"I 'ain't sure as I see myself, Esther. All I know is I can't make myself give it up. I can't. I ain't made strong

"As near as I can make out, you've taken to sitting on the church steps the way other men take to smoking and

"I don't know but you're right, Esther, though I hadn't thought of it in that way before."

Esther had a new pearlcolored silk gown, and a little mantle like it, and a bonnet trimmed with roses and

The Sunday on which she came out a bride they were late at church; but late as it was, curious people were

lingering by the steps to watch them. What would they do? Would Marcus Woodman enter that church door

They walked slowly up the steps between the watching people. When they came to the place where he was

accustomed to sit, Marcus stopped short and looked down at his wife with an agonized face.

Her sharp, middleaged face as she looked up at him was fairly heroic. This was all that she could do: her

last weapon was used. If this failed, she would accept the chances with which she had married, and before the

eyes of all these tittering people she would sit down at his side on these church steps. She was determined,

He stood for a moment staring into her face. He trembled so that the bystanders noticed it. He actually

leaned over toward his old seat as if wire ropes were pulling him down upon it. Then he stood up straight,

The people followed. Not one of them even smiled. They had felt the pathos in the comedy.

The sitters in the pews watched Marcus wonderingly as he went up the aisle with Esther. He looked strange